prompt response: oncoming_storms 64.4 crossover episode
Manchester, 1973
"Why can't you get a job?" Martha asked when the Doctor handed her the 'help wanted' ads in the newspaper. They'd managed to talk their way into letting a flat for a week with the use of psychic paper - they didn't actually have any money. (Well, not any Earth money; the Doctor had a positively alarming amount of spare change from assorted planets in the bottoms of his coat pockets - in case he ever had to do laundry, he told Martha.)
"Because," the Doctor explained patiently. Martha waited for the rest of the sentence, which never came. "Look!" he said instead. "The Manchester police want a WPC who's experienced in first aid. I bet you could do that."
Martha gave him a withering look. "I'm a medical student," she told him. "I do not stick plasters on coppers who've got paper cuts from filling out too many forms."
"Oh, come on, I think it'd be exciting." The Doctor grinned at her, leaning back in his chair and propping his trainers on the table.
"Well, then, you take it!" Martha shoved the paper at him and knocked his feet off the table. "And don't put your feet there, we eat there!"
...all right, maybe she needed a job just to get out of the flat and away from the Doctor. Honestly, it was like having a small child sometimes - one who was perfectly capable of getting into high cabinets and childproofed bottles and thought there was nothing wrong with sticking a fork in an outlet.
"Bring home some more beans," he told her airily as she picked up her bag and shrugged into her coat.
"Go find your own bloody beans," she muttered, resisting the urge to slam the door behind her.
Phyllis, the WPC who interviewed her - not that it was much of an interview - was a sour-faced woman whose duties appeared to consist of manning the front desk and the cells. "You're from London, are you?" She looked down her nose at Martha. "An' what brings you up 'ere, then?"
Martha shoved her hands in her coat pockets and tried to think of a good lie. "Followed my bloke up here - he said he'd been promised a job, 'cept now he hasn't got one, and the lazy arse is makin' me support him." If there was one thing living in 1913 had taught her, it was that you had to sound the part, and her normal accent would hardly do. (Maybe she was swallowing her pride, but it was still better than scrubbing floors at a boys' boarding school.) "Had a year studying nursing at university, but then my dad left us and I had t' come home to help Mum with my brothers and sisters."
"And now you've left them, too?" Phyllis fixed her beady eyes on Martha.
"My oldest sister's old enough to start working," Martha explained, "so I figured she could sort of take up where I left off, you know?" She shrugged apologetically, then scuffed the toe of her shoe on the floor. God, this made her feel dirty.
"It's not all medical work, you know - you've got cell duty, as well, working in the records room, and whatever DCI Hunt feel it's necessary for you to do, Lord only knows what that'll be." She rolled her eyes up towards the ceiling, clearly unimpressed with her DCI. "Still, that lot an' plod are stupid enough to get hurt all the time, so I expect you'll keep busy." She paused for a moment, giving Martha a hard look. "Understand?"
"Er, yes'm," Martha agreed, a beat too late. Subservience was not the sort of thing that came easily to her.
"All righ' then, c'mon. I'll take you up to 'is bloody den an' let 'im talk to you." Phyllis got down off her seat and swung the door open for Martha, who gathered her coat closer as she walked through.
The office Phyllis led her to was filled with smoke, the walls covered with lurid posters from Westerns. It smelt of cigarettes and Scotch and stale food; Martha wrinkled her nose as she surreptitiously looked around.
"Wha's that look for, then?" the man behind the desk barked at her, startling her - Phyllis had been in the middle of introducing her.
Martha plastered a polite smile on her face - this, she thought, had better be a bloody well-paying job. "I was just thinking that your office could do with a good airing out. Sir," she added belatedly.
"Oh, aye, an' why don't y' repaint it an' add a few lace doilies an' a vase of posies?" He snorted. "This is a police office, girl. Man's territory. What you're smellin' is th' scent of a good 'onest day's work. If you're so concerned about it, why don't y' 'ang a little cardboard pine tree 'round your neck when y' come in 'ere?" Phyllis decided that this was a good time to make her escape, leaving Martha to face the full force of Gene Hunt on her own.
