The Bear and Barnacle

Jack takes an idle glance at the board, almost going right past it, until he stops all of a sudden. If he was in a cartoon, there'd be a loud screech from his shoes. "What?!"

After some spluttering, he starts hurriedly explaining for anyone who might be listening. "I can explain, really! I really don't ever go around dressed like that! But those brownies, I mean, it gets you a little loopy, y'know? And I got dared... who the hell was it... Whoever it was, I was saying how I'd look totally ridiculous in drag. I mean look at these arms! This jaw! These big hands! And they said, no no, there are people who go for that— and c'mon, not like I don't know that, but it's not a look I like on myself, yeah? So I said no way would anyone go for me if I was in drag, and they said they bet someone would, and so I asked what they'd bet, and well... Uh, they provided the clothes and makeup assistance and everything and, uh, to get to the point, I lost. I lost big time. Had to tell the folks who hit on me that it was just a bet and they weren't going to get anything but a look out of it. I forget how many pounds I lost, but I went home with an empty wallet. Thankfully not still dressed in all that. The eyelashes were a bitch to remove. Who was that..."

He casts a suspicious look around for whoever might've been the one to put him up to it, then grumbles and takes in the other photos, understandably getting distracted by the more suggestive ones.

Some people might not think of interrupting someone's coffee as coitus interruptus. They're the people who drink scalded coffees from coffee chains, or guzzle down instant brews just for the caffeine buzz, or maybe even grind their own coffee at home— but they aren't drinking Ianto Jones Coffee. And when someone, Jack for instance, is busily enjoying a mug of it, just about moaning over the perfection, he is really looking to enjoy it to completion.

What he definitely isn't looking for is someone at the door before he can reach a nice coffee-drinking peak. It interrupts the wonder of the coffee, and so when he goes to the door, he's very displeased indeed at the... coffee-us interruptus. Whatever. It's displeasing, whatever it's called. "What do you want?"

"Hello, Jack."

Jack turns at the familiar-but-couldn't-be voice down the alley and sees it speaker matches it. "Oh, not again."

Leaning against the brick wall in same cream-colored trenchcoat she died again in, Suzie watches him, smirking. She even has the bullet holes and blood riddling her coat, appearing black thanks to the night leeching away the reds. "You aren't happy to see me."

"Why would I be? What'd you do this time? There aren't any gloves left."

"I didn't do this, Jack."

"Like hell." He turns to walk down the sidewalk more for effect than any real intention to leave her there. If it's really her, really there, then he can't risk letting her run loose on Margate. She may not have any motivation to murder again, but then she hasn't shown she wouldn't.

Just as he thought, Suzie comes walking out of the alley to fall into step with him. It's irritating. She should be dead and in cryo, or if she did get pulled her, a corpse lying around. She shouldn't be walking and talking again. And they hadn't left her corpse dressed in that, anyway. Where was the bodybag?

"You know, I never did believe in ghosts," Suzie says. "In spite of everything we saw, I didn't believe in that. The existence of ghosts would imply some sort of life beyond this life, and we both know it's just darkness."

"What's your point?"

"Can you smell me, Jack? Can you smell the blood, the death on me?"

He looks sidelong at her and frowns. "No."

"Surely you'd smell it if I was here in any corporeal sense. I guess we were both wrong that there's only the physical life. Something's brought me back without my body."

"So you got dragged back out of the dark, whatever of you was in there. And you came after me? Go haunt someone else, if that's what this is. How about a relative you didn't get around to murdering?"

She says without malice, just matter-of-fact, "You killed me. You shot me, and told Toshiko and Ianto about destroying the gauntlet, and killed me, just like that. Like it didn't matter. I never did matter enough to you, did I? Never mattered enough to ask—"

"Spare me the pity party. In fact, why don't you spare me listening to you at all? You brought it all on yourself. You can try to blame me again for it, but it's not my fault. You could've talked to me if you wanted to."

"Could I? Nobody could talk to you then and have you care." She laughs mirthlessly.

It snaps something and Jack turns towards her, hand going out to— something, pin her against a wall and stare her down, maybe— but it just goes on through and he nearly stumbles into the wall himself. She looks almost as surprised as he feels to see that.

"That's inconvenient," she says. "I wondered if I could only physically interact with you. I guess not. Face it, Captain Jack. You can't make me leave, and I'm not going to choose to. You're stuck with me unless something else changes it."

Jack groans.

Jack is Not Happy— and who wouldn't be, he figures, to look in the mirror and find themselves looking very much the wrong age after spending such a long time barely changing? He feels disorientingly lighter with the loss of muscle mass, his hair keeps flopping too near his eyes, and he feels even more mood swingy than usual. His outer form seems to have gone back to the years of treating everyone as someone to swindle, shag, shoot, or any combination of the three. That's strange enough without the moods coming along with it.

But shallowly, it's more about finding himself much handsomer as he's been for over a century than he was somewhere in those late teens or early twenties. It's just all wrong. He grumps his way around and hopes to re-age very soon.

Jack walks through the pub, back to the toilets, and comes back out a few minutes later down to just his boxer-briefs simply because he can and he hasn't the slightest bit of shame about it. He tosses out a "Maybe don't look, Dora," before he strolls casually over to the board to pin up a paper as if people in underwear do that all the time.

"Bananas are good," he says. "And so's underwear, and so's what underwear covers up. Does that make it like a banana peel? Anyway, here's an easy recipe because bananas are good."

Baked Bananas
1 banana, ripe or not, either works but it's a good way to use them up

For sauce:
1/4 teaspoon cornstarch
1 tablespoon brown sugar (white works, too)
2 tablespoons water
Big ol' shake of ground nutmeg, cinnamon, or allspice, or any combination
Optional spoon of butter or margarine for more flavor

Scale as needed for more bananas.

1. Preheat oven to 175°C/350°F.
2. In a saucepan over medium-high heat, mix together cornstarch and sugar. Gradually stir in water. Bring to a boil, stirring constantly. Remove from heat and stir in spice (and butter/margarine if using). You can also heat it in the microwave just until boiling.
3. Place peeled banana(s) in a casserole dish. Drizzle sauce over the bananas. You might need to turn them over some to get them nice and covered.
4. Bake in the preheated oven for 8-10 minutes and serve warm.

I really don't recommend trying to skip the oven and cook this in the microwave. You'll get a totally different texture on the banana and it's almost creepy— the outside stays about the same but the inside cooks up from within and the banana splits open. The outside still holds it together, so it turns into a sort of dissected banana. Not a very appetizing presentation.