trigger warnings: discussions of racism, 19th century-era attitude, mentions of necrophilia and dehumanization

*

After her less-than-cheerful conversation with Rose, MJ decides to overcompensate with color. That's how she ends up wearing a rainbow shirt with purple pants.

By the time she's done styling her hair, she's feeling much better. It's not anything crazy — just braided pigtails. She spritzes herself with a body mist that smells almost exactly like the sun-ripened strawberries of Camp Half-Blood, and then she's good to go. She grabs her backpack — there's no way she's going anywhere without her medical supplies — and heads for the console room.

"Took you long enough!" the Doctor crows when she walks in.

Rose is already here, leaning against the railing. She offers MJ a warm smile that MJ easily returns.

"You're more than welcome to help me with my hair if you think that'll make things go faster," MJ says.

The Doctor considers this for about four seconds before saying, "Nah, I'm good." He points to a button on the console. "Press that."

MJ complies and they're immediately thrown into flight. The Doctor starts barking out orders to MJ and Rose, telling them what to press and what to pull.

"Hold that one down!" the Doctor orders Rose.

"I'm holding this one down!" Rose insists.

"Well, hold them both down!" he says.

MJ is stuck adjusting a dial while holding down a lever with her foot, so Rose is left to stretch across the console to reach whatever else the Doctor wants her to hold down.

"It's not gonna work," Rose says.

"Oi!" the Doctor exclaims. "I promised you a time machine, and that's what you get. Now, we've seen the future, let's have a look at the past. 1860, how does 1860 sound?"

"What happened in 1860?" Rose asks.

"Abraham Lincoln got elected president of the United States!" MJ very helpfully supplies.

Rose rolls her eyes. "Besides that."

"I don't know, let's find out!" The Doctor yanks down another lever. "Hold on, here we go!"

MJ isn't entirely sure what happens next. All she knows is that by the time the TARDIS actually lands, all of them have somehow fallen to the floor. They lay on their backs, laughing like madmen as the TARDIS materializes in, presumably, 1860.

"Blimey!" Rose says.

The Doctor gets to his feet with relative ease, clearly used to these kinds of rough landings by now. "Telling me! You two alright?"

"Yeah, I think so," Rose says. MJ's already standing, so she offers Rose a hand and Rose takes it gratefully. "Nothing broken."

"Did we make it?" MJ asks. The two girls hurry to join the Doctor where he stands looking at a screen. The writing is nonsense to MJ — circular Gallifreyan, if she had to hazard a guess. She pushes a stray lock of hair out of her face. "Where are we?"

"I did it!" the Doctor gushes. "Give the man a medal! Earth, Naples, December 24th, 1860." He giggles to himself, crossing his arms over his chest.

MJ pokes him in the shoulder. "I think you mean we did it. Rose and I helped!"

"Yeah, whatever," the Doctor says, waving a dismissive hand. MJ rolls her eyes.

"That's so weird," Rose says. "It's Christmas." Her lips curl into a brilliant smile.

The Doctor steps back and gestures grandly. "All yours, ladies."

MJ knows she should be smiling too, but she can't. It's so stupid, but all she can think is that this will be her first Christmas in what, five years without Annabeth and Chiron? Her first Christmas in ten years without Luke. Her stomach churns. She'll have other Christmases with Annabeth, she knows that.

She'll never have Christmas with Luke again.

"But it's like..." Rose is saying.

The Doctor has his arms crossed over his chest again, watching Rose with a fond smile. MJ turns to lean her back against the console and give Rose her full attention.

Rose runs her finger along the rim of the console absentmindedly as she talks. "Think about it, though. Christmas, 1860, happens once, just once, and then it's gone, it's finished, it'll never happen again." The Doctor shrugs, still looking quite smug. Rose smiles back at him. "Except for you. You can go back and see days that are dead and gone. A hundred thousand sunsets ago. No wonder you never stay still."

"Not a bad life," the Doctor says.

"Better with three," Rose points out.

They smile at each other, looking so damn happy, and MJ can't help but wonder, Is this flirting? Are they flirting right now? Gods. Once this adventure is over, she'll have to call Silena and ask for that lesson on flirting she always insisted she didn't want.

Rose whacks the Doctor on the arm playfully. "Come on, then."

She races for the door. The Doctor calls after her, "Oi, oi, oi! Where do you think you're going?"

Rose turns around to answer him, still beaming. "1860."

"Go out there dressed like that, you'll start a riot, Barbarella," the Doctor says.

MJ locks eyes with Rose and mouths, "Barbarella?"

The Doctor points to the arch leading into the hall. "There's a wardrobe through there, first left, second right, third on the left, go straight ahead, under the stairs, past the bins, fifth door on your left. Hurry up!" He turns to MJ. "You too, miss."

Rose offers MJ her arm. The girls link up and start down the hallway.

"How the hell are we supposed to remember all that?" Rose huffs as they make the first left.

"Don't worry," MJ says. "I have an excellent memory. The real question is, why couldn't he just ask the TARDIS to move the wardrobe closer?"

Rose does a double-take. "He can do that?"

"He did it with my room yesterday," MJ tells her. "Unless he was lying which is...possible. Right here."

All of the Doctor's long-winded instructions later, MJ and Rose find themselves in the wardrobe. Immediately, MJ knows she's going to be visiting this room a lot. It stretches up into oblivion, just a never-ending spiral of clothes, shoes, and accessories. MJ wonders if the Doctor would mind if she took some things for her crafts. No, he wouldn't. Not if she makes him something to butter him up first.

The TARDIS very helpfully guides them to a section of clothing appropriate for the 1860s. The girls browse through racks and racks of dresses.

"Maybe we should pick something out for each other," Rose suggests. "Might make this go a bit faster."

"Deal," MJ says. "But if you put me in something stupid, I'll kick your ass."

Rose giggles. "Oh, I don't doubt it."

For Rose, MJ finds a wine-red dress with a sweetheart neckline and a pleated skirt, black lace gloves that match the lace ruffles on her bodice, and a black shawl to keep her somewhat warm. For MJ, Rose finds...

"You don't think it's a bit much?" MJ asks, holding the dress up to her body as she stares at herself in the mirror. "I mean, this looks like something that gets worn to a ball. Not like, a casual night out."

"Oh, but you'd look so pretty in it," Rose insists. She's already dressed and is in the midst of trying to decide what to do with her hair. "And mine's not any more 'casual', is it?"

"I guess not," MJ says. She takes a deep breath. "Okay. Yeah. I can wear this."

She needs Rose's help to get into the dress, which is the color of champagne. It has the same neckline and off-the-shoulder sleeves as Rose's dress, but her skirt has a layer of glittering silver lace embroidered with flowers. MJ can't stop smoothing down the skirt — not because it won't sit right, but because it's silk, and MJ has never worn silk before in her life. She finds white opera gloves that she pulls on. Rose drapes a far-too-fancy necklace around MJ's neck and refuses to listen to reason when MJ says it's definitely too much.

"Shut up and help me put this thing in my hair," Rose says. She's pulled her hair back into a bun and found dangly ruby earrings. MJ helps her with the hair accessory — this feathery thing that's the same shade of red as Rose's dress.

The rest of MJ's look comes together nicely. She and Rose wear the same heeled boots, just in different colors. MJ puts her hair into a half-up, half-down style. It's not super Victorian, but MJ doesn't have the patience to do much more. Rose finds a feathery hair accessory for MJ too, and then they check each other's outfits to make sure everything is well and good.

"Fuck, we look hot," Rose swears. They'd found a mirror big enough to see both of them in. Rose gathers up her skirt and does a little twirl. "I should wear Victorian gowns more often."

"Come on," MJ laughs, tugging on Rose's arm. "We should get back before the Doctor leaves without us."

"He wouldn't leave without us," Rose says, still admiring herself in the mirror. Then she freezes. "Would he?" She lets out a gasp as if scandalized. "Oh, he absolutely would! That bastard. C'mon. You got everything?"

The main reason MJ agreed to wear this dress is that it has a surprising amount of hidden pockets. You'd never believe it looking at her but she has ambrosia, nectar, three drachmae, gauze, disinfectant wipes, a suture kit, a mini-sewing kit, hand sanitizer, her hunting knife, and a granola bar stashed on her. Just in case. And of course, she has her beloved ring, though she's a bit worried about it slipping off since she has to wear it over her glove.

"Yep," MJ says. "Back to the console room, we go!"

The girls link arms again. The TARDIS must take pity on them (and perhaps the Doctor as well) because when they exit the wardrobe, the console room is just down the hall. Their heeled boots click on the grated floor. The Doctor is below it in the maintenance area, buzzing some component of the TARDIS with his sonic screwdriver. He looks up as they walk in, eyes wide.

