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misscamNormality in November
by Camilla Sandman
Summary: Sleep with a human. Wake up with an alien. Normality is what you make of it. This is what Rose made of hers. [AU!John Smith/AU!Rose, AU!Doctor/AU!Rose, special guest stars]
Rating: Teen. Some naughty activities and adult theme, but not terribly explicit.
Disclaimer: BBC's characters. My words.
Author's Note: Alternate Universe. Rose and the Doctor haven't met, and I've made a few changes in the timeline like the mean narrator I am. Loosely based on the plot of "Human Nature"/"Family of Blood" with several bits changed, including setting. You might also spot some familiar faces in unfamiliar settings. Huge thanks to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
lyricalviolet for beta. Prompt 004 for ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
50lyricsfanfic.
Table of Prompts.
II
"Rose Tyler."
"John Smith."
"Nice to meet you, John. Now run for your life!"
It wasn't a particularly special day in any way. It rained, as it was wont to do in London. Rose had overslept and come to work annoyed, without any feeling of something life-changing about to happen. If she felt anything, it was more a slight annoyance that yet another school had reported 'mysterious on-goings', which usually meant yet another Krevlan couldn't resist playing teenager to do some harvesting. Honestly, who would have thought there was a black-market for human hormones?
It was a normal day, as normal went for Rose Tyler. And in that normal November day she met a slightly normal plus teacher, dark-haired and with an infectious smile, saved his life, snogged him, had her life saved, got snogged, saved the world and got a date.
Two days later, she's going to sleep with him.
The day after that, he's not going to be John Smith anymore.
Sleep with a human. Wake up with an alien.
Normality is what you make of it. This is what Rose made of hers.
II
Monday
There are Mondays, and there are Mondays, days that seem to be a punishment for even having a weekend. The sort of day where you oversleep, forget an umbrella and get rained at, forget the access card to work and get frisked, find a pile of things you should have done Friday waiting, overhear gossip about yourself at lunch and draft a resolution to legally ban the day in the afternoon.
It could have been the Monday Rose had if she hadn't answered her phone. It isn't. Instead, she's grasping John Smith's hand while running from his homicidal teenage-disguised alien student.
All right, it's not that unusual to have this happen when you're working for Torchwood. Being chased by aliens, chasing aliens, being chased by aliens chasing other aliens - it's normal, or a version thereof. But usually the people she comes across while doing the chasing or being chased tend not to react like this guy.
Excitement, normal. Fainting, that's normal too. Denial certainly is, even if no one really can deny it anymore. Not after Canary Wharf (mustn'tthinkofMickeydon'tthinkofMickey), though no one is quite sure what happened there, just that There Were Aliens.
John Smith seems more interested in her than the alien, which is definitely a first. It's almost as if he thinks aliens are nothing surprising and humans are.
"I think we lost him," she manages between breaths, halting and leaning against a wall.
"He was flunking PE," he says, sounding infuriatingly full of breath.
"He was flunking human," she counters.
"How do you flunk human?" he wonders, and she can almost see his mind working on a thesis behind his brown eyes. Must be the teacher in him. "Grow horns? Develop hooves? Take an inquisitive interest in cats?"
"I'd say having tentacles qualifies," she says dryly, and he smiles at her.
Right. He has a certain geeky appeal, she has to admit. Unruffled brown hair, a suit that might as well be a second skin for all it clings, big hands, a very active tongue and a smile she finds herself return as if it's a habit already. Right.
"I'd..." she starts, then looks up to see one very angry alien heading purposely their way. "Run!"
They bolt again, almost falling over each other in the narrow hallway. Behind them, there's hissing and oozing and tentacles and Rose reminds herself she'll need a long shower after she's hopefully survived this.
She's not going to share it with him and she hasn't even thought about that. Nope. Not at all.
Though water conservation is good.
They turn a corner, and see another hissing oozing tentacled alien with his human face half on barrelling towards them.
"Oh," John Smith says, and she can see the swallow that follows. "Do they always travel in pairs?"
"Bollocks," Rose says, a faint memory of memos on aliens dancing guilty across her brain. "Yeah, them too. Er."
"Hold on, hold on," he says, and she can almost see his brain racing at three hundred miles per hour, get a ticket and tearing it up as it drives on madly. "I'm still their teacher. You! Mark whatsyourname you rude git! Robert Grenzstein you no good... Ooze! Stand up straight when I'm berating you! I said stand up, not lean on your tentacles! Detention! (Don't you love that word?) Detention!"
The aliens look a little taken aback, but only for a moment. Then they just look mad, purposely barring their teeth.
"Okay, maybe not the brightest idea," Rose mutters, scanning the hallway. There's got to be something, just... Oh.
"I'm going to get eaten by my students," John Smith says a little sadly. "You think they'll put that in my obituary?"
"No," Rose says, and dives for the fire alarm.
It takes about four seconds before Mark-alien and Robert-alien stop covering their ears, but by that time, Rose and John have already run past, have slammed and locked the fire door and leaning against it on the other side.
"You're rather brilliant, aren't you Rose Tyler?" John asks, looking at her with what feels like affection.
"Yep," she agrees, and then, because her heart is thumping and he is grinning and because it's been a long time and she's alive and she likes him, she kisses him.
She can feel his surprise in the slight catch at the back of his throat, but she can feel his tongue too, brushing lightly against her lower lip. He doesn't touch her otherwise, back against the door that is shaking from the pounding from the other side and his head just titled slightly to meet hers. Restraint in him, she feels, and she wonders what happens when it breaks.
She does think of Mickey, but it's just for a second and she's not really cheating, not when he's been dead a year. It is time to move on. It's been for too long, but the guys she usually meet at work aren't all that grand on dating. Killing her, yes. Enslaving the Earth, definitely. Shag and spoon, not so much.
"Rose," John says against her lips, "duck."
It takes her about two seconds before she registers the word with an action, and then she drops herself to the floor with a speed only constant life-in-danger-workout have given her.
Two alien head barge through the door a second later, John lifts a fire extinguisher she hadn't even noticed from the wall and fires.
There is a lot of squealing.
There is a lot of hissing.
There is a lot of foam.
There is a brief silence.
"I didn't know they were allergic to foam," Rose says, looking at the mess by her feet. "Did you?"
