These Are the Days of Our Lives (3/7)
Title: These Are the Days of Our Lives (3/7)
Author: Persiflage_1
Characters/Pairings: Ten/Martha
Rating: U
Spoilers: Season 3 up to Blink
Summary: Snapshots from Martha and the Doctor's life in 1969.
Disclaimer: The BBC owns "Doctor Who" and the Doctor owns me…
Author Notes: This story is for parrotfish for the smith_n_jones 1969 ficathon. The prompts were candle, mechanical typewriter, cat.
Officially I've written two fics for this Ficathon, but the Bunny!Muses, being utterly voracious, liked several of the other prompts that were put up by smith_n_jones members, so this (unofficial fic) is the third of a series of seven linked stories: Part 1; Part 2.
Beta: padawanpooh the faithful.
~~~~~~
A couple of days later the Doctor was working on his timey-wimey device when he heard an unfamiliar clattering in the kitchen, then Martha talking to herself. Curious, he went to investigate and found her sitting at the table with a mechanical typewriter in front of her and a finger in her mouth.
"Problem?" he asked seeing a frustrated look on her face.
"I think this thing hates me," she answered crossly after pulling her finger from her mouth with a wet pop. "It's jammed itself up and I'd barely got started. And it bit me!" She held her hand out to the Doctor and he took it in his, trying to focus on the damage she'd done to her finger and barely resisting the urge to suck it better himself.
He let go of her hand, then walked around the table and peered at the machine's innards, before poking at it and Martha watched, thinking about how long and slender his fingers were: he had an artist's hands.
"There you go," he told her. "All sorted."
"Thanks."
He gave her a nod, then went back into the other room where the sound of Martha's typing made a counterpoint to the radio playing in the background. He'd cannibalised the first radio Martha had got them, using the parts for his gadget and she'd been so quietly furious with him that he'd gone out the next morning and got her a better model.
She'd accepted the replacement with a quiet thank you and he'd gained the impression that she was embarrassed by her anger. Showing an amazing instinct for self preservation, he'd refrained from telling her that the look on her face had reminded him of Francine Jones on the night of Lazarus' ill-fated demonstration.
Twenty minutes later the sounds from the typewriter ceased and he heard Martha talking again: from her tone she appeared to be complaining to the machine. He went to investigate a second time and found her glaring at it so fiercely that it would have cowered had it been sentient.
"Jammed again?" he asked sympathetically.
She nodded, her lips pursed in a thin line. He bent over the typewriter and prodded at it again.
"I think I know what the problem is," he told her, once he'd unjammed it.
"Yeah, it hates me," she answered with a scowl.
He smiled and sat down on the other chair. "No. You're trying to type too fast. You're used to an electronic keyboard which has a much faster response time to your key presses. This thing relies on the force of your fingers hitting the keys to lift the levers and hammers up in order to press the slugs holding the type onto the paper. Because you're used to a computer keyboard, you're typing faster than the keys, levers and hammers can actually respond, so it's getting jammed."
He beamed at her, but she was still scowling. "That's all very well, but how do I make it respond faster?" she asked.
"You can't. You have to pace your typing, slow it down. Typists who used mechanical typewriters learnt to type to a metronome or a piece of music with a beat that's the right speed to allow you to type quickly and accurately without jamming the keys."
Martha huffed in annoyance. "That's actually not very helpful Doctor. I don't have a metronome, and anyway I'm used to using a computer."
He rubbed the back of his neck nervously. "I could make you a metronome," he offered. "What are you typing, anyway?"
"It's for someone at work," she answered. "It's for a Christening present."
He raised one eyebrow, looking curious. "Go on."
She shrugged. "I'm trying to type up the fairy stories my Gran used to tell me when I was a kid. One of the girls at work said she'd get her brother to make it up into a little book for Sadie's baby - the brother works at a printing shop."
"Martha, that's a lovely idea."
She looked up surprised by the note of pride in his voice. "I thought you'd laugh at me," she said.
His eyebrows shot up. "Why would I do that?" he asked, sounding slightly hurt by the suggestion.
"Well we're not going to be here that long." She looked away. "I just thought you might think it was a waste of time."
He reached out and turned her face towards his, his dark brown eyes serious and intent. "Nothing you do could ever be a waste of time." He held her cheek cupped his hand, watching her face for several long minutes, then let go and turned back to the typewriter.
