TLAWR Chapter 63: The Date Delayed
Rated: R (to be safe)
Features: The 10th Doctor, Rose Tyler, Martha Jones, Donna Noble, Astrid Peth, the 5th Doctor, the Brigadier, UNIT, Gwen Cooper, Ianto Jones, Rhys Williams, Mickey Smith, Sarah Jane Smith, River Song, Jenny, Lee MacAvoy and others.
Pairings: Doctor/Rose, Jack/Ianto, Martha/Mickey
A/N: Second update in two weeks, keep your fingers crossed! :D As usual nothing you recognize belongs to me.
(Earlier Entries) (Chapter Fifty-Nine) ( Chapter Sixty) ( Chapter Sixty-One) ( Chapter Sixty-Two)
Jack Harkness leaned back in his outrageously comfortable chair, a side benefit of being employed by an organization with a larger budget than the military, and folded his arms. Martha Jones occupied the chair opposite him and between them was a bottle of very good scotch and two chunky glass tumblers. A third was off to the side; it had belonged to Mickey but he was gone now. He had a new flat and a new life to begin. Jack's glass was mostly empty; Martha's was mostly full. He didn't hold it against her-she hadn't had nearly as much time as he had to acquire an appreciation for the strong liquor.
"So," he said, breaking the easy silence that had descended when the trio became a duo. "That's Mr. Mickey taken care of. He'll be back soon enough, though."
Martha leaned forward and swirled her tumbler, watching the tiny whirlpool she created. "What makes you think he's coming back? I thought he said he wanted to freelance."
"Nah." Jack shook his head. "He worked at Torchwood in that parallel world for years. A job like this, a person like him-it gets into your blood. Trust me. He'll be back. Where are you off too, if you're still set on breaking my heart and going back to UNIT?"
She grinned. "Your charms won't work on me, mister, even if you are bloody gorgeous and a fantastic kisser." Her hand tightened around her glass. "Daleks took out most of UNIT high command. They need help reorganizing. There's too many species who'd love to kick us when we're down. No offense, Jack."
He shrugged. "I'm well aware of Torchwood's limitations."
"There's this science officer," Martha continued after a moment. "Dr. Kate Stewart."
"I've heard of her," he said carefully.
"Thought you might've. She's been behind a push to scale back the military and focus more on the science-alien artifacts and the like. I'm going to try for her division, do a little less soldiering and a bit more discovering."
He raised an eyebrow and took a long drink from his glass. "You think that's likely to happen just after officers and civilians were murdered by clearly hostile aliens?"
"I think Dr. Stewart will be in a position to make it happen."
Jack finished his drink and put the bottle back in the bottom left drawer of his desk. "Well. Keep Torchwood in mind while you're off saving the world, would you? And if you ever get tired of the red tape-give me a call."
"Don't worry." Martha pulled out her phone and waved it at him. "You're on speed dial."
The bedroom that Rose shared with the Doctor on the TARDIS was spacious, almost double the size of her bedroom at her old flat. A bed big enough to fit three people comfortably rested against the back wall opposite a large desk cluttered with various bits and bobs and half-finished projects, and a delicate vanity with a silky pink dressing gown thrown over the chair. The Doctor sat on the bed with his back against the headboard, the deep blue duvet beneath him. He was halfway through his latest acquisition, a book on nuclear drive shafts from Florizel in the 52nd century when Rose walked out of the en suite clad only in a towel with her hair wrapped in another.
"Bit of light reading?" she asked as she pulled the towel from her head and reached for her brush.
"You take ages to get ready," he complained.
Rose rolled her eyes. "Yeah, well, you could have joined me. I did offer."
He closed the book. "And then we would have gotten distracted and missed the play entirely."
Rose turned back to the mirror and concentrated on brushing the tangles from her still-damp hair. "That's not just my fault. I seem to remember you being a fair hand at distraction, Doctor." She jumped when she felt his hand on her bare shoulder.
"Let me." He took the brush from her and pulled her back to the bed. She went willingly and perched on the edge between his legs while he began to brush her hair. The TARDIS hummed around them, content, and Rose closed her eyes blissfully.
