Title: Alone
Authors: Gillian Taylor
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Jack Harkness
Summary: "We're born alone, we live alone, we die alone. Only through our love and friendship can we create the illusion for the moment that we're not alone." - Orson Welles
Spoilers: PotW, Doomsday, a bit of Torchwood
Disclaimer: Don't own them. I just like playing with them...a lot.
Archive: Sure, just let me know.

A/N: Thanks, as always, to my betas WMR & JulieS. This was sort-of inspired by Dave7's (on Teaspoon) drabble Giving Life.

Alone
by Gillian Taylor

He watches the TARDIS disappear out of his life, leaving him alone on a station surrounded by death.

This is abandonment squared, only a part of him has been taken in the process. First the Time Agency stole his memories, now the Doctor has stolen his soul.

He curses himself for a fool. He let himself believe that this time would be different. They had plenty of chances to leave him behind, but they didn't. Not until he found himself shot by a Dalek, perhaps even killed, and now he's alive and alone.

Stupid, really, to let himself feel again. It's easier to be a conman. Hide his thoughts and emotions behind a carefully crafted mask. That mask is gone now. Only grief remains. He thought the Doctor was different, but he isn't, is he? Same as all the rest. Strung him along, left him behind.

He's not the conman. The Doctor is.

His hands clench into fists as he turns from the spot where the TARDIS once stood. He's a survivor. Always has been, always will be. And now that's his duty. To survive. A traitorous part of him hopes against hope that the Doctor will return. A second, ten seconds, a minute, an hour, a day later. The Time Lord might realise what he's done, might come back, say he's sorry, and tell him to come home.

He scavenges the station, looking for anyone else who might be alive – there isn't – and those necessities he'll need to survive. When he finally takes stock of what he has and doesn't have, he realises that it isn't enough to last three days. Not enough water, not enough food, not enough anything.

He doesn't even have a means of contacting Earth. The comms circuits were destroyed in the first Dalek incursion, not to mention the antennae on the outside of the station. He couldn't even request a rescue shuttle, anything. Nor does he have all the bits he needs to make the extrapolator work to surf his way out of here. He's abandoned and alone with no way out. What a way to go.

The Daleks were thorough before the Doctor did whatever it is that he did to destroy them. The Big Brother levels are gone, open to space, confining him to the upper levels of the station. There's nothing here. No life, only death.

He manages to stretch his resources to five days, but after that he realises that he's going to die. Pointlessly. Uselessly. He should've died when that Dalek shot him, he thinks. Then he wouldn't have to live through this.

He always was a coward.

It's almost a relief when the hunger pangs disappear, leaving in their wake a dull ache behind his eyes. It's even better when he realises that finding water isn't necessary any more. It's all gone. Nothing's left.

So he finds the nearest porthole and settles himself before it, knowing that it's only a matter of time now. He might as well watch Earth spin beneath him and let his memories alternately tease and console him as he slips away.

It starts to get harder to breathe, to even focus on the stars, or his hand. This is death, he thinks, and closes his eyes.

If he has one regret it's this. He never got to say 'thank you' to the Doctor, to Rose, for giving him a chance. They might've abandoned him, but now he's abandoning them. Turnabout's fair play, right?

Hard to think now. Starvation's not on his top ten list of ways to go, but it's not a choice, is it?

It's fact. He gives up, lets himself drift away…

Only to find nothing waiting for him. No afterlife – he remembers light, golden light, after the Dalek – just darkness. A darkness he realises that's punctuated by a reddish-hued light filtered through his eyelids.

He's alive. Alive? How? And he feels fine.

Not hungry, not thirsty, not anything. Just…fine. When he cracks open an eye, he looks at his hands. The bruises from that one brief exposure to vacuum are gone. He looks healthy. Feels healthy.

The other eye opens and he stares down at himself. No sign of starvation. No sign of anything untoward. Just him.

He's alive.

"Oh my god," he whispers, staring at his hands in a mixture of shock and disbelief. Is this to be his existence now? To die over and over again, but not really go? To suffer, die, and live it all over again in a never-ending cycle?

"What the hell did he do to me?" he shouts, hearing his voice echo in the empty expanse of the station.

There is no answer. But how could there be? He's alone. Alone and condemned to not-die, just experience it ad nauseum. Death'd be a relief right about now. But he suspects this is his life now. He dies, then comes back. The amazing resurrecting Jack Harkness.

"Should have cards made," he mutters, pinching the bridge of his nose. It adds another flavour to his current predicament. Maybe he can get to the escape shuttles on the lower levels now. If he can't die, exposure to vacuum shouldn't be a problem. Though there is the matter of explosive decompression. That might be an issue.

Would he still live if he were vaporised? Are there limits to this new-found immortality?

Does he really want to die? The answer depends. He is glad that he gave his life for the Doctor, giving him those extra few seconds to do whatever it was that he was going to do. But he didn't give his life, did he? Then it was starvation. But he didn't die even then.

