Friday the Thirteenth
"Dreams are important... never underestimate them." —The Fifth Doctor, "Snakedance"
Rose opened her eyes, rubbing them. What time was it? She lifted her right wrist toward her face, rolling over in the darkness. Before she had successfully brought the LED display watch, set at Earth Relative Time from the day she had left with the Doctor, to her face, she encountered something smooth along her elbow. What was that? she wondered. She turned over, at the same moment realizing her chilliness stemmed, not from a draft in her TARDIS bedroom, but from the fact she was naked. Completely starkers.
What was up with that? She never went to sleep naked. Even at home, with only her mother in the apartment to care, she'd always worn a tank top and shorts. With Jack around, there was no way in hell she was going to sleep naked. She opened her eyes again at what her elbow had bumped into and had to blink. It was somebody's torso. It was a man's torso. It was . . . Jack's torso.
She stumbled out of bed, tripping over the sheets. "Oh my God," she muttered to herself, grabbing the sheets to toss around herself, toga-style. She was in bed with Jack. She was naked; he seemed to be, too. My God . . . why couldn't she remember? Think Rose, think! What had seen been doing the night before? Drinking? Had she been drinking a lot? She put her hand to her forehead. No! She hadn't had a drop of liquor. She'd been—playing cards with Jack, that's right! Poker, and trying desperately to get the Doctor to join in. Jack had told a story about gambling on Veta 15, a rough neck of the woods if there ever was one . . . and then one about meeting Wyatt Earp . . . and then . . . and then! . . . it all went fuzzy. Surely they couldn't have--? After a lousy game of cards--?
Jack was stirring on the bed. Rose leapt away in fright. Oh My God, oh my God . . . she panicked. She edged toward the door, trying not to trip on the sheet. She found the handle and jumped outside, closing the door just as she heard ". . . Rose . . .?"
She sank back against the door, blinking in the low and yet sterile, peering light of one of the TARDIS corridors. "Calm down," she whispered to herself. Jack hadn't come after her; that was a good sign. He had gone back to sleep. She pressed her ear against the door. Yes. Asleep. Good. She shivered, pulling the toga-sheet around her more closely. Her bare feet were beginning to hurt on the floor grating. Well—she'd just get back to her room, go back to bed, and maybe she'd find that the whole thing was a bad dream. "Yeah, that's it," she whispered. "I'm dreaming." Feeling considerably uplifted by this thought, she tried to remember which way to take to her own room. She'd been to Jack's often enough—he always inviting her in, she always declining—until now! She took a deep breath and began walking.
The TARDIS wasn't exactly quiet, she thought, moving as quickly as she could, but it seemed to be holding its breath. The console room was easily the loudest part of the TARDIS—that she'd seen—with its whirring sounds, soft whooshes of air . . . Here there thrummed a steady heartbeat. She liked to think of it as the TARDIS being maternal. That's it, she thought, anthropomorphize while you're at it . . . She was one corridor and two doors away from her room when . . .
"Rose?" It was the voice she had least wanted to hear. Oh bollocks. She turned around, trying to look as casual as possible. Not an easy thing to do with a sheet as the only thing between her and the air. The Doctor was looking at her, mildly intrigued by the look on his face.
She looked him directly in the eye. "Yeah, I locked myself out of my room."
He frowned. "TARDIS doors don't lock."
Don't they? That revelation was a whopper right on its own. But she decided now was not the time to have a row. Bringing up the TARDIS' getting-in-your-head qualities was bound to make the Doctor want to start a fight. "Yeah, well, there's somefink wrong with mine—it's stuck or somefink." Her voice trailed off, and she looked at her hands.
Please just believe me. Come on, Doctor . . . "All right, I'll see what I can do," he said brightly, hoisting it out of his pocket, "with the help of the sonic screwdriver." She sighed, loudly, and barreled away. "Your room is that way."
She turned around, mentally cursing, and moved past him. She was blushing, and even the poor lighting couldn't hide that. "Right, of course." She moved as fast as modesty would allow, attempting to cover most of her body with the sheet and yet not trip over it. He caught up, staring at her. She looked down, moving briskly. "What are you doin' up so early?" Anything to curb the flow of questions.
"'S not that early," he said, again with the mild surprise. He checked his watch. "It's barely twelve o'clock."
