checkingout | There Once Was a Man Who Could Never Die

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There Once Was a Man Who Could Never Die

Who: Jack Harkness and you!
What: In all the madness going around, Jack is trying to help those he can while not losing himself in the ghosts that cluster around him.
When: From 17-28
Warnings: Jack Harkness is a warning in and of himself. That said, Jack hasn't always led a pleasant life. Mentions of blood, gore, hauntings, death, trauma, etc. Can switch to brackets or prose to suit your prefs!

[March 17-22]

He barely glanced at the group of men in the mirror he passed, paid even less attention to the rose petals that drifted from their mouths. It wasn't that Jack didn't remember them, he did. It wasn't that he couldn't look them in the eyes. He could.

It was that he knew they weren't real. They were people he had been laughing with in the moments before the faeries had come. The dead man who lurked at their edges was disregarded along with them when he caught their image again in the polished tabletop. The boyfriend if he remembered rightly. Yeah, he remembered them. He had done what he needed to, what saved all of them. It was he did. It was what he always did.

They were growing stronger, every hour or every day. Jack had the bad feeling that things were going to get worse before they got any better. Those he had met in this place where the ones he hunted now: Thea, Clara, Harry, and the Doctor, but he wasn't going to turn down anyone if they needed him.

Anything to distract him from the long dead that were waiting in the shadows. Movie star smile fixed in place, he headed for the figure down the hall.

[March 23-28]

It wasn't just the name of 'Jack' that he heard following him down the hallways, echoing through the rooms, but the multitude of names that had been his over the years. His brother trailed along behind him, trying to touch his hand and hold on... the same hand that had let go of him long ago. A pack of small children waited up ahead of him, clustered together as if they were the sole survivors when they had really been a sacrifice.

He fell into one of the chairs by the fireplace, chin propped on a curled hand as he watched them come closer. Gray was first, of course he was. His own little brother who's hand he let slip from his own. Behind him came the children, those that Earth had sacrificed. He counted off all eleven of them that had been taken. Clement McDonald wasn't there. Their little hands went through his as they tried to touch him and pull him along.

"I had to. The Indonesian flu would have mutated and killed twenty-five million people. They thought I wouldn't care, that I was cold enough to be able to do it."

Estelle Cole lifted a hand and waved to him.

"All you wanted was to spend the rest of your life with me," he told her. To a watcher, he must have looked like a madman talking to empty air by the check-in desk. "It was what... 1935? It was the Astoria Ballroom. You were so beautiful. We said we would be together until we died. Then I saw you again in 2007, and you thought I was my son. You kept my picture all those years."

Near her lurked another man, one that Jack could never deny. Someone he had loved enough to tell things to that he wouldn't another for at least a few decades.

"It was 1927, and you stole my visa. It all ended so badly."

Its only his name that Angelo whispered, holding out a hand to him.

"Then you thought I was the Devil because I couldn't die. How many times did you let that crowd kill me? Shouldn't I be haunting you instead of you me?"

The old man limped around the corner, Jack sighing heavily. He tried to smile and failed badly.

"It was 1898. Hello, Anthony. You're looking much older. I keep going on, I keep living on. And everyone else just dies."

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Helen couldn't remember the last time she'd slept. It must have been a couple days ago at least. She didn't need as much sleep as most, but the strain was beginning to show. She looked tired. More to the point, she looked old. Not physically, but something deep inside her that was just as visible, a weight she carried. She was usually better at hiding it, at burying it under that calm British exterior. But recent events have left her stretched thin, worn. She was so very tired.

When she first heard him, realized what he was doing, she hadn't wanted to interrupt. She didn't think he looked like a madman, not at all. She'd tried talking to her own ghosts a time or two, never with much success. Now, they mostly followed silently, familiar eyes lacking any warmth they once might have had, and when they did speak, she did her level best to ignore them. Whoever they were, whatever they were, they weren't her friends or her enemies. She would do well to remember that.

Eventually, she decided it was more polite to intrude than to stand there eavesdropping, her voice soft as she came up behind him, "They haven't got much to say." She smiled, moving to sit in a nearby chair. It didn't quite reach her eyes, but the warmth behind it was genuine. "Unless you're having better luck than I did."

Edited (late night tagging, apparently. but i think i'm done now.) 2015-03-19 04:26 (UTC)

"No, they seem stuck on just the one word or standing about and staring. It's odd. I can't get a reading on them, of course, but I've never seen anything like it."

