The Necklace
The Necklace, Ten/Rose, G
For a moment-one, fleeting, beautiful, terrifying moment-he thought he’d heard the lilt and murmur of home. The echoes of the only past forever lost to him; the language lost to time, coming from Rose Tyler’s lips. 1,630
“Orange skies,” she says brightly, smiling at him.
“You want a sunset?” He clicks his tongue at her, winking with a cheeky grin. “I can give you the greatest sunset in the whole universe! That would be…well, probably Sunset. The planet. Named after-”
“Its fantastic sunsets?” she guesses, laughing. “Too easy, then. Orange skies and something else.”
It’s like a game for them: Rose lists off impossibilities, and for her, the Doctor brings them to life with a twirl of a dial and a press of a button. He throws the doors of the TARDIS open to reveal worlds made entirely of water, suns dying and being born, Marilyn Monroe’s birthday oration to President Kennedy. With a snap of his fingers he brings her dreams to life for her to walk out, blinking, into the sun.
“Name it,” the Doctor says. “Fish that fly, civilizations made of pure thought, a library that takes up a whole world! The universe is at your fingertips, Rose Tyler. Dogs with no noses, we never did do that-history if you’d prefer: Caesar, Shakespeare, Napoleon!”
“Trees with silver leaves,” she pronounces.
The Doctor stills. “Trees with silver leaves and an orange sky?”
She nods, arching an eyebrow. “Well, go on, this thing isn’t going to fly itself-mind, the landings would probably be better if it did.”
She grins at him with her tongue caught between her teeth, eyes dancing, but he ignores her completely. “Why silver trees?”
“I don’t know.” She shrugs. “I think I had a dream like that once. It’s nothing-if you don’t want to go, we can do something else. What were you saying about civilizations of pure thought, was it? How’s that work, then?”
His fingers fumble across the controls, and they end up in Wales of all places, in the eighties, because he’s so distracted.
Silver trees under a burnt orange sky, and the second sun rising in the south would bring them to life in a roar of flame…there were dozens of reasons she would have mentioned that particular combination, and after ‘random chance,’ he likes the list less and less. Projecting consciences, the effects of the TARDIS, the repercussions of a mere human taking the whole of the Time Vortex into herself-the possibilities are endless.
His smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes when she grabs his hand and drags them towards their next adventure.
It’s a small room (cozy, Rose insists), one that he had never really paid much attention to (absolutely perfect, she pronounces). The chairs and couch are beat-up and overstuffed (sink-into-heaven perfect, she sighs as she falls into one, a look of pure bliss on her face), there’s a much better fireplace in the living room three halls down to the right (it’s too big; this one is just right and she rolls her eyes when he calls her Goldilocks), the bookcases are full of the young adult fiction of the universe (not intergalactic classics, sure, but a good way to pass the time), the TV must be from the fifties (she runs out of steam here and bleats, Perfect chairs!). There’s only one light, and it flickers (but there’s a gramophone!). From the console room, it’s up the stairs, left down the corridor, through the library and around the pool, through the third door on the right, up the second flight of stairs and down the slide, around the corner, and through the door at the very end of the hall (there’s a slide!).
Rose is sprawled across the couch and the Doctor’s in an armchair when the credits roll. He leaps up enthusiastically to slip in the next DVD, or perhaps to line up their well-worn vinyl of Midnight Serenade on the gramophone. He tosses the question over his shoulder at Rose as he scans the stack of movies they’d brought here to watch, and when she doesn’t respond, he glances over at her. “Rose?”
She’s fast asleep, lips parted and hair falling in her face. With a fond smile, he brushes a lock out of her face, and she murmurs something incomprehensible. He gently drapes a blanket over her when she says something again, voice coated with sleep, and he freezes, staring at her.
For a moment-one, fleeting, beautiful, terrifying moment-he thought he’d heard the lilt and murmur of home. The echoes of the only past forever lost to him; the language lost to time, coming from Rose Tyler’s lips.
He sits next to her, straining to hear even the faintest whisper, but she never makes another sound, and he convinces himself that he had imagined it.
“How can you have lit it on fire?” Rose asks, staring at the slightly charred console. “It’s like…metal and things!”
