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In Cardiff, at the end of a grey Tuesday just before Christmas, Jack Harkness says, “Detective Inspector.”
“Captain,” Lestrade acknowledges grimly, and turns up his collar, and squints against the icy drizzle coming down.
“I gotta say, I'm surprised you didn't show up sooner,” Jack says, and leans back against the railing on the pier. “It's been a while since Baskerville.”
“Well,” Lestrade says, and rubs the back of his hand over his mouth, “I've been busy.”
“So I've heard,” Jack says, and then softens considerably. “You look tired. Let me buy you a drink.”
“Look,” Lestrade says, and scowls at a couple of seagulls fighting over a soggy chip. “This isn't a social visit.”
Jack shrugs, unperturbed, and says, “Let me buy you a drink anyway.”
“Jack,” Lestrade says, and pinches the bridge of his nose, and Jack just grins.
“Come on,” he says, and swats Lestrade's bum, “I know just the place.”
Lestrade sighs, and slumps, and eventually follows him. “Just so we're clear, I'm not sucking your dick just because you buy me a drink.”
“Alright,” Jack says, and then leers as he adds, “To be fair though, that's what you said last time, too.”
“Bugger off, Harkness,” Lestrade grouses, and Jack laughs.
He leads them to a quiet little pub, and orders them drinks, and when they're seated in a secluded booth at the back he asks, “So, if this isn't a social visit, then what is it?”
Lestrade takes a sip from his pint, and draws lines in the condensation on the glass with his thumb, and he says, “I need to find the Doctor.”
“Why?” Jack asks, and Lestrade just gives him a deadpan stare. “Right, sorry. That was a stupid question. Why now, though?”
Lestrade shrugs, and says, “Because the greatest man I've ever known is dead, and I was too much of a coward to come here earlier.”
Jack's smile is sad and like he understands, and he says, “Even if you find the Doctor, there's nothing you can do to change what happened. Dead's dead.”
“Except when it's not,” Lestrade says, and Jack remembers when they first met and he bled out on the pavement.
“Yeah,” he says, and traces the rim of his water glass, “but that's different.”
“Sure,” Lestrade says, and takes another swig of beer, “but that doesn't mean he has to be dead.”
“Greg,” Jack says, and it gets him Lestrade's full attention. “It's a fixed point in time.”
“Fuck,” Lestrade says, and Jack's laugh is humourless.
“Yeah, you can say that again,” he says, and then sobers. “I'm sorry.”
“Yeah,” Lestrade says, and rubs the spot where his wedding ring used to sit.
“I mean it,” Jack says, and reaches out but doesn't quite touch Lestrade's hand. “I'm sorry your friend died, and I'm sorry you almost lost your job, and I'm sorry about your wife.”
A rueful grin tugs at the corner of Lestrade's mouth, and he says, “Which one? The one you shot because she was an alien or the one who fucked the PE teacher?”
“The alien, she was hot,” Jack says, and when their eyes meet they start laughing and don't stop until their sides hurt and they can't breathe.
When they've calmed down, and Jack's switched his glass of water for scotch, Lestrade says, “Can I ask you something?”
Jack leers, and says, “Anything you want.”
Lestrade rolls his eyes, and then says, “Do you think he does it on purpose? Show us the stars and then dump us here to grow old, does he do it deliberately?”
Jack shrugs, and says, “You've known him longer than I have.”
“Liar,” Lestrade says, and it isn't reproachful.
“Well, you met him before he met me,” Jack says, and almost sounds jealous but he's smiling.
“Bloody Northern bastard,” Lestrade says fondly, and lifts his glass in a toast.
Jack grins, and he says, “You should have met him when he wore that big coat and the pinstripe suits. I swear he was like a little kid on a sugar high.”
“Can't have been worse than the bow ties,” Lestrade says, and Jack chuckles into his drink, and after a pause he adds, “I lied, you know.”
“What, about the bow ties?” Jack asks, and he looks confused.
“About why I'm here,” Lestrade says, and Jack doesn't seem surprised.
He knocks back the remainder of his drink, and says, “Let's get out of here.”
It's dark outside, the streets nearly empty, and in an unlit alleyway Lestrade is pushed up against the wall and kissed. It's hard and messy, and there's nothing kind about it, and he groans into Jack's mouth when their teeth knock together.
Jack is quick to crouch down and undo Lestrade's trousers, and he's efficient about the way he takes his cock into his mouth and sucks. The back of Lestrade's head hits the wall, and he curses when Jack's cold nose presses into his skin and scrapes his palms on the dirty bricks, and he comes with a full-body shudder and a soundless oh.
He's tucked back into his trousers, and barely has time to shiver at the cold before Jack's kissing him again, and he feels far too sluggish to do more than tug Jack closer by his coat and bite his neck as he wanks into a paper serviette from the pub.
Jack says, “Oh, fuck,” and tips his head back as he comes.
“Thanks,” Lestrade says, when they've put themselves back together again and their flushed faces can be chalked down to alcohol and winter air.
“Any time,” Jack says, and means it.
Lestrade checks his watch as they re-emerge onto the main street, and says, “I should probably get going if I want to get any sleep at all tonight.”
Jack makes a non-committal noise, and they watch a few people pass them, and eventually he says, “I don't think he does it on purpose, no. I think he's lonely, and old enough to know that life can be a right bitch.” He smiles, and it's sad and fond, and he says, “And he's foolish enough to want to change that.”
The corner of Lestrade's mouth tilts up, and he shoves his hands into his coat pockets, and asks, “Do you ever wish you'd never met the Doctor?”
“All the time,” Jack says, “and never.”
“Yeah,” Lestrade says, and their eyes meet, “me too.”
Lestrade returns to London, and remembers years and years ago, when he was a child and a man with big ears and a mad grin said chin up. He remembers an impossible blue box and all of time and space, and seeing supernovas up close and swimming in oceans under twin suns, and he remembers growing up and growing old.
He never tells anyone, but he doesn't believe Sherlock Holmes is dead; he's seen men die, and live, before.
and left to the indifferent stars above