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crookedfivefingers · 5 months ago

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Of Great Consequence

Pairing: Tenth Doctor/Martha Jones; Martha Jones/Giacomo Casanova Rating: Explicit Chapters: 2/5 Tags: Romance, jealousy, friends to lovers, smut, angst with a happy ending

Co-written with @pax-in-paradoxo 💜

Note: AU where the Master arc never took place and Martha has continued traveling with the Doctor for over a year post-1969. This is just one take on how their dynamic might have evolved, given time+bonding+healing!

Read our first chapter below (or on Ao3)

In mid-1700s Italy, the Doctor and Martha arrive in Venice for the Feast of the Ascension. During their trip, they temporarily wind up separated, which is how Martha eventually finds herself in the company of an irresistible, if hauntingly familiar stranger… One who can't seem to take his eyes off of her.

"Feeling that I was born for the sex opposite of mine, I have always loved it and done all that I could to make myself loved by it."

-ɢɪᴀᴄᴏᴍᴏ ᴄᴀꜱᴀɴᴏᴠᴀ

22nd of May, 1755

As the sun rises over Venice, the city awakens, its buildings in shades of eggshell and rust bathed in the gentle warmth of late spring. Dozens of charming, arched bridges connect the narrow streets, their graceful curves casting shadows on the rippling waters of the canals beneath.

In an alley as old as Venice itself, the TARDIS materializes early, settling between a weathered brick wall and one of smooth stone. With a creak, the door swings open, and the Doctor and his companion step out into the cool Venetian morning, matching grins spreading across their faces as a gust of salty air greets them.

They’ve timed their arrival perfectly—forty days after Easter, just in time for the Feast of the Ascension. The morning promises plenty of pomp and ceremony, but the solemn rituals will soon give way to a lively afternoon as the streets fill with people ready to drink, dine, and dance.

Martha knows she and the Doctor will spend hours slipping in and out of crowds, perusing countless open-air markets, and laughing as they feast from one square to the next—blending seamlessly with the locals.

Which is precisely why they’ve dressed up.

(And they look brilliant, if she should say so.)

Predictably, finding costumes for their trip had been her idea, as it almost always was. What was unexpected, however, was how the Doctor hadn’t put up a lick of fuss, enthusiastically tagging along to the wardrobe while declaring his intent to track down something ‘tastefully lavish, with an appropriate amount of aristocratic flair’.

After fifteen minutes, he’d finally emerged from behind the paper-paneled screen dressed in a long, silken frock coat in forest green, complete with tails, a matching waistcoat, and a crisp white linen shirt. His scandalously tight breeches, made from the same Chinese silk, clung to his knees, where polished black boots hugged his slender calves.

Once Martha had taken a moment to ogle the Doctor’s (frankly bloody gorgeous) ensemble, she’d helped straighten the tails of his coat with shaking hands, her eyes lingering a moment longer than strictly necessary on his bum before hastily averting her gaze to the floor.

Eager for a distraction from her pulse thundering in her ears, she’d moved on to rifle aimlessly through the racks of clothes, shuffling past poodle skirts and flapper dresses (amongst other more questionable things) before finally settling on an extravagant gown in a complementary shade of sage green. While soft waves of frilly lace drifted from her bust to waist, the snug, corseted bodice highlighted her natural hourglass figure, further accentuated by a fluffy petticoat that had seemed easier to slip on than a bulky crinoline cage.

A pair of wedge sandals, way more comfortable than they had any right to be, gave her a bit of extra height, stopping her dress from dragging on the ground. Even with the boost, she wasn’t quite eye-level with the Doctor, but she was definitely closer to his face than usual when he pulled her in for a hug (one he offered right after helping her with the lace ties crisscrossing down her back).

She hates to admit it, but moments like that—the dressing up together, color coordinating, the simple intimacy of helping each other with the trickier bits—always get to her. Despite her struggle to suppress those feelings, things often felt juuuust dangerously close enough to the edge of that line to give her faint, fleeting little flickers of hope (however deluded they may be).

Martha’s a bright girl, though. Too smart, if she’s being honest, to be so swept up by a bloke with a smart haircut and a well-fitting kit.

(And a bloody time and space machine with the means to show her the vast wonders of the universe, but that's [mostly] beside the point.)

She’s painfully aware that, no matter what she may feel in the moment, the air between them remains at its same static constant: perhaps a shade or two shy of ‘questionably’ platonic at times; but ultimately safe, and—more importantly—consistent enough to adhere to the boundaries of just-friendship.

