A thousand years across my fingertips [fic]
Title: A thousand years across my fingetips
Pairing: *very* slight Jack/Tosh
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 3392
Prompt: 56. Breakfast
Summary: Jack and Tosh get stuck in 1941. Except, not in 1941.
I’ve never envied you your job - we all think at one time or another that we know better than you, but we rarely do, and the times we probably do know better, should stand up to you, we follow meekly. And this one time that I lead you it goes rather badly.
I run toward the light, calling for you to move it, come on. You walk away from him slowly, like you don’t understand what you’re doing. I do; you’re devoted to the job, to us. It will take more than true love with a man who dies tomorrow to kill that. You follow for once and for once I lead, grabbing your hand and pulling; you won’t change your mind. You can’t change your mind. We need you.
It’s strange walking through the Rift. At least, I assume that’s what we’re doing. I can’t so much see what you’re doing as I can feel it; it leaves ripples and waves in the air (or whatever we’re moving in) like we’re walking underwater. You keep raising a hand to your eyes and I’m almost sure I can feel the tears on your face. I’ve never seen you cry before. I’m not sure I want to.
Then we’re knocked back, as though the atmosphere is slamming against us. When we’ve regained our balance we’re not in 1941 anymore. However, we’re also not in Cardiff. I’m looking around, feeling very confused, still leading you by the hand when you suddenly stop dead. “Oh no. No, no,” you murmur, and your grip on my hand becomes painful. You then yank me around and start to run back. You’re scared out of your wits and just knowing that scares me out of my wits too; you don’t get scared nearly enough. And what has you running scared? A poster. Public information, something about robo-men.
We are dragged back into the light and appear again in the same street. Except... things seem different somehow. Maybe neater? We’re not the only people this time either; you sidestep to avoid being run over by two boys, probably eighteen or nineteen - and aren’t they a bit old to be playing tag? And you’re looking around, but judging by the frown there’s still something not quite right. You crane your neck here and there and then stop dead again.
“Jesus CHRIST!” The last word comes out as a shout and as we spin around again people part to let us run - except the light’s gone. The Rift has shut again. And we’re not in Cardiff.
You continue to go in circles, still dragging me behind you, chanting, “Shit. Shit,” under your breath. I don’t say anything. Can’t think of anything to stay. We’re not in Cardiff. From the look of it we’re not in 2008 either. I don’t know where we are. Or when; this doesn’t look like any past I was taught about.
“Where are we?” I ask, because you seem to know more about this than me. “Jack?” Not your name, but you didn’t give me your real one - I probably wouldn’t use it ether. You suit the name, you know.
You sigh and hang your head. “C’mon.” you say and you don’t look at me and that has got to be a bad sign. I don’t say anything and let you take the lead again.
We end up going to a bar, which doesn’t surprise me too much (you look like you need something strong). What does surprise me is the money you’ve somehow managed to obtain (you didn’t pick someone’s pockets on the way, did you? Not that drunken man that tried to punch you?) and the drink you set down in front of me. “You’re going to need it,” you tell me. You finish one and then another with frightening speed. I’ve rarely seen you drink in the last three years, even at Christmas or on someone’s birthday.
“Jack, where are we?” I ask, trying to sound more forceful this time.
“Haven’t a clue. Slavic Empire maybe? ‘Course, it could be the New Alliance of the Americas, what with the dress codes -”
“Then when are we?” I ask, feeling annoyed now.
You lick your lips and frown. “The 51st Century,” you tell me. “Three thousand years in your future.”
I’m silent for quite a while after that, trying to take it in. I look around, trying to strengthen the idea (or find fault with it), make it feel like it is true. It doesn’t work. I try counting on my fingers; 22nd century, 23rd century, 24th, 25th, 26th, 27th, 28th, 29th, 30th, 31st - I stare down at my fingers. I’ve just counted down a thousand years. Ten fingers equals one millennium. Except it doesn’t. It doesn’t make sense -
I fist my hands and give up on trying to understand, just for now, and try to ignore the pitying look I can feel coming from you.