"Are you gonna braid it like last time?"
"Do you want me to?"
She hummed in wordless assent.
His hands were gentle in her hair, far more than her own, as he twined sections together in an intricate design. "It's amazing all the little meanings cultures assign to something like hair. Did you know that on Florizel the braids in a woman's hair indicate her profession, her marital and her social status?"
"Florizel-isn't that where you bought your book?"
The Doctor finished work on her left side and moved to her right. "Got it in one."
"What would these braids say?" It was an idle question, and one she didn't think he'd answer. While he didn't push her away nearly as much as he used to, the Doctor would never be an open book sort of man.
His fingers ghosted over her temples. "These ones say you're, well, the Florian word is B'ratha but it means a leader, sort of. And these-" He moved to the crown of her head and brushed delicate fingers over the tightly twined strands. "They say that you've found your mate." From there here hair tumbled freely down her neck to just above her shoulders. He carded his hair through it, examining the way the soft light of the TARDIS turned it a brilliant gold. "This says you have power, that you belong to no one but yourself."
Rose exhaled softly and leaned back against him. He wrapped his arms around her waist and rested his cheek against the crown of her head. "Thank you," the Doctor said after a moment. "For earlier. I just-I wish-did I ever tell you I met Dalek Sec again?"
"From the Cult of Skaro?" She tried to turn to face him but the Doctor tightened his hold and she acquiesced, remaining where she was. What did he think he would see, if he looked in her eyes, judgment? Of all people, she knew the weight of destruction.
"Yeah. He and his mates made an emergency temporal shift to escape the Void, ended up in nineteen-thirties New York. They were changing, Rose-Daleks! All the times I've offered someone a second chance and a Dalek was the only one to take it."
Rose rested her arm over his and laced their fingers together. "What happened to him?"
The Doctor drew in a deep breath. "He was killed by his own people. The first Dalek in history to change its mind and I couldn't save him."
"But you tried," Rose pointed out.
"It wasn't enough."
She squeezed his hand. "Sometimes it's all you can do."
He hummed noncommittally and resumed stroking her hair with his free hand. Before he could pull back-and he would, he always did, as if physical distance could translate into emotional armor-she reached up and ruffled his hair. "What would this say on Florizel, Doctor?"
"Bit of a matriarchy. You'd be thought quite modern for allowing your consort hair." He relaxed against her. "I meant to take you earlier; last body would have fit right in. But, speaking of Florizel-have you ever seen The Winter's Tale?" He was smiling when he released her and stood, smoothing out the wrinkles in his suit.
"How is that related to Florizel?" she asked as he strode toward the door.
"Get dressed and you'll find out!" the Doctor called over his shoulder.
When Lee stepped back into the kitchen, Wilf following close behind, Donna and Sylvia sat at the table with two empty mugs in front of them. His smile was bashful but his eyes were bright and Donna found it impossible not to smile back at him. For a moment he hovered in the doorway until Wilf finally pushed him into the room.
"Well," Sylvia said as she stood. "That's more than enough excitement for one night. I'm off to bed-and you are too, Dad. Don't think I don't see you out on that hill when you're supposed to be asleep. Ten o'clock, the doctor said, and it's well past."
Wilf patted Donna on the shoulder as he followed Sylvia out of the room. "He's a good sort, sweetheart," he confided. "She'll come around."
Donna smiled. "Thanks gramps." When she and Lee were alone, at last, she exhaled loudly. "Well, that went better than I thought it would." He gave her an incredulous look and she laughed. "No, really. The first boy I ever brought home, right-she grilled him so hard he wouldn't even look at me after, he was that scared."
"His loss," Lee said. He tried (unsuccessfully) to mask a yawn and Donna stood.
"Right. There's a guest bedroom upstairs, of that's all right?" For a moment she had a mad impulse to invite him into her room but she quashed it sharply. Slow-they were taking things slow. As vivid as her memories of her time spent with him in that strange virtual world were, they hadn't either of them been themselves. Instead she led him to the small, serviceable room at the head of the stairs. He waited on the threshold while she bustled about inside, making sure he had a towel and enough blankets and a suitable pillow. Finally he took her hand and tugged, bringing her to rest against his side.
