Author's Notes:

Not mine, no money, no sue. No point!

Partially based on my own horrendous wedding-dress-picking experiences.
(I totally should write a manual for brides without the Bridezilla Gene. Instant bestseller, IMO.)

Like all the stuff I am posting here, it is woefully out of date and jossed beyond all oblivion. I hope you enjoy anyway!

Loves feedback and long walks on the beach.

BUBBLES

Chapter One: Fluffy Monstrosity

The noise really was very annoying.

Martha Jones cracked open one eye to glower muzzily at her bleeping phone. It was far too far away to reach without actually getting out of bed and relinquishing her warm spot under the duvet. Irrationally, she pulled the covers over her head and fervently hoped that whoever it was would get bored and go away.

Beside her, Tom groaned. "Marth', you gonna get that?" he mumbled, his knee bumping hers.

"Mmmmhhmm," she answered from within her duvet cocoon. "Nnnph."

"Uuunh," he replied succinctly, and nudged her knee again.

"Dunwann," she growled, nudging him back.

His low, warm chuckle sounded, and he started to poke her in the ribs. "Go on then... Go on…. Go on go on go on gowaaaan…"

"Stop it!" She pulled the covers from her head to give him a glare, which didn't last long in the face of his sleepy grin. "Oh, very funny."

"Got you laughing," he pointed out with a drowsy smile. "And your phone has stopped."

She glanced over at the phone, before making a 'pff' sound between her teeth and burying her face in her pillow again. "Good."

Tom scooted over slightly and pushed her hair back. "You're just not much of a morning person, are you."

"Nhn-hnn," she grunted. "Tha's nice," she added as he started to stroke her hair and neck.

"Mmm," he agreed, as she rolled over to her side, and his hand traced the slopes of her tiny waist and her softly flared hips. "I heartily concur, Doctor Jones."

She grinned, her eyes still closed. "I'm still asleep, Doctor Milligan."

"Preliminary diagnosis includes somniloquy and very nice hips, then."

"And has this diagno — oh no," Martha's playful mood evaporated as the phone began to ring again. "Bet its Mum. Or Jack. Or Tish."

"Better answer it." Tom sat up and yawned prodigiously, scratching at his stomach. "Right, getting up. At least I've got day shift, even if it is the weekend."

Martha squealed as the cold air hit her where the duvet gaped between them. "That's freezing! Give them back!"

He leaned over her and murmured, "I'll bring you the phone as penance…?" She could hear the grin in his voice. She tried to look as haughty as she could with a duvet clutched about her neck.

"Deal."

The buzzing, bleeping thing was dropped on her pillow, and a kiss planted on her forehead. "Shower," Tom said by way of explanation, rubbing his eyes. "My turn for breakfast, isn't it?"

"Mmm," she said, and sat up to smack his bum as he turned. "Hop to it, then!"

"You dare! Revenge shall be mine," he declaimed, waggling a finger sternly at her as he left the bedroom. She could hear his lovely, warm chuckle drifting down the hall.

Giggling a little, she pressed the green button on the phone. "Hello, Martha Jones speaking."

"Martha! I've been trying to call you! Did you forget about the appointment?"

"Mum," Martha blinked, "it's Saturday. What appointment?"

"Dresses? You're getting married remember?" her mother's voice was laden with its usual mix of exasperation and humour. "We booked a whole day of appointments at all these bridal boutiques - you've got to book nowadays, in my day you could just walk in - anyway, you can start finding what you want to wear on the day."

"I remember, I remember," Martha winced as her feet hit the cold wooden floor. "Urgh. First one's at nine, yeah?"

"I thought you were meeting Tish and I here before we went out together," her mother said reproachfully. "Didn't Tish call you?"

Martha blinked. "No?"

"Oh. Anyway, I suppose we'll meet you there. Tom out of the way today?"

"Not that I like that phrase much, but yeah," Martha padded over to the mirror and inspected the black rings under her eyes. "He's working."

