Fic: Hyperboloids of Wondrous Light 3/10
Title Hyperboloids of Wondrous Light 3/10
Fandom Doctor Who (Eighth Doctor Adventures)
Chapters One, two - three - four - five - six - seven - eight - nine - ten
Pairings Eight/Alan Turing, vague mentions of Eight/Fitz, historical pairings.
Beta infiniteth
Word count of chapter 4505
Word count of entire fic approx. 58 500
Ratings/warnings NC-17. Sexual situations, 1950s intolerance, Earth arc angst, mental illness, suicide.
Spoilers The Turing Test. Brief mentions of plot points in The Curse of Fenric.
Disclaimer I own nothing, and I am actually a really nice person who writes this stuff in hope of making up the awfulness of reality.
Summary The Doctor, the amnesiac genius without a name, is formidable as an intellectual companion and desirable as a lover, but the mystery around his identity and his quest to find out who he once was draws in anyone associated to him, until it threatens them with a reality that even Britain’s brightest mind cannot comprehend.
Alan prided himself with not needing anyone. He had always thought of himself as someone who would bravely bite into the sour apple and endure loneliness with his head held high. This was unfortunately a lie, and not even a very good one. During his undergraduate years, the longing for Chris, the unrequited love of his schooldays, who had been dead for almost half a year when Alan came to King’s, had sent him into despair, and the war years had been exceedingly empty, despite a night shared with a stranger in America and his tentative and ineffectual courting of Joan. Similarly, upon returning to London after his visit to America, the Doctor’s expected absence depressed him. Spring came, the work progressed, the NPL rejected him, Cambridge pined for him. And so the prodigal son returned to King’s, but also the alma mater had changed. Now the dreaming spires were borne up by windows without glass, taken down before the war, and the excitable, naïve youths, discussing Shaw and pacifism and philosophy, were now replaced by veterans who tried to pick up where they had left off. That summer Alan turned thirty-five; he tried to avoid celebrating it. He felt impossibly old, even if the students were not as young as they could have been. One of the only maths undergraduates under twenty-five, Neville, caught his eye, and they would meet for hot chocolate and discussions, which would sometimes turn into other things. He felt himself turning bitter, as when he one evening admitted to Neville, ‘I have had more contact with this bed than with other people.’ Chris still haunted him, and even the mention of blood would make him faint, reminding him of the boy’s gruesome death from tuberculosis. But the Doctor seemed an equally present, albeit newer, ghost, who once even tricked him into the kind of careless talk he was the master of. In early Easter term, in April 1948, he mentioned to Neville that the Poles had been important to the work he had done during the war, and realising his mistake he had made him leave at once and not talked to him since.
He was walking up and down the front court contemplating the damage he had done through that unguarded comment; he was not ready to take up his involvement with Neville again until he was quite certain that the comment had been harmless. He thought that the mention of the Poles was enough to figure out neither the breaking of the Enigma code nor his own involvement in it. Besides, Neville was unlikely to be a Soviet spy. Then again, there was the worry that he was a British spy, and if that was the case, his slip would be reported. That was a terrifying prospect, but then again, how likely was that scenario? Neville was at King’s to study maths, not to spy on fellows. His connexions with the Secret Services was not as many as they had once been, but what he knew made him certain that there were not money to spy on old cryptanalysts. But if Neville would talk to others and spread the information - perhaps someone would figure something out...
He looked up at the sky and then over the lion-mounted lanterns of Hall. It was strange how blind he had grown to the beauty of the place, which would occasionally strike him and make him stop to gaze at the buildings. This was something entirely different than London or Bletchley, he thought and smiled.
And it was then he saw him. As if a wisp of winter fog had lingered and conjured up a ghost from his mind, there he was, his hair set alight in the sun and the velvet of his coat shimmering. Unbidden, Alan’s heart gave a jolt of surprise and delight, and he waved eagerly. The Doctor waved back, but did not transgress onto the lawn. When he did not move, Alan started crossing the grass, having to stop himself from breaking into a run. Still, when he reached him, he could not resist to throw his arms around him, gown flapping around him. The Doctor laughed at his enthusiasm.
‘Hallo, Alan. Long time, eh?’
‘Too long,’ he answered, mouth close to his ear, and then drew back to look at him. ‘I’m glad to see you, Doctor.’
‘Feeling’s mutual. You’re not running away to America any time soon, are you?’ the Doctor asked, giving him a mock-suspicious look. ‘Because that was the last time I saw you, right?’
‘Yes - I mean, no, I’m not going to America. And that was last time we met.’ It seemed strange that he did not remember that, but considering that the Doctor used to claim he had “a memory like a sieve”, he felt he should not blame him.
‘And you? You’re not on the run from the police or something again, are you?’
‘Oh no,’ the Doctor laughed. ‘I just popped in to say hello.’
‘I’ve got a few supervisions today,’ Alan thought aloud. ‘Oh, I’ll cancel them. Come on!’ Grabbing the Doctor by the wrist, he almost dragged him from the front court towards the river. The Doctor looked around him during the walk to Alan’s rooms, something knowing in his smile. He even looked approvingly at the mess of the study, as moved a mass of books and notes onto the desk to clear a chair, where he then left his gown and placed Podgy the teddy-bear to guard it. Finally he found his jacket and a piece of paper; while putting the jacket on, he scribbled a note saying that all supervisions were postponed until Thursday, then changing his mind and crossed out the previous word, changing it to Friday. Knowing it would make the students hate him, he pinned it on the door and then gestured for them to leave the building again.
‘Where are we going?’ the Doctor asked as he hurried down to catch up with him and slid his arm through his.
