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⟡𓌉◯𓇋₊˚⊹♡
The lights were surprisingly warm in what would usually be a white-lit establishment. At least, in his experience. Truthfully, diners weren’t his strong suite. It wasn’t often he sat down to catch a meal that wasn’t hurtling through space at a speed that didn’t register in the woman standing hesitantly next to him’s proven numeric systems. Everything was brightly colored, tangerine and baby pink tiles lining the floors, black race-car-esq accents running along ridges in the walls. Cushy red benches and tables lined walls that were engulfed by windows, and stools of the same red lined a counter towards the center of the establishment.
Classic, The Doctor thought, a faint smile lingering on his face as he took in the sights. He looked down, and Martha Jones seemed to share his attitude. Her lips were parted slightly, her doe eyes wide as she drank in her cheery surroundings. The diner was completely empty, save for a lone young man working behind the counter, scrubbing at it with a rag, the soft light coming in from the windows illuminating beads of sweat on his dark brow and making the white uniform he was wearing look like it was glowing. He looked up at The Doctor, winking at him before getting back to work.
“Ehm, Doctor,” Martha finally piped up, and The Doctor felt his smile deepen.
She was going to ask a question— he heard it in her tone of voice, and he loved it when she asked him questions. It meant he got to explain something to her, watch the cogs in her mind tick and whirr as her face lit up with understanding. She never dropped a subject until she reached an understanding, something he’d always admired about her.
“How is it that this place is empty? C’mon, I mean, the streets are alive. Intergalactically so,” she added, smirking as she thought back to their adventure through the crowded streets.
“What, thinking about the guy out there with two heads, are we? He’s a runt, you know, most of the life on his planet has three heads…” The Doctor mused, and Martha giggled. “He’s here as an outcast, just like us,” he finished, glancing downward to watch her grin. “Anyways, I know a guy,” The Doctor explained hurriedly, throwing another sidelong look at the man scrubbing away behind the sleek counter.
“Him? But he looks completely human!” Martha proclaimed, and The Doctor pressed a finger to his lips, laughter bubbling up in his throat.
The man heard her anyway, and the pair watched as two more arms popped up from behind the counter to flash Martha herself a thumbs up. She squeaked in shock, looking back at The Doctor, “did-you-just-see-that?” written all over her excited face.
“He does that every time someone walks in here. No decorum, I swear,” The Doctor mumbled, and Martha rolled her eyes. She took a few steps ahead of him, out of the doorway and into the diner, and he allowed himself, for just a moment, to watch her as she turned back around to face him. She had white, knee high boots over her long legs, boots with thick platforms that had her almost as tall as he was. Not quite, of course, but enough that her forehead was just about in line with his lips, a fact that hadn’t escaped him when she’d stood next to him. Her dress was loose, short, and brightly colored, and her hair was done up in curls on top of her head, pushed back by a white headband. Cool blue eyeshadow sparkled over her big brown eyes, accentuated further by her long, thick eyelashes. “Think 50s Americana,” he’d told her, and she clearly hadn’t come to play. He felt himself smile fondly at her dedication— she looked beautiful.
“You don’t think the boots are too Nancy Sinatra?” she cooed as she took a few more steps back, still facing The Doctor, and he scoffed.
“Nah, you look fantastic,” he rushed to compliment her, immediately biting his tongue.
The words had tumbled out over each other— did he look too desperate? Did she notice? He cleared his throat, rolling back his shoulders in a shrug.
“Fantastic for the fifties,” he tacked on, and she smirked, eyeing him mischievously before swiveling around and continuing to pad forward, her boots clomping against the tile.
He melted under her narrowed eyes; of course she saw right through him. The more he thought about it, though, the less he realized he cared. If anyone was allowed entry past his walls, it was Martha Jones. He allowed her to wander around and pick where they sat, which ended up being a booth toward the back where the sun flooded in tender and gold and you could smell the food being prepared in the kitchen.
“Very American for space,” she noted as she slid into one side of the booth.
