Summary: Having unfinished business with Braxiatel, Romana approaches one of his former friends for help.
Rated: PG-13
Notes: Sadly, the title is an entirely accurate description of the fic, which is rather more, um, self-indulgent than usual.  Yeah, even more so.  ALSO, gratuitous Narvin.



Failing the Bechdel Test
by LizBee


"Bernice Summerfield?"

The woman didn't look dangerous, but she was a stranger, and I wasn't feeling particularly welcoming towards strangers, especially when they appeared in my favourite bars and knew my name.

"Professor Bernice Summerfield?" she repeated, a touch impatiently.  She looked a bit lost, standing alone in this shabby little colonial bar in her too-expensive dress and shiny jewelery.  I almost felt sorry for her, which was probably why I waved my empty glass at Jaz behind the bar and said, "Fine.  I'll buy you a drink."

She asked for white wine, and I didn't bother to warn her that this planet's idea of a chardonnay would be used as vinegar on the sort of world she obviously came from.  And to be fair, she hardly even pulled a face as she took her first sip.  I led her to a table overlooking the street below -- near the exit, not by coincidence -- and said, "So.  What can I do for you?"

She tapped her finger against the rim of her glass.  "I'm looking for a man called Braxiatel," she said.  I put my drink down with a loud clatter, considering my options: strolling casually out the door, home to grab Peter, pack a bag and leave the planet -- or running, and forgetting the bag.  She put her hand on my arm.  "Please," she said, "I'm not going to lead him to you, or even mention your name, I just," she trailed off.  "I need to speak to him," she said.

I relaxed -- a bit -- and said, "So ... you're an -- art dealer?  Assassin?  Tax collector?"

"I used to be his friend."

"Not a creditor, then?" I asked, not quite willing to let go of the hope of future schadenfreude.

"It's not money he owes me."

I contemplated my drink, the freckles on my knuckles and the engraving on her ring before I finally said, "The last I saw, Brax was settled on the Collection.  Like a spider at the centre of a web."

"Whenever I try to arrive there, either he's gone, or I simply can't reach the correct temporal co-ordinates."

"Clever," I said.  "Him, not you.  Are you a Time Agent, then?"

She pulled a face.  "No."

"Good.  I knew a few, once.  Fifty-first century, wankers, the lot of them.  Great drinking partners, and they're brilliant in bed, but they're about as trustworthy as -- as--"

"Brax," she finished, swallowed half her wine and gagged.  "Goodness, that's dreadful.  I'm Romana, by the way."

"Bernice."

"I know."

"But my friends call me Benny."

*

The wine might have been undrinkable, but the locals had something approaching a martini, except that the olive -- it didn't pay to look too closely at the olive.  Romana matched me drink for drink, with no visible effect except for a tendency to gesticulate as she spoke.

We tried not to talk about Braxiatel.  It ... didn't really work.

"Have you considered," I said, "that you might be better off without him?"  Visions of Cantus rose in my mind.  "I mean -- it's not exactly safe, knowing Brax."

"Downright suicidal, in my case," said Romana.  "I wasn't planning to speak to him in person.  Much as I'd like..."  She trailed off, possibly envisioning her hands around his throat.  Or maybe I was projecting.

"He tried to kill my ex-husband," I said.  The words hung between us, awkward and heavy, and I found myself telling her about Cantus, the Cybermen, Jason, Ronin, the crystal.  I'd told parts of the story before, but never the whole thing.  She listened in silence.  I expected -- well, it's natural to defend a friend.  But she just nodded as my story ended, and ordered another round.

"Your turn," I said, trying for a flippancy I didn't really feel.

Romana shrugged.  "I knew him from -- well, childhood, actually.  I trusted him.  He manipulated me.  I think he was going to betray me, but I'm not sure, and I'm tired of the uncertainty."

"If he had nothing to feel guilty about, then why would he be avoiding you?"  I didn't bother to mention that, in my opinion, Braxiatel's default setting was guilty of something.  I swallowed and added, "not that he doesn't have hidden depths -- chasms -- but it seems like a lot of effort."

Romana held her glass up, watching the 'olive' swim from one side to the other. 

"For my own good, I think," she said sourly, but I wasn't paying attention.  My pickled brain had finally managed to do its job, and some pieces fell into place.

"I know those engravings," I said, grabbing her hand, not caring about the drink I was spilling as I examined her ring.  "That's the seal of the Time Lords -- you're one of Braxiatel's people.  The enforcers, the silly hat brigade.  Aren't you?"

Romana stared at me for a moment, then burst into peals of laughter that subsided -- eventually -- into giggles.

"Oh," she said at last, "I'm not -- oh Rassilon -- the silly hat brigade aren't nearly as clever or socially adept as me, and they ever pay for their drinks.  Allow me to introduce myself properly: I am Lady Romanadvoratrelundar, High President of Gallifrey, keeper of the wisdom and legacy of Rassilon, et cetera, giving my own retinue the slip and going off in search of a man I exiled myself."

I gaped.

"I know," she said, "it's too pathetic for words."

"I need another drink."

"That," said Romana, "sounds perfectly sensible to me."

*

We kept coming back to genocide.

"The thing is," she was saying, "is that it's all wrong -- history, I mean -- the Draconian-Mim war, the destruction of the Mimsphere -- that's not in our recorded history."

"I thought your lot were supposed to deal with that sort of thing."

"We're not omnipotent." 

"You should maybe update your propaganda."  I swallowed my olive-fish, letting the salty taste contrast against the alcohol.  "Still thinking of extending an olive branch?"

Romana's face was bleak.  "Forgiveness was never my intent."

"Nice."

