Torchwood/Baccano -- Ianto Jones Unknowingly Hosts A Poker Game And Asks The Loaded Question
Title: Ianto Jones Unknowingly Hosts A Poker Game And Asks The Loaded Question
Date Written: 4/27/09
Rating: PG-13/T
Word Count: 1,304
Fandom: Torchwood/Baccano!
Disclaimer: Property of their respective owners
Characters/Pairings: Jack/Ianto, Firo Prochainezo/Ennis, Luck Gandor,
Spoilers: For Baccano! anime, DW 01, and TW 01 and 02
Warnings: Uh, pretty bloody. But then again, so is Baccano.
Author's Notes: Thanks to my gorgeous betas katestamps, teachwriteslash, and totally4ryo. Okay. First time writing Baccano, it's a new love of mine. I hope I've done it justice. For more information on Baccano, there's my old standby Wikipedia and the LJ community baccano. The TL;DR version: Think The Godfather... with alchemists.
21st Century, Cardiff, Wales
Ianto Jones, admin, tea boy, and general dogsbody of Torchwood Three, knew something was wrong the second his hand touched the doorknob of his flat.
The door was unlocked; the knob turning easily under his touch. That in and of itself wasn't completely unusual, since Jack had a key and forgot to lock the door back sometimes. He could also smell Jack cooking -- what, he couldn't tell quite yet, but it was something with beef in it. They'd had a long day and the idea of a home-cooked meal over the take-away curry he'd picked up on the way home sounded just fantastic.
What threw him was the sound of voices coming from inside his flat. It lacked the distinct, tinny, false sound of a recording. They were low, indistinct, and Ianto couldn't recognize them.
With their line of work, the twenty scenarios of home invasion that ran through his head were completely justified. Even if some of them were a bit more far-fetched; the likelihood of an irate alien race tracking him down without Torchwood's myriad of alarms going off was fairly slim. Just the same, he had his hand on the stun gun under his jacket when he swung the door open.
There were four people sitting at the dinner table, a woman and three men, playing poker. All four of them looked up from their cards to look at their newcomer. The woman had short brownish-red hair and matching eyes. She looked young, late teens to early twenties. The man next to her looked to be roughly the same age, his wider eyes giving his face a youthful look, and pale hair peeked out from underneath a battered olive green fedora. Both were wearing two-piece suits that were straight off the rack, although her black suit tailored just a touch.
The other two men were older, with finely-tailored three-piece suits. One had his brown hair slicked back except for one stray lock that fell against his forehead, with a handsome, angular face and golden brown eyes. The last one -- and Ianto mentally tagged him as the oldest for some reason -- had lighter brown hair and a square jaw. Square gasses framed his eyes, and the man squinted enough that Ianto couldn't make out his eye color. Another fedora sat at the bespectacled man's left hand.
"... You must be mates of Jack's," Ianto said, taking his hand off the stun gun.
"And you must be Ianto Jones," the bespectacled man said, giving Ianto an easygoing smile. It reminded Ianto of Jack's. His accent was American, and familiar in a way he couldn't place. "Jack's been telling us about you for a while now."
"I wish I could say the same," Ianto replied.
Jack chose that moment to come out of the kitchen, balancing plates of beef stroganoff in each hand. "Ianto! You're home."
"I didn't realize that we were entertaining tonight," Ianto said, raising an eyebrow at his lover.
"Yeah, well, that's sorta our fault," the kid said, tipping his hat. Ianto recognized his accent; it was textbook stereotypical New York. "Came into town all sudden-like, and Jack offered us a place for a bit."
Ianto gave Jack the look that told the Captain that he was sleeping on the couch. "I'm afraid don't have enough bedding for everyone."
Jack set the plates on the table and walked around to talk low to Ianto. "They're staying at hotel tonight. They're just here for a game," Jack placated, one hand on his arm. "I was going to tell you but then the Weevils started acting up. It slipped my mind. I'm sorry."
"Manners have also slipped your mind," Ianto replied cooly in an equally low tone. "They all know me, but I know none of theirs."