‘I don’t know,’ Alan said, realising that he did not really have a plan. ‘Let’s get out of College. It’s such a lovely day - no reason to sit inside. We could walk out into the countryside, or even take a punt out.’
‘Let’s take the punt,’ the Doctor answered, looking excited. ‘I haven’t punted for years.’
The river was beautiful at this time of year. The trees which stretched over the water were crowned with young leaves, and the sun-light gave the entire scene a mysterious shine. They took turns to pilot the vessel, and did not speak much. When they passed S:t Cedd’s, the Doctor said:
‘I’m sure I’ve been there at some point. I just can’t remember...’ Then, forgetting his frustration, he let the pole run through his hand until it hit the river-bed and he could push them forward. He had discarded his coat and rolled up his shirt-sleeves, which added a strong streak to his rather delicate handsomeness. Alan also noticed that he had a new waistcoat; it struck him as strange that he had never noticed the Doctor wearing any other clothes than the ones he had worn on their first meeting, except the coat, which had replaced the one left in Dresden.
It had been early afternoon when they had set off, and punting was a quite slow way to travel. When they reached Dead Man’s Corner, treacherous only in that it was particularly deep in a mostly shallow river, they decided to turn around, and when the Chapel was in sight again, it was getting dark. Their attempts at mooring the punt were unsuccessful at first, and in the process Alan almost fell into the water, which caused no alarm, only laughter. The joviality continued as they linked arms and left the river-bank. On the hump of the bridge over the river, the Doctor slipped loose and stopped to look at the scene. Alan paused and joined him, but instead of watching their surroundings, he looked at his profile, lit up in the sunset. Was he imagining it, or did he look older? Was there a hint of grey in his hair? But the semblance of weariness disappeared when he caught his eye and smiled.
‘There are few places like this, you know,’ he said quietly, as if in awe. ‘Unchanged, yet always different. This place will survive hundreds and hundreds of years.’ He looked straight up into the sky and then continued speaking. ‘In a hundred years, the pollution will start taking its toll on the buildings, but then they’ll enclose in glass. Each college will close itself in its own glass dome. They will sparkle in the sun, and in the winter mornings, they will be covered in frost.’ He looked at Alan and smiled. ‘There’ll be a statue of you, of course.’
‘Really, Doctor,’ he said and looked away, blushing.
‘There will be,’ the Doctor insisted and pointed to their left. ‘Right there - looking out over just this view. The students will love it - in the winters they’ll take turns to lend it their scarves.’ Alan laughed.
‘You talk the most wonderful nonsense, Doctor.’ When there was not a response, he looked at him, and found that the Doctor was watching him with a profound look in his eyes.
‘I guess I do,’ he said and looked away, as if embarrassed. ‘I guess it is nonsense.’ Eager to chase away this contemplative mood, Alan took his arm and asked:
‘Would you like to dine at High Table with me?’ The Doctor smiled, reinvigorated.
‘That sounds wonderful,’ he said.
They stopped by Alan’s room so he could collect his square cap and gown and then proceeded to the senior common room. The Doctor looked around the red-walled room until his eyes fell on a portrait of Rupert Brooke which hung over the fireplace.
‘Fancy that, another acquaintance,’ he said cheerily. ‘Not a bad likeness either.’
At that moment, the Provost, Professor Shepherd, entered the common room.
‘Have you brought a friend, Alan? Do introduce us,’ he said pleasantly. For a fraction of a second, Alan panicked, because he had forgotten about the other fellows in his delight at the Doctor’s presence. Then he laughed, just to lighten his own mind, and made the introductions.
More fellows arrived, and soon the Common Room was filled with academics chatting and twirling the stems of the wine-glasses between their fingers. Among the stark black of their gowns the Doctor’s green elegant clothes seemed to give new life to the room. He was talking happily to various fellows, and as Alan listened to his conversation, he realised that not only did the Doctor have an impressing knowledge of mathematics and computer science; there seemed to be no subject where he did not possess expert knowledge. Before dinner, he heard him speak of Byzantine palaeography, the influence of Sandhi rules on the oral transmission of the Rigveda, prime number theory, post-revolution thinkers in Russia and the history of vaccination. Alan stayed at his side throughout, but was seldom spoken to; there was an uncomfortable feeling in the pit of his stomach which made him feel very young.
It continued when they entered the Hall and they sat down, Alan with Saltmarsh on one side and the Doctor on the other. Saltmarsh, a weedy economic historian, started telling the Doctor excitedly about when he had found some bones on top of the Chapel, probably left from the masons’ meals. As this discovery had been made during the war and it had rapidly become one of Saltmarsh’s favourite stories, Alan had already heard about it on several occasions, and did not join in. Then Dent caught the Doctor’s attention and started discussing Puccini with him. Alan still watched the Doctor, caught by his beauty and his intelligence, bitterly wishing he had something interesting to add to the conversation.
It was not until well through the main course he realised what was wrong. That feeling in the pit of his stomach was a blend of jealousy and affection. The Doctor was stranger than he had ever been, his eccentricity trumping anything seen even in inverted academic circles, but the fellows were all eager to speak to him. He could speak to all of them in the way an equal would, and at the same time, he was polite and lovable. Alan remembered that even Greene - even the military police who had been sent to arrest the Doctor during the war - had seemed rather taken with him. He wished that he could possess such charisma, and that his genius could be turned into charm. If only he could be so engaging, he and the Doctor could simply blot out all those other inquisitive, mediocre minds. They would form their own little world and they would be self-sufficient - no one and nothing would trespass and disturb them, and the Doctor would never need to turn from him. His jealousy towards the Doctor and the other fellows made him feel exceptionally guilty, because it seemed as an antithesis to his love for the man. For a moment he wondered whether his love was fully selfish and only based on his wish to be like him, but his previous train of thought showed that that was not true. It was certainly selfish in that he grudged the Doctor the company of the other fellows, but it was not really self-centered, because it included the Doctor in a way which bordered on obsessive. Glancing at the man beside him, who was gesturing widely and revelling in the discussion, he reminded him that it was not unwarranted. He had a tendency towards obsession, and most often, it had helped him by concentrating on his work. Then there were the occasions when it had not been professional but personal - like with Christopher, or the Doctor. Often he found such obsessions complicated, but the facts themselves were easy. The only fact which truly mattered was that the Doctor was here at last. When the meal was finished and the port had been passed around, Alan felt more at ease, and when the Doctor turned to him and asked, in a low, almost intimate voice, ‘you haven’t told me anything about your own research yet, Alan,’ he felt his heart leap with delight.
