LONDON GIRLS
London Girls: Jimmy quit, Jody got married Disclaimer: 'Empress Orchid' belongs to Anchee Min. The Doctor quotes some lyrics from 'Summer of 69', so they're Bryan Adams.' Doctor Who belongs to the BBC. Author's Note: Last updated, the 29th of July 2008? Oh now, that's ridiculous. I do apologise. As I've probably said before, I got the idea for this quite early on in S4 and wrote most of it on bits of paper, occasionally adding in references to episodes. It's set after The Unicorn and the Wasp but before Silence in the Library/Forrest of the Dead. Ooh, and it won't be in canon with series 4 from then onwards. Hey, what else is fanfic for? Special thanks for this chapter go to AzureFalls because she got me writing this again. So, cheers! The feeling was similar to the one she'd had the day she'd met the Doctor. When she'd shuffled through to her bedroom from the bathroom to get ready and glammed-up for Leo's twenty-first, after a good twenty-minute shower, her damp hair coiled up in a towel. She'd pulled out her posh full-size make-up bag from a drawer, (the one she used when she was going out. One that held her girly make-up, like the little pots of M.A.C eye shadow, liquid eyeliner and Lancôme lipstick. Worlds away from the old pencil case she used when she was at work. That held nothing more than foundation, Vaseline and bog-standard mascara,) and had begun to apply her first base of translucent powder with the aid of her mirror, when in her reflection, out of the corner of her eye, her eyes had picked out a flash of colour on the shelf beside her bed; a red paperback left at the edge, beside a photo of herself, Tish and Leo the day she got her A-level results at eighteen, the white envelope hanging from her left hand. Three A's in Chemistry, Biology and Physics…It had been that seemingly ordinary book that had stilled her hand and she'd dropped her applicator sponge, a hot flush of something indescribable rising in her cheeks. 'Empress Orchid' by Anchee Min had been an insistent recommendation from her mum, who liked to believe that she still had some sort of influence and input in the life of her grown-up, medical-student daughter, (even though Martha frequently showed signs of being far more savvy and levelheaded than her) and so thrust books and critiques of her hairstyle ("It's not that it doesn't suit you Martha, it's just rather…severe and you've got quite a delicate face,") clothes and lack of social life as well as recommendations of new bistros and films at her, at every opportunity. She'd reluctantly agreed to borrow 'Empress Orchid' off her mum the last time she'd been round for dinner, and even then it was only after Tish had unexpectedly joined in with their mum's cajoling, admitting that it was 'actually a really good read.' Martha had pointed out that she worked irregular shifts and was doubtful over whether she'd ever get round to starting it but nevertheless, she'd started it the night before and had even stayed up reading an hour later in bed than she'd originally intended. She'd been slightly groggier than usual that morning as a result; sleeping in ten minutes late and then hurriedly gulping down a bowl of Weetabix before walking to work and running into a tall, thin man in a suit who'd come up to her and taken his tie off… The sight of the book had given her a shock. That morning she'd been just another medical student, battling with her textbooks, growing tired of the patronising sarcasm of her tutor, thinking about how she'd have to pay the rent after work and buy another iron at some point because hers was useless…yet then it'd started raining upwards, she'd been transported to the moon, met a seemingly insane patient with two hearts, only later to find out that he wasn't even a human and didn't have a proper name and just swanned round calling himself 'The Doctor', been chased down a corridor by a rhino-thing and met a vampire-like granny with a pink straw. She was still Martha Jones, but she was not the Martha Jones that she'd been that morning, and 'Empress Orchid' represented that. Her eyes had been opened to an utterly, brilliant, exhilarating yet terrifying wider universe. She'd been shown, in the form of a mad, talkative man in a decidedly tight-fitting suit that there was far more than the 'right here, right now, one planet' sort of thing. Her preconceptions, ideals and beliefs, the way she looked at things had been resolutely jiggled around a bit and turned completely upside-down. She'd exhaled a long, shaky breath and had closed her eyes slightly before opening them and giving herself a reassuring smile in the mirror before dipping to retrieve her fallen applicator