"It's perfect," he told her with a soft smile."
"This isn't some strange dream, is it?" she finally asked. "I'm not going to wake up in the TARDIS tomorrow with one hell of a headache-am I?"
"No." Lee bent down and pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead. "You should get some sleep too."
Donna laughed. "I'm used to running on adrenaline. I swear, if Rose didn't drag him off to bed the Doctor would never sleep."
"I'll be here when you wake up," he assured her. He always could read her so well. She could bluster and deflect with the best of them, including the Doctor, but Lee-he saw her.
"Yeah." For a moment she hesitated, unsure. They kissed at Torchwood-but was that a one-off from the intense emotion of rediscovery?
Lee sidestepped her entire dilemma and pulled her into a tight hug. She relaxed against him and closed her eyes. "Good night, Donna," he murmured.
The corner of her mouth rugged up into a shy smile. "Night, Lee."
Rose Tyler was never much of a Shakespeare fan. In school he'd seemed dull and ancient, far removed from the important, immediate questions of her life. And besides, the only reason she'd need to know about Shakespeare was if she was going for her Alevels for uni and that wasn't likely. She was just another chav from the estate, not clever, not talented (apart from her ability to find trouble), and not likely to be anything more than a shop girl for the rest of her life. What did someone like her care about some play a dead man wrote hundreds of years before she was born?
That was before she met the Doctor, before she realized that she was clever and capable and the only person who could hold her back was herself. She never would have imagined herself standing in front of the stage in the Globe theatre with the rest of the groundlings, holding the hand of the most extraordinary man she'd ever met. The play ended, the people applauded, and Rose was surprised to find tears pricking at her eyes.
"Well?" the Doctor asked from just behind her. She could feel his chest expand as he breathed in through her leather jacket and red camisole and she let her head fall back to rest against his shoulder.
"Lovely." She blinked and wiped at her eyes. "Really, not like I thought it would be at all."
He took her hand and together they navigated through the throng of people out into the open air. Well, as open as it could be, with buildings hemming in the narrow streets and the constant press of humanity around them. Vendors hawked their wares beneath cloth awnings wherever there was space (and some places where there wasn't). Twice the Doctor pulled Rose away when buckets of refuse were tipped out of second-story windows. She grimaced at the smell but shrugged. There were worse places to be then seventeenth century London, after all. He clearly had a destination in mind but every time she asked him smiled and shook his head.
"Surprise," he told her. "Oh, but remember that bit when Hermione turned to stone? I'm not saying that J.K. Rowling lifted that bit from Will, but she might have seen a production of The Winter's Tale before she started writing."
"Really?" Rose asked, clearly skeptical.
"Really!" he insisted. "Human literature is full of little references to other works. Your scholars call them 'allusions.' They're like-oh, like Stan Lee's cameos in the Marvel movies: a little nod and wink to people who're paying attention."
"Like you?" She grinned and bumped her arm against his.
He smiled back at her. "I'm always paying attention, Rose. Like right now-I can tell you're still thinking about what we saw."
"It was a good story," she said with a shrug. "Don't much care for the king, though."
He paused at the next intersection and then followed the street to their right. "Leontes?"
"Yeah. He loved Hermione, but not enough to trust her."
"Well," he said. "A life without love may be no life at all, but what about love without trust? It can't happen."
Rose blinked. "Hold on, that's from Ever After."
"Is it?" He sniffed and changed direction again. "I wouldn't know."
"You're such a liar." She swung their clasped hand between them. "I saw you watching it in the media room two nights ago."
"You were supposed to be asleep," the Doctor said disapprovingly.
"You were supposed to be with me," she replied.
For a few minutes they walked in silence and she watched the people around them going about the mechanics of daily life. Despite the leaps and bounds in technology, even despite cultural or species differences, cities stayed essentially the same. Life went on. People were always people, even if they were blue or red or purpose or looked more like giant sentient mollusks or even humanoid cats. She couldn't see the constants at first, she'd been too distracted by the surface. It was comforting in a way that Rose couldn't exactly explain.
