SPEAK NOW
"Marriage is not a noun; it's a verb. It isn't something you get.
It's something you do. It's the way you love your partner every day."
Barbara De Angelis
"I've decided to take you somewhere amazing," said the Doctor halfway through what Hartley had assumed was going to be a lazy day spent kicking around the TARDIS, eating leftovers and reading books by the fireplace in the library.
She looked up from her book – the autobiography of an author she loved, date of publication several years into her own personal timeline (but that was neither here nor there) – eyebrow cocked in question.
"Is that so?" she asked him innocently. "And where might this amazing place be, exactly? We're not going to that bouncy-castle theme-park again, are we?" she added flatly. She'd made the mistake of going there after a big lunch, and had walked out with a lot less dignity than when she'd walked in. "I'll never be able to look Pablo in the eye again," she muttered with warm cheeks.
"Pablo didn't care," the Doctor waved off her concern like it were nothing. "Occupational hazard."
"Go on, then," she prompted him, setting aside her book and the bowl of warmed-up fried rice she'd been nibbling on as she read. "Where to this time?"
The Doctor was just about vibrating with excitement. "It's a surprise," he told her giddily.
Suspicious, though not quite enough to press the issue, Hartley climbed to her feet and stretched until her spine popped. "What should I wear, then?" she asked, enjoying the way the warm carpet tickled her bare feet. It was little things like that, tiny sensory things that anyone else would overlook, that made her treasure every moment she had her freedom back.
"Black tie," the Doctor told her with a grin.
Hartley's eyebrows rose in surprise. "Does that mean you'll be breaking out the old penguin suit again?" she asked playfully.
The Doctor sniffed, reaching up to tug at his ear. "S'pose so," he replied in a mild, coy sort of a voice. "Although…maybe I should skip it this time. That thing's jinxed, I'm telling you."
"You don't even believe in jinxes," she shot back, doing nothing to hide her smile of amusement as she placed her book off to the side to come back to later, before scooping up her nearly-empty bowl and heading in the direction of the door. "You're far too logical for that."
"I'm telling you – every time I wear that thing, something bad happens."
"Then throw it out and get a brand new one; jinx-free," she suggested.
"It's, it's not the specific suit," he argued stubbornly, the pair leisurely making their way through the halls of the TARDIS towards the kitchen. "It's what the suit – what the bowtie – represents. I'm telling you, it's bad luck."
"Well," Hartley began in a playful voice, "I, for one, happen to be very partial to bowties."
The Doctor paused, considering. "Really?" he finally asked, reaching up to mindlessly toy with the long maroon tie, fiddling with it as though imagining it were a bowtie. There was an interest in his voice, one of a high pitch that made Hartley grin with more sincerity than she'd had in a very long while.
She dumped her bowl in the sink to deal with later before moving back over to the doorway where the Doctor hovered, eyes cloudy and distracted.
"Black tie, you say?" she murmured as she passed him, making her way down the hall to the left, where her bedroom (usually) resided. "So, fancy, then?"
"As fancy as it gets," he agreed. "But, go easy on the heels?" he added quickly, a grimace on his lips. Hartley got the feeling he was remembering what had happened that night with Martha, back when they'd only known her a short while.
She hadn't thought of Lazarus in what seemed like an age, but now that she did she recalled the sharp, painful sting that the shards of glass had made as they pierced the soft flesh of her bare feet.
"Kitten heels only," she promised. The Doctor's expression pinched in adorable confusion and she smothered another smile. "I'll meet you in the control room," she told him, and he nodded, taking a sharp right and disappearing around the bend.
Hartley took a quick shower before changing into a sleek dress. It was a deep scarlet in colour, hugging her curves up top then melting into a feathery layer of skirts that grazed the floor when she moved. Listening to music, she distractedly went through the motions of doing her hair and makeup, enjoying the familiar actions, ones she didn't get much opportunity to repeat in this lifestyle.
It wasn't until she was slipping a pair of heels – kittens, as promised – that she wondered whether she were overdressed.
The Doctor had said to dress as fancy as possible, but what the TARDIS had supplied was more of a ballgown than a dress. She hesitated, blue eyes assessing herself in the mirror, wondering if she had time to change before the Doctor blew a blood vessel in his impatience.
Before she could decide there was a rhythmic knock at her bedroom door and she knew she was out of time. She gripped her voluminous skirts, making her way over and cracking the door just enough to stick her head out into the hallway. "I'm overdressed," she said without preamble, and the Doctor blinked in surprise at the sudden exclamation.
"I'm sure you aren't," he told her, however insincere considering he couldn't actually see her.
Huffing, Hartley stepped back to give herself enough room to creak the door open, revealing the billowing skirts of her deep scarlet gown.
The Doctor was perfectly silent, staring at her with unreadable eyes, his emotions sealed behind a vault wall; impossible to touch, let alone sense. She stood there, anxiously twisting her signet ring around her finger, awkward under his intense stare.
Finally she decided his silence was a bad sign and he was just trying to figure out how to tell her she needed to dress down and oh man what else would she wear and the red was clearly too ostentatious and––
"You look great," said the Doctor, so suddenly that Hartley's inner despair came to an abrupt halt. His voice was a few notches too high but otherwise he just stared back at her, impassive.
She blinked at him, struggling to understand. "I'm not overdressed?" she asked slowly.
"Not at all," he assured her, clearing his throat and shoving his hands into the pockets of his slacks. She noted he was wearing his tuxedo, the very one he claimed to be so unlucky. Her eyes flickered down to the bowtie and she bit back a smile. "If anything, you're probably underdressed," he added.
"Underdressed?" she echoed dubiously. "The only way I could possibly be any dressier is if I were wearing a corset." The Doctor clucked his tongue, like he knew something she didn't. "Where're we going, again?" she pressed, eyes narrowed in suspicion.
But the Doctor only smiled, the expression holding an ease that she hadn't seen since before the Master. Since before the Year That Never Was. He held out a hand, wriggling his fingers at her in question.
"Come with me and find out," he said with an impish little grin playing at the corners of his mouth, and Hartley couldn't find a single reason to argue, taking his hand and letting him tug her from her bedroom, through the twisting halls of the TARDIS.
Apparently they'd already landed wherever it was they were going, because the Doctor led her straight through the control room to the doors.
"Are you ready for a magical evening?" he asked, pausing with his free hand on the latch, his other tangled up with hers.
"Magical, you say?" she asked playfully, tilting her head and feeling her strawberry-blonde curls sweep across her exposed collarbone. "That's an awfully confident promise."
"I'm an awfully confident man," he replied. Hartley smiled at the quip.
"Alright then, Spacewalker," she said, squeezing his hand eagerly. "Show me a magical evening."
And he grinned, wide and unrestrained, yanking the door open and tugging her fearlessly out into their new destination. Hartley did nothing to smother her gasp of delight as she laid eyes on the room they'd appeared in.
They were inside of a castle of some kind, the ceiling ornate and detailed, yet metres and metres above them. The room looked to be some kind of a cabinet chamber, a large table in the centre with enough space for at least a dozen people on either side. There were no windows, and so the only light came from the lanterns lining the walls, their glow bouncing off the marble floor beneath their feet.
There was nobody else in the room, they seemed utterly alone. Everything was quiet. "Are we in the Middle Ages?" Hartley asked, gripping the Doctor's hand like it were a tether to reality. In many ways, it was.
"Quite the opposite," said the Doctor cheerfully, gripping her hand just as tight, gently leading her across the room and out into an empty hallway, at the end of which sat a window.
"The opposite?" Hartley parroted dumbly, allowing him to tug her over to the window. At first she thought it was just nighttime outside, but the closer they got to the glass the more she began to understand.
Letting out a thoughtless gasp, Hartley let go of the Doctor's hand and leant out of the open window. It wasn't nighttime – they were actually in space.
"Where are we?" she breathed, eyes following a large chunk of rock as it slowly sailed through the empty space only a few hundred yards away, like a dandelion in the breeze.
"The United Asteroids of Venkusm," the Doctor told her with undeniable pride echoing in his voice. "We're in the palace, where the monarchy reside and rule from."
"United Asteroids?" she asked, still staring out at the hunks of idle rock drifting by like little flakes of snow in the dead of winter. "Like the United States?"
