Fic: "Never Love A Wild Thing" Torchwood crossover (R)

[51stcenturyfox]

Title: Never Love a Wild Thing
Author: 51stCenturyFox
Prompt: Breakfast at Tiffany's
Pairings: Holly/Paul, Holly/Jack
Wordcount: 1,961 ;)
Rating: R
Warnings: N/A
Spoilers: Written for reel_torchwood . The story takes place in 1961, a few months after the ending of the film.
A/N: Many thanks to neifile7 for brilliant beta and to copperbadge for the image manip. Torchwood and Breakfast at Tiffany's belong to Russell T Davies, Truman Capote, Blake Edwards and George Axelrod and not to me.


"'Never love a wild thing, Mr. Bell,' Holly advised him. 'That was Doc's mistake. He was always lugging home wild things. A hawk with a hurt wing. One time it was a full-grown bobcat with a broken leg. But you can't give your heart to a wild thing: the more you do, the stronger they get. Until they're strong enough to run into the woods. Or fly into a tree. Then a taller tree. Then the sky. That's how you'll end up, Mr. Bell. If you let yourself love a wild thing. You'll end up looking at the sky.'" - Holly Golightly

It's raining buckets today, and Paul is in the other room tap-tap-tapping on his typewriter again. Tap-tap-tap-zing! I love that zing! when the carriage returns. It sounds like progress. Another novel, he says, and this one is sure to be published. And big. I'm in it, apparently, which is very interesting, but I'm not worried. He says he'll change the names to protect the guilty. I don't type very well. That's why I'm not in a secretarial pool and why I'm using a tape recorder. I bought Paul another packet of typewriter ribbons and he bought me this recorder.

He says he likes to listen to me when I'm not here, which is very sweet.

I've decided to paint my toenails in Canary Pink... isn't that a silly name? Perhaps the person who named the shade was thinking of flamingos and made a mistake. Canaries are yellow as far as I know, but maybe Brazilian ones are pink. But I'll keep telling myself it doesn't matter if I never see Brazil or anywhere else in South America. If Paul sells his book, he's promised to take me away on a cruise through the Panama Canal, which sounds terribly romantic, but I'll probably never get to use the Portuguese I've learned. You don't mind if I paint while I talk, do you? Of course not; you're a machine.

We've named Cat. Did I mention that before? We decided to call him Mouser. He just looks like a Mouser, in the same way I look like a Holly and Paul looks like a real writer. Pity we haven't any mice, as far as we know. Either Mouser earns his keep or his very presence scares them away.

Cat...er, Mouser, was, in a roundabout way, a present from a man. We moved into my place, which is full of presents, in a roundabout way. Paul's smelled of moth-eaten wool jackets and bachelor and that just won't do. Besides, his apartment was decorated by Mrs Failington and it's hideous. Anyhow, back to Mouser and my benefactor. Though perhaps that isn't the right word, exactly. The cat was the only tangible thing he ever gave me. Oh! There was cab fare once or twice and a brace of martinis at Joe Bell's bar...

Just a moment. Let me ask Paul what a couple of martinis is called. I'm sure he'll know. Oh. He's not certain but says he thinks a brace is couple of ducks. He knows something about everything. Was that loud enough to go on the recording? Paul just said it's a bouquet of pheasants, when flushed, and a covey if they're on the ground.

I shouldn't have shouted. Just ignore that racket. There's my landlord banging on the floor again. He needs to relax. A brace of martinis would help. It's a brace to me. They do help you to brace yourself.

Oh! It's a piteousness of doves, Paul says. Did you hear that? He's absolutely brilliant. I'm not sure how he knows these things, but I'm fairly certain he doesn't make them up. A piteousness! That sounds very sad.

Anyway, the man who gave me Mouser was called Jack Harkness. It's ironic, because that wasn't his real name, but I could just tell. It takes a name-changer to know one, and that one suited him. He wore a sort of British military coat and introduced himself as "Captain", but I'm not sure I believed that either. He once said he and I were kindred spirits, but it was after we had that brace of martinis and it came out "kindled spirits", which was quite funny, really.

I was strolling home one Sunday morning after a disappointing Saturday night. It was seven-thirty and I didn't have taxi fare for some odd reason and I looked back over my shoulder and saw this man in a coat behind me. I went a bit faster, and in these shoes, believe me, it wasn't a cake walk. He took two of the same turns I did. Finally, I ducked around a corner and waited for him to catch up, because if there's one thing I'm not, it's easily frightened by men in coats. Unless he was some sort of private detective. I don't like snoops.

