[Scenes in italics are flashbacks.
Strongly based on Bastille's cover of City High's song, "What Would You Do?" I hope this explain some of the weird phrases.
I know that usually, clients aren't allowed to use their hands to touch strippers. However, for the sake of this story, the strippers at the party are allowed to be touched by hands. I have used Billie Piper's role in Secret Diary of a Call Girl as inspiration for Rose's escort name, however this story has nothing to do with the show, other than the borrowed name, as Rose will mainly be acting as Belle, rather than Blondie, despite the title.
I have put the Eleventh Doctor in the character tag because Ian Matthew Tyler, Rose's son, is 1/3 based on him, 1/3 based on Elliot Smith from the vine account of his mother, Harmony Smith, and 1/3 based on my own imagination.
THERE WILL BE MULTIPLE INTENSE AND GRAPHICALLY DEPICTED SEX SCENES THROUGHOUT THIS STORY. PLEASE REFER TO THE HIGHLIGHTED AND UNDERLINED NOTICES BEFORE EACH CHAPTER (STARTING AT CHAPTER 3, WHERE THE FIRST TRUE SEX SCENE LIES) FOR DETAILS AND TRIGGER WARNINGS.
Disclaimer: I do not own Doctor Who, its characters, Secret Diary of a Call Girl, its characters, Bastille, nor their song cover. ]
John Noble grips the edge of an armrest on his chair with one hand as his other taps out an insistent ba-dum-ba-dum-ba-dum-ba-dum on his kitchen table. A deep intake of breath is sharply rushed out through his nose as he attempts to physically see through the cup of tea in front of him. Maybe if he focuses hard enough, he could make it disappear. It's the cup- the worn out blue one with "Trust me, I'm a doctor." written in white that he uses nearly every day- that emshe had given him all those years ago for Christmas when he told her that he had decided he would be going off to uni the next year to study to be a doctor. Well, a specific and specialized doctor. Well a consultant doctor. Well, a specific and specialized consultant doctor who travelled as needed, but still had a home in London to return to. A home in London to return to and- he had hoped all those years ago- her.
Funny thing, that. Hope. Not always so funny how it works, though.
"Boys and girls, wanna hear a true story?" he crosses his arms and leans back in his chair, swiveling it a bit since it's one of those chairs; a chair that swivels. And has wheels.
"Oh no you don't, Spaceman," Donna gapes at her brother. "You zone out for like ten minutes tryna, oh, I dunno, blow up your bloody tea with your mind or something," John raises an eyebrow at that. She isn't too far off. "And now you've got some bloomin' story outta the blue? I was talking about my job promotion, you know! My job promotion I worked very hard to get, with what you call encouragement but is really you yelling and bossing me around for a month, thank you very much."
"You're welcome."
At Donna's glare, John coughs and cards one hand through his hair.
"Yes, well, I said congratulations a bunch of times already today. Even bought you flowers! Until captain innuendo over there had to go bigger and better, including a vase to put on display-"
"All you had to do was ask, John. I'll put on a disp-"
"Nope, nope, no, nope, nada, no thank you." John grimaces as his always-on-the-prowl friend, Jack, gives him a slow, deliberate once over look and a wink.
Donna sighs and shakes her head, "Alright. What's this story of yours, then? And it better be good," she warns with a pointed finger in his direction before grabbing her own cup. This one is red and read, 'Property of: the better twin' in black that John may or may not have stolen from Donna's cupboard the other week, hoping she wouldn't notice. She did.
Having finished his tea already, Jack leans back in his own seat and crosses his arms; ever the listener, him.
Not wanting to hold the same position as Jack, John lets his arms fall to the table. He's bound to move them around animatedly sooner or later, anyways.
"Saturday night, I was at this real wild party.."
"You mean the one you still haven't told me about?"
"Well, I'm telling you now, Donna. Aren't I?"
Lifting her mug to her mouth, Donna makes a noncommittal noise and raises her eyebrows.
"Is that the reason you looked like shit when we got lunch on Sunday? I knew you had a hangover!" Jack exclaims, causing John to groan.
