Disclaimer: I don't own Doctor Who. Duh.
Author's Note: Shit. What now? Read, review, hopefully enjoy.
One:
"One day I shall come back. Yes, I shall come back.
Until then, there must be no regrets, no tears, no anxieties."
Almost exactly three years later…Year 2211
Time, as mentioned before, is a fickle thing. Especially for the Doctor. He and Time had been close companions for going on 910 years. Yet somehow he proved to be one of the least punctual beings in the universe, not for lack of trying. Occasionally he showed up at exactly the proper time, but this was more often than not by accident. When he meant to be somewhere at a specific time, he generally overshot by a few years, give or take a century. Time is no easy thing. Not even for a Time Lord.
So not unexpectedly, the Doctor was running a bit late. He parked the Tardis with even more reckless abandon than usual, leaving the brakes on as always. There was the sound he loved. That unmistakable groan. Or a gasp. Yes, the Doctor preferred to think of it as more of a gasp; the first breath of a new adventure. Hundreds of years traveling through time and space, and the Doctor still felt young every time he ventured somewhere new, somewhere unknown. He still experienced hungry, excited butterflies in his stomach. The possibilities just on the other side of the blue Tardis doors! Oh, it was the moment just before he threw them open that the Doctor loved most. What next? he asked himself every day. What next?
Without bothering to check the atmosphere outside (there was no reason to, for he knew exactly where he was), the Doctor pushed open the Tardis doors and stepped into a darkened hallway that he'd visited once before, perhaps fifteen minutes ago. It was the year 2211, if he wasn't mistaken, and the height of the 32nd British Empire. It wasn't a time he was well acquainted with; rather boring in his opinion, but there was something interesting here now.
The Doctor tip toed down the hall, past the snoring Mr. Goode and his wife's bedroom, to the last door, slightly ajar, on the right. He paused, wondering if he might should wait until morning, but decided against it. After all, he was already here and he was already late. The Doctor strode into Gatsby Goode's bedroom and closed the door behind him.
Not much had changed in the three years, or fifteen minutes, he'd been gone. The walls were still grey. The windows were still non-existent. The ceiling was still a boring thing to stare at. Only two things had changed; the vanity mirror in the corner of the room was covered by a thick, black curtain, which judging by the dust in the folds, hadn't been opened in a long time, and the girl fast asleep in the rather large bed was three years older. Gatsby Goode hadn't died. In fact, she'd grown about an inch and regained the color in her cheeks.
The Doctor leaned over the sleeping girl. She was perfectly frozen, lying on her back, with her hands folded over her stomach; like a corpse. Not even her eyes moved beneath her pale eyelids. But she was breathing deep and steady. Watching her, the Doctor wondered if she would remember him. He remembered her clearly. Good old Gatsby Goode. It was really a wonderful name. Fifteen minutes ago, at least in his time line, she'd been on her deathbed, and what had amazed the Doctor more than anything else was how unafraid she'd been.
Fifteen minutes ago for him. Three years for her. But the Doctor wasn't easy to forget. He shone the green light of his Sonic Screwdriver over her face.
"Wakey wakey," he sing-songed. Gatsby Goode stirred just a bit. She was a deep sleeper. The Doctor pinched her up-turned nose until her eyelids fluttered open.
At first Gatsby assumed she was finally having a dream. An honest to goodness dream, like the kind her parents feared. She was dreaming about the crazy man who called himself just the Doctor. The crazy man who'd saved her life, even if she wasn't quite sure how. Gatsby smiled. It wasn't as terrible as her parents made it sound. Really he was just standing there. Gatsby wondered what a dream person would feel like. She lifted her hand to touch his face, and it felt real. Exceptionally real. Too horribly real.
Gatsby Goode realized she wasn't dreaming at all. She opened her mouth to scream, but the Doctor clamped his hand firmly over her mouth before any sound managed to sneak out.
"I'd rather you didn't," the Doctor whispered. Gatsby stared up at him wide-eyed, breathing through his fingers. Three years, he'd promised, I'll be back in exactly three years from today.
