Fandom: Torchwood

Characters: Jack, Greg Bishop

Author: m_findlow

Rating: PG

Length: 4,693 words

Content notes: none

Author notes: Written for Challenge 262 - Hungry and Challenge 188 - Rush (Bingo square)

Summary: Greg and Jack have to face more than just weevils.

Jack's outline was unmistakable, as he stood under the broken streetlamp with only the moonlight to mark out his silhouette. Greg Bishop could see the scowl etched on Jack's face even before he pulled over to the edge of the road amd rolled down the darkly tinted window of the sleek black Daimler.

'I though you said you wanted to see me?' Jack said, his tone full of the pouting petulance Greg was slowly becoming accustomed to. 'You didn't say anything about a job.'

'Only because I knew how you'd react,' Greg replied calmly.

Jack rested a hand on the roof of the car, allowing him to lean in closer to the driver side window. 'Did Brennan put you up to this?'

'Of course not.' Greg knew that if Doctor Brennan had asked Jack to do something he'd have dug his heels in and refused.

'So, does she know I'm even here?'

'No. I figured you'd prefer it that way.'

Brennan and Jack were like oil and water, or perhaps dynamite and a naked flame. Wherever they were alone Greg would find Jack telling him there was just something not right about her but that he couldn't put his finger on it. Greg tried to assure him that it was just his rather turbulent history with former leaders of Torchwood that made him instinctively distrustful. Brennan was all business, rarely smiled and never laughed. Small wonder she clashed with Jack. He didn't envy her the job of being head of Torchwood Cardiff and he knew that dealing with someone as fleeting and headstrong as Jack was challenging at best, next to impossible at worst. If it weren't for Jack's preternatural inability to die, Greg was certain he wouldn't be here. He was tethered by some invisible string, with his immortality at one end, and the Torchwood hub at the other. If anything, Greg liked the idea that he wasn't going anywhere anytime soon.

Jack narrowed his eyes at Greg. 'So, what's this job, then?'

Greg shrugged. 'Just a weevil.'

'Just a weevil,' Jack repeated. 'And you couldn't get Llinos or Rhydian to go with you?'

'Llinos is sick. Has been for days, which you'd know if you'd been around,' Greg replied. 'As for Rhydian, well, this weevil has been causing a bit of trouble down by the dockyards by all accounts. Sounds like a big one. Rhydian is young and I'd prefer a safe pair of hands.'

'But he does look hot in those suits of his,' Jack countered. 'And these hands are anything but safe, if you what I mean.' He waggled his eyebrows at Greg.

Greg groaned. 'Are you coming with me or not?'

'Of course I am. I hardly see you these days.'

'You'd see more of me if you worked for Torchwood on a permanent basis.'

Jack grinned and tilted his head. 'A fine offer but not incentive enough I'm afraid. Besides, I think Brennan prefers it that way. She definitely fits into the "less is more" category.'

'So, get in the car and let's pretend this isn't Torchwood business, then,' Greg huffed, growing impatient with Jack's banter and subterfuge. Jack could be so stubborn when it suited him.

Jack stepped around the front of the vehicle and opened the door, sliding into the passenger seat. 'Pleasure first, then business,' he said, gripping a fistful of Greg's shirt and pulling him into a fierce kiss.

Greg let the kiss linger for a moment before pushing Jack away. 'Business first, then pleasure,' he promised.

Jack gave him one of his winning smiles. 'Playing hard to get tonight? I like it.'

Greg kept his silence. For Jack, he knew the distinction between playing hard to get and playing easy to get was subtle at best.



Traffic was light and it wasn't long at all before Greg was pulling the Daimler into the gravel by the side of a large tin warehouse that was identical to a dozen more than lined the edge of the dockyards, hosting all manner of things imported from Europe and the African continent. A low mist hung just above the stagnant tidal waters, lapping against the barnacle encrusted piers, but otherwise it was a clear night.

'A world of consumerism,' Greg muttered as he slipped inside the warehouse, flashing his torch around the numerous crates stenciled with all manner of exotic locations and company names. 'Hard to believe there's a war on.'

'It won't last,' Jack replied, his tone turning despondent. 'They'll be shipping all of this out to make room.'

'Room for what?'

'Bodies.'

Greg stopped in his tracks, turning his torchlight on Jack. 'We'll make it through the war, won't we? Britain, I mean.'

Jack's expression was hard to read, a mixture of doubt and sorrow and something else he couldn't pin down, but which made him feel uncomfortable. 'I can't tell you how it ends.'