The Doctor is merely her mate–and nothing more.

Her mate who, on the first day they met, provoked such an undercurrent of sexual tension that his eventual rejection was akin to a polar plunge.

Her mate who, even now, occasionally seems to let his fingers hover too long over buttons and fastens as he helps her dress.

But all the same, still only her mate.

To give herself some credit, she’s long since learned to extinguish any hope as soon as it sparks up, as the Doctor is nothing if not masterful at sidestepping anything that could be misconstrued for ambiguity. The man’s gotten so good at that particular dance that such faux pas and slip-ups rarely happen at all anymore.

Well… Save for those fleeting moments when she catches a glimpse of… something— something dark, raw, and unmistakably hungry—that she almost doesn’t dare to name. It’s usually in the aftermath of a day when her intellect’s really had the opportunity to shine, or right after they’ve both cheated death once again. It’s subtle, almost too subtle, but it lingers just long enough to leave her wondering if she’s imagining things or not.

Back when they first started traveling together, there had been a good stretch where any time the Doctor caught her eyes on him, he’d glance away wistfully—back when she was certain his real thoughts were almost always trained on another woman; rather, a woman’s ghost.

Martha would have even put money on it, were she pressed.

That feels like a lifetime ago now. She knows those wounds haven’t simply disappeared, but they don’t hang over them like a dark cloud anymore. Getting to this point had been no small effort, but now, he could talk about his former companion without it bringing up that familiar awkward tension between them.

Over time, Martha’s learned to keep her jealousy to herself (she’s gotten much better at suppressing it in general), the Doctor’s learned to stop comparing the two of them, and lo and behold, the whole Rose thing gradually became less taboo—leaving a mutual understanding that once felt impossible.

Those ‘glimpses’ of his have changed shape, as well.

These days when she catches him looking, instead of breaking off to stare into the middle distance like he once did, he won’t even look away… More often than not, he’ll just smile at her.

But that’s all it is, of course—a smile.

She’s come to accept that the Doctor’s fond looks are probably nothing more than signs of friendly affection. After all, in the more than two years they’ve been best mates, they’ve been practically inseparable, traveling and living together nearly the entire time. It would be odd—and maybe even more confusing or frustrating—if the Doctor didn’t have some level of admiration for her.

But that certainly doesn’t mean he fancies her.

By way of petty illustration, at no point has he seemed to notice the fact that her tits look bloody fantastic, the fitted bodice of the gown doing absolute wonders to lift and separate her breasts. The rounded beauties are pressed up and together just so–and she’s already contemplating buying a push-up bra the next time she stops home.

But it’s fine that the Doctor is, for all intents and purposes, blind to this part of her. She’s had enough time to learn to expect as much, so she embraces her look privately, enjoying the little self-esteem boost. ‘No use in pining for approval’, she thinks as they stand together in their little alleyway—she knows she looks absolutely shaggable.

Within seconds of stepping outside the TARDIS, almost as soon as they’ve registered the smell of the sea, something else becomes apparent: the song of distant church bells.

The Doctor’s smile immediately downshifts into a grimace.

“Late?” Martha asks with a playful smirk, knowing it’s rare for them to be on time for anything (and certain she can’t remember the last occasion they were).

“Wellll…” Reaching back, he ruffles his hair with his free hand, looking from one end of the alley to the next—undoubtedly trying to puzzle out which route might be quicker. “I’d say we’re not so much ‘late’ as ‘fashionably behind schedule’. Could’ve used more time to get dressed before landing, but”—he grins with a hint of mischief, squeezing her hand— “no matter. Allons-y!”

Then it’s all weaving through alleys, dodging broken carts, and hopping over a series of quaint little bridges as they move at a brisk pace (the best Martha can manage in her shoes) as the Doctor leads the way.

Wherever the hell they’re going.

Panting, Martha calls out, “Couldn’t we just have, y’know… gotten back in the TARDIS? Landed a bit… closer?”

The Doctor scoffs. “And what, miss all these lovely little spots? What sort of Venetian spirit is that?” Turning a corner, they come face to face with another bridge—this one made of red bricks and wrought iron. “This way, you’re getting the proper tour, Martha Jones. The alleys, the bridges”—they both look down to see a long, black boat being rowed beneath them by a man in tight trousers—”the gondolas; this is what Venice is all about!”