“Well, why do you think we poke around earth so much? You guys have pretty good ideas, sometimes,” he replied as he slid into the seat across from her.
She laughed, light and carefree.
“And what, you had four-arms over there empty it out just for me?” she asked, her tone honey-sweet dipped in sarcasm.
It was The Doctor’s turn to roll his eyes.
“Hmm, I sound like such a gentleman when you put it like that,” he replied, and Martha cringed visibly, though she retained that smile of hers.
“Sure, Doctor, whatever you want to call it,” she sighed, and he smirked.
The man from the front strode over just as music fizzled to life from all around them, Oh, Pretty Woman to be specific, tinny and melodious. The man fished a notepad from a pocket in his matching white apron, unclipping the pen from its ringed bindings with his third hand, the fourth resting tucked behind his back.
“What can I get you two?” he chirped, and Martha’s eyes widened playfully.
“‘Us two?’ What are we, a couple of old birds?” she asked, and The Doctor played offended, furrowing his brows and frowning.
“We’re not?” he asked, and Martha laughed before turning to the man.
“Chocolate shake, please,” she requested, unable to keep an excited lilt out of her voice.
The man scribbled something onto the notepad before turning expectantly to The Doctor.
“Oh, I’m alright,” he began, but was cut off by a very audible huff from Martha.
“You take a girl out for a meal and you don’t get anything? That’s, like, number one in the don’t-do-that-handbook,” she chided, and The Doctor curled an eyebrow.
“Take a girl out?” he pressed, trying to ignore the way his hearts hammered against his ribs. “Careful Miss Jones,” he said coyly.
Martha looked lost for words for a moment, but visibly gathered herself pretty quickly.
“Whatever, just, get something, please,” she pushed, and The Doctor concurred.
“Chips, the curly ones,” he put in, looking over just in time to catch Martha’s amused grin.
“That’s all?” the waiter asked, and Martha dipped her head, stray curls falling over her angular face.
She noticed, scrunching her nose, but The Doctor reached across the table before she could react accordingly.
“Hold still, I’ve got it—” he murmured, holding back a shiver as his fingertips brushed against her cheek as he tucked the hair behind her ear.
Her skin felt hot in the cool restaurant, hotter than it should’ve been. He leaned back against the seat of his booth, watching her look down at the table before meeting his eyes.
“Will that be all?” the waiter reiterated, suddenly, louder than before, causing both Martha and The Doctor to jump slightly.
Martha was clearly embarrassed, and she nodded vigorously.
“Yeah, yes, thank you!” she gushed, and the waiter looked at The Doctor curiously before turning on his heels and walking back to the front.
Martha sighed loudly, putting her face in her hands. For someone that was, to The Doctor at least, such a walking bundle of energy and light, she seemed pretty wilted.
“Gah, what? Slipped up in front of the owner?” he joked, and she peeked out from behind her manicured hands, her eyes glinting warmly.
“Little bit,” she replied, dragging her hands down her face before interlocking her fingers together and resting her elbows on the table. “Y’know, I thought the table would be a little stickier,” she pondered, her eyes mechanically sweeping the surface before she looked back at him.
“Maybe I had him make sure it was spotless,” he suggested warily, and Martha looked suspicious.
“Really?” she asked, earnestly.
The Doctor’s face broke into a grin.
“Obviously,” he said, softly, softer than he’d intended.
Her doe eyes crinkled, she looked sympathetic in a way he wasn’t used to seeing. Like she trusted him completely. She was always so brash, so tough in the face of adversity that he sometimes forgot she could be so fragile. At the end of the day, though, she was a human being. She was his responsibility, and the thought terrified him when he was alone and allowed his thoughts to wander. She straightened her posture, turning her head to the side and tucking her chin neatly against her shoulder to survey the diner as they waited, seemingly unwilling to meet his eyes again. Her nose sloped up so nicely, the curves in her side profile supported by her strong cheekbones. She glanced back over at him, her eyebrows pulled in.
“What?” she asked, turning her face back to him.
The Doctor looked away, feeling a blush burn the back of his neck and brush his face.
