Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

 Disclaimer: this is a story.

More accurately, this is a story told with the framework of a guide, a narrator, an audience, and all those things that stories tend to have. This detail will become important later on.

Any guidance that may be present here is situational, and the implied experience is dubious at best, and non-existent at worse.  

The advice is bias, the execution is questionable, and the results are not guaranteed, except that they are.

Best of luck to you.

 The store is empty. Well, almost empty. John wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for the woman taking her time strolling through the women’s clothing aisles. Luckily, she seems quite capable of shopping without him (incredibly capable, according to her – she had told him right off when he had asked if she needed any help). So instead of getting yelled at another time, John’s taken to standing at the counter, trying not to fall asleep as he rests his chin in his hand.

He fails at this quite spectacularly; he’s just started to doze off when he’s startled awake by the sound of something slamming down on the counter.

“What? What is it?” he yelps, his head snapping up like he’s been shocked.

“Blimey, you look horrible,” says a ginger woman in a brown leather raincoat. When his eyes focus, he sees that a thermos now sits on the counter – the source of the racket that woke him up. He rubs at his eyes, trying to drive away the drowsiness that plagues him.

“Oh thanks, Donna. I hadn’t noticed,” he says, and looks her over. Her hair is slick against her forehead with rain, and her coat’s equally drenched. Outside the store, it thunders. When did the rain start? “You look worse,” he retorts rather lamely. Clever insults are for those not severely sleep deprived, he decides, and reaches for the thermos.

“I never said that was for you,” points out Donna.

“But it is, isn’t it?” he asks, giving her a knowing look.

She rolls her eyes. “Yeah, it’s for you, dumbo.”

Upon twisting the cap off, he’s greeted with the bold, citrusy smell of Earl Grey. Not his favorite, he has to admit, but one sip is all it takes to start feeling refreshed. As much as he can be when working retail.

“You wouldn’t be this tired if you got some proper sleep, you know,” she says, apparently understanding how much John needed this pick-me-up.

John dismisses the thought easily. “Too much effort.” Then, after another swig of tea, he asks, “Why are you here?”

“Why’d you think? I’m driving you home, unless you still want to take the bus. But let me warn you, it’s raining cats and dogs out there.”

“And you just left Lance home all alone?”

“He’s out with his mates again. I had the time to come and pick your tired arse up.”

Realizing that a ride home is now on the line, he decides to stop messing about. “Right, makes sense. Thanks for the tea,” he adds, brandishing the thermos. He takes another sip, and looks beyond Donna to see if he can spot the woman – the final obstacle between him and a warm bed in his flat. She’s nowhere to be seen, so he turns his attention back to Donna. “Say, how’d you even know I’d still be here?”

“It was ten thirty at night and you weren't blowing up my phone talking about your astronomy whatsit. I sort of figured.” There’s a pause, and then like she suddenly remembered something, though it’s much too calculated and animated to be a truthful, spontaneous realization, Donna says, “Oh hey, you need to–”  

She’s interrupted by two expensive-looking blazers and a few pairs of trousers being tossed carelessly onto the counter. The woman’s back, finally done with her shopping trip. “Yes, I found everything alright. No, I don’t want to join any clubs. Just scan everything so I can leave,” she says quickly, before John can even open his mouth to say hello.

Donna and John exchange glances, as if asking each other is she serious? The woman clears her throat. “If you two could stop gaping at each other…”

“Of course, ma’am,” mutters John. He grabs the clothing, and goes through the movements of scanning them, removing any security tags and hangers, and rings up the total. He reads the number out loud, a ridiculously high number that neither Donna nor John could ever wish to afford. He’s expecting a protest, or a rudely-phrased query, but instead he gets a credit card slapped onto the counter.

He takes it, and soon enough (or not, in John’s opinion), the woman’s on her way, weighed down with her purchases.

Usually when faced with the certainty that his job will always be full of arseholes, it helps to be able to laugh about it, especially with a friend. This means that the moment the woman leaves the store, the two of them burst into laughter, each breathlessly exclaiming things like, “Can you believe her?” and “The look she gave you!”

After the two of them have calmed down a bit, Donna says, “Right, now that little Miss Business Lady is done, let’s go. God, what was she thinking with those blazers, anyhow?” she adds with a glance back towards the doors.

“Donna, you wear blazers like those,” John tells her, still laughing a little as he steps out from the counter.

She looks affronted that he would even suggest the idea. “Not in those colors. I’d never hear the end of it if Nerys saw me in something like that.”

John just rolls his eyes as they walk through the store. Security had closed the mall entrance an hour ago, but thankfully, the parking lot exit is still open.  Why Donna’s friends with Nerys, he’ll never understand. They always seem to be at each other’s throats. Like they’re completely convinced their friend is the enemy and their friend at the same time. Then again, they might not actually consider themselves friends. Maybe it’s more of a friendly rivalry, but instead of trying to show the other up in achievements, it’s trying to show the other up in the animosity shown.

Thankfully, he had had the mind to clean up the store beforehand, so when they get to the parking lot exit, the only thing he has to do is lock up. He’s a little less thankful when they step outside to find the rain still coming down hard. They’re warm and dry under the overhang of the building, but a few steps forward and they’ll quickly be drenched.

“Thanks for picking me up,” John says, staring at the rain.

“Don’t mention it.” Then, the two of them make an awkward half-walk, half-jog to Donna’s car, as so to get out of the downpour quickly without losing all of their dignity. Donna drives; it’s her car, and besides, John’s sure she still doesn’t trust him behind a vehicle after he almost drove into a street light. In his defense… He cuts that thought short. He doesn’t have a defense.

Eleven at night means the streets are mostly empty. Occasionally, a bus or a car drives by, but other than that, it’s deserted. The radio sings out softly, and the dull purr of the car’s engine starts to lull John to sleep as they drive towards his flat.

“So,” Donna starts at one point. “Before that lady just had to buy her blazers, I was going to say… Veronica was telling me about something that happened at the university today.”

John’s head snaps up, jerked out of his half-dazed sleep. “...Yeah?” he asks, because she’s talking in that casually conversational tone she always gets when he has Done Something, and that always manages to get his attention.

“Yeah, she was. And you know what she said?” Donna doesn’t wait for an answer, dropping her friendly pretense. “She said that you got banned from the science labs. For disorderly conduct and misuse of equipment . What the hell, John?”

“What are you, my mother?” he retorts, since he can’t exactly deny it – he did get banned, sort of.  Not a comprehensive ban. Just a… stern warning that if he was ever caught deviating from procedures ever again, he’d be kicked from the program.

“Apparently I am, if you’re going to keep on being an idiot and blow up experiments. And here’s this mother’s advice: don’t blow shit up. Especially around other people.”

“It didn’t blow up, it just… made a lot of smoke. Toxic smoke. That had to be vented through the windows… and caused us to evacuate the – okay, I see your point.”

“What about lab safety? I’ve listened to you complain for an hour straight about people not following lab safety, what happened to that?”

“Lab safety is important!” he insists, trying to keep up his reputation. “I just – didn’t expect the compounds to react that way.” He continues to defend himself, though he feels that it’s a lost argument already.

Donna takes a right turn onto a residential street – just a bit too quick, John thinks. She sighs. “D’you know what the worst thing about this is?”

“Uhm, I can’t make my own experiments anymore?”

“No, thank God for that . No, I meant I heard about this through a liberal arts major! The liberal arts department heard about your cock-up, John.”

“Oh.” Well, that was – that’s a bit embarrassing, he has to admit. It only happened today, but then again, stuff like this tends to spread like wildfire. “It’s not an actual ban,” he tells her. “Just a slap on the wrist thing. If they really wanted me out of the labs, they’d make me drop the class.”

Donna shakes her head in disdain, but even in the darkness of the car, illuminated only occasionally by passing street lights, John can see the hint of a smile on her face. “You’re a mad idiot, you are.”

He rolls his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, I know.”

They fall into a comfortable silence after that. A silence that’s indicative of two people who have known each other for long enough – or felt like they’ve known each other for long enough –  to no longer feel the pressure to always be talking about something. Of course, Donna might argue that he’s always talking about something, even when he really has nothing to say, but that’s not true. He can shut his mouth, sometimes. Being dead-tired helps with the not-talking thing, though.

They’re almost to his flat by the time he starts going through his day tomorrow (study in the morning, run some errands in the evening, plan a topic for the next astronomy meeting. Also, find out when the next astronomy meeting was) when Donna asks him something.

“Are you free later? I feel like this is the first time I’ve seen you in weeks, and it’s just me driving you home from work and scolding you.”

He thinks for a minute. Clears his throat. “Um, should be. And this is the first time you’ve seen me in about two weeks.”

“Right, yeah.” Donna pulls up to an apartment block, six stories tall, and parks the car just outside the front door. “See you later then. I’ll call or something.”

He says goodbye, thanks Donna for the ride, and makes his way into the apartment block. He fumbles with his keys for a moment – and once he gets the door open, there’s the unmistakable sound of a car driving off, tires screeching against the pavement, a noise that makes him wince.

John’s only halfway to the fourth floor when he realizes he still has Donna’s thermos in his hand. He looks at the canister in his hand, pondering what to do. He doesn’t want to call her back just for a thermos… Oh well, it’d give him a chance to wash it before returning. When he enters his flat, he makes sure to set the thermos down on the kitchen counter. Close to the sink, to remind him. Hopefully.

A quick dinner and a shower later, John finally gets into bed. Well, by dinner, he means a bag of crisps, and by getting into bed, he means collapsing onto the living room sofa with a blanket – the blue, incredibly soft one he likes so much. The only thing he really got right is the shower, actually. He spends some time rolling the fabric between his fingers, letting his mind wander a bit with the sensation.

The telly’s on in the background, some mindless background noise to help him unwind as usual. Though despite his exhaustion, he finds it hard for his mind to calm down enough for sleep. This doesn’t surprise him.

It’s generally the case for him. Unable to quell the racing thoughts in his mind – not that they’re terribly important thoughts. Quite the opposite, in fact. Currently, he’s thinking about the labs, which actually would fall under the category of important, or at least, semi-important.

What was he going to do about the ban-that-is-definitely-not-a-ban? He’d been thinking about it all day, until work had distracted him. The mundane routine of completing transactions, organizing clothing racks, and dealing with customers is easy to get lost in, after all. But then Donna just had to bring it back up on the car ride home, so now he’s back to contemplating his options.

He’s still allowed to work in the labs, but the head of the lab is definitely going to be keeping a closer eye on him. No more impromptu experiments while he waits for reactions to occur or water to boil. So really, the only trouble is that he can’t make his own experiments at the university. He has to go somewhere else, or “stop these idiotic games,” he was told. When has he ever been known to listen to authority? No, he’d just have to figure something out. Maybe he could ignore it, or sneak in after hours. Or maybe he could–

Oh, John thinks as he shifts on the sofa. Now that’s an idea.

Chapter Text

A few days after she drove John home from his job, Donna Noble finds herself back at her mate’s flat. This time, however, she’s planning on staying for a bit longer than the time necessary to drop someone off and make sure they got inside safely before speeding off to get some much needed beauty sleep.

The sun is just setting as she buzzes the intercom. She waits a moment, then buzzes again, confused and just a little annoyed at the lack of a response. He's always right there to let her in, and when she texted ahead, John had answered, so it isn’t like he’s not expecting her.

She gives the intercom another buzz, holding it out for a few seconds for good measure, but there’s nothing. She eyes the intercom, considering the other options. Most of the names, she doesn’t know. Not like she should, anyway. She  lives on the other side of Chiswick. One choice sticks out, though. Alice Letts, in flat 4B. John’s talked about her a few times. Loves to leave her rubbish bags in the hall instead of taking them out to the bins, but her baking makes up for it.

She presses the button, and not a minute later, a voice crackles through the speaker. “Hello?”

“Hi, I’m Donna,” she says. “I’m a friend of John. John Smith, in flat 4C?”

“Yeah, I know the guy. Bit weird, ain’t he?”

Donna laughs. “Just a bit. But, could you buzz me in? He’s not answering – probably caught up in revising or something.”

“You’re sure you’re not a murderer or nothin’?” asks Alice.

“Definitely not a murderer,” she assures her.

Alice is either easy to convince, or she just doesn’t care. “Right, I’ll let you up.” There’s a sigh. “But if you do go on a murder-spree or something, kindly leave me out of it.” The door clicks open, and when Alice doesn’t say anything more, Donna makes her way up to the fourth floor.

The flat’s door is unlocked when she gets to it, so she has no trouble getting inside. The first thing she notices is the amount of papers littering the place. On the table, the counters, a few laying on the sofa or on the floor, even. A couple of books are on the coffee table, open to random pages. Most of them chemistry-related. One or two pages look like her grandad’s star maps.

“John?” Donna calls out. “You home?” In the living room, there’s a stack of boxes in the far corner looking quite haphazardly stacked. She takes a moment to rearrange them, and resolves to tell John to clean up his flat for once in his life, and to remember to lock his door. Once she finds him, that is. “Next time you leave the door unlocked,” she says, aware she’s talking to thin air. “I’m stealin’  your telly. To… teach you a lesson, or somethin’.”

Well, she thinks as she goes to the kitchen next – just as messy as the living room, with unwashed dishes and even more papers, more essays and things with jargon so unfamiliar, she doesn’t bother more than a cursory glance. Might as well make a cuppa while I’m here. She just ran out of tea at her own place, and hadn't gotten around to getting more just yet. John wouldn’t mind her abusing her unrestricted access to his pantry.

Though, maybe tea isn’t an option. As she looks in the cupboards, she finds no clean mugs. Bowls, glasses, and plates are all in their spots, but no mugs, strangely. The thought of making tea in an everyday glass invokes a visceral response within her, and she closes the cupboard. Though, next to the sink, there’s a familiar-looking thermos, and she finally remembers how she gave it to John, then never got it back. Should’ve known. She gladly puts it in her handbag after wondering for the past week where the damn thing had gone to.

As she is looking around the kitchen, (what the hell could John get up to with a bunch of ceramic mugs?), she catches sight of a note taped to the refrigerator. A coffee circle on the edge of the note slightly covers the messy writing that reads, “check out the basement.”

“Oh no,” she groans, lifting the note from its spot. “What’d you do now, John?”

And so, on a stubborn quest to find him, Donna walks the five flights down to the basement of the flat complex. The whole time she’s thinking, would it really be that expensive to install a lift? She pushes open the basement doors to be greeted with rows of wire fenced lockers – storage rooms for each flat in the block.

“John? You better be in here, I haven’t walked all the down here for nothing,” Her voice echoes through the basement as she walks past the storage units. She can't say she's ever been down here, so she looks around, taking casual notice of what’s in each locker as she goes. Each is filled with various cardboard boxes and bicycles with flat tyres. Some have golf clubs, or pieces of furniture too big to fit in the flats. All of them are messy and disorganized.

In a locker an aisle over, in the far, dim corner of the basement is the oddest thing – a battered blue box. It's only a little smaller than the locker itself, allowing a few inches of space on each side. Why someone, no, how someone would put a box like that into their storage locker, she can’t fathom.

Nor does she get time to fathom it, because just then, there’s the slam of a door hitting the wall as it swings open. A familiar voice exclaims, “Donna! There you are!” and she forgets all about the little blue box in the locker.

Sure enough, when she looks back to where she came in, there’s a lanky bloke in jeans and a nerdy chemistry shirt, where the “man” in “[Fe] Man” has been crossed out with Sharpie and replaced with the word “person.” It's a terrible shirt, and she's been trying to get him to burn it.  

John is also holding a small package, tucked under his arm, and he’s grinning like a Cheshire cat.

“Where were you?” Donna asks as John walks up to her, grabs her hand, and drags her deeper into the storage basement. “I saw your note, but you weren’t even down here.”

“I ordered some chemicals for this thing I’ve been wanting to do, and had to go pick it up,” he explains. “Technically, I could’ve gotten it from the labs at school, but, uh, I don’t think they’d appreciate it, and also, stealing chemicals is a lot harder than nicking a few hotplates. I still might try later.”

“You what?” she asks, but then he stops outside of an open storage locker, and Donna freezes. “Oh my God John, what have you been doing?”

A foldable table has been shoved against the wall of the locker and piled high with the missing mugs from his kitchen, a hot plate and bunsen burner, a couple of binders and a clipboard, and various papers and pencils. Bizarrely, there’s also a bag of jelly babies, half empty.

Underneath the table, ready for use, is a wooden stool, and an industrial bucket filled with sand sits on the floor next to one of the table’s legs – how he got that, she has no idea, actually, she has no idea how he got any of this stuff. Next to that is a cardboard box labeled “Broken Mugs.” There aren’t any broken mugs to speak of, but Donna isn’t quite sure what to make of the fact that John is expecting to break some mugs during his – well, whatever this is.

“It’s a lab!” John exclaims. “There’s no way I can get away with doing my own experiments at university anymore, so I just… made my own place to do them.”

He’s been struggling with opening the box as she took everything in, and has finally gotten past the packaging and layers of bubble wrap to unveil a small vial of white powder. He steps into the ‘lab,’ tosses the empty box into a rubbish bin, and opens the vial. He says nothing as he spoons a tiny amount into a blue and white mug, and retrieves a jelly baby from the plastic bag. He lights the bunsen burner and heats up the mug for a moment. Donna winces a bit as he does that – open flame cannot be good for that, and if it doesn’t hurt the ceramic, then it has to be doing a number on the decorative lacquer. He turns to her, and shows the mug, like a magician about to do a trick.

Then, he drops the candy in.

Donna flinches as a show of light and white smoke erupts from the mug. John flinches too, but holds the mug steady, still grinning.

It’s all rather anticlimactic really, Donna thinks as the reaction fizzles out just as quickly as it began, and John fans away the smoke. “This is how you’ve been spending her time,” she says flatly.

John sets the mug down on the table, and frowns. “I think it needs more powder. Too much jelly baby.” Then he sees Donna’s look, and realizes she asked a question. “Uh, yeah. I had to find someplace to do my experiments, and I remembered that I get a storage locker with the flat, so…” he gestures to the ‘lab.’ “It seemed like the obvious solution.”

“I thought the obvious solution was to stop doing these dumb experiments.”

John rests his hands against the table’s edge and leans back. “But what about the science, Donna? The euphoria of discovery? I can't do stuff like this at school–”

“What science is there in exploding jelly babies – And,” she interrupts herself, remembering the empty cupboards. “You didn’t have to bring all of your mugs down.”

He glances back at his vast array of ceramic ware, as if seeing them for the first time. “I guess I was just a bit excited,” he admits. “I’ve been working on this all week.”

She wants to ask him where he even got the equipment from, but then he offers to make her a cup of tea (using the clean , not-filled-with-hazardous-chemicals mugs), and Donna has to admit she’s parched. Besides, it isn’t as if she’s been able to stop John from doing shit like this for the past two years. If he wants to blow up jelly babies in the basement of his flat complex, then so be it.

So now they’re back in John’s flat. Music plays softly from a speaker in the living room – a playlist mostly filled with classic and modern pop, and the odd opera song – and John’s making tea in the kitchen. Donna sits at the table, casually looking over the papers he left on it.

This particular set of papers is mostly essays. Donna gets about a quarter of the way down the first page of one before she gives up – she doesn’t want to bother with parsing all that scientific nonsense. Save it for work, she tells herself.

Oh, just thinking about that makes her heart race.

John sits down opposite of her and slides a cup of tea across the table. “What’s new with you? It was your first day of the job a few days ago, wasn’t it?” he asks, managing to hit the one thing she doesn’t want to talk about. It’s like he knows what she’s thinking, and she doesn’t appreciate it one bit.

“Yeah, at that engineering firm.” She grabs for the sugar. John’s drinking his tea black. How he can stand that, she doesn’t know. Two sugars later, she takes a sip and deems it drinkable.

“And how’s that?”

She sighs, setting down her cup but keeping a tight grip on it. “Terrible! It’s all posh, so of course I don’t fit in. Then it's a huge company, so you wouldn't think it, but everyone there already knows each other. So I’m left asking stupid questions like ‘Should I forward this to Wilson?’ and then Bernice – who has absolutely no sense of personal space, I’m telling you – will say something like, ‘Oh no, love, Karen takes care of all the emails for that client,’ in that snippy, condescending voice of hers. Like thanks! I’ve only been here a week, I don’t know everything, Bernice.

“And then – then everyone else is expecting me to actually understand the memos and things I’m passing forward. This is an engineering firm, I’m a temp, I don’t know the first thing about plastic injection molding, and I shouldn’t have to! Secretaries, we make meetings, we send out memos, we take calls, that’s the stuff I’m good at, and for whatever reason, my boss is expecting me to act like an engineer and correct the mistakes that the actual engineers make in their reports.”

She pauses only when she notices John reaching across the table and gently easing the mug out of her hands. “I think,” he’s saying, “you need something a little bit stronger than tea.”

Donna looks down at the cup of tea, then back to him, thinks a bit about the past week – new job, new hassles, her mum nagging her relentlessly. “I think, for once in your life, you know what you’re talking about.”

He grins.

A quick walk and the two of them are sitting at the bar of a nearby pub. Friday night means everyone else had a similar idea, and John and Donna are lucky to have a seat at all. Music plays from speakers hidden somewhere, and people are chattering all around them. Personally, John would have chosen a seat outside, away from the noise and the crowd, but Donna wanted to sit at the bar. He absently fills out a slip for the pub raffle – win a bottle of some cheap booze that they probably got from Tesco! – as she talks, though he makes a point to let her know he’s still listening.

“–And Bernice just kept on playing that awful music, like haven’t you ever heard of headphones?”

John hands the slip to the bartender, who’s passing by to serve another customer, and looks to Donna. “Can’t you complain to H.R about that? Say, ‘Hey, this person’s impeding my ability to work efficiently.’ Use that corporate jargon they love so much. It isn’t exactly a lie,” he points out.

“The last thing I want to do is have to fill out a bunch of paperwork just so I can get someone to use headphones.”

“Isn’t paperwork, like, your whole thing? You said it was your thing.”

She glares. “It wasn’t like I let her off the hook though. Gave her a proper what-for, at least. Oh… Maybe I’ll be the one getting reported,” she realizes, shoulders dropping.  

“There you go. Donna Noble, taking shit from no-one.” He laughs, then takes a long drink of his beer.

She raises an eyebrow at him. “Aren’t I supposed to be the one getting wasted? That’s your second pint in a half hour, and you could probably get wasted on Budweiser if you tried.”

“Donna, Donna, Donna, I’m a grad student. This is what we do .” He presses a hand to his chest, and places one on her shoulder. “Sure, we revise and research and pray that we’ll have enough money to buy another coffee for the afternoon, but we also can drink like the world’s about to end.”

“You’re like, thirty, John. I don’t think you’re as good as handling your alcohol as you think you are. If you wake up tomorrow and you can’t move, don’t you dare blame me.”

A little overconfident, he says, “Well, I like to think I’ve developed a decently high tolerance.”

“I… don’t think taking university classes gives you any sort of tolerance, but–” she shrugs, “–be my guest.”

John wakes with a groan.

And then he groans some more and resolves to never do that again because god damn that hurt, like someone stabbing his ear drums. His stomach is twisting and churning something awful, and he doesn't dare open his eyes until the pounding in his head gains the courtesy to die down to a dull roar.

When he does open them, however, he’s surprised and pained to be greeted by a bright shade of yellow. He rubs at his eyes and hears the crinkle of cheap paper as his hand brushes against something on his forehead – a sticky note.

He peels the sticky note off of his brow and very, very carefully (though it still makes him feel ill) eases himself into a sitting position.

He’s on a couch – his couch, in his flat. That’s nice, at least. Preferable to well –  anywhere else one might wake up when hungover. The street, maybe. Definitely preferable to waking up on the street. But how did he get here? He was – at the pub, the last he remembers, with Donna.

And what happened last night? He has the worst feeling that he did something completely ridiculous. When he tries to think back, the staticy-cotton clogging his thoughts only gets worse. Donna must’ve had a field day.

The sticky note in his hand has a bit of scrawl in her handwriting, and reading it doesn’t help the sense of dread in the pit of John’s stomach.

“High tolerance my arse. – D”

Chapter Text

Today is, for the most part, not going the way John intended.

When he wakes up, it takes him more than a second to realize he is not, in fact, in his bed (or much more likely, on the sofa). In reality, he’s still at the desk in the storage locker that is his workspace and his lab.

He peels his face off of the chemistry textbook in front of him and spends a few good seconds in a daze, trying to call to mind what he’s supposed to be doing. It clicks. With a sudden panic, he reaches for his phone. He turns on the display to reveal the time as way too fucking late to make it to work on time . He jumps up from his seat and races upstairs to his flat, swearing colorfully.

He can practically hear Donna’s voice as he’s rushing up the last few fights of stairs. You always have to do this, don’t you?

Run on almost empty for days and days until he crashes at three AM while studying, or in class, or when he’s at work. He always gets almost enough sleep, eats almost enough food, or gets there almost on time. She’s told him over and over that this isn’t healthy, that he’s gonna hurt himself one of these days. But he’s become very good at running on almost , it’s what he does .

And besides, he hasn’t gotten fired yet.

He speeds through his shower and throws on some acceptable work clothes. And foregoing any breakfast, he dashes to the bus stop. He can’t help bouncing on his heels as he waits for the damn thing to show up. God, he must look a sight, he realizes, glancing around at the few other people waiting with him. Damp hair and a wrinkled uniform, circles under his eyes, looking like Death. Of all the days for the bus to be late…

But eventually, he makes it to the mall, dodging skillfully past customers as he runs towards the clothing shop he works at.

John quickly makes his way through the store, smiling politely at any customers that see him, hoping to get to the back so he can clock in without anyone noticing he’s late.

Except one lady decides to stop him. Properly stops him. She grabs his arm as he passes by, forcing him to falter.

Politely as he can, he pulls his arm out of her grip and is about to speak when she shows him a couple of receipts. “Young man, I want to return these.”

“The… receipts?” he asks, still groggy, not having quite established his “Happy to help!” facade.

“No, the shirts,” she says. “The shirts I bought, I want to return them.”

He’s quick to notice the fact that she has no shirts with her, just the receipts, and John internally groans, already knowing how this interaction is going to go. “Ma’am, you need to have the shirts with you to return them,” he says, doing his best to try and put on a pleasant face.

“Why would I have to do that? I just want my money back.”

“I…” He’s baffled, and decides that it’s too early for this and he’s much too late. “You should go over to the customer service desk, they’ll be able to help you out.” He knows he’s just dumping this on his poor co-worker, but he hasn’t even clocked in yet. He isn’t getting paid to deal with this, so he’s not going to deal with it.

Thankfully, the lady walks over to the desk at his suggestion, and when he starts moving again, he’s able to carefully avoid anyone else in the store. Finally, successfully, he sneaks into the background.  Maybe if they don’t see him come in late, they would assume he’s been there the whole time and he can get off easy.

Or not, he amends when he hears a cough, just as he’s clocking in.

He turns around slowly to see his boss – who looks much more well-kempt than he does, black hair trimmed and tied behind her head, work clothes neatly ironed and presentable – leaning against the doorway, arms crossed. “Hey, Olivia,” he drawls, in an effort to appear completely and utterly innocent.

Olivia stares at him. “You’re an hour late.”

“Well, forty minutes, if we want to be precise, and yeah, I – uh, woke up late, then the bus was late. You know how it is.”

“I hate to nitpick, John, but this is the second time in two weeks that you’ve been late for a shift,” she explains calmly, like she isn’t even bothered. Though, the look in her eye tells John she is very, very bothered. “Try not to make it a third.”

He nods, mostly because he’s a student, for God’s sake, and this is his only source of income. He hasn’t been able to pick up a teaching assistant’s job, and he’s got the heavy weight of tuition on his shoulders. If he had the choice, he might have decided to quit right then and there because honestly, he’d rather be doing anything else. Working at a dead-end job to pay for classes? That’s lame. Teaching…  or even travel, if he had the time? Now that sounds like him. Someday, he’ll take a vacation, get out of the country, at the very least. “I’m terribly sorry, won’t happen again.”

Olivia’s face breaks out into a big smile, an unsettling switch of moods, and she says, “Great! Now, someone messed up all the racks in the men’s department, why don’t you get on that?”

And so he does. Turns out someone thought it was perfectly acceptable to throw clothes just anywhere when they were done with them, or decided they didn’t want them. Whatever, he doesn’t really care. He’s just going through the motions by now, as usual.

By his lunch break, John’s absolutely starving and is starting to regret skipping breakfast. Not to mention the needy whine of caffeine withdrawal forming at the base of his skull and behind his eyes. It wasn’t as if being an extra fifteen minutes late would have been that bad, he admits, once he was already forty minutes off the mark.

He only has a little time for his lunch break, so he pops over to the Subway across the way. The shop is crowded, and once he has his sandwich, he leaves to find somewhere he can eat in peace. This turns out to be a secluded part of the mall a few shops over. He leans against a wall, munching mechanically on a turkey sandwich as he pulls out his phone.

He’s got four texts: one from Donna, two from Samuel, and one from Olivia that he must’ve missed earlier.

A quick glance shows Olivia’s message to be exactly what he expects: a passive aggressive question about why he’s late today, sent around half eight this morning.

Delete.

Donna’s message turns out to be another one mocking whatever the hell he did a few weeks ago when he was drunk off his arse. She keeps holding it over him, like their lives are a sitcom and this is a running gag. He sends her a text asking what the hell he did, and this time he reminds her that he has photographic evidence of the Fountain Incident.

The two from Samuel, he deletes without opening. He doesn’t need drama from his ex now. Not when his lunch break is almost up.  

John finishes the rest of his sandwich in a hurry, tosses his trash out in a nearby rubbish bin, and gets back to work barely with a minute to spare.

The day goes by in a blur after that, the routine mundane but familiar. Most of the customers are still unable to use common sense when it comes to their shopping, but it’s mangable, at least. Olivia sticks him with closing up shop, punishment for being late, probably. Briefly, he wonders if it’s legal for your employer to make you work from start to close. It probably is, and either way, he needs the money, so he can’t really be complaining. 

Across town, Michelle Harte – law student, late thirties, who said you could be too old to go back to university? – is at an art gallery. It's late, but with her busy schedule, right before closing is the only time she could afford to visit the building. It's nice, being the only one around – aside from the occasional security guard or the guide, who looks like he wants to be anywhere but here. 

He's told Michelle many times in the twenty minutes she's been here that he loves his job. "Showing people the beauty of modern art!” he said, when she was picking up a map of the gallery. “I like to think I'm helping them appreciate it more, you know?"

The guide would've gone on, no doubt, but she quickly let him know that no, she wasn't going to need a tour just now, and added that she wouldn't tell if he went and slacked off at his desk (if he even had a desk). He considered this for a moment, then accepted her generous offer, but not without telling her that had there been more people around (anyone at all), he would’ve gladly made her take a tour.

Now Michelle is wandering the gallery alone. There's incredible paintings and abstract sculptures, detailed pottery and interactive works that encourage you to participate in some way or another. Michelle spends a little time at each one, making sure to read the plaques that tell her about the artists behind the works and the supposed meaning of the art.

Like most modern art galleries, it's all a bit incomprehensible. She's not involved in art, nor would she say she has an interest in it. The only reason why she's here is for her fiancée. Emily's the one who draws and paints to her heart's content, and gets commissions for her Night Sky series, a collection of paintings “focusing on the brilliant variation of Earth’s sky,” as she always says. She loves to critique old paintings and try to find the deeper meaning in it all.

So Michelle is just here to get a feel of the place, thinking this would be a nice place to take her on a date; Emily might have been to this gallery before, but they recently got a couple of new installations. There's no way she's seen some of these works.

And, she's thinking, it would be lovely to see Emily try to explain whatever this particular work is supposed to be. The plaque in front of it lists nothing besides the title and the name of the artist, adding to the ‘cultured’ mystery.

Mirrors  by Anonymous is a wall of mirrors that when Michelle steps closer, slide to the side like doors at the grocery store. Suddenly she realizes that it’s actually a hallway, every surface except for the hardwood floor and the ceiling also covered in mirrors. She walks into the hallway, and finds that every time she walks to the opposite wall, it turns out to be a set of sliding doors, leading her further and further down the hallway.

It messes her up, majorly, seeing her reflection come closer and closer to her face before disappearing as the wall keeps revealing itself to be doors that slide. It messes her up even more when she ends up walking into the wall.

She takes a step back, rubs at her nose, and frowns. Did she hit the end of the exhibit, or is the door stuck? When she looks closely, she sees a thin crack from the top of the glass wall down to the bottom, so it is a door. It’s just not opening.

She goes back to where she came through, but finds that those doors aren’t opening either. She presses her hand against the wall, trying to see if she can push the doors open, but they stay firmly stuck. Meaning, she’s stuck too.

Michelle barely has time to panic before the lights shut off. 

She startles, and doesn't get a chance to do anything else before the lights switch back on, this time flaring painfully bright. Something’s changed. She can feel it in the air. There's a low humming now, like a cat’s purr but much less comforting and much more mechanical. It thrums through her body, deep in her bones.

She makes a futile attempt to shield her eyes against the harsh light, but it illuminates everything, impossible to block out. It’s so bright, she can almost feel it burning her skin – or no, it is burning her, but not like anyway she's known before. An excruciating, invisible flame that threatens to warp her very being and makes panic rise up in her throat, or that might just be the bile rising from her nauseated stomach.

She bangs against the mirrors, shouting and crying for help; someone must be able to hear her, they have to hear her.

Just as the light reaches a blazing zenith, the world seems to shut off. Cold and mechanical hands grab at her soul and tugs, ripping her from where she stands in time and space and mind and body. Complete darkness surrounds Michelle, overwhelming in its absoluteness, and suddenly something is rushing past her at a hundred miles a minute. Things break away, are shuffled and rewoven, whole chunks of Michelle break off and get lost in the void; She’s sure something is lost along the way, it has to be, but she finds she can’t even remember what it could be.

(A human can only survive exposure to the Time Vortex for seconds at a time, if that. It takes organic matter, chews it up, and spits it out without a care for the mangled results.)

She lands somewhere, some place and some time, but unfortunately, she blacks out a second later, and doesn’t catch a glimpse.

Only a mere second has passed between the disappearance of Michelle Harte and the sudden dimming of Mirrors' lighting. The humming ceases as well, and the art exhibit falls silent once more. The only sign that Michelle had ever been at this gallery are the smudges left on the mirrors by desperate, clawing hands, though those too are fading fast.

Back in a department store on the other side of London, John Smith is holding his breath, waiting for the power to come back on. Not again , he’s thinking. If it doesn’t come back on in the next few minutes, he’ll have to go check the fuse box in the back, and that’s the last thing he wants to do right now. A minute or two passes, and the lights flick back on, flaring brightly with the sudden surge of electricity before dimming to how they normally are. He lets out a thankful sigh, and finishes closing the store once he’s finished taking inventory and cleaning up the various racks and tables around the shop.

The bus ride home is quiet, and John almost falls asleep, head against the window. But once he gets home, he turns on the speaker that’s always in the living room. Quiet music fills the flat (he’s gotten noise complaints before, and doesn’t care to receive any more, so he keeps it low), and soon he’s wide awake, even though it’s well into the night.

With a cup of tea and and some papers are long overdue for reading, he settles down on the sofa for a night of research, and sleep, if he can find the time.

Chapter Text

He hasn’t been late to work in a while, and it’s something he’s rather proud of. It’s also incredibly surprising, if you consider how many time he’s been written up for being late; timekeeping has never been John’s forte.

There’s an alarm blaring somewhere to his right, and it rings until he sluggishly rolls over in bed (and that’s something, that he’s in bed and not on the couch or sitting-sleeping at the kitchen table or passed out in his lab downstairs). He lets his arm fall onto the nightstand, and he gropes for the clock. His hand finally finds the off button, and the incessant noise shuts off a moment later.

He sighs. Stretches out muscles tight from sleep before falling limp once more. Then, he reaches down under his bed, searching for his journal. His fingers brush against a worn leather cover, and he grins, triumphant in his search.

He sits back up, journal in hand, and opens it up. He takes the pen that’s tucked away inside of it, and chews on the end of it as he contemplates.

His dreams usually fade fast, but they’re always interesting. Always something new, that’s why he’s taken to writing them down. His mind races constantly, he can’t reliably hold onto something as fragile as a half-remembered dream. This morning, all he’s able to write down is some vague idea about the color blue and home. A strong feeling of home, actually. He underlines the word twice. Only somewhat satisfied, he tosses the journal back under his bed.

After that, he takes his time going through his morning routine. Well, late morning routine. He got a full six hours of sleep, and woke up at eleven thirty six. Just in time for an early lunch, he thinks as he tosses the blankets aside. And then he pauses because oh God, Donna’s right, isn’t she? He is a mess.

But you know what he thinks?  If you’re a mess, you might as well own it.

So he gets up, takes a shower, and throws on a pair of jeans and some old sweater, one that’s faded and worn from being washed far too many times, so that the black cat on the front looks more like a darker grey. He ends up grabbing some leftover pizza from the fridge, and eating it cold in front of the telly. Class starts around four, so until then, he can just study, or do a few chores, if he can bring himself to do them.

He still needs to take a look at his computer, see if he can fix it himself. It’s been broken for days now, and he really doesn’t want to have to bring it in and pay someone do to something he can do here in his flat, and it has to be soon, since he can’t go much longer without it during class.

Then there’s Wilf, who he’s been wanting to call for a while now. Jupiter is supposed to becoming easier and easier to see as the month goes on, and he wanted to see if they could stargaze later in the week.

He decides to multitask. He dials the number and cradles the phone to his ear with his shoulder as he inspects his computer, a screwdriver in his free hand. It takes a few rings, but eventually someone picks up, and a voice on the other end asks, “Hello?”

“Wilfred!” He exclaims. “It’s John, how’s everything holding up?”

Oh, ho, John Smith! It’s been a while since we last talked, hasn’t it?”  Wilf says. John feels a pang of guilt; since classes began last month, he has been neglecting social calls and the like. “And you know. Same old, same old.”

John starts to pry apart the casing, convinced that he can get at the broken power jack better on the inside. How it broke, he has no idea. “Sylvia’s not giving you too much trouble, is she?”

No more than the usual,” Wilf laughs. “How have you been?”

“Fine, fine. Busy, but that’s good. I like busy,” John says. “Now I wanted to ask, are you free later this week? We could do a bit of stargazing up at the allotments.”

I don’t know,” he says, sounding despondent. “My telescope’s gone a bit funny. I – ah – dropped it the other day. One of the legs gave out, and now it won’t focus right anymore.”

“Oh, um… I can take a look at it, if you want?” he offers as he pokes around at the insides of the computer. “It’s probably something to do with the alignment of the lenses.”

Oh no, I couldn’t ask you to do that,” he starts, but John’s quick to interrupt him.

“It’s no problem, honest. I’m good at fixing things.” Although, as he’s looking down at his partially disassembled computer, he’s rethinking that statement. The power jack needs a full replacement, judging by the burnt circuitry, and he doesn’t think he has the parts, the tools, nor the skills to actually do a replacement like that.

"Would you? I can have Donna bring it over… tomorrow?”

“Yeah, that works,” he says. “I’ll have class in the evening though, d’you think she could come over sometime in the afternoon?” He sets the computer down on the table, careful to keep all the little bits and pieces with it.

"She should be able to. Don’t think she’s working or nothing. She’d love to see you, I’m positive.”

Both of them give their goodbyes soon after that, and John ends the call. He looks down at his computer and rubs a hand over his mouth, wondering what he could do. He’s sure he could just… learn how to fix it, read a few guides on the internet and replace the part himself, but he can’t imagine either the soldering iron he needs, or the replacement power jack being cheap.  

It’s a bit odd, actually. Part of the circuit’s actually blackened, like the thing’s been through an intense, focused power surge. The only electrical issue he can recall is the blackouts that have been happening every now and then, like the one last night, but those would have done the opposite, right? Oh, maybe he should just throw in the towel and bring the damn thing in. He’s free Sunday, he could do it then.

He spends the last hour before class revising last week’s material for class. Well, he says revising, but it’s more like a quick read-through, then he spends the rest of the time looking through the book for interesting experiments until it’s time for him to catch the bus. Either way, it’s better than lounging around doing nothing. That's not something he can stand at all.

He gets to the university just in time for the lecture. Five minutes after he sits down, a few rows from the front of the room, the professor, Dr. Lin, walks in. Usually her lectures are interesting and just a bit lively – bad puns are to be expected, always – but when she turns on the project and starts class right away, this lecture’s topic seems to be dry and dull, and it’s terribly hard to pay attention.

He’s scribbling down notes the best he can, but there’s a headache growing at the base of his skull that really isn’t helping, similar to the demanding pain he gets after going too long without coffee, but deeper, more insistent, and he finds himself drifting elsewhere as he writes. He sees–

–red and gold, and silver around a cascade of glass, but that’s wrong he sees nothing he sees nothing he sees–

–the student next to him, nudging his arm and startling him from whatever it was he was thinking about. In a whisper, she says, “Sorry I – I just like your drawings. Wanted to say.”

She points to his notebook, where amidst theories, definitions, and chemical equations, are doodles. Little intersecting circles, filled with lines and dots scattered about in an odd pattern. He doesn’t remember drawing them, and when he thinks back to just a few seconds ago, he finds his mind blank, thoughts buzzing like television static.

“Oh, huh,” he mumbles. “I guess I spaced out.” The student laughs softly, and returns to her own note taking.

The lecture ends soon after that, and John’s grateful for once because he feels like he needs to take a four hour nap in the middle of a dark room with the way his head’s pounding.

He decides to take the first bus back to his flat, foregoing the revision session he usually spends in the library after class. He can make it up later, when he’s feeling better, in the comfort of his own flat. At the stop, he takes out some earbuds from his bag and puts them in, refraining from playing any music. The dampening of sound helps, if only a little. He spends the rest of his time waiting reading the various papers posted against the glass. The GSA meets on Tuesday, spring registration information, a missing person’s sign for one Niko Wesley, and a pamphlet detailing the school’s transfer programs to other universities.

Thankfully, the bus is somewhat on time, and he gets back to his flat around five-thirty three. He tosses his bag onto the sofa, and makes a bee-line to the kitchen. Tea, that helps with… well, everything. Tea with lots of honey, he decides, when he swallows and finds his throat sore.

As he waits for the water to boil, he’s thinking that he’s probably coming down with something – flu, by the way his joints are starting to ache, an ache that settles in his body and makes him want to lie down, but if he lies down now, some part of him knows he won’t move again for the rest of the night. And if he doesn’t move for the rest of the night, then he’ll never make his tea and he’ll never soothe his sore throat, and he’ll only have helped one of the symptoms he’s feeling.

He really doesn’t want to come down with something, least of all the flu; he has class tomorrow, and essays to write, and at least a dozen projects in the basement that he wants to get started on, and a dozen more that he has to actually finish. He can’t get ill, he can’t. Illness means taking time to slow down and rest, and that’s just something he isn’t capable of doing.

But that ache is still there, exhaustion deep in his bones, still begging for him to sleep.

The kettle finally boils, its whistle piercingly loud in his ears. It startles him into moving, and he makes a cup of black tea, no milk or sugar like usual. But when he takes a sip of it, he finds himself grimacing at the taste. Something odd. Something like – free radicals and… tannins? And January. Just a hint of January–

There’s a white-noise whine in his head and – oh, he just forgot to add the honey. That would do it. Only, when he adds a spoonful of honey and takes another sip, he gets the strangest feeling of… of what? Something on his tongue that isn’t flavor at all, but figures and circles and numbers, three point two percent something unknown, not water or fructose, but something variable, dependent on–

Something jerks him back from that thought with a broken shard, jagged knife, a function not quite meeting its goal and – and he finds he’s set the tea back down, and he’s already jerked away from the counter as well. He takes a breathe, presses his hands to his eyes, and thinks that maybe he’s finally starting to lose it. And doesn’t everyone say he’s just a bit mad, that it’s only a matter of time before he cracks completely?

He abandons his tea on the counter and goes over to the sofa. He practically crashes onto the cushions, and lucky for him, he had draped his favorite blanket over the back of the sofa. Meaning: it takes barely any effort (and so much at the same time) to pull it over him.

It helps a little, but it doesn’t weigh nearly enough to feel truly comforting, weight that could block out the everything about the world that’s starting to hurt with the way it’s piling up, crushing him. The gentle hum of the radiator, the twilight-moonlight that filters in through the window. He stares up at the blank white ceiling, trying to find something to look at that doesn’t immediately feel like it’s giving him an overload error, but even then he’s–

Colors dance across the field of his vision, a second-moment, and he rubs at his eyes, trying to send away the stray sparks of silver-gold light, not in any direction he can name if he was asked. Maybe he’s starting to–

To what? Black out? Is his vision going? 

But it’s not vision. He’s not seeing, he’s – it’s on the tip of his tongue. Everything’s on the tip of his tongue. Every object has a history and all history can be tracked and written down as long as there’s someone there to perceive it or they think they’ve perceived it. The curls and spirals of – of timelines, that’s it, those little glimmers of the past, present, and future that don’t exist but still do, that’s what it is. 

No. No, because that’s insane. That’s – there’s no way that’s what he’s– 

What is he even talking about?

Sleep. That’s what he needs, some proper sleep. His body has been yelling at him to sleep for a while now, it’s about time he gave in.

He’s been tired before. Oh, it’s like his default setting, really. Always running about, doing experiments, revising, working, going to the pub, hanging out with mates. And even when he takes a minute to just stay still, he’s still thinking , thoughts whirling about at a million miles an hour. But he can’t remember a time when the exhaustion resonated this deep, pulling him down until he doesn’t think he’d be able to move if he tried.

Right now, his thoughts feel as slow and heavy and ancient as glacier ice, and he doesn’t think he can keep his eyes open a second longer, so he doesn’t. They fall shut, and he takes a deep breath, letting himself fall silent as he caves in to his body’s demands and finally, finally sleeps.

Chapter Text

She adjusts the telescope under her arm, and begins the trek up to John’s flat. As she goes up the steps, there’s the gentle clink of broken glass from within the instrument’s casing. The wooden legs of the tripod are unwieldy, not designed to be carried up four flights of stairs by a thirty-something year old woman, which results in some strong language when Donna finally reaches the fourth floor.

John has an awful habit of forgetting to lock his flat, so she decides to just try the knob in lieu of knocking. Sure enough, it swings open (she’s definitely stealing his telly at some point), and Donna barges into the flat with her grandad’s telescope, yelling out, “John! I brought the telescope – Grandad said you’d take a look at it?”

But instead of a friendly, enthusiastic voice proclaiming he’d have it fixed in a jiffy, Donna’s greeted by the sight of John sleeping on the sofa. He’s curled up under that blanket of his, which haphazardly covers him, like someone tried to drag it onto themselves and then fell asleep halfway through the motion. Somehow, her shouting didn’t wake him.

“John?” she asks softly as she sets the telescope down, leaning it against the wall. He’s snoring softly, breathing slowly but steadily, and there’s absolutely no sign that he hears her. She isn’t sure she’s ever caught him napping like this. It’s always run, run, run, until he physically can’t go on and is forced to have some downtime, like the rest of mankind. 

Maybe she should let him sleep for a bit. Or maybe she should get a camera. A Sharpie, even.

She decides to be merciful, just this once.

As she takes a second to adjust his blanket so it doesn’t fall off of him, she considers her options. It’s either watch telly here or go back to her flat and help Lance get a headstart on doing the chores. The choice is obvious, really. She sends a text to her boyfriend though, telling him something came up. He replies a few minutes later with a sweet, “That’s fine honey! <3” 

She smiles down at the text for a moment, then slips her mobile back into her purse. 

She grabs the remote, plops herself down on the armchair – her favorite in this flat, which is an easy decision when the choice is between the old sofa and this chair – and puts on EastEnders. She doesn’t really pay attention, instead choosing to take some time to text her friends. Veena in particular has a lot to say about her recent trip to Cambodia, and a lot of pictures, too. Donna’s not jealous, she’s absolutely not. 

Halfway through the second episode and when Veena’s in the middle of explaining the trouble she had with her hotel, John still hasn’t woken up, and it’s starting to be a bit worrying, actually; it isn’t like she’s particularly trying to be quiet. The telly’s blaring, and in the other room, a kettle is boiling water for tea. The blinds are open, letting sunlight into the room and onto the sofa. It shines in his face, and yet he still sleeps.

It feels like it’s the first time she ever wanted John to not sleep. 

She gets up, and kneels beside the couch. “Hey John,” she says, speaking loudly. “John, you gotta get up.” She shakes his arm, tries to rouse him from his sleep, but it’s like he’s dead to the world, or comatose. She thinks back. Did he say anything about what he was doing last night? Maybe he pulled an all-nighter revising again, or maybe he went out with his mates and stayed out until four in some sleazy pub. Did he even have pub mates? Oh God, what if he had been roofied? 

The thought of John being carried in, or worse – stumbling in alone, collapsing onto the couch just before he lost consciousness – suddenly plagues her mind, and Donna finds herself pulling on his arm, still trying to shake him awake. “John, come on, stop messin’ about!” She keeps trying, but there isn’t even the slightest twinge on his face.

She has to admit she has absolutely no idea what to do in the case of a roofied mate when she starts trying to slap him awake. Gently, at first, but that yields no reaction whatsoever. She has a pretty mean slap, she’s been told. Mostly by men who thought they were entitled to her on the metro, but it still counts, she thinks. Maybe even more so. She actually has her hand poised, ready to give him a proper smack, when John shifts in his spot and sighs.

A faint puff of gold dust comes out with his breath, before dissipating so fast Donna must’ve imagined it. Then John’s eyes snaps open, and a moment later, he’s pushed himself up into a sitting position on the sofa, staring at her with wide eyes. 

“Finally!” she says, stabbing a finger at his chest accusingly. “What did you do last night, John? I’ve been trying to wake you up all morning. And you best believe I had other things planned today than watching EastEnders and worrying about your skinny catatonic arse.” It isn’t exactly truthful, but it isn’t exactly a lie either. She did have other things planned, but watching over her best mate is much more preferable to running around doing dull errands. Especially since it seems like he’s about to be sick. Quick, shallow breaths, shoulders shaking, oh God, what did he do?   Was he even hearing her right now? 

“John, John, listen to me,” she says firmly, reaching out to touch his shoulder. “Are you alright?” she asks. He yanks himself back from her touch, and grips the fabric of the sofa’s back with white-knuckled fists, and Donna snatches her hand away.

Finally, it hits her, and now Donna’s kicking herself in the shin because she should have realized sooner. Sensory overload, must be. She’s seen it in a few kids when she temped at schools. Usually then it was brought on by stress and too much stimuli. Loud students, bad smells, crowded hallways and no place to get away. She can’t imagine what brought it on, but she recognizes it now in his body language, his reactions, and the he’s looking at her, yet doesn’t seem to be seeing her.

He’s gone nonverbal, or distant, sometimes, when the stress of school and work and everything else about the world becomes too much for him, she knows that, but she’s never see him so unresponsive, and it’s making her heart race. 

She sits back on her calves and looks around the room. The telly’s blaring, the window blinds are open, letting the sunshine into the room, and the electric kettle is whirring away in the kitchen because Donna’s a firm believer that tea is a necessity when watching TV. What’s the first thing you do? She asks herself. Get them to a quiet room, and if you can’t, make a quiet room. Limit the stimuli. 

So Donna gets up. She clicks off the telly with the remote still in her hands, and she closes the blinds and shuts out the light the best she could. The kettle goes unplugged, because if the noise isn’t bothering him now, the smell of herbal tea later on still might. 

By the time she goes back to the couch, having done all she can think of, John’s moved. He’s now curled up under the blanket, trembling uncontrollably. She can’t tell if it’s better or worse, and she’s starting to panic just a bit because how can she help? What does she do? But then John opens his mouth, and she can see it takes him a huge amount of effort to whisper, “Weighted blanket, bedroom closet. Top left. Please.” And because John knows what he needs right now better than she does, she goes to his bedroom. 

She can’t remember the last time she was in his bedroom, actually. Surprisingly, it’s the least cluttered room of the flat. The bed’s not made, and there’s clothes on the floor, but there’s no papers, no scientific essays, no textbooks covering every available surface. She guesses he keeps all of that stuff in the kitchen and the living room, anywhere but here. 

It’s like any normal bedroom, really. 

The closet is a bit messier, a bit more John in that respect. Full of hanging shirts and pants, and even more that fell to the ground. She pushes them aside in search of anything resembling a blanket in the slightest. She finds it eventually, a heavy grey thing buried under some sweaters and a crumpled brown suit that must’ve fallen from its hanger. 

She takes the weighted blanket back to John. The blue blanket seems to have been thrown aside at some point, and before she’s even unfolded it all the way, he’s grabbing for the heavier option. She helps him, drapes the blanket over him, and says nothing when he slowly pulls the cloth over his head, letting it engulf him like a cocoon. And then, because she doesn’t know what else to do, she sits down on the very edge of the sofa, carefully avoiding touching him. 

Time passes, and Donna’s thoughts race, though it’s mostly a broken record. What happened? Did he do something? Is he alright? Should she call someone, or would that just make it worse? 

It feels like hours until John shifts. Donna’s immediately watching him, and though her first instinct is to badger him with questions, she holds her tongue for now. He gingerly pulls the blanket down, and peaks his head out, squinting like he’s staring at the sun, despite the dimmed lights in the room. He sees her, and this time, she can tell he’s actually seeing her, and that lets her breathe a bit easier. 

“What,” she whispers, somewhat hesitant to speak, but making sure she comes off as forceful and not as someone to lie to, “the hell was that?” 

He blinks, and for a moment, it seems like he’s forgotten how to speak. He offers her a fragile smile, instead, and says, “Er – Good question?” And then he’s standing up, moving slowly like he’s afraid he’ll keel over. He walks over to the kitchen, draping the blanket around him like a cape. 

Baffled, Donna asks, “What do you think you’re doing?”

“I’m British, Donna,” he answers over his shoulder. “What d’you think I’m doing?”

Five minutes later, the two of them are sitting at the table with cups of tea. John’s still wearing the blanket, and he’s staring at his tea with a frown. Donna drinks hers, and watches him carefully. He picks up the cup, examines it for a moment, then sips his tea. Almost immediately, he grimaces and pushes it aside. 

“Donna, I…” He takes a shallow breath. He’s being careful not to look at her, she notices. “I’m sorry. There’s something wrong with me, I think. Well, I say I think, but I actually mean I know there’s something wrong with me.”

“Oh no,” she starts. This isn’t his fault; sensory overload can just happen sometimes. Being drugged, or drunk, or whatever no doubt made it worse. Sure, he should’ve been more careful, probably, but at least he’s safe and relatively well. “To hell with that, you don’t apologize for anything, mister.” 

“But there is!” he snaps, and his voice quickly raises as he continues, his gestures quick and shaking. “I know something’s wrong – I can feel it. And I don’t mean just like, ‘oh I think I’m catching cold, or I think I left my wallet on the bus and now all my cards are going to get stolen,’ I mean–”

“Woah, hey, calm down, ” she says, restraining herself from shouting over him. “You’re okay, you’re going to be fine.” She waits until he nods, a frantic jerk of his head. “Just – tell me what happened?”

He finally looks up at her, and and now she’s sure someone slipped something in his drink last night, because the next words out of his mouth are, “Donna, I don’t think I’m human anymore.”

Chapter Text

“Donna, I don’t think I’m human anymore.”

Donna stares at John. He’s looking at her with an intensity she didn’t know could come from him, like he's daring her to challenge him. And of course, because she’s herself, she challenges him. “What are you talking about?” she asks.

“Donna,” he says firmly. “I’m not human.”

She watches him carefully. He’s fidgeting with his cup of tea, giving her the impression that if he took a moment to stay still, he’d never move again. “Are you – on something?”

His eyebrows jump up. “On something?” he asks. “ On something? Did you not hear me–”

“John,” she butts in sharply, and he shuts it. “What happened last night?”

He narrows his eyes, and opens his mouth, only to close it without a word. Glances down at his tea with a frown, sheepish confusion on his face. “I, uh, actually... can’t remember.”  

And that just sends her heartrate through the roof. “What do you mean you can’t remember? Oh God, do you have amnesia?” She spits out questions at him, rapidfire. “What’s your name? Do you know where you are? Do you know me? What’s the date? How many–”

“Donna!” John interrupts “I'm – My memory’s fine,” he repeats. “This isn’t the problem.”

She leans forward, palms on the table, prickly demeanor returning in light of his stubborn denial. “You saying it’s ‘fine’ is anything but reassuring when you’re the same person who chugged three five-hour energies after an allnighter and said you were ‘fine.’ Answer. My. Questions.”

He sighs, and manages to look even more tense after. “I’m John Smith. I’m in my flat in Chiswick. You’re Donna Noble, who I have to say is being incredibly irritating right now. And it’s September thirteenth, two thousand and eight, twenty three minutes and fifty two seconds past three in the afternoon.”

“Oh, you're just mocking me now. I’m worried about you, that's all!”

“I – I wasn't mocking you!”

She scowls, but it’s more for show than anything; her concern is like liquid ice in her veins. She holds up her index finger and her middle finger. “How many fingers am I holding up?”

“This isn’t the problem–”

“How many?” she repeats, channeling her authoritative voice, used exclusively when dealing with incompetent coworkers and friends who always refuse to admit that anything’s wrong with them.  

“Two!” he says. “You’re holding up two fingers. Are you satisfied?”

“Yes, I am. And sorry ,” she retorts, drawing out the word for twice its usual length, “for assuming you had been drugged up when you started spouting nonsense about not being human. For all I know, I should be taking you to the hospital.” She says it so casually compared to the rest, just another brash comment, that John’s reaction catches her utterly off guard.

His eyes widen so much it would be comical, if they weren’t so full of panic. He jerks away from the table, the chair scraping loudly against the kitchen tile. The horrid noise makes him wince, and he blurts out, “No! No hospitals, no doctors, no heart probes, please.”

Donna startles, and backs off immediately. “Okay, okay,” she says, holding her hands up in a hopefully placating manner. “No hospitals, no doctors. But – why?”

He fumbles with his words. “Because, well, what if they – dissect me, or experiment on me? I’ve seen movies, Donna, that’s what they do.”

She takes a breath in an effort to calm her growing exasperation. “This is real life, John, not some movie.”

“Isn’t it? Because this is exactly like a sci fi movie–”

“How?” Donna asks sharply. “How is this–” she gestures to the both of them. “–sci fi in any way?”

“You’d know if you stopped interrupting me! I’m not human. That seems pretty sci-fi to me!”

She gapes at him, at his insistence. She breathes slowly, and lets the tension in the room settle just a bit. By this point, it’s impossible to keep the disbelief and anxiety off her face, so she doesn’t bother trying. Still, she’s thinking that if she wants to get anywhere, she’s going to have to act a bit calmer, since John’s obviously not going to. “And you’re sure you didn’t… take something?”

“Yes!” he exclaims, the exasperation rolling off him in waves. “I’m not on drugs, Donna!”

“You’re absolutely sure?” she asks again, because maybe he’s embarrassed, or ashamed… It might just take some encouragement. “No one… slipped something into your drink?” So help whoever decided to roofie this mess of a person; she’d have them running for the hills once she got her hands on them.

“Yes! Augh – no!” he grumbles, frustrated, and runs a hand through his hair. “I’m absolutely sure I’m not high ,” he says, enunciating carefully. “I’m not on drugs, I don’t have amnesia, I’m just me.”

“Okay,” Donna says slowly, digesting this. She’s gotten nowhere with any of this, so she finds herself having to accept it, if only tentatively. “So, what the hell are you talking about when you say you aren’t human anymore?”

“I’m talking about the fact that I can calculate the percentage of argon in the air by smelling it .” He emphasizes his words with the tap of a finger on the table. “It’s at point ninety three percent, a perfectly normal level, in case you were wondering.”

“See, it’s been two seconds and I already preferred it when I thought you were high, cos then I had a reason for why you’re acting so bloody weird.”

“I’m not high!”  

“I wasn’t saying you were, but you might as well be for all the sense you’re making!” Donna says hotly. She only came here to drop off a broken telescope; she didn’t ask to anxiously spend an hour watching over her mate only for him to ramble on about his literal lack of humanity.

“I’m trying my best here, Donna, but I haven’t got a clue what’s going on. Makes things a bit hard, don’t you think?” He gives her a grin, but it’s tense and more than a bit unnerving.

“Oi,” she snaps. “Don’t get cheeky with me!”

“Like you aren’t–” he breaks off with a deep breath and a sigh. Leans back against the chair and crosses his arms tightly across his chest, considering what he’s going to say next, no doubt. He’s obviously fuming as he taps his foot against the floor. She gives him a threatening glare, letting him know that he’d have hell to pay if he finishes that sentence.

“Is this a joke?” Donna asks. She has to, really. The git’s known for his dumb, ridiculously long jokes, and though they’ve never been anything like this, she has to think he got a new idea from some show he’s been watching. “Cos if it is, it’s not funny, and I will slap you for it.”

He groans, as if he’s already lost the argument – because that’s how she’s thinking of this now. An argument about his weird, stubborn delusions. “Donna, it’s not a joke, it’s not a prank. I’m serious – can you just listen to me for once?” he asks pleadingly.

“Right,” she says with a curt nod. “I’ll just listen to you ramble on–”

“I wasn’t rambling!”

“–about you being not human! How am I supposed to believe anything you’re saying right now? Drugged or not, you aren’t making sense, John.”

There’s a look in his eyes – dismay, exhaustion, apprehension, and a dozen other things that Donna either can’t name, or just can’t place. “Do you want proof?” he asks finally. “Actual, genuine proof. Would that make you listen to me?”

She laughs, nervous more than anything, because this whole talk is completely bonkers, and so is John for thinking he has actual proof to this whole… thing.

Still, she can’t deny the hint of doubt growing in the back of her mind as John stands up from the table. The weighted blanket starts to slip from his shoulders, but he quickly readjusts it, and keeps a firm grip on it as he walks over to Donna.

“Right, get up,” he says bluntly.

“Huh?” she asks, eloquently.

“Get up,” repeats John tersely, almost as if he’s chiding a child. The thought makes Donna bristle. “You want proof, I’ll show you.” Then he sighs, and mutters to himself. “Should've done this in the first place.”

Donna hardens her glare, which has been a constant presence in this conversation. At this point, it seems like there’s nothing he could possibly do to make this make any less sense than it already does. But apparently her split-second hesitation is too long for John, because he’s grabbing her arms and pulling her up onto her feet (and how’d he do that, scrawny twig that he is?).

“Hands!” she snaps, and pushes him off her. He backs up dramatically, holding his hands up like he was surrendering, though he’s obviously not going to any time soon. Every time he moves suddenly, he has to keep adjusting the weighted blanket draped over his shoulders. She wonders why he doesn’t just take the thing off, he’s looking fine now, beside his stubborn delusions.

John runs his hands through his hair before holding them out to her and offering a pleading look. “Donna, will you just – trust me?”

“I thought – I do trust you, John.” 

“Then can you act like it, please? Because I’ve been trying to explain… whatever this is, and you've just been stubborn and callous and–” She gives him a Look. “Right, not helping. Just… give me your hand?”

She holds out her right hand, fighting back her hesitancy this time. He takes it, and Donna can’t help but wonder what the hell he’s doing when he holds it up to his chest.

A steady, if a bit fast, beat can be felt through the fabric of his shirt. “Right, it’s your heart,” she says.

John takes a breath, as if steeling himself. “Not heart, but–” He moves her hand to the right side of his chest. “ –hearts.”

She’s ready to go off on him, a quip like are you serious right now? two hearts, is that the best you can come up with? But then she feels it. Something else, beating away under her hand.

She snatches her hand away like it’s burnt. For a moment, she’s only able to gape at him, jaw wide open.

“I know,” John says.

“You've got–” she starts, trying to find her voice with a mouth that’s gone as dry as dust.

“I know.”

“–two hearts!”

“Yes! Finally! That's what I've been saying! Well no, not really, but–” He sighs. “Blimey, do you believe me now?”

She ignores him, and places her hands against his chest. “Oh. My. God,” she repeats. And there it is, proof that she’s not imagining things: a heart on both sides of John’s chest, beating together in an oddly syncopated pattern. But how? There’s no way… Was he…?

Only John gently pushing her away startles her out of the reverie. “Donna, I–”

She rounds on him suddenly, taking a step forward when he takes a step back. “When the hell were you going to tell me you’re from Mars, or, or, some secret government project?”

He blinks. “Mars?”

“Yes, Mars! I don’t know, just – Bloody hell, John! ” She knows John doesn’t tell her everything, of course she knows that, and she doesn’t expect him to, but this is just too much.

“I’m – I’m not…  wait, what are you talking about?”

“The–” she waves a hand up and down at him, with only the slightest hint of panic. “–hearts thing! Is there anything else I should know about?”

“Well, for starters,” he says, appearing to catch his footing in this whirlwind. “This is a recent development. I’m not… I wasn't tricking you or anything.”

“So you’re – you’re telling me, that this is new? You just woke up today with two hearts?”

A beat of stunned silence. Then, an emphatic “Yes!” as he throws his hands up into the air. “That is exactly what happened! When I was on the couch having that – episode, I was trying to cope with suddenly feeling two hearts beating in my chest…  among other things.”

“How does that even happen?” she stammers.

“Do I look like – How would I know?”

“I don’t know!” She makes a circuit to the other side of the table, and leans against it, hands on the edge of the wood. It’s a sharp feeling in her palms, and lets her know that this is, in fact, reality, and she hasn’t fallen deep into a nonsensical nightmare. A memory flashes in Donna’s mind, and she blurts out, “Gold dust.”

“I – what?”

“I saw – gold dust, when you were sleeping. You coughed and there was just this gold dust. Floatin’ in the air for a second.”

There’s a tense moment where John stares at her, before he asks hotly, “And you didn’t think to mention that?”

“Oh yeah, because the first thing I think when I thought I saw my best mate coughing up gold dust is, ‘Hmm, I trust my vision completely. No way it could be the four hours of sleep I got last night or the stress of a new job or anything. That is a hundred percent, without a doubt, what I saw.’” she retorts. “What’d you think, John? I thought I imagined it!”

She pauses. She missed something, something important. “What do you mean, ‘among other things’?”

“Oh, so now you want to listen to me?”

“Yes, John, yes I do, cos now you’ve just – grown another heart and now you’re telling me there’s more.”