“So what’s this, the bar at the end of the universe?” I ask, trying to lighten the mood or take another dig at you, I’m not sure.
You snort before knocking back your new drink. “Hardly. There was no war to end all wars, there’s no bar to end the universe.” You don’t seem to understand what I meant, or maybe you’re being deliberately obtuse. You seem bitter suddenly and there’s something about the way you’re not looking at me except to glance from the corner of your eye - I can’t help but feel you blame me for leading you away from him, for leading you here. I feel like I should be apologising to you, begging your forgiveness. You seem to have a knack for making people believe they’re in the wrong - God knows I feel it around often enough, even those times I know I’m right. There’s something to you that could be called “parental”, for lack of a better word. Something about you that makes you seem older than you should be. Wiser to life’s wicked ways than you ever could be.
I cast around for something to say. “If this is the future why are they playing Gerry Rafferty?”
“They need to play something,” you reply, sliding the glass to join the other empties at the end of the bar. They knock together with a series of soft clinks and the barman gives you a dirty look. We both know that’s not the point, but I don’t bother.
Instead I jump a mile in the air when someone - a rather handsome man, though he looks slightly younger than Ianto - grabs my arm. When he speaks it sounds strange; his accent is almost mid-Atlantic and I can only just understand what it is he’s saying. “Hello, honey. Wanna take a strut?”
I shuffle away from him and gesture quickly to you. “I’m here with him.”
“”Here with him”? How cute. Doesn’t look like much fun, though. C’mon, it’s Venusnight, a fine lady such as yourself should be getting some action -“
“Hey.” You barely raise your voice but the boy, making to move closer, stops dead in his tracks. You turn and face him. “She said she’s here with me. She’s obviously not too comfortable with the idea of traipsing off with you so why don’t you take it to someone who’s actually lonely?”
There’s a hard edge to your voice with those last words and from the way you’re frowning they didn’t come out right. The boy shrugs at me and sidles off. You stare into the ashtray then look over at me, sheepish so I have to smile. “You did want rid of that guy, right?”
“Definitely. A bit on the young side for me.”
“I’d have said a bit on the old side, actually.” You smirk at me and pop an olive in your mouth. “Amazing what they can do with surgery these days.”
I know it’s going to break the mood, but curiosity has always gotten the better of me. “When is “these days” exactly? I mean, what’s the year, exactly?”
Your face falls a little and I remember you telling me Captain Jack Harkness was going to die the next day. How long has he been dead now?
“Early 51st Century,” you repeat in that quiet matter of fact tone that has nothing to do with the man I know (but then we none of us know you all that well, do we?). “The political stance is something similar to the years and months prior to World War Two; we’ve had a war, lost our sons and brothers. We don’t want another one, no matter how necessary it is. But then they come. Exactly three weeks from tonight a Time Agency vessel will discover a ship of unknown origin and board it.”
You pause there and I can’t help myself. “What do they find?”
“Daleks. Labs producing Daleks. Those who escape the ship will discover it’s not the only one; in that particular pocket of space they’ll find several hundred commandeered ships - all being used to rebuild the Daleks. Before they get cut off from the Time Agency headquarters they’ll report that they have ships - their own ships - on a nearby moon.” You signal the barman and return your attention to me. “Three weeks from today is the day that we find out that all that death the first time around was for nothing and that we have to fight another war against the most sophisticated killers this universe has ever known. We’ve arrived on the eve of another war.”
And you knock another drink back while I just sit there trying to make sense of what you’re saying. War. Another war. I wasn’t in the last one for more than a few hours and I was scared out of my wits that the sky would suddenly come falling down on us. And Daleks… I wasn’t at Torchwood One to see them, but Ianto’s talked to me about them. Told me about how they fought the Cybermen and looked like winning. Anything that can do that, as easily as he described... How can they be stopped?
