Author: d8rkmessngr
Pairing: Jack/OMC, Jack/?, Jack/Ianto eventually, het and slash
Rating: NC-17 (betaed)
Summary: He left Jack on the game station. Abandoned. But then…he came back…different. An AU look on what happens if things happened differently. Doctor Who 'verse with Torchwood later on. Be sure to read the warnings.


Warnings: Please read each chapter's individual warnings. Some parts down the road may briefly mention non-con, abuse, and/or violence. Dark in the beginning. Please note there are some dark thoughts as my boys are broken…for now. Each chapter will be labeled for your convenience.
Author's Notes: Please note this is an AU that will cross over DW to TW season one. I'm probably spoiling my own story, but it will eventually be Janto. There's a bit of a journey first. I hope you enjoy. I'm working on this and intend to post regularly every other day. And again, I always believe in happy endings. So without further ado…
Disclaimer: RTD and BBC owns them. I'm just borrowing them for a while.

Warning For This Chapter: DARK, mentions m/m situations, strong language

Notes For This Chapter: Note there are parallels to TW's "Fragments", "Everything Changes" and "Cyberwoman"


Prologue + Ch , Ch 2, Ch 3, Ch 4, Ch 5, Ch 6, Ch 7, Ch 8, Ch 9, Ch 10, Ch 11, Ch 12, Ch 13,Ch 14, Ch 15, Ch 16, Ch 17, Ch 18. Ch 19, Ch 20, Ch 21


Master Fic List: here


Chapter 22 – "Cyberwoman 2.0"
Act I: Suspension Week 1

It was a face that didn't need to be turned the right way or viewed under the right light. His nose was not the right size, the eyes were the wrong color, and his hands were just a little too rough. He didn't look like anyone familiar; he was essentially a total stranger.

He was perfect.

But after a grope, failed attempts to kiss—he kept veering for his mouth—and clumsy thrusts up against a brick wall, Jack Harkness thought Mark or Martin was far too gentle, too considerate and too careful to be doing this with. Jack, or James to him, wanted to forget and there was no oblivion to be found here, no desperate writhing under the threat of German bombings.

The man had recognized a solitary soul edging along the bar uncertainly and had congenially offered him a drink. Jack offered himself in exchange.

But past the frantic unbuckling of belts and the snarl of zippers, Jack realized the heat, the knot of wrong in his chest wouldn't relent even under the prospect of anonymous sex.

He straightened his flight jacket, the jeans he had bought on a whim, and tucked in his t-shirt. He awkwardly gave some excuse, which the other took graciously as a way out and they parted ways in the alley behind some theater. Jack stumbled out and tried again, only to again make polite excuses, graceless exits, and wandered away from yet another alley feeling oddly numb. The lump in his gut just kept growing and growing until it felt like he was being filled with sharp knives trying to gouge him from the inside out.

Finally Jack just sat in the SUV, scanner on his lap and his greatcoat folded in the passenger seat next to him. He blankly stared out the windshield as a night sky dawned to crimson and waited to see if any Weevil alert would come in tonight. A hot slice from a claw would be welcomed right now; anything to rival the other pain in his gut. Anything that would make the beat in his head go away.

Anything.



Jack had found the flight jacket in a vintage shop during his last week in London, before leaving for Cardiff. Abigail, as her first objective as acting Director of Torchwood, made it her mission to acclimate him to the 21st century after learning that Jack's experiences had been cut short during the forties when he rejoined the Doctor.

It was a whimsical purchase then, something he bought with the stipend he was given—it still amused him to no end that the colorful printed paper held such value in this century—though he knew he should have been buying more up to date clothing.

It looked like the one he had owned before: khaki in color, brass zippers, snug, and stopped flatteringly at the hip. Rose was caught trying it on one time during a stop in 15th century Mexico. She said in her time, vintage was very in. Confused, Jack had asked in what and she had laughed. The 21st century was so confusing. Bad means good, in wasn't really in anything, vintage fashion was the new fashion, and men didn't have to open doors for women anymore. Jack had quite liked doing the last one.

Everything he had from that time with them was gone, possibly tossed out by the Doctor. The greatcoat was from when he had visited 1941 the second time. He still missed his gray one, but hadn't been able to find an exact copy.

He did, however, find the jacket. But it was never meant to be worn. Just to be a souvenir of the old Jack Harkness.

Jack picked at a fraying thread along the utility pocket on the right. Hm, shouldn't be a problem, or so he hoped. Otherwise, he would have to ask Ian—

His hand jerked away from the thread. Roughly, he hung up the jacket and shoved it to the back of his wardrobe, behind his shirts. Jack pulled off his t-shirt, jeans and switched them for his button down shirt, his trousers, his red braces and his boots. He rubbed a towel roughly over his hair until the slick product was gone and his hair fell back over his brow in short bangs. He looked back at himself in the mirror hanging behind the wardrobe door.

Funny, he had thought it was strange to see himself back in the jacket and that hair style, yet reverting back, he felt just as strange, equally as disembodied.

His wrist strap beeped, indicating someone entered the Hub. Probably Toshiko. She'd been coming in earlier and earlier these days.

Jack pulled the braces over his shoulders and shrugged on the greatcoat until it fell over his body. Jack took a deep breath, then another, before turning around. He steered for the ladder, ignored his bed once again and climbed out of the hatchway. As soon as his face cleared the manhole, he fixed a smile on his face and bellowed.

"Toshiko! Rift monitor shows activity in the fourth sector. Road trip?"

It was time to get back to work.