He gave her a smile that was lower wattage than his usual, but still had the sincerity behind it. The past couple of days had worn on him, and he suspected it had her as well.

"It's been a rough couple of days. Can't remember if we've met or not. Captain Jack Harkness."

While Jack didn't need to sleep, he sometimes did. That combined with the ghosts lingering about had left him a little unsure where reality began and this nightmare ended. He knew he'd spoken to some people a few days ago, but names were blurring with the time spent here.

"I'd hate to admit I've forgotten a lovely lady's name like this."

She'd never seen anything like it either. There had been cases of abnormals who were able to influence the mind, make one believe whatever they chose, but this was entirely different. They were so vivid, almost perfect copies. Aside from the alarming lack of communication and the apparent drive to stir up guilt, of course.

"You haven't forgotten anything. We haven't met." It had been a rough couple of days, but she was certain she would have remembered. Even sleep deprived, her memory wasn't that terrible.

Leaning forward, she offered a hand, introducing herself, "Dr. Helen Magnus. It's a pleasure." Apparently, lack of sleep also didn't make her any less polite. After a brief moment of debate, she added, "I'm sorry, but did you say 1898?" Well, not much less polite, anyway.

She couldn't really help but notice he wasn't exactly dressed for the 1800's. She also might have listened longer than she should have. He made her curious, and that was a welcome distraction.

The problem with lies was that if one was told, then it had to be remembered and carried on. Jack had few problems lying about who and what he was, but in a place like this, the truth might help them more.

"Good to meet you, Doctor. And yeah, 1898 if I remember right. It's been a long time since then. I had been in the twenty-first century before ending up here."

It was easier to focus on her, see Helen instead of the shades that pressed at his sides. His dead brother's attempts to hold his hand weren't felt as much with another's presence. Good thing since Jack hated being alone anyway.

"The 1800s on Earth weren't the best of times no matter what anyone says. Never understood the history buffs wanting to go back there. Sorry about that. Hadn't realized anyone was overhearing me."

It was a sly poke at her for eavesdropping, but he softened it with a smile.

Helen preferred evasion to outright lies. She liked her secrets, but her life was complicated enough without needing to remember every lie she'd ever told. But if she were honest, she wasn't doing so well at either since finding herself in this godforsaken hotel.

She smiled slightly, a hint of apology in the gesture, though it was likely ruined by the flicker of amusement in her eyes. Being well acquainted with the 1800's herself, she understood that sentiment. "Yes, well, they didn't have the benefit of living through them, did they?" Her expression shifted, unreadable, her eyes not betraying her for once, but there was a soft fondness to her next statement, "Times have certainly changed."

And because it had been terribly rude of her to eavesdrop, "I would have been 48. Things were different then."

Edited (missed a word) 2015-03-23 18:50 (UTC)

He had to laugh at her. Anyone who could try to look contrite while being called out without losing their temper? Had to be someone worth knowing. Relaxing back in his chair, Jack gave her the once over with appreciation clear in his eyes. He definitely liked what he saw.

"You well your age well if you were only forty-eight then. Seems like you've found a way to roll back the clock. You're what... thirty-three now?"

While his smile remained, there was no sign of teasing in him. If anything, he looked honest about it.

"Yeah, times have changed. Remember when an uncovered ankle was cause for a scandal? I have to say though that I love the direction the bikini is going in. The last one I saw looked like a few little strips of cloth with fishing line attached. Now if I could only convince them to make the Speedo smaller."

He sighed heavily. These were the challenges of being immortal for one Captain Jack Harkness.

She didn't miss that appreciation, and truthfully, she didn't mind it. After so many years, Helen is entirely comfortable in her skin and well aware of how well she's aged. It didn't hurt that he was an attractive person himself.

"Very flattering, but no. And I didn't roll it back, so much as slow it down." She was still smiling, and that hint of amusement hadn't gone anywhere. But there was nothing to suggest she was being anything less than serious.

As for his trouble with the design of the Speedo, well, she had no comment. Still too much the Victorian, perhaps. Or perhaps she simply wasn't sure what to make of it. It was hard to tell, really.

"Alien technology, magic, or I don't want to talk about it?"

The good thing about having been around multiple blocks a whole lot of times is that Jack was open minded about a lot of things others might scoff at. Hell, he worked for an organization that was all about aliens. Wasn't as if he had a whole lot of space to get judgmental in.

"Would you mind if I asked why too? I know people like the idea of living forever, but by your age, most realize it isn't what it's cracked up to be."

