Archive of Our Own

Martha’s is a quiet life.

… aside from the occasional alien, but nothing is technically stopping her from teatime with a Sontaran.

For the most part, though, life has a funny way of going on despite it all. Aliens, suns, planets, robots, stars, and Martha is human incarnate still. If anything, those all make her appreciate good old planet Earth more than she had before. All the small things like getting married and having children seem very grand in the face of everything.

Martha is, above everything, happy.

Except maybe with her vision, which she suspects is getting worse, but she dreads the idea of getting glasses. She once knew someone who looked rather dorky in them. Still, she’s happy besides that. The largeness of it all makes her yearn for a stroll out of the house. She takes these sometimes, just for a small taste of the magnanimous universe just beyond the atmosphere. At night, the stars she knows like the back of her hand twinkle down at her and wave hello. She smiles back at old friends.

“Bye, Mickey! Leaving!” Martha calls from the entryway, pulling on a coat.

She hears a distant “Wot?!” as she opens the door. Mickey rushes in, looking disheveled. “I couldn’t hear you.” He looks at her, then at the open door, then at the shoes she’s pulling on. “Oh, one of your walks again.”

“It’s good for the heart.”

“I know,” Mickey tells her. He steps up to her and holds her shoulder to plant a kiss on her cheek. “Don’t be too late. Could be another invasion.”

Martha leans into his embrace and smiles. “I promise, no aliens this time.”

The last time Martha had gone on a walk, Jack had called her on a favor to deal with a thumb-sized alien species called the Minlos who had attempted to seize the Earth by means of rolling into the street and conveniently resembling a bag of spilled marbles. Nothing had come of it, save for Jack bruising his tailbone.

So Martha sets herself on that. Absolutely no aliens on this walk.

The night sky is like a breath of fresh air. And, selfishly, she can’t admit how good it is to get away from Mickey sometimes. She loves him, she does. What kind of married person doesn’t love their spouse, or falls out of it?

Martha’s mind turns to her parents, who had only gone back to each other in the face of total human extinction.

She reconsiders her previous thoughts. When she’d initially devoted her time to working with Jack and Mickey, she had just come off of the adrenaline of interplanetary extinction, which is a marginally larger scale than humans on the whole—and she’d fallen for Mickey.

Mickey was safe. Is safe. He’s pleasant and says yes and is beautifully reliable. That’s why she’d fallen for him initially.

Initially.

But she sees the look in his eyes, because she’s seen it before. He looks beyond her, ready for someone else, expecting a different outcome than Martha. Even this far in, with a kid and everything, she knows he’s thinking of someone else. She knows this because she is the shameful owner of the same look. Where she looks for close-trimmed dark curls and eyes full of nothing but loyalty, she sees Mickey. And both of them have become okay with this. It’s a bit funny, she thinks as she stares up at the inky black sky, that her and Mickey had escaped being second best only to fall back into the same old dull routine.

But Mickey is safe and predictable. Martha’s not sure she can afford to lose that.

Her shadow cuts across the bleak yellow light of the streetlamp on the sidewalk that shuts out the twinkling stars. She sighs and swivels off the sidewalk towards a big, empty field. The grass shushes under her feet, just loud enough to scare away a nearby flock of birds. They flutter further away and land in the distance. Martha catches up to them, stamping loudly as she walks. The birds fly even further. She laughs to herself and chases them in earnest, making them scurry off before they finally fly away into the night. She watches them, and realizes she’s far enough out from the streetlamps to see the stars poking through the darkness.

It’s utterly terrifying and astonishingly gorgeous. Her whole world is out there, and here under her feet. The feeling hasn’t ever gotten old. She closes the distance between herself and the ground and lies starfish-posed in the grass, belly-up. Martha takes a last look at the atmosphere around her before she shuts her eyes.

Straining her ears, she listens for sounds of nature.

A bird twittering in a tree somewhere.

A rustling bush by the river.

A squirrel scurrying through the grass.

A far-off conversation between two people stargazing.

A familiar voice.

… a very familiar voice.

Martha’s eyebrows scrunch together as she tunes out the world around her to listen closer.

“… lovely at this time of year. I could show you sometime.”

Martha abruptly sits up and shoots to her feet, looking around in a frenzy. She hears someone bark out a hearty laugh and narrows in on the sound and eventually two tiny silhouettes catch her eye, all the way down by the river.

“An old man like me? Not a chance,” the other voice replies, this one unfamiliar.

As quiet as she can, Martha begins to sneak towards the pair. The details are fuzzy, but closing the distance brings them to clarity. She can just make out a telescope between the two figures, who are situated next to a large, old-fashioned lantern.

“Come on, Wilf,” says the voice she knows, “you’re never too old to sneak out.”

Martha’s boots carry her silently over the breadth of the grass, each planted step near inaudible. The river rumbles ominously next to her like it’s ushering her a warning. Turn back now, she imagines it saying. Against her better judgment, she also imagines herself getting into an epic argument with this imaginary river voice and winning… imaginarily.

After what feels like forever, she finds herself standing not twenty feet away from the strange figures. One of them—the elderly man—is sat in a wheelchair, back to Martha. The other one, however…

God, how could she ever forget that face?

It’s the same as it ever was; the dark, deep-set eyes and the playful quip waiting on the edge of his tongue are still there. They’ve been carved down, though—a marble sculpture, slowly chipped away at until it’s a less sharp, rounded-out facsimile of a person. His tired eyes are soft, gentle in the way they look up—up! he’s never looked up at anyone!—at the old man, and his teasing remarks are fond and delicate.

Martha shakes her head. It can’t be him. The last time she’d seen him, death clung to him like a cloud of stink. It followed him everywhere, made him look dark. This face, whoever he is, is not the Doctor. This stranger is tender, slow-moving like honey. The Doctor had been fast and sharp with reckless abandon, more likened to a flood.

Or a fire.

The Doctor had burned her.

This stranger kneels on the ground next to the wheelchair, hands in the elderly man’s lap, and smiles up at him with all the love in the world. That’s something grand.

The Doctor, as far as Martha’s concerned, has never been one for large gestures like leveling the playing field or kind eyefuls. (Sometimes she hopes that she just got unlucky and he did and she hadn’t noticed, but the Doctor’s track record suggests otherwise.) As she stands there pondering that and sort of staring like a creep in the dark, the older man must sense her presence. He turns in her direction. “Oh, hello!” he says, sweet, and waves a hand. “Are you lost, sweet’eart?” He smiles at her, all wrinkly and mild. She offers an awkward grin back.

“Er— uh, sorry, no. I was just takin’ a stroll, wandered a bit, ended up here, thought I… thought I recognized…” Martha’s words trail off when she sees the old man’s friend rise to his feet. The air shifts with all the subtlety of a traffic cone in a rain forest.

“… Martha?” the stranger asks gently.

Images of a timorous Doctor looking like a guilty dog hesitantly stepping out of the TARDIS flash behind her eyes, and the same ridiculously dumbfounded face stares back at her from both now and then. The same moment of silence follows his timid question.

“Doctor,” Martha replies. She takes a tiny step forward, and the Doctor mirrors her. It’s enough for her to break. She takes a bigger step towards him, and apparently that’s all the give he needs. He bounds toward her, silly coat billowing out behind him. In the blink of an eye his arms envelope her in an embrace and his coat practically swallows her whole. She swiftly hugs him back. Oh, this hasn’t changed. Not one bit. The way the Doctor looms over her, the way he allows her to lean her body weight into him, the way his hands find the same places on her back…

She feels a bit like a schoolgirl about the whole thing.

