She was tired and wired, shell-shocked and overjoyed and petrified, and felt utterly out of control.

She arrived at his door and tried to act normally, except she found she’d never really paid attention to what “normal” was before this and had no idea what it meant. She tried for “businesslike,” hoping it would all be conveyed in one simple knock. To keep her secret from anyone who might be watching. Which no one was.

John did not call for her to come in, as usually happened; instead the door opened on its own, swinging gently inward. Rose considered this oddity for a moment, then walked cautiously inside.

The moment she was past the open door hands appeared and relieved her quickly but quietly of her tray, putting it aside and then grabbing her firmly about the waist and pulling her swiftly behind the cover the door provided. Before she could even form a surprised cry very newly-familiar lips had covered hers and were kissing the breath out of her. John’s smell and touch and the feel of his body were suddenly all around her, and she melted against him with a whimper he gladly swallowed.

They kissed quietly, sweetly, both instinctively working together to make no sound until John finally rested his forehead against hers, panting as noiselessly as possible.

“Rose Rose Rose Rose Rose…” he whispered, silly and smitten.

“John John John John John,” she whispered back, working to keep in a delighted, adoring giggle.

“I so dearly wish you could have been here when I awoke this morning,” he said, hands restless on her back. “I would have given anything to find you there.”

Rose didn’t even want to give voice to the reason she’d had to leave, even though it was obvious; bringing it up would spoil the magic. “Me too,” she said instead. “Did you get any sleep at all?”

He chuckled. “Not really. You?”

“Barely a wink,” she sighed. “It’s going to be a long day.”

His eyes took her in with a quiet hunger. “For more reasons than one,” he murmured.

She nodded at him, looking a little dazed, already feeling the pull.

“Really, you can’t stay here long,” he said, causing Rose a brief flash of hurt and confusion, until he clarified: “I’ll ravish you.”

Rose smiled softly, wickedly. “Well, that’s not much incentive to leave, is it?” She leaned in for another kiss and watched John’s eyes stay open till she made contact, staring at her with a kind of helplessness that made Rose blissfully weak with excitement.

A few more minutes of kissing and John pushed Rose back almost harshly. “I mean it,” he said raggedly. “You make me lose all self-control. At the very least you’ll have me in such a state I won’t be able to teach. Even now I’m not going be able to leave this room for…well, a while.” He smiled a sheepish smile, squirmed against her guiltily.

Rose bit her lip, glowing with fondness for him. She could feel their power over each other so keenly it was like a drug. “All right, I’ll take pity on you,” she said, though she couldn’t resist her own little grind against him. The knowledge he was starting to harden made her stomach flip and her eyes close.

John’s eyes closed as well. “You realize my revenge on you will be swift and terrible.”

“Oh, it will certainly not be terrible,” she murmured against his lips. “And please don’t make it swift.”

She gave him one last peck and swept out the door before the need in his eyes could draw her back, had to consciously stop herself skipping down the hall and suddenly understood why people wrote musicals.

—————-

Their subsequent days and nights continued in just such a fashion: Rose coming to John’s room after everyone had retired, staying with him until the last possible moment before the sun rose, stealing kisses and endearments in the morning when she delivered breakfast and any other time they could throughout the day.

The days passed slowly, the nights blissfully. Rose refrained from showing John too many more “modern” moves, not at all sure how much further she could go before really making him raise his eyebrows. There were furiously-aroused times when she could barely keep from taking him in her mouth or when she was wild to feel his tongue between her folds, but she didn’t want to press her luck. Besides, John was unknowingly teaching her the virtues of slow, and gentle, and reverent—of devoting one’s attention and time so thoroughly to a task that its effects were electrifying.

Sometimes they met in the middle: it wasn’t long before Rose couldn’t resist kissing him open mouthed, and soon kissing with tongues was one of John’s favourite things. He’d want to do it so long she’d grow impatient, desperately needing him to move on to more. He’d linger and savour, teasing out admittedly glorious sensations, igniting everything within her and even though she felt she’d explode, she didn’t often have the heart—or the operating brain cells—to hurry him along.

And apparently she had ignited adventurousness in him in more ways than one.

They would lay awake nights talking about the stars, postulating whether man would ever visit them, what they would find there. John wanted to visit faraway lands, climb mountains, go to Africa and photograph wild beasts. Rose listened with both a quiet joy and a private sadness. She wished she could tell John what he was-the man with her would be nothing but awestruck and overjoyed, forever thinking himself the luckiest, most blessed being ever to exist. But simply having him come back to being the Doctor…that wouldn’t be the reaction, of course. She wished she could split the difference, bring him back without awakening all the world-weariness and stifling guilt that came with it. A perfect balance hovered somewhere in between. A perfect, unachievable balance.

Then again, if John were loosed on the galaxy with his innocence intact…he’d still lose it eventually.

But moments and thoughts like that were few—the remainder was magic. When they weren’t physically trying to climb into each others’ souls, they talked and teased and gazed and giggled and drowsed and curled together and basked.

This went on for one week.

At a week and one day, John’s breakfast was delivered by someone else.

—————-

The knock on John’s door caused the customary smile on his face. “Come in.”

Turning to bestow said smile upon his visitor, he blanched when the visitor was not who he expected. A lanky brown-haired girl, all elbows and knees and terrified silence, entered instead, keeping her head down as she walked quickly for the breakfast table.

“Where’s Rose?” John asked without preamble.

“She’s not available, sir,” came the timid reply. John still hadn’t seen her face for the shadows she kept it in. “I was told to deliver your meal instead.”

Alarm shot through John’s limbs. “Is she sick?”

“No sir, I don’t believe so, though I wasn’t told a definite reason.” The girl hurriedly set out the breakfast implements with a surety and speed Rose never achieved.

John got a brief glance of her flaming cheeks and felt suddenly certain of something: “What reason is being talked about?”

The girl’s head dipped even farther as the colour in her cheeks grew impossibly livid. “I—I don’t know what you—”

“TELL ME what’s being said,” John ordered, the sinking feeling in his stomach taking him over.

The girl paused, finally seeming to find some backbone. She straightened and presented her young freckled face to him. “The talk amongst the staff says she’s been dismissed, sir.” Her eyes didn’t leave his; they clearly said “You know why.”

John’s face was now the one that coloured.

Without another word he strode from the room. When he was gone the girl supported herself with one arm against the breakfast table, slumping and sighing in terrified relief.

—————-

In the school’s back corridors, Rose was on her way to the servant’s entrance, escorted by the thoroughly-disgruntled head Housekeeper. In this case said entrance was to be her exit—she’d been directed to leave immediately. The Housekeeper was making no secret of her irritation at this entire matter: not only had the morale of the staff been thrown into complete chaos, watching one of their own lose her job without the slightest advance notice or consideration, but the interruption of her daily duties to take care of it had her mightily put out.

Rose had trouble sympathising.

She endeavoured to keep her head high amidst the occasional gawking looks and the whispers. It seemed no one had any compunction about staring straight at her while the gossip flew.

Except one person.

When Matron saw her from a distance, the older woman’s eyes flashed for one long moment with a kind of shocked paralysis. She then cast them firmly to the floor and did not raise them again as she passed.

Rose knew his “scandal” meant nothing to her in the grand scheme of things, existing as it did in a time she wouldn’t even inhabit for much longer. She was panicked about getting in touch with John, frantic to figure out how not to lose track of him, but concern about her “reputation” didn’t even register.

Nevertheless, it didn’t stop her face from contorting into a look so furious that by all rights the Matron should have spontaneously burst into flames.

—————-

John’s angry stride was carrying him toward the door to the kitchen. He could hear behind the doors that he was approaching a clucking henhouse.

He burst in on a group of women preparing and clearing breakfast trays, and his presence immediately stopped all conversation and activity. “Where is Rose?” he boomed.

The gathered staff of women all gawked at him, stunned at the arrival of this newly-insane professor. One of the older women found her voice the quickest.

“Mister Smith, you must leave at once! I’m afraid the Cook doesn’t tolerate anyone but—”

“And I’m afraid I don’t care,” John cut across; the woman looked thoroughly shocked. “If you tell me what I want to know I’ll be gone. Where is Rose Tyler?”

No one offered anything. They seemed unsure of consequences of responding, but also…strangely united.

“How long ago did she leave?” he demanded, looking angrily between them all. “Will she still be gathering her things, or has too much time passed for that?” He waited a long but impatient moment. “Well?”

He looked around wildly and spotted Jenny. “You! You’re her friend. She would absolutely tell you her plans!”

Jenny’s look was nothing like it was the night they’d spoken before, the night Rose had run off after the light in the sky. Her eyes were wide and bizarre and her smile was oily. “I’m sorry, sir, I’m afraid I haven’t a clue,” she said, in a way that made John’s skin crawl. Abruptly she stepped closer and inhaled deeply through her nose, causing her nostrils to flare disturbingly. John couldn’t move away from her quickly enough.

Faced with a stonewall, John was about to unleash a fresh tirade when a young ginger woman spoke.

“She’ll still be at the servants’ quarters, sir.” The woman’s expression held something like compassion. “It’s not been even an hour since she was dismissed, but I don’t expect packing will take her long—she hasn’t many things.”

John met her eyes with an expression of pure respect and gratitude. The woman nodded her acknowledgment with a polite smile, and the kitchen door was left swinging as John flew back out it.

—————-

Conversation in the kitchen erupted again with the force of a hurricane, words like “shameless!” and “never seen the like!” audible within the maelstrom. A group of scandalised older women focused on the ginger woman.

“What possessed you to tell that perverted old sod where she’d gone?”

Ginger woman looked at them. “Did you think there was anything going to stop him?”

The women had no response, but it didn’t prevent them resuming gossip amongst themselves. Ginger woman stood and left the fracas, abruptly unwilling to listen.

Evidently no one else recognized the look of a man in love.

—————-

John was nearly out the school’s front doors when the Headmaster casually stepped in front of him. He smiled tightly. “A word in my study, Mr. Smith?”

John clamped down on his instant impulse to tell the Headmaster to get the bloody hell out of his way. “Certainly, sir,” he forced out.

Moments later, perched tensely on a chair in the Headmaster’s study, John watched the Headmaster arrange various items on his desk. “I’m sure you know why you’re here,” he said. “I further assume you’ve already been informed that Tyler has been dismissed.”

John nodded again. “Am I?” he asked numbly.

“No.” John looked up in surprise. “Your skill and your record have always been exemplary, and I would be hard-pressed to find your equal.” The Headmaster’s look became something frank, almost fatherly. “This isn’t the first time in the history of private schools that something like this has happened, and it certainly won’t be the last. I would be a fool to release you for a…lapse of judgment.” The Headmaster seemed to think he was giving John a comforting absolution. John merely felt his jaw tighten.

“Of course,” the Headmaster continued, rising to pace, “I would like Farringham to avoid a reputation for Masters intimidating young women into behaviour that will lose them their positions and character; to do so makes it most difficult to get servants.”

John was momentarily speechless. “You think I coerced her?”

“Or perhaps the little strumpet set her cap for you, hoping to become with child so she could force a marriage out of you.” He frowned at John. “Mr. Smith, I’ve been at this post a very long time and have seen a great number of things. You may presently be blinded by emotion, but in my experience once your head has cleared, you’ll see sense. Situations like these boil down to one of those two cases, nine times out of ten.”

John fought to contain his temper. “This is the one leftover time,” he ground out.

The Headmaster smiled thinly at him. “In whatever case,” he went on, “there is to be no further social contact between you and Tyler, on or off the school premises. In future I would advise to confine your attentions to barmaids and shopgirls. Do I make myself clear?”