"Same principle," he replied in that know-it-all voice of his that made her want to smile. "We're in an asteroid belt in the solar system around the sun known as Amnesty-One. Earth colonised the planets in its orbit around 5570. When a natural disaster hit one of the planets, the survivors sought refuge on the chunks of asteroid big enough to hold any kind of sustainable life. They spread out across them all – 91 in total – and eventually, over time, became a nation in their own right."
"With a Monarchy," Hartley finished with a nod, beginning to understand. The Doctor was quiet, letting her process what he'd just told her. "If we're on an asteroid in the twenty-sixth century, why does it look like we're in Medieval Europe?" she asked after a few moments of companionable silence.
The Doctor was so close to her that she felt him shrug. "Funny the styles that get repeated by your lot throughout history," he told her with a sniff. "I think it's a rather nice piece of humanity that they clung to. Beautiful architecture."
They were quiet another moment, each soaking in the views before them. "Do you hear music?" Hartley suddenly wondered, tilting her head to catch the soft hum of what sounded like a violin drifting in through the open doorway to their left.
"That'll be the ball," said the Doctor casually.
"Ball?"
His eyebrows raised incredulously. "You're wearing a ballgown," he reminded her. "What did you think we'd be doing? Playing football?"
Hartley punched him playfully in the shoulder, a smirk growing on her lips. "Does this mean there'll be dancing?" she asked, quietly hopeful.
The Doctor only grinned, wide and impish and happy as he held out an arm for her to take. Threading her arm through his Hartley let him once more lead the way, taking her towards the source of the beautiful music being played live for the palace's guests.
The sounds of music and laughter grew louder and louder, until finally Hartley and the Doctor were surrounded by a sea of people. Lost in a fog of vibrant colours and gaudy sparkles, Hartley could only grip the Doctor tightly, trusting him to lead her as they waded through the thickening crowd.
The guests around them were all human – or, humanoid, she supposed; they could be very different on the inside, of that she was sure.
The women were decked out in jewel-encrusted gowns and the men all wore swords at their hip with pride, most of them dressed in what looked like military uniforms. Those that weren't in uniforms wore the same sort of tuxedo as the Doctor, all crisp and sharp, bowties perfectly straightened.
"Drinks?" the Doctor offered, and Hartley nodded eagerly as they paused beside a man in a grey suit holding a large tray of champagne flutes. The liquid within was bright blue and bubbling, but the Doctor drank without hesitation so Hartley did the same. It tasted much like normal champagne, if not slightly sweeter than she was used to. "It's good, isn't it?" the Doctor grinned.
Hartley nodded her head emphatically. "So, what's the occasion?" she asked pleasantly, holding the flute in dainty fingers and watching the glittering people before her dance in an energetic waltz. The music was light and zestful, and when Hartley glanced towards the stage holding the band it was to find them all in penguin suits like the Doctor, holding golden instruments, smiles gracing their faces like there was nowhere they'd rather have been.
"Do I need an occasion to take you to a party?" he asked, the defensive tone to his voice taking her by surprise.
Hartley had to laugh, just a tiny little huff of amusement. "I meant the ball," she corrected him. "Why is it being thrown?"
"Oh," he muttered, and she knew she wasn't imagining the pink flush to his cheeks. "Um, I'm not sure. But they're a very lively bunch, the Venkusms," he told her in a casual voice. "Any excuse for a party."
"Ain't that the truth," came an unfamiliar voice, and the pair turned to see an older gentleman in a crisp military uniform, glistening sword dangling at his hip just like the rest of the majority of men in the room. Beside him was a much younger girl with bright blonde hair, a youthful smile on her face and a blush on her cheeks that paired nicely with the peach colour of her gown. "General Jobe Lowry," he introduced himself, holding out an arm to the Doctor.
"Pleasure to meet you," the Doctor grinned, gripping the man's arm in an extended shake that Hartley took to be the local custom. "I'm the Doctor, this is Hartley Daniels," he said, sweeping a hand towards her.
She made a move to take the General's arm as the Doctor had, but the man surprised her by instead bringing her hand up to brush a polite kiss across her knuckles. Hartley didn't know what to say, but thankfully General Lowry spoke first. "Your sister, I assume?" he said around a smile that was two parts sincere, three parts greasy.
"No, no," the Doctor said, then didn't elaborate further. General Lowry looked confused, but seemed to care too much for propriety to risk pressing the matter. Sensing the oncoming awkwardness Hartley turned to the young girl by his side to find her staring up at the Doctor with wide, appreciative eyes.
"I love your dress," she said kindly, drawing the attention back to her.
The girl's cheeks grew red and General Lowry gave her a scolding look. "This is my daughter, Jezebel," he added, and Jezebel ducked into a quick curtsey that Hartley made a note to replicate during her next introduction.
"Pleased to make your acquaintance," said Jezebel sweetly.
"Which asteroid do you hail from, Doctor?" asked the General curtly.
"Oh, you know, the outer one," said the Doctor vaguely.
The man before them looked less than impressed by the ambiguous answer. "You mean Aula?" he asked slowly, and the Doctor leapt at the suggestion.
"That's the one, yes. That's us," he grinned too widely. Hartley had to wonder how he'd survived as long as he had, just barely keeping from rolling her eyes in exasperation. "And you?"
"Bera," said the General, feeling a wave of pride so strong that when Hartley picked it up, it made her feel outrageously patriotic towards a place she'd never even heard of or seen.
"Good," sniffed the Doctor. "Yes. Good asteroid, Bera."
The General was growing suspicious, Hartley realised with a roll of her eyes, quickly swooping in to save the day. Luckily the music had just changed from that bright, lively waltz to something slower and more gentle. "If you don't mind, General, I'd like to snatch my companion away for a dance," she said in her sweetest voice.
The older man could do nothing but nod, his grey hair gleaming in the sparkling lights from the chandeliers above.
Hartley took hers and the Doctor's drinks, placing them on the side table before grabbing his hand and yanking him towards the dance floor, away from the decorated General before he could do any more damage.
"You're a mess," she snickered as they came to a stop somewhere near the centre of the floor.
"He caught me off guard," he argued defensively. Hartley only smiled again. She delicately placed her hand on his shoulder, holding up her other one in invitation.
The Doctor hesitated so briefly that she thought she might have imagined it, before he took it in his own. Cool, calloused skin slid against hers, and his other hand came to rest at her waist. There was something tender about it, and she leant into his touch without giving it much of a thought.
The music started to swell, gaining more traction, and slowly they began to move in time with the rest of the crowd. It was a kind of waltz – but not the energetic one from before. This one was intimate and subdued, and though Hartley wasn't familiar with the steps she picked it up quickly, her years of training as a dancer shining through.
"You're good at this," the Doctor said a few minutes in, smiling as she twirled effortlessly under his arm.
"Good to know that being an ex-ballerina is finally paying off," she joked, spinning out of his arms and then twirling back into them. Suddenly their bodies were pressed together, the hard lines of his physique against hers. It very nearly stole the breath from her lungs and she looked away to hide the emotion in her eyes that would surely give her away.
"You know, everyone's looking at you," the Doctor whispered, and she looked back at him in surprise. His expression was earnest and she blinked, glancing casually over her shoulder.
He was right, people were looking at them. Doing a vague sweep of the emotions of the room, she found it to be full of a shared, inexplicable jealousy.
"They're jealous," she said quietly, but the unspoken question was loud.
"Because you're beautiful," he told her with such a conviction that she felt her own cheeks flame.
Gripping his hand tighter, she smiled, just a small quirk of her lips. "What is this, national compliment day?" she teased as she gave another graceful twirl.
"Forgive me for waxing poetic," he said around an impish smirk. "I know that's usually your area of expertise."
"I do not wax poetic," she insisted around an indignant gasp. The Doctor shot her his most incredulous look, and despite herself she let out a laugh. She dropped her forehead against his shoulder, giggling into his suit.
The Doctor wasn't laughing with her, but when she looked back up at him it was to find him smiling – a soft expression tinged with an affection she was far too scared to put a name to.
"What?" she asked self-consciously, feet moving automatically underneath her. It was as though it were a dance she'd known all her life, but she thought that was just because the Doctor was good at leading. He did a lot of leading in his life, it made sense it would bleed into his dancing, too.
"You're smiling," he told her, quiet and warm.
