#post-gitf

Mickey’s eyes widened in alarm and Rose and the Doctor both stared at her, nonplussed. “Come again?” asked the Doctor, eyebrow arching sharply.

“Look, much as I hate to admit it, the Council was right about one thing,” said Dyana. “There’s a lot of money in the Championship. The Council was a bunch of greedy prigs about it all, but that money could really help our people—boost our economy, lift the town out of poverty, get everyone back on their feet.”

“And make technology available to everyone who wants it,” Vareem interjected.

“Besides, the idea of the Championship isn’t bad—it’s just the way the Council ran it,” Dyana continued.

Mickey and the Doctor didn’t look convinced, but Rose was patient. She nodded at Dyana and Vareem, urging them to continue.

“See, this time around, no one’s gonna be forced into anything. It’s all voluntary. You pay to get in, or you sponsor someone else getting in, or you pay to watch it all live,” Dyana explained. “And there’s no deadly weapons, no bride-prizes, no killing. Just people competing against other people. Just regular sports, really.”

Vareem nodded. “The groundwork’s already all laid out. A couple of easy adjustments and you’ve got something that’s, y’know, actually fun for everyone involved. We’ll just recenter the event on showcasing everyone’s athletic skills, just for the prestige of it.”

Mickey’s face lit up at that. “So it really is your planet’s version of the Olympics!” he laughed. “That’s pretty awesome!”

“It is indeed,” added the Doctor, beaming. “Well done, you two! Really well done.”

Dyana and Vareem both laughed, Vareem shaking her head, smiling shyly. But Dyana quieted down before too long, her expression growing thoughtful. “Seriously, though,” she said, her voice deep with sincerity. “Thank you all, for everything you did for us.”

“Absolutely,” Vareem chimed in. “Thank you so much!”

“Rose, you especially,” Dyana added, taking Rose’s hands in hers. “Just—thank you.”

“What are you thanking me for?” Rose laughed. “I hardly did anything!”

“Not true,” Dyana told her firmly. “See, my sister and I had been planning things for ages, yeah, but when she—after—”

She swallowed, eyes clenching shut, and Vareem grasped her shoulder, humming in sympathy.

“After my sister was killed,” Dyana started again, and her voice only shook a little, “I was just...lost. I didn’t know what to do, except go on with the plans we’d made. I felt like I owed it to her, to try. I mean, she died trying to make things better for the two of us. For everyone in the city, really. So if I couldn’t carry on for me, I could at least do it for her, you know? But I was just going through the motions. It didn’t feel like anything was possible, without her. I’d lost hope. Truly.”

She squeezed Rose’s hands, tears welling up in her eyes. “Then I met you, and I saw how hard you fought for everything, no matter how bad things seemed to be, no matter how helpless or hopeless. You kept pushing on. You never gave up. Not ever.”

She drew in a deep, shuddering breath. “You helped me have hope again, Rose.”

Feebly, Rose started to protest—she didn’t deserve such praise, really she didn’t—but her gaze flickered to the Doctor to the Doctor’s just briefly, and she was surprised to see him softer than usual, somehow, a warm grin playing across his face. Like he knew something, maybe, that Rose didn’t.

Like maybe Dyana was right.

Rose’s smile deepened, and she felt a prickle of moisture behind her own eyes. “Thank you,” she said quietly, squeezing Dyana’s hands in return.

“I just thought you were sort of neat,” Vareem interjected and the three of them laughed again.

Brushing away her unshed tears, Rose lunged for Dyana and Vareem, looping her arms about both of them in a snug embrace. “You’re both brilliant, you know that, right?” she asked, hugging them both fiercely. “You’re gonna do great things here. You’re gonna make your sister proud.”

Both women hugged her back, just as tightly. “I really hope so,” said Dyana.

“Well, I just so happen to know so,” piped up the Doctor, “because I’m fairly certain we’re about to enter Hohm’s New Enlightenment, more or less.”

“Hey, now!” protested Mickey. “Are we allowed to say things like that?”

“Oh no, not at all,” the Doctor replied. “Anyhoo! Time to hit the open road, put the pedal to the metal, we’re burnin’ daylight here. Time’s a-wastin’.” The Doctor clapped his hands in illustration. “Let’s get this show on the road. Chop chop!”

Mickey and the Doctor both turned toward the TARDIS, but before she had a chance to move away, Dyana reached out to Rose for another hug. Rose happily accepted, squeezing tightly.

“That Doctor bloke’s hopelessly in love with you,” Dyana whispered in her ear. “You know that, right?”

Rose’s mouth fell open in response. Dyana pulled back with a saucy little wink. Rose’s cheeks flushed hotly in a way that had nothing to do with the sun beaming overhead.

“Stay out of trouble, yeah?” Dyana added, grinning cheekily.

Stepping back, Rose laughed. “No promises,” she said, hands spread wide as she stepped closer to the TARDIS.

“That’s my girl!” Dyana called out, and Vareem blew her a kiss as the TARDIS doors closed.

 **

 “That’s it, then?”  Mickey asked once they’d entered the Vortex, after the central column stopped grinding and the TARDIS calmed to its usual soothing hum. “We just pop in, have a bit of an adventure, then boom, we’re done, off to the next thing?”

“That’s it,” said the Doctor happily. He bounded round the console as he pressed a button here, threw a lever there. “All round the universe, anywhere and everywhere and everywhen and everything in-between.”

“Never a dull moment, huh?”

“Not with Rose and the Doctor!” the Doctor replied.

“And Mickey,” added Rose, laughing as she climbed up the stairs to the console.

“If you insist,” said the Doctor, and Mickey rolled his eyes. “Now the only question is: what next?”

Rose made a show of pretending to consider as she rounded the console, slowly approaching Mickey. “What, or where, or when?” she asked the Doctor, her tongue peeking out between her teeth.

“Any and all of the above,” said the Doctor, grinning. “Astrion’s still on the table, you know. Or Kabos Prime. Or ancient Egypt! Ooh, ancient Egypt. Who doesn’t love a good sarcophagus every now and then?”

Laughing, Rose nudged Mickey’s shoulder with hers. “Remember your Egypt phase, when you first saw Indiana Jones? This’d be right up your alley, I reckon!”

“Well, yeah,” said Mickey thoughtfully. “But what about you, babe?”

“What about me?”

Mickey shrugged. “You said one day, remember? One day, and then you were going home. Back to the Estate.” He crossed his arms, leaning back on the railing. “You still wanna go home?”

It took a second for the words to sink in, for Rose to remember. Her grin faltering just a little bit, Rose glanced over at the Doctor, before she had a chance to think better of it. Normally he might be fussing about the console right now, making a show of being busy while he pretended not to overhear such a conversation. But now, his hands were still, his attention focused solely on her, his face carefully impassive. Neutral. Watching. Waiting.

(Some things, Sarah Jane had told her, are worth getting your heart broken for.

Rose wondered if those words had been meant for the Doctor, as well.)

She smiled.

“Nah, we can always squeeze in another trip or two, or three,” Rose told Mickey, after a moment. “I’m not in any rush,” she said casually, looking at the Doctor.

The Doctor grinned at her, that soft, quiet grin, again, same as the one she saw before. She thought she might see something loosen in him, just a little bit.

“Quite right, too,” he replied softly.

“All right, cool,” said Mickey, blissfully oblivious to the exchange that had just taken place. “So, ancient Egypt, then? I’d love to see the pyramids. Or a real-live pharaoh, even!”

“Excellent!” the Doctor laughed. He flipped a few switches and the central column lit up, starting its telltale grind and groan. “Ancient Egypt it is, then! You lot ready?”

“Ready!” called Mickey.

“Ready?” the Doctor asked Rose.

She beamed at him. “Ready.”

“Fantastic,” said the Doctor. He pulled a lever on the console and the central column glowed golden, churning; the TARDIS shook and groaned all around them, sailing on the waves of the Vortex, on and out to the next adventure.

The Doctor whooped. “Allons-y!”

