Fic: And Jelly Babies
Title: And Jelly Babies
Spoilers: Blink, Season Three
Pairing: Martha/Ten
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 1,170
Disclaimer: Don't own, just playing. Will put back when done. Honest.
Summary: The obligatory 'what the hell were they doing all that time in 1969' fic - a little snippet of domestic life as the sole breadwinner in a house with a hungry doctor to support.
Notes: I'm new, so I thought I'd come in baring fic. Enjoy! ^_^
And Jelly Babies
The Doctor comes to visit her at work, and suddenly it’s worth it.
Of course, he’s only there because he’s after the free sweets - but what did she expect when she got a job in the corner shop?
“What are you doing here?” Martha asks, pleased, when he appears slyly sidling around the newspaper racks.
“Came to see you,” he grins, “bit boring at home.”
She rests her elbows on the counter, watching him watching her (it’s an old game), “you could try getting another job, if you’re bored.”
“Nah,” he shrugs, “I can just come and see you instead.” He pauses, hands in his pockets, then leans closer to whisper conspiratorially to her, “can I have some jelly babies?”
“Doctor…” she sighs, “I’m not allowed to give out freebies.”
“Oh, go on, Martha Jones,” his expression is forcefully reminiscent of the one her old black lab - the one dad bought them when he left their mum - got on his face when he wanted cheese.
When she shakes her head at him, he leans further over the counter and pretends to pout, “please…”
He’s like a little kid, who knows he’s going to get what he wants in the end.
She rolls her eyes and then checks that Marjory (the shop owner) isn’t looking. (She isn’t). Lucy, the other shop girl, is - but Lucy’s alright.
“Alright, alright, go on then,” she grabs the big plastic jar that sits on the shelf behind the counter, unscrews the lid and fishes out a handful of the bright, sugary sweets. She presses them into his hands as hastily as she can and then puts the jar back - it’s sort of a weird kind of thrill.
“Oh, brilliant,” he grins, examining his handful, “lovely - green ones. I like green ones. Do you like green ones? I’ve got red in here as well, you know, they’re always good. And yellow. And black - yuck. I don’t like black. I used to, but not anymore. But the green ones are good. Do you want a green one?”
“No, Doctor,” she can’t help but feel fonder of him than she should. She wants to ruffle his hair, all of a sudden, as he rests one elbow on the counter and selects a green jelly baby from the pile to proffer to her.
“Sure?”
“I’m sure.”
“Your loss,” he bites off its head and continues to grin at her as he chews.
“You are so weird,” she tells him, shaking her head.
“I was born on another planet,” he points out, not at all put out.
She gives him a poke, “bet you weren’t even normal over there, though.”
He frowns for a moment, selecting another jelly baby (yellow), “no - probably not, no. You want a red one?”
“Umm… go on then,” she takes it.
She chews thoughtfully, glad that it’s two in the afternoon on a weekday - a slow time. Business will pick up again around half three, when the schools start getting out and the kids come in looking for sweets and cigarettes and comics.
“Told you the red ones are good,” he reminds her.
“Yeah,” she agrees, and then they are quiet for a while, as he scuffs his shoes in time to ‘Give Peace a Chance’ rattling out of the tinny little radio behind the counter.
“You want to go out tonight?” he asks her, after a moment.
She raises her eyebrows, “like where?”
“Dunno,” he shrugs, “somewhere. Anywhere. Could go dancing if you want. Could just go walking. Find a park.”
She wants to laugh. They’re stuck in 1969 (John Lennon, Vietnam, the moon landing and all), being hounded by a pack of homicidal stone statues - and he wants to go to the park.
But it’s so hairbrained, she doesn’t care.
“Sure, okay, let’s do that,” she agrees.
“Brilliant,” he grins and eats another jelly baby, “after tea, then - we’ll have tea and then go out. What’s for tea tonight, anyway?”
Martha wrinkles her nose, “spaghettiOs on toast?”
“Again?” The Doctor groans.
Martha rolls her eyes, “well, if you actually got a job, we might be able to afford something else, but as things stands - we are on a strictly toast and tins diet.”
“And jelly babies,” the Doctor reminds her, eating another.
“And jelly babies,” she agrees.
