Fic Revival Week: A Time Apart
--and the blinky red light means ‘recording’ if I recall correctly, and since I almost certainly do, odds are good you’re watching this.
Excellent. Brilliant. Wonderbar.
Now, Rose, before I change there are a few things - important things - you’ll need to remember while I’m gone. No, sorry, not gone. I’m not going anywhere; you just won’t be able to see me for a while. But we both know, don’t we, Rose, that just because you can’t see something doesn’t mean it isn’t there.
And, really, it’s only three months. What’s three months in the grand scheme of things? I’ll be back before you even have a chance to miss me.
Not that I’ll be gone, of course.
Right, clock’s ticking, no time to lose, so let’s start with
one:
Mud. Great, slurping globs of it. Crusted on the hem of her dress, on her stockings, under her fingernails. Thick, stubborn stuff that clung to her boots no matter how she picked and pried at it, and despite the cold stone of the front stoop and the biting autumn air she felt a bead of sweat escape her hairline and slip beneath her collar.
“Stupid mud,” Rose muttered, attacking the sole of her boot with a sharp-ended stick. The stick snapped, and she threw it to the ground. “Stupid stick.” She picked up another and returned to her task. A few more strands of hair slipped their pins and fell into her eyes; she wrinkled her nose. “Stupid bloody century.”
Absorbed in the sad state of her boots, Rose didn’t notice the tall man with his nose in a book until he was all but on top of her, his silhouette dark against the meagre sunlight.
She yelped, startled. “Oi, watch it!”
The man jumped and dropped his book, which met a muddy fate in a nearby puddle. “Oh! Pardon me, I didn’t, I wasn’t-” He stopped, frowning. “Rose?”
She couldn’t help the downward twitch of her lips as he said her name. Some things, she thought, you never get used to. “My fault, Mr. Smith, I shouldn’t be sitting here. I’m in your way.” She moved to stand, but he stopped her with a vague, quelling wave.
“No, no. Though, yes, I suppose you are, but no harm done.” He followed her gaze down to the ruined book at his feet and grimaced. “Ah. So much for tomorrow’s lesson on the Battle of Berezina.” He ventured a smile, but he wore it stiffly. “I’m sure the boys will thank you.”
Rose fixed her eyes on a yellow leaf that clung to his left shoe. It was easier, sometimes, if she couldn’t see his face. “I might be able to clean it, sir, if you like.”
He bent down and, pinching the spine between his thumb and forefinger, pulled the dripping book from the puddle. A blob of mud fell from between the pages and landed on the toe of her boot with a splat.
She sighed. “Or maybe not.”
She risked a glance at his familiar (stolen) face and caught him watching her, his expression unusually intent. He tugged at the wool scarf around his neck. “It has been quite wet recently, hasn’t it?” After a moment’s silence he added: “The weather.”
“Yes,” she said, shifting on the hard step beneath her. “It has.”
There was another silence. His gaze drifted from her face to the door behind her, to the school and its stones and staircases and mile after mile of hard wooden floors that needed scrubbing. She wished he would leave.
Smith cleared his throat. “You’ve been out walking?”
No, Rose thought, a little viciously, I’ve been indulging in some early twentieth century lesbian mud-wrestling. Wanna come watch? Two months spent biting her tongue for propriety’s sake had left her with an impressive backlog of snide, raunchy comments and a very swollen tongue.
“Yes, sir,” she said. When after a moment it seemed they were about to slip into yet another painful silence, she added, “You too?”
“Yes,” he said, “and catching up on my reading.” He held up his water-logged book and showered his coat and trouser legs with droplets of mud. “Though perhaps I should have known better than to indulge both pleasures at once.”
Rose nodded absently and made a mental note to scrub the mud from his trousers before going to bed that night; if she didn’t, the laundry would never get the clay stains out. “Maybe, sir.”
“You know,” he said, “there’s a boot scraper at the entrance to the main hall.” There was a generous condescension in his voice that reminded her of a woman she’d worked for at Henrik’s, who’d called her ‘Rosie’ and had always been careful to use short, simple words when giving her instructions. When she didn’t immediately reply, Smith added: “To help you clean off the mud.”
“I know what a boot scraper’s for.” Rose bit the inside of her cheek. “Sir.”
“Oh,” said the man with the Doctor’s face, looking lost. “Of course you do.”
Rose looked into his eyes and thought, I don’t like you. I don’t want to like you. One more month and he’ll be back and you’ll be gone and I don’t have to like you if I don’t want to. But his expression, so briefly open and intent, was folding in on itself again, his mouth tightening at the corners, and she remembered that none of this, not one bit, was actually his fault.
