Oh nooooo!

Chapter 10

As they turned left out of Harold Washington Public Library and headed toward Michigan Avenue, she trailed a step or two behind, jogging a bit as he walked. And she wondered what the hell had come over him. They were in the midst of dealing with a problem in which all suggestions and scenarios were possible, and yet, when Martha had wondered at the very real likelihood of an alien who simply wanted to torture her emotionally, he had dismissed her by telling her, "Don't be stupid."

Perhaps the Doctor had been right, perhaps she was being stupid. Or at least silly and obtuse, letting it hit her so hard, the idea of a girl who chased after men like a bull, and had no-one to love her. Martha had always been popular, everywhere she went, and it had only been since meeting the Doctor that she had felt at all rejected... but even that wasn't true anymore. Maybe the Doctor had been insulted by the idea that she was still able to relate to someone who pined for romance. Maybe he thought she was implying he wasn't doing a good enough job... which was far from the truth. Should she try to find a way to reassure him that they were solid?

They entered the campus of Roosevelt University, and Martha saw a sign. "Music is Love," it read, in bright pink letters on a banner outside of what she felt was probably an arts building.

"See that sign?" she asked the Doctor.

He glanced at it. "What about it?"

"Don't you think it's true?

"What?" he asked, the determined scowl never having left his face.

"I mean, especially for us," she said. "Since our relationship was formed through music. At least, this part of our relationship."

"Yeah, I guess."

"I guess it stands to reason that someone would try to tear us apart through music, since that's how we found each other."

"Mm," he replied, plowing ahead.

They took a left after two blocks when they arrived at Michigan Avenue.

Two more blocks found them at the Symphony Center, just another two blocks from Millennium Park where the festival was being held.

"The Symphony Center?" she asked. "You think this is where the alien is hiding?"

"I don't think he's necessarily hiding here, I think this might be where he resides."

"Seriously? What, in the cellar, like the Phantom of the Opera?"

"No, I mean his consciousness," he said. "It lives in music."

Her eyes opened wide, and she blinked hard. "Oh."

"He's been playing recordings as a mask. But I think if we can get to some live music, we can find him. Especially this kind of music - a symphony, lush and large. We're bound to be able to manifest him, or work out how he manifests himself."

"Oh," she repeated, surprised, and a little hurt, but not by him. She muttered, "Well, I guess I can see why you weren't too keen to agree that music is a symbol of our love."

"Mm," he said to her again, frustratingly non-committal. "Come on." He took her by the elbow and led her to the end of a line of people that led into the Symphony Center.

"We're going to stand in the queue?" she whispered.

"We won't find him until the music starts," he told her, irritated. "What good would it be to Cloak-and-Dagger our way in too early? We might as well enter when everyone else does."

"Okay. But why are you so annoyed?"

"I'm not annoyed," he snapped.

"Clearly, you are."

He didn't say anything more, he simply set his jaw in a way that let Martha know she'd be hearing no more on the topic, and he stared straight forward, at the back of the head of the man standing in front of them.

She gathered her thoughts. Something was obviously bothering him - whether it was her, or the problem at hand, she did not know. She entertained for a moment the idea that the alien's mojo was infiltrating the Doctor's mind, affecting his personality or demeanour. More likely, though, something about the songs they had heard was getting under his skin - something about Ana or Irénée, or what he had seen in the world of fictional Costa Brava, which meant that the alien's plan was working! He was getting to their hearts, and causing doubt. None of this was particularly pleasant to think about, given that she had no idea what to do about any of it.

The only think she could think of was something the Doctor himself might do: keep talking.

"Well," she sighed. "I suppose maybe music itself isn't a symbol for us. Maybe that's too broad anyway. I mean, there's a lot of vile music out there... including all those showtunes that Ramechac threw at me a year ago when this whole thing started! I don't want West End insanity associated with what makes you and me... you and me."

"Okay," he replied.

"Or all those campy eighties' songs you heard when S'Dromer was messing with you. I mean, Janet Jackson's okay, but not so much that Toy Soldiers song. Isn't that about drug addiction anyway?"

The Doctor shrugged.

Martha continued to ruminate. "All of that rubbish was music that was imposed upon us. If we're going to have our relationship symbolized with something, it should be something that we chose. How is it that we've never talked about our song?"

He shrugged again, never looking at her.

At this point, she could hear herself talking, and she knew she was starting to ramble, and sound a bit daft. She was starting to "chase after" him verbally, and he was not giving her anything - just like in the old days. She wished she could stop, but something inside was impelling her to speak. Fear was spurring her on, fear that if she fell silent, it would signify that she was accepting his cold shoulder, and he would drift away somehow.

"It should be Enya's music, don't you think?" she asked him.

He did not respond in any way.

"Doctor? Don't you think it should be Enya's music?"

"Hm? Oh, yeah. Sure, why not?"

"Do you remember why?" she asked. She was trying to smile, but on the inside, she was tied up in knots. The fear was starting to share space in her stomach with anger.

He drew in a long breath, and then let it out slowly, with a sigh of tedium. "Yes, Martha, I remember. But no, I think you were right the first time. Music itself is the metaphor for our relationship."

The knot loosened a bit, and she smiled. "Really? Why?"

Still not looking at her, he answered, "Because music that was foisted upon us by aliens with an agenda, it's what brought us together. And now that we know where the consciousness of the alien resides, all music is now tainted. So yes - I'd say, it's a good comparison."

Her jaw dropped. "What are you saying?" she whispered.

He went silent again.

Her mouth had gone dry, and her voice was failing her. "Are you saying our relationship is tainted too?" she croaked.

"It began with an artificial world where I was badgered into admitting that I had feelings for you," he pointed out.

