Disclaimer: Torchwood and Doctor Who do not in anyway belong to me. Which means I don't own any part of Captain Jack Harkness. Not even a little bit. Damn.
A/N: This was partly inspired by a Buffy/Torchwood/Doctor Who crossover on Twisting the Hellmouth called "Golden Threads". It's absolutely amazing and it's one of my favorite stories ever. You should try it. Really. Also, major Torchwood spoilers in this.
He never told anyone how much it hurt. How every time he died, a part of his soul shriveled up and disappeared. How every time he woke up, gasping for breath, a little of the light in his eyes went out.
His team never knew, at least, not consciously. Jack was pretty sure that Ianto had guessed how painful it was. But Ianto was gone and Jack felt like he actually had died when the young Welshman left this world. A death that he wouldn't come back from. Because his heart felt fractured, broken. Shattered like glass into a million tiny pieces, impossible to put back together. A torture that eclipsed the universe.
He suspected that the Doctor had figured it out, during The Year That Never Was. The fact that Jack had died that year more than he ever had meant the the ancient, silent Doctor would of noticed. He would never mention it though. The Doctor would always run. And Jack couldn't blame him. If he could run from himself, the captain would of long ago.
He'd glanced in the mirror after that horrible year and found that he looked much older, as if part of the joy he had previously had been sucked away. He certainly felt that way. Now, Jack had no one. Everyone was gone and for the most part, it was his fault. He was an idiot, a goddamned idiot. He swallowed his drinks at alien bars across the universe and when he got shot or stabbed or poisoned or whatever else for some stupid reason, he grimaced and got back up, ignoring the pain. Because now there was nobody left to care.
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