Thank you all for being so patient with me! I know I've made you wait for ages for this update. But I greatly underestimated the number of words I would need to tie this story up, and what I thought would be one chapter has become two. I apologize in advance for the cliffhanger this will end on, but I do have a good amount of the final chapter finished, and I hope to post it before too much time passes. For now, please enjoy this one!
The sun is high and hot in a cloudless sky, its heat soaking through the Doctor's leather jacket as he leans forward on the motorbike's handlebars. Faster, faster. It's foolhardy, blasting far above the speed limits like this, but he can't stop himself. Something's wrong. Something nearly undetectable, like a tasteless, odourless toxin. Tainting every breath he takes.
"Please please please please please," he pleads on repeat, his breath hot inside the helmet, and prays this feeling of foreboding is nothing more than his anxiety getting the best of him. He does have a history of reacting this way, whenever he's been on the verge of being happy.
That said, whatever it is that's scaring him now, it's certainly not regret. Distance from Rose is the last thing he wants. Now that he's laid himself bare and been fully accepted, he not only craves further intimacy, but commitment. To be allowed to love her without reserve. To fill the space in his chest with a third heart, her pure one, one that will pulse his veins full of goodness.
Once he can be a bit more certain he'll be as good for her as she is for him, he'll beg her to marry him.
A cloud of dust from the lane billows around the Doctor as he skids to a dangerously sharp stop and flings himself off his motorbike. His hearts beat hard as he takes the steps up to the cottage two at a time. That sodding errand had taken far too long, and he badly needs to see that she's safe. Then he'll be okay.
He gives the door six or seven loud knocks, then shades his face with his hands to peer through the kitchen window. Where is she? Clean dishes are stacked in the rack by the sink, all the chairs neatly arranged around the table. The Doctor knocks again, thumping the door hard with the side of his fist, fighting off a surge of panic. She's probably in the loo or something.
As he's eyeing the doorknob, trying to work up the courage to check if it's still locked, a deep voice speaks behind him. "She's gone."
The Doctor whirls round, nearly jumping straight out of his skin. A Tesi military man gazes up at him from the bottom of the steps, a white hoverbike parked behind him. Tall and barrel-chested, his white hair shorn short, he's dressed in the red and gold of a high-ranking officer.
"What do you mean, she's gone?" It comes out as a shout. "What did you do with her?!"
The soldier folds his arms, looking offended. "I did nothing. I have come as a courtesy to Miss Rose."
Instinct is all that prevents the Doctor from bounding at the other man like a tiger and pinning him to the ground. He needs answers, so he'd best not anger him. He nods his willingness to listen and tries to breathe.
"I am in the employ of her betrothed, the King, yet I am aware that she...thinks highly of you. I believe she would want me to give you a warning."
"A warning?" the Doctor echoes, labouring to make even simple connections over the loud backbeat his mind is drumming out: she's gone she's gone she's gone.
This Tesi knows all about him and Rose. This Tesi works for Victor.
Oh, god, Victor has Rose.
"You abducted the future Queen consort," the baritone voice is saying, from somewhere far, far away. "You are a traitor to the throne." The Doctor's grip on the railing whitens, but only because he's suddenly noticing how everything around him looks so…so terribly ordinary. There's no dirt kicked up in the drive, no drag marks in the grass, not a single sign of any struggle. Numbly, he reaches back and twists the doorknob. It rotates easily.
Oh, Rose, he thinks, hearts breaking. You let him in.
"The King intends to have you executed."
A sharp surge of anger drags the Doctor back into his body. "Oh, really? So you thought you'd give me a nice little heads-up before you escort me to my death?"
There's a strange pause before the officer answers. "I have not been instructed to bring you in. Not yet."
Struck, the Doctor considers the man more closely. Is that worry in his frost-coloured eyes? Yes, and deep sadness. "Oh. She's been kind to you, hasn't she? You care about her, enough that you're afraid for her. So you mean to give me a head start, for her. Yeah?"
When his gaze shifts away in what might be shame, the Doctor comes down a step. "Quite a risk, that," he comments softly. "For you, I mean."
The crash of the ocean is loud in the silence. Sighing, the Doctor tips his head back, surveying the empty sky. "I suppose the King took her away in one of his fancy spaceships?"
"They rode a human vehicle. One much like yours."
He blinks in surprise, uncertain whether this is good news or bad. So Victor has continued to impersonate him, is attempting a prolonged deception? But why? Why take that risk, when, as soon as he'd tricked her into opening the door, he could've easily forced Rose to go with him?
For victory, his subconscious supplies, and he sucks a sharp breath. A sportsman has no interest in hunting a caged tiger, there's no glory in it. Victor wants the chase, the challenge, the game. For Rose to willingly walk into his trap.
"He's going to try to get her to marry him," he says, and hears the despair in his own voice.
"Yes. The wedding must take place by sunset tomorrow."
His gaze snaps to the Tesi soldier. "He won't wait that long. He'll do it as soon as he can, before she sees through the facade."
"Facade?"
"Rose obviously thinks the King is me," he tosses out as he rushes down the steps and past the big soldier, suddenly feverish to be off. No use going into the house. Victor will have taken all his things anyway, including the sonic screwdriver. "She wouldn't have gone with him so willingly if she didn't."
It's so gut-wrenchingly painful to admit this aloud that he can hardly mount his bike. He's nothing like you, Rose had vowed again and again, but when push came to shove she hadn't known the difference. How could she possibly mistake that monster's false charm for his love?
"That is nonsense."
"Oh, really?" counters the Doctor sarcastically as the engine roars to life. "Have you looked at me? I mean sure, I've got a bit of a beard, but other than that Victor and I look exactly alike. I don't mean similar. Exactly."
"Nonsense," the soldier repeats with a scoff. "You are not even Tesi."
