Ten Little Chances to be Free (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
tenlittlebullets) wrote2011-08-19 04:15 am
tenlittlebullets) wrote2011-08-19 04:15 am
Entry tags:
[fic] You'll Be Sorry But Your Tears Will Be Too Late
Title: You'll Be Sorry But Your Tears Will Be Too Late
Fandom: Doctor Who
Rating: PG
Characters: Ten, Martha, Sexy
Summary: Pure crack. A hug and a thank-you are not nearly enough recompense for all the shit Martha put up with in 1913, and if Martha isn't going to wring anything better out of the Doctor, well, the TARDIS has her ways.
It took the Doctor almost a week to catch on. He might, on some subconscious level, have noticed that the mugs and plates he left on the kitchen table stayed where they were instead of reappearing sparkling clean in the cupboards, or that the bituminous sludge they'd tracked in from a West Virginia coal mine was still on the floor after three days, but he seemed perfectly content to push the mugs aside and walk right over their muddy footprints. When the TARDIS laundry chute started regurgitating anything he tossed down it, often at high velocity, he chalked it up to yet another maintenance problem. But six days after they'd left Farringham, he finally had to face the reality of the situation.
"Martha?" he called, ambling into the kitchen in his pyjamas. "Martha, have you seen my slippers? Ordinarily they just reappear in the closet, but I've no idea where I left them this time, and that metal grating in the console room is murder on bare feet, very silly really, don't know who thought that was a good idea..." Not seeing anyone in the kitchen, he turned to leave, muttering to himself, "Where the devil are my--"
Something hit the back of his head very hard. Something soft and fluffy. He turned around just in time to get another terry-cloth projectile full in the face, and saw Martha standing up from behind a small mountain of dishes on the table.
"There are your bloody slippers," she said with barely restrained fury, "careful you don't get them covered in three-day-old mud."
"Oh," he said, "thank you," and decided to act like he couldn't see her glaring at him, for want of any better way to deal with it. He still didn't quite understand humans and their inexplicable moods all the time, despite having been one recently. "Blimey, when did it get so messy in here?" he said, trying to change the subject.
"Ever since someone stopped cleaning up after himself." Martha crossed her arms. "I'm not your maid, Doctor. I spent three months playing your servant, and you're mad if you think I'm going to keep at it now that you're back to yourself."
"Oh, those are all mine?" said the Doctor, eyes widening as he looked around the kitchen and saw a line of his favourite mugs arrayed across the counter with varying amounts of days-old tea still sitting in them.
Martha's stony expression softened just a little. "You had no idea, did you," she said, with a hint of affection. Or maybe it was a hint of "how can you be so brilliant and yet so stupid" exasperation, it was hard to tell.
"None at all," he said, starting to gather up dishes and pile them in the sink. "Usually the TARDIS takes care of that sort of thing--" he patted the wall affectionately-- "but there must be some sort of glitch in her maintenance circuits. The laundry isn't working either, now I think of it." He flashed Martha an apologetic grin as he passed by her, carrying a stack of mugs and bowls balanced precariously on a plate. "I don't think I've ever done the dishes in here before--first time for everything! I don't know if we even have any soa--ooof!" He tripped over one of the slippers, which had done quite an impressive ricochet off his head and ended up in front of the sink, and try as he might to keep the teetering stack in place, gravity took over. The Doctor stared hopelessly at the mess of tea and broken ceramic on the floor.
Martha, at least, seemed to be cheering up. "Ooh, so this means you'll have to clean that up too," she said, "with a mop and everything. The horror!"
"A mop? Where would I even find a mop?"
"I've heard rumours of a mystical place known as a broom cupboard."
"Why would there be a broom cupboard on the TARDIS? She keeps herself clean! Like a cat. One of those fastidious cats who are always washing themselves after you pet them too much."
"You've got everything else and twelve and a half kitchen sinks in here, why not a broom cupboard?"
"Ridiculous! It'd be like a cat having a bathtub to wash in. Or a shower."
"You told me you met a cat with a shower in his car in New New York."
"...all right, we can look for one."
They did, eventually, locate a broom cupboard in a disused corridor off the library, its doorway dramatically covered in cobwebs. ("That's funny," said the Doctor, "there've never been spiders in here before--well. No spiders under six feet tall. And he wouldn't have been rude enough to leave cobwebs on a door.") Inside it was thoroughly stocked with all sorts of cleaning supplies that had clearly never been used before, including a bottle of dish soap exactly at the Doctor's eye level. And a maid costume.