***

Dinner takes place, at some point, somewhere. A grand hall, probably, but Rose is three swallows deep into her third (or fourth?) glass of so-called “ritual wine” and things are starting to get just the littlest bit blurry around the edges. Mostly she notices that the hall is packed full of people, and it’s loud, and there’s food, and a whole host of traditions accompanying it all. Each food item is laden with symbolic meaning, and eaten only after a session of chant-and-repeat, the entire dining hall buzzing with the rhythmic hum of people reciting scripture, lifting their faces toward the lightning scrawling overhead. Rose moves her lips along with everyone else, if only not to disrespect Uruud and the other Votaries, and after, she dutifully places the food into her mouth and chews and swallows, because it’s there, and she should, regardless of the protests of the seized-up beartrap that seems to have replaced her stomach. Probably some of the food she eats is tasty, and some of it isn’t. She doesn’t notice one way or the other.

(Uruud is kind enough to help Rose with her hair and makeup, styling both after the latest high Therran fashions, all gently sculptural curls and dew-glittering glaze painted on her skin. The whole process is so mirror-reminiscent of her time in France that Rose can’t decide whether to laugh or cry; in an effort to convince herself that she has, in fact, been rescued by the Doctor, and is not still somehow trapped millennia in the past surrounded by strangers and unknown customs and unspoken rules, she asks Uruud any and every question she can think of, and absorbs herself in their replies. She inquires about their choice to become a Votary (they were Called) and if they’ve got any family (two parents, three siblings) and the meaning of the ornamental dots on each Therran’s face (one dot for every Allstorm they’ve survived, according to tradition hearkening back to the ancient times, and with a smile, Uruud places a gem beneath Rose’s lower lip, gifting her with a temporary honorary badge of her own). Rose encourages them to speak until the words flow as freely as the wine outside, and privately takes comfort in the paint they brush over her skin. When they’re done, Rose’s collarbone sparkles as if covered with a necklace, her glitters as if topped with a tiara, and her back could almost sport a pair of wings glinting in the flashing light. It feels like a shield, a second skin, a mask, one that doesn’t slip even when Rose reunites with Mickey and the Doctor in the dining hall and the latter barely manages to spare her a glance.)

Downing the rest of her fourth (possibly fifth) glass of wine, Rose tries not to stare at Mickey and the Doctor, but it’s sort of difficult considering that they’re seated directly across from her. They both look quite sharp in their suits, tailored to perfection by talented Votaries, Rose assumes. (Distinctly tuxlike, their suits are; Rose wonders if they requested them specifically or if tuxes are just some sort of universal standard, somehow.) Between that and the Doctor’s customary chattiness, it isn’t long before most of the occupants of their table start leaning in to hear more from this fascinating couple, this charming Doctor fellow and his pretty-boy husband Mickey.

(Unfortunately, Rose suspects there’s nothing Uruud can do to help her with that particular mess.)

“And how did you two get together?” asks a friendly cat-person, ears swiveled forward in interest.

“He stole my girlfriend,” Mickey deadpans.

Clapping him on the back, the Doctor laughs. “Aww, what a sense of humor my beloved has!” he chuckles. “We did meet through Rose, actually—yes, that’s her right there, across the table, hullo Rose—but there was no romance involved. At least, not at first,” he adds with a wink sent Mickey’s way, and Rose struggles not to roll her eyes, or throw up, or both. “That’s all he meant. Isn’t that right, Honey Bear?”

“Sure is, Fudge Nugget.”

“See, Rose and I met through her workplace. You know how it goes, she’s closing up shop, you’re scheduled to do demolition on said shop, you run into each other on the lift in a classic meeting-your-future-husband’s-best-mate-meetcute. Instant friendship! Wouldn’t you say, Pootsy-Pie?”

“Whatever you say, Pudgy McGee.”

“Let’s just say Rose found me very charming, once upon a time,” the Doctor continues, “and Mickey here, feeling jealous that someone was encroaching on the territory of his best mate—that’s Rose, hullo again, Rose—well, he decided that he should find out what all this cattywhumpus was about, meet this Doctor bloke that Rose couldn’t stop raving over. And the rest, as they say, is history. Wouldn’t you agree, my little Muffin Top?”

“You got it, Sugar Tits.”

Rose watches as the Doctor chokes on his wine and Mickey pats him on the back perhaps just a little more enthusiastically than the situation warrants. The Doctor shoots him a teeth-gritted grin afterward and Mickey just smiles the universe’s most beatific serene smile. And that, for whatever reason, inspires Rose with a funny little thought.

“My dear Doctor,” she says sweetly, indulging in a delicate sip of her wine, “that’s all very good and well, but you must realize that isn’t actually what our friend here was asking. She wants to know about how the two of you became a couple.”

Rose locks eyes with him over the table, affecting a friendly smile. “She wants to know how the two of you fell in love.”

It’s doubtful that anyone else at the table registers the shadow that flickers over the Doctor’s face; it’s gone as soon as it appears, and the Doctor answers with barely a hitch.

“Well, I think I’ve hogged the spotlight long enough,” he says to Mickey. “Why don’t you tell them, my love?”

Mickey’s glee can barely restrain itself, oozing out the seams as he grins like a Cheshire cat. “Oh, no, my pet,” he says, planting his elbows on the table and his chin in both hands, watching the Doctor with adoring eyes, “I insist that you tell them. You do it so wonderfully, after all.”

“Thank you, sweetie,” replies the Doctor, his voice only a little strained as everyone aww’s around them, and Rose bites her lip to keep from laughing.

“So, that part of the story is—here we come to a part that’s—well, it’s a little difficult to know where to start, is all,” the Doctor says, tugging nervously on one ear. “It just feels like we’ve been in love for so long, you see, that it’s all sort of rolled together into one giant…love mass. Sort of like, y’know. The Thing or something.”

“Oh, stop that,” Rose laughs. “He’s just being shy,” she tells the rest of the table. “He doesn’t want any of you to know about all the late-night chats the two of us had together, with him just gushing on and on about how wonderful Mickey was, how handsome he is, how lucky the Doctor is to have him, all that.”

“Ah, that might be just the slightest smidge of an exaggeration—”

“No, no, go on,” Mickey says, his grin widening until his face might split from it. “Tell everyone how wonderful I am!”

“He’d wax poetical for hours about the beauty of Mickey’s eyes,” Rose says when the Doctor doesn’t reply.

“Can’t blame him, they’re quite nice,” Mickey adds.

“He’d talk about how safe and warm he felt in Mickey’s arms.”

“Front-row tickets to the gunshow, right here.”

“But by far, I think his very favorite thing about Mickey has always been his intellect,” Rose continues, choking down her laughter as the Doctor’s mouth purses thinner and thinner. “In fact, I used to stay up late reassuring him that, no, Mickey wasn’t too smart for him—”

“Aww, babe,” says Mickey, looping an arm around the Doctor’s shoulders.

“—but he just insisted that no matter how hard he tried, he’d never be Mickey’s intellectual equal,” Rose says, disguising her snickers as a cough. “In fact, after their first kiss, the Doctor called me straightaway to tell me—”

“His hands,” the Doctor blurts out, and everyone at the table turns back to him.

“Sorry?” asks the cat-person from earlier.

The Doctor doesn’t spare a glance for her; his eyes are locked squarely on Rose.

“Just—they’re nice hands,” the Doctor says, with a shrug. “Good for holding. That’s what it’s really all about, isn’t it? A hand to hold. Wouldn’t you say, Rose?”

She doesn’t reply; she’s too busy watching his fingers as they entwine with Mickey’s hand on his shoulder, and once again, the table lights up with the sounds of an audience enraptured, the cat-person pressing her paw to her chest at the cuteness of it all. The conversation starts again, picking up where it left off, but it’s all just white noise to Rose’s ears now as she watches Mickey and the Doctor resituate themselves to clasp their hands together atop the table, practically beneath Rose’s nose. The Doctor even finishes his dinner one-handed to accommodate the whole thing, eating and drinking with his left hand like he does it all the time, and it might all be terribly funny if his thumb wasn’t absentmindedly stroking over Mickey’s knuckle, the way it does with Rose.

The way it used to do.