sponge off the floor. But it was with a trembling hand that she'd carried on working; smoothing mattes and illuminators into her cheeks. Now, she felt just as displaced and wrong-footed as she sat at her kitchen table, toying with the scrambled eggs and toast that Donna had made for her, listening to the Doctor telling her that what she regarded as human, established history was…nonsense. She couldn't help but feel slightly hostile towards him. At least, when she'd met him, she'd seen stuff in front of her eyes; seen platoons of Judoon, heard the double beat of his hearts through her stethoscope. Verifiable proof. Yet this time, he'd got himself all preoccupied and insistent; talking about nonsense like Titanic, spouting off rubbish about Shakespeare being from the Elizabethan era. And she was just supposed to take his word for it, was she? Everything she'd ever learnt at school, from books, from the television, from passed-on stories and trivia; that was all meaningless according to him. She felt defiant, as if he were undermining her intelligence, but there was that other part of her, too, that was absolutely petrified. That bit of her that she'd acted on when she'd followed his whispered, urgent instructions on the Valiant about spreading his story across the continents and then using the countdown. She'd been helpless, as she'd looked at him. He'd returned her gaze; lost and dismayed at finding himself trapped in a wizened, frail body. All that youthfulness, all that vitality…compressed and over-written, but she'd still done as he'd asked even though she was teary and afraid, even though neither of them had known if it'd really work. She'd still teleported off the ship to walk across the Earth on her own, purely because she had absolute and utter trust in him. Which part of her would be the most dominant? Her clutch on knowledge, history and experience that made her the human she was, or her faith that the Doctor knew what he was doing? It was giving her a headache; the sort of dull ache she used to get when she was writing her dissertation, when she used to work long into the early hours of the morning even after a solid twelve hours in front of the computer, surrounded by text books, folders and post-it notes; mentally drained and tired, carrying on only through sheer willpower. Her shower had helped to get rid of her grogginess, and now, dressed in fresh, clean clothes she felt wide-awake and alert, her stomach tightening into the familiar knot of adrenaline and anticipation that being within a one-metre radius of the Doctor always seemed to cause. "Martha?" Martha looked up blankly, as Donna said her name, eyebrows raised. It was clear from her expression that she'd been asked a question and she felt a small blush rise up in her cheeks; embarrassed at being caught not listening. She'd been completely tied up in her thoughts. She glanced at the Doctor for some sort of clue, but he merely looked back at her, grimly. The look in his eyes was one of disappointment and resignation, and Martha immediately felt the heat in her cheeks spread over her face, a tingle of shame and mortification spreading to her fingertips. She felt about two feet tall; she couldn't bear it if the Doctor was disappointed in her. Not the Doctor; anyone but him. Pathetic and childish though it was, she felt a lump form in her throat again and had a strong urge to burst into tears…but how would that help? Better to be straightforward and honest with them. "Sorry. I was a bit…what did you say?" she asked Donna apologetically, closing her eyes briefly and shaking her head, as if to focus her attention. Donna tutted at her good-naturedly, looking half-exasperated, half-amused. " A bit…?," she said sarcastically. "It's like talking to him!" she announced indignantly, gesturing at the Doctor. "'Doctor, you all right?'" she said, faux-sweetly, obviously parodying herself. "'Yeah," she mimicked him, copying the way he set his mouth and the way he stressed the 'ah', staring, eyes glazed at the kitchen table with her hands shoved into her jeans pockets as far as they could go, in a fantastically good imitation of the way the Doctor would look, unseeing at the TARDIS console when he was thinking and preoccupied, and not paying the slightest bit of attention to what anyone was asking him. "'D'you want a cup of tea Doctor?…Yeah," she carried on, ignoring the 'Donna-I'm-not-finding-this-funny,' look the Doctor was giving her. 'There's an eight-foot pink elephant knocking on the TARDIS door, Doctor, should I let him in?