Unfinished Business (1/1)
UNFINISHED BUSINESS
Sensible cat
Word Count: 2748
Spoilers: S3, up to “Evolution of the Daleks”
Characters: Doctor, Martha, Tallulah
Disclaimer: All the really good ideas belong to the BBC. But they threw this one overboard, and I just couldn’t resist fishing it out of the water and playing a little bit.
Warning: Strong language in the first bit, and a Brit writing Brooklyn in the last. Don’t know which is worse, really.
“God, he was high-maintenance. Too much for her. Too much for any one person. Team effort, that was what he was……”
crossposted to
catsfiction
“We feel restless, we feel blue, we feel lonely and in grief,
We feel every kinda feeling, but the feeling of relief,
We feel hungry as the wolf felt when he met Red Riding Hood,
What don’t we feel? We don’t feel good.”
(Nothing Like a Dame, from “South Pacific” Lyrics - Oscar Hammerstein)
They looked over to Manhattan Island, looking deceptively calm and serene in the clear morning air. It was hard to believe that the chaos they’d just lived through was anything more tangible than a nightmare.
Except, Martha thought, for the faces she couldn’t get out of her mind. Tallulah, Frank, Solomon, dignified until the end, and Lazlo, outcast for ever with his hybrid face. They were her friends. They’d been to hell and back together.
She looked at the Doctor, gazing over the water with a smirk plastered on his face, and wanted to hit him. A few hours ago, she’d seen him goading those Dalek creatures, willing them to kill him. She’d not been fooled. Not for a minute. Oh, he was more than capable of bravado, or calling their bluff. Chances were, he’d known they wouldn’t shoot; in some creepy, weird way they seemed to need him alive, maybe to give a focus to their murderous hatred. Or maybe they were just a little too alike. Both the last desperate survivors of their race, both teetering on the edge of a dark abyss, united by the history they had inflicted on each other. It had terrified her. How quickly he’d forgotten that, if he gave in to his death-wish, she’d be stranded here, with no way home, in a foreign city, fifty years before her birth.
And she understood why he’d forgotten her, because he was screaming so loudly inside his head that nothing else mattered, maybe not even whether the Universe made it through this latest crisis or not. It was too much for her to deal with on her own. With Tallulah and the guys around, she’d felt able to contain her fear. Not now. Not now they were back to the two of them in that little blue box, and him grinning like an idiot.
But she couldn’t leave him. She’d seen too much - both good and bad - to make that possible. She thought of those corny old movies, people clinging on to the top of skyscrapers by their fingernails, and she’d a horrible feeling that, most of the time, the inside of his head was like that. Loved him? Oh, nothing that straightforward. Fancied him? It had gone far beyond that. If she loved anything, it was the person she knew he could be, and sometimes had been…..with the right person. She felt as if she’d wait fifty years to see one little glimpse of that.
They’d been talking about Tallulah and Lazlo. “Do you think those two will be all right?” she asked, wanting to see some reaction, some hint of a human response out of him.
His eyes stayed firmly on the sailboats. “Anywhere else I would worry,” he replied, “But here………If you can make it there, you can make it anywhere.”
“Is that all you can think of to say?” she flashed, suddenly furious. “Bit of old Broadway hokum, then back in the TARDIS and cheerio?”
She knew she’d hit home because his eyes stayed riveted to the top of the Empire State, fixed as firmly as a band of Dalekinium before he turned up with his screwdriver.
“Well, what am I supposed to say?” he demanded, petulantly.
“You could worry,” she replied.
“Worry?” He turned to her, his eyes darkened with anger. “I don’t have a concept of worry, Martha. Waste of time and energy. I do what I can, and then I leave what I can’t do to other people. If you’d been around as long as me, if you’d seen as many problems, you’d realise that’s the only way to stop yourself from going mad. Now come on, let’s get in the TARDIS and go somewhere we won’t end up fighting for our lives, for a change.”
He turned away and started striding towards his little box, shoulders stiff under his coat. End of conversation, as far as he was concerned. She’d already been on the receiving end of that treatment several times, and each time, whilst staying silent, she’d come a little closer to boiling point. Bet he didn’t treat bloody Saint Rose like that, she thought, bitterly.