"Blimey!" he exclaims.

"Don't laugh," Rose threatens playfully, raising her finger in warning.

"You two look beautiful," the Doctor says, his voice so sincere that MJ's heart swells in her chest.

Her instinct is to duck her head bashfully, but instead, she raises her chin as her mother would in the face of compliments. Though Athena probably doesn't blush like a schoolgirl when she gets compliments. Maybe she does. How would MJ know? She's only met her like two times in passing.

The Doctor's awed expression suddenly hardens, and he looks away to buzz whatever he's working on at the moment. "Considering."

"Considering what?" Rose asks.

"That you're human," the Doctor says.

Only half, MJ thinks.

"I think that's a compliment," Rose whispers to MJ. Raising her voice, she questions the Doctor, "Aren't you gonna change?"

He gestures to himself. "I've changed my jumper! Come on."

The Doctor starts to climb up. Rose rushes over to the doors, demanding, "You stay there, you've done this before. This is mine."

"What about MJ?" the Doctor protests.

"I'll get the next one," MJ says, waving her hand dismissively. "This one's all yours, Rosie."

Rose beams and opens the door. She hovers on the precipice, putting one foot down as if testing the ground outside. Eventually, she steps out of the TARDIS completely.

"After you, milady," the Doctor says with a little bow.

"Why thank you, milord," MJ says in the most pretentious voice she can manage, lifting her skirts to sink into a curtsey.

She follows Rose into the winter night. The snow crunches beneath her boots. It's really cold, to the point that MJ thinks she probably should've grabbed a shawl for herself or a cloak, but she's too excited to care much about freezing to death. She cranes her head to look up at the star-speckled sky. There are more stars in the pitch-black than she's ever seen in her life, no light pollution or clouds to block them out. She faintly wishes that she'd brought her phone so she could take a picture, but the choice had been between her phone or the granola bar, and sustenance is far more important.

"Ready for this?" the Doctor asks, popping up to stand between Rose and MJ. He offers them each an arm, and they quickly take it. "Here we go. History."

*

Sometimes smart people, even geniuses like MJ, can be idiots. This is one of those times.

She'd gotten so caught up in all of the excitement of dressing up and traveling through time that she'd forgotten a very crucial detail: she's Black. And the past? Not exactly kind to Black people. Even the present isn't kind to Black people. Maybe sometime in the future, racism will be dead and gone, probably replaced by some other form of bigotry (speciesism?), but in Naples in the year 1860? Racism is alive and well and MJ is suffocating under the weight of it.

So far, it's just been dirty looks like, What the fuck do you think you're doing? But she has a terrible feeling that the longer she's here, the more likely it is she'll get full-on hate-crimed. MJ really doesn't want to get hate-crimed. That's very, very high on her list of Things I Don't Want to Experience.

MJ clings to the Doctor's side, trying to hide behind him the best she can as the three of them wander the streets of Naples. No, Cardiff. Cardiff, 1869. Hm. How long will it take for the Doctor to notice his error?

Turns out, it takes him as long as it takes him to find a newspaper.

"I got the flight a bit wrong," he admits.

"I don't care," Rose says.

"It's not 1860, it's 1869," the Doctor continues, folding up the newspaper the best he can with MJ still hanging onto his arm.

"I don't care," Rose says again.

"And it's not Naples," he says.

Rose's response is the same. "I don't care."

"It's Cardiff," he says, grimacing.

Rose stops walking. "Right."

"Where is Cardiff?" MJ asks, looking up at the Doctor.

"Wales," the Doctor says with quite a bit of displeasure. Rose quickly catches up to them, chewing on her bottom lip.

MJ raises her eyebrows. "Is there a problem with Wales? Besides the fact that it's, you know, not Naples?"

"Yeah, I can tell you're American," he huffs.

MJ's about to suggest that maybe they should just go back to the TARDIS and go somewhere else, maybe somewhere where she doesn't have to worry about being treated subhuman because of her skin color, when screams fill the crisp night air.

"That's more like it," the Doctor says, tossing the newspaper over his shoulder.

"You really shouldn't litter," MJ says as the three of them take off running.

They sprint in the direction everyone else is running from which, honestly, is nothing new for MJ. The screaming is coming from inside a building that MJ doesn't even glimpse the name of. She sincerely doubts it matters all that much. It seems to be some kind of theatre, she notes as they push through the crowd. A production gone wrong? A fight in the crowd? Something human? Something alien? Something monstrous?

When they emerge into the actual theatre, MJ's eyes snap to the problem right away. It looks like a ghost. Or, at least, what could be a ghost. She's never actually seen ghosts before, but she knows Lou Ellen, a daughter of Hecate in Cabin 11, has and what MJ's seeing now doesn't match the descriptions Lou Ellen gave.

The Doctor is downright giddy. "Fantastic!"

"We need to have a serious conversation about your definition of fantastic," MJ says as the Doctor drags her toward the stage where a white man with impressive facial hair stands.

"Did you see where it came from?" the Doctor asks the man.

The man answers with a question of his own. "The wag reveals himself, does he?" He comes closer to the edge of the stage and MJ shrinks behind the Doctor, worried his ire is directed at her. It's not. "I trust you're satisfied, sir!"

"Oi!" Rose's voice cuts through the chaos. "Leave her alone."

MJ follows Rose's gaze to an older man and a woman (both white, of course) grabbing a...okay, that old lady looks dead. The older man and the woman are grabbing what looks like a dead old white lady.

"Doctor, MJ! I'll get them," Rose shouts.

"Be careful!" MJ and the Doctor call out in unison. They share a brief look of displeasure before they both climb on stage, MJ having a much more difficult time in her dress.

"Did it say anything?" the Doctor asks Mr. Impressive Facial Hair. "Can it speak? I'm the Doctor, by the way."

"Doctor?" Mr. Impressive Facial Hair scoffs. "You look more like a navvy."

The Doctor frowns and picks at his sweater. "What's wrong with this jumper?"

MJ, who's resorted to sitting on the edge of the stage, rolls her eyes. "Can we worry about your fashion choices later?"

The glowing blue specter whirls through the air before disappearing into a gas lamp.

"Gas," the Doctor says. "It's made of gas."

MJ hops down from the stage. "We need to find Rose."

Despite her head start, the Doctor easily overtakes her, as does Mr. Impressive Facial Hair. Damn men and their more practical footwear. MJ stumbles down the steps of the theatre and rushes to the Doctor's side. Mr. Impressive Facial Hair is babbling on, trying to interrogate the Doctor as to how he made the specter appear.

"Where's Rose?" MJ huffs, pushing hair out of her face. She really should've put it in a bun.

"In that hearse," the Doctor says. He grabs MJ's hand and they run over to the nearest coach, the Doctor calling out, "Oi! You! Follow that hearse!"

"Can't do that, sir," the driver says.

"Why not?" MJ asks as the Doctor helps her into the carriage. He slides into the seat beside her.

"I'll tell you why not," Mr. Impressive Facial Hair says snidely. "I'll give you a very good reason why not. Because this is my coach."

"Well, get in, then!" the Doctor exclaims, grabbing Mr. Impressive Facial Hair by the arm and hauling him into the coach. The bench is not meant for three, so MJ gets a bit squished. As soon as the door is shut behind him, the Doctor yells, "Move!"

The driver takes off, but not fast enough.

"Come on!" the Doctor urges. "You're losing them!"

The driver turns around to peer into the coach. "Everything in order, Mr. Dickens?"

MJ temporarily blue-screens. Mr. Dickens? As in...? No, it can't be.

"No, it is not!" Mr. Dickens — but surely not that Mr. Dickens — replies sharply.

"What did he say?" the Doctor asks. He lays a hand on MJ's arm as if needing to steady himself.

"Let me say this first," Mr. Dickens says. "I am not without a sense of humor..."

"Dickens?" the Doctor interjects.

"Yes," Mr. Dickens says.

"Charles Dickens?" MJ chimes in, eyes wide.

"Yes!" Mr. Dickens says a bit more exasperated this time.

"The Charles Dickens?" the Doctor presses.

"Should I remove the gentleman and the lady, sir?" the driver asks, shooting MJ a dirty look that makes her skin crawl.

"Charles Dickens!" the Doctor exclaims, as giddy as a child with an unlimited allowance in a candy shop. "You're brilliant, you are! Completely 100% brilliant. I've read them all. Great Expectations, Oliver Twist...What's the other one? The one with the ghost?"

"Christmas Carol?" Mr. Charles Dickens suggests.

MJ nods approvingly. "I'm a big fan of the Muppet version."

"No, the one with the trains," the Doctor says. "The Signal-Man, that's it. Terrifying! The best short story ever written! You're a genius."

