When she looked up, he had already placed his teacup on the table in front of her.
"Enjoying your book?"
She put it aside so he could see her rolling her eyes.
"You forgot the sugar."
"Already in."
He gave her that ridiculous smug smile of his. He did look absolutely ridiculous. It was the first thing that she had thought when he'd walked in on his first day. How could anyone have ears like that? They stuck out on both sides of his head like satellite dishes. And there was just something slightly too gangly about him. He moved too energetically. When the telephone rang, he positively sprinted for it, his leather jacket billowing behind him.
"What is it this time?" he asked, bending over the table to see the book she'd put down on the bench. He had his hands firmly gripped together on his back. He was in a good mood today.
"Trafalgar Square by Joanne Wrinkle", she said, stirring her tea even though any sugar that might or might not had been added was well dissolved.
"Ah, I see. Pulp fiction", he replied wisely, plopping his lips.
"You're in a good mood today."
"Well, it's a beautiful night, don't you think? No reason not to be upbeat."
"I wouldn't know."
It was true. She usually came in before dusk. His shift started slightly later than hers. Still, they hung out together. There wasn't much else to do. Just stay awake and make sure no one broke in. She always brought a book. He never did.
"New record?" He gestured towards the stereo. She'd put in a Sting CD her sister had forgotten in her car the last time she'd visited. It had been a while. She'd never asked for it back.
"Not really."
"It sounds good!" He crossed his arms and gave her one of his big smiles.
"Glad you like it. You're welcome to use the stereo if you want to, by the way."
"Thanks. I wouldn't really know what to bring." His face fell a little.
"What sort of music do you like, anyway?" She asked, closing her hands around the mug. It was still too hot to drink.
"Oh, you know. Most of it." He said vaguely.
"What is that supposed to mean?"
"I just have broad taste", he said defensively.
"Is that your way of saying you're into, like, really weird stuff?" She grinned at him and he grinned back.
"Well, I do like jazz."
She laughed. She had known him long enough through their casual, lonely nights to tell that he only really had two sides – one playful, curious and brutally honest, and one that was dark, silent and seemingly bent down by an invisible force. Even now, she could see both sides shining through – like a half-moon. It just depended on whether something got in the way of whatever fueled his brightness.
They had fun together. She had worked there for longer and had enjoyed having someone around. Her former colleagues had never wanted to talk much, except for some regrettable moments of attempted asking-out. She had not been the one doing the asking. Of course, she'd always had a ring to flaunt, the perfect excuse. It had changed things. And when the ring vanished, the offers didn't return, even as colleagues went and came. Maybe it had left something hanging around her, and sometimes, when she caught her reflection in the glass separating her little booth from the corridor in the small hours of the morning, she thought she could catch whatever it was that had gone from her with the ring.
Maybe John had made her feel different. He didn't seem to notice whatever kept the other guys away. She had a feeling he just enjoyed her company. He wasn't trying to impress her. If he was, he was doing a terrible job. H couldn't brew a good cup of tea to save his life. And he wasn't her type at all, although he was at least vaguely in her age range. She wasn't sure he was anyone's type. Again, those ears – surely only a mother could love those?
Tonight, something seemed a bit different though. As always, he'd come in two hours after her. Usually, he brought some papers that he'd go through religiously, commenting on news stories, asking her opinion on anything and everything and positively killing the crossword puzzles. He was like a walking encyclopedia although he didn't really strike her as the academic type. Tonight, he seemed desperate for a talk. She didn't mind.
She kept telling herself that she didn't have to feel threatened because she wasn't attracted to him. But if she had taken a moment to look in a mirror, a minute to think, maybe she could have confessed to herself that she was sick of being alone – and he had never been the kind of guy to provoke her defenses. He had always made her heart soft and conversation easy. He was already dangerously close. And a voice in her mind whispered that she was ready to make a mistake. What did she have to lose, anyway?
She tasted the tea.
"I put in two sugars.", he said defensively. Then he fixed her eyes on hers as she lowered them again hiding her face behind her mug.
"Er – are you alright? Is it that bad?"
When she emerged from the mug, her eyes were dry again. She told John that the tea was, indeed, dreadful (which it was). He insulted her taste, and then they sat together for a while.
She was sipping the terrible tea, fighting her intrusive thoughts, while he stared into nothing, his expression darkening gradually. Eventually, she opened her book again and tried to focus on the words.
When she looked up to grab her mug, she found him staring at her.
"What?", she snapped, her heart pounding rapidly. The intensity of his gaze had genuinely frightened her.
His expression softened immediately. Suddenly he looked very old.
"I'm – I'm sorry. I was thinking of something else."
But she felt his eyes on her as she bent down over her tea again. She knew she wouldn't be able to ignore him.
