Summary: Peter Vincent knew being genre savvy solved everything. He had proven it with the vampires: a stake, fireball and liberal application of sunlight would mark the end a horror plot. Simple. Brilliant. It was thus a shame he'd never much liked science fiction. Because if he had been a fan, he might have recognised his broken watch for what it truly was. ~~ Almost technically canon. Het and slash, because life is short and David Tennant is hot.

Warnings: Bad language ahoy (it's from Peter's perspective! Of course there's an abundance of curses and f-bombs. Kiddies, cover your ears). On the same note, there's lots of implied risqué stuff. Telling the ships would ruin the plot, but there's both het and slash. With that said, nothing comes anywhere near being lemon. Simply, there's nothing worse than what's in the movie "Fright Night".

A/N: To my watchers, I am sososo sorry I haven't updated recently! I just turned in my dissertation (all about Gothic fiction; spot a trend?) and had no time before that to write. Now as for the actual story, if you aren't familiar with both "Fright Night" and "Doctor Who" you'll be horrendously confused. But meh, why not read this anyway? Anyone can enjoy a homage to the total awesomeness that is David Tennant. Especially if said homage includes leather trousers and a certain bisexual immortal.

This is almost technically canon for both fandoms. It entirely fits in "Fright Night"'s plot, and the only difference in "Doctor Who" is that in this story Captain Jack Harkness managed to get back on the TARDIS with Rose Tyler and the Tenth Doctor in the episode 'The Parting of the Ways'. This story would then take place either after Rose was lost to the alternative universe and before Donna Noble appeared in her wedding dress, or between where Donna left and the Doctor found Martha Jones. Basically, it takes place in a hypothetical time post-Rose when only the Doctor and Jack were in the TARDIS.

Two little notes: 1. The quotes separating each section are either from "Doctor Who" ('Human Nature' or 'The Family of Blood') or "Fright Night". 2. Since this is from Peter's POV he'll say leather trousers since he's Scottish, where any American will call it leather pants. This terminology difference is because in Britain, 'pants' means the same as American 'underwear', while the British word 'trousers' means the same as the American 'pants'.

General Disclaimer: If I had actually created either of these fandoms, this would be canon. So, no, I'm afraid this is only my wishful thinking as to what a DVD extra of "Fright Night" or a "Doctor Who" spin-off might have revealed. Maybe it was only meant to be in the Bad Wolf alternative dimension. Le sigh.

"I've seen him. He's like fire and ice and rage. He's like the night and the storm and the heart of the sun."

"Stop it!"

"He's ancient and forever. He burns at the centre of time and he can see the turn of the Universe."

"Stop it! Just stop it!"

"And… he's wonderful."

The 'once upon a time' began like a rubbish B-rated horror flick. Except it was lacking tacky CGI effects, as there was no room to blink in a slasher film skipping from the opening scenes to the credits and coffins.

Looking back, it was almost funny. Peter had always lived in black humour, and this particular dark and stormy night took the cake. Though he still had his regrets. Of course he did: his guilt complex was a mile long. But the one thing he didn't want to think about was the mistake that hadn't even been his. No, he didn't want to contemplate how many nights he'd lain awake, Ginger curled beside him, wondering what would have changed if he'd been more genre savvy. Only a bit, it wouldn't have taken much.

The agent's name was Horace Walpole, for Christ's sake. That would have clued in anyone who'd even heard the word 'Gothic'. Shame his parents had been rational realists (he remembered mum laughing about the alliteration—a blurry vision in the back of his head—and part of the 'joke' had always stuck with him) 'til they died, eager to jump at the idea of a brand-spanking new archeological site. Not that it could've been 'brand-spanking new', but he did like the sound of that. Kinky and all, who wouldn't? Might have made a great adventure if it was in the British Isles. But things could never be easy, and this story had never been an adventure. With that, only a few months after the first call about the job, his family was flying from Surrey to Romania.

The one thing Peter would do if he found a time machine? He wouldn't go back and murder Walpole (either of them), nor would he seduce Marilyn Monroe (at least on that trip). No, he'd shake his moronic younger self and twist him around to point out the full moon shining through the cloudy night, the thunder roving overhead, the raven squawking in a tree, the lumbering hunchback picking up their luggage, and that their dad had handed them the family heirloom (a broken watch, of all things) with an ominous warning. This was, of course, ignoring the fucking ancient castle in the distance.

Like he said, if they'd even been slightly genre savvy…

But they weren't, his parents would never be, and all his younger self had done was yell out a protest when said hunchback tried to grab his hat, coat and watch from him. Peter couldn't even remember what had happened next. Just Walpole's face, a glimmer of fangs, and the faint impression that while he slept something terrible had happened. Next thing he knew his parents were gone and he was somehow back in Britain, with everyone giving their condolences.

Peter had never quite believed this. He knew his denial sounded barmy; it was his own bloody life, and he had the (partial) memories to back it up, repressed or no. But—but it had never felt right. As though it was something out of a fairy tale, a plot some screwed-up-in-the-head idiot (with far too much time on his hands) would think up. Hell, it was almost like the start of a bildungsroman. Heh, funny. Imagine someone making him the hero: mental. He had always been too busy running away to rescue any damsels.

Thus, looking back, Peter couldn't bring himself to really believe much of his early life. Too strange, a thing of nightmares and stereotypes. Who the fuck actually had a 'tragic hero' childhood? He was half-certain he'd hallucinated the entire thing and that there was some perfectly mundane explanation about a car crash-induced trauma and repression of his parents, or whatnot. Whatever it was, it was only a few years back (after A-levels, after undergrad; all a blur) that his life shifted into something resembling normality. These were the memories he was certain had happened. Of a grown but immature orphan, too smart for his own good, kicked out of every uni that'd been foolish enough to take him for a doctorate and teaching associates.

It didn't help that his academic interests were strange in the extreme, flung from folklore to physics. The folklore was simple enough to understand, because how else was he supposed to learn what happened? That he didn't believe his memories would've been reason enough to dive headfirst into vampiric studies. But that combined with his inherent curiosity? Hardly surprising that he became an expert on the fictional beasts overnight. Still, his fascination with science was another story altogether. It was a talent that came all-too-naturally for him, where every book he read seemed only to remind him of the theories and equations he'd long ago memorised. Though he hadn't, he couldn't have, and he shook these thoughts from his head as soon as they appeared.

Peter would have spent night after night in the library (digging out dusty, ancient novels, ignoring the creaking by hours on the front clock and his own ticking, locked watch), if not for his best mate. They'd been attached at the hip for years, though he wasn't entirely sure how this had happened. But Jack was too full of toothy grins to question. About anything, actually. A staple at every bar—whether behind or in front of the counter—the two made an odd pair. And though Peter's memories were foggy, he knew he cared for the man like a brother. An estranged brother who you were reacquainting with after years by sharing a flat. Or a cousin whose constant innuendoes and dragging to the pub is put up with solely because you can't help but love the guy to death.

After a while, Peter had stopped protesting the interludes and just sighed, following Jack with rolled eyes. For while his friend was 'preoccupied' in the corner, he found it easy to sneak out again. This continued for the first part of their stay in Glasgow, and both men were fine with this arrangement. Nothing added up (from Peter's hazy past to Jack's nonexistent one, their aimless wanderings, their ages which seemed at once young and ancient, their swaying accents, to Jack not being particularly concerned about Peter's preoccupation with monsters), yet it somehow equaled a relatively peaceful balance.

With this, it made sense that the next stage (so much darker, so much madder, and so much better) began when he met she at the library. Looking back, Peter felt strangely uneasy at this thought, but had no idea why and shrugged it off. It wasn't important, for what mattered in this instance was her, who burst in like an oncoming storm lacking any concept of 'private space'.

"That's not English." A husky, Spanish-tinged voice said from behind Peter as he studied. He was rather proud of himself for not jumping and only giving a small yelp as he spun in his seat. "But whatever you go for, baby-cakes. Though if it's Klingon I'm slapping you before dragging you to rehab. Book on aerodynamics. Now."

"Wha-what?" Peter gaped at the woman an inch away from him. Who was gorgeous, now that he was looking (all sultry curves wrapped up in a Spanish accent, sending him a sardonic expression of 'how-fucking-moronic-can-you-be'), so despite the surprise he was fine with this arrangement.

The annoyed woman sighed, rolling her eyes as she helped herself to a seat. "You're hogging the one copy of a book that might or might not be integral to my thesis. I'd like to find out. Also, I'm praying to every deity that you aren't a Trekkie. I solemnly swear I've had enough of that to last a lifetime."

"Oh, yeah sure, I was just done with—" Peter blinked, hand on text, "—Trekkie?"

"You're writing in either Klingon or Elvish." She drily stated, pointing at his notes. "For your own health, you'd better be a Tolkein's fanatic."

Peter blinked again, glanced at his notes, and looked back up. "It's in English."

She sent him another 'you-are-so-stupid-and-if-you-weren't-foxy-I'd-hav e-slapped-you-by-now' look. He made a mental note to learn more expressive expressions, for they could apparently be quite impressive. "Listen English boy—"

"Scottish!" He yelped, finally offended. Sure, he knew his accent wasn't that distinctive, and yeah he lived in Surrey as a kid, but she'd hit below the belt.

"Whatever." She clearly didn't care. "If you want to live in your imaginary world of made-up words, have at it. Just give me the book."

Scowling, but recovering from the offence, Peter took another look at his notes to make sure they hadn't been replaced. Nope, still English. Techno-jargon too, but if she was studying a similar topic like she claimed it'd be perfectly legible. As would be his sketched drawing of possible improvements to flight stabilisers (coloured blue, because why not). But all was English and equations (though not really, but it was better for his sanity that the words continued for him to appear as 'normal', rather than their actual slanted, elegant scrawl of runic gibberish). He took a closer look and noticed that there was one phrase he'd doodled in the margins. He held back a snigger. "What, that? It's French."

"What?" She was torn between annoyance and bemusement.

"French." He repeated, looking back at her properly while waving a hand to the notes. "Just a few words of it, but definitely not Klingon or Elvish."

"What?"

"It means 'let's go'." Peter said helpfully, slightly amused at her confusion. "Nice sentiment. Thought it fit the apparatus, since the—"

"You're mental." She groaned, though kept glancing at the notes. "But whatever, you're still better than half my exes."

"Huh?" He gulped, surprised at the change in topics. But the girl didn't particularly care.

"The worst one wasn't even the Trekkie." She continued on a roll, paper and weird student momentarily forgotten in her rant. "Don't get me wrong, the ears were awful. But the worst? The Star Wars fan. Nice kid though. Liked him enough to role-play in the 'Leia slave' get-up."

