Relict, 4/? (DW, 9/J/R, Teen)
Author's notes: First, thanks as always to wendymr for a great beta. I have gone against her advice in one place, so if you spot a mistake, that would be me. Second, I have taken some architectural liberties with the building in question, but there was no way to make this work without building an addition. And third, sincere apologies to anyone who has been following this story and wondering where the hell it went, particularly dark_aegis, for whom it is written. My writing muse decided to take a well-earned holiday without my permission, but at least she's now texting messages from the Bahamas.
Chapter 1 - Bazaar | Chapter 2 - Maintenance | Chapter 3 - Off-Balance
***
The grin on Rose’s face and the slight pinkening of the Doctor’s ears as he smiled - a sweet, almost childlike expression with a shy dip of his head - clued Jack in that there was some shared history in that little exchange, and he found himself grinning like a loon. He had no idea what specifically was passing between them, but it was part of their charm that that kind of knowledge was unnecessary. The emotions were transparent enough, as Rose leaned into the Doctor’s side, a shoulder-bump that was playful, intimate, and totally incongruous, given their elegant evening wear.
“Fair enough.” The Doctor flipped his gloves into his free hand, letting the soft kid slip across his palm. His eyes softened as they took in Rose from head to foot, coming back up to linger on the expanse of skin above the champagne beads. “That dress needs a necklace.”
Jack lifted an eyebrow, opening his mouth to make a comment about the Doctor’s sudden interest in accessorizing, but Rose pre-empted him by putting a hand to her throat and turning back to the mirror. “I know.” She pouted thoughtfully. “These earrings were set out, but I didn’t see anything else. Oh!” A light clearly went on over her head. “I’ve got just the thing. Meet you in the console room, yeah?”
“Don’t take an hour.” The Doctor’s resigned sigh- like that of any human boyfriend/lover/husband throughout the centuries - caused Jack to stifle the snort that accompanied his grin as Rose gathered her skirt carefully over her left arm and headed out for her room at a pace more suited to her usual trainers than the gold-embroidered bronze silk dancing slippers she now wore.
The Doctor shook his head indulgently, then looked at Jack with a disconcerting directness. Sometimes the vivid heat of those steely eyes could surprised him, and Jack held out his elbow in invitation.
Those eyes rolled, and Jack shrugged, sliding his gloved hand into the curve of the Doctor’s elbow instead. After the briefest of hesitations, the Doctor turned, escorting a broadly grinning Jack out of the wardrobe room.
At the ramp leading out the TARDIS doors, Jack made a show of flipping his tails over the railing before leaning back against it as he watched the Doctor put on his gloves. Jack was not unfamiliar with the erotic effect of the small, everyday action in an unexpected context. The strong, callused hands slipped into the fine, white material of the gloves, calling attention to the elegance of the long fingers and slender wrists. With practiced skill, the Doctor smoothed the gloves between his fingers, and he lifted an eyebrow at Jack.
He was about to speak, it seemed, when Rose came rushing into the room, cheeks flushed, eyes sparkling, bosom heaving rather dangerously in the tight, low-cut dress. The look on the Doctor’s face - impassive on first glance, impassioned when really seen - moved Jack unexpectedly, and he watched the silvery eyes dilate in a thankfully normal physiological response before turning to Rose with a smile.
She had put on the simple brown stone pendant from the markets at Axhe, which seemed to glow with a golden sheen within its delicate spiral against her skin. “Do you think it’s too simple?” she asked, touching the pendant nervously.
Jack spoke up quickly, “Not at all,” almost stepping on the Doctor’s warm, “It’s perfect,” as the Time Lord offered his arm to Rose with courtly grace and ease.
She was glowing from exertion, excitement, and happiness as she took the Doctor’s arm, and Jack grinned to himself as he took the Doctor’s other arm.
The steely blue eyes gazed down at him (How did he do that, when there was no appreciable difference in their heights?), and Jack thought for a moment. “What? Oh. When are we going?”
“1892. Vienna Opera Ball.”
“Right.” Jack slipped around to offer Rose his other arm.
“What happened at the Vienna Opera Ball in 1892?” she asked as the doors swung open to a dark back street, cobblestones sheened with frost and the sounds of horses, carriages, and voices not far away.
“Absolutely nothing,” declared the Doctor. “Nothin’ but drinking champagne and dancing.”
“Wine, women, and song,” agreed Jack.
“So, it’s okay for me to arrive with two blokes, but not for you to come with one of each?” Rose was amused, then caught her breath as the Doctor snagged a black velvet hooded cape from the coat-rack near the door and held it for her to put on.
“It’s not that they’re not doing things that way these days, it’s just that they don’t let it be known in public,” explained Jack. “You’ll be causing enough talk with the two of us.” He winked, and Rose grinned, carefully pulling the hood over her hair.
“That’s all right, then.” She held out both hands, and her two blokes escorted her out of the TARDIS and down the narrow road to a broad, busy avenue.
