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The brass lit room that was supposed to be bigger on the inside felt small whenever his back was toward her, like the lack of a presence sucked the vastness out of the space. The beeps and whirrs of his funny blue box felt like background fuzz. Martha Jones had her arms crossed across her chest, worrying her lower lip with her front teeth as she watched The Doctor do whatever it was he did on the vast switchboard of levers and buttons. Her eyes wandered to the article of clothing thrown carelessly, casually over the rail, and she wondered how often his eyes did the same. Frustrated, she cleared her throat, shifting her arms over the scratchy sequins that lined her shirt. She was still learning how to move with this thing that was not quite a man, still trying to sync her processes with his. Years at medical school was, apparently, not enough for The Doctor. The title itself had stuck with her, as though it’d bonded them somehow. It felt like a silly thought sometimes, when he felt impossibly far away. Like now.
She’d messed up, she knew she had. Back there, she’d frozen up, and it’d almost killed her. He’d seemed furious, then, grabbing her shoulders and squeezing them with an iron grip as his wild brown eyes searched her face, his eyebrows pulled together in a silent plea.
“I can’t lose someone else,” he’d panted, gesturing to the blue walls of his box with his head before letting go of her body, walking close behind her on their way in.
“I can’t lose you.”
Whether The Doctor heard her or not was unclear, as he was still fiddling with something, rolling his shoulders back and making a small noise as he took a couple steps to the side.
“Doctor,” she finally said, and he lowered his arms, turning to look over his shoulder. His face was slightly scrunched, and even from her place a few feet away from him she could see the way the creases carefully distorted the spatter of freckles across the bridge of his nose. She swallowed, taken aback by the intensity in his eyes. Sweat beaded on his forehead, and his eyebrows were furrowed low over his bright, inquisitive gaze. She hardened her own expression, squandering his prickliness with her own by taking a step toward him. Where she’d expected him to back up, he didn’t, instead turning around fully to meet her halfway.
“What’s that then, Doctor Jones?” he said, a small smile playing at his lips for a moment before it dropped again, disappearing in the swath of mystery that was his ever changing face. She glanced downward, watching him curl and uncurl his hands at his sides, his long arms crooked at the elbows. He’d clearly followed her eyes, though, as he shoved his hands behind his back, threading his fingers together.
“C’we go somewhere, I don’t know…” she paused, considering a more delicate phrasing. “Normal?” she finally landed on, and she watched that previous ghost of a smile return as a solid figure in front of her. The Tardis seemed to brighten at her request, happy piques and purrs resounding from the dashboard. That was him; his mood changing like a lightbulb fizzling to life in a dark basement. He looked thoughtful, tilting his head and angling it off to the right as if he was carefully considering her request— though she hardly could recall a time where he’d had to stop and carefully consider much of anything at all. He was a man of action to a fault, one of the many reasons she knew (in the form of a cavernous pit of confusion and what was probably guilt in her stomach) that she had to stay with him.
“Y’know, somewhere nice,” she continued, watching him watch her right back. A few strands of his hair had fallen onto his forehead, and where she felt normally he’d have brushed them away, he’d sacrificed the act to keep his eyes trained on her as she spoke, something sparking in his warm, brown irises as she watched the gears in his head tick while he tried to guess what she’d say next.
“I mean, how often do you get to get out and… I don’t know, watch people play music?” she offered, waiting for a reaction. He scrunched his nose up again, the light from the Tardis dancing across the slopes of his cheeks and the feathered tufts sticking out from his not-so-carefully styled hair.
“Don’t suppose I’ve done that in a while, not since the Singing Towers, though…” he trailed off as his lips curled up in amusement at Martha’s confused expression.
“I’m not sure if that counts,” he finished, bringing a hand up to wave it off. Over the course of the conversation, she’d been watching him perk up, his tone becoming more comical and lilting. It was entirely opposite to the man that’d sat hunched with his back to her in a room that was so silent that it thickened the air and muddied her lungs. It was so far behind them, and yet so close, its tendrils still unfurling from her throat even as she spoke.
“Well, whatever that means, I’m sure it can’t beat… Ronnie Scott’s,” she recalled, excitement bubbling in her tone mixed with a hint of pride that she’d remembered the name.
“What, am I supposed to know every little human pop up show?” The Doctor pried playfully, and Martha rolled her eyes.
