Status Quo Ante
Summary: What would be worse-- forgetting a dream, or remembering a nightmare? Francine Jones thinks she knows, but she's not the only one...
Disclaimer: If I had any rights to Doctor Who, not all of this would be left to the imagination. Well, actually, that would be the least of the very noticable differences. And I didn't write "Build Me Up Buttercup" either. Which is kind of a shame.
Notes: I haven't read any whofic or been around the general fandom in ages-- am I the first person to ask, in reference to the Year, "qui bono"? Surely I'm not.
These AD fics keep linking up with each other-- in the little things that get referenced and cross-referenced. The Master, in my head, has organized an infinite playlist for himself (at least until he discovers what Earth music he likes and sticks to that)-- and any song that stands a chance of making the Doctor happy, or, even worse, strikes a little too close to home, is off his list forever (probably the whole band, just to make sure). This goes double if it sounded at first like the sort of song he'd expect to like (good beat, clever, uptempo, never too deep). Examples: "C'mon C'mon", the von Bondies; "Face of Fact", Kotoko. Given this, I suspect that the song at the end might be Kotoko's "We Survive", but don't quote me on it.
status quo ante, from the phrase status quo ante bellum, which was the source of the common phrases status quo and antebellum-- "the state which was before". The way it used to be. Often used in reference to reset buttons and Retcons.
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This is the way the world should work.
The instant your feet touch the good, solid earth, the past year (were they saying it had never happened? That man was the same as ever, now, babbling at five million miles per hour in all the wrong directions, passing you over just like He used to, like you didn't exist at all) would seem like a dream. Unreal, as it had been. Ancient Lords of Time, death robots, laser beams-- such things couldn't exist in the light of day. Like emerging from the dark, warm cinema into the blinding sunset-- the spell of fiction dissolving, leaving you to fall safely back into Reality's waiting arms.
This is the way the world should work. This is the way the world has to work.
But you're finding out, to your despair, as the world tumbles along, that it's the sun and brick and pavement that feel like the dream.
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Her hand is still stretched out, reaching for the can of condensed milk. Did she expect it to be somewhere else? For just a second, there, she did. She can't imagine where, though.
She takes the can, and drops it into her basket, and stands there for a moment, thinking. She'd just thought of something very important, she thinks. Something that could change...
She chides herself. What could possibly change? It's all in the hands of men, men who won't settle for anything less than everything, whatever the costs to everyone around them. Through the whole universe, surely, men are like that. And the occasional treacherous woman...
Aunt Murwa, she thinks, suddenly worried: she doesn't know why. But the intuition shakes her like the concussion of a bomb, so she hurries to the register, drawing her money from her sleeve. The shopkeeper doesn't mind; he seems on-edge himself.
Everyone seems anxious this afternoon.
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It will get easier with time. Everyone says it; you've seen it yourself; it's true, it has to be. It will get easier. It is getting easier.
The day is coming, you know. When you won't be at the grocer's, reaching for a box of cereal, only to be stopped in your tracks when they start playing "Build Me Up Buttercup".
Build Me Up Buttercup, for Christ's sake. Setting the tea tray on the table, balancing it as quickly as you could so you could get down to your knees, to the bucket and rag, to the cold grey steel and the warm red iron--
Why do you build me up (build me up)
His voice singing absently along, His fingers tapping on the table as He read a report.
Buttercup, baby, just to let me down
Blood seeping into your fingernails, you never could get it out for days, and by then there would just be more blood.
And mess me around, and then worst of all,
You never call, baby, when you say you will,
But I love you still--
Half the time, if you hadn't been there to see it happen yourself, He would act so-- so carefully, smugly nonchalant, like He was waiting to spring his trap, that you knew, that the blood, that was on your hands
Don't break my heart...
was Martha's.
But you got home from the grocer's that day (even if you don't quite remember how), so it's getting better. It has to be. It has to.