A confused look crosses his face for a moment before he shakes his head. Right. He's a teacher, he probably knows nothing about aliens at all.
"Good improvisation," she notes, leaning down to check the pulse on both tentacled messes. "They're just knocked out."
"You do this a lot?"
"Every day," she says brightly and holds out a hand. "Rose Tyler, Torchwood London. Alien consultant."
"John Smith, Middlepark elementary. First time alien almost-meal."
She laughs; he grins.
"Thanks for saving my life."
"Thanks for saving mine."
"And probably helping to save the world," she adds, almost as an afterthought.
He nods, almost a little timidly, which she finds strangely endearing. "So there is life on other planets?"
"Lots and lots," she confirms. "Are you terribly surprised?"
"No," he says, looking thoughtful. "I dreamt..."
He cuts off, leaving her to wonder what he was about to say, but only for a few seconds.
"You got foam in your hair," he observes, and she lifts a free hand to find that yes, yes she has. She can't resist tasting it lightly, as if it could be anything but foam. "Taste like chicken?"
"Taste like powdered foam," she replies, making a face. She's only mildly surprised when he pushes her up against the wall and snogs her until she's not sure if the taste of foam in her mouth is his or hers.
He must like tasting, she notes and saves it for the future.
"I think," she says as he leans his head against her neck, "we better go out. I mean, on a date. And out of here too. Obviously."
"Yes," he agrees, barely audible.
He's still holding her hand, she notes, and doesn't let go for a long time.
II
Tuesday
Rose manages to be late to a late date.
It's not because she takes too long picking an outfit (although what to wear to a date with a teacher did take some thinking when previous dating experience consists of Jimmy, Mickey and Dan) or because she gets lost or even because she wants to be fashionably late.
She's late because one of Harriet's little cousins go missing, and is found in a field, clutching a balloon. There is no sign of violence, but she can still feel something at the back of her neck prickling, a sign something is off.
It's enough to make her burst into the small cafe half an hour late and find John Smith sitting quietly at a table, looking a bit downcast. She takes just two seconds to enjoy it - it's been a long time since anyone has missed her presence - before sliding down at a chair next to him.
"Sorry," she breathes, and his smile seems to be fairly forgiving. "PM's cousin went missing. Bit of an emergency."
"One of my human students blew up a computer. That's a bit of an emergency. Yours is a chunk of one," he replies, making her smile.
"How did the school explain the mess we left yesterday, then?"
"Drugs. Gangs. An unfortunate cooking accident."
"There are a lot of those when Torchwood has visited," Rose agrees and he looks at her a little curiously. "We're the worst kept secret in Britain after Canary Wharf."
"Were you there?"
"Sort of," she says lightly. "I had a friend who worked for Torchwood and... yeah, sort of. You?"
"I don't remember," he says, frowning. "Sometimes I dream about metal monsters."
"Yes," she says, remembering. "They were there. They killed."
"Your friend?"
"Yes."
It feels strangely liberating to say and he looks as if he might understand. For a teacher, he's taking all this abnormality rather well, she has to admit.
"I lost a friend," he goes on. "At least I think I did. Martha. She was brave."
"Died?"
"No. Something else. Something...." he shakes his head. "Did you go into Torchwood afterwards?"
"Yeah," she replies, aware he's changing the topic. "Dad wasn't happy, but... After Mickey, I think he understood. My mum disappeared when I was very little, so he's a bit overprotective."
"Rebel Rose."
"Sometimes," she agrees.
"I have an older cousin that's like that," he confesses. "Barbara. I rent a flat from her and she seems to think it means she has to protect me from everything. She doesn't even let me eat pears."
"I think you're old enough to eat pears," Rose says mock-seriously and they both giggle a bit giddily. "You could start with oranges and experiment your way up. Come on, you can be fruit brave."
"Coward every time," he jokes, or at least she thinks he is.
"Much easier."
He looks at her, and for a moment something crosses his face that can only be described as age, but then she has moments where she feels a hundred too.
"Much easier," he agrees. "Much more boring too."
"I haven't had a boring day for months," she confesses. "I don't think I remember how it's done."
"You've come to an expert," he says lightly, and she thinks he's lying. "I'll tell you over dinner."
They eat. Rose talks about escapades of her father; John about escapades of his students. He tells her about growing up in Croyden, she about growing up a little here and a little there. She jokes about aliens, he jokes about school councils.
It isn't boring. It feels almost normal.
At least until she notices they're being watched.
It isn't terribly obvious, but she's used to looking at things slightly off, and this pair is. He is staring in a way that feels off, she is smiling in a way that definitely is. Great. She can't even date without being stalked by (probable) aliens, usually someone wanting to take over her brain so they can get access to Torchwood.
"John, how good is your running?" she asks casually, making sure her smile stays on her face.
"... Good-good," he says slowly, looking adorably confused.
"Good. We're about to go for a sprint."
He blinks, then nods as if it's the most normal thing in the world and she can feel his leg brush against hers and yes, he is wearing shoes he can run in. Almost as if he's come prepared.
"Right behind you, Rose Tyler," he says and she decides she's going to snog him hard against some wall in a back alley very soon.
For now, she settles for taking his hand, giving him a conspiratorial smile and dashing towards the door with all the speed she's got. He is right behind her, enough that she almost trips on his feet, but manages to avoid disaster and clumsy embarrassment.
The (probable) alien pair is too slow, she notes with satisfaction, barely getting up by the time Rose and John are already out the door and heading down the street.
She can hear herself laughing as they run, and him joining in and it's strange how the realities of her life suddenly seem so much more enjoyable being shared. It's almost as if danger is better with two.
Or maybe she's just lost her mind. Definite possibility. Her father did always tell her if she thought too fast, her brain would fall out. Maybe she's left it at the table now. She certainly feels light-hearted, but that might be for an entirely different reason.
She drags him into a darker side street, looking around the corner carefully and seeing no sign of pursuers. It's just a (semi) quiet London street, a wind whipping through.
"I should probably sleep somewhere else tonight," she remarks off-handedly, scanning the crowd. "Don't want to risk anyone following me home."
"You can stay with me," John says, and she turns around so sharply he looks a little taken aback. "I mean, not like that. Couch! Very good couch. I got it at IKEA. Very good IKEA. I've always liked IKEA, haven't you?"
