Wow, I can't believe how long this is taking... I don't think there are many people following, but I still like to keep up with things so I don't lose my momentum. Perhaps it's already too late!

Anyhow, to recap, in the first chapter, we saw the Doctor follow an energy signature into an NHS-associated banquet center, and accidentally become part of the catering staff. In the second chapter, we learned that Martha Jones has been following a blogger who seems to know uncomfortably a lot about the Doctor. Both are reliving moments from their past together, when things got heated, but only when the Doctor was feeling vulnerable, and trying to re-exert control...

In this chapter, we meet a new character or two, and our heroes cross paths! Also, more appropriate reminiscences of their travels together come to light...

I think this chapter is rather juicy... would love to know what you think! Enjoy!


CHAPTER 3

Martha ran her fingernail through some cellophane at a small indentation. The plastic wrap split just enough for her peel back the rest, and slide it off. She opened the box that had been inside, and inhaled the heavy, sweet scent. It had been ages since she'd treated herself to one of these, and in her mind, it held a world of new possibilities.

She chuckled at herself – after all, it was just a new palette of eye makeup, but the beauty of all those as-yet unused pads of colour, the combinations that could result, the daringness, the mysteriousness, the glamour held within, it had always tantalised her just a bit. And this one was untouched! Untrod-upon, like virgin snow.

She tossed the applicator into the bin between the shower and sink, and took a clean eye brush with a flat arrangement of bristles from the drawer. She took a deep breath and sullied the black eye shadow with four taps from her flat brush, and just like that, the new box of makeup was lived-in.

But that was all right, because she turned the brush sideways and swept the black across her eyelid as close to the lash as possible, then pulled up, to give herself a slightly Egyptian look, and it pleased her. She knew she didn't need to try too hard to look exotic, but it never hurt to overdress a bit at these events.

Tonight was her opportunity to thank a mentor: Dr. Emmaline Hazard had been one of her medical school professors, her advisor, a cooperating physician in two of her rotations at Royal Hope, a personal champion and friend. She was being recognised with the Spearhead Award, an honour reserved for individuals in the medical profession who had been pioneers of some sort, in changing policy, being the first of their kind, paving the way for innovation, social justice, and the like.

For her part, Dr. Hazard was one of the fiercest, smartest feminists Martha had ever known, while still being a compassionate physician and maintaining a caring, calm bedside manner with all patients. Martha had watched with awe as she handled patients' families, made dying people smile, took command of a room, and stared down arrogant male colleagues. She had propped up and coaxed numerous young female doctors into being their best, bravest self, and was also passionate about guiding young male medics into attitudes and practises in equity and humility when it came to female patients. She had addressed the NHS Ethics Committee at least a dozen times, and had met with two different MPs on the subject of women gaining traction and acceptance in the world of medicine.

Apart from her mother, no-one had taught Martha more about the obstructions, rights, responsibilities, and possibilities of being a woman.

Dr. Hazard was retiring this year, so the awards commission had made a last-minute change to their honours roster, and added her as the Spearhead recipient at the North Star Award ceremony.

Egyptian upward-curl done, Martha changed to a wider brush and dipped into the burgundy eye shadow, which had been her reason for purchasing this palette – it was a colour she had not previously possessed, but one she needed, to match her dress. She pulled the dark red powder timidly across her eyelid to test it. She liked what she saw, so she gave it another bold stroke. And for the next fifteen minutes or so, she worked with this colour, plus a white/gold, and more touches of black, to make her eyes "pop," and complement her chosen garment. The dress hung against the wall behind her on a towel rack, so that she could see it in the mirror as she worked.

But more than the dress, and even more, unfortunately, than Dr. Hazard, what was on her mind just now was Bougie Boca. Her very existence was alarming, indeed. For myriad reasons.

For one thing, how the hell would a random woman get hold of that much information concerning the Doctor? She, herself, who had travelled with the Doctor, and had shared more than a few close scrapes and semi-intimate moments, had had to pull teeth to get him to reveal anything…

Then again, the blogger had facts about the Time Lord, not personal confidences. She didn't know his soul, his personality, his deepest, darkest regret of having destroyed his planet, nor the catch-22 of knowing that he had had no other choice. Martha racked her brain, and wondered whether there was anything in the blog that she had seen, that might suggest that Bougie Boca had ever actually met the Doctor.

