Work Text:
The Doctor had seldom been more relieved to hear the steady, rhythmic hiss of the time rotor that indicated they were in flight.
All the energy suddenly seemed to drain out of him, as though someone had pulled a plug; he leaned heavily on the console, his battered body abruptly remembering that it had been caught in a gas attack, buffeted by time winds and subjected to a forced blood transfusion that, had it been allowed to complete, would have killed him. He’d need a few hours in a healing coma to properly fix any lingering damage, the time he’d spent unconscious on the train, and then in the field hospital, not nearly long enough to put everything right.
“So, what happens now?” a voice at his side enquired, making him jump. Of course, he’d had rather more pressing problems to deal with, and still did, not least of them the bedraggled young woman with the darkest eyes he’d ever seen, who was currently regarding him suspiciously, her arms folded across her chest. “Are those Dah-lek things going to find us?”
“Not if I can help it.” He adjusted a couple of dials, setting the ship to hover in her present position for a while. The Daleks had obviously once again got access to some sort of time travel equipment but he doubted they would be able to track the TARDIS while she was in the vortex; their capabilities in that direction had always been rudimentary at best. “We’ll stay here for a while, take a breather.”
“And we’ll be safe? I won’t turn round and see them blasting their way through those doors?” Molly gestured over her shoulder. “You can promise me that?”
“Cross my hearts.” Lifting one hand the Doctor did so, and it was only as he did that he glanced down and realised how much of a mess his clothes were in. Yes, they were wringing wet, he knew that, but in all the excitement and running for their lives he’d managed to forget that they were also covered in mud, blood and who knew what else; he’d lost his coat back at the chateau but his shirt and trousers were sticking to him uncomfortably and he must look like the proverbial drowned rat, water from his drenched hair trickling under his collar and straight down his back. Molly was much the same; to her consternation he’d had no choice but to rip away what was left of her thick serge skirt and jacket when they hit the water as the Grenade sank, the heavy material dragging her down, and now her soaked and dirty petticoats were clinging to her legs and her blouse had become quite transparent, something which would have been extremely embarrassing had her modesty not thankfully been covered by a camisole and sturdy-looking corset. She noticed his scrutiny and he quickly turned away lest she accuse him of ogling or some other such offence. “I’m going to get cleaned up. I suggest you do the same,” he said, pushing himself away from the console with an effort; his bones felt like lead. “Come on; I’ll show you the bathroom.”
To his surprise, she didn’t follow him. Only her eyebrows moved, rising up her forehead. “Ohhh, no, you don’t,” she retorted in a tone that suggested he’d proposed something scandalous. “Sure, and I might’ve known you’d try something like this. You may have got us away from those Dah-lek things and stopped me from drowning but you needn’t think I’ll be letting you finish what you started back there in the water!”
The Doctor blinked, uncomprehending. “Letting me finish doing what? Molly, I - ”
She cut him off, those dark eyes flashing with anger. “Getting the rest of my clothes off, that’s what! I see what you’re about; you men are all the same. Get a girl alone and vulnerable and you think you’re going to have your wicked way with her. Well, you won’t be doing that with me, ‘the Doctor’. I’m a good girl, so I am, and you can try and smooth talk me all you like but I won’t be giving in to yer!”
“I don’t believe I’m hearing this.” Running a frustrated hand through his dripping hair he winced when his fingers caught on a painful knot. Had he been sent to find this girl just to have his patience stretched to the limit? He pushed away the memory of the time something similar had happened, swallowing down the lump that came to his throat at the thought of Lucie and announcing instead, trying to keep his voice level, “Molly, I can promise you I have no designs on your virtue. None whatsoever.”
“Truly?” Her eyes narrowed. “You’re not just giving me the blarney?”
“Absolutely. I would never take advantage of someone. I’m not like that.”
She sniffed. “You are a man though, aren’t you?”
“Well, in a manner of speaking, yes. Sometimes.”
“And what does that mean?” Molly demanded. “Saints alive, you’ll be telling me you come from the stars next!”
“That’s not far from the truth.” When she opened her mouth to presumably continue the argument the Doctor held up a hand to stall her. “Look, I’m not making any kind of indecent proposition. I just thought you might like to get out of those wet clothes, that’s all, but if you want to be uncomfortable and run around the cosmos in your underwear that’s up to you.”
