Fanfic - The Life and Times of Captain Jack Harkness [Torchwood: Jack]

Sep 30, 2010 12:58

Title: The Life and Times of Captain Jack Harkness
Rating: PG-13
Pairing/Character: Jack-centric, throwaway mentions of Jack/OCs, smidgen of Jack/Ianto pre-slash
Summary: Exactly what the title says.
Author's Notes: Partial crossover with Doctor Who - the fic does trace Jack’s life, so the time period when he travels with the Doctor and Rose is mentioned. Most of the rest is pure invention, though. =D

Since the fic traces Jack’s life, the rest of Torchwood does not actually show up till a brief mention in the last scene.

Also, I FAIL at writing non-Ianto fic.


The Life and Times of Captain Jack Harkness

200100

He waited two days for the Doctor to return.

After that, the need for food and water took precedence over anything else. Besides, the Doctor probably hadn’t realised that Jack had survived, and if that were the case, there was no reason for him to return to this horrible place. Jack would have to save himself, and find the Doctor instead of waiting for him to return.

He still didn’t know why he was alive. He remembered the attack clearly, remembered the pain coursing through his body. But here he was, alive. Had the attack missed? Knocked him out instead of killing him? It seemed the only possible option. It would also explain why his vortex manipulator was out of commission.

Jack side-stepped decaying bodies as he hunted for anything he could mend the manipulator with. He’d need it, to catch up to the Doctor. 21st Century Earth, that was where he’d go. The Doctor had said he’d spent a lot of time there, so it was his best bet to find him.

The stench of death hung heavy in his nose. Jack hummed quietly as he worked. He couldn’t wait to see the looks on the Doctor’s and Rose’s faces when he found them again.

5092

Vibrant blue eyes scanned the auditorium in fascination. Boeshane, where he’d grown up, had been a fairly backwater colony, and he’d never seen such high-tech equipment before. Things were so different here on the Mother, as the planet was colloquially called. He couldn’t help his gawking, even though he knew his fellow students were laughing at him for it.

“Are you settling in?”

He turned and smiled at the golden-furred canoid who was approaching him. Getting Professor Ylthar as his academic supervisor had been lucky. Ylthar appeared genuinely concerned about all his students, and had an open-door policy that wasn’t just lip-service.

“Just fine, professor,” he said agreeably. “I’m looking forward to the lessons.”

“You have picked your schedule, yes?” Ylthar asked. “There was no trouble?”

“None at all,” he replied, thinking back to the classes he’d signed up for. He’d already decided to specialise in 22nd Century Earth, so he’d begun by taking all the introductory classes he’d need for that time. In that sense, he was ahead of most of his peers, who usually only decided on their specialisation at the end of their second year.

He’d always known when he wanted to travel to, though. The Belaran sold their slaves all throughout time, and the Time Agency had yet to strike at the heart of them. The problem was that they were just too organised. But it was possible sometimes to track where they’d once been. Even without Time Agency resources, he’d followed a particular shipment of slaves to somewhere in the 22nd Century, and so that was where he would try and go.

If he brought his brother back, maybe his mother would remember he existed, too.

200100

It took another day to mend the vortex manipulator.

Graduation was one of the biggest milestones in any Time Agent’s life, since it was when they were finally presented with their own manipulators. It was a symbolic gesture of trust, that they wouldn’t destroy the timelines if they chose to make solo jumps. Of course, most of them didn’t actually make solo jumps until at least a year or two into the job, but it was the thought that counted.

Most of them also wound up customising their manipulators. Jack rather thought that the changes they made reflected their personalities. He’d replaced both the strap and interface of his own, as well as upgraded the soft-tech. He’d always had an interest in the technology used, and it showed in the constant upgrades he made to his vortex manipulator. He’d added a lot of extra functions that most people didn’t bother with.

If he was going to make non-Agency-sanctioned jumps to search for Grey, however, he thought he’d need them.

It was only three years into the job that he’d been allowed access to the classified time-travel technology that the Agency used. Being allowed to study more than simple maintenance - actually getting to the heart of the tech itself - had thrilled him. The various components and programmes had been devilishly difficult to understand, but he’d thrown himself into his studies and emerged as one of the best horological analysts the Agency had.

The two-year period of time that had been stolen from him began shortly thereafter. He often wondered if there was a connection.

At least he still had enough of his memories to cobble together a working by-pass for his poor, battered vortex manipulator. He soldered the final chip into place, then closed it up and began the tedious process of calibrating it.

5092

“Blend in,” Professor Jacqui said. “I cannot think of any other advice I can give you, that will be quite as important. You might have noticed that the title of this course is a reminder of that fact.”

The class tittered. Undercover Investigations was hardly the most subtle of course titles. The unofficial subtitle - How not to get burned at the stake - was even less so.

“Those of you who are of mixed ancestry will want to keep in mind that by and large, the most important thing is external appearance. If you’re ninety-five percent human, you’re legally classified as human.”

