Aagh! I'm sorry it's been so long! I will definitely update sooner this time. I promise!

This chapter is short but sweet, and not a whole lot happens. But I thought we might be overdue for a little Doctor/Martha tenderness, even if it's a bit of a tease... makes us feel all warm inside.

Hope you enjoy.

THREE AND A HALF MONTHS BEFORE THE WEDDING

The Doctor sifted through, for the third time that week, a series of websites that Martha had bookmarked. They all had a bit of information concerning Fiona Hart. She wasn't a celebrity, but she was a member of an old, old family, traceable back to the 13th century. Their migrations from England to Ireland and back could be tracked through the ages. One of Fiona's uncles had done a great deal of research in the last 20 years to find all this, and had posted it online in the last five.

He and Martha had both gone through the information, and the web coding, to find anything suspicious, anything unreal or alien. But nothing had come up. They had been forced to conclude that Fiona Hart was fully human – just odd. She was mostly likely innocent.

But it still begged the question: what the hell was going on with her computer? Why did she seem to be kidnapping women who shopped in her store from outside reality?

The Doctor was fairly certain that she had been in the thrall of an alien being for several months; Martha had said she wasn't sure that added up to innocence. But, as he had pointed out, it meant that the real Fiona was buried inside somewhere, and needed help.

The door opened, and a harrowed Martha Jones entered with a garment wrapped in plastic slung over her shoulder. She let out a giant sigh, and threw her parcel over the railing.

"How did it go?" asked the Doctor, knowing it was a silly question. It had been one week since Tish had been brought into their bizarre bigger-on-the-inside world, and today was to be the first time that Martha and Tish had had to spend time with their mother since the new revelations had come to light.

"As was to be expected," Martha answered, leaning on the console near where the Doctor was working. "Mum fussing over the dresses and complaining about the colours. Why do they have to be empire-waisted? Why did you choose taupe, Tish, it's dead boring – you want your bridesmaids to look like the desert? Why couldn't you have gone with the eggplant? Eggplant is such a flattering colour on Martha's skin, and I'm sure we could have made it work for Dana too…"

"Well, I'm with her there," he smirked. "You do look nice in purple."

"Thanks. So Tish calmly answers each question without a fight, justifying each one of mum's whims, without ever asking her why she can't just let her have the wedding she wants, rather than finding fault everywhere. The normal Tish would have stood up to mum somehow or other, and she'd have done it with finesse… like… like what she is: someone who works in PR. But now, it's weird. It's like she's semi-catatonic now."

"Yeah. She's in a bit of shock still."

"I think we broke her, Doctor."

"We didn't break her," he assured her. "I've brought a lot of human beings into this old ship, and they've all come through it swinging."

"I know, I know, she just needs time," Martha sighed. "And space. Two things we're good at, eh? She'll come round, she's had a shock, put myself in her shoes..."

"Sorry," the Doctor muttered, recognising his own words, variations upon which he'd repeated at least a hundred times over the past week, being recited back at him. He decided against pointing out, however, how many times Martha had given him cause to say those things.

"And all the while, Tish and I are avoiding each other's eyes," Martha continued. "So mum asks what's going on, 'cause she can see something is up. Hell, a blind wombat could see that something is up! Did we have a falling-out? Does one of us have another secret we're keeping from her? Is Dana in on it? Is something going on with Dad? Is Leo okay? Has something gone wrong with the pregnancy? Is it the negotiations at the U.N.? Did a bridge fall down in rural South Korea? Argh! A million questions!"

The Doctor reckoned it might be useless (and infuriating) to Martha to tell her once again that her mother is a mother, and mothers are like that, and she should remind herself of what she was about to become. So he just sighed and asked the next logical question: "What did you tell her?"

"I told her it was a matter between sisters, and asked if she couldn't just respect that."

"Did it work?"

"Of course not. When I left the store, she was still firing questions at Tish," she told him. "Blimey, Doctor. What's Tish going to say?"

"I dunno," he shrugged. "You know her better than I do. Maybe she'll just cave in and tell the truth. But you learned the hard way this week that the truth sounds like insanity warmed over to most people, so… who knows? Maybe she'll just stay catatonic."

"I hope so," Martha exhaled. "I can't take mum's reaction to… well, you know. Ugh, that's so selfish."

"Yeah, but I understand. But you know that whatever happens, you can take her, right?"

"My mum? Maybe."

"Well, I'm not saying it'll be a cake walk, but… like everything else in your life, she'll accept it, or realise she may have to let go of you entirely. And that's every mother's worst nightmare, so…"

Martha's face fell, and her hand went instinctively to her slowly burgeoning abdomen. There was a tense silence. Then, "This bloody life…" she sighed.

The Doctor had made a faux pas, an easy thing to do these days, in the minefield of parent/child relations that Martha's life had become. He felt a flutter in his stomach, and not a good one. "Want to talk about it?" he asked. He felt the weight of the next thirteen years as acutely as Martha did. Only, he was used to dealing with rubbish like this, the cruel fates brought on by this bloody life, as Martha had put it.

"What's there to say?" she asked.

"Okay. So… change of subject. How's the dress? Empire-waisted and taupe, I presume?" He smiled a little.

"Yeah," she said, surprised, turning to look at the garment she'd tossed aside a few minutes before. She'd forgotten all about it. "I'm not that fond of it. I'm afraid my mum was right about the taupe. But by contrast, the bride will look radiant, right?"