John’s jaw was tight enough to grind his teeth to dust. He could only nod.

The Headmaster moved back and sat at his desk again. “That will be all.”

—————-

John’s trip to the servants’ quarters to find Rose proceeded as planned.

From moment to moment, depending on his thoughts, his heart alternately leapt and sank and rallied and despaired. What would he do to find her if she was already gone? She’d have to leave him some clue, wouldn’t she? He had no idea where she was going now, or if she even had anywhere to go. Even if the school no longer permitted her to see him she’d find a way, wouldn’t she? Or would she expect him to do the chivalrous thing and find a way to come to her? And…she would want him to come to her, wouldn’t she? The scandal wouldn’t have put her off him? Maybe she’d be thinking instead about her future and her character and…John’s head felt ready to explode.

He arrived at the servants’ building and momentarily tried to decide if it was better to just run up the stairs full throttle and check every room for her, or to try and learn her room’s location so as not to waste time and energy. His choice was made when a young resident of the property appeared. Easily influenced by a bit of sternness, she readily gave up the information. John took the stairs two at a time, feeling a bit of a bully.

The door to the indicated room was half-ajar; John shoved it open. There Rose sat on one of the two small cots, holding a packed bag, staring into space. His heart leapt and then stopped; he waited for her reaction.

Rose turned and cried out upon seeing him, launching herself from the bed and into his arms. He caught her and clutched her to him with every bit of strength he had, holding her as she sobbed in relief and feeling grateful tears prick the backs of his own eyes.

“You found me,” she wept, “You got here in time. I didn’t know how long they’d let me wait, or how I’d talk to you if they made me leave, or—”

“Shhh,” John said, rocking her back and forth half to soothe and half to celebrate the feel of her. “I’m here. And as long as you’ll have me I always will be.”

Rose pulled back to look at him with fresh tears and amazement. She looked overwhelmed and beholden and as though she was holding herself back against some thought. Her lip began to quiver. “It’s my fault. Someone must have seen me leave, I wasn’t careful enough—”

He kissed her to stop her berating herself. She kissed back ferociously, tasting of tears.

When they paused for breath he looked at her tenderly. “Rose…do you really not know how much I love you?”

Rose went completely still, staring at him open mouthed, and a kind of laugh-sob escaped her.

For one bewildering, horrible minute she looked both over the moon and as though he had just dug her grave.

Her face suddenly gained a heartbreaking intensity, one so concentrated he abruptly suspected there was something he didn’t understand. “Remember this, never forget it,” she warned. “I will always love you—and want you—more than any man I will ever meet in my entire life.” She gazed at him as though trying to memorize him. “No matter what happens, I am never taking that back.”

John kissed the breath out of her, lifting her off her feet, feeling her admonition that he remember the moment to be singularly unnecessary.

—————-

A brief while later and they were still there, John sitting on the floor against the bed with Rose sat between his legs, her back to his chest, his arms folded around her.

“The Housekeeper should be back any time now to walk me to the gate,” Rose murmured finally. “I’m sure it won’t do for you to be caught here.” She looked forlornly over her shoulder at him. “We have to leave.”

“I know,” he said, still looking straight ahead. “I wish you’d tell me where this friend of yours lives.”

“I wish I could,” Rose covered, “but she’s showing me such a kindness by letting me stay with her, I don’t want to drag her into it.” She didn’t really know what the TARDIS would do if she let John in, but it didn’t seem like part of the plan.

Suddenly she felt John’s body straighten. “What day is it?”

“Thursday. The twenty-first.”

He moved so he could face her better. “Meet me tonight?”

Rose nodded. “Where?”

John smiled. “The village hall.”

Rose grew concerned. “But what will the Headmaster—”

John shook his head. “Don’t know, don’t care.”

Rose’s heart squeezed painfully. “John…”

“Rose…it’s my choice,” he implored her. “Just…meet me?”

The look in his clear eyes vanquished her. “Yes.” John’s grin went to full wattage.

“Right. Now before you go to…your friend’s, I want you to visit a shop in the village, called Foster and Co. I’ll have called ahead, and I’ll need you to pick up a package for me. All right?”

“All right,” Rose nodded in bemused confusion. “You going to tell me what we’ll be doing?”

“No,” he beamed. “It’s an adventure.”

Rose’s heart squeezed again and she hugged him, hard, finding the understatement overwhelming.

When her racing mind had awoken her that morning (two hours early), Rose had immediately felt horror at the idea of seeing John when she delivered him breakfast. She’d spent the time till sunrise brainstorming excuses that might get her out of it. By the time she had to get up, she’d given it up as a bad job and steeled herself to face him…only to find when she arrived in the kitchen that John had called down to say he wouldn’t be needing breakfast—something about a bad stomach. Rose had felt hurt and disappointed, and then felt like an idiot for feeling hurt and disappointed.

Midday now with no encounters, and essentially nothing had changed. She was dying to see him and dreaded him simultaneously, and frankly she hated it. Blimey, where was Jenny? She never seemed to be assigned to work with Rose these days. Rose wasn’t really sure how much she’d feel comfortable telling her, but…the company might help. Maybe some conversation to keep her mind from whirling.

The entryway floor swam meaninglessly in front of her eyes—she had no idea what kind of job she was doing scrubbing it and she didn’t care. All she could think was how she’d finally experienced something she’d craved since the day she started travelling with the Doctor, but naturally it couldn’t be simple. She ought to have been rejoicing, and felt cheated that she couldn’t.

She felt sure that what she’d seen yesterday were the Doctor’s real feelings on display. This was how he could and might behave if only he weren’t constantly thinking of himself as an old, damaged murderer who deserved nothing good for the rest of his existence. How he might let himself relax and be if he wasn’t constantly thinking of all of time and space and every possible thread of fate and the well-being of every species in existence.

She’d seen it now—tasted it, literally—and she would never doubt her instincts on the subject again. No matter how he kept her at bay in future she would always know he was denying himself and her. And that was exactly it: once he came back, he might go back to denying himself. Provided they got out of this predicament at all, once he got his big Time Lord brain back he could easily regress to hiding within himself, continuing to wear his planet’s fate as a hairshirt and single-handedly denying them both the one thing that might make him whole again, if only for the time it took her to live her life. Yes, her life would be brief, but she would argue the healing that being together could provide might give him what he needed to keep going, after she was gone. (She could argue it, but he would resist the subject fiercely—his stubbornness could be colossal.)

She’d have a greater toehold and reason to bring it up after this, but right now—her chest abruptly felt like someone was sitting on it—right now she had his heart, and she didn’t want to give it back. She knew she had his heart back in their “real” situation, too, but…not like this.

She knew now that fear of 1913’s repercussions wasn’t why she’d pulled back in the linen room. To her it didn’t matter one iota what anyone thought of them in this century. Let him be fired and whispered about, let her be sacked and labelled a slag; they’d muddle through it and in a few weeks they’d hopefully be back in their old situations and no one here would ever see them again.

The wooden floor before her now swam and blurred, but for a new reason. She blinked in faint surprise when a tear actually splashed down onto it. She’d pulled back because to have the Doctor and lose him might break her completely. She wanted, desperately wanted the Doctor to choose her when he was him.

————–

He finally saw her that day, in a way that just made everything worse.

He wasn’t daft enough to think he could possibly keep his mind off her, so he concentrated on simply managing it: packing up his thoughts and carrying them with him. He mentally pictured keeping them off to the side while he tended to any business at hand. When he wasn’t occupied, however, his thoughts broke their mental bindings and her image assailed him. Her image and everything he’d experienced about her, there in that room…

At times it became so burdensome he wanted to weep. Nothing had ever meant to him what this did, and there was no solution at hand.

Lost in this, he had rounded a corner and seen her without warning. It was near to the next class bell and a smattering of boys strode the corridors. One of them was with Rose near a stairway, both with their backs to him. The boy’s arm was around her waist; Rose seemed to be leaning away.

“Blankenship!” he erupted, immediately sounding wrong to his own ears; his voice was too strained, unnatural. He couldn’t stop himself continuing: ”Explain yourself!”

Blankenship turned, looking frightened, but when Rose turned to see John her eyes narrowed at him. She patted the boy’s shoulder reassuringly, using him as leverage to stand straight again. ”Thank you, Malcolm,” she said gently. The boy looked at her uncertainly. Rose nodded and the boy made a hasty escape.

John felt full of defensive bluster as Rose approached, appraising him calmly. ”I stumbled and almost fell down the stairs,” she said quietly. ”Malcolm caught me. It was a godsend he was there.”

John could hear her words but couldn’t process them; his adrenaline refused to abate. Rose’s eyes gained an edge of pity and suddenly John knew this was bad. He was wildly grateful there were no reflective surfaces nearby in which he could see his face. This wasn’t defending her against Baines, this wasn’t chivalry—this was hysteria and obsession. This looked bad.

He wanted to say something to fix it, to apologize, to make it go away, but he couldn’t even form words, much less think of the right ones. He turned and left as quickly as he could, his face burning.

————–

Rose sat on her bed near her window, in her flannel nightgown with her arms around her curled-up legs. She’d had the room to herself ever since her former roommate had left to get married, to someone who could evidently take her away from all this—seemed ironic, somehow. She stared out at the night, moonlit and frosty. It was midnight and she knew sleep was absolutely off the table.

Her brain churned with the same thoughts it had fruitlessly tried to process all day. One more round with them would not earn a different result, she knew. She was reaching a conclusion that made her feel shamefully desperate, but was simultaneously concluding she didn’t care.

She uncurled herself and reached under her bed for her boots, lacing them up over bare feet. She put her coat over her nightgown, donned her hat, scarf and gloves. Moments later she was outside, traversing the route to the school grounds by moonlight, going as quickly as she could to keep frostbite at bay. It was far too late for anyone else to see her doing so…she hoped.

Once at the school building proper she sneaked up the back stairs, into the hall and arrived at John’s door, panting faintly, gathering herself.

If this was the only opportunity she would ever have to be with the Doctor, she would take it with both hands and never look back. She could think of no worse fate than to let this chance go by and realize later it would never come again. The regret would certainly kill her.

She knocked softly, and when he opened his door to find her there he was in his shirtsleeves and suit trousers, tie gone and sleeves rolled messily up. He looked not in the least surprised to see her; his pale eyes were quiet and helpless and intensely thankful. He moved aside to let her enter, shut the door behind her and pulled her wordlessly into his arms.

————–

Standing in shooting class that afternoon, the sharp, endless reports of machine gun fire jarred John’s nerves even more than usual. This was already the class for which he had the most trouble staying present, but today… today he had mentally left the country.

He was quite aware he was distracted by his dream from this morning, but also…he never remembered being quite so aware of how much he truly disliked this activity, how strongly it went against everything inside him.

It was dangerous knowledge, this, an idea that once planted could fester. He felt a sharp stab of fear at the idea of not being able to keep himself devoted to this task, of the possibility of the inner life that was revealing itself dictating some kind of rebellion. Oh, not that it was so unusual for a person to have a distaste for guns—they weren’t in America, after all—it was more a fear that if he let this one bit of self-determination escape…

…it might open a floodgate.

This was not a place to let one’s emotions run riot, and during his youth when his emotions had ruled him, nothing good had come of it.

“What you did before, that wasn’t real adventure.”

John suddenly could see so far past the horizon…

“Excuse me, sir!”

John shook himself irritably. ”Yes?” he snapped. He looked down to find Hutchinson addressing him from his crouched position next to his gun. Latimer hunkered on the other side of it, obviously awaiting unpleasantness.

