Tomorrows
Jack was tired, so damned tired. He'd just spent the past seven months crossing the Universe in complete shitholes that had the nerve to call themselves spaceships. On this last one, he'd been forced to share a very small cabin with a trio of very large Taucons, all of which farted and belched continuously in their sleep. The air in that overcrowded room was so rancid that Jack was sure it would eat through the walls and cause a full-blown breach into the deadly cold of space.
Without paying any real attention to his surroundings, Jack stumbled into the first saloon he came across. Going straight to the back, he threw his duffle onto the seat of a booth and slid in beside it. He registered… well, his arse registered the fact that there were no engine vibrations coming through the seat, although it was just as hard and uncomfortable as any seat on a space ship ever could be.
When the barbot registered his presence – a sensor in the booth notified it that a new patron had arrived – Jack ordered a bottle of HyperVodka which the machine set out next a semi-clean glass. It left the moment Jack set the necessary credits on the table; he watched with mild amusement as the barbot literally Hoovered the coins into its metallic body with a small hose.
With a deep sigh, Jack checked the seal on the bottle before he popped the top; the last thing he wanted was to be Shanghai'd thanks to tampered-with alcohol. 'Been there, done that. Never again.' He wiped the glass on his shirt and then filled it to the brim before tossing its contents back in a single gulp. H wasted no time in following that with a second and then a third glassful before bothering to look around.
There wasn't much to see, as far as he as concerned, just a typical at-the-end-of-civilisation bar on yet another non-descript, barely-holding-itself-together space station. 'Funny how the arse end of the Universe looks the same everywhere.' There were the requisite odd bits of paraphernalia mounted on the walls and the ceiling, representing many of the different cultures who either passed through or occupied the station. There was polydust on the floor; on Earth sawdust had been part of the décor in some country-and-western-themed bars, but in this pit, it existed merely to sop up the blood from numerous fights. 'Funny,' Jack thought again, 'how many aliens have green blood.' Different shades of green to be sure,but usually only humans and those hybrids with more human than alien in them had the bright red blood that the immortal was so sick of seeing shed needlessly.
All of them currently occupied, a line of stools in various configurations to accommodate various body shapes and sizes stood in front of a scarred polywood bar.
There were no trees in this sector of space and according to an oft-told story, in an attempt to impress the occasional dignitary who passed through the station or the corporate investor who wanted to see where and how their money was being spent, a single plank of actual wood had been imported from the Forests of Cheem. It was actually intended to be a money-making curiosity but in the end, the venture bankrupted the mining company due to constantly escalating costs during transit. Whatever happened to that piece of wood became the stuff of rumours, myths and conspiracy theories as it never arrived at the space station.
The mining company which had been responsible for constructing the station for the housing and use of their employees had developed the formula for polywood long ago but they had failed to recognise its fortune-making potential. Rumour had it that during its construction and in the very early days of the space station, components of the polywood compound included the bones of dead workers, deceased station visitors, eliminated trouble-makers, and even a few 'paid-for' removals which were mixed in with most of the station-generated bodily waste, both human and alien, and the garbage from all the shops and pubs. This 'improved' formula was found to be cheap, sturdy and extraordinarily durable. As a result, pretty much all the interior of the station was made of polywood.
In the days of Earth's old west, during the gold and silver booms, mining companies would build towns to house their workers, complete with overpriced stores, saloons, often crooked gambling dens and always ladies of the evening. In its prime, space station G7-M6 Alpha had been no different. By the time Jack Harkness arrived the station was pretty much a wasteland, with most of the stores boarded up, the bars and casinos almost deserted while the ladies of easy virtue were non-existent.
The lighting in the place was subdued as befitted a lonely bar where even lonelier people sought to preserve their anonymity. Jack counted nearly two dozen booths like the one he sat in, plus there were another twenty or so small tables scattered about the floor for those wanting to see and be seen.
On the side wall to Jack's left was a small stage where a foursome of Wiloksai were caterwauling away, but to his great relief they wound up their noise, packed their gear and departed. He waited a few minutes to see who or what would show up to replace them but the stage remained dark. It didn't bother him, Jack was used to the silence of space.
He tossed back another glass of HyperVodka, refilled the glass and looked at the bottle before him, contemplating its contents, computing how long they would last and wondering if he should go ahead and get another one now or wait a while. He'd just decided to see how he felt when he'd finished his first bottle when the strains of an old song reached his ears.
"Busted flat in Baton Rouge, waiting for the train, feeling near as faded as my jeans…"
Jack frowned. He knew the song, he was sure he did. He vaguely remembered it from a long time ago. 'The singer was raspy, sounded like she'd swallowed broken glass at some point.' But as hard as he tried, Jack's exhausted brain couldn't make the connection, so he gave up, emptied and refilled his glass and then he flagged down the barbot again. He looked to the stage but it was still empty so he turned his attention to the bar patrons around him but none of them were singing. He finally decided that the music must be coming from thin air which meant it wasn't as important as his consumption of HyperVodka.