Hartley was confused, blinking up at him as the smile slowly drifted from from her lips, replaced by surprise. "Yeah," she murmured, taken aback by the fact, "I guess I am."
The Doctor's eyes glittered. "I was wondering whether I'd ever see that smile again," he quietly confessed.
"I've smiled," she argued defensively, spinning beneath the Doctor's arm once more. His hand tightened on hers. "I smile all the time."
But the Doctor's answering smile was tinged with sadness. "Not like this, though," he said, letting go of her waist long enough to gently tap her mouth with the tip of his finger.
Her lips tingled at just the brief second of contact. She brazenly thought that if her body had that kind of reaction to his finger on her lips, she could barely imagine what it felt like to kiss him properly. The kisses they'd shared thus far had been fleeting; she wanted something that lasted.
Hartley quickly banished those thoughts before they could flush her face, refocusing on what the Doctor was saying, his voice low and melodic, like a song without being sung.
"Before now it's been a reflex, something to keep up appearances," he said softly, still sad. "You pretend you're okay until one day, hopefully, magically, you might be."
Hartley glanced away, eyes focusing in on his black bowtie instead of his face. She felt horribly transparent, like the Doctor was looking at her and seeing everything she never wanted him – or anyone – to see.
"But right now, it's genuine," he murmured, sadness morphing into something more like wonder. "You're smiling because––"
"Because I'm happy," she finished, giving him that same sincere smile.
And it was true, the Master's year of torture and manipulation still clung to her skin, still gripped her heart like a vice. But when she was with the Doctor – pressed up against him while he stared down at her like she was all that mattered in the cosmos, his scent swimming in her head – she was able to forget it all, if only for a moment. It was intoxicating, the way the Doctor made her feel.
As if she were brand new, and not just a mess of damaged goods.
There was a beat of easy quiet between them, the swelling music of the orchestra filling her heart to the brim. The Doctor opened his mouth to say something but he was interrupted by the loud, obnoxious clearing of a throat. The pair paused their dance, turning to look at the source with surprise.
It was a tall, handsome man with sharp blue eyes, expensive looking clothes, and a bejewelled crown sitting atop his head of curly blonde hair.
"Your Highness," the Doctor greeted him with respect, pulling away from Hartley so they both stood facing him. Hartley tried not to frown at the sudden absence of his hands. "Hartley, this is his Royal Highness, Prince Balthazar of the United Asteroids of Venkusm," said the Doctor courteously.
The Prince smiled graciously. "I can't say we've met," he said with a polite regret, holding out his arm for the Doctor to take in their customary greeting. His voice was low and smooth, but Hartley didn't miss the way his eyes kept drifting towards her, interest sparkling in his heart.
"The Doctor," her companion introduced himself eagerly. "And this is the lovely Hartley Daniels," he added, sweeping a hand towards her proudly.
"Hartley Daniels," repeated Balthazar, those eyes zeroing in on her, appreciation gleaming like a warning sign as he took her hand, bringing it up to brush a gentle kiss across her knuckles. "A unique name for a unique girl," he said with a smirk playing at his lips.
"Unique?" she echoed in confusion, wondering what it was about her exactly that was unique.
But the prince didn't elaborate. He tucked his hands behind his back and turned towards the Doctor. "Are you two an item?" he asked plainly. Hartley bristled at the forwardness of the question.
The Doctor's eyes went wide as he took a large, deliberate step away from her. "Us? No, no," he said quickly, giving a nervous chuckle. "Nope, just, just travelling companions – friends, I mean. We're friends, very good friends, of course, but that's all. Nothing more," he babbled like a total idiot. The prince's brows were high on his face, but a small, pleased smile was growing on his lips.
"In that case, may I cut in?" he asked him politely. Hartley didn't miss that she wasn't the one he was addressing – as though she were the Doctor's property to relinquish. Already she didn't like him.
The Doctor looked awkward at the question, chewing on his words a moment before relenting with a nod. "Of course," he said, perfectly cheerful, but Hartley could see the edge of uncertainty in his dark, earthy eyes.
He turned to find her staring back at him with wide, panicked eyes. She didn't want to be left alone to dance with the prince she'd only barely just met. Not to mention, she was getting some seriously misogynistic vibes from the guy. She wasn't sure whether it was a personal thing or a cultural one, but it made her uncomfortable either way.
"I'll be over by the food," the Doctor told her apologetically, and she had to grit her teeth against the argument that sat ready on her tongue. He smiled once more, awkward as could be, and disappeared into the crowd.
The prince swooped in, not bothering to ask permission before sliding his large, meaty hand into place on her waist. She could feel the heat of his skin through the thin material of her dress and tried not to shudder with disgust. She reluctantly took his hand, not missing the way he nodded to the orchestra. Instantly the music shifted from lively to something slow and intimate. She tried to hide her grimace, but luckily the prince seemed too self-involved to notice.
"Hartley," the prince said her name like he were tasting it on his tongue. It made her feel dirty, and she held back a shudder. "What does it mean?"
"It means from the stag's meadow," she relayed robotically, almost like it were a question in an oral exam.
"Fascinating," he murmured, those intense eyes flickering over her face. He was deep in thought – Hartley could feel his consideration and his curiosity. Worst of all, however, she could feel his lust. But she didn't pull away, because the last thing she wanted to do was snub the crown prince of a small nation while in his own home – that was just inviting trouble.
Besides, it was only one little dance, and then she'd be back in the Doctor's arms. In a crowd this size, what was the worst that could happen?
"So, uh, Prince Balthazar," she began stiltedly, deciding that forced, awkward conversation would ultimately be better than this uncomfortable silence. "You have a beautiful palace," she mumbled, the first thing to come to mind. Couldn't go wrong with a bit of smalltalk, right?
"You like it?" he asked in that smooth voice of his, the sound like water trickling over rocks in a stream. It should have been lovely, soothing, only somehow it was anything but.
"I do," she nodded. "And the view from the windows is spectacular."
"Would you like to see it from the balcony?" he offered.
The thought of going anywhere with him alone was a scary one, and her eyes widened as she struggled to form a response. "Oh, thank you, but it's, uh, it's fine," she stammered, the words strained.
He pulled away from their dance but still held tight to her hand. It felt strangely like a leash, and at the thought a slight sweat broke out across the back of her neck. "Really, I insist," he said in a tone that on anyone else might have been gracious, but on him just seemed slimy.
Hartley didn't know what to say, what to do to get out of the situation she was in. Glancing over her shoulder she searched frantically for the Doctor's familiar face. She found him, but he wasn't looking at her. He was engaged in a lively conversation with a short man in that same military uniform that everyone else was wearing, explaining something with vivid, enthusiastic hand gestures.
And then Prince Balthazar was pulling her through the crowd that parted as the red sea had for Moses. Hartley shrank under the glares of blatant hatred being sent her way. Apparently the other women at the ball were less than pleased to see the prince himself leading her away from the party. She felt their ire and suspicion like tiny arrows being shot her way and she winced at the barrage of unpleasant emotion.
The prince's hand was soft and hot under her own, and all she could think was how wrong it felt. It should have been cool and calloused, should have been soothing, should have been familiar.
But her thoughts were cut off as they stepped out onto the aforementioned balcony, the view from which was enough to render Hartley speechless.
Hunks of red rock mixed with glistening ice surrounded them, floating aimlessly, dotting the empty vacuum of space like little islands dotted the seaside. On some of them held civilisations, some just the odd structure, while others were too small to hold any life at all, just floating by like leaves caught in the current of a river.
"Do you like it?" asked Prince Balthazar, jolting her from her stupor. She blinked in surprise, having almost forgotten he was even there. She reluctantly turned away from the breathtaking view to look at him, only to find he was already staring back at her. The weight of his eyes was uncomfortable and she struggled not to wince.
"It's beautiful," she said honestly, eyes flickering back to the view, hoping his would do the same.
"The most prized viewpoint in all the United Asteroids," he boasted proudly. Hartley hummed politely, and there was a lull in conversation during which the prince watched her and she stared resolutely into the asteroids they were surrounded by.
The sound of hissed whispers met their ears, and Hartley glanced over her shoulder to see a pair of younger girls leant towards one another just inside the door, eyeing her with simmering contempt.
The prince turned to look too and they scuttled away the moment he saw them. Not knowing how to react, Hartley turned back to the view. It didn't hold the same peace as it had only a moment ago. Now it just seemed so alien.
