Work Text:
DISCLAIMER: Not mine. Look Ma, no leash.
TITLE: Members and Guests
AUTHOR: kel
EMAIL: bessie@goldweb.com.au
FANDOM: Doctor Who
PAIRING: N/A
RATING: PG, angst
CHRONO: For the Third Doctor: this takes place between The Green
Death and The Time Warrior. For Amelia Rumford: some
years after The Stones of Blood. God bless the UNIT
Dating Problem which makes this possible!
ARCHIVE: For the UNIT-1 Familiar Faces anthology
SUMMARY: The Doctor and Amelia renew their acquaintance over a
rather good filet
FEEDBACK: Of any and all stripes welcome
THANKS TO: Rie Natalenko for beta
COMMENTS: Amelia's speech patterns are deliberately anachronistic at
times. Use of "beggars" instead of "buggers", "dread
bally" instead of "dead bloody" and so on are deliberate -
her formative years, as a person of a certain class during
the Twenties and Thirties – are still evident in her
outlook and personality.
==============
Members and Guests
by kel
==============
The Doctor's club is quiet and dark as always; a smoky, welcoming sanctuary
for thinkers. As scathing as the Doctor is about the Terran predilection for
routine, for the male cocoon, somewhere inside he finds it irresistible.
It's civilised. Unchanging. Ideal.
He exchanges a few courteous words with Garrett in the cloakroom, as always.
Garrett, or a son of a son of his son, is always there; always will be. The
Garretts' skill, their art, is that of transition engineered; the Outer Man
sloughed gently, the Inner coaxed to refuge in form and pleasantry. Centuries
of nothing said, but said with respect.
The Doctor climbs happily the twisting mahogany stairs that lead to the
reading room. Peering at pictures of long-dead men, long-dead friends, he
ignores the part of his brain that calls this home from home. The part that
reminds him he is a privileged creature. Privileged, proud, entitled. It
horrified him, once, that the forms of thought that governed his life on
Gallifrey, that drove him from it, might be innate. Inescapable. But now;
this exile, this insult...
Sometimes his birthright seems the only certain thing. A single buoy in a
vast and raging ocean. I am here, but I am Time Lord. I will endure.
And yet he cannot truly believe. Guilt haunts him, on these endless English
nights, in the form of a young blonde girl with rings on her fingers and
awkward feet. A wide-eyed innocent, tripping artlessly over truths she'll
never fully understand. So quick to challenge his hypocrisy; to trust, and
forgive.
It hurts him that Jo hasn't written. He misses her more than he could ever
have thought possible. She is perhaps the only Terran — the only person; they
are still not synonymous — who ever understood why his pursuit of the Master
was so... one-hearted. That they were both prisoners; the same. Manipulating
their luxury cells and their laughably malleable guards, because.
At least now they are free.
He will not admit the consequent suffering is inevitable. Or that it is his
to claim. He buries the truth, and the memory of Jo's reproachful eyes, each
time a new atrocity bearing Koschei's touch appears.
Yet stays here, on Earth. Waiting.
The members' lounge is quiet, its tired occupants crumpled in corners. Quiet,
unrecognised, powerful men. Free to be helpless, here; these ageing decision-
makers, their demons visible in shadowed, haunted eyes.
His usual chair stands beneath a high window; half in sun, looking into the
room. Beside it, a brandy, the Times, four novels half-read. Inviting him
to turn his back on the world. To let it get along without him, for just a
little while.
He sighs, and walks toward the dining room. Towards the day's companion.
*****
— Good God, man. You look like a walking Turkish brothel.
The Doctor can't quite manage to scowl. His guest is impossibly cheerful.
Emeritus Professor Amelia Rumford, walnut-faced and ostensibly oblivious to
the consternation her presence is causing in this most sacred of male sancta,
peers myopically up at the alarmed and disapproving attendant.
—Turbot to start, I think.
— Of course. Twice, please George, and the usual to follow. Now about these
dolmens...
— No, no, no. Pleasure before business. And you, young man, he meant the
filet, thank you.
She pushes the elegant menu carelessly to one side, dismissing the waiter, his
function performed, as fundamentally irrelevant. Her white hair, as ever in
rude and awkward disarray, seems luminous in this grandly dark space. Her
eyes, her smile, shine.
— Iris says the steak's superb on a Friday, but skip the dessert. It'll be
custard. It's all they can seem to manage in places like this.