Jack clapped a hand around Ianto's shoulders, turning him to face the four at the table. "Ianto! The kid is Firo Prochainezo -- "
"Hey!" Firo protested, but he was grinning.
" -- and the lovely lady next to him is Ennis." The woman smiled and dipped her head politely, gathering up the playing cards to make room for the food. "The playboy next to her is Luck Gandor."
"Still no chance, Captain," Luck said, chuckling as he handed a plate of food over to Ennis. His accent was New York too, but a bit smoother than Firo's, more cultured.
"I'll get you one day," Jack shot back. "And our smiler is Maiza Avaro. He's even older than me," Jack confided in a stage whisper even as he ushered Ianto into the empty seat between Firo and Maiza.
"I didn't think that was possible," Ianto said.
"Many things in life are possible, Mr. Jones," Maiza said with a grin. His accent was American, but it was Italian-influenced.
"I'm going to go get the rest of the food," Jack said, grinning himself. He was the image of a kid introducing his friends to a parent, hoping that they were accepted. "Play nice," he teased before ducking back into the kitchen.
Ianto looked around the table, accepting the second plate from Firo with a smile and a thanks. The others were watching-not watching him. Ianto decided to break the ice first. "So, uh, what brings you to Cardiff?" he asked with his Information Booth smile.
"Work," Luck said, leaning his cheek on his hand.
"Work here in Cardiff?"
"No, in Italy," Ennis put in this time. Her accent was like Jack's, flat-American.
"We had a layover in London when we remembered Jack was down here in Cardiff," Firo said. He gave a childish grin. "Sorry if we put ya out."
"It's all right," Ianto reassured him. "I was just surprised." Jack had forgotten the utensils so he couldn't start eating. "What sort of business are you in?" he asked, making small talk.
"The family business," Luck said, waving a dismissive hand.
"Yeah? That sounds lovely, Mr. Gan -- " Ianto paused. Gandor. Family business. "... dor."
"Oh, he's got it!" Firo crowed. "You caught on quick!"
"Who caught what now?" Jack asked, coming back out of the kitchen. He had the plated food on a serving tray, complete with utensils and wine glasses.
"Gandor," Ianto repeated.
Jack blinked down at Luck. "Yes..."
"As in the Gandor crime family? One of New York's Five Families?"
"You do know everything," Jack said affectionately, passing out food and glasses and cutlery.
"They were only all over the international news a couple of years ago," Ianto replied. "A high-profile case involving the Gandors got thrown out on a technicality."
"I love the American justice system," Maiza said with a grin.
"Me an' Maiza are Martillos," Firo told Ianto. "Well, we were. Sorta. It's complicated. Ain't no more Camorra in the States anymore, but we were tight with the Gandors back in the day." He grinned and jerked a thumb at Ennis. "And she's just a mafia wife."
"So she's the one to watch, got it," Ianto nodded. Ennis gave him a little grin.
"Does any of this bother you, Mr. Jones?" Luck asked, reaching across the table to hand off a knife and a fork.
Ianto knew a test when he heard one. He also knew that Jack would never, ever bring people that would kill him to their home. The Hub, of course, was a different story, but that was work. And they honestly didn't seem to be that bad. Sometimes the bad guys weren't really all that bad.
"Ianto, please," Ianto said with a smile. "And no. But if someone tries to make me an offer I can't refuse, they will be asked to leave.
The deadpan humor took a second to sink in and laughter rippled over the group. Firo threw his head back and laughed aloud while Luck, Maiza and Ennis contented themselves with amused chuckles of various timbres.
"Told you that you all would love him," Jack said with a grin. "Oh! Drinks. Back in a tick."
"So," Ianto drawled as everyone started eating. "I'll bite. How did you meet Jack?"
1951, New York, New York
Jack loved New York. Loved New York. Especially when compared to the quiet of war-torn country frontlines, when you didn't know if there was an enemy in the next hedgerow over waiting to blow you to bits. It was gloriously noisy and busy and gritty and growing in leaps and bounds and just so amazing human that it made Jack want to kiss random people on the street. Being here now, while the city was mid-explosion, he knew why people continued to name cities after this one.
