The Ballad of Reading Gaol
Title: The Ballad of Reading Gaol
Disclaimer: Being a bloke who likes to slash pretty men doesn't make me RTD, I don't work for the BBC, and as much as I might like to, I don't own Jack or Ianto or any part of Torchwood. I do, however, order pizza under that name on principle.
Pairings: Implied Jack/Other.
Rating: At least a PG-13/R for violence and implied torture/abuse/assualt in an incarceration context.
Notes/Summary: Jack Harkness returns to England in 1895 and is imprisoned in Reading Gaol after being convicted of "gross indecency." Mistreated because of the nature of his offense (and his attempts to get free), he finds himself going mad. His only hope? The man in cell C 3.3. Click the links for information on the separate system and the silent system, as well as Oscar Wilde, and his poem "The Ballad of Reading Gaol." Many thanks to damalan for his swift beta work.
Yet each man kills the thing he loves
By each let this be heard,
Some do it with a bitter look,
Some with a flattering word,
The coward does it with a kiss,
The brave man with a sword!"
-- Oscar Wilde, "The Ballad of Reading Gaol"
"I was much better off as a coward."
-- Jack Harkness
October 12, 1895.
Jack Harkness woke up in pain and freezing cold. He tried vainly to arrange the stinking and threadbare wool blanket in a way that might actually take advantage of its qualities as a warm object. He'd done this last night, and the night before, and for nearly a month before that. He let his head drop hard onto the wooden bench that served as his bed and gritted his teeth.
He'd kill himself, but he had a feeling it wouldn't do him any good. Instead, he stared at the ceiling and cursed himself for coming back to England. At least in America they'd have had the decency to hang him.
He sat up on the plank bed and pulled his knees close, then wrapped the blanket around him like a cape. Reading fucking Gaol. They'd given him four years hard labor, and so far it looked like he'd be serving it. He wondered if anyone survived here without going crazy. Judging by his fellow inmates, it didn't look good.
Most days, he kept his head down, broke his stones, ate his bread. His attempts to charm his way into the warders' good graces had resulted only in beatings. Well, technically they'd killed him. He'd died that night in his bunk of internal hemorrhaging, though he supposed they couldn't know that. Still, there was an understanding. It wasn't respect, exactly, and it certainly wasn't fear. It was simply the knowledge that prisoner A. 1.15 refused to be broken, and that made him dangerous.
Jack smiled at that. He could learn to like dangerous.
He rested his head against the stone wall and waited for sunrise.
# # #
November, 1895.
It was cold -- always cold -- and wet. His prison clothes were drenched and stuck to him. Half the men would be sick tomorrow, Jack knew. Still, he didn't doubt that they'd all be working.
"Hey, look. Some other poor bastard just shipped in."
Jack panted and lowered his hammer and nodded toward a dark-haired smudge of a man. Well, possibly dark-haired. They'd shaved his head, just like everyone else upon entry. He was thin and pale and looked miserable. They were leading him out of the bath house in his new uniform. One of the warders spat on him and pushed him down into the dirt. "Who is he? What do you think he did?"
"He ain't no one in 'ere, mate." His neighbor's voice was low and nervous. Technically, the both of them could be lashed for speaking at all.
"Well then who is he outside?" Jack whispered and hefted his hammer. "He's obviously important or they wouldn't be giving him special treatment."
The other man squinted and leered. "Why you always so in'rested? Ain't that what got you in 'ere?"
Jack cracked a smile. "Yeah, I guess so." He let the hammer fall and smash into stone. Big rocks turned into littler rocks. They'd be smaller still before he was finished.
He glanced up to see them leading the man up into the prison. Jack wished him luck.
# # #
December 23, 1895
New cell. New name. C. 3.4. He liked it. It was kind of catchy.
He was proud of himself, in spite of the amount of pain he was in. He'd managed to seduce one of the warders, alright. Gotten himself some favors. And while he hadn't quite escaped, he'd given them quite a run. He'd also found his vortex manipulator. And a spoon. And a load of other contraband so that when he let it drop that he had something he shouldn't, they wouldn't find either of those things when he made a break for it.
Best of all, he now had a solid sense of where all the exits were. Oh yeah, this was shaping up nicely.