"Badgered?" she asked, her face pressed into a deep frown.

"Do you know what happens to a prisoner who gets tortured and told to confess to a crime, even if they didn't do it? They confess anyway." His tone was low, flat, matter-of-fact. "They might even start to believe it themselves."

"So it's a sham? Is that what you're saying?"

"I'm trying not to say it."

She couldn't speak. She was literally too stunned for words. Her brain refused to process what she was hearing. It was a mess of feelings and memories, like a big cobweb had formed in her mind, each tiny thread some fragment of an image or event. They were all fibres of an ugly blanket that was now blinding all control of her conscious thoughts.

The Doctor, running around the console. The day they first met. Their first true kiss in her parents' garden after realising they loved each other. Tell me, Doctor, just say you don't love me. Daleks in the Empire State Building. The look on his face on the day she left. Having tea silently in her parents' basement, listening to Joni Mitchell. Stop being cryptic - just put me on a plane back to London if that's what you want. Months of fear and loathing in 1913. Hearing Only Time in the background while they peeled each other's clothes off. Talk to me... please, Doctor. Either that or cut me loose.

But, one very clear thought came through: the alien has definitely tainted their love now. If it hadn't been tainted before, all of this New Orleans/fishing boat/Costa Brava rubbish certainly had done the job. A man like the Doctor who can see all things in the universe connected as if by string, of course he would make that connection, and want to spurn her.

She looked around. The woman behind her in the queue made very brief eye-contact, smiled slightly, and then went back to reading her brochure, a little too avidly. Martha knew she had been listening to her and the Doctor implode. The couple in front of them whispered to each other, and then the man glanced backward subtly, as though checking his blind-spot for a passing car.

She finally found some words. They were not particularly poignant nor intelligent, but they were true. She pushed him out of the line and dragged him by the arm to a space against the wall of the building, between two shadowboxes which housed plasma screens, previewing upcoming symphony events. "Doctor, you're scaring me." She was not surprised to hear her voice break when she spoke. Nevertheless, she took a deep breath and pulled her emotions into check again.

"Yeah, I'm scaring myself," he muttered, leaning against the brick wall with one shoulder. He crossed his arms over his chest and stared at the pavement beneath this trainers.

"Listen, please don't let this Vance Ray business get under your skin," she begged, her hand on his forearm, squeezing.

"Too late."

"He's been trying to kill us, and failing that, he's trying to make us implode as a couple," she told him. "For my part, he really hit home with me when he mentioned that Ana had someone to love her back, but that Irénée chased the boys like a... well, in the song, she's like a big bull."

"Please," he said, waving off her comment. "That's not you."

"Isn't it? Don't I have the right to feel that way?"

"Feel however you want."

"Feel however I want? Is that the best you can do?"

"Maybe."

She exhaled harshly, and crossed her own arms now. "Feel however I want? Maybe that's the best you can do? I can't believe I'm hearing this!"

He stared at her for a few seconds, then began to walk away to join the queue again. "I'm not going to talk about this."

She was frozen for a moment. After a few beats, she recovered, and stalked back over to the line, now not caring who could hear. "You have to talk about this! Or at least listen and react somehow! I'm telling you, I'm feeling insecure because a force is trying to tell me that I'm unloved. It is your job to tell me I'm wrong... and don't just tell me with a wave of your hand and some glib response. Reassure me. Act like you care! Something's got into my heart and made it sick, now you have to fix it because you love me! And you, you are clearly not yourself because something's got inside you too..."

"I am myself, Martha. I'm just seeing the truth, and it's not what you want to hear, so you're angry!"

"Don't you get it?" she pleaded. "This is exactly what he wants!"

"Yeah, well," he mumbled. "Sometimes the bad guy wins."

She frowned. "I get that, but since when do we let them win?"

He shrugged.

"Doctor, I have literally walked across this planet so that the bad guy wouldn't win! And now you're not willing to have a difficult conversation?"

"The planet is not at stake, Martha," he pointed out, eyes blazing. "We're not saving a species here."

Her eyes filled with tears again, and her voice dropped down to a low, controlled drone. "No, we're just saving our relationship. Which I thought was important, tainted though it may be."

He remained silent, and he stared toward the front of the queue, which had begun to move.

"You know, time was, you would move galaxies just to save one human being," she reminded him, tears streaming down her face as they walked slowly toward the door.

He reached into his jacket pocket and extracted the psychic paper, but he did not answer her.

They moved in silence as Martha attempted to soak up her tears with the sleeve of her shirt.

When they reached the ticket scanner, the little wireless laser gun blipped on the psychic paper with no troubles. "Hello sir," said the scanner, a plumpish, greying man in an embroidered vest. "First time to the symphony?"

The Doctor looked at Martha. "No, it's not. I've been to the symphony many times before. Fairly recently, even."

Now that really seems like an unnecessary jab, thought Martha. She did not hide her anger as her teeth clenched together and her lips pressed into a mass of wrinkled flesh.

"Oh, you're English!" asked the man, waving them through. "Well, of course! You can't stumble down the streets of London without bumping into a theater of some kind. Culture just abounds there! Love that city!"

The Doctor didn't say anything, so Martha compensated, so as not to seem rude. "Very true, sir, we love it too. Thank you."

"Gotta warn you, though," said the man, taking tickets from the next set of symphony-goers in the queue. "This particular symphony, it's new, and it definitely has its problems. This is really a test-run - don't know how many performances it'll actually endure."

"Great. Thanks for the warning," muttered the Doctor.

He turned and made a beeline for somewhere, and Martha followed. She had half a mind just to let him go, but despite what anyone said, she still had hope for this particular symphony.