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The first time Matthew encountered the scent was in London, in 1875. He was outdoors on a warm spring day, wending his way through the narrow streets of a working class neighborhood, when the scent hit him, so strong it almost knocked him off-balance. Bright and fragrant, there was eucalyptus -- minty pine with a touch of honey -- and the warm spice of nutmeg. And something else. Something he did not recognize and had never encountered before. Against the rank smell of the streets, it stood out like a bright star on a cloudy night.
He looked around. It was human, definitely human -- but how could a human have a scent that strong? And what were the notes he couldn't identify?
He continued turning, searching for the source. Almost out of the corner of his eye, he saw a tall man striding away from him. By the time he'd pressed his way through the crowded, narrow street, the man was gone, disappeared into the warren of side streets and alleyways as if he'd never been there at all. The scent melted away, quickly overwhelmed by the stench of working-class London.
The second time was in 1894, in New York City. He'd let a human friend convince him to visit a burlesque show in the Bowery. As soon as they entered the club, the scent slammed into him. While the other patrons watched the dancers, Matthew moved around the crowded room restlessly, trying to pinpoint its source. Too crowded, too many people, too many scents. After a time, it started to fade, leaving only the odor of perfume and whiskey. Matthew darted outside, looking around to see if anyone was leaving. No one was there.
His friend came outside. "What's wrong, Matthew? You've been jumpy all night."
He shook his head. How to explain? "I thought... I thought I recognized someone. It's nothing."
Matthew gave one last glance around before returning inside.
The third time was in Lahore, in 1909, when he'd been attached to the general staff of the 3rd Division. An odd story was circulating about some sort of attack on a train that had left a score of His Majesty's troops dead. Most of the staff shook their heads, muttered "India," and went about their business, writing off the incident to some exotic local malady, swift-striking and deadly.
On his way to work the next morning, Matthew caught the scent in the bazaar, and he stopped in his tracks, turning, trying to track its source. But the marketplace was teeming with people -- locals and British soldiers, other foreigners as well. It was impossible to identify where it had come from.
The fourth time was no better. It was at the Somme, on that hot, miserable first day, and Matthew was too busy fighting, too busy trying to keep his men alive, to take much notice. The scent washed over him, and then it was gone.
The fifth time was...strange. Even more strange. It was in London, during the height of the Blitz in 1942. He was working an intelligence position, uncertain if he was willing to take the field again after the mass slaughter of the Great War.
One night, as he was about to enter headquarters, he picked up the scent. But it was different -- without the mysterious notes to it, and it wasn't nearly as strong as it had been the other times Matthew had encountered it. It could almost belong to any human. Almost.
A group of RAF lads brushed past him on their way out, most heading down the street to the nearest pub. But one broke off on his own, and turned in the opposite direction. On instinct, he followed the lone man -- he was tall and dark-haired, Matthew saw, wearing an RAF coat. It was the right man, he realized, the scent growing stronger as he drew closer. When the man turned a corner, Matthew was only a few steps behind. But when he turned, the man had disappeared, and within moments, the scent had faded.
March 2005
A genetics conference. Cardiff, Wales. Cardiff, why Cardiff? Matthew was sure he was being punished for some venial sin. The city had never agreed with him -- he'd felt vaguely miserable on every one of his brief visits throughout the years, like there was some odd, continuous buzzing in the back of his head. Not painful, but constantly irritating. In another era, humans would have described it as a foul spell, and blamed witches -- real or imagined. But humans didn't seem bothered by whatever this was, if the city's steady growth was any measure.
He'd never asked other vampires if Cardiff bothered them; it had never come up with family, and it wasn't something you discussed with a vampire you didn't know and trust. And who gave Cardiff another thought once they'd left? Maybe there were still large numbers of witches in the area, doing their best to ward the city against vampires? It struck him as unlikely, but he had no better explanation.
