Prompt #398 - The Perfect Martini (13th Floor)
TITLE: The Perfect Martini
AUTHOR: lonelywalker
FANDOM: The Thirteenth Floor
RATING: R
SUMMARY: X-over with Torchwood. Ashton has a pretty good Halloween, all things considered. Whitney? Not so much.
AUTHOR'S NOTES: Written for drunk_fic prompt 398: How Ashton learned to make the perfect martini.
The Perfect Martini
October 31st, 1936
1.
It’s a tragic waste of a good time. The nightly excess at the Wilshire Grand is never really his kind of party - there’s too much reliance on manners and deception for his liking - but at least it had a very reasonable point. He can understand the need to break from work and family, to drink the finest cocktails and fuck the finest whores. Even the sickly romantic undertakings on Valentine’s Day each year have some deeper reason behind the entertainment. They impress the ladies, and all the men get laid one way or another, even if it’s by extinguishing their depression in the bed of a dancing girl. This, however… This is simply childish.
Erika, masked and smiling, rests her cigarette tray on the edge of the bar and raises her eyebrows at his very evident disgust. “You’re supposed to be having fun.”
“It’s work,” Ashton replies dryly. “It’s never fun.”
She’s made up in an exotic, ethereal costume that somehow manages to flow and be revealing at the same time. Whether she’s an angel or demon, he can’t tell, but several of the patrons at the bar are obviously interested in discovering what lies underneath those shimmering layers. “You’re only jealous because you don’t get to dress up.” Erika flashes him a wink and a grin and heads off towards one of her mesmerised young customers.
Ashton watches her go, absently wiping down a glass decanter. If only it were true. He’d give a lot to be able to drop the bartender’s façade, to shrug out of the costume and the mask, and to forget the forced politeness of the evening. But this is a place for false charm and expensive clothes. No one within the walls of the dancehall is ever simply themselves. That would be far too hideous to perceive. Tonight’s Halloween eccentricities have only revealed a slightly more obvious set of disguises.
As for his work, his beloved precision behind the bar has all gone to waste. Not only have the hotel staff forced the usually refined and sparse bar to be decorated with various garish designs, but the requests for drinks have been contorted as well. Good taste has, for the night at least, been replaced by a desire - particularly among the younger men - for the most visually striking beverages possible. Along the bar, Harry has been doing a speedy trade in various mixtures involving tomato juice. So far, Ashton’s steady stare of disapproval has been heading off most of those kinds of requests. Unfortunately, that’s left him with little more than a gaggle of old men around his end, eyeing up girls and comparing war stories.
“Now how do you get a piece of that?”
The question comes from one of the younger men in front of him, gaze directed - when is it not? - towards a pretty girl. Usually Ashton would take his cue to start talking up her many good points, and the definite possibility that the amorous man could indeed have a piece of her for a price. Unfortunately, the girl in question this time around is a genuine lady - the daughter of some Los Angeles lawyer or banker, dressed like a princess.
“I wouldn’t know,” Ashton says, ready to suggest the services of a similar-looking girl of his own. The hotel employs enough of them to have a type for every man - blonde, brunette, plump, slim, innocent, devilish…
The man turns back around and gives him a wide grin. “Guess you wouldn’t.”
There’s a certain science to judging the intent of a smile, and it’s the bartender’s job to correctly interpret every kind of body language: the man who needs to get laid must be differentiated from the one who merely needs an ear to listen to all his personal woes. Ashton expects the usual kind of putdown to accompany the words - a suggestion that he’s too low class, maybe even too much of a faggot, to hope for a lady like that to look at him twice. But this man’s smile has no such purpose.
Ordinarily he would be an odd apple in a meticulously delicate basket - military fashions, with the exceptions (perhaps) of higher ranking officers, are not generally accepted at the Wilshire Grand. And this man looks like no officer Ashton has ever seen. He’s far, far too pretty and clean, even while wrapped in a thick and reasonably authentic army greatcoat. But the insignia must be foreign. Probably some younger son of the aristocracy, with more money than sense, pretending to be part of something of real importance. A nothing, really, but at least he makes for impressive scenery.
Ashton gives him a smile of his own - that barely disguised fakery of good manners. “What can I get you?”
“I’m told you make the best martini in the state,” the man leans on the bar with one elbow. “Impress me.”
There’s a certain magnetism in that precisely sculpted face, and those clear blue eyes, that makes Ashton pause for a moment before reaching for a glass. Perhaps it’s simply the request that takes him by surprise. No one has asked for a martini all night. “You’re sure you don’t want something a little more… volatile?” Usually the kids are more impressed by him setting things on fire than simply mixing up a perfect cocktail.
That gets him a good-natured laugh. “I’m volatile enough already, believe me.” A hand is stuck out. “Captain Jack Harkness.”
Ashton shakes it, a little surprised by the breach in decorum. “Captain of what, exactly?”
His hand, however, is caught in a firm grip as Jack turns it over, holding the back up to the light. “Nice rings. Never been much for jewellery myself. Always seem to lose it in the strangest places.”
“For a man wearing two wristwatches, you’re one to talk,” Ashton points out, forcibly taking back his hand and pulling out the gin and vermouth. As he does so, Jack looks slightly uncomfortable and pulls his sleeves down lower. “How’d you like it?”
Jack frowns at him. “Like what? Oh.” he says as Ashton clinks a knuckle against the martini glass, “However you want. I’m in your hands, sir.”
So many possible replies, so little time… Ashton absently glances at his own watch as he pours the correct measure of vermouth into his shaker. Getting towards midnight, although this is one of the occasions when the party will likely require his presence into the wee hours of the morning. The crowds show no sign of dispersing and, in any case, he has no other appointment to hold his attention. Karl, his usual solace in times of great physical need, is likely having his own party somewhere across town, in the company of people Ashton couldn’t bear to meet under any circumstances.
“133 Squadron, Royal Air Force,” Jack is saying, watching him prepare the martini. “You’re going to shake that?”
Ashton decides that any response would only give credence to the question. “If you’re looking for London, I think you took a wrong turn somewhere.”