“Their numbers are small to begin with,” you go on, either not knowing or not caring that you’re talking to yourself. “After a bit of recon we get cocky. They’ve got nothing, they’ll be a pushover. Sign up becomes optional rather than mandatory, but people still flock to join up. Get revenge. Stick it to them. Have an adventure.” You stop again and I’m glad of it - there’s something like loathing in your voice and you scare me a little when you go into one of your dark moods. You start up again soon enough, though. “But their numbers are greater than that - they lead us on. We have the numbers, but not the weaponry or the training, see? They slaughter us in the beginning.” You go to signal for yet another drink, but stop when I touch your hand.
“I think you’ve had enough,” I say, trying to sound firm. You get another anyway (for all the wisdom you can exude you can be such a bloody child sometimes).
We end up sitting here ‘til closing time and the barkeep, figuring out that we don’t have anywhere else to go, takes pity on us and offers us the spare room upstairs (he has to help me carry you up - or rather I have to help him - you’re too far gone now to be of any use beyond cushion or doorstop). You’re placed on the bed and we’re left to our own devices. There’s a nice, squashy looking couch over by what I assume is the radiator, so I pull off your shoes and your coat (pausing a second to try it on; it drowns me, as expected, and is heavier than I thought it would be - it actually drags me down a little - but it will make a good blanket) and tuck you in. And you, with your annoying timing, choose that moment to briefly regain consciousness and smirk up at me.
“Hello Okaasan. Tell me a story?”
“Don’t be stupid,” I say, moving away quickly, taking your coat with me to arrange on the couch.
“My Mom used to tell me stories,” you say. “Every night. It’s the one Mom thing she was really good at. Used to tell me about the Time Lords.”
“You’re talkative tonight,” I remark. I hesitate for a moment then cross the room and sit on the edge of the bed. “Who are the Time Lords? I’m sure I’ve heard that term somewhere, but -“
“’Course you have,” you say with a light smile. “You worked for UNIT, didn’t you?”
“What’s that got to do with it?”
“The Time Lords,” you begin, ignoring the question as you are so wont to do, “were these people. Aliens. Looked almost identical to humans, though. Some people - people who believe in them, I might add - say that they don’t look like us, we look like them. Like, they did something, manipulated the evolution of surrounding species so that would happen. Kinda far-fetched, but that was the kind of scientific power they were supposed to have. Could travel through time - go anywhere. They punished others who abused the ability to move through time like this too. They were big enemies of the Daleks.”
I’m really confused now. “So, are these people real or-“
“There’s a lot of debate on that. I always liked to believe they were. The fact that toward the end of the last war we had against the Daleks, they just left, even though they very winning. Went off to fight a bigger war, some said.” You sit up, knowing you’ve got my full attention. It seems you’ve inherited your mother’s flair for stories. “There was this ancient legend, or maybe a prophecy - it all gets mixed up when you mess around with time - of this epic war called the Time War; it was supposed to be the last great war between the Daleks and the Time Lords and when it finished neither would survive. Some people said that was the battle that they left to fight.”
I wriggle out of my shoes. My feet are killing me. “What do you think?”
And you just smile that smug smile that I’ve loved and hated; that smile that says you know more than you’ll ever tell, and say, “I don’t think, Toshiko. I know.”
I give you a small shove and you plop back into the blankets and pillows and seem to go out like a light. I stand up, but something makes me linger for a moment, something that needs to be said. “He’d be proud, you know,” I tell you, because it’s true. “He’d be so proud that you’re the one who took his name.”
I settle myself on the chair with a couple of cushions and your coat. I’m quite warm, actually.
Next thing I know I’m in the bed and you’re the one in the chair (and your coat), feet propped up on the edge of the bed. You smile. “Rise and shine, Toshiko-chan.”
I stay where I am for a moment, slightly baffled by the change in position and very relieved you seem to have decided it wasn’t necessary to undress me, then sit up, dutifully rubbing my eyes and yawning. “What time is it?”
