Chapter Text
Hob had been enjoying a brief period of respite; the number of invasions, Earth-stealing monsters and supernatural hijinks had been brought down to a satisfying zero. That he was aware of, at least. He wasn’t interested in the stories of ‘almost’ invasions or troubles of the non-permanent maiming kind; with the friends he kept they were an almost daily occurrence.
According to Jack, Torchwood 3 was going as well as could be, with them hiring new members within recent months, one Lois Habiba – from the Home Office – to take over Ianto’s old position as archivist and one PC Andy Davidson – an old colleague of Gwen’s from her police days – to allow for the team to actually take night’s off, instead of the constant on-call work they’d been doing previously. It brought the team up to seven, meaning Hob had been receiving far fewer calls dragging him to Cardiff.
John Constantine was continuing his occult hustle, with minimal fuss, with a now teenage apprentice, young Johanna Constantine, joining in the family business.
Ever since the start of what he’d begun to call The Great Visiting, Dream began ‘popping in’ on Hob, infrequent enough that Hob still got a jolt of excitement whenever he spotted Dream’s familiar silhouette, but frequent enough that Hob had begun leaving out his Dream journal for Morpheus to peruse if Hob was busy.
In the last two months alone, he’d learned Dream loved television, especially the Animal Planet documentary series, but hated coffee. Caffeine, as a stimulant, apparently was an affront to everything Dream stood for. Hob had visited the Dreaming several more times too, Lucienne enjoying his visits to the Library of the Dreaming and Matthew, very reluctantly, and was starting to be won over by Hob’s jokes and dumb humour.
In comparison, the Doctor’s visits were more sporadic and far weirder.
He’d now met one other of the Doctor’s other faces; the first time when a youthful-faced, bow tie clad, fez wearing man entered the New Inn and animatedly began discussing the origins of fish fingers, Hob had been decidedly confused.
Not to be out done by the time the same man waltzed into his lecture theatre frazzled, sleeves rolled up and a sharpie-written tally covering his arm, he’d yanked Hob’s sleeve up and – seeing it bare – left without saying a word.
He'd yet to receive an explanation for that one; when he’d asked the 10th Doctor about it, they’d surmised it must’ve been a future version of himself. From that point on, Hob had decided to implement the new ‘Weevils’ variant for himself and the doctor, calling it ‘Watch Yourself.’
The Doctor hadn’t found it nearly as funny as Hob had.
Thankfully, Jack Harkness had found more amusement in the system, even more so when the association with Hob had warranted himself an impromptu visit from a morose looking 10th Doctor. The Doctor had done nothing more than pass Jack a note saying ‘His name is Alonso’ at a bar – Jack had been taking a long overdue vacation week, now that Andy was in the mix – so Hob and Jack had assumed it was a sign of more interactions to come.
All in all, Hob was satisfied with the knowledge that all was well in the world.
Which is why being attacked by a fucking statue on a random Tuesday afternoon took him so off-guard.
He’d been walking out of the university lecture halls, having had a joyfully uninterrupted lecture. The cries of ‘Thanks, Professor’ and ‘See you next week’ echoing after him.
Hob walked the familiar path to the New Inn, idly noticing the new gargoyle adorning the exterior of the local HSBC bank.
Hob frowned.
He slowed his pace curiously.
He was certain he’d walked this route home the day before, there’d not been a statue then. Unless the London Borough Council was a lot quicker than usual about exterior decoration and cultural improvements, the statue couldn’t have been installed so quickly.
Narrowing his eyes, Hob examined the statue further, making out the shape of it.
It was an Angel.
The Angel looked like it was crying.
Its hands were cupped in-front of its face, covering its eyes, head bowed. Deceptively, the surface of the statue appeared weathered, as though it had been exposed to the elements for years, if not decades.
Hob blinked.
The statue was gone.
He turned, head swivelling to and from, in an attempt to spot the statue again.
A statue can’t just move, Hob thought to himself wildly. Except, in a world where Hob’s closest friend was the literal embodiment of Dreams as a concept, his other was an immortal from the 51st century and he, himself, was an alien with two hearts, anything is possible.
Hob blinked again.
Darkness.
****
Hob rammed into a pavement with force, the motion knocking the wind out of him.
He sucked in a deep breath, hoping to regain his faculties. The way his head was swimming – be it from motion sickness or utter confusion – didn’t help.
He opened his eyes.
Night greeted him.
Hob’s eyebrows furrowed; he’d been walking back from work at three in the afternoon in mid-June, it should still be very light outside.
How much time had he lost?!
Pulling out his phone, Hob groaned, the ‘signal’ bar indicating no signal. Fuck. There went his chance to call John and ask for a pick-up. Thankfully the screen hadn’t cracked, so maybe there was a chance, if he walked around a bit, he’d regain signal and be able to call for help.
