The Flame Is Gone
Tom set the book of fairy-tales down, his gaze tracing Vivien's irregular features, his heart twisting at seeing her so still. She'd been unconscious for a week and a half now, Tom only leaving her side to search for his son or to fulfil his responsibilities to the 2nd Mass. He slept on the floor beside her camp bed, Matt sleeping beside him, their sleeping bags only an inch apart, the son keeping vigil with the father.
Hal kept an uncharacteristic distance, only dropping into the clinic with Karen to check on Tom and Matt, struggling to understand why they were becoming so involved with Vivien. He had heard the rumours that his father had taken an unhealthy interest in Vivien, but he dismissed it as gossip, mistakenly believing Tom to be above such emotions. But all the same, he maintained his distance, something about Vivien unnerving him, her presence heralding the hint of change in the air.
But surprisingly it had been Hal who'd suggested that Tom should talk to Vivien, that the sound of his voice might drag her out of the darkness. So Tom told Vivien of his day, what he'd done, what he'd had for lunch, trivial trivia interspersed with random references to historical facts and figures, endless anecdotes about a past he had no part of, and when he'd exhausted even that, he turned to books instead, using the words as weapons in his assault on Vivien's personal Alcatraz, trying to bring down the walls that kept her within. But whether she heard him was a whole other story, a story that other stories couldn't seem to end.
The 2nd Mass had been on high alert in the aftermath of the attack, letting the dust settle before lowering their guard, satisfied there wouldn't be a repeat of that night. The Mechs had only attacked because a number of civilians had secretly fled the school, unable to stay any longer under the same roof as two aliens, only making it out so far before running into a Mech patrol. The survivors had staggered back to the school, leading the Mechs right back to the 2nd Mass, and it had only been through the Doctor's actions that a massacre had been avoided.
After his first failed attempt to gain entry into her unconsciousness, the Doctor had tried several times since, practice finally making perfect, allowing him to walk amongst Vivien's memories, even as they divided him from her. The Doctor paid particular attention to her time with the Skitters, recognizing Red-Eye from the alleyway on the night of the bombing of South Boston, leading him to wonder why the creature had appeared to both of them.
But in the end, he drew a blank, like he drew a blank over why Vivien was being hunted, why they would want her. He didn't recognize the technology of what the 2nd Mass called Mechs, or the creatures they called Skitters. But races adapted and evolved, always ever changing, so the Doctor reasoned he would deduce who they were eventually, and that he wouldn't be surprised if their paths had crossed before. Time could pass, but it couldn't erode the ties of enmity that bound him and his foes together.
He'd seen from Vivien's memories that the TARDIS had been taken, that she hadn't told the 2nd Mass of its existence, but he bottled up his grief over the loss, focusing on Vivien, trying and failing to bring her back from the brink. What worried him though were the flashes of Tom he stumbled across, Vivien's memories dwelling on the directness of his dark gaze, lingering on his broad shoulders and large capable hands, the Doctor sensing she unconsciously drew a strange sort of comfort from what he considered Tom's dully stolid presence.
To the Doctor's surprise, Weaver had now oddly allowed him the tentative run of the makeshift medical clinic, letting him tend to Vivien and whoever else was passed his way whenever an extra pair of hands was needed, which was often, Anne and Lourdes already overworked as it was. The patients he treated openly recoiled from him, watching him work with a fascinated horror, but they brooked no protest when he diagnosed ailments and treated injuries, accepting him against their will. After saving the 2nd Mass, the Doctor now existed somewhere between saint and sinner, hero and pariah, but whilst Anne was aloof, Lourdes was not, and as for Tom, it was open enmity between human and Time Lord.
"What are you reading her now?" the Doctor asked abruptly, startling Tom.
Tom stared at the Doctor for a moment, deliberating whether to answer him or not. He'd taken to ignoring the Doctor on occasion, but Vivien was the catalyst that unwillingly drew them together, forcing Tom to acknowledge the alien against his will. "Sleeping Beauty," he said reluctantly, holding up a battered book of children's' fairy-tales.
"Rather ironic, isn't it?" the Doctor observed dryly, rubbing his side. Apart from a few twinges here and there, he was now almost healed.
"Matt picked it out."
"You son's very worried about her," the Doctor said slowly, eyes narrowing as he stared at a point past Tom's head.
