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Love, Laugh, Die
Author's Intro: Or, that little part at the top of the story where I talk about all the technical stuff and thank you for choosing to click on this. This is my fifth story for Doctor Who, but it is the first one with a running plot arc, and my first "episodic" story. That is, this adventure could fit nicely into the canon of Series 1 without having to change a thing. This one is set sometime between The Long Game and Father's Day. I figured that I might as well write it for Nine and Rose, because much as I love Ten, Nine was my first Doctor and needs more love. It will contain hints of Nine/Rose, but not much because I want this to be canon-friendly.
This story is rated T for some minor violence and occasional cussing, nothing serious. If you watch the show and don't mind some mild language you should be fine.
Disclaimer: I don't own Doctor Who. It's very sad but I'm trying to get over it.
For my own reference: 12th fanfiction, 5th story for Doctor Who.
Prologue
...
The Year 2095
The Milky Way galaxy
The toilet wasn't working right.
It didn't quite flush properly, and the resulting stench was something awful. It was the little staff one on Deck E that was causing the trouble, where the third-class passengers' cabins were, which was why it hadn't been an immediate priority. But now that the smell had started to waft up to Decks F and G, the number of complaints had doubled, and George Ackerman, Head of Maintenance, had been sent to go fix it.
Which was annoying, because the ship wasn't supposed to have anything wrong with it; George had only been offered the job as a requirement of the law, and half the reason he'd taken it was because he'd been hoping for an easy three weeks without having much to do besides mop a few floors here and there. Nobody had accounted for one of the toilets to stop working properly.
Another annoyance: the boss had sent George to go and fix the toilet at the oh-so-wonderful hour of 2am. George had been quite happy to be asleep in his very own cabin (a perk of being Head of Maintenance) when the boss had come and pounded on his door until he woke up, sending him down to solve the ruddy toilet problem.
"Can't it wait 'til morning, sir?" George had complained.
"'Fraid not, George. Complaints are coming in without end, have been since mid-afternoon. The messages on the Complaints and Concerns board're rolling in every other minute even at this hour, more than half of them from Mrs R Duncan on Deck G, second-class. They'll pay you extra for this, if that's any motivation, so hop to."
George muttered to himself as he made for the staff lavatory. He found cursing to be quite therapeutic. He should never have taken this bloody job. He'd have quit if he could, but if he quit, he'd be stuck on this bloody ship for another two and a half weeks without even being paid for it.
He scanned his access card over the door panel, and with a satisfying click it opened. The first thing he noticed was the smell. Certainly he'd been able to smell it for a while, but with the door open, the putrid stench hit him with staggering force. Pulling his shirt collar over his nose, George tucked his access card back into his lanyard and appraised the mess of the toilet. It was clearly clogged, and apparently some other staff members had tried using the plunger to no avail.
Another problem was the fact that the floor was covered in toilet water, and George didn't want to think about how clean that water was. He certainly wasn't taking any risks. He checked the supply cupboard just across the passageway in search of a mop, but there wasn't one, just the plunger and some heavy-duty cleaning materials. He grabbed the plunger and the cleaning materials, put them aside, and with a heavy sigh, made for Deck D.
The bottom three decks, Decks C, B, and A, were not welcome to passengers. George had never visited any of them, because the lower decks housed the all the machinery. Technically, his access card allowed him passage, but ill-lit passageways filled with all those machines and engines making strange noises gave him the creeps. He'd avoid them as long as he could.
On Deck D, the bottommost passenger deck, he found the mop he was looking for in the level's supply cupboard. "Thank God," muttered George, turning to head back up to Deck E. He was bloody exhausted, and the last thing he needed was to go on a wild goose chase for a cleaning supply item as mundane as a mop.
But when he turned around, he saw, halfway down the empty passageway, a little girl in her nightdress. The third-class levels were always more poorly lit than the upper decks, so her face was in shadow, but judging by her size and stature he'd peg her down at about eight or nine years old. "Hello there," he said in a forced jovial tone. "Were you looking for the toilets?"
"The staff toilet on Deck E isn't working properly," she replied flatly.
He cocked his head. "Hmm, that's right, dear. How'd you know about that? Smell's been making its way up, not down."
"It has caused so very much trouble."
He snorted. "Bloody damn right it is, it's causing me trouble." Too late, he caught himself. "'Scuse me. Don't you go repeating my language, kid. Anyway, your lavatory will be just down this passageway on the left-hand side. You'll see the sign on the door." George made to go.
"I don't need the toilet," the girl said in what sounded to George like a stubborn tone.
He paused and faced her again. "In that case, you'd better get off to bed."
Without replying, the little girl turned and began to walk down the passageway towards him. He thought at first she must be heading towards her cabin, but when she was halfway to him, she turned to face the door to the stairs that led to the lower decks, the ones that required an access card to open. George began to approach her. "You won't have much luck there, I'm afraid. You'll need an access card; passengers aren't allowed."
