For the first time in quite some time, he wakes up rather than startle awake. The first light of dawn filters through the windows – it is still what most people would consider some ungodly hour in this tail end of summer. But he doesn't sleep much these days – not that he ever did – so even this slight respite is welcome. John always seems to somehow help keep the nightmares at bay. There's probably some drug or other involved, transferred in a kiss, a touch or a scratch. John – still snoring peacefully on the other end of the bed, one hand under the pillow – was always good with drugs.
When he stands up, his back cracks in what should be an alarming way, but it barely registers. The muscles in his neck protest in pain when he tilts his head. He ignores it and walks towards the bathroom. Just the usual after-effects of a night with John. The almost smile his reflection on the mirror gives him surprises him. Maybe he had really missed the company more than he would like to admit. The smile disappears with the first splash of cold water on his face. The uneasy feeling that no matter how many times he swears never again to rely on, to depend, to need, to want, someone will always sneak under his defences, remains.
Hands on the sides of the basin, head hanging, eyes fixed on the rivulets of water as they disappear down the drain, he shakes his head, pushing it all away. All the hopes, all the tiredness, all the achy muscles, all the maybes, all the 'why don't we', until all that remains is the enormity of what is at stake. He swallows, trying to stop the whirlwind in his head, the thumping of his heart. When he stands up, John's behind him, staring at him through the mirror. Making him wonder, once again, if John can actually read his mind or is simply too good at reading people.
"I'd love to warn them, Jack." He can hear everything John is not saying. He nods. He knows they can't warn them. He fucking knows, but that doesn't make it any easier. He snorts at the irony of John Hart, of all people, reminding him of duty and rules and regulations, of the greater good and what needs to be done. He opens his mouth to snap back just as John places a hand on his shoulder, and it is oddly comforting. "You shouldn't even be here. I should be the one doing this." If he didn't know better, he'd say John feels guilty about something.
"You were almost dead before we jumped back." He looks away, trying to ignore the memories. John complaining of headaches, and, for once, not just because he wanted to spend some time with Zoe in the medpoint. Then the nosebleeds, the blackouts, more frequent and longer. Zoe's flat tone when explaining that John is time sensitive. Just like Ada, who had started showing the same symptoms a couple of days before, and was lying on the bed next to John, unconscious and pale and more dead than alive. That oh so well rehearsed "there's nothing I can do" that doctors must learn on their first day in med school. Which left him only one option: taking John away before he slipped into a coma. "Couldn't let you have all the fun." The words taste bitter. Just like life has recently.
John nods and steps into the shower, hot steam filling the room. He follows. The world can wait for a bit longer.
"We could always... bend the rules a little." John's voice comes out muffled from under the towel - he can't tell whether John's really drying his hair or simply hiding behind it. He glares, knowing it would have no effect even if John could actually see it. "After all, given how fucked up time already is, it's not going to make much of a difference..."
"No." It sounds sharper than he intended, but that's not necessarily a bad thing when it comes to John. They had too many close shaves, when they were in the Agency, all because John could never play by the rules and always thought he could handle things that nobody could. The towel flies over his shoulder, landing in the bathroom, and John gives him a sarcastic smile. With a tired sigh, he reaches for his clothes – scattered all over the room – and starts getting dressed.
John rolls his eyes in a way that reminds him of Ianto more than it should and follows suit, looking every bit as annoyed as usual when putting his clothes back on. There is a moment of silence before the weight of everything that is at stake hits him again, almost knocking the air out of him. They are treading on treacherous territory. Any misstep could have devastating consequences. Which is marginally better than doing nothing, which will have devastating and disastrous consequences.
Just another day at Torchwood, yet again.
John opens his mouth, as if to explain to him – yet once more – all the many reasons why bending the rules wouldn't be such a bad idea. He's heard it all before, in just about every mission they were together. The 'nobody will notice', the 'while we are here'. He's seen it all go to Hell and beyond just because John couldn't take no for an answer, couldn't just stick to what needed to be done and nothing else.
But this is different. This is John sticking his neck out for others. Even if there is still something – someone – in it for him, it has to be the first time that John's offer of breaking – or bending – the rules could be classed as 'sort of – almost – doing the right thing'. He pauses for a second, halfway through doing up his shirt. Wondering whether he's being objective about this, whether John really has a point. Whether he's still desperate to do anything that would take away at least some of the guilt he's been living with ever since...
He looks away. John lets out an annoyed sigh, but doesn't say a word.
