Fiction: Shades of Blue (for echarperouge) (M) [part 2/2]

Jul 17, 2009 08:45

[continued from Part 1]

Title: Shades of Blue
Author/Artist: Midori
Canon: Doctor Who / Phantom of the Opera (Musical or Susan Kay)
Pairing(s): Martha Jones/10th Doctor
Rating: M
Summary: A strange blue box appears in "the Phantom's" domain, and he cannot keep himself from wandering inside. But its occupants sense that a stranger is in their midst! Will they be able to find him before he has them both in his thrall and wreaks havoc upon their lives?
Warnings (if any): Sex. Fairly graphic.
Total word count: 18,476
Original prompt request number: 18


LIGHT BLUE

When Martha woke this time, it was to the sound of the sonic screwdriver. She gurgled some protest, then came to her senses and realised where she was. She was lying curled up on top of the Doctor’s pyjama top.

Shit.

She propped herself up on her elbows behind her, careful not to let the blankets slide lower than they should.

“Morning,” she said.

“Ma-yah,” the Doctor replied, sonic once again sideways in his teeth, impeding his speech. “Da mee wakya.”

She assumed he was trying to say “Didn’t mean to wake you,” and responded with a wave of her hand and a vague groan of “’Sokay.”

He was sitting on his side of the bed with his legs crossed yoga-style, dressed in the last clothes she’d seen on him: a white tee shirt and blue pyjama bottoms. His glasses were on, and he was engrossed in a funny-looking device that seemed to be made of a metal funnel, some tubing and a little black box that let out soft blips every now and then.

She stared at the bedspread for a few moments, trying to get her bearings. Then, “I feel like I’ve got a hangover,” she said.

He peered over his glasses at her and took the sonic out of his mouth. “Er, okay. That’s a new one. Are you going to be sick? Please say no.”

“No,” she said, sitting up straight.

“Thank goodness. My ego can only take so much,” he said.

She looked at him and frowned, but he did not see it.

A pause while he adjusted some bolts on the device. Then he asked, “So, what? Headache? Sensitivity to light?”

“No, mostly just a feeling of having been run over by a bus,” she said. She scanned her mind for all the things she ate and drank before going to sleep last night. Crêpes, fruit juice, some wine... she was fairly certain she’d turned down that offer of Absinthe. They had been on the run a lot lately, perhaps it was a simple Vitamin B deficiency...

Right. Vitamin B.

“Mmm,” the Doctor said, non-committally. He stole little glances at her over his glasses as he worked.

“What’s that?” she asked.

He drew in a deep, quick breath. “This,” he said. “This is that thing I was reading about last night. I’ve built a device for detecting organic presences in large labyrinthine spaces out of only what I had on board. I’nit beautiful?” He smiled at her broadly.

“Yeah,” she smiled. “How long have you been awake?”

“Oh, just an hour or so,” he answered.

She looked at the clock. It kept local time wherever they were. It told her that it was only about five hours since she’d fallen asleep after...

“An hour? You’ve only had four hours’ rest?” she laughed. “I don’t know how you do it.”

“Well,” he said, still tweaking the device. “I slept really well.” He allowed himself to look at her then, and smile just slightly. “Also, I woke with a revelation about our new friend.”

“Our new friend?”

“Yeah, whoever is in the TARDIS with us,” he said. “I realised he must be a he, right?”

“Erm, yeah, it sounded like... a man...” she trailed off shyly.

“And he’s got to have some kind of brain-block.”

“Brain-block?”

“Yes,” he said. “He knows how to prevent probing sources from entering his mind. In Harry Potter they call it Occlumency.”

“Okay, I’m with you. But how do you know that?”

“Because of the song he sang,” the Doctor shifted and cleared his throat uncomfortably. “What language did you hear?”

This forced the song back into her head momentarily, and forced her body to flush once again with pleasure. “French,” she said, suddenly shutting it all way. “It was definitely French.”

The Doctor tipped one eyebrow at her.

“Oh!” she cried out. “The TARDIS translation circuits weren’t able to get into his mind! If they had, I’d have heard the song in English!”

“Molto bene,” he told her. “And! One last thing: he’s learned, probably as an extension of his brain-block skills, to do the opposite. He can get into our minds.”

Martha shivered. She knew first-hand that the Doctor wasn’t talking about mind-reading.

“He’s got some kind of...” the Doctor searched for the words. “Hypnotic capacity for suggestion. And it’s powerful. I’ve never experienced anything that powerful... not from a human...” he trailed off.

Martha trained her gaze on him, but said nothing. She didn’t know what to say.

“Anyway,” the Doctor continued. “The only place on Earth where he could have learned something that powerful is in Persia, in the court of the Shah. The timing is about right - the Shah’s court was at its mystic heyday, oh, about twenty to thirty years ago, and even then, he’d have to be a bloody prodigy.

“We also know that this man is attracted to labyrinthine spaces. He came from under the Opéra into the TARDIS and he’s been able to conceal himself in both places - even from the TARDIS itself. All of that, plus the extraordinary musical ability...”

“What?” Martha asked, urgently.

“Well, I always thought he was a myth.”

“Who?”

“The Phantom,” he said, now staring beyond her.

“Excuse me?”

