(Christopher Marlowe and Steven Taylor met in the novel 'Empire of Glass'. This story is inspired by their dynamic in the book and is loosely based around the events).

The Doctor shut the TARDIS doors behind him as he and his two companions disembarked from the blue box out into the cool air outside. Looking around cautiously, Steven grabbed Dodo by the arm to stop her wandering off. She pouted, clearly not interested in staying put and being told what to do.

"Why are you in such a hurry?" Steven asked her.

"It's my first trip isn't it? I want to see where we are!"

The Doctor chuckled as Dodo got onto her tiptoes and peered at the tops of the buildings in the cobbled street. "Well curiosity killed the cat my dear."

"And you're not curious at all I suppose?" she asked.

Steven laughed. He wasn't sure what to make of the girl yet. She was friendly enough, and she was certainly up for adventure, but he worried about her. He'd lost a lot of people, and she seemed the type of person to wander off and get herself in trouble. He wondered if she quite understood the seriousness of the situation. Time and space wasn't some picnic, he knew that, but Dodo had yet to find out the price that you can pay for travelling with the Doctor.

"Any idea where we are Doctor?" Steven asked as he saw Dodo edging away from him as though anxious to explore. The Doctor narrowed his eyes and fiddled with his lapels. "Well one can never be certain of these things at first my boy, but I'm certain we're not long after our last trip."

Steven looked around; a shiver went down his spine as he thought about all the victims of the Paris massacre- the victims they were not allowed to save.

"Why do we have to be back in this era? I want to be well away from all this."

"I have no control over where the ship lands; besides I think we're in your own country of birth. We'll ask a few questions here and there and surely someone will give us some hint of when we are if that will help."

"It'll help me to just get back in the ship and leave."

The Doctor pouted, clearly annoyed with Steven's attitude. It was obvious to Dodo- who had returned to see what they were doing- that the two men were at loggerheads over something quite dramatic and serious. She didn't quite want to know what had happened and thought it rude to ask anyway. Besides, being their referee would ruin her fun!

Whilst the Doctor and Steven squabbled by the TARDIS, each of their faces turning red in frustration, Dodo trudged over to the nearest gentleman and tapped him on the shoulder. The man jumped back startled and looked at her like she was some kind of street urchin.

"Who are you?" he asked, looking at her strange clothing and sighing at her.

"I'm Dodo, but that's not important. I just wanted to ask you what year it was, oh and where we are."

"You don't know what year it is?" the man questioned suspiciously.

Dodo gulped, already in trouble. "Oh well…of course I know what year it is…but I wanted to test you silly."

The man looked over his shoulder to make sure no one was listening, and then leaned in close to the young girl. She could smell his awful breath as he leaned over her. "You're not working for her are you?"

She resisted the urge to comment on his personal hygiene and ask him to take a breath mint.

"Her?" she questioned.

"Her majesty the Queen."

Dodo thought for a moment and then nodded. "Why yes, that's right. So what's the year and where are we?"

"The year of our lord 1591, madam. And we're in Deptford."

Dodo was about to reply when suddenly the Doctor and Steven rushed over, only just realising that the newcomer was conversing with strangers.

"Thanks for your time sir," the Doctor said hurriedly at the man before he ushered Dodo away wagging his finger at her.

"Oh what is it?" Dodo protested. "Don't tell me I'm not actually allowed to talk to anyone in the past?"

The Doctor grumbled. "My dear, we're not suggesting complete non interference, it's just you need to be aware of the dangers of meddling with days gone by."

"What you mean in case I run into one of me own ancestors or something?"

Steven and the Doctor exchanged awkward glances.

"It's a possibility," Steven let out with a sigh.

Dodo agreed that she'd be careful before adding that if she was supposed to just hide away then she would have just stayed in the ship and read a book instead. The Doctor explained a few pointers and suggested the two of them have more of a chat whilst they took a leisurely stroll along the streets and took in a bit of the history around them. Before they left, Dodo explained to the Doctor and Steven where and when they were, not that either of them were surprised.

"And what am I supposed to do?" Steven moaned at his two companions as they headed off into the distance leaving him standing alone with his hands in his pockets.

"Have a drink my boy in that little tavern, we'll come and fetch you later."

"Oh and that's how it is now is it? We arrive somewhere; you saunter off and leave me to get in serious danger in a tavern."

"Lightning doesn't strike twice my dear Steven. Loosen up, relax. You need a break."

"Then why are we back here in this bloody time period?"

The Doctor shook Steven away and led Dodo along the street. Steven sighed wearily, all he wanted was to just forget everything, curl up in a warm bed, and pretend he was as far away from Elizabethan times as possible.

…

He wandered into the tavern and was struck immediately by the stench of his surroundings, not that it was a new experience to him, what with his many trips to the past, but he'd rather a fragrant meadow any day. One of these days he hoped he'd arrive in a time when washing had become a day to day ritual instead of a yearly treat.

