Chapter 12: Earthquakes and Edification

A special shout-out to lorelaisquared for her help with the final scene in this chapter, which I struggled with horribly. She saw my rough draft of it months ago, after I had scrapped the first two attempts and came up with this, and her feedback was very valuable in putting and keeping me on the right track.

Many thanks, as always, to my fabulous beta MizJoely and my awesome beta imzadimylove.

+ - + - + - +

He's in Casablanca, the city of Bogart and Bergman, where everybody has a Bogart story, only his comes from personal experience, and it involves clam chowder, an accordion, and aliens from the planet Albaratz who feed on the hair of certain sentient species.

The bloke to his right is just inebriated enough that he can share his story and not get stared at in return like he's off his rocker.

The redhead to his left isn't inebriated at all, but as he's just spent the day rescuing her family from some body-snatchers from the Menja Cluster – fairly standard stuff, really – well, she's probably more inclined to believe his tales than most.

He's not entirely sure why she's still here, come to think of it; her mother in particular was quite shaken by the day's excitement. He figured she'd want to be with them to settle things down, but instead she's still here with him.

Here, by the way, is a classic Casablanca club, where he's sitting at the bar with a pint of lager and a plateful of chips, because he's found that something about eating potatoes seems to lessen the effects of – well, whatever it is that's affecting him.

Thankfully, chips are almost universally available on Earth in the twenty-first century.

He holds one up and examines it. "It's brilliant," he muses, nodding a thanks to the bartender who's just delivered another round of drinks. "A rather unremarkable tuber from Peru that a few Spanish sailors brought to Europe; a few years later it was feeding entire armies and its crops accounted for a full third of arable land in Ireland, and now it's so ubiquitous that there's hardly a place you can go and not be able to order a plate of chips." He sips his drink and winks over at the redhead.

"To the potato," she offers, holding up her glass to clink with his.

He clicks his tongue and obliges, then holds his glass out to the bloke on the right to include him, but apparently he's still stuck on the previous subject because he's rambling on about hair – straight hair, curly, kinky, blonde, black – all types are abundant in a city such as Casablanca.

The redhead giggles uncontrollably at this and grabs his shoulder as if holding herself up. Just as she does, there's a twinge to his ear and Time folds over so that the besotted bloke on his right is back on his rant about hair. The girl's touch to his shoulder is gone and he startles in his seat like a seasick puppy at the sudden shift.

It's disorienting as hell.

The girl gives a laugh. "Are you all right?" She sidles up next to him, leaning over the bar and under his face to look up and bat her eyelashes at him.

"Oh yes," he dismisses. "I'm always all right." He slides his arm out from under her grasp and swings his chair around.

"So how long are you staying in Morocco?" the girl asks, sinking back into her seat as she looks at him sideways.

"Not long, not long," he replies vaguely. "Got some business to get back to in London." he tries to sound urgent about it but it's been two weeks now that he's been 'getting back to it' and he doesn't even believe himself any more.

"Important business?" she asks.

He nods. "Rather important, I'd say," he mulls as he runs a hand through his hair. "Well, important to a few, anyway. Well, really just one person and she's quite capable of managing on her own." The ground under him seems to wobble again and he turns his seat back round and bites down on another chip. "The way things are going, she may have to." No point in going back, he doesn't say.

"Why's that?" she asks.

"I'm ill," he says, and apparently an uncooperative mouth is another symptom he needs to contend with. He doesn't elaborate because he can't, nor does he want to. Oh, he can make all sorts of conjectures, dire predictions about where this is headed because he knows what his gut is telling him, but with this half-human body all bets are off – and there's no point in alarming a total stranger about it anyway.

But apparently he has alarmed her because when he looks at her, her eyes are wide and her body tense, and it's not long after that that she excuses herself to use the loo and doesn't return.

The bloke to his right is passed out, snoring loudly with his head on the bar.

He orders another round of chips and eats them in silence.

+ - + - + - +

Rose wakes up in a fog.