Bloody hell. "Oh." She could have sworn it to be three or four in the morning, at least. She glanced at her watch. He was right. They were almost there . . .
"You must have had a rough night." She looked up sharply. Did he know? He was smiling innocently. He was teasing.
"Yeah." She bounded up to her door. "Well, go on." He looked at her, a bit taken aback. He brought out the screwdriver. She tried not to shiver. It bleeped and whined. He hit it with the flat of his hand. It bleeped some more and glowed blue.
" 'S not working. It says this door's functioning perfectly." She tried not to allow the blush to creep onto her skin, but again she was unsuccessful. The screwdriver bleeped more determinedly. The Doctor scowled. He reached out and tried the knob with his hand. The door fell open effortlessly.
Rose scraped past him, getting her shoulder in the door and most of her body following. "'Ffanks," she tossed.
He jammed his hand in the door before she could close it. "Wait, I didn't do anything." She tried not to look guilty. He wasn't accusatory, just perplexed. Then an idea seemed to coalesce. "Are those Jack's sheets?"
Oh, damn. It had somehow slipped her notice that the sheets were lavender-colored. She knew her own sheets were striped in yellow and red. She looked up, challenging with her glare. No use denyin' it. "It's none of your business if they are."
She regretted it almost as soon as she had said it. She watched him carefully, waited for the angry light of his eyes, the setting of his jaw, the folding of his arms across his chest. But it never came. He grinned enormously. "You're right," he said very cheerfully. Before she could get another word in, he let go of the door, putting the screwdriver away. "Good night. Pleasant dreams."
And he walked away. Struck by her good luck, and a little frightened by it, Rose closed her door as quickly and as quietly as she could. She found her big t-shirt and short shorts on the bed and hurriedly changed into them, glancing anxiously at the door every so often. The doors didn't lock? "Why not?" she asked the TARDIS aloud, half-expecting an answer. Not getting one, she flung herself into bed and closed her eyes.
She had them closed for about twenty seconds before she opened them again. A most troubling thought had occurred to her. If she'd slept with Jack . . . which it appeared she had . . . had he used . . . you know . . . protection? Surely in the fifty-first century men were savvy about that. She strained again and again to remember the events of the evening after the card game and before the lavender sheets, but to no avail. Never mind getting knocked up . . . what kind of future STDs might Jack have passed on to her?
No, no, no. "He wouldn't have been that irresponsible." What about her own responsibility? She couldn't remember a thing. "Oh dear . . ."
She turned over on her side, punched her pillow to flatten it, and resolved to sleep and leave these musings for the morning. This resolution lasted all of five minutes. How can I face them? Facing Jack would be bad enough. Wondering throughout what kind of unexpected presents he might have left her with, and feeling terrible for not remembering anything . . . "Plus, if one's going to have sex with Jack, one should at least have enjoyed it." Hadn't she enjoyed it? Surely . . .? "Do I always talk to myself this much?"
Yes, dealing with Jack would be bad. But what about dealing with the Doctor? What are you on about? It's not his business. He'd said as much. But she knew him. There was no use trying to conceal it from him, and Jack, if nothing else, wouldn't be able to keep quiet about it. She could imagine his anger in full force from personal experience. Would he be . . . upset, too? she wondered. Jealous? If he's going to be jealous of anyone, it's going to be of me. While the Doctor had never evinced any interest in Jack's playful flirting, Rose had no doubt that any sentient being presented with Rose or Jack would choose Jack, no matter what.
So what would the Doctor have to be angry about? she thought sleepily. She wasn't his . . . and he didn't feel anything like that for her . . . Problem solved . . .
When she woke up in her room the next morning, Rose was almost convinced the entire escapade had been a dream. A weird, slightly exhilarating dream . . . That is, until she got out of bed and saw the purple sheets in a heap on the floor. She sighed deeply. She checked her watch. 10:00. When had she actually fallen asleep? She had no idea. For a moment, a wild desire to stay in her room and away from the two men on board struck her.
"No, I've got to face them sooner or later . . ." She got dressed with more than usual care, put on her make up, brushed her hair, and tiptoed out of her room with the intention of heading off the situation at once: they were bound to be in the control room by now.
