A new offering is here...
This is a stand-alone, not associated with any other story of mine, which is quite freeing. It is an idea that would not die, even though I kept telling it to go away...
I realize that "Mask" is still quite unfinished, but this... again, it is freeing!
It will be the usual, building toward something delicious (read: smut). I think it will be three chapters, posted in quick succession, and it will be a little silly/weird. But fun, as usual;-).
(You'll see that there's a bit of a gear-shift at the end of this chapter. I hope you don't find it too jarring.)
Part 1
The Doctor sighed.
"What?" asked Martha Jones, leaning against the railing, absently tugging at her cuticles.
"Oh, it's the Deloux Tribe," he told her, his brow furrowed in annoyance. "They're in trouble again."
"Who are they?" she asked, crossing the ten-or-so feet to stand beside him at the screen.
"They're a tribe on the planet Quinnus," he answered. "Population sixty-thousand or so. But they're always in some stupid kerfuffle with the Ampys People on the other side of the mountains."
"The Ampys People," she repeated.
"Yeah," he said with exasperation. "Blimey."
"Well, what's going on?"
"Oh, the king and queen of the Deloux have received a ransom note from the Ampys, who have kidnapped their two children, for no good reason other than, obviously, to vex me."
Martha cocked her eyebrows with surprise. "Two children have been taken, and you're worried about how it affects you?"
He sighed again. "Ugh. Martha, you don't understand," he told her. "The Deloux and the Ampys, they've been at something resembling each others' throats for centuries. Every now and then, one or the other will rally the troops and try invade, but no-one has been killed in any battle. No building has ever been destroyed, no bomb has ever been detonated. They antagonise one another with threats and talking rubbish, but in the end, it's all quite benign. It's entertainment, really."
"Oh. How do you rally troops, and no-one gets hurt? Better question: why bother?"
"Why? Because they're bored. Peculiar, and bored. As for how? Well, I'm not sure. Near as I can tell, they just stand on the battlefield yelling at each other."
Martha laughed. "Oh, you are joking, right?"
He shrugged. "I might be. But not much." He sat down on the black leather stool and leaned back into a good, hard stretch. "I suppose I shouldn't be so annoyed. The reason no-one gets hurt is that they're basically a kind-hearted species. No real violence has ever occurred on that planet, and yet, from time to time, they do daft things like this as a show of strength."
"What are Ampys...ites threatening to do if the Deloux... ians don't pay the ransom?"
"They're threatening to kill the children, of course, in the next seventy-two hours," the Doctor answered. "But mark my words: if the ransom doesn't get paid, seventy-two hours will become eighty. Then ninety-six. Then a hundred and four, and so on, until the kids are old enough to get married and move out. Or, more likely, the Ampys will grow tired of the game and simply let them go home. Killing is not in their nature."
"Don't the people of the Deloux Tribe know this?"
"No, they never learn," he sighed. "The royal couple think their children are in great peril, and that any day now, they'll receive their heads in boxes. The Ampys People are the same. Alarmist. Competitive, but ultimately sensitive. And a little bit thick, actually."
"Still, you can't blame them," she offered. "That's their kids!"
"Yeah, I suppose."
"What do they want from you?"
"They don't have the ransom that the Ampys want, so they want me to... you know, sort it out."
"Can you?"
"Of course, but if I keep fighting their battles for them, how will they ever learn?"
The Doctor and Martha were ushered into a large sitting room by a plump woman in a grey dress. Like all of the humanoid beings they had seen since their arrival on Quinnus, she was blue-skinned, and had jet-black hair that hugged her head as though it were tar.
She offered them seats, and asked them to wait, then she left the room. Within minutes, she was back, carrying a tray complete with what looked like pastries, teacups, a kettle and some small eating utensils.
She served them each a round mini-cake, and piping hot cup of something that came out of the kettle, tinted green. Once again, they were asked to wait.
"What is this, a blueberry tart?" Martha asked, poking at the rounded cake on her plate.
"Doubtful," he muttered at her, examining his cake in the same way. "Given that blueberries only grow on Earth."
"Should I try it?"
"It's up to you," he shrugged. "But I'm going to, just for politeness' sake."