"What is it?", she asked, somewhat annoyed. He seemed to struggle with himself for a few seconds. Finally he spoke with a strange urgency.
"Have you ever done something – something bad. Something truly terrible. Something you know you can't but hate yourself for forever?"
Her response came just a bit to quick. "What do you mean?"
She was suddenly very aware of the silence. The CD player was quietly whirring. The last track had ended.
He looked like he wanted to say more but couldn't. Of course, whether he knew it or not, he had hit a nerve. He hadn't meant to accuse her, but he didn't need to.
She felt that this conversation would've been easier in a bar.
"I do", she finally said. He looked up. "I broke up with my fiancé."
His face swam in front of her. She wiped her eyes angrily.
"I really didn't have a good reason. We had the wedding planned and everything. I ran away with some other guy. That didn't last a week, obviously."
Her face twisted in a bitter smile.
"I was scared and dumb. I listened to the wrong people. But I know I really don't have an excuse. And it broke him. He is a good man. I don't know if I'll ever be happy. If I deserve to be. If I want to be."
She shrugged, and looked away. "So yeah."
She didn't know what to make of his expression.
Then, he reached out and took her hand. He smiled. Not in a creepy way. She knew the difference. Immediately, her tears welled up again. Comfort always had a way of making her cry.
"Sorry", she said, wiping her face again.
"I asked." He said. "I'm sorry."
He clenched his jaw.
"It's alright. I don't mind you knowing", she said before she could stop herself.
He looked at her, looking bemused.
She shrugged again.
"We're friends, aren't we?"
"I suppose."
He still hadn't let go of her hand. Again that's how they sat for some moments, enjoying each others company, like war veterans.
"Can I ask you something?", she ventured eventually.
"Yeah."
"Why did you ask me that?"
She watched him carefully, as he took his time to respond. She wanted to know if he was honest. He looked at her, while he was sorting his words. Suddenly he buried his face in his free hand.
"I can't explain, I'm sorry." His voice was hollow and pained. Intuitively, she slid over to his side of the table. She put her head on his shoulder. He seemed to deflate as she did.
"It's okay. You don't have to."
He raised his face from his hands. Seeing him close up, she realized that he was older than she'd thought. It wasn't that his face was aged. Just old. And it was covered in tears.
"I am all alone, you know", he said. She could feel the weight of those words as he uttered them.
She softly stroked his arm as he rubbed his eyes. He didn't sob, or cry. The tears just kept coming.
"It's alright," she said softly.
"No, it's not.", he replied bitterly. "And I don't know how it could be anymore." He turned his face towards her. She felt the acid in his words. While he had spoken, she had, just for a moment, in surprise, stopped stroking his arm. But it it was still there, on his leather jacket, while he fought with whatever it was that was eating him up inside.
She knew she couldn't take it away, whatever it was. Staring at him with his blazing eyes was like staring into the sun. Even his skin seemed to radiate heat. She found herself frozen, so close to his face – and tempted. Her heart was still beating slowly, reassuringly, calming her. He was obviously being dramatic. And so she told him that.
He looked offended.
"You have no sense of timing, do you?", he said bemused.
"Don't pretend you don't like me when you obviously do."
He looked at her. He wasn't the type to charm and flirt. He was just honest. It warmed her.
"I do."
They stared at each other.
"So kiss me", she said boldly.
His gaze dropped to her lips for a split second. He hesitated.
"Kiss me," she said again, trying and failing to sound as confident as before. She couldn't back out.
He drew breath as if to say something.
"Kiss me", she whispered, almost desperately.
She was already forming the humiliating word "please" with her mouth, but he wouldn't let her. He bent down and kissed her. She had expected and dreaded a kiss of pity, something sweet and short and painful to remember when you wanted something more. But she was wrong. His hand was on her cheek and then her shoulder, then her waist for a long time. He was so warm that she wondered vaguely whether he was running a fever. His kisses were reminding her how starved she was for affection and for a home, and for some time she felt like she was someone at the brink of dying of thirst being dropped in a flood of clear, rushing waters.
Doctors give famished people little to eat at first. They have to get used to food entering their system. Their stomachs must learn to expand again. And after some minutes of drinking it all up – his hands on her face, in her hair, on her back, pulling her in, and him everywhere around her, struggling with her on their bench – she knew she'd had too much. His kisses had become hard and she couldn't catch her breath. She knew he could taste the terrible tea he'd made on her mouth. She thought that James would've paused to make a joke about it, and she'd have apologized profusely, and he'd said it didn't matter and that he liked it, really. It was enough.
She pulled back. Something had just fallen into place.
"What is it?" This time it was him who asked.
She gently squeezed his hand. Then she got up. She put on her jacket.