“Oh yeah!” she shouted at his back. “See a problem, move on, it disappears, that’s you all over, isn’t it Doctor? Well, tell me one thing. If you didn’t want to get involved, why did you bring Lazlo back to life?”
He turned round then. “Because there’d been enough killing,” he said, and she watched the rage peel away from his expression, to be replaced by naked pain. “Because enough people’s lives have been destroyed by the Daleks taking away the only thing that mattered to them, that’s why! And, just once, I wasn’t letting them win. There!” He was shouting into her face now. “Is that good enough for you?”
She would not break. She would not cry. He wasn’t having that power over her, or even sensing that he might have it. “This isn’t about Lazlo and Tallulah,” she forced herself to say. “It’s about you and….”
“STOP IT!” he yelled. “Now, are you getting in the TARDIS, or have you decided you’d rather have a try at the American Dream?”
She folded her arms. “I’m staying.”
He hadn’t expected that. The master bluffer was outbluffed. “Martha, don’t be silly,” he said. “You’ve no money, you’re way out of your time, your skin’s the wrong colour…”
“What the hell’s that got to do with it?”
“Nothing personal,” he backtracked, pulling at his hair, “just a social reality in this particular period of the twentieth century.”
“Well, it could be worse!” she yelled. “I could have a bloody pig’s snout! Try getting an apartment then!”
He walked towards her and stopped inches away from her eyes, his chin raised, his face an arrogant mask of frozen pride. “So what would you have done?” he asked, and the reined-in coldness in his voice was more frightening than any shouting.
Damn him. She wouldn’t break. She’d climbed up the Empire State building for him. She’d seen a monstrous octupine mutant crawl from a metal case. “I’d have either let him die, or done the job properly,” she said. “I wouldn’t have gone all fucking sentimental! I wouldn’t have done a miracle cure on a whim because the last Dalek got away and made me feel useless. And because a peroxide blonde hoofer went all big and blue-eyed on me.”
It seemed to be the words “peroxide blonde” that finally made him snap.
“Right, then,” he said, with icy heartiness. “So long, Martha Jones, it’s been good to know you.”
“Don’t worry about me!” she shouted, tears beginning to stream down her cheeks as the TARDIS door slammed with him beyond it. “If I can make it here, I can make it anywhere. You said so, Doctor, so it must be true!”
The TARDIS didn’t dematerialise. She stood, watching, pulling her short jacket around her skimpy top, shivering in the wind, tears streaming down her face.
“Bastard!” she repeated several times, each with less conviction.
But it wasn’t the thought of his treatment of her that was making her cry. It was the hope and trust in Tallulah’s expression as she’d taken Lazlo in her arms. She wanted to be back there with them. Her friends.
It took her another minute to realise that wasn’t quite true. She wanted them, yes, but not in Hooverville.
She wanted them aboard the TARDIS. Needed them. And he did, too.
*********
Irresistible force meets immovable blue object.
For a long ten minutes, nothing happened. Martha heard the first tourist ferry of the day drop off its chattering, excited passengers and felt a stab of envy. Other people came to New York to do the sights, have a nice time. Not her. She got a tour of the lousy sewers and Hooverville.
Funny, that you should end up travelling with an alien and end up seeing the nitty-gritty of life. Last thing you would have expected.
She supposed she ought to head that way and try to sneak aboard. Because he had a point, damn him; she was penniless and staying here meant living on her wits. If it wasn’t for the sheer humiliation of banging on the TARDIS door and letting him think she was admitting she was wrong, she’d do it and demand a lift back home. This was crazy, after all. Look what she was leaving behind. It was different for him; he carried his whole world in there and left behind nothing. Maybe that was what made him such a git.
Hooverville. It wasn’t an attractive prospect. Oh, she’d find a niche; whatever the attitudes in the big city were, in that community of outcasts she’d be valued for her medical training, at least. And she’d scrounge herself some period clothes, get a job - waiting on tables, anything. Even in the Depression, people had to eat. She’d only have herself to look out for. Not like Tallulah. When was Lazlo going to get another job? Best he could hope for was some twilight world, hanging around backstage like something from the Phantom of the Opera. And they’d get by, somehow, until Tallulah broke an ankle, or the theatre closed, or she got pregnant.
