Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The Doctor is staring at the message he just typed out, groaning inwardly at just how much effort it is costing him to dredge up the courage to actually hit “Send”.

It’s been a bit over a year – a local year – since the day he’d been supposed to regenerate after being exposed to a fatal dose of radiation.

As far as he knows, he has both regenerated and not – continuing life back home in his next incarnation while his own body, along with his personality, has somehow been transferred to this incredible, unlikely, wonderful world where so many people he had once believed dead are still alive, and he’s given another chance at life.

He’s not arrived undamaged, and his early days here had been an ongoing struggle just to keep him alive, followed by more time spent in agonisingly slow recovery.

He’s about as well now as he expects he’s going to get – and that is far better than he’d expected to ever be again, as he reminds himself now and then. His TARDIS remains gone, travelling on with his next incarnation, but it’s not like he’s needing one anyway. His adventuring days are probably over for good.

Instead, he’s picked one of the larger one-apartment buildings in this world’s main settlement, one already equipped with a small in-house observatory and space for labs and workshops. He’s spent the time since moving in further furnishing it and setting up workstations for himself to study some of the stranger bits of technology that make it in here, to experiment, and to build what strikes his fancy.

Martha Jones’ son August and some of his friends have an open invitation to his home, and they’ve been using it on a regular basis, both to use his equipment for school projects and homework and to look over his own experiments and give him a hand. He enjoys those afternoons.

They’re also one of the things he may be losing if he actually sends off that message and goes through with any plans connected to it.

It wasn’t his idea to begin with.

Well, not really in any case. At least not only. In any case…

No, the entire message wasn’t really his idea. He’d have been happy to just let things continue as they were.

Or maybe not happy but—content?

That was, all the way until Amberdrake had asked him some very pointed, very specific questions.

Back when he’d been incapacitated from the radiation damage his body had taken, confined to clinging to life from a hospital bed, and for the time thereafter as his condition had slowly improved, Amberdrake had been brought in to make sure his joints wouldn’t seize up while he’d been too out of it, and then too weak, to move. As time had progressed, his services had changed a little. Oh, he’s continued to help him with the strictly physical part of getting back on his feet, spending many an hour working strains and minor injuries out of his muscles whenever he’d been too impatient with his body, but he’s also turned out to be an excellent listener – of the sort that encourages a person to talk about all those things that they usually keep to themselves.

He's continued seeing Amberdrake on a more or less regular basis, mostly just to talk these days. It helps him sort his thoughts and keep his memories where they belong. It helps him make sure that the Time Lord Victorious is never going to make an appearance again.

Recently, though, some of the things that have come up are more immediate in nature. He’s not sure why he’s even mentioned it to begin with.

No, that’s not right. He’d mentioned it because he had needed to hear someone else telling him to forget about it all, to take what he has and be content with that.

That, however, was not the response he’d gotten.

And then he’d spent the time since on and off wondering. Is being content with what he has and leaving it at that truly the way to go? How much is he going to regret it over time, never having tried, never actually knowing?

He could have reasoned his way out of that one.

The other thing the kestra’chern has mentioned is harder to discard. How fair is what he’s doing to the other person involved? How close is this once again to making decisions for others? He’s promised himself never to do that again if he can at all help it.

Looking at his screen, he shakes his head and deletes the entire long letter he’s written.

He can’t send it. This may need to be done, but it is not something he can do from behind a screen.

Feel like a ride and a picnic? He types instead. I would like to talk to you about something.

Now that doesn’t sound ominous at all, but nothing he tries adding makes it any better, and eventually he hits “Send” before he can reconsider again.

Chapter Text

Arthur knows he’s nervous. Right now, the horse’s velvety nose keeps turning towards the Doctor, gently prodding at him while he quickly brushes the animal’s coat and puts a saddle on its back.

He’d discovered that not only people, but also a variety of animals have made it to this world outside of all universes known to him before, and one particular horse had arrived here convinced that it belongs to him: Arthur, the grey stallion that had once wandered onto a spaceship with him, Rose, and Mickey on it. The animal had taken a liking to him back then, and he’d had to leave it behind in France after using it to break through a time window.

He'd felt bad about that, even more so knowing that the horse had already escaped one abusive handler when it had ended up on the ship.

It doesn’t seem to hold being abandoned against him, though.

In that odd mixture of highest technology spread everywhere while preserving the appearance of barely any technology at all, horses are a common method of transportation, and having one of his own is certainly useful.

“You at least are going to love me forever, eh?” he mutters, taking a moment to rest his head against Arthur’s neck before reaching for the bridle hanging ready on a hook in the stall’s wall. “Come on, boy. Let’s go outside.”

Luckily, Arthur knows better than to pull or try to hurry ahead. While most of the damage done to the Doctor’s body by the radiation burst that brought him here has healed, there are some few lingering – and possibly permanent – effects. He’s never fully regained his sense of balance, making his gait a little unsteady and running hard on a good day if it’s not on a treadmill where he can hold on at the same time and impossible in any variation on a bad one. Anything approaching exhaustion announces itself with spells of dizziness, and he’s afraid he’s acquired something from the realm of migraine headaches, occurring rarely but no less annoying for that.

He's done the sensible thing, adjusting this wardrobe a little more towards the Victorian in style and adding a cane to his outfit as an accessory. That takes care of any balancing issues enough to get around at what he thinks of as his regular pace. Leading Arthur from the stables to the yard outside, however, he doesn’t bother. A hand on the saddle works just as well.

Martha is waiting for him already. She rides a chestnut, a little taller than Arthur, which puts them pretty much on the same level when they are both mounted.

“Where to?” she asks once he has settled in his saddle and sorted his reins.

“I thought a bit up along the eastern river until we find a nice spot?” he suggests, grateful that she’s not pressing him about what he’d wanted to talk about. He wants to be on neutral ground for that. Neutral, private ground without an audience. Doing this at either his or her place had felt completely wrong; doing it where people might be watching and gossiping hadn’t seemed much better.

No matter how this day is going to end, what happens today and what they talk about is going to stay between the two of them.

They leave the town named the “Village” in a prime example of understatement through the east gate, following the road leading towards the coast.

The horses extend their strides all on their own once they’re away from the hard paved ground.

