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: 2,567.
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.
--
“Look, I don’t know how to make this any more simple for you. My clearance paperwork is at home. If you don’t let me leave to get the paperwork so I can leave, I won’t be able to leave.”
Jack shook his head looking at Owen. “Is he always like this?”
Owen had his arms crossed, and was wearing his reclaimed leather coat. “How the hell should I know? I knew him less than a night.”
“Yeah, but you knew him really well that one night,” Jack noted.
Owen stared at the ceiling, clearly as annoyed by Jack as Turlough was.
“Look, I’m obviously not a threat to you,” Turlough said, trying again. “I’ve been out here two and a half weeks already. Surely if I was going to blow up London, or whatever, I’d have done so by now.”
“He does have a point,” the Welsh girl said.
“These things take time,” Jack noted. “Routines must be observed, plans made, schedules checked. He could just be biding his time. I’m not taking any risks.”
Turlough leaned back in his chair, frustrated with this ridiculous interrogation already. “Aren’t you three a little far from your pond, anyway? I left you in Wales. Can’t I get a new lot to deal with? You know, a London sect, perhaps with less lunatics?”
“Torchwood One was destroyed in the Battle of Canary Wharf,” Jack stated, accusingly. “Which I suppose you had nothing to do with?”
“Jack!” the Welsh girl cried. Turlough tried to remember her name; he kept thinking it was Bessie. Betty? Bertha? “You can’t honestly believe he was involved with that.”
“Why not?” Jack asked. “No one really knows what happened. I don’t see why he couldn’t have been working for Lumic.”
Turlough hadn’t smoked a cigarette since the last time he had been on Earth, and he had had to stop then because the acrid taste of the cigarettes, while drowning out most of the other sensations in the world, were too intolerable for him. Still, he wished he had one now. “Honestly, I haven’t been here since 1984.”
“You told me 1983 before,” Jack quickly countered.
Sighing, Turlough adjusted himself in his chair. “All right, fine, 1983. What difference does it make? I was a student at Brendon Public in 1983. Then I left. In 1984, I came back to sight see a bit in Lanzarote. I wasn’t there very long, there’ll be no records of me.” He decided not to mention the visits in between.
“1984?” the Welsh girl said, her brows kitting almost as close together as her front teeth. “You couldn’t have been much more than four or five then.”
“Has she ever heard of time travel?” Turlough earnestly asked Jack. Sharper, he looked at her acutely and said, “Have you ever heard of time travel?”
That shut her up, at least temporarily.
“Now I’m vexed,” Jack said. “You won’t tell me where you’re from, or why you’re here, only that you’ve got magical paperwork that you’re so sure will grant you clearance from Torchwood—and now you’re telling me you’re a time traveler, too?”
“I was,” Turlough snapped. “It doesn’t happen anymore. And have you ever, perhaps, wondered if there’s a reason I can’t tell you why I’m here? The universe is bigger than your little organization. And I use that word lightly—I don’t see much organization here at all. If you’d had better organization, I could have landed in London, like I was supposed to, and none of us would be in this mess right now.”
“I told you, Torchwood One was destroyed,” Jack said.
“And did it ever occur to you that perhaps they had my clearance codes? If you hadn’t bagged my head and hauled me out of my flat, I could have even gotten you my disc. I’m part of an organization that has been coming here for far longer than any of you have been alive.”
“I seriously doubt that,” Jack retorted.
“Come on, then,” Owen said. “Let’s let him go. It’s a waste of time, he’s harmless.”
Jack turned in his seat to stare. “Do you not remember waking up without your prisoner the morning after I told you to keep an eye on him?”
“Well, yeah,” Owen said, shifting on his feet. “But it’s not like he drugged me or anything. I just fell asleep. Besides, like he said, he’s done nothing.”
“Gwen?” Jack asked.
Ah, Gwen, that was the girl’s name. Turlough wished Ianto had come instead; the boy had been more rational, and considerably easier on the eyes. Gwen was scrutinizing him like Jack had been, surveying him like he was a piece of meat to put a price on.
“We could tag him,” she said. “Keep tabs on him.” She sighed. “Owen’s right, he hasn’t done anything yet, and we’ve got more important things to be focusing on.”