"I wasn't-" he sighs. "I mean, there was liquor overflowing the cups. Don't think I saw a single empty one the entire night, now that I think about it. Not that I drank much, besides," he says pointedly, with a tilted chin in Jack's direction who lifts his hands in his own defense before crossing his arms again.
"Alright, so you went to a keg party and didn't get drunk off your arse. So what?" Donna asks.
"Well the booze wasn't the important thing, and it wasn't a keg party, Donna. There weren't even that many kegs there! Just seven! Eight.." he corrects himself. "N-nine?" he tugs his ear. "Definitely less than ten.. Or ten. Maybe ten. Probably ten- look it doesn't matter!"
"Then what does? .. Did? Whatever. Bloody tenses."
One of John's hands finds its way to the back of his neck and his face begins to scrunch up as he fights not to make eye contact with his tea time companions.
"John-"
"What, or no, sorry, who do you usually find at a heterosexual male dominant party with beer? Other than the males? Jack?"
"Oh. Well," Jack gives Donna a tooth smile. She rolls her eyes.
"Jack-"
"About five or six strippers trying to work for a buck, so what? You get your first lap dance, Johnny? Is that what you're trying to tell us?"
"What!?" John's hands smack the table and he winces. "What, no- Jaaack," he drags out the vowel. "I've.." a quick glance at Donna shows she's got her face hidden in her cup, trying not to laugh. "Don't call me Johnny. And it wasn't my first, and-"
"OH MY GOD! Should I leave the room for this? Because I really don't think I want to hear about your… Whatever it is you try to convince us all you do."
"What! I- no, Donna, no. Just.. no, stop, please… You need to hear this. Or well, maybe not. Maybe neither of you needs to hear this, but emI need someone to hear this, and no one else would understand. So just.." another sigh pushes past his lips.
Blimey, why is this so hard to talk about? He's a grown, mature, manly man who should be able to talk about… about… And besides, he's moved on; hasn't talked about her in forever.
—
He doesn't want to go to this stupid party in the first place. Not really. Not entirely. Well, sort of; maybe.
John never really liked his coworker- well, he says coworker but really, Adam Mitchell is your average every day surgeon (specialized in the brain and head and all that flipping fantastic stuff) who just so happens to also be a bragging genius (not as genius as John of course, much to Adam's chagrin) and they have rarely ever worked together, anyways. Mostly he just tries to brag about his 'genius brain' around John because he thinks he can convince John into letting him perform surgery with him. John is one of the best doctors out there and those he chooses to work with him almost always get higher promotions or name recognition. But they always earn it; John only takes the best under his wing. But then there are people like Adam Mitchell who pretend to take interest in him whenever they wanted something. Currently, the stupid ape wants to assist him on the partial thyroidectomy- "You specialize in the brain, Adam." "Yeah, well, I'm considering experimenting with the rest of the body." "I bet you are." "What?" "Nothing." "So can I?" "Ugh."- John is to perform two Tuesday's from now. With Suki and Cathica. Both of whom, John knows Adam has been currently trying to woo into sleeping with him.
So what does the pretty boy do? He invites John to a party.
"It'll be the best," he insists.
It takes a great deal of willpower for John not to roll his eyes right there and then.
Adam Mitchell is so thick you could put a door in the middle of his forehead and he'd probably claim it helps him read the news, weather, and traffic reports faster.
There is no way at all that John is going to let Adam Mitchell into his operating room on Tuesday. But a little bit of fun and "How about the next neurological consult I'm called for, I'll consider you for my surgical consultant if you're around, eh?" couldn't hurt anyone. Right? At least that's what John thought until the strippers arrive. Or more specifically; when the woman he's sang "Last Christmas" about every December for the past ten years arrives.
And then Adam Mitchell heads straight for her.
—
"So I took one girl outside with me-" John recalls.
"J-AH-AH-AH-AH-NY BOY!" Jack exclaims with a smirk.
"Jack.."
"Are you really sure you need me to hear this?" Donna asks as she shifts in her seat.
