Okay... here we go again!

And as it appeared that my last story's ending was a bit to REAL for some folks (perhaps there was too much that went unsaid, that I assumed everyone would just FEEL... perhaps I'm a little like the Doctor that way) I hope everyone is enthralled by this, and gets excited again :-) .

I keep wondering if this first chapter is a bit too mundane... but I promise, most of what happens here has a bearing on later events.

Thanks for all your kind words and for caring enough to review/like/dislike, and everything in between! Have fun!

ONE

"Congratulations, Dana!" Martha Jones gushed, hugging her friend, the former Miss Dana Castleford, the brand-new Mrs. William Chin.

"Aw, thanks, Martha," Dana said, looking radiant in her strapless sequined white gown and upswept strawberry blonde hair. "I'm so glad you could make it. Your mum said you've been travelling a lot, so I wasn't sure…"

Martha glanced to her left, where her mum was shaking hands with the groom. The two ladies caught eyes, and exchanged annoyed looks. "Oh, she did?" asked Martha sweetly. "Please! I wouldn't have missed this for the world!"

"Well, meet my husband, Bill," Dana said. She touched her new spouse on the shoulder and Martha smiled and reached out for a handshake. Dana looked over Martha's head and cast her eyes about the room, then leaned in sideways, close to Martha's ear. She mumbled, "So where's the guy I saw you with earlier? Very nice, that one."

Martha blushed.

"Hello, I'm Bill, your husband of eight seconds," said the groom, playfully smacking his bride lightly on the arm with the outside of his fingertips. "What's the matter with you?"

Martha giggled at Bill, then answered, "I think he must have gone to the gents'. Sorry about that."

It wasn't a lie – he had gone to the gents', but only because Francine Jones had impolitely asked him to stay out of the receiving line. He had agreed, as it was the path of least resistance. Martha reckoned it was because people would ask a lot of questions about him that Francine couldn't answer, many of which the man himself couldn't answer. In fact, Francine had advised Martha not to bring him at all, but of course, Martha hadn't listened, because she had wanted him there with her. She couldn't bear being the guest at another wedding, without a 'plus one,' even if he was just a friend.

The Doctor had said he was "rubbish at weddings," but had happily agreed to go to this one with Martha. He'd wondered aloud if perhaps he'd be "a bit less rubbish" if he didn't know anyone there.

And when she had said, "Erm, you should know... they're going to think you're my boyfriend. I mean, I won't tell them that you are, but my family think you are, and people make assumptions anyway, you know. And… well, it's a wedding and everyone has a date, and I'm not exactly anxious to correct them if they think we're..."

"Then don't correct them," he had shrugged. "It's none of their business what we get up to."

And outside the church when Dana's mother had said, "Hi, you must be Martha's new young man we've been hearing so much about!"

He'd said, "And you must be the sister of the bride," shaking her hand, expertly avoiding answering the question, and completely disarming her.

So, after Bill's little joke, the newlyweds, and Francine and Martha, laughed, then made their au revoirs, in order to let a new batch of people through the receiving line.

"How long are you two planning on staying?" Francine asked, taking Martha's arm as they made their way to a table on the other side of the room, where the Jones family, and all of their 'plus ones' had been assigned to sit.

Martha looked at her mother in disbelief. "Mum, stop it. Dana is my friend, mine and Tish's. If anything, I have more of a right to be here than you do!"

"But you know how nosy that family is!"

"So they'll be less nosy if the Doctor and I sneak out scandalously early?" asked Martha. "Yeah, that wouldn't be tacky at all."

"What am I supposed to tell them?"

"Nothing. Everything. Whatever, mum," Martha sighed. "Make something up. Tell the truth. I don't care."

Francine stopped and looked at her. "Tell the truth? The truth is that I have no idea what his name is, where he's from, who he is, how you met, what kind of doctor he is, how old he is or why you never told anyone about him. Not bloody likely, sweetheart!"

"It doesn't matter. Whatever you tell them, or don't tell them, you're going to have to do it whether we're here or not."

