It starts with a cup of tea. The three of them are ensconced in something like a sitting room, one of the many little warm corners of light within the vast cathedral space of the console room hemmed in by thick Persian rugs and comfortable old furniture, listening to soft music emanating from a gramophone speaker. The music isn't coming from a gramophone, but instead a sort of machine of Sam's, compact and bright blue with a tiny, impossible window on the front that responds to her touch. This puzzling but compelling futuristic device is plugged, somehow, into the gramophone speakers, lending a fuzzy and old fashioned quality to music Fitz probably wouldn't have liked much otherwise. He is reading a novel and she is taking notes from a sheaf of documents detailing human rights' achievements in the twenty-third century. The Doctor is slouched cross-legged in an overstuffed armchair, apparently dozing, when his eyes snap open and he sits up.
"Would you like a cup of tea?"
The question is directed at Sam. It always is. Sam glances up from her notes, smiles briefly and shakes her head. Fitz expects the Doctor to settle back down again and continue whatever rest he'd been having, but the Doctor then turns to him and repeats the question. Fitz would, in fact, like a cup of tea. He says so. The Doctor then pops out of his chair and bustles in the direction of what Fitz assumes is the kitchen, or at least somewhere within the TARDIS capable of producing a cup of tea. Fitz sits back in his own spot on one of the couches, frowning in thought.
Sam doesn't notice, but the world has shifted, ever so slightly.
The Doctor returns with a single steaming bone-china cup and saucer for Fitz, which he sets on an end table by Fitz's arm, and is about to settle back again when the song changes. He leaps up to his feet once more and motions to Sam.
"Oh, I love this song! And it sounds so much better with the gramophone speaker."
He takes a reluctant Sam by the hands, pulling her up to stand and into a rhythm of steps on the rug. Sam rolls her eyes, but she's giggling as well, and Fitz puts down his book to watch them, not a little wistfully. The Doctor twirls Sam and they look sweet together, smiling and laughing, unconcerned or unaware of the gooseberry on the sofa. But Sam beckons to Fitz.
He shakes his head but already he's setting aside the book, putting the teacup back in its saucer, and only puts up the minimum of refusal necessary to save his dignity before eagerly joining her. She lets go of the Doctor's hands to dance with him, and it doesn't matter that he can't really dance, that he doesn't know the steps to the foxtrot or the waltz. He puts an arm around her waist and it's an easy tune to dance to, really. The Doctor watches them for a while before cutting in, and he and she dance a little more upbeat, a little faster; Fitz makes to sit back down again, but she grabs his elbow and grins at him. The Doctor then takes Fitz's arm, and they dance a little more slowly, Fitz picking up the steps and watching his feet, until the two to them find their own rhythm, swing dance a bit as Sam looks on and giggles. After a while, a few song changes, Sam sits back down again, declaring that she still has work to do. Fitz and the Doctor both protest, cajole her to stay up for a while longer, but she simply shifts a pile of papers out of her spot on the couch and smiles at the pair of them.
The Doctor sticks his tongue out at her but concedes with grace, shrugging as he turns back to Fitz, extending his arm. Fitz glances back for a second at Sam, who looks up, smiles briefly and nods.
He takes the Doctor's arm and the two of them begin again to the scratchy, homely tune from a gramophone.