She's probably uncomfortable with the indirect direction of this story. Or maybe her bum fell asleep. Has his bum fallen asleep?
John wiggles.
Nah; bum's fine.
"Yes," John eventually answers. "Sort of," he deflates. "Most likely, just- listen."
—
He'll be damned if he lets Adam bloody Mitchell into his operating room, but he'll do it if it keeps him away from her.
Then again, there are other ways..
She's in the middle of dancing like the rest of the girls. They've scattered throughout the apartment and she just so happens to have ended up nearish to his lone stance in a corner. Adam is getting closer to her, but switching his glance back and forth between her and some tall dark haired girl. Before the woman who once held all his affects could make eye contact with either him or Adam, and before she could reach for the straps of her dress, John makes his move.
"Run," he grabs her hand and makes a beeline for the balcony of whoever's flat this is.
Possibly Adam's. Maybe Adam's. No, too nice to be Adam's. Doesn't matter.
Once outside, he lets go of her hand and shuts the balcony doors. He makes sure the curtains are mostly closed inside the flat; only a few inches of visibility through the thick fabric. Satisfied, he turns around to watch her situate herself at the railing, looking up towards the sky. He goes to join her and can't help his pang of disappointment. The city is too bright to see the stars.
—
"Her name was 'Blondie,' she went to school with us," he rushes out then gulps down some tea as casually as he can.
"Blondie?" Donna says slowly.
John nods.
"And she went to.."
"You got a lap dance from someone named Blondie?" Jack asks.
"No! Well.."
"BLONDIE? AS IN-" Donna starts, again.
"As in, her stripper name's 'Blondie,'" John quickly interrupts, as he is in no mood for Donna's loud mouth yelling.
—
"So.." he prompts.
He doesn't really know why he dragged her out here and he doesn't really know what to do now. All he knows is that he does not want either of them to go back inside. Inside has Adam Mitchell and a few other men he can't stand from the hospital, half naked women (granted, she is only in stockings and a short, formfitting, low-cut black dress; a small scrap of fabric, really), horny men (okay, so maybe he likes the stockings a bit.. and the heels- black and slick looking with a thin, high heel- "fuck me heels," he thinks women refer to them as) and cheap tasting liquor that burned in his throat when he tried it upon arrival (and not in a good way).
"So.." she volleys back.
"Blondie?" he remembers casually overhearing her telling some stupid pretty boy who asked before being tempted away by another blonde instead.
John tells himself that he knows what he's doing; that he knows the woman next to him.
She laughs. It's short lived but good natured. He thinks she might be blushing, but it's hard to tell with all that make-up. Though he has to admit, her skills have improved (he swallows thickly at the thought) gorgeously. No longer does she cake on foundation or apply thick clumps of mascara to her eyelashes. She has perfected her painted look like the artist he remembers her always wanting to be. If he looks closely enough, he can tell each individual eyelash apart and he can't tell where her foundation starts nor ends, but he does know she's wearing some. He tells himself that he would know if her skin was naturally exposed. It's in that moment that he realizes that he doesn't know this woman at all.
—
"John, in school there were only three people we would called blo-"
"I said, 'Why you up in there dancing for cash? I guess a whole lot's changed since I seen you last.' She said.."
"Oh, John-"
"Wait," Jack holds up a hand in-between the twins. "So did you get a lap dance or not?"
That gets him a sharp smack to the chest from Donna, but Jack only smiles in return.
"John-"
"She said.." he tries to continue his story, not wanting to jump into the finer details just yet.
Donna has other ideas.
"John."
Closing his eyes, John grasps the armrests of his chair, leans his head back against his seat, and swivels.
"There were only three people," Donna startes, again. "That we called 'Blondie' in school. Kosh-"
"Harry," John corrects harshly but quietly. To this day, John still struggles with the nickname he gave his old childhood friend. Enemy. Frenemy. Whatever.
