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It was 1966, and all of England seemed to be cheering. Jack was trying to get very drunk in the aftermath of a failed
operation. It had been a mess, even by Torchwood's high standards, and he was going to have to write the kind of reports he
most disliked. But not tonight.
Tonight he was going to blast his brains to smithereens with booze. This was being
aided by the other pub customers who seemed to be buying rounds for everyone.
There was one particularly loud occupant
in the other corner, and Jack was just drunk enough to turn around and ask if he would mind shutting up. Only he didn't get
the chance, because the idiot had a friend who was shushing him, and ... Jack couldn't help staring at the friend, who started
to blush.
It was the ears. And the chin. A dangerous sharpness to him. He could imagine the Doctor looking like that
twenty years ago, if the Doctor had been human. Jack couldn't help himself, and, if he were honest, he wasn't trying hard
to resist, even though he knew he'd be disappointed. That was the problem with chasing shadows.
A few well timed pints
later and they were in a locked toilet cubicle.
"'Name's Jim, James."
"Jack." Jack went down to his knees, and
quickly brought Jim off, amid much small talk, more like babbling from sweet, dim Jim, who could have been the Doctor's double,
but couldn't have been more different from him. Haste made Jack sloppy in his movements, but he had to be quick, he couldn't
let Jim be exposed. He had no idea what Jim's particular circumstances were, but Jack had escaped enough raids and round-ups
in this time period to know that what they were doing was dangerous, for Jim. Jack would just get sprung from jail by Torchwood
and retcon would be liberally applied to remove all trace of him from the prison system, but that wouldn't happen for Jim.
So
Jack was careful.
And he was good. Some part of him thought of waiting a little while and then sticking retcon into
one of Jim's drinks. It'd be safety of a sort, and he could pretend it was for Jim's own good. Jack decided not to, and assumed
the beer would do the work for him. Yet he hoped, somewhere deep inside, that Jim would remember, a tiny speck of remembrance
for Jack, someone who'd think warmly of him when they thought of him at all. Maybe they'd all add up, all the men who weren't
quite him, and the Doctor would somehow sense that Jack needed, needed him to fix him and get him back to how he should be.
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