The first two days were spent sleeping. Ianto slept fitfully on a bed too big—Lisa wanted a big, big, bed—and a room too hot. Ianto hadn't felt like getting up to fix the thermostat. When his bladder demanded not to be neglected, he shuffled to his bathroom, did what needed to be done, avoided the mirror as he washed his hands, then curled back under the covers. He'd never checked the clock or even looked out the window.

The fact that he constantly woke up sticky, thirsty, or even disoriented—was he late for work, had he slept through his alarm, would the new dose be sufficient—wasn't enough of a motivation to get him out of his bed. Tired, his limbs like rubber, his eyes swollen and gritty, Ianto simply slept.

Ianto dreamt of the day Lisa had talked about out on the beach, how wet the sand was between his toes, how it had felt gritty yet fascinating against her skin. He dreamt about the first time they had moved in together. They had debated who would get the top drawer. He had; Lisa was always ticklish behind her left calf.

He was content to lie there, uncomfortable in his tangled sheets, dreaming about a Lisa from when she hadn't thought of herself as Human 2.0 or wrong or that her 'upgrade' was incomplete. It was easy to fool himself that the pillows rammed up against his back were Lisa and each time he blearily opened his eyes, it was simply just another lazy Saturday where they would spend hours debating the merits of getting up and making breakfast.

But then, the dreams progressed.

Lisa was always crying in pain when he sat with her. PV-35 had lost its potency after a month and the doses needed to be increased. All Ianto could dream about now was of her crying. He could see a tear trailing down her face even while she slept, while he read the next chapter of the latest paperback by her favorite author. He'd finished the first one and was reading the sequel to her.

He never got to finish it for her. It was left on a stool in the vault. Ianto never saw it again.

The dreams had grown colder, darker and Ianto would wake up with his face wet, his body aching. It proved to be too much and on the third day, after dreaming of finding Jack on the dais, Lisa standing over him impassively with a bloody circular saw, Ianto stumbled out of bed, feeling like an old man. But once his feet were planted on the floor, Ianto stood there swaying, confused.

Now what?

Ianto stripped his bed, did his sheets, and threw out the pillows. He pulled off every shirt and trousers from the hangers and deposited them for the dry cleaners. He threw out everything in his refrigerator and stood in the market, wondering how he was supposed to shop for one now. He'd always shopped for two even when Lisa wasn't with him. It was depressing, a gloom pressing down on his chest as he sorted though can sizes and mulled over if a liter of milk would be too wasteful.

Ianto followed his usual habit and glanced over the rack while he got in the queue to pay. A small smile twitched at the corners of his mouth when his eyes fell upon the pouches of chocolates. That was a new flavor: crispy rice. It was amazing the things candy companies would think of.

Ianto plucked a few packets of each kind, chuckling when the clerk giggled as he piled the chocolates into his basket.

Still smiling as he left the store, Ianto fumbled out his mobile, his thumb already punching the necessary digits. The name 'Jack Harkness' popped up by the time he reached his car.

Ianto's smile faded and he slowed to his car's door. He held the mobile in his hand, looking down at it.

His hand curled around the mobile and it hurt to thumb the 'Cancel' button. Ianto sighed as he pocketed his phone, climbed into his car and drove back to his flat. He threw everything into the fridge, not bothering to sort them out, kicked off his shoes and crawled back into bed.



Jack scanned a memo that mentioned the launching of satellites and instructions on how to switch all their systems over to them. Despite cutting all ties with Torchwood One, there were still a lot of bureaucratic dealings between all the affiliates and UNIT. Jack kept his eyes on the stack of paperwork. He could hear Owen and the others talking low outside—they'd been doing that a lot lately—but couldn't bring himself to care. It was too tiring to care any more.

After the third section, Jack grew bored and in a fit of temper, balled it up and threw it across to land on the empty deposit case used for the alien safe. It bounced off the open lid and ricocheted into the metal case.

The letter about UNIT's new liaison went in with a graceful arc. Then the one about Torchwood Two's request for personnel sailed right in. The one about Owen's request for more of chemical fifty six missed the edge. So did a copy of an email from PM Jones about some files missing in the Cardiff's Mayor's office. That one caught the edge, spun, and skipped under the table.

The next—

Ianto's name had jumped out when he grabbed the paper. It was a print out of an email, slipped between two weeks worth of other requests. It was meant as a reminder, formally requesting a few days off in the next month. It was for a sojourn to London. For the anniversary of Canary Wharf.

There was a petty part of him that wanted to tear up the polite request. Another part—the more foolish part, he decided—wanted to call the young man and tell him...

Tell him what?

Jack heaved a sigh, smashed the sheet to his face as he bowed his head, hearing and feeling the paper crinkling around the top of his head.

Thrum-thrum-tap-tap…

Ianto did everything he could to save Lisa Hallet. Jack could only imagine the nights spent piecing the unit together down in the Hub.

Did he really think he could actually get away with it? Someone was bound to come down there. Or did Ianto plan to sleep with them, too?

Jack felt ill the minute he thought it. Ianto wasn't him. He would have found another way. That way happened to be the best way to deal with Jack Harkness.

Thrum-thrum-tap-tap…Thrum-thrum-tap-tap…Thrum-thrum-tap-tap…

Jack lowered the sheet of paper. He thought about that lone figure kneeling over Lisa's dead body. He fought because he loved her, couldn’t bring himself to live without her.

Jack couldn't help but feel envious.

'Approved', Jack scribbled on the sheet. He smoothed the printout before folding it into threes and slipped it into an envelope. Once done though, Jack stared at it.

Now what?


Act II

Additional Notes: Many thanks to soullessminion for betaing this chapter. And trtmx for her magic trick that saved my sanity! LOL.