FIC: The Carriage held but just Ourselves (Pt. 1/10)
Title: The Carriage held but just Ourselves (Pt. 1/10)
Author: blue_fjords
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Gwen, Jack, Ianto, Tosh, Rhys, Owen, PC Andy, Kathy Swanson, Suzie
Words: ~1,450 (this part)
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Summary: AU Crime Novel w/ alternating PC Gwen Cooper and CIA Agent Jack Harkness chapters. Each section contains a chapter (lengths may vary) from Gwen and Jack.
A/N: Thanks awfully to my beta, paragraphs, and my flist for encouragement and Brit-picking! I can’t believe I’m doing a dreaded serial! Hopefully new sections up every three to five days, and I believe I’ve accurately plotted for just ten parts. Title from Emily Dickinson.
Gwen
A 200-pound man with a knife wound in the chest will lose over 70 milliliters of blood every ten seconds, and will continue to lose blood after his heart stops pumping. But that’s more due to the gaping hole than anything else, PC Gwen Cooper thought.. She took a calming breath. My first dead body. Should try to keep a handle on my breakfast.
“Gwen.” Her partner touched her shoulder. “DI’s arrived. And she brought additional suits.”
Gwen pulled herself out of her crouch and went with Andy to the edge of the yellow tape they had strung up just a little while ago. Detective Inspector Kathy Swanson parked haphazardly, half on the pavement, and slammed her door shut. She was accompanied by two people that did not belong to the Cardiff police, Gwen was sure. The woman was small, almost dainty, and Japanese. The man looked much too young to have badge and firearm on his belt. Gwen raised her brows to Andy at the sight of the weapon, and he shrugged, grimacing.
“Right, coppers,” DI Swanson said briskly, ducking under the tape. “What’ve we got here, then?”
Andy launched into their story of following a stray dog to the corpse while Gwen affected an air of nonchalance at being in the presence of a dead man, and eyed the two strangers. Swanson hadn’t bothered introducing them, and they studiously ignored the coppers, eyes roaming the crime scene. Andy wrapped up his spiel and Swanson opened her mouth to tell them to go stand at the start of the alley and keep the inevitable crowds back, no doubt, but Gwen cut her off.
“We found something unusual, Ma’am.” Andy shook his head at her over Swanson’s shoulder, but Gwen barreled on regardless. “There appears to be something rolled up and stuffed in his mouth.”
Swanson gave her a sharp look and the two suits stepped closer. “You did not touch anything.” Gwen swallowed, and nodded.
Swanson snapped on rubber gloves and crouched gingerly next to the corpse. Very delicately, she swiped a finger into his mouth and pulled out a rolled up piece of parchment. She sighed.
My life closed twice before its close;
It yet remains to see
If Immortality unveil
A third event to me,
So huge, so hopeless to conceive,
As these that twice befell.
Parting is all we know of heaven,
And all we need of hell.
“Emily Dickinson,” the young man murmured. Gwen glanced at him curiously. That was a slight Valleys accent.
“Shit,” Swanson replied.
“Why is Emily Dickinson important? Has this happened before?” Gwen asked, taking a step closer to the suits.
“You need to know, we’ll tell you, PC Cooper.” Swanson abruptly rose to her feet. “The crowds are gathering,” she continued, nodding towards the empty mouth of the alley. “Keep them back. Davidson, when Dr. Harper arrives, escort him back here.”
Gwen frowned, and felt her face heat when Andy took her elbow. Dammit, she wanted to know.
“Easy tiger, before we get relegated to nothing but pub duty,” he muttered as they moved away. “Really, Gwen, questioning the DI? You know they don’t tell us anything.”
“And how are we supposed to do our jobs then, yeah? I didn’t join the police to bow and curtsy to Detective Inspectors,” she fumed. Quietly.
“That’s because you want to be a Detective Inspector.” Andy glanced down the length of the alley. Swanson and the young man were conferring at the head of the corpse while the tiny Japanese woman took pictures. “What I want to know is why Interpol is in on the action.”
Gwen started. She hadn’t been able to make out the detail on the young man’s badge. “Interpol, Andy? Seriously?”