The driver chooses that moment to speak up again. "Do you want me to get rid of them, sir?"

"Uh, no, I think he can stay," Charles Dickens says. "The lady, as well."

"Honestly, Charles...Can I call you Charles?" The Doctor is properly fangirling at the moment. MJ watches with a tight-lipped smile, her worry for Rose undermining any amusement she might feel. The Doctor seems to have temporarily forgotten their other friend's predicament. "I'm such a big fan."

Poor Charles doesn't get it. "Uh, you're a what? A big what?"

"Fan," the Doctor says. "Number one fan, that's me!"

"It's short for fanatic, Mr. Dickens," MJ says, leaning around the Doctor to make eye contact with the famous writer. Gods, if she ever tells her siblings about this they're going to be so jealous. Especially Dani.

Charles Dickens eyes her suspiciously. "And who are you, young lady?"

"Matilda Winslow, sir," MJ says in her very best 'polite young woman' voice. "But my friends call me MJ."

"Mind you, I've gotta say—" the Doctor cuts himself off, whirling to face MJ. "Hold on. The M in MJ is for Matilda?"

"Don't you dare laugh," she threatens. He's probably not aware of this yet, but she's not above stabbing him to make a point.

"Never," the Doctor says with a dazzling smile before turning his attention back to Mr. Charles Dickens. "That American bit in Martin Chuzzlewit, what's that about? Was that just padding or what? I mean it's rubbish, that bit."

"I thought you said you were my fan," Dickens says. She's just going to refer to him as Dickens from now on. Charles feels too personal, Mr. Dickens is too formal, and Mr. Charles Dickens is just a mouthful. Dickens is just right.

"Oh, well, if you can't take criticism..." the Doctor trails off before perking up again. "Do the death of Little Nell. It cracks me up." MJ whacks his knee and he snaps back to reality. "No! Sorry! Forget about that. Come on! Faster!"

The driver complies, thank the gods.

"Who exactly is in that hearse?" Dickens inquires, brow furrowed.

"Our friend," the Doctor says. "She's only nineteen. It's my fault. She's in my care, and now she's in danger."

"Why are we wasting my time talking about dry old books?" Dickens asks incredulously. "This is much more important. Driver! Be swift! The chase is on!"

"Yes, sir!"

"Attaboy, Charlie," the Doctor says, clapping his hand down on Dickens's shoulder.

"Nobody calls me Charlie," Dickens says.

"The ladies do," the Doctor counters. MJ giggles.

Dickens frowns. "How do you know that?"

"I told you!" the Doctor exclaims. "I'm your number one..."

"Number one fan," Dickens talks over him, turning his head to look out the window. "I know."

The Doctor puts a hand on MJ's knee. If he notices how she startles, he doesn't take it as a sign to move his hand away. Instead, he squeezes her knee. "Can you believe it, MJ? Charles Dickens, in the flesh!" He pauses and looks down at her dress, massaging her knee as he feels the fabric. "Is this silk?"

"Rose picked it out," MJ says, cheeks burning.

She's not used to having people's hands on her body. Well, people that aren't her loved ones, to be more precise. The Doctor is still more stranger than he is a friend, but he keeps his hand there until the driver brings the coach to a stop outside an undertaker's. Dickens gets out first, then the Doctor, who helps MJ out just as he helped her get in.

"Allow me," Dickens says. He grabs hold of the lion-shaped knocker and brings it down hard.

"You okay?" the Doctor whispers in MJ's ear as they wait for an answer.

MJ looks up at him, her brow creased. "Yeah, why?"

"You're shivering," he says quietly. Oh. So she is. She didn't even notice. The Doctor hesitates, then asks, "Do you want my jacket?"

"I'm good," MJ assures him even as she rubs her arms to keep warm. "Your jacket doesn't really match my outfit."

The Doctor glances surreptitiously at Dickens, who raises the knocker for another round of banging on the door, then leans in a little closer. "You said Rose picked it out for you?" MJ nods. The Doctor's eyes rove over her body, a glimmer of something she hasn't seen before in the depths of the blue. "Good on Rose."

The door chooses that very moment to open. Well, the door doesn't actually have a choice in the matter. The young woman behind the door (the same young woman from the theatre) is the one who chooses to open it at that very moment. She's a servant, judging by her outfit, and she's doing a terrible job of pretending like she's not extremely nervous at the moment.

"I'm sorry, sir," the young woman says to Dickens. "We're closed."

"Nonsense," Dickens says. "Since when did an undertaker keep office hours? The dead don't die on schedule. I demand to see your master."

"He's not in, sir," the woman says. She tries to close the door, but Dickens doesn't give up that easily.

"Don't lie to me, child, summon the master!" Dickens orders, forcing the door back open.

"I'm awfully sorry, Mr. Dickens, but the master is indisposed," the woman says. Behind her, the flame of a gas lamp wavers wildly.

The Doctor sees it too. "Having trouble with your gas?"

"What the Shakespeare is going on?" Dickens asks, catching sight of the oddly behaving flame.

The Doctor pushes his way inside and MJ follows him in, eager to be somewhere with heating. He presses his ear to the wall, ignoring the woman's protests of, "You're not allowed inside, sir."

"There's something inside the walls," the Doctor says.

MJ presses her ear to the wall too. Whatever she hears sounds kind of like wailing. "Inside the walls or inside the pipes?"

"Good catch," he says. "Something's living inside the gas."

"Let me out!" Rose screams from somewhere further in the house, voice slightly muffed. "Open the door!"

MJ doesn't hesitate. She gathers her skirts and runs in the direction that Rose's voice is coming from, completely bypassing the older man from the theatre. He barks something at her, but she ignores him. Rose's cries for help lead MJ to a black door.

"Move away from the door!" MJ yells.

She takes a step back, raises her foot, and kicks the door in. Two corpses, one of which is the old lady from the theatre, have their hands on Rose. MJ's eyes narrow down to slits and she yanks Rose free from their cold, clammy hands. The Doctor and Dickens come to a screeching halt just outside the door as MJ shoves Rose behind her and brandishes her hunting knife.

"It's a prank," Dickens says. "Must be. We're under some mesmeric influence."

"No, we're not," the Doctor says, keeping Rose behind him. "The dead are walking." He looks down at Rose, smiling. "Hi."

"Hi," Rose says breathlessly. "Who's your friend?"

"Charles Dickens," the Doctor answers.

All Rose can say to that is, "Okay."

"My name's the Doctor," he says. He grabs MJ's elbow and tries to move her behind him, but she plants her feet. The Doctor settles for stepping in front of her. "Who are you, then? What do you want?"

"Failing!" The male corpse is the only one moving its mouth, but it sounds like a thousand voices overlapping. "Open the rift. We're dying. Trapped in this form. Cannot sustain. Help us."

The specters leave the corpses with a loud shriek that seems to go on for ages. Without the specters to animate them, the bodies fall to the floor.

"Well, that was...interesting," the Doctor says. He crosses his arms over his chest and looks at MJ disapprovingly. "Where the hell did you get a knife?"

She tilts her head, slipping her knife back into its hiding spot. "Oh, I didn't tell you? My dress has pockets."

He rubs his forehead tiredly. "And why do you carry a hunting knife on you?"

"For protection, mostly," she says. "Seemed like a maybe good idea to have it out considering, y'know, the zombies."

"Ah, yes," the Doctor says. He turns to the older man, who must be the undertaker. "Care to explain?"

The undertaker looks at them all nervously. "Anyone for tea?"

*

While the servant, Gwyneth, pours the tea, Rose reads the undertaker, Mr. Sneed, the Riot Act.

"First of all you drug me," Rose growls at him, pacing back and forth, "then you kidnap me, and don't think I didn't feel your hands having a quick wander, you dirty old man."

The Doctor stands in a corner with a smirk on his face, tucked between the fireplace and a tall plant, clearly enjoying Rose speaking her mind. Dickens sits at the table to drink his tea. MJ leans against the wall, arms crossed over her chest. She can't help but notice that even though Gywneth never asked whether or not MJ wanted tea, she only took out four cups. As if she just knew somehow that MJ doesn't really drink tea.

"I won't be spoken to like this," Sneed says.

"Then you sent me in a room full of zombies!" Rose snaps. "And if that ain't enough, you swan off and leave me to die! So, come on, talk!"

"It's not my fault, it's this house!" Sneed exclaims. "It always had a reputation. Haunted. But I never had much bother until a few months back, and then the stiffs...the um, the dear departed started getting restless."

"Tommyrot," Dickens dismisses.

