Fic: A Good Ghost Story
A good ghost story (is always better with two), Rose/Nine, PG-13, 1827 words
He could feel the darkness encroaching once more, tendrils of nightmares hovering around the edges of his awareness, and felt a tremor of fear travel through his body.
Author’s Notes: Written for Challenge 86, rewatch of “The Unquiet Dead”. Despite all the bad things I’ve heard about the production for this episode, it still remains one of my favourites, and probably the best episode Mark Gatiss wrote for the show. And in my opinion, this is when the Doctor realizes that his affection for Rose has gone beyond the platonic. But of course he’d deny that.
This piece is unbeta’ed, so any grammatical or spelling mistakes are mine.
Prompt for the piece is image #10:
*
Rose scrubbed the make-up off her face and changed out of the lovely Victorian dress the TARDIS had given her, making sure to hang it up in the wardrobe while she puttered about, getting ready for a good lie-in. Much like the Doctor, his ship was forever surprising her -- a nudge in her mind (she was getting used to the golden glow in her imagination that she associated with the TARDIS, a comforting presence in her mind like her favourite childhood toy or her mother singing her to sleep) and she would turn corners and open doors that she never would’ve imagined she’d see.
For example, tonight, after the Doctor had safely entered the Vortex and had waved her off, telling her to explore while he tightened couplings and calibrated the navigation systems, she’d wandered the corridors until she came back to the wardrobe. At the further side of the circular room, she’d seen a door that she was certain wasn’t there earlier. After hanging up the dress and wrapping herself up in a fluffy blue dressing gown, she’d padded towards the door and carefully pushed it open.
A wide open vista of palm-green fronds and bright blue skies greeted Rose. Beneath her bare feet, the soft blades of grass caressed her soles. She bounced happily down the gentle slope, her eyes wide in amazement. The air smelled of summer sunlight and wind. Tugging the dressing gown tighter around her, she’d wandered down a narrow dirt path until she reached a small glade. The sound of water grew louder, like chattering voices sliding down liquid tongues. Just beyond the last bit of greenery, Rose peered above an overhanging branch and saw a small pool of crystal-clear water, surrounded by smooth grey stones, fed by a waterfall that gurgled and splashed against the surface of the pond, creating a small spray of foam. At her feet, perched on the flat surface of the nearest rock, was a familiar bottle of shampoo, conditioner, and body wash. Rose grinned in amusement. She could take a hint.
*
The Doctor lifted his head up from beneath the grating, relief coursing through him as the time rotor pulsed gently overhead, filling the console room with its familiar grating noise. He snapped the cover shut on the couplings, tightened the last screw on the thermo-stabilizers, and clambered up the metal grating with the sonic screwdriver in hand. His head still pulsed with the events of the day -- was it still day on the TARDIS? -- and the heaviness in his chest refused to go away. The Time War. The death of entire worlds, entire planets, entire civilizations. The burning of Arcadia. The loss of Gallifrey.
For a moment, he lost sight of the time rotor, the column moving up and down, simple as breathing, really. Everything turned to dust. Everyone died.
-- “Doctor!”
-- “They’re coming!”
-- “... it’s the Nightmare Child. We’re doomed.”
-- And Romana, all quicksilver and blood, her eyes already dimming as he held her in his arms. He knew they were going to regenerate her, the bastards in the Citadel. The bastards, all of them, making each and every Time Lord relive the horrors of the war. “Help me,” she begged with her last breath, before regeneration took her. “Help us.”
