Marie having long since left the room, Reinette sat alone at her dressing table, eyes upon her reflection in honest assesment. Since the Doctor's existance in her life had reached a much more contant state, she found herself spending considerably less time at court. And an even smaller amount of time devoted to the trappings that proved a requirement. Less powders, less paint. The Doctor, indeed, had taken quite the firm stance upon discovering them, with words about lead and poisoning and the ridiculous lengths humans seemed determined to take for the sake of beauty. Reinette had stood her ground, of course, pointing out that it was not merely beauty in play, but power, and posistion. The desire to remain in control of both, and the image needed to do so.
Still, in the end, in this Reinette did as she was bid. For after all the Doctor was now her doctor, and a physician in truth. And if there was a certain duality there, then could not she, as a patient, be patient in kind?
They verdict over her corsets was still undecided.
Still, the reflection she faced now, though aged, was certainly a much more natural one for the Doctor's presence in her life. Women that were her compatriots in time seemed that much older for the paint, pinched hairstyles, and costumes better suited half a lifetime ago.
Reinette, instead, had chosen to do as she indeed always had. To face each situation with as much grace, and control as possible. Her rose colored gown complimented her coloring, but did not try to suggest youth she no longer was in pocession of. Her hairstyle was simple, unconfined and coiled neatly at the nape of her neck. For the first few months she could admit the lack of cosmetics had left her exposed, perhaps even vunerable. She had, of course, spent a lifetime in costumes and makeups, filling role after role, both assigned and chosen by herself.
Yet without ever saying a word, the Doctor seemed to demand that Reinette be Reinette, and once that unfamiliar understanding was reached, Reinette approached the idea with great relish.
She could admit to herself that it was an often confusing place, the one in which her thoughts lived. Because for all that she would give anything to have the ability to send the Doctor away, to send him back to his home. His Tardis? At the same time she devoted herself to being precisely the person that might succeed in having him stay.
That idea alone was enough to send Reinette to her feet, and slipping through the door that connected her dressing room to the Doctor's. It was not often that she was unable to enter his presence unannounced, but it seemed that tonight she had. Reinette concluded his own thoughts must be just as loud this evening.
In the past months there had been an ever increasing popularity in the trend to attempt to match color to color, for lovers to annouce themselves with costume that matched one to the other. Yet Reinette had never given the trend any consideration at all. To begin with, as of late it all seemed so very young. But there was the adding understanding that there could be no planning what the Doctor would wear, how many times he would change. She truthfully found such whims endearing.
And yes, she loved him all the more for them.
Reinette was aware, that through the Doctor's memories the events that lead to them meeting as lovers in truth had seemed everything accidental. A lingering connection from the night before, conmversation so strong you could not help but be drawn to its origin. Both mouth, and mind. A compelling warmth from the fire, not so very different than the one that had first connected them.
In her own mind, Reinette's memories played much the same. But it could not be denied that the sensed an opportunity to regain what she had longed for much of her adult life, and subsequently acted on it. The line was so fine, so thinly drawn that in the countless times they had connected since, Reinette still remained unsure if her Doctor had ever sensed the truth of such things.
She continued to watch him quietly, wondering at the changes the last three years had brought. It was much more than physical, if only to her eyes. Even less than than what had stretched between when she first met him as an adult, and the Yew Ball.
No.
No, this was not what she wished for him. But lately Reinette was faced with a new worry, with new thoughts to fill her mind. Of not what would happen to her when the Doctor went away. But what would happen to the Doctor when she did.
Reinette rearranged the folds of her gown, and forced such ideas aside for the evening. She intended to enjoy herself, the Doctor as her side. She would see to it he did as well.
"Of course I am," she smiled, announcing her presence.
The Doctor turned, giving her a smile. She had aged in the last three years, oh, and in the last twenty since he'd first met her as an adult. She still could not have been more beautiful.
Human sentimentality, perhaps, given to him by his mother? No, most likely it was simply her. She had grown spectacularly, developed, matured. Emotionally and mentally, along with the natural physical change. Every time he brought up something he'd only mentioned once, or mentioned something of science that was 'new' to the era, she knew it. He was always reminded how well she would've done in the universe out there. Oh, how he longed to take her places, but couldn't.
He moved from the chair, pulling his hair back into the ponytail and securing it with a blue ribbon.
