Author's notes: Yes, yes, yes, long time no write. I'm almost finished with my dissertation and since it's European style, it's slightly longer than a normal Anglo-American thesis. The updates will come sporadically, but they will come. Fear not.
In the meanwhile, fikapaus?
Chapter 28: Fikapaus
"My father said 'Son, we're lucky in this town,
It's a beautiful place to be born.
It just wraps its arms around you,
Nobody crowds you and nobody goes it alone.
'Your flag flyin' over the courthouse
Means certain things are set in stone.
Who we are, what we'll do and what we won't.'"
- Bruce Springsteen, "Long Walk Home," Magic, 2007.
Former Agent Rose Tyler stormed angrily past several flight crew toward the main conference room. From a distance, she could see a seething Jake Simmonds standing akimbo over the disgraced John O'Reilly, who was slouched and handcuffed in the chair at the head of the large, rectangular oak conference table. The blond man looked up at Rose with icy blue eyes and approached her in the hallway, out of the prisoner's range of hearing, shaking his head.
"I already know what you want, Rose, and the answer's no," Jake growled.
Rose glared at him evenly. "Goddamn it, Jake, let me talk to him! This will undoubtedly be my last chance. Dad sacked me."
Jake stared at her pleading amber orbs for a few moments before relenting. "Fine," he said, rubbing a hand over his face. "You've got five minutes. I'll be over here." He shot her a warning glance and then walked to the corridor.
Rose turned toward the scruffy American, who barely acknowledged her presence. "Go home, Rose," she heard his baritone voice rasp. The blonde shook her head and crossed her arms. "Not until I have my answers. John, I want to help you. Whatever you did, I know you had a reason."
The sandy blond-haired man chuckled humourlessly, gazing down at his rumpled white Oxford that was partially tucked out of his dark trousers. "Isn't obstructing justice reason enough, Agent Tyler?" He looked squarely at her with blank blue eyes. She was now talking to Sergeant John O'Reilly in captivity.
Two could play at this game. "So, Agent O'Reilly, you're freely admitting to perverting justice? Sounds like you're the sacrificial pawn then. After all, an Army Ranger with your record could and would admit to nothing." Rose leant closer to him, purposely invading his space, hissing, "Unless you've cocked up and grown soft and spineless." There was no reaction to her obvious challenge; he merely stared straight ahead. "No?" she continued, raising her voice, "So shagging me was just a part of the bargain with whoever you're workin' for? An easy Limey fuck before she dies? Lie back and think of England?! Look at me, arsehole!" He refused. "Who tried to kill the Doctor?" She grabbed the lapels of his black blazer and jerked him out of his chair, visibly surprising the American. Yet the Cowboy would never hit a lady. Jake ran over to them and disentangled her fists from the accused, who landed back in his chair with a dull thud.
"Rose," he murmured soothingly. She looked upon the American angrily. "Sit there then, Yank. When you get your phone call, do tell Washington to bugger off!" Jake tried to put a comforting hand on her shoulder, but she slapped it away and stormed out of the conference room, slamming the door behind her. The former Torchwood agent walked numbly down the corridor, wanting nothing more than to sink into the floor and disappear.
This was the first time in five months that she had felt so profoundly angry and uncontrolled. It was better than the numbness that had permeated her mind, body and soul for the past five years. Was there any bloke in the entire bloody universe that didn't try to control her or her destiny? Rose suddenly felt nothing but rage and resentment toward the Donna-Doctor, whose previous incarnation had abandoned her on that bloody beach to a world of pain, betrayal and insignificance. She thought that she could trust John O'Reilly, but he turned out to be an American double agent with a secret agenda.
Maybe it was best that she was no longer a part of Torchwood or extra-terrestrial affairs. Maybe this was the universe's way of telling her to move on with her life as best she could.
And then what? Settle? Find a nice bloke, marry him and create more Tylers?
