Meaning and Memory 1/4
TITLE: Meaning and Memory
PAIRING: Alt!Ten/Rose, I swear! Just trust me on this.
RATING: R (to be on the safe side) for some sexual themes and general messed-up-ness, may go up in later chapters.
SPOILERS: Does it really need saying?
SUMMARY: Alt!Ten hits a rough patch. What's it like to have someone else's memories?
A/N: This is one of those fics where Alt!Ten and Rose get all dysfunctional.
The Doctor, or Professor John Smith depending on who he was talking to, was getting on rather well, all things considered. He might be a human-alien hybrid, but he wasn't stupid. He could hail a cab, cook an egg over-easy, pay his bills on time, and buy his own clothes (though he retained a fondness for suits of a similar cut, but in different colours). He could ring Rose up and ask her over to dinner, meet her on the front doorstep and invite her in. He could get to work on time, teach his classes, come home and grade papers, enjoy a drink, or several, down at the pub, and answer when people called him "Prof" rather than "Doctor." He didn't really need looking-after. As days turned in to weeks and weeks in to months, he continued to shock everyone who knew his true identity with his complete and utter lack of trouble-making.
The first things Rose noticed changing were his kisses. In the initial few weeks of their tentative courtship, he'd taken her in his arms and kissed her with tremendous need and desire, like a starving man at a four-course meal. She figured that wouldn't last, as she'd seen with her own eyes how quickly the flame between her mum and Pete had begun to gutter, as they started taking each other for granted, like normal people with normal lives. Nevertheless, she was surprised when she found herself not being kissed with less passion necissarily, but more trepidation, even hesitation. The usual course of events would be for passion to die but tender familiarity to take its place. What seemed to be growing between them now, however, was something more akin to fear. For many weeks, she thought she was just being paranoid, imagining things, but the feeling didn't go away.
When she took him to bed, and it had always been she who took him, at first he was like a teenaged boy; all hands and teeth and endearing, if somewhat hapless, ardor. They learned their way around each other like normal couples do, but instead of a comfortable routine developing, their lovemaking had suddenly begun to turn distant, even aggressive, and he started to initiate. The first few times he'd grabbed her with a new and wary look in his eye, Rose had found it exhilarating and delightfully naughty. She was glad he was finally learning to take the upper hand, and encouraged his apparent efforts to try some new things and see what he liked best. But ultimately, being taken roughly in random locations around a London townhouse begins to lose it's thrill after a while, and then it just gets a bit weird. She'd started to turn down his invites on nights that she was just too tired from her demanding job at Torchwood to go another round with him.
He could still talk a good game if he wanted to, but seemed to want to less and less. When she made it around to his place, or he to hers (which was rare), they chatted about their respective days, people they knew in common, the news and sport, but whenever Rose made reference to something from their shared past, back when this man was another man, a door would close behind his eyes and the sparkle usually found there would go dark. She stopped bringing those things up. The last tie she had with her former life, the last person who could truly understand her, and he seemed to be slipping away.
Their relationship was moving backwards. The crazy blendering of time and space that they both thought they'd been cast far clear of somehow seemed to be invading their life together anyway.
~o0o~
"I'm not stalking him, I'm not stalking him, I'm not...," Rose muttered to herself as she got out of the cab a few blocks from the Doctor's townhouse. There was no scheduled date, he had not rung her for nearly a week as a matter of fact, though it was finals time at the University and she understood he was probably snowed under. She tried to tell herself that she'd chosen to wear dark-coloured clothing on this day simply because it was what was clean and available, but she wasn't even convincing herself, and certainly wouldn't be able to fool him if she got caught.
She told herself she was just going to walk by his place, see what lights were on in what windows, and then go home. The Doctor, the old Doctor, he'd told her that this new man needed her, needed someone to watch over him, curb his supposedly destructive tendencies. So that was what she was doing. Right? Seeing to this other Doctor, making sure he was not harming self or others. Never mind that she'd seen no such tendencies in him whatsoever since they'd been left together, aside from an irritating tendency to shout and punch the wall when he stubbed his toe. She'd made a promise, and she would keep it. Even if that meant some harmless subterfuge.
