Relict, 5/12(?) (DW, 9/J/R, Teen)
Once again, and always, great thanks to wendymr for beta reading.
On we go.
Chapter 1 - Bazaar | Chapter 2 - Maintenance | Chapter 3 - Off-Balance | Chapter Four - Whirl
Chapter 5 - Shadows
His eyes, like veiled moonlight in the near-dark, found hers, and his query was a single word. “Dinner?”
Her smile was sudden, catching her by surprise more than did the grumbling of her stomach. “Yeah. Sounds lovely.”
He looked to Jack, who nodded, adjusting his waistcoat, and the Doctor offered his arm to Rose, who took it with a mixture of the wonder she had felt way back in Cardiff in 1869 and a familiar ease that warmed her empty stomach. On the way out of the Opera House, they stopped at the cloakroom to pick up the velvet cape, which he settled expertly on her bare shoulders. She looked up at him in surprise as he came around before her, easing the loose hood over her hair.
“It’s raining,” he explained softly, his hand hesitating slightly as he reached out to brush back that stubborn strand of hair. His eyes seemed far away for a moment, then focused on her with an expectant smile as he offered her arm.
He was right, it was drizzling outside, a heavy mist that, in the cold, was definitely unpleasant, and Rose was relieved that they only walked a short way down the street to a large, lavishly furnished restaurant. The brightness of the gaslighting surprised her yet again - she couldn’t shake her ingrained image of the 19th century as dark and humourless, all evidence to the contrary - but she tried to temper her grin when the Doctor flashed his psychic paper and was greeted by a most obsequious maître d’.
They were led to a private dining room, with walnut wainscoting and a peacock-blue wallpaper, lit by a small but ornate crystal chandelier above the round table. A matching blue-green velvet chaise longue angled into one corner.
“I could get used to this,” declared Jack, flipping his tails to the side as he reclined on the chaise. He reached up to bat playfully at the large peacock feathers that bowed over the chaise, standing in a tall bronze urn between the head of the chaise and the corner, then waved his hand diffidently. “Peel me a grape.”
“You can peel your own grapes, mate,” teased Rose as the Doctor took her cape, hanging it on the coatrack in the opposite corner, and Jack grinned, stretching and folding his hands behind his head.
Letting her fingers trail lightly over the tall back of a wooden chair with a tapestry seat, Rose took in the elegant place settings and then Jack, sprawled on the chaise, ankles crossed as his feet dangled over the end. She grinned and crossed to him.
“I saw this in a movie once. Mum and I watched at Christmas, or New Year.” She draped herself dramatically across the head of the chaise, batting her eyelashes. “Barbra Streisand was afraid Omar Sharif was going to make her pay for her fine dinner on it.”
“Or afraid he wasn’t.” Jack winked at her, then looked at the Doctor, who was standing still, watching them with an inscrutable expression from across the small room. “I’m very willing to pay my way.”
Instead of the expected roll of the eyes, the Doctor met his gaze levelly. “Buy me a drink first.”
“Is that all?” Jack was off the chaise in a flash, picking up the champagne bottle that was chilling beside the table and pouring three glasses with the skill of a seasoned waiter. “All right, then.” He handed one glass to Rose, then held another out to the Doctor. “That I can do.”
“One little flaw in your plan, Jack.” The Doctor took the glass from Jack with a slightly raised eyebrow. “I’m payin’ for this champagne.”
“Well, strictly speaking, the TARDIS is paying.” Jack lifted his glass to the others. “To the TARDIS.”
The others chimed in as their glasses clinked, and a soft knock at the door heralded the arrival of two waiters and their dinner. When Jack tried to catch the attention of the handsome older man of the two, Rose was the one who rolled her eyes, and he received a sharp look from the Doctor, but soon enough they were left alone with an enticing dinner. Both men began to remove their gloves, and she looked at her own, unsure how to proceed with the long gloves.
“Here.” The Doctor took one hand in his, turning her wrist up to unfasten the button, then held her hand almost as if he were about to kiss it, except that he held her thumb in his other hand. “Now pull.”
She pulled her hand toward herself, and his fingers tightened, catching the glove as she withdrew, and it slipped off easily, all the fingers still right side out. Suddenly, her newly bare skin felt tinglingly aware of the air, and she giggled unintentionally. “That’s pretty clever.”
“Not exactly etiquette, but effective.” He winked as he laid the glove on a trolley beside his, and they repeated the action with the other glove.
“Rose.” Jack held out the chair for her, and she sat down carefully, still uncertain how she could bend in the corset.