"Monsieur Marolon's footman left a note for you," he said, shrugging on his coat---it felt so like his Eighth incarnation every time he did so, it was almost ridiculous---"I think the good lord's still trying to court you through poetry and letters. Take you away from that no-name Doctor."
As if to further punctuate the Doctor's opinion of that, he took a step towards Reinette and took her hand. A simple gesture, perhaps, but intimate in the same way. And, while he had no claim to lay over her, he also had no real fear of losing her, especially not to a man who tired to rhyme m'homage with fromage.
Reinette's hand settled naturally within the Doctor's own. Here had been the one place they never danced. Oh they still sparred over words, and ideas, and yes, her corset, but their hands had never engaged in such things. One, slipped within the other, fitting. There was no struggle to see which hand fit where, which was in control. It was as simple thing as Reinette had ever known.
She could not help but smile at the blue cue within the Doctor's hair. No, it was good that she had never settled any real desire on planning what each would wear. She moved to brush the line of his coat, small lines forming at the corner of her mouth at his news. There was a visible wince at the suggestion of poetry.
In truth, she had grown up along side the likes of Voltaire, and while she apprecited a determined effort? Reinette could not also wish that more would recognize their own talents, and their lacking in some as well.
"Will you tell a certain no-name Doctor that we know," Reinette suggested lowly. "That if the other gentleman is so detrmined to take me away, that he must at first taken note to whom I belong?" She kissed the Doctor's cheek. "If the effort is as poor as the last, it is sure not to win the day."
"Oh, I don't know," the Doctor replied, a cheeky grin sliding along his lips, "I rather think that his BB AA CCC BB rhyme scheme worked quite well. 'And with this piece of cheese, I ask to be your man'. Classic, Reinette, simply classic."
No, he wasn't one of poetry himself, but at least he knew how the work was done. And the wince on Reinette's face was worth the pain of having to read the first few letters. The entire situation was fairly comical. But, then again, most of those who attempted to court either the Doctor or Reinette while it was quite obvious whom they belonged to, well, they ended up a subject of much late-night laughter.
Off of her kiss, the Doctor placed a gentle one to her lips. Such affection would be less presentable at the ball---though the Doctor would be damned if they weren't allowed to waltz---but here? In the intimacy of their home? He wouldn't have longed for anything less.
If Reinette was in pocession of feathers, they most certainly would have been ruffled. In any case her eyes narrowed slightly at his compliment. "If you find his efforts so admirable, then you may keep the product of them in your possesion. I know the author would be touched in how ardent your reaction was."
She was, of course, teasing. And soon after? She was, of course, very well kissed.
It was an art in which the Doctor did not have to be much, to find himself very successful. His familiar touched washed over Reinette, the finishing touch to her wardrobe for the evening. Only now could she say she was completely dressed.
Odd, it was always Rose whom the Doctor had said would become so domestic. And yet it was he, with a job and a home (with windows and carpets and doors) and a not-quite-a-wife, and only a small empty place where his TARDIS and travels used to fill.
If he considered it, the empty place was probably much larger than he thought it was. Fortuantly, life with Reinette, their domesticity, their adventures to other parts of this small world, they distracted from the emptiness, and it no longer seemed like it was large at all.
He cupped her cheek gently following their kiss, giving her a smile. It was pleasant, this, and probably would've been even more pleasant without that insensent beeping coming from Reinette's room. That could've been ignored, of course, in favor of his comfort with his companion.
Her fingers had strayed to the rest on the Doctor's arm, and she would have been content to remain there, in that place the pair of them had managed to stumble. It was the almost connection, an odd composistion of anticipation, remembrance, and the knowledge that all one need to is reach out. It was an all together pleasant place.
That is, until Reinette was distracted. There was a very odd sound coming from the direction of her dressing room, one that she might not even own her own descriptives for if she had not spent so much time traveling about the Doctor's mind.
"What," she flashed a smile at him briefly before untangling herself from their mutual embrace and striding towards her door. "Have you managed to build yourself this time, Doctor?"
That kind of trust, that knowledge that one could have so intimate and personal a connection without fear of retribution...it was something he had never shared with anyone before. It was almost too intimate, as he didn't understand much of it, but he wouldn't have given it up. Not for...
"Wasn't me this time," the Doctor admitted, "After Marie nearly had a heart attack over the walking orchid light? I'd rather not be the cause of your maid's deaths, the machinery's stayed in my room."