Martha knew what would happen to her then. She’d worked those clinics. STDs, botched abortions. One day she’d be a real doctor. Not like him.
Why hadn’t he left yet? How long was he going to sulk in there? Maybe he could switch off time completely and he’d been sitting there for years already, mourning his lost love and beating himself up for not finishing off the Daleks once and for all. What was the genocide thing all about, anyway? He wasn’t Hitler. Basically, he was a decent bloke, but he had some weird hang-ups. She hadn’t liked the way he’d said that word.
God, he was high-maintenance. Too much for her. Too much for any one person. Team effort, that was what he was. Not just to keep him safe, but to keep the world safe. Why was he picking up single women anyway, if he didn’t want another emotional involvement?
He probably didn’t know; or if he did, he wouldn’t say. Wouldn’t even think about it. Typical bloke. All pride and independence, while he was falling apart inside. Did he really think nobody noticed?
Oh, what the hell. She didn’t care. She turned to walk away.
She only managed a few steps before she turned around. Of course she did.
Pride. Not just a male problem, that.
Taking a deep breath, she walked up to the TARDIS and banged on the door. It opened at once. She wondered if he’d been standing right behind it. Waiting, damn him.
“You still here, then?” he said, smug as ever.
“Could say the same about you,” she observed. “After all, you’re fancy free now. No companion to think about.”
“I was worried about you!”
“Oh.” She drew the word out, enjoying the sight of his discomfort. “So maybe you do have a concept of worry, after all.”
“Maybe,” he repeated, his face a blank.
“And what about a concept of compromise?” she suggested. “Or is that a bit too human for you?”
“Depends what the compromise is,” he replied, folding his arms and leaning back against the door. She couldn’t begrudge him the gesture, really. After all, it was his ship. If he wanted to go around looking as if he owned it, fair enough.
Martha glanced upward. The plinth of the statue, huge in itself, was dwarfed by the figure above it, so much bigger than she’d imagined it. The torch itself, she vaguely recalled, contained a gallery.
She looked back at him. “Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to be free,” she quoted.
He softened a little at that. “We never really did the tourist bit, did we? Would you like that? The view from the top’s lovely.”
“I’ve seen enough views from the top of things to last me a while,” she said.
“Well, it’s not the only thing worth seeing in New York,” he said. Flirting again, she noticed. His moods changed faster than the weather back home on an April day. “Fifth Avenue? Great big city’s a wondrous toy, just meant for a girl and boy, and all that. And we don’t have to stay here in the Thirties. Does get a bit downbeat after a while, all that buddy-can-you-spare-a-dime stuff.”
“How big did you say that ship of yours was?” she asked.
Oh, good move. His face brightened, as he launched into his favourite subject. “Big as you want it to be. Could get the whole of Manhattan Island into her if needs be. Did that once. Whole city in there. Okay, it wasn’t Manhattan, but…..”
“So,” Martha interrupted, allowing a smile to creep onto her face. “Couple more crew members, that shouldn’t be too much of a stretch.” She slipped into a half-convincing Brooklyn accent. “Whaddya think?”
**********
Tallulah rushed around her tiny box of an apartment, flinging bottles of nail varnish and lipsticks into a vanity case. Good thing she was used to living in a small space. Her bedsitter room was cramped even before the TARDIS materialised in the middle of it. And it looked like she shared with a couple of other girls. Worse than London, Martha thought.
“I sure hope I ain’t gonna regret this,” she said. “Ain’t exactly your reg’lar business proposition, is he?”
“He’s on the level,” Martha reassured her. “After all, he asked Lazlo along. And Frank.”
“So whaddya do all day?” Tallulah asked.
Martha paused for a moment. Get kidnapped, she thought. Scramble around on tall buildings. Give him the kiss of life when he’s had a run in with the witches. Steal Shakespeare’s best lines?
“Oh, this and that,” she said vaguely.
