At first, Amy wasn't sure what woke her. Rory wasn't snoring. She didn't need the toilet. She hadn't been dreaming of anything.

Then she heard water.

Blinking, hair bushy on one side of her otherwise-fabulous head, Amy ripped off the duvet and padded out into the hall. It wasn't the master bathroom. It was the guest one. The light was on, the rug was mussed, and steam was steadily rising from the sink, so she knew the culprit straight off. Only one member of their flat washed his hands under practically-boiling water, at least since he'd gone and human-ed himself.

Squinting in the gold-white artificial light, Amy turned off the water. Then she caught sight of brown, mildly-tousled hair out of the corner of her eye. Leaning halfway out into the corridor with one hand on the loo doorframe, she could see Will folded like a telescope on the floor of the living room. His back was against the sofa seats, and the television was on—cartoons—but he didn't seem to be watching it.

With an exaggerated sigh to let him know she was up and she was annoyed, Amy wandered out into the main area to glare down at him.

Will looked round at the sound, a thin, weak smile sparking up in greeting and then dying off again. Then he went back to facing the screen and all the dancing lights and colors.

"Y'left the tap running," Amy growled, knowing her entire face was screwed up like a sultana.

"Sorry." Will murmured, blinking a lot at the TV as though he, too, had just woken up. But she could tell from just his posture and his bleary, distracted tone that he'd been awake much longer than she had.

The flat was black apart from the light from the television set. They only had windows in Amy and Rory's bedroom, which was fortunate, actually, because Will tended to do nutty things with the toys he was working on in his own room. Like testing them with shouts, throwing tools, playing with each one and doing funny voices before taking them down to the shop. Not fit behavior for window privileges.

Amy studied the way Will's hand twitched up to tug and twist at his blank tee shirt's collar. It only happened when he was nervous, it seemed, or lost in thought. (She hated that she had to re-learn his habits.) So he must be feeling uneasy about something.

Well, he could hurry up and fix that on his own, the milk pincher. She was going back to bed.

She only made it to the linen closet before stopping, cursing herself, and turning back.

"What're you doing, can't you just go to sleep, please."

"I will, yeah." He yawned, one eye squeezed shut for longer than necessary afterward. "Eventually."

Amy stomped down the single step into the living room's level, flinging herself like a cross toddler into the couch. She groaned, closed-lipped, against the pillow her head squashed down on.

"Oi," he said, flicking a hand back toward her face without looking, "hush, you'll wake Rory."

"You'll wake Rory," Amy grumbled, glaring at his hand, which was too close to her nose. "Keepin' the water going, TV—"

"I couldn't sleep."

"Oh, well, join the bloody club!" She sat up, shoving hair angrily out of her face.

Will stared and stared at the television, jaw slack, mouth shut. Unblinking. He was so quiet, so uncharacteristically still, Amy began to feel cowed for complaining so obnoxiously. Something really was eating at him. And as long as she was awake, too, wasn't it her responsibility to work out what it was?

She stretched out a foot to nudge him slightly on the shoulder. "So?"

He turned to look at her, blinking at last.

Amy allowed a tiny, pursed-lip smile. "Go on then."

Will glanced at her foot, then back to her face. His voice was soft and hoarse with tiredness. "Bad dreams."

He watched her as if expecting her to laugh at him. She didn't. The Doctor had had bad dreams, too—or he said he had. Mentioned it once, only, and she'd been too busy being surprised he slept at all to ask what they were like. It never came up again, sleep or nightmares. She wondered if dreams changed when your physiology changed.

When she didn't laugh, he went on, "Really bad. Weird bad. It's like I'm running from something and I can't quite go..." he waved a hand, circling it in the air. "Fast enough. And everything's always changing behind me, isn't it, like...like I can go anywhere but I can't get away. I'm in a field and then I'm not, or I'm on a beach and then I'm not, or the ground caves and I'm running through an old street with—with, with horse-drawn carriages and...people with big hats." He brought his hand down to clap, muffled, into the dormant one on his lap. "And I'm running 'cos something's always, always chasing me."

"Lots of people dream of gettin' chased," Amy said, brow furrowing.

"Yeah, but do lots of people dream of getting chased by statues?"