"Now if I move my hand, you won't scream?" Gatsby nodded. The Doctor pulled his hand away and stepped back. Does she remember? he thought, as she narrowed her mossy green eyes and sat up against her headboard. If she doesn't, this is rather awkward.
"You're late," Gatsby Goode accused, folding her arms over her chest.
"Am not," the Doctor argued. She pointed to the clock on her bedside table, frowning.
"You were supposed to be here yesterday and it's 12:06."
"12:06," the Doctor spluttered. "Six minutes! You're going to hold me accountable for six minutes? I was bloody saving a cruise ship from a nasty run in with a black hole. Pardon me for losing track of time."
Gatsby swung her legs over the edge of the bed and stood. She circled around him. The man hadn't changed at all. He was even wearing the same clothes; crooked bow tie and those ridiculous, outdated suspenders. There wasn't a trace any time had passed since he'd left, because Gatsby hadn't forgotten him, not in the least. She remembered every small detail about him and their brief encounter, and though she'd tried her best to make herself believe he wouldn't be coming back in three years, she'd been admittedly surprised when he hadn't shown up the day before. Despite herself, she'd waited for him.
Now here he was again and Gatsby wasn't sure what to do. She wasn't sure if she was glad or disappointed. In the past three years, she'd grown up. Gatsby didn't like flowers anymore and she certainly wasn't interested in crazy men popping up in her bedroom at odd hours. At least that's what she told herself.
"You're mad," Gatsby stated. "And you shouldn't be here. It isn't proper."
"It isn't proper," the Doctor mimicked. He plopped into a plush armchair and kicked his feet onto the footstool. It felt good to stretch out his legs. Really, it had been a very long fifteen minutes. "And if I'm mad, why did you listen to me?"
"Listen to you?" Gatsby sniffed. She wanted to go back to bed. She'd firmly made up her mind that the Doctor should leave.
"Your mirror is covered," he said, jerking his thumb towards the vanity. "I'd say it's been that way for, oh, about three years." Gatsby's cheeks reddened in the dark. He was right. She hadn't looked at her reflection since he'd left. Not that she believed her illness had anything to do with mirrors and not that she believed this man was sane in the least, but there was a part of her that couldn't risk not trusting him. There was a very small part of her indeed, which she wouldn't even admit to herself existed, that thought maybe the man wasn't completely out of his mind. And in his defense, she hadn't died.
Gatsby sat on the edge of her bed and faced him. Like before, his eyes unnerved her. She felt like she could almost, for just a second, see the things he'd seen. Too many impossible things. The Doctor leaned forward in his chair, looking serious now.
"Why are you here?"
"Gatsby Goode," he said, holding her name delicately, "I'm here to explain everything. Well, not everything. That would take lifetimes and I'm not qualified to teach the subject of everything, but I'm here to tell you a small part of it."
"Why?"
"Because a large part of this small part of everything has to do with you." He was giving her a headache. She wished he would just speak plainly. She wished he wouldn't speak at all. Gatsby didn't care about any of it. There might have been a time, when she was younger and less sensible, that she would have been interested. Not anymore.
"I don't care," Gatsby snapped. "You're insane. Everything you say is insane." She stood again and glared down at him. "And if you don't leave now, I will scream."
The Doctor didn't move. He laced his fingers together and rested his chin in the basket he'd made of his hands.
"No you won't," he said. "Because I can see through you, Gatsby Goode. You're not like the rest of them here." His eyes sparkled. He whispered the last part. "Oh no, you're not like them, because you still look at the stars and sometimes, even though you don't let anyone know, you imagine that there's something great out there."
Gatsby shivered, though it was a warm night. She didn't like the way he was looking at her. She didn't like that what he was saying was true, because it was impossible for him to know anything about her, and she refused to admit that he was right. She refused to let his pretty words affect her. Gatsby's frown deepened.
"There's nothing out there," she stated firmly. "You're wasting my time with this nonsense. Please, just go."
