The Wandering Years 2: San Francisco (or: Where I left my heart)
Title: San Francisco (or: Where I Left My Heart)
Author: jadesfire2808
Rating: PG
Word Count: ~4,200
Warnings: Nothing worse than you'd see in an episode of Torchwood
Betas: The wonderful crystalshard and miss_zedem
Summary: Staying out of trouble has never been one of Jack's strengths. This time, his friends are in it too.
A/N: Extra thanks to pwcorgigirl and rivers_bend for recommending "Tales of the city," one of the best things I've read this year.
San Francisco, 12th May, 1974
Jack did his best to tidy himself up before going into the bar. He fastened the zip on his battered brown leather jacket, covering his stained t-shirt, and ran a hand through his newly cut hair, brushing out dirt and dust. There probably wasn't much he could do about his face or jeans. Taking a deep breath, and a last glance over his shoulder, he pushed open the door and headed inside, reflecting that it always paid to be a good customer.
Even with a black eye and hands smudged with dirt, he had no trouble getting served at the bar. He drained the first glass of water, then fished in his jacket pocket for a handkerchief. A reassuring weight pulled at his other pocket and he resisted the urge to pat at it. Instead, he dipped the cloth into the second glass of water and began wiping the worst of the dirt from his face.
He'd just about finished, dropping the now-black handkerchief onto the bar and catching the barman's eye again, when there was a commotion at the entrance behind him. Smiling to himself, Jack ordered another glass of water and a Scotch before turning to look.
"Friends, Romans, Countrymen!" The man in the doorway, at the centre of a laughing crowd, was short and slim, holding out his arms to embrace the whole bar. "I come to praise Tony, not to bury him."
"Oh, shut up." One of the crowd, a little taller than the speaker but strikingly similar in looks and build, put a hand on the man's neck, pulling him off balance and further into the bar. "People are getting thirsty."
Grinning, the first man dropped his hands, letting himself be led inside. His mouth opened wide when he caught sight of Jack and he elbowed his companion.
"Tony? Look who it isn't."
Jack returned the smile. "Hi, Paul. Tony."
The shorter of the two men, Paul, put his hands on his hips and looked Jack up and down critically.
"You," he said, "look like something the cat dragged in. Through a hedge. Backwards."
"You alright, Jack?" Tony asked, drifting closer and eyeing the rips in Jack's jeans. Jack shifted, just a little, as Tony's eyes reached the hem of his jacket, hoping to distract attention away from the bulging pocket. He shrugged.
"There was a bit of trouble. Nothing I couldn't handle. You should see the other guy."
Paul sighed theatrically. "Incorrigible. Completely incorrigible."
"Just the way you like it."
"You need a place to crash?" Tony took the next barstool along. Grateful not to have to ask, Jack nodded.
"Although I don't want to be in the way."
"Nonsense, dear boy." Paul slung an arm round Jack's shoulders, leaning against him. "Always a pleasure to have you."
Ignoring the obvious opening, Jack laughed and wrapped his arm around Paul's waist. "Let me get you a drink. Least I can do."
"The very least." Turning in Jack's embrace, Paul leaned in closer. "But it's a good start."
They carried Paul into the apartment at three a.m. Or rather, Jack carried him and Tony kept one hand clamped firmly over his mouth while fumbling with keys and doors with the other. It was the only way to stop Paul singing.
They were treated to a brief blast of Rocket Man as Jack put the smaller man down on the bed.
"Is he always that loud?" Jack asked and Tony shrugged.
"Only when he's happy. He's glad to see you." Tony's smile mirrored Jack's own. "He's not the only one."
"You guys run the best boarding house in the bay area," Jack said. "Where else would I stay in San Francisco?"
Apparently deciding that he'd had enough of Elton John, Paul started on David Bowie. Tony rolled his eyes and prodded the singer in the shoulder.
"That's enough, Pauly. We'll have complaints."
"Don't care!" Paul's eyes opened and he grinned. "Why, hello boys." His eyes flickered closed again and he began to snore.
Jack laughed, ruffling Paul's hair. "You guys want a drink of water?"
"It's fine." Tony started tugging at Paul's t-shirt. "Go ahead though. There's plenty in the tap."
After a short internal debate, Jack settled on hanging his jacket on the back of the apartment door. In a place this small, where the kitchen was also the dining room, the living room and, he noticed, the laundry, there was no point drawing attention to himself by trying to put the object anywhere else. Much better to hide it in plain sight overnight and get it couriered out in the morning. Later in the morning.
Still turning things over in his mind, Jack ran himself a glass of water, drinking it slowly and steadily. Then he took off his t-shirt and filled the sink with hot water to rinse it. He'd just pulled out the plug and was looking for somewhere to hang the damp shirt when Tony came out to join him.
"He's dead to the world," he said, jerking his thumb in the direction of the bedroom.
"Do you guys have a show tomorrow?"
Tony shook his head. "I only let him get this plastered when we've got a day off afterwards. Wouldn't do for one of the Touretti Twins to turn up with a hangover. Someone could get hurt. Probably me." Stifling a yawn, Tony settled himself on the end of the low sofa.
"How's work?" Jack asked, finally draping his t-shirt across the back of an upright chair at the small dining table.