"What?"

"Not that big of a jump, I guess." She shrugged, unconcerned at the red flush growing on her companion's face. "My final straw was when he guilted me into dressing as Chewbacca at a convention, and I found him half-way through on top of some Chun-Li kid. Doubt she was overage."

"What!"

"He found out that lightsabers can hurt even when plastic. Especially if they're jabbed in the family jewels." She finished before waving it off, ignoring Peter's yelp of another, "WHAT!" "Point is? I don't give a damn about whatever language you're writing in. Book. Now. If you give it to me and are emphatically not a fanboy of Star Trek or Star Wars, I'd love if you'd explain that equation under the weirdly-coloured flight stabiliser over drinks."

He froze, replayed the last of the conversation in his head, and became even more confused. "No, I'm not a fan. Yes, of course you can have the book. Yes, I'll explain the stabilisers. And, huh? Drinks? You barge in, complain about your past boyfriends, don't tell me your name, and ask me out. Why?"

"Because life is short and you are hot." She grinned. "Clever too, though slow and a bit wacko. Ginger, by the way."

"Peter." He paused as she looked at him with a lifting eyebrow. "Oh! Wait, drinks. Sure, why not?"

Drinks was nice, conversation was pleasant, and both were happy to discover that they were in similar engineering degrees. Ginger was impressed by the design, and Peter was impressed when she called it idiotic and corrected mistakes in three of his equations. She was also pleasantly surprised at his interest in monsters, and the next few hours was taken up by an exchange of favourite Gothic novels. She adored all things classic, from falling giant helmets to Radcliffian scientific-supernatural, while he was more taken with the sci-fi side and Wellsian dystopias. Both agreed that fantasy was epic and that J.K. Rowling was their personal deity.

Somewhere amid this, they found themselves at Peter's flat, on his couch, and draped over each other (book and indistinguishable notes laying in forgotten bags by the door). Which was where his roommate found them, wolf-whistled, and commented that he was surprised the girl wasn't a blonde.

Peter surfaced from the snog and yelled at Jack to get the bloody hell out. Ginger added that the wanker was a chauvinistic pig who should go back to his Barbie dolls or, more likely, just fuck himself.

Jack's proud grin spread before he let off a sarcastic salute and waltzed back out the door.

Despite this lackluster beginning, the three of them grew close overnight. Whether their time was spent creating pranks for their more boring lectures (their favourites were making the teacher's coffee fly, and racing into class doing a fake duel with wands that sparked bright lights (Jack still insisted he won, though Peter argued that shouting "Jelly-legs! PWN!" didn't constitute a real spell, and Ginger huffed that "Expelliarmus!" was an automatic win), Peter and Ginger catching some private time anywhere around campus, visiting museums and theorising crazy origins for the artefacts, a bit of stress over ongoing uni work, timid contemplations of the future, and challenging Jack for ridiculous combinations at the bar ("I'm thinking fish fingers and custard. Peter?" "Oh, apples, bananas and pears for me." "Pears? Seriously?" "Jack, you're surprised by the pears?" "Baby-cheeks, your friend's insane." "It grows on you." "OI!" "…that really doesn't sound right from an American." "I know, right?" "I'm not American!" "You sound like one." "It's—it's a complicated, long-ish story." "So I can chat about cultural imperialism without bothering you? Fantastic!" "…déja vu." "What?" "Another long story. Don't worry about it").

Amidst all this and the glorious insanity of the following months, Peter returned to the library. Not much of a surprise, but now he had a companion. Ginger was finishing her postgrad and was all too happy to gain a study partner and a brand-spanking new (pun intended) procrastination method. It was during one of these breaks (she pressing him into a back bookcase hidden from the main view, alternating between stolen kisses, undoing his belt, and teasingly curling his watch's flimsy leather cord around her fingers) that she asked, breathlessly, how many girls he'd taken back here.

"None." Peter answered honestly, not self-conscious about his relative innocence when her grip was making it harder and harder to concentrate. He picked at her top buttons, threading his arms around her torso. "First cherry popped."

"Oh?" Ginger breathed huskily, letting the watch drop as she focussed her attention. "Feeling confident, are we."

"Why not?" Peter gave a boyish grin before he remembered her earlier phrase. "Have all the time in the world to practice. After all, life is long and you are hot."

Her answering kiss and push against the thudding bookcase was all the response that was needed.

As good things go, this arrangement ended too soon with the drifting close of the second year. All parties were less-than-thrilled with Ginger's upcoming graduation and plans for an internship in the States, but there was nothing that could be done. They kissed, Jack asked for a threesome, and both hit the third.

Granted some privacy in a corner away from the congregating families, the couple leaned close (closecloseclose as though their very thoughts could intertwine), breathed deeply, and agreed that this couldn't go on. A long distance relationship was a set-up for disaster, for hurt feelings, for lost opportunities, and for numbing their current love with apathy. Why ruin gorgeous memories? Ginger was running to the land of lights and stars, filled to the brim with up-and-coming technologies, while Peter was too entranced by age-old history to flee to the bright newness across the pond.

"I know." Peter grinned sadly, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. It was too curly to work properly, but neither cared. "I'm so happy for you."

"I love you." Ginger said, anxious for him to understand. She rummaged in her graduation robes' pockets before coming up with dangling, bright chain. "It's a silly gift. But, your father's watch? I noticed the cord was loose. I wouldn't want you to drop it and—"

Peter took it in his fingers, seeing that at the end hung two crescent moons; he ignored the sudden itching in his eyes. "Thank you. Ginger I—this, this means a lot to me."

"Look at me." Ginger drew closer, want and regret in her gaze. "The timing's horrible, we both know that. But if you ever, ever want to run away? I'll have a place for you in Nevada. You'll love it. It's all bright and shiny, with new shows and technological innovations around every corner. Maybe even a few blue stabilisers. It's a place to get lost."

It sounded wonderful, it did…but Ginger still left by herself. Maybe that was why Peter quit Glasgow the next Summer. He wasn't sure why Jack followed him to the University of Durham, but was happy with the arrangement nonetheless. He changed there, though. Became more outrageous, pulled Jack to clubs, began to make more innuendoes than his friend, and had more girls' numbers than he knew what to do with. He always threw these scraps of paper away.

Naturally, less time was spent hiding away in the library. It was with this, perhaps, that Peter realised his talent was something special. He found that he didn't really need the books. They were fun to look through, sure, but the equations surfaced in his mind whether or not he bothered reading about them first. He began sending off papers on demonic possessions, and writing letter after letter to experts on the analogies of tarot cards and on why silver bullets and wooden stakes harnessed such power. Soon, they were calling him. But this was only the start, the true legends were still farther down the road. For now? Now, he began collecting the mythical objects (his parents would be proud) while blowing things up for the hell of it. At least, that's what Jack insisted that's why he was followed by destruction, teasingly proclaiming the man a mad scientist (though it was hardly his fault; even if a few experiments were explosive, he'd get the right formula in the end—a few reversed polarities and he'd be good to go).

The uni went even farther than Jack, and before he knew it he'd been chucked out. Oh well, next place. Grab the hat, coat and watch, and away he went. Never bothered with any boxes, for while travelling had never phased him it was staying put, settling down, and holding onto the past that did him in.

Even better, with a new place it was easier to fudge the past, where the lack of an actual postgrad degree was hedged and teaching jobs were hijacked—no, wait, awful connotation. Stolen—not much better. Borrowed? Yes, but he wasn't entirely sure how he could return them. Ah well, he was bound to think up something. So what if it was like an unreal fairy tale, where the laws of logic didn't exist? He'd never had much need for them. Too clever.

But for all his smarts, Peter couldn't figure out Jack. Or why Jack was alright with following him at a whim. There were 'best mates', and there were 'best mates'. But Jack kept insisting that work was easy enough to move ("Especially to St Andrews. Lots of need for bartenders there—small college town, what can you do?—and I can't remember the last time I got a Duchess. Princess, yes; too high maintenance. Avoid those. Oh, and don't hit on any Queens! More trouble than they're worth, and the royal 'we' gets confusing in sticky moments."), that he'd always loved running and that, quite frankly, he didn't think Peter would be able to get by without him. The 'mad scientist' had scoffed, before smiling at his old friend and swatting his shoulder.

The outrageousness continued. Pubs were raided, Peter began calling back the new numbers, and soon enough he was sleeping elsewhere than his flat more nights than Jack did. It said the most about these encounters that he remembered less about these men and women, and more about his dreams on a flying blue police box (that didn't actually fly well; there was no use arguing with his subconscious if it refused to argue back).

"I know it sounds mad. When the Doctor became human he took the alien part of himself and put it inside the watch—only it's not really a watch, it just looks like a watch."

"And alien means not from abroad, I take it."

"The man you call John Smith, he was born on another world."

"Then tell me in this fairytale, who are you?"

"Just a friend. I'm not—I mean, you haven't got a rival. As much as I might… Just his friend."

Ginger sent letters. Peter did as well. Letters letters letters. They tried emails for a bit, but both confessed to prefer the tangible feel (the smell of it, the thought that someone out there would go to all this effort just to show you their thoughts) to speed. So there was a pile of letters and scattered postcards, and each vaguely knew what was going on with the other. A nice medium.

The final straw wasn't much of anything. Just another letter, one that Peter held in his hands (staring, that's all), unable to open it, so sick and tired of it all, where the last thing he wanted to do was read more words. Jack found him like that; on the couch, scrunching the paper up into a little ball. Still unopened.

Jack side-stepped a whizzing and spluttering particle beam (he'd stopped asking, and wasn't bothered about this one as it was trapped within a transparent case) and slid into the next seat. After staring for a moment in silence, he reached his hand over, turning Peter's chin towards him and away from the ball being crumbled to an inch of its nonexistent life. Mulling his words, Jack's question wasn't actually a query. "You're still in love, aren't you."

"Yeah." Peter idly noticed that the serious expression strangely suited his usually free-willed friend. He wondered about the emotions shining through his eyes (sympathy, envy, hope, fear, and a twinge that he couldn't quite place), before pulling his gaze away and glancing back down at the 'ball-that-was-formerly-a-letter'. "Brilliant, isn't it? But she's gone. No getting away from that. Dead end."

"Have you ever wondered—" Jack hesitated, his fingertips still resting on his friend. Neither especially minded, "—what it'd be like to run? Properly run. Sounds crazy but, what if you didn't have to be human? No pain, nothing. Nada, zilch. Think you'd prefer it?"

Peter snorted, a bit of humour returning as he tossed the paper ball to the ground. "Sounds boring. No bad means no good." With this he'd begun to pull away but—with another glance (a mere fraction of a moment, a year, an era) he realised what the other emotion was that he'd glimpsed. Longing. Longing for something lost, for something that could maybe (just maybe) be found. But this was enough (more than enough) for Peter to throw common sense out the window and lean in.