“Fine, fine, there is. There’s a lot more.” He takes a step away from her, and strides into the living room. She follows. Without even a glance, he tosses the weighted blanket onto the sofa. “The tea. Last night, the tea was all funny – it’s still funny! It’s like drinking a science experiment. And I’ve done that before, I should know. It’s like, like…” he struggles for a word, gesturing as he tries to find it. “Tannins! Tannins and free radicals.”

She watches him pace, and crosses her arms. “What does that even mean?”

“I don’t know!” he says. “And I – I look at this mug,” he waves a hand at a blue mug that sits on the coffee table, long since cold, “and I think January. It’s a mug, and it’s January, two thousand four. Why? How could a mug possibly have a date attached to it?”

Donna pulls a chair from the kitchen table and turns it around, so she can sit down facing John. She rests her elbow on her knee, chin in her hand and continues to watch him, an air of calmness hiding the thudding of her heart and the unease clogging her thoughts.

“And the – the temperature, I can feel it. It’s so exact , it’s painful. Twenty five point three degrees Celcius. Point three. How – how can I possibly know that?” he goes on, until he suddenly breaks his pacing, sharply turning to face her. “And you!” He points at her.

Donna startles at his sudden change of focus. “Me? What have I got to do with this?”

“No, not you as in – I mean,” he breaks off, then restarts. “When I look at you, there’s this light, right? But I can’t tell where it’s actually coming from. It’s nowhere, and everywhere at the same time.”

“A light…?” she says slowly. 

“I – think? They’re like, these–” he gestures vaguely, trying to give a tangible shape to his explanation. “–little wisps of light? I was seeing them last night, too. I remember that now. No, no that’s not right at all. They aren’t really lights, and I wasn’t seeing them, I was…”

He waves the thought away. “Doesn’t matter. The point is: they’re something , they have to be. Because I can ‘see’ them, all around you, and all around me, when I look at my hands.” He does just that, holding them up in front of him and looking a bit transfixed at whatever he’s ‘seeing.’ “Mine are much… brighter though. Like, like staring at the sun, but it doesn’t even hurt.”

Donna’s breath catches in her throat.

“John,” she interrupts softly. There’s no sign that he heard her, and only then does she really notice the way his breath hitches and the look in his eyes, like he wants to run away from himself and never look back. “Are you okay?”

He looks up at her. For a moment, he just stares, like she asked the most complicated question in the world. It is, in a way. He opens his mouth to speak, but instead, he covers his mouth with a hand, and gives only a few nods in response.

He almost looks like he might cry, but he takes a deep, shuddering breath, and then like a switch went off in his head, and he’s suddenly calm, and stable, and somehow he’s managing a small smile.

“Right,” he says, and his hoarse voice betrays him, but he keeps going. “I – uh, gotta go to class.” Her jaw drops at his sudden shift of mood, but he doesn't notice because in one swift motion, he’s grabbed his book bag from where it laid by the door and already slung it over his shoulder.

He gets as far as putting his hand on the door before Donna finds her voice. “Oh no, you don’t,” she starts, getting up from her chair. “John Smith, if you think you are doing anything but sitting your arse down on that sofa, you are an absolute moron.”

He stops, but doesn’t turn around. “I’ve got a lecture,” he says. “I can’t just skip it. I don’t skip classes, you know that.”

“You can’t – go to class after all this!” Not even considering his mental state, he’s in the same clothes he slept in, and his hair’s sticking up in every odd direction. Frankly, he looks like a mess. Granted, that isn’t unusual for him, but it isn’t commendable either.

“Donna,” John breathes. His shoulders are hunched, but tense, like a rubberband about to snap. “Can you just… let me do this?” And without another word, before she can even protest, he slips out the door, leaving Donna alone, wondering just when her day began to go wrong.

Chapter Text

By now, you’ve probably come to the horrifying conclusion that you aren’t as human as you thought you were.

Hopefully, whatever fallout that occurred as a result of this was not too terrible, and you were able to calm down before you had a true and proper mental breakdown.

If not, proceed to chapters twenty-six and twenty-seven.

But if you have stayed sane so far, then congratulations! You’re halfway there.

Well, not really. You’re barely out of the woods. Actually, you’ve just entered the woods, and these woods are a true and proper forest, thick with brambles and tall pines that appear to reach towards the sky endlessly, and you don’t have a map, or a compass, your car’s broken down, and you’re fairly sure you’re being stalked by some mysterious creature in the shadows.

But don’t worry! You’ve completed the first step: picking this up and following the advice on the first few pages, or whatever the metaphysical equivalent is. Take a breath. You’re doing great so
far, you’re on the right track. Follow this guide, and you’ll be fine.

 The door latches shut, and John falls back against it, its solid surface the only thing keeping him on his feet. The hallway is blessedly quiet, unusual for three forty-six in the evening – usually most of his neighbours are home and doing whatever they want, regardless of the noise – but he’s thankful for every bit of it.

At least until it comes crashing down on him, like a tidal wave of chilling, suffocating silence. He was able to stave it off in the flat – he didn’t even have a chance to think about it, not properly, what with Donna and him having a go at each other. But now there’s only silence that’s not really silence at all but the beating of the hearts in his chest, the groan of the complex settling, the pipes in the walls filled with flowing water, going to so many occupied flats that each have one person or another, cooking, watching telly, making their own noise as they live their lives. There's so many more dimensions, so many more senses to process, so much more everything. It feels like he's suffocating, like he's drowning.

And then there’s the pressure of something , weighing down on him and rushing past him all the same, too quick to grasp as it passes him by, but he thinks that if he even tried, he’d end up holding something that would only burn right through him and leave him for dead, but he doesn't even know what it is.

The thought scares him. It scares him immensely, chills him to the bone and makes him tremble. He thinks that maybe he shouldn’t have left. He should go back. Donna can help, she always does, even in her loudmouthed, stubbornly brash way.

No, he can’t face her right now. He can’t even face himself, because if he dwells too much on any one thing, he’ll drown in the sea of force-fed information – things that he shouldn’t be able to process and doesn’t even know how he’s processing it, getting all these numbers and ideas and senses forced into his brain – and he’ll lose himself along the way. He has to show her, and himself, that he’s fine. He can handle this. He’s fine.

He takes a breath, feels the alien beat of another heart, and pushes it all from his mind, as far as it'll go. Locks it in a box and wraps thick chains around, tight as he can.

He’s John Smith, formerly human, and he has a lecture to attend.

He dashes to the bus, because by the time he figures out how to walk without his knees threatening to buckle, he’s late for the stop and praying he can make it there on time.

He gets there with two minutes and twenty six seconds to spare, the bus careening down the damp streets. It rained at some point, recently, and the air smells like (actinomycetes) the smell of dust after rain. Petrichor, that's it.

He bounces on the balls of his feet as he waits, oyster card in hand. There’s a few other people at the stop, an elderly woman with a cane, a man bogged down with grocery bags, and another person who’s searching through their bag, looking for something.

Oh, he must look a sight, mustn’t he? Clothes wrinkled to hell, his hair a complete mess. Bags under his eyes, no doubt, and looking ready to run to his class if need be. Or maybe he just looks like a university student.

Those… lights are back, he’s forced to notice, bleeding through his wall of denial. Well, they never really left, but for whatever reason, right now he’s having trouble distracting himself from them.

(And are they even lights? They… shimmer and vanish at random and if he tries to look at them – they’re right there aren’t they? – he finds that they aren’t there at all, but a completely different direction. Impossible to get a fix on, and perfectly visible at the same time. Distracting contradictions, golden-silver bright, that make his head hurt. They’re something, that’s obvious, they have to be something important, but John doesn’t have the patience or time or ability to think about them right now, so they’re just lights to him, and nothing more.)

The bus screeches to a halt in front of the stop, and John winces dramatically, but unable to stop himself. The noise echoes in his ears as he boards, flashes his pass at the driver, and takes his seat. With a lurch, the bus continues down the street, and John’s hand snaps to the handrail, gripping the cool metal with white knuckles.

Already, he can feel the suffocating awareness of the people around him, the noise, the smells, the motions, start to press down on him. He bounces his knee, and looks down at the floor, trying to focus on something as plain as the grey metal floor of public transport. It seems to help. For a time, it’s just senseless noise and the motion of his knee. The bus jerks to a halt and starts up again exactly five times, and thirty six minutes pass from the moment he got on to the moment when he stands up to get off at the sixth stop.

The lecture hall is across campus, and John’s only got oh, nine minutes before class starts, so he sprints. As he runs, his hearts thud in his chest, pumping blood to every muscle strained, but he pushes it away. Can’t think about that now. He dodges past a student on a bike, and finally gets to the hall he needs to be at.

He bursts into the lecture room, and then immediately wishes he took a moment to slow down when all the heads in the room swing around to look at him. Dr. Bradford, who just started projecting his slides and was talking about alkanes and cycloalkanes, glares up at him from the front.

The only thing he can do is offer an apologetic grin and make his way to one of the few open seats left – of course, it’s a seat in the second row from the front, right where everyone can see him. He’s painfully aware of the eyes on him as he sits down.

“Right,” Dr. Bradford says with a slight cough, “now as I was saying, conformational isomers, or conformers, are just structures that…” He presses a button on a remote, and the next slide pops up on the screen.

John fumbles with his book bag for a moment as he gets out his notebook. The student next to him gives him a dirty look as he starts to finally take notes, and he can’t help but glare back.

The lecture goes… poorly. Though really, John should’ve known that from the moment he left his flat. He finds he can’t concentrate on anything, the professor’s words or the slides, no matter how hard he tries. He’s too focused on the everything in the room, so clear and loud and precise. It’s like someone’s turned up the focus so far they broke the dial, and now John’s the one having to deal with the consequences with painfully accurate sounds and numbers and conjectures in dimensions that he can just barely make sense of.  By the time everyone’s packing up and shuffling out of the hall, he’s only written half a page of notes for an hour long lecture, most of them incomprehensible. 

He takes a moment to breathe – it’s going to be fine – before jumping up from his seat and slinging his book bag over his shoulder. Notes, he’s gotta get a copy of someone’s notes. And one of the few things he actually processed from the lecture, was that they’re having some sort of paper due next week, and even if he wasn’t able to concentrate now, he can catch up on his own time.

John catches Isabel Wesley just as she’s leaving the building. They don't talk much, just for him to know that she’s dating someone, and going back to university, sort of like he is, except he isn’t dating, or interested in dance, or anything that really connects them besides the university thing.

“Hey Isabel,” he drawls as he slows down to walk in time with her. He adjusts his bag, and there’s a moment of panic when he realizes this is the first person besides Donna he’s talked to since… since this morning. Don’t fuck it up, he tells himself.

She glances at him, a grin on her face. So far so good. “Hi John. How was the commute?”

“The commute – oh, you mean, being late.” He tries to laugh, but it ends up coming out more of an awkward chuckle than anything else. “I, uh, something personal came up.”

“I’m sorry about that,” she says, sounding sincere. “Dr. Bradford looked like he was going to throw you out of the hall, though.”

“Did he?” To be honest, he hadn’t noticed the professor’s reaction so much as having the whole student body of that class focused on him, even if it was for only a few seconds.

“Did you need something, John? Or did you just want to chat? Not that I mind,” she hurries to say, with a reassuring glance at him that makes her natural, frizzy hair bounce. They take a turn towards the university’s cafeteria building. John’s just following Isabel; he doubts he would be able to stomach anything.

“Oh yeah! I was uh, wondering if you’d be willing to send me a copy of today’s notes?” He sticks his hands in his pockets, and gives a little shrug, the appearance of nonchalance for him as much as it is for her.

“Didn’t feel like taking any?” she asks.

“What – No, no, I just… couldn’t concentrate.” It’s truthful, and a much better answer than I can’t focus on anything beyond the… stuff around people that glows from no discernable direction or dimension, the deafening noise of well, everything , and the beating of my hearts and oh, did I mention that I have two hearts now?

“Right.” She sounds a bit exasperated. “I can print them out at the library now, if you want.” 

“That’d be lovely,” he says, and the two of them make a change of direction towards the library. As they walk, Isabel gives him a brief overview of the lecture. He finds that most of it seems simple enough and that he probably won’t need the notes, but he can’t just back out now, can he?

The library is crowded, but still mostly quiet, given the demanded etiquette. Most students sit at tables, books out, headphones on, studying diligently. Others look like they’re just relaxing, or spending their evening taking advantage of the free selection of novels. A few of the rooms that John and Isabel walk by on the way to the printers are filled with study groups.

As Isabel is scanning her notebook and trying to get an age-old printer to work, John looks down at his shoes – anything to keep himself focused on one thing and not on everything happening around him. Though the horrible screeching of the printer is making that a bit difficult. (Have printers always been this loud?)

He glances up just as the printer finishes. “Right,” Isabel says as she grabs the freshly inked papers from the printer tray. “Here you go.”

There's that look back in her eye, something so familiar but he can't quite place. He takes the notes, and glances down at them. The papers in his hand sparks a memory, and John looks up at Isabel suddenly. “Are you okay?” he asks.

She peers at him. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“What about your boyfriend?” She was handing out flyers, a few days ago, he knows that. He’s surprised, and a bit distressed to realize that it took him this long to remember. Though, I’ve had a lot on my plate too.

“My boyfriend?” she echoes. “I don’t have a boyfriend.”

“You what?” he blurts out. “You were passing out flyers in the quad, asking people to look for him. Your boyfriend, Niko. Don’t tell me you broke up with him, he’s not even–”

“Is this some sort of a joke?” she asks him sternly. “Cos it’s not funny, John Smith.”

“What? No, no it’s not. Not at all!” he stammers, dumbfounded. “I’m probably – mistaken.”

“Yeah, you probably are,” Isabel says, arms folded. “I’ve got a lot to do, so I think it’s best if you head off. I’m sure you’re plenty busy too.”

“Right, yeah. Definitely. Thanks  for the – uh, for the notes.” He practically darts from the library after that, stuffing his papers into his bag as he walks.

So, that went terribly. He… must’ve gotten the person wrong. Maybe it was Constance, or Julia, or anyone else in one of his classes. It’s been a long, bizarre day, and Donna’s words are echoing in his head. You can’t go to class after all this! But he went to class, he learnt nothing, took no notes, and now managed to screw up again, confuse someone for another person and piss them off in the same conversation.

The bus stop is thankfully empty when he gets there, and he spends his wait trying to regulate his breathing back to something normal (but what is normal anymore?) His hearts are beating much too fast, and the chilling, inexplicable stream of numbers in his mind (five fifty six and twenty-eight point seven… point eight… point nine…) is suffocating in its certainty. He feels faint, but maybe if he passes out, everything will stop, if only for a moment.

The cold concrete beneath his feet looks more comfortable than being conscious with every passing moment, and his anxiety and panic and constant state of what the fuck almost emerge from the depths of his mind, but they don’t. With a force of will that would frighten some, he locks it back up. He stays on his feet and takes a few deep breaths, pulling himself from the brink of disaster just in time for the bus to roll up to the stop.

The bus ride is a disconnected mess of colors and lights and senseless noise. John doesn’t bother trying to sort through it. Better this way, he probably thinks, but deciphering his thoughts isn’t high on the list of priorities at the moment, if he’s made a list at all.

He isn’t quite sure how he ends up at his flat, turning the key in the lock and pushing the door open, but once he’s there, it’s like a weight is lifted from his shoulders. That  might be the bookbag falling to the floor. He lets it stay where it lands.

He slowly makes his way to the living room, breathing in the stuffy air. The two hearts beat in his chest at a stable hundred and seventy beats per minute, and he lets it wash over him, for only a second (one point oh three four seconds).

He’s not human. He’s John Smith and he’s not human.

(but you are)

(but I’m not)

And – that’s okay, somehow it’s okay. Because it has to be. Because the other option is falling apart completely, giving in to the chaos and the impossibilities, and he can’t, he has to stay together, he has to.

John breathes sharply, and rolls his shoulders, shaking the tension from his body. He takes a look around. Dirty mugs and papers to be organized litter the tables. The contents of his book bag – notebooks and mechanical pencils, textbooks, wrinkled granola wrappers, and his trusty headphones – spilled across the floor when he dropped it. The weighted blanket is in a pile on the sofa, and he should really clear out that closet of his.

When was the last time he cleaned his flat, anyway?

Chapter Text

The cleaning is a welcome distraction, though John’s convincing himself it’s not actually a distraction from all the thoughts and odd sensations whirring around in his mind. It’s just… a long-overdue chore. He’s done tidying the living room, and halfway through with the kitchen – cupboards wide open and emptied, the contents of the pantry sitting on the table, ready to be reorganized – when Donna eases her way into the flat.

She nudges the door open as she balances a laptop, a few binders, and a large paper bag of Chinese takeaway, judging by the aroma, in her arms. The moment she sees John, she freezes.

“Hey!” he says, and brandishes the cutlery he’s holding to show her what he’s been doing. “I've been cleaning out the flat. Can't even remember the last time I did that, haha…ha...” He trails off under her heated glare.

She drops everything down on the table, nudging the cans and dishware aside to make room, and turns off the music speaker currently playing eighties pop, and the silence is deafening. With a careful fierceness that sends shivers down John’s spine, she marches up to him and presses two fingers to his neck, feeling his pulse. A distinctly inhuman double beat thrums just under the skin.

Then, she slaps him.

John recoils, pressing a hand to his burning cheek. Already, he can feel the blood rushing from broken capillaries (an oddly specific thought that part of his mind files away for later review). “What was that for?” he asks.

“Do you have any idea the trouble you've caused me?” Donna roars. “I’ve been worried sick all day!”

“I don’t – I didn’t think–”

“You’re damn right you didn’t think. Where’s your phone, huh?” she asks. “Did you see any of the messages I left?”

His mobile. Right, where was his mobile? “I'm – I'm sorry, Donna,” he manages to say as he pats down his pockets. He finds it in his back pocket, the ringer on silent. Ah .

Donna snatches it from his hand and holds it up in front of his face. Nine missed calls, seven voicemails. “Were you just going to leave me like that, wondering if you were even capable of answering the phone?”

“It’s fine,” he insists. “Once you get past the whole ‘probably an alien’ thing, it’s fine! Feels sort of like riding a bike, really – it’s fine ."

“I'm so sick of you saying that!” she snaps. “Just – shut it and listen, alright?”

She presses a few buttons, and soon enough, his phone’s on speaker, playing through his voicemails. I should really put a password on that , a part of him manages to think.

Donna’s voice crackles through the speakers, and John forces himself to listen.

“–What the hell are you thinking? I can't believe you–”

“–How long do lectures even last? Don't make me drag you back here. I don't care if the bloody X-files find out–”

“–Are you okay?–”

“–John Smith, you better answer me right now–”

“–Please. I'm getting worried–”

“–I'm – I'm getting takeaway. I dunno what else to do at this point. If you aren’t home when I get back–”

John looks up from the phone to see quiet fury on Donna’s face. “You can't just do that,” she says. “You can't pretend that everything’s ‘just fine,’ because it’s not.”

“Well, what do you suggest I do then?” he asks. “I can't just – stop everything and have a mental breakdown because suddenly everything is different!”

“That’s what you're supposed to do!” Donna retorts, only to hesitate. “Not the – mental breakdown thing, or the stopping everything ,” she amends. “But we do need to take a moment to think about this. How did this even happen? Is it… reversible?”

He crosses his arms defensively. “Yeah, let me just search it up on Google. ‘I’m an alien. How do I fix this?’ That’ll give me all the answers, Donna.”

“ Are you even an alien? Cos, you were born on Earth and all.” She pauses, very slightly narrows her eyes. “You were, weren’t you?”

“Wh – Yes! I was born on Earth, Donna!”

“Sorry for being a little skeptical,” she says, sounding not at all apologetic. “But I feel like I don't know anything anymore, so who knows, maybe you weren’t, and maybe you’re a proper alien, and–”

She takes a breath, deciding a change of subjects is in order. “It’s just, we do need to think about this. Do something. Standing around pretending it didn't happen isn't going to help anyone.”

“Donna, it’s helping me,” he says softly. “I don’t think I could bare thinking about it. Well, it’s more like, I am thinking about it. Constantly, but only in the back of my mind, all day. And I’m just worried that – I think that if I let it in, it’ll consume me, or I’ll just… stop.

“But it’s been okay so far,” he says,  “because I’m also thinking about how to reorganize the pantry – by type of food would make the most sense – and I’m thinking that I have lab in a few days, but I need to talk to the professor before and make sure everything’s cool, then there’s my bedroom, which I haven’t even started cleaning. Like, my closet? A complete mess, I need to sort that out. And I’m thinking that we haven’t properly hung out in a while, still . Maybe a movie. The new Harry Potter that came out a few months ago?

“Then of course I’m having this conversation, and somewhere in the back of my mind, I’m thinking about how I’m not human. I’m barely a person , technically.” He puts a hand to the middle of his chest. “Right here, there’s this wound up ball of panic just waiting to blow up in my face, and I think the only reason why I’m so calm and actually able to talk about this right now, is that apparently I’ve got an alien brain that’s able to multitask like some crazy space computer.

“So yes, I have been thinking about it, and it’s impossible to ignore it and pretend everything’s fine, because I know it’s not. I almost broke down at the bus station–” He throws a hand in the direction of the front door. “–fifty-eight minutes ago, but denial, and bottling everything up, and pretending that it’s fine let me make it home. It’s letting me function right now.”

“John…” breathes Donna.

He doesn’t let her get another word in, because he still hasn’t said what really matters. “But I’m recognizing – this is me recognizing that I made a mistake…  with shutting you out like that. And I’m… sorry. I really am.” He wants to go on, tell her that he can’t promise it won’t happen again, that there won’t be another episode like the first, because he knows he’s still on the verge of a breakdown, and who knows what’ll happen if he goes over the wire-thin line, but Donna cuts him off with a hug.

“Thank you,” she says, wrapping her arms around him, tight and comforting. “But don’t you ever do that to me again.”

John stiffens, then sinks into the hug, Donna’s arms practically the only thing supporting him as the stress from the day seems to melt away.

“You know that’s actually incredibly unhealthy, yeah?” Donna says, and coming from her, the bluntness isn’t surprising. He wouldn’t expect anything but tough care from her. “You won’t be able to keep this up forever, alien mind whatsits or not.”

“Yeah. I know.” He sighs, resting his chin against her shoulder. It’s working now, he tells himself, and that’s what matters. “Thanks for well, being there for me, even when I think I don’t want you to be.”

“Of course... You avoidence-prone git," she says, and he tries to chuckle at that, but can't quite manage it.

The two of them stand like that for a bit, hugging, taking in each other's presence. It’s… nice, and John finds himself able to calm down a little bit, tame the thoughts running around his mind. Until Donna pulls away, saying, “I can feel your… hearts beating. That’s – that’s weird.”

He rubs at the back of his neck. “It’s weird for me too, don’t worry. But uh, I wasn’t saying that we should do nothing about this. Didn’t you… have something in mind?”

Her lips twitch upwards in the ghosting of a smile, and she nods towards the kitchen table, where the takeaway, the binders, and the laptop still sit. “I brought this junk for a reason.”

And so, the two of them find themselves sitting on the sofa. A section of the coffee table has been cleared away to make room for the boxes of Chinese, tonight’s dinner. Donna’s been on her laptop for forty two minutes, twenty eight seconds, eating as she goes and nails clacking as she types.

“Can you… type quieter?” John asks as he picks at his food. Still no appetite, and the constant barrage of information whenever he takes a bite isn’t the least bit encouraging. (– linoleic acid, cinnamaldehyde, polysaccharides –)

She glances at him, and makes a point to soften her typing. “Sorry. Sensitive hearing, yeah?”

He isn’t sure he would call it sensitive hearing. It’s more like… everything needs to be filed away for later use. Nothing can go ignored, not even the tripping of a sink’s faucet or the footsteps of the tenant upstairs. It’s unnerving, and distracting. “Something like that,” he says. “Have you found anything yet?”

He would help, but his laptop is still in pieces, waiting for someone to take a soldering iron to it. Still, it isn’t like they’re expecting to really find anything. They’re aware that finding answers to whatever the hell this is, and ones that are relevant and trustworthy is slim to none. The internet may be huge and possess an incalculable amount of random, possibly false information, cat photos, and embarrassing MySpace posts, but he’s finding it a bit hard to believe it’ll have data on people spontaneously turning into aliens.

So far, her search has showed nothing, and something in John knows that she won’t find anything, full stop.

“No, not yet,” Donna sighs, confirming his thoughts. “Oh, wait! I think I got something.” She turns the laptop towards him, and he leans over to see.

“A blog?” John asks as he skims the page, before taking the computer from Donna and scrolling down, reading each post. It may be an internet blog, capable of being made by anyone, but he has to admit, it’s pretty well put together. White font on a dark background, proper grammar, coherent topics with evidence. One or two posts are about the author – Dr. Naomi Reyes – and her personal life, and the rest read like a mix between news reports and scholarly articles.

The latest post is an opinionated column on people’s reactions to the complicated, baffling reports of a black-tie event at some laboratory, some months earlier.

“And those who are trying to cover up what has happened with reports of terrorism, animal attacks, or any other numerous fallacies, refuse to see what is staring them in the face. Extraterrestrials have been involved in Earth history since homosapiens could walk, and if after the past few years, people still refuse to acknowledge…”

“It’s not just, all alien conspiracies,” Donna points out. “She’s got a degree in astronomy, she’s educated. Check the about.”

He does. “It says she just works at some observatory. Lives in Croydon, that’s not far. PhD in astronomy, like you said. Been in the field for twelve years, interested in extraterrestrial involvement with Earth for…” he trails off as he reads further. “She’s got proper credentials,” he adds once he’s finished, not bothering to keep the surprise out of his voice. “Actual, proper credentials.”

“What do you think about talking to her? Or, meeting up with her even? It might be easier – I know you don’t like talking on the phone with strangers.”

“You’re suggesting we meet up with some random woman from the internet, and just… tell her that I’m an alien. Again, what about the whole dissecting thing?”

Donna gives him a look. “I don’t think anyone’s going to dissect you, John. We don’t even have to tell her anything about you and… what’s happened. We’re just two people curious about space, or something. We might not even find anything. I mean, how likely is it that this Dr. Reyes is gonna know anything about humans… turning into aliens? It’s just, I don’t know what else to do, and this would seem like we’re doing something , at least.”

He shifts uncomfortably in his seat. “I’ll think about it, I guess.”

“Right, that’s good. And yeah, it’s some random person on the internet, but it’s not like there’s a manual for this. What are you even supposed to search for? ‘My best mate turned into an alien. Help?’” John doesn’t know whether she’s aware that she practically quoted what he said earlier (fifty six minutes, twenty eight seconds earlier), but the thought makes him smile.

“I’m an alien!” he laughs. “And we’re searching it up on – on the internet!”

Donna laughs too, then shakes her head. “You were right,” she says, and that shocks him. “There’s… not much else we can do besides moving forward, is there?”

He takes a bite of his food, forcing himself past the influx of chemical formulas to finally taste the fried rice for what it is. Peanut oil, beef and carrots and broccoli, tasting like it’s supposed to. Close enough, anyway. “Nope.” He pops the ‘p’ around the mouthful.

“Close your mouth, dumbo,” she says, pushing at his shoulder.  

He takes another bite, and says, “My mouth  is closed,” making a point of having his mouth open as wide as possible without spilling rice all over his sofa. Donna mockingly scowls at him, and goes back to her computer. He goes back to eating his food properly, best he can, and she goes back to her research.

After a bit, she rubs at her eyes, and stifles a yawn.

“You should get some sleep,” he says.

“It’s only eight,” she tells him, but shuts the laptop anyway, setting it down on the already-crowded coffee table.

She’s just about to sit up when he says, “Well, eight oh seven, but close enough, yeah.”

She gives him an odd look. “Right. You should too, after the day you’ve had. Especially after the day you’ve had.”

He’s not the least bit tired, but says, “Let me clean all this up first,” to placate her, and indicates the mess on his table. Well, only cleaning up the takeaway is really necessary – the papers, the computers, all that can stay.

Donna gets up and goes to the kitchen as John starts gathering the mostly emptied boxes. There’s enough leftovers for one or two meals, he notices absently.

“Are you going to be okay, on your own, I mean?” Donna asks as he walks into the kitchen. She’s digging through her purse, searching for her keys, no doubt.

He nods as he stores the leftovers in the fridge for a later day, but then realizes she probably didn’t see that. “Of course I’ll be okay,” he tells her.

She looks up at him, a blank expression on her face. “Right, of course. I’ll be taking the couch, then?”

“Wait, what? No, Donna, you don’t have to stay over.”

She jabs a finger at him, and the keys in her hand jingle. “Uh, yes I do, sunshine. Cos you’re the last person I would trust to be truthful about their feelings, and I don’t want to wake up tomorrow with a phone call from Alice, saying that you went off the deep end and need to be picked up in Essex.”

“Why would I be in Essex?”

“I don’t know, why do you do anything? The point is, do you have any extra pillows?”

He can’t fault her for wanting to stay the night to make sure he’s alright; he did just tell her that lying about his mental state is the only thing keeping him sane. “In the hall closet, yeah,” he says, closing the fridge door. “I’ll just – go get them.”

The two of them set about making the sofa into a suitable bed for the night. Two pillows, a comforter that John had tucked away in the closet, and Donna deems it fit for sleep. Or, as close as a beaten up old couch can get. There’s nothing to be done about sleeping in her day clothes though, as she didn’t want to bother driving over to her and Lance’s flat to get pyjamas, and John didn’t have anything that would fit her (as if she’d wear his clothes, anyway).

Once she’s sent Lance a text explaining… well, as much as she can reasonably say without getting marked as mental, and gotten settled on the couch, John says goodnight and tries to retire to his own room. 

“Oi, John,” Donna calls, forcing him to stop and turn around. “You’re gonna be just fine, yeah?” she asks, and though it’s phrased like a question, it’s more of a statement. You’re going to be fine.You’ll make it through this.

He nods with a slight grin. “Yeah, yeah I will be,” he affirms, then hurries out of the room.

He goes to his room, sits on the edge of his bed, and lets himself fall back onto the springy mattress. The day’s events press down on him like a weight on his chest, making it hard to breath. But he’s fine, or, he’s going to be. That's what Donna says.

But for now, he’s stuck wrestling with the double heartbeat and trying to reconcile the painful contradiction that he has to be human, he’s been all his life, how could he possibly be anything but human, with the panicked ‘I’m not human, I’m not human, I can't be human,’ running round and round his mind. Everything he tries is just a vain attempt at getting some sleep that he might not even need anymore.

He sighs. Looks like he’s staying up for a while.

Chapter Text

Donna wakes up in that slow, lazy way that leaves her feeling muzzy. Her back hurts, and there’s a crick in her neck that she only notices when she shifts in her spot to face the room.

She’s in John’s flat, she realizes as she takes a look around. The telly’s off, and the coffee table in front of her is a mess, as usual. She rubs at her eyes, trying to bring forth memories of last night. Why was she at John’s flat again?

She came over to drop off Grandad’s telescope, that’s right. And then she found John on the couch… She sits bolt upright, as everything floods back to her mind.

Comas and gold dust and two hearts and idiots thinking they’re fine when they’re really not. Oh god .

“John?” Donna calls out, throwing the comforter off of her. “John, where the hell did you go?”

“In here!” he answers cheerfully from the kitchen. An aroma of freshly brewed coffee wafts through the living room, and damn, she could do with a caffeine fix.

She stands up and takes a moment to stretch. Last time she’s sleeping on a sofa, she tells herself as her spine pops. Her blouse is all wrinkled, and her hair must be a mess too. Definitely the last time on a sofa.

In the kitchen, she finds John stirring sugar into a mug, and to her surprise, he holds it out for her. “Made you coffee,” he says, and she gets the impression that he’s still trying to make up for his stunt yesterday.

“John, you really don’t have to–”

“Have to what?”

She sighs, and just takes the coffee. “Thanks.”

He makes himself a cup, and the two of them sit down at the table. John taps his foot against the tile, though unlike last night, it’s a relaxed, steady beat, not frantic or anxious. As she takes a sip of her coffee (two sugars, dash of milk, just how she likes it), she notices John practically dumping the sugar into his cup.

Donna sets her cup down. “What’re you doing?” she asks, feigning innocent curiosity.  

“Masking the bitter compounds,” he explains, though it’s not really an explanation, since that’s all he says before taking a sip of his coffee (after at least… six, maybe seven spoonfuls of sugar?) and smiling. “See? Works like a charm. Sugar hides the quinic acids and the chlorogenic acid too. Though, I thought chlorogenic acids would taste better,” he adds with a frown.

She shakes her head in disbelief. “I don’t think I understand half the words that come out of your mouth anymore.”

Just before he takes another sip of his coffee, he says, “Neither do I.”

Donna manages to laugh. “Okay, now but you can't tell me off when I get a ton of hazelnut syrup in my Starbucks.”

“But that’s completely–”

“But nothing,” she interrupted. “It’s delicious and I don't want to hear anything about it when you’re dumping entire tablespoons of sugar in your coffee.”

He mutters to himself, something about the nutritional content of store-made beverages, and takes another sip of his sickly-sweet drink. The conversation takes a more sincere turn when she asks him, “How are you…  feeling?”

John dips his finger in the coffee, swirling it around. “Better, I think. Everything’s not as… loud anymore.”

“Did you sleep last night?” She knows John well enough at this point to ask if he did at all, rather than how he slept.

He looks sheepish. “...No. I, uh, actually spent the night in the lab, once I realized sleep wasn’t going to happen. The lab in the basement, I mean. The university was closed.”

“John,” she says, like a scolding mother. “You have to sleep .”

“I tried! Well, I tried for about seventy minutes. Then I gave up.”

Donna sighs.

“But it wasn’t like I was going to sleep anyway!” he insists. “Do you really think I’d be able to sleep after something like this?”

She had been able to sleep last night, but to be fair, it did take her about an hour of tossing and turning, and she didn’t have to cope with a complete change of species, or whatever you called it. “Alright,” she concedes. “Just, try to get some rest at some point, yeah?”

He nods, and there’s a lull in the conversation as the two of them drink their coffee. Donna tries to think through the day (Sunday means running errands, visiting Gramps, and spending time with Lance, the sweetheart), but doesn’t get far. Her thoughts, understandably, keep returning to John and the hellish day yesterday.

“So, if you’ve been up all night…” she starts. “Did you think about talking to that woman? The ‘alien expert.’”

“Naomi Reyes?” he says. “Yeah, yeah a bit.”

“And…?”

John runs a hand through his hair, and lets out a long breath. “I think we should do it. Meet up with her.” he says at length. “I mean, what’s the worst that could happen?” He grimaces. “Oh, no, don't like that phrase. That's just asking for something bad to happen. I’m never saying that again, and neither should you.”

“John, focus.”

“Right, well, if we are going to be meeting up with her, then you’re going to be the one calling her. Since I’m the one who’s actually sacrificing something to agree to this, I can make you handle that.”

“What are you possibly sacrificing here, besides your Sunday morning?” she says, though she’s perfectly aware of what John’s sacrificing here. His fragile mental state, for one.

John tries for a glare. “Just – make the call?”

She smirks. “Fine, I’ll make the call. Wasn’t even planning on letting you. But, before anything else, would you please go and change? I’m pretty sure you’ve been wearing that same shirt for three days now.”

He looks down at his wrinkled shirt. Somehow, he’s managed to spill coffee on it without her noticing. Or maybe that's from the last time he had coffee. “Oh, right.”

He goes to take a shower, and Donna looks up the woman’s number and makes the call. Dr. Reyes, or Naomi, as she likes to be called, is excited by the interest. Apparently not many people read her blog. Donna can’t say she finds that surprising.

But the two of them chat for a bit, they both assure each other that no, they aren’t a creepy axe murderer set on chopping limbs off random woman, and as it happens, Naomi is free later that morning, “if you were interested in going out for coffee, and talking some more!”

She’s just hung up when John comes back into the kitchen – hair freshly styled, and in a clean shirt and trousers – looking vaguely disgruntled.

“What's wrong?” she asks, noticing the way he’s frowning as he preens his hair, still not satisfied with its look. “Did you run out of hair gel?”

“No,” he says flatly. “I think the water heater’s broken. I'm gonna have to talk to the landlord.”

“Too cold?” Just what he needs, Donna thinks. Another thing to worry about – even if it seems tiny, relatively.

“Too hot,” he corrects. “Anyway, did you talk to Dr. Reyes or…?”

“Oh right, yeah. Turns out, she’s interested in talking about aliens. Who would’ve guessed?”

“Ha ha.”

“No, but seriously. She’s nice. Also, she prefers to just be called Naomi. Reminds me of my nan, just a bit. She’s open to having coffee with us, this morning if you’re up for it.”

“Coffee? Like, at her house?”

“No, at a shop. Come on, that’s the first rule of meeting random people on the internet. Don't go over to their house.”

“We already had coffee this morning,” he points out.

"You don't have to have coffee.” She’d normally be annoyed with him – well, she is, just a bit – but she has the feeling he’s trying to make light of a bad situation. She appreciates it.

“Not-coffee at a coffee shop to discuss alien activity, while being an actual alien…” He muses as he pulls at the hem of his button down. He rolls up the sleeves too, like he’s preparing for a fight. She almost laughs at the thought, light weight that he is. “Yeah,” he says. “I’m up for it.”

Before they leave, Donna spends a few minutes in the bathroom, making herself look vaguely presentable. She’s not as attached to her appearance as John can sometimes be, but sleeping on a sofa makes for atrocious bedhead. A few swipes throughs with her fingers, and the look is manageable. The wrinkled clothes, though, are going to require something a bit more involved.

She drives. No way she’d let John behind the wheel, not when he’s still running on no sleep and self-imposed denial. He’s saying he’s fine, but she can tell. She’s not thick.

“John,”  she asks, when they’re stuck waiting for the light to change at an intersection. He’s fiddling with the stereo. “Do you think… would you mind if we stopped by my flat? Wrinkled work clothes, while practical, aren’t stylish anywhere.”

The moment she asks, she regrets it. He’s probably dealing with blaring noises that seem normal to her, terrible smells and sights, and that’s just the sensory aspect. And here she is, complaining about the wrinkles in her outfit.

“Of course we can,” he tells her, to her surprise and relief. “I’m waiting in the car, though. Tell Lance I said hi, won’t you?”

“You sure?”

“Should I say hi to Lance? He was pretty rude to me when I came over a few weeks ago…”

“That was because you came over when we were trying to have a dinner date.”

“At home? Pretty lame dinner date, I’d say. Where’s the pizazz?”

“The what? No, nevermind.” She tries again.  “I’m asking you, are you sure about me stopping? I don’t know how you’re doing with–” She gestures vaguely around the car, trying to indicate the world at large. “–all this.” Maybe he wants this trip to be over and done with as soon as possible.

“You need a change of clothes. It’s fine, don’t worry about it,” he says firmly. She concedes after that, because well, a new blouse and jeans sounds heavenly. Luckily, her flat is only a short detour away, and soon she’s parked, and is waiting for the lift to reach the third floor as John continues to play with the stereo in the car.

Lance is lounging on the couch when she walks into the living room. The telly’s on, showing the latest football match – a popular, yet controversial one, by the sound of the reporters on the screen. Lots of foul moves, or something.

“Hi love,” he says. He mutes the volume, and gets up to give her a kiss. “Everything go okay with John? He’s not still completely–” He mimes drinking with a hand, giving her a sly grin. “Is he?”

Donna hesitates, remembering what she texted him last night – “John got completely drunk, and I’m afraid he’s going to do something stupid. I’m going to stay the night, make sure he doesn’t die.” – then rolls her eyes and shoves at him playfully.  “Get off, he’s fine. Says hi, by the way. I’ve got a coffee date with a mate, though,” she lies, though it’s not a complete lie. More of omission than anything else. “Just stopped by for a change of clothes.”

Lance smirks, sits back down on the couch when Donna makes her way to the bedroom.

“You know,” she hears Lance call out as she’s choosing between shirts. “With all the time you spend with John, I could almost assume…”

He trails off, giving her the perfect opportunity to shout back, “Don’t you dare say it, Lance Bennett! We’re just mates and you know it.”

Just as she’s done dressing, Lance pops into the room, leaning against the doorway. “I’m just saying.” He shrugs, feigning nonchalance. “You two are always together.”

“Yeah well,” she says. She checks her hair in the full-length mirror.  “I’m pretty sure he’d lose his head without me.” Now more than ever.

She walks over to Lance and pecks a kiss on his cheek. “Love you,” she tells him. “Now, I’ve got to go or I’ll be late.”

John seems to have settled on a station by the time she gets back to the car. Eighties pop, what a surprise.

“Better?” John asks when she sits down in the driver’s seat.

“Why do people like football so much?” she asks him instead. “Lance, typical, was lazing about, watching replays of the match last night. What’s the appeal?”

John laughs, and Donna can tell it isn’t at all forced. “You’re asking the wrong guy.”

She puts the car in reverse, and starts to pull out of her spot. “Alright, off to meet some internet stranger.”

Chapter Text

People are chatting away loudly as they wait for their iced coffees, their cinnamon rolls, and all other sorts of noshes. Baristas call out names, seemingly randomly, and soft acoustic music is playing from somewhere in the store, though it’s hard to tell quite where . Then, there are those… lights-that-aren’t-really-lights-at-all surrounding people in a way John doesn’t even have the language to describe.

It all makes his head hurt just a bit.

He feels nauseous as Donna and he step into the shop. But before it gets too unbearable, before he feels like he’s going to vomit, he clamps down on the feeling and buries it. He wills himself to focus on Donna, and soon everything fades into the background.

“So,” he says carefully as he follows her into the queue. “What were you thinking of ordering?”

She takes one look at him and frowns. “D’you need to sit down, wait outside or something?”

His shoulders sag just a little. “Is it that obvious?”

“If by ‘it’ you mean looking like you’re going to be sick, then yes. It’s very obvious. I don’t think Naomi’s here yet, you’ll be fine waiting outside.”

He looks around the shop. A young woman behind the counter calls out another name – “Adam!” – and elsewhere, a group of teens burst into laughter at some unknown joke. The sound is grating, and he swallows thickly. “Yeah,” he says. “I’ll just… do that, then.”

John finds a seat on the patio – well, it’s more like a couple of chairs and tables on the pavement, but it’s warm, cloudy, and there’s only two other people, so he’s not complaining.

He takes out his phone, briefly swiping at the screen before turning it on. He scrolls mindlessly through his contacts, eager to do anything to distract himself from the… everything. Honestly, it might be easier to list the things he’s not trying to distract himself from. Like Donna, who comes out of the shop ten and a half minutes later, armed with coffee and scones.

“I was merciful,” she tells him when she sits down and sets a cup in front of him. “Small iced hazelnut, nothing fancy. It’s decaf, too – the last thing we need is you going all Tigger.”

Usually when they get coffee, they take turns ordering the other’s drink. Over time, it sort of evolved into a game of “What would the other hate the most?” When choosing drinks for him, Donna tends to go for the sweetest thing on the menu – peppermint lattes were her choice weapon for a time – since he absolutely despises painfully sweet things. Apparently, recent events warranted a break from that mess, however fun it might be to watch the reactions.

(Absently, John realizes he might actually like those peppermint lattes now.)

“Caffeine can’t make me that hyper. I have it all the time.”

“Yeah, and your point?”

John lets her have that, and takes a tentative sip. He grimaces at the taste, bitter acids with only the slightest hint of hazelnut, and before he can even think about asking Donna if she brought any sugar, she’s reaching into her pockets and dumping a handful of sugar packets onto the table. “I figured you’d want these,” she says. “What with you suddenly being Mr. Sweet Tooth and all.” She takes a scone, and drinks her own coffee.

“No Naomi yet,” he comments as he pours sugar into his coffee. He remembers saying he didn’t want anything earlier, but ah, they’re at a coffee shop. You’re supposed to have coffee at a coffee shop.

Donna shifts in her seat and looks around. Unlike the inside of the shop, the streets outside are mostly empty. Most of Chiswick, it seems, has decided to stay home and sleep in. Only a few people are around, window shopping or running errands. “No, I don’t see – wait, is that her?”

John follows Donna’s gaze. An older woman in a blue cardigan, carrying a large handbag, is walking towards them from down the street. She’s glancing around, clearly looking for the two of them. She seems like the woman from the website, at least based on the few photos that were posted, but John finds it hard to tell for sure.

“Oh yeah, that’s definitely her,” Donna says, raising her hand to wave at the woman. Her face brightens when she sees the two of them, and she walks up to their table.

“Hello loves!” she says brightly. Donna seems to feel the need to stand up, and John follows suit. “Doctor Naomi Reyes,” she says, as way of introducing herself, and holds out a hand.

Donna shakes her hand. “I’m Donna Noble, we spoke on the phone earlier.” To John, it feels a bit like the beginning to a business meeting.

Naomi nods. “It was only an hour or so ago, no need to remind me. But it’s lovely to meet you in person, Donna! Your hair is just as ginger as you said.” She looks to John. “And you’re John Smith, I presume?”

“Yup,” he says. “The one and only. Well, no, not really. It’s a common name.” He shakes her hand too – for a woman approaching retirement age, she has a very strong grip – and then the three of them take their seats. Naomi sets down her handbag as she does, and John feels the need to ask, “Did you, ah, want something from the shop?”

Naomi shakes her head. “No, no. I had some breakfast earlier, before you called.”

“Right, of course,” Donna says. “I’m sorry about the short notice. We just thought–”

“Don’t you worry about it, dear. If I hadn’t wanted to see you two, I wouldn’t have. And I was just so happy to find out that some people were taking an interest! The website doesn’t get much traffic these days, besides the usual. Clive, bless his heart, we used to talk all the time over email. I had to hear about it in the papers, can you believe? Absolutely dreadful.”

“Heard about what?” Donna asks. John already has a pretty good idea of what. People always get this look in their eyes when they talk about death, whether or not they knew the person well.

Naomi leans in, like she’s imparting a great and terrible secret. “Those mannequins, from a few years back? One of them shot him, right through here.”  She taps her chest, over her heart, for emphasis. “I wanted to go to his funeral, but… Well, his poor family.”

“Oh, I heard about that,” Donna says. “That’s terrible. I can’t imagine what they must be going through, years later, even.”

“And they… said it was terrorists," John says. “Terrorists dressed up as shop window dummies. I’m guessing you believe differently.”

Naomi has grabbed a scone while they were talking. She chews quickly, hurrying to answer John’s question. “Of course I do. There’s so much more to it, when you know where to look. See, terrorism is just the cover up. It usually is. Terrorists, or pranksters. They did the same thing with Guinevere One, that satellite they sent to Mars, or tried to? They said it was college students, hacking the signal and wearing funny masks.”

“Yeah, see,” Donna says to John, smug. “That’s exactly what I said – they were just saying it was college students.” John just glares at her – she was passed out on the couch that Christmas, she wasn’t saying anything. He remembers it, because who gets passed-out drunk on Christmas Eve? Then again, having to deal with her mother…

“But it was a… genuine broadcast, wasn’t it?” John asks Naomi, hoping to get the conversation back on track.

“Definitely. They’ve done coverups like this time and time again. Like, oh!” She reaches into her handbag and pulls out a large folder that make John’s eyebrows jump. As she leafs through the folder, she says, “Now I’m not sure if this is what you wanted to talk about. You didn’t give any specifics, so I brought a few of my favorite files, but – here we are.”

She takes out a few pictures from the folder, and reviews them before setting them face down on the table and sliding them over to John and Donna like they’re grim noir detectives getting a case on a gruesome murder. John likes the analogy. He wonders if he could get a hat, or maybe one of those trench coats detectives always seem to be wearing. “Be careful with these photos,” she tells them. “I had to jump through all sorts of hoops to get ahold of them.”

John picks one up, just as Donna does the same, and examines it as Naomi talks. In his photo, a clear shards sits on a wooden table. It almost looks to be a crystal, if crystals were hollow on the inside. He gets the feeling that this was taken only a few years ago. “This was found in the Thames after the mannequins started attacking. A sister observatory caught wind of a meteorite hitting the Earth, and went looking. UNIT got to it first, though, and fished this chunk out in central London.”

John glances at Donna’s photo; hers looks to be from the seventies or eighties at the least, judging by the accented yellow colors, and it’s showing another shard, but one with enough different jagged edges to let him know that it’s not the same as his photo. The few other photos Naomi has are similar. Whatever this shard is, it’s been photographed enough times to be a runway model.

“What’s this supposed to be?” Donna asks, voicing John very next question before he could. It’s fine, he comes up with another one right away: and how does this relate to killer mannequins?

“We aren’t terribly sure. I have this friend. More of a… friend of a friend. He worked for UNIT, before he retired, and he said that they had a similar situation when he was working for them. Meteorites hitting the Earth and then, few weeks later, window shop dummies coming to life and killing people!”

“How come no one’s noticed the pattern?” John asks.

“Well, we have, haven’t we?” Naomi says, wry grin on her face. “And you do have to consider that it isn’t exactly a pattern – only two similar events, not multiple. But really, I think the reality is quite clear, don’t you? It has to be because people don’t want to notice. Whenever they’re confronted with something they can’t – or don’t want to believe, they come up with excuses on excuses, or just plain ignore it. I’ve seen it so many times, you wouldn’t believe.”

John shifts uncomfortably in his seat.

Donna takes a sip of her drink, and says, “You said…  UNIT got the meteorite, yeah? What’s UNIT?”

“Anyone who knows anything about aliens, knows about UNIT, even if it is just all rumors.”

“We’re… alien amateurs,” Donna says with a smile. “New to this whole thing. Haven’t done a whole lot of research.”

John blinks when Naomi just goes with that excuse. “Oh, I see,” she says. “Well, UNIT is supposedly a secret government agency that deals with ‘unexplained phenomena and extraterrestrial threats to the Earth.’ Unified Intelligence Taskforce, that’s what it stands for. Back when Douglas, the friend I was telling you about, worked there, they were called United Nations Intelligence Taskforce. Bit of a mouthful, both names.

“Secret? They don’t sound so secret if everyone seems to know about them,” comments Donna.

“Most people don’t know about them, but yes. It’s hard to keep a low profile, I think, when you’re always barging onto crime scenes with guns and things, whenever there’s a hint of alien involvement.”

“And this Douglas,” John says, resisting the urge to tap his foot impatiently – it’d be loud on the pavement, and likely taken as rude. He settles for drumming his fingers against his thigh, under the cover of the table. “What was he saying about these shards?”

“Ah right. Douglas told me that they’ve seen something like this before. I can’t remember the name he used, but I think he was making it up anyway.  But the shards supposedly housed an alien presence that feeds on pollutants and uses plastics to invade–”

“Hence the… shop window dummies?” John asks.

“Exactly. Hence the shop window dummies.”

Donna speaks up. “And you don’t think this is far-fetched at all? Plastic aliens, invading London with shop window dummies?”

“Oh it’s definitely far-fetched, you don’t need to tell me. Though I don’t think the universe is as serious and clear-cut as people seem to think it is. Call it a personal belief.” She gathers up the photos, slides them into a pile and taps them against the table before putting them back in her folder. “Anything else you wanted to talk about?”

“Yes, actually,” Donna blurts. John’s painfully aware of the way his heart – hearts start to race as he tries to guess what she’s about to ask. “Have you ever… heard about people turning into aliens?”

John channels his emotions – mostly frustration, embarrassment, all layered over the bewilderment that’s been present ever since he woke up yesterday – into stomping on Donna’s foot. She hisses in pain, and glares daggers at him. Naomi raises her eyebrows, looking at the two of them over her glasses, and John gets the disconcerting feeling that like she’s a teacher berating two rowdy students, without even saying a word.

“Are you two done?” she asks, the hint of a smile on her face.

“Yup, yup,” John says, “but uh – if you were to…”

“It’s a serious question, isn’t it?” The two of them nod. “Well,” Naomi sets her scone down on a napkin, and laughs softly. “I don’t know anything about that. I’m interested in looking more at the artifacts, the things aliens leave behind. But if that – topic is really something that interests you, for whatever reason, you could always try getting in touch with someone at UNIT.”

“UNIT,” John says flatly, “the secret gun-toting government agency that investigates UFOS. You think they’d know?” The name leaves a sour taste in his mouth.

“They aren’t as secret as you seem to think,” Naomi says. “And if anyone were to know, it would be them.”

“How would we even talk to them?” he asks. “Is there a number on Google, or…”

Naomi taps her chin, thinking. “If you really want, I could give you Douglas’s number. He could probably get you in touch with someone, and it’d give him a chance to talk to some younger folks.”

John glances at Donna as Naomi pulls her bag up onto her lap and digs through it. There’s the distinct sound of a purse that has never once been cleared out by its owner. She pulls out a pen and a crumpled piece of paper, and scribbles down a string of numbers. “Here, Douglas Hooper.” She holds out the paper to John. “Give him a call, sometime. Not after seven thirty, though. That’s when he watches his soaps.”

John takes the slip of paper and glances down at it dubiously before pocketing it.

The conversation ends soon after that. Having nothing else to talk about, Donna feigns having errands to run, and John explains that since she’s his ride…  They thank Naomi generously for her time, and for talking to them. Naomi seems just glad to get out of the house and talk to some people about her interests.

When they get back to Donna’s car, they sit for a moment. John finally lets the tension bleed from his body, rests his elbows on his knees, rubbing at his face and letting out a long groan.

He feels a warm hand on his shoulder. “John,” Donna’s saying, “Are you alright?”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” he says through his hands, like it’s a mantra. “I’m just fine.”

In two days, he’s gone from having a sure-grip on his life. Revising for class, paying rent, meeting up with mates, annoying Donna with his late-night texts about the random shit he thinks about at three in the morning. He knew his world, and now everything’s been flipped upside down and crushed.

It’s no surprise he feels a bit off.

He sits back, and leans his head against the headrest. He takes a few deep breaths to steady himself – he’s not going to panic, he’s not. He’s been doing so well, to breakdown now would just be a shame. “So, now what?”

Donna rests her hands against the steering wheel. “Well… we have a phone number for another alien fanatic, and we know that there might be some government agency covering up everything that goes on in the country, or maybe the whole world. Unless she was making the whole thing up.”

“Does that help us at all?”

Donna regards John with a steady gaze. “You know what,” she says. “You leave it to me. I think you should take a few days off work, get your… alien bearings or whatever it is.”

As much as he wants to roll his eyes, he can’t deny that that sounds like a good idea. He might have phrased it differently, though. The thought of having to stand behind the counter, echoing long-since-memorized questions of “Did you find everything alright?” and “Do you want to join our rewards club?” while knowing that everyone around him isn’t quite like him, not anymore, is making him physically ill. Or maybe that’s just everything else going on. Or some horrid combination of both. Yeah, he should take off work. He’s got enough holiday time for a decent break, anyhow.

“Thanks Donna,” he says, as she starts the car, and pulls out of the parking lot.

“Don’t mention it, alien boy.”

Chapter Text

Donna’s current workplace is an engineering firm downtown. Specifically, she spends her time on the third floor, which is full of cubicles, all arranged neatly like a game of Tetris. Motivational posters hang on the walls, and with a water cooler in the back, the whole place looks so plain and boring that it hurts. The company might as well kick everyone out and bring in a camera crew, Ricky Gervais , and the rest of the cast to film the next series of The Office, it’s so typical.

Across from Donna is a woman named Bernice, who still hasn’t learned that headphones were invented in the sixties, according to Donna’s computer. Gary Jules has been playing all day, and at this point, Donna’s considering buying one of his albums, just so she can give it to John and tell him to make it into a pile of ash with his chemistry nonsense.

She gives Bernice a pointed glare, but it goes unnoticed, given that Bernice is buried in paperwork, or pretending to be. That’s fine; she has her own things to worry about, like ending this phone call on pleasant terms.

“Right, of course,” Donna says as she finishes writing the number she was given on her legal pad. “Thank you so much for your time.” She hangs up a moment later, and sighs. Another redirection. She should’ve known it would be practically impossible. Getting in touch with someone at a “secret” government agency? Surprisingly simple. But getting in touch with someone who’s willing to listen to your vague-cause-John-won’t-let-you-be-detailed-questions? That’s the impossible part.

It seems like everyone and their mothers have nothing better to do than call random UNIT officials and bug them about their new theories about aliens living in the sewer system” group. Starting with Douglas Hooper, she’s been bounced, referred to different departments, other officials, countless times over the past few days since she and John had that meeting For all she tries, Donna can’t avoid being swept into the “alien conspiracists who live with with Dr. Naomi Reyes. Whatever else UNIT may be, it has a stellar wall to keep away any inquiring citizens.

Maybe she should just accept that they aren’t going to get any answers to whatever the hell happened to John. But that would be giving up, and Donna Noble is nothing, if not stubborn. Is that a good thing? She’s not sure.

(But has she been sure of anything since a few days ago? No, no she hasn’t.)

It’s only about half four, so it’ll be another half hour before she can even think about leaving. With a little effort, she’s able to fall back into her work for sometime… until she answers a call, expecting a client, but instead she winces and pulls the phone away as a loud, “Donna!” is yelled at her.

She almost wants to show back at John, but when she realizes her cubicle is in fact, not soundproof, she settles for a terse, “John, I’m at work. What do you want?”

“Donna, Donna, Donna, Donna!” he continues, completely ignoring the implied “get off the phone or I’m going to get fired” tone in Donna’s voice. Well, one more personal call can’t hurt, and besides, she’s curious about what got the nerd so excited. “I think I just figured out what it is,” he says, sounding like he solved the world’s biggest mystery.

“What? What what is?”

“What the – the thing is.”

“Yeah, thanks. Really clears it up, that does.” She sounds sarcastic and annoyed, but quite frankly, she’s grateful to be able to talk to John. Today’s been rough, not just because her number’s been blocked multiple times by various government officials, and sometimes his happiness is contagious.

“I still don’t know how to describe it, because ‘lights’ is completely, utterly wrong and ‘wispy, not-things’ is just as bad, but that doesn’t matter! It’s time , Donna. It’s time I’m feeling, or… sensing, I guess would be the word.”

“What the absolute hell are you going on about?”

John pauses. “This might be better to talk about in person. And anyway, I’ve been here for twenty four and a half minutes. Lance is watching football. Donna, I don’t understand football at all. He keeps going on about football stuff, and it’s really awkward. I think he’s starting to question why I’m here. I had to go into your bedroom to call you, because I don’t want Lance to hear me, and also, he thinks I’m getting drinks from the kitchen right now–”

"Wait, are you at my flat right now? What are you doing at my flat?”

“I’ll tell you when you get home!” And then he hangs up, leaving Donna with the bemused confusion she gets every other time she talks to John.

Faced with having the equivalent of an impossibly-energetic squirrel with an incredibly detailed knowledge of how to blow things up in her flat (with her poor boyfriend), Donna decides to leave work early. It’s almost the end of the week, anyway. If someone’s going to complain about it, she’ll just shout them down.

When she walks into the flat, she finds Lance and John sitting on the couch, football on the telly. Lance looks relieved that she’s home and gets up to greet her, but John explodes to his feet, and before anyone can get a word out, he’s pushing her back out into the hallway.

“Great, you're here!” he says, shutting the door behind him. “We don’t need Lance eavesdropping.”

“He is my boyfriend,” Donna hisses. “Can’t I at least say hi to my boyfriend before you start going all geek on me?”

He blinks. “You’re right,” he says. Then he opens the door, where Lance stands, confused and just about to open said door, it seems. “Donna says hi, she loves you, blah blah blah, romantic stuff. Now, we have some very important things to talk about, so if you’d stay in there for a minute, that’d be lovely.”

“If you think you can force me to stay in my own flat,” Lance protests, holding the door open with a strong hand when John moves to close it, “then you’re just thick. Why can’t I be around?” Then, his eyes widen. “Should I be worried?”

“What? No!” Donna says immediately. “Oh my God Lance, it’s just… something personal. For him. ” She pointedly looks at John, who’s frowning at her, then back to Lance.

“It’s uh, actually a paper I need to write,” John adds. “All about temp workers and how underappreciated they are in today’s society.”

“Aren't you a chemistry major?” Lance asks, crossing his arms.

"Yup. Isn't the state of the British education system awful?”

Lance looks to Donna, expecting an explanation. Instead, they wordlessly exchange a series of faces that culminate in is everything okay? to everything’s fine, don’t you worry before moving onto a more judgemental this is who you spend time with? and then yes Lance, yes he is, now go back inside, pretty please?

“I’ll just… get started on dinner then,” Lance eventually says. “Don't be too long sweetheart.” Donna smiles.

He shuts the door, and then her smile drops as she turns her attention to John, who’s been bouncing on the balls of his feet for a while now. "Okay, what is so important?" 

"Just ask me what time it is!" he exclaims. Donna hesitates for barely a second before he insists, “Go on, ask me the time!”

So, she asks, “What time is it?”

He grins. “It’s five thirty two and fifty six seconds in the evening.”

“...I’ll have to take your word for it,” she tells him, blinking in surprise, since she’s not wearing a watch. And neither is he, come to think of it… “What does this have to do with ‘the thing’?” she asks, making quotes in the air.

“It’s time I’m sensing, Donna. The feeling that something’s been rushing past me, and I’ll never be able to catch up? It’s time!” He continues to bounce on his feet, and looking more and more like a kid that’s had way too much sugar. Maybe that sweet tooth was getting to him.

“I know you’ve been… through a lot in the past week,” she says softly, “with the hearts thing, but everyone feels like they’re running out of time.”

“No, no, no, no, that’s not it.” He looks the slightest bit disappointed. “That’s not what I’m talking about.”

“See, listen,” he starts, in that ‘time to tell a story to get one point across while making sure to drag the story out for as long as possible’ voice he has. “D’you know those little, off to the side rooms that the university has? Where people can sit and revise, cry before exams, or whatever? Oh, maybe I had a point about the education system. Huh. But the rooms, you know those rooms?”

She nods slowly.

“So I was in one of those rooms, and I was revising for ochem, because ochem is hard as hell, really, it is, it’s ridiculous. The one class that really stumps me sometimes.” He waves his hands. “But that’s not the point. The point is, I was alone, and there was this clock in the room. And I could hear the clock ticking.”

“You… could hear the clock ticking,” she repeats.

“Yeah, and it was annoying! Like, like…. Like listening to a song, but the drums are just a bit off beat! And I was trying to figure out why, why was the clock, of all things, was making my skin crawl, but then I realized that it was off-beat. That’s not when the seconds are.”

“Right…”

“And then I asked myself, how the hell do I know when the seconds are, that doesn’t even make sense, and then, everything just sort of clicked. It was time. It’s all about the time, Donna. The mug!” he cries suddenly, snapping his fingers and making Donna jump. “The mug I was going on about on Saturday. I kept saying it was January, two thousand and four, but I didn’t know how a mug could possibly be January, two thousand and four? But that must be when it was made, or, fired up, whatever you call a ceramic mug being made. It has to be!”

“So, let me get this straight,” Donna says. John nods encouragingly. “You can see time? Like the numbers and everything?”

He ponders her words. “I wouldn’t say see, it’s… not seeing, not exactly. Sensing. Sensing is a good word. Vague enough for it to fit, but still gets the point across.”

“You can see time?” she asks again. “How can you possibly see time?”

“ Sense , Donna, and I don’t know!” He gives an emphatic shrug. “How can someone wake up one morning and find their humanity inexplicably ripped from them? Tell me when you figure that out.”

“I’ve been working on it, actually. Trying to talk to those UNIT people.”

“Are you still doing that?” he asks. “Not that I don’t appreciate the thought, it’s just… I don’t think we’re going to get anywhere with that.”

She doesn't tell him that he’s right. “Well, it’s better than sitting around getting mad at clocks. …And I have to ask again, do you really think it’s a good idea to just - throw yourself back into school and work?”

John rubs at his neck uncomfortably. “It’s something to do, alright? I can focus on the professor, or on the customers and my job, most of the time, and if I feel like ripping a clock off the wall because I can feel the seconds passing and the clock is wrong, then fine. Whatever. Not like I’m going to rip a clock off a wall, just… Like I’ve been saying, I can’t let my life slip because of this.”

Donna purses her lips. They’ve had this conversation many times over the past few days, like a broken record. He’s right, she knows he is, but something about it just feels wrong. Well, everything about this feels wrong, and there’s nothing they can do about it.

“You’re being awfully calm about this,” she comments.

“Am I?”

“Well, no. Not really,”  she says bluntly. “But it’s better than Saturday.” The argument they had, going round and round in circles, because both of them were so out of their depth it was laughable? And the way he walked out on her? Him being excited about something weird is a walk in the park compared to that. “Are you… okay? I mean, what sort of alien can see time? What’s that like, even?”

His manic energy — running a hand through his hair and looking like he’d prefer to be running a marathon or something — doesn’t abate when he says, “It’s… an experience. I don’t think… I don’t think English has the proper tenses, I really can’t describe it. You wouldn’t like it.” He tosses a wry grin at her, but for a second, she can see past the facade he’s carefully constructing. She doesn’t think she would be able to put up with anything John’s been going through the past week.

She’s about to reach out to him, rest a hand on his arm or maybe pull him into a hug – something to get him to calm down for a second – when he asks, “Didn’t Lance say he was cooking dinner?”

She pulls her hand back. “Yeah, he did… Oh no,” she says, realizing why he’s suddenly interested. “John Smith, you are not staying for dinner. You’ve already weirded Lance out enough today.”

“I haven't weirded him out! And come on, can you fault me for wanting to stay for dinner? He’s a great cook!”

She sighs, realizing she’s not going to get anywhere in this argument. Besides, it might make him feel better, less on the verge of panicking. “Fine, you can stay for dinner.” John grins, but Donna quickly points a finger at him, keeping up her own brash facade. “Don't make me regret this, though.”

“As long as we don’t talk about football, I’ll be fine.”

“I’ll try my best.”

Chapter Text

 
Coping is hard.

You may think you’re fine, but then you discover something new, something unusual, something that isn’t even a solid concept to humans, not in the way you now intimately know it, and suddenly you’re back to square one, questioning your identity, your humanity, and if you’ve got a right to live as you used to.

Maybe you got past it, maybe you didn’t. Hopefully you haven’t crashed and burned yet, and you’re starting to find out what works for you, in trying to accept this new era of your life.

However, you might want to refine your technique, especially if you’re looking to make it through this with your sanity intact. Luckily, you have a few test-proven options.

So.

[REDACTED]’s Methods For Coping With Suddenly Being An Alien

Option one: find a confidant

Surprisingly helpful, even if they can't quite relate to the woes of spontaneous species-changes.