"He left Gallifrey to save -- well, me.  And everything else.  We hardly had time to think about what we were releasing into the universe."

"Typical bloody arrogance," I said.  "For people who live so long, you're surprisingly shortsighted."

"Yes," she agreed, "but we could hardly remove him from history, he was too integral to too many -- anyway, I--"

She broke off and reached for the jug of water that sat, almost untouched, between us.  She spilled as much as she poured into her glass, and I let her drink it down before I said, "You were in love with him, weren't you?"

"That," said Romana coldly, "is a imposition of human cultural values on a complex and subtle society."

"So that's a yes, then."

"It's complicated."

"Isn't it always?"  I poured some water for myself.  "But I'm not the one carrying a torch for a time traveling megalomaniac with delusions of godhood whom I've known since I was a kid."  I paused.  "Although, if you got too picky about that sort of thing, your whole species'd go extinct."

"I'm not ... oh, never mind."  Romana turned to look out the window.  A few minutes passed in silence, in which I busied myself eating the complimentary breadsticks and finishing Romana's drink.

"You see," she said suddenly, "it's not actually him that's doing all this -- it is, but it's not just him.  The ... the thing in his head, it's..."

"You can't leave me hanging," I said.

"It's a person," she said at last, "or was, milennia ago.  One of the most ruthless, ambitious Time Lords who ever lived -- and we set the bar pretty high.  That's why he left, to keep her ... away from the rest of us."

"Away from you, you mean."  Anger was beginning to penetrate my drunken haze.  "And you just let him take this thing out, to ruin lives--"

"We didn't think she could have any effect on non-Time Lords."  Romana's smile was twisted.  "And Brax always seemed to be in control."

"Bully for him."

There was movement on the street outside: a trio of men pushing through the crowds, heading towards the bar.

"The silly hat brigade?" I asked.

"The Celestial Intervention Agency, yes.  I'll be hearing about this for the next decade -- Narvin never had to pull any other presidents out of bars."  She got to her feet.  "It's a glorious new age for Gallifrey."

"I'll drink to that."

The lead guy approached our table, looking more resigned than angry.  "Lady President," he started, but she just shook her head.

"I know, Narvin, I'm irresponsible and irritating and will inevitably cause Gallifrey's downfall.  Shall we be going?"

He looked like he wanted to say -- well, a whole lot of things, but she was taking his arm like it was her idea to leave, and he was clearly too well-trained to argue in front of a human.

A thought struck me as she walked away, and I leaned over and grabbed Romana by the wrist.

"Listen," I said, quickly and quietly, "in the interests of your safety, and not giving an ancient and evil entity access to your all-powerful brain -- maybe you should make sure you find Brax before he -- or something -- takes it into his head to find you first."

She didn't say anything, just nodded and walked away.  Leaving me feeling profoundly silly, like an ape who'd escaped from the zoo and offered tactical advice to Napoleon.

Time Lords.  Most useless, infuriating race in the universe.  For a minute I considered ordering another drink, but it was well past time I went home and put all of this behind me.  Again.

As I walked away from the bar, someone plucked at my sleeve.  "Tell your fortune, love?" a woman drawled from the shadows.  I caught a glimpse of long brown hair and a white face.

"No thanks," I started to say, but the grip on my wrist strengthened.

"No," said the stranger, "I insist."

Something chittered in the darkness.  Curious, despite myself, I paused.

"Okay," I said.  "Amaze me."

*

Turns out there's more than one way to rewrite history.

Or so I was thinking as I crossed the quad on a glorious autumn afternoon.  Thinking about my students' crimes against primary sources was almost adequate distraction from the odd feeling that always haunted me, that something should be different.  That the world was not quite right.  I woke up sometimes with the name Peter on my lips, and no idea why.  Drunk, I'd give incoherent speeches about how it all went wrong after my divorce, I should have accepted Irving's offer--

And there I was, thinking about it again. 

It was at that moment that I caught the eye of a woman on the other side of the courtyard.  Just for a fleeting second, but in that instant it was all so clear--

Then it was gone, but I was following her just the same.

"Sorry," I said, catching up to her, "so sorry, but don't I know you?  I'm Bernice Summerfield, Professor Bernice Summerfield, Department of Archaeology.  Benny."

"Sorry," she said, "I'm sure I don't know you -- I'm Doctor Isobel Foreman.  Political Science.  We must have met at one of the Dean's lunches, but I do my best to forget those..."

She shook my hand.  She had a firm grip, otherwise unremarkable.  Wore a plain ring on her left hand and an old-fashioned engraved fob-watch around her neck.

"I'm sure it was somewhere else," I said.  "Maybe -- have you ever been to the Braxiatel Collection?"

She blinked.  "Do you know Irving?" she said, breaking into a smile, "I can't recall ever hearing your name, but--"

"It was a long time ago.  We lost touch."

"Then you simply must let me reintroduce you--"

"Romana," I said.

She froze.  "I beg your pardon?"

"Your name is Romana, and you found me in an unspeakable colonial bar and we swapped stories about Brax--"

"I'm sure I don't know--"

"You're a Time Lord," I said, "goddess, I can get the words out, it's such a relief--"

"You're quite mistaken," she was angry now, "my name is Isobel, and I'm quite human, I have a life, and a family, I am real--"

And suddenly I felt like a prize idiot, accosting this poor stranger with my delusions -- it was like I'd gone mad for a few minutes, and now I was sane again.

"Sorry," I said, "I don't know what came over me."

"That's quite all right," she said, although she looked unconvinced.  I made some excuses and walked away.

"Professor Summerfield."

She sounded scared.  I paused, looking back at her.

"You have something on your back," she said.



end