Written for the Femgenficathon on LiveJournal. My prompt: We are volcanoes. When we women offer our experience as our truth, as human truth, all the maps change. There are new mountains. -- Ursula LeGuin
Many thanks to Orchida for the beta, and to Doug for the medical consultation.
All the Maps Change
Martha Jones had gone throughout the universe of time and space, walked across this Earth -- and now she was back again on the daily grind of ward rounds, again with her fellow medical students at the beck and call of instructors.
An attending physician had sent Martha on her last task for this day, just before she was scheduled to get off -- to draw some blood from an elderly patient. Not -- Martha gave a wry smile at the memory -- a life-sucking alien just passing for a pleasant old lady suffering from atrial fibrillation. I hope.
The patient watched with resignation as Martha checked the clipboard for updates on her condition and to remind herself of the woman's name.
"Good afternoon, Mrs. Chesterton. I'm Martha Jones -- you probably won't have remembered me from all those students standing around talking about you the day after you arrived."
"I do remember. There's not much else to do here but watch you all."
"You may not have to rely on us for entertainment much longer," Martha said as she checked Mrs. Chesterton's heart. "I see that there was no fibrillation all day yesterday. You're improving."
"Yes, well, that's something." She seemed dispirited, and Martha could guess why: for the same reason that her heart condition was improving. Depression was a side effect of the medication that was stabilizing her heart rate. But she gave Martha an apologetic smile. "Don't mind me. My husband has been enjoying calling me a terrible patient, after I've been saying that to him for years."
"You're hardly a terrible patient. Believe me, I've dealt with much worse."
"I should tell Ian that he's a terrible patient when he has a stomach ache. This heart condition ..."
"It's scary."
"Yes. More than anything. And I've seen some scary things in my day."
Mrs. Chesterton had said that with a smile, something Martha wanted to encourage, so she asked, "Really? Like what?"
"I taught teenagers."
"Ah. Understood. What did you teach?"
"History. I expect that wasn't your subject -- you would have done well at science, like my husband."
"Now, you'd be surprised. And then I've done some traveling, taking a break from my medical studies." In fact, no one here at the hospital had any idea Martha had been gone longer than a few days and she had not wanted to correct the impression. But she felt for this woman, in the grips of chemically-induced low spirits, and the conversation seemed to cheer her -- enough that Martha wanted to keep it going. "It gave me a whole new perspective on history."
"Travel can do that. Ian -- that's my husband -- and I, we took time off from teaching to travel. It was unexpected, but it certainly enriched my work when I returned."
"Where did you go?"
"Oh, so many places. Italy ... Mexico -- I have an expertise in the Aztec civilization. But you didn't say where you had gone, Dr. Jones."
Martha had no answer ready to elaborate on her spontaneous confession. How to explain that her sense of history had been fleshed out by meeting Shakespeare, defending Hoovertown from Daleks, being a servant in Edwardian England?
She was saved as Barbara looked past Martha and said, "Oh, here's Ian now." To the old man who walked up and kissed her on the forehead, she asked, "Where's John?"
"His flight was delayed. Fortunately, I got his call before I drove out to Heathrow. He'll be in late tonight."
"John is our son," Barbara explained to Martha. "Ian, this is Martha Jones, one of the medical students. We've been having a lovely chat about travel."
Martha was trying very hard to compose herself as she shook Ian Chesterton's hand. She did not know Barbara, but she recognized this man. It was almost a relief to hear the attending physician's voice suddenly intrude.
"Jones, will we have that blood sample any time today?"
"Sorry," Martha said as he stalked off. "I'm actually here to draw some blood for a test."
"I'm here to be your pin cushion," Barbara said, the slight lift in mood deflated. Her husband appeared to recognize this, and chatted about their son as Martha performed her task and sped off.
Ian Chesterton would not remember, but Martha did. She had met him in Los Angeles, during the "year that never was," one night after she had told her story to a group hiding out in an abandoned movie lot.
Not all of her audience were squatters there -- some had come creeping through the night from still-standing houses and other derelict businesses. Among those was a pair of late arrivals, a man who looked to be in his forties -- and vaguely familiar to Martha -- helping along an elderly man whom Martha took to be his father. Several people greeted them, and then hushed when Martha began to talk.
