Chapter Nineteen: The Storm

The Doctor led Miranda through the mansion rather quickly, grinning excitedly, like a kid browsing a toy shop. If it hadn't been for the many times he backtracked and doubled back, she'd have thought he actually knew where he was going. Miranda trotted to keep up with his long strides, shining the lantern's glow in front of them so he didn't run into a wall. Again. She'd have just given him the lantern and spared herself the trouble of rushing after him but because of the Time Lord's sporadic way of walking, and moving in general, she thought it best to prevent him from tripping and accidentally burning the place down. She sighed as the Doctor stopped to examine a piece of peeling wallpaper.

"Have you got it out of you system yet?" she asked with pursed lips.

"Never," he grinned. "Look, there's little unicorns in the wall pattern!"

Her hard expression didn't change.

The Doctor rolled his eyes. "Oh, alright. Where do you want to go then?"

"Home," she replied quickly.

The pair froze, looking at each other in shock. "TARDIS, I meant to say. TARDIS," Miranda added, now deciding to look at the tiny unicorns. He grinned and wrapped her in a tight hug, apparently overjoyed at her mishap of words.

"Holding a lantern here," Miranda choked, trying to swat him away.

He let go, oblivious to the red tint on her face. "After the storm, you agreed," he reminded her. "Let's find the library. Everyone loves a library, eh?"

"If you say so."

"Oh! Stop that!" he chided lightly. "Don't you know how to have fun?"

"This is fun?"

"It would be if you quit frowning like that."

"I'm not frowning."

"You are."

"That's just how my face looks."

"No, it's not."

"It's my face, I think I'd know!"

"Exactly. I look at your face more than you do," the Doctor argued. "If anything, I'm the face expert. And I say, that's your I-refuse-to-have-fun face. Not my favorite, to be honest."

Miranda continued to glare and then sighed. "You're such a little know it all," she mumbled, stalking past him.

He waited a moment, thinking it over before jogging up to her. "I'll take that as a compliment," he said which only made Miranda's frown increase.

"So the library! Smells like it's…" he paused a moment to sniff the air, missing his companion's aghast stare. "This way!"

"You have got to be kidding," she deadpanned. "You can smell the library?"

"You can't? Really? That old book smell is classic. Almost as good as that new book smell. Actually, I don't know which is better, to be honest…" the Doctor rambled. "C'mon, c'mon! Allon—I'll stop, really. Sorry. I'll try not to do that anymore."

Miranda reluctantly trailed behind him, almost dragging her feet.

"Come along, Miranda!" he said, sounding antsy. "Mirandy, Randy, Andy… Hm, that doesn't really work, does it? Miranda, it is. Come on."

"If I catch up, I'm gonna clock you over the head, I swear."

He merely grinned back at her, clearly seeing through her bluff. Or at least he hoped she wasn't serious.

"Ha ha!" he cried, flinging open a door. "Oh, love me a good library, I do… I think."

Miranda paused in the doorway, eying the Doctor scurrying from shelf to shelf. The library was a moderate size—wooden bookcases, red carpeted floor and decorated with ornate furniture. There was a fireplace which was currently not lit and off to the side of it was a sheet covered object that looked suspiciously like a canvas.

She was immediately intrigued, despite herself, and walked over. With a careful tug, she removed the cloth and sure enough, it was a painting. The lantern revealed it to be a portrait of three: a man, woman and child. They looked proud and noble with a distinct aristocratic air. The man had long, sandy hair, pulled back in a low ponytail, and sideburns that ran along his jaw, his narrow eyes a greenish color from what she could tell. He wore an expensive-looking emerald green coat and carried a silver wolf's head cane. His wife, Miranda presumed, sat on a chair in front of him, her long black haired curled and arranged over one shoulder. Her dark eyes wrinkled at the corners as if she had been smiling. She wore a dress of the same green which was elaborately detailed and trimmed with lace. Their son, who looked about six or seven, sat on her lap, wearing a green dress shirt, a pair of knickerbockers and knee high socks. His features took more after his mother, except for the eyes. Green—that seemed to be this family's theme.

"A little light here, thanks," the Doctor called but she ignored him, still cataloguing the painting.

"Oil on canvas," she muttered to herself. "Probably about four—"

"Whatcha looking at?"

She jumped as the Doctor popped up behind her. "Just a painting."

He crouched beside her, scanning over it. His fingers ghosted over the frame where a rectangular piece seemed to be missing. "There was a plaque here," he commented. "Normally said the family name and when it was done."

"Why's it gone?"

"And why's the family portrait tucked away where no one can see it?"

They shared a look.

