Coffee.
It's the first thing Lois is given as a Torchwood employee. She likes coffee, provided that it's filled with enough cream and sugar, and it is. She doesn't know how they got her order—did they guess or look it up?—and meets eyes with Tish across the room; she's laughing slightly at the look on Lois's face.
She's new here, too. Not as new as Tish, but new enough to still marvel at the job.
Lois marvels, too, but she's scared. She joined Torchwood because she committed treason. That's not something that goes away quickly. Will she have to do it again?
She hopes not. She likes Torchwood and wants to grow comfortable working there, but the coffee is uncanny and the base is temporary, and one agent is away on sick leave and another is pregnant, and it's just them—Martha, a doctor; Mickey, a techie, a fighter, a jokester; Andy, a former policeman who seems far too enthusiastic about this; Rhys, a haulage manager; Tish, a former PA; all answering to three half-absent agents that look like they want to be anywhere other than this rented office. Something qualifies them all for the job, and Lois isn't sure she wants to know what it is.
.oOo.
Tea.
Torchwood runs on coffee but Lois is now comfortable enough to make her drink of choice. Her mum made it for her when she was sick, when she was stressed, when she was thirsty. She's retired now, as is her dad, and they see each other on holidays and video calls.
Making tea soothes Lois almost as much as drinking it. She has a constant supply in her desk and has brought in a colorful kettle that now lives next to the coffee machine.
She makes herself tea every time she comes in, drinking it along with the coffee that gets passed around. Gwen drinks it, too, though not by choice, always laughing and apologizing, though not to Lois, when she pours herself a cup.
Lois makes herself a cup then looks over and makes one for Tish. She doesn't like coffee, either, but needs the caffeine to keep going.
It also helps that Tish beams at her when Lois brings over the cup.
They don't talk, not more than the rest of the team does, but Lois wants to. She's scared. Just a little. She hasn't processed the mess with the 456 yet. She should. She knows that. But it's not like anyone around her is a good example, and it's so easy to just keep going, keep going, keep going—things just fall to the wayside. Like friends. A full night's sleep. The feeling of safety.
She may not ever feel safe again. That was made clear. But she can get close to her teammates: they look over their shoulders, too.
.oOo.
"Pastries."
They have a day off. Lois didn't know that. Neither did Tish, nor did anyone else, and Jack chased them away from the Torchwood office with promises to call them if anything comes up. Lois may not know much about him, but she knows they won't be called.
She stands in front of the building for a moment, dumbstruck, unable to comprehend Tish's words until she repeats herself: "Pastries."
"Pastries?"
"Yes, I want breakfast." Tish grins. "Pastries. Some say indulgence, but I say eat whatever you want. Coming?"
Lois hurries to catch up.
.oOo.
They eat their pastries in the park.
The next week, they're back again, empty-handed, walking through the grass and looking at the flowers. Lois can hardly believe it's been over nine months since she found out about aliens, that she's been working with Torchwood for so long.
She heard Martha and Mickey whispering that they used to joke about mortality; not anymore. Lois knows it's because of the same close call that caused Jack to bring in so many new people.
To think: death. Death, and no more seeing the sky. Feeling the earth. Eating pastries. Talking with friends. No more living. She knows it, in the abstract. But until the 456, Lois's life was filled with the usual concerns; a bit different due to her government jobs, but nothing otherworldly.
"I spent a year imprisoned by a homicidal alien," Tish says as they walk past a gardenia bush. "A paradox year. They turned back time and saved us all, but it still happened. Still odd to see it all so normal."
A woman runs by, panting, music playing in her ears. A couple sits on the grass having a picnic, bickering over something or other, hugging, squealing when one of them takes out a ring box. An old man walks past them with a child, talking about shadows and leaves and the sun.
Lois nods and echoes, "Odd."
.oOo.
Another day, another park: a conservatory, a rose garden, butterflies flittering around them, sweet flower scents rising into the air.
It was Lois's idea.
They spend enough time in the park, and as fun as it is, it's so normal. Maybe someone's proposing a few trees away, and sometimes, at night, a Weevil runs through it. But just as often, people walk through it to go to work—people like her and Tish, but different.
At the botanical garden, at least, no one's there for routine.
In the warmth of the greenhouse, she feels comfortable enough to take Tish's offered hand. It's warm, humid. A fly trap closes a few feet away. Fish swim in the gurgling water of an artificial pond. A butterfly lands on Tish's head like a fairytale.
Unlike the park, which is part of the real world, the garden is removed.
They leave the greenhouse and walk among the roses.
Tish strays from the path and approaches a yellow bush, kneeling below it to smell one of the blooms. She grins up at Lois and gestures her closer.
Years ago, when Lois was a little girl, she visited a garden with her parents and strayed onto the grass. She remembers the shame of an old lady yelling at her for ruining the sanctity of the garden, remembers sticking close to her mother's skirt for the rest of the visit, not coming out even when they approached her favorite flowers.
Now, she smiles and steps off the path, kneels next to Tish and closes her eyes as she leans into the flower.
.oOo.
"I got tickets to the science museum."
Tish looks hopeful.
Oh. She's beautiful.
"Don't we work in a science museum?" she asks sardonically when the thought appears.
Tish laughs instead of getting angry at Lois for a perceived rejection. "But it's different. They have interactive exhibitions—we have them here, too, I know—"
"I didn't mean it."
"I know you didn't." Tish takes her hand. "Come on!"
She doesn't say: maybe it can show us the beauty of innovation, not just its uses in defense.
Lois thinks it anyway.
She hopes it works. Even weeks ago, she wouldn't have hoped, stepping slowly back into the real world and away from paranoia unsure if her journey would ever feel comfortable.
She leans over Tish's shoulder and reads the computer screen listing the museum's activities.
.oOo.
Lois steps closer to Tish as a man walks towards them, taking up far more than his side of the street with his briefcase and coat slung over his arm. She laughs as he walks past them without a glance—work, maybe? He's focused, fast. Even at her most comfortable, Lois never walked with such purpose.
"I always expect it to be dark when I leave a museum," she says when they cross the corner and the sun blares into their faces. She takes a pair of sunglasses out of her purse and takes hold of Tish's hand again. "Like a cinema."
Tish laughs. "Cinema, I get, but museum?"
"It's timeless. Part of me thinks no time passed outside, the other is sure that everything did." Tish hums. Lois squeezes her hand. "In a good way. It's fun."
"Safe."
One day, Lois imagines that a museum will become infested with aliens and Torchwood will have to take care of it.
Today is not that day.
Today, she walks down the street hand-in-hand with her girlfriend, blending in, part of the normal world but still herself, and finally feels whole.