The next morning, Rose slept in. She didn't mean to—hadn't even really meant to fall asleep at all, but sometime around five o'clock, everything caught her up and she drifted off on the couch as initially planned. It had been soon after the Williamses had gone back to bed. Ice cream and chatting turned out to be just the thing to soothe the nerves and remind everyone just how necessary a good night's sleep was. For their health. For their relationships, their sanity. They weren't in secondary school anymore.
When she woke up, she seemed to be the only one. Because there weren't any windows in the main area, Rose had a hard time believing the clock when it said it was past eleven. She snatched her hoodie from the coffee table, went to the kitchen to throw a bit of water on her face, and retrieved her bag. Had to stop delaying the inevitable sometime.
But as she opened her mobile, still there was nothing. No message light. No missed anythings, not even a voicemail from Mickey. Hadn't he wondered at all why she hadn't come by Torchwood yet today?
A thud came from the hall and Rose glanced over a shoulder.
Will was walking out into the open, unbalanced and sluggish, like a puppy hitting upon a good sunbeam. His hair was very ruffly and looked soft with sleep, and neither of his eyes seemed all the way open. He'd slept in his clothes. His coat seemed wrinkled and warm and huggable, and one of his wrists had the imprint lines of a sheet on it.
He might have been headed for the kitchen, only he saw Rose and pulled up short.
"Mornin'," Rose offered, tongue playing with her teeth at the sight of his expression.
Will blinked several times, and with every blink he seemed more wide-awake. "Ah. Hello. Blimey, is it morning?" he greeted, voice hoarse. He swiped at his hair and tried again, much less raspy this time. "Sleep well?"
"S'pose," Rose said. She glanced down at her phone, thankful for something to do. "Don't you get reception up here?"
"I expect so. Usually." Will kept blinking, furrowing his brow at her. He pulled his hoodie up over one shoulder where it had been falling off, then came down to the living room level to join her. "Why? Work trouble, at this hour?"
"S'almost midday," Rose informed him, grinning.
"You slept in," he surmised.
"You slept in," she shot back.
"Yeah. Well." He blinked down at her, looking in between her eyes. "Busy night."
Rose felt her grin getting cheeky and made a valiant effort to temper it. This was getting difficult, having to pack down every Tyler woman instinct she'd ever been born into. She met his gaze for a moment, found it was still very green and very sweet, and she took in a short, head-clearing gulp of air. Returned to her phone.
"Still got a signal," she said blithely, exhaling. "Wonder what's keepin' Mum; usually she'd have the whole team out lookin' for me by now."
Will's eyebrows drew together. "Right. Right, yes! The team. So!" He swung his arms a little. "You'll be off, then, I suppose? Tell them about the statues?"
"Should've told 'em already," Rose admitted. "S'just…I dunno where to begin. And—I wasn't—really s'posed to be there—what, what is it?" She broke off, dropping her phone arm to narrow her eyes at him. "What's that look for?"
Will was watching her with one side of his mouth quirked up. "Nothing, sorry, it's just—are you always like this?"
"Like what?" Rose prepared herself to be offended.
"You break the rules and then you pretend you're sorry," Will pointed out, scrutinizing her.
Goodness, but he was making this harder and harder, wasn't he? Rose's mouth opened, fell into another grin, moved a bit, and nothing came out. She tried again, blinking, tried to look more adult and less silly adolescent. "No but—wasn't it you tellin' me to get my coat?" she replied.
"And you listened," Will countered, flicking up one of the drawstrings on her hoodie to prove it. "You like breaking the rules."
"Sometimes." Rose's tongue traced her top row of teeth. "Sort of. But—" She rolled her eyes, because he was going soft at her and she didn't know what to do besides shift her weight so she could move backward without looking obvious about it. "Only when it's for a good reason."
"The right thing to do, you mean."
Rose nodded. She closed her mouth, trying to cage the grin. Will's eyes were hooded, looking back at her with such admiration, Rose felt like she was standing under a very bright strobe light in a club somewhere. She needed to get out of this flat, get back to real life.
"Right," she exhaled, "gotta go. Thanks for the…" She shoved a stray hair out of her way, sniffing. Huffing. "Um. Just. Thanks."
Will chortled, hand flicking to tug at his shirt collar.
But even as they were shuffling in the living room, neither able to keep eye contact for very long, it was like no sense of awkwardness Rose had ever felt before. She didn't turn and head for the door, and Will wasn't leaving either. She didn't want to go. She could have to kicked herself for it, and she might be going a bit mad, but it couldn't be helped. She liked Will. He was now more than just good company. It was only awkward because she didn't want to go home, she realized. Because she didn't feel strange.
She looked at him for one heartbeat, two, and in that tiny amount of time she wondered petulantly why he and his friends had to leave. Why couldn't they just stay? With or without the near-kiss at two in the morning, they would've grown close, she knew. Maybe all four of them would've been mates, she and Will especially. But they were going away.
He was staring back at her, too, the same lingering way. Will's face was slack and open and kind, just as it usually was, but there was a nervousness to it. And more softness than ever. Like he'd carried the warmth from his room last night with him. His jaw worked; he seemed to be lost in thought, but he went on watching Rose. Warm. Fond.
Sometimes it was as if everything good that ever came her way since Jimmy Stone was constantly falling out of her life. Rose was like a toddler dropping toys off the side of a boat, helpless to do anything but watch. Was she destined to lose everyone that might make her feel like herself again?
Then all at once, standing there with Will for those few quiet seconds, she felt like running back to the mansion, locking her door. Never coming out again. Because she'd lost enough, and she hadn't been careful here.
"Rose—" Will suddenly began, but she cut him off.
"Anyway," Rose hitched her bag's strap up higher on her shoulder. She forced out a half-chortle. "Think I'll start with work. S'easier than dealin' with my mum, so—see ya—"
"I'll come with you."
She paused up on the dining room level, turning around too quickly. She almost knocked into him; he was behind her now. "What?"
"Go on, say I can," Will insisted, eyes flicking back and forth between hers again, sliding his hands into his trouser pockets. She got the feeling he did it to keep from fidgeting a bit more. "I've come this far. Hey? And I can help explain, be another eyewitness. Don't people get special clearance for surviving toothy angel ladies?"
Rose floundered for a moment. Stared at him, mouth moving wordlessly. She wasn't supposed to bring in outsiders to Torchwood unless strictly necessary—only if they'd seen too much, or they were being interrogated for a case, or they were being brought in to apply for staff—and even then, even then, most visitors were led to believe they were entering some sort of dodgy government B-Lister facility. Like a hiring agency or a clump of low-ranking offices. Will was just a civilian. A cheery, helpful civilian with twinkling eyes and a penchant for stumbling. Will should not be invited to come.
"Okay," she said. And wanted to bite her tongue off.
"Okay! Back in a tic, just need to…er, change." Will smiled his smile and darted off to his room. He paused at the doorframe, leaning out to point at her. "Oi. Don't disappear!"
Then he dove out of sight.
At once, Rose commenced mental chastising and rationalizing. Two for one special.
What am I doing? It's all right, you can explain. Mickey's gonna love this. Oh my god, Mickey. Pete. Yeah, well done, Rose, you'll be sacked for this. Back to the shops. First Angels, now bringin' a stranger into work. Getting as bad as the Doctor. Wish he'd turn up. He's not here, and you know that. I'm starved. What would he say? What would he do? Need more sleep. Will deserves to come; don't he? Saved my life. Won't understand, it'll be too much. Angels weren't too much. Still here. What am I doing? God, but he's pretty. All right then, Jackie. Clear off. Stupid. Stupid girl. Why's it like this anyway, why? What is it with him? Oh my god, what am I doing?
Just as she was trying to formulate some way of dismissing Will, some way of telling him he actually couldn't come, perhaps faking an illness of some kind—yes, or pretending Jackie had called after all and she needed go home—alone—he came back into sight.
He was in another hoodie, a different one, creamy with jagged vertical brown stripes up-and-down it. Like dribbles of chocolate. It was still woolly, still oversized. The tee shirt beneath, pale and desaturated and almost minty green, might have had some sort of logo on it at one time, but that had faded and been washed off now. Trousers were black, trainers didn't match. There were badgers on his socks. Will looked a bit fresher now, too, as though he'd found some water to splash against his face. As he reached the dining area, resituating the hood on his back with both hands, he blinked winningly at her out of the top of his eyes and Rose forgot all her excuses.
"Right," she said, tongue pressed hard against her cheek. Trying not to let him see how annoyed she'd become—none of it was directed at him, after all. "Better let me do the talkin'."