They each took a tentative bite of the not-blueberry tart, and both found it exceedingly sour, followed by a bitter after-taste. They both tried to wash it down with some of the hot green liquid, but it was most definitely not tea, and tasted to them like liquefied dirt.
"Blimey," Martha said, dabbing at her tongue with the napkin. "I should have brought some mints!"
"Well, I've had worse," the Doctor commented. "At least everything tasted organic."
With a regretful look on her face, Martha leaned forward and placed the plate and little fork back on the coffee table, with no intention of ever picking them up again. She stared at the offending cake with wonder.
"Too bad," she sighed. "It looked good."
"Yes, I suppose it did," the Doctor agreed, studying it, still on the plate in his lap.
"This place we went to in Paris, my mum and I," she told him. "They had at least a hundred different pastries, all more or less identical, but for the area in the middle. I don't know how they got them all so perfect, unless they were cloning tarts! Miles and miles of them!"
"That's France," the Doctor shrugged. "It's kind of... well, what they do."
Martha ploughed on. "They had all the usuals: cherry, strawberry, blueberry, apple, et cetera. But they also had raspberry marzipan, chocolate, fig and pear, pomegranate, lavender-blackberry, mandarin orange, and dozens and dozens more... all perfect. It was like Christmas! So spectacular to see!"
"Which one did you choose?"
"Blueberry," she told him. "Boring, I know, considering."
"No, not boring," he said with a smirk.
"As it turned out, yeah, you're right, it was not boring! It was fantastic! I had never tasted anything so perfectly flaky, buttery, tart and sweet balanced, plus just the right touch of Neufchâtel."
"Wow," he said, a little surprised. "You really have a vivid recollection of foods."
"Not really," she said. "It's really more the experience. Like a sense-memory thing. It's unique and poignant."
Before long, the king and queen entered the sitting room in mild hysterics and recounted the story of finding the children gone, discovering the Ampys People were behind it, the startling realisation that they did not have the funds to pay the ransom, et cetera.
The Doctor asked to see the room from which they had been taken. He and Martha were directed up the stairs, and to the right.
Now it was Martha's turn to sigh.
"What's wrong?" he whispered.
"Nothing. Just a little hungry."
"We'll get a sandwich when we're finished here."
There was a pause. "I'd really like a blueberry tart. Since I talked about it, I want it."
He chuckled. "Sorry, fresh out."
As promised, they had sandwiches a bit later, which more or less constituted "dinner" for the travellers who never quite knew what time it was. Turkey breast and cheese on white bread with mustard hit the spot, but when they were having pre-packaged chocolate pudding for dessert, Martha once again brought up how much she was craving a blueberry tart.
After dinner, they went over the schematics of the Ampys Capitol Building, where the Deloux suspected the children were being held. He laid out the plan for her.
"Seriously? You're the cleverest man in existence, and this is the best you can come up with? Walk in, take the kids, walk out?"
"Have you got a better idea?"
"Well, how about something with at least a little finesse?"
"Martha, I'm trying to get this done as quickly as possible, so we can move on to people who actually need our help in order not to get blown up or eaten," he explained, pulling his glasses off his face and digging into both eyes with his knuckles. "Look, neither clan is violent. The worst that can happen is we - or rather, I - am put in some kind of holding cell for a time, and then I'll be set free, after they get tired of menacing me."
"That's the worst that can happen?" she asked. "What, doesn't this planet have any trigger-happy guards who get startled and shoot from the hip?"
"I've been shot before, don't worry about me," he dismissed.
"What about me?" she half-shrieked, half-laughed.
"You're not coming."
"Of course I am."
"No, I'll be better-off on my own," he said. "Two people make more noise than one. I mean, they're not violent, but they think they are, and it would be a bloody great pain in the arse getting caught. So the less attention we attract, the better."
She stared at him in mild exasperation for a few moments, then conceded, "Fine, if you say so."
"Plus, when I leave, I'll have the kids, and they'll be making noise, too. Besides, if I get thrown in jail, who's going to bail me out, if you're in an adjoining suite?"
