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The city spiralled up and up the mountainside. They’d spent the day climbing its steep streets, up to the summit. Above them was only the tower of the space elevator and, beyond that, the final craggy stretch of the mountain.
There was a wide viewing platform beneath the tower. That time of day it was busy, but not crowded. A gaggle of children were playing in the spray of the central fountain, squealing in delight. A young woman was playing a cheerful song on the flute for a tiny audience.
Away down the balustrade the Doctor was tinkering with one of the public telescopes. Steven stood leaning upon the wall, gazing out over the view. The golden curve of the city. The blue-green sweep of the bay. The pink moon.
Forty-eight hours ago they were on Kembel. It felt like centuries ago. Maybe it was centuries ago; he didn’t exactly know where in time they were.
His chest felt steady. He had the sensation, irrationally, that everything was perfectly alright with the world. In a way he supposed he was right. He didn’t think there was any danger here. It was a pleasant, peaceful city, in a pleasant and peaceful time period.
Night was coming on fast. Down below in the city, streetlights were coming on.
The Doctor was shuffling down the balustrade towards him. He straightened up, and for a moment they regarded each other.
Clearing his throat, the Doctor said, “Beautiful view.”
“Yes,” he agreed.
Silence fell over them. There was a high shrieking nearby as, by the sound of it, one of the kids got dunked. Since leaving Kembel they hadn’t had much in the way of conversation.
At length, the Doctor spoke. “Now, how about some dinner?”
“Sure,” he said, pushing fully away from the wall. “I’m easy.”
They made their way back down into the city, down flights of steps worn smooth by many years’ worth of feet, along steep cobbled streets. It was almost dark by the time they turned onto a street lined with eateries. The place was lit up, gold and pink globes bobbing overhead. A late evening bicycle messenger whizzed past them down the slope. At the nearest café a group of men were already seated outside with beer.
The Doctor headed on confidently down the hill and Steven followed. He was prepared to take a backseat on this. He wasn’t exactly fussy and the Doctor, being a more seasoned time and space traveller, generally had a better sense of where to go.
“Hm,” the Doctor was humming to himself as he stopped to check menus. “Hm – no.” Tapping his stick on the cobbles he proceeded on down the street, stopping in front of a glass-fronted restaurant. “Ah!” he said. “Yes. This will do nicely. Come along.” He beckoned Steven to follow him inside.
It was a bigger place than it had seemed from outside. He looked around himself, as the Doctor stepped up to the dark wooden counter to speak to the maître d’.
The place was pristine, the tables covered in starched white clothes, the waitstaff impeccably dressed. Overhead was an intricate crystal chandelier. He noted the multiple sets of cutlery laid out on each table. The artistically elegant starters being served to a nearby group of businesspeople.
“Table for two, please,” said the Doctor. “Garden view, if you have it. We’ll wait.”
He waited for the maître d’ to turn away, then grabbing the Doctor by the arm dropped his voice and said, “Doctor, this place looks expensive.”
“Yes,” said the Doctor, attempting to extricate his arm from Steven’s grip. “And what of it?”
He glanced at the maître d’, making sure no-one was listening in, and hissed, “Please tell me you have money.”
“Well, really!” The Doctor scowled at the suggestion. “Of all the silly questions.”
“No, I mean it,” said Steven, grabbing his arm once again. “If we’re going to eat here, I need to know you have money. The right money, for this time and place.”
The Doctor shrugged it off. “I have it under control,” he said. “Leave off.”
“Look me in the eye,” said Steven. “No. Look me in the eye and tell me you’re going to pay.” The maître d’ was coming back over, and the Doctor waved Steven off. “I am not washing any more dishes!” he hissed. Then he plastered on a smile and nodded to the maître d’.
The Doctor gestured to him. “My friend here was just wanting to check that you accept station credits.”
“Of course,” said the maître d’ smoothly. “All major currencies. This way, sirs?”
They were passed over in the capable hands of an equally smartly dressed waitress, who led them through the quiet restaurant to the Doctor’s requested garden view table for two. There, she waited while they got settled. Steven looked down at the tabletop. The array of cutlery. The crystal wine glasses. The leather-clad menus.
“Tonight’s specials are on the projector,” said the waitress, indicating a projection hovering beneath the chandelier. “Are you gentlemen celebrating anything tonight?”
“Um,” said Steven, brain screeching to a halt at the question.
