Chapter 10: Scientists and Substance

+ - + - + - +

The anomalies are getting stronger and more frequent, and he knows he needs to look into the matter.

He knows he needs to do a lot of things, but somehow he's still lingering in Taiwan.

It's a week after she called him with the news and there've been three more anomalies during that time, one of which woke him out of a sound sleep the previous night.

He'll look into it soon, but right now he's busy wrapping things up in Taiwan with the Opterrans, configuring a neutron injector in order to construct a communicator. The stone – the Crown Jewel of Opterra has been found, thanks to a set of borrowed SCUBA gear, Huang's fishing vessel, and Mortimer's particularly creative use of an eggbeater.

Mortimer has gone, continuing his tour of skateboarding around the world and leaving the Doctor with the task of returning the stone to the Opterrans, and now he's working on turning an electric toothbrush, a mechanical pencil and a Gameboy into a crude communicator with which to contact them.

Once that's done, he can start figuring out what's causing the anomalies.

He twists another wire in his hand and ponders the equipment and instruments that he'll need for the investigation.

Torchwood has a number of useful items on hand. The easiest thing to do, really, would be to enlist their help, because surely by now the Time Monitor has detected the anomalies as well, and they're probably holding meetings and strategy sessions and putting together project plans in order to figure out what to do about it. And getting absolutely nothing productive done in the process, because when you get right down to it, they'll not have the foggiest notion as to any appropriate course of action.

He shrugs to himself with a dark and cynical chuckle and thinks that maybe he's become one of them after all.

This of course brings her phone call to mind, yet again, and with it comes the ponderous mix of reactions: satisfaction at hearing her voice and knowing she's well, tension at the awkwardness between them that only feeds on itself once it's started, and the regret that wraps his every thought of her.

He gives a shake of his head, shaking away visions of a tongue-touched smile and cheeks flushed red under blonde hair. He thinks of her human flesh enveloping a seed, the beginning of something unknown that's wrapped in sadness and longing; wrapped in flesh that he craved and abhorred at the same time and now he's torn between the two; the curiosity, the burning need to explore the unknown, and the discomfort and distaste at the very idea because this time it's his own flesh involved.

His own flesh that still doesn't fit properly.

He slaps a pinch to his knee and blinks at the skipped moments that follow. His eyes wobble just a bit; somehow his head doesn't feel like it fits him today. It feels light and unsteady and he breathes in deeply, thinking how he always seems to need more these days; more air, more food, more sleep.

Of course he'll look into the anomalies soon. It needs to be looked into; any disturbance in the Timeline can't be good, but thus far they have all been small. In the entirety of the Multiverse he can think of only three or four causes for what he's experiencing, and when he eliminates the options that are impossible in this universe, he's down to only one or two, one of which is far more likely than the other, and, conveniently far more benign.

Benign to everyone but him, at least.

+ - + - + - +

She sees John again two nights later when she joins her parents to attend the school play.

She arrives and meets Mum, Pete and Tony about fifteen minutes before the show is supposed to start. Mum drops Tony off with his classmates and they find their way into the auditorium where rows of chairs have been set up in front of the stage. The three of them find seats together, Pete and Mum are bickering over the plans for their annual Christmas party that's still over a month off, and Mum is trying to pull her into the debate, steadfastly refusing to accept her indifference on whether to hire a string quartet or a jazz trio. Rose alternately rolls her eyes at their deliberation and scans the room in search of John's modest frame until she finally spots him crouched down in front of the stage helping to set up the sound equipment. He stands up and she waves to catch his attention.

He sees her, makes his way over to where she's sitting and plops himself down in the empty seat next to hers.

"Feeling better, I see?" she greets him.

"Right as rain," he replies before leaning over her to address her parents. "Evening Mr. Tyler, Mrs. Tyler," and she's taken aback for the briefest of moments until it dawns on her that yes, of course he's met them before.

Mum and Pete wave a hello to him and Mum's gaze lingers over the two of them with a delighted and slightly devious upwards tug to her mouth before she turns back to Pete to continue the debate.