Jack, despite being lost by a good few thousand miles, still seems rather more unsettled by Ashton’s preparation method. “Shaking just dulls the gin, you know. You end up with weak alcohol and a lot of smashed ice. And probably too much vermouth.”
Usually etiquette dictates that Ashton abandon his current endeavours, and make the cocktail to the customer’s specifications. However, he’s in no mood to defer to a pilot, and especially not a pretty-boy fake in grandfather’s uniform. “Probably,” he says, tossing the closed shaker in the air with practiced recklessness.
Jack regards him with an amused smile, and a hint of temptation in his eyes.
2.
The taste of alcohol is still on Jack’s lips when Ashton kisses him in the darkness of the stairwell, hard and violent in his advances. Jack trips down the last few steps, not regaining his balance fast enough to avoid smashing his shoulder into a wall of wooden lockers. And then Ashton is on him again.
It’s so much easier to do things quickly, to avoid names and awkward questions in favour of immediate physical intimacy. Ashton, fortunately, can very easily dictate the pace. Jack may be tall and beautiful and quick-witted, but Ashton has several inches and a fair amount of muscle over him. More to the point, Ashton knows the locker room well enough to be able to navigate in the dark. He isn’t likely to scrape his shins on a bench or bang his head on hanging pipes. Jack, for all his eagerness to escape from the manic society of the ballroom into the truly haunting setting of the basement, is at a serious disadvantage.
He’s an actor. He has to be - one of Karl’s fairy friends, no doubt, all good looks and wholesome values on the outside, with illicit desire just waiting to be revealed under the surface. Only Karl could have told him about the martini, and the easiest way to get Ashton’s attention. Only Karl could get a man like this inside the most exclusive club in town. And only Karl would care to send his favourite bartender a Halloween gift, so neatly and intriguingly wrapped. Ashton grazes his tongue against his teeth, and wonders what on earth he can ever do to repay him.
“That really was quite a martini,” Jack says in the moment that his foot hooks around Ashton’s right knee, twisting and pushing him to the ground with a thump. “I’ll have to remember that one.”
He’s not scared, lying there winded in the second or two before he can lever himself back up to his feet. After all, he’s never met a man in years who could best him in a fight. Ashton still has the advantage of territory. Besides, the consequences of losing seem, at present, to roughly equate to the consequences of winning. Maybe it would be worth a slightly bruised ego to let Jack hold him down, to let Jack fuck him good and hard in the dark.
“You’d have a hard time forgetting it.” Ashton straightens up slowly, wary of another attack, however friendly.
Jack doesn’t seem too concerned, shrugging out of his coat. It must be heavy on his shoulders, now, and uncomfortable in the humid air of the locker room. “I hope you won’t let me forget it,” he says, folding the coat over his arm. “No one as hot as you is supposed to be alone on Halloween.”
Hot? Well, that’s one way to put it. Ashton throws off his own jacket and tugs at his bowtie. He can put them all away neatly afterwards. After what might be the question. The absence of the bulky coat has revealed a more elegant dress sense than he might have suspected. Perhaps the stranger has some taste after all. “I suppose it is a night for monsters.”
“Quite a place you’ve got here,” Jack says, looking around with an air of unease without moving from his spot on the floor. Perhaps he’s afraid that he’ll fall into some unseen pit in the darkness. “Cosy.”
Ashton eyes him with some disdain as he unbuttons his waistcoat. “Follow me. Maybe I’ve got something more to your liking.”
The pool room is always impressive. Even in the light of day, with small children’s shrieks and splashes ruining the ambience, he can appreciate the architecture. At night, however, when blue light ripples over the tiled floor and art deco pillars, it’s truly magnificent. Ashton leans back against the wall, lighting a cigarette in cupped hands, and observing Jack with interest. Whatever he pretends to be, he seems a little more comfortable in this atmosphere. Ashton snaps his lighter closed. “So you’ve seen Europe? Must be beautiful.”
“I’ve seen it,” Jack says in a measured tone, perhaps aware that he is being tested. “But not in the best light. And it’s cold this time of year.”
Ashton breathes smoke into the air. “It’s cold everywhere.”
There’s a pause, and a knowing smile, as the answer to an unspoken question becomes obvious. Jack cocks his head and turns to study Ashton with much the same look he had given the pool. “You need to learn how to enjoy yourself.”
Ashton laughs a little at that, and holds out his lighter. “Smoke?”
“No, never.” Jack surveys the room. “You sleep down here?”
“Not very well.”
“I know the feeling… but that wasn’t really what I…”
“I know what you meant,” Ashton says, straightening up and slipping his room key from his trouser pocket into the palm of his hand. “Don’t worry. I don’t do it on the floor. Not if I can help it, anyway.”
He can feel Jack examining the place once the door is open - scrutinising every inch of starkly white and mostly empty space. Ashton doesn’t look back once he’s opened the door. Admitting a sense of unease in front of this stranger would be pointless. It’s not as if they’ll ever meet again, and this is hardly the time to indulge in emotional outbursts. It’s not as if there’s much here: newspaper bundles at the foot of the mattress; scraps of paper and pictures tacked to the wall; shoe polish; matches. The really sensitive things are secure in a nameless locker deep in the hallways. Unfortunately, the very scarcity of possessions may be giving Jack more information than the items themselves.
Ashton grinds out his cigarette on the floor and sits down to remove his shoes. Even if Jack thinks twice about spending any more time here, he still has to get to bed. The workday begins all over again in a few hours. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Jack step inside the room, and carefully shut the door.
“So are you going to tell me your secret?” Jack asks, dropping his coat unceremoniously on the floor. “How does a man like you make the perfect martini?”
Without the coat, flawless white skin is revealed at his throat, disappearing down under a blue uniform shirt. Ashton leans back on the bed, propping himself up on his elbows, and watches those shirt buttons being undone one by one. “It’s just alcohol.”
“Oh, no.” Jack wags a finger at him as the shirt, too, falls to the ground. “I’ve tried that. I’ve had some of the most advanced technology in a thousand worlds calibrate the exact recipe, and it always comes up short.” He walks over to the bed, standing between Ashton’s legs, before dropping down and planting his hands on either side of the bartender’s shoulders. “Where did you learn to make that?”
