Meaning and Memory (2/4)
TITLE: Meaning and Memory
PAIRING: Alt!Ten/Rose, I swear! Just trust me on this.
RATING: This chapter PG-13, but R as a whole for the story, and may go upwards.
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.
Every day the feelings receded more, pulled away from the memories like skin from flesh, or like the tide from the shore.
The Doctor woke with a start, in a cold sweat and sitting bolt upright in bed. Rose hadn't stayed over, and hadn't done for quite some time now, so he was free to turn on lights, get a drink of water, and pace a little bit. The feeling of flying bubbled up from his dream, but more like falling or being pulled, his flesh freezing and burning simultaneously. He was dying, but it was a good dream. In it, he somehow knew that he deserved it, that his death was completely justified and the universe would be better for it. Nonetheless, the experience of dying in one's dream is always shocking, especially for someone who had so little experience with dreaming of any kind in the past.
He looked at the clock. Due in to lecture in four hours, give or take.
Making his way to the kitchen in low light was getting increasingly difficult without his glasses. It had only been a few months since he was born and already this human body was breaking down, the thirty-five or so years (at least that's the age everyone told him he looked) catching up with him all at once. True to form, he rammed the meat of his thigh in to a corner of the hall sideboard on the way and swore loudly. Rose always seemed so shocked when he swore, but damn it, things just hurt more in this body and sometimes a good curse word was called for. Once again he caught himself thinking about his body as if it was just this thing he was saddled with temporarily. But this was it, this was him, whole and entire. Not eternal, not ancient, not a Lord of anything, least of all Time.
As he stood filling his water glass (though he for a moment contemplated something stronger) it was like tab A suddenly fit in to slot B and his dream shot straight up from where it had been settling and connected to a memory.
Midnight.
A memory of the Doctor's. Or his. Who was he again? All of the pieces began to line up, and march through his mind's eye. A little time line with illustrations and annotations: first this happened and then that, and then all the humans turned on me...him...the Doctor, and on to the inevitable conclusion, the end. Filed away as if on an index card, a crib sheet of names and dates and facts. But the memories stopped there. They meant nothing, he felt nothing, they were the memories of another man in another universe, just home-movies. Intellectually he knew the Doctor's experiences on Midnight had been terrifying, startling, full of intense emotions, but he himself felt none of these. He just sat back and watched the images flicker and found himself quite understanding the other people on the transport and their actions. He would have chucked himself out the airlock too.
His water glass was overflowing in to the basin and he shut the tap with a start, took a few gulps and poured the rest out.
~o0o~
He knew he shouldn't have done it, even as the words were exiting his mouth.
"I don't suppose you'd fancy getting a drink with me?" The charm he was deliberately turning on was in direct opposition to the notion that he was doing something wrong.
Technically, having a genteel drink with a doctoral student who wasn't under his supervision anyway was perfectly alright. He might even tell Rose about it, and he rehearsed what he'd say in his head. Oh yes, I had a lovely evening, decided to go get a drink with one of the students in the department, talk shop a bit. Have you met Julie? He imagined the tone of voice he'd use, all casual and devil-may-care. He quite liked that tone, used it a lot, and it frequently seemed to work. Rose would be a little bit jealous, and he'd find that strangely alluring, which was something at least. Anticipation. Slight aftertaste of lust, and just a hint of guilt.
Of course Julie the doctoral student had accepted. The Doctor had made quite a splash in the department with his good looks and brilliance and was a common topic of conversation in student flats after a couple of bottles of claret had been drunk. He suggested a wine bar in his neighborhood, since it tended to be quieter and more conducive to conversation. He wanted to talk, not just sit somewhere and stare in to a beer. That he could do perfectly well alone.
He was afraid that he perhaps freaked Julie out with all his questions, his probing of her feelings on various things, her opinions. He sat across from her at a small candlelit table, resting his chin on his hands, just listening to what she had to say. Everyone likes to talk about themselves, PhD candidates in theoretical physics being no exception, and Julie seemed flattered rather than uncomfortable. So much so that when he asked whether she'd like to come back to his townhouse for a wee bit of something stronger, she accepted with a big, open, broad smile. An honest smile. He felt intrigued by the stories of her childhood in Indonesia, he felt outraged on her behalf when she recounted the injustices foisted upon her by her current landlord, he felt like he maybe disagreed with her politics. He felt.
"Oh what a lovely home!" Julie had exclaimed as they entered.
"It came decorated, I can't take any credit," he replied as he took her light coat and hung it on a hook by the door. "Scotch? Or something..."
"Girlier?" she offered.