“Stories float round this building, this Opéra,” he told her. “They began with the laying of the foundation of this place, and persist well into your time. First they said the theatre was haunted, then some claimed that a mad genius lived in the cellars, a musical prodigy capable of killing with a single stroke of a whip, controlling you with his mind, singing you into submission. And, later it was said that he had a Persian confidant who eventually told his story to the press. Most people didn’t believe his story...”

“Oh lovely, and now he’s here with us.”

“Well, as mind-control goes...” the Doctor began, but didn’t finish that thought. “I just mean, he doesn’t seem to want to hurt us.”

Martha sighed. Maybe not you, but I think he might have done me some damage.

And then all was interrupted once again by music. This time, a piano. Martha and the Doctor looked at each other briefly, then both dashed out of bed. Martha climbed into the first garments she could find, which happened to be a light blue dress shirt and a pair of soft slippers. She followed the Doctor out the door and ran after him.

“Where are we going?” she asked.

“The music room!” he answered, shouting.

“You have a music room? A gift from Beethoven?”

He didn’t answer, he just kept running. He was in pyjamas and a tee-shirt and barefoot and she was in nothing but a large shirt slippers that were twice the size of her feet. It was an interesting sight - a slight variation on their usual adventure.

Twists and turns down tan marbled hallways, the slippery floor causing more consternation that either one of them would have liked, corridors Martha had never seen, and a few that the Doctor had not seen in several centuries... and behind all that, a music room. They opened the door carefully and found a darkened space. He sonicked the lights on, and they shone purple. Martha and the Doctor looked around.

A large pipe organ loomed against a far wall, and in the middle of the room, a piano. Space enough for a full orchestra spread out to their right, including the chairs and instruments set in the proper order. A flat screen television for feeding musical notation was on their left.

“He’s not here now,” she said. “Where would he have gone next?”

He took her hand and motioned for her to stay quiet. They tiptoed through the orchestra area, and then stopped, and then the Doctor stopped. He looked hard at the chairs, and then at her. His gaze was penetrating enough to make her ask, “What are you staring at?”

He didn’t say anything for a long moment. “He led us here,” he whispered.

“What, like a trap?” Martha asked nervously, squeezing his hand tighter and moving a bit closer to him.

“No,” he said. “Think, Martha. Think about that song.”

She closed her eyes and let it in. The swell gave her a such a shudder, she had to push it away again. “I can’t, Doctor,” she told him, swallowing hard and feeling that residual desire rippling through her as she looked up at him.

“In the song, the orchestra represents...” the Doctor said, still holding her gaze.

She was too choked to complete the sentence. Besides, if she thought about it too hard, she’d swoon. She knew that he was invoking the song in his mind, but he was stronger than she was... she knew it would not affect him now the way it did her. One of them had to stay sane.

But she allowed him to look into her once again, and before long, his hands were around her waist, pulling her close. She turned up her lips, he turned his down, and they both closed their eyes in readiness...

And something pulled them away once again. Behind the orchestra area, maroon curtains, dyed purple by the light, hung grandly. A sound came from that direction, a voice...

“Come on,” he whispered.

Bitterly disappointed, Martha followed him into the curtained area. It was a small circular room, surrounded with the same red curtains. A small table was in the middle, and on it, there was a little card. The Doctor picked it up.

“The orchestra plays on always,” he read. “The duetto is what makes the overture worth listening to. Let the opera continue!”

Voice trembling, “He definitely does not want to hurt us,” Martha said.

“I should say not,” the Doctor agreed, now letting go of Martha’s hand. Such a small gesture, but it hurt her. She took a dejected step back from him. “He’s trying to bring us together.”

A song played out from somewhere else in the TARDIS. It was a Gabrielle CD blaring from one of the entertainment rooms, the song Should I Stay? The Doctor growled with frustration and ran down the halls once more. They checked three different entertainment rooms, each chock full of gadgets, holographic televisions, DVD players, mini-disc projectors, circular sport broadcast. In the third one, they found where the CD was coming from, but they did not find the intruder.

Another note was folded on the coffee table, and Martha grabbed it. She read, “Here I am, waiting for a sign. I never seem to know if you want me in your life. Where do I stand? I just don’t know - I never feel I know you because you blow hot...”

“...and you blow cold,” the Doctor finished.

Martha chuckled. She’d heard that song before but never realised how well it applied to her.

A huge whooshing sound came from the distance. It’s as though someone had opened the door to the Arctic and they were hearing the wind and snow blow cold.

“Blimey, he’s in the Arctic room! Come on!”

“The Arctic room? What the hell is that for?” Martha called out as she ran after him once again.

“For? It’s not for anything. It has an echo and some snow!” he called back.

He heaved open the door, and when he did, the voice of “the Phantom” came tumbling out. “L’amour orchestral nous possède, nous en sommes une partie. L’opéra est neuve, mon amour, les cordes nous supplient,” it sang, just as it had last night.

The Doctor slammed the door shut, his teeth bared, his breath coming in quick wisps. “He’s worked out how to use the Arctic echo,” he hissed. “Ooh, this bloke is clever.”

“Are you sure he’s not in there?” Martha asked, pointing toward the heavy Arctic door.

“Oh, I’m sure,” he answered. He took three steps out into the middle of the hall. He shouted angrily, “Enough! Enough with the wild goose chase! I know what you’re trying to do and it won’t work, do you hear me? IT WON’T WORK! Do you know who you’re dealing with? I am a spectacularly broken man! I have no love left to give - it’s all been taken from me, so GIVE IT UP!”