She almost expected to meet one or both of them on the way there, holding a mug of tea or toast or whatever it was the Doctor ate (he never seemed to eat in her presence). She was slightly unnerved, and the TARDIS was on that quiet-but-not-quiet frequency again. Her trainers had a tendency to squeak on the gantry leading into the console room, so she moved very slowly and quietly on her way there. There were voices coming from inside. She made a split-second decision: go in loudly or eavesdrop unashamedly? She chose the latter.
Jack was yawning. There was a clink of machinery. "Have a wild night?" This came from the Doctor. His voice was so innocent, so casual.
She waited for Jack's response. Would he lie? Surely not. "Yeah, well, I think so." What? He thought so? "I don't remember much." He didn't?
"What do you mean?"
"I have these sense impressions, these memories . . . A blonde seductress . . ." She'd never been called a blonde seductress before. " . . . lots of 'dancing,' if you take my meaning. But that must have been a dream, because in the morning she was gone . . ." She breathed a sigh of astonished relief. Somehow it hadn't gotten through Jack's head that she'd been in his bed that night. He thought it was a dream! She could imagine him scratching his head. " . . .and we haven't stopped on Earth since—"
"You don't have to lie about it, I'm not going to get angry." The Doctor's voice was measured. It was like standing on a teeter-totter, Rose thought, liable to fall into fury on one hand, on the other to be completely cold.
"Lie about what?"
She winced. Would he say it? "I saw Rose going back to her room in the middle of the night." There was a pause. "She was naked." Oh bloody hell.
"Oh, was she?" Jack's voice was all attractive roguishness.
The Doctor's voice was hard. "She was wearing your sheets."
"Ah," said Jack dryly. "I wondered what had happened to those." The Doctor must have given him some kind of look, because he balked, "What?"
The Doctor's voice was charged with undeniable anger. "The least you could do is show her some respect."
"Doctor, don't you think you're jumping to conclusions here?"
"I'm not stupid, Jack. Nine hundred years old, me."
"And I'm not convinced anything happened. I certainly don't remember anything like that. And with Rose, I'm pretty sure I would remember. Aren't you?" Rose blushed deeply and decided this was her cue. She walked into the console room. Jack was leaning on the couch, and the Doctor was standing over the central column, staring down at it blackly.
"Good morning . . ." she said, turning to the Doctor. He didn't even glance at her. She turned to Jack. ". . . everyone."
To her surprise, he strode over to her, nudging her chin, Bogart-style. "Hey, kiddo, how'd you sleep?" Was it just her, or was his voice more warmly affectionate than ever before?
"Awful," she said truthfully. "You?"
Jack looked up at the Doctor. "Uh …"
Rose bit her lip and took a few steps on the metal gantry toward the Doctor. "What about you, Doctor? How'd you sleep?" Her voice wavered, though she tried to keep it neutral.
"I don't sleep," he said coldly. He looked up at her, moving away, then plastered an artificial grin on his face. "Other than that, I had a fantastic night, thanks for asking."
She looked down. Oh dear. Jack moved past her toward the Doctor, carrying some kind of tool. He knelt down beside the console and began to pull out a side panel. "What are you two doing?" Rose asked.
Jack looked up at her, lusty grin blazing. "Just enjoying some quality alone time, right, Doctor?" He stood up and slapped the Doctor on the back, hard. The Doctor gave him an icy look and didn't respond. Rose bit her fingernail. Jack cleared his throat and got back down on his knees. "We're making some repairs," he said.
"Our little Cardiff adventure really threw a wrench into the TARDIS functions," the Doctor said, looking at neither of them.
"But I thought you'd fixed all that."
He stared at her from across the console. Anger hardened his features, made them more alien. "Maybe you could learn to fix things, Rose, then it would go a lot faster!"
She shuddered. It had been awhile since he'd spoken to her like that. "I'm not stupid!" "Could have fooled me!"
Jack unexpectedly came to her rescue. He stood up. "Doctor, don't shout at her—"
"This is my ship, and I can shout at whoever I want!" he exploded, pushing past both of them and out the doors. Emotional control of a five-year-old. Jesus.
"Where are you going?" Rose asked, watching him leave. Oh God. She felt so guilty. Angry, too, and ashamed. And just . . . weird.
