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It had been a dull conference, all in all. Not that he had ever experienced any other kind in the past, but this one had set new standards in dullness.
Of course, he had tried to mix in, attended all the dinners and parties, but had never seemed to be able to strike a real conversation with anyone. Their Welsh colleagues tended to keep to themselves, and there was nobody else from the Yard with whom he could have teamed up with.
He had found Cardiff enjoyable, though. Had had a few early morning and late night strolls from the exhibition centre back to his hotel, with a few detours here and there, mostly by the Bay. He’d always liked the sea, and it was nice to find it reaching in into the city, and not having to chase it for miles, like it was the case for London.
He had stumbled upon a quiet pub on the first night, getting there just before last orders were called, and it had become his little ritual during the week. Exit the noise and the crowds, start walking back to the city, detour by the Bay, pub. The first night, he had not really trusted his sense of orientation and had gotten a cab, but on the following days, he had walked all the way back.
He had tried to use this as a way of making conversation, on the Wednesday, until a slightly pedantic DS had explained to him that he was walking through a rather dangerous area and was at risk of getting mugged. Lestrade hadn’t had that feeling at all, but he guessed it was one of these things. You know it and it affects your perception. You ignore it and everything looks fine.
He had changed the subject and kept on walking.
And now it was Friday night, and the conference was officially finished. He had abandoned the idea of getting back to London that evening in favour of catching an early train in the morning, not really prepared to face the arrival at Paddington and the long commute in the Tube at such a late hour.
The pub was more packed than usual with already drunk students and a couple of loud hen dos, which seemed to compete for the title of most embarrassing behaviour. A scantily clad woman with a cowboy hat had already tried to jump in his lap, which set off quite a few others as well. Finally, he managed to get a table in the corner, which was far enough from all the excitement for him to be able to drink in peace.
That is, until a man showed up two feet away, hand wrapped around a tumbler full of whisky.
“Mind if I sit there?”, and it was said with such ingenuity and a rather blinding smile that Lestrade couldn’t help but gesture to the other chair in invitation.
“Cowboy hats not your thing, then?” Lestrade raised an eyebrow and stared for a bit at the other man. Couldn’t be above 40, and it was obvious he was very much aware of his good looks. Had something old about him too, but that was probably down to the coat and braces. Not that it did lessen the charm at all. He found himself smiling back.
“Was a bit too forward for my liking, is all”
The man chuckled and took a swig of his drink, smile never really leaving his face.
“And you don’t like forward?”
Lestrade held his gaze for a bit before turning away, feeling a slight blush creep along his neck. It was going to be that kind of discussion, then. It had been a while since he had been flirted at, and had found himself willing to flirt back. He wasn’t going to let that one wander off easily.
“Why, are you the forward-y type?”
There was an expectant silence, then the man winked and extended his hand over the table. “Captain Jack Harkness.”
Lestrade took it, the handshake firm and decided. “DI Greg Lestrade.”
“Not from around here, are you?”
It was a bit unnerving, Lestrade thought, how Jack didn’t take his eyes off him, apparently taking in all the littlest details about his face - and seeming to be very satisfied with what he was seeing.
“London. With the Yard.”
Jack’s grin got slightly wider, and Lestrade used the opportunity to take a sip from his pint, his throat just a bit dry. He could see where this was going, and had no reason to try and stop it.
“Enjoying Cardiff?”
“Hm, yeah.” Greg looked up, planting his eyes into Jack’s. “Got lovely things around here.”
“Explored them all, have you?”
He was enjoying this far too much, he decided, as he started drawing patterns on the table before answering, sneaking a quick glance under his eyelashes.
“Well... Obviously not all of them.”
And suddenly, there was a finger caressing his hand and he had to repress a shiver at the touch. Damn, it had been far too long. He cleared his throat lightly, but found himself unable to pull away. Then Jack started talking again, his voice playful and warm, and he found himself drawn back to him.
“I could always show you around.”
Lestrade straightened up, a hint of regret passing in his eyes. “Got only till morning.” It seemed like a stupidly short amount of time, now. He wished this had happened earlier in the week. Maybe he wouldn’t have felt this lonely.
The fingers didn’t pull away, though, but kept their dance on his hand. “Plenty of time, then.”
They locked eyes for what felt minutes but was probably only a few seconds, and then Jack knocked back his whisky and stood up, putting his coat on. He extended a hand to Lestrade, who took it and got to his feet, swaying slightly. It wasn’t because of the drink.
Between fumbling kisses and some very public groping, they somehow made it back to his hotel, for which he was thankful for. Not that he didn’t trust Jack - there was something very engaging and assured about the man - but it made logistics much easier.
Neither of them got much sleep, as they made the most of the little time they had together. Lestrade realised that Jack was as confident in bed as he seemed to be in real life - and decidedly unashamed - and he let himself go with the flow, tender and fun and straightforward, seizing the opportunity to forget about his job, his family, and whatever was clogging his life up right now.
They parted in the morning, him scrambling around his room to herd all the stray pieces of clothing, while Jack was lying on the bed, a lazy and satisfied smirk on his face. Their last kiss, the one that had gone on for a bit too long and had nearly made him miss his train, lingered on his lips for the rest of the day. And a bit longer after that.
The same evening, as he was back in London and tried to settle back in his life, he got a text.
When’s the next conference in Cardiff?
He smiled as he typed a quick answer.
Nearly not soon enough.