He spat some more blood into what passed for his commode, then grinned. "Merry Christmas, Jack."
# # #
January 15, 1896
The warders demanded universal silence, and were especially careful about Jack. They'd stopped working him, and hooded him when they dragged him to chapel. He'd spent almost thirty days in near isolation since his escape bid. Once in a while, if he was lucky, they'd drag him out to make an example. If he wasn't, they'd come inside, and --
He swallowed the bile and took a deep breath. "Not tonight, Jack," he whispered to himself. "They're not here tonight." The doors were closed and it was late. They didn't usually come this late.
Most days, he entertained himself by singing and talking to himself. He didn't have a window, but he could guess the time of day by the amount of light that came in through the gaps in his door. He thanked the RAF for developing a series of exercises for confined spaces. And there was, of course, the digging project.
Jack prised loose the brick and peered in through the three-by-four inch gap. It was dark on the other side, but he thought he heard a man sobbing.
"Hey!" he whispered.
The crying stopped abruptly.
"Hey, you alright?"
"What did you just say?"
"I asked if you were alright."
"Do you make a habit of asking questions for which there is only one obvious answer? Or do you have other favorite ways of earning a beating?"
Jack smiled. "I never miss a chance to earn a beating. It's the ones they keep giving me for free I'm getting tired of."
He heard the man sigh through the wall. "Who are you?"
"I'm Jack."
"Oscar."
"Nice to meet you, Oscar." Jack leaned against the wall. He was giddy. This was the first real conversation he'd had in months. He listened excitedly as the man began to move toward the gap.
"Wait. You're C. 3.4! You're --"
"Please. Oscar. Call me Jack." There were tears in his eyes. "Oscar, how long are your fingers?"
"WHAT?"
"Oscar, please. I just need you to stick your fingers through. I need to touch another human being. I need to know you exist."
Jack stuck his fingers in through the hole. A moment later, he felt warm, rough fingertips against his.
"Thank you, Oscar."
# # #
January 27, 1896
Jack was still in isolation.
He knew the signs. Felt the tugs of loyalty he'd begun to feel toward the men who came in to kick him, or force-feed him. The unfortunate warmth that came when he was dragged hooded to chapel and forced to kneel away from the others. He was keeping a leash on it, but only just.
Oscar was saving him.
Each night, Jack moved the brick. He slid it slowly, lifting it up with fingertips to keep it from dragging. He was worried the warders would hear if he was careless, and he couldn't bear the idea of getting Oscar into trouble. He got the impression that he wasn't the only one who'd been paid unwelcome visits, or been subjected to numerous humiliations since arriving at Reading Gaol. If he could protect his angel, he'd do whatever it took.
They always touched fingers first thing. It was a tiny intimacy, but a crucial one for Jack. After that, it varied. Some nights, they'd whisper stories back and forth. Sometimes Jack would sing quietly. Oscar taught him poems and Latin and Greek. On one memorable occasion, they'd whispered one another to orgasm.
Tonight hadn't taken much of a direction. Jack was naked and freezing -- the guards had left with his uniform and blanket two days ago after he'd bitten one of them hard enough to draw blood -- but Oscar's fingers were warm through the gap.
"Oscar?"
"Hm?"
"Why are you here? You're not a criminal. You're not violent."
"Don't patronize me. I know you're American, but you're not an imbecile."
"Well, pretend I am. I mean, I've been here since September, and before that I was working a dock in New York."
"How does a New York dock-boy find himself in Reading Gaol?"
"He falls in love."
"So did I."
Jack paused. "I'm sorry."
"I was wrong. You are an imbecile."
Jack heard Oscar shifting about on the other side. Getting up. Moving away.
"Wait! What did I say? Oscar! Please!" Jack's voice shook. "Please don't leave me here." He felt sick. He couldn't lose this! He pressed against the wall and listened as the shuffling drew closer again.
"You apologized for love. Pitied me for it. As if love can ever be a sin! Now put the brick in. Some of us are trying to sleep."
They touched fingers once more, then Jack did as he was told.
# # #
February 26, 1896
Five months in Reading Gaol.
They'd found the spoon, finally. It was his own fault. He'd lost perspective, gone a little crazy. Sharpened the end. Then he'd gone a lot crazy.