According to her mum, Bev and that little old lady three doors down from her flat, good girls from the estate married a bloke from the neighbourhood and had their first babe by age twenty-one. When she met her first Doctor, all Northern and brooding, he insisted that she leave the domestics outside of the TARDIS. The lack of normalcy and a life of constant running made Rose realise that she didn't do domestics, either, if given the choice. Rose Tyler left home and became the Defender of the Multiverse. Now, she was no longer from the Powell Estate, she was no longer the Doctor's companion and she was no longer a Torchwood agent.
So who was Rose Tyler?
Did she exist anymore?
Had Rose Tyler died valiantly in battle?
"Rose…!" breathed a disembodied voice.
The blonde stopped dead in her tracks and turned to the right, where she spied the Doctor talking animatedly on his Vitexphone. She growled upon spotting the last person, next to John O'Reilly, that she wanted to see. Shaking her head, she continued to the private rooms, where she decided to kip until their arrival in London. Nodding at the flight attendant who was carrying tea and sandwiches for the hungry French youths, she politely moved past the middle-aged woman and found an empty twin bed. Rose stretched along the bed, allowed her head to sink gratefully into the white linen-covered pillow and closed her fatigued eyes.
In what seemed like a single moment's time, Rose blinked to find herself on a sunlit, chilly Northern European beach. She looked down at her designer ensemble that she remembered wearing on board her father's zeppelin; the winter wind cut through her exposed skin like sharp knives. The British woman shivered and rubbed her arms in a futile attempt to get warm.
Why would I go to a beach without a coat? Rose asked herself. Then she realised that she could not remember arriving on the beach.
The beach.
Bloody Norway.
Darlig Ulv Stranden – again.
In a panic, patting her form-fitting trousers for her Vitexphone, she whirled around to find a lanky, brown-haired, blue-eyed man dressed in a fine ivory and lilac suit sitting at a white metal table underneath an ivory beach awning. His posture was relaxed as he smiled faintly and waved her over toward him. "Hello, Rose Tyler. Lovely day for fikapaus outside, no? Come, join me," he gestured to the large silver pot of coffee and shiny tiers of kanelbullar, mazariner and open-faced sandwiches.
Rose squinted, still shivering. "Minister, what are you doing here? How come you're in Norway?"
Karl Björnstjerna shrugged slightly. "Granted, Norway wasn't on my list of ideal places, but you brought us here when you accepted my invitation. If you would," he said, once again gesturing to the table. Rose eyed him suspiciously, then walked slowly to the chair facing the Minister and sat down.
Björnstjerna picked up the silver coffee pot and poured rich black liquid into plain white cups. "I know you British prefer afternoon tea; however, there is something to be said of good coffee and pastry. Do try the kanelbulle."
The blonde chose one of the large cinnamon and cardamom rolls and carefully set it on the same dessert plate next to her coffee. "Ta. How did I get here, Minister? Last I remember, I was on my father's zeppelin. I haven't been here in…"
"Five months," Björnstjerna finished for her. "Bad Wolf Bay, July 2.13. Minutes after you, your mother and the esteemed not-Doctor Noble were abandoned by the real Doctor and his companion. Well, as you remember it."
Rose leant back in the chair, stunned at the Minister's explanation. "But you weren't here. I've never seen you before Paris!"
The Swede shook his head in dismay, taking a sip of coffee. "Rose, dreams, like memories, give the appearance of recollection in linear time, but they're a frozen and an often fragmented emotional construction of a single moment. This place now exists, as we currently observe it, only within you."
"You're inside my mind," concluded Rose in a breathless tone.
"Exactly. Fika would be impossible on Vitexphone. Technology does not always improve life or experience."
"What do you want?" demanded a frightened Rose.
Observing her involuntary shivers, he nodded at her figure. "You must be uncomfortable. Even in July, Bergen can be rather chilly." Suddenly, Rose found herself wrapped in a white faux fur coat that hugged her petite frame like a warm down blanket.
Stunned, she studied the too-blasé demeanour of the Swedish man. "You're not human. Who – what – are you?" she gasped.
His blue eyes sparkled like the cold North Sea churning in the distance. "Ah, so impatient, Ms Tyler. And we're just becoming acquainted. Please do have some pastry. You must be famished."
