indeedsir_backup | Wooster/Torchwood

woffproff.livejournal.com posting in

What ho! It's been some time, but when I saw the posting about Torchwood, I just couldn't resist submitting this bit of fluff. I realize it takes some mighty big liberties with both canons, but when I first started watching Torchwood I felt like a crossover was inevitable. And so...

There---down the street, flickering from an alley---an unearthly, eerie purple light, bobbing and twirling, luring to a grisly death some unfortunate person who’d done nothing more than be curious about an abnormality in an otherwise unmemorable London night in 1930.

Captain Jack Harkness kicked in the afterburners, legs pumping as if the entire Dalek fleet was on his tail.

Oh no you don’t, you Varhexian freak. Not in this town!

He heard the scream as he rounded the corner, took in the tableau in a heartbeat. The multi-tentacle beast had its victim in the air, preparing to drop him down into the swirling blades that formed the Varhexian’s maw. Jack shouted, pulled his pistol from his hostler, and took exceptionally good aim. There was only one place to hit this creature, right in the mucus smeared pupil of its tiny eye.

“Fish in a barrel,” Jack chuckled, before sending a single bullet into the alien’s minimal brain. It was just enough ammunition to trip the right circuitry, hit the evolutionary self-destruct. The Varhexian blew apart in an explosion of blue, gooey innards. Jack ducked behind a trash bin, avoiding the worst of the muck.

“Damn,” Jack muttered to himself, watching as the alien carcass turned to vile-smelling steam and evaporated. Why couldn’t a nice Carterran slave girl show up around here? Or even a Eros V rent boy? Why is it always something ugly and hungry and no good in bed?

The weak moan of the Varhexian’s escaped prey distracted Jack from his mental rant. He crossed to where a man was sprawled like a rag doll on the pavement. This might be a little hard to explain, especially if a nosey constable happened along. Jack knelt, turning the man over, taking in ginger-gold hair and lean, exquisite features. He instantly wished they’d met under more pleasant circumstances.

“Ugghhh…what? I say, what?”

Jack read the man’s clothing, his posh accent, and the obvious signs of intoxication. He’d probably been staggering home from a nightclub. Jack hoped he was as pissed as he looked; it would certainly make his job easier.

“Don’t worry---I ran them off. They didn’t get your wallet.”

“My…what?” The man blinked, shaking his head and then wincing. “But…there was some…blue thingy, rather like an octopus. At least I thought it was an octopus, though why an octopus should be in Piccadilly at this hour I don’t know.”

Jack tapped down a snicker. “That was light fingered Louie and his twin cousins, Smash and Grab. You’re lucky they only knocked you over the head.”

The man put his hand there, feeling for a lump. “Yes well---owwhhh! It seems I have come a cropper.”

“Here, lettme help you up. Feel sick?”

The man winced, swaying against Jack. “I feel like I did the night at the Drones, when we saw Gussie off into the chains of matrimony.”

“That bad, huh?”

The man nodded and yelped in pain again. “I may need Jeeves’ miracle cure before I go to bed.”

Jack tensed. “Jeeves?”

“Yes. My man, don’t you know? Works wonders, he does.”

Jack’s lips flickered into a smile. “I’ll bet. Come on---let me see you home. I feel a bit responsible.”

“Oh. Jolly sporting of you.”

“I’m that kind of a guy.”

**

There was no immediate reaction when the door was opened, nothing beyond a slightly distressed “Oh, sir, was there some unpleasantness?” when the tall, dark-haired man saw Wooster’s condition. In the short walk to the flat, Jack had gathered a wealth of information, despite Wooster’s rather bizarre manner of speaking and level of drunkenness. He knew that Bertie Wooster was rich, had been at Oxford, had a terror of an aunt named Agatha and a sporting aunt named Dahlia, and had once ridden a bicycle nude while signing comic songs.

But he seriously doubted that Bertie had any clue that his valet had once been something more than a servant who pressed trousers and made tea.

There was not tremor when Jeeves spotted him at the young master’s elbow, merely a slight nod as Bertie introduced him as “Captain Jack Harkness, Jeeves. Saved my life, I suppose.”

“Just your wallet,” Jack demurred, silent communication passing along over Wooster’s head. “Better let your man see to you. I think that cut might be bleeding again.”

The scalp wound was not serious, but when Bertie pulled his fingers away and found them bloodstained, he immediately yielded, allowed Jeeves to take charge.

“If you can stay for a short time, I am sure that my master would like to offer you refreshment,” Jeeves said over his shoulder as he escorted the younger man towards his bedroom. Jack tossed back a smile.