Tallulah nodded. “Oh, I get it. And he’s an alien, right? No kidding? He from Mars, or sum’fin?”
“Best not to ask him,” said Martha. Already I’m getting protective, she realised with surprise. “He’s kind of a war veteran, you know?”
“Sure, I know, loadsa guys had a bad war. We won’t go there. Keep smiling, that’s what you havta do, else you go under. And there ain’t nobody gonna pick up the pieces when that happens.” Her round blue eyes met Martha’s. “So, you figure this is gonna help, sweetie, having company on board?”
“What, company for me?”
“Whatever.” Tallulah waved a beautifully manicured hand. “You, him. The whole shebang.”
“I dunno,” Martha confessed. “I told you there was this other person. He thinks he’s over her, but he isn’t. Not really.”
“Well, that’s how it goes,” Tallulah sighed. “When a lovely flame dies, smoke gets in your eyes, you know? Maybe he just gets a kick out of seeing you see that he obviously don’t adore you.”
“You know, that’s good,” Martha told her, smiling. “You could use that in a song. Write songs for a living - you ever thought of that?”
“Me, a broad? On Tin Pan Alley? Dream on!” Tallulah looked towards the TARDIS door, and Martha realised the Doctor was watching them, with a twinkle in his eye.
He winked at Martha. “Worked on Shakespeare,” he whispered to her. “Why not Cole Porter and Jerome Kern?” He looked at Tallulah. “Okay, Tallulah with three L’s, got enough make-up there yet? Welcome aboard. Lazlo - um - already fixed us coffee.”
Tallulah giggled and left the clear red outline of her lips on his cheek, “Aw, you’re so cute when you talk that way,” she said, pausing to straighten his tie. “But I like the English better. Oh my, that accent! What’s not to love?”
She stepped into the control room. Behind her, Martha and the Doctor smiled a private smile and mouthed the obvious words together.
“Oh my,” breathed Tallulah. “You oughta get a patent on this, Doc - this bigger on the inside thing. Do that in New York City, you’d make a fortune!”
“On with the show,” murmured Martha, and went in search of Frank.
Sensible cat
Word Count: 2748
Spoilers: S3, up to “Evolution of the Daleks”
Characters: Doctor, Martha, Tallulah
Disclaimer: All the really good ideas belong to the BBC. But they threw this one overboard, and I just couldn’t resist fishing it out of the water and playing a little bit.
Warning: Strong language in the first bit, and a Brit writing Brooklyn in the last. Don’t know which is worse, really.
“God, he was high-maintenance. Too much for her. Too much for any one person. Team effort, that was what he was……”
crossposted to
catsfiction
“We feel restless, we feel blue, we feel lonely and in grief,
We feel every kinda feeling, but the feeling of relief,
We feel hungry as the wolf felt when he met Red Riding Hood,
What don’t we feel? We don’t feel good.”
(Nothing Like a Dame, from “South Pacific” Lyrics - Oscar Hammerstein)
They looked over to Manhattan Island, looking deceptively calm and serene in the clear morning air. It was hard to believe that the chaos they’d just lived through was anything more tangible than a nightmare.
Except, Martha thought, for the faces she couldn’t get out of her mind. Tallulah, Frank, Solomon, dignified until the end, and Lazlo, outcast for ever with his hybrid face. They were her friends. They’d been to hell and back together.
She looked at the Doctor, gazing over the water with a smirk plastered on his face, and wanted to hit him. A few hours ago, she’d seen him goading those Dalek creatures, willing them to kill him. She’d not been fooled. Not for a minute. Oh, he was more than capable of bravado, or calling their bluff. Chances were, he’d known they wouldn’t shoot; in some creepy, weird way they seemed to need him alive, maybe to give a focus to their murderous hatred. Or maybe they were just a little too alike. Both the last desperate survivors of their race, both teetering on the edge of a dark abyss, united by the history they had inflicted on each other. It had terrified her. How quickly he’d forgotten that, if he gave in to his death-wish, she’d be stranded here, with no way home, in a foreign city, fifty years before her birth.