"John," she says softly, trying not to laugh. "Like that or this..."
She presses a kiss against the pulse in his neck and he inhales sharply, closing his eyes as she touches his face. He has freckles, she notes, and dark lashes against pale skin that makes her want to kiss his eyelids.
"... I'd love to," she finishes, and feels bricks against her back as he kisses her, eyes still closed.
Above, the clouds finally let go; it starts to rain.
II
Wednesday
Metal, monsters and Mickey, Rose dreams of. It isn't a narrative, just fragmented memories mixed with a far too active imagination making it hard to separate the. She didn't die. She still dreams of falling, of void and death and smell and screaming.
She wakes abruptly, for a moment disoriented and not sure where she is, until she sees John as silhouette against the window. What he's looking at, she doesn't know, because it's dark out and the moon is obscured by clouds and rain.
Right. His flat, his couch, her falling asleep.
He's put a blanket over her, she makes a note of, because with guys, it's often in the little things.
"Hey," she says, her voice sounding drowsy even to her. "What time is it?"
"Three a.m.," he replies softly. "You looked pretty tired."
"Long day," she says, pushing off the couch and walking over to him. "Don't you sleep, or is your other identity Bat-teacher, avenger of the night?"
She can almost see him picturing it and the face he makes isn't exactly approval.
"I sleep," he says, voice dropping back to the slightly shy tone she's getting familiar with. "It's just... Hard?"
"Sleeping?"
"So many dreams. It's almost as if they mean something, but it makes no sense."
She tilts her head while looking at him. "I think everyone has weird dreams after Canary Wharf. What are yours?"
"I wrote it all down," he says, indicating his desk. "My book of impossible things. You'll probably think I'm crazy."
"John, I work for a government agency dealing with aliens. We met when one of them was trying to eat you. You're the one who should think me crazy."
"I don't."
"Then maybe you are a little crazy," she teases, putting a hand on his chest. He looks at it for a moment, then puts his own on top and leans in to kiss her.
He tastes of marmalade, an odd choice for midnight snack, but odd is what passes for normal in her life. He'll fit right in. She wants him to fight right in.
She wants him. Sudden and silly and probably terribly unwise, but she does. She's not sure why, but attraction doesn't need to make sense. She wants to kiss his freckles, ruffle his hair, hear him moan, tie him up with his own tie and get purposely and unashamedly indecent.
She starts by unbuttoning his shirt, feeling the smooth skin of his chest as she progresses. Not very hairy, even if his chin has just the tiniest tease of stubble. She's not sure how she feels about beards, but she's willing to explore.
So is he, she notes, his hands slipping down to her waist and one tracing the lines of her thigh. In the dark, she more feels him than sees him - his breath ragged across her cheek, his mouth warm against her jawline, his skin smooth against her palm, his fingers gentle across her skin.
"Rose?" he asks, leaning his face against her neck for a moment, and she knows what he's really asking.
"Yes," she says, and kisses him hard. Oh yes. Oh very yes.
She's not quite sure how she ends up with him under her on the couch, but maybe she's yanked him there or maybe he's lured her there and maybe it doesn't matter because her shirt is off and his hands are tracing the skin on her breasts not covered by the bra and that's definitely not enough.
She can feel him swallow when she unhooks and discards the bra, feeling cold for only a moment before his mouth is warm and there.
He really does seem fond of oral exploration, she notes, and awards points for it. His hands on her back is a plus too, tracing the curve in her spine as she bends down and kisses him.
He's a little fumbling, and she does feel a bit like she's the one leading, but he falls wonderfully in step. Fast learners, teachers. He learns she likes a little pressure there, and that she doesn't here and that right under her knee, she giggles when he kisses.
He closes his eyes when there are no more clothes, and she closes hers when he angles her just a little and the slightly unfamiliar intrusion becomes familiar again. She more feels than heasr him breathe, feels the heat of his skin infuse hers too, feels his hair brush against her forehead as he moves, feels the tension in her own body build tauntingly and wonderfully at the same time, feels his tension and restraint and then, then...
He opens his eyes at the same moment she does and all she can see is stars. When she blinks, it's just his brown eyes again, looking just a tad unfocused and maybe she's just having orgasm illusions and maybe romance novels got it right all along and shagging really comes with stars and maybe she should stop thinking at all.
"Oh," he says, watching her.
"Oh," she mimics when she gets her breath back, leaning in to kiss him.
He still tastes of marmalade, but she thinks she might just get used to it.
II
It's six a.m when Rose decides to sneak out, though not before being sneaky in other ways.
He's sleeping, one foot sticking out of the blanket they ended under, making it very hard to resist tickling him.
She resists that. She doesn't resist looking at his dream book. Maybe it's out of a desire to see if he really dreams of Canary Wharf, that they share that, or maybe she just wants to know what her boyfriend (he rather qualifies for that now, she's decided) finds weird.
He must have been at Canary Wharf, she can tell from even a brief glance. He's drawn what was there, even up to the mysterious blue box Mickey mentioned just before... Well, before. There's a girl that rather resembles Adeola and several other people she supposes must be from some part of his life. There's even a cricket ball and a watch - maybe it's a hobby of some sort.
Impossible things? Possible things, she knows. Maybe that's why he's drawn to her too - she's got the bad life he seems to be dreaming of. Aliens, lost friends and death around the corner.
She feels vaguely guilty at poking into his head, but guilt fades. She's learned that. At least, she hopes she has.
She steals one of his shirts as well since she can't find her top, and is rather glad she keeps emergency clothing change at work. (Never know when an alien might explode!) She leaves a note explaining the theft, offering to bring him one of her own as compensation.
In the end, the sneaking out rather fails on account of running face first into John's cousin in the hallway, who clearly does not approve of sneaking At All.
"Who are you?"
"Rose," Rose manages. "You must be Barbara. John told me about you."
"He didn't tell me about you," Barbara says, voice of steel. She's older than Rose expected, but then, cousins needn't be in the same age group.
"We met recently."
"I see."
"Barbara," a voice says, and Rose turns to see a dark-haired man, some grey in his hair, regarding Barbara with affection. "You can't protect him from everything. There was nothing against relationships on the list."
