Hi! Okay, I'm not doing reviews for this chapter for some specific reasons.

However, I will advise you to look up and listen to "Carol of the Bells" (specifically the Robert Shaw Chorale version) near the end of the chapter—I centered it around that song specifically, and I got the idea of this entire chapter from it as well.

Carry on!

-JustStandingHere

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"Now, now—yes, I know that usually big things in the sky aren't very good things, but the sun is nothing to worry about…No, the long things coming off of it aren't spikes or lasers, there's simply rays of sunlight hitting the atmosphere…Yes, it is very bright, isn't it? Don't worry, your human-y eyes will get used to it in time."

I smile as I watch the Doctor and Imogene talk. Or, rather, watch the Doctor talk and Imogene make small little noises or movements. Clarissa is next to me, chopping up some potatoes on the cutting board.

"Could you pass me the onions?" she asks. I hear it, but don't really comprehend it. Too tired. She taps me on the shoulder. "Hey, sweetheart?"

I understand that, and turn to her. "Hm?"

"Could you pass me the onions?" she asks.

I nod quickly and hand over two of the red papery vegetables. She takes them and begins peeling them delicately.

"You don't have to do this, you know," I tell her.

She looks up at me. "Do what?"

"Make dinner. Take us in. I mean, you've got other things to worry about."

She smiles. "It's alright, darling. I can't have you two out on the streets and starving, now can I?"

"But you barely even know us," I point out, laughing slightly at the incredulousness of it all.

"Every friend's a stranger at first," she tells me. "That's what my mother told me when I was little. And you're nice, you two don't patronize me like some other people have."

"Patronize you?" I ask, curious.

"'Oh, a poor young lady like you out on your own like that? Doing work? That's not what a mother's supposed to do!'" she quotes in a high mocking voice. She shakes her head. "Mrs. Wallis from floor six always says that. She's got that amnesia the elderly have, you know? So she always repeats it."

"I think you're brilliant, doing what you're doing," I say, scooping the potatoes on the cutting board into my hands and dropping them into the pot behind me. "And screw anyone else who doesn't."

"Screw?" she asks, laughing. "What's that, some sort of British slang?"

I pause. "Yeah, I guess. What I mean to say is that you should just ignore what they say, stand up for yourself. Unless you're already doing that, of course."

"I just let it pass," she sighs. "Not much I can do, really."

"Maybe not now," I consider. "But in the future, possibly. Where it isn't as rare, or as frowned upon. Where woman have top executive jobs and the like."

Clarissa laughs. "Please, like that's ever going to happen." She starts chopping the newly peeled onion. "I'm fine where I am, really."

I shrug. "Alrighty, then. I'm just saying…later on, maybe it will happen."

"You're uncle must be rubbing off of you," she comments.

I smile. "Good."

I don't see the smoke at first, but more of smell it. I cough a little, looking down and watching as gray wisps crawl out from the oven. I grab a towel and try to wave the smoke away.

"Is everything alright in there?" the Doctor yells from the sitting room. Imogene starts to get a little upset.

"Oh, damn it!" Clarissa shouts, opening the door and letting more smoke escape. She puts her hand over her mouth. "Must've left the chicken in for too long."

She grabs oven mitts and pulls the poultry out, setting it on the stove above and coughing some more.

"Open the window a little, Maggie," she instructs. "We can air this place out."

I nod and run out of the kitchen, opening the nearest window a couple inches and coughing a little more.

The Doctor appears in the small space between the kitchen counter and wall. "Is everything okay?"

I nod, my eyes stinging and starting to water. "Yeah," I force out. "Yeah, everything's fine." I cough again.

Clarissa sighs. "Well, the chicken's going to be a little crispy." She turns to us. "I hope you don't mind."

"Trust me, I definitely have had worse," I say.

Planet of the Tangerians. They recycle their own waste for produce. I don't want to dive into details.

We sit down for dinner and eat in comfortable silence, with Imogene giggling patting her hands on her highchair, until Clarissa sets her fork down and leans forward.

"So…tell me about your selves," she requests.

The Doctor and I exchange a glance.