Getting his bearings, his vision finally clearing fully and no longer feeling like he needed to throw up, Hob put together a mental checklist.
Firstly, he needed to find out where he was; this wasn’t the high street outside his university, that’s for sure. Secondly, he needed to know the date and time; if he’d lost hours or – heavens forbid – days to unconsciousness, he’d have to give a very detailed excuse for his last-minute absence at work this time. He might be able to claim he’d been mugged, assuming the time was on the lower end of the spectrum, anything longer will need a more thorough consideration. Thirdly, he should contact people – either Torchwood, Constantine or Dream – to alert them to a possible alien or supernatural combatant that could knock people unconscious and teleport them in the, literal, blink of an eye.
It seemed like something one of them should know about.
With this in mind, Hob picked a direction and started walking, however, the longer he walked, the more uneasy he became.
Something was very wrong.
He was in London, he could tell that; the familiar rambling streets were the ones only a few minutes over from the old White Horse and the New Inn, but everything felt off.
The fashions for one; men were walking down the street in hues of brown and mustard yellows, the women in bright pinks and greens. The cars for another; gone were the sleek muted-coloured designs of the present, instead the clunky forms of Bentleys and Austins lined the streets.
It was like he’d gone back in time. Hob scoffed to himself, before turning the corner.
He stopped.
There stood before him, a relic of old, was the White Horse.
Not the barren, desolate husk he’d come to know, but instead a full functioning and operational pub, with groups of old men and couples milling around it, drinks in hand.
It was like he’d gone back in time.
“Fuck.” Hob choked out.
****
The good thing about time travelling was the opportunity to revisit and experience something you thought had been lost to Time, in Hob’s case, a pint of ale at his old stomping ground: The White Horse.
Having been decades removed from the old pub, Hob had forgotten how badly the place smelled. The stench of body odour and stale alcohol flitting through the pub; the introduction of good ventilation not really the focus for this cornerstone of local history.
“Rupert!” Someone waved cheerily at him, a man whose face he struggled to place. The man clearly knew him but Hob’s memory – faulty at the best of times – wasn’t supplying him with a name. He looked vaguely like a Charlie. A Charles? Or maybe Mark…? “Did you get a haircut? Or are you wearing a wig?”
Hob tilted his head.
Shit.
He'd taken to changing his hairstyles drastically every few decades; it made it a little harder to equate two identities if one was known for his buzz cut, whereas the other wouldn’t leave the house without a well-styled mullet. It wasn’t a perfect scheme, but it never hurt to try.
His modern ‘Justin Bieber’ inspired hair didn’t seem to fit in with the current fashions, which he’d guesstimate to be anywhere between the 60s and 70s, judging by the fashions. Hob had been walking around during this time rocking a very distinct, well-gelled pompadour.
Hob laughed with the man – mentally dubbed Mark – before ducking out of sight. He needed to get out of here.
Hob was not freaking out.
Hob was, in fact, very freaked out.
He was aware, tangentially, of the Web of Time, it having been taught at the Academy after its construction by Rassilon and the Other. He had a further understanding of it from his late-night discussions with Dream; so the story goes, Time himself had gifted the Time Lords the Eye of Harmony as an ‘anchor’ for the threads of Continuity, making it harder for the casual Time Lord to change history.
Harder, but not impossible.
Here Hob was, in – as he’d come to find out – 1973, a full forty years before his current time zone. He had an opportunity to change things, to help people, save lives.
Across the country, in Sussex, under Burgess’ basement, sat a captured, naked and mute Dream. Hundreds of thousands of people suffering from the Sleeping Sickness as a result.
Not far away, Calliope lay in the hands of Erasmus Fry, Hob’s hands curled at the thought of the torments she would be suffering.
Somewhere in the galaxy, Gray was running free, plotting the death and destruction he’d devised for Jack.
Over in Cardiff, a young, newborn Alex Hopkins crawled around, blissfully unaware of the massacre he’d commit in a short 30 years.
There were things Hob knew that could change the very course of history.
How could Hob look away?
This is why he would have made a truly terrible full-fledged Time Lord; the urge to turn and take a Molotov cocktail to the Web of Time was beyond compelling.
But he also knew the things that could go wrong. If he were to make one wrong move, who’s to say Burgess wouldn’t move Dream and Hob would never be able to free him at all? Who’s to say freeing Calliope sooner wouldn’t cause Erasmus to ensnare another being in her stead? So many things Hob could do and so many ways they could go wrong.
Hob needed to get home, back to his own timeline, before he did something drastic.
The question was how.
Back in the 2010s, Hob had an endless number of people he could call upon to help him – literally, with Dream back in the picture – but who did he have now?