And she understood why he’d forgotten her, because he was screaming so loudly inside his head that nothing else mattered, maybe not even whether the Universe made it through this latest crisis or not. It was too much for her to deal with on her own. With Tallulah and the guys around, she’d felt able to contain her fear. Not now. Not now they were back to the two of them in that little blue box, and him grinning like an idiot.
But she couldn’t leave him. She’d seen too much - both good and bad - to make that possible. She thought of those corny old movies, people clinging on to the top of skyscrapers by their fingernails, and she’d a horrible feeling that, most of the time, the inside of his head was like that. Loved him? Oh, nothing that straightforward. Fancied him? It had gone far beyond that. If she loved anything, it was the person she knew he could be, and sometimes had been…..with the right person. She felt as if she’d wait fifty years to see one little glimpse of that.
They’d been talking about Tallulah and Lazlo. “Do you think those two will be all right?” she asked, wanting to see some reaction, some hint of a human response out of him.
His eyes stayed firmly on the sailboats. “Anywhere else I would worry,” he replied, “But here………If you can make it there, you can make it anywhere.”
“Is that all you can think of to say?” she flashed, suddenly furious. “Bit of old Broadway hokum, then back in the TARDIS and cheerio?”
She knew she’d hit home because his eyes stayed riveted to the top of the Empire State, fixed as firmly as a band of Dalekinium before he turned up with his screwdriver.
“Well, what am I supposed to say?” he demanded, petulantly.
“You could worry,” she replied.
“Worry?” He turned to her, his eyes darkened with anger. “I don’t have a concept of worry, Martha. Waste of time and energy. I do what I can, and then I leave what I can’t do to other people. If you’d been around as long as me, if you’d seen as many problems, you’d realise that’s the only way to stop yourself from going mad. Now come on, let’s get in the TARDIS and go somewhere we won’t end up fighting for our lives, for a change.”
He turned away and started striding towards his little box, shoulders stiff under his coat. End of conversation, as far as he was concerned. She’d already been on the receiving end of that treatment several times, and each time, whilst staying silent, she’d come a little closer to boiling point. Bet he didn’t treat bloody Saint Rose like that, she thought, bitterly.
“Oh yeah!” she shouted at his back. “See a problem, move on, it disappears, that’s you all over, isn’t it Doctor? Well, tell me one thing. If you didn’t want to get involved, why did you bring Lazlo back to life?”
He turned round then. “Because there’d been enough killing,” he said, and she watched the rage peel away from his expression, to be replaced by naked pain. “Because enough people’s lives have been destroyed by the Daleks taking away the only thing that mattered to them, that’s why! And, just once, I wasn’t letting them win. There!” He was shouting into her face now. “Is that good enough for you?”
She would not break. She would not cry. He wasn’t having that power over her, or even sensing that he might have it. “This isn’t about Lazlo and Tallulah,” she forced herself to say. “It’s about you and….”
“STOP IT!” he yelled. “Now, are you getting in the TARDIS, or have you decided you’d rather have a try at the American Dream?”
She folded her arms. “I’m staying.”
He hadn’t expected that. The master bluffer was outbluffed. “Martha, don’t be silly,” he said. “You’ve no money, you’re way out of your time, your skin’s the wrong colour…”
“What the hell’s that got to do with it?”
“Nothing personal,” he backtracked, pulling at his hair, “just a social reality in this particular period of the twentieth century.”
“Well, it could be worse!” she yelled. “I could have a bloody pig’s snout! Try getting an apartment then!”
He walked towards her and stopped inches away from her eyes, his chin raised, his face an arrogant mask of frozen pride. “So what would you have done?” he asked, and the reined-in coldness in his voice was more frightening than any shouting.
Damn him. She wouldn’t break. She’d climbed up the Empire State building for him. She’d seen a monstrous octupine mutant crawl from a metal case. “I’d have either let him die, or done the job properly,” she said. “I wouldn’t have gone all fucking sentimental! I wouldn’t have done a miracle cure on a whim because the last Dalek got away and made me feel useless. And because a peroxide blonde hoofer went all big and blue-eyed on me.”
It seemed to be the words “peroxide blonde” that finally made him snap.