…Yeah.' Credit where it was due, thought Martha, a glimmer of a smile pulling at her mouth; Donna sounded uncannily like the Doctor with her 'Yeahs,' and the fact that she was actually taking the mickey out of him, bold and unflinching, but with evident fondness…oh Donna Noble was good, wasn't she? "Anyway," said Donna, turning her attention back to Martha, her joking manner fading. "What I said was, 'you don't really have to eat that, you know.' Not if it's gone cold," she said kindly, nodding at Martha's plate of scrambled eggs and toast. Martha looked down at her hardly-touched breakfast, guiltily. The toast had gone cold and hard, and although the scrambled eggs were lukewarm in the middle, they too, were cold around the edges. She must have taken far longer to get ready than she'd realised. She looked at the large clock on the wall above the oven, and saw with a jolt, that it was quarter-past seven. Martha gave Donna a grateful smile. "I'm sorry, I'm just really not that hungry," she told her, silently hoping she wouldn't take offence. "But thank you…it was nice," she fibbed, injecting some false cheeriness into her voice before getting to her feet and pushing her chair underneath the table with a loud scrape. Donna gave a noise of disbelief. "Liar," she grinned, taking the plate from her and crossing the kitchen to empty it into the swing-bin. Martha followed her, reaching up to take a glass from one cupboard and then stretching up on her tiptoes with an audible 'oof' to get down a plastic basket from a high shelf in another cupboard. Dropping it loudly onto the bench, she rifled through it, taking out gauze bandages, plasters, cough medicine, antiseptic spray, half-full boxes of ibuprofen and finally a foil blister-pack of paracetamol. She pressed out two of the white capsules, filled the glass with tap water and swallowed them with two gulps of water, head tilted back, slightly. Time to sort this out, now… "Right," she said efficiently, wiping her wet mouth with the tea towel that Donna had used as an oven glove and pulling a face at the bitter aftertaste of the paracetamol. "Are you going to talk to me properly, or are you going to carry on as if I'm a toddler who's been put on the naughty step?" she asked forcefully, staring at the Doctor's back, from where she stood, leaning against the bench with her arms crossed. The emptied contents of the basket lay ignored across the bench. The Doctor whipped round. Donna, looked from the Doctor to Martha, still haplessly holding Martha's plate and cutlery. She smiled, impressed at Martha before darting between them to dump them noisily in the kitchen sink and then retreating to the side, looking pointedly at the canvas painting of an abstract orange and gold blob on the wall, giving them some semi-privacy. Martha stared coolly at the Doctor, framed in the pale light of the window behind her. She didn't look tired and lethargic anymore; her eyes were brighter and were shining with a tiny spark of anger, her expression piercing and challenging. Gone were her pyjamas, Ugg boots and her throw. Gone, was Bag-Lady Martha…oh yes! Dressed in her customary boot-leg jeans, high-heeled boots and a fitted jacket, (dark grey, today) get-up, (one which had been the inspiration for the 345689 New Madrid Fashion week, after a particularly bemusing incident involving a family of fortune-tellers. Oh no, Martha wasn't going to forget that one in a hurry) this was the feisty, forward-thinking Martha Jones who had saved the world. The corner of the Doctor's mouth turned up slightly, and his expression became less stony as he returned her level gaze. This was the Martha Jones he knew, and stroppy or not, he was pleased about it, even if she was looking at him the way she had done when she'd found out that he'd left Captain Jack behind and had demanded of him if that was what he did with all of his companions. "Doctor," said Martha assertively in a no-nonsense-now-it's-my-turn sort of way. "I-I think you're wrong," she told him, flatly, but there was an apology layered into her voice, as if she were sorry to have to contradict him, sorry to have to disagree with him, in case it looked like she didn't believe him or didn't trust him, but that she had her own opinion and she wasn't afraid to voice it. She'd been thinking about it for the past half an hour… "I get what you're saying about the wrong events and history being re-written, I do, I get it," she assured him earnestly, waving a hand at the kitchen-table, where they'd sat and he'd told her all about the events in Earth's history that were now incorrect, according to him. "But," she sighed, and looked up at the ceiling, frustrated, unsure of how to put her point. "Donna, you said Paul McCartney was in The Beatles!" she said, unable to keep back a small