Greg made a mirth-filled sound. 'Always so cavalier about your knowledge of everything else, but you won't even tell me if we survive or if I'm going to be serving some Kraut wiping tables or sweeping floors before the year is out.'

'Torchwood will always be needed, no matter what happens,' Jack replied. 'The rift isn't going anywhere.'

'Still, I'd prefer it Hitler weren't in charge of the cache of technology we've collected over the years.'

'You and me both,' Jack agreed. He cleared his throat. 'Anyway, that's a problem for the future. Didn't you say we had a little weevil infestation down here that needing dealing with?'

Greg noted the rather unsubtle way Jack had changed the subject, something he was an expert on doing, though usually with much more finesse. Jack often avoided subjects where the outcome was less than pleasant, and he couldn't help but worry that Jack's demeanor didn't bode well, and that their future was rather bleaker than he hoped.

'You've got your gun?' Greg asked, chastising himself for not having asked back when they'd gotten out of the car. He'd been rather too preoccupied with their banter.

Jack tugged open the edge of his greatcoat, revealing the holster at his belt, trusty webley tucked inside. 'Always,' he replied. 'In a city like this, you just never know when you're gonna need it.'

Greg nodded. His own was strapped in a shoulder holster beneath his jacket, metal cuffs wedged inside his pants pocket, along with a canister of chloroform. Getting close enough to use both was a challenge at the best of times. Hearing reports that this was a rather formidable weevil would only make the task harder. With the two of them however, it should be fine. 'Let's go,' he said.

'Any idea where it is exactly?' Jack asked, switching on his own heavy torchlight and letting the beam bounce off a pallet of cargo.

'No. Just word that some dock workers got caught up in a brawl with a savage beast and came off second best. They assumed it must have smuggled aboard one of the ships. Either a savage from the continent, or some other jungle beast.'

'Easier to believe it came from the deep dark jungles of Africa than from their own backyard,' Jack remarked.

'Makes our job easier, too,' Greg agreed. 'Finding a way to cover things up gets harder by the day.'

Jack chuckled. 'Not like the good old old days, huh? Those crazy Victorians used to believe in the wildest stuff. Some of the things they purported made Torchwood look totally pedestrian.'

Greg let his torch pan slowly across the space, looking for any signs of weevil activity. The smell alone was oftentimes enough to give them away, but in a space this size, and with so many crates that permeated the stench of salt from their long journeys across the seven seas, he didn't want to find himself accidentally stepping into something left behind by a weevil.

'Let's split up,' Jack suggested. 'There's a lot of ground to cover and this is just one warehouse out of at least a dozen. If you find it, wait for me. I don't want you tackling it on your own. '

'Is that chivalry talking, Jack?' Greg teased. 'I didn't take you for the chivalrous type.'

'I prefer you with limbs, that's all,' Jack said, backtracking on his comment. 'And keep your light down nearer the ground. The last thing we need is for you to blind it and send it into a rage.'

'I have done this before you know.'

Jack gave a smug little grin. 'Yet, you still called me to tag along.'

Greg bit down on any further comment, knowing Jack had called him out. If a few burly Welsh stevedores came off second best against it, he dreaded to think just how big it must have been. 'And how shall I garner your attention when I find it? Do you have a preferred bird call I should imitate?'

Jack gave him a dubious look. 'You do bird calls?'

'No, but I could probably manage a pigeon if it came down to it. Or an owl, perhaps. Something inconspicuous.'

Jack rested a hand on his shoulder. 'Oh, Greg, you really are too adorable.'

Greg bristled at the comment. 'I'm glad you find me amusing.'

'How about we stick to using names for now,' Jack said. 'I won't be far away, I promise. Besides, I've always thought of myself as more of a flamingo. I don't even know what kind of noise they make.'

'I'm sure it's positively ostentatious,' Greg replied.

Jack pecked him on the cheek. 'Just be careful. See you soon.'



As he passed between a maze of crates and shipping containers, acclimatising to the strange way they cast shadows and strangely shaped outlines, Greg began to feel a little more at ease. Even in daylight, it was hard to imagine not getting lost amongst them. He couldn't picture this place empty, let alone being used as a morgue for troops. At least he assumed Jack meant troops and not civilians. There'd been a few bombings in London, but German planes hadn't ventured beyond the capital and the Dover cliffs. They surely wouldn't bomb Cardiff. Perhaps Jack had gotten it wrong. After all, the future was malleable. Jack's very presence here right now could have changed the future already. Perhaps whatever they achieved through Torchwood might be enough to tip the battle in their favour. That was the hope anyway.

