Ch1: The Captive
Jack's pretty pissed. He's trying hard not to be (because the pretty boy holding him captive is quite charming), but the way that he's locked in a chamber on Torchwood just like the Weevils – he just can't resist being downright pissed.
For the past hour he'd been on the run because of those stupid cops, went through a jet of bluish-white light and now he ended up cornered on his own motherfucking headquarters. Not by the police, of course, just the usual pursuers catching up on him – merely alien luck, more or less. Jack couldn't get more pissed at his current situation.
Surely, gorgeous men like him deserve some human (or alien) rights, too…
Hmm… Maybe?
Just right on cue, a man wearing a black cardigan over a red long-sleeved shirt came in. Much to Jack's surprise, he, too is wearing a long grey military coat. He's the one who caught him a while ago. Six feet flat, tousled ash-blonde hair, tastefully-defined jaw, steep nose, prominent cheekbones, perfect lips and a pair of almond-shaped blue eyes with brooding stare.
His face is strikingly familiar to Jack, and he sure looks stunning, too. And of course, Jack - being undeniably Jack - stared at his keeper seductively.
"Who are you?" The man leaned closer to him and asked him in an unbelievably recognisable (Welsh?) accent.
Well, asking is a mild way of putting it. With Jack's wrists handcuffed behind his chair and his foot bound by a huge rope, it looks more like he's practically drilling Jack for the truth.
Not that Jack minds being drilled in another sense of the word, that is.
"Getting harsh now, are we?" Jack gave the attractive man his smouldering smile while shaking his handcuffed wrists behind his chair. "I appreciate all kinds of foreplay, of course."
"Please stop hitting on me; I won't take your bait." The Welsh accent flowed on continuously, drowning Jack's sane thoughts. "Now let's try that again, shall we?"
"I hate to break it to you, but nobody can resist this jaw line." Jack winked, earning a grave expression from the other. "Captain Jack Harkness, Royal Air Force, 133rd Squadron. And how about you, what's your name, gorgeous?"
"It doesn't need saying." The man's voice was quavering; his eyes never quite met Jack's. Jack could see his keeper's lips tremble while taking notes on a leather-bound notebook.
Jack still couldn't keep his eyes off of the man's face. It's too familiar. He's sure he had seen that face somewhere!
His keeper spoke again, more quiet than usual. "Where are you from? I… I need the approximate, if not exact time, location and date that you last remember before going here."
"20th of July, 2009. Probably around 21:15. I'm running on the tunnels, on my way to Torchwood Three. I was on Planet Earth. Sol 3." Jack recalled the sirens, the running, the bluish-white light, while his mind wandered about something else, something dreadful, something dark and torturous to think about…
"You still are, but I'm afraid this isn't your true world."
Ah, yes. That damn bluish-white burst of light.
The man turned his back swiftly on Jack, whipping a mild yet mouth-watering scent of apples and cinnamon towards Jack's wake. He pressed his comm device. Jack leaned in on the glass door of the vault, hoping to catch a word about what's going on.
"It's him. Captain Jack Harkness." The man whispered dejectedly. He glanced at Jack again and left the vault, his long grey coat flapping wildly as he walked briskly. Jack could've sworn he saw a teardrop falling on the man's steep cheekbones.