The only person who worked later than Pete Tyler at the Torchwood Institute was Sally Sparrow. She practically lived at that desk in the comms room. At least three hours past midnight, you could always find her sat behind her computer, seven cups of tea in, working out bugs and glitches and things, catching up on files, and reading a novel when the system rebooted. She even brought a blanket to work sometimes. You could see her boots off, empty on the ground beneath her desk, every day without fail.
Rose and Sally had met within a week of the aftermath of Canary Wharf. She liked Sally well enough, especially because Sally didn't ever seem interested in small talk. Sally had an open face, a muted smile, and round lovely eyes that asked questions when her mouth didn't. If it hadn't been for the Void and the aching and the general feeling of total unrest, Rose knew they would have been close. The sort of work friends that make plans together on the weekend and boast of it on Monday.
She knew that, and she'd stayed away on purpose. Only talking when it was strictly necessary, and never about their personal lives. Sally had tried exactly twice to crack Rose open like a nut—Rose recalled both times clearly, once in August, once in November—and after the second time, had firmly stopped trying. They would definitely have been friends.
The ache was still there. But now Rose was beginning to see, just a little, how much she was wasting under that ache. The Doctor always tried.
So when she laid down a little piece of scrap paper on Sally's desk just before midnight, and Sally looked up from her book in surprise, Rose offered a shy smile.
Sally smiled back, but it was a smile that said she thought Rose might have been out drinking. "What's this?"
"Address," Rose replied, pushing the piece of paper further toward her.
"310 Hettie Row," Sally read. She picked the paper up, glancing back at Rose. "Address to where?"
"Sort of hoping you could tell me."
Sally immediately set the novel down and stretched across her keyboard, fingers tapping away. There was a sharpness in her brown eyes now that had nothing to do with the caffeine in black tea. She was the only other person in the room; even Pete had finally gone home, to what Rose was sure would be half an hour of Jackie complaints. Sally always liked a big assignment, a problem to fix, a mystery to solve. That sort of person always found Torchwood eventually, Rose was learning. And Sally was quicker than the others when it came to tech and research. Mildly obsessed, even. She never gave up on a case.
"It's not listed, not properly," Sally updated her, scrolling.
"Try history stuff," Rose suggested. "Old articles and things."
As Sally typed, Rose stared at the address paper and tried to tamp down that nagging hope. It's not him. It couldn't be. Time travel wasn't always about the Doctor. And there could only be one in all the universes, that much she was sure of. She'd never get lucky enough to have a second version of that man wandering into her life.
But part of her knew if she succeeded in squashing those hopes, then she'd really have nothing left. She didn't know if she could face that. Daleks and werewolves, yes. Any time. Not that. So she let them roll around like echoes or a catchy tune in her mind and gut and focused the rest of herself on what was in front of her now.
"Can I ask," she began, inhaling, "why're you always here? I mean, isn't it sort of..."
"Boring?" Sally paused and looked at her, and then looked again, longer. Eyebrows raising. "Nah. Not for me. I like a project."
"And me," Rose said, grinning.
She watched Sally open up like a flower at the sight. "I could be doing this at home," she went on, lifting her book briefly with a hand, "only I keep thinking something really exciting's gonna happen here one day, and I want to be ready."
"Yeah?"
Sally nodded. "D'you know, when Cybus and all that finally got out, and everyone was picking sides and we got them all sealed up—and then they disappeared—"
"Through the Void," Rose supplied.
"Through the Void," agreed Sally. "When all that happened, I thought, What am I doing? You know? I used to work at a library. Filing. And I always liked computer stuff, researching old crime stories and all. Just got sucked in."
"Know the feeling."
"My mate Billy used to say I could dig up anything as long as I had wi-fi." Sally smiled. "Thought that might come in handy if something like the Cybermen ever came back. And when I found out about Torchwood, and Mickey told me about you—about your world—and how they were stopping things like that here, I thought, that's it then. That's what I can do."
Rose returned the smile. But Sally shut her eyes suddenly, grimacing.
"Sorry," she said.
"What?"
Sally went back to her computer, pursing her lips. "I thought you might not want to talk about...it. The other place."
Rose nodded, listening to the keyboard being abused, watching the screen light change and flicker across the desk. She ran her hand along the edge, mulling. It would be a lie to say the other girl was wrong. But she didn't have to become a black hole, sucking the conversation away. Sucking the life out of it with the ache.
"No, s'all right," she said, half mumbling. "Plenty to do round here."
Sally met her gaze for a moment, shrewdly, kindly, and changed the subject. "So what is this place? Is it like a haunted house or something?"
"Did you find it?" Rose came around the desk to see.
"310 Hettie Row," Sally declared proudly, stilling the screen so that her coworker could have a look. "It's abandoned—says it's been that way for thirty years, but—if you look here—" She opened a new tab and scrolled through endless lines of information, clicking and dragging to highlight an old real estate listing. "It was also up for sale last month."
Rose narrowed her eyes, excitement drumming away in her skull and the edges of her mouth. "So which is it, abandoned or on the market?"
"Both." Sally turned to twist her lips at the other blonde. "Creepy."
