Martha Jones (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
storiesofmyown) wrote2019-02-06 10:02 pm
storiesofmyown) wrote2019-02-06 10:02 pm
[For Jack] Scenes from Domestic Life
Martha's flat knackered.
Between working full shifts at the hospital, part time at Torchwood, and revising for her exams, she can't remember the last time she had a full four hours, let alone eight. If sleeping standing up was a competitive sport, she'd be a gold medalist. And even still, it's so much better than the Year That Never Was (even though it definitely was for her), she's loving it. It's what she's meant to do.
Loving it, though, it doesn't give her much extra in the tanks. It doesn't leave room for cooking for herself and Jack; they're eating almost strictly takeaway these days. It doesn't leave room for tidying; she's not a slob but she owes the flat a good cleaning. And sex? Forget about it. Jack's probably dying for a shag. (It probably hasn't been a week, but it's Jack, so she's conscious of it. She doesn't want being with her to be a drag for him, yeah?)
Tonight's no different than any other night lately. Martha's burning the two a.m. oil. When her eyelids start dragging, she hauls herself up from the couch and reheats some already charred coffee. Instead of returning to the couch where sleep is inevitable, she takes the coffee and her Pathology texts to the roll-top desk. It's small and not very comfortable. Perfect.
Forty minutes later, when Jack's due home from work, Martha's facedown in the text asleep, her splayed out arm edging the coffee mug closer and closer to the edge of the desk. Any time now, it will fall and wake her with the crash and slosh of cold coffee.
Between working full shifts at the hospital, part time at Torchwood, and revising for her exams, she can't remember the last time she had a full four hours, let alone eight. If sleeping standing up was a competitive sport, she'd be a gold medalist. And even still, it's so much better than the Year That Never Was (even though it definitely was for her), she's loving it. It's what she's meant to do.
Loving it, though, it doesn't give her much extra in the tanks. It doesn't leave room for cooking for herself and Jack; they're eating almost strictly takeaway these days. It doesn't leave room for tidying; she's not a slob but she owes the flat a good cleaning. And sex? Forget about it. Jack's probably dying for a shag. (It probably hasn't been a week, but it's Jack, so she's conscious of it. She doesn't want being with her to be a drag for him, yeah?)
Tonight's no different than any other night lately. Martha's burning the two a.m. oil. When her eyelids start dragging, she hauls herself up from the couch and reheats some already charred coffee. Instead of returning to the couch where sleep is inevitable, she takes the coffee and her Pathology texts to the roll-top desk. It's small and not very comfortable. Perfect.
Forty minutes later, when Jack's due home from work, Martha's facedown in the text asleep, her splayed out arm edging the coffee mug closer and closer to the edge of the desk. Any time now, it will fall and wake her with the crash and slosh of cold coffee.
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With a smile he takes the cup to the kitchen and then putters around quietly cleaning up. He is proud of all the hard work Martha has been putting in and is willing to wait for couple time when things slow down.
Once the house looks less like a tornado blew through it he moves back to Martha's side and and kneels down to try and wake her up without scaring her.
"Martha," he called softly, "sweetheart I'm home."
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Ah, she thinks, still dream-bound. It was Jack doing the puttering.
Several long moments pass and she's vaguely aware there's something she needs to do to complete this thought, but it escapes her, and asleep she remains.