It’s one of his worse days.

Everything’s too bright, too loud, too vibrant. John suffers through work because he has to, because he needs the money – he took time off, and it helped, but the fact of the matter is he doesn’t get enough paid sick days and the rent is too high – and because he feels that if he muscles through it, he’ll be okay. Going home early would be giving in, and if he gives in, he’ll never climb back up.

It doesn't help that the bus is late, customers are unbearable, and he ends up having to stay late to close the store, Sometimes, it feels like everything is conspiring against him.

Eventually, he makes it home. He’s not sure how, but he’s not going to question the ways of the universe. Not today. Later, maybe. If the bus ride passes in a blur of color and noise that he doesn’t even try to parse, so mixed up in his mind that it doesn’t even register, than so be it.

All he knows that is when he finally gets into his flat, he’s exhausted – not tired, not quite, he doesn't get tired anymore, but it would be so nice if the world just took a break, only for a moment. He sits down at the kitchen table. No cup of tea, as he’s not sure he could bear to fight through the taste of tannins to actually enjoy it for what it is, what he thinks it should be.

At some point, he ends up resting his head down on his arms. The flat is dark, and his arms block out the light doubly so, but it’s still so much . The flickers and gleams of timelines around him, he can’t block that out if he tried. His head is killing him, like he’s got a headache, or a migraine.

A hint of an idea breaks through his aching mind. He picks his head up from the kitchen table, spots the counter above the sink – the one where he keeps all the medicine and things. Don’t painkillers and things dull the senses beyond pain, just a bit? Maybe it could take the edge off it all, at least, just this once.

He eases himself out of his chair, winces when it slides against the tile. In the cabinet, he finds a scarce few bottles of ibuprofen, aspirin, whatever Tylenol’s made out of. He can't bring himself to remember, or read the label right. It’s just typical over-the-counter stuff.

He’s beyond thinking hard about what he wants in terms of pain relief, so he just grabs a bottle and taps out two tablets into the palm of his hand. He reaches to grab a glass of water but–

Suddenly his hand burns . The tablets sear his skin like red-hot iron, or freezing dry-ice, a contradiction that he can’t quite parse, not that he cares to at the moment. He hisses, tries to brush the tablets from his palm and into the sink, but that only gets the substance on both his hands, and it’s still burning him.

He realizes that it’s a chemical burn, he should be treating it like one and not standing here flapping his hands and almost panicking. It takes a moment for it to kick in, but he quickly turns on the faucet and lets the water wash over his hands. He can’t help but scrub furiously, trying to get every damn particle off his skin, though all it’s really doing is aggravating the lesion. He doesn't mind.

Okay, okay, he’s fine, everything’s fine. He turns off the tap and pats his hands dry with a paper towel. He glances at the bottle he picked, wondering what the hell kind of bullshit-medicine just burned his hands.

Oh. Aspirin. Of course. Because aspirin should be able to cause chemical burns, definitely, absolutely, that’s exactly how aspirin works.

He sighs. Honestly, he should have seen something like this coming – alien metabolism, it’s bound to interact badly with something. Suddenly, he’s realizing that he could have swallowed those tablets, if he had done it quick enough without realizing, and then where would he be?

(Dead on the floor, his mind suggests.)

He draws a breath, shakes his head. He’s fine, and that’s what matters. Ignore all the timelines in his head trying to invite him to take a peek at the what if ’s.

Runs a hand through his hair, then hisses when it just makes the pain in his palm worse. Maybe he should… call Donna. Yeah, that’s it. She’s been good about helping him shrug things off, especially when the weight’s getting unbearable. It's three minutes from eleven-thirty, but she’ll be awake, probably.

He takes a seat, digs his mobile out from his pockets, careful of the burns on his hands. Her number is on speed dial. He puts the phone on speaker and sets it down, letting it ring out into the kitchen.

Donna picks up a moment later. “Hello?” Her voice is thick with sleep, but then she says, “John? Everything alright?” and he knows that she doesn't mind.

“You would not believe the day I’ve been having,” John says, and leans back in his chair, kicking his feet up onto the table.

 
Option two: pseudo-acceptance.

Pretend to pretend to be okay with what you’re going through. If it kept some of the Old Ones alive, it can keep you alive too.

There’s a book John’s been meaning to read – a few, actually. Currently, he’s sitting in the living room, two stacks of books on the coffee table. One, the one he’s decided to make for the books he’s yet to read, stacks about five books. The other one, the finished books, stacks at least twelve. He’s been at this for an hour at most.

Speed reading: another skill that can be gained through the spontaneous shifting of your species, apparently.

Either way, it’s been incredibly helpful with his graduate work, and it’s easy enough to accept it, if he thinks about how humans can speed read too. There’s entire speed reading championships, full of their own contestants and fans and controversies. And besides, it’s fine. It’s been fine for a while. He’s an alien, he gets it.

He’s halfway through some pop-culture fiction when the front door opens, letting the hall light in to flood the room. His head snaps up, and he sees Donna in the doorway.  

This isn’t unexpected, her barging in unannounced, like she owns the place. She’s been doing it more often since It happened, and he’s not complaining. She ends up sleeping on the couch so often anyway, and she’s over so often, it’s like she lives here anyway. He even gave her a key a bit ago (not that he ever remembers to lock the door).

It’s a bit more unexpected when she catches sight of John, and cries out, “Bloody hell!”

“What? What’s wrong?” he asks, jumping to his feet and tossing the book onto the coffee table. 

Donna flicks on the light switch, walks into the flat, shuts the door behind her. “When the hell , she says carefully, “were you going to tell me that your eyes glow in the dark. Like a – like a cat’s, or something. Not anymore, but they were.” A shudder goes through her body.

He hesitates. Processes her words – eyes that shine in the dark, tapetum lucidum , lots of species have that, but humans definitely do not – then quickly makes up his mind between the two choices he sees: lose his composure, or lie about losing his composure. Both unpleasant, but one offers a sense of stability, while the other… does not, at all.

“Of course my eyes glow, Donna,” he says, as if he were saying of course water is wet, Donna, how have you gotten this far without knowing something like that. “I’m an alien. Things like that happen, probably.”

“So you knew about this, and you didn't tell me?”

He falters, a crack in the facade. “Ah, well, no, I – I didn't know.”

A noise leaves Donna’s throat, something like a choking sigh of exasperation and distress, and he starts trying to parse a dozen things he can't.

“How was I supposed to know?” he asks. “It’s not like I can see my eyes!”

“Here’s some ground rules,” she says firmly. “Don’t just hang around in dark rooms , waiting for me to walk in and think there’s some kind of hell demon sitting in my best mate’s flat.”

“It wasn’t that dark,” he protests, because that’s what he needs to focus on, isn’t it. The glowing eyes thing, he’s got that under control, completely, definitely, absolutely.

“What were you even doing?”

He nods to the piles of books on the table. “I was reading.”

Donna frowns. She reaches over to the light switch, flicks it off, plunging the room into darkness. “How?”

“It’s not that dark!” he says again, because it’s really not. He can see her perfectly fine, why would reading be any different – Ah. Right. There’s a reason why so many species have tapetum lucidum.

She flicks the light back on. “I don’t mind you being all extraterrestrial, but next time, give me a warning, yeah? Almost had a heart attack ‘cause of you.”

“I’ll do my very best,” he says with a grin, and shoves his hands into his pockets to hide the way they tremble.

Option three: rigorous denial of your crumbling mental state.

Incredibly effective when paired with a brain capable of running multiple thought processes.

He’s back at the lab.

Spontaneous changes of species do not account for missing lab… more than a few times, at least.

It’s going alright, really. That’s it. He’s a bit bored, but this is a new lab, new head of the lab, new lab mates, (better pay, better hours, work that he's actually interested in doing, for the most part; it's no wonder he's been trying to be allowed to work here for oh, months now?) and this time, as he shuffles around chemicals and prepares solutions, he feels like he has to stay hidden. You're an alien, don't draw so much attention to yourself, he thinks.

Of course, he’s John Smith, so that doesn't exactly go to plan.

He’s not sure how it happened. Usually he is. Usually he’s incredibly aware of his surroundings to a fault, and lately, to the point that he could pick out the exact number of books in a shelf from across the room, after a precursory glance to the opposite wall. Then again, that sort of awareness has turned out to be overwhelming most of the time, so he ends up furiously ignoring everything except the bare necessities needed for him to function.

So maybe that’s how he ends up spilling a beaker of sulfuric acid, enough of it that it should leave a pretty nasty burn on his hands. Not again, he’s thinking (and is that really all he’s thinking, as he’s spilling an incredibly caustic substance onto his skin?). The aspirin had taken a few days to heal, he can't imagine how bad this'll be.

John yelps, jumps back from the table. The beaker’s on its side, acid trickling from the glass and onto the epoxy resin counter top, but he can hardly focus on that, when he’s busy stumbling to the sink, fumbling with the tap until there’s cold water rushing from the faucet and he’s rinsing, rinsing, rinsing.

Naturally, when they see this, his lab mates all stop what they’re doing. There’s a bit of a commotion as they try to fall back on procedures that have been drilled into their heads since the very beginning of their lab careers, but it’s all a bit panicked, considering that it’s sulfuric acid and most of them have probably never had an accident as severe as this in lab before. New labmates, a lot of them recent graduates, a few undergrads, he can't blame them.

The head of the lab rushes over, starts trying to direct his lab mates, or something. John’s not focusing on that. He’s not focusing on her words and when she asks if he’s okay, he just nods and says he’s fine, it’s all fine, doesn’t even hurt – which is a lie. It hurts, but it doesn’t hurt enough . That is, this is sulfuric acid he’s talking about. When it burns, it burns . Except now, as he gingerly prods at the skin, he feels nothing more than something like a bad sunburn. Now he knows that sometimes they can take days to properly set in, but they should still hurt, he thinks.

He files it away for later with the shake of a head.

Eventually they get to the point where the acid’s been neutralized and cleaned up from the counter, and John’s been rinsing his hand for the last three minutes, until the head of the lab recommends that he go and see health services. Immediate medical care, isn’t that part of the protocol?

The thought of going to a hospital, medical center, any place where there’s doctors and nurses waiting to make sure he’s a functioning human induces a visceral fear in him, but he shoves it to the back of his mind with undue force.

Just enough for John to nod, say he’ll definitely go and do that, thanks, sorry about all of this, and bolt out of the lab, leaving his partners thinking he’s just eager to get this looked at.

He made sure to grab his bag before leaving, so that when he decides to ditch (not that he was actually ever planning on going to health services), he doesn't have to go back to get his things. Plus, he can easily make this an excuse to take the rest of the day off.

A bus ride home, in which he stares at his hand as it grips the safety pole. The other one he resolutely keeps stuffed into his pocket. That was sulfuric acid. High enough concentrations can kill skin tissue on contact, and he’s sure that what he was dealing with today was at the point that there should be some kind of mark on his skin.

But there’s nothing – not even a lesion, and he’s fine when he shouldn't be, and he doesn't know why that upsets him so much.

(Well, he does, but come on now. His mind knows the drill.)

Once again, he shoves it back, shoves back the latent horror of the situation – this doesn't happen to humans, but he’s not human, he’s not human – until he’s able to laugh at the situation. Until he’s able to wonder, hey, how come aspirin burns him, but one of the most caustic solutions on Earth doesn’t?

It feels like a design flaw, and as he’s opening the door to his flat, that makes him laugh even more.

 Some may argue that there is no way to properly handle suddenly becoming an alien.

This is mostly true.

But with these few tips, you can achieve something close to resembling a coping method. It might not be healthy, but at least you’ll be able to function. Probably.

Chapter Text

It isn’t until it’s the middle of the night and John’s digging in the hall closet for some clean clothes that he realizes: he never actually finished cleaning his flat. He got as far as the kitchen and the living room before Donna interrupted him. All for a good cause, of course, but that doesn’t excuse the fact that his closet is an unorganized mess, and so’s his bedroom.

Normally, that wouldn’t bother him, but he’s been looking for things to do in the middle of the night. Not having an apparent need to sleep means having an extra eight to twelve hours in your day, and unless you have things to keep yourself busy, it can get very boring. Lately, he’s been trying to learn how to knit. It’s resulted in a lot of half-assed sweaters and gloves, and he has no desire to get back to it this night, so he takes cleaning his flat as a lovely excuse.

He starts with the hall closet. The floor of his hallway is completely covered in old blankets, pillows, and other various junk that he’s shoved away by the time he gets it completely empty. The walls are painted white inside this closet. Huh. He’s never noticed.

He takes his time folding each blanket and placing them back in the linen closet, stacking them precariously like a game of Tetris. It might not quite count as cleaning, since it’s probably going to end up exactly the same as it was before, but it isn’t his fault the closet’s so damn small.

Then, it’s onto the bathroom, and after that, he moves to cleaning his bedroom. It’s not as messy as it usually is, given that for the most part, he’s stopped using it. He only comes in here anymore because it’s where he keeps his clothes. Still, he takes the time to pick up the dirty laundry and make his bed. He would vacuum, but he’s fairly sure that would warrant a few noise complaints from the other tenants.

When he finally gets to the bedroom closet, it’s almost two in the morning. He could say the exact time, down to the seconds, but he’s been trying to restrain himself from that specificity. Thinking of time down to the tenth of a second is, unsurprisingly, fairly overwhelming.

Like the previous closet, he decides to empty it completely, tossing all the various junk out into his room – old textbooks, shirts, trousers, at the very bottom of the closet, a… suit?

Standing amidst a pile of cheap tee-shirts, John holds up the suit. It’s dark brown, with blue pinstripes, and he can’t seem to take his eyes off it. There’s no way it’s some forgotten article of Samuel’s, he checked thoroughly for his stuff when they broke up. He’s never considered himself one to wear suits – all sweaters, tee-shirts, and jeans for him – but he must’ve bought it at some point. It looks to be his size, almost perfectly, even.

So of course, he ends up trying it on. No matter how much energy he may have, cleaning is not his most favorite activity in the world; it’s a welcome distraction from the distraction.

It fits, and it’s stylish, he has to admit, looking at himself in the mirror. Though it’s a bit snug and the fabric is heavier than he would have guessed, he finds the feeling comforting. A bit like his weighted blanket, in an odd way. He doesn’t have any dress shoes to go with it, but he finds himself wondering if it would be a criminal act to just wear it with a pair of his trainers.

He smoothes out the wrinkles, and spends a second wondering how one goes about ironing suits. Did you just… iron it like anything else, or did you have to send it in to a dry cleaners? He shrugs – he can figure it out later – and sticks his hands in the trouser pockets.

Before promptly ripping his hands out.

Did it just… did he…?

Gingerly, he slides a hand back into the left pocket, and keeps going. There’s absolutely no resistance, no fabric that stops him from slipping everything up to his elbow into the pocket. And looking down at his leg, he doesn’t see even a hint that his arm is actually in the pocket.

Right. Of course.

He takes his hand out of the impossibly large pocket, and proceeds to pace from one corner of his room to the other as he thinks.

The suit. The suit he must’ve bought at some point has pockets that are literally bigger on the inside. He just wanted to get some cleaning done, sort through the mess that is his flat, because it’d give him something to do and then maybe Donna wouldn’t yell at him about it anymore, but no. No, of course it wouldn’t be that simple. Of course he’d find a two piece suit that defies Euclidean geometry.

Because this is his life now. Incomprehensible nonsense.

He stops pacing. He could either fall apart over this, like it’s the straw that breaks the camel’s back, or he can take it in stride.

He needs Donna.

Across town, Donna Noble is fast asleep. It’s a very pleasant slumber, with minimal tossing and turning, and Lance is there next to her, which is comforting as well. At least, until she’s woken up by the shrill ringing of her mobile on the nightstand.

She groans, and throws a hand over her eyes, as if that would block out the noise. Next to her, Lance rolls over, but doesn’t seem to have been woken up. She’s  simultaneously jealous and irked, because if she has to be awake, then he should have to be too.

The phone rings another time, and Donna shifts to grab it. She fumbles with unplugging it from its charger, then checks the caller ID, squinting at the bright display.

John Smith.

Of course, she should’ve guessed. She flips the phone open and answers. “John, it’s two in the morning. What the hell do you want?”

“Okay, okay, I know it’s two in the morning. Trust me, I’m well aware but… I… need you to come over.”

She sits up. “What, why? Is something wrong?” He doesn’t sound particularly worried, but Donna knows better than to trust him like that.

“Wrong? No, not wrong, not necessarily. But uh, I need to make sure I’m not going insane. So, you. At my flat, twenty minutes.” Then, he hangs up, and she’s left listening to the phone beep at her to get off the line.

Donna’s not quite sure what to make of that. She sets the phone back down on the nightstand, and throws the covers off of herself. She gets up onto her feet, and stumbles in the dark until she gets to the bathroom door.

There’s a groan from the bed when she switches the light on – Lance waking up. She ignores him, thinking he’ll fall back asleep soon enough, and spends a moment splashing water on her face, trying to wake herself up a bit more before she has to go and drive.

She throws on a baggy sweatshirt and some pants, and calls it a day; it’s the middle of the night, no one’s going to care if she’s not dressed to perfection, especially not John. When she’s in the living room, looking around for her keys, there’s the patter of feet on hardwood, and she looks up to see Lance half-dressed and rubbing at his eyes.

“What are you doin’, sweetheart?” he asks, groggy with sleep.

Donna looks up from where she’s currently digging around the cushions of the sofa – the keys might’ve fallen down there when she sat down. “Oh, sorry Lance!” she says in a whisper, though there isn’t any reason to. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

He walks over, and leans against the armrest of of the sofa. “Don’t worry about it. Now what’s the matter? Wait, let me guess,” he says with a knowing smile. “John Smith, am I right?”

She huffs and straightens up to give him a glare. “Yes, Lance, it is.”

“What’s he done now? Did he lock himself out on the roof again?”

“That was one time,” she reminds him, hands on her hips. “And no, he just… No, you’re right. Something like that,” she amends quickly. Though John didn’t say anything about what the actual problem was, it wouldn’t be unreasonable to assume it’s something to do with… well, being an alien.

He holds a look with her for a moment, before shrugging. He turns around and stretches, arms over his head. “You know,” he says, stifling a yawn. “I can’t understand why you’re friends with that bloke. He’s always getting himself into situations, and you’re always having to bail him out. What was it before? Getting himself banned from the labs at his university?”

“It wasn’t really a ban, and besides, that was weeks ago,” she says, surprised that he remembers when she was talking about it over dinner.

“Oh, so has he screwed something else up since then?”

Donna’s automatically thinking through the past month – John, spooking her with his freaky glowy eyes, John, getting annoyed with clocks because he can suddenly tell time down to the second and the clocks are always wrong. John, figuring out he can see ultraviolet. John, complaining for hours when he realized he couldn’t see regular violet.

“Not really,” she says lightly. “Why are you so focused on this?”

“No reason.”  He turns around, and in a few quick strides, he’s enveloping her in a warm hug, nuzzling his cheek against hers. “But you can’t blame me for being curious, can you? Some clever bloke, spending time with my lady.”

She holds back a smirk when she hears him admit that John’s not a complete idiot. “Are you jealous, Lance Bennett?”

“Me? Never,” he says innocently.

“You know he’s gay, yeah?” Well, queer, but she doesn’t expect Lance to understand the nuances of sexuality, all he needs to know right now is they are just mates. He simply raises an eyebrow, to which she pushes him away. She bites back the bitter taste in her mouth, and settles for saying, “Oh come off! Don’t be like that.”

He holds his hands up, taking a few steps back. There’s a grin on his face. “What about your keys? Need a little help?”

She looks around the flat, chagrined at the prospect of having to search for them. It’s two in the morning, and her friend’s probably freaking out over some new thing he’s discovered or decided to acknowledge. She doesn’t want to have to search through every nook and cranny.

With Lance’s help, she ends up locating the keys to the car reasonably quickly (hidden behind the fruit bowl, somehow), and when she’s going out the door, he’s going back to bed. Unsurprisingly, the roads are deserted, and the drive to John’s flat takes barely fifteen minutes.

She’s running her fingers through her hair as she goes up the steps to the fourth floor, thinking about what could’ve possibly happened this time. It’s not like John hasn’t been known to bug her in the middle of the night, whether by sending texts or just calling her like he did now, to talk about whatever’s on his mind, ranging from silly little ideas for movies to existential questions about the universe and humanity’s role in it.

When she opens the door to John’s flat, using the spare key he gave her, she finds him standing in the middle of his living room. He’s wearing the top half of a brown suit – where’d he get that? – and sweatpants. In his hands are the matching trousers. He’s looking at them intently, as if trying to decipher some hidden code.

He doesn't notice Donna until she clears her throat. “Donna! I’m so glad you’re here!” he exclaims like he didn't just call her over to his flat at two in the morning, and holds out the trousers to her. “Please check out these trousers.”

She stares at him blankly. “You called me over, in the middle of the night, to look at a pair of trousers? Can you not sew or something? What’s even wrong with them?”

“No, no, no, that's not the issue. Just – put your hand in the pocket.”

He shoves the trousers at her, apparently eager for her opinion. Donna blinks a few times, and wonders, not for the first time, when her life got so damn weird. “What.”

“Put your hand,” he says slowly, “in the pocket.”

So she does. It takes her a second to realize it. Men’s pockets are always bigger – honestly, what was the point of that? – so initially, when her hand slips in easily, going all the way to her wrist, she still isn't sure what she’s supposed to be looking for.

But she keeps going, thinking it must be a prank, there has to be some toy, or something that’s going to shock her when she hits the lining, but the thing is: she doesn't hit the lining, and this must be what John’s talking about. Then, she’s freaking out because she can get her elbow all the way into the pocket and there’s still room.

She rips her hand, her arm, really, from the pocket. “What the hell?!” she demands. “What did you do to them?”

“What did I do?” John laughs, and it’s that half hysterical one Donna’s come to know well. The laugh he has when he’s confronted with something completely inexplicable with only the option being to accept it. She’s slowly coming to the conclusion that she’ll have to do the same. “I didn't do anything!”

“But they're – they're–” she flounders for words, but for once, she’s left speechless, stuck simply gesturing wildly at the trousers in John’s hands.

“Bigger, on the inside?” he offers. “I’ve noticed.” And before she can respond, like an infomercial salesman, he announces, “but wait, there’s more!”

He reaches his hand deep into the other pocket, the one Donna didn't touch, and starts pulling out an incredible assortment of junk. He tosses to the ground, among other things, a yo-yo, a ball of neon green string, some strange metal tube, a velvet bag, a few stray dominos, coins, crystals, gum packets…

He pauses, looking down at the pile of junk. “You get the picture,” he says. “There’s a lot of stuff in here.”

“Where… where did it come from?”

“My closet,” he answers honestly. He starts digging through the pockets again. “I think if I took everything out, it’d fill the whole flat up. And I just cleaned, so…”

“You found all this,” she gestures up and down to the junk and the suit — the half he’s currently wearing, and the half he’s holding, “in your closet?”

“Well, the suit I found in my closet, yeah. The stuff in the suit, though? I’ve no idea. Maybe Costco?”

“Costco?

“Costco has a ton of junk, doesn't it?”

“I don't think Costco sells stuff like this.” She bends down to pick up the blue-tipped metal tube she saw. Some sort of device, actually. There’s a couple of buttons on the sides, though she doesn't dare press any. She can't fathom what it might do. A torch, maybe? Pen light? “I mean, what even is this?”

John tosses the trousers onto the sofa, and grabs the device from her hands. “No clue,” he says as he examines it. He pulls on the tip of it, and it slides with his hand, showing an inner centre full of twisting wires. “Neat, isn't it?”

“What are you going to do with it all?” Donna asks, nudging the velvet bag with her foot.

“Tupperware,” he says absently, continuing to eye the strange device in his hands.

“Excuse me?”

He looks up, and makes a great impression of a deer caught in the headlights. “Tupperware…?”

“What – does tupperware have to do with anything that's happening here?”

His suddenly sheepish demeanour lets Donna know that she’s stumbled onto another John Is Being An Idiot Again thing. “Well,” he starts, “I’ve sort of realized that using my own mugs for my experiments was a bad idea. You’ve got to be really careful when heating up ceramic and letting it cool, cause if you do it way too fast, it can crack, apparently, not to mention some of the explosions and things… so I… started using glass tupperware. You should see the box of broken ceramic I’ve got now. It’s kind of great, actually."

“Okay, okay, I think I get that. But how would a suit with… bigger-on-the-inside pockets help you with using tupperware – Oh no.”

He looks down as his feet, pulling at his ear.

“Have you been–”

“Stealing glass tupperware from IKEA so I don't have to pay because I’m a poor university student?” he says, so quick that it takes a second to parse the words. “Maybe? Possibly? Would you be mad if I said yes?”

“Yes, I would be mad!” she snaps, only for a loud pounding to sound on the ceiling of the flat. The two of them startle and look up.

“Sorry, Mrs. Marcello!” John shouts up at the ceiling. Donna hits him on the arm

“Don’t shout back at her!” she hisses. Her raising her voice the first time was already bad enough.

John shrugs, then whispers, “She’s used to it.”

She glares. The poor lady. “Anyway, what are you thinking, stealing? And from – from an IKEA, of all places?”

“You're right. I should stake out the Bed Bath and Beyond.”

“What, no! That’s not what I’m saying at all!”

He sighs. “Right, I know, I know, stealing is bad and I shouldn’t do it, but… Okay, look, can I really be expected to pay for all that tupperware? Tupperware still breaks, like the mugs, it’s just… I don’t have to pay for it this way. And it’s not like they'll notice – I can just, wear this suit and slip them into my pockets. No one could find out!”

“They'll find out when they check the inventory. You work in retail, don't you know how it works when people shoplift?”

He blinks. “That’s different.”

“What – No, it’s not, no,” she stops herself. “No, you know what? I’m going back to bed. I’m not dealing with this right now. Next time I see you in that lab of yours, I want you to be using legally obtained tupperware.” She points a finger at him, to let him know she’s serious, but also not that serious. The last thing she wants to do is leave him thinking she’s genuinely upset with him. And well, she is, a bit. More fed up, really, than anything close to proper anger. But she doesn't want him to know that.

“Fine,” he whines, like a petulant teenager.

“Great,” she says, making her way to the door. “Congratulations on your magic trousers, I guess.”

The door slams shut, and John’s left alone in his flat, feeling slightly better. More stable, at least. He’s not going insane, because Donna saw the way the pockets were too. Or maybe they’re both going insane together. No, if he starts thinking like that, he’ll start dissecting everything he knows, and that couldn’t possibly end well. And he’s already called Donna once in the middle of the night this week, he can't call her a second time with any more of his existential questions.

He looks to the sofa, where the trousers and that odd device lay. Something’s in the back of his mind, he can tell. Nagging at his consciousness, like he should know this already – whatever this is – but he can't quite bring it to mind.

Well, he might as well sort through the rest of the junk in those pockets. Then maybe finish up cleaning the rest of his flat. He still has, oh, seven and a half hours until he has to be at work.

Chapter Text

John sits in the middle of his living room. He’s currently surrounded by various rubbish, and is digging through the pockets of his trousers for even more rubbish. He continues to glance at that device – the blue and silver one that catches the light ever so slightly – where it lays on the hardwood floor next to him.

He sets down the stethoscope he just pulled from the pockets, and grabs the device. Like a jeweler examining a fine diamond, he holds it up and scrutinizes each part of the device. There’s a small slider on one of the slides, and when he applies a slight pressure with his thumb, the tip of the device slides up and reveals its inner core, just like it had done previous. The rest of the outer casing is mostly smooth, with only a few small buttons marring the metal.

Not knowing what else to do, and feeling just a bit bored and curious (a dangerous combination, Donna’s told him countless times), he presses a button.

The tip glows blue, and a piercing whine fills the air. John startles, and when his thumb slips off the button, the device falls silent once again. He glances around the room, like he’s expecting something to have happened. Nothing’s happened. “Well, what was the point of that?” he mutters.

He’s not deterred, however. This time, when he holds the device out at arms length (just to be safe) and presses the button again, he’s prepared for it. The whine – more of a buzz, really – is at a lower pitch, but just as loud. Strangely, it doesn’t bother him as much as he thinks it should. Testing a half-formed theory, he extends the device to its full length with the slider, and the buzzing’s pitch rises as well. John feels a tickle in his ears as he wonders what exactly it’s supposed to be doing.

The noise goes on for a second longer, and just when he’s about to shut it back off, there’s an almighty crash from the kitchen. Several crashes, actually. John’s thumb slips from the button as he jumps to his feet. Is it a burglar, maybe? No, there aren’t any windows in the kitchen, how would a burglar even get in?

He runs into the kitchen, almost slipping when his socks slide against the tile, only to find – Oh, Donna’s going to kill him.

There’s no burglars, thankfully. No one trying to break into his flat and steal his telly, or murder him in his sleep, which is a definite bonus in this situation.

But the kitchen cabinet doors are gone. Or rather, they’ve fallen onto the floor, with the screws and latches scattered around them. A few of the doors hang on to their respective cabinet by a single screw, dangling dangerously. John watches as one swings haphazardly, before succumbing to the cold mistress of gravity. It lands with another loud bang that makes John jump, even though he has the luxury of being able to expect it this time.

He’s distantly aware of Mrs. Marcello banging against his ceiling again as he looks down at the device still in his hand, to the near empty cabinets (and he really needs to wash the dishes, doesn’t he?), then back to the device. It takes him less than a second (zero point three four seconds) to make the connection.

“Oh,” he breathes, “Oh, that’s brilliant.”

Though, he has to admit that it’s a bit… unnecessary, if the only thing it can do is unscrew screws using sound. There has to be other features to it, or else it’s just a fancy screwdriver. Fancy sonic screwdriver. Oh, that clicks easily in his mind. Sonic screwdriver. He rolls the words around his mouth, finding them pleasant. It’s certainly better than calling it the ‘blue metal thing that can unscrew screws with sound and also hates cabinets.’

Instead of trying to fix his kitchen, John goes back to the living room, plonks himself down exactly where he was before, and continues digging through the pockets of those impossible, pinstriped trousers, in no way deterred by the destruction of his kitchen cabinets. He carefully sets aside the device – the sonic screwdriver for later investigation. His interest in it hasn’t waned at all, but he can’t help thinking that there might be more things like this, buried deep somewhere.

(He wonders if there’s something that can magically fix cabinets).

The first thing he finds in his renewed search is a handful of crystals. The small, jagged jewels are a translucent turquoise, and they sing at his touch. He picks one up, no bigger than a pebble, and it lets out a low, warbling tone. Another sings a pitch that his mind tells him is a C#. He sets them aside. Maybe they’re some sort of musical instrument, or instruments, plural.

In the left trouser pocket, there are packets of lavender bubble gum, a kazoo, a massive assortment of stickers (John can pick out five sheets of scratch n’ sniff alone), two more yo-yos, a harmonica, a dozen mood rings, a book of matches ( everlasting matches , it says on the cover), and something that looks like an e-reader with the words DON’T PANIC etched onto the back of it.

In the right trouser pocket, John finds glitter pens (complete with fuzzy caps), a few scraps of what looks to be bowling alley carpeting, an entire potted succulent, half a dozen Sharpies (well, they actually say Shoopay , but same difference, he thinks), a heavy iron chain, three pairs of dice (one of which seems to be loaded), and a small metal box held together by duct tape alone.

He hesitates when he gets to the leather wallet.

Until now, he hasn’t been truly considering where any of this came from. Donna asked, but it’s all been just – just another thing in his life, something unsolvable that he just has to accept. But this wallet – simple and unrecognizable – is worn , which means someone has used it. A lot. Enough for the brown leather to be cracked and pliable in his hands.

He can’t help but feel the slight trepidation in his chest as he flips the wallet open, wondering what he’ll find. Whose credit cards, whose gift cards, whose IDs are stashed away in here? He might be able to get an answer to the question that’s been slowly building in the back of his mind: whose stuff is this? It’s definitely not his. He’d never make a popsicle stick sculpture, let alone keep it in a pocket, somehow.

It’s a bit of a let down when the only thing he can find is a slip of paper. A useless one at that – it’s only wavy lines in black ink. He had been expecting a driver’s license, or a library card, at least. Something with a name and address, maybe a photo. He tosses the wallet aside in favor of looking for some other, decidedly more interesting stuff he could find.

It lands face open, and an odd glint on the paper catches his eye.

He looks at it again, frowning when he sees not a card full of zigzagging lines, but a different card. A library card. A proper, genuine library card under the name of John T. Smith for the local library in Chiswick. He picks it up, pulling it close to his face.

It’s got his face. An actual photo of his face, with his hair and his old glasses that he accidentally stepped on that one time. Were library cards even supposed to have pictures?

John blinks, then blinks again because the photo’s suddenly gone. The picture of himself just vanished from the paper. He rubs at his eyes, trying to convince himself that he’s just finally getting tired. (It’s been… what? A week and a half since he slept more than an hour at a time?)

On a hunch, he starts thinking student ID, student ID, student ID, over and over. Sure enough, the paper shimmers, and the next thing he knows, he’s staring down at a student ID under his name.

“Okay,” John says slowly, drawing out the word as he considers the implications of what he’s just seen. “So, it’s… magic, or, technology. Really, incredibly advanced technology that just looks like magic.”

It doesn’t matter which option he chooses to accept as truth, because neither one of them bring him any closer to getting any real answers. But that’s fine, he thinks. At this point, he hasn’t been expecting any. This night has just been another bullet point on the list of weirdness in his life, but at least he’s getting more out of it than existential dread and a furthering loss of identity. He’s got a nice suit! With pockets that conjure an unreasonable amount of random items – some useful, some not so much. He hasn’t even come close to reaching the bottom, he can tell.

Oh, maybe he has something there, with the word ‘conjure.’ Maybe this stuff belongs to no one, and it only really comes into existence when he wishes it to, like the paper. It wouldn't be completely out there in the way of an explanation, especially considering the other options are ‘aliens’ and ‘magic.’

John sighs. Mulling over the how and why isn't going to get him anywhere, he knows that by now. He knows that, by now, weird shit just tends to happen around him and generally, there's nothing he can do but just (pretend to) accept it. And there’s still a few hours of night left before he has to actually do something productive, so he might as well keep doing what he’s been doing. He smooths out the suit jacket he’s wearing, and pauses. Didn’t suit jackets have pockets too, on the inner lining? 

Things pass you by.

Whether it's the hint of a memory quick to be ignored or forgotten, or things completely beyond your range of knowledge (take, for instance, the power outages with no apparent cause and the mysterious disappearances yet to be noticed by anyone Important, connected so obviously, and still, no one can see it), you'll find yourself missing things.

This is good.

Hindsight will tell you that you should have noticed. Hindsight will tell you that you could've gotten there sooner and stopped everything before it even began, but that’s not up to you. There are some things you just could never have known.

Let things pass you by for now. You'll get there in the end.

(With any luck, you'll get to the right ending.)

 First and second sleep.

By John's time, the concept is a relic. Not that he sleeps enough to consider the most common sleep schedule of the twenty-first century, much less that of the nineteenth century.

Waking up in the middle of the night, staying up for an hour or two as you take some time to read, pray, or walk around to stretch your legs and maybe make a visit to the loo, before sleeping again until dawn? Unheard of by the age of motor cars and mobile phones and an entire global network connecting the world (or those wealthy enough to afford a connection, and the materials it requires) to stores and news and photos of those adorable little felines, all in a sub-ether, tangible only in the mind and the numbers and the electricity. 

But in the age of horse-drawn carriages and light by candle or by gas, in the age where machines had, only in recent years, taken over the delicate handiwork of artisans, this concept of separated sleep thrives, and Niko hates it.

Whenever he wakes in the early hours of the morning, spurred into wakefulness by his stubborn body and the chill of the air, while everyone else in their little fire-warmed homes takes advantage of this time, Niko finds himself staring up at the ceiling and counting back from one hundred – a fruitless attempt at falling back into that deep slumber.

Fifty four. Fifty three. Fifty two.

A sigh. The bed feels empty, though he's never known it to be anything but.

Fifty one. Fifty. Forty nine. Forty eight–

He throws the covers aside, and swings his legs over the side of the bed, cold air making his skin prickle. Sleep won't be coming back for a while, his body's telling his mind. This is what we do, what we've always done, why are you so unsatisfied?

Outside, it rains. Water beats against the tiled roof loudly, a background hum in the otherwise silent house. Welcome and familiar.

Niko takes a moment to stretch, before he finally stands up. The room is pitch-black; the curtains, pulled close, ensure that no moonlight can spoil the absolute darkness. He walks anyway, dependent on his memory to navigate to the door without bumping his knee on any table or dresser. At the door, he gropes along the wall, searching. Or no, he doesn't. Well, he does, but he shouldn't. The oil lamp is on his night stand, as are the matches. If he's looking for something to light up the room, he’s not going to find it on the wall.

Niko grumbles. This time, as he makes his way back through the darkness to his night stand, he bangs his thigh against the bed frame. It's most unfortunate, but Niko chooses much stronger words to spit out as he clutches at his leg, still-asleep nerves tingling painfully at the sudden awakening.

He's still rubbing at his thigh as he pulls the drawer open and fishes around for the matchbox – an old, rusted tin thing, almost full with matches. He feels for the latch, before realizing it's on the other side of the box. It's always on the other side.

A match strikes against the side of the box, and a small flame flares into existence, illuminating Niko's pale drawn face and the oil lamp in front of him. The flame licks against his thumb, and he drops the match in surprise, leaving him to stamp it out, praying that his sock doesn't catch. Another match, another flame, this one held much more carefully. Quickly, he lights the lamp, and blows out the match, seconds before he would've burnt his fingers. Must be out of practice.

He holds up the oil lamp by its handle, and hoists it around, the weight heavy in his hand and vaguely unsettling. The room – his room is tidy in the lamplight, barely lived in. He moved in to this house recently, only a few weeks ago. Barely any time for the room to develop any sort of personality, or for him to get comfortable. This must explain the feeling he has, like something misplaced.

A sudden clap of thunder jolts Niko from his thoughts. He takes a breath, and places his trust in the oil lamp he holds, letting the light from its flames guide him through the house. He ends up in the kitchen, not that he has much choice. The house is small, with only a few rooms, fit for two people though he's only one. A hopeful wish on his part for some company, he thinks.

Niko shivers. The stove's gone cold, he realizes, very nearly, at least. Ran out of wood to burn, left only with a scant few embers, doing their best to heat up the world with their warmth, but finding the world too big and the task too difficult, leaving the room freezing.

Logs of wood sit in a sort of trunk next to the stove, waiting for their turn. Setting the oil lamp down on the table, he selects a few, and tosses them into the stove. He leaves the door open for a moment, and rubs his hands together in front of the open flames as the embers give off a little more heat, and fire begins to grow like a weed off the dry logs. That should help with the cold.

That's the thing about Novembers. Always so cold, whether you're inside or out. He's heard by the grapevine that some famous folk – wealthier folk, that is – have been trying to develop something that could heat homes through gas, so people don't have to rely on these cast iron wood-burning stoves. Niko scoffs at the thought. From what he's seen, it'll be decades before that sort of thing can reach the masses – affordably, too.

Because that's happened before, he amends, thinking it over. Not as if he knows that for certain, like he's gotten a glimpse at the future. History repeats itself, and Niko considers himself a well-read man. Like the theatres and shows of today's age, only just starting to be enjoyed by everyone else – his mate Timothy went to a show just last week with his wife, was able to afford the time off due to his new clerking job – most things start out benefiting the wealthy before they eventually trickle down to the commoners. This is how things work. A clear line from A to B. Linear and absolute, with deviations uncommon.

(Though, they can still happen from time to time, can't they? Something most unusual, an anomaly, inexplicable and explainable. Those can happen, though they are tiny to the common eye and tend to go unnoticed in this big world of ours.) Time passes, in which the room warms up steadily, as does Niko. He yawns a bit, growing weary as the hour goes on. The fire's burning away, wood barely crackling, so occasionally that he almost startles each time there's a pop – it really is dry.

(Sometimes, people notice these discrepancies. Sometimes, they’ll protest, they’ll say “Hey, that’s not right. That’s not how it’s supposed to go,” and they’ll work to fix it.)

He thinks about the morning to come. Soon, this cold November morning, he will have to pick up the reins of his job once more – literally. A cabbie on the streets of London, picking up passengers and taking them where they need to go.

(Usually, it's one specific person fixing it all, but they're currently unavailable.)

It hardly pays well, his work. The hours are long, and the chill that settles in his bones two hours in as he sits on the driver’s seat and directs the horse is most unbearable, but he thinks it to be better than the different chill of the factory jobs. That’s a chill of the mind, he’s heard. Mind-numbing, monotonous labor, in crowded rooms with heavy, groaning machinery.

Then again, maybe neither’s better. They're both so similar – low pay, harsh conditions, that dull sense of something unrealized. Not like he’s going to do anything about his current employment. He’s got a roof over his head, bread on the table, and a fire in the stove. That’s enough for him.

The rain outside is starting to stop, the steady pitter-patter against the windows slowing down until it's almost nothing at all. Niko hopes that it won't freeze, but given how cold it seems to be, he knows it will, and that this morning will be frosty and the roads will be slick and full of hazards as he drives through the streets

He should get some sleep. Some more, that is. He’s spent this rest from rest sitting at this table contemplating nothing at all. The fire’s still burning in the stove, a much bigger body to successfully share its warmth with the rest of the world, but he checks it anyway, makes sure there’s enough wood to keep burning through the rest of the night.

He grabs the oil lamp, its flame still burning, also trying to share what little warmth it has with the world, and shuffles back to his bedroom. For a very brief moment, as he walks through the door into the darkened room, he finds himself reaching for the wall. Then, Niko catches himself and laughs softly at his silly habits.

Chapter Text

“Why are we doing this?” Donna asks, hugging her coat closer to herself. “It’s bloody freezing.”

“I told you,” John says as the two of them hurry towards the science building. He doesn’t seem to be bothered by the chilling wind at all, even when dressed in that skinny suit of his, and Donna finds herself jealous. Why couldn’t they have parked closer? It isn’t like the place is crowded – it’s well past seven, and most the students have gone. Now the university campus is only occupied by people like John, who take night and weekend classes because of work, and they’re few and far between. “I wanted to give you a tour of the labs.”

“Yeah, you said that when we were in the car, then you never said what the point of it was. Why on Earth would I want to see the labs? What made you get up this morning and think I would want to see a room full of dirty glassware and smelly chemicals?”

“Not all of the chemicals smell, Donna,” he admonishes. “And you aren’t even supposed to be sniffing them, not really. That’s like, basic lab safety.”  

“But there has to be some other reason, yeah?”

“Well,” John says, drawing the word out as they finally reach the building. “My own lab doesn’t have the right equipment, the uh, microscopes and slides and things, for what I want to do.”

Inside, it’s blessedly warm, and Donna releases the iron grip on her coat. They walk down the halls, John leading the way past corridors and classrooms. The harsh fluorescents give the empty halls an odd feeling. Like she’s a kid again, in school after hours. She’s half expecting to run into her old geography teacher and get yelled at for being out of uniform.

“So there is some ulterior motive,” she says.

He glances at her. “You make it seem like I’m planning something evil!”

“But that’s what it is. You’re gonna tell everyone you just want to give me a tour of the place, but you just need a cover for when you’re going to be doing some geeky experiment.”

John pulls at his ear. “That’s – that’s spot on, actually. Nice work.”

They turn down a corner, and Donna’s expectations come true. An older man is walking down the hall towards them. Dressed in a shirt and tie, and khakis, he looks like the typical university professor.

John seems to know him, as he greets the man with a grin. “Dr. Bradford, hello!”  

Dr. Bradford doesn’t smile back, and wow, he is a lot like Donna’s old geography teacher, gruff demeanor and all. “Smith, what are you doing here? Did you forget when class was again?”

John laughs awkwardly. “No, no I’m just looking to show Donna– ” He nods to her. “–the labs. She’s starting class in a few days and she’s interested in chemistry too. Well, biomedical, specifically, but she would be in the labs regardless.”

Donna gives Dr. Bradford a small wave, going with the flow.

He doesn’t seem interested in her. Instead, he keeps his gaze on John, and asks, “Did you check this over with the administration? I didn’t think they would let you of all people do something like give tours of the labs. Especially personal ones.”

Donna resists the urge to shout the man down as John nods. “Oh, well, you know the administration,” he says vaguely as he reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a leather wallet. She gets only the slightest glance of a piece of paper in the wallet before John holds it up for Dr. Bradford and says, “See, look. They even gave me a pass.”

Dr. Bradford takes it from him and scrutinizes it. Donna’s surprised that he takes more than a second to look at it, when usually people only glance to make sure the pass or ID or whatever even exists. This guy must really not like John. Well, he’s probably a student of his, that would explain it.

She glances at John, who’s tapping his foot against the tile, fidgeting nervously. She nudges him with her elbow, and when he looks at her, she gives him a ‘what’s wrong?’ look, that she’s come to perfect over the weeks.

He shakes his head ever so slightly, just before Dr. Bradford clears his throat and hands the pass back to John. “Looks to be in order,” he says, obviously reluctant to admit it. He looks like he’s about to leave them alone, let them get on with whatever the hell John wants to do here, but then he asks, “And Donna, did you have your student ID? I just want to be sure, you know how it is nowadays with safety.” There’s a certain smug quality to his face now, like he’s sure he just caught them in a lie. Which, well, he did.

Donna doesn’t have a student ID, because why would she? She’s not a student. She hasn’t been a student anywhere since… Well, since a long time. She thought she was done with scummy teachers who always wanted to make things hard for their students, harassing them about the most insignificant little thing.

But before she can tell Dr. Bradford off – “You said yourself the pass is fine, now why don’t you shove off and fail a poor kid or something,” – John jumps in.

“Ah, actually I have it.” And she boggles as he takes the wallet in his right hand, passes it behind his back to his left hand, and holds it up for his professor once again. “Was holding onto it for safekeeping – She loses things like you wouldn’t believe.”

Normally, she would snap at him, or make some snide comment, but right now she’s stuck on the fact that John’s just shown the professor the exact same slip of paper, passing it off as her ‘student ID,’ and that the professor’s actually believing it.

This time, he doesn’t take the pass for a closer look, he just glances at it, grumbles to himself, and says, “Very well. Sorry to bother the two of you.”

“Oh, no problem,” John says happily. Donna mumbles agreements.

When Professor Bradford’s out of sight, Donna turns to John. “What was – did you just Jedi mind trick him, or something?”

“No, definitely not,” he says, though he’s still grinning like a cheshire cat.

She narrows her eyes. “You showed him the exact same paper, and he thought it was a pass and my student ID. I don’t even have a student ID, John. Not a student, remember?”

He presses the wallet into her hand. “Who says you don’t have a student ID?”

Confused and slightly worried, Donna flips the wallet open. Then she looks back up at John. “Are you forging documents now? God damnit John, you’re the worst criminal I’ve ever seen! First IKEA tupperware and now fake student IDs?”

“Would it help if I told you I also… nick chemicals from the labs sometimes, too? I figured out how to do it, what with that suit and all. That might make me a better criminal.”

“That doesn’t even make any sense! Why don’t you just buy them?” Or if he’s going to steal, at least steal test tubes and proper lab things? Not glass tupperware from IKEA?

“I'm a poor uni student, Donna! I can't be expected to buy all the stuff I need, there's rules and things.”

“Cos you've shown such regard for rules today, huh?” Donna hasn’t realized how much of a walking oxymoron John is. It even has the word moron in it, how fitting.

“Oh just – look, don't worry about it. You were asking about how I tricked that guard.” He snatches the wallet back from her, and holds it up. “What does it say?” he asks.

She folds her arms across her chest and glares at him, wondering what game he’s trying to play. “It’s an ID. My student ID, which does not exist, might I remind you.”

“Well, yeah, that’s been established. But what about now?”

And Donna watches as the ink on the card… shimmers and changes into something new. “Oh, what the hell,” she breathes.

“What does it say?” John asks again, eager for her response, it seems, even though he’s gotten the point across. He’s got magic paper. An alien with a magic suit and magic paper.

“It says—” Donna can’t help but laugh. “—it says, ‘I hope no one else sees us here, because I don’t know how long I can keep this up and I really don’t want to get properly banned.’”

Obviously not the response he’s expecting, John looks at the paper himself. “Oh. So it does. I was thinking of a picture of a cat.” He pockets the wallet. “Anyway, it’s right. Let’s keep moving. I don’t want to have to face the consequences of my actions.”

“As usual,” she says, and the wallet becomes just another thing that she has no choice but to accept that it exists in her life now.

As they continue on down the hall, Donna can’t help but ask, “Why does that professor hate you so much? It’s like he was trying to get you in trouble.”

“I, uh, keep showing him up during class. Turns out, he’s wrong about a lot of stuff, so I just… correct him, sometimes.”

“It’s your history degree all over again. You're one of those students.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You're the guy who sits in the front of the room, right next to the teacher's desk, and raises his hand every time they say something. ‘Uh, Miss, actually—’” she adds, in a high pitched, mocking voice, until John pushes at her arm.

“Shove off,” he laughs. “I don't sound like that.”

“Sometimes, you do.”

“Actually, Donna—” John starts, before cutting himself off, realizing what he just said. Donna bursts out laughing, especially when she sees the embarrassed blush on his cheeks.

They get to the labs a few minutes later, but when John tries the handle, he finds it locked. Which isn’t surprising, since the lights are off and they only passed one or two rooms that were actually holding class on their way here.

John starts digging through his pockets, and Donna has a feeling to where this is going to go. He’s going to have some skeleton key that can get him past any locked door he wants.

Instead, he pulls out that blue-tipped device she remembers from a few days ago, and holds it to the lock. He glances back at her, and says, “Check this out!” before pressing a button. The device lights up and emits a low buzzing, before the lock clicks audibly. John quickly shuts off the device, and pushes the door open.

“And that was…?” Donna prompts.

“Sonic screwdriver!” he answers gleefully, ushering her into the lab.

“Yeah that doesn’t clear it up at all.” Still, she enters the darkened lab.

“It’s a… thingy. That can open doors, turn lights on and off, and also break all of your cabinets in one go.”

“That’s… scarily specific, John. Is there something I should know about?”

“Don’t worry about it.” He raises the sonic, and this time when it buzzes, the lights turn on, and Donna has to blink against the bright fluorescents.

“Couldn’t you just, I dunno, use the light switch?” she asks, slightly annoyed. He’s clearly showing off at this point.

He flips the device in his hand, and pockets it smoothly. “Where’s the fun in that?”

Donna doesn’t have anything to say to that, so she opts for finally taking in her surroundings.

The lab is neatly organized. Glassware put in its places in the cabinets, stools neatly tucked away under the tables, and the counters all wiped down, giving the room the air of a sterile hospital room, while also looking like a rundown public school classroom. Because there’s still chips in the drawers’ wood, and some of the equipment, like the metal sticks that connect to the gas lines – whatever they’re called – look old and tarnished, and though the glassware has been cleaned, some beakers and test tubes are permanently fogged from use.

John’s already busied himself with pulling a microscope from the shelf, and plugging it in on one of the counters. She walks over to him, and watches as he pulls open a drawer and starts picking out slides. He starts explaining himself, like he knows what she’s going to ask already.

“I was up late last night, working on my laptop. Well, I’m always up late. I don’t sleep anymore, but that’s not the point,” he says. “ I was up late, and I was thinking, ‘hey, I’ve got a sonic screwdriver, maybe I can finally fix it.’ I wasn’t able to. I did end up cutting myself on a piece of the metal, though. Wasn’t a bad cut, didn’t hurt, didn’t scar, it’s fine. But!” he exclaims suddenly, making Donna jump (does he always have to do that?).“I did notice something else.”

He reaches into his pockets, elbow deep, before pulling out a sharp needle. Before Donna can protest, he’s pricking his index finger and squeezing it gently, making a single droplet of blood appear on his skin.

“See, look!” he says, shoving his finger at her. 

“What are you doing?” she hisses.

“It’s orange , Donna,” he tells her firmly, before glancing down at the blood on his finger. “Well, it’s more of a blood-orange, really. Red with a hint of orange. But the point is – human blood doesn’t look like that, so…”

Okay, she has to admit, his blood definitely has an off quality to it, but, “So what? We already know you aren’t human.”

“So what?” he repeats. “So… a lot of things. I don’t know, alright. It’s not like I have a reference or a database to compare alien blood to. I know the data’s going to be largely useless, but it’s interesting , isn’t it?”

He turns back to the counter, and picks up a slide. Gingerly, he spreads a bit of his blood on the slide, before clipping it into place. “This actually prompted me to really look at a few things. Get proper data. Like, did you know that my body temperature is actually about, ooh, twenty degrees cooler than yours?” He presses his eye to the lense, and starts working on focusing the view – twisting dials this way and that. “Celsius, that is. I didn’t even realize until I bothered to get a thermometer. And apparently, I–” He cuts off abruptly. “Oh, well… that can’t be right,” he murmurs to himself.

Donna’s too busy trying to parse all everything John just threw at her – twenty degrees difference, orange blood, and did he say a few minutes ago that he doesn’t sleep anymore? – that it takes her a second to notice that he’s asking her something.

“Sorry, what?” she asks, shaking herself from her daze.

“Your finger. Can I see it?” he’s saying, but something gives him pause. “Are you alright?”

“Just peachy. Why do you need–” She takes a step back. “Oh no, you are so not pricking my finger, John Smith.”

“But Donna,” he whines, “I need something to compare it to, and you’re as human as they come.”

“You said this whole thing was pointless, you don’t need my blood!” Because though it’s only a needle-prick, the whole thing seems far too similar to donating blood for comfort. The last time someone took blood from her, she ended up fainting, and she’s sorry to say she’s not keen on any repeats.

“I didn’t say that , and it won’t hurt a bit, I promise. Barely a pinch, I just need a drop, not even.” He’s currently wiping the needle on a clean handkerchief, and who knows where he got that from.

Donna continues to glare at him.

“Please?” he adds.

Reluctantly, she hands over her finger. If asked later, she would say she definitely didn’t have to look away as John pricks her finger and spreads a dab of her blood onto a slide. When it’s over though, he even has the courtesy of putting a band-aid on her finger. She doesn’t bother asking where he got that from either.

“See, wasn’t so bad, was it?” John asks as he switches the slides. She doesn’t respond. He gazes through the lense for a moment, before switching them again, so that he’s looking at his own blood magnified. “Yup,” he says after a time.

“‘Yup’ what?”

“This is definitely not human blood.”

“Are you serious?” In this moment, she wants to slap him. Not human? That isn’t even a question anymore, it hasn’t been for weeks.

John looks up. “Completely,” he says, before stepping away from the counter. “See, look at it. Doesn’t resemble yours in the slightest. I was expecting at least a little bit of resemblance, given that I still look human, which–” His eyes widen. “Oh, that would’ve been an absolute disaster, if I had woken up and didn’t even look human.”

As Donna peers into the lens, John describes what she’s seeing. “There’s at least five different types of blood cells, none of which come close to resembling the red and white cells in human blood. And the platelets – the tiny, disk-shaped cells, not the ones you’re thinking of, the other ones – there’s definitely something off about those too, but I can’t quite tell what it is. Then there’s a few other kinds of cells that I can’t even put a name to, or guess at their function. It’s just, all around, weird.”

Donna raises her head from the microscope. “ You’re all around weird, John.”

John laughs. “Thanks Donna, that really helps.”  

“Did any of this help?” She spreads her arms to gesture to the lab as a whole. This entire outing, really. They didn’t really learn anything useful, besides that John’s still a weird, mysterious alien.

“Well, it was fun, wasn’t it?” he asks.

But before Donna can respond, the lights go out, and the lab is plunged into darkness. Through the moonlight that’s coming in from the windows across the room, she can barely make out John’s silhouette, looking up at the ceiling. “That’s odd,” he murmurs.

“Yeah, it’s odd that the city can’t get the power fixed,” she retorts, crossing her arms. “That’s supposed to the top priority or something, isn’t it? Making sure people can see .” She hears John shuffle in the darkness, and the heavy clunk of moving equipment. “What are you doing?” she asks.

“Putting everything away,” he says simply. Right, he's got those alien cat eyes, doesn't need light to see.

The shuffling stops, and suddenly there’s a blue light illuminating the space between John and Donna. He’s using his – what did he call it? – his sonic screwdriver as a torch, which buzzes noisily. He looks like he’s about to tell a ghost story to a bunch of scared campers, holding the sonic close to his face.  

“Spooky, yeah?” he asks.

“The lights are out, John. What are you, twelve?”

He pouts, ignores the implications in that question, and decides to lead her out of the lab, guided by the small glow of his device. “I just decided to keep the slides,” he says as they enter the pitch black hallway, with only the occasional emergency exit sign giving off light. John takes a moment to close the door, but doesn't lock it “Didn’t want to have to clean them, and who knows? Maybe they’ll come in handy.”

“Come in handy with what?”

“I can’t know everything, Donna. Though, I have to say, I wish I did sometimes. There’s something weird about these power outages. I can feel it. Little prickling on the back of my neck, telling me something’s up.”

“You aren’t making any sense, you know that right?”

He sighs. “Yeah, I know. But I’m just saying–”

The lights flick back on at that instant, and there’s a number of loud pops as a few of the light bulbs burn out with the sudden return of the power. But the bulbs don’t just burn out, they burst , and John and Donna watch as specks of glass rain down from the ceiling.

“See,” John says, gesturing to the broken glass on the tile floor, sonic screwdriver still in his hand. He seems to realize this, and pockets it. “This is what I’m talking about. That doesn't just happen, now does it?”

“Alright, alright,” she concedes. “It’s a bit weird, I’ll give you that. But so what? Make the university call an electrician or something, I don't know what else to tell you."

“Maybe I will,” he says absently, looking up at the lights for a second longer. Then, he looks to Donna. “Well then, let’s head off. Don't you have a night in planned with Lance?”

She blinks. “Uh, yeah, actually. Didn't think you'd remember that,” she admits.

“You mentioned it a few days ago, course I remember.”

“Oh, so do you have a super memory now, too?”

He just shrugs. “Maybe?”

Donna shakes her head. “Come on, E.T.” She starts off down the hallway, leaving John to catch up.

Chapter Text

John had been planning for their little outing to be done around eight thirty, eight thirty six at the latest, but due to the power outage forcing them from the labs before it’s even eight, Donna drops off John at the Motts’ house early, not that anyone minds. Except Sylvia, maybe.

For John, this means he has more time to stargaze up the hill with Wilf – the reason why he’s here at all. He’s fairly sure this means that Donna gets to go home and have a night in with her boyfriend. But first, she tells him that she wants to stop in and say hello – he knows she mostly means saying hello to her granddad and getting the hell outta dodge, since the last thing Donna ever wants to do is stay long enough for her mum to find something to whinge about.

The moment  John opens the door and steps into the foyer, Donna right behind him, a women’s voice is shouting from the kitchen, “You’re early! You're never early!” A moment later, Sylvia appears in the hall, wringing a dish towel in her hands. There’s a surprised look on her face, as if the idea of John T. Smith being early to something never even occurred to her.

John freezes as he realizes: This is the first time he’s been over here since the thing that he still refuses to make up a name for happened.

Maybe Donna notices the ‘deer in the headlights’ look he’s sporting now, or maybe she’s just being herself when she interrupts with an “Oi, I’m here too, you know!” buying him some time to recover.

“Yes, you are,” Sylvia says, looking to her. “And I suppose you’ll be wanting to go up the hill too.” She disappears back into the kitchen, though she keeps taking. “It's always the hill with you lot. You, him, and Dad. What's so good about the stars? Focus on what you've got down here, I always say. Not that you ever do.”

John barely registers her sharp words, mind too busy racing. Why is he focusing so much on this, like it’s a milestone he never wanted to reach? He’s been to class countless times, and he’s back at work, been for a while. It wasn’t an issue then, and it shouldn’t be now, where he’s among friends, people who he considers family, more or less. Sylvia’s like the bossy, condescending mother he never wanted, Wilf’s the granddad who encourages him, supports him, and lets him indulge in his hobbies, and Donna’s like the sister who never lets him forget about how geeky those hobbies are.

A hand on his shoulder startles him out of his thoughts. Donna, looking vaguely concerned, is staring at him with a look that’s asking are you okay or are you about to have another alien crisis.

“Sorry,” he says. “I just realized: this is my first time here since, you know.”

Donna’s face softens, apparently understanding. Or, as much as she can be. “You’ll be fine, yeah?”

He shrugs her hand off of him, and as casually as he can, he says, “Course I’ll be. The best thing about having an alien brain is you can have an internal crisis in the span of two seconds and be completely fine afterwards.”

“You know, I think we have different definitions of ‘fine,’” she says flatly.  

“You didn’t… tell them, did you?” he asks, feeling quite like he’s back in the closet, trying to figure out if he should come out, and how he would even go about doing something like that. It is a bit of a similar situation, he has to admit.

“God no,” she blurts. “How would I even – go about doing that?”

Sylvia’s voice rings out, “Is there something I should know about, or are you two going to keep on whispering in there?” Donna just rolls her eyes, making a face. John laughs a bit.

They walk into the kitchen to find Sylvia at the sink. The water’s on, and there’s the tell-tale clink of dishes that tell them she’s in the middle of one of the worst chores that's ever had to been done by humans. At least, John views it that way. Precisely the reason he puts off doing the dishes for as long as he can.

“Where’s Grandad?” Donna asks. John’s wondering the same thing. Wilf’s obviously not in the kitchen, and he can’t hear any sign of him in any other part of the house. Oh, that’s a bit disconcerting, his hearing so sensitive like that. Another thing to file away for later, he tells himself. 

“Where do you think he is?” Sylvia says. She glances over her shoulder at her daughter, before returning to her washing. “Up the hill, always up the hill. What, were you planning on staying?”

“Can’t,” Donna says quickly. “Lance is waitin’ for me at home.”

“Is he now?” Sylvia pauses to carry a stack of cleaned plates and put them away in the cabinets. “The two of you have been dating for a while now,” she comments. Her voice takes on a tone that John’s come to know well, just through overhearing the bickering that plagues their relationship.

It’s the tone that begs, ‘why haven’t you gotten married yet, and when will you finally get your life together and what about getting a proper job like the rest of us?’ All questions that she takes the opportunity to ask every time Donna’s over. Sometimes, John’s blown back by the amount of meaning Sylvia can fit into a few short words. Donna too, come to think of it.

Being who she is, Donna’s quick to guess what Sylvia’s implying. “And what are you trying to say with that?” she asks sharply.

Feeling a growing tension in the air, John butts in, clapping his hands together. “Wilf’s just up the hill, you said? So uh–” he turns to Donna. “–you probably don’t want to keep Lance waiting, so why don’t I go see Wilf, and you can go, and we don’t need to have the same pointless argument that you two always have when you’re together?”

He’s well aware of the foot he’s probably jamming into his mouth, but he’s never been one to shut up on his own accord. Sylvia turns around, looking ready to go off on him, but Donna, thankfully, saves him when she says, “Right, I’ll be off then. Thanks John, and I’ll see you, Mum.” She doesn’t wait on giving her an icy glare as she hurries out of the kitchen, however.

And John’s smart enough to not let himself be caught in the kitchen alone with Sylvia after something like that, so by the time the front door slams shut, he’s already heading for the back door.

As John marches up the hill, he can't help but look to the night sky. London usually obscures a lot of the stars – light pollution, the bane of all astronomers – but tonight isn't too bad. He can make out Sirius, Canopus, and parts of Ursa Major. Then off to the horizon is the constellation of Cygnus, and Vega should be close by, but that’s just one star he can't make out right now.

Just one star.

John stops, almost up to the top of the hill. He takes a deep breath, and cranes his head up. Just one star obscured by light pollution. But that’s not it, is it? It never feels like just one star he can't see.

This is how the sky is. This is how it’s always been. How foolish it is, to look up and expect something different, to think that something’s missing. The sky doesn’t change . It’s the sky. People have drawn star maps time and time again, over seasons and centuries, and it doesn't change. It cycles, and constellations that weren't visible in the autumn are suddenly clear in the spring, and certain planets can only be seen near the horizon, or during specific months. It’s been charted thoroughly – patterns like clockwork, so tight that you could calculate how long a solar eclipse a thousand years in the future will be. He shouldn’t be feeling like the sky is supposed to be different.

The only thing that could possibly, possibly account for the way John’s feeling right now are supernovae – the violent, abrupt destruction of age-old suns. But that doesn't quite fit it either. Because he’s looking up at this dark sky, speckled lightly with stars, expecting more. Whole constellations and galaxies and nebulae lighting up the sky of this tiny planet so brilliantly. Supernovae couldn't account for something like that being gone. But gone isn't the right word either, it’s more like they never even–

John’s startled from his reverie by the cheerful shout of an old man, and his thoughts vanish, dissolving into meaningless smoke and static. He looks to see Wilfred Mott, waving his hands. He hurries up the rest of the hill.

“Wilf!” he exclaims when he gets to him. Wilf’s wearing a warm coat and his signature hat, which makes John think he should've worn something a bit more substantial than this odd suit.  

Wilf pulls him into a hug, affectionate as always, and says, “John Smith, there you are!” John pulls back quickly, suddenly worried that Wilf might feel the double heartbeat, though looking at his coat, that doesn't seem likely. “And look at you,” he continues, oblivious to his worry, “all dressed up like that. What’s the occasion?”

He shrugs, glancing down at the suit. “I like it?”

“I suppose that’s all the reason you need, if you want. It’s a bit chilly, though. If you need a coat or somethin’, I’m sure we have some in the house. Well, come and sit down, relax,” Wilf says, gesturing to the little shed and his astronomy set up. A telescope, one of those foldable chairs, and a canvas tarp laid out over the already-damp grass. “Get your mind off all that school work, eh?”

John chuckles. “That’s what I’m here for. That, and getting a good glimpse at Jupiter’s moons. And seeing you, of course.”

Wilf sits down in his little chair, while John pulls up another that he found in the shed. Wilf takes a sip from a mug of tea he had sitting next to the chair, then as he fiddles with his telescope, adjusting a few dials to get the focus just right, he asks, “What’s been happening in your busy life?”

John opens his mouth, only to close it again. Usually, he’d go on and on about whatever’s on his mind. He’s prone to jabbering on like that. But right now the only thing that’s coming to mind is precisely what he’s been trying to avoid thinking about too hard.