"Definitely creepy," Rose said, smirking.
"It's like those missing people." Sally clicked away, back to the photos of the house on the first page, looking through them. "Two different lives, same subject. Mind you," she added, matching Rose's smirk, "that Nightingale bloke, easy on the eyes."
"Yeah?" Rose made a teasing noise in her throat and Sally laughed with her.
"Shame he's disappeared now."
"All the good ones do that."
The house on the screen was all stone, with a sprawling, unmanicured front and back garden. Ivy did indeed cling to every inch of it, just as Will had described. The windows were boarded up, the door seemed to be rotting. Pictures of the inside were blurry, but everything seemed in good shape for a home built in the seventies. Most furniture was covered in sheets, dust and cobwebs and plants growing through the house everywhere. It was beautiful, but it was falling apart.
"You still haven't said," Sally interrupted the examination. "What's this for? The address?"
"S'gotta do with them. The people they're looking for." Rose straightened, hands drifting into her back pockets. She nodded to the screen. "Got a tip, right, sayin' Stacy Campbell wanted it, only now it's like...she built it. Had it made in the seventies."
"Sorry?"
"There's a letter." Rose shook her head, blinking. "S'hard to explain, but—whatever happened to her, we think it's time."
"Time," Sally repeated, fingers hovering over the keyboard. Staring at her.
"Time travel." Rose sucked in and blew out, eyes on the screen.
Sally's tone was careful. Juddering. "Time travel, like—like with the—"
"Keeping looking, yeah?" Rose got louder, turning on her heel. "Time I went home, Mum's waiting."
Sally could take a hint. She went back to the typing, mouth snapping shut. The tea beside her shook as she leaned over the top of the desk with renewed enthusiasm, the flower closing up again. Rose cursed herself inwardly.
"And thanks," she added, in a tone that made Sally glance at her as Rose reached the door. "Knew if anyone could help, it'd be you."
Sally grinned at her. With the flower back open, Rose made her way out of the building.
"No."
"What d'you mean, no?"
"I mean you're not goin'." Pete shook his head, hard, standing up from the sofa. "I can't allow it."
The fireplace popped with a tiny whine behind R0se. Her mug was still warm on the table beside her chair, dangerously close to the edge. Jackie was curled up across from her on the couch, stain robe and all, hands wrapped around her own full cup of tea. Watching the carnage begin. The TV was on faintly in the background, but the sight of her husband and daughter glaring at each other across the living room was clearly the more engaging show.
"Y'can't just make me stay at home," Rose burst out, half indignance and half shock.
"Yes I can." Pete shifted his weight to the other foot, lifting his green, empty mug off the coffee table. "Doin' it now."
"What, 'cos you're my dad?"
Pete raised his eyebrows. "Aren't I?"
He had her with that one. She couldn't possibly bring herself to say adoptive, or anything close. He was Pete Tyler. They had him back, Peter Alan Tyler. Her dad in any world. They'd both accepted that by now. And if Rose was being perfectly honest with herself, some tiny part of her liked being ordered not to go traipsing into danger by the man wearing slippers six feet away from her.
"Thing is though, Rose, I'm not just that, am I? I'm your boss." Pete tipped his head to one side, looking at her almost apologetically. "Proper boss. I helped make Torchwood, my ranking's higher than yours, been here longer. We don't know what's doin' this, God knows I don't understand it, but I know it's bad. And we can't send you out in the middle of it, not without more to go off of."
"We've got more!" Rose argued. "It's not just Stacy now! I've told you, look—every one of them that went missing's been round that house, Sally said so. Whatever it is, s'gotta be there."
"Maybe," said Pete, pursing his lips. Still with that maddening, pity-eyebrow dip he seemed so fond of doing. "But if it is, you're not gonna be the one we send to check. And that's final. I'm sorry, but it is."
It was so neat, his exit. Smooth. He must have had a lot of practice wriggling out of arguments with the late Jackie Tyler of this world. Pete took a last sip of tea, blinked twice at its strength, pulled a face, and was halfway down the hall before Rose had finished scoffing at his back. She threw herself back in her seat, fingers smacking against the velvet arm of the chair.
"He's right, sweetheart. You know he is."
Rose turned her glare on her mother. "S'not like I'm new to this sort of thing," she complained. "I'll bet I know more about what's really goin' on than anybody, and he still won't let me go."
"It's to keep you safe," Jackie insisted. Her hushed, gentle tone got firmer when she caught Rose's eye. "Oh don't look at me like that, it is. There's me here, and Tony, and we need you, don't we? You've got a family now, a proper big family waiting on you. Wouldn't be right, sending you away. He knows it'd kill me, anything happened to you."
"No, but this's why I'm in Torchwood. If he's not gonna let me do my job, what's the point? What else am I s'posed to do?" Rose grumbled.
"Well, you might phone that Will of yours, for a start."
"Sorry, what?"
"Invite him to tea." Jackie sniffed. "He called here not two hours ago—"
"You've been answering my phone?" Rose demanded, outraged. She lurched out of the chair and slapped her hand onto her mobile, which had been innocently seated all too near her mum on the coffee table.
