Chapter Text
Captain Jack Harkness was dead, to begin with. There is no doubt whatever about that. The crowd of horrified onlookers who had seen him plunge off the first floor balcony of the St David’s Shopping Centre and heard the snap of his spine as he landed in the Nativity scene below could confirm it. Jack Harkness was dead as a doornail.
It was to their amazement, therefore, that he sat bolt upright, growled and painfully extricated himself from the manger. If he had been in a more agreeable mood, he might have remarked on the irony of his landing place. As it was, he cursed the confluence of events that had lead him to this point. It was not as if it was his fault that he had tracked an unusual signal here, nor that he had mistaken Father Christmas in his shopping mall grotto for an alien invasion. That Santa had turned out to be so feisty was unfortunate but that was no reason for the queue of parents and children to start screaming, nor any sort of justification for that one particularly vocal mother to call him a paedophile. And it was sheer bad luck that as he had attempted to beat a hasty retreat, he had caught his ankle in a string of fairy lights that had catapulted him over the side of the escalator. Jack loathed Christmas.
He growled again, ignored the gasps and stalked away with as much dignity as he could muster. However, there was no doubt that two minutes earlier he had indeed been dead. That Jack Harkness had been dead and now he was alive must be distinctly understood, or nothing wonderful can come of the story I am going to relate.
Captain Jack Harkness was a singular man: hard and sharp as a flint, self-contained and solitary as an oyster. His miserable mood hung like a cloak around him and he cut a cheerless figure as he strode through the shopping centre, constantly thwarted by last-minute shoppers, tripping and tangling him with their overstuffed bags. Christmas music blasted out, tinny and persistent, through the speakers. God, he hated this ridiculous song. For starters, a snowman could not physically bring the snow that it was made from and secondly, why anyone would wish for it to be Christmas every single day, he could not fathom. Once a year was once too often for Jack Harkness. He finally found his way out into the night and remembered that Gwen had taken the car. He would have to walk.
He trudged down Lloyd George Avenue as the first snow began to fall. Jack sighed heavily. Christmas. Bloody Christmas. Christmas, for Jack, was filled with memories of death and destruction, alien invasions and yet more death. Full of ghosts and a distinct lack of festive cheer. And it seemed to him that the rest of the world spent money they didn’t have on presents they didn’t need, overindulged on alcohol and turkey and started arguing before Christmas dinner had even been cleared away. Why anyone chose to celebrate this dreadful time of year, he would never understand.
A group of carol singers stood outside the Millennium Centre, butchering a dreary version of ‘God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen’ with gusto. When one of them - a young boy - shook a bucket of loose change in Jack’s direction, the look in Jack’s eyes was enough to turn his face pale and send him scuttling in the other direction. Jack took a strange satisfaction in that, even if it didn’t stop the singing.
To add to his already sour mood, Jack skidded on the thin layer of snow covering the Quayside and landed on his arse with an undignified thump. He gritted his teeth, stood up and stomped into the Tourist Information, slamming the door so violently behind him that the thin walls shook. As he crossed the Hub, he passed Owen, who was fidgeting up and down in his chair.
“Any chance of having some heating on?” Owen called, as Jack passed him. “I’m freezing my bollocks off.”
“Waste of money,” Jack snapped without breaking his stride. “Put on another jumper.”
Owen made a derisive snort, which Jack ignored as he marched into his office and shut the door behind him. He stood at the window and watched, unmoved, as Tosh attempted to type in a pair of thick woollen gloves, her face mostly hidden behind a long scarf wound several times around her nose and mouth. Jack himself had never felt the cold.
“Merry Christmas Jack,” Ianto greeted him cheerfully.
Jack jumped. He had been so pre-occupied that he hadn’t heard Ianto approaching. Ianto must have just come in from outside, for his face was all aglow; his cheeks were ruddy and his eyes sparkled. And, for some reason, he was wearing a Santa hat.
