You and the Mona Lisa
These are a few snapshots of the Ninth Doctor and Rose traveling around, and illustrating little bits of their relationship.
Rated no higher than PG-13, and probably more like PG.
The Doctor - in his ninth body - was a sorry mess. He knew that. But his whole world those days was based around denial and not letting his mind stray near any sore patches. It was impossible to do that when there was no one else to talk to. He just kept going back to poke at the bloody wounds in the back of his head, like he'd seen children do with a scabby knee.
He knew he should have walked straight away from Rose Bloody Tyler--and he'd tried, hadn't he?--but as soon as she was there, holding his hand and laughing up at him, he found it was enough to distract him from constantly rehashing his past. It was enough to hold him firmly in the present. And give him another problem to fret over. He wanted to keep her safe, keep her with him, and to stop himself looking at her like that even when she deliberately flirted at him. It was pretty much impossible to do any of the three, let alone all at once.
He tried not to look into the future very much--for one thing, it was confusing as all hell, even to someone used to it, and for another, it ruined the surprise--but he peeked a bit and saw jumbled, brilliant confusion. Too many futures even for someone trained to parse them, too many changes to the timelines, to his timeline. He was equal parts relieved and annoyed. He didn't have to give her up, though he almost certainly should. She gave the future a new infinite rainbow of possibilities and time just loved those people, damn it all. If he sent her back now, he'd probably just stumble over her again in some improbable place and end up taking her back on.
It wasn't much of a shock, that he should be unable to force himself to send her home. He wasn't so noble that he'd give up the only thing that had worked to block the mental self-flagellation.
And so he found himself, time and again, reaching for her hand and waiting for her to look up at him, make him real and good for a precious split second with her unrestrained, undeserved regard for him, shining out from her eyes like a light house.
_____
"If you were a Faustician monocle glass, where would you be?" he asked. He didn't really expect an answer (though in some rooms in the TARDIS you never knew) he just had to express his frustration out loud. Really, how many places were there to hide one circle of glass? But, again, it was his TARDIS, so better not to speculate.
Rose answered anyway. "Round about there, maybe?" she was sitting on the edge of a low bookshelf, paging through whatever had caught her fancy, but she spared a hand to point to a cupboard over in the corner. It was a bit dusty, but not locked (which was remarkably lucky, because he had no idea where the key had got to).
Inside, sitting on a red velvet pillow, was the monocle. Just where he'd left it, actually, now that he thought about it. At approximately nine hundred, he didn't bother if his memory wasn't quite what is used to be.
"Ah hah!" he said, and walked back over to the Faustician text awaiting him on the desk. Then something occurred to him. "How did you know it would be in there?"
"Didn't," she said without looking up. "You just hadn't looked in there yet."
His silence must have been very loud, because she looked up and smiled at him. "My peripheral vision is really good. Ask my mum." She paused and looked down at the book, then back up at him. "As long as I've got your attention, and before you dive into translating that thing, Would you mind telling me what a," she looked down at her book and carefully pronounced "'Ha-ur-ette jul-ib-ili-cool' is?"
"No idea," he said, entirely untruthfully. "What are you reading, anyway?" He knew, of course. But she didn't even have the anatomy to comprehend what a Hayredjuwibileecul was and he could only thank the stars for that. He didn't know which of them would blush harder if he had to explain Jillic sex practices to her. He rather thought it would be him.
"I can't pronounce the title," she said. "They're getting up to some naughty-sounding things. I suppose I'll just have to use my imagination." Her tongue peaked saucily between her teeth, and he though she must have some idea what she was reading after all.
_______
They never talked about what they were to each other, because they both knew. And being together--not alone--was so fantastic, that it didn't occur to him to verbalize it. In his experience, silly little human words would more likely trivialize something important rather than validate it, anyway.
Whenever anybody brought it up, like Jabe had, probing into their relationship and trying to label it (much to his discomfort) he always did his best to sidestep it.
