Beta: natural-blues

April In Paris

May 16th, 1943; 7:17 a.m.; London, England

A man sat slumped over in a chiselled velvet desk chair, closed eyelids fluttering with whatever dream he was having, mouth open and letting out gentle snores. His head, creased and still cropped from his military days, was leaning against a bottle of rum tucked into his shoulder and his foot was propped up, for some reason, in an opened drawer. As the sunlight spilled through the partially opened blinds it reflected off the nameplate on his desk, which read 'John Smith, P.I.', and cast a beam straight in the direction of his eyes. He woke with a start, the empty bottle crashing to the floor with a loud shattering noise as he jumped up, snatched up his letter opener and positioning himself into an instinctive, defensive stance.

His secretary, Lynda, came running in at once, with her frizzy blonde pigtails, overly colourful cocktail dress rumpled and ovular purple glasses nearly hanging off her left ear. At the sight of him and the broken bottle on the ground, her panicked stance relaxed into exasperation and she put her hands on her hips. "Fell asleep wasted outta your mind again, eh Doctor?"

"No," he grunted, lowering the letter opener and slumping back down into his seat. As he rubbed at his eyes, he added, "In a completely unrelated matter, have you got any codeine?"

"Paracetamol is all you're getting," Lynda chastised him, rolling her eyes and sticking her hand into her dress pocket. "It's a bloody mystery that you're able to solve any cases at all, you bein' halfway to the moon every hour o' your life. Speakin' o' cases, you've got one."

"Who, where, when and how much?" John scowled, snatching the aspirin from her hands and washing three pills down with a shot of scotch.

"They're waitin' at the front desk— I'll fetch 'em," Lynda said, shooting a glare at his shot glass before stomping out of his office as fast as her peep-toe green heels would allow.

"Fantastic."

John poured himself another drink, tossed it back and rested his head in his hands, willing his headache to go away. Usually passing out after a bender staved away the nightmares of his war days, but tonight had been different— his dreams were plagued yet again with memories of murderous Russians slaughtering his friends, streets on fire and potential bombs buried under the dirt or coming down on their heads. It was exactly twenty years since the Civil War had ended — a loss on their end — but in his mind the war continued on a loop, never ending, never over.

As Lynda opened the door, John lifted himself up and stood, regarding the man in front of him and immediately disliking him. He had a smug face, strolling into John's office like he owned the goddamn place, with his dark hair slicked back and an unlit Cuban jammed in his teeth. He was wearing one of those big business suits, jacket hanging on his arm and braces wearing the logo of a designer brand. The woman behind him was twice his age, big and wearing a luxurious dress about as colourful as Lynda's. The hat on her head had a black feather in its cap and she looked apprehensive— John guessed it was this bloke's mother.

"You the gumshoe everyone's been hootin' about, then?" the man said, taking the cigar out of his mouth and apparently sizing John up. "The Doctor, as they call you?"

"S'me, yeah," John said stonily, glaring daggers. "You are?"

"Jimmy Stone," he said, holding out his hand for John to shake with a winning smile.

John shook it reluctantly, though he did get some satisfaction when Stone's grin faltered as though annoyed John didn't know who he was. "Sit down then, Mr. Stone. Lynda, could you get the madame a cuppa?"

"Thank you ma'am," the woman said to Lynda, when she nodded and stepped out.

"Listen up here, Mr. hotshot Doctor," Stone said, plopping into the seat opposite to John's and leaning forward seriously. "I need your help, but all this stays on the down-low, y'hear?"

"Depends on the situation," John said, expression falling back into annoyance. "What d'you want?"

"My fiancée's hit the road," Stone said sourly, looking angry at the very thought. "Been together five years and just as we're about to get hitched, she's gone with the wind."

"Runaway bride, eh?" John smirked, crossing his arms.

"Please, Mr. Doctor," the woman interrupted before Stone could start shouting like he so obviously wanted to. "My daughter's been gone a whole year. We've been lookin' for ages an' haven't found her, not even with both my husband and Jimmy's… connections," she added, with a sideways glance at Stone.

"Your name, Madame?" John said, filing away that tidbit of information for later.

"Jacqueline Prentice-Tyler— just Jackie, if ya will," she said, holding out her hand to shake as well.

"And why'd your daughter take off?"

"Got a threat from one of my old business partners," Stone said before Jackie could open her mouth. "Standard thing for me, and the bloke'd never go through with it, but it spooked Rose somethin' awful — thought it was meant for her, y'know, 'cos she's an heiress — and she took off for Brooklyn."

"How d'you know she's in Brooklyn?" John asked, reluctantly turning back to address Stone.

"Like Jacks said, we've both got connections," said Stone smugly, sitting back in his seat. "So, Doctor, can ya help us or no?"

John narrowed his eyes at Stone's mocking tone on his nickname just as Lynda re-entered the room, handing Mrs. Tyler a steaming cuppa. Sitting up, John replied darkly, "It'll be expensive, I'm warnin' you. I don't come cheap."

"I'm far from poor, Doctor," Stone said haughtily, reaching into his vest pocket and pulling out a large stack of notes. "Will that cover it?"

"A bit of it," John said, trying to estimate the amount by eye alone. "I'm gonna need everythin' your other connections have gathered, and a photograph of the dame."

Jackie reached into her purse and pulled out a moderately sized photo, leaning over Stone's shoulder to hand it to John. He examined it closely and resisted the urge to whistle, since he didn't much fancy finding out whether or not Jacqueline Tyler was the slaphappy type. The woman in this photo was young; definitely a good fifteen to twenty years younger than him, and by their good Lord was she lovely. Hair light and shining in the glow, painted mouth curved upward into a secret smile, half-mast eyes looking somewhere beyond the camera and donning one of those expensive uptown dame dresses, she looked like one of the characters John would see in clubs on the arm of some big-time mobster, or maybe married to the Prime Minister.

"Thank you ma'am, Stone," he said, tearing his eyes away from the photo and nodding at the two of them. "I trust you'll be sending me what your other people've gathered?"

"My men've already given it to your secretary," Stone said, standing up briskly. "And remember Doctor— on the down-low. If Rose catches wind that people from home are lookin' for her she might scarper."

"Understood. Good day, then," John said dismissively, attention locked on the photograph again. Stone ushered Jackie out of the office, giving John a brief glimpse when he tore his eyes off the photo of three sour-faced, thin-looking men waiting for him in front of Lynda's desk, and Lynda entered soon after holding a stack of papers. "Thanks, Lynda," he said just as distractedly. Setting down the photo and reaching for the papers, he added as she started to leave again, "And ring up Mitchell!"

"Your scatterbrained sidekick?" Lynda snorted, but obediently picked up the telephone.

John ignored her and scanned over the first page. Another photograph of her, this one grainier and definitely not a posed shot, but of the same woman crossing the street. She looked slightly alarmed, as though aware somebody was following her.

"Rose Marion Tyler," he read aloud, hand on his chin pensively. "Hm…"

May 16th, 1943; 8:39 a.m.; London, England

His air-headed assistant, Adam Mitchell, arrived an hour later. A hick from the boonies, the boy was about as focused as a drugged-up squirrel, but he had a habit of stumbling across important key points in John's investigation, and his mother was an ill and dirt poor woman, so despite his occasional tendency to have his attention stolen by a passing bee or something, John paid him for 'services'— which usually meant to stay out of the way. Besides, the only reason the kid was coming with him at all was because John was having a random bout of kindness and thought maybe he'd like to see America, since he couldn't afford it otherwise. By the time Adam got there, ratty old brimmer on his head and an eager smile on his face, John had already found plenty of things not on Rose Tyler, but on Jimmy Stone. Besides the fact that the man was filthy rich only because his daddy was first, he was also fucking his secretary and both of his cleaning ladies— the former being a long-standing thing that went back years. For a bloke so intent on finding his runaway bride, he wasn't all that faithful.

Lynda booked him a last-minute boat ride from the Port of London to New York, and he had to toss together his things in a hurry to catch the boat. Adam chattered his ear off the whole way in the car, as per usual, flapping his lips about how he'd never been outside of the city further than Brixton and how he wondered what the chips tasted like in New York. John ignored him and contented himself with 'examining' the photograph of soon-to-be-Mrs. Rose Stone. The photograph was taken a year earlier, when she was well fed and pampered— what would she look like now, having lived on the streets of Brooklyn for all this time?

He and Adam unloaded their things from the car and headed onto the boat. Adam was sick in the first hour, naturally, and John had to share a cabin with him and listen to him groan and whine for the duration of the trip. He contented himself every night by reading her files and, more times than he'd like to admit, taking out her picture and staring at it by torchlight.

By the time they reached New York's port, John wanted to drop kick Adam into the Hudson River. The boy was pale as a spirit (and not the kind that John was craving at the moment) and John had to practically drag him onto the train. The boy was in a better mood once he ate something on the train, and was a gigantic ball of excitement again by the time they reached their stop in Brooklyn.

