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It's the third time this week she forgets to put off her morning alarm. She rolls around and furiously taps on her phone screen to put an end to that horribly-screechy default song she never even bothered to change. It's pitch dark and the cold morning air bites at her exposed skin as she throws the thick sheets off to a side and sits up with a groan.
She can't keep doing this.
She can't keep skipping his classes.
Because skipping classes means falling behind, and falling behind means lower marks, and lower marks lead to extra work and ultimately longer study sessions and shorter working shifts. Which is why she freezes her ass off every single winter morning - because she can't afford a better flat.
But that's beside the point, this time. It's something she's become quite used to, really, struggling to make ends meet. No. This one's on her. Because she should know better than to trust Jack to drive her home after a night out, she should know better than to knock down pint after pint when she's got him as a companion - because she knows he'll be good as gone soon as she turns around in a crowded dim-lighted pub brimming with young students looking for a hook-up.
This one's on her.
She's the one who snogged her Pharmacology teacher after he so kindly insisted on driving her home when he found her quite unsuccessfully trying to turn down some guy's insistent dancing invitations.
She doesn't even remember what the bloke looked like! She only remembers Mr Smith's alluring perfume, that one fragrance she smells almost on a daily basis, even when he's not around, even when he's just been somewhere near - it's pathetic. She thinks she can smell it even now.
"Ugh, no," Martha runs a hand over her eyes and jumps off her bed with a grunt, "don't."
She makes a beeline for the bathroom and turns the hot water on.
She's brought this on herself. But that's alright, it's been three days already, John has probably forgotten all about it now.
"John?" she snorts, picks up a pair of comfortable underwear to put on and draws the curtains open to allow some light in, "since when do I call him John?"
Since Sunday. Remember? When you fucked up a perfectly adequate teacher-student relationship by latching onto him like a hungry cat in heat? And you moaned his name? Pretty sure you moaned his name.
She lets out a screech of horror, suddenly thinking twice of her decision and turning to stare at her unmade bed for a moment, considering crawling back in and waiting for Earth to crack a hole underneath her mattress and swallow her whole.
She hears Jack's voice at the back of her mind and hates to admit he's probably been in the right all this time. She really needs to get laid.
"I'm telling ya, hormones. You need a wind-down, you're a doctor, shouldn't you know how this works?" he'd mocked, Martha hadn't laughed.
"I'm not a doctor yet," she'd replied, exhausted because no, it wasn't bloody hormones, it was just John Smith. It was just the doctor. It was his kind eyes and his smile and the encouraging pats on her shoulder and his striped suit and his perfectly-gelled up hair. It was him.
"Just have a drink, pick a guy, have some fun, let yourself loose for once in your life, Jones," Jack had smiled one of his sly smiles and had disappeared not long after muttering those words. And not even two hours later she'd pretty much ruined her career prospects by harassing one of her teachers in his own car.
She can't help but think Harkness is a bit to blame as well.
Because when is he not?
(Also, it makes her feel better.)
This morning, she takes a bit longer to down her usual cup of black coffee and makes her way towards the classroom, a much-dreaded journey in which she nearly collides with two nurses and actually runs headfirst into an open door.
The chances of running into Doctor Smith on the lift at this early hour are slim but she's not going to risk it: she uses the emergency exits to move around, feeling like a total idiot for it. A trip upstairs in total silence with her probably babbling away lies about her food poisoning is only bound to make things more awkward, so staircase it is.
She's a bit out of breath by the time she sits down on her usual place at the front of the row. Any other day she would've put her headphones on and buried her nose in her books to catch up with the unbearable amount of concepts they get bombarded with on a daily basis, but going AWOL for three straight days has clearly drawn her mates' attention for a change.
"Well, look who decided to turn up!"
"Hi," she shows a sheepish smile and turns around on her seat, "miss me?"