"Well, I was going to say milder, but alright. Girlier." He laughed, and hoped his giggle didn't sound too fey. Though it probably did. And right on time there was worry, danger, thrill, excitement.
"Scotch is fine, but just the one. I have a meeting early tomorrow and I haven't read the papers we're discussing yet." She sat on the Doctor's immaculate sofa in his well-appointed living room that he had nothing whatsoever to do with decorating. He couldn't really tell her that the fake father of his alternate universe girlfriend owned a fair bit of property around London and rented this place, originally meant for long-term business travelers, to him at a fairly deep discount.
The Doctor poured a couple fingers of a nice single malt in to the crystal tumblers that he had nothing whatsoever to do with existing here and handed one to Julie. He sat next to her on the sofa and smiled, flashing a dimple and letting his eyes do a bit of twinkling. "Well, we can't have me being a party to you shirking your work." He raised his glass. "Slainte."
Her conversation remained interesting and witty, but more and more the Doctor found his mind wandering to Rose and what would happen if and when he mentioned this little pseudo-date. Would she consider it cheating? He didn't want that, not really. She was a good person, as far as he knew, and didn't deserve to be saddled with the sort of man who would run around behind her back. On the heels of this thought, however, was a spike of thrill at the possibility of getting a reaction beyond the ordinary from her. How would that feel, he wondered. He started tugging on his ear as Julie told a story about an embarrassing moment she had at an Indonesian folk festival as a child, then realized he was doing it and sat on his hand to keep from fidgeting.
Raising glass to lips is a nervous habit among many, and it wasn't very long before two empty highball glasses sat on the coffee table and the Doctor was offering to call Julie a cab. It wasn't late, and he might be able to get a hold of Rose, invite her over, leave a lipstick-stained glass around, see what happens. Or not.
"I had a very nice time, John," she said sweetly as he opened the door of the waiting cab for her.
He smiled, ran a hand through his hair, sent some similar sentiments back, and she was gone. He was alone again in the close, the fog descending quickly now. Very atmospheric. The floodlights of the zeppelins overhead created eerie corpse candles against the sky, and the thick air was muffling the sound of traffic on the nearby street. He turned back to walk up his steps to find a figure already silhouetted in the light of his doorway.
"Oh!" Surprise, that was nice. A little jolt of endorphins and prickly skin.
"Doctor."
He'd realized almost immediately that it was Rose, dressed uncharacteristically almost all in black, her hair lank from the fog, her cheeks flushed. Taking the stairs two at a time he opened his arms to her and put on a big smile. She remained standing with hands on hips, her mouth in a thin straight line. If he'd had a mum, he would have felt like Rose was doing a pretty good impression.
"In the neighborhood? I'm sorry I haven't rung you in a few days, it's been quite a time at school." He guided her into the house and picked up Julie's scotch glass and placed it on the wet bar. "Scotch?" he asked, picking up a clean glass and waving it around.
Rose continued to stand in the entry to the living room, her arms now crossed. He poured himself another drink.
"None for me, thank you Doctor." She was using his name a lot. He searched through the file-o-fax of the Doctor's memories to try to find one that would tell him about what that might mean, but came up empty.
"Well, cheers." He raised his glass and took a sip. "How was your day?"
"Cut the rubbish." Her eyes flashed and he could see her jaw muscles clenching. "Who was that just now?"
"Just a student," he said calmly, sitting down on the sofa again. "Have you met her before?"
Rose's eyes narrowed and she scanned the room for signs of hasty infidelity. Finding none she turned an accusatory gaze back on the Doctor. She opened and closed her mouth a couple of times before finally saying, "You."
He waited a moment to see if there was anything else before pointing to his chest, to his single cold heart. "Me?"
"Why are you doing this?" Rose continued to hover around the living room, not sitting.
"What? It's my job. And I can have friends too, you know. Work friends. My own friends."
A corner of Rose's mouth lifted and twisted in a really most unattractive way. "'S not what I mean." She began to slip back in to her more Earthy childhood accent. "I know you know what I'm talking about." She finally unzipped her coat and sat next to him on the couch, but just on the edge, like an animal keeping all escape routes open. "'S like..." Her lip quivered and she bit it. "'S like I don't really know you. I don't understand you. I thought I did. You were the last person, literally in the entire universe who I thought would behave this way."
The look she gave him now he knew he recognized from the memories. Her eyes were liquid, but hard behind the forming tears, her jaw set to keep it from quivering. He tried desperately to capture the emotions of those moments, to help him deal with this one, but there was nothing. Just the images, just the sounds.
"I don't understand me either," he said finally and drained the last centimeter of Scotch from his glass. "Either of me."