When they reached the main hub of communications at Torchwood, Mickey, Sally, and Jake were already there. Rose had called Mickey and on the third try, he finally picked up. Apparently, they'd been tracking down and then questioning poor Laura Campbell and Cathy Barnes all day yesterday, but hadn't deployed anyone to 310 Hettie Row yet. Mickey said something about needing proper preparation in order to engage what might be there when a team did arrive. "I think a couple of really big guns can't miss," Mickey had said on the phone, "but what do I know, right, nobody listens to me. Not like I have more experience an' all—" and he'd continued complaining the entire time Rose and Will had been on the bus. Rose had been glad of this; it meant Mickey was less likely to ask her where she'd been. It wasn't until they left the bus and started down the street toward headquarters that Rose was able to interrupt.
She'd told Mickey to get Jake and Sally and meet her in the hub. When he'd asked why, all Rose said was, "I'll explain when I get there, don't fuss—I don't wanna say it all again later." Then she'd hung up before he could reply.
"Got a gob then, your Mickey," Will noticed, smirking. His shoulder brushed hers often as they rushed across the road toward the big, abandoned-looking cement building on the outskirts of the city.
"He's not mine," Rose reminded him, rolling her eyes, ignoring the way he grinned to himself. "Anyway, he's always like that. Whingin'. Football or…pizza toppings or the world endin', don't matter." Then, because she felt badly for slandering her old friend to her new one, she added, "We can trust him, though."
The hub was fairly empty apart from one or two techies going in and out. It was usually like this midday. Sally was the first person to notice them behind her desk; Jake and Mickey were towering over it, lost in some sort of argument with one another as usual. Jake liked to wind Mickey up—liked to wind everyone up, Rose was learning. It was his special way of making friends, and it suited Mickey perfectly because Mickey was easy to wind. Not Sally. Sally could never be taken in; she was too clever. Provocations slid right off her like raindrops on oil. She seemed to be making herself useful, engrossed in pictures that were obviously Hettie Row's big house, even at a distance, on her screen. The moment she saw Rose and Will, she slapped the top of her desk to get the boys' attention, nodding amusedly to the newcomers.
Mickey gave a shout and a big, pointed grin. "Ahh, so that's what you've been up to, eh?" He looked Will up and down as Rose and the toy builder came down the carpeted levels toward them. "Jackie said so, but I said there was no way, ha. Shoulda known."
Rose gave him the most murderous look she could conjure, deciding it was safest not to respond. In her peripherals, Will didn't seem to be paying attention anymore, looking around with his whole body turning.
Jake followed Mickey up immediately with, "Pete's been in a right mood all mornin' thanks to you. Well done."
"Isn't he here?"
"Nah, gotta Vitex meetin' in town."
Rose thanked every star she'd ever said goodnight to, blowing out her cheeks and sending Mickey another look, a relieved one he returned with a smirk.
Sally cleared her throat loudly. "So. Hi, who's your friend?"
"Er. Sorry, yeah. This's…Will." Rose turned, shedding her bag, to gesture with her nose and chin.
Will had picked up an overturned book that had been sitting on Sally's desk and was reading the inside cover, clearly in want of something to do with his hands. When Rose said his name, he looked up, smile making his ears bob, and quickly set the book back down.
"I'm Jake." Jake nodded, unsmiling. He was forever going to be the suspicious sort.
"Mickey," Mickey said, dipping forward to grasp Will's hand.
Will's eyebrows went up. "Oh, you're Mickey, good, hello. Actually, you look familiar, have we met?"
Mickey's mouth pulled down at the edges. "Don't think so."
"Really. Something about the eyes, I reckon. No. Voice? Maybe you've just got one of those…faces." Will tilted his head. He hadn't let go of Mickey's hand, and Mickey shot Rose a glance that said, This one's weird.
She pursed her lips at him. Yeah, noticed, thanks.
Will turned before Sally could speak, dropping Mickey's hand, and snapped his fingers at her. He pointed between her and Rose. "Hang on, don't say it—Sally the backup, yes?"
"Yep." Sally grinned at him.
"That book is sad," Will told her bluntly, flicking the book's spine. "Your book. Read the cover. Sorry, couldn't resist. Anyway, why d'you want to read something sad?"
"It's happy for deep people," Sally replied, grin stretching wider.
Everybody kept giving Rose glances while Will made himself known. Mickey's was the worst, because it said the most, and because Rose understood his face better than anybody else's. He thought she'd been out with Will all night—well, he was partly right, and that explained why Mum hadn't called, but the way he kept showing his teeth at her in that cheeky smile told her they suspected her of partying rather than investigating anything. She couldn't wait to set him straight, wipe that stupid expression clean off. The most frustrating part was that she knew Mickey, and she knew just from the way he was standing and the way he'd been their whole lives that he was pleased. He, of all people, was pleased at the idea that she'd been out with Will. Because he cared about her, and everyone thought they knew what she needed, and they kept on thinking it was Will.
Like she didn't know anything.
Jake, for his part, looked impatient and a little on edge. He never liked new people coming into Torchwood. Ever since his Preacher days, he'd had it in for any fresh blood trying to join the fight to defend this Earth. Nobody could ever be trusted until they'd nearly died for him (or wore an old friend's face), nobody was better at wielding weapons than he was, nobody deserved all the information. With Jake, everything had to be earned. He'd been through a lot, so that was all right, Rose could understand it. She hadn't expected him to so much as nod at Will, but at least he wasn't letting loose with too many growly questions straight off.
Sally kept darting her brown irises at Rose and smirking away. It was a girl-smirk, a smirk that said Will had nice hair and good eyes and didn't they both just know it? Rose had to push her lips tightly together to keep from returning it.
"What, we're just allowed to bring in strays now, is that it?" Jake asked gruffly. Here we go, thought Rose. "Bring me dog, I could. And my nan, she's just started using MyWay. She could have your desk," he said to Sally, sneering. Sally ignored him.
"No, look, Will's the one who gave us the tip," Rose started, speaking mainly to Sally. "Went with me to the house—"
"You went to the house?" Sally raised her eyebrows. "Both of you?"
"After Pete told you off?" Mickey whistled, low. "Still not bad for a first date, then, are ya Rose—"
"Oh, you can shut up—"
"Sorry," Will broke in, "when you say Pete, all of you, d'you mean Water-Lite Pete? Your Pete?" he added, turning to Rose.
Rose could see she had a bit of extra explaining lined up. "He's…sort of my boss. Um. Our boss."
"Not my boss," Jake muttered.
Sally picked up a water bottle and took a swig. "'Scuse me. The house?"
Rose swung her bag down on Sally's desk to quiet them all, leaned back against the wood, and started obligingly with Hettie Row. She divulged in a bit of a rush, trying to get through it without too many interruptions. Jake seemed to have taken it upon himself to stand in for Pete in terms of reaction; the glower on his face got deeper and deeper as she spoke. Will did try and help, several times, jumping in the way he had with Amy and Rory to explain the scariest or weirdest portions of the adventure. Sally was typing, taking notes every time Rose glanced at her, but that was part of her job anyway. Mickey kept making little noises of laughter, or else cursing quietly.
"So I was right, wasn't I?" he said, as soon as Rose had finished. "It is aliens!"
Will's head flicked toward him. "Aliens?"
Mickey twitched a wolfy grin at Rose. He seemed to be having a very good time. "Oho, haven't got that far, then."
Rose wanted to throw Sally's mouse at that grin. When she looked at Will, he was staring at her, the whites of his eyes popping to match his coat. "We don't know yet—"
"So, these things, whatever they are," Sally said. "You said they move when you're not looking? But how can they be moving, they're statues."
"Aliens," Mickey insisted.
"S'pose it's gotta be," agreed Jake, glancing with an eyeroll at Mickey. He always had an eyeroll ready when Mickey got something before he did. "Oi, and what did you think you were doin' there with him," he added, jerking his head at Will, "without callin' for backup?"
"Just what I said," Will said, his little quirk of the mouth visibly disarming Jake. He had taken a position close beside Rose, to Mickey's endless delight, sitting on the desk with his hands gripping the edge and his feet swinging almost imperceptibly. "Well, sort of. She thought the banana was enough."
"You what?"
"And after you got told to leave it alone," Mickey pointed out jauntily. "That's more like it!"
"Well, paid off, didn't it?" Rose retorted. "Now we know what we're up against, what's takin' the people."
