"After the End of the World" Torchwood, Jack/Gwen, Rating-R
Title: After the End of the World, Day One
Fandom: Torchwood
Pairing: Jack and Gwen
Rating: R
Wordcount: 3399
Warnings: Post COE, non-canon
Disclaimer: Torchwood belongs to the BBD and RTD. I don't own the characters or concepts. I can only wish.
Many thanks to my wonderful betas, karaokegal and quiet time. They spent a lot of time encouraging a first-time posting.
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Day One
And again, after the world ended again, after she heard about the horrific events that finally ended the 456’s terror, Gwen moved heaven and earth trying to find out where Jack had disappeared to after he sent her and Rhys back to Cardiff. She called on Martha Jones to enlist the help of U.N.I.T., reached and offered her condolences to Ianto’s sister Rhiannon, and finally found herself, a fruitless week later, standing outside the ruins of the Hub. Inside, U.N.I.T. were sifting through the broken messes of Torchwood Three. In the watery sunshine of the Plas, she finally sank, forlorn, onto one of the benches well away from the crater where the water column had stood.
Martha found her there. “I have some good news.” She said, as she joined Gwen on the bench. “We found Jack.”
Gwen turned to face her. “Where is he? How is he?”
Martha studied her hands for a moment, and said, “Not all of the Hub was completely destroyed. Jack had the presence of mind to stay as far upwards as he could get before the bomb exploded, so the archives and the crypts and cells are mostly ok, but the workstations, the autopsy room, and the cold storage there, are all gone.”
“Gray’s gone, then.” Gwen said softly. “That will hit him hard.”
“The archives are in major confusion, but the cell levels and the levels below them are almost intact,” Martha continued. “We found Jack on the eleventh level, below the cells, in the crypts. It’s where we put Ianto.”
Gwen scrambled to her feet, and Martha put out a hand to stop her. “Just a warning. He’s sitting down there, pale as death. I think he may respond to you. Do you want to give it a try?”
Gwen nodded. “Take me in, would you? The U.N.I.T. guys wouldn’t let me through.” They walked quickly to the main entry door on the quay.
Picking her way through the debris in Martha’s wake, Gwen peered anxiously around in the mess that was being carefully reconstructed. There were sparks flying everywhere as the twisted girders were cut and re-welded to their proper places, and the crunching of ceramic shards made walking difficult until they came closer to the stairs leading to the cells. All the cells were empty. The polycarbide doors had been blown off their hinges and hung awry. Martha and Gwen walked the length of the hallway fronting the cells until they reached the stairs that took them down past the last of the five levels of cells, to the archives and the crypts.
The door to the archives was open, and streams of U.N.I.T. operatives were carrying out large boxes filled with the arcana and artefacts that had been collected since Torchwood Three began its operations. Most of the articles were dusty, but each was neatly catalogued with a tag or a note, and Gwen’s breath caught at the glimpse she got of Ianto’s precise labelling. The archives were his pride and joy, his way of making a contribution by bringing order to the chaotic and totally foreign collections on the shelves. She turned away, biting at her lower lip.
Two more steps down at the end of the hall, and Martha stopped Gwen from proceeding. She pointed, and whispered, “There.”
At first, in the dim light, until her eyes adjusted, all that Gwen saw was the heap of cloth that resolved itself into Jack’s blue-grey greatcoat. He was sitting on the floor with his knees drawn up, arms tight around them, making himself as small as possible. Gwen could see the slow rise and fall of his chest, and he was rocking slightly. Martha pointed to the crypt above Jack’s head, and mouthed “Ianto”.
Gwen put her hand to her mouth and drew a slow breath before she walked slowly over to the corner where Jack sat. She reached out to touch his shoulder. He shrugged her off, not looking up. “Jack,” she whispered. He managed to look up to her. His face was expressionless, lips bloodied, cheeks sunken. Dried tear tracks marked their way through the smudges on his face, and Gwen noted that his hands were caked with dirt and mud. The pale blue shirt was soiled, and Jack’s eyes were dimmed and hooded. She heard Martha close the door to give them some privacy.
“Jack,” she repeated. “How long have you been here?”
He shrugged.
She took hold of one of his cold hands, and saw that the fingertips were ragged, torn, and bloody. She looked up at the crypt, and saw scratches on the face of it. He lifted his eyes to follow her gaze and sighed heavily. “I know, it’s useless,” he said quietly. He dropped his head onto his knees.