Rose is more than happy to remove herself from that conversation, so she turns back to John. "So what've you all cooked up for us tonight?" she asks him, nodding towards the stage.

He gives a toss of his head and his eyes light up and she thinks he's even more excited than the kids. "We will be performing our theatrical rendition of Hansel and Gretel," he replies with feigned pretension. "The kids have had a brilliant time constructing the scenery, especially with the oven, everyone wanted a turn…"

At that moment a woman – the prim and proper teacher with the sensible shoes that she met on the schoolyard the other day – leans over to tap him on the shoulder. "Dr. Smith," she says. He turns to look at her. "We'll be starting in about five minutes."

He nods and turns back to Rose who's gaping at him in astonishment.

"What is it?" he asks.

"Why did she call you Dr. Smith?"

He shoots a glance over at the stage and twitches in his seat. "It's my name," he confirms, but there's a wariness in his tone she hasn't heard from him before.

"Doctor Smith?"

He sighs. "I have a PhD," he informs her like it's a reluctant confession of a dirty secret. "Mind you, it's in a field that's entirely unrelated to teaching seven-year-olds but try telling that to the pompous, stuffy fusspots in charge of this place." He rolls his eyes and puts on a mock voice. "We, the dull men in grey suits must seize upon every imaginable opportunity to impress the parents and public at large with the credentials of our staff, and we will harp upon even the most irrelevant certification in detail so stultifyingly unnecessary, it'll make your head bleed."

Six years, she thinks – six years he's been teaching; that's what he had told her and it had never occurred to her to ask what he'd done before that. She gives an incredulous laugh. "What's it in?"

"Geophysics," he replies with a yawn.

"You're a scientist?"

"Used to be," he says, correcting her with an inflection that fails at being playful. He sits back in the chair and folds his arms over his chest. "Yes, I used to be part of that society known as 'academia' comprised of a bunch of blowhards who do nothing all day but sit around navel-gazing, studying the world for their own self-aggrandisement, all the while living inside their respective bubbles and doing their best to keep anything truly real at arms' length."

"But why – why'd you give it up?"

A shadow falls over his face as he glances over at the stage where a group of teachers are convening. He places his hands on the chair in front of him in a motion towards getting up before turning to her. "I'll tell you – I will," he assures her, leaning in and speaking low. "But later. Not here." He gets to his feet and looks down at her, passes over her to wave at her parents. "I'll see you after the show," he says to the three of them, and then he's gone.

She turns to Mum and immediately rolls her eyes at the look of delight that greets her. "You didn't tell me you had a new bloke," Mum accuses.

"I haven't, Mum," she denies in a singsong voice. She hopes she's not blushing; doesn't think she is. "He's just a friend."

Mum nudges Pete with her elbow. "That's what she said about the last one – all three of them."

She's saved from all further forms of snarky scrutiny when the headmistress appears on the stage, the audience falls silent and the show begins.

The first performance is an abbreviated version of Beauty and the Beast, with an alarmingly boisterous eight-year-old boy playing the role of the beast, and a series of girls taking turns at playing Beauty, each one dressed in a gown frillier than the last.

Next up is Tony's class, and the small players commence their rendition of Hansel and Gretel in quiet, halting voices that she strains to hear as she searches the stage for their teacher. She's just about to conclude that he must be backstage giving them cues when the Witch makes her appearance in the story, and she knows right away that it's him.

So does everyone else. She smiles to herself as the audience and students alike all dissolve into peals of laughter at the spectre of a false-hook-nosed hag decked out all in black with the big, booming voice of a grown man. The story resumes, concludes amidst nonstop giggles and it's clear that each and every one of his pupils is at least a little bit enamoured of him.

Following the performance there's a reception where the parents mill about, chatting over children and homework, sports and music lessons, and the kids eat all the snacks they can get their hands on. Rose finds Tony, praises him for his performance and his face lights up as he drags her to the stage and shows her the parts of the scenery that he painted.

She finds Mum and Dad again, spends some time tagging along with them, but the conversations about school and children she doesn't know begin to wear. She searches the room in a quest for some better conversation but comes up empty; she'd spotted John earlier, still in costume with a swarm of parents and kids milling about him, but now there's no sign of him.