"Wouldn't stop ringing, would it, and I'd only just got Tony down—"
"So now you're meddling with my phone calls—"
"Oi, you never get any phone calls, I thought it was an emergency!"
"Was it?"
"No, he said something about wanting an update. What do I know about updates and missions and things, I said, that's Rose's business, try again later, only he stayed on for a bit. Got me talking. Aw, he's a lovely fella, Rose—"
"Mum, just—" Rose was shaking her head before Jackie had finished speaking.
"You call him and see, you never know what's—"
"Just leave it—"
"Now, stop your moaning," Jackie ordered, sharp all of a sudden. She sat with her spine straight now, eyes wide and sparking up a blaze. Rose felt her heart sink. "And listen to me. Your phone never does ring, and d'you know why? It's 'cos you've pushed everyone away! Everybody knows y'never answer, don't they, and why not?"
"I'm busy."
"Oh, tell us another," Jackie huffed, clicking her tongue. "You've just stopped living your life, Rose, that's all it is. You're not living."
Rose stared at her, mouth half open for a moment before answer. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"When's the last time you went down the pub with Mickey?" Before her daughter could respond, Jackie swept on, punctuating with manicured pink nails. "Or went to the cinema, or talked to somebody besides me or your dad? About nothing? Not Torchwood, not aliens, just about nothing, Rose. Just to laugh! Well? I'll tell you when, it was a long time ago, that's when. Full year gone by. And now suddenly here's this nice handsome young lad and you won't have him! You turn your nose up—"
"Don't—"
"Ever since you and the Doctor—"
"Don't—"
"The Doctor," Jackie went on, raising her voice. Every syllable was loud and slow and deliberate. If anything was going to wake Tony, it would be that. But it was just them. It seemed they were the only two living souls in the whole Tyler mansion. "That's right, I've said it. I've said his name. 'Cos you've gotta have it out, Rose, you've gotta start on again—"
"That's what I'm doing—"
"What, sat out on the roof, night after night?"
They were both yelling now. Their voices ricocheted off the huge, white walls and the polished bannisters. Somewhere, Pete Tyler was digging a hole and hiding like a meerkat. Tony slept on, probably dreaming of bottle-blonde monsters. Not a sound echoed through the grounds apart from the battle raging in the living room.
"What d'you want me to do, just forget?"
"Oh, of course not, be fair—"
"Oh that's not fair, is it? You don't get it," Rose spat. "Y'couldn't—"
Jackie shot off the couch faster than the satin robe should have allowed. "How d'you mean, I don't get it? Me? Twenty years I lived without your dad; twenty years he was dead! And I was left on my own. All on my own, and d'you know what I did?"
Rose's chest heaved. She didn't know she'd started crying until something warm and wet slipped off her cheek.
"I lived my life," Jackie spat. "Day after day, and you just hate that, don't you? But sometimes that's all you can do, Rose! Just live your life. And if someone comes along and makes the living easier, who're you to turn 'im down? To turn Mickey down, turn me down?"
Rose felt the tears catch on her mouth and opened it, stubbornly refusing to shed any more. She knew Jackie was right. She knew and it hurt her, and the quickest way to avoid that hurt was the anger. The anger, white-hot in her lungs, would dry every tear up soon enough. It always did. The anger at the Void. Anger at the Daleks, at Yvonne, at the whole stupid bloody world for putting her here and giving her a dad and a brother and money and zeppelins and Mickey and missions and ripping her away from the Doctor.
"That's right. 'Cos at least you got a second chance." Rose put teeth into it, put the anger into every sentence. "A second Pete, and where were you when he found you?"
"Don't you dare—"
"I tell you what though," Rose continued, ignoring the tears Jackie was starting to build, forcing her tone into a simmering, sullen average volume, jabbing her mobile in a point at her mother. "That's not gonna be me."
Jackie glared at her, breathing deep, looking six years younger for it.
"M'not gonna just sit here," Rose snatched up her bag and threw the mobile inside, avoiding the blinking message light just as well she did Jackie's eyes. Pushing down the lump rising in her throat that made it all heavier. Snarling out every other word. "Havin' a lark on the phone all day, watchin' TV, chattin' up men and—datin' whoever turns up just to pass the time! I'm not!"
"And if your blessed second chance comes along, where'll he find you?" Jackie snarled as Rose passed her, heading for the stairs. She kept shouting, following Rose halfway up. "It's no use givin' up! Lookin' for trouble, getting yourself killed! It won't bring him back, d'you hear me, missy? It won't bring the Doctor back!"
Rose took the steps two at a time, exploding into her room and slamming the door, heedless of her baby brother or her mum or anybody else. She felt nineteen again. Eighteen, ten. Like a child. The room was too small. The world was too small. She shoved open the window, got her head out, took one look at the stars and burst into tears.
It had been a long time since she'd cried. Really cried. Even now, as she pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes and sat, slumped, beneath the window on the hot pink carpet, the pressure in her chest remained while her tear ducts quit their jobs. She heaved and shook for a while, but nothing more came out. It was like she didn't have anything left to cry with.
Or anything left at all.