Title: Conflicting methods
Fandom: Torchwood
Characters: Jack, OCs
Author: m_findlow
Rating: PG
Length: 1,509 words
Content notes: none
Author notes: Written for Challenge 210 - Rude
Summary: Jack's modus operandi is ruffling a few feathers at The Met.


Jack tugged against the metal cuffs tethering him to the desk in front of him. It had been okay two hours ago, but now his wrists were starting to ache and chafe. He knew there was a reason he didn't like coming to London.

The detective stood in front of him scowled.

'This might be considered acceptable behaviour where you're from, but here in Britain we have certain standards.'

Jack resisted the urge to roll his eyes. In wouldn't be the first time he'd be confused for being an American on British soil, nor would it be the last.

He couldn't figure out what had happened in the last fifty years. The Victorians had, for all their prim and proper appearance, been a lot more fun than they let on. They were obsessed with the macabre, and liked to indulge in the most extreme and unusual behaviours. Somewhere along the line though, they'd ditched a lot of what Jack admired so much about them, and simply became stuffy and boring.

British American relations has been at their peak after the war, but the 1920's had rung in a change, affluence and prosperity all around. Whilst the United States reveled in freedom and wealth, the Brits had done what they did best, and invested it into stately homes and acreage, fancy beach holidays, perfumes and tailored suits. Sometimes he wished he could go back to America. They had jazz and prohibition liquor, short-skirted Roxy dancers, and slick looking coupes gliding down the billboard lit streets. Was it any wonder the British held Americans in disdain? They were having a hell of a better time.

Torchwood couldn't help him here at this moment. Technically, wasn't here on Torchwood business. Even if he had been, he wasn't sure if they'd stick their necks out for him. Emily Holroyd and Alice Guppy might have been gone long years now, but the new administration held about as much regard for him. Gerald was a good man, but one under a lot of pressure and scrutiny, not helped by Jack's own chequered history. Nobody trusted a man who couldn't die, and the last thing he needed was Torchwood's London office getting wind of him being here in their city.

The interrogation room was cramped and smelled of stale urine. So much for The Met and their claims of being the greatest law enforcement agency in the world. So far, it wasn't living up to expectations. The local cop shops in Cardiff were nicer than this. Perhaps this was the section reserved for cross Atlantic guests.

Just because this wasn't official Torchwood business, didn't mean it didn't involve the extraterrestrial. Torchwood's technology, though decades ahead of the rest of the planet, was still rudimentary at best. His vortex manipulator might not have been able to fling him across the stars anymore, but it could still pick up readings from a considerable distance, and analyse them. If it turned out that running down some of those leads helped line his own pockets, then that was so much the better. Torchwood was a paycheck, but one he'd happily ditch if things turned in his favour.

Ironic that on this occasion there was absolutely nothing in it for him, apart from eliminating a deadly alien. That it required a trip to London to sort it out was just a bonus, or so he'd thought. No one in Cardiff was going to miss him for a few days. They probably wouldn't even know he was gone. Well, not until his arrest warrant hit their desks, anyway. Gerald was going to blow a gasket.

In his haste to apprehend the blowfish, he'd stolen a car, driving it through Soho, against red lights before finally catching up and abandoning it in the middle of a busy intersection, and following on foot. Unfortunately, that the thing that had brought him undone had been taking a tumble through a long line of theatre goers queuing outside the Prince Edward. Two police officers standing nearby had quickly grabbed him and read him his rather limited rights.

The long tirade of colourful language he gave them in response did him no favours, nor his accent. And that was to say nothing of the gun they found strapped to his belt when they cuffed him and patted him down.

By rights he was entitled to be furious with them, knowing that his quarry was getting away. He'd never liked blowfish, and they were a danger on the streets of any city anywhere in the galaxy. With a criminal streak and a taste for violence, he'd rounded up more than his fair share of them in his Time Agency days. On a planet that didn't even know they existed, made things just that much worse. There was no one here to stop them if he didn't.

'Assault occasioning actual bodily harm, carrying a concealed firearm, acts outraging public decency, affray, resisting arrest...' the detective read off the list of charges from his sheet. Jack was grateful they hadn't found out about the car yet. He didn't need aggravated vehicle theft, half a dozen traffic infringements and concealing an arrestable offence, added to the already impressive list.

'Do you have anything to say to these charges?' he asked.

'You've got the wrong guy?' he tried, unable to come up with a response that wasn't smart.

There was a subtle knock on the door, and a uniformed constable interrupted, passing the detective another file. The detective flipped it open and let out a vexed breath.

'My warrant officer has just checked your licence. British citizen?' he asked, quirking an eyebrow up his furrowed brow.

Oh, that was no doubt irking the detective's sensibilities. You could hate an American, but a British passport had to be respected.

'Been here most of my life,' Jack said, trying not to sound too smug.

'Hmph,' the detective muttered. 'I've also got a note on your record stating that you are a liaison to British Intelligence.'

Oh, Gerald, you old dog, thought Jack. With a single flourish of his pen, a naughty little lie in his official records, he'd saved Jack's bacon. Seemed the old boy liked him after all. Time to go for broke.

'I was in pursuit of a suspect when you're officers detained me,' he said. It didn't require any acting to sound genuinely put out by the situation. He didn't really want to hang around in London for a few more days trying to track down the blowfish, having to wait for it to cause trouble. It wasn't a question of waiting for it to cause a ruckus; that was guaranteed. It was a case of trying to sort out the blowfish's crimes from those of regular citizens. In a city the size of Cardiff, that was easy. London was another matter entirely. He could waste days chasing down rabbit holes in London's seedy underside before finally landing on a violent crime committed by his target.

The detective looked equally put out by the news. 'The Met should have been informed of any cross-border operations within our jurisdiction.'

'It was need to know,' Jack said. 'You didn't.'

'Well, if you were going for an undercover operation, I'm afraid your brash, American style of getting about is not going to give you a lot of success. You can't just go ploughing through dozens of innocent citizens.'

'They were in my way.'

'I find that hard to believe.'

'So did your arresting officers.'

'Perhaps if you hadn't been so rude to my officers, you might have had a chance to explain yourself.'

Jack knew an insult when he heard one. 'I didn't have time. Perhaps if your officers had arrested my target and not me, we wouldn't be having this conversation.'

Good luck to them to if they thought they could have taken a blowfish, even one between two of them. Jack's plan had been simple. Get close enough and put a bullet right between its eyes. All he needed was a clear shot and no witnesses. There was no detaining it, or lugging it back to Cardiff to be dealt with. The only good blowfish was a dead one.

'Tread carefully, Captain,' the detective warned. 'I might decide to lose this file note and your amnesty against formally being charged. Bad enough I have to explain to my Chief Inspector that I have to let you go.'

Jack tugged at the cuffs again, making them clank loudly. 'So, can I go now? Some of us still have to go tell our boss that the target got away.' Who cared if that was a lie.

The detective huffed loudly, indicating to the officer lingering by the door to unlock them.

'About time,' Jack said, rubbing his sore wrists.

'Thank you, is the correct term,' the detective said, snapping the thin file shut.

'Fine,' Jack said. 'You can thank me when I catch the perp and get him off your streets.' He strode out the door without looking back.

'Sodding Yanks,' the detective grumbled.