She didn't think so.

Then again, there was that thing about Rose, whose name had never been allowed to surface on the internet, and her mother, Jackie, and her succession of given names. She had an inexplicable feeling that this information was accurate, and how would someone just stumble across it, if the Doctor hadn't given her a tip-off of some sort?

Briefly, Martha wondered if the Doctor himself could be Bougie Boca.

She dismissed that thought with a smile, deciding that if the Doctor were to pose online as a blogger about himself, he would do it far more audaciously, with many ridiculous tall tales, wild inaccuracies, and a lot of tongue-in-cheek indicators that he was writing about himself.

Her eye makeup was coming along now, and all she had to do was give it a little mascara. As she put away the new palette in a drawer, she saw her new iPhone lying on top of the bathroom counter, and had to resist the urge to pull up the Subject Blue blog just now. She wanted to dig in… but why?

Well, she was concerned for his safety first and foremost. If someone like Bougie got enough followers (and she probably already had), then she could possibly lead an army of some serious crazies to the Doctor… at least the next time he was on the planet. A Time Lord could handle himself of course, but that depended upon exactly how many humans he was dealing with, and whether those humans accidentally (or on purpose) led an intergalactic enemy to him, which frankly, was far more likely.

But something else was nagging at her. She couldn't put her finger on it, but her gut told her it was something personal rather than practical… she knew the feeling all too well of being nagged-at by personal feelings about the Doctor. Usually, she knew exactly what it was – it's not as though it was in any way mysterious. But lately, her irrepressible crush on him had gone dormant. It wasn't gone completely (and actually, the word crush didn't quite do it justice), but it had been pushed underground by the seismic shifts in her life, namely a new job with UNIT, a new boyfriend, then new fiancé… then a bad(ish) breakup.

The scratches upon her soul of Tom Milligan's departure to Cambodia, and his unwillingness even to consider staying in the UK for her sake, and for the sake of their planned life together, were still new. Though, admittedly, said scratches were not that deep, and they served to expose the superficiality of their entire relationship. Martha and Tom were incompatible in the end, and had got engaged too quickly – end of.

So perhaps that's what it was: her heart was freed up again, and the ghost of the Doctor was moving back in.

She sighed, applying lipstick, once again, involuntarily re-living the night of the Lazarus experiment, when the Doctor had told the hungry, ultimately short-sighted scientist that living an unnaturally long time leaves only one certainty: that one would wind up alone. Then, he had tried (not for the first time) to find a kind of not-aloneness with her, that she had rebuked reluctantly, as far too much an act of desperation.

The certainty of ending up alone. This is what she kept coming back to, whether she wanted to or not, whenever her mind drifted to moments with the Doctor that could have turned intimate. His lot, he knew, was ultimately doomed to loneliness, which meant he would always keep people at arm's length, especially after losing Rose.

And yet, there was Bougie Boca. How could she have come by the information that she had?

"Ugh!" she exclaimed aloud, disgusted with herself, shoving the lipstick tube cover back into place with far more force than was needed. "You're a little jealous!" she accused herself in the mirror, with a frown, and a slow shake of her head.

Yes, concern for the Doctor was definitely part of it, but she now understood that the thing digging at her was wondering how the hell a random blogger could get so close to the Doctor. How and why? And exactly how close? In what way?

Bougie Boca had pieces of the Doctor that no-one, apart from "companions" could know. Colonel Mace had said, "Every now and then, someone comes along and tries to take a bite out of the Doctor." Well, it looked like someone had succeeded.

But if there was one thing that she had learned about the Doctor, it was that when people get pieces of him, he has to reclaim them, control the game, make them his again. How exactly would this play out?


Martha had been looking forward to seeing the inside of the new Havilland-Preston Banquet Centre – quite a bit of hoopla had preceded its Grand Opening six months previously, but she had been on an assignment in New York at the time, and had missed the gala.

But when she arrived, it was after seemingly a hundred things had gone wrong between her flat and the Centre. Firstly, someone from Dr. Hazard's staff had called, saying that Martha's VIP ticket to the banquet had arrived at her office just now, instead of being in the hands of the driver who had been hired to bring Martha to the venue.