By the end, he was screaming, and it left him panting. The wind seemed to be knocked out of Martha. She put her hand to her chest and supported herself against the wall. She choked on a sob, and suddenly felt smaller than she had in quite a while.

The Doctor, for his part, paced, oblivious to what his words had done to her. She languished on her own, just has she had for nine months. Could he really think that she was in the same frame of mind as he was? She supposed he could - he had been thinking that all along. Why would she think that sex under hypnosis would change that?

Except...

And then, as expected, they heard another sound. It was the sound of Martha’s favourite music box being amplified over the TARDIS’ tannoy.

“He’s in my room!” she cried out, suddenly snapped from her stupor.

They ran again. When they reached Martha’s bedroom, of course, they did not find the intruder. However, a beautiful royal blue silk gown hung from the jamb of her closet door. The bodice and off-shoulder sleeves were trimmed in black lace, and the skirt featured a long hem of silk painted to look like peacock feathers. At the neckline hung a mask adorned with the real feathers.

They both stared at it as though they couldn’t identify it. But Martha knew - it was the costume she had chosen for tonight’s celebration at Café de la Paix.

“It’s so creepy that he was here,” Martha said, taking the dress down. She concealed it in her closet, suddenly ashamed of it. The Doctor didn’t want to be drawn into her, so why should she even bother wearing this thing now?

“It means he was in my room, too. That costume was hanging in my wardrobe.” He paused, in thought. “Martha, put it on.”

“What?”

“Put on the costume,” he told her. “We’re going to that party.”

“What, now?”

“Yep.”

She took the dress from the closet and looked at the Doctor expectantly. He understood, and then turned his back so she could change.

GREEN BLUE

Martha timidly began to unbutton the Doctor’s blue dress shirt, which hung from her body like a smock. “You know, you could go back to your own room to change,” she suggested uncomfortably.

“I’m not leaving you alone,” he said. “We know what this man is capable of - I don’t know how he’d use his talent if he got you on your own.”

“Okay,” she said, stalling. She made a slow production of stepping out of the large slippers.

The Doctor fidgeted. “Are you ready yet?” he asked.

She looked at him with surprise. “Er, no,” she said. “It’s going to be a while. Do you know how elaborate dresses are at this point in history?”

He turned on a lark and caught her pretty well unbuttoned. Her hands were in the middle of undoing the second-to-last button, so he had a clear view from her collar bone down the centre of her body to her navel. A lump formed in his throat.

And then the worst happened. The Doctor cursed.

The voice wafted about the room, that hypnotic, suggestive voice that had driven them into each others’ arms and further. “J’étends mes bras, tu y réponds d’un baiser, et puis tu réponds de ton toi, ton être entier.” They each took two steps forward which put them squarely body-to-body, and in a few split seconds, mouth-to-mouth. Their lips clung desperately to each other, and their arms snaked around sneakily. Martha’s lips moved down his jawline, planting kisses all the way down his long neck. She relished the ready accessibility, adorned today in a tee-shirt instead of the usual starched collar and tie.

But though the Doctor’s body was slowly igniting, his eyes were darting all about the room, planning an attack, an escape, anything... and then he noticed.

“Martha,” he said, gulping. “The voice is coming from the music box.”

“What?” she asked, not stopping her voracious ministrations.

“Blimey, he’s a ventriloquist as well,” the Doctor said, more to himself than anyone. “That explains...”

But then their lips caught again and their hands went back to exploring.

“Maintenant c’est décidé, je suis à toi, tu es la mienne exactement comme en noir deux amants s’appartiennent.”

Amid the blast of heat, Martha jumped up and wrapped her legs around his waist. He turned so that her back was to the bed and fell upon bit, catching himself on his hands. He didn’t have far to go to undress her: two buttons came undone and she was his for the taking.

Her hands went to his waist band readying to push his pyjama bottoms down, but even as she did this, she gasped, “Doctor, help me fight this!” With a great amount of effort, she resisted pushing further.

“Emballé, je m’en vais, je tombe au-delà du seuil.”

He buried his mouth between her breasts, and asked, “Mmm?”

“This is wrong!” she said, panting, not pushing him away. “Tell me how to keep him out of my mind!”

He pushed up on his hands again and looked down at her. “You’re right,” he said, eyes wide with something that looked like fear. “We have to block it!”

“Tu me remues, et puis tu m’accueilles.”

She looked back with the same fear, and said gasped, “I don’t know how! Help me!”

“Quand même je deviens solide et tu deviens liquide.” With this, their tentative resolve crumbled for a few seconds and they fell back into each other, sucking, clinging. Untangling at this point would be difficult - he was definitely hard now, and she was melting. “Nos êtres sont en harmonie, saisissants et intrépides.”

“Notre ouverture grandit, se joue, commence l’opéra magique !”

She pushed at his shoulders. “D’teuh! Stpppp!” she insisted, muffled by his avid lips.

He understood her plea as “Doctor, stop!” and he tore himself away. “Oh no!” he panted. “It’s starting! Martha, think of something else ! Think of something that will make you want to stop, something disgusting or something pure…”

“Je suis les paroles, mon amour, et tu es la musique, soudain tu m’entoures de chaleur, tu me contiens,” the voice told them.