Her eyes flutter open and she's confused at the unfamiliar surroundings; confused at why her head hurts so much and her eyelids feel so heavy.

There's a figure in white moving nearby and it's getting closer and then a woman's face is smiling down at her. "Miss Tyler, you're going to be all right. You're in Albion Hospital, you took a nasty fall, and you've got a concussion and a fractured wrist. You might feel a bit woozy, but that's fine, it's just the pain medication."

There's something nagging at her, something she thinks she should be mentioning but her head won't clear and her eyes won't stay open. "Jake?" she murmurs.

"Your friend is fine," the nurse informs her. "He stepped out for a short bit but he said he'd be back in about an hour to check on you."

Something's missing, she knows, but she can't get the pieces to add up in her groggy head. "Doctor?" she asks.

"The doctor's been by, Miss Tyler. You'll get a chance to meet with him later. Now try and get some sleep."

Her eyelids are so heavy and she can't fight it any longer. They fall shut and she no longer has any choice in the matter.

+ - + - + - +

She awakens and she's alone in the room. The sun is shining brightly through the window and she looks round, taking it all in.

She spots a chair next to the bed where some of her belongings sit. She reaches over, searching with her hand for her mobile. Her body feels loose and clumsy as she moves; presumably the lingering effect of the pain medication.

She locates her phone, flips it on: 10:42 in the morning.

She slumps back down in bed and tries to recall what happened to land her in here, but the last thing she can remember is climbing out of the car with Jake. Obviously something went wrong with the Weevil.

She looks down at the hand that's empty, flexes her fingers, stretches her legs and wiggles her toes, and then suddenly she remembers the vital point she's been struggling with. Immediately she reaches for the buzzer to call the nurse.

In a moment the white-clad woman is in the doorway. "What is it, Miss Tyler?"

"I'm pregnant," she informs her. "Is it – is everything..."

"It's all right," the woman assures her. "Your baby is fine and the medication is safe."

She leans her head back and closes her eyes. "Thank you," she says.

The nurse departs and she's alone with her thoughts again. Idly, she pushes some buttons on her phone and reads the call history. And before she even knows what she's doing, she's dialling and the phone is ringing.

There's a click on the other end and his soft voice answers, "Hello?" and now she's frozen like a deer in the headlights because she realises she hadn't expected him to be home.

"John?" she stammers.

There's a pause and an intake of breath. "Rose."

"I, erm, I just thought," she sputters and suddenly she sees herself as if she were watching from afar and something about it strikes her funny. She begins to chuckle as her mind tries to form words that her tongue won't cooperate with. "I was wondering," she begins again, before losing herself to more giggles. Finally she resorts to what she really wants to ask. "Why are you home?"

"Are you all right?" comes his puzzled voice from the other end.

"M'fine," she slurs. "Shouldn't you be at work?"

"Not on a Saturday," he replies and the conversation is so ridiculous – she's so ridiculous that she's dissolving into peals of laughter now. "I should go," she hears him say and that's when reality hits her.

She sucks in a sharp breath, grabs a fistful of hair firmly and forces herself to sober up. "No," she protests. "M'sorry, I'm just a little woozy from the medication, I didn't mean to..."

Now she has his attention. "From what?"

"S'nothing," she assures him. "Just a little wrist fracture, so they gave me something to take the edge off, is all."

"Rose, where are you?" he demands, suddenly sounding like a stern schoolteacher for the first time.

"Albion Hospital," she replies and then adds before he can interject, "I'm fine. Just a concussion."

"I thought you said fractured wrist?"

"And a concussion," she adds, suppressing another giggle.

"What happened?" he demands, and it's almost a growl the way the intensity wraps the waver in his voice. "Never mind," he cuts her off before she can answer. "I'll be right there."

"You don't need..." she starts to object.

But it's too late; he's already hung up.

+ - + - + - +

By the time he arrives an hour later, she's fully sobered up, as it were, and she's thoroughly embarrassed at her performance on the phone.