It was effortless, and Jack tasted like a breath of air. Literally and metaphorically. Slightly off, but so ridiculously alive that Peter mentally hit himself for not doing this ages ago. He pulled closer, wrapping his arms around as he distantly felt his hair be ruffled and lightly clenched.

"Cinnamon." Jack mumbled against his lips.

"Wha?" Peter muttered back, not particularly liking the pause.

"Always wondered. Never mind, doesn't matter." A small shrug, then another press of breathless, tantalising air.

Peter didn't question it, for there were much better things to do. Though he did get a laugh that his friend's taste for vintage pertained to absolutely all of his clothes. But Jack found a way to distract him from these thoughts (he would never look at a banana the same way), and the ball of paper was almost entirely forgotten. That was easy enough to do when it was buried under the torn off, aforementioned clothing.

Afterwards, nothing much was said. It wasn't needed. They'd been best mates for too long to bother with talking or any emotional rubbish, and both thought they knew how to avoid complications.

So if they did it some more here and there, so what? They were the only things in each other's lives that made sense. Meanwhile? Meanwhile, they ran. Sometimes for no reason, sometimes from the explosions, once or twice for relationships gone horrendously wrong (because 'exclusiveness' wasn't something either spoke of, though distantly wondered about). Jack didn't care much about the mess he'd made in St Andrews (he was sorry about ruining Kate's date, but it wasn't as though that prat of a prince was after anything more than getting under her skirt, though no one would believe him that it'd end in a nasty divorce. Not that this was surprising, though he did think that trying to arrest him for a blow job was overkill), but Peter did feel a pang of regret at what'd happened during their year in Edinburgh. He swore he hadn't meant to animate the gargoyles in McEwan Hall. At least not so—destructively. But it wasn't his fault! He'd been excited about meeting Rowling (the seventh book had him bawling, though he never noticed that it hadn't yet come out), wanted to impress her, set up his latest experiment and, err, bang?

But Peter'd gotten it under control in the end; no maiming or serious injuries, no fowl. Jack wouldn't stop laughing about it for weeks and the restraining order was a shame, but he was surprisingly neutral when the backlash had them scurrying out of Scotland (without any diploma, too. Ah well, he could do so much without one. Who needs meaningless titles?). The country had, oddly enough, never really felt like home. He would miss the sunsets though, where the entire sky turned yellow-orange. But no time for the past (aside from his collected vampire artefacts, disheveled clothes stuffed in a suitcase, Ginger's letters (including the one stuffed into a ball), red converses, and hurriedly grabbed watch, passport, and wallet)! Especially when where they ran next was a place where science was akin to magic.

Good ole USA. Viva Las Vegas!

Ginger had been right: it was all lights, stars, and shininess. As well as grimy, corrupted nightmare fuel, but one couldn't have everything. Peter didn't find her where he'd expected. Instead of being behind the camera and within the engineering scenery, she was out front and singing her heart out.

Peter did feel bad that she gave a squeak in noticing him in the front row. But she then brought her own act to a screeching halt by catapulting off the stage and into his arms. She did slap him for not letting her know he was coming. But since Jack was given a punch for noting that her breasts looked enormous, Peter supposed he'd come out ahead.

At this point he gave up on uni. Why bother? One little hack and he was a proud alumnus of LVSU; it was child's play. He had been a moment from throwing it to the wind and going for Harvard or Oxford, but figured it'd be best to avoid attention. Damn common sense, it ruined positively everything. He offered Jack a fake degree as well, but the man just laughed, said he didn't need it, and somehow got another bartending gig overnight.

Peter had always been a bit surprised at his friend's resourcefulness, and how in any new city they ventured too the man was always able to get a new job (usually better than his last) and pull some strings to also help his mate. Jack insisted that he had a bunch of old friends who owed him favours, but it was more like he was able to do too much than was physically possible in a day.

If Peter hadn't known better, he'd have sworn Jack was keeping a time-turner from him. But he supposed that half-believing in monsters was enough for any man, and that he really didn't have to pull the potential clusterfuck of magic into the pool. So, connections. Sure. But whatever it was, Jack was handing him a contract a week after the newly united threesome had been joking about starting their own show. "Show room? Booked. Start-up money? In the bank. Creative concept? I vote aliens!"

"What?" Peter and Ginger stated in unison, looking over their lattes at the proudly grinning Jack.

"The show?" Jack nodded, still absolutely pleased with himself. "I've taken care of it. Now you need workers and a concept. I repeat: aliens."

"But, but the money!" Ginger yelped, making a few others in the coffeehouse look over. "You can't just 'book us' an entire show."

"I've taken care of it." Jack waved it away. "Peter knows I'm good at this sort of thing. Concept, guys! It is crucial."

"You're filthy rich, aren't you." Peter said slowly, finally putting together the obvious conclusion. "That's why you were fine with jumping around: you were in Britain to travel! Huh. What, you have a trust fund back East?"

Jack paused before groaning. "Of course you'd think that. Look, I just have—"

"—a lot of contacts, we know." Ginger finished, also having heard this line. "'Contacts' can't get you two American VISAs as quickly as you did. Money can. That is, if you actually aren't American like you always insisted."

Jack flashed her a grin. "I keep forgetting your incredible memory. Any pointers, gorgeous?"

"Pig." She rolled her eyes. Peter bit back his jolt of jealousy: particularly since he wasn't sure who it was aimed for. "Point is? No, I'm not going to take your money."

"Ditto." Peter draped an arm around her shoulder. "This'd probably empty out whatever sort of trust fund you have."

"The money's not from a trust fund!" Jack groaned. "Just take the damn contract and don't worry about the money. I—it's complicated."

"Like everything in your life." Peter said as he and Ginger exchanged long-suffering looks, their old routine easy to fall back into. Both missed Jack's regretful glance. "My guess is you're either a Dubai or North Korean 'Prince' in the midst of a quarter-life crisis. Who might or might not be a vampire or in possession of the philosopher's stone. Mate, I really hope it's the last one. Because if not you're getting a stake in your stomach."

"So violent." Ginger shook her head. Neither man decided to test their luck by mentioning her fondness for slapping. "That's ridiculous, anyway. Of course Jack isn't a vampiric prince. He's Harry Potter."

Jack and Peter blinked at her, blinked at each other, before staring incredulously. "Harry Potter?"

"Peter's Ron Weasley." She nodded at her once-again boyfriend, ignoring his befuddled expression. "There's a spell on both of you to keep you from ageing—because seriously, you two haven't changed at all, and if you don't tell me your secret my blackmail's going to be sent to the authorities—have probably had your memory wiped with the appearance changes and, finally, it would explain why Peter's amazing at chess and obsessed with having red hair."

"It's because they're cool! Err, both chess and red hair!" Peter exclaimed, his forehead knitting in confusion. "Really though, that's completely insane. Not the magic part: that Jack's supposedly Harry Potter."

"It's because of my heroism, nine lives, and dashing good looks." Jack primed, huffing out his chest. "While you're just a skinny twig. Foxy though, I'll give you that, and your hair's as messy as Potter's."

"True." Ginger nodded while Peter blustered in denial and how he meant to have bed hair. "Anyway, back to the potential show. I don't know about Peter, but while I'm very grateful I'm not taking your money."

"Take it on a loan." Jack argued, getting back on track after sending his friend a last suggestive grin. "It'll help everyone! You two can be your own bosses, create all the techy-whatsits, and I get my money back once you're a success. Plus, I can cameo as a stunning playboy. Now come on, theme time! Aliens aliens aliens! Of which there has to be at least one incredibly hot bisexual who you base off of yours truly. Who is, by the way, the cameo part who will, because of his immense popularity and growing fangirl base, be turned into a regular by the end of the second show."

Peter and Ginger silently agreed to humour him and play along. Though she did shake her head at Jack's enthusiastic suggestions. "Maybe playboy, but no to the aliens. Do you have any idea how annoying strobe lights get? It's worse than 3D movies."

"But aliens!" Jack insisted, though happy that they were going along with the show and his brilliant character suggestion. "No need for strange lights. Just adventures and innuendoes!"

"Sounds more like a movie than a Vegas show." Peter said uncertainly. "I can't see that being popular." Jack stared at his friend, so surprised that he halted while opening his mouth for the next sentence.

"Agreed." Ginger nodded, shooting the still-flabbergasted Jack an apologetic look. "No offence, but that wouldn't sell. Don't you want your money back?"

"But—but aliens and—"

"Magic's been done." Peter cut in on his friend's insistence. "Don't feel like being or hiring a magician anyway."

"What about monsters?" Ginger glanced around, contemplating the new idea. "You know enough about it, and even used to own enough things to recreate into props."

"That's a thought." Peter considered it over Jack's protests. "I still have those artefacts as well, and they're pretty undestructable."

"OI!" Jack cut in, his loud voice again making other patrons look over. "Financial backer, remember? Aliens!"

"Sorry, we aren't trying to cut you out." Ginger explained apologetically. "I just don't know much about aliens. Peter?" He shrugged, resolutely pushing away the dreams of blue boxes he'd been having. "See? But we do know engineering and monsters."

"Fine." Jack sighed, though he got why. "So, what sort of monster? Werewolf, Nessie—"

"Vampires." Peter interrupted quietly, surprising even himself at the word. Jack looked at him, shocked. "It's what I know best." He continued in a stronger voice. "It's fine."

Ginger glanced between the two of them, concerned over the sudden tension. "Are you okay? Is there a problem?"

"No problem." Peter insisted, shooting Jack a look before he could disagree. "A show about vampires could be perfect. A bit of violence, blood-lust, brilliant special effects, a 'dashing hero' saving a damsel in distress."

"Sounds great." But Jack's frown didn't match his words. "Are you sure you're okay with doing this?"

"Peter, what's Jack talking about?" Ginger said more urgently.

"It's nothing, absolutely nothing." Peter now shot him a glare. "A stupid thing when I was a kid that I admitted while plastered."

"It wasn't 'a stupid thing'." Jack protested, rubbing his forehead. "You're too stubborn for your own good, and have the most horrible ideas. Which you're proving again!"

Ginger was even more befuddled, but held Peter's hand tight in her own. "Please tell me this is just about how you're a closet fan of sparkly vampires?"

"My ideas are brilliant." Peter sighed, his words clenched as he glanced from one to the other. "I think vampires—Dracula ones—would work. I'm not bothered by it. Don't worry about me because, for the last blasted time, I can take care of myself! And I seriously am so angry that you think I read 'Twilight'!"

