Chapter Text
Chapter 1
It was a windy day, the kind that heralded change. The Doctor could sense it, the air was crackling with it. The wind was ruffling his hair, and every now and then a particularly strong gust managed to take his breath away as he cycled home from the academy library.
He was passing beneath some old trees, their new leaves fluttering in the wind, when he heard an indistinct crack. Rustling followed the crack, and yet more cracking sounds. He looked up a moment later, but by then it was already too late. A rotten branch hit him, showering him with new leaves and brittle, nearly black, twigs, sending him flying off of his bike.
It took a while before the foliage overhanging the pavement swam into focus. He was dizzy and disoriented, and for a moment didn't know what had hit him. Sitting up with a low groan, he patted himself down for injury. His knuckles were chafed, and his forehead felt odd. His left knee was throbbing, but the material of his jeans was undamaged.
“Are you all right, love?”
Looking up, he saw an elderly woman coming towards him, pulling off her gardening gloves. She held out her hand to help him up, and out of courtesy he took it and held onto it only lightly as he climbed to his feet, unwilling to burden her with his weight.
“Yes, I think so,” he mumbled, rubbing his knee and dusting himself off.
“There's a cut on your forehead,” she said, producing a tissue from a pocket. He bowed to let her dab at it, hissing a bit as she touched the wound itself. “We'd better clean this up,” she said, and made to cross the road.
“I'll be fine, thanks,” he said, taking the tissue from her.
The woman stopped, sighing. “Let me at least give you a plaster, to keep it from getting any dirtier.” She dug in her pockets for one.
“Amazing pockets you have,” the Doctor said, smirking. He wondered if they were bigger on the inside. Most women's pockets or bags seemed to be, judging by what he'd seen them carry around in them. He stooped again so she could stick the plaster to his slightly sweaty forehead. He thanked her.
“Nothing good has ever come from that place,” the woman said, kicking the branch that had caused his little accident out of the way. The Doctor picked up his bike, and sighed as he noticed the damaged front wheel. He'd have to push it home.
“You were lucky,” the woman said, handing him his satchel. The flap had suffered a deep scratch in one corner. He grimaced as he ran his fingers over the chestnut leather.
“Yeah, I suppose so,” he mused. Rose had given him the satchel in San Girolamo, and while he used it on a daily basis – which, of course, would leave a mark over time – he hated for it to get damaged like this. Something the old woman had said suddenly struck him. “What did you mean, nothing ever good has come from that place?”
“Well, it's been empty for years,” the woman shrugged. “I'm not the superstitious type, but they say that some of the people who've gone in there have never come back.” She shrugged. “I guess they didn’t watch as carefully as they thought and missed them coming out.”
“Why has it been empty then?” the Doctor asked, rubbing his neck.
The woman shrugged. “Money. It's a huge place, and it needs a fair bit of work before anyone can live in it.”
The Doctor narrowed his eyes. “There aren't any stone angels, are there?”
The woman looked at him, bemused. “Not that I'm aware of. What do they have to do with anything?”
“Oh, nothing. Nothing at all,” the Doctor said.
“Come on, I can smell a good story,” she said, a mischievous twinkle in her eye.
“You wouldn't believe it. It's just one of those silly little urban legends.”
“But for some reason, you seem to give it more credence than a silly little urban legend deserves,” she observed.
“As do you,” the Doctor countered.
The woman smiled, and there was that mischievous sparkle in her cornflower blue eyes again. “That's because I love a good story,” she replied, playing with her green gardening gloves.
The Doctor laughed. “Me too.” He craned his neck to get a better look at the house hidden behind the wall and the shrubbery. He went to the garden gate, but all he could see was an unassuming white front door with a lamp over it, and the corner of a square bay window next to it. There was a first floor, but the wall facing the street was quite forbidding, a sombre red brick wall with a couple of white windows. Whoever built the house had either wanted it to be simple, or wanted their privacy, but apart from that he could not glimpse anything sinister.
He could see a faded 'for sale' sign half hidden by the bushes. It was a sad old house that would be difficult to sell, and it was minimally maintained in the unlikely event that someone was actually interested in buying it.
“You like that place, don't you?” the woman said.
“Yes,” he said, lost in thought. “Yes, I think I do.”
“It is beautiful, seen from the garden. It's a bit big, maybe.”