Lynda had arranged for them to hole up in the cheap but nice Hotel Jagrafess —an odd place, for when John asked for the manager the lobby girl told him he preferred solitude, and to be called 'the Editor'. What he 'edited', John didn't want to know — and thankfully they were in separate rooms this time. John wasn't entirely certain what he'd do if he had to listen to Adam talk in his sleep for one more second. Alone now in his room with his very own mini bar, John tossed back the majority of what was in his icebox whilst scanning over the papers. This Rose Tyler was last spotted in the southern district of Brooklyn, only a couple dozen blocks from where he was staying. Tomorrow morning he'd head out there and show her picture around, see if anyone knows her, but at the moment, he sank onto the bed cradling her picture and let the tide of drunkenness drag him into the ocean.

May 27th, 1943; 7:29 a.m.; Brooklyn, New York

It was the first night of many that he dreamed of her.

It started off as a nightmare at first, once again of John in the throes of battle, shooting down Russians in the midst of fire and acid rain. Then it changed, gunshots fading into the background as a slender hand placed itself on his gun and lowered it gently; John turned around with confusion and saw her standing behind him, looking unbelievably out of place in this battleground, an angel standing at hell's gate.

He told her to leave, or she'd get hurt. She refused.

John woke abruptly when he prepared to yell at her in his dream, a familiar throbbing pain searing behind his left eye. He grumbled out his annoyance, unstuck Rose's picture from his face and heaved himself up, intent on raiding his duffle bag for his snitched codeine, but a loud knocking on the door and a Southern accent calling in a high-pitched tone, "Mr. Smith? Your friend Adam sent up breakfast," rudely interrupted him.

Fan-fucking-tastic. "Come in," he grunted, rubbing his temple and kicking a couple of bottles underneath the bed.

A woman in a skimpy hotel uniform came in holding a tray of steaming breakfast. Flashing him a smile despite the remaining empty bottle lying in the corner near the curtain, she set the tray down on his bedside table, leaning over him so she could reach and giving him a full view of her nametag, which read 'Suki'. "There you are, sir."

"Thank you, er, Suki," he mumbled, raking a hand through his bristled hair.

Suki smiled at him so brightly he was sure her face would crack in half, ever eager to please. He stood up from the bed when she left the room, giving his breakfast a once over. Traditional English style. At least Adam was good for something. Occasionally.

John popped a codeine capsule, washed it down with some more hair of the dog and tucked into his breakfast, glad to be eating something other than Lynda's watery eggs on toast and stale biscuits. Stomach full, he dressed into something as inconspicuous as possible (not forsaking, of course, his signature leather jacket) folded up whatever papers he needed that could fit in his inside pocket and went to fetch his 'assistant'.

John found Adam down in the lobby waiting for him— if 'waiting' meant 'sweet talking with the lobbyist'. "Morning, Doctor!" said Adam, looking a heck of a lot more cheerful than he had the last few nights.

John greeted him and the flushed lobbyist with a nod. "We're taking a gander to the southern district. Stone's men snapped a shot of the dame doggin' around there, so we're gonna take a look."

"Yes sir," Adam said, giving the lobbyist one last glance and stuffing his brimmer onto his head.

They took their rented Volvo downtown and spent most of the morning combing through the district, asking around for 'a friend of his' named Rose Tyler. The majority of people they asked either didn't know her or told them both to 'stick a muffler in it and hightail it back to the ganglings', whatever that meant, and the only people who were even remotely polite to them were the occasional beggar asking for a greenback.

By afternoon, Adam was once again in whine mode, so John bought them both a box of chips — or 'French fries' as they called it, which was drivel — and brooded over Rose's picture as they sat at a plastic table, Adam munching away happily next to him.

"Where in the name of Jesus could she be?" he muttered, more to himself than to anyone.

"A doll as stunnin' as her, she'll probably be somewhere fancy, 'stead of in the slums like here," Adam said knowingly, licking salt off his fingers.

"She was spotted here," John murmured, pulling out the candid snapshots and unfolding them. Scanning the background of the photo, he pointed to the building partially covered by her elbow and said, "See that?"

"What?"

"The building she's coming out of. Looks like a pub."

"'The Wolf and Flower'," Adam read aloud through a mouthful.

John pulled out another folded up paper, this time a map of the district. It was a few years old, but thankfully the dive in the surveillance shot was several years old at least, located just two blocks from where they sat now. "There it is. Come on."

Adam hopped up, grabbing their box to bring with him and tucking it under his arm. They didn't bother taking the car, instead strolling down the streets and looking over the heads of passers-by in case Rose was skulking around. The Wolf and Flower pub was smack in the centre, a hole in the wall in between a bookshop and a café. The windows were painted with banners that read 'going out of business', but there was a poster partially hidden by a slumped homeless boogie chewing something he was pretty sure wasn't gum, and what John could see read 'Rose T'.

"'Scuse me," John said earnestly, and the man gave him an angry eye before scooting over. "Rose Tyler, weeknights/weekends 9 p.m."

"What does she do?" Adam wondered.

"She sings," grunted the homeless man with a chuckle. "Rosie sings. Damn set of pipes on that dish."

"She's singin' here tonight?" John asked him seriously.

"Yeah, 'til the place goes belly up, at least." The man swallowed. Whatever he was chewing was gone now. "Damn shame, that."

"Fantastic. Thanks, mate," John said, before standing upright and turning to Adam. "Looks like I'll be paying a visit to the pub tonight at nine."

May 27th, 1943; 9:04 p.m.; Brooklyn, New York

John was ultimately grateful by nine o'clock that his target was situated at a pub. Despite his assignment, the moment he got out of the car and strolled into the pub, he made a beeline for the bar. A ruggedly handsome bloke was wiping down a shot glass, and at his approach grinned with something more than just politeness. Accent thickly American and voice raised over the sound of the band playing, he said suavely, "Well hey there, sexy. Jack Harkness. What can I get you?"

John frowned as he slipped onto a stool, disgruntled by Jack's forward homosexuality. Nobody was this forward back in London for fear of being hunted down and beaten. "Scotch on the rocks, thanks." As Jack ducked under the bar to get a bottle, John scanned the pub, which was full of people who, for some reason, didn't have any drinks in their hands. Most of them were homeless looking, and all but John himself and a handful of others were crowded around the empty stage. "That Tyler woman coming out any time soon?"

"Rosie?" Jack said from beneath the bar, amusement laced in his voice. "Yeah, she'll be on in a minute. Fan?"

"Nah, only just heard of her," John replied, thanking Jack with a nod when he slid an iced scotch in front of him. Tossing it back, he put the glass back on the bar, allowing Jack to make him another in the same minute. "Is she good?"

Jack smirked and jerked his head in the direction of the stage as the band struck up a new tune. "See for yourself."

John grabbed his newly poured glass and turned around, using more effort than normal to keep his jaw off the ground. Forget the photograph he'd been truthfully swooning over, Rose Tyler was magnificence in person. Dressed in a black damask dress that fluttered around her knees and had an almost heart-shaped opening right over her cleavage, she strolled onto the stage wearing a brilliant smile and striding as though walking on clouds— although, he mused to himself in his haze that barely had anything to do with the booze, with those slingback heels any cloud she walked on would pop right under her. Hoots and cheers erupted from the crowd in front of her, which she all but beamed at as she situated herself in front of the microphone, swinging her hips in tune to the music and opening her red-painted mouth.

"April in Paris,

Chestnuts in blossoms

Holiday tables

Under the trees

April in Paris

This is a feeling

No one can ever

Reprieve…"

Dear fucking Lord.

He was well aware his mouth was gaping open like a yuck, but the part of him that gave a rat's arse had packed its bags and hit the road— that was just not fair. How, he wondered, could such a stacked woman with talent like that end up in any scenario with a sugar daddy like Jimmy bloody Stone? He heard Jack snickering next to him but barely registered it, focusing on the blonde in the damask dress practically caress every word that fell out of her mouth.

"I never knew the charm of spring

Never met it face to face

I never knew my heart could sing

Never missed a warm embrace…"

"Good, isn't she?" Jack grinned next to him, somehow looking annoyingly cool while John was positively losing his mind.

"Fantastic," came out of his mouth without a moment's thought.

"Yep. She's the only reason people come to the Wolf and Flower anymore— nobody bothers buying drinks here 'cos we haven't got the bucks for the big stuff, so the only income we're getting is from her shows." Jack sighed sentimentally, unaware that John was barely listening. "Still, Rosie could get work anywhere she wanted, voice and ass like she's got."

"'Til April in Paris

Whom can I run to?

What have you done to…

My heart?"

The standing ovation Rose Tyler received from the drove of people was one that could probably shake the walls; likewise, the smile on her face was one that could light up the eye of a storm. "Thank you, loves," she said in, to his surprise, a lower class London accent. "Please give your regards to Joe and his orchestra—" she glanced sideways at the beaming orchestra members, "— since without 'em I'm just singin' a capella."

She strolled offstage with all the grace of a panther, heading — and no, he did not just gulp — straight for him and Jack. Said bartender grinned at her with the same expression he'd given John earlier and said, "Hey sugar, are you rationed?"

"Jack, you know I love you, but it'll never happen," Rose grinned, tongue between her teeth. Her eyes wandered to John, who was mentally cursing Jackie Tyler in his mind for having such a doll of a daughter. "Who's your friend?"

