quitehomoerotic: ([sad] sitting in the corner)
It had been 50 years since Jack had seen the Doctor. It had been 50 years since Jack had been Jack. 50 years, and he still felt the same. Some days he hated that, it frustrated him and annoyed him and made him want to scream. And some days, it just made him lonely. This was one of those days.

It was Valentines day. A stupid Earth holiday that really meant nothing, but people put so much stock into. Everywhere you went there were balloons shaped like hearts and people holding hands and declaring their love. It made Jack grumpy, and he could never and would never explain why.

So he shut himself away from it. He was in a small flat in a city that seemed to be nothing but small flats. Somewhere full of people where he could at the same time, be completely alone.

And he sat on his own, watching broadcasts on a television with a bottle of scotch to soothe his pains.

50 years, and it still felt like yesterday.
quitehomoerotic: (General : Looking out of SUV window)
Even Jack Harkness needed a hobby.

Okay, no, he didn't. He was actually quite busy. Too busy for a hobby, but he wanted one. Torchwood was all consuming, and it was important sometimes to have the odd thing to relax the mind. Of course Jack didn't relax his mind like most people, he relaxed his mind by reading a series of very interesting police reports from a D.I. Shipton about an old house in London and a series of events the year before.

Just a hobby, of course.

A hobby, that was, until Jack found the house in question had been purchased and was to be renovated and made into a museum of all things. It rang alarm bells, and though he couldn't quite pinpoint why, he wanted to take a look for himself.

So the very busy man did as all very busy men do. He delegated. Delegated and of course disappeared without much explanation to his team other than he'd 'be back in a couple of days'.

And there he was, back in London and breaking every rule in the highway code in his oversized SUV, careering far too fast and far too dangerously along roads that were never built for it. Wester Drumlins was his goal; the building in question. He was almost there but then there was a distraction (there's always a distraction). A little blip on one of the scanners. Something that shouldn't have been there. Probably nothing, but, well, Jack was certainly nothing if not curious.

He could make a slight detour.

The blip, though, seemed to move. Move and it was something of a wild goose chase. Until it stopped, and Jack followed it until he was parking outside an unassuming little shop.

He climbed from the car, glancing just briefly at the sign above the door, and he headed in.

Inside, he glanced from side to side; headed forward and poked at a few packs of envelopes on a shelf. He glanced towards the till and nodded over at the girl there.

quitehomoerotic: (Happy : Did'ja miss me?)
How long does it take to tow the Earth home? Quite a while actually.

The TARDIS was full. Really full, full of people who had all touched the Doctor in some way. There were smiles and laughter and people talking. Two Doctor's rushing around the console. Two! People that had never met and people that knew each other well. It was remarkable.

Jack could feel eyes on him when he stood, and when he turned he'd notice those eyes belonged to one Donna Noble who waved at him with a little coy wave (or at least he suspected she thought it was coy). It was an occurrence that repeated itself no less than three times. It was somewhat unnerving.

As time went on people seemed to spread out, filling the halls and corridors of the familiar TARDIS in ways Jack had never seen. It felt right in a way Jack couldn't truly describe.

He watched. Watched Martha and Donna and Rose.


Rose who he'd expected never to see again. Rose who over all those long years he'd thought of just as much as he'd thought of the Doctor. Rose who he'd watched as a little girl, falling off her bike and scraping his knee.

Rose who in all the flurry, he'd been unable to catch even a moment with.

Ad so when he saw her take her leave from the console room and turn down a corridor, he followed, and when there was fair distance he stopped and he cleared his throat from behind her.

"So do I get a hello?"
quitehomoerotic: (Work : Papers)
There's no such thing as an average day for Torchwood.

A day might be spent cleaning up after a Weevil that broke free of the sewers and decided to go on a killing rampage across Grangetown, or hunting down a shopkeeper in Llandaff who discovered a device that made everyone do as he said (and that one was a particularly long day, especially when he started hooking in the team themselves).

Or it could be worse than that. Something almost unbearable. A day where they sit in the Hub and nothing goes wrong.