"Good." Her mother quickly gave her the address of the first dress shop. "At nine, all right? Don't be late, Martha! I'll see you then!"

"See you, Mum," Martha sighed.

Oh, brilliant.

Tom made a decent scrambled eggs on toast, but Martha pushed them around a little before blurting, "is it too late to go to Gretna Green?"

Tom paused in the middle of the day's funnies, a cup frozen half-way to his lips. "What?"

"Mum's got me trying on dresses today," she groaned, and her forehead hit the table. "Oh, god."

Tom blinked, and then carefully put down the coffee cup. "Martha," he said in a strangled voice. "That's… hilarious."

"Your sympathy is noted," she muttered against the wood. He burst out laughing.

"Martha Jones, you saved the world, and you're frightened of a couple of yards of shiny fabric?"

"Not a couple of yards," she mumbled, "a couple of kilometres! Tom." She raised her head again, her eyes pleading. "A couple of kilometres in the hands of my mother. Can't I just walk South America again?"

He winced. "Ouch."

"Well, yeah," she said heavily. "Oh this is going to be dire. Gretna Green sounds sooooo good right now."

"It'll be fine, sweetheart. You'll see. Tish'll protect you from the big bad tulle-monster."

"Yuck, tulle," she made a face. "Tulle, puffed sleeves, saddlebags under the skirt, bows, ergh. And I get to try on a million of them, while some perfect stranger dresses me and ogles my goodies."

"Now that I do not approve of," he remarked, and took his plate and cup to the sink. "I'm the only one with full ogling rights to your goodies."

"There's a glowing addition to your portfolio." She picked up her fork, and then grinned ruefully up at him. "I'm sorry I'm so grumpy, love. I loathe clothes shopping — always have — and this is going to be my normal horrendous experience times a million. Short girls with curves do not have a good time at the shops."

"You're not short," he said automatically. "You're petite."

Martha's grin became more genuine. "Ah, I have trained you well!" she waved her fork in his direction, and then shoveled some eggs into her mouth. "Mmm. Very well."

Tom laughed and kissed the top of her head. "You're beautiful," he murmured against her hair. "And that's revenge for earlier!" he added, smacking her soundly on her rump.

"TOM MIWWIGAW!" she managed through a mouthful of eggs and toast, before swallowing. "That's it, war is declared. Consider this a formal declaration!"

"Love to make an attempt on your borders," he gave her a lascivious wink, "but — damn, I'll be late. I've got that rotavirus patient of Gareth's today. Adorable little girl, about four — doesn't understand that she's sick."

Martha pulled his head down to give him a proper kiss. "Mmm. Love you."

"Love you too. See you tonight. Curly's?"

"Uh-huh, at seven. You'll be finished?"

He gave a half-shrug. "Most likely, if we've enough staff at changeover. See you then, love."

She heard him whistling as he grabbed his bag and keys from the front hall, and then the click of the front door closing behind him, and a small smile crossed her face. Hard to believe they'd only been together a year. Such a short time. But loving him was the easiest thing she'd ever done, as opposed to the hardest — which was both her previous experience and his. But Tom - he even adored her in her muzzy morning state, bed-hair and sleep-eyes and lines on her forehead from the sheets. Thought she was cute when she was cross. Loved her lightning-quick topic changes and stubborn, steely determination. Made her laugh until she was hyperventilating.

Yawning again, Martha rinsed her plate and cup before making plans — she'd have to wear nice underwear, and not boring plain ones if random store-people were to see them. Oh god. And shoes — did they provide heels in these places, to look at hem length? Should she bring some? Wear some?

There should be a manual, she groused to herself as she applied a bit of mascara, shoved her boots on, packed a pair of silver strappy heels. Brides — The Things They Don't Tell You, she improvised. Or… So You Lack Bridezilla Genes! Grabbing her keys, she faced the door for two seconds, and took a deep, calming breath, before opening it with her usual brisk determination, and so set off to endure what was probably the most ridiculous day of her life.