"As am I," Tom said, slightly unnerved. Matt was here with him through sheer necessity, but he wasn't blind to the fact Matt had taken a weird shine to Vivien, always asking Tom when would she wake up, the fact she could whip his ass at Monopoly having somehow won his immature respect.
"She isn't his mother," the Doctor snapped, no longer vague.
"I never said she was," Tom said, taken aback.
"But your son's forming an attachment to her," the Doctor said, "and it's up to you to nip it in the bud."
"He's not doing any such thing," Tom said tersely, "he's scared of her more than anything else."
"He's a little boy who has lost his mother," the Doctor said from between gritted teeth, "and now he's trying to replace what he's lost. Father like son in fact."
Before Tom could do anything but flush hotly, Maggie came stalking through the doors, rifle slung across her back. "My Little Pony wants you," she said abruptly, her latest nickname for Weaver making the Doctor's lips twitch, "so get to it, Tom-Tom."
Tom hastily pulled on his jacket, grateful for the opportunity to escape, avoiding Maggie's mocking gaze. They had fallen into a strange routine, Maggie sitting with Vivien when he was gone, reading to her, as well as giving her sponge-baths and brushing her black hair, performing each task with brisk efficiency. She had shown up that first night, offering to assist with Vivien's care, and when Tom had asked her why, she'd just shrugged her shoulders, saying she owed Vivien for attacking Pope, doing what she'd never had the balls to do.
"Yes, get to it, Tom-Tom," the Doctor said dryly, adjusting Vivien's drip, "we don't want to keep My Little Pony waiting."
Vivien sat stiffly in her favourite wing-chair, Midnight, their black pet cat rubbing its head against her ankle, her hand resting on her bump. She felt like she was caught between two worlds, trying to hold onto what felt like a dream in the face of reality. Like a litany, she went over and over what she could remember of her other life, her thoughts dwelling on Tom the most, recalling his large capable hands with the nails bitten down to the quick and the lines etched around his dark eyes, as well as his quiet strength and awkward demeanour.
The other Tom in front of her was a world away from the Tom she was trying to hold onto, his beard neatly trimmed, his hair cut in a more restrained version of the Doctor's wild cockatoo style, his clothes bordering on bohemian, a loose long sleeved white top and dark grey waistcoat teamed with black skinny jeans. He gave the impression of trying to recapture his youth, a youth long gone, and something about this made Vivien's stomach turn, sitting at odds with how she remembered the other Tom who accepted his ageing with a casual shrug of the shoulder.
"You okay?" he asked her, sounding annoyed.
Vivien nodded, her jaw tightening, belying her lie. Somewhere a front door banged, and then there was the sound of small running feet, a sound Vivien thought she would never hear again. Then a little girl with long waving black hair danced into the room, twirling around Tom, who lifted the child up, before swinging her round, making her shriek with lilting laughter. Lourdes, dressed in an utilitarian black uniform, then came into the room, carrying another little girl, younger though, about three years old, wearing a fancy red coat. She put the little girl down, hovering anxiously in the background as the child toddled over to the cat, her tiny face determined despite itself, her small hand reaching out for its tail, the cat artfully evading her.
Almost detachedly, Vivien observed the domestic scene in front of her, feeling herself to have no part in it. This wasn't her life and these weren't her children, Tom more a stranger here than he was elsewhere. But as the baby kicked within her, Vivien began to doubt herself, her gaze becoming drawn to the littlest girl against her will, a terrible longing to have back what she'd lost suddenly almost overwhelming her.
"Hello," she said, struggling to keep her voice steady.
"Cat," the little girl said simply, pointing to it.
"Yes, that's a cat," Vivien said, amused against her will.
Lourdes knelt down between the little girl and the cat, tactfully separating them. "Why don't you give your mother the flowers you picked?" she gently suggested, smoothing down the little girl's coat collar, the maternal gesture making Vivien's hackles involuntarily rise.
"I's picked you pretty flowers, Mama," the little girl said, like it was her own idea, shrugging off Lourdes's maternal hand as she toddled towards Vivien instead, pulling out a bundle of crushed flowers from her pocket.
Vivien swallowed hard, finding it hard to look at her, yet unable to look away, taking in the little girl's features, seeing herself in her, both sharing the same ivory skin, wilful chin and big blue eyes, but the little girl was as delicately pretty as a doll, her perfect features a world away from Vivien's plain ones. The little girl surveyed her from beneath a tangle of ebony curls, before suddenly smiling, her baby teeth as perfect as pearls. Before Vivien could stop herself, she picked her daughter up, almost crushing her to her chest, the little girl laughing, Vivien fiercely kissing her forehead.
