Nothing ever came to be the same after their encounter in the barn the previous day. Knowing his taste is off a borrowed tongue. Sight through anothers eyes. Touch with a strangers fingers.
All violating when accompanied with the truth.
Yet he couldn't help but feel selfish.
The sensations are his to experience. John is very much alive, despite his circumstances of coming to be, and he refuses to be shadowed by a man -no, alien- called the Doctor.
"Evening, Mister Smith," Rose greeted that morning, breakfast tray in hand.
Well, said experiences are fine, until it comes to her. Rose knows all of the mysteries involving that accursed Doctor. She is the one who put the shadow there. The only other one who can perceive his body is not his own. The one he must either overcome or ignore to live on pretending to have not known of the Doctor. And -really- he can only do one without going mad.
"Evening," he returned. Still coming to grips with his new niche of reality, John wondered how to treat, not only her, but the others. All the real people compared to one imposter. A wolf in sheep's clothing among a flock of pigeons.
"How are you?" John used the expression as a test, and could feel the walls judging him. A panic gripped him. Nervous energy spilling to his legs as he paced the floor. "More importantly, how must I live lying to everyone I know?"
Rose itched her forehead, taking a moment to think. "It's not lying. You've never been lying. You're just doing what you're programmed to do. Be a- a bloke... programme... thing."
"Programme... programme?" John fisted his pajama top. "How do I understand such terminology!? That is another thing; I do not question you as much as I should. How is it I comprehend your... your Wonderland of reality!?" John walked a circle around Rose.
"M'not sure." Rose watched him warily, recognising a man on the edge. "Probably bits of the Doctor projecting onto you."
"You're never sure of anything. Are you not my keeper?"
"For the Doctor, yes. I never planned to be so involved with your life. But I'm your maid. The TARDIS decided what I would be to you, and that's it."
"My life is fabricated," admitting that still felt like a blow to the chest, "and you simply dance around facts I believe to be truth?"
"Yeah." She replied, a hint of defiance. "First thing you did when we met was thank me, your maid, for," she mimicked his voice, "accompanying me on this trying journey. I was forced into this life. You were tailored to it. You can live comfortably. You can fit in. Me? I'm an outsider. Yes, I'm dancing around your life. To protect the Doctor, what other choice did I have?"
John backed from her then. Reality a hard slap to the face. Rose is his most trusted maid. A young girl he witnessed blossom into this flower of a woman. Lies. Their companionship has been time under an eye glass. For him years. For her weeks. And the worst part being-
"I have existed no more than a month?" He asked, scarcely believing the words. The knowledge paralyzed him. What he knew, and what he aspired to accomplish crumpled at the feet of how insignificant his span of life has been thus far. What's more is John could not find it within himself to discover a new meaning in this revelation. After all, the further he dug for an acceptance of this, the further he fell. His eyes flew about the room, landing on his dresser. John slid the drawer open, numbly searching its contents, as he fumbled with the buttons of his top. "These matters need not be addressed now. I must... work." Work. Something concrete. Something he need not question.
Rose felt reluctant to leave him in such a mess. His hands shaking, and voice quavering. However, she knew attempting conversation now would only succeed in making John worse.
"Go." he told her absently, already half-dressed. "You've done quite enough." Already feeling useless, it stung that he made the decision for her. So, with a heavy heart she put her hand to the door, and left.
"Mister Smith, sir, might you wish to start the lesson?" Young Timothy asked. A representative for the rest of the students who knew not what to voice aloud upon the sight of their distraught instructor.
John Smith with his hands folded over one another against his forehead, and eyes closed, hadn't spoken since a 'good morning' he muttered to one of his students as they poured into the room.
Lesson? He must fill their minds full of knowledge. A laughable cause. What knowledge is in John Smith's possession that did not derive from the databanks of a machine? Never truly understood. Never truly taught. One who has not been taught should not be allowed to teach. Perhaps instead the children could download his mind's content. Understand as he has. And then what? There is no imagination in uniform education. John scoffed, his statement is no more accurate than now. He's no imagination to speak of. His wonderful dreams, so terrible, so fantastic. Mere memories ghosting to the façade of someone real.
And for that matter, who is John to the living world? All he's known is a false life. False friends. False identity. Who's to say what he see's now isn't the same? After all his life before Farringham still feels so genuine.
The door banged open. John peered up in time to see Rocastle striding across the room.
"Mister Smith, might I have a word outside?" Rocastle requested.
John nodded then obediently proceeded out the door.
"Am I to believe your pupil?" He harshly whispered in the empty halls, red-faced, not at all hiding his rage.
John blinked. "Sorry?"
He took a deep, anger-shaken breath. "Your pupil, Mister Smith, arrived at my office to inform me his instructor had yet to begin instruction."
John opened and closed his mouth, no excuses falling from his lips. "A thousand apologies, sir."
"No need." Rocastle bit back. "It has been more than an hour of you twiddling your thumbs. I shall tend to your class for the remainder of the day. Return to your quarters at once." He set one hand on the doorknob to leave, then added, "I expected better of you, Mister Smith."
Rocastle did not punctuate his words with a slammed door as he walked inside, instead closing it with expected force. The act stung John. Like surrender, leaving John as a lost cause. Unwanted.
Rose traced the panels of John's door. He'd been dismissed for the day, no doubt thanks to her. She thought it appropriate to at least fetch him some refreshments. Tea. Normally he loves small things like this on an off day, but does he care to face her at the moment? Even for a simple delivery she worries what else could go wrong. Rose twisted around to lean against the wall outside his room. He could have lived the entire hoax out blissfully unaware. Never knowing he wears a mask. No one can see it anyway. She shouldn't have said anything. Should've lied through her teeth when he stumbled upon the TARDIS at least, convince him it's a dream. Something. Anything but the truth.
