FIC: Ghosts of the Past
Title: Ghosts of the Past
Author: Kazzy bytheseaside
Written For: darksylvia in The Rose Tyler and Martha Jones Ficathon
Rating: PG
Pairings: None
Characters: Martha, Rose
Summary: There was someone else in her bathroom, using her sink and her mirror, but not, she noticed, her hair brush.
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Notes: darksylvia wanted: Martha finds Rose's old stuff on the TARDIS, and through an odd wrinkle of time/TARDIS quirk manages to talk to past!Rose for a time (length of time at author's discretion).
Thanks to purple_bug for the beta! She is very good and very fast. Everyone should have a beta like her. :)
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The carpet and bed spread are pink. Feminine, but not frilly. The room isn’t tidy, with clothes thrown haphazardly over the chair, and the covers on the bed rumpled. Various bottles are scattered on the dresser, some missing lids. But the air is still and unmoving, making nothing seem out of place. Nothing out of place but Martha, standing in the doorway, interrupting the silence.
She shivers, as if cold. It is eerie - whoever had been in this room last clearly intended to come back, but simply hadn’t, leaving everything untouched, waiting. Knowing life on the TARDIS, Martha isn’t surprised. She’s come close enough to death more than once, it doesn’t take a leap of imagination to understand what probably happened to this room’s previous occupant - but she can’t help wondering why the TARDIS has brought her here. And who this room belonged to.
Really, you have no idea, Martha Jones, who this room really belongs to? None at all?
There are a few pictures stuck in the frame of the mirror, and she tugs them out. She looks closely at them, trying to find out who this room belonged to (as if she didn’t already know). The first is of three people she doesn’t recognise, a young blond woman, and two men, somewhat older. The woman is swinging off the older man’s arm, looking up at him, smiling broadly. The second man stands slightly to one side, watching the pair, obvious delight in his eyes. They mean nothing to Martha and she is disappointed; they’re only people, after all. Human, by the looks of it, even if she now knows that looking human means nothing at all.
The second picture is of the Doctor and the same blond girl, seemingly fighting over something - a television remote, perhaps? - the Doctor holding it above his head, the girl trying to climb up him, and probably laughing very hard at the same time. Martha’s suspicion of whose room she is in intensifies, because who else could she be?
The third picture is of a dark skinned man, making faces at the camera, wide-eye and open mouthed, also apparently laughing very hard. Everyone seems far too happy in these pictures, overflowing with the delight of being alive and together. She faces the images carefully, knowing that whoever it was who owned this room probably hadn’t left the TARDIS happily.
Only the final photo looks slightly strained - a man and a woman holding a baby, beaming a little too widely. This picture’s older, like the ones of Martha as a baby. Martha thinks its difference from the others doesn’t matter. It’s like her photo collection; full of pictures of friends from school and uni, and one picture, usually tucked behind the others, of her family - the last time they were all in the same picture (before her dad’s affairs, before her mother was angry and cold, before the divorce, just before), when Martha was twelve and things were just starting to go bad. They’re all smiling, but no one’s laughing. A before picture.
She pushes the photos back into the mirror frame and does her best to put them back how she found them, but isn’t quite sure if the one of the Doctor and the girl came before the one of the vaguely-awkward family, or the single one of the guy. And she can’t get them to sit right. The picture of the three smiling people does not stay where it is meant to be. Pins and needles skitter along her spine. Logically, the untouched nature of the room means that no one is ever likely to notice; but she feels watched, she feels as if the whole ship is holding its breath, watching her look over the other woman’s things, her predecessor’s belongings.
Martha feels like a trespasser.
Uncomfortable, she turns away and heads for the door, but her curiosity catches sight of another door and long seconds hold her still as she contemplates going through, or going back. She’s seen a lot of the TARDIS today, and she has to admit she is now more than a little creeped out.
Once through the door, she is pleasantly surprised to find herself in her own bathroom, cool blue tiles and gleaming surfaces - however the TARDIS cleans, she certainly does a good job. Perhaps a nice hot shower, followed by a cup of tea, then she can go find the Doctor and see what trouble he’s managed to get himself into while she’s been exploring. You wouldn’t think anyone could get into trouble carrying out routine maintenance on a ship they’d been flying for nearly a thousand years, but that was the Doctor for you. Always needed saving. Usually from himself.