So, instead of being ushered into a Towncar, and being ferried beatifically toward her destination, she had had to rush through styling her hair, leave far earlier than planned, hail a taxi, go thirty minutes out of the way to get her ticket. All in heels, and a burgundy silk and chiffon gown. During the taxi rides, she had received two calls from her sister Tish, who was in personal crisis (one that Martha did not currently have the time to deal with), and the driver had taken two wrong turns.

Fortunately, though she felt harried and rushed, she managed to walk up the VIP stairs in time – she was relieved to see that people were still mingling and having cocktails. She took a deep breath, trying to calm her nervous heart, and pulled the door open. The usher standing between the VIP doors and the main part of the room wished her a good evening, upon seeing her ticket, and simply gestured for her to join the festivities.

Her eyes were drawn immediately to the stage and podium, adorned in black marble and gold tones, and a spray of impressive, expensive white flowers.

But she only had a moment before being accosted from her right…

"Dr. Jones?" said a voice.

Martha turned her head and saw a woman standing there, with a big smile. "Yes?" she replied.

"Dr. Martha Jones?"

"Yes."

"Hello," said the woman putting her hand out to shake, which Martha obliged. "I'm Kinsey Mund of The Whistler."

"Oh, erm, hello," Martha said, a little surprised.

The woman was several inches taller than she, with short, rather curly hair tucked behind her ears. She stood with one fist on one hip, and in a "casual" way that awkwardly caused the hip protrude forward. Her dress was not appropriate for this event by several degrees – it was a bright green floral pattern, a gathered boat neck at the shoulders, knee-length with a ruffle.

"I've been assigned to cover the award that Dr. Emmaline Hazard is receiving tonight," said the reporter.

"I see," Martha said, brightening slightly. "How can I help you?"

"Can you tell me a bit about your relationship with Dr. Hazard?" asked Mund, pulling a small recording device from her pocketbook, and pointing it toward Martha.

Martha took a minute and spoke about being in Internal Medicines rotations with Dr. Hazard, and how, over and above being an excellent, skilled physician, Dr. Hazard was a fierce woman. However, she also had a nurturing soul, and cared about people from all walks of life.

"And what about you, Dr. Jones?"

"What about me?"

"Can you tell me a bit about you? Since you will be presenting the award, our readers will be curious."

"Erm, okay," Martha said. "I received my M.D. from St. Andrews by correspondence, a little less than a year ago, and…"

"It was fast-tracked, wasn't it?"

Martha frowned. "It was. How did you know that?"

"I did my homework," said the reporter, slyly. "And isn't it because of UNIT, your current employer? Don't worry, I know that it was all strictly on the up-and-up."

"Erm, yes."

"What is it that you do for UNIT, exactly?"

"How is this relevant to Dr. Hazard's award?"

"If she was your mentor, our readers will want to know how and where you ended up."

"I really don't think they will," Martha chuckled. "And I couldn't really discuss it, even if I wanted to."

"Fair enough," said the reporter. "Where did you get your undergraduate degree, and where did you grow up?"

"Both London," said Martha, suddenly distracted, having spotted Dr. Hazard across the room. She was eager to say hello, and apologise for her lateness, before going up onstage.

"Do you come from, as they say, a long line of doctors?"

"Hmm? Oh, no, both of my parents are in the arts."

"Really? Now, speaking of parents, who, besides them and Dr. Hazard, are your mentors?"

"Mentors?" asked Martha, watching Dr. Hazard accept a glass of champagne from someone in the catering staff. "Oh, er… well, my grandmother taught me about gardening."

"Anyone outside of your family?"

"What?"

"Never mind," said Mund. "We can come back to that. What sort of travel have you done?"

"Well, I recently did an assignment in the U.S.," Martha said, still distracted. Then she switched her gaze to the reporter's eyes. "Erm, Kinsey, is it? Do you mind if we conclude this conversation? I really need to say hello to Dr. Hazard before the ceremony begins."

"Can we go back to your mentors?"

"No, sorry, I don't have time. Thanks for your… erm… attention. I have to go," Martha said, sidling away awkwardly.