The heartsbeat, the seconds rushing past him, so close he could touch them, and yet intangible. All the little, trivial things like a lower body temperature and orange-tinted blood that seems insignificant by themselves but build up quickly, threatening to suffocate him, even though he can tell some how that it’d take a hell of a lot longer for that to actually happen, at least in the physical sense. The feeling of total isolation while being surrounded by people every day.

Oh, he’s getting himself into a funk already. He shakes his head in an effort to banish those thoughts – they only ever lead him down a rabbit hole – and finds it easy to do.  “Just, school work, like you said.”

Wilf looks up from the telescope, and John can see from the look on his face that he said the wrong thing. Or maybe the right thing. It’s always so hard to tell in these sorts of situations. “Have you been doing alright, love?” he asks. “Donna said you took some time off work.”

Of course she did. “Yeah, yeah I’m fine. I’ve been back for a few weeks now, actually. I just – felt like I needed a break. But I can never sit still for too long, you know how it is.”

Wilf nods. “Me and Eileen, bless her poor old heart,” he says. “We got restless, when we were still young. Traveled all over Europe, as much as we could. Paris, Venice, Barcelona, all those cities they put on all the Ten Places to See Before You Keel Over lists. One of the best holidays we ever had.”

“That sounds nice,” John says. He leans forward a bit and takes a peek at the telescope. It’s aimed at Jupiter already, and John takes some time drinking in the  reddish-orange planet as Wilf continues to talk.

“It was. Of course, back then you could backpack across the whole continent for ten pounds a day,” he laughs. “Still, holidays can never hurt, that's what I've always thought.”

“Maybe I could travel again,” John says, the words slipping from his mouth. “I used to travel a lot.”

“Did you?” Wilf asks.

John leans back in the chair, scratching the back of his head. He looks up at the sky as he talks, not quite paying attention to what he’s saying. “Uh, yeah, lots of places. Cairo, Paris too, lots of times. Then there was, ah, Zürich, New York, Dubai...” He shakes his head. “But that’s all the past.”

He notices Wilf giving him an odd look, and worries that he let something slip. He reviews what he said quickly and when did he travel–

No, he couldn’t have let something slip. Then he realizes that he probably never mentioned this before. All the backpacking he used to do, to all sorts of places. Why would he have? He’s here in London now, for the time being.

“I could see you being a traveler like that,” Wilf says with a smile.

“Yeah, well, it’s a lot – was a lot. Settling down for a while seemed nice, y’know? Earn my degrees and all that.”

Wilf nods. He leans to the side, and picks up a thermos he had sitting on the grass. “Want some tea?” he asks as he unscrews the cap and refills his cup. He proffers the thermos. “Don’t have any more mugs up here, though. My daughter gets mad when they start to pile up.”

John settles for drinking out of the thermos, since neither of them mind. The two of them pass the night, pointing out constellations and planets they spot. John’s fairly sure he went on for an hour and thirty nine minutes about Aztec astronomy at some point, but that’s alright. He’s content to talk aimlessly, and he knows Wilf is content to listen. He does his best to focus on anything but the Thing that’s constantly in the back of his mind, and likes to think he does pretty well.

By the time Sylvia’s calling them both down from the bottom of the hill, yelling that it’s much too late for the two of them to be out in the cold like this, John has decided he’s glad he did this. Stargazing with a friend always makes him feel better, and it keeps him distracted.

John helps Wilf put away the chairs, and carries the telescope down the hill. He sets the instrument down in the living room, and Wilf gives him a firm hug just before he leaves, making sure to say goodbye to Sylvia before he leaves, too.

Donna might have dropped him off, but he’s sure that she would be less than fine with him asking her to drive him back to his flat, especially since she’s on a date with Lance. So he takes the bus. Thankfully, the transport proves reliable tonight, and he isn’t stuck waiting for more than seven minutes, maximum.

He’s home soon enough. He’s not tired, obviously, so once he’s showered and changed, he grabs a book from his shelf, and settles down to read a few chapters on – he checks the cover – Agatha Christie’s Death in the Clouds , apparently. Must be one of Donna’s that she left at some point.

The coroner has just gotten to describing the peculiar mystery of Madam Giselle's death when there’s a hard knock at the door. John looks up from his book, and eyes the door warily. It’s eleven thirty three at night, and he finds it hard to think of anyone who would be visiting. But then again, neither burglars nor murderers knock.

He gets up, and when his hand is on the door knob, he feels that odd, familiar feeling of – of burnt hazelnut, just a ghosting of it, that he gets whenever Donna’s around. He’s narrowed it down to something about her timeline, whatever that means, and why on Earth it manifests itself as hazelnut, he’ll never know.

So he’s not too surprised to see Donna standing in the doorway when he finally opens the door. Though, he is surprised to see her wiping at red, puffy eyes, looking as miserable as can be.

“Donna?” he asks softly.

She sniffles, and brushes a loose strand of hair from her face. “Sorry, I –I know it’s late, and you probably have class tomorrow.” Her voice is hoarse. “But can I – can I come in?”

Chapter Text

Immediately, John’s pulling Donna into his flat. “No, no, no, don’t worry for a second,” he says. He looks around, mind racing and entirely out of his depths. Who knows why she thought that he, the master of bottling up emotions and denying they were ever there, could help. What even happened to her?

“Here, you sit down in the kitchen,” he says, hoping he sounds like he has a hint of a clue of what to do when someone is crying, “And I–I’ll make some tea. Then you can tell me what’s wrong. Only if – if you want, though.”

Donna nods silently, rubbing her nose with her sleeve, and as she goes to sit down, he’s hurrying to turn the kettle on. Waiting for the water to boil, he digs through the pantry. He bought some lemon biscuits recently, and he’s hoping he didn’t eat them all without realizing it while working on some project.

The tin of biscuits are found behind a box of fruit snacks and a bag of flour (Does flour go bad? He can’t remember the last time he used it for anything), and he takes the opportunity to glance at Donna out of the corner of his eye when he sets the tin down on the table. She seems to be doing better, a little bit, not on the verge of full-on sobbing. It’s a start.

Four minutes and twelve seconds later, once the water’s heated, he’s setting down two mugs of steaming hot tea, and taking the seat across from her. She doesn’t seem to notice, too preoccupied with picking at the purple polish on her nails. John opens his mouth to say something, but stops himself, thinking that maybe the best way to go about this isn’t forcing the story out of her, if there is one at all. He’s curious, he has to admit. Incredibly so, how can he not be? But she’ll talk on her own time. He’s just here for company.

The mug on the left is hers, he knows. Two sugars, a dash of milk, just how she likes it. He nudges it towards her, an unsubtle hint to take a bit of comfort with her misery.

She looks up at the slide of ceramic against wood, and grabs the mug. “Thanks,” she mumbles, then takes a timid sip. When she sets the mug back down, there’s a long silence.

Then she finally says, “Lance was cheating on me.”

If John were anybody else, he would’ve choked on his tea – he also would have waited for his tea to cool down to a reasonable temperature, but that’s besides the point. Thankfully, he manages to swallow when he accidentally inhales a bit of scalding hot tea, and doesn’t need to gasp for breath after.

“He cheated on me,” she repeats, blurting it out like a weight’s been lifted off her shoulders. “There, I’ve said it! I – I walked in on him with another woman, in, in our flat, for God’s sake! The one we picked out, when we decided to – to move in together.

“I can’t believe him. The absolute bastard! After – after everything… Everything we did, all that time, he does this to me? He goes and does this, with some woman from his firm? Yeah, I recognized her,” she goes on, like the fact shocks herself just as it does John. “They work together!

“I didn’t – I didn’t even tell him off or anything, when I saw… y’know.” Donna fumbles with the words, and settles for a rude gesture to get her point across instead. There’s tears in her eyes again, and she rapidly wipes them away, reaching for anger now, instead of just heartbreak.

“Is that bad?” she asks. “That I didn’t… yell at him or anything? I could’ve, oh, I should’ve . I should’ve given him what for, said exactly how I feel. He’d be in a world of hurt right now but I… I just, I saw him there, and I couldn’t do it.” She holds her face in her hands, looking down at her tea.

At a loss for anything better to say, John settles with, “I’m sorry.” Simple and sincere, but two words can’t possibly be enough to get his thoughts across.

Part of John’s mind can’t help but look back, trying to find details, evidence, hints, anything that might have alerted him to something like this happening. Something that might have prevented a reveal like this, and saved Donna the pain. He can’t say he’s found anything yet.

Then, he’s also doing a few quick calculations. How long has it been since she found out, if she dropped him off at Wilf and Sylvia’s, then went straight home to Lance’s? If she just found out, then she’s relatively calm. John would've expected more shouting, but then again, if she wasn't able to give Lance whatfor when she was there...

A third voice in his head, tiny and mostly out of the way by now, has been yelling incoherently for the past twenty-seven days because he’s a godforsaken alien.

And a final fourth part of him is trying to think of ways he could possibly comfort Donna. His own, most recent breakup with Samuel – though recent is relative, it’s been a few months – was ugly and bitter, yes. Samuel had wanted things that John wasn't comfortable giving, but he didn't cheat on him to get it. Right now, he can't possibly imagine what Donna’s going through, and he hates how he's just sitting here, twiddling his thumbs as she’s still fighting back tears.

“Did I do something wrong?” she asks quietly, not looking up from her tea. “Did he think I didn't love him? Maybe I should've–”

“No! Never, ever think you did something to deserve this,” he blurts, and Donna snaps her head up, startled. Suddenly, he feels like he’s gotten his footing in this conversation. “He had a choice to do something like this. He chose to cheat on you, he chose to abuse your trust, and don't you ever trick yourself into thinking this was your fault.”

She stares at him, and John’s gaze flicks downwards as he worries that maybe he said something wrong. Maybe she didn't want his impromptu advice. Maybe she just wants to vent, uninterrupted.

“Sometimes,” Donna says slowly, “you actually do know how to say something useful.”

He looks up at her, a grin growing on his face. He tries to feign nonchalance, show how much that comment definitely didn't just make his day, and rolls his eyes as relief blossoms in his chest. As long as she still has a bit of her snark, it’ll be okay, eventually. “ Everything I say is useful.”

“What about when you kept going on about… what was it, the movie version of Ron Weasley versus the book version?”

“But that is important!” He jabs a finger at the table to emphasize just how important it is. “They reduced him to this dumb, bubbling bloke who didn't give a rat’s arse about his friends. And all the jokes he made at the expense of Hermione? Unbelievable! Book Ron does that, too, I guess, but you can tell it’s all superficial, and that he really does consider Hermione a close friend. They botched his characterization so badly!”

“John,” Donna says warningly, though she’s finally smiling. “I don't even like Harry Potter.”

The two of them laugh a little, sharing in the trivial distraction of humor. But the lighthearted mood doesn't last long, because just as they settle down, a phone rings. Donna jumps, and after a moment, leans down to pull her mobile from her purse. John can already tell from the sudden tension in her body who it is.

“Lance?” he asks unnecessarily. Donna nods, and John worries that she might start crying again.

The mobile rings again. Donna flips it open, and presses END . “I… I don't want to talk to him,” she explains. “Don't think I could bear it right now.”

“Right,” John says.

Three point nine seconds later, the mobile rings again. Donna presses the END button. It rings again, and barely gets through with the first ring before she jabs at the END button.

The fourth time it rings, John holds out his hand. “Give it here, I know what to do.”

Donna hands the mobile with a wary look in her eyes. John just winks, and pulls out his sonic screwdriver. He aims it at the middle of the screen, turns it on, and prays that he doesn't fuck up and break Donna’s mobile.

After a few seconds, the ringing shuts off, and John pockets the sonic before handing the mobile back over.

Donna dubiously looks down at her phone, now silent. “What’d you do to it?”

“I, ah, blocked his number. Totally, I mean. Cause sometimes you go to block a number but the feature’s half-broken so it doesn’t work as well as you’d want it to and – anyway,  you won't get a single notification from him. I could unblock it, if you want, but I thought–”

“Couldn't you just mute the ringer? And isn't there like, a block feature built in already?”

“Oh.” He didn't think of that.

Donna shakes her head. “Whatever, doesn't matter.” She sets the mobile on the table, and stares at it. She swallows thickly, and John gets the sense she might start crying again.

He takes a gamble, and reaches over the table to grab her hand. She doesn't pull away, which he takes as a good sign. “Donna,” he says, mustering all the confidence he can. “You’re going to be just fine. Everything’s going to be fine.” He squeezes her hand, hoping it’s a comforting gesture. “You’re going to get through this, and I’ll be here for you.”

“Yeah, yeah, I just–” she chokes back a sob. “I thought I...  I love him, you know? I really do. Did. I did.”  

He nods. “I know.” And he does know. He can feel the anguish rolling off her like waves, and he understands with shocking clarity just how she feels. So utterly betrayed, and the heartbreak twisting like a knife in his chest, because he thought he loved L—

Hold on.

Wait a moment.

John runs through his thought processes of the past few seconds. From sympathy and distraught and the cold mint that is a confusing mix of uncertainty and sure-footedness to… bitter anger, regret and anguish that threatened to swallow him whole.

That's… not his emotion. There’s no way that can be his emotion.

He glances down at his hand, holding Donna’s tightly, and something snaps into place in his mind.

John snatches his hand back, and the foreign sense of despondency evaporates immediately, like mist caught in a sunbeam. His stomach fills with dread, and he thinks he might be sick if he’s not careful, if he were even able to have such a human reaction.

Donna notices the look on his face, and asks, “John? You alright?”

He tells his panicking mind to wait just one minute, he’s busy. “Uh, yeah, it’s just… It’s late. Eleven fifty two. You should sleep, or something.”

Donna groans. “I'm not sleeping on that sofa again. I'm not a hungover teenager.”

“No, no, just take my bed. I don't use it anymore, and yeah, I know how that sounds, but I'm telling you, I just – can't sleep.”

“At all?”

He shakes his head. “Well, for an hour or so. Sometimes. But mostly, no.”

“You know what, I'm too exhausted to think about you being E.T. Do you have any extra pillows?”

“There’s already a lot in the bedroom,” he says, just remembering now. “I was… making a pillow fort a few days ago.”

“Of course you were,” Donna says, with the voice of a woman who’s gotten far too used to the shit she gets put through. She gets up, and takes her barely-drunken cup of tea with her. There’s the click of a bedroom door shutting, and then she’s gone.

John’s had something on the back burner for a bit now. Sadly, he doesn't think it’s something he can leave there for long. That doesn’t stop him from trying to savor the few moments of peace and mental security before he digs into this new issue.

He looks down at the cup in his hands, and takes a slow sip of tea, casually going through the chemical composition of the drink. He sets the cup down, and it clinks softly against the wooden table.

The flat is quiet, except for the gentle rumble of the heater and his heartsbeat, audible in his ears. He taps a foot against the tile to give himself something else to listen to.

Then, he finally lets everything in.

(Well, not everything. That would leave him on the floor, curled up in the fetal position and shaking from the sheer amount of insanity currently going on in his life. In reality, he’s just allowing himself to acknowledge this one piece of the nightmarish puzzle. But that’s all just technicalities.)

Immediately, he’s overcome by a sense of horror and panic, while a tiny part of him finds time to be ecstatic about the discovery that it wasn’t his emotion, not his, not his, but Donna’s, it had to be Donna’s, and that means – that means–

He takes in a shuddering breath, and exhales just the same, fighting his way through the turmoil clouding his mind. He wants to lock this away, file it away in a unused folder that reads ‘IMPORTANT – TO THINK ABOUT LATER’ and let it gather dust when he never touches the folder ever again.

But that’s not something he can do, because this doesn’t just affect him. This is something that, with a mis-timed thought or touch, can really hurt someone, because that has to be how it works, right? Telepathy by touch. That’s how he skimmed the surface of Donna’s mind, just enough to feel her emotions. And he’s seen enough films, read enough books, to have an inkling of how telepathy tends to work out when the telepathic person has no clue what they’re doing.

The last thing he wants to do is accidentally read someone’s mind, or project thoughts or whatever the hell you call it, to someone who’s not aware that this is even something that can happen. The last thing he wants to do is hurt someone, especially Donna.

And oh, Donna.

(He latches onto the thought of her like it’s a life line. Something to momentarily distract him from himself. Because as much as he wants to address this – he needs to decide what to do – he can feel himself slowly drowning in the acknowledgement of something that continues to prove just how different he is from the rest of the world, and there’s a voice in his head telling him to run, run as far away as he can and never look back, so he settles on the compromise of a brief rest from thinking about that.)

He can offer her a bed, and some comforting words, but it’s an incredibly long shot to hope for her to be cheerful in the morning. She’s tough, she’ll get through it, but it’ll be while. Especially if Lance continues to be so insistent on talking to her.

Briefly, he considers the possibility of Lance coming over here tonight, wanting to see if she's alright after John blocked his number. It’s not a stretch to assume Donna would come to John’s flat, and Lance might follow. Then again, if it took him that long to start calling her in the first place, he might not care all that much. Or maybe he was in shock, or thinking of something to say, or even just busy, and in reality he does care an awful lot. 

This sort of thing really isn't John's strong suit, if it wasn't obvious enough. 

There’s no use worrying about it now, John tells himself. Either Lance will show up unannounced and they’ll have to hash it out here and now, or he won’t, and Donna will have time to really, truly think about what she’s going to do. He hopes it’s the latter, for everyone’s sake.

Chapter Text

It turns out to be the latter.

Music plays softly in the living room of John’s flat from a small speaker as he inspects the creases of an origami crane. He turns it around and around in his hands. The folds on this one are a little too uneven for his taste, but it’s good enough for now, he decides. He sets it on the coffee table next to the others, and picks up another sheet of paper. A pair of black, fine knitting gloves sit next to the stack of origami paper.

He’s halfway through the next crane, an oddly shaped square in his hands, when he hears the bedroom door click open. In a flurry of motion, he grabs the paper cranes on the table – all sixty three of them – and shoves them into his pockets. The other day he found a glass of water in his pocket. Not even a water bottle or anything, just a full glass of water. So he’s not too worried about the paper cranes getting crushed.

By the time Donna walks past the living room – dressed in yesterday’s crumpled clothes, looking exactly how someone would look after finding their partner cheating – the TV is turned on to the news, all the paper on the coffee table is gone, and John looks for all the world like he’s just been lounging on this couch all night instead of folding origami.

John’s not quite sure why he feels the need to hide it, actually. And honestly, maybe he shouldn't have reacted like that, because now his pockets are full of paper cranes, and that’s going to be a hassle the next time he needs to grab something.

But the past is the past, and now, at seven twenty two, Donna’s in the kitchen. From the sound of it, she’s making coffee. Damn, he’d been planning on doing that. Just as something to cheer her up, even if it’s only a hot beverage she doesn't have to make herself.

He quickly pulls on the gloves, double checking that they cover his skin up to his wrists. Then he’s in the kitchen, grabbing the coffee filters from Donna’s hand. “Here, let me do that.”

Donna smacks his hand away. “I’m a grown woman. I think I can make a pot of coffee.” Though she’s trying to sound tough, the warble in her voice betrays her. There are dark circles under her reddened eyes, telling John everything he needs to know about last night after she went to bed. He just backs up and lets her do her thing.

“So,” he says, leaning against the counter next to her, “I don't have a lot in the way of breakfast, but we could… go to a diner or something, if you're up for it?”

“I just want to sit here and drink the bitterest coffee in the world,” she says.

“Oh…” He isn't sure how to respond to that. “Okay, then.”

The two of them drink their coffee in silence. John sits at the table, while Donna stands and broods (or, tries to look like she’s brooding). There’s a tension in the air, and though it’s not directed at him, it’s certainly making things awkward. He isn’t sure whether or not to bring up last night, or just let Donna work through it on her own.

John’s just starting to think that this is how the rest of the day’s going to go, when Donna lets out a hard breath.

“I don’t know what to do,” she admits.

“About Lance?”

“No, about what earrings I should wear today. Yes, about Lance!” she snaps. “I love him, I know I do, but after this? Could I really go back to our flat, and – be with him after this?”

“Do you… think it’s a deal breaker?” Personally, he would’ve dumped him the moment he found out, but that’s just him. And while Donna doesn’t strike him as the forgiving type, he doesn’t want to assume anything.

Donna rubs at her eyes. She sets her coffee down on the counter, and runs her hands through her messy hair, exemplifying the ‘just rolled out of bed’ look she has going on. “God, I look a sight, don’t I?” she asks.

“Could you answer my question, Donna?” he asks softly.

“What, I can't distract myself when I’m upset, but you can?”

He’s about to protest and tell her that’s different, but it's really not that different. Sure, she’s boiling it down to him being upset , and that hurts – because she can’t possibly know what he’s going through, not really – but the same feeling is there. Every day, there’s something new, something he ignores until it can’t be ignored anymore, that makes him feel like the universe is crashing down around him, unless he can take control and make it listen. It never does, but somehow, he keeps on surviving. He wonders how long that’ll last. Suddenly, John finds himself looking at Donna in a different light.

“You want to hear my two cents?” he asks her. He waits until Donna looks at him expectantly, as if it’s permission for him to keep going. “I… I don’t think you need someone like him holding you down in life.”

“So you’re telling me to break up with him?”

“Well,” he draws out. “I’m not telling you anything. All of this is your choice. Your life. But, I would do what makes you happy, and I just… have a feeling that being with Lance after this is only going to make you miserable, in one way or another.”

“It’s not like, it’s a question of whether he’s cheated or not,” he continues. “You caught him in the act. And I guess now it’s just, can you be with him, knowing what he’s done?”

Donna’s silent as she drinks her coffee, contemplatively. Internally, John’s beaming away at himself, pleasantly surprised he could come up with something that sounds so profound, like actual, proper advice someone should receive.

“No,” she says after a time. “No, I don’t think I can.”

John half-smiles. “Well, that’s settled then, isn’t it?”

“Excuse me?” Donna asks sharply, making John wince. “It’s not settled just because I decided to break up with my cheating boyfriend. I have – I have to tell him, which is a conversation I definitely don't want to have. I don't even want to see him right now. And oh God, I’m going to need to get my stuff back from him and move out, and tell Mum and Grandad and everybody else, and then everyone at work will ask questions, and–”

“Donna, Donna, Donna,” John cuts her off and stands up, quickly at her side. “You’re freaking out, one thing at a time, yeah?” He grabs her shoulders gently. “Everything’s going to be just fine.”

She focuses on him, and gives a curt nod. He feels the tension in her shoulders start to ease as she repeats him. “One thing at a time, right.”

“About the moving thing – you’re welcome to here for a while, take my bedroom, just until everything blows over.”

She takes a breath. “Okay, thanks, but uh, I still don't have any stuff, and like hell I’m going to use your shampoo.”

“What’s wrong with my shampoo?”

“You use that – volumizing stuff. Like, why? Does your hair really need that much volume?”

John blinks, still not comprehending. Then he shakes his head. “No, you can insult my hair products later. Important stuff first. How… How about this?” he offers. “To get the first thing out of the way, you make a list of the stuff you need from your flat – not everything, just the essentials – and I’ll go get them. That way, you get your clothes, and you don’t have to talk to Lance. At least, for a little bit. You are going to have to talk to him sometime soon.”

As much as he loves Donna, he’s really hoping that Lance will be out of the house when he comes over. He’ll go if she accepts, of course he will, the thought that he wouldn’t barely registers in his mind, but that doesn’t mean he would enjoy running into Lance, not at all.

“You’d do that?” Donna asks.

“Course I would,” he says, earnest.

With a little more encouragement, she pens a list. It’s all stuff to be expected – clothes, toiletries, some favorite books of hers, her laptop, etc. Though he would much prefer to take the bus than drive, he ends up asking Donna for her keys, since a car would make for a much quicker getaway and storage than the London public transport. She just hands them over, doesn’t even bother going on her usual spiel about how bad a driver he is and how much she doesn’t want to see her car totaled.

His plan: get in, grab the stuff, get out. Simple enough, and easy to execute. He doesn’t want a big confrontation with Lance, and he doesn’t want to say anything that Donna wouldn’t want him to. She gave him the keys, under strict rule that he would not be the one to tell Lance they’re breaking up. The last thing she wanted “is for this to get all highschool with having your friend tell your boyfriend over MySpace that you’re splitting up,” as she put it. John just nodded, promised that he would never use MySpace, and took the keys.

Currently, he’s standing in front of the door to the flat, considering the lock. He digs around in his pocket, but the origami is making it difficult to find the keys he just put away. Somehow, he manages to grab the sonic screwdriver first. He just shrugs, and since it’s basically a key anyways, picks his way into Donna’s flat with the odd device.

Unfortunately, his hopes from earlier fall flat. Lance turns out to be home – and, in the living room. He’s sitting on the couch, elbows on his knees and head in his hands, lost in thought. What a familiar sight.

Lance looks up to see John standing in the doorway, then launches to his feet. “What are you doing here?” he asks. “Is Donna with you?” he adds, just a bit softer, though it does nothing to stop John from thinking about how this man hurt Donna, there’s no way that gentle tone conveys the truth.

He swallows. “No, I’m, ah, just here to pick up a few things.”

A wary look crosses his face. “What for?”

John ignores him and steps into the flat. With a quick glance around the room, he’s already pinpointed a few of Donna’s things – a crumpled blanket laying across back of the couch, her laptop on the coffee table, among others.

“Hey, buddy–” Lance tries again, holding out his arms to bar him from just walking in, only to be thrown off when John quickly side steps him, and snatches up the blanket and laptop in a few quick moves. “What’s your problem?”

“You know perfectly well what the problem is,” he says, before escaping down the hall to the bedroom. Sure enough, Lance follows, demanding answers. John holds his tongue; it really wouldn’t do for him to shout Lance down; that’s Donna’s job, later.

In the bedroom, there’s a larger assortment of stuff he needs to grab. Clothes, photos, and on the night stand, there’s a contact case, and a book, open and pressed face down on the table.

But before he gets more than a few steps into the room, there’s a hand on his arm, pulling him around to face Lance, who’s gone red as he says, “I think you need to leave, now.”

John jerks his arm from his grip, and takes a deep breath before he says, “I'm going to be honest here. I don't care what you think, because obviously you didn't care about Donna last night. You can do whatever you want, I’m not leaving until I get what Donna needs.”

He doesn't waste time waiting for a reply, and turns around to start getting what he needs, and being one step closer to getting the hell out of here.  He sets the bundle he’s already collected on the bed, and gets to work.

As John searches through the drawers of the dresser, Lance says, “That’s not any of your business. This is our relationship, me and Donna’s.”

He nicks a few days’ worth of clothes, not caring what Lance thinks about his ability to shove an entire dress into his suit pocket. Then, he turns to face Lance. “Is it?” he asks. “Because it certainly doesn't seem exclusive. Inviting girls over and screwing them behind Donna’s back… Doesn't sound like a healthy relationship, no matter how you say it."

Lance crosses his arms. “Like you know what a healthy relationship is, Mr. ‘I can't keep a boyfriend because I won't put out?’”

John bristles. “Excuse me?”

“You were moping for weeks about it, and it was pretty obvious what–”  

“I – I wasn't moping ,” he stammers. “And this isn't about me! This is about you thinking you can just go and do that to Donna. She’s heartbroken . ”

“You think I don't know that? She hasn't answered any of my calls or texts, and she’s sent Pretty Boy John over to collect her things. I’m not daft.”

“I would say differently,” John mutters under his breath.

“Excuse me?”

He sets his jaw. he says. “What I’m wondering is, how can you not appreciate her? How can you look at someone like Donna, who’s – who’s the kindest, most considerate person I’ve ever known, and think you could break her heart like that? You – knew how wonderful she is. You lived with her, you dated her, you had to know, and yet you took her for granted – you went and… I think – I mean, I’m not the best with these sorts of things, I know that much at least, but I’m genuinely having a hard time understanding how you could do that to someone like Donna. ” He takes a breath. “Lance,” he says sincerely, “I think you’re a complete arse.

And with that, he grabs the stuff he's left on the bed, and side steps Lance again, twisting past him easily, before heading to the front door.

“Wait, John! You can't just–” Lance shouts, just managing to catch him before he hurries out of the flat. (The door’s open, he could just bolt, he really doesn’t need to stay any longer, come on, just go-)

John, against his better judgement, stops and faces him. He leans tiredly against the doorway. “Can't just what?”

“You can't just – walk in here like you own the place!”

“Actually, I can. Donna’s rules, not that you’d care. I think that’s obvious by now.”

“I did care – I do care, and I care about her, don’t you understand? If you’d just listen –”

“Listen to what? What is there to understand? I’m here to get some of Donna’s stuff, because she’s too distraught to after what you did. That’s told me plenty. ”

Lance lets out a sigh – with it, some of his aggression – and wipes at his brow. “It wasn’t what you think,” Lance starts, and John’s already thinking that oh, this’ll be good. “I liked the thrill of it, okay? It was this… little adventure in life. Sneaking around, keeping this big secret. Because what’s the point of everything if you don't take a few risks and try something exciting? My life is nothing but – but business calls and personnel meetings and coming home to dinner and telly… I needed something more.”

“Like a girl,” John says flatly. “A different girl. That isn’t Donna.”

Lance almost winces. “It wasn’t really supposed to… turn out that way. Can you… can you just tell her never meant to hurt her? She hasn’t been answering any of my calls, and I love her, I really do.”

John considers him with a flat expression. “You know, you’ve dug yourself into a hell of a hole – you’re going to need a miracle to get yourself out of it,” he says. “But I have something that can help.”

He digs in his pocket – God, there really is a lot of origami in here, what was he thinking – and pulls out a perfectly folded paper crane. “Japanese legend says that making a thousand of these will grant you a wish. Here’s one to get you started. Try wishing for some compassion. Or decency, at the very least.”

He lets the paper crane fall from his hand and onto the floor, watching Lance’s shocked and vaguely confused face.

“I think Donna’s going to be staying with me for a while,” he adds. “Try taking some time to think about it, before coming over and begging for her back. If she’ll even let you try.”

He doesn’t stay long enough for Lance to say anything more to him, he doesn’t know if he’d be able to stay as calm as he’s been able to so far.

He rushes back to the car, and once he’s dumped everything in the trunk, he drops himself into the driver’s seat, puts the keys in the ignition, and lets his head fall against the steering wheel. The car horn sounds, but he barely hears it over his own thoughts (as if that’s supposed to be surprising).

After six point two seconds, he straightens, and rubs a hand through his hair, nails digging into his scalp as if he were able to scrub the anxiety away. Oh, that was terrible. Utterly terrible. He – he wasn't supposed to confront him (and so poorly, too), he was just supposed to grab most of her stuff and get out. And the paper crane thing, what was he thinking? Who thought it was a good idea to let him ever leave the flat?

John decides to spend a few more minutes moping – er, brooding, not moping, he doesn’t mope – before finally psyching himself up to drive back home.

When he gets there, Donna is lying down on the sofa. “Donna, I got your stuff,” he says, coming into the living room, blanket, laptop, and other things he didn't feel like shoving into his pockets, all in his arms. But oh, she’s asleep. On her side, head cushioned by her hand, breathing softly. He smiles; she needs the rest, especially if he was right about her being up most of the night, fretting.

He backs up out of the room quietly, electing to simply drop the stuff off in his bedroom – hers now, for the time being. He doesn’t need a bedroom, so he tries to arrange everything relatively neatly, to make it seem more like she’d be staying here properly for a while, and not just crashing on his couch. Laptop on the nightstand, blankets folded, clothes laying on the edge of the bed.

As he’s pulling a purple dress from his pocket, a few paper cranes tumble out and onto the floor with it. He looks down at them, considering. Maybe he’s placing some weight in the legend, or maybe he’s just thinking it’ll make her smile, but either way, he takes the paper cranes and places them on the bed’s pillows, hoping they might make her feel just a bit better.

Later, after Donna wakes up and changes into an outfit that isn’t all crumpled from being twice slept in, John manages to convince her to go get coffee with him. It’s a relatively relaxing outing, and neither of them do anything to bring up The Cheater, or any other relationships. Though, as she sets down John’s coffee in front of him, Donna asks, “What’s with the gloves?”

He tugs at the hem of the glove on his hand self-consciously. “‘M cold,” he says quickly. He needs to tell her why he’s wearing them, he can’t tell her, where would he even start? She’ll feel violated, she’ll get mad, she’ll say she’s had enough, she’ll–

Donna looks at him dubiously. “Really?”

“What, am I not allowed to be cold now?”

“Not with a sixteen degree body temperature, you're not. It’s the middle of October, and not that cold out. Doesn’t that make it like… room temperature for you, or something.”

“Well, uh…” He makes a show of clearing his throat, then grabs his coffee and take a drink, acting as if it would help with the fake itch in his throat – only for him to immediately spit it out. “What the hell did you put in my drink this time?” he manages, sputtering. Something like, a mocha with matcha and… raspberry? Yeah, raspberry, at least five pumps of raspberry syrup.

Donna laughs for the first time in a while, and after thoroughly wiping his mouth on his sleeve in a futile attempt to rid himself from that awful taste, John can't help but join in.

Chapter Text

Donna slams the door shut, and faces John, who’s been standing right outside, looking at her expectantly. “So, that’s it then,” she says, trying to retain some semblance of a casual attitude. “Told him to fuck off. It’s over – Oh God, it’s over,” she repeats. The past few days had passed in a blur of detached emotion, and the gravity of breaking up with her boyfriend of seven months is just hitting her now. “What do I do now? Where am I going to go? Cos I mean, I have to get my own place now, don't I?”

“Couple of things,” John says, and holds up a finger. “One. I’m glad you just did that – breaking up with Lance, I mean. Takes a lot of courage. And two,” he holds up a second finger. “You don’t have to actually, well, leave .”

Donna frowns. “What’d you mean?”

“You could always… stay. If you want to,” he hastens to add. “You don’t have to, I just thought, you seemed really comfortable staying at my flat, and honestly, house hunting is such a hassle, especially in this economy – people say that a lot – it’d be easier if you didn’t even have to bother.”

“Do you even know what people mean when people say ‘in this economy?’”

“Ah, not really.”

“Right.”

“But you could. Stay, I mean.”

"Oh.”

Donna hasn’t been considering that. But once the idea is in her mind, she finds it won’t leave. The past few days she’s spent staying with him haven’t been terrible either, quite the opposite. And really, it’s like they’re already living together.  They see each other practically every other day, and it isn’t as if a twenty minute drive has kept John from coming over to her flat (or what used to be hers) at ungodly hours to talk about whatever has been on his mind that day.

Plus, they could split the rent, and if she’s being perfectly honest, she’s not quite sure how John’s been managing that the way he is. Maybe he really is saving money by stealing glass tupperware.

But them being flatmates. It just seems to make sense.

“You’d really put up with me like that?” she asks.

John laughs. “It’d be you putting up with me, but I think you’ve done well enough so far.”

She smiles. “Uh, alright. Why not?”

And just like that, they’re living together. The only major changes in their lives are that Donna’s contributing to the rent now, and she properly moves into the bedroom, since John still insists that he never really went in there anymore. She doesn’t have that much to redecorate with, not much beyond a change of bedding, and while she would like to do a bit more to the room at some time, it’s not imperative. John’s flat already gives her a homely feeling, after they’ve been friends for so long; She doesn’t need to put up new curtains or fill the bookshelves with her favorite novels to feel comfortable.

But… That doesn’t stop John from dragging her to IKEA to do exactly that.

She’s pulling into the crowded parking lot, when she decides to ask for the nth time, just why the hell they’re doing this.

“Why the hell are we doing this? We don’t need to go to IKEA, John.”

John glances up at her from his sonic screwdriver. He’s been fidgeting with it the whole ride, and the chance of him pressing a button and managing to break the car has been keeping her on the edge of her seat. “You’re moving in,” he says. “Isn’t this what you do, when you’re moving in? Go to IKEA, shop for furniture, have an inevitable argument because you can’t figure out out to put the table together.”

“...Me and Lance never did anything like that.” To be fair, between the two of them, they had more than enough stuff to furnish the flat. There wasn’t really a need to go shopping like this. Not that there’s a need now, either. John has plenty of furniture already.

“Oh, and that too! You need to get your mind off of Lance. He’s over and done with, and he’s not worth thinking about. So, a shopping trip. To cheer you up. Also I…” Donna glances over at him when he trails off. He has a hand on his neck, and seems sheepish as he considers his next few words. “...Might have broken the kitchen table while you were at work today. And a few chairs, possibly.”

Donna slams on the breaks, causing the car behind them to blare their horn. “You what?” How?”

“I was – testing this thing!” He holds up the sonic screwdriver, and Donna has to resist the urge to snatch the device from his hands and toss it out the window. “And the table just… fell apart. I think I hit a certain resonance with the wood.”

“I told you not to mess with that thing. You said it took you days to put the cabinets back together the first time, and now look what you’ve done!”

“It’s not my fault there’s so many settings!”

She shakes her head. “That’s why you wanted me to wait outside… When we get home, is there going to just be a pile of cheap broken furniture in the living room?"

"...Yeah but don't think about that right now. Think about the cheap furniture we're about to buy to replace that cheap furniture."

"....Am I going to be paying for this cheap furniture?" Donna asks, as she finally finds a spot to park.

"Well... I thought, maybe–"

"Cause I am not paying. You broke the table, you’re paying for the table." If she ends up buying anything for herself, then she’ll pay.

"Yeah, that's fair."

A sign proclaims the huge warehouse of a store to be a home furnishings store, dedicating to helping its customers find exactly what they’re looking for. To Donna, it’s more of an intricate labyrinth of posh kitchens, tiny bathrooms, and dozens of living rooms, all put together so well it makes her think there’s no possible way she could ever achieve decorating a room as nice as that. Still, there’s plenty of stuff that she can admit to thinking about putting in the flat. Including a new kitchen table. All for it for pretty cheap, too.

But she isn’t exaggerating when she thinks it’s a maze of cheap furniture where the further you go, the more it feels like you’ll never see the daylight again. John gets lost three times. That’s three times that she’s walked to another section of the showroom and looked around, only to not see a skinny idiot hovering around her.

The first time, she finds him resetting all the clocks in the nearby living rooms. The second time, she finds him spinning in an large office chair. The third time, when she catches him standing shiftily next to a shelf of tupperware containers, she threatens to send him to the kids’ indoor playground by the entrance, which he actually considers , before deciding that no, he’d rather be here with her.

Luckily, each time, she manages to find him before he accidentally breaks something. Or if he did break something, then he was really good at hiding the evidence. He may have been the one to drag her here, but damn if he isn’t terrible at furniture shopping.

The marketplace is a section of the store devoted to selling all the little things someone needs for a home, like curtains, pillows, dish rags, and those tiny plants that Donna adores, the fat, fleshy cacti ones. John doesn’t keep plants in his flat. Whether it’s because he forgets to water them, or just, doesn’t like having plants in his flat, she doesn’t know.

“What’s even the point of keeping plants in your house?” he asks, looking dubiously at the aloe vera Donna’s holding. “I thought the whole point of having a house was to keep the outside stuff where it belongs. Outside.”

“They – I don’t know, they look nice?” Donna finds herself fumbling for words; she’s never had to explain the point of plants before. “And these ones are easy to take care of, too. What’s the issue?”

They’ve been debating over whether or not to take a potted succulent home for five minutes when they’re approached by an employee. “Hello,” they say, and Donna can already tell they’re feigning both the pleasant tone and the smile on their face, but there’s no way she can blame them for that. If she had to work in an IKEA – which is steadily feeling less like a real place and more like a modern, quirky-furnitured, liminal-spaced nightmare – she would fake the pleasantries too. “Did you need help with anything today?”

Donna eyes this twenty-something year old employee – whose name tag reads Ashley and who looks like the sort of person who would understand the value of having a plant in the house – then glances down at the aloe vera in her hands. She decides she’s more than prepared to drag random, innocent people into this debate if it means getting to take this plant home. “Yeah, actually,”  she starts. “What d’you think of–”

Only for John to interrupt with, “No, no, we’re all good. More than good, in fact. We’ve been ah, inspecting the furniture. All checks out.”

“...Inspecting the furniture?” asks Ashley the IKEA employee.

“Definitely. This is some quality furniture you have here. Good job.”

Ashley the IKEA employee is dubious, but there’s the briefest slip in their facade that says they couldn’t possibly care less about whatever this idiot is going on about. “Right,” she says. “Thanks. Have a nice day.”

Then Ashley the IKEA employee looks at John, and seems to do a double take. “Hey,” they start slowly, narrowing their eyes at him.  “Aren’t you the tupperware thie–”

John’s eyes widen, and he looks beyond Ashley to where some small girl is alone, pulling off all the leaves of a shrub. “Is she supposed to be doing that?” he says, pointing.

Ashley the IKEA employee looks, and startles. “Oh, no, miss,” they start, hurrying over. “Please don’t hurt the merchandise!”

And then they’re gone, and John lets out a relieved breath.

Donna punches him in the arm. He recoils, and cradles his arm like she’s mortally wounded him, though it was barely hard enough to bruise the skin. “What was that for?”

“I was going to ask her about the plants! And you had to go and lie about inspecting furniture . The hell was that, anyway? And don’t think I didn’t miss how they recognized you, tupperware thief .”

He shrugs, and seems to ignore the thing about the tupperware when he says, “You were going to drag her into our plant debate. I don’t know, it seemed like a good idea at the time.”

“That’s what you say about everything.” She takes this moment to put the succulent in their cart. “And we’re buying the plant. This one’s good for cuts and things, you’ll like it.” John grumbles a bit, but eventually concedes.

Eventually, they get to the self-serve warehouse of the complex, like the heroes in a Norse saga finally approaching the last evil to conquer. It feels like hours until Donna and John manage to locate the table and chairs they picked out earlier. She could check the time on her phone, or just ask John, but that would make the major loss of time final and definite, and she doesn’t want that. She prefers this quantum state of having spent zero and five hours simultaneously, to the absolute certainty that she’s wasted half a Saturday at IKEA.

Finally, after zero-three-five non-hours, they’re waiting in to check out with a cart full of plain cardboard boxes filled with ready-to-construct tables, chairs, as well as curtains, some lavender candles, various items for the bathroom, and a bookshelf for Donna’s books, which have been sitting in a cardboard box by the door for the past week. And of course, the aloe vera, which she’s planning on putting in the kitchen, or maybe on the window sill in the living room.

When Donna’s digging through her purse, looking for her cards, John asks her, “Why don’t we just – stay in the IKEA?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Staying in the IKEA. Like, overnight.”

Donna pauses in her search to look up at him. “Why?”

He shrugs. “It’d be something to do. And easy too – you just need to hide in a cabinet until the guards finish checking the place.” He sounds so sure of himself, like he’s been thinking about this for weeks instead of being a sudden thought he just had that Donna knows it is. Scratch that. She hopes it’s just a sudden thought.

“You can hide in a cabinet at home, John,” she says, before she’s next in line to check out, and has to turn her attention to the cashier behind the counter.

John carries most of the boxes up to his – their flat. He’s the super strong alien, he can handle carrying that stuff. Donna grabs the rest, and between the two of them, it only takes two trips. Not that it’s easy, what with the four flights of stairs and everything.

It turns out that she was right on mark when she asked if there would be a pile of broken furniture in the middle of the flat. All of it wood from the previous dining set John owned, all of it unnaturally splintered. John takes one look at her, and says he’ll take it to the bins outside.

When he comes back, she’s already started on the next terrible task given to them by IKEA: actually building the damn furniture. She’s sitting in the middle of the kitchen, and she’s only gotten as far as taking all the pieces for the table out of the box and unwrapping them from their plastic prisons.

He sits down opposite of her, and picks up a bag of screws. “Isn’t this supposed to be super hard?” he asks.

“Yes, that’s exactly what I wanted to hear when I’m preparing to put this table together,” she says as she leans over to grab the bag from him.

“You’re talking like I’m not going to help you,” he says, sounding the tiniest bit insulted.

“Given your history with tables,” she says flatly. “I don’t know if you could build one.”

He’s silent for only a moment, before saying, “Yeah, that’s fair.”

She digs through the cardboard box, pulling out the rest of the pieces, including an instruction manual. She looks at it, considering, then passes it to John. “Here, you can help me with this, if you want.”

He shrugs, and opens the booklet fully, so that half of the instructions are just trailing into his lap and onto the floor. “Okay, uh, it says you’re going to want to take the four large planks and assemble them like a…”

The next forty-five minutes can be easily characterized by the frustration, confusion, and colorful language that comes from both of their mouths as they try to figure out how to put a damn kitchen table together. It really shouldn’t be this hard; There’s four legs, there’s one large flat surface, there’s a limited number of screws. And yet, she’s been at this for fifteen minutes.

“Do you want to use my screwdriver?” John asks patiently.

“God no,” she huffs. “It’d just break the whole thing.”

She can sense John rolling his eyes, and she’s not having any of it, not when she’s been trying to screw this leg to the table top for ten minutes and failing spectacularly. It has to be the wrong screw or something, it has to be. “Read me that last bit again, won’t you?”

John squints at the instructions. “Did you line up the washers right?” he asks.

Donna glances down at the table. “Yeah, I did. That’s the first thing I did, after you read it the third time – Just let me see the instructions.” John reluctantly hands over the neverending booklet of paper, and Donna’s careful to take note of where he’s been reading. There’s so many sections to this manual, and so much of it is in foreign languages, she doesn’t want to risk losing her spot.

She skims through the instructions, hoping to get a sense of what the hell she’s supposed to be doing.

“John,” she says after a moment. “This is in Swedish.”

John blinks at her. “No,” he says slowly, “that’s English.”

“No, see, this is what you were reading a second ago, and it’s in Swedish.”

“Donna, that’s English.”

She looks up at the ceiling, begging every single god that ever might have existed for one day. Just one day, where everything is normal and she doesn’t have to deal with her friend suddenly being able to read in a language she knows he doesn’t speak. But that’s probably never going to happen. “John, please don’t tell me you’ve somehow managed to read the Swedish side of this thing.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, it’s English! It’s all in English.”

She holds the instructions out to him. “All of it? This whole thing’s in English?”

He nods.

“Let me get this straight,” she starts, setting the instructions down on the floor and tapping a finger against them, clearly noting how she can’t read them, because this part of the paper is in Swedish. “When you see this, you see English.”

“Yeah, because it is English,” he insists.

“No it’s not , because this –” she moves her finger across the page, and taps against a block of instructions in the lower left corner of the paper, the set of instructions she can actually read. “–is English. John, there’s at least five different languages written here, and only one is English.”

He frowns. “Let me see that.” He grabs the instructions from the floor, and scans over them. “Yeah, I don’t know what you’re talking about. It’s all in English.” He looks over them at Donna. “Are you okay?”

“Am I okay?” she repeats, incredulous. “I should ask you that, I’m not the one reading Swedish as English!”

“Neither am I!”

“Yes, you are. It’s Swedish!”

“No, it’s English!”

“Swedish!”

“English!”

“Swedish!”

“English!”

Donna groans. “You aren’t listening to me! When have you ever known an instruction manual like this to be in only English?”

John eyes the pamphlet warily, and she catches, finally, a hint of hesitation when he says, “I – I don’t know…”

“That’s the thing, they aren’t. Whenever they’re big like this, they’ve always printed five different set of instructions, each in a different language. They can’t all be English.”

“Wait, wait, wait,” he says, waving his hands. “You’re saying that… that I can just, read Swedish like it’s actually English?”

“I’ve been saying that for the past three minutes, yes! Don’t you  think it’s weird that they reprinted the instructions five times over in the same booklet?”

He rubs at the back of his neck. “...IKEA is weird, alright? It felt like I wandered into a different dimension when we walked in. Who’s to say they wouldn’t do that?”

“...Okay, that’s a fair point, but I’m telling you, that’s not what’s going on right now.”

He looks down at the instructions again, squinting. “Oh,” he says softly. Then he’s beaming away at Donna. “Oh, that’s brilliant!”

“Do you believe me?” she asks, really hoping that she gets an answer in the affirmative. It’s late, she’s been building a table for the past hour, and she really doesn’t want to have to fight John’s predisposition to deny everything that challenges his view of himself.

“I have to, don’t I?” he says. “You’re the normal human one, if you say something’s not in English, and me – the weird alien one – if I’m saying that it is English, then really, I should listen to you about what’s actually happening. You’re the grounding element here.”

She narrows her eyes at him. “See, no, I don’t buy that. I don’t buy you being all fine and dandy with it, or the thousand other things you’ve been… discovering.”

“What ‘thousand other things?’”

She counts on her fingers, staring straight at John and daring him to challenge her. “The time thing. The temperature thing. The blood thing. The fact that aspirin burns you, but acid doesn’t. And when’s the last time you actually ate anything, or slept? You’ve been acting way too fine about all of this, and it’s – it’s worrying me.”

“I – I thought that’s what you wanted! For me to be just fine. It’s better than the alternative, isn’t it?”

“John,” she says firmly. “You’re reading a language you don’t know, and you’re acting like this is perfectly normal! People don’t suffer world-shifts like this and come out the other end ‘just fine.’”

“Yeah, well I’m not exactly a person , now am I?” he exclaims. “I’m some – Martian from the Planet Zovirax, and maybe I can handle world-shifts like this. You don’t need to worry about me, Donna. I’m coping, alright? So let’s just build this table and be done with it,” he says, the tone of his voice telling her that he would really quite like to move on from this topic, thank you very much.

She looks at him for a second longer. “Alright then,” is all she says.

They get back to the table. John only offers short, clipped advice as Donna finally gets somewhere with the construction and manages to piece the damn thing together. She tightens the last few screws (no sonic screwdriver necessary), and sits back. John glances at her and the finished table, still on it’s side, before he starts to work on folding up the instructions. She would say it’s a fruitless task, but he seems pretty determined to get the manual looking back like it did before either of them decided to complete this grueling task.

John clears his throat. “I’m… sorry. I was hoping this’d make you feel better about, you know, Lance and things, but I think I just made it more stressful. It’s always just about me, isn’t it.”

She looks up from her work. “It has made me feel better, though. I mean, until you brought it up just now–” He winces. “–I haven’t thought about him all day. I've mostly been worrying about keeping you from breaking the office chairs and hurting yourself. You and your dumb shenanigans, John T. Smith. Don’t think you're not helping, because you are. You really are.”

There’s a hint of a smile on his face, looking quite smug for himself, especially considering the fact that he’s been trying to fold paper for the past three minutes with no result. (And isn’t he supposed to be the expert on folding paper? She’s caught him countless times just folding origami in the middle of the night, nothing else to do but waste time trying not to think about things.)

“Do you need help with that?” she asks patiently, watching how his smile fades the longer he struggles. 

He sighs. “...Yeah. Please.”

Chapter Text

Getting over breakups takes time, Donna knows. She doesn’t like it. She doesn’t like how someone can break her heart like that, and move on so quickly, like nothing ever happened, and she’s still here, lying on the couch and feeling like the world’s ending because she just happened to see her ex with some new girl. It’s been weeks since she cut it off – and she broke up with him, technically, why does she have to be the one on the verge of tears?

She came home around six, and she’s been lying on this couch for the better part of the evening. Donna’s fairly sure John’s been in and out of the flat since then, but she can’t say she’s been paying close attention to anything other than the ceiling above her.

So it’s been a bad day.

The door creaks open, and she looks over to see a head of scruffy, spiked-up hair peek through. “Donna?” John asks softly. “D’you… do you wanna check something out?”

She sits up, aware of how much of a failure she looks like right now, but not aware enough (or perhaps too aware) to do anything about it. “What sort of something?”

“A cool something,” he responds. “You don’t have to, I just thought…”

She glances back up at the ceiling. Only about halfway through counting the groves in the plaster, and oh, she’s lost count anyway. “Might as well,” she sighs.

John grins, and when she gets up and walks over to the door, he grabs her by the wrist and drags her through the halls. By the time she thinks of protesting, he’s already running his mouth.

“Good, cause I think this’ll cheer you up. Well, it usually cheers me up, so I think it might help you too. At the very least, it’s something to do. I even went out and got some snacks, and everything else is from Wilf, so we should thank him later.”

He’s leading her to the roof, she realizes as he opens the door to the stairwell. It’s chilly, with the concrete and the metal, and she wishes that he had told her to grab her coat before they left. He keeps talking, and actually faces her as he does, walking backwards up the stairs. She has no idea how he manages to not trip and fall on his arse.

“And! Hawking’s Comet just came around, which, well, is to be expected. It’s a comet. They tend to have pretty predictable orbits, relative to the Earth at least. The great thing about this one, is that it has such a low magnitude. We don’t even really need Wilf’s telescope to see it, it’s so bright, but I thought it’d be nice anyway.”

So, stargazing then. That’s what he’s been planning.

They finally reach the top of the stairs, and John, like a chauffeur, opens the door and gestures her outside. She walks out onto a flat roof, where a telescope has been set up in the center – Grandad’s telescope, with the scratchy red paint and the unstable tripod. Two folding chairs have been set up around it, with a wooden box between them acting as a table. There’s a bag of crisps, a thermos with cups, and a few other bags with labels too dark to read sitting on the table. Even a blanket has been set out, resting on one of the chairs. Thank God, because she’s rubbing her arms, desperate to get any warmth right now.

“Rooftop stargazing,” John announces, following her out onto the roof. “Courtesy of yours truly.”

Donna turns around to face him. “Oh, you prawn,” she teases, though she’s finding this the most touching gesture anyone’s done since the breakup. Her coworkers’ concern, now that’s all superficial. Nerys, she liked Lance, and so thought that he and Donna were better together. Her other friends, Veena and Hettie and the others, had taken her out to the pub in an attempt to cheer her up, but they’d all been focused on finding her a rebound, which is the last thing she wants right now. But sitting on a roof and watching some comet? Something calm and personal, where you don’t feel obligated to blabber on to fill the silence because your best friend can do that for you, easily? She likes that.

“Is it… alright?” he asks, his hands fidgeting with his sleeves.

She rolls her eyes. “Yeah, yeah, it’s perfect.”

He grins, then walks over and plops himself in one of the chairs. Donna gratefully takes the blanket from what’s now her chair, and sits down, unfurling the blanket so it covers her legs, and that she can tuck her arms underneath. John doesn’t look to be feeling any of the weather, even with the jeans and the tee shirt he’s wearing. Really, the only hint that he knows it’s cold out is the gloves he’s wearing.

(He had decided, after some laborious thinking and a little encouragement from Donna, to send his suit in to the dry cleaners. It’s probably made out of some magic alien fabric, and won’t get dirty in a thousand years, but it can never hurt.)

“So, Hawking’s Comet,” she prompts.

“Oh, right! So this comet, which you can see just… about… there–” He points to a section of the sky, and Donna has to lean closer to him so she can properly see what he’s pointing at. A small, lustrous point of light, followed by a dusty trail of blue, moving so slowly, it might as well not be moving at all. It looks marvellous, as small as it is against the blackness of the night sky. “–is Hawking’s Comet. It visits the Earth every, oh, hundred and twenty years, give or take? So the last time it was seen, was around eighteen eighty-six. It could’ve been seen by Queen Victoria, if you think about it. She ascended to the throne in thirty-seven,” he continues. “So she would have easily been able to catch a glimpse of that comet, if she wanted. Though I don’t know that she would’ve. She doesn’t strike me as the kind of person to be interested in astronomy. More about the stories, I think.”

He’s mostly background noise to Donna by now.  She knows he just likes to talk sometimes, doesn't matter if the other person has anything worthwhile to say, which she doesn't. She stargazes with Gramps sometimes, up by the allotments, but it's not as if she’s an astronomy nerd herself. Still, she definitely understands the value in taking some time to just watch the sky.

There’s a lull in the conversation (monologue, really). He leans forward to fidget with the telescope now, adjusting the lens over and over, trying to get the focus just right. Maybe he’s run out of random trivia about the reign of Queen Victoria and he simply wants to focus on the stars now, but she’s getting the sense that he’s a bit nervous. About what, she doesn’t know, but there’s that tense movement to his hands, and the quick bouncing of his knee that tells her something’s up.

“A binary system forms the end of the handle of the Big Dipper – that’s what I’m trying to see,” he explains. He’s starting to struggle with the focus, the dial slippery in his gloved fingers. “Well, more than a binary system – Mizar A and B, the brighter dot – and it’s companion, Alcor.  That’ll be the dimmer one. I think there’s a fourth star by Mizar somewhere, I’d have to check. And you can see Mizar and Alcor pretty clearly without a telescope, but I like getting a closer view.”

“Might be easier if you weren't wearing those gloves,” comments Donna, when he gives her a split second of pause.

John stills suddenly, then looks down at his hands. He lets out a sigh. “Maybe you’re right,” he mutters, giving the words much more gravity than she ever thought they would need.

It’s such a sudden change of mood that she finds herself asking, “Are you okay–” but she only gets that far before he interrupts her.

“I – I need to tell you something,” he says, still looking down at his hands.

“Okay,” she says slowly. “Whatever it is, it can’t be that bad, now can it?”

“No, I guess – I mean, I just think – I’ve been meaning to tell you this,” he starts. “I swear, I have. It just… keeps getting swept aside, and it’s been weeks , anyway, and each day I put it off it just gets worse and worse, and I’m sorry, I really am, but it’s just. Being all friendly like this, the stargazing and the – talking and even the living together, it’s not something I can really do without saying that I… can sort of… read minds… sometimes.”

The idea is so ludicrous, and coupled with his rapid-fire delivery, it takes her a second to process what he said. “You… can read minds.”

“Only a little bit. Or, maybe a lot. I don’t know. I don’t… ”

She peers at him, trying to decipher that look on his face. Even in the dark, she can make out something like worry, or no, guilt. Guilt’s plastered on his face, that’s what it is. Why would he be – Oh. “John,” she says, “What are you saying?”

“It – it wasn’t on purpose, you’ve got to believe me,” he pleads. “It just – happened, and when I realized, I stopped. I swear, I did. I’ve been wearing gloves so that it wouldn’t happen again.” He holds up his hands.

“John–”

“I – I didn’t see much, just so you know. Because you deserve to know. It was just emotions, mostly. You were… furious at Lance, and upset, and heartbroken, and I think I tapped into that, accidentally. But that was the only time, I swear.”

“John, I–”

“It’s – look, it’s touch telepathy,” he continues, like she hadn’t even spoke. “Skin-to-skin contact, that’s what’s needed for any… mind reading. I promise, I haven’t been doing anything like that, not since I found out. I don’t want you to feel like you can’t be around me without wondering if I’m – I’m not trying to, to hurt you, please–”

“I’m not mad at you for reading my mind!” she shouts over him, finally drawing his attention to her and startling him into silence. Far below, there’s the low hum of a passing car, but other than that, it’s dead quiet.

He swallows. “You’re not?”

“God no, it’s – yes, those were my emotions, or thoughts, or whatever, and that’s not something you can just do – but I trust you, John. Whatever you saw, really, you know it was wrong, and obviously you’re not taking advantage of whatever mystic mind powers you’ve got.” She nods towards the gloves. “I’m not mad that you’re telepathic or psychic or whatever, right now I’m mad that you think I don’t care. ”

“I wasn’t saying that,” he protests weakly.

“Yes, you were, because I know you well enough to know you’ve probably been beating yourself up over this, and you’ve been lying about it, because you think I’m going to hate you for this, or that I’m going to run away. I’m not going to stop being friends with you because suddenly you’re ‘too alien’ for me.”

“Oh,” he breathes.

“I don’t want you to think that you have to hide stuff like this from me,” she says. “I’m getting pretty damn unfazeable at this point, but I worry about you, John. I worry so damn much, and if you think that you can’t tell me these things, then I don’t know if…  I just want you to know that we’re in this together, yeah?”

He nods. “Yeah. Yeah, we are.”

“Good, cos I’d really like to see if we could find Venus on this thing,” she says, nodding towards the telescope, still aimed at that binary system at the edge of the Big Dipper.

John smiles, and Donna can feel his relief. He scooches his chair forward to better adjust the telescope – he glances at her before removing the gloves, as if checking for permission, then gets on with moving the telescope to aim towards a solid point of light towards the horizon: Granddad’s favorite planet to find, Venus.

Time passes as they pick and choose celestial bodies to spy in their instrument, talking about whatever comes to mind as they do. Latest gossip at work, new shows and movies (John’s holding out on seeing the latest Harry Potter until Donna can find the time to go with him, and he’s getting a bit impatient), anything that comes to mind, even if it’s pointless and dumb. He’s more relaxed, she notices. Less fidgety, less tense, laughing at her dumb jokes. She must have been right, he really was beating himself up over that.

They fall into companionable silence, eating crisps (Donna’s really the only one eating the crisps, actually) and watching the stars. Until she catches him humming. It’s not quite a song, but an odd sort of non melody, slightly off beat, yet… not. She nudges him with her elbow, careful to not jostle the bag of crisps currently resting in his lap. “What’s that?” she asks.

“Hm?” He turns to her. “Oh it’s ah, silly.”

“ You sound silly, you great idiot,” she says, “and anyway, it can’t get much worse than liking Taylor Swift, can it.”

“I like Taylor Swift,” he objects, vaguely indignant.

“That’s what I just said .”

“Oh – right,” he says after a moment.

She laughs. Then, she gets a clue, and asks, “Is it an alien thing?”

His hand instinctively goes to the back of his neck, and she thinks, bingo . “I… Yeah, it’s an alien thing. I mean — I guess you could call it music, though that might depend on what you think music is. I bet there’s worlds out there where the sound of road work on an early Sunday morning is the height of the classics.”

“Uh huh,” she says. “Are you able to hear phantom music now, or something?”

“No, no, it’s… I think it’s the stars , actually.”

“The stars,” she repeats, just for good measure.

“Well, yeah? See, there’s this theory. An idea that the planets and stars and things in the universe create this sort of music, through the way they move in space. It’s not really music , it’s sort of more… abstract  than that. More of a resonance between celestial bodies. Music would be the best I could describe it as, though.”

“So… you think,” she starts, slowly connecting the dots, “you can hear this music? That’s what you were humming?”

“I mean, it’s not actually music–”

“–But that’s what you're calling it.”

“...Yeah.”

“That makes no sense.”

“I’m working with a limited vocabulary to describe something no human’s ever had to describe, of course it’s going to make no sense! Simply humming it barely represents what it’s really like, dimensions too low and all that. It’s – it’s something you’d have to hear for yourself.” That strikes a chord in him, judging by the way something flashes over his face, too quickly for her to identify in the moonlight. The next thing he says, soft and uncertain, is “I could just show you.

“You what?”

“I could show you,” he repeats. “Let you hear the music.”

She stares at him for a moment, until it clicks. “You mean, with the telepathy thing.”

He hesitates, then says, “...Yeah.”

“The telepathy you just told me about a half hour ago.”

He briefly opens his mouth, and she just knows it’s to correct the amount of time she gave, he’s been doing that so much, but he nods instead. “I think I could… let you hear what I hear, so to speak.”

She can’t deny being curious about this new, implausible talent. Telepathy is only something you hear about on Star Trek, or with those weirdos who stand on street corners wearing homemade signs and making grand statements like “The world government has been scanning your brains! Protect yourselves!” But here John is, not only saying it’s real, and that he’s experienced it, but offering to give her some proof. A demonstration of sorts.

“Yeah,” she says eventually. “I think – I think, yeah. I wanna hear it.”

“ – Are you sure?”

She nods. “Let me hear it.”

He grins, then says, “This might be easier if you can face me.” He looks down at the chairs they’re sitting in and the table between them.

So the two of them stand up to face each other on the rooftop, in the darkness of the night sky, underneath the twinkling stars that glitter like diamonds. When John raises his hands towards her face, Donna can’t help but take a step back.

He notices. “Don’t – don’t worry. It’s just that the psychic points are on the temples. Not that they're necessary , but I think it – it gives a better connection.” He taps against his own with a finger, to show her. “Touch telepathy, remember?”

Donna chuckles nervously. Yes, she’s curious, but again, this is something that was completely science fiction to her, before now. How can she not be a little apprehensive. “You sound like you’ve done this before,” she says.

John stops, nearly freezes completely. “Sorry?” he asks.

“Talking about psychic points and all that,” she starts.

“–Oh that?” he interrupts. “That’s – that’s nothing. Just a bit of… theory, I’d been thinking about. That’s it.”

He nearly sounds like he’s convincing himself – has already convinced himself, but then he’s raising his hands to her head, cool fingers sliding into place over her temples, and the thought falls from Donna’s mind as she watches him. His eyes are closed, and he's frowning in concentration, and Donna's about to laugh, because he looks so silly like that, too dramatic for some dork like him – but then there’s a sudden twist of her  senses, made by someone with the most careful of intentions, yet a little out of practice, and she hears.

A dissonant and harmonic melody, painfully contradictory, fills her mind like rushing water. Each chord played plucking at her very being, threatening to take her apart piece by piece in the most beautiful of ways. Somewhere amid the soaring chimes and strains, she has a startling realization: it’s a lament. The universe is crying out for something she’s never known and never will, because it never truly existed in the first place. Something’s missing, another thing’s gone, never to return, a gaping hole where the center should be. The music of the stars echoing around over and over, bouncing off themselves, and she thinks she might burn along with them, like an ant under a cosmic magnifying glass. She’s just about to lose herself, about to be pulled under the raging rapids to drown, but somehow, she hangs on long enough, manages to suck in a breath and gasp, “Take – take it away, please –”

John’s eyes widen, and there’s that sickening lurch again, only instead of leaving her open and so much more vulnerable than she’s ever known to be possible, a hush falls over the universe, and she’s left alone in her aching mind. 

His hands drop from her face, and she just tries to not to be sick all over her shoes. John’s giving her the biggest look of concern she’s ever seen on anyone, and it’s obvious he’s dying to ask if she’s okay, dying to say something , but more than anyone, he seems to understand that what she needs is utter silence.

She lets herself drop back into her chair, not trusting her legs to support her any longer. John takes a step forward, as if anticipating her fall, and hovers close. She doesn’t have the energy, or the desire to tell him to shove off right now. Instead, she lets her throbbing head fall into her hands, as she thinks about how she’s going to be having the worst migraine a person (a human) has ever had.

Something warm drips down her cheek, and only when she wipes her hand across her face and comes back with salty-wet tears does she understand that she started crying at some point. Her breathing is harsh, the blood rushing in her ears is a deafening roar, but so is the traffic from the streets below, and the hum of a passing plane’s engines, and everything’s so unbearably loud.

(Is this how it is for him, all the time? It must be.)