"Probably nothing," the Doctor shrugged but his dismissive manner hardly fooled his companion. Miranda decided to let it go. So long as nothing weird happened, they should be out of the creepy old house by tomorrow. Or sooner if she were lucky.

She found the Doctor back by shelves, and lighted the area where he stood.

"Anything good?"

"Nothing I haven't read before," he replied, pulling out a large leather bound book. Miranda turned her head to read the cover.

"Hallerian Theory in Regards to Physiological Matters of the—"

"What do you think you're doing in here?" came an annoyed voice.

Margaret stood in the doorway, leering at them. "I specifically told you not to wander."

"Sorry," Miranda said sheepishly.

"My fault," the Doctor added, putting the book in place. "Too curious for my own good."

"Indeed," the maid replied curtly. "If you will follow me." Her tone left no room for argument.

The dining room was on the ground floor, across from the drawing room. When they got there, two men were already seated at the long, cherry wood table. The room was dark, save for a candelabrum in the center of the table. Long drapes blocked most of the lightning from outside but the howling wind was easily heard.

"Dinner will be served shortly," Margaret announced, taking the lantern from Miranda. "Please remain here." She gave a pointed look in the Doctor's direction before leaving, shutting the doors behind her.

"Hello," the Doctor greeted, sitting at the head of the table. Miranda sat beside him, across from the men.

"Ah, good eve, sir, madam," said one with a nod to each. He was rather young with brown hair that swept past his ears and a kind smile. "Thomas Burton. Pleased to make your acquaintance."

"And you. I'm the Doctor and this is Miranda."

Miranda gave a slight wave.

"See you braved the storm," laughed the other man. He looked a bit older than Thomas and shaggier too with dark hair and a bit of stubble on his cheeks. "Desmond Burton, at your service," he introduced, standing to shake both of their hands.

"Are you-?" the Doctor began but the Burtons cut him off.

"No relation," they said in unison, as if it came up a lot.

"Best mates, we are," Thomas said. "The surnames—"

"Just a coincidence," Desmond grinned.

"Or more like fate that we met," Thomas supplied. "Really, what were the odds?"

"Oh, would you like to know?" the Doctor asked cheerfully.

"No, they wouldn't," Miranda answered, shooting the Doctor a look.

"So what brought you here? Horse fell in a bog?" Desmond asked.

"More like we did," Miranda muttered, pursing her lips.

"But our carriage broke down first," the Doctor added, trying to keep their story straight.

"That was us too," Thomas frowned. "A wheel got stuck in the mud and the next thing we knew—"

"Whole back end's arse deep in it!" Desmond exclaimed. "Tried pulling her out but no luck." He shook his head solemnly. "Almost took the mule in with it!"

"She's safe in the stables," Thomas nodded with a smile. "Once the storm clears up, she may be able to pull the carriage out of the muck."

"If it lets up," shorted Desmond.

The Doctor leaned back in his chair, drumming his fingers on the table. "Awfully nice of our host to let us stay," he began. "Have you seen him?"

"Lord Something or another?" Desmond asked then shrugged. "Nah, haven't seen hide nor hair of him. Can't say I really care, s'long as he doesn't give us the boot!"

"Des!" Thomas scolded, giving his friend an appalled look.

"What? I'm only joking!"

"Do you know anything about him?" the Doctor inquired. "He had a number of science-y books in his library and I was just wondering what his interests were. I'm a bit of a science-y person myself." He beamed at Miranda then at the Burtons, pleased with himself.

Thomas looked confused. "Science-y?"

"Don't worry about it," Miranda shook her head.

"Library, eh? Haven't seen that. Or anything other than the guest rooms and here," Desmond said with a click of his tongue. "Starting to think he suspects us as thieves or something. Don't want us near the fine silver and such."

Thomas frowned. "Oh, I don't think that," he drawled. "It's his house, and he was kind enough to let us in. We should respect his wishes."

"Yes," Miranda added, turning to the Doctor. "And not wander around like we own the place."

The Doctor sat there, aloof, unaware that her comment was aimed at him. She rolled her eyes and leaned heavily on the table.

"Rules or no, I just hope that we'll eat soon," Desmond complained. "I'm starving! Hasn't he ever heard of being on time?"

Lightning flashed brightly, piercing the curtains and flooding the room in bright white. Following soon after was a crash of thunder that rattled the window panes and the whole room shook from its force. Both Miranda and Thomas jumped in their seats and then all heads swiveled to the doors as they were thrown open. A tall figure was silhouetted in the doorway as a final flash of lightning flickered into nothing. Thunder rumbled as the man strode into the room.