He'd been sure that London had lost its mind when they sent him to New York to talk Torchwood business with the British UN representatives. After meeting with them, however, it all made sense; quite a few had served in the war, and he'd fought alongside the General Assembly representative. There were no introductions, no awkward Getting To Know You games, just friends talking business.
The business trip also gave Jack a chance to decompress. He hadn't really had a chance to work through post-war issues -- in fact, he hadn't even had time to contemplate if he had any post-war issues. Living the Torchwood life in Cardiff was so like combat. You sleep with a gun under your pillow and one eye open.
Jack turned another corner, hands tucked casually in his pockets. Twenty feet behind him, a group of four boys made the same turn and Jack knew he was in trouble. They'd been following him for about twenty minutes, and Jack could smell their hunger from here. Not literal hunger, no; not the way they would have starved two decades ago, when he would have been killed for his wristwatch so it could be hocked for money.
No, the hunger in their eyes came from being starved of attention. The war effort may have left America nice and fat, but it left kids without older brothers, children without fathers and mothers who had to work to feed them. Kids that gangs were more than happy to snap up into their ranks.
Jack turned another corner. When he stared down a dead-end alley, he remembered why you never run in a city that you don't know very well.
You tend to get lost just a bit.
"Now boys," Jack said, not turning around. He knew they were there and they knew that he knew. "I am sure that we can sort this out all civil-like."
When he finally turned around, he was fairly certain that the oldest was probably just on the other side of twenty. Young enough to remember the eat or be eaten Depression, or to have it drilled into their heads by their still-terrified parents. It almost broke his heart.
"Give us your wallet," the oldest -- and obviously their leader -- demanded. The knife in his hand flashed silver in his hand.
Jack didn't even bother removing the cash; he just threw the whole thing at his feet.
"And the watch."
The watch face broke with a faint chink when it hit the pavement next to the wallet.
"And the wristband."
Jack paused. He couldn't give the Vortex Manipulator to some punks. Even if they just tossed it away, there was always a chance that Bad Things Would Come Of This. So instead he just gave what he hoped was a charming grin. "It's just leather."
"So then hand it over," another one of the kids said.
"Oh, c'mon guys."
The boy with the knife stepped closer. Jack's hand went to his hip, instinctively looking for the sidearm that wasn't there.
The bullet came out of nowhere and hit him square in the chest; ribs fractured on impact, and both the bullet and bone fragments lacerated his right lung. The bullet ripped along its trajectory, shattering the ribs again, this time along his back before exploding out of his body and lodging in the brick wall at the end of the alley. Jack clapped a hand over his chest to vainly stem the flow of blood and try to lessen the pain, staggering backwards, staring at the kid -- the kid, fuck, he couldn't be more than fifteen! -- holding a still-smoking gun.
"What the fuck is going on here?!"
Jack's vision was starting to blur from pain (God fucking damn it, he couldn't breathe, the blood filling up his lungs was a lead weight in his chest) but he managed to make out two figures, a man with a fedora and a red-headed woman. His knees gave out and he collapsed against the wall, watching the kid with the fedora distract the gang. The red-haired woman slipped past them and hurried over to Jack, catching him on his way down to the ground. She didn't try to console him with an empty lie; she just smoothed his hair back from his face and smiled down at him.
Comforting him in his last moments, he realized.
Fuck, he hated being shot. But he hated drowning more.
There was a fight amongst the Fedora and the Gang, unintelligible yelling and scuffling noises. Another gunshot rang out, the noise bouncing off the brick walls. Jack flinched and moaned at the pain, wheezing as he desperately pulled in breath. The woman looked up. "Firo!"
"'M alright," came the response, the voice laced through with pain and sounding not very alright at all. "Just a graze."
