I would like to take a moment to thank my friend J. Piper for going above and beyond the duties of editor for the last couple of weeks, while I've been dealing with the frustration of a capricious internet connection. For this, you have my sincerest thanks (and a sub sandwich)! You've been wonderful at helping me to deliver this fic.! Thanks 8X!
Oh, and most of what's written in the bottom part is for J, too (author smiles mischievously)!
And now, on with the story...
Chapter 3: The Value of Acquaintances, Old and New
Edinburgh, Scotland, 1828
The sound of raucous laughter came sailing in through the window, like bawdy, disjointed birdsong on the cool February breeze. Will got up from his kitchen table, eyes narrowed and a nasty, ready rebuke on the tip of his tongue. Wallace, if you're drunk outside my front door again...he thought to himself as he approached the front door, flinging it open in haste. But what he found there wasn't Wallace. No-standing outside his door was Burke, with a large, brown paper sack in hand and a strange middle-aged woman on his arm.
They were both obviously quite drunk.
"Will! Excellent timing!" crowed Burke, clumsily navigating his way through the door with the sack in one arm, the woman clasped in the other. "This here's my new friend Abigail-say 'ello, my dear!"
"Hello, Will," said the woman with a beaming expression, one that was no doubt put there by whatever it was Burke had in the sack. "William here has told me so much about you! And he was right, you know, you are a very handsome fellow-" The woman reached out to pat his cheek, a gesture which caused Will to step back a pace. He glared at Burke, What the hell do you think you're doing? etched clearly across his face as if it were written there in pitch black charcoal.
"Tch! Now, now, Abby-I thought you only had eyes for me," Burke scolded, but his tone was easy, all mirth and charm.
"Silly! I was thinking of my daughter. She's of the marrying age, you know." She leaned in towards Will, staggering a bit. "You two would make an absolutely enchanting couple," she declared with a slight slur.
Will was just about to open his mouth to say that he was, in fact, already married, when Burke interrupted. "Come, Will! Sit with us, and enjoy a glass of spirits!" Burke dodged around him then and placed the sack down on the table where Will had been previously sitting. He drew out two bottles of three-shilling whisky and placed them on the table top with a heavy, resounding thonk! His eyes met Will's across the way. And there, in the space of a split second, the thud of a single heartbeat, Will saw the easy-going, drunken delight in his face melt into devious, dark calculation. So...this was all an act. An elaborate, ill-intended act. And in that one glance, everything suddenly became perfectly, ominously clear...
It was a good thing the house was empty of lodgers right now; fortunate that his wife had gone out to see her sister at the Cowsgate...
"I suppose I could do with a few drams," said Will, somewhat reluctantly, and he joined both Burke and Abby at the kitchen table. Burke went rifling through the cupboards, producing three cloudy-looking glasses. Three glasses, which he then filled to the brim. Will supposed he would have to be careful, and try to not drink too much.
Burke raised his glass, the easy, mirthful expression drawn like a mummer's veil back across his face. "Let us toast then! To the importance and value of acquaintances, old and new."
Will stared stonily at Burke over the glistening rim of his glass. "To the importance and value of acquaintances, old and new" Will repeated in a flat, dead tone.
Abigail was completely oblivious to it. "Ah, that's a lovely sentiment, William," she murmured, knocking back her glass with unexpected ease. Both Will and Burke barely took a sip of their drinks. Instead, they both watched Abby. Watched her like a hawk in the sky watches a mouse creeping through the grass down below-silently waiting, calculating.
Without waiting for any kind of sign, Burke refilled Abby's glass. "That's my girl," encouraged Burke. "It's a beautiful day out, might as well drink your fill."
"You're...too kind...William," said Abby as she finished off her second drink. And as she reached for a third, Will noticed how sloppy and uncoordinated her movements were becoming. How she wavered in her chair a bit. How tangled her speech was. And, in reaching for her fourth glass, she managed to knock the second whisky bottle completely from the table. It fell and shattered, the sound as loud as cannon fire in the quietude of Will's small kitchen. "Ach! I'm so sorry," the woman slurred, dropping clumsily to her knees to pick up the glittering, jewel-toned pieces. A sickly sheen now covered her face.
