Pulling his robe close around him, Mickey shuffles down the corridor, stifling a yawn as he waves at other guests amidst the sounds of his grumbling stomach and his slippers slip-slide-slapping over the floor. His empty stomach has compelled him to embark on a valiant (if a bit drowsy) quest to the dining hall, to discover whatever delightful assortment of extravagant ceremonial dishes the Temple has provided for breakfast—but first there's the matter of proper clothing, left behind in his haste to escape the Doctor's nonstop chattering.
God, he hopes the Doctor has already stepped out for the day. If he hears one more hint of conspiracy theories or hydrologic events or ridiculously-prolonged event durations, Mickey, it's just not meteorologically feasible!, he's going to scream so loudly the neighboring solar systems will hear him.
But probably Rose and the Doctor have both already eaten, or they're eating now, Mickey thinks. He imagines them quibbling over alien toast, or pointedly-not-talking-to-each-other while sipping their alien tea, or hurling snide quips at each other between mouthfuls of jiggly-faced alien eggs. Mickey rolls his eyes. Maybe he's lucky and they've already departed the hall, and he can avoid the teeth-gritting awkwardness and tension that keeps blossoming between them. Or maybe he'll just nab a plate of something and hide in his room until the storm passes. Both the literal and metaphorical storm, that is; the lightning and its violent cracks and splits in the dark sky overhead have got nothing on Rose and the Doctor's pointlessly stressful nonsense. Why don't they just kill the tension and shag already? Mickey scoffs to himself as he pushes open his bedroom door.
Then his eyes widen as he takes in the scene in front of him and the irony of his last thought hits Mickey with all the subtlety of a slap to the face.
Like a hunter stalking wild game in the forest, Mickey's gaze follows a path of tracks, starting at the door in a cluster of shoes dropped pell-mell on the floor, his and hers mixed, leading up in a tangle of flung-off tuxedo jacket and jewelry and oxford and necktie and discarded bedclothes and women's underthings to the bed itself, canopy-curtains tossed aside to reveal two occupants lounging about within. The Doctor looks as rumpled as Mickey has ever seen him—more than, actually, Mickey's fairly certain he looked more composed in his post-regeneration coma—clad only in a tee shirt (hopelessly wrinkled) and his tuxedo trousers (even more wrinkled) and a pair of mismatched socks (has Mickey ever even seen his socks?). His hair is a right mess, sticking up even more than usual, as if it's alarmed to find itself in such a state; it's an odd counterbalance to the Doctor's relaxed posture, leaning back against the headboard as he reads some book he procured from goodness-knows-where. And Rose—
Well, Rose is just naked and asleep. Not much else to be noted about that.
At least that answers the question of whether she and the Doctor have gone to breakfast yet.
Mickey's eyes flicker briefly over Rose's body, more out of confusion than anything. She's lying on her stomach, a duvet hastily half-tossed over her—did the Doctor hear Mickey coming and cover her up, he wonders? Because the Rose Mickey knows always kicks off her blankets halfway through the night whether she's clothed or not—so all her crucial bits are covered. (Not that Rose would particularly care if Mickey saw her in such a state anyway. Nothing you haven't seen before, she's often said, with a shrug, while she changes right in front of him. Mickey, of course, will say nothing, but blushes furiously.)
Frowning, Mickey glances at the Doctor, a question forming on his lips. The Doctor shoots him an imperious look over his glasses. It's a challenge, Mickey thinks. Go on. Say something. I dare you. Mickey bristles at the thought.
But then he notices the way the Doctor's hands fidget with the book, fingers drumming quietly on the cover and sliding along the pages in a manner that Mickey would almost describe as nervous, if he didn't know any better, and oh—this isn't some bullshit macho display after all. The Doctor doesn't plan to lock antlers. No, instead he's wary. Waiting. Like he's nervous about Mickey will react. Like he might even actually care about Mickey reacts.
Wordlessly, Mickey scoops up his clothes, offering the Doctor a curt nod. The Doctor dips his head in reply, his shoulders visibly loosening, and Mickey turns to go. But upon reaching the door, Mickey has a second thought.
"You break her heart, I break your skull," he says to the door. He turns back round to hit the Doctor with his very best threatening glare. "Got it?"
"Fair enough," the Doctor replies evenly.
Mickey nods. "Damn right it is."
He eases the door shut behind him, quietly, in an effort not to disrupt Rose's sleep. Out in the hallway once again, Mickey expels a deep breath, leaning against the wall. A twinge of jealousy flares up somewhere in his chest, a tiny burning gnawing thing burrowing between his ribs. He closes his eyes and tries to will the hurt away.
Rose loves the Doctor. God help her, but for whatever reason, she loves him. And in his own strange way, maybe he loves her too. (Probably he loves her too, Mickey thinks with a grimace.) But as much as it stings, Mickey's not going to be the one to stand between them and their happiness.
Besides—it's high time he pursued some happiness of his own.