A few well-placed questions make sure that Martha is talking, telling him about her recent days and anything else he might find of interest as they continue on their way, adding a brief canter across the heather when the opportunity arises. He’s making sure to commit every moment to memory. If things go badly, this is all he’s going to have.

Eventually, they reach the river that comes down from the mountain range, cutting across the meadows and gently rolling hill country to eventually flow into the sea. Not too many people come out here, with most who are looking for a river spot preferring the other, closer river.

“How about there?” the Doctor asks eventually when they draw in sight of a spot just far enough upstream of a small waterfall to still permit comfortable conversation without raising their voices. It’s a pretty spot with tall trees growing by the river’s edge and flowers spreading between the rocks along the banks already even this early into spring.

They dismount, taking the bits out of their horses’ mouths to allow them to graze and tying them loosely enough to let them walk a few steps without getting tangled.

A blanket spread on the ground and a basket with snacks and lemonade is all the two of them need. For a moment, he wishes he’d packed something a bit more powerful to keep up his courage. The farther the moment of truth approaches, the more this feels like a terribly bad idea.

It’s too late to back off now, though. He can’t think of anything he can claim in lieu of his actual purpose.

Trying to nibble on a piece of cake, he almost finds himself unable to swallow. He’s not hungry and his stomach is already in knots.

Martha gives him a long, probing look.

He looks away.

If she’d needed any confirmation that something is up, that was probably it.

“Out with it,” she says, her tone lighter than her words. “Whatever you’re trying to say, it’s not going to go any more smoothly if you make yourself more sick over it.”

“That obvious?” he asks.

“Since before we left,” she confirms.

He closes his eyes and takes a breath, focusing on the smell of the river and the grass along its sides, the sounds of the water and the insects buzzing over it, and the warmth of the spring sun on his skin.

“You’ve built a TARDIS and you’re going to leave on adventures,” Martha suggests when he doesn’t speak up. “Is that what you’re trying to not tell me?”

His eyes fly open and for a moment he can only stare at her with his mouth half open.

“No!” he sputters after a second. “That is not—I wouldn’t—I don’t—No.” He inhales, trying to calm his hearts. “I have not even tried building a TARDIS and I have no intention of leaving.”

He imagines a bit of relief in her face. Well, she’s certainly put enough work and effort into saving his life to be glad he’s not throwing it away on adventures.

“This is… a bit difficult,” he states the obvious. She’s not laughing at least, which is something he’s grateful for. “I’ll need – a moment to get to the point.”

She nods, indicating for him to continue – or probably to start in the first place.

“You know about Rose.” This must be the worst way to begin, but he needs to start there because he needs her to understand what he’s about to explain. When she nods, watching him, her face impossible to read for the moment, he fixes his gaze in the distance across the river. For the first time, he tells her the entire story: how his predecessor and Rose and Jack had encountered the Daleks, how Rose had been sent back, and returned, how he’d saved her life and been forced to regenerate. When he realizes he’s still not going to make much sense, he backtracks. Forcing the words out past the ever-growing need to keep them inside, to not let anyone, and least of all someone he cares about, know that part of him, he lays out the life of the War Doctor, and his acts at the end of the Time War, the full horror of how the Daleks and the Time Lords had ceased to exist.

It should have been enough to make her recoil from him, to get up and leave and not talk to him again, knowing the things he’s capable of, the things he has been willing to do, that he’s done…

She stays where she is, but she reaches out to take his hand in hers, gently forcing him to stop digging his fingernails into his own palm by clenching his hand so hard.

He tries to explain what he’d been like, not sparing his predecessor any more than he had that one’s.

“All that I am,” he says eventually, “what I am, how I am – that is Rose’s doing. It’s her influence on my previous self, and it’s that one’s death to save her that made me me. It wasn’t until I took her and … the other me… to Pete’s World again that I really understood.”

He looks at her then, willing her to understand without needing to say the words, and realizing almost instantly that that’s not how it’s going to work.

“I did love her,” he states. “I was created to love her. It was part of the way this entire incarnation was programmed. But it wasn’t—” he hesitates, fishing for words. “You know how baby birds pick the first thing they see after hatching and they will follow that creature around no matter what? That was me with Rose. I didn’t love her as much as I had imprinted on her.”

She’s not looking too horrified, he thinks. He’s having trouble to spare the processing power to properly gage that because he needs all his focus to stop himself from bolting.

“I’m not a bird, though,” he continues. “I don’t have to stay like that. Still, once I understood all that, I was—lost, I guess. In a way, I lost every idea who I was even supposed to be for a while there. I did some things—”

He looks away again, and quickly launches into summarizing those last months he’d spent back in their home world, speaking faster and faster to keep from giving her an opportunity to tell him he doesn’t have to talk about it – because he’s quite certain that once stopped, he won’t manage to start back up again, and he needs her to know these things beyond the vague mentions he’s offered her before.

“I think I know who I am now,” he says. “Without being defined by how one particular person sees me. And I wish I’d been quicker about that. I couldn’t go back in my own timeline even if I had a TARDIS and – I just wish I’d seen then what I see now.”

She’s looking at him as if she’s trying to figure out what he’s saying. The problem is that he’s not quite sure that what he wants to say and what he is saying is quite the same thing. Then something else springs to mind.

“This isn’t about—it’s not about this time you being the one who saved my life, Martha. This is about—you’re smart, and strong, and funny, and you—I—I’m really bad at this—”

Is she laughing? He doesn’t think she’s laughing, but he’s not quite sure what she’s doing either.

“Doctor,” she says after a few long moments of silence between them, raising a hand and extending three fingers. “I’m going to take a page out of the book of someone we see in Sickbay on a regular basis – because I’m not sure that what you’re saying and what I’m hearing are the same thing here. Can you put the core of what you were just trying to tell me into three simple, concise sentences?”

Three…

The last time he’d been going to say it he’d run out of time.

The last time he’d been asked to say it he’d been unable to because he’d just understood that what the words said and what he meant wasn’t the same thing.

This is different.

This is…

He’s taking too long. He can see the moment she’s about to speak again in her face just in time to rush in.

“I love you, Martha Jones. I’m at least two decades late from your point of view. I’m sorry. And I’ve probably just shot our friendship.”

Whatever she’d been about to say is replaced by a sound somewhere in the vague realm of a helpless laugh quickly suppressed. “That was four sentences,” she points out. “And the third of those was about the most you thing you could possibly say.”