She did think she should tread somewhat lightly when it came to the how, but the why? That she could answer easily enough. "Curiosity? Scientific discovery? I was young; I wanted to change the world."

It might not have been purely scientific interest. It hadn't been for the others. But she wanted to believe she'd done it for what she felt were the right reasons at the time.

"The truth is, I had no idea what was going to happen." That it wasn't something she would have chosen for herself went unspoken. And knowing what she did now, how much of a curse her longevity had become, she wouldn't choose it for anyone else either.

"And you?"

Thea almost felt bad for giving Killian such a hard time over his want to catch the little ghost girl. At least she hadn't been wrong, though — they were definitely ghosts.

She had her own to deal with, just the one, thankfully. Thinking about it, she realized she probably could've had others. Tommy and her mother and Robert, maybe. She almost would've preferred the three of them over who she did have. Sara's ghost had been lurking around her for days, staring and whispering her name, expression flipping between hurt and anger and accusation. And Thea had been locked up in her room for most of it, trying her best to ignore her, and it sort of worked when Sara wasn't whispering.

Being alone with her ghost was driving her insane, though, and she was running out of things to distract herself with. She didn't want to go see Ollie. Ollie would know, there was no way he couldn't. He'd know that Thea was being plagued by Sara's ghost, and she didn't want to deal with him knowing. So she'd wandered out into the hotel, and eventually located Jack by the fireplace. She could hear him talking as she came up, and she knew — he was dealing with his ghosts, too.

She dropped herself into the chair beside him, immediately pulling her legs up under her, and gave him a smile that was mostly forced, definitely weak. "Want some company?"

Jack's eyes moved to her, to the ghosts and back. A small measure of relief was apparent on his face in that she was more solid, more real than they were.

"I would always welcome your company, Thea," he said quietly. "Seems from the network that I'm not the only one being followed around by my past. Wanna talk about it? I know you're never supposed to say this to a lady, but you don't look so hot."

He opened his arms to her if she wanted to be closer. His greatcoat was big enough for both of them. For once, it wasn't a sexual desire but a want for something that wasn't ghostly sliding over his skin.

A wink meant to be sly but looking a little more tired than anything was about the best he could give her right now.

"If you don't want to talk about that, tell me about your life some. Or I can tell you about the aliens. Maybe how I ended up bedding my two executions after a last meal of four hypervodkas."

A laugh was trying to work its way into his voice, wanting to make it cheerful enough to drown out the whispers of his name from people long gone.

For once, she wasn't even offended by that. She knew she looked like a wreck, slumming it in pajama shorts and a t-shirt, dark circles and without makeup. At least her hair always looked nice. She eyed him and his open arms for a moment, like she was gauging it. But she'd always been one for hugs and physical comforts, so it wasn't but a couple of seconds before she was sliding out of her chair and curling up with him on his, letting herself be wrapped up in his arms and his coat.

People who saw might make assumptions, but growing up as a Queen meant she'd been living with the public's assumptions for a long time, and she couldn't bring herself to care anymore. He was warm and she felt better in his presence and with his company. Safe, almost.

She rested her head against him and looked up to where Sara was loitering beside his chair.

"I don't wanna talk about it yet," she said. She would eventually, maybe. Internalizing things never really worked for her. "Let's talk about the aliens. Or my life. I mean, it's not very interesting, not near as interesting as aliens and executions sound."

Jack's coat was warm if nothing else, smelling of him with the taints of coffee and spent gunpowder. He tucked the edges of its around her and held her like he would a child in need of comfort.

"Then don't. I've got you. I promise."

His cheek rested gently against her hair, arms surrounding her as best he could to keep Thea in a warm cocoon of safety. His own ghosts might keep pressing ever closer, but her voice kept a line to sanity in place.

"Oh that. Well, you know how points of view can differ? They did that time. They felt I was robbing a tomb. I felt I was getting back an artifact that could change time instead. More for the common good, you see? Wasn't my fault they buried their leader with an amulet that could be used by a greedy second in command to rewrite their culture's entire history."

A low laugh growled through his chest, fingertips touching lightly against her back.

"Tell me about your life then, Thea Queen. If I have to be Malcolm Merlyn someday, I should know the details," he teased gently.

She was suddenly glad that her head was ducked, that he couldn't see her face, because she was finding it increasingly difficult to not cry. His promise left her feeling aching and bitter, aware that he said and did all the things Malcolm should've said and done. If Jack Harkness and Malcolm Merlyn were the same person, she would've given anything for this version to be her dad instead.

