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Let Be (Crossover with Torchwood)
by Topaz Eyes
A/N: Spoilers for Torchwood 2 x 13, "Exit Wounds" and House 4 x 16, "Wilson's Heart." This story is partially based on the haunting Torchwood vid Let Go by .
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Captain Jack Harkness stood on the sidewalk outside the bar, deciding whether he wanted to go in. He certainly deserved this--it had been an exhausting few days. The American CIA had called Torchwood in to assist with what turned out to be an attempted Weevil infestation in Princeton, New Jersey. Jack and Ianto Jones had flown across the pond from the Hub in Cardiff to rein them in. The operation was now done, despite a few close calls, so it was time to relax.
For Jack, that meant exploring the Princeton nightlife, such as it was. Mingle with the locals, was his motto. You learned more things that way. It was too bad Ianto decided not to accompany him though, because he would have liked having his company tonight (among other things). But Ianto had preferred to stay behind at the FBI field office to finish RetConning the agents. He'd said he'd meet Jack at their hotel afterwards.
Ultimately, Jack's wandering had led him to this bar in the lower downtown section of Princeton. Sharrie's. Intriguing name. Sounded like an interesting place. He may as well go in, check it out and have a drink.
Upon entering he looked around, surveying the layout and the exits; it was a habit borne from more than a century of avoiding (and causing) bar fights. It had the look, but not the cozy feel, of a traditional pub--perhaps because of the surly bartender. From the guy's forearms, he had to be a walking tattoo.
At eight-thirty in the evening, Sharrie's was only half-full. There was one man sitting at the bar, his whole body seemingly curled around the glass in his hands as if it were the only thing left to hold onto. Jack raised an appreciative eyebrow. The man was about six feet tall--in jeans and a gray sweatshirt with red printing on the front. Short brown hair, Greek nose, thick eyebrows, and long, elegant hands--attractive in a preppy sort of way. Though on closer examination, he hadn't slept in days, judging by the purple shadows under his eyes. Still--
"Hi." Jack stepped up to the man and grinned in full-charm mode. "Is this seat taken?"
The man looked at him, frowning as he tried to focus. "Go ahead." He turned back to nursing his empty glass.
Jack slid onto a stool beside the forlorn drinker and ordered tonic water. The bartender scowled when he set it down, then withdrew to wipe out beer glasses with a dish towel.
"Captain Jack Harkness." Jack held out his hand to the man. "You?"
The man stared down at it for a minute before shaking it. "Wilson. James."
"Pleased to meet you, Wilson James."
The drinker furrowed his eyebrows in puzzlement, then grinned. "Oh, I get it, it's the other way around! But I'm used to being called by my last name, not my first."
Jack sipped his tonic, amused. "So you work in a private school?"
"Hospital, actually. Head of Oncology, Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. Just--a habit we're used to."
James looked at him, smirked, then wobbled precariously on his stool.
"Whoa there, big guy. Don't fall off." Jack reached out to steady him, and looked around. "Want to move to a table?"
"Are--are you trying to pick me up?" James glanced over to where Jack was pointing, at a small, round table in the corner.
James looked adorably confused. Jack sipped his tonic water thoughtfully. Anonymous sex was a good way to ignore pain temporarily, and he could charm anyone into it if he tried. Except James looked like he needed a friend tonight, not a lay.
"No. But do you want me to?" He waggled his eyebrows.
James shook his head in amusement, then tried to slide off the stool, only to fall heavily into Jack; he hauled him up to standing and they lurched to the table.
"I'm a lightweight," James said, chuckling as Jack pushed him into a chair. "That's what House says."
Jack grinned, thinking of Ianto, who would stagger after only three drinks of ale; of Toshiko, sipping champagne at the Ritz in 1941 during the London Blitz.
"Hey, get me another Maker's Mark?"
Jack strode back to the bar to fetch another whiskey on the rocks and tonic water. The bartender watched him and snorted after Jack turned back to the table.