So that’s what matters about his confession?

Could be worse. She could be storming off in anger.

He’s still trying to work out a response when she moves – not away from him, but closer, directly facing him.

“You’re right,” she says. “In that I’ve long ceased to be in love with you. Doesn’t mean I don’t love you.”

He needs a moment to process that.

“Do you mean---?” He’s not sure she’s saying what he thinks she is.

“I mean, we can give this a try and see where it leads us,” she says practically. “Now please stop looking at me as if you’re expecting me to run away in terror any moment.”

“I kind of did, though,” he admits. “I mean, not in terror, but—“ he breaks off, once again sorting his thoughts. “Right. What do we do now?”

“What would you like to do?” There might still be a hint of that note to her tone that one uses to gentle a skittish animal.

“I’d really like to kiss you,” he blurts out, adventurous boldness washing into the space just vacated by nerves.

Martha moves ever so slightly closer to him. “I’m right here,” she says. “Go ahead.”

He’s half afraid of what he’s going to think when he does move, reaching for her, sliding a hand into her hair and feelings hers in the same place on his own head a moment later. The relief at the fact that the only thing his mind remains fixed on is Martha is almost palpable for him for a moment before their lips meet and he doesn’t think anything for a long, long moment.

“I should have figured this out way back,” he mutters when they move apart again, though only enough for him to shift so he can put an arm around her and rest his head against her shoulder, soaking up the warmth of their closeness.

“Trust me, you wouldn’t have wanted twenty-years-ago me,” she tells him. “I wouldn’t want twenty-years-ago me. Be glad Mickey’s the one who had to deal with that.”

Fuck. “Mickey…” He draws out the name. “He’s—”

A finger on his lips stops him. “Not interested in this place, or in us, that’s what he is,” Martha informs him. “I’ve qualified as divorced from the day I moved into my house here and he didn’t. There’s a point to August and me both being Jones, and Jones only.”

That’s another relief to hear.

A few moments pass in comfortable silence. He breaks it eventually. “I don’t assume we can just stay here forever, like this?”

He feels the shake of her head. “’fraid not. I have concert tickets for tonight and I’d really like to go. Want to come?”

He doesn’t even ask what concert. “Sure. But isn’t that going to make whoever was supposed to get that ticket sad?”

“I know the lead singer and guitarist,” Martha explains. “She always makes sure friends get to bring a plus-one if they like. She’ll love that I’m not showing up alone. Need to warn you, though – this time tomorrow a lot of people are probably going to know that I didn’t. The fiddler’s wife is a terrible gossip.”

“I’m fine with that,” he informs her. “I’m so absolutely fine with that.”

Chapter Text

When he arrives at the Street of Lights, Martha is waiting for him outside the entrance to the club she’s directed him to. He’s nodding at people as he passes. He’s a familiar sight in the entertainment district, roaming the colorful winding street with its many different activity options whenever the solitude of his own home turns into loneliness and the clamoring of unwelcome memories in his mind is getting too loud to ignore.

There’s always something going on here, and it’s not like he’s unknown in the club they’re going to go to right now either.

It’s certainly not the location that’s causing him to shorten his steps and fight a sudden wave of that awkward feeling that happens only in the rare cases where he’s entirely out of his depth.

It’s been so long that he’s had anything that can be called a relationship, and never in this incarnation, never away from Gallifrey, never—

Martha has noticed him slowing his approach. Feeling her scrutiny, he makes an effort to close the remaining distance between them at a more appropriate pace.

“Hey,” he says as he reaches her, uncertain of what is appropriate to do next.

“Hey yourself,” Martha replies. Then, her voice low, she adds: “If you’d rather not—”

He shakes his head. “I wouldn’t rather not,” he quickly tells her. “I just don’t—it’s been forever. I don’t know what to do.” His voice is so low at that confession that it’s almost surprising that she can make out what he’s saying at all. “Do we… kiss? Hug? I don’t—”

“Hey,” Martha says, reaching out with one hand to pat his arm. “We do whatever feels right. Our relationship. Our rules.”

He doesn’t like feeling out of his depth. For the most part, he is the one who knows how things work, what sort of reaction is expected, how to blend in – if not perfectly then at least acceptably. Right now, though, he’d be perfectly happy to just be taken by the hand and guided to wherever he needs to go.

As if reading his mind, Martha links her arm with his. “Shall we go inside and find a place to sit?”

That sounds like a great idea. He doesn’t think people are watching them and taking note of the weirdness of their situation, but being able to sit down in some preferably out of the way place and sort his thoughts and maybe figure out some ground rules seems like a uniquely good idea.

Martha barely flashes her Panel at the doorperson. It seems she’s sufficiently known here.

Any thoughts of sitting out of the way dissipate when she immediately steers them towards a small, round table just off the side of the stage, where two people are sitting already.

“Martha!” one of them exclaims, motioning for her to take the chair on one side of the table. “Who’s your friend?”

“Jack,” Martha acknowledges him. “This is the Doctor. He’s my plus-one. Doctor, this is Jack Gale. He’s the frontwoman’s husband. He’s also a half-dragon. And this is Kitty Wellesley, the fiddler’s wife.”

“The gossip?” he blurts out, his mouth going a little too fast to stop himself.

Kitty spreads her hands briefly in a “can’t help it,” gesture. She’s small and somewhat delicate looking, her hair put up in a style that seems to come from vaguely the same era as his own outfit. Her dress looks a bit later in terms of era, and he can only hope that she has a coat somewhere because it seems far too light for the current weather.

Jack is wearing even less. He’s in jeans and a sleeveless shirt, which shows off patches of skin on his shoulders and neck that are changing between skin and golden scales. His hair is a light blonde, spiked up a bit more aggressively than the Doctor’s own. Jack’s pupils are round like a human’s, but he’s never yet seen a human with that golden shade to their irises. He’s sporting two facial scars – one a half-moon on his cheek that might have come from a sports or other accident, the other a straight line down his cheek from the corner of one eye. That one definitely looks deliberate. Beyond that, he's wearing a sparkling stone on an earring in one ear, and a strange sort of markings on his skin that seem to disappear whenever the Doctor looks straight at them, but flicker at the edge of his vision when he focuses elsewhere.