“No, but I took a music history class for credit in high school. Oh, and, it’s jazz,” she added with a small smirk. “I’m not just a doctor, Doctor, and neither are you,” she stated, watching a wider smile bloom across his face, crinkling his eyes till they looked like they could’ve been squeezed shut.
“Never did the Uni thing, I guess,” he joked, bringing his hands up and razzle-dazzling them in the air as he spun on his heels back to face the sprawling control board of blips and bright lights.
“We can’t very well just go to Riley Spot’s,” he crowed, his voice catching along the whirlwind that was the Tardis and hitting her ears like a song.
“Ronnie Scott’s,” she corrected, and he scoffed.
“Right, s’what I said,” he shot back lazily, and Martha allowed herself to really laugh for the first time in a few long, stressful few days. “How does the 70s sound? Jazzy, right?” he declared while he began flipping switches. Less of a question, more a statement to let her know he’d settled. Instinctively, she took another step toward The Doctor, brushing against his shoulder with her own bare one as she grabbed onto the rim of the control for support while the Tardis shuddered to life. She was pressed into him for a brief moment as the Tardis made a sharp jolt to the right, and she felt his entire body tense up against her own before the ship became centered again, steadily coursing through… well… whatever it went across. She’d yet to ask. Frankly, she didn’t want to. “Time stream” worked just fine.
The Tardis came to a stop with its usual repeated, grinding whooshes, the sound lighting up something in Martha’s mind as she immediately began to toil over what awaited her outside of the walls that were already just barely containing her. The Doctor’s eyes dragged over her figure for a moment, something ticking behind them.
“What’s that about?” she asked, cross.
“That what?” The Doctor questioned, though she knew he knew exactly what she meant.
“That look,” she insisted, and The Doctor shrugged.
“Ahh, yeah. That look. Well, I just…” he paused to collect himself, as if whatever it was was embarrassing. “Jeans? At thee jazz hub in England while jazz was cooking up in the 70s?” he pointed out, and Martha huffed.
“I thought you weren’t the music expert, Doctor,” she shot back, but she felt the smile lingering on her face through an ache in her cheeks. The Doctor just grinned back at her, his face boyish and bright. Martha shifted her weight to her left food and planted her hands on her hips, pulling her lips to the side before continuing.
“Right then, Doctor. What’ve you got for me?” she asked, and The Doctor threw his arms up. She noticed, not without a note of pride, that he hadn’t reacted to the way she’d phrased it. For her.
“I thought you’d never ask!” he exclaimed, extending a hand out for her to take. His eyes were sparkling now, his hand hovering right in front of her, silently urging her to take it in her own.
Martha felt a pang of familiar discontent at the action. He always got like this with her when he was excited, but she often questioned if he meant it; if he really, really meant it. And yet, she took his hand anyway, letting out a laugh of excitement as he guided her off to another part of the Tardis, basking in his infectious excitement.
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The dress was fitted and black, though it was partially enveloped in draping, deep green fabric that swished just past her knees. It was loose beyond the waist, though it hugged her thighs slightly, the soft fabric moving in turn with her legs. The neckline drooped and folded downward, and a silver choker produced a delicate chain that ran down her chest. Besides two thin, crossing straps toward the curve of her back, it was completely backless, and Martha flexed her shoulders, adjusting her posture to fit the garment. She noticed The Doctor, who’d donned a black suit, staring at her as she moved, and she methodically raised her arms up to pull her hair off of her shoulders, holding his unwavering gaze. He smiled, and she returned it.
“Well, then,” he said, suddenly straightening up and beginning to walk to the door. “If I’ve timed it right, it should be-eeeeee…” he began, drawing out the ‘be’ as he opened the door to a buzzing twilight that was illuminated by city lights and backed by chatter and the hum of budding music coming from all directions. “Just starting. Right then, after you,” he said, flourishing a hand and motioning for her to exit. She refused him the dignity of any kind of curtsy— not her style, if she was being frank. She instead dipped her head as she breezed past him, feeling him watching her as her heels clicked against the pavement.
Across the street from where the Tardis had landed was a small building with a colorful awning; ‘ronnie scott’s’ labeled it in rounded, lowercase text. Already people were bustling in and out of its doors, and melodies poured out of it like honey. Martha was briefly awestruck, hands curled at her sides as she soaked in the sound. A folding sign was perched at the stoop of three stone steps leading up to the entrance; ‘BILL EVANS’ in big, bold letters decorating its front. Martha felt herself gasp softly, swiveling around to find The Doctor standing directly behind her, a sly, ‘cool, right?’ smirk contorting his face.