They stopped in front of a building that looked much the same as those around it. It was three stories, with windows that faced the street and a wooden sign carved in the shape of a beer mug hanging from a pole over the door. "I believe I promised you Shakespeare," the Doctor said and gestured grandly for Rose to enter.
As she stepped through the door she was hit by the smell of stale beer and smoke A fire burned in the large hearth at one end of the low-ceilinged taproom. A long wooden bar ran across the other end, and behind it stood a dour-faced man who barely glanced at the Doctor and Rose as they entered. Long picnic-style tables with corresponding benches cut took up most of the room. Scattered patrons sat, some eating, some drinking, all indifferent to what happened around them.
"Blimey," the Doctor said under his breath as they moved toward the stairs in the corner by the bar. "This place has gone downhill."
"You've been here before?"
"Martha's first trip," he replied. "Bit of a thank you for saving my life. Be warned, old Will's a bit of a flirt."
"How d'you know he's here?" Rose asked as they skipped the second floor and went straight to the third.
The Doctor pulled a face. "I may have done some research before this trip. Just a bit, mind you. Enough to discover which inn he's staying at, and which room, which, coincidentally-would be this one." He knocked on the plain wooden door sharply.
"Go away!" a voice called from inside. "I told you, Dylan-no interruptions!"
"Oh," the Doctor said, grinning. "Not even old friends?"
The silence stretched like taffy-and then the door opened. The man inside was not what Rose had expected. From the Doctor's description she expected a shaggy, ruggedly handsome sort of man not at all like his paintings, but the man who greeted them was thin, bordering on gaunt, and while his hair was thick it was laced with streaks of gray. His beard was gone, replaced by a thin mustache that didn't particularly suit him. The years, it appeared, had not been kind to William Shakespeare.
"Doctor?" he asked, clearly shocked. "It is you! I did not think we would meet again."
"Hello Will." The Doctor shrugged. "I was in the neighborhood, thought I'd stop by."
"Took a time machine to get us in the neighborhood," Rose pointed out and Shakespeare looked her over appreciatively.
"And who are you, my dear, another woman from Freedonia?" He took her hand and pressed it to his lips.
Rose giggled and the Doctor rolled his eyes. "Rose Tyler, William Shakespeare, Will-this is my Rose."
"Come in, come in," Shakespeare said and stepped back into the room, Rose and the Doctor close behind. Papers littered the desk that took up much of the wall opposite the bed, but the window was large and set into the wall across from the door, allowing for a deeply cushioned window seat. "How is Ms. Martha Jones?" he enquired.
"She's brilliant," the Doctor replied and his eyes unfocused slightly.
"Is she with you?"
He shook his head. "No, she stopped traveling. Found her own place." Rose squeezed his hand and he exhaled loudly. "But that's good. What are you up to, writing?"
Will watched him closely but dropped the subject. "I have an idea, yes, a play about a man lost in a storm."
"We saw The Winter's Tale," Rose added. "It was fantastic, especially the ending."
"I did wrestle with the climax," he admitted. "For a time I contemplated leaving it as a tragedy, a warning against pride and paranoia, but life is bleak enough without my adding to it. The years have taught me that hope is a blessing, and so hope won out."
"I quite like hope," the Doctor agreed. "Good emotion. Best emotion, really."
He smiled. "I am honored, my friend, that you enjoyed my humble effort-and that you should bring your beloved to meet me." The Doctor startled but Shakespeare shook his head with a fond smile. "I am a student of humanity, Doctor, and a poor one indeed if I cannot pick out the look of two people in love. It is writ upon your face. Your eyes return to her constantly, and even when you do not look at her your body bends towards her as if pulled by a string. And you, Rose-you are always aware of him. He shifts and you turn as well, and your hands remain clasped." He paused. "I am glad that you have found this. Love is a beautiful thing and the two of you are well matched."
It was night when the Doctor and Rose left William Shakespeare. He was a consummate storyteller and, as the Doctor said, a terrible flirt, but there was something sad about him too, an edge of melancholy that all his smiles couldn't chase away.
"Did you have a good time?" the Doctor asked as Rose shut the TARDIS door.