“What the hell have you got on your head?” Jack asked bluntly.
“Thought it might bring some Christmas cheer,” Ianto suggested, stroking the white fur trim thoughtfully.
“Bit inappropriate for the workplace, isn’t it?” Jack shed his coat and hung it up.
“Well, your sexual innuendo’s a bit inappropriate for the workplace,” Ianto countered. “But you don’t hear me complaining.”
Jack was in such a foul mood that he didn’t even bite at that. He thumped down behind his desk with a heavy sigh. “What have you got to be so merry about anyway?” he sniped.
Ianto laughed incredulously. “What have you got to be so grumpy about?” he asked.
“Half my staff have got the day off tomorrow for no good reason.”
“It’s Christmas Day,” Ianto reminded him with amusement.
“So?”
“Season of goodwill and peace to all men?”
“Season of commercialism and over-indulgence, more like,” Jack complained. “If I had my way, every idiot who went about saying ‘Merry Christmas’ would be microwaved with their own pudding.”
Ianto shook his head, still smiling. “You are in a bad mood today,” he remarked. “I actually came to ask if you wanted to come and have dinner with my sister’s family tomorrow?”
Jack curled his lip disdainfully. “Why would I want to do that?”
Ianto gave a small shrug. “Because Christmas is a time to spend with the people we care about.” He smiled again. “No one should be alone at Christmas, Jack.”
“I won’t be,” Jack said. “I’ll have the Rift for company.”
“Suit yourself,” Ianto replied cheerfully. “You won’t dampen my Christmas spirit, Mr Humbug. The offer still stands, if you change your mind.”
Ianto waltzed merrily out of Jack’s office. He met Gwen on the gantry outside and Jack heard him wish her a jovial ‘Merry Christmas’ as they passed, and found his fists clenching irritably in response. Gwen blundered through the door with an armful of assorted toys and books and games.
“What the hell is all that?” Jack asked.
“Um…” Gwen appeared slightly out of breath. She dumped her wares in the chair opposite him. “I’m doing this charity thing,” she explained. “I know it’s a bit last minute, but you know what I’m like with organisation. Anyway, I’m selling this stuff and the money all goes to homeless charities.”
“Why would I want to buy any of that?” Jack asked scornfully.
“I know, I know.” Gwen pushed her fringe out of her eyes. “It’s tat, mostly, but you can throw it in the bin — it’s the donations we need.”
“Money?” Jack queried.
“Yes, Jack. That is generally how charity works.”
“For homeless people?”
“Yes,” Gwen said. “The charity buys them clothes, toiletries, food and drink. You know — the basics.”
“What’s happened to Social Services?”
“Er…” Gwen appeared perplexed. “Nothing.”
“Then they can help,” Jack said dismissively. “I’ve told you before, I’m not a social worker.”
“It’s just a charity donation, Jack. You must have quite a bit of money saved up, after all these years.”
Jack pulled his chair into his desk, opened a file and began to read it. “Yeah, and I’ve been paying my taxes all that time.”
“Jack!” Gwen protested. “It’s Christmas. It’s freezing. Some of them might die out on the streets tonight.”
Jack shrugged callously, wishing Gwen would leave already. “Planet’s overpopulated.” He went back to reading the file, ignoring Gwen’s wide and glistening eyes.
“You’re a heartless bastard sometimes, Jack Harkness,” she hissed and stormed out.
“What about all this crap?” Jack called, gesturing to the gifts, but she was already gone.
Muttering to himself, he sank back down in his seat. He checked his watch. It had just gone 9pm. He heard Ianto call a cheerful goodnight and yet another Merry Christmas. Gwen followed shortly after, and not long after that, Tosh. None of them bothered to bid him farewell. They never did these days.
Thirty minutes later, he wandered out into the Hub to find Owen winding his scarf around his neck. He turned when he saw Jack, blowing on his hands and rubbing them together to warm them up.
