I wake with a weight on top of me. Frowning, I struggle to free my arms. The Doctor grumbles sleepily and settles back against me, his head burrowing into the crook of my neck.

I don't want to wake him but the clock is ticking. We can't stay in bed forever, as much as I'd like to. Reaching up, I scratch his head and receive a softer sigh of appreciation. He reminds me quite comfortingly of a cat, stretched out and purring, basking in the warm sunlight that creeps through the curtains in soft rays, painting his bare back gold.

He stirs again. I smile and nuzzle my cheek against his, inhaling that wonderfully familiar scent that now comes with a little something else. Something of me. "Good morning."

"Morning," he replies, his voice gravelly and dazed from sleep. Then, waking with a start, he rolls off of me. A hand combs through his extraordinarily tangled hair and rubs at his bleary eyes. His mouth falls open in a yawn. "Sorry."

I shuffle closer to him under the covers, fingers tracing the short tufts of hair on his chest that rises and falls steadily with peaceful breaths. He puts an arm around me and plays with my own locks, brushing them from my face. "It's all right. Actually, I quite like the idea of you crushing me like that."

His movements pause. "You scare me sometimes."

Sitting up to reach him better, I trail my hand up his chest, his throat, until it comes to a rest on his cheek, turning his face towards me. My lips hover against his. He tries to lean in and bridge the gap but I move away just a fraction, murmuring, "Damn. Only sometimes?"

All I get in response is a breath of laughter before he is kissing me with enough force to spin my mind back to the night before. His hands join in with the reminder, grasping my hips to hold me close to him.

A sharp ringing shatters the moment. Groaning, I pull away to shut off the alarm clock.

He has already grown impatient with the loss of attention, diverting his to my neck. It is still a little tender in places. As the cause of that, it only serves to boost his ego. His kisses travel along the ridge of my collarbone, up my shoulder and back to my lips, swallowing the little sounds I make. I shift even closer until I straddle him. One hand cradles the back of his head and the other pushes him down onto the pillows by his shoulder. His rest contently on the small of my back.

"In case you two are forgetting, we've got to head out in half an hour!" Martha calls from the other side of the door.

I curse under my breath, giving him one last kiss before climbing off. He makes no effort to leave the bed and simply watches as I potter about, gathering my clothes for the day and offering my prayers to the necklace hung by the window. With little option for burning sacrifices like I usually do, I managed to buy a small olive shrub which I water with my morning prayers.

The Doctor slips out partway through. By the time I'm finished and come through to the living area of our little flat, he has cooked a quick breakfast. A mug of coffee waits for me on the table by the sofa. I slump down beside Martha, who nurses her tea, staring dully at the peeling wallpaper. "Wishing you'd gone out on Friday instead?" I tease.

She takes another sip and grunts her agreement.

Going through the motions, we finish breakfast with a little less talk than usual, leave our plates in the sink and grab our coats and handbags. Martha sighs, "Well, we're off to work — receptionist and a shop-girl. Better than being a maid, I suppose. What's that you're working on?"

He looks up from the device in his hands, his sonic hovering over a small clock face that has been fused to its side. He holds it up with an air of pride. "Timey-wimey detector. It will let us know the exact moment this Billy Shipton pops back to 1969."

She crosses her arms. The general impatience of this wait has been bad for all of us but particularly for her. With her phone battery dying, she has been unable to call home as much as she'd like. Her homesickness has been nearly inconsolable. "But when is that going to be?"

Squinting, he tilts his head from side to side as he replies, "Well... soon. Probably soon. Maybe soon. Before the end of the year."

"Look, I know I'm not a Time Lord — didn't even know time travel was possible before that day I met you at the hospital — but I would think that not losing your time machine is probably the very first rule."

He raises a hand in defence. "Technically, I didn't lose the Tardis. We were time-shifted away from it. You'd be surprised how often that happens."

"A warning might have been nice." Glancing down at her watch, she groans, "And I'm going to be the one getting a warning if I'm late again."

"Go be brilliant, Martha Jones. Selling human things to humans; definitely better at the job than I would be."

