Rating: Hard R, non-consensual touching/sexual assault.
Characters/Pairings: Eventual Martha/Ten/Jack.
Spoilers: through S3
Disclaimer: I don't own Doctor Who, etc.
Summary: Set about 2 weeks after LotTL. So Pre-Donna, Pre-Unit. Martha thought the year-that-never-was was as bad it was ever going to get, but she's wrong. Martha is taken after leaving the hospital by two of the guards who'd been on the Valiant--and learned to idolize the Master.
Author’s notes: This has been preying on me for about two weeks now, so I thought I ought to sit down and actually get it out. Will probably be about 5-6 chapters?
Can you think back to when things worked
When dreams were the days you lived
When you never cried alone
Just realize that I know how you feel now
--"Being Your Walls" by Armor For Sleep
...When You Never Cried Alone...
If she closes her eyes, if she doesn’t look up, if she doesn’t breathe too deeply or too loudly maybe it will all go away.
Maybe she’ll be back in her gorgeous little cramped apartment studying and fending off calls from her family and never have been transported up to the moon, never been carted off into the night by a man whose name she doesn’t even know, maybe she won’t be here, right now, tied and helpless and terrified and left in darkness.
But Martha Jones has never really dealt in maybes.
So she forces her eyes open.
Steadies her breath.
Still in darkness.
The rope typing her wrists and ankles to the chair is tight, and as she struggles she can practically feel the little skin particles scraping off. The back of her head throbs abominably from where she was struck with something, by someone, seconds before falling to the ground. She has no idea where she is.
Well, not quite true. As far as she knows, she’s still on Earth. Which, given her life, isn’t always the case.
The last thing she can remember is leaving the hospital.
Leaving the hospital. Walking to her car in the back lot. Noise behind her…
Before she can really consider her predicament in any helpful sort of depth, a door behind her opens and then the entire room is bathed in ridiculously white white light, so bright that even with the continual blinking she can’t make out anything except indistinct shapes and masses, all of which are dark and devoid of color.
“Miss Jones?” It’s a male voice, from behind the godawful blinding light, and her head is practically exploding but she forces herself to keep her eyes open. For spite if nothing else.
“Who are you?” she asks, a little sickened that she doesn’t even have to pretend the plaintiveness in her voice. “Where’ve you taken me? What do you want?”
“You were on the Valiant,” the man says, and her heart sort of clenches.
“What?” she asks, still sounding distressed, if not more so.
“We know what happened,” he says. “I was there,” he says. “I chose to be loyal to the Master,” he says.
“No,” she breathes, and the light clicks out, and she’s once-more surrounded by darkness, and she’s even more blinded after the light.
“I remember that year,” he whispers, and she shakes her head, even though he can’t see her. “Do you know how many times I saw that freak die? I even got to kill him once or twice. And your Doctor, your bleeding heart Doctor…the Master was going to let me see the universe. And I was going to watch as he bent it to his will.”
“You sick fuck,” she says, and even as she says it she knows it’s the wrong thing to do, but what he’s saying, it’s so wrong, so disgusting, she can’t stop herself, can’t think past the throbbing in her skull.
He backhands her and she cries out, the pain in her head making her dizzy, making her gag as the world swims around her, her hands clenching, pulling against the ropes around her wrist that are too tight too bloody tight.
“Martha and Jack and the Doctor,” he says, voice low. “This is your fault, this…this life, this tedium after that year that never should have ended. Martha Jones walked the earth,” he mocks softly, and his hand is suddenly on her thigh, and she squirms in her seat, sick and dizzy and unable to think past No. “You should’ve died, on the planet, shouldn’t you, Martha? All those people died because of you, for you, didn’t they?”
His hand moves higher, tightening around her leg, hurting her.
“Th-that year never happened,” she says, forcing the words through clenched teeth. “Those people are alive. Because of the Doctor.”
His hand is high enough that her entire body is tense, breath struggling into her mouth, wrists straining away from the cool metal on which they rest. Completely at his mercy, and Martha’s never looked good in helpless.
“What do you want?” she manages to spit out through her teeth, determined to be brave, determined to not show weakness, but the laughter her question causes is testing whatever strength she has left after that year. That-year-that-never-was.
Breath warm against her ear. “What’re you offering, Ms. Jones?” he says, one leg kneeling on the chair between her legs, one hand sliding from her leg to her stomach and up—up—up—
Her hands tightened into fists, her body snug against the chair, as far away as she can pull herself, her lips curl.
“Get off me,” she says, voice low and fiercer than she’d thought she’d be able to manage. But she’s hardened in ways she’s still learning. Toughened in ways she hasn’t yet realized.
“Well lookit,” the man laughs, speaking over her shoulder, speaking to someone else. “The bitch’s got backbone, I’ll give her that,” he says, and she can feel the smirk in his voice, the amusement and irritation in the way his hand cups her jaw tightly, “Of course, we already knew that from your round-the-world trip, didn’t we, Ms. Jones?”
“You won’t get away with this,” she says, hating the way her voice sounds unsteady. “He’ll find you, he’ll make you pay for this,” she whispers, pressing her lips together when she’s done to hide their tremble.
“Don’t be naive,” the man says, hands pulling roughly away from her, leg sliding back to the floor.
“He’ll kill you,” she says, voice breath and certainty, and the man laughs.
“The Doctor? I thought he doesn’t kill. Do you think he’d kill for you, Ms. Jones?”
“Jack will find you,” she says, voice hard. “And then you’ll die.”
His laughter trails off and he backhands her, and once again she cannot help the cry of pain from escaping, as the nausea builds, as the world of light and shadow sways around her. Rough cloth is pulled tight around her eyes, too tight, and she lets out a desperate sort of moan.
“Let’s see how you like hell,” he says, biting her ear gently. “Turn up the heat,” he orders the someone else who still hasn’t spoken.
“I’ll give you…oh…five hours, Ms. Jones. Time enough to think.”
“Think about what?” she yells as his footsteps fade behind her.
He does not answer.
The heat is unbearable.
Sweat pools at the base of her spine, her throat burns from lack of water, the blindfold around her eyes is damp, her ankles are raw and her wrists are bleeding from her struggles.
She can hear him enter, hear him drag his seat closer and sit down in front of her.
“Thirsty?” he asks, and she tightens her cracked lips, tries to force down the instinctual please.
Suddenly a damp finger slides across her mouth, and once it’s gone she cannot resist licking her lips, straining for any moisture available. Her hair is damp and heavy on her neck, and strapped to her seat, she still feels as if the world is spinning around her.
“Tell me a story about the year,” he says. “Something terrible that you saw, something that hurt, something that you had to do to survive, and I’ll give you some water.”
“No,” she whispers, and again he outlines her lips with wet fingertips, and she strains forward as he pulls away.
“Tell me,” he says, and what can it hurt?
Shaking, miserable, nauseous, she does, half-stammering, trying vainly to get the words out through her sandpaper throat, to keep her focus.
He keeps his promise, and she gratefully takes the couple of sips of water he gives.
“Not too fast,” he tells her softly. “Don’t make yourself sick, love.”
She tries to control the tremors as he caresses her face, his thumb sliding along her cheekbones.
But the heat is too much, the water isn’t enough, and the sick feeling in the pit of her stomach is overwhelming as his hands slide up under the bottom of her shirt.
“Tell me,” he orders, fingers trailing along the smooth skin of her stomach.
“Tell me,” he whispers, damp fingers skimming across her parched lips.
Hours and hours and she cannot sleep, cannot pause, and dizzy and feverish she speaks, unable to stop the wet trail of tears down her cheeks, unable to stop anything at all.