Everything about Jack was cold. He could feel prickling goose bumps forming tiny skin mounds up and down his arms from where he had his pale green sleeves pulled up above his elbows. Even his face felt cold, and his fingers were particularly numb- he wasn't even sure if they were cold or hot anymore.
With a short sigh, Jack lent his head back against the chilled metal of the thick morgue drawers and shifted on the unforgiving tiles, his position sat on the hard ground up against the drawers probably not doing wonders for his posture. He stared up, glassy eyes like blue ice fixated high above on the tall ceiling. There would have to be drawers scraping that ceiling one day… Almost absent-mindedly, Jack relaxed the grip between his entwined fingers, letting them slide loosely down his stiff calves. He blinked slowly, tongue darting out to wet his dry lips before moving to speak.
Another few minutes passed before he actually did so, and when he did speak, it was addressed to the ceiling, rather than the morgue drawer pulled open beside him.
'I'm sorry.'
The softly spoken sentiment echoed around Jack, bouncing dully off each drawer, as if the person frozen within each had heard him and deflected his remorse back. Jack had known them all, every one of them enclosed forever in their cold-hearted final resting place. Jack knew for a fact that only one of them had been older than forty, and only a few had reached the wrong side of thirty-five; though that was considered a blessing in Torchwood.
Jack closed his eyes, head still tilted towards the skies somewhere far above him.
'I'm sorry,' he repeated.
It was with a strange sense of calm that Jack realised that those two words were probably the most used in his own personal dictionary. Jack was unsure whether he was reassured by the fact that he always truly meant it when he spoke them, though. He opened his eyes and stared blankly forward, at a disconcerting ease with the quiet and still of the morgue, sat amongst his filed and frozen colleagues with just his thoughts and memories. Guilt still swelled uncomfortably in Jack whenever he glanced at the drawer that now contained the petite frame of the brilliant Toshiko Sato. Had he ever told her just how brilliant he thought she was? Did he ever tell any of his team, his wonderful team, just how amazing he thought each and every one of them was? And now it was too late…
Jack wet his lips again, speaking slowly.
'I know it's my fault, and I'll never forget that. If I had just… I could've been there for you, I should have been there for you, it's my duty as… But I wasn't. Not enough to save you. And I'm sorry.'
He shifted on the relentlessly hard ground and hung his head wearily. His heart thrummed steadily against his chest, a constant reminder as he sat amongst the collected dead that he, Jack, would outlive them all. He was a survivor and his heart would continue to beat where all other blood ceased to flow. Surely, eventually, his time would come too?
Jack lifted his head back up and pressed his palm against the icy steel of the open drawer beside him, spread his fingers out to leave a large handprint, outlined in spidery ivy-veins of ice.
'If I had known,' he started speaking again, the words tumbling out rapidly, 'If I had known, then maybe I could've done something. Or if I'd just been paying more attention, or you- but it wasn't your fault. None of that was and I can't blame you for my own mistakes and you… So young…' Jack smirked spitefully at himself. 'Almost means nothing to me now, everyone is young when I compare them to me, and all the stuff I've seen and done… You never got to see that stuff, all of those amazing and beautiful and horrifying things- no, you just saw the bad stuff, didn't you? My fault that… But I could have shown you some of the wonders that I've seen, prove to you that it's not all bad even though it can seem like it is… We never got the chance though did we? And now…'
His last sentence trailed off, left unfinished it hung heavy in the air, leading Jack to question exactly what it was he intended to say next. Maybe that was all he had to say and there was nothing else… The figure in the drawer certainly wasn't listening and could make no move to respond, whatever Jack said.
None of the reminders helped when everything always came back to the same point; a moot point. People died, Jack didn't. Was it right for him to cling on to what he did have, right now, right at this very moment?
With a small grunt of effort, Jack hauled himself to his feet, his right hand still curled around the edge of the glazed casket. Jack tried to avoid looking in at the face inside, the papery eyelids closed over hauntingly familiar eyes. He stood now, back resting against the drawers, just staring ahead of him at the entrance to the morgue. He should really leave, all this time spent loitering amongst the deceased… He closed his eyes another long moment. He could focus on his heart still pounding, du-dum du-dum, lungs still taking in considered measures of oxygen, whistling lazily through his sinuses… Ironic that the only sounds down here were those that strived for the continuance of life above all.
Jack opened his eyes again.
'Ianto…'
…*…
A/N: So I might've lied, just a tiny bit as there will be one more chapter to follow this- I know it's short compared to the other chapters, but seemed like such a perfect place to stop!
Thanks to those who've taken the time to review!