Miranda quickly leaned over to the Doctor and hissed, "It's the man from the painting!"

"My apologies to have kept you waiting," he said in a smooth voice. He stood beside the Doctor, looking down at him expectantly. Miranda cleared her throat, trying to get the Time Lord's attention but he not to notice. The man clenched his jaw. "This is where I sit, sir."

"Oh, is it?" the Doctor exclaimed, leaping up. "It did seem a bit lived in. You must be the Lord of the Manor. Never did catch your name."

"No, I don't believe you have. How very rude of Margaret," the man tsked, settling into the chair. He set his silver cane against the table. "I am Lord Faust. Welcome to my humble home. I hope you've found your stay well thus far?"

The Doctor plopped beside Miranda who sat awkwardly next their host. "Bit dreary, to be honest," he answered before getting elbowed by Miranda.

"Thank you for letting us stay," Miranda said, hoping to make up for the Doctor's rudeness.

"But of course," Lord Faust replied, turning his eyes to her. "I would have to be heartless to allow you to suffer in this weather."

"We're very grateful," Thomas said with a smile. "Thomas Burton, sir."

"Yes, I know who you are. Margaret has informed me. Oh, where is she?" he asked, now annoyed. "Margaret! Don't keep us waiting!"

Not long after, the doors opened and Margaret hurried in with a cart of platters. "So sorry, sir. Won't happen again, sir," she grimaced. "The shutters blew open in the storm, sir. It took—"

"Yes, yes, excuses," Lord Faust frowned.

Margaret kept her eyes downcast as she placed a number of plates and bowls in front of her employer and his guests. Miranda muttered a quiet "Thanks" but it seemed the maid was too focused to acknowledge her.

"You're not needed here," Lord Faust told her once she was finished. "You may go."

She gave a slight bow. "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."

Miranda noticed that the Doctor bristled slightly, eying Lord Faust in distaste. "So! What is it you do exactly?" the Time Lord asked him.

"I am Lord of this Estate," he chuckled. "Is that not enough?"

"That's it then? No hobbies?"

Lord Faust remained calm and smiled, pleasantly. "What man does not have any?"

"So, what are yours?"

The smile on Lord Faust's face stayed in place. "What curiosity at such a trivial matter," he remarked. "I suppose I must indulge you then, mustn't I? I'm a student of Natural Philosophy, if you must know. The pursuit of knowledge appeals to me, as it does all other well educated men."

"And women," Miranda added on impulse.

Lord Faust gave her a patronizing smirk and chuckled. "And what of you?" he asked, turning to the Doctor. "What is your area of study, Dr. Cole?"

Miranda started choking on her soup at the name, nearly spitting it all over the table. Both she and the Doctor stared, brows raised and mouths slightly open before turning towards each other with dumbfounded expressions.

"Uh, right," the Doctor said, recovering quickly. He turned back to Lord Faust with one of his fast smiles. "That's us- a married couple. Wed and all. Mr. and Mrs. C–oh, I can't even say it."

"He's a doctor of medicine," Miranda answered for him. "And... stuff… I'm—"

"Mr. Burton?" Faust asked, cutting her off. "And… Mr. Burton? How about you?"

Miranda glared.

"I don't think Miranda was done speaking," the Doctor commented. "Bit rude to interrupt a lady, eh? Not gentlemanly-like."

"Oh, wasn't she? So sorry, dear," Faust pouted. "What was it you have to contribute?"

"My occupation," she said through gritted teeth.

"Ah, so you're a mother then?"

"No."

"A home-keeper."

"No."

"A seamstress?"

"No," she growled.

"Then what could you possibly be?" he chucked.

"I'm an artist, thank you very much."

"Someone who pushes paint around? Very amusing," he nodded to the Doctor. "Precious, this one. Though I can imagine it becoming tiresome. Tell me, do you prefer the belt or a more hands-on method?"

The Doctor's knuckles had gone white as he clenched his fists. His face; however, remained dangerously calm. "Is that why your wife and son left you?" he asked in a low tone.

"My family is of no concern to you," Faust hissed, his passive façade finally dropping. "How dare you pry into my business when I've so graciously allowed you into my home! I should throw you both into the cold!" He squared his jaw and pursed his lips. "I am a gentleman; however, and therefore cannot, should your wellbeing grate on my conscious."

Lord Faust stood. "I bid you all a good eve, and a safe departure should I not see you out in the morn," he said through tight lips. He gave the Doctor a hard stare before snatching his cane and turning on his heel, stalking out the door.

