#jacksimm

Here’s what Jack Harkness takes away from his first impression of Saxon: he’s too clean for a politician, especially one settled in so comfortably as Minister of Defense.

It itches at the back of his brain through their few conversations as Saxon smiles at him. “*I’m* sure Torchwood’s funding wouldn’t be better spent elsewhere,” he tells Jack, co-conspiratorial, “and if it were up to me-”

“It is up to you,” Jack says, smiling back. Saxon’s eyes dart down to his lips and up again. Jack leans forward, casting his gaze across the man’s face like he’ll find the secrets he’s looking for in the pull of his lips or crinkle of his eyes. Too clean, too perfect, like a pretty picture of a potential Prime Minister. Jack tries to remember his stated policies, but his mind slides off the information, and it turns to him, grasping at nothing, and tells him that whatever he believes, Saxon believes.

“If only,” Saxon laughs, and it’s warm like a housefire. Jack squeezes his eyes shut, shakes his head, and suspicion falls right out. “I heard about the fiasco at Canary Wharf.”

Heard? Jack thinks. How’d you miss it? Saxon reaches across his desk and puts his hand over Jack’s wrist.

“I bet you run a tighter ship than that, Captain,” he says, voice low. “Tell me exactly what their tax dollars are going to, so I can reassure all those worried voters who might just have to think for themselves otherwise.” The words themselves buzz without meaning across Jack’s brain as Saxon’s fingers drum against the pulse at his wrist, too quick to match, too many beats, almost familiar like-

“You are just horrible to look at,” Saxon murmurs. “Nails on a chalkboard. I don’t know how he could stand being around you for even a minute.” Jack’s mind feels slow and thick, and any sentence he manages is a fight of slowly wading through.

“Torchwood… We arm the human race against the future.” Saxon grins wider.

“Do you have a speech prepared?” he releases Jack’s wrist suddenly and falls back into his chair, his whole body language changing from Prime Minister hopeful to lazy predator smelling fresh meat. “He hates whenever I get a taste of his pets. I’ll fuck you for it.”

“What?” Jack’s trying to catch up. Wherever the conversation went when Saxon was touching him is dim in his memory already, and he’s not even able to summon up concern about it.