But Martha Jones mostly forgot about Kinsey Mund as soon as she was free of her. And now, she made a beeline across the crowded banquet room toward the lovely Dr. Hazard, who was dressed from head to toe in gold sequins, which matched her still mostly-golden hair, piled on top of her head. She had clearly had her makeup professionally done, and her earrings sparkled like diamonds, because that's what they were. Martha marvelled at how elegant she looked… she was five-foot-nine dressed in scrubs with Crocs on her feet, and the heels she was wearing tonight put her close to six feet tall.

"Dr. Hazard," Martha said, feeling suddenly short and unpolished in her presence. "I am so sorry for being late!"

"Oh Martha!" said Dr. Hazard, bending to give her mentee a hug. "You're not a student anymore! Besides, you're here, aren't you? And the awards haven't started yet. There's plenty of time."

"There was a mix-up with my ticket, so I had to go across town, and then the cab driver got it wrong, and my sister phoned…"

"Martha, Martha," Hazard said, making a calm down gesture. "It's all right. You can tell me all about it later, but for now, you need to get your blood pressure down before you have to get onstage! And as a doctor and your mentor, I'm about to give you some horrible advice: have a drink."

Martha laughed, and allowed herself to exhale. "Okay. Twist my arm."

Dr. Hazard, who already had a glass of champagne in her hand, said, "Do you like champagne? Of course you do, everyone likes champagne. Where is that guy…?" She did a quick scan of the area around her, then walked two steps up to a man in a white caterer's uniform who had his back to them, and tapped him on the shoulder.

He turned around with a tray balancing atop all five fingers on his left hand, holding three flutes of bubbling amber liquid.

Martha's eyes locked with his, and from the look on his face (or rather, the look she could see he was trying to suppress) he was just as surprised to see her, as she was him. She could not stop her eyes from going wide, and her jaw from dropping slightly, but she recovered quickly enough…

Dr. Hazard thanked him, and took one of the glasses to hand to Martha.

She took it, cleared her throat, and took a sip.

She reckoned she'd better take her eyes off the handsome and familiar server, or someone would notice and get the wrong idea…

The Doctor must have decided the same thing, because he said, "You're welcome, ma'am," and turned away, gliding into the mass of well-dressed people and disappearing.

"Hello, Martha," said a voice to her left. She turned, and an older man with thick, black-rimmed glasses stood there, smiling. It was Dr. Hazard's husband, Dr. Jonathan Perry, a retired biochemical engineer and avid mountain-climber (until his hip replacement last year, but he was still hoping to get back out there). She greeted him, he kissed her on the cheek, thanked her for presenting the award, and handed her a programme.

"Oh, thanks," she said, opening it to see the sequence of events. She saw that after "cocktails," which was now, there would be starters, then salads, then the main course. The awards ceremony would begin halfway through the main course, and would last through dessert, coffee, and cordials. She really did have plenty of time.

Which was good, because the Doctor's being here had thrown her for a loop.

Yes, she was twitterpated seeing him again, having had him on her mind all day, having just broken up with her sham of a fiancé whom she never could have loved as much as…

Well, there were all the feelings. There was the drama, the baggage, the fact that her heart fluttered when their eyes met.

But more importantly, when he was about, it meant that trouble was amiss. This was how they had met! They had happened upon each other while he'd been undercover, lurking, during an alien attack, just before all hell had broken loose. She had to know what was up, and whether the folks attending this banquet, or doing anything else in the vicinity tonight, were safe.

She resolved to excuse herself to "powder her nose" during salads, and go track him down.

At some point over the next few minutes, someone had begun ushering folks to their assigned seats, and Dr. Perry indicated her chair, which was at the table beside theirs, with a few other doctors her age. She was actually grateful to be seated somewhere where Dr. Hazard may not notice if she slipped away for a moment or two…

She sat down, and introduced herself to the two men on either side of her, both of whom were young physicians, and both seemed quite shy. Martha wondered if they were also presenting awards tonight; for their sakes, she rather hoped not.

The catering staff began to deliver the starters, and she kept her eyes open for any Time Lords in uniform.

While her guard was down, a white sleeve reached over her shoulder and placed two mushroom caps in front of her, stuffed with ricotta and chorizo, alongside some thin slices of melon and a small scoop of cucumber dill relish.