Rose crossed her arms defiantly. "Not until you demonstrate that you can be trusted. Answer me: who are you?"
Björnstjerna gingerly sipped his coffee whilst watching her glare at him in true Torchwood fashion. Then he shrugged slightly and set his cup down on its saucer. "Who do you want me to be?" he replied. "As I said, this exists only in your mind. I can be anyone." Without warning or sound, the Swede morphed into the silhouette of her father. "I can be Director Pete Tyler, Vitex CEO, love. Like you, I deal in securities," he announced proudly. A moment later, he changed his shape again into a tall, lanky man with sunglasses, dressed in a brown pinstriped suit, blue Oxford, swirly tie and a lighter brown coat. "Oh, I'm sure you recognise this shape. Well, you would. You spent seven, eight years pining after the bloke. But do I have a surprise for you! I just got married to Queen Elizabeth. And, well, she's no longer the Virgin Queen!"
Tears stung Rose's eyes at the man's words. She turned away in an unsuccessful attempt to hide the hurt and pain at seeing him again. "Stop it!" she hissed.
The "Other" morphed back into the tall, middle-aged Swede who reached for his cinnamon roll. "Morphing makes me hungry. As you can tell, I'm no longer young, Rose." He took a bite and hummed his approval. "Despite their gluttony and pandemic obesity problem, humans do not shy away from the good things in life. I rather like that about them. Pick one's poison, as it were." Rose had not shifted from the semi-foetal position away from him. "Really, Rose, don't be like that. The Doctor was a self-righteous wanker, anyway." He took a bite and continued after swallowing. "The self-appointed Defender of the Universe. I could at least understand your desire to Defend the Earth – you're protecting your own people. That is honest work. I have nothing but respect for Torchwood, even if it is childish in its methods. The Doctor, however, killed his own kind and ran away from defending the universe when it suited him. How misanthropic and hypocritical. He never would have loved you. Largely incapable of it, I believe."
Rose turned to Björnstjerna like a wolf ready to attack, her amber eyes flashing pure anger and rage. "Are you responsible for the bombing? Did you kill the Ambassador?"
The man chuckled. "If you're asking whether I orchestrated the bombing, the answer is no. But humans afford to me so many advantages."
"So you took advantage of the situation?" asked Rose sceptically.
The Swede shrugged. "Why not? The Ambassador was uncooperative and the Americans are impulsive idiots. Now," he gestured at her untouched coffee and roll, "if this is to be an interrogation, Rose, I would insist on you accepting my invitation. Otherwise, I might be … too nervous. Fika should never be rushed. Bad things can happen."
Reluctantly, she took a sip of the cooled coffee and a small bite of the kanelbulle. Her eyebrows raised slightly as she chewed the pastry. Though she disliked her coffee companion, Rose had to admit that the coffee and cinnamon roll were exquisitely velvety and sweet in her mouth. She took another bite in the pretence of allowing him the control he wanted.
The Swede smiled slightly. "Now, that's better." He took another slow sip of coffee. "Back to the matter at hand, I heard you caught the bomber. Some FBI Agent, yes?"
Rose did not reply.
"Yes, I believe his name is John O'Reilly. You were close, or so I hear. I wonder what the Doctor," he twirled his finger slightly, "not the halfwit, the real one, would think of your relationship with a terrorist. Tsk, tsk, tsk."
"What do you want, Minister?" she replied in a too-controlled voice.
Björnstjerna's facial expression turned into one of feigned shock. "I'm just trying to answer your questions, Former Agent Tyler. I'm sorry to hear that the Director dismissed you. Mind, I wouldn't have made that decision. Tactically, you're Torchwood's only asset. Now Britain's finest are left with an addict, a halfwit and an office staff of untrained interns to solve the case. Perhaps he'll ask Inspector Lestrade for Mr Holmes's number."
"How do you know all of this?" interjected Rose, whose single human heart began to pound and pump adrenalin at the discovery of what she hoped was untrue.
"You," he replied. "Like it or not, you tell me everything."
