Pairing: Captain John/Captain Jack (implied), Captain John/Blowfish
Warnings: Hints of inter-species, including bestiality
Word Count: 1,000
Notes: Written for picfor1000. Prequel for Torchwood 2.01 Kiss, Kiss, Bang, Bang - *SPOILERS*.
Summary: Captain John Hart hangs around Cardiff. Well. Someone has to.
He doesn’t mean to watch them, but then, he’s never been one to resist temptation. It’s a little like having pets.
He even gives them names.
It’s been much harder finding the pieces of that bitch’s puzzle than John had initially thought it would be, so now he’s been stuck in this miserable armpit of the galaxy for weeks. On and off, anyway. Is it any wonder that occasionally he wants to take the edge off? Once or twice wants to let off steam? Surely anybody would understand if they’d ever spent as much as a rainy weekend in Cardiff.
John flips a switch on his wrist-band and, using the residual energy from yet another opening in the rift – bloody hell, power’s cheap around here – moves into the past. Or is it the future?
Nope, those stupid bobbing beanie-hats are from the past, he’s pretty sure. Although all pasts and futures are relative to his current now – and aren’t time mechanics fun? Pity he only scraped the class, but then he got to lick his way into Puul’s bed, and she read paradoxes for both of them until the moaning became too much. Who said learning couldn’t be enjoyable?
He tries a ‘disco’ – they’re new here, now, and it’s pathetic, but still amusing in a retro-oh my god what are they doing-kind of a way. The drugs are cheap and easy though, so it’s not all bad. It passes the time.
He notices the Carer first, all shiny hair, and shiny teeth, and shiny eyes. She’s the leader, apparently. It’s all so sweet. If Jack’s energy signature, his scent, wasn’t all over her, he might even have been interested. For a second. But as it is, he just watches and thinks about screams of pleasure turning to something else. He deals with it as they taught him in rehab, sublimate the desire elsewhere. His hands curl into fists.
John picks up the blowfish after he bounces out of a rift almost at his feet. It’s the… present? – so the being’s a bit obvious, but who cares. John’s hankered after a minion for a while now.
Besides, whey-faced humans and their creatures are all he’s had for ages, so he fancies something a bit different. And though the blowfish is a touch too clammy for John’s usual taste, the creative things he can do with his spines are entertaining, and his breath control is amazing.
Pity he also has a desire for the high life, which is scarcely satisfied, although John can hardly blame him. In fact, given the quality of the high life available in Cardiff, John positively empathises. Having a minion to corrupt is fun, but it’s not getting him any nearer the canisters. In that, unfortunately, the blowfish is as good as useless.
Such is the loneliness of command.
As he keeps watching, he sees that the Doctor and the Technician are always together, although he doesn’t think the Doctor’s noticed yet. It’s sad really, she’s a pretty little thing, but she trails around after the Doctor like she has no self-respect. He wants to show her that she can blossom without the attentions of some self-absorbed arrogant bastard, but then sniggers to himself. Apparently something from compulsory self-awareness training stuck, after all. Who’d have thought.
The blowfish turns out to have expensive tastes, and in a moment of weakness (alright, passion) John may have mentioned the diamond. In passing. It turns out not to have been a good idea.
Well, he never claimed to work well in a team.
Chummy-chops ups and absconds with the pyramid, although it’s not that John can’t track him – with the energy signature he’s giving off, a blind child out of phase with the universe could track him – but calibrating a jump that short is tricky work so close to the rift. John comes out in the right place, but hardly the right time. He shows a leg, and doffs his imaginary hat to a startled lady in a wig. Her hair is so rolled and powdered it reminds him of those silly animals that are sometimes pets on this planet. Cats? Ducks? The name escapes him. As indeed, does John himself, when a hue and cry begins. He’s offended – they might at least have waited until he’d done something. Or someone.
Honestly, some people are so touchy.
He watches the Eye-candy Office-boy most of all, although he appears above ground the least. He can almost see Jack’s sticky fingers all over him. In his hair, on his skin. He wants to smell him, to lean over and lick his neck. To hold him down and fuck him, while Jack watches. It’s an ambition.
It’s typical, but of course John’s too late once he gets back. The blowfish is all over the local authority’s channels. Something about a stolen car, dead cocaine dealers, a Halloween mask. Oh dear, what a bloody shame, but it’s hardly the end of the world, now is it?
John smiles, licks his teeth. No choice now, is there? The pretty, pretty team can help him. Now that Jack is back (he shivers, his palms sweating, wanting to fawn like a feline, wanting to fucking kill something) now that Jack can hear him again, wrist straps in sync (moving perfectly together, salt on the tongue, wrists aching in the tied straps) now John can call him.
It’s not so hard, giving in to what you’ve wanted all along. Sod the vicarious enjoyment. Fuck living for Jack’s scent on Team Torchwood. (Remember, you don’t know what they’re called, you don’t know anything, you’re whiter than white, Captain John Hart, at your service, yadda yadda.)
He needs a drink. Maybe several. Hell, maybe he’ll count down each minute with a shot. Is that a good idea? Bang bang.
Later, he’ll remember the animal that the wig resembled. A poodle. Of course. How much fun can one man have with a poodle? The answer: as much as he damn well likes.