Title: When a Grim Reaper Calls
By: cjulina
Pairing: gen
Warnings: Strong Language and Dark Humor
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Jack's 'The Man Who Can't Die' act has ticked off the Grim Reapers and it's time for a face-to-face. A Torchwood / Dead Like Me crossover. You don't need to be familiar with Dead Like Me to understand this story.

***

Consciousness returned with excruciating slothfulness for Captain Jack Harkness. Before death could claim him once more for the fifth time in as many minutes, he reached a hand into the pocket of his coat, retrieved the handy, dandy alien device he kept tucked away for just such situations. With a flick of his wrist he activated the device, pointed it at the rope noose from which he hung, tensing himself for the eight foot drop to the hard ground below. Impacting with a loud groan, Jack felt blackness seep over him and had time for one final reflection. Just who the heck did I tick off and what did I do to deserve this? Jack would spend the rest of the day regretting this fleeting thought.


When life finally returned to his body, Jack took in one strong breath and then lying there, eyes closed, tried to recount just what had happened. Okay, okay. What was I doing when all this started? Having died nine times in less than an hour, Jack's brain cells were having a little trouble functioning. Well, truth be told, his brain cells were functioning just fine for the task they had set for themselves which was in complete opposition to what Jack wanted them to do. They figured, somewhat selfishly, if Jack was going to spend the day continually dying, their services were not currently required so they could nip over to Altair 7 for the annual Pinky Surprise Drinking Competition and Grand Orgy (somewhat similar to a Grand Ball but with considerably less clothing required).

Jack's brain, wearing a silly Hawaiian shirt and equally silly hat, was all set to hitch a lift when the great party pooper (also known as the frontal lobe) objected. Since the frontal lobe was in control of the Platinum Galactic Credit Card, the rest of the brain quickly realized that today would not be ending with the word priceless.

With a sullen sigh, his brain settled into its task and the memories of the past hour began to seep back with agonizing slowness. I was driving. I was driving while talking on the mobile to Ianto. Jack allowed himself a slow, sensual smirk as the words of that particularly pornographic conversation fired into his thoughts. Oh, yeah, I was driving as fast and as reckless as I could to get back to the Hub. This actually didn't differ too much from his usual driving methods to be quite honest. And then . . . there was a truck? Yep, definitely a truck. A truck with a large carton in the flatbed. A truck with a large carton in the flatbed that hit a bump. A truck with a large carton in the flatbed that hit a bump and knocked the carton onto the road. At this point Jack realized his brain still hadn't gotten over its sulk and told it in no uncertain terms to get back on task or he, and hence his brain, would never, ever get to take another trip to Altair 7 for the Pinky Surprise Drinking Competition.

Instantly, the memories started coming back with shocking clarity. The carton had broken and scattered thousands of nails directly in front of the Torchwood SUV. At the time, Jack had not been concerned about the nails. Sure, with any other automobile, the scattering of thousands of sharp pointy metal objects directly in its path would have been a disaster. This, however, was the Torchwood SUV. No mere Earth-made tires for this engineering marvel. These tires were manufactured on the planet Camarand and had fallen through the rift over a period of eight decades. Jack had traveled to the four corners of the Earth, literally, to collect them all.

The great thing about Camarand tires is that they only needed to be replaced every five million miles (or every two and a half million if Jack was driving). The other incredible fact about a Camarand tire is that it would not go flat unless punctured by at least 4,751 sharp objects at the same exact moment. 4,751, coincidentally, was the precise number of nails currently puncturing each of three of the SUV tires; the fourth tire had taken on an extra nail as insurance.

So I got out to change the tires? I must have. Jack thought very hard, vaguely recalling pulling the SUV off to the side of the road, exiting the vehicle and inspecting each of the formally magnificent Camarand tires he'd been so proud of. He remembered reaching into the back, wrestling out the tire iron from under the body bag containing the alien remains he'd gone to the countryside to collect. The tire iron had caught on the body bag, requiring Jack to pull and tug with great force. When the tire iron finally released itself from the bag, the sheer momentum involved caused Jack's arm to fly back, the tire iron flying end over end until it impacted with a nearby tree.

Jack's disastrous day might have ended there had the conditions not been precisely ideal. The rate of velocity, the angle of descent, the wind speed, even the humidity, but especially the position and bark density of the tree combined together so that the tire iron bounced off and headed, like an arrow, to embed directly into Jack's forehead. That was death number one.

What happened after that? Jack was having difficulty processing the next sequence. Not because his brain was still brooding, though it was. The fact of the matter was that despite adjusting to living in Cardiff with frequent rift activity, numerous alien attacks, plentiful personal deaths, not to mention a stint of traveling through space and time in a blue police box, the circumstances of the second death were rather odd.