The pain was gone now, muted by the waiting void. It seemed like too much of an effort to try to breathe anymore, the pressure on his chest was overwhelming. He reached up to get the woman's attention when a coughing fit overtook him, bright crimson spilling from his lips to join the stain blooming on his shirt.
She looked down at him, pretty eyes full of worry for her companion. Jack let himself fancy that he saw a hint of sorrow at his predicament. "Thank you," he choked out, giving her a tiny quirking smile.
Then the rushing dark overtook him.
-----
The second bullet had lodged into Firo's shoulder joint. The kids stared in shock as the camorrista pulled out his knife and dug it out of his shoulder like it was nothing, blood pouring down the blade and over his fingers. The spent round fell to the pavement while the blood coating it lifted into the air, his gift already kicking in. The wet life on the silver blade slid up his arm, retracting back into his body. The bone and muscle and tissue knit back together seamlessly, smooth and brand new.
The four kids took off running. Firo let them go -- who'd believe them if they told anyone anyway? -- and put the blade away. He walked towards Ennis and the man's body. Ennis looked up at him. "Are you okay?"
"Am now," he said, stooping to pick up the wallet on the ground. "He dead?"
"Yes." She carefully laid the body on the ground. Something metal in his pocket clanked against the concrete, and Ennis carefully slipped her hand into his pocket.
When she pulled her hand back, her fingers were wrapped around a badge.
"Shit, he was a copper," Firo swore. Luck was not going to be happy that some punks had shot a cop on Gandor turf. He opened the man's wallet and found a battered passport folded up inside it. "... A foreign copper."
Ennis took the passport and opened it. "Captain Jack Harkness. He was in the War. Royal Air Force."
"And dies here. Damn shame." Firo sighed. "Although, he did get ta die in the arms of a beautiful woman," he said, giving a grin.
Ennis raised her eyebrows and opened her mouth to say something, but they were interrupted by the body at their feet gasping back to life.
Jack grabbed the nearest thing to him -- Firo's leg -- as he came back, letting out a yell of pain. "Fuck I hate getting shot!"
Firo and Ennis looked down at Jack, covered in sticky, drying blood. Then they looked up at each other.
"I'll go get the car," Ennis said.
21st Century, Cardiff, Wales
The plates had been cleared ages ago and the cards brought back out. They were well into the second (or was it the third?) bottle of wine from a case that Luck had bought as a gift for his brothers. Various stacks of American dollar bills, British pound notes and Italian euros sat at people's elbows, previous round winnings passing from hand to hand and back again.
"So you found out what makes you tick, hmm Jack?" Maiza asked as he shuffled the deck.
"I don't think that'll ever be possible," Ianto put in.
"Oi!" Jack protested, but he was grinning. "I'm very easy to get."
"To get into your pants, maybe," Firo snorted.
Jack grinned back, unashamed. It was the truth, after all.
"It explains the differences between us, though," Luck said, catching the cards as Maiza dealt out the next hand. "Jack bleeds out, while we're incapable of losing even a drop of our blood. We drank an elixir, while Jack got his through another type of technology."
"Same theory, just a different application," Ennis said quietly.
"Yeah," Firo agreed. "We all don' get dead."
"No."
Five pairs of eyes turned to the lone mortal at the table. Ianto Jones was intently studying his hand, rearranging cards into an order he liked.
"You all can die," he pointed out. "You just don't stay dead."
Firo sat back in his chair, looking up at the ceiling as he thought about what Ianto said. "Huh. I never thought of it like that before."
"You know, Mr. Jones," Maiza put in with a carefully neutral grin, "you are one of the first in a long time who know about us but haven't asked about yourself."
Ianto shook his head. "Oh God, no. I'll leave that to you people."
Luck tossed one card in to the middle and got another from Maiza. "And why's that, Ianto?"
Ianto folded the cards into his hand. "Humans -- no," he paused to correct himself, "a majority of the universe's sentient races want the three things that they shouldn't have. They want wealth, they want power, and they want immortality." He set his cards face down on the table and reached for his wine glass. "And, frankly, anyone who wants any of those things doesn't deserve them."
