Work Text:
“And I think we’ve just got time for one more question – yes – well, let me see. Would you mind terribly, Mr. Tyler, if we made it a personal question?” The interviewer leans forward on her couch invitingly, smiling, perfectly made up. Automatically, Pete Tyler smiles back from his armchair, hot under the studio lights, bright under the makeup.
So far the daytime television interview has run precisely as his PR team directed. Even this question isn’t unexpected. Up until now they’ve been talking about Vitex’s latest line of nutritional drinks (extra fizzy! Now in strawberry and grape!), but too much business isn’t good television. The interviewer always wants to get a little ‘human interest’ into the stories. There’s an approved list of questions with an approved list of answers, and Pete Tyler smiles graciously, inclines his head, and says, “Of course, Sandy,” with the charm and warmth that sold ten million bottles in the last fiscal quarter alone.
Sandy’s smile turns a bit conspiratorial. “You know our organization recently published its top ten list of Britain’s Most Eligible Bachelors,” she says, “And of course you’re not on the list…” Sandy pauses, and the live television crowd, well-trained, sighs dramatically. The cameramen pan around, getting some reaction shots on B-roll; they’ll be edited in later, with a focus on the most attractive women in his age demographic. “You and Mrs. Tyler have been together for so long, and you always look so happy together!” Another sigh from the crowd, this one tinged with romance.
Pete’s already mentally readying his answer. This is going to be the ‘share your secrets to a happy marriage’ question, one of the most popular among interviewers in this particular broadcast slot. He’s all ready to explain to Sandy that the key is mutual respect, admiration, lots of communication, and – of course! – love, and he’s already started to flash out his trademark smile when Sandy catches him completely by surprise.
“…and I was just wondering if you would tell us, for all the hopeless romantics in the audience, when it was you first knew you were in love with Mrs. Tyler.”
Pete freezes. It’s only for a split second, the cameras may have caught it but the crowd at home will never know, but he knows. He never freezes; he’s always been more comfortable in front of a camera or a crowd than in private life. But he freezes for a second, and he has no prepared answer to this question, and for once in his long career as a salesman he actually blurts out the truth before he has time to think.
“The moment I saw her, Sandy, I knew she was the woman from my dreams.”
The crowd goes nuts.
Sometimes Suzie dreams she’s dead. When those dreams come, it’s never just the one death; it’s always a dozen of them, one right after another, until she’s died and been resurrected and died again enough times for it to almost become downright boring. Her friends, her family, her teammates, they just keep killing her. Don’t they have anything better to do, she wonders? Game night? Drink at the pub? No matter how terrifying the dreams start out, it’s really hard to keep mustering up fear when they’re beating a dead horse for the thousandth time.
The next day Suzie will report her dreams to the Torchwood psychologist, as required in the Torchwood Employee Guide, and they’ll both have a good laugh at the sheer absurdity of it all before she gets back to work.
Ricky Smith has nightmares. That’s nothing new; they all have nightmares. And if Ricky’s are worse than most, well, he’s allowed. He’s their leader, after all. London’s Most Wanted Man has a lot on his shoulders.
And if his nightmares sometimes wake Jake up, too, that’s the price Jake is willing to pay to be with Ricky. It’s not like his sleep is undisturbed either. The things they’ve done. That’s not the problem. The lack of sleep isn’t the problem.
“Go back to bed,” Ricky always says, rolling over. “Don’t worry about it.”
“I do worry about it,” Jake insists. But Ricky doesn’t listen.
When Ricky’s awake, he loves Jake. There’s never a moment when Jake doubts that. Ricky’s hardly demonstrative – probably wouldn’t be even if none of them were wanted fugitives; that’s just not who he is – but Jake doesn’t need sweeping demonstrations. Ricky’s always the first one at Jake’s side in a firefight, the first one Ricky looks at the moment the shots start flying, the one Ricky wants most of all to make sure isn’t hit. It’s all the proof Jake needs.
Except.
Jake ducks, bobs, weaves. His lungs are aching in his throat and his muscles burn with lactic acid, but he pushes harder, harder. A silver, humanoid blur rushes towards him – he dodges – he kicks –
“Goal!” someone yells, as the ball sails right past the silver team’s keeper and into the net. Jake laughs, feet sliding out from under him, and half-a-dozen of his teammates pile on top of him in their happiness.