She tapped the screen, and a projection of a young girl appeared before the class. Blue fur covered her body, and a sleek blue tail peeked out from under her dress. Cat-like golden eyes peered at them bashfully. “But if, like Kalthir here, the other five percent is Catharzin, and you have a genetic anomaly that means that that five percent is dominant in your appearance… I would not suggest travelling back to a pre-Contact human civilisation and claiming solidarity.”

He bit his tongue. He knew the girl being used as an example, had grown up with her, had known she’d volunteered for scientific study. He’d still never expected to run into pictures of her in this way.

“Appearance does include the fashions of the time, but we’ll cover that at a later date,” Jacqui said. “The second most important point is communication. Once you’ve crossed the hurdle of appearance, the next thing that will mark you out as a foreigner is your ability to communicate. Once you’ve chosen your specialisations, you’ll have to take classes in the languages primarily spoken in that time and place. Any thoughts on why? Umina?”

The girl she’d called on jumped. “Um, so that we can communicate with the people in that time?” she asked cautiously. “For our investigations?”

“Essentially,” Jacqui said with a nod. “Generally speaking, when you’re on assignment, you won’t have the time to learn a new language. Knowing it beforehand removes one obstacle from your way. That is something you must learn to do. Research. Before you ever go there, learn the usual speech patterns, the attire, the customs of the place you’re visiting. Learn about the regional differences of the time. Figure out if it helps you to be taken for a local or a foreigner. Remove as many obstacles as possible from your path, in order to create a favourable outcome.”

1869

This, Jack thought, was not quite a favourable outcome.

He was surrounded by entirely the wrong level of development for 21st Century Earth. The horse-drawn carriages were a rather good indication that he wasn’t in the right time.

He tapped his wristband in an attempt to determine the date. 18th January 1869, it sputtered, then spat a shower of sparks at him and died.

1869.

1869, with a broken wristband and no way of fixing it.

Eighteen-bloody-sixty-nine. When he found the Doctor, he was giving him a piece of his mind. When he -

Jack’s mind stuttered to a halt. Had the Doctor ever come to this time period before? Surely he had. He’d travelled a lot, and he always seemed to come back to Earth. He must have spent at least a little time in the 1800s.

But not much, or he’d have spoken about it more, like he had about 20th and 21st Century Earth. Which in turn meant that there was a very high possibility he’d never find the Doctor again. Which, since his fix-it had failed him and his vortex manipulator wasn’t manipulating any vortexes anytime soon, meant that he was stuck here.

In 1869.

Oh god, did they even have running water yet?

“Are you all right, sir?” a woman asked him kindly. He looked up, and the dark-haired girl recoiled a step. Immediately, he smoothed the panic from his face and gave her his best, charming grin.

“Just had some bad news, I’m afraid,” he said, slipping into an American accent. Appearing to be a foreigner could only be an aid to the cover he was frantically working up as he spoke. “I don’t mean to be forward, miss, but I don’t suppose you know where a man could earn a meal and some money?”

She hesitated, then nodded. “If it pleases you, sir, I know some ladies who need work done round the house. I daresay you could earn a shilling or two if you were willing.”

“Always am,” Jack said with a sincere smile. “I lost all I have in the fire, and I don’t much fancy going hungry again tonight.”

“A fire!” the girl said, looking sorry for him. “Well, if you’d like, you can come have a small bite with myself and Mr Sneed now. I can introduce you to the ladies I mentioned after that.”

“You’re far too kind, miss,” Jack said. “The plain fact is, I haven’t had a bite to eat in three days, so the offer is much welcome.”

“It’s just Gwyneth, please,” the girl said.

“Jack,” he said in response. “Jack Harkness.”

“Have you been here long, Mr Harkness?” she asked.

“Barely a week,” he replied regretfully.

“And you’ve lost everything!” she exclaimed. “Have you nothing to send home for? Or will you return, after this?”

“I don’t think so,” Jack replied. “I’ve not got anyone to go back to. I do believe I’ll try and earn some money here and then see if I don’t find better fortunes in London.”

“Well, with your first few shillings, you might try and find some suitable clothes,” she said. Jack glanced down at his black leather ensemble and barely held back a grimace at how out-of-place he looked.

“I ran into the streets in my underclothes,” he said hastily. “A kind soul offered me some old clothes… but, well, you ought to have seen the others he had.”

She giggled behind her hand. “I see,” she said. “You’ve not been best fortunate, have you?”

“No,” Jack replied softly. “I haven’t.”

5094

“You have picked Jack as your primary name?” Ylthar asked in amusement. “I think I might feel hurt that you did not choose to honour me thus.”

“I have this feeling a name like Ylthar will stand out a bit in 22nd Century Earth,” the newly-named Jack said, grinning. “So I thought I’d modify Prof Jacqui’s name instead.”

“You shall still need a family name,” Ylthar pointed out. “I suppose Andrxirr is out of the question.”

“Sadly so,” Jack said in mock dismay. “I’ll think of that later. Most people in that time only introduce themselves with their given names anyway, not their full names.”

“So it is,” Ylthar agreed. “Now, I have been wanting to speak about your coming trip. Have you any questions?”