XXX
Doctor James Noble shivered involuntarily and felt cold fear pull at his mind. He looked at the Vitexphone in his hand. He was 99.9% sure that it was not Donna; the redhead had, in fact, had a go at him for a solid seven minutes, twenty-three seconds for worrying her like that. However, in spite of Pete's counsel for the Temple-Nobles to leave London straightaway, Donna agreed that the Yank wanker was in dire need of representation. Of course, Donna Noble, former HR at HC Clements, knew the perfect barrister. She and the Doctor agreed to meet at his flat and O'Reilly's barrister would be sent to Agent O'Reilly upon his arrival and incarceration in Great Britain. The Sheep-shagger situation reminded the Doctor of why Lethbridge-Stewart never liked the bloody Yanks. As the former Scientific Liaison to UNIT in Universe Prime, the Doctor knew what the Americans could do to cover up or, more likely than not, further cock up a botched mission. Evidence would disappear – just as had the detonator – and they would receive a shrug and a "Well, the Soviets…" half-arsed apology or the world press to harass them about UFOs over Scotland. Time was not on their side.
The bitter cold chilled him again.
All of a sudden, he felt the sharp pain of a young woman crying in terror. His dark eyes widened and he pulled at his brownish-red hair with both hands. The Doctor knew that sound anywhere and in any time.
Rose!
XXX
Petrified, Rose stared at the man before her. Keep calm and don't listen to him, Tyler, she chastised herself. Realising Björnstjerna's ostensible manipulation, she affixed a bored expression and retorted, "That would imply that you can read my thoughts."
Shaking his head, the Swede took a bite of his cinnamon roll. "Oh come now, Rose, you know I can. Despite your mediocre Torchwood psychic training, your mind is, for the moment, still largely human. So you're like a transmitter without an off-switch."
"Whatch'you mean, 'largely human'?" asked Rose, taking a small sip of coffee. The man merely smirked in response.
Rose frowned. She hated when suspects toyed with her. Yet unlike aliens and humans whom she had interrogated whilst at Torchwood, Karl Björnstjerna hid in plain sight and revealed himself to be an active participant in the game that was being played in Paris. The game that he was playing with her, not with the Doctor or the Director. Sensing her lack of options but to play this elaborate chess game with the Grandmaster, Rose decided to shift her questioning to benefit him.
"So why do you need me? Obviously, you've arranged this afternoon tea of sorts to extract information that you can't get otherwise?" At the Swede's raised eyebrow, Rose's confidence surged. "No, that's not it," she said, craning her neck toward the man. "It's not about information – you could get that easily. You need me to do something."
Björnstjerna smiled and clapped. "Brava, Ms Tyler, though I believe the desire's mutual. As I said before, my work is in securities and recovery."
"But if you can read my mind, then you could theoretically control it. So why are we havin' this conversation?"
"Who says I'm not controlling it?" quipped her interlocutor.
"Then why am I here? Why waste time, Minister?" rebutted Rose.
The Swede slowly smoothed his ivory linen suit and dabbed the corners of his mouth with the white napkin that perfectly matched their surroundings. "It is truly not what you can do for me, but what I can do for you, Rose. I know you're unhappy with the circumstances that have befallen you." At the Briton's silence, he continued calmly. "It's true." Abruptly, their surroundings changed from fika on Bad Wolf Bay to an opaque, fifty-first century-era spaceship stinking of stardust, blood, plasma and decayed organic tissue. Preserved like a painting, Rose inhaled anxiously as she noticed Mickey and a younger version of herself, frozen in time, waiting next to a portal for a Doctor who was detained on the other side by an eighteenth-century French maîtresse-en-titre.
"Why did you bring me here?" she murmured.
"To answer your question," Björnstjerna responded. "This moment shaped you more than any other during your travels with the Doctor. More than when he took your hand at Henrik's. Do you know why?"
"I haven't the slightest idea," Rose deadpanned, refusing to look at him.
He turned to her. "None? You're not a very good liar, Rose. This was the moment when you knew that your precious Doctor, the alien who promised never to leave you behind, would inevitably do so. Not even the very fact that you had saved his life thrice would stop him."
