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Title: Naming Day
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
fourzoas
Characters/Pairings: Martha, Human!Doctor, Ten
Rating: very light R, really more PG-13
Spoilers: Journey's End
Summary: Handy gets a name.
Disclaimer: Don’t own a bit of the Whoniverse.
A/N: Thanks topersiflage_1 and radiantbaby for beta reading.
Written for the![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
dreambythefire ficathon. Three prompts in one. I’m almost ashamed to say they’re all ones I put in the hat, but this story is nothing like what I’d imagined when I suggested them!
Prompts: 12 days, 12 gifts, 12 planets | Boxing Day | Epiphany
One: Christmas Day
“Picked him up hitchhiking at the edges of the universe.” Martha could tell from the tone of his voice that the Doctor was none too pleased.
“Not my fault she pushed the button on the cannon,” the other Doctor grumbled as he heaved. As soon as the TARDIS had materialized, he’d thrown open the door and made straight for Martha’s toilet.
“Why’d you make it work in the first place? What part of 'destroy it as soon as you can' was unclear to you?” The veins on the Doctor’s neck were clearly outlined as he paced Martha’s living room, muttering to himself. “And why did she expel you? I thought she would have come back for me.” He stopped. “Reminds me—I need to remember to seal that rift again. Put it on our calendar, will you?”
His counterpart’s retort was punctuated by bouts of retching. “Not—your—personal—secretary!”
“Yes, yes, we get it,” Martha fussed, worried about the fact that he was still clutching the toilet and appeared to be in no way ready to stop any time soon. Martha hoped the TARDIS had materialized around, and not on top of, her Christmas tree. “Just what has he ingested,” she asked the Doctor, “to make him so ill?”
“Eupathian eggnog. I told him to take it easy—too rich for human systems—but he just had to keep guzzling the stuff down.” The Doctor looked a bit too smug for Martha’s comfort, and she stroked his double’s back as he heaved over the toilet.
After a few moments the retching stopped, and she set him up in the bathroom with a towel and soap to clean up. She went to the kitchen where she found the Doctor helping himself to a cup of tea.
“Are you trying to get him killed?”
"What? What makes you say that?"
“Eupathian eggnog,” she hissed. “You know I had trouble when that Grolach snuck some into the UNIT holiday party two weeks ago! He might be vomiting for days.”
“Might not,” the Doctor grumbled, “if he’d paced himself a bit. Always trying to prove he’s not that human.”
“How long’s he been with you?”
“Two days.”
“Two days and you’re at each other’s throats?”
“Oh, Martha, you don’t understand.”
“I think I understand quite well. He’s part of you—he is you! Do you really hate yourself so much that—“
“Don’t,” the Doctor warned, and Martha knew she’d hit a nerve.
They sat in silence. She changed the subject.
“What’s his name? I mean, what do you call him?”
“Well, so far 'you' has worked. I’ve also found 'come here' to be quite effective.”
“What? He doesn’t have a proper name?”
“I’ve been trying some out. I keep thinking of him as Handy—handy spare hand and all that. He doesn’t seem to like any of the seven dwarves, but I think Grumpy suits him remarkably well. Or Dopey.”
Martha rolled her eyes.
“Of course, there’s always the reindeer—in keeping with the holiday spirit.” The Doctor pushed back his chair and propped his feet up on Martha’s table while he considered the sleigh lineup.
“Not much of a Prancer, I should think. Comet—too spacey. Cupid—too sweet. Blitzen—too reminiscent of barrage balloons.”
Martha poured herself a glass of wine. “I think you’d best let him choose, yeah? I mean, he’s got to live with it.”
“Well, he can’t be the Doctor. Or John Smith. I called those first.”
Martha left the Doctor to his musings to check on Handy—she cursed the Doctor for putting that name into her head, but it was pretty, well, handy as a placeholder for a name. For now.
Handy was licking his teeth quite loudly, and Martha worked hard to stifle a giggle.
“Yes, they’re all still there. Were you worried you’d lost one or two in the deluge?”
“What—nah, just marveling at your toothpaste. Minty, with just a hint of peroxide. Interesting.”
“Glad you approve. Now, about this business of a name. I have to have something to call you, don’t I? If you leave it to the Doctor, you’ll end up being named for a reindeer.”
“I heard. Although there is one from the list he hasn’t tried yet that I quite like.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. Vixen.”
At this moment, Martha realized they were standing beneath the bit of mistletoe she’d hung in the hope that Tom would make it back from Africa in time for the holiday season. When he hadn’t, she’d decided to ditch him for good, but hadn’t taken down the beribboned ball.
“Vixen, huh? A bit girlish, don’t you think?”
“The name’s not for me.”
He leaned in and gave her a very proper kiss, one that likely did transfer genetic material, but only as a side effect and not the main event. Martha resolved to take this Time Lord and call Tom in the morning.
The sound of the Doctor clearing his throat interrupted their holiday snog. “You ready? The TARDIS is having a bit of an allergic reaction to Martha’s tree.”
Handy looked at the Doctor, narrowed his eyes, and turned back to Martha. “You coming?”
Martha was amused by the Doctor’s clear annoyance, and thought it might be fun to see how this played out. She told herself that the potential for more kisses was just an added incentive.
“Get me back by tomorrow morning? It’s Boxing Day and I’ve got plans with Mum and Tish."
“No problem,” the Doctor promised. Famous last words. Martha pulled out her mobile and canceled her plans and engagement.
Two: Boxing Day
“Names of competitors?”
The Judoon bureaucrat took Martha’s compensation slip as he registered the Doctor and Handy in the annual competition. Martha was surprised to learn that the odd piece of plastic she’d received so long ago on the moon was actually a ticket to the hottest event on this planet. When the clerk at the redemption office told her she’d got tickets to Boxing Day, she’d been a bit disappointed, but that was put aside as soon as she saw both Handy and the Doctor turn white as ghosts at the mention of the event. Now she understood why.
They were suited up and ready to step into the ring. The helmets, meant for Judoon children, combined with the gloves (again, for the children only—Judoon males fought bare-fisted) gave them the look of cartoon stick figures. Martha almost felt sorry for them, but then remembered the way they’d bickered the entire trip over in the TARDIS, like two spoiled toddlers fighting over the same silly treat.
“Names of competitors?” The bureaucrat sounded a bit annoyed at her silence.
“Oh, right, sorry,” she stammered. She pointed at the Doctor—“Pot”—and Handy—“Kettle.”
She sat down at ringside with the bag of a treat that smelled suspiciously like popcorn and grinned as the Doctor and Handy faced off in the ring. Compensation indeed.
Three: Resolutions
“So”—rasp—“Not”—wheeze—“Fair!”
Handy staggered into the TARDIS, coughing and sputtering as he gripped the console angrily. The Doctor strolled in afterwards, started pressing buttons and pulling levers, and smiled as he patted the ship gently. Martha was the last to arrive, a small bag in her hand.