“Sit,” Jack tells him, indicating the other free chair, on his other side, which means that he’s going to be across from Martha, with the table between them. “I won’t eat you. And neither will Kitty.”

Unless she’s a half-dragon, too, he wouldn’t have been worried about that.

He’s given a brief reprieve as a waitress arrives to take their orders for drinks.

When Martha stays on the non-alcoholic side of the menu, so does he. While he might have appreciated taking the edge off of his nerves, he can also appreciate that doing so with drink probably isn’t the most sensible way – and Gallifreyan metabolism means he’d need more than a glass of wine anyway.

When their drinks are brought, Jack is studying him so intently for a moment that he cannot not react.

“What?” he asks, glad to hear his tone remains casual.

“Just wondering if your parents actually named you ‘Doctor’, and if so, why,” Jack remarks.

“I chose that name when I started travelling,” the Doctor informs him. “Why did yours call you Jack?”

“My mother said it’s a name for heroes,” Jack informs him. He is sounding quite serious about it. “Jack Sparrow. Jack Harkness…”

The Doctor almost spits out the mouthful of lemonade he’d been about to drink. “You’re named after Jack?” he wants to know. “Our Jack? Javic?”

When Jack chuckles, a few small plumes of smoke escape from his mouth and nostrils. “Sort of,” he admits. “See, in the world I come from, Jack Harkness is a fictional character from a TV show. It does appear that sometimes, what happens in one universe seeps through into the minds of certain receptive people in other ones, who use that information to produce works of fiction – that are different degrees of close to the thing that’s happening in the other universe where it’s… actually happening.”

He stares are Martha, not sure if he’s looking for confirmation or denial.

She gives him a nod. “They did us, too,” she says. “Jack’s Aunties would probably love getting a chance to figure out how close you are to the Doctor they know from telly."p>

“I’m not sure I want to find out,” he says. Actually, it could be fun. It might be fascinating to see how other people are imagining his life.

Or it might be creepy.

He’s slightly leaning in the direction of fun, though.

The music has started by now, though the filter fields around the individual tables mean that they’re not going to disturb anyone by talking, and no one at the table has told him to shut up yet…

“Wait,” he says as something else filters through. “What about things that are fiction in our home universe?”

“Might be real in others,” Martha confirms.

“Star Trek?”

“I have a bunch of colleagues from Starfleet here, so yes,” Martha says. “Can introduce you to some.”

“Harry Potter?”

“Definitely.” She laughs, though it’s not as much a ‘laughing at him’ tone and more of a ‘this is so you’ one as far as he can tell. “You’ve been here a year. What have you been doing?”

“Building my labs. Watching movies. Doing … stuff!” He defends himself. “Also I spent most of that year recovering from almost dying nonstop for months.”

“We don’t have months,” Kitty points out helpfully.

“True,” the Doctor admits. “Three moons and all that, bit awkward for months. I mean, how would you even call them and if you pick just one of them then the others might feel bad about it. But I guess you could—" Noticing Martha’s eyes on him, he stops himself. “I’m rambling, aren’t I?” he asks, a bit sheepish.

“Yep,” she confirms, a smile on her lips and in her eyes. “And it’s adorable.” Reaching out, she puts her hand on his on the table.

He drops his other hand on hers, grinning broadly.

“Oh, is that how it is?” Jack asks, a gleam in his eyes that suggests that Kitty may not be the only one interested in spreading a bit of gossip.

“Yes,” Martha confirms. “This is how it is.”

“So happy for you!” Jack declares. He sounds genuine. In the Doctor’s direction, he adds: “So does that mean we’re going to see more of you now?”

“I don’t know?” he offers, not wanting to presume anything. “Maybe? If Martha is okay with me coming?”

“If you have the time,” she says, a slightly teasing note to her tone. “I hear you’re quite busy with building your labs and workshops and all.”

“I can probably cut back on that a bit.” Images come washing through his mind, offering him slices of a possible future – a future he’s moving towards right now. It’s not the first time he’s getting glimpses at a potential life that involves being settled with a family – but it’s the first time he can remember that the thought doesn’t fill him with a degree of dread. Maybe he is ready to stop running…

That thought leads to another one. Maybe, in a universe where there is no and has never been a Gallifrey, where time works ever so slightly and yet perceivably differently, where there is no Untempered Schism that naturally opens into the Time Vortex – maybe he has nothing to run from here.

That is something he’ll have to think through in greater detail, and in a much calmer environment.

Jack is following someone’s beckons to another table, and not long after that Kitty accepts a request to dance, leaving the two of them alone at theirs for the moment. The music has brought quite a few people into the free space in front of the stage, moving to it. He’s watching, wondering if he should point out to Martha that she’s free to go and dance if she likes, when the bit of banter added between songs announces the next piece, promising a variation of Mull of Kintyre. He’s heard that one before. He’s reasonably sure that he can actually manage dancing to it without falling over his own feet, especially if he has a dance partner he can rely on.

His eyes find Martha’s. “Do you want to dance?” he asks her.

“You don’t have to,” she hurries to reassure him.

“I know I don’t have to.” He reaches for her hand across the table again. “I would like to. Martha Jones, would you do me the honor of dancing with me?”

“I’d love to, Doctor,” she says, rising as he does and letting him lead her out between the other dancers.

It’s certainly not the first time they’ve danced together. Far from it. This feels different, though, and not just because this time he’s still figuring out how to dance when his body is slightly less cooperative than it used to be.

It certainly helps on that end that Martha quickly adjusts the placement of her hand on his arm, giving him a little more support than she strictly speaking should. Feeling her close her fingers gently on his arm confuses him for a moment, until they move into the first turn and he realizes that she’s just set herself up to help him compensate quickly if he does miss a step.

Giving her an appreciative nod, hopefully conveying that he’s understood and approves, he allows the music to take over.

Chapter Text

After the set is done and the encore is over, three from the band are coming over to their table while the rest is gravitating towards the bar.

“Who do we have here?” the group’s leader asks, looking at the Doctor.

“I’m the Doctor,” he introduces himself, offering his hand.

“He’s Martha’s beau,” Kitty offers helpfully.

