Chapter 9: Time Anomalies and Transitions
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The next day is a different sort of day.
It's different from the moment she wakes up with the sun as it shines through the windows into her room, and she's out of bed quickly for a morning jog – the first in over a week.
She gets outside and her feet pound the pavement as her breath shortens with the punishment and the exertion. The air moving through her lungs feels clean, paradoxically heavy and light at the same time, the way that it often does after a good cry. The sorrow is still there, nudging at her when she catches a glimpse of a man in pinstripes, or sees a grocer advertising bananas on sale, but she finds an unexpected sense of consolation as well.
After all, she was the one who'd wanted him set free.
The sorrow is still there, the concern for his well-being still dogs her, but she's beginning to think that maybe it's not her responsibility any more.
It's a windy day and the breeze is at her back pushing her faster as she runs, further with an ever increasing momentum.
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It continues to be a different sort of day when she gets to work.
It begins with Pete, who's at her door the moment she enters her office, swinging around the corner to duck his head in. "Rose," he says. "Rose it actually detected something."
She's still setting her bags down on her desk and removing her coat so she only half hears him. "What's that?" she asks, taking a sip from her coffee cup.
"The Doctor's Time Monitor," he explains. He steps into the room, hands in his pockets. "It's detected a series of anomalies in the timeline."
"What?" She stares at him in surprise.
"Come join us in my office," he beckons. "We need to figure out what it all means."
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Five minutes later she's sitting at a table in Pete's office with Pete, Jake and Nelson, a junior operative who had been designated by the Doctor himself as Keeper of the Time Monitor upon his departure from Torchwood just over four months ago. Nelson is a very young-looking twenty-two year old with thick glasses and more than a few extra pounds on his frame, and Rose remembers hiring him about a year back; he had suited their need for a computer-and-all-things-technical genius perfectly.
But now she can't help thinking that he looks more than a little bit nervous as he sits at his seat, twisting and turning his pen between his fingers. Given the perceived uselessness of the device, he probably never expected to be in the hot seat like this.
Pete sips his coffee and turns to Nelson, asking him in his direct, no-holds-barred manner, "So let's get right to it – is the thing malfunctioning or isn't it?"
All eyes turn to Nelson who's now looking downright terrified as he blathers out a response that would've made the Doctor proud. "I – I don't believe it's a malfunction," he begins. "Not that we've anything to go off of since it's never malfunctioned before, but I've checked everything I know of to check, and I didn't see anything unusual, and like I said, it's never malfunctioned before so there's really no reason to assume it is now. Although," he reddens visibly, "when you get right down to it, we've really no way to know for sure – I mean the Doctor's really the only one who can tell and he's the one who built this for us so it can tell us in his stead, so there's no reason, really to mistrust..."
Pete cuts him off here with a wave of his hand. "We'll assume the readings are legitimate," he decrees, leaning forward and clasping his hands together. "Now the question is, what does it mean and what do we do about it?"
Nelson is slumped down in his chair now in the mistaken impression that he's no longer on the spot. When he sees everyone looking at him expectantly, his eyes widen and he sits up abruptly, knocking his notepad onto the floor. "I – I mean – he didn't – we never discussed..." he stammers.
Rose breaks in at this point to help him out. "We have no way of knowing what it means," she says. "What did the readings say, exactly?"
"They're all different," Jake jumps in at this point, sliding a printout across the table in her direction. "Seven anomalies, each in different locations and for varying durations. The nature of the anomalies isn't even consistent: in some cases the Timeline skipped ahead, in some cases it folded over and repeated, and one time it just froze for half a second."
She scans the report. "It looks like the effect was highly localised each time." She shivers at a sudden memory of a nightmarish black pterodactyl-like creature coming at her from above. "Greenland, New York, Boston, Vancouver…I don't know what could be causing it, but if the Web of Time is breaking down..." She looks down at the table and then up at the man who isn't her father, remembering a broken vase outside a church, a speeding car disappearing and reappearing. "The consequences could be devastating."
