FIC: The Carriage held but just Ourselves (Pt. 2/10)
Title: The Carriage held but just Ourselves (Pt. 2/10)
Author: blue_fjords
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Gwen, Jack, Ianto, Tosh, Rhys, Owen, PC Andy, Kathy Swanson, Suzie
Words: ~1,300 (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, once again! Posting a little bit before when I thought I'd be able to, look at that! Title from Emily Dickinson.
Gwen
Gwen dropped her keys outside the door to her flat and stared blindly at them for a full minute before bending down and picking them up. It was 22:00, and she had left at 7:00 that morning. She stumbled into the flat, attempted to drop her keys into the bowl by the door, failed, and shuffled into the kitchen. Dinner was sitting in a casserole dish in the fridge - some kind of curry, lovingly prepared by Rhys. She started to shove it into her mouth cold as she made her way back into the living room.
Rhys was conked out on the settee, one foot off, mouth open and drooling. Gwen froze. He looked … the casserole cracked on the floor as she sprinted to the bathroom. She made it to the sink before vomiting up everything in her stomach.
So that’s what they meant in training, she thought dazedly. Oh my God.
“Gwen? Gwen, love, you all right?” Rhys appeared in the doorway as she scrubbed a hand over her mouth. Rhys, upright and full of life. Not lying in an alley with a gaping chest wound. Her eyes met his in the bathroom mirror, and she gave a tremulous smile.
“Bit of a rough day,” she got out.
Rhys frowned. “Bloody hell, Gwen, you just threw up. You want to tell me what’s wrong?”
I found the body of a man named Mark Brisco, and Rhys, sweetheart, he was dead. He was so fucking dead.
“I ate too fast,” she lied. “Andy and I got put on pub duty, and I didn’t have time to grab a bite to eat.”
If anything, the creases on Rhys’s forehead deepened. He rolled his shoulders, working out the kinks from the settee. “Andy go pissing in a DI’s tea to get you that?”
Gwen winced, and brushed by him to pick up the pieces of the casserole dish. “Wasn’t Andy’s fault,” she muttered, fumbling with the broken glass. A large drop of blood bloomed on her finger. “Shit.”
“Let me see that.” Rhys crouched down beside her and kissed her finger. A little more blood followed, and he pressed his thumb against the wound and held her hand in his own. His hands were so big.
“We found a body,” she blurted suddenly. “And there’s something weird about it. And I just … Rhys, we found him. I want, I don’t know, peace, for his family. I want to see this through.”
She looked up at him finally. His mouth was slightly open in surprise, but his eyes gleamed. It was the “Gwen Cooper Can Do Anything” look.
“So tell me what’s stopping you,” he said.
Her mouth quirked in a smile. “Oh, just police procedure. The chain of command. DI Swanson. Interpol.”
“Little things.” He smiled back, leaned forward and placed a kiss on her forehead. “I’ll get a plaster.”
She looked down at her finger as he shuffled off to the bathroom again. Little things. Maybe she had no authority to investigate the murder of Mark Brisco directly. But there were Interpol agents in Cardiff. And why’s that, Cooper? And why is Emily bloody Dickinson important?
Rhys came back and applied the plaster, started talking about something else he could make for her dinner, Banana Boat’s latest shenanigans, a rugby player crashing his car. She only half listened.
She would start with the little things.
Jack
Jack glanced at his watch as he left Toshiko’s room. 01:00. He sighed and scrubbed a hand through his hair. Toshiko had been as helpful as she could be in good conscience, but she didn’t have all the facts yet on Mark Brisco. There was, as yet, nothing to link him to the other murders, except for the presence of poetry and a similar weapon. It was nights like these that made him regret his decision to give up drinking.
Out of habit, he glanced into the hotel bar as he walked past. It was fairly empty, but for two tables of older businessmen, nursing their pints, and Toshiko’s young partner at the bar, talking on his mobile and sipping a whisky. He had chucked his suit jacket and looked deliciously rumpled in his rolled sleeves and undone waistcoat. Jack smoothed the predatory smile from his face and slid into the seat next to him.
The bartender sidled over and raised a brow. “Just water for me, thanks, but my friend here will have another …”
“Glenfiddich,” Jones supplied, snapping his mobile closed. He gave Jack a very neutral look as the bartender supplied their orders and moved away again. Jack raised his glass of water.
“To inter-agency cooperation,” he said, eyes flicking down to take in Jones’s long suit-clad legs and polished shoes, then back up to Jones’s clear blue eyes, which had tightened slightly at Jack’s gaze.
Jones clinked glasses wordlessly, and swallowed down half his whisky. “Did you have a nice conversation with Tosh?” he asked, putting the tumbler down carefully. Jack wondered what number whisky he was on.