The following morning, the Doctor found Martha as he sometimes did: sitting at the kitchen table in the TARDIS, with a cup of coffee and her laptop open.
"Are you looking at the schematic I e-mailed you?" he asked.
"No," she said, sheepishly. "Sorry. I'm trying to work out which pastry shop in Paris had all the different round tarts."
The Doctor rolled his eyes. "Okay, well, can you please switch over to the schematic? I want us both to know it like the backs of our hands, just in case I get lost or captured in there. I'll need you to arrange for the children's rescue some other way."
"Okay, okay," she lulled him. "Five more minutes. I think I'm really close."
"Fine," he growled, grudgingly. He poured himself a cup of coffee as well, then left the room to pull up his own copy and do the necessary 'homework' for today's operation, such as it was. He just wanted it done.
Twenty minutes passed before she made an appearance in the console room.
"Nice of you to join us," the Doctor muttered.
"Well, I wanted to finish my coffee," she said, uncomfortably.
He wasn't fooled. "I take it you didn't find your pastry shop."
She sighed. "No. I could have sworn it was on one of those little streets just off the Champs Elysées, and if you had asked me twenty four hours ago, I would have been certain of it. But now, I'm wondering if that's the place I was thinking of, because now that I'm actually remembering, my mother and I had espresso on the Champs Elysées, because I remember the view. The blueberry tart was a different day, so it might have been more in the Saint-Michel area..."
"Martha," he interrupted, turning to look at her. And in spite of himself, he laughed.
"What?"
"If I find the pastry shop for you, and buy you a damn tart, will you be able to let this thing go?"
She bit her bottom lip and looked down, and to her right. "Sorry."
"It's okay," he said, again, chuckling a bit, in spite of having been annoyed by the topic. "It would just be nice to have your full attention."
Martha seemed to think about this. She hadn't really realised how pervasive the fixation had become until now. She had mentioned it quite a few times since yesterday, and had rambled about it in a way that she normally didn't dare in front of the Doctor.
But fixated or not, she was not sure that the best solution was to just have him get it for her. She resolved to be an adult about it, and shake it off.
However, before she could say anything, the Doctor's fingers were roving over the keyboard, tapping at foreign characters, whispering criteria through a fixed jaw. "Pastry shop, Paris, probably Saint-Michel, but possibly Champs Elysées... what year?"
"Er... well, let's see... two-thousand and four." She was being pulled along. "You know, Doctor, we could just find a place that sells some kind of blueberry dessert... almost anywhere. London, even. It might be just that simple."
"Nope. If you're going to be satisfied, you'll need to have that Parisian tart with the perfect butter and the Neufchâtel. And the experience. It's not a coincidence that the flavour is associated with your description of the identical pastries of different sorts, all lit up like Christmas. We're going to do this right."
"Okay," she said meekly.
"So, two-thousand-and four. Identical tarts, vast selection of fruit flavours... a blueberry-Neufchâtel feature..." he typed with flourish. "And a bit of sentient mojo from the TARDIS... don't mind her, she's just going to probe your mind slightly."
In a few seconds, a website popped up on the screen with a photo of the "vast selection" of identical tarts, prettily presented in the manner she had described.
"Oh my God!" Martha exclaimed.
"Is that it?" he asked.
"Yes!"
"Well, let's go," he said. "Or, much more appropriately in this case, allons-y."
"Feel better?" he asked, as they left the pastry shop. He took a bite of the dark chocolate-date tart he had chosen, and suddenly knew what all the fuss was about. "Oh, that's good. No, that's very, very good."
She was very glad that he was enjoying himself as well, and that he agreed, this was an exceptional pastry. She peeled back the delicate crêpe paper and bit into her blueberry tart. She closed her eyes and savoured the experience, sighing a bit.
"I'll take that as a yes," he said, smiling at her.
"What?" she asked.
"I asked if you felt better, and you responded with a sigh of pleasure..."
"...relief!" she corrected, blushing a bit.
"Okay, whatever," he conceded. "But I take it that you do feel better."
"I do. I don't know what got into me, but this is like..." she said. Very briefly, she took his hand and squeezed it, and said, "Thank you."