"The best," she replied with a smile.
Features: The 10th Doctor, Rose Tyler, Martha Jones, Donna Noble, Astrid Peth, the 5th Doctor, the Brigadier, UNIT, Gwen Cooper, Ianto Jones, Rhys Williams, Mickey Smith, Sarah Jane Smith, River Song, Jenny, Lee MacAvoy and others.
Pairings: Doctor/Rose, Jack/Ianto, Martha/Mickey
A/N: Second update in two weeks, keep your fingers crossed! :D As usual nothing you recognize belongs to me.
(Earlier Entries) (Chapter Fifty-Nine) ( Chapter Sixty) ( Chapter Sixty-One) ( Chapter Sixty-Two)
Jack Harkness leaned back in his outrageously comfortable chair, a side benefit of being employed by an organization with a larger budget than the military, and folded his arms. Martha Jones occupied the chair opposite him and between them was a bottle of very good scotch and two chunky glass tumblers. A third was off to the side; it had belonged to Mickey but he was gone now. He had a new flat and a new life to begin. Jack's glass was mostly empty; Martha's was mostly full. He didn't hold it against her-she hadn't had nearly as much time as he had to acquire an appreciation for the strong liquor.
"So," he said, breaking the easy silence that had descended when the trio became a duo. "That's Mr. Mickey taken care of. He'll be back soon enough, though."
Martha leaned forward and swirled her tumbler, watching the tiny whirlpool she created. "What makes you think he's coming back? I thought he said he wanted to freelance."
"Nah." Jack shook his head. "He worked at Torchwood in that parallel world for years. A job like this, a person like him-it gets into your blood. Trust me. He'll be back. Where are you off too, if you're still set on breaking my heart and going back to UNIT?"
She grinned. "Your charms won't work on me, mister, even if you are bloody gorgeous and a fantastic kisser." Her hand tightened around her glass. "Daleks took out most of UNIT high command. They need help reorganizing. There's too many species who'd love to kick us when we're down. No offense, Jack."
He shrugged. "I'm well aware of Torchwood's limitations."
"There's this science officer," Martha continued after a moment. "Dr. Kate Stewart."
"I've heard of her," he said carefully.
"Thought you might've. She's been behind a push to scale back the military and focus more on the science-alien artifacts and the like. I'm going to try for her division, do a little less soldiering and a bit more discovering."
He raised an eyebrow and took a long drink from his glass. "You think that's likely to happen just after officers and civilians were murdered by clearly hostile aliens?"
"I think Dr. Stewart will be in a position to make it happen."
Jack finished his drink and put the bottle back in the bottom left drawer of his desk. "Well. Keep Torchwood in mind while you're off saving the world, would you? And if you ever get tired of the red tape-give me a call."
"Don't worry." Martha pulled out her phone and waved it at him. "You're on speed dial."
The bedroom that Rose shared with the Doctor on the TARDIS was spacious, almost double the size of her bedroom at her old flat. A bed big enough to fit three people comfortably rested against the back wall opposite a large desk cluttered with various bits and bobs and half-finished projects, and a delicate vanity with a silky pink dressing gown thrown over the chair. The Doctor sat on the bed with his back against the headboard, the deep blue duvet beneath him. He was halfway through his latest acquisition, a book on nuclear drive shafts from Florizel in the 52nd century when Rose walked out of the en suite clad only in a towel with her hair wrapped in another.
"Bit of light reading?" she asked as she pulled the towel from her head and reached for her brush.
"You take ages to get ready," he complained.
Rose rolled her eyes. "Yeah, well, you could have joined me. I did offer."
He closed the book. "And then we would have gotten distracted and missed the play entirely."
Rose turned back to the mirror and concentrated on brushing the tangles from her still-damp hair. "That's not just my fault. I seem to remember you being a fair hand at distraction, Doctor." She jumped when she felt his hand on her bare shoulder.
"Let me." He took the brush from her and pulled her back to the bed. She went willingly and perched on the edge between his legs while he began to brush her hair. The TARDIS hummed around them, content, and Rose closed her eyes blissfully.
"Are you gonna braid it like last time?"
