It's been a loooooong time since the plot bunnies have had me by the throat to the point where I can't help but post something new when I'm still in the throes of something else, but when they burrow in, they're hard to get rid of.

So, I'm still hard at work on "Hearts of Calm," and I have absolutely no intention of abandoning it. In fact, I'm nearly finished writing it.

This, however, is TOTALLY different! It's still fodder for the Ten/Martha crowd, but its inspiration comes from somewhere more practical.

I absolutely love toying with the idea of what Tom Milligan is really like; I mean, we see him as a freedom fighter of sorts in the Year That Never Was, and he's brave and wonderful and smitten with Martha. But what's the REAL man like? What's he like when he's just living his life like anyone else? In my stories, he's run the gamut between being an utter twat, to practically a saint. Sometimes he's just sort of hapless, sometimes he's actively daft.

I also enjoy asking myself, what does he really know about Martha's past, especially with the Doctor? Again, in my stories, I've answered that question in different ways...

And when I asked the question this time, the answer came... and then it twisted and turned, and grew out of control until the oneshot I'd been planning to write became something else entirely. I've been manic about writing this thing, I think it's pretty juicy, and I really hope you'll enjoy it!

And of course, I hope you'll leave a review! ;-) Have fun!


ONE

The Doctor sat alone at a table for four, in an interestingly-decorated, chic, crowded bistro in London.

Okeanós was a newish Greek-style seafood restaurant, dimly lit where he was sitting, but brilliantly lit in certain places where shades of electric blue were highlighted. The tables and chairs were all classic ornate Mediterranean, painted burning white, and there were rows of tropical fish tanks that served to partition the space – the Doctor's left shoulder was pressed against one of them. Overhead, there was a blue and white circular cloth with a circus-tent type pattern, pulled toward the ceiling just at the centre, and left to drape, soft and billowy, round the rest. It gave the impression of being inside of a coastal bungalow of some sort – the Doctor rather liked it.

What he didn't much like was not knowing exactly why he was there, though he knew that would be remedied quite soon. Earlier in the day, he'd received a frantic phone call from an old friend, asking for a favour. One half of the favour, she had said, would require meeting her here, along with some other people. The rest of the favour she would explain later, and then she would owe him one forever.

"Owe me one forever? Don't forget who you're talking to, Martha Jones," he'd said with a smirk. "Don't make empty promises."

"Oh, I haven't forgotten," she'd said. "Not for one second. Honestly – thank you, Doctor. I've got to run now. See you tonight – bye!"

And with that, she'd cut off the call.

And now, as current GMT crawled across the appointed meeting-time, he sat, wondering what the second half of the favour would be (but reckoning it would be worth it to help out the illustrious Dr. Jones). He sighed, drank sparkling water, munched the bread he'd been offered, and watched the pretty people pass.

"And speaking of pretty people…" he muttered to himself as he watched Martha Jones walk round the corner looking absolutely stunning in a shocking red dress that seemed made to splash across this restaurant and pleasantly ruin the haven of white and blue.

She saw him, and made straight for his table, completely ignoring the Greek man in the dark suit who tried to stop her… probably just to greet her and ask whether he could help her.

Myriad thoughts and emotions assaulted him when he saw her...

But he pulled it all under control, as she seemed just as frantic now as she had when he'd spoken to her on the phone. He stood up, and met her just a few feet from the table.

"Oh, Doctor," she groaned, as he kissed her on the cheek. "Thank you for coming."

"No problem," he said, pulling out the chair across from his, for her. She sat, and allowed him to help her push the chair in. He took his place again, and looked her over. "Blimey, you're practically vibrating. What's wrong?"

"Please don't hate me."

"That could never happen," he retorted quickly, earnestly.

"Don't be so sure," she said, worry colouring her incredibly lovely face. "I mean… I've done something bad."

"What?" he wondered.

"Just… seriously, I appreciate your coming here to help me out without knowing the whole story, and when you hear…"

"Martha, just tell me. I won't hate you, and you won't owe me anything. I'm your friend, I want to help. Now spill it."

She took a deep breath, and wrapped both of her hands round one of four glasses of water that had been pre-poured by the Maître d' who had sat the Doctor.

"Okay, here goes," she said. "You know I'm engaged, right?"

"Yes," he said. "To… Tom Milligan, is it?"

"Yeah. Well, over the course of practically any relationship, you… purge."

"Purge?"

