Song of the Messaline
A Doctor Who Fanfic
I do not own Doctor Who; however, there is nothing quite like that first gushy feeling you get when you realize you want to. Over. And Over. And Over. And Over. And Over. And Over. Ad Infinitum.
Being a sequel to my previous piece, Family Way, this story relates certain events in which Sally plays a definitive, and mehopes, interesting role. Basically it's complete rubbish. Rot. Refuse. Trash. Throw-away. Crap. I could have done better. But feel free to disagree!!! I won't know if you don't TELL MEEEE...
Care for a Jelly Baby? Hugs to all, and again...
RevIeWs ARe CoOkiEs.
"Gallifreya the Messaline! You can't have REAL food at a pretend tea party! Ruins the effect!" Sally's father whined into his not so empty teacup. "Where's the fun in pretending, otherwise? Gobs..." The corners of his mouth dove in tandem then, revealing one of those pleasing little false frowns her mother Rose found so attractive. Rose, of course, was sitting across the table from them both, watching all of this with a certain degree of amusement. Sally, too, felt cheered by her half-human father's awe-struck attentiveness, her mother's embracing acceptance of it all, and was quite content to revel in the emotional radiation of both parents while other children clung to stuffed toys like lifelines. She knew she was not other children. She had always known, from the moment her father -both her fathers- had called her into being from the Void. Both had tried to sacrifice themselves to save their respective dimensions, though she of course would have none of it. They were too important to the grandness of it all. A laugh caught in her throat, and she allowed it, relishing the light, airy tickle of contentment as it burst from her lips. Apparently her voice was sweet and soft, two words her father was very fond of using to describe her. And so she was, doted on and adored by John Smith, her half- human, half-Time Lord father and his human wife, his Rose. Still, it had never mattered that Rose Marion Tyler's being her mother was only a fortunate technicality, despite the fact that it had been her father the Time Lord who had carried her within his body, nurtured her, delivered her unto the worlds. But Rose, the woman he loved, had helped them both through the ordeal, worrying and caring and loving as only humans can, and for this, Sally would be grateful to Rose until all life was dust at her feet. With a light flick of her loose white curls, Sally looked at her parents and took a sip of tea herself, presenting her best smile a second time when they could see within her features the happy sort of solace she knew such a gesture to convey. Then she turned her face away from them to gaze at her Father. It was rather like opening or closing a door, for her. She drank in his features, reveling in each similarity between his counterpart, who had married Rose, and himself, who was still only ever the Lonely God. Or so he liked to claim. Ever since she had begun, though, he had been gradually warming, thawing out his emotional mechanisms after far too long a time without them. It was a rather pleasant thought to have been of assistance to him, Sally reasoned, smoothing her white dress while her father the Doctor sat busily discussing the ramifications of genetic manipulation with the pretty, dark-skinned physician, Martha Jones-Gettys. This woman, too, deserved respect, for she had helped Sally's father as well, though her love for him, unrequited through no fault of its own, had left such a stain upon the rooms of her mind and heart that she'd felt forced to leave their traveling days behind her and settle down with the calm-eyed Mister Gettys. Yet Father and Martha had remained close friends. Sally smiled again, this time reaching out with her thoughts to gently brush the full Time Lord's mind. It was as simple as blowing on a feather, and oh! That magnificent mind of his was so very beautiful, brimming with unbridled hopes and death and half-dreamed dreams, so very filled to bursting with joy at the chaos of existence and the fancies of wanderlust, tempered and honed forever by the manifold finality of regret. How wondrous that he had been the one to bring her into being. How wondrous indeed.
"Daddy, I want to know something. May I come in?" She spoke toward him, her soft, sure rap on the doors of his mind echoing across the surrounding landscape of brainwaves like the sway of long grass in a sudden wind. The Doctor stiffened the instant he felt her psychic touch on him, then, relaxing from the initial encounter, swiftly adjusted his multi-spatial attentions to allow her entry. She was getting good at lying.