Something about the mindless meaninglessness of the gesture sets klaxons blaring in Rose’s head, screaming at her for her stupidity, for ever thinking anything the Doctor did anything meaningful, for ever thinking she was anything more than a joke to him, just a joke, a joke, a worthless stupid joke and nothing he says ever means anything and you’re an idiot for ever thinking it did and the words ricochet around her skull over and over until she drowns it out with another glass of wine.

“Good stuff, isn’t it?” the Doctor asks cheerfully, and a second later, Rose realizes he’s talking to her. “Therran wine is quite lovely—when you’re not choking on it, anyway.”

The other occupants at the table laugh politely, nodding along.

“Just a tad potent, though,” the Doctor adds. “A few glasses is really all anyone needs. Everything in moderation, hm?”

He looks at Rose meaningfully, eyes darting to the glass in her hand. She wonders if he’s been keeping track of her intake this whole time, if he’s trying to say, in that stupid precious roundabout way of his, that she’s had enough, maybe more than. Probably the Doctor is right, but then again, probably if he thinks she should stop, then probably he should just come out and say it. She’s bloody well sick of all this dancing around.

With a serene smile of her own, Rose pours herself another glass. “Cheers to moderation,” she says, tilting the glass in a toast before she downs its contents in one gulp.

“Cheers!” shouts Mickey and everyone else along the table, following suit with their glasses clinking and wine-draining after, but the Doctor doesn’t drink, doesn’t cheer, doesn’t tear his eyes away from Rose. She forces herself to hold his gaze, wills her face to turn to stone so nothing can show through. If he can do it whenever he wants, then so can she.

“Well, aren’t we having a lovely time?” purrs a soft voice behind Rose, and she turns to see the scarlet-dressed woman from earlier, now swathed in a crimson gown so gorgeous it makes Rose’s eyes water. “Whatever is happening over here, it’s far more fascinating than the events transpiring at my table.”

“Ah, then you should join us!” declares the Doctor. “Not at the table, though. We were just leaving.”

The woman piques an immaculate eyebrow in interest. “Oh?” she says. “Leaving for where?”

“Yeah,” Mickey says, confused, and Rose’s eyes narrow in suspicion. “Leaving for where?”

“Not entirely sure yet, but I thought we might nose about a bit,” explains the Doctor, standing up from the table. “Get the lay of the land, go for the inside scoop, poke our beaks in where they aren’t wanted, so to speak. See what we can learn about this Allstorm business and why it’s suddenly taking place over the course of a month instead of a handful of days. The Votaries don’t seem to know anything, the computers are functionally worthless, and for the life of me I can’t seem to find any trace of the High Chauncery anywhere.”

Nodding, the woman frowns. “He has not been seen for many years now, it’s true,” she says slowly.

“Exactly. For all intents and purposes, he’s vanished, along with anyone else who might have a clue about what’s going on. It’s all just a little bit funny, don’t you think?”

In her peripheral vision, Rose sees Mickey trying to catch her eye—he’s alarmed at the Doctor’s sudden candor with this stranger, she knows. But Rose doesn’t share his gaze, or his worries. She knows exactly what the Doctor is doing, or what it feels like he’s doing, anyway, and she’s too busy sensing every ounce of the acid boiling up in her throat to weigh Mickey’s concerns.

“Oh, my,” the woman is saying now. “A conspiracy theory. How intriguing!”

“It is, at that. Would you care to join us?”

As if she can sense the daggers that Rose is glaring at the Doctor—or if she can see them, which, she probably can, Rose is fairly certain she’s being none-too-subtle at the moment—the woman glances between the two of them, hesitating. “I wouldn’t want to intrude…”

“Excellent,” Rose interjects, only wobbling a little bit as she stands up from the table. “We’ll just see you around, then—”

“Oh, nonsense, it’s no intrusion, none at all,” interrupts the Doctor, circling round the table so he can extend an elbow to the woman. “Shall we?”

Once again, the woman looks back at Rose (what, is she asking permission? Is she gloating?) before accepting the Doctor’s offer, threading her arm through his with a gracious “I think we shall.”

Without waiting for Rose (or even his supposed husband, for that matter), the Doctor takes off, arm-in-arm with the strange woman. Rose watches them as they stride away, her hands balling into fists. Nonplussed, Mickey turns around just long enough to offer Rose a confused shrug before he jogs after the Doctor and his newfound friend, or the latest thing that captured his five-second attention span, or whatever this woman is.

Sighing darkly, Rose swipes a bottle of wine off a passing tray and starts drinking.

 **

 Naami, as the woman introduces herself, soon proves herself to be quite charming (not two minutes after they’ve left the dining hall, and already Mickey and the Doctor are more relaxed than they’ve been all day) as well as delicately humorous (as evidenced by Mickey and the Doctor’s smiles and laughter, and not in that polite why you do with strangers at a party) not to mention annoyingly diplomatic (as proven by her continual attempts to rope Rose into the conversation, no matter how noncommittal Rose’s responding hums and grunts become). She’s also devastatingly insightful, if the Doctor’s eager conversation with her regarding Therran politics and society are anything to go by. In short, Naami turns out to be the sort of person that’s difficult to hate—which, of course, only makes you want to hate them all the more.

“So, Rose,” says Naami conversationally—as if the four of them aren’t creeping quietly through the Temple archives, as if the Doctor didn’t break them in with the sonic so he could hack into the information network, as if they aren’t all constantly swiveling at every tiny noise and every flash of light up above because what if it’s a guard this time?—“Far be it from me to eavesdrop, but even from my table, I heard quite a bit about your companions this evening, and very little of you. Why don’t you tell me about yourself?”

She shoots Rose a winning smile, perfect teeth framed by ideal sweetheart-shaped lips, and it lights up something somewhere in the dimming recesses of Rose’s alcohol-warmed brain. It occurs to her that this woman, this upper-class, gold-gilded, well-mannered prat, can probably smell an Estate girl from a hundred miles away, just like half the shrews at the French court before Reinette set them all to rights, or a shark scenting blood on the water. Any other day, Rose’s hackles might rise at the thought, but now, she just chuckles under her breath, swaying ever-so-slightly on her feet. What has she got to be ashamed of, what has she got to hide? It isn’t like she can make this woman’s opinion of her any worse, nor, at this point, would she even care if she did.

“Pretty general question. Why don’t you be more specific?” Rose asks, swigging from her bottle.

“All right. Where did you grow up?”

“A nice, big ol’ trash-heap in the middle of nowhere,” Rose replies brightly.

Mickey clucks his tongue disapprovingly. “Oh, come on, Rose. The Estate’s not that bad.”

“Sure it’s not, if you don’t mind a surplus of graffiti and crime and overflowing trash bins,” Rose shoots back. “Next question?”

The briefest flash of uncertainty flickers across Naami’s features before she tries again, her smile sliding back into place like it never left. “What inspired you to go traveling with Mickey and the Doctor?”

“Eh, you know how it is. Girl like me, you’ve got three options: the bloke who hits you, the bloke who cheats on you, or the bloke who promises you adventure and then up and changes his personality on you, dragging you around like so much baggage from star to star,” Rose counts off, steadfastly ignoring whether or not the Doctor reacts to any of the words streaming out of her mouth. “So I figure, hey, at least with the last option, I’m out of the house. Next?”

“Erm, very well, then,” says Naami, brow knitted in concern before she opts for what surely must seem like safe territory. “What about your friends, your significant other, your family? Tell me about them.”

“Sure thing,” Rose replies, downing another gulp of wine. “Which one would you like to hear about first—my single, lonely, unemployed mum, or my dead dad?”

“Jesus, Rose,” Mickey breathes, as Naami’s eyes widen with shock. Rose absolutely expects her to form that perfect mouth into the shape of a pout, her big beautiful eyes brimming with false tears as sublime and round as the most luxurious of pearls while she gently pats Rose’s hand, trying to hide her cringe as her delicate princess-skin comes into contact with such a low commoner, all while she murmurs some retch-worthy patronizing claptrap about Oh, you poor thing, you poor wretched little thing, no wonder these generous two men took such pity on you, no wonder you’re all alone.

Rose nearly jumps out of her skin when Naami gently grasps her shoulder instead. “My gods, I’m so sorry,” Naami says quietly, and—and is Rose imagining things, or does she look like she actually means it? “Was it—was it very recent?”