“Alright if I come in a bit later tomorrow?” Owen asked tentatively.
Jack put his hands in his pockets and glared at him. “No, it’s not alright,” he said. “And it’s not fair. I’ll be here early enough. If I docked your wages for it, you wouldn’t think it was fair, I’ll bet.”
Owen sighed. “Bloody hell, Jack. It’s only once a year.”
“A poor excuse for wasting money every twenty-fifth of December,” Jack declared. “The Rift doesn’t take Christmas off. But I suppose I’ll have to let you drag yourself in from whatever seedy bar you’ve been inhabiting at whatever hour you see fit, as long as it’s before nine. And I’ll expect you here all the earlier on Boxing Day.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Owen agreed, checking his watch, and giving his hands one last warming rub. He zipped up his jacket and dashed out of the Hub without a backward glance.
Jack found some sad-looking leftovers in the fridge and ate them cold on the ratty old sofa. Having read all the briefing papers and mission reports he could take, he decided to go to bed. He hadn’t bothered to turn on any of the lights and the Hub was lit only by the swirling blue lights of the Torchwood servers.
Now, it is a fact that there was nothing in particular about the water tower that stretched up into the cavernous roof of the Torchwood Hub, except that it was very large. It is also a fact that Jack had seen it, night and day, every year since it had first been constructed; also that Jack had as little of what is called fancy about him as any man in the city of Cardiff. Let it also be borne in mind that Jack Harkness had not bestowed one thought on Captain John Hart, his one-time Time Agency partner, since he had disappeared into the Rift some months previously. And then, let anyone explain to me, if they can, how it happened that, as Jack passed by the water tower, he looked into it and saw not grimy glass, but John Hart’s face.
John Hart’s face. It was not in impenetrable shadow as the other objects in the Hub were, but had a dismal light about it. Jack whipped round quickly, but there was no one standing behind him. His breathing rattled loudly in the empty Hub. To say that he was not startled would be untrue. His heart thumped a little faster, but Jack took a deep breath, drew a torch from his pocket and flashed it around. The beam traced over the abandoned desks of his colleagues; otherwise, the Hub lay undisturbed.
He turned off his torch and climbed the steps to his office, not caring a button for the darkness. But before he climbed down into the space beneath his office, he thoroughly checked it. Everything was as it should be. Nobody under the desk, nobody under his chair; nobody in the closet; nobody in his great coat, which was hanging up in a suspicious attitude on the coat stand. (Jack did not feel at all ridiculous after beating it thoroughly with a nearby hockey stick.)
Quite satisfied, he descended the ladder onto the rough camp bed below. He shed his boots, trousers and shirt and slid under the scratchy blanket. Recollecting the face in the water tower, he did not fully undress that night.
He lay back on his bed and stared up through the hole above him; at the greyish light filtering down from his office above. The humming of the Hub around him, which he had so many times found so comforting, seemed to whisper cruelly tonight.
As his eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, his gaze wandered across the ceiling of his small sleeping compartment. His glance happened to rest upon a bell: a disused bell that hung in the room and communicated for some purpose now forgotten with a room deep in the archives. It was with great astonishment, and with a strange inexplicable dread, that as he looked, he saw this bell begin to swing. It swung so softly in the outset that it scarcely made a sound, but soon it rang out loudly, and so did every bell and every alarm in the Hub.
This might have lasted half a minute, or a minute, but it seemed an hour. The alarms ceased as they had begun: together. They were succeeded by a clanking noise, down by the water tower, as if someone were dragging a heavy chain over the metal walkways. The noise began to proceed up the stairs towards his office.
“It’s a dream,” Jack muttered to himself. “Just a bad dream.”
The door to his office above him opened. Jack cautiously pushed away his blanket and started to climb the ladder, each rung biting cold into the soles of his bare feet. He slowly raised his head through the hole in the floor to be confronted by the strangest sight.
“Hello lover,” John Hart greeted him with a leer.
