Cathryn (formerly catslash) (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
remindmeofthe) wrote2008-08-10 12:54 am
remindmeofthe) wrote2008-08-10 12:54 am
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Part two of "Lucky Streak." Part one is here.
Martha is only too happy to accept Jack's offer of a drink after the Pharm. They stay right in the Hub after everyone else has left - Owen in particular, Martha notices, haring off like his arse is on fire, and that reminds her. She sips at the bourbon Jack poured out for her and waits for him to finish saying goodbye to Ianto.
After a length of time that's just a shade too long for proper decorum, Jack reappears and settles in on the couch next to Martha. His mouth is flushed red and his hair a bit mussed; Martha laughs into her glass and says,
"I hope I'm not taking away from your quality dabbling time."
Jack looks blank for a second, then comprehension clicks into place. "Nah. It's not like I get to see you every day." He picks up his own glass, which holds maybe half what Martha's does, and takes a swallow.
"Or ever," Martha says. "'Sbeen nice. Almost like a visit, just with extra larvae."
Jack laughs. Martha smiles and continues, "Good to meet the others, too. Put faces to names and all. Had an interesting talk with Owen." She feels guilty about this, she really does, but something about the story Owen told her is settling off the alarms that travelling with the Doctor installed in the back of her mind. If there's one thing Martha knows better than almost anyone else on the planet, it's how easily a nightmare can be hidden inside an appealing human package.
Jack cocks his head slightly at her change in tone. "Yeah?"
"Yeah. Said he had a boyfriend. I promised I wouldn't tell, but . . . " She trails off, considering. "This guy, his name's Michael, he sounds completely amazing. Like, everything perfect you could imagine, like he stepped right out of some romance novel."
"Oh god, poor Owen. We have to save him," Jack says dryly.
"Jack, he knows about aliens."
That gets Jack's attention. He immediately turns serious. "Has Owen told him about Torchwood?"
"I don't know. He didn't say and I didn't like to push. But Jack, when was the last time you met someone who was perfectly tailor-made just for you?"
Frowning, Jack glances at the clock. "Owen should be home by now. Maybe it's time for me to meet Michael."
Just as he's setting his glass down, his mobile rings. He digs it out of his pocket and glances at the display, then looks up sharply.
"It's Owen's home number," he tells Martha, and flips the phone open. "Owen? Are you -" He listens, his face turning pale and set. "Who is this? Who - shit." He snaps the phone shut.
Martha is already on her feet and running to the medical bay for an emergency kit before he can do more than say her name.
**********
"Let me guess," she says as the SUV rockets out into the road, Jack tense at the wheel. "Michael?"
"Didn't say," he answers shortly. "He just said to get to Owen's flat because he thought Owen might need me."
Martha nods. Her hands tighten on the emergency kit and she doesn't say another word for the rest of the drive.
Jack is breaking every driving law on the book and it still seems to take too long to get there. When they do, he vaults out of the SUV, Martha close behind. He has a key for the building and another for Owen's flat, but Owen's door is ajar. Martha already knows that's not like Owen at all. She takes a breath and follows Jack inside.
Owen is sprawled out on his couch, blood bright against his pale skin and staining the cushion beneath him. Martha feels the detached mindset, the one she never learnt during a year that didn't happen, click into place when she sees him. Something is protruding from his chest; as soon as Martha gets close enough to see that it's the handle of a knife, she knows she won't need the emergency kit.
There's a piece of shiny, sturdy paper laying against Owen's chest, bottom edge supported by the knife. A picture. Martha moves swiftly to check Owen's pulse, just in case, and the drafts she makes send the picture drifting sideways.
Jack is there to catch it; Martha keeps her eyes on Owen as she feels for a pulse she won't find, because right now looking at the body of a man she'd begun to consider a friend is easier than having to see the look on Jack's face. So she checks his wrist and throat and counts the seconds until she will have to look up to tell Jack she's sorry, but -
"Oh, my god." It's barely a whisper from Jack, stunned and urgent and reeling all at once, and Martha does look up. She just catches a glimpse of Jack looking at the photo - at something on the back - before he lets it drop to the couch.