She did not give the two men much thought until after she had finished. People lingered, talking about what they had heard, settling into a relaxed camaraderie -- rare these days -- and someone produced a bottle of California wine -- even rarer -- to pass around.
In the midst of this, Martha noticed the old man watching her. She gave him a smile just as his son leaned in and said something she couldn't hear across the room. From the son's expression, she guessed it was a "Time to go" demand. But the old man shook his head, and walked over to Martha, the son trailing behind.
"Martha Jones," the old man said, shaking her hand. "I've heard about you, but I had to come to see you for myself."
"You're English," she noted. "You're far from home."
"As far as you are. Yes, my wife and I were here visiting our son when the Toclofane invaded. It was no use going home."
Martha's heart sank. She had heard this sad tale so many times. "Your wife?"
"She died a month ago."
His voice quavered and his son spoke up. "She wasn't killed by the Toclofane -- not directly. She had a heart condition, and medical care is not easy to come by these days." It almost sounded as though he were accusing Martha.
"I'm so sorry," she said.
The old man gave her a melancholy half-smile. "You're doing all you can to save us. And we will do what you ask, on the appointed day. Even," he said with a sly glance at the younger man, "my son."
The son in question nodded shortly. "Okay, Dad, let's not bother her any more."
His father ignored him and said to Martha, "I've heard your story, and I believe you. Now, I would like to tell you a story."
As much time as Martha had spent speaking, it seemed she spent an equal amount of time listening, especially as her fame grew. It was as much part of her mission as anything else. And so she acquiesced as the old man beckoned her to an isolated corner, where his son pulled up some rickety chairs.
"I'm sorry, I didn't get your name," Martha said as she took the wobbly, worn leather office chair -- she wondered what had become of the high-powered Hollywood producer who had likely once used it.
"My name is Ian. And this is my son, John."
John. Suddenly Martha placed him: Johnny Chess. He had been an enormous rock star in the '80s -- before her time, and age had changed him, but she felt sure it was him.
Martha turned her attention to Ian, who settled into a cloth-covered desk chair -- not as grand as Martha's, but John had chosen the most stable seat for his father. The son himself sat on a rusty metal chair and folded his arms.
Martha leaned forward, in part to listen, but also because she realized if she leaned back, her chair would topple over.
"Before my wife and I married," Ian said, "we were colleagues -- both of us teachers. There was a student at our school, a very odd teenage girl. Our curiosity was piqued and we shouldn't have, but we followed her home. And her home turned out to be a blue police box. It was bigger on the inside than it was on the outside."
Martha's eyes widened -- she had not mentioned the TARDIS to this group -- and Ian looked pleased at the desired reaction.
"The girl lived there with her grandfather, who -- once Barbara and I had worked our way inside -- shut the doors, trapped us inside, and we left our own time and place behind."
"He forced you to go along with him?"
Ian nodded without bitterness -- the memory seemed to amuse him more than anything. John scowled.
"To be fair," Ian said, "he didn't know quite how to control the TARDIS, and so returning us was not easy."
Martha frowned. "Hang on -- grandfather?"
Ian grinned. "Yes. He was an old man. Like your Doctor, he was not human. In fact, he quite disliked humans -- tolerated them at best. He was careless of our safety, callous about others' suffering, treated us with something bordering on contempt. His love and care for his granddaughter seemed his only redeeming quality at first."
Was this another Gallifreyan, Martha wondered, before the Time War, traveling about in a TARDIS? Except another one had disguised itself as a London police box, that was odd ...
"Barbara and I didn't know if we'd ever get home. But we were settling in as best we could, and then ... the TARDIS malfunctioned. It made us all a bit loopy -- violent and paranoid. But not my Barbara. Only she kept her head. She not only pointed us in the direction of solving the problem, but she finally had it out with the Doctor. She took him to task, as only Barbara could" -- and this time the son joined in the father's fond smile -- "for the abominable way he been treating us. And she made him see, in no uncertain terms, how much we had done for him. I'll never forget it: 'You ought to get down on your knees and thank us ... gratitude is the last thing you'll ever have, or any common sense either,' she said."
"This was the Doctor?"
Ian only smiled. "I had been at loggerheads with him from the start, but Barbara made him see -- he saw that these humans had some worth after all. She gained his respect, and he saw that there was more to us than our backward ways would suggest. And that just maybe, he could learn from us.