He knew she was staring at him as he turned away from the console and began squelching his way across the room, his shoes just as ruined as his clothes and leaking water with every step. He stumbled and nearly tripped over the pickaxe, which was still lying on the floor where it had landed when Straxus grappled with him, desperately trying to stop him breaking open the TARDIS’s time core; guilt surged through him at the sight, accompanied by a pained hum in his mind, his faithful old ship manifesting the hurt and confusion she felt at having been the target of his anger.
“Sorry, old girl,” he murmured, patting the nearest girder and kicking the axe into the shadows. “I’ll make it up to you, I promise.”
“And who’re you talking to?” Molly enquired behind him. “Is there someone else in this tardy-box of yours that I should know about?”
“I was talking to the TARDIS.” The Doctor patted the girder again. “And she won’t like being called a tardy-box; it’s very undignified.”
Glancing round he saw that her eyes had gone wide. “Sure, and are you trying to tell me she can hear us? Understand us?”
“Of course she can! She is alive, after all.”
“Alive?” Molly’s gaze warily roamed the room for a moment as though trying to spot someone watching her before she hurriedly made her way to his side, evidently somewhat rattled by that announcement. She’d handled everything else remarkably well for someone from the early twentieth century, but the knowledge she was standing inside a living being was quite obviously stretching her powers of self-control to the limit though she made an admirable show of shaking if off, brushing at the front of her sodden blouse. “Clean clothes, did you say? I suppose that is a sensible suggestion, though I promise you I’ll be keeping meself to meself. No thinking you’ll be getting a look at what God gave me.”
The Doctor just about resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “Nothing could be further from my mind, I assure you. Come on.” He led the way towards the interior doors, which opened as they approached, startling Molly.
“There’s… there’s more to this place?” she asked.
“Did you not know that?” He was still unsettled by her apparent familiarity with, if not this TARDIS then certainly a TARDIS. One bonus of her accepting his suggestion she get cleaned up was that she would at least be kept away from the console; he had no idea how she’d known which lever to pull to open the doors.
She glowered at him. “And exactly how would I be knowing that?”
He shrugged. “You tell me. You’re the one who wasn’t remotely fazed by the old girl being bigger on the inside.”
“I told you, I’ve got no idea how or why I felt like I’ve been here before.”
“Yes, well. We’ll see what the CIA has to say about that. In the meantime, the bathroom is just through here.” They were in the hallway now and he gestured towards a door on the right. “There’s a bedroom next to it that you can use if you wish. The TARDIS will sort out some suitable clothes; you’re likely to get lost in the wardrobe and I really don’t have time to go searching for you. Now I've found you my people will want you handed over as soon as possible.”
Molly folded her arms again and regarded him with a baleful stare. “And what if I don’t want to be handed over to these people of yours?”
“I don’t...” Weariness, bone-deep weariness that he couldn’t recall feeling in a very, very long time, washed over the Doctor and he ran a hand down his face, suddenly without the strength or inclination for another argument. “I’ll see you in a while,” was all he said, and stepped into his own room, closing the door behind him and leaving her gobbling impotently in the hall.
Alone again at last, he wasted no time in stripping off what remained of his clothes and heading for his own bathroom, desperate to rid himself of the filth and stink of the battlefield. He’d seen far too many of late, could feel the horror and stench clinging to him, always the same no matter the location or century. War was the same throughout the universe, throughout history, the only thing that changed was the combatants; the end result was always destruction and death on an unimaginable scale. He had been promised hope, but all he found was another battle and worse, more Daleks. Why was it always Daleks? Would he never be rid of them? What more were they going to take from him? What was there left to take? How could Straxus possibly have thought he might find hope wherever they were to be found?
He stood under the stinging hot spray of the shower for a long time, not daring to switch it off and step out because he knew that once he did he would have to properly acknowledge the fact that he now apparently had a new companion, however temporary, something he hadn’t wanted, hadn’t anticipated. It was too soon, far too soon to take on someone else, especially someone who hadn’t particularly wanted to be rescued and certainly didn’t want to be there, with him. It was perfectly obvious that she didn’t trust him, didn’t even seem to like him, and in all honesty he wasn’t at all sure that he liked her. Quite what he was going to do if he couldn’t contact the Time Lords and hand her over he didn’t know; he could hardly take her back, not with the Daleks roaming the Western Front. And there had to be a reason Straxus wanted her… the Doctor couldn’t deny that his curiosity had been piqued, even if it was against his current inclination.