"Martha, this isn't one of the ones you wore, is it?"
Martha raised her eyebrows. "I don't think they had cheap polyester in 1913, did they?"
"Nope. ...nor miniskirts, for that matter. You're right."
"Doctor," said Martha, looking like she was trying very, very hard not to smile, "have you ever considered that your ship might be trying to tell you something?"
"What, with a 'naughty maid' Halloween costume? Naaah. She must just have a wire crossed somewhere--well, an eleven-dimensional huon hyperconductor, but just think of it as a wire--first the cleaning routines short out, now bits of the wardrobe start showing up where they're not supposed to..."
"Doctor, the shoes are exactly your size," said Martha, holding up a pair of three-inch stiletto heels.
"That doesn't mean anyth--how do you know my shoe size?"
"I was your maid for three months, remember?"
"And you're suggesting the TARDIS wants me to return the favour."
"Just a theory," said Martha with a grin, and the background hum of the TARDIS got slightly louder. "Don't forget the fishnets."
-
Martha leaned against the TARDIS console, refusing to feel guilty for enjoying the view as the Doctor bent down to scrub the footprints from the floor. It really was a very short skirt, and the frilly white petticoats were a nice touch. "You're a saucy old girl, aren't you?" she murmured, patting the controls. "You really didn't have to, you know." One of the levers swung downward, butting affectionately against her hand.
"Martha?" said the Doctor, stumbling a bit as he straightened up. Those metal gratings were murder on bare feet, but they were even worse for stilettos. "Did you say something?"
"Oh, nothing. I'm picking up your habit of talking to the TARDIS, that's all." She decided to go put the kettle on in the now-sparkling kitchen, and on her way across the room she gave the Doctor's bum a playful smack with one of his slippers. "Come round the kitchen whenever you're done, I'm making tea. And keep up the good work in the meantime. I think she likes having your hands on her."
"Martha Jones," he said mock-sternly, stowing his sonic screwdriver in the pocket of his lacy apron before putting his hands on his hips, "what are you implying about my relationship with my ship?"
"Oh, I'm not implying anything," she said cheerfully, and sailed into the kitchen, whistling. It wasn't that this made up for three months of racist comments and housemaid's knee, not exactly. But Martha had to admit she was happier than she'd been in a long time. It was good to know that at least the TARDIS had her back.
And the fishnets didn't hurt either. He really did have fantastic legs.
Fandom: Doctor Who
Rating: PG
Characters: Ten, Martha, Sexy
Summary: Pure crack. A hug and a thank-you are not nearly enough recompense for all the shit Martha put up with in 1913, and if Martha isn't going to wring anything better out of the Doctor, well, the TARDIS has her ways.
It took the Doctor almost a week to catch on. He might, on some subconscious level, have noticed that the mugs and plates he left on the kitchen table stayed where they were instead of reappearing sparkling clean in the cupboards, or that the bituminous sludge they'd tracked in from a West Virginia coal mine was still on the floor after three days, but he seemed perfectly content to push the mugs aside and walk right over their muddy footprints. When the TARDIS laundry chute started regurgitating anything he tossed down it, often at high velocity, he chalked it up to yet another maintenance problem. But six days after they'd left Farringham, he finally had to face the reality of the situation.
"Martha?" he called, ambling into the kitchen in his pyjamas. "Martha, have you seen my slippers? Ordinarily they just reappear in the closet, but I've no idea where I left them this time, and that metal grating in the console room is murder on bare feet, very silly really, don't know who thought that was a good idea..." Not seeing anyone in the kitchen, he turned to leave, muttering to himself, "Where the devil are my--"
Something hit the back of his head very hard. Something soft and fluffy. He turned around just in time to get another terry-cloth projectile full in the face, and saw Martha standing up from behind a small mountain of dishes on the table.
"There are your bloody slippers," she said with barely restrained fury, "careful you don't get them covered in three-day-old mud."
"Oh," he said, "thank you," and decided to act like he couldn't see her glaring at him, for want of any better way to deal with it. He still didn't quite understand humans and their inexplicable moods all the time, despite having been one recently. "Blimey, when did it get so messy in here?" he said, trying to change the subject.
"Ever since someone stopped cleaning up after himself." Martha crossed her arms. "I'm not your maid, Doctor. I spent three months playing your servant, and you're mad if you think I'm going to keep at it now that you're back to yourself."