They walked closer together when retiring to the common room again, but did not yet speak. When they settled down, the Doctor struck up a conversation about the development of post-war literature with Forster, and Alan had to quench another wave of possessiveness. Across the room, Wilkinson, one of the many King’s fellows who had been at Bletchley Park, caught his eye and inclined his head to indicate the Doctor. By his meaningful look, Alan understood that he was asking if the guest was his lover. He gave a non-committal shrug, and Wilkinson raised his eyebrows. You don’t know? In reply he rolled his eyes and turned to the Doctor.
‘Let’s go,’ he whispered into his ear, and the Doctor nodded and as he said goodbye to Forster - ‘wonderful to meet you, sir - I’m sure I’ll see you again. At some point’ - Alan gave Wilkinson a triumphal look, to which he responded with a theatrical sigh of relief, as if to say, well, thank God for that. Then the Doctor touched his arm and they left.
‘You were bored to death, weren’t you?’ the Doctor said with a laugh when they stepped outside.
‘There so many better things we can do with our time, don’t you think?’ he said and smiled; the alcohol was making him brave, its comfortable hum blotting out his usual insecurities. The Doctor looks perplexed for a moment, then laughed again and put his arm around his shoulders. Alan steered him to the vaulted passage and then, shrugging off his arm, kissed him. After a moment of hesitation, he kissed back. Any intimacy Neville or anyone else had provided since that chaste kiss before Alan left for America was forgotten. He felt like a drowning man breaking the surface and gasping for air, and he pressed against him as if he wanted their beings to merge into one. The Doctor let himself be kissed, his hand cupping his cheek awkwardly. Alan did not break the contact until he heard movement behind them. A few yards away stood an undergraduate (thankfully not one of his students or, for that matter, Neville), looking terrified that he had come upon a fellow with a lover in his embrace. Alan glared at him and gestured to him to pass. He clutched his pile of books and hurried past as the Doctor leaned against the pillar they had stopped by.
‘Poor chap,’ he said, but smiled.
‘Perhaps we should...’ Alan started, caressing his hand and nodding in the direction of his rooms.
‘Let’s,’ the Doctor answered, straightened up and walked with him. As if fearing that he might run away, Alan took hold of his arm, and the Doctor’s cold hand was planted on top of his. Still holding onto each other they ascended the stairs and fumbled with the keys. When they entered, the Doctor flopped into one of the armchairs and Alan promptly moved Podgy the bear to beside the fireplace, out of sight, before sitting down beside the Doctor. He was just about to close the gap between them when he spoke.
‘I didn’t know you played.’ He nodded at his violin.
‘Oh, a bit,’ Alan just said and shrugged. ‘Just for fun.’
‘Would you play me something?’ There was something almost worryingly casual about the tone.
‘I don’t really feel like it just now,’ he admitted. ‘Perhaps later.’ The Doctor nodded in acknowledgement. In the moonlight streaming through the window, he watched him smile, which felt almost like a blast of galvanic electricity through him. Biting his lip, desperate not to say anything stupid, he reached out and stroked his face. The Doctor watched him with the same mild amusement as earlier. He hesitated, wishing for some kind of response, but when there was none, he leaned forward and pressed their lips together again. The Doctor answered the kiss more readily this time, one hand on his neck and the other on his shoulder. As Alan edged closer, he moved his hand from his face to his shoulder, then his hand, then his knee, then...
It had barely grazed the inside of his thigh when the Doctor suddenly caught it and broke the kiss.
‘No,’ he whispered; his tone was not reprimanding, but strangely tender. Alan moved back a little to see his face better.
‘Why?’
‘It’s just not time yet,’ the Doctor said simply.
‘Not time yet?’ he repeated incredulously. ‘It’s bloody well time.’
‘Alan, I don’t think you understand...’
‘Yes, I think I do,’ he said, unable to keep hurt from his voice as he pulled his hand out of the Doctor’s grip. In vain he tried to catch it again. ‘Why do you keep leading me on, if you have no interest in me?’ he asked accusingly.
‘It’s not like... that.’ The Doctor pushed a lock of hair out of his face and sighed.
‘Then what is it?’ Alan asked, his voice rising in pitch. ‘What on earth could be keeping you from this? It’s been years...’ He interrupted himself, knowing that that point could be defeated easy, considering that they had only seen each other twice since Dresden. Instead of arguing with him, the mysterious man sighed again, leaned his head on his hands and his elbows on his knees, and said:
‘I’m just asking you to have patience.’
‘I’ve had patience,’ he said sharply. ‘I’m sick and tired of waiting. Please, just...’ he swallowed, the courage which had possessed him under the arches gone. When he finished the sentence, it turned out so silent he did not know if it was hearable. ‘Please come to bed with me.’
‘Next time,’ the Doctor said. ‘Next year, in Manchester.’ Alan looked up, sharply.