Ashton feels Jack’s breath against his lips, and bares his teeth in a smile. “Prison,” he says clearly, putting Jack’s own trick to work against him, and flipping Jack over onto the bed.
Jack laughs as best as he can with Ashton on top of him. “What were you in there for?”
“Oh…” Ashton fingers Jack’s lips with a disappointed expression. “Can’t you guess?”
October 31st, 1998
1.
It could be worse. Last year, despite all his protests, Charlotte and Tom had dragged him to their company party in Palo Alto. The music alone was bad enough to give anyone thumping headache, and he had been the only one sober enough to notice. Charlotte, as usual, had attempted to introduce him to one or two of her gay techie friends - cute guys, but nothing he could get excited about, and they hadn’t seemed too thrilled with him either. In the end, he had sought solace in an unlocked computer lab, accessed some lesser-security files online, and got back to work.
This time, his very best intentions had been to spend Halloween barricaded on the thirteenth floor, oblivious to the outside world, with one hand dipped in a bag of candy. Charlotte’s invitation had been rejected with as good a lie as he could tell over email, pleading work issues and Fuller’s totalitarian regime. She might be making her way to Fullercorp now, to mount a rescue and get him away from his computer screen. However, he has already been liberated by an unlikely source.
“It won’t be so bad, Jase,” Mom says, glancing over at him as their car is halted by a red light. “No one’s really going to be talking politics. It’s just a friendly get together. And I’ll have the most handsome escort of the night.”
Whitney squirms, and pulls at the neck of his shirt. At the last minute, he had asked to borrow some formal clothes from a very surprised but somewhat pleased Doug. They don’t quite fit, but at least they’re better than attending his mother’s formal college seminar in jeans and a sweater. Besides, no matter what he wears, he can’t very well end up being more embarrassed than he is already at being his mother’s date. “But what do I have to do?”
She reaches out to pinch his cheek in what he hopes is an ironic gesture. “Just look pretty and be brilliant, dear. You shouldn’t have too much trouble with either.”
As the car starts to move again, Whitney slouches even further into the passenger seat. He can’t even usually talk coherently about his own passion for computer science and virtual reality, much less his mother’s interests of politics and history. Besides, somewhere in the piles of contracts and agreements he had to sign when he first came to work for Fullercorp is an entire sheaf on what he isn’t allowed to discuss about the project. Any casual inquiry from his mother’s colleagues is almost bound to get a short and apparently rude reply.
“Have you heard from Charlotte?”
Whitney scratches his nose. “Um, yeah. The usual, y’know.”
Mom casts him an inquisitive look. “I shouldn’t be holding out for grandkids anytime soon, then?”
And this is exactly why spending the night out with his mother is a terrible idea. It invites all sorts of awkward questions like what he’s been working on, and what really happened between him and Charlotte, and why he never seems to wash his socks. Admittedly, the fact that he hasn’t had a single date in… well, in a very long time, would be a little worrisome to any parent. All of his mother’s hopes of raising a bright, well-adjusted boy have obviously been dashed. The trouble is, telling her that he has a long-concealed preference for men wouldn’t help too much. She might understand - he’s almost certain she’d understand - but she’d still want to know why he hasn’t brought any cute boys home for dinner.
“So what’s this seminar on?” he asks, straightening up in an effort to appear interested and halfway competent.
Mom debates the answer with herself for a moment before answering. “That nice young man you work with… Douglas? Does he ever tell you he’s going to a very important meeting with financiers, but really he’s just trying to get drunk and get laid?”
“Oh, you remember him then?” Whitney grins. “You mean I’m going to be stuck with a lot of tipsy professors hitting on me?”
She shrugs. “At least they’re not going to be marking your papers tomorrow.”
And that, at least, is a fair point.
2.
Despite the seminar’s status as a thinly-veiled excuse for the department to shell out some of their annual budget on food and alcohol, it still comes equipped with a thick bound handout, full of journal articles. Whitney picks it up and attempts to make some sense of the thing. Even with the presence of some reassuring charts and statistics, the main thrust of the research means nothing to him. He hastily drops it back on the pile, lest someone assume that he is actually an authority on the subject. He’s not even sure what the subject is.
“And this is my genius son, Jason,” Mom is saying, all the while elbowing him in the ribs. “He works for Fullercorp in the city.”
Whitney does his best to look vaguely sentient, stuffs his hands in his pockets, and smiles over Mom’s shoulder. She’s talking to a gaggle of stoic senior professors, all of whom glance at him and nod as if relieved that he’s not a student interloper. The real students here, the teaching assistants and other graduates privileged enough to be let into the inner sanctum of the department, are milling around with wine glasses and notebooks. None of them look quite as out-of-place as a six-foot-four longhaired computer programmer in a borrowed suit.
After a while he completely tunes out of the conversation, because - thankfully - no one here is interested in asking all those questions he’s not allowed to answer. Instead, Mom is waxing lyrical about the effects the Yippies may or may not have had on modern youth culture, and whether or not red wine really is good for your health. Whitney wanders off, in search of a quiet corner in which to hide.
“You work for Fullercorp, huh?”
Oh, no. “Um, yeah, but it’s not very interesting,” Whitney says quickly, looking round at the person asking the question. Worryingly, the man in front of him is no aged professor who he could blindside with technobabble. Maybe he’s a grad student, although he looks a little too fashionable for that. Whitney takes in the Tom Cruise-features, the perfect teeth, and the old military coat, and momentarily forgets where he is. “Huh?”
“Captain Jack Harkness,” the man who probably isn’t a student says, taking pity on him and holding out a wine glass. “Rumour has it you’re Jason Whitney.”
“Um.” Whitney takes the wine glass, and then looks at it a little dumbly, wondering how to get rid of it without being rude. “Has my Mom been telling you about me?” Captain? Captain of what? He certainly doesn’t seem like one of those aged veterans with a room full of medals and war souvenirs. He’s about four decades too young for that.
Jack grins, chinking his own glass against Whitney’s. He, for one, has no trouble downing the contents. “Oh your fame is more widespread than that, believe me.”
“Yeah?” Whitney frowns at him, and suddenly something clicks. The military rank. The air of mystery. The strange interest in him. “You’re from military intelligence again, aren’t you? Look, I said I’m not interested in that stuff. I’ve got a job - a really really good one - and I don’t need to kill people every day.”
