Because I refuse to let you kill him, Russell, god dammit.
I don't own any character, idea, or creation of the shows Doctor Who and Torchwood; I only steal them sometimes.
Spoilers for Children Of Earth (and for series one of DW). Any mistakes are all my own, considering I haven't seen CoE or most of series one. So this should be interesting.
This idea came to me recently after a long (and I mean long) hiatus from writing. Mainly due to schoolwork, lack of sleep, and a severe case of writer's block. I promise that my other unfinished story will be completed as soon as the inspiration fairies come to visit me again. Enjoy.
There were times when he was angry. When he felt cheated of his life. Of his death. Of what happened. And of what could have happened.
There were times when he thought that if he just closed his eyes, it never would have happened. He would never have walked into that building. Would never have choked as the gas burned its path down his throat. Into his lungs. Seeped into his bloodstream. That the weight never would have pulled on his eyelids. Dragged him screaming into the dark. That it never would have stolen the pair of them, pulling him down into the shadows along with Jack.
There were times when he was sure that if he could only just wake up. It never would have happened. If he could only open his eyes he never would have given them the children. And never had to pay the price. Never had to lose his grandson. Never had to see the look in his daughter's eyes as she stared at him through that thick pane of glass, hands in fists. The hatred. The utter loathing. The look that screamed: I will never forgive you, as surely as if she had opened her mouth and uttered the words aloud. The look that had haunted him. Followed him across the galaxy in his quest to outrun the past.
But most of the time he just felt tired. Empty. Hollow. Alone. And any other adjective that could be used to describe how a man could possibly feel after losing the very reason for his existence. After losing the one thing that had made him feel so alive, for the first time in over a century. For the first time since the Doctor and Rose had left him alone on that godforsaken satellite. Alone. On a cold hunk of metal orbiting the Earth, forgotten by the all those above and below him. Abandoned by the very person whom he had loved with every fibre of his being.
But that was so long ago. Painful memories of that time lay buried close to Jack's heart. Tucked away from the light of day and from the living. He had thought them forgotten. But in his recent depression, they threatened to resurface.
So long ago.
He had sworn that he would never love another person that much, never again. That he would never let anyone that close to him. So he had built up the walls around his heart, as unsurpassable as any battlement or fortress.
Only to have then knocked down by gentle words, whispered endearments, and the rolling vowels of a suit-wearing-coffee-scented boy with eyes that spoke of the ages. Making him look to have lived more days than his youthful appearance would suggest. A boy, a man who had filled him with so much life, erased the lines from his face, numbed the pain, and made him feel young again. If only for a brief time.
Jack laughed, cold and bitter, as his slammed his now empty shot glass down on the bar in from of him, signalling the tentacled bartender for a refill.
It always seemed to happen to him. He would finally find another reason to live, a purpose in life. Only to have it pulled from his grasp, leaving him torn and bleeding, psychologically if not physically. A seemingly never-ending cycle of comfort and hurt, of bliss and the blistering pain of separation, each time repeated leaving him with deep scars covering those beneath.
His every waking minute (at least those that weren't shrouded by an alcoholic haze) was spent picking through the blurred details of that day. Of what he could have done to prevent the unimaginable. Of what he could have possibly done to save him.
God. He couldn't even speak the name. Couldn't even think it without self-loathing overcoming him and threatening to drag him under. He sometimes hoped that if he blocked the memories of those final moments (of his cold body lying in his arms as he fought against the shadows that pulled on his eyelids, threatening to tear the two of them apart), that he wouldn't remember him that way. A corpse on a cold hard floor in some cold damned room.
Instead of how Jack should remember him. Of how he made Jack feel warm whenever they were in the same room. An old man made young again by the touch of a gentle hand. By a soft kiss in the dark. By the feel of another body lying next to him at night, holding him, and keeping the nightmares at bay.