“July, 1968. London,” he stated cooly, as if music history wasn’t brewing before them.
“I thought you’d said 70s,” Martha slowly replied, tearing herself away from her engrossment in the sight before her to nitpick The Doctor. She watched him look past her in smug satisfaction, and she sighed.
“Yeah, 70s-ish,” he japed, and Martha lightly punched his arm.
“You never said ‘ish,’ Doctor,” she teased, and he smiled.
“Yeah, well, what are you gonna do, Martha?” he tried, and she broke away from him, picking up speed toward the enticing entrance of the club.
“Oi, what’s that for?” he cried after her, clearly amused.
“Finding someone else to dance with. You’re too lanky, I think you’d trip up on your own feet,” she shouted back through the increasing crowd, and she watched him cock an eyebrow in surprise before his grin widened and he started pushing through people. Before he could get too close, she turned around and slipped through the door, her heart thudding behind the elegant folds of the dress strung across her chest.
Immediately, the interior of Ronnie Scott’s was strikingly warm. Not just the usual warmth of a small space overly crammed with people, but something tangibly thick in the air, something so solid that you feel like you’d be able to close your hands around it. The lights were coppery and low, and smoke was visible everywhere that light was present. She inhaled sharply, the hot, dense air filling her lungs. She cringed slightly, swallowing. Couldn’t back out now, she supposed as she pushed through the crowd. Everyone in the room was dressed with a similar flair; a lithe blonde woman with a sequin and tassel accented red dress lazed against a side wall, a drink teetering in her thin fingers as her dark eyes prowled the men in the room. A stout man with a pronounced afro stood in the middle of a knot of people, a boisterous laugh escaping through a charming smile as he no doubt recounted a story to his observers, a cigarette poking through his teeth. A young boy, no older than 17 in an extremely ill-fitting suit that hung off his body like a sack sat near the front, his jaw agape at the display of music laid out before him. Everything was motion, passion, and light. With that, she turned her attention to the stage. It was well lit compared to the rest of the joint, stage lights flooding rich blues and oranges over the people on stage. Evans himself was hunched over a piano, his hands flying across the keys, his expression hidden from Martha’s vantage point. All she could see was the sheen of sweat on his forehead, a drop of it beading off of his pronounced nose as he bobbed his head to his own playing, his black, thick framed glasses tilting to the side at an awkward angle. A man she vaguely recognized was on cello, fingers dancing up and down the neck of the impressive instrument, a stern look of concentration stuck on his face. Another sat behind a drum set, crashing the high hats and dusting the drums with a brush. A tall man on a saxophone was closest to the lip of the stage, bent over his instrument with his face pressed into the mouthpiece, eyes squeezed shut like playing was the last thing he’d ever do. It was a high, bittersweet wail, the notes rising and falling with the smooth arrangements coming from the piano. The sound soured over the crowd, and as Martha watched them play, it was as if the room was getting hotter still. The Doctor was next to her, then, his own expression one of total enthrallment with his environment.
“Really something, isn’t it?” he said quietly, looking around the crowded room before his eyes once again fell on Martha. She smiled.
“Is it better than those singin’ buildings?” she asked, and he brightened up, drawing in his eyebrows in mock offence.
“Oh-ho-ho, the towers? I don’t know about that yet. Maybe I’ll have to go back one day, compare notes,” he mused, and Martha giggled.
“Right, like you’re taking any notes,” she said, and he laughed. “What are those, though?” she asked. He seemed surprised that she wanted to know, an eyebrow quirking up and a smile tugging at his lips.
“Well, I mean, what is there to say,” he started, and Martha grinned wickedly.
“Since when do you not have a lot to say, Doctor?” she jabbed, and his face twisted into mock hurt.
“That’s not fair,” he retorted, but he was still beaming, his eyes glittering. She suspected hers were the same. “They’re these two, great hunks of crystal, except not really crystal, of course, they’re made of something else, and—” he stopped, exhaling and looking around again. “Awfully hot in here, don’t you think?” he asked, suddenly, his expression becoming serious. Martha frowned. She knew that expression, that was his “I-need-something-to-distract-myself” face. He was looking for trouble. 10 minutes in and he needed a distraction.
“Doctor, can’t you let yourself relax for more than ten minutes?” she asked, looking up at him and waiting for him to look back. But he didn’t. She swallowed, looking away.