In any event, Cardiff. It was where this particular genetics conference was being held this year, and he'd had a paper to give, and it had been well-received. He'd shared the obligatory post-meeting drinks with his European colleagues, and then it was over.
In the morning, he'd be out of this benighted place.
He walked the short distance from the university campus to his hotel, which was just across the street from Cardiff Castle. The place was quite adequate and appropriate for his cover identity; his colleagues didn't need to know he'd taken one of the most expensive suites. More to the point, the bartender had poured a perfectly respectable Bordeaux for him last night.
He was barely a dozen yards from the hotel when the scent nearly overwhelmed him. It was the same scent, but so much stronger than it had been the last time he'd encountered it during the Blitz, and the odd, unidentifiable notes had returned. It was easy to follow now...and he followed it right to the hotel's bar.
This time, finally, its source was no mystery. There was the tall man with dark hair, sitting at a small table with two women, and all of them were laughing heartily. The man was wearing a vintage RAF coat. And as Matthew's eavesdropping quickly revealed, he was, of all things, a bloody American.
Matthew found a table in the back corner, close enough to see the group at the other table, and ordered his Bordeaux. The reaction the scent was provoking in him this time wasn't curiosity, or mere attraction -- it was a flood of desire, wave after wave of it. For blood, and for an answer to the mystery that had kept returning, over and over, for more than 125 years.
He drank the wine, he watched, and he forced himself to maintain his control.
The two women the man was with were both young and attractive. The tall one was beautiful, with long curling hair and lovely dark eyes that seemed just a bit sad. The other would have been described in the contemporary lexicon as "cute" -- petite and slim, a sweet smile, glasses. They all seemed to enjoy each other's company, but Matthew could tell they were colleagues, not intimates. The man was expressive, generous with his laughter and attention. He told a series of absurd tall tales, each provoking more laughter than the last.
Matthew waited, and he watched.
Sometime after 11:30, the women rose, and after some brief good-byes, left together. The man took his time, finishing his drink before paying the tab, flirting with the cocktail waitress, and striding out the door.
Matthew left a fifty-pound note on the table, and followed.
The man turned left and headed down the quiet street. There were passing cars, but almost no foot traffic. Not on a Wednesday night in Cardiff, in March, at nearly midnight.
There was a theater on the corner, now dark and deserted. The man stopped as he reached it and spoke without turning around.
"I know you're there. Why don't you come say hello?" He turned and saw Matthew, now less than a dozen paces behind him. "Oh, you should definitely come say hello..." The man grinned.
Matthew was at his side in a moment, pulling the man into the alley between the two buildings. He pushed him up against the wall by his lapels. The scent, this close, was almost unbearable. He heard himself growl under his breath. "Oh," the man said as his face fell. "Vampire. Okay. Look, if you're hungry, I'm happy to help. Just let me take the coat off, it's hard to get the blood out --"
The man's attitude startled him. He knew what Matthew was, and he was more concerned about his dry cleaning bill than the prospect of potential death. Did Matthew want blood, or did he want answers? He wanted both, but he needed answers more.
He took a breath and forced himself back under control, loosening his grip and taking a step back. "What are you?" Matthew asked. "Your scent --"
"Yeah, I've heard this one before." The man leaned his head back and sighed. "It's a long story. What do you say we start again? Captain Jack Harkness," he offered and smiled. "Pleased to meet you."
~~~~~
Now properly introduced, Harkness suggested returning to the bar, and Matthew agreed, aware that late at night on a deserted street wasn't the best place for a conversation. He pushed the desire away, burying it as deep as he could; he told himself learning the truth would be enough. He almost believed it.
But they found the hotel bar had closed at midnight. Matthew shrugged. "I have a suite upstairs. With wine, and whiskey."
Harkness gestured. "After you."
Upstairs, Matthew poured scotch, as requested, for Harkness, and a large glass of a serviceable Sangiovese for himself. Harkness, already settled into a comfortable chair in the suite's living room, took the glass from him with a nod. Matthew went to stand by the windows overlooking the hotel's gardens, wanting to put some distance between them.
