When the rift closes, they're both left staring dumbly at the space where it used to be, because only one of them is supposed to be on this side of it.
"- be alright," Rose says after a moment. "Wouldn't be the first time we've had to break down a door that was meant to be closed for good, yeah?"
"Yeah," Martha replies, because that's all can she say. That's all she can think to say. Her mind's whirling with memories of the S.S. Pentallian, when she'd at least been able to call her mum one last time. Her phone has universal roaming, but that's only good in the universe your provider's in. Out here - over here - she's got no bars at all.
The universe itself has bars, though, and they're about what she'd expect: Packed houses, dark and hot, and next to no idea what the hell she might be drinking. (All these little things make the place seem almost like (her) Earth, almost like home - and then there are all these other little things that make it more alien than some of the planets she's been to.) She's had more than she's really comfortable with. She's not a prude by any means, done her share of partying in university, but that had been before Toxicology and that autopsy on the incredibly yellow fellow with the incredibly advanced case of cirrhosis. One time, though, one time's not gonna hurt, right? It's not like she's coming over here to be the Pete's-London drunk. (They say everyone has an evil twin in a parellel universe - would that be hers, a Martha who doesn't give a damn about herself or anyone else?)
Every so often, Rose reaches over to squeeze her hand. Martha finds that she doesn't hate this other woman who loves the Doctor so very much - she knows what the Doctor can do to a girl, after all, and anyway, she's already made up her mind about all that. Rose is the closest thing she's got to a friend over here, and the closest thing she'll ever have to someone who Understands.
Because Rose does.
By the time they stagger out of the pub - had to; the room was spinning and the walls were closing in - they're giggling at something neither one can quite remember and fighting to stay on their feet. It's Martha that falls first, right into the soft grass at the edge of a park. It's cushion enough that she doesn't hurt herself, but there's something about it that trips that hysterical switch between laughing and crying. But it's alright, yeah? No one could blame her, after all she's been through. So Rose flops down beside her and loops an arm around her shoulders, and they sit back under the stars and hold tight to each other.
The way Rose's arm is draped, her hand's resting over Martha's breast. When she realizes it, she flushes and pulls away, and Martha reaches over to lace their fingers and return a squeeze.
Later on (after they've finished dancing around the subject and being generally sort of flustered), they'll laugh about it. You always hear that women know what women want, but the truth is, they don't. Neither one of them knows what to do with the other and the best they can do is try to figure it out as they go along. It's all fumbling touches and hesitant gestures, and at one point, a nose ends up in an eye. Martha has that skin the colour of instant cocoa and Rose's hair smells like strawberry shampoo, and any man on Earth - any Earth - would find it all absolutely delicious, but that's not why they're doing it.
(Neither will ever admit they'd wondered if a Time Lord would, too.)
Rose's hands are roaming Martha's body, pushing her jumper up to take a breast into her mouth, and as her tongue swirls around the budding nipple, Martha gasps and clutches at Rose's waist. Fingers find button-fly and shove down jeans, and after that, it's back to body against body and another round of helpless groping. Nails dig and digits thrust, and hips grind down and roll against hips. There are holes and wetness and tongues duelling with tongues, mouths on mouths and breathless cries being uttered from one into the other.
Martha shudders, her hips bucking against Rose, and wedges a hand between the two of them, searching for the little nub between Rose's thighs. When she finds it, she pinches hard, rolling it between her fingertips, and doesn't stop until Rose suffers the same sort of seizure. Payback - payment? It doesn't matter. All's fair in love and -
They lie tangled and gasping in the grass, trying to catch their breath. There are leaves in Rose's hair, and Martha's sweat-drenched skin glistens in the lamplight. It's only then they remember where they are, that this isn't some alien planet contaminated by sex pollen and illuminated by six moons and the stars, and they pull away from each other and scramble to get properly back in their clothes. At least if anyone's seen, he's liable to be as drunk as they are and not really able to recall it later.
Martha's phone has universal roaming - and under the right circumstances, her hands apparently do, too. When she's back on her Earth, back at home, she's sorry sometimes they can only work in the one.