“What, can’t think about yourself for that long? You can’t stay still? Is that it?” she asked, crudely.
“No, Martha, it’s just—” but she didn’t want to let him finish.
“Past mistakes?” she argued, and immediately regretted her words when he glanced back at her, his face unreadable.
“I’m not like you, Martha. You know I’m not,” he murmured, moving his hand to lightly grasp her arm, but she pulled it away.
“God, it’s always something. You’re impossible. I need a minute, right? Just a minute,” she told him, retracting herself and weaving through the crowd, pushing through people till she was right near the stage. It seemed hotter there, somehow. She brought her hand up to wipe her forehead, though, as she did, she smacked it against a man that had slipped in front of her in the time it’d taken her to move her arm. He recoiled, the fabric of his dark maroon-red suit crinkling as he moved a hand to shield his face. He was pretty, with big brown eyes set in a tanned, angular face surrounded by dark curls. He looked like he was going to reprimand her, but he’d stopped himself as he looked at her. The heat felt almost unbearable now, as he stared at her, dark eyes sweeping across her face before making their way down. He said nothing. Despite this, she still felt inclined to apologize— she didn’t have to be rude just because he was.
“Oh, sorry about that,” she said, and he responded by fixing his tie and holding out his hand.
“No, I shouldn’t have gotten in the way of such a beautiful woman. Please, let me take you dancing,” he pleaded, his voice steely and earnest. Martha was shocked, turning around as if she’d have to confirm with someone else that the man had said what she thought he had. In turning around, she saw The Doctor’s face in the crowd. His face was dimly lit, but she could see the disapproving glint of… what, jealousy? in his eyes as he watched. He was looking just past her, at the man who was offering up his hand. He looked back at her, and Martha set her jaw, staring back before turning back around and hesitantly taking the hand of the other man, ignoring how intensely she felt The Doctor’s eyes on her. The heat was sweltering as they swayed, and Martha was in eyeshot enough to see the saxophonist lean down to his knees, bringing the instrument up like a prayer. Her surroundings began to blur together as he whirled her around with him.
“That cellist… little pitchy, don’t you think?” he asked.
“I think… I think I need some air,” she began breathlessly, and his hand tightened on her waist.
“The music is picking up, Martha Jones,” he cooed, and Martha snapped to attention, stiffening at his touch.
“How do you—” she started, but he cut her off.
“Stay a while.”
He turned his head, and Martha watched as the man on the saxophone winked at him before sounding out a shining high note. The man turned back around, and Martha was suddenly aware of how hot his hands were. She desperately twisted around, her torso aching with the intensity of the motion. Everyone around her was moving slowly, moisture thickening the air and dripping down people’s faces. She blinked away sweat that had clumped on her eyelashes. Her eyes fell on the saxophonist again, which was about when she realized that, unlike Evans and practically everyone else in the room, the saxophonist wasn’t sweating one bit. His skin was completely smooth and dry. She turned her attention back to her partner only to realize with a chilly start that he wasn’t sweating either. His eyes flashed, and he sneered, like he could tell the exact moment in which she’d put two and two together. His teeth were porous and black, like pumice. She squirmed, trying to pull away from him, when she bumped into someone behind her. The Doctor laid a hand on her shoulder; she knew it was him by the gentle approach and the reassuring squeeze.
“I think she’s quite done, if you don’t mind,” he said, his words a warning. The man dropped his hand off of Martha’s waist, and there was a sizzle. Martha yelped, looking down at her side and letting out a breath. There was a smoking, hand shaped hole in the fabric, her skin still reddened and stinging from where he’d been. She looked back up to his face to see that ashy grin still plastered on it as he raised his hands in a surrender.
“Alright, Doctor. But the doors are closed,” he said curtly, walking past the pair and deliberately brushing against The Doctor’s shoulder before he melted into the crowd. The Doctor winced slightly as he did, and Martha noticed his suit was singed by the heat from where the man had touched him. Once he was out of view The Doctor immediately pulled Martha to a back corner, out of the crowd. The saxophonist angled his body to watch them as he played, a plain yet malicious act.
It was cooler away from the musicians and the man, and Martha felt herself relax a little.
“Does it hurt? How badly?” The Doctor began with rambling urgency, leaning over and lightly touching where Martha had been burnt with the tips of his fingers. She shivered, despite the lingering heat, shaking her head.
“I”m fine, Doctor. Really,” she said sharply, and he looked up at her.