“Wow, it is 1892,” observed Jack, checking the panel on his wristcomp tucked between his sleeve and his glove.
The Doctor drew himself up even taller. “Is that some kind of slur on my navigational skills?”
“Of course not,” Jack’s response was quick, but Rose’s smothered giggle ruined his innocent look and while the two of them were giggling, the Doctor shook his head and led them to the large, well-lit building with the colonnaded front.
***
She’d been to St. Paul’s and to Westminster Abbey on school trips, so Rose was not as overwhelmed by the architecture of the Opera House as she was by the dazzling gaslight. The brilliant glow was so different from the muted, haunted light of Cardiff, amplified by the resonance of the live orchestra and the whirl of people on the parquet floor of the grand ballroom of the Opera House.
The three of them did draw some curious looks as they entered, but Rose was proud of her two handsome escorts, and some impish part of her would have liked to have seen the reaction if Jack had stayed on the Doctor’s arm. Jack snagged a glass of champagne from a table and handed it to her with a wink as he picked up another for the Doctor, who declined it with a slight motion of his gloved hand.
“Shouldn’t we eat something first?” she asked, suddenly aware that it had been several hours since their last meal, and even if she’d eaten her salad instead of playing with it, she’d have been hungry by now. “Wasn’t I promised dinner along with dancing?”
“After the ball,” promised the Doctor. “That’s the convention here, and now. That all right?” For a moment, she was caught in the intensity of his stormy gaze, tinged with genuine concern, and her breath hitched in the unaccustomed corset. Covering, she nodded and lifted the champagne to her lips, looking out at the ballroom floor.
As she watched the dancers whirling by at a tempo she did not normally associate with the waltz, she was keenly aware of the reality of the moment. They were on a planet - her planet, to be sure, but in a time and a situation almost alien to her - spinning around a rather nondescript yellow sun in a celestial backwater. But right here, right now, they were hurtling through space and time, planet around sun, electrons around protons, galaxy in pirouette, the swirl of bright silk and satin skirts…
The atmosphere of the ballroom after the frosty night air was humid and warm, and as the alcohol hit her taste buds and the bubbles assaulted her sinuses, Rose felt as if she might be flung free of the spinning planet, bodysurfing the Vortex…
“Rose.”
The Doctor’s voice, so soft it slipped in beneath the rush of music and conversation, was like the brush of his hand against hers, but when she looked up in anticipation of his attention, he was looking out at the dancers, hands clasped behind him in an almost military stance. She took the moment to trace his familiar features, the fine lines at the corners of his eyes, his smoothly shaven cheeks and throat. She searched for any trace of this morning’s sudden turn, but there was only a faint shadow of blue bruising along his jaw. Instead, she was struck instead by how beautifully cut his angular features were. She knew his face as well as she had ever known anyone’s, and still, sometimes, he took her by surprise.
As if feeling her gaze, he turned to her, sharp features softening in almost a smile, and he let one hand drop to his side, on an arc toward her as he took a breath.
“May I have this dance?”
She was going to kill him.
The Doctor’s gaze broke with hers as it swung to Jack, standing there with his hand extended in best formal manner, and she closed her eyes briefly on the surge of disappointment, willing the Doctor speak, to make the invitation she was so sure he had been about to offer. Instead, he was all dazzling smile and sudden relaxation of his taut posture.
“Perfect! Champagne, music, handsome partner, what more could you want at the Viennese Opera Ball? Off you go, then.”
The bright, cheery tone was going to get him a kick in the shins one of these days. It was the same one he’d used to get rid of her and Adam on Satellite Five, and she didn’t fall for that kind of brush-off twice. The way he pushed his palms forward - such a familiar gesture, in those unfamiliar gloves - as if shooing them onto the dance floor. Like she was a cat underfoot. Torn between digging in her heels and flouncing off in a huff, she set her champagne glass carefully on a passing tray and turned to Jack with an overbright smile.
“Of course you may, sir!” She placed her hand carefully in his and reached down, almost automatically, to gather up the train of the skirt. At least the adrenaline rush was sharpening her reflexes, and although she hadn’t waltzed since ballet lessons in infant school, she found it easy to fall into the rhythm of the dance, rushing into the interlocking circles like finding the right moment to run into the jump rope.
The live orchestra filled up the ballroom, but, surprisingly, without the enveloping sound of electronic amplification, Rose found she could still hear Jack when he smiled and said, “Don’t worry. This’ll work.”
“I’ve waltzed before, Jack.” Her voice was a bit brittle. Her smile had faded quickly as she felt the knot of disappointment in her belly tightening, drawing in more of her nerves and muscles.
“Nah, I meant him.” A slight nod of his head indicated the Doctor, now half the length of the dance floor away, still standing in his “at-ease” position, face impassive, eyes burning gaslight blue even at this distance. “It’ll do him good to know you’re not just waiting for him to ask.”