Still, she's unprepared for the face that greets her when he walks into the room. His lips are pursed, eyes wide with a deep crease between them and the sight of him makes her sit up in bed in a gesture that's meant to show him she's all right, but also serves to steel herself against what's to come.

"You really didn't have to come," she objects before he has the chance to speak. "I'm so sorry about the phone call."

"Never mind that." He eyes her up and down and seems to relax. "What happened?" He stands there, halfway between her and the door as if undecided which direction to choose. He pushes his hands deep in his pockets awkwardly.

"It was nothing," she downplays. "Just work. A little bit of a chase that got out of hand." She gives a shake of her head; feels her hair brush her shoulders and suddenly she's self conscious about her appearance. Does the hospital gown look ridiculous on her? Is there any bruising on her face? She has no idea. "It happens," she shrugs finally.

"Happens a lot?" he asks and there's annoyance in his voice; a biting slash of a whip that matches his piercing eyes perfectly.

"It can," she shoots back defiantly, even though she knows where this is headed and she's not ready for it. It's coming either way. "It's no big deal."

"A concussion and a fractured wrist for a pregnant woman is a very big deal, Rose," He sighs in exasperation, rolls his head and turns on his heels, just a little bit towards the door. "This doesn't sound like any sort of research job I've ever heard of."

He's glaring down at her now, and she knows he's trying to corner her into giving him some real answers – knows he has cornered her but she makes one last ditch attempt to throw him off course with a story that offers just enough of the truth to throw him a bone. "There was a...rodent," she fumbles. "A special breed and it's our job to collect and study them. One of them got away and the chase just got a little out of hand, that's all."

His eyes fall closed and he sighs, not fooled for even a moment by her evasiveness and through the thick of her frustration, there's a part of her that's actually pleased that he's not easily taken in. "All right," he sighs calmly, ruefully. "I can see that you're fine, and since I'm not sure why I came here, I think it's time I was going."

He speaks with finality and now she knows why he hasn't called her; knows he wasn't going to call her. She watches him turn to leave and she knows it's wrong. "John," she says to his back before he's out of earshot.

He stops. Doesn't turn around.

It's on the tip of her tongue to tell him everything about herself; she wants to tell him, she needs him to know her, but before she can form the words, the fear takes over and she throws a question at him instead. "Why did you come?"

His head turns slightly towards her. "Why did you call?" he volleys back, and she knows the answer is the same to both questions but there's too much in the way for either of them to say it out loud.

So she lays it aside and changes tactics. "What do you want from me?" she asks. It's meant as an offering, an opening up, but her choice of words is poor and her voice is guarded and he takes it as an accusation.

He turns back to her and the frustration is there because she's provoked it but the intensity of it still surprises her. "How about just the slightest bit of honesty?" he challenges. "You can start by telling me what you really do for work." She starts to reply but he cuts her off with a wave of his hand. "And once we've cleared that one up, you can tell me who this man is who's the father of your child, and what he is to you." He draws back at having said this and she knows that he's gone further than intended. He glances out the window, up at the ceiling letting the tension dissipate like steam out a valve before meeting her eyes again. "The truth, Rose. That's all I want."

It's the softness in his tone that undoes her; the ultimatum that stops short of being a plea and she breathes in, ready to tell him everything. But then the words form in her mind and she imagines his reaction and the fear takes over, again giving way to indignation at his pretence. "You should talk," she accuses.

His head snaps up, brow creased in confusion. "What are you talking about?"

"Why aren't you a scientist any more, John?"

It's a ridiculous question that's not a question at all; it's a demand, and it's way out of proportion because she's certain that she's got far more secrets than he has. She called him, yet she's expecting him to prove something to her before she'll trust him, and she's sorry the moment the words are out of her mouth.

Still, there's a promise implicit in the appeal, and after his stricken face clears his gaze softens and her stomach flip-flops with reticence because she knows what this all means: they're letting each other in. It's something understood between them and then confirmed as he comes over to her bed, sits down next to her and raises a hand to touch her cheek, to test the waters with a gentle stroke down her face that sets her heart thumping and her eyes fluttering.