I came to and removed the tire iron. He grimaced from the remembered squelching sound that action had produced. I stood up and . . . slipped on a patch of ice? Now this truly puzzled Jack for it was a rather warm day. Actually the temperature was considerably hot, bordering on a heat wave. Not that the extreme temperature had stopped him from donning his RAF coat that morning. Image must be maintained no matter what and Jack knew just how sexy he looked in it.

So there was some ice, I slipped, and slid straight into the safety railing. Once again, the science of Physics was against him. The angle of approach, the distribution of his weight, the momentum involved, plus the height of the railing, and fact it was tilting ever so slightly outward assured that Jack, instead of crashing to a stop, flipped tail over head across the top, soaring straight down the side of a steep incline. I probably would have been alright had I not landed smack on top of a boulder. That had been death number two.

It was following death number three he finally realized that someone had a vendetta against him. Before reviving from the second death, his lifeless body had continued to roll down the incline, ending with him splashing into a shallow pond. The impact into the water caused a dead rotting tree to topple over, straight across his lifeless corpse, effectively imprisoning him in place. Jack came to, taking in a deep gulp of what he thought would be air. Unfortunately for him, he ended up with a lungful of water, resulting in a drowning. He had nearly succumbed to death number four before dislodging the tree and dragging his aching body to dry land.

Horses? There was a stampede of horses? Jack carefully lifted himself onto his elbows, opened his eyes, staring down in horror at the pitiful tattered remains of his beloved RAF coat. Hoof prints were clearly visible in parts of the shredded fabric. Ianto is so gonna kill me. Jack had learned very quickly after establishing his relationship with the young Welshman that even the most minuscule damage to the coat had serious repercussions. Every time Jack handed over the coat to Ianto for repairs, there was always a price to pay, usually involving Jack groveling in such a way that Ianto was thoroughly satisfied and Jack ended up blue, in a painfully physical sense. The loss of a single button was equal to one night's worth of groveling. The significant rip caused by the sleeper agent had been a three week ordeal. Jack laid back with a deep lingering groan. I'm going to be blue for the next twelve years.

Unbeknownst to Jack, the destruction of the coat was not really all that significant of an issue for the Welshman. Ianto, being the highly intelligent man that he was, learned quickly there was a much simpler solution to the continuous predicament of keeping Jack's coat in pristine condition. Hidden deep within the bowels of the Hub was a secret room, so secret that not even Jack was aware of its existence. Inside the room were racks upon racks of top quality reproduction RAF coats. These reproductions were of such superiority that Jack was not even aware his original coat had long since been consigned to a dust bin. Whenever Jack handed over a damaged coat, Ianto would give him a slight scowl, disappear for a time and reappear with a miraculously immaculate coat. He'd then sit back, reveling in Jack's groveling, without even a hint of guilt for his subterfuge.

Okay. There were horses but how did I end up in a noose hanging from a tree? He concentrated hard, remembering the stream of horses passing over his dying body and had the fleeting memory of his foot getting caught in a stirrup before finally succumbing to death. I must have been dragged along, somehow got flipped into the air, and ended up in the noose. After the events of the day, this no longer seemed as farfetched to Jack as it would have been under other circumstances.

"You really fucked the pooch this time."

Huh? Jack quickly raised himself to his elbows, looking with bleary eyes towards the source of the voice. Leaning casually against the tree where Jack had recently hung to death four times, was a man, his arms folded comfortably across his chest. The man was handsome in a rugged sort of way though his clothes were at least three decades out of style. Jack felt a twinge of trepidation sweep over him as the man pushed himself from the tree and strode over to crouch beside his body. Jack continued to watch as the man reached into the pocket of his battered tan leather jacket, retrieving an equally battered journal held closed by a thick rubber band. He carefully removed the band, flipped the journal open, and grabbed one of the post-it notes covering the front page.

"You are J. Harkness? Or should I say you are currently using the name J. Harkness?" came the grim yet sexy voice.

Jack could only nod in his confusion.

The man dropped the sheet in his hand and grabbed another. "J. Harkness." This too was dropped while yet another was grabbed. "J. Harkness." As this one was dropped, Jack could see his name clearly scrawled on the sheet with a location where he'd died three weeks ago followed by the letters "E.T.D." and a time. "J. Harkness. J. Harkness. J. Harkness." With that, the man grabbed an enormous clump of the tiny yellow sheets and cast them to the ground. "Let's see some of your other aliases. J. Harriot, P. Blackney, F. Prefect." With the saying of each name, post-it notes were dropped until hundreds were scattered over Jack's body and the surrounding ground.