“Just gone six,” you say, stretching your legs and swinging them down from the bed. “You can sleep a couple more hours if you want. We’ve got a gruelling day ahead of us.” And that’s when I remember. We didn’t get home. We’re stuck sometime in the future. My future, anyway. From what you said last night, first at the dancehall in 1941 and then in the bar downstairs, you seem quite used to skipping around time. Is this your future too? Is there a little Jack Harkness (or whatever your real name is) toddling around somewhere in this city, taking his first steps?
We’re treated to breakfast, especially when you promise that we can work here (I hope you haven’t promised me to the cooking - you’d think you’d have learnt from that time with the Christmas pudding. I’ve yet to hear the end of that from Owen - except I might have now, haven’t I?). I’ve no idea what it is we’re eating, but it tastes gorgeous and you keep nodding at me to eat more, so it can’t be all that bad.
“What happens now?” I ask.
You shrug, still focused on your food. “I find us a place to live. Maybe better jobs. Give you a crash course in the era. What’s changed since your time.”
I frown at that. “”My time”?”
“Yeah.” Not a slip of the tongue. I was right.
“When is your time?”
You pause, then smile what should be your “come-on, aren’t-you-charmed?” smile. It looks like you’re mimicking Owen mimicking you. “Believe it or not around here somewhere.”
“Then do you -“
You look up sharply and I don’t finish, just go back to… whatever it is we’re eating. I try something else. “You mentioned a group called the Time Agency last night.” And from the look on your face you must have been really drunk. I press on though. “I was wondering - I mean if they are the Time Agency - do you think they could get us back?”
“No.” Short, sharp and no argument’s allowed. “We’re refugees now. They don’t help people like us.”
I stare into my breakfast which, when you look at it long enough, actually looks quite disgusting. “So we’re stuck here.”
You make a sound of agreement and probably nod.
“No going back.”
“No.”
And then I can’t help myself. Hand to my mouth, hunch over and I start crying. Really crying, like I haven’t for a good long while now. It hurts. It really hurts. I hear you drop your spoon (what did they call it? What does it matter?) and drag your chair around to me. “Hey,” you murmur, arm around me, trying to get me to look at you. “Hey.”
“I was supposed to be going to a party,” I say in an ungodly warble and I really don’t care. “I was - Granddad wanted a picture of me and Dad, just the three of us together. My step-sister’s having a baby soon. I was going to be an Auntie. And my cousin -“ I gasp and sob and you just let me go on. “- Kaedo had met someone. I was meant to meet him last night! I was meant to approve him -“ I just bury my face in my hands and you drag me in for a hug.
“And they’re all dead now, aren’t they?” I ask finally, words seem to be lost in your shirt. “All dead for a couple of thousand years.” Even - even all my little cousins. Toshio had only just learnt to walk! “And Gwen and Ianto and Owen too. They’re all gone.” And as I carry on crying and you rub my back, shushing me in a way that’s probably meant to be soothing I wonder if I’ve gotten it the wrong way around - we’ve gone, that’s what it’ll mean to them back there. We’re gone.
I give up on crying with that thought and pull back, wiping my eyes and trying to calm down. You carry on stroking my shoulder and I’m not going to complain. I sigh heavily. “What am I going to do? I mean, if I can’t adjust, get my head around everything here?”
You snort in what could be (probably is) disgust and drag your chair back and take up your spoon again. “Toshiko,” you begin impatiently, “I said it once, no, three times last night - or three thousand and fifty years ago, whichever you prefer, I’m thinking last night - “I’ll look after you”. Don’t make me say it again just because we’re in a different time frame.” You take a big bite of breakfast. “Now eat your damned black cereal.”
I stare. “Black what?”
“Black cereal. It’s a cereal made from flakes of black pudding, with some added pig‘s milk. Delicious and very nutritious.” You take another bite. “What?”
“See,” I say pushing my bowl towards you. “I think there might be some things about this time period I’m better off not knowing.”