After a beat it registers, and the Doctor nearly drops the helmet he's about to don. "Of course," he breathes out. "Of course. It makes so much sense…I had every clue. Such a simple scheme, so logical." His eyes squeeze shut. "Why am I so thick?"
Then he lifts his head, shaking himself out of his self-recriminations. "Okay, Officer...what's your name, again?"
The soldier clams up and the Doctor rolls his eyes. "Who am I gonna tell? Traitor to the throne, remember?"
"I am Ghareem."
"Okay, Ghareem, here's the thing. I may not be Tesi, but –plot twist– neither is your King. I know this because he's...well. He's my brother. My identical twin. Outwardly we're so alike it's almost as if he's my clone. There's only one real difference between us, and it's this: one of us is somewhat sane, whilst the other is unhinged and power-hungry and evil." He holds calm, steady eye contact with Ghareem. "Bet you can guess which is which."
Ghareem says nothing, though there's understanding dawning in his pale eyes. Wariness, too. "Why would he look like a Tesi if he is not one of us?" he asks at last, with a sharpness that makes the Doctor suspect he already has the answer.
"He's using a device called a perception filter."
"How do you know about those? They are not human technology."
"Yeah, well, they're not Tesi technology, either. But they were commonly used by my people."
"Your people?"
"I'm not human. My brother and I are from a planet you've never heard of, one that lies far outside the realm of the Tesi. It doesn't matter. What matters now is Rose, yeah? You care about her, and I love her, so I'm going after her." He pulls on his helmet and then lifts his hand in farewell.
Ghareem steps in front of the motorbike. "You can't save her. He'll kill you."
The Doctor shoves up his visor with a huff. "I can and he won't. But if you're so worried, you could help me. You could get me to London really fast on that hoverbike. Or better yet, on the airship I bet you've got parked somewhere nearby."
"I cannot commit treason."
"But it's not– look, Ghareem, Victor only wants Rose because he hates me. She's a pawn in his scheme to take over the world. If they marry, it won't truly finalise the capitulation agreement between Earth and Tesilene because Victor's not Tesi. His deceit has put your people in violation of intergalactic law."
Ghareem wears an odd expression. "He gave me a perception filter," he says quietly, as if speaking only to himself. "So I could plant listening devices in your cottage."
"You're the old caretaker?" groans the Doctor in disbelief. "So he's been listening this whole time, he's known–" He cuts off. "You're telling me that for a reason. You know he's got the tech. You know I'm right. You've seen it. He's evil."
With bated breath, the Doctor watches Ghareem's reaction closely. "Come on," he urges, as the other man swallows hard. "Help me. Help Rose. Please."
But it's no good. The Tesi drops his chin, looks away. "My loyalty is to the King."
Sighing, the Doctor yanks down his visor. Gravel spits from beneath his tyres as he races off, annoyed that he'd wasted so much time on that round-and-round with nothing to show for it. Almost nothing. He's fairly certain Ghareem isn't about to chase after him, so there's that.
Once he's turned onto the smooth hard surface of a motorway, he uses the bluetooth in his helmet to call Pete.
After several rings he answers, sounding cautious. "Hello?"
"Victor's got Rose."
It's not at all what the Doctor intended to lead with, it just spills out, roughly. "He shorted out my phone to get me to leave her alone at the cottage and now he's got her. She thinks he's me."
"Okay, Doctor, take a breath. How could Victor–"
"Who cares how? He has her, Pete! And her life and mine and yours and Jackie's and lots of other people's will be over if we don't stop him from marrying her, so maybe we ought to focus on that, eh?"
"You're right, you're right. What do you need from me?" The words carry an authoritative note that calms the Doctor a bit. It's the powerful CEO he's speaking to now, the Director, the freedom fighter.
"I need a giant disruption outside Torchwood Tower, starting about four hours from now. Think you can manage that?"
There's a long pause before Pete speaks again. "I hate to ask this, but why would you think he'll take her to Torchwood? Rose…she has a key to that spaceship of yours, she never takes it off. I'm guessing your other self knows how to fly the thing. He could marry her anywhere in the universe, couldn't he?"
"He could, but he won't," says the Doctor impatiently, gaze fixed on the taillights of the car ahead of him. "The capitulation agreement isn't finalised, Pete, and it won't be unless he marries Rose before a Tesi official. Victor won't give up his chance to subjugate the planet."
"But if Rose believes she's marrying you, won't the gig be up if Victor takes her to Torchwood?"
"He's part Time Lord, Pete, and once he's a Time Lord with a TARDIS he'll have a whole arsenal of tricks. There'll be a wedding at Torchwood, I'm certain of it."
"Wouldn't it be easier to fool her if he just takes her to some island or–"
"Victor wants me to find them, Pete," the Doctor snaps. "He wants me to watch him win."
Another long pause. "If that's the case, he must be fairly certain you won't be able to stop him."
"I know."
"Is he wrong?"
It's several hard swallows before the Doctor can answer. "I hope so."
"Did you miss me, girl?" croons Rose. Victor watches in dismay as she practically climbs onto the console just so she can press her palm to the rotor's curved glass. The TARDIS emits a low groan, clearly put out by his presence.
"Oh, I think she's not feeling well," is Rose's frowning diagnosis. "You better hurry and install that energy converter, Doctor."
Her utter cluelessness makes Victor smile, despite the big smudgy handprint she's left on the rotor. "I'll start on that now. Ehm, if you like, you could go check out the wardrobe, maybe find a…a wedding dress? You know," –he clears his throat and pauses, so she'll notice how adorably awkward he's being– "for our wedding? It'll take me a bit to get the TARDIS up and running anyway, so take all the time you need to get ready."
Scratching his stubbly chin, Victor manages to refrain from suggesting a deep-conditioning treatment for her hair. Too out-of-character for the Doctor. That idiot would only notice her glowing cheeks and sparkling eyes, even though she looks terribly windblown after their long ride on the motorbike.