laugh of incredulity, as if she found the idea utterly mad. "How d'you know?" she demanded. "How?" Donna opened her mouth and looked from the Doctor to Martha. She started to say several things, each one getting lost after more than two syllables. " You just…you just do!" she insisted finally, unable to stop her voice from rising in both pitch and volume, her accent becoming more pronounced. "General knowledge, Guinness Book of Records , films, CD's, stuff you learn as you're growing up, pub quizzes. Just…" Donna gave an exaggerated shrug, raising her shoulders up to her ear lobes and flinging her arms out to the side, palms facing upwards, looking decidedly pink and flustered. "Paul McCartney, John Lennon, George Harrison and Ringo Starr; the four Beatles! Yeah? Yes?" she shot quickly at the Doctor, looking for backup. He nodded sagely. "Though in the Forthright Peninsula, there's always been some debate over whether Ringo Starr was really hu"- he began, reasonably, before being shot down. "Oh, shut up," instructed Donna, in a way that suggested that his babbling and elaborations on the point would neither be needed nor appreciated. Martha, too pulled a face at him, before nodding fervently at Donna. "Exactly!" "Exactly? Exactly, what?" "My books, my CDs, my trivia and the rest of the human population say that Paul McCartney was in the Rolling Stones," retorted Martha, calmly. "We can't both be right." Donna, who had let out a 'Humph!' at Martha's mention of the Rolling Stones, looked at her pityingly. "Martha…" "No," she said obstinately, her lips pressed together in a thin line as she looked at the Doctor and Donna. She looked down at her front, playing with the zip of her jacket and took a deep breath, as if steeling herself, getting mentally prepared. "What if it's you who's got it wrong?" she asked slowly, her eyes darting between them. "I mean, it's been about four months since you were last on Earth, hasn't it?" she asked hopefully. "You've probably been on all sorts of planets…" she trailed off. "No, hear me out," she ordered sharply, holding her hands up as both the Doctor and Donna looked about to argue, her engagement ring twinkling in the light with the movement. "You've just told me how dangerous it would be if we forgot our history," she implored, eyes wide, her eyebrows sloping downwards so that she looked quite agitated. "What if that was you, Doctor? You've saved us so many times…." Here, her expression softened and she looked at him with fierce admiration and affection, not missing the fact that these words were bitterly familiar; she'd said something similar to this thousands upon thousands of times in the year that she walked the world, telling his story. Donna give him a sideways smile, but the Doctor paid attention to neither of their glowing looks; he simply stared back at Martha, unblinking, his expression unchanging, hands shoved in his pockets. Waiting. Waiting for her to say it. "Think about how dangerous it would be if you forgot," she finished softly, her eyes, which were normally so warm and gentle, were piercing through his. "What if we've got the right version of history and you haven't? What if someone's been playing with your mind, taking away your real knowledge and implanting false facts in its place?" she argued hotly. Donna, made a face of disbelief, but Martha could tell it was just bravado. She did not miss the way her eyes slid over to the Doctor, anxiously, as she considered this, as if she needed him to reassure her. Martha surveyed the Doctor, who looked past her to the wall behind her. He was wearing the same, closed-off expression he always wore when he didn't like what he was hearing, but forced himself to listen, anyway. Martha felt a clench of shame pull at her stomach at what she was about to say to him, but she pushed it to the side, clinically. Cutting off her emotions where necessary, focusing on the job. Typical doctor's manner. Cruel to be kind, and all that. The Doctor looked back at her, eyes pained, as if pleading with her not to say it. He knew. Course he knew what she was going to say; he almost looked resigned to it. He seemed to be shrinking away from her. "I'm sorry," said Martha gently, taking a step towards him, and she really did look sorry, but there was a firm, decided look in her eyes that made it clear that she'd made her mind up; decided what to believe. "Doctor, I'm sorry, but you've been tricked before," she said heavily, but with the utmost reluctance, eyes frantic. The Doctor dropped his gaze to the floor and said nothing. "He used the Archangel Network to hide from you," she finished quietly, her voice barely more than a murmur, and he