Authors' Note: This fic is a combination of the writings of Noofle and w1nter – I (w1nter) was going to write this by myself, but writer's block loves me and so I got the awesome Noofle to help me out. Hope you like it! Aaaand the Disclaimer: Do I sound like I'm cool enough to make up and/or own Doctor Who and any related awesomeness? No. Noofle doesn't own it either, sadly... so we are reduced to writing fanfiction. But never mind – it's good fun! :D

Noofle = bold type

w1nter = underlined type


With a screeching groan, the TARDIS imposed herself on reality, landing beneath the Cardiff Water Tower.

The Doctor stuck his head out of the TARDIS doors. "Perfect parking, if I do say so myself."

He stepped out onto the cobbles, hands tucked deep inside his voluminous pockets.

Martha followed him out, arms wrapped tightly around her chest. "You know, this looks awfully like Cardiff."

"Is it? It looks to me more like… like…"

"Like Cardiff."

"Well… yes."

"Does that make it Cardiff, then?"

"Yes, all right," the Doctor conceded.

He took a deep breath, gaze lingering on the hulking Millennium Centre longer than necessary. "That's the thing about Cardiff. It's built on a rift in time and space, kind of like California and the San Andreas Fault, except the rift creates energy that the TARDIS can use as fuel."

"Like a pit stop?"


There was a brief silence while the Doctor locked the TARDIS doors. "The TARDIS'll take about twenty-four hours to power up," he said.

"So… what now?"

"Well, normally I'd say run, but in this case… I say we go for chips."

Martha shrugged. "Sure, but you're paying."

The Doctor pouted, miming empty pockets. "But I have no money!"


"It's true! All I've got in here is my sonic screwdriver!" He dug around in his pockets as he spoke, rummaging around for what he did have. "That and my psychic paper, a wind-up mouse, an – ew – apparently unwashed handkerchief, spearmint bubble gum – partially chewed – um… a world map poster, a piece of amber, several carrots – for Santa's reindeer, you see – you never know when it'll be Christmas, after all – a sedimentary rock – long story – an apple, a Satsuma – ah! I once saved the world with that very Satsuma… It's a bit mouldy by now, naturally, but still… copious amounts of bananas – no explanation necessary, of course –"

"All right, all right! The chips are on me." Martha cried in exasperation.

The Doctor grinned and muttered to himself, "That's exactly what Rose said when we went for chips."

"Great," Martha grumbled, stalking away from the Doctor. "Good old Rose."

Steaming packet of chips in one hand, Martha's arm in the other,* the Doctor ran up the stairs for no other reason than, "I haven't run all day, and a bit of exercise is good for you. Plus, chips are unhealthy."

Martha begged to differ. "Is there such a thing as a quiet day with you?"

The Doctor just grinned inanely in response.

They screeched to a halt outside their hotel room, and Martha tapped her foot impatiently as the Doctor struggled to find the keys to the door in his capacious pockets. After handing a disgruntled Martha his psychic paper, a bunch of bananas, a rubber sword, a wind-up mouse and about a year's supply of gobstoppers, he finally located the key and let them in.

But no sooner had Martha dumped the Doctor's various possessions on the carpet and flopped down on the couch, there came the sound of a key in the lock.

Both time travellers whipped around immediately, the Doctor with half a banana protruding from his mouth. "Never a moment's rest!" muttered Martha.

In the now open doorway stood a man. He was tall, but he couldn't rival the Doctor for height, and he was stout, a sharp contrast to the Doctor's stick-thinness. "Who are you?" the newcomer asked with a heavy Welsh accent.

The Doctor frowned, banana still stuck in his gob. "Mmmm?"

"More to the point, who are you?" Martha said, folding her abused arm* over the other. "And what are you doing in our room?" She was thoughtful for a moment. "Actually Doctor, why are we in a hotel?"

"Mmmf gnnm nngr mmm," the Doctor tried to say around his banana.

Both Martha and the newcomer looked at the Doctor with distaste.

"I," the Welshman announced grandly, "Am an artiste, and –"

He was abruptly interrupted by the sound of the Doctor choking violently on his banana.

"Excuse me," said Martha wearily, and there was a pause in conversation as she performed the Heimlich manoeuvre on the Doctor.

"Thank you, Martha, and we are in a hotel because I wanted a break from all the running around we've been doing – frankly I'm bushed and I wanted to rest like a normal person!" the Doctor said at about ninety miles per hour.

Then he dived after his banana, which had shot out of his mouth and under the sofa.

The Welshman watched all this mirth with a mild air of aloofness. "Are you finished then?"