Eyes open, he pushes off the wall and heads back to the other room. Today's pursuit, he thinks, should begin with a little investigation into this whole missing-priest-conspiracy business. Might as well get in a little snooping while Rose and the Doctor are otherwise unoccupied, right? He's more than capable of doing things on his own, after all. Who knows, maybe he'll even solve a little mystery or two without them.
But first: breakfast.
Rose is not surprised to wake up and find the bed empty beside her.
She only allows herself a little disappointment. It isn't as if she expected anything different. The Doctor doesn't do domestic; he's made that quite clear. And this—waking up in a bloke's room, lying naked in his bed, the morning after—it doesn't get any more domestic than this. Honestly, she'd have been more surprised if she'd awoken and he was still there. A few minutes of affection and attention and he's totally overwhelmed; he's sort of like a cat, that way. The humor of that comparison does not escape Rose.
Drinking in a deep yawn, Rose sits up and stretches, muscles straining satisfyingly against each other a thick early-morning haze, only to indulge in a great flop back on the mattress after, limbs cast out like a starfish or a child making a snow angel. A sleepy, contented sigh escapes her lips. She can't remember the last time she felt so well-rested, or the last time she was this pleasantly sore between the legs, for that matter.
But soon the itch to move (and perhaps more importantly, to scrub off an evening's-worth of body glitter and sweat and various other things) becomes overwhelming, so move she does, swinging her legs over the edge of the mattress so she can snatch the Doctor's abandoned tuxedo-shirt off the floor and pad over to the en suite for a shower. The water is deliciously hot, rolling over her hair and skin in soothing sheets, and Rose silently thanks her lucky stars that this planet has the gift of indoor plumbing. Good grief, but she'd missed her hot water in eighteenth-century France.
Lost in that odd timeless quality of a good shower, an unmarked bout of moments passes, Rose's thoughts suspending in sluggish liquid laziness. She curiously inspects the range of available soaps and cleansers, each likely intended for a different species, some of them sweet and fruity-smelling, some of them harsh and astringent, others earthy, the smell of dirt fresh and clean. Ultimately Rose settles for the bottle that smells most familiar and scrubs away makeup and sweat and sex and something uncomfortable that's haunted her skin ever since that jump through the mirror five and a half months ago, watching it all wash away down the drain in a swirl of suds and glitter. She dries herself off with a luxuriously fluffy towel, reveling in the glide of soft cotton fibers that brush over her like a kiss.
Just as Rose finds herself wishing for a toothbrush, she notices one lying on the bathroom counter, one that looks suspiciously like the stock the Doctor keeps in those bottomless pockets of his. Upon unwrapping it, the scent of Venusian spearmint floods her senses and she brushes her teeth with a grin that won't quite go away. It was an oddly considerate gesture on the Doctor's part—if a bit domestic, she thinks, her grin widening. After, she pulls on the Doctor's tuxedo-shirt and doesn't even bother with half the buttons before stepping back into the bedroom, humming at the surprise of crisp cool air against her still-damp skin.
"Blimey, took you long enough," mutters the Doctor, and Rose startles to find him in the room, back in his old suit, lounging on the bed and splayed over backward as if he flopped there out of sheer impatience. A plate of goodies sits next to him, its contents already picked-over and jostled by the Doctor's movement. "You just took a shower yesterday, how could you possibly already require such an extensive—"
His eyes find her and his words falter. His eyebrows knit together. He swallows.
"That's my shirt," the Doctor says flatly.
"Technically, it's the Temple's shirt, isn't it?" Rose replies, laughing as she plunks down next to him on the bed and plucks something warm off the breakfast plate. She's got no clue what it is, but it's salty and starchy and good. "And good morning to you, too, by the way."
"It's evening."
"The hell?" Rose peers out past the bed-canopy at the sky flashing overhead. Lightning cuts a bright white arc through the stormclouds, interrupting the inky darkness with patches of watery pink and red. It looks exactly the same as it did the night before, and the evening and the afternoon, for that matter. "How long was I asleep for?" Rose wonders.
"Fourteen hours and sixteen seconds," the Doctor replies. "Give or take a few seconds."
Rose laughs, raking a hand through the wet strands of her hair. The motion causes her shirt to ride up, exposing several inches of thigh that weren't exposed before, and if she hadn't been paying attention, Rose almost could have missed the way the Doctor's eyes flickered down to her legs before resuming their blank stare into nothingness.
Hiding a smile, Rose shifts, lying down on her side next to the Doctor. "So—" she starts to say, but immediately the Doctor springs up so quickly the mattress ripples in his wake.
"So anyway, just thought I'd check in after your endlessly long sleep session and even longer bath, see if you were up for a bit of nosing around—overheard a bit of gossip whilst I was pilfering nibbles, something about the cleaning room and the High Chauncery's personal chambers and strict orders to avoid each other at all costs, all very promising, nothing says conspiracy like refusing to let the staff do their job," the Doctor babbles, hands shoved firmly in his pockets as he slowly backpedals away. "Figured it merited a good checking-out if you were up for it, so I'll just leave you to eat and get dressed, shall I…?"