Rose, in her own vague way, put it best to the ambassador of Yates when the little man formulated the question in such a clever way that there was no way not to answer (good ambassadors were always deliciously sneaky with words, and he admired that.)
"We just like each other a lot, is all," She'd said. Then she'd blushed a little and looked up at him, all the play-flirtation gone, leaving just a happy smile on her face. He rather thought he had the matching one on his, as he tightened his fingers around her hand.
Some people, human or other, liked their labels. He understood, to a degree. They made things more tangible. But what he and Rose were was not tangible, could not be taken or stolen or broken, or even understood by any one but the two of them. Their 'relationship' consisted of liking each other, and every other possibility in between. Every part was the best part. Every place they landed was the best adventure. And just the two of them, heading toward their relative future, was the most fantastic place he'd been in a long time.
_____
An unfortunate (but highly entertaining) event at the festival of Three suns caused them to be running for their lives again. It happened like this:
One minute they'd been enjoying an unplanned, very luxurious stay in the home of the wealthiest businessman in the city of Xagidos 7 (What happened to the first six? Rose had asked) whose life they'd saved earlier. The next, he'd inadvertently stumbled on a room full of Branesian slaves who were set to be auctioned off on the black market. They were mostly the equivalent of Rose's age for their respective species and it didn't take someone as brilliant as him to know what they were going to be used for. It made something scary and black boil up in him, though even if they were just being taken to be sold for labour, he'd have taken exception. Slavery was one of the more horrible things out there, and he should know.
So he'd led the entire lot over to Rose's room to collect her, setting off several alarms in the process, and then had to drag Rose out of bed for a daring moonlight (two moons worth!) escape over the rooftops of Xagidos 7, trailing fifty would-be sex slaves. Rose wasn't a self-starter in the mornings (or at approximately three am, her time), but he'd never let that stop them before.
Everything had been going swimmingly, as escapes went, until they'd come to the conical rooftop of some state building. Single file on the narrow edge would take too long.
"Split up?" said Rose, as she released his hand and waved to a group of the ex-slaves to follow her. She gave him a little wave and disappeared around one side of the roof.
Then he'd gotten his lot down and broke into some rich man's garage, full of things that flew and rolled and levitated, to throw off the pursuit. The ex-slaves had been wild-eyed with relief and fear both, and he could hear a core group of the smarter ones speculating that he was only stealing them so that he could sell them and make the profit.
That was, luckily, when he heard someone shout "Rose!" in a heavily-accented, but still decipherable voice, just outside the garage. He'd slipped out the door just in time to catch Rose herself, as she skidded around a corner and ran head-long into him, followed by her half of their charges.
"Rose!" he said, and hugged her. He could feel her grinning into his neck just before he released her. "All right? Got everyone?"
"Yep," she said. "Although shimmyin' down that drain pipe was a trick. I think it was a drain pipe, anyway." She frowned momentarily, then said, "And I think we lost them. Back to the TARDIS, yeah?"
"Yeah." He grinned at her because he couldn't help himself and didn't want to, hadn't wanted to for a while. Then he turned to the rest and said, "Ladies and gentleman! This way to the taxi home."
Of course, none of them knew what a taxi was, but they seemed to get the general idea. And even the suspicious ones seemed reassured by Rose's obvious non-captivity.
______
"I kissed her, once," he nodded at the painting, arms crossed over black leather. He turned to glance at Rose and caught a decidedly skeptical look.
"Really? You're not having me on like you were about anteaters being aliens?"
"I'll have you know that they look just like some nice blokes on Epcilicon."
"Right," she said. "So, Mona Lisa? Seriously?"
"Well, her name was just Lisa then, and I guess it would be a bit more accurate to say she kissed me for putting her in the way--quite accidentally--of her future husband. She'd just turned sixteen and I think she married him before the year was out."
