Christmas Eve
Jack fled the Hub the moment Ianto left, pausing only long enough to wish Tosh a happy Christmas. There was a puzzled look on her face that spoke in volumes — why aren't you leaving with Ianto? it asked — and he added it to the growing list of reasons why he couldn't stay there any longer. As he rode the lift up to the ground level, he steadfastly avoided thinking about the next forty-eight hours, and instead focused on the present.
Right at that moment, he decided, all he wanted was to get the SUV from the garage — avoiding Ianto at all costs — and find some dark little corner as far away from the Hub as possible where he could drink himself into oblivion. He particularly didn't want to be around when Ianto found the gift in his car, and came back to throw it back in his face, as Jack expected he would want to do.
He didn't even know why he'd left it there in Ianto's car. It was only leaving him vulnerable to being rejected yet again.
Stop thinking about it, Harkness, he told himself angrily. Ianto had made it more than obvious that he wasn't interested. Time to move on. Go and get drunk, maybe find someone who was just as lonely as him to share a bed for the next day or two, and then back to business.
The thought brought him up cold. Just as lonely as he was... He couldn't deny it now that he'd admitted it to himself. Lonely… He was lonely, painfully so, and everything that had happened over the last couple of days had only exacerbated it.
Damn it...
He wiped furiously at his eyes, angry for allowing his emotions to take such a firm hold. At the same time, though, he had honestly thought there was something between him and Ianto. He couldn't believe how spectacularly wrong he had been.
And yet, through it all, he couldn't find it in himself to blame Ianto, or be angry with the younger man. The more he considered it, the more he was positive that it was something that he'd said or done that was to blame for Ianto withdrawing from him, and pushing him away. There had to be something he'd done, some rhyme or reason to the painful rejection… but he could think of nothing. Nothing at all.
He waited in the shadows as Ianto's car finally exited the concealed Torchwood garage before slipping in and taking the SUV. He wanted to be as far away from the Hub as possible, and the SUV was the only way to do that quickly.
As he drove, his mobile phone rang, and he very nearly answered it before checking the caller ID. Ianto... Reaching across, he did what he had so often ordered his team not to do. He switched the phone off and then, almost as an afterthought, he disabled the tracking system that linked the SUV to the Hub's mainframe. Last thing he needed was for Ianto to track him down and give him a verbal serve.
He found what he was looking for almost on the other side of the city, in one of the blue collar districts. Respectable enough by all appearances, without being too dingy or too fancy. Leaving the SUV parked out on the street in plain sight — if he was going to get plastered, he wanted to be sure he could find it again — he headed into the pub.
The place was perhaps half full, and though a few heads turned at his entrance, no one seemed to show particular interest in him. Feeling his mood sour even more at the lack of attention, Jack stomped over to the bar and caught the attention of the publican.
"Scotch, straight," he growled, "and keep them coming."
The publican smirked, sensing a large tab coming his way.
"You got the cash for it, mate?"
Reaching into the folds of his greatcoat, Jack pulled out his billfold and thumped it down on the counter. It was bulging with twenty pound notes.
"That answer your question?"
The publican eyed the billfold with interest, and his gaze flickered oh-so-briefly to a point somewhere beyond Jack. Then, he poured the requested drink.
"Scotch, straight. Enjoy."
Jack grunted unintelligibly, promptly losing himself in the hard liquor, and oblivious to the publican who promptly vanished to the far end of the bar.
Half a dozen or more drinks later, he finally had a pleasant buzz going, and was finding it difficult to remember why he was so determined to get drunk in the first place. That was a good thing, he decided. His mood bolstered by the alcohol, Jack swung around to scan the pub, searching for someone — male or female — to drown the rest of his sorrows in.
He was far enough gone that he didn't notice the man sliding onto the bar stool beside him until he spoke.
"Buy you a drink?"
Jack looked around, and his interest was immediately piqued by the not-too-pretty face that met his gaze.
"Already got one, thanks," he answered, semi-aware that he was beginning to slur his words just slightly. He was answered with an endearing grin.
"Buy me one, then?"