“Cardiff more interesting than London?” Turlough droned. “Who would have thought?”
Somewhere in the distance, water leaked down a wall, dripping off a pipe. The noise echoed in the silence, and Turlough could taste the bite of the water, and the metal-lead tinge to it.
“I don’t like it,” Jack said.
“Not all aliens are hostile, I hope you know,” Turlough said. If he could have gotten to his feet, he would have, if just to stretch. “You might think yourself the defenders of the Earth, but right now you’re keeping the bees from the honey, and are just going to bitch when the queen shows up, pissed off.”
“Is that a threat?” Jack asked.
Turlough let off some choice phrases in Trion. “That’s it, I’m done with you. You can either escort me back to my flat, so I can show you my clearance papers, or we can sit around here and get absolutely nothing accomplished. I hate my life either way, so whatever works for you is fine with me.”
He couldn’t move his arms, but he managed to kick out his legs and hook them on the edge of the table before him, giving the false impression he was relaxing.
Jack hemmed and hawed for several minutes before he gestured. “Gwen, take him back home. If his paperwork doesn’t clear, send him back in. Owen, you get the car ready.”
“We headed back to Cardiff?” Owen asked.
“Not yet. We’ll check out some local stories, while we’re here.”
Owen nodded, spared a glance at Turlough, then hurriedly left. Jack got to his feet, preparing to leave, but turned back as Gwen untied Turlough’s arms. “And Gwen,” he said, catching her attention. “Don’t sleep with him.”
Turlough gave a vicious smirk at Jack and held it until the door closed behind him.
--
Turlough kept talking to Gwen because he sensed she was as unrattled by his filthy, smelly flat as he was, and he relished making her feel uncomfortable. The girl stood with her arms crossed over her chest, eyes darting about the cluttered floor, as Turlough prattled on and on about his work as solicitor.
“And if they get too rambunctious, I’m authorized to light them on fire,” Turlough stated.
Gwen’s attention snapped back to him, her brows knitting. “What?”
“Only for a short while, of course,” Turlough jauntily added. He gauged Gwen’s expression, shaking his head. “You’re not even listening to me.”
“I’d better go,” Gwen helpfully suggested. She waved the thin wafer disc Turlough had given her. “Thanks for this, I’ll see to it that Jack gets it.”
Turlough followed her to the front door, leaning against the frame leeringly as she stepped out. “Hey, Gwen,” he called.
She turned back and gave him a nonplussed glare. “What?”
“Fancy a pint?”
Gwen’s expression turned to disbelief. “Over my dead body, thanks.”
Turlough broke into a shit-eating grin. “That’s the idea.”
She stormed off in a huff, and Turlough closed the front door, for the first time actually feeling rather content.
“Trouble with the missus?” Robert asked from where he was sat on the couch in the parlor, watching television.
Turlough wrinkled his nose as he turned around to look at the man. “Not that it’s any of your concern,” he snapped. The sight of the jovial yet slovenly beast in his flat was too repulsive to bear. Turlough felt almost jubilant at his win against Torchwood and was not keen to have his celebratory mood ruined by his companion. “I’m going out,” Turlough said, grabbing his threadbare coat off the peg by the door.
He didn’t have much money, but the places he tended to haunt usually had people who were more than eager to help pay for him.
London’s nightlife had picked up considerably since the 1980s. And, true to his hopes, there was a lot more of it he could see than he had access to as a public student at Brendon. There were no curfews, no overzealous headmasters, and no rules.
His favorite place was The Inferno, a little bar from the sixties that had been torn down in the nineties and refurbished recently. It reeked of patchouli and sweat, but Turlough was comfortable with the way the average human smelled, and the patchouli, while powerful, at least wasn’t offensive. It blotted out what other nightclubs didn’t—the overbearing perfumes and deodorants that the patrons wore. Singularly, the smells were palatable, but in a mess, mixed about with the dancing and alcohol and hormones in the air, it made Turlough gag. Here, at least, that was largely alleviated. And there was something strangely comforting about the retro decorum. In a twisted way, he supposed it reminded him of the Doctor in his vintage cricket whites.
It wasn’t a gay bar, but that was all right, because Turlough didn’t like to see the world in shades of black and white. He had his preferences, but they weren’t absolute, and he liked the natural approach of a mixed club better.