Taken almost wholly by the music, his brain dangerously overridden, he pushed at his waistband and placed the head of his member at her entrance. Both of them were breathing heavily in tandem now, and staring powerfully into each others’ eyes. Would he push inside, or could he resist? Could she?

“I’m trying, Doctor, but I want you so much…” she was almost crying now, and she shut her eyes tight. “I don’t know if there’s anything that will make me not want it!”

“There’s always something, Martha,” he assured her, still rasping, still intense and still unable to take his body away from contact with hers. He knew how she felt. He wanted it too, and all it would take was one good push forward, and he could be buried in her, he could have her liquid heat wrapped around him…

But that meant they would always be slaves to it. The more often this happened, the lower their resolve would slide. This man could keep them rutting like bunnies indefinitely if they didn’t fight it now.

For her part, she knew that one nudge of her heel against his bum, one pull of his hip, one throaty plea of “take me” and she could feel him driving into her, moaning her name, desperate and

needing her…

But this was the Doctor. He was not, could not be, just a shag to her. She loved him with every fibre of her being, and she didn’t want this if she couldn’t have all of him. She’d rather languish in silence as always. It was clear that the hypnotic suggestion was not changing is feelings, only his desires, therefore, they would be better off if they could push the song out of their heads now.

He swallowed hard and closed his eyes.

“Nos mouvements font une chœur, chantant envers le même refrain.”

“No, no movements,” he muttered to himself in response to the singing. “No chorus... no refrain...”

Martha moaned beneath him. “Doctor,” she panted. “Doctor!”

That alone nearly caused him to crumble. “Shhhh,” he lulled. “Martha... don’t talk, you’ll weaken.”

“Les cordes brouillent notre chanson en beauté, en démence, et leur rythme nous apporte en avance, en avance…”

She seemed lost in something now, her head moving side to side. “No,” she sighed. “No madness... no rhythm…”

“Not forward...” he added. “Good, Martha, keep doing that.”

The song continued with its sensual lyric, its climax came and went, complete with its promise to ensnare them again. They stayed poised as they were, fighting its insidious power. When the singing stopped, the Doctor and Martha opened their eyes and looked at each other. They had withstood this test.

“Last time he sang it twice,” Martha croaked out in a high pitch.

“Right,” he said, and he pushed up and off of her. Facing away, he tucked himself back into his pyjamas, and she buttoned his shirt back up around her, then cast about for some knickers or a skirt or anything.

“Are you decent?” he asked.

She pulled on a pair of white gym shorts and tied the drawstring in the front. “Yes.”

“What finally did it?” he asked her.

“Erm,” she said, trying to think up a lie. “I thought about my brother. You know... family and sex don’t mix.”

“Good, good,” he said, nodding. “Me too. I mean, I didn’t think of your brother, but family...”

“Right,” she said. After a pause, she said, “You’re as rotten a liar as I am.”

“Nine hundred years, you think I’d learn how to tell a little white lie.”

“It’s okay,” she told him. “You’re a good bloke, Doctor.”

“So what was it really?” he asked.

She hesitated, then exhaled heavily. She sat down sadly on the edge of the bed, and confessed softly, “I thought of you, standing in the corridor ten minutes ago, shouting about how it wasn’t going to work because you have no more love to give.”

He looked at the floor. He moved slowly toward the edge of the bed and sat down next to her. “Oh, I’m sorry, Martha,” he said. “But I understand. It wouldn’t be very fulfilling to have that happening to us time after time if we’re not in love.”

She examined his face. He was serious. No sign of covering or poignancy, just his usual obliviousness. She shook her head and chuckled bitterly. “No, I guess we’re not.”

Three full seconds, and then the Doctor looked at her with realisation, for the first time. She looked back with tears in her eyes, acknowledging the thing she’d felt for nine months. His eyes were apologetic and sad, but he didn’t say anything for a long time.

The suspense was killing her, but he was going to have to be the one to speak first. She had already said too much.

Staring at the floor, he finally managed, “You are beautiful, Martha. Beautiful. And brilliant. And every day, I think that your beauty has finally outshined your brilliance, and then you prove me wrong... until the next time you, say, try on a blue dress.”

“You don’t have to do this.”

“Listen. You know, that day on the moon, there had to have been at least a hundred brilliant young doctors and nurses and med students in that hospital. Many of them would have made a good companion for me, even the men. But I chose you, Martha.”

“Yes, you did.”

“I chose you because when you bent down to take my heartbeat, my hearts sped up, did you notice? I was charmed by you, entranced. And... turned on,” he confessed, with one eyebrow raised.

“What?” she inquired, shocked.

He sighed. “In very many ways, Martha, I am not like other men. But a beautiful woman... well, then, we’re all alike, I’m afraid. And it doesn’t take a satin gown or pyjamas or hypnosis.”

“What does it take?”

“Nothing. Just your being you. Last night, for the majority of our, erm, time together, there was no singing - there was just us, lost in each other. I found that I wanted you even when there was no outside force wheedling its way into my consciousness. No song - just you.”

Tears were falling now. “I wanted you too,” she told him. “Even after...”

He smiled. “And it was beautiful, wasn’t it? It felt good to let go, just to be together and let our guard down. I mean, it felt good in that other way as well, but it’s what it meant that was more important.”

She looked at him with supplication and desperation in her eyes, and then asked, “Then why, why would you say you have no more love to give? Doctor, why are we not in love?”

He sighed heavily. “Do you want to know what I was thinking about just now, that allowed me to keep out the voice?”