"You, sir, are making my fucking life even that much more fucking complicated. I'm going to say this just once. You're going to die and this time you're gonna stay fucking dead, you got me?"

Jack was finally spurned into action, his brain coming up with the most intelligence response it could. "Er?"

The man response was to brusquely lift one corner of his lips in a grave imitation of a smile. "My name's Rube. I'm a Grim Reaper and I think it's high time the two of us had a long, serious discussion."

***

Jack's hands were busy brushing dirt, leaves, and debris from the shambled remains of his coat, only vaguely aware that his actions were causing large portions of it to flitter down to the ground. Addressing the man standing in front of him, he said, "So, your name is Rube." At that the man nodded tersely. "And you are a Grim Reaper."

"Give the man a fucking prize," responded Rube with sarcasm so thick it practically became an entity in its own right.

At this point Jack got a little miffed. Killing him was one thing, or nine things if you counted each death separately instead of lumping them all together, but the mockery and the crude language were going just a bit too far. Not to mention that all of this had interrupted his planned rendezvous with Ianto and destroyed his coat so Jack fired back with equally heavy derision. "So I have you to thank for being impaled by a tire iron, dropped on a boulder, drowned, stampeded by horses, and four, or was it five, deaths by hanging. Don't you think that was a bit overkill?"

"Apparently not, since you're still alive and kicking." The response was issued with complete seriousness but Jack could see just a touch of a twinkling humor lurking in Rube's brown eyes before it disappeared into grave indifference. "And for the record, it's not the job of a Grim Reaper to do the killing. We just pop the souls, prior to death if it's going to be a particularly violent one. No, it's the gravelings that caused the accidents that were supposed to result in your death. Your permanent one." Rube eyed him somewhat sympathetically. "You've really pissed them off, you know? It took three gravelings two weeks to set this all up. They're really going to be out for your blood now."

Now Jack, as a man of the 51st century, former Time Agent, leader of Torchwood Three, not to mention traveling through space and time with the Doctor, had extensive knowledge of strange and alien life forms. A good portion of that knowledge was of the up close and personal sort. Oh, yeah. Very up close and very personal. Jack's brain still hadn't quite given up hope on that trip to Altair 7 so it was rapid firing images from some of Jack's more memorable trysts. He allowed himself a few moments to indulge in this trip down memory lane including excursions to multiple bed chambers, several cupboards, and even the desk of the President of the Independent Planets of the Corisican Federation before a wistful sigh escaped his lips and he returned focus fully to the matter at hand.

"Gravelings? Never heard of them."

Rube gave a snort of contempt. "And just why would you? The living can't see them. Aren't even aware of their existence. Not even when the fucking bastards drop a piano on top of them." He stopped to glance over his shoulder. "You can't even see the three fuckers sitting right over there, can you?"

Jack followed Rube's line of sight, eyes squinted, as he tried to discern any shapes, any movement in the dance of light and shadow under the trees. Nutter! He's an absolute nutter. There's nothing . . . Jack's thoughts trailed off as he watched, in amazement, as a rotting piece of fruit lifted from the hard-packed ground and flew to impact with a squishy splat on one of the few unblemished spots on his coat. "What in the!" Jack glared at Rube.

"Don't look at me. It's the gravelings. I told you. There are really pissed that you won't stay dead. Your life isn't going to be worth shit now."

Jack turned his attention back to where the fruit had started its journey. He felt more than a bit foolish. There isn't anything there. There's no such thing as gravelings. He'd practically convinced himself that Rube was nothing more than a complete and total sociopathic stalker with a near genius level of creativity for causing havoc and death. And then there was a shimmer, just the vaguest outline of something. Three somethings, to be more specific.

The shimmering outlines began to coalesce, giving shape and form to three of the most disgusting, gruesome, stomach churning, malevolent creatures Jack had ever seen. They were vaguely humanoid. If said human had survived being at the direct epicenter of five nuclear blasts followed by DNA splicing from mutant bullfrogs and malformed porcupines. The bumpy wart-covered skin was colored a mottled mess of grays, dingy whites, and blacks. Along the backs and on the top of their heads rose long, sharp, curving quills. The forearms were overly thick compared to the impossibly thin biceps. On much too thin and much too long necks, the heads were sharp and angular, with mouths possessing rows of long, knife-sharp teeth. But it was the eyes that truly horrified Jack. Deep sunken and glowing with red malice. And all three sets of glaring red eyes were fastened right on him.

Jack gulped. "Oh shit."

