Title: As Dreams are Made On (1/4)

Author: Emma

Characters: Jack Harkness, Ianto Jones, Andy Davidson, Toshiko Sato, others

Rating: Starts PG, but hey, it’s got Jack and Ianto in it!

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?

Summary: Andy Davidson’s first Torchwood case…

Author's Note: Spoil Five: http://www.davidparlett.co.uk/histocs/maw.html

The Quadrivium: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Quadrivium

The title is taken from The Tempest Act 4, scene 1, 148–158

Author’s Note: Sorry it has taken so long. RL has been a bear… Anyway. I could never see the purpose of Random Shoes, other than to highlight "Gwen's humanity," so I changed it. I'll understand if you consider this the deal-breaker for you!

            “So how long have you known Jack, then?”

            Andy grinned at Rhys. Gwen’s boyfriend was the kind of guy people liked and trusted in a vaguely condescending way – a good bloke – but Andy could see the flash of keen intelligence in his eyes. The guileless look would fool a great many, but Andy doubted it deceived any of the bunch sprawling around Toshiko’s flat.

            “Since the baptismal font, actually. He’s an old friend of the family.”

            Rhys’s eyes slewed towards the Torchwood leader. Jack was sitting in a corner of the leather sofa, one hand resting on Ianto’s knee as the younger man perched on its arm.

            “He’s older than he looks, then.”

            Andy selected a spicy crab roll from the sushi platter. “You could say that.”

            “You know, I used to live a very boring life.” Rhys sipped at his beer. “Now it’s just one damn thing after another.”

            They looked at each other and chorused “Bloody Torchwood!”  before howling with laughter.

            Rhys had come out of the coma two days after they had rescued Gwen from Suzie Costello. He had needed a lot of physical therapy, and he was often in agonizing pain. Without quite discussing it, they had gotten into the habit of visiting him at odd hours, keeping him entertained. Jack had taught them to play Spoil Five, and ferocious tournaments had ensued on the weekends. Tonight, they were celebrating Gwen’s birthday and the end of Rhys’s therapy course.

            “Not so bad, really, Torchwood,” Rhys said after they had wound down. “After all the stories I’d heard growing up, I wasn’t sure about any of it. But Gwen seems to like it, and from the little she tells me I think it makes a difference.”

            “Oh yes. That it does.” Andy said softly.

            “How did you end up working for Jack? If you don’t mind my asking,” Rhys said hastily. “You can tell me to mind my own business if you’d rather.”

            “I’m curious too,” Toshiko said.  She had been listening to their conversation as she walked around replenishing trays. “Gwen says she joined because she was tired of feeling that she was wasting her time. But somehow I don’t think that’s how it happened with you.”

            Andy looked at Jack and smiled. “No, it wasn’t.”

            “So how was it, then?” Gwen asked. “Curiosity’s been killing me, you know. How did the youngest Senior Constable in the Glamorgan Police end up as a Torchwood undercover operative?”

            “Tell them,” Jack said. “Eugene deserves to be remembered.”

            Well, Gwen, it wasn’t a matter of a policeman becoming a Torchwood operative, more like the other way around. I’m fourth-generation Torchwood. It was pretty much assumed that I would go into the family business, though in what capacity they were all in doubt… I didn’t have a Talent, you see. There was something there, the Sensitives were sure of that, but it was all latent, and as the years went by and nothing manifested, everyone resigned themselves to my becoming some sort of office type, a glorified secretary, as one of my uncles put it. Tad tried to hide his disappointment, but you know teenagers… when it comes to how their parents feel about them, they don’t miss much.

            By the time I finished my quadrivium – don’t look so surprised Owen, my family is very old-fashioned in some things – I wanted to put as much distance between me and Torchwood as possible. After some nasty arguing, my Tad offered to let me go spend my gap year with his cousin who had emigrated to the States. He lived in Chicago and taught at Northwestern University.

            Chicago and I were a match made in heaven. Big city but didn’t feel like it. The University is actually in a small town called Evanston. My uncle has a nice small house right off campus; he walks to school every morning. I would go with him and just explore the place. At Northwestern nobody thinks much of someone just sitting in the back of the classroom. Or I would take the train and go downtown and go to the museums. And before anybody asks, it’s a hard-drinking city, so there’s no problem getting pissed on the weekends if that’s your pleasure.