"It seems I'm not to only one to find you utterly breathtaking, this evening," the Prince said smoothly.
Hartley's cheeks went red. She didn't know how to react, twisting at the ring sitting on her index finger, staring resolutely out into asteroid-filled space.
"Um, thank you, Your Highness," she said awkwardly, glancing over at him with a perfunctory smile. "Well, we should get back," she added as casually as she could manage, turning away, eager to rejoin the party. She didn't want to be alone with this guy any longer than she had to be.
But his hand snapped out, grasping her arm and pulling her back towards him. She squeaked in fear, body going rigid as he tugged her to him. She ended up just a little too close for comfort, trying to subtly wiggle away, heart beginning to race in her chest.
Flashes of a different face began to flicker behind her eyes, and she stopped breathing entirely. Again, it was something the prince was too self-involved to notice – or perhaps he had, and simply passed it off as attraction.
"Nonsense," he said with a large, oleaginous smile. "We can stay awhile longer."
He snapped his fingers abruptly and Hartley flinched at the sound. A waiter appeared like a trained monkey with a tray holding two champagne flutes carried on the palm of his hand. The prince didn't acknowledge him, merely taking the two flutes, handing one off to her before flicking his hand at the waiter, who scurried away, head ducked in respect.
"Tell me about yourself," said the prince after taking a healthy sip of his champagne.
"Uh, not much to tell, really," Hartley replied, voice shaking a little, although he didn't seem to notice that, either. She looked over her shoulder in what seemed like a casual glance, but her blue eyes scanned the crowd through the doors, searching desperately for the Doctor. Where was he when you needed him?
"I hardly think that's true," the prince said, and she looked back at him with a wooden smile.
"Uh, well, I'm a writer," she told him stiltedly, not liking the way his electric eyes were focused on her with attentive intensity.
"A writer?" he repeated, tone layered with false interest. "And what do you write?"
"Books," she replied, the words a little sharper than appropriate, but the prince didn't seem to care. She wondered whether he were being deliberately obtuse, or whether he were just genuinely thick.
"How fascinating," he told her, voice stale, and she turned back to look at him with a frown. "It's just – I've never met a female writer before. It isn't traditionally a feminine profession," he said, and Hartley's eyebrows nearly hit her hairline. Her fear melted a little in favour of taut indignation.
"And what exactly is a traditionally feminine profession?" she asked slowly.
The Prince laughed like she'd said something funny. "Motherhood," he said like it were the punchline to a joke.
Hartley felt the sudden urge to bash her head against the railing. Maybe if she did it hard enough, it would put her into a come. At least then she wouldn't have to finish this conversation. "Great," she muttered to herself bitterly, "we've landed in a misogynist's utopia."
The prince either didn't hear her or didn't care enough to comment. "And how old are you, Hartley Daniels?" he wondered.
"Thirty-one," she answered him evenly, watching as his eyes went wide with genuine surprise.
"So old and yet still unwed?" he asked with a disapproving grimace. Chills broke out over her skin, like her subconscious warning her something bad was going to follow.
"Just...looking for the right person, I suppose," she replied steadily. She began to grow impatient, turning to keep scanning the crowd beyond the doors, searching for any sign of the Doctor. But he was still nowhere to be seen. She wondered what she had to do to get the prince to leave her alone; something offensive but not bad enough to get her arrested – she figured that was the sweet spot.
"Well, I believe I may have a solution to that," said the prince from beside her, but Hartley had long since stopped paying attention.
"Is that so?" she murmured dully, her focus on eyeing the crowd. If the Doctor didn't show up in the next ten seconds she was going to throttle him with his own tie.
A flash of colour suddenly caught her attention and she turned to look at the prince, who was now holding out the flower that he'd had pinned to the breast of his suit. Frowning in confusion, Hartley could do nothing more than reach out and take it. It looked like an orchid, but the colour was more electric than anything she'd ever seen on Earth.
"Uh, thanks," she awkwardly twirled the stem between her fingers.
"Then you accept?"
"Sure," she told him mildly.
The prince smiled, wide and gleaming; victorious. "I look forward to a long and prosperous coupling," he told her eagerly.
Hartley blinked. "A prosperous what now?"
There was a flurry of activity from over at the doors and she turned to see the Doctor trip out onto the balcony, his bowtie askew. "Hart!" he was shouting before he'd even seen her, eyes full of panic. "Don't take the––"
Two guards appeared, almost as if from thin air, gripping the Doctor's arms and hoisting him to his feet. "Sir, we have to ask you to stay back," said one of the guards, his meaty hand on the golden hilt of the sword at his side. "Nobody is to come into contact with the Prince and his bride."
Hartley's insides twisted up into knots of panic. "His what?!" she squawked, wide eyes flickering from a smirking Prince Balthazar and his stoic guards to the panicked-looking Doctor. "Doctor, what's happening?" she demanded shrilly. The Doctor gave a guilty grimace.
Before he could answer her, however, the prince stepped forwards, holding a hand up to silence him. "Commander Jarret, take my new bride to her quarters," he commanded his guard with a lazy flap of his hand.
"Bride?!" Hartley echoed dubiously as the taller of the two guards appeared at her side, capturing her arm in a too-tight grip. "Get your hands off me!" she hissed at him, trying to yank out of his grip but to no avail.
He started to drag her away, rough and unyielding. Panic began scratching its claws at her chest, flashes of not so very long ago flashing through her mind, memories of another alien who had held her so viciously, so without care.
"Doctor!" Hartley cried, attempting to thrust her hand into the man's face, aiming for his nose like Jack had taught her all those years ago. But he was tall and strong, snatching her hand and wrenching it back down at her side. Feeling what little control she had slipping through her fingers, she tried to lean around the goon holding her hostage, struggling to spy the Doctor amongst all the chaos. "Doctor, what's happening?!" she shouted again, and her captor shook her violently. Before the Doctor could reply she was being carted back inside the palace, not a friendly face in sight.
She barely saw any of the palace she was dragged through, too lost in her struggles to take in any of the expensive art or fashionable mouldings. The prince's guards tossed her inside a large room like she were nothing more than an object for them to arrange. She leapt at the door once it shut, banging on it with a racing heart, but they locked it from the outside, sealing her within.
She found she was still clutching the strange little flower that was at the root of this whole mess and quickly tossed it onto the floor in disgust.
Giving up on the door, Hartley turned her attention to the room into which she'd been stuffed. It was a bedroom, large and luxurious, something that would only ever belong to royalty. A massive bouquet of purple flowers sat in an ornate vase by the four-poster bed, and the mouldings were plated with gold.
Hope in her chest, Hartley moved towards the window that was blocked by a set of heavy crimson curtains. But when she threw them apart that hope crumbled to dust as she got a good look at what lay beyond.
Dozens of those little islands of asteroids dotted her view, and right below her window was a sheer drop, leading into nothing but dark, empty space. Dropping her face into her hands, Hartley groaned.
Gathering herself, she moved away from the window, trudging towards the bed and sitting down on the ornate, gold-threaded sheets. It was ridiculously comfortable, like a sitting on a cloud, but it only made her more spiteful.
What exactly was going on? How could everything have gone so wrong in such a short amount of time?
Collapsing back onto the covers, Hartley carefully went over the events of the last few minutes in her head.
The Prince had taken an interest in her, taken her away from the Doctor and offered an innocuous looking flower that she had thoughtlessly accepted, thereby inadvertently accepting his proposal of marriage, and subsequently gotten herself locked in a room without so much as a chance to explain herself.
Locked in a room…
Suddenly the reality of her situation crashed down on her like the first rain of a torrential storm. Heart in her throat, she leapt to her feet, making a dash for the door. It was still locked, of course, but that didn't stop her from trying to force it open.
Thinking quickly she began to desperately pat at her hair, searching for one of the bobby pins holding her style into place. She wrenched it free, she collapsed to her knees and shoved it into the lock – but it wasn't the kind Jack had taught her to pick at all. It was vastly more complicated and she let out an impressive array of curses, a panicked sweat beginning to cling to her skin.
The walls were slowly beginning to close in on her and the sprawling, luxurious room didn't seem so large anymore. With every passing beat of her heart, it only grew smaller and smaller, creeping in on her like the bars of a cage. The silence was making her ears ring, head starting to pound. Her hands were beginning to tingle, and she supposed that was because her breathing was so shallow.