Martha nodded in complete ignorance while the Doctor's legs flailed around wildly as he squirmed his way deeper underneath the sofa.

"There's like five years' worth of dust under here!" he called, his voice muffled by the cushions above him. "Hey look, twenty pence! Oooh, a bus ticket! And a lollypop... and what may be a dead mouse. Yech."

"You married this guy?" the Welshman asked with an air of incredulous disgust.

"We're not even going out," replied Martha tersely.

Raising his eyebrows, the stranger muttered something about old married couples.

"Well, as I was saying," the Welsh artiste continued in a more audible tone, slightly annoyed at all the interruptions, "I am a famous artiste! I am the renowned Bob Clergyman!"

"I've never heard of you," the Doctor interjected from the deep pit underneath the couch. "Hey, cool! A cheeseburger! It's still mostly there!"

There was a long silence, until the Doctor cried out in disgust. "Eww!" he screeched, bumping his head on the bottom of the sofa. "They put gherkins in it!" There was the sound of the Doctor spitting something out of his mouth.

"As I was saying," Bob repeated, more forcefully this time, "Who the hell are you?"

"I'm the Doctor," came from under the couch.

"And I'm Martha Jones, now get on with it and don't mind him," Martha sighed and sand back down onto the couch.

Before Bob had a chance to continue, the Doctor cried out, "Hey! Hey! Get up! Off! I can't breathe down here! You're squashing me! Argh!"

Martha kicked him violently, then motioned for Bob to continue.

Amidst the muffled sounds of protest emanating from under the sofa, Bob said, "I have come to use this hotel room as the canvas for my next masterpiece! And unless you both want to become a part of it, I suggest you get out!"

"And who are you to order me about?" Martha said indignantly.

"I'm Bob Clergyman, famous –"

"Yeah, yeah, I got that bit," Martha said with a hint of boredom. "But what gives you the right to order us around?"

A muffled noise from under the couch may have been interpreted as, "You tell him, Martha!" or just a cry of pain. It was hard to tell.

"This," Bob said, hefting the heretofore unnoticed fire extinguisher in his hands.

Martha raised an eyebrow. "What, you gonna club us with it?"

Rolling his eyes, Bob said, "Why do people always assume violence? I'm just going to start – if you get in the way it's your own fault."

"Ugh, fine," Martha grumbled. "We'll get out of your way." She got up off the couch and immediately the Doctor's words became more intelligible.

"Oh! Air! Finally! I thought I was going to suffocate down there! Really, Martha, you ought to –" He was cut off as Martha stomped on his leg. "Ow! What was that for? Wh– hey! Hey, no! No no no no nooo… my banana's still down there! Let me at least rescue that!" he complained.

"You're coming with me, mister," Martha said through her teeth as she hauled him out from under the sofa, completely ignoring his reservations.

"But my banana!" he lamented, looking at Martha with his big brown puppy-dog eyes.

Martha handed him a new one. "Happy? That's my emergency-Doctor-pacifier all used up now."

Bob grumbled indignantly, pulling the pin out of the fire extinguisher. "I'm sick of this," he growled, raising the nozzle of the fire extinguisher like a weapon. "Leave or face my wrath!"

"Ugh, fine," grumbled Martha again, pulling on the Doctor's sleeve and edging towards the door.

"Mmmmf," said the Doctor, a blissful expression on his face.

"Good," said Bob, and started spraying the couch with the fire extinguisher.

The Doctor swallowed the remnants of his second banana, and turned around in surprise. "Is that," he said, his mouth open like that of a fish, "cheese?"

Bob ignored the Time Lord and moved on to spraying the bed with strands of melted cheese.

"That," said Martha, "is so. So. Weird."

The Doctor's expression became one of delight. "Martha, have I told you how much I like cheese?"

And with that, the Doctor toddled over to the sofa and started licking the cheese off it.

Knowing it was probably futile to try and get the Doctor to leave the cheese alone, Martha left. By herself. The Doctor didn't even notice.

Martha was lounging in the control chamber of the TARDIS when the Doctor came back.

With her feet up on the controls – carefully positioned in between the touchy ones – and her mug of coffee in her hand, she raised an eyebrow at his cheese-covered form. "Did you have fun? Are you going to act relatively sane now?" she asked sarcastically.

Completely unfazed by the cheese dripping off him, and unaware of Martha's questions, the Doctor looked around him and wondered aloud, "I wonder what the TARDIS would look like covered in cheese…"

w1nter's note: If you liked it – please R&R!! Even if you didn't – R&R anyway! Oh, and the little *asterisks* – they point to a little 'deleted scene' I wrote. That's chapter two. :D