The Doctor finally unfolds from the hug, slowly and steadily like he’s trying not to frighten a wild animal, and pulls away just enough so his hands still rest on her shoulders. He smiles at her, and looks very old. “Martha Jones… Smith-Jones!”

Laughing, she says, “You remembered.”

“Of course I did,” the Doctor tells her meaningfully, “I could never forget.”

Martha lifts her hands and covers his with her own, holding him in place. “How long’s it been? Fifteen years? Twenty?”

To Martha’s confusion—and subsequent horror—the Doctor chuckles and looks very, very tired. “It feels like it’s been billions.” He twists his fingers deftly over her hands and pulls them close to his chest, just over his hearts. He faces their intertwined fingers. “Martha,” he whispers.

“It can’t have really been that long,” she murmurs in disbelief, feeling her own heartbeat rise with the Doctor’s under her hands. “I mean, you got the face back? Did you go back after a run with a chin and a blonde?”

Looking shocked, the Doctor pauses. He stares wide-eyed at her, then hangs his head and laughs. “Martha,” he says again, like she’ll disappear if he won’t, “I missed you.”

Her heart leaps at the admission.

She snakes her hands through his and hooks them around his shoulders, pulling him down into another hug. He gratefully—desperately—accepts this and leans fully into her, squeezing her tight. Over her shoulder, she hears him audibly sniffle.

“Doctor?” she asks quietly. His hands grip the back of her jacket in response. “Doctor, are you alright?” She strains herself to see over his shoulders to find the old man, who looks at the two of them sympathetically. He meets her eyes and smiles sadly.

“The stars are beautiful tonight,” he says softly, looking up. The Doctor takes this as some sort of cue and tilts his head up at the sky. Martha can imagine the rapid blinking of his eyes behind his stuttered breathing.

“Ah, sorry,” the Doctor mumbles after a moment and pulls away to wipe his face, “must have gotten something in there.” He laughs and pats Martha’s arms good-naturedly. “It’s good to see you, Martha.”

Martha looks at his eyes, huge and still wet, and reaches for his hand. “So, no cut-off hand this time?”

“Wot?” the old man barks from behind them.

The Doctor throws his head back and genuinely laughs out loud. “No,” he says through snickers, “no cut-off hand this time. Still my hand, ‘course. But wholly. Didn’t need to do the whole ‘lizard with its tail cut off’ bit.”

The sound of a wheelchair rolling through the grass catches up to them. “Doctor, what are you on about? What’s this business about your hand?”

“Ah— it’s just…” the Doctor shoots an electric little glance at Martha, “an old thing between friends. Wilf, this is Martha Smith-Jones. Martha, this is Wilf.”

The old man smiles and salutes. “Pleasure to meet you, Martha,” he says, “the Doctor’s spoken highly of you.”

Martha’s ears turn warm. “Oh?” She glances at the Doctor, who looks especially boyish now, pink and embarrassed.

“Yes! He tells us about all of his companions,” Wilf tells her, oblivious to the silent exchange of information happening in Martha’s head, “but we’ve heard a lot about you. Oh, that Donna of mine loved you.”

“Donna!” Martha shouts, delighted.

“That’s… that’s right!” the Doctor butts in quickly. “We both knew you, you know, so lots of nice things to say from— from both… parties.” He clears his throat and scratches his chin. “So, yes, lots about everyone from me.”

Martha raises her eyebrows. “How many women did you kidnap after I left?”

“Doctor!” Wilf says, swatting at his arm.

The Doctor throws his hands in the air over his head. “It’s not like that!” He frowns dramatically and sighs, crossing his arms. “They chose to come along. I always gave people a choice.”

“You practically stalked me home, the first time.” Martha jabs a finger into his chest.

The Doctor’s eyebrows shoot comically up into his hairline and his face turns an earnest red. “Well,” he says, “well!” He scratches his chin again, a mannerism Martha is beginning to believe is a last-ditch effort to appear nonchalant. “Well.”

Wilf chuckles. “Three wells don’t give you a dam.” Martha laughs, and the Doctor eventually gives in as well. They all laugh together, like not a moment has passed between now and the last end of the world. It dies down slowly, with some short snickers becoming few and far between.

Martha breathes out slowly and looks at the Doctor. “You said Donna talks about me?”

“‘Course she does. You were one of her best friends, after all,” he replies like it’s obvious.

This is news to Martha. Welcome news, but news nonetheless. She supposes she hadn’t had time to think about best friends between all the terror of impending doom and killer alien robots.

“But… how?”

The Doctor and Wilf share a glance, then look back at Martha. “We’re not entirely sure. I mean, we have an idea of an idea, but… you know, same thing with the face. Just happens.”

“Amnesia that would kill you if you remembered why you had it doesn’t just magically disappear.”

“Well,” the Doctor mutters, Adam’s apple bobbling uncertainly, “it… sort of… did.”

“You’re jokin’ me.”

“All of time and space, Martha. Magical amnesia’s not the wildest thing out there. I mean, I met Richard Nixon before the… all that. And told him!”

Martha smiles in spite of herself. “Yes, those are on the same level of improbability.”

“You never know,” Wilf chuckles.

Before anyone can respond, Martha’s phone pings. She fishes it out of her pocket and opens the screen.

A text from Mickey.

Where are you???

“Oh, my God, I didn’t mean to be gone so long!” She twists a braid nervously in her fingers and uses her free hand to text him back. “I so did not mean to stay out late. Oh, I have to drive August to school tomorrow morning, it’s going to be a nightmare!”

The Doctor blinks in the blue light of her phone, which illuminates the features of his face further. He really does look older. “Why were you out to begin with?”

“I take walks at night to clear my head,” she says absently, still typing out a response, “get away from home for a mo’.”

The Doctor bends slightly over her phone. “Do you want me to take you home?” He pauses. “I could get the TARDIS, I mean. Have you home in a few seconds. It’s a minute’s walk away.”

“Is this your fancy way of asking me to be your companion again?”

A hand pats her arm. She glances over to see Wilf smiling at her. “Not a chance, Martha. He’s not allowed to go any further than five years in the past or future on weekdays.”

“… ‘not allowed?’”

౨ৎ

The TARDIS is as magnificent as she remembers it, if not a bit more done-up. It’s all white and sterile-looking, like a hospital.

“Love what you’ve done with the place,” Martha remarks, running a finger along the console. “Very medical.”

“I am a doctor,” the Doctor replies as he rolls Wilf in.

“You’re the Doctor. There’s a difference.”

The old man squeezes the Doctor’s hand in his. “Stop squabbling with her and fetch a blanket, would you?”

Looking bemused, the Doctor pulls the TARDIS door shut and walks off into a random hallway on one of the ramps. “Sure thing, grandpa.”

“Oh, he doesn’t mean that,” Wilf tells Martha as they watch him go, “he’s got a soft spot for me. Came after he dropped his friends off, and all.”

Intrigued, Martha sits against the center console. Wilf’s mild obliviousness to the situation seems to set him up for dead giveaways about what’s happened while she’s been gone. “How do you mean?”