"Do you want me to?"
She hummed in wordless assent.
His hands were gentle in her hair, far more than her own, as he twined sections together in an intricate design. "It's amazing all the little meanings cultures assign to something like hair. Did you know that on Florizel the braids in a woman's hair indicate her profession, her marital and her social status?"
"Florizel-isn't that where you bought your book?"
The Doctor finished work on her left side and moved to her right. "Got it in one."
"What would these braids say?" It was an idle question, and one she didn't think he'd answer. While he didn't push her away nearly as much as he used to, the Doctor would never be an open book sort of man.
His fingers ghosted over her temples. "These ones say you're, well, the Florian word is B'ratha but it means a leader, sort of. And these-" He moved to the crown of her head and brushed delicate fingers over the tightly twined strands. "They say that you've found your mate." From there here hair tumbled freely down her neck to just above her shoulders. He carded his hair through it, examining the way the soft light of the TARDIS turned it a brilliant gold. "This says you have power, that you belong to no one but yourself."
Rose exhaled softly and leaned back against him. He wrapped his arms around her waist and rested his cheek against the crown of her head. "Thank you," the Doctor said after a moment. "For earlier. I just-I wish-did I ever tell you I met Dalek Sec again?"
"From the Cult of Skaro?" She tried to turn to face him but the Doctor tightened his hold and she acquiesced, remaining where she was. What did he think he would see, if he looked in her eyes, judgment? Of all people, she knew the weight of destruction.
"Yeah. He and his mates made an emergency temporal shift to escape the Void, ended up in nineteen-thirties New York. They were changing, Rose-Daleks! All the times I've offered someone a second chance and a Dalek was the only one to take it."
Rose rested her arm over his and laced their fingers together. "What happened to him?"
The Doctor drew in a deep breath. "He was killed by his own people. The first Dalek in history to change its mind and I couldn't save him."
"But you tried," Rose pointed out.
"It wasn't enough."
She squeezed his hand. "Sometimes it's all you can do."
He hummed noncommittally and resumed stroking her hair with his free hand. Before he could pull back-and he would, he always did, as if physical distance could translate into emotional armor-she reached up and ruffled his hair. "What would this say on Florizel, Doctor?"
"Bit of a matriarchy. You'd be thought quite modern for allowing your consort hair." He relaxed against her. "I meant to take you earlier; last body would have fit right in. But, speaking of Florizel-have you ever seen The Winter's Tale?" He was smiling when he released her and stood, smoothing out the wrinkles in his suit.
"How is that related to Florizel?" she asked as he strode toward the door.
"Get dressed and you'll find out!" the Doctor called over his shoulder.
When Lee stepped back into the kitchen, Wilf following close behind, Donna and Sylvia sat at the table with two empty mugs in front of them. His smile was bashful but his eyes were bright and Donna found it impossible not to smile back at him. For a moment he hovered in the doorway until Wilf finally pushed him into the room.
"Well," Sylvia said as she stood. "That's more than enough excitement for one night. I'm off to bed-and you are too, Dad. Don't think I don't see you out on that hill when you're supposed to be asleep. Ten o'clock, the doctor said, and it's well past."
Wilf patted Donna on the shoulder as he followed Sylvia out of the room. "He's a good sort, sweetheart," he confided. "She'll come around."
Donna smiled. "Thanks gramps." When she and Lee were alone, at last, she exhaled loudly. "Well, that went better than I thought it would." He gave her an incredulous look and she laughed. "No, really. The first boy I ever brought home, right-she grilled him so hard he wouldn't even look at me after, he was that scared."
"His loss," Lee said. He tried (unsuccessfully) to mask a yawn and Donna stood.
"Right. There's a guest bedroom upstairs, of that's all right?" For a moment she had a mad impulse to invite him into her room but she quashed it sharply. Slow-they were taking things slow. As vivid as her memories of her time spent with him in that strange virtual world were, they hadn't either of them been themselves. Instead she led him to the small, serviceable room at the head of the stairs. He waited on the threshold while she bustled about inside, making sure he had a towel and enough blankets and a suitable pillow. Finally he took her hand and tugged, bringing her to rest against his side.
