♡ Doctor Who: Threads (The Backstitch in Time Remix)
♡ [ Ten, Martha | G | 578 words ]
His gray suit got singed, several circular laser burns, so the Doctor took an apprenticeship.
Original story: Savile Row by iamsab, 578 words.
Remix author: eve11
Threads (The Backstitch in Time Remix)
His gray suit got singed, several circular laser burns, so the Doctor took an apprenticeship.
He left Haptera XII for London in 2003, and a position at a Savile Row shop called Norton and Sons. It was an upscale operation but still managed a cozy atmosphere behind the showroom; long hours and strict taskmasters fueled camaraderie among the students rather than antagonism. It wasn’t until two years later, when the front bell chimed at the arrival of miss Martha Jones and an old familiar face, that he remembered where he’d got his favourite gray suit in the first place.
So, in the interests of preserving the Web of Time, the Universe, and all that, he took the job. He measured, nodded, took copious notes and “hmm”-ed in all the right places as his former self fidgeted and fussed at every detail. Of all things, it earned him another unwarranted apology from Martha Jones.
“I sold him on the idea of bespoke,” she said. “Told him he could get anything he wants.”
He hadn’t missed her sidelong looks this time. He had to stop himself explaining that it wasn’t her fault, this one never really knew what he wanted beyond a grin and a chase scene. Instead, he spent six weeks meticulously constructing a garment that was both brand new and achingly familiar, and when the time came he had never been so glad to part with it. As the other one beamed and prattled, he gave Martha a conspiratorial wink.
“Made to measure,” he said.
It was two years afterward that Martha Jones, brilliant Martha Jones, figured it out. He had just stowed his spectacles when there was a knock at the staff lounge doorway.
“Did you know UNIT has a file on Norton and Sons?” Martha asked, leaning on the frame.
Startled, he tried to bluster his way out of it, but Martha cut him off mid-stutter.
“Norton’s an old family name on Delenda. They’re experts at camouflage, like dampening psychic signatures or altering bio-rhythms to fool scans. Apparently they run several immersion schools for off-worlders who want to pick up the skill.”
The Doctor hung his head. “They’re also excellent tailors,” he mumbled.
“Granted, but they can’t make dimensionally transcendental pockets, can they?” When he didn’t argue, she laughed amiably. “So, what happened to ‘act like you own the place’?”
He ran a hand through his ginger hair. “Some rather xenophobic Hapterians took offense, I’m afraid.”
They hit the town after his shift ended, procuring chips in greasy take-out paper from her favourite shop. They ended up strolling arm-in-arm along a river walk, with Martha discreetly pointing out some of the Doctor’s fellow students among the crowd of humans. When she couldn’t locate it on the promenade, Martha asked after the TARDIS.
“Haven’t seen her for nearly four years.” At her stare, he huffed. “Immersion, remember?”
They slowed. She wrapped an arm around his waist. He hugged her shoulder, acutely aware of her warmth pressing into his side, noting the smooth curve of her neck out of the corner of his eye.
“So you’re just another bloke, then?” she asked, breath misting, words a shadow of vibration echoing in his chest. “With a flat and a commute, a nine-to-five and some bills?”
“For now.”
Martha brought a hand up, softly running her fingers over his own. Across the Thames, the London skyline glimmered as the sun sank.
“You know,” she said, “that’s just what I wanted.”
His gray suit got singed, several circular laser burns, so the Doctor took an apprenticeship.
Original story: Savile Row by iamsab, 578 words.
Remix author: eve11
Threads (The Backstitch in Time Remix)
His gray suit got singed, several circular laser burns, so the Doctor took an apprenticeship.
He left Haptera XII for London in 2003, and a position at a Savile Row shop called Norton and Sons. It was an upscale operation but still managed a cozy atmosphere behind the showroom; long hours and strict taskmasters fueled camaraderie among the students rather than antagonism. It wasn’t until two years later, when the front bell chimed at the arrival of miss Martha Jones and an old familiar face, that he remembered where he’d got his favourite gray suit in the first place.
So, in the interests of preserving the Web of Time, the Universe, and all that, he took the job. He measured, nodded, took copious notes and “hmm”-ed in all the right places as his former self fidgeted and fussed at every detail. Of all things, it earned him another unwarranted apology from Martha Jones.
“I sold him on the idea of bespoke,” she said. “Told him he could get anything he wants.”
He hadn’t missed her sidelong looks this time. He had to stop himself explaining that it wasn’t her fault, this one never really knew what he wanted beyond a grin and a chase scene. Instead, he spent six weeks meticulously constructing a garment that was both brand new and achingly familiar, and when the time came he had never been so glad to part with it. As the other one beamed and prattled, he gave Martha a conspiratorial wink.
“Made to measure,” he said.
It was two years afterward that Martha Jones, brilliant Martha Jones, figured it out. He had just stowed his spectacles when there was a knock at the staff lounge doorway.
“Did you know UNIT has a file on Norton and Sons?” Martha asked, leaning on the frame.
Startled, he tried to bluster his way out of it, but Martha cut him off mid-stutter.
“Norton’s an old family name on Delenda. They’re experts at camouflage, like dampening psychic signatures or altering bio-rhythms to fool scans. Apparently they run several immersion schools for off-worlders who want to pick up the skill.”
The Doctor hung his head. “They’re also excellent tailors,” he mumbled.
“Granted, but they can’t make dimensionally transcendental pockets, can they?” When he didn’t argue, she laughed amiably. “So, what happened to ‘act like you own the place’?”
He ran a hand through his ginger hair. “Some rather xenophobic Hapterians took offense, I’m afraid.”
They hit the town after his shift ended, procuring chips in greasy take-out paper from her favourite shop. They ended up strolling arm-in-arm along a river walk, with Martha discreetly pointing out some of the Doctor’s fellow students among the crowd of humans. When she couldn’t locate it on the promenade, Martha asked after the TARDIS.
“Haven’t seen her for nearly four years.” At her stare, he huffed. “Immersion, remember?”
They slowed. She wrapped an arm around his waist. He hugged her shoulder, acutely aware of her warmth pressing into his side, noting the smooth curve of her neck out of the corner of his eye.
“So you’re just another bloke, then?” she asked, breath misting, words a shadow of vibration echoing in his chest. “With a flat and a commute, a nine-to-five and some bills?”
“For now.”
Martha brought a hand up, softly running her fingers over his own. Across the Thames, the London skyline glimmered as the sun sank.
“You know,” she said, “that’s just what I wanted.”