He twists his head around, out from under Bob’s armpit, looking over to the sidelines. Someone’s supposed to be there watching him – someone Jake wants to be sure is impressed – except – except there isn’t anyone there, and a second later he can’t remember why he thought there ever would be.
There’s a moment, always a moment, right after Ricky wakes up from a nightmare, when he won’t look at Jake. And there’s a moment, right after Jake wakes up from one of his own, when he doesn’t remember why Ricky should.
Sometimes Owen dreams he’s dead.
Waking up after those dreams is always a disappointment.
“President Jones, the new budget numbers – “
“Yes, yes.” Harriet Jones takes the folder from her aide. (What is his name? She can never remember. She keeps wanting to call him Adam, but she knows that’s wrong.)
Harriet's manner may be brusque, but her voice is kind. She learned the value of kindness a long time ago, the hand and the glove, as it were, and it’s always served her well. She nods at not-Adam and continues hurrying down the corridor. She’s late for a Cabinet meeting.
Of course, the Cabinet arranged it that way on purpose. They don’t like her any more than she likes them, and they’re deadlocked right now, battling it out over the thorny problem of what to do with the trapped Cybermen and the deactivated Cyberman conversion facilities. The naïve fools insist that there’s got to be some way to bring the converted back from the dead, and no matter how hard she tries, she can’t seem to make them grasp reality.
“Coffee, ma’am?” a voice interrupts.
She looks up reflexively. “No, thank you, Donna.” Wait, that’s wrong, Harriet thinks to herself, vexed. That young woman’s name isn’t Donna; it’s – it’s – Mary, or something like that, but Harriet’s rubbish with names, always has been. Probably-Mary doesn’t even blink an eye, just continues pushing the coffee cart down the hallway.
“Call me if you change your mind,” Probably-Mary calls back over her shoulder, smiling encouragingly.
The staff here were always so nice, Harriet thinks. Not like those so-called servants of the people with whom she had to argue constantly. Of course the staff had to be polite, it was their jobs, and after all she is President – Harriet Jones, President, oh, she loves the way that sounds, says it every chance she gets – but they’re more than just polite. They’re nice. Kind. Kindness is important. And they’re all used by now to the way Harriet mangles their names. Probably-Mary’s been here since before Harriet was elected, and not-Adam was hired shortly after her election. Oh, and there, waiting just outside the meeting room with another folder for Harriet, is Alistair – well, not really – she knows perfectly well he’s not really called Alistair – but he’s been her senior military advisor for the better part of a decade, and he told her three weeks into their acquaintance to just go ahead and call him Alistair if it made her happy and not to worry about it any more.
“Latest troop dispersals, ma’am,” he says now, handing over the obligatory folder. “We’ve had to double some of the guard forces around the Cyberman manufacturing facility. Some of those foolish young children were actually taking bits of cyber-metal as souvenirs. Now they’re keeping an eye on each other as much as on anyone else.” Alistair shakes his head and sighs. He’s getting old, Harriet notices regretfully, moustache more white than black, swagger stick left tucked under his arm rather than being used to energetically punctuate his points. This job is aging them all, but Alistair has always been the sort of iron-clad British soldier that seemed immune to the passage of time. He’s been everywhere, it seems to her sometimes, seen everything, nothing ever fazes him – why, the idea of him getting old is impossible. Harriet puts it straight out of her head.
“We need to come up with some other kind of solution,” she says ruefully, referring to the problem of the now-defunct Cyberman manufacturing plants. “We can’t just go on guarding them forever.”
“No, ma’am,” Alistair agrees. He waits a moment longer, in case she has anything more to say than just repeating the obvious. When it becomes clear she doesn’t, he salutes, crisply, and moves on.
She watches him go for a minute, sees when he stops to accept a cup from probably-Mary, and thinks that it’s really been such a honor to work with everyone here. After all, it seems she chose her companions well.
Harriet Jones, President, squares her shoulders and enters the Cabinet meeting ready for battle.