She bit the inside of her lip hard on the whine, But I aaaaaam. She turned her head to spot him again, and again as they turned. Her doubt surely showed in her eyes as she finally looked up at Jack, rounding the first corner of the ballroom. “Don’t think you can make him jealous, Jack. He’ll either be snide, or he’ll shut down.”
“You think that’s not jealous?” Jack grinned. “Sounds like jealous to me.”
Rose tried to capture another glimpse of the Doctor, but he was obscured by the silken swirl of dancers between them.
“Don’t worry,” repeated Jack, more tenderly. “I know what I’m doing.”
Rose made a face, betraying her youth unintentionally as they danced across the far end of the ballroom, in front of the orchestra.
“Look at me, Rose.” Jack’s voice held a note of challenge.
She met his challenge with her eyes.
“Relax. Listen to the music - hear how the second beat is drawn out?”
Distracted by his seeming non-sequitur, Rose found herself listening, and after a few measures, the rhythm suddenly seemed to deepen, as if it had gone from carrying her across the floor to moving up and down as well, as if she were riding a carousel.
“That’s it,” purred Jack, putting a little extra snap in his turn as she let her right toe trail in a semi-circle against the parquet floor before sweeping it behind her. “Not all beats are created equal.”
She felt a grin spread across her face as they whirled across the floor, a balance point poised perfectly between them. She’d never imagined waltzing could be so much fun, and the fun started to take the edge off her resentment.
The waltz came to an end, and she giggled as she curtseyed before Jack’s deep bow. Though as they applauded the orchestra, her eyes were searching those standing on the edge of the dancefloor. Almost before thinking about it, she began walking back to the tables where she had left him.
He wasn’t there.
The orchestra began the introduction to the next dance, and people began to form up once more. She turned, her eyes searching, unconsciously worrying the gold wire spiral of her pendant.
“Fräulein, may I have this dance?”
She looked up into blue eyes, knowing they wouldn’t be his. Tall, slender, military uniform, neatly cut blond hair. Not very much older than she was. It was odd to hear his speech rendered into English, almost uninflected, almost North American, with a slight edge of received pronunciation, and she realized it was the TARDIS translating. Somehow, it seemed more strange that the TARDIS was translating German from only a little over a century before her time than it had been translating the language of a tree from five billion years in the future.
“Pretty boy!” whispered Jack teasingly in her ear, nudging her with one shoulder, and she blushed, but put her gloved hand in that of the young officer and let him lead her into the next dance.
Dancing with the stranger, pretty though he might be, was a surprisingly flat experience after the exhilarating whirl with Jack. He was so…young, and a bit awkward, steering her more than finding that balance point between them. Rose smiled a little to herself when she realized that times really hadn’t changed so much, and this was not a lot different from that dance when she was thirteen with Simon Watson, that cute boy who’d turned out to be such a dorky dancer.
She was passed from the young blond officer to a darker, less callow young man whose leading was more relaxed. The circles they traced on the floor stayed firmly on the parquet, and she tried not to let her attention wander too obviously.
Her eyes suddenly found him in the crowd, locking on as if to magnetic north. He was dancing with a petite, curvaceous brunette, a striking woman of obvious grace and maturity in her deep burgundy gown that Rose felt her stomach fall. She saw the flash of a cheekbone, the brush of dark lashes, the curve of a wide mouth as they turned, and despite the brevity of the glimpse, from the way that he looked at her, Rose knew that she was a great beauty. Those steel blue eyes gazed down into dark eyes that weren’t hers, and all she could think was that they looked utterly right together. Their bodies moved in perfect harmony, a bit closer than most around, and his surprisingly broad shoulders swept them away into the crowd.
“Your husband?” asked her partner, hazel eyes knowing.
She shook her head sharply, realizing that, even as she tried to relax, she was becoming more tense. Her short, “No,” was more forceful than intended.
“Lover?” The hazel eyes gleamed, reminding her of Jack’s in the pleasure they took at the possibilities.
The familiarity made it easier for her to meet his eyes, smile sweetly, and say, “Yes.”
“He seems occupied for the moment. Would you care to join me for a turn in the Promenade Hall?”
“Ah, that would be very nice,” she replied, lifting her hand from his shoulder to gesture toward the edge of the dancefloor where Jack was sipping a glass of champagne. “But I’m afraid my husband might object.”
“Pity,” sighed the young man and relinquished her as the waltz ended.
She made her way through the applause and appropriated Jack’s glass for a mouthful of champagne. “Have you been dancing?” she asked, and he reached out to tuck back a strand of grown-out fringe that had escaped from her twist.
“A little. You’ve been the belle of the ball.”
“’m not the only one,” she stage-muttered, and he grinned teasingly.
“Tricks for tops.”
“What?” Her confusion drew together her eyebrows as she looked up at him, taking another sip of his champagne
Jack cocked his head thoughtfully, as if running sums in his head. “Uh. Sauce for the goose? Does that make any more sense?”