'Sleep. I just need sleep.' He gulped down the glassful, poured another drink, and then looked back and forth between the glass and the nearly empty bottle. He shrugged his shoulders and upended the bottle, chugging its remaining contents, feeling the white-hot burn travel down his throat his belly. He slammed the empty down on the tabletop at the same moment the barbot arrived.
"Pufec' timin'," Jack slurred as he dug a few more credits from his pocket and slapped then down, grinning like an idiot as the little hose shot out from its slot and the coins disappeared. He waved the new bottle at the barbot. "Dun be such a strangle now," he cheerfully admonished the machine's back as it headed off to serve a three-armed Chaut that was frantically waving all three of its appendages.
"Freedom's just another word for nothing left to lose, nothin' ain't worth nothin' but it's free…"
It took a few moments for the lyrics to penetrate Jack's alcohol-befuddled brain but when they did, Jack giggled into his glass and then raised it towards the ceiling in salute. "Gesh they ne'er heard a pay-as-you-go!" he laughed, referring to his latest mode of travel.
Jack Harkness was an enormously wealthy man. As both a favoured and subsequently disgraced rogue Time Agent, he'd put away a small fortune legally and illegally gained. Later he'd drawn but spent very little of an excellent salary during his tenure as head of Torchwood Three, Cardiff. He had hidden caches of universally accepted credits, as well as other alien currencies that could be exchanged for credits. He had the universal equivalent of safety deposit boxes secured away in and on various planets, moons and space stations; each held a fortune in rare gems and minerals… and even a few 'long lost' art treasures.
There was no need for Jack to be travelling in what was basically hobo-style, trading rides for labour aboard space ships. He could have travelled first class everywhere he went without putting a dent in his money; he just didn't believe he deserved to, not after the disaster he'd created and then run from back on Earth. In his own unusual way, Jack Harkness was doing penance, paying for the loss of Toshiko Sato, Doctor Owen Harper, his grandson Stephen and his beloved Welshman, Ianto Jones.
He tilted the new bottle over his glass and frowned deeply when nothing came out. 'Didn' you jus' ordereded a new bluttle?' He tried again to no avail.
'I tho' you did toooo,' his little voice told him, 'Di' you drik…'
He hiccupped loudly, shushed himself with a finger to his lips, and then he giggled like a schoolgirl for a moment. 'Di' you drik… no, I mean drik… ah, hell, is't all gun bye-bye?'
Pulling it close to his face, Jack squinted, peering at the offending the bottle. It was a slow process, but it finally occurred to him that there really was liquid still inside. He turned the bottle upside down and shook it, but nothing happened, so he helpfully banged on its bottom like he'd seen people in pubs do to ketchup bottles, and he got the same results as before. Nothing came out.
Perplexed and pissed off, to say nothing of being just plain pissed, Jack reached out and grabbed a passing barbot, dragging it against the table. "I just sol' you a deflective…" He giggled. "You gaf me a deflective…" The very small, still sober part of his brain finally kicked in just enough to think that that sounded odd, so he tried again. "A dejected bo'le." Satisfied that he'd gotten it right the third time around, Jack nodded his head vigorously but when his brain sloshed painfully in his skull he quickly stopped.
Had the barbot been capable of the action it would have been rolling its eyes a mile a minute at Jack's drunken stupidity. Instead it merely reached out, uncorked the bottle, set it back down carefully and rolled away, leaving a very happy drunk behind.
Jack was halfway through the second bottle and in the process of filling his glass yet again when another refrain of the song came to him from across the room.
"I'd trade all of my tomorrows for one single yesterday…"
The words hit Jack like a runaway space freighter, driving a razor-sharp blade into his heart. To make matters even worse, they sobered him immediately and completely. Against his will, Jack's mind completed the refrain for him: '…holding Ianto's body next to mine…'
The pain was so severe that Jack doubled over and for a moment it seemed as though all the HyperVodka he'd consumed was going to come spewing up in a spectacular mess. It took everything he had to straighten up but he finally managed it; sitting upright again he drained his glass, corked the bottle and tucked it into his duffle. It was time to go.
Like a vicious living animal, the pain in his chest continued to grow, getting to the point where Jack could barely breath.
'All of my tomorrows…'
Each word stabbed at him like a red-hot poker. 'I have dozens, thousands, billions of tomorrows ahead of me,' Jack thought morosely. 'I would give every single one of them to spend one more night in Ianto's arms.'