Now it’s Jack’s turn to stare blankly. “I don’t know what you’ve heard about me, but I haven’t killed anyone for months. Are you drinking this?” He reaches out and takes the glass from Whitney’s hand.
“So who are you then? What are you doing here?” Surely there’s a better way to deal with an absolutely stunning guy talking to him than asking vaguely threatening questions? Whitney groans a little inside. Doug would be so much better at this.
Jack, however, doesn’t seem to mind. “Just passing through. Sightseeing.” He downs the other glass of wine and holds up the glass for inspection. “Free drinks.”
“Ohhh…” Suddenly it makes a little more sense. Presumably anyone can get into this little gathering, tempted by alcohol and food, since everyone would simply assume that he was the guest of someone else. “So what are you captain of, then?”
“Met this guy once,” Jack interrupts, clanking the glasses down on a nearby table. “Made the best martini in the universe - and believe me, I’ve tried a few. That was Halloween too… Does no one dress up anymore?”
Whitney looks pointedly at Jack’s coat, which seems to have some kind of air force logo on it. “You’re not dressed up?”
Jack stares at him, slightly askance at the thought. “No. This is good, classic style, this is. You can’t put it in the same category as werewolves and vampires. Although, admittedly, it has been in the same room as werewolves and vampires. What a night that was.”
The thought crosses Whitney’s mind that he might simply have lucked onto the only drunk and/or slightly insane amazingly attractive man in the city. Doug would probably suggest rapidly inviting him home and getting down and dirty. Sadly, or perhaps fortunately, Doug is nowhere to be seen. “So, um, how do you know me, then?”
“Jase!” Trust his mother to rescue him from the only true social situation he’s had in months. Whitney’s not sure whether he’s happy about the intervention. On the one hand, she’s probably saving him from coming across like a blithering idiot. On the other, Jack seems even less capable of making sense. Mom is bearing wine and various lecture handouts. “I think I’ve escaped from the worst of it,” she says, offloading the handouts into Whitney’s arms as she looks Jack up and down. “Escaped from the Imperial War Museum, have you?”
Jack’s smile is worryingly charming as Whitney tries to neatly arrange the pile of papers without dropping any. “Captain Jack Harkness. You must be Jason’s sister.”
Whitney rolls his eyes and expects the usual smart comeback from a woman who has felled many men of much better talents than Jack Harkness. “Oh, a fair few men have done better than that, Jack,” Mom says, raising her glass to him. “Mind you, thanks for trying. Not many do, these days.”
“My pleasure.”
“So are you a visiting lecturer?” Mom asks. “Jase, go get Jack another drink, will you?”
Whitney has already paused, caught between objecting to the impossibility of doing anything while carrying all this paper, and worrying about Mom hitting on the very guy who was apparently trying to chat him up just a moment ago. Fortunately, at least Jack remembers that he exists. “That’s okay. I’m driving anyway.”
“You didn’t land your plane on the roof?” Mom takes Jack’s lapel and strokes it between her finger and thumb. “Let me guess… British, circa World War Two? Nice replica.”
Jack nods, apparently impressed. “You know your history.”
“It’s not really my period,” Mom says, her hand lingering, “but I would very much like to know more.”
“Well, you do know that the best way to learn about a culture is from their taste in cocktails.” Jack gently takes Mom’s hand. “The cosmopolitan… for all that pretty, delicate appearance, the girl’s a pirate underneath. A real drink for the nineties.” He touches her fingers to his lips. “But the martini… that’s a drink for the ages.”
The tension in the air between them is broken by a loud clatter, as all the papers Whitney had been holding land abruptly on the floor. Both Mom and Jack turn to look at him in mild irritation.
“Sorry,” Whitney mutters, crouching down to clear up the mess. So much for ghosties and ghoulies and things that go bump in the night. No one ever warned him about a mysterious yet cute guy in a bad costume chatting up his Mom.
Mom is supposed to have better taste than this, even if none of her boyfriends over the years have stuck around long-term. She dates teachers, doctors - the kinds of guys who coach little league and used to insist on helping him with his homework. Jack, even if he’s straight - which, on the basis of his clothing really has to be doubted - is obviously not the family type. Good guys don’t sneak into college seminars for free drinks and chat up everyone in sight.
“Here, let me help you with that,” Jack scoops up one or two booklets and adding them to the pile Whitney is reassembling. “You know,” he says over his shoulder to Whitney’s Mom, “I was just telling Jason that I once met this bartender who could mix an absolutely perfect gin martini. Amazing.”
“Maybe we should track him down,” Mom jokes. “This party’s certainly dead in the water.”
Whitney gets to his feet, dumping all the papers on a table, and wiping dust from his hands. The seminar indeed seems to be past its best - the older professors are still engaged in a hearty debate about 1960s politics, but the graduate students and other guests have wandered off in search of a real party. It’s Halloween, after all. There must be better things to do than stick around here.
Leaving, unfortunately, seems to entail bringing Jack with them. “I’m not sure he’s still around. But I did get him to tell me his secret. Maybe we can try mixing it up ourselves.”
Mom is intrigued. “The secret to a perfect martini? How on earth did you get him to share that?”
Jack puts his arm around her shoulders, leading her to the exit. “Oh, you’d be surprised,” he says, and catches Whitney’s eye with a wink.
In the back seat of the car, Whitney pulls his knees up to his chest and wishes he could plug his ears up with his fingers without appearing too obviously rude. It might not matter, anyway. Mom hasn’t so much as glanced in the rearview mirror in six blocks. Jack, despite his claims to have some form of transport, has hitched a ride with them and laid claim to the passenger seat without worrying too much about where Whitney was going to stash his legs. Dammit. Why is he always attracted to such complete bastards?
Next year he’s definitely staying at work. At least there he’s safe from all the awkward social situations he could possibly encounter. He can lock the doors and dim the lights, and it’ll be just the two of them in a world of his own making. He’ll be safe, then, and that will be true romance.
Alone in the darkness of the back seat, Whitney closes his eyes and smiles as his whisper is lost in the murmur of Jack’s voice, and the hum of passing traffic.