"Uh…well," I say, mouth full. I swallow. "Uh…I've got a mother, John's sister. No father, though. He—died, back in town. Very tragic, but I was only three and didn't know much better."

"That's terrible!" she says.

I wave it off. "Nothing else to do about it, really."

Clarissa looks over to the Doctor. "What about you, John? Got anything interesting?"

"I come from the town of…Gallifrey-on-Avon," he lies. "Very nice place. It was a great place to grow up in."

"Oh? Why did you move?"

His eyes dart around for a moment. "It got too stuffy for me. Left it behind, went off around England doing this and that until she caught up with me."

"Who's she?" Clarissa asks.

"Rose," the Doctor answers immediately.

"Your sister?"

He hesitates. "Sure. Yes, we were very close."

"Were?"

He blinks at his mistake and waves it off quickly. "Oh, you know. Different life paths. We got separated, for a bit. And then we got back to together…with Maggie. And she wanted to go to America, so I said yes because this is quite a country you have here, I must say."

"Has life been very hard?" Clarissa asks quickly. She shakes her head. "If you don't mind me asking, that is. I've just heard from others that living in the world is pretty tough for somebody with your, uh…handicap."

"My what?" the Doctor asks momentarily confused. I elbow him, giving him a jump start. "Oh! Yes, that. Well, it's been a bit…trying in some instances, I guess."

"Shame," she says. "My aunt Bernice had a disability. Can't remember what, exactly, but she was the sweetest thing you'd ever seen." She turns back to me. "Where do you live before you guys came to America?"

Another shared glance.

"Uh.." I stutter. "It's really—"

"—hard to explain," the Doctor continues. "You know, different area codes…"

"…different cities, towns," I finish. I pick up the warm glass of brandy I've kept and try to take another sip. I spit it back into the glass. "Some you probably haven't heard of."

"Oh, I hear my tenant talking out the letters she writes to her friends," she says, crossing her arms. "Mrs. O'Hall. She's Irish, very loud."

"I know," the Doctor and I mutter in offbeat unison.

"She talks about things like that all the time, always yabbering about Cork and politics and things like that, I think I've memorized the Parliament system down to a tee. And Bob used to study maps around the world in his free time, try to find the places he had to fight." She leans back. "Try me."

I hesitate. "Well, th—John said he grew up in Gallifrey-on-Avon, which was just south of Manchester," I tell her. "Very tiny town. And I grew up in the…the West Division of East Sussex near Bristol." I pause for a moment. "On the Thames."

The Doctor gives me an odd look and I kick him in the shin.

Clarissa frowns. "I haven't seen that on any of Bob's maps."

"It's a small division of London, you'd need one of those large maps the size of walls to see it."

After a long dinner we sit down on the couch as Clarissa cleans the dishes at her insistence.

I sit there, watching the Doctor blabber on to Clarissa seeing as Imogene had to be put to bed halfway through dinner. The radio's been turned off, but through the crack of the window I can hear the faint sound of carolers making their way down the streets. I check the clock. It's almost 11:40.

Time flies by when you're hiding from aliens, I guess.

A thought strikes me and I start laughing.

The Doctor turns to me. "What is it? Did I get a stain?"

I shake my head. "No. No, it's just—this is scarily similar to…" I start laughing again.

He walks towards me while Clarissa smiles, going back to her dishes.

"To what, Je—Maggie?" he asks.

"To that one episode," I tell him, quieter but still laughing. I drop the accent.

"Of what? Of me?"

I nod, still laughing slightly. "You know, back with Martha? When you had to be human for god knows how long? It was a two-parter—what were the episodes called? Human Nature and Family of Blood, yeah."

"Wasn't that the one with the bloke that was always smirking?" he asks.

I laugh. "Yeah. That's one of my favorites, seeing you go human and having all those human feelings on your face. The mystery around it all, and the quotes from there…some of the most memorable, I'd say. Like the 'fire and ice and rage' one, that one's just too damn good."

He smirks. "Was it?"

"And there was Martha, too. Being a badass and sticking up for herself, even though she had to be a handmaid for the better part of three months and be stuck under the bottom of every stick-ups shoe." I grimace. "Ugh, I could never do that."