‘How did you know I’ve been offered a place at Manchester?’ he asked. ‘I haven’t mentioned that...’ Suddenly he remembered the old fear of the Doctor’s loyalties, or at least his connexions. All the Doctor said, however, was:
‘Well, that’s where you’ll be, won’t you?’
‘I guess so,’ Alan said, not satisfied with this answer at all. His spirits which had been so light only minutes ago had plunged, and he felt a black mood coming on. He felt aware of all his imperfections, all the little things which might make the Doctor find him unattractive, and all the mistakes he had made, which he might have found out in some way or other... His thoughts must have been visible, because the Doctor whispered his name and reached for him. He shook his head and looked away. Now the man’s beauty seemed to taunt him.
‘It’s not what you think,’ the Doctor said softly. ‘It’s not really that I don’t want to. It’s that I can’t.’ He had not thought of that - perhaps there was such a simple explanation to it - but then he remembered the kiss under the arches, and despite the Doctor’s awkwardness, he was certainly not impotent. ‘Things have to happen at their appointed time.’
Alan looked at him, struck by how odd everything he said was. The Doctor seldom made sense, but there was something distant, oddly cold about him... He should have noticed it already when the Doctor had not trespassed onto the lawn earlier that afternoon.
‘You’ve changed, Doctor.’
The Doctor smiled mirthlessly, and then said, as if confiding a secret:
‘I’ll change back.’
‘I don’t see...’ Alan’s protest was stopped by the Doctor reaching out and touching his face.
‘I can’t explain,’ he whispered. ‘Please, just take my word for it. Trust me.’ With the Doctor, it was not an easy thing to do, but still he pressed on. ‘I’m not willfully holding anything from you, Alan.’
‘Really?’ he asked and looked him in the eye. There was no way of telling if that was a lie or not. He did not answer, only leaned in and kissed him. Alan cursed himself at how easily he gave in and accepted what he had said, trusting him against his better judgement. It did not change the sweetness of that kiss, and the feeling that the Doctor was desperately trying to make it up to him. His apprehension did not go away when the kiss broke, and just to have something to do he left his seat and picked up Podgy from the floor, putting him on the table instead.
‘I understand, Alan, I really do, and I’m sorry to disappoint you...‘ Alan did not want to hear the Doctor’s excuses, and did not want to be given any more reason to be annoyed at him.
‘I’ve still got the Darjeeling I got you from America,’ he said instead, cutting him off. That made the Doctor smile.
‘So you got hold of it?’
‘You can’t believe how hard it is to get hold of good tea in America,’ he snorted.
‘I’m afraid I do,’ the Doctor answered with a shrug. ‘Give it to me next time.’
‘I’ll make sure to do that,’ Alan promised. The mood had lightened, and he returned to the armchair again. The Doctor shifted so that their knees touched. He reached out to brush his hair out of his forehead and whispered:
‘Tell me about your research.’ Alan shrugged.
‘It’s not really going anywhere,’ he admitted. ‘It’s odd - I can’t seem to work here. This place has changed.’
‘This place always stays the same,’ the Doctor said.
‘Not this time,’ Alan sighed. ‘This war really remoulded us all, didn’t it?’ The Doctor’s smile suddenly disappeared, and instead he winced, as if from sudden pain, and brought his hand to his forehead. ‘Are you alright, Doctor?’ he asked worriedly. The other man only waved his free hand as if to show that there was no cause for concern. Alan rose and fetched a glass of water, and upon returning, found the Doctor still with his eyes closed and his fingers pressed to his temples. When he closed his hand around the glass, the Doctor smiled gratefully and sipped the water before bringing the cool glass to his forehead. Soon enough he opened his eyes and blinked a few times to clear them.
‘Sorry about that,’ he said, sounding a little distant. ‘That mention of war, and remoulding... it stirred something. Don’t know why. Sorry to be a bother.’
‘Please, you’re not - not at all,’ Alan said quickly, feeling awkward where he perched on the edge of his arm-chair. ‘Eum, what’s... wrong?’
‘Nothing at all,’ the Doctor said casually and removed the glass from his forehead and took another sip of the water. ‘It’s just...’ He gestured at his head.
‘Migraines?’
‘Yes, exactly,’ he said. There was still something in his tone which sounded preoccupied. Alan reflected that it seemed wrong, not like the prelude to an attack and certainly not like an attack itself, remembering once when they had lost the Naval code, and he had been stuck in his room for two days with his head pounding. The Doctor had only seemed to be in pain for a minute or so, and even if he seemed a bit disorientated, he was certainly recovering rapidly. Something in his tone of voice and his quick affirmation of his suggestion made him skeptical. He was too tired and had had too much disappointment tonight to feel affronted at the untruth; it rather made him worried for might be the actual reason. Perhaps it was connected to his amnesia - perhaps it was not physical pain, but something else...
‘I should get out of your hair,’ the Doctor said suddenly and rose. ‘Thank you for the water.’ Alan rose as well, meaning to say, don’t go, but instead said:
‘Are you sure?’
‘It’s getting late,’ he said with a shrug and patted his shoulder. ‘I should be off. Remember the Darjeeling next time, eh?’
‘Of course,’ Alan said and smiled weakly. The Doctor squeezed his arm, winked and was out of the door.
Alan stood frozen, listening to his descending footsteps. Then he could not hear them anymore, as the Doctor left the staircase and went into the courtyard. That made him snap into attention, and he ran out of the room and down the stairs. He would tell him not to go yet - he loved him and he didn’t want him to be unwell and he didn’t think he was a nuisance and he was not hurt at being rejected... The court was completely empty, so he continued to the back lawn, the way where the Doctor had to pass to get out, but he was not to be seen. The Doctor was gone, as if he had disappeared into thin air.
