A/N: My goodness this chapter was a quick write. I had to do my research though - alcohol comes into it, and as I don't touch the stuff, I actually had to look up stuff about it. (': I'm not gonna be able to post for a while because I have a lot of art to do - sigh - and so I'm not sure when I'll get the time to update or even write. I just wanted to ask, as I'm approaching my limit for this story arc, would you be interested in a third? I have some storylines I can carry over, obviously, but one in particular has to be wrapped up by the end of this one. Because I'm cruel. I like playing with them. Anyways, yeah, just drop me a review, tell me what you think. (: This is named after 'Firewater' by Yellowcard, because it's appropriate, even though this person doesn't drink whiskey (often). Anyways, enjoy.
God, he was late.
25th July, 1916 – the afternoon was hot, and bees buzzed lazily among the lavender bushes lining the street. The smell stuck in his nose, mellow and calming, as he hurried home to his mother. John lived on a very up-market street, all big, red-brick houses, with cellars and attics, and four floors in between. Charlton, on the other hand…
It was almost funny, the way the scenery changed as he headed back to his homestead. It was as if the light quality changed, clouded over, and the air became hotter still. Irritated, Charlton rubbed beads of perspiration off the nape of his neck with his hand, glancing down the road to check his bearings.
It was then that he saw it. It, and the man beside it. It sat, squat, at the street corner opposite, the windows frosted, as if it was staring at him. Then there was the man – a young man, really, with messy, dark hair. He was strange, particularly in comparison to the box, which he normally would have disregarded – he wore a tweed jacket, and worn black trousers, tucked into even more worn black work boots. His shirt was pressed, its collar immaculate, the same sweet shade of lavender as the plants that were as familiar to him as the black soot that clung to his house. He wore a strange tie, too – red, in a bow. The man studied him, too, as if trying to identify him.
Eventually, the man's forehead, once creased in thought, flattened in realization, and he grinned widely, though his eyes looked honest and sad.
He raised one hand, and in it Charlton saw a strange gold device, about the size of the man's hand if it was outstretched, and immediately, there was a flash of brilliant light. Instinctively he tried to block the light out with his eyes, but it seemed to penetrate the shield of his hands, and then there was nothing.
Nothing, except that strange, backward-violin siren, ringing in his ears, and the smell of lavender still clinging to his clothes.
When he next woke up, there was no trace of the man, or the box, or the strange device that had emitted that brilliant light. There was just noise, and people rushing around, oblivious to his presence. Looking around, he found several familiar buildings, but they were all housing new shops. Getting up, he noticed something that vaguely resembled a bin, and was pleased to find it was.
A newspaper lay within, partly covered by greasy-smelling packaging with an ominous yellow 'M' on its front. Brushing it aside, Charlton checked the date on the newspaper.
25th July, 2000. Knowing all at once that he was truly alone, the young Charlton Harrison cursed softly, as his tears of shock and fear and anguish began to fall, and the siren still rang in his ears.
He woke up. Wiping his eyes, he was surprised to find they were wet, and even more surprised that he'd had that dream again. It had been years, another time ago, when he'd had that dream; when his new mother had found him, he'd suffered the dreams for longer than he'd cared to admit to her. Eventually he'd learned to accept them, to calm himself down and go back to sleep.
He glanced at the clock, and sighed deeply, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands. 4.25 am. He wouldn't get a decent bit of sleep now. Swinging his legs off the bed, Charlton stumbled out of his room, in search of a stiff drink.
Flicking on lights as he went, he headed straight for the liquor cabinet, kneeling on the cold tiles of his kitchen to reach its place under the sink. Pulling out the bottle of expensive brandy he'd bought as 'an investment' and a brandy glass, he toed the cupboard door closed and stood, putting the bottle on the countertop and checking the glass was definitely clean – his dishwasher was…well, temperamental.
While holding the glass up to the light, he noticed something distinctly off.
There was a man standing in his living room. Nearly dropping the glass, he managed to deflect it onto the counter, at which point the man decided to turn around.
"Now, Charlton," the man tutted, walking towards him with his hands behind his back, "where did this drink habit come from? Brandy, really?"
"You…" Charlton managed to gasp out, staggering back against his fridge, "You haven't changed…in ten years, you haven't changed…"
"Oh, it's all relative," the man said, with a smile, eyes kind, as he placed the brandy glass upright on the counter, "You might want to pour yourself one of those, for what I'm about to tell you. Trust me, I'm the Doctor."