“Right, then,” he said, with icy heartiness. “So long, Martha Jones, it’s been good to know you.”
“Don’t worry about me!” she shouted, tears beginning to stream down her cheeks as the TARDIS door slammed with him beyond it. “If I can make it here, I can make it anywhere. You said so, Doctor, so it must be true!”
The TARDIS didn’t dematerialise. She stood, watching, pulling her short jacket around her skimpy top, shivering in the wind, tears streaming down her face.
“Bastard!” she repeated several times, each with less conviction.
But it wasn’t the thought of his treatment of her that was making her cry. It was the hope and trust in Tallulah’s expression as she’d taken Lazlo in her arms. She wanted to be back there with them. Her friends.
It took her another minute to realise that wasn’t quite true. She wanted them, yes, but not in Hooverville.
She wanted them aboard the TARDIS. Needed them. And he did, too.
*********
Irresistible force meets immovable blue object.
For a long ten minutes, nothing happened. Martha heard the first tourist ferry of the day drop off its chattering, excited passengers and felt a stab of envy. Other people came to New York to do the sights, have a nice time. Not her. She got a tour of the lousy sewers and Hooverville.
Funny, that you should end up travelling with an alien and end up seeing the nitty-gritty of life. Last thing you would have expected.
She supposed she ought to head that way and try to sneak aboard. Because he had a point, damn him; she was penniless and staying here meant living on her wits. If it wasn’t for the sheer humiliation of banging on the TARDIS door and letting him think she was admitting she was wrong, she’d do it and demand a lift back home. This was crazy, after all. Look what she was leaving behind. It was different for him; he carried his whole world in there and left behind nothing. Maybe that was what made him such a git.
Hooverville. It wasn’t an attractive prospect. Oh, she’d find a niche; whatever the attitudes in the big city were, in that community of outcasts she’d be valued for her medical training, at least. And she’d scrounge herself some period clothes, get a job - waiting on tables, anything. Even in the Depression, people had to eat. She’d only have herself to look out for. Not like Tallulah. When was Lazlo going to get another job? Best he could hope for was some twilight world, hanging around backstage like something from the Phantom of the Opera. And they’d get by, somehow, until Tallulah broke an ankle, or the theatre closed, or she got pregnant.
Martha knew what would happen to her then. She’d worked those clinics. STDs, botched abortions. One day she’d be a real doctor. Not like him.
Why hadn’t he left yet? How long was he going to sulk in there? Maybe he could switch off time completely and he’d been sitting there for years already, mourning his lost love and beating himself up for not finishing off the Daleks once and for all. What was the genocide thing all about, anyway? He wasn’t Hitler. Basically, he was a decent bloke, but he had some weird hang-ups. She hadn’t liked the way he’d said that word.
God, he was high-maintenance. Too much for her. Too much for any one person. Team effort, that was what he was. Not just to keep him safe, but to keep the world safe. Why was he picking up single women anyway, if he didn’t want another emotional involvement?
He probably didn’t know; or if he did, he wouldn’t say. Wouldn’t even think about it. Typical bloke. All pride and independence, while he was falling apart inside. Did he really think nobody noticed?
Oh, what the hell. She didn’t care. She turned to walk away.
She only managed a few steps before she turned around. Of course she did.
Pride. Not just a male problem, that.
Taking a deep breath, she walked up to the TARDIS and banged on the door. It opened at once. She wondered if he’d been standing right behind it. Waiting, damn him.
“You still here, then?” he said, smug as ever.
“Could say the same about you,” she observed. “After all, you’re fancy free now. No companion to think about.”
“I was worried about you!”
“Oh.” She drew the word out, enjoying the sight of his discomfort. “So maybe you do have a concept of worry, after all.”
“Maybe,” he repeated, his face a blank.
“And what about a concept of compromise?” she suggested. “Or is that a bit too human for you?”
“Depends what the compromise is,” he replied, folding his arms and leaning back against the door. She couldn’t begrudge him the gesture, really. After all, it was his ship. If he wanted to go around looking as if he owned it, fair enough.