"Of course, sweetheart! Feel free to rifle through, just don't touch anything dangerous. I wouldn't want anyone stuck in here with me, least of all you. Have fun!" His murmured welcome was exuberant and special, so utterly attendant on her that soon all his other lines of thought were running around like headless chickens and crashing into walls whilst he hurried to clear off the various bits of furniture collecting dust in the entry hall of his brain. It had been a while since they'd spoken, after all...a whole hour for the humans. Perhaps she would try using her vocal chords today, since Father seemed to enjoy it so very much. Then she bounded down the long hallway of his mind, eyes flicking to this and that, noting the paintings that lined the walls. But they weren't paintings, they were doors, windows into her father's psyche. A drifting seascape. A field of rolling red hills and golden sunbeams. Silver mountains that chimed when some seventeen moons rose and set with the toll of a bell. All the races he'd known and the people he'd loved, set like pictures in a museum. A young-seeming woman with long blonde hair whose eyes held wisdom like his own. A girl named Jenny, her older sister, whom she very much doubted was dead. Her mother, Rose, trapped with John Smith in the alternate universe. Other companions appeared in the frames, some male, some female, some neither. All these pictures were really more windows than portraits, and she found herself wanting to meet every face, to taste the air her father's friends had breathed, to see those parts of him. Perhaps another time when she was free to explore, she might investigate. Meanwhile, the majesty of a million different memories flooded by as she passed, and she grinned at his thoughtfulness.
"Thank you for the tour, father. It's all so grand..." She whispered, and immediately she felt his long fingers on her hair, patting her head, his strong, slender arms squeezing her in a gentle hug. Then his presence retracted from hers and he was gone again talking to Martha and uncle Jack, off on another of his tangential verbal escapades involving higher mathematics or advanced space travel or the latest scientific discovery about the health benefits of fudge. A small part of Sally wondered who he was talking to, but it wasn't polite to pry and he wasn't divulging, so she moved further on into the room at the end of the hall. The hall had been narrow and slightly dark, just the way she liked it, with a deep red runner down the length, with tassels and stone benches and everything. But this room, it was white, bright, clean, full of nothingness and cool, comforting sterility. It was nice in its way, the industrial-style furniture sparse, perhaps even minimalist, the doors thick metal slabs set with wires into skinny rectangular frames. A copy of Harry Potter lay half-read on a triangular side table that stuck out from the side of the wall. There were even a few sleek vinyl look beanbag chairs tossed about the ceiling. The Doctor's mind was rather like the TARDIS, she mused, and so she wasn't all that surprised to find a huge golden door on a wall where there hadn't been anything. It seemed a tablet of pure light, carved with Gallifreyan letters that moved and shone with each speck of existence that hit them. She touched the surface; it was smooth, undulating, crawling with energy like ants in the sugar. Pressing her face to it, Sally could feel the hum of the ship as it resonated with pleasure at her presence. Had the ship been laughing with mirth? One thank you kiss against the gleaming portal, and then she was off into the next compartment, a crystal and limestone cavern lined with books. There were mosses of every sort and structure, growing from anything, the Queen Anne chairs, the stepstool, a discarded rickshaw in the corner with a healthy sheath of coruscant blue lichen from the planet Batrev. And in the center of it all dangled a gigantic silver fob watch, turning slowly on its sterling chain from the high, uneven ceiling. She gave a mental shrug in mild disappointment, and left the room through a side door done up in faded orange paint and locked with several broken deadbolts. It was wonderful so far, every room of his mind so different and self-evident, but none of those had quite been what she was looking for. Finding that was going to take some searching after all, so...perhaps a bit of backtracking was in order. Besides, who would know what Father wanted for his impromptu 905th birthday better than his beloved TARDIS? Trembling with anticipation, Sally retraced her steps back to the white room with the golden door, and stepped inside.
Chapter Two: coming soon.