The beeping grew louder as they stpped over to her room. It was an almost familiar sound, like a radio transmitter mixed with a TARDIS warning beep. The familiarity was almost a bit overwhelming, and that familiar hole in his mind ached for a TARDIS that was too far away to even possibly reach.
"Yes. Well. You have managed to build some of the most intriguing things. But Marie, though she is a very sweet child, simply does not have the...."
Reinette abandoned a thought, in rare occurance, as she became further distracted by the sound. It seemed as if the volume was increasing, and at a rate that defied the simple explination of her merely walking into the room. Not speed, just volume, and it seemed to buzz in her ears. Touch her skin.
Lifting her skirts Reinette moved with obvious purpose through the room, setting aside cloaks, checking shelves. She turned, then turned again and was only then aware that the Doctor had followed her into her room.
The origin appeared to come from somewhere over her shoulder. Had he truly not created the source of this? Was it not another game for them to laugh over in the dark of the evening? The expression on the Doctor's face spoke to the negative.
But, there.
In two strides Reinette was at the small curio table that framed her window, opening its one, lone drawer. And inside ---
It was unlike anything she had ever seen. At the very least, with her own eyes. The reality that was not sparked, brightened by connections and the Doctor's memories.
He had built many things over the years, much of them with parts from the Clockwork men. But they were all angles, and gears. Machines. As different and unique as each may be, they still shared a similar look. All brothers, sisters to the other.
The sounds it made continued to vibrate through her body as Reinette held it between them, silenced by the riot of color that played across its surface. Changing, flashing, as if it was attempting to speak. Reinette could have lifted her skirts and ran, ran though the main gallery dowstairs, past the countless works of art that graced the walls. And still the colors that flashed by would not compare to this.
And the color. So unlike the clockwork men. They were cold, and their parts were cold, even if it was residual childhood emotion. The object in her hands was a rick mauve, seemingly angleless. Soft in her hands as if a bolt of silk, smooth and deep had hardened into a shell.
The Doctor looked over her shoulder, glancing in concern at the item. A communicator---it looked like some form of a communicator. The screen was smooth, with a displaying of bluish light that the Doctor immediately recognized as the Time Vortex. It was a piece of TARDIS equipment, smooth and almost organic. Nothing the Doctor had ever owned in his own machine, but...there was something naggingly familiar about it.
The color, that was something that set him off. Very little that wasn't in the sickbay infirmary back in the TARDIS was mauve, that color...it was quite distinctive.
He slipped his glasses from his pocket and onto his face. "Mauve," he explained, deliicately taking the object from Reinette's hand and turning it over, "Universal color for danger."
Swirling Gallifreyan handwriting looked up at him on the back, In Times of Extreme Danger. Never anything quite so simple, but that was the gist of it.
Reinette moved to stand close to the Doctor, her hand, unrestrained reaching out to trace the object's smooth lines. She found she did not mind the color, or its shape. Indeed, something about it appealed. If this was to Reinette herself, or residual memories of the Doctor's shared over the past years, it was difficult to say.
"For all that my rooms can be a dangerous place." Reinette's gaze slid up to the Doctor. "And yes, I know that you have considered them as such, on occasion."
A slight smirk slid across the Doctor's face at her words. Dangerous, well, maybe. If only for his in-bred fear of intimacy and natural Gallifreyan coldness. She melted that ice inside of him, though. How she did it, he'd really never know.
"I'm not sure," he said. His fingers traced the words, and he translated them for her, "Times of Extreme Danger. But...there isn't danger, not here. I'd know it."
The monitor seemed to shift with his words, and he raised an eyebrow in confusion, "I think it's...transmitting. Sending our words and images...elsewhere."
Still, in the end, in this Reinette did as she was bid. For after all the Doctor was now her doctor, and a physician in truth. And if there was a certain duality there, then could not she, as a patient, be patient in kind?
They verdict over her corsets was still undecided.
Still, the reflection she faced now, though aged, was certainly a much more natural one for the Doctor's presence in her life. Women that were her compatriots in time seemed that much older for the paint, pinched hairstyles, and costumes better suited half a lifetime ago.
Reinette, instead, had chosen to do as she indeed always had. To face each situation with as much grace, and control as possible. Her rose colored gown complimented her coloring, but did not try to suggest youth she no longer was in pocession of. Her hairstyle was simple, unconfined and coiled neatly at the nape of her neck. For the first few months she could admit the lack of cosmetics had left her exposed, perhaps even vunerable. She had, of course, spent a lifetime in costumes and makeups, filling role after role, both assigned and chosen by herself.
