Title: Back Home
Author: Van Donovan
Characters: Vislor Turlough, Tegan Jovanka, Jack Harkness, Owen Harper and the rest of the Torchwood lackeys.
Pairing(s): Turlough/Owen, Turlough/Tegan, misc. others.
Rating: Hard-R, for sex and swearing.
Word Count This Chapter: 2,265.
Word Count Overall: 14,000.
Notes: Set in the three month glossed-over gap in Torchwood, somewhere probably late 2007, early 2008. Spoilers for all of the Fifth Doctor's run.
Summary: Turlough returns to Earth, but things have changed.
Disclaimer: I own nothing. I made no money from this, but if you want to hire me, I'm cheap. Betaing provided by Starkiller.
--

“Shit,” Owen said, leaning against the closed bathroom door. “How long you going to be in there?”

Turlough stretched out luxuriously in Owen’s bathtub. It was big—majestically big—and so very clean. He couldn’t remember how long it had been since he’d had a proper bath, one where he didn’t have to look over his shoulder out of fear and caution. Trion prisons weren’t much different than Earth based ones, he supposed, only dirtier. But water was water.

He’d scrubbed vigorously when he’d first stepped in. Scrubbed until his pale skin was pink and raw, and then he’d drained the tub and refilled it, just to luxuriate. Judging by how wrinkled his fingers were, it had to have been over an hour ago. He smirked lazily, but did not answer.

“Hey!” Owen cried, pounding on the door with one fist. “I’m talking to you!”

Torchwood was quite an eclectic bunch, Turlough had decided. Toshiko was unthreatening, Ianto a soppy push over, Gwen a clumsy cow and Jack mistakenly thought himself God’s gift to man. Owen, however, had flaws, and knew it. Turlough had liked him right from the start, and that was why he’d insisted they go home together.

The fact that he could call him Doctor while they fucked—and he knew they would—was just an added bonus.

“Jesus fuck,” Owen cursed. “I swear, if you’ve drowned on me in there—”

“I’m perfectly fine,” Turlough said, nonchalantly. He gazed at one of his pruned hands, and determined that perhaps it was time to get out. “The door is unlocked, if you’ve really got to piss that badly.”

Owen threw open the door and Turlough just arched an eyebrow at him. “This isn’t a spa resort, buddy,” Owen announced. “Get out.”

Turlough was certain Owen expected him to resist. The expression of surprise that flitted across the man’s face, as Turlough easily maneuvered out of the tub, confirmed it. “And here I’d thought Welsh hospitality was dead,” Turlough said.

“Oh, fuck off,” Owen snapped. “I’m just putting you up for the night, until we can sort out what the hell to do with you.” He looked Turlough over, though it wasn’t appreciatively.

“Well, I suppose that’s better than putting me in a petri dish and prodding me with sticks,” Turlough casually said. He stepped out of the tub and wrapped a towel around himself.

Owen straightened. “So, you’re really alien?” he asked, skepticism clear in his voice.

“You really have to ask?” Turlough looked at himself in the mirror, decided he’d looked worse, and glanced back to Owen, who was still staring. “What? Never seen an alien before? That’s hard to believe, considering your line of work.”

“What? No, that’s not it. Just—you look pretty human, that’s all.”

“I think you’re a pretty human too,” Turlough drawled. He used his towel to dry his hair, then dropped it to the floor. Owen glanced down, which made Turlough smirk even more.

“Maybe you should’ve gone home with Jack,” Owen said, bringing his eyes back up. “I think he’s into pompous gits with insufferable egos.”

“He must love you, then.”

“Shut up,” Owen snapped. Then he said, “Come on then, I’ve got some clothes you can wear.”

Turlough laughed. “Listen,” he said, “I’ve got to get to London in the morning, and wouldn’t mind a quick fuck before then. If you’re interested—and I am—then let’s cut the bullshit and get down to business. Otherwise, I’ve got some calls to make.”

Owen stared at him. “Are they running commuter spaceships from London to Spaceland now?” he sarcastically asked. “Any event, Jack’s not going to let you go anywhere until he knows who you are and what you’re doing here. And neither am I, for that matter.”

