othercaptjack: (Shades are sexy)
Jack's room is mostly basic, it has to be said.

In fairness, he hasn't had much chance to make it his own - it has only been (ahem) somewhere private to go that is not the TARDIS for when he visits Milliways.

And since he is not Bound, for most of the time it stays empty, storing just some clean clothes and basic necessities (well - basic if you're Jack) and not much else.

There is this to be said for it, too:

The door may be locked, but it is not booby-trapped.

Lucky for some.
othercaptjack: (Yes you are all quite insane)
Jack is not scholarly-minded by nature, but sometimes a little theoretical work is unavoidable, especially for those who use a great deal of cyphers and code and have nasty, suspicious and above all twisty minds (like Jack). His notebook is slowly being filled with number combinations, together with bits and pieces of Thirbite algebra.

(So much easier than the earth variety, provided you have the necessary languages to translate back when you're done.)

Since, however, there's only so much dry data you can take when you are by nature a social creature, he's doing this at a table in the middle of the bar, with the vague hope that someone will interrupt.

He can't be rude enough to ignore anyone, and then he'll have a legitimate excuse to wrap things up for the day.
othercaptjack: (The Boss)
FYI, Security types:

A man called Sam Winchester has apparently been possessed by a demon, and has been seen in the bar. It - for lack of a more specific pronoun - attacked Ianto Jones, and may intend to harm others. The only description I have is that he is very tall, with messy dark hair. Ringing any bells with anyone? I've been out of the Bar two years, by local reckoning, so I probably missed a lot.

-Captain Jack Harkness
othercaptjack: (The Boss)
Jack has spent the last couple of weeks in a strange balance between relaxing and becoming increasingly stressed. The Doctor is conspicuously absent, and it seems almost certain that if he wants to get back to his home universe - Cardiff or otherwise - he needs to go out to the same place he came in from.

That wasn't fun last time.

So instead of going over options in his head again, he's sitting in his new room drafting a hugely belated resignation letter to Lilly - she's another one he can't find.
othercaptjack: (Shades are sexy)
Jack is working.

Well, for a given value of 'working,' anyway. He's sitting on the couch and filling in forms in his own inimitable style.

Cause of incident: Morons.
Resolution: Shouted a lot, shot alien spawn before it melded with any civilians.

He sucks the end of his pen thoughtfully, then carefully adds the words 'complete and total' at the relevant place.

It's just as well to be thorough.
othercaptjack: (*Eyeroll*)
It is raining outside the base, in the deceptive manner of English Spring that means what might look like a light shower has left Jack decidedly wet as he swings into the Hub, alarms blaring behind him. It's late in the evening, but his latest Weevil chase had gone on for longer than he had thought it would.

They're getting cunning. He's perversely pleased.

He throws his coat across the couch as he passes, scrubbing a hand through his wet hair and heading for his office. He has no real reason to expect anyone else to be here this late.
othercaptjack: (The Boss)
[OOC: The morning after this.]

Jack is wearing a different shirt the next morning, so presumably he changed at some point - but there is no other evidence that he had slept or stopped reading through files at all. But he's in his office as the sun comes up, sitting back in his chair and making scathing notes all over one of Owen's medical writeups. He might feel bad about that at some other time.

Apart from the soft hum of the computers, the rest of the hub is quiet, most of the lights still off.
othercaptjack: (Default)
Jack is thinking about torture.

The team had mostly been silent on the way back, in varying degrees of shock or exhaustion, and Jack himself still in the eerie spaced-out calm that had followed the blinding, murderous rage that had driven him almost to the edge of a place he thought he was done with. Further, he thinks grimly, eyes steady on the road, hands gripping the steering wheel just a little too tight and for once driving strictly within the traffic laws.

A long time ago, he was pretty good at torture.

He still is, today proved that. But now that's not something good, even when it helps them. Just another day in the life of Jack Harkness, monster for humanity. Funny how that turned out.