"Dunno. What'd you say your name was?" Jack asked.

"I didn't," he said, before he could stop himself.

Thankfully her smile only grew, and she said with mock affront, "Rude."

"That's me," John said, automatically smiling back and holding out his hand for her to shake. He felt like a lumbering giant in comparison to her when his hand all but engulfed hers. "John Smith."

"Nice ta meet you, rude John Smith," she said, and this time her tongue-touched grin was for him. "Fellow Londoner?"

"Er… yep." Fantastic. All she did was say his name and his head was about as buzzed as though he'd just gone off on a brannigan instead of one measly scotch.

"I miss it." She sighed, never one losing her smile. "Good ol' London town."

"I miss Cardiff," Jack whined, looking just as nostalgic. "Wonder if Ianto's waiting for me."

"'Course he is— he loves you, ya git," Rose bantered. "An' here you are, flirtin' with rude John Smiths."

John had to grin at that— she said it with such fondness. "You from Cardiff?"

"Glasgow, originally," Jack said. "Moved to New York when I was a kid, then it was off to Cardiff when I was twenty-four. Had to move back here for…" he wagged his eyebrows, "various reasons."

"What brings you to New York?" Rose asked, and she practically draped herself over the bar, looking intent and interested.

God, grant me the strength to not stare at her knockers. "Business," he said vaguely. "'M here with my assistant Adam Mitchell."

"Is he cute?" Jack said, and Rose rolled her eyes and swatted his arm.

"I wouldn't know," John replied, chuckling. "Kid's about as focused as a cat in a cage full of birds. His mum's sick though, so…"

"So you're takin' him on?" Rose said, leaning her elbow against the bar and giving him a fantastic view down her dress.

"Sor' of," John shrugged, trying to look modest and failing because of her near reverent smile.

"That's sweet," Rose said, before glancing at the clock. "Shit. I have to go, I'm expected at Mickey and Martha's." Was it really necessary for her to practically slither off the barstool, showing off every one of her fantastic curves? "It was lovely to meet you, rude John Smith," she added, tongue in teeth again.

"Likewise," he grinned.

"Bye Rosie," Jack added, somehow managing to make it sound like an innuendo.

John watched her saunter away like every eye in the room was on her (which they were) dress swirling around her knees. He kept his eyes on her bottom for as long as possible until she exited the pub, before reluctantly returning his attention to his untouched scotch. "Damn, she's lovely."

"Insanely," Jack agreed. How it was possible for him to show off all thirty-two brilliantly white teeth even when he wasn't smiling was beyond John.

"When did she show up here?" John asked, trying to sound casual.

"About a year ago," Jack said conversationally, pouring himself a glass of something cocoa-coloured as well and downing it in one shot. "Ran off from London 'cause of her arsehole fiancé."

"Yeah?"

Jack nodded, now looking grim. "Yep. Walked in here covered in bruises looking for a job." John's head snapped up but Jack didn't notice. "The original owner — Wilson — took pity on her. Well, he did the same for me — used to be a con man, y'know, and gave me the tender job here anyway — but Rose was really something, walking in here with her head held high despite lookin' like an eggplant on two fabulous legs."

"Her fiancé beat her, then?" John said darkly. He added that to his list of reasons why he hated Jimmy Stone, right underneath how unfair it was that an idiot like him got a dame like Rose.

"Yep. Apparently, 'Jimmy Stone' likes his liquid." Jack punctuated this with one more shot of his own, exhaling loudly after he swallowed. "Rose hates drinkers." Suddenly the untouched scotch in front of him looked completely unappetising. "Which is pretty messed up, since she's got a job in a pub… well, not for long. Place is goin' under the rug since Wilson died. Shame."

"What'll she do when the pub closes?" John asked curiously.

"Dunno. Not sure what any of us will do when it closes."

John frowned contemplatively, before checking his timepiece and standing up. Paying for both drinks but leaving the second still untouched, he bid Jack farewell (ignoring the unnecessary 'come again, sexy' that Jack added onto his goodbye like he was some kind of mack-daddy) and exited the pub, hands stuffed into his leather jacket pockets.

Upon returning to the hotel, he found Adam already asleep (kid had stuffed himself to dreaming with the room service) so he headed into his own room to wallow in his newfound information. Cash or no cash, John Smith as an honest and kind gentleman would most definitely not be bringing Rose Tyler back to her wanker of a fiancé. On instinct, the moment John sat down on the bed he reached for his duffle bag to pull out his flask, but he paused with his hand halfway there. For some reason that most definitely did not have to do with Rose Tyler (probably) he decided against it, the prospect of getting buzzed not as appealing as it used to be. Besides, he reasoned, he had to be sober when he next saw Rose Tyler.

Because he was going to keep following her. He'd tell her why he was sent, and then he'd tell her that he wanted to help her hide properly— hell, he'd even relocate her whole family away from Jimmy if he had to. But first he had to get her to trust him.

Tomorrow, John decided, he and Adam would stake her out, see what she did on her everyday routine, and maybe find out where she was living. Taking one small swig from his flask for luck, John settled into bed and fell asleep dreading nightmares that thankfully didn't come.

May 28th, 1943; 10:25 a.m.; Brooklyn, New York

It took Adam a full hour to get ready, which pissed John off to no limit and reinforced his theory that Adam was actually a whiny little girl in disguise. By the time they actually exited the hotel John wanted nothing to do with the lad, so he told Adam that he 'thought it best' to split up to stake out the lady— to which Adam had, of course, enthusiastically agreed and then scampered off in the wrong direction.

Fantastic.

It took until noon of John asking patrons around for Rose to spot her. She was just as lovely in the afternoon light as she was by bar light, now dressed in an almost peasantry-type outfit— white knee-high dress patterned with little flowers, white t-strap sandals and a lovely straw sunhat with a yellow ribbon tied around her neck. Her lips were painted pale pink this time. John stayed close behind her, snatching up a newspaper from a nearby bin and pretending to be engrossed in it whilst simultaneously walking a few paces behind her. She bypassed the Wolf and Flower — he noted the look of regret that crossed her face when she read the 'going out of business' sign — and seemed to be greeted by nearly everybody that passed her by on the street, either with a smile and a, "Hiya, Rose!" or an ecstatic wave and a request for an autograph, of all things. John hid a smile behind his newspaper when the latter first happened— making an honest name for herself, this dame.

Once, he even saw her get stopped by a greeting from a homeless Hispanic before said drifter held out his hands and looked hopeful. She slipped him a whole greenback, never once losing her gentle smile. Oh, it was official now— he really liked Rose Tyler. And it had (almost) nothing to do with her looks.

She hummed a lovely version of Mozart's Violin Concerto in B flat, of all things, as she strode down the sidewalk with no apparent destination in sight. Maybe she was just talking a walk? This theory was squashed when she headed closer to the far downtown area, where John was told most of the Negro community lived in squander. Rose strode straight into the clearly devastated area without even turning her head to see if anybody was watching, like he'd expected her to.

John frowned after her. What on Earth was a born and raised high-class girl doing in the slums of the town? As he followed her, distancing himself even more from her since now he had no crowd to blend into, he watched her greet several of the black townies sitting on their porches before ducking into one of the more ruined houses. John's frown deepened, before an idea hit him and he chuckled with the sheer fantastic appeal of it all. She was probably friends with whomever lived in that house, most likely helping them out. Leave it to Rose Tyler to be the only highborn white girl to care in this day and age.

"Pardon me, sir," said a gruff-voiced man to John's right, making him look down. A black fellow was hunched over, sitting on what used to be a crate of oranges. "Could I trouble yeh fer a greenback?"

John opened his mouth to decline on instinct, but Rose Tyler's face swam in his mind and he immediately felt ashamed of himself. Giving the man a rare smile, John slipped him an American dollar and said, "You get yourself somethin' to eat with that, y'hear?"

"Yes sir," said the man earnestly, hoisting himself up off the crate looking dreamy. "Maybe I'll get some of them 'chips' Rosie was tellin' me 'bout…"

"I highly recommend 'em," John added, waving the man goodbye and feeling oddly proud of himself.

He basked in that, plus the smug satisfaction of knowing he hadn't gotten wasted in over twenty-four hours (which he would later ring Lynda and tell her about, just to rub it in her face) and waited for a full two and a half hours for Rose to exit. When she strode out, he plopped himself quickly on the crate and reopened his newspaper to hide behind, pretending to be the other man. It worked— she strode past him, all legs and hips and no he was not drooling, never once giving him a backwards glance. He stayed still, watching her from behind his newspaper as she exited the alley. Unfortunately she didn't keep going straight like the way she'd come— instead she rounded the corner, disappearing out of his sights. John quickly hopped off the crate, newspaper held out at his waist now, pace quickened in his haste to catch up to her.

The moment he rounded the corner, however, he spotted her about ten metres away, pinning his idiot sidekick to the wall.

"Why're you followin' me?" she demanded, and he was shocked— her face had gone from peaceful cheer to soldier-like determination in seconds. It didn't suit her, and he wished she'd smile again.

