It's been a month again...

Another fandom for which I write has been melting down over the last couple of weeks, and all of my attention has gone towards that! This chapter has been ALMOST ready to post for quite some time, but I've been so distracted, and writing furiously on a "healing" piece for some folks who follow me elsewhere.

Anyway, let's jump back in! It's nice to be in an unfettered universe with Martha and the Doctor, again... fettered though their relationship was.

A somewhat new revelation comes to light about Kinsey Mund's capabilities, not to mention another flashback concerning the Doctor's. I'm ready, are you?

Enjoy!

CHAPTER 6

And so, there she was, in a cubicle in the ladies', unhappily risking the back of her dress by sitting on the loo. Memories were flooding her – 1969, listening to the sexual sonata of Mr. and Mrs. Lowe, and being shown in no uncertain terms how the Doctor truly felt, when they were not awash in raw emotion. Memories of Tom, the ring, jealousy, and the horrifying realisation of having used him...

…and the incredibly frustrating knowledge that she was still not over the Doctor. She still loved him, and that was why tonight needed to happen. She was going to help him, out of concern for the safety of a loved one, but it was a one-off.

And so, she was digging, as only she could – companion and protector of the Doctor, UNIT medic, reading the dreaded Subject Blue blog. For reasons purely related to the safety of a friend in need. No jealousy on either end (at least not on purpose), no ulterior motives, just help. For the Doctor. For a man who had saved this planet more times than she could count.

She scrolled to a new entry that she had not seen before. It was dated today.

"Damn," she spat.

On Bougie Boca's blog, she read, "Tonight is the night of the North Star Award ceremony – it's like Oscar night for the NHS. It is at the new Havilland-Preston Banquet Centre, and it's quite the posh do! As you may have guessed, I'm hardly telling you this for my health (pardon the pun); I'm telling you because I managed to secure a press pass to the awards (how, I will never tell!). So, I'm here, blogging live, and I have caught up with a Known Associate of Subject Blue. If you have been reading the blog for a while, wherever it may have roamed, then you will be able to read between the lines as to who that Associate might be. She is here tonight to present the Spearhead award, bestowed this year on a Dr. Emmaline Hazard, whose accomplishments impress even yours truly. But, back to the Subject at-hand… or at least to his Associate."

Martha noticed for the first time that the words "Known Associate" were capitalised, and found it, in spite of herself, apt. She wondered if this was a new thing that Kinsey Mund/Bougie Boca was doing.

She read on. "Dr. Jones is wearing a burgundy chiffon gown tonight, and matching Ferragamo pumps, and when I talked with her, she seemed harried, as though she had had to rush here. And, she did not get out of the Town Car I thought had been sent for her, but rather, a taxi. What was it that called her away, and/or caused this change of plans?

"She was not unduly reluctant to talk about herself, at least about the basics, her credentials and whatnot. But she did not fully understand why anyone would care, which is fair enough, I suppose, when you consider who she is without the influence of outside forces. In particular, she seemed puzzled about why I was asking about her other mentors, apart from her family. However, to be fair, she was distracted… presumably by having spotted Dr. Hazard across the room.

"But then, something curious happened. As I watched Drs. Jones and Hazard make contact and socialise a bit, Dr. Jones made eye-contact with one of the wait staff… lingering eye-contact. Which I didn't think much about, other than being amused. I mean, it just seemed like two attractive people noticing each other – kind of sweet, yeah? But then, later on, when the waiter was serving her hors d'oeuvre, the two of them chatted briefly, and then – get this – disappeared into a supply cupboard!

"It could be a clandestine tryst, but based on what I know of Dr. Jones, I don't think so. Also, she's far too well-disciplined, well-put-together, especially tonight, and if I'm not mistaken, engaged. But anything's possible… maybe we're simply seeing another side to Martha Jones. However, what popped into my head was: this is a man whom she didn't feel she could properly talk to out in the open for some reason. Why? Who is this guy?

"Well, for the record, he's kind of tall, thin, has dark hair coiffed-up in sort of a spiky-do, and tonight, he's wearing the same uniform as the rest of the wait staff, so his clothing is inconsequential. He's good-looking… sort of impish and mischievous. Dark eyes, sharp nose and mouth."

