realmofthemuse; 1.83.1.C - To Byron
The poem is here, though this fic has really very little to do with it, other than featuring Byron.
Interludes and Meetings
They had landed in nineteenth century Greece which, for some reason, the Doctor had thought was a very bad idea. He hadn't said anything, because Rose was still New and he still wanted to Impress her so that she'd stay a bit longer, and after the debacle in Cardiff, well. They could use some sunny skies and warm weather.
“It's raining, Doctor.”
“Thanks, Rose. I can see that.” He looked at the sky and muttered. “Fantastic.” Not only was the weather bad, but Rose seemed to become an idiot in precipitation.
“Well,” she nudged him with her elbow. “Haven't you got an umbrella?”
Oh. Less of an idiot, then. Apparently the only idiot was him, another thought that added to his distinctly unsettled feeling. “Himself,” he corrected, and then wandered off to find his old umbrella, leaving a very confused Rose Tyler in his wake.
--
Greece hadn't been his idea, and the nineteenth century hadn't been Rose's. Funny thing was, it hadn't been his, either, and he was starting to think the TARDIS was telling him something when a familiar face wandered out of a shop and into the street.
He suddenly knew why nineteenth century Greece was a bad idea.
“Doctor?”
The Doctor poked his head out of the bush he had leapt into, “Rose?”
Rose bit her lip and crossed her arms over her chest. “Friend of yours?”
“Who, that?” He stood and dusted off some bush-debris and shook his head. “No, not really. Just another me. Wouldn't call us friends.”
--
They followed his past self - the soft spoken one... that didn't wear cricket whites - to a café. The Doctor's face went pale. “Oh, fantastic. Rose, we need to leave.”
Once again, Rose bit her lip and crossed her arms over her chest. He was starting to think that all of this lip biting and arm crossing was really Rose trying to tell him something, when one familiar face was joined by another.
“Who is that?”
“Bloody hell.”
“That another you? He's a bit handsome.”
“Oi! I'm a bit handsome! And, no, that's not me. That's George Gordon.”
Rose shrugged.
“Lord Byron?”
Rose shrugged again.
“'She walks in beauty...?'”
“Oh!” Rose's cheeks flushed quickly enough that he had a feeling someone had used that particular poem for a bit of seduction. It was always that poem. “I didn't expect him to be so... so...”
“A bit handsome?” He wondered if it was Mickey. No, not his style. Must've been that Jimmy Stone bloke, then. Figured.
“Well, yeaaah.” She grinned widely and the Doctor got the sudden feeling that there was a canary about to be gotten by a cat. “Can you introduce me?”
--
They'd waited until his former self had left, Rose interrogating him the entire time.
“So how'd you meet him?”
“Oh,” the Doctor waved a hand. “Usual. Aliens. Bystanders. British poets.”
Rose frowned. “All right... and you came back to visit him again?”
He nodded. “Once or twice.”
“And you're friends.”
Another hand wave. “After a fashion.”
“Oh yeah?” Rose lifted her eyebrows. “What sort of fashion?”
The Doctor lifted his eyebrows to match Rose's, then crossed his arms over his chest and scowled. “Oh, look, I'm gone. Why don't you go say hello?”
--
In the end, the chance to meet Lord Byron was enough to get Rose to forget her line of questioning and wander off. The Doctor took that time to walk up and down the streets, brooding, and wondering why he thought it was a good idea not to go with her. It's not as though anyone was paying attention to the timelines anymore, anyway.
Rose found him again, breathless and flushed. “That was brilliant!”
“I bet it was.” The Doctor stood and brushed some more bush debris - he'd been hiding in one nearby the café - off his coat and grinned. “Right, well. Met a famous poet, had a cup of Greek coffee, all in a day's work. Where to now?”
“Home!”
The Doctor's face fell. “Oh.”
“No, not for that.” She nudged him lightly in the ribs. “Wouldn't leave if you paid me. Just need to grab some proper clothes. Something a bit more,” she waved her hands over her torso and the Doctor couldn't decide if he was a bit chuffed that she'd picked up the gesture from him, or a bit distracted by the fact that her torso was more interesting than his. “For next time I meet a famous poet.”
She winked.
The Doctor sighed. “Fantastic.”
Word Count: 748