Barely suppressing a grin, Rube replied, "Now you're getting the idea." Glancing back at the trio of gravelings, he continued, "As I said earlier, you and I need to have a serious discussion. Let's get out of here before they decide to start round two."

Jack quickly nodded his agreement when he saw one of the gravelings pick up a remnant left by the stampeding horses. His eyes followed the lump of manure as the graveling tossed it into the air, seeming to take in its weight and evilly calculating just how much force was needed to cause the most damage to the already destroyed coat. Jack jolted into action, quickly stooping down to scoop up as many of the tatters of cloth on the ground as he could, then practically ran from the area as if an entire fleet of Daleks were on his tail.

Rube didn't even try to contain the gleeful smirk that graced his face at the sight of the quickly retreating figure. J. Harkness had disrupted the entire network of Cardiff Reapers. The man deserved all this and much, much more. He scanned the front page of his battered journal before turning to address the three gravelings. "Okay. I see here we've got a group pickup scheduled at 3:13 this afternoon. That'll give me and the undying one plenty of time to get everything sorted out. See you then."

***

Jack was having a bad day. This wasn't just any old bad day. This was a bad day in all caps, bold-faced, italicized, and underlined a half dozen times, with flourishes and fancy curly-q's for added prominence. It was the ultimate of ultimate bad days. Sure, dying nine times before breakfast was inconvenient. Having to call the Hub to arrange for the changing of all four tires on the SUV, well, that had been embarrassing. After repeating the tale to each of the individual team members, he had then been required to recite it one final time while on speaker phone with all four giving a chorus of laughter and jeers. He really should not have bragged quite so much about the virtues of Camarand tires. Dealing with a pissed off Grim Reaper and discovering the existence of malevolent, evil, disgusting gravelings who were out for his blood, that made Jack yearn for the good old days of Dalek invasions.

And now he found himself standing, in stained and torn clothes, gripping the shredded remains of his precious RAF coat, outside a seedy café which could politely be described as a dump. With a heavy sigh, he pulled open the door and entered the crowded, bustling establishment. In almost no time, all eyes were on him. It wasn't an unfamiliar experience for the man. He was immensely attractive with an overpowering persona. People were naturally drawn to staring at him. This, however, was a completely different affair. There were muffled gasps and one woman even went so far as to fearfully clutch her child to her side. Behind him, Jack could hear Rube snickering in malicious glee.

Jack hunched his shoulders, wanting nothing more than for the day to be over. As the waitress led them to a dingy booth, he did his best to disappear into the background. Not the easiest thing to do in a brightly lit, crowded restaurant with all eyes on him but Jack nonetheless made the attempt. He eased into the bench, carefully placing each of the torn pieces of his coat on the space next to him. Across from him, Rube began scanning the menu, though he was obviously aware of and greatly enjoying all the unwanted attention Jack was drawing.

When the waitress approached to take their order, Rube quickly spoke up. "Three eggs sunny side up. Make sure the whites are fully cooked but the yolks are still nice and runny. A side of bacon, extra, extra, EXTRA crispy. Oh, and toast. Don't skimp on the butter. And a cup of coffee."

The waitress looked expectedly at Jack.

Rube spoke before he had a chance to place an order. "He'll have the same."

"But I just want "¦"

The steely gaze matched the steely tone. "He'll have the same."

The waitress uncomfortably shifted from foot to foot as the two men engaged in a staring match. Finally, Jack just shrugged. Winning the skirmish over what he had for breakfast was less important than figuring a way to get the upper hand with the Grim Reaper and win the war. Jack plucked at one of the remnants of his coat. It was war and Jack was determined to be the victor.

As the waitress shambled off, he looked up at Rube. "Maybe I should have ordered a side of cyanide."

That earned him a healthy laugh and just a glint of respect from the man sitting across the table from him. "Would it do any good?"

"I'd be free of my migraine. At least until I came back to life. No doubt you'd still be sitting there so there's really no point."

"Well, J. Harkness, I may be your migraine," Rube drawled out, "but you're my fucking hemorrhoid so I think we're even." He looked around the shabby restaurant. "Can't say I'm impressed with your two-bit town. Imagine not even having a 'Der Waffle House' in all of Cardiff. Quite a shit dump you're living in."

"The name's Jack. Got it? Jaaack. Four letters. One syllable. Should be easy enough for you to remember." He paused in his tirade, easily picking up from the look on Rube's face that he had had no clue as to what his first name was. "How is it that you knew where I was going to be this morning but you don't even know my first name?"

Rube reached into the pocket of his leather jacket, pulling out the battered journal from earlier that morning. With a quick flip of his wrist, he opened the journal, scanned the Post-it notes covering the first page, and snatched a particular one which he handed over to Jack. "This is all we get."

