[JMM] 21.2.6 Every dark cloud has a silver lining
Jack stood staring out the window at the landscape that was familiar but twisted and distorted just enough to seem like something foreign. His gaze scanned the horizon and flicked to the street below, desperately searching for those things he could pick out, name, know among everything that seemed like so much visual clutter. The new buildings that reached for the sky like those in New York made him shake his head and swallow back a knot of fear at the realization of just how far he had come. Not in space, no, because there on the corner, he could see the faded sign of the pub where he had had dinner just a couple of weeks before, still standing. In space images pressed in on him to declare that he'd gone nowhere but from the wharf to a hotel room, fingers pressing against the cold glass leaving smudges the maid would remove tomorrow. But time...time was something else altogether.
James had explained as best he could about the Rift, how it worked. Jack had read Jules Verne. He understand the concept of time travel as a fictional device, but he never expected to have to be accepting it as a reality of his life. The realization that it only went one way for sure, that there was no way to get home had hit him like a fist to the gut, pain first, then a sick feeling, and now it had settled into a cold knot. What did he know of this life, this world? He was a man out of time, unsure of what to do, or how to do it. The planes were even different, and he couldn't just run off and join the Air Force again without extensive training in how to fly them. What would he even fight for, now? Everyone he'd ever known, save James and Tosh, were dead. His family, his friends, his cause, his war...all of it over and done with, and according to history he was supposed to be, as well.
It was disconcerting to realize you should be dead. To know that was the truth James had choked back, the reason he'd pushed him to seize the moment...he, Jack Harkness, was meant to die in that fire. Meant to have it consume him, die fighting, die defending his men, letting them all escape...It was something, he supposed, to know they'd all gotten back safe. But he didn't. History said he disappeared, assumed he died. And instead, he was here. He felt a shiver run over him, like he was walking on his own grave when he moved through the streets.
Drawing in a shaky breath, he turned back from the window to observe the bed instead, and despite the heaviness that clogged his throat, making his pulse speed up in random bursts of panic now and again, the sight of the man sleeping there, with dark hair tousled and cheeks still flushed, made him smile, just a bit. At least he hadn't wandered into a world truly alone. At least James had been there, found him. And in this world, apparently, there was a chance for something he could never have had at home, not without scorn or hiding all his life. He could be himself, at least in one aspect, while having to lie in the others. It was a trade off, and he wasn't sure if it was worth it, yet.
He was terrified, lost and adrift, in ways he'd never felt in his life. Without purpose, without a home, without a name he could even lay true claim to anymore. But he was alive, and he wasn't alone. It was something.
It would have to be enough.
James had explained as best he could about the Rift, how it worked. Jack had read Jules Verne. He understand the concept of time travel as a fictional device, but he never expected to have to be accepting it as a reality of his life. The realization that it only went one way for sure, that there was no way to get home had hit him like a fist to the gut, pain first, then a sick feeling, and now it had settled into a cold knot. What did he know of this life, this world? He was a man out of time, unsure of what to do, or how to do it. The planes were even different, and he couldn't just run off and join the Air Force again without extensive training in how to fly them. What would he even fight for, now? Everyone he'd ever known, save James and Tosh, were dead. His family, his friends, his cause, his war...all of it over and done with, and according to history he was supposed to be, as well.
It was disconcerting to realize you should be dead. To know that was the truth James had choked back, the reason he'd pushed him to seize the moment...he, Jack Harkness, was meant to die in that fire. Meant to have it consume him, die fighting, die defending his men, letting them all escape...It was something, he supposed, to know they'd all gotten back safe. But he didn't. History said he disappeared, assumed he died. And instead, he was here. He felt a shiver run over him, like he was walking on his own grave when he moved through the streets.
Drawing in a shaky breath, he turned back from the window to observe the bed instead, and despite the heaviness that clogged his throat, making his pulse speed up in random bursts of panic now and again, the sight of the man sleeping there, with dark hair tousled and cheeks still flushed, made him smile, just a bit. At least he hadn't wandered into a world truly alone. At least James had been there, found him. And in this world, apparently, there was a chance for something he could never have had at home, not without scorn or hiding all his life. He could be himself, at least in one aspect, while having to lie in the others. It was a trade off, and he wasn't sure if it was worth it, yet.
He was terrified, lost and adrift, in ways he'd never felt in his life. Without purpose, without a home, without a name he could even lay true claim to anymore. But he was alive, and he wasn't alone. It was something.
It would have to be enough.