could tell that she was hating every single second of this; hating herself for bringing it up, feeling heartless and cruel. But she was firm, and she was doing it for a reason. A whistling silence rang out through the kitchen. If Donna was lost, (and she was, because she looked, confused between the Doctor and Martha, aware that she was referring to some unmentioned thing that they had shared together when she used to travel with him) she didn't mention it, and kept quiet, though she continued to look between the Doctor and Martha, warily. The Doctor eventually looked up, eyes haunted and sighed so heavily that his shoulders drooped, a hand rubbing at the back of his neck, expression mournful. "How d'you know you're right?" Martha asked, barely moving her lips. "How can you prove that your version of history's right? You can't, can you?" The Doctor closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose before opening them again and leaning with his back against the kitchen table to survey Martha, skeptically. Martha raised her eyebrows at him and tilted her head on the side, expectantly, a half-triumphant expression of 'argue-your-way-out-of-that-one' playing across her face. "She's got a point," said Donna resignedly from the side. She sounded tired. Unwilling. "No she hasn't!" the Doctor snapped at her. Martha jerked backwards, the small of her back bumping against the bench, as if she'd been slapped; deeply hurt and insulted. Donna gave an angry squeak and planted her hands firmly on her hips, her green eyes flashing angrily. She opened her mouth, furiously, about to chew his ear off about his rudeness and the fact that he was talking about Martha as if she wasn't standing just inches apart from him but the Doctor cleared his throat apologetically. He ran his hand through his hair, pulling it so that it stood up on end, and then sighed again, suddenly looking very old, and worn-out. Most of the time he looked deceptively young and vibrant; early thirties at the very most with the energy and enthusiasm to rival that of a manic four year old boy. It was often easy to forget that he was a very, very old alien. Over nine-hundred, and right now he looked it. "Oh, Martha Jones," he said wearily, the same way he'd said 'Oh Tallulah with three l's and an h…just you watch me' back in 1930's New York. Such a long time ago, now. Sad but with a hint of affection. "You really are brilliant." Martha gaped at him, confused and taken aback, but she allowed herself to be gripped by the forearms and led to the kitchen table. The Doctor motioned for her to sit down in her former place and he sat himself opposite her, elbows on the table, resting his chin on his hand as he regarded her, seriously. "How can I prove it?" he echoed her at last, shifting his hand so that his voice wasn't muffled; yet he still sounded fed-up. He tapped the side of his head. "Memories, Martha," he said passionately. "It's all in here. Yours aren't, though, are they?" he mused to himself more than her, sounding disturbed about this. "Hmm?" he probed her. "Martha; first trip on the TARDIS. Where did I take you?" he asked her sharply, like a teacher springing a question on an inattentive pupil, but there was an urgent sort of desperation in his eyes that made Martha feel unsettled, as if he were tricking her. It was a test. "I…" she paused, a strain of her headache coming back, gleefully and she kneaded the heel of her hand into her forehead, wincing. "New New York," she told him, defiantly, with the tone of someone trying to prove their worth. The Doctor raised his eyebrows slightly, but his facial expression didn't change, he just leaned back in this chair to study her, thoughtfully. "You hesitated," he accused her, softly, eyes glinting. "I didn't," replied Martha, sullenly, shooting him a distasteful look. She reached out and began to scrape the sticky lable of a jar of honey with her fingernails, short though they were. Goodness knows how the jar of honey had ended up on the table…but it was an apt distraction. Donna, who was still standing behind Martha, weight resting on one leg, with one foot stuck out to the side, met the Doctor's eyes over Martha's head and nodded once in agreement with him. She had hesitated… The Doctor swung back on the back legs of the chair again, arms crossed and chose to amble along as if he hadn't heard Martha. He was the picture of nonchalance; he looked completely at ease; rumpled suit, long coat hanging over the back of the chair…but Donna could see the tension in his shoulders. "Not something you hesitate over, though, is it?" he said brightly, but there was a definite steely edge to his voice now, as if he