The Last Rose
a Doctor Who + The Monkees crossover fanfiction
[Summary] After having his invitation refused for the first time, the 9th Doctor finds advice and incentive in an unexpected place.
[Disclaimer] Doctor Who, its plots, universes, characters and medias, belongs to BBC and the authorized enterprises. The Monkees (band and songs) belongs to those wonderful, charming musicians; the TV show, to NBC, Screen Gems and Columbia Pictures; and the albums, to Rhino and Warner.
The crossover Doctor Nez (Mike Nesmith as a Timelord) was an idea by the wonderful authors revychumso, rose-of-pollux and carlisliesimms, fountains of wisdom to both fandoms. Please, go find them on Tumblr and give all the praise they deserve.
The One Rose (Left In My Heart) is, at once, a waltz and a country music classic, originally composed in 1930 (!) by Del Lyon and Lani McIntyre, and recorded in several other covers, in which we can count Mike Nesmith's, as part of the trilogy with The First National Band, in his first solo album, Magnetic South, of 1970.
[Initial Notes] Sorry, I'm not a native speaker, and this story was first conceived and written in Português. So, if you spot any grammar and spelling errors, please, don't be ashamed of pointing them (and your opinions in general) in the box below! :)
.
.
She didn't want to get into the TARDIS with him again.
After that fiasco, he couldn't say anything against her.
Nevertheless, she didn't pass the impression of a conformist person, or of someone who'd enjoy routines and predictability. Also, she'd never look like a coward. No way.
To find out the true nature of the beings that stole faces, or got hosted into the mannequins, she did everything beyond the call of duty to her job and her family, until the final consequences. Including an alliance with a complete uknown, unable to inspire any trust.
But, when they triumphed over the enemies, and everything went back to normal, she'd rather end their brief partnership.
He could never judge her, didn't have this right. Even so, the rejection hurt in both his hearts.
On the other hand, it was nearly reassuring, to see that his hearts still had any influence over his young, newly-regenerated body, and his equally young mind, hyperactive in spite of the age, but both so tired after long centuries of battle.
The War could have ended to the planets involved - some of them, with their entire population, were not amongst the existant anymore, by his fault - however, to him, the war was infinite. His lonely torment, impossible to describe, a prison without walls, walked along with him, infinite and inexorable, until the end of all worlds.
And there was not a living soul to guide him back to sanity.
He was worthy of such punishment, as the genocidal of countless people, inluding his own.
Cass ran away from him, like she'd do against a monster or a demon. She wasn't wrong. The amazing girl from Babylon tried to save him, and ended an outcast, a horror story eternally haunting her own people. Rose, after a brief glimpse of his monstruous nature, and his utter inability of saving all of the innocents who crossed his path, followed the wise female intuition, and stayed home.
He didn't have a home to go back to, so he left the choice of the next stop to the TARDIS. It was always a wise movement. No other technology on time-space machines could compare its driving skills with the super smart Old Girl.
To his surprise, they stopped facing more water. Not a river, like the Thames, but a titanic immensity, the Pacific Ocean, lulling the continent in sleepy waves, peacefully dozing through entire geological ages, and conveniently hiding the sound of the dematerialization.
Anyway, it wasn't hard to enjoy a long walk on that desert beach, and go unnoticed.
Nonetheless, they had company. Someone who sang to a nearly extinct bonfire, and a beautiful blonde guitar, well-sheltered in long, thin arms.
Mike didn't expect to have that much fun. He should have gone around town, looking for work, to himself and the band. But Pete got a gift from some neighbors, in the form of a good lot of several leftovers, and proposed a picnic on the beach; as a suddent opportunity to chill out, sing and eat well, close to the fire.
They savoured hot dogs, baked potatos, enjoyed some desserts, and sang, in delight and harmony, with the sounds of the waves, the sunset, the moon and stars ascending into the sky. (2)
The hours advanced, and the young men gave way to exaustion, a pacific sleep, even better to be enjoyed, in a rare time when they were all safe and well-fed.
In spite of being as satiated and tired as the friends he tucked into bed, like a bird zealous of its fledgling cubs, the musician couldn't sleep. He got hold of the custom made guitar, went out the door, crossed the street, and sank his feet in the sand of the beach.
That moment of insomnia brought to him, for some mysterious whim, a bittersweet nostalgia for his motherland.
Michael would never regret migrating to California, pursuing his dream. Quite the opposite. He found a loving, protective family, with whom he could share his anxieties, his needs, and his music.
He had a fond remembrance of the moment when Micky asked him to sing the first song he learnt; and Davy's fiery insistance for having him singing on gigs too. He remembered Peter's unexpected and genius idea of proposing duets and vocal harmonies that needed the whole band, as a subtle way to force him to sing, and get the attention he also deserved, as part of the band, an imperative necessary part of the group. (3)
And it was with shame that he remembered the difficulty in believing that their appreciation, for his voice and his skills, was true, since the very beginning. After some lonely, bitter months living the life of a homeless unemployed, and suffering the complete rejection of any audience, besides having to put up with horrible people jeering at him for sounding like a "hillbilly", it seemed impossible that he ever could findd other professional musicians, inspired by unresistible empathy and creativity, who would enjoy his company and his compositions.
And against all odds, all possibilities, and all advices and common sense, they adopted him, welcoming him into their home. They were the brothers he never had, the precious companions for whom he worried, the people with whom he could live in mutual love, care and protection.