“Not at the moment,” Jack said. “I’ve been researching, and I think I’m about as prepared as I’m going to get. I do wish I didn’t have to go with Canon though. He’s a bit odd, that one.”

“You shall have to get used to him,” Ylthar advised. “I believe they will likely pair the two of you up in the future, given your grades, specialisations and species.”

“They wouldn’t!” Jack exclaimed in horror.

“It is a possibility, nothing more,” Ylthar said. “But one you shall prepare for.”

“All right,” Jack said reluctantly. He couldn’t afford to complain too much about the partners he was assigned, he supposed. Whoever did wind up as his primary partner, he’d make the best of it, as he did all else that happened to him.

1869

November, and the days were short.

The light was fading as he and Gwyneth stood before the cab. “You take care of yourself now, Mr Harkness,” Gwyneth said.

He smiled; even after months, he hadn’t broken her of the habit of calling him that, but he couldn’t say he really minded. There was something very affectionate about the seemingly formal moniker.

“I expect you to make something of yourself,” she added admonishingly.

“With you praying for me, there’s nothing else I could do,” Jack said, kissing her hand. A rosy blush coloured her face and he beamed at her, resisting the urge to pull her into a hug. He wouldn’t subject her to the scandal. “Thank you for everything you’ve done for me.”

“It wasn’t any trouble,” she said. “And the Lord knows you’ve done plenty for me. May God watch over you.”

“And you,” he said, and turned to climb into the waiting hansom cab.

It had been a difficult decision to make, but Jack had finally decided to leave Cardiff. It wasn’t likely that the Doctor would show up at least until the late nineteen-hundreds. That realisation had come to him barely a week into his stay in 1869, and when it had, he’d flown off the rails.

It had been Gwyneth who’d pieced him back together every time he stumbled back drunk out of his mind, broken and bruised from another fight. It hadn’t taken him long to realise that she was a fairly strong psychic, and that she’d seen enough in him to understand his reactions. Oddly, that had been the impetus for him to pull himself back together. He’d taught her how to more precisely harness her abilities - had tried teaching her not to fear them - and in so doing, had restored some semblance of order to his own life.

He still didn’t like the way Mr Sneed viewed Gwyneth’s abilities, but there was little he could do about it. To take her away, he’d have to marry her, and he couldn’t afford any ties to a time he intended to escape at the earliest possible juncture. No, he couldn’t risk any attachments, no matter how fond he’d grown of sweet Gwyneth.

Gwyneth watched him go with sad eyes.

He spent a few months in London, hoping that he might get lucky and find the Doctor after all. It didn’t work. Then, at the end of the year, news reached him of Gwyneth’s violent death. He went back for the funeral, thinking of all the things he should have said to his beautiful girl.

Afterwards, he went to Glasgow, and then to Edinburgh and Dublin and Belfast and Swansea and Liverpool and by the time he’d exhausted the potential of the British Isles, nearly ten years had gone by. Going through a Depression wasn’t nearly as fun when he couldn’t simply skip out to another time.

He spent another decade re-tracing his steps and visiting old haunts, becoming intimately familiar with the land and its people. All the while, he kept on the lookout for the Doctor, or at least another Time Agent from whom he could steal a working vortex manipulator. He didn’t feel guilty at all about the plan - if an Agent on a sanctioned mission failed to report back at the scheduled time, someone else would come for them. It was far more important that he quickly get out of this time that he was so ill-suited for.

He knew that his 51st Century genetic makeup meant that he would appear to age more slowly than the natives of the time, so keeping on the move was necessary to protect his secrets. After the first time he was attacked for flirting with a man, he also learned to keep his head down and not attract any attention. The last was probably harder than anything else, for him.

This century, he thought resentfully, was going to be the death of him.

When the immigration station opened on Ellis Island, he jumped at the chance to move to America. 1892 would forever be engraved in his memory as the year he’d crossed the ocean and discovered he couldn’t die.

Perhaps he oughtn’t have flirted with that cadet after all, even if he was feeling giddily happy about being in a new place. But as far as he knew, not many people woke up after being shot through the heart.

With a mounting sense of dread, he sought out a fight in another bar, and goaded someone else into shooting him.

He woke up again. The third time was another stabbing, and that time, he woke up to find the blade still buried in his gut. He pulled it out and watched in morbid fascination as his skin swiftly healed in its wake.

It seemed that surviving the Daleks hadn’t been a fluke.

But his repeated deaths didn’t help explain his sudden ineptitude at dying. He couldn’t fathom having been born immortal, so in all likelihood, something had happened to him up on that Game Station. It must have been something personal, something to do with him, because whatever it was certainly hadn’t affected anyone else there. If it had happened there though, there was a good chance the Doctor would know what had made him this way.

And if the Doctor knew that, there was a chance he could fix him.

At least being apparently unable to die opened up a new possibility to him. If he couldn’t travel to a time when he might be able to find the Doctor, he might be able to live his way there. The prospect of living a few centuries was scary, but the Doctor had done it, hadn’t it? Surely Jack could manage a century or two here on Earth.