"Defy reason. Defy everything you know. A mind blowing experience of the occult and supernatural. A magical tour de force. Welcome to Fright Night, live at the Balmoral Stage, Las Vegas."

As the demo commercial wrapped up, complete silence blanketed the room. A very messy room scattered with everything from vampire props, straggles of wigs, to mountains of bubble wrap. This being only a small portion of what their workers were sorting through in the rest of the rooms as they slowly designed the stage.

But here? The three of them sat in silence, staring at the screen. Jack, wide grin in place, had just finished fist-pumping the air. Peter's jaw was agape as he tried to recall exactly when they'd apparently added so many barely dressed women to the show. Ginger was steadily turning red, before she erupted by turning to her still joyous companion. "What the hell was that?"

"Your commercial!" Jack laughed. "'Fantastic', I know. Thank the intern David for the voice-over: that guy saved us a truckload with his deep accent. Would you believe he's actually Scottish? Take a hint Peter, that's how you fake an American dialect!"

"I—don't think that's what she meant." Peter sighed, rubbing his forehead. "Jack, really? Why the burlesque show?"

"It's Vegas." The other man convincingly argued. "You need at least a few half-naked broads along with the gore. Hey, if you'd listened to me they could've been green and had three breasts! But no, you guys wanted to go with 'vampires'."

"We aren't running a brothel!" Ginger exclaimed before turning beseechingly to Peter. "Tell your insane but rich friend he's mental!"

"Hey!" Jack put a hand to his heart, wounded. "I'm both of yours' insane but rich friend. Ginger! Below the belt!"

"You big baby." She groaned. "Don't get me wrong. Scantily-clad women and a vampire hunter in leather trousers? Fine, it is Vegas. But an army of naked people?"

"I was going more for a zombie-like apocalypse meets nudist colony—"

"Be quiet." Peter sighed at Jack's persistent grin. "Yeah, no. Not in a million years."

"A billion?"

"Shut it." Ginger said as she clicked the TV off. "No army! A few people at most. Weren't we going to stick to the hero archetype anyway?"

Peter nodded in agreement. "Exactly. Classic horror plot with a protagonist, antagonist—"

"Now you're showing off." Jack picked up the remote, turned it back on, switched off the DVD containing the demo commercial, and began flipping through the channels. "You couldn't just say 'hero' and 'villain'?"

"And a damsel in distress," Ginger continued, though smirking at her boyfriend, "with a mixture of a femme fatale."

"So three nude people?" Jack perked up. The other two looked at his broad, excited grin in trepidation. "You know what this means?" When met with two identical glares, his excitement collapsed. "Oh come on, you haven't even heard my idea."

"You. Are. Not. Acting. Nude." Ginger groaned, head in hand. "No one is, and certainly not you!"

"But I'd make a great hero! 'Protagonist', whatever." Jack protested. "I have the abs and everything. See these cheekbones? Flawless."

"If anyone's being the hero it's Peter." Ginger argued back.

"WHAT?" Said theoretical-hero piped in with wide eyes. "I'm not acting, I'm not an actor! I'm not going out nude!"

"You won't be naked." She slowly explained as though to a little child struggling to learn the alphabet. "But there might or might not be leather trousers."

Jack raised a hand. "For the record, those would look better on me."

"Duly noted." Ginger said drily while Peter was still caught in a stage of shock. "But you're too apple pie, stereotypic All-American." She explained while ignoring another protest about how he wasn't actually a citizen. "Too cliché. Peter, on the other hand, is foxy and has an accent to die for."

"So you want to change it up so that, for once, the British guy isn't the villain?" Jack said before, pausing, thought for a moment and broke out into a bright grin. "That makes me the big bad! Hah, that's been awhile. I don't have to wear glitter, right? Or pet a big white cat?"

"Of course not." Ginger said. "But good, that's settled. We'll hold auditions for the main female role, but if nobody wants it I'm fine with—"

"Don't I get a say in this?" Peter spoke up, eyeing them both as though they'd gone insane.

"Nope!" Jack popped the word. "I want to work on my maniacal laughter, so you're stuck as the hero Doc."

Peter and Ginger stared for a moment at the strange nickname, before shaking their heads, deciding Jack had watched too much Looney Tunes as a kid, and returned to the task at hand.

"You had to, didn't you? You had to go and fall in love with a human. And it isn't me."

But it didn't happen that way. While Peter had finally found someone to stay still for, as time passed Jack paid less and less attention to the ensuing show. It became obvious that he was even more enamoured with running, especially with an opportunity on the horizon and the growth of his friends' relationship. Which Jack was happy for, he was (if anyone deserved a bit of domesticity, it was the Doc), and he liked Ginger. But he could only take so much.

"New job." Jack side-lined the questions of his leaving (just for a bit, he swore, just to get his head on straight), standing outside with Peter with a single bag lifted over his shoulder (to Ginger's worries, Jack had jokingly insisted that it was bigger on the inside; Peter wasn't sure why a part of him believed this). "You know how it is. Ran into a guy—very handsome guy with a great taste in vintage—who made an offer I couldn't refuse. Doesn't hurt that an even handsomer bloke makes tea to die for."

"Tea?" Peter looked at him askance, not quite sure why this statement made him as panicked as he was. "I mean, great, but this came out of the blue."

"Out of the San Andreas Fault, actually." Jack shook his head at Peter's confused glance. "Trust me, don't ask. Leave it at a mix of secret British institutions, lack of extradition for illegal aliens, the ultimate case of deja vu and mistaken identity, and Weevils. Ugh, nasty devils."

"Sure." It summarised their friendship that he didn't bother questioning this. "Whatever. Look, if you're happy, great. Only, try not to get maimed or seriously injured; Ginger would have both of our heads."

"True enough." Jack laughed, adjusting the duffel bag as a hint of sorrow creeped into his expression. "You do know how amazing she is, right? Managing to keep you of all people grounded!" His amusement became a bit forced at the last as he fidgeted, regret growing. "But, seriously, stay out of trouble."

"Yeah mum." He said with a quirk of a grin.

"Really, Doc," Jack said with enough seriousness for Peter not to remark on the nickname, "be careful. Lighten it on the experiments that go boom, don't invent anything sonic—"

"Anything what?"

"—don't dwell on monsters, mysterious adventures, crop circles, or Area 51. Particularly the last—yeah, you don't want to know. Enjoy the show, your time with Ginger, and your time with me out of your hair. Oh, and take this." Jack rummaged in a pocket before pulling out a small object. "If you press and twist this, it'll alert me and I'll come running. Use it if there's any problems, boredom, weird recollections, or if you ignore my incredible advice and find yourself knee-deep in trouble. Which is fairly inevitable, considering it's you. Why are you staring? Take it, it's not going to bite! Much."

Peter stared at him for a moment, looked down at the charm, and shifted his gaze back up. "…oh hell, you do know I was joking about the 'mum' thing, right?"

Jack rolled his eyes before thrusting it into the other man's hand. "Take it and call if there's any trouble."

"You overprotective prat." Peter gazed at the object in disbelief. "You've got to be kidding me."

"Me, kid?" Jack smirked imperviously. "Course not. Might bite though, always wanted to try that. But think about this as an alarm or a Plan Z, okay? Put it on your watch chain and forget about it unless you need it."

"You're mental." But Peter, while sending an incredulous stare at Jack, took out his watch and clasped it on. "What's this company that was insane enough to hire you?"

"Torchwood." Jack grinned and began to turn, before reconsidering and spinning back around. "Oh, in case you remember when I'm away: Doc, they've been reformed by a second me. This paradox might or might not be splitting the Western US, but I'll take care of it until you've found your box! So don't worry. Except for the biting, which I'm really not sorry about!" With that, he gave another smirk and a-bout faced.

"The hell?" Peter muttered, looking at his friend's quickly retreating figure. "Fucking mental."

"That's the Box. The Blue Box. It's always there. Like a magic carpet. This funny little box that transports me to faraway places."

It was testimony to how annoying Jack could be that, from half-way around the world and three years into a successful Vegas show, he still managed to drive his friends mental by rehashing an argument that should have ended long ago. Neither Peter or Ginger could figure out what Jack's preoccupation was with aliens, but had learned to take this, his frequently infrequent visits, and constant exotic gifts with fond acceptance. For Ginger, at least. Peter was less-than-happy at his best friend's perpetual absence, particularly as the latter was so tight-lipped as to what he was doing.

As for Ginger, she was less-than enthused at finding out about her not-actual-fiancé's similar preoccupation with outer space. Not for the thing itself, but she wished he would bloody well make up his mind.

"Why aliens? Again?" Ginger jabbed her blood red lipstick blindly in his direction, arranging her wig in the costume room's mirror. "We keep going over this with Jack—again and again and again, because he's a stubborn moron who manages to make his every postcard revolve around extraterrestrial conspiracy theories—and you're always the one strictly against it! I wouldn't have a problem with ET, except those gigs usually have headache-inducing strobe lights."

"We aren't doing aliens." Peter explained, leaning against the doorway of her dressing room. "Why'd I want to change? This show's actually working and we've already paid back Jack! Who'd have thought so many suckers liked monsters?"

"Pot meet kettle." She dapped a piece of kleenex on her lips. "So, why are you dreaming about aliens? Might I add, again?"

"Meh." He shrugged. "No reason. Fall-back dream, I suppose."

"What I'd do to inspect your mind." Ginger swivelled around, eyes speculating and lacy shirt low. Peter suddenly found it rather hard to concentrate. "A scientific genius who's preoccupied with vampires and aliens? Stranger than fiction, I swear. So love, why little green Martians?"

"Martians would hate that stereotype." He gave her a smirk, pulling his gaze up. "But nah, not that sort of alien. Nothing about Area 51 either."

"But that's taking away all the fun!" She protested, standing and picking up a mess of wires. Inspecting them, she flipped away a red one and sighed at the frays on one of the edges.

"I know!" Peter nodded, fully agreeing as they headed out the door. "Tell that to my screwy imagination. It keeps showing me a flying police box."

Ginger stilled, turning an incredulous glance his way. "You mean a, a British police box from, what, the '60s? That flies? A flying blue box."

"Yep!"

"Baby-cheeks, you're mad."

"A madman without a box." He grinned at her cheerily before noticing an intern and cart headed for the back. "OI! The fake stakes? Yeah, no. Take those up and centre! We'll disperse them before the show."

Ginger had been looking at him curiously When the employee hurried off her voice was teasing but curious. "A police box. What else is in these dreams of yours?"