"You witnessed it!" Sneed wrings his hand. "Can't keep the beggars down, sir. They walk. And it's the queerest thing, but they hang onto scraps...One old fellow who used to be a sexton almost walked into his own memorial service. Just like the old lady going to your performance, sir, just as she planned."

"Morbid fancy," Dickens says, getting up from his seat.

"Oh, Charles, you were there," the Doctor says.

Dickens is steadfast in his denial. "I saw nothing but an illusion."

"If you're going to deny it, don't waste my time, just shut up," the Doctor orders. There's a brief, awkward lull in the conversation in which MJ does her best not to snicker at the look on Dickens's face before the Doctor returns his attention to Sneed. "What about the gas?"

"That's new, sir," Sneed says. "I never seen anything like that."

"Means it's getting stronger, the rift's getting wider and something's sneaking through," the Doctor says.

MJ straightens up. "Rift? Like the one I fell through?"

The Doctor nods. "A rift is a weak point in time and space. A connection between this place and another. That's the cause of ghost stories, most of the time."

"Wait, you fell through a rift?" Rose asks MJ, brow furrowed. "Is that how you ended up on Platform One?"

"Yep," MJ says, pushing off the wall to stand next to Rose. "Side-note: rift travel? Do not recommend it."

"That's how I got the house so cheap, stories going back generations," Sneed muses. Behind him, Dickens leaves the room. Nobody pays him much attention. "Echoes in the dark. Queer songs in the air. And this feeling, like a shadow passing over your soul. Mind you, truth be told, it's been good for business, just what people expect from a gloomy old trade like mine."

The Doctor laughs quietly in the corner, then follows after Dickens. Gwyneth rises from her spot at the table to clean up. Rose and MJ exchange looks and follow Gwyneth into the pantry. Rose immediately grabs a dish towel.

"Please, miss, you shouldn't be helping," Gywneth protests, picking up a plate before Rose can try and wash it. "It's not right."

"Don't be daft," Rose says. "Sneed works you to death." Gywneth holds out her hand and Rose reluctantly hands over the towel. "How much do you get paid?"

"Eight pound a year, miss," Gwyneth says.

MJ quickly does the math in her head, first with USD, then translating that into pounds. So...£476.40 a year. Gods, that's nothing.

Rose, on the other hand, seems to have had her brain broken at the knowledge Gwyneth is only making eight pounds. "How much?"

"I know!" Gwyneth says. "I would've been happy with six."

Rose leans over to whisper in MJ's ear. "How much is that in modern times?"

"Less than five hundred pounds a year," MJ whispers back.

"Blimey!" Rose shakes her head. "That's less than I would've made in a year at Henrik's." Raising her voice, she shifts away from MJ and turns back to Gwyneth. "So did you even go to school, or what?"

"Of course I did," Gwyneth says. "What do you think I am, an urchin? I went every Sunday, nice and proper."

"What, once a week?" Rose asks.

Gwyneth nods. "We did sums and everything. To be honest, I hated every second."

"Me, too!" Rose admits, and the two share a laugh.

MJ finds herself shrinking into the shadows. She hated public school too, but for different reasons than them, most likely. For MJ, the learning was the best part. The people were the part she hated the most. They always found some reason to mock her, to tear her down. To them, she was a walking, talking contradiction. She was an annoying know-it-all because she answered all of the teachers' questions and simultaneously a complete moron because she struggled with reading. She was a jumpy freak with unexplained scars, but not intriguing enough a mystery to be worth solving. 

Even when she cemented herself as the star of the track team, dominating every event she signed up for, it wasn't enough to earn the respect of her peers. Whenever her teammates would get together — whether it was a party, a sleepover, a movie night, or just a casual hangout, MJ was never invited. Her coach told her it was because she was too intense and intimidating, and maybe she should try being...less that. MJ refused to make herself smaller to accomdate them. It wouldn't have mattered anyway.

No matter what she did, they always found a way to hate her.

"Don't tell anyone," Gwyneth says. "But one week I didn't go and I ran down the heath, all on my own."

"I did plenty of that," Rose says. "I used to go down the shops with my mate Shareen. And we used to go and look at boys."

Gwyneth grows abruptly somber. "Well, I don't know much about that, miss."

"Oh, come on, times haven't changed that much," Rose teases. "I bet you've done the same."

"I don't think so, miss," Gwyneth insists.

"Gwyneth, you can tell me," Rose says. "I bet you've got your eye on someone."

Gwyneth hesitates, then relents. "I suppose, there is one lad. The butcher's boy, he comes by every Tuesday. Such a lovely smile on him."

Rose is really good at this, MJ thinks. Making people feel comfortable. Encouraging them to open up. And it comes to her so naturally. MJ's had to train herself for years to be half as good as Rose at this kind of thing.

"I like a nice smile," Rose says. "Good smile, nice bum."

Gwyneth's smile falls. "Well, I have never heard the like."

The two giggle and MJ wonders if maybe she should just leave them to it and go looking for the Doctor. All she is right now is an intruder in a private conversation.

"Ask him out," Rose urges. "Give him a cup of tea or something, that's a start."

"I swear, it's the strangest thing, miss," Gwyneth says. "You've got all the clothes and the breeding, but you talk like some sort of wild thing."

Rose shrugs. "Maybe I am. Maybe that's a good thing. You need a bit more in your life than Mr. Sneed."

"Oh, now, that's not fair," Gwyneth protests. "He's not so bad, old Sneed. He was very kind to me to take me in because I lost my mum and dad to the flu when I was twelve."

"Oh, I'm sorry," Rose says softly.

"Thank you, miss," Gwyneth says. "But I'll be there with them again, one day. Sitting with them in paradise. I shall be so blessed. They're waiting for me. Maybe your dad's up there waiting for you too, miss."

Rose's dad is dead? When did she mention that? Did MJ somehow miss that bit in the midst of all of her moping?

"Maybe," Rose agrees. "Um, who told you he was dead?"

Gwyneth turns away, drying the dishes one by one and setting them on the shelf to her right. "I don't know, must've been the Doctor."

"My father died years back."

"You've been thinking about him lately," Gwyneth says casually. "More than ever."

"Suppose so," Rose says. "How do you know all this?"

"Mr. Sneed says I think too much, I'm all alone down here," Gwyneth explains, smiling. "I bet you've got dozens of servants, haven't you, miss? Besides her, I mean."

Besides her? Besides who? MJ looks around and Rose does the same. It dawns on them at the same time.

"MJ's not my servant," Rose says, a sharp edge to her words. "She's my friend."

"Oh, I'm sorry, miss," Gwyneth says.

To her credit, she sounds sincere. The problem is that the apology, of course, is directed at Rose. Not MJ. Why would MJ be apologized to? She's just the one who got mistaken for a servant, even in this fancy-ass dress. She's wearing silk for Aphrodite's sake, and Gwyneth honestly thought she was a servant? What servant wears silk?

MJ's hands curl into fists. Gods, she fucking hates the past.

"No servants where I'm from," Rose adds hastily in an attempt to clear out the awkwardness.

"And you've come such a long way," Gwyneth says.

"What makes you think so?" Rose asks.

Gwyneth takes a step forward. "You're from London. I've seen London in drawings, but never like that, all those people rushing about. Half-naked, for shame. And the noise, and the metal boxes racing past, and the birds in the sky...No. No, they're metal as well. Metal birds with people in them. People are flying. And you. You've flown so far. Further than anyone. The things you've seen. The darkness. The big bad wolf."

Gwyneth stumbles back, her attention turning to MJ. "And you. Daughter of wisdom herself. Oh, my. You see it too. The impossible truth of the world. Oh, you've seen so much. You've lost so much, too. But lost things can be returned. Thalia, she's—" Whatever trance she's in, Gwyneth abruptly snaps out of it. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, misses."

MJ can't help herself. She surges forward and grabs Gwyneth's arms. "What about Thalia?"

"I can't help it," Gwyneth insists. "Ever since I was a little girl, my mam said I had the sight. She told me to hide it."

"But it's getting stronger," the Doctor speaks up. He's standing in the doorway. "More powerful. MJ, let her go."

MJ shakes her head, her grip on Gwyneth tightening. "No, you were saying something about Thalia. What about her? What about Thalia?"

"I'm sorry, I don't know," Gwyneth says. There are tears in her eyes. MJ doesn't give a damn.

"MJ!" the Doctor calls. "I said let her go!"

"You said lost things can be returned," MJ says, eyes wide and wild. Her heart is thundering in her chest, ramming against her ribcage with every beat. "Were you talking about Thalia? Gwyneth, please, this is important. Were you talking about Thalia? Is Thalia coming back?"

Gwyneth lets out a sob. "I don't know, miss. I'm sorry."

"MJ, let go of her!" Rose demands, tugging on MJ's arm.

