A/N: Nothing you recognize belongs to me!
As school is starting back up, I'm going to a MWF update schedule, but as I have three stories currently in the works, I'll be updating each once a week. On Wednesdays I'll be posting chapters of A Beautiful Disaster (until it's finished and I start something else :D). Thanks for being awesome, and enjoy!
Chapter Three
Rose pulled the blanket closer around her shoulders as she huddled in the jump seat that sat on the outer edge of the TARDIS console room. Five months and six days until she could open the watch and this whole surreal experience would be over. The Doctor would be back to his normal—well, as normal as he ever was—self, and they'd be off again, flying around Time and Space. She sighed and shoved herself off her unyielding, leather-covered perch and meandered over to the control console. She punched in the sequence of buttons that the Doctor had drilled into her brain—she could probably do it in her sleep—and called up his instructional video. She skipped past most of it. Their first week in Oxford she'd practically memorized it, and found what she was looking for at the end of the tape.
"—so bugger off Jack!" the Doctor said jovially from the screen. "This bit's for Rose." He paused, waiting for Jack to leave the room, which he had done when they'd first found the message waiting for them. The Doctor's smirk faded into a gentle smile, one she fancied he only directed at her. "Rose Tyler," he said fondly. "This is probably one of the hardest things I've ever asked you to do—yet, anyway—and I'm sorry, but I know that you're up for it. You're brave and you're clever and don't let anyone tell you otherwise, even me. Keep Jack in line. The last thing we need is miniature versions of him running around. And I just wanted to say—" He looked uncertain, an instance that was rare enough to note. "I just wanted to say thanks. And if something happens, if the Family shows up and there's no other way, you know what to do." He paused. "Open the watch." The seriousness on his face was replaced by a bright, manic grin. "See you in six months!" Then the video flickered and the screen turned black.
She sighed and moved away from the console. "The show must go on," she murmured as she paused by the doors. The TARDIS hummed sympathetically and Rose patted the wall. "Thanks girl," she said with a sad smile. "I know you miss him too."
She was already there when John walked into the bar on Wednesday night. Her waitressing uniform clung to her form like her dresses, although it was more modest than most bars he'd seen. She wore dark jeans that looked like they were painted on and a white V-necked top. She balanced her tray with practiced ease as she floated through the scattering of patrons. John ordered his usual, and to his annoyance had to explain what it was. Apparently Jack wasn't working tonight. He should be happy. He should be grateful to have a night without the other man's pointed looks in Rose's direction and obvious hints as to what he should do with her, or his casual prying into a life that was definitely none of his business. To his surprise John found that he missed Jack's teasing laughter and easy smile along with his knowledge. He didn't have to explain his usual to Jack.
As if summoned by thought the door of the bar swung open and Jack sauntered inside accompanied by Joan Redfern. John's eyebrows rose. Well, that was an unexpected development. Oliver Redfern, Joan's husband, had run the bar until his death six years ago, at which time she took over the business. She was quiet and gentle but fiercely protective of her employees. She was everyone's mother, although she had no children of her own, and with her strawberry-blond hair floating around her face in soft waves instead of pulled tightly back in her customary severe bun she was quite pretty. Her clothes added to the image. Her work outfit was less than flattering, and the skirt and blouse she wore made her look years younger.
Jack made his way into the bar, leading Joan behind him. They were holding hands, John noted. If he cared he would find that interesting, but he didn't care. Not at all, about either of them. What they got up to was their own business. He rolled his eyes as Jack sketched a cheeky salute. He nodded to Joan. "Ma'am."
"John," she replied with a smile. Joan Redfern was a rare woman, in that she knew when to leave well enough alone. If he wanted to talk, she let him talk, and if he didn't than she didn't push him, unlike some people—some people being the man who accompanied her and the blond girl who had just noticed his entrance.
