Incense and Peppermints
By Skylar

1969 has its perks.

One. Martha loves the word groovy and that it is now a part of her everyday vernacular. Not just groovy but also righteous, right on, cherry, dig... Whenever opportunity presents itself she can't help incorporating one or the other (or all of them) in the same sentence, and it usually grants her an arch of that familiar eyebrow.

"What is it?" she hissed as she turned to him, laughing, "we have to blend in, remember?"

He smiled at her and shook his head and followed her into the ice cream shop.

Two. She can spend hours upon hours in her bed with the lights off and her eyes closed, listening and savoring every song, reveling in the static of the old radio. She has the CDs--the Beatles, Donovan, Janis Joplin--but it's not the same. The sound is not the same. Something about knowing it was playing live, live, in 1969 with the artists occasionally dropping by for a radio interview or such other things... more than once she found herself listening with tears in her eyes.

She'd gone to work that particular Monday with huge bags under her eyes and exhausted, having spent the whole night cleaning after the Doctor and his experiments, and when she came home that night she found him in the kitchen with a crooked smile on his face and holding for her a mixed reel of her favorite songs.

It didn't make up for all the cleaning, she told him, and he smiled and presented her with a handful of incense sticks.

Three. No technology. No computers or mobiles, no satellite television, no video games. Entertainment came in the form of an old black and white set that the Doctor found abandoned in an alley and fixed himself, and with limited programing the options were practically unlimited: walks on the park, a chat with the neighbors, a night out dancing (though he never surrendered to that one idea), concerts...

"Told you I knew her!"

Martha could barely contain her excitement, and as they walked away, she swore she saw Joplin giving the Doctor the look over before he put his hand on the small of her back and she rambled, excited, all the way back home.

The next week, when he bragged about knowing John Lennon, she made him prove it, and she knew from then on that Martha My Dear would never sound the same again (even if it really was about a stupid dog).

Four. If everything else fails, at least in the future she'll be able to tell people she's been married, once, long ago. Very long ago...

"I am not going to be your wife!"

"Oh, go on, now. I'm not a bad husband," he said

"I was already your servant, for three months. And it's 1969, what do you think a bloody wife is!" she exclaimed.

"This is the 6th flat we've lost and do you know why?"

"Because we have no money?" she said bitterly.

"Because we have no money, no, Martha. Well, that's part of it, yes, but also, it's 1969."

Her hands left her hips and she crossed her arms. "I just said that."

"And in 1969 an unmarried white man and an unmarried black woman moving in together looks a bit, you know... 1969?"

She huffed, scratching her brow and looking away reluctantly.

He merely grinned and pointed his index fingers at himself. "Rubbish at weddings; fantastic at husbandry!"

Five. The Doctor.

"Do you suppose she'll get it right?"

"Who?"

"Sally Sparrow," she replied. "Do you think she'll get it right."

"She'll get it right," he said confidently, both for her sake and his.

She looked at him seriously. "Do you think she'll get it right, though?"

He looked at her finally, letting her words sink in and then smiled fondly. "I will get you back home if it's the last thing I do, Martha Jones."

She smiled, feeling a fresh wave of strength and determination wash over her.

"If not, look on the bright side--we get to wear platform shoes soon!" he had to go and say (naturally).

1969 also has its drawbacks.

One. Bigots. Sure, she lived through 1913, where every day brought with it a new racial slur from her students and even some of the teachers, but this was different. This was 1969 (so close to home) and its bursts of revolutions caused much tension and much discrimination, not out of ignorance but spite and hatred.

The Doctor sat next to her on the couch, muttering angrily as she pressed her knees to her chest, hating the fact that she was crying, actually crying for that idiot costumer. Having lived through the late 20th and early 21th centuries meant she never saw cause to give the color of her skin much thought, but she now knew what her parents and grandparents had lived through, and it truly hurt. It wasn't always love and peace in 1969.

"Come on," he said, inching closer and draping his arm around her, kissing the top of her head. "I wouldn't have you any other way, Martha Jones."

Two. Very few advances in the shampoo, conditioner, and general haircare industry (she nearly gasped when their neighbor three doors down suggested she used an iron -- an actual iron -- to straighten her hair) never made her feel very confident about her looks.

Her boss had invited her and the Doctor for an outing around the park, and if Martha played her cards well she could actually get a promotion. So much of it depended on the Doctor and their "marriage" and what the Byrons thought of them, and yet her hair looked like a complete nightmare and still smelled burnt. Mrs. Byron talked about society and a woman's place in it, a woman's responsibility to reassert herself and take an important part in the ever-changing world, and all Martha could do was blow her unruly hair out of her face and attempt to push it back with her fingers (it wouldn't work).