"It wouldn't occur to him. Ian, he's..."
"He's what?" Rose asks, but neither replies, seemingly lost in a private world for a moment. He's what? Married? On the rebound? Likely to leave the toilet seat up?
"He'll manage," Ian says firmly, taking Barbara's hand and smiling. "He always managed. Remember?"
"Yeah," Barbara says, fixing her gaze on Rose again. "But will you?"
As warnings go, it's not the most dire Rose has ever had. It still leaves something ticking away in her mind, like a clock counting down.
She waits until Baraba and Ian retreats, both without departing any further cryptic messages, and yanks her mobile up to dial the one number she knows she can trust.
"Sarah-Jane? Hey, it's Rose. I need a favour. Yeah. Yeah. His name's John Smith..."
II
Wednesdays is a day in-between before weekend and after weekend, and even Torchwood is marked by this. There's a lot of milling about, more so because Jack from Cardiff stops by, sleeping with half the staff. Or somewhere around there, Rose doesn't keep count.
She does keep the world safe, or something approximately like it. For every alien invasion, there's alien invasion paperwork, and she gets half done and delegates the other half. She looks over a research project. She argues with Harriet. She argues alongside Harriet with Jack. She files reports. She gossips with Adeola.
She goes out to lunch.
John Smith is waiting for her by a fish 'n chips shop, looking a bit nervous and shy, much like the first time, and staring at the sky. She can see his tongue pushing against his upper lip in what seems an almost nervous tick, and it makes her grin even before he sees her.
When he does, his whole face lights up and whatever else might be going on, she doesn't think he can fake that look.
"Hi," he says, failing at casual.
"Hi," she echoes, failing even more spectacularly, especially when she grabs his face to lay one on him. He tastes of chalk, and she's pretty sure she doesn't even want to know why.
"Sorry for sneaking out, I had to get to work."
He just nods, still grinning a bit foolishly. "I missed you."
"You hardly know me," she counters. "I hardly know you."
"Know the feeling," he quips, but must detect something in her tone. "Is something wrong?"
"I don't know," she replies, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear, only to have him take it out again and look at it almost seriously. "Who are you, John? Why did you become a teacher?"
"I'm John Smith," he says simply, which isn't an answer at all. "Barbara was one."
"Right. Barbara. You trust her, right? She's rather determined to look after you, isn't she?"
"Yes," he agrees, frowning slightly. "I don't remember my parents. I just remember her. I remember I trust her."
"I have one memory of mum," she confesses. "I can't see her face, I just remember the feeling of her hair tickling my forehead. Do you have memories like that?"
He looks strangely at her.
"I'm sorry, I looked in your book. It was just... It seemed like some of the things there might be memories, not dreams."
"They can't be memories," he says sharply. "They make no sense. I'm a daredevil, a madman. I have ten faces and two hearts and hold a burning planet in my hands. I die. People die. I dance with the stars in a wooden box. There's a watch. There's always a watch."
"I used to work in a shop and think aliens some movie horror. Then my boyfriend is almost blown up by living plastic, starts working for a secret government agency, gets himself killed and suddenly I got aliens in my sock drawer," she counters. "Don't tell me about making no sense!"
He is quiet for a while, and she starts regretting bringing it up in the first place.
"John, I'm..."
"Maybe I dream of some things I've seen," he interrupts. "I asked Barbara once. She wouldn't tell me. When you talked about Canary Wharf, it was... I think I was there, Rose. I was and I don't remember."
"I can help you," she says softly, kissing his palm. "I can find out if you were there."
"I'm not sure I want to know," he whispers, and she remembers Mickey and blood and dying words and trying so, so hard to forget.
"I know," she says, leaning her head against his. Oh, she knows. "So... Want chips?"
"Yeah."
"Me too."
They eat; and when he licks the salt, she forgets about life for a while to just live.
II
It's almost midnight when Rose finally gets done at work, mostly because Harriet's cousin has disappeared again. This time, there is no finding her, and it's another thing to add to a longer and longer list of troubles.
It does mean all Rose would like to do have her brain shagged out, sleep what remains of it until she's proper comatose, then wake up with her almost normal boyfriend and find everything looks brighter in tomorrow.
Well, it's a hope, at least.
Hope enough that she stops by John's even if he's probably asleep, but the light is on in his apartment and she decides the desire to see him is greater than the guilt of potentially disturbing him.
After all, he has left his door open, and that is almost an invitation.
Or a break-in, she realises about two seconds too late.
John's there, looking terrified, and Barbara and Ian, looking defiant. And them - the pair from Tuesday and Harriet's cousin and boy she doesn't know and it doesn't take Rose even a second to know something totally wrong is going on.
"Your lover!" the boy says delightfully, eyeing Rose. "You didn't just make yourself human, Doctor. You made yourself an idiot."
"What's going on?" Rose asks, trying to make John looking at her and failing. "Who are you?"
"We're the Family of Blood. This is Sister of Mine, Mother of Mine, Father of Mine. I am the Son."
"Aliens and your pompous titles," she mutters, but she still looking at John, willing him to look at her. "Made himself human?"
"He's the Doctor," Harriet's cousin - or the sister or whatever she is now and oh no, poor Harriet - injects. "He's just hiding."
"They weren't after me," Rose says slowly, feeling dread settle as the words sink in. "They were after you."
"We are," the Son confirms, his eyes gleaming. "He almost made us look in the wrong time, but here he is. Have you enjoyed it, Doctor? Being human? Has it taught you wonderful things? Has it made you better? Richer? Wiser? Change back, Doctor. Make us live forever - or your your friends will not even live a day."
Pompous, blustering and threatening, Rose notes. Oh good. Easier to deal with then.
"No," John - or maybe not - says for the first time, shaking his head. "That was the dream. I dreamt I was him. I can't change. I'm John Smith. I'm human. I'm..."
"No," Barbara says simply, and Rose feels dizzy as the world seems to spin and crash. The Doctor. There are files on the Doctor, long, empty Torchwood files. He's a legend. Impossible things? Possible things.
Sleep with a human, she thinks distantly. Wake up with an alien. So much for a normal boyfriend.
In the distance, the bell at Big Ben strikes midnight.
Time's up.