A day where they had to get caught up with the dreaded paperwork.

A day like this one.

Jack sat at the desk in his office with a pile of paperwork he ought to have sifted through at least a month ago. It isn't even that he was bad at it or missed things out, it was just that he'd just rather be out there being the action man than the man behind the desk dotting his Is and crossing his Ts.

It was 6:30pm, time enough for any regular (whatever that meant) working office to be packing up and going home. But Jack barely thought about it. He lived here after all; Torchwood was his life and sometimes he could forget that might not be the same for everyone else.

His eyes flickered from the paperwork on his desk to the open programme on his computer screen. A rift monitor, registering... just about nothing.

He sighed. He'd almost prefer the world falling apart.
quitehomoerotic: (Serious : Standing)
Follows this

He had been gone three weeks.

Three weeks one day and seventeen hours to be precise.

The whole time, it had been in his mind to return, but this time he wanted to be ready. He wanted a plan before he turned back up ready to show her a little of the future and a little of his past.

The first thing he did was visit a library. He sat in a quiet corner with a book. The aged dust sheet was decorated with a photograph of a painting of 'Madame de Pompadour'. There was a likeness, at least. He wasn't sure if he ought to read. The pages told her history, or at least the story that history was graced with. There was always so much more, he knew, and so much incricacy and detail that history could never wish to capture.

Moments in time that flitted and disappeared.

It wouldn't be right of him to read, would it? No. So for once, he hoped, he made the right decision, and the book remained in the library, unopened and untouched.

A book, however, that did make it out the door, was a French language book. Eighteenth Century French to be precise. He wanted to brush up.

And he did. He brushed and he prepared and three weeks later he was sure he was ready. Or at least, as ready as he could ever be.

So he took himself back, with a bag and a box in tow. He arrived at 5pm. Three week and barely any time at all.

Five fifty eight and he stood outside the doorway to her lounge. He'd found his way up, and though he'd received looks, he found too they didn't attempt to stop him. His destination was expected. A reputation already, it seemed.

Five fifty nine and he walked in.
quitehomoerotic: (little bit of a smile)
When the Doctor dropped off Jack, Martha and Mickey it wasn't anywhere convenient. They may have just managed to tow the Earth through time and space but it seemed the Doctor still had trouble landing anywhere even remotely near where people needed to get.

That was fine though, they could let it go, and really by the time they'd noticed they could hardly complain; the Doctor after all was by then halfway to dropping Rose in another universe. He had things on his mind.

So Jack saw to making sure Martha and Mickey got themselves home safe (not that Mickey had a home here). They got on well. Very well, and Jack waved them off together as they made their way back to London and he prepared to make his way back to Cardiff.

Cardiff. Just thinking of it put a smile on his face. Back there, Ianto and Gwen and they saved the world. Two little people and without them the whole world, the whole universe would have turned to dust.

He didn't call to alert his arrival, he didn't even think about it, though perhaps he should have.

'Acquiring' himself a car he drove as only Jack Harkness knew how; too fast and too reckless. But reckless with excitement. The world had been saved, he'd seen the Doctor, he'd seen Rose. Ianto and Gwen were safe. This? Was a very good day.

There was of course a lot of things he wasn't aware of, such as just how close the Daleks has got to Torchwood. That they'd breached and that from beyond the grave Tosh had saved them once again. But these things he'd find out.

After a four hour drive and ditching the car somewhere near the docks, Jack made his way back to the bay. Back to the bay and back to Torchwood. The tourist office door was open, and that was strange enough, but when he saw the false wall still rolled back too, it was very nearly cause for concern. He wouldn't be worried though, he wouldn't let himself, not today.

The lift, when he got to it, he found wouldn't open. Stuck at the sub level. Annoying, but he could cope with that. So still with a spring in his step he practically skipped down the stairs.

Back to his world.
quitehomoerotic: (General : Profile)
follows this

Jack had slept. Much to his own surprise.