Her mouth got dry. "What?"

"Well, whatever it is, I know they're coming but when I turn round they've all stopped. Frozen. Like statues. Can't see them clear enough, but I know they're there." He sniffed. "And every time I wake up, it's...like they might be in there with me." Will jerked his head toward the hall, toward his bedroom. "So I get out."

Amy had a mad urge to get off the sofa and check his room herself. Statues, she thought, and cursed herself again.

Will seemed to take her silence to mean a lot less than it did. "Stupid, yeah?"

She took too long in responding because he glanced back at her, eyes surprisingly round and searching, and Amy had to force herself to scoff. "Yeah. Stupid. It's just a dream, dreams're weird. Always weird."

They sat for a minute or so longer without saying anything else. The cartoons cut into advertisements, Will went back to watching without watching, and the flat seemed to get darker and darker around them. Amy's eyes followed Will's fingers as they fiddled with one another, fiddled with his shirt collar, fiddled with the tear on his trousers near his right knee. The moving was a good sign, even with the shirt-collar thing. It meant she was helping, just a little.

"Something else," he said suddenly, not glancing round again.

"What?"

He didn't come out with it right away. It took him a few irritating seconds, as if he were reevaluating whether or not he wanted to say it. Finally, he murmured, "D'you ever feel like everything's not...quite...correct? About your life, I mean."

Amy weighed her options. Went for a joke. A diversion. "Yes."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Think I should be about, ooh, three grand richer? With more boots." She settled herself more comfortably back against the sofa, eyes fixed on his profile. "And my own swimmin' pool."

Will chortled with her, maybe just to be nice, because then he said seriously, even more quietly, "No. No, I mean..." and then he pinched the spot between his eyebrows, shaking his head, and cut himself off. "Never mind."

Amy set her teeth. She knew she should let it go, she knew she should let him lose focus and go back to his television. Or change the subject or smother him with the throw pillow, anything. But he was the Doctor, really. Somewhere. And he was unhappy. So she didn't.

"What?" she said, practically shoving it out.

"The other day, Rose, the girl I told you about. She asked about Chiswick."

"Chiswick," Amy repeated, wrinkling her nose.

"About what it was like. For me, when I was a kid." Will leaned his head back so that his hair ruffled against the seat cushion her legs were on. "And I...couldn't remember." He screwed his eyes up, squinting sharply at the ceiling.

"So?" Amy blustered. "D'y'think I can remember what Leadworth was like when I was five? No chance."

"But I can't remember now." Will blinked, hard. "Right now, I can't remember a single sodding thing about it, about where I grew up, where I rode my first bike, got my first...job. Nothing. Apart from the address."

"Yeah, but..." Amy blew out a halfhearted scoff. "Lots of people—"

"It's like..." His head came off the cushion, and he twisted to face her, but stared instead into the distance, fists drifting down onto the rug. "It's like I can't..."

Amy waited, heartbeats going by while she watched his eyes get blanker. One. Two. It was taking too long. This was dangerous.

"Will," she said loudly, quickly. Like clapping her hands.

He snapped to attention. Licked his lips. "...Like I just can't grab hold of it. Sort of like I don't...fit anywhere. Is that normal, d'you think?"

Amy's heart slowed down and then ached a little. The Doctor was human now, however temporarily—nine months gone already—and still he had to have moments like this one. Moments where he looked so lonely, she got a glimpse of what it was to have no Earth. No people. No ties whatsoever, and a long, long, long life to feel that absence. Why couldn't being human have kept him safe from it? One whole heart was turned off inside his chest, for heaven's sake. Instead he was a different sort of lost. Because he could somehow sense that Will wasn't the truth.

"You do fit, though." Amy leaned forward, folding her arms. "You fit here. With us."

Will batted her foot down, away from his face as she teased him with it again. "Oh yeah, eh, lucky me."

He gave her a half smile and scooted slightly out of reach. But the look in his eyes didn't fade.

That wouldn't do. She had to take his mind off it. She had to do something to make this better, if not for his own human sanity, then for his Time Lord safety. What would occupy him? The Doctor would have been brightened by a problem to fix, but apart from dodgy toys, he didn't have anything pressing she could draw his attention to for long, and not at this hour. Other than the fact that Rory sometimes forgot to wear the right shoes to work, their lives were downright dull here. The Doctor might have been taken in by a new device, but this Earth was fresh out of that sort of thing, especially when it might raise new problems. And as for alien threats, well, that was more than out of the question in this case.