He sat down, his back to the wall, and surveyed the bar again. It was starting to fill up, the buzz of chatting bees getting louder. James studied him, his head swaying slightly.
"Now that's a nice greatcoat! God, it's gorgeous! Where'd you get it?"
Jack looked down and brushed its wool fondly. "It's an heirloom."
"It's perfect on you. You look like you stepped out of Twelve O'Clock High."
Jack grinned. "Yeah? I know a bit about that era."
James peered at him. "Are you sure you're not Gregory Peck? 'Cause you sorta look like him."
He stared at James' well-manicured hand, sobering slightly as he thought of the Captain reaching for his own. "I'm positive."
"'Cause that would be so great." James sipped his whiskey. "I always wanted to meet him. I always liked the 1940s, y'know? Films were films then. Like Ingrid Bergman and Humphrey Bogart in Casablanca."
Jack nodded, seeing himself dancing with Rose Tyler on top of Big Ben. Meeting the Doctor, the TARDIS--leaving his con man life behind. Fond times.
"'Course, House would tell me to pull my head out of my ass and live in the present."
Jack raised an eyebrow. "Oh? Who's House?"
"My supposed best friend." James smirked and doodled in the condensation left on the table. "Did you know he killed my girlfriend?"
"Oh, God." Jack blinked, taken aback.
"Well, he didn't kill her directly," James amended, his mouth twisting wryly. "But he caused her death. May as well be the same thing." He sat back, his head against the wall, and laughed
Jack heard the tinge of desperate giddiness that would surely lead into familiar self-recrimination. He studied James carefully. "What happened?" he said, as gently as the background noise would allow.
James shrugged, thinking for a minute. "House--he got drunk. Here, actually. In this stupid dive." James giggled, waving his hand around the bar. "He called me for a ride home. I was on call. He got Amber instead." James shifted his gaze to the table. "She drove here to pick him up. But he decided to take the bus."
James looked up at the ceiling, blinking rapidly. Jack set his glass down and slid his hand towards him.
"She followed him. God, Amber--They were on the bus--there was a garbage truck--I didn't even know she'd been hurt--"
Jack took his hand and squeezed it gently.
James sighed heavily, not seeming to notice. "She'd taken amantadine just before the crash. A flu drug. A stupid flu drug! But her kidneys were injured. The drug damaged her heart and--she died."
"I'm sorry."
James' mouth quirked as he withdrew his hand from Jack's clasp. "I came here because this was the last place she was, before she--before she--" James looked down at the table.
Jack thought of how often he'd stared at the spot in the Hub where Tosh had sat, slumped in a pool of blood. "I know," he murmured.
"He tried to save her," James added, his eyes glassy. "House. He tried. Hell, I asked! He figured it out, but--it didn't matter."
He fell silent, his gaze darting all around the room. Jack looked down at the table, at the swirls James had drawn.
"A toast," Jack said, raising his glass, and James looked up. "To missing loved ones."
James raised his and downed the remaining whiskey in one. He slammed the tumbler on the table. The resounding thud of glass on glass startled the customers sitting beside them.
"You know what's the most pathetic 'bout all this? You're a stranger. I've known you what? Maybe half an hour? And you've listened to me more than he's ever done."
Jack gazed at him steadily. "And yet you're still friends with him?"
James looked away. "It's complicated."
An image of John Hart blurred before Jack's eyes. "Yeah. I hear that."
James shoved himself away from the table and stood up to stagger to the bar, pulling his car keys out of his jeans pocket. Jack also rose, alarmed, and followed closely behind.
"'Nother whiskey and whatever my friend's drinking," he called to the bartender.
The bartender shook his head. "No way. You've had enough, buddy." He grabbed the car keys out of James' grasp. "Go home."
James stumbled behind the bartender, protesting. "You took my keys!"
The bartender headed toward an old-fangled cash register tray behind the bar. "Yeah, well, I ain't lettin' you drive, bud. Take a cab. Bus stop's outside. Pick up your keys tomorrow."