(To be concluded in part two.)
by Camilla Sandman
Summary: Sleep with a human. Wake up with an alien. Normality is what you make of it. This is what Rose made of hers. [AU!John Smith/AU!Rose, AU!Doctor/AU!Rose, special guest stars]
Rating: Teen. Some naughty activities and adult theme, but not terribly explicit.
Disclaimer: BBC's characters. My words.
Author's Note: Alternate Universe. Rose and the Doctor haven't met, and I've made a few changes in the timeline like the mean narrator I am. Loosely based on the plot of "Human Nature"/"Family of Blood" with several bits changed, including setting. You might also spot some familiar faces in unfamiliar settings. Huge thanks to
lyricalviolet for beta. Prompt 004 for 50lyricsfanfic.Table of Prompts.
II
"Rose Tyler."
"John Smith."
"Nice to meet you, John. Now run for your life!"
It wasn't a particularly special day in any way. It rained, as it was wont to do in London. Rose had overslept and come to work annoyed, without any feeling of something life-changing about to happen. If she felt anything, it was more a slight annoyance that yet another school had reported 'mysterious on-goings', which usually meant yet another Krevlan couldn't resist playing teenager to do some harvesting. Honestly, who would have thought there was a black-market for human hormones?
It was a normal day, as normal went for Rose Tyler. And in that normal November day she met a slightly normal plus teacher, dark-haired and with an infectious smile, saved his life, snogged him, had her life saved, got snogged, saved the world and got a date.
Two days later, she's going to sleep with him.
The day after that, he's not going to be John Smith anymore.
Sleep with a human. Wake up with an alien.
Normality is what you make of it. This is what Rose made of hers.
II
Monday
There are Mondays, and there are Mondays, days that seem to be a punishment for even having a weekend. The sort of day where you oversleep, forget an umbrella and get rained at, forget the access card to work and get frisked, find a pile of things you should have done Friday waiting, overhear gossip about yourself at lunch and draft a resolution to legally ban the day in the afternoon.
It could have been the Monday Rose had if she hadn't answered her phone. It isn't. Instead, she's grasping John Smith's hand while running from his homicidal teenage-disguised alien student.
All right, it's not that unusual to have this happen when you're working for Torchwood. Being chased by aliens, chasing aliens, being chased by aliens chasing other aliens - it's normal, or a version thereof. But usually the people she comes across while doing the chasing or being chased tend not to react like this guy.
Excitement, normal. Fainting, that's normal too. Denial certainly is, even if no one really can deny it anymore. Not after Canary Wharf (mustn'tthinkofMickeydon'tthinkofMickey), though no one is quite sure what happened there, just that There Were Aliens.
John Smith seems more interested in her than the alien, which is definitely a first. It's almost as if he thinks aliens are nothing surprising and humans are.
"I think we lost him," she manages between breaths, halting and leaning against a wall.
"He was flunking PE," he says, sounding infuriatingly full of breath.
"He was flunking human," she counters.
"How do you flunk human?" he wonders, and she can almost see his mind working on a thesis behind his brown eyes. Must be the teacher in him. "Grow horns? Develop hooves? Take an inquisitive interest in cats?"
"I'd say having tentacles qualifies," she says dryly, and he smiles at her.
Right. He has a certain geeky appeal, she has to admit. Unruffled brown hair, a suit that might as well be a second skin for all it clings, big hands, a very active tongue and a smile she finds herself return as if it's a habit already. Right.
"I'd..." she starts, then looks up to see one very angry alien heading purposely their way. "Run!"
They bolt again, almost falling over each other in the narrow hallway. Behind them, there's hissing and oozing and tentacles and Rose reminds herself she'll need a long shower after she's hopefully survived this.
She's not going to share it with him and she hasn't even thought about that. Nope. Not at all.
Though water conservation is good.
They turn a corner, and see another hissing oozing tentacled alien with his human face half on barrelling towards them.
"Oh," John Smith says, and she can see the swallow that follows. "Do they always travel in pairs?"
"Bollocks," Rose says, a faint memory of memos on aliens dancing guilty across her brain. "Yeah, them too. Er."
"Hold on, hold on," he says, and she can almost see his brain racing at three hundred miles per hour, get a ticket and tearing it up as it drives on madly. "I'm still their teacher. You! Mark whatsyourname you rude git! Robert Grenzstein you no good... Ooze! Stand up straight when I'm berating you! I said stand up, not lean on your tentacles! Detention! (Don't you love that word?) Detention!"
The aliens look a little taken aback, but only for a moment. Then they just look mad, purposely barring their teeth.
"Okay, maybe not the brightest idea," Rose mutters, scanning the hallway. There's got to be something, just... Oh.
"I'm going to get eaten by my students," John Smith says a little sadly. "You think they'll put that in my obituary?"
"No," Rose says, and dives for the fire alarm.
It takes about four seconds before Mark-alien and Robert-alien stop covering their ears, but by that time, Rose and John have already run past, have slammed and locked the fire door and leaning against it on the other side.
"You're rather brilliant, aren't you Rose Tyler?" John asks, looking at her with what feels like affection.
"Yep," she agrees, and then, because her heart is thumping and he is grinning and because it's been a long time and she's alive and she likes him, she kisses him.
She can feel his surprise in the slight catch at the back of his throat, but she can feel his tongue too, brushing lightly against her lower lip. He doesn't touch her otherwise, back against the door that is shaking from the pounding from the other side and his head just titled slightly to meet hers. Restraint in him, she feels, and she wonders what happens when it breaks.
She does think of Mickey, but it's just for a second and she's not really cheating, not when he's been dead a year. It is time to move on. It's been for too long, but the guys she usually meet at work aren't all that grand on dating. Killing her, yes. Enslaving the Earth, definitely. Shag and spoon, not so much.
"Rose," John says against her lips, "duck."
It takes her about two seconds before she registers the word with an action, and then she drops herself to the floor with a speed only constant life-in-danger-workout have given her.
Two alien head barge through the door a second later, John lifts a fire extinguisher she hadn't even noticed from the wall and fires.
There is a lot of squealing.
There is a lot of hissing.
There is a lot of foam.
There is a brief silence.
"I didn't know they were allergic to foam," Rose says, looking at the mess by her feet. "Did you?"