If only he could take back the last few months. Go back to that crucial moment. And save him. Save . . . Ianto. Flashes of pain flickered through Jack's head at the very thought of the name. Something that happened every time the repressed memory rose. Come to think of it, which was one of the reasons he spent the majority of his time in such places at this. Hopping through the universe from bar to bar, from tavern to tavern. A listless wander through the stars lacking of any real purpose other than an attempt to forget.
Above the dim of the bar, Jack heard light footsteps approaching. Heard the scrape of the stool next to him being pulled back, and a body sliding onto the worn leather of the chair. Jack didn't turn his head.
'One of whatever he's having', he heard the stranger say in a light tenor, obviously indicating to Jack's drink. He's in for a shock, Jack thought with the minute spark of humour he had left to his name.
'One Hypervodka coming up', drawled the bartender in his southern accent (a lot of planets have a south). Jack finally pulled his eyes from the depths of his own drink to glance at the stranger next to him.
The young man had hair so dark a brown it looked almost black in the dullness of the bar lights. It flopped down into his eyes in a pleasant manner, partially obscuring his eyes. In this light Jack couldn't be sure if they were blue or green, or a mixture of the two colours. The stranger's shoulders were covered in a worn tweed coat with elbow patches, under which the collar of a blue pinstriped shirt was visible. Dark jeans sheathed long legs. To top off the unusual outfit, Jack noted the man also wore a bowtie. Haven't seen one of those in couple of thousand light-years, he thought to himself.
Jack had also observed, in some distant corner of his mind, that this was exactly the type of man he would . . . but then again, any such thoughts that ran through his head these days were irrelevant.
When the bartender slammed his drink down on the wood before him, the stranger held it to parted lips, tipped his head back and swallowed the shot, coughing as the alcohol burned it's way down his throat.
'Ughh. Maybe better to ask what you're having next time'. The stranger said in a hoarse voice in between coughs.
Jack only grunted in reply, hoping (in vain) that the man would see he wasn't up to amiable conversation and leave, or at least leave Jack alone. As he suspected, the stranger apparently didn't feel the urge to depart, instead ordering another slightly weaker drink from the barman.
'So, Jack, how've you been', the stranger asked after downing his second beverage.
Those words caused Jack to flinch: 'How do you know my name', he asked the stranger hostilely. 'I don't know you'. And he hadn't used that name since leaving Earth. No one within three star systems should have ever heard of Jack Harkness.
'Oh, sorry', the young man replied, 'new face, I keep forgetting, but then again you've already seen two, so you should find it hard to recognise me'.
Gods, it couldn't be.
'Doctor?'
'Hello Jack'.
Jack returned to staring into his glass, unsure of what to say. Of what he should say. Of what he wanted to say.
'Why are you hear?' he asked the Doctor quietly.
For it was the Doctor, even if it wasn't his Doctor. Or Rose's Doctor. Or Martha's. Or Donna's Doctor. Even if this strange young man sitting next to him, a man who he a thought he had known, who he had loved, and hated in the same breath, who he had dreamed of, cried over, a stranger with a new face, a new voice, was the Doctor, he certainly wasn't the same man he had been all those years ago. He was a stranger. He was new. And he definitely wasn't Jack's Doctor anymore.
'I came to find you as a favour for . . . a friend', the Doctor answered. 'And nice job with the cloaking device by the way, nearly skipped over this planet and landed up in the Veara system'. He paused. 'But I found you in the end'.
Jack didn't reply. An uneasy silence fell between the two of them. Neither sure what to do or say. The Doctor started to speak again:
'Jack, I heard about what happened, I'm – '
'Doctor', interrupted Jack. 'Don't. I don't want your pity'.
He pushed back from the wooden bench, walking out the door of the bar to stand outside under the twin moons of the planet.
'Running again, Jack?' Jack heard the man walk up behind him.
'What else can I do', he replied.
Both knew it wasn't this moment the Doctor was talking about.
So that was fun. We'll find the return of a very special someone within the next few thousand words. Mwah hah hah. Angsty, slightly intoxicated Jack. Fun
Constructive criticism is welcome, but blatant hatred will be ignored.