And then he was back. Around him, the TARDIS hummed and vibrated, reminding him of the clucking of a worried mother hen. He grasped the console with two hands, back bowed as he struggled to remain in the here and now. The smell of smoke and dead bodies still filled his nose, the screams of the dying echoing in his ears. He wasn’t well; he knew he wasn’t well. And yet here he was, still dashing around the universe, picking up where he left off before the summons from Gallifrey --
He thought of Rose, and knew that he’d put her in danger. Again. What was supposed to be a romp in her world’s history quickly turned into another lesson -- another life needlessly lost. He wanted to bang his head against the walls. Stupid, stupid, stupid. A Time Lord wasn’t supposed to make mistakes like these. He’d almost lost Rose to the Gelth. He’d certainly lost Mr. Sneed and Gwyneth to the bloody things. And all because of his stupid bleeding heart, the guilt weighing heavy on him like a mantle made of lost souls. Hades had nothing on him. Oh sure, he’d laughed and joked and smiled when they bid farewell to good old Charlie, but it was on his mind. The war was always on his mind. He hoped Rose didn’t notice anything amiss.
Where was Rose anyway? He probed the TARDIS in his mind, seeking the telepathic connection between him and his ship. The library.
“What’s she doing there?” he asked, surprised.
Reading, the TARDIS chuckled.
The Doctor wiped his hands on his trousers and set off for the library. Unlike his companions, he knew where every twist and turn of every corridor on his ship. He knew where every door led, if they could be opened. And so, he was surprised that Rose had actually managed to open the library door -- he knew it had been accessible before (Sarah Jane was often there, and Nyssa, and even Ace wandered through it occasionally, although she usually stayed in the Military History section) but after the war...
Well, he hadn’t been in many of the rooms in the TARDIS after the war.
Rose was curled up on one of the many chairs that were scattered at various intervals in the library. While he’d been to the Library of Alexandria at the height of its fame, and the Library (the planet, not the building), he still preferred to style his own after Earth Victorian -- all lampshades and dark wooden panels, Turkish rugs and high-backed chairs covered in velvet and silk. It smelled of polished mahogany and teak, of old books and the debris of history. His library was full of comfortable shadows and silence. And yet Rose being here, her bright blond hair a halo around her head as she contemplated a large book nestled on her lap, dissipated the shadows, lent warmth to an otherwise cold room.
She looked up when he entered, and her teak-dark eyes glowed in quiet pleasure. “I’m reading his work,” she said, gesturing to the open book. She smelled of jasmine and summer wind.
He slipped off his leather jacket and draped it over the back of a nearby chair. Nudging Rose over, he sat beside her on the lounge and leaned back, lifting his booted fit up and resting them on the corresponding stool. Eyes closed, he soaked up her nearness -- the heat of her (oh-so human) skin, the scent of her hair, the rhythmic beat of her single heart. He wanted to wrap himself up in her, to keep her with him forever -- now there’s a thought that’s surprising to him, wanting to keep a companion. Usually, they just swanned in and out of his life, in and out of the TARDIS, a means to an end. But Rose, Rose, Rose. She was different.
And different was good, wasn’t it?
“Which one are you readin’?” he asked, keeping his eyes closed, hands folded behind his head, stretched out beside her like a panther, lean and feline and dangerous.
“The one he was readin’ before we came along. A Christmas Carol.” He felt Rose move closer, feel the cushions dip and curve as she sat beside him, hip to hip, thigh to thigh. She was wearing cotton shorts and an oversized top, and the soft material brushed against his arm. He resisted the urge to sling his arm over her shoulders, to find out how soft she was beneath his fingers. Great, he thought, I’m lusting over a girl in my dotage.
“A ghost story, then?”
“Yeah. ‘S not particularly scary though. I feel sorry for Scrooge.”
“He’s a horrible man, Rose.”
“But he had reasons to be. He lost everything.”
“Y’think that’s enough of a reason to be mean to others?”
“We-ell...” She dragged out the last syllable as she thought about his question. “I don’t think you have to have a reason to be mean to people, but I understand why he was the way he was.” He heard a page turn before she continued. “I mean, ‘m glad that he realized his mistakes and that the ghosts taught him to move on an’... Doctor?”
He cracked open one eye and looked at her. Her eyes had gone soft, as though she was looking at him through candlelight. “Yes, Rose?”