Just when she thought she wouldn't be able to hold back the tears any longer, his words had her laughing, and she had to fight to keep it from sounding hysterical. Jesus, she was a wreck, a mess of almost-tears and and soft laughter and heartache and guilt. She turned her head, put her face in his chest, listened at the way his words rumbled.

"Sometimes your life doesn't even sound real," she said, and was pleased to find that she sounded marginally steadier than she felt.

She was quiet for a moment, thinking, trying to remember the parts of her life that were happy. It was hard to find them through all the tragic. "The Queens were a multi-billion dollar family. So were the Merlyns." She'd let him realize the implications of that himself. She grew up rich and privileged. That part wasn't hard to figure out. "I own and manage a club called Verdant. Ollie was the one who started it but I guess he wasn't cut out for business management."

"My life is a very long story that I'll tell you some day, Thea, but not today. Not when I've got too many reminders of it staring me in the face."

His heartbeat was steady beneath his shirt, a pony-engine that didn't and couldn't give up. Jack's fingertips were gentle against her hair, drawing through the back of to try and calm her just as he had Ianto whenever he got wound up.

"It's all right, Thea. Easy," he murmured against his head, a shade above a whisper. "I've got you."

Her words made the shades clustered about less real even if he could hear the hurt in them. Whatever had happened to her had been bad, really bad given what little information he had gotten.

"What happened?" he asked in that same quiet voice. "Plenty of money, own a nightclub. What came next?"

And, he had to wonder, what or who was it that had driven Thea to this state.

"I like long stories. I'm holding you to that." She'd been interested in hearing his stories from the start, but he had his ghosts, too, and she wasn't going to ask him to talk about them. That wasn't fair.

She realized that she didn't need to calm down, she needed to let go. And he had her, he said so, so maybe it was okay for her to be weak this time. Just this once. She was tired of wearing her brave face.

So she pulled herself up smaller against him, curled her fingers into the fabric of his coat. She didn't cry loudly, didn't actually make a sound at all, but she stopped trying to hold back the tears and just let them fall instead. They wet her cheeks, and probably his shirt, too, but she'd apologize for that later.

"My--" She wanted to say 'dad', because Robert Queen had always been her dad. But that would probably sound confusing. "My step-dad died in a boat wreck when I was a kid. We thought Ollie did, too, but he came back. I watched my mom get murdered. My other brother died before I ever learned he was my brother, which was Malcolm's fault. A lot of things are Malcolm's fault." She paused and pulled in a breath that was shakier than she wanted it to be. "I wish I had happy things to tell you."

"Mine would take a long time to tell. Would probably require dinner or good leisurely breakfast."

If there was one thing that Jack's six foot tall frame was good for, it was supporting others. In all manner of ways. Thankfully none of those came into his mind. Her tears wouldn't be the first ones his shirt had dried or her fingers the first that anchored themselves in his greatcoat. His arm shifted, cradling her more against his chest as if to defend her.

He listened quietly, letting her get the hurt out. His fingers continued to slow slide through his hair.

"I generally don't like happy stories because they're dull, because I don't understand them. But I wish your story could have been happy just because it's yours. That's a lot of tragedy to pile on anyone, especially a kid like you. I don't know how you've stayed sane."

A gentle kiss was pressed to the top of her head.

"At least Malcolm didn't make a mistake with you. There's some truth to kids being the best thing about some parents."

"How about breakfast for dinner? Since it's our only option."

She felt like a child cradled against his chest, warm and safe and protected. It wasn't unlike the way Robert had comforted her after a nightmare or the way Ollie had hugged her and reassured her any time it felt like everything was going so wrong. It also wasn't totally unlike the way Roy used to wrap her up and kiss her head and let her cling to his shirt.

"Sometimes I don't know that I have stayed sane," she said quietly. After all, she was seeing the ghost of the friend she had no memory of killing. She was weighted down by confusion and guilt and anger and it all felt jumbled and cluttered.

Crying was helping, though. Talking was helping. Jack was helping. Maybe Oliver would've been the more logical choice to turn to for this, but she found herself having a harder time with showing weakness around Ollie after learning just how strong he was. She felt like she had to try to match him stride for stride now. But she didn't feel that way with Jack.

"Ollie says that Malcolm wasn't always bad. But it's hard to see him as anything besides a murderer and a liar."

"You're what, Thea... twenty? Twenty-one?"

Him laughing might have been an odd counterpoint to her tears, but it was honestly meant and full of good humor.