"Oh, god," Rose sighs. "Doctor, please don't tell me you're gonna be all weird about this."
"Weird?" the Doctor scoffs, mouth opening and closing ineffectually several times before any other noise decides to come out. "I'm sure I don't know what you mean. I'm being perfectly normal, thank you very much, and I rather resent the notion that I might be anything otherwise. I'm the picture of normal. The very portrait. The very realistic, well-lit, well-painted, brushed-by-Vermeer-himself portrait, thanks."
"Did Vermeer ever get all flustered about a woman wearing his shirt and nothing else?"
"I'm sure he did."
Then, after a pause, "…nothing else at all?"
"Let's find out," Rose says brightly, fingers flying down to her shirt-buttons.
Stammering, the Doctor darts over, stilling her hands with his. "Ah," he stutters, "as delightful as whatever you have in mind undoubtedly is—"
"And it is," Rose says with a grin.
"—with everyone else away at this evening's ceremonials, I was thinking this might be a good time to do a bit of investigating—"
"Mm-hmm."
"—or rather, you know. Poking around a bit."
Rose's eyes widen with mischief but the Doctor's hand claps over her mouth before anything salacious can escape it. "Good grief, is that all humans think about?" the Doctor laughs. "At the shops, down the pub, on the bus, when's the next time I'll get to squish bits?"
"Pretty much, yeah."
"It's a wonder the human race manages to get anything else accomplished."
"Pretty much, yeah," Rose agrees, voice muffled as she smiles against the Doctor's palm.
"Indeed. However, if we're going to get in any snooping this evening, we'd best hop to it, distraction-free. So, if I remove my hand," the Doctor says, fighting the smile that threatens to quirk the corners of his mouth, "will you promise to behave?"
Rose shakes her head no.
Sighing, the Doctor shifts back. "I suspected as much."
A few moments and nibbles and a fresh pair of trousers later (but still clad in the Doctor's borrowed shirt, because she'll be damned before she passes up any available opportunity to fluster him), Rose follows the Doctor through a series of chambers in the Temple, each one smaller and more round-walled than the last. But even amidst the air of conspiracy and subterfuge that lies heavy on them like a thick woolen cloak, pressing more and more urgently as they creep ever-closer to the Temple's heart, prompting them both to regularly swivel round on a sharp lookout for stray guards or Votaries, Rose feels lighter than she has in months.
"So tell me about this conspiracy," she says, idly glancing about the place as the Doctor scans orb after orb with the sonic. It isn't the library they visited the day before, but rather, a sort of private records-room, as the Doctor described it, but Rose will have to take his word for it; all she knows is that the orbs are white, they glow, and every time the Doctor takes a reading, he scowls afterward in impatience. "What do we know so far?" Rose continues, tabbing one of the globes.
The Doctor rolls his eyes, but he can't hide a grin. "Weren't you paying any attention yesterday?"
"Nope," Rose says brightly. "So gimme the scoop."
"Well, unfortunately there's not a whole lot to scoop so far, I'm afraid," the Doctor explains, setting down one orb with a huff only to pluck up another. "Just a few frustrating questions, none of which have any apparent answer."
"Being?"
"Why is the Allstorm suddenly so long, why are there so many foreign guests in attendance for what should be a cozy local religious ritual, and why has our Most Grant and Generous Host up and disappeared into the ether?"
"And you suspect that something big and bad's to blame, and we've got to stop it."
"Well." The Doctor shoots her a glance over his spectacles. "Don't we?"
Shrugging, Rose picks up one of the orbs to judge for herself. "Sure. Yeah. Maybe."
The Doctor piques an eyebrow in question.
"You're probably right," Rose says. "I'm sure your Spidey-senses are tingling for a reason."
"Yours aren't?"
"Eh, I dunno. The missing host is fishy for sure, and I don't know much about storms, but as far as the international guest list goes…" Rose hands her orb to the Doctor with another shrug. "I'm probably still just stuck a bit in the 1700's is all. They'd celebrate anything, they would. And I mean anything. One time Reinette threw a party cos she got some new porcelain. She threw a party for a bloody set of dinner plates."
"Aw, come on, Rose. The birth of the infamous celestial blue underglaze is worth at least a little bit of a hootenanny, isn't it?"
"No," replies Rose stubbornly. "And if I never hear the phrase bleu céleste again, it'll be too soon."
Chuckling, the Doctor turns back to his orb, his spectacles alternately flashing blue with the light of the sonic and electric-white from the lightning arcing overhead. "So your theory is that the guests are here just because they're poncy and rich, and poncy rich folk will leap at any chance to party?"
"More or less."
"Not a bad thought. Got any ideas about the other two-thirds of our problem?"
"If you're forced to stay here for a whole month without a mystery to solve, you'll go mad?"