“He left all his companions for one reason or another. That Rose Tyler was sent to a ‘parallel universe,’ he says. Suppose anything’s possible now.” Wilf’s eyes fixate on the stagnant cylinders in the center of the room, full of incredibly childlike wonder. “And you: you got married, got a job. That handsome fellow with the guns went off and did whatever it was, and Donna…”

The air becomes poignantly somber. Wilf’s eyes grow impossibly sad, that permanent wet look becoming more pronounced.

“I think you know how her story ended. Oh, she was poorly after everything. She had days where she’d be well and then suddenly cry, and cry, and cry. Donna hates crying, she always has.” He takes a handkerchief from his pocket and dabs tamely at his face. “That frustrated her to no end, being so upset. Donna’s such a kind soul, she never knew how to handle it.”

Martha blinks back tears. If only she’d known, if only she’d known… “What came of that? Her dealing with it, I mean.”

“She settled down. She’s always wanted that, Doctor or not. She’s got this lovely man, Shaun. He’s a sweetheart, always looking after my Donna and Rose.”

Leaning forward curiously, Martha raises an eyebrow. “Rose?”

“My great-granddaughter. She’d love you if you met her. She’s always asking her uncle after his past.”

“Okay, Wilf, I’ve got two,” the Doctor shouts, shoes squeaking against the shiny floor as he runs, “this one’s green tartan, and this one’s sort of ‘Starry Night’-ish. Oh, take the Van Gogh one, you’d like him.” He lays the blanket hastily over the old man’s lap and folds the other neatly over the arm of the wheelchair. “Now, you’ve got the other one just in case, I don’t want you getting too cold.”

“Doctor, please, I’ve got a coat and hat. I’ll keep warm.”

“I know,” the Doctor says gently, “just… just in case.”

From a distance, Martha watches the two off them. The Doctor clearly has a need to impress or show up for Wilf in a way she’s never seen him act with anyone. What a man Wilf must be. And the way he smiles back at the Doctor, they must be related by way of weird timeline nonsense. Their shared adoration for each other is uncanny.

“If you say so, Doctor,” Wilf responds. Then Martha realizes: he lets the Doctor take care of him, even if he doesn’t need it. The Doctor clearly does.

“This is awfully domestic of you,” Martha jests in lieu of her observation, “they must keep you on a leash.”

The Doctor turns on her, hands on his hips. “I’ll have you know, I’m allowed to go anywhere I like.” He looks at Wilf. “On weekends.”

“Oh my God, they’ve totally domesticated you!”

“They’ve not!” the Doctor cries incredulously. He stamps over to the console and flicks buttons on and fiddles with levers.

Martha rushes forward and grabs his arm. “Wait! Don’t land too close to my house,” she begs, “I don’t want Mickey to hear you.”

“What? Why?”

She lets go. Her face burns with the force of the sun. “The TARDIS. It’s loud. Everyone’s in bed.”

The Doctor stares at her for a few uncomfortable moments and shrugs. “Alright, then.”

The TARDIS powers up, cylinders grinding, and takes off. Wilf stares up at the technology, endlessly amazed by its existence. Martha does, too. The sound of the TARDIS makes her heart soar in her chest. It takes her mind off to some imaginary land, with aliens and living suns and future humans and the nostalgia is almost too much for her little heart to bear. She can’t help the smile that appears on her cheeks. Out of the corner of her eye, she catches the Doctor staring at her, and looking abruptly away when their eyes meet. Huh, Martha thinks.

When they land, the Doctor signals to Wilf to stay inside and follows Martha out the door. She turns, facing the TARDIS head-on.

“I guess—“

“I’ll walk you home,” the Doctor interrupts immediately. “Wilf’ll wait. He’s happy to be in there.”

Martha looks over his shoulder, and his words appear true. She looks back at him and exhales. “Alright.” The Doctor smiles and bounds up next to her, hooking her arm in his own.

They enjoy the quiet together, the only sounds being the crickets and the scuffle of their shoes against the pavement. The moment is held perfectly still in the cool air and seems to wash over the space.

“Mickey doesn’t like me, does he?” The Doctor asks suddenly. “That’s why you didn’t want him to hear me.”

“The TARDIS is loud…”

The Doctor stops abruptly, scraping his shoes. Their arms come undone. “Martha, you can be honest with me.”

She considers it. She knows she’s talked about him to Mickey, and she knows how Mickey had reacted. He’d turned from her, scowl in plain view, and found something else to do. He always had. They didn’t talk about the Doctor much.

“No,” she sighs, “he doesn’t. I mean, it’s complicated. He was good with you at first, but after you missed our wedding and meeting August, he reflected on things and turned a bit sour on you. I think he misses you, and he’s mad at you.” Martha turns to gauge the Doctor’s reaction. She can’t read him, and that sets her slightly on edge.

“What about you?” he questions quietly.

Martha blinks. The lamp above her buzzes loudly. “I’ve thought about it.”

The Doctor fidgets where he stands. “And?”

“You hurt me, Doctor. A lot.”

“I know,” he says immediately, earnest. “I can’t ever change that.”

Shaking her head, Martha says, “No, you can’t.” She swivels and walks slowly in the direction of her house, noting quietly the space the Doctor puts between the two of them.

౨ৎ

Martha approaches her door slowly, fishing for her house key in her pockets.

“Wait.”

The Doctor stands across from her, bathed in shadow by the streetlamp over his head, but his face is just visible in the dark. His eyebrows are ever so slightly upturned, cracking a wrinkle or two in his forehead. “You asked me earlier if I was… if my offer to take you home was a travel proposition.”

Martha turns to face him fully, face naked in the light. “I did.”

In the darkness, the Doctor tucks his hands in his pockets. “Martha,” he murmurs, “if I asked you to be my companion again… would you say yes?”

She tilts her chin down and stares at him through her eyelashes, demure and slightly bitter. “That depends,” she replies, “would you take me?”

The Doctor opens his mouth, speechless, and Martha grabs his hand before he can make an attempt. She pulls a pen out of her pocket and scribbles on the back of his hand.

Her phone number.

Turning away, she walks to her front door and jams the key in the keyhole. She throws one last glance over her shoulder.

“Goodnight, Doctor.”

Martha goes inside and closes the door. When she looks out the window, the Doctor is gone.

౨ৎ

Mickey hadn’t made a big deal about Martha’s tardiness and had in fact invited her to bed without a second thought. He’d fallen asleep right away.

That was about six hours ago.

Martha rolls over on her side and stares through the window, where the rising sun peeks in like a serial killer through the curtain. In spite of her sleeplessness, she’s still high on the adrenaline from the night before; she can feel it running like electricity through her blood. It boils in her heart and races like crazy.

To her unfortunate dismay, her phone does not ping. No one calls, no one texts.

The alarm, however, does go off.

“Good morning,” Mickey groans, sitting up. “Sleep well?”

Martha stares out the window at the honey-orange sky. “Yeah,” she whispers, “fine.” Limb by limb, she drags herself out from under the warm covers and off the sanctity of the mattress. She shuts off the blaring alarm and rubs her eyes before pulling on a pair of pants from the floor. The denim is nice and cool against her skin, a welcome distraction from the heat in the pit of her stomach. She slips out of her nightshirt and into a crimson blouse that meets in a bow in the middle of her chest.

“You look good,” Mickey comments from the bed while he pushes himself up. “Going out today? Tell me it’s not Jack.”

“No, not Jack. I’m just getting out of the house for a bit after August is at school. Might go to lunch. Tish has a day off.”

