His Days Like Crazy Paving -- Chapter Two
Two
“Don’t call me a monkey!”
Rose leaned forward on the bench seat, resting her elbows on her knees. The Minneapolis Science Museum was rather nice and the exhibit of Rodents of Unusual size was small, as promised. She sighed and wiggled her toes. It was lovely to sit down, even if it was a children’s puppet show.
On the stage, an irritated orangutan was pontificating. Rose snorted and pressed her fingers over her lips. He sounded amazingly like the Doctor. But ginger. Out of the corner of her eye, Rose could see the Doctor nodding along. Oh, she bit the inside of her cheek, don’t laugh.
“I’m not a monkey!” the orangutan puppet exclaimed. “Chimpanzees, gorillas, bonobos and orangutans -we are the Great Apes.”
“And humans,” the Doctor muttered. “We … oh, yes, we are on that list, too.”
Rose stilled, waiting, but the Doctor just sat, loose-limbed and with a slight smile on his face as he watched the children enjoy the show. “Look at that, Rose,” he said quietly, his head bent to hers. “Look at all those children sitting there, soaking up knowledge like little sponges. That right there,” he nodded his head toward the children, “that is human - teaching and learning, the electric spark of fascination that is passed from teacher to student and back again. It’s what makes humans great. Well,” he nodded, as if agreeing to some interior conversation, “one of the things.”
You stupid Ape! And now here he was, an ape amongst apes. She snuck a look at him, but he was smiling. Contrary git. How would she feel if she suddenly found herself some Cro-Magnon, Neanderthal, or worse, a bonobo?
But then, she couldn’t imagine falling in love with a Neanderthal, so maybe it wasn’t quite like that. He certainly didn’t treat her as if she was some lesser being. Well … not recently.
The show concluded and the Doctor stood and stretched. “Are you hungry? I’m hungry.” He took her hand, pulled her up, grabbed the rucksack with his other hand and threw it over his shoulder. “But let’s not eat here. I saw this little sushi house around the corner that looked nice.”
Rose nodded, amiable. “Sushi it is.” She gave his arm a squeeze. “Lead on, McDuff.”
“Do you know,” the Doctor winced, “how much I hate it when people misquote Shakespeare?”
“Doesn’t count.” Rose raised a brow, archly. “It’s been misquoted so much that the misquote is more well known than the actual quote. I was quoting the misquote.”
The Doctor started to say something and then stopped. “It’s quite fascinating," he said slowly, "to watch language bend and twist over time. Look at the word “nice”; did you know that in the thirteenth century, nice was an insult? It meant foolish or stupid. And it kept on changing, right through to the eighteenth century with meanings like wanton, extravagant, elegant, strange, modest, thin, and shy or coy. In the twentieth century, it began to mean good, pleasing, pleasant, or kind. And it’s changing again …” He pinched his bottom lip between his fingers, thinking. “There’s a connotation of smarminess, or maybe goody-two-shoes, don’t you think?”
Rose quirked her brow. “Mmm,” she nodded, “someone who’s not too bright, too.”
“Which brings it right back around to the original meaning!” They pushed through the museum doors and out into the early evening. “But when I said that the sushi place was nice, it didn’t mean that… hmmmm.” He flashed a sudden smile. “My first me, before I ever regenerated, used to say “hmmm” all of the time. I couldn’t seem to stop myself.”
Rose chuckled. “Couldn’t stop yourself? I can’t imagine!”
He started to reply and then snapped his mouth shut, looking annoyed. Rose bumped him with her hip, smiled and finally leaned into him, kissing him on the chin. “I couldn’t imagine you any other way.”
He stopped, his hand coming to her face and his eyes searching hers, and there on the sidewalk, wrapped his arms around her and kissed her until they were both breathless. Then he tucked her hand back into the crook of his elbow. “Sushi it is.”
The restaurant wasn't far, and not very busy. As they were being seated, Rose realized that she'd lost track of the days. Tuesday? Wednesday? She sighed and gave a mental shrug. Does it matter?
Their meals were served quickly and Rose dived into her dinner, coming up for air, chopsticks poised, when she noticed that the Doctor was chewing thoughtfully, head tipped to the side. Mouth full, she raised her eyebrows in question.
The tip of his tongue swept his upper lip. “It’s just … it tastes so different.”
Rose slowed down, concentrating on the taste of her chicken tempura. “Tastes like chicken.”
The Doctor let out a surprised guffaw, hastily bringing his hand up to cover his mouth. “No! I mean,” he swallowed, “everything that I’ve eaten since I … came into being in this body, tastes different.”
“Good different or bad different?”
“Well,” he leaned back in the chair, one hand on the chopsticks, idly pushing at bits of his supper, the other hand near his face, his index finger skimming his lips, “I don’t know that I’d call it good or bad. Just … different.”
She nudged him with her toes and his eyes met hers. “Must be odd, yeah?” She had the sudden urge to kiss him, but he was across the table, so she stroked the arch of her foot up and down his calf.
He leaned forward, rested his elbow on the table and his chin in his hand, and smiled. “Odd? You humans are so…” He blew air out in half a laugh. “Look at you, Rose Tyler! Ex-shop-girl, galaxy-hopping, universe-hopping …”
“Alien-loving,” Rose interjected.