She thinks about leaving, but instead she finds herself wandering the empty hallways. The sight of the darkened corridors brings to mind the times when she and Shireen broke into the school at night to play pranks; the one time they were caught and Mum had to be called away from work early to come pick her up, and the torrent of Jackie-ire that had been unleashed on her as a result.

She remembers the days of cigarettes in the girls' toilets; of discovering boys, and before that, playing dolls with her friends, and then it hits her that soon she's going to be on the other end of all this. Soon she's going to be a Mum herself.

The hallways are dark, but she sees a dim light up ahead. She almost turns the other way but she decides to press on and she's rewarded when she finds that the light coming from John's classroom.

She pokes her head in. "You escaped," she observes. The room is mostly dark, the only light a small desk lamp that illuminates the stack of papers on the desk where John is sitting and working.

He looks up at the sound of her voice. "Just finishing up a few things here – they'll need help cleaning up shortly so I thought I'd wait a bit."

She sidles up to his desk alongside where he's sitting in order to look over his shoulder at the papers he's grading – spelling homework by the looks of it. "You're out of costume," she teases, reaching out to give a tug at his collar.

He chuckles. "Are you sure about that?"

"It was quite a show," she says, moving some books aside and hopping up to sit on the desk. "The kids did a great job; they really looked like they were having fun." She picks up a book – a copy of The Wizard of Oz – and opens it in her lap. "They obviously love you," she adds, flipping through the pages.

"The feeling's mutual." He pushes his chair back and gets to his feet. "Come here," he says, offering his hand to her. She questions him with her gaze even as her fingers slip in with his. "I want to show you something," he explains.

She obliges, sliding off the desk and setting the book down as he pulls her over to a corner of the room where the small desk light only barely reaches. There's a row of pictures hanging on the wall, all drawn on black paper; some done in plain white, some with swirling colours.

She stands at his side as he points to one that's simply sketched with thin lines and sparse colour, showing two stick figures, hand-in-hand, standing on a purple planet. One has long yellow hair; the other has wild dark hair. "Our art project yesterday was to draw space," he says. "I found this one particularly interesting."

"Whose is it?" she asks, though she already knows the answer.

He gazes at her directly to confirm the suspicion, looks at her under raised eyebrows, his head turned to her, ducked slightly. "Your brother idolizes you," he says gently.

Her shoulders and body soften with unshed tears and she's certain he can feel it through their clasped hands. She runs her finger over the taller stick figure. "He idolized him too," she whispers. "Eventually all idols have to fall from grace."

"I don't believe that," he counters and now there's intensity in his voice, a brightness in his eyes that's almost religious. His fingers unlace from hers and wrap her whole hand tightly, adamantly. "This is why I teach the young ones – their minds, their imaginations are utterly unbounded by the rules of science or money or arbitrary laws. Anything is possible to them – absolutely anything, and it's my job to teach them to direct that energy; to harness it." He shakes his head. "Too many of my colleagues focus on teaching that very structure that kills the imagination, but I truly believe that it doesn't have to die. We can grow up and, yes, perhaps we will come to accept our heroes as fallible human beings, but that doesn't make their deeds any less heroic."

He's looking straight into her, and there's shadows cast from the street lights outside touching his lips, threading through his hair, flickering in his eyes as he speaks, so passionately. "Anyone who pushes the limits of what's possible is a hero in my book."

She tucks her hair behind her ear, uses it as an excuse to free her hand from his as she traces the outline of the planet with her other hand. "What if you found out that it all really was true?" she asks, darting a glance at him that's half hidden under her lifted hand. "What if anything is possible? Other planets and aliens and fairies and werewolves? What if you found out that it was all real?" It's a question that's hardly hypothetical, thinly disguised as hypothetical perhaps, but once the words are out of her mouth, she knows that it's also a test.

"Ah, but there's the rub," he muses, turning so that he can lean a shoulder on the wall casually as he fixes her with a gaze that's anything but casual. "If anything is possible, if the fantastical can be real, that means that the monsters can be real too." His eyes travel over her shoulder and find a spot beyond her and for a moment he's far away. Then he nods towards the pictures. "Children understand that," he adds.

