Doctor Who (c) BBC.
Sorry it took so long, I'm swallowed by College work all of a sudden.
Mickey to the rescue! Again! He's saving the day in both my fan fictions now.
Or is he? Because we all know it's not going to be that easy to break into Torchwood...
Chapter 8:
The apartment Rose shared with Mickey was small and on the poor side of dingy. When Rose had moved out of the Tyler's mansion, it had been to gain independence; and Mickey had followed. Independence was easier with a shared income, but this was still the best they could afford on an Investigator's salary. Pete had offered money time and again, but as Rose kept saying, there wasn't much point in moving out if she was still living off her parents. There were two bedrooms, a bathroom, and a kitchen slash dining room slash living room area. What little furniture they had was gathered in the latter; the bedrooms were barely big enough to hold a bed and wardrobe. It wasn't much, and it sometimes made Mickey wish they had never moved. He missed the en-suite bedroom he had, for a short time at least, made good use of – and thick carpets, and enough hot water. But, as Rose always said, everyone has to start somewhere. Why not a cheap flat in downtown London?
Mickey sat on the slightly damp sofa. He was staring at the TV, but it wasn't switched on, and he most likely wouldn't have noticed if it were. The plan turned over and over in his mind; he had been compiling it throughout the afternoon, and, now the moon had risen, he couldn't see any way it could be improved. It was way too risky for his liking, but he didn't have time to think of something better. There was no choice. He had to act now. He reached over and picked up the phone.
As Mickey steered his blue Mini Cooper towards his destination (he returned Sarah Jane's Figaro earlier that afternoon – parked it in front of her house but didn't have the guts to go inside) Mickey thought about what he was doing, and why. Why did he have to sort this himself, instead of waiting for Torchwood to do what they did best – clean up after themselves. He told himself it was because Torchwood was to blame in the first place; that he was the only one who could help; that Rose was his best friend and he owed it to her. But really, none of those reasons were true.
The truth was that he was in love with Rose. So totally, head-over-heels, crazy in love with her, that to not try and get her back would be like writing his own death sentence. When she had been with the Doctor every day without her, knowing that she was in constant danger, and getting further away all the time, had been torture – but this was so much worse. And there was always that niggling thought at the back of his head, that told him by figuring it outhimself, saving her by himself, it just might make her forget what she had lost and realize what was right in front of her…
They shared a flat, but that was all. Mickey wanted more, but knew that she was too fragile, too close to breaking point; so, out of love, he never asked her.
As he turned a corner onto the main road, streetlights lighting up the street that was fringed with crowds, even at this time of night, a memory floated back to him, of a day not too long ago. He had gone into Rose's room for reasons he couldn't remember – he usually respected her privacy – but whatever; he had gone in. He was looking at her bed – unmade, just slept in, still smelling of her; maybe that was why he had gone in, just to be near the idea of her…And he had seen the photo, lying on her pillow.
It showed her and the Doctor (and that was a shock in itself – had he really been so tall? So…domineering, even in static form?), standing in front of a temple of sorts, bathed in the glow of the two red suns behind them. The way they stood, arms linked, grinning madly, how they had obviously asked a stranger to take the photo – a stranger who might well be an alien – was so clearly, ironically tourist-like it made Mickey smile, happy and sad at the same time.
The look on the pictured Rose's face had made him ache, because he never saw it these days. Sure, she was enthusiastic, even cheerful, but he had never seen the sheer joy and love of life that he had when she was with the Doctor.
He left the room, trudged back to the kitchen, and threw away the sandwich he was in the middle of making for lunch. Somehow he just didn't feel hungry any more.
Canary Wharf was silent, its windows black. Even so, Mickey switched off the Mini's headlights as he approached, and slowed to a crawl as he drifted into the company car park, silent as a ghost.
He pulled to a stop, and sat for a moment, resting his black glove-clad hands on the wheel. His jeans, coat and T-shirt were black too, and he was wearing heavy-duty boots instead of his usual scruffy trainers. It felt faintly ridiculous, a bit over the top, very CIA and People's Republic, but this was all part of the plan he had so carefully laid out.
He lifted his mobile from the pocket of his black coat, hit speed-dial and raised the phone to his ear.
"You ready?"