“Oh, so this is my fault?” the Doctor whines back. “You were the one who was all…” He waves a general hand in her direction, making a face.
“What, I lit a match and tossed it in? I’m not the one who…” She mimics his gesture at the TARDIS, and then at him, looking completely perplexed. “What did you do?”
The Doctor stares at the controls, eyebrows knitted together, and then cocks his head to the side like that will help. “I have no idea.”
Rose starts laughing, unable to be serious any longer, and he joins in, because her laughter is beautiful and contagious. “Your eyebrows are singed,” she giggles, reaching up to brush her fingers over his cheek, wiping away the ash. “And your suit’s looking a little worse for wear.”
“It was like a fireball!” he gasps, smiling widely as he looks at her in disbelief. “Where did it come from?”
“I don’t know-cross my hearts,” she says, before catching herself and laughing. “Heart, not hearts. I’ve been spending too much time with you, I think-is it hot in here? It’s hot in here.” Her eyes light up and she pronounces that now would be the perfect opportunity to make use of the library swimming pool. She wheedles at the Doctor, pouts and begs, cajoles and demands, until finally she feigns indifference and disappears into her room, determinedly reemerging wrapped in a towel as she struts towards the library. The Doctor trails behind her and tells himself that he hasn’t read Agatha Christie in far too long, and that it was past time, really (three days is, of course, far longer than anyone should go without rereading all eighty works by her…plus the West End plays).
Rose is floating in the pool when he enters the library, and he refuses to give her anything more than a glance before tracing his way to Earth, 1900s. “Change your mind?” she asks as she lazily treads water.
He turns around to look at her-a mistake-and finds himself speechless. “I-Agatha Christie,” he says quickly, pointing to the bookcase behind him. “Reading. Again.”
“Didn’t you finish rereading her…a week ago, was it?” she asks coyly. “I think that-”
“Where’d you get that necklace?” he asks, locking onto the first thing he sees, because he knows, without a doubt, that if he were to allow Rose Tyler to continue, he would end up in the pool. The necklace in question is nothing but a flash of silver on a long chain, circular and peculiarly large, but the longer he stares at it, the more curious he becomes. He edges towards the pool and takes out his glasses-when he squints at it, he can almost make out a pattern etched on the surface.
“What necklace?” she asks, following his gaze. “Oh. That. I don’t know. I’ve had it for as long as I can remember.” She looks back up at him, a smiling spreading across her face again as she lazily swims closer to him to stand in the shallow end of the pool. “Come on, just a quick dip. The world doesn’t end because the Doctor goes for a swim,” she teases, like their conversation had never been interrupted.
Through the water, the design looks like circles swirling through starbursts. “Can I see it?”
“See what?” she asks innocently.
“The necklace.”
“Oh,” she says again. “That. It’s just an old fob watch, Doctor-nothing interesting,” and the Doctor freezes.
“You should take it off,” he says softly. “It’ll break.”
“It’s already broken,” she says vaguely.
“Then maybe I can fix it.”
“The clasp is stuck,” is her automatic response-she looks uncertain, like she doesn’t quite believe what she’s saying.
He sits on the edge of the pool, not caring that his trousers are now soaked halfway to his knees, and reaches for the pocket watch. It’s warm against his hand, much warmer than the water, and energy throbs through it like a pair of hearts. He ghosts a finger over the engraved pattern as he turns it over in his hand before meeting her eyes. “You have dreams sometimes, of a place with orange skies and silver trees-a city encased in a dome of glass and red grasses that stretch as far as the eye can see.” He says this as a statement of fact, not a question, but she nods nonetheless, looking scared. “You talk in your sleep in a language you shouldn’t know. You looked into the heart of the TARDIS-she let you, and you didn’t die. In that parallel word, in Pete’s World, you didn’t exist,” he whispers, lifting a hand to cup her cheek gently.
“I don’t know what you’re saying,” and her voice breaks.
“There were no Time Lords in that world, Rose,” he breathes, and the fingers of his other hand move to the clasp.
“It’s broken,” she repeats.
“Maybe not,” he murmurs.