"I have no need of an access card."
"Well, no, you wouldn't, cos you're not supposed to go down there."
"I have no need of an access card," said the little girl again, and to George's befuddlement she pushed the door open with ease.
Mop still in hand, George hurried to close the distance between them, and quickly scanned his access card to open the door, making a vague mental note to ensure that the reader wasn't faulty. "Hang on, you can't go down there, kid, you're not allowed. Come on back up to your cabin and stop causing me trouble."
He still couldn't fully see her; this stairwell was more poorly lit than any place George had been on the ship thus far. But he could make out her shape, hurrying down the stairs at a steady trot. "Oi!" he called out now, irritated. "You come back up here right now."
She must have been a third-class passenger, he reasoned. He didn't see why there had to be a third class on a cruise ship. If people couldn't afford the vacation in the standard second-class cabins, then they shouldn't be allowed on board. This was the sort of thing that happened when you let her sort onto luxurious holiday boats. Children or grown-ups, George couldn't be bothered to discriminate for age. The working class were trouble, and that was that. He may have been a mere maintenance worker, but he prided himself that at least he was a level or two above this girl's family. In fact he had himself a cramped but nevertheless nice flat in fashionable Islington.
At Deck A, the little girl pushed open the door and seemed to wait for him a moment, though she kept her back to him. She gave him just enough time to grab a hold of the door before she took off like a shot into the darkness. There was hardly any lighting at all down here, and George hadn't brought his torch. "Oh, Christ," he muttered to himself.
In the poor lighting, he could just make out the little girl's silhouette, and he could hear her padding down the passageway away from him. On the concrete floor, he could tell by the sound of her little footsteps that her feet were bare. "There's something down here," she called to him, sounding quite amused and pleased with herself.
"Bloody right there's something down here," George called back, no longer caring if he cursed in front of the child or not. "Stuff you're not supposed to be around. Now, you get back here and I'll take you to your cabin. I'll bet your parents would be cross if they knew what their little girl was doing." He paused. "Who knows, maybe if you come back here right now I'll just drop you off and I won't tell them what you've been up to. But only if you come over to me right now." He was bluffing and he knew it, but he really didn't want to wander any further into the dark.
He heard the child laugh in reply, and continue down the passageway.
Brilliant.
Oh, he really didn't want to walk down the dark passageway, but it looked like he was going to have to. "Ah, man up, George," he whispered to himself, and entered the darkness.
"There's something down here," the girl called to him again without slowing. George followed her down to the end of the passageway. At the end of the passageway was a watertight hatch door which led to one of the central engine rooms. Good, he thought. Now he had her cornered, as there was no way a girl her size was strong enough to get that door open. Another dozen long strides and he'd grab her by the collar if he had to, drag her up to her cabin and reprimand her parents for their apparent inability to look after their child.
But to George's amazement, he could make her out as she turned the wheel on the door with alarming strength. Two creaking turns, and she opened the door, strolling into the room beyond with nonchalance. "You get back here!" he called out, at last jogging to close the distance between them, not minding the dark or any tripping hazards.
He squeezed into the engine room just as the door began to close again.
The central engine room was much better lit. The little girl was standing motionless. She was facing him but looking down at her toes, so that her hair covered her face like a veil. "This way," she said, beckoning to him with the crook of her finger. George sprinted, diving towards her, but somehow he missed and found himself landing face-first on the hard floor.
The girl giggled. "This way," she repeated, turning on her heel, and made a sharp right.
Picking himself up, George followed her. He wasn't going to run. He suddenly felt too tired to run, and he was feeling the beginning of a migraine. The fact that he still had to fix the toilet nagged at the back of his mind, but catching this brat of a girl was his priority now. "All right," he called, "you've had your fun. This is enough. It's dangerous down here."
Another right, and the girl stopped. "We're here," she said cheerfully, just as the lights brightened. "You see?"
At that moment, George did see. And he began to scream.
…
"Nah, you'd look too suspicious if you didn't have a trunk. Pack a nice, big one; and if you forget something, you can always come back to the TARDIS, you know."
Rose appraised the Doctor sullenly as she carried a pile of folded-up shirts and deposited them into the trunk that lay open on her bed. The trunk was not hers; the Doctor had procured it from somewhere within the bowels of his great ship and it was more than half her size.
It wasn't so much that there was anything wrong with the trunk, but that she had long since deemed such objects as trunks useless. Everything she needed was in the TARDIS, either in her bedroom or in the lavatory, and if there was anything else she might require, well, it was certainly to be found somewhere aboard the ship. The last time she and the Doctor had gone on an overnight trip had been back before Adam, and with the TARDIS just across the street from the room they'd rented out, she hadn't even bothered to pack her toothbrush.
"But how come I need such a big one, then?" she complained.
He crossed his arms. "You're the one wantin' to pack all that stuff," was his smooth reply.
"That's cos you said we'll be over a fortnight."