Turlough ignored him, sauntering out of the bathroom aware Owen was following him. He stopped only when he found Owen’s bedroom. “Not bad.”

“Don’t even think about it.”

Turlough sprawled out on the bed, stark naked and looking invitingly at Owen. “Come on. I swear I’m not one of those sex aliens.”

“Right,” Owen grumbled, but Turlough could see he was debating it.

Turlough rolled his eyes. “Maybe I should have gone home with Ianto,” he muttered. “At least he could make up his fucking mind.”

“Hey,” Owen snapped, finally crawling onto the bed. “Who said you could talk?”
--

By the time Owen awoke the following morning, sore and dazed, Turlough was already in London. Earth had changed a lot since he’d been there last, but the place still stunk. Urine permeated the train stations, rot wafted in the streets and then there was the ever persistent smell of mildew everywhere, though no one else claimed to notice it.

After his time spent at Brendon, he’d grown somewhat accustomed to it, but now the scents assaulted him again. London smelled different than Cardiff as well. It was a darker, richer smell, full of pollutants and gasoline. Cardiff had it too, but the air was saltier and greener and something unfamiliar and alien burned in the air.

He didn’t like how London smelled, but at least it was familiar.

London had grown up while he was away. It still wasn’t the height of Trion society by any stretch of the imagination, but it didn’t feel nearly as primitive as it had. If he’d been marooned on this Earth, Turlough thought, perhaps he might have found something worth staying for. Owen himself was evidence of that.

At last he reached his destination: Marlan’s Tea and Biscuit Shop. It was a nondescript brownstone building set along a nondescript street, peppered with similar shops. Overhead the cloud drifted across the sun, and Turlough tugged his leather coat—a ‘gift’ from Owen—tighter across his middle.

A bell chimed, announcing his arrival.

The shop reeked of biscuits and tea, two scents that Turlough had learned to appreciate during his time with the Doctor, although in moderation. Here a variety of scents from an assortment of teas and foods mingled together, creating an almost overwhelming aroma. He swallowed hard in the back of his throat, and wondered how anyone could stand it. “Hello?” he called.

As no one replied, Turlough walked to the register and banged on the small bell there. “I shouldn’t have to put up with this!” he yelled.

At last a door in the back of the shop creaked open, and a familiar face peered out. It was craggy with lines now, and the hair that had once been dark was now mostly grey, but it was still unmistakable. “What do you want?” the voice snapped.

“Hello, Marlan,” Turlough drawled. “So nice to see you again, after all these years.”

Marlan was somewhere between fifty and a hundred years old, looking older and younger depending on the way the light shone on him, and how he stood. While at first he had appeared almost blind, by the time he had come out and realized who Turlough was, he’d straightened and seemed to shed twenty years. “Well, son of a turlap,” the old man said. “You haven’t aged a day.”

“And you have,” Turlough dryly said. “How’s business?”

“None of yours,” Marlan snapped.

Turlough’s face broke into a toothy smirk. “Actually, it is now.” He pulled out a thin wafer from his trouser pocket, handing it over to the man. “That ought to amuse you.”

The disc was small, compact and transparent. Marlan studied it acutely, then grunted in assessment. He glanced around the shop before shuffling off through the back door, beckoning with one arm for Turlough to follow.

The smell of tea and biscuits didn’t continue into the backroom, but a low, persistent aroma of mold and mothballs did. Turlough could taste dust on his tongue. “How can you stand this?” he asked as he followed Marlan through a storeroom and into a false cupboard.

“Ah, you get used to it, eventually,” the old man replied.

Turlough didn’t reply, just wrinkled his nose distastefully as Marlan unlocked the false wall on the cupboard, and led him through. Inside, he found himself a little more comfortable with his surroundings. Bits and pieces of obsolete Trion machinery blinked and churned in corners. A large digital map of England was situated against the far wall, with pinpricks lit in it. Three computer banks of varying age hummed in a corner, and an intergalactic communications booth filled most of the rest of the room. “Home sweet home,” Turlough muttered.

Marlan shuffled in, shut the false cupboard door, and turned to him. “Here on business?” he asked.