"Do you want me to make you a metronome?" he asked.
"What about your timey-wimey thing?" she asked.
He waved a hand. "I can build you a metronome in about an hour," he said. "And if it'll help you and stop you cursing the typewriter - " he added, grinning at her.
She stuck her tongue out at him and he grinned more widely. "Yes please," she said.
"OK." He bounced up out of the chair and went into the sitting room.
Martha glanced at her watch and decided that she'd wait until he'd made the metronome before continuing, and whilst he was building that, she would make them dinner.
* * * * * *
Ninety minutes later the Doctor was doing the washing up and Martha was typing again, trying not to feel mesmerised by the metronome ticking away on the table beside her.
When the washing up was finished, the Doctor sat down opposite Martha. "If you like, I can tell you some stories that you probably won't know that you could include in that booklet."
She looked up, surprised. "Stories from Earth?" she asked curiously. "Or stories from elsewhere?"
He smiled at her. "Stories from Earth. I don't mind telling you some Gallifreyan fairytales some time, but I don't think they should be included in your booklet."
"OK, thank you."
"Just let me know when you're ready to add them." He got up and leant over to brush a stray lock of hair from her face. "Don't sit there too long and make yourself tired for work tomorrow."
He wandered away and Martha reminded herself to breathe. She really ought to be used to him doing things like that by now, but somehow she wasn't and some days the smallest touch from him seemed to set her nerves tingling.
She typed for another hour, before yawning, then stretching and deciding to call it a night. She tidied up her things, then went into the sitting room. The Doctor was scribbling some notes on his pad, his glasses on and a pencil tucked behind his ear, and she couldn't help thinking how well the geeky look suited him.
"Finished?" he asked, glancing up to see her watching him. She nodded and he patted the sofa beside him. "Come and sit down, and I'll tell you the tale of 'The Cat and the Candle'."
Martha kicked off her shoes and sat down beside him, tucking her feet up underneath herself. The Doctor put down his notepad and slipped an arm around her shoulders, pulling her closer until her head rested on his shoulder.
"Once upon a time, long, long ago, there lived a wise cat…"
Author: Persiflage_1
Characters/Pairings: Ten/Martha
Rating: U
Spoilers: Season 3 up to Blink
Summary: Snapshots from Martha and the Doctor's life in 1969.
Disclaimer: The BBC owns "Doctor Who" and the Doctor owns me…
Author Notes: This story is for parrotfish for the smith_n_jones 1969 ficathon. The prompts were candle, mechanical typewriter, cat.
Officially I've written two fics for this Ficathon, but the Bunny!Muses, being utterly voracious, liked several of the other prompts that were put up by smith_n_jones members, so this (unofficial fic) is the third of a series of seven linked stories: Part 1; Part 2.
Beta: padawanpooh the faithful.
~~~~~~
A couple of days later the Doctor was working on his timey-wimey device when he heard an unfamiliar clattering in the kitchen, then Martha talking to herself. Curious, he went to investigate and found her sitting at the table with a mechanical typewriter in front of her and a finger in her mouth.
"Problem?" he asked seeing a frustrated look on her face.
"I think this thing hates me," she answered crossly after pulling her finger from her mouth with a wet pop. "It's jammed itself up and I'd barely got started. And it bit me!" She held her hand out to the Doctor and he took it in his, trying to focus on the damage she'd done to her finger and barely resisting the urge to suck it better himself.
He let go of her hand, then walked around the table and peered at the machine's innards, before poking at it and Martha watched, thinking about how long and slender his fingers were: he had an artist's hands.
"There you go," he told her. "All sorted."
"Thanks."
He gave her a nod, then went back into the other room where the sound of Martha's typing made a counterpoint to the radio playing in the background. He'd cannibalised the first radio Martha had got them, using the parts for his gadget and she'd been so quietly furious with him that he'd gone out the next morning and got her a better model.
She'd accepted the replacement with a quiet thank you and he'd gained the impression that she was embarrassed by her anger. Showing an amazing instinct for self preservation, he'd refrained from telling her that the look on her face had reminded him of Francine Jones on the night of Lazarus' ill-fated demonstration.