He's not the Doctor, she'd told Rory. As far as he himself knew, Will was just a regular bloke. A regular bloke who needed distracting.

"Hey," she said softly, because her toe could no longer poke him.

Will met her eyes, eyebrows raised.

"That girl." She bounced her own eyebrows at him, pulling her lips into a bow. "Rose. What was she like? I mean, really what was she like?"

Will rolled his eyes. But he was smiling. "Oh, come on now, Amy—"

"You come on." Amy slid herself down off the couch, taking the throw pillow, and sat beside him on the floor. "You've got me up, least you can do is entertain me."

"You could go back to bed."

"Tell."

Will hesitated, then turned his head to look between her eyes. "Blonde."

Amy gave a loud snort. "Is that it?"

"Yep, that's it."

Of course this would be harder than if she'd asked the Doctor. The Doctor might have pontificated, too, but at least his face would melt into detail itself and she could wear him down. Will was holding his stupid human male cards close to his chest.

Amy dropped her head down in faux exasperation on the pillow in her lap.

Will, obviously enjoying this, patted her head twice and grabbed the remote, flicking through a few channels on the telly.

"How'd you meet each other, you idiot?" She spread still-painted nails into the sky, fingers splayed. Face smushed into the pillow.

Will blew out his cheeks in a short sigh. "Crosswalk."

"Oh my god," Amy muttered into the pillow, mock whimpering. Was he going to do this one syllable at a time, with Rory and a warm duvet waiting for her?

"I saved her life."

Her head came up. "Sorry, what?"

He thumbed his nose. "At the crosswalk. Totally saved her life. Drunk driver, whummm, pulled her out of the way. Bang."

"That's how you met?"

"That's how we met."

Amy leaned closer, squinting. "I don't believe you."

His mouth fell open. He dropped the remote. "It—happened, Amy, blimey, see if I ever tell you anything again!"

"You and a drunk driver at a crosswalk," Amy said, glancing at the ceiling as though the idea were preposterous. Because he deserved it.

"That's right."

"Nope. Definitely not. You'd have tripped on your shoelaces and met your Maker, now, gimme the truth."

"That is the truth, and if I ever bring her round for tea, she'll tell you, all right?"

"Ohh, already bringing her home to meet the parents!" Amy jutted out her lower lip, clasping a hand to her heart and leaning heavily over his shoulder.

"Now—stop it," Will whinged, darting back and crab-crawling away from her. "I've told you—it's not like that, she's just a friend—she's not even that, we only just met! Oi, just—" He pointed threateningly at her, on his back propped on an elbow as she made kissy faces. "Shut up!"

"Yeah, but you've kept her phone number, haven't you?" Amy pointed back. "Is it still there? Haven't you..." She wrinkled her nose. "Bathed at all yet, surprised you're not minging."

Will raised the wrist where the number had been written, to show he had indeed bathed and it was no longer there.

Amy, for a moment, felt a genuine glimmer of relief. "What, you got rid of it?"

"I've copied it down," he said, as if she was the idiot.

"So you are gonna call her, then?"

"Yes." He answered too quickly, realized it, scowled at the look she gave him, and added, "Ehhm, maybe. I suppose."

"Yeah, y'are." Amy scoffed, scrambling to her feet and heading for the kitchen.

"What're you doing?" Will called after her, still on his elbows on the floor.

"I'm hungry," Amy said, pausing with the fridge open.

"You can sleep, though, you can go back to bed. I'm all right, you know."

"Nope," she said again. "I'm awake. You're awake." Then she pulled out a container of powder from the cupboard. "Custard."

"Eeeugh." Will made a face. "None for me, thanks."

Amy felt her hand still on the tin. For a moment, she'd almost forgotten she wasn't talking to the Doctor. A wave of homesickness washed over her so completely, she nearly had to hold on to the counter for balance. She missed the nutty old alien. She missed the times where she and the Doctor and Rory could go to the Tardis kitchen at any given moment and find a bowl of custard and hot fish fingers waiting, especially after a particularly harrowing trip. She missed custard for that reason alone. She missed her friend.