His hand falls to his side and then reaches for hers. He lays it on his knee, covers it protectively with his, and with a sigh he launches into his tale. "I was working on a grant," he begins, "in China some years ago. We were studying seismic waves in the lithosphere at university and it was the most intensely complex research I had ever done. Fifteen academics huddled in a room for twelve hours a day." His thumb absently strokes her knuckles and her fingers tighten slightly on his leg. "It's easy to look back now and tell you how bored I was, how disillusioned I was with academia, but that really wouldn't be honest. It was all I knew. And I was living in China so I told myself it was an adventure." He chuckles darkly. "And then it really was one."

He looks down at their clasped hands as he speaks and his hair falls over his face. She leans forward slightly, tilts her head in an effort not so much to see him but to let him know she can't. "What happened?"

"My partner and I were working in the field, collecting data when it hit." He turns to her. "An earthquake. We were right there – at the very epicentre."

She can see the echo of it in him; the depth of the fractured Earth and she feels her face form a look of horror. She needs to do something, to offer him something but all she can do is to turn her hand over and grasp his tightly as he continues.

"My partner was only a few yards away from me taking tilt meter readings when it hit. It was incredible, it happened so fast I had no idea what was going on – one second he was there, and then the earth opened up – literally opened up and he was screaming like a madman as he fell. I was left gazing into this – this schism. Enormous, unfathomable and untempered; it was like looking into Infinity, about to swallow me up." He shudders.

She's certainly seen monsters before – ghosts and aliens and evil at work but still there's something about his tale that's remote and terrifying – the forces of nature acting at random for no real reason, literally shaking up his entire world with death and destruction. She shudders with him. "How did you survive?"

"I ran." His jaw tenses as he releases her hand and turns so that he's facing her, propping himself up with one hand on the bed between her legs, their bodies intersecting without touching. "Three days later I stumbled into a remote mountain village. I have no memory of what happened in between. I had a wound on my forehead so it's likely I was hit by some debris and suffered a concussion." He shakes his head, still confused at the gap in his memory. "I was one of the lucky ones," he adds, thankfulness tinged with survivor's guilt. "Perhaps the luckiest one. The damage and death toll all around me was incomprehensible."

They're both silent as he looks down at his hand on the bed, turns to gaze out the window. She reaches for him, hesitates before touching fingers to the back of his hand. He doesn't acknowledge her touch but he doesn't move away either, so she slides her palm across to close her hand around his and she can feel his blood pulsing through the veins in his hand in the silence and space between the words.

Then he breathes deeply and he's back in the here and now as he turns to face her. "I didn't lie to you – before. Once I got back to the university, what I told you was true. I simply couldn't go back to it. After seeing life and death like that, I couldn't go back to a life of abstract thought and data analysis. So I walked away and decided I needed to do something in the real world. And I've always enjoyed children." He chuckles. "Charley says it's because I am one."

"It's unusual," she muses. "A man working with young children."

"It's the most natural thing in the world," he replies. He lifts his free hand and gives her shoulder a nudge. "Your turn."

She laughs nervously. "There's just so much – a lot of this is going to sound pretty out there. 'S'why I didn't tell you before – I didn't want you to think I'm a lunatic."

He lifts his hand up off the bed and edges up so he's sitting closer to her. "There are worlds out there where the sky is burning," he muses poetically, "and the sea's asleep, and the rivers dream; people made of smoke and cities made of song." His eyes cloud over, he looks away and he seems flustered. "I think I heard that somewhere," he mutters before turning back to her with a smile. "Rose, the world has changed these past years since the Cybermen. Anything is possible. My mind is open."

"OK," she says with a sigh. She opens her mouth to speak and closes it again. "I don't know quite where to start." She draws her knees up and pulls them to her chest with her uninjured hand.

"Start at the beginning," he advises.

But to start at the beginning involves telling a tale of another universe and a Doctor different from the one who left her on the beach; different still from the father of her child and it's too much to begin with. So she swallows hard and decides to start with the easy part. "I work for Torchwood," she says.