— Earth may have a great deal to achieve in the culinary field, says the
Doctor amiably — but I like custard. And Iris wouldn't know a decent dessert
if she fell in it.
— Of course she wouldn't. Any self-respecting woman leaves food to the
experts. And I doubt 'decent' appears in her effluviently descriptive
vocabulary.
— Steady on.
— Oh come now. She'd be the first to agree. No... custard as an acceptable
nutritive source is proof of the retarded Y chromosome. Psychologically
unhealthy. I say, you're not related to *Lavinia* Smith, are you?
— Certainly not.
Amelia laughs; loud, long, indelicately. The Doctor stifles a smile at the
distaste on the face of a former Principal Private Secretary, three tables
away. Rolls his eyes, as expected, when Amelia's not looking. The bond
might be useful one day.
— Thank heaven for that. Dreadfully silly gel. I was saying to Adam Brake
over at Chester last year – you know him? No? Lovely wicked little man, very
close to his son... well, let's not get into that... but he made rather a
name for himself over the preliminary work at Devil's End a few years back...
— Professor Rumford...
— Amelia my dear fellow, Amelia... ah, the Sauterne. About time. No, leave
it, you silly boy. He'll do the honours, he enjoys it. It's one of those man
things.
Poor George. The Doctor looks across the room, at the frosty maitre-d' and
his legion of creaky, correct helpers. The staff will never forgive him for
this.
— Where was I? oh yes. Lavvie. Superb eye for landscape, no bloody sense.
Adam agrees, although given his ideas about megalithic functi— oh, thank you.
No. You don't look like Lavinia.
Mollified by the — very good — wine, the Doctor simply shrugs. Charmingly.
And tips his glass toward her, as chivalrously as he can. Feminist she may
be, but a hint of the gentleman has a way of shutting her up. As do allusions
to the military-industrial complex, which she regards as primarily a source of
sexually available men.
His source, of course. He finds her assumptions amusing; the Brigadier's
horrified reaction less so.
Such a primitive species. Ape ancestry is vivid in Amelia's drawn and
wrinkled cheeks; her wide eyes and gnarled hands, her delight in the physical.
And yet every now and then, he's struck dumb by a glimmer of an underlying
intelligence, an evolving potential...
He's almost sure it is sex-linked. Terran women are... He shies away
reflexively from the automatic Pythian. Amelia is archetypal yet unique; like
Barbara and Victoria and Jo before her... her company, her truths, sustain him.
And they should never even have met.
It's all Iris Wildthyme's fault. Amelia's the one good thing to come of his
reacquaintance with the damnable Shobogan. The pair, they say, formed an
accidental friendship sometime during the War. At university; in a bomb
shelter; as land girls; in the WVS... Rassilon alone knows. The details vary
with each telling, the only constants lurid, intimate and outrageous. Both
claim to have discovered and conquered the other.
But Amelia had never known what Iris was until what she calls simply 'bloody
Boscombe.'
Upon learning of Jo's departure, Iris, out of either revenge or her
insufferable inability not to interfere, sent Amelia his way. As someone who
knows, someone he can talk to.
Completely irresponsible.
They're fast becoming friends.
He's rather looking forward to their first encounter, deep in his future. Her
description of the incident is thoroughly edited in order to avoid temporal
problems, something she takes a great deal more seriously than Iris. But she
can't resist dropping hints. Largely about the appeal of his assistant, a
nameless female of impressive intellect. And the odd snipe about his personal
appearance, in which the words "teeth" and "curls" figure prominently.
Still, she keeps what needs to be secret, secret. Something Jo could never do.
The thought makes him smile. That, and the shameful, burning warmth inside at
what Amelia represents: a return to life out there. That one day, he will
feel able to leave.
Doctor, te absolvo.
Their fish arrives, and quiet descends for a time. His eyes meet those of
other patrons; he tries to convey the impression of hoping his guest will at
least observe some basic propriety during the meal. If only for the sake of
his continued membership of the club.
It's only for show; Amelia knows very well how far a joke extends. And
eating's a serious business, somewhere like this. In her normal life, food
equates to nothing more than fuel, something experienced without thought
between paragraphs or survey points or other, important things. But here...
ah, this is a treat.
He has the distinct feeling everyone else in the room shares his pantomimed
relief.
*****
Later, in the reading room, they're given a wide berth. It's a splendid
opportunity to rest. To talk.
— ...virology. I mean, really. One has to be a bit odd in the first place to
spend one's life peering at tiny little cells, don't you think?
