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Trio
by kel
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//I remember very clearly thinking, 'Where, what planet did this
guy come from? Is he from outer space?' I'd never heard
anything like the way he played.//
â€" Benny Goodman [1]
Midnight, dark, at the Congress Hotel. Bitterly cold Chicago
boys and bobbysoxers, coats over their heads, run for cover from
the sleet. Trix stands for a minute watching lights shimmer on
the slush, then sighs and heads into the gloom. Into the
warmth, the smoke, the *racket*.
Sixty years later, on the other side of the world, it'd be
great. Trix loves a nostalgia do. But big band for real...
come *on*. Naff supreme. Hoping the psychoprismatic detector
doesn't spoil the line of her skirt, she fights her way through
toe-tappers, lindy-hoppers, a sea of bobbing Brylcreem.
Her Gran used to talk about this sort of thing; made it sound
like paradise. Another world. A better time. She never
mentioned the smell. Smoke and cologne, wet wool and armpits.
All those too-young men with natty suits and bad teeth; all
those wandering hands that beg to be broken. Trix chants
insults under her breath, spiked heels ever-so-carefully finding
offenders' feet.
The Doctor and Fitz are over by the bar. Not drinking, not
talking, not saving the world. Not taking readings or
surveilling the room, either. Typical. Fitz would probably
say they were grooving. From here the pair of them look like
palsy victims.
Very, very poor ones.
They stick out like... like things that stick out. It's
touching, in a way, how they mess everything up, every time.
She's done her part: ransacked the TARDIS for suits straight out
of the Kid Creole reviews she grew up reading in the //NME//.
Trouser legs you could park a Cortina down; hats even she'd die
for. But it's ultimately pointless. Those haircuts would get
them lynched a few counties over.
It's an affront to her professionalism. Especially since they
keep on getting away with it.
She takes a deep breath and slides into place beside them,
trying her hardest to look as unrelated to them as possible.
*She* fits in perfectly, of course. Skirt, pearls, stockings; a
discreetly jaunty permanent wave. Plus the lovingly honed
accent: Helen Oakley to the life. *Total* class. Which
vanishes as the Doctor bounds to his feet, applauding Benny
Goodman's crack soloists. Narrowly missing her with his
upended, forgotten, glass of ginger beer.
-- Oh, for God's sake...
The Doctor ignores her, cheers wildly as Krupa finishes a
typically manic break. Trades winks with Goodman and grins with
Fitz. Scruffy tosser. She grabs the nearest charcoal-clad
arm, shouts in vain against a detonating Vido Musso chorus.
-- Fitz, it's all clear... I said... *Fitz*... Why do I even
*bother*.
Fitz shrugs as the Doctor looks round, beaming.
-- Trix! Fantastic. Where've you been? It's almost Trio time.
They said they'd do //China Boy//.
//God.// Trix rolls her eyes; looks at the bottles behind the
bar, the rings left by the Doctor's glass, the haze of cigarette
smoke in the air. Anywhere except the bandstand; anywhere
except the - admittedly handsome - pianist, waiting off to the
side and trying to catch her eye. Nervous.
-- Come on. Isn't there a planet we could be blowing up?
She pinches Fitz's arm, not gently. He refuses to be provoked;
grabs her by the waist, swings her round and ducks her punch.
-- Get hep, pretty lady.
-- Get help more like. You're as bad as each other.
Like schoolboys in a sweet shop, she thinks, bad-temperedly.
No, pre-schoolers. Toddlers.
//After You've Gone// gives way to the sort of sickly ballad her
Gran always pestered Wogan to play. Moon and June and their
faces fall. Goodman doesn't look too happy either.
-- Now that's more like it, she says, spitefully.
-- I knew it, says Fitz cheerfully, dropping onto the bar stool
beside her. - Teddy Wilson says //Moonglow// makes you weak at
the knees. Not to mention-
-- Teddy'll be down later, cuts in the Doctor, far too quickly.
Wobbling his eyebrows at Fitz in a belated attempt at
discretion.
-- Spoilsport, says Fitz amiably, and turns back to the band.
â€"-I do hope you're behaving yourself, Ace, says the Doctor,
absently. Scanning the room, beaming and waving.
-- 'Ace?' What am I, Glenn Miller?
-- Hmm? No, he's at the Terrace tonight. Or is it Basie?
Benny says...
-- *Trix* says it's time to move on.
She pats her pocket meaningfully.
-- While you two were so busy *monitoring the situation* in
here, I scanned the whole sodding district. In the *snow*,
thank you so very much. No beeps, no boops, no machines that
went ping. No tentacled babies, nothing blew up. All
completely, boringly normal in fact. So unless Mr Goodman's
about to vomit slime, rip his head off and claim sovereignty in
the name of Razum Kinzhal...