He hadn't expected to sleep. He'd expected to lie and to stare at the ornate ceiling, watching the flecks in the paint and the gold until they moulded to nothing in his mind. He had done, for a while, but then his eyes had grown heavy, and quite against his own will he was pulled into sleep. Perhaps due to just how long it had been since he'd had the chance to rest like that. To lie and to know he could. To know he had a night there, with nothing to call him away.

He did dream, of course. Unpleasant dreams of his faults and his losses. But they were standard, and even though they were painful, he was used to them.

The morning came and he was awake by the time the light was filtering through the window. He had, also, somehow, acquired his own clothes, though were he asked how, he'd never explain. He preferred to keep certain things a mystery.

He stood now, in that bedroom, staring out of the window at the landscape outside. A new landscape, a new time.
quitehomoerotic: (Srs bsns)
Follows this.


Jack landed on the marbled floor with an unceremonious fall.

"Yeah, but you missed it," he said finishing the sentiment the Doctor started before he activated the manipulator.

He pulled himself up from the floor and stretched himself out, looking over to the Doctor to make sure he was okay and all in one piece.

"We're about 800 years to the left," he said as he checked his wrist strap. "Set it on random, thought it'd be more fun that way."

He grinned over at him, and stretched his neck out a little more as he looked around.

What he saw, was nothing short of spectacular.

The walls looked to be made of stone and were decorated with gargoyles and elaborate gold filigree flourishes. Ahead of them, up on the wall, was a vast round glass stain window. Small lights illuminated it around the circle, but just about visible through the other side was the vague starlight in the distance. They were still in space, not on a planet surface.

"Well this is new... what is this, some sort of space monastery?"
quitehomoerotic: (TARDIS)
Torchwood didn't keep hours. Torchwood couldn't keep hours. Not with the sort of work they did. Alien invaders didn't really respect when people might like to have a nice night in in front of the telly, or sleep in late in the morning. They didn't care if you wanted to start at nine and finish at five.

But sometimes, Jack just had to accept that even his staff needed lives of their own. Admittedly, of course, that would often be when Gwen picked up her bag and declared she was going home, without giving Jack option either way. But accept it he did. He knew people needed time to themselves, and times away from the underground confines of the Hub. And so some nights he'd end up there alone, an old record player on echoing out a cracked recording of Gracie Fields and a self made (infinitely worse than Ianto's) cup of coffee in hand.

This was one of those nights.

He sat in his office, listening to the sound of the music as he jotted down notes on paperwork he'd left waiting for weeks. To his side a computer ran a regular nightly scan for any activity in the area. Nothing, just the way he liked it. Cardiff safe.

Nothing strange (which was almost strange in and of itself), nothing out of the ordinary or abnormal. Nothing that was until a little alarm started sounding.

He ought to have known things would never run smoothly.

Pushing aside his papers he leant forward and prodded keys on the keyboard. Strange, he thought, the reading wasn't something he recognised. Some sort of transmission. It seemed to be harnessing the rift, but how? He keyed a little more and then the screen flickered, putting him on edge.

Something wasn't right.
quitehomoerotic: (Serious : Standing)
It had been ten months.

Ten months almost to the day that a year and a nightmare ended; returned to a world unscathed from it. The world continuing none the wiser to events that shook and tore it apart at the seams.

It left no scars but those on the few who could remember.

They had no choice but to move on.

In ten months Jack had done his best not to think about the man they carried away in handcuffs. The Time Lord, shot and injured but not killed. They had taken him to a prison at first, and Jack could clearly remember the day he saw a newspaper headline that read 'Harold Saxon Kills Again'. Three inmates dead because they didn't know how to deal with him. But then how could they know how to deal with him? They had no idea what he was capable of.

He tried not to think about him. Though he was a constant memory at the back of his mind. All he'd done. The death and destruction. The pain he caused that would never really go away. That no lies could really cover up.

After the incident in the prison 'Harold Saxon' had been transferred elsewhere. A medical facility. But even that hadn't been enough to house him. The incident when he killed the nurse had been well covered. Kept from the press and the prying eyes of the public. But Jack knew. Jack found out.

