Yawning, Martha reached up and brushed a loose strand of hair out of her face. She held a small bag of groceries in one arm, balancing it loosely on one hip as she dug in her pocket for the key to her flat. Her feet were aching from standing all day, and she could feel a tension headache beginning. As much as she'd loved 60s rock in the past, two straight weeks of working in a record shop in 1969 was quickly changing her opinion on the matter.
"Miss Jones?"
She jumped slightly when she heard a familiar voice behind her, and her key slipped out of her hand and fell to the ground. Rolling her eyes, she quickly planted a smile on her face as she turned around. "Mrs. Brown," she said, nodding at the landlord's wife as she knelt down to pick up her key. "How are you this evening?"
The older woman shot her a disdainful look and gestured toward the door with her eyes. "Mr. Smith," she said, snorting contemptuously as she emphasized his last name, "has been in there doing god knows what all day long. He's been making a horrible racket."
Martha felt her smile grow even more forced as she stood up. "I'll ask him to keep the noise down tomorrow."
"You do that," Mrs. Brown said, snorting. "It's bad enough that he has strange women coming and going at all hours of the day, not that you can blame him considering that he's living with a. . ."
Martha's grip tightened around her key, clenching into a fist before she even realized what she was doing. Mrs. Brown trailed off, laughing nervously. "Not that you're not a nice girl, mind you. It's just that a man like him and a woman like you aren't the best mat--"
"I'm certain that's not the case," Martha cut in, stopping Mrs. Brown's ramblings before the woman said something that would make her lose her temper. She adjusted the bag of groceries she was holding, forcing her voice to remain polite. "Is there anything else you need tonight, Mrs. Brown?"
"Just tell him to be quieter during the day," Mrs. Brown replied, sniffing a bit as she straightened up. "Otherwise I'll have to pass along the complaints I've been getting to my husband."
Martha nodded. "I'll do that. Goodnight, Mrs. Brown."
She turned around and unlocked the door, pointedly ignoring Mrs. Brown. After a few seconds, the sound of footsteps let Martha know that she was leaving. Shaking her head, she pushed open the door and stepped inside.
She sighed as closed it behind her, leaning forward for a second and resting her head on the door. "Complaints," she muttered. "If there's been a single complaint from someone other than her, then I'm a Judoon."
"Martha? Is that you?"
A tired smile appeared on her face as she pulled away from the door. "No, it's a burglar!" she called out, starting toward the kitchen.
The sound of a loud clunk came from the kitchen. Raising an eyebrow, Martha picked up her pace. She stepped into the room and froze, letting out a quiet laugh before she could stop herself.
The Doctor was on the floor under the table, crawling on his hands and knees. Various wires, screws, and various other bits and bobs surrounded him, many of them still rolling around.
"Drop something?" she asked lightly.
"Very funny," he snapped, not looking at her. "Did you at least get the copper tubing I needed?"
Rolling her eyes, Martha reached into the bag she was holding and picked something off the top. "It's on the table," she said, walking over and laying it down. Then she made her way over to the counter and put the bag down. "Hungry?"
He waved his hand in her direction, nodding distractedly. "Mm-hmm."
Martha stood there a second, watching him. She shook her head in fond amusement before opening the bag of groceries and looking inside. "Mrs. Brown thinks that you're having a torrid affair while I'm at work all day," she said nonchalantly.
The Doctor jerked his head up, banging it on the bottom of the table. He let out a string of what Martha assumed where curses, though without the TARDIS translating she couldn't be certain, before popping his head up. His eyes were almost comically wide. "What?"
"Oh, yeah." She nodded at him as she reached into the bag of groceries, pulling out several cans of soup. "That's why some strange woman paid a month's rent for us to stay here."
"Barbara's not a strange woman," he protested, propping his elbows up on the table. "She's a very old friend of mine. Not to mention happily married to another old friend of mine."
Martha quirked an eyebrow. "Then there's that dark-haired girl, barely looks old enough to be out of school yet," she added, pulling out some tins of vegetables.
He gaped at her. "Victoria?" he asked. "She's like a daughter to me. And she's not even from this century! We've just been watching The Avengers, since she never got to finish the series while she was traveling with me!"
After a few seconds of watching him splutter, Martha couldn't keep a straight face anymore. She burst out laughing, forgetting about the groceries as she walked over and dropped down into one of the chairs beside the table.
The Doctor stared at her for a second, a confused look on his face, before he slowly shook his head. "You made all of that up, didn't you?" he asked, clambering to his feet.
Martha grinned at him. "The specifics, yeah," she agreed, "but the old bat really did make the accusation."
He shook his head, slowly beginning to smile. "A torrid affair?"
"A torrid affair," she repeated, nodding. "And she always wants you to keep the noise down during the day. Mind having soup again for dinner?"
"Soup's fine." The Doctor paused for a second. "Noise? What noise?"
Martha gestured at the mass of wires and metal laying on the table. "I'm assuming the noise you've made working on that thing," she said, pushing herself to her feet. "Speaking of which, have you thought of a proper name for it yet?"
"This?" The Doctor glanced down at the device as she walked past. "Didn't I tell you already? It's a tim--"
She turned back, holding up her hand. "Timey-wimey detector doesn't count as a proper name."
"Of course it does!"
Shaking her head, Martha picked up a can of soup and looked at it. Then she opened a nearby drawer, pulling out a can opener.
"You should bring a record or two home with you tomorrow," the Doctor said thoughtfully, leaning back in his chair. "The Who, maybe. Or the Beatles. Ooh, we should go to Woodstock. How does Woodstock sound for our first trip in the TARDIS once Sally Sparrow gets it back to us?"
Without saying a word, Martha put the soup and the can opener down on the counter. She walked over to where he was sitting and promptly swatted him in the back of the head.
"Hey!" he griped, shooting her a hurt look. "What was that for?"
Rolling her eyes, she turned her attention back to dinner. "Get back to working on your timey-wimey detector," she said. "And start thinking of places that are as far away from 1960s Earth as possible."