"She isn't yours and she isn't real," the Doctor said, leaning against the wall. "You're losing the fight, Vivien."
"What fight?" Vivien spat.
"This fight," the Doctor said simply, straightening his bowtie. "Why else do you think I'm here? Your brain conjured me up for a reason. It's using your hatred of me to make you fight when you otherwise wouldn't."
"And why wouldn't I fight?"
"Because this is what you want," the Doctor said, stepping forwards, "this is what you're running from."
Vivien shook her head, unable to unravel his riddles.
"You have to fight this, Vivien," the Doctor urged, his voice suddenly urgent. "You have to fight yourself."
"What are you saying, Doctor?" Vivien hissed, holding her daughter close to her. "That my life is a trick, a trap?"
"It's a test," the Doctor said, "a test you're failing as we speak."
"She told Weaver she could bend light," Tom said suddenly, making the Doctor whirl around, instantly on the alert.
"Was this before or after the rack?" the Doctor said darkly, his mouth mocking, belying his true frame of mind.
"Don't talk horse-shit," Tom said, exasperated. "This isn't the Middle Ages."
"It certainly smells like it," the Doctor said with a pointed glance at Tom's grubby checked shirt, both of them knowing it hadn't seen a washing machine for a long time.
"You're none too fresh yourself," Tom snapped back, knowing all too well he was now more hobo than history professor, a strong contrast to how he used to be, cutting a conservative figure at Boston University with his blazers and smart slacks.
"Vivien likes a little bit of stubble," the Doctor said, allowing an intimate edge to creep into his voice, enjoying the sight of Tom tensing up, bitten by the fangs of sudden bitter jealousy.
"Really?" Tom said carelessly, not deceiving the Doctor one jot.
"She doesn't like full blown beards," the Doctor said lightly, casting Tom yet another pointed glance, focusing on his facial hair with peculiar intensity, "in fact she has quite the phobia about them."
"I'm talking about Vivien's ability to bend light here, not my beard," Tom tried and failed to say calmly.
"Who said we were talking about your beard, Mephistopheles?" the Doctor scoffed. "Vivien would no sooner look at you than she would Weaver" –
-"Why can't you just answer the goddamn question!?" Tom snapped, the Doctor's insult hitting a raw nerve, setting off the tripwires of guilt within him. He knew he had no right to look at Vivien, the extreme polarity of their positions only increasing his unease, her vulnerable state as his prisoner playing on his conscience. He would never exploit his power, but his conflicting feelings were setting him on edge, furthered by his grief over his wife, Tom recognizing the danger he was dallying with, using Vivien as a replacement for Rebecca, projecting his injured emotions onto her instead.
"They're just parlour tricks," the Doctor snapped back, "I don't know what she's truly capable of – the truth is locked away in her DNA. But all you need to know is that she's damaged goods; bending light is about as good as it gets."
"But she said she was the strongest, that's why she survived the process" -
- "But that doesn't mean she's a perfect specimen," the Doctor said, brow furrowing, "she's flawed."
"She's Xanthe," Tom said quietly, studying Vivien's pale face, only seeing who she was and not what she'd become.
"Technically, Xanthe is just a crude translation," the Doctor said loftily, his foot on his native heath, explaining the unknown to the local apes, "you wouldn't be able to pronounce it in its original form..."
As he prattled on, Tom just sat there, still studying Vivien, his heart at war with himself again. For all his shyness, he was a red-blooded man, and Vivien with her Monroe hips and indigo eyes had more than caught his attention, but it went beyond that. He barely knew her, but in the brief time he had known her, she had become important to him, more than important, embodying an existence where he could dare to be happy again.
Vivien was like a shock to the system, dragging him out of the darkness, waking him up to the world again. He'd had no time to defend himself, no space to retreat, only knowing surrender. Yet that had been then, and this was now, Tom fighting himself when he couldn't fight her. If she would wake up, he would walk away, even as there was nothing to walk away from. Whatever he was beginning to feel, was entirely one-sided, and he could crush that; he would purge himself of the insanity beginning to possess him.
And sometimes I try to go on
I know it's wrong
'Cause when I see your eyes
I can see the flame is gone, gone, gone…