Jack walked over to her, gently putting his hand on her shoulders. "That didn't go too badly, considering." She cracked a smile, despite herself. "Hi." And to her surprise, he leaned in and tried to kiss her lips. Oh, Jack had tried to seduce her before, but he'd never tried to kiss her! She pulled away at the last second, getting a kiss on the side of her face instead.
She giggled, trying to make up for this awkward and rather unkind brush-off. "Hi." He pulled away slightly. "So … you don't really remember anyfink?"
He raised an eyebrow, somewhat surprised that she'd been eavesdropping, evidently. "Well, not to seem callous, but …" he said, opening his arms wide ". . . I don't."
She sighed in relief. He must have misinterpreted it as disgust, because he began apologizing. She cut him off. "That's okay, because I don't either."
He raised his other eyebrow. "Really?" He put his hands on his hips and leered. "I've never made that feeble of an impression before."
"No, I'm sure you were superb." Of course he would have been. For a moment she wished away her temporary mental block, damn the consequences. He must have seen the look on her face, for he grinned. Sexily. She turned toward him, biting the inside of her cheek. "But, um, I hope my saying this doesn't embarrass you—"
"Rose, nothing embarrasses me."
She touched him on the arm. "—You used protection, right?"
He stared at her for a second, then laughed. "Oh, sure!" He looked puzzled. "I mean, I think so." Bollocks, bollocks, bollocks. She felt her face fall. "Ah, come on, don't worry," said Jack, trying to be nice. And he was probably right. What was wrong, she considered for a second, with having slept with Jack? Sure, she would have preferred to have remembered it—and preferred to have been sure about protection—but it could have been worse. He put his arms around her gently. He lifted her chin with his hand. God, he was good-looking. He leaned toward her. He wanted to kiss her. She leaned into the kiss, closing her eyes, tasting him. But something stunned her, made her pull back.
"No offense …," she said, to the surprise in his blue eyes, "but if I don't remember saying yes, I don't feel like I actually did say yes."
His smile faded. "So now you think I coerced you—"
"No, I'm not sayin' that!" She moved away, throwing her arms up. Heaven forbid she should actually hurt Jack! "Just that I'm not comfortable … with this quite yet." He waited. How did you tell a man that captivating "no, thanks"? She suddenly felt very small. "I'm all right with Big Ears over here, but Jumping Jack Flash, I don't know . . ." Poor Mickey . . . if he knew about this . . .! "I mean, I've still technically got a boyfriend . . ."
"Oh, please." She whipped around to look at Jack, surprised and, to tell the truth, a little hurt by his sarcasm. He looked down. "Sorry." She looked down as well. Why did this have to be so wretched? Jack took a few steps toward her. "I guess things would be different if I was the Doctor."
"What?" He wasn't joking! The Doctor? What did he have to do with anything? "No!"
"Oh, Rose, it's obvious: you're crazy about him—"
She felt her eyes going wide as saucers; not a flattering look. "You just assume—"
"—And he's crazy about you!"
"What?" She trembled, staring at him. No, he wasn't joking. The Doctor, crazy about her? There was just no way. Why did everyone think that . . . friendship could be really deep . . . trust, and caring, and . . . "Jack, you don't understand." He folded his arms across his chest, with a gameful look on his face. "He's not human, he doesn't have the same kinds of feeling, he doesn't—"
"Honey, I've dated enough aliens to know that isn't true."
Her curiosity was momentarily piqued. But then it was back to the Doctor. "But—he couldn't …" Why couldn't he? He danced, didn't he? What was the name of that tree-woman, at the Viewing Platform in the year one-billion? Jabe? He'd been interested in her. But she had been an alien . . . Jack was watching her with an amused smile, like a cat who was certain of his dinner. She threw the age-gap trump card at him. "He's nine-hundred years old, and I'm twenty." She made it sound as preposterous as possible.
"Okay, then, answer this. Why do you think he got so angry?"
True enough. "The least you could do is show her some respect." Did men ever get territorial about women if something other than jealousy was on the line? She pondered. Another idea struck her. "He doesn't want people sleeping around in the TARDIS." Jack scoffed. "Makes sense." She suddenly remembered. "He told me about this couple, Ben and Polly, right? Used to travel with him? Constantly causing a fuss in the TARDIS, sneaking into each other's rooms—"
"Rose, if he asked you, would you say no? Honestly?"