“Sir, I simply cannot operate under these conditions.” Hutchinson sneered in the other boy’s direction. ”Latimer is being deliberately shoddy. Permission to give him a beating, sir.”

John surveyed them both: Hutchinson’s eyes were cold and flat and anticipated confirmation; Latimer’s were brown and bottomless and helped convey the resignation in his elfin face.

John felt a physical tremor run through him as his decision made itself.

“Mr. Hutchinson!” he erupted in feigned indignation. ”Do you presume to usurp my judgment as to who is to be punished?”

Hutchinson clearly would not have been more surprised if John had begun speaking Swahili. “N-no sir,” he sputtered in confusion.

John’s eyebrow arched above an ice-blue eye in elegant disdain. “Well, to prevent you forgetting yourself in future I think we should make this lesson memorable.” He turned to the other boys, who looked nearly as gobsmacked. “The rest of you: class dismissed, all weapons stowed for safety, as Mr. Hutchinson is about to make twelve laps of the firing range, full speed.”

He turned back and glared at Hutchinson until the boy rose in utter disbelief and began running for the edges of the firing field. The remaining crowd of boys looked at each other, then hurriedly began stashing the weaponry, ostensibly before John came to his senses. John glanced down to see Latimer positively gaping at him, the word “astonishment” not even beginning to describe the expression on his face.

John shot the boy a wink, then his face erupted into a manic grin. He felt strangely, pleasantly possessed. He turned on his heel and walked back toward the school.

When he did he saw Rose watching him from a window within earshot of the firing range, biting her lip and beaming as though her heart would burst.

————–

John and Rose walked casually, wordlessly into the hall and then to an alcove where they wouldn’t be seen or easily overheard.

“I wanted to tell you,” Rose half-whispered, clearly struggling to hold in her excitement, “that I thought about it and you really did have a very good point about Latimer needing to learn to defend himself but I have to say you were ABSOLUTELY BRILLIANT!” Rose’s glee burst out in the form of a raised voice and a bounce in her feet. John shushed her in amusement as she grabbed both John’s hands and shook them; she sheepishly clamped her mouth shut, both of them looking around.

“Well, I’m sure the boy’s father will have something to say about it once he hears,” John replied in the same half-whisper, “but in the meantime…” He smiled and shrugged.

Rose fairly glowed at him. “Why did you do it?”

“Oh, because Hutchinson’s a ponce,” he whispered back, eyes rolling. Rose’s lips clamped again to stifle another giggle. “Because I wanted to see the look on his face,” he admitted with a grin. His eyes caught hers for a moment and suddenly his expression melted beautifully, helplessly. ”To see the look on your face,” he whispered, smiling, with an honesty and awe that shocked them both. ”Exactly like that.”

Suddenly all the air went out of the little alcove.

Neither moved, their gazes locked and held. Rose couldn’t ever remember a moment between them that was this electric, maybe not even when they’d first met. It lasted until the faraway sounds of boys re-entering the halls from their classrooms gently brought life back.

Shaking herself, Rose squeezed the hands she still held. ”Brilliant,” she repeated with a smile. “Thank you.”

John grinned back and said nothing. Rose wondered if he trusted his voice. They let go and moved off in opposite directions.

Around the first corner Rose nearly collided with Matron, standing with her back turned. ”Oh! Pardon me, ma’am,” Rose said politely.

“That’s quite all right,” Matron replied, just as politely. When Rose was gone she glanced back over her shoulder at the alcove where Rose and John had just stood, letting the expression of crushing disappointment and hurt reclaim her face.

She closed her eyes and reached inside her apron pocket, clasping onto something she kept there. A moment of holding it, and she calmed.

————–

End of the day, twilight outside his room’s windows and there was no longer any need or point to pretending he could concentrate; he could hear her.

There was a small room a few doors down the hall that the maids used for storing linens and other necessities, a place where they could get supplies as they made their rounds. Rose was in that room, moving softly. Humming a little. He smiled.

His legs lifted and moved him as though he weren’t the one in charge of them. He felt crazy and terrified.

In the quiet hallway, John was soon standing outside the open door to that room.

————–

Rose turned and saw John half-silhouetted in the linen room doorway and wordlessly put down the stack of linens she was holding. She knew something was different.

No one else would have known, but to her his face and posture were a jumble of contradictions, a combination of features and feelings she’d never seen him personify. His eyes were shy, dark and gentle, yet drank her in more openly and unabashedly than he’d ever done. He moved toward her cautiously in the small, shelf-lined space, but with a quiet intensity that felt very much like being stalked. He looked frightened, and vulnerable, and utterly impossible to dissuade. Butterflies began to riot in her stomach.

He stopped within inches of her; she stared up at him and his attention poured down on her. The sparse light from the half-open door cast shadows over the planes of him: the arches of his cheekbones, the slope and droop of his nose, the Adam’s apple in his throat. Rose’s heart was pounding so hard she vaguely wondered for her health. She could do nothing but stare, lost in those astonishing eyes, now gone navy with the light and the mood. She couldn’t believe it was possible for them to look like that, at her. Her gaze drifted to his lips – they’d always looked so soft and full to her, almost feminine. But nothing about his proximity or the intentions within it felt feminine just now.

He laid gentle hands on her waist; Rose gave a soft gasp at the touch. He smiled faintly, nervously, and stepped closer. His face drifted in to nuzzle softly at her nose, moved again brush his cheek against hers; he sighed softly at each contact.

Rose’s head spun with both the sweetness of it and with sheer anticipation. He continued to move his face around hers, ghosting her with breath and smell and almost-there touches, slides of skin against skin until she was tortured with goosebumps and craving the touch of his lips so hard that when they finally brushed hers she cried out softly into his mouth.

The instant she did he moaned in response and closed his mouth over hers firmly, properly, arms clutching and locking her to him. She melted gratefully into the vise of his hold, which he took as encouragement to pull her in even more. Their lips met and slid and separated and met again, setting every nerve in her body alight. She ran her arms up his broad back and clutched his shoulders, dizzy with sensation and disbelief. His hands moved to her face, warm palms holding her cheeks, fingers working their way into her hair and pulling loose strands from the updo that kept it neat under her maid’s cap. This was the rightest thing that had ever happened to her, ever in her entire life.

With what little conscious thought she had available, Rose fought to remember to let him set the pace of the kiss, the behaviour. She had no idea what constituted a proper kiss in this time period and she didn’t want to do anything he thought was odd, or—worse yet—whorish. But when she forgot herself and ran her tongue lightly over his bottom lip, he moaned in surprise and crushed her to him even harder.

A small noise in the hallway stilled them, just for a second. Whatever it was continued down the hallway until it was no longer there.

But by then it was too late.

After a beat John broke away breathlessly, resting his forehead against hers. She could almost hear his mind’s gears speeding up, feel his brain filling with “what if?”s because if she were honest, hers was doing, too. She didn’t know who stepped back from whom, but soon someone had.

She raised her eyes to his and found his face a heartbreaking combination of want, tenderness and fear. She nodded at him, barely perceptibly. He backed toward the door and her heart was screaming at him not to go, but the sound was buried under the noise in her brain.

A moment later she was alone in the small room, numbly tucking her hair back into place. She waited till she was alone in her bedroom in the maids’ quarters to start crying, as she couldn’t have him hearing her. No doubt he was already punishing himself enough.

She’d never come here before—for the first few weeks any time she had off was spent recovering from utter exhaustion. Evidently she was gaining endurance; she smiled to herself.

She looked around the small square, deflating a bit at how little she found: a modest collection of very utilitarian shops, an old church, etc. To be sure, she hadn’t expected Disneyland or anything, but she had hoped she could wander around for an hour or so—as it stood she’d be able to see everything in about 15 minutes, if she stretched. Still, there were a few kinds of shops that no longer existed for her—the cobbler’s, for example—might be interesting to see how things were done there. And the Sweet Shoppe did hold promise, calling to the tiny bit of spending money she had burning a hole in her coat pocket.

Despite all attempts to be positive, though, her heart sank a little as she reflected how there was one way a place couldn’t help but be fun, no matter where it was—how normally, if she visited a town centre in a strange time she’d be accompanied by…

“Rose Tyler!”

Her eyes widened in surprise, then relief and affection swelled in her chest; she turned to see John approaching. He stopped satisfyingly close in front of her, cheeks (and ears) pink in the cold.

“Fancy finding you here.”

Rose couldn’t hold back her smile. “Yes, fancy it.”

His gaze was drawn to her hat, coat and gloves. ”You’re certainly dressed smartly today,” he commented. “Is this your Sunday best?”

“Erm…” Rose didn’t know if it was or wasn’t. She panicked—she must have unknowingly dressed too well for her “station.” Except the TARDIS had laid it out for her—how could she be wrong? “Yes, I suppose it is…” she improvised, “but…I didn’t feel like waiting for Sunday.”

The amused look on his face told her her explanation was odd but entertaining enough that he wouldn’t press her on it. Quite all right with her. ”Well, you certainly won’t be taken for a maid in something as fine as that.”

It all clicked into place: she was being told her maid status was hidden, allowing her to consort with a schoolmaster in relative peace, at least for the time being.

The TARDIS always did work in mysterious ways.

Rose shrugged, still a mite self-conscious. ”Well, there was no grand plan. Just a whim, I suppose.”

Conversation lagged for a moment during which John just watched her keenly, something Rose realized he was starting to do more and more. ”Glad to see you’re still talking to me,” he said finally. Rose, remembering the exchange about Latimer, rolled her eyes in an “of course I am” expression. He qualified: “After reading my journal and learning how secretly barmy I am.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Rose smiled. “I didn’t learn that from your book.” Her eyes twinkled with mischief.

John smiled and nodded in grudging recognition of her zinger. ”There are other maids, you know.”

Rose shook her head. “Not for you. I’m the only one on staff not scared of you.”

He chuckled, apparently not the least surprised at the news. He regarded her with a faint smile and a raised eyebrow. ”And why is that, do you think?”

Something about the look in his eyes caused Rose’s heart to flutter. She kept her composure with teasing. “Well, the others obviously don’t know a great softie when they see one.”

He made a show of being affronted. “A softie?”

“Yes, and there’s no point in arguing with me, I’m always right. I have very advanced softie-spotting skills.”

John shook his head, surrendering. ”What are you doing here all by yourself?”

“Oh,” Rose blinked. “Well, my mate Jenny had planned to come with me but…she’s made herself scarce. No idea where she’s got to.” She shrugged. “So I just decided to come by myself.”

He nodded sagely. “It seems there is a need here. If you are amenable, I shall gladly offer my services as an escort during your visit. I can fill in bits of local history that might interest you, as well as protect you from any yobs who might take advantage.”

Rose nodded seriously, looking around what she felt had to be the least dangerous environment she had ever been in. “Yes, it seems I have been most unwise.” She leaned toward him, speaking confidentially. “Are there many yobs?”

John leaned in. “They’re hidden in the trees,” he replied, deadpan.

Their serious looks gave way to grins as he offered her his arm. Rose took it, feeling lighter than she had in weeks.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
With John at her side, Rose soon found herself quite entertained.

Her modern eyes found fascination in places John overlooked: she lingered an unseemly amount of time at places like the blacksmith’s (quite getting on the smith’s nerves) and the watermill, soaking up the way things used to be done while John merely shook his head in bemusement. The Sweet Shoppe did not disappoint, offering Rose several never-before-encountered treats to choose from which John helpfully described. Where there wasn’t fun, they made their own: strolling through the small church cemetery became a furtive game of imagining what the departed used to look like based solely on their names. Rose loved how John looked like he couldn’t quite believe his own blasphemy, but couldn’t resist playing the game anyway.