"Jack!" Rose cried brightly and swooped in to great the newcomers. He managed to hug her without spilling her tray, an achievement that impressed John just a little. He whispered something in her ear and she gave him a smack on the arm. She turned to John and opened her mouth to speak, but a voice hollered from across the room. She smiled apologetically and turned away to answer the impatient person.
John didn't mind, well, he didn't mind much. Or at least, that's what he told himself. In reality he was quite irritated, which was surprising. He shouldn't be upset. He should be happy that he didn't have to deal with her for a while, but like Jack, he found that he was starting to miss her concern, as ill placed as it was.
He watched her as she wove through the tables, pausing here and there to greet regulars and take orders. She smiled and people he'd never seen with any other expression than a scowl smiled back. If he was more self-aware, he'd realize that he numbered in that group. She didn't belong here, he decided. He'd known all along, ever since he saw her up on the stage, but it was startlingly clear as he watched her work. She was a bright spot in deep darkness.
Everyone in the Big Bad Wolf—odd name for a bar, that, he thought—had their shadows. Joan had lost her husband to the Iraqi War. Jenny, another waitress and one of Rose's friends, was trapped in an abusive relationship and refused to get help. Most of the regulars were alcoholics who spent their money on booze instead of food or shelter. Some of them were homeless. For all his easy charm and smiles, Jack carried himself like someone who knew the business end of a gun and John knew with a certainty that was crystal clear that he'd taken lives. As for himself—he had more blood on his hands than anyone else in the room, possibly than anyone else in the city.
And she burned in front of him—glowed with something that looked like innocence. She would scorch him if he drew too near, but something inside him screamed to feel warm again. It was for her own good that he pushed her away, he told himself. It wasn't that he was afraid.
It was too much of a lie even for him. "Coward, every time," he muttered and turned back to his drink.
She was waiting for him when he exited the bar. They walked in silence and this time he let her stay beside him. She was grateful for that, even though she knew better than to voice her appreciation. If she spoke about it he'd be embarrassed and then he'd probably refuse to let her walk with him. She slowed when they approached the garage in front of his flat, but he did not stop.
"Where are you going?" she asked after she caught up with him. He was a fast walker; she'd nearly had to run.
"Walkin' you home," he responded gruffly. "All sorts out at night."
She opened her mouth to protest, to assert her ability to get home safely, and then thought better of it. She smiled. "Thanks."
"Don't mention it." He said it like he meant it.
He left her at the foot of the stairwell to her flat. "You could come inside," she offered. "Get warm before you head out."
He shook his head. "No need." He thought it was wiser not to say that going inside would make it that much harder to leave, and he was already unwilling.
"Right," she said after a while. "Good night, then."
"Night." He watched her slip her key into the lock, watched her push open the heavy wooden door. She gave him a little wave before she shut it. He smiled in reply. He forced himself to turn away when he saw the light stream through one of the windows on the second floor. He was forty-two years old, for Christ's sake. He did not mope around like a teenager with a crush and he most certainly did not stalk young women half his age. She was home safe. His job was done. He stuffed his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket and turned up the collar against the wind. A strange feeling of foreboding washed over him and he turned to face the window one last time. The silhouette of her face greeted him, black against the golden glow of the blinds. He sighed, and headed back to the shop.
"John!" He bit back a curse as Mike's yell made him jump.
"Don't do that!" he snapped as he picked up the spanner from where he'd dropped it on the floor. Really, why did people think that startling veterans was a good idea? The military had spent years drilling very specific reactions into him. One of these days someone was going to get too close and get hurt before he realized what was happening.
His boss held up his hands in a gesture of surrender. "Sorry, but there's someone asking for you. A girl—blond, pretty, about so tall." He held his hand just below his chin.
John wiped his grease-stained hands on the rag that hung a hook fastened to the wall. "Be there in a mo'."
Mike grinned. "Take your time. I don't object to keeping her company." The other man glowered at his back as he retreated to the front desk.