She turned and looked at Jack. He looked neither mischievous nor malevolent. He looked friendly and earnest. And that's when it struck her: she would never say no. She'd said yes to Jack, apparently, and it had caused a great deal of fuss. She considered, for a moment, what she would have felt like had she woken up in the Doctor's bed (assuming he had one). With a calming sort of clarity, she realized: she wouldn't have gotten up and run away. She would have stayed put. She would have basked in the glow of such a moment, even if she couldn't remember what came before it. She trembled, looking up at Jack. He was sympathetic.
Then she recovered herself. So what if she loved the Doctor? So what if Plato was not at all on her mind when she thought of him? It didn't mean things were going to change, it didn't mean the Doctor felt the same way. Maybe he could feel that way about humans . . . but there was no use crying over spilled milk.
"Well, he's never going to ask, is he?" She felt tears in her eyes. How incredibly stupid! Jack was going to say something. To cut him off, she moved toward him with her arms outstretched. "Come on, I need a hug." She let herself be enveloped in his arms. She wondered for a moment if he would try to kiss her again. He kissed the top of her head, through her hair, and squeezed her more tightly in the hug.
She kept waiting for memories of her night with Jack to surface in the days that followed. But nothing came. For his part, he confessed he had had about as much luck as her, in remembering anything about the evening. Throughout these days, Rose had seen the Doctor maybe once—and only in passing. He lurked in the console room when she wasn't there, never seemed to join them for meals in the kitchen anymore, and seemed to walk the other way whenever she turned a corridor. While she felt the loss of his presence keenly, if it saved him from confrontation, then she was glad.
On the third day, she wandered into the console room with a mug of tea and saw the Doctor and Jack conversing over the column. The Doctor turned to her, à-propos of nothing, and said, "Rose, how would you like to see thirteenth-century Japan? Samurais, feudalism, Shintoism, haiku . . ."
Jack looked at her slyly. "Plus, you'd get to wear a kimono."
She was caught off guard at the happy-family atmosphere once again, but she adapted to it immediately. "Well, why not?" The Doctor looked pleased and started hammering away at the console. A thought struck her. "Don't you ffink we'd stand out a little? Not being Japanese and all?"
"That doesn't matter—this is post-Marco Polo, you know," said the Doctor.
"But that's China, Doctor."
He smiled. "Well, we just won't draw attention to ourselves." Yeah right. In your outfit? His voice lost some of its lightness. "We'll be there soon." He glanced at Rose and Jack. "Go get dressed, you two." Rose shared a look with Jack. He nodded slightly. Shrugging, she followed him as they walked out of the console room, toward the wardrobe room. She was just about to exit when . . . "Rose, can I have a word?"
She sighed. This was probably not going to be pretty. "But I thought you said I needed to get dressed."
He came to stand beside her. "I'm not angry," he said. "You were right." What? She glanced at him, brow furrowed. "It's your personal life, and it's none of my business."
What he said made sense . . . but then again, this was the Doctor speaking. He rarely made sense. "You really mean that?"
"Absolutely." He smiled. She waited for the other shoe to drop. "Like I said, though, I don't do domestic." There it was. "If you two are a couple—"
"Who said anyfink about us being a couple? Look, Doctor, I woke up in Jack's bed." Was it her imagination, or did he wince? "Neither of us remember anyfink. Don't you think it's the least bit possible that nothing happened?" He looked away. "Anyway, we've both agreed that if we did anything, it was a mistake."
He moved away from her, pacing, distracted. "How can you say that, 'if'?" His voice was high-pitched, like it got when he was upset. "I saw you kissing!"
Kissing? Oh—she remembered. When Jack had kissed her, and she'd pulled away. The Doctor was spying now, too? Maybe Jack was right! "I thought you weren't angry. I thought it was none of your business."
"Rose—" he said, and he'd never said her name like that before—just once, when she'd implored him not to destroy the Dalek. It would have broken her heart—if she hadn't been so angry.
"Well, say it then, own up to it, Doctor! You're jealous!"
He looked at her, pleadingly, stubbornly. "I just—didn't want him to hurt you!"