"Cheeky," says the Doctor, the corner of his mouth quirked in amusement as he scans a new globe. "Was that terribly fashionable in the French court? The cheekiness?"
"Oh, Louis absolutely adored it," Rose says with a wink.
"I'll bet he did," mutters the Doctor.
Rose smiles. Something about this—the investigating, the banter, the still-familiarity of it all even after half a year away, the Doctor's intense concentration written in the crease of his brow over those stupidly sexy specs of his—something about it all just makes Rose want to hug him, throw her arms around him and squeeze tight. Maybe kiss him, and see where that takes them. But before she has the chance to enact any part of her plan, the Doctor looks up at her over his specs again, eyebrow arched sharply as he says, "Can I help you?"
Rose shakes herself. "Sorry?"
"You're staring."
Rose begs herself not to blush. "Yeah? So?"
"Why are you staring?"
"I dunno. Just thinking about…things."
"What things?"
"Just…things."
"Because we haven't got the time for canoodling right now, you know."
Laughing, Rose shakes her head, willing the redness in her cheeks to die down. "Canoodling? God, you really are old."
"How's that?"
"Cos only old fogies say stuff like that anymore. And for your information, I wasn't thinking about anything like that at all."
"Really?"
"Really," says Rose stubbornly. "Cos y'know, that was just a joke earlier, humans thinking about sex all the time. Despite what you may think, not everything revolves around you and, you know, canoodling or whatever—"
But her words are cut off by a tap behind the far wall, resounding through the room, and the Doctor stiffens in response, his head snapping to at the noise. It takes Rose approximately half a second to realize that's one of those invisible-door-opening taps. They're about to be discovered, and despite Uruud and the other Votaries' claims of hospitality, Rose knows that this is one of the few places they won't be welcome in.
"Oi!" shouts the guard as they step through the magic doorway, shining a light on Rose and the Doctor, freezing them both like a pair of deer in headlights. "Oi, you two! Guests aren't permitted in here!"
"Right," says the Doctor, stepping in front of Rose and the table full of scattered globes, shielding them all from view. "Of course. We're so sorry, complete misunderstanding—"
"What are you doing in here?" the guard asks suspiciously.
"Canoodling?" Rose offers.
"We got lost," the Doctor says quickly, stepping to the side to block the guard's view as he tries to peer around him at Rose and the orbs. "We got lost looking for a place to—erm—"
"Canoodle," Rose supplies, kicking herself.
"—and, well, nothing gets a human girl all hot and bothered like a roomful of private records, does it?" the Doctor laughs weakly.
The guard looks from the Doctor, around to Rose behind him, down at the misplaced globes surrounding Rose, back to the Doctor again. He does not look convinced.
"Sorry, but I think I'm going to have to take you in," says the guard, reaching for something behind his back. A weapon, Rose thinks, and she freezes.
"And that's our cue," says the Doctor, grabbing Rose by the hand. "Time to run!"
Fingers cinched tightly round hers, the Doctor sprints through the records-room past rows and rows of glowing orbs, pulling Rose along for the ride as the guard chases after. Rose runs as fast as her legs can take her, neglected muscles tensing and complaining after months of sedentary stillness, but even amidst that, Rose is grinning like a madwoman, because she's missed all of this, god has she ever missed it. She stifles a laugh as they run from one chamber to another to another, past columns and pools and guests, the guard close on their heels, adrenaline pumping like hypercharged jet fuel through Rose's veins.
"Really, Doctor," she laughs breathlessly as they run. "Nothing gets a girl all hot and bothered like a room full of records?"
"What's that you said about canoodling?" the Doctor shoots back.
"I panicked!"
"Yes, that much is evident!"
The Doctor pulls Rose through chamber after chamber and the guard doesn't lose sight of them once, his footfalls dogging them every step of the way. Fear and excitement braiding themselves together in Rose's gut, she clings to the Doctor's hand all that much harder, secretly relishing the mad rush of it all.
"Here," announces the Doctor as they arrive at a huge curved wall, and a rap of his knuckles opens a doorway into one of the great halls, full to the rafters with guests and celebrants swirling about the place in some sort of ceremonial dance. Ducking beneath the wings of a large feathered guest, the Doctor draws Rose into the teeming crowd, away from the prying eyes of their pursuer. Once inside, Rose marvels at the sight all around them, celebrants moving and swaying to the ritualistic and rhythmic beating of drums pulsing beneath the soft flutter of winds and strings. The music swells and expands to fill the room, suffocating even the thought of space, cleaving to the dancers and adherents with an almost intoxicating closeness, leaving Rose dizzy as the drumbeat marches to the beat of her own hammering pulse. The celebrants surrounding her pull her in like an undercurrent, dancing to the beat in an elegant amoebic mass spinning and swirling beneath the lightning-split sky.
"Shall we dance?" Rose teases, half-expecting the Doctor to roll his eyes and snark at her again, but to her surprise, he nods. "Camouflage. Good thinking," he says, pocketing his specs before stepping directly into the stream of guests, pulling Rose close.