Next chapter
Fandom Doctor Who (Eighth Doctor Adventures)
Chapters One, two - three - four - five - six - seven - eight - nine - ten
Pairings Eight/Alan Turing, vague mentions of Eight/Fitz, historical pairings.
Beta infiniteth
Word count of chapter 4505
Word count of entire fic approx. 58 500
Ratings/warnings NC-17. Sexual situations, 1950s intolerance, Earth arc angst, mental illness, suicide.
Spoilers The Turing Test. Brief mentions of plot points in The Curse of Fenric.
Disclaimer I own nothing, and I am actually a really nice person who writes this stuff in hope of making up the awfulness of reality.
Summary The Doctor, the amnesiac genius without a name, is formidable as an intellectual companion and desirable as a lover, but the mystery around his identity and his quest to find out who he once was draws in anyone associated to him, until it threatens them with a reality that even Britain’s brightest mind cannot comprehend.
Alan prided himself with not needing anyone. He had always thought of himself as someone who would bravely bite into the sour apple and endure loneliness with his head held high. This was unfortunately a lie, and not even a very good one. During his undergraduate years, the longing for Chris, the unrequited love of his schooldays, who had been dead for almost half a year when Alan came to King’s, had sent him into despair, and the war years had been exceedingly empty, despite a night shared with a stranger in America and his tentative and ineffectual courting of Joan. Similarly, upon returning to London after his visit to America, the Doctor’s expected absence depressed him. Spring came, the work progressed, the NPL rejected him, Cambridge pined for him. And so the prodigal son returned to King’s, but also the alma mater had changed. Now the dreaming spires were borne up by windows without glass, taken down before the war, and the excitable, naïve youths, discussing Shaw and pacifism and philosophy, were now replaced by veterans who tried to pick up where they had left off. That summer Alan turned thirty-five; he tried to avoid celebrating it. He felt impossibly old, even if the students were not as young as they could have been. One of the only maths undergraduates under twenty-five, Neville, caught his eye, and they would meet for hot chocolate and discussions, which would sometimes turn into other things. He felt himself turning bitter, as when he one evening admitted to Neville, ‘I have had more contact with this bed than with other people.’ Chris still haunted him, and even the mention of blood would make him faint, reminding him of the boy’s gruesome death from tuberculosis. But the Doctor seemed an equally present, albeit newer, ghost, who once even tricked him into the kind of careless talk he was the master of. In early Easter term, in April 1948, he mentioned to Neville that the Poles had been important to the work he had done during the war, and realising his mistake he had made him leave at once and not talked to him since.
He was walking up and down the front court contemplating the damage he had done through that unguarded comment; he was not ready to take up his involvement with Neville again until he was quite certain that the comment had been harmless. He thought that the mention of the Poles was enough to figure out neither the breaking of the Enigma code nor his own involvement in it. Besides, Neville was unlikely to be a Soviet spy. Then again, there was the worry that he was a British spy, and if that was the case, his slip would be reported. That was a terrifying prospect, but then again, how likely was that scenario? Neville was at King’s to study maths, not to spy on fellows. His connexions with the Secret Services was not as many as they had once been, but what he knew made him certain that there were not money to spy on old cryptanalysts. But if Neville would talk to others and spread the information - perhaps someone would figure something out...
He looked up at the sky and then over the lion-mounted lanterns of Hall. It was strange how blind he had grown to the beauty of the place, which would occasionally strike him and make him stop to gaze at the buildings. This was something entirely different than London or Bletchley, he thought and smiled.
And it was then he saw him. As if a wisp of winter fog had lingered and conjured up a ghost from his mind, there he was, his hair set alight in the sun and the velvet of his coat shimmering. Unbidden, Alan’s heart gave a jolt of surprise and delight, and he waved eagerly. The Doctor waved back, but did not transgress onto the lawn. When he did not move, Alan started crossing the grass, having to stop himself from breaking into a run. Still, when he reached him, he could not resist to throw his arms around him, gown flapping around him. The Doctor laughed at his enthusiasm.
‘Hallo, Alan. Long time, eh?’
‘Too long,’ he answered, mouth close to his ear, and then drew back to look at him. ‘I’m glad to see you, Doctor.’
‘Feeling’s mutual. You’re not running away to America any time soon, are you?’ the Doctor asked, giving him a mock-suspicious look. ‘Because that was the last time I saw you, right?’
‘Yes - I mean, no, I’m not going to America. And that was last time we met.’ It seemed strange that he did not remember that, but considering that the Doctor used to claim he had “a memory like a sieve”, he felt he should not blame him.
‘And you? You’re not on the run from the police or something again, are you?’
‘Oh no,’ the Doctor laughed. ‘I just popped in to say hello.’
‘I’ve got a few supervisions today,’ Alan thought aloud. ‘Oh, I’ll cancel them. Come on!’ Grabbing the Doctor by the wrist, he almost dragged him from the front court towards the river. The Doctor looked around him during the walk to Alan’s rooms, something knowing in his smile. He even looked approvingly at the mess of the study, as moved a mass of books and notes onto the desk to clear a chair, where he then left his gown and placed Podgy the teddy-bear to guard it. Finally he found his jacket and a piece of paper; while putting the jacket on, he scribbled a note saying that all supervisions were postponed until Thursday, then changing his mind and crossed out the previous word, changing it to Friday. Knowing it would make the students hate him, he pinned it on the door and then gestured for them to leave the building again.
‘Where are we going?’ the Doctor asked as he hurried down to catch up with him and slid his arm through his.
‘I don’t know,’ Alan said, realising that he did not really have a plan. ‘Let’s get out of College. It’s such a lovely day - no reason to sit inside. We could walk out into the countryside, or even take a punt out.’
