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Another postcard flipbook; but I guess from now on they should be called illustrated fics.  Nevertheless, this is the first one from "The Shakespearean Code", which is 3x02 of Doctor Who.  I hope you enjoy my take on it; and as probably assumed, I own not a lick of these characters.  Woes.




Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.


 

 

 

He found it amusing and ironic she could gape and wonder at 1599 England, but be calm and ruffle-free facing down Judoons and Plasmavores on the moon not hours before.  Humans really were delightful creatures, oftentimes finding more marvel in the mundane than the astounding.  But going to the moon for Martha Jones was something to which she’d had no comparison, so she didn’t even think to try.  Reconciling the sixteenth-century London with its twenty-first-century counterpart probably was a bit more jarring, so he supposed it did warrant her astonishment.

He was also very lucky Martha Jones loved the destination of her “one-trip”.  It would’ve been very awkward and counterproductive if she hadn’t, because she’d made such an excellent partner before, and he would’ve been quite disappointed if the setting hampered her ability to give a repeat performance now.  He’d never told her where they were going, or when, because really, why show his hand too early?  He’d seen the mauve streak as he was coming back from the Cartwheel Galaxy, belly full of banana milkshake and the parts of a brand-new sonic screwdriver laid out before him on the console.  The streak had led to this place at this time, and he had refused to think of the coincidence that probably wasn’t.  The big ball of the universe had bounced Martha Jones his way, and he’d be remiss not to catch on.

Her questions were a bit odd and a little ceaseless, however.  He didn’t understand her preoccupation with butterflies and didn’t bother to point out her grandfather wouldn’t be around in 1599 either.  She was still getting over her temporal-lag, though, so he didn’t hold that question against her.  Her query about being enslaved was the most confusing of all—why anyone would cart her away because of her coloring escaped his logic.  Her skin was perfectly lovely and melted cinnamon, even if it did taste like bananas.  He still hadn’t figured that bit out yet.

He helped her adjust by pointing out the commonalities between the two times, and the smile that had settled upon her face told him he’d succeeded.  It really was a nice smile, and he liked it when she did, especially when he was the reason for it.  That meant he was impressing her and she was liking her thank-you gift.

He was glad he’d decided to show gratitude first. Seeing Shakespeare was a damn fine gift, even for a burgeoning doctor, and she couldn’t risk introducing medical techniques before their appropriate times.  After the play, maybe she’d be even more awed and thankful that she wouldn’t mind coming with him to search for the cause of the mauve.  Besides, it’d been too long since he’d taken in the fine arts, and Shakespeare’s plays were among the finest from any species in any time.

She had enjoyed it, Love’s Labour’s Lost, though many from her time didn’t really care for this particular Shakespearean play.  Much of the banter went above the layperson’s head, but he had known Martha Jones would be smart enough to figure it out, or if she didn’t, she would ask.  Which she had, numerous times.  No one minded; how could anyone when audience members would shout ribald outbursts to the actors, or the person on his left gave running commentary of her own.  Martha herself had started a trend, a bit earlier than it should’ve, but this particular instance wouldn’t change the history of the whole human race—at least not negatively.  She’d fit right into the spirit of things, despite her conspicuous attire, but she’d acted as if she’d owned the place just like he’d told her to.  A quick study, Martha Jones.

While Shakespeare wasn’t quite the wordsmith he’d believed him to be, or rather, the wordsmith he was on paper, Martha didn’t fault him for his high praise of the playwright.  But as Shakespeare’s speech grew more bewildering, he realized that this was the mauve streak that had caught his attention before, and Martha Jones had been the unwitting reason for his discovery.  The fact she’d caught the discordant announcement of performing Love’s Labour’s Won as well had him mentally checking another plus in Miss Jones’s favor, but he'd almost wiped away the entire rubric when she’d suggested they record the play and sell it in the future.  His refusal had been quick and final, but instead of asking, “why not?”, she had guessed the reason for herself, something Adam Mitchell couldn’t even do.

He should’ve trusted his gut better with that one, but Rose had had the uncanny ability to be very persuasive when she wanted to be.

“How come it disappeared in the first place?” Martha asked, bringing him back to the present (as it were) predicament.

Well . . .”  And there it was, the go-ahead, whether she knew it or not.  “I was just going to give you a quick little trip in the TARDIS . . . but I suppose we could stay a bit longer . . .”










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