Oh yeah, Jack decided. This one was definitely a goer. He called for a drink for his new companion, and another for himself.
"Name's Chris," the young man introduced himself and Jack responded in kind.
"Jack."
Chris held up his drink.
"Cheers, Jack."
Jack downed the Scotch in one long swallow. He barely felt the burn of the alcohol down his throat now, and was too drunk to consciously notice that Chris barely touched his drink.
"Haven't seen you in here before," Chris commented conversationally. "Been in Cardiff long?"
"Longer than you could imagine," Jack muttered.
"You looked kinda miserable when you came in. Any special reason why you're here on Christmas Eve, and not with your loved ones?"
Jack stared bleakly into his now empty glass.
"Yeah. I don't have any."
"Oh. Sorry..."
Suddenly aware that his moroseness might drive away a potential lay, Jack put on his best 'take me home and fuck me senseless' grin, and turned his full attention on Chris.
"But that's not important. Right here and now is what matters."
"And what we do with it, right?"
Jack's gaze dropped to find Chris's hand resting on his thigh, his thumb drawing lazy circles. Looking back up, he found himself staring at a sexy and inviting grin.
"Maybe we could keep each other company?" Chris suggested. Jack closed his hand over Chris's, on the cusp of accepting the proposition, when something stopped him cold.
All of a sudden, all he could see was Ianto's face, and a sickening sense of betrayal descended onto him. He couldn't do this. As much as he didn't want be alone, he couldn't bring himself to bed a complete stranger. Not when he still hoped that there was a chance to fix what he had apparently so royally fucked up. Gently, he lifted the warm hand off his thigh and stood up.
"Jack...?"
"I'm sorry," Jack murmured, genuinely regretful. "I shouldn't have come here. Maybe... Maybe some other time."
He started to turn away, but on the spur of the moment, he turned back and leaned in to press a chaste but lingering kiss to the other man's mouth. Then he dropped a number of notes on the counter and headed out of the pub.
He was probably, maybe, fairly certain that he shouldn't drive. On the other hand, leaving the SUV here probably wasn't such a hot idea, either. He stood beside the vehicle, torn over what to do. His hand was on his mobile phone before it occurred to him that calling Ianto now, for a trivial matter like this, was a sure-fire way to worm his way even further into the Welshman's bad books.
Fine, he decided ruefully. He'd make sure it was locked, and catch a taxi back to the Millennium Centre. He was just doing that when he sensed he wasn't alone. A moment later, his still fuzzy vision spotted Chris's reflection in the window.
"Hey, I'm flattered," Jack said as he started to turn. "But seriously, not..."
It was as far as he got. He turned just enough to realise that Chris was no longer alone, and that he was suddenly surrounded by five or six men, each of whom wore identical expressions of hatred.
The alcohol in his system had slowed his reflexes just enough that he wasn't fast enough to duck the fist that came almost literally out of nowhere, slamming into his temple. He staggered but didn't fall. Before he could recover from the shock, a strong hand gripped a fistful of his hair and slammed his face into the car window. The window cracked, and so did his cheekbone.
Jack grunted in pain, his vision exploding in light and stars. He was held there against the SUV as hands roughly patted him down, searching for weapons and anything else they could find. His attackers quickly divested him of his wallet, billfold, keys and his Webley, and his greatcoat was stripped from his shoulders. The next thing he knew, they had the back of the SUV open and were going through what equipment was still in there.
He grunted again and struggled to free himself, only to win himself yet another fist to the head.
"Stay still, you fucking poof," a gravely voice in his ear demanded.
"Hey!" someone shouted gleefully. "I found a fucking stun gun!"
"There's some seriously freaky shit back here!" someone else said with a hoot. "Don't know what most of it is!"
"You some kind of coppa, pretty boy?" the voice in his ear asked. "They taking poofs in the police force now?"
Any lingering drunkenness had been washed away by a permeating mix of anger, fear and adrenalin, and he spoke with a guttural snarl, and an anger that was dampened only by the pain that was radiating out from his face.
"Torchwood, you stupid son of a bitch. Let me go, and you can walk away right now."
