The Mettle of Merlin - Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter One, Chapter Two, Chapter Three, Chapter Four, Chapter Five, Chapter Six, Chapter Seven, Chapter Eight, Chapter Nine, Chapter Ten, Chapter Eleven, Chapter Twelve, Chapter Thirteen, Chapter Fourteen, Chapter Fifteen, Chapter Sixteen, Chapter Seventeen, Chapter Eighteen, Chapter Nineteen, Chapter Twenty, Twenty-One, Chapter Twenty-Two, Chapter Twenty-Three, Chapter Twenty-Four, Chapter Twenty-Five, Chapter Twenty-Six, Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
The faut and the fayntyse of the flesh crabbed,
How tender hit is to entyse teches of fylthe…
Gawain was sleeping, his wound mended and the scar obliterated, as the TARDIS slipped with a shudder into the vortex. Rose was seated on her bed, trying to decide exactly how much the Doctor had overheard before Gawain look a nose-dive and shut up. Judging by the twitch in his jaw as he’d lifted the knight, Rose suspected he’d heard Gawain’s rather unpleasant attack on her; what she was entirely uncertain about was whether or not he’d heard the earlier aspects of the conversation - the parts about him and her, about love. She stared at her bare feet, scuffing them in the rug on her bedroom floor - it wasn’t as if she could ask him, so she supposed she wouldn’t ever know. The realisation bothered her more than she cared to admit.
She huffed, then winced, her hand automatically rising to press against the knife wound Morgaine had inflicted. She’d followed in the Doctor’s wake as he’d carried Gawain into the TARDIS and snuck off to her room before he could accost her, keen to scrub all the blood off of herself and, if she was honest, spend some time alone without those penetrating blue eyes regarding her. The crescent of fresh blood on her palm, however, suggested the time for hiding was over. As if on cue, her bedroom door swung open and, with no more than that as announcement, the Doctor strode in.
‘Wondered where you’d got to. Gone off the pretty knight, have we? Can’t say I blame you. Bit mouthy, if you ask me. Not to worry, though, soon have him back in Camelot and then it’ll back to normal,’ the Doctor informed her smugly.
Rose blinked at him stupidly for a moment. ‘I…’
The Doctor, however, was no longer paying attention. Instead, his gaze had shifted and was now focused intensely on her hand. Without seeming to move, he was suddenly right in front of her, his booted feet touching her toes.
‘What’s this?’ he demanded, his hand snaking out and grasping her hand, palm up. Rose looked at it and the smear of blood on its surface.
She swallowed. ‘’S nothing.’
‘That’s blood. Fresh blood.’ He lifted his eyes to hers and she winced at the barely marshalled anger there. ‘You said it was a scratch!’ he snapped.
‘It was. Is,’ Rose stuttered.
‘Get up,’ he commanded.
‘What?’
The Doctor huffed intolerantly, completely unwilling to repeat himself. Without responding to her question, he bent and sipped an arm beneath her legs, lifting her against his chest and spinning on his heel, carrying her swiftly out into the corridor.
‘Doctor! What are you doing?’
The Doctor ignored her, his face set in furious lines, his arms rigid around her. Within moments, they had reached the infirmary. Only as they swept past Gawain and reached a spare bed did the Doctor release her, placing her on the sterile surface stiffly.
‘Doc…’
‘Lay down,’ he instructed.
‘What?’
‘You deaf now, as well as stupid? Lay down!’
At his cold, unforgiving growl, Rose capitulated, laying back against the surprisingly soft surface.
With a curt nod, he turned away from her, rummaging in a nearby drawer. ‘Take off your top,’ he told her, as he gathered whatever it was he needed, his back presented to her firmly. Biting her lip against irrational tears, Rose compiled, wincing slightly as the cotton dragged where it was stuck by drying blood to her skin. The Doctor’s back stiffened still further at the sound of her muffed gasp and Rose watched him warily as he turned back towards her.
Flinty blue eyes clashed with hers, before drifting to her bared skin. A nerve jumped in his cheek as he regarded her injury. When he spoke, though, his voice was devoid of expression.
‘That is not a scratch,’ he stated. Rose fidgeted. ‘Don’t move!’ he barked. ‘Do you want to hurt yourself?’ he demanded harshly, not waiting for an answer as he dragged a stool to the side of her bed and sat down on it heavily.
‘This might hurt,’ he warned her, his gaze fixed on her torso. Rose nodded her understanding anyway.
