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She doesn't remember exactly what happened. There were flashes, and bangs, and she managed to push all three of them into the TARDIS just as it took off, she’s pretty sure, leaving her with nothing but a broken vortex manipulator and about half a dozen bullets heading straight towards her chest.
And then…oh yes, she remembers. A quick psychic link jerry-rigged into the vortex manipulator, only half a second, and as the first bullets plunged into her back and she sagged to the floor, she had enough consciousness left to think take me somewhere safe.
Only she's no idea where that is.
She opens her eyes. The flat looks unfamiliar, not that she knows a familiar flat outside of Yaz’s, and this is definitely not that. There's a bed, which she notices first because she's lying on it, and patterned wallpaper directly across from her, somewhat blocked by a bookcase, and a few odds and ends around the room—a chest of drawers, an endtable. A door, which is open.
She scans the room in lazy confusion, too groggy to really be nervous because—well it has to be somewhere safe, hasn't it? And there's something warm and comforting about the whole set up, though she doesn't put her finger on the reason until her eyes move across the entire room, and land on the chair placed right next to her bed.
There's a person in that chair. She's wide awake and watching the Doctor with kind eyes, a hint of good-natured exasperation flickering deep within. The moment the Doctor’s gaze lands upon her, she shakes her head and holds up the vortex manipulator.
“Two hearts.” She’s still shaking her head. “Two hearts and about six bullet holes. You're lucky I checked your heartbeat before I took you to the hospital.”
The Doctor just lets a tired smile spread across her face. “Martha Jones. Still brilliant, eh?”
“You bet your arse I am.” She tosses the vortex manipulator onto the Doctor’s stomach, where it lands with a thud. The Doctor scrunches up her face and lets out a small oomph of pain.
“Oow,” she whines. “That hurt. I'm still recovering, aren't I?”
“I'll be the judge of that.” Martha's gaze sparkles mischievously, and she abruptly stands. The Doctor attempts to sit up in response, but Martha holds out her hand.
“Don't worry, I won't kick you out that fast. You've still got to tell me how you ended up on my doorstep.”
“Right.” The Doctor sinks back into the pillows gratefully. “Right. That's a story, that.”
“Well, you can tell it over a cup of tea.” She turns towards the door, then pauses and turns back. “Two sugars, still?”
“Three, actually.” Martha nods, and disappears into the hallway. The Doctor watches her go, and wonders if she'll get made fun of when she tells her just what she plugged into the vortex manipulator. Maybe not; then again, maybe she'll leave that part out.
It's still lying on top of her, so she picks it up, just to see if it's still broken—she's got to get back to her fam somehow—only to see words flashing across the tiny screen. She frowns, and tilts it towards her.
Last received command: take me somewhere safe.
The Doctor stares at it for a moment, then groans and lets it drop back onto her stomach. She wonders if she'll ever hear the end of it from Martha.
Probably not.
————
By the time Martha comes back with two mugs of tea, the Doctor has made her way to a sitting position. She accepts the steaming mug gratefully, and can’t help but sigh in relief when the first sip of hot tea touches her cracked lips.
“Good, huh?” Martha asks, as she settles, not into her chair, but on the edge of the mattress, her own mug clutched in both hands. “It’s a new type Mickey really likes. He’s really fond of green tea.”
The Doctor nods, and takes another scorching sip, more of a gulp really, because she’d rather Martha do the talking. She has a way of prodding things out of the Doctor just by letting her ramble, before hitting her with a perceptive question which sends all her carefully distracting stories toppling to the ground.
Martha eyes her, and takes another sip of her tea. When she lowers the mug, she says, “So. I’m somewhere safe?”
The Doctor chokes.
Hot tea splatters across the bedspread, and sops right down her front, and she notices somewhere in the middle of this that Martha should be helping, only she’s too busy chortling into her mug to do anything.