His cell still smelled of carbolic.
They kept him chained and blindfolded. They removed his gaslight. When they fed him, he ate on his knees like a dog. But they didn't touch him anymore. They hit him with long sticks, they dumped buckets of water on him, but they didn't touch him.
He heard Oscar remove the brick.
"I'm going to break out, Oscar. In the spring." His voice was dreamy. Was he dreaming? He might be. It was always dark.
"You're delirious again."
"I'm making a Heaven of Hell."
Oscar chuckled at that. "I should never have taught you Milton. You'll develop a morality."
"I thought that's why I was in prison."
"Strange. You seem so intent on coming here to die."
"'Tis a consummation devoutly to be wish'd," Jack whispered.
"My efforts are being wasted if you insist on quoting Shakespeare to me."
"I do it to excite you."
"You'll do better with Whitman."
"You just crave an American tongue."
"'Tis a consummation devoutly to be wish'd!" Oscar chuckled.
They rested in silence for a moment.
"I'll bring you with me, Oscar. When I escape. We'll go to France."
"Jack, no."
"Springtime, Oscar. Imagine it. Springtime in Paris. Clean clothes. Real food. A bed."
"No more, Jack. Please."
"I can do it, Oscar. I can and I will. And then you'll be safe. We'll find you books."
"JACK."
"Goodnight, Oscar." Jack jerked his body into an awkward position, then slammed his head hard against the stone floor.
# # #
March 20, 1896
"Morning, warder."
Jack smirked up at the man holding his food. If the light streaming in through the cell door hurt his eyes, he showed no sign. The blindfold hung limply around his neck.
The man was alone. Careless.
"I've been counting, warder. Over and over again, I've been counting. And I know what today is. It's the equinox. Spring."
The blood sang in his ears as the man hesitated, then stepped forward with the bowl of porridge. Jack watched him reach down, set the bowl on the floor.
"Do you know what I did all night, warder? I broke every bone in both of my hands." Jack stood, the chains falling from his pale, filthy body. "Tell you what. I'll give you three guesses why."
The man didn't have a chance to scream before Jack had a length of chain wrapped tightly around his neck.
"Now, you might think you're suffocating," he whispered into the man's ear. "That's not entirely true. You're actually experiencing cerebral ischemia. Oxygen's only one thing for your brain to miss. Blood's the other. Either way, you'll be dead in a couple of minutes."
Jack stole the man's pants, his keys, and his truncheon, then strapped the manipulator back onto his wrist. He locked the body in cell C 3.4, then unlocked the door to cell C 3.3.
It was empty.
"No. No no no no. No!"
He heard movement behind him. Within seconds, he had the other warder against the wall inside cell C 3.3.
"What have you done to him?"
The man stared at him, terrified. "Who?"
"The man in this cell. C 3.3. OSCAR. Where is he?"
"Infirmary."
Jack closed fingers over the man's throat and pressed until he went limp. This one would live, he decided.
Could he even find the infirmary? They'd never taken him there except to process him. It was an enormous risk. Still, he'd killed one warder and assaulted another. Jack's face lit up. If they caught him this time, he'd swing. He could work with that.
His smile faded when he realized Oscar couldn't.
Jack put one hand on the door to cell C 3.3 and closed his eyes. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
Barefoot, he fled.
# # #
Paris, December 30, 1909
Jack watched the crowd swirl around the massive stone monument. It felt more like a carnival than a funeral. He supposed that made sense, with the funeral being a decade already gone, but it galled him that these masses of strangers stood between him and farewell.
He supposed Oscar would have found a way to make a virtue of that. Some remark on death or popularity or foolish American dock boys.
Really, though, he had no claim on the man. He'd run away without a goodbye, and Oscar had done the same in the end.
He felt René's gloved hand on his shoulder. Jack touched it with his own for a moment.
"Did you know him?"
"For a while. But it was complicated."
René laughed quietly. "It would have to be. You would have been so young."
"Old enough to get into trouble." Jack watched the crowd. "Do they ever leave?"
"Not that I've heard. Though at night, I hear they make love to the angel."
Jack allowed himself a laugh. "That won't last long."
"I suppose not."
Jack turned away and took René's hand properly. "Allons-y." He winked at his friend. Their hotel was close, and he could use some warming up.
