Fic, The Lady in the Fireplace, 16/32: Coming Around, Part III

[loveslashangst]

Story: The Lady in the Fireplace
Author: Melinda Kitty melindakitty
Characters: Tenth Doctor, Rose Tyler, Reinette, King of France and (eventually) Ninth Doctor
Rated: oh, so Adult for slash, bisexuality, mature content, language, abuse of REALLY good champagne, and lots and lots of sex (multiple pairings/groupings)
Disclaimer: I don't own 'em, 'cause if I did, Rose would be more BadWolf and less Angst, Ten would post a sign on the door sayin' "If the TARDIS is a rockin', don't come a knockin'", and half of their adventures through time and space would consist of finding new and unusual places to have a juicy shag.
Spoilers: AU, DURING "The Girl in the Fireplace". If you haven't seen the first three series of Doctor Who, you WILL be spoilered. I like to mess with canon. And you have my word that -- despite how this starts -- I'm a passionate Rose/Ten shipper.
Summary: OTP Rose/Ten with a lot of interesting liaisons along the way. So what exactly DID Ten do in Versailles? This French farce will have love, drama, sex, and eventually as close to a happy ending as I can manage. Be forewarned, though, I may take you places that would make RTD's head explode.

Melinda will be back tomorrow, but before I hand the reins of control back over to her, I've got one more set of posts to make. MOO HA HA AHA HA!!! *cough* Mine is an evil laugh!! -ophymirage

On with the show:

In which the Doctor realizes how much he has to lose (And about time too, don’t you think?) and gets a wonderful, awful idea.

Besides, I think the King deserves a kiss goodbye.

The text of Reinette’s letter is again taken from “The Girl in the Fireplace”.



The King turns to the window. Rain pours down the window panes. "La Marquise n'aura pas beau temps pour son voyage."

“Oui.” When the Doctor happens to be in the presence of an historical person as they give the quote for which they will later be known, he usually feels a rush of giddy excitement. It’s the same kind of rush that a really good close call can induce. But this is different. Not exciting. Not death-defying. Just tragic.

An empty, hollow sound echoes softly through the room. It takes the Doctor a moment to realize the King is weeping. Very quietly. For the loss of his Companion.

He wavers. Tucks the letter into the breast pocket of his coat. What’s the proper protocol for a situation like this? Buggered if he can remember. Usually, he’d show a little sympathy. Crack a joke or two. Be glared at and maybe banished from the kingdom. But he’s not feeling either cute or funny at the moment, no. He can feel the King’s loss -- and his own – like a white-hot pain between his hearts. Dear God, how many has he lost? Left behind? How many have left him?

Susan Foreman (Lovely girl. He hopes her descendents are well.) Barbara Wright. Ian Chesterton. Vicki (what WAS her surname?) Steven Taylor. Katarina. Sara Kingdom. Dodo Chaplet. Dear Polly. Ben Jackson. Jamie McCrimmon. Victoria Waterfield. Zoe Heriot. Liz Shaw. Jo Grant. A blur of faces in those earlier years.

Sarah Jane Smith. That’s one he couldn’t forget if he tried. Lovely to see her again, even if she and Rose were laughing behind his back. (Just like the Idiot said, every man’s worst nightmare.) Though, he’ll always have her in his mind as a fresh-faced little thing. Years ago, she wanted more from him than he was willing to give. (Felt too much like incest to take advantage there.)

The Doctor gets to his feet. The King’s shoulders hunch. The dry sound resolves itself into full-blown sobs.

Harry Sullivan. Leela. K-9.

Romana. Romanadvoratrelundar. He misses her more than he’s willing to admit. She could’ve been... And he hasn’t abandoned all hope that somehow she survived when the universe convulsed and Gallifrey ceased to be.

He turns the King around, very gently. Catches him when his knees buckle. Eases him to the floor. Presses his head to his shoulder. The man sobs, desolate.

Adric (the Idiot). Tegan Jovanka. Nyssa of Traken. Vislor Turlough. Kamelion. Peri Brown. Mel.

Ace. Now there was a girl to be reckoned with. (Always handy to have a Companion who knows high explosives.)

“I’m sorry.” He rocks the King. Holds him. “I’m really, really sorry.”

The King clings to him like he’s the last sane thing in the universe. (Maybe he is. Scary thought, that.) The Doctor strokes his hair. Croons to him. Realizes he actually does understand how he feels.

The King shudders, all dry sobs. “She said you were an angel.”

“I’m no angel,” he whispers against the King’s forehead. His voice doesn’t seem to be working properly at the moment.

“You were to her.”

In spite of himself, he presses a kiss to the King’s forehead. (Good lad.) “As Your Majesty says.”

The King inhales. “She’s here.” Sniffs again. “Traces of her.” He stares at him. “Good Lord, has it been only a day to you?”

“Less.” He’s loath to explain time travel to an eighteenth-century human. (Tends to get messy.) Then he has an idea. He visualizes the hall of doors. Shelters the thoughts he doesn’t want the King to see. When he’s ready, he cups the King’s face in his hands. Tries to pull him gently into his mind.

But the King is not Reinette. The simple contact won’t work so smoothly as it did with her.

Trusting his instincts, he kisses the King gently. Deeply. Slowly. The King relaxes. Opens his mind. The Doctor leads him to the memories Reinette gave him. He chooses carefully -- some things are best left politely unknown -- and finds the right moments.