Jack quickly scanned the note.

     J. Harkness
     Torchwood Hub
     E.T.D. 3:13 p.m.

"E.T.D.? What's E.T.D. ?" Jack did a classic double take, one worthy of a Hollywood movie, at the Post-it note. "And how in the hell do you know about the Hub?"

"Estimated time of death." Rube gave him such a patronizing grin that Jack wanted nothing more than to throw the Reaper into a cell with a famished Weevil. "And Torchwood is legendary amongst the Reapers. Did you really think we wouldn't know about your fucking headquarters? Hell, even I knew about it and I'm assigned to Seattle. Or I would be if you hadn't fucked everything up, causing me to hop a plane to come over here and fix this fucking disaster."

Before Jack could reply, two plates of food were dropped, none too gently, onto the table. The impact caused bits of congealed grease from the bacon to splatter up, adding specks of grease stains to his already ruined shirt. At least none got on my coat. He looked down. Nope. Got the coat too. Damn!

Two coffee cups were hastily placed, contents sloshing onto the worn surface. The waitress didn't wait before retreating from the table, her attitude clearly conveying she thought the two men were complete nutters. She just might be right. By the time this day is over, I will probably beg to see the men in white coats holding out a funny jacket for me to wear.

Jack, holding back a grimace at the battery acid pretending to be coffee, watched as Rube shoveled food into his mouth. "Wait a minute. Did you say assigned? To Seattle? Then what are you doing in Cardiff?"

"To fix the major fuck up you caused." Rube looked at Jack's untouched plate. "You gonna eat your bacon?"

"Knock yourself out," Jack answered with a voice as dry as the Sahara.

A booming laugh filled the restaurant. "I'm sure you'd prefer I take that in the literal sense."

Jack couldn't keep from grinning. As much as he wanted to hate the man sitting across from him, he found himself slightly admiring him. Just slightly. There still remained the continuing threat on his life "¦ or lives given his unable-to-stay -dead status, not to mention the destruction of his coat.

The bacon, which resembled charred sticks more than something edible, was quickly scooped up. "You, Jack, astound me. In all the history of Reapers, not one has ever been rendered incapable of doing their job. And then you came along." Rube took a huge gulp of coffee before continuing. "It started slow at first. One Reaper had to be taken off active duty. Just couldn't handle the fact that you didn't stay dead. Eventually every fucking Reaper in Cardiff landed in the fucking cuckoo bin." Without pausing, Rube shoved his empty plate to the side and pulled Jack's untouched meal towards him. "So, my soon-to-be-permanently-dead friend, I had to fly over here with one of my team so we could deal with this crisis."

"We can't have a region, not one as fucking active as Cardiff, out of commission. So, Jack Harkness, since you're the one to cause all this, you're also the fucking solution."

Jack tensed at the implied threat in the Reaper's voice. "And just what solution is that?"

"As I told you before, you're going to die and this time you're going to stay dead."

"Well," Jack started before he broke into a chuckle, "you're in for a disappointment. I can't die, not permanently anyway, so save yourself some grief. Just pack up your bags and go back to Seattle."

"That's not going to happen. Not until you're no longer a threat to the sanity of every fucking Reaper. I'm going to stay here until the job gets done. And by job gets done, I mean that you are dead. Really, truly, fucking permanently dead." Rube picked up his empty coffee cup and waved it in the direction of the waitress who was doing her best not to acknowledge the request. "Look, Jack, I'm trying to be reasonable here. Do you really want to be dealing with the gravelings every second of every day? Because that is what is going to happen. They will be hounding your every step until, eventually, you decide it's time to move on. Do us both a favor and just accept it."

Jack leaned back and pinched the base of his nose before beginning to rub his temples. He had to come up with a solution and quick. Running Torchwood was dangerous enough. What with the alien incursions, deadly artifacts, and the usual death causing situations. To add mobs of gravelings taking out his life every forty-two seconds would make the task of defending the Earth impossible. Not to mention putting the lives of every one of his teammates in danger. No doubt there would be residual calamities and he wasn't about to risk any of his team. There had to be an answer, a way to get the upper hand with the Reaper but darned if Jack could figure one out.

Unbeknownst to Jack, the solution to his problem was just about to walk through the café door.

***

Nothing had changed at the booth where Jack and the Grim Reaper sat glaring at each other, with the exception that the waitress had finally returned to refill their coffee mugs. The two men had reached an impasse an hour ago, following a two hour dialogue of 'You have to die' and 'But I can't' which had repeated incessantly. Now they were simply choosing to fill the time alternately glaring at one another and taking sips of the terrible coffee. It seemed as if the two men planned to continue scowling at each other until either the world ended or the waitress kicked them out. Giving the nature of the Rift over Cardiff, it was anyone's guess which would come to pass first.