PAIRING: Alt!Ten/Rose, I swear! Just trust me on this.
RATING: This chapter PG-13, but R as a whole for the story, and may go upwards.
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.
Every day the feelings receded more, pulled away from the memories like skin from flesh, or like the tide from the shore.
The Doctor woke with a start, in a cold sweat and sitting bolt upright in bed. Rose hadn't stayed over, and hadn't done for quite some time now, so he was free to turn on lights, get a drink of water, and pace a little bit. The feeling of flying bubbled up from his dream, but more like falling or being pulled, his flesh freezing and burning simultaneously. He was dying, but it was a good dream. In it, he somehow knew that he deserved it, that his death was completely justified and the universe would be better for it. Nonetheless, the experience of dying in one's dream is always shocking, especially for someone who had so little experience with dreaming of any kind in the past.
He looked at the clock. Due in to lecture in four hours, give or take.
Making his way to the kitchen in low light was getting increasingly difficult without his glasses. It had only been a few months since he was born and already this human body was breaking down, the thirty-five or so years (at least that's the age everyone told him he looked) catching up with him all at once. True to form, he rammed the meat of his thigh in to a corner of the hall sideboard on the way and swore loudly. Rose always seemed so shocked when he swore, but damn it, things just hurt more in this body and sometimes a good curse word was called for. Once again he caught himself thinking about his body as if it was just this thing he was saddled with temporarily. But this was it, this was him, whole and entire. Not eternal, not ancient, not a Lord of anything, least of all Time.
As he stood filling his water glass (though he for a moment contemplated something stronger) it was like tab A suddenly fit in to slot B and his dream shot straight up from where it had been settling and connected to a memory.
Midnight.
A memory of the Doctor's. Or his. Who was he again? All of the pieces began to line up, and march through his mind's eye. A little time line with illustrations and annotations: first this happened and then that, and then all the humans turned on me...him...the Doctor, and on to the inevitable conclusion, the end. Filed away as if on an index card, a crib sheet of names and dates and facts. But the memories stopped there. They meant nothing, he felt nothing, they were the memories of another man in another universe, just home-movies. Intellectually he knew the Doctor's experiences on Midnight had been terrifying, startling, full of intense emotions, but he himself felt none of these. He just sat back and watched the images flicker and found himself quite understanding the other people on the transport and their actions. He would have chucked himself out the airlock too.
His water glass was overflowing in to the basin and he shut the tap with a start, took a few gulps and poured the rest out.
~o0o~
He knew he shouldn't have done it, even as the words were exiting his mouth.
"I don't suppose you'd fancy getting a drink with me?" The charm he was deliberately turning on was in direct opposition to the notion that he was doing something wrong.
Technically, having a genteel drink with a doctoral student who wasn't under his supervision anyway was perfectly alright. He might even tell Rose about it, and he rehearsed what he'd say in his head. Oh yes, I had a lovely evening, decided to go get a drink with one of the students in the department, talk shop a bit. Have you met Julie? He imagined the tone of voice he'd use, all casual and devil-may-care. He quite liked that tone, used it a lot, and it frequently seemed to work. Rose would be a little bit jealous, and he'd find that strangely alluring, which was something at least. Anticipation. Slight aftertaste of lust, and just a hint of guilt.
Of course Julie the doctoral student had accepted. The Doctor had made quite a splash in the department with his good looks and brilliance and was a common topic of conversation in student flats after a couple of bottles of claret had been drunk. He suggested a wine bar in his neighborhood, since it tended to be quieter and more conducive to conversation. He wanted to talk, not just sit somewhere and stare in to a beer. That he could do perfectly well alone.
He was afraid that he perhaps freaked Julie out with all his questions, his probing of her feelings on various things, her opinions. He sat across from her at a small candlelit table, resting his chin on his hands, just listening to what she had to say. Everyone likes to talk about themselves, PhD candidates in theoretical physics being no exception, and Julie seemed flattered rather than uncomfortable. So much so that when he asked whether she'd like to come back to his townhouse for a wee bit of something stronger, she accepted with a big, open, broad smile. An honest smile. He felt intrigued by the stories of her childhood in Indonesia, he felt outraged on her behalf when she recounted the injustices foisted upon her by her current landlord, he felt like he maybe disagreed with her politics. He felt.
"Oh what a lovely home!" Julie had exclaimed as they entered.
"It came decorated, I can't take any credit," he replied as he took her light coat and hung it on a hook by the door. "Scotch? Or something..."
"Girlier?" she offered.