Gwen put her hand on the back of his head and stroked his hair where it was matted with dirt and dried blood. She inhaled sharply. She made herself kneel in front of him and lifted his head with her fingertips under his chin. “Jack,” she repeated, trying to get his full attention, “can you stand up?”
“Don’t want to,” he muttered. “Go away.”
“I’m not leaving without you,” she said quietly. Gwen stood up. “Come on, now.” She pulled at his hand. “You can’t stay here.”
“Why not?” he said softly. “Why do I have to go on?”
“Because,” Gwen said, trying to keep her voice firm, “it’s what we do.” She swallowed hard, and pulled at his hand again.
“NO!” he roared, then his voice dropped, “Not this time. I have nothing left!”
“I’m left,” she repeated quietly. “Come along for me, Jack.”
He looked desperately up at her. “You’re all I have now,” he rasped, and tightened his hold on her hand. “The others are all dead.”
She sat down again and put her arms around him. “It’s not your fault.”
“Toshiko and Owen didn’t deserve to die like that,” he whispered. “Neither did Ianto. Or Stephen. I was responsible for all those people.”
“You aren’t yourself right now, Jack,” she said softly. “You’re not thinking clearly.”
“These are the last deaths I’m going to be responsible for,” he went on. “I’ve seen too many years of destruction. Why am I the one who doesn’t die?” He stifled a sob.
“People die. We’re in a dangerous business,” she said. “You sacrificed yourself to save both Ianto and me at the Hub.”
“But I’m the reason Gray attacked the Hub. He was trying to punish me. But he missed me. Tosh bled to death on the floor in agony, because I left her here. Owen was . . . vapourized, and I sent him to his death.” He looked up at her “They were good people; Owen was just finding a reason to have a life again.”
“And you will, too,” she soothed. “You know it wasn’t your fault. We all knew the risks involved in working for Torchwood.” She stood up again, “Come with me, Jack. Let’s get out of here. This isn’t doing either of us any good.”
Jack’s rocking stopped. He sat still for a long moment, and Gwen wondered if she had gotten through to him. “I don’t know where to go,” he admitted slowly.
She sniffed back her tears, “I’m taking you back to mine.”
Minutes passed before Jack moved. Gwen waited silently, patiently. Suddenly, Jack heaved himself to his feet, holding on to the walls for support. He shook his head and said, with a hollow trace of his old bravado, “Let’s go, then. I guess it’s time to get the fuck out of here.” With a quick glance, and a caress to the flat door of Ianto’s crypt, he led her to the door, pushing it open with a bang. She scrambled to keep up with him.
Martha flattened herself against the wall as Jack pulled Gwen swiftly past, and Gwen shot her a thankful look without letting go of Jack’s hand. They made their way up the stairs. Jack’s manic pace didn’t flag as they climbed up through the ruins. He nodded curtly at the U.N.I.T. workers, but didn’t slow down. Gwen was content to follow in his wake, maintaining a watchful eye. They burst through the door onto the quay, and she closed it behind them. As Jack’s steps slowed, she took the lead and steered him towards her Saab. She saw Martha come out the quay door behind them, and hold her hand to her ear, signalling “call me,” and Gwen nodded before they were out of sight.
She opened the passenger side door to her car. Jack shot her a questioning look, but got in, grimacing as he lifted his left leg over the sill. All the energy he had mustered to get out of the Hub ruins seemed to drain from him, and he slumped in the seat with his eyes closed. She reached to touch his cheek, but he pushed her hand away, pulling his coat tight around himself.
Jack seemed to be asleep by the time she had parked the car outside her flat. She opened his door, and he stirred heavily. “Come on now, Jack,” she said. “Let’s get you upstairs.” He opened his eyes, squinted at the light, and moved to get out of the car, but his strength had finally deserted him and his legs collapsed under him, leaving him sprawled in the street. Gwen pulled his arm around her neck and tried to treat it lightly as she hauled him to his feet. “You poor sod, you’re knackered, aren’t you? Help me now, ‘cos I can’t carry you, you know.”