Adam, meanwhile, looked terrified and simultaneously like he was trying to sink into himself. "'M not, Miss, I swear—"

"You are too, ya little brat, an' don't think I'm not stupid enough to notice also that a fellow Brit is the one stalkin' me," she glowered, tightening her grip on his shirt for good measure. "Who sent you? Was it Jimmy?"

Abandoning his newspaper, John schooled his face into shock and concern when, really, all he wanted to do was snicker, and jogged towards her with a, "Miss Tyler!"

Rose whipped her head around, scrutinising brown eyes now on him. "John Smith?"

"That's my assistant you've got shoved against the wall there," he said, glaring daggers at Adam, who really was actually trying to recede into himself like he was some kind of turtle.

Rose's expression fell into adorable perplexity, pink mouth falling into an 'o' shape. She released him but continued to look wary. "Any reason why he was followin' me?"

"Bit of a fan of yours, him," John shrugged, grabbing Adam by the scruff of the neck and plunking the kid behind him, not protectively but in a rather 'out of sight, out of mind' sort of manner. "Sorry 'bout that, did he frighten you?"

"Yeah," she admitted, raising her eyebrows at the sheepish-looking kid. "Sorry for… doin' the same, apparently."

"Looked like a soldier there, I reckon ma'am," John grinned, before rounding on Adam. "Back to the hotel. Now." Adam took off, brimmer nearly flying off his head in his haste. "So, what's a lovely thing like you doin' in the slums?"

She honest-to-goodness flushed at his compliment and it made him wonder why. "I have friends here. Mickey and Martha. They're engaged, but they don't have enough money to eat, let alone get married, an' they've got a kid on the way."

"Helpin' them, eh?"

"Micks has been my friend since we both lived in London. And no one else is gonna."

"S'pose not." He offered his arm, using his gumshoe false bravado to mask his male nervousness. "Walk with me?"

Rose smiled up at him, genuinely for the first time since the night before and more than happily slipped her own arm around his, leaning in close to him as they started away from the crumbling neighbourhood. "So what brought you there, John?"

Ooh, he liked it when she called him that. Grinning rather goofily (probably) he said, "Lookin' for Mitchell. Kid took off this morning in search of American chips, and I heard from one o' your fans that they spotted him staking you out." He emphasised the word 'fans' and watched her blush mightily. "You're popular here, Miss Tyler."

"Rose." She smiled up at him, that darned tongue at the corner of her mouth again. Who needed booze when Rose Tyler could turn any bloke's brain into furry mush with a single smile? "Call me Rose."

"Rose, then," he concurred, liking the way it rolled off his tongue.

"I am, because I treat people right," she said earnestly, with an idly wave to yet another passer-by. "Helps that I can carry a tune, but mostly I just help out whoever needs it. Can afford it, anyway, so why not?"

"Come from money?" John asked, trying to sound idle.

Rose frowned at her shoes. "Sor' of. I'm an heiress, actually— my dad, he owned this huge company before he died an' left it all to my mum."

"In London?" When she nodded, he added, "Why're you here then?"

"Change of scenery," she lied breezily, brown eyes losing whatever light they had before.

John internally cringed, though he didn't let it show on his face. Whatever that Jimmy wanker had done, apparently it haunted her. Though, not enough to stop her from demonstrating unbelievable compassion. "An' 'cos your friend moved here too, right?"

Rose's face reflected the barest amount of alarm at her slip up. "Yes, that too." Wanting her to trust him, now more than ever, he steered the conversation away from her family and problems, at which she seemed immensely grateful. After a little bit of playful banter that John was enjoying immensely, she ended up asking him, "What is it you're doin' here on business anyway?"

"Writing," he lied smoothly, having invented this cover story the night before in case she asked just such a question. "Writing a book, me, based in this area o' town. Thought I'd come here to get an accurate image of what I was writing about."

Rose frowned with confusion. "Then, how is Adam helping you?"

"He's not," said John with bitterness. When she cocked her head to the side and raised an eyebrow, he wracked his brains for an explanation. "Kid's never been further than Hounslow…" He'd said Brixton, actually, right? "… so I figured he'd like to sightsee for a couple of days."

"Yeah?"

He turned to answer her, but his voice got stuck in his throat at the utterly brilliant smile that was lighting up her face. John ended up staring at her for a second longer than deemed appropriate before clearing his throat and looking pointedly ahead of him. "Er, yes."

"That's lovely," Rose beamed, sighing happily and snuggling her head against his shoulder. His heart leapt at the gesture and he resisted the odd urge to snuggle back. "You're kind, John Smith."

He internally preened but externally snorted. "No one's ever called me that before, Miss Ty— Rose."

"Whyever not?"

She looked genuinely confused. He liked that. "Oh, I dunno. Been called a grumpy old git—" She giggled. He liked that too, "— among other things." Lynda herself had called him a handful of names pertaining to his alcohol habit, but he wasn't going to bring that up in front of Rose. "I'm a soldier, Rose," he added reluctantly.

"My dad was one too," she assured him gently. "In the Russian Civil War." John cringed— here he was, fawning over her and he was old enough to be her dad, who had in fact fought in the same war as he had. Fantastic. "He died in it when I was a baby."

"'M sorry," he offered.

She chuckled lightly. "I don't remember him much. The point is, even though you saw awful things, which I'm betting you did—" Oh Rose. You have no idea. "— you're still treatin' people with kindness." She beamed at him, and he was painfully aware that his face was slack and probably brilliant red. "I like you, John Smith."

John could not be held accountable for the giant, most likely utterly silly beam that broke over his face. "I like you too, Rose Tyler."

More than you know.

May 28th, 1943; 10:25 p.m.; Brooklyn, New York

John spent the whole of the day with the unbelievably wonderful woman, talking about nothing and everything with her and wearing his rare smile throughout most of it. They got chips, laughed together about how illogical and stupid it was that Americans called them 'French fries' and she ended up inviting him to the pub to watch her sing again, which he accept without even a second's hesitation. He nursed one whiskey throughout the whole night, watched her reverently sing a floaty rendition of 'September Song' and ignored Jack's attempts to flirt with him like he was active duty before being forced to call it a night when they all began to head home. Rose bid him goodbye with a lingering kiss on the cheek and a shy request that he return to the pub tomorrow night as well. And really, how could he not accept?

He practically skipped back to the hotel, hands stuffed into his jacket pockets and a silly grin evident on his face. When he headed up the steps towards his room, intent on hitting the hay early so tomorrow would come faster, he found Adam waiting outside his door, looking all but ashamed of himself.

"'M sorry Doctor!" the kid blurted out the second John appeared. "Followed her for a bit, sir, but she ended up spotting me when I tripped over somethin', sir!"

"Ease up, Mitchell," John said exasperatedly. "Everythin' turned out fine. Spent the day with Ro— Miss Tyler, thanks to your blunder."

Adam looked almost reverent. "Ya did?"

John nodded, wishing the kid wouldn't look at him like he was the Lord. "Speakin' o' which, you've got one more day to sightsee Brooklyn, if you want. But then it's back to London, y'hear?"

"Aren't you comin' with, Doctor?"

"No. 'M gonna stay here, gather more intel." Among other things. "Lynda'll pay you for the full week once you get back," he added.

"Thank you sir!" Adam said excitedly, dropping his hat on the floor in his enthusiasm. "Mama'll be so pleased!"

John had to endure the boy's zealous hug for a brief moment, trying not to grimace during, before he raced into his room. Rose would be proud, and that was just peachy with him. Brushing the wrinkles out of his jacket, John headed into his own room to prepare for bed. He wrote down some notes about the day's events in his journal, leaving out the parts where he stared at Rose Tyler's bottom every chance he got (and that Jack may have noticed at one point), and fell asleep looking forward to tomorrow. He didn't give a worry as to whether or not he'd have nightmares and spent the night dreaming of eating chips with Rose under a large rainbow umbrella, for some reason.

June 9th, 1943; 10:16 a.m.; Brooklyn, New York

It was only after two weeks of befriending Rose Tyler that something monumentally fantastic happened.

The first thing he'd done at the start of the first week was call Lynda and announce his plans. She's shouted at him for a good thirty minutes, making his right ear slightly deaf for an hour or so and making a piercing pain start up in his temple without the use of booze (which he told her so, and only succeeded in making her angrier.) Apparently she thought he'd 'fallen for this broad' and that he was 'off his rocker because he'd been sober for too long' despite having told him for years that he should stop drinking. Hypocrite.

The rest of the time was spent either taking vigorous notes about Rose Tyler or simply enjoying her presence (among other things). He spent nearly every day with her, taking three off in between for 'writing' — in reality, following her, trying to figure out where she lived or waiting irritably in his room for the day to end so the next would begin — and every night down at the pub. Once he got used to Jack's outrageously forward flirting with him (and everybody else) he ended up having a lot of fun conversing with the two of them… although he did wonder what that odd feeling of irritation was whenever Jack would make a pass at Rose.

Now, he was strolling up the sidewalk, hands in the pockets of his trousers, heading towards their now signature chip shop in anticipation to see her again. In his enthusiasm to spot her he nearly ran into a mailman on a bicycle, making him frown and hope Rose hadn't seen.