“No – no,” said the Doctor, already unfolding his napkin. “Just enjoying your beautiful city.”
“Ah, I see,” said the waitress. “And get I get you any drinks to start?”
“Ice water, if you please,” said the Doctor. “And the pineapple cordial, if you don’t mind. Steven?”
He’d barely glanced at the menu. “Oh – ice water.”
“You aren’t drinking?” said the Doctor, nudging the wine list towards him.
“You’re not drinking,” Steven pointed out.
“That doesn’t mean you can’t,” said the Doctor, giving the wine list another nudge. “Go on. Enjoy yourself.”
He wasn’t really a wine person, but he didn’t say so. Opening the list he scanned the names. Alright, even if he was a wine person he didn’t think it would help. It was in three languages and the prices were in four currencies and there wasn’t a single name he even remotely recognised. He flipped over from the whites to the roses, utterly lost.
“Is there anything you’d recommend?” said the Doctor to the waitress, coming to his rescue.
The waitress made a few recommendations and he chose on at random. “Perfect,” she said. “I’ll be back soon.” Then leaning briefly over their table she switched on the tiny lantern at its centre, and left them to it.
The lantern contained a flickering simulated candle. Pin prick holes in the mental dome cast stars across the tabletop. Twisting in his seat, he watched her go.
Turning back to the Doctor, he said, “You know, I think she thought we were on a date?”
“Hm?” said the Doctor, raising his eyes from the menu. “Well, aren’t we?”
Honestly, he could be so obtuse sometimes. “No, I mean she thought we were a couple,” he said. “A couple on a date?”
“Oh,” said the Doctor. “What of it?” He went back to perusing the menu.
Steven waited a moment to see if he had anything else to say about it. But the Doctor’s face was entirely placid. “Does that not,” he said. “Bother you?”
“No,” said the Doctor, glancing at him. “Why would it bother me?” He went back to reading the list of aperitifs. “You’re a perfectly inoffensive person, aren’t you?”
“That’s not –” He bit back what he wanted to say. It probably would be a little offensive to suggest that his own desirability hadn’t been his concern. “That’s not really – what I meant –” The Doctor gave him another perfectly placid look. He gave up. “Never mind.”
He left the Doctor to his perusing and looked out the window. The garden was lit up by silver globe-shaped lights in the trees and suspended above the path. A series of fountains ran along the length of the perfect lawn, firing off delicate sprays of water in sequence with a soft rushing.
The Doctor hmmed to himself over the menu. It crossed Steven’s mind that he couldn’t remember when they’d last eaten a meal together, just the two of them.
Actually, he wasn’t sure they ever had. Vicki had always been there – and then Sara. If Vicki was there they would never have sat in silence for this long. She’d have had any number of things to say about the city and the fanciness of the restaurant. And Sara –
Nobody had ever taken them for a couple before either. If that was what had happened. Perhaps he was just being paranoid. But she’d given them such a knowing look as she’d turned on the lantern.
And now she was coming back over with their drinks. She set his wine and ice water in front of him, served he Doctor, set down a plate of very artfully arranged bread, and then said, “Are you ready to order?”
Oh, he hadn’t even looked properly at the menu. He paged through it quickly. “Oh – ah.”
“The puffer fish, if you please,” said the Doctor. “You don’t need a starter, do you, Steven?”
“That’s fine,” he said. He probably would have been out of his depth in a restaurant like this in his own time back on earth. This – this was insane. He had almost no clue what anything on the menu was and it was probably for the best he had no conception of what it cost. “I, um –”
“The seafood platter, for my friend,” said the Doctor smoothly. “Thank you kindly.”
Steven spread his hands atop the menu, but said nothing till the waitress had gone. “Did I say you could order for me?”
“You’ll like it,” said the Doctor. “This is a seafood city. Did you want something else? We can call her back –”
“No, that’s fine,” he said. “I suppose that’s fine.” He checked that the waitress was definitely gone and leaned across the table. “I have to ask, Doctor. Please tell me you asked if they take station credits because you have station credits.”
“Of course I have station credits,” said the Doctor, as if the question was deeply offensive to him. As if he’d never in his life deigned to walk into a restaurant without intending to pay.
“Enough station credits?” said Steven. The Doctor flapped a hand at him. “Doctor, I will walk out of here.”
“Yes, I have enough station credits,” said the Doctor. “Will you let it go?”