Lifting, pulling, and struggling, she managed to get him up the stairs and into her flat. She checked the clock in the kitchen. Rhys wouldn’t be home for hours yet. She led Jack directly into the bedroom, and made him sit on the bed. “I think the first order of business,” she said, with a cheerfulness she did not feel, “is to get you out of your clothes . . .” she stopped.
He looked up at her with a very small hint of his usual cockiness, “I thought you’d never ask . . .” and then his face changed abruptly, and his eyes suddenly overflowed.
Remembering Jack’s earlier withdrawal from her touch, Gwen held back from wiping his tears away, and busied herself getting him out of the filthy greatcoat. Her quilt wasn’t going to benefit from the muddy chunks falling from the coat. She wrested him free of it and dropped it onto the floor. “That’ll not be the same until it’s brushed,” she told him as she knelt to take off his boots and socks.
Gwen tried to hide her shock at Jack’s condition. His skin was crusted with filth, like his face and hands. He smelled of dirt and sweat. That just wasn’t the Jack she knew.
She stood up and slipped the braces off his shoulders, then unbuttoned his shirt, pulling it out of his trousers. It went onto the floor with the coat, probably beyond redemption. The vest was next, and as she pulled it over his head, she had the shock of her life. Beneath the dirt, his torso was one massive bruise. He was purple and blue and grey all over. There were small and large and barely clotted abrasions and breaks in the skin all over his body, front and back. “What happened to you?” she whispered.
He shook his head, refusing to speak, and she pushed him gently back onto the bed so she could undo his belt and remove his trousers. Pulling them off (in her imagination, she had thought she might have savoured this moment a bit more) revealed still more ugly bruising and a large seeping wound on his upper left thigh. She took hold of the waistband of his shorts, and gently lowered them off his body, kneeling again to bring them down his legs. The bruising continued into his groin. She knelt at his feet, overwhelmed by the damage showing on his body. “Oh, Jack,” she whispered. She drew a deep breath, stood up, and pulled him upright to a sitting position.
She removed his watch, and unbuckled his vortex/wrist strap. “I’ll just put these into this drawer. All right now,” she said gently, “into the shower with you and get some of that dirt off.” He stood up obediently, and let her lead him into the bath. She adjusted the water to a warm spray and he stepped into the flow in the shower enclosure. “There’s shampoo and soap right there on the ledge,” she said. “Take your time, and I’ll just go and get some coffee going . . .” She fled the bathroom and the sight of his wrecked body.
Gwen’s phone was already in her hand by the time she made it into the lounge. But her attempt to reach Martha was interrupted by a loud, clattering crash from the bathroom, and the cell fell to the floor as she hurried back to Jack.
Jack had slumped to the floor in the shower, and was curled into himself, as she had found him in the crypt. He was shivering uncontrollably. Gwen ripped the curtain back and knelt to take him into her arms. “My poor boy, oh, Jack,” she crooned, cradling his head, and holding him tightly to her. The water from the shower continued to pour down on them, soaking her as she rocked him in her arms like a child.
Gwen gave Martha a stricken look when she rushed into the flat only a few minutes later. Martha turned off the water, and she and Gwen half-carried Jack into the bedroom. The water had rinsed some of the grime from him, and the bruises stood out in sharp relief against the few inches of undamaged skin on his body.
Once they had him toweled off, and in the bed, they covered him with the duvet. Gwen pulled on dry clothes, sweater and jeans. “Martha, how do you suppose this could have happened? How is it that he can even look like this?” she whispered.
Martha folded back the coverlet to examine the wound on his thigh. It was a long and jagged gash that had begun to bleed again. “It looks like his regenerative powers haven’t been activated. Maybe because he hasn’t actually died.” She started to clean and stitch the wound. “Have you ever seen him hurt this badly before?”
“No,” Gwen admitted, “ never like this. I knew something was seriously wrong when I saw his hands all torn and bloody.”
“Yeah,” said Martha. She finished up with the wound on his thigh, and covered him. He didn’t stir. She gestured to the heap of filthy clothes in the corner. “I was on my way over with some clean clothes of his I found in the Hub, figuring he’d need them, when your call came in as dead air.
“Get a washing flannel,” Martha directed, “and let’s finish getting him cleaned off before he wakes up. He’s going to be hurting.” Together, they washed him and covered him again, Martha measured his vital signs again, and stepped away. “I think the sedation is wearing off. He seems to be asleep.”
