Okay, getting a bit further off the ground...

I think this chapter will make you go, "Hm. Weird." And also it will make you smile. There's the seeds of a story-arc for Donna, as well as a cute little fourth-wall-breaking joke. ;-)

Enjoy!

TWO

When Martha walked in through the front door, exhausted, just before midnight, she could smell popcorn.

She turned left into the parlour, and found the Doctor and Donna sitting on opposite ends of the sofa, watching a weepy film about a woman who dies in a car wreck before she can marry the man of her dreams. The man, Martha remembered from having seen the film long ago, was aptly named Chance.

The Doctor was squinting at the TV in confusion, and Donna was sniffling behind a tissue pressed to her mouth.

"They've known each other for four and a half minutes," the Doctor complained. "How could they have got engaged in the first place?"

"They've known each other three weeks," Donna corrected, annoyed.

"Oh, sorry," he retorted, sarcastically. "Plenty of time to know that you want to spend the rest of eternity with someone."

"Oi, Spaceman. Human life is short. You've got to seize the day, don't you know that?"

"Er, hello?" Martha chuckled.

The Doctor turned and reached out an arm to her. "Oh, hi. Join us. The film is almost over."

"No, it's not! There's still forty-five minutes to go!" Donna protested.

"What?" the Doctor asked, incredulous. "Are you joshing me?"

"No! Chance still has to have the moment of personal catharsis at Aurora's funeral, and that can't just happen! It takes time."

"Yeah, well, not even I have time enough for that," the Doctor said to her, vexed. He stood up and walked toward Martha, then reached out and took her shoulder bag from her. "Hi. Glad you're home. Rough night?" he asked, pulling at a blood-stained scrub top that had been sticking out through a zip.

"Broken nose on a child. He wouldn't hold still. Couldn't hold still. Last thing of the night. It's why I'm late… he didn't like Dr. Midland or any of the nurses, so his mum asked me to stay."

"Oh, good."

"Good?"

"Well, I was picturing something much worse. Want some tea?"

"No, I need to go up and wash blood out of my hair."

"Lovely."

"But I'll take a sandwich after I'm done, if you're doing the kitchen thing."

"Sure," he agreed. "Peanut butter or… salami?"

"Both sound good," she said. She pulled him by the lapel and he bent down slightly so she could kiss his cheek. Then she started up the stairs. Though, she stopped halfway up. "I meant… both of those things sound like good ideas. I don't want peanut butter and salami together. It's either or. You got that, right?"

He saluted her lazily, with a mock-seriousness on his face, to show that he understood, and was on the job.

Donna appeared in the doorway between the parlour and the front hall. "She's adorable," she whispered.

"That she is," he agreed, moving into the kitchen. He dropped Martha's shoulder bag onto a barstool.

"I think you should take that sandwich up to her."

"Good idea," he said.

"You know," Donna said, sheepishly. "So you can be alone with her."

"We've been alone together for a month, Donna," he said. "We scandalised the florae and faunae of Mallorca. We're fine mingling with other humanoids now."

She sat down on one of the other stools. "I just want to be... sensitive. You're in new relationship and… you know."

He looked expectantly at her.

She squirmed. "Well, I know you're going to be… icky… from time to time, and that's normal."

"Icky?"

"Yeah. Icky. Exchanging glances that make other people want to look away. Inside jokes that everyone knows they shouldn't ask about…"

"We'll be icky in private, thanks," he said, with a smirk.

"I don't want you to feel like you have to… for me… I just don't want to be a third wheel," she said, uncharacteristically quietly.

"You're not," he assured her. "Well… not any more than she is. Or I am."

"What? How are either of you a third wheel?"

"Well, Martha's joining us, after you and I have been travelling quite happily together for a few months. She could feel like she's intruding… but she's not. Obviously. And you two… human, women, clever, light-hearted, thick as thieves…"

"Thick as thieves? What's that supposed to mean?" she asked him, feigning offence. "Are you saying women travel in packs, and keep secrets, and talk about men when we get together?"

"Don't you?" he asked, again, smirking.