He ignored the smell of the stale sweat, and strong ale, and some peculiar whiff of sewage, and instead concentrated on finding a quiet place to sit and drown his sorrows. Reaching the bar, he slumped on a stool and rested his head on the wooden counter.

"Long day?" asked a man who was sitting beside him.

Steven could barely muster up the energy to look up. He eventually gave in and slowly lifted his head in the direction of the voice. His eyes widened in shock when he realised who it was. It was Christopher Marlowe! The playwright, the man he met in Venice when he'd been travelling with Vicki, the man who was living the life of a man presumed dead. But Marlowe had died in his arms in Venice and now he was here, so young, and full of life! He could actually see him again!

"Marlowe?!" Steven exclaimed, so relieved to see him.

Marlowe smiled, intrigued by the stranger. "Have we met?" he asked.

"It's hard to say," Steven let out with an apologetic shrug.

Marlowe was amused by the way the young man was so embarrassed and confused, and the way he was fiddling with the buttons on his jacket. He also noticed how well groomed he was. "If we had met I'm sure I'd remember the pretty face," Marlowe whispered to him.

Steven smiled. He was the same old Marlowe alright!

"It's not important how we met," Steven told him. "I'm just so glad to see you alive and well."

"Well at least someone thinks so," Marlowe replied as he ushered the innkeeper over to them and signalled for two flagons of ale. "So what were you moping about?"

"Oh just a disagreement with someone."

"A disagreement? Men are always in disagreement with one another about something, aren't they?"

Steven nodded and gulped down his drink. The liquid felt soft on his throat as it went down, but it was a lot stronger than he was used to, the taste so vivid, even after he'd swallowed he could feel it lingering.

"So come on then handsome stranger," Marlowe whispered in Steven's ear. "What are you going to do about this disagreement of yours?"

"Nothing. Suffer in silence seems the best bet."

"You can tell me! I promise my lips are truly sealed. I won't tell anyone of any of your exploits if that's what you're worried about."

Steven laughed. "No, you'll just write a play about it."

Marlowe nodded with humour and held out his hand. "Well if you're to be a star player in one of my plays, then I must know your name friend?"

"Steven Taylor."

"Well then, Steven Taylor. What is the disagreement about? Murder, revenge, sex, intrigue?"

"You're very persistent aren't you?"

"I'm a playwright. What can I say I'm interested in people."

Steven laughed. "Nothing quite as scandalous as you're hoping I expect, but the story is that I didn't agree with the decision of a man I generally respect."

"And that's all?" Marlowe asked as he gulped down the rest of his drink and wiped the foam from his mouth.

"All?" Steven said. His eyebrows rose in surprise. "That's not enough? My friend's choice meant people died."

"Did your friend kill these people?"

"Well no, not directly. But there was no need for them all to die. He could have saved someone."

"So he looked the other way? And you'd have rushed in and rescued the people and been the hero would you?"

"Well if you're just going to make fun of me…"

Marlowe patted Steven on the back to show he was sympathetic. "It's obviously a very difficult matter but I feel the best way to move on is to let the matter go, find peace with it. And if that doesn't work, getting roaring drunk might help."

…

Steven and Marlowe sat outside the tavern and watched the townsfolk go about their lives as they finished off their next beverages. Steven was starting to feel the effects now and could barely keep his eyes open. Marlowe seemed to get merrier, whilst Steven remained solemn and weary.

"And may I ask where this all happened? This terrible event that you're so traumatised by?" asked Marlowe.

"Paris, the Massacre of St. Bart…" Steven began before he realised that he had said too much. He placed his hands over his mouth in annoyance.

"The massacre in Paris but that was almost twenty years ago? You'd have been but a mere boy."

Steven didn't know how to respond. He scolded himself for saying anything, knowing that Marlowe was bound to be curious.

"I can't explain what I mean Marlowe; you'd never believe it in a million years."

"I wish you'd call me Kit. You sound like my professor at Cambridge when you call me Marlowe. And believe me; nothing you say could be of any shock to me."

Steven laughed. "What if I were to tell you I'm a time traveller?"

Marlowe looked at Steven with fascination and smirked. "Well alright, that is one I've never heard before. You never told me you were a writer yourself."

"I'm not a writer," Steven replied. "I'm a space pilot."

"And what is a 'space pilot' exactly?"

"I fly machines in outer space."

Marlowe laughed heavily. "For some reason I want to believe you. Either I'm mad or I'm much more drunk than I thought."

"We've met before you and me. I saw you in the future."

"Couldn't keep away from me eh?"

"Don't you take anything seriously?"

"Says the man asking me to accept his story of flying men and future versions of myself meeting past versions of yourself!"