It was during just that game that it happened: John had walked on ahead a bit and Rose was heading over to tell him about a particularly promising tombstone name when she saw him standing outside the churchyard gate, talking to the Headmaster. In the few minutes since she’d last seen him, John’s entire demeanour had changed: his posture had gone ramrod, the chill in his blue eyes sub-arctic. He nodded seriously at the Headmaster’s conversation and responded with gravity. Every bit of levity about him had vanished and instead there stood the “scary old thing” Jenny had described, somehow landed in the middle of a quaint town on a lovely day.

Rose fell back behind a tree trunk, watching and not moving until their conversation was finished and she’d seen the Headmaster go.

She made her way through the churchyard gate toward John. ”Making you talk work during your time off?” She made a tsking noise. ”The man’s a slave driver.”

John turned to her, his smile wan and apologetic. Rose could’ve pummelled the Headmaster for the transformation he’d wrought. “Yes, it seems he wants to meet with all the Masters this evening after supper.” He looked around at their surroundings, everywhere but at her. ”I should probably go back and prepare.”

Now Rose felt murderous. 1913 was the worst year ever and if she ever did get the Doctor back she was going to pound the crap out of him for landing them here. That blasted encounter had moved John further away from her, this time seriously and without a doubt. Who knew how long it would be before he came back, if ever?

Nevertheless she straightened stoically, preparing for the impending brush-off. ”That’s fine. I can stay here and look around some more by myself.” She tried to seem as unperturbed as possible.

John considered this for a second then abruptly shook himself. ”Nonsense. It would be un-gentlemanly of me not to see you home.” His face was a mask of seriousness. ”Have you forgotten the yobs?”

Rose blinked twice before a slow smile spread across her face; it seemed she’d underestimated him. ”Why yes, sir, it seems I did. Wherever would I be without you?”

John shook his head in mock exasperation and offered his arm. She took it and they walked out of the square, heading for the school. Rose glanced at John’s profile: his smile wasn’t 100%, but neither was it gone. He didn’t look completely relaxed…and Rose sobered to consider that he probably shouldn’t be, and neither should she.

But at least for the walk back, he was hers.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
They trudged up a steep rise in the road, their conversation easy even if their breathing was not.

“You told me before that you weren’t ‘born to the life you lead,’” Rose mentioned, puffing faintly. ”What life were you born to?”

John put his head down and scowled a little, looking embarrassed. Rose felt a little sorry for prying, but only a little. It may have been heartless of her to think this—since obviously John wouldn’t know the difference—but she just couldn’t bring herself to feel too bad inquiring after memories that weren’t even real.

“I grew up in the North, in Manchester,” he began. Rose smiled a little at the TARDIS’s apparent attempt at continuity.

“So I’m guessing your family didn’t have money, then?”

“None to speak of. My parents were strictly working class.” They came to the top of the rise and John took a deep breath, getting his air back. ”There was actually some money in other parts of the family, but there’d been…disagreements in the past.” He looked at Rose and smirked cynically. ”People not speaking to one another and such.” Rose nodded.

He didn’t seem inclined to continue. Rose couldn’t resist: ”So did you used to have a Northern accent?”

His cheeks flared pink and she knew he had. ”Oh, please say something in it!” she begged, skipping sideways along next to him, hands clasped in anticipation.

He looked adorably flustered. ”Why would you want me to do that?” he sputtered.

“I—I used to have a friend from the North…” She didn’t quite know how to finish the sentence. ”Someone very special. He had an accent and I miss it.”

John’s eyebrow achieved spectacular heights. ”‘He?’”

Rose gave him an admonishing smirk. ”Yes, ‘he.’ He was a…friend from another time.”

“Hmmf,” John grunted, completely Doctor-like. Rose warmed yet ached with the familiarity of it.

But wasn’t distracted enough to let him off the hook.

“I haven’t forgotten,” she grinned.

John rolled his eyes. ”I’m not sure I even remember how,” he protested.

“Pleeeeease?” She began hopping sideways again, watching him.

He glanced at her once, twice, then there it was: “Oi! D’you mind not staring like I’m an act in the circus? Not a trained monkey, me.”

Rose let out a joyful noise and clapped, bouncing up and down in place. John just shook his head, trying to hide the width of his smile and his obvious pleasure at her reaction. ”You’re just barking, you are,” he said, sounding like he hadn’t completely switched back.

Rose hurried to catch up with him. ”So, you changed your accent on purpose, yes?”

He nodded. “Worked long and hard.”

“But why?”

John stared at her as if she’d lost her mind. ”So someone might take me seriously. Maybe even give me a job?”

“And they wouldn’t do that unless you changed?” she pressed.

John looked as though Rose’s relative innocence on the subject was baffling, yet making him doubt his own judgment. She was of course well familiar with the politics of accents, but something about his assumption that he had to change to be worthy was making her challenge him on it.

“Well, I suppose someone may have, but I didn’t want to take the chance.” He peered at her quizzically. ”Have you never thought of changing your accent, Little Miss Londonder?”

She considered this seriously. ”Maybe, sometimes,” she said, then shrugged. “But then I wouldn’t be me.”

She watched him marvel at her a little. It was her turn to blush.

“So you wanted out of Manchester, then,” she said, picking up their thread.

John sighed quietly and squinted into the distance. ”Yes and no. I had always wanted out, but…initially I never considered education as a means of doing so.”

She waited in quiet expectation, hoping her eyes conveyed that it was safe for him to continue. After a moment he did.

“I had rather a misspent youth, in all honesty. I was something of a hoodlum.” A beat and they looked at each other: ”A yob!” they declared in laughing unison. John’s expression soon returned to a quiet smile. “When I was a child I was merely unruly, but when I became a young teen my ‘yobbish’ behaviour began in earnest. My mates and I, we stole things, broke things, terrorized old people, drank before we were meant to.”

Rose nodded in the silence he’d left. ”So what changed?”

A look came over John’s face then, so pained and intense Rose now feel sincerely sorry for asking. ”You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want…” she said quickly.

“No, I will…” He subtly gathered himself. ”There was a night when I was 13 when I didn’t go home. Fell asleep at my mate’s house after staying out all night causing trouble and raiding his father’s liquor cabinet,” he grinned humourlessly. A short pause. ”That just happened to be the night there was a fire at my house.”

Rose’s stomach fell into the depths of her shoes. She could see where this was going and she wanted desperately to stop it, but it was too late. ”No one in the house made it out.” He looked at her. ”They all burned.”

Rose didn’t believe for a second that the TARDIS had implanted this in his invented memories. The stubborn git’s unconscious had undoubtedly brought that in on its own, unwilling to stop punishing him even when he wasn’t him.

He gazed at the ground. ”If I’d been there—”

“Don’t you dare,” she cut across, surprising herself with her own protective vehemence. Surprising him too, it looked like, but strangely he just looked at her. “I just…I—I want to institute a rule,” she said finally. ”You’re not allowed to blame yourself for anything while you’re with me.”

He watched her for a few seconds and nodded, smiling slightly, looking terribly vulnerable. A moment later he covered and continued.

“After that one of my aunts from the more moneyed side of the family took me in, spent liberally to send me to school. I felt I couldn’t possibly be ungrateful for her gift, and that I owed it to her and—” He built up to his next words. “—the rest of my family not to squander the opportunity. I had to make something of myself. It was time to stop…chasing adventure,” he sighed.

“What you did before, that wasn’t real adventure,” Rose said firmly.

“And how do you know so much about it?” he asked in bemusement.

Rose looked at him with a kind of rueful affection, then reached for a joke. ”I am wise beyond my years,” she intoned gravely.

John smirked, looking back to the path ahead. ”It wasn’t always easy, I’ll tell you. It didn’t really matter the manner of my speech, how much I revealed about my past, the other boys always seemed to find out where I’d come from and make things difficult.”

A light bulb went on for Rose. ”So they treated you like Hutchinson did Latimer?”

“Tried to.”

“What did you do?”

He looked at her frankly. ”Made them sorry.”

“You ‘toughened.’”

“Had to. No one was going to appear and do it for me.”

“But wouldn’t you like to live in a world where somebody might?” Rose warmed to her newly-discovered way of explaining. ”Where there’s a chance someone with more power and knowledge than you could just pop in and…make things right? Make you feel less alone?” She watched him hopefully.

John, for his part, was marvelling again. ”I’m the one who dreams I’m a spaceman,” he said finally, ”but really, I find it much more likely it’s you who’s from another world.”

Rose smiled as cheekily as she could, using every bit of willpower to disguise the panic that casual, completely innocent remark had just wreaked in her. She took his arm again to comfort herself, and found that it worked.

A few minutes later she dropped it a little self-consciously as they approached the main school building. Neither of them noticed that through a window on an upper floor, Jeremy Baines watched them pointedly, eerily.

Neither did they notice that next to him, so did Jenny.

He’s the space man again, in his strange leather armour and time and space are his amusements.  He plays them each like a fine instrument, making them cry, making them sing.

And now he has a companion. His maid, of all people.

She travels and lives with him openly, without compunction, and she is his partner and his peer.  She frees him from captors by swinging through the air on a chain.  With a word she stops him killing his most hated enemy; with another she frees it from its own misery.

She’s running ahead of him up the ramp of his time machine while sparks and explosions happen all around.  Once the doors are closed and they’re safe, they still aren’t and he concocts a desperate plan.  He fears for her if it’s enacted and wracks his brain for another way, but in the end she tells him to carry out the plan—she wants him safe, her Doctor.  A madman’s device is lowered onto his head and he can’t look at her because if he catches even a glimpse of the poorly-suppressed fear in her eyes he’ll stop.  And then a switch is thrown and a medical obscenity occurs, two hearts fusing into one.  It’s unbearable.

John opened his eyes, the sounds of his own screams ringing in his ears.

He blinked at the dawn creeping through his curtains.  He closed his eyes and spent a moment willing himself to concentrate on what he’d just seen.  His rational mind told him that dreams were meaningless, merely the excitations of the previous day burning themselves out.  He might have believed that, except that the day before had been markedly free of running up the ramps of space ships.

What was it his brain was trying so hard to burn off? What was the fuel that had started this conflagration, and was accelerating it night after night?

And did it really have to bring Rose into it?

What sort of man was he if he was becoming…preoccupied with her?  And what on Earth did she have to do with this spaceman business in his head?  What added her to these mad dreams that wouldn’t leave him alone?

And why, when he considered the possibility of them leaving him alone, didn’t he want them to?

He was hit with a sudden, calm moment of clarity: he adored them.  They were a nightly vacation into a land where possibilities, time and power were all limitless.  The dreams felt like a gift, like a lifeline.

And every now and then, when they were really enjoying themselves…so did Rose.

Just fleeting moments—the kind of thing that could happen when you were with any friend who seemed to understand you.  Nothing to make a man wax too poetic.

Even so…he did seem to have discovered the element they had in common.  But the idea of having escapist fantasies irritated him.  What was so wrong with his life that he needed to escape it?  He’d not only worked long and hard to get where he was but others had given selflessly to help him.  It was unconscionable to even consider being such an ingrate.

He groaned quietly and rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands.  He was making too much of this.  And it wasn’t time to be thinking yet, really.  He felt himself drifting back, losing his ability to concentrate.  Still a couple of hours to go before it was time to get up.

He fell asleep irritated at himself for feeling so contented about it.