He smiles for a moment but it quickly drops into a frown, with him breaking eye contact and looking just a fraction away from me like he always does in deep thought. "Funny…"

I tilt my head to the side. "What's funny?"

He shakes his head and looks back to me. "Nothing. Nothing, just…I thought I remembered something—someone, actually. But that can't be right." He takes a quick breath and shifts. "But you're right—they are alike. In fact, the Family actually descended from the Visichek, evolved from them. Captured life force instead of energy, figured out how to manipulate technology. The same instinctual gifts. Though sight was removed, they still had…" He frowns deeper, and his eyes go wide. "…smell."

"Doctor?" I ask. He stands up straight and stares into space. "Doctor, what's wrong?"

"How long has that window been open?" he whispers.

"…about 3-4 hours," I tell him. "Why?"

He turns back to me. "Visichek! Trace by smell! And yours—" He goes up to the window and slams it shut, surprising Clarissa into dropping a plate into the sink. "—has been floating around New York. Above the ground, yes, but detectable enough for them to notice. And the closer they get, the more this flat becomes a beacon for them to you."

"…they could find us," I realize.

"They have found us, and more importantly they've found you." He does a one-eighty spin, face grave. "We need to get out of here."

Clarissa frowns. "Excuse me? Visi-whowhats?"

The Doctor walks up to Clarissa. "I'm sorry. I'm very sorry, but you need to take Imogene and get out of here, now, if you value your safety."

She blinks. "What? Why?"

"There are some very, very nasty buggers coming our way," I explain. "And we need to leave."

"You've dropped your accent," she points out.

"I know I have," I say. "Now listen, Clarissa. We were also out on the streets because…because we got associated with some very bad people. Loans and things, and they've been searching for us. We thought we were safe, that all of us were safe but—they've got dogs on us. And we need you and your daughter to leave this place for a couple of days."

Her eyes widen. "Who are you people?"

"We're still Maggie and John Smith," I lie. "All the same. Personality and everything. And you're going to have to trust us for a bit."

Okay, I realize that entire statement in slightly contradicting but we'll move away from that.

She nods, and runs out of the kitchen, going to her room. There's a couple banging sounds, and almost a minute later she's got her coat on and the baby in her arms.

"I'm going to take her out to the street and hail her a cab," the Doctor says. "You stay here. You're still less detectable here, they'll have to search the rooms one by one. And I'll be back by then, okay?"

I nod. "Okay."

He grabs Clarissa's arm and leads her out of the door, slamming it behind him. I peer out the window and watch, waiting until two figures fly into view, their shadows stretching beyond sight in the glow of the street lamps. I see the taller figure whistle and a yellow cab pull to the side of the road. The smaller figure hurries in and there's an exchange between the larger figure and the driver, and the cab drives off. The taller figure heads back towards the building.

Everyone's safe. Everything's alright.

I thought that, then. I am such a fucking idiot sometimes.

So much of an idiot that when there's a knocking at the door less than fifteen seconds later, I believe it to be him. Obviously I don't take into account that the door is unlocked, or that if it was locked anyways he could sonic it open. No, I don't . And so I open the fucking door.

"Oh," I say, greeted by the face of an old Irish woman. "You're the tenant, aren't you? Mrs. O'Hall? Yeah, Clarissa's out right now, sorry."

"It does not matter," she says, her voice switching between her Irish accent and…something else. "We do not need Clarissa."

I frown. "Then why—"

For a second, but a long enough second for me to notice, her eyes flash orange.

"We need you."

My eyes widen. "Doctor!" I cry out, backing away from the door.

Mrs. O'Hall follows me. "You shall be our new home," they say.

I turn and back my way into the counter, searching for anything to help me escape, and the lady corners me. She opens my mouth, and it's like a thousand tiny orange pixels begin rushing out. I find a lone pan handle jutting out from the sink and grasp it. And I can feel them trying to climb inside of me, like smoke. And they're getting closer and closer to me and—

"I'm really sorry," I breathe out, swinging the pan round and knocking what used to be Mrs. O'Hall upside the head. She falls down.

I look at her for only a moment before I start to run, fast.

I head towards the lift.

"Elevator, elevator," I mumble, pressing the button.

The door opens to several homeless people staring at me blankly.