“This places looks so expensive –”
“Well, it isn’t your money, is it?” The Doctor looked him over, brow creasing. “Hm. I do wish you’d worn a tie.”
He sucked in a patient breath through his nose. “In future,” he said. “If you want me to dress up, make up your mind before we leave the ship.”
They lapsed back into silence. He sipped his wine, watching the fountains once again dance down the lawn. The bread was so beautifully arranged that he almost didn’t want to disturb it, but he was hungry. It was crisp and light and it had come with oil and vinegar. He sat, watching a yellow-gold droplet descend gracefully from the bread to his plate.
“Do you want to move on tomorrow?” he said. “Or –”
The Doctor waved him off. “I don’t see why we shouldn’t stay a few days,” he said. “If you have no objection?”
“I’m easy,” he said. “Do whatever you want. It’s your ship.”
“We don’t have to stay if you won’t want to –”
“It’s fine.”
“If there’s somewhere you’d rather be –”
“Please,” said Steven. “You’re always saying it’s your ship and we’re just the passengers and you’re obviously not done here.”
“Hm,” the Doctor agreed. “I would like to take a ride up the space elevator.”
“Sure,” said Steven. “Where does it go?”
At that, the Doctor launched into a long explanation about the space elevator and the orbital station it connected to and its history and its significance to the city, and Steven half-listened, sipping his wine and eating his bread.
By the time the Doctor had finished his space elevator tangent their food was arriving, colourful, and once again so beautifully arranged it seemed a shame to eat it. The Doctor talked him into ordering another glass of wine on the grounds that he ought to drink white with fish.
A more comfortable silence descended as they ate. He worked his way around the seafood, which had some unusual colours and textures but was mostly enjoyable. He started a third glass of wine and was nursing the dregs of it when the waitress brought them the dessert menu.
“I think I’m full up,” he said.
The Doctor was already going over the menu. “We could always split something.”
“I –” He was about to protest, because if there was a sure-fire way to convince their waitress they were on a date it was that. But really, who cared? They were leaving this planet forever in a few days. “Sure,” he said. “You pick.”
The Doctor, once again, ordered for him. “Another drink?” he said.
He looked at the remains of his third glass, and joked, “Are you trying to get me drunk?”
“Mm-mm,” said the Doctor, as if to say maybe.
“Why not,” he said.
He was a little tipsy as it was. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been drunk – and then suddenly he could. It had been with Sara. The Mars Colony. The 2090s. They’d found an Irish pub. She’d drunk enough and relaxed enough to get giggly. The memory of her laugh, not for the first time, stuck in his head.
Their dessert arrived.
As he scooped up a spoonful of cream and meringue, he wondered if Sara would have liked it there, and just as swiftly knew she wouldn’t. She’d have objected to the fanciness and frivolity of the restaurant and to its glitzy chandelier and to the garden with all the fountains. She’d have bristled at the suggestion that she dress up for dinner.
Suddenly, he all seemed obscene. That he was sitting in a restaurant drinking wine and eating a beautiful dessert when on another world – in another time – Sara’s bones were crumbling to dust and blowing away in the wind. It wasn’t right. This wasn’t what they should be doing.
The Doctor was carefully scooping up some berries, a very serious expression on his face. Neither of them had spoken since their dessert had arrived. It struck him that this was how it would be, from now on. Just the two of them. Every night.
“You’re very quiet this evening,” the Doctor remarked.
“Hm?”
“It isn’t like you,” the Doctor said. “Something on your mind?”
It was an unbelievably stupid question, in the circumstances. Do you have something on your mind. Of course he did. But he wasn’t about to start a fight over it. Toying with his dessert he said, “Not really.”
“You can tell me,” the Doctor prompted.
Could he? He supposed there wasn’t anyone else left to tell. Cream dripped off his spoon onto the plate. He tried several times to speak. “It’s just,” he said. “I suppose it’s just.”
“Yes?”
He gave in. “When I first came aboard,” he said. “I said to myself, this is fine for now. I’ll figure out what I want to do long term later. And then Vicki left,” he went on. “And then – everything with the daleks – and Sara – we were working towards something but now it’s over, and Sara’s – gone. And I suppose I’ve just been thinking that, well. It’s later now. Isn’t it?”
Silence. The fountains danced down the gardens with a hiss.
“Are you saying you want to leave?” said the Doctor.