was trying extremely hard to remain calm. "First trip in a trans-dimensional time machine? Or am I being big-headed?" he said faux-jovially. "Donna!" he looked up at her, his eyes comically wide, giving her a too-wide grin. "First trip in the TARDIS? Not in your wedding dress…" he added unnecessarily, wrinkling his nose at the memory, twitching his tie, evidently proud of himself. Martha, who had mirrored the Doctor's earlier position by resting her chin on her hand, frowned at this, and craned her neck to look at Donna, oblivious as to why she would have been wearing a wedding dress, but decided to leave it for one of them to explain it later. "Pompeii," said Donna immediately. "Though it was supposed to be Ancient Rome," she reminded him, haughtily, looking unimpressed. Couldn't resist sticking that one in, could she? The Doctor managed, with great difficulty to refrain from rolling his eyes. Sometimes the TARDIS was temperamental and didn't always land in strictly the right places. It wasn't something his companions had ever let him live down. Any of them. But still, he didn't need reminding quite so often, thank you. It was boring… "Yes, yes," he said tediously, waving away Donna's nitpick. "Been there, done that…got the statue," he grinned to himself. "Quite literally." Donna and Martha looked back at him, not amused, before Donna tapped Martha on the shoulder and said in a stage-whisper, "He can't fly that thing, you know?" Martha glanced at the Doctor, grinning mischievously, the tightness in her face fading. She nodded conspiratorially. "Had to pass a test to fly that thing and he failed," she joined in, whispering just as loudly. They sounded like two busy-body old women gossiping on a bus. The Doctor bristled and he glowered at them both. Now wasn't the time to be making childish quips about the TARDIS. "The TARDIS isn't…" "Isn't a thing!" chimed Donna and Martha together, talking over him in what was very nearly a girlish shriek. They exchanged knowing smiles, Donna waggling her head and Martha showing gleaming white teeth. The Doctor suddenly looked very tired of human females… Donna and Martha's grins slid off their faces as they spotted his mutinous look. They both looked guilty, determinedly looking in opposite directions to each other, Martha looking apologetically up at the Doctor, Donna examining her nails, once more. The atmosphere around the cluttered little kitchen table grew frosty again. Donna's trainers squeaked against the laminate floor as she shifted her weight to her other leg, her hip aching. "Martha," said the Doctor shortly, looking at her over steepled fingers, tapping the tips against his nose, the thumbs crossed under his chin. "When you were in year ten, you had to hand in an essay on A Midsummer Night's Dream for English, except you'd been too busy doing your Biology coursework…" he told her slowly, as if he were reading a bedtime story to a child, but with that maddening tone he used when he was trying to prove a point. Martha looked at him, startled, her cheeks glowing crimson. How did…? The Doctor ignored her obvious discomfort and ploughed on, noticing that Donna was leaning her elbows on the back of Martha's chair, listening avidly, as if it were a piece of delicious gossip tongue wedged in her cheek. "So the night before," he continued breezily. "You printed off one of Tish's old essays, changed the wording a bit and handed that in," he finished, smiling at her in amusement. "The one time in your life you've ever cheated Dr. Jones," he teased her, mock-reproachfully. Martha fiddled with the corned of her Brides magazine and didn't answer. Donna, though, was far more vocal. "What?" That's it?" she shrieked, incredulously, looking horrified. "That's the only time you've cheated?" She looked quite beside herself. Martha nodded, dumbly and Donna shook her head at her. "Ohh, you're having a hoot, aren't you? I did so much worse…" She blinked down at Martha, completely awed and muttered something like 'Goody-two Shoes." The Doctor quirked an eyebrow up at Martha. "She was sent home on her first day of school," he informed her dryly. "For biting." Donna reached around Martha and whacked the Doctor on the arm. None too gently. "You asked for that," Martha admitted distractedly, as if to console him, when he stared up at Donna, affronted with a 'What-was-that-for?' look on his face, looking like a scolded little boy. But she suddenly turned serious and looked decidedly uneasy. "How did you know that, about my essay? I've never told anyone that," she insisted, pushing the magazine away and frowning at him, quite certain. "Nah, no one," said the Doctor sounding quite sarcastic, humouring