"Harry. Who is a man. And you said 'she' so it can't be him," John shakes his head. "There was Lucy," she's been talking slowly, trying to gauge John's reaction. She's very sure she knows who 'Blondie' is and part of her hopes she's right. Another part just feels sorry for John. "And Rose?" it's asked as a question because if this 'she' is her, then Donna needs to know.
John stops moving in his seat. His head is still tilted back and his eyes are still closed. He looks like he's sleeping, but Donna knows better. He's remembering.
His eyes stay shut as he continues to tell the story.
—
"Donna used to call me that; 'Blondie,'" she muses. So she does remember him, knows it's him. Good. Brilliant. Of course she does. It's not like he thought otherwise. Not quite possible to forget each other anyways, now is it? "It's what my agent referred to me as when she first met me and, oh," she sighs through her pursed, plump lips. "Dunno. Guess it sort of just fit? Though, that's only my stripper name."
She turns her head to look at him, and he knows she's waiting for him to ask. Waiting for him to call her out and criticize her. Shame her for taking the fun, harmless pet name his sister used for her and using it for something… Well, for something that her clients- the men (and probably some women) that pay her- see as fun and harmless.
Except it isn't fun and it isn't harmless. She never did like the nickname.
But he rises to the bait just like she knew he would because he can't help it- he could never help himself around her.
"That all?" he tries to make the question sound light, almost flippant, with a quick laugh that definitely isn't from nerves.
John had practically dragged her out to this balcony. Blondie has been leaning against the railing- and yes, if the calculated wiggle of her hips as she bends forward is anything to go by, this is definitely Blondie he is standing next to. Whether he is talking with Blondie or Rose Tyler or any other persona she goes by, he just can't tell. But then she twists her body and leans her side into the rail, one elbow resting on top to hold her in place, and head tilting to the point of all her hair falling to one side and her face and chest angling up towards him, and he tells himself that this is not Rose Tyler. Or maybe it is. Maybe she's just hiding under Blondie and-
"Belle de Jour; that's my escort name," she slowly guides the words out through her mouth with that little pink tongue he craved so indispensably throughout his youth.
He swallows, feeling his adam's apple bob and notices her eyes follow the motion before looking away.
And then she tells him to sit down.
"What?"
Instead of answering, she places her hands on his hips and guides him backwards. He grabs at her own hips for support when she tries to push him downwards.
John lands clumsily and heavily on a chair.
Blondie maneuvers herself to gracefully and lightly straddle his lap and moves her hands from his hips to the straps of her dress, which she lowers off her arms. Then she shimmies her dress down her body to reveal a mostly see through lace bra and half of her torso before resting her hands at the back of his neck.
She leans forward, getting closeclosecloser, almost touching but not quite, except to nibble lightly on his earlobe- the earlobe of his left ear, the one she used to call 'wonky'- before whispering, "As much as I appreciate the privacy you tried to ensure, someone's moved the curtains and if I'm not doing at least something other than standing about, I could risk getting my pay lowered. You can touch me, it's allowed."
Then she grounds against him. He can't contain the gasp-turn-to-groan-turn-to-pant that escapes him anymore than he can contain the twitch of his cock. It has been a long time since a woman has touched him (or that he has touched a woman- not that his hands that were still on her hips can be considered 'touching;' not like that) and even longer that these hands, this body, this woman touched him. John used to dream about it, about her, after she left.
And then he remembers. His body has no reason to react this way; not to her, to Blondie. He was always one to get worked up from jealously when he was with Rose. Though he thinks that maybe it shouldn't be that much of a surprise that he's already half hard after watching her show off for all those men who would have done much more than touched her hips if he hadn't gotten her outside. 'Possessive,' she had used to call him when they were younger as he would whisk her away from other boys who would lear at her and then he would fuck her against the nearest semi-secluded flat surface, just because he could and they couldn't. But right now, he is not being jealous and he is not being possessive. He isn't because he tells himself he isn't. He is angry, he tells himself, and he wants to do something about it. Something unlike what he used to do. Not that his body cares. But the rest of him- his heart, his mind, his feelings- they care.
"Could you move your hands up my back or down to my bum or something?"