“I’m not in any hurry. I’ll wait in the kitchen.”

Jeeves gave a curt nod. Jack slipped through the white door and into the most immaculate kitchen he had ever seen. He considered breaking open a bottle of champagne, then decided against it, putting a kettle on instead. Jeeves returned by the time the tea had properly steeped.

“It is good to see you again, Captain.”

Jack smirked. “I wondered if you’d remember.”

“Yes, Captain. As you once speculated, the presence of a very familiar object or person is strong enough to override the effects of the drug in a person of above average intellect. The moment I noted you at Mr. Wooster’s side, my past came back to me.”

“And you never turned a hair.”

Jeeves gave a little bow of acknowledgement, then poured the tea and took the opposite chair.

“I trust that Torchwood is the same as ever?”

Jack shook his head. “We can’t find our arses with a bull-lantern, Jeeves. The new archivist is an idiot and makes lousy coffee. I keep debating whether I should retcon him or just shoot him.”

They shared a chuckle. Jack mused over his cup. When he spoke, it was with the tone he reserved for comrades in arms who didn’t need a situation whitewashed, who were strong enough to hear the truth.

“I don’t like the way things are these days. Torchwood is becoming too…obsessive. It was bad enough during the Great War, and now---I keep telling them we should be more worried about what’s going on in Germany than what’s coming through the Rift.”

“I must agree with you. The economic conditions there are appalling. I fear that the opportunity is ripe for a dictator to rise, especially one who can harness their dissatisfactions and feelings of international oppression.”

Jack scowled. “Russia’s being ground down, Italy’s nothing but a sewer of hate…it’s hard to be worried about aliens when you open the paper and see what the human monsters have cooked up for us.”

“However---Mr. Wooster claims that he was attacked not by a Fascist but by a….blue octopus.”

“Varhexian.”

“Ah. I should have recognized the species from his description. I assume that you disposed of the creature?”

Jack twisted his hand into the shape of a gun, fired off an imaginary round. Jeeves gave a grim nod of approval.

“Thank you. Had Mr. Wooster been…”

Jack put his cup down, surprised by his former colleague's reaction. Jeeves brought one hand to his lips, brows pulled together, as if the impact of what could have happened had finally pierced some inner reserve. Jack decided to push for the truth.

“I always wondered why you left. Never believed you were just bored with the work.” Jack put his forearms down on the table. “We were friends, Jeeves. You can tell me, now. Nothing gets back to the Hub, I promise.”

He gave the plea long consideration before finally speaking. “Do you remember when I was sent to Market Snodsbury, to collect the remains of the Andorian hovercraft we shot down?”

“Sure. It was a milk run.”

Jeeves nodded. “I retrieved the broken pieces, but the train was delayed. Lacking an improving book to read, I wandered to the middle of the village. A school treat was in progress, and I was drawn to it merely to pass the time.”

Jack shrugged. “Hokey things, village fairs.”

“My thoughts exactly, Captain. Yet I had barely passed by the merry-go-round when I saw a young man standing at one of the booths, endeavoring to win a prize. He was, suffice to say, quite inept at the target shooting that the game required. I watched him for a time that even now seems infinite to me. He was beautiful, filled with life and laughter and yet…helpless. So vulnerable, in so much danger. At last I came up behind him, helped him aim his shot and win the foolish prize he had already wasted many shillings on.”

Jack raised a hand. He felt he’d intruded enough, even as he wanted the memories to continue because they’d sparked the last of the feelings of romance he thought he’d lost in the long years of waiting for his Doctor to return. He forced himself to only ask enough to finish the story.

“Wooster never remembered that it was you?”

“My young master is not the best with faces, and I have, as you see, changed my appearance somewhat from my days with Torchwood.”

Jack smirked. The Reginald Jeeves he’d known had been a different man, a dangerously handsome one whose every dark-eyed glance made women and men want to melt into his arms. This Jeeves was still achingly attractive, but in a quiet, stealthy manner.

Jack wondered if Bertie Wooster knew how lucky he was.

He felt he'd stayed long enough. Jack swallowed the last of the tea, then pushed away from the table. “It’s good to see you again, Jeeves. And…best of luck.”

Jeeves accepted the offered handshake. “The same, Captain. And thank you again.”

Jack shrugged. “Can’t have alien scum devouring the idle rich. Leave that to the Communists.”

Jeeves’ lips twitched. He motioned toward his cup. “If you will do the honors?”

Jack wondered if it was really necessary. In the final analysis, it seemed right, even kind. He removed the small packet of white powder from his pocket, ripped it open and sprinkled it into the tea.

Jeeves drank it down, and Jack let himself out.