With a small click, he opens the fob watch.
For a moment-one, fleeting, beautiful, terrifying moment-he thought he’d heard the lilt and murmur of home. The echoes of the only past forever lost to him; the language lost to time, coming from Rose Tyler’s lips. 1,630
“Orange skies,” she says brightly, smiling at him.
“You want a sunset?” He clicks his tongue at her, winking with a cheeky grin. “I can give you the greatest sunset in the whole universe! That would be…well, probably Sunset. The planet. Named after-”
“Its fantastic sunsets?” she guesses, laughing. “Too easy, then. Orange skies and something else.”
It’s like a game for them: Rose lists off impossibilities, and for her, the Doctor brings them to life with a twirl of a dial and a press of a button. He throws the doors of the TARDIS open to reveal worlds made entirely of water, suns dying and being born, Marilyn Monroe’s birthday oration to President Kennedy. With a snap of his fingers he brings her dreams to life for her to walk out, blinking, into the sun.
“Name it,” the Doctor says. “Fish that fly, civilizations made of pure thought, a library that takes up a whole world! The universe is at your fingertips, Rose Tyler. Dogs with no noses, we never did do that-history if you’d prefer: Caesar, Shakespeare, Napoleon!”
“Trees with silver leaves,” she pronounces.
The Doctor stills. “Trees with silver leaves and an orange sky?”
She nods, arching an eyebrow. “Well, go on, this thing isn’t going to fly itself-mind, the landings would probably be better if it did.”
She grins at him with her tongue caught between her teeth, eyes dancing, but he ignores her completely. “Why silver trees?”
“I don’t know.” She shrugs. “I think I had a dream like that once. It’s nothing-if you don’t want to go, we can do something else. What were you saying about civilizations of pure thought, was it? How’s that work, then?”
His fingers fumble across the controls, and they end up in Wales of all places, in the eighties, because he’s so distracted.
Silver trees under a burnt orange sky, and the second sun rising in the south would bring them to life in a roar of flame…there were dozens of reasons she would have mentioned that particular combination, and after ‘random chance,’ he likes the list less and less. Projecting consciences, the effects of the TARDIS, the repercussions of a mere human taking the whole of the Time Vortex into herself-the possibilities are endless.
His smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes when she grabs his hand and drags them towards their next adventure.
It’s a small room (cozy, Rose insists), one that he had never really paid much attention to (absolutely perfect, she pronounces). The chairs and couch are beat-up and overstuffed (sink-into-heaven perfect, she sighs as she falls into one, a look of pure bliss on her face), there’s a much better fireplace in the living room three halls down to the right (it’s too big; this one is just right and she rolls her eyes when he calls her Goldilocks), the bookcases are full of the young adult fiction of the universe (not intergalactic classics, sure, but a good way to pass the time), the TV must be from the fifties (she runs out of steam here and bleats, Perfect chairs!). There’s only one light, and it flickers (but there’s a gramophone!). From the console room, it’s up the stairs, left down the corridor, through the library and around the pool, through the third door on the right, up the second flight of stairs and down the slide, around the corner, and through the door at the very end of the hall (there’s a slide!).
Rose is sprawled across the couch and the Doctor’s in an armchair when the credits roll. He leaps up enthusiastically to slip in the next DVD, or perhaps to line up their well-worn vinyl of Midnight Serenade on the gramophone. He tosses the question over his shoulder at Rose as he scans the stack of movies they’d brought here to watch, and when she doesn’t respond, he glances over at her. “Rose?”
She’s fast asleep, lips parted and hair falling in her face. With a fond smile, he brushes a lock out of her face, and she murmurs something incomprehensible. He gently drapes a blanket over her when she says something again, voice coated with sleep, and he freezes, staring at her.
For a moment-one, fleeting, beautiful, terrifying moment-he thought he’d heard the lilt and murmur of home. The echoes of the only past forever lost to him; the language lost to time, coming from Rose Tyler’s lips.
He sits next to her, straining to hear even the faintest whisper, but she never makes another sound, and he convinces himself that he had imagined it.
“How can you have lit it on fire?” Rose asks, staring at the slightly charred console. “It’s like…metal and things!”