MJ releases Gwyneth from her vice grip and takes a few steps back. Tears stream down Gwyneth's face. She holds her left arm gingerly, clearly in pain. Rose wraps her arms around her, glowering at MJ.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" Rose asks sharply. "You hurt her."

MJ feels a flash of anger — it burns like a supernova, scorching her insides. She needs to break something. She grabs a jar off the nearest shelf and hurls it at the wall. It shatters completely, its contents dripping down the stone, but MJ feels no satisfaction. Back home, when she felt like this, she'd ask one of her siblings to take a walk with her around CHB...or Luke for a sparring session.

Luke. MJ lashes out and swipes all the jars off a shelf, letting them crash on the floor.

She whirls around and jabs her finger accusingly at Gwyneth. "You're a fucking liar!"

"MJ, stop," the Doctor says.

"No, she's a fucking liar and she needs to keep Thalia's name out of her fucking mouth," MJ snarls, tears slipping down her cheeks. "Thalia's not coming back, okay? She's never coming back. Because she's fucking dead. She's dead and it's my fault."

MJ's voice cracks. Her anger is slipping away from her, but she grasps at it and clutches it tight in her hands. She needs to be angry. She needs to feel that white-hot rage burning in her veins or she'll fall apart on the floor. Shatter like one of those stupid jars. She will not break. She will not crumble.

She takes a deep, shuddering breath. "You're right about one thing, Gwyneth. I have lost a lot. And I'm fucking sick of it."

MJ turns on her heel and storms out. The Doctor lets her pass without argument. MJ stomps her way through the entire house until she's outside, back in the biting cold. She half-expects the snow to turn to puddles beneath her feet, melted by the flames of her fury, but as exceptional as MJ is, she's still just a daughter of Athena. She's still just the girl with a big brain and nothing to show for it.

She sits down on the step and buries her face in her hands, sobbing. She shouldn't have attacked Gwyneth like that. But gods...to hear Thalia's name come out of Gwyneth's mouth, it just broke something in MJ. It's cruel, to be taunted like that. To have someone dangle Thalia in her face when she knows she's never getting her best friend back.

The door opens behind MJ and someone sits next to her on the step. She doesn't have to lift her head to know who it is — she's already memorized the heavy footfalls of his combat boots, and the press of his thigh against hers is familiar after their coach ride earlier.

"Gwyneth says she's very sorry for upsetting you," the Doctor says quietly.

MJ sniffles. Despite everything, she can't help but be petty. "How sweet of her. Is she planning on apologizing for mistaking me as Rose's servant anytime soon?"

"Blimey," the Doctor says. "Did she really?" MJ lifts her head to nod and the Doctor scowls. "How? You're wearing silk."

MJ throws her hands up. "Thank you! I'm literally dressed nicer than Rose is and she thinks I'm the servant?"

She wipes at her eyes, then curls into herself, pulling her knees up to her chest. There's a rustle of fabric beside her, and then a heavy weight settles on her shoulders, accompanied by a whiff of motor oil and woodsy cologne. MJ hesitates before pulling the Doctor's jacket tighter around her.

"Thanks," she says, her voice thick with emotion. She sniffles again. "I shouldn't have flipped out like that. I know that, and I do feel bad about it. It's just that Thalia...well, she happens to be a sore spot for me. A very sore spot."

The Doctor lays a hand on her back, rubbing gently. "Can I ask what happened?"

"You can, but I won't answer," MJ says. The Doctor scoffs and a wet laugh bubbles out of her. "Sorry, but that's like, level five friendship stuff. We're level two at best."

"Only level two?" The Doctor sounds incredibly offended. "How are we only level two?"

MJ makes eye contact with him, giving him a pointed look. "I've known you for like, two days. I'd say you should be thrilled you got to level two so quickly."

The Doctor cracks a smile. "Fair point." He reaches out and tucks a curl behind her ear. "We should get back inside before we freeze to death."

"I sincerely doubt Rose and Gwyneth want to see my face ever again," MJ says. Shame burns in her at the memory of the disgust on Rose's face.

"Nah, they're already over it," he assures her. "I mean, who cares about your little tantrum when there's ghosts about?"

She narrows her eyes. "Tantrum?"

He raises his hands in surrender. "Their words, not mine."

"Yeah, whatever," she says, rolling her eyes.

"C'mon," the Doctor cajoles. He bumps his knee into hers playfully. "We're gonna do a seance. You can't miss that."

"A seance?" MJ tilts her head. "You're kidding, right?"

"Not even a little bit," he says. He stands up and offers her his hand. "Come on, Matilda. Haven't you ever wanted to talk to a ghost?"

MJ takes his hand and lets him pull her up. Once standing, she doesn't let go of his hand. "I already talk to ghosts." The Doctor's smile slips. She adds, "Ever since the night she died, I've dreamt of Thalia. With every year that passes, I get older and older. But she always looks the same."

The Doctor cups her face in both hands. For a split second, she thinks he's going to kiss her, and her skin crawls at the mere thought of lips on hers. He leans in only to press his forehead against hers. A sigh of relief slips out of her. She reaches up to wrap her hands around his wrists, rubbing gently to try and warm up his ice-cold skin.

"I don't know what happened," the Doctor says quietly, "but I do know this. Whatever happened, MJ, it wasn't your fault. I'm sure you did everything you could."

"But it wasn't enough," MJ rasps.

"Then do better next time." He pulls away, presses a quick kiss to her temple, and lets his hands fall back to his sides. It's weird seeing him without his jacket on. He holds the door open for her and smiles at her when she walks inside. "You were wrong, by the way."

"About what?" she asks, fiddling with her ring.

"My jacket goes great with your outfit," he tells her. They stare at each other for a few seconds before bursting into laughter.

*

"This is how Madam Mortlock summons those from the Land of Mists, down in big town," Gwyneth explains. "Come. We must all join hands."

They're all sitting around a circular table. MJ's sat between the Doctor and Sneed. To the right of Sneed is Rose, who keeps glancing at MJ like she's expecting her to freak out any second now. MJ does her best to ignore it.

"I can't take part in this," Dickens says, getting up from his seat.

"Aw," MJ says sickly-sweet. The condescension dripping from her words halts Dickens in his tracks. MJ faux-pouts, eyes glittering with mischief. "Is the big bad author scared of a little ghost?"

One thing MJ's learned about white guys over the years, especially older white guys — they can't back down when their masculinity is challenged by a young Black woman.

"This is precisely the sort of cheap mummery I strive to unmask," Dickens says snottily, desperately trying to save face. "Nothing but luminous tambourines and a squeeze box concealed between the knees. This girl knows nothing."

"Hm," MJ hums. She leans toward Dickens, smirking. "Sounds like something a coward would say."

"I am not a coward," Dickens sputters.

MJ gestures to his empty seat. "Then sit down and join the seance."

A very unhappy Charles Dickens reclaims his seat, and then they all join hands.

"Good man," the Doctor praises with a smirk. "Now, Gwyneth. Reach out."

Gwyneth turns her gaze skyward. "Speak to us. Are you there? Spirits, come. Speak to us that we may relieve your burden."

A sound like distorted voices fills the room.

"Can you hear that?" Rose asks, finally focused on something other than MJ's current mental state.

"Nothing can happen, this is sheer folly," Dickens insists.

"Look at her," Rose says.

Gwyneth's eyes have gone unfocused. "I see them. I feel them!"

Wisps of blue...well, it looks like smoke, but it must be gas. Wisps of blue gas curl through the air above them like ink in water. The wisps are accompanied by ghostly whispers.

Rose stares at the wisps in wonder. "What's it saying?"

"It can't get through the rift," the Doctor says. "Gwyneth, it's not controlling you, you're controlling it. Now look deep. Allow them through."

Something about this is wrong. Very wrong. MJ knows these things aren't actually ghosts, they're aliens, but still. Hadn't these aliens tried to kill Rose? Why are they giving them the time of day? Why should Gwyneth let them through?

"I can't," Gwyneth protests.

"Yes, you can," the Doctor assures her. "Just believe it. I have faith in you, Gwyneth. Make the link."

Gwyneth's eyes are closed and her brow creased as if she's in pain. When her eyes snap open, they seem clearer than before. "Yes!"

A humanoid blue specter rises up behind Gwyneth. Then two more rise up on either side of the first one.

"Great God!" Sneed gasps. "Spirits from the other side!"

"The other side of the universe," the Doctor corrects.

"Pity us!" the voices demand. "Pity the Gelth! There is so little time. Help us!"

The sinking feeling in MJ's stomach turns into an all-out free-fall. No one who demands pity is worthy of it.

"What do you want us to do?" the Doctor asks.