A confused look crosses his face for a moment before he shakes his head. Right. He's a teacher, he probably knows nothing about aliens at all.
"Good improvisation," she notes, leaning down to check the pulse on both tentacled messes. "They're just knocked out."
"You do this a lot?"
"Every day," she says brightly and holds out a hand. "Rose Tyler, Torchwood London. Alien consultant."
"John Smith, Middlepark elementary. First time alien almost-meal."
She laughs; he grins.
"Thanks for saving my life."
"Thanks for saving mine."
"And probably helping to save the world," she adds, almost as an afterthought.
He nods, almost a little timidly, which she finds strangely endearing. "So there is life on other planets?"
"Lots and lots," she confirms. "Are you terribly surprised?"
"No," he says, looking thoughtful. "I dreamt..."
He cuts off, leaving her to wonder what he was about to say, but only for a few seconds.
"You got foam in your hair," he observes, and she lifts a free hand to find that yes, yes she has. She can't resist tasting it lightly, as if it could be anything but foam. "Taste like chicken?"
"Taste like powdered foam," she replies, making a face. She's only mildly surprised when he pushes her up against the wall and snogs her until she's not sure if the taste of foam in her mouth is his or hers.
He must like tasting, she notes and saves it for the future.
"I think," she says as he leans his head against her neck, "we better go out. I mean, on a date. And out of here too. Obviously."
"Yes," he agrees, barely audible.
He's still holding her hand, she notes, and doesn't let go for a long time.
II
Tuesday
Rose manages to be late to a late date.
It's not because she takes too long picking an outfit (although what to wear to a date with a teacher did take some thinking when previous dating experience consists of Jimmy, Mickey and Dan) or because she gets lost or even because she wants to be fashionably late.
She's late because one of Harriet's little cousins go missing, and is found in a field, clutching a balloon. There is no sign of violence, but she can still feel something at the back of her neck prickling, a sign something is off.
It's enough to make her burst into the small cafe half an hour late and find John Smith sitting quietly at a table, looking a bit downcast. She takes just two seconds to enjoy it - it's been a long time since anyone has missed her presence - before sliding down at a chair next to him.
"Sorry," she breathes, and his smile seems to be fairly forgiving. "PM's cousin went missing. Bit of an emergency."
"One of my human students blew up a computer. That's a bit of an emergency. Yours is a chunk of one," he replies, making her smile.
"How did the school explain the mess we left yesterday, then?"
"Drugs. Gangs. An unfortunate cooking accident."
"There are a lot of those when Torchwood has visited," Rose agrees and he looks at her a little curiously. "We're the worst kept secret in Britain after Canary Wharf."
"Were you there?"
"Sort of," she says lightly. "I had a friend who worked for Torchwood and... yeah, sort of. You?"
"I don't remember," he says, frowning. "Sometimes I dream about metal monsters."
"Yes," she says, remembering. "They were there. They killed."
"Your friend?"
"Yes."
It feels strangely liberating to say and he looks as if he might understand. For a teacher, he's taking all this abnormality rather well, she has to admit.
"I lost a friend," he goes on. "At least I think I did. Martha. She was brave."
"Died?"
"No. Something else. Something...." he shakes his head. "Did you go into Torchwood afterwards?"
"Yeah," she replies, aware he's changing the topic. "Dad wasn't happy, but... After Mickey, I think he understood. My mum disappeared when I was very little, so he's a bit overprotective."
"Rebel Rose."
"Sometimes," she agrees.
"I have an older cousin that's like that," he confesses. "Barbara. I rent a flat from her and she seems to think it means she has to protect me from everything. She doesn't even let me eat pears."
"I think you're old enough to eat pears," Rose says mock-seriously and they both giggle a bit giddily. "You could start with oranges and experiment your way up. Come on, you can be fruit brave."
"Coward every time," he jokes, or at least she thinks he is.
"Much easier."
He looks at her, and for a moment something crosses his face that can only be described as age, but then she has moments where she feels a hundred too.
"Much easier," he agrees. "Much more boring too."
"I haven't had a boring day for months," she confesses. "I don't think I remember how it's done."
"You've come to an expert," he says lightly, and she thinks he's lying. "I'll tell you over dinner."
They eat. Rose talks about escapades of her father; John about escapades of his students. He tells her about growing up in Croyden, she about growing up a little here and a little there. She jokes about aliens, he jokes about school councils.
It isn't boring. It feels almost normal.
At least until she notices they're being watched.
It isn't terribly obvious, but she's used to looking at things slightly off, and this pair is. He is staring in a way that feels off, she is smiling in a way that definitely is. Great. She can't even date without being stalked by (probable) aliens, usually someone wanting to take over her brain so they can get access to Torchwood.
"John, how good is your running?" she asks casually, making sure her smile stays on her face.
"... Good-good," he says slowly, looking adorably confused.
"Good. We're about to go for a sprint."
He blinks, then nods as if it's the most normal thing in the world and she can feel his leg brush against hers and yes, he is wearing shoes he can run in. Almost as if he's come prepared.
"Right behind you, Rose Tyler," he says and she decides she's going to snog him hard against some wall in a back alley very soon.
For now, she settles for taking his hand, giving him a conspiratorial smile and dashing towards the door with all the speed she's got. He is right behind her, enough that she almost trips on his feet, but manages to avoid disaster and clumsy embarrassment.
The (probable) alien pair is too slow, she notes with satisfaction, barely getting up by the time Rose and John are already out the door and heading down the street.
She can hear herself laughing as they run, and him joining in and it's strange how the realities of her life suddenly seem so much more enjoyable being shared. It's almost as if danger is better with two.
Or maybe she's just lost her mind. Definite possibility. Her father did always tell her if she thought too fast, her brain would fall out. Maybe she's left it at the table now. She certainly feels light-hearted, but that might be for an entirely different reason.
She drags him into a darker side street, looking around the corner carefully and seeing no sign of pursuers. It's just a (semi) quiet London street, a wind whipping through.
"I should probably sleep somewhere else tonight," she remarks off-handedly, scanning the crowd. "Don't want to risk anyone following me home."
"You can stay with me," John says, and she turns around so sharply he looks a little taken aback. "I mean, not like that. Couch! Very good couch. I got it at IKEA. Very good IKEA. I've always liked IKEA, haven't you?"