Rose looks both surprised and delighted by his thoughtfulness. "Can't believe we're actually doing this," she says shyly, tracing a fingertip around a series of blinking lights on a panel. "Gettin' married."
"Yeah." He is shy too.
"I sort of wish my mum was here, even just to help pick my dress. She'll be sad she missed out."
Looking away, Victor powers a screen on with the Doctor's screwdriver, dread filling him as he unwittingly pictures Rose in some awful gown selected by her mother. Illogical as it is, deep down he can't help but wonder if Jackie Tyler's atrocious taste might have the power to nullify treaties and vows. "I'm sorry, Rose. But it's not safe to fetch your mum."
"Oh, I know. 'S alright."
Is it alright, though? Victor is suddenly uncertain as he gazes over the top of levers and knobs to take in his bride's un-aristocratic facial structure. What if Rose defaults to her genetics and origin and comes out dressed all chav? This is a royal wedding, after all. Even if she doesn't know it.
"I could help you choose a dress," offers Victor, pretending nonchalance. "MIght be fun. If you want."
Rose gives him a fond, don't-be-daft smile. It's the smile Victor hates most. "That's very sweet, Doctor, but I'll be fine on my own."
Did…did she just refuse? Fury blasts through his chest, sudden and violent as a gunshot. Victor acts swiftly before it surfaces, dropping the sonic on the floor and ducking after it. Hidden behind the console, he buys a moment to calm down, hissing in breaths through clenched teeth. Just a few hours more, he chants inwardly. And she'll never dare reject you again.
Although the thought helps, he's sure he's still visibly upset. So, with sonic in hand, Victor swiftly rises, purposefully ramming his head against the console. "Ow!" he yelps as the pain does its job. Endorphins flood his system, effectively cooling his anger.
"You alright?" Rose calls over, concerned.
"Yeah, of course." His eyes meet hers as he straightens, gingerly touching the tender spot on his forehead. "Maybe a bit, ehm, embarrassed. Anyway! We'll talk later, yeah? Now get a move on, Rose Tyler. Find yourself a nice dress, have a bath, do your nails, drink a bottle of wine or two."
"Sure we have time for all that?"
Victor relaxes. There's no sign she noticed his little mood-swing. "Of course we do. I know you've not been back here for a while, but see, the TARDIS is a time machine. So that means–"
"Shut it, Doctor."
"–we're safe, Rose," he goes on, slipping into a tone of earnest sincerity. "Victor can't get to you right now. Do you have any idea how that makes me feel?"
Rose smiles at him. "How?"
"Well, a bit put out, to be honest," he teases, folding his arms. "I drove us all the way here without attracting the least bit of Tesi attention, and you haven't even thanked me."
"Yeah, well, you haven't thanked me either," she shoots back without missing a beat.
"For what?"
"Um, for being the one to actually get us safely aboard the TARDIS." Rose points at him, grinning. "Still can't believe you lost your key."
"I didn't lose it, I said! I just didn't think to grab it out of my other coat pocket!"
"And that's why you're lucky you've got me. Yeah?"
Her grin is warm, flirtatious. Victor makes himself match it. "Yeah."
"So." Thumbing back toward the corridor, Rose begins to move, though not exactly in that direction. "Suppose I'll just…"
"Okay. Have fun."
Afraid she might round the console to hug him (or worse, kiss him), Victor looks down and busies himself with a keyboard. Physical interactions make him nervous– being outwardly Doctor-like is easy enough, but feigning emotions, especially when skin-to-skin with a bloody empath, is another matter entirely. Not that he can't do it. Just, he'd rather not right this second. She's not actually suspicious about the key, is she?
No, that's stupid. A couple days with the Doctor has resurrected her abominable habit of poking fun at things, is all. Still, when Rose's footsteps clang off toward a corridor and fade away, Victor lets out a long breath. "Finally, she takes a hint."
He rolls his shoulders and stretches luxuriously, like he's just shed an ill-fitting garment. Bugger all, he'd forgotten how much work it is, pretending he enjoys her company. He's earned this little break.
Whistling cheerfully, Victor goes to where his motorbike is still parked on the ship's entry ramp, opens up a saddlebag and lifts out the energy converter the Doctor built. He carries it to the console slung over an arm, exhaust tubes dangling everywhere like tentacles.
Once he's got the TARDIS subdued by a few well-placed swings of a mallet, installing the converter proves to be laughably easy. So much so, he does laugh. Tech built by the Doctor is often riddled with bugs, but this contraption is flawless. Another little stroke of luck. They're numbering in the dozens now.
Like the whole shaving thing. Since Rose's disappearance had left him scant time for personal grooming, his stubble had become a thick, itchy irritation. It would've met his razor's edge this very morning, had he not impulsively blown off that scheduled BBC interview in order to nip down to Penzance early. Such amazement he'd felt as his airship's surveillance cameras had supplied his first visual of the Doctor, to find him equally unkempt. He'd also felt fear. Victor's whole plan hinged on "twinning" the Doctor and he'd come within a hair's breadth –he grins– of being foiled by facial hair.
Instead, the unintended stubble helped Victor strengthen the illusion. Rose hasn't shown a glimmer of doubt in his identity. Not even after sitting on a completely different motorbike for five hours. He's almost disappointed in her.
After a quick peek down the main corridor to be certain Rose isn't lurking nearby, Victor rings Omara from the TARDIS' holophone. "I've decided to get married today," he announces as her translucent image flashes to life. "The ceremony will begin in two hours. I'm assuming that gives you plenty of time to call in the necessary security and witnesses. Did the final shipment of trees from Tesilene arrive?"
Eyes narrowing, Omara studies him from beneath snowy lashes. Suspicious, as usual. "It did…but why the sudden change of plan?"
"It's all for you, babe," drawls Victor, and feels a rush of joy when her nostrils flare. "I figured you'd love to get the treaty finalised a day early."