“Well, shame about that dress, then. I liked it,” he said, standing back up to his full height, his eyes still lingering on the burn on her waist.
“What did he mean, the doors are closed?” she asked, changing the subject. The Doctor just shook his head, fishing around in his pocket before procuring his sonic screwdriver, gripping it at his side as he made his way to the doors they’d come in. He looked back to make sure Martha was behind him every step of the way. Once they’d gotten there, he straightened his arm out, pointing the device at the now closed swinging doors.
“I’m afraid he was being literal,” he muttered as it lit up and buzzed. Martha, despite their entwined, growing panic, smirked.
“Alright, Mr.Bond,” she joked, and The Doctor paused, smiling.
“What, ‘cuz of the suit?” he asked, and Martha shrugged.
“And the funny little gadget,” she noted, and The Doctor scoffed.
“My sonic screwdriver is not a ‘funny little gadget,’ thank you,” he said, clearing his throat and putting it back in his pocket.
“Seriously, though,” he said, his tone falling into step with his concern. “I can’t get these doors open. At all. I don’t know what they are, yet, or what they’re using, but it’s locked us in. All of us. Everyone in here is at risk.”
His words sent icy spindles up Martha’s spine.
“It’s something with heat, obviously,” he said. “Sound, and heat, and music…” he continued, trailing off. And music they did play, the saxophone blaring over the shaky piano playing from Evans.
Somewhere in the back of her mind, she was grateful Bill Evans wasn’t an alien.
“This is not going to go over well on the album,” Martha said, and The Doctor cracked a smile.
“No, not if this continues,” The Doctor finished for her.
“So, they know it’s you? And me?” she asked, and The Doctor nodded grimly.
“Can’t fathom how they knew this face,” he thought out loud, worry written plainly in the way his lips parted and the way his eyebrows were strung together. That face. He adjusted his tie, attempting to look collected and reassuring. “No matter, I think I’ve figured something out,” he proclaimed. Martha shot him a look.
“Really, already?” she prodded and he nodded, his usual mischievous sense of optimism returning in full force.
“Yep.”
She had to trust him. For her own sanity, she had to trust him.
Her, The Doctor, and probably a hundred other people were trapped in what was essentially an oven with nice acoustics, designed to slowly kill everything inside of it for who knew what.
And The Doctor, apparently, knew what to do about it.
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The music was swelling, the heat beginning to permeate away from the area around the stage and into the outer corners as Martha listened to The Doctor’s incessant plotting, fanning herself with her hands.
“Can’t you just, I dunno, knock him off stage? If music is the problem, make him stop,” She said, but The Doctor shook his head.
“Think about how hot it was next to the stage. What he did to you. Can you imagine how hot it’d be next to him? What it’d feel like to lay a hand on his skin?” he reminded her, his voice bitter when he mentioned her injury. She felt almost guilty about her own shock that he cared with a tightness in her chest, like someone was squeezing her heart in their hand.
“Must be fans of Evans for him not to be dead right now,” she pointed out sarcastically, and The Doctor snorted.
“‘Spose so,” he replied with a shrug.
“So, what do you want me to do?” Martha pressed, determined to play a part in whatever he had planned.
“Right, that,” he said, looking back at her. “Well, first, you need to get the two into the same area. The stage, a corner, I don’t know. Distract them,” he said and she nodded. “Oh, and, make sure I don’t die.”
Martha knew that answer shouldn’t have stunned her as much as it did after all the stunts he’d pulled, but she felt herself draw in a sharp breath anyways.
“Elaborate,” she asked warily.
“Gladly. I’m about to get cold. Really, really cold. I’ve never really done anything like this, before, but it has to work, or else these people die,” he said gravely.
“How are you going to ‘get cold,’” she raised her fingers in air quotes, “in here? Don’t know if you noticed, Doctor, but we’re all about to bake alive,” she reminded him, trying to piece together what he was playing at. “That’s probably why they’re leaving us well alone. They don’t think you have a solution, and I reckon they’re too proud to think anything otherwise. How do you touch, much less cool down, something…” she searched for the word before looking back at him nervously. “Molten?”
“By doing something ridiculous, that’s how. Absolutely ridiculous, borderline impossible, and wildly irresponsible,” he breathed, though an excited smile was forming on his face.
“You’ve got that look in your eyes. The one you get before you do something stupid,” she cautioned, and he winked at her.