“Happy Halloween, Ashton.”
AUTHOR: lonelywalker
FANDOM: The Thirteenth Floor
RATING: R
SUMMARY: X-over with Torchwood. Ashton has a pretty good Halloween, all things considered. Whitney? Not so much.
AUTHOR'S NOTES: Written for drunk_fic prompt 398: How Ashton learned to make the perfect martini.
The Perfect Martini
October 31st, 1936
1.
It’s a tragic waste of a good time. The nightly excess at the Wilshire Grand is never really his kind of party - there’s too much reliance on manners and deception for his liking - but at least it had a very reasonable point. He can understand the need to break from work and family, to drink the finest cocktails and fuck the finest whores. Even the sickly romantic undertakings on Valentine’s Day each year have some deeper reason behind the entertainment. They impress the ladies, and all the men get laid one way or another, even if it’s by extinguishing their depression in the bed of a dancing girl. This, however… This is simply childish.
Erika, masked and smiling, rests her cigarette tray on the edge of the bar and raises her eyebrows at his very evident disgust. “You’re supposed to be having fun.”
“It’s work,” Ashton replies dryly. “It’s never fun.”
She’s made up in an exotic, ethereal costume that somehow manages to flow and be revealing at the same time. Whether she’s an angel or demon, he can’t tell, but several of the patrons at the bar are obviously interested in discovering what lies underneath those shimmering layers. “You’re only jealous because you don’t get to dress up.” Erika flashes him a wink and a grin and heads off towards one of her mesmerised young customers.
Ashton watches her go, absently wiping down a glass decanter. If only it were true. He’d give a lot to be able to drop the bartender’s façade, to shrug out of the costume and the mask, and to forget the forced politeness of the evening. But this is a place for false charm and expensive clothes. No one within the walls of the dancehall is ever simply themselves. That would be far too hideous to perceive. Tonight’s Halloween eccentricities have only revealed a slightly more obvious set of disguises.
As for his work, his beloved precision behind the bar has all gone to waste. Not only have the hotel staff forced the usually refined and sparse bar to be decorated with various garish designs, but the requests for drinks have been contorted as well. Good taste has, for the night at least, been replaced by a desire - particularly among the younger men - for the most visually striking beverages possible. Along the bar, Harry has been doing a speedy trade in various mixtures involving tomato juice. So far, Ashton’s steady stare of disapproval has been heading off most of those kinds of requests. Unfortunately, that’s left him with little more than a gaggle of old men around his end, eyeing up girls and comparing war stories.
“Now how do you get a piece of that?”
The question comes from one of the younger men in front of him, gaze directed - when is it not? - towards a pretty girl. Usually Ashton would take his cue to start talking up her many good points, and the definite possibility that the amorous man could indeed have a piece of her for a price. Unfortunately, the girl in question this time around is a genuine lady - the daughter of some Los Angeles lawyer or banker, dressed like a princess.
“I wouldn’t know,” Ashton says, ready to suggest the services of a similar-looking girl of his own. The hotel employs enough of them to have a type for every man - blonde, brunette, plump, slim, innocent, devilish…
The man turns back around and gives him a wide grin. “Guess you wouldn’t.”
There’s a certain science to judging the intent of a smile, and it’s the bartender’s job to correctly interpret every kind of body language: the man who needs to get laid must be differentiated from the one who merely needs an ear to listen to all his personal woes. Ashton expects the usual kind of putdown to accompany the words - a suggestion that he’s too low class, maybe even too much of a faggot, to hope for a lady like that to look at him twice. But this man’s smile has no such purpose.
Ordinarily he would be an odd apple in a meticulously delicate basket - military fashions, with the exceptions (perhaps) of higher ranking officers, are not generally accepted at the Wilshire Grand. And this man looks like no officer Ashton has ever seen. He’s far, far too pretty and clean, even while wrapped in a thick and reasonably authentic army greatcoat. But the insignia must be foreign. Probably some younger son of the aristocracy, with more money than sense, pretending to be part of something of real importance. A nothing, really, but at least he makes for impressive scenery.
Ashton gives him a smile of his own - that barely disguised fakery of good manners. “What can I get you?”
“I’m told you make the best martini in the state,” the man leans on the bar with one elbow. “Impress me.”
There’s a certain magnetism in that precisely sculpted face, and those clear blue eyes, that makes Ashton pause for a moment before reaching for a glass. Perhaps it’s simply the request that takes him by surprise. No one has asked for a martini all night. “You’re sure you don’t want something a little more… volatile?” Usually the kids are more impressed by him setting things on fire than simply mixing up a perfect cocktail.
That gets him a good-natured laugh. “I’m volatile enough already, believe me.” A hand is stuck out. “Captain Jack Harkness.”
Ashton shakes it, a little surprised by the breach in decorum. “Captain of what, exactly?”
His hand, however, is caught in a firm grip as Jack turns it over, holding the back up to the light. “Nice rings. Never been much for jewellery myself. Always seem to lose it in the strangest places.”
“For a man wearing two wristwatches, you’re one to talk,” Ashton points out, forcibly taking back his hand and pulling out the gin and vermouth. As he does so, Jack looks slightly uncomfortable and pulls his sleeves down lower. “How’d you like it?”
Jack frowns at him. “Like what? Oh.” he says as Ashton clinks a knuckle against the martini glass, “However you want. I’m in your hands, sir.”
So many possible replies, so little time… Ashton absently glances at his own watch as he pours the correct measure of vermouth into his shaker. Getting towards midnight, although this is one of the occasions when the party will likely require his presence into the wee hours of the morning. The crowds show no sign of dispersing and, in any case, he has no other appointment to hold his attention. Karl, his usual solace in times of great physical need, is likely having his own party somewhere across town, in the company of people Ashton couldn’t bear to meet under any circumstances.
“133 Squadron, Royal Air Force,” Jack is saying, watching him prepare the martini. “You’re going to shake that?”
Ashton decides that any response would only give credence to the question. “If you’re looking for London, I think you took a wrong turn somewhere.”
Jack, despite being lost by a good few thousand miles, still seems rather more unsettled by Ashton’s preparation method. “Shaking just dulls the gin, you know. You end up with weak alcohol and a lot of smashed ice. And probably too much vermouth.”