"I will have the marriage officiant here. Make sure you're not late."
"I'll be there shortly. I want to make sure that event space is positively jungle-like. Rose insists the ceremony should at least seem private, like it's just her and I. She's none too happy right now, you know, having to change all our plans and get married in such a rush. But I told her, it's either that, or deal with the press and their cameras and swarms of stupid well-wishers clogging up the streets tomorrow. By the way, did you ever find out who leaked the original wedding date?"
"Shave off that horrible beard," is all Omara says in reply. And then– "Oh, a royal cruiser's gone missing, by the way. I wonder if you know–"
Victor's finger, which has been hovering over the holophone, drops to end the call. Then he punches in another code.
Ghareem's image appears. Though he bows deeply, Victor can tell he's seated in the cockpit of his ship.
"What was that little stunt you pulled earlier?" he hisses accusingly, launching straight into the tirade he's saved up for hours. "I ordered you not to approach them, and where do I find you?"
"I am sor-"
"Answer the question!"
Ghareem stiffens, a gleam of fear appearing in his eyes. His reply is so quiet Victor needs to watch his lips. "On the lane to their cottage, sir."
"And why were you on the lane to their cottage?" Victor is not quiet.
"They left the place much sooner than I had anticipated, my lord, and I did not have time to board my airship. I feared I would lose track of them if I didn't act immediately. I did not realise Rose was actually with you."
"Why weren't you surveying things from your ship all along?"
"It has no cloaking, sir, it is not one of the royal ships. You left yours here, by the way, parked on the beach. Why did you choose to return to London with Rose on the slow human transport?"
Victor glares, his hackles rising at being questioned. "Why are you aboard your ship right now? You'd better not be on your way back to HQ, unless you have Rose's little boyfriend with you, in handcuffs."
"I remain in the same location, sir. Awaiting orders."
"Awaiting- your orders were to track that criminal!"
"Sir? Did you not say you wanted to deal with him yourself?"
A fierce scream swells in Victor's chest, choking him, but he doesn't dare let it loose for fear Rose might overhear. God, he's so sick of accommodating her. "You saw me on the road, you knew I was busy driving Rose back to the city," Victor grits out, grasping the edge of the console so tightly his fingers ache. "Only you didn't know it was me at first. You intended to approach them, which I explicitly forbade. For all I know you meant to go and warn them! In fact, how can I believe otherwise, since you've let her abductor escape?"
Victor is somewhat gratified to see the tattoo lines down Ghareem's cheek stand out starkly pink, he's gone so pale. "I will find him, Your Majesty. I will bring him to you."
"Get help. I want a broadcast alert issued immediately to all patrollers: every man on a motorbike is to be stopped and questioned until he's found. You have two hours. My wedding to Rose will take place at seven in the Torchwood penthouse and I want him there; he's going to watch it. You hear me?"
"Yes, my lord."
Victor ends the call with a vicious jab of the button and then yanks at the collar of his jumper. He feels like a caged dragon with a belly full of swallowed fire, unable to expel it lest he burn the roof above his own head. It's an injustice that's hard to bear. Here he is, trying to better this planet, to better the whole bloody universe, and these asinine apes keep getting in his way!
"Soon," he mutters, closing his eyes. "Soon." He pictures his victory, a gently swaying apple within easy reach. It will be no trouble at all to pluck it, to bite it. So long as he's reasonably careful.
It hits him then, with a rush of satisfaction, that there's something to celebrate in Ghareem's disobedience. He can use it to justify the big man's execution. Nice and tidy. Ooh, could he possibly implicate Omara as well?
Heartened, Victor circles the console, and though the TARDIS fights him at every step of the dematerialisation sequence, he just laughs at her. By the time they tumble into the vortex his skin is much cooler, his body lighter. Everything is under control. For the most part.
If only he could be sure Rose will select a decent wedding dress. It's getting harder and harder to pretend he thinks she's beautiful.
Having to sit so still is maddening. Though technically, his body is barrelling down a tree-lined motorway, wind rustling his collar as he weaves through traffic, he feels like a hamster in a wheel, not really getting anywhere. He's stuck on this bloody bike, hunched forward, his body boiling over with energy he can't expend.
The Doctor longs to run.
Worse, there's nothing to distract him from thinking. Nothing to help him fight back the endless flash and pop of intrusive images, all of Rose, her head vise-clamped between two hands that aren't his. Hands that never drop away until she's bound up tight, gazing at him with broken eyes, an invisible, inescapable leash around her neck. Like she's a monster's pet.
"Won't happen," he vows, but his hearts aren't convinced; they ceaselessly pump a hot rage through his veins the Doctor's not sure he can control. A protective, possessive, mind-clouding sort of rage. He is a tossed grenade, a green-skinned hulk: explosive and unstoppable.
An emotionally-compromised Time Lord is a dangerous thing. Most of his peers refused to take a bondmate for this very reason. Find meaning through cerebral pursuits, stay invulnerable. It was viewed as the height of recklessness, falling in love. Like wearing your hearts outside your body.
The Doctor won't dispute the analogy– it describes what he's feeling right now, exactly. All he's done is voice his love into the open air, and suddenly Rose is the axis his whole world spins on. Bondmate or not, she is his.
And if another man dares touch her…dares touch her mind-
Growling, he cuts the thought short and indulges in a quick burst of speed, swerving around a white Mini Cooper that's been trundling along at a snail's pace. His hands ache from their intense grip on the handlebars, from hours of forcing himself to keep to the speed limits. How he longs to blast across the countryside, a path of fire in his wake.
But he can't risk arrest. Especially since he's sure to arrive before the bonding takes place, anyway. Victor expects -wants- his presence at that bloody wedding, but the Doctor is determined to crash it under his own power. His rival has too big an advantage as it is, especially if Rose is still blind to whom she's really about to marry.
The Valeyard.
Why, Rose? Why didn't you know?
