Oh McDonald, you.

17h of April, 2012. Scotland

They had agreed to meet in the early hours of the morning before travelling to work in separate directions and as strangers. McDonald had waited outside her apartment block, with his hands thrust deep in his coat pockets while he stamped his feet to keep warm, burying his face in the scarf around his neck. He'd been pleased to see her when she emerged – even though she was using a disguise of a layer of makeup and her dyed hair pulled back in some fancy style, McDonald had felt something inside him grow warmer at the sight of her.

'Do you remember the plan?' She'd asked, and when McDonald had confirmed he did so, he wasn't lying. He had wondered around his apartment the night before reciting everything – while he watched telly, while he cracked open a beer, while he brushed his teeth, and the last thing he remembered before he fell asleep was The Plan.

'Good,' she'd said. 'Meet me at the high street after work. We'll decide what happens next then.' And then, then she had pecked him on the cheek before striding brusquely away to get out of the cold, not looking back. McDonald cheek had been warm where her lips had lingered, and he'd found his hand brushing the spot of skin without his knowledge. He'd stuffed his treacherous hand back in his pocket and then took the long way to work.

And now he was standing by the printer in his office. It had been dusty, but it still turned on and was faithfully chugging out the email from TORCHWOOD HQ – the email crafted by the Assassins.

He rubbed his face with his hand. Bloody hell. If I fuck this up, then it's not just me looking at the inside of an Abstergo prison. He knew where Lucy Stillman was being kept – he'd put her there, and despite the immense guilt he now felt for it, he didn't want anything to do with it.

The last page came out, and the printer put itself on standby with a hum. McDonald reached out and took the papers – one with his email and the other from HQ. Two pieces of paper, and one fucked up situation.

Christ.

He steeled himself.

You can do this. You're being watched, remember? The Assassins'll jump out of a plant pot and stab anyone who's a threat.

Strangely enough, it wasn't a comforting thought. He folded up the papers, put them in the pocket of his uniform, opened the door to his office and walked out into the corridor. It was silent, and so his footsteps seemed louder than he actually were. He was going bonkers, he was sure of it.

He approached his old office – Vidic's office. Through the frosted glass, he could see dim figures – two, blocking his view of the desk. Hmm.

Well, it was now or never.

Actually, he didn't really have a choice. It was now or get the fuck on with it.

With a hesitant hand, he knocked on the glass. The muffled conversation in the office fell silent at once, and then; a clear shout of authority sounded.

'Enter!'

McDonald's stomach attempted to crawl out of his throat. Oh Christ.

His hand fell to the doorknob, and he opened it, and found himself under the stare of two men clad in black leather and motorcycle helmets. He didn't know how they were staring at him, but mother of Christ were they staring. Hard.

Does my day get any weirder, or is this it?

Vidic cleared his throat pointedly, and McDonald's eyes snapped from the men to him.

'Oh. Uhm, sir – news from HQ. About the funds.'

Vidic's eyes suddenly glittered. 'I'll call you later.' He said to the two men, and waved them out of the office. Their leather gear creaked as they shoved past McDonald, who teetered on the spot, unable to stop staring at them – and they shut the door behind them.

'Well, McDonald?'

McDonald snapped out of it.

'Oh, yeah. Uhrm, I emailed HQ, said something about the faults in our network system and all that stuff before your lot came in and fixed everything. They won't grant the funding for everything, but, uh, there's a lot they will.' He offered the papers to Vidic, who took them from him and read them through. McDonald hoped to God that Vidic couldn't see him sweating.

'Very clever, McDonald. It was a good thing you didn't report all this before as faulty.'

'Yeah, well, not many aliens take a fancy to Scotland,' Unlike you.'You should see the Welsh records – they're overrun with 'em.'

'Indeed.' Vidic said. 'It's a very tidy sum they've arrived to, isn't it? And that further just-in-case million is awfully convenient, don't you think?'

McDonald felt his feet freeze to the floor as adrenaline poured down his legs in terror. Shit. Shit shit shit fuck.

LIE.

'Oh uhm, yeah. Yeah, I thought so too, but there you go.'

Well, you might as well shout at him that it's from the Assassins and the receptionist's got a missing finger.

Vidic's gaze rested on him for a moment too long. It took all of McDonald's will power to keep staring back.

'Hmm,' Vidic finally said. 'Very well. Let me know when the funding's in the account.' He made a dismissive wave – McDonald nodded and bowed himself out of his old office, closing the door behind him.

He practically ran up the corridor and threw himself back in his old office, where he took a bottle of brandy hidden his bag and chugged back as much as humanly possible without drowning in it.

Drink is never the answer, children. Review! :D