"Steady-ish," Tony said. "I meant to thank you for that word you put in for us with Old Man Russell."
"Not a problem." Jack looked up at the poster stuck to the cupboard door opposite, announcing the next performance of the Touretti Twins, "Balanciers Extraordinaires!!" Paul had probably arranged for the two exclamation marks. "You guys are good."
"Sometimes. But we're always entertaining, on and off-stage." Tony looked Jack up and down in a near-perfect imitation of Paul's critical examination from earlier. "You know you look like hell, Jack, don't you?"
"Charmer." But Jack knew it was true. "Can I use the bathroom?"
"Not the shower," Tony warned him. "The landlord's real cranky about noisy plumbing at three a.m. But go get cleaned up. There's towels in there."
Jack did the best he could with the basin and a washcloth, then wrapped one of the larger towels around his waist. Tony was in the lounge when he emerged, moving things around in the small space. He'd hung his own coat over Jack's on the back of the door and was putting Jack's still-damp t-shirt on a wire hanger.
"Figured it would dry better like this," he said over his shoulder. He'd changed into a loose red robe with kimono-like sleeves and a huge dragon embroidered on the back. Catching Jack's look, he grinned. "It's Paul's," he explained. "He got it during his Japomania phase."
"What's the current craze? Whiskies and soda?"
"That one never goes out of fashion." Tony turned away, hooking the hanger over a cupboard and brushing a speck of dirt from the t-shirt. "No, Paul seems to have finally caught up with the rest of us and realised that he's living in San Francisco in nineteen seventy-four." He gave a bitter laugh. "He always did have a good eye for beauty."
Jack winced. "Tony-"
"It's alright." Turning back, Tony gave Jack a too-bright smile. "There's lots of very good-looking, very available men in this town."
"You're one of them." Like Paul, Tony was olive-skinned and dark-haired with the loose-limbed grace that came with his profession. There weren't too many people who knew that the notorious Touretti Twins didn't actually have a drop of blood in common.
Suddenly aware of the awkward silence, Jack dropped his jeans and boots to the floor. "I should let you get some sleep," he said. "It's getting late. Or early."
"I guess." Tony waited another long moment, then made his way towards the bedroom, his shoulder brushing against Jack's as he passed. He stopped at the door, one hand on the handle, looking back at Jack.
"I'm fine," Jack said, waving vaguely at the sofa.
"Jack." Tony turned, tucking his hands behind him and leaning back against the doorframe. His expression was a mixture of amusement and affection and something else that Jack couldn't quite place. Seeing Jack's quizzical look, he smiled and shook his head. "Jack," he said again. "Don't be an idiot."
The room was full of muted light when Jack decided it was time to stir himself. He'd lain very still, feigning sleep, when Tony had got up. Paul had mumbled something, turning and twitching and finally curling up again at Jack's side. Lying with his eyes closed, Jack let himself drift, drinking in the sensations.
There was Paul's warm body against his, the rhythm of their hearts beating together, the hot, heavy feeling of Paul's breath in his ear. It felt so wonderfully real, so definable and so solid that he wanted to burn it permanently into his memory. This was what he craved. It wasn't the sensation of being alive; he hardly knew what that meant any more. Every time he died and came back again, the emptiness was greater, as though he brought a piece of the darkness back with him. The moments in the warm, healing light got fewer, and the ones in the darkness got stronger. But here was something to anchor himself to; something absolutely of the moment, physical and tangible.
Paul muttered again, shifting in his sleep and Jack took the chance to slip out of the bed, helping himself to the robe that Tony had worn the night before and heading through the door.
Tony was searching through cupboards, opening doors and moving tins. He turned as Jack closed the bedroom door, smiling at the sight of Jack in the robe.
"I think Paul's the only one who can get away with that," he said with a muffled laugh.
"I think you might be right." At a head taller than both men, the robe only just reached Jack's knees. He retrieved his jeans and began to dress. "You lost something?"
"We're out of coffee"
"Disaster." Doing up the last button, Jack shed the robe and went over to check on his t-shirt.
Tony raised an eyebrow. "Paul with a hangover and without coffee? Is that really something you want to see?"
"Good point." Not all the dirt had come out, but the shirt was dry enough to the touch. Jack's voice was slightly muffled as he pulled it on. "Do you want me to go get some?"
"You don't have to," Tony said, his tone carefully neutral, making Jack pause for a moment. It wasn't that the twins couldn't afford coffee, it was just that, at the moment, he could. And he had his own reasons for getting out of the apartment.
"It's fine. I need to make a call anyway." Grabbing his jacket, Jack pulled the door open. "Back in ten."
It was actually closer to half an hour when Jack returned to the townhouse that contained the twins' apartment. The telephone connection had taken longer than he'd expected, but at least the courier was on his way now. The sooner Jack got rid of the thing weighing down his jacket pocket, the better.
He retrieved the front door key from behind a flower pot and let himself in, stopping dead almost at once and holding the door open so that it wouldn't make a noise. He couldn't place why at first, but something about the house felt very, very wrong. Ever so slowly, he closed the door, half-holding his breath so that he could listen. In the silence, he heard the difference. The girl downstairs had been playing records when he'd left earlier. She always did, all morning, every time he stayed here. It wasn't impossible that she'd just gone out or decided to turn the music off, but it wasn't quite right.