The Doctor rushes to open the door for us, still in a 'Kiss the Cook' apron. I read it and lean in, giving him a quick peck on the cheek. His complaining pout is met with an innocent smile. "Meet you in the park for lunch?"

"Don't see why not."

Martha and I head down the stairs, outside the flat and into the street. Her energy has improved since before but she still seems a little unsteady on her feet. I raise an eyebrow. "Did you at least enjoy yourself last night?"

"Can't remember most of it... so I probably did, yeah," she jokes. "But I'm gonna guess that you had a hell of a lot more fun than me."

Clutching my costume pearls in mock dismay, I gasp. "Why, Martha Jones! What could you possibly mean by that?"

She doesn't need to reply, just shoots me an amused look. We both know exactly what she is implying. "You know, this isn't exactly what I had in mind when I found out we'd be stuck in the sixties," she remarks after a while of walking along the pavement side by side. "I mean, granted, the attitudes are still all here. But I'm quite enjoying the part where we come back from work to a home-cooked meal. The Doctor's proven to be a regular, old-fashioned househusband!"

"I know!" Chuckling, I link my arm with hers. "You know what? I think things are finally looking up for us. For the first time in a while, life has been pretty good."

——————

Tuesday mornings are often quiet. I sit alone at my desk, taking my time answering calls and filing cheques. When I hear footsteps coming, I work a little faster on the typewriter.

"How's my girl doing?" Mr Sutton booms, walking into the lobby of the garage — a small room leading to the main building, adjoined to his office. He is a squat man with beady eyes and a permanent sneer that he seems to believe every woman finds just as attractive as he does.

I don't look up from my work but take a sip of coffee. "Not your girl, sir. I have not been a girl for quite a while."

He laughs at that. Clearly not because he finds it funny. It's a dry, monotonous laugh that quickly trails into another attempt at small talk, "See you made some coffee."

"Yep."

Shuffling closer, he rests his elbow on the desk and leers over at me. "Made a cup for me?"

I wonder again how long it will take for me to lose this job. Then I think of the apartment and the rent that needs paying by the end of the month. An overly sweet grimace takes over as I take another sip. "You know what? I honestly didn't think to do that thing that wasn't listed in my job description when I was first hired. I am so sorry, Mr Sutton. Next time, I'll consider it."

"Thank you, love," he replies, patronising enough to make me want to be sick. One would think I was a small child, considering the way he speaks to me — as if I can't understand a word he says unless he makes it as simple as possible. "You know, it is so nice to see you smile. I don't think I have ever seen you smile before."

"That is very probable."

The bell above the door jingles. Leaning around him, I see a young woman enter the lobby. Her dark hair is sleeked back under a polka dot headscarf and she wears a brown, leather jacket to brave the slight chill of London in June. Mr Sutton's eyes narrow at the sight of her light brown skin, and his jaw clenches when he notices that she wears skinny jeans. "We don't take drop-ins."

I scoff. We most definitely do. "As a matter of fact, I think we have a spot open in our appointments today if you need one, ma'am."

She stares at me, speechless.

He rolls his eyes. "Brilliant. Let me guess, no English?"

That is enough to bring her attention back from whatever has distracted her. Scowling at him, she strides purposefully up to the desk and plants her hands on it. Her eyes lock with mine. "I need to talk to you."

"You do know she's just a receptionist? If you're here to talk about a car, talk to me. If not, leave."

"Mr Sutton, I really don't think you should be speaking to your customers like that," I coldly snap.

Her nerves seem to ease a bit and she raises her head high. "Actually, I would like to talk about a car. Mine's broken down."

"Well, there we are, then! What, does your husband need some help with it?"

"I'm sorry, since when do I need a husband to own a car?"

Before he can get any more hostile, I deliberately thump the desk to announce myself as I grab my handbag and coat. "Right, that's my lunch break started." With a mumbled excuse — something about seeing if there's space in the garage to fix another car —, he disappears back into his office. I take the opportunity to usher the woman towards the door. "I'll take look at your car, all right? No point expecting him to do anything, he thinks we're all below him. Come on."

She seems to get distracted again by something, staring blankly at me for a moment before snapping back to reality. "Right. Um... it's this way."