"Never mind it, Ab," said Burke soothingly, reaching over to pat her on the shoulder. "Will'll take care of it, won't you, Will?" He grasped Abby by the arm, pulled her to her feet.
"You look a bit unwell, my dear. Why don't I take you upstairs for a lie-down, hmm?" Burke began to gently guide her over to the stairs.
Those whispered words sent a chill trilling across Will's bones as he bent to clean up the mess on the floor. He heard, rather than saw, two sets of footsteps angling clumsily for the stair, steps which drummed across the floor like the bars of a funeral march. A surprised cry and a thud! from above caused Will to look up sharply. The woman was half way up the stair, hanging off of Burke's arm, clutching him mid-fall. She was well and truly gone with the drink. Will watched as Burke all but man-handled her the rest of the way up the staircase, dragging her from his line of sight. A few seconds later, Burke's voice called out to him from above, like the deceitful, sing-song voice of a dread angel:
"Oh, Will! Can you help me with our guest? She's gone and all but passed out on me! If you can just help me get her onto the mattress here-"
Will stood up slowly, a damp, whisky-sodden rag still in his hand. He tossed it onto the table, and steeling himself, he headed for the stair. He paused mid-way up as Burke's voice came down to him a second time:
"Oh...and why don't you bring one of those nice, fluffy pillows for our guest, too?"
A few hours later, under the cloud of dusk, two shadowy figures made their way across Surgeon's Square, a tea crate balanced unsteadily between them. The lamps had not yet been lit, and everything was shrouded under a blanket of deep blue, the stars just beginning to emerge, blinking into existence like two-penny candles placed before eventide windows. The two figures rounded the side of the house at Number 10, Surgeon's Square, the path to the cellar below now quite familiar to them. They hauled the box over to the top of the shallow stair leading down into the basement, and Burke bounded downward, pounded on the cellar door.
After a few moments, a scratching sound was heard, and the bolt scraped back. Once again, the two men were greeted by Dr. Knox's medical assistant, Alexander Miller. The golden light from behind him turned his brassy hair into radiant starburst.
"Ah, John! Thomas!" said Miller, calling them by the false names that Burke had given him. "Back already? It's only been-what? A little over a fortnight since your last delivery?"
"We've had a lucky break, sir," replied Burke. And Will, as usual, said nothing.
"Lucky indeed-lucky for us," said Miller. "Dr. Knox will be very pleased, I'm sure." And Miller stepped back, his hand gesturing them both inside. "Well, let's see what you've got for us today. If you would, please place the subject on the table. Ah...but you know the drill by now."
Burke and Will hauled the tea crate through the cellar door. They sat it down with a loud thud! by the long, metal dissection table, beneath a row of blaring, garish lights. Without waiting for instruction, they popped the lid off the crate and laid the now stiff body of Abigail Simpson across the table. Then they both stood by and waited. Miller approached the table, casually inspecting the body.
"Hmm-fresh," was all he said with a lifted eyebrow, casting a glance at both Burke and Hare.
After completing a quick inspection, Miller blithely dropped the hand of the corpse and said, "Well, I think ten pounds should suffice for this one-with Dr. Knox's approval, of course."
"Of course," repeated Burke.
"And of course, if you should happen to find any other subjects-"
"-then we will bring them to Dr. Knox straight-away, sir. Without a doubt."
"Excellent." Then from the back of the room a door creaked open. A pair of spectacles flashed in the gloom, and a crisp black suit, like that of a mortician's, came into view.
"Well, boys," said the low, overbearing voice of Dr. Knox. "Just what is it you have for us this time..."
Later that evening, as Burke and Hare made their way through a shadowy, narrow close near the South Bridge, Burke remarked:
"Well, that was certainly some of the easiest ten pounds I've ever made."