Rose lifted her head, back erect.
Sod the possibilities. She was careless. He knows. Now what?
Rose stared at the tray in her hand, the liquid within the mug sloshing with her nervous hand.
It all depends on how he lives with it. The TARDIS created him, surely she foresaw this happening. He'll be reasonable. She only needs him to accept this then continue his content human life. Basically he's always been centered around his work anyway. It'll be fine.
Meanwhile, inside the room John sat slumped against his desk. All the skill of a teacher, yet he could not even do that properly. An automobile with a missing wheel, what use is he? John's focus wanes on the importance of his career as his selfish thoughts swirl around recent news. Therefore John strains to forget the truth. Forget and move on. There is no palpable difference in knowing his origins anyway.
Except it's like breathing.
When constantly aware of it suddenly one cannot do it properly. The force of air coursing through the nose, filling the lungs. Too fast. Too slow. Too difficult to set an even pace. Too difficult to inhale enough. Miniscule nostrils sucking in little sips with every deep breath he takes.
John opened his mouth and gulped in air. And the air escaped as an acid laced laugh.
Not even his body, but he must maintain it. That is his purpose. Not the professor status he has been elevated to. No. He is a caretaker. Why must he worry for more than what others expect of him? Why fret over the details?
A simple answer to a simple question; because it's his life.
Because he wants to teach.
Because he wants to live. Nothing more, nothing less.
John deserves so much more, for he never carried a craving for anything extravagant. He aspired to retire old, happy, and married. Maybe even bouncing a grand-baby on his knee. A formula so heartwarmingly uncomplicated his eyes watered at the thought of it possibly being out of his reach. However, that's preposterous, no one can crush his dreams. No one. He will not allow it. With this recycled face he's been given, John dares to feel a greed for normalcy. No fob watches or magical boxes. Only a maid who is no more than she appears, and a career to complete it.
Yet, is the greed even his own? A blue box spun his every tick together. Any thought is not even his own. What's the point in being greedy? What's the point in breaking from his chains, when that is what has been programmed into him? Even the most outlandish retaliation he can imagine to create his own person has been planted into his mind.
John pounded his fists against his desk, items atop it clattering, yet remaining stationary. Not enough. He swiped his arms across the surface. Thin papers fluttering, trinkets angrily pelting the floorboards, delicate glass shattering. Ebbing away his internal struggle with a chaos he can see and understand. The glass was weak, so it shattered. Cause and effect. Easy. So easy, John suddenly wanted to fall and be that glass. It's conflict with the ground lasted for only seconds. Painless compared to what he's battling now.
"John!" Rose stumbled into the room, panic-stricken.
"Rose," he gasped.
She took in the state of his immediate area. "John..." She murmured, set a tray down, then crossed the room to pick at the mess.
John felt a pang of shame that she caught him in the midst of a fit. He kept his gaze trained on the ground. He's aware Rose must feel responsible as his keeper for the emotions he cannot control, on the contrary, he respects that she communicated the truth. She has no reign over how he reacts to it. However the words he hoped would ease her worry cluttered at his gritted teeth. Blame wanted to fire from his mouth. Rose put this on him, but John refused to hurt her for it. Although, it is her fault. He was fine until she coddled blue boxes, and men in watches.
John could feel his muscles pulsing with the urge to paint his room with destruction. For fear of what would happen should she remain in his presence, John left.
Only to have Rose follow.
A/N
Finals are soon, and I've got quite a bit to wrap up. I say this because my mind's crafty and gifts me a special brand of writers block when I know I have a ton of things that need to be done, so no promises on when the next update will be. Until then, has anyone read The Truth Is by Khatt? Beautiful! Also, I enjoyed Spring Conditions by Strange Charmed. Or if you're a bit risque how about Incurable by rosa acicularis?
Iron Mikan Frost-Elric-Uzumaki: Thank you! Love your pen name btw.
GriffinGirl8655: Aw, yeah, accepting he's real is going to be a tough pill for John to swallow after this. Thank you for the review!
MirrorFlower and DarkWind: Poor John's got it tough. Get's happier for him later though ;) As always, Thanks for reviewing!
Curry: Yep, because John being oblivious isn't actually that fun. Thank you for reviewing!
FRENCH TOAST: Thank you very much! Haha, French Toast and the one above you is Curry, hmm... food. Interesting. xD I hope you continue to enjoy where this fic is going. :)
Pegasusfeather7: Ah, true, but I'm afraid John needs to fall a bit more before Rose can try to pick him up. :) Thank you for reviewing!
Kl: Oh hey! Kl! Welcome back! Well... welcome to here? Yes. Welcome! Thanks for that tidbit, identity crisis is a tough idea to work the kinks out on. Hopefully this goes well. And thank you for the review!
MirrorFlower and DarkWind: Thank you! I'm glad this is going well. :)
Kl: No need to apologise. Any and every bit of help is welcome with open arms. I'm just being childish and tetchy with wishing this fic was a 'no angst' thing, since I've been trying to make at least one fic that doesn't go off a feels cliff somewhere, and is 'aww' all the way through. But this one is definitely angst, so I must thank you for the reference to CAL, because analyzing that is helping. :) Hah, and I'm glad you point out the small development. I threw the last chapter up as a quick 'is anyone still reading?' Which came up positive, so I'm glad. Thank you for reading!