“Warm me up, Doctor,” he declared, spreading his arms out at his side theatrically. “You went to medical school, figure it out.”
Martha just nodded again, trying to keep herself caught up with The Doctor’s spontaneity.
“But what are you going to do to yourself?” Martha asked, trying to force down the worry out of her voice. She’d clearly failed, as The Doctor eyed her sympathetically before replying.
“I run on a different, regenerative energy than you do, than all of you do. Keeps me going. I’ve only been able to do this a couple times, but I figure if I can move that energy around, disperse it, it’ll drop my body temperature,” he explained, and Martha nodded along like she understood. “They can’t take an ounce of cold, I reckon. That’s why they chose a sticky night in late July, perfect blueprint for their plan,” he said, closing his fingertips around the thick air like a sock puppet. “They won’t know what hit em’,” he finished, determined to see this through. Martha was quiet, but she knew he knew how she felt. She didn’t have to say anything. Around them, people were starting to notice the increasing heat, and Martha watched as people quit dancing and draped themselves over chairs and leaned against walls for support, faces red and shining. She peered through the sickened crowd, searching for one face in particular. The teenager that had been next to the stage still stuck out, falling sideways as she found him, slumping against the stage, his eyes half closed, his chest rising and falling shallowly. Nobody else seemed to notice him.
Determination coursed through Martha’s veins— whatever The Doctor’s benign plan was, she’d have to follow it to the letter. She was a doctor herself, after all. She had to save these people, too.
She stalked toward the stage, a new fire burning in her chest. She wasn’t doing this for The Doctor, she was doing it for these people. The dress had begun to cling to her legs and stomach from the heat, but she pushed on, searching the crowd for the man with the red suit. She heard various murmurs of complaints about the rising temperature as she pressed forward, though everyone in the room was far too proud to leave, as it turned out. How strange it must be to live in a state unaware of The Doctor, unaware of his world. Martha herself had, of course, gone a majority of her life living that way, but by now she could no longer picture it. It was completely foreign to her. To the people brushing against her, someone else left the doors closed. Someone else would fix it, and they’d all be fine. But they wouldn’t be fine, not if Martha Jones and The Doctor didn’t fix it for them. It was an astonishing weight to have on one’s shoulders, but Martha liked to think that she wore it well. She narrowed her eyes, picking through the faces around her. The Doctor had slipped away, obviously. She’d like to have said she knew he could take care of himself, but his irresponsibility, at times, knew no bounds. She spotted deep red sitting at the end of the pub section, nursing something in a small glass. She shoved past people, sliding into the seat next to him.
“You never told me what you meant earlier,” she began, leaning into him. She pictured The Doctor’s sympathetic gaze as she spoke, her voice beginning in a tremble but hardening out as she continued. He perked up, dangerous eyes skirting across her for the second time that night.
“No, no. We know you, Martha Jones. You’re not acting without The Doctor, you’re too loyal for that,” he said with a sneer and a flash of his ashen teeth. Martha felt anger simmering in her stomach, and she pushed it down, trying to do her best ‘mildly annoyed.’
“Is that right?” she settled on, and he shrugged.
“Is it?” he taunted, looking around before leaning in even closer. “We’ve only been here a couple times. You… human beings, you’re all so full of yourselves,” he toted, gesturing to the stage with a stray hand. “This cacophony,” he monologued, turning back to meet her eyes. “It worms its way into you after a while. We’ve a simpler solution, s’all. Not all caught up in ourselves like you lot, we understand the world at its purity. The conquest, the heat, the sound,” he said, gnarled, blackened teeth on full display. Martha looked him up and down before getting up and walking toward the stage. There was a clearing by the stage at this point; people had realized the heat was being generated in that area one way or the other. They were huddled together like cattle toward the back, nervously talking and making vague attempts at dancing. Evans played on, as did the rest of the band. It was eerie. She still couldn’t see The Doctor anywhere, and anxiety had begun to tie itself into knots in her stomach as she searched for him in the throng of people. Nothing. She was dizzyingly warm at that point, and she had to support herself by leaning an arm on the stage. The saxophone player was practically in her ears, and she could hardly suck enough air into her lungs. This was going awry, and fast. Heat was rushing up to her head, and she felt moisture dripping down her face. She could just barely make out the figure of the alien walking proudly towards her, his chin held high in the air like he’d already won. She leaned back against the stage, looking up at him as he glowered at her.