Constantine was out; they hadn’t officially been introduced until mid-2000s. Dream was in some fuckers’ basement – Hob clenched his teeth, trying not to outwardly react – and most of the Torchwood team had either yet to be born or were crawling around learning their ABCs.
Jack, however, was a very viable option.
He and Hob had been acquainted well before the 1970s and they had the ‘Weevils’ system as a fool-proof ‘don’t ask questions’ set-up. Conveniently, he and Jack had been ‘no contact’ most of the 70s due to their falling out over jack’s lack of interactions with Alice, so there was minimal risk of Jack accidentally mentioning the meet-up in a drunken conversation with Hob.
Which settled it, Hob needed to get to Cardiff.
****
Phones weren’t really a thing in the 1970s, or at least not as prevalent as they were in the 2010s. Landlines, sure, but mobiles were a thing of the… well, future.
Hob didn’t know how Jack managed it; Hob was having culture shock from being forty years removed from his own timeline, Jack being born in the 51st century and coping with the culture and technological differences was something Hob couldn’t even begin to fathom.
Point being, he couldn’t get word to Jack of his intentions to come to Cardiff, so he had to settle for the old fashioned, moping creepily outside the Roald Dahl Plaza, hoping Jack will take pity on him and actually come out and greet him.
It started to rain.
Hob glanced balefully up at the newly installed CCTV camera, the one he knew the likes Tosh and Owen used to playfully ‘people-watch’ with on slow days.
He could feel droplets dripping down his face miserably.
After another ten minutes waiting in the rain, Jack appeared in the middle of the plaza, the perception filter obscuring his form and then – blink – Jack in all his military glory.
Hob could have kissed him.
“Jack,” Hob waved enthusiastically, ignoring social norms and going in for an enthusiastic hug anyway. He didn’t want to encourage the man with a kiss, but a hug couldn’t hurt. “It is good to see you.”
Jack pulled back, bewildered.
Admittedly, from Jack’s perspective, they hadn’t acknowledged each other in a few years and, from Hob’s memories, they won’t do so again until around the 1980s.
“Weevils.” Hob asserts, causing Jack’s eyebrows to raise, intrigued. “Long story, but I’m not from this time and I could use your help.”
****
Being back in the Hub felt weirdly familiar; the anachronistic nature of the space allowing him to imagine it was just another day in the 2010s, as opposed to him being stuck in the 1970s. The technology around him hadn’t changed much in forty years, most of their systems being built from extraterrestrial technology, but arguably still more limited than that of the future, as they could only hack into the operating systems of the current time’s governments and organisations.
The most jarring part of the experience was the different team Jack had.
Firstly, the person handing him coffee was neither Ianto nor Lois.
Secondly, Jack wasn’t actually in-charge of the organisation, which Hob had inconveniently forgotten would be the case. Their current leader, one Patrick Jones, appeared to be a stern man and a stickler for the rules.
It had taken some time for Jack to convince him that Hob wasn’t a threat nor was he an alien to be killed or ‘contained’. Hob’s hearts dropped out of his stomach for a second; he’d forgotten this time was before he’d told Jack of his alien origin. He definitely needed to stop Patrick from putting him through one of their scanners, for ‘assurances sake’. Jack wasn’t that good an actor; his reaction when seeing Hob regenerate for the first time could not have been faked. Or if it was, Hob was going to kill Jack.
Finally alone again, Jack turned to Hob. “What do you need?”
“I need you to freeze me.”
“Freeze you.” Jack raised an incredulous eyebrow.
“You’ve got your cryo-chambers, right?” Hob nodded his head in the vague direction of the morgue.
“Have you been here before?” Jack queried, lowering his voice so none of the other Torchwood members could hear his follow up. “I thought I told you to stay away from Torchwood.”
Jack had told him that back in the late 1800s, but over a century later, Jack had made Torchwood into a very different entity. One far more accepting of those of alien origins. Hob shrugged. “Best not to ask any questions, I don’t want to change the future unintentionally. Just accept that I know you have cryo-chambers and leave it there.”
Jack huffed a laugh, “Fine, but you owe me so many questions on the other side.”
Hob had a moment, as he was being placed inside the cryo-tube, where he hysterically remembered that there was also another version of Jack inside one of these cryo-chambers. One that this 1970s Jack would have no idea about.
Fuck, time travel was weird.
But then again, all that time Hob had spent in the Hub during the 2000s, helping Jack create a team and assisting Gwen, Owen and Tosh while Jack was away, he’d had no clue that there was a frozen version of himself only a room away.
Gross, Hob shuddered to himself.
Once Hob was comfortable, some monitoring patches stuck on his chest, and Jack peering down at him over the edges of the chamber, the Captain asked. “When am I freezing you until?”