So as time went on they'd adapted and changed. Built a facility around him. They tried to offer him 'rehabilitation'. To send fleets of doctors to work out just what was wrong with him. But they never would. They could never tap into that mind. Jack knew that too.

Knowing he was securely locked away, Jack could almost ignore his presence entirely. Almost. He could continue his daily life, such as it was.

But things never lasted like that.

So ten months, almost to the day, he found himself with little other option.

Pulling strings had been easy enough. Being Captain Jack Harkness came with certain connections, and when called for these connections could be used.

The facility was clinical. White and unfeeling corridors furnished with nothing. It could be a dream, or a nightmare. But it was real.

They told him it was pointless. He doesn't talk, they said, He won't talk to you.

Jack had ignored them. He'd ignored when they told him he was dangerous. He'd almost laughed. He knew that more than they ever could.

And there he was, ten months almost to the day, standing on one side of a two way mirror, looking into the padded room opposite. In the middle of the room was a table, bolted down to the floor. A chair bolted either side. One chair waited empty for him and in the other he sat. Harold Saxon. The Master. Looking ragged and raw, chained down to the table like a feral beast.

They'd tried to stop Jack from going in, but he wouldn't listen, and he passed through the double locked doors and into the room in silence.

He stood there for a moment, not moving at all. Just looking. And then he stepped over and sat. And stared.

"Nice place you've got here."
quitehomoerotic: (Sad : Lonely)
Follows this.

Three weeks. That's how long it should have been. Three weeks for Jack to fix what was broken. For Jack to play the role of the hero and save the world again.

He did it in two.

Three weeks and he went back to that spot. Went back and waited for the sound of the engines and the appearance of a little blue box. He waited there all day, waited in the pleasant summer's day and waited as the day turned to balmy evening, and the evening to cool night.

He waited there the day after, in case he'd got it wrong, in case he'd made a mistake (but he knew he hadn't).

He waited, but nothing came. No engines, no little blue box, no familiar face in a pinstripe suit and messed up hair. Nothing.

He waited and when nothing came, he found he had nowhere to go.

Martha had tried to be sympathetic, and Jack had lied and said he was fine. The Doctor was a busy man, he probably just got side tracked. But then Martha couldn't really understand, could she? She couldn't know how things changed. She couldn't know how Jack needed the Doctor now (and how Jack had hoped he was needed too).

She'd suggested he go home, back to Cardiff. Gwen'd love to see him and there's still the rift that needed looking after and you know technically Torchwood still existed and it was still in his control.

But no. He couldn't do that. He wasn't ready and even the mention of it infuriated him. It made him snap and made him cold. He felt bad for it, but he didn't apologise.

Nowhere to go, and as the weeks passed Jack would return each one, the same day each week to that place, just in case the TARDIS arrived. But it never did, and as each week came and went, the little voice of hope that thought maybe, just maybe he would, got quieter and faded into nothing.

He had to wait though. He couldn't go because what if the Doctor did need him? What if the Doctor came back and he wasn't there? No, he wouldn't do that. He'd wait. He wouldn't use the vortex manipulator and run, as appealing as the idea could be.

The weeks turned to months, and Jack had had to find a place to wait. A home, well that was easy enough, and Martha was only too happy to give him something to do. But he stayed under the radar. He didn't want to be too noticed. Not by UNIT or the Government or a woman in Cardiff who'd not long given birth.

He became reclusive as the time went on. He didn't want to make conversation, and he wouldn't. He stopped wanting to help and fell back to how he had been when he ran from Earth. But this time, in limbo. Waiting, still waiting. He'd spent his whole life waiting.

This time though, he waited with a bottle in one hand and a gun in the other. Turned out London had quite the Weevil infestation. Well at least that was something he could deal with.