“Donna,” John says finally. He holds a hand out towards her arm, but thinks better of touching her. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t – I wasn’t thinking, I–”

His whispered words are like razor blades in her ears, syllables like bullets, and she has to – she needs to – she pushes herself to her feet. She’s sorry, she really is, but she needs some peace and quiet, and she won’t be getting it here, not with John. So she heads for the stairwell, ignoring his pleas for her to come back (“Donna, please!”) as she goes.

She glances at him for a second, as she’s holding the door open and ready to run, because in between the headache and the echoes of that haunting melody, she can’t help but think that's what it's like for him that's what it's like for him that's what it's like for him–

The stairwell is cold, empty, and blessedly quiet. She gets three flights down, before her legs feel like they’re going to collapse, and she has to sit at the bottom of the steps of the fifth floor. She buries her head in her hands, and stays like that, curled in on herself like a child, knees to her chest. Her mind buzzes, filled with pins and needles and static, until the echoes of that haunting song finally fade and she’s left with silence, aside from her muffled sobs.

Is that what he hears all day? She couldn't stand it for more than a few short seconds, and he's living with this song in his head every waking moment.

(And he doesn't sleep.)

No wonder his smile looks so fragile sometimes, like the breeze could shatter him into a million pieces.

She isn't quite sure how long it’s been, how long she's been sitting here, picking at the loose threads of her pants and taking comfort in the relative quiet, (John could tell her, he could tell her down to the microsecond and how does he do that, how does he deal with the passing of time constantly in his mind, each minute, every second, how does he cope?) , but by the time she hears footsteps coming down the stairs, she’s shivering from the freezing cold stone and metal around her. Quickly, she wipes her tears on her sleeve, just in time for John to poke his head around.

“Donna?” he says softly. “You alright?”

“Yeah,” she says, though it’s more of a croak than anything else. She’s surprised she can speak at all.

He walks down the rest of the stairs to her hesitantly, as if he’s expecting her to tell him off. She doesn’t. She doesn’t say anything then, and she doesn’t say anything when he sits down besides her. He’s wearing the gloves again, she notes, and his eyes are stuck firmly on the concrete floor in front of him.

She should say something. She really, really needs to say something, because she ran off. Right after she said she’d never leave him, not for this, not in a million years. She asks to know him better, get a better understanding of what he’s going through, and it’s too much for her and she runs.

“I’m sorry,” she says, at the exact moment that John says the same.

Their heads snap up to look at each other with matching surprise and confusion.

“You don’t have to be–” Donna starts.

“I should’ve–” John stammers. “I didn’t–”

“It’s not your fault–”

“I thought–”

They break off into awkward chuckles, letting the conversation fall before anything’s really said.

“I should’ve thought,” John says, before Donna has a chance to try again. “I should’ve assumed. I mean – it’s almost too much for me , and I’ve got an alien brain to process it, what was I thinking?”

“You weren’t thinking,” she says bluntly. “But neither was I. We’re both dumbasses,” she adds, smiling when John snickers. “We’re trying to figure this out together when we’ve got no idea what we’re doing.” She lets her head fall against his shoulder. He stiffens, then relaxes at her touch.

The music has all but faded from her memory now. She can’t say she misses it. Nor can she find it in herself to be mad at him. Mad at the universe, more like. Mad at whatever deity decided that this was the way to go about things, throwing alien curveballs at lovable dorks like John.

“Is it – is it like that all the time?” she asks him. “Can you still hear it?”

“I… I can still hear it. It’s gotten better, I think. I’m getting used to it, or getting better at ignoring it, at least. But yeah, I don’t think I’ll ever stop hearing it. That’s just – that’s just how it is.”

“I’m sorry,” she says.

“It’s fine. Honest, it is.” He glances down at her. “Are you sure you're okay?” he asks again, nudging her a little.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine,” she says. “Could use a nap, though. Or a solid eight hours, more like.”

“That’s a good idea,” he tells her. “I need to get Wilf’s telescope from the roof, and there’s a few projects in the basement I should finish up…” He runs a hand through his hair, ruffling it even more and making it stick up in odd directions. Then he pokes at her shoulder. “I gotta get up. You’re leaning on me.”

“Don’t you ever take a moment to rest?” she asks, not quite ready to move yet.

“Nope,” he says, and now she has some idea of why: if he took a moment to stop, he might lose himself, just like she almost did. He pokes at her again. This time, she shifts her weight, and leans against the wall instead, sighing loudly as she does so.

She watches him get up, and finds herself saying, “You don’t have to wear those gloves all the time.”

He turns to face her, confused.

“If you're still worried about reading my mind,” she adds. “I don't think that’s something that can happen accidentally, don't you?”

He hums – toneless, without any ulterior meaning sending shivers down her spine. “I don't know,” he admits.

“Besides,” she continues, using the wall to push herself onto her feet, “I meant what I said, earlier. I trust you.” Her legs are still a bit shaky, and she keeps a hand on the cool cement wall to steady herself. “I just got overwhelmed, back there. So don’t you ever think I’m going to abandon you. ”

He smiles warmly at her, and envelopes her in a tight hug. She melts into it, hugging him back. “Thanks,” John mumbles. “For just – for everything.”

“No problem, alien boy,” she replies, voice just a tad thick with emotion.

Chapter Text

December finds Donna pounding on the bathroom door. “We’re going to be late!” she shouts.

“Like you want to be there on time?” John shouts back, over the noise of a blowdryer. He’s been at it for ten minutes now, styling his hair like he’s some sort of runway model, and she’s going to positively scream if it goes on for much longer.

“Actually, I do. It’s a work thing. How would I look if I showed up late to work?”

“You’re late every other day anyway–”

“No I’m not!”

“–and this is a party,” he continues as if she didn’t even speak. “A holiday party. They can’t get mad at you. ‘Tis the season, and all that.” She’s never been sure if he really understands how corporations operate, and this isn’t helping. She thinks he’d be surprised what they can get mad at their employees for.

She groans. “Just, can you please hurry up?”

“I’m queer, Donna,” he says. The hair dryer suddenly cuts off. “What’d you expect?”

“Isn’t that like, perpetrating stereotypes or something?”

“Maybe, but they’re my stereotypes!”

She sighs, leans back against the door. “I thought I was forcing you to come with, why do you care so much about what you look like?”

The door opens suddenly, and Donna yelps as she falls backwards, only for John to catch her. “Whoops!” he laughs, pushing her back onto her feet and spinning her around to face him, like she weighs nothing at all. “Be careful there.” He’s in that pinstriped suit again, and his hair looks exactly the same as it always does. Does that mean he always spends this much time doing his hair? She can’t believe she hasn’t realized this yet.

She wastes no time in crossing her arms and glaring at his skinny little hide, determined to let him know how she felt about that stunt. “ You’re the one that opened the door.”

“And you’re the one that wanted me to, remember,” he tells her. He looks down at his suit, and smoothes a few of the wrinkles on the jacket. “Besides, I always care about what I look like. Why would this be any different?”

“Wow, that’s not vain at all,” she says flatly.

John rolls his eyes, and turns towards the bathroom mirror. He preens a bit as he asks, “Did you want me to braid your hair still?”

She glances at herself in the mirror. Her hair’s passable right now, but she thinks she’d do better with a loose braid. “Do we have time?” she asks.

“Definitely. Eleven minutes until the cab comes, eighteen minute drive, give or take a few minutes depending on traffic, two minutes for us arguing over who’s going to pay the cabbie, and then thirty seconds to actually get out and walk into the building. Plenty of time to get there.”

Donna stares at him, as he continues to run a hand through his hair. “You’re full of shit,” she says. “How can you possibly know all that?”

“I don’t,” he says. “But we do have time to braid your hair, so don’t worry about it.”

John makes quick work of her hair, pulling ginger strands into a loose braid. She could braid it herself, but it’s always a hassle, and John does it much better than her anyway, nor does he mind at all.

(And now, it lets her know that he’s feeling more comfortable about the telepathy thing. He doesn’t feel the need to wear those gloves all the time, though he still will, some days. He even cut the fingers off the gloves, after he had an incredibly hard time getting the door open one night and almost locked himself out of the flat.)

Mum had been adamant about taking the car for her girl’s night out, so they’re having to depend on a cab, which arrives at their flat a few minutes later. On the drive to the party, Donna decides to lay down some rules. “This is a work thing,” she says. “I don't want to find you drunk off your arse after thirty minutes. I’m going to be with people I have to work with after this, and you know what happens when you drink a lot. ”

John fidgets with his fingers. “Actually, I…  don't.”

“What do you mean you don’t know?”

“Well, the last time… I had no idea what I did, well. I sort of do, but it’s all fuzzy, and anyway, you left this sticky note on my head making fun of me.”

“How do you not remember? You did not drink enough to black out.” She pauses. “Wait, what note?”

“The last time I got wasted, you left a post-it note on my forehead. Something like, ‘tolerance my arse.’”

“Oh, oh yeah!” She laughs. “Blimey, that feels like ages ago.”

“Don’t you remember teasing me about it for days?”

“It’s been a long few months John,” she tells him. “Things slip.”

“Okay, okay, so you can’t mad at me for not remembering either then, so could you please tell me what I did?” he urges, “because it’s been haunting me ever since.”

“What, seriously? Out of everything to haunt you, it’s that?”

“Just tell me?”

She tilts her head, trying to remember. “Uh, you just sang show tunes really loud to the whole bar – something about pirates? And then later, I think you were sobbing over a pepper shaker.” She shrugs. “I dunno, it was a while ago, and the point is, it’s not going to happen again, capiche?”

He sighs, leans back against his seat looking vaguely disappointed, like he was expecting a whole drunken adventure. “Yeah, capiche. I won’t drink. And it’s not like I can get drunk anyway, so there’s nothing for you to worry about.”

“You can’t get drunk?” she repeats. “That sounds bloody awful.”

“It is!” he cries. The cab driver glances back at him, and he gives the guy an apologetic smile, before returning his attention to Donna, speaking in a hushed voice. “It’s actually the worst. My metabolism doesn’t let me get drunk. Or it’s more like, I’m able to flush the alcohol out of my system at a moment’s notice, but where’s the fun in that? I’m a uni student, getting shitfaced drunk is what we do.”

“So you’ve said.”

They arrive at the party soon enough. It’s being held at some small restaurant and bar, and with the way it’s tucked into the wall – almost out of sight – the brick walls and the dim atmosphere, it feels more appropriate filling the role of a speakeasy than the venue for a corporate holiday party.

Once they find the front entrance–

(How hard could it be? Unreasonably so, apparently. The first door they try is locked, and the second leads to a different building entirely, one with people holding complex poses as they sit on yoga mats. They quickly leave that place.)

–they’re greeted by a cheerful waiter, and directed to the room where CRL Industries is holding their annual holiday party. This particular room is large, and tables are scattered around the outer edges, leaving the center of the room open for dancing, talking, or whatever else might be on the schedule. Donna didn’t bother reading the email past the first two paragraphs, which told her the occasion, the date, and that it was one hundred percent mandatory to attend (“But bring a guest!”). It also told her to bring a present for Secret Santa, which she has in a bag, resting on her arm like a purse. Just a box or two of chocolates, nothing special. It’s under ten quid, like they said.

The room is full of people already, and soft pop music is playing from speakers in the front. Already, Donna can pick out a few familiar faces – Shannon from HR, Chris from marketing, a few nameless interns, some higher ups, and over by the open bar is Riley, a newly hired secretary that she’s come to know pretty well as they’ve had to share an office space.

Belatedly, she realizes that this place is loud, and crowded, and John might not want to be here. She looks to him, relieved to find that he’s smiling away, taking in the festive decorations: Garland around the tables, strings of lights strung up on walls and ledges, with an emphasis on the bar.

“They’ve really gone all out,” John comments as a waiter passes by, carrying a plate of nibbles – an assortment of cookies. He reaches over, and snatches a piece of gingerbread. “Is it always like this?” he asks, before taking a bite of his stolen cookie. “Oh, these are good, I like these,” he says as he chews.

Donna shrugs, and ignores how he’s talking with his mouth full; she’s tried calling him out, he never listens. “I wouldn’t know. But it’s a big company, and we’ve got a new boss, so I think he might be eager to impress.” Across the room, she spots a table filled with gifts – small boxes and bags, some with bows and others with ribbons, stacked together, all for Secret Santa. “Right,” she announces, patting the bag on her arm. “I’m going to drop this off, and then we can–”  

She looks to her left, to her right, then sighs. Scrawny git has already run off, to do who knows what. She was the one to bring him here, she asked for him to come, just so she wouldn’t be alone in a room full of petty coworkers and rude, demanding managers, and he goes and swans off, five minutes in! Typical.

She can’t pick him out of the crowd of suits and dresses, no matter how hard she looks. Well, she just hopes that he doesn’t embarrass himself, or her, for that matter. No, she should be much more worried about John embarrassing her. She’s not even sure if he can embarrass himself. This is the guy that wore a button-down shirt with cats printed all over it in public, after all.

She drops the gift off at the table, and makes her way to the bar. The bartender’s pouring a drink for her, when out of the corner of her eye, she spots Riley.

Riley’s waving at her from where they sit alone at a nearby table. “Hey girl!” they shout over the chatter and music. Donna waves back, and takes her drink to go.

She slides into the seat facing them. “I thought you weren’t coming,” she says.

They pick up their drink and take a sip. “Open bar,”  they say. “I thought ‘what the hell.’”

“You’re drinking a lemonade,” she points out.

“Yeah, and? Still didn’t have to pay for it.”

Donna considers that. “Alright. But didn’t you have a… holiday planned, or somethin’?”

Riley shakes their head. “Nah, that fell through the cracks. Couldn’t get a ticket to Paris that didn’t break the bank.”

“That’s a shame,” Donna says.

They shrug. “I have some Jewish friends that aren’t going to be with their families either, I can just celebrate Chanukah with them.” Then they lean in conspiratorially. “And between you and me, I wasn’t really keen on visiting my parents.”  

“Oh, tell me about it. Christmas dinner with my mum, it’s nothing but nagging about when I’ll get my life together and stop being… well, you know. Not entirely focused on men and settling down.”  

Riley raises their drink. “The plight of queer folk,” they say with something of a smirk.

Donna laughs, and leans back in her chair. “I’ve always wanted to go to Paris, though,” she says. ”Could never find the time, or the money, like you said.”

They nod sagely, and the two of them talk for a while longer; Though they’re a new secretary, Riley’s one of the few people in the company that Donna feels like she can actually sit down and have a conversation with. It helps that they also aren’t incredibly knowledgeable about everything going on in the company, considering that they only moved here from Paris a few months ago.

They both toss banter back and forth, and talk trash about their co-workers, and the new boss, who’s obviously throwing this whole thing just to win the favor of his employees. Well out of earshot, of course.

A few times, she considers getting up and finding John, wherever he is, but she’s only halfway done with her second drink, and apparently Riley overheard some juicy new gossip, so she figures that if he needs her, he’ll find her.

Which he does, in his usual fashion. Riley’s just gotten to the good part, relaying to Donna how they were in the break room, making another pot of coffee, when Nate Peters, you know, the accountant, he walks in, and–

John barges into the scene, and slams his hands onto the table. “Donna, there you are! I’ve been looking all over, you’ve got to see what they’ve got!”  

“Bloody hell!” she shouts, she and Riley jumping in their seats. “What are you doing?”  

“I’m – I’m, just, look. There’s this guy, Ben. Do you know Ben? No, what am I talking about, of course you do. You’re the one that works here. But Ben, he knows magic, like, proper magic. Not quite as impressive as my magic–” He glances at Riley, before leaning in and whispering, “You know, the pockets,” before saying loudly, “But still, it’s brilliant, you gotta check it out.”

Donna narrows her eyes, taking in his rapid-fire speech, and the way he’s leaning his weight on the table, as if he doesn’t trust himself enough to stand on his own.  She tries to ignore Riley’s stifled laughs as she asks, incredulous, “Are you – are you drunk?”

“What? No, never. Can’t be, you know that. Oh, Riley! Donna’s friend!” He turns on his heel to face them, swaying slightly. “How’s your sister? Weren’t you two going to go to…” He snaps his fingers, trying to find the word. “Paris! That’s it. How was Paris?”

Riley blinks, their laughter dying away. “I don’t – I don’t have a sister.” They look to Donna. “Is he your boyfriend?”

“God no,” she blurts, still watching John as he grabs the table again to steady himself. People are starting to pay attention, turning away from their conversations to gawk at him. One person is her boss, Donna realizes to her growing horror, looking at John, and more specifically her , with visible disdain.

John chimes in with, “Never – hic – never ever!”

Donna turns to Riley and gives them a polite smile. “Could you excuse us, for just a moment?”

She doesn’t wait for a response, before getting up and dragging John by the wrist through the tables and the groups of people, He stumbles after her, protesting. “Hey, hey, where are we going? You can’t just leave Riley alone, you know!”

“They’ve got plenty of friends,” she snaps, before pulling him in front of her and roughly pushing him into the empty hallway. John trips, and almost falls, but seems to catch himself at the last moment. He turns around to meet her seething eyes. “I thought you said you weren’t going to drink!”

“I – I haven’t drank anything!” he insists, slurring terribly. “Drink? Drank? Drunk? Whatever. I had – one beer, but I told you, I haven’t been able to get drunk since the – the biolock broke.” He tenses suddenly, squeezing his eyes shut and pressing the palm of his hand to his forehead, like he’s got an intense migraine. “I’m fine, I’m fine,” he says, before she even has the chance to ask. ”I just – Oh, my head,” he groans.

“Usually you get the hangover the next morning, you know,” she says. Alien idiot can’t even get hangovers right, apparently.  

He lets his hand fall from his head, and opens his eyes, glaring at her. “I’m not – hic – drunk! I had… one beer, that’s it. You can’t get drunk on one beer!”

“Okay, well, did you eat anything?” she asks, though doubting that any of the food had the chance of being spiked. The party was catered, after all.

“Uh…” He frowns, thinking deeply like it’s the hardest question he’s had to answer all night, even counting a few digits on his fingers. “I also had some… gingerbread? Remember that waiter who was carrying the nibbles around? He had all the gingerbread.”

“You what? How does gingerbread and beer get someone drunk?”

“Still not drunk – Or, maybe I…”  

“Maybe, what?”

He shushes her, holding up a finger to demand silence. “I’m thinking, ” he stage-whispers. Then he goes alarmingly still, and his eyes lose focus, like he’s looking at something beyond her. She almost thinks he’s going to faint, or he’s gone catatonic while standing, somehow, before he inhales sharply. “Oh, yup! Definitely, absolutely, intoxicated.” He shakes his head, blowing out a breath. “Blimey, that’s – that’s a lot. That is definitely some intoxication there.”  

“That’s what I’ve been saying –”

“No, no, no,” he says, putting a hand on her shoulder, though from the way he leans heavily on her, it’s more than just a gesture to get her attention. “Cause I still shouldn't be able to get drunk . It’s the gingerbread, Donna.”

“The… gingerbread,” she repeats, looking into his eyes, trying to see if he’s really lost his mind or not.

“The gingerbread – the ginger, that’s what did it.” He taps the side of his head. “Screws up everything right here. I can feel it, messing with me, not letting me metabolise the beer. Making it worse, I think. Doesn’t feel – hic – good, I gotta say. I’m trying to shrug it off, but I can’t seem to… ” His face turns a shade of green, and Donna’s immediately lifting his hand from her shoulder, pushing him a safe distance away from her, just in case.

“Christ, well… let’s get you home.”

John nods, then seems to immediately regret it when he gags. “No more nodding,” he tells himself. “Can’t nod.”

“You better not vomit on my shoes, lightweight. These are brand new, and I will make you pay for them,” she says, pulling him gently down the hall. She doesn’t feel bad for having to leave early. She didn’t want to go to some dumb corporate party to be forced to socialize amicably with the higher-ups, and John getting absolutely smashed is her ticket out, as bad as it probably is to say that.

They stand on the curb, waiting for the taxi cab to arrive, and every passing minute, John’s looking more and more ill. Just how potent is gingerbread to weird time aliens, she wonders. And why gingerbread, of all the things in the universe to be intoxicating.  

Donna bundles him into the cab, once it arrives, and prays to every known and unknown deity that he doesn’t get sick all over the floor. Luckily, it seems he’s gotten to the completely, utterly exhausted stage of drunkenness, and settles for resting his head against the window as they’re driven home.

“I got super drunk once,” he slurs, “at this bar on Hau – Haum – Oh sod it. At some bar. Lovely place. Bit of a hole in the wall, but very exclusive. You’ve got to know the right people to get in. I just used the psychic paper. It’s oh, three light years or so from this quaint little space station.”

“Light years, E.T? What are you going on about?”

He blinks for a moment, theatrically puzzled, and then shrugs. “I dunno, must be exaggerating, then. I say a lot of things. You’re always saying that.”

The cab comes to a stop, and Donna looks out the window to see their flat outside, finding it the best sight she could possibly see right now. She quickly pays the cabbie, and starts on the daunting task of getting John out of this car, up four flights of stairs, and into their flat.

It’s a struggle, obviously. Any semblance of John’s alien sense of balance is nowhere to be seen as she forces him up the stairs with her. He’s babbling on about Venus and some bloke named Fitz the entire time, and just generally being no help whatsoever.

Finally, finally , they get into the flat, and though she should really not be feeling this generous, she guides him to her bedroom. Waking up to a massive hangover on a crappy couch is never fun, and now that she thinks about it, it might bring up some unsavory memories for him. So, proper bed it is.

They both sit down on the edge, and John immediate leans against her for support. Normally, she’d make a jab at him for this, but she decides she can make fun of him in the morning; it wouldn’t be fun now, when he probably won’t remember any of this come dawn, considering his track record.

“Hey Donna,” he says, not bothering to lift his head from her shoulder. “Riley was talking about Paris. We should go to Paris sometime, me and you. Seventeenth century, at least. The seventeenth is my favorite. We could see the opening of the Comédie-Française.”

“And how the hell would we get there,” she asks, humoring him more than anything, “four centuries in the past?”

He pokes her side, like he’s admonishing her for being the reasonable one here. “Don’t be daft. Four centuries in the past is easy.”

She looks down at him, wondering if she heard him right. “Sorry, what?”

“You’re acting like I’m a bad pilot, which I’m not . I’m perfectly capable of flying the TARDIS, and I really wish people would stop saying that I’m not. Countless centuries of space-time travel, I think I know what I’m doing by now.” He weakly clutches at his head again. “Headache’s back,” he mumbles, sounding faint. “Well, not that it ever really left , just got more intense and… Oh Rassilon’s Crown, why’d you let me eat ginger, of all things?”

And before Donna can say anything, John’s out like a light, falling back onto the bed.

Chapter Text

 
Your coping methods were never designed to be healthy. There’s no way they could be. What you’re dealing with is so far out of the scope of normality, there’s no way you can suffer through it normally.

Unfortunately, this leaves you liable to reaching a point where you can’t stop, where you can’t look at the big picture anymore because you’re so used to chopping it up into pieces that are easier to digest.

It doesn’t help that something else is forcing you to see the world in such a specific way, either.

The moment John wakes up, he knows he fucked up.

It feels like there’s a vise loosened, a chip in the paint. Whatever it is, something’s different.

Then reality hits him, and he has to forget all about whatever that meant, because suddenly he’s dealing with timelines and worldviews, and so many exact numbers and temperatures and chemical formulas filling his mind that it takes him seventeen point two seconds to remember how to properly think again.

(The first time Donna made him take a nap while being an alien and he woke up, he was incapacitated for something like fifteen minutes, fighting through it all. He’s been getting better at dialing everything down, but it’s still an effort.)

His head’s absolutely pounding, his mouth feels like it's full of sand and molasses, and he has the disconcerting feeling that he’s done something he really, really shouldn't have.

A quick check, and he comes back with a diagnosis of – ah, a hangover. He hasn’t had one of those since… since whatever the hell happened to make him this. That’s odd.

He’s in a bed. One that used to be his before Donna claimed it. At least it’s familiar, and comfortable. He eases himself into a sitting position, pausing when his stomach flips and he feels like he might vomit. He covers his face with his hands, and lets out a low groan, wondering how he managed to give himself what may possibly be the worst hangover he’s ever had.

Last night… what happened last night?

Donna. She had dragged him to this party, that’s right. Nagging, blah blah blah, cab ride, and when they got there, the place was extravagant, not what he’d expect from her company. Festive decor, and an open bar – Did he? No. No, she specifically told him not to get drunk off his arse. A beer, that’s all he had. Not very good beer, come to think of it. The gingerbread had been better–

–two point seven two grams ginger consumed in a period of thirty nine point six spans, metabolic rate of alcohol impaired by eighty three percent–

–He squeezes his eyes shut, and scratches at his scalp furiously, trying to clear his mind. Too many numbers, it’s always too many numbers, especially when he wakes up and the filters haven't been firmly established, and everything is so agonizingly precise. He never sleeps, and this is the main reason: the reboot takes too damn long, and is just too damn painful.

The rest of the night is a blank slate. Completely out of reach to him. He feels like he should be more concerned about that, but he finds himself in an odd state of calm. It’s fine, don’t worry about it.

He takes a moment to steel himself to prepare for the onslaught of vertigo when he swings his legs over the side of the bed. Sure enough, he feels like the spinning of the room is going to knock him to the floor, and he has to take twenty four seconds for everything to feel stable again. Then, he gets up on shaky legs, and makes his way to the kitchen, a hand on the wall for support.

When he’s halfway through the hall, he realizes Donna must’ve left for work already. It’s Friday, nine eighteen in the morning. She was complaining a few days ago about having to go in for work the day after the party when everyone else was probably going to call in sick, he remembers that, at least. Oh, he should apologize to her, shouldn't he.

Leaning against the wall, he digs his mobile out from his pockets (and he’s still wearing his suit, lovely), and dials Donna’s number. The phone rings – painfully loud in his ears – once, twice, before she picks up, and asks, “Hello?”

“Donna, hey…” he starts, immediately aware of the fact he has no idea how to continue this conversation.

Luckily, she’s got it. “John, I’m on the couch. Why are you calling me?” There’s some odd inflection in her voice, but he doesn’t have half the ability to try and figure out what it means.

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“I’ll just…”

“You do that,” she says, before hanging up.

He walks into the living room to find Donna laying down on the couch, computer on her lap, surrounded by empty coffee mugs. She looks like she hasn’t slept one bit. Messy hair, dark circles under her eyes, and is that last night’s evening dress? Dozens of papers are spread over the coffee table, and not all of them are his, he can see. There’s spreadsheets, maps, all sorts of printed papers – official looking documents and screenshots of various websites. Almost like she’s a detective trying to solve the cold case of the millennia.

“You’ve set up shop,” he remarks, casually as he can.

She yawns, holding up her arm to stretch, and glances around the room like she’s just now noticing the mess she’s made. “Yeah. Had some… work to do.” She looks up at him. “How are you?” she asks, somewhat apprehensively.

“Got a hell of a hangover,” he admits. “I’m just gonna… get started on a pot of coffee.” Donna has no complaints, so he stumbles into the kitchen and starts going through the motions. Water, filters, fresh grounds, on button. His head’s throbbing, and Donna’s footsteps as she comes into the kitchen don't help. He glances behind himself to see her leaning against the wall, arms crossed over her chest, something like anger on her face, but not quite. Something more scrutinizing.

He goes back to looking for mugs in the cabinets. “I’m… sorry about last night,” he says. “I know you said this was exactly what you didn’t want to happen.”

“Can you remember anything from last night?” she asks.

“Ah, bits and pieces. It’s coming back to me,” he lies, before asking, “Did you use all the mugs? Why didn’t you just reuse them?” Not like he’s one to talk, but as long as she doesn’t point that out, he’s in the clear. But he can’t find any mugs in the usual places, and there’s almost enough coffee in the pot for a cup, and he really doesn’t want to waste any time getting some caffeine into his body.

Donna looks at him a moment longer, then nods to a cabinet on the far left. “There’s a few in there, still.”

“Thanks.” He quickly makes a cup for himself, and gives Donna a quick questioning look to see if she wants one herself. She shakes her head. He shrugs, and pours a cup. But before taking a sip, he decides he really needs to do something about the pounding against his skull, and looks in the cabinet above the sink for some painkillers.

Acetaminophen, ibuprofen… aspirin, that’s supposed to be good for hangovers, he thinks. He undoes the bottle, and taps two tablets into the palm of his hand. He reaches for his cup of coffee with his other hand and – yelps as the aspirin starts to burn. He flaps his hand vigorously, throwing the tablets into the sink, where they clatter and fall down the drain. Good riddance, he thinks.

“I thought I told you to throw that stuff out!” Donna says, more harsh than necessary, he thinks.

“Yeah well, I forgot, didn’t I?” John snaps, quickly running his injured hand under the tap. The water is blessedly cold, and he scolds himself for not listening to her, like usual.

“How do you just forget about something like that?” she asks, walking over to him and snatching the bottle from the counter, then she throws it into the rubbish bin with an unnecessary amount of force, he thinks. “You’re gonna poison yourself one of these days.”

He ignores her, opting to break a leaf off the aloe vera that Donna insists on keeping in the kitchen. As much as he may not understand the general appeal, he has to admit that the plant has some uses. Especially like smearing its goo onto burns. The burn will definitely blister, but the aloe vera helps with the pain, and he’ll heal soon enough anyway. He gingerly grabs his cup of coffee, and relaxes when the warm ceramic doesn’t exacerbate the wound. He leans against the counter, sipping his drink and letting the caffeine soothe his nerves.

“So, uh, you didn’t get in trouble with your boss or anything, did you?” he asks, trying to move on the best he can.

She doesn’t respond, not immediately. It’s a few seconds before she answers with, “No, no I didn’t.” She’s back to watching him with that odd scrutinizing look, as if she’s trying to pick him apart.

“Are you okay?” he asks. “You seem… disturbed.”

“I am disturbed,” she mutters, eyes to the floor. Now he’s really curious about what he got up to last night, and he’s racking his brain trying to remember, but there’s a thick mental fog that he just can't seem to break past. “John, I think we need to talk,” she says suddenly.

“Are you breaking up with me?”  

“Wh – No, we aren't even dating!”  

“Oh, right. Of course. Just, usually when people say something like that, it means–”

“I know what it means!” she snaps.

He freezes, watching her with wide eyes. He can practically feel the friction between them, thick and cloyingly bitter (or maybe that’s the coffee), but whatever it is, it’s a weight on his chest, suffocating him. “Did I do something wrong?” he asks softly.

“Yes, no, I don’t know–” She throws her hands in the air.  “–that’s the problem! I don’t know. ”

He isn’t sure what to say to that, but she’s already storming out of the kitchen. “Donna?” he calls after her, hurrying into the living room to find her shuffling through the papers on the table. She doesn’t look up when he walks over to her. “Is it a work thing?”

“‘Is it a work thing,’ he asks,” she says mockingly. “No, John, it’s not a work thing.”

“Then can you please tell me?” he demands, and Donna turns around to face him, crumpled papers in her arms. “This whole ‘leave John in the dark and be mean to him because he doesn’t know what’s going on’ thing is getting old pretty fast, and you just need to–”

“I don’t think you exist!” she blurts.

He stills. “Sorry, you what?”

She looks frazzled. “I – I know it sounds absolutely barmy, but I’ve been going through and researching it all night, and John,” she pleads, “you don’t have any sort of traceable history. It’s like you just… popped into existence one day.”

“What are you talking about?” he asks, trying to wrap his mind about what she's saying, and failing spectacularly. “Is this some kind of joke?”

“I wish it was, but I’m being completely serious! Look at this,” she tells him firmly, shoving a small stack of papers into his hands.

He peers down at the papers. “Are these my university transcripts? How’d you even get these?”

“That doesn’t matter,” she says. ‘What matters is I haven’t found a single record of you being in any classes before two thousand and four. You’re in grad school, John, how the hell do you not have any class records from undergrad?”

“You just aren't looking hard enough–”

“Not looking hard enough?” she repeats, glare intensifying. “I’ve looked plenty hard enough, and – look at those marks. Tell me if you see anything wrong.”

“I don’t think we really need to–”

“Just do it, alright?” she tells him harshly, on the verge of shouting.

He mutters to himself, wondering where the hell Donna’s going with this. “They’re my transcripts,” he says flatly, once he’s glanced at the papers. “From the past… seven semesters.” He looks up at her. “I don’t see the issue here.”

“That was all that I could find,” she says, “and you can bet your skinny alien rear I didn’t miss anything. You only have seven semesters’ worth of classes. You’re in graduate school, you’re in a master’s program, but there’s no record of you even having a bachelor’s degree.”

“It’s a mix-up,” he suggests, reasonably. “My records must’ve – gotten erased, or something. Bureaucratic incompetence. You can’t assume that means I don’t exist–”

“No, no it isn’t!” She jabs a finger at his chest. “It isn't a mix-up, because if it was, they would’ve added everything back once they noticed, and believe me, they should have noticed by now. Undergrad records, secondary school grades, A levels, all that stuff. But it isn’t there. It’s like you just showed up to class one day, and someone said ‘hey, we should start keeping track of this person.’ I could believe it was a mix-up, if it was just one thing, but it’s not. Big picture, John. Think big picture.”

“What big picture? You’re taking some little mistake and acting like it’s this huge, cryptic mystery, but it’s not. It’s really not.”

“But there aren’t any records of you going to secondary school, or taking A levels, or anything like that. It’s not that it’s not in the system, it doesn’t exist.”

“It’s a mix-up,” he says again, after a moment’s pause. “It has to be. How could it just – not exist?”

“John, I can’t find any mention of you online before May in two thousand and four.” For a second, she sounds like she might cry. “There’s nothing .”

“Yeah, because it was two thousand and four, and Facebook wasn’t even called Facebook yet! The internet was running on dial-up and paperclips, it’s not like you’d find a whole lot.”

“But you’d expect to find something. You’re not exactly a solitary person. How can someone live for thirty years and not have a single trace on the internet?”

He’s almost speechless at her accusations, wild assumptions that they are. “My name is John Smith , it’s not exactly easy to Google, now is it? My parents weren’t thinking that my best friend would suddenly question my entire existence and need to look me up on the internet when they named me.” He can’t even believe he had to say something like, can’t even believe they’re having this conversation. How could he not have a past? He’s thinking, he’s breathing, he has a home, and a flatmate, and he’s going for a doctorate. He’s left a mark on this world, even if it’s in small ways.

“But your parents didn’t name you,” she continues. “They couldn’t have! There’s – there’s no trace of them anywhere. Sydney and Verity Smith? There’s nothing. No newspapers articles, no tax records, no past addresses, no photographs. There isn’t even an obituary out there! They don’t exist.”

She’s wrong, she has to be. His hearts are racing, and swallowing is painful, but he tells himself it’s the caffeine and the gingerol hangover, and not the tiny part of him that’s listening to her, believing her, sifting through memories and finding that they aren’t as… solid as he once believed. Faded at the edges, and oh so still, without that spark of heart and soul. He walls off that train of thought, quick as he can, and finds it easier than ever to push everything into the furthest corner of his mind. She’s wrong. He has a past, she’s just not looking, she’s just missing things, she’s playing a joke. It doesn’t matter what, she’s just wrong.

“And what about where you grew up?” asks Donna, startling him back to reality.

“What about it?”

“Where did you grow up?”

“You know this, I’ve must’ve told you plenty of times–”

“ Where did you grow up?” she repeats, with a glare and a tone that leaves no room for arguing.

“Gallifrey,” he says, finally.

There’s something in her eyes, watching him carefully. It takes her a second to ask, “And where is Gallifrey?”  

Hesitancy slips into his voice against his will, and he says, “Ireland…?” It’s her frantic mood, he tells himself, and the hangover, still pounding away at his skull, making him feel uncertain.

“No, it’s not.” She shoves another piece of paper into his hands. “Gallifrey isn't in Ireland – Hell, it’s not even in Great Britain! Or anywhere else, for that matter. I’ve checked , all night I was looking. I know you’ve told me this before, but I don't think it even exists .”  

The paper is a map of Ireland, with various ‘X’s marked in seemingly random places, all in red pen. He can’t see the pattern there, if there is one at all. Gallifrey, it was to the north, wasn’t it? But a quick scan of that area shows no such towns. Nor does the rest of the map. After a pause, he looks back up at her and says, “The map’s got to be outdated, that’s all.” It feels like he’s saying for himself, as much as he is for her.

She stares at him. “No, it’s not . You think that I’m going to miss a detail like that?”

“Y ou’re the one saying that my hometown doesn’t exist! It – it has to exist. I mean, I exist, don't I?”

“That’s what I’m saying , I don’t know .”

“How – how can you not know?” he asks, voice trembling ever so slightly. He – he remembers Gallifrey, he’s sure he does. He has to. A nice little town on the coast… or was it a city? “How does someone just not exist? I exist, I’m right here!”

“You don’t even have an Irish accent, John. You’ve got the most typical London accent I’ve ever heard in my life, or – or, Scottish, maybe, but whatever it is, it’s definitely not Irish!”

“So what?” he retorts. “I’ve been in London years now, maybe I picked it up.”

“‘Maybe?’ What, like you aren't sure?” she asks accusingly.

“I–”

He is sure. His accent, what happened to his accent? He remembers having a Scottish – No, an Irish accent. He can remember having an Irish accent, so why doesn’t he have one now?

Donna snapping her fingers in his face forces him back to the present. “John,” she’s saying, “you can’t just keep spacing out like that!”

“I haven’t been spacing out!” He – he hasn’t, he knows he hasn’t been. What’s giving her that impression?

Donna grabs his shoulder with both her hands, startling into dropping the papers he’s been holding. “Listen to me,” she presses, and she sounds like she might start crying, “ please. You keep slipping away like you can’t even hear me, and it’s – you’re freakin’ me out here.”

He nods. “I–I’m listening,” he says, because he is, what does she mean, ‘slipping away?’

“Last night,” she starts, “last night, when you were drunk, you were rambling on and on, about all this stuff. About space, and centuries, and people that I’ve never heard you talk about before. I – I thought it was nonsense, but… I have to ask, who the hell is Rassilon?”

He opens his mouth to speak, but feels the oddest sensation of words – words the flavor of animosity and condescendence with a flippant disregard for authority – that were on the tip of his tongue slipping away into nothing. He doesn’t know any Rassilon , he never has, but why is there that terrible, sickening feeling that he does . Then something jerks faintly to the left and… and kata, that’s it, kata, a little bit left-right and inner-up, and he almost, almost can sense some sort of link to that name. But then whatever it is, if it was ever there, it snaps fiercely back into place, leaving him staring at Donna, dazed and so viscerally disoriented.  “I don’t… know…?” he manages, though he can tell it’s a lie, even if he doesn’t know what he’s lying about.

Donna can tell too. Her hands are tight on his shoulders – he finds time to be thankful, since he doesn’t think he could stay on his legs without support – and she’s looking at him with a similar expression. Only, she’s sure of where she stands, and the confusion is accentuated by a worry and fear so strong he can almost feel it.

Donna’s voice trembles as she asks him next, “And – and TARDIS, do you know what a TARDIS is?”

And hearing that word is so much worse than the other – not because it’s painful or unknown, but because it’s so utterly familiar that it makes his hearts ache, and he doesn’t even know what it is. It brings to mind such strong feelings of home and blue and freedom and artron-gold comfort that he feels something bend under its weight, on the brink of snapping altogether. A slight shift in a worldview, like everything he’s looking at has changed ever so slightly, or like a knife cutting jagged lines through everything he ever thought he knew. There’s a lessening of a static haze in his mind – one that he wasn’t even aware of until its absence leaves him open and vulnerable and quite, quite afraid.  

There’s an awful look in Donna’s eyes, then. She must have seen in his face the pang of recognition he felt, deep in his chest.

“Donna,” he asks, small and plaintive, “what’s going on?”

Chapter Text

From the sofa, Donna watches John pace back and forth. She feels nauseous, seeing the way he’s been ranting to himself. She can see it quite clearly, how he’s trying to see the bigger picture, fighting to do so, while simultaneously trying to convince himself that nothing is going on at all.

Like he just popped into existence, she had told him when getting him to even acknowledge the possibility was a colossal struggle. It… it was like she’d get it through his thick skull for a moment – that he didn’t actually have a bachelor’s degree, that his hometown wasn’t where he said it was, it wasn’t anywhere at all – and then he’d blink, eyes blank and dull like the static on a television, before returning back to of course I have a past, Donna.

“How – how could I have not noticed?” he’s asking himself right now. “How could I just – not think about my past? There’s no record of me taking any classes before two thousand and four–” And there. Right there. An off-kilter pause as his eyes blank out again, before he shakes his head and keeps going. “–But there has to be something. There can’t just be nothing, can there? That isn’t possible.”

“Nothing about you should be possible,” she interrupts, and she wishes she could muster some strength into her voice. She has to be the calm one right now, she has to be. “You’re an – an alien, with two hearts, and freaky cat eyes that glow in the dark, and once you told me that you can taste seconds. It shouldn’t make sense, but…” She trails off, feeling powerless.

“Did I really say that?” he asks absently, spins on his heel to pace back to the other side of the living room, towards the kitchen.

“You say a lot of things, John. Especially when you're drunk.”

“It would make sense, wouldn't it? Sometimes alcohol makes people blurt out whatever’s on their mind. At least, I think that’s what’s supposed to happen.” He stops his pacing to look at her. “That’s how you knew,” he says, like it’s just processing now, which, it very well might be. “That’s how you knew what to ask, what to look for.”

She nods. “Yeah well, by the end of the night you weren’t really making any sense, but you… acted like I was the weird one, not knowing what you were talking about. And it – got me thinking.”

“So you decided to go on the internet and spend all night trying to see if I even existed?”

“Obviously it didn’t start out that way, but sort of. Yeah.”

“What the hell , Donna?” He throws his hands up. “I – I – My whole life, I thought I had a childhood, some kind of education, or parents at the very least, and now you’re just telling me everything I ever knew is wrong?”

“Oi, don’t snap at me!” she says. “It wasn’t my idea to get you drunk off your arse. If that hadn’t happened, then we wouldn’t even be having this conversation–!”

John freezes suddenly, inhuman-stiff like glass, and it’s enough for the words to die in her throat. He stares at her, a deer caught in the headlights, and she can see the way his shoulders tremble with the tension they hold, just barely keeping himself together through sheer force of will. She realizes where she just placed the blame a moment too late.

“Hey, hey, listen.” Donna jumps up from her seat and grabs his shoulders to keep him steady. “It’s fine, it’s going to be fine–”

“How can you know that?” he pleads, a shudder going through him and now he’s moving again. Grabbing her hands, pulling them off his shoulders and holding them in front of him, his grip tight enough to be painful. “We don’t know anything , everything I thought I – I knew, it’s all been–”

“John,” she says sharply, startling him into silence as his mouth snaps shut. “I’m going to tell you something incredibly important right now, and this time I want you to actually listen to me, alright?”

Confusion crosses his face, marred by something like desperation, and he manages a nod.

“Whatever’s going on, we’re going to figure this out. You and me, together. You – so maybe your past is a – a lie,” and oh, that just tastes awful coming out of her mouth. “But that doesn’t mean you aren’t here now.”

(But where was he before? Before he started living in London, studying chemistry, watching the stars with her grandad?)

She says, “That doesn’t mean you aren’t the same dumbass I’ve known for years now.”

(But is he? After all, he used to be human, once upon a time, an age ago.)

(Things change, people change.)

(Last night he talked about space stations and seventeenth century France, and now he can barely stand to acknowledge that. What happened?)

She doesn’t realize that she’s fallen silent until John says, “Donna?” in a soft voice. Her eyes widen. “The thing is…” she starts off slowly. “You don’t have a recorded past, but you acted like you did. You rambled on a lot about some guy named Fitz. Like, way too much for you to be making it up on the spot.”

“I – I don’t know any Fitz.” But his eyes seem to tell a different story, however. Something just below the surface that squirms in its place.

“It sounded like you did,” she insists. “At least, when you’re drunk off your arse.”

He blinks – a normal blink, short and sweet, one that indicates surprise and bafflement, rather than some alien trick that she can’t fathom the purpose of. “What are you suggesting?”

“Look,” she says. “I know I kept saying that you haven’t got any history at all, and that there’s nothing there. But what if there is, and you’re just looking for the wrong thing, or in the wrong spot?”

“I… What?”

“You rambled on and on about Fitz, whoever he is, and you said Paris was your favorite, but only in the seventeenth century. Then , at one point you thought I was insulting your… piloting skills? You were acting like you’ve had this whole other life, but you can’t even remember it right now. But when you were drunk, you did remember. I think you did, at least.”

This part seems to go down easier. Thankfully. She doesn’t know if she could have stood to argue with him again and again, fighting against him and his terrible stubbornness.

“You think I should get drunk again,” he says. It feels like it should be a question, but it isn’t.

She doesn’t deny it. “John, it’s not like we can just let this go, not like all the other times. And – if getting you drunk can help us understand this better… ” She makes a vague gesture towards John, not quite sure what she’s trying to convey, but hoping it’s something good.

“So what? I get drunk again, you ask me a bunch of questions, and we hope for the best?”

She shrugs helplessly. “I… I think so? Yeah?”

Donna walks into the kitchen to find John sitting at the table, back from the store. He’s leaning back in a chair, arms folded tightly over his chest, and he’s staring down an unopened six-pack of ginger beer like it personally murdered his entire, nonexistent family. He’s also changed into a tee shirt and sweatpants, something hopefully a bit more comfortable than the suit he slept in.

“Okay, I got some pens and paper,” she announces as she sits down opposite of him. “And I thought up a bunch of questions while you were shopping, so…” She trails off. He hasn’t looked up at her; if he’s noticed her return from her bedroom, there’s no sign. Donna settles for dropping her notebook onto the table, letting the slap of cheap plastic and paper against cheaper wood bring him out of his sulk. His head snaps up to look at her. “We don’t have to do this, you know,” she says. “You’re gonna have a hell of a hangover to deal with, for one thing.” And the fallout of whatever happens tonight, she doesn’t say.

It takes a moment for him to talk, and when he does, it’s soft and – and flat. “I’m trying to – Whatever I’m remembering, I think you’re right. I think it’s wrong.” He shivers slightly, hugging himself tighter. “If there’s something else there, in my subconscious, then we need to know. I just wish it didn’t have to involve ginger beer,” he adds with a grimace.

Donna looks down at the ginger beer, dubious. According to the label, it’s alcoholic, but there’s barely enough to get a sixteen year-old drunk. Even if she factors in how much of a lightweight John is, she’s not sure it’ll do anything. “Is that going to work?”

John takes a can from the pack and peers at the label. “Should do. I don’t think it’s so much the alcohol, as it is the ginger. I would’ve made gingerbread or something, but that takes time and I want to get this over with. Plus, it was really cheap at Tesco.”

Donna wants to laugh, it’s something she would have laughed at normally, but given the circumstances, she can’t quite bring herself to. Instead she takes stock of what she has: a notebook – the first page marked with a few notes and questions. Her favorite pen – the one with the comfortable grip that doesn’t make her hand sweaty. And of course, the unsettling feeling that’s followed her around since yesterday, which now manifests itself as a voice in her mind telling her that this is a terrible idea. “Think you’re ready?” she asks.

John considers for just a moment. “Ready as I’ll ever be.” He pulls the tab, and the can opens with a hiss . Then he offers her a grin, right before he takes the first drink.

The night passes. A blur of slurred speech, rushed note taking, and deep-seated confusion in both parties, though John's is more 'I'm incredibly drunk and things like proper sitting positions for chairs are now lost on me, how did I end up on the floor?' and Donna's confusion is much more 'what the hell is he talking about?' before eventually moving on to 'what the hell is he?' and finally ‘who the hell is he?’

Despite all that, it starts out relatively okay.

"And – and he said that I was disrupting class. Like, me? Disrupting class? Is that even p – possible?”

Donna’s resting her head in her hand, elbow on the table. She’s finding being the only sober one in the room to be incredibly boring, and she can’t bring herself to ruin the lighthearted mood just yet by asking something from her list of questions. “I know. I can’t imagine you ever being a disruption in any sort of event. Except maybe, I don’t know, all the time.”

He narrows his eyes. “When have I ever been a dis – ruption?”

“Just last night,” she says, deadpan, ”I had to practically drag you home. My boss saw you and everything. Don’t you remember?”

He shakes his head. So he doesn't remember, but that's fine. That's not what they're looking for. He's frowning though, still trying to dredge up memories. "Did we go to Paris? I remember... something about Paris."

“We did not go to Paris. That was supposed to be Riley, but they couldn’t go. You kept rattling on about Paris in the seventeenth century–”

“Oh, that’s a good century! Past me was right. We should go.”

Donna sits up straight, abruptly focused again, points a pen at his guilelessly open face as she thinks here we go. “Okay, okay, but how. What makes you think that we can just – up and leave London in the twenty first, and go to Paris in the seventeenth?”

“Guess.”

“Excuse me?”

He leans back in his chair, swishing around the can in his hand. She surprised he still has enough coordination to do that without falling over. “Guess! It’s really easy, I promise.”

“You can't just–”

“Time travel!” he blurts out, snickering; drunk John is just as impatient as sober John, but she’s not complaining. “How else would you get to the seventeenth century from the twenty-first? Really, Donna, you’re terrible at this guessing thing.”

“Excuse me, I’m not just going to sit here and guess. The whole point of this is trying to get answers , yeah?”

“Okay, okay, fine, answers. Right, whatever.”  He lets his chair fall forward again, and puts his hands palm down on the table. “Time travel. You’re… you’re gonna wanna write this down, or something, I don’t know.”

And then he's going on a garbled explanation on something called temporal mechanics and all the brick transport equations you need to punch a hole in the fabric of the universe, and though he stumbles on every other word, Donna can tell he's not faking it. Something about the look in his eyes, and the confidence he extrudes. She’s seen a lot by now, this isn't exactly a hard pill to swallow.

She asks about his species next.

“My species?” John echoes.

She waves a hand vaguely. “Alien… name, thing. What are you called?”

“Most people call me John. At least, they’ve been doing that for a while. Don’t know why. Some of the professors call me Smith, though. Also don’t know why.”

“No, no I meant–” She sighs. “I’m human. If you were to call me something, you’d call me human. So if I were to call you something, it’d be…”

“Oh. Oh! Well, if you mean in that sense…” His face drops suddenly. “Oh, you’re going to make fun of me.”

That perplexes her. Not the making fun of him part, she definitely has done that on plenty of occasions – in fact, if someone met her and didn’t think that loving insults (or incredibly un loving insults) were a well-established part of her personality, she’d be worried. 

But the fact that a species name could be something to make fun of. Donna’s wondering what it could possibly be, if John Smith is vaguely embarrassed. This is the guy who knows all the words to every single song of Taylor Swift's and isn't ashamed to sing them out loud when he's showering, though it's more of a shout than anything close to music. “I won’t make fun of you,” she assures him.

But he's not listening to her.

It’s like the energy’s been drained out of him. He's gripping his arms tight, and he stares firmly down at the table with glassy eyes, murmuring to himself, “I don’t even know if I am a Time Lord, really. It’s not like I attended the Academy, and I’m pretty sure that if any self-respecting Time Lord got one look at me, they’d run for the hills. I would.” There’s something like self-loathing in his voice. Donna recognizes that easily enough.

“So you’re a…  Time Lord?” She writes it down as says it, along with everything else. “Or you might be?”

“Sort of, yeah. It feels right enough. I think it’s the… species… caste… thingy. But no, no you’re right,” he says, like she’s said something that he can agree to. There’s a bit more pep in his voice as he continues, waving his hands in the air as he mocks the idea. “How pompous is that? Time Lords. All high and mighty like ‘ooh, we created the Laws of Time and brought the universe out of chaos, so we rule it and you have to listen to us or we’ll burn your timeline.’ Like, fuck off.” 

She stares at him, trying to piece together the stream of absolute nonsense he just vomited. She settles on asking, “...What do you mean they created the ‘Laws of Time.’”

“Is that one of the questions you wrote down?” John asks, sounding impressed. He cranes his neck, trying to catch a glimpse of her notebook, which she pulls closer to herself. She doesn’t know why – it’s not like she’s written anything she’s not going to be showing him later, anyway.

“What – No, you said that. Just now. And I’m wondering what the bloody hell you meant by that, so I’m asking. This is how a conversation works, John.”

“I mean, I guess that’s how it works, depending on your definition of a conversation.” He pauses. “Actually, a lot of things depend on your definition. Like, the word ‘book.’ It’s a good word. Book. Bookish books on bookshelves. But who’s the guy that got to say what a book actually is? Now that’s someone I want to meet.”

“The dictionary…?”

“Ha!” He points at her, though it’s a bit more of an uncoordinated wave at her general area. “You aren’t sure either!”

“Yes I am!” she protests. “The dictionary decides what things mean, John.” God, why is she even bothering? And how does he manage to get them off track so easily? Has he always been like this, or is she only aware of his ability to go off on tangents because she’s been writing everything he says down in a quick shorthand, like it's an English class and she has to analyze everything he says for some inner meaning.

“No, no you aren’t, because that was a question. I could hear the question mark. You dunno if the dictsh – dictshan – the word book thing-y… decides what the words mean or not. The words could mean anything if we let them. We could change the entire English language so that the only word is ‘book.’ Or we could change it so that we still have thousands and thousands of words, but they all mean ‘book’ no matter what.” He leans forward, palms flat on the table.  “Think of the possibilities, Donna!”

“John, what are you talking about?!” she cries helplessly. 

TARDIS. It’s the one word that really seemed to grip him, break through whatever stubborn walls he built up and finally try to listen to what she was saying. (The other one, Rassilon , that simply made him lose his words, she thought.)

So obviously she’s going to ask him this time around.

John’s gotten up from his seat, and somehow managed to stumble over to the fridge, which he now stands in front of, digging through jars and packaged things and filled tupperware containers. She asked him what he was doing, he said sandwiches. So far everything he’s piled onto the counter has not been sandwiches, or any sort of ingredient to make sandwiches, so she doesn’t really know what he meant by that.

“Okay, I need you to listen to me again,” she says from the table. She taps the eraser of her pencil against the next thing on her list. “Can you do that? And proper answers, too.”

John hums distractedly, and she figures that’s as good as she’ll get, so she asks (again), “what the hell is a TARDIS?”

He pauses in his search, and slightly closes the door of the fridge to squint at her. “The TARDIS?” he repeats, tapping a finger against the edge of the door. “I know that word, why do I know that word?”

“I know you know about it, but I don’t know, and neither do you when – when you’re sober, that’s why I’m asking.”

He waves a hand. “Yeah, yeah, I know, I know,” and then he starts muttering, “the TARDIS… The TARDIS,” going back to digging through the fridge as he thinks.

There’s a wide assortment of perishable goods on the counter, and a variety of doodles in the margins of Donna’s notebook by the time there’s a bang as John startles, shouting “the TARDIS!” The fridge muffles it, but only so much, and he stumbles away, rubbing a hand against his head like he had hit it in his excitement.

Donna jumps, and her pen catches on the paper, ripping a small hole. “Don’t do that,” she snaps. 

“But I get it!” he says, and points his free hand at her. “The TARDIS thing! ‘S not that complicated, when you think about it. Don’t, don’t you tell her that though, she’ll lock me out again.”

“She’ll… wait, the TARDIS is a person, then? What kind of name is that?” 

“Well, it depends on your definition of a person–”

“Don't you dare start that up again,” she warns.

“But it does. Like, look. She’s this… blue box, right?” He holds his hands, making a vague attempt at outlining a rectangle in the air. “But she’s not. She’s… she got stuck as one. As a… police box. In nineteen sixty-three, in Coal Hill.” His voice drops to a whisper, as if he’s afraid of someone overhearing them. Which, to be fair, could happen. Walls are thin in flats like these. “Now, I’ve tried fixing it, but I think she’s frying the circuit on purpose – I think she likes the blue. She’s told me she likes the blue. Well, not told per se, but more.” He gestures towards his temples. “More thought… brainy… mental things.”

"Telepathy, you mean." The word tastes like sour memories.

“Yes! Yes, that’s it. But not quite what you’re thinking of. Not the sharing thoughts and feelings and things, it’s, ah – more abstract. We can’t actually talk.” He stops suddenly, hands slowly falling to his side. “We can’t actually talk,” he repeats softly, like he’s only realizing it now. “I wish we could. I do miss her."

This has happened a few times by now. John, well, he’s not exactly a sad person, but god does his mood swing when he’s drunk. He’ll ramble on and on about absolutely nothing, completely bubbly, and then he’ll hit something that just drags him straight down, and the worst part is Donna can’t predict it at all. It’s… exhausting to say the least.

“Where is she?” she asks, caught up in his words, before backtracking. “No, no, wait, what even is the TARDIS?”

He doesn’t respond, looking morosely down at the kitchen’s tile floor.

She taps her pen against the edge of the table, drawing his attention. “John, TARDIS, what is she?” 

“I told you, she’s a box. A good box. A brilliant box, in fact. The bestest.”

“She can’t just be a box though, can it?”

“Of course she’s not just a box,” he says, just condescending enough to get under her skin. “Time travel, space travel, home, she’s all of that.”

“A… spaceship, then?”

He shrugs. “That too.”

She opens her mouth to ask something else, only to find she’s not sure what she would have asked. He doesn’t look at her, and she stares at him, and the only thing she can think is that she never really knew him as well as she thought, did she?

She asks about the blinks, after that. He’s sitting at the table again, since he decided that he actually had no interest in making a sandwich and then spent approximately a half hour shoving everything back into the fridge. The sudden loss of focus that drove her mad, when she was trying to get him to listen, the little bouts of confusion and stubborn denial of whatever she said, going blank for moments at a time, but he never even seemed to notice them, like he couldn't even tell it was happening.

His gaze flickers from her face to something behind her and he breaks out into a grin. “Oh look, snow! It’s snowing!” 

Donna twists around in her seat. Sure enough, through the window, thick, clumpy snowflakes are falling like rain. It’s already begun to cover what little of the city that she can see, a pristine blanket, marred only by the grey of the streets and cars. It’s a lot of snow for London, she’s sure, but “Is this really what’s important right now?” she asks, turning back around.

"I love snow," he says, either oblivious to her glare or purposely ignoring it. “It never snows when I'm around – ‘s always ash or… spaceship dust.”

She snaps her fingers to get his attention. “John, nevermind the snow, what’s going on with you? How – how are you an alien?”

He laughs, but it sounds much too forced for him to truly relaxed, and his eyes don’t move from her face. “You can’t just ask people why they're an alien, Donna.” She gives him a level look, and he shifts in his seat, gaze finally falling to the table. He mumbles, “It’s a…” and the rest of his sentence is lost.

“What was that?”

He mumbles again.

“John, come on. You obviously know,” she says, and suddenly feels an acute sense of terror at the thought that he knows , now. He has to, it’s written all over his face.

He takes a breath, and now the words come out so rushed it takes her a second to parse what he said. “It’samisplaceddecimalpoint.”

He runs a hand through his hair, tugging at the strands. “It’s – It wasn't supposed to break down like that. Not this early, not separately. But it did because someone fucked up the programming, and now I’m this but I’m still me , and I’m able to be kind of aware of it. I don’t know why the ginger interferes like this. I shouldn't know any of this, or even be able to acknowledge any of this. It’s like… a loophole that we shouldn’t have found.”

"A loophole in what?”

“In the lock , Donna,” he says.

“The… lock?”

He taps a finger against his temple. “The lock. Like… a lock. One of those ones you use to lock bikes to poles, or to lock cabinets closed. Though, it’s more like a cabinet than a bike, I suppose, not that it resembles either one in any significant fashion, really–”

“What are you talking about? What lock?”

“The psychelock , Donna. Keep up,” he says, as if this has all been explained to her before, with charts and diagrams and little manila folders and forms filled out in triplicate.

“Psychelock…” she says slowly, sounding out the word carefully.

He thinks for a moment, then twists around in his chair, glancing at the part of the kitchen behind him. “Uh… it’s like that.” He points to a yellow sponge on the counter next to the sink, one that really ought to be thrown away by now. “That sponge. You know, classic yellow kitchen sponge. All soft and porous, with little holes filled with vicious denial protocol soap. ...Then forget about the sponge because it’s absolutely, positively nothing like that.” He twists back around in his seat to face her. “Did that help?”

She stares at him flatly. “No.”

John sighs –but there’s something funny about it, not a sigh of annoyance or aggression, or anything like it. Almost like he’s… reluctant, or nervous – and lungs across the table for her notebook, and before she can even protest, he’s ripping out a piece of paper and spreading it out smoothly between the two of them. He grabs a stray pencil, and starts drawing out lopsided concurrent circles. Three of them, one inside the next inside the first.

He taps the pencil against the outermost circle. “That’s the… the biolock,” he says. “Oh, and this whole thing is… me, I guess? Or maybe I need another circle. But this circle is the biolock, and it’s, well–” He cranes his head at the paper, then drags the pencil through the circle, pressing down hard enough for the paper to rip and for the circle to be broken. “That’s gone. Kaput. Snapped completely in September. That’s how I’m… y’know. Not human.”

“A… biolock broke, and that’s why you aren’t human?” she repeats.

He nods. Then points to the next circle inwards. “And this fucker right here is the psychelock. And it’s… That’s the blank spots. What you were asking about before.”

Donna blinks.

“It’s dumb and they fucked up the programming, and all it wants is for me to not think about things, and I guess they didn’t account for the ginger loophole, or something, or…”

Again, he’s keeping his gaze very carefully away from her, but he sounds, looks agitated. She puts a hand over his, gently rubs a thumb across the back of his hand to try and calm him down. She still has to ask, “You haven’t explained what it even is. The blank spots, that’s what you were talking about. I just want to help, John.”

He looks down at his hands, tries to make some sort of gesture, and probably fails miserably at whatever he was going for. “It’s this – it feels like… static, sometimes. Y’know when you unplug a speaker, and it just–” he hisses, trying to imitate the noise “–y’know, that noise? It’s that. In my ears, whenever I try to think about certain things. At least it has been, lately. I think those are the blank spots.”

“When you… think about certain things?” she repeats. “What sort of things?”

He hesitates. “It’s uh… mostly these sort of things,” he says, waving his hand between the two of them. “What we’re talking about. I mentioned the loophole thing, already, right?”

She nods.

“Right, good, yeah, cause that’s – yeah. It’s just… I’m not allowed to think about them, or their past, and it’s not like – I know I don’t have a past, Donna, I know that I didn’t… grow up in Ireland, or Scotland, or whatever I was supposed to say, but… I don’t know that, I’m not… allowed to know that. I’m just – I’m supposed to be human, I’m supposed to be John T. Smith, and everything that says that I’m not, it grates against my – my mind, and my existence, and it’s so much easier to just… not think about it and deny anything that says I’m not, so that’s what I do, and that’s – that’s the psychelock. Or something.”

He takes a breath. Says softly, “I like the sponge metaphor better, personally.”

“Who’s… who’s them?” she asks, trying to focus on one thing at a time. “Whose past?”

John’s silent for a moment. “Would you be mad if I said I don’t know?” he asks her, like he’s afraid. “Because I don't know.” He puts a hand in his hair, scrubbing furiously at his scalp and making his hair more messy than Donna thought possible. “Or – Or I’m not supposed to know. I can’t know. And it’s not like I can tell. I can't. If we’re the same or not, or if they're me with everything and I’m them without, or if I’m completely sep – separate from them. I just – can't tell.” Something in his voice chills her to the bone. Something like despair and confusion, the sound of someone who’s at the end of his rope, sense of self in shambles.

“I think we’re the same person, in a way. We must be,” he continues, unprompted. “Sort of, but not really. I’m John now , but I used to be the Doctor, but maybe the Doctor’s still me, and I’m still them. And then there’s the other thing, but it’s all such a big mess, and I can’t sort it out one bit. I’m not supposed to sort it out, I can’t, or I’ll – or the psychelock will break, and I’ll–”

She doesn’t want to ask. She really, really doesn’t.

Only when she starts to feel the burn in her chest does she realize she hasn’t been breathing. She takes a breath, but it doesn't help. She doesn’t know how to respond to that. She doesn’t know how to respond to any of this. She’s just been making it up as she goes, latching onto one part of the puzzle and examining that, instead of piecing the whole thing together and taking a look at what it all means.

(She’s turning into John, isn’t she?)

(That’s what he’s been doing for years, after all.)

"Are you… okay?” he asks, concerned. He must’ve noticed the look on her face. She can imagine it’s something like seasickness and barely restrained horror. That’s how she’s feeling right now, at least. A tiny ship lost in a dark ocean storm. “Did I do something wrong? I thought you – you wanted answers.” He sounds timid, all of the sudden. She misses the bubbly defiance from earlier.

She manages a nod. “No, no, you’re just fine. It’s fine.”

They shouldn’t be doing this, they shouldn’t have to be doing this, that’s what’s running through her mind. What’s been running through her mind for a while now. They shouldn’t have to be spending their Friday night investigating John’s inner self through an inappropriate use of alcohol and ginger. They should be watching telly, or cooking dinner, throwing a party, even. Something grossly domestic and normal.

But instead they’re sitting at the kitchen table, digging into John’s subconscious, trying to find any memories of his past, and instead finding evidence of a whole different being who still may or may not be John in some sense or another, someone who he used to be, and isn’t anymore, but still is. In some alien…  complicated way.

(The Doctor?)

She has to ask.

“Or what, John?” she says. “What happens if the – the psychelock breaks?”

“Center circle,” he mumbles, and she looks to the paper. “The Doctor’s the center.”

“What does that mean?”

“They’re what’s locked up. Behind the… psychelock. And once that breaks, then I’m… gone.”

He says it so simply, that’s what stuns her into silence.

(She was right. She never knew him as well as she thought she did.)

“Can I have another piece of paper?” John asks at some point.

Wordlessly, without even bothering to ask why, Donna rips a blank page from her notebook and slides it over to him.

He grabs it and one of her extra pens, and immediately starts writing – or drawing, rather. It’s just a bunch of intersecting circles and dots to Donna, but he seems to find meaning in them. She thinks she understands, now, and she hates it.

“What are you drawing?” she asks. It’s a distraction, but not really, because she still hasn't gotten to the why for any of this. (Why did all of this happen, why are there these locks in his mind, who is the Doctor and why did they do this?).  She has to keep him talking.

As she tilts her head to get a better angle, there’s the strangest feeling that it’s a language of sorts – one that she can't dream of understanding in a million years. Then, she spots a few stick figures, and wonders if it isn't that difficult, whatever he’s doing.