The Doctor looks at her, suddenly very still. - *Nothing?*
She shrugs. - Nope.
-- Totally normal?
-- *Totally*. Can we go now?
-- That's abnormal.
-- Isn't it just, breathes Fitz, knuckles white on his glass.
- Crikey.
-- You know what this means?
The Doctor grabs Trix by the shoulders, stares deep into her
eyes. The racket in the room recedes, vanishes, blue, blue
vocals and blue, blue smoke, spiralling to the ceiling.
-- What?
-- We... We're going to have to...
-- What?
-- Stay. You could use some time off.
Trix's impossibly obscene rejoinder is lost as the song ends,
the audience applauds. She punches a laughing Fitz very, very
hard. Scowls.
-- You'll stick like that, if the wind changes, says the Doctor
happily.
-- *Stick* yourself, spaceboy. I'm going home.
-- Oh, come on. Have a drink. Band break. I promise.
He's right. The applause tapers as Goodman and his men bounce,
happily exhausted, into the wings. Fitz wanders over to the
bandstand, no doubt hoping Helen Ward wants a drink. Trix
starts to stretch, to yawn, but remembers where she is.
-- Come on. Relax. Just be *you* for a bit. I won't tell.
She can't help grinning as the Doctor pushes something non- alcoholic toward her.
-- Mangy sod. Have you got any idea how cold it is out there?
I need *gin*.
-- Too bad. Put your feet up.
-- That lot start up again, I'm gone. I hate swing.
The Doctor straightens up, smiling his eager, slightly mad,
smile. The one that precedes trivia, lectures and the disarming
of dangerous men.
-- Ah, but...
-- But nothing. End of conversation.
-- Your loss, he says, quietly. The smile fades, warms again.
- It's the *Trio*... The perfect team at the perfect time.
Nobody else ever got *near* them. They *changed* things. Give
it a chance.
-- Enough. What is it with you and this stuff? It's so... God,
I don't know. Left-brain.
-- Precision engineered. I should know. I spent a lot of time
here, between the wars. Dear Billie used to say-
â€"- Yeah yeah yeah. The good old days *suck*.
He never says he's disappointed in her. *Ever*. His shoulders
get there first.
-- I'd have pegged you as a Dixie man, says Trix, angrily
pretending to stifle a yawn. -- All that pointless faffing
about. Widdly widdly, out of the blue.
-- No!
The Doctor looks away, embarrassed at the sharpness of his tone.
-- No, he says again, quietly.
-â€" That's 'highly skilled improvisation' if you don't mind.
Fitz slips gracefully between them, glaring protectively and
rubbing his cheek. Smudged lipstick, or the faint imprint of a
slap. It's hard to tell. Trix resists the urge to reach out
and see. Unlike the Doctor.
-- Whatever. It's all bloody boring. Like you two.
She pushes away her ginger beer, grimly satisfied as it spills
and soaks the Doctor's elbow.
-- Are we going or what?
-- No, says Fitz, with far more authority than he's a right to.
Trix bridles. They've obviously talked about this, without her.
*Again.*
- It's important. And we need the break, even if you don't.
-- You don't have to stay, if you don't want to, says the
Doctor, almost to himself. â€" You could hire a car. Do the F
Scott thing. Travel.
-- Yeah. Go steal some furs or something.
-- Fitz, murmurs the Doctor, warningly.
-- That's it. I've had it with the pair of you. *Had. It.*
She slams the detector on the bar and storms off. They watch
her let herself be cornered by someone tall, white and old-money;
someone Teddy can wander over and charm her away from.
-- Oh dear, says the Doctor, grinning.
-- Indeed, says Fitz.
They clink glasses and sit together companionably for a while,
as she plays the mark. Trade smiles as her eyes light up for
real when Teddy arrives; as he kisses her hand, moustache
tickling her fingers. They both look a lot calmer now.
-- It isn't, you know, says the Doctor quietly, after a while.
-- What?
-- Dixie. It's not always improvised. Oh, it *sounds* like it,
yes. Wonderful. But half the time it's all been worked out,
polished... Planned.
-- By who?
The Doctor's face darkens; he bites back an answer. Fast. For
one dreadful minute, Fitz thinks he's going to cry, or collapse.
-- Doctor?
-- Oh *Fitz*...You humans... you sit and watch, and think it's
all... spur of the moment. What needs to be done, as and when.
-- Stimulus-response?
-- Exactly. But all the time, there's this... It's as if... not
quite a map, perhaps. Insubstantial, but there. Like cobweb.
