Warning for bisexual!Harry and spoilers up to and through Turn Coat (but they're the kind that, if you recognize them as spoilers, they're not really spoilers). None for Torchwood.

Birds of a Feather

- -

"I will tell you, Socrates, he said, what my own feeling is. Men of my age flock together; we are birds of a feather, as the old proverb says;" –Plato, The Republic.

- -

It is officially Harry's two-hundred and fifty-first birthday, and he celebrates by talking a walk around the shores of Demonreach with elderly Mouse trotting at his heels. Yeah, that's right- Mouse is still hanging around. Harry gave up on trying to figure out how sometime around 2032.

As Nicodemus had predicted so long ago, Harry's going strong as well. Most of his greatest friends and loves are food for worms now, and he's putting his pants on one leg at a time. His body barely shows his age; sure, it's scarred and battered, kind of like a scrapbook if you can think of it that way, but his spine is still straight and tall. His legs are still strong, and his eyes and ears are as sharp as they've ever been. Probably sharper. That's one thing age always gives a man: sense.

There's gray in his dark hair, at his temples and in his short beard. Harry's reflection in the water as he's making his annual birthday walk reminds him of his subconscious self, that darker persona he hasn't seen in at least a century.

The night of his two-hundred and fifty-first birthday, he sits on the floor and pokes at a roaring, sparking fire and idly scratches Mouse's head. The dog gives him a heavy look, and he scowls.

"'S nothing wrong with staying here." He says, nearly whispers to the eerily knowing animal. The little house is quiet, and there's no reason to speak any louder.

Mouse communicates his skepticism with a dour blink. Or at least, that's how Harry translates it. His scowl deepens, etching lines into his face that are further stressed by firelight. "Don't look at me like that. How I spend my birthday is my business."

The dog makes a heavy sigh and shifts his head on his paws, watching the fire, and Harry fidgets until, with a groan, he stabs the poker into a burning log.

"Fine, fine! I'll drop in on Mac." He stands up and, moving with accustomed steps, gathers up basic supplies (there's always someone gunning for him, that hasn't changed) and what's left of his trusty duster. The leather sings of magic as it settles comfortably across his shoulders; it's been so covered with spells, of durability, of strength and of preservation, that Harry would be surprised if it couldn't blow a computer without him in it. Or, well, a 2005 model. These newest ones, so unstable. Too much plastic. He could kill them with a wink at fifty paces.

"Yet another reason to stay home," he informs a passing seagull grimly as he strides over the cold waters of Lake Michigan.

Moving down and across roads that are only vaguely recognizable, he wonders if he can really call Chicago his city anymore. Because, he doesn't live there, not really. He's not the Regional Commander; he's barely an acting Warden. At best he's back-up. The younger wizards that watch over the old place used to come to him for a leg up, but they've long since grown into their roles. The looks he had received that last time the Commander and he had spoken brought to mind a comment Mab had once made, about him being last year's model. Obsolete.

He'd been pretty offended by that, actually. Even at one-hundred and forty-two he was still a bit of a hothead. He moped and pouted until, laughing and placing a cold hand on his arm, the faerie Queen had explained that she didn't mean he'd lost his touch.

Smirking to himself as he pushes open the door to McAnally's, he tells himself that she knows what she's talking about.

Mac's was good. Mac's was constant, just like the man himself. Mac had stood the test of time as well as Harry- better, even. The only difference the old wizard can immediately note as he orders a bottle of the usual homebrew is that the barkeeper now looks somewhere between sixty and ninety instead of thirty and fifty. Not bad for over two-hundred years.

There's a tall man sitting a little ways down the bar though, mind you, Harry's still got a couple of inches on him. He's got a long coat himself, thrown over the stool next to him, and he's nursing an amber liquid in a stout glass, chewing at the rim lightly. Harry jerks his head at him questioningly when Mac sets his beer down in front of him. The barkeeper scowls at him and shakes his head, conveying, do your own nosing in a few minimalist motions. Harry grins lopsidedly, having expected nothing more. He hunkers down into the bar and starts on the familiar unmarked brown bottle, watching the stranger from the corner of his eye.

He's just thinking of what to say, and reminding himself that he's much too old to date when the other man speaks first.

"Nice coat," He ventures, eyes darting over said garment. He pats the pile of material next to him affectionately. "I myself never quite upgraded to leather."

Harry looks down himself, though he isn't sure why. He knows what he looks like. "I started out with canvas. A girlfriend took pity on me." He flashes teeth in a little grin.

The other man smiles and catches Harry's eyes. After a long enough second that Harry begins to feel the pull of an encroaching soulgaze, the stranger picks up his drink and moves over a seat. He holds out a hand to shake.

"Jack Harkness."

Harry looks it over for a moment before accepting, a hint of tilt to one of his eyebrows. "Harry Dresden."

"So…" Jack grins brightly. "Come here often?"

And Harry, surprised, laughs and chokes on his beer. He lowers the bottle, coughing and blinking water from his eyes and fixes the man with an incredulous stare. But Jack only continues to smile in that completely exposed way, and Harry chuckles as he rubs his chest.

