Title: When You Never Cried Alone
Rating: Hard R - non-consensual touching/sexual assault in this chapter.
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: AN: I’m sorry, I was going to put this up a lot earlier but I’ve only had spotty internet for the last week or so (on the bright side my vacation was lovely!), but anywho, here’s part 2.
“Pull your arms up around your knees
And hide out inside your room
Pretend you can't feel at all
Just realize that I know how you feel now”
--"Being Your Walls" by Armor For Sleep
“Th-there was a man. He wanted to come with me, he wanted to help me, he…the Toclefane cut him down. Just cut through ‘im, like he wasn’t anything, like he…he called out to me. Begged me t’ help, but I kept running. I didn’t look back. I couldn’t look back.”
His hands are on her wrists, skimming the damp flesh of her arms, fingers tracing hidden scars, carving out her secrets as she struggles through words and memories, as he cups her face and breathes sympathies, as his hands wander over her captive body.
“Your…your Master,” she says, and her voice is bitter and breathless, “He chased me all across the world. I had t’ get the word out, but everywhere I went…the people I looked at, I knew they all might die because I’d chosen them. Little villages or big cities, it-it didn’t matter. He was always a step behind me. Death followed me everywhere.”
He listens silently, and when she stops, he gives her a sip, a caress.
She stutters to a stop, and he leans forward, mouth full of water, and kisses her, water spilling down their chins as she struggles between pulling back and her overwhelming thirst. His fingers play with the lace on her bra from underneath her shirt, a hand reaching between them to palm her through her jeans, and when she opens her mouth in surprise he nips her bottom lip.
She’s certain that she’s going to die down here, but equally certain that Jack will kill them when he finds out. She doesn’t want to think about the Doctor. She can’t think about the Doctor. Except he asks her, voice ringing in her ears, her head aching, he leans close and asks her if the Doctor cared, if he’d worried about sending her to the planet, to the hell on earth that was unfolding on the surface, if he’d worried for her safety or for his precious plan, if he’d ever worried about her.
She’s silent when he asks, hands too comfortable on unwilling skin, as he pulls her hair and twists her head back so he can trace her neck with his tongue, teeth scraping along the soft skin as her breath comes out fast and unsteady.
“After you were back,” he says against her skin, “Did he even ask if you were all right?” He nips her when she’s silent, teeth sharp on her skin, left hand tightening in her hair, right hand pinching her nipple through the bra.
“No,” she says, half-whisper, “No.”
“Do you think he’s looking for you, Ms. Jones?” he asks, sucking on the skin at the base of her neck, his tongue lathing the area as he pulls her head farther back to expose her neck better.
“He’s—” she starts, but stops abruptly when he bites down firmly on the tender skin and then, pulling back, firmly hits the back of her head, knocking her back upright.
She gags, bile pooling in her mouth, but she manages to swallow it rather than spitting it out into her lap.
“He’s not coming for you,” he whispers into her ear as she lets her head sag, coughing. “He doesn’t care.”
He puts headphones on over her ears, and she half-tries to buck them off because she knows nothing good is going to come from this. He just laughs and chucks her under the chin and then turns the sound on.
It’s on too loud, and it’s the sound of someone screaming and begging as they are tortured. More than someone, she realizes, people, and the sound of fists hitting flesh, the sound of pleas and cries and she shakes her head, half-desperate, but they aren’t coming off, and her throat is closing up on her, her eyes are shut tight behind her blindfold, her breath is ragged, because all she wants is to sleep, but she can’t with echoing cries of pain in her ears, not with the sound of begging and dying in her head.
Reflexively, her wrists pull against the bindings, and then there’s the sudden weight of cloth across her legs as he puts more on top of her, and the heat is too much, the sound too much.
She bites her lip hard enough to bleed, but still she can’t stifle the “Please,” that escapes her mouth. ”Please, stop.”
She doesn’t know if he’s there, if he hears, if he laughs or even cares, but she’s still sitting there, shaking under the weight of too too much hours later.
Her perception of time is off. It’s distracting, disconcerting. Even for that year, she still had the sun to go by, still could see the stars at night, unless they were covered by the thick smog of burning cities, but now there is only dark cloth and cries of pain and the nauseating dizziness of her head, and nothing is right.
She hasn’t eaten. She’s had barely enough water to survive, and what sleep she’s managed has been plagued by nightmares that trap her in memories and images of pain.
She is running and running past people who are crying out for help, but she can’t help them, she can only run, she has to run. But Jack is there, coughing up blood, blue eyes desperate.
She doesn’t stop.
She can never stop.
Her wrists twist inside the handcuffs more out of instinct than out of any real hope of escaping. No one knows where she is. She was supposed to be safe. But what is safety, anyway?
The Doctor yells as the Master levels his screwdriver on him, and Jack clutches her to him as the Doctor twists and turns against the pain. “Martha!” he yells, “Martha, help me!”
But she turns away and runs from all of them.
Even when there’s nowhere left to go.
He’s been back at least twice, his fingers drawn along her jaw, down her throat. She woke up to his tongue in her mouth, so she doesn’t know how much time has passed, if she’s missed anything, but her skin is flushed from the heat and her strength is sapped, and lifting her chin and baring her teeth takes more out of her than she expects.
The headphones haven’t come off.
“Please,” the voices in her ears beg, “Please, I’ll do anything, don’t hurt her, please don’t hurt my daughter!”
And a deeper voice says, “This is what you deserve,” and flesh meets flesh and Martha struggles against the metal cutting into her wrists.
But she can’t run anymore.
He slaps her, hard, and when she wakes up, a half-cough, half-scream on her lips, he grabs her chin is his hand, fingers digging into flesh.
“Do you know what happened to your precious Jack?” he asks her. “Do you know what the Master did to his little fucktoy?”
A little moan escapes her as she shakes her head.
“One year on the Valiant, Ms. Jones. One year while you were off gallivanting and feeling sorry for yourself. How many times to do you think Jack died keeping you safe? What did your Doctor go through waiting for you to return? The Master loves his toys, you know.”
“Loved,” she chokes out.
“What?” he asks, voice grim, letting go of her chin.
“He loved his toys. He’s dead, remember?” she spits out, trying to hide the fact that she can’t stop shaking. The blanket on her lap is thrown off of her, the blindfold torn off of her face, and she blinks, trying to focus as her shirt is torn open.
A man in front of her, light hair, dark eyes, fingers brushing her stomach as he unbuttons her jeans. She starts thrashing, but hands behind her are pulling her hips up as he drags her jeans down so that they pool around her bound ankles, and his hands are resting on her thighs, his face close to hers.
“One year, Ms. Jones. Were you fucked down there? A year living moment to moment, did anyone ever take you and fuck you? Were you raped, Ms. Jones? Because I’m rather betting you were. I’m betting you hid out somewhere, thinking they’d keep you safe and they held you down and fucked you and you couldn’t get away.”
She’s shaking her head, her eyes shut tight as his fingers slide along the sweat-slick skin of her legs.
“Did you beg them to stop? Did you tell them you had to save the world?”
“Don’t,” she says, voice hoarse, and he laughs.
“Tell me a story, Ms. Jones.”
“No,” she says, trying for firm rather than destroyed.
He pulls out a knife and she shrinks backwards, but he just cuts her jeans and her shirt completely off before letting it lean meaningfully against her flat stomach.
“Don’t,” she repeats, breathless, but he leans forward, brushes his lips against hers.
“Tell me a story, Ms. Jones,” he says, and she closes her eyes.