With a shaky exhalation of breath, Charlton smiled tightly, "I think I need to have something more immediate." Ducking down for a moment, he stood up again with a bottle of vodka and a shot glass in hand. Pouring himself a double, he necked it in one go, grimacing before replacing the bottle and putting the glass in the sink. Taking ahold of the brandy glass and bottle with now-steady hands, he gestured with a nod of his head to the living room, "After you."
The Doctor ran a hand through his wayward dark hair with an expression caught somewhere between shock and awe, and replied slowly, "Right. Well. Quite so."
Seated on the plush sofa, the Doctor watched Charlton pour himself a glass of brandy, and sigh with relief when – he presumed – the alcohol hit his system.
"You kidnapped me when I was 15," he mumbled, into the brandy glass.
"Now, when you put it that way, it doesn't sound very good."
"Tell me what was good about what you did to me."
"…ah…I can't. Not yet. In fact, not ever, it'll just happen soon. Are you and Ianto Jones…?" The Doctor gesticulated wildly, "Intimate? Yet? That is the key. How I keep track of this whole thing."
Snorting into his brandy, Charlton wiped his face on the back of his hand, "Uhm. No. We've kissed. Once."
"Right. We're on track. Charlton, are you happy in your life? Have you ever been happy?"
For a moment, he was stunned into silence. He stared at the dark-haired man, with that ever-present tweed jacket, with the damn elbow patches, and thought back to when he'd been taken. He supposed his life in 1916 was okay. He had friends, got good marks at school, parents were happy together…
…and yet, there was this overwhelming sense of melancholy that he felt always. Just at the back of his mind, always there, this cloud hanging over him.
"Ah. I see," the Doctor nodded, patting him on the back, "Quite so. Well, Charlton, it seems you were made for this world you've entered. The supernatural, alien world, that is. You're on your way." Here he stood, dusted off his faded black trousers, and said, "Well, I must be going. Can't leave that old blue box outside forever, not when I've just repaired the inside."
When he saw that Charlton was getting up to object, he planted a large hand on his chest and pushed him back onto the sofa, reassuring him with a friendly clap on the shoulder.
"Charlton. We'll meet again. Keep calm, and carry on."
And with that, the young man walked, spine upright, from Charlton's apartment, the door closing with a subtle click. Outside of his window, about five minutes later, Charlton saw a flashing light, and slowly fell asleep to the sound of that strange, familiar siren. He slept through the night.
"He smells of booze," Gwen commented to Jack, leaning on his desk lightly, and glancing at the American.
"That he does, Gwen. That he does," he replied, hands clasped together, elbows propped on the tabletop, "but has his work suffered? No. He's a freak of nature."
Folding her arms over her stomach, Gwen pushed off the desk and turned to stare at Jack accusatively, "You know drinking on the job is wrong. That we should have sent him home."
Looking around Gwen into the floor below, Jack eyed Charlton speculatively.
"You know he had two double vodkas and two glasses of brandy before he got here? That's over twice the limit of units for a male."
Raising his eyebrows, Jack looked seriously at Gwen, "No kidding? Jesus. I suppose that's pretty hard-going."
"One of each in the early hours of the morning, and then one of each with his breakfast," she said, worriedly, "Weetabix, apparently. He told Ianto, after asking for some strong coffee. He looks like hell."
It was true. The usually tidy young man's hair was sticking up strangely, he hadn't shaved and he had deep circles under his eyes.
"Should we say something, do you think?" Gwen said, anxious.
Jack watched Charlton sip at his coffee, laughing and joking with Ianto and Daria, and sighed, rubbing his eyes tiredly, "No, let's see how he goes. Just keep an eye on him, make sure he's not slacking. I'll have Daria talk to him later, she's the psychological personnel here."
Nodding briefly, Gwen left, just as the Hub alarms started to ring.
"Oh, fuck," muttered Jack, hurriedly following her out.
"I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but here goes," Ianto said, peering over Charlton's shoulder and inhaling the aroma of alcohol off him, "it looks like we'll need everyone. This is a big thing, wooded area, but there are some places of residence within its range. Looks like our friend from the 25 rift spikes is back."
A/N: Aren't I cheerful? :D
