He's dreaming.
He's the space man again, in his strange leather armour and time and space are his amusements. He plays them each like a fine instrument, making them cry, making them sing.
And now he has a companion. His maid, of all people.
She travels and lives with him openly, without compunction, and she is his partner and his peer. She frees him from captors by swinging through the air on a chain. With a word she stops him killing his most hated enemy; with another she frees it from its own misery.
She's running ahead of him up the ramp of his time machine while sparks and explosions happen all around. Once the doors are closed and they're safe, they still aren't and he concocts a desperate plan. He fears for her if it's enacted and wracks his brain for another way, but in the end she tells him to carry out the plan—she wants him safe, her Doctor. A madman's device is lowered onto his head and he can't look at her because if he catches even a glimpse of the poorly-suppressed fear in her eyes he'll stop. And then a switch is thrown and a medical obscenity occurs, two hearts fusing into one. It's unbearable.
John opened his eyes, the sounds of his own screams ringing in his ears.
He blinked at the dawn creeping through his curtains. He closed his eyes and spent a moment willing himself to concentrate on what he'd just seen. His rational mind told him that dreams were meaningless, merely the excitations of the previous day burning themselves out. He might have believed that, except that the day before had been markedly free of running up the ramps of space ships.
What was it his brain was trying so hard to burn off? What was the fuel that had started this conflagration, and was accelerating it night after night?
And did it really have to bring Rose into it?
What sort of man was he if he was becoming…preoccupied with her? And what on Earth did she have to do with this spaceman business in his head? What added her to these mad dreams that wouldn't leave him alone?
And why, when he considered the possibility of them leaving him alone, didn't he want them to?
He was hit with a sudden, calm moment of clarity: he adored them. They were a nightly vacation into a land where possibilities, time and power were all limitless. The dreams felt like a gift, like a lifeline.
And every now and then, when they were really enjoying themselves…so did Rose.
Just fleeting moments—the kind of thing that could happen when you were with any friend who seemed to understand you. Nothing to make a man wax too poetic.
Even so…he did seem to have discovered the element they had in common. But the idea of having escapist fantasies irritated him. What was so wrong with his life that he needed to escape it? He'd not only worked long and hard to get where he was but others had given selflessly to help him. It was unconscionable to even consider being such an ingrate.
He groaned quietly and rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. He was making too much of this. And it wasn't time to be thinking yet, really. He felt himself drifting back, losing his ability to concentrate. Still a couple of hours to go before it was time to get up.
He fell asleep irritated at himself for feeling so contented about it.
When Rose brought John his breakfast the next morning, the atmosphere between them was awkward. He behaved pleasantly enough, but Rose knew him too well not to feel a difference. He buried himself in pointless activities, didn't look at her much. She wondered if their "scandalous" walk home had him thinking about appearances again, maintaining "non-favouritism." If so…it was a bit disappointing, but she felt she understood now. She reckoned it was just something she'd have to deal with as long as she was here.
Besides, a little distance might be good for her as well.
Might keep her from forgetting what they were doing here and how she was supposed to be conducting herself. She felt assured now that he cared about her, felt a little less alone. She assured herself that it was best to stop there. In her previous fear and loneliness she might have let her feelings get a bit carried away, lost sight of some things.
Or gained sight of some things that were different...but still the same…and…just as impossible as they were before.
Good grief, who knew what to think anymore?
When she returned to his quarters to tidy up after lunch, he was acting much the same, but it seemed she'd misjudged the reason why.
She had her back to him when he finally spoke; she jumped and nearly knocked over his inkwell. "After our little adventure last night…" he ventured, "I thought of something that might interest you."
He retrieved a blue book from the table next to his bed, finally looking at her as he approached. The expression on his face was somewhere between pleased anticipation and that of a man facing a firing squad. It made her think of when he'd asked her to travel with him the first time; she stifled a sigh.
"Those dreams I have, where I'm the man from space?" he began, holding the book close. "Because they've been so frequent, I began writing them down—as a form of fiction." he qualified. "As I've said, I find them fairly entertaining, so I thought perhaps they should be…preserved, somehow."