It was five minutes before Jack climbed the stairs to Tony and Paul's apartment. The downstairs was still absolutely silent which told Jack all he needed to know. Walking through the door as though he knew nothing was probably a monumentally stupid decision. That didn't stop him knocking, then opening the door with a broad, triumphant smile. It also didn't stop him hitting his first assailant with the tin of coffee.
The next one got an elbow in the face, by which time the first had recovered sufficiently to catch Jack with a left hook, making his already bruised face flare with pain. It was the unmistakable click of a gun that made Jack stop, letting his two attackers grab his arms as he focussed on the man across the room. Men, he corrected, and his stomach lurched.
Paul was sitting in one of the hard, upright chairs, his hands pressed to the table in front of him. His face was white and his fingers trembled against the scuffed wooden surface. The man behind him, the man with the gun, Jack reminded himself, was tall and well-dressed, his immaculate suit and tie looking out of place in the dingy room. His face was vaguely familiar, recognisable from one of the files Jack had looked at before last night's mission. Peterson, he remembered and swore under his breath.
Hands pulled his jacket off and began patting him down and Jack took the chance to look round for Tony, not really sure what he wanted to find.
"Does he have it?" Peterson asked. Receiving a negative answer, he pressed the gun to the back of Paul's head. "Where is it?"
"What?" The answer earned Jack a punch to the stomach and he dropped to his knees, gasping.
"We know you took it, Harkness," Peterson said, forcing Paul's head further forwards. "Where is it?"
"Kill him and you'll never find out."
At Jack's words, Peterson tilted his head. "Maybe, maybe not. Still, there's no point taking the risk." In a swift movement, he flipped the gun so that he was holding the barrel and brought the handle down hard on Paul's hand.
Even over the scream, Jack heard bones snapping and he tried to get to his feet, nearly dislocating his shoulder as the two goons held him tightly. He'd shifted enough to let him see past the dining table and he lost the rest of his breath as he looked over at the sofa.
Tony was sitting sideways on it, his feet drawn up and chin resting on his knees. He was resolutely not looking at the tableau being playing out just a few feet away. Letting his head fall forwards, Jack took a deep breath. When he spoke, it was in the voice of a broken man.
"I destroyed it," he said.
"What?" Even Tony's attention was caught and he turned his head but it was Peterson who spoke.
"I destroyed it," Jack said again. "Downstairs. Before I went out earlier on. No-one should have it, not even Torchwood."
At a signal from Peterson, one of the goons let go of Jack's arm, and he heard the door open and close behind him. Lifting his head a fraction, Jack met Tony's horrified gaze.
"Why'd you do it, Tony?" he asked. "For the money?"
Tony looked away, staring out of the window again. In the silence, Jack could hear Paul whimpering with pain, the creak of the floorboards under his knees and his own blood rushing in his ears. Trying to get the tone right, he looked up at Peterson.
"At least let me look at his hand. You hurt him."
"That was the idea." But Peterson nodded and the grip on Jack's other arm loosened. Stumbling a little, he made his way over to Paul, kneeling beside the chair and taking the injured hand in both of his. He was still there, trying to soothe some of the pain, when the goon returned, depositing a small pile of broken glass on the table.
At first, Peterson didn't react at all, just staring at the shards, his mouth pressed into a tight line. Then he turned, very slowly, pointing the gun at Tony, who scrambled to his feet.
"This isn't my fault," he said, holding up his hands. "How could this be my fault?" There was panic in his voice.
"If you had got the thing last night," Peterson said slowly, "then we could have avoided this unpleasantness."
"I did exactly what you told me," Tony protested. "I did my job."
"Then here's your payment."
Jack had been expecting the shot, keeping his hands on Paul's arm until the last possible second, hoping to stop the other man jumping and making the injury worse. As the smell of gunpowder filled the air, Jack surged upwards, catching Peterson around the waist and bearing them both to the ground. He was taller, stronger and fuelled by anger; it was only a few seconds before he had his hands on the gun and was rolling away. Standing up, he took steady aim at Peterson's forehead. The room went still, with only Paul's ragged breathing breaking the silence.
"Get out." Jack wanted to look behind him almost as much as he wanted to pull the trigger. He gritted his teeth, forcing himself to continue. "Get out and give your boss a message. If it's alien, it's ours. Next time, I'll send back corpses."
Scrambling upright, Peterson retreated, his face white and tie askew.
"Don't be an idiot," he said. "My boss doesn't scare easily."
"What about you?" Jack brought his other hand up to steady the weapon. "I don't care whether he's scared or not. I just want him to stay out of things that are none of his business. Now get out."
For a moment, he thought he was going to have to prove his point. Then Peterson's face fell and he turned and nodded to the two goons. Jack kept the gun pointed at them until they disappeared into the corridor. Then he tucked the weapon into his waistband, realising that his hands were shaking.
Very slowly, he turned around, aware of Paul's gentle sobbing in the sudden quiet. Tony was lying sprawled on the sofa, as though he'd just thrown himself there after a long day. His open, glassy eyes stared at the ceiling and his handsome face was marred by a small, dark hole in the middle of his forehead. A thin trickle of blood ran from one side of the hole, leaving a red streak behind. Closing his eyes, Jack had a sudden flashback to the night before, to Tony's face, animated and alive, smiling, laughing, head thrown back, biting his lip.