“Yeah. What does ‘tricks for tops’ mean?”
“Forty-third century slang for the same thing.” He took back the glass to finish off as the orchestra struck up another number. “Hey, ready for another go?”
“That’s not a waltz,” she pointed out, a bit confused.
“Nope, it’s a polka. Come on!” He grabbed her hand and twirled her onto the dance floor. It took her a moment or two to get the hang of the more boisterous dance, but soon they were laughing as they raced across the floor.
***
The Doctor sipped from a bell-shaped glass, something darker than champagne, as mysterious as the look in his shadowed eyes as they arrived, giddy and glowing after the polka. “Are you having a good time?” he asked, seeming so genuinely interested that Rose felt her resentment at his desertion melting away.
“I am.” Her grin stretched her warm cheeks. “How about you? That mysterious Lady X you were waltzing with?”
“Oooh, do tell, yes,” chimed in Jack, but they both ignored him.
“Did you see her?” asked the Doctor, his eyes tightening at the corners.
“Yeah, the lady in red? She was beautiful.”
“You think so?” He almost seemed sad, his eyes searching her features.
“Just saw her for a moment, but yeah.” For some reason, she felt as if she wanted to reassure him as he smiled that soft, faraway, painful little smile he sometimes wore when he thought of the past. He reached out with one hand, and she tilted her face up to him as his forefinger lightly traced across her forehead, pushing that stray strand of hair back behind her ear. The caress of the soft kid sent a shiver over her skin, and as his palm cupped her cheek, she turned her head into it, her eyes drifting closed.
“No one here is more beautiful than you are, Rose.”
His voice was so soft, she wasn’t sure he had actually spoken, but she was afraid to open her eyes to find she had imagined it. It was enough for the moment to believe that he had said it. His thumb slid along her jaw as the tips of his fingers slipped down the side of her throat, and she took an unsteady breath, stopped by the corset.
“You’re quite warm.” Her eyes opened to find him studying her closely, tracing her features. His thumb brushed lightly across her lower lip as if by accident, returning to her cheek, as he lifted his eyes to hers. “Would you like to take a turn in the Promenade?”
“What does ‘take a turn’ mean?” she asked, a nervous giggle melting into flirtatiousness. “You’re the second gentleman who’s asked me that tonight, you know.”
That sudden grin broke over his face. “Just means a walk in the side foyer. Get some air.”
“Sounds lovely.” She slid her hand into the curve of his arm, and Jack fell in on his other side, uncharacteristically subdued.
“I thought we were supposed to be getting fresh air.” Rose fanned her hand before her face as they passed several groups of men puffing on cigars and pipes.
The Doctor chuckled, guiding them through the crowded Promenade. Music was still audible, though muffled by the walls and the chattering of those meandering at a pace that seemed interminably slow to Rose. She glanced across at Jack, who had to stop suddenly when a rather large gentleman in front of him decided to turn and speak to his companion, and they exchanged exasperated looks.
The Doctor dropped his arm, and for a split second, she felt irritated, until he took each of them by the hand and dodged sideways. Like well-taught, but naughty children, they weaved their way through the crowd, never actually jostling or blocking anyone, but gathering speed until they were almost running into the small, half-dark gallery that split off from the Promenade Hall. French doors were open onto the courtyard, letting in decidedly cool air and the music coming from the stage doors propped open for the same reason. A few couples were secreted in alcoves or on benches, but the shadowed gallery was almost deserted.
“Run!” giggled Rose, leaning into the Doctor’s shoulder, and Jack spread his arms, doing a turn along the marble floor.
“Air!” With one of his million-dollar grins, he swept Rose up in another waltz, tracing a large circle across the width of the gallery. They found their balance point immediately, their angular momentum perfectly preserved in frictionless motion across the floor, until Jack let go and Rose spun free into the Doctor’s space, caught up immediately in his orbit as they followed the trajectory Jack had initiated. However smooth the transition, Rose was immediately aware that the focus of their revolution had shifted sharply. The center of gravity was no longer between the two bodies but resided firmly in him. He traced a graceful ellipse, rotating smoothly, noiselessly, and she revolved around him. The music seemed to pick them up and swirl faster even as the harmonies drove downward, as if the floor were dropping away, leaving them suspended…
Until she spun away and came lightly to rest against the velvet of the drapes as Jack assumed her orbit, not a trace of perturbation in the lines. The Doctor held Jack at perfect distance, their matched heights and dress almost blurring their images but for the challenge in the Doctor’s eyes. Jack’s held a trace of yearning under his impudent expression, flaring in surprise as the Doctor stepped in, pivoting expertly on one foot between Jack’s, spinning them to a stop in the shadows beside her.
“Better not.” The Doctor’s voice was soft, his hand gentle on Jack’s arm before he released him, though not stepping back. “Not here.”