——–

When Rose brought John his breakfast the next morning, the atmosphere between them was awkward.  He behaved pleasantly enough, but Rose knew him too well not to feel a difference.  He buried himself in pointless activities, didn’t look at her much.  She wondered if their “scandalous” walk home had him thinking about appearances again, maintaining “non-favouritism.” If so…it was a bit disappointing, but she felt she understood now. She reckoned it was just something she’d have to deal with as long as she was here.

Besides, a little distance might be good for her as well.

Might keep her from forgetting what they were doing here and how she was supposed to be conducting herself.  She felt assured now that he cared about her, felt a little less alone.  She assured herself that it was best to stop there.  In her previous fear and loneliness she might have let her feelings get a bit carried away, lost sight of some things.

Or gained sight of some things that were different…but still the same…and…just as impossible as they were before.

Good grief, who knew what to think anymore?

When she returned to his quarters to tidy up after lunch, he was acting much the same, but it seemed she’d misjudged the reason why.

She had her back to him when he finally spoke; she jumped and nearly knocked over his inkwell.  ”After our little adventure last night…” he ventured, “I thought of something that might interest you.”

He retrieved a blue book from the table next to his bed, finally looking at her as he approached. The expression on his face was somewhere between pleased anticipation and that of a man facing a firing squad.  It made her think of when he’d asked her to travel with him the first time; she stifled a sigh.

“Those dreams I have, where I’m the man from space?” he began, holding the book close.  “Because they’ve been so frequent, I began writing them down—as a form of fiction.” he qualified.  “As I’ve said, I find them fairly entertaining, so I thought perhaps they should be…preserved, somehow.”

He paused a moment, then stood beside her and opened the book in front of them both.  The pages were filled to the margins with loopy, fountain pen cursive and scribbled pictures, most of which Rose recognized instantly.

Rose could feel him watching her as she took the book from his hands, leafing through the pages with a kind of quiet, compulsive fear.  There were pictures of the Slitheen family and their space ship, crashed into Big Ben, Reapers swooping through the sky around a church, one of those robot-looking helmets he’d spotted in the vault in Utah.

“This is what you see when you dream?” she asked.  Her voice came out more alarmed-sounding than she’d meant it to.   When she glanced at him he looked like he’d been hoping for a different response.

“Yes,” he said, “Some of it.  What I remember.”  She turned the page to a sketch of both the outside and the inside of the TARDIS and he pointed to it.  ”That’s my ship.  Or rather, his ship,” he corrected, smiling sheepishly.

He began to explain the particulars to her: bigger on the inside, goes anywhere in time and space, semi-sentient and a little bit psychic.  He even had a bit of his usual tone of pride and affection as he described her.  Rose fought to keep down her worry about what all this dreaming meant.  She turned the page to an image of a Dalek and instinctively recoiled, just slightly.

“Oh, you’re right to be afraid of them.  In my dreams they’re the scourge of the galaxy.”  He blinked at her and smiled.  “Funny you’d know that, just by looking.”

Rose smiled too, a little embarrassed.  “Well, it’s a very scary drawing.” John grinned and chuckled.

She kept leafing through, looking for anything she should be worried about but also…drawn by the glimpse into his psyche, even his past.  There were drawings and names she didn’t recognize but which fascinated her.  She started to realize she was very interested in the book, wanted to keep it and pore over it.

“I want to read it all,” she confessed finally.  “And ask you about everything.”

His face relaxed for the first time since she’d arrived, warming with gratification.

“I’m sorry, am I interrupting?”

The two reflexively stepped away from each other, covering their “caught out” expressions quickly.  Matron Redfern stood in the doorway, smiling pleasantly, looking quite guileless.

Which made it really difficult for Rose to resent her, but she managed.

“Oh, no, not at all.”  John smiled.  He slipped it quietly into a desk drawer; Rose moved back to her tidying as Joan entered.

“I came to ask you about that horticulture book, the one you mentioned the other day?”

“Oh yes, yes…” John moved to his bookshelf, searching.

Joan looked to Rose and smiled politely, then turned back to John.  “I didn’t mean to eavesdrop but I’m afraid I overheard a bit…you were discussing another book?”

Rose watched John’s ears turn pink.  “In a way, yes.”

Joan’s smile grew sheepish.  “I must say…I’d very much like to see what Rose found so fascinating.  Her reaction has me quite curious.”

John looked nervous again, but with Joan looking at him expectantly he eventually rolled his eyes in good-natured embarrassment.  “Oh, all right.  But I forewarn you, it’s…sheer stuff and nonsense.”

Joan was soon leafing through the book, John explaining.  Rose could see the Matron’s curiosity was quite genuine; she couldn’t really blame John for obliging her.  She brought a rag out of her apron and began dusting.  John seemed to enjoy explaining it to Joan—perhaps equally as much as he’d enjoyed explaining it to her, Rose couldn’t help noticing.  She consoled herself with the memory of how John had opted not to invite Joan to the dance.

She reached the fob watch resting on the mantelpiece—the receptacle that, unbeknownst to John, held everything the Doctor was.  She glanced over at him as she approached it, as she always did—he was oblivious to it, lost in his explanation.  Encountering the watch never failed to fill her with a certain trepidation—it was such a fragile little thing to be holding all her hopes and dreams, the entirety of both their futures, the sum total of perhaps the most powerful being in the universe.

She ran her rag over it gently, suppressing a little shudder.  The thing always hummed at her with a strange, tuneless music whenever she touched it, filled her fingers with pins and needles as though it were vibrating.  She never wanted to stay with it long.

Rose became aware of Joan glancing at her.  She supposed she was outstaying her welcome.  She went to the middle of the room and addressed them.
“Will that be all, sir?” she asked.

“Yes, Rose, thank you,” John replied.  The look in his eyes apologized for the interruption.  Rose’s nod assured him it was all right.  She felt relieved he’d obviously talk with her about it more, another time.

Rose’s look moved to the Matron, only to realize Joan looked sort of…startled.  A little bewildered, lost in thought.

Rose smiled gently, amused.  “They’re only stories, ma’am,” she advised.  “No need to get too caught up.”

The Matron’s eyes flicked to Rose in irritation. “Yes, I believe I understand that, thank you.”  She immediately looked as if she regretted being so short, but simply glanced away and made no move to apologize.

Rose, having no idea why what she said was so wrong, simply left.  She would never get the hang of being a servant.

———-

Unfortunately, the culture shocks weren’t over for the day.

Rose was cleaning a room with a large window that gave a view of the firing range.  John was presiding over a class that was learning to fire a machine gun, in teams of two.  The shots popped harshly through the chilly morning air, breaking the peace of the countryside.  Rose stopped and leaned against the window ledge to watch the class in session.

John stood in a commanding posture—straight back, feet parted, hands behind him, chin high and haughty—as the boys put the weapons through their paces.  His face was stony and his gaze travelled over them in cool, silent assessment.  He was the picture of unswerving English male authority.

That is, if the person looking at said picture wasn’t Rose.

As she watched, Rose realized John gave the boys little instruction or correction—he interacted with them the bare minimum amount, if that.  He had no advice or enthusiasm for the subject, as some of the other instructors did.  Rose knew the reason instinctively.

He hated the guns.

The stone in his look and in his stance came from the effort of keeping himself there, from not fleeing the scene or taking a sledgehammer and smashing every one of them.

She turned back to her cleaning.  Apparently this time period wasn’t necessarily easy on either of them.

A few minutes later the boys began returning from the firing range to the school building proper.  She saw Timothy Latimer enter and proceed down the hall, lugging a bucket filled with spent shell casings, apparently charged with their cleanup.  Timothy was a boy so small and delicate-looking she barely believed he was old enough to attend the school—the idea that he should be made to shoot a machine gun…  She shook her head.

A moment later she startled as the bucket was shoved out of his hand by someone swooping up behind him, sending hundreds of casings crashing and clattering and rolling.  The culprit was Baines’ thoroughly-obnoxious friend Hutchinson, who pushed Latimer rudely against the wall.

“I haven’t seen that history report I told you to write for me,” he snarled.  “What seems to be the problem?”

The tiny blond boy’s eyes were wide, but not surprised.  “I’ve had quite a lot of assignments.  I’m finishing as fast as I can.”

“Well, I don’t give a toss about your bloody assignments.  I want mine by tomorrow morning or I start breaking your fingers.  Do you hear?”  Timothy nodded.  Hutchinson gave him another contemptuous shove before leaving.  “Stop wanking and get it done.”

Rose wished more than ever she wasn’t stuck in this stupid powerless position of hers.  But from the corner of her eye she saw something that made her heart skip happily:  John was in the hallway now; he must have seen the whole thing. Perhaps Hutchinson wasn’t too far down the hall to catch.

John quietly sized up the situation and Latimer. “You will have this cleaned up before the next bell,” he stated simply.

“Yes sir,” said Latimer softly.  John continued past.

Around the next corner he found Rose waiting for him.  He raised his eyebrows expectantly, pleasantly, waiting for whatever she wanted to say.

“Why me and not him?”

“Excuse me?” He was confused.

“Why would you defend me and not that tiny frail little boy back there?”

John’s brows dropped and furrowed.  “You mean Latimer?”  His eyes focused as he understood.  “Well…it’s entirely different.  You have no recourse—to respond to unpleasant treatment would lose you your home and livelihood. He does, and he needs to learn to use it.  To toughen himself.”

Rose folded her arms. “So cruelty is character-building, is it?”

John’s face became slightly sterner. “It’s how he’ll become a man,” he insisted evenly. He stepped closer.  “It may seem cruel to you, but…you’re a woman, you’re naturally sentimental.”  He clearly believed this as fact.

Rose didn’t know what to say anymore—she was mostly just tired.  “I thought I was a person, who naturally had feelings,” she sighed and walked away.  She was sure something somewhere needed scrubbing.

Jenny watched Rose take a sip of her half-pint and lean back in her seat near the window. (Rose had been inclined to order a whole pint, and hadn’t realised they’d need to sit in the Lounge Bar, not in the Public Bar with the men. Really, this girl! ) Rose closed her eyes and sighed, as if she’d been waiting ages for this little respite.

“Have you been all right this week?” asked Jenny eventually. ”You’ve seemed like there’s something on your mind.”

“Oh, it’s nothing,” Rose replied quickly, discreetly wiping a bit of foam off her upper lip. ”I’m just tired. A lot more work at a school than at my old family’s house, you know.”

“Mm hmm,” said Jenny. She believed Rose’s excuse about as much as she believed in fairies, which was to say not at all. ”Nothing’s happened? His Majesty hasn’t taken another swipe at you?”

Rose gave a little snorted laugh. “Not since the last time.”

“Well what, then?” Rose just smiled and sipped her drink. Jenny pressed a little harder: “You do know you can tell me anything, yeah?”

Rose hesitated a minute, her mouth smiling but her eyes strangely sad. “Yeah, ‘course.” She seemed to accept the offer sincerely, but Jenny couldn’t help thinking she’d somehow just made Rose feel the tiniest bit worse.

Her eyes were drawn suddenly over Rose’s shoulder to the window, to something in the sky: a bright green light streaked across, arcing in a sharp drop toward the earth. Jenny gave a small, astonished gasp: “Blimey, what’s that?”

Rose turned in her chair and suddenly went very still.

“I dunno…” Rose’s voice sounded odd. “…but it looks like it landed somewhere.”

“Oh, I doubt it. It’s probably just a falling star—”

“But it looked like it landed, didn’t it?” Rose turned back to face Jenny with an expression just shy of wild-eyed. “If you had to guess where it went, what would you say?”

