Author's notes: This chapter is rated M for language and adult situations, i.e., racist slurs/n-word used in a specific context. I have included it because it gives a real backstory to the character of John O'Reilly. It's also key to understanding future chapters. I felt that shying away from what would have occurred in 1980s Middle America would be inauthentic. If you would like a synopsis without reading it, please do PM me. But the story is neither gratuitous, nor supportive in its use.
Chapter 29: The Ties That Bind
John O'Reilly sat rigidly in the conference room chair, staring at the opposite wall whilst avoiding Jake Simmonds's chilly looks of rage. The worst part of being taken into custody was the silent accusations of betrayal by one's friends and allies. The second worst part was being handcuffed, sitting on one's hands – literally and metaphorically – and cutting off their circulation. However, all of it was worth Rose Tyler's life.
He winced at the bruise on his wrists from Rose's interrogation. Except for his grandmother, no other woman dared to kick his arse. When Ookomisan came to live with him in Laramie after the death of his mother, Candace, she insisted that her only grandson learn the Ways of the Earth, much to his father's displeasure. A devout Catholic and equally devoted to the United States, Jack O'Reilly dismissed "Marie's" culture and language as "Injun Dancing" and routinely referring to the American Indian Movement as "terrorists and commies." Ookomisan responded to Jack's bigotry by only speaking her Leech Lake dialect to her grandson and forcing him to translate, thus making Ojibwe the seven-year-old's native tongue. For the next eight years, the boy lived in two worlds: at home, he was known as Niibaabatoo; at school and in the white world of Laramie and beyond, he was called John O'Reilly.
The "Indian Question" did not ever come up in the white world, mostly because the blond-haired, blue-eyed John looked more Cowboy than Indian. Ookomisan, refusing to associate with anyone or anything European, kept to the O'Reilly ranch and watched Days of Our Lives re-runs. Jack and Ookomisan agreed upon one single thing: John was never to speak Ojibwe outside of the ranch. A few months after John's eighth birthday, John invited his friends, Tim, Paul and Patrick to play football at home. Jack had gone into town for business, leaving Ookomisan alone. When John and the three boys arrived at the ranch, his friends gasped in surprise at his grandmother's appearance: petite with wrinkled olive skin, long black hair with red and white streaks and whiskey-coloured eyes. Much to John's surprise, Ookomisan graciously spoke accented English to the boys and offered them maple syrup cookies. But within her normally calm dark eyes trembled uncertainty and dread for her young grandson.
Once outside, Tim Larimer asked, "Hey, John. I didn't know you were part nigger!"
John stared at his friend. "What's a nigger, Larimer?"
Tim huffed and threw the football to Patrick. "It's what my daddy calls 'em. You know, dark people."
The blond-haired boy paused, then shrugged. "Yeah, I guess I am part nigger."
Later that evening, Ookomisan slapped her grandson after he proudly told her that she was a nigger. Tim Larimer was unofficially banned from coming to the O'Reilly Ranch.
About a month after the incident at home, John noticed that people started to treat him differently. People he had known since he was two or three stared at him more, as if to search for any visible signs of his ancestry. The children at school, led by Tim Larimer, asked him if he liked fried chicken and watermelon, then laughed as if it were the funniest joke in the world.
The young John, uncomprehending, asked his father at dinner. The rancher dropped his fork and knife and buried his head in his hands. Ookomisan muttered under her breath about those damned white people and their stupid schools. Clearing his throat and wiping his mouth and moustache with his napkin, Jack replied curtly, "Just tell them that you like spaghetti and mozzarella. It's not like those morons know the difference between Italian, African or Ojibwe. We all come from somewhere. Besides, you're half-Irish, anyway."
Later that night, John overheard arguing between his father and grandmother.
The next day at lunch, John smugly informed his classmates that he was Italian and his people invented the spaghetti on their plastic dinner trays. Overnight, John O'Reilly became the coolest kid at St. Malachy Catholic School. For the next three years, there were no more incidents at school and John brought his friends over to the ranch like any other American boy. Patrick and Paul were respectful to the elder woman, though they occasionally did ask if she made spaghetti like in Italy and could they have some.
In the spring of 1985, Ookomisan's health began to fail. Sensing that her time was nearly up on Earth, she began to insist that John take part in the old rituals and learn the history and language of their people. Jack initially voiced his objections, barking to her that his son was a goddamn American and not some fuckin' Chief. After several days of passive-aggressive quarrelling and silence that characterised their relationship, Ookomisan banged her fist on the dinner table and glared viciously at her son-in-law. "You married my daughter, Niningawan! She spoke to my grandson in our language. You think she wanted him to be a typical Gichimookoman?! Enough of your foolishness. It is so." Both the rancher and his son were stunned into silence; never had either of them heard the old woman be so direct, especially in English. A few days later, he relented. Instead of after-school football, John went straight home to Ookomisan. At dawn and on weekends, he helped his father with the cattle. One afternoon, unbeknownst to John, the jilted Patrick, Paul and Tim followed their friend home and watched John and his grandmother bless the Four Corners from a distance.
