"You could have tidied up," the Doctor said, straightening the stack of Post-Its sitting on the counter-top.

Martha jumped at the intrusion. "You could have knocked," she said pointedly.

"Sorry," he said, not sounding sorry in the least. He lifted a pan to see what was underneath and nearly sent a pile of plates crashing to their death. Martha glared at him.

"Stop it," she warned, brandishing the nearest thing to a weapon she could find; a wooden spoon that had undoubtedly seen better days.

"Honestly, Martha, when was the last time you cleaned this place up?"

"Oh, you can talk. I've seen the state of your kitchen. You could do to have Kim Woodburn in yourself."

"She's an alien, you know," he said, to divert attention from his wounded pride.

"She is not."

"Is. Hadraxen. Completely harmless."

"That's a relative term. Have you seen my jacket?"

"Which jacket?"

"You know which jacket." He clearly didn't. "The really nice blue one. That I got on that planet where everyone had their eyes on upside down."

"Oh. Nope, haven't seen it."

"You are so remarkably unhelpful." She rolled her eyes. "Go look in the living room." She sidestepped him on the way to her bedroom. "It's that way. Don't think I'm letting you go anywhere near my knicker draw again after the stunt you pulled last year, mister."

The Doctor smirked innocently and wandered into the living room to look for Martha's mysteriously missing jacket.

"I suppose I should thank you for the pie, though," Martha called a few minutes later, a brilliant idea for procuring dessert popping into her mind. Okay, so maybe it abused the laws of physics and/or time just a little bit, but the Doctor did that every day so she figured she was entitled.

"Pie?" the Doctor asked, popping back into the kitchen with Martha's jacket in his hands. She put it on wordlessly. "What pie?"

"The pecan pie you left in my fridge last night."

"But I didn't-"

"Who else would put a pie in my fridge in the middle of the night?"

"But where would I find a pie?"

"I don't know, a bakery, maybe?" She gave him a look. "Anyway, I know it was you. I heard the Tardis."

He narrowed his eyes. "Are you sure?"

"Why would I lie about a pie?" The Doctor looked as if he were on the verge of seriously answering her, so she cut him off. "The tag was sweet too, but I don't know how you heard about Tom and I already. We only split up that afternoon."

"You and Tom split up? On Christmas Eve Eve?" He made a frowny face.

"Yeah, exactly. And no, I don't want to talk about it. No you can't set me up with one of your friends. And- wait, you really didn't know?"

"Not until right this minute, no."

"This is like the tie thing, right?" she asked finally. "My past, your future, wibbley-wobbley timey-wimey. . .?"

"I want to see the pie."

She crossed her arms. "Go on, then."

"Right," he said. He crossed the room in two quick steps and threw the fridge door open with much more drama than the action actually required. Martha held her breath. "Oh," the Doctor said, sounding disappointed. There it sat; a perfectly browned pecan pie with a shiny Christmas tag attached.

Martha raised an eyebrow. "Satisfied?"

He closed the door much more carefully than he'd opened it and nodded. "Don't know what I was so worried about. Who lies about a pie anyway?"

"That's what I said," Martha mumbled.

"We should go. Sarah Jane's expecting us at six and we're running late as it is."

"Doctor," Martha said in her best 'I know you're not actually this thick' voice, "you have a time machine."

"And I've clearly gotten much too careless about crossing my own timeline. Allons-y!"


Martha woke up the next morning -- though it was a near thing; the clock by her bedside read 11.58 -- with a throbbing headache and a vague recollection of the Doctor tucking her in as if she were a six year old girl rather than a twenty-odd woman who'd had, admittedly, far more than a reasonable amount to drink.

She padded to the kitchen for an aspirin and found the coffee pot suspiciously brewing with nary a brewer in sight; she poured herself a mug full anyway. After assuring herself, with multiple paranoid walkthroughs, that the Doctor was not lurking somewhere in her apartment waiting for a chance to get at her knickers, she sat down at the table and tried to remember what she'd done the night before.

The usual socializing, she was sure. Said hello to everyone. Ran interference: in particular, made certain no one mentioned Luke's resemblance to the Doctor -- especially not to the Doctor. Flirted outrageously with Captain Jack, and more sincerely with Mickey Smith, who- oh.

Mickey Smith who wasn't going to join them at Torchwood after all, but was going to do approximately the same thing Sarah Jane did. And who had offered her a job. And written his mobile number illegibly on her arm with a Sharpie they had found on the Tardis console pretending to be a lever.

If she did decide to call him, she could probably get the number from Jack, who had the mobile number of every single person on the planet, whether they gave it to him intentionally or not. Or from Mr. Smith, of whom the same could be said but without the vaguely creepy undertones. She smirked to herself and went to the fridge for a slice of pie.

Instead of a pecan pie, she found an origami representation of a pie. She sighed, stuck a Pop-Tart in the toaster and unfolded the origami pie.

The laws of time are not toys.
xoxo, the Doctor
P.S. Happy Christmas!