Jenny blinked. ”Well if I had to guess, I’d say it landed on Cooper’s Field, but—”

“I’m gonna go see.” Rose was out of her seat in a flash, hurrying toward the door.

“Rose!” Jenny was gobsmacked; she stood and called after her. “You can’t just run out there! Without your coat? It’s freezing out!”

Rose didn’t so much as glance back, much less answer; the front door was already slamming after her. What was wrong with that girl?

Jenny hurried outside, hoping to stop Rose before she was too far away, but she was already disappearing into the trees. At least there was a bit of moonlight for her to see by. Jenny wilted: was she really going to have to go after her? She wasn’t much for running and Rose was moving at a healthy clip.

“Everyone all right?”

A voice from over her shoulder. She turned and found Mr. Smith hustling toward her, out of breath. “Did it happen here, too?”

“D’you mean the light in the sky? Yes sir, we saw it, but it was just a flash. No harm done.”

“Oh, it was more than that,” Mr. Smith averred, looking dazed. “I was out crossing the wood, and suddenly I was bathed in light. Green light streaming down, as if from Heaven itself! I was absolutely blinded. Then it disappeared for a moment and reappeared about a hundred yards away. It was fantastic!”

Jenny realized the look in his eye was like a positive version of Rose’s – wild and eager to begin the hunt, but in his case also exhilarated. She shook her head imperceptibly.

“Well, the only problem we have is that your maid Rose just went dashing out toward Cooper’s Field to find out what it was.”

Mr. Smith’s eyes snapped to hers, alarmed. “She did what?”

“Just went dashing out, into the dark like a mad thing. Without her coat.”

“In this weather?!” He looked shocked. ”She can’t do that!”

“That’s just what I said, but I might as well have been speaking Chinese for all she listened. I was just about to go out after her.”

“No, I’ll go,” Mr. Smith assured her, looking distractedly out at the path toward Cooper’s Field. “You stay here and keep warm yourself.”

Jenny nodded, watching him leave. She had no doubt he would look after her friend, but was also sure it wasn’t his only reason for going.

She shook her head again, a strange sinking feeling growing in the pit of her belly.

Peas in a bleedin’ pod, those two.

————–

John hurried between the trees toward Cooper’s Field, his blood rushing for reasons more than just exertion.

He kept a nervous eye out for any more lights in the sky, simultaneously hoping for and dreading another inexplicable event. He wanted more evidence to help explain what had happened, but also wanted to be able to keep his head in the face of it and wasn’t at all sure what his limits were.

Nothing like this had ever happened to him before. He wondered if it had ever happened to anyone.

His ankle caught and twisted a bit in an unseen hole; he barely maintained his balance as he extracted himself. What had Rose been thinking, charging out into this countryside without so much as a lantern? Or proper clothing? He’d never heard of a female so impetuous, so reckless. His mind began drifting toward other adjectives, too, like…intrepid. A corner of his mouth drifted upward despite his concern. One might use “foolhardy” as another word for “fearless.”

John always thought he knew human nature like a disappointing book he’d had to read a million times. It wasn’t often a person surprised him. When he found Rose he didn’t know whether he’d scold her or thank her.

He laughed out of nowhere, quite surprising himself.

But as he continued, a dread began to settle in his stomach: what if he didn’t find her? At least, not in a timely enough fashion to save her from injury, some sort of disaster? What if he was being a naïve idiot, rhapsodising this as some sort of merry lark?

He frowned and quickened his pace, ignoring scratches from various branches.

A few minutes later he burst into a clearing to find Rose standing there in the open space, tiny amongst the towering trees and shining pale in the moonlight. She scanned the wide open space with something like desperation but he flushed with relief. ”ROSE!”

She startled and her head jerked to face him. She didn’t look the slightest bit relieved to have been found; in fact, his presence seemed to make her even more distraught.

He didn’t understand, but kept walking toward her. He intended to tell her she’d just done something very, very stupid, had scared and worried her friend and had necessitated him coming to her rescue. But something very different came out:

“Did you find it?”

Rose blinked. “Excuse me?”

“The thing that fell from the sky. Your friend said you saw it too and went rushing out to find it.” She simply stared at him, and he raised a conspiratorial eyebrow. “I came all the way out here, risking life and limb to make sure you didn’t kill yourself. The least you can do is share.”

The strangest look crossed her face then, a mix of wonder and confusion and—was that affection?—and something quite like fear. She really was the most remarkable puzzle. ”N-no,” she said finally, and he felt, quite honestly. ”I’ve looked all over and not a sign of anything.”

John nodded, feeling the potential adventure slip away but finding he didn’t mind. ”Perhaps it was just a meteorite,” he offered. He looked at her. “A bit of rock debris moving through space? They reach great speeds and often heat up and emit light when they enter our atmosphere.” He frowned mentally—that was a bit more than he realized he knew on the subject. ”Anyway,” he said with a rueful smile.” Perhaps our imaginations ran away with us.”

He watched Rose considering this. “Maybe…” she said. She didn’t seem reassured.

You don’t believe that either, his brain goaded. What about that blinding flood of light? John silenced the voice in his head when he noticed Rose’s teeth chattering. ”Whatever it was, I’m sure it poses no threat,” he said firmly. ”And now I must insist we go back. You’ve been out far too long and are quite seriously risking your health.”

Rose nodded and turned to him, shivering visibly, and John found himself at a loss. He would readily give up his coat to her, but it simply was too frigid out—if he were to become incapacitated by cold he would be no good to her. There was only one thing for it.

He began extracting one arm from the sleeve of his heavy coat; Rose looked at him in confusion. “We need to stop you shivering and I need to stay warm enough to make sure you get back safely,” he explained. He took the plunge and reached out his arm. “Come here.”

She looked at him, wide-eyed and uncertain. He lost some of his confidence, thinking maybe he was being presumptuous.

“That is, if you don’t mind,” he added gently.

She didn’t look at him. ”I don’t mind,” she said softly. She moved into the circle of his arm and he pulled her against his side, draping the coat over her and his arm and holding the whole thing shut as best he could with the other hand. The warmth was a relief to him as well.

“In the name of survival,” he said with a soft smile, “we will have to be a bit scandalous. Just for a while.”

They started back toward the deeper woods. Rose began to accept his embrace and the warmth it offered, curling herself further into him. John let out a very quiet sigh.

It was a moment before he spoke. “Even though our little chase was all for naught…” he ventured, “it was fun to pretend, wasn’t it?” He chanced a look down at her.

There it was again, that expression on her face. A swirl of emotions he couldn’t understand, and yet found fascinating. ”Yes,” she offered finally. “It was.” Her smile made its way through at last.

They walked back into the woods in companionable silence.

A moment after they left the clearing, an invisible Jeremy Baines screamed.

Inside, the holes in the roof and walls shot beams of sunny brightness across the open space, lighting up the drifting dust motes.  Rose couldn’t see the TARDIS in the corner due to the perception filter, but she knew where it was and was almost desperate for its companionship – at the moment it was literally the only old friend she could access.  She located the lock and fitted her key into it, thinking how being befriended solely by a piece of sentient technology meant her social life had never been quite this pathetic.

Inside then and a rush of relief for the familiar feel, the comfort sent by the ship to flood her consciousness.  She felt like hugging one of the coral struts and wished she had time to go change out of this bloody corset and skirts and into sweats for a while, just lounge around in a familiar symbol of her era with nothing cutting off blood flow.  Instead, she climbed the ramp and curled up in the pilot’s chair, sitting for a moment with her eyes closed and letting the TARDIS mentally mother her.

Eventually she tapped some buttons on the console, bringing the view screen to life.  A few more taps and she pulled up the recording that was the main reason for her visit – the Doctor’s instruction tape on what to do while he was temporarily human, changed by the Chameleon Arch to hide his Time Lord-ness from the keen senses of the Family.  On it the Doctor sat down in front of camera, adjusting it so his image was centred in frame.

Rose’s eyes began welling almost immediately.  The mere look on his face showed he was the Doctor and not John Smith, angry 20th century prig.  (Not that the Doctor had been exactly a libertine before, but at least he was fun.) She touched the screen and felt how horribly insufficient the gesture was.

“Rose, listen to me, this is important.”  She choked with some unnamed emotion at his Northern accent.  It had disappeared from John Smith – his speech had gone all clipped and proper on her and it was one of the quirks she missed most. Somehow its absence seemed the clearest sign he was gone.

“Here’s a list of instructions for when I’m human. Number one, if they find us, you know what to do: have me open the watch.  Now be prepared for something if you do: when you tell me what’s going to happen I won’t understand and I may resist. The life I’ve taken on will be the only one I’ve ever known and I won’t necessarily want that life to die. But you’ll convince me, I know it.  If anyone can get through to me, it’s you.” He grinned and winked. Rose squeezed her eyes shut as tears leaked out the corners.

“Now, number two: don’t let me hurt anyone…”

“Too late,” she grumbled.

“Number three, don’t let me abandon you…”

” Should I let you call me a slag for cleaning the floors?” she snarked.

“Number four, and this is very important: do NOT let me wear a bow tie. Bow ties are NOT cool.  A man should not tie things around his neck like he’s a puppy left under the Christmas tree.”

Rose gave a watery laugh, shaking her head as she wiped her eyes.  He really was a nutcase.

The tape kept going, full of reminders to unplug the electric tea kettle and water a few plants and to ignore the “experiment” in his bathtub no matter how much it growled.  She kept it on just for the sound of his voice until she came to the most important part; for this she leaned forward and watched every flicker of his face.

“And lastly…Rose, this is the hardest task I’ve ever asked of you, of anyone, and I know at times it’s going to seem impossible. I wish I could tell you what John Smith is going to be like but I don’t know myself.”  He swallowed, looking pained. “I wish I could guarantee that I’m going to remember or recognize how…special you are. I have no control over any of it.”

Rose began to cry in earnest now. She knew that, and it made her feel terrible for blaming him.

“But I can’t imagine trusting anyone else with something so important, with my very life.  You’re the only one for the job, Rose.  And keep in mind that I am coming back for you, and when I do I don’t want to hear one word about anything I did while I was an ape.” His grin bloomed then, in all its magnificent lunatic glory.  “See you soon.”

He reached toward the edge of the frame and the picture snuffed out.  Rose let her face fall into her hands. Two more months without the most important person she’d ever met—maybe even without his replacement, for all intents and purposes. She didn’t intend to stay close to John Smith if his recent behaviour were to continue.  She’d keep near enough to watch over but seal off her heart.  Taking abuse was not only out of the question, but potential bitterness over it could conceivably ruin things between them once he came back.

She sighed. She wished she could pilot the TARDIS and skip to the end of all this.  She wasn’t much enjoying the slow route.

————-

Rose’s plan for the morning was to give Mr. Smith his breakfast as quickly as possible and get the hell out.  She would obviously protect the Doctor no matter what, but that didn’t mean she had to stick around for his alter ego’s Neanderthal rubbish.

Her walk into his room was brisk, the tray she carried and its contents miraculously rattle-free.  She reached the table and began laying his things out on to it, quick and sure.  Apparently the key to superior serving skills was anger.

She refrained from looking at him and he didn’t talk for several moments; she wished she wasn’t bothered by that fact but she was, which annoyed her.  She kept to her task; the faster she got out, the faster she could be alone with her own brooding and not have to analyse any of his infuriating reactions or non-reactions.

“Rose,” came his voice. Head bowed over her work, she squeezed her eyes shut and didn’t respond.  “Rose, you’re obviously very angry.”

She straightened haughtily and saw his blue eyes for the first time that morning; she knew she’d done well not to look at them before this – they were soft and humble and would have undone her, certainly.  “What makes you say that?” she asked shortly.