Yet without ever saying a word, the Doctor seemed to demand that Reinette be Reinette, and once that unfamiliar understanding was reached, Reinette approached the idea with great relish.
She could admit to herself that it was an often confusing place, the one in which her thoughts lived. Because for all that she would give anything to have the ability to send the Doctor away, to send him back to his home. His Tardis? At the same time she devoted herself to being precisely the person that might succeed in having him stay.
Reply
In the past months there had been an ever increasing popularity in the trend to attempt to match color to color, for lovers to annouce themselves with costume that matched one to the other. Yet Reinette had never given the trend any consideration at all. To begin with, as of late it all seemed so very young. But there was the adding understanding that there could be no planning what the Doctor would wear, how many times he would change. She truthfully found such whims endearing.
And yes, she loved him all the more for them.
Reinette was aware, that through the Doctor's memories the events that lead to them meeting as lovers in truth had seemed everything accidental. A lingering connection from the night before, conmversation so strong you could not help but be drawn to its origin. Both mouth, and mind. A compelling warmth from the fire, not so very different than the one that had first connected them.
In her own mind, Reinette's memories played much the same. But it could not be denied that the sensed an opportunity to regain what she had longed for much of her adult life, and subsequently acted on it. The line was so fine, so thinly drawn that in the countless times they had connected since, Reinette still remained unsure if her Doctor had ever sensed the truth of such things.
She continued to watch him quietly, wondering at the changes the last three years had brought. It was much more than physical, if only to her eyes. Even less than than what had stretched between when she first met him as an adult, and the Yew Ball.
No.
No, this was not what she wished for him. But lately Reinette was faced with a new worry, with new thoughts to fill her mind. Of not what would happen to her when the Doctor went away. But what would happen to the Doctor when she did.
Reinette rearranged the folds of her gown, and forced such ideas aside for the evening. She intended to enjoy herself, the Doctor as her side. She would see to it he did as well.
"Of course I am," she smiled, announcing her presence.
Reply
Human sentimentality, perhaps, given to him by his mother? No, most likely it was simply her. She had grown spectacularly, developed, matured. Emotionally and mentally, along with the natural physical change. Every time he brought up something he'd only mentioned once, or mentioned something of science that was 'new' to the era, she knew it. He was always reminded how well she would've done in the universe out there. Oh, how he longed to take her places, but couldn't.
He moved from the chair, pulling his hair back into the ponytail and securing it with a blue ribbon.
"Monsieur Marolon's footman left a note for you," he said, shrugging on his coat---it felt so like his Eighth incarnation every time he did so, it was almost ridiculous---"I think the good lord's still trying to court you through poetry and letters. Take you away from that no-name Doctor."
As if to further punctuate the Doctor's opinion of that, he took a step towards Reinette and took her hand. A simple gesture, perhaps, but intimate in the same way. And, while he had no claim to lay over her, he also had no real fear of losing her, especially not to a man who tired to rhyme m'homage with fromage.
Reply
She could not help but smile at the blue cue within the Doctor's hair. No, it was good that she had never settled any real desire on planning what each would wear. She moved to brush the line of his coat, small lines forming at the corner of her mouth at his news. There was a visible wince at the suggestion of poetry.
In truth, she had grown up along side the likes of Voltaire, and while she apprecited a determined effort? Reinette could not also wish that more would recognize their own talents, and their lacking in some as well.
"Will you tell a certain no-name Doctor that we know," Reinette suggested lowly. "That if the other gentleman is so detrmined to take me away, that he must at first taken note to whom I belong?" She kissed the Doctor's cheek. "If the effort is as poor as the last, it is sure not to win the day."
Reply
No, he wasn't one of poetry himself, but at least he knew how the work was done. And the wince on Reinette's face was worth the pain of having to read the first few letters. The entire situation was fairly comical. But, then again, most of those who attempted to court either the Doctor or Reinette while it was quite obvious whom they belonged to, well, they ended up a subject of much late-night laughter.
Off of her kiss, the Doctor placed a gentle one to her lips. Such affection would be less presentable at the ball---though the Doctor would be damned if they weren't allowed to waltz---but here? In the intimacy of their home? He wouldn't have longed for anything less.