her. He waved his hand carelessly, as if brushing away his comment before staring very darkly, very intently at Martha, his brown eyes almost black. "Except me," he said, through clenched teeth. "On the way back from 1599!" "I can't remember that!" The Doctor exhaled loudly and stared away from Martha, to the floor at the side, defeated. He seemed to have got rid of all of his anger in that rush of hot breath and he suddenly looked so…so confused and worried and distressed. "You should," he told her quietly, but he didn't sound accusatory; he seemed unhappy for her. As if she'd missed out on winning the lottery or something, as if a treat had been denied her. "And you will," he said just as quietly, but with much more resolve. He finally looked up at her again. "Because if there's one thing I hate, it's people being denied of appreciating their own brilliance!" He leapt to his feet, as if the chair he'd been sitting on had started to solder his backside and paced over to the bench, then back again, his hands fisted in his hair. "Donnaaa!" he cried, flailing an arm out in her direction, as if she'd just made a grand, feather-fanned entrance. "What else has gone wrong? C'mon, give me an event!" he tapped the side of his head a little too over-enthusiastically, sounding impatient. Everything with the Doctor had to be done at breakneck speed… "Moon Landing!" he shouted triumphantly, seizing upon something and beaming at Martha, as if she'd just done something particularly clever. Which she often did. "Martha," he implored her, walking back over to her and holding her lightly by the shoulders. "When was the first Moon Landing? Apollo 11. Tell me." He sounded desperate. Martha looked deeply into his brown eyes, not quite able to look away, but not able to say anything either. She'd hit a blank. That horrible moment in a fit of panic where you can't think properly, where you brain refuses to function and you sort of…freeze, chest painfully tight. She shook her head slightly, oblivious. "Martha!" the Doctor urged her, eyes flickering between hers. "1961," she said tentatively, smiling at him hopefully. From behind her, Donna groaned and the Doctor released her, dejectedly, but then appeared to think better of it, returning his hands to her shoulders. Martha, feeling like a silly, struggling child struggling to come up with the right answer, frowned sulkily at the Doctor's collar. She didn't know what he was trying to get at, what she was supposed to say…any of it, but it was frustrating her and she was getting sick of it. The Doctor shook his head at her, hopelessly. "1969," he corrected her. "We went twice." He all of a sudden looked very alarmed. "You do remember being stuck in 1969, don't you? Summer of 69? Jimmy quit, Jody got married?" His eyes were wide and horrified, mouth hanging slightly open. Martha tutted and shrugged out of his grasp, looking quite offended. "What d'you take me for? Course I remember 1969! Sally Sparrow? Weeping angels? Poky one-bedroom flat? Working in a shop?" She sounded angry and sarcastic, her cheeks rising in colour, her patience with the Doctor finally thinning. "Ok," said the Doctor, looking very relieved. He chanced a small smile at her. She didn't respond in kind, in fact she looked very like her mum when she was annoyed, and Francine Jones had a hell of a wallop on her. He took a small step backwards, just in case. Not that Martha had ever hit him…Donna had, of course, but still, there was a first time for everything. "Which means," he said thoughtfully, his brow furrowing in concentration. "That all the events that have been changed…or re-written…the original ones and anything that links to them have been completely wiped from your consciousness. No recollection. No residue. Nothing," he said to himself, sticking his hands back in his pockets. "That's…powerful. Very powerful and nasty," he said heavily, sounding ominous. He gave a little shiver of unease, his eyes wandering towards the jar of honey on the table. "But what's causing it?" he muttered agitatedly, rubbing his neck and grimacing up at the ceiling. Donna and Martha stayed quiet, watching him. They knew better than to say anything; he was just thinking aloud, trying out ideas to see if they fit. Donna threw Martha a 'let's-just-let-him-get-on-with-it-shall-we?' sort of eye-roll and leaned forwards on the balls of her feet to look out of the window, the pane of which was moist and dewy with condensation. She twiddled her fingers, a sudden urge to walk over and wipe the condensation away, niggling at her. She couldn't do that though; not her house, was it? She flicked her hair behind her ears, grimacing as her