The Doctor can't help but feel angry about that too. After all her talk about his double being absolutely nothing like him…well. He's not being fair, is he? From what Rose told him, Victor hardly made any effort to hide his true nature before. But now he's motivated. Also, informed– namely, about Rose's empathic abilities, thanks to the listening devices planted in the cottage. No doubt he'll be taking great pains to project emotions that fit the outer facade.
At least, the Doctor consoles himself as he zooms past another dawdling car, Victor won't be inclined to kill Rose if she stays fooled. An ignorant Rose is a safe Rose. So long as he stops the wedding in time. Which he will.
Out of nowhere, a pins-and-needles sensation crawls over the Doctor's body, a static buzz that stands his every hair on end. Before he can think, his stomach is dropping as the road falls away beneath him, the wheels of his motorbike spinning uselessly in the air.
Peering upward through his helmet-visor, he feels neither surprise nor fear when he spots a Tesi patrol vehicle hovering directly above, raising him up in its tractor-beam.
A switch flips inside him, elevating his fury, yet silencing its pulse and throb. As he's brought eye level with the officer, cars tiny as toys on the winding lanes below, the Doctor is calm. Cold. Calculating.
"Helmet off."
Wordlessly, the Doctor obeys. The uniformed officer, a bored-looking young man with a patchy mustache, flashes a scanning device into the Doctor's eyes. The Doctor notes his low rank; only two tattoo lines decorate his cheek. Honour and status are a far-flung dream.
No doubt this accounts for the grin of pure arrogance the patroller acquires on reading the scan's results.
"Ooh, somebody's pleased," the Doctor comments in a low, thunderous rumble. Even the thickest Dalek would recoil at such a sound, but this young Tesi officer continues to grin. His teeth are crooked, and not nearly as white as his mustache.
"How many more pretty pink lines do you think you'll earn for hauling me in?" The Doctor idly waves his index finger at the man's face. "Three? Four?"
"You're wanted by the King himself," declares the patroller, looking down to fetch the slave cuffs from his belt.
It's a fatal mistake.
Like a crack of lightning, the Doctor jabs his outstretched finger hard against the man's temple, delivering a jolt of psychic power that blasts like a missile through several mental barriers –formidable barriers, to anyone but an infuriated Time Lord– to ram straight into his frontal lobe.
It's a knock-out blow. The officer slumps forward on the hoverbike, facedown between the handlebars, his arms dangling loosely. Without a qualm of conscience, the Doctor pushes at his head to gain access to the hoverbike's controls.
After a hurried glance over buttons and dials, he finds the switch he wants and flips it. Then, he's clutching at his handlebars with a yelp as his motorbike drops like an anvil, trying to leave him behind as it plummets side by side with the Tesi's hoverbike.
It takes a bit of frantic scrabbling but he gets a finger back on the switch, and they come to a jarring halt a mere four feet above the roadside. The Doctor exhales heavily, body thrumming with adrenaline. But he's fine. So is the officer, though the man's helmet is nowhere to be seen.
Cars pass by; they're probably being gawked at. That's not good. He flips the hover mechanism off again and they fall the last few feet, crashing down into the brush along the roadside. His own bike, with its rubber tyres, lands more nicely than the Tesi's, which hits a bush and tips over sideways, tossing its rider off for a nap in the shrubbery.
"Brilliant," murmurs the Doctor, eyeing the hoverbike with a smirk.
Rose turns this way and that, examining herself in the full-length mirror with a critical eye. As far as wedding dresses go, it's not exactly traditional. That's another point in its favour.
And the good ironing she'd given it has helped. The dress is of a soft, cottony fabric, naturally given to wrinkles. Rose decides she doesn't mind. The Doctor certainly won't, given the rumpled state of his own suit half the time. Likely, he won't even notice. She turns from side to side again; the layered skirt swishes nicely at her ankles. And she adores the colour. TARDIS blue.
It's a very simple gown, with a halter-top and no frills, save some pretty embroidery around the bottom hem, but it will do.
It will have to. It was the only dress in the wardrobe room.
"Poor old girl," she says, resting her weight against the strut beside the mirror, stroking the warm coral. "You're still not feeling too well, are you?"
There's fondness in the energy the buzzes beneath her palms, though the TARDIS' distaste for this universe is obvious. Rose sensed the ship's deep unhappiness since she walked in; it aches in her gut and burns behind her eyes. It feels wrong to make the timeship travel here, even with an energy converter, when she is so clearly against the idea. It's not just that the TARDIS has been sick. She's sad.
Rose sniffs, sympathetic tears stinging her eyes as she slips her feet into some pretty heels. And then she scoffs at herself. People, including sentient spaceships, are entitled to feel however they want, and so is Rose. She's not required to be upset just because the TARDIS is. This is her wedding day, for god's sake. The day she'll look back on as the happiest of her life.
"I am not having doubts," Rose informs the reflection in the vanity's mirror, as she carefully curls the tendrils of hair she'd left down to frame her face. There's nothing she wants more than to marry the Doctor. It's just… all these icky feelings floating around are getting to her.
It's not coming just from the TARDIS. Though he's tried to hide it, the Doctor is like a simmering cauldron. The intensity of his anger concerns her. She doesn't quite understand it.
Of course, it's certainly aimed toward Victor, not her. Imagining otherwise is stupid. She hadn't pressured him into marrying her, nor had she suggested it, or thought of it. This headlong leap they're about to take into lifelong commitment is one-hundred percent the Doctor's idea. Besides, when she'd agreed to it, hadn't she felt his joy? His excitement? So pure and without regret.
And it's not as if she can know what it's been like for him, coming to terms with Victor's true identity. The Valeyard, he'd called him. The Hyde to his Jekyll. Built of all his worst traits.
Those moments it's felt like he's frustrated with her…well. Maybe the Doctor worries she'll insist on confronting Victor, which he'd see as a flagrant disregard of her own safety. Maybe he's gearing up for a fight over it.