“Jack doesn’t sleep.” Gwen said quietly.
“He doesn’t need much sleep,” Martha corrected. She took Gwen’s hand and drew her out to the lounge, forcing her to sit on the sofa. “But he’s sleeping now, and that’s probably the best we can do for him. Are you okay?”
Gwen shook her head. “I don’t think I’ll be okay ever again,” she said.
“When will Rhys be home?” Martha asked.
Rhys’s booming voice answered her back. “Rhys is home. Hello, sweetheart,” he said to Gwen. “Hullo, Martha.” He put down his briefcase, took off his jacket. He sat down next to Gwen on the sofa and wrapped his arms around her. She turned in to his embrace and started to cry. He looked up at Martha, “What’s going on?”
“We’ve found Jack. Gwen managed to get him back here, and he’s asleep in your bed.”
Rhys’s temper flared. “What is Jack bloody Harkness doing in MY bed?”
Gwen pulled away from him and dragged him into the bedroom. Angrily, she stripped the coverlet off Jack’s body. “There, Rhys! In your bed! In my bed! That’s the man you’ve always been jealous of. Look at him! A real threat to you he is. Would you like to pummel him? Go on, find an undamaged spot, and have at it!” She drew the covers back up gently, and sank to the floor next to the bed.
Rhys knelt to gather her into his arms, “No, love. Come back to the lounge with me. I just wasn’t thinking. What’s happened to him?”
Martha answered from the kitchen where she was filling up the teapot. “We don’t know. We’ll have to wait until he wakes up and ask him.”
“Will he wake up?” Gwen asked, “Are you sure?”
“Oh, yeah,” Martha scoffed. “That’s not enough damage to keep his lot down. In case he doesn’t start to heal, I’m going to leave you with some painkillers. He might need them when he comes round.” She brought a cup of tea to Gwen, along with some little blue pills. “And these are for you. Take them, Gwen. You’re on the ragged edge yourself. I’ll come back in a few hours, but I have to get back to the Hub right now, and see what else they may have uncovered. Rhys, see if she’ll sleep after those sedatives kick in for her.” She looked into Gwen’s eyes. “Eat something, try to rest a bit. He’s going to be okay.” She gathered up her medical bag. “I promise.”
“Owen would never have promised,” Gwen said dully.
“I promise,” Martha repeated quietly. And she left.
Gwen clung to Rhys, and he held her tightly. “Ah, Gwen, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean all that by it. I just didn’t think we’d see him again, with Torchwood being destroyed and all. And what you told me about that boy he killed . . .”
“He sacrificed his grandson, Rhys. He felt had to sacrifice his own flesh-and-blood grandson to save this rotting Earth for the rest of us. Can you imagine what that did to him?” She put her hand on her belly, as if to protect the new life inside. “Can you imagine what it would do to you? After losing Tosh and Owen like that, and then Ianto?”
Rhys touched her face, and wiped away her tears as best he could, kissing her eyelids shut. “Gwen, I know you’ll always love him in a way. I can live with that, he’s saved us and the whole bloody world often enough. What can I do to help you help him?”
“I don’t know,” she admitted. “It’s shaken me more than I can say to see him come apart at the seams.”
“Maybe,” Rhys mused, with insight rare for him, “He just couldn’t manage it anymore.”
She nodded, and they sat quietly as the day faded. Gwen eventually fell asleep in Rhys’s arms.
A few hours later, he touched her gently. “Gwen, I think he’s awake. Will you go to him?” She shook sleep out of her eyes and ran into the bedroom. Jack was half awake, moaning in pain. She found the tablets Martha had left, and got him a bit of water in a glass.
“Take these please, Jack,” she said softly.
“Cold,” he mumbled, “I’m cold.” The shivering started again. Gwen lifted his head and helped him to take the pills. Then she went to the closet and pulled out another blanket and spread it over him.
“Better?”
He shook his head, “No. So cold.”
Rhys stood in the doorway, listening.
She shook her head. “Jack, we’re going to get you warmed up right now. Rhys, get another blanket from the back room,” and she started stripping down to her underwear. “What?” she snapped as she slid beneath the blankets, wrapping Jack in her arms, skin to skin.
“Nothing,” Rhys said, lying down atop the covers on Jack’s other side. Gwen stared at him in wonder. “We’ve got to get him warm, don’t we? But I’m not taking off my clothes.”