Peter opened his mouth, before pausing. His first answer was 'a blonde' (amongst many others girls, with one calling him Grandfather: the hell was his subconscious hinting at?), which if he admitted to his feisty, dark-haired girlfriend would result in her 'practicing' with one of those thankfully blunt stakes. "…random images. Two red suns, polkas, a psychedelic scarf with a saving-me thing, alien takeovers of Downing Street, lots of running and, err, apples. Mounds of them. Oh, and the royal family being werewolves. You know: same old, same old."

"Only you." She shook her head, amused as they took in the chaos on the stage pre-rehearsal. "Sounds almost as strange as those dreams where your face was morphing into others, though why you'd want to wear a sprig of celery is beyond me. Ever thought about writing this down? Sounds interesting."

He snorted, grabbing his wig from a near-by table. "What, a 'journal of interesting things'?"

"We'd work on the title, something a bit more extreme. Hopefully we'll think up a name better than 'Fright Night'. Christ, I can't believe we took Jack's idea for that one." Ginger shrugged, giving him a light kiss before climbing into the harness, draping the wires into a waiting hook as she went. "If this vampire goth stuff one day falls flat one day, we'll have a Plan B of sci fi and non-green Martians. Which Jack will never let us live down. BUT NO STROBE LIGHTS!"

"BRILLIANT!" Peter shouted back as she waved, lifting off into the air. Seeing the mess someone was making of the wiring, he paced off, his thoughts turning away from the big blue box with one last mental note that maybe a few sleeping pills would take care of the dream problem. Wouldn't mix well with alcohol, though. Maybe skipping the middle man would be the best idea: go straight to the gin and forget everything by the morning. Right. Fantastic. Wiring and idiotic employees here he comes!

"You're this Doctor's companion. Can't you help? What exactly do you do for him? Why does he need you?"

"Because he's lonely."

"And that's what you want me to become?"

Peter found it hilarious that he understood the telenovelas better than Ginger. She wasn't quite as pleased ("It's not my fault you don't actually speak Spanish." "And you do?" "Nope, not that I know of. But languages are trés facile, it's like they tickle the brain. Your synapses or whatnot. No need for studying!" "The hell? Babe, you're insane. Scoot over, you're taking up all the blanket and–OOO! What just happened?" "Monique has a twin. Err, triplet. Not sure, I can never keep track of the–oh damn! Pablo was sleeping with the three of them and their cousin!" "NO WAY! Oh, why can't I understand this stupid thing? Fuck." "The word you're looking for is 'joder'. Or merde. Much better." "…fuck off love.").

But he never paid much attention to the programmes. It really was more of Ginger's thing. Sure, he'd look up from whatever manuscript he was reading (or object he was dusting, but she got touchy about the mess in bed) when she poked him, but this was mainly for translation sake. Absolutely. Soap operas and him? Hah! He had better things to do.

Ginger rested her head in the nook of his neck, he leaned in until he could smell the long, curly locks of her hair. Well, he would have, if hair actually smelled like anything. He'd never understood that: how much shampoo would you have to smother on to actually smell 'fruity'? Besides, it was hardly romantic. Sniffing someone? What was he, a dog?

Peter shrugged off these thoughts, embraced his curiosity, and sniffed anyway. Maybe a faint whiff of apples, but the air around them was too heavy for anything else of Ginger to come through. 75% nitrogen gas, 21% oxygen, scattered trace elements of argon, ozone, carbon dioxide, water. Not that any of that mattered. "You're gorgeous, you know? Fucking beautiful."

"You're a godawful charmer. Being a big Vegas star has made you corny, baby-cheeks." But Ginger was smiling, making a slow rove of her sight down from his scruffy hair to his chest at the blanket's line. Her gaze lingered on the manuscript in his hands. "What're you reading? Don't you dare say something like, 'a breakdown study of why silver bullets are more effective than gold in the termination of vampires—"

"Werewolves, Ging."

"—clearly, I was joking." She rolled her eyes. "I've been hanging around your tramp self long enough to know that. Now, what are you reading?"

"…"

"…you've been watching the programme." An amused grin split Ginger's lips. "Hah! I've finally caught you."

"No!" Peter weakly protested. "Absolutely not! I've been reading this, this fascinating study on, on…" he squinted down.

She sniggered before reaching over to the nightstand to squabble in the drawer for a minute, taking out item after item. "Tissues, watch, fez—why do we have that again?—, stake, secondary stake, a manual to your fucking paranoia, and—ah ha! One pair of glasses, thank you very much." She brandished them out, grinning at his abashed face. "It's funny, I swear you haven't aged a day. Be happy babe that only your eyes are growing older; imagine what it's like for his mortals. Wrinkles, crows-feet…"

"Hah! You look younger than me." Peter huffed, though took the glasses with a look. "Besides, it's not as though I actually need these. All for show. Like the wig! If I want people to think I'm a vampire slayer, I look like a sexy, scruffy madman. While to come across as superbly brilliant and clever, I go for the sexy academic look."

"Whatever strokes your ego. Though I wouldn't protest a shave: your 'scruffy look' is getting ridiculous." Ginger said, though her attention was turned to stuffing the assorted items back into the drawer. She tossed the fez in the bin and then, with everything else having returned to their proper places, she paused to finger the watch. "Hmm."

"Hmm?" Peter turned, pretending he hadn't been watching Veronica shriek at Pablo about their hidden love child.

Ginger held up the trinket, twisting the chain around absently. "I just realised, these circles and engravings are very beautiful. I've never looked at it properly before. You said it was your father's?"

"Eh, yeah." Peter shrugged, taking off the glasses (which he did have for show…no matter what Ginger insisted). "Had it for years. Doesn't do much since the thing won't open."

"Really?" She eyed it in confusion, seeing a lock that appeared to be in pristine condition. But she didn't want to try and force the watch and accidentally break it. "That's a shame. Sentimental value then?"

"Pretty much." He covered up a yawn. "You know me; closet romantic and sentimental vampire hunter."

Ginger sniggered, placing the watch back in the drawer. She scooted closer, their bare skin awfully cold for a moment before warming. "On that note, you'd better not screw up the stunt again on tomorrow's show."

"What? Oi!" Peter protested, turning so that their noses were touching. "You were the one who didn't come in on cue."

"You're always early. I'm always perfect." Ginger dismissed, undoing her bra. "Preferto!"

"Perfecto." Peter smirked before kissing her. "Or parfait. French is so much better."

"What?" The lacy clothing hit him before it was tossed to the corner. He certainly didn't complain. "Blasphemy!"

In the excitement (with accompanying moans, shrieks, and swears in five languages), the soft telenovela was left on all night.

"He didn't just make himself human. He made himself an idiot."

"Same thing, isn't it?"

Peter switched off the phone, glanced at the kids in front of him (Charley and Amy? Something or other), and decided he really didn't want to get into his best mate's habit of sending insane gifts from abroad. One would think after a decade or so—Christ, he was getting old—they'd both mature somewhat but, on second thought, that was fairly laughable. He couldn't imagine life without the insane mix of Vegas lights, a nomad best mate, and with an oddly perfect domestic relationship to wrap it all up.

So instead of trying to explain why the hell Jack would be sending some relic from the Easter Islands that he swore was the epitome of a caffeinated aphrodisiac (lord only knew Jack had sent stranger; Ginger and he had come to almost expect the bizarre over the years. Less easy to accept, for Peter, was his best mate's long spans off to who-knows-where with the ever-mysterious 'Torchwood', and the nagging reason of why he had yet to propose to Ginger), Peter rattled off some nonsense about Ebay, silently thankful that his reputation as an 'eccentric millionaire' let anyone believe pretty much anything he said. Good thing that money came in handy for something.

Still, the kids were staring at him oddly (big surprise there), and he realised that someone should get the door. He himself was a bit preoccupied with wrapping his head around the blasted fact that vampires were real and that, apparently, he hadn't hallucinated his entire childhood. Not to mention he didn't want to deal with Jack's newest mad gift on top of this; if it smelled like cinnamon, he swore that someone was going out the window. "Ginger, we got a delivery!"

"I'm watching my program! You get it!" She hollered right back.

Peter rolled his eyes, knowing she wouldn't be able to understand the thing anyway. "You're TiVo-ing it, you lazy cow!" Damn, the last bit was harsh. It'd just slipped out with his frustration. He'd apologise later and explain how the whole 'monsters-are-actually-real-and-murdered-my-parent s' thing was screwing with his head. Best not to mention the Jack complication. She wouldn't slap him too hard, right? Right, course not.

"Wait a minute. You get deliveries this late?" The kid—Charley, right, whatever—said. Peter paid him more attention in noticing the anxious tone. Though why he'd be nervous was beyond him. Jack sent packages all the time, and anyway the security in this building was the best that money could buy.

"Yeah. Um, no. I don't know." Christ, the vampire thing was really messing with him if he was mumbling. He rubbed between his eyes, coaxing the images to go the hell away.

But Charley went frantic at his words, sitting up bolt-right in his seat while his girlfriend inhaled a sharp breath of air. "Oh, shit! No. You said that guy could come in. That's a…"

"That's an invitation, airhead." Another kid stepped into the room, and Peter was a moment from asking when the hell his flat (apartment, something or other) had become a school. Then the words truly hit him: an invitation.

A moment later he remembered (with a thick knot in his throat, a haze falling over every thought) who he'd sent to open the door.

"Don't just stand there, move! God you're rubbish as a human!"

Peter had never before hated himself. Survivor's guilt or lingering thoughts of unfulfilled potential? Sure. But hate? Never before this.

Breathing in short gasps, he leaned against the locked door of the panic room, his body shaking. Hearing screams from the kids outside (Charley and Amy: yeah, he knew, he wouldn't forget their names anytime soon) regret streamed through him with every exhale. The noises were loud, as were the vampire's taunts. He beat his head against the wall, not caring if he was too rough, just trying to block out the sounds.

da da da DUH da da da DUH

The drumming made Peter feel even worse, as though nausea was rising up within him. But he would have even preferred that to the bzzz as the intercom flared on. A crackly, taunting voice erupted. He didn't have to guess twice as to who it was. "Hey, are you enjoying your panic room, master of darkness? God, you are such a pussy. I love it!"

Peter closed his eyes, blame swelling as the screams from outside pierced in. His heart thudded (single heartbeat, slightly flawed, not like the drumming), and he knew he should open the door. To stop being a coward, get out of the panic room and help them survive. His fingers clenched at the watch's cord as he willed himself to stop wasting time and get the hell out of this place!

Only, only it was already too late. Peter clutched a harrowed breath in tight, sliding down the still-closed doors to rest his head on his knees. Too too too late, because he was a fucking idiot, had forgotten everything he knew, let in the monsters, and sent Ginger right to them. He was clever! He was so goddamn CLEVER! This should be easy to fix, simple! He was the cleverest man in the room, and there needed to be a solution. There had to be. Any other possibility couldn't be true (he'd forgotten everything; forgotten that only once in a million years was there a day when no one died).