Funny—Rose had sort of thought, when she'd ever allowed herself to think of such things, that if she and the Doctor ever transcended their unspoken boundary of clasped hands and too-tight hugs, then all that ever-present chemistry burning between them might fizzle out, doused like a candle at evening's end. Not a bad thing, that; candles can't burn forever, and when their spark has reduced to a gentle smolder, one can safely go to bed with a sense of ease and contentment, curling up for a comfortable and well-earned sleep. But with one of his hands guiding her round, the other clasping her close by the waist, pulling her chest against his, packing them both together so tightly she can feel each and every breath as it enters and leaves his body, it becomes apparent that no, that flame was not extinguished, it's burning bright as ever, and probably has no chance of doing otherwise anytime soon. At least that would explain why Rose feels so warm all of a sudden, why her cheeks can't seem to stop burning.
The Doctor spins her in time with dozens of other celebrants, elegantly following the steps of the dance as he scans the room for their pursuer, his glance aloof and oh-so-carefully casual. Distantly, Rose wonders whether he already knows this ritual dance or if he's just stupidly good at improvising; presently, she's too busy being distracted by the proximity of their bodies and the feel of his hands on her again to register much of anything else. She faces him again, pressed close once again, and he offers a grin. "Hello," he says, and Rose remembers a similar sequence from before, a galaxy and a year ago. Almost feels like a lifetime, now.
"Hello," she replies, a smile blossoming slow and sweet across her lips. She's got no clue what steps she should be following right now but at least her time at court taught her how to fake it 'til she makes it, if nothing else; she follows the Doctor's lead with relative ease, laughing when she falters and her feet skip a beat along with her pulse. "Seem to be doing a lot of this lately, don't we?"
"What, watching for guards while we stumble over our own feet?"
"Dancing, you great prat," Rose laughs. A change in tempo means time to change partners and Rose switches off with a flourish, grinning disarmingly at the large rhinoceros-creature that glowers at her before taking her hand. (Though to be fair, Rose actually hasn't got a clue whether it's specifically shooting daggers at her, as glower seems to be the creature's default state.) She twirls back into the Doctor's arms afterward and there it is again, that heat, that electricity; the lightning flashing overhead has got nothing on the connection burning and buzzing between the two of them, Rose thinks.
"It's nice," she admits, her fingers nervously edging upward to fiddle with the lapels of his suit-jacket. "The dancing, I mean. We should do it more."
The Doctor hums noncommittally.
"You don't think so?"
"I don't particularly think one way or the other, at the moment. I'm more preoccupied with our guard friend and wherever he might happen to be. I've sort of lost sight of him."
"Right," says Rose, nodding. There are other things at hand. Big things. Important things. Much bigger, more important things than the press of their bodies together, warm and close, soft and tense all at once, their clothes whispering against each other as they move, leaving Rose practically vibrating with anticipation, reminding her in full technicolor detail of everything they got up to the night before, his hands slipping beneath her dress, his lips on hers, skin against skin—
"It can't happen again, you know."
Shaking herself, Rose frowns. "Sorry?"
"Last night. What we did, what we said. It can't happen again."
"How did you know—you didn't read my mind or something, did you?" Rose asks, startled.
The Doctor shakes his head. "Didn't have to."
"All right, I get it," Rose sighs. "I know you like to tease about that sort of thing, humans and their silly animal instincts and all, but it only makes sense that it's on my mind, Doctor. It only just happened last night. It's not like I'm some crazed addict—not like it's really the only thing I ever think about."
"It's on my mind too, Rose."
"Oh." Her cheeks reddening, Rose considers the implications of that, wonders what he's thinking, if his recollections are anything as vivid as hers, what else is going through his mind right now. "Then…why?"
"As lovely as it might have been, it was ill-advised at best, dangerous at worst," the Doctor explains, still scanning the room, and now Rose suspects he's just using their pursuer as a convenient excuse to avoid looking at her. "And it's dangerous precisely because it's on my mind. It's a distraction, and we can't afford distractions. That's how we end up in the predicament we're in right now—it's how things get overlooked, mistakes get made, people get hurt."
Rose stops in her tracks, staring at him as the crowd bustles and sways around them; the Doctor stops as well, hands moving back to the safety of his own body, depositing themselves firmly in his pockets. "I'm sorry," he says softly. "I know it's not what you want to hear. I don't particularly like saying it. If I had my way, we'd just pretend it never happened. I'm only saying anything now because, well, it seems prudent, and only fair in light of everything, to make certain my stance on the subject is clear."
"And what about my stance on the subject?" Rose asks with a disbelieving laugh.
"It's just a bad idea, Rose. You know it is."
"No, I don't," Rose insists, crossing her arms protectively. "I don't know that. Last night—"
"I just said last night was ill-advised."