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Aunt Murwa turned out to be fine, so she's on her way home, feeling foolish and paranoid. Well, in this land, she always feels paranoid, and often foolish as well, so there is little to accustom herself to.
She keeps getting the feeling that she's somewhere else, on another street. She takes the wrong turn twice on her short walk home, and she doesn't know why.
Except there's something she's forgetting. Some thought, some revelation, that was probably just mildly interesting, and it's only because she can't remember it that she thinks it might change the world.
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It isn't fading. You can't deny it, it isn't fading, it isn't fading at all. Every morning you wake up, you think you're still on that Thing, His own little world, a public hell. Forgetting is supposed to be so easy. You forget where your car keys are all the time, it's that effortless when you're not trying. Why can't you start forgetting now, when it counts?
But you know why. Because you studied Him: you had to. The frown that was joy in His own superiority, the frown that was fury at something failing to meet His standards. The smile that meant He was feeling indulgent, the smile that meant He was feeling self-indulgent. Every twitch of His eye, every tilt of His head, every quirk of His lips-- you memorized it, to survive. You know His face better than your husband's, almost better than your children's.
And it won't let you go. You see it around every corner, on every street, and even keeping your hand clutched tight on the handle of the knife in your handbag doesn't stop that fear.
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She fixes dinner and sets it out on the table and daydreams about an end to war.
It's not an uncommon thought for her, not in this world, where the bombs light so often, but the dreams are no less beguilingly sweet for their familiarity. An end to this war.
The other side-- the lunatics on her side, too-- could suddenly weary of death-- give in to the old demands, redress the old grievances, work as hard to honor the treaties as they had to work their way around them. And the young hotheads could be softened and the old profiteers overthrown, and they could all get down to the art of living, maybe even together.
Or, perhaps more likely, God could come down from the skies and settle the whole matter Himself. You are right, he could say. You are wrong. Or more likely, You are all insane. You are brothers, have you failed to understand that? You could help each other, and love as I have told you, and this land would blossom like unto a second Heaven in its beauty. Instead, you have all chosen hate, and you are tearing yourselves, your land, and all you consider holy apart in the process. Or maybe they would not listen even to God anymore. Maybe He is shouting and shouting and no one can hear Him.
The third option she can think of is for there to come a greater war-- an enemy so terrible that even this divided land would have to come together in the face of it. This is her least favorite option, because it would just mean switching wars, it would just mean more death.
But maybe, just maybe, if they were forced to band together for a time, under some dark alien threat that menaced them equally, they could learn how to be on the same side. Learn how to live with each other, learn they wanted the same things, and maybe once this new war ended, they'd know enough not to restart the old one. She hopes so. That was what she had been hoping when... when... when she was reaching for the milk? Or just before that...
It seems so possible, now, closer than it's ever been before. But she's forgetting something.
-
The thing is, it's your own fault, and you know it. You sold them out, cast your lot in with Him, and what did you get but your deserts? You were wrong about Him, you were wrong about everything, and you paid the price.
And yet. He might have served his time beside you, but you still hate the Doctor.
You didn't then-- not while it was happening. His favorite toy, at His command, an old man who rarely put five words together-- how could you hate him then?
But looking back at how he was after, when he was young again and so instantly joyful-- the smile on his face as he told you that it was all okay now, that no one else would ever remember, that it had never happened--! Those lies! The nerve of him standing there and telling you the last year of hell no longer mattered--! You want to take a spoon and dig into him like a quart of soft ice cream, dig and dig and dig until his icy blood melts around you and there's nothing left.
And what's scaring you is, you do want it. You want the feel of flesh parting beneath your spoon, you want the taste of blood in your mouth. You want to tear your clothes off and run into the rain and scream your throat bloody, you want to chain yourself into a coffin and hide yourself away until everything ends. You want everything to be normal again; you can't stand that everyone's acting as if it never happened. You have to tell someone, but no one can ever know. No one. No therapist could understand. Tish, Martha, Leo, Clive-- you can't burden them, they can't ever know: this is your fault anyway.
