THREE
Martha woke and lifted a hand, rubbing her eye. She groaned at her stiff neck and looked around, looking over at her sofa bed.
It was empty.
She looked around quickly, searching for the silver box.
Gone.
She looked at her wardrobe, looking for the blue suit.
It was still there, hanging from the doorknob.
She wiped her face, confused, then pushed off the duvet and emerged in her yellow strappy top and pyjama trousers. She found her slippers slowly and went to the door, opening it and walking out onto the landing.
She looked around, then froze as she heard voices.
"Doctor?" she called urgently, racing down the stairs and bursting into the kitchen. She stood, stunned, at the tableau that greeted her.
"I'll buy you a new one!" the Time Lord was protesting, but Francine was standing, arms akimbo, between him and the kitchen counter full of appliances.
"You will not! If you think I'm letting you loose on any of my –"
"One with a proper browning setting!" the Doctor cried indignantly.
"No!" she said, exasperated.
"Mum? Doctor?" she called, baffled.
The two of them turned to look at her.
Martha's first thought went something along the lines of: At last!
Her second thought went something like: Why does Mum have to be here?
Her mother was dressed in a nightie and a large, rather warm-looking dressing gown, her feet jammed into slippers, her hands on her hips.
However, the taller Gallifreyan seemed oblivious to the fact that all he was wearing was a 1986 Queen 'Magic Tour' T-shirt and a pair of burgundy Calvin Klein button-up boxers that just about made it difficult for Martha to confirm all of her suspicions, anatomy-wise.
"What is going on here?" she asked politely, making sure her eyes stayed connected with his. "Are you feeling better?"
"Yep! All back to normal!" he said cheerfully. "Thanks for taking me in – I felt a bit rude, just turning up like that, but you are supposed to be a doctor after all, I thought –"
"So what's going on?" she asked, walking in and going straight to the kettle. His gaze followed her.
"I need a power router, but your mother –"
"He is not having my microwave!" Francine interrupted hotly.
"I'm only using the –"
"No! No no no no no!" she cried angrily. "Just because your little box is on the blink doesn't mean –"
"Mrs Jones, this little box is fulfilling a very important-"
"Stop!" Martha cried, hands up desperately.
Both of them stopped and turned to look at her.
"Doctor, what's the box for?"
"It's – um – tracing a power source," he said uncomfortably.
"What power source?" she asked.
He opened his mouth but didn't answer. Instead he took a quiet step back, then rubbed a hand through his unruly mop that introduced a whole new dimension to the phrase 'bed-hair'.
"Doctor?" she asked, casting a sidelong look at her mother. She simply lifted her chin, resolute.
"No, it's fine… I'll er… I should get back to the TARDIS," he mumbled, letting his hand drop. "I have kind of imposed on your family enough." He turned and disappeared from the kitchen quietly.
Martha looked accusingly at her mother.
"Would it really have made a difference?" she asked. "Giving him a microwave?"
Francine sniffed. "Just cos he's an alien doesn't mean he can waltz in here and start cannibalising my kitchen appliances," she grumped.
Martha shook her head. "You know Mum," she said to herself, "sometimes I worry about you."
-------------------------------------------------
Martha walked up the stairs and knocked on her door politely.
"Doctor?" she called. "Are you dressed?"
"Yep," came the muffled reply.
She opened the door and found him stood in the middle of the room, still in just the t-shirt and boxers, his screwdriver in his mouth sideways and both hands on the small silver box.
"Oh!" she yelped, stopping. "You said you were dressed!"
"Ai yam," he mumbled past the screwdriver in his mouth. "Ay goppa asf, arr yu ver keen fa oh seet or muffer?"
"What?" she asked clearly. "I don't speak 'Mouthful'."
He took the screwdriver from his mouth and looked at her.
"I said I've got to ask, are you the Queen fan or is it your mother?" he repeated, and she let herself smile slightly.
"Leo, actually. Look, what's going on and how can I help?" she asked, walking in properly and shutting the door behind her.
"I just need to extend the life of this battery," he said, pressing the buttons on the side and finding just one light coming on. He tutted. "If I can't get the bits I need out of the microwave, I'll have to replace the entire battery source."
"Well what kind of battery do you need?" she asked. "Not to sound stupid, but I assume a couple of double A Duracells won't work."