The words were out of her mouth before she realized what he had said, "Thought I was capable of taking care of myself." Stunned by the feeling in his voice, the very un-alien emotion and affection, she waited for him to say something. Instead, he stood, not touching her, remote. "Well, fine, if you aren't going to say it …" She was tingling all over, in the knowledge that what she had admitted to no one was at last going to see the light of the open. "I have been in love with you from practically the first second I met you." He started to argue. "And maybe that isn't right, maybe I'm too much of a stupid ape for you to even—"
"Rose, that's not what--!"
She turned away, so he wouldn't see how worked up she was getting. "You just want to be my friend, or my mentor, or somefink, and that's fine." She took a deep breath. "I just wanted to say it."
She had never heard the TARDIS so quiet. She was inches from the door. She walked toward it, squaring her shoulders—
—a hand was on hers, pulling her into an embrace—
"You dropped off a bit, didn't you?"
She opened her eyes. "What? What's happening?"She saw the Doctor looking down at her, like she expected, but he wasn't kissing her, like she expected. She wasn't standing up, either. She was in the console room, lying down on the couch. She was stiff, like she'd fallen asleep. He was looking at her.
"You couldn't sleep," he said, "came to keep me company. Don't you remember?"
Had this happened before or after playing cards with Jack? After. Before or after sleeping with Jack? Had she slept with Jack? Had she told the Doctor she . . . He was still looking at her, bemused. Guess not. "So … I didn't get locked out of my room?" It was the easiest way to test him. Least embarrassing way.
He frowned. "Your room doesn't lock. Doesn't need to."
She wanted to argue, again, about the TARDIS not locking its inner doors, but she had more important things to worry about. She'd dreamed it all. She sat up on the couch. She had played cards with Jack. She'd gone to bed. Then couldn't sleep. She'd walked into the console room. She'd dreamed it all. "Well, I had quite a dream then." She cradled her forehead in her hand.
"Oh yeah? What about?"
She tried not to blush. "Oh … nothing." He gave her a skeptical look. "I mean, I can't really remember."
She waited for him to persevere. Instead, he moved back to the console and stared at it. "Well, what do you say to thirteenth-century Kyoto?" She started. "There are samurai—"
"Wait, that's where we were going in the dream. How is that possible?"
"Well, the TARDIS is telepathic." So he often said. "Maybe she picked up something while I was thinking it."
If the TARDIS had predicted that the Doctor would suggest going to Kyoto, was the whole sleeping-with-Jack, kissing-the-Doctor a future occurrence, too? She flushed at the thought of it. "Can the TARDIS predict the future?"
"Not exactly. There are hundreds of possibilities for future events—maybe she just predicted one possible outcome." He looked at her, raising his eyebrow. "Why?"
She got off the couch, swinging her arms nonchalantly, simian-like. "No reason." Now wait a bloody minute. "Um, what day is it?"
"Earth Relative Time?" He looked at his wristwatch, then some dial on the TARDIS console. He swung around, checked the laptop screen. "It's Friday. Um, March the thirteenth." Ha ha, Friday the Thirteenth. She looked up at the TARDIS ceiling. At least the box had a sense of humor. When she looked back down again, the Doctor had the bemused look on his face. Are you going to ask me? Do you want to know what I just dreamed about, Doctor? But he said nothing.
He cleared his throat and leaned over the console. "Well, why don't you go find Jack?" he asked loudly. "If we're going to Kyoto, you've got to get dressed."
"Right, kimono," she said nervously, making her way toward the door.
Once she was outside, she glanced around. There was no one, except the steady hum of the TARDIS. She clasped the wall in her arms and hugged. "Ffanks," she said.
A/N:
"The Doctor's hopelessly in love with Rose . . ." --Steven MoffatDoes the world really need another Nine/Rose fluff-fest? Not really. Did that stop me from writing one? Not really. Who should know better than Steven Moffat how the Doctor and Rose feel about each other? After getting this "official" confirmation, I figured it was okay to add my own two cents to the situation. Also indirectly inspired by my own Friday the Thirteenth experience several years ago where I woke up with the leg of my pajama bottoms shredded and no explanation forthcoming (N.B.—I slept alone, though I suppose it could have been one of the cats?). A hearty thank you to Sarah for her beta-ing skills.
Second in what I hope is a long series of "holiday" fics. See "Birthdays" for the first one. "St. Valentine's Day" is next in the bunch.