"You're wrong," says Rose. "You're wrong about this whole thing. Cos you're not worried about hurting other people. You're worried about yourself."
Frowning, the Doctor opens his mouth to protest, but Rose cuts him off with a hand wrapped round his arm, pulling him off to the side so they're no longer buffeted by dancers and music and other things pounding mercilessly on their senses. Once they're safely ensconced in a semi-private alcove, Rose sighs.
"Look, I know you're lonely," she says, and it hurts for the words to leave her mouth, almost as much, she thinks, as it hurts for him to hear them. "And I know that's the biggest reason you keep any of us around. To fill the quiet. To make the universe seem new and bright again. To not feel so lonely anymore."
The Doctor's mouth twists unhappily and Rose has to force herself to continue. "And I'm happy to do that for you, I really am," she says. "And if this is truly as far as you want things to go between the two of us, then that's fine. If that's what you really want and need, that's fine. I won't push you. But the thing is, it doesn't seem like that's true. It's more like, you want things, but you think you shouldn't have them. Like you don't deserve them."
The Doctor fidgets uncomfortably and Rose bites her lip in worry. Things were going so well just moments before—how did they end up back here, how are things already so tense and strained again? Not that she expected sex to really resolve anything, but last night, it had seemed like things were at least edging toward improvement. Why do they keep talking and working only to circle back round to the same bleak conclusion?
Well, while she's pushing things, she might as well push all the way. No point in holding back, now.
"It isn't just about the sex," Rose says, and goodness, but she's really blushing now. "But you do all these things—you make us feel special, like we're exceptional, like we're these bright spots you were so, so happy to find, and then on a dime, you turn right back around and make us feel like the lowest, smallest beings in the universe. You take us with you on these amazing adventures, and then when you're done with us, you leave us behind. You pull us near only to run away when you realize just how close we're getting. And we don't get any say in the matter—when you're done, you're just done. And it hurts, Doctor, and it pushes people away. It's only going to make you lonelier in the end."
"You haven't got a clue what it's like to be truly alone," the Doctor replies quietly.
"No, I don't," Rose agrees. "And I wish you didn't either. Because you don't have to."
Wordlessly, the Doctor looks up and away, at anything in the room but her; Rose steps closer, reaching up to place a gentle hand on his cheek, a soft and undemanding plea for him to face her again.
"You help so many people," she says. "Why won't you let anyone help you?"
"I don't need it," the Doctor replies.
Rose arches an eyebrow in disbelief.
"Actually, I've changed my mind," says the Doctor, pulling away so he can rock back on his heels. "I've got a definitive opinion on dancing after all. You're right, it's lovely, we should do it more. Starting right now. Right resolutely now, in case our little guard friend comes back to look for us again. Shall we?"
"How do you really feel about Reinette?" Rose asks, before she has a chance to talk herself out of it.
Now the Doctor stares at her. "What?"
"You heard me."
"Why are you asking about her again?"
"I want to know."
"Does it matter?" he asks incredulously.
"It does to me."
"Why on earth should it?"
"It just does."
Casting about in disbelief, the Doctor scowls. "Fine. What do you want me to say—that I'm drawn to clever, accomplished people? I'm fascinated with them? That I admire talent and beauty and generally impressive people and places and things whenever and wherever I might find them? It's all true, I won't deny it, never have. And I don't think I have to apologize for it, either."
"Do you love her?"
The Doctor scoffs. "Really, of all the reductive and oversimplified things—and a ridiculous notion to boot," he says, looking at Rose with that horrible you've just dribbled on your shirt look, the one that suggests he's very displeased with her for exposing him to her silly brain and its silly limited capabilities. "It's an impossible question to answer by your standards, because love means too many things for humans. You love your parents and your family and your friends, certainly, but you also love your dog and your favorite ice cream flavor and the latest big thing on telly. You love fashion and science and sleeping in to ungodly hours and apparently pestering me with idiotic questions. The word love means everything, therefore it means nothing. It's a useless platitude, a saccharine sentimentalism invented purely for the sake of films and fairy tales and song lyrics sugary enough to give you a dozen cavities."
"Cool," says Rose drily, because when the defensive cynicism comes out in full force, that's how she knows she's really getting somewhere. "So are you gonna answer my question, or haven't you got all of the usual insults out of your system yet?"
"No," he says, throwing up his hands in defeat. "That's your answer, all right? No. Fascination and admiration and even infatuation don't automatically add up to love, and if you think they do, then you should reexamine your maths. And you'll just have to forgive me if I don't conform to your very human standards of what fondness and caring and romance should look like—I'm sorry I'm not in the habit of vomiting out my feelings at every available opportunity, or opening myself up to things that will only amount to a horrendous amount of pain in the end, or carving off chunks of myself to give to people left and right until there's nothing left of me, nothing, nothing at all. I'm sorry. All right? And that's it, that's all I'm going to say on the matter, I'm done, Rose, I'm officially done."
"Okay," replies Rose.