“You’re not acting yourself.” He looked flatly at the items on the table. “You haven’t knocked anything over.”

Rose fought the traitorous, snorted laugh that wanted to emerge and only partly kept it from escaping.  He caught it and a quiet smile relaxed his face.

“I’m sorry, Rose. Terribly sorry.”

Rose blinked in surprise and tried to hide that, too.  The words were astonishing out of either of the men in front of her.  “All right, ” she offered finally, at a loss for a reply.

Mr. Smith looked dissatisfied and moved to perch on the edge of a desk, nearer her. “You must know, I didn’t mean to snap at you.” He paused. “I did mean to snap at Baines…”

“And you did that quite well.” A small smile.  That had been a thing of beauty.

He smiled wryly and shrugged. “Well, it was appalling, what he did—actually laying hands on you.” He got lost with his thoughts for a second.  “I don’t know why but that really made me very angry.”

Rose felt shivery.  The man he’d been shimmered before her, for just a second.

“Not to mention the way he spoke to you both.  We’re not only educating these boys, we’re teaching them to be gentlemen.  I know I’m alone in this opinion, but I can’t abide rich young men thinking their station gives them license to do anything and everything they want to.  I make it a point to disabuse them of that notion whenever I feel I can.”

Rose raised an eyebrow in keen interest; she knew very little of his TARDIS-supplied backstory.  “Did you know a lot of young men like that growing up, sir?”

“What? Oh, no,” he said distractedly. He grew vaguely uncomfortable. “I wasn’t…born to the life I lead.”  Rose waited, but he didn’t elaborate.

His focus returned and he addressed her earnestly. “In any case, after I reprimanded Baines, I just…I felt it necessary to make a show of…non-favouritism, I suppose you’d call it.  And I was quite caught up and I suppose I got carried away somehow.  It came out much harsher than I’d intended.”

Rose blinked. “Non-favouritism?”

Mr. Smith rubbed his hands together, thinking. “Rose, you and I are already somewhat…familiar, with each other. We…” He paused, as though building up to a confession. “…enjoy each other’s company.” He smiled, looking a little vulnerable.  Neither had ever actually mentioned their rapport out loud.  Rose couldn’t help but smile back which made him look happier, their expressions building off each other.

“Which you know already pushes the boundaries of the relationship between a servant and her employer, in some people’s opinion.  Add to that the fact that you’re a…” he faltered a moment. “…young, unmarried woman, and—you are unmarried, yes?”

Rose bit her lip, amused.  “Yes sir, I am.”

“Yes, well then, you see how outside observers might come to false, problematic conclusions.”

He glanced at the door – making sure it was still clearly open, Rose guessed.

She nodded, wishing she could kick this era’s mores out on their arses but knowing the effort would be futile.  “We are just…friends, sir,” she ventured, both of them smiling again at the new title.  “We’re doing nothing scandalous.  Certainly the occasional talk in your quarters doesn’t require us to put on a false show?”

He nodded. “Well yes, I do think I’ll make it a policy not to rant at you in public again…” He smiled wryly. “…but unfortunately, the reality of our situation almost doesn’t matter.” His eyes were plaintive. “If anyone in authority here were ever to form the opinion that we had…an inappropriate relationship, you would be out on the streets with no one even asking if any of it were true, I imagine.  You’d lose your job with none to replace it this time.  Where would you go?”

Rose wasn’t sure. Her own invented story was that she’d been a maid for a family who’d fallen on hard times and couldn’t afford to keep her, but had arranged for a job for her at Farringham.  She could certainly survive on her own in her own time but, caught in this era, she would be completely at a loose endif she were sacked.

She looked at his face, open and concerned.  It was yet another bit of his real life leaking through, she mused—they clicked here just as well as before.  Back then, an older man travelling with younger woman had been a bit dicey but nothing unmanageable.  Now just being friends was a minefield that could potentially ruin them.

And it occurred to her that ruining “them” was exactly what would happen.  He was downplaying it, but Mr. Smith would be nearly as stigmatized as she would.  Who would hire a schoolmaster known for fraternizing too closely with the female servants?

Rose sighed – the situation really did have the potential to go completely and seriously pear-shaped.  She wished she didn’t feel such a strong need for his reassurance and attention…his affection, his…well.

She didn’t know quite what to say. “I want us both to be all right,” she said finally. “But…especially you.”

An indefinable look crossed Mr. Smith’s face. “Are you feeling better at least?” he enquired.

She smiled broadly. “Yes,” she said firmly.  “See?” She reached out and knocked over the pepper pot.

For the first time, the Doctor’s manic grin lit up Mr. Smith’s face. Rose nodded shyly and left without speaking, the faster to get to a private place and let out her gasping sobs of relief where no one else could hear.

Banister polishing: not something one worried about much while growing up on a council estate.  Other things generally not worried about in a place where everyone was the same level of broke and uneducated: behaving correctly in front of one’s “superiors,” proper bowing and scraping, hiding all opinions and keeping one’s voice constantly below a murmur. And speaking of speaking, having to remember to say everything in an “old-fashioned” way was just exhausting. She was getting more used to it after almost a month, but was still constantly afraid of saying something too modern or just plain bizarre and having someone realize…well, that she was a 21st century human helping to hide a biologically-rewritten alien.  Right.  Seemed ridiculous when she thought about it, but it still made her tense.  She just tried to sound like a period programme off the telly and hoped she’d managed to watch the right things.

She heard a door open down the hall and saw the Doc—well, Mr. Smith exit to the hall on his way to class.  Really, she never knew what to call him anymore, not even to herself. He was so clearly a different man now, but still wearing the skin of the man she knew him to be. In her mind she bounced between the two titles constantly.

Laden with an armload of books, he managed to close the door to his room and strode forward, only to be yanked back rather rudely about two steps in.  Rose blinked in surprise… which soon turned to amusement as she watched him realize he’d shut part of his gown in the door.  He rolled his eyes in exasperation and she grinned like a loon.  She was too far away for him to notice her, and far too amused to go and help him just yet.

He tried simply pulling with his body but the fabric didn’t budge, merely pulled his shoulders back and gave him even less leverage.  He looked for somewhere to put down the books, tried to lean forward and put them on the wide, flat banister railingbut couldn’t reach.  He heard voices downstairs and peered over the banister as though he was considering calling out, then pulled back without doing so—Rose would have bet money he was just too proud to be seen in his current predicament.  He tried stooping to put the books on the floor but couldn’t bend low enough to do so neatly and quietly; his only option would be to let them tumble in a noisy mess and again, being him, that was out of the question.  Rose held a hand over her mouth in her effort not to laugh.  She wished dearly they were in the digital age and that she had something to film this with. She would so never let the Doctor live down his time as a stupid ape.

By now his exasperation was reaching the boiling point.  Rose figured it was time to save him, but before she could move there was an unexpected voice from the other end of the hall: “I daresay, Mr. Smith, you’re not likely to get very far without some help.”

Mr. Smith’s face flushed with alarm and dread; he turned to see the voice’s owner… and Rose was surprised to see his horrified reaction melt into sheepish relief.  “Matron Redfern,” he smiled, his ears turning pink. “You’re a lifesaver.”

Rose’s stomach flipped a little unpleasantly. She generally liked the Matron—who was tough, but never without reason or an underlying kindness—but she hadn’t realized that she and Mr. Smith had a certain… comfort level.

She watched as the Matron opened the door for him and released his gown.  His sheepish smile remained, and apparently without the crutch of blustering about inferiorly-designed human doors he had nothing to make a fuss about.  He smiled shyly and nodded at the Matron’s gentle teasing, ear tips ablaze, and walked off with her, talking.  Rose didn’t like this at all.  She found herself following them at a discreet distance, listening to their strolling banter with an analytical ear.

Nothing was said that was too familiar or personal, light chat but with an ease about it that kept the conversation flowing.  Joan was saying that although they hadn’t known each other long, she really did prefer he call her Joan.  Mr. Smith smiled and replied that being called John would suit him better too. Rose frowned.  He was certainly more willing to talk to the Matron than most of the others he worked with.  Rose couldn’t say she disagreed with his character judgment, but it was just…ooh.  She listened harder.

They stopped in front of a posted flyer in the hallway, announcing the town dance. Joan drew his attention to it, dropping hints about wanting to be asked to go.  Rose discovered she was holding her breath.

But then she saw Mr. Smith—John’s—eyes as he turned to the Matron.  They held a complete understanding of what she wanted, and a sort of kind sympathy that a woman in Joan’s position would not want to see.  He made polite excuses and said he wouldn’t be attending.  Joan smiled, tight-lipped, nodded and excused herself, her dignity wrapped tightly around her.  Rose ducked quickly into a doorway to avoid being seen.

Really, that dignity the Matron maintained was much the same as Mr. Smith’s—they weren’t that dissimilar.  Joan hadn’t been far off the mark in wanting to get closer.  Nevertheless, Rose felt a kind of fierce relief, and wouldn’t have minded telling the Matron not to let the door hit her in the arse on the way out.

She strode back to her banister polishing with the air of a mother lion who’d just protected her cubs, even though she’d only eavesdropped. She didn’t know if her feelings were justified or deluded or would ever be returned the way she wanted them to be, but she didn’t care.  The Doctor was hers.

———–

Rose counted her recent friend Jenny as one of the few perks of her new life.  Plump, round-faced and cheerful, Jenny knew the ins and outs of their job as well as all the gossip, gave freely of her experience and watched Rose’s back.  Rose was terribly grateful for it—none of the other maids seemed anywhere near as kind.

Today they were scrubbing the floors together in the main entry hall. Rose now realized, with the understanding that only experience brings, that the work people were forced to do before modern machinery was simply soul-crushing.  Jenny, thankfully, always kept her spirits up.  Today she took Rose’s mind off Mr. Smith, who had evidently gone through another night of Doctor dreaming.  Facts and images from his real life seemed to leak through to his conscious mind almost constantly, and Rose didn’t know if that was bad, good, normal or indifferent.  What happened if he remembered who he was before it was time – would that let the Family detect him?  Was there a chance the transformation hadn’t taken completely? Although if she was honest, she worried less about that and more that he might not be able to change back when this was over. The idea fairly horrified her.

Rose glanced at Jenny’s ruddy-cheeked profile as she scrubbed away next to her with three times the endurance of any gym-goer Rose had ever known. The faint traces of a smile still clung to her mouth from the last thing they’d laughed about.  Jenny was just a little bit amazing.

Footsteps echoed and Rose looked up to see Mr. Smith approaching, swift as ever. She caught his eye with her smile just in time: “Morning, sir.”

Mr. Smith smiled down and nodded, maintaining his pace as he passed.  Jenny watched him go with a quiet shudder.  “Oo. Scary old thing, that one.”

Rose rolled her eyes. “Oh, not you too.”

“Why not, me too?  Skulkin’ around here like a vulture, racin’ to every appointment like he reports to the Queen herself.”  She dunked her rag in the soapy water and attacked a spot on the floor, smirking. “Nothin’ that bloke needs more’n a good stiff drink and a woman.”

Rose blushed ferociously for reasons she didn’t entirely understand. Jenny caught it and cackled.  ”Oh, do we have a candidate?”

Rose’s jaw dropped. “Jenny!”

“Oh, hush! There’s no point tryin’ to convince me you’re not sweet on him.  I see it in your face every time he walks by. Though for the life of me I can’t understand why.”

Rose fought to cool her cheeks and come up with a good excuse, but was interrupted by a smug voice ringing out behind them. “I say!”