"The rift," the Gelth say. "Take the girl to the rift. Make the bridge."

MJ frowns. The girl? They've been living in this house with Gwyneth for who knows how long and they don't know her name?

"What for?" the Doctor asks next.

"We are so very few," the Gelth say. "The last of our kind. We face extinction!"

The Doctor continues his inquiry. "Why, what happened?"

"Once we had a physical form, like you," the Gelth tell him. "But then the War came."

"War?" Dickens speaks up. "What war?"

"The Time War," say the Gelth. MJ glances at the Doctor. He locks eyes with her, expression grim. The Gelth don't seem to notice his reaction. "The whole universe convulsed. The Time War raged. Invisible to smaller species but devastating to higher forms. Our bodies wasted away. We're trapped in this gaseous state."

And MJ is starting to think that maybe they should stay there. Higher forms? Something about that just sounds so wrong to her. It reminds her of white supremacists' rhetoric. White people are civilized. Superior. Most important. Everyone else is a savage. Subhuman. Irrelevant.

Maybe she's overthinking it. MJ overthinks a lot of things.

"So that's why you need the corpses," the Doctor says.

"We want to stand tall," the Gelth say. "To feel the sunlight. To live again. We need a physical form and your dead are abandoned. They go to waste. Give them to us."

"No please?" MJ mumbles.

"But we can't," Rose speaks up.

"Why not?" the Doctor asks.

"It's not..." Rose trails off, then tries again. "I mean, it's not..."

"Not decent? Not polite?" the Doctor questions. "It could save their lives."

"Open the rift," the Gelth command. "Let the Gelth through. We're dying. Help us. Pity the Gelth!"

The Gelth vanish back into the gas lamps. Gwyneth slumps forward onto the table.

The Doctor puts his hand on her back while Rose surges to her feet and runs around the table to Gwyneth's side. "Gwyneth!"

"All true," Dickens says, seemingly on the verge of a panic attack.

"Are you okay?" Rose asks Gwyneth worriedly. She cradles Gwyneth's head, so kind and so gentle and not a total bitch like MJ.

Dickens stares at the Doctor, a haunted look in his eyes. "It's all true."

That's the problem. MJ's not so sure it is.

*

The Doctor and MJ carry Gwyneth over to a chaise and lay her down. Rose stays at her side, watching over her while they wait for her to wake. Dickens is so disturbed by everything going on that he's shed his suit jacket and rolled up his sleeves. The Doctor leans against the wall, looking rather sullen after his attempts to explain everything to Sneed and Dickens. MJ leans against the wall opposite him, silent as she tries to make sense of it all in her head

When Gwyneth finally wakes and tries to sit up, Rose lays a hand on her arm. "It's alright. You just sleep."

"But my angels, miss!" Gwyneth seems a tad disoriented. "They came, didn't they? They need me."

"They do need you, Gwyneth," the Doctor speaks up. "You're their only chance of survival."

MJ grimaces. Way to keep the pressure off.

"I've told you, leave her alone," Rose says to him. "She's exhausted and she's not fighting your battles." The Doctor rolls his eyes and MJ briefly considers breaking his nose. Rose has every right to be concerned about Gwyneth's well-being. She hands Gwyneth a glass of water. "Now drink this."

"But what did you say, Doctor?" Sneed asks. "Explain it again. What are they?"

"Aliens," the Doctor says.

Sneed doesn't get it. "Like, foreigners, you mean?"

"Pretty foreign, yeah," the Doctor agrees. He points upward. "From up there."

"Brecon?" Sneed guesses.

"Close," the Doctor lies. "And they've been trying to get through from Brecon to Cardiff, but the road's blocked. Only a few can get through and even then they're weak. They can only test drive the bodies for so long. Then they have to revert to gas and hide in the pipes."

"Which is why they need the girl?" Dickens questions, slurring his words slightly. He's been drinking ever since the seance ended.

Rose glares at him. "They're not having her."

"But she can help," the Doctor says. "Living on the rift, she's become part of it. She can open it up, make a bridge, and let them through."

"But should she?" MJ blurts out.

The Doctor scowls. "What?"

"Something's not right about these Gelth," MJ says. She can't stop twisting her ring around her finger. "I don't know. The way they kept saying, 'Pity us,' is so weird to me. And they don't know Gwyneth's name, or they don't value her enough to use it, and they call themselves higher forms which kind of gives white supremacist, and-and..." She shakes her head. "They're asking for our dead and they can't even say please."

"Sorry, but I think they're a little too busy trying not to die for pleasantries," the Doctor gibes. "You came through a rift, MJ. You saying we should toss you to the side and leave you to rot?"

"That's completely different," MJ argues. "I got forced through a rift, and I didn't show up and immediately start making demands."

"Incredible," Dickens says. "Ghosts that are not ghosts but beings from another world, who can only exist in our realm by inhabiting cadavers."

"Good system," the Doctor says. "It might work."

Rose gets to her feet, striding over to the Doctor. "You can't let them run around inside of dead people!"

The Doctor frowns. "Why not? It's like recycling."

MJ's stomach churns. Is he serious?

"Seriously though, you can't," Rose insists.

"Seriously though, I can," the Doctor retorts.

"But it's just wrong!" Rose exclaims. "Those bodies were living people. We should respect them, even in death."

MJ nods emphatically. Finally, someone else around here is talking some sense.

The Doctor pushes off the wall, looking at Rose as if she's just some silly little girl who doesn't understand anything about the world. "Do you carry a donor card?"

"That's different," Rose protests. "That's—"

"It is different, yeah. A different morality," the Doctor says. "Get used to it or go home."

MJ stomps over to him, eyes narrowed down to slits. "Shut your mouth before I shut it for you."

The Doctor scoffs. "Excuse you?"

"Young lady, that is no way to talk to—" Sneed starts to say, but MJ pulls her granola bar out of her pocket and hurls it at him.

"Stay out of this!" she orders. She whirls back on the Doctor. There's a silver glint in her brown eyes. "Carrying a donor card is so obviously completely different from what you're proposing and if you genuinely can't see that, I think I have every right to kick your ass."

The Doctor crosses his arms over his chest, raising his chin and straightening his back. "Alright, explain it to me then. How is it different?"

"When you sign up to be a donor, that is a conscious decision you make," she says. "That is you consenting to your organs being used to save someone's life after death. That is the key element you're missing here, Doctor: consent. Those people didn't agree to be puppets for some alien species to use as they please, and disregarding that is not only disrespectful, it's disgusting."

"They're just bodies!" the Doctor argues.

"To you!" she shouts, getting up in his face now. "They're 'just bodies' to you, you fucking dickhead! But they're people, Doctor, or at least they were. That lady who went to Dickens's play, she was somebody's daughter, mother, and grandmother. Somebody's wife, maybe somebody's sister, somebody's friend. Shouldn't they get a say in this? I mean, how do you think they would feel to see their loved one's corpse parading down Main Street?"

MJ starts pacing, mind whirling. "And that's only part of the issue. I mean, we don't know anything about these Gelth. Will one of them inhabiting a corpse prevent that corpse from decomposing, or will they eventually need to adopt a new physical form? How many of them even are there? They say they're the last of their kind, but that could mean anywhere from one to a hundred, or more, even, and that's if they're even telling the truth!"

The Doctor opens his mouth to say something, but MJ is on a roll now. She's gesturing wildly with her hands as she talks, packing as many words as she possibly can into each breath. "Then there's the legislation part of it. If we let the Gelth through the rift and let them inhabit these corpses, that's only step one. Do we then integrate the Gelth into society? If so, how would that work? They obviously wouldn't be able to adopt the identity of the corpse they're wearing considering that person's already legally dead, and they probably wouldn't even want to. I mean, hypothetically, we could create a system similar to the organ donor system where you could sign up to be a meat suit for the Gelth once you're dead and gone, but how would we prevent the Gelth from inhabiting bodies that weren't donated? And how would we remove them from said bodies?"

She screeches to a halt as a terrible thought crosses her mind. "If someone has sex with a Gelth wearing a human suit, is that still necrophilia? Or does it technically not count as necrophilia because the corpse is animated?"

"MJ, we don't have time for this—" the Doctor tries to say.

"Then make time!" she snaps at him. "There are two very simple reasons why it's so easy for you to play God and donate these corpses to the Gelth. No, three, actually." As she talks, she counts off the reasons on her hand. "One, like the Gelth, you view humans as a simpler, lower life form. So naturally you value us even less in death than you do in life. Two, you don't have to face the consequences of your actions. You can let the Gelth through the rift, then just run off and never return and we'd be left picking up the pieces of a mess you made. And three, you, Doctor, are a white man who has never had to deal with systemic commodification, objectification, and dehumanization!"