Maybe Ginger had only been turned. He could change her back? Yes, yeah, of course! That was it! Only, only it had been too quick. The vampire couldn't have paused from the front door to the main room (1.2 minutes); there wouldn't have been time to bite her (2.5 minutes, at least), only kill (0.1 seconds; a swift swipe of a throat).

Peter clutched at his hair, trying vainly to turn his mind off. He wanted false hope! A faint chance that he could to apologise! That Ginger would miraculously spring up, that the kids fighting for their lives would be okay…that he'd finally get up the nerve to give her a ring…that the last three words he'd say to her would mean something. He knew (down within the beating of his hearts: no, singular, why was he thinking otherwise?) that he would burn up a star to say good bye, if only he could.

But there were no stars. Only the grisly reality where time was a progression of cause and effect, horribly linear where nothing could be undone, no decision rethought. So he would remain a coward. A bloody useless coward with a watch.

Wait, the watch.

In a wave of energy (while failing to block out the continuing shrieks), Peter grappled the cord with two moons out of his pocket. Ignoring the locked clock, he rapidly twisted the charm attached to it around, fumbling slightly in the rush while sending a silent prayer to a deity he didn't believe in.

It was only when Peter finished this (press, twist, press, twist, pleasepleaseplease work) that he blinked. Staring down at, horrified common sense sunk in. In a paltry fraction of a moment, he realised its utter uselessness (no miracle was coming, even if Jack got it and was somehow in Vegas the man wouldn't be able to help, of course he wouldn't, what had he been thinking?), and fought back his own shriek of rage.

With a single fling, the watch and charm were thrown at the wall. Not even the impact could drive the lock open.

"You think if you live and we all die, you'll be able to get us out of your head?"

"No, I know I won't. I never could after the first time. So I told myself that I made it up. I was a kid. Figured it was easier to believe in monsters."

"Made what up?"

"The vampire that killed my parents, but not me. You think I collected all this stuff because it was bitching?"

Charley was insane. Peter stared down, swishing the vodka. In-sane. Fucking mental—and was so much of a better man.

He sighed, setting down the bottle. Oh, he had never wanted a drink more in his life, but couldn't bring himself to. For once everything was too big for alcohol, a witty solution, or an genius invention to fix, something which he hadn't thought possible. Below him there were however many corpses and body bags, and who even knew how many new vampires were huddled in the dark corners of the city.

Peter shuddered, an odd thought passing through his mind. 'If only Ginger was one of them—', but no, though he was a selfish bastard, he wouldn't actually wish that fate on anyone. Not even her. Being undead; it was something worse than death. Either way, it wasn't what happened. Ginger was long gone.

It had hurt so much, but the final jab was in how easy it had been. She had been like him: family, practically friendless, all but alone, and sososo utterly trusting. Of him, though, which had been her horrible mistake.

He was trying to pay some of it back. Worthless but, he was already arranging the funeral, flinging as much money at it as he could, but being so careful to make it simple, elegant. With a few fireworks and a talking headstone for good measure: she would have liked that. She would have laughed. Laughed and laughed and laughed, before slapping him.

Peter sunk his head to his lap with a groan. As hard as he could, his thoughts kept returning to how he'd made everything go to hell. He couldn't blame anyone else for that. The girls had been innocent, the vampires were fucking monsters, Charley was the mental hero determined to save the day or die trying, and Jack couldn't be here. The last had always been a futile hope. After the panic room had finally been unlocked, after he'd raced through the destruction to Ginger and found that he was so hopelessly late, he'd snatched up the charm and the watch—still broken—and snapped it shut in a door.

Peter knew he couldn't blame anyone else. That didn't mean he was ready to forgive.

He closed his eyes, rapping his knuckles against his forehead. The kid was going to be killed, there wasn't a doubt in his mind. After all, the idiot was going after dozens of vampires with a half-baked plan. He wouldn't stand a chance.

So, why did Peter feel so envious. He breathed in harshly, glancing at the funeral plans with self-hatred. Because after all of this, he was doing far too little. He was being cowardly, he had always been a coward! It was his inherent nature and—

—he would have fought for Ginger. If given the chance, he would have. A swelling remorse rose within him: he also knew she would hate what he was doing. Moaning and twiddling his thumbs, when he could be rescuing kids who were in so over their heads.

Peter got up in a rush, eyes wild, flickering about the boxes as his thoughts raced on possible weapons and how he could catch up to Charley before he did something stupid. Because screw it all. He was a coward, but Ginger deserved so much more.

"You know, getting what you want can be stressful. Especially when you're not used to getting it. More to lose."

A vampire.

Peter shuddered before taking another swing of vodka. His fingers, shaking, wiped off the extra drops of liquid as he set down the half-empty bottle.

He'd been a fucking vampire.

Only for a few minutes, but still. A harsh breath was drawn in. Peter tried to force his mind to go blank. No Ginger, no vampires, no blasted kids (who'd done who-knows-what on his couch before romping off an hour back), no Ginger…damn it, why couldn't he ever turn off his mind? Another drink was needed—

A whistle interrupted his thoughts before an all-too familiar voice spoke out. The American accent was slightly off and the dialect was unforgettable. Jack gave another wolf-whistle, strolling closer. "You're drunk and wearing leather pants! Didn't think I'd live to see the day."

"Fuck off." Peter eyed him dimly before a spike of anger swirled up, sparking bits of fogginess from his mind. "I've taken out vampires, been bitten, cured, and saved some stupid kids! I deserve a drink. Brilliant. Just fantastic."

Jack paused, looking surprised. He crept forward cautiously, peering at Peter as though he wasn't sure who the man was. "Doctor?"

"Doctor who?" Peter rubbed his eyes, not in the mood for this. "What're you on about, and what the fuck are you wearing?"

"You have a mouth on you." Jack seemed impressed, before becoming insulted once the words sunk in. He pointed at his long, WWII-issued coat in outrage. "My clothes? This is fashionable vintage! You're the one wearing leather pants—which must be itchy; how easy are they to take off?—and a goatee. Very Tony Stark of you."

The perfect answer came to Peter in a moment of singularly clear vision. "Fuck. Off."

"I can't believe you're wasted. This is a sight." Jack snorted. "Wonder what Ginger thinks of this? Though I'm sure she appreciates the pants—" a bottle shattered against the wall behind where Jack's head had been a moment before. Said man, now crouched down (how did he move so fast?), stared at his friend in flabbergasted surprise, "—that almost hit me! Not that it would've done much damage, but you didn't know tha—"

"Ginger's dead." Peter interrupted stiffly, leaning back to gaze up at the ceiling. He was already regretting throwing the perfectly good alcohol. "Vampires, remember? Turns out they're real. My memories were right. I called you to help, you didn't. Now fuck off."

"Oh." Jack slowly sat up, staring at the man in front of him. "She's gone? God, I'm sorry. I thought everything was fine. I thought—"

"That we were going to get married?" Peter answered sarcastically, self-loathing rolling off his every word. "White picket fences, a happily ever, all that rubbish? Yeah, so did I. Then it turns out I wasn't hallucinating. Fucking monsters!" A marble cast went flying, cracking and splintering a window.

Jack just watched his friend.

"There was a kid, you know?" Peter began feeling slightly more lucid, straightening up. "Stupid wanker. Came in as 'a reporter' before going off on how his vampire neighbour had gotten his friend. I thought he was crazy, turned him away." He ran a hand through his hair, falling back onto the seat as Jack remained silent. "Finally realised the kid was right, though his family was almost killed. I called him here and we started to work on it, when I accidentally invited the vampire in. I mean, the fuck? What the hell was I thinking?! I—I—Ginger got the door. I made her answer it, she didn't even want to. There was, there was nothing I…"

Jack walked forward, kneeling down to press a hand to his friend's shaking arm, but still not saying a word.

"We found her body later." Peter continued hollowly, buried emotion seeping through. "That is, after I raced to the safety room, leaving the kid and his girl with the vampire. Fucking coward."

"You aren't a coward." The confidence in Jack's voice shook his friend a bit. "You've never been, you never could be."

Peter let out a shuddering laugh, pulling his arm away. "The hell are you on? I've always been a coward! Running away from every damn thing, getting Ginger ki–killed, letting this stupid kid down when he needed someone, literally fucking anyone, but the unlucky sod got stuck with me—"

"What happened next?" Jack at last interrupted, a knowing glint gleaming from his expression. "After Ginger, after this mess."

"The vampire captured the girl." Peter sighed, rubbing between his eyes. He could feel the sobriety sinking in and didn't like it at all. "The kid wanted to go after her. You'd like him. Charley. Very gung ho. I tried talking him out of it, saying it was impossible, but the idiot was determined. After he left I—fuck—I remembered how I tried to contact you. During the 'battle'. You never came."

Jack shifted guilty. "I'm so, so sorry. I was working and didn't get your call until too late. You see, Gwen, who is—"

"It's okay, I get it." Yes, Peter could understand being distracted by a girl, though Jack's words felt like a punch to the gut. One of the last things he wished to do was dwell on this. "Woke me up, anyway. Realised it was stupid to wait for miracles. When I was sitting around on my arse it rammed in that Ginger would hate me for this. So I grabbed some weapons, went after the kid and, yeah. Turns out it was the same monster that got my parents. What he said, at least. Can't remember, can I? Fucking bastard either way. I got bitten, helped save the day and the girl, got my vampirism cured via giant fireball, came back here, and started drinking."

"Only you." Jack said, shaking his head while still watching him carefully. "Same vampire? Psychic connection at least but, still, that's your luck, and shows why you should never make predictions. The universe is too damn small for you to do that! But, no wonder you're drinking. What a night."

"I've had worse." Peter groaned before shaking his head, ignoring the nonsensical bits about psychics and predictions. "Actually, no, that's an awful lie."

"Not necessarily." Jack's words were hesitant. "Just the worst one you remember."

"Oh, not again!" He squabbed at his eyes. "I don't want to think about that or any of this. Not this 'fright night', not any vampires, and absolutely not my blasted parents!"

"Err," Jack's voice was definitely stilted, and this was when Peter remembered how rare an occurrence this was, "I wasn't talking about any of that. Not really."

"Well?" Peter looked at him, needing the distraction. "What, going to make an analogy to your adventures? That'd be brilliant. Don't pout, it's fan-fucking-tastic to see you, but can we catch up tomorrow? Tonight, I want to drink or shag. Preferably both. Have a preference?"

