Title: Colourless
By: ninefics
Fandom: Torchwood
Characters: Jack
Rating: 13+
Warning(s): Bloodshed
Spoiler(s): None - Set pre-series.
Disclaimer: This is a work of fanfiction. I am not affiliated with the television series Torchwood, nor any of the cast and crew. No harm is intended. It's all just for fun.
A/N: for a friend who wanted "Something Noir".


London. June, 1948. The war was over and things were being rebuilt. Including my life. My haircut was still military though I'd given up wearing the uniform. Stopped calling myself Captain. Stopped calling myself Jack Harkness. I wanted to distance myself from that life. At least for the time being. Who knew what the future had in store for me? Well. What it had in store for me this time around.

The city was awash with reds and whites and blues and greens and golds. The Olympic games were coming in just a month. Heathrow Airport was officially opened to international traffic, probably because of the games. The city was alive.

I was alive, but I was colourless. A monochrome man in a Technicolor world. The glitter and the spectacle had no appeal for me. Not after everything I'd seen and done.

The bar under my arms gleamed in the thin, evening light that filtered through the smoked glass. The shot of vodka burned through me. I felt it. Felt the alcohol worm its way into my bloodstream. Felt it pulse, spreading a relaxing warmth. Felt it burn off just as fast, leaving an empty feeling that didn't even have the comfort of numbness.

"I should be dead, Will," I said to the bartender as I tapped my glass on the smooth wood.

"Keep drinking like this and you will be," he cautioned. He poured me another shot anyhow.

"I mean it! I was shot through the chest. Twice! It didn't even leave a scar."

Will's hand covered my glass and moved it away before I had a chance to touch it. "I believe you, mister Haines. But I think you've had enough tonight."

Right. Probably a good idea to quit while I was ahead. I played up the drunk and stood slowly, swaying a little. I counted out enough notes to cover my bill and one more drink. "Buy a round for yourself, Will."

I staggered out to the street and turned left. Once I was clear of the pub I straightened up.

There was a flash of movement in front of me. Someone stepped out of an alley, grabbed my coat, and shoved me up against the wall. A gloved hand covered my face, obscuring my vision and filling my nose with the sick smell of ether. It wasn't enough to knock me out, but it slowed me down. I flailed uselessly, trying to fight off my attacker.

The knife went into my stomach with a muffled pop. I slumped to the ground. The man grabbed my wallet, took the money, and tossed the empty notecase into my lap.

Blood that should have been red pooled dark grey in my cupped hands.