“I’m writing,” he corrects.

“... What are you writing, then?” she asks when he says nothing more.

“Words.”

“Very helpful. Thanks for–”

“–so I don't forget later,” he interrupts, continuing. “I’ll forget, so I need to write it down. I’m writing a letter without any time travel for once. Fancy that.” Then he says, “English is rubbish. No room for the finer details.” The glyphs are sloppy in his shaky handwriting. Any ‘finer details’ are probably smudged, she thinks.

“For when you forget later…” she repeats to herself. “Like amnesia, or something.” A shudder goes down her spine.

“It’s not amnesia,” he says as he writes. “Well, it is a bit. Sort of. But not quite the way you’re thinking of. Nothing here is quite the way you're thinking of. Human thought processes and everything. It’s not like I bumped my head and now I can’t remember what I did last week.” A pause, in which he looks vaguely ill. Donna can’t tell if it’s him feeling like he might be sick all over the floor (he is drunk, after all) or something else. “Actually, nevermind. Amnesia’s a good word for it. Let’s go with amnesia,” he says much too quickly, before he hunches over his paper and returns to his writing, faster than ever, like he’s running out of time. “I – they lost our – their memories, it’s basically the same thing.”

“John, please,” she says softly. “You have to tell me, I’m trying to help.”

“I… I don’t want to think about it,” he mumbles.

“Why not?” She knows why not. She still has to ask.

He stays silent. The scratch of graphite against paper fills the room for a heavy second.

“What happened to make you lose your memories?” she asks, barely more than a whisper. “Why is – why is the Doctor locked behind some psychelock? Why are you John Smith now?”

He freezes, pencil in the middle of a complex, swooping line through one half circle to the next. When he looks up at her, Donna’s blood runs cold. He looks so… shell-shocked. Completely and utterly blindsided.

And then the surprise turns to pure, unadulterated fear, as her words sink in.  “Don’t make me think about it,” he begs softly, and suddenly it sounds like desperation. “I can’t think about it, I don’t want to think about it.” Something in his alien eyes flickers, ancient as glacier ice and as strange as stars, shocking Donna into dropping her notebook on the table. And then it’s just him again, panicked and recoiling in his chair like an animal trapped, saying, “I don’t know, I don’t know , I can’t, if I know then the lock will snap and I – I mustn't know . Not yet . It’s breaking down, but please, please, Menti Celesti, not yet. ”

(And there it is. A question that digs deeper than the rest, hitting something that neither of them wants to uncover, but know that they have to. Like a buried treasure chest peeking through the dirt and sand and rocks, but without the promise of gold and jewels and all those things that make the grueling work of digging so much more bearable. Where when they finally pull the chest from its hole and ease it open, forcing the rusted hinges to take a look inside, they find themselves wishing they could bury it all over again and forget what they found.)

It takes a second for Donna to remember how to speak again, how to comfort who’s in front of her, who’s almost in physical pain , breathing hard and still pleading, “Don’t ask that, don’t make me answer, I can’t, I just – I’m sorry, I just can’t.”

“It’s okay, it’s okay, you’re fine,” she reassures him, but it all feels so flat and weak. “I’m not going to ask, you don’t have to say anything. No one’s making you say anything.”

His mouth shuts immediately, lips sealed, but his eyes are still frightened beyond measure. She says nothing, and lets him relax by himself, at his own pace. Tension starts to bleed from his body, and his breathing returns to something of a normal rate.

“Let’s – let’s go to sleep, yeah?” she suggests gently, wishing she had said this a long, long time ago. “D’you think you could sleep?”

She can see the bone-deep exhaustion in his face, like he’s allowing her to truly see him for the first time. He nods, and slowly, he gets up out of his chair, and stumbles a little as he backs up from the table.

Donna gets up as well. She leaves her notebook where it lays, and goes to John’s side. She doesn’t touch him right away, not until he glances at her and manages the faintest of nods. Then, she wraps an arm around his shoulder, and guides him towards the bedroom, shuffling through the hall. He’s trembling, she realizes. Almost imperceptibly, but it’s there.

When they get to the door, John quickly wraps her in a tight hug. “Easy,” she squeaks. “S’ a human rib cage you’re crushin’ there.” He backs off as quickly as it started, looking apologetic as she smooths down her shirt and tries not to look like she’s gasping for air too badly. “Don’t worry,” she says, and pushes the bedroom door open. “Just, take a nap. I’ll be here when you’re feeling better, yeah?”

He whispers a hoarse, “Yeah.” Then he slips into the bedroom, shutting the door behind him.

Donna goes to the kitchen after that. She gathers everything up – her notebook, the pens, John’s piece of paper, which has been completely covered in circles and dots. There’s a few lines of English, too, but it’s practically chicken scratch. She can decipher that bit later, she decides. Not now. Not yet.

–“Not yet. It’s breaking down, but please, please, Menti Celesti, not yet.”–

The paper falls her hand as his frenzied words echo in her mind. It flutters in the air, landing softly on the table.

A moment passes.

Then, she sits back down, and starts ripping sheets from the notebook – the ones she wrote on, full of messy, unorganized notes – and spreads them out in front of her. She starts writing. Categories for TARDIS, for Doctor. For Names and for Memories . For all the crazy, nonsensical ramblings on snow and books and everything else, each sheet for different topics. And she starts compiling.

She’s a temp, but she’s been a secretary for years, she likes to think she’s good at handling and organizing information, and this seems to be the first time she’s found something where her skills really matter. And it’s something to keep the tears from flowing, she thinks as her eyes start to burn.

John rests, and she writes with shaky hands, piecing everything into its proper categories. It’s disturbing, (what an understatement that is), and she’s tempted to believe this is all just a horrible nightmare, that, whatever this is, it isn't real. But it has to be, because if it wasn’t, there’s no way she could be feeling this distressed and anguished and so very very lost.

And between the conversations of spaceships and time travel and that mysterious Doctor, she keeps coming back to one central point:

Why is he so frightened of remembering? What’s in that mind of his so terrible that he rather forget everything than face it one more time?

Chapter Text

Things happen, whether you want them to or not. You can’t control it, you can’t prevent it, whatever it may turn out to be. The universe does what it wants, and sometimes you just have to accept that.

What Donna’s getting at here is, she didn’t mean to fall asleep at the kitchen table.

She lifts her head up, and hesitantly opens her eyes, bracing for the onslaught of bright light – only to find darkness. The lights are off. She didn't do that. Their absence casts the kitchen in a shadow of twilight, the only light coming from the windows – outside is a washed out image of cityscape and snow, colors blending into each other in a murky morning grey – giving her barely enough light to see the room around her. Early morning, then.

The display on the microwave is blank. As is the oven’s clock. The light’s lights aren't just off, they're out. Kaput. She sighs. This must be the third time this month, and she knows it's not just them. Happened at the lab (in what seems like an age ago, a whole different life), happened at work once, and now the flat. When is the city going to do something about this?

And of course, just when she’s figured this out, just when she let herself relax, the power comes back on, and Donna’s thrust into bright incandescent hell.

She squints, covers her eyes with a hand, and rubs at them. She blinks furiously, until her retinas decide to stop screaming at her and start doing their job.

Her notes from last night are still splayed across the table, except that now one particular page has the misfortune of having a little drool on it. She glances around the empty kitchen, and proceeds to wipe the page dry with the sleeve of her sweatshirt. The ink smears, but there’s not much she can do about that.

She makes the mistake of trying to read the smudged note, and knows it’s a mistake when her stomach drops, a bottomless chasm, as memories begin to surface, telling her why she must have fallen asleep at the table.

Donna’s first response to this is to stand up, and immediately trash the rest of the ginger beer still sitting on the table. Three cans, in the trash, flimsy cardboard holder and all. It lands with a hard thump at the bottom of the bin, and it’s not enough. She’d rather burn the cardboard and crush the cans until there’s nothing but ash and glittery, metallic dust.

But she can't do either of those things (what would the neighbours think?) so instead she channels her frustration into making a pot of coffee. Still not enough, nowhere near (and really, what would be enough? What sort of catharsis is she looking for? What could even help?), but at least she’s got a cup of coffee in her hand and a pleasant aroma in the kitchen.

The coffee is bitter when she takes a sip, and much too hot. It takes everything in her power to not spit it all over the floor. Her tongue is burnt and feels like sandpaper, but she can’t bring herself to care.

She sets the cup aside, and wraps her arms around her chest as she leans back against the counter.  

She needs to wake John up. She really, really needs to wake him up. Usually he sleeps only a few hours every few days, but right now, he’s been asleep for at least seven consecutive hours. And she needs him right now. Even though his presence would mean going through last night and telling him, at least he would be here. She can afford to wake him up, and he can afford to be woken up.

After making another cup of coffee – this one almost a warm hazel with the amount of cream she put in, not to mention the sugar – she walks through the hall up to the bedroom door.

She nudges it open, and slips inside to find John fast asleep on her bed, still in yesterday’s clothes. Arms and legs splayed out, sheets halfway over him. He’s snoring softly, and something in Donna twists.

She takes a breath, deeper than what’s necessary for the way she whispers, “John?” He shifts in bed, muttering something, but other than that, he stays asleep. “John, you gotta get up.” Still nothing.

She sets the coffees down on the desk by the door, picks up one of her shoes, and lobs it at him.  It hits him square in the chest, and bounces off onto the floor. In an instant, John bolts up right, wide awake. He blinks a few times, and focuses on her, as she tries not to laugh at him – bleary eyed and disheveled, hair sticking up all over the place and the most bizarre look on his face.

“What’d I say?” he mumbles.

They make tea, because what else do you do? Just like last night, they sit at the kitchen table, opposite of each other. John takes in the wide assortment of papers – some completely filled, others with only a few sentences written.

“You were very thorough,” he comments.

She takes a sip of her drink. “You talked a lot.”

John picks up one of the papers, gives it a cursory glance, in which an odd look comes over his face. Then he sets it back down and says, “I… I’m thinking, what with this possibly being the answers to all the questions I’ve had for the past three months, it might be better if… That is to say – I know you put a lot of effort into all these notes, but I don’t think I can…” He trails off, and while his ability to speak has only marginally improved since he’s sobered up, Donna can still understand what he’s trying to say.

This isn't something where she can just toss him her notes and let him read through it all. Something so important as who he is can’t be conveyed through cheap notebook paper bought from the shop down the street. “Donna, what happened last night?” he asks softly.

“I – I don't know,” she admits, after a few moments, because she really doesn't. “It was fine up until a point.  You were drunk, and – and going on and on about your old history professor, you know, what you usually do.” He frowns at that, but says nothing. “And then we started talking about Paris, and it all spiraled from there–”

“Paris? What’s wrong with Paris?”

“You said we should go to the seventeenth century, just like the first time, and then you made me write down all these equations for time travel.” She finds the sheet full of maths and symbols that she can’t begin to fathom, and shows it to him.

“Oh… huh,” he says, as if she just shared an interesting bit of trivia, but in his eyes, there’s the faintest spark of recognition, before it vanishes.

“Do you – do you know what that’s talking about?”

He props his head up with his hand, and stares down at the paper with a calculating look on his face, with an out-of-place mundane similarity to how he looks when he’s studying for one of his chemistry classes. “I… don’t know. Are you sure you wrote everything down right?”

“What?”

“I think you missed a few things – there’s a few gaps in the theory,” he says, pointing to a few expressions. “Missing variables, unfinished parts, that sort of thing. Doesn’t look complete. You said this was for time travel, yeah?”

She stares. “Please – please don’t talk like that,” she finds herself saying.

He looks up. “Like what?”

“Like you know all this stuff that you shouldn’t!” she snaps. “Are you even aware of what you’re talking about right now, equations for time travel?”

John blinks, looks down at the paper again. “Oh.” Then he shakes his head. “Donna, we know by now that I say weird things when I shouldn’t even know them. And it’s not like I can stop knowing them, so I might as well say them.”

He’s acting calm about this. He’s acting calm, like he’s – like he’s expecting this, like it's nothing to worry about, almost. Or no, that’s not quite right, but damn if she can think straight right now. These odd theories and half-remembered facts, all with a cool expression that looks so out of place on him, and it’s enough to jolt her into thinking maybe he is remembering. Maybe they knocked something loose, and things are starting to leak through.

That’s when the dam breaks, if it hasn’t already. “John, you can’t say things like that,” she starts. “It’s – you’re scaring me, you’ve been, ever since – towards the end of last night, you started going on about a – a lock, or something. A psychelock. Something – blocked off, that’s why you can’t remember. You were talking like you were an alien because of a programming error, and that you used to be something, someone else, or – someone that very clearly isn’t you right now. Like you – you changed. And then you…” she trails off, the words sticking in her mouth.

On the surface, John looks like he wants to ask questions or comfort her at the very least, but there’s something in his eyes that makes it seem like more than anything he wants to bury this entire conversation and leave it to rot, and that just makes everything so much worse.

She swallows, forces herself to talk through it, through the dread and sick fear building up in her chest. It has to be said, because letting everything rattle around in her head alone is going to burn her from the inside out. “Then, I asked you two questions, and you panicked . I’ve never seen that from you, not even – not even when this whole thing began. I asked what happened to your memories, and I asked why… why you’re John Smith now, and you physically could not answer me. I… I thought you were going to scream, or – or cry, or something.”

She takes a shuddering breath, and slides a sheet of paper over to him – the sheet of paper, the one that she wrote down everything he said hinting to a doctor, a lock, his memories. He reads through it, and the blood drains from his face. She doesn’t need to read what she wrote to remember what he said last night. They echo clearly in her head.

“I’m John now, but I used to be the Doctor, but maybe the Doctor’s still me, and I’m still them…"

"Not yet. It’s breaking down, but please, please, Menti Celesti, not yet.”

“Not yet. You said not yet,” she breathes. “Why did you say not yet?”

John’s head snaps up from the paper, taken back. “I don’t know , that’s why we’re doing this, Donna.”

“But you do know, somewhere in – in your thick head, but you don't now, and John, you’re – you were talking like you had this whole other life. That you used to be this – person, an alien, a doctor–”

“–the Doctor,” John corrects, almost automatically, and Donna feels ice in her veins.

“What?”

His hand goes to rub at the back of his neck. “I – I mean, it must be, yeah? Definite article, capital letter, I think – I’m not sure why–”

“Okay, okay, fine,” she hurries, because she’s piecing this together bit by bit and it’s tearing her up from the inside out and John correcting her on things he shouldn’t even be aware of is only making it so much worse. “You used to be the – the Doctor, but for whatever reason they – forgot . They turned human, you turned human. And now you’ve been living here thinking you were human, with this ‘lock’ preventing you from thinking about how little sense that made, and you said – you said , something was breaking down, but…”

And something clicks, just then, in his eyes. “Not yet,” he finishes, sounding breathless, and so small. Last time, it took ages for him to even consider what she was talking about; now it hasn’t taken that long at all, and oh, she hates the sight. The tremble in his shoulders, like he’s a house of cards precariously balanced, ready to fall to pieces.

She wants to herself that she doesn't know what to think, that finally she’s found something all too alien for her, but the fact of the matter is: she’s understanding too well. Sooner or later, something will break, or snap, and he won’t be John – not anymore, not in the way she knows him. Not in the way that she’s known him for years already.

There’s a tension in the air. Not directed at either of them or at a specific, nameable thing, not like it can be when Donna and her mum are in the same room, but it’s definitely there, unfamiliar and consuming,

John’s eyes are scanning through the notes on the table, the ones he can read clearly, at the very least, but that’ll be more than enough for him to understand, if he doesn’t already (and he does, he very clearly understands). He picks up a paper with intricate circles that Donna most definitely did not write. “You let me write something?”

He’s changing the subject, or trying to. Nothing is going to make this okay, not for a while (a long while), so she lets him. “I – yeah. You asked for a piece of paper and I just, figured I should let you have it.” She leans in. Can you read it?”

He nods. “Yeah. Yeah, I can read it.” Then, without ceremony, he crumples the paper up into a ball, and shoves it into his pocket.

She frowns. “What did it say?”

“Don’t worry about it,” he mumbles.“Don’t worry about it?” she repeats, incredulous. “John, I have been worrying about you from day one, and I won’t be stopping any time soon. What did the note say?”

He sets his cup down, and stares at her until she finds her eyes flickering away. There’s the slightest shake of his head, so minute that it might as well not have happened.

“Fine,” she mutters. “Don’t tell me.”

Most of the papers are still scattered across the table – John’s been making a system of two piles. Already read, and to be read. He’s gripping his mug tightly, and Donna thinks his hands might be trembling. She wants to ask if he’s okay, but that’s obvious, isn't it.

“Course I am,” he says with a tight grin. He runs a hand through his hair, takes a breath, and lets his body relax. “I mean, it’s not every day you find out that not only are you not real, but you’re also technically a figment of someone else’s imagination, and one that’s – that’s not going to last.”

That shocks her into silence, because oh, that’s what this is. The realization unfurls in her mind slowly, like a flower blooming but nothing near that beautiful, that wanted. Not going to last. Temporary. Short-lived. Dying. He’s dying, and she would say in a way, but it’s not a morbid metaphor to describe something she can’t comprehend, that’s what it is. 

“I didn't say anything,” she protests weakly, eventually, once it parses through her head that he answered a question she never asked him in the first place. The moment she speaks, she wishes she didn’t. It feels too much like an intrusion – on what, she’s not sure. On something, at least. 

“You didn't have to. It’s written all over your face.” He sighs, and his gaze drops to the wood of the table. “You’re wondering if I’m going to finally break down over this.”

She can't stop herself from asking, “Are you?” She feels like she might, but she can't let him know that. 

“I’ll let you know,” he says. “But I’ll tell you one thing: I’m never doing that again.” He’s so clearly trying for something lighthearted, but his eyes are tangled up in darkness and broken denial and all the other alien things that Donna can’t even begin to identify – doesn’t want to identify, because well, she’s afraid of what she may find.

“That’s... fair,” Donna says. 

Chapter Text

Days pass.

Things happen, and things don’t.

Mostly, Donna watches.

She catches John staring down at the sleeve of his suit jacket, when they're stargazing up on the rooftop one night. It was her idea, the stargazing. She knows it makes him feel better. They both need something to make themselves feel better at this point. Maybe the stars can drown out her thoughts (again).

He’s fidgeting with the hem of his sleeve, completely ignoring how she’s managed to align the telescope to see a great view of Saturn, moons and all.

“I knew it couldn’t have been my suit. I had to have known, somehow,” he mumbles to himself after a time. “And I just ignored it.”

He doesn’t say anything more, and it’s unusual for him, more than a bit worrying, but she doesn't say anything, doesn’t ask. She’s seen where asking questions has gotten them (it’s here, with a John who doesn’t bother to even look at the sky, but still goes along with her suggestion that they should do a bit of stargazing, like he can't see the point in arguing or simply saying anything more), and right now, she can do without any more of that, thank you very much. So she stays quiet for once – just this once, she tells herself, for his sake more than hers – and keeps her eyes on the stars, sneaking glances at John when she thinks he’s not looking.

Besides, she figures it out when he sees him the next day, it clicks into place somewhere in her mind with understanding and a bit of how could we have missed this? how did we not see it sooner? He's in the kitchen. Still in the trousers, pinstriped and brown, but now he’s wearing a green sweater instead of the suit jacket. Something different. Or rather, something to differentiate.

He doesn’t say anything about it, just sets a cup of coffee down in front of her in the morning.

“How did you sleep?” he asks her.

She rubs at her eyes. “Fine.” Something’s cooking on the stove, sizzling with the heat, and the smell makes her stomach growl. “Did you – make breakfast?” she asks. She’s brought it up before – he doesn’t sleep, that’s an extra eight hours in his day. He could stand to take ten minutes to at least make her some tea in the mornings when she got up. They’ve always jokingly argued about it, but he never really got in the habit.

Except here he is, shrugging and telling her, “Just some bacon, eggs, that sort of thing.” With that, he spins on his heel and goes to the stove. “I figured you’d like to wake up to breakfast.” There’s a few clicks as he shuts the gas off, the clatter of dishes, and then suddenly he’s setting a plate down in front of her.

“I’ve a bit of an experiment going right now, actually,” he says. “Wouldn’t do for it to boil over. Technically I shouldn’t even be up here, you aren’t supposed to leave things like that unattended, but I knew I would have two and a half minutes to spare if I left it right when I started heating it. So I figured I could pop up here to cook for a little bit and be back before anything overflowed, or exploded.”

Her eyes widen. "What are you–”

But he’s already gone. There’s the slam of a front door, and Donna just knows he’s running, dashing to the basement to save whatever experiment he’s working on.

Donna looks down at her plate. The eggs are just the way she likes them, and the bacon’s a bit charred, but only around the edges. She can’t remember the last time he ate, or rather, the last time she saw him eat. But he’s an alien, slower metabolism or whatever, what does she know?

 She sighs and picks up her fork.

John’s at the coffee table in the living room. He’s opted to sit on the carpet as he folds paper crane after paper crane. By this point, there’s a lot of them. Donna watches as he finishes his current crane, and tosses it onto the pile on the sofa.

She sips her coffee. A cup has been set on the table for him. He’s been nursing it slowly. “Don’t you… have class soon?”

He shrugs. “Yeah.”

“Are you – are you not going?” she asks, even though John never misses class. It’s just not something he does. The idea that he would miss class shouldn’t even be something that comes to her mind, and yet–

He gives another shrug.

“You should go,” she says. “Do something to get your mind off… y’know.”

He glances up at her. “I am doing something.” He emphasizes his point with the throw of another paper crane into the pile, then grabs another sheet.

“Something engaging, John. I know you. I know that a bunch of origami won't stop you from thinking about – about them.” She doesn't think a lecture will stop him either, but it’d have a better chance, presumably.

He looks down at the sheet of paper in his hands, already folded at the edges. He sighs. “Maybe you're right.” He grabs the edge of the table, uses it to pull himself up. “I’ll go get my bag. Could you give me a lift?”

She eyes him. Notices the dark circles under his eyes, the way he takes a moment to steady himself, like he’s unsure on his feet. Notices how worn out he looks, and how he seems completely fine at the same time. “Course I can.”

Once, she finds John up at three in the morning. It’s not unexpected, given his lack of a need to sleep and his general refusal to even try – but as she’s walking to the kitchen to get a glass of water, she spots him sitting on the couch, elbows on his knees, head propped in his hands. He’s staring at a blank space in the wall, and she’s not sure he’s even noticed her walk in.

She gets her water, and comes back into the living room. He's still there, still hasn't noticed her. “John?” she asks. “You alright?”

It takes a moment – a few, worrying seconds – for him to blink and look over to her. “Donna? What’re you doing up?”

She takes a sip. “I asked first.”

“‘M fine,” he says after a moment. “Just can't sleep.”

“Right.” He sounds tired, properly tired. She could tell him off for lying to her, march him off to bed (well, he doesn't really have a bed anymore. The few (rare) times she’s caught him sleeping, it’s been on the sofa), or something, but she doesn't think that would help. She's not sure what would help, really.

He looks away, and she watches him for a moment, before reluctantly, she turns away and goes back to bed. It’s not as if she knows what to say. It's not like there’s a guide to this or anything, is there?

It's not like there’s a guide to this or anything, is there?

She’s called into her boss’s office sometime in the afternoon.

Donna walks in, expecting to be handed a report to fax, or some other little thing. Little trinkets line the desk – a Newton’s cradle, a cup full of colorful pens, something like a stress ball. Christi’s on her computer, typing away, seemingly oblivious. Only when Donna clears her throat and says, “You called me in?” does Christi look up and take notice of her.

Christi stops typing, looks to her. “Yeah, I did, and I’m going to cut to the chase,” she says, a grin on her face contradicting the dry tone in her voice.  “I’m going to need you to travel with me. I have to make rounds to some of our clients who have been reconsidering their accounts with us, and I need an assistant.”

“Travel, right before Christmas?” she asks, incredulous.

“I thought you didn’t care for Christmas,” Christi says. “And besides, you can treat it like a holiday if you really want to. Just a holiday that’s full of hotels and meetings and long car rides, that sort of thing.”

Donna purses her lips. “Right…”

“If you’re unsure about this, I can find someone else. But I do want to remind you that you said you could travel for work, when we hired you. It’d be a real shame for you to back out like that.”

“That was before–” She stops herself. John’s okay, she reminds herself. He’s going to class, he’s working, he’s functioning , at the very least. Maybe that’s all they can expect. “That was before I knew I’d have to be traveling over the holidays,” she says instead.

“It won’t be over the holidays. We’ll be back by the twenty-third.” Christi’s face softens, if only slightly. “This is annoying for me too, you know. I don’t want to spend the next week convincing people to keep their contracts with this firm.”

“Then why don’t we wait until after the holidays?” she suggests, though the fact that she said next week doesn't escape her. A whole week of travel – but he’s fine, he’s an alien and it’s fine. What may be unusual to her, could be completely normal to him, and he can last a few days without her there to nag him. “Then we won’t have to.”

Christi allows a small smile. “It doesn’t work like that. Corporate told me specifically, we have to do it by the end of this quarter.”

Donna has to keep a hand on her knee to stop her from bouncing her leg. She has a feeling that wouldn’t be taken well right now. “Of course we do,” she mutters, quiet enough so that her boss can’t hear her, hopefully. “Right, right, okay. When do we leave?”

Christi glances at her computer, taps a few buttons. “Two days from now. We’ve got a company car to drive to Manchester first.”

Donna tries not to sigh, tries to make it seem like a simple exhale of breath, necessary for life. She’s not sure it comes across that way.

“Is this going to be a problem?” her boss asks, with her tone of voice saying there won't be any problems.

“No, no, there’s no problem,” she says, shaking her head. “We leave in two days, you said? I’ll get packing.”

John follows Donna as she carries her luggage to the front door, but keeps a distance. She had been quite adamant about him not helping, for whatever reason. She’s got it, she said.

She drops the bag, and turns to face him, digging through her pockets as she talks. “So I wrote down my number, though I’m sure you’ve got it somewhere in that big head of yours,” she says, shoving a piece of paper into his hand, “and the hotels I’ll be staying at. I’ll be in and out of meetings constantly, but I want you to – to call me if you need to, alright?”

“Why would I need to call you?” John asks, before he can stop himself. “I – I mean, not that I don’t like calling you, it’s just… You’re going away for a week, and you’re acting like you’re leaving your twelve year-old home alone for the first time.”

“You’re basically a twelve year old, John. Let’s be real.” She pushes past him, and he’s thankful that she doesn’t seem to see the way he tenses up. Twelve years is a bit generous, try four years, he thinks.

When he follows, he finds Donna going to her bedroom, checking for anything she might have forgotten to pack, probably. He lingers in the doorway, watches her go through the drawers of her dresser. “I’m not going to burn the flat down or anything, you now.”

Donna glances to him. “I’ve seen what you’ve got in that lab of yours,” she says, but she’s cracking a smile as she says it. He does his best to return it.

She grabs a few shirts, and they end up walking back to the front room. “You can trust me,” he insists, once she’s shoved the extra clothing into her bag. (It’s one week, does she really need to bring that much?)

Donna straightens, and not for the first time, he sees a hint of concern to match her words. “I do. Of course I do. It’s just, I worry about you. You know that. Especially now since…”

He doesn’t take a moment to pause. “I’m fine, look at me.” For the hell of it, he holds up his arms, does a little spin, as if that’ll convince her. “I’m totally fine. Go on your trip, try to have fun, stop thinking that you’re gonna have to call a babysitter on me."

“Okay,” she says. “Okay!” She points a finger at him, jabs it at his chest. “But if you have any issues, if you – suddenly discover that you can fly, or shapeshift , or something, or you think you're going to lose it, call me. I’m in meetings all week, but I don't want you hesitatin’, alright?”

“Yup, definitely. Got it.” He nods, then reaches over and opens the door. “It’ll be fine, you're worrying way too much. Go and make some sales, or whatever it is you have to do.”

She frowns at him, but either way, she grabs her bag, gives him one last look of warning, then leaves.

The door shuts, and he’s alone.

Everything suddenly feels so much colder.

He looks around the flat, just to confirm the fact, then he lets the facade drop. Lets the energy drain out of him. For lack of anything better to do, he goes to the living room, drops himself onto the sofa. Holds his head in his hands. He has a shift at work later, he should be getting ready.

Instead, he sits, because he doesn't have the energy to stand. Instead, he sits because it’s easier, because it’s more pleasant to lose himself in the seconds and minutes passing, the tug-pull feeling of the universe moving forward under his skin. Instead he sits, because he can't find a reason to do anything else. He’s not real, what does it matter?

What’s the point?

He keeps coming back to it, every time he gets a moment of silence. (His instinct is to say moment of peace, but it’s not, it’s nothing close to peace; he much prefers the noise and the distraction and the presence of Donna, who nags and talks and isn’t afraid to kick his arse when he’s being a moron).

And the flat’s silent now, he can just barely make out the hum of the radiator, and he keeps coming back to the first moment they figured out he isn’t real. Nothing he remembers is real. He appeared fully-formed out of thin air four years ago memory-less and context-less, with nothing but the unshakable conviction that of course he had a past to keep him from falling apart entirely, to keep him from turning back into–

–whatever he used to be. Whoever he used to be. Because it isn’t just the memories, locked away somewhere, it’s someone else entirely. An alien, a Time Lord, the Doctor. A title that echoes in his mind with what he thinks is undue weight, a resonance that carries with an age, a soul not his own.

Nothing he remembers is real, but that doesn’t stop him from remembering it.

It’s still there, all of it, the memories buzzing in the back of his head, and that’s what sends him shaking, that’s what pulls all the air out of the room and leaves his lungs trying to go through some alien process he doesn’t recognize and can’t complete.

He knows, objectively, that he doesn’t exist, that they have proof, they argued on this for hours, but that doesn’t stop the certainty, the thought that he has to have a past, because he exists, he has an origin point, a mother, a father, a – a brother. He’s here, sitting on the couch, feeling the fabric between shaking hands, how could he not be real?

It’s exasperatingly (half-disbelievingly) obvious. How could he not have parents? He had to have been born, right? What was he, grown, sculpted, woven? He has a mother and father, because humans do, and he is human. He is human. HE IS HUMAN.

The thought slams down over his mind like a brand or a lock, the iron-hard confidence of it knocking any little air he had left from his lungs, but except this time – sick with desperation, sick with wanting, terribly alone – he hisses through his teeth and pushes back.

Digs down into his memory, claws through the static, ignores what his mind is telling him,  that it’s pointless, that he’ll find nothing, that it’s perfectly normal – that he’s perfectly normal.  

His father, he had a father. Ulysses Smith. He was a bit stern, a bit distant, kept his emotions close to his chest. Dressed in dark colors. They didn’t talk much, and he can’t remember putting forth much effort in their relationship, but his father was gone often, on business, government work, something that kept him very far away much of the time.

His mother–

His mother’s name was Penelope. She was – she died when he was very young. An overwhelming degree of kindness in a small body, one that was wheelchair-bound for the last few years of her life, the first few years of his. She smelled like perfume and saltwater, or, no, that was something else, wasn’t it?

The funeral, it had been outside. He remembers grey cloth and scorching heat despite the grey clouds in the sky. There were too many flies. He was six years old.

There had been–

Something with a B. A brother, that’s it. A brother with a name that starts with B. He gets that far before everything fuzzes over again, the static rising in his ears, vision drifting off-center as it tries to distract him, divert him, dislocate him, anything to get him off track. John buries his head in his hands, grits his teeth, and pushes harder.

No, no, couldn’t have been a brother (and the thought that he’s not sure terrifies him, makes him dig deeper) There were no other siblings, no other children. School – he remembers school. Of course he does. Primary, secondary, except he’d dropped out to see the world – but no, he’s in university, graduate studies, he couldn’t have dropped out.

He was in elementary, and he remembers when the kids found out about his defect, they threw sticks and sand and called him names; it was because of his condition, freak, weirdo, what kind of kid has two hearts ?

Has–

He nearly surfaces right there, his train of thought crashing to a stop, like a dissonant chord sounding just as the whole world warps, trying to convince him that of course he’d always had two hearts, he was human despite the double-pulse in his ears, because he is human. It’s a medical condition, must be. He’d spent so much time with doctors, when he was small, he’s never liked hospitals since.

But no, that’s a recent thing. That’s all recent. It was other things, other names, he was a nerd, a dork, a kid who fell in love with history and the sciences before it was seen as cool. He was just a little strange, didn’t smile at the right times, read too many books, and he never understood the peculiar mechanics of who liked whom and who didn’t. That was all, that’s why he was teased and called names, though they never bothered him as much as they assumed it would, hoped it would. Why did it matter? He knew they were trying to be mean to him.

When he was eighteen, he finished secondary school on time, and his parents, they came to the graduation ceremony. His father, he was proud and just a bit relieved – he was never the best student, though his teachers all said he was brilliant. Just couldn’t apply himself, or bother to try – No, no, he was a good student, brilliant in fact. He graduated with honors. Top marks in all his classes, stunning recommendations from his teachers, of course he didn’t drop out. How would he be in university now, otherwise?

And his mother, she was wearing a hat with a veil, it brushed against his face when he bent down to hug her and she – no, that can’t be right. She died. He remembers, he remembers grieving for her, he remembers not understanding, he remembers the funeral, she died and she was dead by then, Penelope Smith–

Verity. Verity Smith. He had told Donna Verity , he said Verity, and he said his father’s name was Sydney, not – not the other name, which now eludes him, vanishing like smoke, how could he have said, how could he have not remembered.

The horror and the crackling darkness rise up in his throat, threatening to drown everything out. Everything he thought he knew, everything he thought he remembered, it rips and tears, dissolves like wet paper in his hands, and leaves nothing but static to fill the gaps. There’s nothing solid to hold onto, not anymore, not when he knows that there never was anything solid in the first place. He’s scrambling for purchase but the ground is crumbling under his fingertips. He’s losing himself, he’s falling, he’s–

His mother’s name was Verity, Julie, Penelope, Satthralope, a thousand other things and none of them.

He grew up on the slopes of Mount Cadon, and when he was young, he snuck out of school. A visit planned, he went to see the old man who lived at the top of the mountain, where the grass faded into cold bleak rocks and snow. The hermit, he lived with the cold stone and he had shown him a daisy, sunshine-gold and brilliant icy-white, and it held all the wonder of the world, that little flower. He ran back all the way down with his hearts in his throat and the scarlet grass tangling around his legs and the sky was a rich red-gold that went on and on and on into the forever, into the reality and unreality he was created to one day rule–

John comes up reeling, eyes snapping open to a darkened flat, with the night sky seeping in through the windows and a chill in the air. He slams backward instinctively and hits the wall with a crack that makes his vision go soft and doesn’t stop, stupid with desperation, with sudden source-less grief. His heartrate – heartsrate , is through the roof, he registers, he’s not breathing, but there is not nearly enough of him to do anything about it (and he reminds himself, oh so distantly, it’s not as if he needs it, that lifesaving oxygen that he should be dependent on, yet isn’t).

He is a collection of fragments without meaning or unity or purpose, he’s shattered and he knows it and his memory is gone without trace and there’s only the static and the void, the ocean below him, guarded by ice that both threatens to crack and freeze him permanently.

Everything seems grey now, what he knows to be his memories pale in comparison to those reds and oranges stunningly bright in his mind, almost blinding him. Oversaturated in every sense. It was the only thing to feel genuine, that brief spark, the only thing to feel real. He jerks a hand up to his mouth, holds back a sob. He’s not real, he’s not real, he’s not real–

He lived in – in Cadon – but it slips away like water between his fingers, a voice in his head like silk, too soft to make out the words. He knows he won’t be able to get it back, he thinks he doesn’t want to get it back – or maybe he wants it back more than anything; at least if he remembered he would be whole again.

He had it. For a minute, he had it. He sits on the sofa, blind with fear, cold in a way that can’t be attributed to temperature. He is frost from the inside out.

And then, trembling, he reaches out again.

^{1 From the German. 'Unsettling, eerie,' certainly, but literally 'un-home-ly', or more loosely perhaps 'not-being-at-home.' Suggesting that which should be well-known, comforting, all frightening edges worn smooth by the weight of years of familiarity, and yet isn't. There is a discongruity to 'unheimlich,' the suggestion of a stranger in a strange land.2↩}

^{2.One might note the self-referential nature of this assertion--it is after all itself misplaced, disoriented, dissonant, out of sync with the pre-established nature of a guide. The Editors suggest you don't worry about it. To put it shortly: there are larger incongruities at work here. You have bigger fish to fry.↩}

Chapter Text

So you're having a mental breakdown.

Well, you have been under a tremendous amount of stress, and honestly, you don’t have amazing ways to cope with it all. There’s nothing that can be done about that, and sooner or later, you’re going to find something out that topples the house of cards, and sends you crashing to the ground.

It’s only to be expected.

If you have a confidant, try reaching out to them. If not, then…

Just hope that you’ll be able to regain a sense of stability sometime soon. Breathe, you’ll be okay. Eventually.

The restaurant is crowded, but not overly so. A meeting over dinner tonight, which isn’t too bad, better then the meetings in drab conference rooms and chairs that make you wish you were standing. Good food paid for by the company, under the pretense of helping with making their clients more comfortable, means they’re more likely to make a deal, however.

Right now, Donna stands at the bar, out of the way, and out of sight of her boss Christi and her associates at their table. She had said she was just going to pop to the loo, but really, she’s just on her mobile. It’s not like they’re going to check up on her, not like how she’s checking up on John.

–class is fine, is his latest text, making her phone buzz in her hands.

–Ok, ok, she sends. Just wanted to make sure you didn’t blow up the lecture hall or smthin.

“I’m not stupid, ” she mutters out loud. “I know you’re only saying everything’s fine because you’ve always got your head in the sand.”

–What about work, she asks. Is olivia giving you any more trouble?

–No, work is fine.

She waits for a second, expecting him to double, or even triple text, but that's all she gets. Donna lets out a groan, and jumps when someone next to her clears her throat. “Boy trouble?” a woman asks. She sits on a bar stool, sipping a rather colorful drink that looks like it’d be chock full of alcohol that you could barely taste. Her hair is colorful too, dyed a violet so dark it could be mistaken for black.

Donna rolls her eyes. “Not in the way you’d think,” she says.

The woman raises an eyebrow. “Not a boy, or not trouble?”

“Both? Neither? Maybe? It’s gotta be one of those.” She glances back down at her mobile. Doesn’t know what to say, so she pockets it for the moment. He probably got distracted with his experiments or something when she didn’t answer immediately, anyway.

“Want to talk about it?” the woman asks. She takes a sip of her drink, sets it down on the counter. “I’m Emily.”

“Donna,” she says, and can’t help but adding, a bit snappish,  “and no, I don’t need to ‘talk about it’, like I’m some delinquent that got  caught by the guidance counselor.”

“You sound… stressed,” Emily says evenly.

Donna lets out a chuckle. “You don’t know the half of it.”

Emily pats the stool next to her invitingly. “Take a break, relax,” she says. “If – if you want to, of course,” she adds, suddenly sheepish.

Donna glances back to her table – or just the general area where patrons are eating. She’s a temp, no one’s going to notice if she comes back a bit later than she should. “Alright sunshine, I’ll sit with you,” she says, turning back to Emily. “Just for a bit. I’m on business, technically.”

“Technically?”

“I’m a temp. I think my boss just made me come along so she wouldn’t be lonely. It’s not like I’m doing any actual work.”

Emily laughs. “Yeah, yeah that’s it. Definitely.” She must notice how Donna’s taken out her mobile, fidgeting with it as they talk, because then she asks, “Your friend, what’s up with them?”

Donna sighs. “I don’t know. Well, I do know, but he keeps saying everything’s fine. I’m so sick of that word. Fine. Whenever he says he’s fine, he means he’s breaking down, and he’s just trying to hide it, or ignore it. Usually ignore it.”

“Does that even work?” Emily asks. “The ignoring thing. Whatever’s the issue, I would have thought it’d just make things worse.”

“No, no that’s what you’d expect, that he wouldn’t be able to keep it up. But John’s fine! There’s this – thing, that happened to him, to us, sort of, and with anyone else, you couldn’t possibly expect him to be functional after it, but he is! He’s going to class – I don’t think he’s ever skipped in his life, the complete nerd – and he’s going to work. He just seems… fine.”

“And he shouldn’t be fine,” Emily finishes. “But is that so bad? I mean, sounds like he’s stable, at the very least. And besides, some people deal with trauma differently. Not everyone reacts the same.”

“I know, I know.”  She also knows she’s venting when she probably shouldn’t be, but it’s not like she’s said too much or anything. “What am I going to do, march up to him and demand him to break down? I’ve done that before, it didn’t work out that well–”

“You did what?” Emily asks suddenly.

Donna waves her hands. “Completely different situation, trust me,” she says, though it really wasn’t. “But last time, he had been able to explain, and this time, I’m worryin’ that if I bring it up, make him actually think about it properly, then he might… break down.”

Emily nods sagely, like she has any idea what’s really going on with John. “So he’s stable, and you don’t want to… rock the boat, essentially?”

“Yeah, sort of? It’s why, when I was told I’d have to go on this trip for a week, I didn’t say no or anything, because if I did that, I just know that John would be asking me why. He wouldn’t just take ‘I don’t want to go’ for an answer, because he knows how I am. I mean, I didn’t leave without making it crystal clear that I want him to call if anything happens.”

Emily’s resting her head on her hand, but she’s watching her intently. “So you’re worried.”

“Of course I’m worried! But I’m just hoping I came across more like ‘Overbearing Mom’ as opposed to ‘I Don’t Trust You Not To Have A Breakdown, But I Feel That If I Say That, Then It’ll Happen.’”

Emily laughs, more of a quiet snicker than anything. “Sounds like you’ve got your hands full.”

“Thank you. It’s just – I know the effort it takes for him to do this, to just… deny everything so he can keep functioning, so he can keep up this manic energy of his.” She sighs, buries her face in her hands. Mumbles, more to herself than to anybody else, “And it’s probably – definitely not healthy, but he’s a – a Time Lord or whatever, he can do that stuff. It wouldn’t be right for me to get mad at him for it.

“A… Time Lord? He’s a what?”

Donna’s mouth goes dry. She looks up to see confusion on Emily’s face. That…  wasn’t supposed to slip, but… it’s not like she gave away something terribly vital or secretive. And honestly, it’s a pompous title, or whatever John called it. A word without meaning. Except to her and John. “It’s… just this thing he is. Like a… job he got hired for, but he never even wanted it in the first place.”

“Is that what the issue is? He's got this terrible job? It sounds fancy more than anything. What does he do, make clocks?”

Donna pauses. What was it he had said, when he was drunk? Upholding the laws of Time or whatever? Something terribly abstract and alien that she could barely grasp. She settles for saying, “Something like that.”

“Right…”

There’s a pang in her chest, and Donna suddenly feels sick. Too close for comfort, she thinks. And really, she shouldn’t be unloading her baggage in terribly vague terms to some stranger. So she does her best to change the subject. Emily doesn’t seem to object; she just seems happy to have someone to talk to. Makes sense. Donna’s fairly sure she was just sitting alone at the bar until she showed up.

So they chat. Just about whatever, really. No one’s walking up to Donna, telling her she needs to get back to dinner, so she figures it’s safe. They talk about the latest episode of Bake Off, their jobs – through that, Donna finds out that Emily’s an artist, looking to get her work in a gallery in London.

“One of those galleries that showcase local artists, you know?”

“Local artists,” Donna says. “I don’t know if you’d count as a local, no offense.”

“Oh, no, I live in London, honest,” Emily says. “That’s got to count as local.”

“Really? You sound like you’re from the north. From here, I mean.”

Emily swirls the straw in her drink, lets the ice clink against itself. “Yeah, I grew up around here, but I moved to London after university. Only came back up to visit family. The holidays, you know?”

“And yet you’re sitting in a restaurant alone,” Donna says bluntly.

Emily shrugs. “What can I say? I’ve got lovely company now,” she says, a hint of a smile on her face as she glances at her, then looks back at her drink.

Donna feels herself flush. “I’m – I’m sorry, is this a flirting thing? What’s happening here? Is that – you know?”

Emily blinks, straightens her posture. “I thought – maybe? You’re just–”

“I just broke up with my boyfriend a little bit ago–”

“No, no, of course. I’m sorry, I just thought – you’re really beautiful and–”

“–And we were together for a long time so – wait, what?”

Emily, originally gently suave and cool, now looks flustered, a deer caught in the headlights. Donna feels similarly. “You’re… really beautiful?” she repeats.

She laughs. Can’t help but laugh. “Th–thanks love, really. I think you’re wonderful too, I just… it’s a bit soon, you know?”

“‘Course I know.” Emily nods, then an odd look comes across her face. “I think I had someone too–” She shakes her head, as if dispelling a fog from her mind, and her hair catches the light, letting the dark violet shine. “No, no, sorry. Thinking of something else. Must be.”

Donna’s eyes widen. “And I’ve been ranting on about my friend half the night! God, what a mess I must look like.”

“I think it’s sweet, actually,” Emily assures her. “You care about your friend hell of a lot. You’re worried about him, and you want to help him. That’s more than I can say about my friends,” she adds with a roll of the eyes.

She lets herself smile. “You’re dazzling, honestly, you are,” Donna finds herself saying, a bit of the tension wound tight in her chest, loosening. She looks around, grabs a napkin, slides it to Emily. “You know what, how about… you write your number down, and maybe later, I’ll call.”

Emily blinks, then grins brightly. “Got a pen?”

In a ship hovering high above the Earth, barely in the range of orbit, the primary conference room has been occupied for about two and a half spans now, if Arylas is hearing Time’s melody correctly.

Ze looks down at the datapad in zir hand, and lets a shudder go through zir boneplates. Oh, this is not good. Not good at all.

The datapad gives zem a list of information, most of it useless or completely unnecessary, things like who’s nearby, what zir current orders are, what’s being served in the cafeteria, etc. What ze is focused on right now is the memo from the agents on the planet’s surface, sent not more than a half-span ago.

Of course, of course ze has to be the one to deliver this memo to Coordinator Nalatz. In the middle of a meeting, nonetheless. Still, it’s either this, or stand outside the blast doors for another half-span, waiting for some higher-rank to come and reprimand zem for putting off orders.

Ze takes a second to adjust zir face-plate, a nervous habit ze must have picked up from zir barrack-mate, then ze presses a switch next to the doors and lets them slide open.

Inside the conference room, a bunch of higher-ranks sit around a white-steel table, discussing fiercely.

We’re well aware of the issue, Commander , General Kila says, her light pulsing rapidly, angrily, through her bone-plates. We aren’t blind.

Commander Reike glares, shining harshly. And yet nothing’s been done about it, they say. An unknown variable – a temporal power, of all things – and there hasn’t been any reports, any news on what it could be. This is Earth, General, you know as well as I do that this is dangerous, interfering with this planet like this.

No one’s noticed Arylas yet, and while ze knows ze should make zir presence known, ze can’t quite bring zirself to interrupt. It’s obviously a very heated, if painfully formal discussion, and ze has no desire to become the focus of it just yet.

Coordinator Nalatz shifts in his seat, and it only takes the general impression that he might speak for everyone to focus on him. We have our best people on it, he assures Reike. And so far, the reweaving has been going smoothly, from what can be expected. There hasn’t been any issues of interference. No human is even aware of our presence.

Who says it’s human? And we can’t assume it to stay that way, Commander Reike says sternly. Our best chances of maintaining our current predominance is by knowing all the variables. Somewhere on that planet, there’s a being with immense, but latent potential. Temporal potential that could – Excuse me? Have you just been standing there?

Arylas stiffens, bone-plates coming closer to zir lightform, tightening like armor, as Commander Reike turns to look at zem. Everyone else in the room follows. I – I’m sorry sir. I have a – a memo for the Coordinator, from the intelligence stationed in Sector Ten.

What’s the memo? Coordinator Nalatz asks cooly, making a motion for Commander Reike to calm down.

Arylas looks down at zir datapad, though ze doesn’t need to at all. The words have been burned into zir mind. Ah – well, it seems–

Out with it, dimwatt.

Ze barely stops zemself from jumping. I – There’s reason to suspect that a – a Time Lord may be on the planet’s surface.

The Coordinator continues to stare at zem. Elaborate, is all he says.

Arylas fumbles with zir datapad for a moment, struggling to pull up the expanded note with zir anxiety. Intelligence’s report said that a human has briefly shown to know of the existence of the race, during a conversation with a human that is proximate to Subject Twenty Three.

General Kila looks to Arylas. But the Time Lords are all gone, she says. Well, supposedly one of them survived, but they haven’t been seen for years. Rumor is, they self-destructed. How can a human claim knowledge of the Time Lords if they’ve now never existed?

That can’t be right, the Coordinator adds.

Commander Reike stands up. They gesture to the Coordinator. There is a latent temporal power on that planet, now we’re being told that a Time Lord may be present, and all you can say is that there must be a mistake? Am I the only one capable of seeing sense in this fleet?

The Coordinator’s attention snaps to Commander Reike. You would do well to remember to your place, Commander.

Commander Reike looks like they might say something more, flickering with uncertainty, but they sit down and say nothing.

The Coordinator looks to Arylas, and with a dismissive flick of the bone plates that make up his hand, he says, Thank you for delivering this message. You can go now.

Ze barely remembers to nod and give the salute before darting from the conference, leaving the high-ranks to their discussion, now only made more complicated by zir message.

Time Lords… Arylas shivers, as ze stands in the hallway and tries to dispel the memories of the stories ze has heard.

The week passes without much issue, or much change from the usual (she still worries, John still says he’s fine whenever she texts to check up on him. They don't deviate from The Pattern.) So, it’s a blessing when she gets back to her flat. Christi pulls the car up to her flat, and Donna lingers only long enough for her to not seem like she’s rushing to be done with this trip. She lets Christi pop open the boot of the car, then she grabs her luggage and makes sure to say all the pleasantries needed, before she finally walks into the building complex.

“John?” she calls out right as she gets the door open, before she’s even lugged her bags into the room. “I’m back.”

The lights are off.

“John?” she says again, and her voice rings through the flat. No response.

The lights are off, the air is cold, and there’s no sign of him. When she steps in properly, there’s no shout from the kitchen cheerfully telling her where he is, there’s no note left on the table saying to meet him in the basement, he’s “working on something so cool, Donna, you just have to see.”

He can’t be sleeping, can he? That’s not something he does anymore. Still, she leaves her luggage by the door and walks into the living room, hoping to find him asleep on the couch, ignoring how familiar this feels, how the dread in her heart takes her breath away. The first time, it was the physiology, so the second time…

She finds him wedged between the sofa and the wall, sitting in the corner of the living room. His legs are pulled up to his chest, and his arms hug them closer, chin resting on his knees. He’s not looking at her, but his eyes are open, staring at the wall behind her.

“John?” she whispers. She’s hoping, praying, begging and pleading that he’s here, him as himself, and not some – not someone else, but there’s a terrible blankness in his eyes; he’s glass-still and she thinks this might be the most alien she’s seen him. Not even when he was drunk off his arse and talking gibberish about time travel and symbiotic pilot-bonds. It’s this calm stillness that no human could hope to achieve that chills her to the bone.

He hasn't acknowledged her, hasn't even noticed her. Oh, she shouldn't have left, she should've stayed, she should've been here–

John lifts his head slowly, and blinks at her. It’s like static buzzes just behind his eyes, and it takes a second for him to properly see her. “Oh,” he says, “Donna.” He sounds surprised, like he hadn’t known she was coming back today. Then he laughs softly, but it feels muted and colorless, full of absolutely nothing. “I – I’m sorry, I–” He rubs at his eye with the heel of his palm, and she sees the focus, the presence, starting to come back. His next words slip from his mouth dull and quiet, but she can see the tremendous effort it takes him to even speak. “I think I’ve gone a bit too far away.”  

Chapter Text

 
And we're back.

Immediately, Donna drops to her knees, and puts a hand on John’s shoulder. “John? What are you talking about – What’s–?” His gaze falls away from her, and she shakes him gently, trying to get him to look at her. “John,” she says again, and it feels so loud against the walls and the quiet but she can’t let it stop her. “What’s wrong?”

He shifts minutely to look at her, as if he's trying to look at her – trying, but he doesn't quite succeed, staring straight through her but certainly not seeing much of her at all.

“John, please,” she implores, begging him to see her, to focus. “What the hell happened?” Her voice cracks painfully, and John jerks at that, an odd look coming into his eyes, like – like worry (for who? For her?) and distress that tears at him like daggers, and he opens his mouth, maybe to say something, maybe to answer her, but then his jaw snaps shut before he’s even taken a breath to speak. The look still lingers, like he’s fighting to say something, but can’t. Maybe he’s trying to find the words, but they’re just out of reach. Or maybe that’s just her hoping that he wants to talk to her still.

She takes a breath, and tries to pull herself together despite the pounding of her heart in her chest – has to pull herself together, before she adds, quietly,  “I’m sorry, I – I’m worried, that’s all. I’m worried about you, I – I’ve been worried for so long now.” Regret and remorse pushes its way up her throat, and everything from the past few weeks is starting to pile up and suffocate her, but – but she can’t break down, not now.

John drops his gaze, half buries his head in the crook of his elbow, curling up on himself. There’s a harsh, breathless whisper of “Sorry, sorry, sorry,” as he does, but it’s flat, dull, like the words are falling from his mouth without much thought behind them.

She was the one that left him alone when she knew he wasn’t okay. She thought he was stable, but something happened, or maybe it just all came crashing down on him – like she feels it’s about to for her. She fights down her panic, because she can’t panic, she can’t – cause if she panics, then there’s no one else to help John.

“No, don’t–” She stops, makes herself take a breath when her lungs start to burn. “Don’t be sorry, you don’t – you don’t have to be sorry.” She gets it on the second try, manages to keep her voice somewhat steady.

She makes a decision, then. Holds out her hand. “Let’s – let’s just get you on your feet, yeah?”

John lifts up his head, keeping his eyes to the ground, and it’s with sluggish energy that he reaches out and takes her hand. His skin is cool in hers, alien, but she doesn’t think about that right now. All she’s got to think about right now is how she’s going to help her friend.

Gently as she can, she hauls him up onto his feet, only for him to stumble, eyes swimming like he might faint. She grabs his shoulder with one hand quickly to steady him, and keeps her other hand around his. He trembles under her hands, and now she’s seeing just how pale he looks.

“Are – are you okay?” she asks before she can stop herself to consider the absolute idiocy behind that question.

His grip on her hand tightens, and he looks at her with something like veiled panic. Tries to say something, but it comes out as a low whine more than anything like language. He manages to shake his head, and it all boils down to the same thing for her.

“Right,” Donna breathes. “Of course not. That’s – that’s alright, John.”

They need to sit down, the both of them. Somewhere that isn't crammed between the wall and the sofa. She guides him to the kitchen, keeping a hand on his shoulder as they walk; he doesn’t protest, doesn’t question her. She sits him down at the table, and there’s a noticeable sense of relief in his shoulders when he does, like he wouldn’t have been able to stand for much longer.

She tries again, one more time. Asks something that might be easier to answer, more quantitative. “When – when was the last time you ate?”  

This time, he speaks, quietly enough that she has to strain to hear him properly. “A… while before the… the day you left.” Which would make that much longer than a week.

“What about sleep? When was the last time you properly slept?”

“Three weeks, four days,” he says simply, looking down at his hands, picking at the skin by his fingernails without much thought or concern.

She stares at him.

John and Donna, they have a bit of a script in their lives. Whenever their conversations revolve around something latently terrifying and alien, she always asks if he’s okay, and he always says he’s fine, she calls his bullshit, and they move on from there. It’s The Pattern. That’s how it’s gone for months now, that’s how it’s supposed to go.

And right now, they’re so far off script, she barely knows what to do.

“What happened?” she asks, knowing she’s repeating herself, but maybe this time, when he’s spoken a few words, she’ll get an answer. “What’s wrong?”

He look at her as he mumbles quietly, "...Known some call is air am."

She blinks. "What?"

"I – There's – there's no one there, who – who I was–"

"What does that even mean?" she asks, and an anxious laugh almost burbles out of her throat, but she chokes on  the panic instead.

John lets out a breath, shudders as he does. He folds and sets his arms on the table, rests his head on the crook of his elbow. Keeps looking away from her.

An age passes before he finally says something that isn't largely incoherent. "What does it matter? I'm not real."

For a moment, she’s stunned. “What – yes, it matters, John. You matter, your thoughts matter. I care about you, I need to know that you’re – that you’re okay. I need to know how to help you, cause right now, I don’t know.”

She waits for him to say something; he just keeps on looking away from her, hunched over the table as he is.

“John,” Donna says sternly, a reminder for her to stay steady, as much as it is a plea for him to focus. "Listen to me."

He doesn't lift his head up, but he does look at her. That's progress.

"Did you–" She takes a breath, and feels nauseous as she asks, "Did you do something to the psychelock?"

“It’ll break on its own time. Can’t force it,” he says, answering the question she was thinking of, instead of the one she asked.

That’s it, that’s enough. That’s all she can handle.

Donna scoots her chair back, and it makes an awful noise that John barely reacts to. She gets up, paces over to the far side of the kitchen and back again. It's awfully quiet, aside from the sound of her barely measuring her breathing, and the sound of her footsteps against tile. There's nothing from the neighbors, like the rest of the world's gone silent.

And oh, John. There’s a timer above his head, counting down the days, months, years, whatever it may be, until the psychelock inevitably breaks down, and neither of them can see it. And it’ll take its sweet damn time, however much it wants.

John, when he was drunk, the day this all started, he had talked on about centuries and millennia. Whatever, whoever it is, sleeping in the back of his head, they’re ancient. They don’t know what time scale this sort of thing operates. They just don’t know anything, do they.

They desperately need something normal in their lives. It’s been nothing but awful, painful, life-changing revelations and aliens and existential crises, she thinks they need something to remind him, to remind her, the both of them, that there’s more to life than just that.

"Right," she starts, and half presses a hand to her mouth. "Okay, that's – we can – oh God, right, okay–"

John lifts up his head, twists around to look at her. "Donna?" he asks, but it's distant, pale, barely there at all.

"I'm fine. I'm – we're fine, it's fine. Let's – let's just... eat something," she settles on, decisively trying to pull herself together through sheer force of will. "We're in the kitchen, I can make sandwiches."

"Oh, right."

She goes over to rummage through the fridge. "You haven't eaten in a while, any requests?"

When Donna glances behind herself. John just shakes his head. She bites back a sigh (or maybe a sob), and continues looking through the fridge. Once she finds what she needs, she sets about making a couple of sandwiches. John doesn’t say anything, and the silence in the kitchen, interrupted only by the clinking of dishes and cutlery, is getting to her, so she says out loud, “I think I’m gonna cook them on the stove. Toasties always cheer me up.”

The stove clicks as she turns it on, and sets a pan over the burner. “My business trip went alright. As well as you can expect. There wasn't really–” Any reason for me to go, she almost says, but – she can't say that. Can't say that whatever’s going through his mind, whatever happened, had no reason to happen. “–any time to do anything fun,” she says instead. It’s not a lie.

(She should have been here. But she wasn't, and now they have to deal with the aftermath.)

The sandwiches, buttered lightly, sizzle when she drops them onto the pan.

"The hotels were... nice, for the most part. Very nice." she continues on, poking at the sandwiches with her spatula every now and then. "I swear, I'm not an accountant or anything, but I think my company's got a budget problem. The whole point of this trip was to keep clients from dropping their accounts with us – you know, keeping the company from losing money, but then Christi took me on this trip, and the car we rented was a Mercedes Benz, all the hotels were fancy – like, had bellhops carrying your luggage, fancy – and ate at these really nice restaurants. All on the company card, of course."

She looks back at John. "Like, that's weird, right? That can't just be me."

He shrugs, then tilts his head. Reconsiders. Nods.

"Yeah, see, it's not just me," she says, taking that response as the best she'll get for now. "And Christi, well, she's a whole different story. I've only been a secretary at this company for what, a couple months? I don't know her that well, even if she's my boss. But the first day into the trip, right, apparently she's expecting me to call her hotel room to wake her up. We were late to our first meeting cause of that, too, and of course she blames me for losing the client."

She carefully lifts up one of the sandwiches to check how they're toasting. They've gotten quite brown already, so she flips them over and turns the heat down, just a bit.

“I mean, I’m a secretary, not her personal assistant. A temp secretary. And what sort of PA would do that? Wake up their boss in the morning? We've got alarm clocks on our mobiles, and if you really want, the person at the hotel's desk can do that thing for you, not your secretary. It was like she was in primary school and I was her mum, or something.”

The next time she looks back at John – and she's not anxious, she's not freaking out, she's done with that, she's doing what she can to help, and if that's making sandwiches and taking inanely about nothing at all, then that's what she's doing – she catches him just as he ducks his head to stare down at the table again.

“If you want me to shut up," she says, "you can just… I don’t know. Give a hand signal, or something?”

He looks up at her, makes a motion for her to keep going, and it's something that tells her he’s listening, processing this all. It makes the tension in her chest loosen, if only a little. “Alright.” She points the spatula at him, faking a menacing posture. “But don’t feel like you’ve got to respond. You do enough talking for the both of us, usually. My turn now.”

She checks the sandwiches again, and now they're a little bit burnt, even after turning down the heat. Well, she doesn't mind, and she hasn't known John to mind burnt edges either. She gets a plate, piles it with the sandwiches, and brings it over to the table. Sets the plate down in the middle of the table, and sits down opposite of John.

(How many times have they been in this position, sitting at the kitchen table, something serious or alien plaguing their minds? How many more times will there be?)

“Eat,” she says when he makes no move to grab a sandwich. “I may not be my boss’s mum, but I sure as hell will be yours if I have to be.”

After a moment, he takes a sandwich. Takes a bite and chews slowly.

“I met someone when I was up north,” she says, grabbing a sandwich for herself. “I sort of… snuck away from this dinner meeting, hung out at the bar for a bit.” Oh, that makes her sound like a teenager, doesn’t it. “Her name’s Emily. I like her. She’s – sweet.” That doesn’t help.

John looks up at her.

“She is, honest! I’m not being cheeky. She talked first, we sat and chatted for a while and…  I got her number on a napkin.” It’s in her purse, she thinks, with her luggage that’s still by the door.

He clears his throat. “Are you – are you going to call her back?” he asks, his voice barely more than a whisper. There’s an effort behind his words.

And she smiles, because that’s the first thing he’s said without her prompting him. “Maybe?” She shrugs. “She was nice, and absolutely stunning, but…” she trails off, his name on the tip of her tongue but too bitter to say. “It’d be a bit soon, wouldn’t it? And I don’t know if I could do another… big romantic relationship. I’m not the best with romance things, you know? Especially after Lance and all that..."

John shrugs. “Wait until you feel ready,” is all he says.

She takes a bite of her sandwich, swallows quickly. “Yeah, you’re probably right. She was cute though.”

They delve into a sort of one-sided conversation after that. John still rarely speaks, unless she directly asks him, or prompts him, and there's none of the usual verve and vivacity, the ramble, the dumb jokes. He doesn’t take any delight in talking, not like he usually does, nor does he over complicate anything with unnecessary explanations and pointless tangents. The dull, lost look in his eyes breaks her heart, but at least he’s talking.

“It’s almost Christmas,” she says abruptly, at one point.

He tilts his head, as if to ask, so?

“You always decorate for the holidays, and I’m not seeing anything festive in this flat.” She may hate the holidays, Christmas especially. Crowding all the streets, wrecking the shops, and making the purchase of expensive, unnecessary gifts the only way to show your friends and family how much they mean to you, it’s all something she’d rather avoid. But John loves to decorate – God knows why – for anything, doesn’t even have to be the holidays for him to have fun picking out atrociously kitschy center pieces to keep in the kitchen. It’s one of the most normal things about him that she can think of right now, and he really needs normality.

“So,” she starts, “D’you want to break out the decorations – you’re gonna have to help me with that, I’ve no idea where you keep them.” And it's certainly not a lie – she really does have no idea where he keeps half his stuff, even if they've been living together for a while now – but as she says it, it's almost as if it is a lie, something she's saying just to get him to do something, to get him to stand up and think for a moment.

He looks a bit surprised at her offer, but he manages to say, “I keep them in the basement.”

While John goes down to the basement, Donna stays back, since he said he wouldn’t need help carrying everything up and she couldn't bare to argue with him about it. She does a bit of cleaning up in the living room while she waits, well, a lot of cleaning. It's taking him a while to get the decorations, and she was left standing in an empty flat with worry eating at her insides like acid. The only thing she felt she could do was channel that into quickly tidying up – folding some of the throw blankets left about, putting the dishes in the sink, wiping down the counters.

Her mum would be proud. Ugh.

The door to the flat eases open, and Donna's out into the living room in an instant. She looks down at the wash rag she's wringing in her hands, and quickly throws it into the kitchen, onto the counter behind her, before John can see. "Took you long enough," she says, as he walks past her to set the the box down on the coffee table, which now is semi-neatly organized, with stacks of papers instead of messy piles.

"Sorry," he says flatly. He digs through the box, pulling out a long strand of pine garland, and some lights that are tangled up with it. He piles up that and a bit more into his arms, and walks over to the balcony. He slides the door open and steps outside.

She knows he's just – decorating the railing out there, but she really would have appreciating him saying something about it, or just, rambling on about something.

Instead, she bites her lip and looks down at the box in front of her. There's assortment of tree decorations at the bottom of the box. Mostly, they’re colorful plastic bulbs, but there’s a few more kitschy trinkets as well.

“We don’t have a tree,” she remembers, and says it loud enough for him to hear outside – he left the door open, there’s a freezing draft blowing in. “Where are we supposed to get a tree this time of night?”

“We don’t need a tree,” he calls back.

“You sure?”

“It’s fine,” John says, walking back into the flat. He slides the door shut, and through the glass, Donna can see the lights and garland wrapped nicely around the metal railing. There’s light flurries of snow outside, she notices, as John runs a hand through his hair, shaking the snowflakes off.

He walks over and picks up another few strings of garland and lights. “I’m just going to put this up in the kitchen, I think,” he says, and then he's out of the room again.

It’s like his mask has been ripped off and cut to pieces, but he’s the one holding the scissors. It’s easy to see the extent of the damage done when usually, he’s jumping back from these sort of alien issues with astounding speed. Then again, he’s usually forcing himself to keep a facade when he does that, and this isn’t exactly their run of the mill biology lesson.

He’s getting back to himself slowly, and she hates watching, waiting, listening to his short, dulled responses, but what else is she going to do?