Pairing: *very* slight Jack/Tosh
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 3392
Prompt: 56. Breakfast
Summary: Jack and Tosh get stuck in 1941. Except, not in 1941.
I’ve never envied you your job - we all think at one time or another that we know better than you, but we rarely do, and the times we probably do know better, should stand up to you, we follow meekly. And this one time that I lead you it goes rather badly.
I run toward the light, calling for you to move it, come on. You walk away from him slowly, like you don’t understand what you’re doing. I do; you’re devoted to the job, to us. It will take more than true love with a man who dies tomorrow to kill that. You follow for once and for once I lead, grabbing your hand and pulling; you won’t change your mind. You can’t change your mind. We need you.
It’s strange walking through the Rift. At least, I assume that’s what we’re doing. I can’t so much see what you’re doing as I can feel it; it leaves ripples and waves in the air (or whatever we’re moving in) like we’re walking underwater. You keep raising a hand to your eyes and I’m almost sure I can feel the tears on your face. I’ve never seen you cry before. I’m not sure I want to.
Then we’re knocked back, as though the atmosphere is slamming against us. When we’ve regained our balance we’re not in 1941 anymore. However, we’re also not in Cardiff. I’m looking around, feeling very confused, still leading you by the hand when you suddenly stop dead. “Oh no. No, no,” you murmur, and your grip on my hand becomes painful. You then yank me around and start to run back. You’re scared out of your wits and just knowing that scares me out of my wits too; you don’t get scared nearly enough. And what has you running scared? A poster. Public information, something about robo-men.
We are dragged back into the light and appear again in the same street. Except... things seem different somehow. Maybe neater? We’re not the only people this time either; you sidestep to avoid being run over by two boys, probably eighteen or nineteen - and aren’t they a bit old to be playing tag? And you’re looking around, but judging by the frown there’s still something not quite right. You crane your neck here and there and then stop dead again.
“Jesus CHRIST!” The last word comes out as a shout and as we spin around again people part to let us run - except the light’s gone. The Rift has shut again. And we’re not in Cardiff.
You continue to go in circles, still dragging me behind you, chanting, “Shit. Shit,” under your breath. I don’t say anything. Can’t think of anything to stay. We’re not in Cardiff. From the look of it we’re not in 2008 either. I don’t know where we are. Or when; this doesn’t look like any past I was taught about.
“Where are we?” I ask, because you seem to know more about this than me. “Jack?” Not your name, but you didn’t give me your real one - I probably wouldn’t use it ether. You suit the name, you know.
You sigh and hang your head. “C’mon.” you say and you don’t look at me and that has got to be a bad sign. I don’t say anything and let you take the lead again.
We end up going to a bar, which doesn’t surprise me too much (you look like you need something strong). What does surprise me is the money you’ve somehow managed to obtain (you didn’t pick someone’s pockets on the way, did you? Not that drunken man that tried to punch you?) and the drink you set down in front of me. “You’re going to need it,” you tell me. You finish one and then another with frightening speed. I’ve rarely seen you drink in the last three years, even at Christmas or on someone’s birthday.
“Jack, where are we?” I ask, trying to sound more forceful this time.
“Haven’t a clue. Slavic Empire maybe? ‘Course, it could be the New Alliance of the Americas, what with the dress codes -”
“Then when are we?” I ask, feeling annoyed now.
You lick your lips and frown. “The 51st Century,” you tell me. “Three thousand years in your future.”
I’m silent for quite a while after that, trying to take it in. I look around, trying to strengthen the idea (or find fault with it), make it feel like it is true. It doesn’t work. I try counting on my fingers; 22nd century, 23rd century, 24th, 25th, 26th, 27th, 28th, 29th, 30th, 31st - I stare down at my fingers. I’ve just counted down a thousand years. Ten fingers equals one millennium. Except it doesn’t. It doesn’t make sense -
I fist my hands and give up on trying to understand, just for now, and try to ignore the pitying look I can feel coming from you.