"Yeah, but are they taking the people? Look." Sally asked. She motioned for them to come and look at her computer screen, and everyone gathered around behind her, jostling one another for a better view.
Onscreen, the pictures of Hettie Row had been enlarged digitally, blown up with Sally's extra-special Torchwood tech to reveal pieces of the Angels in each scene. Some were just shadows or elbows, and one was the whole thing—frozen in the hall the way Rose and Will had first seen it. Jake made an appreciative noise in his throat, said something like creepy under his breath.
"I get that they're not ordinary statues, yeah, but it can't be them alone. Because if they can't move unless you're looking at them, once they killed a person, wouldn't they just be…stuck?" Sally licked her lips, clicking through the photos. "I mean, this shouldn't be possible. Even if they are aliens—" Rose heard Will's breath hitch beside her, "—it's like with whoever took these photos, they're not getting everyone who goes in, are they?"
"Didn't get you two," Jake grunted, looking between Will and Rose.
"There has to be something more," Sally went on. "You didn't see any bodies or anything?"
"Err. Er, no," Will replied before Rose could speak, blinking a lot. His eyes were fixed on the photo of the whole Angel in the hall. "No, no bodies. Nobody."
"Saw a car, though," Rose reminded them. "That landlord bloke, his car. It was parked round the back; door was open and everything."
"But you didn't see any actual people?" Sally pressed.
Rose and Will both shook their heads at her.
"Then it must be something else," Sally said again. "Because if they were killing people, those bodies would be there too, wouldn't they?"
"Can we stop saying bodies," Will muttered, licking his lips. He was ignored.
"Not if the aliens gobbled 'em up," Mickey offered to Sally, eyes going wide. Jake grinned, snorting.
"Can we stop saying aliens."
"You think they're eating them, that's sick," Rose scoffed at Mickey, turning sideways and reaching back to shove at Mickey's shoulder.
"No, but that's what I'm saying," Sally cut in. She spread her fingers, twisting in her chair. "They can't be eating them either."
"Oh, is that right, what d'you know?" Mickey huffed. "Seen things, I have. Seen more'n you."
"If they're aliens, they can do all sorts," Jake added.
Sally raised her eyebrows at them both. "If they can only move while someone's looking at them, and they kill people, like—" She glanced at Will, "—like your Stacy, sorry, or this Barnes man, then—the moment somebody died they'd be stuck again. Just stuck. They couldn't move because the dead person wouldn't be looking anymore."
Jake whistled. "What's your salary like then, Sparrow? Decent?"
"It's common sense," Sally told him with an almost-smile, mouth twisting like her chair. "Even if I haven't seen things."
"But they were reachin' for us," Rose protested. She looked between their faces, straightening. "They wanted to touch us, I saw it. Wasn't anything else there but them, and—everybody else who went in's disappeared. All those people, all them that's gone missing, they went round that house, and they disappeared. S'gotta be the Angels."
"Nope. No. Still doesn't make sense," Jake was wagging his head. "Sorry, need more. That, there," he pointed at the photos, "that's just a statue. What is that, a disguise? How can it stop movin' just 'cos someone's looking, like it's a proper statue?"
A single clap.
"Well, it's your basic quantum Zeno effect, isn't it? Atom particles frozen under continued observation, photons knocking about and popping in and out of the human eye. Quantum-locked. Stuck."
Everyone turned to stare at Will.
His hands still together, he blinked wearily at them. Will's mouth was slightly open, and he heaved in a breath. Green eyes went very glassy, misty, until they drifted over to meet Rose's. They cleared and he looked startled, like he'd just woken up after falling out of bed.
"What?" he said. He almost seemed to be asking himself.
Rose's own mouth had gone limp. It took her a second to form words, trying hard not to smile because Mickey was watching her. "You been holdin' out, where's that been all this time?"
"Where's what been?" His eyes stopped on her almost-smile; he hardly appeared to be listening.
"Quantum what-was-it?" Rose prompted. "Atom…particles and things?" She turned fully around to face him, crossing her arms. Heard Sally click her tongue somewhere below in the chair.
"Uh." Will shook his head, shutting his eyes. "Uh, sorry, erm. Not sure."
"Not sure?" Mickey repeated, huffing.
"Just something I picked up, I think." Will sniffed. "School days. Rory, maybe. Dunno." He lowered his eyelids at her, smirking. "Why? Impressed?"
Rose looked quickly away, unable to hide the smile fast enough.
"Who's Rory?" Sally whispered. Rose just shook her head.
"Where'd you say you found him, then?" Jake demanded, glaring at her. "Sounds to me like he knows more than he's lettin' on."
Will heaved in again, clearing his throat. His hands dropped, fingers twiddling against his sides. Then one came up to his shirt collar, yanking at it like it was too tight. His eyes stared straight ahead now, through Rose, through all of them. He seemed rattled, but Rose had to deal with the team first. With the Angels. They had to work this out, before Pete turned up and she had to go through it all again. If she had some proper proof, if she made definite headway, the tongue-lashing she'd receive at home would be lessened.
That, and they'd be one step closer to saving the universe and stopping the monsters.
"Nn—look, never mind that, it is them," Rose breezed on, pointedly going back to the computer screen. "It's the Angels we're after."
"But if it's them," Sally argued, focusing on Rose now, "and if they're aliens, how are they making people disappear? Just by touching them?"
Rose opened her mouth to remind Sally of her original debriefing, but Mickey got there first.
"It's time travel," he said loudly.
Now they all turned to stare at him. Rose set her jaw, nodding.
"Time travel," Will muttered, looking sharply at Mickey like a caged animal.
Mickey jerked an arm up to point furiously at the computer screen. "It's not disappearin', it's the past! I said so, didn't I Rose, 'cos that explains the letter, don't it? And the two files for every person." He nudged his way to the mouse and began clicking erratically, trying to pull up said files.
Sally elbowed him away and pulled them up for herself. Two Stacy Campbells. Two Larry Nightingales. And she did a bit of fast typing, more clicking, and up came…
"Two Daniel Barneses," Sally whispered, leaning down with her arms still crossed. "Oh my god. You're right."
"Thank you!" Mickey trumpeted.
"The Void, then," Jake said. He had the melty expression of someone who was relieved to contribute. "I'll bet that's why. I'll bet that's where they're from. They've gotta do with the Void. 'Cos come on, where else've we seen time travel?"
Rose stilled, stomach flipping over. Out of the corners of both eyes, she knew the faces of her teammates were changing around her. She could feel Mickey watching her again. Sally's hand gripped the mouse a little tighter, and Jake's voice trailed off at the end. They were all, all except Mickey, trying not to glance her way.
They've gotta do with the Void. Where else have we seen time travel?
She didn't know what to say. All the usual logic and shut-downs she used to keep herself from hoping seemed to fly away from her brain. It was as if sharing this part, this possibility wherein the Doctor returned, with other people had spread it wide before her. Now it seemed really tangible. Like it might be true, it might be true. She was so swamped, suddenly, with thoughts of the Doctor that she didn't realize something was wrong with Will until he jerked away from them all and knocked over Sally's water bottle.
Everyone snapped to attention, watching him. Will looked peaky, mouth open, watching the water bottle roll down a level. Then his gaze came back up and struck the computer screen, struck Mickey, struck the water bottle again. Sally's eyebrows came together in concern. Rose subtly moved herself forward, at the head of the little huddle, reaching slightly toward her friend.
"What's wrong?" Rose asked him distractedly.
Will shifted as though dizzy. He stretched a hand behind him, gripping the lip of an empty desk a step above Sally's. Trying to stand up straight and failing. "Ehm, nothing. Nothing, sorry, just—i-i-it's…it's…"
He didn't finish, breathing fast.
"All right—come on—s'okay—" Rose could see he might be sick, and she thought she knew why. She hurried to his side and took his arm, tugging him up the levels. He needed to get out of that room, somewhere he could breathe.
The others, of course, didn't follow her, though she thought she heard Jake snort something derisive about civilians. She shot him a hazelly glare over one shoulder, and she saw Mickey whack the other bloke up the back of his head, chastising. If anyone knew what it was like to get overwhelmed by the otherworldly, it was Mickey Smith. He might be his own special brand of prat most times, but when it came to other people, when it came to love and compassion, he did just shine. It was part of why he was here in Pete's World in the first place. Rose caught his eye on the way out into the hall and reminded herself, perhaps for the first time in a year, that she was lucky. Lucky to have Mickey, even still. After everything.
Will pulled himself out of her grip the moment the double-doors shut, leaning against the nearest wall with his head bent. The corridor was deserted and smelled of Domestos; one of the loo doors had been left standing open.