Martha, who has taken the free chair next to him when they’d returned to the table, leaving it to Kitty and Jack to rearrange their own seating order to their liking upon their return, is giving the table a brief, intense look while she’s trying to get her features under control and not burst out laughing. Her arm comes up to rest around his shoulders, inviting him to lean closer. “What’s it feel like, being my beau?” she asks him.

“Feels alright,” he says, realizing as he does so that it feels a lot more than just alright. “Feels fine actually. I like it.”

“Well,” Martha says with a small grin his way, “So this is Charlie; she runs the band.” She indicates the tall, thin frontwoman.

Charlie’s hair is a rainbow of color and the Doctor could swear the strands have changed shade more than once during the set. She’s been switching between acoustic and electric guitars, mandolin, and banjo just as each song called for, her choice not always conventional but always perfectly fitting with their delivery.

She’s tapped Jack on the shoulder, causing him to move his chair back just enough so she can slide onto his lap, effectively sharing space. The guitar she’d used on the last song had still been in her hand when she’d come down from the stage. It’s leaning against the table within easy each now. Like Jack, her clothes and skin are marked with shapes that don’t seem to be quite there.

Charlie nods at the Doctor, before directing a slightly apologetic look at one of her companions. “That was not foreseeable,” she notes.

Martha is laughing out loud at that. “True,” she agrees. “It did come as a bit of a surprise to me, too. Not an unwelcome one, mind you!” The last one is directed at the Doctor. She sobers, motioning towards the recipient of the apology. “Bob Hogan, the drummer. I assume he intended to be my company for the rest of the night.”

“He’ll live,” Hogan declares. “Barely, maybe, but certainly. I’ll find other company. I’m good at finding company.”

Somehow, the Doctor doesn’t doubt that. Though a somewhat different category visually, with jet-black hair and the pointiest nose the Doctor has seen in a long while, there’s a lot about Hogan’s demeanor that reminds him of the man he’s known as Jack Harkness – down to an apparent penchant for vintage military clothing, though this one’s jacket seems to have been lifted from a different world war.

“And that is Arthur,” Martha finally introduces the third musician who has come to join them. This one has the ginger hair the Doctor is still slightly sad his regenerations have never produced, intense blue eyes that are almost enough to make him nervous under their scrutiny, and an impressive nose as the dominant feature in his face.

“I named my horse Arthur,” the Doctor says, his mouth working slightly faster than his brain can tell him that that is possibly not the most sensible piece of information to convey. “After—” He breaks off. His reasoning has just caught up, putting the details of names and instrument and looks together. “No way--!”

“Yeah. Way,” Arthur confirms, standing behind his wife’s chair and placing a hand on her shoulder, which causes her to reach up to cover his hand in turn. “And by the way, that is a very good name for a horse. Though I do assume he was born in a barn.”

“Couldn’t say, your Grace,” the Doctor mutters, not quite sure how to take the response. “I never asked him.”

Arthur barks a laugh at that. “Please,” he says. “Just Arthur. We don’t really do Dukes here, do we?”

“Plus, it would be really weird to have a Duke as my fiddler,” Charlie points out.

“You have a half-dragon for a husband,” Arthur Wellesley, formerly the Duke of Wellington, returns. “How is that less 'weird'?”

As round after round of playful, good-natured banter ensues between this group of people from different eras and different species, the Doctor leans slightly towards Martha, only to find that she’s in turn moving to meet him, once again establishing physical contact between them. He’s not sure how he’s gone from worrying that he’s about to destroy the best-established friendship he has in this strange place, the thing that’s closest to giving him comfort and security, to feeling more – at home – than he can remember ever feeling in this regeneration before, and for at least a couple before it, but he’s not going to complain. He’s just going to enjoy it while it lasts.

Chapter Text

It's late when they leave, and the relatively cool night isn’t hurting in serving as an incentive to walk close together, though it’s really rather a symbolic act – Gallifreyan body temperature is too low to make him either feel cold yet or serve to keep someone else warm.

“Is it ridiculous if I walk you home?” He asks Martha when they reach the entrance to the Street of Lights.

She shakes her head at him, smiling fondly. “Nah. That’s fine. I’d like that.”

They’re turning away from the business streets, which are still active and catering to those who by nature or choice pursue a more nocturnal lifestyle, at the first opportunity. The residential streets are not deserted, but they are much calmer this late, with streetlamps going on and off along with anyone out and about, never lighting up more than the section of street currently needed.

“This is not how I imagined this day was going to end,” he confesses when they turn into Rose Street, where Martha’s house is.

“Any regrets?” she asks.

“Oh no.” He looks at her sideways, still hardly believing what is happening. “Well, maybe having waited this long.” That leads to another thought. “Would you have rather I’d been quicker about it?”

She manages to lean into him ever so slightly without throwing him off balance. “We generally recommend people get settled properly before they make any big decisions or plans,” she reminds him. “I think you did well.”

That makes him grin. He wouldn’t mind just walking like this with her forever, but they’ve reached her home, and he stops as she does. “Can I kiss you goodnight?” he asks before she can turn towards her front door.

“Yes,” she confirms. “Absolutely.”

She reaches up to cup his head in her hands, reciprocating with just as much enthusiasm as he is putting into the kiss.

“I’d like to take you out for lunch or dinner one of these days,” he tells her when they move apart again, still close enough that he can keep his voice low. “Is that okay?” He can’t remember having felt this out of his depth before, but strangely he doesn’t even mind it. If anything, it’s filling him with some degree of excitement.

“I’d like that,” she agrees.

“Cool.” He nods eagerly. “May be a few days. Need to earn some money first. I don’t want to make it Olennika’s or Mia’s, and I’m afraid I’ve spent all of my allowance on lab equipment already.” He’s referring to the two free-of-charge dining places in the Village.

There’s a small chuckle coming from her. “That is the most you thing,” she comments. “Of course you did.”

He can’t even deny it. “Well,” he points out, “August and his friends certainly—” that reminds him of something. “What’s August going to think of this?”

“Pretty sure he’ll be fine with it,” Martha tells him. “He does like you a lot. As you know.” She glances at the house, then back at him, as if trying to come to a decision. “He’s spending the night at the Carters’,” she informs him after another moment. “Steven’s birthday party. So if you want to come inside—don’t feel obligated. You don’t need to if that’s moving too fast.”