It's not a demand or a request, but more of a suggestion. They do have to pretend to be in character, he reminds himself. It's either that he move his hands slowly all over and tell himself that he's not trying to map out her body for the first time in forever and compare it to what he can remember her body feeling like under his touch and caress and tell himself that she's not doing that either when she touches him in a similar fashion; all just so he can finally talk to her, finally get some answers or some closure or just anything, really- or he can stay still, wait until some other man comes out to claim her, forcing him to go back inside and drink until he forgets any of this ever happened.
He goes for the former and tells himself that all their touches mean nothing. That a squeeze of her bum is a 'fuck you for leaving me' not a 'why did you leave me?' that a nip to her collarbone is a 'you're the one who started that fight in the first place, so this is all your fault' not a 'why did you always feel you had to try to take the blame so I didn't have to?' that a kiss to that freckle on her shoulder that he can't believe he has forgotten about from time to time is a 'you did this to yourself, all by yourself' not a 'why haven't you ever come back to me?'
"Why you up in there dancing for cash, Rose? I guess a whole lot's changed since I seen you last," he tries to sound casual yet accusing and takes a moment to think about what a strange combination that is before brushing the thought aside and focusing once again on his anger.
The look on her face, whether it be Rose, Blondie, or Belle is one he thinks he will never forget. The last time he had seen anger and suffocated pain that pure and that raw, he had broken the mirror.
—
"What did she say, John?" Donna asks when he goes quiet for a second too long.
"She said.. 'What would you do if your son was at home crying all alone on the bedroom floor, cause he's hungry and the only way to feed him is to sleep with a man for a little bit of money? And his daddy's gone in and out of lock down. I ain't got a job now, he's just smokin' rock now.'"
"She has a kid?"
"Yeah," John breathes on an exhale before running his hands over his face and into his hair. "Jimmy.. the dad.. that bloke she ran away with.. I'm assuming he's the dad.. he's long gone, locked up for life for assault and other things she didn't care to mention. But I didn't get to ask the kid's name, so.." he trails off, rubbing at one eye with a finger.
—
"So for you?" she whispers lowly in his ear, "This is just a good time," and punctures her words with another rough grind of her hips against his lap and a shove of her breasts against his chest. It chokes up a groan from him, and maybe from her, too. She could be faking. He can't remember herhimthem well enough all those years ago; being each other's firsts and hopefully- or at least hopefully for him- each other's last.
"And for you?" his voice is husky, but he prides himself on not letting it shake too much.
"For me?" she asks.
Her arms unwind from around his shoulders before she drags her hands down his chest. A deep breath is inhaled slowly through her nose as she plays with the buttons of his shirt. He decided to forego a tie tonight, in favor of the warm night. Her head tilts and the soft purr thrumming in her throat causes his eyelids to flutter closed against his better judgement. He can feel her nose glide along his and he tries to convince himself that he didn't just hear her lips part, but he can feel her hot breath on his own mouth and he can't help but open for her. He can't help it, the old Rose Tyler reflex to bend to her will. Her fingers have found their way back up his body and into his hair, coaxing single strands to move and be placed at her pleasing and he thinks she just might kiss him. But then he feels a sharp tug at the base of his skull and with a sharp hiss, his head is being forced back and John opens his eyes to see one Rose Tyler- or is this Blondie? Belle de Jour?- towering over him. Her pupils have started to dilate and her clenched teeth are peaking out through a snarl.
In a voice so sweet (like honey, he thinks) it causes a gasp to stick in his throat, she tells him, "This is what I call a life."
And then she lets go of his head, placing her hands low on his abdomen. She greets him with a smile he can only describe as innocent when he finally snaps his head back up. The way his cock jumps when he spots her tongue between her teeth makes him feel sick. He won't let her get the better of him, not again.
"Rose-"
"Blondie," she insists and puts her whole upper body into a thrust against him.
"Girl," he compromises through clenched teeth. "You aren't the only one to have a baby, that's no excuse to be living all crazy."
Because this is crazy. Since when did she have a baby? What kind of a sick joke is that? John has always known the universe to be cruel at times, but this is just vile.