“Alright, alright,” the Doctor says crossly, once she’s managed to gulp down the tea she was choking on. She thrusts her nearly empty mug onto Martha’s now-vacated chair, and tries in vain to wipe off some of the tea that’s spilt down her shirt, only to realize that it’s not her shirt she’s wearing. It’s a pajama shirt, and when she lifts the covers, there are matching trousers, decorated with funny little unicorns and clouds.
“Am I…wearing Mickey’s pajamas?” she asks, and then looks up to meet Martha’s gaze, and instantly cringes under her sharp look. “I mean…your pajamas?”
Martha gives a disbelieving shake of her head, and balances her mug in her lap. “You’ve got to give him a rest, you know. What are you, a billion years old by now? Thought you’d be a bit more mature.”
“I am,” the Doctor says, then realizes how that sounds, and scrunches her nose. “I mean, I’m not a billion. Well, technically—you know what, it doesn’t matter. I’m closer to three thousand, if you’re asking.”
“Three thousand.” Martha stares at her, her eyes soft with the sad sort of awe the Doctor’s come to expect from her, the kind that makes her wince a little inside, every time. As if she looks past every one of the Doctor’s flippant remarks and funny jokes, and sees the age hanging there, the weariness underneath it all. As if she’s telling the Doctor, it’s okay, you know. I see it. You can be a little sad, with me.
And oh, the Doctor loves Martha for that, even as she runs from it every time. It’s a bit frightening, the vulnerability of it all. She starts thinking about it too much, and then she feels a little bit too shaky, as if she’s falling to pieces, and she’s always a little scared that she actually might. And she’s not sure Martha can catch her, should it come to that. Not sure if she deserves it, after everything.
“So, what’s it been then? Two thousand years, nearly?” Martha’s words pull the Doctor from her reverie, and she refocuses, fixing a smile back on her face.
“Yeah, something like that. It’s hard to keep track, you know. I do so much running around…” words, she’s forgotten what words are. She’s so good at talking, and this is where she pauses?
“Oh yeah, don’t think I haven’t forgotten.” Martha smiles, and it’s warm and familiar and haunted by the barest hint of that smirk she used to wear when the Doctor was being particularly stupid on purpose. It’s not there now, but she can almost catch the ghost of it, and it makes her hearts ache, stupidly, for something that was never rightfully hers.
“Do you remember that time we were trapped in 1969 without the TARDIS?” the Doctor asks, suddenly desperate to switch her train of thought, and Martha scoffs.
“How could I forget? You drove me up the walls the entire time.”
“What? No I didn’t.” Martha gives her a flat look.
“Yes, you did.”
“I don’t recall—”
“You fixed our radio to get channels from 2068. Our neighbors nearly reported us for being Russian spies.”
“Okay,” the Doctor surrenders with a huff. “So I had a touch of cabin fever. You can’t blame me, I’m not used to living domestically.”
“Yeah, well.” Martha eyes her. “You’re not touching the radio this time around. Or any 2018 equivalent, thanks. Don’t need you reformatting my phone.”
“Actually, I’m quite—” the Doctor shifts, then winces as pain stabs through her. “—good at that. If you want it for tracking aliens. Not so much for anything else, I’m afraid.”
Her breath comes in an unintentional gasp on the last word, and Martha lays a firm, sympathetic hand on her leg. “Hold off on the moving for now. You’re healing much faster than a human, but you need some rest still.”
“Rest. Right.” The Doctor nods unenthusiastically. “And how long have I—?”
“Five days, more or less,” Martha answers. “Six if you count the day I spent doing surgery on my living room couch. Still waiting on that thank you, by the way.”
The Doctor groans, and sinks back into her pillows. Five days. Her fam had to be worried sick. If they had even gotten away—but no, they had to have gotten away, hadn’t they? She had a vague memory of pushing them into the TARDIS…
“Thank you,” she says, because Martha is still looking at her, one eyebrow now raised, though her expression is too soft to carry it.
“You’re welcome,” Martha answers primly, but her eyes are sparkling, and when the Doctor looks at her, she sees that familiar warmth, and her hearts expand with it. It’s comforting, is what it is. The flame of an old friendship, still flickering bright after all this time.
