This is part one of a two-shot I've planned out - pretty much, a worst-case scenario of Jack's reaction to Ianto's death, (which isn't to say I'll never write an AU or something; I've never really accepted the events of CoE myself...). A companion piece to my friend's and my new series of one-shots, "Captain Jack's Diary".
p.s. ...don't own Torchwood. If I did, Ianto would be not only alive, but probably immortal. *sighs*
Hope you enjoy! :)
The children of a dozen planets grew up with the stories.
They say, on dark nights, you can find him in the slums, on the worst streets, in the corners of the filthy drinkhouses. They say that he has sat there every night, for thousands of years, as worlds have built up around him – always a different hovel, as they change with the revolving decades. But he is always there, always drowned in unspeakable sorrow. He is never asked for payment, but he always leaves something, thrown on the table as he stumbles out just before the sun comes up, and vanishes into the early morning shadows. He never speaks, but rots his throat with drink; never smiles, but his eyes are hard and dry. They say he is a ghost, who has lost something, or someone, and can never rest until he finds it again.
They're not far off the mark.
The night was as dark as my broken promises.
I'd forgotten these Earth nights, when the single moon shudders in the sky, and a harsh wind snaps the gaudy awnings of the shops. I have been so far away, for so long – so many lifetimes. I have died so many times, by my own hand, and by others', and each time he is there, just out of reach, peaceful the way I can never be.
I have seen civilizations rise and crumble into dust, brushed the dirt of a dozen planets, drunk myself into unreachable oblivion so many times that I have forgotten who I am. No one knows me – I have not touched another creature in so long, I have forgotten how flesh feels; forgotten the urges that used to drive me.
What would the people of my past think if they could see me now? I am not Jack Harkness. I am no one.
I told her I would not come back – I ran away, for one the weaker one, I ran so far away, and tried not to look back. It took me too long to realize that I had never looked forwards, not really.
The night air is so strange and cold on my face – it flaps my tattered coat out behind me. My boots whisper on the pavement, and the torrential rain has driven away all the humans, forced them into their bright, safe homes.
I have no home. The rain soaks me to the skin.
Where am I going? It does not seem to matter very much. I am here to prove to myself that I all that I was is gone; that I lied – I said I would not return, and here I am. Jack Harkness would not break a promise. Each step I take is vindictive – I will not let myself close my eyes against the tearing wind, or button my coat against the rain. The voices that echo around the inside of my head, proving with each moment that I am no longer sane, as if I needed voices to tell me that, whisper bitterly in my mind. What right have you to be warm, to be comfortable? What right have you to be happy? Head down, I stride through the gale.
I used to believe that I could not die, but now I realize that I've never truly lived. I am cursed, and I deserve it, for not even trying, for not saving him when I had the chance. Jack Harkness let him die.
Gwen is here, somewhere in this city – so strange to think of her, alive and well, amidst her family, beyond one of these glowing windows. I will not go and see her. Let her imagine Jack Harkness as he was, not confront her with the loathsome reality.
I am not surprised to find myself here, though I had not realized where my feet were leading me. The sound of screeching meal as I drag up the corrugated door echoes harshly along the deserted street. The sounds of the storm abate as I lock myself inside, and follow my dulled instincts to the switch I know is on the far wall. Strange, after so many years, that there are some things you remember so well.
The pain is worse than I expected, as the blinding white lights flicker on overhead, illuminating in stark detail the bare concrete floor; the plain, unlabeled boxes stacked against the walls. A sob rises to my throat as I sink to the floor, and I cannot move from there for many minutes, weakened by grief and drink. At last I stand, and slowly pry the duct tape off the top of the nearest box. It is not even dusty – how long has it been? I wonder, dully, if Gwen has had her child yet.
The box is filled with clothes – starched shirts, folded perfectly. I lift one to my face and breathe in his scent reverently, holding it away again so that my tears won't stain it. He would never have liked that. At last, I lay the shirt down, folding it as best I can with shaking hands, and move on to the next box.
The light flicker and hum as I kneel there – this one is photographs. There are none of us – I remember refusing, laughing, as Tosh lifted her camera; making some joke. I thought I was so attractive, so invincible. I hate Jack Harkness.
There are other pictures, though – he sister, and his father, who looks stern – I remember with a pang how I thought he lied about his father; how maybe I never truly knew him at all – and then, there is Lisa, him and Lisa, the girl I murdered when she lost her humanity. How did he forgive me for that? Could he have felt then as I do now? They are so happy, laughing together in a park – his arms are around Lisa's waist, and she is smiling at the camera, while he is gazing at her in what can only be termed adoration. For once, I am not jealous, only sorry, so sorry for what is to come.
The next box is full of papers. Old magazines, bills, newsletters – I am going to drop the lid when I notice it: a few folded papers beneath a sheaf of receipts, distinctive for the neat handwriting that densely transverses the paper.
I know that handwriting.
I take up the papers incuriously, thinking only to touch them; feel the ghost of his hand guiding the pen. My name – the name I have rejected, out-grown, scorned, but still, my name, catches my eye, and forgetting the cold, forgetting the damp, forgetting even that this letter is no longer addressed to me, but to the man I had been, the man who had been broken so long ago, I begin to read Ianto's last letter.
...to be continued, obviously. I'll update very soon, so please check back! Now, all that remains is for you to make my day by leaving a review... :)