As he had suspected after Mike described his visitor, Rose was waiting for him in the lobby. His boss gave him a pointed look and then left, citing pressing paperwork. Rose commiserated for a moment, and then wished him a good day.
"Aye aye, then." John said by way of greeting.
Rose held up a set of keys. "I've got a patient for you."
"Which one would that be?" he asked. She pointed to the car just outside. It was a sleek thing, one of those classic cars from the 60's—American, and screaming red. He blinked. "Didn't peg you as the sort to drive a muscle car," he mused.
She laughed. "S not mine. It belongs to Jack."
He raised an eyebrow. "So you and him—"
"God, no!" she exclaimed. "Not that he wouldn't, mind, but we're not." Relief washed over him. "He's just not good at—domestics."
John cocked his head at her. "You do his laundry too?"
Rose grinned. "I've got some self-respect, thanks. He takes it to the dry cleaners." She sighed, a martyred expression sliding across her face. "But someone's got to look after him, and as the most constant person in his life, it falls to me." She handed him the key. "It's leaking oil something fierce. Probably a worn-out hose."
"Jack tell you that?" He let skepticism color his voice.
"Nah," she replied. "He's more of a ship man." She paused by the door and flashed him a smile. "See you tonight."
"Go on, get," he replied in mock irritation. "Some of us have work to do." She laughed her way out the door. The shop seemed colder without her, and larger. He told himself that he was looking forward to the evening for the alcohol, not the company, and went back to work.
He'd learned in his years as a mechanic that a car could tell an observant person a lot about its owner. Jack's car was no exception. The man obviously liked a bit of flash—it was a car designed to turn heads. Of course, he'd known the other man was a show-off just from looking at him. Everything about him was perfectly placed—hair, smile, salacious expression. His car was tidy too. The black leather was immaculate and John wouldn't be surprised if Jack wiped it down daily. He thought about examining the glove compartment, but decided that he really didn't want to know what the pretty bartender kept in his car. Instead he opened up the hood.
John was surprised when Rose offered any kind of opinion about the car and its issues. Most girls that he'd met who were her age were more concerned with the latest celebrity gossip and getting plastered than the workings of automobiles. He was even more surprised when she was right. It was a relatively easy fix, one that Jack, if he was mechanically inclined, should have had no trouble identifying and replacing. He was being childish, he knew. It was petty and juvenile to feel a sense of satisfaction in the knowledge that he could do something that the other man couldn't. It also warmed him from the inside out.
He was still in a decent mood when he slid into his customary seat at the bar. Jack was off again, but even having to instruct his replacement couldn't put a dampener on John's relatively good cheer. He spotted Rose across the room, tray held high, full glasses sparkling in the low light. He'd have to ask her about the car thing. She intrigued him in a way that most people failed to do. He'd seen the best and worst of humanity, with a heavy emphasis on the worst, and he fancied that he could predict with a decent amount of accuracy what people would do. She confused his patterns and equations and acted in a way that was unexpected. It was a tad unsettling, but it perked his curiosity.
There were more young people about tonight than usual, he noted. While they were in Oxford they were a bit away from the University and the Big Bad Wolf wasn't exactly one of the popular hang-outs, not for that crowd. It was a working-man's place, anonymous in the way that small towns were—in the way that everyone knew but didn't say. Rose was talking animatedly with two of the newcomers and he felt himself begin to glower. The boys were about her age, perhaps a bit younger. She seemed most friendly with the blond one. The other looked to be of Indian descent. Students, he thought, noting the pen tucked behind one ear and the backpack slung on the ground by the blond one's feet. He turned back to his whiskey.
He knew they were trouble from the moment they walked into the bar. The door slammed open and four young men sauntered in. John glanced at them and snorted. Students again, but in a different league than Rose's friends. They took in the bar as if they were judging it and found it lacking. He bristled. Arrogance got under his skin, and those fops were dripping with it. Their voices floated through the murky air, and his assumption was rewarded. Their precise accents grated on his ears, were distinctly out of place surrounded by the warm cadence of rougher tongues. Posh, they were. Public school boys slumming it, he wouldn't wonder, going to school on Daddy's dime and drinking on it too. They were fools if he ever saw one and he had no time for them.