"My mistake, sir. I must have mistaken the scent of a good honest day's work for the smell of the aftermath of a night drinking and watching the match down at the pub." Martha grimaced inwardly, wondering why she'd let her mouth run off like that. Something about this time period made her feel prickly, a bit like a hedgehog. She just wanted to curl up and let her spines drive people off till it was time to go back home.
However, the anger Martha had expected never came - instead he laughed and flashed her a smile, of all things. "Th' kitten 'as claws, does it - what was your name again, Jones?" He shook his head. "Seems like they're gettin' younger every day - still, 'avin' a bit o' fresh blood won't 'urt things. Mind you, that lot are a bunch o' animals if they get so much of a whiff of a bird. Y'think you can deal with 'em with a firm 'and, Jones? I won't be 'avin' any funny business in my department - not on th' clock, anyway."
Martha was overwhelmed by Gene Hunt - and the man's thick accent didn't help, either; she was still trying to figure out everything he'd said, but figured that a polite "Yes, sir" would do for now. (She doubted he would ever expect much more than that from her, anyway.)
"D'you 'ave any policin' experience at all, Jones, or did you jus' wake up this mornin' an' decide that today seemed like a grand day to start a bright an' promisin' career helpin' t' collar th' filth o' Manchester?" He leaned closer to her, clasping his hands in front of him.
Read the bloody application, she wanted to say, but bit her tongue. Back home, she had a CV that would've been the envy of anyone her age - here, she had a few made-up positions in London and a year of university experience. "Saw the advert in the paper, didn't I?" she said instead. "It didn't say anything about requiring prior experience in the field." Shorter words, she reminded herself as Gene gave her a suspicious look.
"Right, well. Ordinarily you'd 'ave trainin' t' go through, but you're seconded t' CID, an' we're short of 'ands t' work in th' station an' keep things organised. Got paperwork pilin' up 'igher than -" he glanced at Martha and decided to reword his statement - "Well, it's pretty damn 'igh."
Manchester, Martha thought. Of all the places the angels could have sent us back to, it had to be Manchester.
Muse: Martha Jones
Fandom: Doctor Who
Words: 1278
Author's Notes: Set sometime after the beginning of the second series of Life on Mars and in place of "Blink". Original fic idea from starletfallen, who really ought to stop enabling me.
"Why can't you get a job?" Martha asked when the Doctor handed her the 'help wanted' ads in the newspaper. They'd managed to talk their way into letting a flat for a week with the use of psychic paper - they didn't actually have any money. (Well, not any Earth money; the Doctor had a positively alarming amount of spare change from assorted planets in the bottoms of his coat pockets - in case he ever had to do laundry, he told Martha.)
"Because," the Doctor explained patiently. Martha waited for the rest of the sentence, which never came. "Look!" he said instead. "The Manchester police want a WPC who's experienced in first aid. I bet you could do that."
Martha gave him a withering look. "I'm a medical student," she told him. "I do not stick plasters on coppers who've got paper cuts from filling out too many forms."
"Oh, come on, I think it'd be exciting." The Doctor grinned at her, leaning back in his chair and propping his trainers on the table.
"Well, then, you take it!" Martha shoved the paper at him and knocked his feet off the table. "And don't put your feet there, we eat there!"
...all right, maybe she needed a job just to get out of the flat and away from the Doctor. Honestly, it was like having a small child sometimes - one who was perfectly capable of getting into high cabinets and childproofed bottles and thought there was nothing wrong with sticking a fork in an outlet.
"Bring home some more beans," he told her airily as she picked up her bag and shrugged into her coat.
"Go find your own bloody beans," she muttered, resisting the urge to slam the door behind her.
Phyllis, the WPC who interviewed her - not that it was much of an interview - was a sour-faced woman whose duties appeared to consist of manning the front desk and the cells. "You're from London, are you?" She looked down her nose at Martha. "An' what brings you up 'ere, then?"
Martha shoved her hands in her coat pockets and tried to think of a good lie. "Followed my bloke up here - he said he'd been promised a job, 'cept now he hasn't got one, and the lazy arse is makin' me support him." If there was one thing living in 1913 had taught her, it was that you had to sound the part, and her normal accent would hardly do. (Maybe she was swallowing her pride, but it was still better than scrubbing floors at a boys' boarding school.) "Had a year studying nursing at university, but then my dad left us and I had t' come home to help Mum with my brothers and sisters."
