Title: Good Girls Wear Leather
Fandom: Doctor Who (specifically, Torchwood & classic-Who)
Characters/Pairing: Jack Harkness/Ray (from Delta and the Bannermen)
Word count: 600-odd
Summary: Jack doesn't find what he's looking for, but he does like what he finds.
Warnings: Jack's internal monologue is never 100% clean, but this is just flirting. Unbeta-ed, not Brit-picked.
Other: Doctor Who and Torchwood belong to the BBC. Concrit always welcome.
His coat and trousers hadn't exactly been top priority when Jack had left his second-in-command's flat via the fire escape. Unfortunately, he'd missed his grab for his wristcomp -- though the handcuffs had been worth taking it off in the first place. Which meant he'd ended up driving around Glamorgan without his wallet or any way to contact the rest of the team, chasing the traces of a massive energy discharge with only his mostly-human senses. A bit of ozone in the air, the faint buzzing from bees that kept flying in the open windows of the truck, the prickle of hairs on the back of his neck that had told him that he should keep going rather than heading back to see if Henry had managed to placate his wife and bring his kit back to the hub.
Mid-20th-century motor vehicles were a near-complete mystery to Jack -- once they had computers in them that could tell him what was wrong, he could repair just about anything, but he'd hoped to forgo ever learning how to deal with those from this all-mechanical age. So when the engine coughed, quietly, and then cut out entirely, all he could do was pull to the side of the road and hope for someone to come along. He spent a while alternating between examining the verge on the off-chance that he'd broken down exactly in the right location and kicking up dust just to try to ignore the growing feeling that he was too late. After a while, he leaned up against the back of the truck and let the sun irradiate his skin while he watched the empty road. The handcuffs? Yeah, still worth it. But perhaps the next time we should stick to my quarters.
He had been waiting for over an hour when he felt a low rumble, and then a motorcycle, complete with sidecar, crested the ridge. It blew past him in a rush of dust and more than a little gravel. Only belatedly did he realize he should probably have tried to flag him down, rather than just leaning against the side of the truck.
Much to his relief, the motorcycle came roaring back a few minutes later, and this time slowed to a stop. The rider dismounted, and yanked off a helmet to reveal a disheveled mass of curls. She sauntered -- he liked a girl with a good saunter -- over to the truck, and looked Jack straight in the eye.
"Trouble, is it?" He nodded, and without another word, she popped the bonnet open. After waving away another rush of white smoke that billowed out, she started systematically doing something to the various cables and wires.
She hissed once, snatching back her hand, and then reached back in with a hankerchief over it, and continued tinkering. "Try turning the key, why don't you?"
"Yes, ma'am." The truck, however, was not so willing to follow orders, even from such a pleasant source.
"Billy taught me everything I know about motors -- and that includes how to tell when it's hopeless. This thing isn't going anywhere without a new engine, and that means ordering one. We don't keep parts for imports at the shop, you know." Having said that, she dropped of the edge of the bonnet, letting it slam shut, and strode over to her bike.
"C'mon, hop in. I'll take you into town and send Al over with the tow truck and you can buy me a drink."
Now was when the lack of a wallet became more pressing, but his mystery girl was still smiling. "All right, you can owe me a drink. So long as you can cover the work on the lorry."
Jack wasn't sure how the drawn-out vowels of a Welsh accent made the most mundane sentiments sound delightfully obscene, but he'd stopped questioning it years back. He answered only with a shrug and a flash of his very best smile, and hopped into the sidecar.