Chapter Text
Chapter 1
John watched out the peephole in his door as the blonde girl, more like a young woman, entered her apartment. She was a little later than normal tonight, but she seemed happy. That boyfriend of hers hadn't even met her at the door. He was a loser anyway. He didn't deserve her.
She was smart, funny and a hard worker. She went to school each day and came back around 2:30 only to turn around and leave for work. Sometimes she worked late, sometimes not. Her name was Rose, he knew because when she was in a row with her boyfriend he yelled at her.
The boyfriend, he thought his name was Jimmy, on the other hand, seemed to have a job only sometimes, and it was sneaky at that. When Rose was out people came and went all day long. John thought maybe he was fencing items or selling drugs. He also played the guitar, loudly and badly when she was out. He didn't get many gigs, though. And when he did he was really loud about it. He made sure all the neighbors knew if he was playing.
Besides the general traffic in and out of their apartment, John was sure that Jimmy was unfaithful. There were girls that came and went too, but they all stayed a while. All this happened while Rose was a school or at work. He wondered if she had any idea what all went on when she wasn't home.
It was really none of his business. He normally couldn't care less about the comings and goings of the other tenants in this dingy apartment building. They were just people who were doing the same as him. Just existing. Home was just another place to be if you weren’t at work. Then along came this sweet ray of sunshine. From the first day he laid eyes on her she had him. On that day, he found her struggling with a washing machine in the basement. He knew that one; its gears had a tendency to disengage. A good solid thump on the side usually sorted it. That's just what he did, she fixed him with a bright tongue touched smile and he was hooked.
Now to be sure he wasn't a stalker. But from that day on he kept an eye out for Rose. Her schedule was predictable so he knew when she would be home. He just felt better to know when she was safe.
Tonight was no different from the rest. John saw Rose get home, turned and sighed heavily, flopping back down on the couch with his glass of whiskey. There was an old western movie on that he was only half watching. His frozen dinner sat half eaten on the TV table in front of him. It had been gross. on closer examination, he figured they had expiration dates for a reason, and attempting to eat one months after that time was maybe not the best idea.
An electric guitar started up across the hall. Jimmy must have something to show Rose. Jimmy seemed to have no sense of time or common courtesy, as the amp had been cranked. He played, very poorly, for about fifteen minutes before there was a loud banging on their door and someone shouting to cut it out. Then he could hear Jimmy open the door and a shouting match start. The amount of colorful language was enough to make a rugby player blush, but John only idly listened. Soon the door slammed shut and John could hear Jimmy loudly complaining to Rose about how no one here had an appreciation for the arts. He could hear Rose's quiet murmurs of agreement. She must be a saint, staying with that immature boy.
What would make such a beautiful girl stay with such an obnoxious loser? John could only speculate.
Hours later John fell into bed. He had hoped the whiskey would stem the nightmares. He always hoped it would. It never did.
There was fire, smoke, thick dust. He could hear her calling for him through the din. He tried to move to her even as searing pain ripped through his abdomen. He reached out but his arm fell at a disgusting angle. It was broken; bone ends sticking out and blood pouring from the wound. He couldn’t move his legs, they were trapped. Soon her cries, answers to his calls, stopped and she was gone.
John woke fifteen minutes before his alarm. He wasn't even sure why he had an alarm. He always woke before it. That was if he slept at all.
He heaved himself to sitting. Head pounded from the remnants of last night's whiskey. Groaning, John shuffled to the shower. He washed up, a task that never took more than a minute or two, and dried off. As the room cleared of steam, John caught something in the mirror. It was a vision of an old man. He blinked, it was him. He hadn't gone grey, but it was his stance. He had the posture of a man many years older than him. He was fit, yes, but his shoulders slumped and he usually looked down. As a result, he looked decrepit.
Consciously John straightened. This abnormal posture was evident by the pull on the large scar that ran across his abdomen. He was healed now, not even pink, but it still pained him, in more ways than one.
Methodically he ran his hands over it, then over his arm that bore a 6 inch scar from surgery following its repair. The surgeon had many other patients that day and had done a crummy job closing it. The scar was huge and wide. John didn't care though. His hands continued their journey and moved to behind his right ear. There was another one there too. All told he had twelve scars. Mostly they were from battle or training, but the abdomen, arm and head were different. Those meant something. They meant that Sara was never coming back.
OoOoOoOo
The streets were characteristically empty as Jon made his way to the auto shop. He keyed his way in then hustled to the keypad on the far side of the ornate lobby to turn off the security system. Next he walked to the small refrigerator and liberated a water bottle from under the sign that read "For our loyal customers." He scoffed at the sign. Normally the mechanics weren’t allowed in the lobby, but since he was there at 5 am he had the run of the place for at least three hours.
This is when John did his best work. He could focus in the quiet. There was no one trying to make conversation, no one breathing down his neck. Unfortunately that was the earliest his boss let him come in, staging that he didn't like someone there alone. On top of that, he was often asked for by name and it was important that he was around during the day. The customer was always right, or so they said, especially in the high end car repair game. It wasn't uncommon for customers not to bat an eye at paying £20,000 to fix something that their irresponsible teenager did over the weekend.