But she was so hungry, she fell to eating her roast beef and potatoes with enthusiasm. “Mmm, this is amazing.” She speared a string bean and made a small gesture with her fork on her way to her mouth. “It’s just Sunday dinner, but better.”
“Hunger is the best sauce.” Jack’s tone was unusually even, and both his companions looked at him curiously. “What? Did I get the slang wrong again?”
“No.” Rose swallowed, realizing she needed to sit up a bit straighter. “It just sounded…”
“I’ve been hungry before, Rose,” he said, reaching out to put his hand over hers, and she was struck again by how much more sensitive she was to touch, having worn the gloves for several hours. “But it’s not anything to be upset about.”
“Of course it is,” she said, turning her hand to clasp his briefly.
“I’m dining in the highest possible style now, right?”
It was impossible not to respond to his bright smile, and she squeezed his hand briefly before letting go. “Right!”
“With the best possible company, too.” His voice dropped to an insinuating purr, and both Jack and Rose turned to look at the Doctor curiously when he made no sound and his expression failed to change as he brought a small piece of potato to his mouth.
He chewed and swallowed before giving them a remarkably innocent look. “What?”
Jack grinned and leaned back in his chair. “So why did the maître d’ call you Colonel Johann Schmidt?”
The Doctor shrugged, a strikingly familiar movement of his broad shoulders under the unfamiliar evening clothes. “Psychic paper shows him what he expects to see. ’Spose he figures that’s my rank in this society - the Austro-Hungarian Empire is one of the more militaristic in Earth history.”
“I wouldn’t have thought of you as the military type,” mused Jack, taking a long look at the Doctor’s sharp profile.
“’M not,” he retorted indignantly, his eyes not meeting either Rose’s or Jack’s as he took a sip of water than might almost have qualified as a swig. He turned his attention to cutting his meat, and as Jack and Rose went back to their dinners, they nearly missed his faint mutter. “Usually.”
They exchanged quick glances before their eyes returned to the Doctor. Rose had never thought of it, but despite the heavy boots and shorn hair, he certainly didn’t strike her as either a soldier or an officer. Strangely, she found she could see him more as an engineer or an artist, a priest or a scholar, a teacher of some sort. His long fingers were slender but strong, so quick with machinery, but so sensitive as they had drawn music from that mysterious little instrument in van Statten’s museum stash. Rose had blushed at the provocative shape of the instrument, the flush that had crept over her skin raising the little hairs on her arms and the back of her neck, and she had not been sure whether it was because of the ethereal sound or the suggestive movement of his fingers, or some combination of both. A ghost of a shiver passed over her, and the Doctor was quick to notice.
“Are you cold, Rose?” he asked.
“No, I’m all right,” she said with a smile, putting her hand to her abdomen in the restrictive corset. “Although it’s not easy to eat much in this thing.”
“Loosen the corset.” His response was matter-of-fact as he took another sip of the red wine that had come with the dinner.
“If I do that, I’ll never get this dress fastened again,” she chuckled.
“That’s all right. You can just loosen it - once you put the cape on again, no one’s going to notice when we walk back to the TARDIS.”
Rose took a sip of water, flustered. It was such reasonable advice. It wasn’t like they hadn’t already seen her in a tank top and shorts. And still, the idea of being slightly…undone in their presence was startling. “I-I’m not sure I can do it by myself. The TARDIS was helping me before - I’m not sure how, but I know she was.”
“Stand up.”
She was on her feet before he was, her eyes skittering away from Jack’s. The Doctor put his hands lightly on her bare shoulders, turning her away from him. An oval mirror in an ornate frame on the wall opposite reflected her astonished face as the Doctor’s long fingers worked lightly at the hooks and eyes at the base of her bodice. She caught her breath as she felt his touch through the layers of fabric in the small of her back. He opened the dress a few inches up to her mid-back. And then he was working at the ties of the corset, fingers sliding through the laces to ease their tension.
With his firm tug, she fell back against him, and his big hands slid around her waist, easing the boned fabric of the corset beneath the dress. Suddenly, she could take a deep breath again, and for a moment - one, two, three uneven inhalations - it was like gulping water after running for her life. But then she relaxed, a warm flush spreading over her as he let her rest against his chest.
“That better?” he asked softly, his breath stirring the hair at her ear, the side of her neck, and another shiver crossed her skin. His thumbs were rubbing gently at her ribs, and her hand fluttered to her neckline, her fingertips discovering the expanse of skin revealed by the dress, latching onto the relative solidity of the delicate pendant. Only then did she realize her eyes had drifted closed, and she forced them open, to see that the dress still covered her modestly - well, as much as it ever had - and that his eyes were burning into hers in her reflection. They had never looked so blue, or so hot, and her mouth was so dry…
“Here, take my place,” he said gently, guiding her into his chair, which had faced the door, placing her back against the wall. “No one can see from there if they walk in.”