Shaking his head, Jack forced himself back into the present. Grief could wait; time to deal with the living. Paul was slumped in his chair, holding his injured hand to his chest as the tears ran down his face and onto his swollen fingers. Without saying a word, Jack went into the bedroom, returning with shirt, trousers and a pair of loafers. Gently, he helped Paul out of the robe and into the clothes. They moved in silence, Jack not trusting himself to speak. Words would be needed soon, for the hospital, for the police, for Torchwood, and no doubt a hundred other people who'd want answers. All of that could wait.
For now, when Paul stumbled against him, clinging to his t-shirt and crying with sobs that shook his whole body, Jack just held onto the other man and let the tears come. And when Paul's legs gave out, Jack fell with him, cradling the smaller man in his arms, pressing his face into sweat-soaked hair. Maybe grief was something that couldn't wait.
It took eight phone calls and hours of explanations until Jack was satisfied. He'd arranged hospital care for Paul, FBI cover for the mess at the apartment, coroner cover for Tony's body and let Torchwood know about the whole sorry business.
He was sitting on an uncomfortable chair in the hospital corridor, turning the coffee tin in his hands and lost in thought, when he heard someone say his name.
"Huh?" Jack looked up into Sean O'Brien's worried face.
"You in there?" O'Brien asked, sitting down next to him.
"Somewhere. Maybe. They didn't tell me you were the courier."
"I was in San Jose on assignment,” O'Brien explained. “How's your friend?"
"They're having to operate on his hand and his acrobat days are definitely over," Jack said, glancing at his watch. "It's been four hours already and it’ll be a few more 'til we know anything for sure."
"I'm sorry, Jack."
"Yeah." Jack leaned his head back against the wall. "I guess that's what you get for over-confidence."
"Jack-"
"No," Jack said harshly, cutting O'Brien's sympathy short. "This is what happens when we get innocents involved. We're not the ones who have to take the consequences. Here." He handed the coffee tin to O'Brien, who took it with a curious look.
"You got me and Tom involved," he said softly. "And I wouldn't have changed a bloody thing."
"The Kralon's in there," Jack said, nodding to the tin and ignoring the comment. "Don't touch it or it'll activate."
Eying the tin nervously, O'Brien asked, "What does it do?"
"It's kind of memory store," Jack told him. "The Dray use them to program their computers. You touch it, tell it what you want to happen, then put it in the computer."
"Doesn't sound so bad."
"Except you're not a Dray," Jack pointed out. "That thing'll suck your mind right out then dump it into the next person who touches it. The perfect interrogation tool."
O'Brien shuddered. "I'll just leave it in here then." He looked from the tin to Jack. "What about your friend?"
"I'll stay until I'm sure he's alright." Jack laughed bitterly. "Torchwood's got deep pockets. They'll see he's alright."
"They?" When Jack frowned, O'Brien went on, "You said 'they'. Aren't you part of Torchwood, Jack?"
"I work for them." Jack shook his head. "Right now? Exile's the least of my worries after this mess."
"Make sure your, er, friend's okay then go back to work," O'Brien said firmly. "Best cure for self-pity."
Jack looked up sharply at the words, meeting O'Brien's steady gaze. He held it for a heartbeat, then nodded.
"Go see your friend," O'Brien advised, standing up. "He's got no-one there for him now."
"I'm the last person he'll want to see. I'll just wait here."
"You know best." O'Brien squeezed his shoulder briefly, then shook Jack's offered hand. "I've got a plane to catch. Take care, Jack."
"You too."
O'Brien took two steps down the corridor, then turned and looked back.
"Jack?" When Jack looked up, O'Brien smiled gently. "Go see him."
It was another two hours before a nurse came to tell Jack that Paul was awake, if a bit groggy.
"He's asking for you," she said, smiling.
Every step towards the room was an effort and the short walk seemed to take an hour. At last, Jack reached the door and knocked briefly before going in.
Paul was pale, looking small and frail in the large hospital bed. His eyes opened as Jack came in.
"Jack?"
"Yeah." Obeying the vague gesture, Jack went round the side of the bed, taking Paul's fluttering fingers in both of his hands and sinking into the chair.
"Tony's really dead, isn't he?" Paul asked, his voice weak and distant. "I mean, they're giving me lots of really good drugs, so I just wanted to check."
"He's really dead," Jack said. "I'm so sorry."
"He always thought he knew best," Paul said, his eyes closing again. "Always making sure we had enough money for rent, for costumes. Always worrying where the next meal was coming from." He sighed. "Always looking after me."
"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry," Jack repeated. "I'll make sure you're looked after, Paul. Don't worry about anything."
"Poor Tony." Paul's voice was drifting. "Poor dead Tony. And poor Jack." He turned his head, smiling just a little. "I'm not the only one who appreciates a pretty face, am I? Of course most guys I go with don't try to get me killed. Except Tony. Guess that makes two of us."
"I'll let you rest," Jack said. "I'll see you're looked after. And I'll stay out of your way."
He stopped in the process of getting to his feet as Paul's fingers tightened on his and sleepy eyes flitted open.
