Title: On The Still Path (1/?)

Rating: Currently T, will probably be bumped up to a M later on

Characters: Nine/Rose, Jack, various other original characters and aliens

Summary: Rose and the Doctor are stranded in Victorian England, taking the slow path while waiting for Jack to come back with the TARDIS.

Disclaimer: I don't own Doctor Who or any related spin-offs, characters, etc. They belong to the BBC and their respective creators. I also do not own Christopher Eccleston, but if anyone owns a cloning machine, let me know.

Author's Note: This started out as Challenge 18 for then_theres_us but somehow, I took an alternate turn somewhere and didn't really get back. The prompt was for alternate universes, and this isn't so much an alternate universe as a play on the cliche "The Doctor and his companion/s are stuck in one period in history and must find a way to get back to the TARDIS" as well as "Aliens are after us and we must disguise ourselves as normal people!"

Also, I'm not British and I'm not a student of history, so most of what I have in my head of Victorian England comes from films and the Internet. That being said, if I've made any mistakes, do let me know and I'll correct them. Also, as usual, writing without a beta, so any grammatical/spelling mistakes are mine. Comments and constructive criticisms are welcome, and the more you review, the faster the next chapter will come up. :)

The house stood at the end of a long and brambly lane, overlooking wide fields of wildflowers and overrun grass. The front windows stared balefully as Rose and the Doctor stopped, hands in their respective pockets, contemplating the sudden chill in the air. "1851," he said with a definitive tone. "At least it's not London. I'd go mad in London. Not a people person, me."

Rose rolled her eyes and nudged him with her shoulder. "You don't have to tell me." She stared at the cracked walls, brickwork peering out from underneath the paint, the ivy writing green script across the terrace and wooden columns of the front porch. "How long do we have to wait?"

The Doctor slipped his hand into the inside of his leather jacket and pulled out an ordinary Yale key. It sat, silver and silent, on his palm. "Six months, give or take. That's the trouble with the vortex. You could be five minutes late for tea, or five centuries."

"And she knows we're here, yeah?"

He nodded brusquely, trying to quell the rising panic somewhere in his chest. It doesn't help that he has a dual respiratory system. "Jack knows where to go. If he gets here a day earlier and the Poppins would get him; a day later and he probably wouldn't even find us."

"Whatever did you do to piss off an alien species named Poppins?"

"The umbrella snouts, I'd reckon. And the fact that they wanted the TARDIS." He shook his head in disgust. "Come on, Rose. We might as well get comfortable." The Doctor stepped forward and pushed the wooden gate, white paint peeling from the grain. "Old Mr. Norris said there were still some beddings and stuff left from the previous tenants."

Rose surveyed the overrun yard, the desolate trees, the cobwebs strung like gossamer between branches. "If we're talking hundred-year-old beddings, what are the chances the rats got to them first?"

It turned out that the sheets and bed-things were less than a year old, and were washed and aired before their arrival. Rose thought of the old creaking houses that she'd seen in films and thought that the Stillwater House resembled them - all wooden floorboards and damask wallpapers, handcarved furniture that had recently been given a thorough cleaning. The estate agent, Mr. Norris, was amiable enough, and allowed them to stay in his London townhouse for two nights while making arrangements for the interior of the house to be cleaned by hired help.

The Doctor, despite the leather jacket and cotton jumper, was easily able to convince Mr. Norris that he'd been living in the East Indies and had brought along his niece, Rose, back to England for some education and refinement. One look at Rose's bottle-blond hair and denim skirt and Mr. Norris had agreed wholeheartedly that young ladies should be taught manners and education as befitting their station. Rose curbed the urge to whack both of them with a marble bust she'd spied sitting on the mantelpiece.