He took her place opposite her, and it was only as Jack got up and left the room that she quite remembered he’d been there throughout.
“Where is he going?” she asked, still cloudy from the reverie that the Doctor had just effortlessly wound around her.
“Absolutely no telling.” The slight edge of exasperation and the shake of his head amused Rose, despite her disappointment of having the moment dispelled. She turned her eyes down to the plate he had deserted, and realized it was still full - meat and potatoes neatly cut in similarly-sized chunks, arranged in neat rows - while she had left a half-eaten plate before him.
She knew he rarely ate much, but given his turn this morning - she had a brief, vivid burst of remembering him fitting on the grating of the console room and felt momentarily ill - she was concerned.
“Here, take your plate,” she offered, but he waved it off.
“That’s okay. Eat - you haven’t eaten much all day.”
“You sound like my mum,” she teased, and got the hoped-for response.
“Oi, watch it,” he warned, leaning forward on an elbow to point a fork at her, and she grinned as she put a string bean into her mouth.
“Well, damn.” Jack shook his head sadly as he came back in the room. “I thought for sure you’d both be naked and wrestling on the chaise by now. I was ready to take on the winner.”
The Doctor leaned back to watch Jack slide into his chair. “Where’ve you been?”
“Just taking care of a little business.” Jack winked, and took up his fork again.
Rose was much less concerned about eating heartily these days, considering the amount of physical activity she got, but she kept an eye on the Doctor as he and Jack bantered lightly about something vaguely mechanical. She recognized some of his avoidance techniques, pushing the food around on the plate, trading a piece of potato for a piece of meat on his fork, but eating almost nothing.
Another knock at the door brought an elaborate torte and coffee for dessert, and the handsome waiter brought a large, bowl-shaped glass of a rich, dark gold liquor and placed it, with a kind of surreptitious ostentation, in front of the Doctor.
“What’s this?” asked the Doctor, and the waiter made a small bow.
“The gentleman requested it for you, sir.”
The Doctor’s eyes slid from the waiter to Jack’s, and Rose caught her lip in her teeth, unsure whether she was excited or unnerved by the gaze locked between them, storm and sky, as the waiter melted away.
The moment seemed to stretch out into an eternity before the Doctor reached out and took the glass in his large palm, swirling the thick liquor under his nose before taking a sip. His eyes closed in obvious pleasure at the taste, then opened, dilated and the colour of smoked crystal, to Jack.
He spoke no word of thanks, but where Rose had expected challenge or smugness, Jack’s face registered only gratification.
***
“Do I get my dance?” Jack did a little sliding step along the ramp up to the console, turning with a flourish to open his arms.
“Not tonight.” The Doctor took Rose’s cape from her, draping it over his arm as the TARDIS doors swung shut behind them.
Jack put his hands on his hips. “And I bought you a drink and everything. Hmmph.”
“Aren’t you tired?” asked Rose, aware that her own eyes were heavy.
“Nope. Well, not much. Not enough to pass up a dance.”
“I promised you, Jack. Just…not tonight.” said the Doctor, an edge of tiredness Rose had not heard in weeks in his voice, and as she looked up at him, she saw a ghost of that horrible look of emptiness in his eyes. There’s no one… I would know.
“I can live with a raincheck.” Jack’s expression softened as he came down the ramp to meet them. “Goodnight, Rose.” He took her face in his hands and kissed her forehead sweetly, then turned to the Doctor. “Goodnight.” He took his face in his hands and kissed his cheek, then bounded up the ramp again, turning to wave, “Goodnight!” as he disappeared down the corridor.
Rose watched him go, then turned to the Doctor, her hand on his arm. “Are you all right?” she asked, searching his face as he looked down at the toes of his highly polished shoes.
“I’m fine.” His voice was warm, but his smile was obviously tired as he looked up at her. “Did you have a good time?”
The hopefulness in his eyes, so transparent, brought a twinge to the back of her throat, and she wound her arms around his waist, underneath the tails. His mother-of-pearl shirt stud pressed into her cheek, but she concentrated only on the solidity of him as his arms came around her. “It was beautiful,” she swore passionately. “Thank you so much.”
“Good. ’M glad,” he murmured, one hand cupping her head briefly before he set her back from him. “Time you were in bed, I think.”
“Yeah,” she half-laughed. “And as lovely as it is, I won’t be half glad to be out of this dress.”
The Doctor grinned, his eyes still burning blue, and she gathered up her skirts to climb the ramp.