Firo grinned as they all watched Ianto drink the dark liquid from his glass. "Ya know what, Ianto? You're absolutely right."
Date Written: 4/27/09
Rating: PG-13/T
Word Count: 1,304
Fandom: Torchwood/Baccano!
Disclaimer: Property of their respective owners
Characters/Pairings: Jack/Ianto, Firo Prochainezo/Ennis, Luck Gandor,
Spoilers: For Baccano! anime, DW 01, and TW 01 and 02
Warnings: Uh, pretty bloody. But then again, so is Baccano.
Author's Notes: Thanks to my gorgeous betas katestamps, teachwriteslash, and totally4ryo. Okay. First time writing Baccano, it's a new love of mine. I hope I've done it justice. For more information on Baccano, there's my old standby Wikipedia and the LJ community baccano. The TL;DR version: Think The Godfather... with alchemists.
21st Century, Cardiff, Wales
Ianto Jones, admin, tea boy, and general dogsbody of Torchwood Three, knew something was wrong the second his hand touched the doorknob of his flat.
The door was unlocked; the knob turning easily under his touch. That in and of itself wasn't completely unusual, since Jack had a key and forgot to lock the door back sometimes. He could also smell Jack cooking -- what, he couldn't tell quite yet, but it was something with beef in it. They'd had a long day and the idea of a home-cooked meal over the take-away curry he'd picked up on the way home sounded just fantastic.
What threw him was the sound of voices coming from inside his flat. It lacked the distinct, tinny, false sound of a recording. They were low, indistinct, and Ianto couldn't recognize them.
With their line of work, the twenty scenarios of home invasion that ran through his head were completely justified. Even if some of them were a bit more far-fetched; the likelihood of an irate alien race tracking him down without Torchwood's myriad of alarms going off was fairly slim. Just the same, he had his hand on the stun gun under his jacket when he swung the door open.
There were four people sitting at the dinner table, a woman and three men, playing poker. All four of them looked up from their cards to look at their newcomer. The woman had short brownish-red hair and matching eyes. She looked young, late teens to early twenties. The man next to her looked to be roughly the same age, his wider eyes giving his face a youthful look, and pale hair peeked out from underneath a battered olive green fedora. Both were wearing two-piece suits that were straight off the rack, although her black suit tailored just a touch.
The other two men were older, with finely-tailored three-piece suits. One had his brown hair slicked back except for one stray lock that fell against his forehead, with a handsome, angular face and golden brown eyes. The last one -- and Ianto mentally tagged him as the oldest for some reason -- had lighter brown hair and a square jaw. Square gasses framed his eyes, and the man squinted enough that Ianto couldn't make out his eye color. Another fedora sat at the bespectacled man's left hand.
"... You must be mates of Jack's," Ianto said, taking his hand off the stun gun.
"And you must be Ianto Jones," the bespectacled man said, giving Ianto an easygoing smile. It reminded Ianto of Jack's. His accent was American, and familiar in a way he couldn't place. "Jack's been telling us about you for a while now."
"I wish I could say the same," Ianto replied.
Jack chose that moment to come out of the kitchen, balancing plates of beef stroganoff in each hand. "Ianto! You're home."
"I didn't realize that we were entertaining tonight," Ianto said, raising an eyebrow at his lover.
"Yeah, well, that's sorta our fault," the kid said, tipping his hat. Ianto recognized his accent; it was textbook stereotypical New York. "Came into town all sudden-like, and Jack offered us a place for a bit."
Ianto gave Jack the look that told the Captain that he was sleeping on the couch. "I'm afraid don't have enough bedding for everyone."
Jack set the plates on the table and walked around to talk low to Ianto. "They're staying at hotel tonight. They're just here for a game," Jack placated, one hand on his arm. "I was going to tell you but then the Weevils started acting up. It slipped my mind. I'm sorry."
"Manners have also slipped your mind," Ianto replied cooly in an equally low tone. "They all know me, but I know none of theirs."
