Between One Moment and The Next

I live two lives.

My human lover.

When I am away, I work for UNIT. Mostly I research alien technology. At times, I command others as Defender and Protector of Earth against hostile aliens. Sometimes I pick up a gun and use it. Sometimes I wonder at the ease with which I do this and am not sure why. I want to ask Jack, but I don't know where he is now. When the menace is over, the excitement abates and I'm not needed, I go home to Tom.

I am a wife living the life in suburbia. When Tom is home, he tells me tales of protecting and defending humanity against sickness and disease vaccination by vaccination, one frustrating step at a time. I see the pain of needless suffering and death in his eyes and press his hand. His eyes gradually brighten with love, and as he gently traces a thumb along my jawline, I feel as if he's comforting me, although I never talk about what I do.

At night when he pulls me into his arms, I smile and revel in the comfort. He kisses my breast and concentrates on stroking it in just the right way. He always studies my face to make sure this is what I want. He's a surprisingly shy lover. It's quite endearing and I feel emboldened. I pull him closer. He is my rock, and at times like this I feel everything I do, I do for him. Then tomorrow or next day or next week, he packs his bags and heads back to where he's needed more.

***

When Tom is away, I rise in the morning and draw back the curtain to see the big blue box standing at the bottom of the garden, such an oddity amongst this row of identical houses with their identical lots. Only I can perceive it, of course. A small nasty part of me wishes a nosy neighbor would glimpse it, would wonder and gossip about that strange man with Dr. Jones. It reminds me of 1969. There is chirping nearby. A small wren tugs at a worm in the ground. It tugs and chirps, tugs and chirps as if frustrated with its prey.

The TARDIS waits quietly. The Doctor doesn't come out anymore, and I don't expect him to. The first time he does I meet him in the middle of the garden, drawn by the familiarity of the brown suit, the mop of hair, the big hug, and dazzling smile. He stands with hands in his pockets and a shadow passes over him. I look into his eyes and fancy I see my complete reflection; what a curious play of light. He takes my hand and brushes a strand of hair from my eyes. He says in that familiar drawl, “Welllllllllll, Martha Jones!” and I can't help but smile. He says -

- The first time he does, I meet him in the middle of the garden, drawn by the familiarity of the brown suit, the mop of hair, the big hug and dazzling smile. He stands with hands in his pockets and a shadow passes over him. I look into his eyes and see fathomless nothing. No light, no life, no time. I am at once alarmed and disoriented with unnamed dread and repulsion, I hold up a hand in warning. My mouth works but nothing comes out. I want to scream, “Oh no! No! Not you! Stay back! STAY BACK!” His eyes suddenly widen in shock as his mouth forms an O of surprise. Then in a blink there is only a terrible desperation there. He grabs my hand as I step back and cool fingers press my face. My mind whirls. He says in a voice leaden with sorrow, “Come with me Martha.” He says -

I feel dizzy standing at the window and clutch the sill. I've been too busy to eat properly this week. The curtain flutters in the cool breeze. I'm surprised to see the wren gone along with its prey and wonder when that happened. The TARDIS stands at the bottom of the garden. The Doctor waits patiently. Eventually I go.

***
My alien lover.

I'm gone a month. I'm gone a matter of hours. I am not sure how long I'm gone. Such is the joy of time travel and I'm still bitten by the travel bug. Things have changed between us. Certainly the saving the universe part hasn't changed. He still touches off the eighth French revolution and causes an interplanetary incident between the Kosseks and the Kossaks by mistakenly referring to one as the other. We still run down endless corridors from seven-foot rampaging ferrets. There is always adventure.

Now I look at him and see him for what he is. I understand he's not human, not what I wanted him to be. I'm aware of the coolness of his hand when it takes mine. His human appearance is a facade, a barrier for emotions not like my own and a mind I can't hope to fathom. Sometimes I stare and marvel over his strangeness and wonder how I could not have seen it before. I have no illusions this time. I don't love him, not that way anymore. I don't know what love is to him. He shows me the stars and that is enough.