"Pardon my reach, ma'am," he said, and the surprise of hearing his voice caused a frisson. "I know you don't much fancy mushrooms, but give them a try. I stuffed some of them myself."

She looked up at him, and whispered. "I assume you're here chasing something down."

"Nah," he said, sniffing casually. "I decided to retire. Sold my ride to a couple of newlyweds, got myself a flat and a dog and took a job with a catering company. Reckoned the uniform would suit me, what d'you think?"

"Funny," she said.

He smiled. "Sorry. Would you like more champagne?" he asked, nodding toward her nearly-empty glass.

"I don't know, would I? Am I going to need my wits about me?"

"I'm not your mother," he told her, in mock-exasperation.

They both realised at that moment that one of the young men beside her was unabashedly listening in, and making a confused face at them.

She stood up. "Can you direct me to the ladies'?" She gave the Doctor a meaningful look.

"Right this way," he said, and began to walk away, with her following.

He led her to the edge of the round room, past the kitchen, down a crescent-shaped hallway, where, indeed, there were toilets. But they went past, and instead stopped at a door that said, "Supplies: Authorised Personnel Only."

The Doctor took a quick glance around, then pulled the sonic screwdriver from his white uniform's pocket, and buzzed the door open.

They stepped inside, and were immediately accosted with the odor of cigarette smoke.

"Well, I guess we know what this room is actually used for," the Doctor muttered, sonicking the door locked behind them.

Martha wrinkled her nose, and said, "Yeah. Bleah. Now… what's going on, Doctor?"

The Doctor moved to the right, and spied two intact chairs in the corner. Between them was a chair with a broken back and no cushion on the seat, but instead, an ash tray, and an array of breath mints and air fresheners that folks had left behind.

"Step into my office," he said, taking one of the chairs.

Martha inspected the other one to make sure there was nothing that could stain her dress, then sat as well.

He couldn't help, in this moment, but look her over. She had on a sleeveless dress with chiffon ruffles that extended from both shoulders in a V-shape down over her torso, and met at her midriff. The double-ruffle continued down to mid-thigh, then split again, forming an A-shape just above the knees. It showed just enough flesh to be eye-catching and quite alluring, but not what one might call revealing. Burgundy flattered her skin tone beautifully, although he had yet to see her in a colour that did not suit her.

And now, she sat, waiting expectantly for him to speak. The Doctor had just been reminiscing this morning about a time when they were sitting very much like this, knees-to-knees, sharing secrets and pain… and how it had led them into a pattern that they never could quite break: his inadvertently (or advertently) allowing her to have "a piece" of him, his trying to get it back, perhaps in the wrong way, and her rebuking this attempt. It had got tiresome, even though the Doctor completely understood that in her mind, he was reaching out to her, wanting her for the wrong reasons, and she had been right to ask for more… which he could never quite give her. At least not then.

He smiled. "It's good to see you."

"It's good to see you too," Doctor, she said, allowing herself just a little bit of leeway to feel, and let herself be seen.

They both separately wished they could hug, but the moment had passed, as they had both sat down.

"Is Tom here with you? I didn't see him."

"Tom is in Cambodia. Indefinitely."

"Oh, I'm sorry. That must be tough."

"Not at all. I'm finding it very freeing."

He tilted his head to inspect her left hand. "I don't see a ring anymore."

She shook her head. "No, you do not. It's gone, too."

"Well, again, I'm sorry."

"Are you?" she asked, though she immediately regretted it.

He took a deep breath. "Sorry for you, yes. Heartbreak is never easy."

"I'm not heartbroken. Not over Tom. It was not meant to be," she assured him. Then, "But enough about that. I'm concerned about why you're here, Doctor."

He sighed in acknowledgement, took a pause, and said, "There's something trying to kill me – mercenaries or soldiers or something, from the Escappa Tribe. Outer Kasterberous bigoted scum who hate Time Lords. I followed its energy signature here through the ducts, starting with the Japanese restaurant two doors down, and was sort of accidentally swept up with the catering staff."

She echoed the sigh, and said, "Okay. Why would you follow something that's gunning for you?"

"I can't not know where they are!" he replied. "And I'd love to say that it's a get them before they get me situation, but I really haven't worked out yet what I'll do if I get one."