“I don’t know if I do. But tell me.”

“I think you already know.”

“Rose.”

He nodded. “I pictured her watching me with you. I imagined the jealousy she’d feel, the anger, like I was being unfaithful.”

“Lovely.”

“Martha, until right now, I thought that my travels with you had absolutely nothing to do with her. I was drawn to you, but she was the love of my life - I don’t know if you can understand that.”

Fresh tears fell. “Oh, I can,” she said.

This squeezed his hearts just a little bit further. But he continued, now crying a bit himself. “I loved her. I really, really loved her, and the fact that I never told her made it all the worse when she was taken from me. When I lost her... oh Martha, I thought I’d never be whole again. I thought I’d never travel with a human again. And then I found you, and you stirred something in me, but... it felt wrong. It felt empty. It felt like rebound, like you said, just lusty and... empty.”

Martha nodded with heartbroken acceptance. Right now, she hated Rose. But she loved the Doctor, and she knew he needed comfort. So she swallowed her bitterness. “What do you think she’s doing right now?”

He smiled sadly. “I don’t know. Sometimes I wonder what she’s doing now, who she’s talking to, if she still thinks of me. It lessens every day, but it still can drive me mad, the wondering.”

“I’m sure she does think of you, Doctor. How could she not?”

“She has Mickey,” the Doctor said. “The boyfriend she had before we met, and I assume - I hope - they are together now that I’m out of her life. Mickey is good for her - clever and brave. Sometimes my thoughts run to him, and I will him to take care of her, lessen her pain, maybe.”

“He loves her?”

“He does, I know he does. He can’t give her everything, but I know he’ll do his best.”

“I think he will,” Martha said, taking the Doctor’s hand. “If he knows you, he knows what a thing Rose has lost - he’ll want to take her pain away. I’m sure he’d do everything to make her feel a little bit better each day. She’s in a good place, Doctor, with people who care. I don’t think you need to worry.”

The Doctor was moved. It was the first time he and Martha had really discussed Rose, and now knowing what he knew, it was an emotional moment. “Thank you, Martha,” he choked.

They hugged, and the tension dissipated slowly and their friendship was on its way back to repair.

But what the Doctor could not feel was the slow burn in Martha’s guts, the churning nausea eking its way in... the breaking of her heart. Talking of Rose this way was draining her spirit, and it was all she could do no to collapse in tears.

The Doctor stood up and crossed the room. He stood in the doorway and stared down the hall. “So, are you up for another foray into the labyrinth to track down our friend?”

“I suppose,” she said, getting to her feet.

“Good,” he said. He slammed his palm against a knot in the wall, one that Martha had never noticed. This opened a panel on the other side of the room, and out fell a man.

He was wearing a black silk opera cloak.

ROYAL BLUE

“Hello,” the Doctor said as the stranger worked to get himself to his feet. “Welcome to the TARDIS. Time and relative dimension in space. It is my travel vessel. Labyrinthine, bigger on the inside than it is on the outside. And now that we’ve got that out of the way, who the hell are you and what are you doing on my ship?”

“You know the answer to both of those questions, Doctor,” the cloaked man said, in nearly-perfect English. Only a tinge of a French accent came through.

“Well now, that’s an unfair advantage. Since you’ve been skulking about in my home, you know my name. If we’re going to be shipmates, I think I ought to know yours, don’t you?”

“I do not know your name, only your title.”

Martha chimed in. “I thought that too, but his name is the Doctor - that’s all anyone ever calls him.”

“In that case,” the stranger said, bowing properly. “My name is Erik. I apologise for not introducing myself sooner, but I am not normally one for forward interactions.”

“I can see that,” the Doctor said. “Why the mask?”

“You couldn’t handle the truth of this, Doctor.”

“Oh, why don’t you try me? You have brought out some rather interesting truths from us, the least we can do is return the favour.”

“I never remove my mask.”

The Doctor grew deadly serious once more. “I never negotiate with a man whom I cannot look in the eyes. And when I stop negotiating, people tend to wind up exiled in mirrors and collapsed in dwarf stars.”

Erik scoffed. “Threats do not work on me, Doctor. And I’m afraid that I am not the only one in this room who is masked at the moment.”

“All right, enough with the head games. I’m really bloody sick of having you in here,” the Doctor spat, pointing to his head. “Just tell me what you’re doing here.”

“I could ask the same question of you. I would never have wandered into your TARDIS if it had not suddenly appeared in the cellars of my Opéra. I was merely investigating what I perceived as an encroachment upon my territory. Much as you are doing now. So I believe that puts us at an impasse.”

“Wrong. You didn’t just wander around in my home, you trespassed in our brains.”

Erik’s face seemed to change beneath the mask. The Doctor interpreted it as a smirk. “Your brains were closed off. You were in need of a bit of a probe.”

Martha spoke again. “Excuse me? What does that mean?”

He turned toward Martha to address her. “I’m sorry, young lady. I found evidence of the Doctor’s name throughout this TARDIS,” he said, seeming to sample the word TARDIS to examine whether he approved of the taste. “But I found only this room to indicate your presence. I do not know your name. Would you tell it to me?”

“It’s Martha,” she said.

“Martha,” Erik said, bowing slightly. “It’s lovely to see you. You are indeed a beautiful woman. Where do you hail from?”