"I need some ideas here," commands Pete.
Nelson sits up in his chair. "What about those unidentified transmissions we were picking up over the Southern Gothenburg Archipelago last month? Did anyone determine if they were alien in origin?"
Jake shakes his head. "American."
Rose lays her pen down and looks at Pete. "Look, the fact is that we don't know. There's just no way of telling anything about this without more information."
"The Doctor would know what to do," interjects Jake pointedly. "Or he'd be able to point us in the right direction, anyway."
The three men turn to her and she grits her jaw and shakes her head fiercely. "We're not calling him," she pronounces. "Not unless we've got no other option."
That's the end of that discussion.
Nelson is sitting with his chin resting on his hand, his eyes focused off in the distance as he ponders. "What if we looked for some sort of pattern or connection between the incidents?" he finally speaks up. "We could try triangulating the locations and times and, I don't know, cross reference with the climactic conditions, or the presence of alien spacecraft in the atmosphere, or any magnetic patterns or transmissions going on at the time, solar radiation, or any sort of blip we might've picked up affecting the space-time continuum. It might tell us a little more about what could be causing this."
Pete and Jake are now looking at Nelson like he's a gnat that's suddenly started speaking intelligently about quantum physics, but all Pete does is nod towards him and reply, "All right, then, see what you can come up with."
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She waits until the following Tuesday to talk to John.
She restrains herself from calling him because she knows the direction the conversation will take. She knows he'll ask if she's made the phone call, and she's spent enough time crying on his shoulder already.
She needs some time to get used to the idea of facing this alone.
It occurs to her, not for the first time, that she has no girlfriends to talk to. She's been in this universe for eight years now; certainly enough time to meet people and settle in, but really, she was never interested in settling in. She spent the first seven of those years in her single-minded quest to get back to her original universe and her original Doctor, and the last of those years was spent mostly trying to get the new Doctor settled in.
Then there's the fact that she's got no idea how to talk to women her age any more. She's got nothing in common with any of them, except perhaps with a few Torchwood employees, but they all look upon her as a commander, as the boss' daughter and it's a barrier to friendship that's not easily overcome.
She used to be friends with Jake. During those first seven years there were so many late nights the three of them used to spend here; she and Mickey and Jake, oftentimes working together on an idea to track down the latest alien threat, or troubleshooting the latest obstacle with the Dimension Cannon. Or more often still, sharing snacks or drinks and small talk over a few hands of Poker.
It was strange; when Mickey was there, she'd thought Jake was one of the best mates she'd ever had, but now with him gone, they were awkward and lost for words with each other. She knows that he misses Mickey, and maybe he blames her for his absence; maybe she blames herself, but either way things have irrevocably changed between them.
So she's alone. She buries herself in work for the week, she spends Saturday afternoon playing video games with Tony, Saturday night home alone eating a pint of ice cream and watching an inane action film. On Sunday she shops and does laundry and then it's Monday and it's back to work.
Finally Tuesday rolls around and it's time to go pick Tony up and she's ready – she's eager to talk to John.
She arrives and approaches the school yard, and her eyes scan over the entire perimeter but find no trace of him. The only teacher she sees on the grounds is a prim and proper woman in a dull grey suit and sensible shoes, her hair pulled back severely from her face. She approaches her and catches her attention. "Excuse me."
"Oh, yes, hello," the woman replies, crisp and efficient as she gazes at her through wire-rimmed glasses. "Miss Tyler, isn't it? You're here for Tony?"
"Yes, but," she sputters, suddenly flustered. She starts over. "John. John Smith – he's usually here on Tuesdays?"
"Oh, yes," the older woman replies with a glance over Rose's shoulder and a tap of her foot. "He's home ill today, we expect him back tomorrow. Would you like to leave a message for him?"
She shakes her head as she spots Tony and beckons to him. "No, that's all right," she says, deflated and hoping her disappointment doesn't show. "Never mind."
