Title: No Regrets
By: sqyd
Pairing: Jack/OMC
Fandom: Torchwood (barely)
Rating: PG 13
Word Count: 667
Disclaimer: I don't own the characters, just borrowing them.
Spoiler: None whatsoever
Warnings: Fluff, utter and complete fluff
Summary: Captain Jack is a sexy beast, but what's new?

I first met Jack in Paris. I was sitting at a small sidewalk café, on small street the name of which I can no longer recall, trying to order a coffee in French, and maybe a croissant. I am a believer of making an effort when abroad, and it was supposed to make the locals more amiable. It wasn’t working. The waiter was looking down at me with that special brand of snootiness that only the French can master. I admit, my French is rubbish.

I was about to give up when the man sitting at the next table swiveled towards me and speaking English offered assistance, which I accepted with relief.

He flashed a smile at the waiter and they started a conversation in French of which I didn't understand a word, but it seemed far more than just a simple exchange concerning coffee and pastries. By the time he finally scuttered away the waiter actually had a smile on his face. It was a strange sight.

The man turned back to me, large hand outstretched. We shook hands and introduced ourselves. He said his name was Captain Jack Harkness. He had an American accent, and looked American, but not the way the tourists back in London did. No, he looked more like a movie star back from the days when movies came in glorious shades of gray instead of color. He was tall, well-built, dark hair, cleft chin, improbably blue eyes. Impulsively I invited him to join me and he accepted.

He settled, leaned back in his chair and immediately looked comfortable. Nervously, to make conversation, I started jabbering about the economy of traveling pre-season, avoiding the crowds. He was just looking at me with a half smile.

"So what have you seen so far?" He asked, leaning back further, and crossing his arms under his tilted-back head. He looked decidedly cat like, muscles lazily stretched out, half-lidded eyes sparkling with calm amusement, and with a touch of hungry mixed in. I suddenly felt like something small and fuzzy, and possibly appetizing. I babbled on about churches, the Eiffel Tower and museums and all that touristy stuff.

He laughed and asked if I wanted to see the real Paris.

Later I realized the strangeness of the fact that it never occurred to me to ask how he, an American, knew so much about Paris. He showed me courtyards that must have looked the same for hundreds of years, the simple stand that sold the best crepes in the world. We walked down on streets that no tourist have ever treaded on. We stopped at a bistro that had no menu, only great food.

It was twilight and we were walking down an alley that reminded me of a Brassai photograph. It was then and there that he turned and with a slow but deliberate move pressed me against the wall and we kissed. It was smutty and irresistible, and he tasted and smelled incredible. His whole body pressed against mine, and that was a good thing, because my knees went weak, and I had to cling to him, and oh FUCK.

“I know this charming little hotel just around the corner.” He murmured into my neck.

The hotel indeed had old world charm, a little bit worn and faded, but not yet shabby. The receptionist wordlessly handed Jack a key, and made a poor effort of hiding a smirk. It was dawning on me that things might have been less coincidental as they seemed at first. I didn't know if I cared. We entered an elevator that had a lattice grille, the like of which I've only seen in movies.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were already staying here?” I asked him somewhat indignantly.

“You didn’t ask.” He replied with a wide and filthy grin, pulling me close.

Smug bastard, I thought, I’ll make him pay. And that was my last coherent thought for the night.