Mirror
Dancing
by Camilla Sandman
Disclaimer: BBC's characters, my words (and my mistakes, if you spot them. Sorry, BBC!).
Author's Note: Spoilers for the first series. Goes AU with the Tenth Doctor, and BBC will most likely make me unCanon with the airing of the next series.
Thanks to Saz for being Saz.
II
Act One
II
It
starts with a voice. "You could rewrite this, Rose
Tyler," the voice says, and she always nods, because she knows
it's true. History can be rewritten like that, he's told her.
History is a script, and it has at least one editor, running around
with a sonic screwdriver instead of a red pen. She knows. She's seen.
And she knows she has some power too, power through him, because he
looks at her a certain way and gives her what she wants even
declaring it a bad idea all the while. "No, no,"
the voice says, and it's her voice and his voice and it sings like
the TARDIS too. "You could rewrite this." "Into
what?" "Into whatever you want." It
begins with a voice, and she's listening.
II
The TARDIS hums and jolts as always, but she almost thinks she can hear a difference these days. Maybe it's just a fantasy. Maybe she's facing change by trying too hard, looking for changes where there are none so she can show him just how accepting she is.
His hand is different still. The skin has a slightly different texture, and sometimes when he takes her hand, she dares draw her thumb across it and feel. He always smiles, but she wonders what he thinks. She never did quite know, even before he changed, but she used to have an illusion that she did to cling to.
Style has changed too. He dresses differently, trench coat for leather jacket and suit for jumper. More a geek, less a rebel, still the Doctor. He moulds style into his as easily as he does time. Sometimes, she thinks he moulds her too, and sometimes, she thinks she is moulding him. And either way, they change.
Smaller ears and bigger hair he has has well, and the pitch and tilt of his voice feels different to her ears. Apparently, lots of planets have a London too.
He smiles less manically but more frequently, and she can feel her own smile change too. Into what, she doesn't know, and maybe she is still trying too hard. Because it matters to him that she still likes him, she knows, because he looks at her a certain way still.
Why, that might not have changed at all.
"So, where are we going?" she finally asks, and he smiles at her.
"Where'd you wanna go, Rose Tyler? Forwards? Sideways? Roundways? Backwards?"
"Backwards," she says, and time moves.
II
Backwards. Back up, back up, back
up... Right to a Satellite
Five, and an alien invasion. A difference. The script
according to her. The Daleks... The Daleks go away. The Daleks are
nothing. A difference she'd want. She wakes up in the TARDIS,
and she knows things are different. She can feel it in the silence
that isn't, the silence that are familiar noises of the TARDIS and
not the dying screams of the slaughtered. "What
happened?" she asks. "The Daleks went away,"
the Doctor says, and he smiles at her, strange joy masked by sadness.
"You did it, Rose Tyler." "Where's Jack?"
she asks, getting up. Her skin feels different, a fading warmth
clinging to it, almost as if it has burned. "Staying
behind. Helping to rebuild the Earth. We'll meet him again." She
nods, even as she doesn't understand. It doesn't seem to matter much,
right now. There is life, they're alive, and she could sing with the
joy of it. She is singing, it feels like, just not with sounds she
can hear. She can just feel it, the notes tingling inside her. He
keeps looking at her. Returning the favour in a way, she supposes,
since she keeps looking at him too. It is almost as if she's trying
to memorize his features, as if she hasn't seen him in a long time,
and she's afraid she won't see him again for a long time either. He
isn't classically handsome, she thinks. His
ears are slightly too big, his face slightly too drawn. His
close-cropped hair frames character more than it frames beauty. He
looks old enough to be her dad, and is far, far older. And still...
There's the charm and personality that radiates from him and clings
to his skin and makes her want to cling to it too. "We
won?" "You won," he says, and his jumper is
warm as she leans her head against it and feels his arms encircle
her. It feels right and wrong and life. "You did it, Rose
Tyler." She forgets to ask just what she did.
She forgets to consider her shoes. With the other Doctor, the former him, she could tell when to put on her running shoes from what he was hiding with his smile. This one, he goes from jokes to judgement in less than a heartbeat, darkness sliding out of like a claw, and then it's as if it never was. More pleasantries and less haunted, but no less capable of rage.
She tries to adapt, but she still ends up running for the TARDIS in all the wrong shoes.
Like high heels over muddy fields, escaping some very irate Austen family members.
Also a way to learn about the classics, she reflects.
"I didn't think she would be this mad!" the Doctor calls out, and she's amazed he has the breath as she tries to catch hers, leaning against the console.
"You spilt wine on the first draft of 'Pride and Prejudice'!"
"It was rubbish, anyway," he says merrily. "Mr. Darcy realises his mad, passionate love for his aunt and Elizabeth marries his hereto unknown twin, Dirk Darcy."