"Jack," Paul said, his voice still dreamy. "Don't be an idiot."
Author: jadesfire2808
Rating: PG
Word Count: ~4,200
Warnings: Nothing worse than you'd see in an episode of Torchwood
Betas: The wonderful crystalshard and miss_zedem
Summary: Staying out of trouble has never been one of Jack's strengths. This time, his friends are in it too.
A/N: Extra thanks to pwcorgigirl and rivers_bend for recommending "Tales of the city," one of the best things I've read this year.
San Francisco, 12th May, 1974
Jack did his best to tidy himself up before going into the bar. He fastened the zip on his battered brown leather jacket, covering his stained t-shirt, and ran a hand through his newly cut hair, brushing out dirt and dust. There probably wasn't much he could do about his face or jeans. Taking a deep breath, and a last glance over his shoulder, he pushed open the door and headed inside, reflecting that it always paid to be a good customer.
Even with a black eye and hands smudged with dirt, he had no trouble getting served at the bar. He drained the first glass of water, then fished in his jacket pocket for a handkerchief. A reassuring weight pulled at his other pocket and he resisted the urge to pat at it. Instead, he dipped the cloth into the second glass of water and began wiping the worst of the dirt from his face.
He'd just about finished, dropping the now-black handkerchief onto the bar and catching the barman's eye again, when there was a commotion at the entrance behind him. Smiling to himself, Jack ordered another glass of water and a Scotch before turning to look.
"Friends, Romans, Countrymen!" The man in the doorway, at the centre of a laughing crowd, was short and slim, holding out his arms to embrace the whole bar. "I come to praise Tony, not to bury him."
"Oh, shut up." One of the crowd, a little taller than the speaker but strikingly similar in looks and build, put a hand on the man's neck, pulling him off balance and further into the bar. "People are getting thirsty."
Grinning, the first man dropped his hands, letting himself be led inside. His mouth opened wide when he caught sight of Jack and he elbowed his companion.
"Tony? Look who it isn't."
Jack returned the smile. "Hi, Paul. Tony."
The shorter of the two men, Paul, put his hands on his hips and looked Jack up and down critically.
"You," he said, "look like something the cat dragged in. Through a hedge. Backwards."
"You alright, Jack?" Tony asked, drifting closer and eyeing the rips in Jack's jeans. Jack shifted, just a little, as Tony's eyes reached the hem of his jacket, hoping to distract attention away from the bulging pocket. He shrugged.
"There was a bit of trouble. Nothing I couldn't handle. You should see the other guy."
Paul sighed theatrically. "Incorrigible. Completely incorrigible."
"Just the way you like it."
"You need a place to crash?" Tony took the next barstool along. Grateful not to have to ask, Jack nodded.
"Although I don't want to be in the way."
"Nonsense, dear boy." Paul slung an arm round Jack's shoulders, leaning against him. "Always a pleasure to have you."
Ignoring the obvious opening, Jack laughed and wrapped his arm around Paul's waist. "Let me get you a drink. Least I can do."
"The very least." Turning in Jack's embrace, Paul leaned in closer. "But it's a good start."
They carried Paul into the apartment at three a.m. Or rather, Jack carried him and Tony kept one hand clamped firmly over his mouth while fumbling with keys and doors with the other. It was the only way to stop Paul singing.
They were treated to a brief blast of Rocket Man as Jack put the smaller man down on the bed.
"Is he always that loud?" Jack asked and Tony shrugged.
"Only when he's happy. He's glad to see you." Tony's smile mirrored Jack's own. "He's not the only one."
"You guys run the best boarding house in the bay area," Jack said. "Where else would I stay in San Francisco?"
Apparently deciding that he'd had enough of Elton John, Paul started on David Bowie. Tony rolled his eyes and prodded the singer in the shoulder.
"That's enough, Pauly. We'll have complaints."
"Don't care!" Paul's eyes opened and he grinned. "Why, hello boys." His eyes flickered closed again and he began to snore.
Jack laughed, ruffling Paul's hair. "You guys want a drink of water?"
"It's fine." Tony started tugging at Paul's t-shirt. "Go ahead though. There's plenty in the tap."
After a short internal debate, Jack settled on hanging his jacket on the back of the apartment door. In a place this small, where the kitchen was also the dining room, the living room and, he noticed, the laundry, there was no point drawing attention to himself by trying to put the object anywhere else. Much better to hide it in plain sight overnight and get it couriered out in the morning. Later in the morning.
Still turning things over in his mind, Jack ran himself a glass of water, drinking it slowly and steadily. Then he took off his t-shirt and filled the sink with hot water to rinse it. He'd just pulled out the plug and was looking for somewhere to hang the damp shirt when Tony came out to join him.
"He's dead to the world," he said, jerking his thumb in the direction of the bedroom.
"Do you guys have a show tomorrow?"
Tony shook his head. "I only let him get this plastered when we've got a day off afterwards. Wouldn't do for one of the Touretti Twins to turn up with a hangover. Someone could get hurt. Probably me." Stifling a yawn, Tony settled himself on the end of the low sofa.
"How's work?" Jack asked, finally draping his t-shirt across the back of an upright chair at the small dining table.
"Steady-ish," Tony said. "I meant to thank you for that word you put in for us with Old Man Russell."