After a few minutes of non-stop, fruitless prodding he finally grabbed her hand and kissed her forehead, smiling at her before they continued walking hand in hand after the Byrons, who hadn't turned to look at them in quite some time.

Three. No internet, no satellite television. No mobiles, no video games, and not enough money to get a car. The dawning of the age of Aquarius sounded fairly exciting when accompanied by a catchy tune, not so much in actuality. She found out fairly quickly that there was such a thing as feeling timesick.

That night she sat on the couch with nothing to do as he obsessed over his experiments once more, as he always did whenever he took a break from whining about the TARDIS. She threw her head back and stared at the ceiling, missing her family, her friends and how entertainment was so easy to find in her own time.

Five minutes later he sat next to her and out of nowhere began telling her about Barcelona and dogs without noses, and after laughing for a good two hours she went to sleep with a frown on her face, wondering whether the Doctor had been joking or perhaps she should learn more about the history of Spain (and its native species).

Four. There really is such a thing as too much freedom.

She'd lost count of how many times she'd come home to find William Baxter (or Coyote, as he liked to call himself) wandering around the halls with no clothes on, inquiring about his pipe.

She couldn't remember how often she caught him and his girlfriend (Rainbow or Ocean or Sea or some other such thing) having sex on the stairwells, oblivious of the world around them (or at least of a peeved Martha).

But one day the Doctor came home wearing a handmade bandanna on his head and wore his new tie-dyed shirt to sleep, and she made sure she thanked Coyote the next morning for the good laugh.

Five. The Doctor.

"Why can't I drink?"

"Hm? What's that?"

She stepped into the room angrily, slamming the door behind her. "I was out with Ingrid at the pub enjoying a drink when Mrs. Brighton came in and knocked it out of my hands, ranting about my condition!"

"Oh, that's right, yes," he exclaimed, taking a breath as he looked at her, "I thought we might have a baby. What do you think?"

She blinked. "What?"

"A baby, you know," he said, fiddling with another experiment. "I was chatting with the Thomases, two doors down? Lovely couple. Anyway, they asked me if we planned on having any children soon, something about us running out of time if we want to start a family. Might be fun, though, don't you think?"

"Fun?" she exclaimed. "Faking a pregnancy, you think that's fun? And just what do you think is going to happen nine months from now when I don't go into labor."

"Oh, we'll be long gone by then."

"And in the meantime?"

He looked at her over the rim of his thick glasses. "Don't go near this blue scanner, it's not good for the baby."

But for the most part, 1969 has its perks.

An inventor! some of their neighbors had marveled. An actual, real inventor, with all sorts of gadgets and whatchamacallits and wibbly boos. Not just an inventor, but an eccentric one at that, with a long trench coat, Converse boots and a black wife, and the combination quickly shot the Doctor up the building's popularity chart. He loved every minute of it. Martha quickly learned to nod and smile.

When he made himself useful that day and helped Coyote and Sky (or Ocean or Secret or whatever) fix their bathroom faucet, they paid him with a strange green bud. He sat by the kitchen table for quite some time examining it from all angles until he licked it and finally declared victory over his forgetfulness.

"You didn't need a bloody sonic screwdriver to tell you what it was," she said, leaning against the frame of the kitchen door, her arms crossed, having just discovered him there.

"Good good, good stuff," he said, inserting his hands into his pockets and cocking his head to the side slightly as he continued to examine the thing, "probably not as good as the crops in Algontrias, but, you know," he continued to mutter.

She frowned at him. "Are you serious?"

"It's an entire planet made of labyrinths. Did I ever take you there? I should take you there someday," he said thoughtfully. "Not much fun, labyrinths, which is probably why they find weird ways to entertain themselves." He stopped and took a deep breath, adding as an afterthought, "stuck in a labyrinth... stuck in 1969..."

"You're not joking," she noted seriously, and when he gave her that dangerous smile she chuckled and shook her head. "What kind of a mother would I be?"

"Ah, yes, of course," he said and sat down again. She watched him for a while with her arms crossed. That tiny little maniacal smile that told her he was up to no good remained, and she frowned disapprovingly. Coyote and Vanilla were now playing their Strawberry Alarm Clock record, loudly, and she frowned at the wall that separated their flats, and the ever-growing mess on the floor, the empty refrigerator...