“So what’s this, the bar at the end of the universe?” I ask, trying to lighten the mood or take another dig at you, I’m not sure.
You snort before knocking back your new drink. “Hardly. There was no war to end all wars, there’s no bar to end the universe.” You don’t seem to understand what I meant, or maybe you’re being deliberately obtuse. You seem bitter suddenly and there’s something about the way you’re not looking at me except to glance from the corner of your eye - I can’t help but feel you blame me for leading you away from him, for leading you here. I feel like I should be apologising to you, begging your forgiveness. You seem to have a knack for making people believe they’re in the wrong - God knows I feel it around often enough, even those times I know I’m right. There’s something to you that could be called “parental”, for lack of a better word. Something about you that makes you seem older than you should be. Wiser to life’s wicked ways than you ever could be.
I cast around for something to say. “If this is the future why are they playing Gerry Rafferty?”
“They need to play something,” you reply, sliding the glass to join the other empties at the end of the bar. They knock together with a series of soft clinks and the barman gives you a dirty look. We both know that’s not the point, but I don’t bother.
Instead I jump a mile in the air when someone - a rather handsome man, though he looks slightly younger than Ianto - grabs my arm. When he speaks it sounds strange; his accent is almost mid-Atlantic and I can only just understand what it is he’s saying. “Hello, honey. Wanna take a strut?”
I shuffle away from him and gesture quickly to you. “I’m here with him.”
“”Here with him”? How cute. Doesn’t look like much fun, though. C’mon, it’s Venusnight, a fine lady such as yourself should be getting some action -“
“Hey.” You barely raise your voice but the boy, making to move closer, stops dead in his tracks. You turn and face him. “She said she’s here with me. She’s obviously not too comfortable with the idea of traipsing off with you so why don’t you take it to someone who’s actually lonely?”
There’s a hard edge to your voice with those last words and from the way you’re frowning they didn’t come out right. The boy shrugs at me and sidles off. You stare into the ashtray then look over at me, sheepish so I have to smile. “You did want rid of that guy, right?”
“Definitely. A bit on the young side for me.”
“I’d have said a bit on the old side, actually.” You smirk at me and pop an olive in your mouth. “Amazing what they can do with surgery these days.”
I know it’s going to break the mood, but curiosity has always gotten the better of me. “When is “these days” exactly? I mean, what’s the year, exactly?”
Your face falls a little and I remember you telling me Captain Jack Harkness was going to die the next day. How long has he been dead now?
“Early 51st Century,” you repeat in that quiet matter of fact tone that has nothing to do with the man I know (but then we none of us know you all that well, do we?). “The political stance is something similar to the years and months prior to World War Two; we’ve had a war, lost our sons and brothers. We don’t want another one, no matter how necessary it is. But then they come. Exactly three weeks from tonight a Time Agency vessel will discover a ship of unknown origin and board it.”
You pause there and I can’t help myself. “What do they find?”
“Daleks. Labs producing Daleks. Those who escape the ship will discover it’s not the only one; in that particular pocket of space they’ll find several hundred commandeered ships - all being used to rebuild the Daleks. Before they get cut off from the Time Agency headquarters they’ll report that they have ships - their own ships - on a nearby moon.” You signal the barman and return your attention to me. “Three weeks from today is the day that we find out that all that death the first time around was for nothing and that we have to fight another war against the most sophisticated killers this universe has ever known. We’ve arrived on the eve of another war.”
And you knock another drink back while I just sit there trying to make sense of what you’re saying. War. Another war. I wasn’t in the last one for more than a few hours and I was scared out of my wits that the sky would suddenly come falling down on us. And Daleks… I wasn’t at Torchwood One to see them, but Ianto’s talked to me about them. Told me about how they fought the Cybermen and looked like winning. Anything that can do that, as easily as he described... How can they be stopped?