“Er, can we just keep our eyes on the ball?” the Doctor asked. “I believe she asked you what you meant when you said our brains were closed off and we needed probing. Can’t just leave that one hanging there.”

Erik sighed. “I’ve been alive a long time, Doctor.”

“Really?” asked the Doctor sceptically.

“My entire existence, I have been unique. I’ve been special. I’ve been a monster, a master, a prodigy, a killer, even a ghost. But it’s a lonely lot. I can’t be close to anyone because they are not clever enough or fast enough or good enough, and they cannot be close to me because I am damaged and hideous. It is a paradox, and so I live alone.”

“I can appreciate that,” the Doctor said, looking sideways at Erik.

“Yes, I think you can,” Erik said. “I came across this room, Martha. I apologise for intruding, but take comfort in knowing that I did not enter. I simply looked, and surmised that a young woman sleeps and lives here. And then I saw your quarters, Doctor. I saw where you sleep, where you choose to spend your most private moments. I found that it was the bedroom of a man who devours knowledge and covers himself with information.”

The Doctor did not respond, he simply bore holes with his eyes into Erik’s mask.

A pregnant pause ensued, and Erik admitted, “I can relate. I have lived in very much the same way for most of my life. I could never be loved, I could never touch, and so I chose to make love to my studies and my music. I found that it was better than the trying and failing. When I realised the same of you, and that a young woman made her bed so near to you, I decided to use my gift to help you. The fewer people there are in the world who are like me, the better.”

“That’s not your decision,” the Doctor admonished harshly. “What you did was a violation. Everything that was ours, you made yours - our bodies, our minds. We are not puppets.”

Erik looked from one to the other. “Did you not enjoy yourselves? I’m told lovemaking is quite pleasurable.”

“That’s not the point,” the Doctor insisted.

“I might have been excessive,” admitted Erik. “But my voice, it’s the one and only beautiful thing I’ve ever had, and been able to hold onto, and I use it as a gift and a curse. The trying and the failing, Doctor. When you try and fail so many times, you grasp at what you have. You must know this, my friend, the lonely sage.”

“It’s not for the trying and the failing,” the Doctor said. “I am special as well, Erik. I don’t think you can understand how special. I too live a lonely existence, but you and I are different, I’m afraid.”

“I believe you. But I can see in your eyes that we have much in common as well. I see obsession and fresh scars. You travel in this vessel, I don’t know where, but to have so many belongings, such accommodation to travel with you, you must be rootless. I am the same. I came here, I got lost here, I chose not to find my way out again because I am escaping.”

“From yourself, from your own uniqueness. Can’t be done, not even by me... and believe me, I’ve come close.”

A heavy sigh came from Erik then. “I am escaping from loss, Doctor. I am running from something that was taken from me. I loved her...” He fell gently against the wall behind him, and rested his head. “She was beautiful, brilliant, a voice like none other, and a sweetness like... oh, she was sweet. She was compassionate - she could have learned to love me, and we could have been together forever. She said she would stay, and then fate intervened and forced me to give her up. The love of my life, and now she is gone.” He seemed to stare off into space.

“I’m sorry,” the Doctor told him.

Erik gulped down a sob, and his hand went to his heart, grasping as though it hurt. “I cannot get round it, past it or over it. It is on my mind incessantly, like a fresh wound. I keep thinking of her - what is she doing now? Is she being taken care of? Will she remember me? How would she feel if she knew I died? Questions like that drive me mad, and there is no way for me to know. She went away and she is never coming back... not ever, until I am gone. I shall never see her again, not in this world.”

Erik took several breaths in quick succession, and seemed to swoon a bit.

“Sit down,” Martha advised. “You’re hyperventilating.”

He sat, and the Doctor sat down next to him. He calmed a bit. “I’ve never told this story to anyone,” Erik said soberly. “A Persian friend of mine attempted to tell it to the press, but no one believed him. They called him a griot, a spinner of tales. Idiots, the lot of them.”

“How many people have you spoken to since then?” asked the Doctor.

“Only my friend, the Daroga,” he answered. “The Persian.”

“How many times have you left your chambers below the Opéra?”

“Not many - I have been unwell.”

The Doctor said to him, “Of course you have. Erik, this loss seems to be driving your life, your entire existence. You were strong and confident until two minutes ago, now you’re a collapsed husk, talking about her. Do you think that’s healthy?”

“No,” Erik replied. “But passion is passion. Loss is loss. It’s like a cancer. I don’t know if I’ll ever be whole again, Doctor.” He buried his head in his hands and heaved with a great pain.

“You will be. You just need to heal. Reach out, let something else in.”

With that, Erik inhaled noisily, grasped at the Doctor, and then fell suddenly backwards onto the bed.

“How is he?” asked the Doctor, sliding round the console.

Martha was relieved to see him back in his pinstripes, and even more relieved to be back fully clothed, in her own clothes. She walked slowly towards him and perched on the navigator’s chair. She was carrying a backpack, and she dropped it beside her. “He’ll be fine,” she answered. “I think it’s just been a bit too much excitement. He’s asleep.”

“Did you lock him in?” he asked her.

“Oh, yes,” she said tossing the sonic screwdriver back to him. “I told him to use the tannoy when he wakes, but I think he’ll be out for a while.”

“And the singing?”

“He’s promised not to use it for evil.”

“Good. How long do you think we should keep him?”