"No."

"But, darling," Francine Jones wheedled. "The bodice is so lovely on you…"

"That's a no, Mum." Tish glanced from Martha's slowly reddening face back to her mother. "She hates it."

Francine sucked a sharp breath between her teeth and studied her middle child carefully. Martha, after stepping on to the carpet-covered box, had not taken her gaze from the mirror as her cheeks flushed darker and darker. "Oh, take it off, Martha," Francine said fondly. "It's hideous."

"Absolutely hideous," mumbled Martha. "I feel like it's eating me."

"It looks like it is," said Tish cheerfully. "Sharon?"

The bustling, middle-aged assistant with the beaded cardigan covered her smile with her hand. "No, not really you, is it dear? Come on, I'll help you be rid of it."

"Hooray," sighed Martha. "Is there anything in the store I haven't tried on yet?"

"Haven't even gotten to veils yet, dear," Sharon remarked, leading Martha back to the change room, carefully holding up miles of silk taffeta.

"Kill me," Martha groaned to Tish.

"Hey, you volunteered to get married, remember?" Tish grinned. "As I recall, you were even excited."

"I volunteered to be married," Martha struggled to get the miles of material under control. "I didn't volunteer to be slowly tortured… oh no." The jaunty little tune of her phone rang out through the store. "Mum? Can you get that?"

Francine scrabbled through Martha's handbag. "Do you ever clean up this thing?" she muttered. "You've got more stuff in here than I would have thought possible. Ah!" The phone, buzzing merrily, was produced, and then Francine's face froze. "Um… Martha?"

Martha was trying to back into the change room without ripping the fluffy monstrosity. "Yeah?"

Tish glanced over her mother's shoulder. "You need to take this."

Martha frowned and held out her hand for the phone. "What is… oh. Oh, perfect." She flipped open the phone and sighed, "Hello, Martha Jones speaking. And by the way, lousy timing, Doctor."

"Martha! Good! Great! How are you!"

"A bit… busy, at the moment. Problem?" she grated through her teeth.

"Weeeeelll… yes, sort of, I need your help, but Jack can't know — and what do you mean lousy timing? Ahem, Time Lord!"

"Doctor," Martha began, but he was going twenty to the dozen now. She could hear the click and whiz of TARDIS controls as he barreled around the console.

"Hang on, just triangulating on your phone signal, be there in a jiff, anyway the deal is, I was visiting our friends the Hath, remember the Hath? Course you remember the… back to the point, the Hath's homeworld is a great big ball of watery goop and it's under attack from big nasty space snot."

Martha blinked. "Space snot."

"Rutans, reckon you've heard the name, they double as Sontaran chew-toys. Aaaaaand, here we are!"

The coughing, grating noise of the TARDIS started to resonate through the room, and Martha watched in horror as a row of horrendously expensive dresses crashed to the floor in the resultant breeze. "No way, Doctor!" she hollered down the phone. "You are not doing this!"

But the familiar tall box was flickering into existence in the middle of the pricey boutique. Martha's eyes flicked to the two store assistants at the doorway who were watching open-mouthed, and smiled helplessly. Her principal torturer, Sharon, gave a weak moan and fell into a dead faint.

The TARDIS door creaked open, and the familiar lanky figure bounded out, hands in pockets. "Martha Jones, hello! And Francine, and Tish! How are you all! No, can't stay, got a planet to save and all that, same old same old… um, what's with the ah…" the Doctor scratched his cheek, considering the fluffy monstrosity, "dress?" he said finally.

Martha threw the massive skirts to the floor. "Hello, wedding?" she said acerbically.

"Oh! Right!" he looked taken aback. "Not… now, is it?"

She sighed. "I'm picking a dress."

"Not that one, it's awful. Nice bodice though," he remarked. Martha gave her mother a significant look.

"Doctor, you mentioned Rutans, and the Hath," she said wearily. "Can't it wait until I get out of this powder puff?"