All plans vanish from her mind the instant Martha takes another look round her bathroom, and she can’t help but stare in shock at the ghost of the young woman from the photos, in all her transparent glory. She is pale, but not colourless, looking as if she were fading into existence, or would that be out of? Dark eyes watch Martha, and she wonders if this is the presence she felt in the room. She decides it is, in more ways than one.
The girl is using Martha’s sink and mirror, but not, she notices, her hair brush - the ghost seems to have her own hairbrush, clutched in her hands, held almost as if it were a weapon. That makes her ordinary, and so, while no less alert, Martha feels some of the apprehension slide away. Ordinary, she can deal with.
“Who are you?” the ghost asks - sharply, just short of belligerence, waving the hairbrush for good effect. Martha wonders what she intends to do with it. A whack might hurt, but was hardly life-threatening. Her mind throws her the ludicrous image of a girly fight, all fingernails and hair pulling - but it isn’t as though you can fight a ghost. Though, she thinks, this is more like a spectre than a ghost.
“Who are you?” Martha asks. “And what are you doing in my bathroom?” She’ll be asking the questions, thank you very much.
“My bathroom,” corrects the ghost. “I’m warning you,” she threatens, pointing with the hair brush and lifting her eyebrows. “If you’re here to cause trouble, the Doctor’s right through there. He’ll put a stop to it, like that.” It is odd to hear translucent fingers click, a resounding snap echoing off smooth surfaces. “So, just go back to where you came from and it’ll be fine, yeah?”
Martha had been prepared to find the Doctor herself, although she wants to see if she could deal with it by herself first - he gets cranky if he’s prematurely yanked out from playing with his ship’s innards. But this ghost seems to think she has the right to find the Doctor, which is odd for a trespasser - they usually like to avoid the owner of the property. Only more evidence of who this might be.
“Don’t be silly,” Martha tells the ghost. “I’m travelling with the Doctor - there’s no one else on the TARDIS.” And what with the Doctor’s ego she isn’t sure there’s room for anyone else. She takes a deep breath, noticing the air is as still in here as it is in the pink room, and then she takes a risk. “You’re Rose, right?
The girl freezes, confirming Martha’s suspicions.
“Who are you?” she asks, pale in the bright light; she hadn’t expected to be identified. It’s written there in her posture, her expression.
“Martha Jones.”
“And you travel with the Doctor? How do you know who I am?”
Martha doesn’t bother with answering the first question. “He’s told me about you. Sometimes it seems he never shuts up actually. Sorry,” she says, realising she’s been a bit blunt. Downright rude in fact, especially the way Rose, even with the mirror shining through her, seems to get paler. Maybe the Doctor’s manners are rubbing off on her.
“I’m dead?” Rose asks, voice small and young.
Martha feels like a right bitch. “Umm, I don’t know. I don’t think so. You’re just gone. He doesn’t talk about it at all.” How wonderful Rose was, how she would have solved all their problems in a heartbeat, how the bloody sun shone out of Rose’s arse, yes, but what had happened to her, no. After finding out about Gallifrey, Martha’s been too nervous to ask about his ex-whatever she and Rose both are.
So this is Perfect Rose. A girl, about Leo’s age, bottle-blond. Human, a Londoner, probably 21st Century. Late 20th at the earliest. Normal. But then what was Martha? On her way to becoming a doctor, but still as normal as they come. Well, Tish might argue otherwise, but the opinion of older sisters has never really counted. She wonders what Rose’s older sister thought of her, or if Rose had an older sister. Sure the Doctor talks about her, but he doesn’t really say a lot.
“Is he okay?” Rose asks now, her voice regaining some of its vigour, and Martha is impressed. Faced with her own impending death or separation from the Doctor, Rose is worrying about him instead of herself. In a similar situation, Martha hopes she could show the same variety of courage.
Now she shrugs, not sure how to answer that one, or what Rose really wants to hear. “Sometimes. He’s lonely.”
Rose nods. “It’s his people - they’re-”
“-gone,” Martha finishes for her.
“Yeah. He needs taking care of.” Rose’s voice is again a mixture of uncertainty and belligerence, as if she isn’t sure Martha is doing her job properly, or perhaps that she doesn’t want Martha doing her job. Martha wonders again exactly who Rose was to the Doctor, but pushes the thought aside. There are some things she is better off not knowing, and she’s afraid of the discomfort of the truth - as much as she suspects Rose, for all her courage, might be.
Changing direction, Martha snorts, unable to help herself. “He needs a full time nanny!”