"Not a problem." Jack looked up at the poster stuck to the cupboard door opposite, announcing the next performance of the Touretti Twins, "Balanciers Extraordinaires!!" Paul had probably arranged for the two exclamation marks. "You guys are good."
"Sometimes. But we're always entertaining, on and off-stage." Tony looked Jack up and down in a near-perfect imitation of Paul's critical examination from earlier. "You know you look like hell, Jack, don't you?"
"Charmer." But Jack knew it was true. "Can I use the bathroom?"
"Not the shower," Tony warned him. "The landlord's real cranky about noisy plumbing at three a.m. But go get cleaned up. There's towels in there."
Jack did the best he could with the basin and a washcloth, then wrapped one of the larger towels around his waist. Tony was in the lounge when he emerged, moving things around in the small space. He'd hung his own coat over Jack's on the back of the door and was putting Jack's still-damp t-shirt on a wire hanger.
"Figured it would dry better like this," he said over his shoulder. He'd changed into a loose red robe with kimono-like sleeves and a huge dragon embroidered on the back. Catching Jack's look, he grinned. "It's Paul's," he explained. "He got it during his Japomania phase."
"What's the current craze? Whiskies and soda?"
"That one never goes out of fashion." Tony turned away, hooking the hanger over a cupboard and brushing a speck of dirt from the t-shirt. "No, Paul seems to have finally caught up with the rest of us and realised that he's living in San Francisco in nineteen seventy-four." He gave a bitter laugh. "He always did have a good eye for beauty."
Jack winced. "Tony-"
"It's alright." Turning back, Tony gave Jack a too-bright smile. "There's lots of very good-looking, very available men in this town."
"You're one of them." Like Paul, Tony was olive-skinned and dark-haired with the loose-limbed grace that came with his profession. There weren't too many people who knew that the notorious Touretti Twins didn't actually have a drop of blood in common.
Suddenly aware of the awkward silence, Jack dropped his jeans and boots to the floor. "I should let you get some sleep," he said. "It's getting late. Or early."
"I guess." Tony waited another long moment, then made his way towards the bedroom, his shoulder brushing against Jack's as he passed. He stopped at the door, one hand on the handle, looking back at Jack.
"I'm fine," Jack said, waving vaguely at the sofa.
"Jack." Tony turned, tucking his hands behind him and leaning back against the doorframe. His expression was a mixture of amusement and affection and something else that Jack couldn't quite place. Seeing Jack's quizzical look, he smiled and shook his head. "Jack," he said again. "Don't be an idiot."
The room was full of muted light when Jack decided it was time to stir himself. He'd lain very still, feigning sleep, when Tony had got up. Paul had mumbled something, turning and twitching and finally curling up again at Jack's side. Lying with his eyes closed, Jack let himself drift, drinking in the sensations.
There was Paul's warm body against his, the rhythm of their hearts beating together, the hot, heavy feeling of Paul's breath in his ear. It felt so wonderfully real, so definable and so solid that he wanted to burn it permanently into his memory. This was what he craved. It wasn't the sensation of being alive; he hardly knew what that meant any more. Every time he died and came back again, the emptiness was greater, as though he brought a piece of the darkness back with him. The moments in the warm, healing light got fewer, and the ones in the darkness got stronger. But here was something to anchor himself to; something absolutely of the moment, physical and tangible.
Paul muttered again, shifting in his sleep and Jack took the chance to slip out of the bed, helping himself to the robe that Tony had worn the night before and heading through the door.
Tony was searching through cupboards, opening doors and moving tins. He turned as Jack closed the bedroom door, smiling at the sight of Jack in the robe.
"I think Paul's the only one who can get away with that," he said with a muffled laugh.
"I think you might be right." At a head taller than both men, the robe only just reached Jack's knees. He retrieved his jeans and began to dress. "You lost something?"
"We're out of coffee"
"Disaster." Doing up the last button, Jack shed the robe and went over to check on his t-shirt.
Tony raised an eyebrow. "Paul with a hangover and without coffee? Is that really something you want to see?"
"Good point." Not all the dirt had come out, but the shirt was dry enough to the touch. Jack's voice was slightly muffled as he pulled it on. "Do you want me to go get some?"
"You don't have to," Tony said, his tone carefully neutral, making Jack pause for a moment. It wasn't that the twins couldn't afford coffee, it was just that, at the moment, he could. And he had his own reasons for getting out of the apartment.
"It's fine. I need to make a call anyway." Grabbing his jacket, Jack pulled the door open. "Back in ten."
It was actually closer to half an hour when Jack returned to the townhouse that contained the twins' apartment. The telephone connection had taken longer than he'd expected, but at least the courier was on his way now. The sooner Jack got rid of the thing weighing down his jacket pocket, the better.
He retrieved the front door key from behind a flower pot and let himself in, stopping dead almost at once and holding the door open so that it wouldn't make a noise. He couldn't place why at first, but something about the house felt very, very wrong. Ever so slowly, he closed the door, half-holding his breath so that he could listen. In the silence, he heard the difference. The girl downstairs had been playing records when he'd left earlier. She always did, all morning, every time he stayed here. It wasn't impossible that she'd just gone out or decided to turn the music off, but it wasn't quite right.