James' face darkened as he raised his fist. "You took my KEYS! You fucking ASSHOLE--"
The bartender stopped. "What did you say?"
Jack jumped between them and seized James' forearm. "Hey, hey, it's okay!" He addressed the bartender. "I'll make sure he gets home." He beckoned for James' keys.
The bartender leered. "Yeah, I bet you will." He threw the keys at Jack and turned away. "Fucking faggots," he added under his breath.
Jack froze, but decided to let it slide. He had to get this guy home safely, and calling Ianto to bail him out of gaol was not a good plan. Instead, he half-dragged, half-carried James to his car.
After Jack poured James into the passenger side of his Volvo, they drove back to his condo in silence. Thankfully the Volvo had GPS in it, so finding the condo wasn't a problem, except the fifteen-minute crosstown drive was out of his way. He'd have to take a cab back to the hotel. Or call Ianto to pick him up.
James' condo was on street level. It took him three tries to insert the key in the lock, James guffawing each time as the key jabbed into the wood. Jack waited patiently, thinking he'd stay long enough to make sure James was okay on his own. The poor guy was so close to breaking. Jack knew that feeling, too.
"D'you wanna drink?" James lurched unsteadily into the living room.
"I'm good, thanks." He dropped his greatcoat on the armchair closest to him.
"You sure?" James tripped towards the kitchen.
Jack stood in the middle of the room and looked around at the muted walls, the tasteful furniture; at the pictures of James and an attractive blond woman, who had to be Amber, on the mantel and oak end tables. One appeared to be on a boat. Both of them looked happy, smiling, alive--a vision of himself with his little brother Gray, running on the dunes in the Boeshane Peninsula, flared briefly like a dream.
He also noted a black laptop with a thin coat of dust on the coffee table.
James came out of the kitchen, wiping his hands with a tea towel. "I was going to propose to Amber after I got home that night from being on call," he said conversationally, "but I suppose I don't need her engagement ring now." Jack followed his gaze to the small velvet box sitting beside the laptop. "The ring's already sized. Do you think the store will take it back?"
A picture of Gwen's wedding to Rhys, her radiant gap-toothed smile, the diamond flashing on her finger. "They should if you let them know why," he said carefully.
"Or maybe I should make House pay for it." James laughed at that. "Like that will ever happen." He dropped the tea towel that he'd been wringing in his hands to the floor.
Jack didn't know what to say--he simply watched James, who now stood forlornly in the middle of the room. James' voice grew sober. "What do I do, Jack? What the hell do I do about House?"
Jack stared at a whorl of carpet, thinking of Rose who had condemned him to eternal life.
Of the Doctor who had abandoned him.
Of Ianto, Owen, Toshiko and John, who had all betrayed him--
Of Gray.
He looked straight into James' face. "You forgive him," he replied softly.
James cackled, a bitter, mirthless laugh. "Forgive him? You don't even know everything he's done to me!"
"No, I don't."
James folded his arms, staring at the floor. "He's cost me--he's cost me everything."
Jack stepped in front of him. "It doesn't matter." He put a hand on his shoulder. "If you love him, you forgive him. You let it go. And you both move on."
James gazed at him, his eyes bleak. "I've forgiven him too many times already. He killed my--my happiness! Why should I let it go this time?"
Jack blinked rapidly, remembering Gray's face twisted with hate as he stood over his grave; as he stood over Gray's body in the cryo-storage box at the Hub. "Because--I've been there," he replied, his own voice husky. "And the pain is not worth holding onto."
"I can't." James turned away, fists clenched at his sides. "Not for this. I--I don't have it in me anymore." His voice hitched; he stared at the ceiling and shook his head. Tension rippled through his arms and back.
"You'll find it again, James," Jack replied gently. "If you wait long enough--if you dig deep enough--it'll come." He turned James around to face him again. "Just give it time."