"Sometimes," she conceded. "We also like daft tear-jerker films and decorative pillows. But don't go making assumptions, you. Martha and I like each other because we like each other. Not just because we're both women, and we're conspiring against you. I mean, we do conspire against you, but that's neither here nor there."

He smiled. "See? It's the mark of a good trio: each one thinks they are the odd man out, and each one is wrong."

"I suppose that's true," she answered. She reckoned it might be the case, but she was still uncertain. She was still slightly uneasy about the fact that she was now a single person who would be travelling with a couple.

He busied himself building a salami sandwich with a slice of deli cheese, and a bit of expired brown mustard.

Donna watched absently, and while he was placing the second piece of bread atop his masterpiece, she asked, "So did Martha tell you about the Latin thing?"

"No, what's the Latin thing?"

"She saw a piece of pavement or something engraved with the year 1938, and then I guess it's got some Latin phrase on it."

"Okay. So?"

"She thinks it's weird. She saw it this morning while she was waiting for the bus, and she is certain it wasn't there during the previous six months while she's stood in that spot, waiting for the bus."

"So someone put it there at some point over the last six weeks, since she's been in Mallorca."

"That's what I thought, but… well, actually it's at the corner of Earl's Court Road and Bolton Gardens. A totally unremarkable bit of the urban maze, and yet, I saw on the news this morning, there's a time capsule buried there."

"Really? That's… kind of cool, actually."

"Yeah, but why there?"

"I dunno. What's there?"

"Student housing."

"Students do weird things just for the hell of it," he mused. "Just ask Rose."

"But it wasn't student housing in 1938. Was it?"

"I don't know."

"Can't you find out? Can't you just go look?"

"Wait… why, again? Why would we bother?"

Donna paused. "I'm not entirely sure. Ask Martha. She's the one who's got it under her skin. She's the one swearing it wasn't there a month and a half ago, yet supposedly, it's been there seventy years."

"Okay, I'll ask her about it," he said, picking up the plate with Martha's sandwich. He also reached in to the fridge on his way out of the kitchen, and extracted a cold bottle of mineral water, and brought it upstairs.

Donna returned to the sofa to finish her "daft" film.

When Martha emerged from the shower, there was a salami sandwich and a bottle of mineral water on the foot of her bed, and a Time Lord sitting against the headboard with her laptop.

She walked forward, directly toward the sandwich, and said, "Oh, thanks. I really needed this." She took a large bite, awkwardly trying to make sure that the towel wrapped around her didn't fall to the floor.

He watched her, and smiled. It was a smile that gave away the fact that he was absolutely smitten.

"What're you doing?" she asked him, mouth full.

"I'm looking up that time capsule on Earl's Court Road."

"Oh, Donna told you? Did she also tell you she thinks I'm paranoid?"

"Not in so many words, but…"

"I don't know what to tell you, Doctor. I have stood at that bus stop a lot over the past six months, ever since moving into this flat, and I've absently studied the pavement and whatnot… I swear, I would have seen an engraved panel before now. I know, the idea that it just appeared overnight is ridiculous, especially since it looks like it's been there a really long time…"

"No, no, it's not ridiculous," he said. "I'm looking at this BBC website, and there's a few words about the time capsule… it's weird."

"What's weird about it?"

"I can't explain it, exactly," he told her, staring at the screen with unease.

She was quiet for a few moments, and looked at him gravely. "Is it a Time Lord thing?"

He looked up at her and sucked in air through his teeth. "Maybe."

"I knew it!" she whispered.

"Could also be a déjà vu thing. Or the beginnings of indigestion, one just never knows."

Then she took a small bite of her sandwich and asked, "Wow, your Time Lord gut can tell by looking at the website?"

"Something might be… off. That's all I can tell."

"Off how?"

"I don't know, Martha. And… I could be wrong. The thing that's off, might be me. I could be getting my signals crossed somehow. But preliminary evidence suggests…"

"Something off," she finished.

He nodded. Then he looked at her… though it was more like he looked through her.

"What?" she asked.

"Donna said there was a Latin inscription on it."

"Yeah, there is."

"Do you know what it said?"

She shook her head. "I don't know Latin. I have it written down, but it's in my bag downstairs."

"No, no, you're missing the point. It was in Latin?"

"Yes."