“Sure, yep.” Martha’s almost certain he’s just too proud to admit he’s once again screwed up the landing. “Just saying, you’d better remember where we parked,” she adds as they step off the other side of the bridge, turning down the path to their left to slip into a space so narrow, they’ve got to shuffle through it sideways. “Don’t fancy getting lost in all this once it’s dark out.”

Another scoff as the Doctor looks back with a halfhearted glare. “C’mon, Martha. Give us some credit—I know exactly where we are.” His expression twists into a crooked grin. “Got a built-in GPS, me.”

“Riiight, ‘course you do.” They finally pop out the other side—and thank god, it’s a fairly wide street they step onto this time; she can even see the Grand Canal through an arch over the path in the distance—bless. “Suppose I’ll just pretend I can’t remember the ‘Forest of Dreams’ turning out to be the ‘River of Leg-Sucking Frogs’.”

“Oiii, it’s not my fault the TARDIS landed us on the wrong side of the continent!” He clears his throat, reaching (presumably) to straighten a tie that isn’t there, then (presumably) pretending he’d meant to touch his waistcoat. “She was feeling fickle, is all.”

“And the night you timey-wimey-detected us straight into the worst part of London?”

“I had a hunch!”

“That ‘hunch’ nearly lost me my good coat!”

“‘Nearly’ being the operative word.”

“Or breakfast at Tiffany’s?” She meets his gaze pointedly, an eyebrow arched high. “Suppose that was due to a ‘fickle TARDIS’ as well?”

The Doctor’s face falls. “Erm—”

“‘It’s about intuition and imagination, Martha,” she gives her best impression, pressing her hand into the center of her chest. “It’s about feeling your way through the Vortex— oh, wait, hold on—sorry, you’re at the bottom of a swamp!”

With a heavy sigh, the Doctor scrubs all five fingers down his face, head tipping back dramatically. “How many more apologies before you stop dragging that one up? And, must I remind you—we did make it to Tiffany’s eventually. Softest, flakiest croissants in the universe, remember?” He catches her eyes with a pleased smirk. “And your lovely yellow frock?”

Martha cuts her gaze away from him as her cheeks grow hot, pretending to be entranced by a stone archway leading into another footpath marked Ponte de la Guerra.

She hardly expected him to acknowledge it, but yes, of course, she remembers what happened after she’d recovered from the swamp incident.

As if she could ever forget.

The Doctor had ambushed her early that morning (Afternoon? Evening? What even was time on the TARDIS?), interrupting her slow shuffle to the galley to search for caffeine by thrusting a canary-yellow halter dress (the ‘color of nobility’) into her hands, confidently declaring that he’d promised her a date.

Frock didn’t do it justice, though. In Martha’s mind, a frock was one of Matron Redfern’s crisply starched pinafores, a young schoolgirl’s uniform, maybe the frumpy sort of thing a grandmother would wear to faff about the house. The elegant, tea-length cocktail dress the Doctor had hand-chosen for her was slinky and sexy–nothing of the sort.

She’d stood in her bedroom, letting the fabric slip between her fingers as she stared in disbelief at the mirror. The shimmering yellow silk garment fit like a glove, accentuating every dip and swell of her figure. The halter neckline showcased plenty of bare skin, exposing her arms and the graceful curve of her spine, while the bodice cinched just right, emphasizing her waist before flowing sensually to mid-calf.

She’d turned slightly, admiring how the fabric clung to her hips before flaring out just enough to allow for movement. Tied snugly at the neck, the dress uplifted her bust, offering more than a glimpse of décolletage. The yellow hue was bold; vibrant; a color that demanded attention—exactly the sort of thing she wouldn’t normally pick for herself.

But… it worked. It worked so bloody well that she couldn’t help but wonder if the Doctor had pictured exactly what she’d look like in it when he’d made his choice.

Had he anticipated how the soft sheen of the silk would highlight the warm undertones of her skin? Or the fitted cups of the bodice would perfectly cradle her breasts? Martha had bit her lip, trying to push those thoughts aside, but the question lingered in her mind like an itch in the brain.

Had the Doctor imagined her like this, standing in the place where she undressed, feeling both vulnerable and powerful, the dress skimming her thighs as she shifted from foot to foot?

Maybe he had. Maybe he hadn’t. But as she’d stood there, the dress fitting her like a second skin, she’d felt that perhaps, just perhaps, there was a reason he’d picked it.

And then, she’d had an existential crisis wondering if he’d tolerate her absence long enough for her to nip into the ensuite and slather her legs in depilatory cream. You didn’t present someone with a sexy cocktail dress and invite them on a breakfast date if pillowy-soft pastries were the only thing on your mind.