He grins at her, apparently forgetting his distaste for spaghettiOs in place of pleasure at his beloved sweets. And she has to smile back, because even if they are stuck in 1969 (John Lennon, Vietnam, the moon landing and all), and even if they are being hounded by a pack of homicidal stone angels, she has him to keep her company this time, and it’s not so bad.
Alright, a white guy and a black girl still raise more eyebrows than they would in 2007 - but better this than being a maidservant in a public school in 1913. And the hippies who live communally on the floor below them have practically adopted the Doctor as their mascot. They think he and Martha are ‘righteous’, apparently.
The Doctor likes the attention.
“Martha, I’m not paying you to flirt with your boyfriend!” Marjory has reappeared, big and bustling and deeply disapproving. “You - ” she narrows her eyes at the Doctor, “out!”
The Doctor has neatly pocketed the last of his jelly babies, “right, right, mustn’t dawdle,” he winks at Martha and squeezes her hand where Lucy and Marjory can see him do it, then beats a hasty retreat (he’ll be waiting for her at home, making her tea and fiddling with his timey-whimey-widget thing when she gets off, at five).
She smiles at him as he leaves, and feels glad that he came - more than she should. It’s a relief, really. And she takes quiet pleasure from the slight blurring of the lines between how he acts towards her for the benefit of anyone watching (it’s just easier, they agreed, to let people believe they are together - acts as a stop gap for pretty much any other question that might come their way about their circumstances) and how he always acts towards her. Some days it would be easier to go without the shows of physical affection that he seems so happy to offer her, these days (the hugs, the hand-squeezing, the occasional tendency to play with her hair) - other days she enjoys them too much.
“See you tonight, Martha Jones,” he calls as he leaves, waving clumsily.
“See you,” she waves back.
“Keep an eye out for those angels, yeah?”
“Will do,” she promises.
He disappears out of the shop door and she shakes her head. Lucy looks bemused.
“He’s a weird one, your John,” she remarks, “what is that about angels he keeps going on about?”
Martha laughs, “just sort of an old joke.”
“I see,” Lucy gives her a funny look, and then goes back to stacking the magazines.
Martha eats the jelly baby that the Doctor placed into her hand as he was leaving, and thinks about going dancing that night.
Spoilers: Blink, Season Three
Pairing: Martha/Ten
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 1,170
Disclaimer: Don't own, just playing. Will put back when done. Honest.
Summary: The obligatory 'what the hell were they doing all that time in 1969' fic - a little snippet of domestic life as the sole breadwinner in a house with a hungry doctor to support.
Notes: I'm new, so I thought I'd come in baring fic. Enjoy! ^_^
And Jelly Babies
The Doctor comes to visit her at work, and suddenly it’s worth it.
Of course, he’s only there because he’s after the free sweets - but what did she expect when she got a job in the corner shop?
“What are you doing here?” Martha asks, pleased, when he appears slyly sidling around the newspaper racks.
“Came to see you,” he grins, “bit boring at home.”
She rests her elbows on the counter, watching him watching her (it’s an old game), “you could try getting another job, if you’re bored.”
“Nah,” he shrugs, “I can just come and see you instead.” He pauses, hands in his pockets, then leans closer to whisper conspiratorially to her, “can I have some jelly babies?”
“Doctor…” she sighs, “I’m not allowed to give out freebies.”
“Oh, go on, Martha Jones,” his expression is forcefully reminiscent of the one her old black lab - the one dad bought them when he left their mum - got on his face when he wanted cheese.
When she shakes her head at him, he leans further over the counter and pretends to pout, “please…”
He’s like a little kid, who knows he’s going to get what he wants in the end.
She rolls her eyes and then checks that Marjory (the shop owner) isn’t looking. (She isn’t). Lucy, the other shop girl, is - but Lucy’s alright.
“Alright, alright, go on then,” she grabs the big plastic jar that sits on the shelf behind the counter, unscrews the lid and fishes out a handful of the bright, sugary sweets. She presses them into his hands as hastily as she can and then puts the jar back - it’s sort of a weird kind of thrill.
“Oh, brilliant,” he grins, examining his handful, “lovely - green ones. I like green ones. Do you like green ones? I’ve got red in here as well, you know, they’re always good. And yellow. And black - yuck. I don’t like black. I used to, but not anymore. But the green ones are good. Do you want a green one?”