Turlough fought down the urge to preen himself. “You might say that.” Even here, the smell of human filth filtered in. He longed to be back in Owen’s clean, sterile bath with its fabricated but fragrant soaps. “You should have been notified I was arriving today.”

For a time, the craggy old man stared at him uncomprehending. Then his bushy white eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Well, pickle my Sundae!” he cried. “You’re joking.”

Turlough nodded his head toward the disc Marlan still had. “See for yourself.”

Inserting the disc into one of the computers quickly spun up a series of documents. Turlough knew Marlan didn’t need to read through them all to understand what he was seeing. “I don’t believe it,” he said, staring at the monitor. “You must be out of your mind.”

“Out of money, actually,” Turlough replied. “And options. It was either this or fifteen years in the Rizon Prison. Believe me, it was a difficult choice to make, but at least I have some modicum of freedom, here.”

“I never did figure out how you got away back then,” Marlan said, his eyes narrowing. “I can’t have you skipping out on me again.”

“I don’t think you have anything to worry about this time,” Turlough said. “I may not look much older, but I have learned a lot.”

The laugh Marlan gave was as dusty and old sounding as the house smelled. He finished his guffawing with a hearty slap on his knee, and a bout of coughing. When that subsided, he grinned up at Turlough and extended a hand. “Well, I never thought I’d see the day.” He pumped Turlough’s hand vigorously. “Welcome aboard, Solicitor Turlough.”
--

Room and board provided, Turlough had assumed, would have meant his own flat somewhere in London. As a new employee of the Earth Bound Rehabilitation Agency, Turlough had expected accommodations better than what he had received as a student at Brendon. He would have settled with a seedy flat across the river, but a run down flat in a council estate with an oblivious, fat, blundering human roommate was too much.

“It’s not a vacation,” Marlan said over the mobile when Turlough called him to complain. “It’s either this or Rizon, and you choose this.”

“They act as if I murdered someone!” Turlough snapped. “I don’t deserve this.”

“You’ll get used to it,” Marlan said, his voice sounding paper-thin over the phone. “Let me give you a word of advice, Turlough. Get yourself some Febreeze. It’s a new odor eliminator they came up with. Makes the house smell like your grandmother’s bathroom, but it sure beats everything else out there.”

Turlough hung up and kicked the brick wall outside his new flat until the corner fell off in a powdery brown spray.

“You’ll have to pay for that, you know.”

That was Robert, his slovenly, swinish roommate. The man now filled the frame of the door that led into their flat, gnawing on a leg of chicken like it was some sort of movie parody. Turlough curled his lip up at the man, and the stench that followed him and his fowl. “Shove off,” he snapped.

Robert, as he found out, was the janitor at Swenson Academy, which was the man’s only redeeming quality, thin though it was. Turlough had two charges at Swenson Academy, one at Dovetail Primary, one in the care of a Governess, one at an unlikely place simply called Matchbox, and one lonely, foolish soul, at Brendon Public. As their Trion solicitor, he had to meet with each of his charges, or their guardians, at least once a month. Of course, if any of them were as rancorous as Turlough had been his first turn on Earth, he’d be there a lot more than once-a-month, though perhaps not dealing directly with the charge.

There was no stipend for commuting, however. Robert had a car, which stunk of stale beer and cigarette butts, but meant that when Turlough needed to get to Swenson, he drove in with Robert, had his sessions with the Headmaster, and then had to wait until Robert was finished with his chores, to get a ride home. For the rest, he had to sacrifice his nominal salary to ride the tube there, or walk.

He was fortunate that the scent of most Earth food made his stomach roil, so it wasn’t hard to spend his food pension on tube tickets.

It took Torchwood two and a half weeks to find him. He’d assumed they’d not bothered even looking, until the pounding on the door gave way not to vacant eyed children selling over-priced chocolates, but to God’s false-gift to man, the stroppy cow, and Owen.

“That’s him,” Owen said with a nod.

Jack smiled tightly and stepped aside. “Bag him.”

And then Robert received quite the show as a black bag was pulled over Turlough’s head—just like the first time—and he was whisked out of his home and to another secret, underground lair. --

.. to part two