They took a table, casting disparaging glances around as they snickered amongst themselves. The boy who looked to be the ring leader held up a hand and demanded service imperiously. Rose left the woman she'd been helping with an eye roll and an apologetic smile and made her way to the newcomers. John's expression darkened. He did not like the looks they were giving her. He liked them even less when one of the boys made a remark and Rose stiffened. Her smile remained in place, but tighter, forced. He knew that expression, and he had a feeling that if she hadn't been at work the rude young man would have been on the receiving end of a slap. She turned away to get their drinks and John watched their eyes follow her back to the bar.
"Problems?" he asked as casually as he could.
She shook her head. "Nah, just a bit annoying." She gave him a smile. "Back in a mo.'" Her burden collected, she maneuvered back to the boys' table. John let his eyes wander across the crowd, satisfied that she could take care of herself. The sharp retort of a slap brought his attention back to the table. Rose was standing, hands planted on her hips, jaw set and cheeks flushed with anger. One of the boys—the leader, he remembered—pressed one hand to the side of his face. The other boys jumped to their feet, eyes flashing.
"Slag!" the leader spat. Rose raised her chin defiantly. The boys shifted to take a step forward and John was there. He drew himself up to his full height, which was considerable, and glared down at them. He placed a gentle hand on Rose's shoulder.
"All right?" he asked. "Are they giving you trouble, Rose?"
"No," she said coldly. "They were just leaving."
"Right then," he replied. "I'll just escort them to the door then." He stepped forward, grabbed the leader's sleeve, and yanked him to his feet.
"Get your hands off me!" the young man snapped.
"Get out," John replied, "while you can still walk." Menace dripped from his words. Fury pulsed within him, a feeling that seemed to come from somewhere distant, somewhere deep within him.
The boys glared at him, but they left quickly. After the door closed he turned to the girl. "Are you all right?" he asked gently. "Did they hurt you?"
She shook her head. "M fine, really." She glared at the door. "Thought they could cop a feel."
"Well, I think you showed them," he replied. "That was quite a smack."
That earned a smile. "My mum would be proud."
He shuddered in mock horror. "Remind me never to irritate your mum." She laughed and the tension melted away.
He was waiting for her outside the bar when her shift ended. She blinked. Usually she had to haul him out of the place before he ended up passing out on the bar. That night, however, he appeared to be almost sober—a feat, she knew, as he'd spend the last five hours surrounded by alcohol.
He took her hand almost absently as they walked. He hadn't done that before, not as John Smith, and it sent little shivers of excitement or worry over her skin. She couldn't tell which. Did it mean he was remembering something of the Doctor? Or was he doing it all by himself? It was confusing, she thought, to have to distinguish between the two. He looked like the Doctor and he sounded like the Doctor, but he wasn't. He was too warm, for one thing. The Doctor's hand had always been cool wrapped around her own, but his was human hot against her skin. They walked past his shop again, and she wondered if it would be a habit, this walking her home. She wasn't complaining, but he was unpredictable at best, and she didn't want to get her hopes up only to have them come crashing down. She'd had quite enough of that growing up, thank you very much. She needed it from him least of all.
He left her outside her building, as he had the night before. In a moment of boldness she pressed a quick kiss to his cheek before she retreated behind the solid wooden door. Rose leaned against the cool surface, her heart pounding and a faint blush coloring her cheeks. She'd never been that brave before, that reckless. Oh, the times she'd wanted too—but something in his eyes warned her off, the knowledge that he was alien, that he was in many ways unknowable, kept her from carrying through. John Smith, for all he was a story, was human. She sighed as she climbed the stairs to her flat. It was mad, her life, and she was mad too.