"Damn," Martha repeated at a whisper. Kinsey Mund is sniffing about this event, sniffing around the Doctor now, trying to work out whether he is who she thinks he is. Her famed "Subject Blue," the name of the blog, and a euphemism she used on the blog, in order not to get flagged by UNIT. She never used the word Doctor spelled out, nor TARDIS, nor certain combinations of words (sonic and screwdriver were never used together, for example) nor certain names.

Then she read the final paragraph of tonight's installment, indicating that she and the Doctor had been spied on, before and after going into the supply cupboard to talk privately. "Okay, the man is coming out… looking around, making sure no-one can see him. Dr. Jones is stepping out behind him. She still looks immaculate – hair, makeup, ruffles in-place. I don't think this was a fumble in the cupboard."

Martha sighed. The one time not being disheveled gave away the secret.

She stood up and flushed the toilet to keep up appearances, stopped at the mirror beside another woman applying lipstick. She still looked pretty well assembled, but she too reapplied lipstick, just to appear as plastic and inscrutable as possible. She wasn't sure whether this made any sense, but it did make her feel better.

She stepped out of the ladies' into the hallway, and immediately saw the Doctor and Kinsey Mund, a few paces from the kitchen door, the former looking uncomfortable, the latter looking flirtatious. Martha stepped behind a plant and pulled out her phone again.

For what felt like the hundredth time that evening, the skulking, spying reporter whom he now knew as Kinsey Mund, latched onto his arm as he was heading back to the kitchen, and he hadn't even seen her coming.

Blimey, she's stealthy.

"Hi, again," she said. "So, I'm wondering if you'd maybe like to get a coffee with me after the banquet."

"I'll be working pretty late, clean-up and all," the Doctor said, trying not to be rude, but not leave any room for her to squeeze into.

No such luck.

"That's all right," she sang. "I'll wait up. I know a twenty-four-hour café not too far from here."

He sighed. "I'll give it some thought, all right? This job is exhausting, and…" And his phone pinged in his pocket. "Excuse me a sec."

He switched his tray over to his left hand, and extracted his phone with his right, flipping the thing open with one gesture. A text from Martha, of course: "Avoid her. She's a blogger."

He shut the phone with a frown, and looked back at Kinsey Mund, the reporter who had been so forward, so clumsily flirtatious… but she had begun the evening by casing the joint, watching him, not like someone interested in him romantically, but more like someone working an angle…

The Doctor smiled, and decided to engage her for a moment. "You know, I've been wondering, Kinsey, what's that thing in your hand? Looks like you're trying to hide it!"

She seemed surprised. And she didn't hide her emotion as well as she hid her electronics.

All evening, she had had a digital apparatus in her hands that she swapped out for a phone once in a while, when the need arose. She talked into the device – the Doctor had seen her do it. It had a screen with a dot-matrix-style text readout, and a full "asdf" keyboard, about the size of a deck of cards. It had a strap that fit around her hand, and a round piece at the top – that was a microphone. It also had a red button under the thumb for starting and stopping at will.

The Doctor recognised it as a prototype of a piece of technology that did not, in the end, get off the ground, but there had been a few of them floating about at this point in history… he had never seen one used before, but based on Martha's text, it made perfect sense.

"Oh, this? It's erm… it's just a communications thing. Like a radio, so I can keep in direct touch with my editor," Kinsey answered, haltingly.

"Cool," he said. "May I see it?" He held out his hand.

"You see with your eyes, not your hands, silly," she chirped, clearly uneasy.

He smiled. "Come on – you know what I mean. May I… inspect it? You know, for my own enrichment?"

"Well, best not," she chuckled, stuffing it into her bag. "It's expensive, and my boss would lose his mind if it got dropped or damaged…"

"Right," he said.

The phone went ping again. "Seriously. What are you doing? Get rid of her!"

He trusted Martha Jones with his life, and this Kinsey Mund character… he wouldn't trust her to the end of the lanyard off of which hung her ill-gotten press pass. He decided to heed Martha's warning. "Okay, I've got to be getting back to the kitchen now," he said to the suspicious lady in the green dress.

He heard her ask about that coffee later, but he ignored her.

"Okay. Away from her. Not as easy as it sounds, btw. What's up?" he texted.

At the same time as he hit "send," a text from Martha came in, asking, "What is that thing in her hand?"

"Contraption that a Swede developed. Live, voice-to-text blogging," the Doctor replied. "Specify the blog URL and the entry date, and just talk."