“Their numbers are small to begin with,” you go on, either not knowing or not caring that you’re talking to yourself. “After a bit of recon we get cocky. They’ve got nothing, they’ll be a pushover. Sign up becomes optional rather than mandatory, but people still flock to join up. Get revenge. Stick it to them. Have an adventure.” You stop again and I’m glad of it - there’s something like loathing in your voice and you scare me a little when you go into one of your dark moods. You start up again soon enough, though. “But their numbers are greater than that - they lead us on. We have the numbers, but not the weaponry or the training, see? They slaughter us in the beginning.” You go to signal for yet another drink, but stop when I touch your hand.
“I think you’ve had enough,” I say, trying to sound firm. You get another anyway (for all the wisdom you can exude you can be such a bloody child sometimes).
We end up sitting here ‘til closing time and the barkeep, figuring out that we don’t have anywhere else to go, takes pity on us and offers us the spare room upstairs (he has to help me carry you up - or rather I have to help him - you’re too far gone now to be of any use beyond cushion or doorstop). You’re placed on the bed and we’re left to our own devices. There’s a nice, squashy looking couch over by what I assume is the radiator, so I pull off your shoes and your coat (pausing a second to try it on; it drowns me, as expected, and is heavier than I thought it would be - it actually drags me down a little - but it will make a good blanket) and tuck you in. And you, with your annoying timing, choose that moment to briefly regain consciousness and smirk up at me.
“Hello Okaasan. Tell me a story?”
“Don’t be stupid,” I say, moving away quickly, taking your coat with me to arrange on the couch.
“My Mom used to tell me stories,” you say. “Every night. It’s the one Mom thing she was really good at. Used to tell me about the Time Lords.”
“You’re talkative tonight,” I remark. I hesitate for a moment then cross the room and sit on the edge of the bed. “Who are the Time Lords? I’m sure I’ve heard that term somewhere, but -“
“’Course you have,” you say with a light smile. “You worked for UNIT, didn’t you?”
“What’s that got to do with it?”
“The Time Lords,” you begin, ignoring the question as you are so wont to do, “were these people. Aliens. Looked almost identical to humans, though. Some people - people who believe in them, I might add - say that they don’t look like us, we look like them. Like, they did something, manipulated the evolution of surrounding species so that would happen. Kinda far-fetched, but that was the kind of scientific power they were supposed to have. Could travel through time - go anywhere. They punished others who abused the ability to move through time like this too. They were big enemies of the Daleks.”
I’m really confused now. “So, are these people real or-“
“There’s a lot of debate on that. I always liked to believe they were. The fact that toward the end of the last war we had against the Daleks, they just left, even though they very winning. Went off to fight a bigger war, some said.” You sit up, knowing you’ve got my full attention. It seems you’ve inherited your mother’s flair for stories. “There was this ancient legend, or maybe a prophecy - it all gets mixed up when you mess around with time - of this epic war called the Time War; it was supposed to be the last great war between the Daleks and the Time Lords and when it finished neither would survive. Some people said that was the battle that they left to fight.”
I wriggle out of my shoes. My feet are killing me. “What do you think?”
And you just smile that smug smile that I’ve loved and hated; that smile that says you know more than you’ll ever tell, and say, “I don’t think, Toshiko. I know.”
I give you a small shove and you plop back into the blankets and pillows and seem to go out like a light. I stand up, but something makes me linger for a moment, something that needs to be said. “He’d be proud, you know,” I tell you, because it’s true. “He’d be so proud that you’re the one who took his name.”
I settle myself on the chair with a couple of cushions and your coat. I’m quite warm, actually.
Next thing I know I’m in the bed and you’re the one in the chair (and your coat), feet propped up on the edge of the bed. You smile. “Rise and shine, Toshiko-chan.”
I stay where I am for a moment, slightly baffled by the change in position and very relieved you seem to have decided it wasn’t necessary to undress me, then sit up, dutifully rubbing my eyes and yawning. “What time is it?”