"Oh, we might be here a while," Rose whispers to Gwyneth.

"Perhaps I should make some more tea," Gwyneth says.

The Doctor rubs his face tiredly. "MJ, please. I understand your concerns, but the Gelth are dying. They need our help. They need physical forms. We can—"

"Then why don't you go out there, find some homeless people, ask them if they'd be willing to donate their bodies to a great cause, and then bleed them out like pigs and bring 'em back here for the Gelth?" MJ finally pauses to take a few deep breaths. Once her breathing's closer to normal, she shakes her head at the Doctor. "You don't get it, Doctor. When I was a little girl in school, they told me that George Washington's dentures were made of wood. That he-he chopped down some cherry tree or something and made those into teeth. And then I grew up, and I found out that actually, his dentures were made from human and animal teeth, and actually, some of those human teeth were likely 'purchased' from the slaves he owned."

The room goes very, very quiet. MJ stands up taller, back straight, chin raised. She will not fall apart. She will not break. She will not crumble. She will not cower. She will see this argument through without a single tear.

"According to the Greek philosopher Herodotus, ancient Egyptians would let dead beautiful women's bodies decay for three or four days before turning them over to the embalmers to discourage necrophilia," she continues. "In life and in death, the bodies of the marginalized are continuously disrespected. Being a part of some of those communities gives me a unique perspective on this matter, a perspective I'm now trying to share with you. So do you understand what I'm saying, Doctor? Do you get it? Bodies are more than just bodies and corpses are more than just corpses."

"I understand," the Doctor says. "But I can't let the Gelth die, MJ. I just can't."

MJ presses her lips together, then nods. "Okay. I hope your savior complex doesn't doom us all." She's still wearing his jacket. She shrugs it off and lets it fall to the floor. "I'm going to go for a walk. When something inevitably goes horribly wrong, holler."

"To be clear," Rose says as MJ exits the room, "you're aware you lost that, right, Doctor?"

"Yes, Rose. I'm aware."

MJ smirks and slips out the front door. She won't go far — there's not a single doubt in her mind that her new friends will need rescuing sometime soon — but she needed to get out of there before she lost control of her emotions again. Her hands are shaking, she realizes, as she adjusts her gloves. There's a lump in her throat that she can't swallow and her steps down the sidewalk are unsteady.

It's freezing outside, the temperature having dipped even lower as the night wanes on, but MJ can't bring herself to care much. The Doctor's going to take her back to Abbott University. She knows he is. Men like that don't take kindly to pushback. He'll drop her off at her dorm, and then she'll be lost again. What will she do? Make another attempt at college? Drop out and go back to CHB? Maybe she could try to get a job. Not customer service — she's not great at dealing with stupid people. Maybe she could join a demo crew. She does love destroying things.

MJ lets out a long sigh, wrapping her arms around herself. Maybe...maybe she could push through. Maybe she could get her degree in business, then open up some sort of shop and sell her crafts. Sure, she never wanted to make that into a career — she always worried doing it for a living would suck all of the fun out and make it more of a chore than anything — but it's better than getting a corporate job like she was planning. Or maybe she could use her degree to help Chiron run Delphi Strawberry Farm.

Or maybe she could hope and pray the Doctor doesn't kick her to the curb for daring to defy him.

"Miss Matilda!"

MJ screeches to a halt. Is that...is that Charles Dickens calling her name?

She whips around to see him running toward her, waving manically. "Miss Matilda, it's all gone wrong!"

"Surprise, surprise," she mutters, gathering her skirts and sprinting to meet him halfway. As they race back to Sneed's, she looks at him sharply. "What happened?"

"The Gelth lied," Dickens pants. "There're billions of them. They-they killed Sneed."

"Fuck." MJ checks her brain for a solution. "Okay. Okay. How do you defeat a ghost?"

Dickens frowns. "Well, they're not ghosts, they just have gaseous forms."

"Right," MJ says. Her entire face lights up as the puzzle pieces click together in her head. "Right! Gas! Oh, Mr. Dickens, you're a genius!"

"I am?" Ever the gentleman, he leaps in front of her to open the front door for her. His eyes land on one of the gas lamps, and it clicks for him too. "I am!"

Dickens leads the way through the house, he and MJ turning off the flame on every lamp they pass.

"This way, to the morgue!" Dickens exclaims.

MJ surges ahead of him, through an open doorway into a room full of walking corpses. "Doctor? Rose?"

"In here!" the Doctor and Rose call out. She spots them in a dungeon, protected from the Gelth by an iron gate.

Poor Gwyneth is beneath an arch, arms thrown wide as the fiery Gelth use her to keep the rift open.

"Doctor! Doctor!" Dickens hollers, following MJ inside. "Turn off the flame, turn up the gas! Now! Fill the room with it, all of it, now!"

While Dickens lunges for the nearest wall lamp, calling out instructions to the Doctor, some of the Gelth turn to come after MJ and Dickens. Their (second) funeral. MJ rips a pipe off the wall, flooding the room with gas, and beats the corpses back, adding in kicks as needed. She gets a little too aggressive and accidentally kicks a guy's head off.

"Sorry!" she says, wincing.

The corpses suddenly stop moving. The Gelth let out an ethereal screech as the gas does its job drawing them out of their unwilling hosts. MJ drops her pipe and wipes her hands on her skirt.

"It's working!" Dickens says. He coughs into his handkerchief.

Wait. Why isn't MJ coughing? Does her godly heritage help her avoid carbon monoxide poisoning? That doesn't seem right. It's probably just taking longer to affect her.

The Doctor opens the gate and lets Rose out first. Rose makes for the doorway, but the Doctor stops in front of Gwyneth, who hasn't said a word this entire time. Or...breathed? She's not blinking either. Oh. Oh no.

"Gwyneth, send them back," the Doctor says. "They lied. They're not angels."

"Liars?" Gwyneth's voice is no more than a wisp. A shiver crawls down MJ's spine. Dead people walking and talking all in one day. It's like she took a day trip to the Underworld.

"Look at me," the Doctor begs. "If your mother and father could look down and see this, they'd tell you the same. They'd give you the strength. Now send them back!"

MJ's heart hammers in her chest. There's a strange sort of pressure building in her lungs. Behind her, Rose coughs violently. "I can't breathe."

"Charles, get them out," the Doctor tells Dickens.

Dickens tries to take Rose's arm, but she swats his hand away. "No, I'm not leaving her!"

"They're too strong," Gwyneth says.

"Remember that world you saw?" the Doctor asks. "Rose's world? All those people. None of it will exist unless you send them back through the rift!"

"I can't send them back," Gwyneth says. "But I can hold them. Hold them in this place. Hold them here. Get out."

Gwyneth reaches into her pocket and pulls out a box of matches.

Rose surges forward, crying out, "You can't!"

"Leave this place," Gwyneth begs.

"Rose, get out, go now," the Doctor says. "I won't leave her while she's still in danger. Now go!"

Dickens and Rose flee. MJ doesn't budge. That strange pressure in her lungs is only getting worse. She's starting to cough now. She tries to ignore it as she pats herself down, searching for something she knows she brought with her off the TARDIS.

"Come on," the Doctor says, holding out his hand. "Leave that to me."

"Doctor, go," MJ orders.

He does a double-take. "MJ? No! You go! Get out! I have to—"

"Gwyneth is dead!" MJ shouts, tears springing to her eyes. "Please, just go! I'll be right behind you, I promise!"

The Doctor glances between MJ and Gwyneth, then presses his fingers to the pulse point on Gwyneth's neck. His face falls. "I'm sorry." He presses a gentle kiss to her forehead. "Thank you."

He offers MJ his hand. "C'mon, let's go!"

"You go, I'll only be a second," MJ insists. She hugs Gwyneth tightly. Discreetly, she tucks the three drachmae she'd taken from her leather pouch earlier into Gwyneth's pocket. Lowering her voice to a whisper, MJ says, "Not sure where you're headed, but just in case."

She lets Gwyneth go to see that the Doctor hasn't left. He's waiting for her. She rolls her eyes half-heartedly and takes his hand. Together, the two of them run through the house. MJ can't stop coughing, but she doesn't let the lack of oxygen slow her down.

Gwyneth gave her life for a better, kinder world. MJ has to live to make it happen.

The Doctor shoves MJ ahead of him seconds before the building blows. The heat at MJ's back is disturbingly familiar. But she and the Doctor are completely fine. They stumble to a stop next to Rose and Dickens.

Rose sees the heartbroken look on the Doctor's face, and she just knows. "She didn't make it."

"I'm sorry," the Doctor says. "She closed the rift."

"At such a cost," Dickens says, watching the building burn. "The poor child."