“Yeah, well,” he shrugged. The TARDIS had been huge, but he had found good use for each and every one of her many rooms – little wonder for a life of nine-hundred-odd years. He'd never felt lost in her vastness. Not until that day he lost Rose, anyway.
“I'll have to get back to work,” she said. “Are you sure you're all right?”
“Yes, yes. Thank you, I'm... fine,” he said, smiling at her.
She returned his smile, and, putting on her gloves, went back to her gardening.
Following a whim, the Doctor opened his satchel to find a pen and his Notebook for Funny Ideas – Tony's first Christmas gift – and wrote down the phone number on the estate agent's sign. Funny, he mused, how he'd passed the place dozens, perhaps even hundreds, of times on his way to and from the academy and never noticed it.
Giving his knee another soothing rub, he returned his pen and notebook to the bag and secured it on the carrier. Then he set off, pushing his wobbling bike home. The damage was nothing he couldn't repair, but he'd have to do it as soon as possible. He preferred biking to the academy, and now that the weather had turned warm and dry, he didn’t want to drive unless he had to.
When he got home, the flat was quiet and empty. Rose was still on that mission down in St Austell, something about genuinely dangerous carnivorous plants being stolen from the fourth, Torchwood-run, biome of the Eden Project. She’d already been gone three days and when they’d spoken the night before she hadn’t been optimistic about a quick return.
Rolling down his shirt sleeves, he tossed the post onto the table in the hall without going through it. Making his way to his study, he unpacked his satchel, clearing room on his already cluttered desk for the books he’d brought home from the departmental library. He was planning to teach a class on the Florentine Republic in the autumn semester and had quite a bit of research to do for that. He started by going through the books, marking the table of contents, and piling them in the order he intended to read them.
A few pages into the first book, he realised that he had started to read the beginning of the same paragraph several times without taking in its contents. The pencil he'd used to jot down notes had become a toy to occupy his idle fingers. Sighing, he dropped the pencil and ran both hands over his face. His thoughts kept going back to the house.
Despite its forbidding, neglected exterior, the house had charmed him in a way that he found both alluring and unsettling. He smiled wistfully. It was exactly that mixture of danger and mystery that promised a brilliant adventure, with lots of running for their lives, talking to uncover secrets, getting out of impossible situations and hugging afterwards to celebrate the day. Now his life was about studying and teaching and writing. Rose was doing the running and talking and hugging. And while it was a good life, being stuck on the slow path, a brilliant life because he was with Rose, he sometimes felt a certain longing.
He got up and picked up the piece of coral that was sitting on the mantel between the collection of family photos. They had added quite a few in the ten months he'd been here. The first one was the one Tony and he had given Rose in the frame they'd found at the flea market. The coral was warm and small in his palm. Holding it, rolling it between his palms and stroking it usually helped when he felt restless.
Struck by sudden inspiration, the Doctor retrieved Tony's notebook from his satchel and flipped through the pages for the real estate agent's phone number. Because it was Saturday afternoon, he did not really expect anyone to pick up as he rang the number. He was a bit startled at first, and he stammered something about the house he'd seen.
“It's funny you should enquire about it now. It was taken off the market a couple of days ago,” the estate agent told him.
“Is that so. Well, I wasn't... I wasn't really looking, but the house looked interesting and I was wondering... anyway, sorry to take up your time,” the Doctor said. “Thanks anyway.”
And it was true. He wasn't really looking, at least not consciously. He was used to living in a vast, sprawling place. And while Rose's flat was nice and quite big for two, he still felt cramped in it. Shelf space for his books was fast running out, and Rose hated it when he misused the dark, antique dining table for his tinkering. She was right, of course. It was a beautiful piece of furniture, a treasure she’d found at the flea market. It had been rickety, with peeling paint, and Jackie had made a few comments about that. But Rose had been determined to restore it to its former glory, and she’d done a wonderful job.
Sighing, he leaned back in the desk chair. In the end, he realised, it was about finding a new place, a bigger place to live. His desire to buy, and live in, that house was just a pipe dream. Besides, he would have to talk to Rose about this first. She loved the flat. And so did he, particularly the window seat in the parlour, where they'd snuggle up together more often than on the sofa. Anyway.