She looked at the Doctor again and her eyes narrowed briefly before she sighed loudly and walked over, sitting across from him.

"What happens in 1969 stays in 1969," she whispered to herself, and they spent the rest of the night listening to her music in her bed, talking and laughing and when his hand slid under her shirt and across her back to settle on her stomach, she didn't stop him. After all, this was 1969 and they were completely stoned out of their minds and therefore not all there (and then she stopped thinking altogether).

And when she woke up the next morning in his arms, with his nose buried in the crook of her neck, she told herself it was nothing, after all, the couch was uncomfortable and he had long legs, and perhaps a good night rest might refresh his mind and he would figure out a way to get them out of there soon.

And when he showed up a few nights later with another bud she said, why not? After all this was 1969 and they didn't have enough money to go out for a proper night on the town, she was quite bored of watching the same old stuff on the telly and she found quickly she enjoyed the Doctor like this, without inhibitions or worries, talking just to talk and his hand free to go where it wanted to go, her mind too far gone to over-analyze.

She never did talk about it in the morning and neither did he. She figured it was one of those things she was supposed not to remember in the morning, but sometimes she'd stand in front of the stove, cooking whatever she'd found cheap at the market that day, and she'd catch him looking at her with that look on his face and she'd wonder...

Three nights later he kissed her, slow and hot, and when her stomach turned to knots she told herself not to get excited, after all, it was 1969 and the TARDIS was in 2007, and knowing the Doctor he would figure out a way to get them out of there soon.

Because it was the Doctor, after all. When she went to work and he stayed behind, working tirelessly over the kitchen table, it was the Doctor. When his latest experiment wouldn't work and he would stand there, yelling at his failure, it was the Doctor. But then it wasn't the Doctor, when he would lay in bed listening to her talk and fumbling over her words, with his eyes a bit droopy and his smile a little lopsided, his hand on her hip.

Those nights she'd look into his eyes and see something different, someone who reminded her a bit of John Smith, but perhaps not. John Smith and someone else, someone else and then the Doctor, buried under the weight of their feelings and their wants and needs. Every once in a while he would resurface, happy to tell her about some distant planet and their weird inhabitant creatures, but for the most part he'd let that other person say what he wanted, and do what he wanted.

But it was 1969, and she was hardly herself as well. It was easier to see it that way.

One day she woke up feeling groggy and mellow still, and upon walking into the kitchen she saw the thing on the table. Martha frowned at it, wondering if she was seeing things.

"It's a Timey-Whimey... thing!" he said in all shades of excitement, and as he went on to explain what it did and how it worked she noticed the mess around him, knowing she would most likely have to clean it. And then he looked at her, his eyes lit up, his thick glasses slightly crooked, talking about geeky science things, and she was assaulted by the urge to both hit him and ravish him with kisses at the same time.

She shook her head instead and reached for the bread, and went to work that day knowing 2007 was near.

He waited for her that night wearing his bandanna and a copy of the newly released Abbey Road (she never asked him where he found the money to buy it), and it was during Here Comes The Sun that he turned to her and said nothing, his smile lethargic, and she knew as she looked into his eyes that the Doctor was far away again. They remained like that for a moment until she got it, and he knew she did, too (because it was important that she did). She put her thumb on his chin for no reason then, and he grabbed her hand and kissed it, kissed her palm, her wrist, and when he found the skin of her neck she arched her head back to give him better access, and when he began to play with the buttons of her shirt she let him, after all, it was 1969: love and peace and The Beatles softly humming along with her as their bodies moved together.

She called him John in her mind (never aloud, fearing it would break the spell). Her own John Smith, apart from Nurse Redfern's, but similar to the John Smith who'd shown up at Royal Hope Hospital months ago (or years ago, or years from now, she couldn't tell anymore). Her John Smith in 1969, with the Doctor near, smiling, hands in his pockets and fulfilling his desires through this Time Traveler without his TARDIS.

From then on, when they were out walking and he held her hand, she let him. When they were watching television and he put his arm around her shoulders, she let him. When she was washing the dishes and he moved behind her and kissed the nape of her neck, she let him. When he decided, without asking her, to move into her bed permanently, she let him. He made love with all the tenderness and intensity she'd seen buried in him in 1913.

And she let him. For a few months in 1969 he gave her what he couldn't give her in a single lifetime and she took it. And when they got the TARDIS back unexpectedly one afternoon she took a deep breath and smiled, embracing herself as she walked into the blue cabin, telling herself it was alright (though she felt her heart tearing slightly).

After all, 1969 was just the past.

The End