"I have something to do." She looked at the clock. Technically, her shift didn't end until 5 AM.
John, who'd also gotten up, said: "Don't worry. I'll cover for you."
She turned to him. She wasn't sure what to say.
"You don't have to explain", he said. Then he pulled her in for a hug. She smelled the scent of his leather jacket and felt his hand on the back of her head.
"Are you really alright?", he asked.
She nodded and broke free.
"Thank you.", she said. She grabbed her book and her purse and left.
She went straight home. She called James and left him a message. She said she was sorry. That she had made a terrible mistake. That she understood if he didn't want anything to do with her, but he was too important to her to be gone from her life. She said, if he wanted, maybe they could talk on the phone sometime. Then, she went to bed and slept deeper than she had in a long time.
The next morning, James called her back. He said he had been glad to hear from her. He wanted to be friends, too. They cried. He asked if she wanted to come and stay with him for his birthday. He wanted her there. She said yes and packed her bags. She called her boss and asked for time off. She drove by the theater to pick up her CDs and dropped her sister's off at her parents place.
At 9PM she took the train out to the country side. She felt tired and anxious, but happy. She watched as the city lights fell back behind her. It felt like her life was falling back together again.
Outside the theater, standing next to a big blue police box, stood the Doctor, watching the train pass. He felt in his jacket for the letter Kelly had dropped off for him at the theater, in a white envelope, with the name "John Smith" scribbled hastily on the front. Some of her words were still stirring inside.
"We have to be who we are.", she'd written.
He unlocked the door of the police box. It was dark. He hadn't been in here for some weeks now. When he'd taken the job at the night shift, he had gotten a small flat. Somehow, he had thought, he could live among humans, that strange race he had always felt so deeply about. Go to work, come home, live a life. Forget the box, forget its past, its history.
"We must follow our path, even if we don't know where it leads." Kelly had said in her letter. "Even if it seems to lead into shadow and night. What would stars be without the night? Who would we be if we denied ourselves to be us?"
Slowly, he approached the dust-covered dashboard and touched it. It was still warm, and immediately, the engine sprung into life. The familiar sound rushed over him, accompanied by a wave of anxiety and regret. The last time he had heard it, it had been mingled with screams and the sound of death. Would it ever not haunt him?
The Doctor felt for the letter in his jacket. It had been easy with Kelly. Going in to work every night and seeing her there with her honey-colored hair, her nose stuck in a book, telling him off for being silly or making bad tea. Giving him the opportunity to forget that he came from regret and pain. Finding a new way to be.
If he'd never asked her tonight, would they still be in that room? He should have told her that he loved ragtime. They could have danced. She would have liked that – he could imagine it, her throwing her hair back and laughing at him. The thought filled him with warmth.
If he left now, he could still catch her. Snatch her away at the station. Tell her how much he loved her and how beautiful she was and that she should finally make her dreams of running a bookshop come true. Start a new life, made up of crossword puzzles, kissing, tea and lighthearted conversations. He'd prove he could be a good man. Go to work, come home, dance with his wife. He would find a way to live and die with her. Even if he didn't deserve it. Even if it wasn't how it was meant to be.
He turned around and started walking towards the door. But then, suddenly, unexpectedly, something stopped him. An alert beeped.
"Anomaly detected."
He froze.
"What is it?" He asked impatiently, turning around.
"Anomaly: Possible hostile alien activity detected."
The Doctor tossed the letter on the dashboard and activated one of the screens for more information.
"What? Here, on Earth? That's impossible."
"Breach presumed in London, England, present time."
The Doctor punched at the screen again, trying to get a better view of the location. The TARDIS had picked up an alien signal, but not its source. He cursed under his breath. Here and now? Just his luck. But what could it be? And who? This was much too early for alien contact with Earth. What was going on? His gaze wandered to the crumpled letter on the dashboard.
"Thank you for being my friend." Kelly had written. "I hope that you find your home, wherever it is. I know you'll find it. And I know even if the road there won't be easy, it will still be fantastic! I'll remember you always."
The Doctor sighed and hung his head. He knew it was time. He straightened up, put both hands on the TARDIS dashboard. The lights switched on. His heart sunk, but this time, he didn't change his mind. He still didn't know how to be. But he would find out. And the journey would be fantastic.
"London, then?", he said, punching buttons. "Right. We'd better hurry."
Far away, Kelly and James were happily chatting away, making dinner. They definitely had kissed. She couldn't believe her luck, and had decided to just enjoy it. James was silently thanking God that he had never thrown that ring away. It was still sitting at the bottom of his desk drawer. Maybe he'd go and get it later.
And even further away, something else was happening: In a very pink bedroom, a blonde girl bored out of her mind with her life was falling asleep, her alarm clock set for 7:30 in the morning.