He'll get a good one too, Rose thinks, trying to not grin as she applies her lip gloss. The subtle shine on her lips pairs well with her smoky eyeshadow and winged liner. She gives her reflection one final appraisal. What will the Doctor think when he sees her? Does she look like she could be a Time Lord's bride?
Her own eyes say no. Not that Rose isn't pleased with her gown, or with how her hair or her makeup turned out. She's attractive, pretty, but hardly striking. Just…ordinary.
Rose turns her back on the mirror. "It doesn't matter," she says. It's not her looks that make her special to the Doctor. His eyes will light up with love and admiration when he sees her. They always do.
Even so, it's an effort to refrain from nervously chewing her lip as she makes her way back to the console room. She'll be hurt if he's not at least a little bit wowed.
Every one of these worries flees her mind when she gets her first glimpse of him.
The Doctor is at the console, specs on his nose and eyebrows drawn as he peers into the monitor. He's wearing a new black suit complete with waistcoat and a classy tie, and he's so gorgeous it knocks the wind out of her. "Blimey," she says, and his gaze snaps her way. "You look like you again."
"That's a good thing, I hope." Puffing his chest out, he pats it proudly –well, smugly– and Rose is struck again with the full impact of how fantastic he looks. He's tall and lean, with his hair spiked to new heights and his sideburns sharply edged.
She smiles. "You shaved."
"Yes." He touches a smooth cheek. "I bet you're grateful."
"I did miss seeing you like this. The stubble was nice too, though. I liked it."
"You liked snogging sandpaper?" There's doubt in his eyes.
Hearing him speak so casually of their snogging makes heat flood her cheeks. All of this is still so new that the prospect of even the chastest kiss incites heart-pounding excitement. It hits Rose that she hasn't kissed him for hours –a sad truth she really ought to remedy– but then, before she can act, she sees it. The stiffness of the Doctor's shoulders, the strange gleam in his eyes.
"You alright?"
"What?" His odd expression clears, an easy smile graces his face. "Why wouldn't I be?"
"Energy converter isn't giving you trouble or anything?"
"Nah, hooked it up easy peasy." He circles away from her as he's speaking, staring intently at the monitor again as if it holds the answer to every mystery he's never solved. "The TARDIS is back in the vortex, having a nice rest, energy levels have nearly returned to normal. We should be able to head to our destination in oh, let's see, thirty-two minutes? No. Twenty-seven."
The Doctor isn't looking at her. Why won't he look at her?
Every anxiety returns, and Rose's gaze falls to the floor. Could it be that she's read this all wrong, and he doesn't actually want to marry her? Despite his claims otherwise, it is just to protect her, and now that he's seeing her in her dress it's hitting him. The huge commitment he'll never escape.
"Rose?"
Her gaze snaps up. He's definitely looking at her now. Eyeing her. "Did you hear what I said?"
"Um. I dunno."
"I asked if you're sure you're ready."
Her brow furrows. "Are you?"
"Well, yes, I thought that was obvious. Do you not like this suit?"
"What? Of course I do. I just…" Rose shakes her head. "What do you mean by 'ready'?"
"Oh. Well, I was just, um, sort of wondering about–" At once he looks uncomfortable, his fingers finding his left ear. "Your dress."
As blood rushes to her face Rose looks down again, smoothing her skirt. This dress is so inappropriate that the Doctor felt he had to speak up? "Yeah, sorry. I, um, I tried to find something nicer, but I don't think the TARDIS is feeling like herself quite yet. This was the only dress in the wardrobe room."
She hears him suck a breath through his teeth. "So that's it. Of course, I don't mind what you're wearing, Rose, you're beautiful in anything. But…well, I can't help but believe that you'd like a dress that's a bit…special. You only get one wedding, after all. I hope."
Reassured, she feels okay to meet his eye again. "It's alright, Doctor. What I'm wearing doesn't matter much to me either."
For a few beats, the Doctor stares her down. "Liar," he says.
"Sorry?"
"I have it on good authority that you were, at one time, addicted to watching Say Yes to the Dress."
Rose gapes at him. "Who told you about that?"
A smirk.
"It was Mickey, wasn't it?" She huffs. "After I specifically asked him not to! Probably trying to put you off me, to make you think I was some silly romantic, some wedding-obsessed–"
"Of course that's what he was trying to do, but since I have more than half a brain I was able to see through his clever tactics."
As he's talking, the Doctor pries up a panel on the console, revealing soft ridges beneath. The telepathic circuits, she remembers him having called them. He buries all five fingers of his right hand into it, to the middle knuckles, and for a brief moment his eyes close and his jaw goes so tight dimples appear in both cheeks. He looks fierce and determined in a way Rose doesn't quite like. Almost as if he's angry. Again.
The time rotor pulses hard, up and down, and she's forced to grab at the railing for balance as the TARDIS suddenly bucks like a horse. "Run and check the wardrobe one more time," the Doctor says, seeming unbothered by the ship's antics as he tugs his fingers free. "No rush."
"What did you just say to the poor TARDIS?"
He looks surprised. "Nothing. Just making a request."
"Didn't look like you were asking her very nicely. She's been through a lot these past few days, you know."
"She's fine, Rose," the Doctor informs her as he goes back to the stupid monitor again. "Just a bit sulky, is all. I've left her sitting in a universe where the energy doesn't agree with her, so she's punishing me. All I did was help her understand that you're the one who needs the wardrobe room expanded, not me. There should be more dresses now. She's delighted you're back, you know."
"Oh." Rose lets that sink in. It's true; the ship's welcoming warmth has hugged her since the moment she ran up the ramp. Hoping the dear ship understands how fervently she reciprocates those feelings, she impulsively embraces the nearest coral buttress.
An instant later she bends forward, arms wrapping around her own sick middle as she gasps in shock. What in the world was that?