Jack clapped a hand around Ianto's shoulders, turning him to face the four at the table. "Ianto! The kid is Firo Prochainezo -- "
"Hey!" Firo protested, but he was grinning.
" -- and the lovely lady next to him is Ennis." The woman smiled and dipped her head politely, gathering up the playing cards to make room for the food. "The playboy next to her is Luck Gandor."
"Still no chance, Captain," Luck said, chuckling as he handed a plate of food over to Ennis. His accent was New York too, but a bit smoother than Firo's, more cultured.
"I'll get you one day," Jack shot back. "And our smiler is Maiza Avaro. He's even older than me," Jack confided in a stage whisper even as he ushered Ianto into the empty seat between Firo and Maiza.
"I didn't think that was possible," Ianto said.
"Many things in life are possible, Mr. Jones," Maiza said with a grin. His accent was American, but it was Italian-influenced.
"I'm going to go get the rest of the food," Jack said, grinning himself. He was the image of a kid introducing his friends to a parent, hoping that they were accepted. "Play nice," he teased before ducking back into the kitchen.
Ianto looked around the table, accepting the second plate from Firo with a smile and a thanks. The others were watching-not watching him. Ianto decided to break the ice first. "So, uh, what brings you to Cardiff?" he asked with his Information Booth smile.
"Work," Luck said, leaning his cheek on his hand.
"Work here in Cardiff?"
"No, in Italy," Ennis put in this time. Her accent was like Jack's, flat-American.
"We had a layover in London when we remembered Jack was down here in Cardiff," Firo said. He gave a childish grin. "Sorry if we put ya out."
"It's all right," Ianto reassured him. "I was just surprised." Jack had forgotten the utensils so he couldn't start eating. "What sort of business are you in?" he asked, making small talk.
"The family business," Luck said, waving a dismissive hand.
"Yeah? That sounds lovely, Mr. Gan -- " Ianto paused. Gandor. Family business. "... dor."
"Oh, he's got it!" Firo crowed. "You caught on quick!"
"Who caught what now?" Jack asked, coming back out of the kitchen. He had the plated food on a serving tray, complete with utensils and wine glasses.
"Gandor," Ianto repeated.
Jack blinked down at Luck. "Yes..."
"As in the Gandor crime family? One of New York's Five Families?"
"You do know everything," Jack said affectionately, passing out food and glasses and cutlery.
"They were only all over the international news a couple of years ago," Ianto replied. "A high-profile case involving the Gandors got thrown out on a technicality."
"I love the American justice system," Maiza said with a grin.
"Me an' Maiza are Martillos," Firo told Ianto. "Well, we were. Sorta. It's complicated. Ain't no more Camorra in the States anymore, but we were tight with the Gandors back in the day." He grinned and jerked a thumb at Ennis. "And she's just a mafia wife."
"So she's the one to watch, got it," Ianto nodded. Ennis gave him a little grin.
"Does any of this bother you, Mr. Jones?" Luck asked, reaching across the table to hand off a knife and a fork.
Ianto knew a test when he heard one. He also knew that Jack would never, ever bring people that would kill him to their home. The Hub, of course, was a different story, but that was work. And they honestly didn't seem to be that bad. Sometimes the bad guys weren't really all that bad.
"Ianto, please," Ianto said with a smile. "And no. But if someone tries to make me an offer I can't refuse, they will be asked to leave.
The deadpan humor took a second to sink in and laughter rippled over the group. Firo threw his head back and laughed aloud while Luck, Maiza and Ennis contented themselves with amused chuckles of various timbres.
"Told you that you all would love him," Jack said with a grin. "Oh! Drinks. Back in a tick."
"So," Ianto drawled as everyone started eating. "I'll bite. How did you meet Jack?"
1951, New York, New York
Jack loved New York. Loved New York. Especially when compared to the quiet of war-torn country frontlines, when you didn't know if there was an enemy in the next hedgerow over waiting to blow you to bits. It was gloriously noisy and busy and gritty and growing in leaps and bounds and just so amazing human that it made Jack want to kiss random people on the street. Being here now, while the city was mid-explosion, he knew why people continued to name cities after this one.