Rose and Jenny knew the voice immediately.  They sobered and bent to their work as Jeremy Baines approached, trailed by Hutchinson. Baines appraised them coolly. “Does this school pay you to work or to chatter like hens?”

Jenny’s head was bowed. “Beggin’ your pardon, sir. Won’t happen again.”

“Oh, I’m not confident of that.” Baines’ gaze fell upon Rose, and his smile grew oily. “I think you might need some supervision,” he purred.

He walked smoothly behind Rose, who became acutely aware that she was still on hands and knees and thus her rear was very much on display from Baines’ viewpoint.  She immediately sat on her heels.  Not a moment later she was horrified to feel Baines’ hands gripping her waist, physically pulling her back up to all fours.

“Ah ah ah…” he said.  “No sitting down on the job.” Rose coloured furiously as his hands took the long way down the sides of her bottom before he removed them; she felt just this side of nauseous. She looked over her shoulder to see him lean against a wall behind her, apparently settling in for the duration.

“Now scrub,” he leered.

Rose shook with impotent rage; she wasn’t at all sure she could keep her cool or, by extension, her job.  She fought to remember her reasons to behave before she ruined everything, till a commanding voice boomed across the hallway. “BAINES!”

Baines and Hutchinson blanched and stood at immediate attention. “Yes, sir!” replied Baines.

Mr. Smith strode thunderously into the foyer, majestically angry.  He didn’t slow his pace until he’d brought his face within inches of the boys’.  “Did I actually see you lay hands on a servant?” he hissed in disbelief.  ”Did I really see you fondling one of the domestic staff?

Rose tucked her head down, fighting hard not to beam with sheer delight.

“No, sir.”

“You mean I didn’t see it? So my eyes are deceiving me? Or do you call me a liar?”

“No sir!  I… I mean—”

“What I mean is if I ever again see you manhandling a member of the staff in such a manner I guarantee no decent school within two hundred miles will ever look at you.  Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir.”  Baines actually seemed to be shaking.

“Off to class,” sneered Smith. The boys cleared the hall in remarkable haste.

Rose looked up at his profile in relief and cheerful gratitude. “Thank you so much, sir.  You wouldn’t believe how many times I’ve—” Suddenly his gaze shot down to her, revealing an incensed glare just as fearsome as the one he’d shown the boys. Rose choked on her words.

“Did I ask for an opinion, Miss Tyler?” he snapped.

“N-no sir.”

“Then that means I don’t care to hear one. Kindly return to work and in future, do you think you could manage to do your job in a manner that doesn’t…inflame the boys’ prurient natures?”

Rose was too shocked to even close her mouth, let alone reply.  She watched him sweep off toward the classrooms, imperious as ever.

Jenny was kind enough to continue scrubbing without a word.

Nevertheless, she was glad to have this particular delivery responsibility and not only would never have traded it, but would have fought to keep it if the need ever arose.  The tray’s intended recipient needed looking after, in her sole opinion, and she was determined to do so.

She grinned—not that anyone was likely to try and filch her post any time soon.  The job of being Master John Smith’s primary servant had fallen to her mostly because all the other maids were afraid of him.  Rose was apparently the only one who never left his room feeling disregarded, disapproved of or having received an acid tongue-lashing that left her in tears.  Rose always returned from doing chores for him in the same mood as when she left—occasionally her mood was even a little better.  There were even stories of her having botched things while working for him and him not reprimanding her. One maid claimed to have seen Rose pick up some laundry from him while she was so busy talking she didn’t notice she was leaving a trail of garments as she went.  Mr. Smith allegedly mentioned it in mild exasperation – as though he were obliged to – but his smile as she left could only be described as fond.

On the surface, the phenomenon didn’t make any sense to anyone else, seeing as Rose was generally the least skilled maid on staff and Mr. Smith was by far the pickiest customer, but there it was.  Rose knew some of the older servants found her rapport with him unseemly.  She’d heard whispers, caught looks.  But the younger girls mostly regarded her with confusion and impressed amazement.  A few of them nicknamed her The Lion Tamer.

Rose stubbed her toe on a rise in the hallway carpet and the tray lurched again, sending the lid of the sugar bowlbouncing along the floor. A lock of hair had fallen out of her little maid’s cap and she blew it off her forehead: if only she were the Tray Tamer.

Rose could see how someone could be afraid of Mr. Smith, but…”seeing” was exactly the point – somehow she saw what the others didn’t.  To everyone else he was only the schoolmaster: the tall figure with the angular face and icy eyes, long legs carrying him through the halls briskly enough to make his black gown billow.  They saw his quiet impatience with nonsense and tangents and took it for a lack of humour.  They could sense a kind of coiled power about him, the air of a maelstrom that could be unleashed with the wrong word or gesture, and took it as sublimated anger at them.  They knew his sharp eyes missed nothing, and felt his tight-lipped expressions were judgmental.  The boys never failed to greet him in polite intimidation, and though he was cordial with the rest of the teachers and staff he was never overly familiar.  To them this was just unfriendliness, smug superiority.

They all just watched his outer façade and never recognized it for what it was…a façade.

Rose could tell he wasn’t relaxed enough to be himself.  She watched him stride the halls and saw flashes of endearingly gangly legs and knobby hands amongst the folds of his gown. She saw the speed of his walk as an urgency to be in his classroom early and do his job in a way that would be respected. She saw his quiet impatience not with nonsense and tangents, but with his colleagues’ petty, pompous attempts at impressing and jockeying for position. She knew the coiled power meant he had far more potential than he was using. She saw the fierce intelligence in his face as he observed every interaction and saw far past its surface, and a quiet loneliness that he somehow never assuaged by joining in.  She saw the brief, kind smile that warmed his lips and eyes when an overly-nervous younger pupil seemed afraid of him; she also saw the quick moment between them as smile put the boy more at ease.

And speaking of smiles…

She thought of how his face changed whenever she entered his room during the day—of how the arctic blue in his eyes would undergo a thaw, gain the faintest twinkle and become something softer while the hint of a pleased smile dawned to match.

She thrilled at that phenomenon every time.

She arrived at his room, placing the tray on the little tray-holding table in the corridor and knocking firmly at his door. She waited the usual amount of time for him to call her in…but he didn’t.  She rapped again and heard a faint reply, or she heard words, anyway, spoken in what didn’t sound like his usual voice.  She put her ear to the door and heard it again—it made her uneasy.  She opened his door a crack and peeked in.

She continued easing open the door until she found him, and then flushed through with a kind of guilty excitement: he was still in bed.  Still asleep, actually, and having a restless time of it.  She’d never seen the Master in such a personal, unguarded moment.  She didn’t think she should be watching, but couldn’t look away.

His brow twitched and furrowed as grimaces crossed his face, and his one visible hand wrung the blankets.  His limbs joined in the agitation, jerking his body once, then again. “Iss dangerous…” he muttered.

Rose watched, wide-eyed.  She ventured a whisper: “Mr. Smith?”

His face grimaced more painfully. He kicked the covers partially off one leg. “Dangerous!”

Rose half-dropped the tray to the floor with a rude clank and hurried to his bedside, giving him a shake with both hands on his shoulders. “Mr. Smith!”

“AND MAUVE!” he cried, sitting up so fast Rose jumped back in alarm.  He blinked in complete disorientation, his prominent features strangely slack, bleary blue eyes finally settling on her with no recognition in them.

Rose had abandoned all thoughts of propriety in her alarm, but now it all came back in a mortifying rush.  Her employer was within arm’s reach, in his bed, in pyjamas, looking like a lost little boy in the morning light.  He seemed utterly vulnerable and without social armour – it felt like walking in on him being born.

His eyes started to focus on her.  She didn’t know what happened next, but didn’t think it would be good, so she prepared to make the visit short. “Begging your pardon, sir,” she said quickly. “You, you just—seemed to be having a nightmare and you worried me and, and so I woke you. I’ll leave the tray where it is.” She headed for the door.

“No…” came his voice, quiet and foggy.  “You can stay and finish, it’s all right.” She turned and watched as he shuffled into his slippers and found his dressing gown.  She hesitated, then quickly decided to take him at his word, stooping to grab the tray and hustle it to its usual table.

She set out the meal for him, brain working for a way to ask what he’d been dreaming about without overstepping her bounds.  In the way of disenfranchised women dealing with men throughout history, she went about it left-handedly. “Have you been working especially hard, sir?” “You shouldn’t let it disturb your rest if you have.  You won’t be any good to those boys if you get run down.”

She snuck a look at him as he stood tying the belt of his dressing gown.  He was awake enough now to smile and roll his eyes a bit. “Thank you, Rose, I will take that under advisement.”

She grinned to herself.  Not in for a scolding after all, it seemed – she felt fluttery with relief, and a bit of pleasure. She arranged his cup and saucer, the sugar basin, the little milk jug. She unfolded the morning paper and set it out on the table, knowing he liked to look at it first.  She glanced at the date: Monday 10th November, 1913.

He walked toward her, looking a little faraway.  “As a matter of fact…” His eyes flashed to hers uncertainly. “I was having a dream.”

Her face creased in sympathy, the better to hide concern.  “Was it a very bad one?”

“No, actually…” He took the paper and glanced at it.  “Not unpleasant at all. It was…” He smiled as though just realizing something for himself. “…rather entertaining.”

Rose crooked an eyebrow that said she expected him to elaborate. John seemed to warm to his topic.

“Seems I was on some kind of…vessel that travelled through space, on my way to a crash landing somewhere.” His smile went crooked, in a way Rose very much liked. “I was chasing something I apparently needed to intercept.  Something troublesome.”

“Oh, you were chasing Baines?” Rose’s eyebrow arched higher as she arranged his knife and fork on either side of his plate.

Mr. Smith chuckled. “No, something more troublesome than him, if you can imagine.”

“I can’t,” she said archly.

He graced her with an amused look that said “behave.”  She returned with a tilt of her head that said she wouldn’t.  The moment stretched a bit…till John looked pointedly at the tea pot on the table.  Rose shook herself. “Oh, yes sir, of course.” She began pouring. “Do you always have such fantastical dreams, sir?”

“Actually…I do,” he confessed, with just the slightest sheepishness.  “More often than not, anyway. I’ve had several dreams so far in which I’m this spaceman fellow, and I’m from the future, of all things.  I travel about the galaxy in this ship, meddling in other people’s business.” He accepted his tea from Rose and took a sip, still lost in his thoughts. “And I’m not even human, can you believe that?  Where does this sort of thing come from?”

“I suppose you must have a vivid imagination, sir.”

He snorted softly, moving to his seat at the little table; Rose stepped aside. “I suppose I may have had, at some point, but that’s long been left behind.”  He placed his napkin in his lap, settling himself. “Thank you, Rose,” he said.

Rose privately deflated a little—she wasn’t quite ready for her time with him to be over—but nodded and started for the door. She hesitated and looked back with her hand on the knob.  “Um, sir?”

He raised his eyebrows at her expectantly, polite but not infinitely so. “Yes?”

“So…you are all right then, yes?”

There it was. The softening in his face.  Rose felt a warm bloom of happiness – she wouldn’t have to go without it this morning after all.

“Yes, Rose, I’m fine. Thank you for asking.”

She nodded with a shy smile and exited.

Outside in the hall, the smile dropped a bit as the tension she’d felt caught up to her.

She strode down the corridor toward the stairs, thinking how hard it was wondering and watching every day, looking for any sign of a problem.  The Doctor had said the Chameleon Arch would have no harmful side effects on him, but if his biology rewriting was anything like his navigating, she had reason to believe there might be surprises