"It's perfect," he told her with a soft smile."
"This isn't some strange dream, is it?" she finally asked. "I'm not going to wake up in the TARDIS tomorrow with one hell of a headache-am I?"
"No." Lee bent down and pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead. "You should get some sleep too."
Donna laughed. "I'm used to running on adrenaline. I swear, if Rose didn't drag him off to bed the Doctor would never sleep."
"I'll be here when you wake up," he assured her. He always could read her so well. She could bluster and deflect with the best of them, including the Doctor, but Lee-he saw her.
"Yeah." For a moment she hesitated, unsure. They kissed at Torchwood-but was that a one-off from the intense emotion of rediscovery?
Lee sidestepped her entire dilemma and pulled her into a tight hug. She relaxed against him and closed her eyes. "Good night, Donna," he murmured.
The corner of her mouth rugged up into a shy smile. "Night, Lee."
Rose Tyler was never much of a Shakespeare fan. In school he'd seemed dull and ancient, far removed from the important, immediate questions of her life. And besides, the only reason she'd need to know about Shakespeare was if she was going for her Alevels for uni and that wasn't likely. She was just another chav from the estate, not clever, not talented (apart from her ability to find trouble), and not likely to be anything more than a shop girl for the rest of her life. What did someone like her care about some play a dead man wrote hundreds of years before she was born?
That was before she met the Doctor, before she realized that she was clever and capable and the only person who could hold her back was herself. She never would have imagined herself standing in front of the stage in the Globe theatre with the rest of the groundlings, holding the hand of the most extraordinary man she'd ever met. The play ended, the people applauded, and Rose was surprised to find tears pricking at her eyes.
"Well?" the Doctor asked from just behind her. She could feel his chest expand as he breathed in through her leather jacket and red camisole and she let her head fall back to rest against his shoulder.
"Lovely." She blinked and wiped at her eyes. "Really, not like I thought it would be at all."
He took her hand and together they navigated through the throng of people out into the open air. Well, as open as it could be, with buildings hemming in the narrow streets and the constant press of humanity around them. Vendors hawked their wares beneath cloth awnings wherever there was space (and some places where there wasn't). Twice the Doctor pulled Rose away when buckets of refuse were tipped out of second-story windows. She grimaced at the smell but shrugged. There were worse places to be then seventeenth century London, after all. He clearly had a destination in mind but every time she asked him smiled and shook his head.
"Surprise," he told her. "Oh, but remember that bit when Hermione turned to stone? I'm not saying that J.K. Rowling lifted that bit from Will, but she might have seen a production of The Winter's Tale before she started writing."
"Really?" Rose asked, clearly skeptical.
"Really!" he insisted. "Human literature is full of little references to other works. Your scholars call them 'allusions.' They're like-oh, like Stan Lee's cameos in the Marvel movies: a little nod and wink to people who're paying attention."
"Like you?" She grinned and bumped her arm against his.
He smiled back at her. "I'm always paying attention, Rose. Like right now-I can tell you're still thinking about what we saw."
"It was a good story," she said with a shrug. "Don't much care for the king, though."
He paused at the next intersection and then followed the street to their right. "Leontes?"
"Yeah. He loved Hermione, but not enough to trust her."
"Well," he said. "A life without love may be no life at all, but what about love without trust? It can't happen."
Rose blinked. "Hold on, that's from Ever After."
"Is it?" He sniffed and changed direction again. "I wouldn't know."
"You're such a liar." She swung their clasped hand between them. "I saw you watching it in the media room two nights ago."
"You were supposed to be asleep," the Doctor said disapprovingly.
"You were supposed to be with me," she replied.
For a few minutes they walked in silence and she watched the people around them going about the mechanics of daily life. Despite the leaps and bounds in technology, even despite cultural or species differences, cities stayed essentially the same. Life went on. People were always people, even if they were blue or red or purpose or looked more like giant sentient mollusks or even humanoid cats. She couldn't see the constants at first, she'd been too distracted by the surface. It was comforting in a way that Rose couldn't exactly explain.