Taken aback, Rose stammers, searching for words, but Naami just shakes herself. “Oh, of course, I’m so sorry, my dear; of course you don’t want to talk about such things with a stranger,” she says. “I only thought to ask because you seemed unusually out-of-sorts for someone attending the Allstorm celebration, and stupid me, I’m nosy even on the best of days and that just makes it even more of a problem with the attraction to emotionally unavailable people—but you didn’t ask about all that, I’m sorry, I’m babbling!”

She takes Rose’s free hand in both of hers, and she looks so sincere, so bleeding earnest, that Rose can’t help but believe her. “Please forgive my impudence,” Naami says, “and please accept my condolences for you and your mother. What a dreadful thing to happen. I’m really so sorry, darling.”

“I wouldn’t worry about it, Naami,” the Doctor pipes up, typing away at a computer terminal and frowning when he doesn’t like what he sees. “It happened a long time ago.”

“Yeah,” Rose replies, her voice shaking. “Why be upset about that when there are so many more current things to be angry about?”

The clickety-clack of the Doctor’s fingers over the keyboard grows a little louder, his fingers tapping the keys just a little harder. “Or perhaps you could retire for the night, stop drinking for five entire minutes.”

“Oi, now, am I gonna have to separate you two?” Mickey jokes feebly, but Rose ignores him.

“Why, what’s wrong, Doctor?” she asks. “Am I embarrassing you?”

“You’re embarrassing yourself,” is the quiet reply.

Shame floods through Rose, leaving her lightheaded. Distantly, she hears Mickey snapping at the Doctor, hears the anger in his voice as he leaps to her defense, but she can’t hear his actual words over the sound of her blood rushing in her ears; she can only feel the hot anger of them, and the cool nothingness of the Doctor’s nonexistent reply. Rose’s cheeks burn and her stomach churns and she feels like she might be sick.

“Actually, I could do with a bit of a rest myself,” Naami tells Rose, her well-manicured hands fidgeting nervously. “Would you like company on your walk back, Rose?”

“No, ta,” says Rose tiredly, avoiding looking Naami in the eye; it’s exhausting to be so wrong about so many things all in one day, and she’s not quite ready to admit to herself that Naami may actually be a decent person, that maybe she lashed out at her without reason. Just another thing to make her want to curl up into herself like a pillbug until she dries out on the front porch, nothing but a hollow little husk left behind. “Don’t worry. He’s all yours.”

She leaves before anyone can stop her, skirts gathered in one hand, wine bottle in the other. Before too long, she finds her room again and slips out of her shoes, leaving them behind her as she walks, like the world’s most pathetic drunken Cinderella. She wonders if it’s midnight, yet, if her carriage will poof back into a pumpkin and her gown return to rags.

(Certainly no prince will come calling after her, not after the way she behaved tonight.)

Climbing into bed with her illicit treasure, Rose drinks until her eyes won’t stay open any longer.

 ***

“Is this normal?” Mickey asks under his breath.

Rose watches the Doctor as he wanders off, chattering loudly to no one in particular, and she tries to ignore the sick feeling bubbling up in her chest, the hurt aching in her gut. It’s just because she didn’t sleep well last night, she reasons. For all that she had dreamed of being back aboard the TARDIS, snuggling into her bed replete with plush foam and soft blankets and squishy pillows, she slept absolutely dreadfully. Probably she’d just got used to the hard and unforgiving beds back at the palace; certainly the lack of sleep can’t be blamed on anything else. Or anyone, for that matter.

Great fat rain droplets smack against her head like a dozen tiny missiles and Rose wipes water out of her face, deploying her umbrella with a sigh. “No,” she replies. “This is new.”

“Did something happen last night?”

“No. Nothing happened.”

Rose knows Mickey doesn’t believe her, would be able to tell by his suspicious silence even if she couldn’t see the eyebrow arching off his forehead, but mercifully, he doesn’t press for more. Instead, he proffers his arm to Rose, standing ramrod-straight like he’s posing for a school formal photo. He would look a little silly even if his umbrella wasn’t covered in bright yellow smiley faces.

“C’mon, babe,” he says in response to her questioning look. “Let’s go for a stroll and you can tell me all about your adventures back in fancypants France.”

Rose smiles despite herself. “Are you sure you’d rather hear about that than whatever thrilling greenhouse trivia the Doctor’s throwing our way?”

“Nah, we’ll just make sure to toss a few uh-huh’s and oh how fascinating’s his way every once in a while.”

Threading her arm through his, Rose laughs.

 **

 “…and here it is!” announces the Doctor, several thousand steps and two grumpy and wet-shoed humans later. The trail stops at an impressive, five-meter tall wall, rainbow-bismuth-colored and extending as far as the eye can see in either direction; the Doctor presents it all with a flourish of his umbrella. “The main attraction, the big to-do, the pièce de résistance—the grand Temple of the High Chauncery, perfect for viewing Therran Vox’s universe-renowned celebration of transient luminous events!”

He turns to Rose and Mickey with a wide grin, only to be met by a pair of identical blank stares. “Oh, come on,” says the Doctor, undeterred. “Mickey, you must have heard me mention the High Chauncery’s luminous wassail at least once!”

“Pretty sure I’ve never heard any of those words in my life,” Mickey replies flatly.

“So what’s a transient luminous event?” asks Rose. “I mean, luminous—that means light, right?”

“Right you are,” the Doctor replies, and is Rose just imagining it, or does he meet her gaze even less than usual? “The term refers to electrical phenomena produced during a thunderstorm.”

“So, lightning,” says Mickey, unimpressed.

“Well, yes, if you want to be reductive,” the Doctor responds, rolling his eyes. “But it’s not just lightning, it’s spectacular lightning. Like I said, phenomenal. Lots of worlds experience it, Earth included, but on most planets the events flash by so quickly, so high in the atmosphere, that you can’t observe them with the naked eye. That’s what makes the storms on Therran Vox so special; the chemical composition of the atmosphere here makes for an event that’s far more visible. You can catch the light show in all its glory, from front-row seats! Nothing quite like it in the universe, but why would I tell you when I can just show you?”

He raps his knuckles against the gate wall and a small round window opens in the metallic surface, a liquid movement like oil springing away from soap. A humanoid face appears on the other side, her eyes a fascinating multicolor, her forehead bedecked in rows of ornamental dots.

“Invitation?” the owner of the face inquires.

The Doctor produces the psychic paper from his jacket-pocket. “Sir Doctor and his traveling companions, Dame Tyler and Majordomo Smith of the Powell Estate,” he says rather grandly, “here to view some of the universe’s finest luminescent theatre!”

“Of course, your Grace,” replies the gatekeeper, peering at the psychic paper through the rain. She turns around and issues a curt nod to her comrade (another humanoid, another set of ornamental dots), and the window in the wall slowly opens up, widening by inches into a round doorway.

“Your timing is most fortuitous, sir—all of the other guests have already arrived, and we’re closing the outer shield any moment now,” the gatekeeper continues. “Per your itinerary, the first ritual doesn’t take place until the morning, but that gives you the evening to settle in and enjoy the first stirrings of the storm. In the meantime, Votary Uruud here will give you a quick tour through the Temple before showing you to your quarters, and we’re happy to take your luggage for you as well—”

“Sorry, sorry,” says the Doctor, his eyebrow arching in confusion. “Our quarters?”

“Our luggage?” asks Mickey under his breath.

“Yes, Sir Doctor, your quarters. For the duration of the event.”

The Doctor blinks. “The duration of the event,” he repeats, his eyebrow arching further.

“For the month, sir.”

The Doctor’s eyebrow has now arched so high it’s in danger of disappearing into his hairline. “Right,” he says. “The month-long ritual. The month-long ritual storm celebration. The month-long ritual storm celebration for which we are totally, completely, and utterly prepared. With luggage and toiletries and things. For a month.” He tugs on one ear. “Except—”

“Oh, silly us!” Rose interrupts, throwing her hands up in mock-surprise. “We left all of our things back at our ship!”

“Yes, quite!” the Doctor agrees. “So we’ll just run back and grab it all, shall we?”