That was, of course, presuming he didn’t age. What really scared him was that eventually he’d become a doddering old thing, body barely holding together, and yet unable to die. It was a possibility he didn’t allow himself to consider too often. With any luck, this apparent immortality extended only to violent deaths, and a natural death was still an option for him.

He hoped so, at any rate. Living forever didn’t really appeal.

5095

“How was the trip?” Ylthar asked.

“An absolute disaster,” Jack grunted in reply.

“It always is,” Ylthar laughed. “Have you any details?”

Jack sighed, running his hand through his hair in exasperation. “Apparently, Glin didn’t think to do any research,” he said. “He had no clue what he was doing or saying. In the end, Canon and Madison and I pretended he was insane, and we needed to bring him back to a Home.”

“And Joem?” Ylthar asked quizzically.

“I think Prof Joem was too busy being amused to help,” Jack said sourly. “That, or he wanted to see how we’d handle it. Probably both.”

“In all likelihood,” Ylthar agreed, one furry ear twitching in amusement.

“It’s so different there,” Jack said after a moment. “I mean, you know it theoretically, but actually being there - it’s quite the shock.”

“Indeed,” Ylthar said. “And how did you feel about being there?”

Jack paused for a moment to gather his thoughts. “Excited,” he said at last. “I really was. It was amazing there. Backwards in some ways, but in other ways it was brilliant. Like… I knew more about nano tech than them, but I didn’t even know what an overhead tram was, and you know, you’d never have been able to get around without knowing that. It’s little things like that. I love figuring them out.”

Ylthar nodded in satisfaction. “And that,” he said, “is what will allow you to succeed where your peers fail. Never become complacent or patronising. Remember that feeling of excitement and keep it with you always.”

“I don’t think I could ever lose it,” Jack said, smiling.

“It is easier than you might think,” Ylthar advised him. “But on to other matters. It was rather near the third World War on Earth. Did the militaristic mind-set affect you negatively?”

“Not at all,” Jack said immediately. His eyes dulled a little. “I think I’m best suited to being a soldier anyway.”

1897

He returned to London.

America had been fun while it had lasted, but London still seemed his best bet. Putting aside the fact that he was in entirely the wrong century, the Doctor most often popped by London when he came to Earth, after all. Jack quickly realised that the Time Rift in Cardiff still flared up often enough to be a potential source of refuelling for the TARDIS, so he divided his time between the two places, in search of an elusive alien.

He carefully cultivated a personable front and made himself known at all the usual hot-spots - the taverns and inns. He’d had practice at deciphering the exaggerated stories locals liked to tell, and it didn’t take very much doing to figure out which were actually the result of alien activity. Sadly, even when he tracked down each of those cases, he didn’t find any indication that the Doctor had been around.

He hung around another couple of years, searching ceaselessly for the Doctor, dying a few times when the frustration got too much and he accidentally provoked someone into a fight. Eventually, he began to feel desperate.

It was probably his undoing. He grew careless, began to speak a little too loudly, a little too much.

And one day, when he woke up from a stabbing during a bar brawl, it was to the sight of two beautiful, cold faces staring at him.

5102

He couldn’t trust his professors or fellow Agents, that much was clear. That meant that there was only one person on the Mother that he’d trust.

Kalthir met him outside the Square, just beyond the gates.

“This is wrong,” she whispered fiercely, blue fur standing on end in agitation. “I know you don’t remember it, Jack, but it was a public severing.”

The news startled him, though he didn’t show it. “Did I tear a timeline?” he asked lightly. Deliberately sabotaging time was one of the few crimes that warranted a public severing. It was bad enough having your memories taken from you, but it was downright humiliating to have an audience for the event. He hoped he’d conducted himself with dignity. Or at least defiance.

“We don’t know!” Kalthir cried. “They didn’t say what you’d done to warrant it!”

Blue eyes clouded over. “That’s standard procedure for a public severing,” Jack murmured. The only reason he could think of for the breach in procedure, was that whatever he’d been involved in had been something confidential. That likely meant some of his work in Interrogation. Kalthir didn’t know he’d ever been part of that secretive group, and he had no desire to enlighten her.

“Don’t we all know that?” Kalthir hissed. Her tail lashed behind her restlessly. “A lot of people aren’t happy with that. They think the Agency’s using you as a scapegoat for something they’re covering up. Remember Cookie Alther, last year? They never explained how she died, not even to Cotton, and they were mates!”

“I don’t know what happened,” Jack said, then shook himself. “Obviously. But Cookie’s exactly why I’m leaving. I’m not staying to mysteriously get killed later.”

“Don’t blame you,” Kalthir said, her ears drooping unhappily. “I brought all the chips I could spare - should be enough to get you off the planet at least - and here, what you asked for -”

He grinned at the innocuous wristband that sat on Kalthir’s palm. “You’re a gem, darling,” he said, taking it from her. The vortex manipulator settled snugly on his wrist, feeling familiar despite his missing memories. “This should do me well.”

From the moment he’d woken up to find two years of his life missing, he’d begun planning. His first priority was to get his vortex manipulator back, and Kalthir had jumped at the chance to help. There was something to be said for sibling loyalty, he supposed; they’d grown up together, right up until Kalthir had offered herself for scientific study in exchange for free medical care.