Once the fight was over and a winner established, the Doctor had taken them to mid-20th century France to get a racing bike (the agreed-upon prize for the boxing match) for Handy. The TARDIS, unwilling to have anyone, much less this young upstart, riding around her hallowed halls on wheels, had mixed up the translator, resulting in the purchase of strong cigarettes—Gitanes—instead of the desired bicycle brand—Gitane.
The Doctor had been amused. Handy had been incensed. Martha had become increasingly alarmed as Handy smoked one and then another of the cigarettes, determined to enjoy his winnings in some way. He was paying for it now.
“I think the planet Zovirax is in order,” Martha informed the Doctor. He nodded through his barely-suppressed sniggers, then set the course for the medical emporium; Martha remembered them having an excellent exhibit warning against the dangers of smoking unfiltered Earth cigarettes.
After Handy’s coughing stopped, Martha presented him with the little black book she’d been putting together during their travels. He thumbed through the various sections and lists she’d written in the book.
Safe To Eat
He noted that Martha had not put her name on the list.
Plague, Avoid Like The
She had, however, written “anything the Doctor offers unsolicited” on this one.
Instantly, Things that Can Kill Me
This list ran for several pages until she’d finally given up and written “anything the Doctor suggests you try first.”
On the inside front cover he found the number for universal poison control. “I won’t be with you all the time,” Martha said, “and I don’t know that I entirely trust him to look after you.” Handy began to lean in for a kiss, but Martha put her hand between their mouths and shook her head. She handed him the toothbrush in the bag.
Handy grimaced as he took it from her. “I take it today I’m Shakespeare?”
Four: Leap
“What do you mean, a pocket in time?”
Martha had been wakened from her nap by the Doctor’s insistent nudging at her shoulder. He had come to collect her for this crucial mission to save the universe.
“Just what I said—a pocket, but it’s overstuffed and needs to be released.”
“I don’t understand why you needed me for this particular mission.”
“Oh, he didn’t,” Handy offered. “He just needed a buffer so he wouldn’t have to talk to me.”
“Actually, I thought you might find it professionally interesting and instructive,” the Doctor corrected. “This is very advanced medicine.”
“It’s lancing a boil,” sneered Handy.
“It’s a surgical procedure requiring the greatest amount of precision and skill. One wrong move and—“
“Two-thirds of the universe would be destroyed, blah, blah, blah.” Handy made yapping motions with his fingers, the Doctor glared at him, and Martha tried to hide her giggles. “All I’m saying is don’t go putting on airs and pretending you’re doing some grand imperial Time Lord work. Cleaning out the Leap Pocket is like taking out the universe’s rubbish.”
“So this pocket, it’s like a dustbin for excess time?” Martha was as incredulous as her voice suggested.
The Doctor colored a bit and dropped his head. “Sort of,” he conceded.
“So sometimes you’re the universe’s bin man,” Martha laughed, “which means the TARDIS is a—“
“Don’t say it!” they shouted simultaneously, and Martha shut her mouth quickly. Handy motioned her aside and whispered in her ear. “She gets a bit sensitive when we have to do this. Doesn’t like the implications of being the vehicle that transports this stuff, if you know what I mean.”
Martha knew the ship was sentient, but had never really considered it as capable of being embarrassed. Maybe that explained the rather violent landings she’d experienced during her travels with the Doctor; he’d been a bit familiar in the way he’d piloted the ship. She decided to change the subject.
“So, what are you calling yourself today?” she asked Handy. Now it was his turn to blush, and the Doctor chuckled a bit less silently than she thought he’d intended.
“Oh, c’mon, can’t be that bad.”
“Not a name, really, I was just thinking out loud.”
The Doctor snorted. Martha shushed him. Handy flushed.
“It’s just—I should have a name which carries some significance, which evokes a truly great person.”
The Doctor guffawed. Martha glared at him. Handy covered his eyes.
“I was just tossing out ideas,” Handy said crossly, and Martha patted his hand. “I was trying to point out characteristics I wanted to live up to.”
The Doctor was howling as he flopped onto the jump seat. Handy snatched his hand from Martha’s and balled his fists. The TARDIS materialized on the Leap landing pad, ready to do her duty to the universe.
Martha looked at the Doctor with a raised eyebrow, and he leaned over to whisper in her ear. While Handy usually enjoyed hearing her laugh, he colored a bright red at the sound this time.
The Doctor strolled out of the TARDIS whistling a familiar tune. Martha could have sworn she saw steam rising from the top of Handy’s head. She stifled a giggle and took his hand to lead him out the door.
“C’mon, Mighty Mouse. Time to save the day.”
Five: The Ides of March
“Oh, brilliant!” The Doctor’s characteristically infectious enthusiasm never failed to charm Martha into sharing it. “The Ides of March! Been meaning to win this one for ages!”
She wasn’t quite as enthusiastic when she, the Doctor and Handy were given their competition kits. All they found in the packages were very high quality air sickness bags.
“Just what is this Ides of March competition anyway? I thought it was just some superstition related to Julius Caesar.” She furrowed her brow. “And, if I recall correctly, it generally portends a certain doom.”
“Oh, Martha, smart girl like you, don’t you know about memes? Strongest ones spread like wildfire, but get changed up a bit as they travel. The original Ides of March is like the Olympics for spaceships, a huge competition where only the best make it through to the end. TARDIS has been wanting to win this one for ages, haven’t you old girl?”
Martha wouldn’t have bet on it, but she had the distinct feeling the ship was none too pleased at being called an old girl or at the prospect of participating in this competition. Martha looked over at Handy, who was staring at the sick bag with curiosity.
“It’s for air sickness,” she said, as she sat down next to him. “You share his memories. What is this thing? Some carnival ride?”
“Not quite.” He gulped; he still hadn’t quite got over the memory of the heaving incident from Christmas night, nor the days of illness after smoking those cigarettes. The Doctor might scoff at these things, but Handy?
“It’s an obstacle course. You have to travel through a series of planetary rings, each one more treacherous than the last. They’re cluttered with space debris; it’s all about maneuvering, you see. He’ll have to manually pilot the TARDIS through the rings, avoid the debris, and be first to cross the finish line.”
“Doesn’t sound so bad then, I mean, since the ship has shields.”
“Well, use of shields is forbidden in this competition.”
“Is he mad?”
“Define mad?” Handy sighed, then looked back at the bag in his hand. “The TARDIS will be alright—she’s been through much worse—although I doubt she’ll forgive him anytime soon. He’ll be able to withstand all the jostling about with ease. You and I on the other hand—“
Martha looked at her sick bag and sighed. “Any way to stop him?”
Handy thought for a moment, then grinned as a light bulb clicked.