The silence that settled over the dining hall was tense. The Doctor had yet to relax his fists and Miranda kept staring into her bowl of unfinished soup. Thomas fidgeted nervously and Desmond pocketed his set of silverware.

"Guess no one wants to know what we do for a living," the older Burton said, breaking the quiet.

Miranda shifted. "Uh, sorry. What is it?"

"We're shoemen!"

"Shoemen?" she questioned.

"Shoe salesmen," Thomas explained. "He just says shoe men because he thinks it's funny."

"It is!"

"Alright, Des. Alright."

Margaret walked into the dining room. "If you are finished, I'll escort you to your rooms," she said, eying the guests quickly.

All four complied, having either lost their appetites or in Desmond's case, downing more than his share.

"So, Miss Margaret, has that Faust always had a broom stuck up his—"

"Desmond!"

"What?"

Margaret's face remained impassive.

"You know," Desmond continued. "A right, foul git."

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean," she replied, leading them up a staircase.

Desmond frowned and shared a look with Thomas as they came to the landing. The Burtons were given rooms across from each other, in a different wing than the one Margaret had shown Miranda to when they first arrived. Further down the hall, they came to another door.

"This will be your room," Margaret said to the pair who both stared at her. "If you need anything, there's a bell system at the end of the hall. There's no need to go any farther than that."

"Right... our room," the Doctor said, glancing at the door, Miranda and then Margaret. "The room for us, for me and uh… right."

The blonde seemed to have had enough and nodded before making her way back down the stairs, leaving the two standing there awkwardly.

"Our room," he said again, as if trying to get it down pat.

Miranda sighed and opened the door. She stepped into the dark room and found four-tiered candelabra and matches. The small flames illuminated the modest yet affluent bedroom. The pair's gaze was drawn to the bed, the single bed. Miranda saw the Doctor scan the room, wringing his hands, looking for a chair or some other sleeping option and she pretended to ignore him. She strode over to the bed and kicked off her boots. At seeing the Doctor still standing in the doorway, she rolled her eyes.

"Just c'mon," she sighed.

"You're sure?"

"You've seen me just about half-naked and tied to a bed," she reminded him. "I think we can manage. Besides... we're married, Dr. Cole."

The Doctor relaxed at her teasing and shut the door. "Almost forgot, Mrs. Cole."

Miranda cringed. "Don't call me that. That's my mother."

"Whatever you say, honeybunch."

She glared at him, somewhat playfully. "You're really asking for it. You know that," she warned.

The Doctor smiled, glancing around the room again, this time for curiosity's sake. Miranda sat on the four poster bed, the sheer drapes falling on either side of her. She went to unfasten the shawl from around her neck then stopped, remembering that the dress pushed up certain parts of her body. With a frustrated sigh, her hands fell to the mattress.

"Do you think my clothes are dry by now?" she asked aloud, picturing them hanging over the bathtub where she left them.

"Denim and polyester?" he snorted. "Not likely. Give it another three days to air-dry, at least. Probably smell a bit weird but…"

She frowned, hating the idea of spending another moment in the uncomfortably form fitting bodice. The Doctor plopped down beside her and she threw out any ideas of undressing. Miranda laid down, letting the curtains fall closed. Neither said anything, both clearly awake and lying there stiffly.

The storm could still be heard, raging on outside. The occasional flash of lightning would brighten the room and the low growls of thunder rolled through the relative silence. Rain was thrown against the windows, pattering and sometimes assaulting the glass. The wind's howls mingled with the thunder and its chill crept into the room.

Miranda finally gave in and sat up, pulling the blankets down and worming underneath. "G'night," she said quickly, turning over so that her back was to the Doctor.

"Good night, Miranda," he replied softly, glancing over at her.

She noticed that he didn't get under the covers, either to prevent her from feeling uncomfortable or because he was uncomfortable, himself. She wasn't sure which. Although, she reasoned, it could have been both. It didn't matter though. It was up to him... Her thoughts trailed off and weariness soon took their place.

The Doctor listened to Miranda's steady breathing after a while, indicating she was asleep. He made no attempts to sleep, himself, his brain much too awake. He wanted to look around the mansion, or snoop, more like. That Lord Faust had angered him to say the least, both in how he treated Miranda and Margaret and also at his insinuation, even if it had been meant to goad him… The Doctor set his jaw.

A low groan drew his attention to Miranda. He rolled onto his side to get a better view of her. Her breathing had changed—it was now shallow and quick—and her face showed signs of discomfort. She was having a nightmare.

He was fully sat up in bed now, leaning over her, trying to gently shake her awake. "Miranda," he called. "It's just a dream."