‘Let’s take the punt,’ the Doctor answered, looking excited. ‘I haven’t punted for years.’
The river was beautiful at this time of year. The trees which stretched over the water were crowned with young leaves, and the sun-light gave the entire scene a mysterious shine. They took turns to pilot the vessel, and did not speak much. When they passed S:t Cedd’s, the Doctor said:
‘I’m sure I’ve been there at some point. I just can’t remember...’ Then, forgetting his frustration, he let the pole run through his hand until it hit the river-bed and he could push them forward. He had discarded his coat and rolled up his shirt-sleeves, which added a strong streak to his rather delicate handsomeness. Alan also noticed that he had a new waistcoat; it struck him as strange that he had never noticed the Doctor wearing any other clothes than the ones he had worn on their first meeting, except the coat, which had replaced the one left in Dresden.
It had been early afternoon when they had set off, and punting was a quite slow way to travel. When they reached Dead Man’s Corner, treacherous only in that it was particularly deep in a mostly shallow river, they decided to turn around, and when the Chapel was in sight again, it was getting dark. Their attempts at mooring the punt were unsuccessful at first, and in the process Alan almost fell into the water, which caused no alarm, only laughter. The joviality continued as they linked arms and left the river-bank. On the hump of the bridge over the river, the Doctor slipped loose and stopped to look at the scene. Alan paused and joined him, but instead of watching their surroundings, he looked at his profile, lit up in the sunset. Was he imagining it, or did he look older? Was there a hint of grey in his hair? But the semblance of weariness disappeared when he caught his eye and smiled.
‘There are few places like this, you know,’ he said quietly, as if in awe. ‘Unchanged, yet always different. This place will survive hundreds and hundreds of years.’ He looked straight up into the sky and then continued speaking. ‘In a hundred years, the pollution will start taking its toll on the buildings, but then they’ll enclose in glass. Each college will close itself in its own glass dome. They will sparkle in the sun, and in the winter mornings, they will be covered in frost.’ He looked at Alan and smiled. ‘There’ll be a statue of you, of course.’
‘Really, Doctor,’ he said and looked away, blushing.
‘There will be,’ the Doctor insisted and pointed to their left. ‘Right there - looking out over just this view. The students will love it - in the winters they’ll take turns to lend it their scarves.’ Alan laughed.
‘You talk the most wonderful nonsense, Doctor.’ When there was not a response, he looked at him, and found that the Doctor was watching him with a profound look in his eyes.
‘I guess I do,’ he said and looked away, as if embarrassed. ‘I guess it is nonsense.’ Eager to chase away this contemplative mood, Alan took his arm and asked:
‘Would you like to dine at High Table with me?’ The Doctor smiled, reinvigorated.
‘That sounds wonderful,’ he said.
They stopped by Alan’s room so he could collect his square cap and gown and then proceeded to the senior common room. The Doctor looked around the red-walled room until his eyes fell on a portrait of Rupert Brooke which hung over the fireplace.
‘Fancy that, another acquaintance,’ he said cheerily. ‘Not a bad likeness either.’
At that moment, the Provost, Professor Shepherd, entered the common room.
‘Have you brought a friend, Alan? Do introduce us,’ he said pleasantly. For a fraction of a second, Alan panicked, because he had forgotten about the other fellows in his delight at the Doctor’s presence. Then he laughed, just to lighten his own mind, and made the introductions.
More fellows arrived, and soon the Common Room was filled with academics chatting and twirling the stems of the wine-glasses between their fingers. Among the stark black of their gowns the Doctor’s green elegant clothes seemed to give new life to the room. He was talking happily to various fellows, and as Alan listened to his conversation, he realised that not only did the Doctor have an impressing knowledge of mathematics and computer science; there seemed to be no subject where he did not possess expert knowledge. Before dinner, he heard him speak of Byzantine palaeography, the influence of Sandhi rules on the oral transmission of the Rigveda, prime number theory, post-revolution thinkers in Russia and the history of vaccination. Alan stayed at his side throughout, but was seldom spoken to; there was an uncomfortable feeling in the pit of his stomach which made him feel very young.
It continued when they entered the Hall and they sat down, Alan with Saltmarsh on one side and the Doctor on the other. Saltmarsh, a weedy economic historian, started telling the Doctor excitedly about when he had found some bones on top of the Chapel, probably left from the masons’ meals. As this discovery had been made during the war and it had rapidly become one of Saltmarsh’s favourite stories, Alan had already heard about it on several occasions, and did not join in. Then Dent caught the Doctor’s attention and started discussing Puccini with him. Alan still watched the Doctor, caught by his beauty and his intelligence, bitterly wishing he had something interesting to add to the conversation.
It was not until well through the main course he realised what was wrong. That feeling in the pit of his stomach was a blend of jealousy and affection. The Doctor was stranger than he had ever been, his eccentricity trumping anything seen even in inverted academic circles, but the fellows were all eager to speak to him. He could speak to all of them in the way an equal would, and at the same time, he was polite and lovable. Alan remembered that even Greene - even the military police who had been sent to arrest the Doctor during the war - had seemed rather taken with him. He wished that he could possess such charisma, and that his genius could be turned into charm. If only he could be so engaging, he and the Doctor could simply blot out all those other inquisitive, mediocre minds. They would form their own little world and they would be self-sufficient - no one and nothing would trespass and disturb them, and the Doctor would never need to turn from him. His jealousy towards the Doctor and the other fellows made him feel exceptionally guilty, because it seemed as an antithesis to his love for the man. For a moment he wondered whether his love was fully selfish and only based on his wish to be like him, but his previous train of thought showed that that was not true. It was certainly selfish in that he grudged the Doctor the company of the other fellows, but it was not really self-centered, because it included the Doctor in a way which bordered on obsessive. Glancing at the man beside him, who was gesturing widely and revelling in the discussion, he reminded him that it was not unwarranted. He had a tendency towards obsession, and most often, it had helped him by concentrating on his work. Then there were the occasions when it had not been professional but personal - like with Christopher, or the Doctor. Often he found such obsessions complicated, but the facts themselves were easy. The only fact which truly mattered was that the Doctor was here at last. When the meal was finished and the port had been passed around, Alan felt more at ease, and when the Doctor turned to him and asked, in a low, almost intimate voice, ‘you haven’t told me anything about your own research yet, Alan,’ he felt his heart leap with delight.
