Title: Behind closed doors
Fandom: Torchwood
Characters: Jack, Greg Bishop
Author: m_findlow
Rating: PG
Length: 2,364 words
Content notes: None
Author notes: Written for Challenge 513 - Amnesty, using Challenge 113 - Locked
Summary: Jack has an unusual assignment for Greg.



“Meet me by the water tower at 8pm.” That was all that was written on the small note tucked very conspicuously under the corner of the leather desk blotter. Greg knew the handwriting of course. That perfectly penned script that always sat at a comfortably lazy angle simply didn't match the man it belonged to. Greg Bishop had known Jack Harkness long enough to know he didn't spend more time on anything than was strictly necessary yet his penmanship was uncharacteristically patient and beautiful. If he closed his eyes, Greg could picture those beautiful hands gripping the pen and letting it flow across the page like a Russian ballerina might dance across the stage, confident, graceful and smooth.

Jack was there, just as he said he'd be. Of course there was no tower above ground, just the western edge of the Bute West Dock Basin, near the small footbridge that took you over to the Bute East Dock Basin. It was only underneath that particular flagstone where Jack was stood, that something far more modern lay in wait. Jack assured him that a tower would one day stand tall and proud to mark the spot above ground, but until then, all they had was the secret, submerged tower that hosted the most futuristic alien technology known to man. A machine that could, if operated correctly, control time and space itself. A machine that Jack had made them vow never to attempt to operate, even with the detailed blueprints locked away in their secure archives.

For now the skies were quiet; no sign of German planes overhead ready to drop bombs, and no air raid sirens. Just the gentle deepness of night that could have you forgiven for thinking that a war wasn’t raging just across the narrow strip of ocean between here and mainland Europe. Perhaps, Greg thought, he should have been there, caring for the wounded and the sick, as befit a man of medicine, but here he was instead, in a job he could scarcely believe most days, and moreover, in a relationship with a man. A man that knew about the future because he’d already lived it, but would not utter one word about how it would all come to end. Greg took it as a sign that the promise of a future tower meant that the war would end one day, and that they might be victorious, or perhaps that was just the lie Jack told to keep their spirits up..

‘Evening,’ Greg greeted. He kept the greeting casual, belying the fact that he'd missed not seeing Jack around the hub. Anything to avoid Dr Tilda Brennan, head of Torchwood Three. She and Jack may as well have been oil and water, or more accurately, gasoline and a naked flame. Jack was inherently fly-by-night when it came to his obligations to Torchwood, picking and choosing when he deigned to enter their service and which assignments that might include. Greg had, in the past, been used as a carrot to Doctor Brennan’s stick, in order to lure Jack into more reliable service. It had limited application, but Greg couldn’t deny that he liked the idea that Jack came because spending time together was pleasant. It could also be dangerous and terrifying, but that was all part of the job.

Jack’s face broke into a smile. ‘Greg Bishop, beautiful as ever.’

Greg flushed at the words. Most of his previous liaisons with men were of satiating a physical need. Romance scarcely came into it. ‘You were looking for company this evening?’

‘Indeed I was.’ Jack offered an arm for Greg to loop his into. ‘Care to join me?’ Jack indicated the flagstone.

‘So, not going out tonight,’ Greg surmised. ‘You know I hate that thing,’ he said, referring to the invisible lift that descended some hundred feet down without so much as a guardrail.

Jack wrapped an arm around Greg's waist pulling him close. ‘Don't worry, you’re with the captain tonight.’ He leaned in and kissed Greg as the flagstone shuddered and began its descent below the pavement. Jack's other hand cupped his head, keeping him tethered to his body the whole way down. Greg’s arms found their way around his body, kissing deploy to avoid having to see the empty nothingness that surrounded them on the terrifying drop.