"What's wrong, Rose?" asks the Doctor, glancing back over his shoulder.
Though she's not sure why, Rose feels the need to minimise what just happened. "The TARDIS still isn't feeling quite right," she says carefully, shrugging. "I think she's worried about us."
"Blimey, you must be an empath, if you're picking up on that. The TARDIS is a being of Time, you know. She sees every tiny potential, and far more clearly than I ever could."
Turning to face her properly, he leans back against the console and shoves his hands in his pockets. "I may as well be honest– the Valeyard scares her, Rose. She sees how we plan to face him and she's not keen on the idea. I've flown her into battle against Dalek fleets and she's been happier than this about it."
"You sure she's not protesting our wedding?"
Rose regrets it the instant she sees his eyes flash. What impulse had made her say such a stupid thing?
"Don't be silly," sniffs the Doctor. "Although, the TARDIS does believe I'm not good enough for you. I sort of agree with her."
"Shut up," chides Rose, gently.
His gaze softens. "Your timeline will merge with hers, you know, as well as with mine. It'll be the three of us from now on. It would be an understatement to say she's incredibly pleased by the prospect."
Just then a soft beeping from the console catches his attention, so the Doctor does not see Rose buckle slightly at the knees as her nausea returns in a powerful wave. As it surges, recedes, she holds her breath, perspiration droplets popping out on her forehead.
"'M gonna go check the wardrobe again," Rose says once she's able to speak, and hurries off while he's still distracted. Why is it the only place she wants to be, all of a sudden? Like it's the only place that's safe–
"Stop it," Rose chides herself. It's just nerves. It's normal. Lots of brides feel like this on their wedding day.
On stepping into the wardrobe, Rose finds the same scaled down version of the room, but a single wedding gown hangs from the railing of the spiral staircase. It's big and white and billowy.
Used to the ship's normally impeccable intuition about her clothing tastes, Rose frowns at this. Intricate beadwork glitters over the bodice, which meets a skirt draped over puffy layers of tulle. The thing looks like a costume. Like Cinderella's wedding dress. If she spotted it in a bridal shop, she wouldn't even try it on. If she did, it would only be for a laugh.
Laughing is the last thing she feels like doing right now, though. A good cry sounds far more appealing. She's about to marry the Doctor, and contrary to what he says, the TARDIS does not seem the least bit pleased by the prospect.
Unless– perhaps she's misunderstanding? This may not be Rose's ideal gown, but what if it's what the Doctor would like to see her in? From the little he's told her of his home world, she knows his people did wear ridiculously elaborate clothing. Maybe this is what a Gallifreyan woman's wedding attire would look like.
Rose undoes the clasp behind her neck, letting her blue gown pool onto the floor. Next, she pulls the heavy, glimmering monstrosity off its hanger, opens it up, and begins to climb into it.
By the time she manages to get the dress zipped up properly, Rose is perspiring. She returns to the full length mirror and swivels from side to side, examining herself as she fans her armpits. Well. The thing won't fall off, she'll give it that, even though it's strapless. The bodice clings like a second skin, constricting her waist and lifting her breasts. Rose tries to tug it higher, to cover herself a bit more, since her cleavage looks rather too impressive. But the dress won't budge.
"Never would've guessed you'd like this sort of thing, Doctor," she mutters as she collapses to sit on the floor within a cloud of tulle in order to wrangle her heels back on. Why she's so thrown by this discovery, she doesn't know– all the kissing they've done in the last twenty-four hours has made her fully aware he's not some asexual being. Which is the opposite of a problem.
So what is her problem, then? Why doesn't she want him to like this dress?
It's a dissonance, Rose decides. It bugs her because the Doctor she's idealised in her mind would've preferred her in the blue dress. He'd love how the colour matches his ship, because he's sentimental. Its simplicity would attract him, since he's a man who eschews what's expensive or fancy. He's a man who hardly notices mundanities like clothing, since he's so focused on the person.
It bugs her because, in her mind, this posh, pricey, overly sexy gown is something Victor would like, not the Doctor.
Rose stops short, a horrible suspicion coming over her.
"Don't be stupid," she says, as she struggles to get to her feet again. Not only does she know her Doctor when she sees him, she's an empath, isn't she? Besides, Victor couldn't have found her. Even if he had, why would he go to such lengths to deceive her?
No, it can't be Victor. It can't be.
Rose closes her eyes, in order to best recall the Doctor's manner as he'd proposed to her a few hours ago. His nervousness as he struggled to get the words out. His joyous laughter at her acceptance. His protectiveness. The formidable power of him, when they'd been surprised by Ghareem on the road. It was right. As it should be.
Also, the man in the console room –the Doctor– is happy. Well, he's angry too, but he's always been a man of intense, conflicting emotions. Point is, Victor has never projected such vitality, such contentment, not really. There was always a tinge of dissatisfaction. Nothing was ever quite good enough for him.
He's dissatisfied with your dress, whispers a voice in her mind. And he's been standoffish ever since arriving at the TARDIS.
"Yeah, because he wants to kiss me too much," she informs her reflection, stomach flipping a little as she remembers the roughness of his voice as he'd admitted it the night prior, the dark longing of his eyes.
And yet… he didn't give her a celebratory kiss (or even a hug) when they got here; just let her open up the TARDIS doors so he could drive his bike up the ramp. There've been no lingering looks, no getting in her personal space, no sneaky little glances at her lips. Rose has got to admit, it's a marked change from how he'd behaved this morning. In fact, up till he left to get a new phone, the Doctor had struggled to exercise restraint in this regard. With limited success.
She'd found it difficult to keep her hands off him too, of course. Their newfound closeness had made the magnet-pull between her and the Doctor almost irresistibly powerful. But now… it was almost like his magnet had flipped, repelling her.
"I know my Doctor," she insists to herself, sinking down onto the stool before the vanity. Just then, the TARDIS shudders under her feet, obviously landing at their wedding destination. He'll come looking for her before long.
