Title: Invincible Summer (2/6)

Author: Emma

Characters: Tish Jones, John Hart, Andy Davidson

Rating: R

Disclaimer: Oh, please. If I owned them, would I let some of those idiots write the scripts? And if I were making any money off them, would I be where they could find me?

Spoilers: None. This takes place in my Homecoming AU, a year or so after The Hour of the Wolf

Summary: The Year That Never Was comes back to haunt Tish Jones and it’s up to John and Andy to help her exorcise the ghost.

Author’s Note: The discussion Andy and John have about the Year that Never Was is based on my story A Very Private War.

In the depth of winter, I finally learned that within me there lay an invincible summer. — Albert Camus

Part one is here

 

            Andy Davidson hung on for dear life as the Ferrari cornered without slowing, sliding across the wet pavement, then accelerated downhill until it felt as if they were barely skimming the surface of the road. Under different circumstances he would have been screaming at John to slow down, but he had caught Jack’s urgency, not to mention his rage. Like ninety-eight percent of the world’s population Andy did not remember the year that had been erased from Time itself – a concept that made his head spin in distinctly unpleasant ways – but he had picked up enough to know terrible, monstrous things had thankfully been undone. He had once asked Jack what had happened to Cardiff; Jack’s soft, final leave it Andy had chilled him to the bone.

            Once Jack had finished talking to Professor Jones, he had gone into overdrive. Since he seldom bothered to throw his weight around, Andy sometimes forgot exactly how much power Jack Harkness could wield when it suited him. And this time, it suited him in spades. Even before John and Andy finished packing some very highly placed folk were stuttering through explanations. Andy was willing to bet that just about now, a number of government departments and quasi-official agencies were marching to the beat of the Torchwood drum. Andy expected nothing less.

            What he hadn’t expected was John’s reaction. When Jack had mentioned Stannick, John had gone tight-lipped and very, very calm. Over the years, Andy had learned that John was at his most dangerous when he seemed most still, in the same way that he was at his most sincere when he was most quiet. Stannick’s name had sent John into an unholy rage.

            He studied the man next to him. John hadn’t changed much in the last ten years, except to become leaner, more spare, more angular. He could still be a sarcastic arsehole when he felt like it, but mostly he seemed to enjoy taking the mickey in a friendly fashion.  His personal life was a closed book, although he was catnip to most women and a wide sampling of men. Andy supposed he was John’s closest associate, but that didn’t mean he knew him better than anyone else.

            “Like what you see?”

            Andy blinked. “Huh?”

            “You’re looking at me like I’m a candy bar and your blood sugar is dropping.”

            “Yeah, right.” Andy decided to take the plunge. “John, who’s this guy Stannick?”

            “What makes you think I know?”

            “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe the fact that you turned into a fucking pillar of ice when Jack said his name may have something to do with it.”

            “You’re getting good a sarcasm, you know? Still lacks a proper cadence, but not bad.”

            “And you’re changing the subject.”

            “Probably.” John glanced at him, “Jack will kill me when he finds out I told you. He’s worked very hard to make sure none of you know much about that year.”

            “I think you can handle Jack. So…”

            “Stannick was one of Saxon’s closest allies. But you know that.” John’s voice shook slightly. “He’s also the guy who killed Gwen and Rhys.”

            “But they’re… oh.” Andy rubbed suddenly sweaty hands on his jeans. “I guess Torchwood would be a target.”

            “It was a bit more complicated than that.  Cardiff gave Saxon a lot of trouble, Andy. He took draconic measures to break the city. People fled into the Brecons. Torchwood helped set up refugee camps, especially for children who had lost their parents. One day, Gwen and Rhys drove a truckload of supplies up to one of them. Stannick was flying in for a meet with the local authorities. He spotted the camp and decided to practice his marksmanship. Everyone died. Fifty-seven kids, twelve adult minders, and Gwen and Rhys. Their truck exploded.”

            “Duw.” Andy shuddered. “And me, John? What happened to me? Where was I when all my friends were dying?”

            “Andy…”

            “If this damned past that never was is coming back to haunt us, I need to know!”

            “Fair enough. You were Torchwood’s secret weapon, Andy. You stayed in the police force even after it became a military command, and kept Torchwood informed of what was happening. Saxon knew there was a spy in the ranks, but they never found you.”

            “And you, John? Don’t bother to tell me you read up on it or something. This is personal to you.”

            “Some Toclafane found their way to the future through the Rift. I chased them back to Cardiff and got trapped there for the duration. I managed to get out right before time reversed itself, so I kept all my memories.”

            The flat delivery told Andy exactly how deeply painful John’s memories were. He briefly wondered when the hell he had become such an expert on John Hart.

            “Bloody Torchwood,” he muttered.

            “What?”

            “Never mind. What about professor Jones?”

            “Why do you call her that?”

            “Well, when I first met Martha, it was doctor Jones, right? So the other doctor Jones was professor Jones, just to keep them separate. Then Martha was Martha. It’s like family but I don’t know professor Jones well enough. I wouldn’t feel right calling her anything else.”

            “That makes some sort of perverse sense,” John mused. “Tish’s family were kept as… servants I guess would be the polite term… on the Valiant. Saxon’s way of punishing Martha. I don’t know specifics about Tish, but I know Jack is very protective of her.”

            “I  noticed. He nearly lost it this morning when she called. And the way he said Stannick’s name… “Andy pulled out his phone. “She’s probably not exactly steady herself. Let’s not give her any more shocks.”

            He pressed a single button.

            “You have her on speed-dial?”