Despite the suppressed fury Rose now realised was shivering beneath his skin, his fingers, when they touched her flesh, were incredibly gentle. Nonetheless, as he explored the wound she couldn’t help the little cry of pain that slipped from her dry lips. He stilled instantly, reaching for something on the bed beside her hip. She felt something cool and then nothing, as the dull ache of the cut she had become almost unaware of suddenly disappeared.
‘Shouldn’t feel anything now,’ the Doctor told her tonelessly.
‘Doctor…’ she started. The Doctor looked up, his expression fierce, and Rose faltered.
‘Something to say?’ he asked. She shook her head. ‘Good,’ he nodded, returning his attention to her trunk.
Chastised, Rose watched him as he studied Morgaine’s handy work, guilt gathering in her chest as his lips pursed into an incredibly thin line.
‘Nearly two inches,’ he muttered to himself. ‘Two inches,’ he repeated. Rose tensed as his head shot up. ‘It’s nearly two inches deep, Rose. If she’d…’ he stopped, forcing himself to look away from her. ‘Two inches is not a scratch,’ he stated after a moment.
‘I’m sorry,’ She whispered.
He did not acknowledge her as he worked, one device being switched for another and then a third. After less than five minutes, he pushed back the stool, its feet grating unpleasantly on the grilled floor, and stood up, his instruments cradled in one hand.
‘You’re fine now,’ he told her, as he walked away, deliberately returning each tool to its place.
‘Thank you,’ she whispered, sitting up and shifting round until her legs dangled off the edge of the bed.
He nodded stiffly, his back still firmly facing her.
‘You’d better get dressed. We’ll be at Camelot soon.’
Rose sighed, looking down at her hands. ‘Doctor…’ she looked up, only to find herself alone with the sleeping form of Sir Gawain.
************
Rose smoothed her hands down the dusky blue fabric of her gown, nervously flicking the folds in an attempt to neaten non-existent creases. The TARDIS rocked, forcing her to stumble forwards, and despite herself she found she was just inside the console room.
‘Perfect timing, we’re about to land,’ the Doctor called, reaching out a lean arm and spinning something just outside her line of sight.
Rose frowned, confused by his cheery manner.
‘Hold on tight,’ he advised and, with the instinct born of practice, Rose found herself a secure anchor, hardly jostled as the TARDIS landed.
‘Camelot,’ the Doctor announced, tapping the console screen and looking at her expectantly. At a loss, Rose looked away and focused instead on the doors. Releasing her hold on the TARDIS, she headed across the room, curling her fingers around the lock and twisting, pulling the door open. Despite herself, she smiled.
‘Camelot, huh?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Right after we left, yeah?’
‘That’s right,’ the Doctor confirmed, his tone suggestive of someone speaking to a particularly dull child.
‘So, medieval men have hair growth issues then?’
‘What you on about?’
Rose chuckled. ‘Well, unless Arthur managed to grow a full beard in a couple of days, I don’t think we’ve only be gone a couple of days.’
‘What?’
Rose grinned, ‘I guess that gibe about him being beardless bothered him more than he let on!’
‘Bugger!’
‘Plus, you know, the whole it being summer thing is a bit of a clue too,’ Rose added cheekily.
‘Ah,’ the Doctor managed.
‘Not just a few days then?’ Rose asked.
‘No,’ he confirmed. Her lips twitched as the Doctor muttered something just beyond her capacity to hear.
‘What was that?’ she asked innocently.
‘It’s been five hundred and forty days,’ he repeated.
Rose couldn’t help herself - with an aborted attempt at restraint, she subsided into giggles, the sheer normalcy of the inaccurate landing a relief so intense it felt like perfection.
‘Guess that explains the poem,’ she observed eventually, when she had herself back under control. The Doctor grumbled his reluctant agreement from above crossed arms, which was enough to set her off again.
‘When you’re quite finished,’ the Doctor grumbled.
‘Sorry!’ Rose managed, wiping her eyes.
‘Yeah, I can tell.’ He paused as Rose glanced at him hopefully, the last gasps of her laughter stilling in her chest. He held her gaze for a long moment, and she knew that it was not just this apology that was being acknowledged, then the moment was gone and he was rolling his eyes impatiently. ‘You go and greet Arthur. I’ll get Gawain,’ he instructed.
Feeling immeasurably lighter, Rose stepped out into the sweet, warm, pure air and headed for the legendary king.
Chapter Twenty-Nine