She tried to breathe slower, but it was difficult when her thoughts were clouded by panic.
All of a sudden the lock made a clicking sound, and for one wonderful second she thought she'd managed to somehow unlock it. But then the door pushed open from the outside, and she realised somebody had done it from the other side.
She leapt backwards with a gasp, dropping the bobby pin silently to the floor and holding her hands out to defend herself should the guards or the prince come back for round two. She wouldn't be taking any chances, this time. If they tried to touch her – they were losing an eye.
Only it wasn't anyone threatening, but instead a chain of young women dressed in demure white clothing, all carting in various buckets and boxes of product.
"What's happening?" Hartley demanded, taking two very large steps back to put as much distance between herself and the women as possible. They may not have appeared to be dangerous, but she wasn't stupid enough to underestimate anyone based on how they appeared to be. "Who're you?"
The tallest of all the girls stepped forwards, lifting her head to reveal pale skin and sparkling yellow eyes. "We're your ladies-in-waiting, your grace," she said with a deep curtsey. Hartley just stared, struggling to make sense of what was happening. The tall girl carried on before Hartley was able to formulate a response. "Prince Balthazar sent us as a gift to you. We're to prepare you for your upcoming nuptials."
Her heart stuttered in terror at the words. Nuptials? These people were insane!
"Uh, yes. See, about that," she began, sounding a lot calmer than she actually was, "I think there's been some sort of misunderstanding. I didn't mean to accept the prince's proposal – I didn't even realise it was a proposal. It was an accident."
The servant girls all stared at her as if she'd grown another head. Swallowing thickly, Hartley persevered.
"If you could just call him in here, maybe, then I can straighten this whole mess out and we can all be on our merry way," she finished in her best imitation of a cheerful, confident woman. Nobody was convinced, least of all herself.
The tall girl looked backwards to the rest of them as if gauging their reactions. Her confusion and irritation itched under Hartley's skin, and she grimaced as their eyes met again. "I'm afraid, your grace, that once the offer has been accepted, it creates a binding contract. You are to marry the prince come dawn, my lady." As one they all dipped into another deep curtsey.
Palms sweaty from anxiety, Hartley reached up to tug at her hair, the slight pain a nice distraction from the joke that had swiftly become her life. "Look, it's a kind offer; really it is. I'm sure any number of people dream about marrying a prince – but I don't. I can't do this."
The girls were all utterly stumped, as if she were speaking another language entirely. "Your grace," began the one in charge.
"Hartley," she corrected her firmly, uninterested in their titles. "My name is Hartley."
The girls towards the back tittered, and the tall one was simply aghast. It was like she'd never seen anything so rude. "But my lady, you are to be our queen," she said, strongly disapproving.
"I don't want to be your queen," Hartley insisted.
"Then why did you come to the ball?"
Hartley blinked in surprise. "What do you mean?"
The girl stared back at her like she were wondering how such an utter idiot had gotten this far in life. "Tonight was the choosing ceremony," she said slowly, as if speaking to a child, "the night for Prince Balthazar to choose a wife. That's why the ball was thrown; as a way to bring all the eligible women in one place for him to make his choice."
Hartley felt like she'd been plunged into a reservoir of freezing water. "I didn't know," she said in a weak, thready voice.
The girl was utterly unbothered, turning back towards her faction of troops. "Inna and Kasdy, get started on her hair," she began in a stern, uncompromising voice. "Janiah and Megn, begin to decide on the colour palate. Andere and Raynia, you're to begin fitting the gown. Tell me," she turned back to Hartley, "are you pure?"
Hartley just about choked on her own tongue. "Excuse me?"
"Are you pure?" the girl repeated herself.
There was a terrible, sinking feeling in her gut. "By pure, you mean...?" she whispered.
"Virginal," she said bluntly. The girls behind her tittered again.
Cheeks a flaming red, Hartley stared at her incredulously. She said nothing, lost for words. The servant girl was wholly unimpressed.
"You can tell us the truth now, or we can have the court physician examine you," she said, not quite a threat, but certainly coming close.
Gritting her teeth, Hartley took a deep breath in, hoping it would steady her temper. It wasn't any of their business, but the last thing she wanted was to find herself held down while some outer-space witchdoctor poked around in her pants. She was tempted to lie, but the chance they might somehow find out was one she couldn't take.
Hope suddenly gripped her – maybe the answer would get her out of this. Maybe they wouldn't want her if they knew she wasn't 'pure'.
"No," she said, heart thundering like the gallop of a racehorse in her chest. "No, I'm not a virgin."
But to Hartley's great disappointment, none girls were so much as perturbed by her reply. "Then we'll have to use the eggshell gown, rather than the pristine one," the tall girl tutted, turning to the two in charge of wardrobe. "Get to work."
"No," said Hartley, voice hard and holding a note of power it hadn't before. The horde of young servants froze, blinking at her in surprise. Seeing she had their attention, she barrelled on. "I'm not marrying the prince. I want to find my friend and go home. Now, are you going let me go or will I have to fight my way out?" she asked darkly.
The girls all shifted warily at the thunder in her expression, seeming to sense she wasn't just being dramatic. She didn't intend to let this happen; she'd been owned like a pet once before and as far as she was concerned, it was never going to happen again. Not now, not ever.
"That won't be necessary," came a smooth voice. Hartley turned to see the prince himself standing in the doorway, a frown marring his handsome face. The servants all gave loud gasps and dropped into deep curtseys, staying there like robots who'd broken down mid-drop.
"Prince Balthazar," Hartley said, no ounce of adoration in her voice. There was only stony command. She was done playing their game. "I think you and I need to have a conversation."
"Right we do," the prince said, eyes like chips of ice. "Girls, go assist the others in guiding the rest of our lovely guests home. They won't be needed any longer."
"But sire," the tall one spoke up, disapproval in her heart as she looked over at Hartley. "Do you not wish to have them remain? As a…precaution?"
"No," said the prince, eyes only for Hartley. He smirked, wide and confident and awful. Hartley wanted to rip the smarmy look from his stupid face. "I've already made me choice."
Hartley threw up a little in her mouth.
"Come, ladies," said the tall one with a humph. With youthful giggles the girls all scurried out after her. The door shut with a foreboding click and Hartley's pulse jumped with fear now it was just the two of them.
She hadn't been locked inside a room alone with a strange man – other than the Doctor – since her time aboard the Valiant. She'd been very careful not to let herself get into this exact situation. But here she was, thrown back into those circumstances like no time had passed, like she were still that horrible Time Lord's pet.
She took several more steps backwards, letting the space between them grow like a canyon. It still wasn't enough, but she was running out of room to escape to, so it would have to do.
Prince Balthazar had his hands tucked properly behind his back, a frown on his face. The silence between them lingered, heavy and uncomfortable, and Hartley hoped he couldn't hear her shallow breaths from across the room. She glanced at the door behind him, absentmindedly calculating what it might take to get past him to reach it. He was bigger than her. Stronger and more savage. He could probably snap her like a twig – and being this was his palace, nobody was likely to stop him.
"You accepted my cattleya orchid," he finally said, his confusion tense in the air between them. She could sense it in that way she always could – the way that bled from one sense to the other. It was almost as if she could smell it; tangy and sharp, edged with petulant indignation. "You agreed to be my wife," he told her like she were the one in the wrong.
Hartley quickly shook her head, one hand coming up to grip at her own neck, hoping to ground herself. Her pulse thundered beneath her hand and she swallowed around the lump caught in her throat. "I didn't understand what it meant," she hurried to explain. "I didn't know what this ball was for – I'm not even a citizen of your country!"
The prince's strong brow furrowed. "Then where did you come from?"
"Far away," she said. "I'm a traveller. We both are – me and my friend, the one you met earlier, when we were dancing. We heard there was a party and stopped by. We really didn't mean for any of this to happen."
The prince turned away, beginning to pace the length of the room. Out of instinct, Hartley flickered her eyes across the space, searching for something heavy or sharp that she could use as a weapon. She wasn't sure it would come to that, but her anxiety was telling her to be prepared, just in case.
"So you do not want to marry me?" the prince finally asked, confusion thickening even more, like the words simply did not compute. Hartley's gaze darted back to him, mouth dry with her panic.