He drops off Gwen, Owen and Tosh at their respective flats, Gwen to Rhys' unknowing presence, Tosh and Owen alone, but he brings Ianto back with him to the hub almost without thinking about it. The paramedics had gone over him at the village - nothing broken, but savagely beaten, and fairly badly concussed - and who else does he have to sit up with him? It's not as if Jack will sleep tonight in any case.

They park outside the office, and Jack goes around to open the door.

"Come on," he says, offering a hand.
othercaptjack: (The Boss)
This is going to be difficult.

Jack steeples his fingers for a moment, elbows on his desk, and rests his forehead against them. His fingers feel cold. He'd wondered whether it was wise or not to hold this particular chat in his office, but... it's mostly private, especially with the rest of Torchwood at home for the evening, and if it's a little coldly professional, well- it is, mostly, a professional matter.

It should be entirely professional. Maybe talking to Ianto Jones in his office will help him remember that. He'd sent the boy home in a cab, after Lisa was dead, and more or less ordered him to sleep for no less than ten hours, then stay at home, and not come back until this meeting. Which Jack is now kicking himself for, because preofessionalism or not, this is still in the hub, and that can't be helpful. He wants to be logical before going into the emotional side.

Myfanwy screeches somewhere high above, and Jack sighs to himself. He can only hope that he can be of some help, today. This isn't just a disciplinary talk. This has to tell him more about Ianto than rereading his file will give.

He just hopes he won't get shot again. That's always so hard to explain.
othercaptjack: (Jack's not here)
It's 1892. Ellis Island.

Not a good year, all told, although Captain Jack Harkness will be the first to admit that maybe he's a slightly biased judge.

Bang bang,
I shot you down

Well, being shot through the heart will do that. It's not quite as instantaneous as he would have liked, but a very slow and cinematic couple of seconds flying backwards through the blurred world; slo-mo, he thinks distractedly, and then there's nothing.

Really nothing.

Bang bang, you hit the ground,
Bang bang...

Jack's head is swimming and he's cold. He can't move, and it's hardly as if there's anything to move, and all he can focus on is that goddamn song. Shit. What's the next line? He's stuck with a song in his head to which he knows a total of three lines, and it won't even be out for another seventy-four years. Fantastic.

Nancy Sinatra, though. Great voice, he always thought. Lovely eyes. Great legs. Pity he never got to meet her in his time-travelling days. Bang bang... Not that it was actually about being shot. More metaphorical, about love and loss. Much like most things. What had he been doing? Obviously. Flirting. Just the wrong person to try and love, he guesses, then there had been the fight that ended with an unexpected bullet to the heart, providing the loss in the situation. He snickers silently. It would so have been worth it, though.

Bang bang...

(Shut up, Nancy, I'm dying here.)

There's a point of light. He's supposed to go towards it, or something. What would help would be if he could just figure out which one was his. Or...

Slowly, warily, Jack sits up, damp ground rough and solidly real beneath his hands. The world wavers one more time, then comes into focus. He blinks around at the darkness of the alleyway, down at his bloodstained shirt, up again at the stars.

That he can see.

With his functioning, less-than-dead eyes.

One hand tears slightly at the hole in his shirt to feel the skin underneath. No wound. He swallows against a dry throat, staring down in silence past the leather gauntlet on his wrist - at least they didn't take that, though right now it can do him the exact same amount of good it would do his attackers... his murderers, he corrects himself. Might as well get the terminology right.

I can't die, Jack, Ace had told him, either decades ago or billions of years in the future, depending how you look at it, and she had thought he probably couldn't either. But testing that had been something of a non-starter, and mortality isn't exactly a habit you shrug off lightly, so he'd almost forgotten... Milliways. He had spent years looking for a door, keeping one eye out all the time before he had come to the slow conclusion that he wasn't going to find one. Before that, weeks on the Gamestation, waiting for a rescue that never came as the oxygen generators slowly emptied, then ran to a halt, forcing him to burn out the Time Gauntlet with a jump he'd have been demoted three ranks at the Agency for even attempting. Assuming he survived. But then...