No, she hadn’t forgotten the overly decadent and posh meal they’d had on Arkon, where the days were only three hours long and they ate a single sumptuous meal (breakfast) a day.

Or the stroll they took along the pier to watch the two suns set over a glittering sea, the Doctor’s hand finding hers as the last flicker of light disappeared over the horizon.

By the time they’d made their way back to the TARDIS, she would have nearly convinced herself she’d dreamt it all, if not for the effervescent rush of endorphins that had flooded her bloodstream, accompanied by an anticipatory giddiness she couldn’t even try to suppress. And why would she? After all, the Doctor had looked at her—at Martha Jones, the woman who had recently confessed her love to his human self—and handed her a dress he’d picked himself by hand, telling her they had a date. She’d been so certain something was about to happen between them that her bones had nearly burned with it.

And yet, there had been no long, lingering embrace at the end of the night; no handsy walk back to her bedroom. No giggles between soft, shy kisses against a door jamb as eager mouths became acquainted. Certainly, there’d been no trail of discarded clothing leading to where they’d stumbled into bed, his lips at her neck, his breath hot and shuddering beneath her ear as he moved inside of her.

God, how bloody embarrassing that she’d even dared to imagine 1/10th of that.

No—when they returned, all the Doctor had done was throw them into the Vortex, stare at his monitor, and bid her adieu with little more than a flick of his wrist–like they hadn’t spent the entire day doing stuff that would qualify as romantic couple’s stuff were they, in fact, a couple.

And that had been the night Martha stopped hoping.

“I’m just saying,” she adds, forcing some lightness and mirth into her tone, wanting to move past any further discussion of Arkon or Tiffany’s or nearly dying in a swamp. “Would be a nice change of pace to be able to find the TARDIS sometime this century–”

Quite abruptly, an arm is shoved in front of her, the Doctor forcing both of them to a stop when the melodic strains of a softly sung hymn travel through the open calle.

Two cream-colored buildings towered directly ahead, divided by a wide alley and connected by a stone arch. Through this space, flanked by ceremonial guards, a procession of men dressed in their finest red, white, and golden robes solemnly marches past. The soft glow of candles illuminates their path; the rich scent of incense wafts from smoking silver censers carried by two men trailing the end of the line.

Not far behind, a sea of well-dressed Venetians follows, their voices lifted in joyful harmony. Some carry their own candles, flames flickering gently in the breeze; others bear golden-tasseled banners that sway elegantly with the rhythm of their steps, adding to the grandeur of the spectacle.

“Guessing that’s it, then?” Martha glances up to stare at his profile. “The procession?”

“Indeed,” the Doctor murmurs, moving his arm from in front of her to tug at his ear instead. “Erm. Martha?”

“Yes?”

“I, erm. Hadn’t realized you were still cross about that.”

“Cross?” Tilting her head slowly, she wrinkles her brow, puzzling through their conversation. “About what?”

“The swamp.”

Affection swells in her chest as she notes the sincerity in his eyes, and almost as quickly, her heart sinks with shame.

…Why had she felt the need to bring it up again?

Plenty of times since then, he’s mucked up the landing—any number of which were far less serious… Those examples would’ve been far more fitting for the light, playful nature of the conversation they’ve been having.

With a growing sense of horror, she realizes what she’s done. She might not have been outright nasty, but it’s the same pattern that haunted their first year of traveling together—the same insecurity disguised as something else. This time, she’d just buried it deeper.

Sure, she hadn’t meant to do it—and it’d been tossed up in words that, on the surface, had nothing to do with jealousy or Rose or anything resembling rejection—but reflecting on it now, Martha knows better.

And the Doctor had misinterpreted that bitterness as resentment for having nearly cost her her life.

Of course she knew he hadn’t meant to land them on the wrong planet that morning! She can’t begin to imagine the guilt he must have felt when his casual misstep nearly got her killed, landing her unconscious and in hospital.

Even worse: it hadn’t been the only near-death experience during that particular trip; it was just the only one that’d involved her and her alone.

When all was said and done, their breakfast ‘date’ had merely been his way of making it up to her in style, and while she thought she’d come to terms with that by now, somehow she still dared to feel a private tinge of annoyance more than a year later.

Moreover, brilliant as the Doctor is, he must’ve realized on some level that he’d gone a bit further than intended with the blurring of lines that day. That was probably why he was so closed off when they’d returned home that night; probably why he never used the ‘D’ word to describe an outing ever again, even in the aftermath of any of their subsequent near-death experiences (of which they’d had several).