“That was some move, Astaire,” breathed Jack, an appreciative smile dawning. “Later?” His eyes were openly hopeful, and the Doctor smiled, squeezing his arm gently.
“Promise.”
A light breeze from courtyard sighed across Rose’s bare shoulders, and a shiver spilled over her heated skin like the moonlight.
Chapter 1 - Bazaar | Chapter 2 - Maintenance | Chapter 3 - Off-Balance
***
The grin on Rose’s face and the slight pinkening of the Doctor’s ears as he smiled - a sweet, almost childlike expression with a shy dip of his head - clued Jack in that there was some shared history in that little exchange, and he found himself grinning like a loon. He had no idea what specifically was passing between them, but it was part of their charm that that kind of knowledge was unnecessary. The emotions were transparent enough, as Rose leaned into the Doctor’s side, a shoulder-bump that was playful, intimate, and totally incongruous, given their elegant evening wear.
“Fair enough.” The Doctor flipped his gloves into his free hand, letting the soft kid slip across his palm. His eyes softened as they took in Rose from head to foot, coming back up to linger on the expanse of skin above the champagne beads. “That dress needs a necklace.”
Jack lifted an eyebrow, opening his mouth to make a comment about the Doctor’s sudden interest in accessorizing, but Rose pre-empted him by putting a hand to her throat and turning back to the mirror. “I know.” She pouted thoughtfully. “These earrings were set out, but I didn’t see anything else. Oh!” A light clearly went on over her head. “I’ve got just the thing. Meet you in the console room, yeah?”
“Don’t take an hour.” The Doctor’s resigned sigh- like that of any human boyfriend/lover/husband throughout the centuries - caused Jack to stifle the snort that accompanied his grin as Rose gathered her skirt carefully over her left arm and headed out for her room at a pace more suited to her usual trainers than the gold-embroidered bronze silk dancing slippers she now wore.
The Doctor shook his head indulgently, then looked at Jack with a disconcerting directness. Sometimes the vivid heat of those steely eyes could surprised him, and Jack held out his elbow in invitation.
Those eyes rolled, and Jack shrugged, sliding his gloved hand into the curve of the Doctor’s elbow instead. After the briefest of hesitations, the Doctor turned, escorting a broadly grinning Jack out of the wardrobe room.
At the ramp leading out the TARDIS doors, Jack made a show of flipping his tails over the railing before leaning back against it as he watched the Doctor put on his gloves. Jack was not unfamiliar with the erotic effect of the small, everyday action in an unexpected context. The strong, callused hands slipped into the fine, white material of the gloves, calling attention to the elegance of the long fingers and slender wrists. With practiced skill, the Doctor smoothed the gloves between his fingers, and he lifted an eyebrow at Jack.
He was about to speak, it seemed, when Rose came rushing into the room, cheeks flushed, eyes sparkling, bosom heaving rather dangerously in the tight, low-cut dress. The look on the Doctor’s face - impassive on first glance, impassioned when really seen - moved Jack unexpectedly, and he watched the silvery eyes dilate in a thankfully normal physiological response before turning to Rose with a smile.
She had put on the simple brown stone pendant from the markets at Axhe, which seemed to glow with a golden sheen within its delicate spiral against her skin. “Do you think it’s too simple?” she asked, touching the pendant nervously.
Jack spoke up quickly, “Not at all,” almost stepping on the Doctor’s warm, “It’s perfect,” as the Time Lord offered his arm to Rose with courtly grace and ease.
She was glowing from exertion, excitement, and happiness as she took the Doctor’s arm, and Jack grinned to himself as he took the Doctor’s other arm.
The steely blue eyes gazed down at him (How did he do that, when there was no appreciable difference in their heights?), and Jack thought for a moment. “What? Oh. When are we going?”
“1892. Vienna Opera Ball.”
“Right.” Jack slipped around to offer Rose his other arm.
“What happened at the Vienna Opera Ball in 1892?” she asked as the doors swung open to a dark back street, cobblestones sheened with frost and the sounds of horses, carriages, and voices not far away.
“Absolutely nothing,” declared the Doctor. “Nothin’ but drinking champagne and dancing.”
“Wine, women, and song,” agreed Jack.
“So, it’s okay for me to arrive with two blokes, but not for you to come with one of each?” Rose was amused, then caught her breath as the Doctor snagged a black velvet hooded cape from the coat-rack near the door and held it for her to put on.
“It’s not that they’re not doing things that way these days, it’s just that they don’t let it be known in public,” explained Jack. “You’ll be causing enough talk with the two of us.” He winked, and Rose grinned, carefully pulling the hood over her hair.
“That’s all right, then.” She held out both hands, and her two blokes escorted her out of the TARDIS and down the narrow road to a broad, busy avenue.
“Wow, it is 1892,” observed Jack, checking the panel on his wristcomp tucked between his sleeve and his glove.
The Doctor drew himself up even taller. “Is that some kind of slur on my navigational skills?”