In her room, Rose divested herself of the layers of clothing, draping them over a chair to return to the wardrobe room in the morning, and after a relaxing hot shower that made her less tired but more sleepy, she put on her red yoga pants and a pink t-shirt. She pulled back the duvet on the bed, looking longingly at the fresh flannel sheets, but she could not quite shake the feeling that she needed to check on the Doctor.
He wasn’t in the console room, or the galley, or the library, and her concern grew as she found herself outside a door she recognized. The sense of déjà vu as she lifted her hand to knock was overwhelming, and the door sighed ajar before she touched it.
She caught her breath and knocked lightly anyway, curling her fingers tightly around the edge of the door to keep it from opening further. When there was no response, she looked carefully around the door into the half-dark room.
Light from the corridor fell across the plain linoleum floor of the small chamber, across the end of the iron daybed that stood against one bare wall. At first, she could see only his legs, still in the evening trousers, and his bare feet, long, narrow, pale, on the nondescript greyish-tan of the flooring. But as she opened the door, she could see him sitting on the bed, one shoe overturned beside him, the sock spilling out, the other shoe held loosely in his fingers. His other hand supported his bowed head, his elbow on his knee, and the waves of exhaustion coming from him were palpable. The evening jacket was placed on the straight back of the wooden chair at the roll-top desk - besides the bed, the only other furniture in the room. The waistcoat and tie were tossed on the open surface of the desk, amongst books, papers, a mechanical pencil and an old-fashioned quill pen and inkpot, and several small bits of circuitry and mechanical detritus.
In the shadows, his shoulders drew a narrow arc in the white shirt, and she could almost see the delineation of every muscle and bone in his bowed back through the taut, fine material.
“Doctor?”
Her soft query genuinely startled him, his head jerking up, and she could see that his eyelashes were wet, pale skin stretched tautly over every sharp angle of his face.
“Are you all right?” she asked, on her knees at his feet before she could think.
He straightened, taking a sharp inhalation through his nose as he stretched his back, and the back of his hand brushed briefly across his nose and cheekbone as he said, “Yeah, I’m fine. Just tired, y’know.”
The indirect light left his eyes in shadow, but she could see the glimmer of tears before he blinked them away.
“I know,” she said softly, taking the shoe from him and putting it on the floor with its mate. She had no idea where the other sock was, and didn’t care. Without the shirt studs, his starched shirt gaped open, revealing flat, hard muscles and too-prominent breastbone and ribs, faintly softened by a dusting of pale hair, and she reached up to put her hand carefully over his hearts. The phantom of dark bruises and pale, thin burns thickened her throat, but she saw only unmarked skin, her thumb tracing the memory of an ugly fist-shaped mark at the arch of his ribs. “You need to rest.”
She knelt up, sliding her hands toward his shoulders, but in an instant, his hands stopped hers with a high yelp that might have been “No!”
“’S all right. It’s all right,” she soothed, subsiding against her heels as his hands curved around hers gently.
He bowed his forehead against their clasped hands, murmuring first, “No,” and then, “I’m sorry.”
“Nothing to be sorry for,” she reassured him. “We’ve been here before, yeah?”
A soft sound, perhaps a laugh, perhaps a sob, escaped him, and he lifted his head with a rueful little smile. “Not the adventure you signed up for, though, is it?”
“Doesn’t matter,” she whispered, reaching up to stroke over his close-cropped hair.
“It doesn’t?”
“No.” She shook her head firmly, and knelt up more slowly, her forehead finding his as her hand massaged the rock-hard muscles at the nape of his neck. “Do you want to change into something more comfortable?”
He shook his head slightly and let her guide him back against the bed. His shoulder and side were tight against the wall, leaving just enough room for her to curl against him, in his arms.
“It’s all right.” She moved her hand soothingly across his shirtfront and bare chest, settling against his side. She slid one knee across his long thigh, just to hold him closer, and she could feel him beginning to relax. “Go to sleep.”
“You know there might be nightmares,” he warned her, his fingertips drawing a light pattern on her shoulder through the thin cotton of her t-shirt.
“’S all right,” she reassured him sleepily. “If you try to fight them, they just get worse, yeah?”
His fingers hesitated, then slid into her hair as she tilted her head back to find his eyes. They were nearly colourless, but full of light in the near dark. A tiny, bittersweet smile quirked one side of his mouth. “Yeah,” he admitted finally.
“Yeah.” The wide yawn took her by surprise, and they both chuckled softly as they settled down against each other. His breathing was so deep and slow, it was almost like being rocked, and despite her concern for him, Rose was asleep before he took his third breath.
