The next morning there's tea.

There's cold cereal and the mushy bits it leaves behind when you can't get down the stairs quick enough to eat it.

There's her, standing in the light.

"Quickly now," Jackie rushes toward him with a comb and a neatly pressed suit. "Out you go."

Torchwood, this quickly? Pete chatters on ahead about ear pieces and the skittish nature of the staff as he slips down the stairs after him, quiet, two at a time.

The cold morning air presses down like a brick on his one human heart.