“Don’t know. A few days, maybe. I think he had a small stroke,” she said. “And based on the facial distortion, I’d say it’s not the first.”

“He let you see his face?”

“I didn’t give him a choice. He was lying there, lost the use of his right arm momentarily, so I took it off.”

“It’s because you’re you, do you see?” He smiled broadly.

“No, it’s because I’m pushy. He told me the last woman who did that was nearly killed. By him. Anyway, he’s probably had a mild form of neurofibromatosis all of his life, which is probably why he’s always worn the mask - there’s some swelling and tumour formation in the forehead and around the nose. His nose is almost sunken at this point - it’s very interesting. But when he speaks, the right side of his face doesn’t move at all, which has nothing to do with the deformity - more likely a series of strokes. Also, I’m pretty sure he’s an opium addict.”

“Yeah,” the Doctor said. “Absinthe and opium - all the great geniuses, of the era I’m afraid. Especially your friend VanGogh.”

“Maybe we’ll need to keep him for a bit longer to detox after he recovers from the strokes. Have you got any gurney straps?”

“Somewhere, yes. Did you remember to bring your own pyjamas?” he asked with a bit of a smile. He glanced pointedly at her backpack.

“Yes, and earplugs,” she told him. “You know, Doctor, there have got to be a million other bedrooms on this ship. I don’t need to stay in yours.”

“There used to be sixteen bedrooms, but now we’re down to two. I turned all the others into storage, or what have you. Besides,” he said. “My bedroom has been a haven of knowledge for long enough.”

He came around the console and stopped in front of her, leaning back against the lip of the controls, and crossing his arms. He looked at her earnestly for a few seconds, and then suddenly his face crinkled. “Blimey, is that what I sound like?” he asked her.

“You mean the hopelessness and pining?”

“Yeah,” he said, still crinkled.

She hesitated. “Sort of.”

“Ugh, how tedious is that?” he groaned, pulling his hand down his face.

She didn’t answer. Instead, she said, “The hearts want what they want, Doctor.”

“Indeed.”

SKY BLUE

They kept Erik locked in Martha’s room for a couple of days, kept him company when he wanted it, left him alone when he didn’t. He sang sometimes, but only as a release, a lamentation - he kept his promise not to use his voice as a hypnotic device.

The next few nights in the Doctor’s bed were better for both occupants, but only for the warmth and contact it afforded them. No passions were ignited again in those first few days, but Martha was delighted just to sleep in his arms, and the Doctor wasn’t exactly complaining about it either. During the day, they cared for their patient, and even had a quick adventure in the Crawlawn Galaxy, which was in danger of being taken over by a despotic ruler who wanted to mine the whole galaxy for energy particles to sell as fuel.

After seventy-two hours, Erik asked to be moved to a different room. He said he did not feel well enough to be on his own yet, but he wanted to be able to see out. The Doctor led him to the observatory, and apologised that the only bedding he could offer were a cluster of cushions on the floor. Erik was in awe - he could see out into space, observe planets, watch the swirling of explosive gases as they struggled to become one and whole. This is the phenomenon that fascinated him the most as he lay on his makeshift bed staring out into the universe.

Seven days passed, and when the Doctor arrived to bring Erik a sandwich, Erik asked him to sit.

“Doctor,” he said. “I’d like to go home now.”

“Are you sure?” the Doctor asked, extracting he stethoscope from his coat pocket. “It’s only been a week.”

“I’m sure,” Erik assured him. “I’m getting on in years, and I’ve come to realise over the past few days that I’m never going to feel myself again. Age is age, Doctor, and that is true with or without the heartbreak.”

Erik ate his lunch gingerly, as he had all of his life been obliged to take food through a hole in his mask. The two great minds were noisy and darting about the room like dragonflies, though the two voices were silent for the time being.

The Doctor spoke first. “You know, I lost someone recently as well,” he admitted. “Someone I loved - a woman.”

“I know,” Erik told him. “I could tell by the way you looked at me when you heard my story. I am accustomed to seeing pity in the eyes of those I meet - in you, I recognised an understanding.”

“I do understand. I know it hurts, probably sometimes more than you can take. But it doesn’t change the fact that life needs to carry on,” the Doctor insisted. “Your life needs to carry on without her. You have so much to offer the world, such creativity, such gifts, and what are you planning on doing with it? Burying it five stories beneath a giant stone building until one day you just die?”

“As long as I know she is still out there, I cannot leave - I cannot risk that she might come back and I won’t be there for her to find me. I cannot risk that I will venture out to buy flowers or to take a cup of tea on a terrace and that I will see her walk past. That would destroy whatever composure I have left, Doctor.”

“What if I said I could take you someplace where we could guarantee you will not see her anywhere in the world?”

“Where is that?” Erik asked, gesturing to the great window that loomed before them, exposing the cosmos. “Another planet?”

“No. Another time.”

“You’re mad.”

“No no,” the Doctor assured him. “Think of it. One hundred years into your future. Your old love is safely gone, having lived her life freely. You can receive medical care to regulate your strokes, and you can share your extraordinary gift with the world without fear of rejection as a result of your... er, unique problem.”

Erik stared at him with disbelief for quite a long time. Then he said, “Nineteen eighty-two. It sounds odd to say it.”