She shakes her head, tries to focus on the present, and the domesticity she’s trying to uphold in a desperate grab for some normality in their lives.

She pulls out all the tree decorations – no use for them without a tree, but they’re blocking her from getting to the heavier stuff at the bottom. There’s a few other things, nothing too interesting or something that she would want to put up in the flat, but laid flat against the bottom of the box so it’d fit, is a holly wreath, with leaves like silver woven throughout. She thought he hated indoor plants, even if they’re fakes.

Donna picks it up and looks around the flat for a decent place to put it. On the front door, maybe? Isn’t that what people do? She can’t imagine just hanging it on the wall somewhere.

She stands up, walks over to the front door. She pulls it open, and finds a nail already in the wood, making hanging up the wreath as simple as just putting it there.

She looks over to the kitchen. From where she stands, she can't actually see John, and that only makes her feel a brief burst of anxiety. She should check on him, she really ought to check on him – but what if when she walks in, he's... fuzzy, again. He's still fuzzy and distant, it's only gotten a little bit better since she's gotten home and hauled him onto his feet. She doesn't know how much longer she can stand seeing that awful empty look in his eyes.

If anything, that's more of a reason for her to check on him. So she kicks her arse back into gear and walks into the kitchen, and it feels like she's making a journey across the most treacherous terrain as she does.

John’s standing on a chair in the kitchen, putting garland around the top of the china cabinet, the one they picked up at a garage sale for twenty pounds. Donna had wanted the cabinet, thought it’d look nice in the kitchen, especially since they had a bit of an empty space, where she’s pretty sure a different cabinet or counter used to be. (He’s occasionally mentioned more than a few incidents where he accidentally broke furniture with that fancy screwdriver of his). The cabinet offers space for her to put a few of her random trinkets, plus some of the pots John had made during his brief pottery phase.

It's when he notices her standing in the doorway that she talks. "How's it going?" is all she asks.

"Fine," he says, and looks back to his garland. "It's fine."

She's not so sure about that, but he's on his feet, he's intact, more or less, so what more can she hope for.

Chapter Text

It's a few days later that the two of them are standing on the front porch of Sylvia Noble’s house. Or maybe it’s Wilf’s, John’s not sure who actually owns the place, nor is it really relevant at all to what they’re doing.

“We don’t have to go,” Donna says to him, then backpedals. “I mean, Mum will throw a fit if I don’t show, so I have to go, but you don’t have to. I’m sure they’ll understand.”

He doesn’t have time to say anything – not that he particularly has anything to say – before the door swings open and Sylvia’s standing in the doorway.

“Oh there you two are,” she says, and John just barely suppresses a wince. “I thought you weren’t going to come, you’re so late. Fashionably late, more like plain rudeness.” She turns to walk back into the house and, leaves the door open for them to follow her. When they don’t immediately come in, she turns around, gives them a look. “Don’t just stand out on the porch, you’re lettin’ all the heating out.”

“And whatever happened to just letting yourselves in,” she continues, as they step inside. She tuts. “Making me leave the stove unattended to unlock the door for you two.”

“I lost my key, alright?” Donna says as she shrugs off her two jackets (is it really that cold, for her to wear two jackets at the same time?) and hangs them up on the wall hooks, after setting down her bundle of gifts.

John shuts the door behind himself, and takes a moment to breath. He makes an effort to pull himself together, tight as he can. He can barely comprehend the motion, the static in his head makes sure of that, but it happens all the same.

There’s a cheerful exclamation from a voice he recognizes to be Wilf’s, and Donna lights up. She kicks off her shoes and picks up her gifts, and just before she leaves to go to the family room, she elbows him. “Come on,” she says. “It’ll be fine.” She pats him on the shoulder, then goes to greet her granddad.

He sighs, looks down at his shoes. There’s a moment where he contemplates leaving – he could fake being ill, or say there’s some science emergency, they wouldn’t know enough to ask, but… No, this was Donna’s idea, he can’t just bail on her like that. He wore the ugly festive sweater and everything.

She’s the one wanting him to feel better (and he does too), and obviously she’s thinking that a nice little dinner ( without any gingerol) might help him feel… He doesn’t know, make him feel real? LIke he has a past? Like he’s a proper human, even though he’s not?

He shakes his head. Focus on the present. Focus on Donna.

He finds her setting the gifts on the coffee table, where there’s already a few piled up. Wilf’s next to her, chatting away, and when he sees John, his grin grows wider. “There you are, happy holidays!” he says. “I didn’t hear your voice. ‘Was wondering if you came.” He starts to walk towards the kitchen, and pats John on the back as he passes by. “I’ll just go get some tea, how ‘bout it?”

“Three sugars for me, thanks,” he says automatically. (And he usually puts much more sugar in than that, why’d he say that?)

Donna looks over to him. “You alright?”

“Yup, yup, just a bit – you know, bluh.” He shrugs, makes a dumb face. That gets him a bit of a smile.

Wilf comes back with cups of tea, one for John and one for Donna, but with him is Sylvia, and she decides to immediately draft them all for table-setting duty.

John goes to grab the fancy china they always use for these sorts of dinners from the cabinets, and Donna helps her mum with bringing all the dishes over from the counters to the table.

John always hears her say that her mum cooks enough for twenty during holiday dinners, and tonight’s no different. There’s turkey, mashed and roast potatoes, tons of stuffing, bowls of cooked greens, cranberry sauce and gravy, and all the rest.

“Is it just us tonight?” he asks, wanting to know how many places to set, while making an effort to actually join in with the conversation. Donna’s been giving him concerned looks the whole time, and he really rather she would not. “No one else is late?”

“Who else would there be?” Sylvia huffs, as she carries the turkey over and puts it in the center of the table.

“I dunno, there’s usually…” but she’s stopped paying attention to him, as she quibbles with Donna and Wilf, trying to get everything just right in terms of where all the food is put, so he lets the sentence drop, and sets the rest of the table quietly.

Everyone chats as they finally sit down, Sylvia asked Donna about her job, so now she’s going on about Beatrice and that whole mess, and Wilf gets the honor of carving into the turkey. Food’s passed around in a sort of free-for-all around the table, everyone grabbing for whatever they want.

About halfway through the meal, Wilf looks over to him and asks, “Have your classes been going well? You're studying history now, aren't you?”

He shakes his head, picks at the turkey on his plate. “No, I’m not studying history.”

Donna eyes him, as if waiting for him to elaborate, and when he doesn't, she jumps in with, “He dropped his history classes last semester, remember? Kept getting into arguments with the professors.”

“Is that so?” Sylvia asks. “I’m surprised they didn't just kick you out."

Donna says, “I convinced him to drop before they did, right John?”

“Uh,” he clears his throat, “Yeah, yeah she did.”

Sylvia takes a sip from her glass of wine. “What would you even argue about? It’s history, it just – happened.”

He opens his mouth to say something long-winded and ostentatious, then stops short. They don't need to hear about how history is built on differing worldviews and perspectives and opinions, how the winner writes records of the war and decides how people view the losers for centuries to come. They don't need to hear about his professor who somehow managed to make it to getting their master's degree without understanding this, and insisted that there was only one way to look at things. It doesn't really matter, does it.

All he says is, “We argued over small things. Specifics,” which isn't exactly untrue, but it’s mostly a lie, anyway.

“That’s a shame it didn’t work out,” Wilf says. “You always love talking about history when we’re stargazing.”

John hums. He can think of countless hours spent rambling on about the discovery of Tutankhamun's tomb, about the life of Charles Dickens, even the medical practices of the fifteenth century. But now he dreads to about why history interests him so much. Is it actually him , or just some vestige of the Doctor?

“Oh!” Donna says suddenly. “We brought Christmas crackers.”

“Did you then?” Sylvia asks, looking pleasantly surprised. Wilf, in the middle of a bite of turkey, raises his eyebrows to show some interest.

“Yeah, for festivity and all that.” Donna says, before she gets up from her seat, grabs the bag that was left by the doorway of the kitchen, and sits back down. Each cracker she pulls out of the bag is made out of sparkly paper that crinkles in her hands. Then they’re passed out.

When Sylvia breaks her cracker with Donna, she ends up with a red crown, and from the tube, she pulls out a tiny plastic whistle. She hums, looking at it appraisingly. “The toys I got from these when I was a kid were much better.”

Donna rolls her eyes. “It’s a whistle. It’s supposed to be cute, what more do you want?”

“I don’t know about cute ,” she says, and sets it aside. “But, oh well.”

Then it’s John’s turn to pull his cracker, which he does with Donna, too.

He reaches inside the half ripped cardboard cracker, and pulls out a tiny figurine of a green alien. “Oh,” he says, and that makes Donna laugh terribly. He finds himself laughing along after a second’s pause, though it leaves everyone else confused and just a little bit concerned. Then he sets the figurine aside to put on his crown, he accidentally rips the paper when he tries to unfold it. “I thought I was good at folding paper,” he grumbles, before setting aside the torn blue paper.

Donna leans across the table, puts a hand over his. “Don’t worry,” she says, with complete seriousness. “You’re just as bad at folding paper as when you started.”

He blinks, totally caught off guard and wondering if he heard her right. “What–”

“Donna!” Sylvia scolds, “Don’t be so rude!”

“How am I being rude?” she asks. “It’s sarcasm, Mum.”

The breaking of the crackers continues something like that, and soon enough, everyone’s got a little trinket and a crown to wear as they finish the rest of the dinner. Sylvia takes her crown off after a little bit though, claiming it’s messing with her hair. Donna does the same, the thin paper making both their hair static-y. Wilf stubbornly keeps wearing his paper crown, even when Sylvia says it looks silly on him.

Eventually, everyone decides they’ve had enough, and Sylvia starts telling them to clean their plates if they’re done. “I’m certainly not getting stuck clearing the table while you lot sit around and watch telly,” she says as she gets up, with a pointed look towards Wilf, who grumbles a bit. John glances at Donna, as if to say is she serious? She gives the slightest shrug of her shoulders as a response, then gets up from the table.

He gets up to clear his plate with them, and as he’s setting a plate scraped clean, ready to be washed, on the counter, he thinks about what Donna was saying earlier, when they were in the car. He was… a bit more spacey then, didn’t quite catch everything she was saying, but he knows that she’s worried about him – specifically, that she was gone when he needed her, that she’s the only one that really knows.

And he looks to Wilf, who’s chatting with Donna about his latest stargazing endeavors, and he thinks about how much Donna’s been through (and really, what does it matter with him? Donna’s who he cares about, truly). It’s for her, he tells himself, much more than it is for him, and that gives him the ability to dig down, find that energy buried deep.

“Hey Wilf,” he says abruptly, and he and Donna turn to look at him. John doesn't miss the brief look of surprise on her face, no doubt from the fact of him starting this conversation. “How’s that telescope treating you?”

“Good, good!” Wilf says enthusiastically. “Haven’t been having any issues since you fixed it up for me.”

He shifts on his feet. “Would you mind if I took a look at it, just to make sure everything’s working properly? Like a – checkup, of sorts.”

If Wilf is confused by the request, he doesn’t show it. “No, I wouldn’t mind but – well, it’s in my shed right now, you’d have to go up the hill and get it.”

“Oh I wouldn’t mind. Donna could come too, it could be a – outing, of sorts. A brisk walk, it’s good for you.” he looks over to Donna. “You wouldn’t mind, would you Donna?”

"Uh… No, not at all. Are we going right now?”

“I don’t see why we shouldn't be able to,” Wilf says. “Only for a little bit, mind, then we’ve got to be back in.”

John tries to hold back any anxiety he’s feeling about this idea. He jerks his head to the backdoor, a sliding glass door on the far wall of the kitchen that leads out to the porch. “C’mon, then.”

They’re caught by Sylvia walking back into the kitchen, just as they’re heading out to the backdoor. “Are you three going up the hill?” she asks. “Now? It’s Christmas, we’re supposed to be a family , I thought. We haven’t even opened presents yet.”

“Stargazing is a family thing,” John says. “Or, it can be. See, there’s the three of us, going up the hill, together, like a family. You can come if you want,” he adds, while simultaneously trying to convey that he very much does not want her to come along without being terribly obvious or terribly rude.

She narrows her eyes at him, and he briefly wonders just where he got the courage to indirectly defy Sylvia Noble like that. Then she says, somewhat tensely, “No, I’ll just stay inside, where it’s warm and comfortable. I can get a head start on the dishes, how about that?”

“Mum–” Donna tries, but then John puts a hand on her shoulder, very minutely shakes his head.

As he gives her a gentle push to go out onto the back porch, he finds the words suddenly easy to grasp, as if everything’s completely fine and he isn't viciously trying to distance himself from his own thoughts, “Thank you very much Sylvia, dinner was lovely and we’ll be back in a bit, just want to check on your dad’s telescope. Plus, there’s going to be a great view of the constellation of Kasterborous that I really don’t want to miss, but when we come back, I’ll personally help you with those dishes, I promise.” He’s rambling terribly and he’s not quite sure what he’s actually saying, but Sylvia doesn’t stop him when he makes for the door, so he can’t really complain. Or maybe he was talking so much that she couldn’t get a word in. Either way, it works.

He shuts the door, and turns around to find Wilf looking at him with delighted eyes. Donna’s next to her granddad, rubbing at her arms, shivering in the cold. Right. Coat. He meant to grab hers, probably.

“Well, that’s that, then!” he says, clapping his hands together, rubbing them together even though he’s not the slightest bit cold. “Got out of the house, unharmed.”

Wilf laughs. “You better be careful, saying things like that to her face. She’ll have your head, bless her.”

“I’m sure she will when we get back,” he says, with a glance to the door. He can’t see Sylvia through the window, which he’s not sure if he should take that as good or bad. “So how about we take our time?”

They make their way up to the allotments. Wilf somehow ends up in the lead, despite how he complains about his bad knee. Donna glances back at John, then slows her steps until she’s walking beside him, which makes him think it’s somehow deliberate, the two of them ending up a bit behind Wilf.

“The constellation of Kasterborous?” she asks, and while she almost sounds out the last word like it’s foreign to her, she sounds vaguely in awe.

He frowns. “Is that what I said?” There’s that flicker of static in the back of his mind, eating away at whatever he said, and he’s not sure if he should fight against it, if it’s even worth it. Whatever he said, it couldn’t have been that important for him to keep hold of the memory, he suppose. Donna gives him a warning look, and he shrugs. “I was just making things up to get your mum out of our hair.”

“Right,” she says. “You seem to be feeling better,” she adds lightly.

He rubs at his neck. “Maybe, yeah, I…”

She looks to him expectantly, and the words stick in his throat, leaving an awkward silence. She looks back ahead. “You don’t have to say anything to that. What I’m wondering is: you couldn’t stop to grab a jacket for me? It’s cold enough to freeze the balls off a brass monkey.”

“It’s – what? What was that?”

She sideeyes him. “Have you never heard that saying?”

He gives her a baffled look. “I… can’t say I have."

Wilf looks back at John and Donna, a smile touching his lips. They bicker like they’re siblings, but he can still see how much they care about each other. He can’t say it doesn’t warm his heart, seeing them get along so well.

He knows that John isn’t just wanting to check on his telescope – though he wouldn’t say that isn’t a part of it – but he’s had kids, grandkids, he knows when someone has something on their mind, something they’d like to talk about in private, and when he looks at John, he sees a kid who has so much on his mind it’s driving him bonkers.

It’s made even more obvious when he overhears Donna ask in a hushed whisper, “Why are we doing this? I know it’s not to – check on his telescope or whatever.”

“Why can’t I check on his telescope? I want to make sure it’s working, what if I fixed it… wrong, or something?”

“Two reasons. One, you would never admit to ‘fixing something wrong,’ and two, you fixed it months ago, if there was an issue, Granddad would have mentioned it. I thought you were supposed to be good at this thing, Time Boy.”

That’s one of the odder nicknames she’s given John, he has to say, but they must have all sorts of inside jokes, best mates like that. He does his best to tune out the rest of what they’re saying, knowing he really shouldn’t be listening, and honestly, it’s straining his ears a bit trying to. He’s not as young as he used to be.

When he gets to the shed, he fumbles with unlocking it, the cold making his fingers stiff, despite the gloves he’s put on. Inside, the telescope’s leaning against the nearest corner of the shed. Whatever John did to it, it’s kept up well. The joints don’t get so stuck anymore when pulls the tripod’s legs apart, and everything comes in sharp and clear without too much time spent focusing.

John and Donna reach him by the time he’s got everything set up. Donna’s watching John with something that reminds Wilf of his late wife, and how she would dote over him

incessantly.

“Do you want me to leave?” she asks quietly. “Privacy or whatever?”

John’s eyes widen, like the thought panics him. “No! No, no, it’s fine. It’s – you already know, what would be the point.”

“Right, yeah. But it’s your thing, so I’ll just… be here for support, if that’s alright? God, that sounds awkward.”

He quirks a grin, then looks to Wilf. “Hey, Wilf, I – Uh, I don’t actually want to check out your telescope. I mean, I can if you want me to, but I was more looking for an excuse so that we could come out here and just… talk, if that was alright?”  

He can’t imagine what he would want to talk about (he already knows about him not fitting into any of society’s expectations with love and gender, they sorted that out years ago) but John’s nervous about whatever he’s planning, Wilf can see that easily through the way he’s pulling at his hair. So all he does is offer a smile, and nod towards the shed. “I got chairs in there, if it’ll help.”

He nods, so they break out the chairs. They sit down around the telescope – John was right, Wilf thinks, it is a nice night for some stargazing, if they get time at some point – and the wintry air is heavy with potentials and words yet unspoken.

“So what’s on your mind, kid?” he asks, so John doesn’t have to speak first.

John glances to Donna, who gives him an encouraging nod, and then he take a breath, as if steeling himself. “I… do you remember when there was that big commotion about that hospital that ended up on the moon, and you were going on for weeks about how everyone there got to meet these aliens behind it, and you hadn’t?”

This isn’t what he expected John to bring up, but it makes him think all the same. “Uh, yeah, I suppose I do remember that.” He laughs. “Rhinos! Alien rhinos, that’s what they were saying on the telly, I keep sayin’ they’re out there, somewhere. All those aliens, they keep sneaking around Earth, and everyone’s just ignoring them, pretending they aren’t there when they’re actually right in front of us.”

John laughs awkwardly. “Yeah, uh, about that… I – I’m one of those aliens.”

Wilf stares, wondering if he heard him right.  

“Well, not one of those rhino aliens, not even close,” John adds abruptly, “But an alien all the same.”

“You’re an alien?” he asks.

“...Sort of, yeah.”

‘I’m talking to a real, proper alien, right now?” He can’t help but glance around, looking for some hidden cameras. “You didn't decide to put me on one of those shows where the people prank you, did you?”

He blinks. “What – no. I’m being serious right now. Painfully serious. This isn't a – a prank, I promise.” And when Wilf glances at Donna, he finds her giving him a warning look, one that says I love you, and don’t you dare mess this up.

John goes on, before Wilf can try grabbing for the right response, and his voice shakes with emotion, talking rapidly like it has to be said but the words burn him all the same.  “But the… the real part of that is – it’s – look, I don’t exactly have a family, at all, in any sense, and I don’t even really have a past , so I mean, if that fits into the definition of real or not, I wouldn't know, but–” He pauses abruptly when Donna puts a hand on his shoulder.

“You’re doing just fine, relax,” she says softly, and he lets out a sigh, letting his shoulders drop a bit, and just then, Wilf thinks he can see it. His breath doesn’t fog, and he’s been holding himself stone-still, motionless in a way he’s never seen someone do before, until Donna comforted him. And John, he’s never really talked about his past, never mentioned his parents, Wilf just assumed that he just had a bad relationship with his family, not that he… never had one in the first place, if that’s what he’s trying to say, which is a thought so incredibly alien to a man who grew up with five siblings and had kids and grandkids of his own, but then again – that’s the whole point, innit.

(And a big part of him is delighted at the thought. He knows an alien! And he’s known him for years now, they’re friends, he cares for him so deeply, how incredible.)

“John,” Wilf starts, “I can’t say I understand any of this completely, I mean, you… you look human, for one.”

“I – I know I look human,” John says, his voice trembling imperceptibly, “but I’m not lying, or joking, I swear.” He holds out his wrist, pressing a finger to the skin. “I’ve – I’ve two hearts, see?”

When he presses two fingers to his cool wrist, he feels a faint, but distinct double beat, syncopated and fast with anxiety, and he can’t fight the way his eyes light up. Two hearts... “Does anyone else know?” he finds himself asking. “Besides Donna?” he adds, nodding to her, who looks relieved by his response, God bless.

“No, I only found out – what, a few months ago?” Donna says. “Feels like ages.”

“September thirteenth, that’s when you found m – found out.”

A smile breaks out on Wilf’s face. “I was right,” he says. “All those people, denying everything. Sheryl, from down the street, remember how she’d always scoff, whenever I talked about how we couldn’t be the only ones in the universe?”

Donna nods. “Yeah, and she was the same person to say everyone just hallucinated the Hope Hospital incident, so she’s sort of a git.”

“That’s why I don't invite her over for bookclub anymore,” Wilf says. John looks at him like he can't tell if he’s joking or not.

“So, what sort of alien are you, then?” he asks, leaning forward in his seat. “If that’s alright for me to ask.”

John flushes, like he’s embarrassed, but answers the question still. “I’m a – a Time Lord.”

“A Time Lord,” he repeats. “That sounds... fancy.”

And he would ask more questions, Lord knows he has enough of them (what planet is he from, does he have a spaceship, has he traveled the stars), but John’s looking more and more uncomfortable, the longer this goes on, and no matter how curious Wilf may be, he knows when things have to wait, so everything can simmer down (and he needs some time to process it too, he thinks).

Wilf reaches over and grabs his hand, acutely aware of how cool John’s skin feels and his sneaking suspicion that it isn’t the cold weather doing that. “Thank you,” he says sincerely. “For tellin’ me, I can’t imagine it being easy. But come on now, we better get back inside. Still got presents to open, you know,” he adds with a smile.

John looks surprised at the sudden change of topic, but he doesn’t look any less grateful at the idea of going back inside, no doubt to somewhere more comfortable. “Yeah, yeah let’s do that.”

“It’s good with me,” Donna adds.

So after they put the telescope and chairs back in the shed (it wouldn’t do to leave those out unattended), they head back towards the house. About halfway down, Donna hangs back next to Wilf, and gives him a quick kiss on the cheek.

He turns to her, surprised but happy. “What was that for?” he asks.

“This whole thing… it’s been hard on him,” she says. “When he – when I found out, it wasn’t really… I wasn’t supposed to know, and everything’s been hectic since.”

“So he’s been keeping it really secret then. That’s smart; you always hear stories about secret governments, things like the X-files.”

“The X-files is a show on the telly, Grandad. And yeah, we’ve been trying to keep it secret, but if he wants to talk, I’m not going to say no this time. He’s – he’s been down, the past few days. More than down. It’s been… bad, and I’ve just been worrying about him. And with this, telling you, I dunno, I think it’s a good sign. And you accepting it like that, it helps.”

He considers her words, lets them soak in for a moment. “The world is strange, Donna,” he says. “You hear all sorts of things now-a-days. Lots about aliens, too, if you’re lucky. Something like this, it’s unexpected, but I don’t think it’s something you can’t adjust to.” He looks ahead to John, who walks a few feet ahead of them. “Can I ask, what’s he doin’ here, on Earth? If I could, I would be traveling the stars, you know that. Is he – stuck, stranded here, like it always is in the movies?”

Donna opens her mouth, then shuts it. Shrugs helplessly. “I really don’t know.”

John stubbornly stares ahead, refusing to glance back at them as they talk – it’s not like he can’t hear them, even though they try to whisper under their breath.

Despite the way they're literally talking about him behind his back, he finds it almost comforting that someone else knows, someone he knows he can trust. He’s known Wilf longer than Donna, and it… feels nice, having him know at least a little bit of what’s been going on in his life.

He can't help but walk with something of a spring in his step as they approach the house.

Sylvia scolds them when she sees how Donna’s flushed and shivering from the cold the moment they step into the house. “And don’t think I’m not going to hold you to that promise, mister,” she adds, glaring at John. It takes him a second to remember what exactly it was he promised, but it comes to him pretty quickly once she’s dragging him into the kitchen.

“Oi,” Donna says, following them. “You can't make him do chores , we haven't opened any gifts yet.”

“You three spent half an hour up the hill, you can spend half an hour helping me clean up the kitchen.” She glances back at Donna with a look that demands no arguments. “Yes, I mean you too.”

So, they spend the next sixteen minutes washing dishes as Sylvia goes on about… about whatever. John can't help but tune her out, knowing that she’s usually gossiping about what egregious text her friend Marcella sent to her friends. Thankfully, while Donna’s in the room, helping by drying the various plates and things, Sylvia manages to refrain from any biting comments that could grow into something more. It’s a Christmas miracle, John thinks wryly.

(That isn't to say that Donna and Sylvia aren't bickering as they work. If that was happening, John would be incredibly concerned. Or suspicious.)

There’s something to say about how mundane this all is.

The overbearing mum making sure everything’s perfect before anyone leaves the kitchen again, the turkey that’s just a bit dry this year, the family anecdotes told at the table that John recognizes from past years spent at the Motts during the holidays, and the resulting squabbles over whether it went like this or like that, over how Dad said it exactly. The imperfectness of it all, the sense of aimless belonging.

That’s what’s making John feel better. Enough for him to have to hide a laugh when Donna cracks a joke under her breath as she takes a plate from him. And enough for him to give something of a response. Maybe they would have gotten done quicker, if they hadn't kept distracting themselves.

Wilf walks into the room just as they finish up. “Sweetheart, you can't make them work all night,” he says to Sylvia.

“I wasn't doin’ that,” she protests. She looks around the kitchen appraisingly. “And we’re already done, look. Spotless.”

“Great!” Donna says. “I can finally sit down and stop feeling like a teenager being punished for staying out past curfew. Let’s go open presents.”

In the living room, John takes the liberty of passing out the gifts from under the tree; it lets him move around while everyone sits on the sofa or in Wilf’s case, a comfy recliner.

Donna goes first. From a bright blue bag, she pulls out a bunch of tiny model cars. “Oh!” she exclaims, and John beams. She never advertises it, but he knows that Donna is something of a car enthusiast, older, vintage ones especially.

“Those are from me,” he says, and points to the car in her left hand, a model of a car manufactured in the nineteen-twenties. “I don't understand cars at all, but I’m pretty sure that’s supposed to be a good one. The bloke at the shop said it was the same kind that Agatha Christie used to drive for a bit?”

“It – yeah, it is! She drove a Morris Cowley, and–” Donna turns the car around in her hands, then points to a tiny, anachronistic engraving on the side. “–this is a Morris Cowley, but you don’t need the engraving to tell you that, you can tell from the way the head lamps look and… Oh, I can’t believe I know that,” she says, sounding vaguely embarrassed. “Whatever, I can put them on that shelf above my bed.” She puts the cars back into the bag carefully. “Thanks John, really.”

He feels heat grow his cheeks and looks away, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s no problem.”

Donna looks to Sylvia, who’s holding a tiny box topped with a pink bow. “Let’s what you got there,” she says.

Sylvia glances at the tag attached. “‘From Dad,” she reads, “with love.’” She opens the box, and looks inside. “Oh, it’s lovely!” she says, as she pulls out a bracelet, silver with tiny gems embedded in it. “It looks expensive, how’d you afford this?”

He waves her off. “Don’t worry yourself about that,” he says, with a quick wink to John, who knows either he must have been saving up his paper sales money for some time now, or the bracelet isn't actually that expensive. The latter’s more likely.

Sylvia slides the bracelet onto her wrist, and looks at it admiringly, a genuine smile on her face. “Thank you very much, Dad.”

“Open mine next,” Donna says, pushing a flat box into his lap. When they were packing up the presents, she had said this one, with it’s eye-searing wrapping paper of colors that should definitely not go together, was for him, and that if he even tried to peek at what was inside, she’d go down to his lab and break all of his precious glass tupperware.

(Joke’s on her, he already breaks all of his tupperware, sooner or later.)

“Where did you even get this paper?” he asks as he tears into the wrapping.

“I know a bloke,” Donna says. “And by a bloke, I mean the internet, of course.”

“Oh, of course,” John says seriously. He rips off just enough wrapping so he can get at the box, and ease the flimsy cardboard lid up from the rest of the box.

Inside, hidden behind equally as atrociously colorful tissue paper, is a green tee-shirt. He glances at Donna, before lifting it up out of the box to get a better look.

“Oh my god.”

“Do you like it?” Donna asks anxiously. “I got it a couple weeks ago, before… you know, and I wasn't sure if you'd like it anymore–”

There’s a checklist printed on the front in white ink; it’s titled Gender? and then the options read: Male, Female, Alien , with a checkmark next to Alien .

Wilf laughs warmly.

“I love it,” he says, grinning brightly at her. He rips off the tag on the sleeve with ease and hurriedly puts it on over his sweater. “Did you plan that too?” he adds, with a nod towards the little alien figurine from dinner that rests on the coffee table.

Donna shakes her head. “No, but I should have done.”

“It’s a bit tight on you,” Sylvia comments, oblivious as ever. “Why don’t you take off that sweater and wear it instead?”

John looks down at himself. It does look a bit odd, layered like that, but when has he been one to care about something like proper fashion.

He keeps grinning, and feels alright. “I think it looks just fine.”

Chapter Text

“When are the fireworks supposed to start?” Donna asks, pulling her coat tighter around her. It’s bloody freezing up here. Crisp winter air, snow still on the ground from today’s light dusting. Still, it’s New Year’s Eve, and they don’t particularly want to go anywhere – John’s a bit sensitive about huge crowds of drunk, yelling people; he says it’d be fine, but she knows he’d prefer something like this – so they decided to go up to the roof and watch the fireworks from a distance.

Donna brought drinks– non-alcoholic, as neither of them are particularly looking to get  drunk despite the nature of the holiday – and John brought the snacks.

He shifts in his chair, pulls his legs up onto the seat in some complicated position that can’t possibly be comfortable. “Uh, we have about twelve minutes to midnight. So… twelve minutes, if they start right on time.”

“Doubt it,” she says bluntly. “You know the council, can’t get anything done on time. Especially fireworks.”

He exhales, a sort of half-laugh. “It’s New Year’s Eve, Donna. I think they’ll be on time. Their standards of on time, at least.” There’s no fog in his breath, nor does he shiver in the cold, though he’s only wearing a sweater in the way of warmth. There’s a bit of cold-bitten blush on his cheeks, but there’s the faintest hint of orange to it, slight enough that you wouldn’t know it was there unless you were looking for it. More reminders of the changes in their lives. She finds it doesn’t frighten her as much as it used to, the differences. “How late are you thinking they’ll be?”

Donna pretends to consider it seriously. “Eight minutes.”

“Eight?” he repeats. “That’s specific.”

“Like you’re never specific about time, alien boy.”

“Hey! I can’t help that, and you know it.”

Donna grabs for the bag of crisps. “Alright, what’s your guess, then?”

John hums. “Eight and a half minutes,” he says after a moment, and in the moonlight she can see a glimmer of humor in his eyes.

She leans over, pushes at his shoulder. “You can’t do that, that’s cheatin’.”

He looks indignant. “Says who?”

“Says me. That’s too close to mine, make another guess.”

He rolls his eyes dramatically, but placates her with, “It’s eleven forty-nine, so… Eleven minutes, then.”

In the meantime, as they wait, they chat and joke and bicker, and it’s something close to how it used to be. Conversation for the sake of it, laced with affection but now strengthened with a sort of solidarity, the kind that’s only gained through hardship and adversity. It’s not all bad.

“What do you think about toasters?” he asks abruptly, without any prelude or exposition, anything that would let this question make any sense in Donna’s mind.

“It’s way too early for this, John,” she ends up saying.

He turns to her, begging her attention. “What? I’m serious, what do you think about toasters?”

She has to take a moment. “I have no idea what you’re asking.”

“Okay, see, everyone generally agrees that toasters are the best for, well, toasting bread and bagels and things. But what about toaster ovens? If you really looked at the data, I think the toaster ovens would be better. They can toast bread and bagels, you know, like a normal toaster, but they also cook sandwiches, broil meat, and on YouTube I saw someone roast a whole chicken.”

“An entire chicken?” she has to ask, incredulous. “Hell no, I refuse to believe that.”

“Well, a four-pound chicken. I guess it’s a decent amount, but it was still golden brown by the end of it.”

She takes a good look at him, narrowing her eyes. “Are you just suggesting that we buy a toaster oven for the flat?”

Just then, the first few fireworks are sent up into the atmosphere with little warning, exploding in colorful reds and blues, and suddenly it’s January first, two thousand and nine. John jumps as the booming noise comes a second later, muted by distance, then relaxes as more fireworks are sent up. Then more, until the night sky bursts into glimmering, fiery lights, all colors imaginable, making up simple but fun designs, like spheres, stars, snowflakes, anything you can think of that could be represented through a couple of shimmering points of light.

They lapse into silence, just enjoying the fireworks display for what it is. Donna lets herself relax, and not worry about what’s going to happen, or what has happened. Instead, she focuses on the present, the moment they’re in right now, where the night air chills her through her coat, and people in the streets below shout and laugh, drunk and merry, as they catch up with friends and enjoy the holidays.

“Two thousand and nine,” John says abruptly, just as a multitude of whistling green lights are sent up into the atmosphere. “Didn’t think I’d make it this far.”

He says it with a sort of half-chuckle, but Donna can’t find the humor in it. “What do you mean?” she asks.

“Oh well, you know what I mean,” he stumbles over his words, somehow caught off guard. “The world is just so much now that I – I’m an… alien, and there were days where I thought I’d drown under it all.”

“But you’re alright, yeah?” The question is more of a formality than anything else; they both know how he’s going to answer and what it really means.

“Of course I am,” he says. “I mean, I… I wasn’t, before. I really, really wasn’t, before. But I don’t know, I think… I think I’m okay for now.”

For now. “But you’re–” She’s scared to say it. She’s scared that if she brings it up, she’ll set off something terrible, but he’s talking. Actually, properly talking for once, and the words burn her throat but she has to say, “You’re dying , that’s – how can it be okay?”

“D’you think I don’t know that?” he asks, and there’s something like fear in his eyes, but it’s nowhere close to being as intense as it was that one drunken night. It’s more… subdued, like it’s simmered on the stove for a long, long time. He sighs, looks down at his hands. “Everyone dies, Donna.”

“Well, duh , everyone dies, John, but wouldn’t it just be great if it were a normal death and we didn’t have to worry about–” she hesitates, and settles for a vague, “you know, them.”

He looks somewhat ill at that. “I know,” is all he says.

There’s a tense moment, but it quickly simmers down to something close to reluctant acceptance. Seems like that’s all they can do, really.

As the fireworks start to wind down, Donna reaches over and grabs John’s hand. “It’s… it’s okay,” she says softly. “Actually, it’s not okay, but… We’ll be okay,” She knows she’s not making any sense, but that’s the situation they’re in, been in for months now, so she’s sticking by those words.

He squeezes her hand. “Yeah,” he mumbles, “I know.”

They stay up there until the smoke starts to blow away in the wind, and a little beyond that, content to sit on the roof in the company of each other.

They don’t know how long he has. That means they can’t waste the time they have together right now. But they’ll be alright. They’ll manage. They always have.

–

It’s a few days later, after Donna’s had her fill of lazing around, and John’s had his fill of watching Donna laze around, that they finally decide to take down the decorations around the flat. Well, Donna decides that it’s time, and she spends about a half hour arguing with John that no, they can’t keep this stuff up all year, why would you even want that?

Tearing garland and lights down turns out to take much less time than it does to put them up, though Donna does take the time to get a second box, so they don't have to keep everything in a disorganized mess.

They each carry down a box as they go down to the basement.

John, dramatic git that he is, kicks the door open instead of just pushing it open with his shoulder. Thankfully, it’s unlocked, and he doesn’t end up breaking anything, or owing the landlord any money for a broken hinge.

“Was that really necessary?” she asks as he leads the way through the rows of storage lockers.

“Absolutely,” he says, and keeps going.

She looks around at the lockers, struck by the feeling that they’ve gone past their own locker. “Hey, didn't we pass–” she starts, then stops abruptly.

Her eyes widen, and the box falls from her hands, landing with a thud on the concrete floor.

John doesn't notice. He’s down the aisle, currently trying to break open someone’s half-empty locker with his fancy screwdriver, too stubborn to use his own damn locker space, and instead wanting to use another tenant’s, since they haven’t turned their locker into a lab for whenever they get suspended from the ones at university.

He’s completely oblivious. Does he know? Is he even aware?

But across the aisle in a different locker, she sees something that makes her heart stop.

It just barely fits in the locker, with around an inch of space between it and the fenced walls. A light at the top pulses lowly, and she wonders how she ever forgot that it existed – because she knew it was here, didn’t she? She’s walked past this particular locker on the way to John’s labs countless times, there’s no way she couldn’t have noticed this at least once.

“John?” Donna asks, and her voice warbles. “How long has there been a blue box down here?”

It’s easy to get too comfortable with the life you now have. Just because it is easy, does not mean that it is recommended to sit back and relax. Accepting the state of things as they are only makes it worse when everything inevitably changes.

Nothing is stable, nothing is static, unless it has a very good reason to be so. In these times, you’ll find reality to be incredibly chaotic, and there is one specific cause for this, or rather, one specific person.

Though, the chaos of today is nothing compared to the Chaos of the past, when those who created Reason and Order ruled with an iron fist and held the universe in clear, calm stasis.

But don't worry about that.

Everything always changes. The universe is in flux, and sadly (thankfully), there is nothing you can do about it.

Chapter Text

“John?” Donna asks, and her voice warbles. “How long has there been a blue box down here?”

It’s tucked away in the corner, enclosed a chain-link locker identical to all the rest, with the locker door right in front of its own doors. It’s so painfully obvious, and yet it feels entirely inconspicuous, like you could look right past it and never notice it at all. Dull dark blue paint with a backdrop of grey concrete; the light at the top isn’t even on. Nothing that would necessarily draw attention to it, besides the fact that it’s a fucking police box in their basement.

The door to the locker swings open easily with a creak of metal, and the sign on the box's door says pull to open . So Donna pulls, only to find they won’t budge. Pushing gets her nowhere, apart from the knowledge that the doors aren’t just for show; the hinges jostle, so they could be opened, if only she had a key.

John hasn’t noticed that she’s said anything, hasn’t even glanced away from what he’s doing right now: carefully breaking into a neighbor’s locker. He’s not using the sonic screwdriver to pick the lock, but rather, a pair of paperclips. “John,” she says.

He glances at her, then goes back to his work. “Yeah?” he asks, though he clearly isn’t all that interested in what she might say, all his attention taken up by his task.

She stares at him for a moment, seeing but not really. Her mind's filled with a thousand thoughts, most of them related to that night a few weeks ago, when it started snowing and John started talking, eased along by the concoction of alcohol and ginger in his veins. When he first mentioned the – God, what did he call it? – the TARDIS, the spaceship, or timeship, of the Doctor's, whatever it is.

And she can't help but wonder how many times they both walked right past it. Can't help but wonder what could have been different, if they had seen it sooner. Can't help but wonder what's inside, beyond those locked doors.

Donna ends up blurting out the question without much thought. “Do you have the key for the ship – for the TARDIS?” she asks, and the word feels more than foreign on her tongue, like it’s not a word at all, but John responds just as if it were nothing unusual.

He mutters, “It's in the – the cubby hole, above the P,” as he manages to shove the box into the now-unlocked locker. Then he’s preoccupied with holding back the wall of cluttered garbage to make sure it doesn't fall and bury him. As if he doesn’t realize that he said anything at all.

The P. What the hell does he mean by – Police box. There’s a sign above the doors that says police public call box. She can’t imagine what else he’d mean by the P.

Sure enough, once she’s dragged a milk crate over to the TARDIS to get enough height to reach her hand over the lettering, she feels something vaguely key-shaped brush against her finger tips. Before she starts to feel like she’ll fall down on her arse, she grabs it and jumps down onto the solid ground.  

Donna kicks away the milk crate and looks at what she’s got in her hand.

It’s… probably a key. It’s almost spade shaped, with one side covered in raised bits of metal like broken shards of glass. It’s alien, that’s for sure. For a moment, she just stands there. Looking down at the key and then to John in something like awe (and just a little bit of horror) at how that actually worked.

The keyhole doesn’t look anything like the key in her hand. Still, when she tries the key, it slides easily into the lock. Despite the blatant differences in shape that should make the two pieces incompatible, it's a near perfect fit. The key turns, and there's a small click as the doors unlock.

She doesn’t let herself think about it much, because she’s sure that if she actually thought about what she was about to do, she’d never follow through. Instead, she puts her hands on the doors, and just – pushes.

Spacious, is Donna’s first thought. Impossibly spacious and dim.

A sort-of circular, sort-of hexagonal console stands in the middle of the room, a glass pillar extending from the middle of it all the way up to the ceiling. By all means, it shouldn’t fit in the box, but she’s familiar with John’s bigger-on-the-inside pockets, so that’s not really her main concern, however much it gives her the shivers.

There’s something so viscerally organic about everything that she finds herself fighting the urge to say the support beams sprout up from the grating, instead. The muted blue-green glow of the circuitry from underneath the crowded control panels doesn’t help, nor does the coral-like appearance of everything else. An undercurrent of energy hums through the room, and it takes her a second to notice, and longer to process. She feels it through the floor and in her bones, a reverberation that sends chills up and down her spine.

Donna takes a few stumbling steps away, retreating from the impossibly large room and back to the basement of the flat she knows so well. She turns around, feels her hair jostle with how snappish the motion is, searching for – “John?”

He’s just managed to close the locker door without spilling the contents all over the basement floor. She watches as he huffs and smooths out the wrinkles of his sweater vest, the picture of smug and satisfied. So very proud of the tiniest accomplishment.

She says, again, “John.”

He looks to her. Grins and gestures to the closed locker with both hands. “See, got it. Told you I could do it.”

Donna glances to the wide open doors of the TARDIS, then back to John, incredulous. “That’s great, I’m really glad you managed to successfully violate somebody else’s property rights.”

The grin falls. “You don’t seem pleased,” he says, dumbly. She looks behind herself again for good measure, and she has to be drawing attention to the blue box with this, and yet when she looks back to John again, his eyes are entirely on her, nowhere else. He hasn’t so much as glanced behind her.

“Can – can you not see what’s right behind me?” she asks him, and she can’t help the agitation that seeps into her voice, or maybe it’s just confusion. Confusion with a hint of panicked concern. Oh, whatever, she can’t get bogged down with the technicalities of emotional language right now.

His eyes flicker away from her face for just a moment, then he’s looking right at her again, like magnets drawn to metal. “I – I don’t get it,” he says honestly. “Is something wrong? Or is this a prank? Have you suddenly decided to be some kind of master prankster, Donna?”

“What?”

He shrugs. “I mean, I get it. You’ve definitely got the–” He makes a waving gesture. “–air of a master prankster. With some practice, and maybe some better pranks.”

“What the hell are you going on about?” she asks, none too kindly. Her mum would be scolding her to hell if she knew how high she was making her blood pressure.

His eyes go wide as he stutters, “I – I just thought, well–”

“The box, John.” She throws her hand out to point at the damned thing. “What about the blue, bigger-on-the-inside box that's right there.”

The words die in his mouth, and he gives her a funny look that she has no bloody clue how to parse. “I… I'm sorry?” he says hesitantly, like he hasn’t heard her quite right, or isn't sure what to say. “I don't – I…”

“You don't what?”

He swallows, and looks to be choosing his words carefully as he wrings his hands. “I don't… know what you… want.”

“It doesn't matter what I want,” she snaps. “It's – just look for once, John.”

She marches up to him, grabs his shoulders with a tight grip and ignores how he yelps when she spins him around and pushes him towards the TARDIS. It's almost annoying how easy it is to move him, despite how he drags his feet. “Donna, I–” he tries, but she's had enough of this.

“Oh, for the love of – just shut it and get in the box!”

She gives him one last shove over the threshold and doesn’t even wince when his feet catch the edge of the grating and he trips into the expansive room.

He doesn't get it. The issue. The deal. Can’t see the big picture.

John was trying to put all the holiday decorations away – in someone else’s locker, since his has been a makeshift lab for months now – but Donna’s going on about – something, and while he normally loves listening to her talk, it's more than a struggle right now to listen to what she’s saying and keep everything in the overstuffed locker from falling on him.

Except then she’s grabbing his shoulders, pushing him into – and he freezes, throws out his hands to balance himself before he falls into the grating of the – of the – the –

Everything stutters to a halt in his head, gears grinding against each other in the effort to keep on turning, and though he's perfectly still – motionless, even – on the outside, he’s trying to stay afloat in his own head as–

A painful white noise rises in his ears, drowning everything out. He shuts his eyes against it – and tries to keep his breathing steady. He manages it for at least a moment before the first few notes of a growing melody slice through the static cleanly. A red hot knife that doesn’t burn as much as it probably ought to.

All of a sudden, it’s that much easier to think, though it still takes John a few moments to realize that the source of the melody isn’t just a song stuck in his head. Actually, he thinks it’s – coming from around him. He gingerly peeks his eyes open, expecting the headache (or maybe migraine is more accurate) to come back in full force, but it doesn't.

He’s – in a room? It's not the basement he was in a moment ago. 

Dusty coral and dim blue-green lights, an overwhelming feeling of solitude – isolation. Cut off from – from what? He can barely make sense of what he sees, much less everything else he's sensing . He tries to push past it, ignore it like he’s always done, but it stubbornly stays in the forefront of his perception.

“Donna,” he says before he can think about it. “Donna, what's – what – ” He surges into motion suddenly, glancing around only to find her right by his side. She's got her hand on his shoulder, even, a touch he didn't notice, and there's nothing but concern in her eyes.

Except that when she speaks, she says, “Ground control to major Tom, you in there?” and it comes off a bit harsher than the look she gives him would suggest.

He blinks, resists the urge to shake his head, and says, “Yeah, yeah I'm–” he swallows, then, and his voice drops, unable to keep up the volume as he looks back around at the room they're in. “I'm here. Where–?”

And she says, “The TARDIS, idiot,” before he can even get the question out. “I've been trying to get your attention.”

He looks to Donna with wide eyes. “The… TARDIS?”

“Oh, don't tell me you've forgotten.”

“No, no, I remember–” Sort of. Ish. It’s all a bit fuzzy in his memory. “But where did you – how did you–”

She holds up a piece of silver metal, the shape of a spade with a shattered glass pattern engraved in the side facing him. “I found the spare key,” she says, then jerks her head to the open doors. “And technically we're in the basement right now.”

“That's supposed to be a key?” he asks, reaching a hand out to take it from her. It's – warm to the touch, he finds, holding it in the palm of his hand.

“And this is supposed to be a spaceship?” Donna counters. “The outside’s made of wood, John.”

He pauses. She seems – tense? Annoyed with him. Or she's – lonely, abandoned, left to sleep as her pilot lives as a–

And then he pulls himself back to the present with a jerk and a step back. “Donna,” he gasps, fighting to shove the whisper-tug of that haunting melody out of his head, but it sticks like glue and cobwebs. The key is a heavy weight in his hand. “Did I ever say – is the TARDIS telepathic?”

The exasperation starts to fade out of her eyes and instead there’s a fear there, an apprehension. “What'd you mean, why are you askin’?”

The room right now is cold, he can tell from how Donna pulls her jacket tighter around her, and the goosebumps on her skin. But he can almost feel… warmth. A gradual increase in temperature that only grows. He pockets the key absently.

“Because I think–” he says, though it’s more of a feeling than any sort of conscious thought, but he lets himself run with it. “I think – she might be waking up.” Then he swallows, tries to piece together the next part in a way that they’ll both be able to deal with. “And I also think – she might be in my head.”

The lights flare weakly just then, accompanied by a sudden rush of warm air through the console room, and John and Donna both flinch as if struck. “Yep, she’s – that’ll be the waking up–” he yelps, and his voice has embarrassingly jumped an octave from the surprise and the shock of it all, but he can’t really worry about that right now.

“Are we – should we do something?” She glances around the console room, as if expecting something to jump out and grab her. John sympathizes; he thinks he’s already been caught in a web.

The pressure in his head continues to grow, like there's a vice around his skull, and he can’t help but start to grimace. He pinches the bridge of his nose, and says “I’m fine,” before Donna can ask. “The music is just – she’s very loud.”

“The music?” she repeats. “I don’t – what music?”

He squeezes his eyes shut, and tries to keep his breathing steady. “Is it not a song? Sounds like a song.”

“I don’t hear anything.”

“For the best, probably,” he mutters, before forcing his eyes open again. He does his best to shove the TARDIS's melody down and focus on something else. Something more physical, something in front of him. Like, perhaps, the console in the center of the room. The metal walkway under his feet groans as he walks up, and he puts a hand on the railing as a precaution for himself. Not quite trusting his own legs right now, for whatever reason.

“Uh, John?” comes Donna's voice. “What are you doing?”

He doesn’t respond to her just yet, can’t find the point in it at the moment. The console is a patchwork collection of dials and switches and levers, more controls than he can name, none of them matching. Picked apart and put back together. There’s years-worth of evidence throughout it, of the maintenance that’s been done time and time again. Well worn. Well used. Well loved.

“How do you think this thing was built?” he asks her, not expecting an answer but just musing for the sake of musing. “Or was it built at all?”

“Okay, you know what; maybe we should go,” she says, staying right where she is, not more than a few feet from the doorway. Like she wants to be ready to turn and run at a moment’s notice. John can’t see why she’d do that.

“Why would we need to go?” he asks her, not looking up from the console. There's a look on his face of child-like curiosity mixed with something more calculating, as he lays a hand on one of the levers.

“This place is creepy, and if it’s alive or telepathic or whatever, then that’s extra creepy. And it’s – it’s bigger on the inside? That’s not – that’s not right, that’s weird, John. That’s really weird.”

He waves a hand. “Yeah, yeah, but that’s just how it is sometimes.”

“Hello?” she blurts out. “‘That’s just how it is’? John, this isn't ours, we shouldn't be here. What if we set off some alarm, what about the Doctor–”

His head snaps up, and he stares at her for a moment before something like glee blooms on his face. “But the Doctor isn't here right now.” His hands go to his chest, imploring. “It's just me! And I say, what the hell!” He steps away from the console, towards her. “It's a spaceship and a time machine, Donna. Aren't you just a little bit curious?”  

“Okay, sure, maybe I’m a little curious, who wouldn’t be. But neither of us know how to pilot a fucking spaceship, John–!”

“Oh, it can’t be that hard,” he reasons, before pressing a few buttons on what looks like a switchboard that's been soldered onto the console. There’s a mechanical wheeze of a response from the Ship, but nothing else. Donna startles, while something in John was expecting the noise. “See, that did something.”

“But do you know what it did?” And then she's walking up to the console, hand on the railing to steady herself. “Actually, genuinely, do you have any clue what you're doing?”

“Ah,” he falters. “Well, not exactly.” But that doesn’t stop the feeling that he should know. The controls are right in front of him, and the Ship is singing in his mind, why shouldn’t he be able to get the engines running?

“So stop touching the controls before you break something!”

He holds up a hand, but keeps the other firmly on a lever. “I'm sure I could figure it out if you just gave me the chance–”

She looks ready to tear out her hair. “That's what I'm worried about, space boy.”

He opens his mouth, pauses, feels a thought filter through the cotton in his head. Worried, she’s worried about him, and for some reason he – Why would she be worried about him? She shouldn't be worried.

The grin comes back, and his grip on the lever tightens. He’s just itching to pull it. She - they’ve spent too long just sitting around, staying in one place, it’s about time they went somewhere. “It’s fine!” he says, flicking a switch near him. “It’s fine, it’ll be – it’ll be fun , Donna, that’s it!”

She whips her head around just in time to see the doors of the TARDIS swing shut of their own accord, and when she looks back at him, she’s positively furious. She yells, “JOHN SMITH!” but he just keeps up the grin as the TARDIS starts to dematerialise.

The engine wheezes, and the glass pillar starts to move with a tremendous effort, before shuddering to a halt. There’s a few more pitiful noises from the console before it falls silent, like an engine turning over then giving up with a sigh. John frowns. “Oh, hang on, that's not right.” He pushes the lever back up, gives a section of the console a healthy wack, and looks to an incredulous Donna. “Okay, one more time.” Then he pulls the lever back down.

And this time, everything goes into motion with a lovely hum. The room whirs and shifts, the console’s glass pillar pistoning with growing speed, engines groaning in protest as they shake off metaphysical rust and start up for the first time in ages. The Ship gives a sickening lurch that knocks both John and Donna away from the console and onto the floor. His head hits the grating with a thud that’s drowned out by everything else, but the pain is still felt. He struggles to breathe, and it feels not only like the wind’s been knocked from his lungs, but that something has been knocked out of his head, as well.

He lies prone for only a moment before he's scrambling to push himself up into his elbows. His eyes and snap open, wide as he looks around the TARDIS, and they only get wider when he finds Donna, who’s pushing herself up off her stomach but hasn’t managed much more than that. “What’s – what’s happening? What’s going on?” he cries over the engines.

Donna stares at him, and oh, if she could glare holes through his head, he’d be dead three times over. “I bloody hate you right now,” she shouts over the cacophony. He’s not sure what he did, but he’s sure he has something to do with the turbulence that makes it impossible to get up off the floor right now. Not sure what he did – what did he do? – wait, what?

It stops just as sharply as it started, and soon everything’s still, motionless, and quiet aside from how Donna and John struggle to steady their breathing. He feels like everything’s been wrung out of him, and he lets himself fall back against the grating, staring up at the ceiling and pressing a hand to his forehead. “Oh, my head hurts,” he groans under his breath.

Donna hears him anyway. “Yeah, you–“ She swallows and tries again. “You banged it on the ground, of course it hurts.”

“No,” he mumbles. He doesn’t remember hitting his head, but then again, everything from before a minute ago is rather foggy. “Well, I mean, yes, you’re right. But also, no.”

“What are you talking about now?”

He shuts his eyes, tries to think against the darkness. It felt like – what did it feel like? He can still hear the echoes of that eerie-familiar song, but it’s quieter now, subtler. A trickle of satisfaction filters through his head, before fading into the background, and he feels like he can breathe that much easier now. Everything’s just that much clearer. For a moment, he feels awfully alone.

He hears movement, footsteps across metal grating, and when he opens his eyes, Donna’s standing next to his side. She doesn’t look particularly happy, even as she offers a hand and says, “Get off your arse, Smith.”

He pushes himself up, grabs her hand, and lets her haul him onto his feet. “Thanks,” he says, doing his best to not look like he’s about to fall over again. The room looks no different, but he has the overwhelming sense that they’ve moved. It’s a spaceship, and well, they must have taken off, and landed again, to put it simply. “I think–“

That’s all he gets out, before he catches a glimpse of Donna raising her other hand, and then he’s taking a few stumbling steps back, a hand clutching at his stinging cheek. God, that hurt. “Did you just – slap me,” he stammers. “What was that for–?”

“You selfish git – what the hell were you thinking?” she demands, and looking at her blazing eyes, all John can think is that well, he wasn’t really thinking at all.

“I don’t – I don’t know?”

“First you ignore the TARDIS when I try to tell you that it’s in our damn basement, and then you ignore me when I try to talk any sense into you. You could have blown this whole place up, messing with the controls like that,” she goes on. “What could have possibly been going through your mind, just then?”

He draws back. “I think the – well, it felt like… she was very insistent, okay?”

She stops. “What?”

He grasps for the words, isn’t quite sure if he manages to put together anything when he says, “It’s – I said she’s telepathic, yeah? I can feel her, like a – like music, or just some sort of presence, and I don’t think…” he starts to run out of steam, as he draws some sort of conclusion, his skin crawling with the implications. “I don’t think… that was entirely me back there.”

“...You're saying that the box wanted you to pull that lever.” It’s not a question. “That it made you do that.”

“Uh, yes?” he squeaks, then flinches when he realizes how dumb that sounds and wholly expects Donna to slap him again right there. Except, she doesn’t.

He opens his eyes hesitantly, only to find that instead of resorting to physical violence again, she’s turned away from him. She runs her hands through her hair and sighs harshly. “God, fine, okay,” she mutters. “The box is telepathic and sort of alive and wants to mess with your head, that’s fine. It’s. Fine.”

He almost reaches a hand out to grab her shoulder, get her to look at him, then decides against it. “I think she’s – bored.” Or lonely. He doesn’t like either option.

Oh, it doesn't matter if he reached out or not, because that gets her to turn around and look at him. “–because she’s bored?”   Donna asks.

“Well, I mean,” he backpedals. “I don’t know anything for sure, no one does, especially with some – some spaceship, you know? Who knows what she’s thinking, actually.”

Something seems to occur to Donna just then, her eyes widening. She points a finger at him, nearly touching his chest. “ You flew the box,” she says, as if realizing it just now. “Do you even know where we are? We moved, right, but where did we go?”

“Oh, uh… No.” He knows they moved, despite there being no obvious changes in the console room. Nothing about it feels particularly different, but he can tell all the same. But that doesn’t mean he can tell where they are, or when. “Well, yes, we moved, but no, I don’t know where.”

He looks to the console. A few moments ago, he felt like he knew his way around them inside and out, like he’d be able to go anywhere if he just hit the right button, and he knew which buttons. Now he feels like he’s trying to read hieroglyphics, staring at the levers and dials. There’s a monitor attached to the console too, he notices. The screen’s on, but now that genuinely looks like it’s just showing hieroglyphics, or a bunch of interlocking circles with a weird screen-saver-y background. Looking at it for more than a few seconds starts to give him a headache, so he doesn’t.

“I could try,” he says, after a moment, swallowing his anxiety. “I could try again? We don’t – well, I know where we live. London, Earth, twenty-first century. Can’t be that complicated.”

“Oh no–“ She grabs the sleeve of his shirt and gives him a harsh tug away from the console. “You are not touching that thing again, John Smith.”

“Donna!” he yelps. “What else are we supposed to do?”

She jerks her head towards the closed doors.”I don't know, leave, maybe? This place is freaking me out.”

He takes his arm from her grasp, and takes a step back. “We don’t know what’s out there,” he says.

“You know what? That’s fine! I’m pretty sure that anything out there is better than being in here for another minute.” And with that, she marches up to the doors, leaving John to hurry after her.

“I’m not so sure about that,” he tries. “We could be anywhere, any when, the – what about the Mariana Trench? What if when you open those doors, the whole place just floods with water? I don’t think spaceships are waterproof, Donna.”

She fumbles with the latch, but manages to unlock it anyway. Before she pulls the doors open, however, she pauses and gives John a look that he doesn’t know how to parse. “What if you touch those controls again and you blow the whole ship up?”

“Ah… Good point…”

Donna sighs harshly. “God, you’ll be the death of me someday,” she mutters, before she pulls open the doors of the timeship to reveal–

A forest filled with tall, lush trees, their canopies shrouding the dense underbrush from the bright sunlight above. Some of the leaves are tinged brown, orange, red, yellow, though the green still pokes through, and they rustle softly with a cool breeze. Autumn will be arriving soon, but there’s still some summer left. Wherever this is. Wherever they are.

“Oh… huh,” says John, a great deal less eloquently than the bird song that fills the air outside. 

Chapter Text

whatever they once said to their authors, 
they scream their message of no message across the millennia to us now. 
i am not a word. 
i am not to be understood. 
and this world is full of things which are not to be understood, 
if only you knew how to read them.

–– what the caves are trying to tell us, sam kriss

Somewhere in the south of France, there is a forest where the trees grow tall and lush. Sunlight filters through the canopy lazily, as if it’s simply a choice, rather than a physical necessity of reality. The light gently illuminates the ground, highlighting the patches of grass and dead foliage littered about. A cool breeze blows, signaling the beginning of autumn, and the slowly dying leaves rustle with a gentle melody, serving as accompaniment for the birds that sing.

The forest is peaceful, but peace never lasts long. Soon, an unearthly wind is making the leaves rustle, and the wheeze of an engine is tearing through the fabric of the universe. The noise crescendos until a little box fades into view, its blue-painted wood standing out in stark contrast against the green and brown around it. 

The box sits for a moment. Still and silent. Innocent as can be. Then, the door creaks open, and two strangers to this place stare out at their new surroundings with wide, disbelieving eyes. 

From a human’s perspective, time travel is not natural nor even feasible. It never has been. Humans in your age love to imagine what it would be like to pop into the future or the past on a whim, but once they begin to understand the world around them, they soon come to the (false) realization that time travel is physically impossible.

From a Time Lord’s perspective, however, it’s about as natural as breathing – if not more so, once you factor in the respiratory bypass, bio-imprimaturs, and a few other facts about higher dimensional Gallifreyan physiology. After all, the Time Lord’s were (are?) responsible for the concept of Time itself; it only makes sense that they would be adept at controlling it. 

So whenever you’re running late to work, whenever you only have an hour before the due date of an assignment you’ve put off doing for the past week, or just whenever you’ve been haunted by the feeling that you’re running out of time and that if you don’t do something right this very moment the world will fade away and your broken soul will be left with only dissatisfaction and longing for what could have been as company – that’s when you can pin the blame on the Time Lords. They’re the ones who invented the universe, after all. 

(Well, blaming insignificant problems on the beings that might as well be the gods of everything you ever knew or will know may not be the smartest move. Exercise caution.)

“Alright, now take a left.”

Marcel Matthias eases the steering wheel to the left. His shoulders tense up when he feels the car lurch off the paved road and onto the gravel path. “Are you sure this is the right way?” he asks, briefly glancing to Miss Hollande in the passenger seat. 

A large map is spread across her lap, looking as glossy and neat as the day they bought it – which happened to be only a few days ago – as she scrutinizes it. “Yes, yes I’m sure,” she tells him, waving a hand before pointing it at a particular spot. “This’ll take us as close as we can get. ”We’ll have to walk the rest.“ He supposes that whatever she’s pointing at is important, but not more important than keeping his eyes on the road, so he does that instead. 

“And how far is that?”

“Shouldn’t be more than a half kilometre. But let’s try not to take multiple trips with unloading the boot. Anyway, keep going straight for about… two kilometres. We’ll reach the end of the road by then.”

Marcel sighs and keeps on driving. At the least the weather has decided to be pleasant today, since the rest of the day will be spent putting up tents and unloading equipment and meeting new people. There’s a crisp breeze in the air, and the leaves are stuck between the world of the living summer and the dying autumn, green and brown and red and yellow. All in all, it’s a scenic drive. 

They reach the end of the road just like Miss Hollande said. Marcel pulls over to the side, shuts off the engine, and pockets the keys as his passenger folds up her map, leaving it in the glove compartment. “We’re just going to keep going north, after this. There should be a bit of a trail by now, if we’re lucky,” she adds, as they both get out of the car.

It’s comfortable silence after that as they work to unload the equipment and figure out a way to carry everything without breaking their spines and without having to take a second or even third trip. Despite everything he’s got in his hands by now, Marcel still offers to lighten Miss Hollande’s burden. 

“I can take your tent pack,” he tells her as he adjusts the one already strapped over his shoulder. It digs into the muscle painfully, but he can deal with a little discomfort. He’s more worried about the boxes he’s got stacked in his hands. Individually, the hammers and ropes and all the little devices and supplies they’d packed to get them through the next few days are small, but together, the weight’s really adding up. He thinks his arm might be cramping. 

Miss Hollande rolls her eyes, but there’s still a well-meaning look on her face. “If anything, I should take yours.” He looks down at what he’s got in his hands, and realizes he took most of it himself. But really, she shouldn’t be carrying much of anything at all. The trek’s not going to be pleasant, even for him, and he wouldn’t want a lady to be overburdened. 

But she’s already grabbing the strap of his tent pack and putting it over her free shoulder. Normally, he would protest, but having even that one bit of weight taken away is helping with anything else. “Ah, thank you,” he says. 

“You’re welcome.” She nods, before shutting the boot of the car, then taking the box on top of Marcel’s stack as well. “Now come on, before we waste any more sunlight.” 

The tall grass and weeds off the gravel path are beaten down in areas to form a nice trail, just like Miss Hollande had predicted. Considering how spotty communication has been lately, they won’t know who’s managed to arrive at the campsite and who hasn’t. The thought makes Marcel’s hands sweat, and he does his best to keep a good grip on their supplies as they continue along the trail.

Eventually, the woods thin out to form a clearing. Three canvas tents have already been assembled in a loose half-circle, and Marcel immediately spots two men sitting on small wooden crates outside one of them. What looks like their equipment is laid out on the grace neatly, and one of them holds a clipboard, presumably taking inventory. 

The older of the pair, whose hair has been greying for some time now and whose skin certainly has seen a bit too much of the sun over the years, notices Marcel and Miss Hollande approaching the camp first. He says something to the other man, who then waves cheerfully at them.

Marcel doesn’t recognize either of them, and he can’t help the bubble of anxiety in his stomach as the older man gets up from his seat and walks over to greet them. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Miss Hollande fix her posture and raise her chin ever so slightly. He doesn’t feel compelled to do either of those things. 

“I trust the two of you are here for the expedition?” the man asks them, a hint of a smile bleeding through his gruff demeanor. 

Miss Hollande nods. “That’ll be correct. I’m Miss Caroline Hollande – geologist from the Sorbonne.”

“The Sorbonne?” he repeats, and his eye brow raises as if he can’t quite believe it. “Good for you, then. Must have been tough.” He turns his critical gaze onto Marcel. “And you are?”

His mouth suddenly feels painfully dry. “I’m, uh – Matthias. Marcel Matthias,” he says. “Who’re you?”

The man frowns, like Marcel’s missed the mark by a mile. He’s wishing he had spoken a bit louder, a bit more confidently. “Marcel Adanet,” the man says precisely. 

“Oh,” Marcel quietly chuckles. “Same first name.”

“To avoid confusion, call me Adanet. You can go by Matthias,” he tells him shortly. Adanet glances back at the other man by the tent, who’s just now getting up from his seat. “You’ll be able to set up your tents and equipment, yes?” he asks Miss Hollande and Matthias, but it doesn’t sound entirely like a question.

Miss Hollande blinks. “i’m sure I can handle putting up some canvas sheets and metal poles. And I would hope I’d be able to work my own equipment.” But Adanet’s already focused back on the other man.

“Dr. Augustine!” he calls, and the man’s head jerks up before he finally sets down the climbing ropes he had been cataloging. 