"Explains a lot," Martha texted. "She has got A LOT of info about you, mostly facts straight. She's not one of the nutters. Has blogged enough correct info to lead anyone straight to you!"

"Blimey," the Doctor whispered from a corner of the kitchen where he could not be seen from the door.

Another text. "Blog is called Subject Blue, a code name for you. Entry from 1 hour ago broadcasts her location, and mine, and she's closing in on IDing you. The Escappa probably know about her."

"Maybe. But they have hyper sat-nav," he texted. Then he started another text: "Although doesn't seem to be working too well - they've been all over the building looking for me."

"They worked out it's easier to let the blogger post a picture of you. You haven't told her anything, have you?"

"Nothing important."

"Have you let her take a photo of you?"

"No, but who knows what she's been doing from across the room?"

"Just get the hell out of here. Alien bent on your death + blogger spreading your exact location = bad combo." Then, another message: "Will Escappa hurt anyone other than you?"

"Probably not. If they were going to, would have already."

"Then eventually they will follow you, but right now, you're a sitting duck. Crosshairs of two rifles."

"Back at square one. I've stayed here all night serving dinner because sonic keeps picking up Escappa energy signature – I know they're here, and want to get them before they get me!"

"You. Have. Been. Compromised. Abort the mission and start over!" she insisted. Another text said, "Use psychic paper and VIP exit. Press cannot follow you."

The Doctor groaned. This wasn't going to be easy. It never was, was it?

He would never get through the VIP exit in his wait-staff uniform, so he reckoned he'd better get back into his own clothes. But his own clothes made him far more recognisable, should Kinsey Mund happen to snap a picture of him on his way out…

But if she saw him leave, she would probably follow him, in which case, it wouldn't matter.

But, he thought it was just possible that she wouldn't notice him leaving if he wasn't in the white jacket and black trousers she'd seen him in, all evening long.

In exasperation, he snuck back to the locker room area for staff, and clandestinely sonicked open the locker in which he had stowed his brown pinstriped suit.

As he changed, he sighed heavily, and allowed himself a moment to feel a bit sorry for himself.

Why can't it ever be simple? Why is there always a bloody brick wall standing steadfast between him, and the thing he needs? Tonight, it's Kinsey Mund fouling up his plan to finally, finally lure in the Escappa and possibly get the jump on them, having the advantage of them not having seen his face…

Six months ago, standing in his way was…

Once more, he sighed. There she was again. Haunting his brain, the most stubborn revenant or lingering force he had ever experienced in his life – and that was saying something.

After Martha's departure from his life, and after the brooding, pouting, self-effacement that followed, he had thought he had re-found the perfect travelling partner in Donna Noble. And that was true – she was the absolute best companion for him. Just a mate. Someone who had all the trappings of a great time-traveller and adventurer – brains, bravery, common sense, compassion – without the drama of a "girlfriend"… or at least someone who wanted to be his girlfriend.

Being with Donna was nearly wall-to-wall, uncomplicated joy. No "patterns" emerged, no attraction, no lingering glances… not even a hint. It was just solid comradeship – someone to lean on.

Until it wasn't. One day, she was simply gone, and there was no-one to lean on. The Donna Noble who had travelled with the Doctor had been wiped away forever, in favour of a semi-adolescent harpy. An earlier version of Donna, seemingly uncorrupted by the Doctor's influence, reincarnated with her banal factory settings.

It was for the best, based on what he knew could happen to her if he didn't let her go… she would have died horribly, aching, burning, unravelling slowly from the inside out, and nothing to be done about it. Instead, she died only to him, which meant that she could go on and grow another day, grow another way, outside of his particular orbit.

And that was a different kind of excruciating. Until that day, he had thought he had experienced every kind of pain. Turned out, the universe had had a hideous surprise in store.

After leaving the Nobles' flat, he had moved the TARDIS just a few miles away, and parked it in a patch of bushes bordering Pitshanger Park, and stayed there, unseen, for about four days. He had nowhere to go, and could think of nowhere he would rather be than on this planet, this country, this city, near to all the folks he loved most.

It was a harrowing time to have a think. There were so many delightful aspects of his pain and suffering to dissect…

Without the Human/Time Lord Metacrisis, they all would have died in that Dalek ship, and the universe would have followed not far behind. As a result of it, he, Donna, and his Twin were able to Time Lord the snot out of the enemy, and restore the Earth to its rightful place in the cosmos. And without it, he would not have been able to give Rose the only proper gift he could think of – he couldn't bear to leave her with tears streaming down her face a second time.