“Mmm,” he nodded. “Do you remember the Krillitanes?” He blinked. “I wonder if there are Krillitanes in this universe? That’s a nasty thought.” His eyes strayed over her shoulder focusing in the distance. Rose waited patiently and he came back with a shiver. “Yeesss. Krillitanes. Brother Lassa called the Time Lords “ancient, dusty senators, so frightened of change and chaos.” And do you know what?” His eyes flicked away, drifting lightly around the restaurant. “He was right. They were so proud of their manufactured superiority. So … pleased with their cleverness.” His eyes touched hers and skipped away again. “But there’s a price to genetic manipulation.”
Rose searched her mind for a way out of this particular conversation; the last time, it’d ended up in a crying jag and talk of suicide. I suppose he could stab himself in the eye with a chopstick… She shuddered at the visual. Ick. She set her chopsticks down and brought her feet under the chair, resting her weight lightly on her toes, ready.
“Rose?”
“Hmm?”
“Are you alright?”
She shook herself and looked at him, really looked at him.
He leaned forward with a slightly evil expression. “Relax.” His sly smile twisted. “As much as the thought of you leaping over the table and wrestling me to the floor has its appeal, I hardly think this is the place for it, hmmm?”
Rose felt her cheeks warm. “Wot?”
And he gave her that look, that you-just-dribbled-on-your-shirt look. She hadn’t seen that look in ages! “What in heaven is going on in that odd little human brain of yours?”
Rose shook her head. She could feel a huge smile pushing her cheeks up, and let a giggle fall past the smile. “Let’s find a room, yeah? I think I want to shag you breathless.”
“Oh!” He sat back, bemused. “You…” His brow quirked. “You will tell me what just happened?”
“In the post-shag colloquy.”
He pushed his chair out and grabbed the rucksack. “I love the post-shag colloquy!”
Much later, in the darkness of their room, Rose sleeping deeply beside him, the Doctor was dreaming. He knew he was dreaming but the knowledge was spectacularly unhelpful. He couldn’t move.
He could feel the hands. Hands, hands, hands, grabbing, vise-like, dragging him to his death. He couldn’t move a muscle. Not even his foot.
It’s called sleep paralysis. Rose had explained it to him. He had known of it, but had never experienced anything like it. Well. Except on Midnight and he hadn’t been asleep, then.
He wrenched himself out of the dream and focused on his breathing. He tried to ignore his heartbeat, that slow, single beat which had brought him panicked, gasping and clutching his chest, from sleep so many times in his first weeks.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
He counted ten breaths, twenty. He could move his fingers, his ankles. He listened. Before falling asleep, Rose had turned off the nasty air conditioner and opened the window. He could hear trucks and autos zooming along the motorway. Far away, a dog barked. With a deep sigh, he bent his elbow and ran a shaking hand through his hair. Slowly, so not to awaken Rose, he slipped out of bed and padded naked to the window.
Earth’s single moon hung three-quarters full, low in the night sky. Near dawn, then. The dream and not-dream had left him feeling odd. The things around him were not quite real, and the lack of his other senses gaped like an unexpected abyss, as if he were walking and suddenly teetered on the edge of a great chasm.
That impulse... that strange little impulse... that mad little voice saying -- go on... go on... go on... go over, go on...
His other senses had grounded him, letting him know beyond doubt what was real and what was fancy. How did humans do this? How could they operate with such a paucity of information? You’ve got to learn to use your gut, Rose had explained.
He snorted and patted his slight midsection. Isn’t that just wizard.
Still, the voice inside him whispered, go on, go on, go on… Maybe that was his gut. Maybe he should listen to it. He fumbled in the dark for his clothes and pulled them on. He couldn’t find one of his shoes, so he left the socks and the single shoe by the bed and slipped out of the room, closing the door softly behind him.
He wasn’t used to going barefoot, and didn’t know what had compelled him. The carpet was soft and, out in the hotel lobby, the tile was slick and cold. His bare feet told him more about his environment, like an extra sense; a this-is-what-is-underneath-me sense. Not good for running, though.
There was a strip of lawn and some manicured garden outside the entrance doors. The sidewalk was slightly rough and cool as the tile had been. The grass was a very different thing.
It prickled between his toes and against his arches. He walked slowly, setting his feet down with care. It was a very well cared for lawn - there were no sticks or rocks underfoot. He knelt, pushing his palms against the grass, stood and took another careful step. His soles felt the grass quite differently than his palms.
“You lose somethin’, buddy?”
A man was sitting on a big chunk of rose granite that graced the garden. He was holding a spade and a cigarette dangled from his lips.
“Oh! No. I … Um.”
“Couldn’t sleep, eh? I get that, sometimes.” The man sucked on the cigarette and pulled it away, waving the hand so that a feather of smoke steaked the air. “This time of the mornin’ is nice. All quiet an’ fresh like.”
The Doctor looked up. The moon had set and dawn glowed in the east. “It’s very beautiful.”
The man with the spade sighed, carefully pinched the cinder off his cigarette and pocketed the filter. He closed his eyes and took a long, deep breath. “My people are the Anishnabe, what you whites call the Ojibwa. You’re an Englishman?”
“Close enough.” Streaks of pink and orange layered the eastern horizon.
“Nice to meet you. May this day bring you pleasure.” The man picked up his spade and began to make his way around the garden. “Remember,” he said over his shoulder, “that certain things catch your eye. But pursue only those that capture your heart.”
The Doctor turned, but the man had gone.