Instead, a hand wrapped around his arm from out of nowhere and yanked him into the nearby alley. Thankfully recognising the hand that had grabbed him before he jumped into soldier attack mode and started to pummel her, John opened his mouth to gasp out only to have another hand jammed over his mouth and a warm, curvaceous body pressed against his front.

"Shh," Rose hissed, her face reflecting the same fierce determination as it had two weeks before.

"Rose, what—?" he said when she pulled her hand away, trying to ignore the way her hips were pressed against his, shoving him up against the alley wall.

"Somebody's followin' me," she whispered.

He frowned, craning his neck to see over the corner, spotting almost at once one of the thin-faced cronies belonging to Jimmy Stone that he'd seen when Stone had sought him out. Whipping his head back in case the man spotted him, he schooled his face into something nonchalant, which was almost impossible since she was so fucking close, and said, "How d'you know?"

"Trust me, I know," she muttered, looking like she wasn't intent on backing away anytime soon. "Look, there's somethin' you need to know about me John. Didn't come here from London for the sightseeing— I came here to hide from my husband."

"I know," John said. "Jack told me a bit about him. Wanker, I'm guessing?"

"S'an understatement, actually," she told him, and for a brief second he could see a flash of pain in her eyes. "Point is, he's powerful an' for a year now he's been sendin' his cronies to find me. I recognised one of 'em— Henry van Statten's his name."

John resisted the urge to snort— that name fit his high-and-mighty face to the T. "So why not take off to another part of town?"

"Martha and Mickey need me," Rose said regrettably, before looking triumphant. "Plus the wanker's not been able to find me yet. Keep switching flats and nobody who knows me'll tell anybody anything."

Well, that explained why he'd had such a hard time getting a straight answer out of anybody the first day in Brooklyn. John craned his head around the alley corner again, only to see 'Henry' apparently headed straight for them. He snapped his head back. "Shit. He's comin'."

"He's gonna catch us," Rose said, sounding terrified.

John wouldn't let that happen. Grabbing her hand, he grinned at her and said, "Run," before taking off with her down the alley.

She let out a gasp at first but eventually started to laugh as they jumped over upturned bins and ducked around the corner. After a brief minute of running, someone else's footsteps well on their heels, they nearly ran headlong into a stone wall. "Shit!"

"Dead end," cursed John.

And due to the footsteps getting louder and louder, they didn't have time to double back. Inspiration hit him like a brick to the head, and with a soldier's grace he backed Rose Tyler into the corner of the wall, shoved his hips against hers and captured her lips in a searing kiss. He was triumphant for a millisecond — anyone following them would only be able to see John's back and maybe Rose's legs — before his mind turned to mush when her arms flung around his neck. Either she knew what he was doing and was playing along, or she had no clue and was snogging him senseless anyway. He wasn't quite sure which one he wanted more— either way, her tongue was in his mouth and that was fantastic to him.

John forced his mind away from Rose and her fantastic lips when the footsteps grew closest and then stopped abruptly behind them. Then, with a disgusted 'ugh' and what sounded like a boot turning on its heel, the bloke left. John pulled away, slowly and reluctantly, looking through half-mast eyes down at the equally dazed woman. They just stared at each other for a good ten seconds, looking utterly astonished, before both of them dove forward again with hungry groans— neither knew which did it first, and neither cared. John's mouth crashed down on hers again and he slanted his lips against hers, well aware her lipstick was probably colouring his lips cherry red since he could taste it on his tongue, along with what tasted like strawberries (did she have those for breakfast?) and just pure, genuine Rose Tyler. Her nails trailed a path up his neck before raking over his closely shorn hair; his groan was muffled by her mouth and to retaliate he slipped both hands over her dress-covered bottom and pressed her forcefully against the part of his anatomy that was starting to strain against the inside of his trousers. The noises she made were quite literally heaven on Earth.

When she pulled away to gasp in air he substituted her mouth for her neck, nipping kisses from her jaw down to the tops of her breasts, and she whimpered his name. "John…"

"Precious girl," he murmured huskily, giving her collarbone one last kiss before trailing a path up to her right ear and giving that a nip too.

"John, please."

John snapped to his senses the moment her hand travelled downward and started fumbling with his zipper, and before she could touch him he seized her wrist. "'M not shaggin' you in an alley."

"Don't mind much," she said breathlessly, and he wondered whether she was kidding or not.

"Hotel. Now."

He grabbed her hand and pulled her out of the alley, well aware that his mouth was probably brilliant red from her lipstick now. She stumbled on the way there but kept up with his quick pace, giving his neck the occasional nip whenever people weren't looking and speeding up his gait. Thankfully the hotel had only been a block from their usual chip shop, so they arrived less than two minutes later, gaining some odd looks from the lobbyist and bellhops. They had a quick snog session in the stairwell up until somebody nearly caught them, at which point his trousers were becoming uncomfortably tight and he practically hauled her towards his room.

Even in his haze whilst shoving Rose Tyler against his door and kissing her breathless John was glad he never kept his case files out in the open in case somebody was following him (in his line of work, one could never be too careful), because he really didn't feel like stopping his snogging to explain to her why he had intel and snapshots of her from Jimmy Stone's men, who were the very reason they were in his room in the first place. A bizarre twist of events.

Then he stopped caring, because Rose had resumed her earlier quest of trying to take his trousers off (and succeeded). And while he was peeling off her dress and lowering her into his bed, he promised himself that he would never touch a bottle again, for this woman.

June 9th, 1943; 11:39 a.m.; Brooklyn, New York

After two rounds of lovemaking, Rose was asleep on her side, hair fanned out on the pillow and bare shoulders shining as the near afternoon sunlight spilled in from the blinds. John trailed two fingers from her shoulder, around her back and to her waist, smiling lazily when gooseflesh erupted over her skin. Oh, he adored this woman. Why she returned the sentiment was completely beyond him, since he was twice her age, a soldier and, like she'd said, rude, but he wasn't one to complain— well, not when it came to her anyway.

He had to tell her the truth. When she woke up, John would have no choice but to tell her the real reason he was here, and his intentions to relocate her and her family. John wondered where he should put them. Maybe Canada. Or — he smiled to himself — Paris. It wouldn't be in April, but it'd be good enough for him. He just hoped to their Lord and Saviour that she didn't end up hating him for lying.

And that she'd want to make love again, because thinking of eloping with her to Paris caused a certain part of him to get excited all over again.

Sighing heavily, he scooted closer to her and tossed his leg over Rose's bare hip, snuggling his face into her neck. She stirred, a lovely little sigh tumbling from her lips, and she stretched, arching her back and unintentionally pressing her bum against his erection. A mischievous grin curled her mouth upward and she ground her bum out, making him grunt.

She rolled over to face him, nose a millimetre away from his. "Hello."

He smiled languidly, lifting a hand up to tuck a lock of hair behind her ear. "Hello."

Before he could even open his mouth to start speaking, Rose leaned over and caught his lower lip between hers, nibbling softly and coaxing a moan out of him when the hand obscured by the duvet slipped over his hip and curled around his length. "Think it's a good idea to order room service and spend the day in bed?"

"S'fantastic," he gasped out, pushing his hips into her hand. "But… ooh… I have to tell you something first."

"You can wait 'til I'm done," she said matter-of-factly, sliding underneath the covers.

She took his length into her mouth, a groan most likely loud enough for the other guests to hear ripping from his throat, and she sucked him off for what felt like a hundred years and two minutes until he came with a whiny grunt. Rose emerged from the covers, cheeks rosy and a triumphant grin on her face at the sight of him dishevelled and equally flushed.

"You're fantastic, woman," he breathed, hauling her on top of him so he could snog her thoroughly.

"I know," she smirked, burrowing her face into the crook of his neck when he'd had his fill of her mouth. "Now, what did you want to tell me?"

John hesitated, sitting up slowly and face falling into sombreness. She cocked her head to the side, looking confused and slightly worried. "I haven't… been truthful with you."

"About what?" she said, sounding all but terrified.

He hastened to try and comfort her, one hand flying up to her face and cupping her cheek. "There's something you need to understand first. You are the most… fantastic woman I've ever met and I am going to do everythin' that I can to keep you safe an'—"

"Quit cuttin' corners, John," Rose demanded, looking like he was pointing a clipper at her head. "What is it?"

"I'm not here to write a book," he rushed out, resisting the urge to squeeze his eyes shut against her horrified look. "I'm a P.I. from London— they call me the Doctor. I was hired to find you. By Stone."

"Oh my God," she cried out, shoving herself away from him to the furthest edge of the bed and holding the duvet up to cover her chest.

"No, Rose, listen," he said urgently, heart thudding in the back of his throat. "Stone and your mother came to my office in London. Hated the arsehole from the second I met him, but that's not the point. Listen," he insisted, when she turned her head away and covered her mouth with her hand. "Came here lookin' for you with Mitchell. I met you, and I got to know you, and I found out about Stone and everythin' he did to you." She looked so pathetic in that moment that he had to scoot closer to her and reclaim his hand's rightful position on the curve of her jaw. Thankfully, Rose didn't pull away. "And… fuck… Rose, d'you honestly think I'd send you back to that bloody pillock no matter how much the arse was payin' me?"