“Just gone six,” you say, stretching your legs and swinging them down from the bed. “You can sleep a couple more hours if you want. We’ve got a gruelling day ahead of us.” And that’s when I remember. We didn’t get home. We’re stuck sometime in the future. My future, anyway. From what you said last night, first at the dancehall in 1941 and then in the bar downstairs, you seem quite used to skipping around time. Is this your future too? Is there a little Jack Harkness (or whatever your real name is) toddling around somewhere in this city, taking his first steps?
We’re treated to breakfast, especially when you promise that we can work here (I hope you haven’t promised me to the cooking - you’d think you’d have learnt from that time with the Christmas pudding. I’ve yet to hear the end of that from Owen - except I might have now, haven’t I?). I’ve no idea what it is we’re eating, but it tastes gorgeous and you keep nodding at me to eat more, so it can’t be all that bad.
“What happens now?” I ask.
You shrug, still focused on your food. “I find us a place to live. Maybe better jobs. Give you a crash course in the era. What’s changed since your time.”
I frown at that. “”My time”?”
“Yeah.” Not a slip of the tongue. I was right.
“When is your time?”
You pause, then smile what should be your “come-on, aren’t-you-charmed?” smile. It looks like you’re mimicking Owen mimicking you. “Believe it or not around here somewhere.”
“Then do you -“
You look up sharply and I don’t finish, just go back to… whatever it is we’re eating. I try something else. “You mentioned a group called the Time Agency last night.” And from the look on your face you must have been really drunk. I press on though. “I was wondering - I mean if they are the Time Agency - do you think they could get us back?”
“No.” Short, sharp and no argument’s allowed. “We’re refugees now. They don’t help people like us.”
I stare into my breakfast which, when you look at it long enough, actually looks quite disgusting. “So we’re stuck here.”
You make a sound of agreement and probably nod.
“No going back.”
“No.”
And then I can’t help myself. Hand to my mouth, hunch over and I start crying. Really crying, like I haven’t for a good long while now. It hurts. It really hurts. I hear you drop your spoon (what did they call it? What does it matter?) and drag your chair around to me. “Hey,” you murmur, arm around me, trying to get me to look at you. “Hey.”
“I was supposed to be going to a party,” I say in an ungodly warble and I really don’t care. “I was - Granddad wanted a picture of me and Dad, just the three of us together. My step-sister’s having a baby soon. I was going to be an Auntie. And my cousin -“ I gasp and sob and you just let me go on. “- Kaedo had met someone. I was meant to meet him last night! I was meant to approve him -“ I just bury my face in my hands and you drag me in for a hug.
“And they’re all dead now, aren’t they?” I ask finally, words seem to be lost in your shirt. “All dead for a couple of thousand years.” Even - even all my little cousins. Toshio had only just learnt to walk! “And Gwen and Ianto and Owen too. They’re all gone.” And as I carry on crying and you rub my back, shushing me in a way that’s probably meant to be soothing I wonder if I’ve gotten it the wrong way around - we’ve gone, that’s what it’ll mean to them back there. We’re gone.
I give up on crying with that thought and pull back, wiping my eyes and trying to calm down. You carry on stroking my shoulder and I’m not going to complain. I sigh heavily. “What am I going to do? I mean, if I can’t adjust, get my head around everything here?”
You snort in what could be (probably is) disgust and drag your chair back and take up your spoon again. “Toshiko,” you begin impatiently, “I said it once, no, three times last night - or three thousand and fifty years ago, whichever you prefer, I’m thinking last night - “I’ll look after you”. Don’t make me say it again just because we’re in a different time frame.” You take a big bite of breakfast. “Now eat your damned black cereal.”
I stare. “Black what?”
“Black cereal. It’s a cereal made from flakes of black pudding, with some added pig‘s milk. Delicious and very nutritious.” You take another bite. “What?”
“See,” I say pushing my bowl towards you. “I think there might be some things about this time period I’m better off not knowing.”