othercaptjack | (no subject)

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milliways

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Jack is not scholarly-minded by nature, but sometimes a little theoretical work is unavoidable, especially for those who use a great deal of cyphers and code and have nasty, suspicious and above all twisty minds (like Jack). His notebook is slowly being filled with number combinations, together with bits and pieces of Thirbite algebra.

(So much easier than the earth variety, provided you have the necessary languages to translate back when you're done.)

Since, however, there's only so much dry data you can take when you are by nature a social creature, he's doing this at a table in the middle of the bar, with the vague hope that someone will interrupt.

He can't be rude enough to ignore anyone, and then he'll have a legitimate excuse to wrap things up for the day.

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The question isn't whether or not the demon used him to hurt anyone while it was running around Milliways in his body.

Sam already knows the answer to that. Unfortunately.

No, the real question now is -- who all got hurt, and how badly?

That's why Sam Winchester's currently sitting in a booth, looking around the room for anyone who might react at seeing him. He's got a Coke instead of a beer, and is being careful to keep both hands in sight.

At the moment, he's watching the guy who's bent over the notebook and who looks a hell of a lot like --

"Cal?"

Jack glances up out of habit at a nearby voice - immortal or not, he's fundamentally twitchy in some ways - before realizing. He puts his pen down and turns to locate the owner of the voice.

"No," he says, directing a smile towards Sam that is almost but not quite the same as Cal's politically trustworthy one. The charm of a confidence trickster, retired or no, is similar but just that little bit different.

"Sorry, I know we look the same. Hi; Captain Jack Harkness."

He blinks, then gives Jack a quick, abashed grin.

"Boy, you're not kidding. He mentioned your name and that you looked alike, but that's some resemblance."

At least it's not like dealing with a shapeshifter. Sam shakes his head, ruefully amused.

"Anyway, hi. Sam Winchester."

Jack laughs, and silently and casually palms a small bottle that he had taken care to get ahold of a little while back.

"You're telling me. I got back after a very long absence, and he was one of the first people I ran into. What a welcome back. Good to meet you, Sam."

He reaches out to shake hands.

"Ouch. I'm guessing that must have been a hell of a shock."

He leans over to meet Jack's hand with his own.

"Same goes."

"Yeah, I did have to run a few hallucination checks," Jack says dryly, then quickly and casually upends then contents of the little bottle over both their hands, not even bothering to excuse the action.

"Oops."

He jerks reflexively at the unexpected action.

"What the--"

Sam stares at the water dripping from their hands, then looks up at Jack.

A nauseating suspicion is beginning to form.

"Shit."

Jack's friendly smile is still in place, but the look in his eyes is suddenly a lot cooller, darker, and somehow more real.

"Well, I'm guessing you're either no longer possessed, or the most relaxed demon in existence," he says, releasing Sam's hand.

"That was the good stuff, too - no less than three priests of major denominations, or so I understand."

Edited 2009-07-27 01:04 (UTC)

"Might as well be thorough about it."

A beat.

"The former," Sam says, quietly. "It's gone. Sent back to hell where it belongs."

He visibly braces himself, even as he continues to meet Jack's gaze.

"Who was it? You?"

"Might as well," Jack agrees, then tosses him a napkin from his table, with an appreciative nod for the fate of Sam's former passenger.

"Good. And no, not me. Ianto Jones."

He winces, as though he's just received a blow, even as he catches the napkin and begins to dry his hand.

"Is he--"

Not dead; please whatever powers there are, if any, not dead. Then again, if Ianto were dead, he can't imagine this guy would be so relatively calm.

"Did I-- how badly -- "

"No," Jack confirms, expression softening a little. He's not quite enough of a bastard to let Sam keep thinking along those lines.

"He's all right. A little bruised, a bit shaken. Mostly he was worried about you."

"Me?" Sam laughs; it's short, sharp, and bitter. "I'm fine."

Aside from the burn marks on his right arm that he'll carry forever, despite that he still feels filthy and contaminated right down to his soul from the simple fact of having had a demon inside him-- he's not the one who got hurt.