Five months had passed since he left the Doctor. Five months in a life as long as Jack's could seem like nothing at all. But it didn't, it seemed like forever. He'd stopped going to check for the TARDIS, because he was sure it wouldn't come. He'd considered ringing him and asking what the hell he thought he was doing, but no, they didn't need an over the phone domestic. If the Doctor wanted to come, he'd come. Jack wouldn't chase, not any more. He was worried about him too, of course, and perhaps in truth that was a larger part of the reason he wouldn't call. Just in case there was no answer. Just in case something had happened to him. He'd rather not have that confirmed.

So there he was, living in a top floor apartment that overlooked the Thames. An apartment not unlike the one in Cardiff. Modern and a little bland, with barely a touch to describe it as belonging to him. There he sat with an open bottle of whisky and a bank of open laptops around him, tracking and working and busying himself with anything.

Busying himself with nothing. While he waited.
quitehomoerotic: (The man who could never die)
There's something about Earth.

Out of all the places out there, all the little planets in the sky, Earth just has something special. He wanted to go back, and he hated that he wanted to go back. He'd ran away from there for a reason; he couldn't cope with it any more. It wasn't like he was even born there, sure he spent over a hundred years there, kicking his heels, saving the place on countless occasions, but it shouldn't matter so much to him! But there he was, sitting on some dirty transporter, wondering about getting back.

He couldn't go back though. He couldn't go back to there and then and the people he left and the people that left him. He'd ran so far across that planet to get away from the things that hurt, but it was just too small. Impossibly small and those troubles were right behind him, peering down from him from above. Guilt weighing down on him that he just couldn't escape.

So he stayed away. He stayed away and kept quiet. Frequented corners of dingy bars and found solace in the bottom of a bottle.

But it wasn't what he wanted, and pretend as he might that he was okay with wallowing, he wasn't. He wanted to be doing something, anything, and that damn feeling that Earth was where he should be just wouldn't quite go away.

That's when he realised; he had only one option. Go back. But not now.

It's also when he realised that he had to fix what had been broken for over a hundred years. He had to get himself back in the game.

Out in space and with the resources on the various ships he'd found himself travelling on, it was surprisingly easy to happen upon the little components and tools he might need. He'd never found them on Earth, but then he never did have that sort of luck. It took a while, but he got there, bit by bit amassing what he needed until finally he could sit down and with care take apart his vortex manipulator and put it back together again with new and renewed working technology.

He could go anywhere.

But where? Earth, of course. But not a place he'd been, not a time he'd been. Somewhere new, but somewhere that would be enough to comfort him in knowing he was 'home'. So he didn't make a decision as such, he just put in some parameters to avoid (Cardiff being the biggest), and he pressed the button and hoped for the best.

When he arrived, without even needing to check he knew he was on Earth. It had that smell, that slight mix of something in the air that always seemed to be there, no matter where or when you were. Good, he thought, good. This was good. He didn't check when or where he was, that could come later. For now he'd explore (and he'd forgotten how nice that could be).

So that's what led him to walking around a vast (and likely very private) garden, lined with intricate designs of flowers and plants. French, he suspected. That was okay, he hadn't been to France in a long time.

Maybe he'd enjoy this.
quitehomoerotic: (General : Profile)
It had been months since then. Months since the Valiant and the terrible events that occurred upon it. It had been months of rebuilding a life. Torchwood, his team, his people.

But every night. Every night without fail. He dreamt.

No, not dreams. Dreaming sounded like too nice a word. He had nightmares. Terrible nightmares.

He did his best to ignore them, or at least get used to them, and sometimes he even managed it. He did his best to push aside the memories of that year that never was, and of the pain and terror. To forget the face of the man who caused it all. But it never was that easy.

Some nights would be easier. The nights forcing himself to stay awake or better the nights he spent with Ianto. It stilled his mind and sometimes he could even relax. But they'd still be there, tickling away at the back of his mind, reminding him that they were there. Reminding him of just what happened.

He'd even, on an occasion or two, gone to the point of taking pills to steady his mind. They worked, at least for a while.

But nothing could work for long, and when he slept, he knew to expect it, and to expect he'd wake in a sweat.