But she couldn't let on. So she leaned back against the cupboard frame and pulled out his nearly-finished bag of Hula Hoops, popping one into her mouth. "When will you call her?"

"Eh?"

"Rose." Amy drawled the name out, almost contemptuously. She tried to contain it. Tried to check the bitterness, the worry, slowly growing in her chest. Teasing had been fun, but there really shouldn't be a girl. Her instincts were very clear on that point. The mother-bear instincts, the ones that seemed to have materialized ever since the Doctor collapsed in a heap on the Tardis floor, one heart out of commission and a fob watch pressed frantically into Rory's hands.

Will shrugged. "Well." He pulled his mouth down further at the edges, glancing sideways. "First I've got to have something to tell her, haven't I?"

"Jackie, I can't be any earlier."

"Five days now you've said that! Five days, and d'you know who's here, sat up with Tony all night?"

"The nurse."

"All right. But who's sat up with her, then?"

"Rose."

"And who's left waiting for Rose to get home safe, answer me that!"

"You are, Jacks."

"Yes I am, and d'you know why? Because that Torchwood of yours, it's just another bleedin' alien mess, same one what took her the first time, same one what might take her again, and someone's got to sit at home waiting. Only now I've got a husband to sit with, or I'm meant to've, and where's he? Torchwood."

"It's my job. I'll try for twelve."

"Just come home at nine!"

"No, Jackie, I can't be any earlier!"

Round and round and round it goes, Rose thought, passing from the foyer to the dining room. Where it stops. Never.

Pete and Jackie's squabbling got louder as she started piling things into her bag, things she'd left scattered across the long, long table over the weekend. This room was mainly for show; they all usually ate in the living room or kitchen when company wasn't about. Her cloth bag got heavier as her parents' bickering started from the beginning for the third time. Mascara, scrunchie, Torchwood radio, magazine, cell phone, banana from the glass bowl on the table's center.

"What d'you need that for?" Jackie's piercing voice, all warmed up from arguing, echoed in the dining hall as she wandered in checking under seats for Tony's favorite chew ring. It had been missing since last night. She had come in just in time to see the banana dropped carelessly into Rose's bag. "You've just eaten."

"Y'never know," Rose replied distractedly, checking her phone's battery. The message light was blinking.

Jackie made a slight noise of frustration and marched out of the room again, shouting, "Pete, if you've not left yet, I could use a hand!"

"I have left."

"You're standin' right there!"

"I'm just leavin' now; forgot my case. Don't wait up, yeah?"

"Five days you've said that now. Five days!"

Rose smiled as it went on, all the way out into the front garden. She liked it when they fought. She liked it when they laughed, too. Or when they were just quiet together by the fire some nights. Pete and Jackie Tyler, any universe—so many waves to rock the boat, but it never really got lost at sea. They always managed to stick together, no matter what came between them. They couldn't help it. They cared too much. At one point, she thought she'd found that too. Now it was just a memory.

But seeing her mum married once more, to the same man in a different world, seeing her with someone else to worry for and yell at all the way down the gravel path outside—it gave Rose hope. If not for her own situation, then for her mother's.

After a good long time of carrying on, Jackie would never be alone again.

Rose would be heading off to Torchwood within the hour, too, to see if the people in the tech lab had sorted out whatever was wrong with the Void detector. They claimed they couldn't find anything wrong with it initially, but when she'd described its behavior in Henrik's the other day, they'd conceded to an evaluation. Technically Rose didn't have to come in today—there were no missions, no assignments. Still. Gotta keep busy.

But first she'd clear her phone of messages.

The first was from Mickey, last night, inviting her to join he and some others at the pub for a match. She'd been asleep long before he'd called. The second was Jackie, yesterday morning, asking her to bring home a few things. The third was from a number she'd never seen before.

Blinking, Rose held the phone tighter against her ear and played back the message.