“Of course not,” Jack’s response was quick, but Rose’s smothered giggle ruined his innocent look and while the two of them were giggling, the Doctor shook his head and led them to the large, well-lit building with the colonnaded front.
***
She’d been to St. Paul’s and to Westminster Abbey on school trips, so Rose was not as overwhelmed by the architecture of the Opera House as she was by the dazzling gaslight. The brilliant glow was so different from the muted, haunted light of Cardiff, amplified by the resonance of the live orchestra and the whirl of people on the parquet floor of the grand ballroom of the Opera House.
The three of them did draw some curious looks as they entered, but Rose was proud of her two handsome escorts, and some impish part of her would have liked to have seen the reaction if Jack had stayed on the Doctor’s arm. Jack snagged a glass of champagne from a table and handed it to her with a wink as he picked up another for the Doctor, who declined it with a slight motion of his gloved hand.
“Shouldn’t we eat something first?” she asked, suddenly aware that it had been several hours since their last meal, and even if she’d eaten her salad instead of playing with it, she’d have been hungry by now. “Wasn’t I promised dinner along with dancing?”
“After the ball,” promised the Doctor. “That’s the convention here, and now. That all right?” For a moment, she was caught in the intensity of his stormy gaze, tinged with genuine concern, and her breath hitched in the unaccustomed corset. Covering, she nodded and lifted the champagne to her lips, looking out at the ballroom floor.
As she watched the dancers whirling by at a tempo she did not normally associate with the waltz, she was keenly aware of the reality of the moment. They were on a planet - her planet, to be sure, but in a time and a situation almost alien to her - spinning around a rather nondescript yellow sun in a celestial backwater. But right here, right now, they were hurtling through space and time, planet around sun, electrons around protons, galaxy in pirouette, the swirl of bright silk and satin skirts…
The atmosphere of the ballroom after the frosty night air was humid and warm, and as the alcohol hit her taste buds and the bubbles assaulted her sinuses, Rose felt as if she might be flung free of the spinning planet, bodysurfing the Vortex…
“Rose.”
The Doctor’s voice, so soft it slipped in beneath the rush of music and conversation, was like the brush of his hand against hers, but when she looked up in anticipation of his attention, he was looking out at the dancers, hands clasped behind him in an almost military stance. She took the moment to trace his familiar features, the fine lines at the corners of his eyes, his smoothly shaven cheeks and throat. She searched for any trace of this morning’s sudden turn, but there was only a faint shadow of blue bruising along his jaw. Instead, she was struck instead by how beautifully cut his angular features were. She knew his face as well as she had ever known anyone’s, and still, sometimes, he took her by surprise.
As if feeling her gaze, he turned to her, sharp features softening in almost a smile, and he let one hand drop to his side, on an arc toward her as he took a breath.
“May I have this dance?”
She was going to kill him.
The Doctor’s gaze broke with hers as it swung to Jack, standing there with his hand extended in best formal manner, and she closed her eyes briefly on the surge of disappointment, willing the Doctor speak, to make the invitation she was so sure he had been about to offer. Instead, he was all dazzling smile and sudden relaxation of his taut posture.
“Perfect! Champagne, music, handsome partner, what more could you want at the Viennese Opera Ball? Off you go, then.”
The bright, cheery tone was going to get him a kick in the shins one of these days. It was the same one he’d used to get rid of her and Adam on Satellite Five, and she didn’t fall for that kind of brush-off twice. The way he pushed his palms forward - such a familiar gesture, in those unfamiliar gloves - as if shooing them onto the dance floor. Like she was a cat underfoot. Torn between digging in her heels and flouncing off in a huff, she set her champagne glass carefully on a passing tray and turned to Jack with an overbright smile.
“Of course you may, sir!” She placed her hand carefully in his and reached down, almost automatically, to gather up the train of the skirt. At least the adrenaline rush was sharpening her reflexes, and although she hadn’t waltzed since ballet lessons in infant school, she found it easy to fall into the rhythm of the dance, rushing into the interlocking circles like finding the right moment to run into the jump rope.
The live orchestra filled up the ballroom, but, surprisingly, without the enveloping sound of electronic amplification, Rose found she could still hear Jack when he smiled and said, “Don’t worry. This’ll work.”
“I’ve waltzed before, Jack.” Her voice was a bit brittle. Her smile had faded quickly as she felt the knot of disappointment in her belly tightening, drawing in more of her nerves and muscles.
“Nah, I meant him.” A slight nod of his head indicated the Doctor, now half the length of the dance floor away, still standing in his “at-ease” position, face impassive, eyes burning gaslight blue even at this distance. “It’ll do him good to know you’re not just waiting for him to ask.”
She bit the inside of her lip hard on the whine, But I aaaaaam. She turned her head to spot him again, and again as they turned. Her doubt surely showed in her eyes as she finally looked up at Jack, rounding the first corner of the ballroom. “Don’t think you can make him jealous, Jack. He’ll either be snide, or he’ll shut down.”