They walked closer together when retiring to the common room again, but did not yet speak. When they settled down, the Doctor struck up a conversation about the development of post-war literature with Forster, and Alan had to quench another wave of possessiveness. Across the room, Wilkinson, one of the many King’s fellows who had been at Bletchley Park, caught his eye and inclined his head to indicate the Doctor. By his meaningful look, Alan understood that he was asking if the guest was his lover. He gave a non-committal shrug, and Wilkinson raised his eyebrows. You don’t know? In reply he rolled his eyes and turned to the Doctor.
‘Let’s go,’ he whispered into his ear, and the Doctor nodded and as he said goodbye to Forster - ‘wonderful to meet you, sir - I’m sure I’ll see you again. At some point’ - Alan gave Wilkinson a triumphal look, to which he responded with a theatrical sigh of relief, as if to say, well, thank God for that. Then the Doctor touched his arm and they left.
‘You were bored to death, weren’t you?’ the Doctor said with a laugh when they stepped outside.
‘There so many better things we can do with our time, don’t you think?’ he said and smiled; the alcohol was making him brave, its comfortable hum blotting out his usual insecurities. The Doctor looks perplexed for a moment, then laughed again and put his arm around his shoulders. Alan steered him to the vaulted passage and then, shrugging off his arm, kissed him. After a moment of hesitation, he kissed back. Any intimacy Neville or anyone else had provided since that chaste kiss before Alan left for America was forgotten. He felt like a drowning man breaking the surface and gasping for air, and he pressed against him as if he wanted their beings to merge into one. The Doctor let himself be kissed, his hand cupping his cheek awkwardly. Alan did not break the contact until he heard movement behind them. A few yards away stood an undergraduate (thankfully not one of his students or, for that matter, Neville), looking terrified that he had come upon a fellow with a lover in his embrace. Alan glared at him and gestured to him to pass. He clutched his pile of books and hurried past as the Doctor leaned against the pillar they had stopped by.
‘Poor chap,’ he said, but smiled.
‘Perhaps we should...’ Alan started, caressing his hand and nodding in the direction of his rooms.
‘Let’s,’ the Doctor answered, straightened up and walked with him. As if fearing that he might run away, Alan took hold of his arm, and the Doctor’s cold hand was planted on top of his. Still holding onto each other they ascended the stairs and fumbled with the keys. When they entered, the Doctor flopped into one of the armchairs and Alan promptly moved Podgy the bear to beside the fireplace, out of sight, before sitting down beside the Doctor. He was just about to close the gap between them when he spoke.
‘I didn’t know you played.’ He nodded at his violin.
‘Oh, a bit,’ Alan just said and shrugged. ‘Just for fun.’
‘Would you play me something?’ There was something almost worryingly casual about the tone.
‘I don’t really feel like it just now,’ he admitted. ‘Perhaps later.’ The Doctor nodded in acknowledgement. In the moonlight streaming through the window, he watched him smile, which felt almost like a blast of galvanic electricity through him. Biting his lip, desperate not to say anything stupid, he reached out and stroked his face. The Doctor watched him with the same mild amusement as earlier. He hesitated, wishing for some kind of response, but when there was none, he leaned forward and pressed their lips together again. The Doctor answered the kiss more readily this time, one hand on his neck and the other on his shoulder. As Alan edged closer, he moved his hand from his face to his shoulder, then his hand, then his knee, then...
It had barely grazed the inside of his thigh when the Doctor suddenly caught it and broke the kiss.
‘No,’ he whispered; his tone was not reprimanding, but strangely tender. Alan moved back a little to see his face better.
‘Why?’
‘It’s just not time yet,’ the Doctor said simply.
‘Not time yet?’ he repeated incredulously. ‘It’s bloody well time.’
‘Alan, I don’t think you understand...’
‘Yes, I think I do,’ he said, unable to keep hurt from his voice as he pulled his hand out of the Doctor’s grip. In vain he tried to catch it again. ‘Why do you keep leading me on, if you have no interest in me?’ he asked accusingly.
‘It’s not like... that.’ The Doctor pushed a lock of hair out of his face and sighed.
‘Then what is it?’ Alan asked, his voice rising in pitch. ‘What on earth could be keeping you from this? It’s been years...’ He interrupted himself, knowing that that point could be defeated easy, considering that they had only seen each other twice since Dresden. Instead of arguing with him, the mysterious man sighed again, leaned his head on his hands and his elbows on his knees, and said:
‘I’m just asking you to have patience.’
‘I’ve had patience,’ he said sharply. ‘I’m sick and tired of waiting. Please, just...’ he swallowed, the courage which had possessed him under the arches gone. When he finished the sentence, it turned out so silent he did not know if it was hearable. ‘Please come to bed with me.’
‘Next time,’ the Doctor said. ‘Next year, in Manchester.’ Alan looked up, sharply.