Day Two
Fandom: Torchwood
Pairing: Jack and Gwen
Rating: R
Wordcount: 3399
Warnings: Post COE, non-canon
Disclaimer: Torchwood belongs to the BBD and RTD. I don't own the characters or concepts. I can only wish.
Many thanks to my wonderful betas, karaokegal and quiet time. They spent a lot of time encouraging a first-time posting.
--------------------
Day One
And again, after the world ended again, after she heard about the horrific events that finally ended the 456’s terror, Gwen moved heaven and earth trying to find out where Jack had disappeared to after he sent her and Rhys back to Cardiff. She called on Martha Jones to enlist the help of U.N.I.T., reached and offered her condolences to Ianto’s sister Rhiannon, and finally found herself, a fruitless week later, standing outside the ruins of the Hub. Inside, U.N.I.T. were sifting through the broken messes of Torchwood Three. In the watery sunshine of the Plas, she finally sank, forlorn, onto one of the benches well away from the crater where the water column had stood.
Martha found her there. “I have some good news.” She said, as she joined Gwen on the bench. “We found Jack.”
Gwen turned to face her. “Where is he? How is he?”
Martha studied her hands for a moment, and said, “Not all of the Hub was completely destroyed. Jack had the presence of mind to stay as far upwards as he could get before the bomb exploded, so the archives and the crypts and cells are mostly ok, but the workstations, the autopsy room, and the cold storage there, are all gone.”
“Gray’s gone, then.” Gwen said softly. “That will hit him hard.”
“The archives are in major confusion, but the cell levels and the levels below them are almost intact,” Martha continued. “We found Jack on the eleventh level, below the cells, in the crypts. It’s where we put Ianto.”
Gwen scrambled to her feet, and Martha put out a hand to stop her. “Just a warning. He’s sitting down there, pale as death. I think he may respond to you. Do you want to give it a try?”
Gwen nodded. “Take me in, would you? The U.N.I.T. guys wouldn’t let me through.” They walked quickly to the main entry door on the quay.
Picking her way through the debris in Martha’s wake, Gwen peered anxiously around in the mess that was being carefully reconstructed. There were sparks flying everywhere as the twisted girders were cut and re-welded to their proper places, and the crunching of ceramic shards made walking difficult until they came closer to the stairs leading to the cells. All the cells were empty. The polycarbide doors had been blown off their hinges and hung awry. Martha and Gwen walked the length of the hallway fronting the cells until they reached the stairs that took them down past the last of the five levels of cells, to the archives and the crypts.
The door to the archives was open, and streams of U.N.I.T. operatives were carrying out large boxes filled with the arcana and artefacts that had been collected since Torchwood Three began its operations. Most of the articles were dusty, but each was neatly catalogued with a tag or a note, and Gwen’s breath caught at the glimpse she got of Ianto’s precise labelling. The archives were his pride and joy, his way of making a contribution by bringing order to the chaotic and totally foreign collections on the shelves. She turned away, biting at her lower lip.
Two more steps down at the end of the hall, and Martha stopped Gwen from proceeding. She pointed, and whispered, “There.”
At first, in the dim light, until her eyes adjusted, all that Gwen saw was the heap of cloth that resolved itself into Jack’s blue-grey greatcoat. He was sitting on the floor with his knees drawn up, arms tight around them, making himself as small as possible. Gwen could see the slow rise and fall of his chest, and he was rocking slightly. Martha pointed to the crypt above Jack’s head, and mouthed “Ianto”.
Gwen put her hand to her mouth and drew a slow breath before she walked slowly over to the corner where Jack sat. She reached out to touch his shoulder. He shrugged her off, not looking up. “Jack,” she whispered. He managed to look up to her. His face was expressionless, lips bloodied, cheeks sunken. Dried tear tracks marked their way through the smudges on his face, and Gwen noted that his hands were caked with dirt and mud. The pale blue shirt was soiled, and Jack’s eyes were dimmed and hooded. She heard Martha close the door to give them some privacy.
“Jack,” she repeated. “How long have you been here?”
He shrugged.
She took hold of one of his cold hands, and saw that the fingertips were ragged, torn, and bloody. She looked up at the crypt, and saw scratches on the face of it. He lifted his eyes to follow her gaze and sighed heavily. “I know, it’s useless,” he said quietly. He dropped his head onto his knees.