"Next to you?" he asked with a smile. "No way."

She put one hand on her hip and looked at him as if to say, oh, please. They both chuckled, and then Martha picked up the wrapped dress by the hanger again, and looked at the cream-coloured plastic protective cover. "Well, it's not for me to say, anyway. I might change my mind later – haven't even tried it on yet."

"I thought that was the whole point of today's excursion."

"It was," she said. "So we got Dana fitted. Me, I'll have to wait until just before the wedding to have it altered because I will be… well, bigger, when that day comes."

"Ah," he said. "Well, can I see it?"

She smirked. "I'm not sure. I don't know if I want you seeing me in taupe."

"Martha, you could wear a canvas bag tied off with burlap string, and I'd like seeing you in it."

It was tan chiffon, spaghetti-strapped and it wasn't the worst thing Martha had ever worn. Across the bust, the fabric was patterned like an accordion, and trimmed on both top and bottom with satin ribbon. A little bow punctuated the short bodice at the mid-point. It gathered just below the bust, and flared out like a bell made from liquid sand. The hem of the dress came to a point just above her knees, and the matching shoes buckled round her ankles.

It was nice, plain though it was. But one thought dominated her ruminations on the dress, and she said it out loud. "Blimey, I'm going to look so pregnant in this thing!"

"Well, there's no such thing as a little bit pregnant." the Doctor's voice came from the adjoining room.

"Sure there is," she argued. "When you can still hide it."

He walked into the room. He was behind her, but she was facing a wall of mirrors that curved round her. She could see the little smile on his face. "Do you want to?" he asked.

She felt sheepish. "No, I don't," she said truthfully. "It's just that sometimes my body doesn't feel like mine anymore."

"Well, you're only sharing it temporarily," he told her. He put his hands on her bare shoulders, and leaned down to kiss her neck.

"No, I mean…" she said, pausing to sigh. "Doctor, I stopped growing at age twelve. Five-foot-two, a hundred pounds, give or take – that's me, that's my body. For half my life now. I've liked it – it's been dependable. I know how it works, how it moves, how it feels, what makes it hurt, what exhausts it. It always looks a certain way, I can count on a consistent dress and trouser size, bra size, all of it. Never had to think about it."

"I see. And now you have this," he said. He slid his hands round her hips and placed them over the little bump, just below her navel. It was noticeable to them, but no-one else.

"Exactly. Just an inch or two," she sighed, leaning her head back against him. "Barely even there yet, and already I can't wear my own jeans. Some shirts are getting iffy now, too. I've never had that happen, Doctor. Never gained inches around my waist, and certainly haven't seen any action above the waist in quite some time. I'm growing and changing and hurting for reasons I can't always identify, even with some medical background. It's like someone else's body, and it's only going to get worse."

"I'll dispense with telling you that it does sort of belong to someone else right now, and that those inches around your waist…"

"I know… that it's all a very good thing, and the rewards are going to outweigh the price."

"Well, yes. That, and that it's all rather appealing to me." He smirked, and rubbed her stomach gently, through the delicate fabric. "So I'll just say this: Martha, the last time I lost or gained any weight, I also grew two or three vertical inches of hair, lost about six inches around my shoulders, and shrunk an inch in height. My eyes changed colour, my voice got higher, my ears, eyes and nose shrank, and my neck got longer. And all in the span of about thirty seconds."

She smiled. "I get it."

"Plus, my personality changed. I'm talking about a one-eighty shift. And let me tell you, the person I was travelling with…"

"Freaked out?'

His eyes narrowed, remembering the first day of his current life. "Honestly, I was asleep, but I was told there was crying."

"Crying?"

"I had just changed right before her eyes."

"Okay, I can see it." Martha wondered if she would be with the Doctor long enough to experience this phenomenon herself. She didn't think she'd cry, but feeling the familiar arms around her, she couldn't be sure.

"But, then, I valiantly challenged an intergalactic mobster to a broadsword duel for the planet, and sacrificed my very flesh to save the world, that is."

"You did?"

"Well, sort of."

"I see."

"Then, she liked me again."

She laughed. "So I've heard. Smart girl."

"Yeah, usually."

"Okay. Point taken, Doctor. I have it easy."

"Well, I won't tell you it's easy," he said, kissing her neck again. "I'm just saying… it could be a lot weirder."

She closed her eyes and sighed, and just relished the feeling of his arms around her, and his lips moving over her skin. He hooked one finger through one flimsy spaghetti strap and pulled it loose so it fell down her arm. He kissed the smooth area where it had been, then disengaged the other strap, and did the same. She leaned back into the embrace and thought she felt his whole body tighten around her.

As a rush of tingly heat came over her, she became acutely aware that it had been at least five days since they had had any intimate physical contact. They had been wrapped up in Tish's life, in researching the enigmatic Fiona Hart and getting ready for the arrival of their son. This was the longest-ever interval for them, barring the beginning their relationship when he was altogether unaware, and the weird week in which they discovered who their son would become, and didn't want even to look at each other.

"Doctor," she whispered. "It's been days."

"I know," he whispered back, gently biting her earlobe. He looked up into the mirror in front of them, and so did she. "You know, every moment this dress is out of its plastic packaging, is a moment when it's at risk. It would be a shame to have to dry clean it before you actually wear it."

"I'd better get out of it, then," she said coyly.

He gingerly slipped the zip down, along the side of the dress, and she let it fall to the floor.