“We’re not talkin’ about Scrooge anymore, are we?”
He shrugged, not daring to say a word.
“You’ve got your own ghosts, don’t you, Doctor?” Her voice was tentative, words walking on eggshells. He could smell the summer room on her -- the TARDIS must have shown her the open fields, the secluded pool, the waterfall -- and breathed in the scent of her body, fresh and clean and lovely. He could feel the darkness encroaching once more, tendrils of nightmares hovering around the edges of his awareness, and felt a tremor of fear travel through his body.
“The Gelth -- it’s only a part of this, this war. You said your people burned, yeah? That you’re the last one left? Like Scrooge. The last one left. The one who has to keep goin’ on. But you’re not Scrooge, Doctor. You’re the most unselfish person I know. Today, with the Gelth, before they became zombies and wanted to take over the world, you wanted to help them. You wanted to rescue them. And I know you wanted to rescue Gwyneth. You would’ve done anything to help her.”
“... but I didn’t.” His voice was barely above a whisper. He didn’t want to look at her; didn’t want her to see the shame in his eyes.
Rose pressed against him, the book now fallen to the floor, forgotten. He wanted to tell her that it was a first edition, bound before her birth, precious --
Ah, but wait.
She was more precious.
“Doctor,” she said, her body moulded against his side, her fingers instinctively seeking his. He’d lowered his arms to his side, and she grasped his hand, twining hers with his. “It’s all right. You don’t have to tell me everything. I’m just here.”
He turned to her, his blue eyes shattered sapphires. “I lost everyone, Rose. And it was my fault. All my fault.”
But Rose looked right back at him, her eyes full of compassion. “They’re your ghosts. Past, present, and future.”
“I don’t have a future.”
She squeezed his hand. “Yeah, you do. You’ve got me, Doctor. You’ve got me.”
The Doctor smiled at her, brilliant as a newborn star. “And it’s better with two?”
Rose matched him with her own wide grin, her tongue peeking cheekily between her teeth. “Always.”
He could feel the darkness encroaching once more, tendrils of nightmares hovering around the edges of his awareness, and felt a tremor of fear travel through his body.
Author’s Notes: Written for Challenge 86, rewatch of “The Unquiet Dead”. Despite all the bad things I’ve heard about the production for this episode, it still remains one of my favourites, and probably the best episode Mark Gatiss wrote for the show. And in my opinion, this is when the Doctor realizes that his affection for Rose has gone beyond the platonic. But of course he’d deny that.
This piece is unbeta’ed, so any grammatical or spelling mistakes are mine.
Prompt for the piece is image #10:
*
Rose scrubbed the make-up off her face and changed out of the lovely Victorian dress the TARDIS had given her, making sure to hang it up in the wardrobe while she puttered about, getting ready for a good lie-in. Much like the Doctor, his ship was forever surprising her -- a nudge in her mind (she was getting used to the golden glow in her imagination that she associated with the TARDIS, a comforting presence in her mind like her favourite childhood toy or her mother singing her to sleep) and she would turn corners and open doors that she never would’ve imagined she’d see.
For example, tonight, after the Doctor had safely entered the Vortex and had waved her off, telling her to explore while he tightened couplings and calibrated the navigation systems, she’d wandered the corridors until she came back to the wardrobe. At the further side of the circular room, she’d seen a door that she was certain wasn’t there earlier. After hanging up the dress and wrapping herself up in a fluffy blue dressing gown, she’d padded towards the door and carefully pushed it open.
A wide open vista of palm-green fronds and bright blue skies greeted Rose. Beneath her bare feet, the soft blades of grass caressed her soles. She bounced happily down the gentle slope, her eyes wide in amazement. The air smelled of summer sunlight and wind. Tugging the dressing gown tighter around her, she’d wandered down a narrow dirt path until she reached a small glade. The sound of water grew louder, like chattering voices sliding down liquid tongues. Just beyond the last bit of greenery, Rose peered above an overhanging branch and saw a small pool of crystal-clear water, surrounded by smooth grey stones, fed by a waterfall that gurgled and splashed against the surface of the pond, creating a small spray of foam. At her feet, perched on the flat surface of the nearest rock, was a familiar bottle of shampoo, conditioner, and body wash. Rose grinned in amusement. She could take a hint.
