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“I don’t like this,” Pete said — not for the first time. “More and more universes are collapsing, Rose. What happens if the next window we open takes you to a dimension where reality is already dead?”
“We’d better hope,” said Rose, “that we don’t find out.”
“Every time you take another jump out, I think… what if this time is final? I don’t want to explain to your mother that I let you go die in the vacuum of space.”
“There might not be any space left,” she pointed out, “in a dimension without reality. Vacuum of spacelessness? Is that a thing?”
“You’re really not helping,” Pete told her.
“Sorry. Someone’s got to make the insufferable remarks, and we don’t have the Doctor to do it, so…”
She saw the look on his face, and stopped.
“Rose,” he said. Just that; just her name.
He wasn’t really her dad; she’d never properly known her dad. Still, sometimes Pete said her name like he’d been saying it for decades. Like it was all he needed to say.
It was. His tone said it all. Worry, weariness, frustration.
Love.
“I know,” Rose said, drooping. “We don’t know enough to say if it’s likely, or even possible, but there is a chance it could happen.”
He nodded.
“But, Pete… we don’t have a choice. We must take that chance. If I don’t find the Doctor, if he can’t help us, sooner or later we’ll all be the ones lost in a vacuum—“
“—of spacelessness,” Pete finished. He rubbed his eyes. Rose could see the shadows under those eyes; the dimension cannon project was taking its toll on all of them. “I know, Rose. But I still don’t like it.”
“Me neither,” she admitted. “Risking my life in insane ways isn’t half as fun without the Doctor there.”
He sighed. “Just… come back safely.”
“I’ll try.” From somewhere, she dredged up a grin. “Trust me, I don’t want to tell Mum I died any more than you do. She’d think I got swallowed by a Hoover and she’d never let me live it down.”