5

Andy jogged down the staircase to the underground station to travel home. He crossed to the platform where the lights flashed announcing the arrival of a train in five minutes. The rumbling in the tunnel blends with the footsteps pounding behind him.

A thunderous roar detonates, and the clatter of machine gun fire rattles up above. The flashes from their muzzles burst jagged like lightning. Bullets chew up the concrete, and heat tears through the shrapnel scarred station. Andy ducks and rolls, grabbing for his gun. Where is it?

His head's bare, and he's lost his riot helmet and flak jacket. Fire streaks overhead. He grabs for a stun grenade, anything to lob back at them. Shrieks of metal grinding against metal scream through his head.

He takes a defensive position behind a pillar, his breath ragged.

A stun grenade punches him in the gut, detonating in his face. His nerves scream, sizzle and zap. Electric sparks and arcs stop his heart. He loses control of his arms, legs, voice. The smell of cordite and blood overcomes him.

Am I dead? Where's my partner? Did they take the palace?

A white light blinds him and he feels nothing.

.

.

"Looks like your Mr. Davidson caused quite a commotion at the station," Beryl yawns and thumps her mug of hot chocolate.

Rhys is tired and achy after his cleaning shift at the Mogul Bank building. Leaning over, he kisses his mother's temple. "Thanks for watching Anwen. She asleep?"

"Yeah," she says, more interested in the TV. "I don't think they'll show it again. Maybe they have it on the internet."

Rhys stretches his arms and yawns, trying really hard not to be annoyed. "He's not my Mr. Davidson, and he can shoot up the station for all I care."

So not true. Jitters of anxiety rocket in my gut, and he wonders what happened to Andy. He opens the refrigerator and pours himself a glass of almond milk. Beryl's still clicking, her eyes intent on the laptop screen. He drains the almond milk and rinses out the glass, then steps toward the bedroom.

Anwen's face is pale in the moonlight streaming through the window. Her thumb is stuck in her mouth. Rhys removes it with a pop, and she grimaces, her face twisted as if someone stole a lollipop from her. He wraps the blanket around her, taking care not to wake her. He can't help but kiss her, run his fingers through the fine, silky hair. She smells pure and clean, like soap and powder.

Times like this make it all worthwhile. He'd do anything for Anwen, just like he risked it all for Gwen. Anwen stirs in his arms, mumbling, "Will you love me, Mama?"

Rhys rocks her, and her thumb goes back into her mouth. He thought she was over her mother's constant departures as she seemed satisfied with his explanation of why they both worked, and Nana looked after her sometimes. Well… this was becoming a trend.

Hefting her over his shoulder, he sweeps by the kitchen. Beryl looks over and starts to say something, but Rhys puts a finger over his lips. She loops a plastic bag over his wrist. "A sample of the cookies Anwen and I made."

Anwen sleeps the entire way to the apartment, a cheap ground floor unit south of Thames House. It's actually carved out of someone's house, walled off with two bedrooms, a single bathroom and kitchenette with a separate entrance through a sliding glass door. Nothing in London is truly affordable, but the cleaners at Mogul Bank are paid higher wages than most, and for some perverse reason, he feels at home among the investment bankers working twenty-four by seven in the building. Gwen does not contribute to the rest, clearly the expensive clothes and ever-changing shoes cost money ya know. She has an image to maintain. And a room at Torchwood Three where she has all the 'good gear' for long double shifts.

After tucking Anwen into her bed, he boots up his laptop and scan the local news for Andy Davidson. A headline reads, "PTSD episode hospitalizes former Cardiff Heddlu Officer."

Below it are pictures of Andy, the one on the left showing him in his uniform pre Miracle Day while the one on the right is a mug shot, his eyes glazed as if watching an endless horror flick. Witnesses say Andy freaked out when the train approached the platform. He ran around shouting "Save yourselves, the dead do not die" and pantomiming shooting, fending off unseen attackers like he was in the middle of a riot, until he was shocked by a stun gun wielded by a London Bobby.

Jesus, what DID Andy survive back there?

.

.

Andy mulled over the prescriptions. Antidepressants, anti-anxiety, treatments for bipolar disorder.

"Make sure you take as directed and don't stop or skip a dose," the psychiatrist said. "I also want you to sign up for therapy."

"May I go now?" Andy rubbed the back of his neck. The night spent on the hospital bed was restful, but he didn't deserve to be comfortable.

"Not until after this afternoon's therapy session." The psychiatrist tapped notes into his electronic tablet. "The nurse will give you your first dose."