It was warm and safe within the confines of the shower but eventually he had to concede that he couldn’t hide forever. Molly would no doubt be finished with her ablutions and though he knew that the TARDIS would likely dissuade her from venturing into any dangerous areas he didn’t want to leave her any longer than necessary; completely unsupervised there was no telling what she might do. With a sigh he turned off the water and reached for a towel, feeling very old and very tired. As he dried off he caught a glimpse of his reflection in the mirror and almost startled at what he found there, for a second not recognising the person looking back at him as himself.
Approaching the reflection cautiously he reached up to touch his face. He’d always liked this one; he’d worn it longer than any other after all. It had aged in that time, though probably far less than he deserved, the six centuries he’d spent on Orbis barely making their mark; he had a few lines, a few crow’s feet and a trace of grey in his hair now, the youthful features with which he had regenerated moulded into what in human terms might be classed as middle age. Paradoxically he still looked younger than his first incarnation but he could feel those years, each and every one of them and it was a weary, worn down Doctor that met his gaze: a survivor, but not a willing one. His eyes were haunted, ringed with dark circles, his face gaunt, cheeks hollow beneath the dusting of stubble he hadn’t been able to bring himself to bother removing.
How long had it actually been since Lucie’s death, since he had taken Susan home? Days? Weeks? Months? He couldn’t recall. He’d spent so long just drifting, able to summon no energy, no purpose, finding no meaning in anything, just listening over and over to Lucie’s last message on the interocitor and doing his best to drown out the pain by any means he could find. The circuits had almost been worn down by the time he flung Nyssa’s creation into the furthest recesses of the console room, the words seared into his memory as grief and hopelessness finally overwhelmed him and he slumped down at the base of the console, tears pouring down his face. Nothing had seemed to matter, nothing at all. All we are is dust in the wind…
Hands clenching on the white porcelain of the sink the Doctor closed his eyes, the memories assaulting him once again, the deafening sounds of the Dalek fleet, the smell of burning flesh, the explosions and fireballs and smoke and death surrounding him on every side. Tamsin, and then Alex haloed in Dalek fire, screaming, falling to the ground never to rise again. Susan’s face, horror, grief and pain etched into every line as she turned to him in desperation, seeking reassurance he just couldn’t give. The Monk, still unable to accept what he’d done, what he’d caused. And Lucie…
His mouthy, brilliant, bold, brave, magnificent Lucie… giving everything to save the world.
That message she'd left was the only epitaph she'd ever have. He bent his head, trying to stop it filtering through but it was impossible. After all he knew it by hearts.
"Maybe I'll give you this interocitor gizmo and you can play back this message... you'll look all pompous and say something like - I don't know - "
"Maybe I don't want you to travel with me any more, Lucie Miller." He recited his line automatically, but it could never be the truth. Just as she'd known. She must have known.
“… I’ll give you a kick in the shins and you’ll say - "
"Ow, that hurt." And it did. It hurt so very, very much.
"...and I’ll say,‘I’ll take that as a yes then, shall I?' "
Of course it would be a yes.
"Yeah, maybe that’s how it’ll go.”
“Maybe, Lucie,” he whispered, eyes prickling and throat constricting once again. “Maybe it will. One day.”
“That’s what I’d like, Doctor. That’s what I’d really like.”
“Me too.”
Somewhere nearby he could have sworn he heard her laugh.
Swallowing hard he pushed it away with all the force he could muster, but of course now he’d thought of her she might as well have been in the room with him. As he regarded the tangled mess that was his hair, scowling at his reflection, he couldn’t forget the way she’d always teased him about it, starting at their very first meeting.
“Ooh, keep yer hair on, lad! That is your hair, I take it?”
And later,
“…All right, keep yer wig on!”
It was clean and free now of mud and goodness knew what else but something would have to be done about it; even before he’d found himself in No Man’s Land it had been singed and matted and seeing it now he had to concede that she had been right: it did look ridiculous. He should have admitted that a long time ago but clung to it in the main part just to annoy her and because his appearance had never really been one of his priorities; once he latched onto a style after each regeneration he tended to stick with it, life being so much easier that way. Now, however, he no longer liked what he saw; something in him had died when she had and it wasn’t coming back, he was sure of that.