He paused a moment, then stood beside her and opened the book in front of them both. The pages were filled to the margins with loopy, fountain pen cursive and scribbled pictures, most of which Rose recognized instantly.
Rose could feel him watching her as she took the book from his hands, leafing through the pages with a kind of quiet, compulsive fear. There were pictures of the Slitheen family and their space ship, crashed into Big Ben, Reapers swooping through the sky around a church, one of those robot-looking helmets he'd spotted in the vault in Utah.
"This is what you see when you dream?" she asked. Her voice came out more alarmed-sounding than she'd meant it to. When she glanced at him he looked like he'd been hoping for a different response.
"Yes," he said, "Some of it. What I remember." She turned the page to a sketch of both the outside and the inside of the TARDIS and he pointed to it. "That's my ship. Or rather, his ship," he corrected, smiling sheepishly.
He began to explain the particulars to her: bigger on the inside, goes anywhere in time and space, semi-sentient and a little bit psychic. He even had a bit of his usual tone of pride and affection as he described her. Rose fought to keep down her worry about what all this dreaming meant. She turned the page to an image of a Dalek and instinctively recoiled, just slightly.
"Oh, you're right to be afraid of them. In my dreams they're the scourge of the galaxy." He blinked at her and smiled. "Funny you'd know that, just by looking."
Rose smiled too, a little embarrassed. "Well, it's a very scary drawing." John grinned and chuckled.
She kept leafing through, looking for anything she should be worried about but also…drawn by the glimpse into his psyche, even his past. There were drawings and names she didn't recognize but which fascinated her. She started to realize she was very interested in the book, wanted to keep it and pore over it.
"I want to read it all," she confessed finally. "And ask you about everything."
His face relaxed for the first time since she'd arrived, warming with gratification.
"I'm sorry, am I interrupting?"
The two reflexively stepped away from each other, covering their "caught out" expressions quickly. Matron Redfern stood in the doorway, smiling pleasantly, looking quite guileless.
Which made it really difficult for Rose to resent her, but she managed.
"Oh, no, not at all." John smiled. He slipped it quietly into a desk drawer; Rose moved back to her tidying as Joan entered.
"I came to ask you about that horticulture book, the one you mentioned the other day?"
"Oh yes, yes…" John moved to his bookshelf, searching.
Joan looked to Rose and smiled politely, then turned back to John. "I didn't mean to eavesdrop but I'm afraid I overheard a bit…you were discussing another book?"
Rose watched John's ears turn pink. "In a way, yes."
Joan's smile grew sheepish. "I must say…I'd very much like to see what Rose found so fascinating. Her reaction has me quite curious."
John looked nervous again, but with Joan looking at him expectantly he eventually rolled his eyes in good-natured embarrassment. "Oh, all right. But I forewarn you, it's…sheer stuff and nonsense."
Joan was soon leafing through the book, John explaining. Rose could see the Matron's curiosity was quite genuine; she couldn't really blame John for obliging her. She brought a rag out of her apron and began dusting. John seemed to enjoy explaining it to Joan—perhaps equally as much as he'd enjoyed explaining it to her, Rose couldn't help noticing. She consoled herself with the memory of how John had opted not to invite Joan to the dance.
She reached the fob watch resting on the mantelpiece—the receptacle that, unbeknownst to John, held everything the Doctor was. She glanced over at him as she approached it, as she always did—he was oblivious to it, lost in his explanation. Encountering the watch never failed to fill her with a certain trepidation—it was such a fragile little thing to be holding all her hopes and dreams, the entirety of both their futures, the sum total of perhaps the most powerful being in the universe.
She ran her rag over it gently, suppressing a little shudder. The thing always hummed at her with a strange, tuneless music whenever she touched it, filled her fingers with pins and needles as though it were vibrating. She never wanted to stay with it long.
Rose became aware of Joan glancing at her. She supposed she was outstaying her welcome. She went to the middle of the room and addressed them.
"Will that be all, sir?" she asked.