“Nothing, nothing at all Martha Jones,” he replied wistfully, playing it off as as much of a joke as he could. She made a ‘hmph,’ sound, turning back around.
The music was still playing, filling the thick silence between them with background noise. Every second that went by without another word from Martha felt like an eternity, though, and he cleared his throat again. She casually tilted her head to the side to look back at him through her eyebrows, the beginning of a smile playing at her lips.
“Bet it’s almost here,” he mentioned, grasping at things to say to her.
She tipped her head back up, bringing her hands up to cup her face, elbows still resting on the table.
“Yeah, Doctor, I bet it is,” she said slyly, that spark reentering her tone just like he’d hoped it would.
He exhaled, relaxing. Whatever tension that’d been between them melted like ice in the sun, and The Doctor was grateful. He hated feeling desperate for her attention, like a dog nipping at her heels, but he couldn’t help it sometimes. So often was she everything, so “everything” that the notion fogged his mind and made his thoughts jumbled and unintelligible. He inwardly cursed his own muddled brain before continuing.
“How many straws do you wanna bet he’s stuck in there?” he asked, instantly mentally slapping himself across the face at the insinuation of the question.
She looked taken off guard for a moment, and The Doctor briefly wondered if he’d be able to throw himself out the window and into the street. But she smiled at him again, and the anxiety tying itself into knots in his stomach settled.
“You’d want it to be two so you could rob me blind,” she scolded, and The Doctor gasped.
“Me? No, never, you’ve got the wrong man,” he insisted, holding his hands up.
As they argued, the waiter came back, holding the plate of chips in two opposing hands and Martha’s shake in a third, two straws clutched in the fourth hand. The Doctor shot Martha a look, and she stuck her tongue out at him. He placed the plate in the middle and the shake in front of Martha, leaving the straws next to the tall glass with a flourish of his hand.
“Let me know if I can get you anything else,” he said as he turned around, walking back to the front.
The Doctor reached for a chip, but Martha was faster, her hand shooting out like a snake to smack him.
“Ow— what gives?” he protested as she grabbed a chip between two fingers, popping it into her mouth.
“Reparations,” she said after she’d swallowed it. “Nobody makes me look stupid in front of wait staff, I worked as one in secondary school, and all we did was gossip in the kitchen” she explained.
“Whatever you say,” he agreed before taking one of his own.
It was warm and satisfyingly crispy, exactly what he needed to quell his nerves as he watched Martha work at getting the paper covering off of the straw she’d been handed. She had her tongue poked out of the side of her mouth as she peeled back the paper, and The Doctor bit back an affectionate laugh. She smiled to herself once she’d gotten it off, sticking it through the whipped cream into the milkshake. After a moment’s hesitation, she slid the other straw toward The Doctor. He raised his eyebrows, his lips curling despite his best efforts to look unaffected.
“Really? I thought you were worried about me— what were your exact words— ‘robbing you blind?’” He pried, sticking his fingers up in air quotes.
“Don’t push it, Doctor,” she replied curtly, looking down again at the straw and back at him.
He took it, pushing it out of the paper and dipping it into the shake, leaning in to take a sip. He miscalculated how far he’d have to lean, though, and felt the quiet shock of his nose dipping into the whipped cream. He heard a squeal of laughter as he picked his head back up, glowering up at Martha through a grin.
“What, issit on my face?” he asked, even though he knew the answer.
Martha covered her mouth to giggle.
“Seriously, tell me,” he rattled on, intent on dragging the joke out to the end he’d hoped it’d get to.
“Oh, Doctor,” Martha lamented, leaning in, bringing her hand up to his face, pressing her thumb against his nose.
The touch was electric, and The Doctor beamed dopily back at her.
Bingo, he cheered silently, his joy backdropped by the quiet music and the lazy day. Martha was a picture of perfection with her sparkled, exaggerated eyes and wide smile, and it smelled like domesticity and fried food.
He could get used to this. He could really, really get used to this.
⟡𓌉◯𓇋₊˚⊹♡