He snorted. “You’d have seen if you ever opened your eyes instead of your mouth.” He smiled to take the sting out of his words, and Gwen quirked a smile back before looking once more down the alley. Interpol. Interesting.
She did not look up at the roofs of the surrounding buildings. If she had, she would have seen a tall man in an RAF coat, staring down into the alley and clenching and unclenching his fists. If sound could travel that far, she would have heard a growled curse: Suzie Costello.
Jack
Jack Harkness flicked the newspaper open and ostensibly began to read the sports page. To the outside observer, he appeared to be quite absorbed in cricket scores. On closer inspection, however, one could tell that his eyes spent more time on the door across the street than on the headlines before him.
His mobile buzzed quietly against his leg, and his pulse quickened at the ID. Finally.
“Harkness,” he said quietly into the phone. His waitress paused at his table, refilled his sludgy cup of coffee, and moved on.
“You have a lot of nerve calling me, Jack.” Annoyance traveled easily across the Pond. Jack could picture Yvonne Hartman at her desk in Langley, toes tapping in too-high heels as she scanned her monitor. Not paying attention to him.
“It’s another Dickinson poem,” he said. Calmly, he hoped. “Same type of wound.”
Hartman sighed. She was probably massaging the bridge of her nose. “We all regret the death of Alex Hopkins. But every poetry-loving nutjob on the planet did not murder your partner.”
Jack gritted his teeth. “It’s her, Yvonne.”
“And the cinema owners in Buenos Aires? The old man in Hospice in New York? The doctor’s wife in Brussels? How many other deaths are you going to lay at her feet? These people are not connected, Jack. You have an actual job to do, you know. Here in Langley.”
Jack’s blood was beginning to boil. They were all the work of Suzie Costello. He knew it. He just had to prove it. “I still have time off due me, Yvonne.”
There was a pause. “You pig-headed man,” she said finally. “Fine. Fine. You are on vacation -”
“They call it holiday over here.”
“-you are on vacation and in no way represent the Central Intelligence Agency of the United States. Is that clear?”
Jack smiled grimly into his phone. The door across the street was opening. “Crystal.”
“Good.” Hartman paused, and Jack could hear her search for something appropriately pithy to say. “Alex wouldn’t want you to waste time, Jack.”
He stood, fished in his pocket for some coins to pay for his shitty coffee, and left the café, following the people who had exited from across the street. “Wasting time is one thing I am most certainly not doing.”
“Don’t get yourself killed, Agent.” She ended the call abruptly. Probably went back to the blueprints for her corner office. Jack shrugged the thought aside, and picked up the trail.
He followed them to a nondescript chain hotel. Five minutes of flirting with the concierge later, he was knocking on Toshiko Sato’s door. When she opened the door, she blinked up at him, frowning slightly, until recognition dawned on her. “Agent Harkness! This is an unexpected surprise!” She opened the door wider and gestured him in.
Her young partner straightened up from the kitchenette’s counter, where he’d been hastily putting their files back together. Jack caught not one glimpse of a crime scene photo. Fast and cautious. He nodded approvingly at the man. “Agent Jack Harkness,” he said, extending his hand and flashing his toothiest of smiles.
“Ianto Jones,” the other replied, unsmiling. Jack squeezed his hand tight, noting the long fingers and firm grip. And the tell-tale flash of gold on his left hand.
Toshiko hovered anxiously during the introductions, and when Jack stepped back, she gave him a small hug. “What are you doing here, Jack?”
“I’m looking for someone. Unofficially,” he added truthfully.
“How can I help?” Toshiko asked. He looked down at her. Toshiko Sato owed him her own life, and the life of her mother, and as such, she was one of the few people he trusted; one of the few who knew that he was not a pilot, barber, song-and-dance man, priest, horticulturalist, violinist, or any of a dozen other things he had claimed to be in the course of his career with the CIA. But he didn’t know Ianto Jones from Adam.
Jones seemed to pick up on the vibe, and stood, clearing his throat. “I’ll leave the two of you alone. I need to check in at the hospital.” He placed a hand on Toshiko’s shoulder. “Call me if you need anything.”
He gave Jack one more measured look before heading to the door. Jack watched his ass. Shame about the ring. He turned back to Toshiko.