"Blimey. So, what, you just haven't been able to duck out of here without the caterer-boss knowing? What's with the… you know, serving champagne and mushroom caps?"

"Earlier, I was trying to slip out, but I started to realise that the energy signature is all over this facility for some reason, and I haven't yet found an exit point for it. And the only way I can move about this place without being noticed, or asked for a badge or something, is if I'm… the help."

"So that means it's in the building?"

"More like they. And they might be, yes. Unless they've found a way to mask their energy output, which… well, it's conceivable, but not likely, given…" he trailed off, thinking.

"Given what?" she demanded to know.

"Well, given that they have a LiesLock system, and are damned arrogant about it."

"What's a LiesLock system?"

"It's a kind of souped-up SatNav," he said. "It can find things in the universe, not just locations. You can plug in a name, a physical description, an energy signature, a voice print… just about anything that identifies a target, and it will find it."

"So, they have… what on you?"

"Probably an energy signature from Gallifrey," he said. "And since I'm the last of my kind, it wasn't hard for them to work out what planet I was on."

"Is it ever difficult to work out what planet you're on? I mean, you seem to really like this one."

"Fair enough. So, the only thing I've really got going for me is that they don't know what I look like now. Which is probably why, as the day went on, they were all over this building. They know I'm here, but there are so many people about, they're not able to pinpoint me."

"Okay. Are you with someone?"

"Nope," he said.

"Well, you can't do this alone, Doctor."

"I've got no choice."

"What? I'm here! Let me help you!"

"No, go back to the banquet, you deserve to celebrate… whatever this is."

"I'm presenting an award," she said. "But bugger that, if it means your life is in danger!"

He was proud of her, and it made him flush with pleasure to hear this. It was an indicator of so much that was right about Martha Jones, and their friendship… or whatever it was that they had.

But he didn't let her know it. "Martha, my life is always in danger, you know that!"

"So? If you're travelling solo right now, you're going to need a decoy, especially if they've got a souped-up SatNav! Let me help! I've been your decoy before – I'm brilliant at being a decoy!"

"Indeed you are," he smirked, remembering their first kiss in the hospital on the moon, and a half-dozen other times when she used her formidable charm to distract. "But Martha…"

"I'm not taking no for an answer on this," she said. "Someone I care about might die, and I'm not walking away."

He could see that she was determined, and despite what he had said, he was glad to have her help. Grateful. His hearts swelled even more with pride in her, and warmth. She was always there for him. Even when she had other pressing things to do. She was amazing. She was full of love and strength. She had mettle like no-one he had ever met. She was…


He had been lost in thought, much like usual, when she had come bounding up the stairs with her declaration of, "So, didn't really need you in the end, did we?"

It wasn't something he wanted to hear, but it hadn't hurt his feelings, as she seemed to have thought it did.

"Sorry," she corrected, almost immediately. "How are you doing?"

He knew already, at this point, after saving the Pentallian from the gravitational pull of a pissed-off living sun, that they had a pattern. And he knew what would happen if he answered that question truthfully and he really, truly tried not to go down that road.

So he had glossed it over. "Now, what do you say? Ice skating on the mineral lakes of Kur-Ha. Fancy it?" he had asked, with more gusto than he felt.

Something was gnawing at him, and by now, he knew what it was.

Guardedly, she had responded, "Whatever you like."

And he wasn't a blunt instrument. He had heard the annoyance and hurt in those three words.

So, he compensated by doing something he definitely should have done long before this: offer her a key to the TARDIS. It was a sign of commitment, and an apology for trying to leave her at home a week or two prior. It was auspicious, and she had interpreted it as such, and had reverently taken the key in both hands, with both eyes.

And while her attention was focused on the key, he couldn't take it anymore. The gnawing got to be too much, and he had ventured to say, "Thank you."

Down the road they went.

"Don't mention it," she said, at a whisper. And there was so much sincerity and love in her expression, it choked him up a bit.

But it was at that moment when she remembered her mother, and the worrying, mad conversation she had initiated earlier. She phoned to say hello and make her own apologies for earlier, but was finished in a matter of a minute or two. He was glad for this minute – it allowed him to regroup a bit, and decide how to approach her, if at all.