The tinkle of door chimes indicating someone was entering the establishment could barely be heard over the loud din in the café. The breakfast crowd had long dispersed to be replaced by a jostling swarm eager for lunch. The two men were so involved with their glaring match that they didn't notice the scruffy man walking through the door.

"Is there a J. Kerr here? J. Kerr?"

At the sound of the voice, Jack turned to look at the newcomer. He was cute, in a disheveled sort of way, and his clothes were covered by tiny Post-it notes stuck haphazardly all over him. Clutched in his hand were two more scraps of yellow paper.

"Anyone? J. Kerr?"

Jack watched intently as a man sitting at a nearby table cautiously raised his hand. "I'm Justin Kerr."

The Post-it note clad man sidled up and briefly ran his hand down the man's arm. With another look at the note, he said, "I see here we've got an appointment at the hotel down the street in about an hour. I might be a little late so stick around until I get there." He then crumpled up one of the sheets and stuffed it into his pocket. With a glance at the other note, he called out, "Is there a M. Harris here? M. Harris?"

Justin Kerr looked dumbfounded as the man wandered away. The woman sitting next to him, however, could only be described as murderous. "You promised! You promised no more affairs! And with a man! I'm gonna kill you!" The man leapt up and sprinted to the door, the woman not far behind him.

With a chuckle, Jack turned his attention back to Rube. "He one of yours?"

"Unfortunately." Rube raised one arm up, snapped his fingers loudly, and pointed down towards the space next to him. "Mason! Get your fucking ass over here."

At the sound of his voice, Mason practically ran over to the booth and flopped inelegantly into the space, somehow missing the fact that Jack was also seated at the table. "I can't do it, Rube. I just can't. It's too much. I've already had fifty-three pickups and it's only 1:49." He began weeping hysterically which only added to his scruffy, disheveled look.

While a large portion of his mind was still occupied with how to best the Grim Reaper, Jack did devote a small segment of his brain to fantasizing of the impeccably suit-clad Ianto behind him with the scruffy newcomer in front of him. Given that this was Jack, his fantasy men were not clad all that long. He couldn't help but wonder if he could somehow turn fantasy into reality "¦ before Ianto discovered the destruction of the RAF coat. Once that happened, Jack wouldn't be having any sort of sexual encounter for quite some time.

He was shaken from his fantasy when Rube used his journal to smack Mason across the top of his head a few times. "Get a fucking grip, Mason! It's no fucking walk in the park for me either."

The man calmed slightly as he rubbed at his head, silently mouthing 'Ow' a few times. Rube flipped open his journal and drew out four more of the yellow notes, handing them over to Mason. "You're going to have to get these. It's taking me considerably longer to get things sorted here." At the panic-stricken look on Mason's face, Rube added, "Don't worry. It's a group pick-up." He slid a hand across the table to grab the Post-it note with Jack's own appointment with death written clearly on it. He handed the paper to Mason. "You can go ahead and grab this one now instead of waiting for the designated time."

It didn't take Jack long to add up the fact that there were five Torchwood employees and five yellow notes currently clutched in Mason's hand. He reached over, snatching the offending notes. With horror he flipped through the sheets.

J. Harkness
Torchwood Hub
E.T.D. 3:13 p.m.

T. Sato
Torchwood Hub
E.T.D.  3:13 p.m.

O. Harper
Torchwood Hub
E.T.D.  3:13 p.m.

G. Cooper
Torchwood Hub
E.T.D.  3:13 p.m.

I. Jones
Torchwood Hub
E.T.D.  3:13 p.m.

Jack's heart plummeted. The stakes had just gotten a lot bigger.

It was at this point Mason finally noticed the Reaper-menace known as Jack sitting across from him. "Oh, my God! It's "¦ it's him!" Mason began crying hysterically. "Rube! It's him." Descending into incomprehensible muttering and panic, Mason appeared to be just one breath away from complete insanity.

Jack couldn't keep back the smirk. Less than five minutes in my presence and a Reaper is incapacitated. And then it struck him more seriously. Less than five minutes and he's out of action. He wanted nothing more than to leap into the air, shout for joy, and start organizing a victory orgy as he realized he now had the key to send the Reapers packing. The war had been fought and won. All that had to be done now was a tiny bit of maneuvering before victory could be claimed.

He stretched his lean body, releasing the tension that had tightened his muscles since the first moment Rube had introduced himself. He caught Rube's attention and smiled mischievously. "Here's what we're going to do."