"I did try, Rose, but Gwyneth was already dead," the Doctor tells her. MJ takes his hand as a show of support, and he intertwines their fingers. "She had been for at least five minutes."

"What do you mean?" Rose presses.

The Doctor looks at the flickering flames, then back at Rose. "I think she was dead from the minute she stood in that arch."

"But she can't have, she spoke to us," Rose points out. "She helped us, she saved us. How could she have done that?"

"There are more things in Heaven and Earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy," Dickens says. "Even for you, Doctor."

MJ smiles sadly. "Wherever Gwyneth is, I'm sure it's paradise. She died a hero."

Rose nods. "She saved the world. A servant girl. No one will ever know."

"We know," MJ says. "They say you die twice. When you take your last breath, and the last time someone remembers you. As long as we remember Gwyneth, remember the sacrifice she made..." MJ sighs and leans against the Doctor. "She'll live on in us. That's something, isn't it?"

"Yeah, it is," the Doctor agrees. "It's less than she deserves, but it's something."

And something's always better than nothing.

*

Dickens walks with them back to the TARDIS.

"Right then, Charlie boy," the Doctor says, "I've just got to go into my, um, shed. Won't be long."

"What are you going to do now?" Rose asks while the Doctor unlocks the door.

"I shall take the mail coach back to London, quite literally post-haste," Dickens says. "This is no time for me to be on my own. I shall spend Christmas with my family and make amends to them. After all I've learned tonight, there can be nothing more vital."

"You've cheered up," the Doctor notes.

"Exceedingly!" Dickens says. He chuckles heartily. "This morning, I thought I knew everything in the world. Now I know I've just started. All these huge and wonderful notions, Doctor! I am inspired, I must write about them!"

Rose raises her eyebrows. "Do you think that's wise?"

"I shall be subtle, at first," Dickens assures her. "'The Mystery of Edwin Drood' still lacks an ending. Perhaps the killer was not the boy's uncle. Perhaps he was not of this earth! 'The Mystery of Edwin Drood and the Blue Elementals!' I can spread the word, tell the truth!"

"And maybe you can dedicate it to Gwyneth," MJ suggests, leaning her back against the TARDIS.

Dickens's face lights up. "Now that is an excellent idea, Miss Matilda."

"Matilda?" Rose echoes incredulously. "Who's Matilda?"

"I'm Matilda," MJ says.

"No, you're not," Rose says. "You're MJ."

"Good luck with it," the Doctor cuts in quickly, holding his hand out for Dickens to shake. "Nice to meet you, fantastic."

MJ waves awkwardly. "Goodbye, Mr. Dickens."

"Bye, then," Rose says. "And thanks."

She shakes his hand too, then plants a kiss on his cheek.

"Oh, my dear!" Dickens exclaims, blushing. "How modern. Thank you, but I don't understand. In what way is this goodbye? Where are you going?"

"You'll see," the Doctor tells him. "In the shed."

The Doctor is about to head in, but Dickens's words stop him in his tracks. "Upon my soul, Doctor, it's one riddle after another with you. But after all these revelations, there's one mystery you still haven't explained. Answer me this. Who are you?"

"Haven't you been paying attention?" MJ teases. She pokes the Doctor in the chest playfully. "He's your biggest fan."

The Doctor shoots MJ a look, then says to Dickens, "Just a friend passing through."

"But you have such knowledge of future times," Dickens says. "I don't wish to impose on you but I must ask you. My books, Doctor, do they last?"

"Oh, yes," the Doctor says.

"For how long?" Dickens presses.

The Doctor grins. "Forever." There's a pause in the conversation in which they let Dickens bask in that knowledge — that he's achieved what every author dreams of. Then the moment passes and the Doctor clears his throat. "Right. Shed. Come on, ladies."

"What? In the box?" Dickens asks. "All three of you?"

"Down, boy," the Doctor admonishes. "See ya."

The Doctor slips inside the TARDIS, MJ and Rose on his heels.

"Doesn't that change history, if he writes about blue ghosts?" Rose asks.

The Doctor's already standing at the console, and the girls come over to flank him. On the screen, Charles Dickens waits outside, not daring to miss whatever explanation might come for the Doctor's strange behavior.

"In a week's time, it's 1870," the Doctor says. "And that's the year he dies. Sorry. He'll never get to tell his story."

"Oh no," Rose says softly. "He was so nice."

"But in your time, he was already dead," the Doctor points out. "We've brought him back to life and he's more alive now than he's ever been. Old Charlie Boy." He laughs and nudges MJ lightly. "Let's give him one last surprise."

The Doctor puts the TARDIS into flight, and the three of them giddily watch Charles Dickens's jaw slacken as she dematerializes before him.

*

The Doctor parks them in a safe stretch of space, claiming MJ and Rose need some rest before their next big adventure.

"Alright, then," Rose says, clearly as suspicious of the Doctor's intentions as MJ is. "I'm gonna head to my room, see if I can't figure out how to get out of this dress."

"Shout if you need help," MJ calls after her. She cranes her head to watch Rose disappear down the hall. Once she's sure Rose is out of earshot, MJ turns to the Doctor. "I'm sorry for how I acted."

The Doctor's brow creases. "What?"

"I was a total bitch today," MJ says. "First I freaked out on Gwyneth, then I called you a dickhead—"

"MJ, it's fine," the Doctor interjects.

"No, it's not," she says. "I totally spiraled on you, and then I pulled the racism and sexism cards, and I...I just went way too hard. I'm sorry."

The Doctor looks at her strangely, then shakes his head. "You have nothing to apologize for. You made a passionate, informed argument. You knew what was right and you stood your ground. That's more than admirable, MJ. It's inspiring." He leans against the console. "I'm not sure you'll ever understand how grateful I am that you and Rose tried to talk me out of it. That you tried to stop me. I'm sorry that I didn't listen."

MJ touches his arm gently. "Hey, I get it. The Time War is a sore spot for you just like Thalia is for me. You wanted to help refugees find a new home because you're kind and noble. The problem with being kind and noble is that you can get taken advantage of pretty easily, and today, the Gelth took advantage of you. Doesn't make you any less a good man."

"I got Gwyneth killed," the Doctor says. Tears shine in his eyes. He presses the heels of his palms to his closed eyes. "She died because I made her believe she was doing something good."

"Oh no," MJ deadpans. "She died trying to be a good person and do the right thing. You absolute monster." She rubs his arm soothingly. At least, she hopes it's soothing. "Stop being so hard on yourself, Doc. Gwyneth chose to open that rift. You didn't force her to do it. Yes, you encouraged her, but the decision was still hers to make and she chose to try and save the Gelth. Don't rob her of her agency by taking all of the blame."

"You're right," he says, letting his hands fall to his lap.

She smirks. "Always."

The Doctor takes a deep breath and says, "Okay, new apology." He turns to face her. "I'm sorry I took you to the past without considering how you might be treated and making sure you were safe."

"Apology accepted," MJ says.

His face falls. "But I wasn't finished."

Before he can protest any further or, worse, try to apologize again, MJ pulls him into a hug. He hesitates before wrapping his arms around her. Post-explosion, he smells kind of like a campfire. After a few seconds, he melts into the embrace and buries his face in her hair. She lets him lean on her. She can bear the weight.

"You're a good person, Doc," she says quietly. "Stop trying to convince me — or yourself — otherwise."

They stay like that for a while, holding each other tight. When MJ finally pulls away, she tries to press a kiss to his cheek but misses and ends up pressing a kiss to the corner of his lips instead. The Doctor's hands linger on her waist. MJ thinks of Luke. She hates herself for it, but she thinks of Luke.

"MJ!" Rose hollers from down the hall. "I can't get out of this bleedin' dress!"

The Doctor's hands leave her waist as if burned.

"Be there in a minute!" MJ yells back. She offers the Doctor a tired smile. "Duty calls."

"Good luck," the Doctor says. He's smiling back at her, but it doesn't quite reach his eyes.

MJ pauses in the archway between the console room and the hallway — between this moment and the next. "Thalia was my best friend. She was thirteen when she died. I was twelve."

The Doctor's expression softens. "I'm sorry."

"Yeah," MJ sighs, starting down the hallway. "I am too."

And with that, she makes her way toward Rose. Toward the future, even with her past always a step behind.

*

pls pls pls lmk what y'all think of mj's writing in this ep!!! i just knew that mj, being a black woman, would have a very different viewpoint to the doctor's on letting the gelth use human corpses and would never be silent about it, but i'm worried the dialogue isn't very 'natural' in that part so i'm very anxious to hear y'all's opinions

also 98% of mj's outfits are based on pics i found on pinterest so if you guys want, i can start linking the specific looks in author's notes if you're like me and need visuals :)