Eventually the flagstone came to a juddering stop signalling their completed descent. The hub was empty, or so Greg had thought as he let the kiss carry on for a while longer, capitalising on the opportunity since they weren't headed out for a drink and something more intimate. An awkward squeak made him finally break away. There, across the way as Greg peered over his shoulder, still wrapped in Jack’s arms, was young Rhydian, caught like a deer in the headlights at the sight of the two men.

‘Doctor Bishop,’ Rhydian stuttered, his face flushing pink. ‘I thought you’d gone home for the evening.’

‘Rhydian!’ Jack cried, removing his hands from around Greg and loping from the flagstone with his trademark grin and dazzling blue eyes. ‘Looking good! Last here again tonight?’

Rhydian cleared his throat as his eyes darted away for a split second. Greg and Jack weren’t a new concept to him, yet he still struggled to find the correct social acceptance and platitudes. ‘Just on my way home,’ he said, gripping his satchel nervously. ‘You two are… er…’

‘Just catching up for a drink,’ Greg offered, putting the lad out of his misery at the awkwardness of seeing two men in highly illegal flagrante delicto. He came to stand next to Jack, making sure to keep a firm two feet of distance between them.

Rhydian nodded. ‘Very good. See you in the morning.’ And with that, he hurried away.

‘He could always…’ Jack muttered in Greg's ear.

‘Don’t,’ Greg snapped. ‘It's 1941, not 5051.’ Poor Rhydian. Coping with aliens was the limit of Rhydian's world view. Homosexuality was simply a bridge too far. ‘Now, do you want to tell me why we’re here?’

Jack's look turned unexpectedly stern. ‘Brennan is hiding something. I need to know what.’

Rather than pepper Jack with questions, Greg allowed himself to be led. Jack would explain himself in his own time, and Greg also knew that Jack loved nothing more than the great reveal. What bothered him though was the inference that Doctor Brennan was doing something that worked against them. She may have been many things, but she was Torchwood through and through.

Jack led them down to a disused part of the hub, many floors beneath, to an obscure locked door in an otherwise empty corridor. How Jack had come upon this as some secret hiding place was anyone’s guess. ‘It's a dual lock,’ Jack explained. ‘I can override the swipe card lock, but this,’ he said, fingering the large brass padlock, ‘needs someone with surgical precision.’

‘Jack, I'm a medical doctor, not a professional cat burglar.’

‘So, you can't pick that lock?’

Greg knew when he was being goaded and manipulated, but he let Jack get away with it. ‘I did not say that. I simply remark on the fact that I feel I've been brought here under false pretenses, to be used as you see fit.’ He was beginning to regret ever having mentioned his ability to pick locks.

‘And I don't like people who hide things from me,’ Jack said as he flipped open the panel on his wrist strap and began pressing buttons. He held it close to the security panel and after a few moments the light on top flashed green, leaving just the physical security barring his way. Jack fixed him with a look when Greg didn't make any move towards it. ‘There's a war going on in case you hadn’t noticed.’

‘I'm painfully aware of the war, Jack. I gave up my commission to be here.’ Greg sighed and pulled his wallet from his pocket, extracting a small set of tools and kneeling down to be eye level with the padlock. This was not going to be the enjoyable evening he'd hoped for. He slipped the first tool into the narrow space and twisted it, before sliding in the second. ‘I'm rather surprised that you don't have this skill in your repertoire.’

Jack shrugged off the comment. ‘Never had the patience for it. I find a gun usually works against most locks.’

Greg paused long enough to look up at him and arch an eyebrow. ‘But this requires a little more subtlety?’

‘Exactly.’

‘And you couldn't steal the key?’ It certainly would have been easier than being down here trying to forcefully render the lock useless. What if Brennan came down here whilst they were there, trying to break in?

‘I’ve watched her,’ Jack replied, leaning sideways against the concrete corridor, arms folded. ‘She never lets that key out of her sight; keeps it on a chain around her neck. Even I’m not crazy enough to get that close to her. There are places for storing stuff too dangerous to ever be used, which means either it’s dangerous and being used, or not dangerous and still being used. And believe me, I don't believe for a second that she's keeping a secret stash of knitting down here.’