His rhythm faltered faintly, and he turned his face away from her in the darkness, fighting the overwhelming impulse to cry out his rage.
On we go.
Chapter 1 - Bazaar | Chapter 2 - Maintenance | Chapter 3 - Off-Balance | Chapter Four - Whirl
Chapter 5 - Shadows
His eyes, like veiled moonlight in the near-dark, found hers, and his query was a single word. “Dinner?”
Her smile was sudden, catching her by surprise more than did the grumbling of her stomach. “Yeah. Sounds lovely.”
He looked to Jack, who nodded, adjusting his waistcoat, and the Doctor offered his arm to Rose, who took it with a mixture of the wonder she had felt way back in Cardiff in 1869 and a familiar ease that warmed her empty stomach. On the way out of the Opera House, they stopped at the cloakroom to pick up the velvet cape, which he settled expertly on her bare shoulders. She looked up at him in surprise as he came around before her, easing the loose hood over her hair.
“It’s raining,” he explained softly, his hand hesitating slightly as he reached out to brush back that stubborn strand of hair. His eyes seemed far away for a moment, then focused on her with an expectant smile as he offered her arm.
He was right, it was drizzling outside, a heavy mist that, in the cold, was definitely unpleasant, and Rose was relieved that they only walked a short way down the street to a large, lavishly furnished restaurant. The brightness of the gaslighting surprised her yet again - she couldn’t shake her ingrained image of the 19th century as dark and humourless, all evidence to the contrary - but she tried to temper her grin when the Doctor flashed his psychic paper and was greeted by a most obsequious maître d’.
They were led to a private dining room, with walnut wainscoting and a peacock-blue wallpaper, lit by a small but ornate crystal chandelier above the round table. A matching blue-green velvet chaise longue angled into one corner.
“I could get used to this,” declared Jack, flipping his tails to the side as he reclined on the chaise. He reached up to bat playfully at the large peacock feathers that bowed over the chaise, standing in a tall bronze urn between the head of the chaise and the corner, then waved his hand diffidently. “Peel me a grape.”
“You can peel your own grapes, mate,” teased Rose as the Doctor took her cape, hanging it on the coatrack in the opposite corner, and Jack grinned, stretching and folding his hands behind his head.
Letting her fingers trail lightly over the tall back of a wooden chair with a tapestry seat, Rose took in the elegant place settings and then Jack, sprawled on the chaise, ankles crossed as his feet dangled over the end. She grinned and crossed to him.
“I saw this in a movie once. Mum and I watched at Christmas, or New Year.” She draped herself dramatically across the head of the chaise, batting her eyelashes. “Barbra Streisand was afraid Omar Sharif was going to make her pay for her fine dinner on it.”
“Or afraid he wasn’t.” Jack winked at her, then looked at the Doctor, who was standing still, watching them with an inscrutable expression from across the small room. “I’m very willing to pay my way.”
Instead of the expected roll of the eyes, the Doctor met his gaze levelly. “Buy me a drink first.”
“Is that all?” Jack was off the chaise in a flash, picking up the champagne bottle that was chilling beside the table and pouring three glasses with the skill of a seasoned waiter. “All right, then.” He handed one glass to Rose, then held another out to the Doctor. “That I can do.”
“One little flaw in your plan, Jack.” The Doctor took the glass from Jack with a slightly raised eyebrow. “I’m payin’ for this champagne.”
“Well, strictly speaking, the TARDIS is paying.” Jack lifted his glass to the others. “To the TARDIS.”
The others chimed in as their glasses clinked, and a soft knock at the door heralded the arrival of two waiters and their dinner. When Jack tried to catch the attention of the handsome older man of the two, Rose was the one who rolled her eyes, and he received a sharp look from the Doctor, but soon enough they were left alone with an enticing dinner. Both men began to remove their gloves, and she looked at her own, unsure how to proceed with the long gloves.
“Here.” The Doctor took one hand in his, turning her wrist up to unfasten the button, then held her hand almost as if he were about to kiss it, except that he held her thumb in his other hand. “Now pull.”
She pulled her hand toward herself, and his fingers tightened, catching the glove as she withdrew, and it slipped off easily, all the fingers still right side out. Suddenly, her newly bare skin felt tinglingly aware of the air, and she giggled unintentionally. “That’s pretty clever.”
“Not exactly etiquette, but effective.” He winked as he laid the glove on a trolley beside his, and they repeated the action with the other glove.
“Rose.” Jack held out the chair for her, and she sat down carefully, still uncertain how she could bend in the corset.
But she was so hungry, she fell to eating her roast beef and potatoes with enthusiasm. “Mmm, this is amazing.” She speared a string bean and made a small gesture with her fork on her way to her mouth. “It’s just Sunday dinner, but better.”