Disclaimer: Being a bloke who likes to slash pretty men doesn't make me RTD, I don't work for the BBC, and as much as I might like to, I don't own Jack or Ianto or any part of Torchwood. I do, however, order pizza under that name on principle.
Pairings: Implied Jack/Other.
Rating: At least a PG-13/R for violence and implied torture/abuse/assualt in an incarceration context.
Notes/Summary: Jack Harkness returns to England in 1895 and is imprisoned in Reading Gaol after being convicted of "gross indecency." Mistreated because of the nature of his offense (and his attempts to get free), he finds himself going mad. His only hope? The man in cell C 3.3. Click the links for information on the separate system and the silent system, as well as Oscar Wilde, and his poem "The Ballad of Reading Gaol." Many thanks to damalan for his swift beta work.
Yet each man kills the thing he loves
By each let this be heard,
Some do it with a bitter look,
Some with a flattering word,
The coward does it with a kiss,
The brave man with a sword!"
-- Oscar Wilde, "The Ballad of Reading Gaol"
"I was much better off as a coward."
-- Jack Harkness
October 12, 1895.
Jack Harkness woke up in pain and freezing cold. He tried vainly to arrange the stinking and threadbare wool blanket in a way that might actually take advantage of its qualities as a warm object. He'd done this last night, and the night before, and for nearly a month before that. He let his head drop hard onto the wooden bench that served as his bed and gritted his teeth.
He'd kill himself, but he had a feeling it wouldn't do him any good. Instead, he stared at the ceiling and cursed himself for coming back to England. At least in America they'd have had the decency to hang him.
He sat up on the plank bed and pulled his knees close, then wrapped the blanket around him like a cape. Reading fucking Gaol. They'd given him four years hard labor, and so far it looked like he'd be serving it. He wondered if anyone survived here without going crazy. Judging by his fellow inmates, it didn't look good.
Most days, he kept his head down, broke his stones, ate his bread. His attempts to charm his way into the warders' good graces had resulted only in beatings. Well, technically they'd killed him. He'd died that night in his bunk of internal hemorrhaging, though he supposed they couldn't know that. Still, there was an understanding. It wasn't respect, exactly, and it certainly wasn't fear. It was simply the knowledge that prisoner A. 1.15 refused to be broken, and that made him dangerous.
Jack smiled at that. He could learn to like dangerous.
He rested his head against the stone wall and waited for sunrise.
# # #
November, 1895.
It was cold -- always cold -- and wet. His prison clothes were drenched and stuck to him. Half the men would be sick tomorrow, Jack knew. Still, he didn't doubt that they'd all be working.
"Hey, look. Some other poor bastard just shipped in."
Jack panted and lowered his hammer and nodded toward a dark-haired smudge of a man. Well, possibly dark-haired. They'd shaved his head, just like everyone else upon entry. He was thin and pale and looked miserable. They were leading him out of the bath house in his new uniform. One of the warders spat on him and pushed him down into the dirt. "Who is he? What do you think he did?"
"He ain't no one in 'ere, mate." His neighbor's voice was low and nervous. Technically, the both of them could be lashed for speaking at all.
"Well then who is he outside?" Jack whispered and hefted his hammer. "He's obviously important or they wouldn't be giving him special treatment."
The other man squinted and leered. "Why you always so in'rested? Ain't that what got you in 'ere?"
Jack cracked a smile. "Yeah, I guess so." He let the hammer fall and smash into stone. Big rocks turned into littler rocks. They'd be smaller still before he was finished.
He glanced up to see them leading the man up into the prison. Jack wished him luck.
# # #
December 23, 1895
New cell. New name. C. 3.4. He liked it. It was kind of catchy.
He was proud of himself, in spite of the amount of pain he was in. He'd managed to seduce one of the warders, alright. Gotten himself some favors. And while he hadn't quite escaped, he'd given them quite a run. He'd also found his vortex manipulator. And a spoon. And a load of other contraband so that when he let it drop that he had something he shouldn't, they wouldn't find either of those things when he made a break for it.
Best of all, he now had a solid sense of where all the exits were. Oh yeah, this was shaping up nicely.
He spat some more blood into what passed for his commode, then grinned. "Merry Christmas, Jack."