"Y'okay?" Rose stood in front of Will; hand gingerly up as though she were still holding his arm.
"No." Will licked his lips, head shooting up. "Er, no. Ha. Definitely not okay. No!"
"What is it?"
He didn't answer, squeezing his eyes shut. One hand went raking through his hair, shoving it to one side, and when it didn't stay there he let out a harsh breath, ballooning his cheeks slightly. She saw his hand shaking.
"D'you—"
"I don't know, it's like—it's like, like—" Will sucked in, but that didn't seem to be doing any good. "Aliens."
"Yeah?"
"Aliens. In there. He said—"
"I know," Rose cut in, and she inhaled to explain further, but Will hadn't finished.
"He said aliens, Mickey said aliens, and Sally the backup, she said they've been killing people, and—"
"Maybe, but—" She shrugged with her mouth, going for resignation. "Worked that out before, though—"
"Time travel," Will burst out, half growling, pushing himself hard off the wall so that Rose had to back up a few steps. "What—what did they mean time travel, it's—" His hand came back up, but instead of jumping to his hair, it was a single fist pressing hard against his forehead. "Aliens, time travel, and—and—it's, it's—"
Rose made a quiet shushing sound that he did not listen to, both her palms up now, as if to take him by the elbows, but something invisible seemed to stop her. He didn't seem to fancy being touched at the moment. She felt like she did when Jackie was crying on Easter about burnt shepherd's pie after a bit to drink. Nearest to a family tradition as they'd ever got. No touch, soothe the sore with words.
She dropped her hands and slid them into her back pockets. If she looked relaxed, he might relax too. "I know it's weird, all right, I—I know it's," she made a half-fond puff, "s'…mental, but trust me, y'get used to it. It's real, it's really, really real. It's true, I swear."
Will stared at her, eyes huge and green and lost. "The Void. What's the Void, what's…" His voice cracked. He took in a big breath. "It's my head, Rose. It's all…too much, I can't…"
"Look, s'just…" Rose cast about for the right words. "Culture shock, yeah? Happens. I felt the same my first time—"
"Your first time?" Will repeated. Then he shut his eyes hard again. "I-I can hardly think, I mean I am really not sure, not good at all, and look at you, you, and all of them in there, what—what is this place? What is it? Really?"
"It's like you were sayin'," Rose insisted, having a funny sliding feeling, watching him turning and twisting in front of her, like he was trying to find solid ground on a carpet that wasn't moving. "We're—helpin', that's what we do. Help, yeah? We—fight monsters, we—sort of—defend the Earth, right, we're on the good side."
Will's eyes opened, taking in her fleeting smile and not returning it.
"Who are you?" he whispered it, so quietly she nearly missed it.
Rose became really concerned for him then. "It's me," she said, getting a horrible urge to laugh without any happiness. "S'Rose. D'you need to sit down?"
"No, but—" He narrowed his eyes. Sucked in. Heaved out. "You, you and I, we…we…"
Almost heatedly, he stepped near her and they were close, very close, like he was testing something, staring, a whiff of paper and cologne, and then he tripped backward again. She waited, but he didn't finish that thought either. Just as well. It was more of the nonsense he kept starting and stopping on.
"Will—"
"The Void," he repeated, gaze locked onto hers. Pointing the way he did so often. There was something hoarse about his voice. His whole body was shaking. "The Void, that's sad. Like the book, it's—it's a sad word, it's—but why is it sad?"
This wasn't going the way she'd thought it would. He was worse than Mickey, worse than she herself had been in a swarm of plastic dummies and a time machine that was bigger on the inside. Worse even than Jackie with the Slitheen. But that didn't make sense—he wasn't making sense, just babbling now. She had to help. He was losing his mind, right there in front of her. She had to do something for him, but what could she say?
"Remember the Angels," she said. "Okay, you were brilliant, yeah? It's the same, I promise, and…that was real too—"
He wasn't listening. He kept looking like he wanted to throw up. In fact, the closer Rose got, the less secure Will seemed. She knew he was a civilian, but she knew, too, that he wasn't ordinary. He was clever, and fun, and good, cleverer and more fun and better than the usual, and he wanted to help Stacy and he wanted to help her. He'd stepped into 310 Hettie Row at the same time she had. He was exceptional, he was Tardis-worthy, she just knew it. And he was her friend. He could handle this, he just needed the proper guidance, and shouldn't that be her?
Rose forgot Will was supposed to be moving, or leaving, or whatever vague plans he and his flatmates had. She forgot about Torchwood's paperwork and the ink she got on her sweater sleeves when she'd signed that paperwork. She even forgot, briefly, that the Doctor might be loose somewhere in this world. She forgot Amy telling her not to get attached; all she could see was the young man in front of her having some sort of episode, and she found she was desperate to make him understand.
Especially because he kept looking at the exit. And the sliding feeling continued.
"Come on, let's go," Rose said, surprised by the pleading, the tenseness, in her tone when she spoke. "Let's go. Let's get chips, all right? You and me. And—you've got lots of questions, great, well, we can get chips, and—we can talk."
She reached out and pinched the cuff of his sleeve, right near his wrist, tugging gently to get him to focus.
Will jerked away from her with such force, Rose herself lost balance for a moment. He held his arms in at his chest. Pale eyes were round and wet, like he might cry but he couldn't. She knew that expression. It went to Rose's heart.
"Hang on," she mumbled, trying to work out what to do next. Why this wasn't working, why it was going this poorly. Why she still sounded so strained. "Just wait—"
"I can't."
The sliding feeling got worse.
"I should've told you," Rose began, swallowing, trying to sound calm and wondering why she couldn't, "I know I—should've explained, but—look, I can tell you the whole thing now, yeah, but it's…it's sort of a—long story, so why don't we just—"
"No, I mean I can't." Will started edging away from her, toward the glass door marked F-1, toward the way out of the building. "I can't do this. I didn't know."
"What d'you mean, didn't—"
"That it would be like this, that…I'm not like this, I'm not—like you, I can't—I can't do it. 'Fraid not. Not me."
"You did though," Rose insisted, taking a few uneasy steps after him. A little forced huff, a try at a chortle. "Already."
The sliding sensation became a scooping one, emptying her very, very slowly.
"Please, I-I can't." Will lifted both hands, bracing, shoving his back against the glass door so it opened to let him out.
"Will." Rose, confused, stinging, glanced back toward the double-doors. Toward the hub, as if for help, but of course nobody came. It wouldn't have made a difference; if he wasn't going to stay for her, he wasn't going to stay at all. She had enough instinct to work that out, at least.
Will pressed the heel of his hand against his head, deliberating in the doorway. He wagged his head back and forth and glanced at her, very briefly, like it caused him physical pain to linger on her. "Sorry."
Then he turned and left.
The Tardis didn't blink or hum or beep much anymore. It was as if the moment they'd come into this dimension, she'd gone to sleep. The only sign of life was a faint orange glow beneath the console and under the glass column. It was dusted and dormant in the cellar of the parking garage nearest Henrik's. Amy didn't like to come here late at night or too early in the morning in case of nutters roaming about—it was that sort of creepy, black place when the sun was out. Perfect to stash a time machine.
The Doctor had the sole key to enter, maybe in the whole wide universe, but he usually just snapped his fingers anyway. She and Rory only ever got in by using the sonic screwdriver, which was in her handbag at nearly all times. It had taken instructions to learn how to work it to get the doors open.
It had taken instructions to do anything, starting out here. Good job the voice interface had come with lots and lots of instructions.
"….so I don't want you just tossing me in front of a telly at all hours, understand? M'not your granddad," said the static-threaded, nearly-transparent echo of the Doctor standing in front of the console, staring at nothing. "And don't go feeding me beans and things. If you see green stuff, you've gone too far. Steady diet of Jammie Dodgers, and never give me cold tea, not even as a joke, Rory, have you got that? Remember. Human me will have rubbish taste buds, inferior taste buds, more like, and I don't want to wake up and find my mouth full of essence of boiled cabbage or something. Sweets. Ice cream. Drinks that make your tongue blue. Now—item sixty-seventh—"
If they asked it to do anything other than "relay instructions", the voice interface would be a simple hologram, cold, robotic. It would speak without emotion or pausing for breath, using the Doctor's likeness only. No personality. No pre-recorded smiles. A bow tie and suspenders on a veritable plank of stupid old technological wood.
Before, when Amy wanted to talk to the Doctor, she used to be able to kick him lightly on the ankle and bounce her eyebrows and start a proper conversation, and watch his eyes glaze over.