"Stay with him," he orders her sharply. "Don't call anyone. Don't bring him in. I'll be back."
"Jack - !" But he's out the door before she can say more than that, leaving her with Owen.
Martha curses under her breath and turns back to Owen. The photo catches her eye and she picks it up. It's of Owen and some bloke, every bit as gorgeous as Owen said. Michael, she thinks. Owen looks a little indulgent and a little happy and a lot like he's wondering what he's doing in front of the camera; Michael just looks pleased with himself. Martha flips the picture over to see what it was that sent Jack rushing out the door.
Written there, in neat, precise lettering, is a question. Aren't you sorry you let go of my hand?
**********
Martha spends the half-hour or so Jack is gone trying not to feel creepy as she looks through Owen's flat, searching for clues that might explain how Owen, someone who makes his living off the weirdness of the universe, didn't spot any homicidal tendencies in his boyfriend. He'd thought to test the DNA, at least, but human doesn't automatically mean good and Owen kn - would have known that. She realizes, distantly, that she's being weird herself, that she should be reacting in some way that involves less detective work and more crying, but the ability to respond normally to horrible situations is one of the things she lost in that extra year of her life.
She only finds one thing that's glaringly out of place, but it's the only one she needs: A bag of tablets. She's seen them before, when she was with the Doctor. They look like candy, and smell like aniseed balls, but they're really a drug, designed to instantly relax the mind and put stressful thoughts and memories out of the user's reach. She'd joked that she could do with one every now and then, and the Doctor had told her quite seriously that even a trace amount could have devastating effects on her twenty-first century physiology.
Such as, Martha thinks, making you believe someone strange is perfectly normal, and making you do things like letting them all but move in after a week and telling them all about your top secret job. She can guess easily enough how Michael managed to dose Owen with small enough amounts. She's been trying for weeks to break Tom of the habit of popping in a throat lozenge and then kissing her.
She takes one out of the bag to show Jack. Based on his reaction to the picture, she has a feeling he can confirm her suspicions as to how Michael got hold of thirty-first century drugs and why they didn't knock him out.
She puts the tablet in her pocket and starts rummaging through the cupboards, looking for tea. She doesn't really want a cup, and she doubts Jack will (and Owen doesn't need one, she carefully avoids thinking), but with the other search done, she needs to keep busy. She needs something to occupy her thoughts, and she needs to be where she can't easily see Owen.
She's just stirring sugar into her mug when the door bursts open. She jumps, jolting the spoon in the tea and sending brown droplets everywhere, and spins around to see Jack entering the flat, carrying something. He goes straight for the couch. Martha sets down her spoon and goes out to the living room.
"Jack?" she asks.
Jack ignores her, or doesn't hear her, focused on Owen. He opens the box he's brought in and lifts out something that looks like the glove from a set of medieval armor. Something deep and primal in Martha recoils from even looking at it.
"Jack?" she says again. "What is that?"
This time Jack answers. "Resurrection gauntlet," he says, sliding it onto his hand.
"A what?" She must sound as appalled as she is shocked - something else she picked up from the Doctor - because Jack stops and looks at her. He picks up the photo with his ungloved hand and brandishes it at her.
"This is my brother," he says. His tone is desperate, his voice rough. She's never heard him sound quite this raw. "Gray. He did this because of me, because I - because he hates me. I have to find him. I can use the gauntlet to bring Owen back for two minutes, and he can tell us where to find Gray."
Martha stares, unable to speak as she tries to catch up with what she just heard. Jack keeps going.
"There's a limited window of time to use this in, Martha, I've already spent too much just tracking it down. We can't waste the rest arguing. Tell me now if you're going to try to stop me or not." He shifts, changing his stance ever so slightly, and Martha's stomach drops as she sees the implied threat. She's seen Jack this dangerous before, but never once imagined the danger would be aimed at her.