In his eyes was an edge of danger, and gingerly reaching out with her heart, she found him to be a swirl of displeasure and anger. With a shuddering breath, Hartley searched every corner of her brain for something – anything – that could get her out of this whole mess.
She still hadn't seen the Doctor, or even heard word of him, but she knew he was working on his own end, trying valiantly to free her. But it was taking too long; she needed to get out of here, now.
"I'm sure you're lovely," she began diplomatically. "But I'm afraid I can't marry you. I just can't."
But the prince was ready with his reply. "Why not?"
She faltered. "Because I've only just met you, for starters," she said. "Where I'm from you have to date – court," she amended at his confusion, "someone for many months, sometimes years, before you decide to marry."
The prince frowned again. "You accepted the flower," he growled as if her explanation was nothing more than weak excuses. Frustration clutched at her insides.
"But I didn't know what it meant!" she insisted impatiently. "I mean no disrespect, Prince Balthazar, but I don't want to be your queen. I just want to go home."
The prince's head snapped up, fire in his eyes. "Do you realise what you're turning down?" he hissed. "A seat on the throne. More money and jewels than you'll ever be able to count. A chance to rule by my side, as my wife."
Hartley was already shaking her head. "That's not what I want," she told him vehemently.
"Why not?!" he demanded. "You won't do any better! A future king? Ruler of the United Asteroids? It's everything anyone could ever dream of having. I'm doing you a favour!" he persisted, the words spat like poison.
"I don't want it!" she cried.
"Why not?!"
"Because my heart belongs to another!"
The echo of her words rang strong in the air, and Hartley knew they hadn't been said merely out of desperation, or in a last ditch effort for her freedom. She'd said them because they were the absolute truth. And she had a feeling nothing but the truth would free her from this contract she'd unwittingly agreed to.
"The one you arrived with?" The prince's heart held pain, a feeling like she'd betrayed him. It was as if he saw her love for the Doctor as adultery, as if he had any claim whatsoever over her or her heart. "This Doctor person?" he spat in disgust.
Hartley wanted to lie, but it was out there now, impossible to take back. She'd never said the words aloud before, never admitted them in any place other than the darkest recesses of her mind. But if there was ever a time to admit it, it was now.
"Yes," she whispered, afraid that if she spoke any louder the weight of the words might crush her into nothing.
"I see," sneered the prince. "And does he reciprocate these feelings?"
Hartley didn't know how to answer, the words catching in her throat. She inhaled deeply, trying to force herself to reply. But the prince was impatient.
"Has he laid claim to you?!" Prince Balthazar demanded, voice and eyes like thunder as he glared at her.
Hartley flinched violently at the unexpected volume, edging away from him, heart pounding so fast it was beginning to hurt. "No," she said, answering on instinct. Because he hadn't, and he probably never would. She didn't know what it meant exactly, but she knew it was true. "No, he hasn't 'laid claim' to me."
And he never would. It was like wishing that one day she could bottle the stars; it seemed possible from down on the ground, like you could just scoop them up and keep them forever; but then you went up into the night sky and you realised something so grand could never be bottled. It was much too big, much too beautiful, for that. She didn't get to keep the Doctor; he wasn't hers to keep.
"I see," hummed the prince, regaining his cool. Hartley's mouth was dry as she stared at him, too frightened to even breathe. She felt like her whole life hung in the balance. "Well, if he has not claimed you, then I shall," he finally said, decidedly cruel.
Hartley's eyes went wide with horror. This guy was genuinely insane. He was as unstable as it could get. Didn't his people know what consent was? "What?" she squeaked. "You can't – I don't want to be your queen!" she insisted shrilly, growing faint with panic. But it was like arguing with a brick wall for all the good it did.
"It doesn't matter what you want," said the prince with a glare. His eyes were like fresh charcoal, staining everything they touched with black.
"You're going to force me into a marriage?" she hissed, blindsided. "You can't do that."
The prince looked like he were about to break out into laughter, emotions taking such a violent turn that they nearly gave her whiplash. "I can," he countered, unnaturally calm, "and I am. We're to be wed at dawn."
Hartley stared at him, trying desperately to make sense of the reality around her. "You're fucking crazy," she finally said, voice cold as ice.
"You've got spirit," the prince sneered. "I shall enjoy breaking it."
It was like he'd taken the words from the mouth of the Master himself. Hartley felt herself retch, turning away and gripping the closest bed post, using it to keep herself upright. He laughed like she amused him, and she began to realise exactly how sick this guy was.
There was a knocking at the door but Hartley didn't look up as the prince moved over to it, wrenching it open with a huff.
"Sire," came the kind of posh voice that could only come from a butler or the Venkusm equivalent, "your father is requesting an audience with you and your bride-to-be."
Hartley felt the prince's pulse of irritation. "Why?" he demanded.
"It seems somebody is formally contesting your union, my lord," said the voice. Hartley sucked in a sharp breath, blinking away the blurriness in her eyes as she forced herself up straight. Someone was protesting the engagement – and she knew, deep in her gut, that person was the Doctor. Hope rekindled in her chest like the budding flames of a newly lit fire.
The prince was suddenly there, gripping her wrist in too tight a fist and forcefully dragging her from the luxurious room which had acted as her temporary prison. She was glad to see it gone. "Where are you taking me?" she demanded, wiggling fruitlessly in his grasp.
The prince didn't answer, stony-faced as he pulled her along like she were a misbehaving pet on a leash. It was demeaning and cruel, and she looked away from his face before she started crying from anger – and fear.
Finally he yanked her into the ballroom, but now the party was over and done with and it was empty, the silence almost deafening. It somehow looked smaller without all the people filling it, but still every bit as grand.
At the very end of the room, by the throne up the back, was a tall man in ostentatious green robes and a crown, a pair of men dressed in formal black, a handful of guards brandishing shining swords, and a small gaggle of doting servants. And in front of them all stood the Doctor, tall and handsome as ever in his tuxedo. She felt her heart soar at the sight of him, and she only just kept from bursting into tears of sheer relief.
"What is the meaning of this?" demanded the prince as they marched down the length of the hall, his fingers still cuffed around Hartley's wrist.
She met the Doctor's gaze as the prince dragged her past him. His walls were partially down, allowing her to feel the ball of concern he was pushing towards her. It was brief and secretive – just for the two of them to share, and she swallowed at the intimacy of it all.
He wanted to know if she was okay.
She wasn't – not really – but she still nodded her head, if only to ease his worry.
"You know as well as I, Balthazar, that any man may contest your union in the hours leading up to your nuptials," said the man in green, a glistening golden crown sitting proudly upon a head of greying hair. Hartley knew then this man was the king.
The prince turned to the Doctor, his hand still tight on Hartley's wrist. It felt like rope, like handcuffs, a symbol of bondage to this horrible man.
"And what are the grounds of your contention?" he demanded.
It wasn't the Doctor who spoke, however, but rather than king himself. "He says Ms. Daniels is his travelling companion, and they were unaware of the significance of both this night and the gesture of the orchid," he said patiently, intelligent eyes flickering between his son, Hartley, and the Doctor.
But the prince looked unmoved. "So?" he asked petulantly. "The rules say I choose a wife. I chose and she took the orchid; it doesn't matter what she or anyone else says now, after the fact."
Hartley tried to rip her wrist from his grip, but he only held on tighter. She knew his touch would leave bruises behind and her lip curled in disgust.
The king turned to one of the two men wearing black robes to his right. "It's true, my lord," said the man, a shorter gentleman with deep red hair. "Once the orchid has been accepted, there is no turning back."
"So, what, I'm just your property?" Hartley demanded. All the heads of the men in the room swivelled to stare at her, apparently blindsided by the sound of her protest. "I'm not something you can own, Prince Balthazar." She paused, sight turning hazy as she recalled the last person whom had tried to possess her like she were an object to be won. "I've been owned before, by a man who thought I could belong to him," she snarled, voice spitting like venom. "I proved him wrong, in the end, and I'm not going to let it happen to me ever again."
The prince sneered. "A righteous sentiment," he scoffed. "But at the end of the day you're still just an unclaimed woman."
"Where I come from, women can't be claimed-" she argued shrilly, trying again to rip her wrist from his grip. His touch was dirty, coated with lust and a controlling spirit. He wanted to consume her, eat away at everything she was until all that was left was who he allowed her to be.
