hey guys! I wrote this a while ago and decided to post it now. PS: I'm having a bit of a block while writing the Stark Twins, but I can update my PJ-ROTG Crossover soon. The Little guys next chapter is also being written...
enjoy!
Jack Harkness released a breath into the air, which was smoky from the powder of debris from Torchwood One's smoldering remains. It was now that a small thread of guilt tied itself into a knot, right where his stomach was. He'd thought so many things about the leader of Torchwood One- she'd always been something of a snob- but now she was dead, as well as most of her workers. Worse, rumor was that she had been converted into a cyberman first. He wouldn't wish that on anybody. London was in a panic, of course, but when were they not? Ever since that spaceship had taken a chunk out of Big Ben...
Well, it seemed everything had just escalated from there.
So now he was here, in London, walking calmly among scurrying throngs of terrified people by what Government officials were calling the location of the Battle of Canary Wharf. They'd put it down as terrorists, gas leaks, something wrong with the ghost shifts...honestly, Jack didn't care WHAT they called it. The only thing that mattered to him was the burning question:
Why hadn't the Doctor stopped it?
He knew that the Doctor couldn't be expected to fix/prevent every little thing, but this...This was a massive scale. Over a hundred people had died. That was the Doctor's MO, right?
Jack picked his way through the rubble, flashing his Torchwood badge occasionally to questioning officials. He knew he must look odd, with his WWII coat and stuff, but he'd stopped caring a long time ago.
BEEP BEEP BEEP!
Jack jumped as his wristband set off the alarm, and he glanced at it. The rift energy levels were high, really, really high. As if...as if the rift had been opened.
Jack thought back to his burning question. Why hadn't the Doctor been here?
Answer: He had been here!
Jack felt something akin to childish joy swell in his chest, and he couldn't fight the grin on his face. Great, he was at a mass grave sight and he was grinning. But it didn't matter! It was the Doctors work. Who else would have known to open the rift, allowing the energy to suck in every last cyberman and dalek into the endless void? Did that mean Rose Tyler was with him? Oh, Jack missed Rose. Not that he was attracted to her like that (It was obvious the doctor had a thing for her) but it was just her brightness, her cheerfulness, the fun nature that was so awfully void at his Torchwood job.
"List of the dead, sir? First copy."
Jack turned to the timid, trembling voice and found a young man, probably an assistant's assistant's intern, tentatively offering him a piece of paper. "Yeah, thanks." He muttered, taking the list. No harm in checking for people he knew or important political or military figures. Frankly, he was more likely to see the latter.
He scanned the list. He didn't know a Gemma Arwell, nor Frank Briars. Not Victor Deeds, or Abacuck Freakins... He vaguely wondered who would name their kid 'Abacuck.' He knew if he said this out loud he'd get a talk about respecting the dead, but maybe you had more respect for the dead when you were also at risk from it.
When Jack got to the S names, something struck a cord. Smith... Mickey Smith. One of the Doctor's other companions. Was he...? Jack combed through the every Smith (Why Smith? Of all names to have, Mickey just needed to have the most common) but didn't see a Mickey. Plenty or Ricks and Davids, though.
He resumed the list. No, he didn't recognize Tara Sylvestry, or Lily Tabace, or Maria Trisk. Jaqueline– his heart leapt horribly in his chest when he saw the surname 'Tyler.' But it was Jaqueline Tyler, not Rose. He still felt bad, though– he's never met the infamous Jackie Tyler, but Rose and the Doctor had described her with varying degrees of enthusiasm. He was sad she was gone. She'd seemed like a great woman. He blinked at the dust that had been blown into his eyes, making them water. If a certain someone was on the list, he thought dryly, then she would be right under–
His heart froze in his chest.
The wind snatched the paper from his numb fingers.
A startled cry wrenched itself from his lips and he dove after it, his fingers skimming the edge of the paper as it was blown just out of reach. He dimly heard the hem of his coat rip as it snagged on a jagged rock, but his mind was occupied by the paper—he had to get the paper–the paper–
Jack scrambled to his feet and stumbled after it, one arm outstretched in vain as it skittered ahead of him. He gave chase, but could only watch helplessly as it tumbled against a tall, black, high-heeled boot. Deft, long fingers picked it up, and he stumbled up to the owner of them, panting, his hands on his knees.
"You're on the run, now aren't ya?" The teasing welsh syllables rang in his ears and he found the strength to look up. A young woman with sparkling brown eyes and a cheerful grin offered the crumpled torn paper to Jack, flicking her dark bangs out of her eyes.
"Thank you," Jack gasped, snatching the paper away and hastily unfolding it. Lily Tabace, Maria Trisk–
It felt as though he was back on Satellite 9, standing there as the Dalek's all shot him in the chest. Except... This was worse, because there was no peace after the pain.
Rose Tyler.
Rose Tyler.
A pained sound, a keening half-wail, was ripped from him again. Horrified at the paper and at himself, his hand slapped over his mouth. The dark-haired girl, who was still near him, whipped around and stared at him. One look and she somehow understood.
"You lost someone." Her voice was quiet.
"Yeah," He choked, unwilling to tell all the pesky details.
"I know how that feels. I'm a police officer; I've lost people before, too. My name's Gwen, by the way."
Jack only gave her a stiff nod, wanting her to leave. Thankfully, a male voice shouted for her and she called back, "Coming, Rhys!" She gave him one gentle smile before dissolving into the crowd.
Rose Tyler.
Jack hadn't loved her. Not romantically, anyway. But he had adored her humor, her intuitiveness, her strength. So how was the sun still shining so cheerily on this doom, on this grave of Rose Tyler?
He fought the urge to sink to his knees as the hammers of grief pounded his gut, his chest, his fractured heart.
His comm beeped. An incoming message.
His shaking hand pressed the button. "Hello?" He croaked.
"Jack?" A familiar voice washed over his ear. "You sound like you just gurgled nails." Pause. "Are you utterly wasted again? Should I call back?"
"No, Owen." His voice sounded like crumpling cellophane. "I–I'm–"
He couldn't say fine.
"Well, when you recover from your imaginary hangover," He hadn't convinced his medic. "Give us a call. Not that you'll remember it, but Tosh detected massive rift energy readings from London she wants you to see, Suzie has this weird alien-tech glove hand thing to show you, and Ianto wants to make you coffee. So get your drunk arse over here."
Jack lost his patience. "Owen, I'm not–" the comm clicked, signaling Owen had hung up.
Jack sighed, almost wishing he would call again to annoy him. Anything was better than this— this agony in his chest.
He thought back to Owen, as cynical as hell. And Toshiko, as quiet as she was brilliant. And Suzie, who always worked with an intensity that scared even Jack. And Ianto, who was alway there for him. His friends. They were his team, back at Torchwood.
He still had something to live for.
Not that he could die.
Jack shook off the cobwebs and zombied over to the nearest bar. He ordered a glass of the finest scotch, and toasted to the amazing Rose Tyler.
So yeah. You like?
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