What's going to happen next? Death by vacuum? Death by gunshot, blaster, knife, falling object? Does it matter? Will he live through it all?

"Damnit," he mutters, running a hand through his hair. There's got to be something he can do. Not to die – he needs to see the Doctor first, confront him, ask him what the hell he's done – but to live. He could always go back to Earth, back into the past, wait for the Doctor to show up in twenty-first century Cardiff on one of his refuelling runs.

Yes. That's exactly what he'll do.

Question is, how? He could always go back to the extrapolator – especially since it seems time isn't an issue for him anymore. Just need to find the rest of the bits he needs, jury-rig something together, grab a spacesuit and ride his way down to Earth. From there, well, Time Agents tend to pop by now and then. It'll be child's play to con his way into their ship, if not out of said ship, and take it and himself back to Cardiff.

It's a plan. So he does just that.

Cardiff, the year 2000.

This isn't exactly what he planned, but the ship he liberated from the Time Agents wasn't in the best condition. Probably had something to do with the blaster bolts that hit the temporal engines, but at least he's made it.

A few years' wait isn't too bad. He just needs to be careful that he doesn't run into himself. But he won't have to worry about that until 2006. It'll also give him the chance to figure out what to say to the Doctor when he finds him. Somehow 'Hey, Doc, remember me? The one you abandoned on the Game Station? Guess what, I can't die' doesn't seem to be the best method of confronting the Time Lord.

Besides, how can he be certain that he would be meeting the Doctor at the right point in time? If the Doctor hasn't met him yet, saying hello might change history. That'd be the height of stupidity. Not to mention breaking one of the most important rules in time travel.

So he'll wait. Keep an eye on the Millennium Centre, and figure out something to do to entertain himself. He needs a place to sleep – the ship isn't in the best of shape, and he doesn't fancy lingering in case a few irate Time Agents track him here. Need a change of clothes, of course. But that's simple.

He left an account open when he was last in England. Made sure that his "descendents" could access it no matter what apparently happened to him. Should have a nice sum to keep him comfortable for a bit. Probably for a few years, if he stretches it. He'll just have to lie low for a while, keep an eye out for agents, and keep out of the way of the locals.

Might be a boring few years, but it's worth it for the sake of imagining the Doctor's face when he finally encounters him again. When he gets the chance, he likes trying to determine just what he'll do. He isn't certain if a snog or a punch would be in order. Maybe both.

He's distracted enough that he misses their arrival, instead thinking of the Doctor and possibly tossing his drink in his face if he shows. But the newcomers aren't the ones he's looking for. Not that he minds the dark, special agent look, but when the brooding expression isn't worn by a certain leather-clad Time Lord, he's not interested. They, however, are very interested in him.

He's hauled away, despite his protests. Brought into some shop-like mock-up and hauled down a corridor into the grungiest of grungy offices he's ever seen. "Mind telling me why you interrupted my lunch? They've got the best..."

"Shut it," one of the agents snaps as he's thrown into a small cell. "We ask the questions here."

"Oh, kink. I like it," he replies, waggling an eyebrow. "Is this the part where you bring out the old-fashioned torture equipment?"

The agent ignores him. "My name's Greg Thompson, Mister Harkness."

He doesn't let his surprise show. Clever people, finding out his name. Then again, shouldn't be too hard. It's not like he's tried to hide his name. He's just visiting. "Nice to meet you, Greg. Mind telling me why you decided we have to meet? Can't say the American Embassy'd be too thrilled that one of their citizens was hauled in for questioning without even hearing his rights."

"Cut the crap, Harkness," Thompson replies. "We both know you're not an American. You're not even from around here."

He smiles. "How do you know? I could be from just down the block."

Greg tosses him a bulky manila envelope and, once he opens it, he fights the urge to blanch. The first few glossy photos are of the ship he arrived in. The next few are of him, stretched over the past week. "Stalking now, too? I'm touched."

"Who are you, Harkness?" Greg asks.

"I'm just passing through," he replies, folding his arms before him and doing his best to appear unconcerned. He blatantly looks at the man, really looks at him, and does a slow sweep with his gaze that has, in the past, made lesser men tremble. "Though I could be persuaded to hang around for a while. See the sights, if you know what I mean."

Greg flushed slightly, just enough to make him give himself a mental congratulations. "That's a lie. Who are you? What do you want here? Why are you here? And, above all else, are you alien?"

He snorts. "Greg, mind if I call you Greg? Anyway, Greg, everyone's alien. You're alien, your buddy outside those doors is alien, hell the waitress at the coffee shop's an alien. Everyone's an alien to somebody else. As for why I'm here, I just told you. I'm passing through."

"No-one passes through Cardiff, Mister Harkness."

"No? Shame. Lovely town, nice people, great sights. And call me Jack. Mister Harkness is too formal, even for me." He lets a slow smile cross his face, stretching muscles that he hasn't used in what feels like centuries.

He seems to have frustrated the agent. Good. "Don't you realise just how much trouble you're in, Jack? If you're not an alien, you at least don't belong here. So you're going to tell me the truth."