But that didn't mean that he couldn't, once in a while, miss the perfume and the colors of the angels' trumpets, the calls and runnings of the prarie chickens, the impossible heat of the desert air, and the way it turned into a green fountain of life, in the rainy seasons. A whole kaleidoscope of all possible shades of green, beyond where the eyes could see.
Nothing could be better, to take this blues away, than singing something that could bring forth the remembrance of motherland. The brief time of the song would bring him back to somewhere under the graceful sunrise that painted the sky with all shades of rose. He could return, even for some fleeting moments, to that poetic, lonely place where it was impossible to know where the earth ended, and the sky began.
A waltz. A love song. Back then, back there, this kind of music never brought him any luck; finding someone who wanted to hear him was a homeric task; and any of the girls at school ever wanted to dance with him.
Indeed, his past life was exactly like the one lived by the character of this song.
However, there was a man who liked dancing with Michael. Micky would hug him to the sound of the music, invite him to enjoy life, play and dance along with anything. Or he would jus smile at him, with his hazel-colored eyes lit with true joy, enough to light a whole town.
Both the drummer, with his nearly angelical voice, and the percussionist, with his elegant British accent, made crystal clear all about the honor they felt, in singing the shy westerner poet's compositions to the alternative scene of Malibu.
The young struggling musician didn't need to dream about the loving perfume of a rose, thankful for the caring and nurturing. After his long journey, he left the desert behind, and got to a garden, with three exotic plants that grew taller, flowered and with plenty of fruits, under his tender care and concern. They extended, like the refreshing shade of robust trees, an aura of friendship, mutual comfort and protection in his life.
He didn't want to stay in the TARDIS, with only his own storm of negative thoughts for company. He neither wantes to go out and face aa stranger who would ask nosy questions.
Even so, there were undeniable magnetism and empathy in that strange's music. That juvenile, but deep voice could be the voice of someone who knew him as well as his own tormented conscience. The poetry of the song felt like composed at his request.
A poetry that was worthy of being heard live, carried throught the nearly cold sea air, instead of filtered by the cameras and scanners of the console.
Once out on the beach, he leaned on some rocks, away enough to avoid any contact, close enough for his accurate hearing catch every letter and every note.
Loneliness and sorrow suffocated the memory of experiencing true love. However, in the middle of the torment, immeasurable as earth after the catastrophe, a flower grew. A rose, a little, brief, fragile life. But also the unforgettable symbol of a kind, giving and restoring feeling.
Lonely hope, wandering endlessly on the dephts of the conscience of the exhausted, the defeated, who traveled aimlessly through the Universe.
Though, her courage and kindness could save him, regenerate him, more than the stubborn nature of his cells ever could, when they gave him a new body and personality, as it happened during his past ten deaths.
So he left the slumbering beach, and the solitaire singer who haunted it, yodeling like a mystic figure howling to the moon, before going back into his box, and setting the coordinates to that exact moment.
If she'd decline again, he'd go away. She would be lost, along with his sanity, drown into uncountable billions of bittersweet recallings.
If she accepted, he'd be honoured for travelling with her. It would be the only and best way of sharing the rest of his life with her, the perfect silent, yet meaningful gesture of his love and gratitude towards her.
Exactly like the person in the song, the Doctor would be saved by a Rose.
.
.
.
[End Notes]
1. The official explanation for poor 9's recovery after being "dumped" by Rose is one of the chapters of the wonderful collection of short tales 12 Doctors, 12 Stories. (Brazilian Edition: Rio de Janeiro: Rocco, 2015) If you haven't read the book and don't like spoilers, please, skip to the next note.
The 9th Doctor's short story consists of a nice trip to the ancient Babylon, where he finds his next temporary companion. She's not human, though. But, throughout the text, it's easy to feel how irrelevant this was to the Doctor, and how he was the only one who actually treated her like an actual person. They chat and pour their souls out to each other, and she becomes a cute protector of his, and gives him a lot of advices.
2. A shameless transposition of some verses from the song Auntie's Municipal Court, composed by Mike, for the band's fifth studio album, The Birds, The Bees & The Monkees.
3. The found family unit, drawn together before the band and the TV series, and Mike's chronic lack of confidence due to his voice, are headcanons taken from other authors in the fandom, nezclaw and averyextraordinaryscene, from Tumblr, also LisaBoon1966, at AO3.
Like lots of other headcanons, these tales have a certain touch of truth. One of the comic/ narrative resources that was repeated throughout the whole series is poor Mike's "hillbilly twang".
This "exotic drawl" could probably be the final "proof" to make the executive producer in charge of the show, Don Kirschner, dismiss all of the guitarist's compositions, and his voice as well, jeering at them and calling them, with his most delicate words, "non-comercial".
Michael even denied, for decades, that he ever sang or composed certain songs in the show's OST, until someone who worked at Rhino dug out some old recordings from the 1960s, to be used at the remasterization of The Monkees' discography. And this blessed person sent him a copy of the demo version of the song The Girl I Knew Somewhere.
It's easy to imagine the fictitious personality of this young man suffering under prejudice and hostility, just for being unable to sound like the singers from the "big city", and developing the unbreakable belief that nobody would ever want to hear him. :(
Thank heavens that his adoptive children convinced him about the contrary - which was the truth!