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"What do you think?" Martha asked; he turned around, eager to see her new outfit.
He'd finally admitted to himself she wasn't a one-time passenger, and introduced her to the wonders of the TARDIS' wardrobe. It duplicates every possible piece of clothing it has a reference for! In your size! he excitedly chattered. They were going to Alpha Centauri Five's most famous beach, the one with the green sun.
He couldn't wait to see whatever outfit she cooked up.
He turned, a soft smile on his lips, ready to tell her it looked lovely, only for the words to die before he could even utter them, wholly ripped away by what she was wearing.
When he'd said beach, he'd thought tropical sunshine, a bit of zinc for the nose, and light linens for a boardwalk stroll with Martha. When Martha had heard him say beach, she heard swimming, and had dressed appropriately. In a swimsuit. A two-piece swimsuit. What did humans call them, funny word—aah, ah. Bikinis! Yes, that was it. A dark pink bikini that contrasted wonderfully against the soft brown tone of her skin. The bikini was surprisingly daring for Martha, but not a surprise given who had bought it.
He recognized that suit.
Rose. The name came to his mind unbidden and unwanted, the memory of her purchase of it playing out in his head instantly: her bright pink, cheeky grin as she'd bought it, her excited chatter about getting to wear it next time they went somewhere "properly sunny." But she'd never gotten a chance to wear it, had she, and now she was a parallel world away with Martha wearing it instead.
His heart felt too full and too empty all at once. It was doing a funny thing, a squeezing thing, like it was trying to hold too tight and let go too fast all at the same time. Martha raised her eyebrows, looking at him, and he realized, dimly, that he hadn't said a word after she'd come out modeling her new suit for him, and that such might, by human customs, be considered rude.
"This too much?" She looked away, suddenly shy. "I can–I can change."
"No," he said, the word coming out too fast. He did not want Martha to change. He did not want Martha to change a single thing about Martha; Martha was lovely. Martha was showing off that bikini in all its pride, and it wasn't like he would ever see it on Rose, that bikini. "It's just—I wasn’t expecting..."
"Beginning to think we had different thoughts about a seaside adventure," Martha said, a delightful little laugh on her breath. "Judging by you still being in a three-piece suit."
"Nothing wrong with a three-piece suit. 'M Gallifreyan. Tend to...run a little colder than your average human. Two hearts. Peak efficiency."
Martha gave him a look that said yeah right, mate, but he wasn’t quite able to concentrate on her face when she had so much lovely, beautiful skin on display.
God, Rose had been mad to buy that; that tiny little bikini with its even tinier little strings, a universe tied up in those impossibly fine little strings, strings that would be so easy to untie and see—see—see the entire bloody galaxy.
"Well, go as you're comfortable." He nodded; he wasn't comfortable, but it didn't have a damn thing to do with the clothing situation, or lack there-of. "...You sure you don't want me to go put on a cover-up? You're staring at me like...you've seen a ghost."
He had, and he swallowed, but didn't answer her directly. He took a step closer. She didn't take a step back. His heart caught in his throat.
"You've got tattoos," he said, dumbly, instead of answering her unspoken question.
Tattoos were an easier thing to think about than all the regrets he held for a woman trapped an entire universe away. No, better to think of Martha, of all the interesting new things he was learning about Martha, like these new tattoos!
He’d known she'd had the little butterfly on her hand. Little butterflies were cute and sweet. But on her belly, she had a small tattoo of a heart; an anatomical human heart, and he was somewhat fascinated by that. Most humans went for the metaphorical, artistically pleasant heart—boring. This was a real heart, with chambers and blood vessels, and surprisingly detailed, too! It was beautiful, but only to certain eyes – and certainly to his eyes.
Past the heart on her tummy, there was a gigantic mandala splaying out across her hips, with the mandala gently laying in a bed of flowers. His mouth went dry. "Got a whole garden, there. A menagerie." He made a dumb little laugh; the sort he hadn't made in multiple lifetimes.
"...I'm going to go grab a cover up," she said, picking up on his discomfort, and he winced. Dumb. So dumb. He shook his head.
"Don't. Martha Jones, don't you dare. You said you wanted to see the seaside, and I'm going to take you there. Dressed appropriately. If you're comfortable, I'm comfortable. I'll even wear shorts if you want." He wrinkled his nose. "Blend in."
He wanted her to be comfortable.
She laughed. "Nah. Wouldn't want you to be cold, Mr. My-Body-is-an-Efficient-Heat-Distribution-Machine. Go in what makes you comfortable." She walked past him, walking toward the door. He tried not to notice the shapeliness of her bottom as she walked by, and failed.
She stopped as she got to the door.
"Is it really okay?" She asked, quietly, her eyes seeking his. "You sure you're not…" She tucked a hair behind her ear. “…I dunno...squeamish or something."
He wanted to laugh at that. Nothing about Martha Jones was offputting.
"Me? I'm afraid it takes more than a bit of skin to scare me off, Martha Jones." He tried to smile reassuringly at her. He walked toward the door, debating taking the jacket; he decided that might be a touch too much for the beach. Instead, he offered his hand to Martha. "You look lovely. I was just surprised, that's all. Now: fun in the sun?"
She gave him a long look, one that suggested she thought there was more to the story than he was saying.
But he refused to say anything more, and after a long moment, she grabbed his arm.
"Allons-y," she said, and he took a step forward and willed himself to continue walking.
Maybe if he looked at her in the bikini long enough, he'd associate it more with the woman in front of him, rather than the one that he left behind.
Martha deserved that much. She really did.
He just hoped one day he could give that to her. Rose was his ghost; not Martha’s.