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“I don’t think I’m made for this.”
The Doctor has been laying down on the sofa with every pillow they own covering him, and a little bowl of cereal Martha got for him while watching telly. He’s wearing a ridiculous robe and his hair spikes in all the wrong directions.
He’s in Martha’s slippers, for god’s sake.
So it really looks ridiculous when he looks at her out of the corner of his eye with a little pout. “What’d you think?”
“Not made for… what?”
“This.”
He makes a big show of gesturing to their little apartment.
It’s two months stranded in 1969 today and it’s definitely laying a little heavy on him now. The couch the Doctor insisted they buy because it was definitely comfortable and had nothing to do with a navy blue that reminded him of home has been well used today. Martha woke up with the Doctor on the couch and she came back to find he hadn’t moved an inch. The remote is exactly where she left it, too, as if he’s just been letting the channels pass by.
Martha frowns, “alright, I know it’s not a lot, but it’s just me working. You can’t expect it to come with a pool and a library like the TARDIS.”
“No, I meant… this. Cleaning a house that doesn’t live and watching the same shows over and over and… I don’t know. I haven’t moved my legs all day. I feel worn.”
Martha shuffles up next to him as a test and, very surprisingly and without a doubt a reaction from his blurred over state, he reaches his hand out to hold hers. “Sorry. I should get a job, shouldn’t I?”
She repeats the same excuse he’s given her many times, “you need to work on your little ding machine.”
“Yeah but I’m… All I do is sweep floors that are already clean and wash dishes that are barely dirty and… We always order the same take–out on Tuesday, you’ve noticed?”
“It’s a good deal.”
The Doctor sinks into the couch a little further and takes a pillow to cover his face. “I’m not meant for this. Doctor, all locked up in a room, cooking burnt food and watching telly without knowing how it ends.”
Martha smiles a little, “Aha!”
The Doctor removes the pillow to look at her. “What?”
“I was right!”
“About what?”
“You did burn the beans! All that “this is how Gallifreyans eat” was all nonsense!”
A little red tint creeps up on the Doctor’s face, “Wait, I didn’t–”
“You made me eat that!” she accuses, giving him a little punch on his arm.
“It wasn’t that bad…” the Doctor mumbles with a grin.
“I have tomorrow off. I’ll stay in, teach you how to cook them properly.”
“Yeah?”
“‘Course!”
“Okay! Okay then! Haha, I’ll be able to cook a proper lunch!”
It fills her with a little hope, the stars in his eyes. He’s looking at her like he hung the moon as if he didn’t save her from it.
“I know this is… Difficult, for you to stay in one place. But I can help. I can teach you how to make it interesting.”
The Doctor’s smile lights up the whole room and suddenly, under all those pillows, sunk into the couch, is not an alien, or a Time Lord, but her person. Enjoying her company. Trusting her to carry him through the end of it. “Martha Jones, with you, I’d learn anything.”
“How about actually learning the names of the characters in Coronation Street?”
“Absolutely not.”