Rose and Mickey nod vigorously.

Glancing at each of them, the gatekeeper’s face wrinkles in concern. “Forgive my impudence, your Graces, but it’s too late to turn back now. You won’t reach your ship before the Allstorm arrives.”

“The Allstorm?” Mickey asks, incredulous even as rain dodges his umbrella to splatter against his cheek. Rose elbows him in the ribs and he clears his throat. “I mean, of course, the Allstorm!” he laughs nervously. “I know what that is. Sure, why not?”

“Thanks for the warning, but we’ll take our chances,” says the Doctor. “Bit of rain will do us more good than harm.”

“Please, your Graces, I must protest—the blessed High Chauncery is a generous man and will supply you with all that you could need. You mustn’t remain outdoors any longer, it’s not safe—”

No sooner has the Doctor turned to leave than a great bolt of lightning splits open the sky, followed by a blast of thunder so violent it shakes the ground beneath everyone’s feet, their ears ringing after. Looking skyward, Rose can’t help but notice that the formerly friendly-looking clouds appear significantly more ominous now, less fluffy-pink and more threatening-red and heavy with rain. They cluster overhead, slowly blocking out the sun, and Rose watches as the world is painted crimson around them. She suddenly thinks of Sunday school, of pharaohs and plagues and endless night, of storms that send blood pouring from the skies and swelling in the rivers. She shudders.

Another barrage of thunder strikes, so loud Rose can feel it in her bones, rattling her teeth. The Doctor heaves an impatient sigh. “Our quarters it is, then,” he says reluctantly.

The gatekeeper beams at him. “Oh, very good, sir. Thank you, sir. Welcome to the High Chauncery’s Temple of the Allstorm!”

 **

 While the storm rages overhead, its searing white lightning and murderous clouds all-too-visible through a ceiling that, to all appearances, seems to be made of a thick stained glass, Votary Uruud leads the Doctor, Rose, and Mickey on a tour of the opulent beauty that is the Temple. They show the party through a marble-lined courtyard into a veranda replete with columns and overflowing in ornamental greenery and other Votaries carrying a generous surplus of niblets on trays. Mickey and Rose inspect the food eagerly, sampling things spicy and salty, sugary and sweet; Rose tries not to notice how the Doctor, strangely, avoids all of the niblets altogether. The veranda opens to a garden lush with flora of every color imaginable, vibrant vermillion and stunning cobalt and brilliant fuschia and everything in-between. Some of the flowers bloom as large as dinner plates, others as small as thimbles, and Rose watches in fascination as each of them slowly turn their faces toward the sky, almost as if they’re looking for the storm, like they can sense it.

“They’re lumosynthetic,” the Doctor murmurs to Rose. “They’ve evolved to feed off light from any source, even lightning in a storm. You should see them when the real storm starts.”

She nods in response, and wonders at how he doesn’t lean in nearly as close as usual, how he draws away so much quicker.

The garden leads to a chamber of swimming pools nearly identical to the perfectly round lakes outside, save that their water glows with the otherworldy light of bioluminescent algae. At Uruud’s gentle urging, Rose and Mickey each dip a hand into the water and delight at the glow that dances across their skin, lingering in a smattering of ghostly footprints several moments after leaving the pool.

In addition to the wonders that call the Temple home, Rose, Mickey, and the Doctor also encounter other guests as they dutifully follow Uruud, people of all shapes and shades and sizes, everyone from other Therrans to bird-people with special goggles to fish-people with special suits to upright rhinoceri and even a group of New Earth’s cat folk, though thankfully, Rose notes, none of them appear to be nuns. Almost all of the Therrans bear the same dots on their faces as Uruud and the gatekeeper, all in different numbers and configurations. One such woman, a gorgeous figure clad in a semisheer gold and scarlet gown with facial markings to match, watches them from the safety of her richly-clad party, her eyes lingering on the Doctor long after he walks by.

(Half a year ago, Rose would have threaded her arm through the Doctor’s and shot the woman a dagger-filled glance until she drew back in surprise, would have done it without even thinking. Now she just bites her lip and silently wishes for the woman to slip on a banana-peel.)

As they pass through the menagerie afterward, peering through latticework enclosures at a host of incredible creatures (winged lizards and scaled mammoths and jewel-skinned snakes, oh my), Rose starts to notice the walls around them—wide as they are, and as full as the space is between them, it’s sort of difficult to tell, but she could almost swear they were curved. In fact, she thinks, stepping closer so she can fit her palm to one wall’s smooth surface, she would be willing to bet that all the rooms in the Temple are built this way, round-walled and circular like the lakes outside.

“It’s like a ripple,” she realizes aloud when the party reaches the entertainment library, whose walls are lined with curving shelves that are not packed with books or movies so much as hundreds upon hundreds of glowing white orbs.

“Beg pardon?” asks Votary Uruud with a polite small.

“The Temple. It’s built like a ripple, isn’t it?”

Uruud’s smile brightens into something genuine then. “It is indeed, your Grace!”

“You’re not wrong,” says the Doctor thoughtfully. “The Temple is made up of a series of concentric rings, each split into different chambers for different purposes. The deeper into the Temple you go, the smaller and more important the chambers become—entertainment and feasting and grand ritual gives way to spaces of study, sleep, work, and personal worship.”

He pauses for a moment, musing. “And with the glass ceiling exposing everything to the gods above, I’d imagine you’re right—from a bird’s-eye view, the structure would look just like a ripple. Well-spotted, Rose.”

“Your Graces are most observant,” says Uruud, beaming at each of them in turn. “Although few are as resplendent as the High Chauncery’s Temple, each of the Allstorm Temples is inspired by the form of water in honor of They Who Provide.”

“Who’s that? Like a bunch of gods?” Mickey asks, interest piqued.

“They are one god,” Uruud replies, and then, continuing in much the same fashion as someone reciting an oft-spoken Bible verse, “for just as our gods cannot be tamed by earthly will, neither can man nor woman tame the form of water.”

Confused, Rose and Mickey both turn to the Doctor. “They Who Provide is the genderless water god,” he explains. “Our hosts don’t really adhere to a binary the same way you lot tend to. Gender isn’t assigned at birth, but rather chosen at the coming-of-age. You choose one or the other, or both, or neither, and you can change it at any time.”

“So which one did you choose?” Mickey asks Uruud. “If that’s not a rude question or anything,” he adds hurriedly.

“I follow in the footsteps of They Who Provide,” replies Uruud, bowing their head in deference.

“So, like, do you have a special party for it, or something? Like a bar mitzvah?”

Uruud laughs, quickly sobering after. “Forgive me, your Graces! I’m merely surprised—even though the Temple receives a great many honored guests for each Allstorm, most of them seem to prefer the delights of our leisure chambers and pleasure rituals rather than inquire after our ways. Storm bless them, but…”

“Let me guess,” Rose cuts in with a grin. “They’re all either snooty prigs, entitled prats, or insufferable know-it-alls who love telling you how to do your job?”

“Oh, I would never dare besmirch the name of our honored guests,” replies Uruud, the very picture of politeness even as a spark of mirth twinkles in their eyes. “But I also wouldn’t dare argue with the wise words of such an honored guest, either.”

“Of course not,” Rose replies, tapping the side of her nose.

A chirping sound fills the air then, and Uruud lifts their wrist to check their watch (or at least Rose assumes it’s a watch, though she imagines they probably call it a timekeeper or something fancy like that). “And now, your Graces, I must assume my other duties for the evening,” says Uruud. “However, I would be happy to show you to your quarters first!”

They rap their knuckles on a blank patch of wall, just like the Doctor did earlier, and just like before, a round doorway opens up, widening like a mouth. Uruud steps through, Mickey following after; the Doctor pauses, however, so Rose does as well. She watches him as he stares up through the ceiling, his hands tucked in his pockets, his brow wrinkled in deep consideration.

Rose draws a deep breath. All right. They’re alone, now. Just the two of them. No big deal. They can still be normal. Right?

“Penny for your thoughts?” Rose prompts.

