Until We Burn | Dr Who

Chapter Thirty-Nine: Smiths and Jones

Smoke billows from the open hatch in noxious clouds. Muttered curses turn to coughs and I yank up the collar of my shirt to shield my mouth and nose. In no time, the alarms blare. "Caution. Fire detected. Caution. Fire detected," a polite voice chirps from the speakers above.

"Oh, yes. Thank you very much. I'd never have guessed!"

With a great deal more swearing, I snatch an ice extinguisher from the wall and spray its contents through the small hatch until the worst of the smoke is gone. A novel tea towel protects my hand as I kneel, reaching inside. "Doctor?" A great deal of fumbling later and I manage to produce a near-frozen tin. Peering at the charred lump with my nose scrunched up in disgust, I call out again, "Doctor!"

Footsteps thunder along the corridor. Skidding to a stop in the kitchen doorway, he surveys the hazy room. "Are you all right? What's that smell? What happened? Are you all right?"

My frustration fades almost immediately, somehow endeared by his panicked expression and general cluelessness. With a sigh, I toss it into the bin and pour out some coffee for the both of us. "Yes. Burnt cake. Also burnt cake. Also yes." He accepts each answer with growing ease and slumps onto a stool at the oak island. I join him, unable to help my sympathetic smile or the brief pat on his hand that makes him tense up once more. "Look, it was very sweet of you to make me a cake after all those sick days but might I offer a bit of advice? Please set an alarm next time."

"Right. Sorry. Got a bit distracted."

I follow the slight twitch of his wrist to the tablet he holds. "Found somewhere new to visit?" I ask. "Hopefully somewhere with less Antiprotea pollen, I think my sinuses might need a break after that one."

Chuckling, he tilts his head from side to side as if deliberating something. "Well, not exactly 'new'."

He passes it over and I read aloud, "'Static anomalies and plasma coils at the Royal Hope Hospital, London. 31st March 2007.' Earth again?"

"Seems to be where most of the fun is, yeah. I reckon this might be another undercover investigation. Haven't done one of those in a while."

His leading tone amuses me. "Oh? What are we, then? Health inspectors? Caterers? I'd pay to see you in the old hairnet and apron—" my focus flits over to the plumes of grey still rising from the oven "—although, come to think of it, maybe that's not such a good idea."

A shy smile plays on his lips and he fishes an ID out of his pocket, passing it to me. "Actually, I was thinking something more like this, for better access."

Examining the small picture of me, I frown. "'Inara Luscinia Smith.' That doesn't make any sense. What—" Doing a double-take, my attention is drawn to the thin band of gold that sits between his pinched fingers. "You're joking," I breathe, all humour gone.

He shakes his head. "Only a biodamper. What do you say... Mrs Smith?"

"Do you have any idea how— Doctor, we kissed."

"Not something I'm likely to forget, is it?"

A sharp glare is enough for him to suppress his smirk. "You know," I begin after a moment's pause, "if you just wanted to ask me on a date, I would've said yes. No need to propose."

His voice rises to an indignant squeak as heat rises up his neck and into his cheeks, "Who said anything about 'proposing'?"

"If I were to go out on a limb, I'd probably hazard a guess and say the one who just gave me a ring!" With a playful scowl, I slip it onto my finger and remark, "Next time I'm expecting flowers at the very least." I get up from my seat and rest my hands on my hips, already flustered by the new and oddly pleasant weight around my finger. "So what ailment am I going in for? Just so we're clear, I'm fine with any kind of break but my fingers. They take far too long to heal."