"No, Rose, thank you," John replied. The look in his eyes apologized for the interruption. Rose's nod assured him it was all right. She felt relieved he'd obviously talk with her about it more, another time.
Rose's look moved to the Matron, only to realize Joan looked sort of…startled. A little bewildered, lost in thought.
Rose smiled gently, amused. "They're only stories, ma'am," she advised. "No need to get too caught up."
The Matron's eyes flicked to Rose in irritation. "Yes, I believe I understand that, thank you." She immediately looked as if she regretted being so short, but simply glanced away and made no move to apologize.
Rose, having no idea why what she said was so wrong, simply left. She would never get the hang of being a servant.
Unfortunately, the culture shocks weren't over for the day.
Rose was cleaning a room with a large window that gave a view of the firing range. John was presiding over a class that was learning to fire a machine gun, in teams of two. The shots popped harshly through the chilly morning air, breaking the peace of the countryside. Rose stopped and leaned against the window ledge to watch the class in session.
John stood in a commanding posture—straight back, feet parted, hands behind him, chin high and haughty—as the boys put the weapons through their paces. His face was stony and his gaze travelled over them in cool, silent assessment. He was the picture of unswerving English male authority.
That is, if the person looking at said picture wasn't Rose.
As she watched, Rose realized John gave the boys little instruction or correction—he interacted with them the bare minimum amount, if that. He had no advice or enthusiasm for the subject, as some of the other instructors did. Rose knew the reason instinctively.
He hated the guns.
The stone in his look and in his stance came from the effort of keeping himself there, from not fleeing the scene or taking a sledgehammer and smashing every one of them.
She turned back to her cleaning. Apparently this time period wasn't necessarily easy on either of them.
A few minutes later the boys began returning from the firing range to the school building proper. She saw Timothy Latimer enter and proceed down the hall, lugging a bucket filled with spent shell casings, apparently charged with their cleanup. Timothy was a boy so small and delicate-looking she barely believed he was old enough to attend the school—the idea that he should be made to shoot a machine gun… She shook her head.
A moment later she startled as the bucket was shoved out of his hand by someone swooping up behind him, sending hundreds of casings crashing and clattering and rolling. The culprit was Baines' thoroughly-obnoxious friend Hutchinson, who pushed Latimer rudely against the wall.
"I haven't seen that history report I told you to write for me," he snarled. "What seems to be the problem?"
The tiny blond boy's eyes were wide, but not surprised. "I've had quite a lot of assignments. I'm finishing as fast as I can."
"Well, I don't give a toss about your bloody assignments. I want mine by tomorrow morning or I start breaking your fingers. Do you hear?" Timothy nodded. Hutchinson gave him another contemptuous shove before leaving. "Stop wanking and get it done."
Rose wished more than ever she wasn't stuck in this stupid powerless position of hers. But from the corner of her eye she saw something that made her heart skip happily: John was in the hallway now; he must have seen the whole thing. Perhaps Hutchinson wasn't too far down the hall to catch.
John quietly sized up the situation and Latimer. "You will have this cleaned up before the next bell," he stated simply.
"Yes sir," said Latimer softly. John continued past.
Around the next corner he found Rose waiting for him. He raised his eyebrows expectantly, pleasantly, waiting for whatever she wanted to say.
"Why me and not him?"
"Excuse me?" He was confused.
"Why would you defend me and not that tiny frail little boy back there?"
John's brows dropped and furrowed. "You mean Latimer?" His eyes focused as he understood. "Well…it's entirely different. You have no recourse—to respond to unpleasant treatment would lose you your home and livelihood. He does, and he needs to learn to use it. To toughen himself."
Rose folded her arms. "So cruelty is character-building, is it?"
John's face became slightly sterner. "It's how he'll become a man," he insisted evenly. He stepped closer. "It may seem cruel to you, but…you're a woman, you're naturally sentimental." He clearly believed this as fact.
Rose didn't know what to say anymore—she was mostly just tired. "I thought I was a person, who naturally had feelings," she sighed and walked away. She was sure something somewhere needed scrubbing.