John had had offers too. People had come forth offering to double his salary for a personal mechanic to their fleets of cars. John always declined. The money would be good but he hated bosses. It was a wonder that he had stayed employed as it was. That was mostly sue to the fact that the kindly owner, Wilf, largely left him alone.
He wound around the inside of the immaculate garage. Serving the rich and famous had its downsides too. Even though working on cars was a messy business, they had to maintain cleanliness at all times, in case a customer needed to come into the garage to retrieve something. The mechanics had to wear Tyvek suits to do their work so they were not dirty. That was over their coveralls. To John it looked more like a lab than an auto shop.
John got the primo spot though, tucked in the back. It was actually meant to be an extension of another bay, but instead was separated off from the others. The only disadvantage was that it didn’t have a lift for the cars. But in there he did as he wanted. No one bothered him unless he left, and he didn't very often. He clicked on the lights to reveal his project for the day, a 1977 Bentley Corniche that had been driven into the lake on a golf course by the spoiled son of oil baron. The car was a mess to say the least, but he was getting there. After he cleaned the mud and dead fish out, he would start the process of replacing and refurbishing. When he was finished the cost of the repair would be approaching the cost of the vehicle. But it was a classic, and John could sympathize. It would have been a travesty if it was junked.
OoOoOo
Hours later John heard a shuffling of feet in his area. He pushed out from under the car on his creeper, only to catch sight of a grinning fellow mechanic, the handsome Jack Harkness. "Heads up Smith," he said, tossing something in orange paper to John.
John deftly snatched it out of the air and sat up all at the same time. He unwrapped the item, a sausage breakfast sandwich and took a bite, all without saying a word. He did, however, nod at Jack.
Taking that as a thank you, Jack nodded back and pulled up a bucket, upturned it and sat on it, opening his own sandwich. "How goes the war?" he asked, mouth full.
John grunted and swallowed. "It’s a bloody mess. I'd murder my kid if he did this to a work of art like this."
Jack snorted. "Like you'd have children, and if you did, they'd revolt. Some people are best just not reproducing."
"You're not wrong." John answered with a smirk.
The men finished their breakfasts talking about the car and John's plans for it. Normally Wilf didn't like chatter between the mechanics, but he valued John, and Jack was the only one who actually could talk to the man. He ignored everyone else.
Jack had something that allowed him to see to the heart of people. He was a great judge of character and he had latched onto John very quickly. He also was a terrible flirt. It made some of his coworkers uncomfortable. Not John though, he simply told Jack, "If you come onto me I‘ll break your neck." It had been a dead subject ever since. He was now the only person who could talk to John. John still often responded with his customary grunts and grumbles, but he actually threw in a few real words to Jack.
"Well I have to get back to it; I have a Porsche that Mrs. Riddle says has developed a squeak. God only knows what that is. Later." Jack got to his feet.
"Thanks for the food. I'll get lunch."
"You mean you'll toss me your card and I'll order for us?"
"Yes." With that John lay back on the creeper and rolled under the car.
OoOoOoOo
As promised Jack came back a few hours later for John's card, which was whipped to him unceremoniously. Jack returned a half hour later with sandwiches. This time John came out from under the hood of the car and washed up properly. It was the end of his day. Since he was in at five and took no breaks he was out at one.
He took his sandwich and idly listened as Jack spun a tale about his adventures the night before. He didn't contribute anything other than to listen to the tawdry tale.
When he was done he crumpled up his sandwich wrapper and cleaned up his tools. Jack finished his story and John turned to him. "You're a fuckin' slut Jack Harkness."
"I don't deny that." Jack retorted with a cheeky grin.
"You better be tested, or else your privates will shrivel up and fall off one day."
"Every six months whether I need it or not."
"You need it." With that, John put on his well weathered black leather coat and left.
Jack smiled behind his friend and tossed his own trash in the bin. John was hard to be friends with, but a great man to have on your side. He certainly didn't want to ever make him mad.
As John made his way through the garage, Wilf stuck his head out of the office. "Hey John, Mr. Billingsley is wanting to know how long it will be on his car."
"It'll be done when it’s done. He has to wait until I get all the bleedin' mud out. I found another dead fish still today. He'll be lucky if it doesn't end up in the rubbish. Tell him it'll be done when I am good and ready." John never stopped walking as he talked. His last words were shouted over his shoulder as he stepped out of one of the bay doors onto the street.
Wilf shook his head and went back into his office to call Mr. Billingsley and give him a sterilized version of John's answer.
OoOoOo
Back at his flat, John gathered his clothes. He hadn't done laundry in weeks. It wasn't hard to maintain his wardrobe though. He had several pairs of black jeans, jumpers and t-shirts that he rotated through. When they were adequately dirty they went into the hamper. When it was full he did wash. There was no schedule to it and he liked it that way. He lived his life very differently from what he had in the military. Though his flat was always clean, he tried hard to maintain no schedule other than when he went to work.
Today he happened upon an old copy of a spy novel and tucked it under his arm. He hated laundry day, but at least he could check out and read and no one would bother him. After putting in his two loads, one for underthings and one for jeans and jumpers, John found a chair in the back corner of the basement room and opened his book.