"Yeah," she said. "You know… full disclosure of your past, over time. Well, fullish. You talk about your hang-ups, you warn your partner of your quirks. You discuss why you are the way you are. You tell them about when you've been hurt, when you couldn't get over something, when you did something to hurt someone else… stuff like that. You unpack the baggage, so that everyone knows what they're getting into… and as I'm saying this, it occurs to me that you might actually have no idea what I'm talking about."

He smirked. "I do know," he said. "Though I'm not the world's greatest in the 'fullish' disclosure department, am I? You'd know that better than anyone."

"You're not," she conceded. "But you and I weren't in a relationship, were we?"

"Well, no, but…"

"Hold that thought," she said. Then she sighed heavily. "In the interest of fullish disclosure, when Tom and I started to get serious and talk about getting married, I felt that he needed to know that I had… recently… been… you know…"

"What?"

"Hurt by someone," she said, very quietly, not making eye-contact.

"Oh," he said. "I see."

"And that I was still somewhat skittish. I'd not got over the rawness of it, et cetera, et cetera."

"Oh, God…" he groaned, pulling his hand down over his face.

"I mean, there were just loads of issues concerning you," she continued. "And not just, you know, rather fancying you, and not getting anything back from you."

"Martha, I'm…"

"You're sorry, I know," she cut him off. "It's fine. We don't have time for that. The point is, there was that bit, but then there were issues with Rose. And Jack. And the Master. All of which contributed to my general angst, and like it or not, some of it had – has – the potential to keep me from moving forward. Not irreparably, but you know, it's stuff that a fiancé needs to know. We can't be surprised by each other's baggage down the road. We have to work through things together if we're going to become husband and wife, and eventually be a family and stuff."

"I get that."

"Not to mention, there were some good times," she said. "Stories I wanted to tell. Remarkable things about you that I wanted to boast about. Stuff you said and did, and ways that you made me feel!"

"Glad to hear that some of what you have to say is positive," he mumbled, a bit more poutily than he had intended.

"Stop acting like that, you know that our years together were more good than bad."

"I think they are," he said.

"Anyway, what I'm getting at is… you are a huge part of my life. My time with you is a major factor in who I am – I can't just gloss that over, especially in a new relationship. I had to talk about you, but I didn't know how to explain you," she said.

"Fair enough. I frequently don't know how to explain me either."

"So I told Tom that you're my ex."

"Oh. Okay. That's probably a good idea. I mean... I sort of am."

"Doctor… an ex. I let him believe we were in an actual relationship for two years. With feelings, and living together, and sex, and discussions of marriage, and domestic arguments about canned tuna… the whole bit."

"Well, we did once have an argument about canned tuna."

"And about how to use a rice cooker, coloured towels, and whether or not to play Russian classical music in the console room."

"Sorry, but Dvořák is creepy. Well, you never met him, but trust me…"

"And yeah, we lived together… for part of the time, anyway, but we didn't have the other stuff, and that's where the flesh of a relationship is."

His expression changed. "There were feelings… of a sort."

She sighed. "Okay, look, you know what I mean, right?"

"Yes, you exaggerated our situation, in order to make it easier to understand. Most people would have done the same."

"Exaggerated parts, understated other parts."

"I get it. And it hardly qualifies as having done something bad."

She smiled uneasily. "Heh. Stay tuned, love. There's a reason why I'm bothering to tell you about it."

"And that would be?"

"Tom's on his way here now."

"Okay, great," the Doctor shrugged. "Reckoned I should probably meet him at some point."

"As is Sylvie. His ex."

The Doctor's eyebrows went up. "Oh. Wait – what?"

"Yeah," she sighed, and she took a long swig of water. "Tom thought it would be a good idea for us to have dinner with each other's exes present, so we could, you know, hash through some issues before we get married. And I agree, that if we feel we can't be around important people from each other's past, then our relationship can't be considered stable. I mean, on principle, I agree."

"But in practise, not so much?"

"In practise, I lied to him. I mean, I do have exes, proper ones, but none of them were really worth mentioning. None of them have…" she trailed off, realising what she was about to say. "None of them have affected me the way you have. And I didn't love any of them the way I loved you."

"Wow," he said, then cleared his throat.

"In practise, how are we supposed to hash out anything, in any real way, when my side of it is based on a lie? How are we supposed to have a cleansing dinner if you and I are constantly having to remember to keep our story straight?"

