AN: This idea actually woke me up this morning. It then proceeded to insist upon being written and refused to let me do my homework. Whatever. I don't know how often I'll update, it'll depend on how much motivation I get from reviews and whether or not my mood is right for it. This will be an angsty story, just so you're aware. Especially if you're a John fan. There will be references to Doctor Who stuff (obviously, Jack's involved) but nothing really important or that makes this into more of a crossover than a Torchwood story. By the way, can you spot the Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy reference I slipped in?

Disclaimer: I don't own Torchwood or Doctor Who.

John - whose name wasn't really John - had only joined the time agency because some people seemed to think it would be good for his attitude. It was, essentially, the fifty-first century equivalent of military school.

He'd first seen Jack - whose name wasn't really Jack - two days after he arrived. John arrived, that is. Jack had been there for ages. 'The Face of Bo.' Bloody poster child. Drove John crazy. Even when he couldn't help but return that cocky grin Jack flashed towards him.

But Jack was radiant. He was impossible to ignore and he was magnetic. He drew people to him like flies to honey - or moths to a flame. John didn't know it then, but people who went to Jack had a tendency to burn up.

It was months later that John first saw the haunted tint to that grin. The two of them went out for drinks - which was against the rules, but they didn't really care. What was the point of rules if you never broke them? It was fun at first - "John, you can't get in a fight with the bartender for not having Pan Galactic Gargle Blasters, you know that they're illegal," - but John quickly discovered that his friend was not a very pleasant drunk past a certain point.

Jack had grown quiet, staring glumly into his glass with eyes that suddenly seemed older than they should. John nudged him rather hard in the shoulder. "You alright there, mate?"

Jack jumped a little at the sudden noise. He'd clearly been miles away. "Huh? Oh, yeah, yeah, I'm fine."

"Well, that was convincing," John told him, looking at him skeptically.

Jack glared but his eyes were so glazed over from the alcohol that it didn't have its usual effect. John had grown immune to the glare by now anyway, so he fully ignored his friend's annoyance. "Go on, then. What's the matter with you?"

"Nothing."

John punched him in the shoulder. "Liar. Come on, you can tell your best mate. What happened? Girl wouldn't sleep with you? Boy give lousy head? You kill your puppy?"

Jack made a strangled noise at the last one, and John looked at him, concerned. "What, you killed your puppy? Since when do you have a puppy?"

"N-not a pup-puppy," Jack said, voice quivering. He was starting to slur his words.

"Kitten then? Come on, love, what happened?"

"Br-brother. Grey."

"You've got a brother? Why didn't I know this?"

"D-dead. I killed him. I was sup-supposed to protect him, get him ou-out. Failed." Jack's words were hard to make out now, muffled in strangled sobs. Tears were starting to escape out of the sides of Jack's eyes.

John didn't know what to do, but he hesitantly reached out for his friend's shoulder. "Come on, I think you need some rest."

He managed to haul Jack back to his room. On the way there, John got a muffled, stuttering, disjointed version of events about Jack's brother. Something about an attack, running, and letting go of Grey's hand. And then Grey was gone. John wanted to tell Jack that it wasn't his fault if his brother couldn't find it in him to keep up while they were running for their lives, but he was pretty sure that would just upset Jack further.

He deposited Jack on his bed, intending to leave him to sleep off the alcohol alone. Jack sat up and pulled him back with a surprising amount of strength for a teenager that was three sheets to the wind.

"D-don't leave. Please."

John sat down next to Jack immediately. "'Course not."

"I-I just…"

Jack buried his face in John's shoulder, crying in earnest now.

John, uncomfortable and not used to giving comfort, hesitantly put his arm around his friend's shoulders again. "You'll be alright," he told him.

Jack looked up, wet eyes meeting calm ones. "How do you know?"

John shrugged, trying to appear nonchalant. "Got me, don't you?"

Jack sat there, swaying lightly from the alcohol, looking into John's eyes as though he thought there was something hiding inside them.

John was caught off guard when Jack lunged forwards and crashed their mouths together.

Just like that, they were kissing, a battle for dominance that was aggressive and hurt and was just a clash of lips and teeth and tongues. They were gasping for air against each other's mouths, refusing to break the kiss, pulling each other closer, tugging on their hair, their clothes.

"Want…" Jack moaned against John's lips.

Jack ripped John's shirt open with one more defiant tug, pulling it away from the skin and pulling John even closer, hand wandering over every inch of skin that had been exposed.

John growled into Jack's mouth when he heard the fabric tear and deepened the kiss, pushing Jack back onto the bed. He tore Jack's shirt in turn, stripping him of it in one easy pull. Jack pulled his hand from John's chest and wrapped his arms around his neck.

"Need you, want you, please…" Jack's voice was a breath, not even a whisper, just a desperate plea into John's mouth. Begging. John responded with everything he had.

The night became a blur of touches, hands, lips, teeth, tongues, fingertips, soft gasps, moans, whispers of names. Their clothes were ripped off more and more viciously, buttons flying, zippers snapping, stitches ripping away from the cloth they bound.

They restarted their battle for dominance on an entirely new field. They pushed at each other, pulled hair until the other cried out. Their limbs tangled together in the dim light until it was hard to tell which of them lay where.

The night was vicious, demanding. John fought for control, even as Jack's fingers began working him open. He didn't stop until Jack had forced him down on the bed, Jack in between his legs. Jack had gone inside him, hard, fast, and deep. John tossed his head back and gasped, eyes huge and pupils dilated.

He cried out as Jack continued to thrust into him, harder and harder each time, but he gripped him tightly. He didn't want it to end, even though it hurt he never wanted this to end. It just felt so damn good.

The night narrowed further to just sweaty bodies, quick, harsh movements, the slap of flesh on flesh, moans and cries as they bit and sucked at each other's skin, leaving love bites in their wake.

Jack had been understandably hung over the next morning, but he remembered what had happened. Even if he hadn't, waking up naked, sore, and covered in hickeys next to John - who was in a similar condition, but much more sore - would have been enough to clue him in.

After that, they became stolen kisses in the hallway and silent quickies in the closets, gulping down each other's moans of pain and pleasure. The agency partnered them up, seeing how well they balanced each other, controlled each other. How well Jack kept John in check.

Everyone thought that John would fall without Jack.

They weren't right, but they weren't wrong either.