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His car is a shabby little thing; it smells like chips, and his legs are everywhere.
They’ve been in it for ten minutes, and she knows the names of every country that car has seen and of everyone who’s ever sat in it; she also knows his favourite brand of hair gel, that he has a fondness for jacket potatoes, and that he went to A&E the first time he got a stitch in his side.
“The heater doesn’t work,” he says, slamming the heel of his hand against the panel a couple of times. “Bit of a fault.”
“So… Which Universe did you come from?” she asks, conversationally, waiting for the light to turn. She suppresses a shiver; her jacket was damp to begin with, and the air conditioner definitely works.
He makes a face, readjusts the red bag; she’s entrusted it to his lap. “Which Universe did you come from?”
“Not this one.”
“I know.”
“Neither did you.”
“Well, that’s settled, then.” He squirms in his seat. “Should we have a picnic? Stop and get some… wine and cheese and whatever you need for picnics. That would be nice, a nice midnight picnic. In the rain. Picnic?”
She turns to the right, cuts through an enormous puddle. The car has a suspiciously powerful engine. “Yes, I heard you the first time.”
“Yeees, and you didn’t answer. How do you feel about picnics?”
“They can wait. I have more important things to do.”
He’s quiet for exactly five seconds. “Been to any picnics lately?”
The Battersea Power Station is a burnt-out shell. Nothing moves for as far as River can see; not in any direction. Even the rain has stopped.
She pokes at a blackened piece of metal with the toe of her boot. “Twenty-second century, the Daleks invade the Earth and turn this place into a nuclear plant. In my universe, that is.”
He frowns, grunts. “Daleks. Cockroaches of the Universe. All Universes.”
“Rumour has it the Doctor left his granddaughter behind to sort it.”
He shrugs. “I’m sure she was brilliant.”
“Was?”
“Time-travel. Have to pick a tense and stick to it, or your brain’ll pack it in.” He looks over the debris. “What is it you’re looking for?”
“I thought you wanted to talk about the Doctor?”
“See, I thought we were talking about a Dalek invasion. I’m assuming the Doctor’s alive, which really is good enough for me.”
“He is.” She cuts off the last word just a little bit too abruptly.
He raises a brow.
“Let’s get to work, shall we? I need a first-generation EarPod.”
Upgraded Cybermen: terrible and everywhere and everywhen and newly confusing. Poor Universe. Poor Earth. Poor Doctor.
As she crams a few not-too-damaged EarPods into the bag, she catches him staring. He grins and throws his arms around her; squeezes until her ribs ache.
She squeezes back the best she can with her free arm. He smells like detergent and soap and oil, and something naggingly familiar.
“Do you hear that?” she asks, letting go.
His grin slips away, and his arms fall to his sides. “Remember that hug. Okay? This face, that hug.”
River presses a finger to her lips.
A beam of light, dense and bright white, cuts through the darkness. Far, far above, it’s attached to a zeppelin.
“Huh,” he says, “that was quick.”
The beam weaves aimlessly, illuminating the desolation — and then it finds the car.
He takes her arm, and they run. He laughs, and howls, and when the light washes over them — mercifully briefly — he waves to the sky.
She could leave; she could take the bag-full and go, return, but his long fingers have closed on both her wrist and the manipulator, and she can’t shake him off.
She pulls out her gun, aims it between his eyes. He stops, finally and abruptly. The zeppelin is nowhere near them, but even in the darkness, she can see despair and anger in his eyes. She’s seen both before; she has to swallow. “Let go.”
“Take me with you. I can help.”
“I don’t need your help, thanks. Let go. Now.”
“You wouldn’t.” He tightens his grip. “I need to know what’s going on.” There’s a demand in his voice, but no psychic nudge to go with it.
“You don’t get to decide that.”
If only he’d possessed those few missing pieces. His eyes are too young, and his breathing too ragged.
He’s going to activate the manipulator; she can see the thought coalesce in his head, almost a full second before his fingers twitch.
She slams her boringly-sensible heel onto his toes and the butt of her gun onto the back of his hand and then she runs.
“I can’t stop them,” said the Doctor, sitting cross-legged on the floor. He lacked both jacket and shoes.
River straightened his bowtie; it was definitely not meant to be vertical. “Rule fifty-two.” ‘There’s absolutely, positively, unquestionably always a way.’
The workshop was full of Cyberparts, picked apart till their smallest components; an entire Cyberman, sans organic material.
The TARDIS dimmed the lights a fraction, and he closed his eyes. They’d dissected themselves into a corner.
She pulled her knees up, settled her head on his shoulder. Turned the sonic on and off, on and off. “We need a Cyberman that’s not so ridiculously upgraded.”
“Well, that much is obvious.” He sighed. Opened his eyes, scowled to the room in general. “We need a specific sort of Cyberman.”
“When can we get one?”
“A parallel Earth.”
“Twice in twenty-four hours? Too often, even for me.” River’s handcuffed to a chair; they didn’t mind the bandage, this time. The pressure really, really makes the wound itch.
There are the bright lights, and the smell of terrible coffee, and there’s Rose.
Rose is, unsurprisingly, the woman in John’s pictures. In real life, her clothes are dark and dull and tough, and she looks tired. She’s wearing gloves, and she turns the manipulator over and over. “Who’re you working for? Are you a time agent?”
There’d been a few more zeppelins than River had counted on; a gun in her face; and John, dark-eyed and towering, forbidding violence. He’d pressed his lips to her ear and told her he was so, so, so sorry, and she had decided she could stay a while longer.
It’s a different room this time. Slightly bigger, and a lot colder. Any word from anyone is a small, white cloud.
River shifts as much as she can on the hard chair. They’ve confiscated the red bag, had her down to her underwear, removed her makeup, undone her ponytail, and checked her ears with five different devices. Her top is on backwards, now, and the little tag that carries her cell number scratches at her breastbone. “You are tedious, you know. Torchwood… Always in the way.”
Rose tucks a strand of long, bleached hair behind an ear. “You’d better answer.” It’s a plea, not a threat.
“She’s crossed the Void.” Rose has dragged John into a corner, is holding a glossy printout in front of his face.
John scratches his ear. “Oh, everyone’s crossed the Void by now. Still a funny word, though. Void. Voiiid.”
“Oh, don’t start! Where did she come from?”
“I don’t know!”
“But…” She grasps his hand. “Why her? ‘Cause you keep finding people, but no one ever finds you.”
“Who’s saying she found me?”
“You are. You always look the same when… Who is she?”
“I don’t know. Yet. Did you find the Yeti?”
She digs her nails into his skin, glances at River. “Shut up.”
“Did they miss me?”
“It’ll be fine,” he said. “Perfectly fine. Let’s go.”
She let him have as much of a kiss as she had time for.
Rose leans close, speaks quietly. “I don’t care what you’re doing here.”
River grins. “Oh, I’m free to leave? Thank John for the tea and the ride from me. I’d do it myself, but I have an appointment, and he never shuts up, have you noticed? Would you unlock these cuffs?”
“I don’t care because I don’t need to.” Rose folds her arms and tips her head ever so slightly in John’s direction. “You see? That’s the Doctor. He’s going to stop you.”