Hob hesitated, but ultimately, he did need to tell Jack. “2010. I need you to freeze me until June 13th 2010.”
“Haha!” Jack exclaimed, appearing gratified at getting at least one answer to his questions. “Great decade the 2010s. That’s when – “
“– Everything changes,” Hob finished for him, getting a thrum of satisfaction at the annoyance on Jack’s face, knowing he would be annoyed at not being able to finish his signature phrase. “Yes, I know.”
Jack pushes the door shut, pausing for a second before asking quietly. “Do we start talking again?”
Seeing no reason not to answer such an innocuous question, Hob replied. “In the 2010s, you’re one of my closest friends.”
Darkness.
****
Noise and light.
Hob blinked into the world again.
“ – on’t go moving too fast, you’ll be sick.” Came the brusque voice of one Dr Owen Harper.
Thank the heavens. Hob had never been more relieved to hear Owen’s voice.
Hob asked, ‘Am I in the right year again?’ only for it to come out slurred and unintelligible. “Ami n thrigh yer?”
He blinked, orientating himself, his eyes focussing once more on Owen’s mirthful grin. Of course, Owen would find his plight amusing; if he had been stuck in a world pre-internet for a week, Hob would like to see how he’d have managed.
He was lying on the cold, metallic surface of Owen’s medical lab, naked except for a cloth around his waist. He’d never been injured enough to warrant a stint in Owen’s lab, his Time Lord healing factor ensuring he’d be recovered before intervention was required.
“Aha!” Came an exclamation from the balcony above, Jack’s smug face joining in on Owen’s amusement.
Ianto, Tosh and Gwen stood beside him. Ianto was watching the proceedings intently and Tosh’s face one of genuine concern, while Gwen – whose pregnant belly meant she was standing slightly further back than Tosh – was looking pryingly down at him, like he was an insect under a microscope. Hob was secretly sure that, ever since she’d found out he was an alien, she was convinced he’d have two penises or something.
He shifted on the table uncomfortably, wrapping the cloth more firmly around his waist.
“Our wandering adventurer returns!”
“Is it 2010 again?” Hob asked, the words still slightly slurred together but now coming out as a complete sentence.
“Yessir.” Jack saluted, cheerfully descending the stairs, coffee cup in hand. “Can I ask my questions now?”
Hob flipped him the bird, simultaneously snatching the coffee out of Jack’s grip and downing it. Who knew being frozen in a cryo-chamber for forty years would make you so thirsty?
Owen insisted on a full physical after he’d been removed, swearing up and down that it’s what was needed after so long in the freezers.
“We had to do them every year for young Tommy Brockless.” He assured – out of the earshot of Tosh, who Hob later learned had a limited romance with the other man – however, Hob was sure Owen just wanted to use the opportunity to stick him with needles.
As he did, Jack asked his questions.
“How’d you end up in the 1970s? It was the 1970s that you ended up in, right? You didn’t wait a long time before contacting me?”
“It was the 1970s.” Hob confirmed, “I think - I think a stone angel… thing touched me. Sent me back in time or something.”
“Ah.” Jack and Ianto shared a knowing look.
“Ah? Ah, what?!” Was he missing something?
“There was a contained explosion the other day in London, near your university. Witnesses claimed it was a stone statue of an angel that exploded.”
“I don’t understand.”
Tosh descended the stairs, too, laptop in hand. “We think you had a run in with a Weeping Angel.” She thrust the archive into his hands, the page displaying a plethora of information about them.
According to the tablet before him, they were a species of quantum-locked humanoids. They ‘touched’ people and sent them into the past to live out their lives, somehow feeding off the remaining time energy of the victim. Given Hob’s long life and Time Lord nature, Hob could assume Tosh and the others believed the potential ‘life’ span he could live must’ve overwhelmed the angel, causing it to self-combust.
“Why isn’t there a photo of them?” Hob inquired, pointing at the square which would normally hold the picture or likeness of – if a picture couldn’t be taken – the being.
“It’s believed that which holds an image of a Weeping Angel becomes one itself.” Tosh answered, shrugging. “We don’t know if it’s true, or some old wives’ tale, but we thought we wouldn’t test the theory.”
Smart, Hob thought. He could see their reasoning.
Jack clapped him on the shoulder, “It’s lucky you ended up in the 1970s, who knows what would have happened otherwise.”
Hob shuddered.
The idea of having to re-live the entirety of the 18th century – or before, even – without the creature-comforts he’d become accustomed to. He’d do it if he had to, of course, with the knowledge that the world gets better, more comfortable; there was so much to live for. However, the idea of living through all that time and not once being able to communicate with his immortal friends, or see Morpheus at all, was torment.
It was something he should make a back-up plan for, now that he knew it was a possibility… maybe he should ask the Doctor for advice the next time he saw him.