Wide-eyed and staring, the Doctor blinks in surprise. "Okay? So that's it? We can drop this now, move on?"
"Yeah."
"Really?" he asks suspiciously.
"Really. I learned everything I need to know."
"And what's that?"
"You're a coward."
The Doctor doesn't reply, just watches her sharply, brow furrowed in frustration and hurt.
"You can deny yourself all you want, hiding behind the whole curse of the Time Lords business or your self-righteous self-martyrdom or your magnificent higher calling or whatever other noble-sounding excuse you want to come up with," Rose continues, offering a sad little smile. "But at the end of the day, really, I think you're just afraid to be happy."
"Oh, come on now, that's just—"
"It's like you think you don't deserve it cos you had to make some impossible decisions, like joy is some kind of zero-sum game and anything good you might have is taking joy away from someone else somehow, or like you think the universe will punish you or something, and—and honestly, how self-centered is all that, anyway?—but, just, look. Is this something you want, or not?" asks Rose, exasperated. "Just tell me honestly. If you don't want us to be anything more, if you're happiest with us just being mates, that's all right. I'll respect your wishes. If that's what you really want."
"It doesn't really matter what I want," the Doctor mutters.
"Of course it does," insists Rose. "Doctor—do you think that way about anyone else? Would you ever tell someone else that how they feel doesn't matter?"
Again he doesn't reply.
"What about me?" Rose tries again. "Do my feelings matter? Do you want me to be happy?"
"Of course. Don't be ridiculous."
"Well, I want you to be happy," Rose replies stubbornly. "It would make me happy to see you get what you want. Even if it's not exactly the same thing I want. You deserve happiness as much as anyone else. It would make me very happy for you to know that. Yeah?"
Staring at her in dumbstruck silence, the Doctor swallows hard. His gaze shifts uncomfortably elsewhere, a hand carding through his hair as he considers—what he's considering, Rose doesn't know, but she worries about his next words, whether he's weighing them, perhaps measuring the potential damage of them.
Rose hides a sigh of disappointment. It's all too much for him, probably. She's pushing him too much. She's being unfair. This is too much to expect of him.
She can't ask him to feel the same way she does.
"Look, Doctor. I just—" Rose starts to say, but he cuts her off with a hug, enveloping her in an embrace so tight it squeezes the breath right out of her. Her arms return the gesture on instinct, instantly wrapping round his waist and drawing the rest of her near so her face can burrow against his chest, her arms resting snugly against the small of his back. His double heartsbeat taps a reassuring rhythm beneath her cheek, thump-thump, thump-thump, thump-thump, and Rose relaxes a little, sighing in relief. Probably this is among the Doctor's many hidden talents and gifts, this magical ability to hug and squeeze everything bad out of her until she's left with nothing but quiet contentment. Or maybe that's just how it feels anytime someone really needs an embrace and receives it. Either way, it's a really fucking good hug.
"It's not that simple," the Doctor says softly. "But…thank you for saying it, anyway. It means a lot."
"Yeah. I love you, you know."
Her pulse racing in her ears, Rose's voice is so small she thinks the Doctor might not even hear it—and maybe that would be just as well, anyway—but he stiffens, nodding. "I know," he says quietly.
Stepping back, the Doctor casts his gaze downward, struggling to meet her eyes. "Rose, I—"
"Rose!"
On reflex, Rose's head jerks at the sound of Mickey calling her name; she still watches the Doctor, waiting for whatever he was going to say, but his attention has already shifted, his focus switching in a millisecond.
Rose curses Mickey's terrible timing. What was the Doctor going to say?
With a frustrated sigh, Rose turns to see Mickey swimming toward them through the crowd, Naami following close behind.
"Rose, we've done it!" Mickey says excitedly. "We've figured it out!"
"Figured what out?" asks Rose, lost.
"The conspiracy!" replies Mickey in hushed tones, glancing all about the chamber to ensure no one overhears. "The Doctor was right, something's going on, but it's not what you think—Naami, tell them!"
Naami nods, her face lit up in an eager grin. "So the High Chauncery hasn't been seen in years, it's true, but that actually isn't too uncommon in his line of work, right?" she says, glancing from Rose to the Doctor and back. "As you know, Therran High Priests are renowned galaxywide for their scholarship and piety—"
"Of course we all knew that!" Mickey laughs nervously.
"—so of course, none of us ever questioned it. Priests might retreat into study at any time, for any reason, and they could be gone for any number of weeks or months or even, as in this case, years. But after the Doctor's remarks on the High Chauncery's absence, I thought I might ask round with some of my connections, just out of curiosity. We're involved in imports, you see, so if the High Chauncery was bringing in new materials for study, then we'd be the first to know. But that's just the thing—he hasn't ordered any sort of religious texts for years now."
"Because it turns out someone murdered him unceremoniously?" asks the Doctor.
"What? Of course not!" laughs Naami, daintily shielding her mouth with her hand. "Murder? Don't be absurd!"
