Notes: Last chapter! Thank you so much for all your feedback and encouragement. It really means a lot to me.

-DW-

Greg was half asleep as he stumbled his way to the front of the line in the coffee shop. He paused for a moment too long as he tried to remember his order, but the girl – Julie, that was her name – just smiled, like she always did.

"The usual?" she asked, amused, but in a sweet way rather than a cruel one.

". . . yeah," he said at last.

"Rough night?" she questioned as she prepared his cappuccino.

"Yeah." He had been tossing and turning with the guilt which he couldn't quite shake, despite the fact that no actual harm seemed to have come of his blunder. God, he was such an idiot. Rose had never been anything but kind to him, and Chad had never been anything but trouble. He should have known better.

"You work for the Tylers, right?" asked Julie. "The PR department? That story must be making things crazy."

Greg's blood ran cold.

"What story?" he managed to choke out.

"Oh, you haven't seen it? Here, it's in the Sun."

She paused in her work to hand him a copy of the magazine, and he flipped through it, unable to hear her further comments over his swiftly rising panic. "Anonymous source . . . exclusive access . . . insider information . . ."

". . . and it's so sad, because he seems like such a good guy – Greg, are you alright?"

"I – yes. Yes, I just – I need to get to work."

"Oh. Right. Sorry to keep you. Here's your coffee."

She sounded a bit disappointed, but he barely noticed it. He could barely breathe around the lump of cold dread in his throat. He walked the rest of the way to work on autopilot, forehead sweating, hands shaking, mind racing – it hadn't named him; maybe they didn't know – oh, who was he kidding? It was Rose Tyler. A fiercely competent Torchwood agent, whose father was a billionaire business mogul and also a veteran commander from the Cyber War, and whose boyfriend was a slightly unbalanced super-genius.

He was doomed.

"Greg!"

He jumped about a foot in the air as he stepped out of the elevator and directly into Jimmy's path.

"The Boss wants you," said Jimmy. "In his office, ten minutes ago."

Greg swallowed hard, and went to face his fate.

-DW-

Greg's heart was in his throat as he stepped into Pete Tyler's office. Thankfully, the suspense didn't last long.

"You're fired," said Tyler without preamble. "And my daughter wants a word with you."

Greg heard the door snap shut behind him, and turned just in time to see a small but powerful fist flying towards him. Pain exploded in his face, and there was an audible crack as his nose broke. He stumbled backward against the desk, and a handkerchief was pressed into his hand.

"Don't bleed all over my office," Tyler said coldly. Greg obediently pressed the cloth to his throbbing face, his vision and his thoughts finally clearing enough to register Rose, who was standing in front of him looking utterly livid.

"Rose –" he began, but she cut him off.

"Shut up," she ordered, her eyes flashing. "I don't want your excuses. I just want to make three things absolutely clear. One: you do not violate our privacy. Two –" She stepped forward. "—you do not use the Doctor's pain against him. Three –" She closed the space between them. Greg had dreamed of being this near to her, but now he just wanted to sink into the ground, away from her furious, disgusted gaze. "—you never, ever use him to get to me. Understand?"

Unable to speak, Greg nodded.

Rose fell back, and Greg allowed himself to breathe again.

"Dad wants to take legal action against you," she informed him, slightly calmer but still visibly restraining herself from hitting him again, or worse. "Mum wants you shot." The look she sent him said that she wasn't entirely opposed to that option, herself. "In the end, though, it's up to the Doctor, and he just wants an apology. You've got a week. Get out."

Greg fled.

An few hours later found him slumping out of his flat with the vague idea of getting some lunch. His regret had long since turned to anger, and he fumed quietly as he stomped his way past the broken lift and down the stairs.

Greg should have been grateful, he knew. With the power the Tylers had, they could have done just about anything to him. They could have taken every penny he owned, made sure he never worked again, locked him up on trumped-up charges – even Mrs. Tyler's desire to have him summarily executed might not have been beyond their scope. Yet Smith, who had been hurt the most by his actions, chose to show him mercy, and that stung. It felt like he was adding insult to injury.

Do you see, Gregory? I've won, and I'm still a better man than you.

So consumed in his thoughts, Greg didn't notice the shadowy figure in the alleyway until it spoke.

"Evening, Gregory."

He jumped and spun around with a startled curse, finding himself face-to-face with Smith. The man was grinning, bright and cold as winter sunlight.

"Let's walk, shall we?" said Smith, and it wasn't a request. One bony hand clamped onto Greg's shoulder with surprising strength, and he was forcibly steered down the street. For the first time, he wondered if Smith had respect at Torchwood for more than just his brains.

Smith didn't speak as he pushed Greg in front of him and into a small café. There were a few other patrons there, and Greg was absurdly relieved about that. Smith didn't seem the type to murder him in a dark alleyway, but then, this morning he would have said that he didn't seem the type to skulk outside of his block of flats and abduct him on his way to lunch. Or to eye him across the table in a way that put him in mind of a cat with a mouse.

Greg opened his mouth to say something – a demand to leave, the requested apology, small talk, anything – but found that words had deserted him. He closed his mouth, watched Smith order tea for the both of them, and quietly panicked.

"So, Gregory," Smith said at last, rolling the R's like an assassin would twirl a knife between his fingers. "That article of yours," Smith took a sip of his tea, and Greg clutched his with sweaty hands. "it isn't half bad."