The bed shuffles when Mickey stands, Pulp shirt and boxers proudly hanging from his frame. “Tell her I said hi, then.”

Martha pulls on a jacket while Mickey begins to tug on his own pair of jeans. “You going in today?”

“Yeah, Sandra at the office has had major computer issues. Like turning it on.”

Martha chuckles at the thought. “Well, have fun with that.”

Mickey groans and sighs, and Martha laughs.

Even including August’s regular fights in the morning, Martha gets him to school well-dressed and on time. Almost a bit early, to her credit. She smooths down tiny loose hairs coiling out of his braids and kisses his forehead obnoxiously.

“Ah, Mum!” August shouts, embarrassed.

Martha peppers more kisses over his face. August quickly pulls his little backpack over his shoulders and shuffles out of her car in a hurry, nearly tripping over his baggy jeans. Martha waves to him, and he blushes and runs away.

Nostalgic, she smiles. Her mom had done the same to her, back in grade school. It gives her a bit of retribution to carry it on.

Her phone rings noisily.

She answers, despite the unknown number. She knows. “Hello?”

“Oh, Martha!” The Doctor sounds surprised she picked up. “Hello! It’s- it’s good to hear from you. How are you?”

Her fingers tap against the wheel. “I’m alright,” she says, “dropping off August at school. Then I might go out for lunch.” When silence greets her, she nearly breaks into a smile.

“Would, er,” the Doctor stammers, which is apparently more common now, “would it be alright if we went? To lunch?” His tone raises in embarrassed uncertainty the more he presses on. “Together?”

The magnitude of his bashfulness almost makes Martha laugh right at him. It’s sort of a welcome surprise, having the Doctor be so malleable to the whims of others like this. He’d been agreeable before, sure, but this is something else entirely. “Sure, Doctor. There’s this little café off the corner of—“

She hears levers and buttons on the other line. “Count me already there.”

“The one with the little statue—“

“Yeah, I got it,” the Doctor mumbles, and she hears him shuffle around. “See you, Martha.”

She can also hear the smile in his voice. “See you.”

The phone is set face-down in her lap and she drives off.

౨ৎ

The little statue in question is an artistically stylized golden retriever that sits on the corner of the sidewalk. It’s a hallmark of the café by way of being the ugliest thing anyone sees on their way in or route passing. It’s a bright garish yellow color, and has huge drooping brown eyes and a comically wide frown to match. It stares right at Martha as she pulls around into the car park and steps out. She looks around—no sign of the TARDIS anywhere.

Maybe the Doctor is flaking. Again.

She walks towards the café and feels around the wallet in her pocket, tapping it a few times just to make sure it’s there, and heads inside. Martha passes through the crowd like a fish through a school and checks for a free table.

A whistle.

She turns, and tucked away in the corner, is the Doctor sitting and smiling at her. He has two coffees resting at his hands, steaming pleasantly. So he made it after all. Martha finds a seat across from him and is handed one of the coffees before she can blink.

“I think this is your order,” the Doctor murmurs sheepishly, “it’s been a bit.”

Martha’s presence seems to draw uncertainty out of the Doctor like poison from a wound. She can’t help but dance on it a bit the way he had done the first time around. She takes a slow, thoughtful sip, and lingers. Just for a moment.

The Doctor, meanwhile, shrinks into himself and the ridiculously colorful sweater he has pulled over his shoulders. “Er, I didn’t mean to overstep. Really. If— if you want a new one, I can—“

“It’s perfect, Doctor,” Martha tells him over the sweet beverage. “It’s exactly the way I like it.”

It’s not. It’s about a pump of cream off, and it could use less milk, but she figures the Doctor could do with a small victory. And after what has apparently been billions of years, she figures getting a coffee just slightly wrong isn’t a huge deal.

What is huge, however, is what the Doctor does remember.

Apparently a lot about her. It’s grand.

“So,” he says, twiddling with his fingers, “it’s been a while. I mean, not literally, we met last night. But since we last really talked…”

Martha nods. “Yes, a while.” She sips her coffee and does her best not to be aware of the taste difference.

“How’ve you been? You mentioned a child, a-and a wedding…” the Doctor recalls, trailing off. “I’m… I wish I’d been there.”

“You could’ve been and you weren’t. But you are now. Life goes on,” Martha replies plainly.

The Doctor gazes out the window and sighs deeply, failing to appear blasé. “Yeah, it does.”

It’s still between them for a moment, even as the world shuffles on around them. Martha looks into her drink through the small hole in the lid and the Doctor already appears lost in his own little world. Of course. “I thought you might not make it,” Martha confesses finally after pondering over the styrofoam, “thought you would disappear on me again.”

For what it’s worth, the Doctor looks utterly horrified at her words. He reaches shyly across the table, hesitates, and grabs her hand. “I’ve really let you down.”

She lets him hold her. “You have, Doctor. And… well, it’s not okay, but we humans let each other down all the time.”

The chair groans when the Doctor leans forward. “Martha, I was terrible. Really.” He squeezes her hand and sighs. “What I did in 1913 alone was unforgivable. Sometimes I can’t believe you still stayed after the fact.”

“I loved you, Doctor. Foolishly, a little, but I did.” She looks down at their interlocked hands and embarrassment nearly clutches her heart. “We’re friends. I care very deeply for you.”

“I hurt you many times, Martha. As the Doctor and as John Smith. Not to say that he wasn’t me, because he was. Is.” The Doctor pulls back and runs his hands through his hair tiredly. “That was wrong. You were put in a dangerous situation because of me, and I could have changed it. I didn’t. John— I should have defended you, stood up for you, but I didn’t.”

Martha doesn’t know what to say. She hadn’t expected him to remember the events of 1913, much less fully apologize for them. She should know better that the Doctor is full of surprises.

“And you were right, in New New York. I treated you as a rebound… as someone to fall back on. You’re so much more than that.” He looks up at her intensely, eyes wide. “You’re a star. You’re the woman who walked the Earth, you’re the girl who stayed, you’re the real put-in-the-effort doctor—you’re Martha Jones.” His Adam’s apple bobs in his throat guiltily. “I shouldn’t have ever tried to take advantage of that. I’m sorry.”

The world comes to a halt. The Doctor has flayed himself open in front of her, genuinely sorry for how he’s changed her. How he’s hurt her deeply. And he continues: “If you don’t… want to be friends, I’ll leave you to it. I know I can’t change how I treated you, but I felt you deserved to hear how utterly sorry I am about it.”

If one were to open any dictionary in the world, in any language, at any point in history past or present, they would not be able to string together a single sentence to describe how Martha feels in this very moment. The whole of time and space could not meaningfully comprehend it. “I-I don’t… I guess I’m not sure how to respond,” she stammers honestly. “I guess… I guess I didn’t think I would ever hear that.”

“And you still went to coffee with me?” the Doctor asks her incredulously. “Donna was right, you are too kind to me.” Something in Martha smiles at the fact that Donna had been on her side this whole time. It makes her feel good that someone is fighting for her.

“Maybe,” she responds softly, “but I care about you. And I appreciate the apology. You’re right, you can’t change what you did, or fix it.”

The Doctor frowns knowingly.

“But you can move forward. The best way to be better is to… be better.”

She thinks he already is.

This Doctor smiles where the other would frown, apologizes where the other would avoid, softens where the other would turn sharp.