“You found another Emily Dickinson poem today. Am I right?”
Part Two
Author: blue_fjords
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Gwen, Jack, Ianto, Tosh, Rhys, Owen, PC Andy, Kathy Swanson, Suzie
Words: ~1,450 (this part)
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Summary: AU Crime Novel w/ alternating PC Gwen Cooper and CIA Agent Jack Harkness chapters. Each section contains a chapter (lengths may vary) from Gwen and Jack.
A/N: Thanks awfully to my beta, paragraphs, and my flist for encouragement and Brit-picking! I can’t believe I’m doing a dreaded serial! Hopefully new sections up every three to five days, and I believe I’ve accurately plotted for just ten parts. Title from Emily Dickinson.
Gwen
A 200-pound man with a knife wound in the chest will lose over 70 milliliters of blood every ten seconds, and will continue to lose blood after his heart stops pumping. But that’s more due to the gaping hole than anything else, PC Gwen Cooper thought.. She took a calming breath. My first dead body. Should try to keep a handle on my breakfast.
“Gwen.” Her partner touched her shoulder. “DI’s arrived. And she brought additional suits.”
Gwen pulled herself out of her crouch and went with Andy to the edge of the yellow tape they had strung up just a little while ago. Detective Inspector Kathy Swanson parked haphazardly, half on the pavement, and slammed her door shut. She was accompanied by two people that did not belong to the Cardiff police, Gwen was sure. The woman was small, almost dainty, and Japanese. The man looked much too young to have badge and firearm on his belt. Gwen raised her brows to Andy at the sight of the weapon, and he shrugged, grimacing.
“Right, coppers,” DI Swanson said briskly, ducking under the tape. “What’ve we got here, then?”
Andy launched into their story of following a stray dog to the corpse while Gwen affected an air of nonchalance at being in the presence of a dead man, and eyed the two strangers. Swanson hadn’t bothered introducing them, and they studiously ignored the coppers, eyes roaming the crime scene. Andy wrapped up his spiel and Swanson opened her mouth to tell them to go stand at the start of the alley and keep the inevitable crowds back, no doubt, but Gwen cut her off.
“We found something unusual, Ma’am.” Andy shook his head at her over Swanson’s shoulder, but Gwen barreled on regardless. “There appears to be something rolled up and stuffed in his mouth.”
Swanson gave her a sharp look and the two suits stepped closer. “You did not touch anything.” Gwen swallowed, and nodded.
Swanson snapped on rubber gloves and crouched gingerly next to the corpse. Very delicately, she swiped a finger into his mouth and pulled out a rolled up piece of parchment. She sighed.
My life closed twice before its close;
It yet remains to see
If Immortality unveil
A third event to me,
So huge, so hopeless to conceive,
As these that twice befell.
Parting is all we know of heaven,
And all we need of hell.
“Emily Dickinson,” the young man murmured. Gwen glanced at him curiously. That was a slight Valleys accent.
“Shit,” Swanson replied.
“Why is Emily Dickinson important? Has this happened before?” Gwen asked, taking a step closer to the suits.
“You need to know, we’ll tell you, PC Cooper.” Swanson abruptly rose to her feet. “The crowds are gathering,” she continued, nodding towards the empty mouth of the alley. “Keep them back. Davidson, when Dr. Harper arrives, escort him back here.”
Gwen frowned, and felt her face heat when Andy took her elbow. Dammit, she wanted to know.
“Easy tiger, before we get relegated to nothing but pub duty,” he muttered as they moved away. “Really, Gwen, questioning the DI? You know they don’t tell us anything.”
“And how are we supposed to do our jobs then, yeah? I didn’t join the police to bow and curtsy to Detective Inspectors,” she fumed. Quietly.
“That’s because you want to be a Detective Inspector.” Andy glanced down the length of the alley. Swanson and the young man were conferring at the head of the corpse while the tiny Japanese woman took pictures. “What I want to know is why Interpol is in on the action.”
Gwen started. She hadn’t been able to make out the detail on the young man’s badge. “Interpol, Andy? Seriously?”
He snorted. “You’d have seen if you ever opened your eyes instead of your mouth.” He smiled to take the sting out of his words, and Gwen quirked a smile back before looking once more down the alley. Interpol. Interesting.