*
The Doctor lifted his head up from beneath the grating, relief coursing through him as the time rotor pulsed gently overhead, filling the console room with its familiar grating noise. He snapped the cover shut on the couplings, tightened the last screw on the thermo-stabilizers, and clambered up the metal grating with the sonic screwdriver in hand. His head still pulsed with the events of the day -- was it still day on the TARDIS? -- and the heaviness in his chest refused to go away. The Time War. The death of entire worlds, entire planets, entire civilizations. The burning of Arcadia. The loss of Gallifrey.
For a moment, he lost sight of the time rotor, the column moving up and down, simple as breathing, really. Everything turned to dust. Everyone died.
-- “Doctor!”
-- “They’re coming!”
-- “... it’s the Nightmare Child. We’re doomed.”
-- And Romana, all quicksilver and blood, her eyes already dimming as he held her in his arms. He knew they were going to regenerate her, the bastards in the Citadel. The bastards, all of them, making each and every Time Lord relive the horrors of the war. “Help me,” she begged with her last breath, before regeneration took her. “Help us.”
And then he was back. Around him, the TARDIS hummed and vibrated, reminding him of the clucking of a worried mother hen. He grasped the console with two hands, back bowed as he struggled to remain in the here and now. The smell of smoke and dead bodies still filled his nose, the screams of the dying echoing in his ears. He wasn’t well; he knew he wasn’t well. And yet here he was, still dashing around the universe, picking up where he left off before the summons from Gallifrey --
He thought of Rose, and knew that he’d put her in danger. Again. What was supposed to be a romp in her world’s history quickly turned into another lesson -- another life needlessly lost. He wanted to bang his head against the walls. Stupid, stupid, stupid. A Time Lord wasn’t supposed to make mistakes like these. He’d almost lost Rose to the Gelth. He’d certainly lost Mr. Sneed and Gwyneth to the bloody things. And all because of his stupid bleeding heart, the guilt weighing heavy on him like a mantle made of lost souls. Hades had nothing on him. Oh sure, he’d laughed and joked and smiled when they bid farewell to good old Charlie, but it was on his mind. The war was always on his mind. He hoped Rose didn’t notice anything amiss.
Where was Rose anyway? He probed the TARDIS in his mind, seeking the telepathic connection between him and his ship. The library.
“What’s she doing there?” he asked, surprised.
Reading, the TARDIS chuckled.
The Doctor wiped his hands on his trousers and set off for the library. Unlike his companions, he knew where every twist and turn of every corridor on his ship. He knew where every door led, if they could be opened. And so, he was surprised that Rose had actually managed to open the library door -- he knew it had been accessible before (Sarah Jane was often there, and Nyssa, and even Ace wandered through it occasionally, although she usually stayed in the Military History section) but after the war...
Well, he hadn’t been in many of the rooms in the TARDIS after the war.
Rose was curled up on one of the many chairs that were scattered at various intervals in the library. While he’d been to the Library of Alexandria at the height of its fame, and the Library (the planet, not the building), he still preferred to style his own after Earth Victorian -- all lampshades and dark wooden panels, Turkish rugs and high-backed chairs covered in velvet and silk. It smelled of polished mahogany and teak, of old books and the debris of history. His library was full of comfortable shadows and silence. And yet Rose being here, her bright blond hair a halo around her head as she contemplated a large book nestled on her lap, dissipated the shadows, lent warmth to an otherwise cold room.