“Yes,” he says, then: “No. I mean—” he’s flustered, again. How do people navigate relationships. He inhales slowly, forcing himself to calm down. “It’s not moving too fast. I’d like to come in.” The fact is that he’s not even sure it’s not. It feels a bit like being on a wild-water ride and being carried along by the tide, but it’s exhilarating, and filling him with adrenalin in the best manner.

“Come on then,” she says. Does she sound happy? He thinks she does. She’s not taking her hand away from his back as they approach the house. The door recognizes both of them. She’s never taken him off of the approved list for the door after his stay with her during the part of his convalescence between checking himself out of the hospital and checking himself back in for intense physiotherapy once he’d reached the point where his body could take it.

He's been here regularly since then, too, for dinners and birthdays and other occasions, and sometimes just to join a game night or watch a movie with a group of friends. Somehow, hanging his coat by the door, leaning his cane against the wall, and slipping out of his shoes to avoid carrying street dirt into Martha’s living room feels different today.

“Go ahead,” she tells him “I’ll get us something to drink.”

He takes “ahead” to mean the living room, where he settles on the sofa.

It can only be a couple of minutes until she joins him, but by then he has switched from sitting properly on the edge, to almost climbing onto the sofa’s armrest, to sitting cross-legged on the sofa, to leaning into the corner of the upholstery, one foot on the cushions with him and the other on the floor.

When she comes to join him, she hands him a glass and sits across from him, mirroring his posture and staying just out of reach.

Is he supposed to do anything? Say anything? He sips from his glass and, for a moment, feeling as if he’d most like to just become one with the furniture right then. That’s not an option, though. Maybe honesty is the way to go.

“I haven’t—It’s been many regenerations since the last time I’ve had a relationship,” he admits, then realizes he’s basically told her that already, earlier. Still... “I am not sure I remember how it works.”

“That’s why you’re setting the speed,” Martha tells him practically. “We’re going as quickly or as slowly as you’re okay with.”

“I’d be okay with having you closer,” he says. It’s true. He can feel the warmth of her much higher human body temperature even at the distance, and what he really wants is to have her there, in his arms, close enough to feel her single heartbeat.

She moves until she’s sitting by his side, almost touching. “Good? Or closer?”

“Closer?” he asks, his voice low. “If that’s okay?”

Another small shift has her leaning against him. His arms come up to encircle her body almost of their own volition, holding her.

“Good?” he asks, needing to make sure he’s not crowding her with more closeness than she’d intended.

“Very good,” she tells him, relaxing into his embrace.

For a few long, silent moments, he rests his head against her shoulder, breathing in her scent, matching his heartbeats to hers as closely as is possible, given the different number of organs in each of their bodies.

He’d be entirely content to just sit like that forever.

That’s not how it works, though, is it? He’s supposed to do more. He knows the theory behind these moments.

He starts moving his hand up and down her arm ever so slightly, and he can feel her react to the caress. It’s the good sort of reaction. It feels nice on his end, too.

Following a momentary impulse, he shifts a little to breathe a kiss on her exposed skin where neck and shoulder join.

Martha makes an appreciative sound at that, which makes him smile. This still feels nice, and he’s starting to relax a bit more.

She shifts her position slightly, reaching around him with one hand. Her fingers leave warm tracks on his back. Her other hand comes up to cup his face, and he lets her direct him towards her for another kiss.

That feels very nice. He’s starting to think that this might actually be working exceptionally well.

Suddenly feeling bold, he catches her hand in his, guiding it to the buttons of his shirt before he can lose his nerve.

She deftly opens the first one, then drops her hand to the second, and hesitates.

“Is this what you want?” she asks him, watching him intently.

He nods his head slightly.

She makes no move to continue. “I need to actually hear you say it, Doctor. Do you want me to continue this?”

“Yes.” His voice sounds a little strained and he’s hoping she’s taking that for tension born from anticipation, not nerves. It’s not that he doesn’t have any experience. It’s just that he’s never found the enjoyment in it that he knows people are supposed to feel.

He watches her take in what she sees as she proceeds. He does think she appreciates it. He hopes so. The last time she’s seen him shirtless he’d been lying in bed, needing help with everything, including getting dressed, and his body had had all the volume of a victim of famine.

He’s still thin, probably more so than is generally recommended, but at least it’s not an unhealthy thin anymore, and there’s a little muscle back where it belongs.

Her hand brushes over his exposed chest. A touch quite similar to it had felt good moments ago. Now, as they’re nearing the point where they’ll move from cuddling and holding and kissing to something else, it’s causing him to tense briefly.

Though he has his reaction under control quickly, it’s not quick enough. She has noticed, and it causes her to stop what she’s doing and move back a little, giving him space.

“Doctor?” she asks. “You okay?”

He nods, then quickly adds. “Yeah. Do—do keep going?”

“You sure?” she moves in carefully, slowly, but without actually touching again. “If this is going to fast, that is absolutely alright. We don’t have to go all out tonight.”

“No, we—we should—I—I don’t know—” He doesn’t know when he’ll next be able to dredge up the courage to even start.

She shakes her head slightly. “You’re not into this, are you?”

A small sigh escapes his lips. “No,” he admits. Right. He needs to—He’s not sure what he needs to do, but he doesn’t think the evening is salvageable. He knows her. She’s not going to keep going unless he can convince her he’s having fun, and he’s already failed at that. This isn’t something he can possible explain – can he? And that means—He starts buttoning up his shirt again. “I should probably go.”

“Doctor.” Martha moves back on the sofa, far enough from him not to touch him by accident. She’s clearly giving him space. “Please – Talk to me. Don’t just walk away now. Let me understand what just happened.”

Half-raising his hands in a helpless gesture, he shakes his head, then shrugs, then opens his mouth to respond and closes it again. If he’s saying how it is, that’s going to be the end of any chance they have. There’ll be no point in trying again.

“Is it a Rose-thing?” Martha asks as he rises to his feet.

“What?” he blurts out. “No!” It’s the logical thing for her to assume, of course. But that’s one thing he can’t let her believe. He sits back down, burying his face in his hands for a moment. “It’s not a Rose-thing,” he says as firmly as he can manage. He’s going to have to give her more than that to make her believe it. “It’s a me-thing.”

“Elaborate?” she asks.