Matthew looked over at him. "Talk."
"Not one for chit-chat, are you, Professor Clairmont? Like I said -- it's a long story."
Harkness told his story, and Matthew listened, first warily, then with increasing disbelief, and eventually with fury. Did this man think he was stupid? When Harkness was done, he had him out of the chair and up against the living room wall in seconds. Dear God, the smell of him... It was all he could do not to surrender to it, to take what he wanted.
"I don't believe you," he said, his voice pitched low and ice cold. "Time travel?" Matthew knew the old tales of witches who could timewalk, of course, but as far as anyone knew, that rare magic had passed from the world long ago, and Harkness certainly wasn't a witch. Time travel without magic was impossible. "Aliens? I'm not one of your human friends," he spat out. "I'm not going to believe some absurd tale just because you tell it. Stop lying to me," he demanded.
Harkness sighed. "Taste me," he said.
Matthew was taken aback, and his grip on the coat loosened. "What?"
"Taste my blood. You'll see my memories, right? This isn't my first trip to this particular rodeo."
"Are you certain?" he hesitated. "I might not be able to stop."
"Yes, I'm positive." He smirked just a bit. This man was either telling the truth, or he was certifiable. "B positive, to be specific."
Matthew rolled his eyes; he knew that already. "If I can't stop, I could kill you," he warned again.
"I told you," he said, a bit exasperated. "You won't." Harkness shrugged out of his coat, letting it fall to the floor. He dropped his braces and pulled open his shirt collar. "Taste me."
The scent, the vein throbbing in the man's neck... It was too much, too inviting. Dear God, he smelled so good. Matthew pulled Harkness forward and held him still. With almost painful effort, Matthew maintained control long enough to bite his lower lip and trace his blood over and around the neck vein. Then he bit, and bit deep.
He stifled a groan as the taste hit him. Harkness's blood was good, so good, better than he could have ever imagined. Rich and thick, it was unbelievable, intoxicating, perfect. Better than the blood he'd taken in opium dens that made him feel like he could fly, better than the finest wine he'd ever tasted. How could blood taste like this, like light, like liquid gold, like the sun itself? It was full of life, so much life.
And the memories he saw were...insane, utterly beyond belief. A rush of faces, places, different eras...Victorian England, America, both world wars...and other places too, an odd-looking cockpit, metal corridors, and wide windows facing fields of stars. Faces flashed by. A pretty girl in her twenties, dressed in prewar clothing, waving from a train. A young man -- Italian, Greek? -- in early twentieth-century dress, his expression full of sadness. An older man in a black leather jacket, grinning madly. A blond teenager in a Union Jack T-shirt, batting her eyes and biting her lip.
Through it all, most of all, there were repeating images of brutal deaths, by gun, knife, torture, falling, drowning, a parade of horrible ways for a human to die...and sharp, jagged memories of being dragged back to life, over and over... The light and life in the blood contrasted sharply with the dark memories of death, too sharply, and suddenly, he was overcome. It was too much.
Matthew staggered back, his head swimming. He found the arm of the sofa and gripped it, his knees threatening to buckle under him. He felt elated yet almost stuporous; his heart was beating far more rapidly than usual.
Jack looked over at him as he slid down the wall. "Told ya," he said, just before his eyes closed.
Matthew heard Jack's heart stop beating. He swore and swiftly knelt in front of him, chasing the fog from his mind. He felt for a pulse, but he already knew. He'd taken too much, had killed him. This wasn't some criminal, it was a human who'd given him permission, and he'd failed to maintain the control necessary to keep him alive.
His hand dropped away from Jack's neck, and he sat back on his heels. He closed his eyes and murmured a quiet prayer for the man's soul.