They knew their friend wasn't an Italian.
The next day, Patrick and Paul demanded that John tell them what the hell he was doing and who he really was. John told them that he was not Italian, but Ojibwe.
Patrick wrinkled his freckled nose. "What's Ojibwe? Is that like German, or somethin'?"
John shook his head. "No. It's American Indian."
Paul's eyes widened. "You mean, like Cowboys and Indians?" he asked.
"Yeah," replied John softly.
Patrick shook his head. "But they attacked white people – us, John. Why would you want to be one of them? Don't you like us anymore?"
John frowned in confusion. "'Course I do. And we have never attacked you. You've been to my house and slept over! You've met my grandmother!"
Paul and Patrick looked at each other and then John. "Come with us," said Paul. Ten minutes later, John O'Reilly swallowed down bile as he flipped through the American history text discussing the Indian attacks on settlers and their families during and after the French and Indian War.
After school, John half-heartedly performed the rituals and spoke English to his grandmother. When asked what was the matter, the boy replied, "We're killers, Nookomis."
Once Ookomisan heard the account of the French and Indian War and the many skirmishes between the US Army and Algonquin tribes in modern-day New England and Canada, she said quietly, "Noozhishenh, the Whites claim that Columbus discovered America. But what they call the Nation of the United States was once over five hundred nations. Those nations – among which were the Anishinaabe – came before Columbus. They settled here and we gave them food and shelter. But they were greedy and took our lands, even after promising not to take any more from us. Do you know how many treaties they honoured with our people?"
"No, Nookomis," answered John.
"None," said the woman. "It is no surprise then, Noozhishenh, that they would lie to hide their own treachery. The Words of Man are sacred. That is why we can tell no lies."
"But Nookomis," interjected John, "I told a lie. I said that I was Italian instead of Ojibwe. If we're not killers, why did I have to hide?"
The old woman looked squarely at her grandson, though not without empathy. "Noozhishenh, men are flawed and sometimes unwise. Your father and I did not want harm to come to you. The Whites are not known for being kind to us. The dishonest can only understand dishonesty."
The dishonest can only understand dishonesty.
John O'Reilly closed his adult eyes at the memory. What would Nookomis say now?
Accept your path. That is our way.
XXX
"Rose!" gasped the Doctor as the blonde woman suddenly awoke. She blinked and then stretched as if she were well-rested from sleep.
"Doctor, what is it?" she asked sleepily.
James Noble scanned her face for signs of harm or terror. Despite what he sensed a few moments ago from her mind, he could detect nothing out of the ordinary. Some bloody Time Lord I am, he thought in self-reproach. Had he been a full Time Lord, he would have been able to enter her mind quicker and been able to catch whatever it was.
No wonder why Rose did not want him anymore. Unlike the Other, he was a half-Time Lord, half-human hybrid clone, a Metacrisis, who was a complicated point in time. Special, yes; superior, no. Of course he would fail to compare to the Original.
"Doctor?" mumbled Rose.
The Doctor frowned. But they were all the same man; he was a special regeneration of the Doctor, just as his first through ninth incarnations were. So why was he automatically inferior? Because, as Rassilon would argue, he had one heart, he could not regenerate.
Because he was half-human and impure.
But when the hell did he start caring what those bloody Time Lords thought? Stuck up bunch, they were!
Doctor James Noble sighed sadly and gazed upon the keeper of his second heart. Because Rose Tyler wouldn't even look at him. "You were having a nightmare, I think," he replied quietly, taking the opportunity to stroke strands of hair from her face.
Abruptly, Rose sat up, the movement pushing the Doctor from her. "I don't remember anything. But everyone has nightmares. I'm fine."
"Are you?" he questioned, attempting to keep his tone neutral.
"Yes!" she hissed, glaring at the half-alien. She rose from the bed and proceeded down the corridor. The Doctor quickly jogged after the blonde, reaching from behind and roughly spinning her around to face him. The two former colleagues faced each other angrily, anticipating the other to make the first move. Eying her carefully, though refusing to let her go, James harshly broke the silence. "You're not fine, and I'm the expert of 'fine'! Something happened to you. I couldn't…I couldn't wake you up." He stared into her amber-coloured eyes, the ebbs of fear, uncertainty, anger and possessiveness permeated her mind.
Rose's eyes, like rich whiskey, changed into steely agate. "And honestly, why the hell would you of all people care?" She tried to pull her arm away, but the enraged and stunned Doctor refused to let go, his grip tightening. "Let me go, Doctor," she warned in a low tone.
"Not a bleedin' chance, sunshine!" he growled in an equally low tone. "You think I don't care, Rose? Then why have I been following you since Paris? Since we arrived in this bloody universe?"
"I'd say you've been practising the status quo," replied Rose coldly, glowering at his grip on her wrist. "The assistant doesn't exist until someone else fancies her."