Ten minutes later they were on their way to the planet Barbados, where they hoped to use the sick bags only in the event of intense inebriation. The Doctor sulked on the jump seat, where he’d been trussed up by a very handy set of knots.
“Brutus,” the Doctor grumbled. Handy swatted Martha’s bottom as she went in search of her swimsuit.
Six: May Day
"Cultural enlightenment? How is that to be had here?"
"Look around you, Martha, all these alien races gathered to celebrate the universal!"
"Dancing around a large phallus in the middle of a field?"
"Majestic tower representing the pinnacle of man's achievement."
"Wrapping it in colorful ribbons?"
"Adorning it lovingly with great admiration. Gilding the lily, if you ask me."
"So when are you two taking me the Georgia O'Keefe planet?"
"What?—Oh, right. I think that planet's closed at the moment, actually. Having its millennial visitor..."
"If you don't mind me saying so, I think your mind's a bit obsessed of late. Is there something you're not telling me?"
"No, nothing, well, nothing of consequence, well maybe one thing, no two, no ten, but really none of it matters except—"
He cut himself off by grabbing Martha and kissing her with a kiss that made her wish the O'Keefe planet could meet the planet of the Maypoles. Soon.
The Doctor came bounding up to them, his face flushed from the dancing and the drinking and the general merriment of the festival. The flush became something a bit less festive and a bit more green as he watched Handy kiss Martha.
"I don't know what you're calling yourself today," he grumbled, "but I shall call you Pratt."
Seven: Surf and Turf
“Martha, just ride the waves.”
Martha looked suspiciously around her. There were no waves, save the ripples of breezes and the whispers of words pressing into her flesh as the voices around her rose and fell.
“I don’t get it,” she finally said, exasperation clear in her voice.
The Doctor laughed, but Handy reached out to her. They were suspended in the air, all seated parallel with Martha in the middle. She felt him squeeze her hand and turned her head to see his eyes dancing. “Relax, Martha. Don’t try to understand it. Just feel.”
The Doctor had been dying to come here again, and Handy thought the Sensorium would be fun to experience in a (mostly) human body. “A feast for the senses,” the Doctor had proclaimed, and Martha had been quite intrigued when they’d stepped out into the planet’s strange festival atmosphere. A pleasure planet designed to emulate sensory experience—seemed a lark, and Martha had expected lots of physical encounters. But this?
She just didn’t get it. But she was here, so she might as well try.
This first attraction was supposed to evoke a beach scene—at least, that’s what they’d told her, and the language seemed to suggest the ocean. The words swirling around her, their sounds and shapes and vibrations, tried to move her along. Martha continued to hold Handy’s hand (Silly, she thought to herself, to think of him that way. He needs a proper name.), but relaxed her grip. Skin skimmed skin and suddenly she was there, on the beach, watching along with him.
By the time they’d reached the last experience, she was exhausted. They’d been there for three days now, each attraction growing in intensity. The atmosphere of the previous one had been so highly ritualistic that the Doctor had retired to the TARDIS to “clear his muddled head.” Handy took her hand while they watched the Doctor walk away and squeezed it tightly. “I think he forgot about that part,” he said sadly, “and you always miss what you can’t have anymore, no matter how much you might have hated it.”
He turned his head to face Martha’s. “Let’s go to the last one. I think you’ll like it, and he won’t mind if we go without him.”
They reached the entry, and Martha was surprised when they were ushered into a very small room. There was just enough space for two.
The room turned on its side and they were suspended horizontally. Their bodies weren’t touching, but Handy hovered over her, his eyes playfully burning into hers. “This is a bit”—she blushed as the lights were lowered—“intimate.” She could feel Handy’s breath on her hair and held her hands tight at her sides. This was worse than those silly games she’d played where randy teenagers hid in closets.
No words came, but she knew when the attraction had begun. She couldn’t see him, but she could feel his fingers touching her, tentatively at first, then with greater confidence as his touch elicited small moans. She could hear his moans too, and she reached out to touch him but felt nothing.
“What—“
“Just relax.”
She calmed to know he was still with her, and she began to wonder who was touching her, then stopped caring as the fingers were beyond her clothing, moving over her skin, and then they weren’t fingers, but petals, flowers perfuming her skin and mountain breezes caressing her.
“Yessss,” she exhaled as she felt herself floating on a sea of petals, silky surfaces pressing themselves into her skin. The breezes became insistent and warm winds, and then she was assaulted by a swirling storm that penetrated without violating. In the near-distance she could sense Handy’s presence and when the gales blew through her she heard his echo of her affirmation. They traded the word between them, the only sound in the tiny chamber until they each cried out.
The room righted itself, the lights came up, and they faced each other, fully clothed, noticeably flushed. They returned to the ship, walking side by side, but never touching. The Doctor didn’t comment. He watched them, the way they stood near each other, eyes always averted, hands hovering but not meeting.
“You don’t fool me, Don Juan,” the Doctor whispered as he passed him.
Eight: Leisure, or What Happens on Veganza
“I’m going to kill you both when this is done,” she hissed as the guard led her away.
When the first dancer came out, they began to worry a bit about what exactly Martha would have to do to win the TARDIS back. Handy had got a bit overzealous in a poker game, and while the bloke who’d won the ship seemed uninterested in discovering its powers or contents, he’d been quite specific about how much he wanted in payment for its return.
“Oh, that’s just—“Handy stammered as the woman’s hands unclasped the veil around her hips to reveal a pair of jeweled knickers—“wizard."
“Oh, yes—“ the Doctor replied, his mouth gaping and eyes wide saucers as she next removed one, then another, clasp, freeing her breasts—“and that’s brilliant.”
As the dancer reached for the strings holding the knickers together, they tore their eyes from the stage and looked at each other in alarm.
“Martha!”
The veiled woman was done with her performance and it was too late—Martha was already coming out onto the stage. She was wearing a black flamenco skirt and a black bra top with matching knickers. In one hand was a large wine-colored lace fan. As she moved, flicking and twirling the fan and skirt in perfect unison, the Doctor and Handy gave each other questioning glances. Where had Martha learned to move like that?
“Our Martha is full of surprises,” the Doctor grinned.
“Our Martha indeed,” Handy huffed.
When the skirt landed on Handy’s lap, the Doctor covered his eyes. Handy quickly followed suit, but couldn’t resist a wee peek.
When the fan replaced the bra top she’d been wearing, Handy’s fingers spread open a bit wider. He didn’t dare look in the Doctor’s direction for fear he’d be discovered.
Martha pulled the string on the knickers and the fan, while large, couldn’t quite keep all of her charms hidden. The Doctor’s gasp made Handy jump with surprise, then grin with wicked satisfaction.
“Pervert,” he chuckled.
“Could fly the TARDIS between that gap in your fingers,” the Doctor countered.
