Eyes widening, the Doctor only has a moment to let his mouth drop open in surprise before another gentleman steps in—time to change dance partners. Rose slips into position with the newcomer without so much as a blink or even a glance in the Doctor's direction, never faltering in her rhythm; a quick peek at the Doctor moments later tells her that he has allowed himself to be swept up in the tide of dancers, sidling up to his new partner across the room.
Rose turns away, swirling in her partner's arms, but she can feel the eyes of the Doctor boring into her. She shivers despite the summer heat.
"That's beside the point," he whispers when they meet again, touching palm-to-palm first with one hand, then the other. "I'm a Time Lord."
"Really? First I've heard of it," Rose replies drily.
"I've been doing this for a long time, Rose. A very long time. I understand the risks."
Rose rolls her eyes. "And stupid apes don't."
At least the Doctor has the decency to flinch at those words. "That isn't what I meant."
"Of course it is," Rose sighs, and they both step back, granting a berth for other dancers to flit gracefully between them. "After all," Rose continues when they reconnect, hands clasped, "I'm hardly one of the most accomplished women who ever lived, am I?"
Anger yields briefly to confusion, and the Doctor frowns. "What?"
"It's all right, Doctor—well, no, it's not all right, it's actually sort of disappointing," Rose admits. "But I've had a lot of time to think about it, not to mention I've spent loads of time with Reinette. She's pretty fantastic, actually. Did you know she's personally acquainted with Voltaire? He wrote in her salon, she influenced some of his best work."
Rose chuckles quietly to herself. "Who am I kidding? Of course you knew that.
"You know, we didn't get on that well at first," she continues, smiling as the two of them glide around the room, Rose's skirts swishing and flicking about her ankles. "She thought I was sort of uncultured, and I thought she was a fancy poncy git with her head stuck up her gold-gilded arse. But she helped me anyway. Absolutely heaped praise on me after I stopped those androids—all I did was talk to 'em, but she was grateful anyway! She could've just chucked me out on the street when all that was over—god knows that's what some people wanted, they didn't like the idea of this weird English girl in their court and they were pretty loud about it—but Reinette wouldn't hear of it, stood up to 'em like it was nothing. She stuck up for me, smoothed things over with everyone, talked the other ladies-in-waiting into showing me the ropes around here. Even got me some land and a title so I could be at court properly. I'm the Marquise de Powell now. Never thought I'd have a title, growing up on the Estate. Now I've got two! What'll Mum think?"
The Doctor is silent, the expression on his face inscrutable. Rose fights not to squirm beneath his gaze.
"Anyway," she says, her voice softening. "Reinette really is remarkable. It's no wonder you were willing to do all that for her. She'd be well worth it even if she wasn't so important to history."
"Well worth what?"
"You know," says Rose, and she twirls along with all of the other women in the court in a flurry of skirts and silk. The men all draw their partners in, and is Rose imagining it, or does the Doctor pull her just a little closer than all the rest?
"Getting stuck," she says finally. "Trapped without the TARDIS. Reinette would be worth it. You two are a great match."
The Doctor's jaw tenses, his lips pressing together as if fighting to keep his words inside. Her steps faltering, Rose doesn't even realize the Doctor has stopped dead in his tracks until his hands tighten around her waist—a reflexive move to stop her from tumbling to the floor. But he doesn't say anything; he just glares. When another gentleman steps in for the next partner change, the Doctor's eyes flash and before Rose knows it, his fingers have wrapped around her wrist so he can pull her away from the crowd.
"What—"
Concentration swallows the rest of Rose's words as she trips over her skirts, dodges a dancer in the outer line, apologizes for bumping into a servant hovering at the periphery of the ballroom. But the Doctor doesn't let up his pace; if anything, he strides more purposefully, leading Rose away from the noise and light of the court down the dark and quiet corridor beyond.
"What are you doing?" Rose tries again when they're alone.
"Taking you home," is his curt reply.
"You mean the TARDIS."
"No."
Rose's blood freezes in her veins. Now it's her turn to halt in her tracks. She yanks her wrist out of the Doctor's grasp, stumbling back in disbelief.
He doesn't turn around. Doesn't look at her.
(Just as well, really; she doesn't want him to see the look of horror plastered across her face.)
"Sorry," says Rose, once she can find her voice again. "Sorry, I think I misheard you just now. Sort of sounded like you said you were gonna send me back home."
He doesn't reply.
Rose swallows. "No," she says, willing her words not to quaver and shake. "No, you don't get to do that to me. I get a say in this. I didn't jump through that mirror and strand myself in the fucking Renaissance for half a year just so you could drop me like a sack of moldy potatoes or strand me in bloody Aberdeen!"
"Why did you do it?" the Doctor asks quietly, his fists clenching at his sides as his shoulders knit themselves into a harsh line. He's all angles and edges now, sharp and brittle and ready to puncture. Rose tries to remember the last time she saw him like this, realizes it was back when he was a different man, all black leather and marble-schooled features.
Even though he can't see it, Rose shrugs. "Somebody had to fix history!"
"Didn't have to be you."
"Who else was it gonna be? Couldn't be Mickey—he hasn't been doing this long enough. Besides, his French is even worse than mine."
"It was supposed to be me," the Doctor says sharply, turning to face her.
"Yeah, and then what would Mickey and I have done?" Rose asks. "Just sat on that spaceship for god knows how long, surrounded by all those dead bodies? Activate Emergency Program One and just leave you stranded three thousand years in the past?"
"You really don't think I would have made it back to you?"
"Maybe with Reinette here, you wouldn't have even tried."
The Doctor rolls his eyes. "Don't be stupid."
"Wow," Rose breathes, crossing her arms snugly across her middle. She tells herself the pain in her chest is just the corset, wringing all of the air out of her after the dance; either way, it feels like all of the oxygen has left the room. "I mean, it's not like I expected an award or a kiss or a prize or anything, but a thank you would have been nice, or at least a hug. I haven't seen you in months."
"Which wouldn't have happened if you," the Doctor bites back, pointing an accusatory finger at her, "hadn't acted so recklessly."
"I mean, I'm sorry I ruined your chance to play hero or whatever, but would it kill you to act like I did a good job here?" Rose asks. "It's not like I did anything you wouldn't do, but you stomp in here, all anger and nastiness and Oncoming Storm like I twisted a bunch of timelines together or chipped the paint on the TARDIS. I don't know, maybe half a year doesn't seem that long to you, certainly not long enough to care about."
"Now, that's not fair—I never said—"
"Yeah, I bet you were just gnawing off your fingernails with concern," Rose snaps. "You know, if you were really that worried, there are better ways to show it."
The Doctor's eyes avert from hers, his gaze falling heavily to the floor. Silence falls around them, so thick Rose could almost touch it. When the Doctor doesn't respond, doesn't move, doesn't even seem to breathe, for several endless moments, Rose starts to wonder what could have gotten into him.
Then she realizes.
"Oh," she says softly, an epiphany slowly blossoming through her thoughts. "Maybe you were really that worried."
"We should go," the Doctor mutters, turning on his heel.
Stunned, Rose can't summon the words to argue with him—Please don't take me home, at least let me say goodbye to my friends first, please just talk to me, please—they all just drift around uselessly, unable to climb their way out of her throat.
Silently, she follows after him.