But the Metacrisis was the very thing that caused Donna's demise, and that was a Catch-22 that he wasn't sure he could live with. There was no way that she could be his Donna, and the universe go on existing. It was rubbish, and it made him so, so angry.

What choice did he have, though? He had to live with it, had to live with the cruel irony, the loss, the grief. Even though he was reasonably certain he had done his best for her…

And Rose, there was another whole can of worms. He had spent two years grieving for her in different ways, and he knew vice versa. By the end of the Reality Bomb debacle, he was exhausted from her ghosts in his heart, but was also reasonably sure that he had done well by her… and relatively well by his Twin, too.

But he had made several missteps with the Daleks, he'd ripped out Mickey's heart (again), dragged Jackie Tyler into a thing she didn't need to be involved in, and once more, left Jack, Sarah Jane, and Martha rather hanging by a thread.

Well, not really. They were all very capable people, but he had never been able to give them what they wanted of him. Something always stood in the way. Walls. Walls of impenetrable, insistent, self-imposed solitude. The one kind of wall the Daleks had no interest in breaking down. Walls that were still necessary overall, but… well, perhaps not to the stark extents to which he had been building them?

Something in his very soul was reaching out after four days, needing something to stop him thinking about all this – all the things he wished he could have done differently. He felt like his brain was scrabbling at a slick surface, looking for leverage, and it came down to those last three: Jack, Sarah Jane, and Martha.

Talking with Jack without a buffer, dependent upon the day, could be a minefield of innuendo, and Sarah Jane always seemed unduly uprooted when he called upon her. There was no question – Martha was the one.

"I wondered which one of us would be hearing from you this week," she said over the phone.

"Oi! You could at least act surprised."

"Is Donna still with you?"

He paused. "No. No, she's not."

"So you're on your own again, and you're not half the recluse you think you are."

He ignored this. "Do you know the Duke of Kent? The old Kent Hotel on Scotch Common?"

"Yep. Give me an hour," she said.

They found a table in a corner behind a sofa, choosing quite on purpose to sit in upright, uncomfortable wooden chairs rather than a calfskin settee.

"Much more pub-like," Martha had said.

The Doctor brought over a Boddington's for her, and cider for himself, and sat, exhaling for what felt like the first time in ninety-six hours.

They toasted (softly) the fact that the world was still turning – they wondered if anyone else in the room was doing the same. They took a few sips in a fairly comfortable silence, and the Doctor silently marvelled at how much tension was leaving his body, and it had nothing to do with the alcohol. Being with her, basking in her friendship, was key, of course.

"So, did you have something specific you wanted to talk about, or just feeling blue?" Martha asked.

He gave her a melancholy smile. "Mostly the latter."

"All right," she said. "We don't have to talk. We can just sit."

"Thanks," he said, barely audibly.

After another minute, she said, "But, is it all right to ask… what happened with Donna? You don't have to say, if you don't want to."

"It's all right, I'll talk about it," he slurred, almost into one syllable.

"It's just, when last I saw her, she was all Time-Lorded up, so gung-ho to stay out on the open road with you," Martha told him. "I'm a little surprised she changed her mind."

"Changed her mind," the Doctor mused, bitterly, to himself. "Changed. Her mind. Her mind changed."

Martha waited a moment. He didn't say anything more, so she said, "I get the feeling that changed her mind isn't the whole story."

"No," he said, taking another pull off his drink, and then he proceeded to explain why Donna could not stay, in Martha's words, "Time-Lorded up," and what he had had to do.

The look on Martha's face as he told the story denoted horror and sympathy, and she reached out for his hand. He let her take it, and wrapped the other hand around his glass. He had no free hands to wipe away the few little tears that fell, so he just let them fall. For now. Just for a minute, and then he wiped them away.

"I… I can't even… I don't have words, Doctor," Martha said. "I'm so sorry. But that doesn't even cover how I feel. Sorry. Destroyed? I just…"

He chuckled cynically. "Tell me about it."

She adjusted herself and her chair so that her arm wasn't quite so far extended. She now sat comfortably with her hand in his. In comfort.

"I guess saving the Earth doesn't mean we save everyone," she said. "And we can't always turn back the clock like it never happened, eh?"