"Well, what do you want? Do you want to tell him the truth?"

"You know as well as I do that the truth is too weird," she dismissed.

He laughed. "Okay, touché. So… what, Martha? What do you want to do? What do you want me to do? Lie for you?"

"Well... yeah."

"Okay."

"Okay?"

"Yeah," he shrugged. "Why wouldn't I?"

"I'm putting you rather hideously on-the-spot."

"And I've never done that to you?"

She chuckled. "Not like this."

"Pff," he said, waving away the comment. "I've asked you to do much worse. Were you not there in 1913?"

"I was, but..."

"These are little white lies - I can handle myself."

She took a long exhale. "Thank you."

"Don't mention it. Because, think about it, Martha: how much of a lie is it, really? The feelings you had, they were real. The residual love, the anger, the pain, the things that give you 'baggage,' as you call it... those are real. If I hurt you, I hurt you - who cares whether we were living in a flat together, or in a time machine?"

"I suppose that's true," she sighed.

"It's what's happening inside you, the feelings you carry... that's what's important. The official nature of our relationship, in this case, is window-dressing."

She chuckled bitterly. "It always sort of was."

Just then, a waiter arrived. He spoke English with a thick Greek accent, and wore a loose-fitting white shirt, with tight black trousers. "Good evening, Madame," he said. "May I bring you a beverage?"

"White wine, please," she responded.

"Very well," said the waiter. "And are we waiting for more guests?"

"Yes, two more," Martha said. She glanced at her watch. "They should be here in ten minutes or so. At least, that's what time I told Tom."

"I'll be back with your wine, Madame, and I will take your friends' orders when they arrive."

"Thanks," she said, as he walked away.

"So you told me six o'clock, and told them half-past, so you could brief me?" he asked her. "Very clever, Dr. Jones."

"Thanks," she said, flatly. "Sorry. I'm just really nervous."

"Don't be. I won't let him find out you lied to him. If I can't improvise, I don't know who can."

She smiled. "You're right - I don't know anyone who can riff like you."

"Okay, so, details. Where did we live?"

"I don't know – hadn't ever thought about that bit."

"Where do I work?"

"All over. You're a consultant."

"A doctor, I assume?"

"Of course."

"My specialisation?"

"I don't know…" she answered, squinting. "I may have told him internal medicines. Or I may not have. Maybe I just think that because it was my specialisation."

"Internal medicines it is. What's my name?"

She smiled and rolled her eyes. "John Smith."

He smiled too. "Fitting. And we were together two years?"

"Yes," she said. "We broke up because you seemed to be growing distant, and I'd got tired of trying to re-engage you."

"Oh, dear – what a prat I was," he said. "Do I have any weird quirks?"

"You know you do."

"Well, what are they?"

She chuckled. "You talk a million miles per hour, you wear glasses that you don't need, you always wear the same two suits, and you use the phrase allons-y on a semi-daily basis."

"Really? Well, you've invented some interesting affectations for me - how lovely. Now, how fantastic am I in bed?"

Her jaw dropped. "Doctor!"

"Well?" he asked, barely containing a laugh. "I mean, are we talking everyday-fantastic, or off-the-charts fantastic?"

"Yeah, I went down that road with my fiancé!"

"I get it, I get it," he conceded, still stifling laughter. "Well, all right, we'll just say off-the-charts, but he doesn't need to know it, how's that? We'll just have it as our motivating backstory, yeah?"

She laughed, in spite of herself. "Lovely idea. Not crazy at all."

"'Course not. Anything else I need to know about myself?"

"Erm… well, my mum couldn't stand you and was happy when we broke up," she said.

"Shocking. What else?"

"Rose was your fiancée who died," she said. "You have a sister named Donna. And Tom will be expecting you to be shorter."

He laughed at that. "I'll try and slouch."

In her handbag at that moment, Martha's mobile phone went ping. "Do you mind if I check?" she asked the Doctor. He shook his head, and she reached into the little purse, and pulled forth her new Smartphone. "Damn. He's running late. Said something came up, and he had to drive fifteen minutes out of the way."

"Well, okay, so we have more time to chat," the Doctor pointed out.

"Yeah," she said, sighing with a smile. "That's a plus. So, what's been going on with you?"

"Well, you know sister Donna is actually gone," he gulped. "Out of my life, anyway."

"I know. No-one new yet?"