"Hello, Rose? Hopefully I've got your number right. If I haven't, blame the juice. Bit smudged. Think I've got it, though, 0kay—look—I've got something you'll want to hear. Really, properly got something. About Stacy. Now don't get excited, I haven't seen her, but it's...something. Said that. Anyway, this number's my number, not my flat's, so if you're interested—and I mean in the intel, obviously, not—not just in this message in particular—intel, that's a good word—sorry! Sorry, ehm, if you are interested, um. Call me back, I suppose. Or we could meet, er, if you fancy it. There's a place called the Silver Chippy on St. James. It's quite good. Bit greasy." There was a clearing of the throat, then a short pause. Then, as if the voice and the tripping in his sentences didn't give it away, "Sorry, yes, this is Will, by the way! And if you're not Rose and the juice did me in, sorry. Lovely day. Ignore this."

Rose felt her eyes rolling and her tongue pressing hard against the inside of her cheek, wanting to poke out. But she was already dialing the number.

When she got to the chippy, Will was standing just outside, leaning against a small ornamental fountain. The fountain only seemed to work part of the time, and he was busy using one hand to try and slip in and out untouched when the water would spurt out in pieces at the top. The area around Henrik's in this world was bright and crowded. Just posh enough for street art and things like that to be placed on most every corner.

She didn't have to go to the window to order; the moment he saw her, Will straightened, lifted both arms in greeting, and pointed to the paper bundle in one hand. It was an awkward flagging-down. But his eyes looked so bright, she didn't mind how the couple sitting a few feet away snickered.

Rose grinned at him in greeting and took a chip, mainly to be polite. It was still early in the day for chips. That was what she was telling herself, anyway, to keep from tasting it. From popping one in her mouth and maybe finding it was different in this universe.

"Didn't know what you wanted, so I got..." Will cocked his head at the steaming paper in his grip. "Well. Sort of everything. Vinegar, salt, onion...stuff, d'you know, now that I say it all out loud, they do sound a bit...much."

Rose took a bite then. She had to; he seemed so worried about the quality.

She was almost angry when they were good. Too good. Very good. She reached for another.

Will's mouth sprang into a smile, gladly holding the bundle still. He was dressed the same way, but today his trainers matched, both faded white, which in turn matched his tee shirt. The big, open hoodie was knit and woolly as ever, but she couldn't have said if she'd seen it either time before. They were all starting to look the same. What was most eye-catching was the fact that his socks were two different shades of bright blue, with little pale patterns of some kind on them.

"Are those starfish?" she asked cheekily, nodding with her mouth full to his ankles.

Will brought one leg up to observe, tilting his head even further. "Just stars, I think. Purist, me." His eyes came up. "Why, don't you like them?"

"Bit loud."

"I'm loud," he said, loudly.

She laughed and he grinned and for that second, it was a sunny day in the city and she could almost pretend it was ordinary. That she felt ordinary, and good, and it was like this often. But that wasn't why she was here.

"Anyway. Thanks for phonin'," Rose began, taking a seat on the low stone wall encircling the little fountain.

Will sat beside her, bumping shoulders. "Thank you for answering."

She took a breath, and another chip. "So...what's this something, then, you said you didn't see her? Stacy?"

Will took a chip of his own, munching thoughtfully. Munching for a lot longer than necessary. When she stopped people-watching as she waited for an answer, she glanced at him and saw him looking back sheepishly, side-eyeing her.

"What?" Rose paused with a chip halfway to her mouth. "Were you havin' me on?" She let the hand holding the chip drop down hard into her lap, prepared to be indignant.

Will swallowed hastily, waving a palm before waving his head back and forth. "No, no, no, definitely not, no. I meant it, I have got some intel. (I love that word.) It's just, er."

"Yeah?"

He scratched at his temple with a finger. Leaned sideways toward her with a lowered voice, like he was telling a secret. "If I tell you right away you'll get up and you'll leave."

Rose snorted so boisterously, the couple a few feet away shot them another look.

Will spoke over the snort, mouth twitching, "And I don't want you to leave yet, so I am stalling for time."

The snort turned into another laugh. "Guess I can compromise. Come on, then."

And she found herself getting to her feet. She repositioned her bag, glancing across the street and up ahead of them. Subconsciously weighing the options when it came to foot traffic. She felt Will watching her in surprise.

He rocketed up, too, a few chips spilling out of the wrapping. "What? Where?"