Twenty minutes later the sounds from the typewriter ceased and he heard Martha talking again: from her tone she appeared to be complaining to the machine. He went to investigate a second time and found her glaring at it so fiercely that it would have cowered had it been sentient.
"Jammed again?" he asked sympathetically.
She nodded, her lips pursed in a thin line. He bent over the typewriter and prodded at it again.
"I think I know what the problem is," he told her, once he'd unjammed it.
"Yeah, it hates me," she answered with a scowl.
He smiled and sat down on the other chair. "No. You're trying to type too fast. You're used to an electronic keyboard which has a much faster response time to your key presses. This thing relies on the force of your fingers hitting the keys to lift the levers and hammers up in order to press the slugs holding the type onto the paper. Because you're used to a computer keyboard, you're typing faster than the keys, levers and hammers can actually respond, so it's getting jammed."
He beamed at her, but she was still scowling. "That's all very well, but how do I make it respond faster?" she asked.
"You can't. You have to pace your typing, slow it down. Typists who used mechanical typewriters learnt to type to a metronome or a piece of music with a beat that's the right speed to allow you to type quickly and accurately without jamming the keys."
Martha huffed in annoyance. "That's actually not very helpful Doctor. I don't have a metronome, and anyway I'm used to using a computer."
He rubbed the back of his neck nervously. "I could make you a metronome," he offered. "What are you typing, anyway?"
"It's for someone at work," she answered. "It's for a Christening present."
He raised one eyebrow, looking curious. "Go on."
She shrugged. "I'm trying to type up the fairy stories my Gran used to tell me when I was a kid. One of the girls at work said she'd get her brother to make it up into a little book for Sadie's baby - the brother works at a printing shop."
"Martha, that's a lovely idea."
She looked up surprised by the note of pride in his voice. "I thought you'd laugh at me," she said.
His eyebrows shot up. "Why would I do that?" he asked, sounding slightly hurt by the suggestion.
"Well we're not going to be here that long." She looked away. "I just thought you might think it was a waste of time."
He reached out and turned her face towards his, his dark brown eyes serious and intent. "Nothing you do could ever be a waste of time." He held her cheek cupped his hand, watching her face for several long minutes, then let go and turned back to the typewriter.
"Do you want me to make you a metronome?" he asked.
"What about your timey-wimey thing?" she asked.
He waved a hand. "I can build you a metronome in about an hour," he said. "And if it'll help you and stop you cursing the typewriter - " he added, grinning at her.
She stuck her tongue out at him and he grinned more widely. "Yes please," she said.
"OK." He bounced up out of the chair and went into the sitting room.
Martha glanced at her watch and decided that she'd wait until he'd made the metronome before continuing, and whilst he was building that, she would make them dinner.
* * * * * *
Ninety minutes later the Doctor was doing the washing up and Martha was typing again, trying not to feel mesmerised by the metronome ticking away on the table beside her.
When the washing up was finished, the Doctor sat down opposite Martha. "If you like, I can tell you some stories that you probably won't know that you could include in that booklet."
She looked up, surprised. "Stories from Earth?" she asked curiously. "Or stories from elsewhere?"
He smiled at her. "Stories from Earth. I don't mind telling you some Gallifreyan fairytales some time, but I don't think they should be included in your booklet."
"OK, thank you."
"Just let me know when you're ready to add them." He got up and leant over to brush a stray lock of hair from her face. "Don't sit there too long and make yourself tired for work tomorrow."
He wandered away and Martha reminded herself to breathe. She really ought to be used to him doing things like that by now, but somehow she wasn't and some days the smallest touch from him seemed to set her nerves tingling.
She typed for another hour, before yawning, then stretching and deciding to call it a night. She tidied up her things, then went into the sitting room. The Doctor was scribbling some notes on his pad, his glasses on and a pencil tucked behind his ear, and she couldn't help thinking how well the geeky look suited him.
"Finished?" he asked, glancing up to see her watching him. She nodded and he patted the sofa beside him. "Come and sit down, and I'll tell you the tale of 'The Cat and the Candle'."
Martha kicked off her shoes and sat down beside him, tucking her feet up underneath herself. The Doctor put down his notepad and slipped an arm around her shoulders, pulling her closer until her head rested on his shoulder.
"Once upon a time, long, long ago, there lived a wise cat…"