s4_see | Number One With A Silver Bullet [11/?]

Title: Number One With A Silver Bullet
Rating: teen [language and sexual situations]
Characters: PC Andy, Jack, Ianto, Owen, Tosh, Gwen, George, Mitchell, Nina
Spoilers: TW s2/BH s1, inclusive
Advisories: crossover with Being Human
Disclaimer: somebody please stop me, no, seriously...

Summary: Torchwood Three is finally back up to full strength, although its new hires bring... unconventional skillsets.

Notes: So, now that @!#$$ Big Bang season is over...

**********

He'd done... interesting things since that ill-fated evening in Scotland. He'd woken up naked in far stranger company than one encountered in the aftermath of your typical stag-do, for one -- occasionally it had even included real stags, or anyway bits of them -- and enjoyed some quality time in the bosom of nature. But since he'd taken this job George's horizons had been expanded with challenges he'd never begun to consider, such as the maths that would be involved in turning the universe right inside-out along its axis, or the existence of aliens, or the technical considerations involved in coordinating four operatives on a covert mission to locate and detain one of said aliens from somewhere in a Tesco's without alerting throngs of oblivious shoppers, a task made all the more difficult when one agent's passage though the store was only observable across the CCTV feeds by watching for the chaos he left in his wake. "Why do I not see your clothes wandering about? I mean, why are you able to be heard over a comm?"

"You're overthinking this, George."

A flicker of half-perceived motion as Mitchell idly turned round a box to read the back of the packet. George winced. "That is just, erm, don't do that, what if their security is watching this?"

"I feel obligated to report that Mitchell has just blown a kiss in the general direction of the camera above lane six," Ianto commented.

"All I am saying is that maybe these things would be easier to manage if Control could actually see all of the members of the field team, yeah? Maybe... Maybe I should have another go at it."

"Because Torchwood isn't rubbish enough as things are," Harper said from the sofa. "I believe your own assessment of your combat capabilities has involved the words 'the world's gayest ninjas' -- What? The dead have our mysterious ways."

"You haven't been messing Annie about again, have you?"

"If by 'messing about' you might mean we had a lovely evening where she only mentioned her homicidal ex six times, then maybe." Doctor Harper, Doctor Owen Harper, settled back with a grimace as one of George's monitors suddenly erupted with colourful static. " -- Sorry, love, but who else do we have to socialise with?"

Beside George's workstation the shadowy outline of a woman had formed, arms folded above the bloodstained belly of her purple top. "We have a lot more options than you zeroing in on someone who's already in a vulnerable state of mind."

Harper snorted. "I am not double-dating with Gerald fucking Carter. I can imagine that Jack was already an arsehole a hundred years ago, I don't need to hear him bang on about it."

"There are the people besides just other ghosts who can see and hear us. You could have been nicer to Andy while he was here, or --"

A snigger from the sofa. "Speaking of the big-eared tossers we have to put up with now. If he and this one had puppies together they'd be flying round like Dumbo."

"My ears are not big, they're just... prominent."

The ghosts ignored this, intent on their domestic. "Don't see why I need to start hanging about with pillocks just 'cos I'm beyond all earthly concerns of being seen with them -- I mean, seriously, mate, were you colour-blind before you were a werewolf?"

George glanced down at his shirt. "It was a birthday present, Nina thinks I should wear more colour?"

Harper nodded sagely. "Werewolf thing, then."

Toshiko had retreated back into the mainframe, faint mutters of Japanese still barely audible to George. He was starting to be able to make out a word here and there, but she hadn't taught him any of these yet. "Have you been able to narrow down the source for those readings the field team were picking up?" he asked the camera over the monitor, hoping to distract her from slipping into a funk that could well take down half of the Hub's sytems. Or half of Cardiff's electrical grid, if Tosh decided to really take umbrage.

GhostInTheShell: The shop's refrigeration system sort of itches?

George relayed this to the team, watching as the two pairs (well, one pair and Ianto muttering to his invisible friend) started converging on the frozen veg as unobtrusively as they could. "There's definitely something off over here," Nina reported, her face screwing up in distaste as she leant closer to rummage through the yoghurt.

GhostInTheShell: Sorry, George, I realise 'itchy' isn't the most technical term I might have chosen there :)

As near as George could make out from her descriptions of the experience, Tosh's perception of the world when she was haunting the computer was something akin to synaesthesia, data-inputs mapping to the function of living senses in some surprising ways. But then, he spent a few days out of every month having to watch his step lest he blurt out socially awkward revelations gleaned from a heightened perception of pheromonic cues and body-language, so he thought perhaps he could relate to this sensory jumble better than most anyone but Mitchell. "I'd trust your itching thermostat-readings over most of my staring at these graphs," he said.

A little window popped up with a picture of a ridiculously adorable puppy, struggling to hold its head up under the weight of long floppy ears. George chuckled. On the comm he could hear what was plainly an attempt to sneak round into the back of the dairy section devolving into one of those Jack-Related Situations that they seemed to run into at least once every time that the field team went out the door, which was to say that the good Captain was trying to flirt his way past a suspicious shelf-stocker, and Ianto just as plainly trying to pretend that he and Mitchell were merely ordinary customers, engaged in innocuous smalltalk over a display of tinsel and crackers. "Wasn't exactly planning to go to midnight Mass," Mitchell's voice said.

That was a horrible thought. "Jack's not the sort to throw rubbish office parties, is he?" George said with a worried look to the sofa, picturing all of the mischief that might arise if one were to add alcohol to this work-environment.

Harper cracked a lopsided grin that quickly slid straight into a leer. "Oh, yeah, Torchwood has a big do every year. Looking forward to your girlfriend getting pissed enough to get them out for the photocopier."

As vulgar as this image was, George caught himself considering it on the merits. "Nina does have smashing tits, I will grant you."

"You're on an open channel, George. And you can tell that sorry wanker --"

Whatever anatomically futile suggestion Nina had been about to make was cut off by an exclamation of triumph from Jack, who seemed to have located the source of their readings. From what George could make out on the badly-positioned CCTV feed, he was preparing to poke it with a stick. "Erm, Ianto, you might want to start setting up a cordon --"

There was a muffled boom and a splattering noise. "And bring the bin-liners?" Ianto asked, sounding as if he already knew the answer would be in the affirmative.