‘How did you know I’ve been offered a place at Manchester?’ he asked. ‘I haven’t mentioned that...’ Suddenly he remembered the old fear of the Doctor’s loyalties, or at least his connexions. All the Doctor said, however, was:
‘Well, that’s where you’ll be, won’t you?’
‘I guess so,’ Alan said, not satisfied with this answer at all. His spirits which had been so light only minutes ago had plunged, and he felt a black mood coming on. He felt aware of all his imperfections, all the little things which might make the Doctor find him unattractive, and all the mistakes he had made, which he might have found out in some way or other... His thoughts must have been visible, because the Doctor whispered his name and reached for him. He shook his head and looked away. Now the man’s beauty seemed to taunt him.
‘It’s not what you think,’ the Doctor said softly. ‘It’s not really that I don’t want to. It’s that I can’t.’ He had not thought of that - perhaps there was such a simple explanation to it - but then he remembered the kiss under the arches, and despite the Doctor’s awkwardness, he was certainly not impotent. ‘Things have to happen at their appointed time.’
Alan looked at him, struck by how odd everything he said was. The Doctor seldom made sense, but there was something distant, oddly cold about him... He should have noticed it already when the Doctor had not trespassed onto the lawn earlier that afternoon.
‘You’ve changed, Doctor.’
The Doctor smiled mirthlessly, and then said, as if confiding a secret:
‘I’ll change back.’
‘I don’t see...’ Alan’s protest was stopped by the Doctor reaching out and touching his face.
‘I can’t explain,’ he whispered. ‘Please, just take my word for it. Trust me.’ With the Doctor, it was not an easy thing to do, but still he pressed on. ‘I’m not willfully holding anything from you, Alan.’
‘Really?’ he asked and looked him in the eye. There was no way of telling if that was a lie or not. He did not answer, only leaned in and kissed him. Alan cursed himself at how easily he gave in and accepted what he had said, trusting him against his better judgement. It did not change the sweetness of that kiss, and the feeling that the Doctor was desperately trying to make it up to him. His apprehension did not go away when the kiss broke, and just to have something to do he left his seat and picked up Podgy from the floor, putting him on the table instead.
‘I understand, Alan, I really do, and I’m sorry to disappoint you...‘ Alan did not want to hear the Doctor’s excuses, and did not want to be given any more reason to be annoyed at him.
‘I’ve still got the Darjeeling I got you from America,’ he said instead, cutting him off. That made the Doctor smile.
‘So you got hold of it?’
‘You can’t believe how hard it is to get hold of good tea in America,’ he snorted.
‘I’m afraid I do,’ the Doctor answered with a shrug. ‘Give it to me next time.’
‘I’ll make sure to do that,’ Alan promised. The mood had lightened, and he returned to the armchair again. The Doctor shifted so that their knees touched. He reached out to brush his hair out of his forehead and whispered:
‘Tell me about your research.’ Alan shrugged.
‘It’s not really going anywhere,’ he admitted. ‘It’s odd - I can’t seem to work here. This place has changed.’
‘This place always stays the same,’ the Doctor said.
‘Not this time,’ Alan sighed. ‘This war really remoulded us all, didn’t it?’ The Doctor’s smile suddenly disappeared, and instead he winced, as if from sudden pain, and brought his hand to his forehead. ‘Are you alright, Doctor?’ he asked worriedly. The other man only waved his free hand as if to show that there was no cause for concern. Alan rose and fetched a glass of water, and upon returning, found the Doctor still with his eyes closed and his fingers pressed to his temples. When he closed his hand around the glass, the Doctor smiled gratefully and sipped the water before bringing the cool glass to his forehead. Soon enough he opened his eyes and blinked a few times to clear them.
‘Sorry about that,’ he said, sounding a little distant. ‘That mention of war, and remoulding... it stirred something. Don’t know why. Sorry to be a bother.’
‘Please, you’re not - not at all,’ Alan said quickly, feeling awkward where he perched on the edge of his arm-chair. ‘Eum, what’s... wrong?’
‘Nothing at all,’ the Doctor said casually and removed the glass from his forehead and took another sip of the water. ‘It’s just...’ He gestured at his head.
‘Migraines?’
‘Yes, exactly,’ he said. There was still something in his tone which sounded preoccupied. Alan reflected that it seemed wrong, not like the prelude to an attack and certainly not like an attack itself, remembering once when they had lost the Naval code, and he had been stuck in his room for two days with his head pounding. The Doctor had only seemed to be in pain for a minute or so, and even if he seemed a bit disorientated, he was certainly recovering rapidly. Something in his tone of voice and his quick affirmation of his suggestion made him skeptical. He was too tired and had had too much disappointment tonight to feel affronted at the untruth; it rather made him worried for might be the actual reason. Perhaps it was connected to his amnesia - perhaps it was not physical pain, but something else...
‘I should get out of your hair,’ the Doctor said suddenly and rose. ‘Thank you for the water.’ Alan rose as well, meaning to say, don’t go, but instead said:
‘Are you sure?’
‘It’s getting late,’ he said with a shrug and patted his shoulder. ‘I should be off. Remember the Darjeeling next time, eh?’
‘Of course,’ Alan said and smiled weakly. The Doctor squeezed his arm, winked and was out of the door.
Alan stood frozen, listening to his descending footsteps. Then he could not hear them anymore, as the Doctor left the staircase and went into the courtyard. That made him snap into attention, and he ran out of the room and down the stairs. He would tell him not to go yet - he loved him and he didn’t want him to be unwell and he didn’t think he was a nuisance and he was not hurt at being rejected... The court was completely empty, so he continued to the back lawn, the way where the Doctor had to pass to get out, but he was not to be seen. The Doctor was gone, as if he had disappeared into thin air.
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