Well then. He doesn’t see a way out of this. He’ll have to treasure the hours he’s had. “I know how it works, of course,” he says, without specifying what ‘it’ is. “I know where everything goes. I know how to do it. I can do it. I know you’re supposed to like it. I just – I don’t.”

She’s frowning at him, her eyes narrowed slightly as she processes. “You don’t like—sex?” she asks, sounding as if she’s absolutely not certain that she’s on the right track. “Is that what you’re saying?”

“Never have,” he confirms with a nod. “I—I thought—I hoped maybe things had changed. It’s been a few regenerations.”

“You said you’ve been a dad before,” she points out. “You—”

“We don’t—Gallifreyans don’t reproduce... like that,” he points out. “We’re sterile. We use—” he closes his eyes as he realizes something else. “I should have told you that, shouldn’t I? If we’d stayed—continued—if – I mean, you might have wanted …” He’s babbling.

She needs a moment to figure it out. “Forget about that,” she tells him. “If at any point we decide we want to raise a child together, we can request an unaccompanied minor, and if we want one that shares our DNA – all we need is a DNA sample from each of us and we can mix. Probably safer across species boundaries anyway. Just – let’s get this straight. You don’t like sex. You have never liked sex.”

He nods.

“You were going to tell me about this when?” she inquires.

She doesn’t sound too angry. He wonders where she’s planning to go with that. “I wasn’t,” he admits. “I was just going to –to do it and—pretend.”

“Yeah. No. Don’t,” she tells him. “Don’t pretend. One, it’s not working. Two, it’s not necessary.”

He stares at her. “What do you--?”

“Hey,” she says, carefully reaching for his hand, slowly enough to let him pull away.

He doesn’t.

“We’re not going to do anything you’re not good with. I’ve said that. I mean that. Alright?”

He’s not sure, but he nods anyway.

“So,” she continues, “I know vaguely what you don’t like. What do you like?”

“I like hugging,” he says. “Kissing. Some touching. I liked—earlier.”

“We can work with that,” she says. “If you want to? Just that. No going where you’re not fully into it.”

Oh, he does want to say yes. But should he?

“You’re not like that, though,” he ventures. “You’ll want—more. You’ll be—missing out?”

“I haven’t had a fixed partner since I arrived here,” she tells him flatly. “No time, no interest, happy enough to be on my own after Mickey. I have some holos that I use when the mood strikes. As long as you don’t mind if I get those out once in a while…”

“Yes—no—I mean: I don’t mind. You can—whatever works for you.” He studies her, still processing. “You think this can still work – in spite of – that?”

“Doctor, a relationship is not sex,” she informs him. “One may be incidental to the other in more than a few cases, but the thing that matters is that we are both good with how things are. I’m good with staying in your comfort zone. I’m not good with you pretending to like something just because you think I need you to. Okay?”

He nods. The next thing he tries to say is killed by a sudden yawn that forces its way through.

“I—I think that’s my cue to leave after all,” he admits. “God, I’m sorry this ended – like this.”

“Let’s try not to repeat this particular stunt,” she agrees. “And you don’t have to. Leave, I mean. Unless you want to.”

“I should get home while I can still keep my eyes open,” he points out.

One side of Martha’s mouth lifts slightly. “Or you could stay here. The guest room’s still good – or we can go and find out if my bed’s large enough to sleep two if you like. Just sleep. And hold and kiss and cuddle a little if you want to. No other activities involved. And all the holos stay off.”

Chapter Text

He wakes with the oddest feeling of warmth and comfort and – something else that he needs a long moment, and then another one, to identify.

Lying there, still half asleep, cuddled up against the warmth of Martha’s body, her arm around him and his head cushioned against her shoulder, he’s enjoying the rare experience of feeling safe and – strangely, unexpectedly – perfectly at home. He’s feeling more at home right now than he has since before leaving Gallifrey. Since long before leaving Gallifrey.

Blinking open his eyes, he finds that she’s watching him. He’s suddenly hoping that their difference in body temperature doesn’t make him feel like a corpse to her.

“Morning,” he says lazily, still trying to make his brain catch up with the reality of the situation.

“Morning, Doctor,” she tells him, smiling. Her hand moves just enough to tousle his hair, and he shifts his head further into her touch.

Her words filter through enough to remind him of something else.

“I should—” he says, then breaks off. Shifting his weight a bit, he changes his position and pushes himself up a little to be at one height with her. “My designation on Gallifrey was Theta Sigma. It’s like – a unique code to identify me by. It was my student registration number, and what anyone I knew from that time would have called me. Some friends used to call me Thete for short.”

She stares at him. “Did you just tell me your name?” she asks, sounding as if he’s not quite believing what she’s hearing.

He shakes his head slightly. “No. It’s more like – an identifying code. My name, as in my true name, the thing the Carrionites should never ever know—that’s something different.”

“Do you want me to call you – Theta Sigma – or Thete – instead of Doctor?” she inquires.

“Not really. I don’t much like it. I just wanted you to know. And I’d like to—I can’t tell you my name. Or I could, but you wouldn’t be able to memorize it easily. It’s long and it’s not all that pronounceable for humans. I’ll—if you’ll allow me, I would give it to you telepathically. Then you’ll at least know.”

“You sure?” She looks like she’s not quite believing her ears.

“Yeah.” He nods slowly. “I’m sure. I know that I—my successor, one of my successors—will marry a woman called River Song, and he will give her my name. Call me weird, but I want to choose someone who knows it for myself, and I want that person to be you. If you want to know.”

“I’m—honored,” she says. “And yes. Yes, I want to know.”

He reaches to touch her face, to make it easier to establish telepathic contact. “If you notice me moving somewhere in your mind where you don’t want me, imagine a door closing,” he says. “I’ll stay out then.”

“Understood.”

Worrying his lip between his teeth as he focuses, he slides in, finding a mind that is surprisingly orderly for a human – he shouldn’t be surprised by that. As he discovers the place where she has stored him, to attach his name to himself there, he finds himself almost overwhelmed by the warmth and love he discovers. This is—more than he had expected. Far more.

He leaves what he’s come to bring, and then guides her with him back into his own mind, showing her the place he has for her, and seeing with a small jolt of pleasure how her eyes widen in joyful surprise when she gets the undiluted version of what he is feeling for her.