Rube interrupted him with a stern glare. "This isn't my fucking negotiation face, Harkness!"

"Good because this isn't a negotiation." His lips moved into what might remotely be considered a smile, though it was one as charming and beguiling as an alligator's grin. In other words, it was threatening, intimidating, and aggressive with a large dose of menace thrown into the mix. "You're going to cancel the 3:13 appointment death has with me and my team. In fact, there's going to be a permanent injunction on your little friends visiting my team. Each and every one of them is going to live a very long and very healthy life."

Jack leaned back casually, stretching his arms along the seat back, looking to all around as if he didn't have a care in the world. "Ninety, I think. Yep. Ninety. All Torchwood team members will live until they reach at least ninety years old. And that includes any future Torchwood employee." He ignored the furious sputtering issuing forth across from him. "Then you and Mason are going to pack your bags and leave on the next flight to the States."

Mason looked as if he was about to wet himself (again) whereas Rube seemed so furious his head was about to explode from the pressure. "And just why in the fuck would I do that?"

"Because if you don't, I might just decide to do some traveling. Just think of it. The man who can't die visiting every single place on this beautiful planet. And you know how dangerous traveling can be. So many cars and trains to walk in front of. So many falling pianos. Think of all the creative deaths I could have." Jack's smile grew even more menacing. "Just imagine what it will be like, Rube, you being the only Reaper left standing."

It took several attempts before Rube could speak coherently. "You couldn't. You wouldn't."

"Oh, I can. And I will unless "¦" He allowed his voice to trail off dramatically.

There was just the slightest slump of defeat in the Reaper's shoulder and Jack knew he was victorious. "Fine. I'll get the gravelings to leave you alone from now on but there's nothing I can do about your team. Their appointments with death have already been scheduled."

Jack leaned forward, sharply jabbing a finger at Rube's face. "To quote you from earlier, this isn't my fucking negotiation face. My friends are left alone or I walk right out of here and book a flight. I hear Seattle is nice this time of year."

He answered the resulting glare with a charming, beguiling smirk. "Well? Do I call up a ticket agent?"

"Fine! The gravelings will be told you and all Torchwood employees, current and future, are off limits." His scowl deepened even more. "You happy now?"

"Immensely." He graced the two Reapers with a cordial smile. "You have a pleasant flight." He turned to give Mason a salacious wink. "Unless, that is, you would like to stick around for a while."

Mason took a large gulp and began to tug frantically on Rube's sleeve, all the while babbling incomprehensibly. Rube gave him a firm shove off the bench and stood up stiffly. Looking down at Jack with just a touch of admiration in his eyes, he held out his hand. "Can't say it's been a pleasure meeting you."

Jack gave him a firm handshake, and with a cocky smirk, said, "Be sure to keep in touch."

"Not on your fucking life, you fucking bastard." Again there was the tiniest glimmer of admiration and respect. It had been a battle well fought, and while there were still hard feelings on both men's part, they couldn't deny the mutal respect for each other in a war well fought. "Just do me a favor. Try not to die quite so often. It's a fucking inconvenient. Reapers have enough work to do without scheduling an appointment with death for you."

"I'll try my best. Dying isn't all that fun for me anyway."

Jack watched the two men leave the restaurant before reaching down to take one final sip of coffee. With a heavy sigh he gathered up the scraps of his coat. All in all, the day hadn't turned out too badly. The Reapers had been sent home, tails firmly tucked between their legs. His friends were insured to have long, healthy lives. He looked down at the coat in his hands. Only one obstacle left to overcome. I fear it's going to be even harder to get past this one than it was to rid of the Reapers.

***

Jack stood outside the tourist office entrance, nervously shifting his weight from one foot to the other, all the while glancing at his wristwatch. It was an activity which had occupied him for the past ten minutes. In his hand was a grease-stained paper bag, smelling strongly of rancid fish and containing the tattered remains of his beloved RAF coat. He had to time his entrance just right if this was going to be pulled off successfully. With any luck, he'd be able to walk through the tourist office, take the lift down to the Hub and run to his office all without anyone being the wiser. The first order of business would be to track down a costumier who could replicate his coat before Ianto discovered the truth of its destruction. His nerves were frazzled and it was taking all his inner strength to work up the courage to open the door. Matters weren't helped by his Greek chorus, as Jack had unaffectionately started calling them. 

As soon as he had left the restaurant where he had spent most of the day engaged in a verbal battle with the Grim Reaper, three gravelings had accosted him. It appeared Rube was true to his word. The gravelings had not made one attempt on his life so far, even though there had been numerous opportunities. No, they seemed to be actively doing the exact opposite, even going so far as to pull him back from accidently walking in front of a bus. That was not to say they were making his life a day in the park. Dying a few half dozen times was starting to look appealing. 