And he expected that now. Alone in the Hub at the end of a long day, lying in bed and waiting. He closed his eyes, and he knew they'd come.
quitehomoerotic: (Doctor : With Ten in the Bay)
Jack pressed the button on the manipulator and in a flash they were gone. Away from the tower, away from Gallifrey, through the vortex and through the rift. It pulled them through time and space and everything in between.

Until they were there.

Barely a moment and they were there, feet first on the carpet inside Jack's Cardiff flat. The tug had been immense and unpleasant, but that was fine. That was fine because they'd got away. They'd got away and they were (relatively) safe.

"Doctor you did it!" Jack beamed, spinning around to look at him, making himself dizzy in the process. "We're here, we're back. Oh you genius!"
quitehomoerotic: (Concerned)
Follows on from this

Jack held fast to the controls of the ship as they plunged into hyperspace. The g-forces on his body pressed him into the chair, and he focused all of his attention on keeping the craft smooth and flying. He'd worry about just where it was they were going later.

It was a strong craft, a good ship. But it was built for leisure, built for transporting rich people to unimportant places. There was no hardened shell and it wasn't well shielded, and so it wasn't ever constructed to contend with such difficult conditions. It was something like trying to drive a sports car through the desert in a sandstorm.

The ship started shaking as they moved through space; fixtures and fittings coming unstuck from their various homes in the craft. Somewhere inside there was a smash as a vase fell from a shelf and not even the gravity cushion was enough to restrain it.

"Make sure your trays are in the upright condition and your seatbelts are fastened until the pilot has turned off the seatbelt light," Jack said with a grin as he moved the craft along. There was an undeniable rush with it. The thrill of the adventure and the danger. You really had to be a certain sort of person to enjoy it as he did.

Jack had seen the vortex before. Travelled through it, even, clung to the outside of the TARDIS. The Doctor had seen it too, many times, Jack suspected. But the Doctor didn't need to know that right now. So Jack leaned forward and pressed a button on the panel that blackened out the window in front of them so they wouldn't have to see the vortex now as the vortex manipulator directed the ship through it.

"Hold on tight!" Jack called as they travelled. Just a little longer, just a little bit more. The ship continued to rattle and he worried it might not keep together, but then without warning or sign the shaking stopped.

"We're out," Jack breathed with a wide grin as the adrenaline rushed through his system. He reached forward and pressed the button to clear the glass. What he saw outside wiped the smile right off his face.

Below them, a few hundred feet or so was the surface of a planet. A planet covered in a dark cloud, devoid of light and life. It looked sick, like the planet itself was rotting. It sent a chill down Jack's spine.

"So don't tell me," Jack said, "The Death's Spiral, right?"
quitehomoerotic: (Sad : Sigh)
Follows on from this

When Jack came to he was in a hospital bed. He'd been sedated, or he'd passed out, or... something. Whatever it was, he wasn't where he last remembered being and he didn't like it. He didn't feel in control.

He looked down at himself and he'd been redressed in some sort of hospital scrubs. The dried blood had been cleaned away and he felt somewhere in the general vicinity of healthy. He was hooked up to monitors, heart rate and others he didn't recognise.

The curtain around his bed was drawn closed and he called out, "Hey, do I at least get a hot nurse or something?"
quitehomoerotic: (General : Dying hurts)
It was cold when Jack woke up. There was no blood on his chest, no wound other than a deep pain in his chest. That Lazer screwdriver had been the weapon, and it was a sharp pain, second only to that of the Dalek's extermination. The death had faded but the sting remained.

It had taken him a while to reorientate himself, to recognise the room around him as a section of the underside of the Valiant. He felt the metal around his wrists before he saw it, so cold it seemed damp against his skin. The corners of the shackles were sharp and bit harshly into his skin. But then, he didn't suppose they were built to be comfortable.

He tugged on the chains a little, to test their strength, but they were secured fast to the wall. He'd been put here to stay.