Now she had to say "voice interface" and then "relay instructions", and talk over his computerized voice. Or wait for the pauses and talk then. Pretending he could hear, pretending he'd respond.
Today, she sat in the jumpseat, glaring at the interface. At the Doctor's glitching face while he emoted and gestured with both hands and told them not to let him pick a name like Costello.
"Y'didn't even think," Amy growled.
"Item seventy-two—this one's got to do with blood sugar, so pay attention, because it's really boring and I don't wanna say it twice."
"Y'just waltzed in there and found them." Amy got louder, squinting hard at the Doctor's image. "And they saw you. I mean they really, properly saw you. You told us what to do if y'ever try skydiving, y'never told us what to do if they see you first. If you go to them. Didn't tell us what to do if you're completely mental."
"…takes a lot of willpower, but you'll get there in the end, I think—"
"And what did you mean, afraid?" She drew her knees together, gripping the jumpseat tight with every fingernail she possessed. "I'm not afraid. You left before. I got on with it, I lived. Afraid, please. He should've been afraid. Can't even get on the right bus without our help, can he, and you are a terrible human, by the way. Y'make it impossible. Should be afraid of movin' on anywhere without us."
"Item seventy-three—"
Scoffing, she stood and turned a dial on the console, the one the interface had taught her would control its speed. The image of the Doctor sped up comically, flitting like mad in one place with hands, legs, expression. Bits of the to-do list came out now and again when she stopped to try and find what she needed.
"—can't open the watch until day four hundred and seven, just to be sure of the stragglers—" Dial turning. "—portant, don't let me buy yogurt, I won't know any better—" Dial turning. "—ould be quite good, actually, yes, I like that, skates away an—" Dial turning. "There are approximately thirty left, and they are hungry."
"Here it is," muttered Amy to herself, or maybe to the Tardis, who definitely wasn't listening to her.
The Doctor's recorded face was intense, head ducked, hands wound together. "Now, a little over a year should be long enough. Er, four hundred and seven days, roughly. No. Yes. Four hundred and seven exactly, give or take twelve seconds, you be the judge. Amy, I mean, not Rory, sorry Rory. The Tardis will have chosen somewhere they can starve out, go dry, fade into nothing, just ordinary rock, I expect. All you've got to do is wait, all we've got to do is stay hidden. Their numbers will dwindle down until they are totally, completely gone." The Doctor's eyebrows shot up. "And then you get me to open the watch. Now, I won't know it's me in there—the human me, I mean, he won't know I'm it. Or in it. Complicated, sorry. He'll think it's nothing, just a watch, leave it. Listening? So. The Angels will burn themselves out, and then you have him open the watch."
Amy froze the image, pressing down on the dial. Making a snarling sound at it. "No. No. What do we do if they see you?"
They hadn't yet reached the exact end of all his instructions. But somewhere in here, somewhere, there had to be answers. Had to be. His head wasn't so swelled, so massively big and massively dumb, that he hadn't counted on the plan going sideways like this. Hadn't counted on his human self strolling right into the hornet's nest, brain full of fluff and eyes on a blonde.
"Come on, Doctor…" Amy whispered, turning and turning and turning and turning the dial. The Tardis creaked around her, as if drowsily complaining. "Nine months. It's only been nine months and they've seen you, and there's a blonde, come on now, we need help—"
Nothing. More nonsense. Something about tree samples. Something about driving. Something about library cards, banks, spoons, cartoons, fungi….
"No. No. No. No—" Amy just stopped herself from hitting the console like a common laptop. "What about if it goes wrong? What do we do if it fails? What do we do if you yell at us? Well?" She went on turning, staring at the image, staring at the green eyes with ages and galaxies behind them, the twisty mouth, the bent ancient posture. She wanted to slap him. She wanted to scream, and she nearly did as she continued. "What do we do if there's a girl?"
She stopped dialing, let it freeze, moving to stand in front of the interface as it wobbled and flickered in front of her. With the Doctor's features and no body heat whatsoever.
"A girl. And you like her?" Amy asked it, voice low. Throat full. "Because she's great, actually, and—and a bit weird. And what if—if y'like her so much you get stupid? And you take risks. And you shut the door. Come on, you rubbish, rubbish old alien, I know you can't have missed that bit. Yeah? What do we do if you don't want our help anymore, Doctor? Didn't think about that one, no. I know y'didn't." She blinked, nodding, face too warm. Eyes too swimmy. "Go on. What do I do then?"
The image was just an image. It was full of ripples and pale color, full of the Doctor's general looks and none of his actual presence. It offered no help, and no reaction. It stood and wavered and looked like her best friend and she couldn't even hit it.
"You're always keepin' me safe. Always helping. Long as I can remember, it's been you throwin' water and tossin' apples and lookin' at us like we're a pair of kids. And I've wanted to kill you for it, sometimes. But you've still been there. So go on." Amy's hand reached for the interface's hand, dropping back just shy of it. Just to maintain the illusion. "How do I keep you safe?"
Jackie didn't yell.
When Rose got back, when she returned to the manor that afternoon, the sun was low in the sky and the light coming through all the windows was burnt gold. Janie was opening all the drapery, bustling about. And Jackie didn't yell. She sat beside Tony's little rocking crib, parked in the living room with the television muted, and she saw Rose come in, and she saw Rose throw her bag down, and she didn't say anything. Pete was there, too, on the phone, and though he hung up when she entered, he didn't yell either.
Maybe it was because they saw her face. Maybe it was written all over her face—the sliding had gone, and now there was just that emptiness. She felt duped. Or silly. Or partly numb. And the worst thing was, she didn't really think she should. Didn't think it was right. She'd only known Will a short time—why should she be taking this so seriously? Why shouldn't she be used to this by now?
Gets easier, Amy had said. But did it?
Maybe this was just more of the same. More of that awful cloud following her around since Bad Wolf Bay. Maybe Will's eyes and shaking and his little sorry had set it off again. A relapse.
Jackie stood up, left her slippers on the floor, and went to give Rose a crushing hug.
And Rose found herself apologizing. "Sorry," she rasped into her mother's hair.
"Oh, what d'you mean, sorry?" Jackie clicked. "Sorry for what?"
Rose began to speak but needn't have bothered.
Jackie's voice was fond as she pulled away, still not raised, still not angry. "Sorry for screamin' the house down the other night? Or maybe it's the swannin' off with that Will and not phonin', not for a whole day, maybe that's why you're sorry?"
"Or the house." Pete cleared his throat, coming round the sofa. When Rose met his eyes, he went on, folding his hands in front of him, "310 Hettie Row, wasn't it? Now don't tell me you're sorry about that." There was a tiny sparkle in his gaze, like a smile. "'Cos I know better."
So they knew everything. Mickey must have phoned them.
"Well, go on. Aren't you gonna have a go at me?" Rose sniffed, shoving hair out of her way.
"'Course not, sweetheart," Jackie tutted, leading her to the couch. "We're just happy you're alive, that's all."
Pete glanced at the ceiling. "And the shouting's all been done at old Mickey anyway."
Rose looked up sharply.
Pete smiled. "Volunteered, he did."
She smiled back, weakly.
"But what happened to you, Rose?" Jackie asked. It was clear from the way her hand gripped Rose's shoulder, vicelike, that she might well have some shouting left in her, but she was keeping a lid on it. Her tone was tightly controlled, however shrill. "I thought you'd got out at last, but no—off into trouble again, and the worst part is, I didn't even know! You didn't even tell me. Here I find out you weren't just making a night of it with that handsome lad of yours—"
"Yeah, he's not mine, it's not—" Rose sighed, slumping down into the cushions. "I've told you, s'not like that with him."
Jackie fell silent, watching her face keenly. Pete was standing somewhere on the edge of Rose's vision, hands clasped behind his back now. Both of them listening. It didn't make a difference, though, not if Mickey had explained. They weren't waiting for the story about the Angels. They wanted to know why she looked like that. What she'd done besides the Angels. In his crib, she heard Tony make a little gurgle and stretched on the sofa to see him. Sleeping peacefully, just twitching a bit.
Suddenly she felt very tired.
"Will, he…" Rose sucked in, surprised at how calm her voice was. How dry. "He's gone. He's left, um. He found out about the aliens, and…brought him to Torchwood and—he's left."
She risked a glance at Pete. He was crinkly round the eyes, lips pursed, but he didn't say anything. Looked once at his polished shoes, then back at Rose. Still no yelling.