Still, he soon found himself gyrating with a dark eyed man, and decided if he could get this one to take him home tonight, the day wouldn’t end up a total waste, and at least it would mean another night he didn’t have to spend with Robert. The man touched furtively and moved like he thought if he held too tight, Turlough might slip through his fingertips. It was nice, Turlough decided. It made him feel elusive, and special, something he frequently felt among humans, but rarely received from them in return.
The man was from Edinburgh, in London for business, and had a hotel room a short ride away. He was clean, and blond, which Turlough liked, and he smelled like mowed grass, smoke and gin, which weren’t terribly bad combinations. When he spoke, his voice was soft and gentle, with a Lowlands burr that curled Turlough’s toes.
Through the course of the night, Turlough discovered the man’s wife was named Jennifer, and that he had three children, ages ten, seven and three. He let the inexperienced man make love to him, and when at last the man passed out in satisfaction, Turlough slipped out of bed, went through his pockets and left twenty pounds richer and with a new umbrella.
He never did bother to ask the man his name.
--
Brendon, Turlough noted, hadn’t changed.
Most of the same staff was still employed, even, all looking a bit older and grayer, but no nicer. It was a bit of a conundrum, he realized, looking so similar to how he had. It was cold and rainy by the time he arrived, so he kept his collar up and a beat up fedora low on his brow. His old Headmaster, at least, had either died or retired, and the woman now in charge was in her late fifties. She wore her hair in a tight bun and had severe facial features, and was thankfully someone he didn’t know. She smelled like musk and wrapping paper in a pleasant way, and if he’d been a student at the school, he would have flattered her until she either went to bed with him, or had him expelled.
As it was, he spoke succinctly, with a clipped tone. If he really did have to serve out his complete term on Earth, he’d be here a long time yet. It wouldn’t do to screw things up in the first month.
His charge was a Trion girl from Gilfast whose father had murdered her siblings before taking his own life, trying to avoid a humiliating public scandal. The girl had only survived by virtue of her small size and meek ways; she’d been shot at, but missed and passed over.
Turlough didn’t care to know about her history, or the how’s and whys of what she was on Earth for. He had long ago decided that Trion sending it’s juvenile delinquents and unstable youths to an alien planet for punishment and rehabilitation was barbaric at best. But he’d received no sympathy from his own solicitor, and didn’t have any desire to change that format. He also knew his protests wouldn’t do any good, and that nothing he’d say to the girl would be of any consolation. So he remained the man in the shadows, dealt with the headmistress as quickly as possible, and hurried out of the school.
The Scotsman’s umbrella came in handy against the biting rain as he made his way across the green yard, hustling away from the school and toward the nearest road, in the hopes of catching a lift back to town. It wasn’t until he was standing by the obelisk that he realized he’d gone the wrong way completely.
It was a sight he’d never expected to see again, the obelisk and the two stone urns framing it, out on Brendon’s green. Turning as the rain pelted down on his umbrella, he looked around. The transmat had appeared there, he remembered, and that was where he’d tried to kill the Doctor, the first time, with a rock. How foolish and young and stupid he had been. How superior he had thought of himself.
He turned his back to the obelisk, determined not to dwell on it. The Doctor wasn’t going to come back and save him from here a second time, and even if he did, Turlough wasn’t sure he’d go with him.
Two steps away further onto the green, he felt it; the burning hot sear of time rifting. He had sensed it on the wind in Cardiff, and each time the TARDIS went into the time vortex.
He spun around quickly, scanning the stone statutes fiercely, but spied nothing out of the ordinary. The burning smell of ozone increased, reminding him of how Daleks reeked, and how the stench from their blasters seemed to sear into his nostrils, acrid and thick. It was familiar, and uncomfortable, and cloying.
He backed away from the statutes haphazardly, almost losing his balance on the wet grass. Overhead, lightning arched, and he fleetingly wondered if it could just be the storm he smelled: the foul rain and sundering lightning. His skin crawled, and the hair on his arms stood on end, and he knew it was more than that.
It wasn’t here, he realized. It was close by, but not here. He took off at a run, letting the wind take his hat and the rain rip through his hair as he did.
Something was coming.
--