He wished there was more he could do for her - some way he could get her away from the Agency - but he just couldn’t afford the expensive cocktails of chemicals that were necessary to battle her peculiar genetic mutation and keep her alive. No, he’d have to leave without her and trust that she’d be able to keep her cover. His plan simply didn’t allow for another person to join him, much less one who was so easily tracked down.

“Be careful,” Kalthir said anxiously. “I don’t want to lose my crèche-kin.”

“You won’t,” Jack said, leaning down and kissing the side of her mouth hard, in a familial gesture of comfort. “I have a plan.”

And he was going to have to be very devious to pull it off.

1900

“Oh, I hate this century,” Jack muttered under his breath. “All labels and stereotypes and non-existent tech, bastards couldn’t have just one spare diluvian anti-particulate injector lying around for me to borrow? And rain, rain, rain all the damn time, would it kill this place to get a little sunshine? I grew up in the desert, dammit! I want some light, some heat. A little sand, maybe. I want a vacation. Pompeii sounds good about now. Oh god, Greece, I want to go to Ancient Greece. Communal baths, bring communal baths to these prudes!”

He paused for breath, and to push his sodden hair out of his face. Then, with a grunt of effort, he continued to haul the unconscious alien down the alley. Torchwood had a series of drop-off points hidden throughout the city, and if he left a captured alien there with his tag on it, it would be picked up in a closed carriage and dealt with. Then he’d head down to the main office to get his pay.

He didn’t think too hard about what happened to the aliens he brought in. He couldn’t, not if he wanted to stay sane. And, as he was rapidly learning, people could do some absolutely disgusting things to protect themselves.

He would sacrifice the hostile aliens. He would also sacrifice the confused aliens who’d come here by accident and not malicious design. He would give them up to be killed and dissected for study.

Anything so that he wouldn’t be killed and dissected for study.

5102

War was always a good place to hide, and he was a good soldier.

He bought passage to the Blithin colony first, and discreetly got together enough supplies to last him at least a few months. Then he bought a ticket to Sandlet via Croxim and Sirius III, letting the security cameras get a good recording of him loitering in the transport lobby.

When boarding for Sandlet was called, he joined the flow of beings headed to the shuttle, right up until he hit a security blind spot. Then he doubled back and ran for a transport ship instead. It didn’t take very much effort to stow away on it, or to escape it unseen once it had landed.

Safely back on Earth, Jack grinned as he set his vortex manipulator to World War Three. It was time to see how well he could act.

Back in his past, he became Allen Kerry and joined the army. Whenever he had free time, he gathered the materials he’d need for his next trip. He couldn’t afford to stay too long here, not in the time period he’d specialised in while at the Agency. If they figured out he’d gone traipsing through time, this was the first place they’d look for him.

His platoon was eventually sent out on a mission which, the history database saved on his wristband informed him, would end with the deaths of all involved. He took it as a sign to move on, and made the next leap to just before the Fourth Depression hit.

The items he’d scavenged from the war were now considered antiques, and he sold them for a tidy amount of money. With it, he bought the new meal pills that had just been invented. They were small, convenient and filling, and a sight easier to manage than normal meals. He didn’t want to chance going hungry while settling into a new time.

Then he ran into Canon Deer.

He nearly panicked, but then Canon had hailed him with a wide, friendly smile. It didn’t seem as if Canon was there to kill him, or bring him back to the Agency for interrogation. Because this Canon, he quickly realised, didn’t know Jack had been expelled. This was a Canon from further back in his past, one for whom Jack’s severing hadn’t yet happened.

Sometimes, Jack really loved time-travel.

Of course, then Canon had roped Jack into helping him with his case - a time-loop that they both promptly got stuck in. In a way, it was a good thing. It let Jack hone his acting skills on Canon, who’d been one of the Agency’s darlings alongside Jack. After two years of being stuck in that damn loop, Canon still didn’t suspect anything. It was a fact that bolstered Jack’s spirits considerably.

By the time they got out, of course, Jack badly wanted to kill Canon. Prolonged exposure to the man was bad for anyone’s mental health.

But more importantly, being able to deceive Canon so easily had given him the inklings of an idea, one which might bring him not only income, but the possibility of revenge.

Thus began his life as a conman. It wasn’t hard. He’d always been good at reading people, which was one reason why Interrogation had recruited him the moment he’d graduated. Some of his cons did fail, but his vortex manipulator was always already calibrated to the next destination, ready to get him away should the worst happen.

He hopped through Earth’s history, becoming Alfred and Jan and Darnell and Zachary and Rune. Very occasionally, he conned the residents of that time, if they’d annoyed him in some way. Mostly, though, his targets were Time Agents from before his expulsion. It was embarrassingly easy.

Nearly a decade after he’d first gone on the run, he picked World War II as his next destination. As he began the usual search for an identity he could borrow - from a dead soldier, of course - he came across a Captain Jack Harkness.

It had been a long time since he’d been Jack. The name touched something painful and raw inside him.