Rose feels shaky, and it's hard to breathe in this stupid dress. Okay, she's got to calm down, she's got to think. It's the only way to banish this awful doubt.
Victor is not like the Doctor, not at all, but he's got his intellect, his memories. It would be egoistic to assume she can't be outsmarted by one of the cleverest minds on the planet. Especially if Victor is motivated.
"He knows exactly how I feel about you, Rose," the Doctor had said. "To win you would be the ultimate victory for him, because it's a victory over a Time Lord."
This does nothing to reassure her. Oh, god, the man out there is happy. But if it really is Victor, what is he up to? Rose is certain he'd have flown into a rage at discovering she'd run off with the real Doctor. Would he see it as fickle betrayal? Purposeful rejection? But he hadn't sent an army after her…although, stealing her away through sly trickery, thoroughly deceived and oh so willing, would be incredibly sweet revenge. With a shudder, Rose pictures him gleefully savouring it all like a decadent cake, every bite better than the last.
For a moment horror swamps her, and Rose buries her face in her hands. He didn't just ask her to marry him, but to bond with him. He intends to bar her from the Doctor forever.
Stop it. This is stupid. So he didn't like her dress. It hardly proves he isn't her Doctor. And if the Doctor comes in and finds her sitting here, awash with doubt over his identity…the poor man. How many times had she assured him he and Victor were in no way the same?
A worse thought arises. If it is Victor who brought her here, that means her Doctor is out there somewhere, frantic and hurt, believing he's lost her. Wondering why she hadn't known.
Her eyes well, and a small sob escapes.
Stop it! Lifting her chin with a sniff, Rose glares into the mirror, then snatches up a tissue to dab her tears before they can mar her makeup. She will not succumb to guilt; that's the Doctor's thing. She's seen how it can debilitate even a brilliant mind like his. Over the past few days she's feared she might lose him to it, like a disease. It had taken ages to convince him of what was true, that he wasn't about to lose her love just because he'd made a mistake.
She goes still, the tissue crumpling in her hand. That's it. That's what's off about him. There's been no guilt.
The niggling worry she's had, that the Doctor may not truly want to marry her today, arose because she knows him. She knows the Doctor would be slow to commit– for her sake, not his own. Because they've only had one conversation. And deep and impactful as it was, she's not so naive to believe it dried up his deep well of guilt. He loves her, yes, and has even made his desire to marry her fairly clear. But would he act on it so soon? When he's only just begun to trust himself with her?
Perhaps. But not without immense pangs of conscience.
There's no other argument to be made, nothing else to do but accept what her gut is telling her.
Okay. So. The man who'd proposed is not her Doctor.
A curious calmness settles over Rose, even though she's now certain she's in grave danger.
That's why the TARDIS has been so upset. She's been trying to get Rose's attention, trying to warn her. Ghareem had known too, she realises suddenly. It wasn't mercy that prompted him to let them pass, he was showing deference to the King. Funny how clear things become when you know the truth. She should've questioned the fact that Ghareem was on that road at all. It's obvious Victor had sent him.
That means Victor had known where she was, maybe the whole time. He's been planning this.
Rose gets to her feet and paces back toward the spiral staircase, thinking hard. Now what? Surely the Doctor is coming for her. Problem: Victor has already moved the TARDIS. They must still be on earth though, despite what he'd said about them having an off-world wedding. He'll need Tesi witnesses at the marriage, or risk invalidating the treaty.
If she's still on earth, the Doctor will find her.
Unless he's been captured.
A soothing warmth curls through her before the thought can make her panic, and Rose knows the TARDIS is offering reassurance. So either the Doctor is still free, or it's fine that he's not.
The wedding will be a trap, though, won't it? Victor is nearly as clever as the Doctor, and he's got power and numbers on his side. The Doctor doesn't even have the TARDIS anymore.
Now Rose wishes she could make him stay away. Nothing good can come from the Doctor crashing the wedding.
Well, whatever he does, it's not like it's within her control. She can't waste time worrying over it. Her job is to figure out how to prevent this marriage from happening and save the earth from being permanently colonised.
Could she just hide somewhere in the TARDIS till the treaty expires?
No, not practical. As soon as Victor notices she's missing, he'll know she knows the truth, and he'll have a full day and a half to find her and force her to the altar. No, she's got to outsmart him. Somehow.
Hadn't the Doctor said something about an injectable anaesthetic that works on Time Lords? Reaching out, she plants a hand on the warm wall. "Help me, girl?" she asks, hoping the ship can provide what she needs. There is no way she'd get away with digging around in the medbay right now.
As if in answer, a small item appears on a nearby shelf. Not a syringe, but rather a thin gold cuff, plain but elegant. Wondering, Rose picks it up and slides it onto her wrist, and at once is overcome by an odd, muffled sensation. Like putting earplugs in, but in her mind. She can no longer feel the ship's emotions.
It's not too hard to guess what it is. The TARDIS has given her a psychic dampener. It's a confirmation that makes her stomach turn. Victor will attempt to bind her mind with his today. She will need protection.
Tipping her face up, Rose gazes into the cathedral ceiling. "But how do I stop him?"
At once, an image of Victor's ever-present tie-pin flashes into Rose's mind, and she remembers what the Doctor –no, Victor himself– had said about it.
It's a perception filter. To make him look Tesi.
Of course, he could have been lying, but Rose doubts it. It was a candy-coating of truth that made it easy for her to swallow deceptions. An effective tactic; one she's seen the Doctor employ quite often.
Rose squares her shoulders. That's the plan, then. She'll let this ruse continue until they're at the altar, and at her first opportunity, she'll pull off the tie-pin to expose Victor as a fraud and imposter.
Touching a finger to her new gold bracelet, she prays it will muffle outgoing psychic energy as well as the incoming. It will never do for Victor to know how terrified she is.