Likeness

A/N: Written for the OSK Secret Santa ficathon on Livejournal for missjenb, prompt "butterfly".

--

"I have heard that he has been inquiring after someone who can introduce him to that girl who looks and dances like a butterfly – " Rose snorted, interrupting the hurried whisper " – But it appears you do not truly belong to any of our social circles, and he must talk to you himself."

Rose, who had been persuaded into a poncy 18th century ball by a Doctor who was now refusing to dance, personally thought she couldn't look or feel less like a butterfly. Not in this corset, anyway. However, a certain Mr Henry Field seemed to have different ideas. Cassie, a petite, brown-haired girl she'd met not half an hour ago, was looking at her expectantly, and Rose suddenly understood.

"What, you mean he's coming over here?" she asked, horror-struck. The last thing she wanted was to dance with a complete stranger who saw her as some sort of potential future commodity should the evening go well. As much as she loved history and her trips back into it, Rose was very much a modern girl with modern attitudes she couldn't seem to shake – attitudes she didn't want to shake, at least when it came to the subservience and possession of women.

"Yes! Can you not see him? There, by the punch. Oh, Heavens, I think he has seen us looking." The brunette twirled back round and suppressed a giggle, and Rose wondered how her corset didn't split.

Rose looked over, unconcerned. The man in question seemed to be a handsome if cold and slightly staring gentleman with something of a fondness for alcoholic refreshments. "So?" she asked, turning back to Cassie, not caring if he had seen them looking.

"It's improper!" Cassie gave Rose the look she was well used to by now – the quick quirk of the eyebrow and bitten-down friendly laughter from someone who couldn't quite figure out how she managed to look the part and yet never quite fit in. Gwyneth had said the same. "You are a lucky girl, Miss Rose. If Mr Field has his eye on you, then you shall not be left on the sidelines tonight."

"What do you mean?" Rose asked, not entirely sure she wanted to know.

"They say he has wicked, womanising ways," Cassie whispered mischievously, her eyes lighting up and her elaborate curls bobbing as she emphasised her words with slight, dainty nods of her head. "He asks a single girl to dance and proceeds to stay close to her throughout the entire evening. By morning, rumours are abound, she is quoting verses she swears he composed for her during a Purcell number and her mother is sure they are to be married, but nothing ever comes of it. They say he is thoroughly interviewing us, looking for a suitable wife with whom to share his considerable fortune." Cassie lowered her voice still further. "Five thousand a year!"

Rose did her best to look impressed, but the meagre nature of such a sum in her own society wasn't the only barrier to her admiration. She wouldn't care if he made fifty thousand a year – she'd still rather avoid dancing with a man who treated women like cows or loaves of bread or even cars to test-drive before he buys.

"I can't dance with him, anyway," she said hurriedly, feigning disappointment but secretly bouncing (mentally, of course; such an action would be impossible in such a dress) with glee. "The Doctor – "

" – Is not dancing," Cassie put in, "And it would be a mistake to avoid Mr Field on that account."

Rose silently cursed the Doctor's ridiculous reluctance to dance at a ball he had insisted they go to. Something about the Austen sisters, he'd said, but he obviously hadn't found his Jane, because he was currently standing against the wall in a near-sulk, looking up at her in an amused sort of way when he wasn't busy swirling his wineglass around and looking into its depths.

She pulled her attention back to the girl in front of her and the rapidly approaching man not five metres away. "But I don't want – "

"Every female in the room desires Mr Field's attention. Do not be modest, Rose; why should you not have your turn?"

She was about to protest that she didn't want a turn as though she was a ticket number in a deli queue when the much-discussed man was suddenly upon them, greeting Cassie and introducing himself to Rose in a decidedly false BBC accent. And, before she quite knew what was happening, Cassie was frantically whispering, "Be polite. And do talk properly!" and she herself was being whisked away to the other end of the room.

Rose did her best to smile and curtsey while wishing for her new partner to trip and sprain an ankle before the music started again. There were a few minutes before the next dance was scheduled to begin – the much-loved band were taking a much-deserved rest – and he obviously planned to spend every second of it talking about himself.

Why couldn't she resemble a wasp? A great big unfriendly wasp that repelled slimy 18th century suitors? That would have been good, not to mention helpful. Anything but a butterfly. Perhaps then she wouldn't be backed into a corner with him, facing an entire evening of falsely smiled fancy footwork when all she really wanted was to dance with the man who'd brought her here – who, Rose noticed, was suddenly looking decidedly more interested in her whereabouts.