— As opposed to very large rocks?
— That's different. The entire human race could go poof, at any time. And
probably will, if those fools in Westminster don't get their collective head
out of the American backside and work with China on – oh, what's it called,
that treaty your little Briggy friend's so het up about. But my rocks will
still be here.
— So will her virii.
— True. But they won't make menhirs.
Her smile is childlike, infectious. Amelia sprawls comfortably and
gracelessly in an overpadded leather chair twice her age. Like him, she
dresses on a theme; in a series of near-identical suits, outlandish, vivid,
practical. Her clothes are speckled, now, with cigar ash.
— I still don't see what it has to do with me. This Laverna -
— Lavinia. Well. She'll be at this thing, won't she.
— I don't understand...
— You know. This secret centre thing nobody's supposed to know about.
— Including you, presumably.
— Oh, pssh. I don’t count. Anyway, she's an expert on teleological response,
dread bally boring of course. But she's in a down about publication of her
latest work. It could have consequences, but her confidence has just upped
and gone. It does in middle age. So I said how about I get this friend of
mine to have a look at it, before it all kicks off.
— Good heavens, woman. Why?
— Why not?
Her eyes sparkle with mischief.
— This is Iris' idea, isn't it? Have you any idea how dangerou-
— Oh, pull yourself together, man. You don't have to tell her anything. Just
nod and tick and so on. It's terribly important, apparently, in the scheme of
things. Space research, boys' toys. It'll absolutely make her name, if she
can only work up the nerve. Silly or not, she deserves it.
— If it's meant to happen, it will. Tell Iris you tried. Then tell her to...
Venusian can be a very expressive language.
— Temper.
— I'm not doing anything so indescribably stupid on that woman's say-so. And
anyway, he adds, less than convincingly. — I might not be here. UNIT don't
need me just now. I rather fancy a holiday.
— Typical male. The minute one asks you to do something...
— I mean it, Amelia.
— Of course you do. Will you be taking that nice Mr Benton? He could do with
a good long -
— I could take you, he says, on impulse.
Once again her laughter rings out around the room.
— At my time of life...
— When better? After all, you could go poof at any time.
— You needn't sound so smug, Smith. So could you. Playing silly beggars with
those army boys... Aliens and guns... dear God.
It's clear which she finds most outlandish.
— Perhaps it's more fun on the front line.
— Really, man. Rockets. Space rays. Not exactly my mien, is it.
He just shakes his head, affectionately.
— If you knew how wrong you were... Out there... such beauty, Amelia. Such
strangeness...
— Oh, such wonders... that you choose to stay here in this grotty little bolt-
hole? Playing soldiers, swapping platitudes with decrepit old shiny-arsed
men...
— Perhaps I'm just waiting for the right company with which to leave.
— Oh, I see. I suppose you think I'd die happier than I am, do you? Or is
that how I'm to go? Messing about on the Moon, perhaps? Playing Dan Dare
among the Martian poppies?
He makes himself meet her suddenly angry eyes. — I'm only suggesting-
— There's a conference in Cardiff next week, you know. That fool Baxter and
his preposterous runes. If you think for one minute I'd miss a chance to
leave him and his insanely tedious footnotes in ribbons...
— All right, then. After. What about Avebury? Milbury? Stonehenge? Fancy
watching them set it up?
— "Them"? which "them" did you have in mind, exactly?
— Come with me and see.
She looks at him, steadily; with compassion.
— You really don't understand, do you.
He understands she has four months, at most. She's told him that much.
— I don't want to know, Doctor. Forty years ago, perhaps, but...
— Listen...
— No, you listen. I've spent my entire life trying to work these things out,
and I'm damned if I'm going to let some silver-tongued Mitford type in velvet
come along at the last minute and tell me I've got it arse-up. Do you hear?
She folds her arms, just like Jo.
— If I'm wrong, I'm wrong. So be it. Tell Brake when I'm gone. He's the
wunderkind. And very much more your type.
— Amelia...
— Not another word, Doctor. Or I'm leaving. Which would be an awful waste of
a very good Napoleon. Do you really want that on your conscience?
She reaches forward and taps his knee.
— Someone'll get it right, eventually. It doesn't have to be me.
— Humans, is all he can say. Aloud. As much affection as frustration in
his voice; as much envy.
— Our planet, dear. Our rules. If you don't like it...
Her words, simple and strong and infinitely gentle, have the strangest echo.
Home from home, indeed.
=== © arjuna 2005 ===