Rose grins somewhat reluctantly, sobriety breaking up, willing to go along but concern hovering in the background. “Yeah. Always getting into trouble. Is he still rude? I mean, he’s always been rude, but he wasn’t so much before. Rude and not ginger,” she adds.
Martha thinks about all the times he’s thoroughly stuck his foot in it, by saying something to someone who definitely didn’t appreciate his thoughts on the matter. Her mother springs to mind, along with a number of dictators. Then she thinks about all the times he’s brought up Rose.
“He’s still rude,” she confirms. “Always getting us kicked out.” No need to clarify where from, because Rose travelled with him; surely she knows.
“Always - you can’t take him anywhere!” Rose says with her first genuine smile. And Martha wonders if they could be friends, Doctor not withstanding.
But the humour fades quickly, as it still remains that Martha is talking to the ghost of a woman whose loss has deeply impacted on the Doctor. She wonders how different it would be if they met. If they really could be friends, or if they would be always be rivals; if either one of them would be left out in the cold. She wonders if it would be her. Then she wonders who she means by ‘her’. Finally she stops wondering, because sometimes truth isn’t really what you like to hear.
Martha thinks she and Rose would be friends, because right here and now she likes that idea, and because there is no other truth to disrupt that idea.
“I’ve got to go,” Rose says, awkward, but all traces of belligerence gone.
“Yeah,” Martha agrees, somewhat lamely, because what else can you say to ghost who has to leave? “Nice to meet you.” Because what else do you say to a ghost? And because it is true.
“Yeah,” Rose echoes, giving a genuine smile as she turns and heads for the door and turning the handle with translucent fingers. Then she stops and turns back, a war seemingly won with herself. “You’re taking care of him?”
“Of course!” Martha agrees, because there are some truths that are important.
“He shouldn’t be alone.” The plea shines in Rose’s eyes. “Don’t let him be alone.” She pauses again, swallowing hard. “And don’t let him forget - any of it.”
Then she is gone, the door opening and closing behind her, hard wood putting distance between the two women, making the bathroom Martha’s again. Even Rose’s hairbrush is gone, though she hasn’t taken it with her. And when Martha opens the door, cautiously, but not really expecting to see anything, she finds her own room, empty, tidy and alive, with not a scrap of pink in sight.
The only difference is four pictures, sitting in the frame of her mirror.
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Author: Kazzy bytheseaside
Written For: darksylvia in The Rose Tyler and Martha Jones Ficathon
Rating: PG
Pairings: None
Characters: Martha, Rose
Summary: There was someone else in her bathroom, using her sink and her mirror, but not, she noticed, her hair brush.
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Notes: darksylvia wanted: Martha finds Rose's old stuff on the TARDIS, and through an odd wrinkle of time/TARDIS quirk manages to talk to past!Rose for a time (length of time at author's discretion).
Thanks to purple_bug for the beta! She is very good and very fast. Everyone should have a beta like her. :)
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The carpet and bed spread are pink. Feminine, but not frilly. The room isn’t tidy, with clothes thrown haphazardly over the chair, and the covers on the bed rumpled. Various bottles are scattered on the dresser, some missing lids. But the air is still and unmoving, making nothing seem out of place. Nothing out of place but Martha, standing in the doorway, interrupting the silence.
She shivers, as if cold. It is eerie - whoever had been in this room last clearly intended to come back, but simply hadn’t, leaving everything untouched, waiting. Knowing life on the TARDIS, Martha isn’t surprised. She’s come close enough to death more than once, it doesn’t take a leap of imagination to understand what probably happened to this room’s previous occupant - but she can’t help wondering why the TARDIS has brought her here. And who this room belonged to.
Really, you have no idea, Martha Jones, who this room really belongs to? None at all?
There are a few pictures stuck in the frame of the mirror, and she tugs them out. She looks closely at them, trying to find out who this room belonged to (as if she didn’t already know). The first is of three people she doesn’t recognise, a young blond woman, and two men, somewhat older. The woman is swinging off the older man’s arm, looking up at him, smiling broadly. The second man stands slightly to one side, watching the pair, obvious delight in his eyes. They mean nothing to Martha and she is disappointed; they’re only people, after all. Human, by the looks of it, even if she now knows that looking human means nothing at all.
The second picture is of the Doctor and the same blond girl, seemingly fighting over something - a television remote, perhaps? - the Doctor holding it above his head, the girl trying to climb up him, and probably laughing very hard at the same time. Martha’s suspicion of whose room she is in intensifies, because who else could she be?
