(Untitled)

[took_a_year_out]

Mmmm, weekends.

Martha Jones has ... not long woken up. She's dressed, but her hair is sticking up more than she'd like and she's still yawning, mainly because one of the bright sparks she lives with had left the milk out of the fridge yet again and you can't make tea with solid milk

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[scots_wolf]

There is a little man with a goatee and badly bleached hair by the bar, smiling up at her.

"I think I'll have the one with the long name," he says.

[took_a_year_out]

Hey, he's familiar (Martha's of an age where Spaced is classic TV, to say nothing of Shaun of the Dead), but it's probably unprofessional to say so.

She gives him an easy smile as she glances over the book, neatly propped in front of her. "Okay, but it might take me a couple of goes."

A few minutes and the occasional worried look later, she slides the glass over to him. "Tell me if that's all right? Bartending isn't usually my thing."

[scots_wolf]

He sips.

"That's very nice," he says. "What is usually your thing?"

He doesn't sound quite like the characters she is thinking of.

Too Scottish.

[took_a_year_out]

"Oh, good." She leans on the bartop, taking another drink of tea. "I'm a medical student."

[scots_wolf]

"What kind of medical student?" the little man asks, almost suspiciously.

Urquhart had a very bad experience with a medical student when he was relatively new to the bar.

[took_a_year_out]

"...A good one?" Martha offers, with a little smugness. She knows she's good at this, after all.

"I haven't chosen my specialisation yet. I was thinking about surgery, though."

[scots_wolf]

She sounds like a good one. Not like one of the marauding drunkards Urquhart remembers from his time in Paris, or the drunken marauder who threw him in the lake here in Milliways.

"Have you learned how to subdue irrational patients yet?" he jokes.

[took_a_year_out]

She raises an eyebrow.

"Just my brother, so far. Does that count?"

[scots_wolf]

"Oh yes," he says. "Siblings are notoriously difficult!"