Title: Broken Glass
By: el_evergreen
Pairing: pre-slash Jack/Ianto
Rating: PG13
Disclaimer: *sigh* They all belong to someone else. I just borrow them.
Warning: OC Death.
A/N: A prompt I got off a LiveJournal plot bunny community, torchwoodprompts (http://community.livejournal.com/torchwoodprompt/538.html?view=11802)
Summary: "They tortured him, not me, because he was weaker. They made me watch him die. And they let me go." That horrible night Jack described in 1x12 (Captain Jack Harkness)

***

"I went to war when I was a boy. I was with my best friend. We got caught crossing the border over enemy lines. They tortured him, not me, because he was weaker. They made me watch him die. And they let me go."

Jack has learned to push the memories of those days to the back of his mind. He's learned to forget about them, mostly, and force himself to realise that what's done is done. Mistakes are made and lessons are learnt from them.

Now, though, as he sits in his office, swishing the last of the gin around in the bottom of his glass, it seems to be the only thought floating to the surface. He tries to think of other things, and even if he does succeed, it's only for a few moments.

It's never bothered him this much before, besides the moments when it was actually happening and immediately after.

He glances up at the ceiling and takes a deep breath, wondering what it would be like now if his dear friend were still alive. They had been inseperable back then, and Jack can't help but wonder if that's why he's dead now. He would've followed Jack anywhere; to hell and back if it were possible.

Closing his eyes, he decides to allow himself to revisit those last moments.

--

Jack sat quietly in the corner of the small room where he and his friend, Thomas, had been placed. The shackles, old-fashioned and iron, were heavy on his wrists and ankles. He was exhausted not just phsycially, but mentally. He wasn't sure how long they'd gone without sleep...

"You awake over there?" his friend called, his voice dry and raspy.

"I'm awake."

"How long d'you think it'll be 'til we get out of here?"

Jack frowned. He wasn't even sure how long they'd already been there. "I don't know. I'm sorry."

He heard Thomas shift, the shackles on his wrists jingling. "For what?"

Squinting, Jack cursed the dark room. The only light provided was the sunlight that poured through a tiny, barred window at the top of the room. It was dusty, the ground was wet from the leaking rain and the heat nearly unbearable.

"For bringing you here," he replied finally.

Thomas attempted a laugh, but it sounded to Jack more like a gasp of pain. He knew he'd been hit earlier by one of the guards and wondered if one of his ribs had cracked. "I came on my own," he protested.

Jack didn't answer. He knew there was no point in arguing with the younger boy; he'd lose. He always did.

The door to the room opened, flooding the room with light, and two guards entered. One walked immediately to Thomas, and the other to Jack.

"Give us the code," the guard with Thomas hissed, holding his gun in a threatening position in front of his face.

"I don't know what code you're talking about," he replied. He fought to keep his voice steady, but it shook slightly.

There was a cracking sound, followed by a whimper. Jack shifted in a desperate attempt to see over the guard's shoulder. The guard that had come to him, however, knocked him backwards. "Be still."

"Leave him alone," Jack pleaded. "He doesn't know anything!"

The first guard, who was kneeling over Thomas, turned and walked to him. He pushed the other guard towards his friend, and knelt in front of Jack. "So, he doesn't. Do you?"

He clenched his jaw. He didn't, and even if he did, he wouldn't tell.

"Perhaps you'd like a little persuasion?"

Jack eyed him curiously. He walked back to Thomas, and unlocked his shackles. Standing him up, he drew a rather vicious looking knife from his boot. Something that looked like electricity sparked from it's blade. He'd never seen anything like it before.

Thomas stared at Jack, his jaw set. He stood tall, firm, but his eyes pleaded for help.

"I don't know anything." And it was the truth. He knew nothing about a 'code.'

Apparently the truth was the wrong answer. The guard dug the blade into Thomas' arm, lighting his entire shoulder up with sparks. Jack closed his eyes and tried to tune out the screams from his friend. He felt helpless.

The screams were soon replaced by desperate gasps for air. "Want to try again?" The guard asked.