"Oh, Thea, you're sane. I was only kidding about that. We all go a little mad sometimes, when reality doesn't make sense or the world pushes us too hard and too fast. A little broken maybe, just like the rest of us."

His laughter fell off to a few small chufflings as he held her, the chest under her cheek expanding with a deep breath that he slowly released.

"I don't know what happened there besides what you've told me. My first instinct is to take your side, but I've seen too often how a different point of view can change a situation completely."

Jack sighed against her hair.

"Thea, I've been called a monster for the things I've done. A murderer, a liar, a thief... most anything. Once upon a time, I had to allow creatures to steal away a little girl while her mother screamed and begged me not to. Her fiancé was already lying dead a few feet behind us. She lost her daughter and her husband-to-be because I had to sacrifice one little girl the faeries had chosen to save scores of lives. To her, I'm a monster. A murderer. A liar. I said I would help, and I couldn't. I hurt that woman in a way that nothing can ever make better."

"Twenty," she said, emphasizing it. Not quite legal drinking age, not that that had ever stopped her before. "I just turned twenty. In January."

His words were oddly comforting, even though she felt that maybe they shouldn't be. Being called broken seemed like maybe it should be considered an insult, but it felt too accurate. She felt like she'd been a little bit broken for a long time but she wasn't sure how to fix herself. But it was the 'like the rest of us' that eased her the most. She wasn't alone. Everybody had their ghosts, literally and figuratively.

Even the idea that he might not take her side left her unsettled, made her curl up tighter. It was fair, she guessed, but she hated it.

"Malcolm Merlyn destroyed an entire part of the city and killed hundreds of people doing it, including his son, my brother. He manipulated me and lied to me and it's his fault that I have Sara's ghost, it's his fault that I'm-- like this." Her voice had started to give way to a bitter anger. "So I don't care what his reasons are, I will never forgive him."

She opened her eyes, immediately seeing Sara's ghostly figure standing off to the side. She lifted a hand to wipe her face, maybe make herself look a little bit less wrecked then she forced her gaze up, tilting her head back to look up at him. "I don't think you're a monster," she said quietly. Monsters didn't comfort upset, falling apart girls they'd known for less than a month.

"Twenty. That was a long time ago for me, and sometimes when you get to my age, you forget what it was like being yours."

When he felt her draw closer into him, he pulled himself a little more securely around her. She felt broken to him, but a lot of people did. A lot of broken things washed up on Jack's shores and he took care of them as best he could. As best he was able.

"You don't have to forgive him, Thea," Jack murmured quietly. A hand pulled away long enough to fish a handkerchief from his pocket and press it gently against her cheek as she looked up. The smile he wore was kind, patient.

"What you do have to do is stop hating. Hate never really serves a purpose except to eat at a person. I can hear it in your voice, see it in your eyes. It stops a person in time, Thea. You can't go on with hate like that."

He chased one last tear with the handkerchief and touched a fingertip to the curve of her cheek. "You're better than that hate. You're Thea. That makes you unique, special, powerful. You are not Malcolm Merlyn, Oliver Queen or anyone else. What they've done shouldn't and can't rule who you are. Who you will be. Whoever this Sara is that you're seeing, if it wasn't your fault, would she know that?"

She let out a quiet laugh. It was maybe a little thick with tears, but it was genuine. "You don't look a day over twenty-five, Jack."

Her lips pulled in a small smile at the handkerchief. It seemed silly and old fashioned and she didn't even think people carried around handkerchiefs anymore. But if they suited anybody, it was Jack.

The smile was quick to fade though as she listened to his words. She hated Malcolm Merlyn. She hated him more than she thought she hated anything else. Maybe even more than she hated Slade Wilson. And she felt so tightly wound around it that she wasn't sure she could separate herself from it. It had become such a part of her in such a short amount of time, she didn't know if she could shake it.

She blinked away tears, still looking up at him. "I don't know if I can," she said quietly. "Sara was my friend. Malcolm gave me a drug that made me follow orders without remembering them. He made me kill Sara and I didn't know about it for months." She searched his face, gauging his reaction, and added, "I don't know how to not hate him."

"I found a grey hair last year."

Jack's hands cupped her face in them. The gentle smile he had never faded. She reminded him some of Alice, his real daughter. Even had some of the same features. But he'd never really been there for her due to who he was, what he did and what he was. None of those would make for a good relationship.