“Come here to die?” he asked, and Martha glared. “It’s so human of you, to die with the music. You can’t go without yourselves, you can’t sit in the quiet. You always need something,” he growled, his voice like gravel. She recalled her own words to The Doctor and with a grimace. He stepped closer, heat radiating off his body in waves. His face was beginning to droop, the skin sagging slowly like magma oozing down a rockside. It was like a punch to the chest, but she refused to let her eyes fall shut, refused to bail out on her end of the plan.
“I don’t know where your little Doctor left to, but I guess he’s not with you. You and your self obsession die tonight, all of it,” he spat, gesturing to the rest of the room. “This pit of self indulgence…” he muttered in disgust, but Martha was silent. She was panting by the time she heard his voice.
“I like it very much, actually, if you don’t mind,” The Doctor called from across the room. She turned her head weakly, smiling in spite of it all. Anyone that wasn’t already unconscious or sick had cleared the way for him, like they sensed his importance. Like they knew. Her smile fell once he’d gotten through what was left of the crowd, though. He was ghostly pale, and his steps were shaky and uncertain. He looked like the dead on two legs. The band finally stopped playing, Evans’ hands sliding off the piano and into his lap, the cellist leaning onto his instrument, the drummer holding the brush with trembling hands. The saxophonist was the only one that continued; low, menacing notes crowing deep and dangerous.
“Doctor,” the molten thing purred. “Welcome.”
The Doctor just continued to walk forward, staring out through his eyebrows at the things surrounding Martha.
“I don’t feel very welcome, I’ve found I’ve struggled to feel welcome in places where art is not,” he stated, continuing to walk closer, his unsteady steps turning into strides as he closed the distance between them. “And I think, beneath all that fire and rock, you’ve gotta understand that,” he said, fluttering a hand and gesturing toward the thing on the saxophone. “Your little ploy wouldn’t have worked without it. It thrums through them, these people. It’s to the key of their lives, whether they realize it or not. Who are you to come in and change that?”
He was getting close now, and Martha felt a welcomed chill. They felt it, too. The one with the drooping face recoiled, taking a few panicked steps back before hitting the stage. The saxophonist fumbled with his instrument, the note coming out wonky as he pulled his face away.
“Don’t stop playing, it’s already not hot enough as it is!” the other one hissed, alarm raising in his cracked voice before he whirled back around to face The Doctor. “How are you doing that?” he creeched, a small crack appearing on his jaw, but The Doctor ignored his request.
“All these people, these beautiful, important people, are here tonight to enjoy what other beautiful, important people have to offer,” he lectured, his eyes lingering on Martha before he tore them away to refocus on the creatures. “There is nothing selfish in this kind of creation, something I guess you’ll never understand. Everything you create, you use to destroy,” he snarled, his voice a premonition as he got up in the face of the one closest to Martha. It cried out as The Doctor extended his hand, cupping its face in an act that was almost tender if it didn’t turn the skin under his hand to stone. The cracks shot through its face and down its neck, his expression freezing in abject horror, a scream that would never hit the air. The Doctor slid his other hand around his face, and both of the not-quite-men before her shuddered violently. The solidity spread till the thing was entirely cracked, volcanic rock, and she watched The Doctor take a rattling breath. Rooted in place, she watched him haul himself back up to his full height, practically leaping into the stage. The saxophonist lowered his instrument, holding it out in front of him like it’d do any good. It wouldn’t, of course. Nothing stopped The Doctor when he got like this. Now that he was closer, the air around her was freezing, and she could see frost on the tips of his hair. Even from where she was, she could see that his big eyes were watery, and she cringed inwardly to imagine the pain he might’ve been in. She took a step closer to the stage, just in case. The thing holding the saxophone’s form had shaken loose from its fleshy bounds, and as it bore its teeth, bright reds and oranges glimmered through the skin that was melting downward and sloughing off its face in gooey patches. The Doctor seemed to brush aside the instrument, as whatever it was that these things were had already begun to shrink back and stiffen up from the cold.
“You sit here wishing death upon these people, but I saw you while you played,” The Doctor said softly, his words hanging heavy in the air. She thought she saw a tear slide down the thing’s rocky cheek. “I know how you felt; I know how you feel. But you tried to kill these people. A room full of creation,” he breathed, a tremor in his voice. “What does that make you?” he asked, reaching out a hand again. There was a metallic crash as the saxophone hit the stage, the thing dropping his arms to its sides, blackened eyes widened and moving around madly, body frozen in place.