“Hunger is the best sauce.” Jack’s tone was unusually even, and both his companions looked at him curiously. “What? Did I get the slang wrong again?”
“No.” Rose swallowed, realizing she needed to sit up a bit straighter. “It just sounded…”
“I’ve been hungry before, Rose,” he said, reaching out to put his hand over hers, and she was struck again by how much more sensitive she was to touch, having worn the gloves for several hours. “But it’s not anything to be upset about.”
“Of course it is,” she said, turning her hand to clasp his briefly.
“I’m dining in the highest possible style now, right?”
It was impossible not to respond to his bright smile, and she squeezed his hand briefly before letting go. “Right!”
“With the best possible company, too.” His voice dropped to an insinuating purr, and both Jack and Rose turned to look at the Doctor curiously when he made no sound and his expression failed to change as he brought a small piece of potato to his mouth.
He chewed and swallowed before giving them a remarkably innocent look. “What?”
Jack grinned and leaned back in his chair. “So why did the maître d’ call you Colonel Johann Schmidt?”
The Doctor shrugged, a strikingly familiar movement of his broad shoulders under the unfamiliar evening clothes. “Psychic paper shows him what he expects to see. ’Spose he figures that’s my rank in this society - the Austro-Hungarian Empire is one of the more militaristic in Earth history.”
“I wouldn’t have thought of you as the military type,” mused Jack, taking a long look at the Doctor’s sharp profile.
“’M not,” he retorted indignantly, his eyes not meeting either Rose’s or Jack’s as he took a sip of water than might almost have qualified as a swig. He turned his attention to cutting his meat, and as Jack and Rose went back to their dinners, they nearly missed his faint mutter. “Usually.”
They exchanged quick glances before their eyes returned to the Doctor. Rose had never thought of it, but despite the heavy boots and shorn hair, he certainly didn’t strike her as either a soldier or an officer. Strangely, she found she could see him more as an engineer or an artist, a priest or a scholar, a teacher of some sort. His long fingers were slender but strong, so quick with machinery, but so sensitive as they had drawn music from that mysterious little instrument in van Statten’s museum stash. Rose had blushed at the provocative shape of the instrument, the flush that had crept over her skin raising the little hairs on her arms and the back of her neck, and she had not been sure whether it was because of the ethereal sound or the suggestive movement of his fingers, or some combination of both. A ghost of a shiver passed over her, and the Doctor was quick to notice.
“Are you cold, Rose?” he asked.
“No, I’m all right,” she said with a smile, putting her hand to her abdomen in the restrictive corset. “Although it’s not easy to eat much in this thing.”
“Loosen the corset.” His response was matter-of-fact as he took another sip of the red wine that had come with the dinner.
“If I do that, I’ll never get this dress fastened again,” she chuckled.
“That’s all right. You can just loosen it - once you put the cape on again, no one’s going to notice when we walk back to the TARDIS.”
Rose took a sip of water, flustered. It was such reasonable advice. It wasn’t like they hadn’t already seen her in a tank top and shorts. And still, the idea of being slightly…undone in their presence was startling. “I-I’m not sure I can do it by myself. The TARDIS was helping me before - I’m not sure how, but I know she was.”
“Stand up.”
She was on her feet before he was, her eyes skittering away from Jack’s. The Doctor put his hands lightly on her bare shoulders, turning her away from him. An oval mirror in an ornate frame on the wall opposite reflected her astonished face as the Doctor’s long fingers worked lightly at the hooks and eyes at the base of her bodice. She caught her breath as she felt his touch through the layers of fabric in the small of her back. He opened the dress a few inches up to her mid-back. And then he was working at the ties of the corset, fingers sliding through the laces to ease their tension.
With his firm tug, she fell back against him, and his big hands slid around her waist, easing the boned fabric of the corset beneath the dress. Suddenly, she could take a deep breath again, and for a moment - one, two, three uneven inhalations - it was like gulping water after running for her life. But then she relaxed, a warm flush spreading over her as he let her rest against his chest.
“That better?” he asked softly, his breath stirring the hair at her ear, the side of her neck, and another shiver crossed her skin. His thumbs were rubbing gently at her ribs, and her hand fluttered to her neckline, her fingertips discovering the expanse of skin revealed by the dress, latching onto the relative solidity of the delicate pendant. Only then did she realize her eyes had drifted closed, and she forced them open, to see that the dress still covered her modestly - well, as much as it ever had - and that his eyes were burning into hers in her reflection. They had never looked so blue, or so hot, and her mouth was so dry…
“Here, take my place,” he said gently, guiding her into his chair, which had faced the door, placing her back against the wall. “No one can see from there if they walk in.”