He rounded the corner -- it was Madison and 57th, near the Four Seasons, I know it very well -- and I popped out. He wasn't startled at all, and introduced himself. He said we'd met at a party a few weeks previously. That was a tale taller than the Chrysler Building; I'm sure I would have remembered him. So very handsome and the bluest eyes I'd ever seen. I asked him what he wanted and he told me he didn't want a thing -- you see how unusual he was? He just wanted to walk with me and chat. He seemed sort of lonesome and lost, like he was waiting for something to happen. But isn't everybody waiting for something to happen?

It was broad daylight and people were starting to come out of shops to sweep the streets so I thought it wouldn't be too risky to walk with him and talk a little.

And so we did. We walked until my feet were absolutely dying. I told him about Sally Tomato and Sing Sing. And Tiffany's, and how nothing bad could ever happen there and nothing bad could ever come in a blue box and he laughed so hard he almost cried. I thought he must have been making fun of me, but he said he knew of a place like that too. He just couldn't go there; it had to come to him. I know it sounds strange, but for some reason being around him made me want to talk forever, and it wasn't just those blue eyes and the charm. When he said screwball things they didn't seem so crazy.

He said he was staying in a hotel in midtown, so we said our goodbyes when we came to my street, and I gave him my number, since there was sure to be a party that coming weekend. Isn't there always a party on the weekend in New York?

So he called me, and we went together and had a whale of a time. I didn't want to hurt Jack's feelings because he didn't dress badly, exactly. But there was a formal affair planned on the following Saturday and I asked him if he had black tie. He didn't, so I met him at a shop where someone owes me a favor and loaned him something. Long term. A shawl-collared dinner jacket and pants with a satin stripe and even dress slippers. (It was a very big favor.) He looked simply dashing -- très distingué - but I let him know that it wasn't a date, really. There was someone I was supposed to meet. He said he understood and it was fine, but he looked forward to being out and about and getting some use out of the dress clothes. I have to say we were something of a hit. We even made the society pages.

I asked him what Wales was like, whether it was fun. He laughed and said: "Well, Holly, that would depend what you consider to be 'a good time'." He said that Cardiff certainly had its moments, but that he was tired of waiting for things to happen there. Waiting is terrible, don't you agree? You really do have to make things happen yourself, sometimes.

We went around for a few months. There were lots and lots of parties and I threw more than a few of them. Jack was a very good dancer -- he made you forget anyone else was even in the room -- and a very good bouncer. One moment someone would be three sheets and handsy, and the next his hands would be pressing elevator buttons instead of mine. O.G. told me he thought Jack was a phony but that's cruel; he wasn't at all, just... popular with the ladies. And with the gentlemen. People gave Jack whatever he wanted, and he didn't have to work very hard for it. But no matter who else he was squiring around the dance floor on a given evening, if we were there together, he'd follow me back to my apartment when I gave him the high sign. And if some rat wouldn't take a hint, he'd bounce them. Sometimes he'd stay over. It'd be late and there wasn't any point in wasting taxi fare when I have a perfectly good place.

Oh! I know what you're thinking. And I'd really rather not say. But you know, people can be a little too much alike sometimes, kindled spirits or not.

The night before he went away, we stayed in and put on some records and danced. "Cut a rug," is what he'd say, in that old-fashioned way he had. We had far too much to drink and talked too much and he told me the most outrageous stories and when I told him my real -- no, my original -- name, he told me his. I poured more champagne so we could go outside and have a farewell toast, and I saw him slip something into my glass. I went a little bit unzipped over that and spilled it over the fire escape. He gave me the biggest hug and apologized. He said he really wanted me to remember him, because he would remember me, and nights like this were why he didn't drink champagne. I didn't know what he was talking about, but I did forgive him. I couldn't stay angry at Jack for more than five minutes. There was something about him that just made it impossible.

When he left in the morning, the window was still open and that's when Cat -- Mouser turned up. So I count that as Jack giving him to me, in a roundabout way. The only other thing I have to remember him by is a postcard he sent me from Cardiff, a few pictures, and clippings from the papers. There wasn't a return address on the card and I suppose that meant he didn't expect to hear back from me. He probably didn't expect me to stay in New York, but here I am.

Oh, Mouser. There he goes. I'm so glad I found him again. He's a lovely cat. I could never have a bird, you know? I can't bear the idea of a birds in cages. Do you know they sometimes clip birds' wings when they put them in cages? It's simply rotten. How could you do that to something that's meant to fly free?

You know, someday, I hope Jack finds his blue box. That special place where he belongs, where nothing bad can happen.

I'll be right back. Something is driving me crazy and I have to know.

Ah! Paul tells me that Canary Pink is probably named for the Canary Islands. Lanzarote, apparently, has pink rocks. Volcanoes.

If that isn't true, it's still a very good story.