"No," he said, again gulping to avoid showing the precise emotion he felt whenever he thought of Donna, which was ugly, weepy, rage. "I don't know if there ever will be again."

"Aw, come on, Doctor."

"Knocking about on my own isn't so bad."

"Yeah? What have you been getting up to on your own?"

"I've been trying to chase down this thing that can assimilate the form and biofunction of other species – sort of like the plasmavores, but its M.O. is several orders of magnitude worse."

"How is it worse?"

"Instead of blood, they take heads."

"They cut off heads?"

"More like bite them off."

"Okay, yeah. That is definitely worse than sucking blood through a straw."

"There have been a few mysterious decapitations in India - humans, of course. Police and pathology reports are dodgy, but one thing that's coming through loud and clear is that there are no signs of kerfing in the cuts, and, sadly, no sign of the heads anywhere. So I'm given to think it's… them."

"That's… really disgusting."

"Tell me about it. Not to mention, it's a fairly daunting and depressing endeavour. Knowing if I don't find their nest soon, someone else literally loses their head…"

"So, have they just snapped off the heads like a Praying Mantis and devoured them, in order to appear human?"

"Pretty much."

"Sounds rather too primitive a case for you."

"I'd be all too happy to report them, and let the Judoon deal with them. Except, I've studied them, and their energy signature is muddled… I've seen something like that before. It's an interval-oriented churning that means intermittent intake and release of energy."

"So, it needs feeding. What's feeding it? Oh… human heads?"

"No, I don't know what's feeding it, but I know it can't be heads, because they'd be wicked conspicuous – like ten times more than they already are. I still think it's all interconnected somehow, but…" the Doctor trailed off and sighed heavily here. Then when he continued, he did so as if he'd never stopped. "And they're excellent at wielding that energy. Like in a really specific way – much better than I or the TARDIS."

"Which means what?"

"Dunno yet. Innit fabulous not knowing?"

"Actually, I find it quite frustrating," she corrected.

"Not knowing the facts about a case?"

"Yeah," she said, wistfully, now staring into the fish tank.

"Does that apply to Sylvie as well?" he asked, suspecting that though they had changed the topic of conversation, her thoughts had never really left the prospect of meeting a ghost from her fiancé's past.

"Not knowing more about her? Well, I mean, I don't know how much I'm supposed to know. A lot of the essence of a person can only be gleaned upon meeting. At the moment, all I really know is, she's Tom's ex. His most recent, most impactful ex, I think. I don't know her at all – just the stuff he's told me. They dated for a year and a half or so, while Tom was doing his residency in France. But I guess he broke it off because it got too intense."

"Is that code for something?"

"How should I know?" she said. "I've no real idea of what too intense means, but it's left its mark on him."

"So, what's she doing in London? Is she from here as well?"

"No, she's actually French. I guess she's in town for a conference," Martha said. "She's a CPN."

"What's that?"

"A Certified Paediatric Nurse."

And they chatted. They caught up. They became abreast of each other's lives, including a wedding date, a honeymoon destination, and an offer to drop off the newlyweds on the resort planet, Nephiling.

Martha had laughed. "No thanks, I think that might just freak him out a tad."

Eventually, the Doctor's eye was then caught by a man entering this part of the restaurant the same way Martha had. When the man saw Martha from the back in her red dress, he pointed at her, and spoke to someone unseen. On his lips the Doctor read the words, "Oh, there she is." The man started to approach their table.

Martha turned to see what the Doctor was looking at, and spied her fiancé walking forward toward them.

She also saw a woman walking with him. She was wearing a black lace dress with the shortest possible skirt, and the longest possible sleeves. She wore dramatic silver makeup on her face, her eyes were heavily lidded and sultry, and her mouth was almost as wide as her whole face. Her hair was flipped out sideways and coloured a bright shade of whitish-yellow at the ends, and black over the rest.

"Whoa, is that Sylvie?" the Doctor muttered.

"Must be," Martha said. "What the hell are they doing arriving together?"

"I don't know, but she's… she's…"

"What? Gorgeous?"

"No," the Doctor said. "Actually, I find her a bit terrifying."

"Terrifying? How?"

But by then, Tom and Sylvie had reached the table. Tom bent and kissed Martha and said, "Hi, sweetheart, sorry we're late."


Yikes, an awkward dinner with the exes! Hopefully the waiter can keep the alcohol flowing!

Thanks for reading - drop me a line!