"On a wander, you coming?"

Will kept watching her, unblinking. "Don't you...have to work?"

"Do you?"

"No. Well, not till tonight. Toymaker, remember, make your own hours."

"I've got all day," Rose informed him, with a phony modest spreading of the arms.

He beamed and lifted his considerable chin, eyebrows up. "Right then! Okay—off on a wander."

As they walked and chatted, they passed in and out of shops and admired what few Christmas decorations were still up. The chips were gone within the next fifteen minutes. Will was all energy, touching everything he could from lampposts to art pieces to little plants. He managed not to knock into anyone except Rose, occasionally brushing shoulders as they moved. He never wanted to linger long in any store or street corner, and he was happy to talk the whole way. He had a gob that could rival certain Time Lords, she discovered. Rose didn't mind. She liked listening, and she realized about an hour in that this wasn't half bad for keeping busy either.

Then she thought guiltily of all the times Mickey or Jake or Sally had invited her out in the last year and she'd chosen not to go. Instead, she'd stayed at work catching up on old files, or stayed at the Tyler manor on the roof. Or she'd walk the city alone until midnight, on a tea run for Jackie or a take away pickup for Pete. She'd wanted to be on her own, though experience had taught Rose full well that being with actual people was better for a broken heart. Will was proving that with every bumbling step down the sidewalk.

She didn't miss the way Will kept glancing sideways at her, nervously and happily, lingering the way Mickey had done for a long time once they'd passed even the barest threshold of puberty. Rose didn't mind that either. She was used to nervous-happy glances from blokes her age, every girl was. It was only natural. Hardly ever meant much.

And anyway, if Jackie was to be trusted, her very face would discourage anything more than glances these days. No fear there.

Still. It was nice to be liked. It was nice to be sought after, even for a budding acquaintanceship. So she let it roll off the shoulders and focused on someone else for a change. She could do that for one morning, surely?

"My flatmate Rory works in there," Will told her as they passed St. Thomas's.

"Must be nice," Rose guessed, "rooming with a doctor. Make a lot, don't they?"

"Nurse. Much cooler. They get to wear more gloves. And they usually have more hair, I've discovered. His wife's my other flatmate, Amy, she's called. Amy Williams."

"Yeah, what's she do?"

"Models."

Rose almost stopped walking. "Seriously?"

Will had got a few steps ahead of her and turned slightly. "Yeah. Yeah, I don't see it, personally, too bossy, but it pays rent all right. Well, that and Rory and the doctoring. Hoardings like her. Maybe it's the legs."

"Oh, it's the legs, is it?" Rose's eyebrows shot to her hairline, grinning at him openly.

Will's face went slack and he gaped for a moment, taking in her expression. "Not—no—shut up," he said, settling on a blustery laugh.

Rose learned a bit more about those flatmates as they went. Will said Rory had known Amy since they were kids, and somehow in a town full of boys chasing her, the only one she ever managed to really notice was him. No children yet, and Will liked that because it meant he didn't have to think of moving out just yet. He didn't like being on his own, he told her. She could have guessed that.

When she asked him how he'd met them, Will stopped walking and stared down at her.

"What's wrong?" Rose felt her eyebrows drawing together.

His listless smile had whipped right off. "Not sure," he said, quietly.

"See something?" Rose looked around, baffled. Perhaps she was finally going to get her first alien sighting in Pete's World.

But Will wasn't looking around with her. He was still staring at the place between her eyes. "No, I meant..." He licked his lips. "I meant about my mates. Not really sure..." His gaze traveled past her, unfocused, "...how we, er..."

She waited for him to finish, waited to understand. There was something about his shoulders, she realized, that was making her tense. He seemed to hunch deeper into himself as he stood there, shuffling his feet and keeping his hands limp at his sides. Will looked a little afraid, actually, the longer the quiet went on.

"Hey. S'all right," she said, reaching out to touch his arm the way she did Mickey's when he got panicky.

Will's head and gaze jerked back to her at the touch and he blinked over and over, like he was waking up. "No, but—"

It was another unfinished thought from him. Rose, now getting really concerned, repositioned herself so she was fully facing him. He looked glassy, sort of sick. As though the more he thought, the worse he felt. "Maybe we should...sit down, yeah? S'been a weird week. Almost roadkill, remember?"