            “Twypsyn. I have you all on speed dial.” He waved John to silence. “Hello, professor Jones. It’s Andy Davidson… yes. We’ll be there in fifteen minutes or so…supper would be lovely, we’ve been driving nonstop all day.”

            They pulled into the courtyard a few minutes early. The kitchen light was on, and they could see Tish moving around. Trading an exasperated look, they hurried to knock on the door. It opened without any hesitation.

            “Dammit, Tish,” John groused, “ did you forget every basic security rule you have ever been taught?”

            “And good evening to you too, John, Andy.” She pointed at an open cupboard, were a small flat screen showed views of the surrounding area. “Jack does paranoid really well.”

            “I’d forgotten about that,” John admitted.

            “Ignore him, professor Jones. He gets cranky when he isn’t fed.” Andy closed and locked the door behind him “But I will say that a rifle with telescopic sights can defeat any security system.”

            “Not Stannick,” Tish said with conviction. “Whatever he’s going to do, he’ll want me to see his face before he does it.”

            She moved to the stove, where a big pot simmered. “Lentil soup. Vegetarian. I also have some egg mayonnaise and tomatoes for sandwiches.”

            “Sounds terrific,” Andy said. “John, would you choose some wine? You know about that stuff. I’ll set the table, shall I?”

            They started assembling their meal. It surprised Andy how comfortably they worked together, teasing each other and trading small friendly insults. He’s worked with John for more than a decade, and they had developed an easy, efficient rhythm, but personally they didn’t socialize unless it was a team thing. Not that they didn’t know each other  -- when you spend three-quarters of your life in close contact with someone you get to know them very well – but  this level of personal comfort was… odd. If only because in the presence of someone like Tish Jones men were more likely to behave like mountain goats butting horns.

            He examined her on the pretext of looking at the CCTV feed. Like Martha, she had aged beautifully. She had Francine’s cheekbones, but her face was softer. Her hair was a tight cap of curls clustered around her face and tendriling down her neck. Add a figure a woman twenty years younger would kill for, brains, wit, and temper, and you had yourself one hell of a sexy lady.

            Duw. Better do something or the tent in front of his trousers would give him away.

            “Table done,” he announced brightly. “I’ll take our luggage up while you’re finishing supper.”

            He hurried out – not before intercepting a knowing grin from John – pulled his duffel bag and John’s small suitcase  out of the boot and trundled them upstairs. By the time he was back in the kitchen the other two were sitting at the table waiting. He noticed John had closed the blinds and made professor Jones sit away from the window.

            “Come on, Andy,” Tish said. “We’re starving.”

            “Sorry, professor Jones. You should have started without me.”

            “Francine’s child? Not likely.’ She reached across the table and patted his hand. “And it’s Tish. Please.”

            “Tish it is.” He tasted the soup. “Wow. You’re a good cook.”

            “Not really. Lentil soup is one of my twelve recipes.”

            “Martha told me about those.” At John’s quizzical look, he explained. “Mrs. Jones insisted all her children learn to cook twelve recipes perfectly. She says that between twelve recipes and takeaway anyone can keep a family well fed.”

            “Sounds logical.”

            Tish spooned some egg mayonnaise on a piece of toast and popped it into her mouth. She tried to communicate by hand signals  but only succeeded in  turning the conversation into a game of charades with Andy and John making sillier and sillier suggestions.

            “Oi, you two!” She finally managed to blurt out. “Enough with the bad jokes! What exactly are you doing here? Other than being my bodyguards, that is.”

            “It turns out Fulworth has an interesting history,” John said. “In 1783, a ship returning from North Africa was caught in a sudden storm a few miles out in the Channel. It managed to make it to the entrance of the old bay before it foundered.”

            “Old bay?”

            “Fulworth has gone through several incarnations.  Once every two or three hundred years the cliff goes swoosh” John made a downward motion with his hand, “and people rebuild, each time a little differently. Anyway. The Lady Eve went down right at its front door. Over the next few days stuff started washing up on the beach. The story goes that one of the things that washed up was a casket full of gold jewelry. Wonder of wonders, the people of Fulworth kept to the straight and narrow and took the casket to the church for safekeeping. Unfortunately, two nights later a massive gale beat the crap out the area. Not only did part of the cliff collapse, but the storm surge washed several houses and part of the church out to sea.”

            “That’s a nice story, but what does it have to do with Stannick?”

            “Fast forward to 1934. A Torchwood expedition was excavating the remains of a Templar fort near Brega in Libya. There were rumors of a cache of Alhabaar artifacts…”

            “Bloody hell.”

            “My sentiments exactly.”

            “Who are these Alhabaar people?” Andy asked.

            “Were. The Alhabaar ruled a chunk of this galaxy at one point. Highly developed culture, aesthetically as well as militarily. Hated violence but loved to be top dog. Their solution was to embed neural manipulation nets into damn near everything and everyone.” Tish smiled grimly. “Bastards were into mind control. And you think the casket full of jewelry…”

            “Let’s just say that Torchwood researchers were able to locate the fort by studying the diaries of one Sir Thomas Eccleston, a wealthy amateur archeologist whose ship, the Lady Eve, went down on its return from the Mediterranean.”

            “Mind control.” Tish tossed back the last of her wine. “That would certainly appeal to Stannick. He was quite Alhabaaran in outlook. You’re going to try to find it?”

            “That’s the idea.”

            “What sort of cover are you going to use?”

            “Well. Jack thought that we could be friends of yours, visiting from London.”

            “Friends as in…”

            “Exactly. If we play it right, they’ll be so busy figuring out who’s sleeping with whom that they won’t even think about anything else.” John grinned impudently. “Close your mouth, Andy.  It’s not an attractive expression and you’re supposed to be very appealing… to both of us.”