"Look, Martha, it doesn't have to be some sort of scandal, not if we have a good story. You can just… you know, tell them you're leaving for Guam in the morning, and you had to make it an early night. You could be going on one of those Doctors Without Borders missions together. Then they won't whisper about why you're leaving. Or, maybe he's going on his own, and you could stay at the party…"

"Mum, we're staying. Both of us. We're going to have dinner, a few drinks, we're going to dance and eat cake and listen to Dana's dad give the drunken speech… the whole kit 'n' caboodle. And we're not leaving until the wine runs dry and the DJ packs it in, all right? Just get over it."

"Fine," said Francine, as she turned her head toward their table. "Now, what are we going to do about this one?" She looked disdainfully at her other daughter, Tish, and her new beau, sitting in their own corner of the world as though no-one else existed. They were smiling giddily at each other and had their foreheads pressed together, and occasionally, they would smooch, or touch each others' nose.

Martha resisted the urge to groan. If she fostered her mother's disapproval of her sister's boyfriend, then she'd have no leg to stand on when Francine dug into the Doctor.

"We're not going to do anything about this one either, because Tish fancies him, and we used to be an equal-opportunity family, remember?"

"But…"

"Mum, just behave. I'm not having Dana's wedding reception turning into another night like Leo's birthday," Martha said. "Why can't you have a simple, nice time with friends, and be polite?"

"You are so rude," Francine whined as Martha led her by the hand. "I wish you could hear how you sound."

"There's nothing wrong with my hearing."

As they neared the table, Francine made her way round to the left to sit beside Tish, and Martha decided to take a seat beside the new bloke in her sister's life.

"Hi," a voice said from her left, just as she was reaching out for her chair. A tall Time Lord in a tux was sauntering up, hands in pockets, chewing on something. Probably one of those tiny banana-flavoured cordial cakes from D'Adamio's Bakery – he had raved about them when they'd first arrived at the reception hall. He pulled out her chair for her, then helped her scoot in after she sat. Then he took a seat beside her. "How was the receiving line?"

"A thrill," Martha told him. "Chills, spills. Met Bill." She chuckled at her little joke.

"Ho ho, aren't you cute?" he asked delightedly.

"Hello, Doctor," Tish chirped. "How've you been?"

"Oh, hey Tish. Sorry we didn't have a chance to say hello at the church. I've been all right," he shrugged. "You?"

"Great, thanks to this guy here. I'd like you to meet Robert Oliver," Tish said, gesturing toward the man beside her. "Sweetheart, this is the Doctor."

"Ah yes," Robert Oliver said, reaching out to shake the Doctor's hand. "I've heard so much about you!"

Martha held back from rolling her eyes. Robert seemed a decent enough man, but he was, to put it mildly, a pretentious twit. He looked a little bit like a young Bill Cosby, only shorter and much less cool. From an earlier conversation with Tish, Martha knew that the man was from Chiswick, and had studied computer science at Edinburgh. But he spoke with a highly affected imitation RP, the sort that only the Royals, and people who wanted to sound like the Royals, use. When he'd spoken, it had come out sounding like, "Ah yuzz. I've hod seeeew much aboat yoh."

"Oh, lovely," the Doctor sighed. "What do you do then, Robert?"

"Actually, Doctor, sorry," Tish interjected. "It's Robert Oliver."

"Robert Oliver," the Doctor repeated. It was half concession, half question.

"Worry not, Doctor, it's a dreadfully common mistake," Robert Oliver said. "Many people assume that Oliver is my surname, when in fact, it is my middle name. I do wish to be addressed by both my first and middle name, if you please."

Again, Martha held back from gagging. He was pleasant, but sickening at the same time. That took talent.

"As you like," the Doctor said. "I'm not one to judge… especially on names."

"Well, to answer your question," said Robert Oliver. "I am Chief Systems Analyst at Waters & Johnson accounting."

"Oh," the Doctor replied, nodding, no surprise nor particular emotion showing on his face. Robert Oliver and Tish seemed to wait for him to tell them how impressed he was, but the Doctor didn't budge (or even notice).

Dinner was served buffet-style, and it was decent. Though, the champagne was a cut above, and the speeches were surprisingly subdued. Everyone loved the gown and the ice sculpture, they oohed and aahed over the rings and the flowers and the bridesmaids' powder blue dresses from Vera Wang. The baked goods from D'Adamio's, however, were the stars of the show, as they had provided the appetizer banana cordial cakes, as well as the wedding cake itself. And after the cake and coffee were served, Martha looked across the table, and Tish and Robert Oliver were feeding each other lemon custard frosting off their fingers. And giggling. Loudly.

