Chapter 3: Complications and Coffee
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The following Tuesday it's sunny and warm at the schoolyard and Tony is in the middle of a game of football with a group of other seven-year-olds when she arrives, so she stands by the sidelines and chats with John.
The conversation flows light and easy with the warm sun and gentle breeze as they comment on the game and on the events of the day; the weather, the latest political campaign finance scandal that's in the news, the nasty noise her car is making, the project he's got his class working on.
They watch the game and it gets him started talking about his students: apparently Richard has a particularly vivid imagination, Emily is showing an aptitude for maths, and her brother seems quite keen on science.
This piques her curiosity and gets her thinking. "Have you ever had a student," she asks him, "who was just really incredible? Gifted, like you just know that someday they're going to win a Nobel Prize, or break the light barrier, or do something totally groundbreaking?"
He nods knowingly and says something about "Adric," but at that moment her mobile rings and she holds up a finger to him to wait while she answers the call.
The woman on the other end speaks, and her entire world changes.
A moment later, she's hanging up after, inexplicably, thanking the woman for this news; news that seems to be stopping time itself because somehow everything around her has frozen, her body has frozen except for her heart which seems to be pounding its way out of her chest, up into her throat which is already too tight to give her the air she needs. She can't breathe, can't think, and everything in and around her is imploding.
She feels a hand on her shoulder and warm breath is on her face as he speaks her name. "Rose?" he prods, his voice rough with concern. "What is it? Are you all right?"
She realises her eyes are closed, so she opens them and she's at the school, children's voices are all around her and he's facing her, all windblown hair and face creased with worry and something about the unfamiliarity centres her, brings her back to here and now.
"I'm OK," she chokes out as she reaches into her handbag with one hand to search for her keys, and her other hand fumbles idiotically as if she can only control one of them at a time. Her mobile tumbles to the ground, and she stoops over to pick it up, but he beats her to it, gives it to her and wraps his hands around hers, and with a gentle tug, he's leading her around a bend into a secluded corner behind the school building. It's an alcove sheltered by brick on two sides, trees on a third, and it offers at least the illusion of privacy.
"What's wrong?" he asks, ducking his face down into hers, both hands firmly gripping her shoulders. "Is someone hurt?"
She leans back against the brick for support, resting her head against the wall. "No," she replies, and gives an ironic laugh. "Injury, death, that I can handle. Slitheen and black holes and Cybermen – the end of the universe – I've seen it all and it's nothing. But this," the words catch in her throat and one sob leads to another and she's shielding her eyes from him as the tears begin to flow freely, but then his arms are encircling her and she's lost completely as she cries into his shoulder.
"I'm pregnant," she finally speaks the words by way of explanation, of apology to this stranger who's volunteered to shoulder her burden.
A bird flutters above them in the sunny treetops, while she's pressed back firmly in the shadow the building casts on itself and she shivers in his grasp. He holds her like that for a time until her sobs quiet, and when they do there's embarrassment and dread in their place because she knows what's coming next.
He strokes her hair reassuringly and speaks softly into her ear. "I know it's hard to imagine now, Rose, but this is not a tragedy." He pulls back to look at her, his eyes asking the question before his mouth forms the words. "The father?"
She shakes her head. "Gone."
She feels him tense up with all the wrong assumptions; assumptions that she doesn't have the energy to correct, and she certainly doesn't owe him an explanation anyway. Yet part of her wants to give him one and she's not certain why, but then again she's not certain of anything right now except that this is the wrong place and the wrong time to be having this conversation, and he's certainly not the right person to be having it with.
Everything is wrong and it's never going to be right again.
She shrugs away from his grasp, sniffling and wiping her eyes with the back of her hand, as she looks up and over in every direction except his. "M'sorry," she says into her own shoulder as she looks back over it. She turns to leave. "I'm fine. It's not your problem anyway."
"Rose," comes his voice from behind her and it's not sharp but something in it makes her stop. "Rose, you have nothing to apologise for."
She throws a half-hearted smile of thanks in his direction and this seems to encourage him. because he grins back at her and adds, "Except perhaps that comment about slithering into black holes; I think perhaps an explanation there might be warranted."
She laughs in spite of herself. "Not today," she defers.
"Long story?" he surmises with one eyebrow raised knowingly.
She nods, and suddenly remembering where she is, she turns back in the direction of the schoolyard in search of her brother. "Tony – I need to..."