She walked on the opposite side of the street from his townhouse, eyes darting from his front door, to down the street, to over her shoulder. Not acting suspicious at all, then, she thought. It was a foggy night, the springtime weather creating conflicting pockets of warm and moist and cool and dry. A fine night for spying. Except, as she neared his home, she noticed rather quickly that there was nothing to spy upon. All the windows were dark. Not a creature was stirring, not even a human-Time Lord metacrisis. She ventured across the street and peered down the stairs into the cellar. He had a small workshop down there that he liked to tinker in from time to time with little bits and bobs Rose brought him from her work, but no sign of him there either.
Okay, she thought, so he's not home. So what? He had a right to be not home. He was likely just down at the pub, having a pint in the corner by himself, watching people as he seemed to enjoy doing. His latent Time Lord charisma ensured that no one there thought him creepy, just a touch eccentric but friendly enough, and a fairly big hit with the ladies (and a few of the men). He was a regular, and Rose went with him enough times that the bar maid would start to pull a lager when she walked in, and for the Doctor, a stout. Maybe she'd ring his mobile, make like she was in the neighborhood, invite herself to the Red Lion for a drink and a chat. She could tell him about some more of the abject incompetence coming out of the Cardiff branch, as he always seemed to enjoy hearing about their various cock-ups. She'd just walk round to the pub and take a quick peep in the window, just to make sure he was there before dialing.
As she rounded up to the pub, she pulled her mobile out and prepared to dial, putting herself already in the state of mind to enjoy an evening out, and perhaps even get enough drinks in her to fancy being taken back home by the Doctor and tossed over the arm of the sofa or what have you. Except when she peered in to the window, he wasn't in his usual spot. Nor was he at the bar. He wasn't hard to spot, being a fairly tall chap with an interesting taste in clothes, and he was nowhere to be found. She turned back from the window, pressed herself up against the wall to avoid being seen and gave him a minute or two in case he was in the loo. When he still wasn't able to be seen, Rose weighed her options. Would she really be that girl? That bird who's always checking up on her man, asking around about him, snooping behind his back, constantly convinced he was up to something? It sounded ridiculous in a grown, professional woman. On the other hand: metacrisis. Her bloke wasn't just any old guy and there was just as much danger in this universe as the last. The thought of something happening to him, some villain getting their hands on his magnificent Time Lord mind, the hot sting of panic began to rise from her stomach in to her throat and she realized with a certainty that almost made her wretch that she loved him desperately, all the more for being almost a man and not quite an alien, and lost here with her.
She dialed his mobile number, her tongue poking out of her mouth, her brows knitting, listening to the ringing go on to five, six, seven, then voicemail. His outgoing message had always made her chuckle in the past, as he'd placed it there when he was still struggling to make his personal information sound natural and then never changed it, but now it just sounded ominous, tinny and hollow. Maybe he was on the tube, maybe she could text him, maybe he was on the other line, maybe in a late meeting, maybe, maybe, maybe.
The images flitting through her mind drove her on, back up the street, back to his townhouse, as if someone was pushing her form behind. She'd use her key, take a look around there for clues, be the good Torchwood operative and look after her assigned charge. He'd understand, he'd have to. He'd been through just as much as she, or at least had the memories of the man who had. The blood so thrummed in her ears in her increasing panic, she almost didn't hear it.
A laugh. His laugh. His special high-pitched little giggle that was only for her, when she said something really outrageous or silly. It echoed around the close, tripped over the cobblestones, landed directly at Rose's feet where she stood fixed to the spot around the last corner before she rounded to his house. She hugged the nearest wall and even her shallow breathing sounded like it was being broadcast over the entire neighborhood. She heard him laugh again and then she heard...someone else. A woman. She couldn't make out what was being said, but there seemed to be a general feeling of mirth. Edging up to the corner, she could hear only one set of footsteps clearly, which would make sense of course. The Doctor's trainers (he'd retained a fondness for those too) were usually nearly silent, but a woman wearing high heels would make quite a bit of clatter in the dense air of a foggy night. She felt like cold invisible hands were grabbing her from behind and pulling her back from the wall, and she had to struggle to make herself look, to tilt her head to the left and edge it around the sandstone block of the house she was skirting.
Too late. She heard the familiar sound of the Doctor's front door shutting, the door-knocker clattering in the singular, distinctive way she'd heard a million times already. Snick, rattle, click.