Bringing up that trip again—knowing how traumatic it was for him as well—feels cheap and uncouth, especially when she’d only done it to poke fun at his piloting skills. As much as she’d like to pretend it was all in good humor, the slight flicker of anxiety in his eyes tells her it came out more honestly than she intended.

What sort of a mate does that make her?

Excluding family, the Doctor is the most important person in her life. They don’t need to be anything more than friends—really, they don’t. His platonic love carries a weight and warmth that puts any of the fleeting, half-cocked romances she’s had back on Earth to shame.

But still, there’s something about the way he holds her after a near miss that feels more intimate than sex ever could. Arms tight around her, like he’s afraid he’ll drift away if he lets go. She doesn’t care how cliche it sounds–it feels like their souls are tangled together in those moments, a connection far deeper than physical attraction. That has to count for something.

And God, does it ever. Of course it does.

Besides, she knows she’s the most important person in his life, too—at least for now. And that’s been true for a long time. They’re best mates, absolutely brilliant together. What matters is that they’ve got each other, and that’s more than enough.

(If the cost to see the universe at the Doctor’s side is a bit of hopeless pining with a dollop of unrequited love, she figures it’s well worth the price of admission.)

So, desperate to call upon some levity, Martha grins, giving his shoulder a light shove. “Oh, don’t be daft—‘course I’m not. I’m only pulling your leg!”

The Doctor pauses, his smile not quite reaching his eyes. “Right,” he says in a tone that makes it painfully obvious he doesn’t quite believe her. He glances away for a moment before looking back at her, his smile now more deliberate. “Okay, then.” Reaching into a hidden pocket in his coat, he points towards the crowd with his chin, his eyes searching her face for reassurance. “Off we go?”

Once equipped with red candles set in fancy silver holders—courtesy of the Doctor’s ever-handy, if baffling, trans-dimensional pockets—they quietly slip around a corner and fall into step with the procession. Their entrance goes largely unnoticed, a testament to the Doctor’s knack for blending in when it happens to suit him.

Strangely enough, although no words are spoken, she notices several men sizing the Doctor up as they merge into the crowd. One grins, another glares with a deliberate intensity, and an elderly woman even blows him a little kiss. Witnessing all of it straight away, a nagging suspicion grows in Martha’s mind that some of these people have met him before. It stirs a different kind of jealousy within her—a quiet, unsettling thought that maybe the Doctor has spent many Ascension Days walking these same steps, perhaps even with the same familiar faces by his side.

It wouldn’t be the first time he’s taken her somewhere he’d gone before ( with Rose, a nagging voice helpfully adds), and she shoves that thought back down deep before it has a chance to get its hooks into her. She’s come too far, putting her jealousy of the other woman to bed, to backslide now.

It’s also worth noting that the Doctor’s a tragically handsome bloke whose presence radiates power and confidence, so it’s only natural that he’d draw such reactions (just as he has countless times before). As usual, he seems blissfully unaware, his eyes fixed on their gorgeous surroundings as if no one else exists.

Martha decides she’s overthinking it.

For the next twenty-five minutes, she makes a valiant effort to mouth along to unfamiliar Latin hymns as the Doctor, ever the show-off, sings every word perfectly (of course). The path winds around some of the most attractive architecture and quaint little canals she’s ever had the privilege of laying her eyes upon, and her attention admittedly strays a bit from the religious procession to the many balconies, alleys, and storefronts, peeking surreptitiously into windows and alcoves to try and imagine the sort of life one might have in 1700’s Venice.

Nothing compares to the site that awaits them, however, as they soon round a corner to find themselves in a massive open square, gazing in awe at the main facade of St. Mark’s Basilica.

From every angle, the building offers a breathtaking display of paintings, statues, and shimmering glass mosaics, every nook and cranny packed with religious art and iconography. Intricate carvings, hand-crafted from patterned marble, showcase colorful imaginings of the lives of Jesus, Mary, and the namesake of the holy church.

Five towering white domes crown the structure, their elegant curves adorned with lines of elaborate gold filigree that climb toward the lanterns nested above. Massive grand entryways— ’portals’, the Doctor calls them—usher the crowd into the cathedral’s stunning interior, and Martha finds herself dizzy as she tips her head back, staring in awe at the impossibly tall, hand-painted ceilings.

Her heart soars.