As he rounded a pallet, noting the originating port as coming from the Congo and with a distinct smell of plant life, a sound caught in his ear. It was a shuffling sound, and something of a growl that went with it. More to the point, it was close. Switching off his torch, plunging himself back into the shadows, he paused, straining his ears.

'I think we found it,' came a whisper from behind which made him jump out of his skin. Jack had somehow crept up behind him, also hearing the noise.

'Bleeding Christ, Jack!' Greg hissed.

'Sorry.'

There was another garbled sound, and Greg stepped carefully forward, tucking himself between to large piles of boxes crammed awfully close together in an effort to get closer. He didn't need to say anything to know Jack would be right behind him. He pulled his gun from its holster and readied it, just in case. Taking a few more steps forward, he inched closer to the sound.

There was a loud crack of wood splintering. Greg and Jack both ducked down behind the closest pallet of goods, covered in a thick rope netting. There was another loud snapping sound and Greg chanced a peek around the side. At first he couldn't see much more than a dark shadow, but as the weevil moved around to the other side of the crate, clawing at the wooden slats, it stepped in front of the large warehouse window. Pale moonlight from outside shone through and then illuminated the creature, glinting off something resting over its shoulders. As Greg leaned forward to get a better look, he felt Jack's hands on his shoulders, peering over them.

'What on earth is it wearing?' Greg asked, keeping his voice low. 'Some kind of armor?'

Jack shook his head, squinting in the darkness at the figure. Greg was correct. Over its shoulders was a set of light armor plating, which then crisscrossed over its shoulders in front of it. There was no boiler suit to be seen. 'That's not a weevil,' Jack said.

Greg tried to get a better look at the creature. 'So, what is it?'

'My guess, a hoix,' Jack replied in a hushed voice. 'Supposedly meant to be semi intelligent but I've yet to meet one with an IQ above forty. Don't let that fool you, though. They're way more deadly than weevils.'

Greg smirked despite himself. 'See, aren't you glad I asked you along now?'

He watched it carefully for a few moments, trying to make out the differences. Now that Jack mentioned it, it was quite different. Weevils loped about, fast but often hunched and ungainly. This creature stood taller and straighter, and its head was longer and more angular. It tore at the cargo crate with a determined purpose rather than some odd curiosity. Unless provoked, weevils tended not to engage with their surroundings. It was the one saving grace for a city that often felt like it was riddled with them. If they stayed down in the sewers, they tended not to cause trouble with the rest of the locals.

'What's it doing?' Greg asked, watching it tear away a piece of wooden crate, throwing it behind itself in a careless manner.

'Looking for something to eat.'

'How do you know that?'

'That's pretty much their MO. At least as far as I can tell. They're not real chatty so asking one is pretty much pointless. Their emotional range sits somewhere between hungry and angry.'

There was more violent snapping at the hoix clawed at the wooden slats, ripping them away despite the thick nails binding them together. It must have been strong to manage that, Greg thought. Certainly stronger than any weevil he'd encountered. 'What do they eat?'

'Anything. If it's digestible, they'll eat it. Even if it's not, they'll still give it a go.' Greg saw the hoix thrust its arm into the hole it had managed to claw through, tugging out the contents of the crate and tearing into them with its teeth. 'Looks like manchester is kinda tasty,' Jack observed.

'Lucky it's not munitions in there or it might have blown us all to kingdom come,' Greg whispered.

'So, let's not wait for it to find a crate that is,' Jack replied.

'What's the plan? Can it be sedated and cuffed like a weevil?'

'More than likely, with enough sedation, of course,' Jack said. 'The trick is getting close enough. Lucky for you, I've got a distraction for it.'

Greg was about to ask what Jack's idea was, when he felt Jack brush by him and step out into the open, putting himself in full view of the hoix.

'How'd you like those bedsheets?' Jack called out. The hoix raised its head, turning to get a look at him as he shone his torchlight straight at it, forcing it to squint at the sudden assault of light. 'Egyptian cotton I'll bet, but it's all about the thread count. I had a boyfriend once who had the nicest bedsheets I've ever slept on. Pure silk, not cotton, of course, but-'

He didn't get to finish his story. The hoix lunged towards him with a speed that caught him off guard. Greg watched in horror as the hoix slammed into him bodily, sending him flat onto his back. The torch clattered away off to the right, throwing its beam of light uselessly at an unoccupied corner of the warehouse. Greg didn't need the light to know that Jack had bitten off more than he could chew. His grunts and struggles were enough.

