Archive of Our Own ^beta

Martha juggled her backpack and the sports bag containing the surreptitiously-gathered pieces of graske corpse, trying to work out where her keys had got to. She could see the flat from the corner of the street. The lights were blazing, and there was a hum of movement and noise coming from within that was no-doubt already garnering the ire of their more curtain-twitching neighbours. Fuck it, they’d cope. It’s not like it happened more than once a month.

As she approached the flat she could see figures moving around within. Lots of people, lots of tall, wavering silhouettes against the glass. Looked like they had a full house.

Having located her keys, she shouldered open the door and was hit with a wave of warmth and colour and sound. A storm of wolf-whistles and cheering hit her, and she bowed ironically.

“Yeah, alright, alright, I know I’m late.”

She tossed the bag containing the graske-bits towards the kitchen, hoping that someone else would deal with it. She heard Mickey give a muffled oath, which she assumed meant that he had it under control.

“Alcohol.” She said, into the general clamour. “Lots and lots of alcohol. Now.”

Somebody passed her a bottle and she took a long, satisfying pull. Jack wolf-whistled again, and she flipped him the finger. Coming up for air, she looked around, taking stock of the multitude crammed into her tiny flat. It really was a full house tonight.

Jack, John, Jenny and Alonso were occupying the larger sofa, all of them with their boots propped up on her coffee table, and generally looking like the unfortunate upshot of a temporal explosion in an army-surplus store. River, Rani and Gwen were on the sofa opposite, each of them somehow managing to convey an attitude of smug sensuality while downing enormous glasses of red wine. Clara, Ashildir, Heather and Bill were at the kitchen table, squabbling over a bowl of pretzels. Heather and Bill were dripping rather, but at least it was onto the lino. K-9 appeared to have got stuck at the join between kitchen and living room, and was ticking away crossly to himself while directing a glare of extraordinary virulence at the carpeted surface. Which was impressive, for someone with no facial features to speak of. Nardole was sitting cross-legged on the carpet side of the divide, watching the small tin dog with an expression of enormous smugness. Clyde, Luke and Sky were sprawled in front of the TV doing something that involved transistors, while Wilf, Brian and Jo had nabbed the best chairs in front of the fire and were carrying on a pleasant conversation, apparently about the Number 10 bus route. From the kitchen to her left came the sound of Mickey and Rhys bickering, presumably about how best to procure a short-notice Tikka Masala for twenty-three people. Or possibly about the bits of graske. From the corridor to her right came the sound of August and Anwen bickering, holed up in August’s bedroom and ignoring the rest of the gathering entirely, as was only right and proper.

“I see the lesbian contingent actually made it this month,” Martha said, reaching over Clara’s shoulder to get at the pretzels.

Bill inclined her head towards Jack and co.

“The gay space pirates forced us.”

Jack wrinkled his nose. “Gay space pirates? I thought we were going with ‘Torchwood: Intergalactica!’”

Clara shrugged. “Hey, if the stolen star-cruiser fits…”

Jack scowled. “Not everyone just gets handed a TARDIS, oh Impossible One. And yes, I am still bitter about that, just so you know.”

Clara threw a pretzel at him.

“Anyway,” said Bill through a mouthful of beer. It dribbled down her chin, adding to the general puddle. She swallowed, and continued: “We would’ve been here last time, but we were at a space-rave with Joni Mitchell, so…”

Martha pretended to think about it. “Yeah, you’re right, that is cooler.”

“You haven’t heard the news yet,” Jenny told her, waving a bit of paper in the air excitedly. “We’ve got mail!”

“Mail.” said Martha, flatly.

“Invites!” Jenny enthused. “To a support group!”

Martha looked dubious. Jack snatched the paper from Jenny’s hand and read it aloud.

“Blue Box Support Group,” he pronounced archly. “A Safe Space Gathering for Friends of the TARDIS”.

Martha snorted. “You have got to be kidding me.”

“It’s the new kid,” River explained, reaching for the wine bottle. “Whirlwind tour, time and space, dropped back on earth with her heart broken – you know the drill.”

Martha and Jack shared a wince. They did indeed know the drill.

“I don’t think it was the new kid actually,” Wilf broke in. “It were an older chap that delivered to me. Seemed a good sort, I reckoned.”

“Knew a lot about buses,” Brian added.

John hooted with laughter. River dropped her face into her hands.

“How are you related to me?”

“Oi!” Rhys shouted, over the cackling. “You lot. Grub’s up!”

There was a general stampede in the direction of the kitchen. Loaded plates passed from hand to hand. Somebody popped open a bottle of champagne, and the cork went flying. River blasted it from the air. A dozen weapons were drawn in answer. Jack tossed up a bottle-cap, and it came down in a hail of blaster fire.

“Oi!” Nardole yelled, his voice squeaking into registers usually only known to bats. “No shooting things over dinner!”

Mickey rolled his eyes. “Jesus Christ, how many times?”

Martha plonked herself down on the sofa, balancing her plate precariously as she shoved her feet into Jack’s lap.

“The thing is,” she remarked. “I just don’t think we’re the Support Group type.”