She hesitates. What he intends to do is so profoundly wrong she can scarcely begin to get her head around it, but she can't physically stop him by herself, and there won't be a chance to talk him out of it. He's made that perfectly clear.
"I won't," she says finally. Jack relaxes, immediately looking normal and safe again, but Martha knows she won't forget that flash of fear any time soon.
"Good," he says. "I'll need your help. Owen likes you and he's going to be disoriented when he wakes up. You can help me calm him down so he can tell us where Gray is." He moves to stand behind the couch as he speaks, positioning himself behind Owen.
"Wait, Jack -" Martha takes hold of the knife and eases it out as carefully as she can. If this works, Owen doesn't need for the first thing he sees to be the weapon his lover killed him with. She places it out of his line of vision and ignores the blood on her hands.
"Yeah, good thinking. All right, ready?" Jack puts his gauntleted hand just above Owen's head.
Martha sits on the couch next to Owen and takes his cool hand in hers. "Yeah," she whispers.
"Okay," Jack says, and the gauntlet descends.
NOTES: First, thank you for seeing in the header that this appeared to be an original character pairing fic and reading anyway. I know OCs don't really draw people in, but I just couldn't find any way to indicate that "Michael" was NOT an OC without giving anything away.
I started this fic not long after "Exit Wounds" aired, because Gray struck me as flat, boring, poorly-written, and badly handled, and the waste of potential frustrated me. I wanted to find a way to make Gray more real and more frightening, and to highlight his hatred for Jack in a way that was a little less, oh, outlandish than what canon had to offer. Changing the way Owen first died, and having Gray insinuate himself into Owen's life before killing him so he could show Jack how close he was all that time, seemed like just the way to go about it.
I'd like to hear what people thought. I know I'm not the only one who might just be more in love with what Torchwood could be than what it actually is. What did you think? If you didn't like it or thought it unnecessary, tell me about that, too. I'm a big girl. I can take dissenting opinion.
And, yes, it's done. I had more elaborate plans, but this ended up feeling like a natural stopping point. I've done what I wanted to do here.
Thank you again, and I look forward to reading any thoughts or ideas you might like to share.
Martha is only too happy to accept Jack's offer of a drink after the Pharm. They stay right in the Hub after everyone else has left - Owen in particular, Martha notices, haring off like his arse is on fire, and that reminds her. She sips at the bourbon Jack poured out for her and waits for him to finish saying goodbye to Ianto.
After a length of time that's just a shade too long for proper decorum, Jack reappears and settles in on the couch next to Martha. His mouth is flushed red and his hair a bit mussed; Martha laughs into her glass and says,
"I hope I'm not taking away from your quality dabbling time."
Jack looks blank for a second, then comprehension clicks into place. "Nah. It's not like I get to see you every day." He picks up his own glass, which holds maybe half what Martha's does, and takes a swallow.
"Or ever," Martha says. "'Sbeen nice. Almost like a visit, just with extra larvae."
Jack laughs. Martha smiles and continues, "Good to meet the others, too. Put faces to names and all. Had an interesting talk with Owen." She feels guilty about this, she really does, but something about the story Owen told her is settling off the alarms that travelling with the Doctor installed in the back of her mind. If there's one thing Martha knows better than almost anyone else on the planet, it's how easily a nightmare can be hidden inside an appealing human package.
Jack cocks his head slightly at her change in tone. "Yeah?"
"Yeah. Said he had a boyfriend. I promised I wouldn't tell, but . . . " She trails off, considering. "This guy, his name's Michael, he sounds completely amazing. Like, everything perfect you could imagine, like he stepped right out of some romance novel."
"Oh god, poor Owen. We have to save him," Jack says dryly.
"Jack, he knows about aliens."
That gets Jack's attention. He immediately turns serious. "Has Owen told him about Torchwood?"
"I don't know. He didn't say and I didn't like to push. But Jack, when was the last time you met someone who was perfectly tailor-made just for you?"
Frowning, Jack glances at the clock. "Owen should be home by now. Maybe it's time for me to meet Michael."