Glancing around he spotted a thirty-fifth century hair trimmer on the cabinet, put there no doubt by the TARDIS; she could always anticipate his needs, the dear old girl. Snatching it up he gazed at the settings, glancing at himself and wondering for a few completely mad seconds whether he should just shave the whole lot off and be done with it. That would definitely be different. His hand wavered over his head, moving closer, but before he could make the fatal move instead he switched the dial to the longest setting and with a determined stare set to work, looking himself straight in the eye. I’m doing this for you, he told Lucie silently, and had to stop himself from focussing on the spot in the mirror just over his shoulder, sure he could hear that raucous laughter again as more and more chunks of hair fell into the basin.
When he was finished, for several long moments a stranger seemed to be gazing back at him. Though his hair recently hadn’t been quite as extravagant as when he’d first got this body, he’d never seen this face without its frame of curls before and it seemed to look longer, leaner, harder. More… more grown up, he supposed, which was fitting. He’d left some length on top, which was beginning to twist as it dried, a rogue lock falling over his brow, but now there would surely be no mistaking him for a soft-touch. His eye strayed to the razor on the sink but after a brief consideration, running a hand over his chin, he decided to leave the stubble as it was; it seemed to suit this new persona he’d begun to adopt. Same face, different man; at least that was how it felt just now. In an incredibly short time everything had changed, and he couldn’t help but be changed with it.
Ordinarily he would have taken his time searching the TARDIS wardrobe for new clothes but with Molly waiting he didn’t have that luxury. Hoping that his ship would be able to help he tried the cupboards in his own room instead to find that his usual attire, the silk and velvet, waistcoats and cravats that he’d adopted for so many years were gone and in all honesty he wasn’t sad to see them go. He could never have brought himself to put them on again; they were too theatrical, too attention-seeking, and he hadn’t felt less like being flamboyant in all his lives. He needed something more sober, more restrained, to fit his current mood.
It seemed the TARDIS agreed, as in place of his old clothes was the kind of garb he’d not worn since his third incarnation, and even then only for manual work: the sturdy denim trousers and plain, short-sleeved t-shirt felt odd as he pulled them on, utilitarian and without character, the fabric rough against his skin. In place of his ruined shoes were a pair of brown leather half-boots with laces, their soles thick and ridged, and as for coats… curiously the Doctor drew what looked like a leather jacket from its hanger, wondering exactly where the TARDIS was coming from. It was soft and shiny, navy blue with brass buttons that were decorated with anchors and he’d never worn anything like it before. It felt alien as it settled over his shoulders; fastening two of the buttons and flicking up the collar he turned to regard his reflection in the full-length mirror on the back of the wardrobe door, bracing himself for what he was about to see.
For a very long moment he just stared, barely even daring to breathe. Definitely not the same now. Someone completely different stood there, someone ready for the horrors the universe might choose to throw at him. Hair, coat, shirt, jeans, boots… it all came together and quite suddenly it seemed right, as if this was the person he needed to be. The old Doctor, this Doctor - the romantic, the dreamer - was still there, somewhere, but he couldn’t afford to indulge that part of himself any more. Circumstances had driven him to this, remoulded him without the power and trauma of regeneration, and he wasn’t going to be taken for a fool again.
There was a tan leather satchel on the bed and he picked it up, considering it for a moment before slipping the strap over his head. Putting his hand inside he was surprised to close his fingers over something metallic that felt vaguely familiar; he drew it out and discovered that it was a new sonic screwdriver, apparently produced by the TARDIS with no input from him whatsoever. The old one had been damaged by his dip in the Channel and he’d been intending to fix it before they headed anywhere else, but now he wouldn’t need to. Holding it at arm’s length he realised that she had taken her cues from the décor of the console room: this sonic was apparently made of wood and brass, the crystal at the end flaring a brilliant blue when his thumb brushed over one of the buttons.
As he carefully stowed it away again he glanced up at the ceiling. “Thank you, old girl. I appreciate it.”
In reply the lights dipped slightly and he felt the warmth of her presence in his mind. Whatever happened he could always rely on her; he’d known she was worried about him but hadn’t allowed himself to consider her feelings, so wrapped up had he been in his own world of grief and pain. He hadn’t stopped to think that she might have been hurting too. Closing his eyes, he rested his forehead against the wall and sighed.
“I truly am sorry. For everything.”
Her steady hum changed in pitch, enveloping him, reassuring him, and he patted the wall affectionately.
