Into the Silence

Gwen lingered, a small line of concern furrowing her pale brow. 'You sure you'll be OK?'

Jack smiled. Gwen was more than a little bit addicted to Torchwood herself. Her wanting to stay was part concern and part that need to be at the centre of the excitement, even if there was nothing happening. He'd seen it in her face the first time she'd ever come into Torchwood's range, peering over the edge of that multi-storey car park at them, still just a uniformed police officer. She'd come a long way since then. But that curiosity had only intensified with all she'd been through. She was tough, and Jack liked her. He liked her a lot.

'I'll be fine. Look, Ianto got me pizza! I won't starve while you're nibbling on Rhys's coq au vin.' He winked as she rolled her eyes. 'And anyway,' he continued, shrugging as his eyes dropped to the pieces of paper spread across his desk, some with scribbled notes on, others printed from the computer, 'I need some quiet thinking time to try and get to the bottom of all this.'

Gwen's face darkened. 'Let's hope whatever it is takes the night off. We need to catch this one, Jack. And quickly.'

'And we will.' He hoped he sounded more confident than he felt. 'Now scoot.'

Slapping the side of the wall as a goodbye, Gwen turned and within a few moments Jack heard the thick door to the lift slide shut, leaving him alone in the Hub. He stood behind his desk, the silence threatening to suffocate him for a moment, as if he'd been entombed once again in an early grave.

Sitting down heavily, already frustrated with the work ahead, he rustled some papers and for a brief moment wished he had asked one of the others to stay for a while, if only to sleep as he worked. Just to have the comfort of knowing there was another living being close by.

He shook the feeling off. It was just self-indulgence and self-pity, neither of which traits Jack had any patience with. He knew only too well from experience that having people with him wouldn't ease his deep-seated loneliness. He was different and, however much his team loved him and respected him, he would never be one of them. He couldn't die. That changed the way people looked at you.

Involuntarily, he glanced through the glass and towards the stairs. The ground at the bottom had been scrubbed clean, but for him would always be crimson stained against the clinical white from where Toshiko had bled to death, gutshot and still intent on saving the rest of them. If he could have taken her death, he would have and, although both Gwen and Ianto knew this, he knew they also couldn't help but perceive him as different. Alien in his own right. In many ways he was a freak. He had the one thing that most humans envied, but to him it felt like an endless curse.

He stared at the screen and listened to the hum of silence.

Silence.

Blood beat faster through his eternal veins.

'Silence… Now there's a thing…' he muttered softly under his breath. All self-pity gone as soon as it had come, his fingers whirred over the keyboard, his sharp eyes peering up through his fringe, focused on the state-of- the-art flat-screen monitor.

What if… he wondered. What if the stories were true… With renewed vigour, his fingers punched at the keys.

Loneliness, isolation, sound, emotion, shape-shifting. He typed the words into a new search, highlighting a space in the far reach of the universe on the on-screen map. He wasn't really sure that the race or even the planet existed; he'd only heard of them through rumour and legend. But if they did… If they actually did, then maybe he had a chance of figuring out what they were dealing with.

The untouched pizza grew cold as Jack worked, his eyes never leaving the screen. It was shaping up to be a long night.

TWELVE

An hour later, as Captain Jack Harkness was letting his untouched pizza grow cold, forgotten on the far corner of his desk, Ben Pritchard and Drew Powell were having a quiet drink in the King's Arms. The old pub, tucked down one of the narrower side streets in an ancient part of the city, was unusually quiet. With so many people in Cardiff for the competition, either as participants or spectators, it should have been busier even though it was raining outside. There were just a few groups of subdued drinkers spread through the rambling building's nook- and-cranny rooms, the sorts of private spaces that wreckers and thieves would have gathered in a couple of hundred years back in the harbour town.

Ben's nose crumpled a little as they lifted their large glasses of Pinot Grigio from the long wooden bar. The King's Arms was the kind of pub that not so long ago would have been filled with a low-hanging cloud of dirty grey smoke that customers would have to wade through to reach a seat and, although the cigarettes were gone and there had obviously been a fresh lick of paint applied at some point in the last year or two, Ben thought that if he breathed in hard enough the ghosts of all those dead Marlboro Lights and Benson amp; Hedges would dive gleefully into his lung cavity and fester there in the hope of birthing some kind of tumour. Or at least ruining his voice for a week or two. And there would be plenty in the competition who would be thankful for that.

The Pritchard and Powell duet had come a very close second in the previous year's final, and since then it seemed to Ben that all their spare time had been devoted to practice, practice, practice, especially as this year the final was going to be televised and who knew what that could lead to. Drew in particular was desperate to win. And if Drew was happy then Ben was happy. Which pretty much summed up the full thirteen years of their relationship.

'Come on.' Drew stepped away from the bar. 'Let's go through there and grab a seat.' He nodded towards an alcove with a few steps leading down from it. 'And let's hope they've got cushions.'

Following his partner's rotund form as he bustled through the empty space of the main bar as if there were a crowd pressing into him on all sides, Ben couldn't help but smile. They were chalk and cheese. Whereas Ben could easily pass as straight by all stereotypical standards, Drew was an outright diva. What was the point in simply walking when you could flounce? Why cry when you could wail? Still, Drew had the kindest heart he'd ever known, and as far as Ben was concerned enough talent to be as demanding as he liked. Drew might be hard work, but Ben loved him. And he loved Ben and all his staid sensibilities. It was as simple as that.

Down in the snug bar, Drew paused. 'Oh God.'

'What's the matter?' With Drew's wide rear blocking the narrow stairwell, Ben couldn't see round the corner.

Drew nudged him in the ribs. 'Look.' He stepped aside a little, pressing into the wall so Ben could get past. His heart sank. Angus Parker, Tony Lockley and the small crew of cronies they took everywhere with them were gathered round the largest table in the small lounge area. Judging by the number of empty glasses stacked up in the middle, they'd been there for quite some time.

'Do you want to go somewhere else?' Ben whispered, his feet already backing up the stairs. They'd only wanted one quiet relaxing drink before going back to the hotel for the night. It didn't look like it would turn out that way.

'Too late,' Drew hissed. And he was right. Angus Parker had spotted them, a leering grin spreading across his thin, handsome face.

'Evening, ladies.'

The table gave him a round of snorts and titters as applause for his wit. Ben sighed. He'd have thought that some people would get bored of their own homophobia. In the case of Angus Parker and his constant digs, however, it never let up, and in his quieter moments Ben was inclined to believe the young man with the delicate bone structure protested too much.

'Evening.'

Ben kept it neutral and flashed a small smile before moving to a table in the far corner. It was away from the others but, as far as he was concerned, nowhere near distant enough. Drew had stayed where he was, centre stage in the middle of the small room. He lifted his free hand and rested it on a tilted hip, one eyebrow raising as his full lips pursed. He looked with distaste at the pile of glasses on the table.

'Not expecting to do very well this year, boys?'