“So,” she says after a long moment of not entirely uncomfortable silence. “How long did you say I need to—?”
She lets it trail off, a tad afraid of the answer she might hear. She’s not sure she can wait another five days. Martha cocks her head and studies her for several seconds.
“How about this,” she says at last. “I make you another cup of tea that you don’t spill all over yourself, and you tell me how it happened you ended up here. And then we’ll see.”
The Doctor pretends to consider this, though she already knows she’s going to agree. It’s not a bad deal, all told. As long as Martha will let her tinker with the vortex manipulator in the meanwhile; she has to get back to her fam sometime.
“Alright. Deal.” She follows it with a grin, the kind she knows to be especially winning, or at least Yaz seems to fall for it. However, it seems to have no such effect on Martha, who eyes her suspiciously for a moment, before leaning forward to snatch the vortex manipulator from where it’s still lying atop the blankets. The Doctor goes to grab it, but it’s too late; in another second Martha has it in her hands, and then she’s already on her feet, well out of reach. She holds it up, almost tauntingly.
“And no messing about with this, yeah? You’re not going until I clear you to go, and that’s final.”
The Doctor stares, gaping in silent indignation, and then heaves an exaggerated sigh. “Fine. But I was only going to—”
“When I clear you.” Martha is already scooping up her mug, and turning towards the door. She pauses in the doorway, and gives her one last smirk over her shoulder.
“Besides, I put your sonic away somewhere safe.”
Then she’s gone, disappeared into the hallway, leaving the Doctor to stare after her, miffed.
————
The Doctor, after a few moments of deliberation, decides that she can't take Martha's leaving statement as anything less than a challenge. Besides, she's feeling a bit guilty about lounging in bed while Martha brings her tea, and anyway those holes in her chest have to be plugged up by now, don't they?
It doesn't take much movement for her to notice that, plugged up though they may be, they're still undeniably present, and it takes a pretty minute to get herself into a sitting position, legs dangling over the side of the bed. It takes another—and a near collapse—to drag herself to her feet, clutching that nearby chair for good measure.
She limps her way to the hallway then follows the singing of a kettle to the kitchen, where Martha is standing, pouring two cups. “I hope it's that same type as before,” she says, sagging against the doorframe because damn, walking is hard. “I will admit, Mickey’s got good taste.”
Martha jumps and nearly drops the kettle, then curses and turns around.
“You're supposed to be in bed.” She glares, and with two hands shoves the kettle onto the stove. “Look at you, you look like death! You can't even stand up properly.”
The Doctor makes a face. “Oi, I didn't come all the way over here just to be insulted. I came to help you with the tea.”
Martha gestures towards the two cups on the counter. “Bit late for that.”
The Doctor’s eyes roam across the counter, and her face falls. Then it brightens. “You didn't put the sugar in yet, did you?”
Martha follows her gaze to the sugar sitting on the counter, and she opens her mouth, then sighs and shuts it again. “Can you even make it over here?”
The Doctor scoffs. “Do I look like I'm made of glass?”
Once again, Martha looks as if she's about to say something, but then she swallows it and steps back, beckoning to the sugar. “Alright. Have at it. But I'm not catching you if you fall.”
“Suppose I won't fall then, will I?” The Doctor replies cheerily.
Martha rolls her eyes, and watches as the Doctor begins taking shaky steps across the kitchen. It's an arduous process, and unnecessarily long, and halfway across when the Doctor looks up it’s to see that Martha is biting back a laugh. She scowls and picks up the pace, and only partially regrets the stabbing pains that run through her chest as a result.
By the time she makes it to the counter, she's sort of regretting it, but decides to power through anyway, because she can’t back down now. And besides, she's still got to look for her sonic screwdriver. To that end, she spends an inordinate amount of time rifling through drawers until she finds a spoon, and, wary of Martha's eyes upon her, casts several subtle looks around the kitchen as she scoops spoonfuls of sugar, trying unsuccessfully to gauge the hiding spot.