It was five minutes before Jack climbed the stairs to Tony and Paul's apartment. The downstairs was still absolutely silent which told Jack all he needed to know. Walking through the door as though he knew nothing was probably a monumentally stupid decision. That didn't stop him knocking, then opening the door with a broad, triumphant smile. It also didn't stop him hitting his first assailant with the tin of coffee.
The next one got an elbow in the face, by which time the first had recovered sufficiently to catch Jack with a left hook, making his already bruised face flare with pain. It was the unmistakable click of a gun that made Jack stop, letting his two attackers grab his arms as he focussed on the man across the room. Men, he corrected, and his stomach lurched.
Paul was sitting in one of the hard, upright chairs, his hands pressed to the table in front of him. His face was white and his fingers trembled against the scuffed wooden surface. The man behind him, the man with the gun, Jack reminded himself, was tall and well-dressed, his immaculate suit and tie looking out of place in the dingy room. His face was vaguely familiar, recognisable from one of the files Jack had looked at before last night's mission. Peterson, he remembered and swore under his breath.
Hands pulled his jacket off and began patting him down and Jack took the chance to look round for Tony, not really sure what he wanted to find.
"Does he have it?" Peterson asked. Receiving a negative answer, he pressed the gun to the back of Paul's head. "Where is it?"
"What?" The answer earned Jack a punch to the stomach and he dropped to his knees, gasping.
"We know you took it, Harkness," Peterson said, forcing Paul's head further forwards. "Where is it?"
"Kill him and you'll never find out."
At Jack's words, Peterson tilted his head. "Maybe, maybe not. Still, there's no point taking the risk." In a swift movement, he flipped the gun so that he was holding the barrel and brought the handle down hard on Paul's hand.
Even over the scream, Jack heard bones snapping and he tried to get to his feet, nearly dislocating his shoulder as the two goons held him tightly. He'd shifted enough to let him see past the dining table and he lost the rest of his breath as he looked over at the sofa.
Tony was sitting sideways on it, his feet drawn up and chin resting on his knees. He was resolutely not looking at the tableau being playing out just a few feet away. Letting his head fall forwards, Jack took a deep breath. When he spoke, it was in the voice of a broken man.
"I destroyed it," he said.
"What?" Even Tony's attention was caught and he turned his head but it was Peterson who spoke.
"I destroyed it," Jack said again. "Downstairs. Before I went out earlier on. No-one should have it, not even Torchwood."
At a signal from Peterson, one of the goons let go of Jack's arm, and he heard the door open and close behind him. Lifting his head a fraction, Jack met Tony's horrified gaze.
"Why'd you do it, Tony?" he asked. "For the money?"
Tony looked away, staring out of the window again. In the silence, Jack could hear Paul whimpering with pain, the creak of the floorboards under his knees and his own blood rushing in his ears. Trying to get the tone right, he looked up at Peterson.
"At least let me look at his hand. You hurt him."
"That was the idea." But Peterson nodded and the grip on Jack's other arm loosened. Stumbling a little, he made his way over to Paul, kneeling beside the chair and taking the injured hand in both of his. He was still there, trying to soothe some of the pain, when the goon returned, depositing a small pile of broken glass on the table.
At first, Peterson didn't react at all, just staring at the shards, his mouth pressed into a tight line. Then he turned, very slowly, pointing the gun at Tony, who scrambled to his feet.
"This isn't my fault," he said, holding up his hands. "How could this be my fault?" There was panic in his voice.
"If you had got the thing last night," Peterson said slowly, "then we could have avoided this unpleasantness."
"I did exactly what you told me," Tony protested. "I did my job."
"Then here's your payment."
Jack had been expecting the shot, keeping his hands on Paul's arm until the last possible second, hoping to stop the other man jumping and making the injury worse. As the smell of gunpowder filled the air, Jack surged upwards, catching Peterson around the waist and bearing them both to the ground. He was taller, stronger and fuelled by anger; it was only a few seconds before he had his hands on the gun and was rolling away. Standing up, he took steady aim at Peterson's forehead. The room went still, with only Paul's ragged breathing breaking the silence.
"Get out." Jack wanted to look behind him almost as much as he wanted to pull the trigger. He gritted his teeth, forcing himself to continue. "Get out and give your boss a message. If it's alien, it's ours. Next time, I'll send back corpses."
Scrambling upright, Peterson retreated, his face white and tie askew.
"Don't be an idiot," he said. "My boss doesn't scare easily."
"What about you?" Jack brought his other hand up to steady the weapon. "I don't care whether he's scared or not. I just want him to stay out of things that are none of his business. Now get out."
For a moment, he thought he was going to have to prove his point. Then Peterson's face fell and he turned and nodded to the two goons. Jack kept the gun pointed at them until they disappeared into the corridor. Then he tucked the weapon into his waistband, realising that his hands were shaking.
Very slowly, he turned around, aware of Paul's gentle sobbing in the sudden quiet. Tony was lying sprawled on the sofa, as though he'd just thrown himself there after a long day. His open, glassy eyes stared at the ceiling and his handsome face was marred by a small, dark hole in the middle of his forehead. A thin trickle of blood ran from one side of the hole, leaving a red streak behind. Closing his eyes, Jack had a sudden flashback to the night before, to Tony's face, animated and alive, smiling, laughing, head thrown back, biting his lip.