"I dunno," she mumbled, playing with the corner of the duvet.

"Never," he told her firmly. "Never, Rose. The wanker's not gettin' within a mile o' you, or your family. You've got a little brother too, right?" When she nodded, he smiled compassionately. "The second I get all my funds wired from London, we'll go off an' fetch both him an' your mum, an' we'll hide somewhere."

"Hiding's not been workin' too well," she said darkly, still not looking at him.

"You've been doin' more of a swell job than you think, Rose Tyler," he said fondly. "But we'll not stay here. We'll go to Paris."

The suggestion coaxed the smallest of smiles out of her. "In April?"

"A lot sooner than that, but it'll do," John grinned.

"I still want to help Martha and Mickey."

"They can come too. Anyone you want Rose, anyone you want to protect can come too." He beamed at her and her awe-inspiring empathy. Then he sobered, hand trailing down her face to trace the shape of her lips. He had kissed off all lipstick she'd previously worn. "Thought back in London that this'd be an easy job for gravy. Find the dame, bring her back, home in a week, case closed. But… you're just so bloody amazing, Rose. You're so compassionate, more than I ever could be, an' I love that." Then, because he'd just set himself up for this line, he inhaled deeply and added, "I love you."

She inhaled sharply, and for a moment he thought she was going to scarper, but instead Rose hurled herself towards him, crashing her mouths against his. His chest tightened with elation and another emotion he couldn't name, and he wove his arms around her, flipped her onto her back and snogged her back fiercely, so much that their noses mashed together. Furious snogging turned into an equally furious third round of lovemaking, and when the two of them were panting heavily and lying within a mess of tangled sheets and limbs, she whispered, almost too quiet for him to hear, "I love you too, John."

He fell asleep smiling, and when he woke up again the next day, he slid out of bed, rummaged around in his duffel bag and threw out his hip flask. He wouldn't need it anymore.

June 10th, 1943; 8:13 p.m.; Brooklyn, New York

The next time John headed over to the Wolf and Flower, the 'going out business' signs were taken down and instead replaced by 'under new management'.

"Aye, aye," he said in greeting to Jack. "What's with the new management ruckus?"

"It's great," Jack grinned, apparently too excited to even bother making his usual pass at John. "Some upper middle class babe from Bristol decided to put down roots here it the Brooks— bought the Wolf and Flower yesterday afternoon."

"Who is it?" John asked curiously.

Jack nodded his head over towards the corner of the pub, where a woman stood dressed in a scarlet ball gown, smiling away a bit too much and talking loudly in a deep, rough voice. She was beautiful — has nothin' on my Rose, John thought with a smirk — but her beauty was sharp and rugged. The pub goers were all greeting her enthusiastically, apparently thanking her from preventing the place from going bankrupt.

"You're welcome, darlings," she cooed dramatically, emphasising her words with the occasional wave of her hand or swish of her hips. "The economy is just dreadful, is it not? I'd positively hate to send anybody out on the streets jobless!"

John resisted the urge to snicker at her— she looked more like an actress than a proprietress of a pub. Rose emerged from behind the stage, a frown evident on her lovely face. It partially disappeared at the sight of him, though, and she quickened her pace as fast as her slingback heels would let her and wrapped her arms around his neck the second she got near enough to him.

"When did this happen?" Jack said happily, when they shared a snog in front of him.

"None o' your business, Jackie boy," Rose said happily, tongue between her teeth, before sobering and turning back to John. "You've noticed, I reckon?"

"Who is she?"

"Cassandra O'Brien, she calls herself," Rose said, with a look of disdain.

"Don't like her?" John grinned.

Rose wrinkled her nose and he resisted the urge to kiss it. "Something's… off about her. I dunno. I mean, she's full o' herself and a complete glitterati, but it's like she's got this hidden agenda or somethin'. Keeps tryin' to be friends with me."

"You're too paranoid, Rosie," said Jack good-naturedly. "Sure, she seems like she's spent too much time looking at herself in the mirror, but what dame hasn't?"

Rose glared daggers at him and John shrugged his shoulder. "You're only gonna have to put up with her for a little while longer, remember love?"

"Still," she grimaced, before turning to him with a look of seriousness. "How's that comin', by the way?" John frowned and glanced sideways at Jack, who was eavesdropping with the utmost amount of obviousness, and Rose added, "I've already told Jack. I trust him."

"Fine," John said grudgingly. "Lynda's sendin' the money at the end of the months. Had to tell her why I needed it though — bloody woman went stark raving mad when she found out what I was connivin' about — but we'll be in Paris by July. Your mum's already on her way there— she's gathered your brother and your dad's funds and is on the train."

"It's gonna be boring without you two," Jack sighed. "No unfairly nice bottoms to stare at when you're looking the other way…"

"I'm sure you can find some bums to ogle, Jack." Rose rolled her eyes as John snickered. "How 'bout headin' back to Cardiff and oglin' Ianto's?"

Jack suddenly dropped his glass, expression lighting up like a light. "Oh, I forgot to tell you guys! Ianto sent me a telegram yesterday morning— he's coming here!"

"That's brilliant!" Rose beamed.

"Yeah, it is. I'm gonna—"

Jack's planned rant was interrupted by Cassandra's jagged voice calling out, "Rose, darling? It's nearly half to nine, you know!"

Rose scowled into John's chest, sent Jack a look of apology and gave John one last snog before heading onto the stage to belt out 'Moonlight Becomes You'.

June 21st, 1943; 7:21 p.m.; Brooklyn, New York

By the next week, John was convinced that Rose was right— there was something mighty odd about that Cassandra O'Brien.

For one thing, when he sent Lynda a telegram asking for intel on Cassandra, all Lynda could find on the woman was that she somehow suddenly appeared in the world at twenty-two, as eye candy on the arm of the underboss of the Morello crime family— the first twenty-one years of her life were a mystery. For another, Cassandra eyed him and Rose up and down whenever she apparently thought they had their backs turned, looking for all the world like a vulture all too happy to eat their guts. Either the woman was as interested in their backsides as Jack Harkness was, or she was gathering her own dope on them. However she never seemed to report to anybody— nobody new stopped by the pub and as far as John could tell she spent every second of her time in the Wolf and Flower.

"D'you reckon she's in cahoots with Jimmy?" Rose asked, as they lay tangled in his hotel room's sheets, naked and pleasantly warm.

"Dunno, love," John muttered, tracing figure eights on the small of her back. "She could just be a local girl who can't keep her eyes off us to save her life. You do have a fantastic bum."

She swatted his shoulder and wiggled said bum against his hip. "I doubt that's why."

"So do I," John admitted. "The dame's probably another pay off of Stone's wondering where both his gal and his P.I. went."

"I doubt that too," Rose snorted. "Jimmy's broke."

John sat up, shock evident on his face. "What?"

"Yep. Him an' his business are goin' belly up— Jimmy's spent all his money on cards and booze and he's thousands in debt."

"The wad of lettuce Stone was wavin' around didn't make it look like that," John said curiously.

"He's likes to pretend he's some rollin' mack-daddy, but hasn't got a penny to his name. Gonna bust rocks if he don't pay off his debts soon, which is another reason why I took off— if he married me, he'd get access to Dad's fortune."

John swore. "That just made things a bit more urgent. Tomorrow morning I'll send Lynda another telegram to try an' get her to speed things up— in the meantime, we're not goin' back to the Wolf and Flower."

"We have to warn Jack," Rose said earnestly, rolling over to face him. "If Cassandra's really just a peeper on us, then she could think Jack helped us get away and hurt him."

"Fair point," John nodded. "We'll tell Jack to head somewhere else. An' we'll figure out where them friends o' yours downtown want to go."

"Saw them two days ago— they don't care where they end up just as long as it's comfortable and away from the ghettos," Rose said, sighing happily and smiling. "They want to start a family."

"We can do that," John said, only half-talking about her friends as he started dreaming about children topped with tufts of her golden hair and his blue eyes. Hopefully they won't inherit his ears. "I'll get Lynda to arrange a place for the two of 'em."

"Brilliant," Rose beamed, snuggling her face into his chest. "How about… Dijon?"

"Sounds fantastic," he smiled.

June 22nd, 1943; 9:21 a.m.; Brooklyn, New York

Things started to go sour as a lemon the next day.

It started out seemingly all right— John woke up, without a single nightmare plaguing him, to a naked Rose draped over him, and they had breakfast (equally naked) before he spent a good five minutes contenting himself with watching her dress. Once they were fed and Rose had been successfully undressed by John, ravished and then redressed yet again, they clasped hands and headed out for the downtown slums in John's rented Volvo.

"Micks?" Rose called out when they arrived on the battered house's front porch. "S'us. I brought John."

Mickey was dressed in a tattered suit with his jacket hanging on his arm, braces just as worn as the rest of him, and had his other arm draped over a startlingly pretty woman with a ballooning stomach. Mickey gave John a once over, a look of cold disapproval on his face. "You John Smith, then?"