She’s seen so much with the Doctor, but this? This is something else entirely. It’s breathtaking. The basilica’s intricate details, the vibrant colors—it’s all so beautifully human; all crafted by hand right here on Earth. It’s a masterpiece come to life around her, and she can’t help but feel awed by it; she’s never been particularly religious, but it’s easy to see how people might come here to feel closer to whatever universal threads connect all humans—be that God or nature or whatever.

A hand pressed between her shoulder blades guides her back to the present, and there’s a flicker of embarrassment as Martha realizes she’s wandered away from the main procession. With a sheepish smile, she looks over, fully prepared to be quietly reprimanded—but…

To her surprise, when she meets the Doctor’s deep, brown stare, she sees only fondness there; perhaps a touch of pride. It sends warmth through her chest in a slow surge, and she smiles, the warmth only spreading further as he beams right back at her.

It occurs to her then: it must bring him immense joy to do this; to see human marvels like St. Mark’s through the eyes of another. For all she knows, he’s been to Venice a thousand times, but this is her very first. She can’t really blame him for wanting to relive it all, vicariously experiencing the first time wonder of seeing it through her eyes.

This time, when they slip back into the procession, Martha doesn’t even pay attention to anyone else in the crowd.

In the nave, Mass commences as soon as every pew is filled, hundreds of soft prayers echoing through the cathedral. Amid wishes for health, prosperity, and joy, blessings are bestowed upon Venice and the sea, creating an atmosphere so rich with unity that Martha finds herself overcome with emotion. As the next round of hymns swells around them, tears well up in her eyes.

Sometime later, after following the throng out to a large pier on the Grand Canal, the Doctor and Martha watch as Francesco Loredan—the Doge, or highest-ranking official of Venice—and his clergymen board an elaborate spectacle known as the Bucentaur. It’s a glorified barge, really; a long, flashy vessel with gilded walls and a red, curved roof; one practically sinking beneath the weight of opulent finery affixed from bow to stern.

Propelled by the strength of over a hundred oarsmen, the ship sails off surrounded by dozens of black gondolas and a hodgepodge of private vessels of varying sizes. The crowds cheer in celebration from the harbor, thousands of spectators waving their scarves and ascots as the Doctor tells Martha about the final event of the ceremony: the Marriage of the Sea.

“It’s meant to symbolize the significance of the Adriatic Sea to the city Venice,” he says quietly, his voice warm and close with intoxicating proximity. “They’ll have their rituals out there”—he lifts an arm to point east, his voice growing even smoother, deeper—“in those deep, aquamarine waters near the island of Lido. Then, as they hold a golden ring over the sea, they’ll say a few words to honor their tradition.”

“W-What,” Martha lifts a fist to her mouth, coughing to cover up the evidence of little sparks shivering through her, “what words are those, then?”

“Desponsamus te, mare, in signum veri perpetuique dominii.”

Good god. The Doctor murmuring Latin into her ear is the last thing she needs right now, and she pins her lips together, eyes focused on the departing ship as its shape grows smaller and smaller.

“Well?”

She jumps slightly, looking up at him with both eyebrows raised, as though he’s only just materialized at an inconvenient moment for her to be observed. “Mm?”

“I said, ‘Don’t you want to know what it means’?” He smirks then, and while Martha would have once thought it was a flirtatious gesture, she knows him well enough by now to recognize when he’s just being a smug git.

“Isn’t the, erm, TARDIS supposed to translate all that?” she asks, sounding slightly more breathless than she’d have liked. Certain the sun is highlighting the flush to her cheeks, she turns her head towards the water again, breaking off eye contact to focus on the excitement of the crowd.

“Wellll.” For some ungodly reason, the Doctor leans in even closer. “Not if I’m trying to be very, very impressive.”

Swallowing thickly, she takes a subtle (but no less deliberate) step in the opposite direction. “Never thought I’d see the day you admitted to having to ‘try’,” she quips, crossing her arms, her eyes once again pinned to the gilded barge. “But since you’re dying to tell me—”

“We wed thee, sea, as a sign of true and everlasting dominion.”

Martha scrunches her nose as she finally turns her eyes up to his, then she’s the one to smirk. “Gotta say, that sounded a lot prettier in Latin.”

“As most things do,” the Doctor sighs almost wistfully. Standing up straight, he offers his arm, smiling brightly. “So, Martha Jones—over and onward?”

Feeling the balance has been restored between them, she grins, slipping her arm through his as they turn towards the steady retreat of the crowd. “Lead the way.”

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