“I suppose I should check on our new guest, make sure she’s not getting into any trouble.” The Doctor forced himself to straighten, pushing back his shoulders. He didn’t really feel like dealing with the sharp edge of Miss Molly O’Sullivan’s tongue, but if he was going to complete this mission and hand her over to Gallifrey he didn’t really have much choice in the matter. Resolutely he reached for the door handle. “Is she still across the hall?”
Again the lights flickered.
“Well, that’s something, I suppose. Can’t have her interfering with your console again.” He frowned as he emerged into the passage. “I still have no idea how she did that. Maybe Straxus knows more than he’s letting on.” Considering that statement he shook his head. “What am I talking about? He’s CIA; of course he knows more than he’s telling. He would never have been employed by them otherwise. That lot are so crooked they can’t even lie straight in bed at night.”
“Are you talkin’ to your tardy-box or yerself now?” a familiar Irish brogue enquired behind him and he turned to see Molly standing in the doorway of the room he’d offered her. She was clean and dry, wearing a long skirt and blouse that while it hadn’t come from her exact time period looked close enough, her long fair hair swept up into a bun on the back of her head and a coat draped over one arm. She smirked at him slightly. “They say that’s the first sign of madness, ye know.”
“Sometimes it’s the only way to ensure intelligent conversation,” the Doctor retorted mildly. “And if you’d spent six hundred years on a planet where the only other life forms were sentient jellyfish, you’d start talking to yourself, too.”
“And now you’re having me on again, so you are. You’re full of tall tales, ‘the Doctor’.”
“You can just call me ‘Doctor’, you know. You don’t have to use the definite article every time,” he said, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets and heading for the console room.
“’Doctor’ isn’t a name,” she shot back, following.
“It is. It’s my name.”
Molly laughed. “Are you trying to tell me that your parents christened you ‘Doctor’?”
“No. I christened me ‘Doctor’, and that’s all that matters.”
She fell into step with him and her eyes narrowed. “Ah, then what’s your real name? You must have one.”
He shrugged. “I don’t use it any more. It doesn’t suit.”
“And ‘Doctor’ does?”
“Usually.” Deciding it was time to change the subject he asked, “Do you feel better now you’re dry?”
For a moment it looked as though she might challenge him but then she smiled, genuinely this - and possibly the first since they’d met - time. “Actually, it feels wonderful to be clean. Didn’t get much of a chance for a bath at the front.”
Despite himself the Doctor smiled back. When had he last felt like doing that? He couldn’t remember. “The restorative powers of soap and water are renowned throughout the universe.”
“You and your universe. Do you really not mind me borrowing these clothes?” Molly asked as they re-entered the console room. “I don’t know when I’ll be able to give them back.”
He waved a hand, making a beeline for the dais. “They’re yours; I’ve no use for them. They wouldn’t fit me and - ” Glancing over his shoulder he appraised her wool skirt and the rosy tint of her blouse and raised an eyebrow “ – pink’s not really my colour.”
Her lips twitched. “So I see. And exactly what have you been doing to yourself? Did that coat come from a dustman?”
“This?” He looked down at the leather jacket. “What’s wrong with it? I think it looks quite nautical, rather high-seas adventurer. Appropriate, as the TARDIS is a ship.”
“Well, no self-respecting gentleman I’ve ever seen would wear something like that.”
“Ah, but I’m not a gentleman,” he reminded her and she laughed again.
“Oh, I can believe that!” She stepped up beside him and looked him over. “The hair’s an improvement, I must say, but you forgot to shave.”
The Doctor started tapping at the controls, setting coordinates for Gallifrey. “I forgot nothing.”
“Then you’re definitely not a gentleman.”
“Never said I was.”
Molly watched him for a few moments, hands on her hips. “And exactly what’re you doing now?”
“As I said before, since my people aren’t answering my calls, I’ll just have to drop you off in person. They won’t be very happy about it but it never does any harm to shake them up a bit. Then they can do whatever it is they want to do with you while I go on my merry way.” He shot her a glance. “And we don’t have to be in each other’s company any longer than strictly necessary, which I’m sure will be a relief to us both.”
Something flashed in those dark eyes but it was impossible to tell what. “And precisely what do they want with me?” she asked, and for the first time there was a hint of uncertainty in her voice though she covered it well.
“I don’t know.”
“Don’t you care?”
It was a direct challenge; she held his gaze determinedly. A little while ago he would have said yes, he should say yes, should care, but after everything that had happened…
Did he?
He didn’t know that either.
“Let’s get you to Gallifrey,” he said, and threw the dematerialisation lever.