Dear, sweet, loving, beautiful Ianto. Jack's mind was flooded with memories and images of his beloved Welshman. Wearing his cute site. Wearing his birthday suit. Making coffee, serving coffee, drinking coffee. In the kitchen, in the SUV, in the Hub, in the Archives. Sleeping with Ianto, showering with Ianto, making love with Ianto, even having a quickie in his office with Ianto.
The erotic, exotic scent of Ianto, the soul-stirring sounds of Welsh vowels spoken by Ianto, the sensation of Ianto's hand caressing his face. The feeling of safety when being held in Ianto's arms, the sense of contentment while helping Ianto make breakfast, the pure love found in watching Ianto sleep.
It was all too much for the immortal and tears – fat, hot and wet – began coursing their way down Jack's cheeks to plop wetly onto the discoloured tabletop. Each droplet acted like a miniature prism, magnifying and altering the stains beneath.
It suddenly occurred to Jack that the bottle he'd placed in his duffle, while still about half full, wasn't going to be enough. He dug around in the inner pockets of his greatcoat – suddenly the ghostly sensation of Ianto settling the coat on his shoulders and smoothing the sleeves sent shivers down Jack's spine – and he pulled out all the credits he could easily find. He jingled the coins in his hand for a moment in contemplation then shrugged and looked around a barbot.
It took several minutes for one to reach his table, having stopped again and again to serve other demanding patrons along the way. Jack watched its slow progress with growing impatience. He just wanted to buy his booze so he could crawl into a dark corner and if he was really lucky, drink himself to death.
After what felt like an eternity to the impatient man, the barbot was finally at Jack's table. He slapped the handful of coins down and demanded, "How many bottles of HyperVodka will this buy me?"
Without making a sound, the barbot Hoovered up the credits and dispensed four bottles into Jack's waiting hands. It rolled away as he began stuffing the alcohol into his duffle, nestling them amongst his clothes to cushion them from one another. After a quick glance around to make sure he'd be leaving nothing behind, Jack slid from the booth and hefted his bag onto his shoulder. Within moments he was back on the space station's main thoroughfare, looking around for the nearest and cheapest flophouse.
In the olden days, his glory days as a conman, Jack Harkness would have sauntered into a hotel lobby, grinning from ear to ear, flirting with everything and everyone as he swaggered his way towards the reception desk.
'Why be so perfect and successful if you're not going to show it off?' had once been his motto.
He'd often sought out the most expensive or luxurious hotel in which to stay. Appearances could mean everything when running a con and after a successful end to one, Jack enjoyed the pampering and subservience so readily and easily available from staff when it was obvious that a big tip would be forthcoming.
Today however, Jack wanted his surroundings to match his mood – lonely, desolate and miserable. As he looked down the street all he could see were neon lights brightly flashing out 'WELCOME' in numerous alien languages. It was all much, much too cheerful for Jack's tastes so he turned down the nearest side street and soon found just what he was looking for: an old-fashioned flophouse. There was no neon to be seen; in fact, half the lightbulbs had burned out ages ago and no-one cared enough to even notice them much less replace them. Up and down the street trash bins were set on the sidewalk, each surrounded with overflowing bags and boxes of noxiously aromatic contents, and Jack counted three… no, make that four drunks sleeping it off in the gutters or in the doorways of abandoned businesses.
Pushing through the saloon-style double doors, Jack entered a lobby just as decrepit as the alleyway he'd just left. Other than one bare bulb above the check-in desk, the only illumination was provided by the watery pseudo-sunshine coming from lights inside the wall of the building. It was the space station's feeble attempt at providing its residents and visitors with some semblance of being planet-side while at the same timed trying to save a few credits on the power supply.
Dropping his duffle at his feet, Jack banged on the countertop. It took a couple of tries before a head appeared from beneath counter level and one eye looked at Jack while the other rolled around loosely in its socket. Jack stood quietly for several moments, waiting for the rest of the clerk to appear. Finally, when there was no body forthcoming, he shrugged.
"One room, one night," he dropped three credits on the dirty counter. "No visitors, no noise…" he added two more credits to the pile, "and make sure it has clean sheets and plenty of hot water." Three more credits clattered onto the counter.
The disembodied head floated backwards to an old-fashioned key rack complete with little cubbies in which to place messages for guests. A tiny appendage popped out from the head's left side, snagged a metal key and then dropped it on the counter next to the credits which were quickly scooped up by the hand and then it all disappeared into the head.
At any other time, Jack would have been highly intrigued by a floating head and there would have been innuendo aplenty flying about but those days were far behind him, lost in the depths of his sadness.