"Shut up," the prince snapped, taking a threatening step forwards, and out of instinct she flinched away, eyes squeezed shut tight as she awaited the inevitable blow that would follow.
But none came, and when she opened her eyes it was to see the prince smirking like they were playing a game, and he'd just won.
"If I may," began the Doctor, and Hartley just about melted into nothing at the familiar sound of his lilting voice. Glancing down to where he stood on the floor below the podium the rest were all stood on, she found him to look relaxed, unbothered by their situation.
This was good, she reminded herself, this meant he had everything completely under control. Probably. Most likely. Hopefully.
"We respect your laws," the Doctor continued once he had everyone's attention. "We really do. But your laws go against our way of life. If you insist on forcing Hartley to marry you, I'm going to have to involve the Shadow Proclamation."
Hartley's eyebrows rose in surprise. It wasn't often the Doctor suggested going to the police; but when he did, he usually meant business.
The king huffed out a laugh, unmoved by the threat. Even as unconcerned as he was, the guards around him drew their weapons, holding them out towards the Doctor in warning. "We have the best lawyers in the galaxy, Doctor," the king scoffed like he'd just heard a terrible joke. "Don't think that's enough to scare us."
The Doctor's stare was grave and heavy, the weight of it settling over everyone like iron shackles. The guards shifted uneasily, and Hartley fought back a dark smirk of pride. "So that's your decision?" he asked them carefully, making sure there was no mistaking the situation. "You're siding with your son?"
The king bristled. "I'm siding with the future king of our mighty united asteroids," he corrected tartly. "The law is in our favour, Doctor." The king turned to his son and the men at his side. "We shall move the wedding up. Get your bride ready, Balthazar. And send for the guards – the Doctor will be locked in the dungeon until the ceremony is complete," he ordered sharply.
"You have a dungeon?" asked the Doctor in surprise, momentarily sidetracked.
The king jerked his hand in Prince Balthazar's direction and like a good little boy he began to yank her in the opposite direction, away from her Doctor.
Hartley glanced over at him in alarm, horrified to find that the steady cool he'd held before was melting away like ice cream in the sun. "Doctor," she hissed, panic seizing her, her heart in her throat. She couldn't die, so to her, everything was worse than death. "Doctor, do something!" she begged him.
"No, let her go!" the Doctor shouted at the king, who remain apathetic to his pleas. "Let her go right now!"
"Doctor!" she cried as he got further and further away. The prince wore a cold, cruel smirk of triumph; like she were a conquest he had won. She struggled harder against him, desperate to get free, to reach the Doctor where she knew she'd be safe. They were almost to the door, almost out of the Doctor's sight, when suddenly the Doctor's voice, loud and desperate, rang throughout the entirety of the ostentatious ballroom.
"I lay claim!"
Everything went still and silent; even the prince froze in his place.
Hartley wasn't entirely sure what this whole 'laying claim' thing was about, but she was beginning to realise it was kind of a big deal among the people of the United Asteroids of Venkusm. Everyone stared at the Doctor, utterly nonplussed, including Hartley.
His eyes were wide and he seemed to not be breathing. He wasn't looking at her, but rather staring at the king with hard eyes, a challenge if she'd ever seen one.
"Come again?" asked one of the men at the king's side.
The Doctor took a deep breath in, squared his shoulders, then declared in a clear voice which bounced throughout the cavernous room like an echo, "I lay claim to Hartley Daniels."
The words held weight, everybody shifting under the pressure of them. The prince began to tug Hartley back towards the throne, dragging her up the stairs, his glare focused on the Doctor. "Father," he whined like a petulant child who hadn't gotten his way, "he only says this to stop our nuptials. It's a lie. A false claim."
The king stroked his chin, eyeing the Doctor with curiosity. The silence stretched on as he deliberated, and Hartley's own pulse was loud in her ears. "We make no judgements until we know the truth," the king finally decided, and that flame of hope reappeared, hotter than ever.
"The woman spoke of him," spat the prince. Hartley scowled at the way he wouldn't even use her name. He claimed to want to marry her but wouldn't even treat her like a person. For the sake of women everywhere she could only hope he never married anyone, ever. "She said he felt nothing for her; that her feelings were unrequited."
Humiliation burned hot within her, and Hartley turned her eyes away so nobody would see the pain in them. But it was pointless; she was in such a state that her grip on her own emotions was lax, the feelings spreading from her like a leaking faucet. She was sure the Doctor could feel it, pain and embarrassment pulsing in her like a second heart.
The others probably couldn't sense it, as none of them so much as blinked. Clearly the one person she wished couldn't read her was now the only one who could.
She shut her eyes, like if she squeezed them tight enough she might be able to disappear all together; blink out of existence. Maybe she'd get lucky and someone would shoot her – wouldn't that be a mercy?
The king turned to one of the cloaked men at his side. "See into him, Breckett," he ordered one of them. "Sort falsehood from truth."
Hartley opened her eyes to see one of the taller men step forwards, gracefully descending the stairs until he came to a stop in front of the Doctor. The man – Breckett – raised his hands to the Doctor's head.
"Don't touch him!" Hartley shouted, yanking against the Prince's grip hard enough for pain to radiate up her arm. She'd twisted her wrist, but it would heal. It always did.
"It's okay, Hartley," the Doctor assured her, never taking his eyes off the king's subject.
It went against her instincts but still she fell obediently silent, watching with watery eyes as the one called Breckett lifted his fingertips to the Doctor's forehead. Everything was still for approximately three seconds before Breckett was leaping away with a cry.
The guards shifted forwards, their swords glinting in the light of the chandeliers above.
"It's okay!" Breckett insisted, holding up his hands in warning. "He's just powerful. It was a lot to take in."
"And what did you see?" demanded the king. "What is the truth behind his claim?"
Beckett met his king's eyes and answered without hesitation. "The claim is sincere, sire. He means what he says."
Hartley wasn't entirely sure what that meant. His claim was sincere? How could he know that from three seconds of contact? Clearly the Doctor had fabricated something in his mind, something this man had needed to see. It was the only explanation.
And apparently Prince Balthazar saw that too.
"How do we know this isn't some trickery?" he sneered.
"Breckett has never been wrong before, Balthazar," the king said patiently. Hartley wondered how the two men could be so blatantly different. They shared no family resemblance at all apart from their frosty stares and strong jaw lines.
The prince abruptly let go of Hartley's wrist. The sudden lack of pressure was jarring, and she cradled her wrist to her chest in surprise.
"Then let him lay the claim," said the prince with a contemptuous curl of his lip. "Right here, right now."
Hartley was sure her heart was going to give out from how furiously it was beating. She swallowed, eyes latched onto the Doctor like he were the gravity holding her to the floor beneath. His face was a blank mask, emotions locked tight behind that ever impenetrable wall.
"Well, Doctor?" asked the king, agreeing with his juvenile excuse for a prince.
The Doctor hesitated, eyes flickering over to her. His face may have looked unemotional, but his eyes were anything but. Sparkling with passion and desperation and concern and affection, it was like a sea of emotion she would be happy to drown in.
Then he looked away, meeting the king's cool stare.
"I will lay my claim," he swore without flinching.
"Hold on!" Hartley interjected, having just about enough of it all. She wasn't some demure servant, she wasn't about to stay still and obedient and just look pretty. She was worth more than that. Her voice was worth more than that. "I'm not a piece of land to be pillaged and claimed!" she insisted.
"Hartley," interjected the Doctor, emotions carefully contained. "Don't argue."
It wasn't often he gave her an order like that, or often his eyes glinted with that uncompromising resolve. She needed to listen to him now, for all of their sakes. Reluctantly relenting, Hartley shut her mouth and fell silent.
"King Asher," began the Doctor humbly, "will you witness my claim?"
The king was quiet, eyes flickering between his son and the Doctor. Hartley could feel his uncertainty, it bounced off Balthazar's impudence like lasers off a mirror. "Kneel," he finally decided, turning away from his son indifferently.
"Father!" Balthazar cried, taking a step forwards. But the king was steadfast, barely casting his son a look.
"His claim is sincere, Balthazar," he said patiently. "It's out of my hands."
The Doctor went down on his knees, bowing his head compliantly. Hartley watched on in warring fascination and horror as the king pulled free the sword from his belt, holding it above the Doctor's shoulders.
