Fic, The Lady in the Fireplace, 17/32: COMING BACK, Part I

[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.

On with the show:

In which Ten begs for forgiveness... in his own way.



At first, Rose doesn’t answer the knock.

“Rose,” says the Doctor’s muffled voice.

She puts “Mr. Brown Can Moo, Can You” on the console. Folds her arms. He’s insane if he thinks he can make her cave.

He knocks again, louder. “Rose. Please. Let me in.”

“You’ve said that before,” she calls. “Didn’t work then either, though thanks for the shag.”

“I want to apologize for that too,” says the Doctor through the door. “No, I NEED to apologize for that.”

“Sod off!” She means it. She does. She does. She does.

“Rose.” Is it her imagination or does he actually sound sincere? He’s never sincere about anything. “Please. I was wrong about so many things.”

“Yes, you were.” Making him plead is more fun than she’d thought it’d be. “And don’t you think for one minute I’m falling for your sweet talking, Mister Shags-Everything-Historical-That-Moves. Not born yesterday, all right?”

“You were right about me,” he says.

“You already said that too.” He can stand out there the rest of his lives, for all she cares.

“-- I escape,” he continues. “That’s what I do. It’s how I’ve survived. It’s how I’ve done what little good I’ve done in the universe.”

She snorts. Rolls her eyes. Picks up her book again. She is NOT listening to him.

“But you... Rose... You change things. You’ve changed everything. Not just for me but for us. For the whole bloody universe even.” He sounds like he actually believes this load of bollocks he’s trying to feed her. “You’re important, Rose Tyler. The most important person I’ve ever met and now everything’s gone wrong and it’s my fault and would you please believe me when I say I can’t do this unless you open the door?”

Wait a moment, did he actually just say something was his fault? It’s never his fault. And what’s more, he’s being sincere. She’s not used to sincere. Charming, yes. Winsome, yes. Cocky, definitely. Even sweet, sometimes.

Usually, he just rolls over the top of everyone around him and gets away with it because he’s dynamic and funny and brilliant and dammit, she’s not going to let him sweet talk her.

“Rose?” If she didn’t know what a consummate liar he was, she’d swear he was almost in tears. “Please... Please let me in... Please let me apologize to you... I NEED to apologize.”

Curious, she reaches out to the TARDIS. The TARDIS reaches back, supportive. If he tries anything, the two of them will kick his ass.

She puts up her book and levers herself out of the comfy chair. (No small feat, that. Once you get settled, it’s like trying to escape from cushy quicksand.)

She opens the door. He looks like hell.

Good.

“How’s the girlfriend?” she says, caustic.

He’s using the big-brown-puppy-eyes treatment, hands in his pockets. (God, she hates that!)

“Dead,” he says.

That takes her back a step or two, don’t it, but she’s not going to cave. She glares at him. “So I’m second fiddle, then? You’ll settle for me now that Reinette’s gone?”

“She wrote me a letter.” His hair is sticking up in even more directions than usual.

She folds her arms so she won’t reach out to touch him. Glares. “And?”

“And I burned it.” He glances down.

When he looks up again, he meets her eyes with what has to be the most sincere look he’s ever given her. “Rose,” he says quietly. “You are the best thing that’s ever happened to me. And I do mean ‘ever’.”

She waits. Tries to keep the glare hard. (NOT going to cave!)

He fidgets a little. “I may be brilliant, Rose, but damn me if I didn’t nearly throw you away through sheer stupidity.”

That drains a little more of the anger out of her. “How’d His Maj take it?”

“Reinette?” he says.

She nods.

He does too. “He wept.” Hands in his pockets, he looks oddly older and younger at the same time, sombre and vulnerable. “I stayed with him for a while. Helped him sort things out. And he helped me sort things out too.”

Damn him! Why can’t she stay angry with him? “Are you all right?”

He nods. “I’ve come to my senses.” He takes her hand. Raises it to his lips. Presses a slight and gentlemanly kiss to her knuckles. Glances at her. And sod him if her breath doesn’t catch in her throat at that look. (And what’s weird is that chaste kiss leaves her more weak in the knees than the full-mouthed, oh-my-god-how-fabulous-is-that-tongue kisses they’ve shared before.)

He smiles in a way that hits her right between the legs. The kiss becomes less gentlemanly, a nonverbal worship of her knuckles. Her breathing speeds. He turns her hand over. His lips sear over her palm to her wrist. She grabs his shoulder with her free hand, caught off guard by how intensely good it is. He teases the pulse point at her wrist with lips and teeth. She closes her eyes, panting as pleasure sizzles up her arm.

He pulls her into his arms. Kisses her sweetly. And damn her if she doesn’t let him. She kisses him back.

His mouth feels like home.

“I suppose,” she says, annoyed at how fast he can turn her on, “you expect me to just forgive you now?”

“Not yet,” he whispers against her lips.

Then, he shoulders past her.

“Hang on!” she says, hot and bothered and now thoroughly pissed off.