“No –”
“I wouldn’t blame you –”
“No – no –”
“This would be a very fine place to live.”
“It’s very nice, but I wouldn’t want to live here,” Steven managed to get in. “I’m not saying I want to settle down or anything. I’m just. Well.” He breathed in. “Well, you asked what I was thinking about.”
So saying, he knocked back a good measure of wine.
“Steven,” said the Doctor.
“I’m not leaving,” he said. He wasn’t about to leave the Doctor, who was – well, they weren’t exactly family. But he didn’t have anyone else. What was he going to do? Start again somewhere? With nothing, and nobody to all his own?
He thought maybe Sara and I could have – but that was wishful thinking. There was no reason to think she would ever have wanted that, or that if she had, it would have been with him.
They were sitting in silence again. The Doctor was doggedly eating his half of the dessert and seeming to enjoy it, in a very stern manner. It was difficult to tell what the Doctor was feeling sometimes. Since leaving Kembel he’d given almost no outward sign of grief.
Steven swirled his wine around in his glass. “You know the other thing I keep thinking?”
“Hm?”
“Things are supposed to – happen. When someone dies.”
“What do you mean?” said the Doctor.
“There’s supposed to be, I don’t know. Paperwork. Informing people,” he said. “Obituaries. Funerals. We just left,” he added. “And now we’re having dinner.”
The Doctor said nothing.
She was just gone. There had been nothing left. She hadn’t had much in the way of personal effects aboard the TARDIS. She might never have been there at all.
Outside the window, the fountains danced their graceful dance again. The water, there for a moment, and then not.
At length, the Doctor said, “We have to keep moving forward.”
“I suppose so,” said Steven. He was about done with his dessert and opted to drain his wine. Pushing the glass aside he leaned heavily on the table.
The Doctor patted his forearm. “How about we get the bill?” he said, very kindly.
The bill duly arrived and the Doctor peered at it through his glasses. “Hmm,” he said, and began the usual show of patting his pockets.
Steven’s heart sank. “Christ,” he muttered, leaning back in his chair.
“Aha!” The Doctor produced a currency card and tapped it against the reader. It beeped green and he shot Steven a smirk as if to say see? And you doubted me.
“I’ve very sorry,” said Steven.
“Apology accepted,” said the Doctor, and dabbing his hands one last time with his napkin he pushed his chair away from the table. “Shall we?”
The city was dark, the streets lit up overhead with lights in every colour of the rainbow. Different strains of music spilled from the windows of bars and restaurants as they passed; the Doctor tapped his cane on the ground as he walked like a gentleman of leisure out on the town. He brushed off Steven’s suggestion that they make the trek back to the TARDIS and insisted on choosing a hotel.
In the lobby, Steven stood by the counter, blinking in the suddenly light, having one of those disorienting space and time travel moments where he couldn’t quite make sense of where he was and how he had come to be there. He was tipsier than he realised.
The hotel was small, but it looked expensive. The Doctor’s currency card was accepted once again and they headed up the plushly carpeted stairway to their rooms. “This is you,” said the Doctor on the second landing.
“Right,” said Steven, leaning upon the door frame.
“Well.” The Doctor patted his chest. His hand lingered in place. “Good night.”
And Steven had the sudden sensation that he was being seduced.
He had been seduced before, but not often and never so expensively. Being plied with alcohol followed by a friendly I’ll walk you back to your room was a pretty classic way to go about it. Was the Doctor expecting to be invited in? Was that – something the Doctor wanted, with him? He’d never given any sign of wanting it before but he was a difficult man to read – and people wanted all sorts of funny things, when they had just –
“What is this?” he said.
“Hm?” The Doctor seemed startled at the question.
“Tonight,” said Steven. “What was this? What’re you trying to do?”
“Hm.” The Doctor’s hand trailed down his chest and adjusted the sit of his shirt. “I suppose I just wanted to treat you.”
“Treat me?” Steven echoed.
“Is that so wrong?” said the Doctor.
“No,” said Steven. “Of course not.”
“Well, then,” said the Doctor. “Good night.” Smiling to himself, he straightened the collar of Steven’s shirt and headed on up the stairs.
Steven lingered for a moment, but the Doctor didn’t come back. He shouldered open the door, kicked off his shoes, and slumped down heavily on the bed. For a moment he lay there in the darkened room, staring up at the ceiling.
“Alright,” he said to himself. “This is it.”