Usually etiquette dictates that Ashton abandon his current endeavours, and make the cocktail to the customer’s specifications. However, he’s in no mood to defer to a pilot, and especially not a pretty-boy fake in grandfather’s uniform. “Probably,” he says, tossing the closed shaker in the air with practiced recklessness.
Jack regards him with an amused smile, and a hint of temptation in his eyes.
2.
The taste of alcohol is still on Jack’s lips when Ashton kisses him in the darkness of the stairwell, hard and violent in his advances. Jack trips down the last few steps, not regaining his balance fast enough to avoid smashing his shoulder into a wall of wooden lockers. And then Ashton is on him again.
It’s so much easier to do things quickly, to avoid names and awkward questions in favour of immediate physical intimacy. Ashton, fortunately, can very easily dictate the pace. Jack may be tall and beautiful and quick-witted, but Ashton has several inches and a fair amount of muscle over him. More to the point, Ashton knows the locker room well enough to be able to navigate in the dark. He isn’t likely to scrape his shins on a bench or bang his head on hanging pipes. Jack, for all his eagerness to escape from the manic society of the ballroom into the truly haunting setting of the basement, is at a serious disadvantage.
He’s an actor. He has to be - one of Karl’s fairy friends, no doubt, all good looks and wholesome values on the outside, with illicit desire just waiting to be revealed under the surface. Only Karl could have told him about the martini, and the easiest way to get Ashton’s attention. Only Karl could get a man like this inside the most exclusive club in town. And only Karl would care to send his favourite bartender a Halloween gift, so neatly and intriguingly wrapped. Ashton grazes his tongue against his teeth, and wonders what on earth he can ever do to repay him.
“That really was quite a martini,” Jack says in the moment that his foot hooks around Ashton’s right knee, twisting and pushing him to the ground with a thump. “I’ll have to remember that one.”
He’s not scared, lying there winded in the second or two before he can lever himself back up to his feet. After all, he’s never met a man in years who could best him in a fight. Ashton still has the advantage of territory. Besides, the consequences of losing seem, at present, to roughly equate to the consequences of winning. Maybe it would be worth a slightly bruised ego to let Jack hold him down, to let Jack fuck him good and hard in the dark.
“You’d have a hard time forgetting it.” Ashton straightens up slowly, wary of another attack, however friendly.
Jack doesn’t seem too concerned, shrugging out of his coat. It must be heavy on his shoulders, now, and uncomfortable in the humid air of the locker room. “I hope you won’t let me forget it,” he says, folding the coat over his arm. “No one as hot as you is supposed to be alone on Halloween.”
Hot? Well, that’s one way to put it. Ashton throws off his own jacket and tugs at his bowtie. He can put them all away neatly afterwards. After what might be the question. The absence of the bulky coat has revealed a more elegant dress sense than he might have suspected. Perhaps the stranger has some taste after all. “I suppose it is a night for monsters.”
“Quite a place you’ve got here,” Jack says, looking around with an air of unease without moving from his spot on the floor. Perhaps he’s afraid that he’ll fall into some unseen pit in the darkness. “Cosy.”
Ashton eyes him with some disdain as he unbuttons his waistcoat. “Follow me. Maybe I’ve got something more to your liking.”
The pool room is always impressive. Even in the light of day, with small children’s shrieks and splashes ruining the ambience, he can appreciate the architecture. At night, however, when blue light ripples over the tiled floor and art deco pillars, it’s truly magnificent. Ashton leans back against the wall, lighting a cigarette in cupped hands, and observing Jack with interest. Whatever he pretends to be, he seems a little more comfortable in this atmosphere. Ashton snaps his lighter closed. “So you’ve seen Europe? Must be beautiful.”
“I’ve seen it,” Jack says in a measured tone, perhaps aware that he is being tested. “But not in the best light. And it’s cold this time of year.”
Ashton breathes smoke into the air. “It’s cold everywhere.”
There’s a pause, and a knowing smile, as the answer to an unspoken question becomes obvious. Jack cocks his head and turns to study Ashton with much the same look he had given the pool. “You need to learn how to enjoy yourself.”
Ashton laughs a little at that, and holds out his lighter. “Smoke?”
“No, never.” Jack surveys the room. “You sleep down here?”
“Not very well.”
“I know the feeling… but that wasn’t really what I…”
“I know what you meant,” Ashton says, straightening up and slipping his room key from his trouser pocket into the palm of his hand. “Don’t worry. I don’t do it on the floor. Not if I can help it, anyway.”
He can feel Jack examining the place once the door is open - scrutinising every inch of starkly white and mostly empty space. Ashton doesn’t look back once he’s opened the door. Admitting a sense of unease in front of this stranger would be pointless. It’s not as if they’ll ever meet again, and this is hardly the time to indulge in emotional outbursts. It’s not as if there’s much here: newspaper bundles at the foot of the mattress; scraps of paper and pictures tacked to the wall; shoe polish; matches. The really sensitive things are secure in a nameless locker deep in the hallways. Unfortunately, the very scarcity of possessions may be giving Jack more information than the items themselves.
Ashton grinds out his cigarette on the floor and sits down to remove his shoes. Even if Jack thinks twice about spending any more time here, he still has to get to bed. The workday begins all over again in a few hours. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Jack step inside the room, and carefully shut the door.
“So are you going to tell me your secret?” Jack asks, dropping his coat unceremoniously on the floor. “How does a man like you make the perfect martini?”
Without the coat, flawless white skin is revealed at his throat, disappearing down under a blue uniform shirt. Ashton leans back on the bed, propping himself up on his elbows, and watches those shirt buttons being undone one by one. “It’s just alcohol.”
“Oh, no.” Jack wags a finger at him as the shirt, too, falls to the ground. “I’ve tried that. I’ve had some of the most advanced technology in a thousand worlds calibrate the exact recipe, and it always comes up short.” He walks over to the bed, standing between Ashton’s legs, before dropping down and planting his hands on either side of the bartender’s shoulders. “Where did you learn to make that?”
Ashton feels Jack’s breath against his lips, and bares his teeth in a smile. “Prison,” he says clearly, putting Jack’s own trick to work against him, and flipping Jack over onto the bed.