She looked up when he entered, and her teak-dark eyes glowed in quiet pleasure. “I’m reading his work,” she said, gesturing to the open book. She smelled of jasmine and summer wind.
He slipped off his leather jacket and draped it over the back of a nearby chair. Nudging Rose over, he sat beside her on the lounge and leaned back, lifting his booted fit up and resting them on the corresponding stool. Eyes closed, he soaked up her nearness -- the heat of her (oh-so human) skin, the scent of her hair, the rhythmic beat of her single heart. He wanted to wrap himself up in her, to keep her with him forever -- now there’s a thought that’s surprising to him, wanting to keep a companion. Usually, they just swanned in and out of his life, in and out of the TARDIS, a means to an end. But Rose, Rose, Rose. She was different.
And different was good, wasn’t it?
“Which one are you readin’?” he asked, keeping his eyes closed, hands folded behind his head, stretched out beside her like a panther, lean and feline and dangerous.
“The one he was readin’ before we came along. A Christmas Carol.” He felt Rose move closer, feel the cushions dip and curve as she sat beside him, hip to hip, thigh to thigh. She was wearing cotton shorts and an oversized top, and the soft material brushed against his arm. He resisted the urge to sling his arm over her shoulders, to find out how soft she was beneath his fingers. Great, he thought, I’m lusting over a girl in my dotage.
“A ghost story, then?”
“Yeah. ‘S not particularly scary though. I feel sorry for Scrooge.”
“He’s a horrible man, Rose.”
“But he had reasons to be. He lost everything.”
“Y’think that’s enough of a reason to be mean to others?”
“We-ell...” She dragged out the last syllable as she thought about his question. “I don’t think you have to have a reason to be mean to people, but I understand why he was the way he was.” He heard a page turn before she continued. “I mean, ‘m glad that he realized his mistakes and that the ghosts taught him to move on an’... Doctor?”
He cracked open one eye and looked at her. Her eyes had gone soft, as though she was looking at him through candlelight. “Yes, Rose?”
“We’re not talkin’ about Scrooge anymore, are we?”
He shrugged, not daring to say a word.
“You’ve got your own ghosts, don’t you, Doctor?” Her voice was tentative, words walking on eggshells. He could smell the summer room on her -- the TARDIS must have shown her the open fields, the secluded pool, the waterfall -- and breathed in the scent of her body, fresh and clean and lovely. He could feel the darkness encroaching once more, tendrils of nightmares hovering around the edges of his awareness, and felt a tremor of fear travel through his body.
“The Gelth -- it’s only a part of this, this war. You said your people burned, yeah? That you’re the last one left? Like Scrooge. The last one left. The one who has to keep goin’ on. But you’re not Scrooge, Doctor. You’re the most unselfish person I know. Today, with the Gelth, before they became zombies and wanted to take over the world, you wanted to help them. You wanted to rescue them. And I know you wanted to rescue Gwyneth. You would’ve done anything to help her.”
“... but I didn’t.” His voice was barely above a whisper. He didn’t want to look at her; didn’t want her to see the shame in his eyes.
Rose pressed against him, the book now fallen to the floor, forgotten. He wanted to tell her that it was a first edition, bound before her birth, precious --
Ah, but wait.
She was more precious.
“Doctor,” she said, her body moulded against his side, her fingers instinctively seeking his. He’d lowered his arms to his side, and she grasped his hand, twining hers with his. “It’s all right. You don’t have to tell me everything. I’m just here.”
He turned to her, his blue eyes shattered sapphires. “I lost everyone, Rose. And it was my fault. All my fault.”
But Rose looked right back at him, her eyes full of compassion. “They’re your ghosts. Past, present, and future.”
“I don’t have a future.”
She squeezed his hand. “Yeah, you do. You’ve got me, Doctor. You’ve got me.”
The Doctor smiled at her, brilliant as a newborn star. “And it’s better with two?”
Rose matched him with her own wide grin, her tongue peeking cheekily between her teeth. “Always.”