"Stairs," I mumble, turning and running. "Stairs, I've got to find the goddamn stairs."

I run down the hallway as fast as I can, with the Visichek just fifteen feet behind me. I scan the doors for some sort of sign indicating "HEY, HERE'S YOUR ESCAPE HATCH".

I grab the handle of a door labeled "Emergency Exit" and open it, shutting it behind me and giving a small sigh of relief for just a small snippet of time. I was never made for running.

There's the sound of footsteps from down the stairwell.

"We need you," a thousand voices chime all at once.

I resume my activities and make a change of direction, heading upwards.

This building is eight stories high, mind you. And I was on the third floor.

Five flights of stairs should've exhausted me, made me collapse. But instinct is a funny thing and that 'fight or flight' response can be helpful when startled into action.

At the top of it all in a door that I push open onto the roof, closing it behind me.

I need an escape, I need an escape…They can't get me, I can't let them do all of those things using my hands and my voice. Isn't there a fire escape? Yeah, but I can a couple people in ratty clothes at the bottom, looking up and waiting. How many people have they gotten to, anyways? The homeless, Mrs. O'Hall…did they get her grandson? She mentioned that she has a grandson, didn't she?

The carolers are still singing below, their voices floating up the top of the building where I stand.

"Hark! how the bells, sweet silver bells.

All seem to say, throw cares away."

The door opens, and a flood of people come spilling forth, eyes all glowing like suns. I back up until I'm at the edge of the building, just above the sidewalk that lies below.

They start to circle me, slowly, like lions stalking prey. I take a step up on the ledge, and my other foot follows.

I can't get out. Nowhere to go, and if they get me all hell breaks loose. Changing timelines in my body ripping apart the fabric of reality. All because I don't belong here, I shouldn't be here.

Maybe that's what the interface was meaning to say all along: "If you stay here, then there is guaranteed disaster."

"Gaily they ring while people sing

Songs of good cheer Christmas is here."

A loud gong rings through the air, signaling the change. It is midnight. Merry Christmas.

They're still moving in, slowly but surely. Still some ways away.

Only a couple more days without a more energized host and they'd be gone. Dead. Time would march on, going the same as it always has.

Change the timeline. Destroy the Doctor.

What if this is it? This is my act, my choice. My destiny. To let the Visichek make my body a puppet and rip everything to shreds. My set destiny, to ruin the Doctor. To destroy him.

I just can't let that happen.

"Oh how they pound, raising their sound

O'er hill and dale, telling their tale."

The Visichek need a body full of energy, right? And in order to have energy you have to be able to move. To live. Otherwise the level drops, substantially. Makes sense, I think. It would work.

I look over my shoulder. I can see the crowd of carolers just a couple buildings away, a cluster of people. Their voices are amazing.

Snow is falling so slowly…falling…

"Merry merry merry merry Christmas

Merry merry merry merry Christmas."

The door bangs open again, the Doctor's voice carrying over to my ears.

"Quigs, it's a trap! They're here, they're…" He stops, looking at the sight before him.

"We need the girl," they say in unison. "The Unexpected One."

They need a living host first, to gather all their energy. If their host isn't living, it has to energy to begin with.

Right?

"Jenna, I need you to stay calm," the Doctor instructs. "I'll figure a way out of this, I'm doing it right now. Just stay still and don't move."

It's a guess, but it's the best guess I've got if it means that everything will be alright. The universe, humanity, and especially him. Because this can't happen now, and the world can't lose him yet.

I'm crying by now, but I can the outline of him past all the others.

Always expect to run when you're with the Doctor. Always. Because sometimes running—even though you know it might lead to somewhere worse—si the best to benefit the ones you care about."

"On, on they send, on without end

Their joyful tone, to ev'ry home."

I look at him, straight in the eye.

"I'm sorry," I whisper, loud enough so that he can hear.

"Ding."

I take a step back, feeling nothing beneath me. My other foot follows.

"Dong."

Everything falling. The snow, me. Everything cascading downwards with my coat billowing in the air. Falling, falling.

"Ding."

Impact, pain.

"Dong."

And then nothing.

#

See you next week.

-JustStandingHere