"How d'you mean, gone?" Jackie murmured.
Rose took another big breath and tried to begin, as she had at work, with Hettie Row. Then she found she needed to double back and tell Jackie—because Jackie insisted—what they'd done the previous morning, after tea, after she'd left them for the scones and Tony. When she got to the bit about Will pushing her to go to the old house, she found renewed strength to tell everything properly. To force some life into her tone. She recalled how Will had looked at her, determined, up in her room. Determined to make her go out, make her go and help. Do her job.
Why couldn't he have stayed? What had happened to make him lose his nerve so quickly? It couldn't just have been the alien thing. He was better than that, she'd seen it. Maybe it's me. But she couldn't concentrate on that thought now. Save it for the roof.
She glossed easily over the house on Hettie Row—time enough to debrief Pete from her own perspective later, and anyway, her mother didn't need to hear those particular details—but she did think to mention how brave Will had been. How helpful. It was him saw the footprints, wasn't it? And he'd got directions for them. The part with his flat was glossy, too; Jackie would have an absolute ball with the idea that Rose had spent the night at Will's flat, with or without flatmates. Call her a tart, give her big eyes and a sour mouth.
And there would be absolutely no mention of the beanbag.
Rose did say she'd needed patching up and Will's flatmate was a nurse, and they'd let her sleep on the couch because it had been late enough already. And she talked about Torchwood and the team, the way Will had sparked up with his quantum-whatever, being helpful again.
Then she told them, a little more fully, how he'd panicked, how he'd left.
"That's it, really," she mumbled, staring at the pastel monkeys along Tony's crib. Staring at the banana one. "Must've told him too soon, don't think he could handle it…"
Jackie was quiet for a moment, and then sat back, hand flicking toward her knee. "Well, if that's true, then good riddance, I say."
Rose looked up, confused.
Jackie's mouth was in a tight pink line. "I mean it. Sniffin' round here just when things were lookin' up for you, only to rush out when things get tough, serves him right, it does. I've seen aliens and things, and I've coped, haven't I? You don't need him, Rose."
It was a complete turnabout from the parroting her mum had been doing for two weeks. Rose squinted, sitting up a bit more. Looking into Jackie's face for any trace of immaturity, any sort of sulkiness that usually preceded a tantrum. Jackie Tyler could sound sage one moment and whip about screaming the next, enough to be heard up in the sky by every zeppelin pilot. Sometimes the wisdom was just an act, hiding a big old pout. But not this time.
"You listen to me," Jackie insisted. "The good ones stay. Even when it's hard. Have you got that?"
Rose glanced from her mother to her dad. Pete looked like he had just failed a moment ago to keep from smiling.
"Yeah, well, I'm no better. Haven't been doin' much stayin'," Rose muttered, almost to herself. Playing with the drawstring of her hoodie. "Whole year, just…couldn't be bothered. Not for anyone."
"But you still went, didn't you?" Pete licked his lips, watching her. "To that ol' house. Still went to try and work it out for yourself. Disobeyed a direct order."
Rose opened her mouth to apologize, but he raised a hand to stop her.
"Now don't say you're sorry," he reminded her. "Cos you're not. Don't think you would've stayed in, with or without this Will fella. S'taken me a year, but I think I've got you now, Rose. Think I know what you're like well enough. You do the right thing, don't you, even if it's dangerous. Even if people tell ya no."
Rose met his eyes, blue and middle-aged and wonderful.
"Cos you've just gotta help."
"And cos you're mad," Jackie put in, lounging back against the pillows beside Rose. "I reckon that's the Doctor's doin'. Brought it out in you, now you can't stop, can you? Born mad, I've said."
Rose's mouth twitched, and then all at once she was grinning. Born mad. The good old days. Her teeth nearly swamped her whole face, either because of the Doctor, or because Jackie was grinning too. Or perhaps because Pete's blue eyes were twinkling and it was sweet. Twinkling like Will's.
The good ones stay, even if it's hard.
Well. Who said Will got to have the only opportunity to be one of the good ones? It was high time she, Rose, took a leaf out of the Doctor's book. Took the first step toward being better, before anybody else got there. Outdo them all in trying. Caring. Caring about someone else for a change. Wasn't that how Will had got himself into this mess anyway?
"Do me a favor, though," Pete was saying, "if you've gotta go against orders, just don't go gettin' yourself blown up or anythin'. While you're out doin' right and all."
But Rose was hardly listening. She gave her mother a peck on the cheek, shot off the couch, and swung her bag back up onto her shoulder.
"Where you goin' now?" Jackie demanded.
"Gotta change." Rose pulled the banana out of her bag and tossed it in the nearest bin, the one by the door.
"What, change for dinner? Late enough, might as well do pajamas."
"No. M'gonna go find Will." Rose paused on the staircase, tongue poking out at her parents, feeling more energetic than she had in days. "Gonna try again."
Pete made a face, but Jackie didn't bat an eye, turning demurely back to the telly and Tony's crib. She waved a hand dismissively at Rose, like she'd known it all along. "Give 'im a slap for me."
It was nearly seven o'clock. Henrik's was in a lull, the lift was empty, the sun was winking goodbye outside, and Rory had spent a lovely day in the park. Reading up on this world's history, trying not to stare too open-mouthed at the zeppelins as he passed underneath them. A day off was a blessing in any dimension, even if Amy was too cross to spend much of it with him. He could hold his own for entertainment, relax, not think about living statues or time machines or bonkers blonde ladies who turned up in the middle of the night.
Upon his return home, Rory threw his phone and book down on the foyer table, locked the flat door, turned around, and stopped dead.
Will was in the living room. Playing the Playstation.
"Uh," Rory said loudly. Almost too loudly. "What…are you doing?"
The Playstation was a little gift Rory had gotten himself. He wasn't much for video games, but back in 2006 he remembered it was one of the only things to do in Leadworth with his mates after school. He'd been feeling nostalgic their first week here, camping out in a very slightly simpler time, and to celebrate his first proper payday, he'd gotten the Playstation. He reckoned they could all play it together sometimes, the three of them, give them something to do. Amy only played it once, the first time he'd asked, and then had given it up entirely.
But Will had never played it. Not once. He'd turned his nose up at it straightaway. This was, in the early days, not a surprise to either Pond because the Doctor would never have wasted time on a video game. And the more they got to know this human iteration of their friend, the more they saw it didn't suit him either.
Will didn't look around. "Gaming."
Rory suppressed a shudder. Something was very wrong.
He stood there, stupefied for a moment, and stared at the back of Will's brown moppy head. Blinked once or twice like the scene might go away if he shook himself hard enough. Seeing those hands gripping a controller, that face fixed on a simple television screen—it wasn't right. And since Amy wasn't here, it was down to him to work out what was going on. Goodbye, day off.
"You," said Rory, "never game. You don't play on the Playstation."
"Yes I do. Right here. I'm doing it now."
Rory came round the sofa and stood just out of Will's line of sight. "Er. Everything okay?"
Most people went slack after staring at a screen for too long. Will's face, Will's entire body, was tightly wound. His knuckles were white against the controller, and Rory noticed immediately that his fingers weren't moving at all. He wasn't playing. He wasn't playing anything. The game system was on, the telly was on, but Will wasn't doing anything with either. Rory almost laughed, but his friend's expression was so awful, he didn't dare.
"Why?" Will asked, lips barely parting.
"Because you look ill. Like you've just seen a monster?"
Will's green eyes stabbed Rory, blazing and somehow weak. "D'you know what, Rory mate, I really don't want to talk about monsters."
"Okay."
"I don't ever, ever want to talk about monsters, not ever again."
"Okay." Rory scratched at his nose. He really did not know how to proceed here. They were supposed to take care of the Doctor like this, and Rory was actually very good at care, but the way Will was just now, maybe he wasn't sure how to begin. One wrong thing might have the poor man vomiting all over the coffee table, all over Amy's magazines, looked like. "So—have you eaten yet, cos…I was just gonna—"
"Tea."
"Sorry?"
"I want tea. Need tea. 'Scuse." Will popped off the couch and took the normal way around it, which was also a bad sign. He almost always lurched over the back of it to leave the living room, like it was the only exit.
"Right." Rory marched up a level, crossed into the kitchen, and shut the cupboard door hard when Will yanked it open. "What's going on?"
Will's eyebrows rose. He stared back at Rory, very pale, very twitchy. "What d'you mean?"
"Has something happened?" Rory asked. "I mean, last we heard, you were with Rose—"
And Will immediately looked back at the pantry door, tugging it open again. "Nope."