"You look at yourself one day and say 'I don't want to be this anymore'. You realize that you're destroying yourself and those around you by holding onto that hate. That you make him more important than he is and rules you more. Hate is just as much a tool for manipulation as love is."

He tapped a fingertip to her nose as if she were a small child in his lap instead of a fully grown one.

"You're too pretty to hate someone. Puts lines on your face."

"I'll believe it when I see it."

She lifted a hand, bringing it up to curl long, slim fingers around one of his wrists, like she needed to be anchored to him. And maybe she did. She felt like she needed something stronger and better than her to hold onto, something that resembled hope and let her believe that maybe it would all be okay. And Jack was just that for her.

"You sound like you're speaking from experience," she said, and it was punctuated by a slight sniffle. He had her laughing just a moment later, though, like he always did. He was so much better at cheering her up than her brother was.

"Impossible. Queens don't get lines."

It wouldn’t be accurate to say it’s been the longest fortnight of his life. When one is being held in a lightless underground cell with the occasional jab from an electric shock baton just to check one’s still alive - for instance - the time really does drag on quite incessantly. Particularly after the more lurid hallucinations start. The hotel has certain advantages over Harry’s least favourite holiday spots, then, but it’s still nowhere near a walk in the park. The whispering ghosts are innumerate, and they are precisely chosen, and they are dedicated.

Harry is, whatever his colleagues might tell you, a human being. (Perhaps moreso now he has apparently reached beyond the end of his own lifespan.) He takes up his coping strategies where he can get them.

It’s a few days after Jack fails to die that they find themselves in the same bed again, and if he must be honest with himself, the hiatus has less to do with an existential crisis over anyone’s mortality and more about reassuring himself that there’s no more petty squabbling in the offing. (Eggsy really is a damned idiot of a boy if he thinks he would ever be anything less than Harry’s first and greatest concern, but — he’s a damned idiot of a boy who has no reason to believe that the older people in his life will be dependable, or consistent, or trustworthy.) Harry sleeps lightly, and very little, often waking to more exhaustion than he felt when he fell asleep.

He would guess that it’s the early hours of the morning when he stirs, a few undramatic blinks drawing him into consciousness. Two or three AM, perhaps. Jack, typically, is awake. He can’t see him in the dark but he knows the difference between a partner at rest and a man asleep.

“Is it that you don’t?” he asks quietly, the room so silent that his words need barely stir the air. “Or is it that you can’t? Sleep.”

Or is it that he won’t, but that’s another sort of question.

"I can," comes Jack's answer, just as quietly. With Harry awake, he finally shifts to face the man. Touch comforts him, fills the empty spaces and so Jack indulges in it whenever he can. When Harry sleeps, Jack stays next to him, not intruding but close enough that only an inch or so separates them. His sleep is so restless that Jack dares not touch him. What moments Harry manages to steal are precious to him.

"I choose not to. There's too much out there waiting for me to waste time sleeping."

The tip of his thumb lifts to try and slide gently against Harry's temple unless Harry waves him off. When all is said and done, Jack is a hedonist, a sensualist that enjoys touch and being touched. Whether sexual or not doesn't matter (most of the time). He could tease for hours with a touch, but he could see the signs in his lover that a touch could hurt more than help.

"Did you talk to Eggsy?" he asks, propping himself up on one elbow. That is the one surefire way to distract Harry from whatever line of inquiry he might be trying to follow.

Too much out there waiting. At first it seems a curious perspective from a man who, to all intents and purposes, has literally all the time in the world. But then, if you don't maintain momentum regardless, what's to stop you simply grinding to a halt?

When Jack brushes a hand against the side of his head, he doesn't demur. Like a lot of men raised in the old-money landed classes - lacking familial affection, trained to loathe and fear aberrant sexuality even in oneself - he grew up at arm's length from his peer group. The agent Galahad is who he needs to be from mission to mission, but Harry tends not to get closer than a handshake. Even in bed he's reasonably economical about how he uses his hands. Recently, though? Touch is welcome. It's necessary. The ghosts do not touch.

Furthermore, he's adaptable. By the time this is over, he supposes he may very well have adjusted to Jack's more tactile nature.

"I did."

And that's the end of that. There was no particular avenue being pursued; he accepts a change of subject without a fight, but not this one in particular. What passes between himself and Eggsy has the sanctity of the confessional, as far as he's concerned. He won't even be subtle about signaling that the topic is out of bounds.

He tilts one arm, brushes his fingertips over Jack's inner wrist.

"You were going to tell me about Torchwood."