Just as he's setting his glass down, his mobile rings. He digs it out of his pocket and glances at the display, then looks up sharply.
"It's Owen's home number," he tells Martha, and flips the phone open. "Owen? Are you -" He listens, his face turning pale and set. "Who is this? Who - shit." He snaps the phone shut.
Martha is already on her feet and running to the medical bay for an emergency kit before he can do more than say her name.
**********
"Let me guess," she says as the SUV rockets out into the road, Jack tense at the wheel. "Michael?"
"Didn't say," he answers shortly. "He just said to get to Owen's flat because he thought Owen might need me."
Martha nods. Her hands tighten on the emergency kit and she doesn't say another word for the rest of the drive.
Jack is breaking every driving law on the book and it still seems to take too long to get there. When they do, he vaults out of the SUV, Martha close behind. He has a key for the building and another for Owen's flat, but Owen's door is ajar. Martha already knows that's not like Owen at all. She takes a breath and follows Jack inside.
Owen is sprawled out on his couch, blood bright against his pale skin and staining the cushion beneath him. Martha feels the detached mindset, the one she never learnt during a year that didn't happen, click into place when she sees him. Something is protruding from his chest; as soon as Martha gets close enough to see that it's the handle of a knife, she knows she won't need the emergency kit.
There's a piece of shiny, sturdy paper laying against Owen's chest, bottom edge supported by the knife. A picture. Martha moves swiftly to check Owen's pulse, just in case, and the drafts she makes send the picture drifting sideways.
Jack is there to catch it; Martha keeps her eyes on Owen as she feels for a pulse she won't find, because right now looking at the body of a man she'd begun to consider a friend is easier than having to see the look on Jack's face. So she checks his wrist and throat and counts the seconds until she will have to look up to tell Jack she's sorry, but -
"Oh, my god." It's barely a whisper from Jack, stunned and urgent and reeling all at once, and Martha does look up. She just catches a glimpse of Jack looking at the photo - at something on the back - before he lets it drop to the couch.
"Stay with him," he orders her sharply. "Don't call anyone. Don't bring him in. I'll be back."
"Jack - !" But he's out the door before she can say more than that, leaving her with Owen.
Martha curses under her breath and turns back to Owen. The photo catches her eye and she picks it up. It's of Owen and some bloke, every bit as gorgeous as Owen said. Michael, she thinks. Owen looks a little indulgent and a little happy and a lot like he's wondering what he's doing in front of the camera; Michael just looks pleased with himself. Martha flips the picture over to see what it was that sent Jack rushing out the door.
Written there, in neat, precise lettering, is a question. Aren't you sorry you let go of my hand?
**********
Martha spends the half-hour or so Jack is gone trying not to feel creepy as she looks through Owen's flat, searching for clues that might explain how Owen, someone who makes his living off the weirdness of the universe, didn't spot any homicidal tendencies in his boyfriend. He'd thought to test the DNA, at least, but human doesn't automatically mean good and Owen kn - would have known that. She realizes, distantly, that she's being weird herself, that she should be reacting in some way that involves less detective work and more crying, but the ability to respond normally to horrible situations is one of the things she lost in that extra year of her life.
She only finds one thing that's glaringly out of place, but it's the only one she needs: A bag of tablets. She's seen them before, when she was with the Doctor. They look like candy, and smell like aniseed balls, but they're really a drug, designed to instantly relax the mind and put stressful thoughts and memories out of the user's reach. She'd joked that she could do with one every now and then, and the Doctor had told her quite seriously that even a trace amount could have devastating effects on her twenty-first century physiology.
Such as, Martha thinks, making you believe someone strange is perfectly normal, and making you do things like letting them all but move in after a week and telling them all about your top secret job. She can guess easily enough how Michael managed to dose Owen with small enough amounts. She's been trying for weeks to break Tom of the habit of popping in a throat lozenge and then kissing her.