He's changed too. He watches me. I turn and see him suddenly look away too many times not to notice. His attention surprises me and it's all too little too late. Still my vanity is flattered and I can't help but smile to myself. But sometimes his gaze feels like a suffocating blanket thrown over me. When this happens, I am seized with the certainty that I mustn't look in his eyes. So I listen. He's always talked and never really said, but now... now he doesn't talk all that much either. I hear the start of familiar prattle and then there's silence. It calls such attention to itself, that I look around to see if something's amiss. In the silence I fancy every syllable he utters has been carefully weighed and assessed as if one misspoken word will bring calamity. Sometimes he radiates such tension, my heart sinks and I want to leave the room. Then he takes my hand and gently traces a thumb along my jawline. Cool fingers press my temple. My mind whirls. He says, “Martha, you look so tired. You need rest.” He says -

- Sometimes he radiates such tension, my heart sinks and I want to leave. I want to demand, “Take me home. Please, just take me home and never come back.” I want to bolt for the door. I want to scream and never stop. He takes my hand and gently traces a thumb along my jawline and cool fingers touch my temple. My mind whirls. Tears prickle my eyes. I say, “Doctor, what are you doing to me? What have you done? Please please don't.” He says, “I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. How can I make you understand?” He says -

I am dizzy and grip the console. This seems to happen a lot now. I reason it's a side effect of prolonged time travel. He stands close, regarding me quietly. His eyes are so sad and so very, very old. His loneliness is almost palpable. He needs me, this last of the Time Lords. I am ashamed of my inexplicable paranoia and wonder if he senses it. But I don't ask and don't know why. I, the happy inquisitor, do not question any of this. Then it all falls away and I can't think anymore. I'm so tired and need rest.

Later when he slides into me, I close my eyes and surrender to the exquisiteness of it. His fingers graze the long scar on my side. I wonder why I never cease to be mildly surprised by its presence. The Year That Never Was flits through my mind and is gone again like a wisp, only to be recalled all over again when the scar is touched. He kisses me deeply. I mean to ask “Why, why now?” but I don't. Why brood when we are so good together? He moves above me and presses soft kisses to my neck. I trace my nails along the nape of his sensitive neck and rise up to meet his thrusts. He growls and breathes something in my ear that I never catch. He murmurs my name and clings tighter, almost painfully. I feel his need like a visceral thing. It is new and powerful and intoxicating. Our bodies rock together. We are so very close. I feel him losing all control now; this is rare. This pleases me. He touches cool fingers to my temple and I welcome it -.

- He touches cool fingers to my temple and I welcome it. I eagerly await seeing Time again, an imagined vista of endless stars and galaxies to infinity. But even as his mind touches mine, my heart races and I know this is not it as Time bends, twists, coalesces into a distorted ribbon. The ribbon pulls like taffy, thinning, stretching, tearing under unseen forces. It sheds all color, all potential, all life as it strains to its inevitable breaking point. I see it as I've seen it before, each time worse than the last. Between one moment and the next, I know with absolute clarity it is he who is doing this, he who is bending time to his will, he who is bringing about its end. I know what he has done - is doing to me. Even as my body crests the last wave of pleasure, I cry out in anguish and he jerks back, breaking the link. I lie wracked with sobs and dry heaves, clutching the sheets to myself like a shield. He calls my name again and again, but I refuse to hear. I keen as if I could die. After awhile cool fingers press my temple. I flinch and know nothing.

***

My life.

When Tom is away, I rise in the morning and draw back the curtain to check the bottom of the garden. It looks identical to all the other gardens behind these identical houses. Sometimes I expect to see the big blue box there, which is odd because I haven't seen the Doctor since before the wedding. I wonder if he has a companion. He needs one. I want to ask Jack but I don't know where he is now. But I don't fret over the Doctor. He will be fine; he's always fine. I go about my life.

Other times his face comes unbidden to me in the middle of the night. I awake gasping, sitting bolt upright with my heart racing. I am assailed with a sense of doom and I think this is a panic attack. I concentrate on slowly breathing in and out, in and out. I think of Tom, our wedding, happy times. The tendrils of the nightmare fade away even as my head touches the pillow. My dreams confirm I made the right decision to stop traveling with the Doctor. I do not wonder why UNIT doesn't bring these nightmares to mind. I lie in the dark, staring at the pillow where Tom's head will rest. Eventually drowsiness returns and thoughts slip away one by one.

But before I finally drift into sleep, I think... I think...
Doctor, what have you done?