'Chew anything you want, just not the coat,' Jack puffed out, the hoix weighing heavily on his torso. 'It's an heirloom. Been all the way from 1941 to 200,100 and back again. Like I said, it's all about the threads- Arghh!' The hoix bit down on the arm he raised in defence. 'Ow! I usually like to get to know someone a little better before I let them have a taste of me.' Jack grunted and let out a scream as the hoix's sharp teeth dug in deeper, tearing away at the flesh. There was more grunting and cries of agony before he finally got enough breath to yell out 'Greg!'

Greg bolted from his position, pulling his gun from its holster and leveling it and his torch at the hoix. Forget about sedation and apprehending it, he was going to put as many bullets in it as it took. As his own torchlight hit it side on, it was enough to distract it momentarily from its quarry. It snared at Greg and pushed itself off of Jack's body, hurtling itself towards him.

'Woah!' Greg exclaimed, finally getting a close look at the beast. Definitely not a weevil. It had the same beady eyes and deadly claws, but it was the mouth that gripped his heart with fear. There were no lips, just a huge mouthful of razor sharp teeth that dovetailed top and bottom, each at least four inches in length and shaped like needles. And they were covered in blood.

He stumbled backwards a few steps, trying to get his gun up and put a bit of distance between them. He dropped the heavy torch, gripping his gun now with two hands as the hoix rushed at him. The trigger pulled once, then twice more, but still it kept coming. One bullet glanced off its armor, another clipped its shoulder but didn't nothing to slow it down. It was almost on top of him, when another gunshot rang out and it fell to its knees right in front of him. A tall coated figure came from behind and put two more bullets in the back of its head at close range, ending its life.

'I don't like to kill,' Jack said, holding his gun awkwardly in his left hand whilst cradling his right, 'but sometimes the decision isn't yours to make. It's kill or be killed.'

Greg felt a little stunned. He'd dodged weevil attacks before, but this hoix creature had been something else. A bullet to the chest of a weevil, though not deadly by any means, more often than not sent it packing. They knew when they were outgunned and happy to run away to fight another day. The hoix had barely noticed the hot metal that tore through its flesh. It wasn't going to stop, and Greg had been fast running out of bullets, for all the good they seemed to be doing.

'Thanks for the backup. You must've looked tasty,' Jack teased. 'I wasn't sure on my aim. Thought it better not to go too high in case I hit you. A bullet to the leg can be survived most of the time. The head, not so much.'

'You shot and you weren't even sure you weren't going to hit me?' Greg's tone was incredulous, bordering on hysterical, now that their immediate peril was eliminated.

'I just needed to take its feet out from under it. You'd rather it have you for main course?'

Greg was about to make a comment when he saw Jack's outline sway slightly. 'Jack?' he asked, stepping forward to put a hand on his arm.

Jack chuckled, though Greg could tell it was an effort. 'Got a little woozy there for a second.' He faltered again and Greg gripped him hard, guiding him slowly down to the floor. 'Think I might have lost a little blood,' Jack said.

Greg searched around for the torch he'd dropped, finally uncovering it and bringing it over to inspect Jack's hand. It was torn and bloody with deep gashes and chunks of flesh torn away, oozing thick red all over his clothes. A little blood was quite an understatement

Greg made a vexed sound. 'Why do you always have to rush into things, Jack?' he chastised, though his terse words were undercut by the tenderness with which he took Jack's mauled hand in his own.

'Life's short,' Jack replied, leaving Greg unsure if he was trying to be funny or ironic. Until a few weeks ago, Jack had just been someone he put up with. He swanned in and out of Torchwood whenever he felt like it and annoyed Brennan with his laissez faire attitude. With everyone else he was just ridiculously charming. Jack and Llinos were forever ribbing one another about something, and poor Rhydian didn't know what to do with himself whenever Jack started flirting with him, whether Jack meant it seriously or not.

Greg had tried to resist Jack's charms, but Jack wasn't ever going to give up. He complimented Greg on everything - his hair, his clothes, and most often his eyes. He thought he looked ridiculous. His hair was too black, his eyes too blue, the two together a complete mismatch of dark and light. Dark suits made his eyes seem too bright, and light coloured suits made him feel too European. As much as possible he opted for prussian blue trousers and jackets which didn't emphasise either feature. It didn't stop Jack from making comments however. It was only a matter of time before Greg gave into the inevitable. There was just something about Jack that made him want to unravel that particular mystery.

He searched his pockets for anything useful, but finding only his handkerchief he knew it wasn't going to be enough. Then he remembered the crate the hoix had broken into - it had been full of bedsheets. He rushed over and shoved his hand through the same jagged hole, careful not to injure his own hand in the process pulling out a section of folded material. He quickly ripped it into several lengths, forming makeshift bandages and beginning to wrap them tightly around Jack's injured hand. The first couple soaked through in seconds, turning deep red, but the next couple held, much to his relief.