"Oh, those are all mine?" said the Doctor, eyes widening as he looked around the kitchen and saw a line of his favourite mugs arrayed across the counter with varying amounts of days-old tea still sitting in them.
Martha's stony expression softened just a little. "You had no idea, did you," she said, with a hint of affection. Or maybe it was a hint of "how can you be so brilliant and yet so stupid" exasperation, it was hard to tell.
"None at all," he said, starting to gather up dishes and pile them in the sink. "Usually the TARDIS takes care of that sort of thing--" he patted the wall affectionately-- "but there must be some sort of glitch in her maintenance circuits. The laundry isn't working either, now I think of it." He flashed Martha an apologetic grin as he passed by her, carrying a stack of mugs and bowls balanced precariously on a plate. "I don't think I've ever done the dishes in here before--first time for everything! I don't know if we even have any soa--ooof!" He tripped over one of the slippers, which had done quite an impressive ricochet off his head and ended up in front of the sink, and try as he might to keep the teetering stack in place, gravity took over. The Doctor stared hopelessly at the mess of tea and broken ceramic on the floor.
Martha, at least, seemed to be cheering up. "Ooh, so this means you'll have to clean that up too," she said, "with a mop and everything. The horror!"
"A mop? Where would I even find a mop?"
"I've heard rumours of a mystical place known as a broom cupboard."
"Why would there be a broom cupboard on the TARDIS? She keeps herself clean! Like a cat. One of those fastidious cats who are always washing themselves after you pet them too much."
"You've got everything else and twelve and a half kitchen sinks in here, why not a broom cupboard?"
"Ridiculous! It'd be like a cat having a bathtub to wash in. Or a shower."
"You told me you met a cat with a shower in his car in New New York."
"...all right, we can look for one."
They did, eventually, locate a broom cupboard in a disused corridor off the library, its doorway dramatically covered in cobwebs. ("That's funny," said the Doctor, "there've never been spiders in here before--well. No spiders under six feet tall. And he wouldn't have been rude enough to leave cobwebs on a door.") Inside it was thoroughly stocked with all sorts of cleaning supplies that had clearly never been used before, including a bottle of dish soap exactly at the Doctor's eye level. And a maid costume.
"Martha, this isn't one of the ones you wore, is it?"
Martha raised her eyebrows. "I don't think they had cheap polyester in 1913, did they?"
"Nope. ...nor miniskirts, for that matter. You're right."
"Doctor," said Martha, looking like she was trying very, very hard not to smile, "have you ever considered that your ship might be trying to tell you something?"
"What, with a 'naughty maid' Halloween costume? Naaah. She must just have a wire crossed somewhere--well, an eleven-dimensional huon hyperconductor, but just think of it as a wire--first the cleaning routines short out, now bits of the wardrobe start showing up where they're not supposed to..."
"Doctor, the shoes are exactly your size," said Martha, holding up a pair of three-inch stiletto heels.
"That doesn't mean anyth--how do you know my shoe size?"
"I was your maid for three months, remember?"
"And you're suggesting the TARDIS wants me to return the favour."
"Just a theory," said Martha with a grin, and the background hum of the TARDIS got slightly louder. "Don't forget the fishnets."
-
Martha leaned against the TARDIS console, refusing to feel guilty for enjoying the view as the Doctor bent down to scrub the footprints from the floor. It really was a very short skirt, and the frilly white petticoats were a nice touch. "You're a saucy old girl, aren't you?" she murmured, patting the controls. "You really didn't have to, you know." One of the levers swung downward, butting affectionately against her hand.
"Martha?" said the Doctor, stumbling a bit as he straightened up. Those metal gratings were murder on bare feet, but they were even worse for stilettos. "Did you say something?"
"Oh, nothing. I'm picking up your habit of talking to the TARDIS, that's all." She decided to go put the kettle on in the now-sparkling kitchen, and on her way across the room she gave the Doctor's bum a playful smack with one of his slippers. "Come round the kitchen whenever you're done, I'm making tea. And keep up the good work in the meantime. I think she likes having your hands on her."
"Martha Jones," he said mock-sternly, stowing his sonic screwdriver in the pocket of his lacy apron before putting his hands on his hips, "what are you implying about my relationship with my ship?"
"Oh, I'm not implying anything," she said cheerfully, and sailed into the kitchen, whistling. It wasn't that this made up for three months of racist comments and housemaid's knee, not exactly. But Martha had to admit she was happier than she'd been in a long time. It was good to know that at least the TARDIS had her back.
And the fishnets didn't hurt either. He really did have fantastic legs.