"That's sweet, Yenta."
She only grinned when he recoiled in mock-indignation.
Rated no higher than PG-13, and probably more like PG.
The Doctor - in his ninth body - was a sorry mess. He knew that. But his whole world those days was based around denial and not letting his mind stray near any sore patches. It was impossible to do that when there was no one else to talk to. He just kept going back to poke at the bloody wounds in the back of his head, like he'd seen children do with a scabby knee.
He knew he should have walked straight away from Rose Bloody Tyler--and he'd tried, hadn't he?--but as soon as she was there, holding his hand and laughing up at him, he found it was enough to distract him from constantly rehashing his past. It was enough to hold him firmly in the present. And give him another problem to fret over. He wanted to keep her safe, keep her with him, and to stop himself looking at her like that even when she deliberately flirted at him. It was pretty much impossible to do any of the three, let alone all at once.
He tried not to look into the future very much--for one thing, it was confusing as all hell, even to someone used to it, and for another, it ruined the surprise--but he peeked a bit and saw jumbled, brilliant confusion. Too many futures even for someone trained to parse them, too many changes to the timelines, to his timeline. He was equal parts relieved and annoyed. He didn't have to give her up, though he almost certainly should. She gave the future a new infinite rainbow of possibilities and time just loved those people, damn it all. If he sent her back now, he'd probably just stumble over her again in some improbable place and end up taking her back on.
It wasn't much of a shock, that he should be unable to force himself to send her home. He wasn't so noble that he'd give up the only thing that had worked to block the mental self-flagellation.
And so he found himself, time and again, reaching for her hand and waiting for her to look up at him, make him real and good for a precious split second with her unrestrained, undeserved regard for him, shining out from her eyes like a light house.
_____
"If you were a Faustician monocle glass, where would you be?" he asked. He didn't really expect an answer (though in some rooms in the TARDIS you never knew) he just had to express his frustration out loud. Really, how many places were there to hide one circle of glass? But, again, it was his TARDIS, so better not to speculate.
Rose answered anyway. "Round about there, maybe?" she was sitting on the edge of a low bookshelf, paging through whatever had caught her fancy, but she spared a hand to point to a cupboard over in the corner. It was a bit dusty, but not locked (which was remarkably lucky, because he had no idea where the key had got to).
Inside, sitting on a red velvet pillow, was the monocle. Just where he'd left it, actually, now that he thought about it. At approximately nine hundred, he didn't bother if his memory wasn't quite what is used to be.
"Ah hah!" he said, and walked back over to the Faustician text awaiting him on the desk. Then something occurred to him. "How did you know it would be in there?"
"Didn't," she said without looking up. "You just hadn't looked in there yet."
His silence must have been very loud, because she looked up and smiled at him. "My peripheral vision is really good. Ask my mum." She paused and looked down at the book, then back up at him. "As long as I've got your attention, and before you dive into translating that thing, Would you mind telling me what a," she looked down at her book and carefully pronounced "'Ha-ur-ette jul-ib-ili-cool' is?"
"No idea," he said, entirely untruthfully. "What are you reading, anyway?" He knew, of course. But she didn't even have the anatomy to comprehend what a Hayredjuwibileecul was and he could only thank the stars for that. He didn't know which of them would blush harder if he had to explain Jillic sex practices to her. He rather thought it would be him.
"I can't pronounce the title," she said. "They're getting up to some naughty-sounding things. I suppose I'll just have to use my imagination." Her tongue peaked saucily between her teeth, and he though she must have some idea what she was reading after all.
_______
They never talked about what they were to each other, because they both knew. And being together--not alone--was so fantastic, that it didn't occur to him to verbalize it. In his experience, silly little human words would more likely trivialize something important rather than validate it, anyway.
Whenever anybody brought it up, like Jabe had, probing into their relationship and trying to label it (much to his discomfort) he always did his best to sidestep it.