“What?” he calls back, and Adanet simply waves him over. 

Matthias desperately wants to set down what he’s been carrying for an unreasonable amount of time by now, but he’s got the feeling that it wouldn’t be taken so well by Adanet, already taking the lead and giving commands, it seems. Miss Hollande is positively fuming over this development – quietly, of course. The clenching of her jaw isn’t noticeable to anyone, unless they’ve worked with her long enough to know that it means she’s biting back some frigidly cold words, like Matthias has. 

“This is Dr. Augustine,” Adanet says abruptly, gesturing to the man that’s managed to half-jog and half-leisurely stroll in the same step towards them. The waistcoat and bowtie give him the air of a professor, much too formal for any seasoned fieldworker. Unless he’s already decided to stay above ground and not explore the cave himself, Matthias can’t see his clothing as any way practical.

“That’s quite alright,” Dr. Augustine interrupts, unperturbed by the glare he gets from Adanet. “I can handle the introductions, thank you.” With just a few words, he’s already erasing any doubt Matthias had of his character. 

He holds out a hand to Matthias, before his eyes flicker down to the boxes he carries. Laughing softly, he returns his hand to his side. “Well, it’s very nice to meet the two of you. I’m sure we’ll get to know each other very well over the next few days to weeks.”

"Days to weeks?” Miss Hollande repeats. “I thought it–”

“Was only a week long expedition?” Dr. Augustine finishes for her. “That was the intention, yes. And I’m sure it still is, but Mr. Adanet and I have been here two days, with no show from the rest of the researchers, nor any communication.”

Adanet nods to confirm. “your arrival has been the first sign that anyone else was coming at all. At this point, we’re assuming they won’t be arriving. Everything’s going to take a bit longer with less bodies,so we’ll be adjusting our schedules accordingly.”

Matthias runs through his plans for the month, and the fact that it only takes him a few seconds to do so is indicative of how little this affects anything for him. Blocking out a few additional weeks? That’s fine. 

Miss Hollande, on the other hand? Well, she’s a busy person, and she says as much. “Do you have an idea of how we’ll be adjusting our schedules, exactly? I simply can’t write off the rest of the month for this expedition.”

“Are you asking me to predict the future, Miss Hollande?” Adanet responds with an amused look in his eye. “How about the two of you worry about setting up your equipment; the rest we can sort out later.” 

Miss Hollande looks like she’s about to protest, but just grinds her teeth instead. Adanet points out a few spots where they can set up their tents, then strides back over to his cataloging, but not before glancing to Matthias and telling him to make sure the lady sets the tents up properly. 

“Well, I must be getting back to work too,” Dr. Augustine says. He shifts his weight from foot to foot, the first uneasy mannerism that Matthias has noticed from the man. “If you require anything at all, don’t hesitate to let me know.” He gives a warm smile to Miss Hollande, ignoring Matthias in the process, before leaving. Then it’s just the two of them again. 

“They seem nice,” Matthias says.

Miss Hollande harshly adjusts her grip on her boxes. “Let’s just get started,” she mutters. Considering how the ache in Matthias’s arms has just crossed the line from slight annoyance to acute anguish, he follows when she wanders off, eager to drop everything he’s been carrying. 

Chapter Text

Donna takes the first step out of the TARDIS. The ground is soft, spongy with moss and dead leaves. Cool wind blows against her face and through her hair. 

Behind her, John stands firmly in the doorway of the time-ship, one hand gripping the edge of the door. “Is it… safe?” he asks after a moment.

“I think you should’ve asked that before I left,” she says. “But that doesn’t even matter, because how the hell am I supposed to know?” It’s just a forest, anyway.“

He considers this, and shrugs. “Could be an alien forest, on an alien planet. Plenty things about that could be harmful. The atmosphere could be made entirely of methane and argon, no oxygen. Maybe the plants are carnivorous, or the ground’s acidic, or…”

Donna takes a good look around. “Well, I haven’t suffocated yet, nothing’s eating me, and my shoes aren’t dissolving. You’re overthinking this.”

He draws back further into the TARDIS. “I’m thinking just the right amount, thank you very much. And weren’t you the one that didn’t want us to take off? Why are you so calm about it now?” His eyes widen. “Maybe there’s some tranquilizer in the air. Do you feel faint? Dizzy? Overly compliant?”

“I didn’t want to take off because you shouldn’t know how to fly a spaceship, John,” she says pointedly.

His wary gaze glances back at the ship’s controls. “Right…” he breathes.

Donna holds her hand out, but he just keeps on staring at the console. “Oi, space boy,” she calls to get him to turn back around. 

He looks at her, then grabs her hand. Before he can say anything, she tugs him out of the ship and into the forest. “Come on, see, it’s not that bad,” she tells him when he yelps, taking a few steps backwards to lead him further into the forest.

"You’re devious,” he hisses at her, but doesn’t pull away.

“I’m smart,” she corrects. “Because look, just a little bit ago we were in the basement of your flat, and now we’re in a bloody forest. In autumn. You didn’t explode the ship, I didn’t melt into a pool from acid grass. We’re both not dead, see?”

“Yeah, yeah, I know.” He breathes in, and a shiver goes down his spine. “Is there – an orchard nearby somewhere?” he asks abruptly, the words coming slowly like he’s piecing the question together as he speaks. 

“Again, how would I know?”

“You’re talking like you’re the strange forest expert, all this ‘we can’t possibly die here’ nonsense.”

“It’s just reasonable!” She drops his hands to spread her arms out. “Maybe we’ll run into a bear or something, and then we’ll be in danger. Would that make you happy?”

“Yes-” he almost says, before he stops himself, looking down at himself like he’s contemplating what he almost just said. A hint of red rises to his cheeks. “So…” he starts again, a moment later. “What are we supposed to do, then?”

“Supposed to do?” Donna repeats. “I don’t think we’re ‘supposed’ to do anything.”

“There has to be something we’re supposed to do,” he insists. “We’re practically adventurers at this point.” He pauses. “Adventurers. Space adventurers. Oh!” he exclaims suddenly, bouncing on the balls of his feet, his hands in tightly clenched fists. 

Donna lets out a laugh, pleasantly surprised by his sudden change in mood. “Oh, now you’re all excited, like a kid in a candy shop?”

“Donna! We’ve got to explore!”

Her eyes widen. “Oh, now hold on,” she starts. “I know I just said this place wouldn’t kill us, but I don’t know if that’s the best–”

He holds out his hands to placate. “No, no I know what you’re going to say. That it’s a terrible and impulsive idea, just like all my other terrible and impulsive ideas, but you pointed it out. We’re already here, so why not explore what’s around us. For at least a little bit?” 

Donna closes her mouth, bites her lip for a moment.

“It’s either this or we go back into the spaceship and I try to figure out a way to get us home without blowing something up,” he adds. 

That settles it. “Okay, fine,” she relents. “We can explore a bit – only because I need a breather before we do any more weird space-time rubbish.”

John takes her hand in his, already wanting to head out into the unknown. “Well, come on then!”

“Hold on, lemme just–!” she snaps and jerks her hand back.

He stops in his tracks. “What? What is it?”

Donna makes a show of smoothing out the nonexistent wrinkles in her shirt, before she walks over towards the TARDIS. “I’m just taking a moment to be the responsible one as usual and shut the doors behind us.” Then, she does just that, plain and simple. 

“Oh.”

She pulls the doors shut, and gives the handles a jostle to ensure that the box is properly locked. “It may not be our time machine,” she says. “But like hell I’d just let anyone wander in.”

“If there even is anyone else around here,” John says as she walks back over to him, and she realizes that the only noise besides their own has been the soft scuttling of tiny creatures in the bushes and birdsong. 

Donna holds her hand out to him, and he looks down at it like it’s something he’s never seen before. “What’s that for?” he asks. 

“You were trying to drag me off a moment ago.” She glances down pointedly at her outstretched hand. 

“Yeah, and what’s that got to do with – Oh, oh right.” A grin breaks out across John’s face. Then finally, he gets to drag her off, leaving the blue box behind to stand alone in the depths of the forest.

John makes sure to step on as many fallen leaves as he can as they walk, just to hear the crunch under his shoes. It’d almost be easy for him to forget that they’re not just taking a stroll through the country-side, if not for all the minute discrepancies nagging at him from the edge of his perception. 

He can’t help but go through it all out loud as he tries to sort through all the new information feeding itself through his head. The composition of the air around them is almost exactly like how it was at home, only if home had less carbon dioxide. From the swing of his arms and the duration of each step he takes, the pull of gravity feels like exactly an acceleration of nine point eight zero six six five metres per second, per second.

He hasn’t really been paying close attention to what he’s been saying. For about… five and a half minutes now. 

“So, it’s definitely Earth, then?” Donna asks abruptly, bringing him back to reality.

Whatever he had been saying dies on his tongue. He swallows. “Uh, yeah. Earth, or some planet that’s nearly exactly the same as Earth.” A hand nervously goes up to the back of his neck. “I’m – not sure which is more likely,” he admits. “Space is pretty big. Road to the chemist’s is peanuts to space and all that. I’m sure a lot of improbable things happen all the time.” 

"Hm,” she says. “Let’s go with Earth. Probably easier that way.”

“Yeah, probably.”

Then, a while later:

“For the third time, I’m not lost,” he insists as he turns to the left (which is probably the fifth left he’s taken in the past twenty minutes, a fact he’d never let Donna hear). 

“I’ll believe it when I see it,” she says, before she takes a sudden step to the side to avoid tripping over a rotten log. “Do you really not remember where the box is? I’d rather be in that creepy thing than out here. I’m not risking getting murdered in the middle of the night by a panther or some bloke with an axe.”

Middle of the night… He glances up at the bits of sky peeking through the canopy, and there, on the horizon, is the sun just about to set. He realises that the bright, welcoming forest they knew only a few hours ago has turned into something of a hazard in the grey, washed-out twilight. A hazard for Donna more like, who must be having more trouble avoiding fallen logs and awkward branches and roots as they stumble around.

“It’s not really the middle of the night, is it,” he points out. 

Donna huffs and pulls her jacket tighter around her. “That’s not the point.”

“The point is you can’t see. Right,” he says, and goes to pat down the pockets of his trousers. “The dark.”

“You didn’t notice it was getting dark at all, did you,” remarks Donna, deadpan. 

He fumbles through his pockets before pulling out a hefty cylinder. “I’m trying my best here, Donna. It’s not my fault I have weird alien eyes.”He presses a switch on the side, and the ground in front of them is illuminated with a warm yellow light that banishes the twilight-grey covering the foliage. He turns to Donna, moves the torch with him. 

“Oi, not at me!” she snaps, raising a hand to block the light from blinding her. 

John yelps. “Ah, sorry, sorry.” He angles it down towards the ground again, and Donna rubs at her eyes. “But now we’ve got a bit of light,” he says. “Or. You have. I don’t know if I really need it.”

“Yeah, I’ll take that, thank you very much.” She grabs the torch from his hand and shines it at the forest around them, as if scanning the area. “So, the box?”

“It’s, well… I think she’s that way,” and he points to his right – where a far-off hymn seems to drift from, but it echoes and reverberates around his head, like an ethereal orchestra’s melody being played in a school’s gymnasium. Then he drops his hand. “Except it’s sort of hard to focus on. The song’s direction, I mean. I keep getting all turned around.”

She narrows her eyes at him. “You’re still able to hear it? The box, or whatever?”

He shrugs, then nods, knows its a confusing combination of gestures. “Distantly, yeah,” he says, but that only causes the concern in her eyes to grow. He holds his hands up and waves them in front of himself to deter any shouting or panic or whatever reaction she might have before he gets the next few words out. “Not! Not enough for her to get into my head again! Just… not enough to figure out how to get back to her either, I suppose.”

“So we are lost,” she clarifies. 

“Yeah, we’re lost…” he sighs in defeat. “Should we – I don’t know – start a fire?”

“Unless you’re wanting to find a forest fire, I don’t think that’s going to help.”

“I guess, but this torch is the only one I’ve got, and it’s running out of batteries – I keep forgetting to replace them–”

“Of course.”

John rolls his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, but listen. A fire would probably give us more light to see. Or, it’d just give us warmth, and we could settle down for the night and pretend that we’re just… Extreme camping. Instead of lost in a forest on a planet that’s only probably Earth.”

“I really don’t like the idea of staying here ‘til morning.” 

“But wouldn’t settling down with a fire would be better than wandering around in the dark? And the TARDIS is blue, maybe we’d see her better in the morning,” he adds.

Donna grumbles, “How come you’ve been able to make such compelling arguments lately.” She glances around at the foreboding wall of trees around them. “Christ, it really is spookier when it’s all dark.”

John laughs. “What, like this?” he asks, a mischievous grin on his face, before his torch suddenly turns off and plunges them into darkness.

She swats his arm. “Stop messing about, you git!” 

“But I like spooky!” he protests.

“Well I don’t , so turn the damn thing back on before I beat your skinny arse.”

Chapter Text

“Shouldn’t we consider postponing?”

“Miss Hollande,” Adanet says with gentle exasperation. “I know you mean well, but that would only complicate matters further. It isn’t our fault the others are absent, and we each have quotas to meet, don’t we?”

Caroline looks to Dr. Augustine and Matthias. “And you two agree with him?”

“Well, it’s not like we’re leaving them behind, madam,” Dr. Augustine says. “They aren’t here, and I can’t see the point in waiting. Especially when we don’t know if they’ll arrive at all.” So she turns her gaze onto Matthias, her last chance at reason.

He shrugs. Caroline sighs.

They’ve only got a cave specialist, two geologists and an art historian who fancies himself a photographer. Hardly the crew needed for an expedition this valuable. She hates the idea of half-assing a job like this and leaving gaps in the procedure. But it’s three against one, and the cave’s waiting.

“Fine,” she says, then again with more conviction. “Fine! Let’s get moving. Plenty of work to do.”

Adanet hoists his pack up onto his shoulder and says, “Do try to be a bit more professional dear. It’s in a scientist’s nature to adapt to change, isn’t it?” 

Then he’s turning to make his way towards the cave’s entrance. Caroline watches as he crouches down to avoid hitting his head on the low, rough ceiling. The audacity of that man astounds her. Does every word that comes out of his mouth have to be dripping in chauvinism?

“Careful there,” Dr. Augustine says in a low voice. “I’d hate for you to deal with more of his audacity, if he heard what you’re muttering about him.” Before she can think of a response, he’s walking past her to follow Adanet.

Caroline shakes her head and bites her tongue. Looks to Matthias. “Are you going to be alright, staying up here?” she asks him.

He nods. “Yeah, yeah, I’ll be fine.” He pats the pack that rests against his waist, held up by a strap on his shoulder – the radio he’ll be manning, to keep in touch with the expedition. “You go along. Don’t want to keep them waiting.”

She purses her lips. “Hm. Well, I’ll tell Dr. Augustine to establish contact with you once we’re settled. Shouldn’t be too long.”

Matthias nods again and lets her go.

The first corridor is narrow and cramped, the ground slanted steeply downwards just enough to offset everyone’s balance and make them worry that one wrong foot will send them tumbling to the bottom. Their torches light up the dust that hangs in the air, like mist in sunlight but not nearly as elegant. It coats Caroline’s tongue and makes her gag at the musty taste. It’s not so unbearable that she needs to rummage through her pack for the water she brought, but she’s definitely thinking about it as the corridor begins to widen.

Soon the group stands in the first proper cavern of the cave system, although Caroline would call it more of a chamber or grand hall, given the shape – like a large, stretched out oval with high, sloped ceilings. As the group moves their lights from the ground in front of them to the walls surrounding them, the reason for their expedition is revealed.

The stone above and around them is covered in primitive, yet beautiful paintings. Rough lines of warm pigment and charcoal, breadth varying with every stroke. Many look bovine in nature, cattle and bulls with long, sharp horns atop strong, bold heads. In one corner of that hall is an especially large bull with intricately detailed horns, speckled with black and red paint that looks as if it had been splattered without care – or perhaps, with too much care. The centerpiece of it all, she thinks. 

A flash of bright, artificial light startles Caroline. Her head snaps around to see that Dr. Augustine already has his camera out. “Incredible,” he says softly, near inaudible. “The depth, the perspective, the – the sheer beauty.” He takes another photograph, and Caroline blinks hard at the flash, can’t help but rub her eyes against the aftereffect. “So lifelike, and from a time before the wheel was even invented!”

That finally gets the gears in Caroline’s brain to start moving again, just enough for her to speak. “We don’t know if they’re that old,” she says. “Or even when the wheel was invented, I’m fairly sure.”

“I’ll get to work gathering samples,” Adanet says abruptly. “Miss Hollande, could you set up the lanterns? Some permanent light would be nice.”

“Of course,” she says and pulls her pack off. A few lanterns are clipped to the outside of it, and she begins her work of unclipping and turning each one on, positioning them in strategic areas around the cavern for the best light. Dr. Augustine continues to take photos – of every single painting, it seems. At the edge of her vision, Adanet carefully scrapes pigment from the edges of a few paintings into various glass vials.

Once stable light has been established, Caroline moves on to collecting rock samples and searching for any signs of ancient life – fossilized footsteps, carvings, hints of smoke and ash, that sort of thing. Once more, she’s in her element.

There’s a brief period of conversation as Dr. Augustine takes a break to establish contact with Matthias on the surface, but once everything’s settled there, the cave becomes silent again, each researcher too buried in their own work to make conversation. Hence, how easy it is to hear a muffled, “Oh sh–!” and the sound of a heavy thud against the stone floor.

Everyone stops. Adanet glances to Dr. Augustine and Caroline. He makes a gesture to be quiet, and his other hand goes to the holstered pistol at his waist. “Who’s there?” he calls out, his voice low and steady, intimidating. “Make yourself known. I must warn you, I am armed.”

There’s a long pause, in which Caroline is sure she can hear some heated muttering – an argument, perhaps – before two figures step out of the dark corridor: a man and a woman, looking embarrassed and anxious respectively. Although the woman’s clothes look a bit odd in a way that can’t seem to be quantified in Caroline’s mind, she’s at least got some sense on how to match clothes. The man, on the other hand, wears an oxford shirt with a clashing plaid sweater vest and brown, pinstriped trousers. Considering the smudge of dirt on his shirt and how he rubs his hand against his cheek, he’s the one that tripped and swore.

“Uh, hi there…” the man says and waves his hand in greeting.

Adanet keeps a grip on his pistol, though he doesn’t pull it yet. “What the hell are you doing here? This is a closed expedition.”

“Oh! Oh you – yeah. We’re – here for the expedition.” It nearly sounds like a question.

Dr. Augustine speaks up. “Oh, are you the researchers from Cambridge? We’ve been waiting ages for you to show up!” He takes a few steps towards them, excited at the prospect.

The man’s face lights up. “Yes! Yes, that’s us, the researchers from Cambridge. I’m John Smith, and this is Donna Noble–”

The woman weakly waves her hand at the introduction, and says, “Sorry we’re late, we, uh, got held up.” It also nearly sounds like a question.

“Terrible traffic,” the man says. “And then we had a horrid time finding our way out here. That forest is like a maze. No trails or anything.” 

Adanet considers the two for a moment with narrowed eyes. His hand drops to his side, and he almost seems disappointed as he says, “Ah yes, of course. Sorry for the misunderstanding.” He glances at Caroline and Dr. Augustine,then looks back to the Cambridge researchers. “You can call me Adanet, I’m the one leading the expedition. My two colleagues over there are Vincent Augustine, doctor of art history, and Miss Caroline Hollande, geologist. You’ve already met Matthias up on the surface, no doubt.”

“Matthias?” Miss Noble asks, carefully working her way through the name.

“He’s one of our scientists too,” he says. “Left him on the surface with a radio for safety’s sake.”

“Oh!” she says. “Oh, yes, Matthias. ” She looks to Mr. Smith. “He was a nice chap, wasn’t he? Mr. Matthias?” 

Mr. Smith jumps a little. “Ah, er, yes! Lovely man. Bit rough around the edges, but what can you do?” He shrugs playfully. 

“We’re just about finished with our work in this chamber, Mr. Smith,” Caroline adds, trying to steer the conversation back to relevant topics. “If there’s anything you want to do here, it’ll have to wait until the end. We don’t want to split the group up. You’ll understand, schedules and procedures and all.”

Mr. Smith nods enthusiastically. “Oh yes, schedules and procedures and all,” he says, looking to his colleague at his side. “Right, er, Miss Noble?”

“Of course, definitely,” she says gravely. “Very important, those procedures.”

Mr. Smith looks back to Caroline and the rest of the researchers with a bright grin. “Well? Lead the way.”

Researchers from Cambridge, her arse. John doesn’t have as much as a master’s degree, and Donna’s never even gone to university.

But still, they follow Adanet and the other actual researchers deeper into the unexplored cave system, leaving the well-lit and well-painted cavern they were just in behind. John just barely lucked out with the entire conversation and maneuvered their way to fitting in, and wary of drawing any more attention to themselves when Donna can’t fathom how they made it this far at all, they hang towards the back of the group as they walk.

“This is such a bad idea. I can’t believe I let you talk me into this,” she hisses at him, keeping an eye on the researchers to make sure they don’t overhear – they’re busy talking among themselves about their findings, but it can never hurt to be careful. 

She feels like she has to let him know in explicit terms just how un approving she is of this whole thing, and that though she’s the responsible one between them, she is not responsible for whatever happens from wandering into a random cave with random people. And sure, they look pretty damn human and they speak pretty damn good English, but the history of the human race means that being human doesn’t mean you’re good. For all she knows, she might end up wishing they were aliens. For God’s sake, the old bloke has a gun! 

“Life’s short,” John whispers back, as if they’re just seizing the day in an poignant, inspirational movie. “Why not stumble into an expedition of the Lascaux caves?”

“The last cow…?”

“Lascaux,” he repeats. “Come on, haven’t you noticed the art?”

She has noticed the art, but that’s been secondary to the whole, y’know, running into a group of people – one of whom has a gun! Why is she the only one here concerned about that? – and lying to their faces about things they know nothing about, which includes the date because that’s right, they have no idea what time they’re in or what place they are because they just stepped out of a time machine a few hours ago.

“Yeah, yeah I’ve seen it,” she says. “What about it?”

“It’s Lascaux art, Donna. Lascaux.”

She side-eyes him. “You know, saying the name over again isn’t going to help me understand what you’re talking about.”

He makes a frustrated noise. “I recognized the paintings in the cavern we just left – it’s called the Hall of the Bulls. I took a course on art history when I was still trying for that joint degree, remember?” He nods towards the researchers ahead of them, then looks back to Donna, simmering with excitement and curiosity. “And I think, if I’m reading everything right, this is actually… the cave’s first expedition?”

“How do you know that?”

“Uh, from a lot of things,” he draws out, scratching the back of his head. “The weather, the art, the fact that they’re speaking French, and also their clothes. The clothes are a big give away. It’s gotta be the nineteen-forties. Early nineteen-forties. Probably September."

Donna stops. “What.”

“Donna–“ He turns to hurry back to her, grabbing her arm and pulling her along so they don’t get too far behind the group. ”What’s wrong?“ he asks, like everything’s perfectly fine and she’s the odd one.

“Nineteen-forty - clothes – French?” she stammers. She lets him pull her right along, because she does not have the mental capacity to think and walk right now.

“They speak French in France, Donna,” he says, managing to sound reasonable, like he’s gently explaining to a toddler how rain works. Then he adds, “Oh, and the Lascaux caves are in France.”

“Of course, duh! How could I forget?” she retorts sarcastically.

His eyebrows draw together, and he considers her for a moment. “Are you alright?”

“Am I alright, he asks,” Donna mutters. “No, no, I – how are you so okay with all of this? How can you say they’re speaking French when we’re speaking English and just, go along with that?”

“How are you not okay with all of this?” he asks her back, only to cringe at the look she gives him. “Ah, bad phrasing, but what about earlier? With the TARDIS and everything, you seemed okay then?”

“It was just a forest, no people. I can handle a walk in the forest,” she hisses back.

“Well this is just a cave! Plus a few people, sure, but listen, I’ve been winging everything, and that’s been working so far–”

“–So I should just wing it, is what you’re telling me?”

“Yup.” 

Up ahead, Adanet is sketching on his legal pad while Miss Hollande points out mistakes. Dr. Augustine is taking quick photos of the paintings and rock formations they pass, lighting up the cave with flashes of bright white whenever he clicks the camera’s button. 

Donna sighs. “Just wing it,” she repeats quietly. “I can do that.” 

Chapter Text

The researchers don’t talk, for the most part. Too caught up in their work for much more than a couple of comments. Schedules and procedures and all. It’s nearly silent, if you ignore the shutter of Dr. Augustine’s camera and the occasional – but brief – bickering between Miss Hollande and Adanet whenever one of them steps on the other’s toes. Metaphorically or otherwise.

They’ve once again wandered into a larger section of the cave. Around them are the aurochs – paintings of an ancient species of cattle, paintings that he once had memorized, and still does, almost. “Could they be some sort of language?” Miss Hollande asks aloud at one point, when it’s only John and Donna reasonably nearby for conversation. “Or… well, they’re all of animals so far. Cows and horses, and I think I saw a deer a few caverns back. There has to be some sort of relation to hunting.”

“Could be,” Donna shrugs. “Or maybe they just liked interior decorating.”

Miss Hollande scoffs. “I doubt that. They might be a series of stories. Depicting some migration or their history.”

“Is it really proper to wonder about the meaning behind these paintings?” asks John, his gaze firmly on the spatter of red hand prints on the wall in front of him.

“What do you mean, is it proper?” Miss Hollande repeats, genuinely baffled.

“Well, it’s – I mean–” he fumbles for the right words. Can’t help but gesture to the painting in front of him as if it’d help. “These paintings are old. Like, really old. So whatever sort of humans or proto-humans drew them, they could have been thinking anything. Or not thinking at all. I don’t think you’d be able to truly understand their meaning or purpose unless you were the people that drew them, you know?”

Miss Caroline blinks at him. “But that doesn’t mean we can’t wonder and guess. That’s what it’s all about, isn’t it?”

“They had to have been thinking on entirely different wavelengths. Different perspectives,” he insists. Another painting in front of him is another bull, speckled black with inky, long-dried, paint. An equine animal in rust-iron red overshadowing it. It’s clear and bold against the yellowed stone, so life-like that he can nearly hear the rumble of hooves and heavy drum beats.  “Is it even… worthwhile to speculate?”

The scientist tuts. “I think it is,” she says. 

Meanwhile, Vincent can hear that Miss Hollande and the British researchers are having a rather heated discussion, but the nature of the cave’s echo make it impossible to ascertain just what they’re talking about. He just focuses on taking his photographs. The thought of developing them and being able to take a piece (or a couple dozen pieces) of history home with him is exhilarating. 

It’s when he’s taking a photograph of a mass of red hand prints that he remembers the pack hanging at his hip. “Ah, damn it to hell,” he mutters before he carefully sets his camera down on a flat rock and takes off the radio’s bag. 

He kneels and sets it down in front of him. The radio is a new thing, bought specifically for this expedition. So new, in fact, that the zipper is a bit stiff as Vincent opens the radio’s bag. 

Then he’s flicking switches and extending antennae and tuning into the frequency that he and Matthias agreed on. Once hes got it, he picks up the handset and says, “Pretty Boy?Come in, Pretty Boy. Over.”

There’s a brief hiss of white noise from the radio before Matthias responds with, “Pretty Boy? Is that supposed to be a code name?”

Vincent harrumphs. “I thought it was fitting!” 

“Well I – Well, I guess that makes you Prettier Boy.” His voice is muffled with white noise that washes in and out like the tides with the moon, but his embarrassment is clear.

He stops. Sputters as he tries to find the right words to respond. “Now, that’s not – this really isn’t the time – the audacity–”

Matthias laughs quietly over the receiver, but for someone like him, it’s the equivalent of holding your stomach as you gasp for breath from the funniest damned joke you’ve ever heard. “It took you long enough to check in,” he says, quickly changing the subject. “I was almost going to come down there myself.”

“That’d defeat the whole purpose of you staying on the surface,” Vincent reminds him, as if he didn’t already know. “So that you can go get help if the cave collapses or someone passes out from sudden onset cave sickness.”

“Right. Because that exists.”

“It very well might. We don’t know everything in this world.”

“You’re ridiculous.” Then he goes on to more professional matters. “How’s the expedition? No trouble, I hope?”

Vincent doesn’t know whether to laugh or sigh. “It’s been alright, since we sorted out the situation with the Brits.”

A pause. “The Brits?”

“Yes, a certain Doctor John Smith and Miss Donna Noble. You didn’t see them enter the cave?”

“I, uh, I went back to camp once you had gone down. I haven’t seen a single soul since. You’re saying that two British researchers are with you?”

He frowns. “They must have not seen our camp.”

“What about their equipment or supplies? Have they just been carrying it around?”

“No, they didn’t have any supplies that I could see,” he says slowly, beginning to frown. “And well I…”

“What is it?”

He drops his voice. “Well, I only just assumed they were British. When I asked, they agreed. It’s odd, though. They speak perfect French, no accent at all.”

There’s a sigh on the other line. “So you asked them if they were British, they said yes, and you just accepted this exchange?”

He shrugs timidly, then remembers that Matthias cannot see him. “I suppose? They didn’t give me any reason to not trust them.” 

“Apart from showing up unannounced, offering you a clearly fake name – John Smith, really? – and jumping at the first excuse you offered them when questioned about their credentials?” 

“Ah…  You’re suggesting they’re spies?”  

“I’m coming down there,” Matthias says abruptly.

Vincent’s eyes widen. “No, no, what would you do that I couldn’t do? We need you on the surface. I can handle this situation. If they think we’ve found them out, they might act violently.” 

There’s a long stretch of white noise as he waits for a response. “Fine,” he relents. “Check in on the hour, every hour. Keep me updated.” 

“Roger that,” Vincent says with a slight grin, before he reminds himself of the serious situation. “Prettier Boy, over and out.” 

Matthias groans into the receiver, before ending his transmission. 

Vincent sets down his handset and begins to pack up his radio. As he’s carefully putting it back into the pack, he glances over his shoulder. The British researchers – or, “British” – are still by Miss Hollande, oblivious as they continue to chat and argue about the paintings and the validity of theorizing the motives of more-than-ancient civilizations. 

He stands and winces as a few of his joints pop. He pulls the pack up and hangs it from his shoulder, letting it hang at his hip. Across the cave, Miss Noble briefly – barely noticeable unless you were watching like Vincent is with narrowed eyes – kicks at Mr. Smith’s heel just as he finishes saying something to Miss Hollande. Mr. Smith laughs abruptly, hand going to the back of his neck. Whatever he says, it sounds like a mix between an apology and a joke. Vincent  hums to himself and considers this. 

Chapter Text

They move on through the cave system, only ever stopping in any one cavern long enough to take pictures, make notes, and draw rough maps of where they’ve been. John and Donna do their best to look busy, despite not having much equipment apart from the two notepads and pens that John dug out from the recesses of his pockets.

Adanet gestures for the group to stop and wait when they come to a fork in the road – or the passage, rather. He’s got to catch up with sketching the map. John takes the time to inspect the two routes as inconspicuous as he can, hands in his pockets as he ducks his head around each corner; if his sense of direction and his memory is still good, the Axial gallery would be to the left, where more paintings of extinct cervids can be found, and the rest of the cave system would be to the right. Both will come to eventual dead-ends, but they’d explore much, much more if they went to the right. 

With a little bit of nudging from John, they end up choosing the passage to the right. Though, Adanet still treats it like it was his idea all along. 

Eventually, it starts to get hard to stand up straight and walk at the same time. The ceiling lowers and the walls slope gently inwards, until it’s getting to be claustrophobic and everyone’s left walking in a straight line and crouching as so not to hit their heads on the ceiling as they push forward.

John could count down this expedition to the seconds and even shorter units, but he forces himself to not think that exact. There’s just so much to examine and catalog; he’s got the sense that given their implied personnel troubles, this expedition is only preliminary, even with how long it’s been since they first arrived. Not meant to get the full picture just yet. The research won’t stop for decades.

The aurochs and the horses die down in frequency here, and John begins to recognize more feline characteristics of the paintings here. Big cats, red and orange, are painted on the lower parts of the walls now. He has to get down on his hands and knees to see them fully. Luckily, he’s got plenty of time to just observe and give silent Looks of amazement to Donna, as Adanet continues to map, and as Vincent continues to take his precious photographs, and as Caroline continues to collect her rock samples. John’s not complaining, though he thinks Donna might be complaining under her breath about the state her back’s in.

They’re definitely in the Hall of the Felines by now, and that means they’ll reach a dead-end soon. The group will have to go back through everything they’ve just explored, revisit their notes, and choose the other passage, towards the Axial Gallery, once they get back to that forked path. 

But the cave keeps going, and the group keeps trudging on. The passage slowly widens as they go, the ceiling rising and the walls abating, finally giving enough room to stand. In front of him, Dr. Augustine stretches, raising his arms above his head until a joint in his back pops. He drops his arms slightly, shoulders hunched as he glances to the others, embarrassed at how the noise echoed. There was plenty of room above the man, even as he extended his arms their full length. He couldn’t have touched the ceiling even if he had jumped. 

“This isn’t right.” The words leave John’s mouth before he registers that he’s talking at all, but now that they hang in the air, he realizes he agrees with himself. This isn’t right. He feels something staring him down right in front of him, or maybe from all over. Watching his back. 

Donna stops first, looking back at John with concern. “What?” she asks. “You alright?” 

“It’s… I don’t–” He struggles to grab onto something more concrete than the nagging feeling at the back of his head that something’s wrong. He glances around the cavern nervously and looks back at where they came. 

The rest of the group comes to a reluctant halt. Adanet looks less than worried, more annoyed at the halt in work than anything. “He’s fine,” he says sternly. “Just not used to the cave air, I’d say.”

“Cave air? No, no, the air’s fine,” John mutters absently as he raises his torch and takes a few steps away from the group, back towards the darkness. He squints, frowns at how his torch illuminates a few feet in front of him and then just. Stops. As if the light is hitting a black hole. The hair on the back of his neck stands on end, and he doesn’t dare to turn around as he walks backwards towards the group, lest he leave himself exposed to anything that may be hiding in the shadows. “We’ve gone too far,” he says. “The Hall of the Felines should have ended at least a dozen metres back, it should have been a total dead-end.” 

“Hall of the what?” Miss Hollande asks. 

He waves his hand at one of the paintings on the wall. “You know, the – the big cats. That passage had basically only felines.”

“‘Gone too far?’” Adanet asks, crossing his arms over his chest and glaring. “You can’t place a limit like that on an unexplored cave.”

“I’m telling you, that hall was supposed to end ten metres back!” John says impatiently, the smallest hint of agitation sharpening the edges of his words. 

“John,” Donna hisses, a warning. “Don’t.”

“What you’re saying doesn’t make sense, Mr. Smith,” Adanet continues calmly. “We should take a break, rest here. You’re clearly getting confused. Have you been drinking water?” 

“I’m right,” John insists, finally looking away from the darkness and over his shoulder to glare at the scientists. “You just aren’t listening to me; I know what I’m talking about!”

“Maybe he means we missed something back there?” Miss Hollande offers. “We could go back and–”

The world cracks in half, then. A thundering sound reverberates against the cold, ancient stone, echoing back and forth as the ground trembles, until it comes back to meet John with a greeting that’s tinged with – with meaningless age, the passage of eons, moonlight and shadow, morning dew on uncut grass. The cyclical birth and death of a thousand incomprehensible things. Even as stalactites crumble and stalagmites are crushed in falling rumble that narrowly misses John by an inch, and Adanet by a metre, he can’t bring himself to move. 

Someone – something – someone grabs his sleeve and pulls him into motion, shouting “Get back!” in his ear, harsh enough that he should wince; that echo keeps him lost in his own head, instead, filtering through sickening, glitched perception and dripping through in alien increments that feel like an ice-pick against his skull.

His reality breaks down under it, cracks under the weight into a mosaic of the bare essentials. Their reality presses on. 

Donna is still tugging him along, and the rest of the researchers run with her. Gravel crunches under frantic footsteps. 

“What’s happening?” Dr. Augustine. 

He’s panicked. Everyone is. Thump-thump, thump-thump go the heartbeats. 

“Cave-in!” Miss Hollande. 

Someone drops their lantern in the escape. Glass shatters. The cave goes that much darker.

“Son of a–!” Adanet. 

They’re running from the collapse of all things, and John pulls himself together in time to see the light give way to darkness as the walls cave in.

Chapter Text

The cave has turned into a cacophony in the matter of seconds, and the others are screaming and shouting, all of it an avalanche of noise that grinds and shatters and echoes back thrice-fold. Everyone rushes deeper into the cave as the ceiling collapses and there’s no where else to go but further in. 

Vincent’s running for his life before he realises that’s what he’s doing at all, his heart pounding and his veins flooded with adrenaline that makes him light-headed and shaky, unsteady. And then he’s tripping and he’s dropping his light and plunging the world into darkness, and he can’t keep running when he can’t see where he’s going, but the torch was already only illuminating the dust in front of him, like headlights made useless in the thick fog, he’ll be crushed, and he’ll choke and starve and, and, and– 

He keeps running until he smacks into a wall, there’s a sick thud and crack and intense pain in his face, his nose, but he ignores that in favor of running his hands over the wall, cause the rocks are still rumbling, the dust still choking, it can’t be over yet, and he needs to keep moving, but he can’t find any more empty space to run to, he’s hit a dead-end and this is it. 

The man isn’t ashamed that he cowers against the wall because there’s no room for shame, there’s barely any room room for his body. He falls to his knees and curls in around himself in an effort to make himself smaller, less of a target for whatever might be heading his way, boulders ready to crush and maim. 

He stays like this for some time, muscles tense and beginning to cramp but he still doesn’t move. Not until the noise fades and the ground settles. He coughs and coughs and coughs against the grit and grime in his mouth and covering his face and the rest of his clothes, until the ringing in his ears drowns out the world. Has he gone deaf, or has the world finally died like a dog?

Vincent finally opens his eyes, but he sees only darkness. Lifts a trembling hand in front of his face just to make sure there’s not a lick of light. No, just absolute darkness and the ringing of his ears. He whines “Oh no,” before he can stop himself. “Oh no, no, no, no.” 

His limbs protest angrily as he unravels himself and reaches his hands out, clambering at the ground in a search for something, anything but the darkness. He finds nothing. His frantic calls to the group are left unheard and unanswered. A warm liquid drips from his nose and onto his hands and the ground. 

His eyes burn, prickling with tears from the dust and anguish. The cave is sealed, it must be, the cave-in shook the world and buried his companions and cast him into hell. He never thought it would be this dark. Foolish idiot, broke the only thing that might have saved him, his torch, and now he’s a dead man walking with no hope of escape, he’s alone, he’s alone, he’s alone.

A sob escapes his tight throat, and then another. He crawls on his hands and knees like a child, and doesn’t know why he’s moving, but only knows that he has to. To be still is to give into death and even now, he feels the drive, the human desperation to claw for every last breath of air one can just to live one moment more. If he stops moving now, he’ll never move again. 

He continues to crawl, ignoring the pain as sharp rocks dig into his palms, sharper and sharper, until something slips through and deeper, until he realizes it’s not just rock, but glass. He gasps, chokes on his tongue and the blooming of aching hope deep in his chest as he reaches out blindly and feels the still-warm metal of his dropped torch. He grabs it and pulls it back to his chest with the ferocity and speed of a starved dog finding a scrap of meat and scarfing it down before any else can take it away. 

Glass tinkles against the ground, shards falling as he adjusts his grip and positions his thumb on the switch. His fingers shake so badly he can barely hold onto the thing, but he must. He pushes up on the switch, and dappled yellow-orange light illuminates the space in front of him as the bulb shines through the broken glass cover of the torch. 

He exclaims in delight and relief at the revelation that the torch is only superficially broken, the glass shattered but the bulb beneath still intact. He sweeps the light around to reveal the rest of the cavern, bigger than he thought it would be after the cave-in but still covered in rubble, and can’t help the laughter that bubbles up as the feeling that he might have a chance now settles in his stomach. 

Then his laughter cuts out abruptly as the light catches on slick liquid pooling around the body of Mr. John Smith and the leg that’s pinned under a boulder. He lies motionless, arms spread out in front of him like he had collapsed while trying to escape the avalanche of rock. And he’s not breathing. 

Vincent kneels down besides Mr. Smith like he’s collapsing at the altar to beg for forgiveness. He sets down his torch, then presses two fingers to the man’s neck, but his hands are shaking too much to detect a pulse. Can only feel the chill of his pale skin.

He can’t breathe. The air must be running out, he can’t breathe, his throat’s too tight, closing up on him. The man’s dead, right in front of him, crushed by the cave collapse, and he had the audacity to think he was a spy? To suspect him of wrongdoing, when he’s on the ground, cold and dead, never to wake again? 

He’s at his wit’s end, intellect slowly crumbling, when the body moves. It draws breath, coughs, and begins the arduous process of pushing itself up with shaking arms. It doesn’t get very far, unable to move its leg from under the boulder. 

Vincent yelps and kicks at the ground in a desperate to push himself back from the corpse. It’s still coughing, and mumbles something like “Oh, fuck,” but it couldn’t possibly say that, could it? Corpses don’t speak, much less move – but this one is and it’s saying–

“Is that you? Uh, Augustine?” 

“Doctor,” he whispers back before he can stop himself.

The corpse freezes. “What?” 

“Dr. Augustine,” he says again, still that painful hush. He blinks fast. “My – my title.”

The corpse squints at him, and steadily some part of his brain, the rational part which is oh so distant by this point, realizes that this cannot actually be a corpse of his acquaintance nor some undead fiend. “That’s what I meant,” it – he? what is the proper address for someone who might be, or should be dead – says.

It’s the next thing he says. “You’re… you’re not dead.” 

“No,” Mr. Smith says confidently. “Not dead, but my leg’s killing me and I–” He glances back and sees what’s pinning him in place. “–Oh, that explains it.” 

Vincent’s eyes follow and bile rises in his throat at the sight. 

Mr. Smith looks back at him. “Where… where are the others?”

He just shrugs and makes a soft noise, refuses to admit it’s more of a whine than anything like coherent French. His brain is pounding against his skull, his heart racing like it’s about to break a rib, and even with that, the adrenaline's starting to wear off. The others. More than likely they’re dead, considering how close of a call Mr. Smith experienced. There’s not much more room for panic in his head; he just feels defeated. 

“Oh,” Mr. Smith says, and he can see in his eyes that the man understands just what he’s thinking. “Oh.”

“What do we do?” he breathes, not really expecting an answer. He lets his head fall back. It hits the rock behind him but he doesn’t feel the pain, not really. “What is there to do?” 

Mr. Smith takes a breath and slowly lets it out. Stares at his fingernails as he takes another. “I’ll tell you what we’re going to do,” he says slowly. “You’re going to get this rock off my leg, and we’re going to go look for the others.” 

“What?” Vincent exclaims, honestly, genuinely surprised by the determination and purpose in Mr. Smith’s voice. “You don’t think they’re…?” 

“Nope! Can’t be.” 

He can’t tell if delirium’s setting in from the blood loss, if the man’s mind has just broke at the prospect of losing his friend and almost losing his life, or if he just has reason to believe that miraculously, no one perished in this cave-in. Vincent can’t see anything approaching reason in this darkness. “You can’t be serious.” 

“As serious as the rock that’s shattered parts of my femur, tibia, and patella” He claps his hands. “Now come on, up and at ‘em.”

Maybe it’s the numbness hitting his mind, or maybe it’s the way Mr. Smith talks, like he’s speaking cold, hard fact, impossible to refute. Whatever it is, Vincent finds himself scrabbling at the wall to get a grip as he gets to his feet. He’s so lightheaded, he worries he might faint, but Mr. Smith’s right. The first thing to be done, barring the fact that surely nothing can be done, is to free Mr. Smith. Once he’s sure that he won’t keel over if not for the hand on the wall steadying him, he walks over the rock. It’s a damned large rock, reaching up to his knees, but it looks like it’s round enough that he could just roll it off. If it’s light enough that he can move it, which is in doubt. 

He glances at Mr. Smith with concern. “This is going to hurt,” he says. “I can’t imagine the pain you’re in already.” He hasn’t shown it on his face, a detail is easily explained away through shock. 

But it seems he shouldn’t have said anything, the mention having brought the sensation to the forefront, because suddenly the pain’s written all over his face. “Yeah,” John says hoarsely, and digs his nails into the rock, knuckles white. “Can’t imagine.” 

Vincent swallows. Best to get on with it then. He crouches as well as he can while also keeping a proper stance and sets his hands against the rock. The surface is rough, dry but covered in grit. He takes a breath, then heaves and pushes, ignoring the pinprick pain of sharp rock digging into his palms. For a moment he thinks it’s too heavy, that he can’t remove it and will have to leave Mr. Smith like this, until a proper rescue can come. But then the rock shifts, and Mr. Smith screams in pain as Vincent slowly pushes the boulder off of his leg. 

He keeps at it until he’s certain the man is entirely free, and once he is, he lets his hands drop and lets the boulder lay still. When he turns around to face Mr. Smith, the man is sitting up, clutching at his thigh. Not screaming any more, thank the Lord.

Mr. Smith swears over and over under his breath, rocking back and forth slightly as he breathes through the pain.

The historian glances at the wound and pales. “It’s – it’s not that bad,” he says, forcing his voice into a lower octave as to appear calm and honest. “Just the knee, really.” 

“Oh, just the knee?” Mr. Smith asks hysterically through gritted teeth, and he forces his eyes open to glare at Vincent. “That’s all? Is that your professional diagnosis, doctor?” 

“I’m – I’m not a–” he stammers, only to drop it when he realizes that that his designation as a doctor of history rather than medicine is the last thing he should be arguing about. He swallows. Starts again. He says, “We – have to do something about that,” with another glance at Mr. Smith’s leg. 

He lets go of his leg and lies back down on the ground. His head falls back and he closes his eyes again. “You think?” 

Vincent ignores the derision and takes off his backpack, kneeling back down on the ground to dig through their supplies with determination. He talks partially to Mr. Smith to inform him of the ongoing formation of his plan, and partially to keep himself calm. “I’m going to… to wash the wound. Just water, no soap, we don’t have any soap, but it’ll be enough to get most of the dirt out,” he says, pulling out a spare water bottle and the extra pair of wool socks he brought. 

He then removes his overcoat, intending to tear strips of it off to use for bandaging, but finds it impossible with only his hands. He swears under his breath, then goes at the fabric with his teeth. Certainly not the most sanitary, but he’s able to break enough thread to make tearing the rest easier. “Bandage it with this,” he adds, “then everything will be fine!” 

Mr. Smith rests an arm over his eyes, and it seems the anger has faded and left behind exhaustion. “You sure sound like a medical doctor.” 

Vincent winces, but doesn’t comment. Picks up the bottle of water. “It’s going to sting,” he says. “A lot.” 

“Just do it. I’m not protesting.” 

Vincent sucks in a breath, holds it for a few seconds, then slowly exhales. And he keeps up this rhythm as he sets about cleaning the wound as carefully as he can. He pours water over it to wash the blood and grime away, then gently wipes with the socks he pulled out of his bag. Mr. Smith stay still for the most part, jaw clenched tight, but lets loose a few curses when he accidentally presses too hard or scrubs too roughly. 

“Why… why are you more upset than me?” Mr. Smith asks after a while, while he’s bandaging. Even in his weakened state, he clearly notices Vincent’s pained, nauseous expressions and how his hands continue to shake. “I’m the one with the broken leg.” 

“I’m – I’m not good with blood,” he explains, and again he’s shivering at the first glance he had of Mr. Smith’s leg after he moved the rock. He tries to focus more on his words than what’s in front of him and in his memory. “I never have been. My father wanted me to become a medical doctor. Good pay, good work, a respectable occupation. I studied medicine for some time – in the classroom, all lectures and – and book studies, you see.” He nods to himself and to Mr. Smith. 

He ties the fabric off, then sits back on his calves. “First time I shadowed a doctor,” he goes on. “I had to watch as he pulled a nail out of the foot of a farmer. Fainted right away when he got the damned thing out and the wound… gushed.” Vincent nearly gags at the thought, and though he knows he’s quite pale already, he feels even more color drain from his face. He chuckles awkwardly. “So I quit that and picked up art history instead.” 

“I get that,” Mr. Smith says, finally relaxing as his leg is left alone again. “Well, actually no, I don’t. I’m fine with blood. I think. Had to analyze my own under a microscope, even.” 

“You… why?”

“But!” Mr. Smith continues as if he hadn’t spoken. “You’re doing great now. Field work, that’s hard stuff.” 

Vincent down at his hands. Frowns. The bloods don’t seem to mix, his and Mr. Smith’s, instead they’re swirls of color forming a point in the center, like peppermint candies. But it must be a trick of the light. He wipes his hands on his trousers – they’re ruined anyway. “That will be the adrenaline,” he answers. “If my legs give out, try to cushion my fall,” he says with a weak laugh. 

Mr. Smith winces, concern all across his face. 

“It’s – it’s a joke,” he reassures him. “Mostly. It’s mostly a joke.”

“Please don’t fall on me,” Mr. Smith still says. 

Chapter Text

It’s a misnomer to say that something has been proven when it comes to scientific study, really. 

Science is nothing more than a human construct of making assumptions based on observations, on what can be seen, measured, quantified. You get closer and closer and closer to the truth the more you experiment and plan and think, narrowing the generalizations down and pushing the flaws out, but you never touch the thing, the idea, the true Law. 

The world of True Forms is an interesting one, and it’s often the first topic touched upon in A-level Philosophy, but it doesn’t hold up very well in reality. It’s well agreed-upon that humans aren’t perfect, so how could they ever think up a perfect form of an object, wouldn’t there be mistakes inherent even in thought?

And sure, you could point out the laws of motion by a certain Isaac Newton as proof of proving, but even those are incomplete. They only describe the universe in very specific situations before they break down completely at the tiniest change of detail, such as the subjects being too small or moving too fast. 

Gravity is another example. The mass of an object warps not only space but time as well, curving the very fabric of the universe around it. This effect has been measured enough to be constant, to correctly dictate how matter interacts with itself, how reality functions – but it’s still just a theory. It, like the laws of motion, breaks down when you dig a little deeper, say, into the quantum level. 

These scientific laws can’t be universal, they fall apart so easily. A single change can collapse the whole wavelength. So there must be a variable missing, or maybe you miscalculated, or maybe you just need more data even if one piece of data that doesn’t fit can bring the whole theory down, risky, risky business. Either way, something’s wrong, and something must change. 

Maybe it already has.

Maybe these theories and laws aren’t flawed at all, maybe the world is. Maybe the universe is changing and shifting and metamorphizing, and no one else can see it, and maybe that explains all the gaps, the blank spaces, the galaxies that hold themselves together in dancing spirals with too-little mass. Maybe reality is oh, so fragile, and it takes nothing at all to crush the world you know and rebuild it from the ground up without using up a single unit of Planck time, none the wiser.

Or maybe the labs just need to recalibrate their measuring equipment.

Caroline coughs herself back into awareness as her lungs seize and beg for air that isn’t thirty percent dirt. She lifts her head up from the ground, blinks away the disorientation as a light flickering to the left of her draws her attention closer and closer to the scene in front of her. She pushes herself up, not to stand just yet but to sit upright on the ground. “Is – is everyone okay?” she chokes out between coughs, and absently notes the sharp pain in her sternum that comes and goes in time with the muscles working to draw breath. 

“Fine!” Miss Noble calls out. “I’m fine!” She’s already on her feet, or maybe never fell at all, using the wall next to her as support, and she now takes the time to brush the dirt from her clothes the best she can. “Christ, does that happen often?”

“Are you asking if cave collapses happen often, Miss Noble?” comes Adanet’s gruff voice. The light’s dim, but it’s enough to see that he’s fine as well, if a bit disgruntled and dusty. 

“Oh, don’t start with that,” Miss Nobles responds immediately. A knee-jerk reaction. Adanet’s eyes narrow at the red-haired woman, jaw clenching tightly, a cornered animal about to strike. 

“Excuse me, I–” 

“No, hold on, where’s John and the other one?” Miss Noble asks, the abrupt emergency in which she looks around the cavern startling Adanet into brief silence.  

Caroline blinks. “The… other one?” 

Adanet crosses his arms over his chest, and speaks as if he’s being proven right. About what, Caroline doesn’t know. “She means to say Dr. Augustine.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever.” Miss Noble pushes past the two of them, away from the collapsed passage and towards the darkness of what remains unbound. “John?” she calls, only to receive her own voice back as an echo. She cups her hands around her mouth and tries again, louder, “John Smith, answer me or I’m going to set your lab on fire when we get back home, don’t test me!” 

Once the echo quiets, Adanet says, “They probably ran further into the cave.” 

Miss Noble spins around to face him. “Yeah, or they didn’t,” she spits. “They could be hurt, we need to find them.” 

“Don’t work yourself into a state, Miss,” he says, and he holds up his hands in a pacifying gesture.

Miss Noble stops for a moment, before throwing her hand out to her side towards the wall of boulders and gravel. “’Don’t work yourself into a state’? Where you here when the ceiling fell on our heads?”

Adanet’s seething now, glaring daggers at Miss Noble, who looks a mirror image of the other. Laughter pushes its way up Caroline’s throat tasting of adrenaline and panic. She swallows it like a bitter pill.

“Not the time for arguing,” Caroline interrupts before they can really go at it. “That’s not going to help us, we’re in an emergency situation now.” She takes a breath, and lets it out slowly. “First thing we need to do is review our supplies. Luckily we’ve only been down here for… maybe two hours, so we should have all of our food and water rations, correct?”

“Except what’s with Mr. Smith and Dr. Augustine,” Adanet corrects.

“Right,” Caroline nods. “So three rations per person means that we should have nine rations total, and we can cut that down as we need, food once a day and water… twice a day?”

“Days?” Miss Noble repeats. “You think we’ll be down here for days?” 

“The only known entrance collapsed,” she says, deadpan. “I’m not going to be assuming this will be fixed easily, so I’m being generous.” 

“No, no, I know that.” She puts a hand over her mouth, turns away. “Ugh, I told him this wasn’t–” The muttering trails off into angry inaudible nonsense and eventually becomes silence that permeates the air and makes even Adanet shift his weight with the awkward tension. 

“Right, fine!” Miss Noble erupts, throwing her hands into the air. “Let’s get this over with, then.” 

She and Caroline look to Adanet, who takes a moment to realize that the focus has shifted onto him and looks rather caught off guard. 

“Well? Come on,” Miss Noble says, words dripping with derision. “You’ve been bitching about leading the group since we got here, so,” she gestures towards the dark unknown, “lead the way.” 

“Ah, erm, of course.” He clears his throat and tugs at the lapels of his dusty coat, straightening his posture. “I’m the one drawing up the map, after all. Of course I’ll lead the way.”

He turns to illuminate the corridor and take the first few steps into the abyss, and Miss Noble looks to Caroline and rolls her eyes, a feeling that she shares. 

Donna’s convinced that the adrenaline in her veins won’t die down until they’ve found John and Dr. Augustine safe and sound, but that’s before she sees how their search is much more like a bus in heavy traffic than a daring search-and-rescue mission. They’ll walk a dozen metres only to stop for Adanet to catch up with his map, then they’ll walk another dozen metres before having to stop again, stop and start, stop and start, until she thinks she’s almost going to nod off the next time they have to take a break. 

It doesn’t help that her watch seems to be broken. According to it, only minutes have passed. She taps it, considers how the hands tremble at the motion while they keep on ticking, then taps it again for good measure just to watch the same thing happen. “Anyone have the time?” she asks at the next break. 

Adanet just makes a vague grunt as he glares down at his map, heavily erasing and sketching. “I’ve got three forty-seven,” Miss Hollande says.

Donna frowns at her wristwatch. “Mine says twelve twenty-three.” 

Miss Hollande shrugs. “It was probably damaged when the rock fell. I know Adanet’s was broken.” At that cue, he holds up his own wristwatch for them to see the shattered glass, though he keeps his eyes firmly on his map. 

Donna looks down at her watch again. The clock face doesn’t appear to be broken, but that doesn’t mean the inner mechanisms couldn’t have taken a hit. 

“Is it important?” Miss Hollande asks, as if sensing her worry.

She sighs. “Suppose not. It’s just a gift from – from my dad, is all.”

A hand rests on her shoulders, and Donna startles before she sees that it’s just Miss Hollande having come over to stand by her side, some form of comfort. “If it’s broken, it can be fixed,” she assures her. “Let’s stay focused on what we need right now.”

“Erm, thanks Miss Hollande,” she says, though she rather think about a broken watch than the admittedly more pressing matters of her best friend’s absence and the reason they’re wandering the depths of an unexplored cave looking for a way out, decades before she was even born. 

“Caroline,” the researcher corrects. “I think we can both agree at this point that we’re too far from civilization right now for formalities to have much meaning.” She offers a slight smile, then, soft and uncertain. A glimpse of kindness beneath her stoic exterior.

Donna blinks. Lets her shoulders fall a bit and lean into her touch. “Okay. Thanks, Caroline.”

Donna’s now certain that her watch is broken, because at this point they’ve had have been wandering for hours with no sign of sunlight or anyone besides the three of them. No John, no Vincent, nothing from the man o the surface who is supposed to be contacting them via radio to make sure everything’s okay. Except that Vincent has the radio and they have no way of knowing if he’s awake or alive, or if he contacted Matthias like he should have. No way of knowing anything until a rescue party bursts through the rubble with water and rations and those aluminum foil blankets they use to comfort trauma victims. 

All they’ve seen are tunnels and tunnels and more tunnels. They’re ants trapped underground, scurrying to and fro in search of sunlight. The longer it goes on, the more frustrated and downright angry Adanet gets. He grumbles and curses and frantically erases and re-sketches the map and snaps at Caroline when she comments or asks if he needs help. When he finally reaches his breaking point, he doesn’t explode. He doesn’t say much of anything, actually. Nothing that makes sense, at least.

The narrow tunnel they’re walking down takes a sharp turn to the left, and Adanet stops in his tracks. Donna bumps into Adanet and Caroline bumps into Donna in the most boring game of dominos ever played. She cranes her neck to look past Adanet, expecting a dead-end or some other form of obstacle, but she sees nothing but the darkness beyond the torch that has steadily become familiar. “What’s the deal?” asks Donna.

“This – this doesn’t make sense. It can’t make sense,” Adanet breathes. His grip tightens and tightens on the map until the paper crinkles and his knuckles turn white. He cracks like hot glass thrust under freezing cold water. Crumples up the paper and throws it. Not anywhere in particular, he only wants it gone, away, somewhere where it can’t hurt him anymore. The paper harmlessly bounces off a wall a couple metres in front of him, while he falls to his knees and holds his head in his hands. “I don’t get it,” he wails. 

The two women freeze. Donna bites down on her lip and glances to Caroline. An unspoken agreement made. Donna goes to Adanet and kneels down beside him, ignoring the rock and gravel that digs into her knees. “It’s – it’s going to be alright,” she says. “We’ll get out of here.”

Caroline silently goes over to where the paper landed and picks it up. She pulls it apart with care and smooths out the wrinkles against the rock wall.

“No, we won’t,” he mumbles, on the verge of delirium. “It’s – it’s impossible. It’s level, we can’t be – but it is, and – we’re trapped. The Minotaur and the Labyrinth. We can’t escape it.” 

“Okay,” Donna says slowly. “Well, that’s a bit dramatic.”

“Donna,” hisses Caroline.

She raises a hand. “Yeah, yeah, I know,” she says. “Not the most comforting, but–” 

“No, not that,” she interrupts, then waves her over. “Come look at this.” 

Adanet is still hunched over himself on the ground, still mumbling nonsense. Donna’s blood starts to chill in her veins. She stands up, and Caroline’s already at her side shoving the map into her hands.

“Look,” she says severely, jabbing a finger onto the page. 

“Alright, alright,” Donna mutters. The map clearly begins in the lower left corner of the page, the entrance to the cave is clearly drawn as the wide chamber it is, and she can follow that along to the crossroads, where they took the path to the right, all the way up until where the cave collapsed. She can see that the first few turns are accurate to her memory – left, left, right, left– 

“I think he’s hit his head,” Caroline whispers. “Some sort of brain injury, or maybe a panic attack.”

It devolves into nonsense soon after. Given the attention that Adanet’s been paying to his precious map, Donna would expect there to be something more than scribbles crisscrossing and overlapping all over the page, drawn and erased and redrawn. The oddest thing is, even after that, the map is still intelligible to a degree. She can almost make out the thought beneath the paper. The corridors that crisscross, she can remember when those must have happened, when they took those particular turns, but there’s no proper dimensionality to it. 

She glances to Adanet, who hasn’t moved an inch and who hasn’t said anything comprehensible so far, and she doesn’t feel like she’s looking at a man who’s lost touch with reality, broken under the stress of the rock above, nor does she feel she’s looking at a man who hit his head and can’t distinguish from his left and his right with all the inflammation suffocating his brain. But if not that, then... 

Donna opens her mouth, then closes it. She can’t remember how long it’s been since the cave collapsed, and as she breathes in the stale air, she finds she’s not actually sure of their path, either. For all she knows, it’s the cave that can’t be written down. 

Chapter Text

it's a little bit of magic to end the world, 
but i thought you knew me truly. 
something different than we started with in the world 
does it even matter to me? 

- variations on a cloud, miracle musical  

Somewhere, there is a dark room. Within this room, there is a door, the only entryway. There are windows, but they do not open. The view through them is not the pitch black of night nor the spotted, inky view of space, but of nothing at all. Within the room, there is a desk, a chair, a filing cabinet. More than one filing cabinet, in fact, although it seems even more are needed if there is to be any hope of tidiness in the room. The surface of the desk is covered. In documents, in files, in scraps of paper, and in reels of 35mm film. The only light in the room comes from the projector mounted onto the desk. It clicks, crinkling like insect wings as it rolls through film. 

A man sits at the desk, considering the black and white scenes that dance upon the opposite wall. One hand props up his chin. The other hand reaches towards the projectors and pulls something. The scenes roll to a halt, and the man sighs.  

Without ceremony, without even the courtesy of a knock, the door opens and a woman steps through. 

She looks around with mild curiosity. 'You made up a room,' comments the woman.  

It helps me think, says the man. He speaks softly – there is no need to speak loudly in this tiny room that is the universe – but his voice possesses a quality not unlike church bells. Demanding attention. I will be heard, heard, heard.  

‘I suppose living in the metaphysical is easier to cope with, if you tie it to the physical,’ she says, with the ambivalence that comes from someone who lives entirely in the metaphysical and has never thought anything of it. ‘It’s very expected of you to turn everything into a metaphor of mundanity.’  

The man ignores her. This isn’t going to work, he says. 

‘Why do you say that?' The woman looks to the wall.  

He doesn’t answer her directly. 

The man waves a hand languidly towards the projection. It’s so... heavy-handed, it's almost comical. And there's so many loose-ends, it just won't work. It’s not real.

'But it is real,' she says, tilting her head slightly. 'It's the most real thing in existence, Narrator.’ 

He glares. I told you to stop calling me that.   

She shrugs. ‘I’m only following the metaphors you keep using. Although, I suppose Director could be more appropriate, now.' 

Well, I don’t like it! And I don’t like this bloody universe either!  He throws a hand to the projector, miscalculates, and knocks it. The reel of film judders in its position and begins to roll '–I think he's hit his head, some sort of brain injury–' until the Narrator hits the projector again, and it falls silent, and still.  

‘Then make a better one,’ the woman says simply.  

I already tried that, he says, his gaze still fixed to the projections on the wall. It didn't get me anywhere, it– a ragged laugh –It only got me here.  

‘You tried once,' she agrees, 'but you can try again. There's no one to stop you.' 

He looks away from the film, from her. It’s – it’d be cruel to throw them away again.  

'Cruelty is relative.' 

I know.   

'There is no one for you to pretend to anymore.' 

I know, he says through gritted teeth.  

'So, start over,' she says. 

Silence. 

There was one chair before she opened the door. Now, there is two, on the other side of the desk. She now takes this seat for herself, forcing the Narrator to either look at her, or look away. He chooses the latter. 

'You wanted this, my Champion,' says Pain, the last of the Menti Celesti, the tripartite goddess of the Time Lords, to parlay with reality, now. 'You took the world, and then you tore it down and changed it for yourself.' 

That was for her.  

'No, it wasn't,' she says firmly. 'You lie to yourself. You wanted this cosmocide more than anything, you said to me. 

He stands up suddenly, shoving the chair back as he makes to move across the room, away from Pain and her obsidian eyes. Well, maybe this whole thing was a mistake, he announces to the room. I'll just erase him from the timelines altogether. That'll work, won't it? Time marches on, whether John Smith exists or not, but without the Doctor, the stars will go out. The Narrator comes to a stop at the far end of the universe. Looks back to Pain. That's right, isn't it? 

'That is correct,' says Pain. 'But what, then, of her?' She nods to the projection, where a woman's face gazes beyond the camera, at a sight unseen to the audience. If the film had been in colour, her hair would have been burnt orange, her eyes green. 

She's – she'll be fine. The Doctor takes care of his companions. Would probably do a better job than John ever could, he admits, an aside. 

The Doctor is not a god, not like you. His care is finite.  

What? Does she still–  He chokes. –Anyway?  

'She is only human, Narrator,' says Pain, standing up. 'But it's up to you when, where, how, and all the rest.' 

And then she's gone.  

How, and all the rest, said the goddess who in other circumstances could be called Change. There's so many ways the universe could go, that's the trouble. He wanted a say, and now that he has it, there's simply too much to say. Too much choice. Too many possibilities.

But he couldn't bear to give her up to Fate again, not this time, not when he has a say. Look at what that got her. And him. 

He stands at the projector. He cannot bear to look at the scenes that flicker by, and instead removes the reel from its place, cutting the film short. He pulls a strand out to look, and only catches a glimpse of the faces captured within, before the light sears the stills from existence. 

Oh, alright then, he says, what's one more cosmocide?  

He pulls more and more film from the reel, letting it go to curl gently on the floorboards. The film burns under the light, and ethereally, begins to smoulder until there is nothing but ash on the floorboards, but it is not long before that too burns away, the room falling out of existence as the Narrator says, let's try this again, shall we?  

why don't we keep it coming back 
and coming back, and coming back, and coming back?