“It’s always a pleasure talking with Toshiko. I was surprised to see her in Cardiff,” Jack replied, rubbing his thumb through the condensation on his glass.
“We go where the job takes us,” Jones said. Even as trite as that sounded, it seemed like something he had needed to repeat many times.
“You must miss your family, though.” Jack caught the wince Jones tried to hide. “That who you were calling?”
Jones tossed back the rest of his whisky. “What are you doing in Cardiff, Harkness?”
Jack shrugged. “I came for the water.”
Jones cracked a smile. Finally. He had a surprisingly sweet smile; it made him look even younger. “I’m sorry, Harkness, that was a trifle rude of me.”
Jack smiled back - not his full grin, or his lascivious one, but warmly, and Jones shifted slightly on his stool. They were close enough now that their thighs just quite did not touch. “I’m looking for the woman who murdered my partner,” Jack confided.
“And she likes poetry?” Jones asked.
“Yeah,” Jack said, watching Jones as he tore at his bar napkin.
“And you just happened to be in Cardiff when she struck again?” Jones asked softly, and for the first time since he sat down, Jack was reminded of just who Jones was. He wasn’t happy to see him; that actually was a gun in his pocket.
“I thought she would be here,” he said finally. Jones turned to face him completely, and now they were knee to knee. Jack could smell him, the whisky on his breath, the clean cotton of his shirt, a hint of expensive cologne - and ever so slightly, the faint whiff of hospital disinfectant.
“Why?” Jones asked, voice barely above a whisper.
Jack leaned forward, and Jones followed suit. “I think she’s wrapping up,” Jack said. He placed his hand lightly on Jones’s knee. “I think she’s coming home to die. Don’t most people like to go home before they die?”
Jones jerked back and looked away, signaled the bartender over for one more whisky. “There is no indication whatsoever that Suzie Costello is suffering from a terminal illness,” he said, his accent bleeding through especially strong.
Jack narrowed his eyes. “True,” he acknowledged. “But her reason for living is dying, here in Cardiff. So here is where she came, and here is where she’ll stay.”
Jones looked down at his whisky, absently tapping the side of the glass with his wedding ring. “And you’re looking for our help … but unofficially.”
“Right in one.”
“Well.” Jones downed his whisky and looked back at Jack. “It sounds to me like we’re on the same side, Harkness.”
Jack brought out his full grin. “Call me Jack.”
Part Three
Author: blue_fjords
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Gwen, Jack, Ianto, Tosh, Rhys, Owen, PC Andy, Kathy Swanson, Suzie
Words: ~1,300 (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, once again! Posting a little bit before when I thought I'd be able to, look at that! Title from Emily Dickinson.
Gwen
Gwen dropped her keys outside the door to her flat and stared blindly at them for a full minute before bending down and picking them up. It was 22:00, and she had left at 7:00 that morning. She stumbled into the flat, attempted to drop her keys into the bowl by the door, failed, and shuffled into the kitchen. Dinner was sitting in a casserole dish in the fridge - some kind of curry, lovingly prepared by Rhys. She started to shove it into her mouth cold as she made her way back into the living room.
Rhys was conked out on the settee, one foot off, mouth open and drooling. Gwen froze. He looked … the casserole cracked on the floor as she sprinted to the bathroom. She made it to the sink before vomiting up everything in her stomach.
So that’s what they meant in training, she thought dazedly. Oh my God.
“Gwen? Gwen, love, you all right?” Rhys appeared in the doorway as she scrubbed a hand over her mouth. Rhys, upright and full of life. Not lying in an alley with a gaping chest wound. Her eyes met his in the bathroom mirror, and she gave a tremulous smile.
“Bit of a rough day,” she got out.
Rhys frowned. “Bloody hell, Gwen, you just threw up. You want to tell me what’s wrong?”
I found the body of a man named Mark Brisco, and Rhys, sweetheart, he was dead. He was so fucking dead.
“I ate too fast,” she lied. “Andy and I got put on pub duty, and I didn’t have time to grab a bite to eat.”
If anything, the creases on Rhys’s forehead deepened. He rolled his shoulders, working out the kinks from the settee. “Andy go pissing in a DI’s tea to get you that?”
Gwen winced, and brushed by him to pick up the pieces of the casserole dish. “Wasn’t Andy’s fault,” she muttered, fumbling with the broken glass. A large drop of blood bloomed on her finger. “Shit.”
“Let me see that.” Rhys crouched down beside her and kissed her finger. A little more blood followed, and he pressed his thumb against the wound and held her hand in his own. His hands were so big.
“We found a body,” she blurted suddenly. “And there’s something weird about it. And I just … Rhys, we found him. I want, I don’t know, peace, for his family. I want to see this through.”
