Jack blinked, trying to clear a cloud of pale sparks from his vision, and then staggered back into a nearby wall.
The dizzying sparks finally consented to fade, and he turned to take in his surroundings. He had come to earth several yards from the main doors of the hospital, between two parked cars. Jack studied them briefly; they seemed to be about right for the time period. He straightened up and headed for the light spilling from the open doors.
Inside, he met a nurse. Her uniform looked appropriate, too - crisp, clean dress, tightly buckled belt and a prim white starched cap. He finally raised his eyes to her face, which was now set in a faintly disapproving frown at what must have appeared, to her, to be a bout of unseemly ogling. Jack recovered his mental balance and treated her to one of his most appealing smiles.
"I'm sorry, Sister," he said, hoping that he'd chosen the correct form of address. "I wonder if you could tell me the way to the Maternity unit?"
Jack realised that he had the power of circumstance on his side. Hospital staff were probably well used to confused and flustered men looking for Maternity. He waited, and at last the nurse returned his smile, albeit thinly, and answered him.
"That's all right, sir," she said, her accent strong and melodious. "Just down the way, and follow the green signs. You can't miss it," she finished, and then turned away abruptly. Jack nodded and headed down the corridor.
He knew he hadn't arrived too late, at least, but aside from that, he had no clue how much of a head start he'd secured. Doyle might be along in an hour, or he might be there already. This latter mental image jolted him badly, and he broke into a trot.
He followed the nurse's directions, and at length he arrived at a pair of double doors labelled MATERNITY. He paused, edged to one side and peeped through the circular window in the nearside door. Beyond, there was another brightly-lit corridor, with anonymous doors and windows on both sides. There was no sign of Doyle or, indeed, anyone else. Jack took a deep breath and pushed open the door as quietly as he could.
The rooms beyond smelled different, he realised. Unlike the rest of the hospital, the Maternity unit smelled alive. Vital. Organic. There was still that ever-present suggestion of disinfectant in the air, but it was subdued beneath the aroma of new life.
Jack continued on down the narrow corridor, peering hopefully into windows as he passed. After several false starts, he stopped outside one broad window and placed both palms on the glass, lost in thought.
There were half a dozen infants in there. Five were sleeping, at perfect peace, but the last was kicking hopelessly at the blanket over its legs and letting out high, breathless cries of frustration that sounded more like those of a kitten than a human child.
Jack leaned in closer to the glass and studied the sheet of paper tacked to the end of the crib, which read: Cooper (F) 10/3/78 20:02 7-9.
In spite of both the peculiarity and the urgency of the situation, Jack smiled broadly, his gaze fixed on the hiccuping baby he now knew to be Gwen Cooper, all of two hours old.
So fixated on the child was Jack that he failed to hear a quiet footstep behind him.
He swung around, but milliseconds too late: a hand clamped down on his wrist and dragged it so far up his back that he both felt and heard his shoulder squeak. Reflex had him driving his other elbow back, but it failed to connect, and with a satisfied grunt, his attacker pulled him around and slammed him up against the wall so hard that he lost all his air.
"Captain Jack Harkness," said a voice, just an inch from his ear. "After all this time."
The hands released their grip at once, and Jack inhaled gratefully. He pivoted on the ball of one foot and started towards Doyle, but the man trained a disintegrator pistol on him and, just to be sure, backed up a few steps.
"After allthis time," he repeated, shaking his head, smiling as if at some private joke. Jack rubbed his bruised breastbone and waited for Doyle to get to the point. Doyle's happy smile faded by degrees, and was then exchanged for a predatory scowl. His eyes flashed threateningly.
"I wonder if you remember where you left me?" he asked, and gestured pointedly with the pistol. Jack sighed, rolling his eyes.
"That would be somewhere in the middle of the Spanish Civil War, as I recall," he said.
"One point for the Captain," growled Doyle. "In fact, to be more specific about things, you left me in a prison cell in the middle of the Spanish Civil War."
"Sorry," said Jack, his mouth thinning, "but I had to make a decision, and as I was trying to do that, it occurred to me that you wouldn't have gone back for me."
Doyle ignored this; in point of fact, his attention had drifted. He had half turned and was staring in through the nearby window at the babies on the other side. At the edge of hearing, Jack could still make out the soft whimpers of the newborn Gwen.
Before Jack could make a move – any move – Doyle turned back to him and set his features in stone.
"I passed my time thinking up ways to kill you," he said, with glacial calm, "but I've heard that that's no longer an option. Oh, don't give me that puzzled look," he said scornfully, observing Jack's poker face. "Word gets around. I know you can't die. But you can still suffer," he finished, and then jerked his head at the neonatal unit.
"I waited months for my chance," he continued. "You keep a low profile. Keep yourself to yourself. You always did. But I knew that sooner or later I'd find your weak spot. Oh..." he smiled seraphically, "I did, didn't I?"
Jack felt his most recent breath congeal in his lungs, and he fought to avoid considering the conclusion at which Doyle was hinting.
"You see, Jack," Doyle was saying, clearly savouring every word, "You didn't follow me back to 1978. I followed you."
Jack slumped back against the wall and ran one hand down over his face. He stared at the ceiling, at the floor, at a poster on the far wall. Everywhere and anywhere but at Argentus Doyle's face, because the sick triumph there would have been too hard to bear.
Then something at the back of his mind prodded him urgently, and he dragged his head back up. A small background noise was finally conspicuous only by its absence, and he turned back to Doyle with an expression of pure pleasure.
"Do you hear that?" he asked. Doyle's brows knotted.
"Hear what?" he demanded.
"That," said Jack, happily, "is precisely my point. Your battery's dead." With that, he stepped up in front of Doyle and grabbed the now useless pistol from him.
"And now you run," snarled Jack.
Doyle didn't stop to think it over. He swung around, darted past Jack and slammed through the double doors at a dead run, heading for the main entrance. Jack pocketed the dead pistol, cast one last, fond glance at the snuffling baby, then grinned horribly and gave chase.
He hared past the startled nurse in reception, hearing her alarmed shout as he disappeared into the night, and had just half a second to realise that Doyle was no longer in view. Jack skidded to a halt, and turned just in time to catch a brutal high-kick to the ribs. The impact caused him a strangled yelp, and he dropped to the ground, landing badly. Something in his ankle gave way, and the pain ripped its way up to his hip before he could react any further.
Jack gasped horribly, trying to recover a portion of the breath he'd lost. He rolled over as Doyle drove another kick into his kidneys, and tasted blood at the back of his throat as he bit his tongue. Doyle loosed a short, derisory laugh, then turned and ran. Jack winced and uncurled, watching helplessly as Doyle rounded the corner and disappeared.
Just then, there was a dull, wooden thud, followed by silence.
Jack paused in mid-groan, unclenched his fists and struggled to his feet, dragging himself out of an ignominious puddle. He tested his ankle – twisted, for sure, but not broken, and it would soon be fixed in any case – and it seemed content to take his weight. He limped around the corner in pursuit of his quarry, then simply stood and stared.
Doyle was flat on his back, arms outstretched, as if he'd decided to make an angel in the mud. The rain was beating down on his face, but doing little to make an impact on what seemed to be blissful unconsciousness. The unconsciousness, Jack decided, had resulted from the wooden door into which he'd run at full tilt.
The door swung inward, and a head poked out and grinned down at Doyle's sprawled form.
"Ah," said the Doctor. "Bang on time!"