Title: A Week in the Life
Disclaimer: Well, given that the BBC runs off licence-payers fees... I still don't own them.
Notes: Seven linked drabbles, written for the 1000 Drabbles of Awesome.
The hardest thing about Monday's planet is the names. They just don't translate. Rrr-ur-rr-irer-ur-ip just doesn't trip off Martha's tongue. Apparently it means One-Who-Kills-Many-Rabbits, but only in the same way that Martha means Lady.
She smiles, and smiles, and refers to others by their rank instead.
She's interfering in the negotiations for a pact of non-aggression between seven tribes; talks have been failing for years, and if someone doesn't do something soon, well, a certain time-traveller referred to this planet as Kilkenny. As in, "instead of two cats..."
Fourteen hours later, she leaves them just beginning an aeon of peace.
Tuesday is another set of negotiations, but the Doctor is talking sense to the diplomats while Martha has tea and biscuits with their wives. They all know each other. They talk about their husbands, and their children, and their houses, and their servants, and their ageing parents... Then they start gossiping. It would be more fun if she had any idea who they were talking about, but it's entertaining enough.
After that, they turn to her, and start asking questions.
By the time the Doctor retrieves her, she's planted the seeds of a feminist movement that will change the world.
Running from an invisible monster is actually kind of a relief, on Wednesday. Two days of talking and politeness have left Martha's throat scratchy, and fingernail marks in the palms of her hands.
Pounding through the woods with the Doctor at her side, she laughs. "Explain this again?" she asks.
"We run. He follows. Then we reach his home area and his parents take him in hand and explain to him why he shouldn't scare the villagers. He's just a young thing, really." He grins wildly.
"What if he catches us?"
"Um. Well. Uhh."
"Right. Run faster."
Thursday is boring as hell. "Just round this corner, Martha!" she mocks under her breath. "Just a bit further. I'm sure I recognise this bit!"
The Doctor turns and looks at her. "Did you say something?"
"No." She concentrates on looking as innocent as she can. It really is quite innocent.
"Ah." The Doctor turns away again. He looks at his map. He looks at the floor. At the walls. At the ceiling. At the map again.
"This way," he declares. "I'm sure of it." He strides on, and Martha follows.
He's got one more hour. Then she's taking charge.
On Friday, they go to a museum. It's not very interesting, and almost empty of visitors. Martha sits on one of the attendant's chairs, and dozes off.
When she reaches out to turn off her alarm, she almost falls over. Then the Doctor is pulling her along behind him, and she realises the alarm is museum security.
As it turns out, the Doctor noticed one exhibit was actually a dangerous anachronism, and instead of trying to explain, he opened the case, stole the thing and led the guards on a chase round the whole place.
Martha had a nice nap.
The ice extends as far as Martha can see. The mountains in the distance are covered in ice: she can't tell how far away they are.
Somewhere underneath her is bedrock. Buried under twenty miles of ice. Creatures lived there once, the Doctor told her, and their remains will still be frozen there when the ice-caps melt in eight hundred thousand years.
She's bundled up so far that her arms are sticking out sideways. He's still in his suit, grinning at her ridiculously. He looks incredibly pleased with himself.
She never should have told him Saturdays were for skating lessons.
Sunday is almost over by the time Martha heaves herself out of bed. She has a hot shower, gets dressed, eats something. She stretches again.
She feels lazy. It is wonderful.
She wanders into the control room. The doors are standing open, and the Doctor is sitting cross-legged in front of them, staring out into space.
She sits beside him, content to wait.
Eventually, he takes a deep breath, and nudges her shoulder with his own. "See that star, next to the bright one - not the really bright one, but the bright one over there - well..."
She listens, and remembers.