#alecxrose

Rose turns, letting her back hit stone. She's in the containment facility of Torchwood One - bloody fucking Canary Wharf, which is a mistake on the part of whoever was behind all this, because she and the Doctor have avoided this place for a reason. For all it puts her on edge, the mere sight of the tower puts the Doctor into a mood of universe-destroying proportions, and, separating them is stupid, no joke, but separating them and bringing her here? When she gets out of here, it's going to take all the bananas on the planet, a very old bottle of wine, and at least three sweet shops' worth of jelly babies in order to convince him he shouldn't use the Earth for a cricket ball and the TARDIS as a very large bat.

Closing her eyes, Rose passes a hand over her face and thinks of the Doctor, and of the last words from her captor's lips as he turned from her, echoing back down the hallway.

"Keep him away from the box."

Like hell.

There was a certain way, a look that was universal across the many different ages, genders, and species of people who first took in the TARDIS. Whole bodies stiffened at the sight of it - hands curled into fists, as if the person weren't sure they were seeing something they needed to run from or run to, and the eyes - even if nothing else was the same, the eyes never changed - went wide and round, seeing-but-not-seeing the faint glow of the POLICE PUBLIC CALL BOX sign, drifting down across the Pull to Open below, before finally coming back to rest on the ship's unlikely pilots. With very few exceptions, the reaction itself never changed.

The clever lie on Rose's lips died when she saw the way that Hardy's eyes registered nothing, instead remaining fixed on her with his usual half-lidded irritation. With a quick glance over her shoulder, she saw that where there had once been a police box, a rusty shovel leaning against the far side of the shack wall hummed happily at her. Rose sighed in relief.

"Looking for something, Detective?"

"You, Miss Tyler. I've been to the Traders' and your chippy -" he gave her a look that said Ellie Miller was not very good at keeping secrets. "But apparently you've a newfound fondness for boat shacks."

"Just exploring."

"For an hour?"

Rose's eyes narrowed. "Detective Hardy," she asked, folding her arms over her chest. "Have you been following me?"

In truth, she and the TARDIS had been in the vortex for a little over thirty-six hours. Behind her, the shovel-TARDIS gave a sheepish little mental mew, as though she were embarrassed for not hitting the mark as nearly as she'd anticipated.

The detective had a better poker face than The Doctor, though. He only turned a bit red at being found out, folding his arms over his chest and giving her a lifted eyebrow that said Did you expect something else?

"I need you to come with me," he said after a moment.

"Excuse me?"

"I need you to come with me. Quietly, I hope. I hope - I don't want to cause a scene, but either you can come ride along with me, or you can be escorted to the station."

His look was earnest - he almost reminded her of the Doctor. Please, Rose, when I ask you to jump, jump. No, I can't tell you why. I need you to trust me.

Rose took a deep breath, uncrossing her arms and letting them fall to her sides. She trusted the Doctor, and by proxy, Alec Hardy - and even if she didn't refusing him would make her look more guilty, not less. Still, she wasn't about to walk into the situation empty-handed.

"Can I ask why, then?"

Hardy grimaced.

"You are on a crime scene."

Her eyebrows shot upwards.

"This is at least a kilometer from the crime scene."

"The entire beach has been blocked off, and it's not been a secret. You're, by yourself, spending ludicrous amounts of time in a boat shack, in the early morning."

Alec Hardy's eyes were fixed on her. His voice had gone soft and it wasn't accusing, not really, but it had gained an edge, like she'd been caught out at doing something she shouldn't.

"And?"

"And...we found the boat. Set adrift, this morning, on fire. It had Danny's hair in it, Rose."

"So what, you didn't listen to me, and now I'm a suspect?"

Her voice climbed a little higher, despite herself, and he looked pained - like this was something he didn't at all want to do, that despite his suspicions he was only doing this because he was obliged. The Doctor sometimes used this look, right before he did something that was for her own good, and Rose hated it, she hated it more than anything, because almost, without fail, it meant that there was a struggle ahead. Not a row - those were easy, uncomplicated. She'd learned early and often how to row with the Doctor, and was skilled at it. His jumps and deflections, the things that made him angry and the things that hurt him and the things that made him feel better- she knew all those things.

It was when the Doctor felt like he was bound by some invisible code, to do something he knew she wouldn't approve of, that things got messy. Maybe it was some leftover instinct. Maybe, somewhere deep down, a shadow of him remembered the hushed, desperate tones over a yellow button at Canary Wharf, and that was why he looked at her with such caution in his eyes. Whatever it was, Rose could sense one of those monumental struggles coming on strong.

"Rose."

"I didn't kill Danny."

He didn't respond. A beat passed, and Hardy reached for her shoulder, obviously preparing to bring her in whether she wanted to be brought or not, and instinctively, Rose stepped back.

She wasn't sure what it was that changed. It was hard enough gauging the Doctor's thoughts; Alec Hardy was almost an entirely new entity - not unlike an altogether new regeneration, if she thought about it, and his thought processes were mystery to her. But as she stepped backwards, her back hitting the rough wooden wall of the boat shack, his eyes went stricken, and he let his hand fall to his side.

"Rose, please," he said, and suddenly, she was helpless.

She went quietly, and without a fuss.

She'd had her suspicions before this, but her immortality is all but confirmed, now. Rose is lying on her back on an operating table in a room where time is counted in the echo of her screams and how long it takes her to black out. She doesn't look at her stomach any more, but she can feel the ache and stretch of stitches as she shifts, and knows if she pulls up the thin hospital gown she'll find an incision from her collarbone to her pelvis.