“Oi, stop that.” Martha’s voice abruptly cuts through her thoughts, and the Doctor startles, dumpling a spoonful of sugar into the mug it was poised above.
“Stop what?” She asks innocently.
“Looking for your sonic. And I'm not going to tell you where it's hidden, either.”
“That's—what? I wasn't—” she tries to bluster through, but Martha just gives her a pointed look.
“Doctor, you've put about ten spoonfuls of sugar in my cup.”
“I—oh.” She pauses, and looks down at the tea in front of her. Sure enough, she can make out a layer of white sludge at the bottom. “I thought you liked it sweet?”
Martha smiles, and gives a rueful shake of her head. “Even after all this time, you're still absolutely impossible. Why are you in such a hurry to leave, anyway? Have you got some place to be?”
“Well—” the Doctor hesitates, then sets the spoon on the counter. She looks at it for a long moment, and lets out a breath. “It's my friends. I'm worried about them. And I think they're safe on the TARDIS, but—”
“Ah.” She glances up to see Martha cross her arms and lean against the doorframe, understanding in her eyes. “You didn't tell me you were traveling with others.”
The Doctor stares at the cups in front of her, and doesn’t say anything. She can feel Martha’s eyes upon her, feels the kind, prying question behind them, and isn’t sure how to answer it. Martha’s got that same look on her face, the it’s okay with me look, and the Doctor knows that it is, that Martha will let her spill whatever she wants on her kitchen floor, whether they be tears, or blood or what-have-she, but then, that doesn’t mean she deserves it.
She looks up, and gives Martha a slightly pained smile.
“Did I ever apologize to you?”
“Huh?”
“Apologize.” She turns to face Martha properly, and the movement sends a ripple of pain through her chest, so she compromises by propping herself up against the counter. Standing, she decides, is overrated. “I never took care of you properly, did I? Not the way I should’ve.”
“You didn’t have to take care of me.” She sounds slightly affronted, and the Doctor almost chuckles, because it’s the same tone she would have worn if the Doctor had said that years ago. Because it’s Martha. Martha the medical student, Martha the doctor. Always the caretaker, never the cared-for. Who had let the Doctor give her far more than she could handle, and handled it anyway.
The Doctor shakes her head, and smiles. “I have a duty of care. And I let you down.”
Martha studies her for a moment, expression unreadable, and the Doctor lets her. They both know what she’s talking about, probably.
“I shouldn’t have treated you like that,” she continues. Martha says nothing, just gives her a quizzical look, and the Doctor briefly feels like she’s stuck her foot in her mouth, but then decides to plunge in anyway.
“You did so much for me, and I never properly thanked you. I never even apologized, for all those nasty situations I put you in. Well, I never do, really, but I try now. I’ve been trying to be a bit better than I was before, to warn my friends before I rush them in to things, to—to live up to that name I carry around. I do have a duty of care, you know. I didn’t always take it seriously. I didn’t set out to, when I first took off running, but I’ve picked up a few things in my old age, and—well, I suppose you’ve taught me one or two of them. And I thought I should say that.”
She finishes awkwardly, and gives Martha a half-hearted smile. She’s not sure a weak smile is enough to properly express what she’s trying to say—she isn’t even sure the words have stood up to the task. But after a moment, Martha grins, widely, and says in a cheeky voice:
“You know I could have told you all that, right?”
The Doctor stares at her, momentarily speechless. Then she laughs, relief sinking through her like a stone. She’s never been good at apologies. Never been good at facing old friends either the ones she’s done wrong by, and yet today she’s done both. And she’s still in unicorn-spotted pajamas.
“Well, I—” she gestures vaguely, at herself, or maybe at the pajames, she isn’t quite sure at this point— “I suppose it just seemed a bit like I was running away. But I’m not. I just need to—”
“Make sure they’re safe.” Martha nods, and the Doctor sees in her eyes that she gets it, she really does, and feels a twinge of guilt anyway because really she doesn’t deserve her. But then she pushes that thought away, because she knows if she’d have voiced such a thing out loud Martha would most likely smack her, and that’s as good a sign as any to know it’s not a thought worth having.