His eyes widen and he nods in understanding. "Torchwood? You don't hear much about them these days since the Cybermen disappeared. Well, that explains a lot, I suppose."

"Yeah, we keep most of our work under wraps." Her broken wrist begins to throb and she tenses her arm in response.

His brow furrows. "There's enough to – you know – keep you busy?"

She nods, deciding to leave it at that and tackle the harder question. "He used to work with us too," she says softly.

"Does he have a name?" John asks pointedly.

She laughs bitterly. "The simplest of questions about him and I can't even answer you. Last I heard, he was going by 'Boris' but that's just the latest in a long string. He can't make up his mind."

Now he really is looking at her like she's a nutter, so she sighs in frustration. "There's nothing simple about him. He's not – I mean he isn't your ordinary…" she breaks off and begins again. "He was never meant to exist in the first place."

The crease between his eyes deepens and so she fumbles for something tangible that he'll understand. "He's a sort of twin – or clone, I suppose. I had this friend, see; this other friend and he was the one who found me working in the shop and he brought me away with him. We travelled together and we did amazing things and he showed me how to be better; how to live a better life, and it was – it was fantastic." A random memory flits through her mind of him as he was when she first met him, all ears and nose and lanky frame, and she feels her eyes burn with forming tears. "I lost him."

He doesn't move away, but there's a hardness about him, something in the aimless darting of his eyes or the way he sits fixed in place except for his measured breaths. "I spent years," she continues, "literally years trying to get back to him. And then I finally did, but it didn't last." The old bitterness touches at her and she almost forces it down out of habit, but she remembers where she is and who she's with and it's more than a little bit liberating to be able to say it. "He betrayed me."

"Betrayed you?"

"The Doc – Boris – whatever – that's when he came round – bit of a weird accident, that was, and my friend the Doctor decided I'd be better off with him instead." Her knees slide down again on the bed, her legs stretch out straight and her hands rest on top with nowhere else to go. "He dropped us off and left us behind."

"He just – forced you together?" He gives an incredulous shake of his head, but there's more to it – there's indignation and empathy and something else that's still formulating in his mind.

She reaches for his hand, grasps his forearm instead. "He had his reasons," she says by way of explanation, not excuse. "I know that; I can see why he thought we'd be a better match. And it did work – for a little while, I guess." A very little while, she thinks, before the baggage between them got too heavy to bear.

"Rose," he asks softly, "Where is he now?"

She slides her hand down to touch his fingers and this time he responds, wraps her hand in his with a gentle squeeze. "He's here and there," she replies. "Last I spoke with him, he was in Taiwan." Her thumb traces a path across his hand and back again. "I haven't exactly been keeping tabs on him."

"You don't want to speak to him?" he asks, eyebrows raised as he studies her so carefully. It's hardly a subtle question.

Her head falls back and her eyes fall closed. "I'm just so tired, you know?" she replies after a moment and it doesn't answer his question, but it will. "Everything in my life was about him for all those years, and it was fantastic, and then it was horrible, and then it just stayed – mediocre and he's just not built for mediocre. At a certain point, you have to cut your losses and let go. He's better off without me and maybe I'm better off without him, but either way, I'm just – I'm so tired." She opens her eyes and finds him. "I need life to be about someone else for a while." She studies him and this time she thinks she might've got it right; might've got him to understand because he's still here, his hand is still in hers and all the hardness about him is gone as his fingers slip in with hers. "I just need a friend," she adds with a sigh.

He reaches for her with his empty hand, his fingers trail over her brow, tuck her hair behind her ear and move to cup her cheek. The warmth in him reaches into her, touches something that she's been keeping locked down so tightly that she's almost forgotten it's there, just barely alive. She feels it like a warm breath on her soul and it's a jolt of the best kind that leaves her more than a little bit giddy.

"You've got one," he says softly and she bites her lip, grins at him and wonders who he is that he's got her to open up and let him in like this.

Really, though, she can't bring herself to care.

tbc