He'd been sure that London had lost its mind when they sent him to New York to talk Torchwood business with the British UN representatives. After meeting with them, however, it all made sense; quite a few had served in the war, and he'd fought alongside the General Assembly representative. There were no introductions, no awkward Getting To Know You games, just friends talking business.
The business trip also gave Jack a chance to decompress. He hadn't really had a chance to work through post-war issues -- in fact, he hadn't even had time to contemplate if he had any post-war issues. Living the Torchwood life in Cardiff was so like combat. You sleep with a gun under your pillow and one eye open.
Jack turned another corner, hands tucked casually in his pockets. Twenty feet behind him, a group of four boys made the same turn and Jack knew he was in trouble. They'd been following him for about twenty minutes, and Jack could smell their hunger from here. Not literal hunger, no; not the way they would have starved two decades ago, when he would have been killed for his wristwatch so it could be hocked for money.
No, the hunger in their eyes came from being starved of attention. The war effort may have left America nice and fat, but it left kids without older brothers, children without fathers and mothers who had to work to feed them. Kids that gangs were more than happy to snap up into their ranks.
Jack turned another corner. When he stared down a dead-end alley, he remembered why you never run in a city that you don't know very well.
You tend to get lost just a bit.
"Now boys," Jack said, not turning around. He knew they were there and they knew that he knew. "I am sure that we can sort this out all civil-like."
When he finally turned around, he was fairly certain that the oldest was probably just on the other side of twenty. Young enough to remember the eat or be eaten Depression, or to have it drilled into their heads by their still-terrified parents. It almost broke his heart.
"Give us your wallet," the oldest -- and obviously their leader -- demanded. The knife in his hand flashed silver in his hand.
Jack didn't even bother removing the cash; he just threw the whole thing at his feet.
"And the watch."
The watch face broke with a faint chink when it hit the pavement next to the wallet.
"And the wristband."
Jack paused. He couldn't give the Vortex Manipulator to some punks. Even if they just tossed it away, there was always a chance that Bad Things Would Come Of This. So instead he just gave what he hoped was a charming grin. "It's just leather."
"So then hand it over," another one of the kids said.
"Oh, c'mon guys."
The boy with the knife stepped closer. Jack's hand went to his hip, instinctively looking for the sidearm that wasn't there.
The bullet came out of nowhere and hit him square in the chest; ribs fractured on impact, and both the bullet and bone fragments lacerated his right lung. The bullet ripped along its trajectory, shattering the ribs again, this time along his back before exploding out of his body and lodging in the brick wall at the end of the alley. Jack clapped a hand over his chest to vainly stem the flow of blood and try to lessen the pain, staggering backwards, staring at the kid -- the kid, fuck, he couldn't be more than fifteen! -- holding a still-smoking gun.
"What the fuck is going on here?!"
Jack's vision was starting to blur from pain (God fucking damn it, he couldn't breathe, the blood filling up his lungs was a lead weight in his chest) but he managed to make out two figures, a man with a fedora and a red-headed woman. His knees gave out and he collapsed against the wall, watching the kid with the fedora distract the gang. The red-haired woman slipped past them and hurried over to Jack, catching him on his way down to the ground. She didn't try to console him with an empty lie; she just smoothed his hair back from his face and smiled down at him.
Comforting him in his last moments, he realized.
Fuck, he hated being shot. But he hated drowning more.
There was a fight amongst the Fedora and the Gang, unintelligible yelling and scuffling noises. Another gunshot rang out, the noise bouncing off the brick walls. Jack flinched and moaned at the pain, wheezing as he desperately pulled in breath. The woman looked up. "Firo!"
"'M alright," came the response, the voice laced through with pain and sounding not very alright at all. "Just a graze."
The pain was gone now, muted by the waiting void. It seemed like too much of an effort to try to breathe anymore, the pressure on his chest was overwhelming. He reached up to get the woman's attention when a coughing fit overtook him, bright crimson spilling from his lips to join the stain blooming on his shirt.