Captain Jack Harkness had been a dignified, just man. No one had a bad word to say about him. He’d died a noble death, protecting his men on a training exercise gone bad. He was nothing like what Jack was. But then, he’d never suffered like Jack either, had never seen the things Jack had.

It was with spiteful anger that Jack took on his identity.

1902

He had no friends here.

The thought was startling. He’d been taught never to get too close to anyone in the time you’d travelled to, of course, but surely this was different. He was trapped here, and forming attachments was only to be expected. Except he hadn’t. He couldn’t trust anyone from Torchwood, and he… simply didn’t trust anyone else he knew.

At the very least, he could never reveal the secret of his immortality to anyone, or when he’d actually been born.

It was bad enough that Torchwood knew about the former. He’d thus far kept them thinking that he was originally from this time, and that the Doctor had returned him after a period of travelling together. He really didn’t want them picking his brain too much, if they figured out the truth.

Or anyone else’s brains. He knew what Torchwood would do to anyone he got close to.

But even if Torchwood wasn’t a factor, could he still afford to get close to anyone? Gwyneth had been dead for years now. The Powells and the Mathesons were all dead. Andrew Farman had grown suspicious of Jack’s never-aging face, and so Jack had had to leave that community before he’d wanted to. Immortality was looking more and more like a curse, the longer he lived.

Finding the Doctor had become an imperative, not an option.

1941

Ah, the Blitz. Never a better time to lose oneself in chaos.

He could hear the dance music from where he was loitering outside. Quite some time later, his target came stumbling out, looking rather like he’d been kneed in the groin. Smirking at the thought, Jack followed the good Captain back to his humble abode, determined not to let him out of his sight.

They would be shipping out the next morning. Captain Jack Harkness would not return.

It went off perfectly. Jack joined a completely different division, eliminating the risk of being recognised as an impostor. He was able to use the credentials he’d stolen from the Captain to gain a position of relative importance, and all the battle strategy he’d picked up over the past couple of decades allowed him to maintain the fiction.

He had a Chula medical transport he could throw out into the Time Vortex to hopefully reel in a Time Agent. He’d get a bit of money, and then be off to 1997 to catch the Hale-Bopp comet. Should be quite the spectacle, and he felt he’d earned a vacation.

And then, a week later, he met Rose Tyler and the Doctor.

1920

Shooting himself in the head for a gimmick. Oh, joy.

It never failed to amuse him that people didn’t realise it was real. Didn’t the spattering gore give anything away at all? Idiots, one and all. And he, the biggest idiot for agreeing to go along with this.

There were the inevitable queries about how he pulled off his “illusions,” of course, but Jack feigned coy ignorance, and the matter was always laughingly dropped. Despite the now-constant headache from being repeatedly shot in the head, the circus-folk were quite fun to be around. At the very least, it was a break from Torchwood.

Even if he was there because of Torchwood.

A month later, he’d made no headway on the Night Travellers. It was only when the terror struck at the prospect of going back empty-handed, that he realised how far in thrall he was to Torchwood.

It felt much too similar to how he’d felt with Interrogation.

1941

Meeting the Doctor and Rose brought out something in Jack that he thought he’d outgrown long ago. Realising how badly he’d miscalculated with the Chula con had brought back that part of him that wanted to help people. Killing innocents was not what he did, it was not who he was. All he wanted was his damn memories back, but this - this was too high a price to pay.

He sipped his hyper-vodka, savouring the taste. As last meals went, it wasn’t too bad. The pretty little ship he’d stolen sailed serenely through space.

Then the Doctor decided to open a door into the back of his ship.

“Much bigger on the inside,” Jack commented as he stepped into the TARDIS, still feeling calm, as if his mind hadn’t yet left that peaceful acceptance of death that he’d embraced.

“You’d better be,” the Doctor said. Jack gave him the barest hint of a nod.

He’d trusted the Time Agency once, believed in its rhetoric and lofty goals. Then something had happened to reduce his worth to them, and he’d been discarded like so much rubbish. There was always the possibility he really had done something terrible, but the more he thought about it, the more loose ends he found. He couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d been a scapegoat, a convenient target to blame for something that had gone wrong.

It was his mother, all over again.

He’d wanted revenge on them so badly, and instead, he’d nearly brought about the extinction of the human race. As mistakes went, this had to be one of the most colossal anyone had ever made.

If trusting the Doctor - if rediscovering who he’d once been - was the only way to move on from what he’d lost, he’d do it.

1941

He considered catching up to the Doctor at the same time that his past self had met him for the first time.

Then common sense prevailed, and he took a job in Scotland instead. It was about as far away as he could get from the Doctor while remaining under Torchwood’s watchful eye. He knew what they’d do if they thought he was trying to slip the net.

The death of Emily Holroyd had freed him somewhat. Even Alice Guppy had mellowed slightly after that, though it didn’t help much when every senior employee of Torchwood still knew about his inability to stay dead. He consoled himself with the thought that at least the London branch wasn’t requisitioning him for suicide runs quite so often anymore.