Martha glanced upward. The plinth of the statue, huge in itself, was dwarfed by the figure above it, so much bigger than she’d imagined it. The torch itself, she vaguely recalled, contained a gallery.
She looked back at him. “Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to be free,” she quoted.
He softened a little at that. “We never really did the tourist bit, did we? Would you like that? The view from the top’s lovely.”
“I’ve seen enough views from the top of things to last me a while,” she said.
“Well, it’s not the only thing worth seeing in New York,” he said. Flirting again, she noticed. His moods changed faster than the weather back home on an April day. “Fifth Avenue? Great big city’s a wondrous toy, just meant for a girl and boy, and all that. And we don’t have to stay here in the Thirties. Does get a bit downbeat after a while, all that buddy-can-you-spare-a-dime stuff.”
“How big did you say that ship of yours was?” she asked.
Oh, good move. His face brightened, as he launched into his favourite subject. “Big as you want it to be. Could get the whole of Manhattan Island into her if needs be. Did that once. Whole city in there. Okay, it wasn’t Manhattan, but…..”
“So,” Martha interrupted, allowing a smile to creep onto her face. “Couple more crew members, that shouldn’t be too much of a stretch.” She slipped into a half-convincing Brooklyn accent. “Whaddya think?”
**********
Tallulah rushed around her tiny box of an apartment, flinging bottles of nail varnish and lipsticks into a vanity case. Good thing she was used to living in a small space. Her bedsitter room was cramped even before the TARDIS materialised in the middle of it. And it looked like she shared with a couple of other girls. Worse than London, Martha thought.
“I sure hope I ain’t gonna regret this,” she said. “Ain’t exactly your reg’lar business proposition, is he?”
“He’s on the level,” Martha reassured her. “After all, he asked Lazlo along. And Frank.”
“So whaddya do all day?” Tallulah asked.
Martha paused for a moment. Get kidnapped, she thought. Scramble around on tall buildings. Give him the kiss of life when he’s had a run in with the witches. Steal Shakespeare’s best lines?
“Oh, this and that,” she said vaguely.
Tallulah nodded. “Oh, I get it. And he’s an alien, right? No kidding? He from Mars, or sum’fin?”
“Best not to ask him,” said Martha. Already I’m getting protective, she realised with surprise. “He’s kind of a war veteran, you know?”
“Sure, I know, loadsa guys had a bad war. We won’t go there. Keep smiling, that’s what you havta do, else you go under. And there ain’t nobody gonna pick up the pieces when that happens.” Her round blue eyes met Martha’s. “So, you figure this is gonna help, sweetie, having company on board?”
“What, company for me?”
“Whatever.” Tallulah waved a beautifully manicured hand. “You, him. The whole shebang.”
“I dunno,” Martha confessed. “I told you there was this other person. He thinks he’s over her, but he isn’t. Not really.”
“Well, that’s how it goes,” Tallulah sighed. “When a lovely flame dies, smoke gets in your eyes, you know? Maybe he just gets a kick out of seeing you see that he obviously don’t adore you.”
“You know, that’s good,” Martha told her, smiling. “You could use that in a song. Write songs for a living - you ever thought of that?”
“Me, a broad? On Tin Pan Alley? Dream on!” Tallulah looked towards the TARDIS door, and Martha realised the Doctor was watching them, with a twinkle in his eye.
He winked at Martha. “Worked on Shakespeare,” he whispered to her. “Why not Cole Porter and Jerome Kern?” He looked at Tallulah. “Okay, Tallulah with three L’s, got enough make-up there yet? Welcome aboard. Lazlo - um - already fixed us coffee.”
Tallulah giggled and left the clear red outline of her lips on his cheek, “Aw, you’re so cute when you talk that way,” she said, pausing to straighten his tie. “But I like the English better. Oh my, that accent! What’s not to love?”
She stepped into the control room. Behind her, Martha and the Doctor smiled a private smile and mouthed the obvious words together.
“Oh my,” breathed Tallulah. “You oughta get a patent on this, Doc - this bigger on the inside thing. Do that in New York City, you’d make a fortune!”
“On with the show,” murmured Martha, and went in search of Frank.