Dance complete, Martha strode off the stage, entirely nude but partially covered by the fan, and grabbed the two Time Lords. “Right then,” she ordered, her fury barely contained beneath the surface of her glimmering skin, “get the ship and take me home.”
Later (but not much—Martha was very angry and the TARDIS was eager to deposit her anywhere), after they’d brought her home, Handy found the packet of French cigarettes. He licked his lips when he saw the silhouetted figure on the pack, fan waving, skirt flounced open just so, and thought back to the way Martha shimmied.
Surely Martha would forgive them—eventually. Until then he’d just have to be Handy.
Nine: Harvest Festival
“Now this is a prize worth winning.” Handy looked truly proud of himself as he placed the bushel of what appeared to be fairly pedestrian apples at her feet. He was breathing heavily, a sheen of sweat on his brow from the exertion of the harvesting contest.
He and the Doctor had finally convinced Martha to forgive them and venture out into space again. They were visiting Cornucopia, an agriculture planet, and had arrived just in time for the annual Harvester’s Track and Field competition. The Doctor was teaching the local engineers how to sonic up their combines for more efficient crop collection. Handy had opted for the Long Distance Apple Picking event.
“I hardly see what’s so impressive about a bushel of apples,” Martha replied, her tone a bit frosty. She wanted him to suffer a wee bit longer, although she had to admit that the exercise had given his eyes an alluring sparkle and his slightly damp hair just begged to be touched.
Handy selected a specimen from the basket. “C’mon Martha.” He leaned forward to whisper in her ear, his deep low growl melting her resolve. “Take a bite.” He held it out to her, their eyes locked, and she bit into the sweet fruit he offered.
Three hours later, the Doctor found them, a trail of apple cores and discarded clothing leading him to where they slept, sated, in Martha’s bed.
“Adam finds his Eve,” he said wistfully, and took the ship into the Vortex.
Ten: Spectre
“Martha?”
She couldn’t turn to look at him. She had to do it. He’d only try to stop her.
“Martha? Please come with me.”
Tears were streaming down her cheeks. The Doctor was dead; she’d seen the Daleks kill him on the screen, effectively calling her bluff.
“Martha? I’m here. Please come with me.”
He was dead. She was alive. She had to stop them.
“Martha, it’s not real! You have to trust me.”
She held up the key and moved it toward the slot. She was sobbing, thoughts of her family, her friends, the whole earth she’d walked to save just so that she could destroy it now to save all of time and space.
Why had he sent her to work for them?
“Martha! Stop! Think—what would the Doctor do?”
“Don’t you think I’ve tried that?” she screamed. “He’s dead and now I have to do what he did to save them all!”
She could hear him. Handy concentrated harder and motioned the Doctor over to the table in the sick bay, where Martha lay. They didn’t know they were planning to picnic in a long-forgotten war zone; while they were walking to the lake at the edge of the field, Handy tripped on a psychic grenade. He’d been able to fight off the nightmares, but Martha’s mind wasn’t able to counter the attack. He’d rushed her back to the TARDIS and hadn’t waited for the Doctor to return from spare part shopping before trying to counter the bomb’s effects.
“He’s not dead Martha! This isn’t real. You’ve got to come with me!”
“You’re trying to trick me. It won’t work. I’ve got to do my duty, to protect the universe.”
“Martha, the universe is safe. I destroyed the Daleks. The Doctor is still alive. He’s here, with me. Turn around and you’ll see.”
Martha’s hand hovered over the controls. She could hear the other Osterhagen stations calling for her to do her part of the job. She thought of her family.
“Martha, I need you. We need you. Please trust me.”
The Greeks knew there are many ways to love. Martha felt them all—storge, phila, eros, agape--swirling around the room, some directed at her, others filling the space between. “Love dispels the darkness,” she thought, and she slowly turned away from the monitors and the console and the duty, and toward the voice she’d thought was lost forever. They were there, Handy and the Doctor. She dropped the key and ran into their arms.
She gasped as her eyes opened. His hands were at her temples and he was smiling down at her, small lines crinkling around his tear-filled eyes.
“What happened?” she whispered, her mind still a bit fuzzy around the edges.
“You were lost,” he replied, his fingers brushing her cheek.
“But you found me?”
“Always.”
She started to remember. “Did I?”
“No, you didn’t.”
Tears rolled down her cheeks. “I was so scared that I would.”
He leaned down and kissed her gently. “I know.”
He looked up at the Doctor. “I think you two should talk now.”
The Doctor nodded, and Handy left them to a conversation long overdue. When he brought them tea two hours later, they were seated next to each other on the bed, talking and laughing like old friends should. He handed Martha her mug, and was surprised when the Doctor rose to embrace him in a tight hug.
“It’s been a long time since I’ve had a brother.”
Eleven: A Day for Giving
“There’s power in a name, Martha Jones. You, of all the people I know, should understand that.”
“But you don’t have a name, not yet.”
“I will, if you’ll give me one.”
He could tell by the look in her eyes that she didn’t understand, so he took her hand and they sat on the bench the Doctor had finally put up near the memorial. He focused on their hands as he spoke.
“The Doctor never speaks his name—there’s only one time when he would. He hoped he’d never have to, but one day—“ His voice trailed off, and Martha watched as his fingertip traced a complex path across her upturned palm. “We don’t speak our names—our true names--until the one who gave it is gone and we’re ready to bind ourselves to another. Our first love—my first love—sees into my soul and tells me who I am.”
He paused and looked up to find Martha’s eyes intently staring into his. He stroked her cheek. “The name I choose—it’s how I see myself, how I show myself to the world. The name you choose is how I show myself to you.”
Martha kissed the fingers that were now tracing her lips, and whispered the name her heart had chosen for him long ago.
The Doctor watched them from the door of the TARDIS for a few more moments, then went inside. He placed the rings the ship had made for them on the pillows in the bedroom they’d now share, then retired to the library with a cup of tea. It was of no consequence what name Handy went by now; he’d been given the only one that truly mattered.
Twelve: Epiphany
The Doctor waved goodbye as they stepped into the TARDIS. When it had dematerialized, he looked around Martha's flat and exhaled. The Christmas tree was lit, and a soft warm glow filled the room. This would be home, for a little while at least, while the newly wedded couple took an extended honeymoon through space and time. He made a few calls, set lunch dates with Sarah Jane and Jack, and sat down in front of the telly with a mug of Eupathian eggnog.
The sound of loud hammering woke him from his nog-induced nap. He looked out the window, then ran down the stairs to find out what the helmeted figure below meant by breaking up the pavement in front of Martha’s building.
When the helmet revealed a younger River Song, he sputtered a bit, smiled, then called Martha’s mobile.
Back on the TARDIS, a very satisfied husband hugged an equally satisfied wife as he hung up the phone. “I believe,” he said, nuzzling her shoulder, “that the Doctor is preparing to say his name.”