“Yeah,” she replies. Martha considers this a moment, eyes on the linoleum, then looks up at her and smiles.
“Alright, then.” Her eyes glimmer with that same challenge she used to wear, back in the day. “I’ll make us new cups of tea, because I’m not sure I trust you around a kettle, and you can look for your sonic, if you want. But I won’t give you any hints.”
The Doctor frowns at the unfairness, almost goes to say something, but at Martha’s expression, decides not to. Instead, she gives a nod, which slowly works its way into a grin. “Alright. Yeah. Okay. And when I find it, I can have a look at your—”
“No.”
————
The Doctor only realizes Martha’s tricked her when she actually gets about searching, and finds it more difficult than it looks. Pain stabs insistently through her chest, wringing her out until she gives up and slumps down on the sofa in the living room. She hears the kettle go again, and a few minutes later Martha joins her, fresh mugs in hand. She passes one to the Doctor, who takes it defeatedly, then perches on the sofa beside her.
“Here,” she says, and sets the mug off to the side, then reaches under the cushion and fishes around for something. When she brings her hand out, she’s holding the screwdriver, which she proffers to the Doctor.
“Ergh—how did I not guess that?” she swipes it from her hand and turns it over in her own, just to make sure there wasn’t any damage done in the flight. Vortex manipulator travel, she knows from experience, can be nasty. “Under the couch cushion, I mean, that’s a classic.”
“Yeah, well I just didn’t want Mickey touching it, really.” Martha grins and removes the vortex manipulator from her pocket, places it between them. “Suppose you never could stay long, anyway.”
There’s a wistfulness to her tone that takes the Doctor by surprise, enough to maker her stop examining her screwdriver and look up. “Did you want me to stay?”
“Hmm.” Martha studies her a moment. “You do cause a lot of trouble. But it was nice to see you, even if you were asleep for most of it. And I thought you might take off quick, once you did wake up. You’re not much for staying in one place, Doctor.”
“You’re right.” But still the Doctor hesitates, then lays the screwdriver on her thigh. Her mug is still clutched in one hand, and she brings it up to take a thoughtful sip. “But I suppose…”
Your friends need you, one part of her mind natters, and she knows it’s true, but she also knows she has a vortex manipulator, and she’s also got a pretty good memory of shoving them into the TARDIS, safe and sound.
And it really has been two thousand years.
“I suppose we could…watch a show?” she tries, because she’s not sure what humans actually do in their spare time. They mostly sleep, really.
Martha pretends to scoff, but the Doctor catches a hint of amusement in her eye, all the same. “You watch shows?”
“I could watch a show,” she insists. Martha smiles, slightly in disbelief.
“Alright.” She nods, and settles back into the couch cushions, tea in hand, then gestures to the TV. “Turn something on then.”
“Certainly.” The Doctor’s hand goes to her sonic screwdriver, but it’s stopped by a glare. Her fingers flex over it for a moment, before she sighs and reaches for the remote. Martha watches her with her mug raised to her lips and her grin hidden as she goes through the channels, and it’s not until the Doctor has settled on an old movie that she lowers it and says:
“So how long are you staying then?”
The Doctor glances at her, uncertain, and affects a nonchalant shrug. “Dunno. How long can I stay for?”
She’s not sure what Martha’s response will be, and she’s not sure she deserves the one she’s hoping for, but Martha just laughs, and says, “Five days lying in my bed and you’re asking me that?”
The Doctor winces. “Yeah, guess I am.”
“God, half the time I do want to murder you.” Martha shakes her head, but she’s still smiling. “But you know the answer’s always the same.”
“Is it?” the Doctor’s hearts thump, and she looks up hopefully. “What is it then?”
“Long as you want, of course.”