The Doctor tightened his grip, moving slightly into her space so that their torsos barely touched. She felt the violent thumping of his single heart that had increased as he approached her. Suddenly, he brought his right hand to her temple and pressed his fingers into the soft skin. Rose felt a knocking inside her mind, begging entrance. She gazed into the Doctor's turbulent dark orbs and shook her head. "No," she said firmly. "You don't have the right."
He recoiled as though her words had physically slapped him. Hissing in an alien tone, he released her wrist and she rubbed it with her other hand, never taking her eyes off his. "Ta. Now, if you'll excuse me." As she turned to leave him, she heard the growl again and felt his breath at the base of her neck.
"Where are we going?" he asked lowly.
"We aren't going anywhere," Rose replied angrily, continuing to walk down the corridor with the Doctor moving to flank her. "I have a case to solve, with or without Torchwood's help. I have a man's good name to clear."
"Oh, you can't be serious, Rose!" yelled the Doctor impatiently. "John O'Reilly's been playing Torchwood since he arrived in London. You heard him – he all but confessed. His friend tried to kill Olivier, Pierre, Claire, Ahmad and I! Possibly you and Jake, as well."
"Well, then," snorted the blonde, "you won't mind if I investigate further. If he is guilty, then I'll gladly give evidence at his trial."
"I'm sure Pete will be delighted," said the Doctor sarcastically.
Enraged, Rose stopped in her tracks and spun to face the half-alien who, despite his attempts to hide the Time Lord smirk, huffed in silent victory over his mate's reaction. "What do you want, Doctor? I'm a private citizen – a rich private citizen. I can do what I please. It's no longer under Dad's purview."
"It's still under my purview as the only existing Time Lord in this universe, Rose Tyler. I'm coming with you," he answered evenly.
Rose crossed her arms and raised her eyebrow at him. "Half-Time Lord. You're no better than I, Doctor. Go home; grow the TARDIS. In the meanwhile, find an adventure with Eileen. This isn't your problem and I won't let you abandon another companion of yours."
"I said no. You're the most danger-friendly companion I've ever had. I don't relish you being injured or worse by the Sheep-shagger's friends," he said, choking silently on the last five words.
Amber bore into him like daggers. "Really? I'm the most danger-friendly companion you've ever travelled with? Aside from beggin' the question of how many there were, I crossed countless parallel worlds and managed to come 'ome in one piece. Even after bein' shot at by Daleks and Cybermen. Meanwhile, you regenerated at least twice while I've known you. You're so full of shit, Doctor. Always have been. As for John," she continued, emphasising his name, "if he wanted me dead, he could have let that Dalek finish me off. He could have…" she trailed off, then looked at the Doctor in near pity. "He could have killed me after the Daleks ambushed Mickey and I, that night when we…" she whispered, anxiously awaiting the man's reaction. "When he and I first…were together."
James Noble visibly flinched at the woman's words and dropped his gaze. He chewed his lip, nodding slightly. He kept nodding as his pallor blanched to that of a centuries-old iceman. He swallowed and swayed as if ill from fever. Finally, the half-alien looked at her, his eyes having changed from burning black to a cracked metallic. He blinked rhythmically. Silence emanated from the powerful, lanky being.
"I can't believe he would do something like this, Doctor. He's not Adam or Jimmy. He never ran away. He hasn't still; that's why he's sitting in custody. He turned himself in – why?"
He's not you; he never ran away.
"I don't know," he answered tersely.
"I jus'… I can't give up on him. I can't," cried Rose. She turned away from the Doctor and turned toward the passenger area.
"You're not doing this alone!" snarled the Doctor, resuming his flank.
Rose stopped again. Her head dipped down as the Doctor moved to take her hand in his. She closed her eyes and shook her head. "Doctor, I'm not nineteen anymore. I'm not the same naive girl that you left behind five years ago. You're not the same, either…You're…" She swallowed whilst the Doctor interlaced their fingers. "And besides, I'm not River Song."
The Doctor, too shocked to offer any resistance, let Rose's hand escape from his.
XXX
The brown-haired American agent forced his blue eyes open and pushed himself up off the cold floor of the interrogation room. He moaned in pain, cursing in Danish. The man froze, uttering the curse word again.
"I sound…American," he spat. The Raincoat Man glanced over to the bloodied corpse next to him. "Blimey, I lost another body. And I rather enjoyed being Danish." He scanned his new military physique. "Better health, though less intelligent. Oh well, can't have everything. I'm now…Oh!" he shouted victoriously. "Access to American secrets, top-secret military information. Well, that's not useful. I already know what he knows. But…Oh!" The man formerly known as Linus Magnussen grinned in scarcely-contained glee, "And he knows John O'Reilly. I mean knows him." Looking down pitifully at the blood-stained body at his feet, the American murmured, "It's been a pleasure, but time to move on."
As he was about to turn away, he spied a card that had been flicked to the ground. From the Former Raincoat Man's memories, a dark-skinned man had thrown it at him during his interrogation. The man picked it up, studying both sides. "3-7-77. Infinity's been busy." Pocketing the card, Raincoat Man strolled out of the abandoned building and into the shaded streets of Saint-Denis.