So she stares him right square in the eye and says, "Everyday I wake up, hoping to die."
And then she palms his groin and gives a tight squeeze.
His head lolls back as he moans involuntarily.
—
"What," Jack interjects, his voice hard.
"What?" comes back John's confused response, along with furrowed brows and narrowed eyes. Jack has been mostly silent up until now.
"She said that? Rose Tyler said that?"
"Rose, Blondie, Belle, I don't know who said it, Jack. Why does it matter?"
Jack doesn't answer. He only motions with his hand to tell John to continue.
It matters, of course it matters. Suicide and death are serious matters. But Rose Tyler left him all those years ago- she practically has been dead to him all this time.
The thought makes his heart squeeze. He coughs.
—
"I got to know about pain cause-"
"Cause you left me? Oh no you don't, sunshine. If anyone knows pain here, it's me, not you," John accuses.
In some sort of twisted way, he thinks, he takes revenge by forcing her bra off (though she doesn't struggle, instead helping him along as if she's agreeing with him) and cupping her breasts. Taking her nipples between his thumbs and index fingers, he pinches and twists them until she's keening and crying out above him, her head tipping back and her chest arching towards him. She's got one hand tugging at his hair and another digging into his neck, most likely leaving five crescent moon-like indents in his skin. John likes the idea of leaving an imprint, an impression, a mark if only for a moment and moves in to bite at her lower lip. He digs his teeth in and pulls the lip back, making sure she understands that this is no kiss. RoseBelleBlondie makes a small whimpering noise as he bites harder.
When he pulls back, her lips are parted and the lower one is swollen and he thinks he can make out the redness that's beginning to color under her lightly applied lipstick. It won't leave a bruise and the swelling will go down within a minute but an animalistic part of him is still proud of what he's done. She's panting and her eyes have grown as black as the night sky. Her hair is in messy, loose curls and he can't remember a time that she looked more beautiful yet more hideous. This is not Rose Tyler, he tells himself.
"That summer before we met.. the one I never told you about.. never told anyone about.."
Her words bring John up short. When they met, she had been through something rough, but she never told him. Instead, she always looked forward and ahead. She wanted to getdobe better, and he helped her. She did the same for him. But never, not once, had she even hinted at what had made her feel like her life was going nowhere in the first place.
"I ran away, so mum's boyfriend at the time, Howard, couldn't rape me. Before I was a teenager I'd been through more shit you can't even relate to. So don't you ever dare think that I don't know about pain."
That said, she pushes herself up and off of his lap, making her way to the balcony door.
John stops her by grabbing her hand, the same hand he grabbed to bring her out here.
"Rose-"
"What would you do if your son was at home?" she asks, her voice beginning to shake.
She's vulnerable.
"What would I do?" he asks.
"What would you do?" her voice has begin to take a rougher tone to it.
She's trying to cover up the shakiness.
John takes a moment to think before answering.
When he finally answers, he meets her eye dead on and says, "Get up off my feet and stop making tired excuses."
He can tell she's shocked because her lips part, eyes widen, and she takes a second to reply.
"What would you do?" her incredulousness is so apparent that he almost barks out loud with laughter.
"Get up off my feet and stop making tired excuses."
"What would you do?"
There's that angry tone from earlier. John decides to match it.
"Get up off my feet and stop making tired excuses."
They're repeating themselves, whether it be from lack of thought or response or if they're both just entirely too stunned. But either way, their voices raise each time they reply. Maybe they're trying to outdo the other; see how long this can last.
"What would you do?" her voice has hardened and lowered to a harsh whisper. It makes him want to scream, so he does.
"GET UP OFF MY FEET!" and physically stands from his seated position in the chair and walks towards RoseBelleBlondie until they are so close, their noses practically touch.
His breathing is heavy, almost labored.
It's the thick swallow, thinning of her lips, and rounding eyes on a guarded facade that looks like it would crack with the lightest of touches that make up the woman in front of him that tells John that he is being addressed by Rose Tyler.