Shaking his head, Jack forced himself back into the present. Grief could wait; time to deal with the living. Paul was slumped in his chair, holding his injured hand to his chest as the tears ran down his face and onto his swollen fingers. Without saying a word, Jack went into the bedroom, returning with shirt, trousers and a pair of loafers. Gently, he helped Paul out of the robe and into the clothes. They moved in silence, Jack not trusting himself to speak. Words would be needed soon, for the hospital, for the police, for Torchwood, and no doubt a hundred other people who'd want answers. All of that could wait.
For now, when Paul stumbled against him, clinging to his t-shirt and crying with sobs that shook his whole body, Jack just held onto the other man and let the tears come. And when Paul's legs gave out, Jack fell with him, cradling the smaller man in his arms, pressing his face into sweat-soaked hair. Maybe grief was something that couldn't wait.
It took eight phone calls and hours of explanations until Jack was satisfied. He'd arranged hospital care for Paul, FBI cover for the mess at the apartment, coroner cover for Tony's body and let Torchwood know about the whole sorry business.
He was sitting on an uncomfortable chair in the hospital corridor, turning the coffee tin in his hands and lost in thought, when he heard someone say his name.
"Huh?" Jack looked up into Sean O'Brien's worried face.
"You in there?" O'Brien asked, sitting down next to him.
"Somewhere. Maybe. They didn't tell me you were the courier."
"I was in San Jose on assignment,” O'Brien explained. “How's your friend?"
"They're having to operate on his hand and his acrobat days are definitely over," Jack said, glancing at his watch. "It's been four hours already and it’ll be a few more 'til we know anything for sure."
"I'm sorry, Jack."
"Yeah." Jack leaned his head back against the wall. "I guess that's what you get for over-confidence."
"Jack-"
"No," Jack said harshly, cutting O'Brien's sympathy short. "This is what happens when we get innocents involved. We're not the ones who have to take the consequences. Here." He handed the coffee tin to O'Brien, who took it with a curious look.
"You got me and Tom involved," he said softly. "And I wouldn't have changed a bloody thing."
"The Kralon's in there," Jack said, nodding to the tin and ignoring the comment. "Don't touch it or it'll activate."
Eying the tin nervously, O'Brien asked, "What does it do?"
"It's kind of memory store," Jack told him. "The Dray use them to program their computers. You touch it, tell it what you want to happen, then put it in the computer."
"Doesn't sound so bad."
"Except you're not a Dray," Jack pointed out. "That thing'll suck your mind right out then dump it into the next person who touches it. The perfect interrogation tool."
O'Brien shuddered. "I'll just leave it in here then." He looked from the tin to Jack. "What about your friend?"
"I'll stay until I'm sure he's alright." Jack laughed bitterly. "Torchwood's got deep pockets. They'll see he's alright."
"They?" When Jack frowned, O'Brien went on, "You said 'they'. Aren't you part of Torchwood, Jack?"
"I work for them." Jack shook his head. "Right now? Exile's the least of my worries after this mess."
"Make sure your, er, friend's okay then go back to work," O'Brien said firmly. "Best cure for self-pity."
Jack looked up sharply at the words, meeting O'Brien's steady gaze. He held it for a heartbeat, then nodded.
"Go see your friend," O'Brien advised, standing up. "He's got no-one there for him now."
"I'm the last person he'll want to see. I'll just wait here."
"You know best." O'Brien squeezed his shoulder briefly, then shook Jack's offered hand. "I've got a plane to catch. Take care, Jack."
"You too."
O'Brien took two steps down the corridor, then turned and looked back.
"Jack?" When Jack looked up, O'Brien smiled gently. "Go see him."
It was another two hours before a nurse came to tell Jack that Paul was awake, if a bit groggy.
"He's asking for you," she said, smiling.
Every step towards the room was an effort and the short walk seemed to take an hour. At last, Jack reached the door and knocked briefly before going in.
Paul was pale, looking small and frail in the large hospital bed. His eyes opened as Jack came in.
"Jack?"
"Yeah." Obeying the vague gesture, Jack went round the side of the bed, taking Paul's fluttering fingers in both of his hands and sinking into the chair.
"Tony's really dead, isn't he?" Paul asked, his voice weak and distant. "I mean, they're giving me lots of really good drugs, so I just wanted to check."
"He's really dead," Jack said. "I'm so sorry."
"He always thought he knew best," Paul said, his eyes closing again. "Always making sure we had enough money for rent, for costumes. Always worrying where the next meal was coming from." He sighed. "Always looking after me."
"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry," Jack repeated. "I'll make sure you're looked after, Paul. Don't worry about anything."
"Poor Tony." Paul's voice was drifting. "Poor dead Tony. And poor Jack." He turned his head, smiling just a little. "I'm not the only one who appreciates a pretty face, am I? Of course most guys I go with don't try to get me killed. Except Tony. Guess that makes two of us."
"I'll let you rest," Jack said. "I'll see you're looked after. And I'll stay out of your way."
He stopped in the process of getting to his feet as Paul's fingers tightened on his and sleepy eyes flitted open.
"Jack," Paul said, his voice still dreamy. "Don't be an idiot."