Will blinked some more, mouth twitching in one corner like it did when he wanted to smile. "Yeah. I mean, no, don't worry about me."

"Sure?" They began walking again, Will taking the lead.

"'Course, never better. Sorry, strange—I'd almost forgotten. It was in university," he explained. "We all went to school together. Must have done. I suppose when it feels like you've known somebody forever, the details aren't as...important."

"Yeah." Rose nodded with him, said it perhaps a bit too encouragingly, trying to convince him everything was fine. She didn't want him to feel embarrassed. Blimey, he is weird.

"Anyway." Will scratched at the back of his head. "Time you got some of that intel, eh?"

Rose listened, partly wishing she had a notepad or something as he began. Will had been keeping his ear to the ground where Stacy Campbell was concerned. Two nights ago, just before closing, Stacy's sister, Laura, had come into Henrik's with her son to look at the toy trains. This was, evidently, a regular and highly-anticipated outing for Stacy's nephew. Will had got to talking with her while the boy played, and she'd revealed something odd had happened concerning Stacy since the disappearance.

"She'd got a letter the night before," Will explained, "from Stacy. Said it was very odd because the paper was old, well, practically ancient; because as it turns out, the post office had been holding the letter for ages."

"How d'you mean?"

"They were under specific instructions. Special. Apparently they were told not to deliver it until January the 7th, 2007."

They paused at a crosswalk, blessedly alone, waiting for the light to change. Rose flicked hair impatiently out of her eyeline with a toss of the head, trained entirely on Will's expression. He seemed giddy now, almost unable to pause for air in relaying this information. He wasn't like Mickey—he didn't seem to like holding it over her, or keeping any of it to himself. But he did want to make sure she was paying attention. She knew because of the way he turned to face her before the next bit, licking his lips and leaning down, so that he could be certain she heard him. Mainly because he seemed a bit breathless with the reveal of it.

"It was from Stacy all right, but the date." Will looked between her eyes, voice low. "The date said 1956."

Rose found she was mimicking his general cadence. "1956," she repeated, almost dumbly.

"1956. Stacy's only got a year on me, her birthday's in June. 1985." Will raised his palms, jazz hands without any jazz. His voice went back to an ordinary volume, and he had a smile on that looked a little crooked and mad. "So you see, it couldn't have been her."

"No, it was," Rose mumbled, half to herself. She told the hopes, the ever-nagging, ever-louder bloody hopes in the back of her mind to clear off.

"Eh?" Will's brows knit.

"Sorry, it's..." Rose shut her eyes, shaking her head. "S'hard to explain. Go on."

"Well, Laura really thinks it must have been her," Will continued, sniffing, "'cos it's her handwriting, or she says it's her handwriting, she'd know, I suppose—anyway, sorry—that's not the only reason. 'Cos Stacy Campbell, she was looking to buy, wasn't she? Looking for somewhere new to live, put down roots, she told me once."

"So?"

"So," Will reached around her and pressed the crosswalk's button, three times, hard. Impatient for the light to change. Clearly he couldn't take standing still much longer. "Stacy'd been saving up. She had this house, this big house, huge old stone mansion, she loved this house. Even printed pictures off the internet to show me a few times. Late nights mopping Henrik's." He sniffed. "Ivy tendrils, big windows. Not my cup of tea. But Stacy, she was mad for it. She had a lot of money, mind you, but not that much. Or not enough for this house."

"But what's a house got to do with it?" Rose squinted. "With anything."

Will was slow in pulling his hand away from the button, making the papery smell he carried everywhere with him waft around her. It was funny when it got mixed with the still-lingering scent of chips, she decided. He was so engrossed in his intel, he didn't seem self-conscious about how close he'd gotten to her, all in her personal space, practically jittering. Every time he got further in the story, he seemed to shift further into her bubble. It was cute.

"The letter for Laura. The one with the special date. It said the house belonged to the Campbell family. Said it was built for them, established in the 1970's. Laura inherited it." Will lifted a finger, pointing at Rose, nose inches from hers. "And d'you know how?"

All right, maybe he did like holding it over. Just for dramatic effect.

"How?"