The older Rose tentatively approached her younger self, studying her statue-like figure as though she were a work of Michelangelo's. The statue, dressed in a grey tee-shirt and jeans, stared at the portal helplessly as Mickey looked at his ex-girlfriend with a combination of sympathy and pity. "And how does bringing me here put my mind at ease?" she growled.
"He used your naïveté to get what he needed from you. But it was always unrequited, Rose. You see, he's never been good with his pets, all of whom loved and worshiped him. Yet he's a fickle being, having nearly left all of them. The few whom he did not abandon either left him or died trying. Now, he's left you with a problem – an American one." Suddenly, they were no longer aboard the spaceship, but in a brightly-lit bedroom with pastel-coloured bedding and furnishings. Rose could hear feminine giggling from underneath the baby-blue sheets. A semi-nude John O'Reilly laughed as he attempted to extract the semi-obscured blonde from the bed. The Briton heard herself scream as the American's large hands ensnared her petite frame. Björnstjerna and Rose watched unobtrusively as the Ranger kissed her neck, mumbling, "Gotcha and good morning, sweet."
The Rose in bed grinned impishly and adjusted the spaghetti straps of her ivory satin and lace nightgown. She looked roughly five years older than her counterpart, her golden-blonde curls cascading down her back. John was also a bit older; a few grey streaks around his temples and on the top of his head contrasted with his normally short, light brown hair. Young Rose gulped as she took note of the matching set of platinum wedding bands on their fourth fingers. The older woman bent back to kiss her husband and then dove back under the covers, snickering.
John rolled his eyes and renewed his search. "Goddamn, woman, you're gonna be the death of me. I'm not a spring chicken and you've got to get up and get those pages to your thesis advisor!" As if to agree with John's complaint, they could hear the distant sound of bells from outside their Cambridge flat.
Older Rose pushed back the covered in a huff and pouted at her husband. "And I was having a good morning, ta."
He grabbed her in response and tickled her viciously. "Oi, you bloody cheat!" cried Rose.
"All's fair in love and war, dear!" he growled triumphantly. "Unless you want to agree to an unconditional surrender, to be negotiated in the shower?" He moved his right hand suggestively up Rose's now visible bare leg.
Before the older Rose could reply, the scene froze in place before the voyeurs. "Look at them, Rose. Granted, it's a bit too domestic for me, but as you can see, this will happen in your future. I'm here to offer you … hope," said the Swede.
Rose peered at him sceptically, raising an eyebrow. "How? You could be manipulating the whole thing. As you know, John admitted to retrieving the detonator."
"So he did. But as I said earlier, the Americans are rash as they are stupid. The rash tend to leave bread crumbs," replied Björnstjerna. "Follow the bread crumbs and you shall prove the dear Ranger's innocence and set him free. Though I should warn you that doing so may cost you dearly. But you're used to – no – you crave the gamble!"
Rose fully faced the Swede and crossed her arms in irritation. "And you know this how? You're in his mind, as well?"
The man let out a howling bout of laughter at the petite woman's question, his cold blue eyes sparkling with mirth and amusement. "Oh, heavens no! He's a bit too simple and it takes, shall we say, a special mind to communicate mind to mind. Especially a mind like mine."
"Are you a Time Lord?" breathed Rose.
Björnstjerna chuckled softly, approaching her. He placed his fingers on her right temple and whispered darkly in her ear, "Let me show you."
XXX
"Rose!" shouted the Doctor frantically. He jogged down the corridor, brusquely pushing past the flight attendant, and into the sleeping area. His chocolate-coloured eyes mutated to stormy black upon gazing at the unconscious body of the blonde. Crouching next to her, the Doctor murmured her name into her ear in a first attempt at waking the sleeping beauty. Unresponsive, he pulled her into his lap and shook her. After the second failed attempt, he moaned softly in distress. Left with no other alternative, the Doctor pressed his right hand to her right temple. As he was about to close his eyes, Rose Tyler's amber orbs fluttered open.