Reply
She was, of course, teasing. And soon after? She was, of course, very well kissed.
It was an art in which the Doctor did not have to be much, to find himself very successful. His familiar touched washed over Reinette, the finishing touch to her wardrobe for the evening. Only now could she say she was completely dressed.
Reply
If he considered it, the empty place was probably much larger than he thought it was. Fortuantly, life with Reinette, their domesticity, their adventures to other parts of this small world, they distracted from the emptiness, and it no longer seemed like it was large at all.
He cupped her cheek gently following their kiss, giving her a smile. It was pleasant, this, and probably would've been even more pleasant without that insensent beeping coming from Reinette's room. That could've been ignored, of course, in favor of his comfort with his companion.
Reply
That is, until Reinette was distracted. There was a very odd sound coming from the direction of her dressing room, one that she might not even own her own descriptives for if she had not spent so much time traveling about the Doctor's mind.
"What," she flashed a smile at him briefly before untangling herself from their mutual embrace and striding towards her door. "Have you managed to build yourself this time, Doctor?"
Reply
"Wasn't me this time," the Doctor admitted, "After Marie nearly had a heart attack over the walking orchid light? I'd rather not be the cause of your maid's deaths, the machinery's stayed in my room."
The beeping grew louder as they stpped over to her room. It was an almost familiar sound, like a radio transmitter mixed with a TARDIS warning beep. The familiarity was almost a bit overwhelming, and that familiar hole in his mind ached for a TARDIS that was too far away to even possibly reach.
Reply
Reinette abandoned a thought, in rare occurance, as she became further distracted by the sound. It seemed as if the volume was increasing, and at a rate that defied the simple explination of her merely walking into the room. Not speed, just volume, and it seemed to buzz in her ears. Touch her skin.
Lifting her skirts Reinette moved with obvious purpose through the room, setting aside cloaks, checking shelves. She turned, then turned again and was only then aware that the Doctor had followed her into her room.
The origin appeared to come from somewhere over her shoulder. Had he truly not created the source of this? Was it not another game for them to laugh over in the dark of the evening? The expression on the Doctor's face spoke to the negative.
But, there.
In two strides Reinette was at the small curio table that framed her window, opening its one, lone drawer. And inside ---
It was unlike anything she had ever seen. At the very least, with her own eyes. The reality that was not sparked, brightened by connections and the Doctor's memories.
He had built many things over the years, much of them with parts from the Clockwork men. But they were all angles, and gears. Machines. As different and unique as each may be, they still shared a similar look. All brothers, sisters to the other.
The sounds it made continued to vibrate through her body as Reinette held it between them, silenced by the riot of color that played across its surface. Changing, flashing, as if it was attempting to speak. Reinette could have lifted her skirts and ran, ran though the main gallery dowstairs, past the countless works of art that graced the walls. And still the colors that flashed by would not compare to this.
And the color. So unlike the clockwork men. They were cold, and their parts were cold, even if it was residual childhood emotion. The object in her hands was a rick mauve, seemingly angleless. Soft in her hands as if a bolt of silk, smooth and deep had hardened into a shell.
"...Doctor?"
Reply
The color, that was something that set him off. Very little that wasn't in the sickbay infirmary back in the TARDIS was mauve, that color...it was quite distinctive.
He slipped his glasses from his pocket and onto his face. "Mauve," he explained, deliicately taking the object from Reinette's hand and turning it over, "Universal color for danger."
Swirling Gallifreyan handwriting looked up at him on the back, In Times of Extreme Danger. Never anything quite so simple, but that was the gist of it.
Reply
Reinette moved to stand close to the Doctor, her hand, unrestrained reaching out to trace the object's smooth lines. She found she did not mind the color, or its shape. Indeed, something about it appealed. If this was to Reinette herself, or residual memories of the Doctor's shared over the past years, it was difficult to say.
"For all that my rooms can be a dangerous place." Reinette's gaze slid up to the Doctor. "And yes, I know that you have considered them as such, on occasion."
"Why is it here?"
Reply
"I'm not sure," he said. His fingers traced the words, and he translated them for her, "Times of Extreme Danger. But...there isn't danger, not here. I'd know it."
The monitor seemed to shift with his words, and he raised an eyebrow in confusion, "I think it's...transmitting. Sending our words and images...elsewhere."
Reply
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