Characters/Pairings: Martha and the Doctor, with implications of Martha/Ten and Ten/Rose
Genre: Angst, gen, missing scene
Spoilers?: Set within "Blink", so not really.
Summary/Excerpt: Stuck again, she thinks; at least this time, she supposes, there isn’t a bizarre brand of amnesia to wrestle with.
It happens in the blink of an eye; one second they’re in 2007, and one second they’re not.
Startled – because instantaneous time-travel is not something she usually does without the aide of a particular blue box – Martha wheels around, and the man at her side does the same.
“What?” he demands indignantly of no one in particular. “What?”
Martha’s gaze travels from the strange cars lining the streets to the clothes and curious glances of passer-bys. Her lips twist, but into a smile or a frown, she’s not quite sure.
“Don’t think we’re in Kansas anymore,” she admits wryly, and when she turns to the Doctor she finds he’s already procured a native to question.
“1969? This is 1969?” he’s repeating importantly, all but ignoring the you’re-completely-mad stare the local girl is sending him as she nods. She sweeps past him as quick as she can, and the Doctor spins to face Martha. “It’s –”
“1969?” She raises her eyebrows. “So I hear.”
He spares her a half-smile, then instantly begins rooting around in the vast pockets of his overcoat. “Yep. We’re in 1969, Martha Jones,” he tells her as he juggles a rubber duck and a toy mouse in one hand, the other hand still searching. “Problem is, the TARDIS isn’t.” He pulls a clear folder from his pocket, filled with photos and hand-written transcripts. “Which means…”
“We’re stuck,” Martha finishes.
The Doctor looks up and nods, smiling apologetically. “Little bit, yeah. But I’ve got this!” He waves the folder back and forth with a manic smile and starts down the street, offering no further explanation; Martha follows, pretending for the moment that having her future stuffed in a clear plastic folder isn’t terrifying in all the wrong ways.
She digs her hands into her pockets and watches the pavement pass beneath her feet. Stuck again, she thinks; at least this time, she supposes, there isn’t a bizarre brand of amnesia to wrestle with.
“Seems like I’m always getting stuck with you,” she says, and directs the grin at her shoes.
“That’s not so bad, is it?” he asks, quiet, and in that one question he sounds so unreservedly sad that she stops, surprised. She stares at him, and once again he’s got that look like there are a million places he’d rather be and a million people (or maybe just one) he’d rather be with.
“I never said it was,” she adds hastily – but he’s not listening, and she falls back into step with a sigh.