Story disclaimer: I own none of the following. Many of the references in this story are owed to the writers and the rest of the team(s) involved in the creation and production of Torchwood and Doctor Who. Without them, this story would not be possible. My character Teya owns me. I am making no money from this or any of my other fics posted on this site.

Author's Note: This has been one of the hardest chapters to write. I know where I what it to go, I just can't seem to get it there. Still, here goes... Sorry Teya!

Scene Four – Cardiff, 1910

Jack was back in a dull and rainy Cardiff after his latest mission for Torchwood. He had requested an evening off. It was rare enough for him to have time to himself, and he'd set out walking without a particular destination in mind. His traitorous feet carried him to the road on which he had found friendship and contentment in the last five years. Jack recognised her the moment he saw her lying in the gutter not far from where they had first met. He couldn't say what it was that made him realise it was her, he just knew. She was lying curled in on herself, shivering in the rain and being resolutely ignored by the gentry on the street. To them she was just another beggar, another street urchin, an eighteen year old girl long past marrying age and not worth spitting on. Jack, having known her on and off for five years, knew better.

He crouched beside her and gently reached out to her. She groaned, flinching from his touch but unable to resist as he gripped the top of her arm with one hand and lifted her chin with the other. He gasped at the state of her, her face black and blue, blood running in sheets down her face as the rain diluted it. She was barely conscious; her eyes that were nearly swollen shut were lifeless and empty. He looked at her with pity for a few moments, watched an answering smile flicker on her face as she recognised him. Jack removed his cloak and spreading it over her. In one gentle movement, he scooped her up in his arms and bore her away, ignoring the disapproving looks of those around him. Let them look, he thought, let them see that one man could not ignore their cruelty.

Teetering on the edge of darkness, she thought she recognised the face of the shadow crouching over her. She wasn't sure if it really was Jack or if she had finally succumbed to weakness and sunk into a delusion. But when his hand gripped her arm, confident but gentle, she knew that the blue eyes gazing into hers were really his. That rich, warm, enticing scent couldn't belong to anyone else. It stirred her into wakefulness as he covered her with his cloak. She curled up as he lifted her, content to let him take her away from that place, as far away as he could take her. She trusted him, trusted him because no other man had ever afforded her the respect and gentleness that Jack had shown her.

She moaned a little has he carried her, every step jolting aches and bruises. Her broken ribs were unknown to Jack, and every pace was to risk a punctured lung for her, but she would rather have died in his arms than lying in the street. In his simple act of claiming her, Jack had offered her a warmth and security that she had not felt since the times before. But that warmth was overrun by stabbing pains, each one peppered with a thousand burning needles. Each hurt shot like lightning bolts through her body and each breath was agony. Jack rearranged his grip on her as gently as he could, trying to ignore her groans of protest. It was too much for her broken body, and as he carried her she descended into the darkness that had threatened for so long…

Jack watched over her as she slept in his bed, having bathed her with a natural gentleness that people were not accustomed to in the man who could not die. Her sleep was deep, too deep for Jack's liking, but by the time she came to, her ribs were healed, though tender. The bruises on her face were beginning to fade, and the pain was considerably lessened. But by then Jack had noticed her hands clenching and unclenching rhythmically, as well as a definitive grumble from her stomach. He knew she was an Everlarth, knew she fed on blood and felt a moment's concern. As sick as she was… how was she supposed to feed? When she finally opened her eyes, he'd already come up with the obvious answer. He offered her his blood.

She fed with an eagerness that he should have expected. Her body craved the necessary ingredients to fuel her healing, but even in her hunger, he felt her holding back. She did not look at him as she fed, as if ashamed that she required this from him. Jack offered no resistance, resting with his elbow on the pillow and offering up the other wrist to her mouth. It was a strange, drawing sensation as she drank. An act so intimate that Jack was stirred more than he believed possible. He curled the arm he was leaning on, brushing her cheek gently, a feather light touch on her fever warmed skin. That movement was enough to make her pull away from him, deliberately distancing herself from him as she healed the wound to his wrist to stop the blood flow.

"Thanks." The shortened word reminded him of just how out of their time the two of them where, though he wasn't sure exactly when and where she came from. "Jack…"

"Hush, Teya. No need for thanks." He answered softly, watching as she lay down again. Within moments she was fast asleep again, a healing sleep with her breathing deep and even, and Jack watched as the last of her superficial injuries healed. Tired himself from the blood loss, he lay next to her, letting her shift closer in to his body. He was somehow grateful for her trust, and closed his eyes to rest and recuperate.

He stirred later when he felt dampness against his skin. Gently lifting himself away from her to disturb her as little as possible, Jack looked at her to find her sweating profusely. She curled up when his body heat left her, shivering feverishly. Her face was cherry red, her skin cold and damp. Even as Jack frowned in concern, she began to moan and shudder in pain, though strangely there was an element of confusion as her face screwed up into a frown. He watched as she began to thrash wildly, arms lashing out. Several times in just a few minutes Jack found himself holding her down in order to stop her hurting herself.

"Vortex…" The word was uttered quietly, but Jack gasped when he heard it. "Can't… fight… the Bad Wolf…"

The words "Bad Wolf" echoed in Jack's mind, and for a moment he felt her fever, saw as if through her mind's eye two glowing yellow eyes, eyes that Jack had seen in his own mind in the instant that he had taken a shocking, gasping breath after being killed by the Daleks, the first and only time he had truly died. Drawn back from the darkness by something with glowing yellow eyes… Was that why he had been so attracted to Teya from the first? Was she somehow responsible for his immortality?

"Vortex in the blood…" For hours, Teya continued to ramble to herself, continued to thrash back and forth as she mumbled and moaned about "the Vortex", "time" and the "Bad Wolf". Jack, knowing that no medic would be able to help him and not trusting anyone at Torchwood, could do nothing more than mop her brow, hold her down when she thrashed most violently, and muttered comforting words. He was half-convinced she would die there in his bed within half an hour of her delusions beginning. His opinion only went from bad to worse as time passed.