“If it were up to me now, I’d have barred Joan Redfern from ever seeing you,” the Doctor tells her. “If it had been me and you back then, after everything with the Valiant…” The Doctor turns pink in the face and looks away. He stares at his cup of coffee and takes a wordless drink.

Well. That leaves Martha with her own inability to speak.

“A lot of people deserve for me to be better,” the Doctor divulges timidly, “before your time… and after. I’ve lost a lot of friends, Martha, and they needed something better than that.” There it is. That admission of guilt that she’s been waiting for. She’d known that the Doctor had seen terrible things outside of her time, but to hear him admit it out loud freely is the confirmation she needs.

Martha leans over her coffee. “Then start now.”

Meeting his eyes, she finds him looking content and there’s a small in-between grin on his face. “You’re brilliant, Martha Jones. Did I tell you that?”

Barking out a laugh, Martha replies, “not nearly enough!”

౨ৎ

“Thanks for paying, Doctor. You didn’t have to do that,” Martha mutters on their way out. The Doctor, who walks so close they nearly bump shoulders, shrugs.

“Don’t worry about it, I don’t mind.” He follows her to her car and watches her pull out her car keys. “Hey, I was thinking,” the Doctor says, “Donna was asking after you. Now, you’re free to go, but… she’d really love to see you, if you’d like.”

“Of course,” Martha blurts, and blushes, “please. I’d love to.”

The Doctor chuckles at her enthusiasm and looks around a moment. “It’s about two minutes away. I walked here, but I don’t want you leaving the car if…”

“Just get in, Doctor.”

The two of them bundle into Martha’s car and drive off. The Doctor sits back and admires the interior of Martha’s car the way Wilf had looked at the TARDIS. “Look at you, heated leather seats. How bourgeois!” He flicks the button on and relaxes even further.

Martha turns it off. “There’s no use in putting it on if she lives a block away! It won’t even be half warm by the time we arrive!”

The Doctor turns it back on. “Spoilsport!”

Martha turns it back off. “It’s my car!”

The Doctor turns it right back on. “I let you lounge around in the TARDIS last night!”

Martha reaches towards the button, then leans back and sets both hands on the wheel. “You invited me,” she retaliates, raising a smug eyebrow.

The Doctor pulls back as well. “Touché.”

Donna’s home is a quaint little thing, fenced in by a tiny, flourishing garden. If Martha peeks just far enough she can see the TARDIS sitting in the backyard looking quite happy with herself. She steps out of the car and the Doctor follows hot on her tail up to the door. Before Martha can raise her first to knock, the Doctor shouts through the door, “Donna! I’m coming in, and I’ve got a guest!”

To Martha’s delight, a beautiful voice responds from inside. “Oh, sod off. I told you to stop askin’ to come in the bloody house!” The door swings open and reveals an irritated Donna Noble, staring right at the Doctor with the authority of a dog owner staring at a chewed-up shoe. “You live here, you— Marthaaa!”

Donna squeals and leaps out towards Martha, capturing her in a tight hug.

“Donna!” Martha squeezes her close, taking in every moment. She knows Donna is alive and well, but to see it is another thing entirely. They hug for another moment before Donna pulls away and kisses her cheek.

“Oh, Martha Jones, look at you,” Donna coos, “all grown up. You look like you haven’t aged a day! Meanwhile Mr. ‘Crashed-his-shed-in-the-yard’ looks about a thousand gray hairs older.”

“Oi!”

“Donna, it’s so good to see you,” Martha sighs. “I thought it’d never happen again. I’ve missed you so much.”

“I’ve missed you too,” Donna whines and kisses her again. “Come inside, will you?”

Happily, Martha obliges.

Donna ushers Martha and the Doctor inside and immediately the smell of something baking wafts under Martha’s nose. The interior of the house is decorated with family photos, all of which display Donna, a man with a gentle smile, and a vibrant child who looks like their perfect mix. Donna and the Doctor chatter on behind her while she admires the portraits.

Some photos feature the old man—Wilf—and an aging woman, who is often pictured next to him and looks so strikingly like Donna that Martha can only assume that is her mother. There are a few photos of that pair separately, but mostly, everyone is together. All of the photos, though, are distinctly warm and cozy, imbued with a deep sense of affection that sort of oozes from them. Martha walks along the hall quietly.

At the end, there are three more portraits. They are starkly different from the rest, but still warm and soft as the house. In two of them, the family is pictured in different places on vacation, and the Doctor is there with them. He amazingly doesn’t stand out or look different; he fits right in among them.

Martha sniffs.

The last photo is a picture of the Doctor and Wilf. Wilf is sitting in his wheelchair giving the camera a big thumbs-up, and the Doctor is knelt next to him wrapping him in his arms. Behind them is the TARDIS and a small glimpse of greenery. She looks outside.

The photo was taken in the garden, just past the door.

Heart swollen, Martha follows the Doctor and Donna into the living room, where she passes antiques and souvenirs from vacation destinations on her way.

“You’ve got a lovely home, Donna,” Martha says with wonder. “And a lovely family. Your pictures were sweet.”

“Yeah, I saw you looking,” Donna teases, “I hear you’ve got one of your own. I’d love to see that. Martha Jones, head of household.”

“Sort of,” Martha says, sitting in one of the armchairs, “it’s just Mickey, August, and I. We’re happy.”

Donna’s eyes turn beside her and she follows her gaze to the Doctor, who is staring very obviously. He quickly turns around and leaves the room. “I’ll finish on whatever it is you’ve got in there,” he stammers. Before Donna can open her mouth to speak, the Doctor says, “ooh, cookies!”

Martha and Donna share a look before they burst out laughing. When their laughing fit ends, they’re left in the company of one another. Donna reaches across the arm of the couch and grabs Martha’s arm.

“He hasn’t done something, has he?” she asks seriously. “I told him if he said anything unsightly like he had back then, I’d wring his skinny neck for it.”

“No, no. Actually, he apologized,” Martha tells her, “he was very clear about it. In fact, he sort of acts like I’m going to run off at any moment.”

“I wouldn’t blame you if you did,” Donna agrees, “I had a mate in secondary school once… dated me to make his first fling jealous. So one night, at a school dance while he was talking to her, I brought up the punch bowl over his head!”

Martha howls with laughter. That is so utterly Donna that she feels as if she’d never left the Doctor’s silly side in the first place. She’s missed this so much. “Oh, Donna, you haven’t changed,” Martha giggles, “the Doctor has probably had his fair share of punch bowls over him.” Letting out a loud Ha!, Donna pats Martha’s arm and leans forward. She smiles at her and nods, pursing her lips in the direction of the kitchen.

“You know, I can imagine he’s said sorry. He’s starting to do things like that, now.” Donna sobers up slowly and twirls her hair with a finger, lost in thought. “Say sorry. Say ‘I love you.’ He says it every day like it’s in endless supply.” Her eyes again stray towards the kitchen where Martha can hear the distant voice of the Doctor muttering to himself.

What a thing, for love to be so plentiful for someone like the Doctor. It must have to be, for all his companions across his years. She Martha hadn’t considered it before, the way the Doctor had been so reserved about the whole deal. Maybe he showed it differently, or maybe not at all.

Donna seems to recognize her look. “He cares for you, Martha. A lot.” She rubs a thumb up and down her arm. “I could feel it. When the… the thing happened. You were never just a passenger, you know.”

The Doctor had grinned down at her. “Well, you were never really ‘just a passenger,’ were you?”

Martha had leapt for joy and followed him into the TARDIS.