# # #
January 15, 1896
The warders demanded universal silence, and were especially careful about Jack. They'd stopped working him, and hooded him when they dragged him to chapel. He'd spent almost thirty days in near isolation since his escape bid. Once in a while, if he was lucky, they'd drag him out to make an example. If he wasn't, they'd come inside, and --
He swallowed the bile and took a deep breath. "Not tonight, Jack," he whispered to himself. "They're not here tonight." The doors were closed and it was late. They didn't usually come this late.
Most days, he entertained himself by singing and talking to himself. He didn't have a window, but he could guess the time of day by the amount of light that came in through the gaps in his door. He thanked the RAF for developing a series of exercises for confined spaces. And there was, of course, the digging project.
Jack prised loose the brick and peered in through the three-by-four inch gap. It was dark on the other side, but he thought he heard a man sobbing.
"Hey!" he whispered.
The crying stopped abruptly.
"Hey, you alright?"
"What did you just say?"
"I asked if you were alright."
"Do you make a habit of asking questions for which there is only one obvious answer? Or do you have other favorite ways of earning a beating?"
Jack smiled. "I never miss a chance to earn a beating. It's the ones they keep giving me for free I'm getting tired of."
He heard the man sigh through the wall. "Who are you?"
"I'm Jack."
"Oscar."
"Nice to meet you, Oscar." Jack leaned against the wall. He was giddy. This was the first real conversation he'd had in months. He listened excitedly as the man began to move toward the gap.
"Wait. You're C. 3.4! You're --"
"Please. Oscar. Call me Jack." There were tears in his eyes. "Oscar, how long are your fingers?"
"WHAT?"
"Oscar, please. I just need you to stick your fingers through. I need to touch another human being. I need to know you exist."
Jack stuck his fingers in through the hole. A moment later, he felt warm, rough fingertips against his.
"Thank you, Oscar."
# # #
January 27, 1896
Jack was still in isolation.
He knew the signs. Felt the tugs of loyalty he'd begun to feel toward the men who came in to kick him, or force-feed him. The unfortunate warmth that came when he was dragged hooded to chapel and forced to kneel away from the others. He was keeping a leash on it, but only just.
Oscar was saving him.
Each night, Jack moved the brick. He slid it slowly, lifting it up with fingertips to keep it from dragging. He was worried the warders would hear if he was careless, and he couldn't bear the idea of getting Oscar into trouble. He got the impression that he wasn't the only one who'd been paid unwelcome visits, or been subjected to numerous humiliations since arriving at Reading Gaol. If he could protect his angel, he'd do whatever it took.
They always touched fingers first thing. It was a tiny intimacy, but a crucial one for Jack. After that, it varied. Some nights, they'd whisper stories back and forth. Sometimes Jack would sing quietly. Oscar taught him poems and Latin and Greek. On one memorable occasion, they'd whispered one another to orgasm.
Tonight hadn't taken much of a direction. Jack was naked and freezing -- the guards had left with his uniform and blanket two days ago after he'd bitten one of them hard enough to draw blood -- but Oscar's fingers were warm through the gap.
"Oscar?"
"Hm?"
"Why are you here? You're not a criminal. You're not violent."
"Don't patronize me. I know you're American, but you're not an imbecile."
"Well, pretend I am. I mean, I've been here since September, and before that I was working a dock in New York."
"How does a New York dock-boy find himself in Reading Gaol?"
"He falls in love."
"So did I."
Jack paused. "I'm sorry."
"I was wrong. You are an imbecile."
Jack heard Oscar shifting about on the other side. Getting up. Moving away.
"Wait! What did I say? Oscar! Please!" Jack's voice shook. "Please don't leave me here." He felt sick. He couldn't lose this! He pressed against the wall and listened as the shuffling drew closer again.
"You apologized for love. Pitied me for it. As if love can ever be a sin! Now put the brick in. Some of us are trying to sleep."
They touched fingers once more, then Jack did as he was told.
# # #
February 26, 1896
Five months in Reading Gaol.
They'd found the spoon, finally. It was his own fault. He'd lost perspective, gone a little crazy. Sharpened the end. Then he'd gone a lot crazy.
His cell still smelled of carbolic.