Jack sighed deeply and irritably. “What are you doing here?”
“It’s nice to see you, too.”
Captain John Hart was wearing his usual stained vest and red military jacket, but for some reason Jack could not fathom, he had attached a heavy metal chain around his middle and was dragging it along the floor behind him.
Jack climbed the rest of the way out of his bunker. “What do you want?” he asked coldly.
“Much,” John replied. He flopped down into Jack’s chair and put his feet up on the desk. Since the other chair was still occupied with Gwen’s charity goodies, Jack had no choice but to stand, and try to look imposing clad only his underwear and thin t-shirt.
Jack folded his arms across his chest and shook his head. “I’m having a nightmare.”
“What makes you think that?” John asked.
“Because this can’t be happening,” Jack replied. “You’re probably just the result of that dodgy slice of pizza I ate earlier. I knew I should have thrown it out.”
“Sorry, Jacky boy,” John grinned. “But I’m as real as you are.” He reached over and gave Jack a hard pinch.
Jack absolutely did not squeal as he leapt backwards. Frowning, he poked at the floor with his bare toes. “So what are you doing here?”
John cleared his throat dramatically. “It is required of every man that the spirit within him should walk abroad among his fellow-men; and if that spirit goes not forth in life, it is condemned to do so after death.”
“What?” Jack snapped. He was cold and tired and the last thing he needed right now was John Hart in his office quoting Charles Dickens.
John shrugged. “I’m here to save you.”
“From what?”
“From yourself.”
Jack laughed bitterly. “A little late for that, aren’t you?”
“I hope not.”
“And you’re not exactly my idea of a guardian angel.” Jack gestured at John. “What’s with the bondage get-up?”
“I wear the chains I forged in life,” John intoned seriously.
Jack put his hands on his hips as he thought about this. “I think you’ve picked the wrong book,” he said eventually. “I can’t die and you’re not a ghost.”
“You have to give me points for the costume though, right?” John rattled his chains and moaned atmospherically.
Jack snorted. He wasn’t going to give John Hart points for anything. “So what?” he enquired sarcastically. “I’m going to be visited by three ghosts?”
“Exactly,” John confirmed. Then he pulled a face. “Well, no. It’ll just be me. But I can wear different costumes if you like?”
“I’d rather you didn’t turn up at all.”
“Without my visits,” John said. “You cannot hope to shun the path I tread. Expect my first visit tomorrow, when the bell tolls One.”
Jack huffed. “Can’t we just get it over with now?”
“Expect the second on the next night at the same hour,” John continued. “The third on the next night at twelve. Ish.” John stood up abruptly and flipped open his wrist strap. “See you later, gorgeous.” He winked, pressed a button and disappeared.
Jack stood alone in his office, puzzling over all that had just occurred. He walked to the door and looked out over the Hub. Myfanwy cawed from up in her nest. He stood and listened. He swore he could hear the whispering again. This place was so full of memories; so full of ghosts. There was Suzy, behind her welding mask. Alex, flirting with Marie. Lucia. Gerald.
He took a sharp breath and closed his eyes. The ghosts faded away. What was John talking about? Jack didn’t need saving. If ever there was a man less in need of saving, it was a man who couldn’t die. So he’d become hard — cynical — in the last few years. He’d had to. Watching everyone around you grow old and die whilst the one man who could offer you some kind of comfort swanned around the Universe with his latest young sidekick would be enough to make anyone a little misanthropic. Trying your hardest to do the right thing and constantly failing would make even the best of men dispirited. And who was John to lecture him anyway? John Hart was the most narcissistic hedonist Jack had ever known. And he’d known a few, in his time.
He retreated back into his office and closed the door. And being - from the mixed emotions of John’s visit, or the fatigue of his shopping centre antics earlier that day, or his glimpse of the ghosts of his past, or the lateness of the hour - much in need of repose, went straight to bed, still without fully undressing, and fell asleep upon the instant.