She exhaled, her breath freezing in the early evening air, and rested her chin in the palm of her hand. “I’m not ‘permitted’ to use that entrance,” she said, and gave him a weary half-smile. “None of the domestic staff are.”
His face went a bit red. “Yes, right,” he stammered, “of course you aren’t. I mean, I should have remembered…” He shifted uneasily, one mud-caked foot to the other, his eyes on the ground. “I…I could always steal it for you.”
Rose laughed in surprise, the delighted sound echoing off the stone walls around them. “You’d steal me a boot scraper?”
He grinned sheepishly. “Well, no. I’d get caught, you see, and then I’d lose my position at the school-”
“And with you gone, I’d get the sack before you could say ‘uppity maidservant’-”
“And then we’d both be out in the street, and your boots would be muddy again before the day was through.” He shrugged, looking almost boyish. “So the whole thing would be rather futile, really.”
Rose felt her tongue slip between her teeth as she grinned up at him. “Your criminal career is over before it even begins.”
Smith chuckled. “Probably for the best. I somehow doubt I’ve the constitution for a life on the run.”
Her grin died, and he looked on in confusion as she rose abruptly to her feet and stepped aside for him, her eyes fixed on her boots. “I’m sorry, sir. I won’t keep you any longer.”
“Yes, of course. That’s…” He cleared his throat and nodded. His hand touched the brim of his hat. “Good evening, Rose.”
“Good evening, Mr. Smith.”
She waited as he walked up the stone steps, opened the door, and closed it behind him. She stood silently in the light drizzle, listening to the squelch of muddy shoes on a newly scrubbed floor.
Her hand rose unconsciously to her chest, to the warm circle of metal hidden in a pocket over her heart. It was, she knew, a foolish place to keep something so precious; she would do better to leave it in the TARDIS, or to hide it among Smith’s belongings. It was not the sort of thing a maid would own, and if it were found…
Well. She just wouldn’t let anyone find it, then.
The fob watch pulsed under her fingers, a swell of warmth that could have just as easily been a product of her imagination as anything else. She swallowed hard, and her hand fell to her side.
“Right,” she said with a firm nod. “One more month of 1913. Piece of cake.”
Then she stepped out of her boots, tore off her stockings, and strode barefoot through the school to the servants’ quarters, scandalising the Matron, two of her fellow chambermaids, and a good portion of the kitchen staff on the way.
++
Excellent. Brilliant. Wonderbar.
Now, Rose, before I change there are a few things - important things - you’ll need to remember while I’m gone. No, sorry, not gone. I’m not going anywhere; you just won’t be able to see me for a while. But we both know, don’t we, Rose, that just because you can’t see something doesn’t mean it isn’t there.
And, really, it’s only three months. What’s three months in the grand scheme of things? I’ll be back before you even have a chance to miss me.
Not that I’ll be gone, of course.
Right, clock’s ticking, no time to lose, so let’s start with
one:
Mud. Great, slurping globs of it. Crusted on the hem of her dress, on her stockings, under her fingernails. Thick, stubborn stuff that clung to her boots no matter how she picked and pried at it, and despite the cold stone of the front stoop and the biting autumn air she felt a bead of sweat escape her hairline and slip beneath her collar.
“Stupid mud,” Rose muttered, attacking the sole of her boot with a sharp-ended stick. The stick snapped, and she threw it to the ground. “Stupid stick.” She picked up another and returned to her task. A few more strands of hair slipped their pins and fell into her eyes; she wrinkled her nose. “Stupid bloody century.”
Absorbed in the sad state of her boots, Rose didn’t notice the tall man with his nose in a book until he was all but on top of her, his silhouette dark against the meagre sunlight.
She yelped, startled. “Oi, watch it!”
The man jumped and dropped his book, which met a muddy fate in a nearby puddle. “Oh! Pardon me, I didn’t, I wasn’t-” He stopped, frowning. “Rose?”
She couldn’t help the downward twitch of her lips as he said her name. Some things, she thought, you never get used to. “My fault, Mr. Smith, I shouldn’t be sitting here. I’m in your way.” She moved to stand, but he stopped her with a vague, quelling wave.
“No, no. Though, yes, I suppose you are, but no harm done.” He followed her gaze down to the ruined book at his feet and grimaced. “Ah. So much for tomorrow’s lesson on the Battle of Berezina.” He ventured a smile, but he wore it stiffly. “I’m sure the boys will thank you.”
Rose fixed her eyes on a yellow leaf that clung to his left shoe. It was easier, sometimes, if she couldn’t see his face. “I might be able to clean it, sir, if you like.”