Huey, as Jack had named him, seemed to be particularly skilled at tripping him. He had the torn knees to prove that fact. Whereas Louie had taken particular delight in pinching the bum of a woman who could easily be the top contender for the World Women's Wrestling Championship. Unfortunately for Jack, he'd been walking right behind her at the time. His face still smarted from that resounding slap. The worst of the lot, and the one who seemed to take the most amusement in his misery, was currently jumping merrily in a large muddy puddle, angling the impacts perfectly to completely spatter Jack with the filthy water. "Owen! Stop it!" Jack had named the final member of the trio, appropriately enough he felt, Owen. The snarky little bastard graveling reminded him of the snarky little bastard medic. 

With a heavy sigh and several prayers to numerous deities, not that Jack was even remotely religious but at this point he felt it couldn't hurt, he decided that the time was right. Ianto would, by this point, be deep in the bowels of the archives. Owen would be hiding out in the autopsy, pretending to work while in reality he was just wasting time until given leave to go home. The two women would be gossiping over cups of tea, completely captivated by whatever topic enthralled them at the moment. 

With trepidation, Jack twisted the doorknob and opened the door just enough to allow him to squeeze through the slight space. Unfortunately the tactic didn't work and the graveling known as Owen was able to slip through with him. Jack was aiming a well placed kick at the creature when he peripherally noticed Ianto lounging comfortably at the counter, idly reading a magazine. Shit! 

Ianto's wide smile at his entrance faded as he took in Jack's rumpled, disheveled state. "Jack? What happened? Are you alright?" 

"Uh, yeah, I'm fine. Just a bit of a rough day." Jack paused to glare at the graveling who was snickering at his feet. "So aren't you usually cataloging items in the archives around this time?" 

"It's been a slow week so everything's caught up." He gave a puzzled look to the point where Jack was glaring. "Jack, are you sure you're okay?" 

He resisted the urge to stare at the graveling as it climbed up onto the countertop, knowing that Ianto was unable to see the creature. Instead he flashed Ianto a huge, beguiling smile. "How about I go get cleaned up and then we make a night of it? Dinner, dancing, and then back to your place?" He then gave Ianto a salacious wink. 

"Sure," was the distracted reply as he continued to look about the room with a puzzled expression. 

Jack started to beat a hasty retreat towards the lift when the three words he dreaded most in the world were uttered. 

"Where's your coat?" 

He skidded to a stop, whirling around so quickly he risked whiplash. "It's, uh "¦ I "¦ That is "¦" Jack resolutely worked at wiping the guilt from his face as he scurried for some sort of plausible lie to tell. "I dropped it off at the dry cleaner to save you the trip. It got a bit damag "¦ dirty! I meant to say it got a bit dirty today." 

The snickering from the nearby graveling increased to a full out belly laugh. Jack couldn't contain his flash of anger and reached out to swat at the creature, forgetting momentarily that he held the paper bag in his hand. The impact with the graveling caused the weakened paper to rip open, resulting in a strange snowstorm of grey wool scraps. Both men had difficulty keeping their emotions from showing on their faces. Jack's face was a picture of horror and trepidation, whereas Ianto's expression could only be described as gleeful until it was carefully hidden behind his ever present stoic butler mask. 

The young man walked over and carefully plucked a remnant which had landed on his shoulder, holding it just inches from Jack's face.
"I can explain! There was this icy patch and then a boulder. Oh, and horses! A stampede of horses! I swear." He was practically on his knees with his pleading. "It wasn't my fault. I promise." 

Ianto pierced the man with a disappointed look. "Jack, I ask very little of you. In fact, I only ask one thing of you." He waved the fabric in his face. "I don't think it's too much to expect that you not allow your coat to get damaged. The work involved fixing it is monumental and it's not like I have all the time in the world to be repairing it constantly." 

Jack shuffled his feet much like a five-year-old boy and mumbled, "Sorry." 

"Saying you're sorry isn't going to be near enough to make this up to me." Ianto moved off, parting the beaded curtain in the doorway leading to the staff area and reached in to grab something. He turned back and lobbed a cushion at Jack before seating himself at the chair by the counter. 

Jack looked with confusion at the cushion. "What's this for?" 

With a grave smile, Ianto said, "For your knees, sir. I fear by the time you make this up to me, your knees will have melded to the floor without it." 

Blue! For the next twelve years. 

With a heavy sigh, Jack shuffled over to Ianto, all the while ignoring the graveling rolling in gales of laughter on the countertop.

***