"Bring it on," replied Jake. His best friend's familiar accent helped Mickey stay grounded; he was in danger of floating off into fantasy, on a mission CIA-style. Jake had got a bit of stick for being a Geordie, back when he and Mickey had first started working for Torchwood; but nobody could dispute his strength and bravery, his sharp mind – and his open, friendly personality meant that no one could dislike him for long. Mickey regarded him as a true friend, someone he could really trust, and for that reason, he was the person Mickey had chosen to help. Right now, he was on the roof.
"I'm looking at the control panel right now. Hell, it's freezing up here." Jake pulled the collar of his jacket closer about his neck, trying not to think of the drop just a few feet behind him. He was angling a torch at the circuit box in the wall in front of him, and just above the box, the wall abruptly stopped and then sloped backwards to form one side of the building's distinctive, pyramid-shaped roof. Just behind him, the ledge ended in a lip above the eye-watering, stomach-churning drop.
"Why did I let you talk me into doing this?" he muttered, annoyed – but secretly slightly thrilled that Mickey had chosen him for the dangerous task. He spoke into the Bluetooth headset on his ear, leaving his hands free; one to hold the flashlight, the other to sort through the mass of wires in front of him.
"Come on man, you know I'm no good with heights," was Mickey's reply, tinny in his ear. "I really appreciate this."
"Yeah, yeah, whatever." Jake smiled grimly. "Just remember that I still work here. It's my job on the line if we're caught…"
"We won't be." Was it the line, or did a trace of uncertainty creep into Mickey's voice. "We won't." he added with more resolve.
"If you say so…OK, I've found it. Disconnecting the audio and video leads now."
"Hurry up," Mickey urged. He had exited the car and was crouched in the bushes next to the front door, very aware of the security guard standing inside, just a few feet away. It was bitterly cold on the ground, and although he knew it would be worse a couple of hundred feet up, for a second Mickey was almost jealous of his friend. From where Jake was, he would be able to see London spread out below him like a picture postcard, all sparkling lights and with the dark stripe of the Thames splitting it down the middle. When they had lived with Jackie and Pete, Mickey would often climb up to the roof, never mind his less than stable head for heights, and stare out over his city, thinking how different it was, how similar…
"Sorry, what was that?" Jake had been saying something, and he had missed it.
"I said, get ready. Once I cut this wire we only have a few minutes to get to the room before they bring the system back online, and we don't want the security guards getting suspicious…"
"As far as they're concerned, it was a minor glitch in the system; no harm done." Mickey finished the sentence for him. "I know. It was my idea, remember?"
"Not likely to forget, am I?" Jake muttered, jamming the torch between his teeth and slipping a pair of wire cutters from his pocket with the resulting free hand. Holding the wires steady, he pinched one between its teeth – the wire that would cut CCTV footage to the whole building. Once it was broken, they would have less than five minutes before the nighttime security guards got the whole thing running on backup power. "Ready on three. One…"
"Two," supplemented Mickey.
"One!" they muttered together. The wire snapped audibly over Mickey's phone; he snapped it shut and elbowed his way through the door, hand ready in his other pocket, heading straight for the guard. The man turned – too slow – and Mickey shoved a small bottle under his nose. The man, twice the size as the young Londoner, crumpled innocently at Mickey's feet, and he wasted no time in dragging him behind the reception desk, huffing in exertion. Just in time, too – he had no sooner crouched under the table next to the prone guard than two more guards hurried past, walkie-talkies crackling, barking a warning.
"All right, I heard you the first time. Bloody amateurs." one of them muttered, and the other laughed, lifting the radio from his belt.
"Copy that, boss. On our way." He stuck the radio back and rolled his eyes at his partner. "All this for a technical glitch. I mean, it's not like anyone can get in. This place is like a stronghold. No way in or out."
Except the front door, thought the Mickey, amazed at the officer's relaxed attitude. The guard looked no older than twenty, with short red hair that stuck straight up as if he'd touched a plug socket – but youth was no excuse for carelessness. The boy couldn't catch a cold, as Rose always said…Mickey realized he was quoting her again, and shut himself up. This was no time to get sentimental. He had a job to do.
He held on for a few precious seconds after the two men left, before ducking out of his hiding place and heading for the stairs. The lift would be too slow; too risky, too easy to be caught out. If everything had gone to plan, Jake would be on his way down, ready to meet Mickey in the room almost exactly halfway between them.
He took the stairs two at a time. After all, to put it in Rose's words, time was of the essence.