She feels his hand on her arm, and she jumps with a gasp that shows both of them just how tightly wound she is.
But he doesn't flinch; doesn't back away; he simply maintains the contact as she turns back to face him. "Tony's fine," he assures her calmly. "There's two other staff supervising pickup and I'll be back shortly. Rose, would you care to meet me for coffee later?"
The invitation surprises her, confuses her and she stares back at him in speechless bewilderment. If he had done this ten minutes earlier, she would've known what he meant, and she would've known her response, but now...
Her puzzlement must be evident on her face because he lifts his hand off her arm. "Just to talk," he says, searching her face for a response before adding, "I thought you might be in need of a sympathetic ear."
Defensiveness wells up inside her and she takes a step backwards. "I've got people to talk to – I've got friends," she shoots back with more resentment than she'd intended.
"I never thought otherwise," his calm absorbing her vacillations like a ground wire. "We can talk about whatever you like. You can tell me some of those long stories of yours. I just thought it might be nice to spend some time in the company of someone new. For both of us," he adds. "It can be refreshing to get a new perspective sometimes."
He says it with no pity, only warmth and good intentions that disarm her and she feels the defensiveness melt away.
"OK," she agrees and now her smile is small and tentative, but it's genuine.
+ - + - + - +
Somehow, she makes it through the afternoon.
It's all homework and checkers with Tony and the news is there constantly in her mind, loud background noise like a thrash-metal band playing, but she pushes it aside, refusing to contemplate thoughts, decisions and conversations that she's not ready to face yet.
+ - + - + - +
By the time she shows up at the coffee shop, the embarrassment has found her and she's fully mortified at the thought of her behaviour earlier.
She spots him at a table in the rear and steers in his direction. He greets her with a wave as he gets to his feet to pull a chair out for her.
The old-fashioned gesture makes her smile, and he sees the grin as he sits back down and gazes back questioningly.
She shakes her head with a tiny laugh. "It's nothing, I'm just not used to..." she pauses in search of a word that won't give the wrong impression until she realises it doesn't exist.
"Manners?" he supplies.
She laughs. "You're definitely not rude, I'll give you that." Her eyes blink back memories from another life and another world, before focusing back in on his.
"Are you feeling better?" he asks, and that's when she knows for sure that this was a pity offer and she can't believe her life has come to this.
"I'm fine," she replies and looks up at him resolutely. "Look, I wanted to thank you for being so understanding earlier, and I really appreciate this," She motions to indicate their surroundings. "But I'm all right now, really. I don't need you to look out for me, I'm not suicidal or anything. I'll handle it."
He leans back in his chair with a sigh and folds his arms over his chest and for the first time, she senses chagrin in him. "You think I did this out of pity?"
"Didn't you?" she asks, though his question has already given her the answer, she just doesn't understand the reason.
"Well," he explains in the pedantic manner of a philosophy professor reasoning his way through an argument, "pity would imply that I invited you out purely for your own good and I'm not getting anything out of the arrangement." He sits forward and taps his fingers on the table. "And while I certainly don't wish to appear selfish here, I must point out that I'm sitting here, enjoying the company of a lovely, bright and exciting woman and I fail to see how that could possibly be construed as charity on my part."
The flattery brings a flush to her face, and though her most logical self suspects that something still doesn't quite add up, the twitch of his brow and the sincerity of his smile somehow fill in the missing factor.
She presses her lips together and smiles back.
"All right, then," he announces, placing his hands on the table and getting to his feet, "What can I get for you?"
She requests a coffee and a cookie and he goes to the service counter to place the order.
She gets out her mobile while she waits, pages through her messages until he returns a short time later with the coffees. "Thank you," she says as he sits back down and she sips her drink, feeling the warmth spread through her. She sets the cup back on the saucer and picks at an indentation in the table.
He looks at her, studies her, and she's lost for words and that's when the realisation hits her that she has no idea how to talk to normal human beings any more.
Mercifully, he speaks up. "So tell me, Rose Tyler, what do you do when you're not picking your brother up from school?"
It's a simple enough question; she knows he's only making small talk, trying to be friendly but she doesn't know how to respond. She's not nearly to the point where she's ready to tell him the truth, yet she's surprised when her mouth fails to form the words of a lie. "Erm – research," she finally settles on vaguely, punctuating the statement with a sip of coffee. Then she adds, "Security," and immediately regrets it because she's only made her reply that much more inscrutable. She takes another sip and stares at the couple seated at the table behind him.