“Oh, my God,” Martha says in present-day. She shakes her head disbelievingly. “No, it wasn’t like that. He didn’t mean…”

Donna stares meaningfully at her.

“Donna!” The Doctor stumbles out of the kitchen in a ridiculously frilly apron and huge red oven mitts. “How long do I leave the cookies out for?”

“Give them about five minutes, Doctor,” Donna tells him, eyeing Martha, “then be a love and bring them out when you’re done.”

The Doctor grunts and goes back into the kitchen.

“Thank you much!” Donna waves him off and leans back in towards Martha, lowering her tone. “He did mean.”

Staring at her hands, all Martha can muster is a weak, “no, he… he didn’t… He made it clear what he felt for me. Or didn’t, I suppose.”

“Martha,” Donna urges, “he’s bloody awful about things like that. Confession. I saw him with Rose Tyler, the way he looked at her. He couldn’t say it to her. Couldn’t say it to you.” She leans back. “That’s just my opinion. Can’t say for sure, but I think so.”

“You really think he meant…?”

“Everyone sort of did,” Donna says casually, like it’s common knowledge. “I dunno. I can’t read his mind, and Lord knows I don’t plan to. Knock on wood.” She raps her knuckles on the side table twice.

Martha again looks at her hands and reconciles with the current course of her life.  The Doctor comes back out with cookies and they all eat together.

Martha’s mind is louder than anything.

Donna hugs her and kisses her, begs her to visit again, and she promises she will. She leaves and speeds home, blowing through stop signs and passing everyone else on the street. She throws open the car door and runs inside her house. There’s an uproar of random clutter as she barrels through the hall towards the bathroom.

The door swings open and shut and she throws herself inside.

The mirror deceives her inner turmoil. Where she looks distressed, she feels distressed. Her expression is more naked than the first man to walk the Earth. She splashes water on her face once and then twice for some semblance of a grasp on reality and takes a deep, heaping breath of air.

This is ridiculous. This is scary. This is so tired.

She takes in another deep breath. Donna had said it was just her opinion. But then again…

Martha shakes her head. She’s happy with Mickey. She likes being with Mickey. She is safe with Mickey.

Her and Mickey appreciate each others’ presence.

Martha stares at herself in the mirror. “Oh, God.”

“Martha?” Mickey calls when he enters the house. “I had to pick up August because you couldn’t make it. Is everything okay? Your car’s out front so…”

He looks around. Someone ran right through the living room in a rush. August stands firm at his side.

“Mum?” August calls. Mickey pats his head.

“It’s okay, Aug. Go to your room, I’ll talk to Mum.” So August takes a step forward, looks back at him, then patters down the hallway to his room. Mickey watches him go with a slight sense of relief.

Slowly, he approaches his own bedroom. The door creaks open loudly, but doesn’t seem to disturb the occupancy. His wife sits by her lonesome on the edge of the bed and looks quietly out the window.

“Martha?” Mickey calls again. “Hey, you alright? The house is a bit of a mess, and you didn’t pick up August.”

Martha turns around. “That’s what worries you about my mental state?”

Putting his hands up defensively, Mickey backs off. “I mean… I didn’t mean that. Just ain’t typical of you, you know?” He stalks towards the bed and sits a foot away. “You saw Jack, huh?”

“What? No!” Martha yelps. “I didn’t ‘see’ anyone, not like that.”

“Like what?”

Martha frowns. “You know what you accuse me of every time you ask. ‘Oh, will Jack be there?’ ‘Is Jack coming?’ ‘Martha, I bet you’re seeing Jack.’”

“That’s— he’s a type!” Mickey scrambles. “Don’t act like I’m the only one. You always get on me about the girl from IT!”

“Because you—“ Martha grips her hair, “because you’re still pining after Rose!”

The room falls quiet with unabated tension. There’s a terrible, rending, tearing feeling deep in the pit of Martha’s heart.

Mickey sighs and stands to his full height. “That’s what you think? Comparing me to the Doctor?”

“The Doctor’s changed—“ Martha blurts out before she can stop herself. “I— Mickey, listen…”

“You saw him then.”

“It wasn’t like that.”

“No, Martha,” Mickey says calmly. He grabs her arms gently and pats her shoulders. “I know.”

Martha stands and faces him in terrified confusion. “What?”

“Martha, I know I’m not the only one,” he repeats, “I know you’re not… happy.”

She looks down in shame, and Mickey does, too.

“But honestly neither am I,” Mickey confesses. “And I think we both knew that. Rose was… she was everything to me, and I know you had mates like that for you. Tom… the Doctor…” Mickey glances out the window. “I don’t think we were meant to end up together. We just didn’t have anywhere else to go.”

As much as it pains Martha to admit to it, she can’t help but agree with the sentiment. They hadn’t really felt that strongly for each other, not for a moment; they were just the last two people with anything in common. “I don’t love you,” Martha admits. “Not the way a wife should. I’m sorry.”

“I think I feel about the same,” Mickey says back. “I’m sorry. I’m not mad. Not at you, I mean. At the situation, definitely.” He turns toward Martha and raises his arm. She tucks herself under it and hugs him tight.

Martha leans against him. “This is terrible.”

“It wouldn’t be any happier if we held it off,” Mickey replies.

“So… what now?”

Mickey kisses her forehead. “I don’t know.”

౨ৎ

The worst thing, probably, is that nothing much changes after the fact, except that Mickey doesn’t ask after Jack anymore. He doesn’t even inquire any further about the interaction he knows she had with the Doctor, except to ask how he’s doing. He doesn’t seem interested. They wake up together quietly, go to bed on opposite sides of the mattress, and carry on. It’s all very British of them.

Days turn into weeks and it’s all carry-on and hush-hush, really posh. (One day Mickey hands her divorce papers, and she signs them without a second thought.)

About two weeks out, Martha is driving home from work. Being an on-call doctor is sort of a blessing when the worst thing that happens in one’s town is someone sticking their finger in the wrong toy. On her way home, her phone rings loudly.

“Hello?” she sighs when she picks it up. There’s a terrible swishing noise on the other end and the Doctor pops in.

“Hello, Martha!” he greets cheerfully. “How’ve you been? Haven’t heard from you in a bit. I was starting to worry that you’d dropped off the face of the planet again, gone back to the moon.”

“The platoon of Judoon on the moon,” Martha mumbles to herself before she shakes her head, “what, you’re calling because I haven’t reached out? Like it’s my job to call you first.”

The Doctor audibly short circuits. “Oh,” he mutters, “sorry. Figured you’d want a bit of space, is all. Didn’t mean to intrude.”

“Doctor, we’re friends.” She grips the steering wheel tight and hurts her hand in doing so. “You can call any time. Well, not literally any time, like, three in the mornin’. You know what I mean.”

“You seemed upset when you left two weeks ago,” he tells her without pause. Damn him and his spontaneously good people-reading. “Are you alright?”

Martha stares at her home as it comes into view. “This isn’t a conversation I want to have over the phone.”

“Where do you want to have it?”

The car door swings open and lets her out. “The park, over by the river. How’s that?”

“What, today?”

“Yeah. Say eight.”

“Alright,” the Doctor says considerably, “see you, Martha.” There’s a quiet beep as he hangs up the phone.

The house is still when she enters, all the clutter cleaned up or packed away into the trash. In August’s room, she finds him laying with his head against the wall and his tablet perpendicular against his chest, unaware of the world around him. “Hi August,” she calls to him. He doesn’t hear her.