"Nope?" Rory mimicked, feeling his own eyebrows shoot up.
"Don't wanna talk about that either."
"About Rose?"
"No."
"Rose and whatever happened today?" Rory pressed. He lifted a finger. "Or…how about last night, when you had a go at Amy, d'you wanna talk about that instead? Because that—"
"Rory," Will said placidly, quietly, fixing his eyes on the top shelf, tracing rows and rows of tea brands. "Do us a favor and shove off, yeah?"
Rory blinked at the profile of the Doctor in that oversize hoodie, the baggy greenish tee, the way the other man was working his jaw and pointedly not looking anywhere else. All his usual ire when it came to the barmy Time Lord resurfaced. Closing the door in Amy's face, walking into a house full of Weeping Angels, getting poor Rose scratched up, running the tap through the night, using the Playstation without asking, closing the door in Amy's face—he really was just as big a git now as he'd ever been with two hearts. Only this time he was hungry and sleepy and needed cologne. Well, part of taking care of somebody was knowing when to set them straight, wasn't it?
"Right," Rory said again, lower, and grabbed Will by the hood. He ignored the other bloke's protests and dragged him away from the pantry, into the dining room and into the nearest chair.
Will scowled up at his flatmate. "Could you not wreck my jacket, I've only got so many—"
"You've got fourteen and this one's the ugliest," Rory retorted.
"Is it?" Will looked put out, resituating the woolly hood. "I thought it was quite good, what's wrong with it—"
"Shut up," Rory said. "And I think it's the stripes."
"I like the stripes, don't you like the stripes?"
"No. I mean yeah, stripes are fine."
"Okay, but you said—"
"Look, just—shut up," Rory repeated, louder, raising both hands. "Never mind the jacket, listen, you are going to tell me what's happened with you! All right? And you're gonna tell me now because Amy's not here and she'd make you tell, and I'm starving, and you look like Hell and I barely slept last night thanks to you, so. Come on, out with it. You owe me."
He expected Will to argue. Or at least go stubbornly mute. Or get low and dangerous like the Doctor would have. Or very whispery and mysterious. Instead, something much worse happened. Will fixed his eyeballs on a spot on the floor and thought for a moment, and then all the color began to drain out of his face. It was horrible, watching him. Rory saw him start to actually tremble, the longer he sat there, like the beginnings of a seizure.
Eyebrows knit, Rory dropped to a slight crouch, hands hovering over his friend's knees. "Uh—uh, okay—it's…bad, then? Something really bad, yeah? Sorry—how bad?"
Because Will was not responding, Rory rolled his eyes—more from the anxiety of it all—and then pressed a fist against the Doctor's chest for a moment. Surreal single heartbeat going absolutely berserk.
"Ohhhhh-kay, just." Rory backed up a bit, tried to catch Will's eye, and failed.
He was tempted to feel for the other heart, just out of instinct, because he knew it was there and it might tell him more about what was wrong, but that wouldn't make sense to Will and really, the body in front of him wasn't actually his own species. So maybe it would just make him more confused.
Whatever was happening, Will was doing it to himself. Your basic human panic attack, looked like.
"Hey." Rory shook Will slightly by the shoulders. "Will. Breathe, yeah? Look at me."
Will snapped to attention. He spoke as though through a mouthful of cotton. "It's aliens, Rory."
Rory's own heart skipped a beat. "Aliens?"
"That's what they said." Will's mouth wobbled. "They said aliens. And time travel, and—"
"Who said aliens?" Rory asked, knowing his eyes were huge. "Will? Who said time travel?"
Will squeezed his own eyes shut. "And the Void, the Void, the Void—" He bent over, pressing the heels of his hands to his eyes.
Rory had no idea what he was on about. The Void definitely sounded bad, yes, but not worse than the other things. Someone had been talking about time travel to the human Time Lord. Someone had said aliens. And now, somewhere in that big brain, that big complicated alien brain, half of which had been shut off by the Chameleon Arch—poor Will was starting to wake up. And it clearly hurt him. But he can't, Rory reminded himself, trying to slow his own breathing. Not without the watch.
But he could maybe have some sort of aneurism. Or pass out. Who knew, with a biology that alien technology had mixed up like beef hunks in a casserole?
On the table behind Will, Rory's phone began to vibrate.
"Okay, uh—er, er, stay. There. I mean—" Rory darted for his phone and glanced back at Will as he flipped it open, checking the ID. "Make some tea. Tea's good. Just a minute."
Will obediently got up and went to the pantry, like he was sleepwalking. He kept rubbing at one eye. He almost walked into the cooker.
Rory kept watching Will as he answered his phone. "Amy?"
"I am really shook up, all right, it's happened," Amy said, instead of hello. "I mean I am really, properly panicking."
"Yeah, well," Rory looked sideways again at Will, who was now fumbling to get the water boiling. "You're not the only one."
"What's wrong?"
"It's Will," he said, dropping his voice to a near whisper now. "He's seen something. Uhh—or he's heard something, I dunno."
"Course he's seen something," Amy spat. "He saw them, he saw the Weepin' Angels, and I can't get the Tardis to tell me what we do now."
"Haven't you already tried that?" Rory asked, suddenly wondering when it was that his wife last sat down. Or ate anything. She'd been in the Tardis two days ago, as well, worried about Will and his new crush. "Twice?"
"If you've got any better ideas…" Amy began in a growl.
"Amy, listen," Rory muttered, "Will, he's on about time travelling and—"
"What?"
"—yeah, and aliens," Rory went on, determined to finish. He was barely making any noise at all now.
In the kitchen, Will was staring at the water as it boiled, looking a bit less peaky. Some of the color had returned to his face, and he was playing with a wadded-up kitchen roll.
"Great," Amy hissed. "That's just great, isn't it, that is—perfect. Him an' his little girlfriend, they're gonna get us all killed."
"That's the thing, actually, something happened with…her. I think. But he won't talk about it."
Amy wasn't listening to that bit. She plowed on. "What do we do, Rory, what do we do if they find us—"
Rory gave Will another glance—he was pouring himself a cuppa now—and turned his back, half-covering the phone with a hand. "How long have you been over there?"
"Does it matter?"
"If it's all you've been doing, yeah, it does a bit. Look." Rory drew in a deep breath, ignoring the way his heart was still racing from Will's eyes and Will's general state. "I keep telling you. Even if they saw him—even if they tried to go looking, they can't get very far with all those people. I mean—we're in the heart of the city centre, aren't we? There's only three now, that's what Rose said—and—and it's not like they know where we live."
There was silence on the other end of the phone, apart from Amy's breathing getting a smidgen quieter. Rory kept his tone low, even, much calmer than he actually felt. Trying to make himself believe it as well as his wife.
"It would take them ages to even find us. To find him. We're safe."
It was dark at last when Rose made it out of the Underground. Dark and sort of snowing. Or maybe it was sleet—the flakes were too tiny to tell. Her breath billowed out in front of her as she made her way up the street, boots thunking wetly against the pavement. Tucked her trailing reddish scarf further beneath her chin. She rather liked the cold, rather liked the quiet that came with it. Outside, there weren't too many people about in this weather; just a few shoppers trailing home and commenting on the flakes. One or two groups of women out for a drink together. An elderly couple in coats that made them three times bigger than they really were.
She wasn't sure what she'd say when she got to Will's flat. She knew a proper sorry of her own ought to be in there somewhere. Sorry for not being straight with him, not telling him the truth about who she was and where she was from and what she'd seen in her life. Should have made it clear the moment she knew he was like her. The moment she saw he fit. Perhaps if she'd told him, prepared him, the fear he'd felt at Torchwood wouldn't have come on so strong.
Rose accidentally nudged a teenage girl on her way past their little family huddle, all waiting for a light to change. She muttered an apology—good practice, that was—and turned halfway when she said it.
Behind her, she saw it.
A stone Angel. Covering its face. Standing like public art a short distance from a bench.
And Rose knew it hadn't been there before.
Throat tightening up, Rose forgot the cold and began walking backwards, heedless of any pedestrians that crossed her path. She was only a sharp turn, a ruddy short jog, from the front of Henrik's and the residential floors above it. But these things were faster.
She tried to keep her eyes on it as she reached for her mobile, tugging it with slippery fingers out of her bag. But she couldn't dial Mickey's number without glancing away from the statue.
"Watch out!"
She knocked into someone else, someone who was walking the right way forward, and didn't bother apologizing this time. Then another warm body passed in front of her, another stupid pedestrian, and she lost sight of the Angel. Just for a second.