They're all past it already, and you can't drag them back to those times to suffer this with you. It has to go away eventually, it's got to.
You can't live like this indefinitely.
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She's in the house when the sound of the bomb rocks it, and she runs outside. She knows where her husband is, but Ismael's not here. She runs, blindly, toward the sound, toward the crowds, though she'd know if she stopped to think that they'll never let her through.
(She doesn't remember the running she did on that day, the running everyone did on that day, when those demon sheep-dogs came to thin their herd. Aunt Murwa was dead, she couldn't find anyone, she sank to her knees on the street, her head clutched in her hands, unable to hear even her own wailing in her ears.
But then-- "Mother!", a thin cry above the din, and by some miracle, she heard.
She ran to him and gathered him in her arms and cried, because she had something left after all.)
Eventually her husband comes and takes her home, but she barely notices, because he hasn't come back yet and she can't find him.
The night comes, and friends bring food, and she spends the night in bed staring at the wall, waiting for the sound of the door. The sun rises and she still hasn't heard it.
(There were a few embittered madmen on both sides who blamed it on each other, and after all this time of war, she had to admit it was easy to believe.
But then the annoucement. He was white, and a man, and an alien, and he was calling himself their Master. And all around their corner of the world, that was far too familiar.
One in ten was the figure the learned ones cited. She didn't care about the numbers, what it meant was, everyone had lost somebody. Everyone.
And against an evil so vicious and pervasive, that considered them all nothing and therefore equal, people were finally, finally able to see themselves as all being on the same side.)
The sun rises and rises and he still doesn't come home. She sits, staring at the door, no matter how her husband tries to move her. He could be anywhere. He could still be anywhere. He might even have been in that explosion, burned and still unconscious, so that the police still don't know who he was.
He'll be home. She knows it.
The door opens, and it's the police.
(And so the rebellion began. For many, there was little difference-- for the many who had been struggling to survive before and were still struggling to survive after, what did a change in wars matter? But to those with the time to spare to think of it--
The first few weeks were difficult; there were squabbles and fights and murders, on occasion, by people who hadn't learned yet that the rules could change. But, slowly, they became a people: they became a team, a family, like any other. Of course there were still disagreements, but it didn't threaten their unity anymore; whatever happened, they had to stay together.
It was hard to get anything done against him, because the sheep-dogs were nearly indestructible, and few of his factories were anywhere nearby; but they tried, regardless.
And one day, there came a woman.)
They tell her that her son is dead, but what reason does she have to believe them? Everyone has said they lie all the time; they could easily be wrong. And they won't show her the body. They say there is no body to show.
She doesn't believe them, so why is she crying like this?
(They were all distrustful of tales of saviours at that point, but her name had by now become legend. Martha Jones.
She told them all the Story, the Name that had already been whispered around-- the Doctor. He would end this all, she said. He would save them, if they only believed. And it was an old, old story-- but it worked, as it had before, because no human had any way to win against That Man, and there wasn't a single one alive who didn't realize it. Divine intervention was the only chance left.
But the Master was looking for her, and there were any number of foolish spies who still believed they had something to gain by betraying her. She needed to get out, hopefully blowing up part of the Wall along the way. And they rose up to follow her.)
She doesn't even believe that he's dead when they tell her it was her son that caused the explosion. His bomb, they lie. A suicide bomb, they lie. A terrorist.
Her son would never. She knows, because she remembers. In the time that never happened.
(They fought bravely and got her in and got her in and got her out and only two people died, which surely was a miracle. They could only hope that those in the next village over would guard her safety, and send her off with promises that they would remember, that they would spread the word.
And they did. All those months, they kept the faith; and no one ever breathed a word to That Man, or else surely it wouldn't have worked, surely it would never have ended.