Jack laughs as best as he can with Ashton on top of him. “What were you in there for?”
“Oh…” Ashton fingers Jack’s lips with a disappointed expression. “Can’t you guess?”
October 31st, 1998
1.
It could be worse. Last year, despite all his protests, Charlotte and Tom had dragged him to their company party in Palo Alto. The music alone was bad enough to give anyone thumping headache, and he had been the only one sober enough to notice. Charlotte, as usual, had attempted to introduce him to one or two of her gay techie friends - cute guys, but nothing he could get excited about, and they hadn’t seemed too thrilled with him either. In the end, he had sought solace in an unlocked computer lab, accessed some lesser-security files online, and got back to work.
This time, his very best intentions had been to spend Halloween barricaded on the thirteenth floor, oblivious to the outside world, with one hand dipped in a bag of candy. Charlotte’s invitation had been rejected with as good a lie as he could tell over email, pleading work issues and Fuller’s totalitarian regime. She might be making her way to Fullercorp now, to mount a rescue and get him away from his computer screen. However, he has already been liberated by an unlikely source.
“It won’t be so bad, Jase,” Mom says, glancing over at him as their car is halted by a red light. “No one’s really going to be talking politics. It’s just a friendly get together. And I’ll have the most handsome escort of the night.”
Whitney squirms, and pulls at the neck of his shirt. At the last minute, he had asked to borrow some formal clothes from a very surprised but somewhat pleased Doug. They don’t quite fit, but at least they’re better than attending his mother’s formal college seminar in jeans and a sweater. Besides, no matter what he wears, he can’t very well end up being more embarrassed than he is already at being his mother’s date. “But what do I have to do?”
She reaches out to pinch his cheek in what he hopes is an ironic gesture. “Just look pretty and be brilliant, dear. You shouldn’t have too much trouble with either.”
As the car starts to move again, Whitney slouches even further into the passenger seat. He can’t even usually talk coherently about his own passion for computer science and virtual reality, much less his mother’s interests of politics and history. Besides, somewhere in the piles of contracts and agreements he had to sign when he first came to work for Fullercorp is an entire sheaf on what he isn’t allowed to discuss about the project. Any casual inquiry from his mother’s colleagues is almost bound to get a short and apparently rude reply.
“Have you heard from Charlotte?”
Whitney scratches his nose. “Um, yeah. The usual, y’know.”
Mom casts him an inquisitive look. “I shouldn’t be holding out for grandkids anytime soon, then?”
And this is exactly why spending the night out with his mother is a terrible idea. It invites all sorts of awkward questions like what he’s been working on, and what really happened between him and Charlotte, and why he never seems to wash his socks. Admittedly, the fact that he hasn’t had a single date in… well, in a very long time, would be a little worrisome to any parent. All of his mother’s hopes of raising a bright, well-adjusted boy have obviously been dashed. The trouble is, telling her that he has a long-concealed preference for men wouldn’t help too much. She might understand - he’s almost certain she’d understand - but she’d still want to know why he hasn’t brought any cute boys home for dinner.
“So what’s this seminar on?” he asks, straightening up in an effort to appear interested and halfway competent.
Mom debates the answer with herself for a moment before answering. “That nice young man you work with… Douglas? Does he ever tell you he’s going to a very important meeting with financiers, but really he’s just trying to get drunk and get laid?”
“Oh, you remember him then?” Whitney grins. “You mean I’m going to be stuck with a lot of tipsy professors hitting on me?”
She shrugs. “At least they’re not going to be marking your papers tomorrow.”
And that, at least, is a fair point.
2.
Despite the seminar’s status as a thinly-veiled excuse for the department to shell out some of their annual budget on food and alcohol, it still comes equipped with a thick bound handout, full of journal articles. Whitney picks it up and attempts to make some sense of the thing. Even with the presence of some reassuring charts and statistics, the main thrust of the research means nothing to him. He hastily drops it back on the pile, lest someone assume that he is actually an authority on the subject. He’s not even sure what the subject is.
“And this is my genius son, Jason,” Mom is saying, all the while elbowing him in the ribs. “He works for Fullercorp in the city.”
Whitney does his best to look vaguely sentient, stuffs his hands in his pockets, and smiles over Mom’s shoulder. She’s talking to a gaggle of stoic senior professors, all of whom glance at him and nod as if relieved that he’s not a student interloper. The real students here, the teaching assistants and other graduates privileged enough to be let into the inner sanctum of the department, are milling around with wine glasses and notebooks. None of them look quite as out-of-place as a six-foot-four longhaired computer programmer in a borrowed suit.
After a while he completely tunes out of the conversation, because - thankfully - no one here is interested in asking all those questions he’s not allowed to answer. Instead, Mom is waxing lyrical about the effects the Yippies may or may not have had on modern youth culture, and whether or not red wine really is good for your health. Whitney wanders off, in search of a quiet corner in which to hide.
“You work for Fullercorp, huh?”
Oh, no. “Um, yeah, but it’s not very interesting,” Whitney says quickly, looking round at the person asking the question. Worryingly, the man in front of him is no aged professor who he could blindside with technobabble. Maybe he’s a grad student, although he looks a little too fashionable for that. Whitney takes in the Tom Cruise-features, the perfect teeth, and the old military coat, and momentarily forgets where he is. “Huh?”
“Captain Jack Harkness,” the man who probably isn’t a student says, taking pity on him and holding out a wine glass. “Rumour has it you’re Jason Whitney.”
“Um.” Whitney takes the wine glass, and then looks at it a little dumbly, wondering how to get rid of it without being rude. “Has my Mom been telling you about me?” Captain? Captain of what? He certainly doesn’t seem like one of those aged veterans with a room full of medals and war souvenirs. He’s about four decades too young for that.
Jack grins, chinking his own glass against Whitney’s. He, for one, has no trouble downing the contents. “Oh your fame is more widespread than that, believe me.”
“Yeah?” Whitney frowns at him, and suddenly something clicks. The military rank. The air of mystery. The strange interest in him. “You’re from military intelligence again, aren’t you? Look, I said I’m not interested in that stuff. I’ve got a job - a really really good one - and I don’t need to kill people every day.”