He doesn't press. "Do you enjoy it?" he asks.
Her eyes find him again. "My mate Mickey got me into it back when I first came – first came here. It was really the only choice I had, the only thing I was suited for at that point. I would've gone mad otherwise." She shudders at the memory of a disappearing mirage on a Norwegian beach. Without Mickey, without Torchwood, she doesn't know what she would've done. "I had a project I needed to work on and they let me do it," she adds.
He nods. "Sounds like a perfect situation. Was your project a success?"
"Yes," she confirms. Sighs. "And no. I found what I was looking for, I suppose. Then I lost it again." She's well practised in not talking about him – the first him, the fully alien him, whose very existence and memory had become an albatross in her life, so she quickly moves on. "That's when I met him," she adds, and now she's referring to the other him.
He was always the other one.
Apparently, she's decided she's ready to talk about it.
She knows he's as good as his word and he's not going to bring it up or draw her out in any way, and somehow that very fact makes her want to bring it up. Because he was right – she needs to talk about it and a fresh perspective may be just the right thing for her.
He sips his coffee, and gazes at her expectantly, patiently, and she knows he's waiting to see if she'll continue.
"We split up about a month ago," she offers slowly, starting with the mundane facts as she takes a bite of her cookie and chews slowly.
"How long were you together?"
"About a year," she replies and now all the easy details have been covered. "But before him there was – just so much – and I never quite knew..." she knows she's talking nonsense so she pauses and breathes deeply, trying to form a complete sentence. "I don't know what we were thinking. He wasn't built for this sort of life." Something rises up in her gut and she chokes it back down, chasing it with a sip of coffee.
He leans forward, elbows on the table. "Do you know where he is?" he asks gently.
"No," she shakes her head. "But I've got his number."
"Have you called him yet? To tell him?"
"No." She squeezes her eyes shut and feels her fist clench, and she thumps it on the table. "It's just..." she lets out a growl of frustration. "I told him to leave, I made him leave and now I'm supposed to just pick up the phone and call him back here? I don't want him involved, I can't drag him into this, there's no telling how he'll handle it or what he'll do."
John's eyes widen in fury. "You're afraid of him? Did he hurt you?"
"No!" Her face is in her hands now and she doesn't think she's ever been quite so frustrated in her life. "If I tell him, he'll insist on coming back and being involved in it all." It sounds ridiculous, she knows; this ought to be a good thing, and John has no idea, no concept of the disaster that it would bring.
But he misreads her unease and she's almost glad of it. "Rose," he informs her patiently, "You do know that you don't actually have to be with him, don't you? He can be involved with the child and not with you?"
She sighs. "I can't ask him to come back. I can't make him stay. Not for me, not for the child. He just – he can't live that life. He died a little bit every day we were together. He tried to hide it, but I always knew. I can't do that to him."
"You still love him." It's not a question, but it's not really a statement either. It almost sounds like a challenge, like he's daring her to deny it.
She's never been one for dares, though. Her eyes fall closed and a response slips out of her mouth; not a contradiction exactly; it's honesty, unedited and unexpected. It's what she hasn't realised until this very moment. "I don't know if I ever did. I never really knew who he was."
She looks down and stirs her coffee, so that his reply is heard and not seen. "Rose, whoever he is, he's a grown man. He can make his own decisions. You're not responsible for him."
Right there, right with those words he's struck a nerve. She feels like he's addressing her like a child, and it raises her hackles; turns her frustration into ire because he's wrong; he's so wrong. She is responsible for him; she's been responsible for him ever since the real Doctor dropped them off at Bad Wolf Bay, and this is just another reminder of how much she's failed him.
Failed both of them.
Her spoon clinks as she lays it down and gives him an icy stare. "You don't understand," she says in a way that means the conversation is over.
He doesn't let it drop, though, and it's not because he missed her cue. "He has a right to know," he insists with infuriating calmness.
"You don't understand," she repeats. They're going in circles now and she needs to put an end to it. She needs to wipe that look of cool assuredness off his face, so she rises to her feet and grits her jaw as she looks down at him. "It's between me and him and it's none of your business," she hisses, and she's rewarded when he draws back.
With that, she turns and stalks out.
tbc