Author:
fourzoasCharacters/Pairings: Martha, Human!Doctor, Ten
Rating: very light R, really more PG-13
Spoilers: Journey's End
Summary: Handy gets a name.
Disclaimer: Don’t own a bit of the Whoniverse.
A/N: Thanks to
persiflage_1 and radiantbaby for beta reading. Written for the
dreambythefire ficathon. Three prompts in one. I’m almost ashamed to say they’re all ones I put in the hat, but this story is nothing like what I’d imagined when I suggested them! Prompts: 12 days, 12 gifts, 12 planets | Boxing Day | Epiphany
One: Christmas Day
“Picked him up hitchhiking at the edges of the universe.” Martha could tell from the tone of his voice that the Doctor was none too pleased.
“Not my fault she pushed the button on the cannon,” the other Doctor grumbled as he heaved. As soon as the TARDIS had materialized, he’d thrown open the door and made straight for Martha’s toilet.
“Why’d you make it work in the first place? What part of 'destroy it as soon as you can' was unclear to you?” The veins on the Doctor’s neck were clearly outlined as he paced Martha’s living room, muttering to himself. “And why did she expel you? I thought she would have come back for me.” He stopped. “Reminds me—I need to remember to seal that rift again. Put it on our calendar, will you?”
His counterpart’s retort was punctuated by bouts of retching. “Not—your—personal—secretary!”
“Yes, yes, we get it,” Martha fussed, worried about the fact that he was still clutching the toilet and appeared to be in no way ready to stop any time soon. Martha hoped the TARDIS had materialized around, and not on top of, her Christmas tree. “Just what has he ingested,” she asked the Doctor, “to make him so ill?”
“Eupathian eggnog. I told him to take it easy—too rich for human systems—but he just had to keep guzzling the stuff down.” The Doctor looked a bit too smug for Martha’s comfort, and she stroked his double’s back as he heaved over the toilet.
After a few moments the retching stopped, and she set him up in the bathroom with a towel and soap to clean up. She went to the kitchen where she found the Doctor helping himself to a cup of tea.
“Are you trying to get him killed?”
"What? What makes you say that?"
“Eupathian eggnog,” she hissed. “You know I had trouble when that Grolach snuck some into the UNIT holiday party two weeks ago! He might be vomiting for days.”
“Might not,” the Doctor grumbled, “if he’d paced himself a bit. Always trying to prove he’s not that human.”
“How long’s he been with you?”
“Two days.”
“Two days and you’re at each other’s throats?”
“Oh, Martha, you don’t understand.”
“I think I understand quite well. He’s part of you—he is you! Do you really hate yourself so much that—“
“Don’t,” the Doctor warned, and Martha knew she’d hit a nerve.
They sat in silence. She changed the subject.
“What’s his name? I mean, what do you call him?”
“Well, so far 'you' has worked. I’ve also found 'come here' to be quite effective.”
“What? He doesn’t have a proper name?”
“I’ve been trying some out. I keep thinking of him as Handy—handy spare hand and all that. He doesn’t seem to like any of the seven dwarves, but I think Grumpy suits him remarkably well. Or Dopey.”
Martha rolled her eyes.
“Of course, there’s always the reindeer—in keeping with the holiday spirit.” The Doctor pushed back his chair and propped his feet up on Martha’s table while he considered the sleigh lineup.
“Not much of a Prancer, I should think. Comet—too spacey. Cupid—too sweet. Blitzen—too reminiscent of barrage balloons.”
Martha poured herself a glass of wine. “I think you’d best let him choose, yeah? I mean, he’s got to live with it.”
“Well, he can’t be the Doctor. Or John Smith. I called those first.”
Martha left the Doctor to his musings to check on Handy—she cursed the Doctor for putting that name into her head, but it was pretty, well, handy as a placeholder for a name. For now.
Handy was licking his teeth quite loudly, and Martha worked hard to stifle a giggle.
“Yes, they’re all still there. Were you worried you’d lost one or two in the deluge?”
“What—nah, just marveling at your toothpaste. Minty, with just a hint of peroxide. Interesting.”
“Glad you approve. Now, about this business of a name. I have to have something to call you, don’t I? If you leave it to the Doctor, you’ll end up being named for a reindeer.”
“I heard. Although there is one from the list he hasn’t tried yet that I quite like.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. Vixen.”
At this moment, Martha realized they were standing beneath the bit of mistletoe she’d hung in the hope that Tom would make it back from Africa in time for the holiday season. When he hadn’t, she’d decided to ditch him for good, but hadn’t taken down the beribboned ball.
“Vixen, huh? A bit girlish, don’t you think?”
“The name’s not for me.”
He leaned in and gave her a very proper kiss, one that likely did transfer genetic material, but only as a side effect and not the main event. Martha resolved to take this Time Lord and call Tom in the morning.
The sound of the Doctor clearing his throat interrupted their holiday snog. “You ready? The TARDIS is having a bit of an allergic reaction to Martha’s tree.”
Handy looked at the Doctor, narrowed his eyes, and turned back to Martha. “You coming?”
Martha was amused by the Doctor’s clear annoyance, and thought it might be fun to see how this played out. She told herself that the potential for more kisses was just an added incentive.
“Get me back by tomorrow morning? It’s Boxing Day and I’ve got plans with Mum and Tish."
“No problem,” the Doctor promised. Famous last words. Martha pulled out her mobile and canceled her plans and engagement.
Two: Boxing Day
“Names of competitors?”
The Judoon bureaucrat took Martha’s compensation slip as he registered the Doctor and Handy in the annual competition. Martha was surprised to learn that the odd piece of plastic she’d received so long ago on the moon was actually a ticket to the hottest event on this planet. When the clerk at the redemption office told her she’d got tickets to Boxing Day, she’d been a bit disappointed, but that was put aside as soon as she saw both Handy and the Doctor turn white as ghosts at the mention of the event. Now she understood why.
They were suited up and ready to step into the ring. The helmets, meant for Judoon children, combined with the gloves (again, for the children only—Judoon males fought bare-fisted) gave them the look of cartoon stick figures. Martha almost felt sorry for them, but then remembered the way they’d bickered the entire trip over in the TARDIS, like two spoiled toddlers fighting over the same silly treat.
“Names of competitors?” The bureaucrat sounded a bit annoyed at her silence.
“Oh, right, sorry,” she stammered. She pointed at the Doctor—“Pot”—and Handy—“Kettle.”
She sat down at ringside with the bag of a treat that smelled suspiciously like popcorn and grinned as the Doctor and Handy faced off in the ring. Compensation indeed.
Three: Resolutions
“So”—rasp—“Not”—wheeze—“Fair!”
Handy staggered into the TARDIS, coughing and sputtering as he gripped the console angrily. The Doctor strolled in afterwards, started pressing buttons and pulling levers, and smiled as he patted the ship gently. Martha was the last to arrive, a small bag in her hand.