“It’s a pretty standard year, pretty good time in history for a guy like you. Although... really, avoid the fashion trends of the next decade or so. The World Wars are over, the Depression is over... granted, some really interesting stuff is still on the horizon in the Middle East, but we can’t have everything, can we? And best of all, Rock and Roll has paved the way for all manner of strange music - you’ll fit right in.”

Erik mused once more, “Paris, 1982. It’s probably unrecognisable!”

“Eh, not so much,” the Doctor shrugged. “Baron Haussmann saw to that. The great Boulevards are still there, great monuments still for the photographing, and a few others you haven’t seen yet. A big one is coming 1889 - wait ‘til you get a load of that one! The structures new in your time are treasured antiquities in the twentieth and twenty-first centuries. You’ll just find fewer opium dens and a lot more McDonald’s. You’ll see.”

“Yes, Doctor,” Erik exclaimed. “If you can do it, I will take your advice. Can you really do it?”

“I can!”

“Beautiful! I can’t wait to see what’s become my Opéra in 1982.”

“Er, Erik,” the Doctor said. “Your Opéra is fine, though in seven years’ time it will have a cross-town rival and will eventually become exclusively a ballet house. But... might I suggest that you settle someplace else? You know, not just let go of... what was her name?”

Erik sighed. “Christine.”

“Don’t just let go of Christine. Let go of the Opéra. Let go of the cellars beneath. Let go of all of that darkness, the reminders, the city that crushed you and literally drove you underground. For you, Paris was never the City of Light. So go find your own light.”

“All right then, Doctor,” Erik conceded. “You decide for me. You help me find my light.”

“It’s a deal,” the Doctor exclaimed, shaking his hand and smiling.

Another silence ensued while Erik strolled over to the observatory window and stood still, looking out. “Doctor, you called my singing, my hypnosis, a violation of mind and body. May I ask... what exactly happened when I sang to you and Martha for the first time?”

The Doctor gazed at him stoically. “You know what happened.”

“Yes, I do,” Erik said. “But the funny thing is, Doctor, not even my voice has ever had that kind of sway. Subliminal suggestion, sure - I was able to fool Christine into trusting me by singing to her in very much the same way (although for obvious reasons, I chose different lyrics). I was able to implant the suggestion, perhaps even the desire, that something carnal should happen between you and Martha. But the act itself? That was entirely your doing, and hers.”

The Doctor sighed. He leaned back on his hands. “Oh, on some level, I knew that. After you stopped singing, we just kept right on... well, we didn’t need your suggestion, let’s just put it that way.”

Erik turned and faced the Doctor once more. “And for a while now, you’ve been lamenting this lost love... what was her name?”

“Rose.”

“For too long, I’d say, you’ve been lamenting the loss of Rose, and letting it bring you into your own subterranean cellar,” Erik said. “Metaphorically speaking. The heartbroken part of me felt drawn to the heartbroken part of you, long before I knew your name or spoke to you. I was trying to help you... I’ll use your phrase... find your own light.”

The Doctor smiled at the cleverness of this man. A mere human. Of course, there was no such thing, he now believed.

“So, Doctor, I will settle my life in 1982 in whatever sunny locale you may choose. But you must grab your own bit of sunlight, and let her bring you out of the dark.

Tentatively, the Doctor said, “For you, it shall be the Mediterranean...”

“...and for you, it shall be Martha.”

Greece, 1982. A cliffside coloured brown and green by the mountain and trees, the Mediterranean coloured blue by the sky. Below, a thousand white stucco houses with terra-cotta roofs sat pristinely on the hillside. A church clock tower sounded the noon hour. Martha felt that this was, in fact, a fairly exotic locale, a good place for an adventure. But that’s not why they were here.

Erik stood, staring out at the sea. Of his own volition, he removed his mask and allowed the warm air to caress his face. He wept. The Doctor and Martha stood behind him, hand-in-hand, waiting. At last, he turned. “Thank you, Doctor.”

“You’re welcome,” the Doctor smiled.

“Go to Athens,” Martha said. “Any good hospital should be able to give you some drugs to regulate your blood pressure - should reduce the danger of heart attack and stroke. If you do what they tell you, you’ll live to eighty! And as for that neurofibromatosis...”

“The what?”

“Oh, sorry,” Martha said. “The swelling round your face. As for that, there won’t be effective treatments for about another ten years, but times are different now. I’m not saying people won’t stare, but they won’t run from you now. It will not stand in the way of your sharing your music with the world. There is mass media now, world-wide culture exists in this century, and it’s only going to get better. You will thrive here.”

“Yeah, just keep your head low for a bit, until you learn the ropes,” the Doctor advised. He gave Erik a wad of money appropriate for this time and place. “And get a proper flat - no more living underground, do you hear me?”

“I hear you, Doctor,” Erik said, glancing at Martha. “You either.”

The Doctor smirked, then put one arm tightly around Martha and held her to him. “I hear you as well.”

They said goodbye, and Erik stood and watched the TARDIS dissipate from the world for now.

For the first time, he stood atop a hill, bathed in sun. A new world lay waiting for him, its contours lit up and shadowed with midday. He felt naked now - he was uncovered by his mask. He headed down the hill, and basked in his newfound light.

One hour later, the Doctor was suspended in the dark above the Earth. A new world lay waiting for him, her contours defined beneath a tan bedsheet. He was naked now - though he soon shrouded himself in a dim careless light and the same tan bedsheet. He lost himself in her, and basked in his own newfound light.

END

fiction

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