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Author's Note: Written for "fic_promptly"'s Any, any, Immortality is a curse if you have no one to share it with Jack Harkness+Rex Matheson


Rex was on his fifth straight whiskey and by now, haloes seemed to have formed around the lights in the bar. He was about to order another, when a large, blue-tinged shadow moved into his line of sight and perched itself on the bar stool next to his. "I'll have what he's having, only without the depression," a cocky voice said to the bar tender.

"You with him? He's a lucky one to have a looker like you looking out for him," she said, plunking down a clean glass and pouring one out. "I was just about to call him a cab to send him home."

"Good thing I came in time to rescue him from the bottom of a bottle," Harkness replied, flirtatiously.

"We ain't together," Rex muttered, not looking up.

"Oh, you wish," Harkness twitted, not taking a hint.

"You track me down just to taunt me, World War Two?" Rex shot back. "First, you infect me with that trick of yours, now you're hittin' on me?"

"Didn't think you'd catch this: I didn't know a thing like this was catching," Harkness said, growing serious at last.

"Well, you made me like you: you made it so I can't die," Rex snarled.

"Take it you've been trying to get around it, since you disappeared from the funeral," Harkness said. "Took me this long to track you down."

"Yer tracking skills must've gone rusty."

"Well, I found you in the end. The news accounts helped," Harkness said.

"News accounts? don't tell me it's all over the news," Rex groaned.

"Not the mainstream sources, but the off beat sites have been humming about a man who can't die trying to off himself in various creative ways," Harknes said, knocking back his drink. "Now I catch you aiming for alcohol poisoning. Knew a poet who did that, warned him he might if he didn't clean up."

"Figured I'd try and make it enjoyable," Rex admitted.

"Got tired of throwing yourself under freight trains and into cement mixers, eh?" Harkness noted.

"Ain't got started: I'll find a way yet."

"Thought that way myself, after the first fifty years," Harkness admitted. "Didn't bother me, not dying, not really, not until I realized people around me were aging, and I wasn't. Or at least, not as fast."

"How'd you find out?"

"Got beaten to death in a scuffle at Ellis Island, 1870: didn't have the right papers, tried to slip past the guards, and they tried to hand my head to me," Harkness admitted.

"Why do I have the feeling you're not tellin' the rest of that story," Rex said, looking Harkness in the face, or near enough to the face as he could focus.

Harkness glanced away almost guiltily. "All right, I might've put up a fight. Didn't expect I'd wake up again in the morgue, naked. Had to knock out the attendant and steal his clothes to find away out of there. Ended up swimming to Manhattan. Found my way to Britain on a mail steamer, looking for a friend who could fix me up. Lived through the 20th century, the slow way."

"So this what you do? Keep telling stories to cover how miserable you are?" Rex asked.

"Haven't had anyone who could make those stories with me," Harkness admitted. "It's lonely, living this long, never dying or at least never having it stick. Everyone around you is aging, fading, dying and staying put.

"At least you got company: you got me and I got you now," he added, that indomitable cheek returning, unscathed.

"Yeah, but what company? You'll be hittin' on me left an' right," Rex snarled. "You got it through your head you ain't my type?"

"Don't knock it till you've tried it, Rex," Harkness replied, with a grin in his voice.

"S'pose it could be worse," Rex admitted. And while he could stand less of the flirting, it felt oddly reassuring, that the guy who had been the unwitting cause of the Miracle would be his companion for the rest of the journey.

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