The bastard heads straight for the TARDIS’s controls. Begins spinning dials and flipping switches.

Fresh outrage grips her. “Just what d’you think you’re doing?”

He tosses her his signature cocky grin. “Apologizing.”

She and the TARDIS are going to rip him apart, again and again, just for the fun of seeing what new face he’ll sprout. “You are not either!”

“Am too!” he carols. “And I’m going to get away with it.” He laughs like the crazy person he is.

She slams the door. Hard.

“OW!”

She opens the door. Mickey wiggles his nose, blinking. He’s holding a case of what appears to be champagne. He’s also dressed in a powdered wig and... oh my God, are those the gay little heels guys used to wear in the eighteenth century? Rose giggles in spite of herself. “What are you wearing?”

“Livery,” says Mickey with a grin. “I’m His Majesty’s wine steward.” He shifts the case to rest on top of one thigh. Hands her a pair of blocky black glasses. “Oh, and the Doctor forgot these.”

She finds her outrage again. (Now Himself has her EX in on the deal? That’s really low.) She hurls the glasses at the Doctor.

He catches them, one-handed, without looking, and puts them on. “Thank you, Rose.”

She is going to KILL HIM!! “What the hell is this supposed to be?” She’s no longer sure who she’s yelling at, because everyone is conspiring against her.

“Gift,” says Mickey. “From His Majesty Louis XV, by Grace of God King of France.” He smiles. Shifts the crate to a more comfortable grip. “I have strict orders that if you or the Doctor ever showed up again, I was to have the boys bring these ‘round.”

“The boys...” She looks past his shoulder. Four more porters wait, each holding a crate of champagne.

She rounds on the Doctor, who is madly correcting and calculating and rewiring. “What did you do?” she accuses.

Mickey leads the porters past her. They pile the crates neatly against one wall. Try not to gawk too much at the interior of the TARDIS.

“Do?” says the Doctor, wounded. “Rose. You make it sound like I swindled him out of this fine gift. I was simply on my way back to you when he caught me up and insisted.”

“What did you do?” She’s definitely going to kill him. Once real quick to get it out of her system, then a second time slower so she can enjoy it.

He squints at a panel. Mutters readings to himself under his breath. “I snogged him.”

“What?” She blinks. “AGAIN?!”

“Yup.” He’s not even looking at her, all intensity and concentration. “Gave him Reinette’s memories so he’d know how much she loved him.”

“You’re insane!” she says. Then she realizes what he just said. “You gave him... her memories?”

The Doctor grins his dazzling grin. “Yup. Left her well in the past where she belongs.” His look deepens. “Where I should’ve left her in the first place.”

She’d forgive him if she weren’t so furious.

He dashes around the console. Trips on the chair. Knocks the half-read stack of Dr. Seuss books onto the floor. Stares at them. Looks at her, amusement sparkling in his eyes.

Rose raises her chin, defiant. “I was bored.”

“Apparently.” Chuckling, he sweeps the stack onto the seat of the chair.

“Oi! I was reading those!” Just because they’re stupid doesn’t mean he has any right...

The Doctor purses his lips in a way that makes her think he’s trying very hard not to laugh. Resumes his twiddling. Fumbles in his pockets. Sighs, beaten. Holds out a hand.

She raises an eyebrow at him. “What’s the magic word?”

“Please?” he says, hopeful.

“Please, what?” Now THIS part is fun. She should make him beg more often. That is, if she weren’t going to kill him, which of course she is.

He actually looks contrite. “Please, Rose, may I please have the sonic screwdriver that I told you to nick from me because I was being a prat?”

“Bastard,” she mutters. (Just like him to spoil the game.) She digs in the pocket of her jeans. Hands him the sonic screwdriver.

He grins, grateful, and resumes twiddling.

Mickey pulls her aside. “You all right with him?”

“If I don’t kill him, yes.”

(The buzzing of the sonic screwdriver and several colourful curses probably mean the Doctor’s making progress.)

It’s then that Rose notices the fine lines around the corners of Mickey’s eyes. Older. He’s several years older. “How long have you been down there?”

“Six years.” Mickey shrugs. “Not a bad life. I work hard, but I can fix just about any machine comes along. They think I’m clever.”

It actually does make her feel better. “How’s Jean-Claude?”

Mickey gets the kind of smile that happily married people get when you ask them about the better half. “Lovely.”

She hugs him. “After I kill the Doctor, we’ll have to deactivate that fireplace thing.”

“I know.” He hugs her tight. “Take care.” He grins. “And when you do kill the Doctor, invite me and Jean-Claude back to watch, will ya?”

“Will do.” She wrinkles her nose in delight and anticipation. “Maybe more than once?”

Mickey laughs. “That’ll be good.”

“Heyyyy.” The Doctor glares through his glasses. Brandishes the raw ends of some sort of cabling. “Watch that!”

Mickey takes that as his cue to leave.




Link to All Previous Chapters

Crossposted to: time_and_chips