            There was a coffee shop near campus and that’s where I met Branwen. She was a transplant, like myself, but she was on scholarship and worked for spending money. Two years older than I. She’s still there, now a full professor. We still talk now and then.  Anyway… She had a brother named Eugene, lived back home with their Mam. She worried about him fiercely. He was one of those dreamers, she said, his head always on the clouds. Obsessed with old fairy tales and always thinking he was going to make his fortune like one of Grimm’s orphan boys. Branwen used to say he was the kind to exchange the cows for the magic beans except with his luck the only thing he would get out of the exchange was a bowl of chili.

            When it came time for me to go back home, I was no wiser than before in the matter of a career, but I had learned a great deal from Branwen… yes, ma’am, I’ll wipe the leer from my face. But there I was, my ticket was bought and I was expected home. 

            Branwen came to say goodbye, but she was really distracted. When I asked her what was going on, she said she’d had a very strange message from Eugene, something about not worrying about finances any longer, and how she would be able to pick and choose what she wanted to do with her life. Odd, disjointed, like he was high on something, and as far as she knew, Eugene didn’t even drink beer. She asked me to go see him and try to find out what was going on.

            I had a nice welcome home party the Friday and spent the weekend doing what in Chicago is known as raising hell with my mates. Monday came around and I remembered Eugene. I swear, to the day I die I’ll have a little guilt about not going sooner… I know it wasn’t my fault, Jack, but still…

            Eugene and his Mam lived in a ground floor flat in Westmoreland Street. Not much to look at but not the worst neighborhood either. When I got there, though, I knew something had happened. Neighbours going in and out, everyone speaking in low tones, and a young female constable by the door. Of course, now I would know immediately what was going on.

            The constable stopped me. “And who might you be?”

            “I’m a friend of Mrs. Jones’s daughter, Branwen. I’ve just come home from the States and she asked me to stop by and say hello to her mam.”

            She nodded and let me in. It was one of those places where you step straight into the parlour. It was a chintzy sort of place, all womanly and pink I mean, with flower borders on the wallpaper and antimacassars on the back and arms of every chair. Hard to believe a man even passed through, much less lived there.

            Mrs. Jones was seated in an armchair by the fireplace. She had that look, Gwen knows it, every cop knows it, the one that says someone’s whole world has caved in. There were a couple of ladies bustling about with tea things. I went up to her and introduced myself.

            “Yeah, Bran said you would come by.” She sniffed into a handkerchief. “I’m sorry, but I don’t think this is… I can’t…”

            I sat on the ottoman near her feet. “What happened, Mrs. Jones?”

            Once she started talking there was no shutting her up, not that I wanted to. “They don’t know, really. They found him in a ditch by the side of the motorway. There was this restaurant there he used to go with some of his friends… They think he was hit by a car, but they have a witness that says he ran into traffic like a madman… One of the constables said it could have been suicide, but why would he do that when he had been so very happy?”

            “Why was he happy, Mrs. Jones? Do you know?”

            “He wouldn’t tell me!” She wailed. “He said it was a surprise. But I can tell you it scared me because all of a sudden he had money in his pocket and Eugene never had two shillings to his name at any one time that he didn’t waste in all his silly car boot sale trash.”

            “How do you know he had money?” I asked.

            “Well, look!” She reached to the mantel and handed me an object. “This isn’t the sort of thing you can buy at Oxfam, now, is it?”

            It certainly wasn’t. It was a silver apple about the size of my fist, and from the weight, it was solid sterling. But there was something else.

            It smelled. And it wasn’t a pleasant smell, either. Have you ever smelled a fish pond that hasn’t been cleaned in months, and the fish are all dead, and the water is growing grey glops of algae everywhere? That’s what it smelled like.

            I also noticed that nobody else seemed to notice the stink.

            “When will Branwen get home, Mrs. Jones?”

            “We don’t know yet. What with the funeral expenses there might be nothing left for a ticket.”

            “Don’t worry about it. I’ll take care of it.”

            On the way out I spoke to the constable. Lydia Mackintosh, now detective inspector Mackintosh over at Shrewsbury. I asked her about an investigation and she gave me a cynical look.

            “You think the death of a young Pagan man from the wrong side of town is really going to light a fire under their bums?” She said bitterly, touching the chain she wore around her neck. “Ashamed I am sometimes of being a Christian.”

            I walked out into the sunlight. The stink of the apple had given me a headache. There was something wrong about the whole thing, and, if Lydia were to be believed, nobody in the Glamorgan Police gave a damn about any of it.

            But I knew someone else who might. I ducked into the first pub I saw and asked to use their phone.

            “Mr. Harkness? I don’t know if you remember me. Andy Davidson… Yeah, right. Listen, is there any way I could meet with you? I just came across something that might be Torchwood business.”