I'm the man that can never die.

Jack runs a thoughtful finger over the gauntlet again. He needs to fix this thing, now more than ever. And for that, he feels, London is the best place. Looks like he's set to start travelling again.

All on his own. He laughs again, quietly and bitterly.

"Just you and me, then, Nancy," he says softly, and starts to walk, heading for the docks and whistling under his breath.

(Bang bang... My baby shot me down.)
othercaptjack: (Default)
[OOC: After the end of this episode.]

The voices of the others echo softly and mutedly from below, as Jack sits slowly down behind his desk with a slight sigh. He feels tired, even if, thanks to the earlier regeneration, he doesn't look it in the least.

He looks up at Gwen Cooper again.

"I suppose I should get the formalities out of the way, at least," he says. "When can you start?"
othercaptjack: (You want it?)
Jack's outside, today. He went for a run, most of the morning, and is now sitting by the side of the lake feeling pleased with himself. He'd kind of been afraid he would have gotten out of shape in the past few months, but apparently the Delicate Flowers is an excellent workout.

Now he's vaguely contemplaing swimming, and if anyone will really care that much if he does so in the nude.

He'll probably make a decision in half an hour or so, but for now he's just enjoying the sun.
othercaptjack: (Default)
If you woke up and I was in bed with you, what would be your first thought?

You know, apart from Mmmmm...

*Cocky grin*
othercaptjack: (I'd hit that)
[Not-Quite-OOM: Up in the Delicate Flowers suite, Jack Harkness and Nanny Ogg... get on. Er. A lot.

othercaptjack: (I'd hit that)
Reply here and I will:

1)Tell you why I first approached you.
2)Associate you with a song/movie/book.
3)Tell a random fact about you.
4)Tell my favorite memory of you.
5)Associate you with an animal/fruit.
6)Ask something I've always wanted to know about you.
7)In return, you MUST spread this questionnaire amongst the patrons.
othercaptjack: (Sexy like sexy thing)
Jack opens the door into his room - conveniently just through from the Delicate Flowers brothel, and looks back over his shoulder.

"Make yourselves at home."
othercaptjack: (Whatever)
"Uh... excuse me?"

Captain Jack Sparrow glances about, frowning first around the deck, then up into the rigging, then at the bottle of rum in his hand. Taking the most logical route, he replies to the thin air.

"Yes? Who's that?"

"Down here. Please, er... don't shoot me?"

The pirate looks over the railing to see a man waving cheerfully from where he sits on the waves. Or, actually, hovering slightly above them. He considers for a moment, then takes another swig.

"Not likely to shoot you, mate," he offers afterwards, "Not unless there was what we like to call a reason for doing so - why, d'you think there is?"

"No! No, just - like to be safe. Be a sad thing to die somewhere I don't even know the year of, though, right?"

"It would indeed be a sad state of affairs, son. What can I do you for?"

The smile on the floating figure's face increases. "Oh, absolutely nothing." Beat. "Unless... that is a turn of phrase I musta missed on the translator, uh... forget that. What year is it?"

"1798. How drunk were you last night, then?"

The man glances shiftily down at the sea beneath him. "Can't remember, actually..."


"Don't you mean 'Arrrr!'?"

othercaptjack: (Green - despair/darkness)
He got himself a room when Ace brought him back, up at the top away from the bar.

Weird, for him, to be away from people.

They left him.

Not that it was their fault. Hell, his death was pretty convincing even to him, no matter that he got back from it, and they weren't to know he survived. However that worked. But to have been so close, and just miss them...

Gets a guy down.

But Jack doesn't work like that. If there's a job to do, he does it. If there's nothing to do, he has a good time, and makes damn sure everyone - or at least someone else - has a good one too.

It's rare that he really isn't in the mood, because moping about depressing people? That isn't who he is. He'll be better in a day or two, and then can go rejoin the party. That's how he works. Life goes on, and when he can't, he just won't be around for a bit.

This is just him taking a break.

Move along. Nothing to see here.
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