At the moment, he was feeling pride – in himself, in her, in the two of them as a team. He was also feeling absolutely delighted with her, close to her, and disastrously, a bit possessive of her. Again. But was it her, or the new piece of him she had acquired today, that some part of him wanted back?

He resolved to keep things light. He felt confident that he could, given his relatively good mood in the wake of near-total disaster. And because this time, her rescue of him was literal. She had saved his life, not just his hearts or his fate, or whatever it is that she saves, just by being near him. This time, he could give thanks, and not scare her away. Or himself.

"So, once again, she saves me," he said with a smile, a few seconds after she cut off her phone call. He was sauntering around the console, pressing buttons and sending the TARDIS grinding into deep(er) space. "Literally, this time. Though I suppose it's not a totally new thing."

She smiled too, sat down on the seat in the console room, and said, "Literally, as opposed to…"

He looked up at her with surprise. "Saving me from loneliness."

"Ah," she said curtly, breaking eye-contact. "In which the saving is figurative."

"Well, technically, I suppose, but to me it's very real. Very tangible, this thing you give me."

"This thing?"

He sighed. He had gone one step too far. But he was down the rabbit hole now, and the gnawing sensation was growing stronger again.

"This thing called companionship," he said, moving round toward her. He stopped in front of her, and leaned against the controls. "It cannot be overestimated, Martha, and… I suppose if I'm honest, I'd have to admit that without it, I wouldn't be here. What you did for me today is all an extension of what you've been doing for me all along, and I… I am so grateful for that."

She sighed. He could hear a thousand thoughts in that sigh. Most prominently, there was a here we go again in it, the indicator that she, too, was weary of, and wary of, the pattern they had developped. Oh God, he's getting frank again.

"Doctor, when I said don't mention it, I meant it. There is no need to thank me. I would give my own life to save yours, and… well, today, you demonstrated that the reverse is true as well," she said, her voice cracking a bit, with emotion. "It's why I'm here. It's what we do for each other, yeah?"

"Yeah," he said. Then he crossed his arms over his chest, and looked down at his feet. After a long pause, he said, almost without moving his lips, "Martha, I was so scared today."

"I know," she said. "So was I."

"I thought you were going to see me regenerate right before your eyes."

"I know that's what you thought," she said. "I'm sorry you had to go through that. But I had faith. I knew you could handle the blast of cold."

"I didn't know if I could," he said. He shifted his eyes up to hers. "And all this talk about companionship… I guess I just want to say thank you for trusting me enough to do it. It couldn't have been easy."

"It's never easy seeing you in pain. When you're hurting, I am as well." And the depth of emotion in her voice and eyes, again, was enough to cause him to have to suck in and swallow a sob.

He examined her a bit, then said, "That's actually true, isn't it?"

"I'm surprised you even have to ask," she muttered, now staring down at her hands in her lap.

"But you came through. You always do, no matter what. No matter how hard it is for you. Help me walk when something inside me wants to burn you. Give me CPR with your last breath. Blast me with cold, hurt when I hurt…"

"Listen to you scream in pain," she said, tears falling.

He stepped forward and reached out to her. Instinctively, she allowed herself to be enveloped, which required standing up to meet him.

Resting his chin on her head, he asked, "What would I do without you?" And then he pulled his head back to look at her.

And just like before, he felt an overwhelming urge to kiss her…

"Doctor, I'm going to stop you there," she had said. "Before you go all Bedroom Eyes, and we have to do this dance again…"

"Yeah," he whispered, and stepped back from her.

"Quite apart from anything else, you were attacked and possessed by a malevolent force today, and I almost cooked to death. We are both far too vulnerable to change the status-quo for any healthy reasons."

"Yeah, yeah, I got it."

But what went unspoken was the real reasons behind it all, in the speech she had given him last time, in the kitchen, after the Richard Lazarus debacle, when he had wanted more from her, but hadn't been willing to give enough back.

"You need something big," she had said to him then. "You need something real. And you keep throwing yourself at me when I force you to realise it, almost as though you can't bear for me to direct the game, not be in control of it yourself. Almost as if you could finesse me into submission, and come out on top… so to speak. But none of this is because you want something real from me."

She remained convinced that his need had her face on it, but had nothing to do with her.

He was not so sure.

And he had walked away from her, more frustrated than ever. Mostly with himself.


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