"No time!" He grabbed her hand. "Come on!"

"No way, mister." She pulled back. "I am not traipsing around a mudball in this!"

Tish, who had been helping the groggy Sharon sit up, now raised an eyebrow at her sister. "You can't do anything normal, can you," she said good-humouredly. "Go on, Mum and I'll fix things here."

"I can't go like this!" Martha wailed as the Doctor tugged at her hand again.

"Martha," Francine shook her head slightly, her smile rueful. "Go."

"She most certainly can not!" the dumpy Sharon suddenly snapped. "That is the property of this store! Do you think I am in the habit of letting my merchandise walk out of the shop?" The little woman clambered to her feet with Tish's assistance. "I don't care how many… boxes appear, she is not leaving wearing that dress!"

The Doctor tugged at her hand again, his eyes appealing. "Come oooon, Doctor Jones," he wheedled. "Space and time? Travelling? Hang it, I need you!"

"Why, though?" she protested as she was dragged towards the TARDIS. "Why me?"

"Umm," he looked embarrassed. "Isortacan'tspeaktothem."

She blinked. "Pardon?" she said in a dangerous tone.

He blew air between his teeth, dropping her hand and shoving his back in his pockets. "Well, you talked to the Hath, right? Understood them?"

"Not right at first," she said slowly. "But then the TARDIS…"

"Right!" He nodded as though awarding points. "But there's something about the metabolic shape-shifting abilities of a Rutan that muck up the psychic atmosphere of Hatha Seventeen. The old girl can't make sense of all that bubbling because the Rutans are…"

"Filling the air with static, got it." Martha frowned. "But there's no guarantee I'll be able to understand them now, with the translation doohickey out of order."

"Ah!" He held up a finger triumphantly. "That's the beauty of it! You, Martha Jones, were given the full benefit of the TARDIS' Hath translation doohickey before the Rutans came squelching in. Or after, in a linear sense, but notyour linear sense, see? Should still work for you."

She shook her head. "Why not you? You were there, spoke to them as well…"

"Uhh," he rubbed the back of his head sheepishly. "The TARDIS is too closely linked to me. What's affecting her is affecting me, too."

"But not me."

"Nope."

"I don't understand a word of this," Tish muttered.

"It's absolute twaddle!" Sharon declared shrilly. "Young lady, I don't know what this game is, but you will take off my property, this instant!"

Martha was swung behind the Doctor's back, and he gave the little woman a huge grin. "Hello there, I'm the Doctor," he beamed. "Sorry about this, but Martha's got to skedaddle for a bit. Have her back safe and sound in a jiff."

"The dress, Doctor," Martha hissed. "She wants the dress back."

He looked disdainfully at the silk taffeta horror. "Why?"

Francine disguised her laugh as a cough.

Sharon drew herself up to her full height. "I am calling the police," she said in a threatening voice.

"Good for you!" the Doctor pushed Martha gently towards the TARDIS. "Love the police, marvelous people, good with dogs. Run," he muttered to Martha.

"See you, Mum, Tish." Martha met her mother's eyes. "Back… soon?"

The Doctor was gabbling at Sharon. "… and here we go, good on twenty-seven planets, should still be quite a bit on there, I'm sure I haven't maxed it out for a few centuries, but you know what credit card corporations are like, slipping a charge here and there until you suddenly find yourself hunted by space Rhinos for credit fraud…"

"You're not buying it?" Francine cocked her head, her eyes incredulous.

He shrugged. "Why not?"

"Because it's awful?" Tish suggested. Sharon threw her a poisonous look.

Martha sighed. "You all realize I could have gotten dressed in the time we've spent arguing, don't you?"

Four pairs of eyes swung to her, and there was a resounding silence. The Doctor cleared his throat.

"Good point, cheekily made," he said finally. "Come on, Doctor Jones. Pleeeease."

She smiled despite herself. "Lead the way, Mister Smith."