“You think that’s not jealous?” Jack grinned. “Sounds like jealous to me.”
Rose tried to capture another glimpse of the Doctor, but he was obscured by the silken swirl of dancers between them.
“Don’t worry,” repeated Jack, more tenderly. “I know what I’m doing.”
Rose made a face, betraying her youth unintentionally as they danced across the far end of the ballroom, in front of the orchestra.
“Look at me, Rose.” Jack’s voice held a note of challenge.
She met his challenge with her eyes.
“Relax. Listen to the music - hear how the second beat is drawn out?”
Distracted by his seeming non-sequitur, Rose found herself listening, and after a few measures, the rhythm suddenly seemed to deepen, as if it had gone from carrying her across the floor to moving up and down as well, as if she were riding a carousel.
“That’s it,” purred Jack, putting a little extra snap in his turn as she let her right toe trail in a semi-circle against the parquet floor before sweeping it behind her. “Not all beats are created equal.”
She felt a grin spread across her face as they whirled across the floor, a balance point poised perfectly between them. She’d never imagined waltzing could be so much fun, and the fun started to take the edge off her resentment.
The waltz came to an end, and she giggled as she curtseyed before Jack’s deep bow. Though as they applauded the orchestra, her eyes were searching those standing on the edge of the dancefloor. Almost before thinking about it, she began walking back to the tables where she had left him.
He wasn’t there.
The orchestra began the introduction to the next dance, and people began to form up once more. She turned, her eyes searching, unconsciously worrying the gold wire spiral of her pendant.
“Fräulein, may I have this dance?”
She looked up into blue eyes, knowing they wouldn’t be his. Tall, slender, military uniform, neatly cut blond hair. Not very much older than she was. It was odd to hear his speech rendered into English, almost uninflected, almost North American, with a slight edge of received pronunciation, and she realized it was the TARDIS translating. Somehow, it seemed more strange that the TARDIS was translating German from only a little over a century before her time than it had been translating the language of a tree from five billion years in the future.
“Pretty boy!” whispered Jack teasingly in her ear, nudging her with one shoulder, and she blushed, but put her gloved hand in that of the young officer and let him lead her into the next dance.
Dancing with the stranger, pretty though he might be, was a surprisingly flat experience after the exhilarating whirl with Jack. He was so…young, and a bit awkward, steering her more than finding that balance point between them. Rose smiled a little to herself when she realized that times really hadn’t changed so much, and this was not a lot different from that dance when she was thirteen with Simon Watson, that cute boy who’d turned out to be such a dorky dancer.
She was passed from the young blond officer to a darker, less callow young man whose leading was more relaxed. The circles they traced on the floor stayed firmly on the parquet, and she tried not to let her attention wander too obviously.
Her eyes suddenly found him in the crowd, locking on as if to magnetic north. He was dancing with a petite, curvaceous brunette, a striking woman of obvious grace and maturity in her deep burgundy gown that Rose felt her stomach fall. She saw the flash of a cheekbone, the brush of dark lashes, the curve of a wide mouth as they turned, and despite the brevity of the glimpse, from the way that he looked at her, Rose knew that she was a great beauty. Those steel blue eyes gazed down into dark eyes that weren’t hers, and all she could think was that they looked utterly right together. Their bodies moved in perfect harmony, a bit closer than most around, and his surprisingly broad shoulders swept them away into the crowd.
“Your husband?” asked her partner, hazel eyes knowing.
She shook her head sharply, realizing that, even as she tried to relax, she was becoming more tense. Her short, “No,” was more forceful than intended.
“Lover?” The hazel eyes gleamed, reminding her of Jack’s in the pleasure they took at the possibilities.
The familiarity made it easier for her to meet his eyes, smile sweetly, and say, “Yes.”
“He seems occupied for the moment. Would you care to join me for a turn in the Promenade Hall?”
“Ah, that would be very nice,” she replied, lifting her hand from his shoulder to gesture toward the edge of the dancefloor where Jack was sipping a glass of champagne. “But I’m afraid my husband might object.”
“Pity,” sighed the young man and relinquished her as the waltz ended.
She made her way through the applause and appropriated Jack’s glass for a mouthful of champagne. “Have you been dancing?” she asked, and he reached out to tuck back a strand of grown-out fringe that had escaped from her twist.
“A little. You’ve been the belle of the ball.”
“’m not the only one,” she stage-muttered, and he grinned teasingly.
“Tricks for tops.”
“What?” Her confusion drew together her eyebrows as she looked up at him, taking another sip of his champagne
Jack cocked his head thoughtfully, as if running sums in his head. “Uh. Sauce for the goose? Does that make any more sense?”
“Yeah. What does ‘tricks for tops’ mean?”
“Forty-third century slang for the same thing.” He took back the glass to finish off as the orchestra struck up another number. “Hey, ready for another go?”