'Next time, how about we agree on your plans before you enact them, hmm?' Greg suggested.

He caught Jack just sitting there on the ground and staring at him. His hand should have been in absolute agony but he was totally transfixed on Greg's face.

'Jack?'

'Hmm?' Jack replied, sounding distant.

'Are you sure you haven't lost too much blood? You seem a bit vague.'

Jack's eyes locked with his, intensely blue and remarkably lucid. 'I'm fine.'

Greg tried hard to pretend he didn't notice the way Jack was looking at him, working on tying the bandages on Jack's hand and making sure that the skin didn't heal over the top of them. He'd made that mistake before, having to assist in surgically removing fabric from underneath Jack's freshly healed wounds. He diverted his gaze back to Jack's face for a moment and wished he hadn't. He could read Jack's expressions like a book. He knew them all - anger, joy, fear, delight. This look wasn't one of lust like he might have expected when they were alone. There was no hunger in those eyes that spoke of Jack wanting his hand fixed so that he could start ripping off Greg's clothes and taking him right there and then. This was a different look; one he hadn't seen before. It sent chills down his spine.

He liked Jack. No. That wasn't right. He loved Jack. He loved the short time they'd spent together so far. Jack had woken up something inside him that he hadn't known about. He'd been gay almost all his life. Though he knew it was criminal to admit it, he'd never been short on being able to find willing bedfellows. Before the depression had hit, the clubs and bars made it easy. When they went underground, so did the prostitutes. If anything, there'd been more of them once it was all hidden away. It was amazing what people would do for a quid when times were tough. He felt bad for them. It was meant to be enjoyable. He didn't get the same rush of pleasure, knowing that at the end of it all they really wanted was the money. He needed something more permanent, and he might have done had he not ended up working for Torchwood.

Jack was unreservedly handsome and Greg had enjoyed discovering every last inch, even if he'd avoided Jack for months, telling himself that getting involved with him was dangerous. Now however, he knew he'd made a terrible mistake.

Jack's eyes bored into him. The look was unmistakable. Jack didn't just want him, he needed him. Greg had always imagined what that expression would look like when someone finally cast it in his direction, but now it scared him. Jack had fallen for him, hard. He always joked that he only kept coming back to Torchwood to see Greg's gorgeous face, but now he knew it was no self-effacing lie. Jack was completely and utterly in love with him. Greg could see the way Jack was drowning in his presence. It caught him off guard. Jack had been around the traps for decades. He was as transient as the weather, and yet Greg knew that he'd found something to latch himself on to, and that thing was him. He adored Jack but he didn't know if he could ever love him quite as much as Jack seemingly loved him.

He couldn't take that look anymore. He leaned in and closed his eyes, kissing Jack. The kiss was returned just as deeply as he expected, feeling as Jack's good hand reached out to pull him closer, not wanting them to ever break apart. Greg felt a flutter of guilt, though he kept on kissing, knowing Jack needed it. They'd gone headlong into this and now he couldn't backtrack. He couldn't picture them living together, making a life. He envisioned nights of passion and love making, of ripped clothes and sweaty bodies, but there was no morning after, no breakfast and newspapers, no hiding away in some secluded neighbourhood where their proclivities could go unnoticed and unpunished.

When they finally broke apart, Greg pulling away just as tenderly as he could, Jack reached up and stroked his cheek. 'Stay with me tonight?'

'Stay with you where?'

'I have a little bathing box down by the beach. It's nice.'

Greg gave him a wan smile. A bathing box. No doubt Jack must have thought that sounded romantic. Just the two of them, crammed into a space not even made for one to live comfortably, able to watch the sun rise over the water. Maybe Jack thought they could go for a swim as well. His hand would be healed by morning and the salt wouldn't sting. Without a shred of clothing, everything would be exposed to the elements. It had a wildness and recklessness about it that appealed to Greg were it not for the needy way Jack was almost beseeching him to say yes.

'Of course,' Greg replied. 'We need to take this thing back to the hub, and then you can't very well drive yourself home.'

'You're right,' Jack replied. 'I could try and steer with my knees, but power steering won't be invented for another fifty years. Those left hand corners could be deadly,' he joked.

Greg reached out and cupped his face. He was too beautiful and sweet, taking about the future like they were both going to live to see it. No matter how deeply Jack loved him, he was never going to be able to love an old man, assuming Torchwood let him survive that long. He wished Jack didn't love him so much, and that things hadn't escalated as quickly as they had. Perhaps if he could just love Jack as deeply, losing himself in him, then their fate wouldn't burden him so much.