“Wot?” he asks.

“Nothing, sweetie. Have fun with your game.”

She shuts the door. She’s left staring down the hallway, bereft of color. It stretches on and on in front of her, a long, meaningless tunnel of grey walls. The house is disturbingly cold and uninviting, even with the family photos on the walls.

One of them features Martha, her siblings, and her parents smiling at the camera, posed and pointed. Martha can see the trauma in everyone’s eyes, though, from the Year That Never Was. It weighs heavy on the cast of the photo, sans Leo. They’re all terribly out of place even next to each other. The next one is a picture of August as a baby, then one of Martha, Mickey, and August at a professional photoshoot. They all look right into the camera and smile.

No vacation photos, no candid pictures, none of that.

The sentiment of having a quiet life is present in all of them, but it appears stale and hollow as the hall they rest in.

Martha leaves the hallway.

౨ৎ

When Mickey returns home from work, he offers Martha a polite smile before he goes into August’s room to wrap him up in a big hug (which August fights, of course. He’s at that age).

Oh, no. Martha suddenly remembers tonight is the night they decided to explain—

“Auggy, can you sit down out here? Mummy and Daddy have somethin’ to tell you.”

The child stubbornly follows Mickey down the hall and into the kitchen, where he climbs onto one of the barstools at the island table. His iPad rests firmly between his hands in front of his face and lights him up bright blue. He looks so much like Mickey in that moment that Martha’s stomach lurches painfully. Mickey pushes the iPad screen-down onto the table and pushes it aside carefully.

“Daddy!” August whines. “It’s my iPad time!”

“I’ll give you thirty extra minutes of iPad time tonight if you sit still and listen, okay?” Mickey offers, grabbing August’s hand in his gently.

Their son looks between the tablet and his parents, then slumps his shoulders. “Yes, Daddy.” He looks curiously between Martha and Mickey, blissfully unaware of what’s to come. Martha takes hold of August’s other hand.

August’s name had come from that lovely time of year where the leaves go amber and time flows like honey. He’d been born in July, but he had come out soft-faced and sweet like the warm air of early fall. August had always been a tepid soul, despite his contrarian attitude with his parents, and thusly the name had come forward. He’d faced bad news with a brave face, as Martha recalls the death of his aunt Sarah Jane. He had stared Martha dead in the eyes and told her he loved her even though she was sad.

August has always been a resilient child.

The look in his eyes as Mickey begins with the “Your mother and I love you very much…” nearly breaks Martha’s resolve in two, in spite of it all. They hold August’s hands tight in theirs and explain how Mummy and Daddy aren’t in love, we’re just friends, we love you, and pull him into their arms when his lip begins to quiver.

“Are you guys gonna move apart?” he whimpers. “Am I gonna have a Mummy house and a Daddy house?”

Martha and Mickey look at each other over his shoulders. Silently, they resolve that issue. “No,” Martha tells him quietly, mildly, “no one’s moving house. We’re all going to live together as a family.”

“We’re just going to be a bit different,” Mickey says.

“Remember what Mummy and Daddy told you about different families?”

August sniffles and wipes his eyes. “To treat them like everyone else, because nothing is too normal?”

Martha smiles. “That’s right.”

There’s a moment of silence as August looks at his hands, his little brain turning over its next thoughts. “Am I gonna get two Christmases?” he asks finally.

Martha and Mickey both laugh for the first time in a long time and take August into their arms once more.

౨ৎ

When Martha arrives to the park, she’s about an hour late. Mickey had put August to bed and disappeared into the computer room, leaving Martha to her own devices. The clock had read 8:42 when she left.

Looking around, she finds the Doctor sitting idly on a swing set. He’s far too big for the swing, legs way too long, and his shoes visibly dig into the ground. There’s a divot in the wood chips below him. Martha rushes over and leans on the set to catch her breath.

“Doctor,” she pants, “I’m so sorry I’m late. I- I hadn’t meant—“

“Martha, it’s okay. Really,” the Doctor says. She meets his eyes, and they’re impossibly understanding. She takes the empty swing to his right and kicks off, listening to the metal screech. She can feel the bars bend and settle to accommodate her adult weight.

“I really didn’t mean to keep you waiting.”

“It’s alright. I don’t mind. I’ve got all of time.” The Doctor peers at her through the corner of his eye. “I waited billions of years for someone once. I can handle an hour.”

The implications of that are a bit heavy-handed. “Alright.”

The blue of the moonlight glows off his pale face. She, too, looks at the sky.

“You know, the first time we met we were staring like this down at the Earth,” the Doctor reminisces next to her, “do you remember that?”

The cold chains between her fingers feel simultaneously rusty and sticky when she tightens her grip. “Of course I do. That was the day my life flipped upside down.”

“Haha.”

“You kissed me!”

The Doctor stares at his shoes, face pink. “It was…”

“A genetic transfer.” They say it simultaneously. They share a small blush.

“What did you even need that for?” Martha asks. She realizes she doesn’t even know the answer to that.

Consternate, the Doctor taps his chin. “If I remember correctly, it was so the Judoon could detect a non-human presence within the hospital.” He leans against the chain, which pushes his glasses into his face. “It didn’t end up mattering, because that alien lady sucked my blood and they figured she was non-human from her attempted assimilation into Time Lord biology.”

Martha smiles, then furrows her eyebrows at him. “Wait, so the kiss didn’t even matter? You kissed me for nothing?”

The swing squeals loudly when the Doctor sits ramrod straight and white-knuckles the chains in his hands. “I thought it would help!”

“You kissed me for no reason! What a way to introduce yourself, eh?”

“Yeah, well…” the Doctor tries, and trails off uselessly into his thoughts. “You kissed me that one time to get me out of that coma.”

“Okay, that was clinical. You were just handsy.”

“Handsy!” the Doctor himself squeals. “I was not—!”

“You were winkin’ at me all morning!”

It appears that, yet again, Martha has bested the Doctor in an argument to save his dignity. His face burns bright red and he returns to admiring the scuff marks on the toes of his shoes. He chews wordlessly on his lip, lost for words. Martha pushes her swing to the side, leaning on it towards him. The chain presses uncomfortably against her neck. “What was that for, then? Kidnapping me?”

There’s an apparent attempt to renew his confidence because the Doctor raises a smug eyebrow in her direction and shrugs. “No reason. I could.”

Martha sits back, swinging back and forth for a second as inertia does its job. She kicks some wood chips around and looks at the stars. “You ever look at anyone else like that?”

“Might have done,” the Doctor mumbles, “made a lot of people fall in love with me.”

“Mhm.”

“You did.”

Martha sighs and leans back to begin swinging in earnest. “Yeah, well, how many companions did you fall with after her? Or were the rest of them left tossed over the edge like I was?”

She hears him exhale quietly out of his nose. “A few. You might have met one or two, I think.”

“When was that?” she asks, swinging past his ear and watching his ridiculous hair flutter in the wind.

“Do you remember when I was blonde and I met you and me in 1969?”

“Sure I do.”

The Doctor smiles fondly. “I think you met my companions from back then. Graham, Ryan, and Yaz.” He watches Martha fly past him with a twinkle in his eye. “Oh, that Yasmin. She…”

Martha takes in the night air as she continues to swing. “She what?”

“I loved her.” The Doctor looks guilty at the admission, but tender at the thought nonetheless. “She always reminded me of you, a bit. Headstrong, tenacious, smart. You’d have liked her.”