Will shook his head beside him in the dark. "I don't know, William. It just isn't right. It isn't right..." And Will thought about how much whisky it was going to take to help him get to sleep that night, to help him get past the immovable wall of his wailing conscience.
Burke slung what was supposed to be a comforting arm around his shoulder. Will tried not to flinch beneath his hold. "My dear, Will. Don't think about it. Think instead about all the money in your pocket. Think about all the hardy spirits and nice victuals we'll soon be having."
"I don't want to go to the pub."
Burke broke away from him. They both stopped, pausing to stand on one of the landings about half-way up the close. The narrow stairway smelled of trash and excrement and death.
"You don't want to go to the pub with me then?" said Burke, managing to sound hurt.
"No. I mean, yes. I mean, I don't know," Will shook his head in liquor-laced confusion. After the two of them had murdered Abigail, Will had gone down to the kitchen and finished off what was left of the remaining bottle of whisky. Because his conscience was getting harder to quiet, was becoming harder to disregard...
With a soft, sinister step, Burke crowded into Will. He hemmed him in, pushed him back against the dirtied stone wall of the close. The two of them were quite alone in their own enclosed piece of night . Then he heard Burke whisper, "Don't tell me you want to go home to that screech owl of a wife, Will?" He felt, rather than saw, as Burke lifted a hand to his face, felt him caress his cheek. Will closed his eyes, shivered in the dark.
"You know I don't-"
That was all he managed to get out before Burke covered his mouth with his own, before Burke grasped either side of his head with his hands, holding him firmly in place. Will responded to the other's kiss with equal fervor, as always. They stood there, locked together in the middle of the close. Will felt Burke's hands traveling southward, and he grabbed the other man's hand, stopping him mid-grope.
"I don't want to do it here," Will said firmly. Not in some dirty stair that smells of cheap liquor and urine and dung.
Burke was breathing heavily. Will couldn't see his expression in the dark. He felt Burke's hands run up the sides of his arms, felt him give him a slight squeeze. "Fine then," said Burke. "I got money in my pocket. I'll get us a room."
"Yes."
The two of them started up the close again. Will had barely gotten three paces before Burke whirled on him again, pushed him back against the wall. His voice was full of emotion, his grip possessive, covetous, as he said:
"We're partners, Will. You and I. Partners. In every way. And don't you ever forget that."
And after that passionate declaration-a declaration that was maligned by a subtext of possible threat-Burke turned away and bounded up the staircase...
Edinburgh, Scotland, Present Day
Jack had bitched the entire way to Scotland. On the flight, in the cab, in the lobby of the hotel in Old Town where they were staying. He went on and on about the utter loathsomeness of twenty-first century travel (and granted, flying on an Easy Jet wasn't exactly the cream of luxury flight, but it was all Ianto could get at the last minute), how much he missed travelling by vortex manipulator and damn (insert D word here) him for breaking his wristband to begin with. What right did he have? And on and on he went...
Ianto endured every single rant with his usual calm, British stoicism. The two of them tramped up the staircase of the inn (the stair being another element Jack had gone on to complain about: Seriously Ianto? No elevators?) with overnight bags in hand. They arrived on the top floor, where Ianto had booked two rooms-albeit, next to each other-just to be safe. Two rooms, because he didn't want to be presumptuous. Two rooms, because that was what good manners dictated. Two rooms, even though that was the last thing he wanted.
Of course, after all the bitching, what he wanted most was to cram his head under a pillow. Ah, the peace of blissful silence...
"IANTO!"
Jack was yelling through the open doorway of his room. Ianto rolled his eyes, the question What is it now, for god's sake? clearly etched across his face like a road way sign. Squaring his shoulders, Ianto marched from his room to Jack's. He found the Torchwood commander standing in the center of the room, his gray military coat off and hands on hips. There was an unhappy expression on his all too-handsome face.
Ianto sighed. "What is it now?"
Jack gestured broadly at the room, his eyebrow raised. "What's all this?" he asked, as if Ianto were mentally deficient not to notice.
"What's what, sir?" Ianto was struggling. Stay calm, calm...