His words went unheard as her brows furrowed and her lips parted in another whimper. He moved a strand of hair from her forehead, very tempted to make a mental link with her to quell her mind. But he couldn't. Not again.

"You have to wake up, Miranda," he told her in a louder voice. "Miranda… Miranda."

It still had no effect and Miranda started to toss and turn. "No," she murmured, her face contorted. "No."

The Doctor ran a hand through his fringe, this seeming all too familiar. He was gone and yet she still suffered him.

"Miranda, wake up. You can fight this! Wake up!"

Miranda's eyes snapped open with a gasp and upon seeing the Doctor, reeled back in fear. "No!" she cried, flattening herself against the headboard before realizing her mistake.

"I'm sorry," she said quickly yet still didn't move.

"No," the Doctor murmured, looking down at the blankets. "It's fine. Really."

She forced her muscles to relax and tried to ease out of her petrified state. The Doctor wasn't looking at her as he quickly stood and spoke, "Think I'll just pop out for—"

"Stop… please?"

Her desperate tone cut through his false cheer.

"Lie down," she groaned, hunching over to rest her face in her palms.

The Doctor turned a fraction to look at her, his eyes glazed with regret and pulling at his fingers before complying. Miranda slid down onto her back, eyes open. Neither spoke for some time, the sound of rain filling the silence between them.

"I dreamt of my sixteenth birthday," she said finally.

Normally, the Doctor would have commented that such a thing was nice but Miranda's somber tone said it was otherwise.

"It was always worse on my birthdays," she said quietly. "He wouldn't just use knives, he—" Miranda shut her eyes. "Just when I thought it couldn't get any worse, he'd find a way."

The Doctor found himself close to shuddering. He could think of many horrific things that Miranda may have been alluding to but what was most unsettling was that if he could think of them, his darker self could have as well. Any of the terrible thoughts that crossed his mind were very possible to have happened to Miranda and honestly, it made him sick. Part of him wanted to know what she had been put through, exactly what his dark side had done to her but at the same time, for once, he was afraid of gaining such knowledge.

He had a lifetime of guilt on his shoulders already but the thought of having hurt Miranda, consciously or not, was too much to bear. For the most part, he had a good idea of how the Valeyard had tortured her and that alone made him feel undeserving to sit beside her or even interact with her. Yet even then, the Doctor couldn't bring himself to isolate himself from her. Somehow, he felt that every time he caused her to smile, it almost made up for every time that the Valeyard caused her to cry or scream. Almost. The Doctor knew he could never atone for the abuse of his darker side but for some reason which he deemed as selfish, he had to try.

Both the Doctor and Miranda stayed beside each other in silence, unable to look each other in the eye.

"I don't think I can sleep now," Miranda announced, the effects of the nightmare nearly gone.

"Neither can I," the Doctor replied, staring at the ceiling.

Miranda was aware of her pinky finger accidentally crossed over his. Still, she didn't move it away despite her frazzled nerves and normal abhorrence for physical contact. This was the Doctor, who cared for her, who had saved her. He didn't deserve to be alienated like everyone. If there was one person whom she should trust, it was him. He was different. He was special. He was… the Doctor. With a final thought, she hooked her pinky around his, squeezing slightly like children did when they made a promise. The Doctor turned to her, surprised, and as she gazed back, he smiled. He returned the gestured and they remained like that. It was a promise shared between them but what it meant, Miranda wasn't sure. Maybe it meant something deeper than words could describe— a feeling, perhaps.

"Okay, I lied. Maybe I could fall asleep," Miranda said with a half smile.

The Doctor grinned and watched her close her eyes, their little fingers still entwined. "Good night, Miranda Cole."

"Mm-night… Doctor."

She was just on the verge of slumber when a scream pierced the night. They bolted upright in bed, eyes wide and alert, and looked at each other. The shrill shriek sounded again and without hesitation. The Doctor and Miranda sprinted for the door, their hands now tightly interlocked.

AN: It's been awhile, I know. Thanks to everyone who has shown interest and gave feedback during the gap. It's encouraged me to focus on this. I wanted to have this posted for the Anniversary but it didn't work out and the TARDIS is being temperamental so, oh well.

I'm curious how you're liking the Doctor/Miranda bits. I know it's not very bold but they aren't exactly in love just yet or willing to acknowledge any feelings aside from friendship. But it a work in progress.

Also, I originally pictured Faust as a nice, agreeable character but as I started writing, he just morphed into this chauvinistic prick. And Burton and Burton—they're so fun to write. Why I am rambling?

I'd like to hear any suggestions, suspicions or general comments on the chapter/ story/ characters… Blah. Just review, please.