"We did get home eventually -- more or less in the time we had left. We never saw the Doctor again, but over the years, we've heard things. We found out that he could change his appearance, and we knew that in the future he'd have many faces, and others would remember him as much younger than we had known him. We also knew about those others, the many others he traveled with. Most of them voluntarily," Ian added with a chuckle. "We found out that he became quite attached to humanity in the end.
"We know what you say is true. We know that he has saved this planet over and over. But I can't help wondering what might have happened if we -- if Barbara hadn't walked into that TARDIS. He might have repaired his ship, and left Earth, never to return again. So many lives changed, because Barbara made him see. So many lives -- including yours."
It had been so long since Martha had given in to tears, but she felt them welling in her eyes. "I wish I had known her."
"I wish you had too. I know it was just a little thing, one day in a life. I said all this to Barbara once, and she laughed it off, told me not to exaggerate -- said that the Doctor was always a good man, and he was learning. And that's true. Your story is true. But I wanted you to know my story. A long ago prologue to your grand tale. I understand it's been centuries to him." Ian shrugged. "You know, time travel." He gripped the chair's armrests and began to unsteadily push himself up. "Thank you for hearing me out."
"Thank you," Martha said.
John helped his father up. "You didn't tell her about Mum being a goddess," he said, his tone only relenting slightly. "Or how she saved the world when she mowed down Daleks with a big truck."
Martha grinned. "Now there's a way to deal with Daleks, I suppose."
"Another story for another time," Ian said. "I'm afraid I'm too old for these late-night clandestine meetings. Goodbye, Martha Jones, and good luck."
He held out his hand again, but this time Martha impulsively pulled him into a hug.
"We'll be with you," he said in her ear. "We'll be there, saying his name. Just with a touch more feeling behind the word than than your average man on the street."
Martha the medical student, no longer Martha the legend, spent the night trying to sleep but instead recalling that meeting with Ian Chesterton in every detail, as well as her brief talk with Barbara just that afternoon at the hospital.
Martha reminded herself that Barbara Chesterton was ill, and perhaps didn't need pestering from a near-stranger about things long past. But she wanted to hear Barbara tell her own story. Get her to tell her own version of Ian's oft-told tale of how his wife mowed down Daleks with a big truck.
Barbara said she was an expert in the Aztec civilization -- had she witnessed it? What had she seen in Italy? Rome burning while Nero fiddled? Michaelangelo painting the Sistine Chapel? Just imagining it, Martha felt a reawakened wonder at the things she herself had seen -- a wonder that had been darkened by the grueling odyssey of her lost year.
And would Barbara downplay -- as her husband had said she would -- what part she may have played in the course of the Doctor's life, the man the Doctor had become?
What if Martha told Barbara and Ian where she herself had been, what she had seen and done? The year of horror under the Master's rule may have been blessedly erased for them, but they had seen enough in their lifetime together to understand.
In the morning, ward rounds again, and the attending physicians kept Martha running all day -- but none sent her Barbara's way. It was late afternoon, in a moment of respite, before she saw all three Chestertons in the lobby: The son had arrived from Los Angeles just as his mother was discharged from the hospital.
It was now or never, and Martha caught Barbara and Ian outside, just as their son was walking away rapidly, car keys in hand. (It occurred to Martha later that "Johnny Chess" may have been seized upon bringing the car round as an excuse to flee, taking the medical student charging toward them for an autograph-seeker -- he had been attracting ill-concealed curious looks from starstruck staff and patients.)
"Dr. Jones," Barbara said, startled and perplexed as Martha breathlessly skidded to halt in front of them. "It's … good to see you."
"I'm so glad that you're feeling well enough to go home, and I'm sorry to bother you, I've only got a few minutes before I have to go back to rounds. But I had to see you. I know this is going to sound strange, but you'll probably understand strange, won't you? Your travels -- what we were talking about yesterday. I know about that. How you were traveling, with whom. Because that's what I did as well."
Martha's words had poured out in a rush and she was feeling like she was not making sense. Barbara's eyebrows were raised, in skepticism or surprise, she couldn't tell -- but was that a smile of recognition dawning on Ian's face?
Start over. Start over with a new friendship, a new, changed future before her, as Ian and Barbara's, and the Doctor's, had changed so many years ago.
"You see," Martha told Barbara, who was beginning to smile herself, despite the weariness in her eyes, "I heard that you've saved the world once or twice. We may have that in common."
The End