Jack barked out a forced laugh, though a true grin did sneak out. "Damn, you're a slut. Are you drunk?"

"Sex on legs, mate. Horribly sober, though." He groaned, stretching, trying to bury his memories away. Jack not-so-subtly stared at the tight leather trousers. "Perfectly self-aware too; I know I'm using you as a distraction for Ginger. So, you good on macabre rebound sex? No strings attached, per usual. Your favourite."

"You'd kill me if I took you up on that."

"What, because of the vampire stuff?" Peter rolled his eyes, by now thoroughly sober with a throbbing headache (he made a mental note to correct both of these as soon as possible). "That was a one-off thing. I'm not a hero, and I'm definitely not going to kill you."

"No, not you you—" Jack began to say before he rethought the answer, "—actually, I'm in for it already. But you wouldn't forgive me if I went through with this, not after Ginger."

"Nothing to forgive." Peter looked at him shrewdly, trying to untangle the puzzle that was his friend. "But if you care about it this much than, sure, I'll forgive you for any imaginary thing you'd like."

"Not you you." Jack repeated before, with a sigh, came to some sort of decision. He sighed again. "I'd like nothing better than to pull those ridiculously tight 'trousers' off you, and I will if you'll still let me in about, say, ten minutes. Give or take. Half an hour max. Now: where's your father's watch?"

"What?" Peter blinked, thrown by the non-sequitur.

"No, I'm not joking." Jack answered the unspoken question. "I need your old watch. The one that's always been locked and you barely let out of your sight."

"Err," Peter flushed slightly, not realising he'd been so obvious. Though hesitating, he pulled open the small chest drawer next to his chair, pulling out the chain of crescent moons that Ginger had given him so many years ago, "its always been locked, but it's the only real thing of my dad's. That's why I've always—"

"I'm not questioning why you've kept it." Jack continued to gaze intently at his friend. "Listen: I know you think I'm nuts, but I need you to open the watch. This entire thing has gone wrong and being human isn't helping you. Honestly, I'm not sure it ever has. You probably would've wanted me to end this ridiculous 'escape from life post-Rose' years ago, at least once it started adding complications. But then you were actually open for a casual relationship," a thrilled, disbelieving look came over his face, "and, even when I left, you were happy of all things and, and, damn it. Doc, when you remember this, know that I couldn't resist and I'm not sorry. Well, at least about us. Or the kinky thing with the banana; I thought you'd appreciate that. A good source of potassium, huh? Shame we didn't get to the apple stunt. I would say there's time for that but…another day?" His expression suddenly shifted from flirtatious to somber. "But I am incredibly sorry about Ginger. I never in a billion years wanted that to happen. I thought letting this go on would be the best idea, and I'm so sorry it got screwed up. Forgive me? I can offer lots of apples and I'll stop making fun of your screwdriver, which is surprisingly still in one piece, by the way. Though seriously: of all the things you could sonic…"

"The fuck?" Peter stared, jaw gaping at his insane friend. The least of his worries was, surprisingly, the adamant offence accompanying his suspicion of what Jack was calling his 'screwdriver', and the insults and/or threats which made him suddenly extremely paranoid. "Have you gone completely mad?"

"Nope!" Jack replied with false cheerfulness. Though, within a moment, his expression had once again hardened. "Peter, I know you didn't understand any of that, but you will. I promise. You'll understand your childhood, your genius, and even the vampires. All you have to do is open the watch."

Though a demand for answers was at the tip of Peter's tongue, a glance at Jack's stiff features stopped him short. As did the actual questions niggling in the back of his mind. "You haven't changed a bit, have you?" He sighed, wishing more than ever for a drink. "Still the same stubborn bastard. You don't even look like you've aged a day."

"Like you have?" Jack hid a swift smile, as though from a private joke. "Open the damn watch."

"It's locked." Peter repeated again, though glanced down at it. "The dratted thing has—always—been–"

In that moment it dawned on him that he'd never properly inspected the watch. This realisation washed over him, feeling at once intrinsically wrong and blatantly obvious. He shook his head to get rid of the sensation and mused that he was still drunk (though he couldn't remember ever being this clearheaded—the headache had disappeared and it was as though the lines of the universe were stretched out before him, ready and yearning to be touched). Grinning dimly, he decided to play along with his stupid head and hallucination-Jack.

Raising the watch to his eyes, Peter was startled to see the swirls of circles and intrinsically laid silver. Thoughts of dreaming this entire night were swept away: these engravings were the most real things he'd ever seen. He found himself wondering why he hadn't ever examined this, especially since it was his dad's and he'd owned it for years? Now that he thought about it, Ginger had mentioned it once as well. But he'd never given it a thought until now; now, where he craved to stare at the markings until all of their secrets were revealed.

"You've kept the watch with you but only as a second thought, never taking notice of it." Jack said softly, reading his mind. "Your very essence made you refuse to dwell on it. That is, until someone forced you to pay attention. Come on, open it. I know you want to."

The hell? Peter silently repeated to himself, twisting the object around his hands as the charm fell to the side, largely unnoticed. Yes, Jack had clearly gone around the bend. But still. He wasn't drunk, he didn't think he was hallucinating, and there was definitely something off about this watch. His first thought was of vampiresdangerGingerGingerGinger, but he dismissed this as soon as it surfaced. He couldn't believe that this a 'mystical' item was dangerous. It felt almost like—a home. Sincere. As though it was emanating love and acceptance now that he was bothering to properly look.

A word drifted through his consciousness, one he couldn't recall where he'd learned. Hygge. Danish. A relaxing warmth like an embrace, a hug. As though you were welcome in the family and that in one, breathtaking instant, you knew everything was going to be all right; you realised you weren't alone—

"Open the watch, Peter." Jack put a hand over his, clenching both his fingers and the watch. "After that, I promise you'll get back to running. But it will be better than ever. You'll be a hero, you'll accept Ginger's death and realise you've moved on from the loss of another. You're going to explore the stars, galaxies…corners of the universe no one even believes exists…you'll be utterly wonderful and, if you aren't too angry, you'll let me call shotgun. You won't be running away. You'll be running forward."

Another small term filtered through Peter's muddled thoughts, but this one wasn't of warmth and comfort. It was of knowledge, racing without limits or backward glances, sheer potential (of blue stabilisers, the watch's language that wasn't English or Klingon, of flying). It was of an unfinished story…and he realised in this instant (feeling more human than he ever had) that he had his own plot.

It wasn't a horror. It had never been.

There was an odd whirring in Peter's ears. It was familiar, of hygge and adventure wrapped up in a big ball of wibbly-wobbly dreams. All at once it became real, close enough to almost touch and … he didn't want to didn't, he couldn't; he didn't know what the fuck was going on, but knew in the tight clenching of his chest (a single heart beating frantically, and why did that feel so utterly wrong?) that it would be like the vampire's bite, where with one whoosh he lost all of himself. He didn't know what was wrong with him, why he was thinking this, or what the hell had been in that drink. All he was certain of was that he didn't want to open the watch. In his hands, it felt like fire and ice and rage. As though it was the night and the storm and the heart of the sun and…

That wasn't him. He was Peter Vincent. That's all he wanted to be, with his life and his job. And his love. Which all suddenly seemed so important, so crucial to hold onto before they were swept away without thought. Why couldn't he be Peter Vincent? He was—could be a good man. Why couldn't he stay?

But as soon as Peter silently asked this, the answer resounded within him. He had never wanted to stay, to halt, to sit still in one place and watch the plot pass him by. That was who he was, with or without a crazy friend and mysterious watch. So no, he didn't know why he was worried, but knew (knew like the moments, hours, days…ages that were wrapping around him without thought, a breathless rush that was almost as glorious as the light press of a certain kiss) that releasing the latch would be a new beginning.

'No,' his thoughts corrected him in a split moment (or a year, an era; was there a difference?), 'not an opening. It's the middle: in medias res.'

Peter dismissed this non-sequitur, cursed his luck at being a philosophic drunk (waving away his current sobriety), sighed, felt the warmth of Jack's fingers against his, willed himself to stop reflexively over-thinking, and blinked. "Eh, why the fuck not. Allons-y."

EERrwWwoooooSHHHhhEERrwWwoooooSHHHhEERrwWwoooooSHH Hh…

The watch was ripped open (never had been locked after all). Golden light furiously burst forth—Peter distantly wondered if it was bigger on the inside than out. But the glow was already soaking into him, filling every nook and cranny with centuries of memories and emotions and painPainPain as Peter Vincent was sorted into a small but cozy room, enough to fill all his thoughts and being and OW! owowOW!

Having every cell rearranged was especially uncomfortable this time. Could be the influence of the vodka's 40% alcohol content and…pardon him, back up. Yes, not fantastic or brilliant, but there was a nagging thought. He'd missed something there. Rewind and press play, vampires? Nonono, too far back and not a particularly pleasant scene to record. Spoilers? Definitely not; not yet, anyway, and certainly too meta. For now, fast-forward and pull onto a close-up of the dénouement, good, press play: bright burst of gold, flirtatious companion (Companion? Something else to that word…), a watch that hadn't ever been his father's, a doozy of a wake-up call, the very bad and no good idea of mixing alcohol with the reworking of his DNA and the, AH! BRILLIANT! The memories! That was the annoying tickling in his head.

Wait a tic, memories? Oodles of timey-wimey recollections and, ohhh, that's where he'd parked his box! His box? His Sexy! But, multiple Sexies? Not boxes though. What? No, focus. Explanation concerning shift from singular to plural not-boxes is surely within this mound of memories waiting in a pile like birthday presents, bows not-so-neatly tied on top and…and…lots and lots of presents? So many, too many and…oh, wait—

"What? JACK!" The Doctor shouted, open watch falling to the ground as he flung himself off the chair. A micro-second had passed (but hardly any difference between that, months and years). He twisted to glare at the bemused but apologetic 51st century ex-Time Agent. "What! Two years, I told you two years maximum! There are more memories here than that, at least a few decades and—" he paused, shifted through said plentiful recollections, glanced down at himself, and with a squeak flung his arms over the revealing lack of clothing, "—JACK! WHAT?!"

"Doctor, it really isn't that bad—" Jack's grin stretched across his face. The Doctor noted the dimples before shaking that thought away with a rush, returning to the important issue.

"I'M WEARING LEATHER TROUSERS!" He shouted back, bounding across the room to rummage through a cabinet for spare clothes while shifting at the uncomfortableness. "A Vegas showman? Which you funded! THE SCREWDRIVER WAS FOR EMERGENCIES! You were supposed to be looking after my counterpart!"