He took her place opposite her, and it was only as Jack got up and left the room that she quite remembered he’d been there throughout.
“Where is he going?” she asked, still cloudy from the reverie that the Doctor had just effortlessly wound around her.
“Absolutely no telling.” The slight edge of exasperation and the shake of his head amused Rose, despite her disappointment of having the moment dispelled. She turned her eyes down to the plate he had deserted, and realized it was still full - meat and potatoes neatly cut in similarly-sized chunks, arranged in neat rows - while she had left a half-eaten plate before him.
She knew he rarely ate much, but given his turn this morning - she had a brief, vivid burst of remembering him fitting on the grating of the console room and felt momentarily ill - she was concerned.
“Here, take your plate,” she offered, but he waved it off.
“That’s okay. Eat - you haven’t eaten much all day.”
“You sound like my mum,” she teased, and got the hoped-for response.
“Oi, watch it,” he warned, leaning forward on an elbow to point a fork at her, and she grinned as she put a string bean into her mouth.
“Well, damn.” Jack shook his head sadly as he came back in the room. “I thought for sure you’d both be naked and wrestling on the chaise by now. I was ready to take on the winner.”
The Doctor leaned back to watch Jack slide into his chair. “Where’ve you been?”
“Just taking care of a little business.” Jack winked, and took up his fork again.
Rose was much less concerned about eating heartily these days, considering the amount of physical activity she got, but she kept an eye on the Doctor as he and Jack bantered lightly about something vaguely mechanical. She recognized some of his avoidance techniques, pushing the food around on the plate, trading a piece of potato for a piece of meat on his fork, but eating almost nothing.
Another knock at the door brought an elaborate torte and coffee for dessert, and the handsome waiter brought a large, bowl-shaped glass of a rich, dark gold liquor and placed it, with a kind of surreptitious ostentation, in front of the Doctor.
“What’s this?” asked the Doctor, and the waiter made a small bow.
“The gentleman requested it for you, sir.”
The Doctor’s eyes slid from the waiter to Jack’s, and Rose caught her lip in her teeth, unsure whether she was excited or unnerved by the gaze locked between them, storm and sky, as the waiter melted away.
The moment seemed to stretch out into an eternity before the Doctor reached out and took the glass in his large palm, swirling the thick liquor under his nose before taking a sip. His eyes closed in obvious pleasure at the taste, then opened, dilated and the colour of smoked crystal, to Jack.
He spoke no word of thanks, but where Rose had expected challenge or smugness, Jack’s face registered only gratification.
***
“Do I get my dance?” Jack did a little sliding step along the ramp up to the console, turning with a flourish to open his arms.
“Not tonight.” The Doctor took Rose’s cape from her, draping it over his arm as the TARDIS doors swung shut behind them.
Jack put his hands on his hips. “And I bought you a drink and everything. Hmmph.”
“Aren’t you tired?” asked Rose, aware that her own eyes were heavy.
“Nope. Well, not much. Not enough to pass up a dance.”
“I promised you, Jack. Just…not tonight.” said the Doctor, an edge of tiredness Rose had not heard in weeks in his voice, and as she looked up at him, she saw a ghost of that horrible look of emptiness in his eyes. There’s no one… I would know.
“I can live with a raincheck.” Jack’s expression softened as he came down the ramp to meet them. “Goodnight, Rose.” He took her face in his hands and kissed her forehead sweetly, then turned to the Doctor. “Goodnight.” He took his face in his hands and kissed his cheek, then bounded up the ramp again, turning to wave, “Goodnight!” as he disappeared down the corridor.
Rose watched him go, then turned to the Doctor, her hand on his arm. “Are you all right?” she asked, searching his face as he looked down at the toes of his highly polished shoes.
“I’m fine.” His voice was warm, but his smile was obviously tired as he looked up at her. “Did you have a good time?”
The hopefulness in his eyes, so transparent, brought a twinge to the back of her throat, and she wound her arms around his waist, underneath the tails. His mother-of-pearl shirt stud pressed into her cheek, but she concentrated only on the solidity of him as his arms came around her. “It was beautiful,” she swore passionately. “Thank you so much.”
“Good. ’M glad,” he murmured, one hand cupping her head briefly before he set her back from him. “Time you were in bed, I think.”
“Yeah,” she half-laughed. “And as lovely as it is, I won’t be half glad to be out of this dress.”
The Doctor grinned, his eyes still burning blue, and she gathered up her skirts to climb the ramp.
