Jack was having a bad day. This wasn't just any old bad day. This was a bad day in all caps, bold-faced, italicized, and underlined a half dozen times, with flourishes and fancy curly-q's for added prominence. It was the ultimate of ultimate bad days. Sure, dying nine times before breakfast was inconvenient. Having to call the Hub to arrange for the changing of all four tires on the SUV, well, that had been embarrassing. After repeating the tale to each of the individual team members, he had then been required to recite it one final time while on speaker phone with all four giving a chorus of laughter and jeers. He really should not have bragged quite so much about the virtues of Camarand tires. Dealing with a pissed off Grim Reaper and discovering the existence of malevolent, evil, disgusting gravelings who were out for his blood, that made Jack yearn for the good old days of Dalek invasions.

And now he found himself standing, in stained and torn clothes, gripping the shredded remains of his precious RAF coat, outside a seedy café which could politely be described as a dump. With a heavy sigh, he pulled open the door and entered the crowded, bustling establishment. In almost no time, all eyes were on him. It wasn't an unfamiliar experience for the man. He was immensely attractive with an overpowering persona. People were naturally drawn to staring at him. This, however, was a completely different affair. There were muffled gasps and one woman even went so far as to fearfully clutch her child to her side. Behind him, Jack could hear Rube snickering in malicious glee.

Jack hunched his shoulders, wanting nothing more than for the day to be over. As the waitress led them to a dingy booth, he did his best to disappear into the background. Not the easiest thing to do in a brightly lit, crowded restaurant with all eyes on him but Jack nonetheless made the attempt. He eased into the bench, carefully placing each of the torn pieces of his coat on the space next to him. Across from him, Rube began scanning the menu, though he was obviously aware of and greatly enjoying all the unwanted attention Jack was drawing.

When the waitress approached to take their order, Rube quickly spoke up. "Three eggs sunny side up. Make sure the whites are fully cooked but the yolks are still nice and runny. A side of bacon, extra, extra, EXTRA crispy. Oh, and toast. Don't skimp on the butter. And a cup of coffee."

The waitress looked expectedly at Jack.

Rube spoke before he had a chance to place an order. "He'll have the same."

"But I just want …"

The steely gaze matched the steely tone. "He'll have the same."

The waitress uncomfortably shifted from foot to foot as the two men engaged in a staring match. Finally, Jack just shrugged. Winning the skirmish over what he had for breakfast was less important than figuring a way to get the upper hand with the Grim Reaper and win the war. Jack plucked at one of the remnants of his coat. It was war and Jack was determined to be the victor.

As the waitress shambled off, he looked up at Rube. "Maybe I should have ordered a side of cyanide."

That earned him a healthy laugh and just a glint of respect from the man sitting across the table from him. "Would it do any good?"

"I'd be free of my migraine. At least until I came back to life. No doubt you'd still be sitting there so there's really no point."

"Well, J. Harkness, I may be your migraine," Rube drawled out, "but you're my fucking hemorrhoid so I think we're even." He looked around the shabby restaurant. "Can't say I'm impressed with your two-bit town. Imagine not even having a 'Der Waffle House' in all of Cardiff. Quite a shit dump you're living in."

"The name's Jack. Got it? Jaaack. Four letters. One syllable. Should be easy enough for you to remember." He paused in his tirade, easily picking up from the look on Rube's face that he had had no clue as to what his first name was. "How is it that you knew where I was going to be this morning but you don't even know my first name?"

Rube reached into the pocket of his leather jacket, pulling out the battered journal from earlier that morning. With a quick flip of his wrist, he opened the journal, scanned the Post-it notes covering the first page, and snatched a particular one which he handed over to Jack. "This is all we get."

Jack quickly scanned the note.

J. Harkness
Torchwood Hub
E.T.D. 3:13 p.m.

"E.T.D.? What's E.T.D. ?" Jack did a classic double take, one worthy of a Hollywood movie, at the Post-it note. "And how in the hell do you know about the Hub?"