"Because. The land is owned under Stacy's name."

Rose's mouth fell open. She tried very hard to look as if time travel was not real. "No."

"Yes," Will replied triumphantly, grinning. "Stacy Moira Campbell. It's her signature on all the legal papers, and it did come with legal papers, that letter. Carbon dated. Documentation proving the house is Laura's. That it belongs to the Campbells, or to Stacy, and not because she bought it here, now, but because—according to the letter—she bought the land it was built on." He spread his fingers. "Before it got built."

There was a moment of silence between them as Rose processed. Somehow, these people really truly were traveling backward in history. They were. And the hopes were screaming in her brain, trying to clobber her. Plans started forming, half-baked, somewhere behind the hopes. She'd have to find the house. She'd have to tell the team.

"And I saved the best for last."

"Come on, let's have it," Rose said, feeling a grin stretch the words in spite of herself. He was just so interested in the whole thing, it was catching.

"Can you handle it?"

"Try me."

"It's in her will."

The grin slipped off. "What?"

He was nodding, pursing his lips. "Just what I said. There's a will, Stacy's will, that's one of the legal documents to prove she owned the building."

"But..." Rose felt her jaw working. "No, 'c0s. That would mean she's..."

"Only she isn't." Will raised his eyebrows. "Because she can't be."

Another moment of silence. A car horn sounded somewhere down the street, and Will seemed realize he was merely a toe-length away from her and lurched like a drunkard backward, blinking dazedly and offering her an awkward chortle. Rose didn't laugh, trying to smile closed-lipped back, but she felt more like screaming. Whatever was going on had to do with time. Possibly time and space, if Mickey's theory rang true. But then, since when was Mickey right about anything?

Will wrung his hands together. His voice rose to accommodate the new distance between them. "Laura can't make heads or tails of it all, and quite frankly, me neither. She thinks it's a prank, but the house is hers. Had it checked over and everything."

"Funny sort of prank, gifting someone a house pretending to be her missing sister," Rose said, curling her lip.

"Yes, not my idea of entertainment," he agreed, looking away with a face like he'd smelled something awful. Then it was back to the excited gesticulating. "But don't you see, it can't be a joke. Or if it is," he added, "it's a really, really good one. Excellent, in fact. Good enough to be government-validated, apparently."

Rose watched him, looked him up and down, all over. He had gone to a lot of trouble for her, for Torchwood. For Stacy, even. And he seemed to have enjoyed it, too. This Will bloke was a thrill-seeker, absolutely, but it was more than that. He wanted to help; he liked helping. And he liked a mystery.

Oh, thought Rose with a moment of out-of-body surprise, and then, We'd really get on.

Did get on. Were getting on.

He was perfect friend material for her, and Rose had spent the last year being anything but a good friend. To anyone. Carrying on had cut her off from that part of herself. Mickey had stayed with her, of course, in spite of that. Maybe because he'd seen it before from her. Jake and Sally as well. And she'd never get rid of her mum, not in any universe. They all deserved better.

Will deserved better. Even if she still felt there was a chasm inside her. Even if the stars were different here. She should try, try harder to feel it. Try harder to be there when she didn't feel it. With this and more. The Doctor always had.

"What is it?"

"Sorry?"

"You're sort of." Will swung his arms, fingers and thumbs rubbing together in both hands. "Staring at me."

"Am I?" Rose puffed. She looked down, up, at the building across the way. And caught sight of the little green man, just then flickering into view. "Come on, light's changing."

But Will took her elbow and drew her backward just as she stuck out a leg to start off.

Rose staggered a bit, shooting him and his hand a questioning look.

He leaned down teasingly. "No, me first, I'm afraid. You and crosswalks, don't want history repeating itself."

She sputtered, biting her lip to keep from seeming giggly. "There aren't any drunks around, it's daylight."

"Well, if all the stars align and the ever-elusive daylight drunkard comes whirling round the corner," Will said, raising his voice when she scoffed loudly at him, "he'll hit me and you can scarper, and I'll sleep more soundly tonight." He began leading them across. "Provided I survive the experience."

"Maybe you'll get lucky and blind him with your socks first."

"That's Plan B, Rose, try and keep up!"

Her laughter echoed all the way down the street.