—

"I'm sorry about my boss, he's— Well, there are plenty of adjectives but I probably shouldn't say any of them out loud," I chuckle.

We have been walking for about five minutes and still no car. I don't let go of the nagging thought in the back of my head, that there is something suspicious about this woman, but I also can't help but find her oddly familiar. Still, I don't let go of my purse, which contains a few tools that I could easily use for both fixing a car and defending myself if needs be.

She bows her head in agreement, digging her hands into the pockets of her jacket. "Oh, I wouldn't complain."

It had taken me a while to notice her accent but now it is clear. "Please do correct me if I'm wrong but... you're not from London, are you? I'm not very familiar with hu— British accents, but I have a friend who spoke like he was from the North."

"Sheffield," she replies, offering out her hand. "I'm Yaz, by the way."

I shake it. "Inara." Squinting through the unusual brightness of the day, I look around us. "Sorry, where did you say your car was?"

"Oh, it's... j-just up a little further. Near the park."

I don't miss the slight hesitation before she answers. My hold on my handbag tightens. Still, my lips easily pull into a wide grin. "Well, isn't that a coincidence? I was heading up there anyway! Meeting my boyfriend for lunch."

She frowns and looks me over. Why, I can't be too sure. There is something truly odd about her. "You have a boyfriend?"

"Yes. Well, I don't really know if that's the term yet. We haven't discussed it in much detail. He's great."

That detail was not necessary. I'm not even certain why I said it. It's not untrue, though. My thoughts turn back to the night before. I have to blink and awkwardly clear my throat.

Yaz scrunches her nose and asks with a deliberately casual tone, "While we're talking — completely random thought that just kind of popped into my head — has anything... weird happened recently? Like, anything out of the ordinary — even anything out of the ordinary for someone who just so happens to live a particularly extra-ordinary life. I am a police officer, by the way. Not just asking for no reason."

"Oh. No, not really. Been a pretty boring few weeks." We have come to a stop just by the entrance to the park. Before I can stop myself, I realise I am beaming ear to ear just at the sight of the Doctor sitting on a nearby bench. "Oh, there he is! We're meeting for lunch... but I said that already, didn't I? Whereabouts is your car? I still have time if you want me to..."

I turn, finding myself alone.

"There you are! Was beginning to worry."

The sudden voice makes me yelp, jumping from the hand on my shoulder. I melt into flustered laughter when I see him. "Doctor! Sorry. Sorry, yeah, I was just helping someone but she... ran off, I guess." Dismissing it with a wave of my hand, I look at the device in his hand. "Oh, have you finished it?"

"Yep!" he responds with a popping of the 'p', shifting from heel to toe as he grins proudly at it. "Arrived a little earlier than expected. It started to beep ad led me here." Pausing, he winces. "Oh, and don't worry about the eggs. I'll clean that up when I get back."

"'Eggs'?"

Another grimace. He scratches the back of his neck. "Yeah, they all sort of exploded the first time I activated this. Think I should probably steer clear of chickens for the time being."

His genuine, awkward comments are only endearing to me. Taking his hand in mine and leading him back to the bench, I sit with my head on his shoulder. "Do you think Billy's here, then? You said the detector was beeping."

"It was, but that led me here and it's incomplete."

"'Incomplete'?"

"The signal's too faint. It's as if there's been a partial temporal displacement; only, I can't figure out how that's happened." With a sigh, he slips it into his pocket and produces a large newspaper parcel. I don't question it anymore, having seen the array of abnormalities he keeps in there. "Anyway, lunch! You. Me. Here. Normal couple in 1969 having some chips."

I raise an eyebrow. He doesn't notice, too busy opening up the parcel. "You said 'couple'," I note, surprised.

He shrugs but doesn't look up. "Yeah, I did."

I try again, "You said 'couple'. Are we a couple now, like, officially? Boyfriend and girlfriend?"

His lips curl into a smile and he finally meets my gaze. I see a fraction of the fire that was there last night. "Suppose we are." He loosens his tie a little and sits back, sighing, "Haven't been one of those for a good while. Sounds a bit odd, 'boyfriend'. Like I'm a boy."

"Well, you're not exactly old — not appearance-wise. I'm not a girl, either. Although, 'Womanfriend' really isn't grabbing me."