"You're making that up," she laughs, trying to steady her breath and failing. Everything seems to fall and gravity is yanking at her and for a moment, it almost sounds like her name.
Rose.
"Maybe I am. The world will never know now, eh?"
"No," she gulps, and the room spins and spins and comes to rest on his worried face. He's caught her, she realises, and her legs feel burning.
"You all right? Bit out of shape?"
"I..." She steadies herself with a hand against his chest, forcing herself to smile. "Must be. My mum keeps pushing extra biscuit packs on me every time we visit. Must be those."
"Can't be those," he says, letting go of her with just a flicker of hesitance, and maybe she's just imagining that too. "I always eat those."
"Biscuit-hogger."
"Infamous for it through six galaxies and seven alternate timelines!" he declares proudly, and they both laugh again. It's almost enough to wash away the feeling of unease, even if she feels him looking at her when he thinks she isn't looking.
Rose.
Something is wrong, she thinks.
II
"Rose,"
he says. She looks up to meet his gaze over the console, the TARDIS
jerking slightly as it lands. It's hard not to smile when she looks
at him, and harder still when she can see he's fighting back one of
his own. It feels almost like a reunion high. "Yes,
Doctor?" she says primly. "Are you sure about
this?" "I am. I was sure five minutes ago, I was
sure ten minutes ago, I was sure when you first asked. Yes." He
makes a face. "I am not dressing up." "You
never dress up." "I've done the whole theatre in my
days, trust me." She tilts her head, trying to imagine
the Doctor in something other than leather jacket and jumper.
Tank-tops, hats, frocks, oil, glittery jackets, feather boas...
"What's the oddest thing you've dressed up as,
then?" "President," he says abruptly, inviting
no further questions. "Why'd you wanna go to this time period
for? Not to mention, 'hot men in "Thigh-envy?" "I
am very secure about my thighs. Now my ears..." "I
like your ears," she says, and feels it to be a truth.
"I like your hair," he says, and she whips around sharply, seeing him standing in the doorway. He's grinning, and his eyes are on her wet hair, the mud in it half washed-out.
"You like muddied hair?" she asks sceptically, trying not to mind the water slowly trickling down her back and soaking her shirt. If he's noticing, he's pretending not to. "And what happened to polite English knocking?"
"High fashion of 3458," he replies. "So is not knocking. Good time period. Little smelly, what with the tea-leaves and cabbage underwear."
"I predict you'll delight me by landing there some time soon," she says dryly, and he looks innocent. She never trusts innocent with him. He looked innocent before he nicked Lovecraft's dictionary and thesaurus too ('Doing the readers a favour, Rose. The adjective abuse!') and gave it to John Donne ('Doing the readers a favour, Rose. The spelling!') too.
"Thought you might like to pop back to your mum's," he says after a moment, pushing his hands into his pockets.
"Mum's? Are aliens invading Earth again or something?"
"I'm sure Harriet Jones has a plan to deal with that in her particular way," he says, and there's ice in his voice for a moment and melted the next. "No, thought you might like to put your feet up a bit. Relax."
"Relax?" she echoes, and stares at him. "Am I... Don't you want... Are you dumping me?"
"No, no," he says hurriedly, looking shocked at the mere implication. "Just thought you were a little tired. Bit off-colour, and I don't mean the mud."
"What's this, 'time travel, now with a vacation package'?"
"It always had one, if you wanted," he says softly.
"I'm fine," she assures him, and feels it to be a lie.
Judging by his look, he feels it too, but he says nothing and a moment later, he slips away quietly.
Only then does she feel cold.
II
"Has
England always been this bloody cold?" she asks as another cold
wind is ripping at her dress. The Doctor only grins. "Yep.
It's just not always had windbreakers. Not in the splendid thigh era,
at least." "What particular year of thigh era is
this, then?" "March 11th, 1794. Good day, at least
it was in France." "Timetravel show-off," she
mutters, and tries not to step into puddles. The state of roads
hasn't changed much, she reflects, and the parking spaces are still
being fought over. Fashions change and She wonders if the Doctor loves
or hates that aspect, or if he even understands it. "I
show, you ogle," he says lightly, and pulls her to him as a
carriage thunders past. "Try not to pick up a pretty boy again,
eh?" "You didn't mind the last one," she says
indignantly, trying not to think too hard of Jack. It's hard not to
miss a whirlwind when you've grown attached to it, even if you're
travelling with a tornado. "He was Jack," the
Doctor replies, and seems to think that answer enough. He looks up at
the house in front of him, flickering firelight chasing shadows
across his face. "Here we are, your dance as requested." She
can hear the faint tones of cheerful music, but she can hear the
dismissive tone in his voice too. "Aren't you coming?" "I'd
just brood darkly in a corner and chase away all the pretty boys who
wants to dance with you." "Very fitting for the
period," she replies, trying for light. "Quite Darcy."