"It's all true, believe me. That's why this is all so difficult. Time is impossible to be around, you always mess it up."

Marlowe stared deeply into Steven's eyes. "I hope our time together this night is never 'messed up'."

"You're not exactly the sort of man I'd forget, don't worry about that."

…

Marlowe lifted his drunken head from the table and managed to mumble his words. "You know, the massacre at Paris would make an intriguing setting for a play."

Steven went pale and rubbed his throbbing head. "You mean you haven't written it yet?"

"You only gave me the inspiration five minutes ago. I know I'm good but…"

Steven suddenly felt even more ill and disorientated. "I just assumed…"

"It's an event that's played on my mind more than once," Marlowe told him. "Your apparent time traveller self being there has stirred up some ideas."

"You're not going to write about me are you?"

"Sorry to disappoint you but the story of a flying man in outer space didn't quite fit the setting. Ludicrous to have anyone believe in such a thing."

Steven wasn't sure if that was a complete godsend, after all it was certainly good to know that a Marlowe play wasn't going to suddenly have an extra act about space travellers from the stars, but he was also a bit worried as to what the Doctor was going to say when he found out he'd gotten drunk with a famous playwright and revealed possible secrets about the future to him. He decided not to tell him.

…

Steven felt the cold breeze against his cheek as the day turned to night and the temperature started to drop considerably. He was shaken awake by a forceful shove. Looking up, he could make out the face of the Doctor, though it was extremely blurry and out of focus. Carefully, he lifted his head and looked at the old man who was watching him with rather a disapproving expression.

"I said relax my boy, not pass out drunk."

Steven rubbed his head and focused his eyes, finally able to see that Dodo- who was now beside the Doctor- was one person and not two! He managed to croak a few words of apology and then sat himself up into an upright position. He looked next to him and realised that Marlowe was still beside him, face down on the table, snoring gently, his dribble making its way down his chin onto the surface below.

Dodo laughed. "Who's your friend?"

"His name is Christopher," Steven told them quickly. The Doctor was already peering at the drunken man, his eyes narrowing and examining him. He scratched his chin and then shook away the feeling that he'd met the man before.

"You two sure had a party!" Dodo cried. "Seems I missed out on all the fun!"

"Dear girl, you are far too young to drink," the Doctor harrumphed.

"I'll be able to drink legally on my next birthday, besides if you think I've never had a drink before…"

Steven hushed her; her voice was far too loud and not helping with the headache he had acquired, or rather brought on himself. He could feel the beats of his heart thumping loudly in his chest and everything generally seemed amplified, even the Doctor's chin scratching.

"Come along Steven," the Doctor said. "Let's get away from this place and hope to find perhaps a more peaceful retreat hmmm?"

Steven nodded gratefully and started to get up shakily. "Wait a minute, what about him?" he said pointing to his inebriated chum.

"What about him?"

"I can't just leave him in that state. And I'd like to say goodbye first. I'm never going to see him again."

Dodo and the Doctor exchanged surprised glances.

"I didn't realise you'd gotten so close," the Doctor said. "Well wake him up, say your farewells and meet us back at the ship in ten minutes."

It took Steven a full five minutes to rouse the sleeping Marlowe, and when he'd accomplished it, Marlowe was singing gently to himself. He looked up at Steven and smiled.

"What a wonderful dream I was having!" he said as he stretched out his arms and let out a hearty yawn. "Head's throbbing a bit though. I say, how much did we drink?"

"Enough," Steven replied.

He let Marlowe compose himself, and then started to stand up, ready to leave. He hovered by the table trying to find the words to say goodbye. He was never good with finding the right things to say.

"Oh are you leaving?" Marlowe seemed disappointed.

"I'm afraid so, my friends are waiting for me. I just wanted to thank you for a fun evening, and for listening to my stories."

Marlowe smiled warmly. "It was a pleasure; though I have to be honest I don't really quite remember everything you told me."

Steven laughed. "It's probably a good thing!"

"Am I ever going to see you again?" Marlowe asked with some hope in his voice.

Steven sighed. "Maybe, maybe not. I can never really tell."

Marlowe smiled and shook Steven's hand in friendship. "I thoroughly enjoyed our evening Steven Taylor, you are not like one usually meets in taverns, and I don't suppose I ever shall meet someone quite as interesting as you. Until we meet again, I shall see you in my dreams. Farewell Steven."

There was a brief moment of hesitation before Steven turned to leave. Not looking back he made his way to the TARDIS and tried to shake off the feelings that he'd never see his friend again. He'd got to meet him another time, and that was something at least.

…

Marlowe got up from the table and smiled towards the direction that Steven had left. "Ah, what was it? The Massacre at Paris, what drama! What intrigue! What despair of recent times! Was he truly there? Ah, well, perhaps a story is to be told…"