Gwen put her hand on the back of his head and stroked his hair where it was matted with dirt and dried blood. She inhaled sharply. She made herself kneel in front of him and lifted his head with her fingertips under his chin. “Jack,” she repeated, trying to get his full attention, “can you stand up?”
“Don’t want to,” he muttered. “Go away.”
“I’m not leaving without you,” she said quietly. Gwen stood up. “Come on, now.” She pulled at his hand. “You can’t stay here.”
“Why not?” he said softly. “Why do I have to go on?”
“Because,” Gwen said, trying to keep her voice firm, “it’s what we do.” She swallowed hard, and pulled at his hand again.
“NO!” he roared, then his voice dropped, “Not this time. I have nothing left!”
“I’m left,” she repeated quietly. “Come along for me, Jack.”
He looked desperately up at her. “You’re all I have now,” he rasped, and tightened his hold on her hand. “The others are all dead.”
She sat down again and put her arms around him. “It’s not your fault.”
“Toshiko and Owen didn’t deserve to die like that,” he whispered. “Neither did Ianto. Or Stephen. I was responsible for all those people.”
“You aren’t yourself right now, Jack,” she said softly. “You’re not thinking clearly.”
“These are the last deaths I’m going to be responsible for,” he went on. “I’ve seen too many years of destruction. Why am I the one who doesn’t die?” He stifled a sob.
“People die. We’re in a dangerous business,” she said. “You sacrificed yourself to save both Ianto and me at the Hub.”
“But I’m the reason Gray attacked the Hub. He was trying to punish me. But he missed me. Tosh bled to death on the floor in agony, because I left her here. Owen was . . . vapourized, and I sent him to his death.” He looked up at her “They were good people; Owen was just finding a reason to have a life again.”
“And you will, too,” she soothed. “You know it wasn’t your fault. We all knew the risks involved in working for Torchwood.” She stood up again, “Come with me, Jack. Let’s get out of here. This isn’t doing either of us any good.”
Jack’s rocking stopped. He sat still for a long moment, and Gwen wondered if she had gotten through to him. “I don’t know where to go,” he admitted slowly.
She sniffed back her tears, “I’m taking you back to mine.”
Minutes passed before Jack moved. Gwen waited silently, patiently. Suddenly, Jack heaved himself to his feet, holding on to the walls for support. He shook his head and said, with a hollow trace of his old bravado, “Let’s go, then. I guess it’s time to get the fuck out of here.” With a quick glance, and a caress to the flat door of Ianto’s crypt, he led her to the door, pushing it open with a bang. She scrambled to keep up with him.
Martha flattened herself against the wall as Jack pulled Gwen swiftly past, and Gwen shot her a thankful look without letting go of Jack’s hand. They made their way up the stairs. Jack’s manic pace didn’t flag as they climbed up through the ruins. He nodded curtly at the U.N.I.T. workers, but didn’t slow down. Gwen was content to follow in his wake, maintaining a watchful eye. They burst through the door onto the quay, and she closed it behind them. As Jack’s steps slowed, she took the lead and steered him towards her Saab. She saw Martha come out the quay door behind them, and hold her hand to her ear, signalling “call me,” and Gwen nodded before they were out of sight.
She opened the passenger side door to her car. Jack shot her a questioning look, but got in, grimacing as he lifted his left leg over the sill. All the energy he had mustered to get out of the Hub ruins seemed to drain from him, and he slumped in the seat with his eyes closed. She reached to touch his cheek, but he pushed her hand away, pulling his coat tight around himself.
Jack seemed to be asleep by the time she had parked the car outside her flat. She opened his door, and he stirred heavily. “Come on now, Jack,” she said. “Let’s get you upstairs.” He opened his eyes, squinted at the light, and moved to get out of the car, but his strength had finally deserted him and his legs collapsed under him, leaving him sprawled in the street. Gwen pulled his arm around her neck and tried to treat it lightly as she hauled him to his feet. “You poor sod, you’re knackered, aren’t you? Help me now, ‘cos I can’t carry you, you know.”
Lifting, pulling, and struggling, she managed to get him up the stairs and into her flat. She checked the clock in the kitchen. Rhys wouldn’t be home for hours yet. She led Jack directly into the bedroom, and made him sit on the bed. “I think the first order of business,” she said, with a cheerfulness she did not feel, “is to get you out of your clothes . . .” she stopped.