The Doctor shrugged. He jumped to his feet, unphased. Oh well, he'd given it a try.
"Alright then," he said. "If that's what you want, I'll be on my way." He bowed to her at the door and flashed a smile, but as he left, the Doctor knew this wasn't the last he'd see of Gatsby Goode, because part of what he'd come to explain was that she was still in terrible and imminent danger.
Gatsby waited a moment after he'd gone before crawling back into bed. She stared up at the boring ceiling, unable to sleep, and then a strange sound made her sit up again. It was a groaning sound, or maybe more of a gasp, coming from the hallway. Gatsby ran across the room, threw open her bedroom door, and poked her head into the hallway. There was nothing. Everything was quiet. The strange Doctor was nowhere in sight. Closing the door, Gatsby wondered if maybe it hadn't all been a dream after all. Or maybe it wasn't the man who was crazy. Maybe it was her.
Gatsby didn't sleep for the rest of the night. The Doctor's words kept ringing in her ears. You imagine that there's something great out there. She pressed her face into her pillows. No, she told herself, he couldn't be right. She wasn't capable of imagining anything. Only that meant the man was real. It meant he'd really been in her room. It meant he'd really come back like he'd promised, and she turned him away. Something burned inside Gatsby, a strange sensation that ran throughout her entire body, and she had no idea what it was, because she'd never experienced curiosity before.
Meanwhile, while Gatsby tossed and turned, the Doctor stood outside of his Tardis and looked up at the unlit windows of the Goode household. He didn't plan on sleeping that night either, because there was an event he needed to attend the next day, and the Doctor was determined to be perfectly on time for once.
Gatsby Goode didn't dance. She sat with other girls her age, some older and a few younger, along the room, and talked, more often pretend to listen. She didn't have much more to say beyond the occasional nod or appreciative hum. Tonight, however, Gatsby was so preoccupied she was having trouble humming and nodding at the appropriate moments. Her thoughts were elsewhere.
Gatsby had decided against telling her parents, or anyone else for that matter, about the mad Doctor's midnight visit. She'd stayed awake all night and when the dismal sun finally rose on grey and drizzly London, she'd agreed with herself that it was best just to forget him, something that was easier thought than done. Because the elsewhere of her preoccupation happened to have a great deal to do with him.
"Are you feeling alright? You look a bit pale. Perhaps we should go home." Mrs. Goode hadn't stopped fretting over her daughter's health since the incident three years ago. Gatsby blinked. She smiled a smile so watery it streamed quickly back into a frown.
"I'm fine, Mum. Maybe I'll stretch my legs though." Gatsby really just wanted to escape the buzzing conversations. All people did was talk about nothing. She'd never understood how they could keep blabbing. How hadn't they run out of things to say?
Gatsby circled the dance floor. She'd never enjoyed these public functions much. She wasn't even sure what this particular event was for; some benefit to raise funds for more grey buildings on the east side of the city probably. In truth, every function was another excuse for the Regale families to impress one another with their respectable drabness. As a government official's daughter, Gatsby was expected to attend, and she always did what she was expected to. That was just the way of things. Personal happiness was more of a luxury, as she'd learned early on.
So as Gatsby wandered through the room, hardly watching the dancing, she was perfectly miserable. She paused in a shadowed corner. They all looked the same. She saw her mother laughing at a joke that probably wasn't funny. She knew her father was smoking a cigar with the other men in the Study, discussing politics they knew nothing about. She pitied the girls her age, some older and a few younger, flirting with the boy's they would marry someday and come to hate, but never love, because love was another luxury in the 32nd British Empire. It was one of those "outdated ideas", Mrs. Goode, a prime example of someone who'd never loved, often said.
Gatsby had never seen love, so she wouldn't know what it looked like even if it was knocking at her own heart. She knew only a little bit more about happiness, something she'd experienced happenstance once or twice in nineteen years of life. She wondered though, about love, and whether it was as awful as everyone said it was. In school, they were taught that love was the root of misery. They were told the story of a boy and girl who fell in love, though they weren't supposed to, and how both of them died as a result. It was called Romeo and Juliet. It was meant to be lesson, but Gatsby had always secretly thought it was sort of lovely.