And then he heard a heartbeat. And another. Matthew opened his eyes, blinking in shock. He listened as the heartbeat continued, growing stronger; he watched as veins and arteries regained color and blood pressure started climbing, and as blood began to circulate and profuse the kidneys, liver, and other organs. He smelled the rush of neurohormones; pH began to equalize. The wound on Jack's neck closed, becoming a fine white scar that seemed to disappear even as Matthew watched. The heartbeat accelerated further, until it was fast -- 150, 160? -- and Matthew smelled the flood of stress hormones -- adrenaline, cortisol, norepinephrine -- just before Jack opened his eyes and inhaled with a pained gasp.
Jack turned his head and blinked his eyes a few times, focusing on Matthew. "Promised I'd come back, professor," he said.
~~~~~
"I apologize," Matthew said a few minutes later. "I did warn you I might not be able to stop." It felt like a weak excuse even as he said it. He was relieved Jack was alive, and very conscious of the fact that Jack's somehow supercharged blood was flowing through his own veins. His senses were heightened, even by vampire standards. He felt like he'd taken blood laced with both opium and amphetamines at the same time, without either drug managing to cancel the other out.
Jack, unbelievably, seemed perfectly well. He stood by the windows, fiddling with the top on a now-empty bottle of water. He shrugged. "Hey, some people take more convincing than others about the whole 'I can't die' thing."
"You're really a time traveler," Matthew said, handing Jack another glass of scotch and taking the empty water bottle back to the bar.
"Yes. Well, no." Jack tossed back the glass. "I used to be. Now I'm on the slow road with the rest of you."
"And there are other planets, and aliens." It sounded insane, even as he said it. His heart was still thumping. What was this man's blood doing to him?
Jack met his eyes. "So many aliens. It's a universe full of life out there, professor. But you're a vampire. You'll see it all soon enough."
Matthew let a small smile quirk his lips. Perhaps. But how would humans change once they knew what the universe held? What would it mean for creatures? And where was God in all of this? He set the thoughts aside for the moment, turning back to Jack.
"And you can't die." The scar on his neck had completely disappeared now.
He shrugged. "I can die. You saw it. But I keep coming back. Again and again." For the first time, Jack's demeanor was serious, and Matthew suppressed a shudder. It was almost too horrible to consider. Vampires could live forever, in theory, but once they were dead or too injured to heal, they were truly gone. As painful as it had been to lose vampires he'd loved, there had always been a comfort in the finality of death for him, in knowing that there was an end at some point. Could this man really live forever? A million years? A billion? Until the universe shrank to nothing?
He told Jack about the other times they'd nearly crossed paths, and Jack nodded. "Yeah, that was me."
"Why was your scent weaker during the Blitz?" he asked.
Jack asked him a few more questions about that night, and he nodded. "That was before I was sent back. When I could still die."
Matthew took this in. Was whatever power that had sent Jack back in time responsible for his scent, the effect of his blood? "And when you disappeared that night, you -- time traveled?"
"No, that's the night I rescued a girl from a barrage balloon," he grinned. "I just moved a few blocks."
There was a story there, but Matthew put aside his questions about it. "Your scent is so strong, for a human, and so distinct. But there's a part of it I can't place, even now."
Jack shook his head. "I can't help you there, professor," he said. "It could be the world where I grew up, or somewhere I've been, or maybe it's the effect of time travel. I don't know."
He approached Jack, asking permission this time. "May I?"
Jack nodded. Matthew moved close, but didn't touch. He breathed in, letting the scent wash over him. It was easier now, despite the effects of Jack's blood. The desire was still there, but far less urgent.
"Tell me?" Jack asked.
He breathed deeply. "Eucalyptus, with notes of pine and honey. Nutmeg." He closed his eyes. "Something else... I can't adequately describe it. Like a liquid that's thick and warm, sweet but not cloying. Full of life." He opened his eyes. "You smell like life."
Their eyes met. "Your eyes are bright," Jack said. "If I didn't know better, I'd say you were a little high, professor."