"No, we can't," he agreed. "Can't turn back things that happened that really shouldn't have happened… walls came down that shouldn't have."

"But you got to see Rose again," she offered.

He nodded. "I've been wondering if that particular wall should have maybe stayed up."

"Really?"

"Yeah," he told her, harried.

"Wow, I never thought I'd hear you say that."

"It's exhausting to think about. It's always been exhausting thinking about her. And given what eventually happened to Donna, I just…"

"Seeing her just compounded the grief?"

"Yes," he agreed. "But also… ugh, Martha, it's hard to explain. I think I'm just over the whole not being over her… thing. I don't know how else to put it."

Martha looked at him with concern. "You haven't just… you know, decided this, have you? Because you can't force yourself to get over something."

"I know. I didn't say I was necessarily over her, or the pain of that first separation. But the aftermath, the pining, the misery it caused for me and for…" he stopped. He used his drink as a buffer, and took another pull of cider.

"For you and for…?" she asked.

"You," he told her. "I saw over time what it did to you, and… well, there it is. Especially with the other rubbish I put you through."

Her voice came out just above a whisper, and she stared into her glass. "You mean the rescue stuff? All that talk about how I rescued you, and how you'd…"

"Yeah, that."

The pattern. He hadn't meant for it to come up, but it had. He hadn't meant for it to come up ever, ever again, given that Martha was now engaged. But the stark reality of how messy their year together had been, it was now out there, being discussed.

"Well, it's okay – I took care of it myself. I decided to leave," she told him gently. "That weird thing you used to do, where you would try to lay open my vulnerabilities – sorry, poor choice of words – just after yours had been exposed."

"Yeah, I know."

"I never knew if you were trying to even the playing field, take control of something, take control of me, or what, but…"

"Sorry," he whispered.

He wanted to tell her about the revelation he had had in 1969 just before the run-in at the End of the Universe that had ended everything for them eventually, but it would do no good at this stage. There was a wall between them now, and its name, apparently, was Tom. He could not put her in a position to have to choose… he reckoned he'd lose anyway.

"Well, you know that I was deeply, violently tempted to give in, don't you? Every single time."

"Yeah."

"But I knew that I could not have felt whole unless, as I said to you several times…"

"Both hearts, and no more secrets."

"All of the truth. Close enough."

"I guess that's what I mean. Being hung up on Rose caused all of that – caused me not being able to give you both hearts and full honesty. It was painful for me, and more so for you, and I guess… I would just like to be done with being that guy. I think I may be. Done."

"Now that, I can believe," she said. "I will never believe you if you tell me you've stopped loving her. We never really stop loving the people who get away from us before it's time, do we?"

He looked at her squarely, and there was a meaningful, somewhat miserable mutual smile that passed between them.

He suddenly realised that she was still holding his hand, and he squeezed it more tightly now. When he looked down at where their hands met, he let up on the pressure a bit. He figured it probably hurt to have him clasp at her so hard, with that ring on her finger. It probably caused the gold to dig into her skin and bone.

And with that thought, he wriggled his hand free.

"Well, anyway, that's why walls are there," he said, with some finality, crossing his arms over his chest. "To compartmentalise. Less pain that way. More natural that way."

"Right," she said. And the look she gave him suggested that she had no idea what to make of his faraway gaze. She was searching him as she frequently had...

He wondered if she perhaps knew what he was thinking, but was reserving her reaction because of Tom. The wall known as Tom.

Back in his suit, a few of the wait staff looked offended and wondered where he got off leaving early, but he told them there was a personal emergency, couldn't be helped, and it was the truth. He ploughed through the kitchen, waited until Kinsey Mund wasn't looking, and walked straight for the VIP exit.

He pulled out the psychic paper as he strode, and showed it to the security guard without even looking at him, and pushed the door open.

And when he got outside, he realised he was at the top of a set of stairs. He was out. Now what?

"Hey, you," he heard from behind him. "Nice suit."

He turned, and there she stood. Leaning against this side of the wall, for once.

Well, a plug for a review now... if you're reading, it's only fair to drop me a line once in a while and let me know. I would LOVE to hear from you - this story has been sparsely commented on, and it helps immensely my motivation to keep writing, if I know that there's someone reading and enjoying. :-)

The story is turning a corner now - we are leaving the banquet hall and venturing out... what's next for Martha and the Doctor?

Thank you for reading!