It didn't matter. The house was off the market, probably sold to someone who'd discovered its charms earlier than he. It was funny, though. He passed the house every day on his way to the institute, and had never paid any attention to it. And now that he had noticed it, it proved unavailable. It was a concept he wasn't used to.
Shaking his head, he stood to make himself a cup of tea, and when he returned to the desk with the steaming mug, he found it much more easier to concentrate on his work. Soon, he was totally lost in Florentine history.
-:-
It was late at night when he'd had enough, and stretching, he massaged the knots forming in his neck and shoulders. Not for the first time he wished Rose were there to do it for him. Sighing, he got ready for bed. If he was lucky, he'd be able to doze a bit. He needed Rose by his side to get a good night's sleep, but he'd never told her so she didn't feel guilty when she had to go away overnight. In her absence, he had books to read in bed when he'd had enough of the tossing and turning. He usually curled up with her pillow, seeking comfort in her scent, but he also had books piled beside, and on, the bed to turn to when he’d finally had enough tossing and turning, and gave up on trying to get any sleep.
Settling down on their bed, he realised how much he was still hurting from the accident, and it took him a while to get comfortable. As he dozed off, his thoughts returned to the house.
There was something special about that house, something that tickled his timey-wimey sense in a good way. He wondered what had changed for the place to catch his attention now. For a while he was tempted to get up and log on to the Torchwood server, but he was too tired to muster the energy.
-:-
When he woke, it was to the soft light of early dawn, and a scratching sound at the window. He gave his eyes some time to adjust to the brightness, before chancing a glance at the alarm clock. It was just the time he had felt it was, but still, the glance at the display of the alarm clock on Rose's bedside table was comforting as itconfirmed, yet again, that he still had it. He lifted his head – he felt a light headache coming on, a reminder of his little accident, no doubt – to see what was causing the noise at the window. It turned out to be a grey squirrel playing on the ledge of the window.
Groaning, he dropped his head back onto the pillow. His hand went automatically up to the plaster on his forehead.
This was the first night without Rose by his side that he had slept through. Running his hands over his face, he kicked back the covers. There was no point in staying in bed any longer. He had work to do. Besides, the air was cool, even though he was wearing his pyjamas.
He was just about to get up when he heard the keys in the front door lock. Rose was home, he thought, a huge grin crinkling the corners of his eyes. As always, he didn't bother with slippers as he got up and went out into the hall to meet her.
His grin faded quickly when he saw how pale she was, and how sunken her eyes were from exhaustion. She dropped her bag where she came to a halt in the hall, the door softly clicking shut behind her.
“Doctor,” she whispered, her voice breaking. Her exhaustion made tears well up in her eyes.
He drew her into his arms and held her close, stroking her back in soothing circles, dropping a kiss on the crown of her head. “What say we get you in the shower and then to bed?” he said softly.
“'d be wonderful,” she mumbled into his shoulder. Letting go of her, he steered her into the bathroom, where he helped her undress, putting her clothes in the hamper as they were stripped off. Her whole body was tense, and her creamy skin had taken on a greyish tinge. The folds and wrinkles of the fabric had left red imprints on her skin.
“Join me?” she asked, looking up at him almost shyly. It was not, he understood, because of what she wanted him to do, or not to do. She needed him, and his comfort. He nodded slowly before he stripped off his pyjama bottoms and t-shirt. By the time he stepped under the shower with her, her hair was already plastered to her face and shoulders. She was standing under the hot jets, enjoying the caress of the water. Rose was so tired her movements were distracted and dreamlike, and she leaned heavily into him. He took the bottle of shampoo from her.
“You didn't drive, did you?” he asked, needing her to stay awake for just a couple more minutes. He began to work the lather into her hair.
“Had to,” Rose muttered.
“Rose!” he cried, shocked. An image flashed before his inner eye, of twisted metal and burst glass and Rose's broken body, bloody and trapped inside the wreck.
“Had to,” she repeated. “Lucas is too sick. God, I'm so tired,” she sobbed, letting go now as the tension finally began to slide off her like an additional garment she'd worn.
He rinsed the suds out of her hair. Then he held her to him, wrapping his arms around her from behind, nuzzling her neck and shoulder.
“Can you... touch me?” Rose asked. “Please?” She covered one of his hands with hers and guided it to her wet curls. He debated for a while if it was really such a good idea to do this. She was so tired she could hardly stay on her feet without his support.