The Doctor thumped up the stairs, his boots clattering on the wooden steps, while Rose peered around the first floor of the house. Having grown up in a Council flat, her sense of space was bound in a two-room flat with a living room and a kitchen all crammed together, jostling for floor space. But Stillwater was a proper house: the front door opened to a formal foyer, and the first door to her left proved to be the sitting room, with elegant furnishings that reminded Rose of a Jane Austen novel. A baby grand piano stood at the far corner of the room, next to a small fireplace. Bookshelves lined one wall, filled with leather-bound books. She could almost imagine a bright fire in the grate, and sitting on one of the soft armchairs, reading a book with a cup of tea beside her, the Doctor at the piano -

She shook her head. It didn't do to daydream of domestics.

The next room proved to be the dining room, with a large oak table and six high-backed chairs. A chandelier hung from the center of the ceiling, and a glass display case against the far wall showcased an exquisite set of china. Rose was surprised that a house that hadn't been lived in for years still had its treasures, but perhaps Mr. Norris had taken better care of the interior than the exterior. And it probably helped that a small army of house cleaners had come in two days ago to make sure the place was livable.

The kitchen was stone-tiled and cool, the racks filled with dried herbs that Rose had no name for. Pots and pans hung gleaming from the rafters. Empty glass jars lined one shelf, and a tall wooden cupboard proved to be the ice box; Rose vaguely remembered that they were still a few decades away from running electricity. A bucket of water and a copper sink stood near the back door, reminding Rose that indoor plumbing was probably still a dream rather than a reality. She sighed, not looking forward to the morning.

Tracing her steps back to the front hall in the rapidly descending twilight, Rose was surprised at the sudden knock at the back door. Scurrying back to the kitchen, she fumbled with the unfamiliar locks and threw the heavy door open. A young woman, perhaps only two or three years younger than her, peered curiously at her from under a white cap. "Hello miss," she said, her accent similar to the Doctor's Northern one. "My name's Abigail. I'm under Mr. Norris' employ, and he says I'm to come by when you've moved in."

"Oh!" Another thing Rose barely had any experience with were servants, Gwyneth notwithstanding. "Um, yes. My name's Rose. Come in."

Abigail bobbed a curtsy in her direction and moved past her. "I'll be preparing your dinner, miss, so perhaps you might want to change your - " and here she gave a curious glance at Rose' 21st century clothing - "underthings."

From somewhere above the kitchen, the Doctor's voice floated down. "Who's that, Rose?" he asked loudly.

"Just Abigail. Mr. Norris sent her 'round for the cooking and cleaning."

"Be down in a tic!"

Rose gave Abigail what she hoped was a friendly smile. "My, er, uncle. Well, not really my uncle, sort of more like my guardian, I guess." She watched as the younger girl walked around the kitchen, lighting the lamps. Soon, they were surrounded by globes of golden lights flickering in glass cages. "We were travelling, but now we've got to stay here for awhile before our, er, ride goes out again."

"Travelling?" Abigail's voice rose in excitement. "That sounds lovely." Her bright green eyes shone in the lamplight. "I suppose you've seen the world, miss. Explains your clothes."

"Ah." Rose looked down at her denims and cotton t-shirt, trainers and black leggings. "Well, yeah. I suppose I'd better change. When in Victorian England - woah."

The Doctor casually strolled into the kitchen, smooth-shaven and wearing what Rose thought was the most elegant clothes that he'd ever seen him wear. (In fairness, she'd only ever seen him change his jumper, and it seemed that he only rotated three colours, depending on his mood and the time of the day.) Despite the angled cut of the dinner jacket and trousers, and the stiff white tie around his neck, Rose could still see the bridled power of the Oncoming Storm in the lines of his body, the dark blue of his eyes. And then he looked at her and gave her a bright grin. "Like what you see?"

Rose opened and closed her mouth like a guppy. For once, she forgot that breathing was required.

"Right then!" He nodded to Abigail, his gaze kind. "Hello there. Abigail, wasn't it?"

The poor girl nodded and sketched a curtsy, almost knocking off the food items from the countertop where she had started preparing supper. "Yes, sir. That's me."

"Very good then. I'll be in the sitting room if you need me." He raked his eyes over Rose. "You might want to dress up for dinner."

"Right! Right, right, right." Rose finally managed to re-wire her brain and close her mouth. Mumbling an excuse, she slipped past the Doctor and scurried upstairs to find a dress and figure out what to do with her hair.