The moment Reinette knew she loved the King. The joy of their first kiss. Even that first mad seduction. (The Doctor tries to respect the privacy of others, but even he has to admit that part is fun to watch.) Love. Love. Love. Steadfast love in a thousand seconds and minutes and hours... Days... Months... Years... And -- odd as it may seem -- the Doctor feels better for it. His lips don’t feel so bruised. Though the ache between his hearts increases, it’s a good kind of pain, as though he just hasn’t felt anything in so long he’s almost forgotten how. Until now.

He gently ends the kiss and the mental contact.

The King’s face is a study of peace and contentment. He looks at the Doctor wonderingly. “Thank you.”

He smiles. “She loved you very much.”

The King nods, happy and slightly stunned. “I know.”

The King chuckles. Gets to his feet. Looks much more like His Perviness. “And you say you’re no angel.” That twinkle is back.

“I’m not.” He does accept the hand up, though.

“Angels do God’s work, Lord of Time,” says the King. “And if proving the steadfastness of one woman’s heart is not God’s work, then we are not King of France.”

The King presses a hand to the Doctor’s chest. Reinette's letter crinkles. “What does she say?”

Nodding, he opens the letter.

“‘My dear Doctor,’” he reads. “‘The path has never seemed more slow, and yet, I fear I am nearing its end.’” He blinks hard against stinging eyes. “‘Reason tells me that you and I are unlikely to meet again, but I think I shall not listen to reason.’”

He swallows hard. “‘I have seen the world inside your head and know that all things are possible.’” His voice cracks. He swallows hard again. “‘Hurry, though, my love. My days grow shorter now and I am so very weak.’”

His hand falls to his side. “‘God speed, my lonely angel.’”

The King nods slowly. “She loved you too.”

And though he does grieve, it’s not the thought of missing Reinette that makes him teeter on the brink of hysterical tears and a complete breakdown.

“How is Mademoiselle Rose?” says the King.

“Furious.” The tears spill out.

“Tell me,” says the King.

Before he can stop it or hide it, the confession bursts out of him. Words. Regrets. Justifications that ring so false he hates himself for speaking them. He can still feel her hand strike his face for that one stupid remark -- God, he only said it because he was angry and hurt and confused and an idiot and you’d think he’d have learned something after this many centuries.

And he’s going to lose her. Too soon. Just as the King lost his Reinette.

A strong arm slides around his shoulder. The King escorts him -- still gibbering like an idiot -- to the settee. Sits beside him. Listens without judgment.

“It’s not fair,” the Doctor manages.

The King kisses his forehead. Chuckles. “Our dear Lord of Time, what has ‘fair’ to do with anything?”

“Lord of Time,” he mutters bitterly. “Time Lord. What’s the point of living century after century if everyone around you dies or leaves you?”

“Doctor,” says the King quietly. “How many years of your life would you trade for the few precious hours you may yet spend with Mademoiselle Rose?”

“All of them.” He doesn’t even pause.

The King smiles. “Then it’s really very simple, isn’t it?”

And it is.

“I have to go back.” It scares him how sure he is.

“Yes.”

“I have to apologize.”

“Yes.” The King stands.

He stands too. “I have to win her back.” He has no plan. No idea what to say. No assurance that she won’t blast him out of the fabric of space-time itself. (No doubt that he’s going to think of something. He always thinks of something.)

“Yes.” The King looks pointedly at Reinette’s letter.

He’s completely forgotten he was holding it. He holds it up. “I have to leave her behind.”

“Yes.” The King sets his hands on the Doctor’s shoulder. “You gave her a night to remember, long after she’d abandoned hope. It was a gift she treasured.”

The Doctor folds the letter. Walks to the fireplace. Tosses the paper in. Watches it burn. Savours the odd ache between his hearts.

It’s done. It’s over.

“Adieu,” he says.

The King stands beside him, his features all chiselled planes in the firelight. Watches the curling edges of the letter blacken and turn to ash. “Quite right.”

“You’re very wise, Your Majesty,” he says at last.

“King.” The man folds his arms. Watches the flames consume the last bits of letter. Smiles with grim humour. “Occupational hazard.”

They stand in silence for a moment.

“Have hope, Lord of Time,” says the King at last. “Though tears are inevitable, surely you are living proof that, in the end, all things are possible.”

And that’s when the Doctor gets an idea. An awful idea. The Doctor has a wonderful, awful idea. No. It’d never work. It violates every principle he’s ever been taught, every law his people ever upheld. The last thing he needs right now is to bring the full fury of the Time Lords down on his head. He still hasn’t forgotten that stupid show trial and the last time they dragged him back to Galli...frey...

Oh... Riiiiiiiiiiight... That changes everything, doesn’t it?

He grins. The calculations come pouring into his mind. The comfort of numbers and trajectories and probabilities. Schematics for how he’s going to concoct this particular miracle out of a half-functioning TARDIS and some very dodgy maths.

“I have to go,” he says.

The King looks amused. “A solution has presented itself?”

“Oh yes.” On impulse, he turns. Seizes the King’s face in his hands. Pulls him forward for a firm kiss. Grins at his look of astonishment. “Thank you.” He’s halfway across the room before the King can get too grabby, though.

“Lord of Time?”

He pauses, hand on the door. “Your Majesty?”

The King smiles. “Give your Mistress our regards.”

He grins. “I will.” He swallows hard. (Not looking forward to an irate Rose.) “That is, if she doesn’t kill me first.”

He all but dances his way back to the room with Reinette’s fireplace.



Link to All Previous Chapters

Crossposted to: time_and_chips