He looked up at her with a very small hint of his usual cockiness, “I thought you’d never ask . . .” and then his face changed abruptly, and his eyes suddenly overflowed.
Remembering Jack’s earlier withdrawal from her touch, Gwen held back from wiping his tears away, and busied herself getting him out of the filthy greatcoat. Her quilt wasn’t going to benefit from the muddy chunks falling from the coat. She wrested him free of it and dropped it onto the floor. “That’ll not be the same until it’s brushed,” she told him as she knelt to take off his boots and socks.
Gwen tried to hide her shock at Jack’s condition. His skin was crusted with filth, like his face and hands. He smelled of dirt and sweat. That just wasn’t the Jack she knew.
She stood up and slipped the braces off his shoulders, then unbuttoned his shirt, pulling it out of his trousers. It went onto the floor with the coat, probably beyond redemption. The vest was next, and as she pulled it over his head, she had the shock of her life. Beneath the dirt, his torso was one massive bruise. He was purple and blue and grey all over. There were small and large and barely clotted abrasions and breaks in the skin all over his body, front and back. “What happened to you?” she whispered.
He shook his head, refusing to speak, and she pushed him gently back onto the bed so she could undo his belt and remove his trousers. Pulling them off (in her imagination, she had thought she might have savoured this moment a bit more) revealed still more ugly bruising and a large seeping wound on his upper left thigh. She took hold of the waistband of his shorts, and gently lowered them off his body, kneeling again to bring them down his legs. The bruising continued into his groin. She knelt at his feet, overwhelmed by the damage showing on his body. “Oh, Jack,” she whispered. She drew a deep breath, stood up, and pulled him upright to a sitting position.
She removed his watch, and unbuckled his vortex/wrist strap. “I’ll just put these into this drawer. All right now,” she said gently, “into the shower with you and get some of that dirt off.” He stood up obediently, and let her lead him into the bath. She adjusted the water to a warm spray and he stepped into the flow in the shower enclosure. “There’s shampoo and soap right there on the ledge,” she said. “Take your time, and I’ll just go and get some coffee going . . .” She fled the bathroom and the sight of his wrecked body.
Gwen’s phone was already in her hand by the time she made it into the lounge. But her attempt to reach Martha was interrupted by a loud, clattering crash from the bathroom, and the cell fell to the floor as she hurried back to Jack.
Jack had slumped to the floor in the shower, and was curled into himself, as she had found him in the crypt. He was shivering uncontrollably. Gwen ripped the curtain back and knelt to take him into her arms. “My poor boy, oh, Jack,” she crooned, cradling his head, and holding him tightly to her. The water from the shower continued to pour down on them, soaking her as she rocked him in her arms like a child.
Gwen gave Martha a stricken look when she rushed into the flat only a few minutes later. Martha turned off the water, and she and Gwen half-carried Jack into the bedroom. The water had rinsed some of the grime from him, and the bruises stood out in sharp relief against the few inches of undamaged skin on his body.
Once they had him toweled off, and in the bed, they covered him with the duvet. Gwen pulled on dry clothes, sweater and jeans. “Martha, how do you suppose this could have happened? How is it that he can even look like this?” she whispered.
Martha folded back the coverlet to examine the wound on his thigh. It was a long and jagged gash that had begun to bleed again. “It looks like his regenerative powers haven’t been activated. Maybe because he hasn’t actually died.” She started to clean and stitch the wound. “Have you ever seen him hurt this badly before?”
“No,” Gwen admitted, “ never like this. I knew something was seriously wrong when I saw his hands all torn and bloody.”
“Yeah,” said Martha. She finished up with the wound on his thigh, and covered him. He didn’t stir. She gestured to the heap of filthy clothes in the corner. “I was on my way over with some clean clothes of his I found in the Hub, figuring he’d need them, when your call came in as dead air.
“Get a washing flannel,” Martha directed, “and let’s finish getting him cleaned off before he wakes up. He’s going to be hurting.” Together, they washed him and covered him again, Martha measured his vital signs again, and stepped away. “I think the sedation is wearing off. He seems to be asleep.”
“Jack doesn’t sleep.” Gwen said quietly.