"I am?" he asks innocently. "So, say, I told you that I'm a time traveller from the future who decided to pop by the world's best intergalactic refuelling station, you'd actually believe me?" Might not be the best of ideas to tell a version of the truth, but what can it hurt?

"No. Not without proof," Greg replies and he rolls his eyes.

"You want me to prove that I'm from the future. By what? Telling you what numbers to pick for the next lottery draw? Telling you that you're going to die tomorrow?" His smile turns to a grin when he notices the agent's flinch. "That's just stupidity talking. You might want to send someone else in, Greg. Someone with a bit more experience. So why don't you tell me who you are, and why you're dragging in innocent civilians into your little underground bunker?"

"Torchwood," Greg says and now it's his turn to flinch.

"I'm not a threat to the United Kingdom," he replies softly. "If I could, I wouldn't even be here." He'd be dead.

"That's not up to you to decide, Jack. And, until we do figure that out, you're in for a long stay." Greg nods and turns, leaving him in the cell. Probably to contemplate his future – not that he doesn't already know what it holds.

"Hey! What about getting me some dinner? Some water? Even a magazine?" he calls out after Greg, but the agent doesn't answer.

And, once again, he's left alone.

Once upon a time, he would've hated this. Hated being left alone, in an unfamiliar place, without a friend in sight. He figures that he'd better get used to it, really. Since that's how it's probably going to be for the rest of his life. The rest of what seems to be like his very, very long life.

Looking back, he doubts that he would've ever thought that he'd find himself here. Leading Torchwood Cardiff. Fighting the good fight. Protecting the Earth. If anything, it's something to do while he waits for the Doctor to show up, sheltered from the trivial concerns of humanity.

He doesn't think himself to be human anymore. He still flirts, still enjoys a shag now and then, but it's not the same. How can it be? He's no longer mortal. Maybe this is why the Doctor never took the chance with Rose. She'd die before long. A blink of an eye to a Time Lord – and, perhaps, to him as well. And then the Doctor'd have to live with that. Live on without her.

Hell, seeing his people die is hard enough. Some he's even been able to call friends, but none of them really know him. How could they? He's an enigma, a curiosity. He's seen things no-one on Earth has ever seen, at least not yet.

So he withdraws from the others, maintains his distance. They have lives outside work, whereas his life is here. Until that fateful day when he gets the chance to give a certain Time Lord a piece of his mind.

He knows the Doctor's different now. A little younger, a lot more hair, and wears a suit. Only thing that hasn't changed is Rose. The one image he has of them both is from CCTV on Christmas Day, 2006. But that's not all he has of them.

He steals a glance at the one object in Torchwood that is his. At least, he considers it his despite the paperwork to the contrary. The Doctor, it seems, lost a hand and regained it.

Now that discarded hand is his. He wonders, now, if the same would happen to him. If he loses a hand somehow, someway, would it grow back? It's a reminder, at least. Of the Doctor and what immortality could mean.

Despite that, despite everything, he hopes that the Doctor will visit Cardiff soon. There are some things he needs to know about Torchwood, about its directives, and especially about the fanatic running the London office. Careful and the Doctor never went hand-in-hand, but this time he hopes it will.

He's heard rumours of what's being worked on in London, of a possible breach in the space-time continuum, and even talk of an unlimited energy source. However, though he's a branch leader, they're still sceptical of him and his goals. He knows little to nothing about what the other branches do, and that worries him.

If Yvonne Hartmann gets her hands on the Doctor, he'll never know. He won't be able to help. Much as he wants to throttle the Time Lord for abandoning him, he can't let Yvonne win. Not the Doctor, not the TARDIS, and not Rose.

So he keeps his eyes open and listens to what rumours the others spread about the office. When he hears about the Ghost Shift, a feeling of unease worms its way through his stomach. Something's coming, he knows, and it's something bad.

And, knowing the Doctor, he'll be right in the middle of it.

In the aftermath, after the Cybermen are defeated, the world saved, and Torchwood is working on the clean-up effort in Cardiff, he looks through the lists of the dead, unable to spare himself the pain he suspects – no, knows – is coming. When he reaches the T's, he slows down, letting the names blur together until he finds what he's feared.

Jacqueline Tyler – Powell Estates
Rose Tyler – Powell Estates

She's dead. After everything she's been through. After travelling with the Doctor – with him – it takes a Cyberman to destroy her. There goes his hope that he'd be able to find her, to ask her if she could contact the Doctor, to see if she's okay.

She's not. Rose Tyler is dead.

He barely feels the tears when they start, instead concentrating on crumpling the paper that declared her fate in heartless black and white.

She's dead and his hope is gone.

He leaves the crumpled paper on his desk, brushing past Ianto and Owen on his way to the lift. He waits for it to rise to the surface and, once there, invisible to all, he releases his grief.

And, despite being surrounded by the crowds of people walking through the Millennium Centre, he's never felt as alone.

THE END