Once the fight was over and a winner established, the Doctor had taken them to mid-20th century France to get a racing bike (the agreed-upon prize for the boxing match) for Handy. The TARDIS, unwilling to have anyone, much less this young upstart, riding around her hallowed halls on wheels, had mixed up the translator, resulting in the purchase of strong cigarettes—Gitanes—instead of the desired bicycle brand—Gitane.
The Doctor had been amused. Handy had been incensed. Martha had become increasingly alarmed as Handy smoked one and then another of the cigarettes, determined to enjoy his winnings in some way. He was paying for it now.
“I think the planet Zovirax is in order,” Martha informed the Doctor. He nodded through his barely-suppressed sniggers, then set the course for the medical emporium; Martha remembered them having an excellent exhibit warning against the dangers of smoking unfiltered Earth cigarettes.
After Handy’s coughing stopped, Martha presented him with the little black book she’d been putting together during their travels. He thumbed through the various sections and lists she’d written in the book.
Safe To Eat
He noted that Martha had not put her name on the list.
Plague, Avoid Like The
She had, however, written “anything the Doctor offers unsolicited” on this one.
Instantly, Things that Can Kill Me
This list ran for several pages until she’d finally given up and written “anything the Doctor suggests you try first.”
On the inside front cover he found the number for universal poison control. “I won’t be with you all the time,” Martha said, “and I don’t know that I entirely trust him to look after you.” Handy began to lean in for a kiss, but Martha put her hand between their mouths and shook her head. She handed him the toothbrush in the bag.
Handy grimaced as he took it from her. “I take it today I’m Shakespeare?”
Four: Leap
“What do you mean, a pocket in time?”
Martha had been wakened from her nap by the Doctor’s insistent nudging at her shoulder. He had come to collect her for this crucial mission to save the universe.
“Just what I said—a pocket, but it’s overstuffed and needs to be released.”
“I don’t understand why you needed me for this particular mission.”
“Oh, he didn’t,” Handy offered. “He just needed a buffer so he wouldn’t have to talk to me.”
“Actually, I thought you might find it professionally interesting and instructive,” the Doctor corrected. “This is very advanced medicine.”
“It’s lancing a boil,” sneered Handy.
“It’s a surgical procedure requiring the greatest amount of precision and skill. One wrong move and—“
“Two-thirds of the universe would be destroyed, blah, blah, blah.” Handy made yapping motions with his fingers, the Doctor glared at him, and Martha tried to hide her giggles. “All I’m saying is don’t go putting on airs and pretending you’re doing some grand imperial Time Lord work. Cleaning out the Leap Pocket is like taking out the universe’s rubbish.”
“So this pocket, it’s like a dustbin for excess time?” Martha was as incredulous as her voice suggested.
The Doctor colored a bit and dropped his head. “Sort of,” he conceded.
“So sometimes you’re the universe’s bin man,” Martha laughed, “which means the TARDIS is a—“
“Don’t say it!” they shouted simultaneously, and Martha shut her mouth quickly. Handy motioned her aside and whispered in her ear. “She gets a bit sensitive when we have to do this. Doesn’t like the implications of being the vehicle that transports this stuff, if you know what I mean.”
Martha knew the ship was sentient, but had never really considered it as capable of being embarrassed. Maybe that explained the rather violent landings she’d experienced during her travels with the Doctor; he’d been a bit familiar in the way he’d piloted the ship. She decided to change the subject.
“So, what are you calling yourself today?” she asked Handy. Now it was his turn to blush, and the Doctor chuckled a bit less silently than she thought he’d intended.
“Oh, c’mon, can’t be that bad.”
“Not a name, really, I was just thinking out loud.”
The Doctor snorted. Martha shushed him. Handy flushed.
“It’s just—I should have a name which carries some significance, which evokes a truly great person.”
The Doctor guffawed. Martha glared at him. Handy covered his eyes.
“I was just tossing out ideas,” Handy said crossly, and Martha patted his hand. “I was trying to point out characteristics I wanted to live up to.”
The Doctor was howling as he flopped onto the jump seat. Handy snatched his hand from Martha’s and balled his fists. The TARDIS materialized on the Leap landing pad, ready to do her duty to the universe.
Martha looked at the Doctor with a raised eyebrow, and he leaned over to whisper in her ear. While Handy usually enjoyed hearing her laugh, he colored a bright red at the sound this time.
The Doctor strolled out of the TARDIS whistling a familiar tune. Martha could have sworn she saw steam rising from the top of Handy’s head. She stifled a giggle and took his hand to lead him out the door.
“C’mon, Mighty Mouse. Time to save the day.”
Five: The Ides of March
“Oh, brilliant!” The Doctor’s characteristically infectious enthusiasm never failed to charm Martha into sharing it. “The Ides of March! Been meaning to win this one for ages!”
She wasn’t quite as enthusiastic when she, the Doctor and Handy were given their competition kits. All they found in the packages were very high quality air sickness bags.
“Just what is this Ides of March competition anyway? I thought it was just some superstition related to Julius Caesar.” She furrowed her brow. “And, if I recall correctly, it generally portends a certain doom.”
“Oh, Martha, smart girl like you, don’t you know about memes? Strongest ones spread like wildfire, but get changed up a bit as they travel. The original Ides of March is like the Olympics for spaceships, a huge competition where only the best make it through to the end. TARDIS has been wanting to win this one for ages, haven’t you old girl?”
Martha wouldn’t have bet on it, but she had the distinct feeling the ship was none too pleased at being called an old girl or at the prospect of participating in this competition. Martha looked over at Handy, who was staring at the sick bag with curiosity.
“It’s for air sickness,” she said, as she sat down next to him. “You share his memories. What is this thing? Some carnival ride?”
“Not quite.” He gulped; he still hadn’t quite got over the memory of the heaving incident from Christmas night, nor the days of illness after smoking those cigarettes. The Doctor might scoff at these things, but Handy?
“It’s an obstacle course. You have to travel through a series of planetary rings, each one more treacherous than the last. They’re cluttered with space debris; it’s all about maneuvering, you see. He’ll have to manually pilot the TARDIS through the rings, avoid the debris, and be first to cross the finish line.”
“Doesn’t sound so bad then, I mean, since the ship has shields.”
“Well, use of shields is forbidden in this competition.”
“Is he mad?”
“Define mad?” Handy sighed, then looked back at the bag in his hand. “The TARDIS will be alright—she’s been through much worse—although I doubt she’ll forgive him anytime soon. He’ll be able to withstand all the jostling about with ease. You and I on the other hand—“
Martha looked at her sick bag and sighed. “Any way to stop him?”
Handy thought for a moment, then grinned as a light bulb clicked.