"What would you do if your son-"
"But that's just it! That's exactly it! It's not MY son! It's YOURS! YOURS! NOT MINE OR EVEN OURS LIKE IT COULD HAVE- NO, SHOULD HAVE BEEN!"
He has no idea where that came from, but there it is. It takes him a second, but he realizes he means it full force and suddenly all the fight has left him. As Rose drops his hand, her face draws a blank and John watches as all the fight leaves her, too.
"You know what I tell him? My son? When he asks about his daddy?"
She is completely deadpan and John wonders how long Rose Tyler has been talking to him.
"What."
He tries to tell himself that he doesn't really care, that he's entertaining her. But he knows these next few words could be their last and that anything could happen.
"I tell him that his daddy saves people's lives. I tell him that his daddy is the most important person in the world. I tell him that his daddy is better than that. I tell him that his daddy is needed by other people more than we do, but that it's okay because I'll never be needed more by anyone than my son. That I would never just tell him I'm leaving and go; have him hope I come back. If I leave, I'm coming back, and I make sure he knows it's him that I'm coming back to."
With one last look over, Rose Tyler turns around, and Blondie reenters the party.
It takes him a solid minute, but eventually John turns, cards a hand through his hair, and makes for the fire escape.
The next morning he will find a lace bra in his shirt pocket and he will hide it deep in the bottom of his nightstand drawer. It will be his only proof of the previous night.
—
"Ian," Jack eventually breaks the silence.
"What?"
"You said you didn't get to ask the kid's name," he explains. "It's Ian. And Rose Tyler may not like why she has to do what she does, but Blondie and Belle are good at what they do, and Rose is proud of that in her own way. She doesn't just do what she has to for the sake of her kid, she does it for herself, as well. She went back and got her A-levels, did you know? No," he doesn't let John answer, his voice lowering to an accusing tone. "You probably didn't. You probably also didn't know that during the rare free moments in between working, spending precious time with her son, or even trying to take care of herself," John feels himself tense up at the thought of Rose not taking care of herself. She was always one to put others first. "In between all that, she's making small commissions off her artwork. And if you hadn't gone and yelled her to tears, maybe she would have told you all that."
John must had been so stunned that his jaw dropped; it's the only way to explain the salt and wetness that has slid over his upper lip and into his mouth.
Has he been crying?
"How do you know all that, Jack?" eventually Donna asks because it doesn't look like John will be able to.
"You know those times when I tell you guys I can't go out for drinks because I have a sweet babe to look after and you both think I'm making a joke and that I'm actually out having sex?"
Okay, so maybe those aren't always his words- he has said that he babysits. But if you've ever met the guy, you wouldn't believe that so easily. Ever.
"You were serious?" Donna gapes.
"Well, okay, maybe sometimes I was out having sex. But not always."
Leaning back in his seat, Jack has his arms crossed and his face relaxed. But his eyes have a rough look to them, like he's trying to hold back a fire. And that's when John snaps out of his moment of shock because how could he not know? How could his best friend not tell him about this? Granted, Jack was friends with Rose first. Ever so loyal to her, as well.
"How long?" he asks.
"How long what?" Jack asks like he doesn't know what John's referring to, but the way his eyes lock with John's says otherwise.
"How long have you know? How long have you been talking to her? How long have you kept this from me, Jack?"
"I'm not the one you need to ask, John."
"Well the one I do need to ask isn't here, now is she? No, she's not because she ran away. AGAIN," John pushes back his chair and stands.
He rounds on Jack who stands from his own chair.
"I bet you didn't even ask her how old the kid is, did you?" Jack asks, his voice even and calm.
"Why does it matter?" John asks because really, why does it?
Is it supposed to make him feel bad if the child is a baby?
Is it supposed to make him feel okay if the kid is old enough to start thinking and fending for himself?
Jack looks down at his watch, studies it for a moment, then walks towards the front door without so much as a glance in John's direction.
"Where are you going!?" John demands to know.
"To babysit a nine-year-old!" Jack calls out before swinging the door to shut it.