She did not look up at the roofs of the surrounding buildings. If she had, she would have seen a tall man in an RAF coat, staring down into the alley and clenching and unclenching his fists. If sound could travel that far, she would have heard a growled curse: Suzie Costello.
Jack
Jack Harkness flicked the newspaper open and ostensibly began to read the sports page. To the outside observer, he appeared to be quite absorbed in cricket scores. On closer inspection, however, one could tell that his eyes spent more time on the door across the street than on the headlines before him.
His mobile buzzed quietly against his leg, and his pulse quickened at the ID. Finally.
“Harkness,” he said quietly into the phone. His waitress paused at his table, refilled his sludgy cup of coffee, and moved on.
“You have a lot of nerve calling me, Jack.” Annoyance traveled easily across the Pond. Jack could picture Yvonne Hartman at her desk in Langley, toes tapping in too-high heels as she scanned her monitor. Not paying attention to him.
“It’s another Dickinson poem,” he said. Calmly, he hoped. “Same type of wound.”
Hartman sighed. She was probably massaging the bridge of her nose. “We all regret the death of Alex Hopkins. But every poetry-loving nutjob on the planet did not murder your partner.”
Jack gritted his teeth. “It’s her, Yvonne.”
“And the cinema owners in Buenos Aires? The old man in Hospice in New York? The doctor’s wife in Brussels? How many other deaths are you going to lay at her feet? These people are not connected, Jack. You have an actual job to do, you know. Here in Langley.”
Jack’s blood was beginning to boil. They were all the work of Suzie Costello. He knew it. He just had to prove it. “I still have time off due me, Yvonne.”
There was a pause. “You pig-headed man,” she said finally. “Fine. Fine. You are on vacation -”
“They call it holiday over here.”
“-you are on vacation and in no way represent the Central Intelligence Agency of the United States. Is that clear?”
Jack smiled grimly into his phone. The door across the street was opening. “Crystal.”
“Good.” Hartman paused, and Jack could hear her search for something appropriately pithy to say. “Alex wouldn’t want you to waste time, Jack.”
He stood, fished in his pocket for some coins to pay for his shitty coffee, and left the café, following the people who had exited from across the street. “Wasting time is one thing I am most certainly not doing.”
“Don’t get yourself killed, Agent.” She ended the call abruptly. Probably went back to the blueprints for her corner office. Jack shrugged the thought aside, and picked up the trail.
He followed them to a nondescript chain hotel. Five minutes of flirting with the concierge later, he was knocking on Toshiko Sato’s door. When she opened the door, she blinked up at him, frowning slightly, until recognition dawned on her. “Agent Harkness! This is an unexpected surprise!” She opened the door wider and gestured him in.
Her young partner straightened up from the kitchenette’s counter, where he’d been hastily putting their files back together. Jack caught not one glimpse of a crime scene photo. Fast and cautious. He nodded approvingly at the man. “Agent Jack Harkness,” he said, extending his hand and flashing his toothiest of smiles.
“Ianto Jones,” the other replied, unsmiling. Jack squeezed his hand tight, noting the long fingers and firm grip. And the tell-tale flash of gold on his left hand.
Toshiko hovered anxiously during the introductions, and when Jack stepped back, she gave him a small hug. “What are you doing here, Jack?”
“I’m looking for someone. Unofficially,” he added truthfully.
“How can I help?” Toshiko asked. He looked down at her. Toshiko Sato owed him her own life, and the life of her mother, and as such, she was one of the few people he trusted; one of the few who knew that he was not a pilot, barber, song-and-dance man, priest, horticulturalist, violinist, or any of a dozen other things he had claimed to be in the course of his career with the CIA. But he didn’t know Ianto Jones from Adam.
Jones seemed to pick up on the vibe, and stood, clearing his throat. “I’ll leave the two of you alone. I need to check in at the hospital.” He placed a hand on Toshiko’s shoulder. “Call me if you need anything.”
He gave Jack one more measured look before heading to the door. Jack watched his ass. Shame about the ring. He turned back to Toshiko.
“You found another Emily Dickinson poem today. Am I right?”
Part Two