"Estimated time of death." Rube gave him such a patronizing grin that Jack wanted nothing more than to throw the Reaper into a cell with a famished Weevil. "And Torchwood is legendary amongst the Reapers. Did you really think we wouldn't know about your fucking headquarters? Hell, even I knew about it and I'm assigned to Seattle. Or I would be if you hadn't fucked everything up, causing me to hop a plane to come over here and fix this fucking disaster."

Before Jack could reply, two plates of food were dropped, none too gently, onto the table. The impact caused bits of congealed grease from the bacon to splatter up, adding specks of grease stains to his already ruined shirt. At least none got on my coat. He looked down. Nope. Got the coat too. Damn!

Two coffee cups were hastily placed, contents sloshing onto the worn surface. The waitress didn't wait before retreating from the table, her attitude clearly conveying she thought the two men were complete nutters. She just might be right. By the time this day is over, I will probably beg to see the men in white coats holding out a funny jacket for me to wear.

Jack, holding back a grimace at the battery acid pretending to be coffee, watched as Rube shoveled food into his mouth. "Wait a minute. Did you say assigned? To Seattle? Then what are you doing in Cardiff?"

"To fix the major fuck up you caused." Rube looked at Jack's untouched plate. "You gonna eat your bacon?"

"Knock yourself out," Jack answered with a voice as dry as the Sahara.

A booming laugh filled the restaurant. "I'm sure you'd prefer I take that in the literal sense."

Jack couldn't keep from grinning. As much as he wanted to hate the man sitting across from him, he found himself slightly admiring him. Just slightly. There still remained the continuing threat on his life … or lives given his unable-to-stay -dead status, not to mention the destruction of his coat.

The bacon, which resembled charred sticks more than something edible, was quickly scooped up. "You, Jack, astound me. In all the history of Reapers, not one has ever been rendered incapable of doing their job. And then you came along." Rube took a huge gulp of coffee before continuing. "It started slow at first. One Reaper had to be taken off active duty. Just couldn't handle the fact that you didn't stay dead. Eventually every fucking Reaper in Cardiff landed in the fucking cuckoo bin." Without pausing, Rube shoved his empty plate to the side and pulled Jack's untouched meal towards him. "So, my soon-to-be-permanently-dead friend, I had to fly over here with one of my team so we could deal with this crisis."

"We can't have a region, not one as fucking active as Cardiff, out of commission. So, Jack Harkness, since you're the one to cause all this, you're also the fucking solution."

Jack tensed at the implied threat in the Reaper's voice. "And just what solution is that?"

"As I told you before, you're going to die and this time you're going to stay dead."

"Well," Jack started before he broke into a chuckle, "you're in for a disappointment. I can't die, not permanently anyway, so save yourself some grief. Just pack up your bags and go back to Seattle."

"That's not going to happen. Not until you're no longer a threat to the sanity of every fucking Reaper. I'm going to stay here until the job gets done. And by job gets done, I mean that you are dead. Really, truly, fucking permanently dead." Rube picked up his empty coffee cup and waved it in the direction of the waitress who was doing her best not to acknowledge the request. "Look, Jack, I'm trying to be reasonable here. Do you really want to be dealing with the gravelings every second of every day? Because that is what is going to happen. They will be hounding your every step until, eventually, you decide it's time to move on. Do us both a favor and just accept it."

Jack leaned back and pinched the base of his nose before beginning to rub his temples. He had to come up with a solution and quick. Running Torchwood was dangerous enough. What with the alien incursions, deadly artifacts, and the usual death causing situations. Work was difficult enough. To add mobs of gravelings taking out his life every forty-two seconds would make the task of defending the Earth impossible. Not to mention putting the lives of every one of his teammates in danger. No doubt there would be residual calamities and he wasn't about to risk any of his team. There had to be an answer, a way to get the upper hand with the Reaper but darned if Jack could figure one out.

Unbeknownst to Jack, the key to his problem was just about to walk through the café door.