And where there's a web...
-- I know, I know. There's a hairy great arachnid with
rheumatics and a really bad temper.
-- And seven, twelve, a hundred cousins. Even if you don't
follow the lines, even if you cut the threads and Tarzan into
the trees, you end up where you're supposed to go. Where they
want you. Or where *you* want you. I'm not sure which is worse.
Fitz shivers, the room suddenly smaller and darker, chandeliers
swallowed by the smoke. He doesn't even notice the Trio filing
onto the stage; actually jumps at the opening bars of //Nobody's
Sweetheart//. He watches them with relief, for a while, watches
Trix smiling in support. Definitely not thinking about how old
and tired his friend suddenly sounds. Or how the customers
around them, the barman, have somehow moved away.
But he can't help moving closer, to compensate. Or calling
mentally to the TARDIS for support. It's a reflex now, like
crossing his fingers when the bombs go off.
â€"- It's not inevitable, though. Nothing's inevitable.
â€"- No?
-- I don't believe that for a minute. I *won't*. And neither do
you.
-- Don't I?
Fitz smiles, gently. â€" What about... the New Orleans Rhythm
Kings. The Wolverines. Louis.
-- You hate Armstrong.
-- *Early* Louis.
-- Chicka chicka boom. To quote our dear Miss MacMillan.
-- All right then, says Fitz, with gentle, calculated rudeness.
-- Have it your way. It's *all* cobblers. What about 'charts'?
Your mate Mundy and that. I don't see how swing's any
different.
-- Don't say that.
-- Hey. Your logic, not mine.
Fitz gestures gently at Goodman, blowing up a storm. Radiating
energy and joy.
-- Looks real to me.
-- But that's it. It *is*. Outside the frame... When he's
free, he's...
-- Really free?
-- Really free. Really really really free.
-- ... *kick me*. You old hippie.
-- Oh now. Miranda bought me that.
The Doctor's eyes twinkle, briefly.
Funny what the thought of family can do. Fitz dredges his
memory, his polished and perfect and alien memory, for songs his
mother sang. Names she knew so very, very well; he remembers
her tears on the covers of his father's records. Prized and
dusted and passed with fourth-hand coats to Beryl in the pawn
shop. Beryl and her endless, kindly time for those awful, dirty
Krauts; Beryl who smiled and gave them back.
-- Well, if he is, so's Spanier. Miff Mole. Whatever.
-- No. Here... here, you can see the rules. Hear them. Touch
them. You know they're there.
-- And in Dixie?
-- They hide.
Lost, Fitz rests his hand awkwardly on the Doctor's shoulder.
Squeezes.
-- Can't break'em if you can't see'em, eh?
-- No. I mean... Something like that. You have to *know*...
The Doctor reaches up for the briefest of moments; touches
Fitz's hand, and looks over to Trix at the side of the stage.
Scowling. Toe-tapping. Enjoying herself.
-- Oh *hell*, Fitz. I don't *want* to. It's not good enough.
It's not *right*. Is it?
So much to say. If. But the crowd's erupted;
Wilson's well on form, tearing into the opening bars of //China
Boy//. The Doctor brightens immeasurably; the shadows recede,
the Urban Room unfolds again around them. Fitz turns to see the
barman scowling at their clasped fingers; setting up another
round of ginger beer. Three glasses.
-- And here's one you prepared earlier.
-- That's not funny.
-- No.
The Doctor laughs, suddenly and genuinely.
-- You're right, though. Gave Georgie Shearing and me a highly
enjoyable wet weekend, sorting this out for good.
-- You what?
-- //China Boy//. Well, it *will* do. Although I must say I
like the original arrangement.
-- So much for not getting involved.
-- Hey, he called the parts. I just wrote them down.
-- I see. Within the rules.
-- Mmmmm.
Such an innocent, impious twinkle in his eyes. Fitz senses the
TARDIS laughing, a long way away.
A world away, on the other side of the room, Trix is dancing up
a storm.
The Doctor, himself again, cheers as the Trio launch into //Rose
Room//.
-- Thought we might sit in with them at the Paradise, later.
-- Not me, mate, says Fitz awkwardly. - Bit of a headache. But
you go.
-- No, no, no. You told Benny you play, didn't you?
-- Yeah.
-- And?
-- Went wonderfully till I said "electric".
-- Ah.
-- Mum loved this song, says Fitz, looking away.
-- Tell you what, says the Doctor, grinning over at Trix.
Smiling, breathless Trix, being *herself*. â€" Grab your stuff.
We'll come back once he's met Charlie Christian.
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(c) arjuna 2005
[1] ...on Beiderbecke, but who's counting?