"Did I!" Oliver comes closer to dramatically put a hand against her forehead and frowns, "don't you disappear again and leave me like that, are you all good now? You feel a bit hot."
"I'm fine," Martha bats his hand away.
"Hey, what's that supposed to mean?" Julia protests from two seats over.
"Team-mates are for life," Oliver playfully latches onto Martha, prompting a genuine laugh, "Stoker picks on me when you're not here."
"He does that when I'm here too," Martha says, exchanging an amused smile with Julia, who turns around in direction to her seat the same moment Oliver lets her go as if she's just burned him.
"Mornin' class!"
And Martha freezes at hearing his voice, just for a split of a second. Has she got her timing wrong? Has she got her date wrong?
She turns around and avoids looking in direction to the whiteboard as she sits down as well, thinking act normal, act normal, act normal.
"Ah! Martha, good to have you back," Doctor Smith says, and when she looks up to return the smile she knows he's sporting, her heart skips a beat. He looks away too quickly, though, and Martha should be delighted by it, by the fact her teacher's chosen not to make things awkward and has brushed aside their little incident.
But she isn't.
She tries not to dwell too much on it. Jotting down notes, listening intently but keeping her eyes downwards, perhaps writing a little bit more than usual.
Nobody seems to notice.
If anything, they'll put it down to her missing out on the lessons and not on her having sexually assaulted their professor -
"Martha?"
She looks up, suddenly out of her reverie, and finds Doctor Smith looking at her expectantly, silence downing on her with the crushing realization something's been asked and she hasn't been paying attention.
"Yes?" she says, like an utter idiot.
Doctor Smith only shows a hint of a smile and gestures vaguely towards Oliver sitting next to her instead of repeating the question.
"Hypokalemia," her classmate answers almost immediately.
"Excellent," Doctor Smith taps his marker against the desk excitedly and turns to her again, "which can result in...?"
Martha sits up straight and takes a couple of seconds to compose herself.
"Muscular dysfunction, heart complications if diuretics are administered to treat high blood pressure."
"Good! Julia, what'd you recommend to counteract these effects?"
"A... potassium supplement?"
Doctor Smith cocks his head to the side and makes one of his faces.
"Could be. Think simpler."
"A banana!" someone else provides, sending the group into a collective laugh. Doctor Smith joins in, as he always does, and suddenly there's an actual banana flying through the air directly into Matty's hands.
"Indeed!" Doctor Smith exclaims, "and would you look at that," he brings his hand near his face to check his unexistent wrist-watch, "time's up. Off you go, get your mornin' protein."
They don't need to be told twice. A three-hour lesson at this unearthly hour is enough to make anyone want to bolt for a bit of fresh air. Martha normally tends to stay behind a little longer, maybe think up a question or alternative solution to get to chat a bit more, sometimes Oliver tags along as well, eager to take in whatever Doctor Smith feels like sharing.
Today, she can't be out of there quick enough.
But alas, the fact that she's trying so intently to put her belongings inside her bag and clean her desk as quickly as she can without looking too eager only makes her fail spectacularly at it.
She reaches down to get a pen that she's accidentally kicked away herself in her frenzy, and when she stands up she's the only one there, Oliver lingering at the door and too immersed in his phone screen to be of any use.
She still tries to sneak away.
"Good day," she says, with a strained smile and hurrying past Doctor Smith's desk without looking at him.
"Actually, Martha," he calls, and she halts and turns around cursing herself, "could I have a word?"
Act normal, act normal, act normal, act normal.
"Of course."
She takes a step back and rearranges her books in her arms, finally meeting his gaze and finding nothing there that isn't his usual expression of professionalism. The same one that takes over after a particularly hilarious joke is thrown around and derails his students' attention for too long, that same one he uses to talk to patients, the one he's going to use as he surely tells her off for being so stupid and inappropriate and impulsive-
"Your notes," he hands her a bunch of photocopies, neatly held together by a clip, "can't have you falling behind," finally he looks at her and smiles.