"I don't know anything! You're doing all this for no reason, let him go!"

More screams. Louder. Jack swore he could hear the electricity ripping through Thomas' body.

He didn't know how many times they forced the knife into him. He didn't know how long they held it there, or how long he fought wildly against his shackles to try, by some miracle, to get free. He only knew that by the time it was over, his arms were dumb and his head was throbbing.

The room was silent and dark again, save for the sound of something being dragged across the floor. Moments later, something was dropped in his lap. He squinted into the blackness. "Thomas?"

He was answered with ragged, weak breaths. "...Sorry."

Shifting to a position that was easier for him to get his hands up, he felt around until he found his friend's shoulder, and squeezed. "For what?"

"Don't know," he whispered. Jack could tell it was painful for him. "Felt like saying it."

Cursing mentally, Jack tried to will the lump in his throat away. "You'll be okay," he said, though he didn't sound certain. He moved his hand up to Thomas' face, and dabbed at the wetness there. He prayed it was tears and not blood.

"It's not your fault. You told the truth."

"And you can tell everybody that when we get back." His voice was beginning to break, but he didn't care anymore. "You can tell them about how we kicked their asses."

He felt Thomas' shoulders shake with a light laughter. "Always one for stories–" he paused, and his body shuddered.

Jack felt his forehead. It was cold, yet it burned like nothing he'd ever felt. "Hang on, Thomas..."

"T-tell my sister..."

"I'm not telling her anything," Jack whispered forcefully. "You're gonna tell her when you see her again."

"Please," Thomas pleaded. "Tell her... this wasn't a mistake. She didn't want me to join."

It had been a mistake, Jack knew. Thomas had celebrated his seventeenth birthday hardly a week ago, and he had been so full of life. But now...

"I'll tell her."

"And..."

He waited for the next request.

"Something you should know..."

"What's that?"

He fought to breathe for a moment. "...was afraid to say before..."

Silence.

"Thomas?"

The feeling that came over Jack was one he'd never imagined. He'd seen people die before. People he loved. Family members. Nothing had affected him like this.

He grasped Thomas' shoulders as best as he could, cursing the shackles as they pulled back on him. He rocked with him, back and forth, there on the filthy, wet floor. He screamed. He cried like he had never cried before. He pleaded with some invisible force to give the answer to his question; why had it been him?

He begged for the opprotunity to trade places with him, for he had nothing to lose. Thomas had a sister, a baby brother, a life. All Jack had was this. This was all he'd ever have.

--

Jack jumps lightly as the glass with the gin slips from his hand. Quickly, possibly quicker than normal, he jumps from his chair and begins picking the pieces of shattered glass up off the floor. Perhaps it wasn't a good idea to allow himself to revisit those memories. Things from his past always stir him in ways he doesn't like.

He reaches up with the back of his hand and wipes a stray tear off his cheek. He continues to pick up the pieces of glass and curses himself as one digs into his hand. He sits back on the floor, looking at the blood on his hand. Appropriate, he thinks.

"Sir?" Ianto stands in the doorway, eyeing the broken glass and Jack's cut hand. "Are you okay?"

Jack clears his throat and continues picking up the glass, ignoring the sting of the gin mixing with the cut. "I'm fine, Ianto."

He knows that look on Ianto's face: Liar.

Walking over, he paws Jack's hands away from the broken glass and picks it up himself. After throwing it away, he pulls a clean piece of cloth out of his pocket and proceeds to tend to the cut on his finger. "I'm no doctor like Owen, but... as he isn't here, I'll have to do."

Jack doesn't protest. He's too tired to argue. So, he sits on the edge of his desk and let's Ianto work. He studies him as he dabs at the cut tenderly, and realises something. Something horrible and strangely comforting at the same time.

He realises he has a duty to him, not just as a Captain. He has the same duty to Ianto that he had to Thomas, and he knows why. He knows why he was drawn to him almost immediately after he arrived from Torchwood One. He knows why, as horrible as it sounds, he favors Ianto over the others.

He reminds him of that friend he had, a very long time ago. And this one he doesn't intend to lose.

***