"Well, I was going to say milder, but alright. Girlier." He laughed, and hoped his giggle didn't sound too fey. Though it probably did. And right on time there was worry, danger, thrill, excitement.
"Scotch is fine, but just the one. I have a meeting early tomorrow and I haven't read the papers we're discussing yet." She sat on the Doctor's immaculate sofa in his well-appointed living room that he had nothing whatsoever to do with decorating. He couldn't really tell her that the fake father of his alternate universe girlfriend owned a fair bit of property around London and rented this place, originally meant for long-term business travelers, to him at a fairly deep discount.
The Doctor poured a couple fingers of a nice single malt in to the crystal tumblers that he had nothing whatsoever to do with existing here and handed one to Julie. He sat next to her on the sofa and smiled, flashing a dimple and letting his eyes do a bit of twinkling. "Well, we can't have me being a party to you shirking your work." He raised his glass. "Slainte."
Her conversation remained interesting and witty, but more and more the Doctor found his mind wandering to Rose and what would happen if and when he mentioned this little pseudo-date. Would she consider it cheating? He didn't want that, not really. She was a good person, as far as he knew, and didn't deserve to be saddled with the sort of man who would run around behind her back. On the heels of this thought, however, was a spike of thrill at the possibility of getting a reaction beyond the ordinary from her. How would that feel, he wondered. He started tugging on his ear as Julie told a story about an embarrassing moment she had at an Indonesian folk festival as a child, then realized he was doing it and sat on his hand to keep from fidgeting.
Raising glass to lips is a nervous habit among many, and it wasn't very long before two empty highball glasses sat on the coffee table and the Doctor was offering to call Julie a cab. It wasn't late, and he might be able to get a hold of Rose, invite her over, leave a lipstick-stained glass around, see what happens. Or not.
"I had a very nice time, John," she said sweetly as he opened the door of the waiting cab for her.
He smiled, ran a hand through his hair, sent some similar sentiments back, and she was gone. He was alone again in the close, the fog descending quickly now. Very atmospheric. The floodlights of the zeppelins overhead created eerie corpse candles against the sky, and the thick air was muffling the sound of traffic on the nearby street. He turned back to walk up his steps to find a figure already silhouetted in the light of his doorway.
"Oh!" Surprise, that was nice. A little jolt of endorphins and prickly skin.
"Doctor."
He'd realized almost immediately that it was Rose, dressed uncharacteristically almost all in black, her hair lank from the fog, her cheeks flushed. Taking the stairs two at a time he opened his arms to her and put on a big smile. She remained standing with hands on hips, her mouth in a thin straight line. If he'd had a mum, he would have felt like Rose was doing a pretty good impression.
"In the neighborhood? I'm sorry I haven't rung you in a few days, it's been quite a time at school." He guided her into the house and picked up Julie's scotch glass and placed it on the wet bar. "Scotch?" he asked, picking up a clean glass and waving it around.
Rose continued to stand in the entry to the living room, her arms now crossed. He poured himself another drink.
"None for me, thank you Doctor." She was using his name a lot. He searched through the file-o-fax of the Doctor's memories to try to find one that would tell him about what that might mean, but came up empty.
"Well, cheers." He raised his glass and took a sip. "How was your day?"
"Cut the rubbish." Her eyes flashed and he could see her jaw muscles clenching. "Who was that just now?"
"Just a student," he said calmly, sitting down on the sofa again. "Have you met her before?"
Rose's eyes narrowed and she scanned the room for signs of hasty infidelity. Finding none she turned an accusatory gaze back on the Doctor. She opened and closed her mouth a couple of times before finally saying, "You."
He waited a moment to see if there was anything else before pointing to his chest, to his single cold heart. "Me?"
"Why are you doing this?" Rose continued to hover around the living room, not sitting.
"What? It's my job. And I can have friends too, you know. Work friends. My own friends."
A corner of Rose's mouth lifted and twisted in a really most unattractive way. "'S not what I mean." She began to slip back in to her more Earthy childhood accent. "I know you know what I'm talking about." She finally unzipped her coat and sat next to him on the couch, but just on the edge, like an animal keeping all escape routes open. "'S like..." Her lip quivered and she bit it. "'S like I don't really know you. I don't understand you. I thought I did. You were the last person, literally in the entire universe who I thought would behave this way."
The look she gave him now he knew he recognized from the memories. Her eyes were liquid, but hard behind the forming tears, her jaw set to keep it from quivering. He tried desperately to capture the emotions of those moments, to help him deal with this one, but there was nothing. Just the images, just the sounds.
"I don't understand me either," he said finally and drained the last centimeter of Scotch from his glass. "Either of me."