"And then the monsters turn out to be worse than anything ever imagined." She's speaking in a hush, finds her fingers brushing his arm, travelling up to grasp above his elbow. "Much worse, in fact," she adds darkly, and she means to stop there, but more words spill out of her. "It's how I met him."

Muscles tighten under her touch and he looks away. "You were involved with the Cybermen," he assumes.

Of course that's what he assumes; it's been over a decade in this universe since Lumic's creations were unleashed and the scars left are still deep and raw. "Yeah," she says. It feels like she's lying to him – again – because he's assuming that's how she met the Doctor but really the one has nothing to do with the other, so she adds, "Among other things. There was always something with him – a monster to fight or some menace to escape from."

"And he hasn't stopped running." There's scorn in his voice and she knows it shouldn't be directed at her, but he's not looking at her so she's not quite sure.

"How could he stop?" she asks. "How can anyone stop? After seeing what's out there, after living it and fighting it and seeing people die, how can anyone just go back to an ordinary life?"

"You don't go back," he instructs, as if he knows, as if he's been there himself and for the first time she thinks that maybe he has. The layers to him just keep unravelling like that. "You change, you adapt. You incorporate your experiences and you do something about them. There are amazing things to be seen everywhere, every day and there are always monsters to be fought. You don't stop, you never stop. You learn to make it happen; you seek out and find the adventures instead of waiting for them to find you."

Her hand is still on his arm and as he speaks he reaches out underneath to grip her forearm in turn, pulling her closer to him without thinking. Their bodies separated by a whisper, she feels the breath on his lips as he speaks, as his mouth forms the words in front of her and she gapes at him, wondering how she ever could've thought there was anything simple about this man. "Is that what you did?" she breathes. "When you became a teacher? Is that why?"

His eyes fall closed and his breath pauses. Finally he releases his hold on her as he exhales and looks out the window. "I was a scientist," he begins and there's a crease between his eyes as he speaks. "I was conducting research at the university, when..." He breaks off and the sentence is left incomplete and enormous, reverberating with unspoken thoughts. Her arm hangs awkwardly by her side, left cold where he was grasping it. He breathes again and speaks anew. "I came into work one day and…" he shakes his head. "I just couldn't do it anymore. Spending ten or more hours a day on minerals and tectonic plates and data on computers – that's not living, and it's certainly not contributing anything to the world."

"Just like that?" she asks pointedly because she's an expert on telling a story without the vital details; she can certainly recognise when someone else is doing it to her – and clumsily at that.

But her hold on him is gone, and his eyes have left her as he glances out the window. "More or less," he replies vaguely, nodding out to the darkened car park. "Looks like just about everyone is gone."

Then again, maybe his skill at evading the question is better than she thought, because that's when he turns away and goes to the closet where his head disappears as he rummages around inside. He retrieves something and starts towards the door that leads out to the hallway and she sees that it's a football in his hands. He drops it and bounces it off each knee before letting it fall to the floor, where he dribbles it between his feet, keeping it in constant motion. "Rose Tyler," he says, with a cheeky grin. "Ever play any football?" His eyes gleam as he hops in anticipation, egging her on, daring her, and she could press him to fill in the blanks he's leaving out, but that would dampen the exuberance in his eyes and kill the playful grin on his face and she can't bring herself to do it.

So she touches her tongue to her teeth and matches his grin with a taunting smile. "As a matter of fact," she informs him, "I played in school. My team won the championship four out of five years." She clicks her tongue. "You are going down."

She springs forward and he pauses for a fraction of a second, allowing her time to catch up, and then they're scrambling down the hallway, a jumble of feet and arms and bodies feinting at each other in all directions. She steals the ball from him, blocks him from recapturing it once, twice, until he succeeds and with a cry of triumph he kicks it hard through the doors to the auditorium that have become the de facto goal.

They watch it roll away and only then do they notice that they're not alone. Four other teachers are busying themselves with cleanup in the huge room and Rose sees that one of them is watching them, looking alarmed. She looks and finally notices that the ball is rolling rapidly on a collision course with several open bottles of leftover juice sitting on the floor.