It was amusing at this stage. He didn't intend to be kept. Not when the Doctor might need his help. If he ever had motivation then that was it. He wouldn't let him down, not now.

He had expected that someone would come, that they might try and get information out of him (information that he of course wouldn't give), but nobody did. Nobody came that day and nobody came the day after. The only way he knew night or day was an LCD clock in the corner of the room. No light reached him, everything seemed to fade into one.

It became his focus though, that clock. Because someone would come, that much he knew, and when they did, he'd have something to say.
quitehomoerotic: (Glancing)
Jack waits inside the entrance of the tourist office for the arrival of Torchwood Three's newest employee. This is anything but planned, an invitation on a whim after seeing a spark within the man. Something he can't quite put his finger on, but a spark nonetheless.

He hasn't told his team that they'll be having a new addition. In fact it hasn't even entered his mind to do so. But then he'll excuse himself for that (should he need excusing at all - which of course he doesn't believe he does) by saying it was quite late last night when he had the encounter with Ianto and the pterodactyl, and it is quite early now.

When Jack had returned to the Hub the previous night he'd spent hours re-reading Ianto's personnel file from Torchwood One. Everything from work performance to sickness record. It had to be said, he had quite an impressive track record. It makes him uncomfortable though, even now after he's offered him a job. Ianto is from Torchwood One, and Jack has done all he can to sever that connection. He had many an uncomfortable year under their watchful eye, and he's different, he wants Torchwood to be different. He wants it to be something better. He isn''t sure if that can be done with someone on his team who has Torchwood One's beliefs and values at his core.

He hopes he's made the right decision.
quitehomoerotic: (S3 : Lost inside)
Jack sat in his office, empty and alone. The Hub seemed bigger today. It seemed colder. If he listened he could hear the cold echo of water in the distance, dripping and flowing through pipes and against cold stone. It was late and the city above was sleeping, recharging ready for a new day.

Had the day gone how he'd have expected he'd have likely been with Ianto right now. Perhaps at his flat or here. He wouldn't have been sitting trapped and lost within his own thoughts, staring at a phone on his desk as thought it were about to perform a song and dance routine for him.

He leaned back in his chair, his fingers lightly touching his lips, and he breathed out heavy and long. He'd met a young girl that day, fallen through the rift. It was an easy one. She wasn't hurt or damaged and all he had to do was send her home. But then things never were so simple.

She'd awakened memories in him. Memories of a past and of a woman he tries not to think about. And words echo in his head, "Call her."

So it's with a fistful of courage that he finally picked up the phone and dialed the London number for Mina Harker. And he waited as it rang. Waited to hear her voice.
quitehomoerotic: (Serious : Unsure)
Jack had told himself to stay out of trouble, to stick to the sidelines and not get involved. But that could only last so long. He couldn't sit back and let the world pass by, especially when the world could be so dark. He couldn't just let that happen and not try to do something about it. If he did that, perhaps then he truly would have failed.

So when he began to hear whispers about some goings on on a planet not too far from where he had stationed himself he found that he had to react. Especially when he learned (albeit from a non too reputable source) exactly what was happening.

The planet was a small one and the race a little dull and obscure. Human looking apart from the tendrils that branched out from their faces. Unassuming, and that's how and why they got away with it.

'They were replenishing', the old man in the bar had told Jack. Mining the planet for the ore deep inside. But to do so, of course, they needed a workforce. Something the inhabitants of the planet sadly lacked. So it wasn't just their planet they mined but the dead of another. Earth, to be precise.

'Use these people', he'd said, 'echoes, they call 'em'. Of course it was simple for them. It was technology they'd had for centuries, illegal, of course, but it seemed that didn't stop them. Steal the consciousness of the dead and transport it into a clone body. Use a planet like Earth so it's far enough away not to be noticed and keep it quiet enough to stay out of the radar of the Shadow Proclamation.

So Jack found himself there. Back almost into an old routine, rushing around a planet, exerting an authority that in truth he doesn't have. Just to set people free.


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Captain Jack Harkness

July 2011

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