“I… I saw,” it gasped quietly as The Doctor gently laid his fingers across its chest, gawping at the sensation The Doctor’s touch brought on.
“I could feel it,” it whispered as it went rigid. Martha was stunned into silence, fearful acceptance building in her chest. This was The Doctor, her Doctor. As the thing finished solidifying, The Doctor groaned as he doubled over, his movements stiff and jittery. His gaze lazily slid across Martha again as he toppled to the floor of the stage. The room was already cooler, and people had begun rushing out of the door in waves.
Everybody but Martha Jones.
She scrambled up onto the stage, nearly knocking into the now statues that adorned it. She grabbed The Doctor’s limp body, pulling him in.
“Warm me up, Doctor.”
His words echoed in her head, and she squeezed him a little tighter, blowing gently on her hands to warm them up before grabbing his face, leaning in to listen for his breathing. For a moment, a long, dreadful moment, there was nothing. She slid her hands under his suit, moving them across his chest to feel for his heartbeats, panic bubbling in her mind as she struggled to pinpoint them. He couldn’t freeze to death in what might as well have been a hot spring, he just couldn’t. She’d be stuck in 1968, alone with his cold, heavy body until someone showed up and reminded her just how much she didn’t belong.
“Please, Doctor,” she whispered, moving her hands back to his face and tracing his jaw with her thumbs. “I’m warming you up, just like you asked. No better way to do it,” she pleaded. His face felt placid and freezing in her hands, like he’d been freezer burnt, though his expression was calm. The feeling tugged at her heart, and she bent down over him.
“Please,” she whispered again. Something brilliant and golden trailed out of his throat, then, and he took a sharp breath, his whole body suddenly feeling warm and bright. His eyes fluttered open, and he cracked a weak half smile. His face was so close to hers, so achingly close. She could feel his shallow breaths on her skin, and the feeling twisted into her gut like a blade.
“Just like I knew you would,” he rasped, and Martha grinned, pulling him up by his shoulders and making sure he could sit up. It was like there was a halo around his body, and he looked proud.
“Oh, don’t look at me like that,” Martha said quietly, but The Doctor just shook his head, grateful bewilderment coloring his face.
“You’re incredible, Martha Jones,” he said, and she believed him.
They sat there, her arm around him, for a while, The Doctor gulping in air while Martha ran her hand delicately across his back, waiting for him to get up. On a night where time almost killed them, they had all the time in the world.
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Back in The Tardis, The Doctor had returned to fiddling with dials on the dash. Martha was still in her damp, torn dress, leaning shyly against the rail.
“Now what?” she asked, and his smile was audible in his response.
“Hold on,” he replied. Music suddenly sprang to life in the Tardis, music Martha, in part, recognized.
“Hey this,” she began in amazement. “This is Evans. This is when we were there, wasn’t it?” she asked before stopping short. He watched, entertained at her confusion. “But, where’s the saxophone? I’m not hearing anything,” she pointed out, and The Doctor leaned back on his hands, clearly excited to explain.
“The sound waves they can create aren’t native to earth. They’re thicker, heavier. More suited to their bodies. It’s not made for your tinny little recording devices, ‘specially not in 1970,” he explained.
“1968,” Martha corrected, and The Doctor rolled his eyes.
“Point is,” he continued. “That’s what made that room so hot. Your air isn’t made to hold that energy. Thicker air means more active mass, more active mass means more heat. They were using your music against you,” he said, his face darkened with remorse. Martha accepted the explanation, of course.
“Well then, what about our little show? Where’s that on the recording?” she asked, and The Doctor perked up, shooting her a playful wink.
“I fixed that, don’t you worry,” he said, and Martha felt herself smile.
“So,” he said with a start, standing up and strolling across the floor to get closer to her, a twinkle in his eye. “Is that really what you do for fun? To be normal? Because, frankly, I’d rather not be a human ice pop again, if that’s alright with you,” he complained, and Martha laughed.
“Right, I’d rather that too,” she said, and he looked pleased.
“Anyways, what was it you said about craving normalcy?” he said, and Martha stepped closer to him, throwing a casual arm around his shoulder.
“Take me to Mars for all I care, can’t be any hotter than Ronnie Scott’s,” she said, slipping her arm off and wandering over to the controls, feeling him watching her the whole way.
“You’ve got it, Jones,” he said warmly. “You’ve got it.”
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