The woman makes a leap for it but she's too far away. The ball collides, spilling juice all over the floor in an orange and purple mess, and then John is there, roaring with laughter as he grasps her arms from behind and leans his forehead on her shoulder.

+ - + - + - +

Fifteen minutes or so later he's finished mopping up the mess, the chairs are all put away and all that remains is one table strewn with paper plates, crumbs, crumpled plastic cups and leftovers, so John tells everyone else that he'll finish up.

He watches her out of the corner of his eye as he says it, and she knows he's wondering if she'll stay.

She stays.

He collects the remainder of the rubbish and she puts the remaining biscuits together into one container. When he disappears to take the rubbish out, she finds a bag of clean plastic cups and pours them both some juice from one of the bottles that was spared from their ill-fated football match.

He returns, strolling slowly over to her and she extends her hand, offering him a cup. He takes it, clinks it with hers and takes a sip. "It's always so strange to see this place dark and empty," he sighs. "Like it's alive, but something vital is missing – a brain or a heart or something." He trails off, looking up and around in all directions. "Then again, some days have me so knackered that the quiet is wonderful. It's like finding peace after a battle, like coming home."

She slumps back against the wall and looks up at the ceiling and suddenly she's thinking of another darkened school in another universe overrun by bat-lizard creatures taking the forms of teachers by day. That night from years ago in another universe feels like yesterday; she can almost hear Mickey's voice echoing from down the hall. She wonders if she'll ever stop missing him; hopes not. "You know, when I was small," she turns to him, "I used to think the teachers slept in school."

"Well, sometimes they do," he replies, taking another sip, "but more often it's the students." He leans back against the wall next to her and slides down until he's sitting on the floor, stretches his legs out in front and crosses them.

She follows suit and now they're sitting side by side and his sleeve brushes against her bare arm as he leans his head on the wall and turns to her. "What did you want to be when you were small?" he asks.

She chuckles mildly. "A pop singer," she replies.

There's not a lot that surprises him, but somehow this does. "I hadn't pictured you as the 'pop-music-hair-and-makeup' type," he comments and it unnerves her, how closely he's studying her – has she really become so inscrutable, so far removed from normal society?

So she tries to explain. "Growing up, it was just me and Mum, there wasn't much money for anything posh. I was a pretty typical kid, I guess – nothing interesting or special about my life. I got into a little trouble I guess – before I dropped out of school. But really, there wasn't much to look forward to in that sort of life. Just pipe dreams – bigger-than-life kinds of stupid dreams like being a singer and all."

"What changed?" he asks, shifting slightly so he's a little closer to facing her. "Did your father come back?"

"Nah, that was later," she replies. "No, it was when I met him; that's what got me out of the old life."

He looks away, looks up at the ceiling searching for something he doesn't find there. "He changed everything for you," he observes, his tone soft and miles away.

"That's putting it mildly." The floor is not entirely clean and it's cold and hard under her bum, so she scoots up a bit, bends her knees, placing her feet flat down. Her arm no longer touches his and she's not sure who moved away first. "What about you?" she asks him in return.

For a moment his eyes cloud over and he almost looks puzzled as if she'd asked him something terribly difficult, or terribly personal, but then the blue clears and she thinks she's misread him; he's merely tired. "A scientist," he replies wryly.

He punctuates the comment with a full stop that's tangible even though it's silent, and then there's a swift change of subject. He gets to his feet abruptly and decisively, spins on his heels, his hand in his hair. "I'll go get the lights," he says, nodding towards a corner of the room before heading in that direction.

She watches him in silent uncertainty. Clearly he's not going to tell her what happened – not tonight anyway, and the thought that he's not sharing it with her – won't share it with her – ought to make her feel better about the things she hasn't told him.

It ought to, but it doesn't.

Instead, where there should be easing, she feels a dull ache, as if coming back for a piece of cake she'd been too full to eat earlier and finding it gone. The feeling nags at her and something about it annoys her, strikes her as small and petty and she wants to brush it away like an ant crawling up her leg.