Greg rolled his eyes and carried on feeling his way with his tools, pressing one tumbler as he worked to find the next. He knew what they were doing was frowned upon at best, treasonous at worst. Though Greg himself was now also slightly curious. Dr Brennan was in charge, and by rights had every reason to keep certain things under lock and key. But Jack had also rightly pointed out that the secure archive, that large antique wall safe tucked in the corner of Brennan's office, was the official place for such things. They all knew what was in there. It was well documented from their files. There were things far too dangerous even for Torchwood to consider using. That much gave Greg the belief that none of them were above reproach. They were all contractually bound by the same red line, never to be crossed.

‘You don't think Dr Brennan is doing anything… untoward down here do you?’

‘She wouldn't be the first,’ Jack replied grimly. ‘I've held a gun to the head of more Torchwood agents than I care to remember.’

‘Unsettling,’ Greg replied. ‘I hope I don't become one of them.’

A warm hand found the back of Greg's neck. ‘Never. You're special. One of a kind.’

‘Good to know.’ As much as he knew it was inevitable, he was already dreading the day that Jack was out of his life. Whether by choice or not, there was no happily ever after for them, in this decade or any decade, war or no war. Life after Torchwood, and Jack, seemed simply unable to be imagined.

Greg’s curved pick finally found its mark, setting tumbler number three on its way. The last one would be easy after that. He twiddled the left hand pick and then worked at it for a few minutes. As he did, his mind turned to all the possibilities of what might lie beyond the door. Brennan had been good to him – fair and reasonable, dedicated to the work they did – and he’d been a diligent servant in return. It was a strange thing to say given the very nature of their work. Whilst she and Jack didn’t always see eye to eye, there'd been countless times when they’d worked in tandem to achieve a result. Admittedly, there'd also been times when Brennan had used Greg’s relationship with Jack to get him to toe the line, and vice versa, but Greg was happy to be arbiter if it meant keeping people safe. Bad enough they were worried about being bombed, they certainly couldn’t have coped with knowing there were weevils roaming the sewers and the dockyards, and all manner of other alien ephemera. Brennan and her team were holding the whole city together.

The more Greg thought about it, the less convinced he was that this was anything more than snooping on Jack’s part. He hated not knowing everything and having access to every corner of the hub. He hadn’t even provided any firm evidence to indicate that they should be concerned. The notion of what they were doing suddenly sat very uncomfortably with him.

With a huff he sat back on his heels. ‘It's no use, Jack,’ he said, withdrawing the picks and undoing all his hard work.

Jack’s expression turned stony. ‘Try harder. We have to get inside and see what’s there.’

‘It's impossible. I’ve tried everything I know. This isn’t like any lock I've ever picked.’

Jack dropped back against the wall and let out a vexed sigh. He looked down at Greg, that earlier flash of anger replaced by disappointment. ‘Nothing?’

‘Unless you want to give the bullet method a try.’ Jack huffed again. Even he knew that was too obvious. ‘I'm afraid we may have to let it remain a mystery for now.’ He rubbed at Jack's calf and looked up at him earnestly. ‘I’m sure it's nothing dangerous. It might be some kind of private quarters for all we know.’ Certainly if it had been, and she'd been inside, they’d have found out pretty quickly as she threw open the door and gave them what for.

Jack’s eyes narrowed at the door and its unwillingness to give up its secrets easily. He looked down at Greg, who was still gently stroking his leg. Jack's hand came down to run itself through the short dark hair. ‘Thank you for trying.’

‘Anything for you,’ Greg replied. ‘You know that.’ Well, almost anything. One more twist and he'd have had the lock open, but a gut feeling had stayed his hand. There was no harm in giving it some time, he decided. He could watch and wait, just as Jack had done, without tipping Brennan off, until he could be sure that they should be prying into things that didn’t concern them. He just prayed that he wouldn't live to regret the day he’d lied to his lover.