"Well, all right, then," says the Doctor, nonplussed. "That's unexpected. But certainly not unwelcome."
"A nice change from the usual," Rose adds.
"True, a very nice change."
"That's not the interesting thing, though! Tell them about the interesting thing, tell them what the High Chauncypants keeps bringing in," urges Mickey.
Leaning in close, and whispering in a hushed tone, conspiratorial, like anyone around them might hear and gasp in shock, Naami tells them, "Giant mirrors, boatloads of argon, and silver iodide."
Rose and the Doctor both blink in confusion. That's not at all what Rose had expected to hear. She was thinking something more along the lines of illicit beasts or exotic drugs or, heck, at least some kind of rare spice. But this…this just sounds like a silly school science experiment, and honestly, after everything, that's a little bit of a letdown.
"Oh, no," says Rose awkwardly, glancing at Mickey with a shrug. "Not that stuff!"
She leans close to the Doctor to whisper, "What is that stuff?"
"Well, if I didn't know any better, I'd say someone was building a big laser," says the Doctor, frowning. "But I'm not certain how the silver iodide factors in, unless—"
"That's them, over there!" a voice shouts over the din, and Rose turns at the noise to see their pursuer hovering at the edge of the crowd, pointing at her and the Doctor. Their single guard has been joined by several others, now, all of them staring in their direction. Staring, and grimacing, and brandishing a host of dangerous-looking, pointy weapons.
So much for that famous hospitality, Rose thinks with a gulp.
"Get them!" commands the guard.
"Split up!" Rose shouts as she pushes Mickey away with one hand, grabs the Doctor with another. Pulling the Doctor along, she bolts through the teeming crowd, ducking beneath arms and tentacles and wings; a glance back tells her that Mickey and Naami, though startled, have taken off running in the opposite direction. A half-dozen guards bridge the gap between them, shouting at the dancing celebrants to disperse as they break off to chase each pair.
"Here!" says Rose, pulling the Doctor between two huge elephantine aliens that sway to and fro over the floor, distracted both by the music and the guards' continuous shouting. The guards struggle to catch up, stopped at every turn by errant celebrants and guests milling about the place in confusion, but after a lifetime of navigating London's busy and tourist-filled streets, Rose has no problem weaving in and out of the throng, spotting a good-sized gap here, a narrow-but-tenable squeeze there. Before too long she's drawn the Doctor out of the main hall and into a side corridor, their feet slapping hard against the marble floor as they sprint away from their pursuers.
"Not that way!" shouts the Doctor as they round a corner only to find more guards, and he yanks Rose off in another direction, guiding them both by the grace of his eidetic memory. They weave in and out of chamber after chamber, back through the dining hall and the menagerie and the pools and the garden, past shocked celebrants and shrieking animals and churning waters, lightning violently splitting the sky overhead as they run and their pursuers close in.
"What'll happen if they catch us?" Rose gasps, throwing a look over her shoulder at the guards and their many, many weapons. And right at that second, as if someone was only waiting for her to ask, a shrill squeal fills the air and suddenly the Doctor is yanking Rose to the side just in time to avoid a barrage of blaster-fire, smacking the wall right beside her and leaving a smoldering crater behind in its wake. Rose lets out a cry as blaster fire rings out all around them, exploding the walls all around and the floor at their feet, filling the air with smoke and shrapnel. Another barrage of fire and Rose feels a beam graze her shirt, its scalding heat missing her skin by mere millimeters.
Heart hammering, air burning in her lungs, Rose wills her legs to run faster.
They sprint round another curve only to reach a dead end. The Doctor halts in his tracks, his grip tightening round Rose's hand as they both skid over the floor. Rose watches as the Doctor whips back round to face the guards, glances back at the dead end in front of them, brow furrowing as he frantically tries to calculate.
Oh, god. That face. It's been six months but Rose still recognizes that face. It's the Doctor's we're gonna have to do something supremely stupid and hope for the best face. His we might die, but then again, we might not face.
"Doctor—" Rose starts to say, but, jaw set in determination, he doesn't say anything, just takes off again for the far wall, yanking Rose along with him.
"No!" shout the guards behind them, their voices high and shrill over their clattering boots and firing blasters. "Halt!"
They reach the wall and Doctor raps a desperate beat against it until it springs open, a doorway parting to reveal a tempest of howling winds and punishing rains roaring loud enough to drown even the sounds of blaster fire all around them. Water and hail scream down in sheets, buffeted by the winds and hammering against the ground like shards of glass on pavement. Thunder pounding relentlessly overhead, the pitch black of the sky and the air are illuminated only by the beams of light piercing the sky, flooding the world in a flash of blinding-white and blood-red.
The Allstorm, Rose realizes, and she shrinks back in fear. She opens her mouth to plead with the Doctor, but terror has crept up her throat and stolen her words.
Pausing only long enough to steel himself with a steadying breath, the Doctor steps through the door, and Rose follows him into the storm.