fingertips pulled on a small tangle, and she knew it could do with a bit of a brush, before her mouth dropped open in surprise, realisation occurring to her. "One-bedroom?" she shrilled, smiling wickedly, her eyes glittering, as if the Doctor and Martha had been deliberately keeping something juicy from her as she narrowed her eyes at them. The Doctor broke off mid-mutter, looking over at her in confusion. "What?" Martha flushed. "Sofa!" she said, incredibly quickly, pointing at the Doctor. "He stayed on the sofa." Donna looked oddly disappointed. The Doctor, on the other hand, threw a disgusted look at both of them, as if to say, 'Is that what you interrupted me for?', and cleared his throat at them in annoyance before he ambled over to the half-full kettle, pressing his palm against the side. It was still vaguely warm from Martha's cup of coffee all those hours ago. "And went off gallivanting around London, leaving me to support him," continued Martha, mock-irritation present in her voice, tilting his head at him as she filled Donna in. "He got us stuck in 1969 and I had to work in a shop!" Donna gave the Doctor a mistrustful look, lip set, which plainly meant 'Try-that-one-on-me-space boy-and-I'll-throttle-you.' "A shop," repeated Martha, indignantly, raising her eyebrows as she said it, crossing her arms, though her eyes were more teasing than anything else. " Medical student in 2007; Shop girl in 1969. Bit of a step down, yeah?" she laughed self-consciously, and Donna tittered. "A bit," she agreed. "I worked in New Look for a while . A-levels required in folding, smiling and the ability to open a cash register…" she mocked, pulling a face so that she resembled a thick-looking teenager. "What's wrong with shop girls?" asked the Doctor mildly, looking sideways at his two friends. He looked thoughtful, genuinely curious. " Shop girls?" Martha sounded incredulous, as if the answer were obvious. "Shop girls can be deceiving," said the Doctor absent-mindedly. "Come on. Can't save the world if we stand here chatting for much longer." He adjusted his coat smartly, tugging down on the lapels and marched out of the kitchen, like a man on a mission, his trainers squeaking, shoulders squared. Donna raised her eyebrows at Martha before she hurried after him, pulling her coat across her chest and holding it closed. Martha hesitated. Sometimes, it was so hard to keep up with him. He could be sitting frowning over circular symbols on the console one minute, and then careering round like a madman a split second later. They were leaving. Just like that. No pre-warning. Like having the metaphorical rug pulled from under her feet. She'd forgotten how fast-paced and furious traveling with the Doctor was… Should she go with them? She was due at work…Tom was away…She was seriously behind on wedding stuff…she'd promised to go and see Tom's mum and dad tomorrow…. She heard squeaky footsteps coming back and then the Doctor poked his head around the doorframe, looking curiously bodiless. "You coming, then, Dr. Jones?" Martha caught a glimpse of her reflection in the black oven door. Apprehensive. Determined. Hopeful. Excited. Reluctant. A whole range of expressions splayed themselves across her features, one melting seamlessly into the next. Yet her hair, though was sleek and smoothed back, her make-up flawless, complexion clear, eyes dark and pretty. How did she always manage that? Always manage to look so immaculate and refined on the surface, when underneath she was completely all over the place? She'd often wondered. Practice, probably. The Doctor, though he had been blind to her feelings when she was with him, or at least stubbornly ignorant, wasn't taken in, this time. His soft, coaxing look held worry, admiration, protectiveness and she felt a familiar flare of heat creep up her back. Affection for him. Except it felt different; it had changed; it felt less raw and wild and consuming. More platonic. Oh, she found him attractive; no denying that; there was just something undisputedly gorgeous about his eyes, swirled around his cheekbones. It didn't mean she still loved him, though, did it? She found thingymabob attractive; him from Prison Break, (which Tish was obsessed with) but she didn't love him. Martha twirled her engagement ring around her finger with her thumb. For Tom, she'd dragged herself out of bed at 4 o'clock in the morning, just to see him off. She grinned at the Doctor, her eyes twinkling, even though he wasn't the doctor she wanted. "With you, Mr. Smith?" she teased him coyly, crossing the kitchen to link her arm through his elbow. "Just you try and stop me!"
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