"Something lithium polymer based," he said, dropping the box to her sofa bed and looking around, resting his hands low on his hips.
"In English?"
"Something new, like… like an mp3 player, or a PSP or something… Oh! An iPod! Do you have an iPod?" he said quickly, his eyes searching her desk.
"I've got a Nano somewhere," she said, walking over and sorting through the mess of exam schedules and revision notes. "Here," she said.
"Perfect! Lucky it's not a new video one," he said brightly, walking over and taking the blue iPod from her.
"Why's that?" she asked, watching him turn it round in his hands, inspecting it.
"New ones have lithium-ion batteries," he said dismissively. "I don't want to risk an organic solvent near my tracking system."
She just blinked. "Whatever. What happens when you've cannibalised my music machine to make your ugly box last longer?" she asked with a wry smile.
"I track down the power source," he said, preoccupied, turning and walking to her sofa bed, picking up his screwdriver and applying it to the side of the iPod in his fingers.
"And then?"
"And then stop nasty things from happening to a friend."
"Oh," she said, folding her arms and watching him from behind as he tinkered and struggled with the iPod Nano, and then the silver box. "This friend… Is she… Is she a new travelling companion?" she asked lightly.
"No, she is not."
"Oh," she said, oddly a little pleased. "An old flame?"
"Absolutely not."
"Ah. Well then. Are you going to run off and do this alone? Or let me help you?" she asked. He turned, the now connected iPod and silver box held carefully.
"You've already helped me," he pointed out. "And you can help me again by holding this while I get dressed."
She put her hands out as if for the items in his, then paused and instead caught his wrist, squeezing it.
"You missed," he said, amused.
She looked up at him.
"That's not good," she said darkly. His smile faded abruptly.
"I'll be alright."
"Hardly!" she cried indignantly. "One heart's sleeping like it went out on a bender last night, the other's running a one-minute mile!"
"It's just a side-effect," he said calmly, pulling at his wrist gently. But she refused to let go.
"Yeah well, you're not leaving here without me to make sure you don't keel over the moment your stockpiled tannin runs out on you," she snapped.
"Yes madam," he said with a knowing grin, and she tutted at him.
"You conniving swine," she grinned sweetly, shaking her head at him. "You get dressed out here. I'm having the bathroom." She let go of him and collected up bits of clothing, walking into the bathroom and closing the door.
"You know," he called from the room, as she sorted through her clothes, "I really didn't want to put you out."
"You weren't putting me out, idiot," she called back, pulling off her pyjamas.
"No? I don't think your mum was too pleased when I arrived."
"You noticed? Actually, she was really worried about you. We both were," she called, adjusting underwear.
"About me? You should know better," came the reply.
"Yeah well. Your hearts stopped about three times. Mine nearly did too, thinking you were going to die in my bed."
"Sorry."
"I was more worried about explaining a dead alien than anything else," she called cheekily, pulling on her jeans roughly.
"Thanks."
"That's alright, anytime mate," she grinned. "Are you dressed?"
"Kinda."
She bit her lip, then pulled on her top, turning to the sink and mirror. It took her a good few minutes to go through her face-care routine and then she turned back to the door.
"Dressed?" she called gingerly.
"I don't see what difference it makes, seeing as someone managed to strip me and re-dress me," he replied tartly.
"Because it's one thing to help an unconscious patient, but it's another thing finding you walking around my bedroom semi-naked," she called through the door.
"Oh. Is this that 'tongues will wag' thing?" he asked, uncertain.
She opened her mouth but stopped.
That was ages ago! Shakespeare, single beds… Does he remember everything everyone says?
"Yes," she called clearly.
"Oh I see," he replied suddenly, as if a mystery of the universe had suddenly been solved.
"Good," she said, opening the door. She looked at him. Just looked. "Mate," she said patiently, finding him sat cross-legged on her bed, screwdrivering and tinkering with the box, still connected to the iPod.
And him still in his undies.
"This is not good," he said suddenly.
"You're telling me," she sighed. "You're supposed to be –"
"The signal's moving. They can't move it! I only had a fix on where it was! And with the battery life on this thing I'm not going to be able to track–"
"Then hurry up and get dressed! We'll get to the TARDIS and follow it!" she cried, exasperated. "Honestly, you really are not firing on all cylinders today, are you?"
He dropped the box and propelled himself off the sofa, hurrying over and snatching up his trousers.