He adjusts his cufflinks and sits on the edge of the bed. There are too many threads to pay attention to. The 456 and their demands. Whitehall and their interest in hiding the past more than in dealing with the present. Torchwood struggling to survive and save the day at the same time. And all the people, all the individual lives caught in the crossfire: Alice and Steven, Rhiannon and Jonny and their kids, Ianto, Gwen and Rhys, Frobisher and his family, all the children. He shakes his head and flops back, crossing his hands behind his head, staring at the ceiling. Wonders what they were thinking when they thought this was their best option.
He nearly jumps out of his skin when the bed dips beside him. He keeps his eyes on the mouldings on the ceiling; John will know full well what he was thinking about if he looks at him – damn that man and his uncanny ability to read him like an almost-open book. John rolls closer to him and drapes an arm over his belly, holsters and guns digging into his hip, but neither of them moves. It feels comfortable and familiar in an odd way. Most of their best missions were – will be – planned in a bed. Only neither of them was – will be – wearing this much clothing back then – when it happens.
English was never a good language to deal with time travel. Does his head in.
"We can't tell them. They shouldn't even find out we are here, if we play this right." He nods. The ghost of a kiss on his neck. He would wonder how John manages to concentrate on anything if he didn't know that John's brain runs on sex and temptation, the wilder the better. "But there is someone who could help." It's his turn to roll his eyes at the honey-voice, the one that almost always gets him to do what John wants. Something tells him he's not going to like the idea.
"And who would that be?" John leans on an elbow and looks down at him, all smug smirk and smouldering looks and cheekbones that are probably illegal somewhere. He raises an eyebrow, wondering whether to drag John down and postpone the world-saving part a bit more.
"I could help." He glares at John again. Useless and futile, he knows, but it makes him feel a bit better. "Not I, but, you know, my past self." Somehow it makes sense. John disappeared just a few days ago. If they could contact that earlier version and return him to here and now, maybe it would make a difference when things started going to Hell.
"Where did you go?" He's asked the question more times than he cares to remember since John came back, but has never managed to get an answer. He's not sure he'll ever get one, given how good John can be at keeping secrets. Just as every time he asks, John looks away, trying not to give anything away. Maybe it's time to push a bit harder. "Are you just trying to get yourself out of a tight spot here, getting your old self back?"
In a flurry of motion, John straddles him, one hand firmly on his chest, a small knife pressed against his throat. He doesn't even fight it. Just stares up at those impossibly blue eyes. John stares back at him, hands almost shaking. It's not the first time they end up like this – John's always had a penchant for violent demonstrations, but – at least with him – it's always been more a matter of posturing and pretence than actual threat.
Not that it would matter if it were different, anyway.
"If all I wanted was to help myself, I would have done it already." The knife presses against his skin just a bit harder, the cold blade bringing back memories of the many times metal has kissed his skin, both in pleasure and in pain. He tilts his head backwards, muscles tensing against it, offering John a better angle. "All it would take is a signal from my wriststrap that my past self could lock onto, just as he will lock onto your call."
There is a moment of stillness as he knife falters on his skin. John blinks, almost as if taking in the scene and seeing it for the first time, and sheaths the blade, running a hand just over where the blade was a second ago. Eyes never wavering. There is almost an apology in the gesture. With a sigh, John rolls away from him and stands up, turning towards the window. They stare at each other through the reflection on the glass.
"I know it changes things. I know it could affect the way things play out. But, if we tell him just enough, he could help." John purses his lips and almost looks worried. "We all know how things end if we do nothing, Jack. There's gotta be something we can change that will give us an advantage."
There is such a charge of emotion in John's voice that he can't help the – probably sad – smile. So that is it. It looks like he's not the only one feeling guilty for what happened. Even though John wasn't there when it went down. Or precisely because of that. Goodness knows he's got his fair share of ghosts like that, of times when he couldn't help, when he didn't figure out something was going on in time to do something about it.
"There has to be something else we could do." John snorts and flops on the armchair by the window, staring right back at him. "We must have missed something, there must be..." He never gets to finish the thought.
"We went over all of this, Jack." He lets out a sigh. "Your own man in the government will order your execution. Somebody who knows who you are and what you do and chose to have you killed rather than ask for your help, just to cover up the past." John's voice is barely a whisper, all tension and tiredness at having the same conversation all over again. "What makes you think he'll change his mind just because you walk in with a solution on a silver plate? He'll take it, then throw you to the lions anyway." He looks away, not wanting to admit defeat, but John's right."There is nobody we can trust to do the right thing and fix the bloody mess that order will create."