He bent down and, pinching the spine between his thumb and forefinger, pulled the dripping book from the puddle. A blob of mud fell from between the pages and landed on the toe of her boot with a splat.
She sighed. “Or maybe not.”
She risked a glance at his familiar (stolen) face and caught him watching her, his expression unusually intent. He tugged at the wool scarf around his neck. “It has been quite wet recently, hasn’t it?” After a moment’s silence he added: “The weather.”
“Yes,” she said, shifting on the hard step beneath her. “It has.”
There was another silence. His gaze drifted from her face to the door behind her, to the school and its stones and staircases and mile after mile of hard wooden floors that needed scrubbing. She wished he would leave.
Smith cleared his throat. “You’ve been out walking?”
No, Rose thought, a little viciously, I’ve been indulging in some early twentieth century lesbian mud-wrestling. Wanna come watch? Two months spent biting her tongue for propriety’s sake had left her with an impressive backlog of snide, raunchy comments and a very swollen tongue.
“Yes, sir,” she said. When after a moment it seemed they were about to slip into yet another painful silence, she added, “You too?”
“Yes,” he said, “and catching up on my reading.” He held up his water-logged book and showered his coat and trouser legs with droplets of mud. “Though perhaps I should have known better than to indulge both pleasures at once.”
Rose nodded absently and made a mental note to scrub the mud from his trousers before going to bed that night; if she didn’t, the laundry would never get the clay stains out. “Maybe, sir.”
“You know,” he said, “there’s a boot scraper at the entrance to the main hall.” There was a generous condescension in his voice that reminded her of a woman she’d worked for at Henrik’s, who’d called her ‘Rosie’ and had always been careful to use short, simple words when giving her instructions. When she didn’t immediately reply, Smith added: “To help you clean off the mud.”
“I know what a boot scraper’s for.” Rose bit the inside of her cheek. “Sir.”
“Oh,” said the man with the Doctor’s face, looking lost. “Of course you do.”
Rose looked into his eyes and thought, I don’t like you. I don’t want to like you. One more month and he’ll be back and you’ll be gone and I don’t have to like you if I don’t want to. But his expression, so briefly open and intent, was folding in on itself again, his mouth tightening at the corners, and she remembered that none of this, not one bit, was actually his fault.
She exhaled, her breath freezing in the early evening air, and rested her chin in the palm of her hand. “I’m not ‘permitted’ to use that entrance,” she said, and gave him a weary half-smile. “None of the domestic staff are.”
His face went a bit red. “Yes, right,” he stammered, “of course you aren’t. I mean, I should have remembered…” He shifted uneasily, one mud-caked foot to the other, his eyes on the ground. “I…I could always steal it for you.”
Rose laughed in surprise, the delighted sound echoing off the stone walls around them. “You’d steal me a boot scraper?”
He grinned sheepishly. “Well, no. I’d get caught, you see, and then I’d lose my position at the school-”
“And with you gone, I’d get the sack before you could say ‘uppity maidservant’-”
“And then we’d both be out in the street, and your boots would be muddy again before the day was through.” He shrugged, looking almost boyish. “So the whole thing would be rather futile, really.”
Rose felt her tongue slip between her teeth as she grinned up at him. “Your criminal career is over before it even begins.”
Smith chuckled. “Probably for the best. I somehow doubt I’ve the constitution for a life on the run.”
Her grin died, and he looked on in confusion as she rose abruptly to her feet and stepped aside for him, her eyes fixed on her boots. “I’m sorry, sir. I won’t keep you any longer.”
“Yes, of course. That’s…” He cleared his throat and nodded. His hand touched the brim of his hat. “Good evening, Rose.”
“Good evening, Mr. Smith.”
She waited as he walked up the stone steps, opened the door, and closed it behind him. She stood silently in the light drizzle, listening to the squelch of muddy shoes on a newly scrubbed floor.
Her hand rose unconsciously to her chest, to the warm circle of metal hidden in a pocket over her heart. It was, she knew, a foolish place to keep something so precious; she would do better to leave it in the TARDIS, or to hide it among Smith’s belongings. It was not the sort of thing a maid would own, and if it were found…
Well. She just wouldn’t let anyone find it, then.
The fob watch pulsed under her fingers, a swell of warmth that could have just as easily been a product of her imagination as anything else. She swallowed hard, and her hand fell to her side.
“Right,” she said with a firm nod. “One more month of 1913. Piece of cake.”
Then she stepped out of her boots, tore off her stockings, and strode barefoot through the school to the servants’ quarters, scandalising the Matron, two of her fellow chambermaids, and a good portion of the kitchen staff on the way.
++