They stopped in front of a building that looked much the same as those around it. It was three stories, with windows that faced the street and a wooden sign carved in the shape of a beer mug hanging from a pole over the door. "I believe I promised you Shakespeare," the Doctor said and gestured grandly for Rose to enter.
As she stepped through the door she was hit by the smell of stale beer and smoke A fire burned in the large hearth at one end of the low-ceilinged taproom. A long wooden bar ran across the other end, and behind it stood a dour-faced man who barely glanced at the Doctor and Rose as they entered. Long picnic-style tables with corresponding benches cut took up most of the room. Scattered patrons sat, some eating, some drinking, all indifferent to what happened around them.
"Blimey," the Doctor said under his breath as they moved toward the stairs in the corner by the bar. "This place has gone downhill."
"You've been here before?"
"Martha's first trip," he replied. "Bit of a thank you for saving my life. Be warned, old Will's a bit of a flirt."
"How d'you know he's here?" Rose asked as they skipped the second floor and went straight to the third.
The Doctor pulled a face. "I may have done some research before this trip. Just a bit, mind you. Enough to discover which inn he's staying at, and which room, which, coincidentally-would be this one." He knocked on the plain wooden door sharply.
"Go away!" a voice called from inside. "I told you, Dylan-no interruptions!"
"Oh," the Doctor said, grinning. "Not even old friends?"
The silence stretched like taffy-and then the door opened. The man inside was not what Rose had expected. From the Doctor's description she expected a shaggy, ruggedly handsome sort of man not at all like his paintings, but the man who greeted them was thin, bordering on gaunt, and while his hair was thick it was laced with streaks of gray. His beard was gone, replaced by a thin mustache that didn't particularly suit him. The years, it appeared, had not been kind to William Shakespeare.
"Doctor?" he asked, clearly shocked. "It is you! I did not think we would meet again."
"Hello Will." The Doctor shrugged. "I was in the neighborhood, thought I'd stop by."
"Took a time machine to get us in the neighborhood," Rose pointed out and Shakespeare looked her over appreciatively.
"And who are you, my dear, another woman from Freedonia?" He took her hand and pressed it to his lips.
Rose giggled and the Doctor rolled his eyes. "Rose Tyler, William Shakespeare, Will-this is my Rose."
"Come in, come in," Shakespeare said and stepped back into the room, Rose and the Doctor close behind. Papers littered the desk that took up much of the wall opposite the bed, but the window was large and set into the wall across from the door, allowing for a deeply cushioned window seat. "How is Ms. Martha Jones?" he enquired.
"She's brilliant," the Doctor replied and his eyes unfocused slightly.
"Is she with you?"
He shook his head. "No, she stopped traveling. Found her own place." Rose squeezed his hand and he exhaled loudly. "But that's good. What are you up to, writing?"
Will watched him closely but dropped the subject. "I have an idea, yes, a play about a man lost in a storm."
"We saw The Winter's Tale," Rose added. "It was fantastic, especially the ending."
"I did wrestle with the climax," he admitted. "For a time I contemplated leaving it as a tragedy, a warning against pride and paranoia, but life is bleak enough without my adding to it. The years have taught me that hope is a blessing, and so hope won out."
"I quite like hope," the Doctor agreed. "Good emotion. Best emotion, really."
He smiled. "I am honored, my friend, that you enjoyed my humble effort-and that you should bring your beloved to meet me." The Doctor startled but Shakespeare shook his head with a fond smile. "I am a student of humanity, Doctor, and a poor one indeed if I cannot pick out the look of two people in love. It is writ upon your face. Your eyes return to her constantly, and even when you do not look at her your body bends towards her as if pulled by a string. And you, Rose-you are always aware of him. He shifts and you turn as well, and your hands remain clasped." He paused. "I am glad that you have found this. Love is a beautiful thing and the two of you are well matched."
It was night when the Doctor and Rose left William Shakespeare. He was a consummate storyteller and, as the Doctor said, a terrible flirt, but there was something sad about him too, an edge of melancholy that all his smiles couldn't chase away.
"Did you have a good time?" the Doctor asked as Rose shut the TARDIS door.
"The best," she replied with a smile.