Henry was telling her of his business and she was sure he'd been at it hours, but the clock indicated that thirty seconds or more couldn't have passed. Rose was simply nodding along, not really listening and only pretending to be interested when the phrase "exquisitely crafted" as a reference to herself reached her ears.

"I'm not – " an ornament, you git, she was about to protest, but quickly remembered Cassie's warning, the details of when and where she was and changed tack. "I mean," she tried again, "You flatter me, sir, but you could not be further from the truth." She forced down a little self-congratulatory bounce for a sentence well done, wishing the Doctor could have heard it, and hoped that would be the end of it.

But he was off again, pouring out the adjectives, and she couldn't help but wonder what he was after. She was sure people didn't flirt this obviously in the 18th century, and Cassie had said he almost interviewed women, not that he threw empty compliments at them. Perhaps he had heard the Dame Rose when she and the Doctor were announced and thought her to be rich. She almost laughed at that, right in the middle of one of his insincere sentiments; she could safely say she had never been chased for money before.

Rose peered over Henry Field's shoulder with the intention of silently imploring the Doctor to come to her rescue and was surprised to find him only a few steps away, striding purposely towards the two of them in their corner.

He reached them with his hands in his pockets and said mildly, without ceremony or introduction, "Sorry, she's taken."

Henry, his back originally to him, turned and raised a cool eyebrow. "For every dance?"

The Doctor nodded decisively, and Rose was grateful for his apparent change of heart despite his earlier reluctance. "For every dance."

"And who are you, may I ask," Henry said, the may clearly nothing more than an observation of social custom and certainly not a request for compliance or permission, "To claim her so? I see no ring upon her finger."

"Do you not?" The Doctor glanced at Rose's hand and saw, to his dismay, that she had removed all of her usual rings to better fit in. "No, you do not. Well," he recovered quickly, "That's because we haven't had one made yet. Have we, Rose?" He stage-whispered conspiratorially to the man: "Sausage fingers, this one. You know how it is." And he took her by the hand and led her firmly away.

"Did we just pretend to be married?" she hissed as soon as they were out of earshot, still walking across the room hand-in-hand.

The Doctor shrugged non-committally. "Meh. Engaged. Though I suppose they are near enough one and same, in this time," he mused, tugging on his ear.

Rose didn't quite know how to follow that, so she didn't try. "Well, you could've come over sooner!" she complained instead, hitting his arm. "I was stuck pretending to be flattered for ages."

"It was only a minute and a half," he protested. "Well, a minute and thirty three point two seconds, but who's counting? And no, I couldn't've come over sooner."

Rose looked him up and down incredulously as they came to a halt in the middle of the dance floor "Why?! You were just standing there. 'S not like you found Jane Austen and got caught up arguing over who really wrote Pride and Prejudice, is it?"

"I was busy watching you be uncomfortable, Little Miss Butterfly," he grinned knowingly, and she went purple, ignoring the poor excuse in her embarrassment.

"Oh, never-ever call me that again. And please, whatever time we're in, tell me I can deck the next bloke who tries it on, yeah?"

The Doctor sniggered, feeling decidedly sorry for anyone on the receiving end of such treatment from an indignant Rose. "I give you full permission to deck whomever you see fit – providing your shoes are suitable for running," he added, thoughtfully, as the music struck back up. He grinned abruptly and held his hand out. "Care to dance?"

She took his hand happily, teasing him all the same. "What, so I have to wait 'til someone else asks me before you'll get up here? You're so Ron Weasley."

"I've always wanted to be ginger…"

--

Henry had compared her to a butterfly, but he was just as wrong as Cassie had been about every girl wanting his attention. Later, mulling things over as they lay over some beautifully alien grass, watching Rose watch the stars, the Doctor privately considered it something of an insult. Fishing into his pockets, he pulled out some tiny, butterfly-like fireflies, throwing them up into the air to illuminate the night as he told her about each of the constellations and pointed out the ones they hadn't yet visited. Rose sighed contentedly, imagining the infinite things to come within her little fantasy of their forever, and he thought of how very different she was from the winged creatures she had been likened to.

While Rose may have spent the night flitting from one social circle to another in a good imitation of the insect, a butterfly was light and insubstantial, indecisive, travelling everywhere and never forming any kind of deep attachment. The very definition of the butterfly was transformation, but he felt in this moment that he only knew her better every day because fundamentally she never changed. Even her name indicated something completely opposite to Henry Field's supposition: roses signified eternal love, deep and meaningful affection, but by no means anything superficial or fleeting. Her life with him might well end up being short, but she would never let that stop her.

A butterfly could not give forever. The difference, however, lay in the fact that it would not try.