"John," she says softly, trying not to laugh. "Like that or this..."
She presses a kiss against the pulse in his neck and he inhales sharply, closing his eyes as she touches his face. He has freckles, she notes, and dark lashes against pale skin that makes her want to kiss his eyelids.
"... I'd love to," she finishes, and feels bricks against her back as he kisses her, eyes still closed.
Above, the clouds finally let go; it starts to rain.
II
Wednesday
Metal, monsters and Mickey, Rose dreams of. It isn't a narrative, just fragmented memories mixed with a far too active imagination making it hard to separate the. She didn't die. She still dreams of falling, of void and death and smell and screaming.
She wakes abruptly, for a moment disoriented and not sure where she is, until she sees John as silhouette against the window. What he's looking at, she doesn't know, because it's dark out and the moon is obscured by clouds and rain.
Right. His flat, his couch, her falling asleep.
He's put a blanket over her, she makes a note of, because with guys, it's often in the little things.
"Hey," she says, her voice sounding drowsy even to her. "What time is it?"
"Three a.m.," he replies softly. "You looked pretty tired."
"Long day," she says, pushing off the couch and walking over to him. "Don't you sleep, or is your other identity Bat-teacher, avenger of the night?"
She can almost see him picturing it and the face he makes isn't exactly approval.
"I sleep," he says, voice dropping back to the slightly shy tone she's getting familiar with. "It's just... Hard?"
"Sleeping?"
"So many dreams. It's almost as if they mean something, but it makes no sense."
She tilts her head while looking at him. "I think everyone has weird dreams after Canary Wharf. What are yours?"
"I wrote it all down," he says, indicating his desk. "My book of impossible things. You'll probably think I'm crazy."
"John, I work for a government agency dealing with aliens. We met when one of them was trying to eat you. You're the one who should think me crazy."
"I don't."
"Then maybe you are a little crazy," she teases, putting a hand on his chest. He looks at it for a moment, then puts his own on top and leans in to kiss her.
He tastes of marmalade, an odd choice for midnight snack, but odd is what passes for normal in her life. He'll fit right in. She wants him to fight right in.
She wants him. Sudden and silly and probably terribly unwise, but she does. She's not sure why, but attraction doesn't need to make sense. She wants to kiss his freckles, ruffle his hair, hear him moan, tie him up with his own tie and get purposely and unashamedly indecent.
She starts by unbuttoning his shirt, feeling the smooth skin of his chest as she progresses. Not very hairy, even if his chin has just the tiniest tease of stubble. She's not sure how she feels about beards, but she's willing to explore.
So is he, she notes, his hands slipping down to her waist and one tracing the lines of her thigh. In the dark, she more feels him than sees him - his breath ragged across her cheek, his mouth warm against her jawline, his skin smooth against her palm, his fingers gentle across her skin.
"Rose?" he asks, leaning his face against her neck for a moment, and she knows what he's really asking.
"Yes," she says, and kisses him hard. Oh yes. Oh very yes.
She's not quite sure how she ends up with him under her on the couch, but maybe she's yanked him there or maybe he's lured her there and maybe it doesn't matter because her shirt is off and his hands are tracing the skin on her breasts not covered by the bra and that's definitely not enough.
She can feel him swallow when she unhooks and discards the bra, feeling cold for only a moment before his mouth is warm and there.
He really does seem fond of oral exploration, she notes, and awards points for it. His hands on her back is a plus too, tracing the curve in her spine as she bends down and kisses him.
He's a little fumbling, and she does feel a bit like she's the one leading, but he falls wonderfully in step. Fast learners, teachers. He learns she likes a little pressure there, and that she doesn't here and that right under her knee, she giggles when he kisses.
He closes his eyes when there are no more clothes, and she closes hers when he angles her just a little and the slightly unfamiliar intrusion becomes familiar again. She more feels than heasr him breathe, feels the heat of his skin infuse hers too, feels his hair brush against her forehead as he moves, feels the tension in her own body build tauntingly and wonderfully at the same time, feels his tension and restraint and then, then...
He opens his eyes at the same moment she does and all she can see is stars. When she blinks, it's just his brown eyes again, looking just a tad unfocused and maybe she's just having orgasm illusions and maybe romance novels got it right all along and shagging really comes with stars and maybe she should stop thinking at all.
"Oh," he says, watching her.
"Oh," she mimics when she gets her breath back, leaning in to kiss him.
He still tastes of marmalade, but she thinks she might just get used to it.
II
It's six a.m when Rose decides to sneak out, though not before being sneaky in other ways.
He's sleeping, one foot sticking out of the blanket they ended under, making it very hard to resist tickling him.
She resists that. She doesn't resist looking at his dream book. Maybe it's out of a desire to see if he really dreams of Canary Wharf, that they share that, or maybe she just wants to know what her boyfriend (he rather qualifies for that now, she's decided) finds weird.
He must have been at Canary Wharf, she can tell from even a brief glance. He's drawn what was there, even up to the mysterious blue box Mickey mentioned just before... Well, before. There's a girl that rather resembles Adeola and several other people she supposes must be from some part of his life. There's even a cricket ball and a watch - maybe it's a hobby of some sort.
Impossible things? Possible things, she knows. Maybe that's why he's drawn to her too - she's got the bad life he seems to be dreaming of. Aliens, lost friends and death around the corner.
She feels vaguely guilty at poking into his head, but guilt fades. She's learned that. At least, she hopes she has.
She steals one of his shirts as well since she can't find her top, and is rather glad she keeps emergency clothing change at work. (Never know when an alien might explode!) She leaves a note explaining the theft, offering to bring him one of her own as compensation.
In the end, the sneaking out rather fails on account of running face first into John's cousin in the hallway, who clearly does not approve of sneaking At All.
"Who are you?"
"Rose," Rose manages. "You must be Barbara. John told me about you."
"He didn't tell me about you," Barbara says, voice of steel. She's older than Rose expected, but then, cousins needn't be in the same age group.
"We met recently."
"I see."
"Barbara," a voice says, and Rose turns to see a dark-haired man, some grey in his hair, regarding Barbara with affection. "You can't protect him from everything. There was nothing against relationships on the list."