She takes Tony by the hand and together they make their exit. Her patience is short with him the rest of the afternoon and after she snips at him for spilling cookie crumbs on the floor, she lets him watch telly, figuring it's better for them both.
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Mum comes to pick Tony up a few hours later. She's left alone and now she's got a pretence to call John that's entirely unrelated to her personal drama, so she dials his number and grins when he picks up. She can hear him fumbling with the phone and then he speaks, but his normally smooth, full voice is weak and scratchy.
"Hello?"
"So what's this, then?" she harasses him playfully, with a brazenness incited by the several miles' distance between them. "I come to pick up Tony, expecting to see his dashingly handsome teacher and instead I get Margaret Thatcher's ugly older sister in his place."
He gives a weak laugh that turns into a coughing fit. "Sorry," he offers in mock apology. "But I thought it best not to set my particular brand of virus loose on the school children of London, lest it mutate them into geniuses bent on world domination or television game-show hosts."
She laughs. "You're witty when you're ill," she observes. "So what's the problem? Brain tumour? E coli? Flesh-eating bacteria?"
"Oh, nothing quite so exciting," he replies. "Merely what humans refer to as 'the common cold', though I will say there's nothing common about this cough."
"Typical man," she rolls her eyes. "The slightest little bellyache and you're whinging like a three-year-old."
"Rose Tyler," he chides, "I will not stoop to such juvenile and hackneyed insults as this." His air of teasing superiority implodes into mock pitifulness. "I am far too ill," he adds.
She laughs again. "Well, I won't bother you, then," she assures him. "Get some rest and ring me when you feel better."
"You can count on it," he replies.
She hangs up the phone and it's ridiculous how much she enjoyed that.
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She enjoyed it so much that a scheme comes to mind, and a few minutes later she's out the door on the way to the shop to put her plan into action.
A half hour later she's at his building, shopping bag in hand, convincing the large heavyset brunette woman who's unloading groceries to let her into the building in order to surprise a friend. The woman opens the door for her and she winds her way down the hallway to apartment #8, rings the buzzer and a moment later the door opens revealing the face of his cousin Charley.
"Oh, I'm sorry," she begins, flustered. "I came to check on John, I was thinking..." she trails off because she doesn't know exactly what she was thinking. She starts over. "Is he here? Is he awake?"
"Not exactly out running a marathon today," Charley replies with just a little more sarcasm than the situation calls for.
She doesn't move out of the way to let her in so Rose is forced to take a step forward. "Can I come in?"
She's still perplexed by this other girl; still mystified from her abrupt words the night they met, so when she hears her exhale, it may be only in her imagination that it sounds sharp. But regardless, Charley steps aside and lets her through. "He's in his room," she motions down the hallway.
She makes her way down the corridor, noticing again just how sparse the décor in his flat is, with its bare walls and nondescript furnishings. There are, at least, some curtains to cover the windows but they, too are an unremarkable shade of beige and she suspects they're there more for practicality than appearance.
She reaches a doorway where she can hear him coughing from within, raps on the door and pushes it open. "Surprise," she announces. "This is your friendly neighbourhood convalescence service."
He's sitting up in bed, pillows at his back, wearing rumpled blue and white striped pyjamas and his legs are stretched out and crossed in front of him as he reclines, reading a book. His hair is dishevelled, his eyes are bloodshot and his nose is red from too many handkerchiefs but his grin when he sees her is unmistakable. "What are you doing here?" he asks.
"Just delivering a few items for the patient," she announces, setting the shopping bag she's carrying down on the foot of the bed. She opens it and begins retrieving items from it. "Antihistamines," she begins, handing him a box of pills. "Chicken soup – canned because I'm rubbish in the kitchen, the latest John Grisham novel, though I see you've already covered that one." She nods towards his book as she sets the items on his bedside table next to a fob watch and digs back into the bag. "A copy of Casablanca just in case you're desperate, although..." she glances round the room helplessly before turning back to him. "You don't even own a television, do you?"