Wood chips fly past as Martha skids to a stop. “You fell in love with someone who reminded you of me?”

At this, the Doctor seems to realize what he’s said. “Um,” he gallantly offers, “what time is it?”

Martha can’t help but stare. “Doctor.”

He deflates into himself. “Martha, I… there were so many— it was… I didn’t want to hurt you, or to offend you by certain…” he rolls his hands around in an aimless gesture, “affections.”

“You’re talkin’ all Jane Austen,” Martha tells him dryly. She reaches her arms around the chains and finagles for his right hand, finding it in the darkness. “Just talk to me, Doctor. That’s all I want.”

He looks up at her with an intense gaze, and their faces are just moments apart. His eyes could hold hers for all of time and she’s suddenly in her twenties again. His tongue darts out to wet his lips and it causes beads of sweat to collect at Martha’s hairline. In the low light, she can see the freckles splattered across his cheeks—just like the ones she saw on his old face. Martha can’t help but wonder how he’s changed so much and yet so little.

“Martha,” the Doctor whispers, “I did… I did fall for you.”

…

The ball has dropped. Hard.

Martha’s eyes go comically wide as the Doctor obliviously continues. “And… after Rose, I felt a lot of guilt about that. I felt that I was cheating her out of my feelings, and that I wouldn’t have cared for you the way you’d have deserved.”

His forehead presses against the chain of the swing and he closes his eyes. “After Donna, I… I realized how much I really did… love you,” he chokes on the words, stuck, “and I fell in love after you.”

All Martha can say is, “… why?”

“I outlive everyone, Martha. I’ve been in love so many times.” He meets her eyes again, utterly heartbroken. “I know how it ends. Again and again, it always ends, and there I am. Alone.” His eyebrows narrow on his forehead. “Everyone was unique. Truly. I wasn’t always very good at making that clear.”

Martha leans closer, nervous. “No, you weren’t.”

“It’s not fair to anyone that I fall in love with them, or that they fall in love with me. Love hurts when you’re timeless, Martha.” He looks at their intertwined hands and squeezes softly. “You aren’t.”

“It isn’t fair,” Martha agrees and shakes her head, “it hurts so much, Doctor.” Tears congregate in her eyes for the occasion. “We just had a talk with August tonight, Mickey and I, about our divorce. It was so hard, because I love him. Loving people makes you hurt them a lot.”

The Doctor glances at her with misty eyes of his own. “Yeah.” Their hands press even more together to be as close as possible. “I’m sorry… I didn’t mean to get in the middle of you and…”

“You’re very self-important,” Martha chuckles lightheartedly while a tear slips down her face, “and very wrong. Mickey and I weren’t ever really in love. Not that way. We just thought we were.” She smiles at him carefully. “Funny thing is… he reminded me of you, too.”

The Doctor immediately perks up. “Really?”

“Yeah. He was pining over Rose.”

Martha laughs all on her own. When she’s done, she realizes the Doctor is simply watching her sadly.

“What?” she asks.

The Doctor frowns. “You’re not second best, Martha. You shouldn’t ever have to be in that position again. Not because of me, or anyone else.” He reaches a hand up and holds her shoulder, and the way his long thumb rubs her sends a shiver running up her spine, chasing the feeling. “You’re the only one of you in the universe. That’s grand.”

Martha can’t help herself, again. She fists her fingers in his lapels and pulls his face towards hers. Their lips meet perfectly in the middle of the swing set, right below the moon where they first met. She feels the Doctor’s hands on the side of her head and they gently pull her head away from his. She stares at him, heart racing, and his eyes roam her entire face.

“Doctor, I’m so—“

The Doctor pulls her back in, and they meet in the middle again. He sets his hands around her shoulders and kisses her deeper with the sort of passion she hadn’t before received even from Tom. This is the enormity of the Doctor’s love, for everyone and for her.

It’s beautiful

unfathomable

ineffable

magnanimous

wonderful.

It takes a millennia to pull apart, and another to make eye contact. Being looked at by the Doctor is probably what a bug being looked at through a magnifying glass feels like—she is the sole focus of his entire wide-eyed gaze. The world is so grand, and Martha feels so small.

“Martha,” the Doctor wonders between excited breaths, “is this alright with you?”

“A-ah,” Martha stammers eloquently, “um. Yes. Yeah. Maybe. I think?”

The Doctor’s teeth bare themselves when he begins to laugh. The way he looks at her is incredible. “This is on your terms, Martha. I want what you want.”

“Well,” she barely responds, “that’s what I want. And all my problems to be solved, but that’s a bit more out there.”

“Eh, maybe. Time heals all wounds, you know.”

“I’m not time traveling to get away from my divorce.”

“Well, it was worth a try.”

Martha takes the Doctor’s hands in hers again and holds them close to her chest, right over her heartbeat. She can feel his racing heartbeats in his hands, traveling through his fingers to hers.

As a medical student and as a doctor, Martha has always found the connection of the human (or semi-human) bodies fascinating. This is entirely beyond her.

“What do we do now?” the Doctor asks hesitantly, eyes on their hands.

Martha smiles. “I don’t know.”

Martha carries herself a bit lighter now. Life isn’t so suffocating, and her house is a little less grey. Even Mickey seems happier in the house with her (though she suspects this is due to his new girlfriend, but who is she to judge?)

Work shifts go by a little smoother, and her life seems all-around more full of… well, life.

Donna calls her a day after The Big One and opens by screeching right in her ear.

“Mumma, are you callin’ a bald eagle?” August asks from the backseat.

“Wot!” Donna squawks indignantly. “Don’t compare me to a yank!”

Martha only laughs. “Sorry, Donna. That’s my son August. Say hi, August.”

“Hi, Donna,” August drones before turning his attention out the window.

“I’m driving him to school,” she continues, “what’s up?”

“Okay, the Doctor hasn’t said but I could tell just by the look on his stupid face that something happened!” Martha can practically see Donna clicking her nails together in excitement. “You snogged ‘im, didn’t you? He ‘asn’t looked like that since… I don’t even know! Martha, you sly dog!”

“Donna! Not while I’m driving my son to school!”

“Sorry, sorry,” Donna twitters, then adds, “was it good? Oh, I’m sorry, I can’t help it. He annoys me to no end. It’s sort of a morbid curiosity thing— is he a good kisser?”

A distant “Donna!” is heard in the background of the call.

“Shut up, will ya?!” She audibly exhales into the receiver. “His nosy arse is eavesdropping, so I’ve got to go. Good on you, Martha. If he does anything to you, I’ll kick him into next week, no TARDIS involved.” Martha hears him place her hand over the phone the way her ring clinks against the screen and the shout of: “D’you hear me?!”

“I’ll keep you updated,” Martha tells her with a snort. “Thank you, Donna. Miss you.”

“Miss you too, love! Come by later this week, you can have the family over! We’d love to see them.”

“Alright. Bye, Donna.”

“Byeee!”

Martha sets her phone on her lap as she pulls around to the drop-off area. She leans her chair back to kiss her son before he gets out of the car, and he shockingly accepts her affection. He turns to climb out of the door and turns to Martha.

“Mum?” August says. “Your friends are weird.”

౨ৎ

A week passes, with dinners and reunions and apologies, and Martha’s phone pings with a text.

It’s the Doctor.

How do you feel about a trip to the park? :)