He was two chapters in when he heard someone clear their throat in front of him. It was quiet and little, but caught his attention. He looked up into the whiskey brown eyes of Rose from across the hall. She gave him a shy smile that he didn't return.
"Um, hi... I don't know if you remember me. I keep picking the bad washer. Can you do that thing to it that you do? I can't get it to start, and I already put my money in.”
John frowned and shut his book. As he did he caught a distinct flash of fear in her eyes. She stepped back from him. Quickly he recovered, consciously softening his face, which took more effort than it should have.
"Sure." he said, carefully controlling his voice so as not to scare her off. He was well aware that most people were afraid to talk to him. He gave her credit for even trying. He slowly stood, back stiff from work and sitting, and sauntered over to the washer. He gave he a quick glance to see if she was looking, then gave the washer three quick thumps on the left side. After the third, it engaged and started to fill with water.
"Oh thank you!” she exclaimed. ”I'm not sure if I introduced myself before. I'm Rose Tyler." She stuck out her hand.
John looked down at the little appendage that was out before him. She started to withdraw it, embarrassed, when he jutted his hand out and shook it. Instantly he was amazed by the warmth and softness of it. His hands by comparison were cold, rough and dry. It was a side effect of working with them all the time.
"John Smith," he answered, but it came out more like a grumble.
Again Rose's eyes flashed. She let go of him and promptly stuck her hands in the pockets of her jeans. "Well thanks again John Smith." Rose then turned and bolted from the laundry room.
John shook his head. He could have said anything. "Nice to meet you Rose," or "Oh I live across the hall from you," or "I'd be happy to help you any time." But he defaulted to his norm, a grumpy reply that scared the darling girl away. He shook his head. Well that was the last he'd see of her for sure. At least if she knew he was looking.
If there was one person he'd actually like to have a conversation with it would be her, but he certainly blew that. Not that he wanted to ever share his life with someone, not after Sarah, but it would be nice to talk to someone every now and again, other than Jack.
An hour later, John gathered his clean clothes and headed back to his flat. Rose hadn't come back down for her things while he was there.
John didn't see Rose at all that day when he was done with his laundry. He would have liked to, just to say something, anything that wasn’t a growl. But now he had found himself in the unenviable position of needing to buy groceries. He hated going to the store. Too many people, obnoxious children and slow moving aisle hoggers for his taste. He grabbed a basket rather than a trolley, filled it with frozen dinners, a new bottle of whiskey and beer. It would have been too full for most, but he heaved the basket on his arm, payed the bill and left as fast as he could.
He got home, stuffed everything in the freezer or fridge and went about tidying up. He found himself with a full rubbish bin, groaned about having to go down to the street to dump it, but then hefted it all and headed for the stairs.
When John was at street level he was met with a nice surprise. Rose was sitting in a car parked on the curb. She was in the driver's seat. The car was unrecognizable to most because it had so many aftermarket additions. It was clearly the car of someone who was trying to look cool. John recognized it immediately though. As he walked towards the dumpster, he heard someone yelling from under the hood. "Try it again!" Rose then turned the key only to have the car make a rhythmic clicking sound. "Dammit I think the battery is bad again." came the voice. There was a spark sound and an "OW!" followed but a string of curses. As John drew closer, Rose looked up at him through the open window.
She gave him a little smile of recognition, but it wasn’t bright or sunny. John came up close and mumbled, "It's not the battery, it's the starter." Then he walked away.
Rose was quiet for a few moments then yelled, "Hey Jimmy, have you checked the starter?"
There was no answer at first. About then one of Jimmy's friends showed up and joined him under the hood. Rose could hear them talking. Jimmy said, "Yeah I think it's the starter..." when his friend asked.
Rose frowned. That kind of thing was typical of Jimmy. No credit where credit was due; though for sure if it was not the starter she would hear about it.
John eyed her as he walked back from the dumpster. Jimmy was now spouting all sorts of stuff to his friend as they leaned over the engine. When he took a peek he could see that thought it was full of shiny parts, the work was shoddy, and he was pretty sure at least one thing was connected completely wrong. He looked back to her only to find her eyes on him. He blushed, but quickly schooled himself. When he got close to her, he quietly said, "Your boyfriend is a bloody idiot." Her response was entirely different than he expected. She laughed out loud, quickly covering her face. This gave John the chance to grin back at her, though he didn't. Instead he just raised his eyebrows and kept walking.
Inside again, he chastised himself. Another missed opportunity. He could have stopped and talked to her or at least smiled. No, instead he chose to not revel in the fact that he made her laugh. What a glorious sound it was too. All at once it was like the angels were singing and birds were chirping. He even felt a tug deep in his chest. Not from scars, but a feeling he hadn't had in a very long; a stirring deep inside, and it felt good. It was warm and comforting. It felt good for a few moments, like the weight he always carried had lifted briefly. But no, he had to blow it. Now it was gone, replaced by a familiar coldness. He didn’t deserve it anyway, he figured. Best to go back to what he had, a whole lot of nothing. But that is what life owed him... nothing.