"S'me," said John, equally stoically.

"Sounds like an alias."

"I can assure you, it's not."

Mickey's lips pursed, despite Rose shooting him glares from John's side. "Thought Rose liked 'em pretty. You're nowhere near there, are you, big ears?"

"Oi!"

"Micks," Martha and Rose both exclaimed in annoyance.

"'M not that bad," John grumbled, looking thoroughly put out as Mickey ushered Martha out the door. "Rose?"

"You're not pretty," she told him, tongue in teeth. "You're dead sexy."

John grinned goofily, apparently satisfied as he strolled out of the house looking for all the world like she'd just crowned him King of the Universe. Rose shook her head, laughing in disbelief as she followed him. With the couple safely seated in the back of the automobile, John headed over to the bank to check if Lynda had made any progress in wiring the money over yet. Not only did he find all of his funds (and some of Rose's, as she'd requested) waiting for him there, he also found an urgent telegram from her that had arrived the night previous.

MANAGED TO GET MONEY EARLY STOP. MONEY IN YOUR ACCOUNT IN BANK STOP. ADAM ACCIDENTALLY LET SLIP THAT YOU'D FOUND THE DAME STOP. JIMMY STONE ARRIVING IN NEW YORK TOMORROW STOP. RUN NOW STOP.

"Jimmy's here?" Rose gasped, going starch white. "Oh my God…"

"He's not gettin' within ten feet o' you," John reassured her firmly. If the wanker even tried, he'd punch the living daylights out of him. John wanted for all the world to curse Adam to high hell for not keeping his mouth shut, before realising it was his fault— he'd kept his motives a secret for the boy, and shouldn't have simply let the kid go back to London without telling him to keep it zipped. Grabbing the suitcase full of money, John told Rose to keep her head down in case Stone was belly-aching around and steered her out of the bank, ushering her into the car.

"What's the matter?" Martha asked worriedly, one hand on her gigantic stomach.

"M'secretary from London sent us a warning last night," John said darkly, backing the car into the street and slamming his foot on the pedal. "Stone's here."

"Stone? Jimmy Stone, Rose's ex-fiancé?" When Rose nodded, face deathly pale, Mickey swore and punched the side of the door. "That tosser comes anywhere near you or Martha, I'll pummel him 'til he's sleepin' with the fishes."

"Or the worms," agreed John darkly, giving Rose a sideways glance and a reassuring caress on the cheek. "We need to get to Harkness before Stone does."

Rose directed John to what she knew to be Jack's flat, and the car hadn't even come to a full stop before Rose flung herself out of it, nearly tripping up the steps.

"Jack?" she called urgently, pounding on the seventh flat's door. "Open up! It's Rose and John!"

There was no answer. John pressed his ear to the door, before pulling his head away and shaking it in Rose's direction. "Doesn't sound like he's here."

"Like hell," Rose snarled, before plunging her hand into the pocket of her dress and pulling out a key. She unlocked the door before shoving it open with more force than deemed necessary and stomping into the flat.

Rose screamed and John put a hand over his mouth. The entire flat was ransacked; tables were overturned, appliances busted and glass was scattered on seemingly every surface. Jack's (rather impressive) collection of booze was coagulating on the floors and walls, most likely the source of all the glass.

"Looks like they dragged him out," John muttered darkly, kneeling next to the overturned carpet and examining what looked like the forcibly opened path.

"Where did they take him?!" Rose wailed, stomping her foot as tears splashed down her cheeks.

John heaved himself up from the floor and swept her into a tight hug, letting her sob into his leather jacket for a full minute, one large hand smoothing back her hair. "I'm gonna guess the Wolf and Flower. S'the only connection between Jack and Stone that I can see, if our suspicions about Cassandra are right."

"Then let's go, right now," Rose said with determination, starting to stalk out of the flat.

John grabbed her wrist. "Rose, we have no idea what's waitin' for us there. If Stone's taken Jack to lure you there—"

"Then I kick his bloody arse for takin' my friend," Rose snapped, yanking her wrist out of John's hold and glaring up at him. "An' don't say I should stay here or go somewhere safe. I'm goin' and that's bloody final. D'you understand me, John Smith?"

John opened his mouth to retort but found himself shaking his head and chuckling instead. This woman was a little spitfire, and holy Jesus and God, did he love her. "Fine," he said, giving her a false glare when all he wanted to do was grin. "But don't do anythin' stupid."

"When do I ever?" Rose said, tongue in teeth.

He shoved her up against the flat door and sucked her tongue into his mouth, snogging her so fiercely that it almost hurt. Pulling away and revelling in the way her cheeks flushed and her chest heaved, he said, "I'm serious, woman."

"So'm I," she said, and how she managed to sound convincing while breathless and with her eyes half-closed was beyond him.

Grabbing her hand and holding onto it for dear life, John pulled her back down the stairs, lumbering over to the car. Mickey craned his head over the seat and said worriedly, "What is it?"

"Jack's gone," Rose said, voice wavering. "Somebody took him."

"Was it Stone?"

"That's what we're thinkin'," John said darkly, starting up the automobile again. "We're headin' to the Wolf and Flower."

"Why?"

"'Cos that's probably where Jimmy's taken Jack," Rose said, giving John's hand a squeeze for her own comfort and to warn him from driving too quickly lest he crash the car in his haste.

"An' we're all just gonna head over there, are we?"

"No, we're not." As John pulled up across the street and around the corner from the pub, he tossed Mickey the keys and climbed out of the vehicle. "You two are stayin' here. Rose an' I are goin' in. If we're not out in thirty minutes, fetch the coppers."

"Hold on a mo', big ears." Despite John's glare of annoyance, Mickey looked completely earnest as he pulled a pistol out of their duffel bag and handed it to John. "Take this. Had it for protection, but right now it looks like you're gonna need it more than us." John stared at it for a good solid minute before nodding seriously and taking it. "An' you'd better protect Rose!" Mickey added, his glare back in place.

John had never been more serious in any moment of his life than he was when he said, "I will."

Clicking the safety off of the pistol, John took Rose's hand and headed towards the Wolf and Flower. As he held the pistol in front of him and opened the door to the darkened pub, he stepped in front of Rose protectively. The pub seemed to be empty, the only light coming from between the giant posters plastered over the windows. Out of the corner of his eye he spotted, in the most shaded area of the pub — just to the right of the stage — a tiny light, like the end of a cigar.

"You've got my wife behind you, Mr. Doctor," came Jimmy's voice from the shadows, and the tiny light moved and was followed by a long exhale.

"She ain't yours, Stone," John snarled, pointing the pistol in his direction.

"That's a matter of opinion."

"Where've you taken Jack, Jimmy?" Rose demanded. She tried to step out from behind John, but he shoved her back with desperate force.

"The queer?" Jimmy took another long drag from his cigar and strolled almost annoyingly calmly from the shadows into the light, directly in the range of John's aimed pistol. "He's fine. Pretty face's all banged up, though." Breathing out a puff of smoke, he glared at Rose from underneath John's arm. "You've been fucking the fruity too, or is it just the gumshoe?"

Before Rose could answer, John said with malice, "An' what do they call you, Stone? Bangin' both your secretary and two cleanin' ladies." Jimmy's look of smug confidence flickered for a moment. "I wonder, can a dirt poor brat also be a whore?"

"Keep talkin' and the queer dies," Jimmy threatened, flicking his cigar behind the bar and stepping towards them. "Just give me my fuckin' wife."

"Take another step closer towards Rose an' I'll put a bullet in your dome," John snarled, giving the safety another click for good measure.

Jimmy snorted at him. "Look at you. Actin' for all the ruddy world like he's your gunsel. Got the puppy tamed, haven't ya Rosie baby?"

"Don't call me that," Rose scowled. "Give me back my friend."

Jimmy didn't have a chance to utter whatever smooth refusal he clearly had planned, because Jack's weak voice from behind the stage grunted out, "Rose…"

"Jack!" Rose called, terror lacing her words.

She ducked underneath John's arm, dodging his swipe and shoving Jimmy into the stage to get to Jack, but before she could even disappear out of view a slender arm wrapped around her neck and another arm pointed a gun at her head. "Nice try, darling," said Cassandra's serrated voice, dripping with contempt and oily slickness as she stepped into view, dressed as elegantly as ever.

"ROSE!" John shouted, pointing the gun at Cassandra now.

"Ah-ah-ah," Cassandra said, in an airy-fairy voice punctuated by her sharp tone. "You don't want to hit your precious little sweetheart, now do you, Johnny boy?"

"Let her go now," John snarled, hand shaking on the pistol.

"Now, y'see, that's not gonna happen," said Jimmy punctually. "You're gonna put down the gun, and then you're gonna choose. Either you do somethin' stupid and we dust off all three o' you, or you make the right choice and save your own hide, and leave my wife behind with me where she fucking belongs."

"She's not your wife!" John yelled, gripping the gun harder and switching targets between Jimmy and Cassandra, whose grip on Rose was nearly choking her.

"She is, actually," Jimmy said, with a grin. "You'd be surprised how many people in the world look just enough like Rose to pretend to be her. According to the government of England and the city of London, Rose Tyler is now Rose Tyler-Stone."