"They call this dancing. You should see the Oog-a-boo jig." Gatsby hadn't noticed the mad Doctor sidle up beside her, but she wasn't entirely surprised to find him there. She was surprised by what he was wearing, however.
"What is that?" she blurted, cupping her hand over her mouth to keep from laughing. The Doctor had changed from his suspenders to an outrageous orange tuxedo with a ruffled vest. Self-consciously, he straightened his violently purple bow tie.
"Well, I heard this was a flashy occasion." He scanned the room full of suits and dresses, all in various shades of grey, black, and white.
"You're flashy alright," Gatsby chuckled. Then she realized that she was actually laughing. She couldn't remember the last time such a thing had happened. She stopped quickly, remembering that she disliked this man.
"What are you doing here?" she asked sharply. Gatsby looked around, hoping no one had noticed her companion. Of course half of the room was watching them. The Doctor didn't exactly blend. Gatsby wasn't sure he was capable.
"I came to dance!" The Doctor kicked out his feet in a swift jig that nearly made Gatsby laugh again. She fought hard against it. "I do love a good party."
"You're following me," Gatsby accused.
"Ridiculous accusation." Gatsby folded her arms over her chest and raised a slender eyebrow. "Perhaps not so ridiculous," the Doctor relented. "Why don't we discuss it all over a dance?"
"What?" He was holding his hand out to her. Gatsby was both horrified by the idea of dancing with the madly orange man and with herself for somewhat wanting to do just that.
"I could teach you the Oog-a-boo jig, but it might be difficult with only two arms."
"You're crazy," Gatsby muttered, turning away from him.
"And you're quite rude." The Doctor stepped around her, blocking her escape route, and still holding out his hand. "It's the highest insult to refuse someone a dance." Gatsby felt her resolve crumbling. She'd wanted to forget him, but it was hard to do when he was so…so orange. She sighed.
"Just one." The Doctor beamed. They joined the end of a line as a new song began. The term song should be used very loosely in this paragraph, as music in the 32nd British Empire was banned. So the sound that came from the overhead speakers was more of a drone, a buzz, a deep and vibrating hum of sorts, with no rhythm and no beat and no lyrics. Basically it was the most boring sound to dance to, which might explain why the dances themselves left something to be desired.
The Doctor and Gatsby clasped their hands behind their backs and walked side by side in step with the others. At the end of the line, each couple broke apart and walked back to the beginning of the line to do it all again. There was no touching. There wasn't even any actual dancing involved. It was more of taking a stroll, in a line, with a partner, accompanied by a drone, a buzz, a deep and vibrating hum. The Doctor would have been bored out of his mind if there'd been any room left in his mind for boredom.
"The Oog-a-boo," he whispered, "use two of their arms as jump ropes, while they shake hands with as many people as they can with the other two. Whoever shakes the must hands is crowned the best dancer."
"You're making that up."
"Am not," the Doctor said defensively. "Have you ever been to an Oog-a—boo dance party? No, you haven't."
"Because Oog-a-whatevers don't exist." They'd reached the end of the line. Gatsby was turning to go back to the beginning, when the Doctor grabbed her arm and spun her. He ended the spin in a dip. Gatsby dug her fingers into his ruffled vest, afraid of hitting the ground, but he didn't let her go.
"Funny" he said with a grin. "They said the same thing about you, Gatsby Goode."
Gatsby regained her footing and pushed him away. She'd had enough of nonsense. Besides, more than 3/4ths of the room was watching them now, Mr. and Mrs. Goode included. Gatsby's cheeks grew hot.
"Thank you for the dance," she said coldly. Before he could spew anymore of his silly stories, Gatsby hurried away. The dance wasn't even over. She saw her mother swooping in from the other side of the room, and quickly darted the other way. Gatsby's heart pounded as she ducked into the Ladies' restroom. Her legs were shaky. It was a sensation that Gatsby had come to expect whenever the Doctor appeared. Somehow he managed to undo everything, even her control over her own body.