Now it’s Jack’s turn to stare blankly. “I don’t know what you’ve heard about me, but I haven’t killed anyone for months. Are you drinking this?” He reaches out and takes the glass from Whitney’s hand.
“So who are you then? What are you doing here?” Surely there’s a better way to deal with an absolutely stunning guy talking to him than asking vaguely threatening questions? Whitney groans a little inside. Doug would be so much better at this.
Jack, however, doesn’t seem to mind. “Just passing through. Sightseeing.” He downs the other glass of wine and holds up the glass for inspection. “Free drinks.”
“Ohhh…” Suddenly it makes a little more sense. Presumably anyone can get into this little gathering, tempted by alcohol and food, since everyone would simply assume that he was the guest of someone else. “So what are you captain of, then?”
“Met this guy once,” Jack interrupts, clanking the glasses down on a nearby table. “Made the best martini in the universe - and believe me, I’ve tried a few. That was Halloween too… Does no one dress up anymore?”
Whitney looks pointedly at Jack’s coat, which seems to have some kind of air force logo on it. “You’re not dressed up?”
Jack stares at him, slightly askance at the thought. “No. This is good, classic style, this is. You can’t put it in the same category as werewolves and vampires. Although, admittedly, it has been in the same room as werewolves and vampires. What a night that was.”
The thought crosses Whitney’s mind that he might simply have lucked onto the only drunk and/or slightly insane amazingly attractive man in the city. Doug would probably suggest rapidly inviting him home and getting down and dirty. Sadly, or perhaps fortunately, Doug is nowhere to be seen. “So, um, how do you know me, then?”
“Jase!” Trust his mother to rescue him from the only true social situation he’s had in months. Whitney’s not sure whether he’s happy about the intervention. On the one hand, she’s probably saving him from coming across like a blithering idiot. On the other, Jack seems even less capable of making sense. Mom is bearing wine and various lecture handouts. “I think I’ve escaped from the worst of it,” she says, offloading the handouts into Whitney’s arms as she looks Jack up and down. “Escaped from the Imperial War Museum, have you?”
Jack’s smile is worryingly charming as Whitney tries to neatly arrange the pile of papers without dropping any. “Captain Jack Harkness. You must be Jason’s sister.”
Whitney rolls his eyes and expects the usual smart comeback from a woman who has felled many men of much better talents than Jack Harkness. “Oh, a fair few men have done better than that, Jack,” Mom says, raising her glass to him. “Mind you, thanks for trying. Not many do, these days.”
“My pleasure.”
“So are you a visiting lecturer?” Mom asks. “Jase, go get Jack another drink, will you?”
Whitney has already paused, caught between objecting to the impossibility of doing anything while carrying all this paper, and worrying about Mom hitting on the very guy who was apparently trying to chat him up just a moment ago. Fortunately, at least Jack remembers that he exists. “That’s okay. I’m driving anyway.”
“You didn’t land your plane on the roof?” Mom takes Jack’s lapel and strokes it between her finger and thumb. “Let me guess… British, circa World War Two? Nice replica.”
Jack nods, apparently impressed. “You know your history.”
“It’s not really my period,” Mom says, her hand lingering, “but I would very much like to know more.”
“Well, you do know that the best way to learn about a culture is from their taste in cocktails.” Jack gently takes Mom’s hand. “The cosmopolitan… for all that pretty, delicate appearance, the girl’s a pirate underneath. A real drink for the nineties.” He touches her fingers to his lips. “But the martini… that’s a drink for the ages.”
The tension in the air between them is broken by a loud clatter, as all the papers Whitney had been holding land abruptly on the floor. Both Mom and Jack turn to look at him in mild irritation.
“Sorry,” Whitney mutters, crouching down to clear up the mess. So much for ghosties and ghoulies and things that go bump in the night. No one ever warned him about a mysterious yet cute guy in a bad costume chatting up his Mom.
Mom is supposed to have better taste than this, even if none of her boyfriends over the years have stuck around long-term. She dates teachers, doctors - the kinds of guys who coach little league and used to insist on helping him with his homework. Jack, even if he’s straight - which, on the basis of his clothing really has to be doubted - is obviously not the family type. Good guys don’t sneak into college seminars for free drinks and chat up everyone in sight.
“Here, let me help you with that,” Jack scoops up one or two booklets and adding them to the pile Whitney is reassembling. “You know,” he says over his shoulder to Whitney’s Mom, “I was just telling Jason that I once met this bartender who could mix an absolutely perfect gin martini. Amazing.”
“Maybe we should track him down,” Mom jokes. “This party’s certainly dead in the water.”
Whitney gets to his feet, dumping all the papers on a table, and wiping dust from his hands. The seminar indeed seems to be past its best - the older professors are still engaged in a hearty debate about 1960s politics, but the graduate students and other guests have wandered off in search of a real party. It’s Halloween, after all. There must be better things to do than stick around here.
Leaving, unfortunately, seems to entail bringing Jack with them. “I’m not sure he’s still around. But I did get him to tell me his secret. Maybe we can try mixing it up ourselves.”
Mom is intrigued. “The secret to a perfect martini? How on earth did you get him to share that?”
Jack puts his arm around her shoulders, leading her to the exit. “Oh, you’d be surprised,” he says, and catches Whitney’s eye with a wink.
In the back seat of the car, Whitney pulls his knees up to his chest and wishes he could plug his ears up with his fingers without appearing too obviously rude. It might not matter, anyway. Mom hasn’t so much as glanced in the rearview mirror in six blocks. Jack, despite his claims to have some form of transport, has hitched a ride with them and laid claim to the passenger seat without worrying too much about where Whitney was going to stash his legs. Dammit. Why is he always attracted to such complete bastards?
Next year he’s definitely staying at work. At least there he’s safe from all the awkward social situations he could possibly encounter. He can lock the doors and dim the lights, and it’ll be just the two of them in a world of his own making. He’ll be safe, then, and that will be true romance.
Alone in the darkness of the back seat, Whitney closes his eyes and smiles as his whisper is lost in the murmur of Jack’s voice, and the hum of passing traffic.
“Happy Halloween, Ashton.”