This time, she couldn't hold in the disgust she felt. She shuddered and went "bleah," though her sister did not hear.

But the Doctor did. "You okay?"

She looked at him, feeling a familiar sort of frustration. She was well aware that in spite of her general dislike of Robert Oliver and their chronic ickyness, her specific conempt for their relationship stemmed, at least in part, from jealousy. Happy couples were not exactly her favourite kind of people to spend time with these days, and this infuriating man sitting on her left was the reason why.

She stole another painful glance at her sister, then said, "Can we please get away from this table for a while?"

"Sure," he said, pushing back from the table and putting down his fork. "Do you want to dance?"

"Yes. I do," she said with a bit too much relief, and she stood up quickly, like a rocket.

When they reached the polished parquet floor, Fly Me To the Moon was playing, and the Doctor took her hand and said, "I think they're playing our song."

She faced him, and placed her left hand on his shoulder, and they began to move a little, though the space was crowded. She smiled. "I suppose they are!"

He dropped his voice half an octave to say, with exaggerated airs, "Do you remember the night we met, darling?"

"Oh, it was lovely! How could I forget basking in the Earthlight? And finding dead body on the floor, and almost suffocating to death myself? What a memorable night!" she said, matching his low tone with some extended sarcasm. He smiled at her.

After a beat, she said, "Thanks for taking me away from that table."

"Anytime," he replied. "Maybe that's just my role in your life, to airlift you out of your family drama."

"Yeah. How sad is that?"

"Ah, it's all right. Everyone's got an annoying family. Even me. At some point."

"I bet you never had a Robert Oliver in your family."

"Can't say as I did. He's a Systems Analyst? Blimey, at the very least I thought he'd be an International Baccalaureate Professor with a specialisation in classical poetry."

"I know! Ugh!"

"He just doesn't act like a computer guy," the Doctor observed.

"No, he acts like a bloody superior twit," she spat.

"Oh, come on," he urged. "He's all right. Just give him a chance. Think about it: your mum hates us both – the least we can do is give Robert Oliver some support. He'd probably do it for me."

"But you're not my…" she sighed.

"No, but they don't know that, do they?" asked the Doctor.

"But what is that, wanting to be called Robert Oliver? They probably call him Bob at home. It's so pretentious!"

"I want to be called the Doctor. In certain circles, that could be construed as pretentious, too."

"And what is with the accent? Did you hear that?"

"I'm not exactly speaking in my native drawl right now either," he pointed out.

"Doctor, could you just let me have my bit of indignation, please?"

"Sorry, please carry on with your irrational ravings," he said, rolling his eyes at her, with a sly smile.

She laughed a little bit at herself. "Fine. I'll give him the benefit of the doubt."

"Now see," he said, smiling. "Was that so hard?"

She sighed heavily. "No. I just don't get what my sister sees in that guy."

"Martha, you have to give your sister a break, too," the Doctor advised. "She doesn't have…"

He had stopped short and averted his eyes to the floor, and Martha had no idea where he was going with that sentence.

"She doesn't have what?" she asked. "Whatever it is you're about to say about my sister, I won't be upset."

"Don't get me wrong, she's great, but she's not you. She doesn't have your brains or your talent or your looks. She's not even in the same ballpark."

"What?"

"And we can't ask her to change, because you're extraordinary. She, like almost everyone else in existence who is not extraordinary, has to make do. Be patient with her. And with him."

Martha stared at the Doctor with disbelief. She was glad he was leading, because she'd lost track of her dance steps. Extraordinary brains, talent, looks. Had she heard right? Her eyes locked onto his, searching, willing the moment to reverse itself, pass again, so she could hear it, experience it for a second time.

But it did not, and no flash of anything similar shone in his eyes again. But the two travellers danced together for another hour, and left arm-in-arm, just after watching Tish and Robert Oliver stumble out of the place barely able to keep their hands off each other. The Doctor had said that Tish didn't possess Martha's best qualities; secretly, Martha added decorum to that list.