She takes one out of the bag to show Jack. Based on his reaction to the picture, she has a feeling he can confirm her suspicions as to how Michael got hold of thirty-first century drugs and why they didn't knock him out.
She puts the tablet in her pocket and starts rummaging through the cupboards, looking for tea. She doesn't really want a cup, and she doubts Jack will (and Owen doesn't need one, she carefully avoids thinking), but with the other search done, she needs to keep busy. She needs something to occupy her thoughts, and she needs to be where she can't easily see Owen.
She's just stirring sugar into her mug when the door bursts open. She jumps, jolting the spoon in the tea and sending brown droplets everywhere, and spins around to see Jack entering the flat, carrying something. He goes straight for the couch. Martha sets down her spoon and goes out to the living room.
"Jack?" she asks.
Jack ignores her, or doesn't hear her, focused on Owen. He opens the box he's brought in and lifts out something that looks like the glove from a set of medieval armor. Something deep and primal in Martha recoils from even looking at it.
"Jack?" she says again. "What is that?"
This time Jack answers. "Resurrection gauntlet," he says, sliding it onto his hand.
"A what?" She must sound as appalled as she is shocked - something else she picked up from the Doctor - because Jack stops and looks at her. He picks up the photo with his ungloved hand and brandishes it at her.
"This is my brother," he says. His tone is desperate, his voice rough. She's never heard him sound quite this raw. "Gray. He did this because of me, because I - because he hates me. I have to find him. I can use the gauntlet to bring Owen back for two minutes, and he can tell us where to find Gray."
Martha stares, unable to speak as she tries to catch up with what she just heard. Jack keeps going.
"There's a limited window of time to use this in, Martha, I've already spent too much just tracking it down. We can't waste the rest arguing. Tell me now if you're going to try to stop me or not." He shifts, changing his stance ever so slightly, and Martha's stomach drops as she sees the implied threat. She's seen Jack this dangerous before, but never once imagined the danger would be aimed at her.
She hesitates. What he intends to do is so profoundly wrong she can scarcely begin to get her head around it, but she can't physically stop him by herself, and there won't be a chance to talk him out of it. He's made that perfectly clear.
"I won't," she says finally. Jack relaxes, immediately looking normal and safe again, but Martha knows she won't forget that flash of fear any time soon.
"Good," he says. "I'll need your help. Owen likes you and he's going to be disoriented when he wakes up. You can help me calm him down so he can tell us where Gray is." He moves to stand behind the couch as he speaks, positioning himself behind Owen.
"Wait, Jack -" Martha takes hold of the knife and eases it out as carefully as she can. If this works, Owen doesn't need for the first thing he sees to be the weapon his lover killed him with. She places it out of his line of vision and ignores the blood on her hands.
"Yeah, good thinking. All right, ready?" Jack puts his gauntleted hand just above Owen's head.
Martha sits on the couch next to Owen and takes his cool hand in hers. "Yeah," she whispers.
"Okay," Jack says, and the gauntlet descends.
NOTES: First, thank you for seeing in the header that this appeared to be an original character pairing fic and reading anyway. I know OCs don't really draw people in, but I just couldn't find any way to indicate that "Michael" was NOT an OC without giving anything away.
I started this fic not long after "Exit Wounds" aired, because Gray struck me as flat, boring, poorly-written, and badly handled, and the waste of potential frustrated me. I wanted to find a way to make Gray more real and more frightening, and to highlight his hatred for Jack in a way that was a little less, oh, outlandish than what canon had to offer. Changing the way Owen first died, and having Gray insinuate himself into Owen's life before killing him so he could show Jack how close he was all that time, seemed like just the way to go about it.
I'd like to hear what people thought. I know I'm not the only one who might just be more in love with what Torchwood could be than what it actually is. What did you think? If you didn't like it or thought it unnecessary, tell me about that, too. I'm a big girl. I can take dissenting opinion.
And, yes, it's done. I had more elaborate plans, but this ended up feeling like a natural stopping point. I've done what I wanted to do here.
Thank you again, and I look forward to reading any thoughts or ideas you might like to share.