“He doesn’t need much sleep,” Martha corrected. She took Gwen’s hand and drew her out to the lounge, forcing her to sit on the sofa. “But he’s sleeping now, and that’s probably the best we can do for him. Are you okay?”
Gwen shook her head. “I don’t think I’ll be okay ever again,” she said.
“When will Rhys be home?” Martha asked.
Rhys’s booming voice answered her back. “Rhys is home. Hello, sweetheart,” he said to Gwen. “Hullo, Martha.” He put down his briefcase, took off his jacket. He sat down next to Gwen on the sofa and wrapped his arms around her. She turned in to his embrace and started to cry. He looked up at Martha, “What’s going on?”
“We’ve found Jack. Gwen managed to get him back here, and he’s asleep in your bed.”
Rhys’s temper flared. “What is Jack bloody Harkness doing in MY bed?”
Gwen pulled away from him and dragged him into the bedroom. Angrily, she stripped the coverlet off Jack’s body. “There, Rhys! In your bed! In my bed! That’s the man you’ve always been jealous of. Look at him! A real threat to you he is. Would you like to pummel him? Go on, find an undamaged spot, and have at it!” She drew the covers back up gently, and sank to the floor next to the bed.
Rhys knelt to gather her into his arms, “No, love. Come back to the lounge with me. I just wasn’t thinking. What’s happened to him?”
Martha answered from the kitchen where she was filling up the teapot. “We don’t know. We’ll have to wait until he wakes up and ask him.”
“Will he wake up?” Gwen asked, “Are you sure?”
“Oh, yeah,” Martha scoffed. “That’s not enough damage to keep his lot down. In case he doesn’t start to heal, I’m going to leave you with some painkillers. He might need them when he comes round.” She brought a cup of tea to Gwen, along with some little blue pills. “And these are for you. Take them, Gwen. You’re on the ragged edge yourself. I’ll come back in a few hours, but I have to get back to the Hub right now, and see what else they may have uncovered. Rhys, see if she’ll sleep after those sedatives kick in for her.” She looked into Gwen’s eyes. “Eat something, try to rest a bit. He’s going to be okay.” She gathered up her medical bag. “I promise.”
“Owen would never have promised,” Gwen said dully.
“I promise,” Martha repeated quietly. And she left.
Gwen clung to Rhys, and he held her tightly. “Ah, Gwen, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean all that by it. I just didn’t think we’d see him again, with Torchwood being destroyed and all. And what you told me about that boy he killed . . .”
“He sacrificed his grandson, Rhys. He felt had to sacrifice his own flesh-and-blood grandson to save this rotting Earth for the rest of us. Can you imagine what that did to him?” She put her hand on her belly, as if to protect the new life inside. “Can you imagine what it would do to you? After losing Tosh and Owen like that, and then Ianto?”
Rhys touched her face, and wiped away her tears as best he could, kissing her eyelids shut. “Gwen, I know you’ll always love him in a way. I can live with that, he’s saved us and the whole bloody world often enough. What can I do to help you help him?”
“I don’t know,” she admitted. “It’s shaken me more than I can say to see him come apart at the seams.”
“Maybe,” Rhys mused, with insight rare for him, “He just couldn’t manage it anymore.”
She nodded, and they sat quietly as the day faded. Gwen eventually fell asleep in Rhys’s arms.
A few hours later, he touched her gently. “Gwen, I think he’s awake. Will you go to him?” She shook sleep out of her eyes and ran into the bedroom. Jack was half awake, moaning in pain. She found the tablets Martha had left, and got him a bit of water in a glass.
“Take these please, Jack,” she said softly.
“Cold,” he mumbled, “I’m cold.” The shivering started again. Gwen lifted his head and helped him to take the pills. Then she went to the closet and pulled out another blanket and spread it over him.
“Better?”
He shook his head, “No. So cold.”
Rhys stood in the doorway, listening.
She shook her head. “Jack, we’re going to get you warmed up right now. Rhys, get another blanket from the back room,” and she started stripping down to her underwear. “What?” she snapped as she slid beneath the blankets, wrapping Jack in her arms, skin to skin.
“Nothing,” Rhys said, lying down atop the covers on Jack’s other side. Gwen stared at him in wonder. “We’ve got to get him warm, don’t we? But I’m not taking off my clothes.”
Day Two