PAIRING: Alt!Ten/Rose, I swear! Just trust me on this.
RATING: R (to be on the safe side) for some sexual themes and general messed-up-ness, may go up in later chapters.
SPOILERS: Does it really need saying?
SUMMARY: Alt!Ten hits a rough patch. What's it like to have someone else's memories?
A/N: This is one of those fics where Alt!Ten and Rose get all dysfunctional.
The Doctor, or Professor John Smith depending on who he was talking to, was getting on rather well, all things considered. He might be a human-alien hybrid, but he wasn't stupid. He could hail a cab, cook an egg over-easy, pay his bills on time, and buy his own clothes (though he retained a fondness for suits of a similar cut, but in different colours). He could ring Rose up and ask her over to dinner, meet her on the front doorstep and invite her in. He could get to work on time, teach his classes, come home and grade papers, enjoy a drink, or several, down at the pub, and answer when people called him "Prof" rather than "Doctor." He didn't really need looking-after. As days turned in to weeks and weeks in to months, he continued to shock everyone who knew his true identity with his complete and utter lack of trouble-making.
The first things Rose noticed changing were his kisses. In the initial few weeks of their tentative courtship, he'd taken her in his arms and kissed her with tremendous need and desire, like a starving man at a four-course meal. She figured that wouldn't last, as she'd seen with her own eyes how quickly the flame between her mum and Pete had begun to gutter, as they started taking each other for granted, like normal people with normal lives. Nevertheless, she was surprised when she found herself not being kissed with less passion necissarily, but more trepidation, even hesitation. The usual course of events would be for passion to die but tender familiarity to take its place. What seemed to be growing between them now, however, was something more akin to fear. For many weeks, she thought she was just being paranoid, imagining things, but the feeling didn't go away.
When she took him to bed, and it had always been she who took him, at first he was like a teenaged boy; all hands and teeth and endearing, if somewhat hapless, ardor. They learned their way around each other like normal couples do, but instead of a comfortable routine developing, their lovemaking had suddenly begun to turn distant, even aggressive, and he started to initiate. The first few times he'd grabbed her with a new and wary look in his eye, Rose had found it exhilarating and delightfully naughty. She was glad he was finally learning to take the upper hand, and encouraged his apparent efforts to try some new things and see what he liked best. But ultimately, being taken roughly in random locations around a London townhouse begins to lose it's thrill after a while, and then it just gets a bit weird. She'd started to turn down his invites on nights that she was just too tired from her demanding job at Torchwood to go another round with him.
He could still talk a good game if he wanted to, but seemed to want to less and less. When she made it around to his place, or he to hers (which was rare), they chatted about their respective days, people they knew in common, the news and sport, but whenever Rose made reference to something from their shared past, back when this man was another man, a door would close behind his eyes and the sparkle usually found there would go dark. She stopped bringing those things up. The last tie she had with her former life, the last person who could truly understand her, and he seemed to be slipping away.
Their relationship was moving backwards. The crazy blendering of time and space that they both thought they'd been cast far clear of somehow seemed to be invading their life together anyway.
~o0o~
"I'm not stalking him, I'm not stalking him, I'm not...," Rose muttered to herself as she got out of the cab a few blocks from the Doctor's townhouse. There was no scheduled date, he had not rung her for nearly a week as a matter of fact, though it was finals time at the University and she understood he was probably snowed under. She tried to tell herself that she'd chosen to wear dark-coloured clothing on this day simply because it was what was clean and available, but she wasn't even convincing herself, and certainly wouldn't be able to fool him if she got caught.
She told herself she was just going to walk by his place, see what lights were on in what windows, and then go home. The Doctor, the old Doctor, he'd told her that this new man needed her, needed someone to watch over him, curb his supposedly destructive tendencies. So that was what she was doing. Right? Seeing to this other Doctor, making sure he was not harming self or others. Never mind that she'd seen no such tendencies in him whatsoever since they'd been left together, aside from an irritating tendency to shout and punch the wall when he stubbed his toe. She'd made a promise, and she would keep it. Even if that meant some harmless subterfuge.