The Doctor’s eyes narrow at a particularly bright arc of lightning dancing overhead. “I’m still mulling over what the gatekeeper said. For the duration of the event, for the month. But I checked and double-checked the TARDIS chronometer before we stepped out, and this is the wrong time of year for the Allstorm, I’m sure of it. I wanted to show you two the sights, to be sure, but this isn’t quite what I had in mind. It’s like trying to buy a dog and receiving a coyote instead. I wouldn’t have brought us here if I’d known…”

Sighing, he shakes his head. “At any rate, why would so many people willingly lock themselves up in one building for an entire month? Spectacular lightning-show or no, that’s a dreadfully long time to be cooped up in the same building.”

“Well, Uruud mentioned other stuff too, pleasure rituals and whatnot,” Rose points out. An unfortunate thought pops into her head and her eyes widen in alarm. “Oh god, that’s not like a fertility ritual or forced-mating thing, is it?”

“What? No!” laughs the Doctor. “It’s just regular ol’ fun, sanctioned by the god of your choice. Feasts and plays and weddings and galas and drinking a little too much of the holy libations, that sort of thing. An Allstorm is always an excuse for celebration.”

“Even if it’s taking place at the wrong time?”

“Even if.” The Doctor quiets then, suddenly thoughtful. “Still, though. An entire month? Granted, it’s been a few decades since my last visit. Not to mention, they don’t call it the Allstorm for nothing—it covers the whole planet, wrapping all of Therran Vox in a brilliant display of water and light. But you’re talking about something that lasts a few days, a week, tops. Certainly not a whole month!”

“Well, I’m sure Uruud would be happy to tell us more about it, if we asked,” Rose suggests. “Maybe it’s a one-off thing, or—I don’t know, maybe things are just different now.”

The Doctor’s gaze shifts to her, and Rose could swear a shadow flickered across his face for just the briefest second. If she didn’t know any better, she would say it looked a little like sadness. Or worse, resignation.

“Yep,” he says, his voice clipped even as he smiles. “You’re probably right.”

Rose frowns. It feels like something just happened, like she just said the wrong word and the Doctor shuttered the gates after, but she can’t put her finger on it, and the Doctor hardly seems in the mood to help. He brushes past her without another word, following after Mickey and Uruud through the round doorway, hands firmly tucked in his pockets.

Worrying her lower lip between her teeth, Rose lingers for a moment after, wondering. Guilt and frustration bubble up in her gut, churning in equal measure. Is this just how it’s going to be between them, now? Awkward and distant and stiff, and forever?

(How the hell is she supposed to fix this?)

 **

 “My sincerest apologies,” says Uruud, frowning as they peruse the screen of their wristwatch. The light from the screen bathes their face in a gentle blue, highlighting their dots in stark relief. “I’m so sorry, but I cannot seem to find your names in the database. I can only think the electrical interference from the Allstorm is affecting our information network…”

“Oh, it’s no worries,” replies the Doctor with a breezy wave of the hand. “Just chuck a few rooms our way, any rooms will do.”

“Of course, sir. I have two rooms available; will that suit the needs of your party?”

“If you need additional space,” calls a soft voice behind them, smooth and silken, “I would be delighted to share.”

Rose and the Doctor turn to see the red-and-gold woman from before, her immaculately-painted crimson mouth spread in a beatific smile, and god, she’s even more beautiful up close. Voluminous black hair, eyes as blue as lapis, features that couldn’t be more perfect if they’d been chiseled by a master sculptor; Rose can’t blame the woman for being so beautiful, or showcasing it so well (how can she, when even she can’t tear her eyes away?), but the self-assurance she projects, the confidence in her gait as she strolls up to their party, looking the Doctor up and down, makes something burn in Rose’s chest, twisting and growling like a tiny little green-eyed beast. This, Rose thinks, is a woman who has received everything she has ever wanted, and has no doubts now that anything else she wants will soon be hers as well.

And then there’s the fact that the Doctor hasn’t said anything to rebuff her, and Rose fumes, and worries, and wonders if—

"He’s taken,” she blurts out.

In her periphery, Rose sees the Doctor glance her way, his expression unreadable. The woman, however, offers her an imperious look that she knows all too well. Her gaze travels over Rose, appraising. Rose is suddenly very aware of what she must look like right now, all damp jeans and dripping umbrella and shoes squelching with mud. But she didn’t spend half a year in the French court for nothing; she draws herself up to her full height, chin up, and looks the woman square in the eye, offering a sly smile.

“Thank you for your kind offer, but I’m afraid we can’t accept,” Rose says, the words falling into place like the dials on a slot machine. “See, he’s married—”

“To Mickey!” the Doctor interrupts with a mad grin.

Now it’s Rose’s turn to stare.

What?

The Doctor just beams at the noblewoman, his smile gigawatt-bright. Rose turns to Mickey for help, for a dose of sanity, for anything, but he can’t offer anything useful; he’s too busy looking surprised.

“Ah, it feels like it was just yesterday,” the Doctor says wistfully, looping an arm around Mickey’s shoulders. “Quite possibly because it was just yesterday. It’s all still very new, you see. Bit of a whirlwind affair. Almost completely unexpected. But the heart wants what the heart wants. Isn’t that right, Peaches?”

“Erm,” says Mickey.

“And we thought, what better place to honeymoon than Therran Vox during the Allstorm?” continues the Doctor. “I wanted a trip to Barcelona, personally, but I just can’t say no to this face.” He tenderly pinches Mickey’s chin and Mickey looks very much like he wouldn’t mind being swallowed up by the floor right about now. “He’s a dreadful romantic, my Mickey.”

“Peaches?” Mickey asks, voice faint.

“We’re still figuring out the pet names,” the Doctor whispers conspiratorially to the noblewoman, and Rose fights the urge to roll her eyes, or stomp her foot, or maybe to scream. “Like I said, it’s all very new. But we’re very much in love, isn’t that right?”

Mickey shoots Rose an uncertain look, and the Doctor tightens his arm around Mickey’s shoulders until he yelps in surprise. “So in love, right, darling?”

“So in love it’s almost unbelievable,” Mickey replies through a teeth-gritted smile.

“So in conclusion, my dove and I would be more than happy to share a room,” the Doctor finishes.

“Very good, sir,” replies Uruud, relief washing over their face. “Now, if you’ll just follow me, we’ll get you settled in!”

“Anyway, thanks again for the generous offer!” the Doctor calls back to the red-and-gold woman as he follows Uruud down the corridor. Mickey trails after the two of them in something of a daze, as if he still can’t quite believe what’s going on. Rose can’t say she blames him. She’s having a little trouble processing it all herself.

(So is she just supposed to pretend that everything is normal, then, except when the Doctor starts to feel flighty? Five and a half months she waits for him, she waits, and at the end of it he’ll shout and then fall silent and then act all remorseful, he’ll insult Rose and then apologize and then, out of nowhere, apropos of nothing, grab her and kiss her, not six hours after he was ready to jump through that window and leave her and Mickey stranded, not six hours after he was kissing another woman? And then after all that, the mood swings and the almost-confessions and the bullshit refusal to discuss anything that truly matters, and now he’s the one pushing her away? And what, is Rose just supposed to accept it, roll with the punches, fall in line like a good little tin soldier? She’s just supposed to stand there and take it?)

The guilt from earlier subsides, a tide drawing back to reveal a shore littered in broken shells and bits of glass and something black and sticky, an oil spill slowly staining the sand.

“Rose?” Mickey calls from down the corridor, stopping to wait for her.

Hands balled into fists, Rose follows after them, wondering how her day could possibly get any worse.

***

Next Part (forthcoming)

“Huh,” says Mickey, watching the Doctor’s retreating form. “That’s weird.”

“What’s weird?”

“I dunno. I guess I expected him to, like, run in here holding your hand and babbling about all your adventures or professing his eternal love or something.”

Rose laughs, and it’s only a little sarcastic. “Yeah, right. Me too.”

“I’m serious.” Mickey glances both ways before leaning in closer, his voice lower now, as if he fears being overheard. “He wasn’t half-mad while you were gone. He was downright manic. It was all sonic this and reverse the polarity that and maybe I’ll check some timey-wimey-whosie-whatsit and what if I could punch a hole in the local space-time continuum without compromising the fabric of reality and blah blah blah, just a bunch of muttering to himself while he ran around the TARDIS and pulled at his hair.”