"Oh," she babbles, and mentally kicks herself for her lack of eloquence, "thank you, you shouldn't have bothered."
She suddenly sounds too formal to her own liking.
Nobody's fault but yours, a voice at the back of her mind reminds her.
"Nonsense!" Doctor Smith exclaims, quickly turning around and wiping off the whiteboard with swift motions, "I take it you're feeling better?"
"Yes, much better," she sends a nervous look outside, hoping Oliver will meet her eyes and join her with his chipper energy and over-excited conversation, but she runs no such luck, "just a slight allergic reaction, entirely my fault."
"I see," Doctor Smith finally turns around and regards her with a look, Martha shifts her weight from foot to foot, awkwardly.
You need to say sorry.
Say sorry.
"Are you quite sure you're alright?" Professor Smith slides his glasses back on and shows the slightest of frowns, "you seem a bit absent this morning."
"Fine!" Martha blurts out nervously, "I'm fine."
For goodness sake, you can't just walk away and not apologize!
But why not? Why can't she just pretend it never happened? Doctor Smith certainly isn't going to bring it up. But he knows, oh he does. He must know. Or maybe he doesn't. Maybe he thinks she's forgotten all about it, being sober and all.
"I'll see you around then, if that's all?" she asks slightly high-pitched, heart hammering away inside her ribcage.
His frown disappears and he blinks, as if brought out of his own head. And for a brief moment Martha feels he's going to give her a talk, say something about how it would never work, that he's married to his job, that he's not looking for a relationship, much less with a student, much less with a clingy and immature young woman like herself.
She forgets, for a moment. That this is Doctor Smith. Too kind for his own good. He would let her down easy, he certainly wouldn't talk to her about it in a classroom an arm's length away from an opened door buzzing with students and staff.
He's too considerate, and she's head over heels.
"Yes, see you around," is the last thing he says in lieu of dismissal, looking away to busy himself with some files. Martha almost bumps into Oliver in her haste to get out of the classroom.
"I fucked up, I've made it worse! It's all awkward now! I can't fucking look at him! I don't know what to do!"
"Alright, alright. Take a breath, sunshine, calm down," Jack lets out a yawn on the other line and Martha rolls her eyes at the sound of him flushing the toilet in the background.
"Don't tell me to calm down! I spent ten minutes trying to open an IV passage, that's fucking amateur hour!"
"Hey! Everyone's got bad daaaays! Don't worry about it!"
"Why do I even bother calling you..." Martha mutters to herself, as she stands up from the closed lid of her own toilet.
"I heard that."
"Good!" she hangs up. Then, she comes out of her cubicle, checks there's no-one around, hides her face in her hands and lets out a muffled whine.
Do you need assistance finding that vein, Miss Jones?
Miss Jones.
She really shouldn't think twice about it. He only operates on a first-name basis within the classroom walls anyway and that includes every single one of the trainees, not just her. And she's a good student, she aces all of her tests, she's good at practical too! Or.
Well. She was.
She was before her brain decided to cease cooperating whenever Doctor John Smith found himself in close proximity, looking down at whatever procedure, asking questions to the group but looking at her the most, putting his hands in the pockets of his coat and almost rocking back on his heels patiently waiting for her to do something she's done dozens of times now, silently judging her incompetence, no doubt.
"You and your stupid crush."
She's never drinking again.
She's never going near a drop of beer again in her life.
Her beeper goes off again, and she goes running out and dodges a few people along the corridor.
Beep, beep, beep.
She's going to be late.
Beep, beep, beep.
"Hold the lift! Wait!"
Beep, beep, beep.
Only her bloody fault, spending her breaks cowering inside the lady's restrooms like a lovestruck teenager pining over her sweetheart.
The lift makes a ding sound as she reaches it and the door slides back to its place, giving way. She sloppily stumbles inside, betrayed by her own footwear, and gets caught right in the nick of time by a pair of arms.