"And now you've left them, too?" Phyllis fixed her beady eyes on Martha.
"My oldest sister's old enough to start working," Martha explained, "so I figured she could sort of take up where I left off, you know?" She shrugged apologetically, then scuffed the toe of her shoe on the floor. God, this made her feel dirty.
"It's not all medical work, you know - you've got cell duty, as well, working in the records room, and whatever DCI Hunt feel it's necessary for you to do, Lord only knows what that'll be." She rolled her eyes up towards the ceiling, clearly unimpressed with her DCI. "Still, that lot an' plod are stupid enough to get hurt all the time, so I expect you'll keep busy." She paused for a moment, giving Martha a hard look. "Understand?"
"Er, yes'm," Martha agreed, a beat too late. Subservience was not the sort of thing that came easily to her.
"All righ' then, c'mon. I'll take you up to 'is bloody den an' let 'im talk to you." Phyllis got down off her seat and swung the door open for Martha, who gathered her coat closer as she walked through.
The office Phyllis led her to was filled with smoke, the walls covered with lurid posters from Westerns. It smelt of cigarettes and Scotch and stale food; Martha wrinkled her nose as she surreptitiously looked around.
"Wha's that look for, then?" the man behind the desk barked at her, startling her - Phyllis had been in the middle of introducing her.
Martha plastered a polite smile on her face - this, she thought, had better be a bloody well-paying job. "I was just thinking that your office could do with a good airing out. Sir," she added belatedly.
"Oh, aye, an' why don't y' repaint it an' add a few lace doilies an' a vase of posies?" He snorted. "This is a police office, girl. Man's territory. What you're smellin' is th' scent of a good 'onest day's work. If you're so concerned about it, why don't y' 'ang a little cardboard pine tree 'round your neck when y' come in 'ere?" Phyllis decided that this was a good time to make her escape, leaving Martha to face the full force of Gene Hunt on her own.
"My mistake, sir. I must have mistaken the scent of a good honest day's work for the smell of the aftermath of a night drinking and watching the match down at the pub." Martha grimaced inwardly, wondering why she'd let her mouth run off like that. Something about this time period made her feel prickly, a bit like a hedgehog. She just wanted to curl up and let her spines drive people off till it was time to go back home.
However, the anger Martha had expected never came - instead he laughed and flashed her a smile, of all things. "Th' kitten 'as claws, does it - what was your name again, Jones?" He shook his head. "Seems like they're gettin' younger every day - still, 'avin' a bit o' fresh blood won't 'urt things. Mind you, that lot are a bunch o' animals if they get so much of a whiff of a bird. Y'think you can deal with 'em with a firm 'and, Jones? I won't be 'avin' any funny business in my department - not on th' clock, anyway."
Martha was overwhelmed by Gene Hunt - and the man's thick accent didn't help, either; she was still trying to figure out everything he'd said, but figured that a polite "Yes, sir" would do for now. (She doubted he would ever expect much more than that from her, anyway.)
"D'you 'ave any policin' experience at all, Jones, or did you jus' wake up this mornin' an' decide that today seemed like a grand day to start a bright an' promisin' career helpin' t' collar th' filth o' Manchester?" He leaned closer to her, clasping his hands in front of him.
Read the bloody application, she wanted to say, but bit her tongue. Back home, she had a CV that would've been the envy of anyone her age - here, she had a few made-up positions in London and a year of university experience. "Saw the advert in the paper, didn't I?" she said instead. "It didn't say anything about requiring prior experience in the field." Shorter words, she reminded herself as Gene gave her a suspicious look.
"Right, well. Ordinarily you'd 'ave trainin' t' go through, but you're seconded t' CID, an' we're short of 'ands t' work in th' station an' keep things organised. Got paperwork pilin' up 'igher than -" he glanced at Martha and decided to reword his statement - "Well, it's pretty damn 'igh."
Manchester, Martha thought. Of all the places the angels could have sent us back to, it had to be Manchester.
Muse: Martha Jones
Fandom: Doctor Who
Words: 1278
Author's Notes: Set sometime after the beginning of the second series of Life on Mars and in place of "Blink". Original fic idea from starletfallen, who really ought to stop enabling me.