They kept him chained and blindfolded. They removed his gaslight. When they fed him, he ate on his knees like a dog. But they didn't touch him anymore. They hit him with long sticks, they dumped buckets of water on him, but they didn't touch him.
He heard Oscar remove the brick.
"I'm going to break out, Oscar. In the spring." His voice was dreamy. Was he dreaming? He might be. It was always dark.
"You're delirious again."
"I'm making a Heaven of Hell."
Oscar chuckled at that. "I should never have taught you Milton. You'll develop a morality."
"I thought that's why I was in prison."
"Strange. You seem so intent on coming here to die."
"'Tis a consummation devoutly to be wish'd," Jack whispered.
"My efforts are being wasted if you insist on quoting Shakespeare to me."
"I do it to excite you."
"You'll do better with Whitman."
"You just crave an American tongue."
"'Tis a consummation devoutly to be wish'd!" Oscar chuckled.
They rested in silence for a moment.
"I'll bring you with me, Oscar. When I escape. We'll go to France."
"Jack, no."
"Springtime, Oscar. Imagine it. Springtime in Paris. Clean clothes. Real food. A bed."
"No more, Jack. Please."
"I can do it, Oscar. I can and I will. And then you'll be safe. We'll find you books."
"JACK."
"Goodnight, Oscar." Jack jerked his body into an awkward position, then slammed his head hard against the stone floor.
# # #
March 20, 1896
"Morning, warder."
Jack smirked up at the man holding his food. If the light streaming in through the cell door hurt his eyes, he showed no sign. The blindfold hung limply around his neck.
The man was alone. Careless.
"I've been counting, warder. Over and over again, I've been counting. And I know what today is. It's the equinox. Spring."
The blood sang in his ears as the man hesitated, then stepped forward with the bowl of porridge. Jack watched him reach down, set the bowl on the floor.
"Do you know what I did all night, warder? I broke every bone in both of my hands." Jack stood, the chains falling from his pale, filthy body. "Tell you what. I'll give you three guesses why."
The man didn't have a chance to scream before Jack had a length of chain wrapped tightly around his neck.
"Now, you might think you're suffocating," he whispered into the man's ear. "That's not entirely true. You're actually experiencing cerebral ischemia. Oxygen's only one thing for your brain to miss. Blood's the other. Either way, you'll be dead in a couple of minutes."
Jack stole the man's pants, his keys, and his truncheon, then strapped the manipulator back onto his wrist. He locked the body in cell C 3.4, then unlocked the door to cell C 3.3.
It was empty.
"No. No no no no. No!"
He heard movement behind him. Within seconds, he had the other warder against the wall inside cell C 3.3.
"What have you done to him?"
The man stared at him, terrified. "Who?"
"The man in this cell. C 3.3. OSCAR. Where is he?"
"Infirmary."
Jack closed fingers over the man's throat and pressed until he went limp. This one would live, he decided.
Could he even find the infirmary? They'd never taken him there except to process him. It was an enormous risk. Still, he'd killed one warder and assaulted another. Jack's face lit up. If they caught him this time, he'd swing. He could work with that.
His smile faded when he realized Oscar couldn't.
Jack put one hand on the door to cell C 3.3 and closed his eyes. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
Barefoot, he fled.
# # #
Paris, December 30, 1909
Jack watched the crowd swirl around the massive stone monument. It felt more like a carnival than a funeral. He supposed that made sense, with the funeral being a decade already gone, but it galled him that these masses of strangers stood between him and farewell.
He supposed Oscar would have found a way to make a virtue of that. Some remark on death or popularity or foolish American dock boys.
Really, though, he had no claim on the man. He'd run away without a goodbye, and Oscar had done the same in the end.
He felt René's gloved hand on his shoulder. Jack touched it with his own for a moment.
"Did you know him?"
"For a while. But it was complicated."
René laughed quietly. "It would have to be. You would have been so young."
"Old enough to get into trouble." Jack watched the crowd. "Do they ever leave?"
"Not that I've heard. Though at night, I hear they make love to the angel."
Jack allowed himself a laugh. "That won't last long."
"I suppose not."
Jack turned away and took René's hand properly. "Allons-y." He winked at his friend. Their hotel was close, and he could use some warming up.