“No, Doctor,” she can’t help but feel fonder of him than she should. She wants to ruffle his hair, all of a sudden, as he rests one elbow on the counter and selects a green jelly baby from the pile to proffer to her.
“Sure?”
“I’m sure.”
“Your loss,” he bites off its head and continues to grin at her as he chews.
“You are so weird,” she tells him, shaking her head.
“I was born on another planet,” he points out, not at all put out.
She gives him a poke, “bet you weren’t even normal over there, though.”
He frowns for a moment, selecting another jelly baby (yellow), “no - probably not, no. You want a red one?”
“Umm… go on then,” she takes it.
She chews thoughtfully, glad that it’s two in the afternoon on a weekday - a slow time. Business will pick up again around half three, when the schools start getting out and the kids come in looking for sweets and cigarettes and comics.
“Told you the red ones are good,” he reminds her.
“Yeah,” she agrees, and then they are quiet for a while, as he scuffs his shoes in time to ‘Give Peace a Chance’ rattling out of the tinny little radio behind the counter.
“You want to go out tonight?” he asks her, after a moment.
She raises her eyebrows, “like where?”
“Dunno,” he shrugs, “somewhere. Anywhere. Could go dancing if you want. Could just go walking. Find a park.”
She wants to laugh. They’re stuck in 1969 (John Lennon, Vietnam, the moon landing and all), being hounded by a pack of homicidal stone statues - and he wants to go to the park.
But it’s so hairbrained, she doesn’t care.
“Sure, okay, let’s do that,” she agrees.
“Brilliant,” he grins and eats another jelly baby, “after tea, then - we’ll have tea and then go out. What’s for tea tonight, anyway?”
Martha wrinkles her nose, “spaghettiOs on toast?”
“Again?” The Doctor groans.
Martha rolls her eyes, “well, if you actually got a job, we might be able to afford something else, but as things stands - we are on a strictly toast and tins diet.”
“And jelly babies,” the Doctor reminds her, eating another.
“And jelly babies,” she agrees.
He grins at her, apparently forgetting his distaste for spaghettiOs in place of pleasure at his beloved sweets. And she has to smile back, because even if they are stuck in 1969 (John Lennon, Vietnam, the moon landing and all), and even if they are being hounded by a pack of homicidal stone angels, she has him to keep her company this time, and it’s not so bad.
Alright, a white guy and a black girl still raise more eyebrows than they would in 2007 - but better this than being a maidservant in a public school in 1913. And the hippies who live communally on the floor below them have practically adopted the Doctor as their mascot. They think he and Martha are ‘righteous’, apparently.
The Doctor likes the attention.
“Martha, I’m not paying you to flirt with your boyfriend!” Marjory has reappeared, big and bustling and deeply disapproving. “You - ” she narrows her eyes at the Doctor, “out!”
The Doctor has neatly pocketed the last of his jelly babies, “right, right, mustn’t dawdle,” he winks at Martha and squeezes her hand where Lucy and Marjory can see him do it, then beats a hasty retreat (he’ll be waiting for her at home, making her tea and fiddling with his timey-whimey-widget thing when she gets off, at five).
She smiles at him as he leaves, and feels glad that he came - more than she should. It’s a relief, really. And she takes quiet pleasure from the slight blurring of the lines between how he acts towards her for the benefit of anyone watching (it’s just easier, they agreed, to let people believe they are together - acts as a stop gap for pretty much any other question that might come their way about their circumstances) and how he always acts towards her. Some days it would be easier to go without the shows of physical affection that he seems so happy to offer her, these days (the hugs, the hand-squeezing, the occasional tendency to play with her hair) - other days she enjoys them too much.
“See you tonight, Martha Jones,” he calls as he leaves, waving clumsily.
“See you,” she waves back.
“Keep an eye out for those angels, yeah?”
“Will do,” she promises.
He disappears out of the shop door and she shakes her head. Lucy looks bemused.
“He’s a weird one, your John,” she remarks, “what is that about angels he keeps going on about?”
Martha laughs, “just sort of an old joke.”
“I see,” Lucy gives her a funny look, and then goes back to stacking the magazines.
Martha eats the jelly baby that the Doctor placed into her hand as he was leaving, and thinks about going dancing that night.