"I'm glad he's okay."

"Me too," Jack says, watching Sam's face. The expression is... familiar, let's say.

"Possession - demonic or otherwise - is never fun. How did you get rid of it?"

He glances up at this, and the look Jack gets is a hell of a lot more assessing than it was before, resemblance to Cal or not.

"Sounds almost like you know something about it." Beat. "How do you know Ianto, anyway?"

Another beat, and then,

"I didn't. My brother Dean and our friend Bobby took care of it."

"I'm his boss," says Jack; and that should explain something, depending on how much Ianto has told Sam about Torchwood.

"Really," he continues. "What's the best method? Our specialty's really more extraterrestrial, but always ready to branch out."

It would say a lot more if Sam remembered any of the conversation that took place while the demon was driving, but as it is...

"So you, uh, work for that institute too?"

Sam shrugs one shoulder.

"In general, exorcism's pretty much the go-to way to get rid of one that we've found--"

Without using a weapon like the Colt or killing the host, that is.

"-- although sometimes it can be hard to keep it off you until you get through the ritual. Salt helps with that. So does a devil's trap -- seal of Solomon stuff, if you know it?"

"Yeah," Jack says.

"Salt, huh? That's pretty handy, nice and common. Never come across a Seal of Solomon, though, unless it went by a different name at the time. I'm guessing holy water's good too?" he asks, grinning wryly and waving the now-empty bottle a little before tossing it onto the table.

"I like to be prepared for whatever might come our way."

He gives Jack a wry grimace that's probably meant to be a smile.

"Figured you knew that part already. But yeah, holy water too. Hurts 'em, can repel them, that sort of thing."

There's a selection of condiments in a basket at one side of the table. Sam reaches for the saltshaker as he says,

"Dunno how well it'll work in your world, but it's pretty basic stuff, so -- look here." He picks up the saltshaker and unscrews the top, then takes the holy water vial and sets it upright in the middle of the table. Sam pours out a line of salt in a ring around the vial, then looks at Jack.

"It acts like a barrier. Keeps things out."

A beat.

"Keeps them in too, or it can, but it's a lot harder to get something to stand still while you put the ring around it." A small grin. "You have to be sneaky about it. Not to mention fast."

Jack grins back, wide and bright.

"Sneaky I can do."

He may be in denial about that. But... con-man. He must have skills somewhere.

"Yeah," Sam says. Dryly. "I noticed."

"Glad you think so," Jack continues, rueful but unrepentant. "Ianto tells me I'm not good at subtle, and I'm not sure whether or not to be put out."

(That coat he's wearing... billows. A lot. Ianto, in this sense, is quite right.)

"I don't know about subtle," he counters, "but sneaky I believe."

He laughs and shrugs once. Jack certainly seems as cheerful and friendly a guy as you'd like to meet now, so perhaps Sam has something there.

Or it could just be the Harkness charm in operation now the possibility of a fight has dwindled.

"Would you know much about sneaky?" he asks. "I'm inclined to think yes, but then I have no idea what your line of work is; other than that demons are an issue."

"You guys have an institute," Sam tells him. "We're more independent. It's a family business."

A beat.

"Also, fewer aliens."

"Right, your brother Dean," Jack says with a nod. "Must be good, knowing someone's got your back like that."

Must also be terrifying for the other when something like that happens.

"Yeah," he agrees. "We're a team."

Jack smiles faintly.

"Sounds good."

"Uh-huh."

Except when his demon-possessed hand is holding the gun that shoots his brother in the shoulder.

"I should probably be getting back. Uh, will you tell Ianto -- tell him I'm sorry, okay?"

There is that.

Jack smiles again, and nods. "I will. He knows it's not your fault," Especially with Torchwood being as it is, "But I think he'll appreciate it."

Again: With Torchwood the way they are... common courtesy and consideration often gets passed by. Gwen tries her best, but she's fighting a losing battle there.

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