Running a hand over his own hair, Mickey shudders. “It’s a wonder he didn’t yank it all out.”

“Yeah, well,” Rose replies, fidgeting uncomfortably. “Maintaining the timelines and all that’s sort of stressful, I guess.”

“It was almost scary, the look in his eyes,” Mickey continues, crossing his arms over his chest, protecting himself against the memory. “Like he was a wounded animal or something—you know how they get in the movies, like when they’re cornered, but they’ve got nothing to lose, nothing left in ‘em but the fight, and then everything goes to hell? It was just like that. He couldn’t see or hear anything in front of him, couldn’t think about anything that wasn’t you.”

Something sickly bubbles up in Rose’s stomach, weighing heavily at the pit of it, and she has a sinking suspicion it’s got nothing to do with the corset cinched around her waist. She can picture the Doctor just as Mickey described him, stalking about the console room, alternately muttering under his breath and shouting at the top of his lungs, his frame shaking with the effort to contain the desperate energy inside. She imagines the way his hands would fist in his hair and his mouth would contort in a grimace, his eyes scanning frantically over everything while his mind raced through nearly a thousand years’ worth of memories and facts and tricks and hints. Rose has seen it all before, when they’re trapped at the end of the line, no way out, the fate of a life or a town or a planet or a galaxy weighing on the Doctor’s shoulders.

(She has never seen him act this way because of her.)

“Anyway,” says Mickey, snapping out of his reverie, “Glad that’s done with. Bloody terrifying, that was. Not to mention exhausting. Feels like I haven’t slept in days.”

He punches Rose lightly in the arm. “What about you, though? How’ve you been? Six months, that’s impressive. Probably got a whole truckload of new stories to tell, yeah?”

Distantly, Rose hears everything coming out of Mickey’s mouth, but for some reason, she can’t seem to focus on it, much less discern any meaning. She can’t stop her gaze from wandering over to the corridor where the Doctor disappeared, twisting her hands together while her teeth sink into her lower lip.

“So, you gonna go after him, or what?”

Rose blinks. “Sorry?”

Mickey offers her a wistful grin. “You waited for him all that time, didn’t even know if he’d find you again—but you still love him, don’t you?”

Rose can’t find the words to reply, but really, she doesn’t need to; her silence seems to tell Mickey everything he needs to know.

“You know he’s not good enough for you, right?” Mickey chuckles. “You deserve better.”

Smiling, Rose wraps her arms around Mickey in a tight hug, pecking a kiss on his cheek afterward for good measure. “So do you.”

“Don’t I know it. Now run your arse over there so I can go get some sleep!”

**

Rose doesn’t try to find the Doctor straightaway. Instead, she takes her time, wandering through the halls of the TARDIS. She kicks off her heels and sighs in relief, delights in the coolness of the floor beneath her aching feet, one hand running along the wall as she walks. Its pebbly surface rasps against her fingertips until they’re pleasantly numb—she imagines it’s like a series of little kisses from the TARDIS, welcoming her back.

“Glad to have your wolf again, hmm?” she asks quietly, and maybe she’s just imagining things again, but she can almost feel the hum shifting in the back of her head, its pitch changing ever-so-briefly, like a little flash of golden happiness in her skull. Grinning, Rose pats the wall. “Missed you too,” she whispers.

She thinks of stopping by her room. This dress isn’t getting any more comfortable, after all, and a hot shower or relaxing bubble bath sounds absolutely divine. But that sick feeling still burbles in her stomach, and Rose knows that no amount of scalding water or fruity soaps will drive it away.

Rose could play dumb, if she wanted, checking the garden or the pool or the galley or any other room first, to buy herself some time, to rehearse her words in her head, but she knows exactly where the Doctor is, and she allows her feet to carry her there.

She finds him, of course, in the library.

Evidence strewn about the coffee table in front of the settee suggests that the Doctor must have been tinkering, books and papers and tools and sonic screwdriver all piled atop each other in a miniature mountainous landscape. Amidst everything else is a small globe of some sort—astrolabe is the word that comes to Rose’s mind, except that she doesn’t actually have a clue what an astrolabe is, or even how she heard of it in the first place—but it has been long-since abandoned, its mechanical guts spilled and forgotten. As for the Doctor, he leans back on the settee, his hands clenched over his face, pushing his specs up into his hair.

He doesn’t move when Rose steps into the room. She tries to remember the last time she was able to sneak up on him like this. She can’t.

Rose clears her throat and the Doctor snaps to, slipping his specs back down and reaching for the globe and the sonic as if he never let them go.

“Did you need something?” the Doctor asks. Rose can’t help but notice how tired he looks; she swears the lines around his eyes run deeper than they used to.

“Yeah,” she says. “I…”

She hesitates. Silently, she berates herself for her cowardice. Why can’t she just talk to him—why can’t she just say what’s on her mind? She’s never had this problem with anyone else, not ever, never had to stopper her words or tiptoe on a thousand invisible eggshell-thin rules the way she does around him. Squirming in her gown (god, but it’s absolutely murdering her ribcage), Rose casts about for the best words to open this discussion, because she absolutely is going to initiate this discussion, she’s not going to let him squirm away from her this time, she spent more than enough time putting up with pinching shoes and heavy underskirts and beyond-stupid 18th-century customs and she’s had enough of the bloody damn rules. She’s not going to let him close around her like a corset, cinching her closer and closer only to push her away when things get too tight; she’s going to put her foot down and they’re going to have a bloody talk because it’s ridiculous for them to keep brushing everything under the rug, and this dress is hot and scratchy, and he’s infuriating, and why didn’t she just go take her dress off before this, and wouldn’t it be so much better to have things out in the open instead?

Yes, she decides; yes, it would. Rose steels herself.

“I need help taking my dress off,” she blurts out.

The Doctor’s eyes raise a little in surprise, and Rose furiously fights the blush rising in her cheeks—of all possible things, why, why was that the one that popped out of her mouth?

“It’s just, back in France, there were people to help with this sort of thing,” she rushes, stumbling over her words. “And Mickey’s already gone to bed, and, you know, it sort of seems like a bad idea to show up on the Estate wearing something out of the 1700’s.”

“The Estate?” the Doctor asks, frowning.

“Yeah.” She swallows. “You said you were gonna take me home, remember?”

“Right,” says the Doctor, diverting his attention back to the instruments in his hands.

Rose waits for him to speak again, but he’s strangely quiet. “You are still planning to take me home, right?”

“Well.” The Doctor fiddles with the globe, tapping the sonic against it in a rat-a-tat-tat. “Certainly, yes, I did say that. And. And I meant it. That was indeed a valid threat. No, not a threat—a promise. I am absolutely, positively, definitely taking you home.”

He sneaks a glance up at her. “Unless. You know. You’re not ready to go home yet.”

Relief washing over her, Rose hides a smile. “I think I can wait a bit.”

“Good,” replies the Doctor just a little too quickly. When Rose can no longer hide her smile, he points an accusatory finger at her. “I did mean it, though,” he insists.

“Sure.”

“I am taking you home. Just not right this instant.”

“Got it.”

“It wasn’t a bluff.”

“’Course not.”

“Just…no reason to rush, right?”

Rose beams at him. “No reason at all.”

“Excellent.” The Doctor brushes some nonexistent dirt off his trousers before standing up from the settee, placing his instruments back down on the table. “Glad that’s sorted. So, I’ll see you tomorrow bright and early, then? Tomorrow and early being relative terms, of course.”

“Sure, but, erm…”

The Doctor watches her expectantly, and Rose’s cheeks grow warm beneath his gaze again. “I still need help,” she admits, gesturing over her shoulder, to the laces on the back of her dress.

Eyes following the line of her hand, the Doctor’s face goes blank. Rose thinks she can pinpoint the very moment realization dawns on him, his eyebrows arching once again in surprise.

“Right,” he says, shaking his head. “Yes, of course.” Wordlessly, he spins his finger in a circle, a silent suggestion that Rose should do the same. Rose turns away, forces herself not to twitch at the coolness of his hand on her neck as he brushes a tendril of hair out of the way.