Suddenly Jack was right up in his face. "Ianto," he said in a low, threatening voice. "I can't believe-"
"-can't believe what, sir?"
"-that you actually booked two rooms. After all that verbal maneuvering of yours. What a complete waste of funds..."
"There was no 'verbal maneuvering,' sir-"
Jack smirked the notorious Jack Harkness smirk. "Oh, wasn't there? And what did I tell you about dropping the 'sir'?"
"Yes, s- I mean, Jack."
"A complete waste of funds..." the words trailed off as Jack grabbed Ianto by the shoulders and started backing him towards the bed.
"So...you're not mad then?" asked Ianto. "You seem a lot less stressed now."
"Mmm...that's because I know of an excellent remedy for stress," said Jack, pushing Ianto onto the bed and diving on top of him. Ianto leaned back as Jack began to kiss his way from his earlobe, down to the base of his neck...
Heaven.
"You know, you've been a right impossible bitch for the last three hours," Ianto murmured into Jack's ear.
"Have I? So let me make it up to you," whispered Jack, his voice full of erotic promise. He reached up and pulled Ianto into a hungry, heated kiss, his hands wandering, pulling at the buttons on Ianto's expensive coat. "My dear Mr. Jones-" Jack said huskily.
"-yes?"
"-you have a shit load of buttons," Jack finished with a saucy grin, struggling with Ianto's silk waistcoat. Ianto batted his hands away. "Let me," he said, and he began undoing the buttons himself, even as Jack pounced on him again, all lips and tongue on his neck. The two of them were writhing together in a half-clothed heap on the bed.
Ianto had just started on the buttons of his collared shirt, when Jack suddenly slid upward and grabbed his wrists, pulling his hands above his head. Ianto could feel Jack's heart pounding against his own as he kissed him hard and deep-a heart, he reminded himself, that would never stop, would always keep beating-
-unlike his own-
Don't! Don't think about such things!
Ianto tried to push those intrusive thoughts from his mind, tried to focus on the sensations at hand, as Jack trailed his way down his torso. Ianto licked his lips and pushed his hips forcefully, wantonly forward. He was so hard, and he wanted so much...
"Jack..." he pleaded hoarsely, feverishly.
Ianto watched Jack's ever grinning face over the top of his belt as he began to deftly remove the clasp. Ianto panted in expectation as Jack slid the leather from the binds of confinement. So fucking close now-
-and then, from Jack's back pocket, the cell phone went off with a screeching, disruptive trill...
"Just ignore it," pleaded Ianto, his face gone red and his pupils dilated with want. Jack hesitated in his progress. The phone continued to trill, and Jack finally muttered, "Shit," and pulled the offending object from his pocket. He swore again as he looked at the screen and read off what was written on the small device:
HARKNESS, WHERE THE HELL R U? U SHOULD HAVE BEEN HERE AN HOUR AGO. WHAT R U, SHAGGING YOUR SECRETARY OR SOMETHING? STOP BEING A LAZY SOD AND GET TO WORK! -AF
"That man is not only a practiced fun-sucker, but is apparently also psychic as well," Jack remarked dryly. He looked at Ianto apologetically. "Continue this tonight?"
"I suppose," said Ianto, though the disappointment in his voice was as clear as glass.
"I'll make it up to you. Really. I'll take you out to that restaurant on the high street where all the celebrities go."
"The Witchery?"
"Yes, that one."
"You know you need reservations to get in there."
"Oh. I do? Well. Uhm, well..."
"And yes, I'll make the reservations."
Jack beamed then, and he leaned forward to peck Ianto on the lips. "Ianto Jones, what would I ever do without you?"
"Well, starve, for one."
Jack laughed, a delighted musical sound. Ianto reluctantly got off the bed and began to slowly don his discarded pieces of clothing. "So boss," he said, the very picture of professionalism, "Where are we headed off to?"
"I'm glad you asked that," said Jack with a sly grin. And then he said, quite seriously:
"We're going to a graveyard!"
End Chapter 3.
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