She looked down at him, pretty eyes full of worry for her companion. Jack let himself fancy that he saw a hint of sorrow at his predicament. "Thank you," he choked out, giving her a tiny quirking smile.
Then the rushing dark overtook him.
-----
The second bullet had lodged into Firo's shoulder joint. The kids stared in shock as the camorrista pulled out his knife and dug it out of his shoulder like it was nothing, blood pouring down the blade and over his fingers. The spent round fell to the pavement while the blood coating it lifted into the air, his gift already kicking in. The wet life on the silver blade slid up his arm, retracting back into his body. The bone and muscle and tissue knit back together seamlessly, smooth and brand new.
The four kids took off running. Firo let them go -- who'd believe them if they told anyone anyway? -- and put the blade away. He walked towards Ennis and the man's body. Ennis looked up at him. "Are you okay?"
"Am now," he said, stooping to pick up the wallet on the ground. "He dead?"
"Yes." She carefully laid the body on the ground. Something metal in his pocket clanked against the concrete, and Ennis carefully slipped her hand into his pocket.
When she pulled her hand back, her fingers were wrapped around a badge.
"Shit, he was a copper," Firo swore. Luck was not going to be happy that some punks had shot a cop on Gandor turf. He opened the man's wallet and found a battered passport folded up inside it. "... A foreign copper."
Ennis took the passport and opened it. "Captain Jack Harkness. He was in the War. Royal Air Force."
"And dies here. Damn shame." Firo sighed. "Although, he did get ta die in the arms of a beautiful woman," he said, giving a grin.
Ennis raised her eyebrows and opened her mouth to say something, but they were interrupted by the body at their feet gasping back to life.
Jack grabbed the nearest thing to him -- Firo's leg -- as he came back, letting out a yell of pain. "Fuck I hate getting shot!"
Firo and Ennis looked down at Jack, covered in sticky, drying blood. Then they looked up at each other.
"I'll go get the car," Ennis said.
21st Century, Cardiff, Wales
The plates had been cleared ages ago and the cards brought back out. They were well into the second (or was it the third?) bottle of wine from a case that Luck had bought as a gift for his brothers. Various stacks of American dollar bills, British pound notes and Italian euros sat at people's elbows, previous round winnings passing from hand to hand and back again.
"So you found out what makes you tick, hmm Jack?" Maiza asked as he shuffled the deck.
"I don't think that'll ever be possible," Ianto put in.
"Oi!" Jack protested, but he was grinning. "I'm very easy to get."
"To get into your pants, maybe," Firo snorted.
Jack grinned back, unashamed. It was the truth, after all.
"It explains the differences between us, though," Luck said, catching the cards as Maiza dealt out the next hand. "Jack bleeds out, while we're incapable of losing even a drop of our blood. We drank an elixir, while Jack got his through another type of technology."
"Same theory, just a different application," Ennis said quietly.
"Yeah," Firo agreed. "We all don' get dead."
"No."
Five pairs of eyes turned to the lone mortal at the table. Ianto Jones was intently studying his hand, rearranging cards into an order he liked.
"You all can die," he pointed out. "You just don't stay dead."
Firo sat back in his chair, looking up at the ceiling as he thought about what Ianto said. "Huh. I never thought of it like that before."
"You know, Mr. Jones," Maiza put in with a carefully neutral grin, "you are one of the first in a long time who know about us but haven't asked about yourself."
Ianto shook his head. "Oh God, no. I'll leave that to you people."
Luck tossed one card in to the middle and got another from Maiza. "And why's that, Ianto?"
Ianto folded the cards into his hand. "Humans -- no," he paused to correct himself, "a majority of the universe's sentient races want the three things that they shouldn't have. They want wealth, they want power, and they want immortality." He set his cards face down on the table and reached for his wine glass. "And, frankly, anyone who wants any of those things doesn't deserve them."
Firo grinned as they all watched Ianto drink the dark liquid from his glass. "Ya know what, Ianto? You're absolutely right."