The third picture is of a dark skinned man, making faces at the camera, wide-eye and open mouthed, also apparently laughing very hard. Everyone seems far too happy in these pictures, overflowing with the delight of being alive and together. She faces the images carefully, knowing that whoever it was who owned this room probably hadn’t left the TARDIS happily.
Only the final photo looks slightly strained - a man and a woman holding a baby, beaming a little too widely. This picture’s older, like the ones of Martha as a baby. Martha thinks its difference from the others doesn’t matter. It’s like her photo collection; full of pictures of friends from school and uni, and one picture, usually tucked behind the others, of her family - the last time they were all in the same picture (before her dad’s affairs, before her mother was angry and cold, before the divorce, just before), when Martha was twelve and things were just starting to go bad. They’re all smiling, but no one’s laughing. A before picture.
She pushes the photos back into the mirror frame and does her best to put them back how she found them, but isn’t quite sure if the one of the Doctor and the girl came before the one of the vaguely-awkward family, or the single one of the guy. And she can’t get them to sit right. The picture of the three smiling people does not stay where it is meant to be. Pins and needles skitter along her spine. Logically, the untouched nature of the room means that no one is ever likely to notice; but she feels watched, she feels as if the whole ship is holding its breath, watching her look over the other woman’s things, her predecessor’s belongings.
Martha feels like a trespasser.
Uncomfortable, she turns away and heads for the door, but her curiosity catches sight of another door and long seconds hold her still as she contemplates going through, or going back. She’s seen a lot of the TARDIS today, and she has to admit she is now more than a little creeped out.
Once through the door, she is pleasantly surprised to find herself in her own bathroom, cool blue tiles and gleaming surfaces - however the TARDIS cleans, she certainly does a good job. Perhaps a nice hot shower, followed by a cup of tea, then she can go find the Doctor and see what trouble he’s managed to get himself into while she’s been exploring. You wouldn’t think anyone could get into trouble carrying out routine maintenance on a ship they’d been flying for nearly a thousand years, but that was the Doctor for you. Always needed saving. Usually from himself.
All plans vanish from her mind the instant Martha takes another look round her bathroom, and she can’t help but stare in shock at the ghost of the young woman from the photos, in all her transparent glory. She is pale, but not colourless, looking as if she were fading into existence, or would that be out of? Dark eyes watch Martha, and she wonders if this is the presence she felt in the room. She decides it is, in more ways than one.
The girl is using Martha’s sink and mirror, but not, she notices, her hair brush - the ghost seems to have her own hairbrush, clutched in her hands, held almost as if it were a weapon. That makes her ordinary, and so, while no less alert, Martha feels some of the apprehension slide away. Ordinary, she can deal with.
“Who are you?” the ghost asks - sharply, just short of belligerence, waving the hairbrush for good effect. Martha wonders what she intends to do with it. A whack might hurt, but was hardly life-threatening. Her mind throws her the ludicrous image of a girly fight, all fingernails and hair pulling - but it isn’t as though you can fight a ghost. Though, she thinks, this is more like a spectre than a ghost.
“Who are you?” Martha asks. “And what are you doing in my bathroom?” She’ll be asking the questions, thank you very much.
“My bathroom,” corrects the ghost. “I’m warning you,” she threatens, pointing with the hair brush and lifting her eyebrows. “If you’re here to cause trouble, the Doctor’s right through there. He’ll put a stop to it, like that.” It is odd to hear translucent fingers click, a resounding snap echoing off smooth surfaces. “So, just go back to where you came from and it’ll be fine, yeah?”
Martha had been prepared to find the Doctor herself, although she wants to see if she could deal with it by herself first - he gets cranky if he’s prematurely yanked out from playing with his ship’s innards. But this ghost seems to think she has the right to find the Doctor, which is odd for a trespasser - they usually like to avoid the owner of the property. Only more evidence of who this might be.
“Don’t be silly,” Martha tells the ghost. “I’m travelling with the Doctor - there’s no one else on the TARDIS.” And what with the Doctor’s ego she isn’t sure there’s room for anyone else. She takes a deep breath, noticing the air is as still in here as it is in the pink room, and then she takes a risk. “You’re Rose, right?
The girl freezes, confirming Martha’s suspicions.
“Who are you?” she asks, pale in the bright light; she hadn’t expected to be identified. It’s written there in her posture, her expression.
“Martha Jones.”
“And you travel with the Doctor? How do you know who I am?”