After taking the key, giving a quick glance at a badly scrawled map of the hotel, and grabbing his duffle, Jack walked up a flight of narrow stairs and headed towards the back of the hotel. The hall was dingy as befitted everything else he'd seen so far. Mentally he shrugged; all he could hope for were some passably clean sheets and a bit of hot water. What else could he possibly deserve?
The plasticine window on the rear wall looked out on the back garden; maybe at one time it had held living things but now it was just a sea of fetid garbage. His room was the last door on the left and offered nothing in the way of amenities. It was a square box roughly eight-by-eight in size containing polywood bed and a sink/toilet combo designed like the stools in the bar to accommodate all shapes and sizes and that was it. There was nothing else.
Period.
With a weary sigh, Jack dropped the duffle on the floor by the head of the bed, making sure it was in easy reach before shrugging off his great coat and hanging it on the peg on the back of the door. Without bothering to remove his boots, he sat down, leaning against the wall – there was no headboard – and immediately reached into the bag for one of the bottles of HyperVodka. As he pulled the cork and took the first long swig he sent a silent thank-you to his former partner, John Hart – whereabouts unknown, maybe prison but probably dead – for introducing him to the drink when they were at the Time Agency Academy. John was a few years older than Jack and well-versed in the ways of the Universe. He'd taken the naive albeit eager-to-learn boy from Boeshane under his wing and had done his level best to turn him into a man.
Raising the bottle in a quick and silent salute, Jack took another long drink.
"I'd trade all of my tomorrows for one single yesterday…"
Jack took yet another long pull on the HyperVodka bottle, emptying nearly half its contents in one go. The words that kept repeating in his head burned hotter and deeper than the alcohol ever could. Tears sprang to Jack's eyes and a sudden lump in his throat made it difficult to swallow.
"Oh, Ianto…" Jack could feel the tears overflow to begin sliding down his cheeks. He upturned the bottle and emptied it, desperate to stop his train of thought before they took him into the black abyss that was now his soul. When the bottle was empty, he looked at it for a moment and then with great frustration he threw it against the wall, taking no pleasure when the thin glass-like material shattered. Nor did he pay any mind to the sound of a fist pounding from the other side of that same wall.
Nothing mattered anymore.
He reached into the duffle and withdrew a second bottle but instead of opening this one he clutched it to his chest as he slid down to lie curled up in a ball. It was too late now, memories began to flood his mind and no matter how hard Jack tried to block them, images of Ianto Jones were taking over.
For a brief moment Jack's hand drifted to his trusty Webley, still riding on his hip, as reliable and faithful as an old dog, but he stopped short of pulling it from its holster. Bullets were a precious commodity in this sector of pace and his stock was running at bit low at the moment. Truth was he'd run through nearly a dozen about two months into his journey… his escape… when his memories had simply overwhelmed him.
He'd been on a small moon in the Kaplan Orbit and over a period of several days, Jack Harkness had repeatedly shot himself in the head. Each time he'd pressed the muzzle of his gun to his temple he'd prayed to every known deity in the Universe and beyond that he wouldn't recover, that he wouldn't wake up to the strangulating, mind-numbing pain of knowing he'd lost his beloved Welshman… 'please, let me die… please let me be with Ianto…'
It never worked.
Jack's tears turned into great heaving sobs and he turned his face to the pillow to bury the sounds of a broken heart. But it was no use, the more he tried to force the thoughts and images of his past back where he thought they belonged, the more clear and alive they became.
Without warning a shriek of pure, absolute agony ripped its way painfully from Jack's throat, echoing in the tiny space. It was answered by a fist pounding on the wall again, followed by a string of unintelligible sounds in an alien language.
Again and again Jack screamed into his pillow, the sounds lessening in volume as they tried to get through flesh already burned raw from more than half a gallon of HyperVodka.
Finally spent, Jack rolled over onto his back, clutching his tear-soaked pillow to his chest. Trembling fingers gently stroked it as he whispered variations on the same words over and over again.
"Ianto, I'm sorry!"
'…freedom ain't worth nothing…'
"I'm sorry, Ianto…"
'…trade all of my tomorrows…'
"I'm so sorry…"
'…holding Ianto's body close to mine…'
"I love you, Ianto Jones."
The repetitions were like a mediation and soon Jack turned onto his side once more, falling into an uneasy sleep, broken occasionally by a soft whimper, a deep sigh or a whispered word.
Unseen by Jack, a trim figure with blue eyes, a button nose and wearing a three-piece suit lay down behind Jack, curling itself around the immortal man's back. It tucked one arm under Jack's neck, cradling his head, and slipped the other under Jack's arm and across his chest hugging him closer.
"Ianto…" Jack breathed out.
The Welshman tightened his grip on his beloved Captain. "Sleep, Jack," he whispered, "I'm here. I'm always here."
End