Her head fell back to rest in the crook of his neck as she guided his fingers to wherever she wanted them, how she wanted them. When he moved his free hand to cup her breast, she stopped him, twining her fingers around his as she needed him to support her, pressing their hands into her stomach.
Their fingers danced and dipped together, inside her and over her. Rose was so tense it took her a while to relax. Only when the Doctor started to speak to her softly in his own language did she let go, and a few strokes later she came, with a shudder and a sob. More quietly than usual. He held her close as she slumped into him, warm water still cascading down their bodies. He wondered if it was like this for her when she touched herself.
“Better?” he asked.
Rose nodded.
Afterwards, he bundled her into bed – now cleared of the books and notepads –, spooning up to her under the covers. “Go to sleep, my love,” he whispered. She could tell him what had happened in St Austell later; he was just grateful that she hadn’t been hurt.
To his surprise he found that he had drifted off to sleep again. It was mid-morning when he woke. Rose was still nestled into him. Carefully, he disentangled himself from her to get up. In the bathroom, he slipped into his pyjamas before he went to the kitchen to make himself a cup of tea.
He went back to work, this time taking short breaks to check on Rose, who was sleeping peacefully. Finally, in mid-afternoon, he decided to wake her, otherwise she might not be able to sleep at night. He also didn’t know when she’d last eaten and decided it was time she did. The towel he had wrapped around her wet hair had slipped off as she's turned in her sleep, and he drew his fingers through her wild locks, now dry, smoothing them back from her face. She had fallen asleep so quickly there hadn't even been time for him to braid her hair.
Rose stretched and yawned lazily, her body arching off the bed and into him where he half lay, half sat, propped on his elbow, next to her.
“Hi,” she said, smiling.
“Hey there. Sleep well?” he asked.
Rose nodded. “I'm famished.”
“I'll whip up some pasta,” he said.
“You're still in your jim-jams,”she observed.
The Doctor laughed and kissed the tip of her nose. “Afraid it'll affect my cooking?” He slid off the bed and busied himself in the kitchen. When Rose joined him there, she had pulled her hair back in a ponytail and was wearing his shirt. She leaned against the counter, stealing half a cherry tomato, and watched him dice a perfectly white globe of mozzarella. Peering into the steaming pot, she saw he had chosen her favourite kind of pasta; the small yellow butterflies whirled about excitedly in the foaming water.
“What happened to your hands?” she asked, running her fingertips gingerly over his scraped hands, and, reaching for his brow, added, “And your forehead?”
“A brittle branch hit me,” the Doctor explained, flexing his fingers. “It was very windy yesterday, and the branch just snapped. I fell. I'm sorry the satchel was badly scratched.”
Rose laughed. “I'm glad it's not the other way round.”
“Will Lucas be all right?” he asked, deciding not to tell Rose about the house. They had never talked about moving before, about getting a place that was truly theirs, and he wasn't sure how she'd react. Besides, it was just one of these silly things. Time Lord things, and while it tickled his alien senses, he also felt that trying to get by without them, not to act upon them, was part of him becoming more human. He gestured for her to pick some leaves off the basil plant they kept on the windowsill.
“Carlisle is very confident he will,” Rose said, washing the leaves, adding them to the salad the Doctor was making. It was his favourite pasta dish, a souvenir from his days at the rehab unit. “I had to take him to London,” she explained. “It was the fastest way, and Carlisle was adamant I take him to the Infirmary.”
“I know,” the Doctor sighed. Drying off his hands, he gently lifted her chin so he could kiss her. She tasted of toothpaste and tomato. “It's just...”
“I only realised how knackered I was after I got out of the car in the undercroft,” Rose said softly, her eyes serious.
He nodded, busying himself with getting the pasta ready while Rose set the table in the kitchen. They shared their meal in companionable silence, just enjoying being together, having lunch at three in the afternoon in their jim-jams.
After Rose cleared away the plates, she retrieved the stack of the previous day's mail from the table in the hall. She handed him two of the letters, opening three herself. When he returned to the kitchen with his glasses, Rose was frowning over a letter.
“What's wrong?” he asked.
She looked up, startled. “I've been invited to the reading of the will of one Henrietta Morton,” she said, handing him the letter.
“Oh,” he made, perusing the letter. “I'm sorry.”
“I don't know anyone by that name.”