"You do look great! Those pants are even better than that old jacket of yours. Huh, I miss that thing. Besides, I only commondeered the ATMs for 'emergencies'." Jack's smirk, if anything, grew. "All right, yeah, I know what you meant but—"

"Torchwood?" The Doctor groaned, at last remembering the conversation. He tugged a shirt down over his shoulders, sending intermediate glares at his companion when he noticed him peeking. "The West Coast fault line is a rift? Bad, yes, very bad, but if you've let them get their hands on sonic technology, on my sonic…"

"Torchwood's much better now, and the rift's partly stabilised. Funny story actually: we must've crossed an alternative timeline where I'd been reforming them. That, or I was in the past at some point, because the bastard kept saying 'Spoilers!' whenever I'd ask and—"

"I don't want to hear it! Are either the Earth or universe in danger of spontaneously combusting? No? Good! We'll deal with all paradoxical impossibilities in a minute." The Doctor stated in a strangled voice, hopping about and pulling on some baggy jeans. "Not to mention that there are, apparently, still Great Vampires and I'm a blood-sucking seer! Past tense, partly, but still. I need mistletoe and—wait, that's werewolves again." He paused to frown at his untidy appearance in the hanging mirror. The drooping eyes, goatee, unshaven face, and distinct signs of a hangover were new ones. Confusion trampled through him, though he wasn't sure he wanted to understand. "Like the silver bullet and—what I—oh god, no—" comprehension swept in anyway, not caring about his misgivings, "—Ginger, Charley, Amy, the vampires—Ginger…JACK!"

"Yeah, I know!" Jack answered, amusement gone. "I get it. I screwed up, I left, and I wasn't supposed to let you fall in love. But you're a stubborn git!"

"You were the one dragging me to pubs! Perfectly willing to rearrange the timeline and leave poor souls in your wake. When that didn't work you didn't even try to stop me with her!" The Doctor spun around, pointing an accusing finger. But as he prepared to launch into a lengthy rant, a new batch of memories surfaced. His hand fell weakly to his side. "With yo—oh—ohhh—us?—US! Oh…bugger me."

"'Bugger me'?" Jack returned to a smile, rightfully proud to have made the Doctor blush. "Tell me you're still good on that offer?"

The Doctor thudded to the couch, gaping incredulously. "What I—oh brilliant. Brilliant! I swear this happens every single time I use the watch. But twice? Falling in love twice? These human hormones would go wibbly-wobbly during an alien attack! If I ever need to rearrange my cells again, I resolve to be ordinary. A school teacher maybe, someone with no time for love or damaging the timeline!" He shot an angry glance at Jack. "There will be strict instructions, understand? No vampires, no Vegas, no pears, an actual maximum time limit, and bananas will only be for eating! This human me will be a run-of-the-mill John Smith who would never even think of having adventures—oh, blast it. Who am I kidding?" His head collapsed onto his hands. "Fantastic. Fuck this."

"'John Smith'? Like that isn't conspicuous. Besides, I distinctly remember you liking the banana and—" Jack's grin widened as he took in the full rant, "—wait, really? Twice? You mean me, right? WHOO, yes! Think we could pair up the pants with the jacket? Leather or Janis Joplin's would go with the goatee, though a shirt's not required. Neither are the pants or jacket, now that I think about it. In the meantime, say some more sexy curses…"

"What?" The Doctor sat up with an outraged squawk, before his mind caught up to his mouth. His eyes widened. "Wait, no! That was the human personality! It's still wearing off and, yes, exactly! Don't take anything I say seriously. I, I should be able to disperse the effects once I find my screwdriver and reverse the polarity of—"

Jack wolf-whistled. "You know what? Never mind the curses. Your techno-babble can make anyone's toes curl! Still, I won't say no to the leather."

"JACK!"

"Where is he? John Smith?"

"He's in here somewhere."

"Like a story? Could you change back?"

"Yes."

"Will you?"

"No."

A/N: I'd been hearing stories from my likewise 'Tenth-Doctor-obsessed' friends about "Fright Night" and David Tennant in leather trousers for ages, but I'd put off seeing it until a recent horror movie marathon. The film itself was horribly, awesomely ridiculous due to its overenthusiastic embrace of Gothic terror––but Tennant! Freaking Tennant!

Afterwards I joked that the movie would've been perfect if Peter had a fob watch that never opened, and then went crazy with this plot bunny. For any non-Whovians (though I'm seriously impressed that you got through this fic), this special fob watch 'captures' a Doctor's Time Lord essence while 'changing' him into a human. Said Time Lord memories would be in the watch while fake human memories would replace them in his mind. This object would only be used in times of dire need, but as it allows the Doctor to remember what occurred while he was human I'd always imagined it'd be an excellent coping device. See, the watch would let the Doctor take a break from his own turmoiled thoughts, giving him a chance to live.

So what if, after the Tenth Doctor lost Rose Tyler to an alternative dimension, he desperately needed a break. He didn't care much about what he'd be, except that he didn't want to be himself, the last of a dead species (with all the guilt added on for good measure), haunted by the Daleks, and forced to lose the girl he loved. Using a fob watch would have been immensely tempting. But at that point in canon the Doctor didn't have a trusted companion to watch over him in his vulnerable state. So what if only one small point of "Doctor Who" was altered: what if Captain Jack Harkness stayed and went along with this plan? What if the Doctor's slightly macabre mind came up with a silly horror story for his counterpart's history, mentioning a monster that he assumed was dead and wouldn't cause any harm? After all, it's not as though his human self would turn out like Jack or take the whole vampire thing too seriously.

Five little notes: 1. Seriously, is anything hotter than Ten/Jack? 2. Apparently the "Fright Night" peeps put hidden Gallifreyian writing all over the set because of Tennant. Hence, my joke about the notes and 'Klingon'. 3. I have absolutely no working knowledge of engineering or Spanish. If anyone could correct me on either of those I'll be immensely grateful and give you virtual red vines! 4. When the Doctor later used the fob watch with Martha Jones, though he remembered to include strict guidelines (particularly about his hatred of pears) he 'forgot' to warn against love. 5. In the recent "Doctor Who" episode, was anyone else think, "Wtf? All seven planets just lost their sun and…wait… did Eleven just give away all his memories?!" By the way, I'm now insanely tempted to write an amnesiac!Doctor fic which would, right now, basically be canon (which is freaking hilarious).

p.s. ('6'? Meh, whatever) Would anyone be interested in reading another alternative identity mess up as a sequel? Imagine this: 'Yes, Donna's sorry for losing track of the Doctor in the pocket universe, and yes, she's sorry for not noticing he'd gone insane. But did the barmy man expect her to pay attention while they were in the Harry Potter world? Hah! What a laugh. Besides, he really shouldn't be that bovvered. He did get a kiss out of it, after all (albeit a soul-sucking one, but meh. You didn't see her complaining about the restraining order from the Golden Trio)'.

~ Dialogue snippet:

"I WAS A DEATH EATER!"

"Oh boo hoo, you can't blame me for that. There was magic. I got distracted. Thank Merlin Potter's hotter than Radcliffe, though I could've done without the restraining order. But really, you were only a little bit evil. And you got better! No harm done, hmm?"

"I GOT KISSED AND…oh goodness…did I try to kill Harry Potter? Jo's not going to be pleased about that."

"Wait, 'Jo'? WHAT!"

"Why else do you think there's the lost 8th book on the TARDIS? We go back a long way, Jo and I. She joked about basing a character off of me: something about shiny teeth? Never figured that one out, unless the Weasleys were secretly Time Lords…she must have made me a ginger! Always knew I liked her. Lovely woman, though awful luck with aliens. Seven random attacks she's been in, seven! Blamed me for that; some rubbish about how I looked for trouble, then looked for her and dragged it along. Humph. I don't go looking for trouble, it finds me, just like with this Crouch debacle! Yes, exactly. So what if I go to visit her? Humans are supposed to like that sort of thing, and I can't help it if I'm a fan! That part with King's Cross? I was bawling, Jesus Figure and all. Good ole J.K., right up there with the Bard himself."

"…"

"First met her in the late twentieth century before the hoopla. Funny story actually, her train was attacked by Cybermen. My screwdriver took a nasty spill and was recharged by establishing a connecting line between the engine and a lost quantum medical bay using the detachable top of her daughter's pram and…err…I might have cried out 'Expelliarmus!' as a finishing touch. Couldn't resist! Take note of that Donna, always wait for the opportune moment—wait, no, that's for when you're a pirate. But blame Sexy here for the ridiculous Quidditch rules. Someone got a wee bit enamoured with a golden Snidget, and Jo got her arm broken when battling off the not-so-good people of Bludgarta as we escaped. But it worked out in the end; fixed her right up!"

"wwHHHHIIIIRRRRRzzzz!"

"What? No, don't blame me for that! What do you mean I'm not a doctor? Course I am, says so in my name. Rather fond of it, too: sur, middle, last, title, occupation, and hobby all in one! Besides, you were the one who wanted to give Seeking a go. Now that I think about it, where has that Snidget gotten to? Last I saw it was doing doggie laps in the hidden swimming pool. A tad slow in its starting runs, but its freestyle strokes are a thing of wonder."

"ssWWWhhhhOOoo."

"…Doctor? Are you, are you talking to the TARDIS—who you've named 'Sexy'?"

"Did I say that aloud? Oops! Slip of the tongue, ignore the man behind the curtain—"

"SSSHHHHHIIIIWWWWHHHHOOO!"

"Oh, no no no! I didn't mean it like that! Of course you're sexy, absolutely gorgeous, would win every golden apple there is and–—sweetie, could you not spin us around?"

"DOCTOR! DOCTOR! The, the TARDIS is a—AAAHHHLLLIIIVVVEEE!"

"Yes, and rather sensitive. I really shouldn't have mentioned the Quidditch debacle. Is that better? No? Yes, you're sexy, ravishing, completely reliable in always taking me where I want to go…no, of course I'm not being sarcastic! Now you're just being stubborn. Or enjoying doing loop-de-loops. Hmm, it is rather nice, isn't it? Racing through time and space at breakneck speed, gravity doing flippity-floppity things, all the while being moments away from crashing? I could get used to this! ALLONS-Y!"

"AAAAIIIII! DOCTOR! STOP THIS!"

"It's fun! You're perfectly safe. Picture this like a Firebolt who thinks it's a rollercoaster! What could be better? Feel the wind in your hair and, oh yes, clutch the console a bit tighter—there you go! Don't want you to fall off. No, wait, DUCK! Avoid the yellow switch and—oh good, all righty then. Still alive with all our fingers and toes! Mostly, I think; so hard to keep track of these things."

"…"

"Still, serves you right for turning me into a Death Eater. Right Sexy?"

"wwHHHHIIIIRRRRRzzzz!"