Balthazar was practically vibrating with fury, but nobody paid him any attention.
"Hartley," said the Doctor without looking up from the floor. He held out a hand and as if caught in the current of him, she drifted to his side. He nodded to her and she got the message, kneeling down beside him.
The king began to say something, but the words themselves buzzed in her ears without really taking form. Suddenly all she could focus on was the weight of the Doctor's hand in hers. He was feeling calm and peaceful, and she drew on that like water from a well.
The sword dropped onto both of their shoulders but Hartley didn't look up, too scared of what might happen if she did. The king kept talking, words indistinct and unimportant – some sort of poem, maybe? – and the Doctor's hand seemed to grow warmer in hers.
And that was it. Nothing else happened. There was no great rush of feeling, no ceremonial gestures; just the tap of the sword on their shoulders and a rambling speech before it was over and the king was ordering them to rise.
The prince stood in the back, absolutely seething with childish rage. Hartley took a grim sort of satisfaction in his ire. He deserved it, the petulant brat.
"Go now," said the king, but his words were still fuzzy, hard to hear over her own racing pulse. "And, for your own sakes, don't come back," he added with a tired glance back at his son. She imagined Balthazar wasn't an easy person to be related to, and knew it would make even the strongest of people weary.
"With pleasure," said the Doctor, still gripping Hartley's hand. He paused, meeting the king's eyes one final time. "Thank you for your mercy," he added politely.
The king waved them away. "Go," he ordered sharply, and they were only all too happy to comply.
No words were said as they made their way back to the TARDIS. The Doctor knew where it was, which was a relief considering Hartley was all but blind to their path after everything that had just happened.
The Doctor unlocked the doors, holding them open for her to move through. She slipped inside, nearly tripping on the hem of her elaborate dress, but thankfully she caught herself in time, lifting it away from her shoes and making her way up to the console.
The door shut with a resounding creak and the Doctor didn't hesitate to send them into deep space. The ship juddered around them but neither cried out at the ride, standing as still as one could during a TARDIS' flight.
Finally it came to a stop, and everything was disconcertingly silent.
Hartley wasn't quite sure where to begin, but her mouth seemed to pick for her. "Did we just get married?" she asked, a little dumbstruck.
The Doctor let out the breath he'd been holding. "No," he said. She couldn't help but notice he didn't quite sound relieved for the fact, something that made her very worried indeed.
"Then what just happened?" she asked, leaning her hip against the railing and watching him through careful eyes. "What was that whole claiming thing about?"
The Doctor ran his hands down over the length of his face. "It's a ceremony specific to their culture," he began, staring down at the console, halfheartedly flicking at the buttons near his hand. "It's basically a commitment ritual. Doesn't actually mean anything. It's just symbolic, really, but they hold it above marriage. They have a saying – you marry the person but you lay claim on the soul."
Hartley's mouth was dry again. "You just laid claim on my soul?" she asked, admittedly breathless.
"I mean, technically, yeah," he nodded, still fiddling with the console. "But it was to save you, so can you really blame me?" He glanced up but didn't meet her eyes, staring resolutely at something over her shoulder. "You hungry? We could go get pizza."
But Hartley's questions were far from over, and she wasn't letting him off the hook that easy.
"What did that guy do – Breckett or whatever his name was? He went into your mind, right?"
The Doctor hesitantly nodded his head. "I only let him touch the surface, see what it was he needed to see to let us get out of there. He was a telepath but not a particularly powerful one, so he was easy enough to overpower."
Hartley understood, then, that her assumption had been right. To save her he'd created something in his head – maybe a feeling, or the memory of a feeling – that hadn't been real, in order to fool the telepath into believing something that wasn't true.
It shouldn't have hurt as much as it did – he'd done it to save her. So why didn't she feel grateful?
"I see," she whispered, looking away in an effort to hide her watery eyes.
The Doctor stood up straighter. "You do?"
"Yeah," she nodded, trying to blink the tears away. "Yeah, I get it," she said, painful but still true. "Thanks for saving me, Doc. I owe you."
"Hartley-" he tried to say, but she turned away, lifting her dress and beginning the walk towards the back of the control room, where she could escape to her bedroom and take a shower so long her skin went pruney. "Hart," he said again, and this time his voice was punctuated by an arm wrapping around her waist.
Strong and full of confidence, the Doctor spun her back around to face him. But when she opened her mouth to tell him she just wanted to go to her room, she found she couldn't speak, the Doctor ducking his head down and capturing her lips with his.
She gasped sharply, feeling the Doctor press a firm kiss to her bottom lip. She didn't react for a moment, perfectly still, afraid that if she moved the illusion might snap and send her crashing back into reality – where things weren't nearly as lovely, it would seem.
But a second passed, and then another, and nothing changed. The Doctor was right there, lips pressed to hers, hand resting gently on her waist.
And then it was over. The Doctor stepped back and stared at her. His walls were down, not all the way but enough for her to feel his pulse of anxiety. It was as if he were afraid of her reaction, as if he didn't know her heart was racing and her blood was singing from just that tiny, innocent press of lips.
She didn't say anything, though. She just stared at him, lost for words.
Thankfully he didn't seem quite so tongue-tied. "I might have shown him what he needed to see, but that doesn't mean what he needed to see wasn't real," he told her, the words coupled with a warm pulse of sincerity.
And Hartley understood everything again for a second time, this time with much more clarity. "Oh," she said, breathless.
The Doctor rocked back on his heels, nodding his head as if they'd just completed a business deal. "Right, well-" he began dismissively, but she was done with dismissive comments and glossing over things. She was over it. It was time to end the unintentional stand-off they'd fallen into over the last few months – years, if she were being honest.
Without stopping to consider what she was doing, Hartley gripped the lapels of his jacket and drew him to her, pressing up onto her toes so she could slant their lips together properly.
This wasn't some halfhearted peck or the clumsy kiss of two almost-strangers without their memories. This was everything each of them were, coming together in a culmination of what they'd been heading towards from the very start.
His lips were smooth and cool and firm, and when he parted his lips to kiss her again there was the faintest scrape of stubble against her face.
His right arm folded around her, forearm pressed to her lower back and his hand gripping her waist. His other hand came up to cup her face, long fingers splayed against her head. Hartley's hands moved without her permission, wandering up to his head and threading her fingers through his wonderful hair.
She pushed herself higher onto her toes so she had a better angle, and he gripped her tighter, kissing her with fervour. Pressed head to toe against him, she stopped thinking about what was happening with their mouths and hands and instead just lost herself in the feel of him.
He buzzed under her skin, making her blood both burn and sing in the same instant. Her heart was galloping and she couldn't breathe – but that was just fine with her. Who needed air, anyway? Her skin prickled and her stomach muscles tightened. It was everything and he was everything all at once.
He was the first one to pull away – probably for the best, as she would have gone on forever if he hadn't.
Their breath mingled in the air between their faces, noses brushing against one another, gazes connecting. His eyes were hooded, pupils blown, and she knew she couldn't have looked much different. It was utterly tantalising, and she swayed into him as if magnetised, only to pull back at the last moment, blinking in an attempt to get ahold herself.
She swallowed, slowly letting herself drop until she was back on the flats of her feet.
The Doctor relaxed his grip on her, letting her move although keeping his hands on her, like he were worried if he let go she might blow away like smoke.
She wasn't sure how she was going to react. What did one say after such a mind-blowing, earth-shattering kiss with their best friend? She peered up at him from under her lashes, a little shy, a whole lot giddy.
His eyes sparkled with something like wonder, and an answering smile began to grow on her face. "Everything's going to change now, isn't it?" she asked quietly, fingers still threaded through his glorious hair, pressing gently against his scalp.
And the Doctor smiled back, wide and utterly unabashed. "Yeah," he grinned. "It is."
A/N: Ahhhhh! It's happening! If you guys are excited, I'm that x1000. Been working towards this for awhile, and I'm pumped that it's here! Hope you enjoyed!
As of this chapter, we have 18 chapters left until the end of this story. It's gone by so fast! I'll explain my plans for the future at a later date, but rest assured, there is a long future ahead.
I'll see you next time, when we finally meet Donna again. And the Doctor's right, things are definitely changing.
Coming up next: Partners in Crime