It's the cologne what has her quickly regaining her balance and backing away almost instantly. Only after smelling it does she look up and does her nose brush over a blue tie as she looks into a pair of concerned brown orbs.
"You alright, there?"
She jerks away and collides against the metallic wall of the lift as the door draws to a close, at last, leaving her there, inside, being scrutinized.
"Yes! Sorry," she says, out of breath, and Doctor Smith finally drops his hands from her shoulders, "thanks for holding the door."
"My pleasure."
She can hear the smile in his voice but she doesn't look at him. Instead, she turns the same way he's facing and bites her lip, anxiously.
Just her luck.
"Down to first?" John asks, with that casual high-pitched voice of his, like any other day.
"Yep."
Martha has never experienced anything close to claustrophobia before in her life. But she thinks she's having trouble breathing, now.
"Good," he says, conversationally, but she doesn't find any words to exchange. She only stares at the numbers lighting up one by one and counts the seconds till she's off.
Own up to it. Just say sorry and let it go. He deserves that much.
It's that last thought what makes her take a deep breath and nervously shift her weight from foot to foot again. Like she did back in the classroom earlier today. She hadn't stopped to think about how Doctor Smith might be feeling. He's clearly taken the hint and decided to let her address the elephant in the room, but that doesn't necessarily mean he isn't greatly inconvenienced by the whole situation.
Made uncomfortable by it, even.
She owes an explanation. She can't keep feigning ignorance. Three absent days, poor performance in the field and awkward silences and avoiding eye-contact when all she usually does is stare whenever he talks and encourage topics of conversation.
Doesn't take a genius to put two and two together.
Third floor.
She clears her throat and takes another deep breath but doesn't move at all.
"I'm terribly sorry," she says, with a wince, staring at her own blurry reflection in front, "I'm really sorry, Doctor, I was really drunk."
Second floor.
"Oh, don't -"
"I don't know what came over me, really, I was knackered!"
First floor. Ding.
"Martha," she takes a step forward, eager to put some distance between them now, but doesn't make it far: he grabs her arm and yanks her back inside the lift, much to her own dismay.
She glances outside at the crowded waiting room and passers-by, and suddenly the door to the lift is closing again, trapping them back inside.
"Tell me you haven't been missing classes because of this?!"
He sounds angry, and Martha just stares at him agape, like a fish out of the water, glances at his hand still holding her left arm, at a loss for words.
"I..." she shakes her head, helplessly, feeling like she's been caught red-handed, "I haven't."
She might as well have said yes because Doctor Smith lets her go, takes a step back and runs a hand over his hair as he looks up at the ceiling in exasperation.
"You silly-!"
The word feels like a bucket of freezing water on her face, and she has to blink herself out of her stupor and take a step back as Doctor Smith looks down at her still with that expression of disbelief in his face. And then that hand, the one that was holding her arm, moves to her waist and brings her closer, and John Smith is leaning down and kissing her, his other hand resting on her nape.
She all but slumps down against the wall behind her in shock as her own hands grab hold of his coat and her own eyes shut closed and her own lips catch up with his. Like an almost automatic reaction.
And if she lets out a moan, well, it doesn't really matter, now.
The dizzying movement of the lift and the lack of air have her blinking furiously once Doctor Smith stops attacking her mouth and leans back to catch his own breath, his lips looking alluringly red and his hair slightly ruffled out of place.
Martha's still holding onto his coat.
"There we go," he blurts out, with a raspy voice that makes her stomach feel funny, "you good now?"
She's not sure what he's asking, but she nods either way, still not letting him go, still gasping for air.
"Martha, I need you at your best."
"Yes, sir," she smiles, drunk on his taste, feeling her cheeks burn, absolutely dumbfounded by the turn of events. The lift goes completely still again and the door dings open to the sixth floor. Doctor Smith disappears without a word.