Andy hated taking drugs. Heck, he'd never even smoked pot. Being out of control or under the influence wasn't safe. His buddies had always riled on him for being boring, a hypervigilant stick in the mud, always prepared, but apparently not enough to save them from a Believer strapped with bombs.

The nurse counted the tablets and handed Andy a cup of water. If he wanted to get out of here, he'd have to convince the doctors of his compliance, so he swallowed the cocktail of pills. "Thank you, ma'am."

He tipped the glass of water back and drank.

"Great," she said, a saccharine smile plastered on her face. "Now I can let your visitor in."

Visitor? Why would Sawyer lose precious hours busking and visit him in this depressing place?

The grey walls were enough gloom to drive the laughter out of a troop of clowns… not that clowns had anything to laugh about when everyone was laughing at them.

Andy pinned his gaze to the doorway, his ears pricked as footsteps approached.

"Are you a relative?" the nurse asked.

"Friend." Rhys stood at the doorway. His hair was soft around her face, and he wore a turquoise polo shirt and jeans.

"Friend?" he muttered, unable to keep from staring at him.

"I thought you could use some company." Rhys set a pink plastic container on the bed tray. "Cookies. My mother and Anwen made them."

Andy's throat froze, and he had to consciously close his mouth so he wouldn't look like a gaping idiot. "Th-thanks for coming. I don't know what to say."

"My pleasure." Rhys opened the box. "Christmas cookies. Have one?"

"Uh, sure." Andy blinked to reassure himself he was truly there. He picked a lopsided green tree cookie with red and white sprinkles. "Thanks."

"May I sit?" Rhys gestured to the chair at the side of the bed.

"Be my guest." The cookie was sweet in his mouth, buttery and fragrant with vanilla. Frosted and sprinkled by Anwen's little fingers.

Rhys propped himself on the side of the chair, sitting ramrod straight "How are you feeling?"

"Okay." He hated the sympathetic look on Rhys's face. He didn't need his pity, and he shouldn't be in this hospital bed. There wasn't anything wrong with him. He set the half-uneaten cookie on the tray. "Thanks for dropping by. I need to get going."

Rhys's gaze swept over the bare room, taking in the fact he had no silverware, no lines, or cords, not even sheets thin enough to make a noose. All that was missing were the padded walls. "Are you telling me to leave?"

"No, mate. I'm not up for visiting. I have work to do. Places to go."

"Indeed." Rhy scoffed "I didn't say there's anything wrong with you. I thought you needed a friend, but if you don't, I have lots to do."

"I appreciate you coming," Andy said. "I'm just surprised."

"Why? Because you think I'm Gwen's whipping boy?"

Andy cleared his throat, but his voice was too husky, thick. "I could use a friend. Thanks."

The colour rose in Rhys's cheeks, and he blinked. "I never thanked you for finding Anwen, and I was rude to you yesterday. Forgive me?"

"There's nothing to forgive." Andy forced his attention to the sugar cookies. "Especially when you come bearing Christmas gifts."

A smile played on Rhys's face, brightening his eyes. "We're having a toy drive at our church this Saturday and need people to wrap the gifts. There's a meal for all the volunteers and, well, if you're not doing anything …"

Warmth spread over Andy's chest and his heartbeat quickened. Was he asking him on a date? Or was it simply a mission of mercy? Making sure he had a hot meal? Whichever, he'd cared enough about him to visit and invite him to church. Maybe he was receptive to him being more than friends. If Gwen was not in the picture… he didn't talk about her. Was she gone?

"Sounds great," he replied. "But I'd rather take you to dinner afterwards. What's your favourite food?"

"Oh, I couldn't do that to you." Rhys wiped his hands on his jeans.

"Rhys." Andy took his hand and pressed it. "What's hard is not having a friend. Someone to talk to."

"I know, Andy but… Gwen is going to have a cow if we do more than something… ah… open. I'm already taking a chance to come see you, but I wanted to help."

Shot down. He saw him as a charity case, a chance to do good … a troubled old friend in need of Christ and a hot meal. Andy dropped Rhys's hand.

"I'm doing fine without you, Rhys. I'm glad I helped Anwen, and honestly, I'm not interested in being her pseudo father or stalking you or getting a handout from your church. Whatever you think you need me to forgive is forgiven. Whiteboard's clean."

Rhys was not sure what that meant.

He wished Gwen was around to talk to, to ask questions of but as always… she was at Torchwood.