"It wouldn't occur to him. Ian, he's..."
"He's what?" Rose asks, but neither replies, seemingly lost in a private world for a moment. He's what? Married? On the rebound? Likely to leave the toilet seat up?
"He'll manage," Ian says firmly, taking Barbara's hand and smiling. "He always managed. Remember?"
"Yeah," Barbara says, fixing her gaze on Rose again. "But will you?"
As warnings go, it's not the most dire Rose has ever had. It still leaves something ticking away in her mind, like a clock counting down.
She waits until Baraba and Ian retreats, both without departing any further cryptic messages, and yanks her mobile up to dial the one number she knows she can trust.
"Sarah-Jane? Hey, it's Rose. I need a favour. Yeah. Yeah. His name's John Smith..."
II
Wednesdays is a day in-between before weekend and after weekend, and even Torchwood is marked by this. There's a lot of milling about, more so because Jack from Cardiff stops by, sleeping with half the staff. Or somewhere around there, Rose doesn't keep count.
She does keep the world safe, or something approximately like it. For every alien invasion, there's alien invasion paperwork, and she gets half done and delegates the other half. She looks over a research project. She argues with Harriet. She argues alongside Harriet with Jack. She files reports. She gossips with Adeola.
She goes out to lunch.
John Smith is waiting for her by a fish 'n chips shop, looking a bit nervous and shy, much like the first time, and staring at the sky. She can see his tongue pushing against his upper lip in what seems an almost nervous tick, and it makes her grin even before he sees her.
When he does, his whole face lights up and whatever else might be going on, she doesn't think he can fake that look.
"Hi," he says, failing at casual.
"Hi," she echoes, failing even more spectacularly, especially when she grabs his face to lay one on him. He tastes of chalk, and she's pretty sure she doesn't even want to know why.
"Sorry for sneaking out, I had to get to work."
He just nods, still grinning a bit foolishly. "I missed you."
"You hardly know me," she counters. "I hardly know you."
"Know the feeling," he quips, but must detect something in her tone. "Is something wrong?"
"I don't know," she replies, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear, only to have him take it out again and look at it almost seriously. "Who are you, John? Why did you become a teacher?"
"I'm John Smith," he says simply, which isn't an answer at all. "Barbara was one."
"Right. Barbara. You trust her, right? She's rather determined to look after you, isn't she?"
"Yes," he agrees, frowning slightly. "I don't remember my parents. I just remember her. I remember I trust her."
"I have one memory of mum," she confesses. "I can't see her face, I just remember the feeling of her hair tickling my forehead. Do you have memories like that?"
He looks strangely at her.
"I'm sorry, I looked in your book. It was just... It seemed like some of the things there might be memories, not dreams."
"They can't be memories," he says sharply. "They make no sense. I'm a daredevil, a madman. I have ten faces and two hearts and hold a burning planet in my hands. I die. People die. I dance with the stars in a wooden box. There's a watch. There's always a watch."
"I used to work in a shop and think aliens some movie horror. Then my boyfriend is almost blown up by living plastic, starts working for a secret government agency, gets himself killed and suddenly I got aliens in my sock drawer," she counters. "Don't tell me about making no sense!"
He is quiet for a while, and she starts regretting bringing it up in the first place.
"John, I'm..."
"Maybe I dream of some things I've seen," he interrupts. "I asked Barbara once. She wouldn't tell me. When you talked about Canary Wharf, it was... I think I was there, Rose. I was and I don't remember."
"I can help you," she says softly, kissing his palm. "I can find out if you were there."
"I'm not sure I want to know," he whispers, and she remembers Mickey and blood and dying words and trying so, so hard to forget.
"I know," she says, leaning her head against his. Oh, she knows. "So... Want chips?"
"Yeah."
"Me too."
They eat; and when he licks the salt, she forgets about life for a while to just live.
II
It's almost midnight when Rose finally gets done at work, mostly because Harriet's cousin has disappeared again. This time, there is no finding her, and it's another thing to add to a longer and longer list of troubles.
It does mean all Rose would like to do have her brain shagged out, sleep what remains of it until she's proper comatose, then wake up with her almost normal boyfriend and find everything looks brighter in tomorrow.
Well, it's a hope, at least.
Hope enough that she stops by John's even if he's probably asleep, but the light is on in his apartment and she decides the desire to see him is greater than the guilt of potentially disturbing him.
After all, he has left his door open, and that is almost an invitation.
Or a break-in, she realises about two seconds too late.
John's there, looking terrified, and Barbara and Ian, looking defiant. And them - the pair from Tuesday and Harriet's cousin and boy she doesn't know and it doesn't take Rose even a second to know something totally wrong is going on.
"Your lover!" the boy says delightfully, eyeing Rose. "You didn't just make yourself human, Doctor. You made yourself an idiot."
"What's going on?" Rose asks, trying to make John looking at her and failing. "Who are you?"
"We're the Family of Blood. This is Sister of Mine, Mother of Mine, Father of Mine. I am the Son."
"Aliens and your pompous titles," she mutters, but she still looking at John, willing him to look at her. "Made himself human?"
"He's the Doctor," Harriet's cousin - or the sister or whatever she is now and oh no, poor Harriet - injects. "He's just hiding."
"They weren't after me," Rose says slowly, feeling dread settle as the words sink in. "They were after you."
"We are," the Son confirms, his eyes gleaming. "He almost made us look in the wrong time, but here he is. Have you enjoyed it, Doctor? Being human? Has it taught you wonderful things? Has it made you better? Richer? Wiser? Change back, Doctor. Make us live forever - or your your friends will not even live a day."
Pompous, blustering and threatening, Rose notes. Oh good. Easier to deal with then.
"No," John - or maybe not - says for the first time, shaking his head. "That was the dream. I dreamt I was him. I can't change. I'm John Smith. I'm human. I'm..."
"No," Barbara says simply, and Rose feels dizzy as the world seems to spin and crash. The Doctor. There are files on the Doctor, long, empty Torchwood files. He's a legend. Impossible things? Possible things.
Sleep with a human, she thinks distantly. Wake up with an alien. So much for a normal boyfriend.
In the distance, the bell at Big Ben strikes midnight.
Time's up.
(To be concluded in part two.)