"You perceived it in Latin?"

"Oh. Yes."

"And didn't understand it?"

"No."

"Yeah, something's wrong. That should have been translated in your head. Your connection with the TARDIS is re-established, so there's no reason why you wouldn't perceive it as English."

"Oh! I didn't think of that!"

"Well, there's clue numero uno that this time capsule thing is hinky. Maybe we delay our departure another day or two, then, while we check this out. I'd bet that if I got within a block of that corner, I'd know for sure whether something is truly, truly wrong."

"It's not more than two and a half blocks from here. Did you leave the flat today?"

"Not really," he answered. "I just went and worked on some stuff in the TARDIS. But tomorrow, you lead the way to the hinky time capsule… thing."

"Okay. And hey, speaking of delaying our departure, my great uncle's funeral is on Friday morning."

"All right. I guess we leave Friday night."

"Sorry."

"It's all right," he shrugged. "Am I coming with you to the funeral?"

"If you wouldn't mind," she said, with an apologetic smile.

He smiled back. "I don't mind."

"My dad says we can tell people whatever we want, including the truth."

He chuckled. "I'm not so sure."

"Me neither," she sighed, sitting down on the edge of the bed beside him. "I think you're a travelling hospital administration consultant of some sort, and we met two years ago. We'd chat and/or flirt each time you'd turn up at Royal Hope, but didn't start 'dating' until six weeks ago."

"A travelling doctor who's been flirting with you for years, and only recently came to his senses?"

"Yeah. Think you can pull it off?"

"I'll give it a go," he said, smirking delightedly.

"Obviously, we only tell the story if anyone asks, and we don't answer questions that no-one asks."

"Obviously."

"Brilliant. Now, what's your name? You can go with John or Smith, but not both. That is, ironically, just too weird."

"Well, I hate to break it to you, but the second most common surname in the English-speaking world is Jones," he said. "I don't think that would work. Third is Williams, fourth is Taylor…"

"Ugh… my paternal grandmother's maiden name was Williams, and there's a whole Taylor branch of the family, as well."

"Then we stick with Smith, yeah?"

"Fine."

"Okay, James, Michael, Robert and David Smith are historically the most common names in the English-speaking world."

"You don't look like a James, a Michael, or a Robert," she said, dismissively. Then, she looked him over. "And definitely not a David."

"The most common first name on this planet is Mohammed."

"Don't even joke about that."

"Come on, Mohammed Smith. No one will suspect a thing."

"That's… got to be wrong. At the very least, culturally insensitive somehow."

He laughed. "Well, what do you want from me? I'm never going to 'look like' any name to you, because you already know me too well."

She sighed. "Weirdly, I do think of you as John Smith, if you're not just the Doctor."

"It's how you first knew me."

"Fine, you can be John Smith. Or… just John unless someone asks for your surname, but why would they? And we'll just say your nickname is the Doctor, because… what?"

"Hospital administration consultant? Clearly, I'm a fixer. PR for malpractice suits, playing the politics, quieting rumours, cooking the books, hiring specialists where needed…"

"Okay, good," she said. "But that makes you sound shady."

"So does alien troubleshooter. And as a consultant, I'm not shady, just clearly very good at my job," he vamped. Then he set her laptop on the nightstand, and took her by the arm, pulling her towards him. He arranged her across his legs, facing him, knees on either side. In the process, her towel was made redundant by gathering round her waist, so he took it and threw it to the floor. "But you, Martha Jones, you know that I'm not shady."

"Actually... well, you're a little shady," she protested, all good-naturedly, of course.

"No, the phrase you're looking for is, man of action."

She laughed. "Wow, now… that's laying it on thick."

"But am I wrong?"

"You are not," she told him, with another slightly ridiculous giggle.

She leaned forward and kissed him, mostly to stifle the next wave of adolescent giggles, just below the surface.

He turned her over on her back quite suddenly, and she stifled yet another ecstatic laugh, even as she began to help him out of his jacket and shirt, because part of her still could not believe this was happening.

Not exactly a cliffhanger, but rather, a silly, shippy end to Martha's very long day. Tee hee!

And hey, if you're reading/following, only fair to review, yeah? Thanks! :-D