But Glasgow was nothing like Cardiff or London. For one, the Glasgow team was tiny. There were only five people at Torchwood House, none of whom seemed particularly interested in him. It was a nice change of pace. The smaller team also felt more relaxed - and tightly-knit - than he’d ever felt Cardiff or London to be. He rather preferred the atmosphere there.

And there was so little to do in Glasgow! They barely got any alien incidents. If Torchwood House hadn’t been there, the branch would probably have been shut down. As it was, their primary job was in securing the forests every full moon so that the local werewolves could have the run of it.

Jack had been rather surprised to find out just who the werewolves were. What a fascinating unwritten chapter in Earth’s history.

It was a pity he couldn’t stay longer. He retrieved the H’jo’im flute he’d been sent to get, then dawdled another couple of days before taking the train back to Cardiff.

Almost a week passed before he summoned the courage to check up on what had happened. According to the local news, Captain Jack Harkness had failed to report for duty, and disappeared on the 21st of January.

Jack thought about that for a while, then went to requisition another job, away from London and anyone looking for him. He found himself unceremoniously booted up to Blackpool to investigate reports that alien life had taken up residence along the shores. It wasn’t as far from London as Jack would have liked, but at least there wasn’t as much of a military presence there.

History was on track, but he couldn’t bring himself to be happy about it.

200100

He waited two days for the Doctor to return.

He didn’t know why he’d survived where everyone else had died, but surely the Doctor would have answers for him. The Doctor would realise something was amiss and would come back to check up. Would find him.

He refused to think of how he’d felt when he’d seen the TARDIS vanish before him.

The Doctor would come back for him. He believed that, he did, he had to, because if he’d been thrown away by the Doctor, just like he’d been thrown away by the Time Agency, just like he’d been thrown away by his mother, then what did that say about him?

2000

He sleep-walked through time.

He had affairs. He even married a woman or two. He had clandestine relationships with men. He had plenty of acquaintances and some people he might even call friends.

He never got too close to them, rarely ever told them the truth about himself. When the time was right, he got divorced, or vanished, or broke up with them. The one time he’d been in a relationship with someone who’d known of his immortality, she’d fled, unable to cope with her husband’s never-aging body. He’d sworn never to let himself be hurt like that again.

And so he drifted, always on the periphery of life and feigning closeness with his supposed lovers and friends. He continued to freelance for Torchwood and always, always, kept searching for the Doctor.

People died. Those who knew about him grew fewer and fewer, until finally only the most senior Torchwood employees knew of him. In London, only seven of the top-tier executives were privy to the secret of his immortality; in Cardiff, just Alex Hopkins. The Glasgow branch had been reduced to solely old Archie, who as ever, couldn’t care less about anyone else’s business.

Jack rather liked that about him.

He watched people die. He died. He helped cover up murders and helped commit them. Sometimes he wondered if this was what the Doctor had saved him for. If the Doctor had brought out that part of him that wanted to help people, just so Jack could stamp it down again. He had to, to stay off the dissecting table.

Survival instinct. It was a wonderfully cruel thing.

By the time the new millennium had rolled around, he’d perfected a jovial, flirtatious mask, a mocking mimicry of his old, jovial, flirtatious disposition. Even Interrogation had never managed to kill him as thoroughly as this never-ending life had.

He lost himself in the millennium celebrations. He remembered his history. Good things were coming Earth’s way in the next few centuries. There was a slender chance things would start looking up for him too. If the Fortune Teller was to be trusted, he’d find the Doctor soon.

It was with that buoying thought that he returned to headquarters, to the scent of blood, and a fear-crazed leader.

The turn of the millennium, and Jack found himself the leader of Torchwood Cardiff.

5092

“The difficulty is that you must understand them,” Professor Jacqui explained. “But at the same time, you must not let yourself get too attached to them.”

He trailed in her wake, hugging his bag close to his body. He still didn’t feel entirely comfortable in the bustling Trinity, the hub of activity at the Time Agency. All the same, he was intrigued by Professor Jacqui’s lessons, and if she had the patience to answer his additional questions, he didn’t mind following her there for a cup of coffee in the meantime.

“Attached?” he asked, and suddenly found himself juggling her bag as well, while she inserted her teaching chip into the dispenser slot and began inputting her request.

“Too emotionally close,” she said. “You’re liable to miss something then, because you want to think the best of that person. But if you’re not close enough and you don’t know enough of the time and practices, then you’re also liable to miss something. Tricky balance there, very tricky.”

“So how do you -?” he began.

“Ah, that’s the rub,” she said. “You’ve got to grow fond of the time. You’ve got to be close to the people in general. But if you’re investigating someone, you do not under any circumstances get attached to them.”

“That seems obvious enough,” he said with a frown.

“You’d think so!” she laughed. “It’s actually how we lose most of our new Agents. They get too involved and compromise the mission. Think about it though. You’re in a completely different time. You’re necessarily watching other people to make sure you don’t make a fool of yourself. You’re there for a job. Who are you going to be watching most of the time?”

“Your target,” he said promptly.

“Right,” she said. “Which means?”

“Oh,” he said. “That’s how they start getting attached?”

