Dancing in Stockbridge
Author's Note:
This narrative picks up after the events of the adventure The Tides of Time in the IDW comic compilation Doctor Who Classics Volume 2. It should make sense without knowing the comic. The Fifth Doctor stays in Stockbridge for some time in the comics, but I didn't see a date given so I don't give one here. It wouldn't be wrong to read the narrator like myself, though she does have her own stories. Her specifics are not relevant to this, but maybe you can pick out clues.
The story is inspired a few things: by Peter Davison dancing in an episode of The Last Detective, by a photo of Jon Pertwee and Katy Manning dancing behind the scenes of The Daemons, by a dress that I own, and by what I would like to do if I met the Doctor.
No pairings are intended. I own nothing except my narrator.
. . .
In Stockbridge, England, where the Doctor settled for what passed for a long time, there was a dance hall called Victoria. Slightly past its prime, the club still drew a modest crowd of aging regulars. It would serve drinks and dinner followed by music and dancing on a cleared portion of floor. I had seen the place while searching for the Doctor and had then begun nursing the hope that I might drag the Time Lord there for an evening.
As we strolled back to the inn where the Doctor had his rooms I urged him to consider it. "Don't we deserve a break?" I said. I tossed the cricket ball into the air and caught it again. The Doctor was running his hand over his favorite bat where a Roman centurion had split it with his sword. There was no trace of the mark any longer, since the chaos of time had been reversed. The memory of that adventure lingered dreamlike in our memories alone.
"A night off couldn't hurt," he said carefully. "But must we go dancing?" He looked down at me, eyes pleading. Then he sighed. "Oh, all right."
I had taken a room at the same inn as the Doctor, so he only had to walk down the hall to pick me up. It was one of those rare, beautiful occasions where the Doctor was on time; He knocked at my door exactly at 7:30pm.
"Come in!" I called out.
When I emerged from the bathroom, where I had been pulling on the finishing touches to my appearance, the Doctor was standing awkwardly by the door. He looked uncomfortable in his tuxedo suit. It was strange to see him wearing dark colors, so unlike the beige-and-red attire he usually wore in this appearance. He looked handsome, I thought.
I moved over to him, flouncing a little to show off my dress. I was proud of it and thought that it suited me well. The light blue color brought out the blue in my eyes while the white patterns on the blue were reminiscent of waves. It fell in the style of 1950's gowns, sleeveless and full-skirted. I had added accessories made of pearls and polished sea glass and I wore high-heeled sandals. The heels didn't quite make me as tall as the Doctor, so I still had to reach a distance upwards to adjust his tie.
"Come on, my dear Tristan," I said, using the name I would sometimes use for him when he pretended to be human. It had gotten to the point where he would use it himself, though he was John Smith in Stockbridge. "Won't you give me a smile? It won't be as bad as that."
He gave me a smile, but it was an uncertain kind of smile. He seemed to be rethinking his agreement. Before he could change his mind, I threw on a shawl and took his arm.
...
Some of the people in the club were familiar—I had seen them on the cricket pitch. The old lady who worked in the inn's restaurant, the one who had directed me to the Doctor's table, looked at the pair of us knowingly as we entered the club. Her assumptions didn't bother me, but the Doctor tensed next to me. I looked up at him and saw that he was blushing.
"What does it matter what they think?" I asked him, keeping my voice soft. We walked to a table overlooking the dance floor. Awkward though he was feeling, some sort of gentleman's instinct took over and he pulled out a chair for me. "These people don't know anything about us. They don't even know that a cute young thing like you is two or three times their age."
We were the youngest-looking couple there, though with both of us looks were deceiving. The Time Lord's face was pink with embarrassment. He was spared having to respond by the arrival of the waiter with menus.
He seemed to relax over dinner, growing more and more talkative, if not effusive. The pair of us never ran out of things to talk about, discussing everything from Gallifreyan politics to Martian warrior culture to the science of magic. By the time we finished eating most of the other couples were up and dancing to the music of old records.
"Are you ever going to ask me to dance?" I asked at last, when it was obvious that he wouldn't ask without prompting. Immediately he grew flustered all over again, as if the social interaction or physical contact were too much for him. I smiled a gentle smile, amused by the differences in various aspects of his own personality—other versions of the very same man were much less timid—and the differences between this Doctor and the namesake I had for him, Tristan. Tristan was a fun-loving and sociable young man, but nowhere near as pragmatic or brave. The Doctor dithered for long moments, until I stood up and took him by the arm, drawing him towards the dance floor.
"We came to dance, Tris," I reminded him. "Or I did, at least." When we arrived on the floor, but he did nothing immediately, I positioned our arms for him. "I can't believe you never learned to dance," I remarked conversationally.
"Jo," he said. "Jo made me learn, lifetimes ago. I don't think I've danced since."
"Relax." I began to move us to the beat of the foxtrot from the record player. Around us, older couples spun and whirled as if they were young again. "You'll remember."
And, presently, he did. His stance loosened; his shoulders and arms lost the nervous tension I had been feeling before. The grip of the arm around my waist grew more natural. His feet stepped more confidently, leading our movements. When I looked up at his face, he was wearing the smile of a man recalling fond memories.
"What do you remember?"
"Josephine Grant." His voice seemed to be coming from long ago. "I felt much taller in those days. Of course, she was also shorter than you are."
Now I was smiling, too. Jo Grant was an extraordinary young woman and a fiercely loyal companion to the Doctor during his years of exile on Earth. She was spontaneous—I could easily picture her learning that her Doctor could not dance and insisting that she begin his instruction at once. She had probably hummed the music herself wherever they were, out on a case or in the Doctor's lab in the heart of UNIT HQ. I could picture them by the side of a deserted road, Bessie parked behind them. The small agent wore civilian clothes and outrageous heels to look taller which still didn't bring her to the Doctor's chin. The Doctor himself wore a ruffled shirt and velvet smoking jacket that would have looked absurd on the man with whom I was now dancing, but somehow suited the taller and older man perfectly. In my mind, they spun as we did, moving around lab tables as we did other dancers.
"That old grey head of yours," I said fondly. "Jo loved you, you know. Loves," I amended, feeling that it was wrong to speak of her in the past tense. She was alive still—maybe still with UNIT and her Doctor. Fortunately the Doctor knew what I meant.
The music stopped.
"Have you seen her… since she left?" The Doctor asked it hesitantly, and I understood. It was hard to go back, and hard not to know.
"No," I said, and, choosing my words carefully, I continued. "But you will. And she'll love you, and you'll be proud of her."
A waltz started up, and we began to move again. For a while, I thought the Doctor wasn't going to reply but then, so softly that he may not have spoken it aloud, I heard his voice say, I already am.
I know, I thought. I tucked my head under his chin as we moved, wonderfully aware of every place our bodies touched. His double-heartbeat sounded close to my ear, steady and strong. The four-beat rhythm conflicted with the beat of the dance and I wondered if the waltz had been hard for him to learn. Whether it was or not, he never missed a step.
. . .
AN: Hopefully the OC is not too offensive. Furthermore, I admit to certain personal indulgence of description. Please let me know what you thought!
Honesty always appreciated.