Whatever Greg had been expecting, it wasn't that. He gaped for a few moments longer than was dignified, then finally managed a rather unintelligent "It isn't?"

"Nope," Smith stated, tone light and eyes dark. "In fact, it's almost entirely accurate. Except for one, very important aspect."

"Which aspect is that?" Greg asked, struggling to keep his voice steady and almost managing it.

"There are terrible things in my past. Unthinkable bloodshed, inhuman cruelty and mind games and violence." This was the point where his eyes should have been distant, focused someplace far away and long ago, but they remained fixed on Greg with crushing intensity. It was the barrier behind them which seemed to fall away, leaving endless, consuming darkness. "There are things in my past which are so unimaginably horrific that you literally cannot comprehend them. Thing is, Gregory, most of those things? They weren't done to me."

Smith took another sip of his tea, allowing his words to sink in.

Greg swallowed, hard.

"I'm not proud of the things I've done. But," Smith leaned across the table, into Greg's space. This close, it was obvious that something about the man was just a little bit wrong. He didn't give off enough heat. He'd been holding his breath for a beat too long. He didn't smell right. "I would do them again, in an instant, if you ever try to hurt Rose."

"I – I would never –"

"You already have," said Smith sharply, but he leaned back.

"I'm sorry," Greg blurted out. He wouldn't pretend that it wasn't partly spurred by fear, but he truly meant it, as well. "I literally don't know what happened. I'd had a few too many, and I wrote some stuff down, and after that – nothing. I don't know if I sent it in myself, or if my friend took it off me –"

"Your friend," said Smith, cutting him off. "What's his name?"

"I –" Greg shook his head. "I can't tell you that. He's a bit of a prick, but he's still my friend."

Smith eyed him inscrutably for a moment. Greg shifted nervously, but a moment later the man's face split into a wide grin, so bright and sudden that Greg actually winced.

"Good man!" Smith said cheerfully. "Drink your tea. It's good for you. All full of tannins and antioxidants."

Greg raised his cup to his lips, then lowered it quickly, alarmed and suspicious.

"It's not poisoned," said Smith, sounding torn between amusement and offense. "I don't want you dead, Gregory. I don't even want you hurt. I just want you to know where you stand."

Which is on a very shaky ledge, beside a man who is equally capable of pulling me to safety and pushing me off, Greg inferred. Equally capable, but not equally willing. In his own blood-chilling way, Smith was giving him a chance. He really was the better man. Greg felt remorse flood him for an entirely new reason.

"I didn't want to hurt you," he blurted out. Smith raised his eyebrows skeptically, and Greg hastily backtracked. "No, I mean, I did, but I didn't. I just . . . liked the idea of it. Because I was upset. I didn't really – I'm sorry."

Smith smiled again, softer, more genuine.

"I forgive you," he said. Another pause to let the words sink in, and then he continued in lighter tones. "Honestly, I think Rose was more upset than I was."

"Yes, I noticed," Greg agreed, touching his injured nose gingerly. Smith grimaced.

"Ah. Yes. Figured that may have been her. I did tell her not to bother, but she never does listen . . . and would you look who's here! Speak of the devil!" His face lit up as he caught sight of something over Greg's shoulder, and Greg turned in time to see Rose burst through the door.

"Rose!" Smith exclaimed cheerfully. Any further speech was cut off when Rose seized him by the lapels and kissed him soundly.

Greg looked away, only to look back when Smith yelped in pain.

"Don't scare me like that!" hissed Rose, while Smith rubbed his arm and looked bewildered.

"Like what?" he asked, his voice going rather high-pitched in indignation.

"I had no idea where you were!" Rose snapped. "You left your mobile on my desk; you didn't even tell me you were leaving –"

"You were in a meeting!" Smith protested.

"So leave a note, or a message, or tell Jake, or something!" She looked as though she was going to hit him again, but she wrapped her arms around him instead, resting her head against his chest. "God, I was so worried," she sighed.

"Rose," Smith said gently, returning the embrace. "I'm fine. Really, I am. I was just having a chat with Gregory."

Greg flinched as Rose spun toward him, but her fury seemed to have faded slightly since that morning. Either that, or Smith was as much a calming influence on her as she was on him. She glared, but it didn't have the same venom behind it.

"Right," she said coolly, and immediately turned back to Smith. "Wanna grab some lunch, Doctor?"

"Absolutely. There's a new Italian place down the street, want to give it a go?"

"Actually," said Rose, her tongue caught between her teeth as she grinned, "I was thinking . . ."

"Oh, not chips again?" Smith groaned in false exasperation. "Rose Tyler, I'll make a gourmet out of you yet."

"You love the chips," Rose laughed, unfazed. "You just want an excuse to go on about how you and Mussolini saved the world with lasagna or something . . ."

Greg, forgotten, watched them go. He had been wrong, he realized. Rose Tyler was not the most beautiful thing in the world. They were. The two of them, together, hand in hand, laughing and joking and looking at each other with such unashamed love that it was painful for Greg to watch. The starry-eyed woman and the otherworldly man, ever-so-slightly out of synch with everyone around them, forever beyond the reach of mere mortals like him. He had never had the slightest chance of coming between them.

Perhaps, he thought, that was the most beautiful thing of all.