Disclaimer: Torchwood, its characters and settings are property of Russell T. Davies and BBC Wales. This story was written for entertainment only and not for profit.

A Little Help

"Ye canna keep daein' it alone, Jackie-boy," Archie said as he shelved another crate full of alien artefacts with a grunt. "There's juist no eneuch oors in the day for one man t' dae it all."

"I'll manage, Archie," Jack insisted stubbornly. "I just need a little help getting organized."

"Aye," the strange little Scotsman agreed. "An a wee bit mair t' keep it that way."

"No!" Jack barked. "No. I don't need anyone else. I can manage the Hub on my own, once we get it all sorted."

"Jackie-boy, I've seen that hovel ye call yer quarters," Archie said not unkindly. "Ye canna manage yer dirty laundry on yer own. Now I respect yer decision t' tell Yvonne Hartman t' keep herself an her 'crisis team' the fook oot o Wales. I wadna want that auld bitch spyin' on me, either. But Alex haed a team for a reason."

"Damn it, Archie, I said no!" Jack roared. "I am not bringing in another team of beautiful, brilliant kids just to let Torchwood kill them!"

Archie nodded sagely. "All richt, an what happens when one of yer Weevils tears some puir bastard's throat out acause yer stretched too thin?" the old man asked. "Dae ye think yer gaein t' feel any better acause it isna one o yer friends?"

"I . . . What? No! I . . ." Jack stammered to a halt. He put the box he was holding on the nearest empty shelf and slumped down on another crate that had yet to be put away. "I just don't know what to do, Archie," he said desolately resting his elbows on his knees and cradling his head in his hands.

For a moment, there was silence, and then Jack heard the shuffling of feet as the old man came over to him. Archie smelled faintly of wood smoke and pipe smoke and heather, and it reminded Jack so much of his own dad that he almost wanted to weep.

With a surprisingly gentle touch, Archie petted his hair and told him, "I ken yer special, laddie. Ye hae been with Torchwood aboot as lang as me, an ye hae seen mair than yer fair share o daith. I imagine yer scared o losing mair friends, but it's no daein ye any guid t' pretend ye dinna need them."

"That's why I called you, Arch," Jack admitted softly.

"Aye, I figured that," Archie told him. "But I canna come doon here every time you get yerself buried unner yer paperwork."

"Then what should I do?"

"I know someone," Archie said. "A fine lass, name o Suzie Costello. She haes been warkin for me sort o free-lance since she graduated Uni. Italian Costello, not Irish."

"No!" Jack insisted.

"Juist meet her, Jackie," Archie pleaded. "She dinna hae t' know it's a job interview. She'll keep ye organized, dae yer paperwark, an run tests on yer tech so yer free t' dae what yer best at . . . uh whatever that is. She's a brilliant lass, but keeps t' herself. Aloof, if ye ken my meaning. She wadna expect ye t' be her friend, so ye dinna hae t' risk caring till yer ready."

Jack looked askance at the old man. "Ok, I'll meet her," he finally surrendered. "Over lunch. You're buying."

"That's a guid lad," Archie said kindly, patting his shoulder. "Now let's put the rest o these boxes away."

FIN

Author's Note: Special thanks to my friend RoadrunnerGER for reviewing the accent. Any errors with the Scots dialect are my own, but she assures me it is 95% intelligible, which, at least to my untrained American ears, is 90% better than you would do listening to a Glaswegian talk. Don't believe me? Try translating some of the videos on Youtube.