"Well, ain't that a fucking brainchild," John muttered under his breath sarcastically.

"Ain't it just?" Jimmy grinned, taking out another cigar, clipping the end of it and lighting it with a match.

"So what's your plan, then, Stone?" John asked on a growl, eyes continuously flickering between the smug, broke businessman and the trigger-happy dame in the scarlet dress. "You've 'married' Rose, so to speak, an' you're clearly fucking the Lady Cassandra there." Jimmy's eyes flashed but he didn't deny it. "So what's your means?"

"Well, y'see, my men back home in London are trackin' that loudmouthed bitch Jackie Tyler so we can dust her off," Jimmy said smoothly, blowing his next bout of smoke directly in John's direction just to be an arse. "Once that's done, people're gonna find my dear wife, overdosed on codeine. She's been… ah… strugglin' with depression and addiction for ages, y'know, and I s'pose her dear old mumsie's death was just too much for her. Well, either that or they'll find a bullet in her brain. Depends on what choice you make."

"Then you're gonna inherit Rose's family's fortune," John finished for him, horror flooding his insides. Turning to Cassandra, he sneered at her to cover up his panic and said, "An' lemme guess— he's promised to marry you and bring you into the fortune?"

Cassandra turned up her perfect nose. "Jimmy and I belong together, dear."

Bile rose up in the back of John's throat, genuinely disgusted by the psychosis in this woman. "An' what'll happen when he tosses you out like the vermin you are?"

"Shut up!" Cassandra shrieked, tightening her grip on Rose's throat so hard that she made an urgent choking noise and pressing the gun harder to her temple.

"Calm down, babe, he's windin' you up," Jimmy said coldly, one hand on his hip. "Now, what are you gonna do, Doctor…?"

As Jimmy started to talk in his annoyingly sociopathic voice, John spotted something moving on the floor by Cassandra's scarlet heels, using his training as a soldier to resist the urge to flick his eyes towards the source. His heart leapt when it came into view— it was Jack, dragging himself towards Cassandra, face ten and twenty shades of violet and blue. Through puffed up eyes Jack paused in position, staring hard at John as though waiting for a signal.

"… drop the gun, back outta here and pretend you never met me?"

"'M gonna put a bullet in your fucking skull," John spat, before turning to Jack and shouting, "NOW!"

Jack hurled himself towards Cassandra, catching her legs and sending her keeling backwards. She let out a hoarse scream, arm unravelling from Rose's neck just before her hand seized over the gun and it let off with a bang.

Rose's head whipped to the side and she went tumbling to the floor as well the moment the gun went off; John's insides froze up and he screamed, "NO!"

Jimmy, meanwhile, had only just begun to respond— his cigar dropped from his mouth as he turned around, mouth open in fury. "What—?"

Before he could so much as finish his sentence, Jack snatched up Cassandra's fallen gun and, raising it, shot Jimmy straight in the shoulder. The younger man screamed out, falling backwards and smacking the side of his head against the bar, crumpling to the floor where he lay silent and unmoving.

Cassandra, meanwhile, was trying to no avail to kick Jack off of her. "Sit the fuck still," Jack snapped, pinning her down by his knees. "God, this has to be the only time in my whole goddamn life that I don't want to be on top of a woman."

John ignored Jack, shoving the pistol in his back pocket and crawling desperately over to Rose, praying to every God ever invented that she hadn't been shot. He let out the most unbecoming sound, a cross between a child's sob and a whiny moan, when Rose whimpered and sat up. "Rose."

"'M fine," Rose coughed, bring one hand to rub at her throat and the other up to her temple, where the bullet that had just missed her head had left a bleeding burn. As John scooped her into his embrace and held on for dear life, shaking like a leaf, Rose ran a hand up his back and eyed Jimmy's unconscious frame. "Is Jimmy dead?"

"Unfortunately not," Jack grunted, still struggling with a now wailing Cassandra and still managing to look sheepish while doing it. "I was aiming for his head. I'm an awful shot."

John, who was still in shock despite being the only one of them who'd been in the centre of far worse warfare, couldn't believe that Rose could giggle at Jack's quip in this situation. Pulling away slightly, he pressed a desperate kiss to her mouth before raining equally fervent kisses over her face, taking special care when it came to her injury. She stilled him with two almost annoyingly calm hands on his cheeks, soothing him instantly. "'M all right, love."

He shut his eyes and nodded to reassure himself, resting his forehead on hers. The sound of wailing police sirens startled Rose and John out of their moment, Cassandra into compliance and Jimmy into painful consciousness. "Has it really been thirty minutes?" Rose wondered almost casually. "Felt like five."

"Gods, woman, you'll be the death o' me," John sighed with a desperate chuckle, hauling her back into his embrace.

July 2nd, 1943; 11:16 a.m.; Paris, France

They parted ways with Jack in Washington, with a lot of waterworks on Rose's part and even a good amount of emotion from John. Despite the man's obvious attempts to cop one last feel of his bum as a goodbye, John considered the man one hell of a friend. He'd saved the love of his life, after all. Jimmy and Cassandra were booked onsite at the Wolf and Flower — which was later bought by Jack's paramour Ianto and was renamed 'Torchwood' — and the two of them were sentenced to life in the big house for kidnapping, attempted murder and conspiracy to commit murder. They'd be 'bustin' rocks until they turned as dark as me,' as Mickey had put it cheerfully.

Mickey and Martha joined them on the boat ride back to Europe, and it was pleasant and fun despite Mickey's initial distaste and distrust for John. John, despite the obvious racism practically radiating from the captain of the boat, managed to get Mickey and Martha a room (although he did have to pay double) and the men talked mechanical while the women cooed over Martha's near due date and chattered about their new planned life in Dijon.

Upon arriving in London, Lynda fussed over him like she was his mother and only backed down when Rose glared daggers at her and snogged John good and proper against his office door directly in front of the woman. They rang Jackie, who was waiting for them with her little brother Tony in Paris. "Why the sodden hell should we stay in Paris if that Jimmy wanker's in the can?!" she'd shrieked from the other end, and while that was a valid point, Rose begged him to let them make it a vacation. He'd been more than happy to consent from the beginning, but it was an added bonus when one of Rose's tactics to 'convince' him was by telling him she wanted to shag him on top of the Eiffel Tower.

The four of them took a train to France, Mickey and Martha too happy to care that they were once again the objects of scorn to 'racist arseholes' as Rose put it. John couldn't decide if best part had been when Rose had fallen asleep in his lap, giving him ample opportunity to dream that they were married (God, he'd become so domestic) or when Rose had pulled him into the baggage cart and shagged him against somebody's suitcase. They'd said goodbye to Mickey and Martha at the station in Dijon, the two of them looking beyond excited at the prospect of their new life as a family, safe and away from the slums. Martha was in tears and couldn't stop thanking John, and Mickey actually hugged Rose so hard he knocked the wind out of her.

Now, though, they were by themselves at the top of the Eiffel Tower. Rose was leaning over the iron railing taking in the sights of the city, dressed in a black dress with white polka dots on it. It was bubbly, just like her, and luckily for him it hugged her in all the loveliest places— although he was having a bit of a problem resisting the urge to tear it off of her, remembering Rose's request that he shag her up on the Tower.

"It's not April," John said conversationally, contenting himself with slinging an arm around her waist and giving her bum a brief feel.

She smirked at him, as if she knew precisely what he was thinking of. Turning to John, she pressed her front against his and gave his lower lip a nip. "It'll do."

A/N:I cannot even freakin' tell you how much of a total blast this was to write :D Like, literally. Ahem, anyway, the next story in this series will be another AU. Also, this fic was originally supposed to be a 60's fic based on 'Nights In White Satin' (brilliant song) but then Lucien introduced me to April In Paris and I was like 'FILM NOIR, WHOVIANS!'

Okay, now for the definitions of the 40's slang used (ho boy): "gumshoe" - private investigator. "hick" - term for person from the country. "boonies" - short for boondocks; isolated place in the country. "brimmer" - bowler hand with a brim. "taking a gander" - heading/going somewhere. "dogging around"; "belly-aching around" - hanging around someplace. "the ganglings" - an offensive term for England. "greenback" - a dollar. "boogie" - term for lazy person. "going belly-up"; "going under the rug" - going bankrupt. "yuck" - a stupid or foolish person. "a stacked woman" - a woman with a good figure. "sugar daddy" - a rich man who supports a female. "a capella" - not really a 40s term but means without musical or instrumental accompaniment. "hey sugar, are you rationed?" - a pickup line. "brannigan"; "bender" - drinking spree. "mack-daddy" - someone who gets a lot of girls. "active duty" - sexually promiscuous boy. "clipper" - gun. "gravy" - easy money. "glitterati" - a rich person who likes being on camera. "dope" - information. "lettuce" - money. "bust rocks" - to be in jail. "queer"; "fruity" - a homosexual. "dome" - head. "gunsel" - a thug or bodyguard who carries a gun. "dust off" - kill. "brainchild" - smart idea. "the big house"; "the can" - federal prison.