She walked on the opposite side of the street from his townhouse, eyes darting from his front door, to down the street, to over her shoulder. Not acting suspicious at all, then, she thought. It was a foggy night, the springtime weather creating conflicting pockets of warm and moist and cool and dry. A fine night for spying. Except, as she neared his home, she noticed rather quickly that there was nothing to spy upon. All the windows were dark. Not a creature was stirring, not even a human-Time Lord metacrisis. She ventured across the street and peered down the stairs into the cellar. He had a small workshop down there that he liked to tinker in from time to time with little bits and bobs Rose brought him from her work, but no sign of him there either.
Okay, she thought, so he's not home. So what? He had a right to be not home. He was likely just down at the pub, having a pint in the corner by himself, watching people as he seemed to enjoy doing. His latent Time Lord charisma ensured that no one there thought him creepy, just a touch eccentric but friendly enough, and a fairly big hit with the ladies (and a few of the men). He was a regular, and Rose went with him enough times that the bar maid would start to pull a lager when she walked in, and for the Doctor, a stout. Maybe she'd ring his mobile, make like she was in the neighborhood, invite herself to the Red Lion for a drink and a chat. She could tell him about some more of the abject incompetence coming out of the Cardiff branch, as he always seemed to enjoy hearing about their various cock-ups. She'd just walk round to the pub and take a quick peep in the window, just to make sure he was there before dialing.
As she rounded up to the pub, she pulled her mobile out and prepared to dial, putting herself already in the state of mind to enjoy an evening out, and perhaps even get enough drinks in her to fancy being taken back home by the Doctor and tossed over the arm of the sofa or what have you. Except when she peered in to the window, he wasn't in his usual spot. Nor was he at the bar. He wasn't hard to spot, being a fairly tall chap with an interesting taste in clothes, and he was nowhere to be found. She turned back from the window, pressed herself up against the wall to avoid being seen and gave him a minute or two in case he was in the loo. When he still wasn't able to be seen, Rose weighed her options. Would she really be that girl? That bird who's always checking up on her man, asking around about him, snooping behind his back, constantly convinced he was up to something? It sounded ridiculous in a grown, professional woman. On the other hand: metacrisis. Her bloke wasn't just any old guy and there was just as much danger in this universe as the last. The thought of something happening to him, some villain getting their hands on his magnificent Time Lord mind, the hot sting of panic began to rise from her stomach in to her throat and she realized with a certainty that almost made her wretch that she loved him desperately, all the more for being almost a man and not quite an alien, and lost here with her.
She dialed his mobile number, her tongue poking out of her mouth, her brows knitting, listening to the ringing go on to five, six, seven, then voicemail. His outgoing message had always made her chuckle in the past, as he'd placed it there when he was still struggling to make his personal information sound natural and then never changed it, but now it just sounded ominous, tinny and hollow. Maybe he was on the tube, maybe she could text him, maybe he was on the other line, maybe in a late meeting, maybe, maybe, maybe.
The images flitting through her mind drove her on, back up the street, back to his townhouse, as if someone was pushing her form behind. She'd use her key, take a look around there for clues, be the good Torchwood operative and look after her assigned charge. He'd understand, he'd have to. He'd been through just as much as she, or at least had the memories of the man who had. The blood so thrummed in her ears in her increasing panic, she almost didn't hear it.
A laugh. His laugh. His special high-pitched little giggle that was only for her, when she said something really outrageous or silly. It echoed around the close, tripped over the cobblestones, landed directly at Rose's feet where she stood fixed to the spot around the last corner before she rounded to his house. She hugged the nearest wall and even her shallow breathing sounded like it was being broadcast over the entire neighborhood. She heard him laugh again and then she heard...someone else. A woman. She couldn't make out what was being said, but there seemed to be a general feeling of mirth. Edging up to the corner, she could hear only one set of footsteps clearly, which would make sense of course. The Doctor's trainers (he'd retained a fondness for those too) were usually nearly silent, but a woman wearing high heels would make quite a bit of clatter in the dense air of a foggy night. She felt like cold invisible hands were grabbing her from behind and pulling her back from the wall, and she had to struggle to make herself look, to tilt her head to the left and edge it around the sandstone block of the house she was skirting.
Too late. She heard the familiar sound of the Doctor's front door shutting, the door-knocker clattering in the singular, distinctive way she'd heard a million times already. Snick, rattle, click.