It took no trouble at all for the Doctor to light a fire and turn up the gas lamps in the sitting room. The wood-panelled room took on a cheery glow, the Turkish carpets lush and thick beneath his feet. It wasn't the first time he'd travelled to this particular moment in history, and Rose was aware enough of the niceties and requirements of Victorian England that he didn't think his companion would mind too much. 1851, he mused idly as he perused the books on the shelves. At least things were quiet, Pax Britannia and all that. And The Great Exhibition! He glanced at the watch on his wrist, almost hidden underneath the cuffs of his jacket. They were a month away from its opening. Rose would like that.

It wasn't that he was concerned for Jack, but he knew the Captain was capable of taking care of himself, and the TARDIS was more than capable of taking care of the Captain. And as long as they stayed in the vortex, they would both be safe. What he wasn't telling Rose was that he was making himself the bait for the stupid aliens; they would never survive six months in Victorian England. He grinned to himself. The Poppins depended on recycled air, and without the proper equipment and resources in place, their mechanical breathers would malfunction and give out before half the year was out.

He clasped his hands behind his back as he walked back to the center of the room and settled into an armchair. The fire dispelled the initial chill of the room. He was certain that the Poppins would be following them here, to this sleepy village of Little Grange. Better than London, where they could cause more harm to more people. At least in the countryside, not only were they further away from any mechanical means that might be configured or adapted into alien tech, but he could (at least in theory) protect the inhabitants much easier if push came to shove. He closed his eyes. He hoped it wouldn't come to that.

But even that wasn't his chief concern. It was Rose. Six months of domestics - he chafed at the word - and he knew, he just knew that there would be a point where he wouldn't be able to control himself. At least in the TARDIS, he could lose himself in the corridors, and Jack was proving to be an able distraction in his own right, complementing his and Rose's personalities in an unexpected, but not unwelcome, way. But bound in a house that was smaller on the inside than the outside? He closed his eyes and rubbed his temples distractedly. The Doctor was more than aware of his feelings for his small human companion. He was perfectly certain that had it not been for his feelings for her, he would never have agreed to take on that idiot Adam onboard his ship, or brought her to the day of her father's death, or saved Captain Jack from becoming space dust.

And yet, the Doctor knew precisely why he couldn't have her. One brush of her lips against his, one moment of their bodies pressed against each other like twin branches of the same tree, one moment of mingled breathlessness, and he knew he'd never be able to let her go. Never. And he knew that once he'd claimed her as his, then he would lose her - that he would always lose her in the end. And he wasn't sure if he could stand to go through that again.

He heard the door open behind him. Rose's scent heralded her arrival: citrus and clean skin, and beneath it, the simple smell that was uniquely hers. The Doctor stood up and turned, ready to make some kind of remark on the history of the house, the work that needed to be done, and - oh.

Rose wore a simple white dress, styled appropriately, her neck and shoulders smooth and bare. Exquisite lavender flowers were embroidered along the neckline, sleeves, and hem. She pulled her hair up with bits of lace and ribbon, and wore a simple silver necklace. She looked at him shyly, her brown eyes glimmering in the fire-light. "I found it upstairs, in the smaller bedroom. I suppose that's to be mine, yeah Doctor?" She twirled around slowly, allowing him to feast his eyes on her slender form, the curve of her breasts and waist hidden beneath the crinoline and lace. "D'you like it? Or is it too much for dinner?"

He cleared his throat. "You look beautiful."

She grinned at him. "No 'for a human' this time? Or is that always part of that statement?"

"No." He stared at her, wondering why, in all the universe, she'd been the one to stay with him. What he ever did, poor broken man that he was, to deserve her. "You're beautiful, Rose Tyler. Just beautiful."

She blushed, her pale cheeks tinted pink. "Thank you," she finally said, as she walked towards him and offered the crook of her arm. "And now, you can escort me to dinner."

He gave her a soft smile that reached his eyes and slipped his arm around hers, placing his hand on the soft skin of her forearm. "It'll be my pleasure."

/to be continued