Laughter was the only response he got.
"Torchwood, he says! Any of you lads heard of Torchwood? Sounds like a fucking poof party, if you ask me."
Raucous laughter exploded all around him, and Jack groaned as the grip on his hair tightened significantly.
"What... What do you want...?" he managed to ask, even with his face mashed against the window.
His captor leaned in close, and rank breath ghosted across his face.
"Oh, you're going to find out, sunshine, I guarantee it. See, we don't like your type round here."
"What type would that be?" Jack asked. "Tall, dark and good looking?"
He groaned again as his face was ground into the cracked window.
"Poofs like you, you fucking smart arse. That's what type."
And then Chris was there, leering at him in a decidedly unsexy way.
"You were right about one thing, Jacky boy. You shouldn'a come here, not at all. Should'a stayed right away. Now, you're gonna get a Christmas present you'll never forget."
He felt the press of cold metal to the back of his neck. Then, the hands holding him let go. Before he could react, though, debilitating bolts of electricity surged through his body. A strangled cry escaped his lips, and then darkness claimed him.
He came back to reality, to pain and noise. Pain was spreading throughout his body, and an anguished scream filled his ears. The scream was coming from his own torn lips, he realised dimly — a combination of the very real pain he was in, and the horror at the slow realisation that his assault was apparently nothing to do with Torchwood.
He couldn't kid himself otherwise, as much as he wanted to. Those men hadn't even known Torchwood existed. They had targeted him for one reason only, because thought he was gay. There had been only one point behind it all — pure and simple hatred.
Another tormented wail tore loose from his throat. Now that he'd remembered, all he wanted was to forget again, to bury the memories of the assault so deep that they would never resurface.
Kathy watched in growing anxiety as Jack became lost in his memories. She was positive that he was remembering something about the assault. It was just a shame that he was incapable of telling her about it.
Minutes ticked by, and silence blanketed the whole room almost oppressively. She was just starting to wonder whether she ought to call one of his team in, when Jack suddenly came back to reality with a strangled scream that was pure, heartbreaking anguish.
"Jack," she exclaimed anxiously, leaning across and trying to get him to focus on her. "Look at me, Jack. Please, look at me. You're safe, please, just focus on my voice. C'mon, sweetheart, I know you can do it…"
The screams that rent the air just about broke her heart, knowing she could do nothing to help him. She was still trying to get through to the distraught man when the door opened and Owen ran in, with Ianto close behind.
"I'm sorry," she apologised anxiously as she was shoved unceremoniously out of the way. "But I had to ask him…"
"Yes, thankyou very much," Owen snapped as he injected a pale pink substance through the IV while Ianto tried to calm Jack down. It took effect quickly, and within a minute Jack slipped once more into the blackness of sleep.
"He was remembering what happened to him," she said when Owen turned to stare accusingly at her.
"Yes, that's all very useful when he can't bloody talk!" Owen exploded. "Look, I think it's time for you to go, Detective."
For a brief moment, she considered arguing. The dark look on Owen's face, though, gave her second thoughts. Now was not the time to argue and, all else aside, she doubted that Jack would be awake any time soon.
"All right," she conceded quietly. "But I am going to need to talk to him again." She focused a hard look on him. "Don't you dare go vigilante on this, Dr Harper. The bastards that did this are going to be held accountable by the law."
Owen's expression remained inscrutable as he held out a hand to her.
"I believe you have something of Jack's."
She'd nearly forgotten about the wrist strap, and a part of her wanted to keep it for leverage further down the track. They'd had a deal, though, and Torchwood had kept up their end of that deal. She couldn't… no, she wouldn't break her word. With visible regret, she fished it from her jacket pocket and handed it to Owen.
"I suppose you're not going to tell me what that is?" she asked, holding out little hope.
"You'd suppose right," Owen retorted. "Now, it's been charming, but if you'll come with me, I'll show you out."
She paused, her gaze going to Jack once more.
"He's an incredible man, to have survived what was done to him."
Owen's expression softened fractionally at her sincere words.
"We know, Detective Swanson. We really do."
tbc…