"Idiot," Gatsby muttered. She leaned against the sink counter and splashed cold water over her hot cheeks. "Doesn't even speak proper English." Yet the more and more she tried and tried to convince herself that the man was simply mad, the less and less she believed it. In fact, Gatsby Goode didn't want to believe that he was crazy. She wanted there to be Oog-a-boos with four arms and she wanted, more than anything, for there to be great and wonderful things out there.
"But there aren't," Gatsby whispered to the empty room. And that was why she really hated the Doctor, as he called himself. Yes, she hated him, she wanted him to go away, because he made her hope for things that could never be. Hope was more destructive than happiness or even love. Hope was the single worst pain anyone could ever feel.
Gatsby lifted her eyes to her reflection. She hadn't looked at a mirror in three years. Just in case. So it was strange to see herself now. Her eyes were unusually bright. They glimmered; sore and tired. Gatsby brushed her thumb under them and felt something warm, something wet. She wasn't sure why her eyes were leaking. She wasn't sure why she felt pain, when she hadn't been injured.
"They're called tears," a light voice said from behind. Gatsby spun around to find the esteemed Duchess Elwood, a family friend of the Goode's. Gatsby wiped at her wet eyes with the lacy sleeves of her dress.
"Apologies," she croaked, through the rather large lump in her throat, "I didn't realize anyone else was here."
"Don't worry, dear." Duchess Elwood pulled a handkerchief from her purse and passed it to Gatsby. When their hands brushed, for less than a second, a shock ran through Gatsby. She pulled away. Something wasn't right. Gatsby had known Duchess Elwood for her entire life. The lady had always been cold and aloof. She hadn't spoken a handful of words to Gatsby in nineteen years, yet now she was offering handkerchiefs and calling her dear.
"What's made you so upset, dear?" Duchess Elwood asked. She stood close to Gatsby. Too close.
"N…nothing. I'm fine."
"Oh no you're not." Duchess Elwood smiled, but it wasn't pleasant at all. She looked at Gatsby and there was something hungry in her eyes. She reached out her hand to touch Gatsby's wet cheeks. "How beautiful it is to cry," she hissed. Gatsby tripped backwards against the sink counter.
"I should go back," she stammered. "My parents will…" Suddenly Duchess Elwood wrapped her ringed fingers around Gatsby's wrist. She was stronger than she looked. Gatsby struggled to slip away, but Duchess Elwood's grip was painfully tight. Something was certainly not right. The Duchess didn't look anything like the Duchess anymore. There was a darkness moving behind her typically blank eyes, a darkness that turned Gatsby's blood cold.
"We've waited a long time for you, dear," Duchess Elwood growled, as she twisted Gatsby's arm behind her back and turned her to face the mirror.
"What are you talking ab-" Gatsby's tongue turned to dust in her mouth, incapable of speech, for she was looking at her reflection again. Only it wasn't exactly her own. The image in the mirror grinned back at her. It was horrid, chilling, fascinating. Gatsby couldn't have turned away even if Duchess Elwood hadn't been holding her in place.
Gatsby's reflection's lips were moving, silently beckoning her closer. Gatsby leaned forward. Her nose touched the cold glass. Perhaps even more unusual than a reflection that moved of its own will, was the fact that Duchess Elwood, standing just behind her, didn't have a reflection at all anymore. Thick, black fog had taken her place. It filled the empty spaces of the mirror around Gatsby's reflection.
Then she could hear it. The faintest murmur behind the glass. The saddest voice, perhaps voices, Gatsby had ever heard, all calling to her. We've waited so long, she heard. Come to us, dear. Come. And Gatsby wanted to go to them. Surely it was what she was supposed to do. Surely.
"I'm coming," Gatsby said against the glass. She didn't notice the tears falling rapidly down her cheeks.