They want to know how her heart keeps beating.

She supposes she should have expected as much, when people began to ask if Tony was first her older brother, then her father. The hushed whispers as she passed through the halls of Torchwood were about the Doctor, she assumed - alien, so very alien - it had never even occurred to Rose that their eyes might've been lingering on skin that didn't age, on hair that didn't grey. The Doctor's didn't either, and she had Pete, and was safe. She never even considered that they would want her, that she was some kind of anomaly.

That, she thinks as the urge to vomit passes over her in waves, might've been a bit stupid.

With the ebb of the nausea comes another worry: the Doctor. Where is he? Time is barely something she can estimate in here: the last time she had any grasp of it, it had been two days past Pete's funeral, and she has no idea how many days and nights have passed since she's been in here. But

some have passed, she's sure of that and if so, what's taking him so long? Is he all right?

His voice wanders in over her head.

I'm always all right, Rose Tyler, he says, mouth tight and full of rubbish. Her mind flits then to an image of him in chains, then immediately rejects it; if they managed to subdue him, then he didn't stay that way for long. The last fleeting message her brain sends her, blurry and half on the edge of unconsciousness, is a memory: as she lay trapped in her own mind by Cassandra, his voice low, and dangerous, and very, very calm.

"Give her back to me."

She laughs as blackness edges her vision, because a breeze caresses her hair, and the air around her begins to scrape and wheeze and groan.

They poke, and they prod, and they cut, cut, cut, all because they want to know why her heart keeps beating. As the TARDIS materializes, as the door creaks open, she falls unconscious thinking that they're rather missing the point.

"Please state your name for the record."

It was in the same cold room, and with an identical paper cup of water in her hand, that Rose sat facing Alec Hardy and Ellie Miller, preparing to answer their questions. She gave her friend a look, and Ellie returned it with a suspicious, slightly exasperated look, as if to say, Really?

"Rose Tyler."

"Miss Tyler, one week ago, you stated that Detective Miller and I would find a boat pertinent to this investigation."

"I did."

"Early this morning, a boat was set adrift on the beach. It was on fire."

"We found hair on that boat, and blood," said Ellie, her mouth forming a flat line. Her gaze flickered towards Hardy. "Both Danny Latimer's."

"The boat was on the beach, Miss Tyler. And so were you."

"I was having a walk, that's all."

Hardy steepled his hands on the table.

"Rose, I was on the beach this morning. I saw you walk into that shack and I saw you walk out. You were inside for over an hour. What were you doing?"

Rose picked at her fingernails, resisting the urge to bite them. She'd been sunburnt and achy when she'd slunk into the TARDIS. Enough time had passed there for a bath, a long sleep, and a decent breakfast, but here it'd only been an hour. Still. Whatever grain of truth she had, they deserved it.

"I was having a look around. Enjoying the quiet. Resting my head for a bit. It's been mad out there, Just wanted my head on straight for a bit - I - I haven't done anything."

"Rose -" Ellie started.

"I haven't!"

Ellie and Miller had discussed this before she entered the room; she was certain of that. They had a conversation completely in gestures: Hardy's hands tensing, Miller's eyes widening, giving him a severe look. It took maybe thirty seconds, and Rose knew that entire volumes of information passed between them in that time, but she had no idea what it was.

Whatever it was, Hardy won. He turned to her.

"Rose, we found gasoline and matches in that shack."

"There was a cool box, too," she said, quirking an eyebrow. "Doesn't make me a fish."

Rose and the Doctor had never rowed sitting down; they were both too much creatures of movement for that. Across the table from her, Hardy was fighting the itch to stand, to pace, Rose could tell. His foot wasn't quite bouncing, but it wasn't still, either. He pressed his mouth together in a firm line, then sat forward, both his hands on the table.

"You have been present at multiple -"

And then, something Rose had not expected to happen, happened.

The Chief Super - a severe blonde woman - opened the door to the interview room and strode over to the table.

"Interview terminated," she said, and shut off the recording.

Hardy sat back in his chair. His hands had dropped to his lap, and he stared at the Chieff Super for a moment, his mouth slightly open, his eyes open wide, as though this behavior were so strange it was taking a moment for him to process

"What?"

"Miss Tyler is free to go," said the Chief Super. She handed Hardy a manila file folder, then crossed her arms over her chest, her eyes darting back to the door.

"You can't just -"

"Detective Inspector, do you have any evidence that Rose Tyler had explicit involvement in Danny Latimer's murder?"

"No."

"Then she's free to go."

"She knows something, y'cannae just -"

"I can, and I have. I've just received a phone call from London that provides her with an alibi for the night of Danny's murder."

"And what's that? Was she telling fortunes on the street? Perhaps waving her fingers and making little rabbits disappear?"

"She was having chips with an old friend."

Mickey, Rose thought. Oh, she was going to have to apologize, she was going to have to buy him season passes to whatever football team he fancied now, if only for finding a way to prove to whatever remained of the Doctor that she was trustworthy. Perhaps now she'd make some progress, be able to focus on finding that watch without the looming spectre of Danny Latimer's murder over her head.

"That woman-"

"Has revised her story, Detective Inspector Hardy. Now I suggest you turn yourself towards other avenues of investigation and leave Miss Tyler be."

Rose gathered her things and left Miller to deal with a seething Hardy. As the door slipped shut, Hardy's last words echoed behind her, and with them Rose's good mood vanished, replaced by a chill that crawled up her spine, bringing back screams