"Never thought anyone'd use that one on me,"

"I'm a man for the classics."

"Classic is certainly one word for it," he says partly to himself, and sighs lightly. "As a matter of fact, I do."

A grunt from further away reaches his ear, and he grins like a kid with a hand in the jar under Mac's really, now? look.

"But not as much as I used to." He amends, and the barkeeper nods agreement.

Jack has observed this exchange. "Why so?"

Harry shrugs. "Don't really leave home much."

The other man grins and nudged him gently with an elbow. "Guess it's my lucky night then, huh?"

Harry blinks once and laughs.

"I'm too old for you." He puts in, appraising him.

Jack copies his long, slow once-over with a wry smile that means he's got a private joke. When he's finished he meets Harry's eyes again and holds the look until Harry regrettably has to break it. Soulgazes are not appropriate for barroom banter. He's learned that random people dislike having their inner selves shifted through by a stranger.

Jack frowns a little inwardly when his eyes move up and begin scrutinizing his eyebrows, but he recovers quickly.

"I really doubt that."

Harry swigs once and abandons the beer, turning so his body is facing the stranger and locking his fingers. One elbow is braced against the bar.

"Do you, now." He says, watching from beneath his eyebrows. "What if I'm an old geezer that's over two-hundred?"

"What if I'm a man who can recover from a bullet in the brain?" Jack smiles.

Harry's eyes narrow, and his fingers twitch like they want the reassuring tingle of energy gathered at their tips. He can't quite decide if the man's pulling his leg or not. And if he is, strange sense of humor. Harry's has eroded a little through the years, but he restrains a smile at thoughts of the kinds of things he would say if he still looked his age. As it is, he doesn't really feel like being jerked around. It had been fun while it lasted.

"Right," Harry says, giving him a look that says that last comment didn't go over so well (so don't use anything like it next time). Mentions of death and allusions of murder don't typically mesh well with flirting. However, on that thought, hypothetical (or not so much) notes about age are perfectly fine.

Jack drops his head, acting bashful, and peeks over. "Swing and a miss?"

Harry feels for him, he really does. His own past endeavors used to end like this. "Big time," He flicks fingers at Mac, and the man leaves two more bottles of brew before him in exchange for a ten.

Jack sees him making the motions to leave, and hurriedly downs the rest of his own drink, leaves a few crumpled bills on the bar and follows him out, pulling on his coat. He's not really used to having to walk faster to keep pace with someone. Harry looks back at him with a hint of amusement in his expression.

"Were you telling the truth?" He asks, facing forward again.

Jack studies his profile for a moment for before replying, apparently understanding what he was getting at. "Were you?"

Harry glances at him from the corner of one eye, wondering if he should. Hell, he used to advertise his wizardry in the Talking Phonebook, what's the big deal about admitting his age? He's proud of it; the fact that he's turning two-hundred and fifty-one means that he actually lived to be two-hundred and fifty-one. That's about two centauries longer than he expected to be around.

He smiles easily. "It's my birthday today."

Jack beams, straightening. "And? How old are you?"

Harry tells him. He gets the insane urge to applaud when the man corrects his fall so fluidly. He resists with difficulty, but can't manage to stop the goofy smile from stretching over his lips.

"You turn."

Jack shakes his head as he runs a hand through his hair, smiling bemusedly. "True," he says, gaze roaming over the sparsely crowded streets. "It's true."

Harry makes a noise. "Good to meet you, then, Jack Harkness. Not an attribute I covet, I'll admit, but it would have been handy in my younger years."

His eyes catch on the scars on Harry's face. "I think I can see that."

He can't help it. The remark jumps out before he thinks. "Most of them are out of sight."

Harry could kick himself. Is he seriously propositioning this man? An old timer like him! Sex should be a distant memory.

Jack's smile is suddenly hungry. "Are they," he says in a thick voice that bellies his interest.

Harry stops walking. They've reached the harbor, and even though he knows he can't, he tells himself he can see home winking at him out there. Wait until Mouse hears about this. He turns to look down the small distance to the other man, and smirks cockily.

"Maybe I'll let you see sometime," he teases, and nearly drops the bottles of Mac's brew when Jack leans up and touches their lips. He's got a hand fisted on the right lapel of Harry's coat, and Jesus this man knows how to suck face. Harry groans at the thought of sucking and gently pushes a hand into Jack's chest.

"See you later," he says, but the cool effect is ruined by his heavy breathing and the shake to his fingers. He flashes one last smile and, before Jack can put words to the offer he sees in his face, steps off the weakened wood of the dock and starts the trek home like it's perfectly normal. But then again, it is. Jack is left blinking and staring on the swaying wharf, and he laughs in great whoops.

"Coward!" He calls playfully over the growing expanse of gray water between them, to which Harry only raises a hand over his head in a wave. He turns his head fractionally to cry again, "See you later, Jack. Nice coat!"

Oooh, this was fun to write, and equal opportunity!Harry is yummy :9

If you google that Plato quote, the rest of it fits wonderfully well too.

-Oceans.