It was gone.
Rose blinked, stopping altogether, frantically turning this way and that to catch a glimpse of it again. Nowhere.
"Okay," she murmured to herself, through her teeth.
Better hope they really can't do doors, Rose thought fleetingly, and made a run towards Henrik's. She tried to dial for Mickey on her way, ignoring startled passersby as she went, but the moment she looked up again, halfway through the number, shoulder grazing the brick corner of the building when she came in view of the steps, she saw a second Angel.
This one was different. It had different clothes; a shorter robe. This meant that two out of the three they knew about were on her. The new Angel had its back against the wall of an alley, right across the street from Henrik's. It, too, was covering its face.
Rose didn't think her eyes could get this cold before. It stung, it dried her up almost instantly, stretching them that much so that she could make it up the steps without blinking. Quantum-locked, she reminded herself. Atoms or something. Couldn't look away. Look away and that was it. But where was the other one?
Her best bet now was Henrik's, and she could call Torchwood and they could work it out from inside the Williamses' flat. She'd been safe there before. It was all her addled mind could come up with, all on her own, taken by surprise.
Finally, finally, she reached the shop.
It was warm and yellow inside, red walls and denim piles and very few shoppers. The sales clerk behind the service station looked bored out of her adolescent skull, totally unaware of the danger outside. Rose caught the girl's gaze and swallowed, slowing down, trying to look as though nothing at all was wrong. For some reason, being inside Henrik's made everything easier—she knew it was silly, but it felt like home territory. It felt like the Angels just wouldn't come in. Almost by choice, even. Henrik's was too boring. Henrik's was too human.
Rose punched the lift button, threw herself inside the tiny thing, and took a moment to breathe.
Then a pair of men came inside, a business-looking bloke in fancy dress and a grandfatherly type. They didn't seem to be riding together, and they looked at her strangely when they got in. Wasn't doing a good job of appearing normal, then. Again.
Cursing inwardly, Rose gingerly pressed the correct floor button, pursed her lips at the gentlemen, and leaned heavily against the lift rail. Stuck in the back, behind the two other people. She couldn't call Torchwood with them standing there. Inside the lift, it was claustrophobically small, the men having barely enough room to ride without brushing against one another, or tripping over Rose's feet if they moved. Rubbish renovated vintage nonsense—Rose tried to control her breathing—her floor was the first stop—
The doors slid open and Rose pushed her way rudely between the other passengers, in too much of a rush to get to No. 11 to be friendly. She must have seemed like an absolute weirdo. But it didn't matter. All that mattered was getting to that flat and telling her team what was going on.
As soon as she entered the hall, Rose made a dash for No. 11. Sixth on the right. Sixth on the right. There it was, she passed it, no, she was right outside it—
Rose glanced around, just on instinct, and froze with her hand stretched toward the door handle. Had a mad urge to head back to the lift, which was of course long gone.
Facing her, at the clear end of the hall, a green exit sign flickering above it—a stone woman. Smiling.
Another curse in her head, softer. Or perhaps she said that one aloud. Rose locked her gaze on the Angel, not sure at all which of them it was. She floundered, hand flapping until it touched No. 11. The big brass double-1s were glinting in the corner of her eye.
And if she'd got the wrong door, Rose thought as she began pounding, that was going to make this next bit very awkward.
Only about four seconds went by before said door flew open. With all her weight on it now, both arms as she hammered away, that meant Rose went pitching bodily toward the floor. She caught the flash of that familiar dull green doormat, caught the strange scent of nothing-homey-like, and then that scent was replaced with tea and paper and someone caught her.
It was Will. He caught her in both arms, steadying her at the elbows and heaving her back up with him, stammering. "Rose—Rose, what—"
Rose felt someone brush past her, saw Rory's trainers for a moment, and then heard the nurse behind her, out in the hall. He gave a very loud "Ohhh, my god. Um. Okay."
And then Rory came back in backwards—the doormat moved—and the door slammed shut behind him. Rose could hear all the locks being turned in place.
"What is this? Eh?" Will's voice was sharp with concern. "Are you all right, are you hurt?"
"S'out there," she gasped, skipping hello and going straight for the gold.
Will's grip on her elbows tightened. He was bent double, holding on to her, looking straight into her eyes. "What's out there?"
"It's them," Rory said. His hand was clumping up his hair, then whipping down to his hip to match the other one. "It's them, they're here."
"What's here, I don't understand!" Will shouted, making Rose jump.
"The Angels," Rose explained, still out of breath.
Will didn't let go of her, but his face got deadly white. "The Angels?" he repeated, much more quietly.
She gulped, throat feeling oddly cold, probably left over from outside. Rory was busy making loads of noise around them. He was pacing up and down, back and forth, colliding with a chair, colliding with a side table. Messing up the doormat again. Peeking out the peephole, cursing mutedly. Rose noticed he was holding his own mobile phone, waiting for someone on the end to pick up.
That was what she should be doing.
She should be doing that, but Will still had her arms. Rose glanced into two pools of frightened green and tried to regain control. "Saw 'em outside," she began, but he cut her off.
"No. No, no, you're having me on." He lunged backward, letting go of her, chin lifted high and pointing at her with a sort of breathless not-laugh. "They are not coming, they're not here. Can't be."
Rose, baffled and more than a little irritated now, gave him a withering look. She couldn't believe he was doing this again. It didn't fit him. Not now. "It's right outside."
"No."
"You saw it," Rose insisted, turning to Rory. Feeling ridiculous.
Rory, whose phone was still up to his ear, rolled his eyes briefly at Will. "I saw it."
"He saw it," Rose repeated triumphantly. "Anyway, you've seen 'em too. And now they're here—"
"Stop it," Will muttered. "That's not possible."
"Don't be stupid, you saw how fast they can go," Rose argued, eyebrows coming together.
She started to get a funny sensation in her skin, the one you get when you've been in a car too long, like everything outside might not be real. Like all there had ever been was the car. Will was not making sense, and Rose was not going to be able to do what she came here to do. There were bigger worries, now, and she needed him to be helpful again. And stop whatever this was.
Will turned, yanking at his shirt collar and heading for the kitchen. Put his back toward her like he was blocking a harsh wind.
Time to try a gentler approach. Rose stepped after him and took hold of his wrist. "Will—it's all right—"
"No, let go—" And he ripped himself away from her like she'd clawed him. When he turned around to stare at her, he was breathing too fast, and he drew his hand back, as if holding something invisible out of her reach. Looking her up and down in the same way he had at Torchwood, like it hurt. Like she was surprising him, scaring him somehow.
Barmy git. Rose began to get angry now. "Right, if you're not gonna listen—"
Then they heard a scream in the corridor.
"Amy!" Rory flung himself at the door, scrambling to unlock it.
When Amy came in, walking totally backwards, Rose had the rapid thought she learns quick, and then Amy was the only thing anybody could focus on. She turned around, red hair flying everywhere, eyes brighter than Rose had yet seen, and began bellowing at the top of her lungs.
"Rory, move the furniture, gotta block the door, they're here." Amy herself snatched the side table, near the door, and pushed it up hard against the wood. Then she saw Rose.
Right away, Rose felt like a deer in the headlights. "I've—"
"No, you shut up!" Amy ordered, marching forward until she was an arm's length from Rose. Well within slapping distance. But she didn't lift a hand, though her eyes were butterscotch fury. Her voice was the most adult out of any of them. Charitable, even. "Shh. Stop it, I know. I know it wasn't your fault, and the ice cream was lovely, no, shut up do you hear me, because this one is, it is your fault. Because they're right there, so yes. Yes! Very nice one, squaddie, you've led 'em right to us—"
"I didn't know they were followin' me!" Rose burst out. Somewhere in the back of her brain, she thought Amy was taking the existence of monsters who she'd said were either ghosts or a trick of the imagination remarkably well. Scary well, actually. Why, again, did this lot have to move away?
Provided they didn't die here in this flat in the next ten minutes.
To everyone's immediate alarm, the actual door to the actual home was rattling. Rattling right in its frame. All heads swiveled toward it. The wood sounded creaky, as if a great weight was being pressed upon it. Rose felt her lungs trying to give up at the sound. Will was backed up against the cooker. Rory made a little moan. At this point, the lounge part of the living room's sectional had been put in front of the entrance, and Rory was busily trying to lift the coffee table up onto it.
Amy turned back around, but it wasn't Rose she was looking at this time.
It was Will.
"All right then, Willie," she said, voice low and commanding. "Got no other choice. Time to open the watch."