In her room, Rose divested herself of the layers of clothing, draping them over a chair to return to the wardrobe room in the morning, and after a relaxing hot shower that made her less tired but more sleepy, she put on her red yoga pants and a pink t-shirt. She pulled back the duvet on the bed, looking longingly at the fresh flannel sheets, but she could not quite shake the feeling that she needed to check on the Doctor.
He wasn’t in the console room, or the galley, or the library, and her concern grew as she found herself outside a door she recognized. The sense of déjà vu as she lifted her hand to knock was overwhelming, and the door sighed ajar before she touched it.
She caught her breath and knocked lightly anyway, curling her fingers tightly around the edge of the door to keep it from opening further. When there was no response, she looked carefully around the door into the half-dark room.
Light from the corridor fell across the plain linoleum floor of the small chamber, across the end of the iron daybed that stood against one bare wall. At first, she could see only his legs, still in the evening trousers, and his bare feet, long, narrow, pale, on the nondescript greyish-tan of the flooring. But as she opened the door, she could see him sitting on the bed, one shoe overturned beside him, the sock spilling out, the other shoe held loosely in his fingers. His other hand supported his bowed head, his elbow on his knee, and the waves of exhaustion coming from him were palpable. The evening jacket was placed on the straight back of the wooden chair at the roll-top desk - besides the bed, the only other furniture in the room. The waistcoat and tie were tossed on the open surface of the desk, amongst books, papers, a mechanical pencil and an old-fashioned quill pen and inkpot, and several small bits of circuitry and mechanical detritus.
In the shadows, his shoulders drew a narrow arc in the white shirt, and she could almost see the delineation of every muscle and bone in his bowed back through the taut, fine material.
“Doctor?”
Her soft query genuinely startled him, his head jerking up, and she could see that his eyelashes were wet, pale skin stretched tautly over every sharp angle of his face.
“Are you all right?” she asked, on her knees at his feet before she could think.
He straightened, taking a sharp inhalation through his nose as he stretched his back, and the back of his hand brushed briefly across his nose and cheekbone as he said, “Yeah, I’m fine. Just tired, y’know.”
The indirect light left his eyes in shadow, but she could see the glimmer of tears before he blinked them away.
“I know,” she said softly, taking the shoe from him and putting it on the floor with its mate. She had no idea where the other sock was, and didn’t care. Without the shirt studs, his starched shirt gaped open, revealing flat, hard muscles and too-prominent breastbone and ribs, faintly softened by a dusting of pale hair, and she reached up to put her hand carefully over his hearts. The phantom of dark bruises and pale, thin burns thickened her throat, but she saw only unmarked skin, her thumb tracing the memory of an ugly fist-shaped mark at the arch of his ribs. “You need to rest.”
She knelt up, sliding her hands toward his shoulders, but in an instant, his hands stopped hers with a high yelp that might have been “No!”
“’S all right. It’s all right,” she soothed, subsiding against her heels as his hands curved around hers gently.
He bowed his forehead against their clasped hands, murmuring first, “No,” and then, “I’m sorry.”
“Nothing to be sorry for,” she reassured him. “We’ve been here before, yeah?”
A soft sound, perhaps a laugh, perhaps a sob, escaped him, and he lifted his head with a rueful little smile. “Not the adventure you signed up for, though, is it?”
“Doesn’t matter,” she whispered, reaching up to stroke over his close-cropped hair.
“It doesn’t?”
“No.” She shook her head firmly, and knelt up more slowly, her forehead finding his as her hand massaged the rock-hard muscles at the nape of his neck. “Do you want to change into something more comfortable?”
He shook his head slightly and let her guide him back against the bed. His shoulder and side were tight against the wall, leaving just enough room for her to curl against him, in his arms.
“It’s all right.” She moved her hand soothingly across his shirtfront and bare chest, settling against his side. She slid one knee across his long thigh, just to hold him closer, and she could feel him beginning to relax. “Go to sleep.”
“You know there might be nightmares,” he warned her, his fingertips drawing a light pattern on her shoulder through the thin cotton of her t-shirt.
“’S all right,” she reassured him sleepily. “If you try to fight them, they just get worse, yeah?”
His fingers hesitated, then slid into her hair as she tilted her head back to find his eyes. They were nearly colourless, but full of light in the near dark. A tiny, bittersweet smile quirked one side of his mouth. “Yeah,” he admitted finally.
“Yeah.” The wide yawn took her by surprise, and they both chuckled softly as they settled down against each other. His breathing was so deep and slow, it was almost like being rocked, and despite her concern for him, Rose was asleep before he took his third breath.
His rhythm faltered faintly, and he turned his face away from her in the darkness, fighting the overwhelming impulse to cry out his rage.