"This
isn't 'Pride and Prejudice', Rose." "Can't we dance
like it is? Just... Just this once?" He sighs, but his
hand has already found hers, and they're moving, probably with all
the wrong steps and on all the wrong beats, but she doesn't care. She
just remembers his face, so gentle as he looks at her, and his eyes,
so alien as they mirror her own. Her Doctor, she thinks.
Rose's.
II
"Rose!" the Doctor says sharply, and she focuses on his face, so close to hers. She can almost see herself in the mirror of his eyes, and it's a pale, haggard version. She's stumbled, she realises, and he's caught her in a half-embrace, half dance pose. She can't even remember walking out to the console room, but she must have.
"Doctor," she mutters. Yes. Doctor. She has to remember... Change and different and what is. Yes. It's important because... Because... "Calling."
"Calling?"
She nods, even if it hurts. "You. Not you, but... I see..."
She trails off, trying to fight the urge to close her eyes. It feels almost like she has a fever, and maybe she's hallucinating too.
"Hang on, Rose," he mutters, and his kiss burns against her forehead almost as if he's branded her with hot iron. His. Or maybe hers, only her mark is invisible. Her Doctor.
Somehow, it feels important to remember that.
II
She's not
sure how she's ended up kissing him, but it doesn't matter as long as
he doesn't stop her. She knows he wants to, can feel it in his slight
hesitance every time she tugs at his bottom lip, in his slight
reluctance every time she parts her lips and gives him initiative.
But still he doesn't stop, and still he laces his fingers in her hair
and presses her so hard against the house wall she can feel the
texture of each brick. "We shouldn't," he whispers,
and she knows he has a speech prepared for this moment, listing every
logical reason and quite a few illogical ones too. She knows it
because she's seen him rehash
it in his head every time he looks at her. "Why?"
she replies, pressing a kiss against his collarbone. He sighs, and it
sounds like a surrender. Still, he is a fighter, and rarely caves,
and she prepares her list of counter-logic. "Age,"
he manages to get out, eyes half closed. "Alien. Your mum.
Experience." "Don't care," she replies, letting
out a breath as her fingers finds naked skin where his jumper has
slid up slightly. "Don't care, don't care, don't care." "Care,"
he says firmly, punctuating each word with a hard kiss. "Care,
care vaguely, care." It's good that he cares, she thinks.
It means he's considered it. It means he's noble and selfless and a
lot of things she really likes in him. Loves in him, in fact. She
just loves the way he draws his tongue across her teeth and let his
hand rest at her hips a little better right now. "TARDIS,"
she says, and it's her script now. "Now."
The TARDIS jerks, and she lays still, feeling the movements only vaguely, as if it's not happening to her at all. It's a dream, and the dreams are real and everything feels confused. Mirrors of mirrors, each distorting until the original image is blurred.
"Wrong," she says, and the Doctor is there instantly, glasses on and hair unkempt. He looks strangely attractive in his ruffled state, no eyes on his appearance and all eyes on her.
"What's wrong?" he asks, kneeling by her bed. They're in the medical area, she realises, and if she tries to think really hard, she can vaguely remember being carried here. Unless that too is a dream.
"Everything."
"Helpful," he says dryly, and he grins at her vague smile. "When did it start, Rose?"
"The voice."
"Whose voice?"
"Time's," she mutters, finding no other word for it. "Mine. His. Whichever voice I wanted. Doctor, what's happening?"
"I don't know," he says grimly, and lifts his hand to her cheek. "I'm going to find out."
He can still sound like doom coming with his voice, she thinks, and closes her eyes.
II
She closes her eyes when he sinks into her, almost afraid to look at his face. If he looks like he regrets it now, she may never forgive him, and if he looks like he never wants to let her go, she might not have the strength to either.
The
sheets soft against her side, his thigh is hard under hers as she
draws her leg over and locks him even closer. He kisses her neck,
drawing his teeth across her skin as she clings to him, her nails
digging into his back. She knows even in his skin he isn't naked, but
this is as close as she can get and the illusion of intimacy is
better than no intimacy at all. Walls upon walls upon walls, her
Doctor, built by time and loss and will. She's not sure he knows
himself how to crumble them all down anymore. "Rose,"
he whispers, and she thinks maybe she's wrong after all. This
isn't real. She doesn't care. "Yes, Rose,"
the voice says, and she opens her eyes to see the Doctor looking at
her, no regrets and all desire. What she wants. "Yours,"
the voice says, and now it's triumphant. Yes, she thinks. Yes.
II