More than a little, Matthew thought. But he didn't feel languid, not at all; the opposite, in fact. Energetic, and very much alive. He felt desire building again, and it wasn't for blood this time. It had been a long time since he'd felt sexual desire for a man. He looked steadily into Jack's eyes, raising an eyebrow, asking the question without words.
Jack smiled, not a grin this time, not a smirk, but a warm, genuine smile. He slipped his arm around Matthew's neck and kissed him, softly at first, but once Matthew opened his mouth to him, the kiss grew more intense, more demanding. This time, it was Jack who backed Matthew up against the wall, and Matthew found he didn't mind. His arms slid around Jack's back, pulling him closer. Jack's height, his strength -- in this moment, all of it was richly appealing.
Jack sighed appreciatively, breaking off the kiss to trace his lips around the edge of Matthew's jaw. "There's a bed somewhere in this fancy suite, right?"
Matthew nodded to the door at the other end of the room. Jack kissed him again, moving toward the bedroom, and they started pulling and tugging at each other's clothes, leaving bits and pieces behind them as they went. How did it still take so long to undress, even in modern times?
Finally naked, stretched out on the bed, Jack traced a long line of kisses down his body. Jack saw the scars, glanced up at Matthew, and continued without asking questions. It wasn't necessary; Jack understood. His need building, he moved restlessly under Jack's hands, groaning when Jack took him in his mouth. Jack knew exactly what he was doing, his hands wandering across Matthew's body, looking up at him, gauging his reactions, deciding what pleased him most.
Jack's scent and the blood flowing through his veins drove his arousal higher, and it wasn't long, not long enough, before he was close. "Jack," he called out in warning. But Jack didn't stop. He met Matthew's eyes, grinning around his length, and it was suddenly all too much. The sensations in his body were no longer distinct from Jack's scent and the taste of his blood. He let go, his hips moving of their own accord, and he swore as he came in Jack's mouth. Jack didn't seem to mind, swallowing, his eyes never leaving Matthew's as he crawled back up the bed to kiss him again.
He drew Jack down to him, losing himself in the kiss, the taste of both of them on Jack's tongue, his hands tangled in Jack's hair, and he felt Jack's cock hard against his thigh. Matthew let one hand drop down to stroke him. "What would you have of me, Jack?"
Jack smiled down at him. "I dunno, professor," he said. "What are you willing to give? I haven't known that many vampires, but it seems to me that control isn't something your kind likes to give up all that easily."
It was true; of course it was true. But here, in this moment, drunk with sex and scent and blood, he didn't care. "And if I am?" Jack grinned his answer, kissing him again.
He felt Jack's desire heighten as they kissed. His heart rate picked up, and a rush of endorphins added new notes to his scent. He allowed Jack to turn him onto his stomach, a knee tucked underneath him. It might have been awkward but for the thick pillow Jack shoved under his chest, and he sank into it as Jack started tracing his way down Matthew's back with lips, tongue, and hands. The scars, again, were nothing to him except targets for special attention.
Jack murmured something, and disappeared from the bed for a moment. When he returned, Matthew heard something tear, and he knew it was a condom or some kind of lubricant. A moment's doubt flickered across his mind, but then Jack was there again, his hands and mouth on Matthew's body, and he let it slip away.
He barely registered it as Jack moved his hip, his hands sliding over Matthew's ass. He felt the coolness of lubricant, and Jack's fingers inside him, his mouth still tracing the lines of Matthew's lower back. He relaxed into Jack's hands, letting the sensations wash over him. By the time he felt Jack's cock start to press into him, he was fully aroused again, which drew a pleased whisper from Jack.
Once Jack was fully inside him, Matthew swore again, lost in the high of the blood, the flood of scent, the sensations that seemed to fire every nerve ending in his body. So much desire, Jack's and his own. He pushed back, and Jack began to take him in earnest, groaning into his ear, kissing his neck, his hand wrapped around Matthew's cock. It was too good, too much. He wanted to come again, and he didn't want this to end.