Ten minutes later they were on their way to the planet Barbados, where they hoped to use the sick bags only in the event of intense inebriation. The Doctor sulked on the jump seat, where he’d been trussed up by a very handy set of knots.
“Brutus,” the Doctor grumbled. Handy swatted Martha’s bottom as she went in search of her swimsuit.
Six: May Day
"Cultural enlightenment? How is that to be had here?"
"Look around you, Martha, all these alien races gathered to celebrate the universal!"
"Dancing around a large phallus in the middle of a field?"
"Majestic tower representing the pinnacle of man's achievement."
"Wrapping it in colorful ribbons?"
"Adorning it lovingly with great admiration. Gilding the lily, if you ask me."
"So when are you two taking me the Georgia O'Keefe planet?"
"What?—Oh, right. I think that planet's closed at the moment, actually. Having its millennial visitor..."
"If you don't mind me saying so, I think your mind's a bit obsessed of late. Is there something you're not telling me?"
"No, nothing, well, nothing of consequence, well maybe one thing, no two, no ten, but really none of it matters except—"
He cut himself off by grabbing Martha and kissing her with a kiss that made her wish the O'Keefe planet could meet the planet of the Maypoles. Soon.
The Doctor came bounding up to them, his face flushed from the dancing and the drinking and the general merriment of the festival. The flush became something a bit less festive and a bit more green as he watched Handy kiss Martha.
"I don't know what you're calling yourself today," he grumbled, "but I shall call you Pratt."
Seven: Surf and Turf
“Martha, just ride the waves.”
Martha looked suspiciously around her. There were no waves, save the ripples of breezes and the whispers of words pressing into her flesh as the voices around her rose and fell.
“I don’t get it,” she finally said, exasperation clear in her voice.
The Doctor laughed, but Handy reached out to her. They were suspended in the air, all seated parallel with Martha in the middle. She felt him squeeze her hand and turned her head to see his eyes dancing. “Relax, Martha. Don’t try to understand it. Just feel.”
The Doctor had been dying to come here again, and Handy thought the Sensorium would be fun to experience in a (mostly) human body. “A feast for the senses,” the Doctor had proclaimed, and Martha had been quite intrigued when they’d stepped out into the planet’s strange festival atmosphere. A pleasure planet designed to emulate sensory experience—seemed a lark, and Martha had expected lots of physical encounters. But this?
She just didn’t get it. But she was here, so she might as well try.
This first attraction was supposed to evoke a beach scene—at least, that’s what they’d told her, and the language seemed to suggest the ocean. The words swirling around her, their sounds and shapes and vibrations, tried to move her along. Martha continued to hold Handy’s hand (Silly, she thought to herself, to think of him that way. He needs a proper name.), but relaxed her grip. Skin skimmed skin and suddenly she was there, on the beach, watching along with him.
By the time they’d reached the last experience, she was exhausted. They’d been there for three days now, each attraction growing in intensity. The atmosphere of the previous one had been so highly ritualistic that the Doctor had retired to the TARDIS to “clear his muddled head.” Handy took her hand while they watched the Doctor walk away and squeezed it tightly. “I think he forgot about that part,” he said sadly, “and you always miss what you can’t have anymore, no matter how much you might have hated it.”
He turned his head to face Martha’s. “Let’s go to the last one. I think you’ll like it, and he won’t mind if we go without him.”
They reached the entry, and Martha was surprised when they were ushered into a very small room. There was just enough space for two.
The room turned on its side and they were suspended horizontally. Their bodies weren’t touching, but Handy hovered over her, his eyes playfully burning into hers. “This is a bit”—she blushed as the lights were lowered—“intimate.” She could feel Handy’s breath on her hair and held her hands tight at her sides. This was worse than those silly games she’d played where randy teenagers hid in closets.
No words came, but she knew when the attraction had begun. She couldn’t see him, but she could feel his fingers touching her, tentatively at first, then with greater confidence as his touch elicited small moans. She could hear his moans too, and she reached out to touch him but felt nothing.
“What—“
“Just relax.”
She calmed to know he was still with her, and she began to wonder who was touching her, then stopped caring as the fingers were beyond her clothing, moving over her skin, and then they weren’t fingers, but petals, flowers perfuming her skin and mountain breezes caressing her.
“Yessss,” she exhaled as she felt herself floating on a sea of petals, silky surfaces pressing themselves into her skin. The breezes became insistent and warm winds, and then she was assaulted by a swirling storm that penetrated without violating. In the near-distance she could sense Handy’s presence and when the gales blew through her she heard his echo of her affirmation. They traded the word between them, the only sound in the tiny chamber until they each cried out.
The room righted itself, the lights came up, and they faced each other, fully clothed, noticeably flushed. They returned to the ship, walking side by side, but never touching. The Doctor didn’t comment. He watched them, the way they stood near each other, eyes always averted, hands hovering but not meeting.
“You don’t fool me, Don Juan,” the Doctor whispered as he passed him.
Eight: Leisure, or What Happens on Veganza
“I’m going to kill you both when this is done,” she hissed as the guard led her away.
When the first dancer came out, they began to worry a bit about what exactly Martha would have to do to win the TARDIS back. Handy had got a bit overzealous in a poker game, and while the bloke who’d won the ship seemed uninterested in discovering its powers or contents, he’d been quite specific about how much he wanted in payment for its return.
“Oh, that’s just—“Handy stammered as the woman’s hands unclasped the veil around her hips to reveal a pair of jeweled knickers—“wizard."
“Oh, yes—“ the Doctor replied, his mouth gaping and eyes wide saucers as she next removed one, then another, clasp, freeing her breasts—“and that’s brilliant.”
As the dancer reached for the strings holding the knickers together, they tore their eyes from the stage and looked at each other in alarm.
“Martha!”
The veiled woman was done with her performance and it was too late—Martha was already coming out onto the stage. She was wearing a black flamenco skirt and a black bra top with matching knickers. In one hand was a large wine-colored lace fan. As she moved, flicking and twirling the fan and skirt in perfect unison, the Doctor and Handy gave each other questioning glances. Where had Martha learned to move like that?
“Our Martha is full of surprises,” the Doctor grinned.
“Our Martha indeed,” Handy huffed.
When the skirt landed on Handy’s lap, the Doctor covered his eyes. Handy quickly followed suit, but couldn’t resist a wee peek.
When the fan replaced the bra top she’d been wearing, Handy’s fingers spread open a bit wider. He didn’t dare look in the Doctor’s direction for fear he’d be discovered.
Martha pulled the string on the knickers and the fan, while large, couldn’t quite keep all of her charms hidden. The Doctor’s gasp made Handy jump with surprise, then grin with wicked satisfaction.
“Pervert,” he chuckled.
“Could fly the TARDIS between that gap in your fingers,” the Doctor countered.