The Doctor's patience had gradually been wearing thin over the course of their argument, and at last he gave up. Rolling his eyes without making any effort to hide it, he backed out of the room where he'd been leaning in the doorframe. "Fine. Your choice. Pack whatever you like, okay? But don't complain to me when you've got to go find the TARDIS so you can grab your toothbrush."
Casually he began to stroll down the corridor towards the console room. He caught Rose making a face at him as he left. Women. How could he possibly understand them? With his countless years of knowledge and experience, never had he been able to understand how girls' brains worked. He wondered if there was a manual or something. Surely there must be, somewhere in all of time and space. Normally the Doctor disagreed with manuals, and with strict rules and guidelines in general, but at this point he was desperate. Nine hundred years with scarcely an inkling of understanding. It was pathetic.
Some time later, Rose entered the console room, hauling her trunk and looking weary. "Here," she said, pushing it towards him. "You carry it, then."
The Doctor took the trunk, though grudgingly. It was heavy, but he knew better than to argue. He leaned against the console, beginning to enter the desired coordinates. This trip, he hoped, Rose would view especially as a treat. He wanted her to hold a particular appreciation; wanted, for some reason, to enchant her more than ever. And as much as every bone in his body craved adventure, as fiercely as his twin hearts beat out a rhythm in pursuit of a fresh rush of adrenalin to keep them going, he wanted Rose to have a relaxing trip. To tell the truth, ever since he'd come so close to losing her in Utah, he'd been wanting to keep her safe. Out of harm's way. So far, he hadn't been all that successful – over the past fortnight or so they'd had their fair share of nasty run-ins with many aliens of varying degrees of hostility. Even their beach picnic on the shores of Sbalsia had gone awry, interrupted by one of the planet's native species of habitually irate crabs.
He wanted Rose safe.
"You ready, then?" he said brusquely, glancing over at her leaning against the railing that encircled the elevated part of the console room.
Rose pushed off from the railing, beaming, their previous conflict forgotten. Tongue slipping between her teeth, she nodded, her whiskey-coloured eyes shining with anticipation. "Go on, then," she said. "Surprise me."
"Right." His knee holding Rose's trunk secure, the Doctor leaned over the console. His hand closed around the lever that would send them whirling off into the vortex, the TARDIS' blue box exterior whisking through time, passing through the knots and threads as that which made up the fourth dimension coiled together, one mass of past and possibility co-existing as a single entity.
One sharp tug, a click, and off they went, the room filling with the wheezing of engines. The TARDIS shook, and Rose and the Doctor were sent tumbling. They grasped the railing and held on tight, laughing like a pair of idiots the whole time. Next thing they knew there came a resounding thud signalling their arrival.
A quick checking of the monitor screen confirmed that they had arrived at their intended destination and the Doctor took Rose's trunk from where it had slid halfway across the room and offered her his arm. "You ready?"
She nodded, beaming, and took it, allowing him to lead her out of the TARDIS. Beyond the doors she found that they were in a room of concrete – concrete floors and concrete walls. It was not very large, and was filled with what appeared to be motorbikes that had only one large wheel at the bottom rather than two at either end.
"How appropriate," the Doctor remarked with a smirk to Rose's puzzlement. She looked at him inquisitively. "This must be the parking area. Some people want to bring their own transportation with them."
Rose closed her eyes. She could hear the distinct hum of engines. "We on a space station?" she asked.
"Close," was the Doctor's infuriating answer. He grinned at her teasingly and escorted her out of the room. They were now in a narrow corridor, at the end of which was a large door. It appeared to be accessible only by a panel that would read ID cards, but the Doctor of course simply took out the sonic screwdriver, and a few seconds later the door slid open.
Rose and the Doctor found themselves in a stairwell that led only up. "Where are we?" Rose asked. The Doctor didn't answer. "All right," she said, squaring her shoulders. "When are we?"
"The year," said the Doctor, "is 2095, and we're aboard a cruise ship."
"Oh," said Rose as they arrived at the landing. There were no more stairs leading up; only another door. "I thought boats didn't have stairs? Just ladders 'n' lifts?"
His only response was a teasing grin.
As they passed through the door, Rose found that they were in another corridor. This one was far nicer, lined in plush red carpet. A sign halfway down the corridor positioned above a sliding door read, "Viewing Deck." This was the direction in which they headed, but on the other side of the door there was no open-air deck with a railing and a view of the sea to be found. Indeed, there was not even the slightest whiff of sea air. Rather, there was a room that looked something like a posh living room, a row of lush armchairs; love seats; and sofas facing the window. And through the window there was, not a view of rocking blue-green sea, but a landscape of inky blackness dotted with stars. A few planets were visible in the distance.
Entranced, Rose dropped the Doctor's arm and wandered closer, dropping into one of the love seats as she stared with wide eyes. The Doctor came up behind her, leaning over her shoulder. "Welcome, Rose," he said, "aboard the SS Bad Wolf."