Because it did end. They stood, together, breathing his name at the time appointed, and, for the briefest of moments, she could feel it: all of them, everyone anywhere, more people even now than she had ever dreamed-- innumerable people, everyone, with that one thought, that one word: Doctor. Save us. Deliver us from evil.
For just a moment, she could feel it. And then came the waiting, with bated breath; had it worked? Had they been fooled? Fooled again?
And then the sheepdogs were gone, into thin air-- and then the screaming started, the cries of delight. A faith fulfilled. All together, falling all over each other with hugs and tears and meaningless babbling, family and friends and there weren't any differences anymore, she realized. That old hate-- they'd forgotten it. Maybe a few sad fools would try to bring it back if they wanted its power or if they felt wronged, but it wouldn't work anymore, surely. It couldn't work anymore: they'd learned the secret.
They'd learned the secret, that war was over, and all the hate could end with it. She'd thought before at times that it was insurmountable, but nothing was. They were together: they'd won. They'd all won.
And her hand reached out for the can of condensed milk.)
She remembers, now, the secret she'd been chasing after for days. An end to war could really happen. An end to this hate is within our grasp.
But it doesn't matter anymore, because it's a lie. Here and now, it's a lie. It's back to the way it was before and there isn't any hope, there's nothing to unite them, it's all her side's bitter resentment and the other side's callous arrogance, and neither side has any reason to back down. Not anymore. Because it never happened.
They have learned nothing and her son is dead. Peace is possible-- and the dead could rise tomorrow. There was a chance for it, that's what she was trying to remember. But it's gone now, and how much longer... how much longer...
Her son is dead and they have learned nothing. And there's nothing left to do but go on.
With the memory of betrayal burning a hole in her heart...
-
You're eating out with Martha, holding yourself together with both hands, when you hear it, over the chatter of the restaraunt. A familiar voice-- a familiar song-- at least the first few seconds of it are: He'd always skip over it after a few seconds, He hated this singer, God only knew why because it wasn't even in English-- but He hated it, it always put Him in a bad mood, why were they playing it, He'd snap--
"Mum!"
Her hand's wrapped around your wrist; you stare at it, slowly realizing that you've started, you've gotten up with every intention to bolt from the table, bolt to His side, because it always went worse for you if you didn't.
"Mum," Martha says, more softly. There's people staring at you-- damn it, there's people staring at you. "You're not okay, are you?"
You sit back down, slowly, forcing yourself to ignore the song still playing, still playing, were they insane?
But it's not His world anymore. But, still, this song had no earthly business playing in a London restaraunt. "Isn't that song in Hindu or something? Why in God's name is it playing here?"
"Japanese." Martha smiles. "He hated it, remember? That an' everything she ever did."
Of course you remember. "But why...?"
"Because he hated it," says Martha, smiling. "Every song he hated is climbing the charts. Had you noticed? I'm just sorry for the Scissor Sistors; I dunno if their sales will ever recover..."
"But... it didn't happen," you say. Your head's spinning; you take a sip of your drink, hold onto the glass for dear life.
"Yeah. But they know."
You stare at her; she still has that gentle smile of hers on. That one she must have learned from swanning off with him. Or is it her "doctor's" smile, the one she'd learned on her own?
"Turns out you don't forget something like that so easily," she says. "No one remembers. But they know."
Not gone after all. Not meaningless. It did happen; he had been lying about that, the twiggy son of a bitch.
It did happen. All of it. All of it.
Why is that such a relief?
"You don't have to pretend, Mum," says Martha. "You've got to stop pretending. It's all right, that you're not. That's all right."
Oh.
"That song--" you say. "Do you know the singer's name?"
"Hmm? Yeah, I think. Got a few of her songs myself. Why?"
"I think I'll want to buy the album," you say.
"What-- Japanese techno?"
"What, am I too old to broaden my horizons?"
Martha grins. "No," she says. "You're not too old to do anything."
Not even too old to recover from this? Doubtful. But who knows? Maybe she's right.
Maybe this is the beginning of the life you've been waiting for.
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