“Right,” she said. “It’s not like taking a case in the present time, for instance, or a time you’re already very familiar with, because then you’re not so dependant on your target for your social cues. If you went back to the past to live there - and I’ve known a few retired Time Agents who did - there’s no problem with becoming attached, of course. But during a case, it’s a problem.”

“Wait, wait,” he said, eyes widening. She led him to a table and gestured for him to sit down. “You can retire to the past?”

“It’s an option,” she said, smiling at him. “But it’s usually only offered to the more senior, experienced Agents. They’re the ones we trust not to mess up continuity, you see?”

He nodded, still feeling rather dumbfounded.

“You might understand,” she said, “after you make your first jump. Some will love the time and others won’t. For the former, there’s nothing quite like it. And you do get very fond of your specialisation, simply because you keep going back there. After a point, it’s less like being a tourist, and more like being a native. You’ll see.”

“But if you retired there, then you could be as attached as you like,” he said, feeling overwhelmed. If he found Grey, and Grey wanted to stay there in that time, perhaps he’d be allowed to remain with him. Perhaps - perhaps he might be able to mend things with Grey, and they’d be able to start over.

“You could,” Jacqui said. “In fact, I’d rather advise you do. It’d be a miserable existence if you had no one you love. You’d never make it through.”

2007

He caught sight of her face, and it was like he was back in 1869.

“Gwyneth,” he murmured.

The moment they got back to the Hub, he made Toshiko run background checks on the policewoman they’d all seen. Gwen Cooper wasn’t Gwyneth of course. How could she be?

A chrono-spatial quirk was what it probably was. The universe did that on occasion - spit out people who were mirror images of others from long ago. Most times, they weren’t even blood-related. He supposed there was a chance of it here, but Gwyneth had never had children. Even if Gwen Cooper was somehow related to her, she wasn’t a direct descendant.

All the same, the sight of that familiar face brought back all the old heart-ache. He’d hated having to leave Gwyneth. Her psychic talent had allowed her to understand him in a way no one else in the time could have. She’d never looked too closely - and besides, he’d shielded himself from her - but she’d nonetheless managed to understand the pain he managed to hide from everyone else. She’d been safe, and good to him, and he’d loved her.

She’d also loved him, which was why he’d left.

But she’d died anyway, a scant month after he’d left, caught in a fire and burned to death. Such a horrible death for his sweet girl, and he’d been left with nothing of her but regrets he still hadn’t managed to rid himself of.

And now here was Gwen Cooper, looking exactly like the girl he’d loved so long ago. Could she possibly be anything like Gwyneth?

She wasn’t. She was doggedly determined and brashly enthusiastic, vivacious and extroverted in a way Gwyneth had never been. Jack liked Gwen Cooper, but he’d been a fool to think she could be Gwyneth again. Just because they looked alike didn’t mean they were the same person, and so he resigned himself to having nothing more than a new team-mate.

He wondered if he’d ever find someone like Gwyneth again. That quiet support had meant more to him than anything he’d ever had since. She’d seen what shadowed him and taken him in anyway; had never pushed, never wanted him to change, and always been sympathetic. She’d never let him wallow, and had always exhorted him to be the best he could be. For her, he’d tried, and succeeded right up until Torchwood had gotten its claws into him.

In the wake of Jasmine’s abduction, it was exceedingly clear to Jack that no one would ever grant him that unspoken trust again. What he wouldn’t give for Gwyneth’s unassuming presence, just once more!

A knock at the door interrupted his dark musings, and he looked up warily.

“Coffee, sir?” Ianto asked softly. “It’s fresh.”

“Thanks,” Jack said after a moment’s pause. “Why haven’t you gone home yet?”

“Thought I’d do some cleaning up,” Ianto replied, setting down the mug. He hesitated, then added, “And I thought you might want some company. I’m sorry, I’ll leave if you’d rather be alone.”

“No,” Jack said. “I’m fine with having you here, but don’t you need to get some sleep? It’s late, you shouldn’t be here.”

“Neither should you,” Ianto retorted instantly, a ghost of a smile touching his lips. “I’ll leave in a few minutes, then.” He bit his lip, then ploughed on determinedly. “I just wanted to say, sir - you did all you could, and you were in the right. After what I did, my support might not mean much to you, but - I wanted you to know you’ve got it.”

Jack stared at him for a long moment. “Maybe it’s because of what you did,” he finally said, picking up his mug. “But your support means a lot to me.”

“Oh!” Ianto said in surprise, then blushed as Jack shot him an amused look. “I mean, thank you. I, uh, I’ll be off then, sir.”

Jack watched in barely-hidden delight as Ianto just about ran out of his office. Even after months, he hadn’t broken Ianto of the habit of calling him “sir,” but he couldn’t say he really minded. There was something very affectionate about the seemingly formal moniker.

One sip revealed that the coffee was as good as ever. Jack sighed in contentment and set down the mug, beginning his paperwork in a much improved frame of mind.

Life seemed a little better now.

~fin

torchwood, ianto jones, janto, fic, jack harkness, jack/ianto

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