He flips the switches and the auditorium is darkened, lit only by the emergency lights and the glow from the hallway that spills through the double doors and stops just a few yards in. "Be right back," he says to her, turning through the door. "Left my coat in the classroom; I'll just go fetch it," he calls back to her as he goes.

He's gone before she can protest or say anything at all, not even to remind him that she's left her coat in his room as well. She considers a mad dash to catch up with him but doesn't think she'll be welcomed right now. However unintentionally, she's pressed a button in him, triggered something that he doesn't like triggered and so she lets him go; allows him the moment of privacy.

When he returns he's carrying both their coats slung over one arm. He sets them down over the back of a lone chair near the doorway and comes over to her, and he's not smiling but he's not troubled any more either; mostly he just looks fatigued. She thinks she can help with that. She springs to her feet and rocks back and forth from heel to toe and it's her turn to offer him a dare. "Fancy a climb?" she asks, nodding to the climbing structure that's folded against the wall. "Chance of a lifetime – we've got it all to ourselves." She turns and breaks into a run and leaps onto the climbing frame at top speed where she quickly scales her way to the top. "Jericho Street Junior School under-7s gymnastics team – bronze medal, you're looking at right here," she mock-boasts to him from the top rung of the ladder.

He just stands still like a wind-battered stone, watching her.

His lethargy has the opposite effect on her; she needs to move, she needs to laugh, she needs to run. The stillness of the night is looming and everything in her is protesting in a burst of energy in her gut that's verging on a mania.

But he's not cooperating, so she feels silly dangling atop the ladder. She scales back down and her feet hit the floor and she reaches out to bring him into her insanity. "Give us a hand, will you?" she asks him, tugging at the climbing frame in an effort to unfold it from the wall. "I haven't shown off my forward flip in years."

"Rose, it's time to be getting on," he informs her gently.

Despite his words, he steps nearer, so she takes it as encouragement - or at least permission, so she persists in trying to unfold the structure.

And then she gives an especially hard yank, slips and tumbles backwards.

She's prevented from falling onto her bum by strong arms that are suddenly around her, lifting her up and setting her to her feet. It happens so fast that he's enfolding her even before she's realised she's lost her balance, and certainly long before she's regained it.

He holds her to steady her, arms encircling her waist, her back pressed against his chest until she finds her footing. She steadies and her hands go instinctively to meet his, sliding over skin and long fingers that are pressed protectively against her stomach.

He doesn't let go.

Neither does she.

His arms loosen around her, defining the difference between holding her up and just holding her. His hands move under hers, ease their grasp to turn, rise up to cover hers; to press them against her abdomen that's suddenly fluttering in a rapid rhythm that matches her heart, matches his breath that's warm on her neck.

Its human bodies sharing human heat and contact; its light and darkness – warm, welcoming light touched gently by familiar shadows. The heat has them frozen in place; rapid heartbeats commingling to slow movement and thought until there's nothing there but this moment. Here and now; that mysterious point in time that's still unexplored, so foreign to her.

Finally he speaks. "Rose, you need to be more careful," he says huskily into her ear. He releases hold on her, sliding fingers over knuckles, moving sleeves over bare arms and then she's released and his warmth no longer enfolds her.

With the chill comes the awkwardness. She turns and throws him a furtive glance, finds him staring into her until he's found out, and both sets of eyes dart away. She can feel her brow furrow but all she can do is laugh, so she gives a nervous giggle and then a flustered agreement even though she's only vaguely aware of what she's agreeing to. "Yeah, 'spose so," she says, and one more glance at his face – creased and shadowed and slightly pained speaks volumes.

She flees.

She turns hastily towards the door. "I guess I'll be heading home," she says, moving towards the chair where her coat is slung over the back before pivoting to face him again. There's a safe distance between them now; she can meet his gaze without being stared down; without him seeing straight into her, so she gives a faltering smile and says, "I had a nice time." It's an understatement, but if ever there was a time for understatements, it's now. "The kids – they were great," she adds.

"Good night, Rose," he says softly, gathering up the leftovers as he says it, looking down at the floor so she's not sure if the tone of disquiet in his voice is matched in his face.

tbc