He could admit that when he slept that nightmares often came with it or dreams of other times when he was happy. It wasn't in Jack to admit that waking up from the latter was worse than dying. Better to laugh and say too much was waiting for him even after all these years than that.

"Good."

That is all he plans to say on that. Jack is still learning where the emotional landmines are scattered in the field that is Harry, but that one is a blazing flag that he usually respects. A quiet laugh is buried against Harry's shoulder as he leans down to kiss the skin there. His fingers continue the exploring, a slide against his temple down to the line of his jaw. Drawing back up, Jack grins at him in the low light.

"Torchwood, or more correctly, the Torchwood Institute, was created by Queen Victoria to monitor alien threats. We are," he pauses there, giving a small chuckle, "above the government and beyond the police. I guess in a way, you could say I am Torchwood since only Torchwood Three really exist after Canary Wharf and other... incidents."

He gazes down into Harry's face, watching to see how all this is being taken. As soon as 'aliens' are mentioned most shut off or think him mad.

"A lot of what we do is take alien technology, reverse engineer it and use it to further or re-establish the British Empire. Anytime you see something 'secret' military groups or MI6 using outlandish equipment, chances are that it's something we made or helped with. We basically defend the Earth from what's out there and what's here too. People sometimes find bits of tech that they misused, possesses them or any number of bad things. There are times when humans are the enemy. We take whatever is thrown at us."

Jack's eyes dip down and back up to Harry's, a sign he's not being completely honest but actively lying either. There's simply too much about Torchwood to condense it down.

"No one in Torchwood lives long enough to collect a pension is the running joke."

All Jack gets in the half-darkness in response to the A-word is Harry's do go on look of polite, credulous curiosity. Jack's already mentioned them before, during his understandable (albeit unnecessary) outburst regarding stress, and the good Doctor clearly doesn't identify as human. He's already long since filed extraterrestrial life into his mental dossier on the man.

Besides which he is, at this point, prepared to throw his hands up in the air and say fine to almost anything he's likely to encounter. Ghosts; immortals; magic; time travel; alternate universes. Why not aliens? If anything - in the context of an infinite and unexplored universe - intelligent alien life is one of the more feasible things he's encountered so far.

The smile when he hears tell of secret military groups and MI6 and outlandish equipment is all internal, not reaching his mouth or even his eyes. Kingsman's toys are, at least, classic spycraft and developed entirely in-house. Simple, sometimes brutal tools - but elegantly and efficiently used, at least until something goes wrong. While there's some vague comfort in the fleeting notion that Valentine's pet project was not of their world - that human hands couldn't have forged something so terrible - he knows that that, too, isn't so. Valentine was a genius; he just happened to be demented. Quite simply, if an organisation as historically well-heeled as the Torchwood Institute existed in the England he knows and loves, they would know about it.

(As for running jokes, well. He's still a few years off his bus pass, isn't he? And there's never going to be a pension in the offing, not for him.)

The way his gaze darts away for just a moment is noted but not commented on. He would guess a condensation of the truth, maybe a veil drawn over something that doesn't belong in the mission statement, rather than an outright lie. He can't begrudge that, all things considered.

"Except you," he ventures quietly, and permits himself the reach of a hand to stroke the hair at the nape of Jack's neck. "And you've hardly a face that would convince the Treasury to stump up."

Reading Harry is next to impossible for Jack, and that's saying something. Being disbelieved is part and parcel of being Torchwood, not that they tell many people as much as he has Harry tonight. If ever called out on why he did, Jack would make as many innuendos as it took for any official questioning to end. For professional interrogators, Jack has found it take surprisingly few. Maybe he just wants someone to know. Hell if he knows.

"Except for me," he agrees quietly even as he tilts his head back to the touch of fingers through his hair. It's like dealing with a huge cat. "Not yet, but who knows? I found a grey hair last month."

Another of those sneaky kisses to Harry's chest comes as he wriggles more against the other's side. His fingers slide warming against his skin, mouth tracking along their path as long as Harry allows it.

"What about you and Eggsy? Going to tell me something or no?" he asks, breathing warmly against where his tongue had just wettened.

"There's little to tell, I'm afraid."

He doesn't feel bad, exactly, about telling Jack so little - about outright lying - when Jack's told him so much. Harry has never considered himself secretive or even particularly dishonest, simply discreet. Such is the nature of the work, and even now that discretion has no currency he finds it impossible to cast aside.