"Whatever would I need one for?" he replies, flipping through the pages of the book she gave him.
"Oh, I don't know, keeping current with the celebrity gossip? Brushing up on the proper technique for hanging wallpaper? Watching a band of aliens crash their space ship into Big Ben?" Her eyes dance down at him. "Doesn't your cousin object?"
"Oh, not a bit," he replies. "She never had television growing up; her parents wanted no part of it."
She wants to question him further about his odd cousin, but the girl is within earshot in the next room, so she moves on, retrieving the next item from the bag. "Someone to keep you warm at night," she teases as she hands him a teddy bear.
"Though perhaps not the most stimulating bedtime conversationalist," he shoots back with a wink that she chooses not to take as a flirt.
"And lastly," she announces as she produces the final item, "tea."
"We've already got tea," says another voice and suddenly Charley is there and the indignation in her tone is tangible as she places a box of tissues down on the bedside table. "You know I could've just gone to fetch any of this for you," she says as she reaches out and picks up the fob watch from the bedside table.
"Oh, but that's no fun if you have to ask for it," Rose can't help digging at the girl as she sets the box of tea down with the other items. "Plus, this way he gets a visitor and that's got to help the recuperation process, don't you think?" She smiles her sweetest smile at her and it's official: they're snarking at each other.
Charley throws her a look of warning, like she's watching closely, just waiting for her to make a wrong move. She fingers the watch in her hands protectively, and Rose is left feeling like she's been accused of something shady and underhanded and the allowances she's been making for the girl are quickly running out.
But she's spared any further attitude as Charley looks down with a frown before tossing her head and making her exit, clutching the watch in her fist like it's a priceless jewel.
Rose turns to John. "Tony missed you terribly at school today," she informs him. "Something about not getting his turn to be line leader – it seems that job fell to Emily and he was quite offended."
He grins. "I'll make sure he gets his turn as soon as I'm back," he says and then his eyes turn soft and he leans forward intently. "How are you?" he asks, and it's not just an idle inquiry.
"M'fine," she replies before taking a deep breath to answer the question he's really asking. "I called him."
His eyebrows shoot up. "And?"
She presses her lips together and gives a tiny shake of her head, and she didn't want to do this with him, this is not why she came here, but there's a lump in her throat and she can feel tears forming and she's paralysed, unable to move or say anything further.
Anger flashes in his eyes, a cold blue fury that's directed towards another man; a man he's never met, and the intensity of it sends a shiver through her and threatens to unleash a flood of tears. But then a moment later he shifts gears, softening as he leans forward to take her hand and squeeze it to give her a distraction. "Ever play any Scrabble?" he looks up at her inquiringly. "Come on, pull up a chair, we can put the board on the table here."
His hand wraps hers with warmth and doesn't let go as he nods, urging her on and then his bloodshot eyes and his red, runny nose bring her back to the present, reminding her of why she came here in the first place.
She takes a deep breath and nods. "Can I get you some tea first?" she offers.
"Actually, that soup sounds quite inviting," he replies, and whether it's true or whether he knows she just needs to do something for someone else for a change – well, it hardly matters at this point.
So she takes the can of soup to the kitchen where she putters around, finds the can opener and a saucepan and the soup is heating on the stove when Charley appears from her room down the hall. The girl mutters something about going to the library to study and leaves, without looking up to meet her eyes even once.
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He beats her soundly at Scrabble despite an occasional tendency to spell out nonexistent words and assign obscure meanings to them. She tries to tease him for cheating, a gentle, playful prod at his furrowed, frustrated brow, but he seems genuinely confused so she desists and they let the dictionary settle the matter.
He eats the soup, finishes it and then she makes them both some tea as they play another round, and it's funny how she thought she was the one taking care of him when it turns out they're both doing it for each other.
tbc