They both fall quiet, the silence only interrupted by the soft sounds of silk and linen whispering against each other while the Doctor works, deftly untying knots and unlacing laces. But for all that his fingers are talented, the Doctor isn’t quite as adept at this as the women at court, and more than once, Rose’s breath hitches as the corset tightens before loosening.

Rose stifles a laugh. She’d be lying if she said she had never fantasized about this at least a little bit, the Doctor slowly peeling a gorgeous gown off her body, unwrapping her like a delectably rich gift. But between the pinch at her waist and the anxiety in her tummy and the ache in her ribs, this just might be one of the single unsexiest things she has ever experienced.

“So, what did you two get up to while I was away?” Rose asks—she tells herself it’s an attempt at playfulness, just a distraction, and not related in any way to what Mickey told her in the console room. (It’s certainly not a quiet way to test him, definitely not a subtle way to see how far she can push.)

The Doctor pulls a lace a little too tight and Rose bites her tongue to stop herself from grunting. “Not much,” the Doctor replies, and Rose could almost believe him. “We mostly just did a bit of research, poked around until I figured out how to get back to y—how to sort things out.”

“Yeah, Mickey said it was only a few hours here.”

“Yeah,” the Doctor echoes, but something about the way he says it is flat, empty.

His fingers still at her back. “Rose, I’m sorry.”

Rose shrugs, squirming in her half-done corset. “Eh, you’re doing your best. Eighteenth-century underwear’s a right bitch.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t come back sooner.”

Rose’s lips part in surprise. “Ah,” she says, softly.

The Doctor resumes his task, pulling at the laces once again. “It shouldn’t have taken me so long to figure it out, the loose connection in the fireplace,” he continues. “It’s ridiculous, really. I don’t know what came over me.”

At that, Mickey’s words resound in her ears. He wasn’t half-mad while you were gone.

“Don’t worry, it won’t happen again,” says the Doctor. “But still: I apologize. Six months is a long period for a human to be stranded anywhere, especially three hundred years out of their own time.”

“It was only five and a half months,” Rose mumbles halfheartedly.

“Still. I should have done better.”

“Eh,” says Rose. “It’s all right. I knew what I was getting into, crashing through that mirror. I mean, you were pretty explicit about what would happen.”

She drinks in a deep breath now that her ribcage has the room to expand. She can tell by the position of the Doctor’s hands at the small of her back that he’ll be done loosening the corset soon; she tells herself that if she’s going to talk to the Doctor, really properly talk to him, she needs to do it now, while neither of them can see the other’s face. She tells herself it will be easier that way, even if she can imagine exactly expression his eyes and mouth will make.

“I’m actually more upset about how you treated me afterward,” she admits, her pulse thundering at the confession.

The Doctor falls silent once again—doesn’t even emit an irritated sigh or let loose an explanatory bit of babble. He just works on pulling the last of the laces loose, his pace steady and never-changing. Lightheadedness suffuses Rose’s head, filling it like a dull fog, and she knows this time it’s got nothing to do with the corset.

“Look, I know you were just frustrated, and concerned about the timelines, and—and maybe a little worried about me, too,” Rose rushes. (A wounded animal, she remembers Mickey saying; Couldn’t see or hear anything in front of him.) God, she hopes the Doctor doesn’t notice the way the back of her neck flushes. “But you can talk to me about it, yeah? Just let me know those things are going through your head, instead of being all mean and angry at me.”

“I was never angry with you,” the Doctor murmurs.

Brow wrinkling in confusion, Rose glances over her shoulder. “What?”

At last, the gown and corset completely loosen around Rose, enough that she has to clutch her arms to herself to keep the garments from slumping to the floor. “All done,” says the Doctor, and Rose hears him step back, step away. “You’re good to go.”

Pulling together the last threads of her courage, Rose whirls around to face him.

“Doctor—”

He stops, hands shoved in pockets, mouth stretched thin. He waits.

“Just please tell me what’s going on,” Rose says, pushing the words out before she has a chance to overthink them.

Glancing around the room—at the books on the shelves, the other books scattered on the floor, the faded rugs and comfortable old afghans, the imitation Tiffany lamp (or a genuine Tiffany lamp, one never knows)—the Doctor plays for time. “I’m sorry I was so unpleasant to you earlier,” he tells her slowly. Carefully. “You’re right. It was unnecessary. I let my frustration get the better of me. And you didn’t deserve that. You…you only did what I would have done, after all.”

Shaking her head, Rose allows her corset and gown to fall to the floor, leaving her in nothing but a thin white shift. She steps out of the garments, toward him, watching him as he watches her. If the Doctor registers how bare she suddenly is, he doesn’t show it; somehow, despite being fully-clothed, despite the gates shuttering his face, he seems more naked than she does.

Rose approaches him slowly (gently, so she doesn’t scare him off). “Please.”

“What more could you possibly want from me?” the Doctor pleads tiredly.

“Doctor,” Rose breathes, her stocking-feet padding silently over the wood-paneled floor until they come to a stop opposite his plimsolls. She stands very close to him, now, close enough to count every single one of his eyelashes, chart a starfield out of his freckles.

(Rose wonders if Reinette noticed any of these things. Did she admire the shape of his mouth when he spoke excitedly of science and adventure and awe at the majesty of the universe and the turn of the earth—did she feel a warm glow in her chest when his eyes landed on her face, did she sense his double-heartsbeat when they drew close for a kiss?)

“When everything’s said and done, what do you think you’ll regret more?” Rose asks, her voice gone quiet and soft, and maybe just a little sad. “Everything you said and did—or everything you didn’t?”

The Doctor’s hands ball into fists in his pockets, and Rose fully expects him to turn and flee. But before Rose has a chance to react, his hands are no longer in his pockets—instead they’re cupping around her jaw, shocking her with their coolness as he draws her face upward for a harsh and bruising kiss.

A strange buzzing fills Rose’s head and her mind goes completely blank.

For a moment that stretches into eternity, she can’t hear anything but her pulse rushing and roaring in her ears, can’t feel anything but the cool pressure of the Doctor’s hands framing her face and the warmth of his breath on her lips. She stiffens, mouth parting in surprise as her brain races to catch up with everything that’s happening. She half-expects the Doctor to take advantage of the opening, invade her mouth with his tongue like any other bloke would do, pushing past the swell of her lower lip and tasting her like she’s a whole new world for him to explore, but he doesn’t; for all that the kiss is frantic and she can feel his teeth in it, it’s surprisingly chaste.

It’s still too much.

Overwhelmed by the intensity of it all, by the Doctor’s closeness and the way he trembles as he clutches her, by the hormones fizzing up drunkenly in her head, raging a fierce battle with everything else crowding in there—the confusion, the hurt, the shock, and yes, the want, of course the want, the want that kept her going in France, kept her awake more nights on the TARDIS than she’d ever admit, the want that had burned so hot and so shamefully and so deep in her gut that it was easier to pretend it wasn’t there than to acknowledge its scorching existence, always the want—

(But the look on his face when he talked about Reinette, but the things she’d heard and seen back on that spaceship—)

Couldn’t think about anything that wasn’t you

—Rose shoves at the Doctor’s chest, pushing hard so she can break away with a ragged gasp. The Doctor staggers backward, panting a bit himself, his eyes blown as wide as Rose has ever seen them.

Chest heaving, Rose stammers incoherently, steadying herself against a bookshelf. Her mind fishes about for something to say (absolutely anything will do, anything, anything please), but her heart flutters madly in her chest and she can’t think of anything else but that and the taste of the Doctor on her lips.

The Doctor blinks the shock out of his eyes and pushes a hand through his hair. “I’m sorry,” he blurts out.

Rose knows she should reply, but her vocal chords don’t seem to work at the moment.

“I’m so sorry,” the Doctor repeats breathlessly as he pushes past her out of the room.

Rose doesn’t turn to watch him leave; she’s stuck in place, her feet frozen and unmoving as if they were glued to the floor. The only thing she can do is shiver, and whether she should blame the cold or something else entirely is anyone’s guess.

Rose gulps.

***

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