“That’s not a waltz,” she pointed out, a bit confused.
“Nope, it’s a polka. Come on!” He grabbed her hand and twirled her onto the dance floor. It took her a moment or two to get the hang of the more boisterous dance, but soon they were laughing as they raced across the floor.
***
The Doctor sipped from a bell-shaped glass, something darker than champagne, as mysterious as the look in his shadowed eyes as they arrived, giddy and glowing after the polka. “Are you having a good time?” he asked, seeming so genuinely interested that Rose felt her resentment at his desertion melting away.
“I am.” Her grin stretched her warm cheeks. “How about you? That mysterious Lady X you were waltzing with?”
“Oooh, do tell, yes,” chimed in Jack, but they both ignored him.
“Did you see her?” asked the Doctor, his eyes tightening at the corners.
“Yeah, the lady in red? She was beautiful.”
“You think so?” He almost seemed sad, his eyes searching her features.
“Just saw her for a moment, but yeah.” For some reason, she felt as if she wanted to reassure him as he smiled that soft, faraway, painful little smile he sometimes wore when he thought of the past. He reached out with one hand, and she tilted her face up to him as his forefinger lightly traced across her forehead, pushing that stray strand of hair back behind her ear. The caress of the soft kid sent a shiver over her skin, and as his palm cupped her cheek, she turned her head into it, her eyes drifting closed.
“No one here is more beautiful than you are, Rose.”
His voice was so soft, she wasn’t sure he had actually spoken, but she was afraid to open her eyes to find she had imagined it. It was enough for the moment to believe that he had said it. His thumb slid along her jaw as the tips of his fingers slipped down the side of her throat, and she took an unsteady breath, stopped by the corset.
“You’re quite warm.” Her eyes opened to find him studying her closely, tracing her features. His thumb brushed lightly across her lower lip as if by accident, returning to her cheek, as he lifted his eyes to hers. “Would you like to take a turn in the Promenade?”
“What does ‘take a turn’ mean?” she asked, a nervous giggle melting into flirtatiousness. “You’re the second gentleman who’s asked me that tonight, you know.”
That sudden grin broke over his face. “Just means a walk in the side foyer. Get some air.”
“Sounds lovely.” She slid her hand into the curve of his arm, and Jack fell in on his other side, uncharacteristically subdued.
“I thought we were supposed to be getting fresh air.” Rose fanned her hand before her face as they passed several groups of men puffing on cigars and pipes.
The Doctor chuckled, guiding them through the crowded Promenade. Music was still audible, though muffled by the walls and the chattering of those meandering at a pace that seemed interminably slow to Rose. She glanced across at Jack, who had to stop suddenly when a rather large gentleman in front of him decided to turn and speak to his companion, and they exchanged exasperated looks.
The Doctor dropped his arm, and for a split second, she felt irritated, until he took each of them by the hand and dodged sideways. Like well-taught, but naughty children, they weaved their way through the crowd, never actually jostling or blocking anyone, but gathering speed until they were almost running into the small, half-dark gallery that split off from the Promenade Hall. French doors were open onto the courtyard, letting in decidedly cool air and the music coming from the stage doors propped open for the same reason. A few couples were secreted in alcoves or on benches, but the shadowed gallery was almost deserted.
“Run!” giggled Rose, leaning into the Doctor’s shoulder, and Jack spread his arms, doing a turn along the marble floor.
“Air!” With one of his million-dollar grins, he swept Rose up in another waltz, tracing a large circle across the width of the gallery. They found their balance point immediately, their angular momentum perfectly preserved in frictionless motion across the floor, until Jack let go and Rose spun free into the Doctor’s space, caught up immediately in his orbit as they followed the trajectory Jack had initiated. However smooth the transition, Rose was immediately aware that the focus of their revolution had shifted sharply. The center of gravity was no longer between the two bodies but resided firmly in him. He traced a graceful ellipse, rotating smoothly, noiselessly, and she revolved around him. The music seemed to pick them up and swirl faster even as the harmonies drove downward, as if the floor were dropping away, leaving them suspended…
Until she spun away and came lightly to rest against the velvet of the drapes as Jack assumed her orbit, not a trace of perturbation in the lines. The Doctor held Jack at perfect distance, their matched heights and dress almost blurring their images but for the challenge in the Doctor’s eyes. Jack’s held a trace of yearning under his impudent expression, flaring in surprise as the Doctor stepped in, pivoting expertly on one foot between Jack’s, spinning them to a stop in the shadows beside her.
“Better not.” The Doctor’s voice was soft, his hand gentle on Jack’s arm before he released him, though not stepping back. “Not here.”
“That was some move, Astaire,” breathed Jack, an appreciative smile dawning. “Later?” His eyes were openly hopeful, and the Doctor smiled, squeezing his arm gently.
“Promise.”
A light breeze from courtyard sighed across Rose’s bare shoulders, and a shiver spilled over her heated skin like the moonlight.