"We could try..." John leans forward, elbows on his knees, brings up a hand and starts counting on his fingers.
"If we stop Agent Johnson from blowing you and the Hub up, we'll be flying blind." One. "There is not enough material to blackmail Whitehall just yet, and there won't be until after the Hub blows up, which is of no use to us." Two. "Threatening to go public won't work either. Even if you tried that before Frobisher gets his hands on your family, it will only make him more determined to find a way to silence you. Social unrest and upheaval may be good for a con, but won't help us sort this out." Three. "Talking to your team is out of the question." Four. "And playing dirty and going personal with everybody involved, taking them out before they have a chance to kick-start this fucking mess, is apparently also out of the question." Five. "Did I miss anything?"
John glares at him, and he almost looks away. Yes, he knows, they've had this conversation about a thousand times ever since John first suggested that coming back and fixing things hands-on may be the only way to prevent this whole thing from happening. Still, he can't shake the nagging feeling that they are missing something. Something important.
And if there is one thing he's learnt in his life, it is to trusts his instincts.
"It's not the way we do things." It feels like being back in the Agency, having to rein in John's pragmatic approach to solving problems. He shakes his head. He never had much luck with that. Chances are he never will.
"I still think it is a good idea." John turns away. "He will have you killed, Jack. He'll threaten your family, the people you love." He shakes his head again, trying to sort the chaos in his head, to push away the siren call of revenge and retaliation and doing anything that would keep those he cares for safe. "Be like that if you want, then. Get all hung up on your morals and scruples."
"It's still not the way we do things." John closes his eyes, and for a moment looks almost peaceful, but he knows the storm that is raging under the calm, the flurry of thoughts and possibilities. John was always good at that, sieving through the many options, the likely consequences, the chances. Then weighing it all in, coming up with the best way to handle something.
Only something is different this time. This time, John cares. This time John is almost being careful, compared to his usual self.
"Let's start at the beginning." He nods at John's words. Always a good option, starting from the beginning. It may give them something. It feels strange to have John being the sensible one, the level-headed one, the meticulous one, despite the occasional call to bend the rules. John opens his eyes, all determination and a hint of stubbornness. "Torchwood need to be ready for this before it happens. They need all the information we can give them." Sounds like a plan.
"But we can't talk to them." John sighs and leans back on the armchair again. There is a sadness on that expression he hadn't noticed before. He has to remind himself that he is not the only one who lost Ianto, nor the only one who blames himself for it. John's never admitted feeling guilty, but then again, John Hart doesn't do guilt, and all Hells in the Universe will freeze over – and those already frozen will melt – before that ever happens.
"I really think it's time we brought me back."
After twenty-five hours in a hotel room, charging room service to John's credit card – which seems to have really good credit – and occasionally listening to the audio feed coming from the Hub, it becomes obvious the team are not getting any close to discover any of the clues they left for them. Ianto is tracking one Mr. Williams, who, apparently, or so Jack tells him, has a hitch-hiker inside him and will end up dead soon. Gwen is going through police reports, trying to identify anything that may be vaguely within Torchwood's remit, and still saying good morning to that picture of Toshiko and Owen on her desk. Jack – his past self – is busy discarding files of people that could have fitted perfectly in Torchwood – reluctant to drag anybody else into a job that will get them killed, most likely – while trying to figure out what took John Hart a few days ago.
If any of them have noticed that there were intruders in the Hub, that the Archives have been ransacked – well, not really, but Ianto used to consider anybody other than himself lying hands on his precious Archives 'ransacking' – and that they are being watched, they are hiding it well. Not at all good, for a secret organization that has survived for over a century.
"They are never going to figure it out." John yawns, swinging his feet back and forth. John's lying on the bed, boots and weapons discarded – that alone should give him an idea of how boring John thinks this is – eating marshmallows while they watch the highlights of the last few hours of footage. John's finally managed to hook his wriststrap to their shiny new laptop so they can watch it on the screen rather than in more appropriate three-dimensional images. "We need to do something."
"Not yet." This time, unlike the five before, John doesn't even bother to roll his eyes, instead just turns over onto his back, arms behind his head, and stares at the ceiling. He blocks the sounds of happy people sharing takeaway over a messy table, almost knocking over bottles of beer and passing along stupid gossip as if there were nothing more important in the world right now.
Because he remembers the time he was part of it, and a trip down memory lane is the last thing he needs now.