Rose, in her own vague way, put it best to the ambassador of Yates when the little man formulated the question in such a clever way that there was no way not to answer (good ambassadors were always deliciously sneaky with words, and he admired that.)
"We just like each other a lot, is all," She'd said. Then she'd blushed a little and looked up at him, all the play-flirtation gone, leaving just a happy smile on her face. He rather thought he had the matching one on his, as he tightened his fingers around her hand.
Some people, human or other, liked their labels. He understood, to a degree. They made things more tangible. But what he and Rose were was not tangible, could not be taken or stolen or broken, or even understood by any one but the two of them. Their 'relationship' consisted of liking each other, and every other possibility in between. Every part was the best part. Every place they landed was the best adventure. And just the two of them, heading toward their relative future, was the most fantastic place he'd been in a long time.
_____
An unfortunate (but highly entertaining) event at the festival of Three suns caused them to be running for their lives again. It happened like this:
One minute they'd been enjoying an unplanned, very luxurious stay in the home of the wealthiest businessman in the city of Xagidos 7 (What happened to the first six? Rose had asked) whose life they'd saved earlier. The next, he'd inadvertently stumbled on a room full of Branesian slaves who were set to be auctioned off on the black market. They were mostly the equivalent of Rose's age for their respective species and it didn't take someone as brilliant as him to know what they were going to be used for. It made something scary and black boil up in him, though even if they were just being taken to be sold for labour, he'd have taken exception. Slavery was one of the more horrible things out there, and he should know.
So he'd led the entire lot over to Rose's room to collect her, setting off several alarms in the process, and then had to drag Rose out of bed for a daring moonlight (two moons worth!) escape over the rooftops of Xagidos 7, trailing fifty would-be sex slaves. Rose wasn't a self-starter in the mornings (or at approximately three am, her time), but he'd never let that stop them before.
Everything had been going swimmingly, as escapes went, until they'd come to the conical rooftop of some state building. Single file on the narrow edge would take too long.
"Split up?" said Rose, as she released his hand and waved to a group of the ex-slaves to follow her. She gave him a little wave and disappeared around one side of the roof.
Then he'd gotten his lot down and broke into some rich man's garage, full of things that flew and rolled and levitated, to throw off the pursuit. The ex-slaves had been wild-eyed with relief and fear both, and he could hear a core group of the smarter ones speculating that he was only stealing them so that he could sell them and make the profit.
That was, luckily, when he heard someone shout "Rose!" in a heavily-accented, but still decipherable voice, just outside the garage. He'd slipped out the door just in time to catch Rose herself, as she skidded around a corner and ran head-long into him, followed by her half of their charges.
"Rose!" he said, and hugged her. He could feel her grinning into his neck just before he released her. "All right? Got everyone?"
"Yep," she said. "Although shimmyin' down that drain pipe was a trick. I think it was a drain pipe, anyway." She frowned momentarily, then said, "And I think we lost them. Back to the TARDIS, yeah?"
"Yeah." He grinned at her because he couldn't help himself and didn't want to, hadn't wanted to for a while. Then he turned to the rest and said, "Ladies and gentleman! This way to the taxi home."
Of course, none of them knew what a taxi was, but they seemed to get the general idea. And even the suspicious ones seemed reassured by Rose's obvious non-captivity.
______
"I kissed her, once," he nodded at the painting, arms crossed over black leather. He turned to glance at Rose and caught a decidedly skeptical look.
"Really? You're not having me on like you were about anteaters being aliens?"
"I'll have you know that they look just like some nice blokes on Epcilicon."
"Right," she said. "So, Mona Lisa? Seriously?"
"Well, her name was just Lisa then, and I guess it would be a bit more accurate to say she kissed me for putting her in the way--quite accidentally--of her future husband. She'd just turned sixteen and I think she married him before the year was out."
"That's sweet, Yenta."
She only grinned when he recoiled in mock-indignation.