She looked up at him finally. His mouth was slightly open in surprise, but his eyes gleamed. It was the “Gwen Cooper Can Do Anything” look.
“So tell me what’s stopping you,” he said.
Her mouth quirked in a smile. “Oh, just police procedure. The chain of command. DI Swanson. Interpol.”
“Little things.” He smiled back, leaned forward and placed a kiss on her forehead. “I’ll get a plaster.”
She looked down at her finger as he shuffled off to the bathroom again. Little things. Maybe she had no authority to investigate the murder of Mark Brisco directly. But there were Interpol agents in Cardiff. And why’s that, Cooper? And why is Emily bloody Dickinson important?
Rhys came back and applied the plaster, started talking about something else he could make for her dinner, Banana Boat’s latest shenanigans, a rugby player crashing his car. She only half listened.
She would start with the little things.
Jack
Jack glanced at his watch as he left Toshiko’s room. 01:00. He sighed and scrubbed a hand through his hair. Toshiko had been as helpful as she could be in good conscience, but she didn’t have all the facts yet on Mark Brisco. There was, as yet, nothing to link him to the other murders, except for the presence of poetry and a similar weapon. It was nights like these that made him regret his decision to give up drinking.
Out of habit, he glanced into the hotel bar as he walked past. It was fairly empty, but for two tables of older businessmen, nursing their pints, and Toshiko’s young partner at the bar, talking on his mobile and sipping a whisky. He had chucked his suit jacket and looked deliciously rumpled in his rolled sleeves and undone waistcoat. Jack smoothed the predatory smile from his face and slid into the seat next to him.
The bartender sidled over and raised a brow. “Just water for me, thanks, but my friend here will have another …”
“Glenfiddich,” Jones supplied, snapping his mobile closed. He gave Jack a very neutral look as the bartender supplied their orders and moved away again. Jack raised his glass of water.
“To inter-agency cooperation,” he said, eyes flicking down to take in Jones’s long suit-clad legs and polished shoes, then back up to Jones’s clear blue eyes, which had tightened slightly at Jack’s gaze.
Jones clinked glasses wordlessly, and swallowed down half his whisky. “Did you have a nice conversation with Tosh?” he asked, putting the tumbler down carefully. Jack wondered what number whisky he was on.
“It’s always a pleasure talking with Toshiko. I was surprised to see her in Cardiff,” Jack replied, rubbing his thumb through the condensation on his glass.
“We go where the job takes us,” Jones said. Even as trite as that sounded, it seemed like something he had needed to repeat many times.
“You must miss your family, though.” Jack caught the wince Jones tried to hide. “That who you were calling?”
Jones tossed back the rest of his whisky. “What are you doing in Cardiff, Harkness?”
Jack shrugged. “I came for the water.”
Jones cracked a smile. Finally. He had a surprisingly sweet smile; it made him look even younger. “I’m sorry, Harkness, that was a trifle rude of me.”
Jack smiled back - not his full grin, or his lascivious one, but warmly, and Jones shifted slightly on his stool. They were close enough now that their thighs just quite did not touch. “I’m looking for the woman who murdered my partner,” Jack confided.
“And she likes poetry?” Jones asked.
“Yeah,” Jack said, watching Jones as he tore at his bar napkin.
“And you just happened to be in Cardiff when she struck again?” Jones asked softly, and for the first time since he sat down, Jack was reminded of just who Jones was. He wasn’t happy to see him; that actually was a gun in his pocket.
“I thought she would be here,” he said finally. Jones turned to face him completely, and now they were knee to knee. Jack could smell him, the whisky on his breath, the clean cotton of his shirt, a hint of expensive cologne - and ever so slightly, the faint whiff of hospital disinfectant.
“Why?” Jones asked, voice barely above a whisper.
Jack leaned forward, and Jones followed suit. “I think she’s wrapping up,” Jack said. He placed his hand lightly on Jones’s knee. “I think she’s coming home to die. Don’t most people like to go home before they die?”
Jones jerked back and looked away, signaled the bartender over for one more whisky. “There is no indication whatsoever that Suzie Costello is suffering from a terminal illness,” he said, his accent bleeding through especially strong.
Jack narrowed his eyes. “True,” he acknowledged. “But her reason for living is dying, here in Cardiff. So here is where she came, and here is where she’ll stay.”
Jones looked down at his whisky, absently tapping the side of the glass with his wedding ring. “And you’re looking for our help … but unofficially.”
“Right in one.”
“Well.” Jones downed his whisky and looked back at Jack. “It sounds to me like we’re on the same side, Harkness.”
Jack brought out his full grin. “Call me Jack.”
Part Three