Jack's easygoing manner was gone now, replaced by something else. "Can you come again, professor?" he whispered. His voice carried a tone Matthew knew well, from the halls of medieval lords, from royal courts, from battlefields too numerous to count. A voice of command, a voice accustomed to being obeyed. Jack's hand on him moved insistently, perfectly. "Come for me," he demanded.
He did, tumbling over the edge in a rush of sensation, gasping out his release, pushing back against Jack.
Jack thrust deeply inside him, his own control almost gone now. Jack groaned and came, hard, before collapsing on top of him. Matthew reached back, his hand finding Jack's neck, and he felt Jack's lips on his shoulder in return.
~~~~~~~
Matthew watched Jack as he slept. He seemed extraordinarily peaceful, Matthew thought, for a man who carried an almost unspeakable burden. He closed his own eyes, but he didn't sleep. He felt like he was just starting to come down from the high provided by Jack's blood, and he felt sated and relaxed, but not tired.
Jack woke just before dawn, and Matthew reached for him again. It was slower this time, easier, now, to let Jack's scent wash over him in waves. He reveled in watching Jack come apart slowly under his hands and mouth; Jack seemed to hold back nothing, every reaction playing across his face and body. His back arched, his eyes closed, groaning with pleasure, he held Matthew's head against his cock as he came. With Jack's clever hands on him, his mouth open for Jack's deep kisses, Matthew soon followed.
Jack's eyes grew heavy again, and Matthew smiled to himself, slipping from the bed and returning with a warm, damp washcloth. Almost unconsciously, he whispered softly, "Rendors-toi," urging Jack back to sleep as he cleaned them both.
~~~~~~~
Jack woke again about an hour later. "What time is it?"
Matthew glanced over his shoulder at the clock. "A little after eight. Can I order you some coffee or tea? Something to eat, perhaps?"
"When I say that I'd love to stay longer, professor, I really, really would," Jack looked him up and down, leaving little doubt as to what he was thinking. "But I have to get going," he said, kissing Matthew lightly before sliding out of bed.
Matthew watched as Jack darted in and out of the bedroom to locate his strewn clothing. When he was almost dressed, Matthew beckoned him over for a last kiss.
"Are you sure you don't need to feed?" Jack asked, buttoning the cuffs on his shirt. "I don't mind."
He wasn't hungry, not even for Jack's blood, but what he wouldn't do to get Jack into his lab, a sample of his blood... But perhaps that was a can of worms best left unopened, and he decided not to ask.
Matthew shook his head. "You've donated more than enough to me, but I appreciate the offer." Jack grinned at Matthew and picked up his coat.
"Jack," he asked impulsively, "how is it that one of my kind hasn't locked you in a room somewhere as a permanent blood supply?"
Jack shrugged, apparently unconcerned by the idea. "I dunno, but vampires don't seem to like Cardiff much. You're the first one I've run into here in about 75 years. Maybe it has to do with the rift in time and space that runs under the city. Gives some aliens headaches. Maybe vampires, too."
Another mystery solved. A rift in time and space? Sort of solved, anyway.
"It was good to meet you, Matthew," Jack said, using his Christian name for the first time. He smiled, his eyes warm. "I'm glad you got your answers."
Matthew returned the smile wryly. "It was good to meet you too, Jack," he said, meeting Jack's eyes. "May God speed you on your journey, wherever it may lead."
Jack looked at him and smiled, but it was sadder this time, almost melancholy. The door closed behind him with a soft click, and Matthew listened to his footsteps as he walked away.
Matthew knew he should get moving, but he lay back against the pillows. He was glad to have his answers, and more than a little sorry that Jack was gone. But it was for the best. Jack's blood...Jack...could all too easily become a dangerous addiction.
It's a universe full of life out there, professor.
The philosophical questions he'd set aside last night returned, but he let them drop away. A universe full of life, after all, was also full of endless possibilities.
It was, he decided, something to look forward to.