Martha doesn’t bother with answering the first question. “He’s told me about you. Sometimes it seems he never shuts up actually. Sorry,” she says, realising she’s been a bit blunt. Downright rude in fact, especially the way Rose, even with the mirror shining through her, seems to get paler. Maybe the Doctor’s manners are rubbing off on her.
“I’m dead?” Rose asks, voice small and young.
Martha feels like a right bitch. “Umm, I don’t know. I don’t think so. You’re just gone. He doesn’t talk about it at all.” How wonderful Rose was, how she would have solved all their problems in a heartbeat, how the bloody sun shone out of Rose’s arse, yes, but what had happened to her, no. After finding out about Gallifrey, Martha’s been too nervous to ask about his ex-whatever she and Rose both are.
So this is Perfect Rose. A girl, about Leo’s age, bottle-blond. Human, a Londoner, probably 21st Century. Late 20th at the earliest. Normal. But then what was Martha? On her way to becoming a doctor, but still as normal as they come. Well, Tish might argue otherwise, but the opinion of older sisters has never really counted. She wonders what Rose’s older sister thought of her, or if Rose had an older sister. Sure the Doctor talks about her, but he doesn’t really say a lot.
“Is he okay?” Rose asks now, her voice regaining some of its vigour, and Martha is impressed. Faced with her own impending death or separation from the Doctor, Rose is worrying about him instead of herself. In a similar situation, Martha hopes she could show the same variety of courage.
Now she shrugs, not sure how to answer that one, or what Rose really wants to hear. “Sometimes. He’s lonely.”
Rose nods. “It’s his people - they’re-”
“-gone,” Martha finishes for her.
“Yeah. He needs taking care of.” Rose’s voice is again a mixture of uncertainty and belligerence, as if she isn’t sure Martha is doing her job properly, or perhaps that she doesn’t want Martha doing her job. Martha wonders again exactly who Rose was to the Doctor, but pushes the thought aside. There are some things she is better off not knowing, and she’s afraid of the discomfort of the truth - as much as she suspects Rose, for all her courage, might be.
Changing direction, Martha snorts, unable to help herself. “He needs a full time nanny!”
Rose grins somewhat reluctantly, sobriety breaking up, willing to go along but concern hovering in the background. “Yeah. Always getting into trouble. Is he still rude? I mean, he’s always been rude, but he wasn’t so much before. Rude and not ginger,” she adds.
Martha thinks about all the times he’s thoroughly stuck his foot in it, by saying something to someone who definitely didn’t appreciate his thoughts on the matter. Her mother springs to mind, along with a number of dictators. Then she thinks about all the times he’s brought up Rose.
“He’s still rude,” she confirms. “Always getting us kicked out.” No need to clarify where from, because Rose travelled with him; surely she knows.
“Always - you can’t take him anywhere!” Rose says with her first genuine smile. And Martha wonders if they could be friends, Doctor not withstanding.
But the humour fades quickly, as it still remains that Martha is talking to the ghost of a woman whose loss has deeply impacted on the Doctor. She wonders how different it would be if they met. If they really could be friends, or if they would be always be rivals; if either one of them would be left out in the cold. She wonders if it would be her. Then she wonders who she means by ‘her’. Finally she stops wondering, because sometimes truth isn’t really what you like to hear.
Martha thinks she and Rose would be friends, because right here and now she likes that idea, and because there is no other truth to disrupt that idea.
“I’ve got to go,” Rose says, awkward, but all traces of belligerence gone.
“Yeah,” Martha agrees, somewhat lamely, because what else can you say to ghost who has to leave? “Nice to meet you.” Because what else do you say to a ghost? And because it is true.
“Yeah,” Rose echoes, giving a genuine smile as she turns and heads for the door and turning the handle with translucent fingers. Then she stops and turns back, a war seemingly won with herself. “You’re taking care of him?”
“Of course!” Martha agrees, because there are some truths that are important.
“He shouldn’t be alone.” The plea shines in Rose’s eyes. “Don’t let him be alone.” She pauses again, swallowing hard. “And don’t let him forget - any of it.”
Then she is gone, the door opening and closing behind her, hard wood putting distance between the two women, making the bathroom Martha’s again. Even Rose’s hairbrush is gone, though she hasn’t taken it with her. And when Martha opens the door, cautiously, but not really expecting to see anything, she finds her own room, empty, tidy and alive, with not a scrap of pink in sight.
The only difference is four pictures, sitting in the frame of her mirror.
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