Dance complete, Martha strode off the stage, entirely nude but partially covered by the fan, and grabbed the two Time Lords. “Right then,” she ordered, her fury barely contained beneath the surface of her glimmering skin, “get the ship and take me home.”
Later (but not much—Martha was very angry and the TARDIS was eager to deposit her anywhere), after they’d brought her home, Handy found the packet of French cigarettes. He licked his lips when he saw the silhouetted figure on the pack, fan waving, skirt flounced open just so, and thought back to the way Martha shimmied.
Surely Martha would forgive them—eventually. Until then he’d just have to be Handy.
Nine: Harvest Festival
“Now this is a prize worth winning.” Handy looked truly proud of himself as he placed the bushel of what appeared to be fairly pedestrian apples at her feet. He was breathing heavily, a sheen of sweat on his brow from the exertion of the harvesting contest.
He and the Doctor had finally convinced Martha to forgive them and venture out into space again. They were visiting Cornucopia, an agriculture planet, and had arrived just in time for the annual Harvester’s Track and Field competition. The Doctor was teaching the local engineers how to sonic up their combines for more efficient crop collection. Handy had opted for the Long Distance Apple Picking event.
“I hardly see what’s so impressive about a bushel of apples,” Martha replied, her tone a bit frosty. She wanted him to suffer a wee bit longer, although she had to admit that the exercise had given his eyes an alluring sparkle and his slightly damp hair just begged to be touched.
Handy selected a specimen from the basket. “C’mon Martha.” He leaned forward to whisper in her ear, his deep low growl melting her resolve. “Take a bite.” He held it out to her, their eyes locked, and she bit into the sweet fruit he offered.
Three hours later, the Doctor found them, a trail of apple cores and discarded clothing leading him to where they slept, sated, in Martha’s bed.
“Adam finds his Eve,” he said wistfully, and took the ship into the Vortex.
Ten: Spectre
“Martha?”
She couldn’t turn to look at him. She had to do it. He’d only try to stop her.
“Martha? Please come with me.”
Tears were streaming down her cheeks. The Doctor was dead; she’d seen the Daleks kill him on the screen, effectively calling her bluff.
“Martha? I’m here. Please come with me.”
He was dead. She was alive. She had to stop them.
“Martha, it’s not real! You have to trust me.”
She held up the key and moved it toward the slot. She was sobbing, thoughts of her family, her friends, the whole earth she’d walked to save just so that she could destroy it now to save all of time and space.
Why had he sent her to work for them?
“Martha! Stop! Think—what would the Doctor do?”
“Don’t you think I’ve tried that?” she screamed. “He’s dead and now I have to do what he did to save them all!”
She could hear him. Handy concentrated harder and motioned the Doctor over to the table in the sick bay, where Martha lay. They didn’t know they were planning to picnic in a long-forgotten war zone; while they were walking to the lake at the edge of the field, Handy tripped on a psychic grenade. He’d been able to fight off the nightmares, but Martha’s mind wasn’t able to counter the attack. He’d rushed her back to the TARDIS and hadn’t waited for the Doctor to return from spare part shopping before trying to counter the bomb’s effects.
“He’s not dead Martha! This isn’t real. You’ve got to come with me!”
“You’re trying to trick me. It won’t work. I’ve got to do my duty, to protect the universe.”
“Martha, the universe is safe. I destroyed the Daleks. The Doctor is still alive. He’s here, with me. Turn around and you’ll see.”
Martha’s hand hovered over the controls. She could hear the other Osterhagen stations calling for her to do her part of the job. She thought of her family.
“Martha, I need you. We need you. Please trust me.”
The Greeks knew there are many ways to love. Martha felt them all—storge, phila, eros, agape--swirling around the room, some directed at her, others filling the space between. “Love dispels the darkness,” she thought, and she slowly turned away from the monitors and the console and the duty, and toward the voice she’d thought was lost forever. They were there, Handy and the Doctor. She dropped the key and ran into their arms.
She gasped as her eyes opened. His hands were at her temples and he was smiling down at her, small lines crinkling around his tear-filled eyes.
“What happened?” she whispered, her mind still a bit fuzzy around the edges.
“You were lost,” he replied, his fingers brushing her cheek.
“But you found me?”
“Always.”
She started to remember. “Did I?”
“No, you didn’t.”
Tears rolled down her cheeks. “I was so scared that I would.”
He leaned down and kissed her gently. “I know.”
He looked up at the Doctor. “I think you two should talk now.”
The Doctor nodded, and Handy left them to a conversation long overdue. When he brought them tea two hours later, they were seated next to each other on the bed, talking and laughing like old friends should. He handed Martha her mug, and was surprised when the Doctor rose to embrace him in a tight hug.
“It’s been a long time since I’ve had a brother.”
Eleven: A Day for Giving
“There’s power in a name, Martha Jones. You, of all the people I know, should understand that.”
“But you don’t have a name, not yet.”
“I will, if you’ll give me one.”
He could tell by the look in her eyes that she didn’t understand, so he took her hand and they sat on the bench the Doctor had finally put up near the memorial. He focused on their hands as he spoke.
“The Doctor never speaks his name—there’s only one time when he would. He hoped he’d never have to, but one day—“ His voice trailed off, and Martha watched as his fingertip traced a complex path across her upturned palm. “We don’t speak our names—our true names--until the one who gave it is gone and we’re ready to bind ourselves to another. Our first love—my first love—sees into my soul and tells me who I am.”
He paused and looked up to find Martha’s eyes intently staring into his. He stroked her cheek. “The name I choose—it’s how I see myself, how I show myself to the world. The name you choose is how I show myself to you.”
Martha kissed the fingers that were now tracing her lips, and whispered the name her heart had chosen for him long ago.
The Doctor watched them from the door of the TARDIS for a few more moments, then went inside. He placed the rings the ship had made for them on the pillows in the bedroom they’d now share, then retired to the library with a cup of tea. It was of no consequence what name Handy went by now; he’d been given the only one that truly mattered.
Twelve: Epiphany
The Doctor waved goodbye as they stepped into the TARDIS. When it had dematerialized, he looked around Martha's flat and exhaled. The Christmas tree was lit, and a soft warm glow filled the room. This would be home, for a little while at least, while the newly wedded couple took an extended honeymoon through space and time. He made a few calls, set lunch dates with Sarah Jane and Jack, and sat down in front of the telly with a mug of Eupathian eggnog.
The sound of loud hammering woke him from his nog-induced nap. He looked out the window, then ran down the stairs to find out what the helmeted figure below meant by breaking up the pavement in front of Martha’s building.
When the helmet revealed a younger River Song, he sputtered a bit, smiled, then called Martha’s mobile.
Back on the TARDIS, a very satisfied husband hugged an equally satisfied wife as he hung up the phone. “I believe,” he said, nuzzling her shoulder, “that the Doctor is preparing to say his name.”