Besides which, it's difficult to string together a narrative when Jack's behaviour is edging away from affection and towards foreplay. This is not a thought which discourages him from touching Jack's hair, the side of his throat, the smooth skin of his shoulders.

"I was in the Royal Marines, a long time ago, now. I knew Eggsy's father. Circumstances intervened, and nowadays I work at a tailor on Savile Row. I ran into Eggsy not long ago, he wasn't in a good place in his life, and...I was able to pull some strings with my employer. We work together, now." A subtle quirk at the corner of his mouth. "Worked."

Some of Jack's best fact-finding has been done between the sheets, not to mention many other things. Harry isn't sleeping, and there is one thing Jack knows of that puts most men to sleep. Doesn't hurt that it's something he enjoys as well.

His chin brushes against Harry's chest, skin smooth and without a prickle of beard no matter what the hour. All hail fifty-first century genetics. He stops his mapping of Harry's body with his mouth and fingers long enough to look up into his face.

"A Marine. I would have loved to see you in a uniform." Another kiss, a taste of his skin. Whether he believes Harry or not is absent from his face. Makes it easier when his eyes can easily be on the body under him, any movements of his mouth disguised in a kiss. "Worked? You quit?"

"I can't equate coming here to having handed in my notice, nor the bullet in the head I'd have received had I not come here, but - well. Suffice to say the job's over for now."

He glances over the top of Jack's head into the dull space of the room, not focusing on anything in particular - then realises that there's nothing else to focus on. No silent staring bodies in the dark, none of the gleaming emotionless eyes peering back at him. It's unnerving, how quickly they became part of the landscape, how empty the room feels in their absence.

"....Jack, do you still have company?"

Those words give Jack pause. A bullet to the head. That isn't something he had considered. If this place pulled Harry away from what was sure to be death, could he go back? And if he did, go back to what? To die? There's an involuntary tightening of Jack's grip on Harry's body. It only lasts a split-second but it is there.

The conclusion is simple. If Jack finds a way out, he'll try to take Harry with him. He would fit in with Torchwood. If not, Ianto's father is a tailor. Finding him a job would be easy enough. A former Marine is someone ... well, Jack will worry about that when he gets there.

"Harry, I really have to say that the mood I'm trying to establish is being killed here."

But he does lift his head to take a look around. They had been pressed in close before. Since he didn't sleep, all Jack had to look at in the hours before were the ghosts crouched down and staring back at him. Now they were gone. No one was whispering his name or reaching for him.

"They're gone."

That says it all for him. Hands weren't reaching for him, or mouths forming his names.

"Think it's over?"

Harry takes in a deep breath, pushes it out.

"Without wishing to tempt fate? I hope so."

It started around two weeks into his stay; lasted about two weeks in all. It would fit with the monthly cycle he's been told about. The relief he feels is half elation and half exhaustion but Christ, he'll take it. Anything has to be an improvement on the whispers, the movement in the corner of his eye, the dead in the dark.

It's a dark sort of celebratory mood he's in, but he turns his head to kiss Jack's mouth all the same.

The kiss is sweet no matter what Harry's intentions are and something that Jack draws everything from that he can. The tip of his tongue laps gently at Harry's lips. Whether denied or accepted, he draws back for breath and to calm himself soon enough.

"You need to sleep. I love sex as much as the next person, but if they're gone..."

Jack's voice trails off there. Selfishness is his nature. Ianto could attest to that. But here, that doesn't work. He doubts Harry is even beginning to get into it as he was.

"I'm here. I'll be here. Get some sleep. If others like Eggsy don't realize they're gone, he might need you to talk him into resting or want you there to do so. Too long without makes a person paranoid, squirrely."

It's a form of blackmail, and Jack knows it. Can live with it. But with how this place has worn on the others who aren't immortal, he's been growing more and more concerned. He can live through this shit, but 'normal' people? Not so much.

"You're right."

Right that he needs to sleep. Right on 'paranoid and squirrelly'. Right, even, that Eggsy might need some light nudging (though not his physical presence, for reasons best kept to the two of them) into resuming his previous patterns. What's not going to be so simple is resuming his own habits. He wasn't sleeping well long before the ghosts showed up. Their presence has barely impacted on his sleep at all, in fact.

He drops another kiss on Jack's jaw, brief and chaste; a goodnight kiss.

"Do try to get some sleep yourself, won't you? To pass the time, if nothing else."

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

There Once Was a Man Who Could Never Die

March 25?

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sometime between the 23rd and the 28th???

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28th

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