He tilts his head in partial agreement. "We'll figure something out."

My heart flutters. I decide to say nothing else on the matter, not wanting to lose this little time we have alone on something so complicated — even if it doesn't feel that complicated. Instead, I take a chip from our shared pile and divert my attention to the park around us.

At the centre stands a fountain, its bowls held up by tiny, stone Cupids. The sigh unnerves me after coming across that Angel. I look at the trees, fluffed with green leaves and dappled by sunlight. The sound of wailing catches my attention.

A woman walks past us, juggling the chaos of her three children. Two — a girl and a younger boy — chase each other along the gravel path, giggling and shouting with each successful tag. The third is a crying baby. She stoops over his pram and lifts him into her arms to soothe him. His golden curls catch the light.

My breath catches in my throat. All of a sudden, I find myself plunging back into memories I have tried so hard to suppress.

When I regain focus again, at the feeling of a hand on my shoulder, they are gone again. "Inara?" the Doctor calls again, his past attempts unheard. "Inara, you with me?"

"Yeah. Sorry. Just..."

"It's okay," he sighs, leaning in to kiss my cheek and wrap an arm around me. "It'll take some time, I'm afraid."

——————

The rest of the day passes as usual, as does the next morning. I decide to visit Martha for lunch instead, heading over to the clothes shop she works at.

A police car is parked outside. Frowning, I walk a little quicker. Sure enough, police tape covers the broken glass door. "Excuse me, officers!" I shout, hurrying across the street to reach the two policemen standing outside the shop.

They both tip their hats to me. "Afraid you won't be doing any shopping today, ma'am."

"My friend works here, I was going to meet up with her for lunch. What happened?" I ask, genuine concern gripping me.

Their looks of pity are a little too exaggerated. "I'm sorry to hear that. There was a break-in last night. Could be something to do with one of the other shop-girls. Few things broken and some—" he eyes a minidress displayed on the mannequin in the window and grimaces in disapproval "—clothes were taken. Now, run along. I'm sure your friend will be waiting for you."

But I can't think about lunch now. Martha will have been sent home, oblivious of my plans to meet with her. All I can focus on is that comment about the 'other' shop-girl.

There are only two employees in the shop — Martha and Janice. From everything I have heard of her, she can be temperamental but hardly one to commit a crime.

So I wait, hidden in a nearby alley until I am sure the police are gone. The inside of the shop certainly confirms what I was told. Broken glass and damaged mannequins litter the carpeted floor, clothes strewn everywhere.

Something catches my eye. The windows are bare.

In the space between my conversation with those officers and my return, someone has stolen the display of mannequins.

I try the light switches but they do nothing. Taking a torch from my handbag, I cautiously step towards the front desk. The bell has been knocked onto the floor. I move around to the other side of it and check the till. The compartment at the bottom of it is locked tight. With some effort and a couple of hairpins, I manage to force it open. All of the bank notes are still neatly stacked inside.

It makes no sense. I can't think why a person would go to the effort of breaking into a shop but not steal the money. Unless this was not a robbery. Perhaps someone, or something, knows that we don't belong here and targeted Martha's workplace. I need to find her.

Before I can get to the door, I hear approaching voices. They stop outside the shop. I duck under the till.

"Ooh, creepy! I do love me some creepy."

For a moment, I think that Yaz has found me. When I listen closer, though, I realise that it isn't her voice, just the same accent.

"And little shops as well, right?" I recognise Martha in an instant.

"Always."

I stand without warning. The two of them yelp at my sudden appearance. Resting a hand on her chest to steady her breathing, Martha groans, "Inara, don't do that! What are you even doing here?"

I shrug. "Police said there'd been a break-in. I was worried about you, so I thought I'd investigate. Who's your friend?"

She looks to the woman standing beside her, stammering out a response that never forms enough to reach my ears. The woman stares back at me, a little surprised. She has a blonde bob and wears a white, hooded coat. Braces go up from her trousers and over her blue shirt, striped with a rainbow band. One thing is for certain: she is not from the 1960s. Not with that outfit.

The woman scrunches up her nose and itches the back of her neck in a way that immediately catches my attention. I take a