"Aw, it's no problem," he admitted, squeezing back.
"Even if you did do it just to shut me up," she teased, bumping him with her elbow.
"Sometimes you just have to quench a craving or it won't leave you alone."
"Yeah, well..." she attempted, blushing again.
"And I have to admit," he said, biting heartily into his pastry. "There must definitely be more unpleasant ways to try and shut you up."
Well, she couldn't help it. She loved him, and it pretty much burned her from the inside.
In those few moments outside the pastry shop, it began again.
As love does, her ardor breathed like an organism, and she would have days, weeks, even, when the love itself would exhale. Or rather, it would allow her to exhale.
She had found ways in which she could be near him and feel the warmth without the searing heat, quietly admire him without wondering how he looked at her... or wondering why he never did. For about two weeks, she had been fairly comfortable with these little adaptations, though she knew all along, of course, that eventually the pendulum would swing the other way and she would be back in the throes of a feverish angst.
This time, she had brought in on herself. She was truly appreciative of his effort to quell her blueberry tart-craving, even though, as she had said, she knew he was doing it to shut her up. She could have just said a quick thank-you, but no, she had to reach out and squeeze his hand.
Which had prompted him to squeeze back. Yes, it was a friendly squeeze, but it was, at the root, a sign of affection. Of course, everything at her root grabbed onto something like that, and couldn't let go... much like the blueberry tart.
And she had had to let out that sigh after tasting the tart. She had done it without thinking, but he had heard it! He had called it a "sigh of pleasure," and she had so quickly corrected him with the word relief, how could he not feel her covering? How could he suggest that "sometimes you have to quench a craving, or it won't leave you alone," without being a complete arse, unless he was oblivious to her usual cravings?
The only consolation was that he had indicated that he, himself, had enjoyed his pastry and had had some enjoyment from the steps he had taken to make her stop fixating. Otherwise, she would feel absolutely awful. Juvenile, even.
He was not oblivious.
He wasn't exactly lying awake at night waxing philosophical over Martha's desires, but all in all, he reckoned it was pretty obvious that she had some pretty strong feelings for him. He had managed not to think about it for the past couple of weeks, because, as it was, Martha had managed not to remind him. Which had been a relief because thinking about it stressed him out, probably more than it should.
But now, on the street near Saint-Michel in Paris, he was reminded. The hand-squeeze, which he couldn't help but return. The sigh. The sudden shyness when the word pleasure was introduced, and talk of quenching a craving.
He didn't know what to do about it, so he did nothing. He didn't want to complicate things unduly, so he didn't even let her know that he knew. He knew there was a word for this: cowardice. But he wasn't entirely sure of his own feelings... did he have feelings for her? Maybe. Probably. But what were they? Lust? Probably. Love? Probably not, sorry. Could it perhaps go that way, given some time and the right circumstances? Maybe, but was it worth the risk it would pose to their friendship and her emotional constitution? He had no idea. Did he want to know? Well...
Respect? Admiration? Trust? Absolutely! A genuine desire to see her and be in her presence? Yes! Protectiveness? Even a bit of territoriality? Of course.
Vanity and adolescent pride when she looked at him that way? In spite of himself, yes.
Oh, but fear? Caution, explicable or inexplicable? Yeah, those too .
Martha Jones was a beautiful, brave, intelligent, exciting, all-around wonderful woman, and any man would be lucky to have her. But sometimes, he wished she could just be like the companions in the old days, the ones who thought of him more as a wacky uncle than as a romantic figure. But this particular regeneration had been different from moment-one, and he supposed if he really wanted a "niece-figure," he'd have gone looking for one. Or maybe even a grandmotherly figure - that would work too. But, the fact was, he had chosen Martha for a reason, and it wasn't just because she had a really good brain.
So where did that leave them? He just didn't know. He was still quite raw, emotionally, but not at all prepared to discount Martha. Which was why he never said anything about it, good or bad. Nothing to make her happy or give her any breathing space, nothing to break her heart. And as that look appeared in her eye again, the sheepish grin, the worried, self-conscious desire, he adopted his usual air of relative indifference, but admitted to himself that the whole thing was wearing quite thin.