James slumped all at once and as he did, Jack pulled him into a tight embrace. He held James, supporting his weight; James leaned his forehead on Jack's shoulder and clutched his arms with a death-like grip. Jack felt the violent trembling course through his body.
"I hate him, Jack," he whispered. "I HATE him."
"I know," Jack murmured against his hair. "I know."
"How do I live with what he--?"
He remembered Owen shooting him in the head to open the Rift; Owen lying dead, on the metal autopsy table in the Hub; holding him tightly in his arms. "You learn."
He felt, rather than heard, James' dry sobs against his shoulder.
When James finally stopped shaking, Jack guided him onto the sofa. James curled up obediently and closed his eyes. Jack removed his shoes and pulled the blanket up to cover him, noticing peach satin wadded underneath. When he shook it out, he realized it was Amber's peignoir. He placed it beside James, and fought back tears as James tucked it under his chin; as Tosh's farewell message ran through his mind.
Jack smoothed his hair, thinking of the vial of RetCon in his pocket. Would it be a blessing to wipe himself and the last few hours from James' memory? But James still had to live tomorrow, with the pain of his friendship with this House person. He had to hope the amount of alcohol James had consumed, was enough to make all this a blur.
He rose and went into the bathroom to splash cold water on his face. Amber was everywhere, he thought, looking around. In the soft mauve towels, in the pots of makeup and bottles of lotions. House was everywhere too, judging by the weight of James' grief. God, but he knew that feeling. He sighed and studied himself in the mirror.
He heard the click of a key turning in the lock and the squeak of hinges, followed by a voice. Strong, feminine, and more than a little concerned.
"Wilson? Wilson, where are you, are you here?"
Jack heard a brief silence, followed by a relieved, "Oh, thank God. Where were you tonight? I was so worried, even House didn't know where you'd gone."
There was no other way out of the bathroom except through the door. But he'd been in worse places. Jack went out, ready to turn on the charm again.
"I think he's passed out for the night," Jack said equably.
The woman startled and jumped up from where she was kneeling next to James.
"Who are you? What are you doing here?"
She was petite, fiery, and so damned attractive with the way her dark curls fell around her shoulders. Any other place and time he'd... instead he nodded toward the sofa. "I found him at a bar," he said. "He was drunk. I brought him home."
She narrowed her eyes. "Which bar?"
"I think it was called Sharrie's."
"Oh, God," she said softly, turning back towards James. "Wilson, you idiot! You're just as bad as House is!" She knelt beside him and touched his shoulder. James frowned, but didn't wake.
"He's okay. He just needs to sleep it off." He picked up his greatcoat off the armchair and gestured at the door. "I should be going now."
He strode toward the door but stopped when she spoke.
"Wait. Who--who are you again?"
"Cap--" Jack stopped, and smiled sadly. "I'm a friend."
The gorgeous woman looked at him skeptically, but she didn't press the matter. "Do you need a ride? I can call you a cab--"
"Thanks, but I'm fine." He gazed at her. "Take care of him," he added gently.
Her face softened. "I will. Whoever you are--thank you."
"My pleasure."
Jack stood at the door for a moment as he donned his greatcoat, watching her as she smoothed James' hair. He was in good hands now, he decided. Feeling relieved, he let himself out.
Outside, Jack stared up at the stars shining through the breaks in the clouds. He'd had enough betrayals over two thousand years to figure it out. He hoped James would learn too. Silently he wished James and House luck. Then he pulled out his mobile phone and punched in a number.
At least he still had this to hold onto.
"Hi, Ianto? Can you pick me up?"
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Legal Disclaimer: The authors published here make no claims on the ownership of Dr. Gregory House and the other fictional residents of Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. Like the television show House (and quite possibly Dr. Wilson's pocket protector), they are the property of NBC/Universal, David Shore and undoubtedly other individuals of whom I am only peripherally aware. The fan fiction authors published here receive no monetary benefit from their work and intend no copyright infringement nor slight to the actual owners. We love the characters and we love the show, otherwise we wouldn't be here.
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