Chapter Text

They’re sitting at the breakfast table when the front door opens and August walks in, sporting that strangely awake when he really shouldn’t be look that only teenagers can manage after a night probably spent awake throughout.

“Hey Mum!” he calls into the room as he walks past the door. A second later he does a visible double-take and comes back, giving the Doctor a long look, then scrutinizing his mother and looking back at him. “Doctor. Are you still here, or already?”

“Still…” he offers, drawing out the word and almost making it sound like a question.

August licks his lips thoughtfully, turns and walks a few steps down the corridor to glance into the guest room.

The perfectly untouched, unused guest room.

He comes back, grinning at both of them. “So that’s how it is then, is it?” he asks.

“Yes,” Martha confirms. “That is how it is. Do you mind?”

“Mind?” August tosses the magazine he’s been carrying on the table and starts opening cupboards to get himself a bowl and a spoon and help himself to cereals. “It’s fucking brilliant.”

“Language,” his mother cautions.

“Yes, Mum. It is though.” He looks at the Doctor, his eyes narrowing in consideration. “Do I call you ‘dad’ now?”

He barely catches himself before he can spit his tea across the table.

“I don’t—” he tries once he’s swallowed. “I mean, I’m not trying to usurp Mickey’s place. I swear. I’m—”

“I believe we’ve both told you before: there’s nothing to usurp,” Martha tells him. “He’s given up any place he had a long, long time ago. If he remembers we exist at this point, that’s his problem.”

“What—” he glances at August, then back at Martha. “What do you think? What should I—be?”

“What do you want to be?” she returns.

He’s glad for that brief telepathic contact from earlier now. She’s going to accept it if he needs a bit more distance, but she’s going to welcome him to the family with open arms just as much if he’s willing to join them.

Family. An actual, real family. Not something he would have thought ever to be part of his future again.

He makes himself ignore the fact that in-laws are going to be part of that family, too, and Martha’s mother likes him not a bit better than she had the first day they’d met.

“I’d—I’d love to be August’s dad.”

She motions towards her son with a move of her head, and he turns slightly to meet the teenager’s eyes. “I’d love to be your dad, August. If you really want me.”

“That’s cool,” August says. “Are you going to stick with just ‘the Doctor’? You might end up as a contact note in a student file…”

Now that is a very good question. He turns his attention back to Martha. “I should probably pick something that actually looks and sounds like a name, shouldn’t I?” he says, mostly because he needs to hear it said aloud and confirmed. “I’m not really ‘The Doctor’ anymore anyway. That’s—that clown piloting my TARDIS now.”

“They’re a few incarnations past that clown,” Martha reminds him. “And quite honestly I don’t think you’ll ever really not be ‘The Doctor’, but there’s no reason you shouldn’t pick another name to use if you like.”

“Not John Smith, though,” he says immediately.

Does he imagine it or is there some relief flashing in Martha’s eyes? He wouldn’t fault her for it. Back when he’d been the human John Smith he had almost left her for a school nurse. Even as things are now, she doesn’t need a constant reminder of that.

Then he realizes another thing – Smith isn’t only his go-to alias from before, and Sarah Jane’s very real last name. It had also been Mickey’s.

“Definitely not Smith,” he decides. He thinks, going through what names come to mind, and notices he’s running through his Companions, none of which he’s going to feel right taking the name of. His brain has supplied Tyler twice when he forces his thoughts away from there.

Running his tongue over his lips, he collects his courage once again. He’s gone from being single and secretly in love and convinced that’s probably the best he can get to ‘in a relationship’ where the other side of said relationship actually knows and accepts his boundaries, to ‘part of an entire family’ in less than a fully day. They can’t go much faster than that, can they?

“Can it be Jones?” He holds his breath waiting for her answer.

“Yeah,” it comes, her voice low but certainly not sounding unhappy. “It can certainly be Jones. Maybe not John, though? John Jones does … not have a great ring to it.”

True.

“And not Michael,” August adds. “Not Richard because that’s Ricky, and not Leo, ideally not Steven or Jack.”

“Jack is John anyway,” he mutters.

August ignores that. “Oh, and not David because there’s a guy by that name running around who looks entirely too much like you to begin with. I’ve already called him Doctor once in the market by accident.”

He must know thousands of names in all sorts of different languages, and yet right now all that want to come to mind are the ones that he’s not going to pick because they belong to someone he knows.

Looking around for inspiration, he glances at the magazine August had brought with him. It’s dedicated to vintage music. He nods at it. “Why don’t you open that on a random page and give me the first name you see that’s not already taken by someone we know?” he asks.

“Bit risky,” August comments, but he picks up the magazine and holds it out to his mother to open in a random location.

Smoothing it out on the table, he scans the lines, frown deepening, until he hits something usable. “Neil.” He says, pointing.

“Neil Jones?” That doesn’t have a bad ring to it.

“Sounds good,” Martha decides. “Might need a few moments to get used to not calling you Doctor, though.”

“You can call me anything you like,” he tells her as he fishes his Panel from his back pocket to adjust his name entry. “Except maybe not ‘Sweetie’ if at all possible. That’s what River Song kept saying.”

“I think I can manage that,” Martha agrees. “Do we—do you want to order a Door?” The capital d is clear in the way she says the word. What she means is a fold in space directly connecting his house and hers, making it possible to step through by simply walking through a regular doorway.

“If you have a place to put it.” He drinks the rest of his tea and rises, carrying his plate and cup over to the dishwasher and putting them away. “I—should I come back here tonight?”

“That would be nice,” Martha says, smiling. “Though you don’t have to leave unless you actually have plans or things to do.”

She has also stood, and he takes the opportunity to pull her into a brief hug and a quick kiss which August comments with all the exasperation of a teen watching the older generation in love.

“I need to get a job,” he informs her. “The Doctor is an entity. He can get away with just living from Credit payment to Credit payment and spending all he has on labs and workshops. Neil Jones is a person, with a family. He needs some Crowns.”

“You don’t – really,” she reminds him. “You can, of course, if you want to, but you’re not obligated—even if there’s anything we need Crowns for, I do have an income.”

“I know,” he says, walking to the door without taking his attention off of her. “But you’ve had to work for me twice before. We don’t need to do that a third time. If we’re a family, I will be covering my share of the family’s expenses. Starting with paying for half of that Door. I’ll just walk down to the university. I know I can teach – and so do they.”