“Oh, so this is my fault?” the Doctor whines back. “You were the one who was all…” He waves a general hand in her direction, making a face.
“What, I lit a match and tossed it in? I’m not the one who…” She mimics his gesture at the TARDIS, and then at him, looking completely perplexed. “What did you do?”
The Doctor stares at the controls, eyebrows knitted together, and then cocks his head to the side like that will help. “I have no idea.”
Rose starts laughing, unable to be serious any longer, and he joins in, because her laughter is beautiful and contagious. “Your eyebrows are singed,” she giggles, reaching up to brush her fingers over his cheek, wiping away the ash. “And your suit’s looking a little worse for wear.”
“It was like a fireball!” he gasps, smiling widely as he looks at her in disbelief. “Where did it come from?”
“I don’t know-cross my hearts,” she says, before catching herself and laughing. “Heart, not hearts. I’ve been spending too much time with you, I think-is it hot in here? It’s hot in here.” Her eyes light up and she pronounces that now would be the perfect opportunity to make use of the library swimming pool. She wheedles at the Doctor, pouts and begs, cajoles and demands, until finally she feigns indifference and disappears into her room, determinedly reemerging wrapped in a towel as she struts towards the library. The Doctor trails behind her and tells himself that he hasn’t read Agatha Christie in far too long, and that it was past time, really (three days is, of course, far longer than anyone should go without rereading all eighty works by her…plus the West End plays).
Rose is floating in the pool when he enters the library, and he refuses to give her anything more than a glance before tracing his way to Earth, 1900s. “Change your mind?” she asks as she lazily treads water.
He turns around to look at her-a mistake-and finds himself speechless. “I-Agatha Christie,” he says quickly, pointing to the bookcase behind him. “Reading. Again.”
“Didn’t you finish rereading her…a week ago, was it?” she asks coyly. “I think that-”
“Where’d you get that necklace?” he asks, locking onto the first thing he sees, because he knows, without a doubt, that if he were to allow Rose Tyler to continue, he would end up in the pool. The necklace in question is nothing but a flash of silver on a long chain, circular and peculiarly large, but the longer he stares at it, the more curious he becomes. He edges towards the pool and takes out his glasses-when he squints at it, he can almost make out a pattern etched on the surface.
“What necklace?” she asks, following his gaze. “Oh. That. I don’t know. I’ve had it for as long as I can remember.” She looks back up at him, a smiling spreading across her face again as she lazily swims closer to him to stand in the shallow end of the pool. “Come on, just a quick dip. The world doesn’t end because the Doctor goes for a swim,” she teases, like their conversation had never been interrupted.
Through the water, the design looks like circles swirling through starbursts. “Can I see it?”
“See what?” she asks innocently.
“The necklace.”
“Oh,” she says again. “That. It’s just an old fob watch, Doctor-nothing interesting,” and the Doctor freezes.
“You should take it off,” he says softly. “It’ll break.”
“It’s already broken,” she says vaguely.
“Then maybe I can fix it.”
“The clasp is stuck,” is her automatic response-she looks uncertain, like she doesn’t quite believe what she’s saying.
He sits on the edge of the pool, not caring that his trousers are now soaked halfway to his knees, and reaches for the pocket watch. It’s warm against his hand, much warmer than the water, and energy throbs through it like a pair of hearts. He ghosts a finger over the engraved pattern as he turns it over in his hand before meeting her eyes. “You have dreams sometimes, of a place with orange skies and silver trees-a city encased in a dome of glass and red grasses that stretch as far as the eye can see.” He says this as a statement of fact, not a question, but she nods nonetheless, looking scared. “You talk in your sleep in a language you shouldn’t know. You looked into the heart of the TARDIS-she let you, and you didn’t die. In that parallel word, in Pete’s World, you didn’t exist,” he whispers, lifting a hand to cup her cheek gently.
“I don’t know what you’re saying,” and her voice breaks.
“There were no Time Lords in that world, Rose,” he breathes, and the fingers of his other hand move to the clasp.
“It’s broken,” she repeats.
“Maybe not,” he murmurs.
With a small click, he opens the fob watch.