Death Is Now An Option

I never thought I'd write a piece of Miracle Day-based fiction, especially as I can't decide whether I particularly like this series, but I wanted to scribble something that explored Jack's feelings regarding his returned mortality. It hasn't had much emphasis in the show thus far but this is something Jack has been torn over for a long time, and to me, it shouldn't be overlooked. Warning: angsty as anything.

Spoilers for Torchwood, Doctor Who 'Utopia', and the first three episodes of Miracle Day. The title is altered from the MD tagline, 'Death Is Not An Option'. Reviews are more than welcome.

The reason Jack Harkness's age remained such a mystery was because he himself could never be sure of a precise number. Time travel was a tricky thing; intermingled with missing years (erased from history or merely his own memory), live burial, timeless trips with The Doctor and a complete inability to remain dead made it entirely futile to attempt fathoming the mathematics. He was an impossible thing...

Was. Not now.

Now, in a dark and damp-smelling hide-out - some things never change, he thought - he sat alone on a makeshift seat feeling deliriously ancient, the last vestiges of a hangover still clinging with merciless tendrils to the edges of his brain. The joys of human normality... an actual, real-life thumping headache that wasn't born of a bullet to the frontal lobe.

Various beings, human and otherwise, had asked him over the years why he chose not to drink. His standard reasoning was that alcohol slowed a man down, and he had to be alert at all times. Another more practical explanation was that it raced through his system quicker than for mortals, and so even if he did wish to get drunk, it was rather a pointlessly short-lived exercise. But the true reason was that it loosened his tongue... and once the effect wore off, he would remember every single foolish thing he'd said in painful clarity.

Tonight however, for the first time in oh, so long, his memory was blurred around the edges and the words almost out of reach. He couldn't begin to recall just how much Scotch he had downed, but it was more than enough to forget his renewed mortality and allow a stranger to take him home. In bed, his usual clear-headed charm had deserted him and he had treated his partner like a piece of desirable meat – something that... Brett? No; Brad... had actively encouraged and, apparently, more than enjoyed.

And it was enough for him to call Gwen and spill out his loneliness, letting her see more than his sober mind would have been willing to show.

But she didn't need him. Nobody needed him. The initial spark of excitation in having some kind of ragtag team again wasn't enough; a team comprised of an old friend who had more important things and people to worry about these days, and two complete strangers he didn't want to be responsible for.

Jack's solemn, solitary thoughts had led him to this point in this place in the dark, with a semi-automatic hanging loosely from his right hand. Even now, The Doctor's words from the year one hundred trillion rang out in his mind:

"Do you want to die?"

"I thought I did... I don't know. But this lot, you see them out here surviving... and that's fantastic."

Except that humanity was no longer surviving. They were the ones who were wrong, who were impossible... they were infected and lost and drowning in the undead while he, for the first time since that wretched day on Satellite 5, was slowly decaying in a different way. In the natural way.

It was exhilarating. It was terrifying. It was everything he had been denied for so damn long.

"I'm a fixed point in time and space. That's what The Doctor says. I think that means it's forever."

Jack allowed his eyes to flutter closed as he had when speaking to Gwen the previous evening, her words having caused his mind to judder with buried grief:

"If this had happened a bit sooner... he'd still be here..."

Ianto. But would Jack really have wished immortality on his fractured young lover, even in his most selfish moments? No, was the simple answer. Particularly not this twisted form of it, these living lab rats continuing on in a conscious form of death. When they died, they didn't heal like Jack, and unlike Owen, they could still feel. It was the worst kind of Hell... no, Jack couldn't have seen Ianto that way. His own fate had been far more merciful.

"So one day, you'll see me die... of old age... and just keep going."

But now, Jack didn't have to keep going. Old age was never going to be an option for Jack's team-mates, particularly not the youngest of the group. Even being by far the strongest mentally couldn't save Ianto. Like Suzie, like Owen, like Toshiko, and like Steven he'd died helpless on the ground, afraid and unprepared.

Jack didn't save any of them. He could have, he was certain of that... but he just didn't.

Glancing down at the unwieldy Glock in his hand, he missed his trustworthy, simplistic, army-issue Webley revolver so much it caused a physical ache. It was like a final kick in the teeth, being forced to use a gun which was the everyday accessory of the people who took him away from his isolation and forced Torchwood back into his life. And now, as he rested the tip of the barrel lightly against his temple, he thought of what he had left.

Esther, a woman constantly on the edge of tears whose computer skills were at a primary school level compared to sweet Toshiko. Rex, the alpha male, who argued with Jack at every step just for the sake of argument, with an arrogance that put Owen's tough front to shame. No lover, no family, and only one friend... a friend who had a family – husband and daughter and parents – who was here to keep them safe, not for Jack. Jack was alone, as he had been so many times.

But now, there was an escape.

Now, he could pull the trigger and never awaken.

The only bang that followed was the sharp thud of metal on wood as the weapon slipped from his sweaty palm and lay harmless on the floor. Jack's arms fell limp against his knees and he closed his eyes once more, seeing the faces of those loved and lost for the thousandth time.

Life was his penance. To survive unhappily, knowing he could end his suffering was the prison in which he would live. He knew already that it would be his greatest regret if his immortality returned, letting this opportunity pass... and so it should be. He didn't deserve relief. He would live on, he would be Torchwood once more, he would try to save the world but if he couldn't... well... he would perish with everybody he had failed. He wasn't helping because he wanted to - his soul, if he still had one, was already shrivelled with damnation - he was doing it so that he could suffer all the more.

He would deny the frantic human desire to survive he had felt as poison coursed through his veins on the plane. He was ashamed of it, and of the fact that he had just about come to terms with the prospect of genuine death as the needle slid clumsily into his arm. Coming back was worse than being dragged through broken glass; it was jagged, brutal fire from the inside and he knew then that he didn't want to be alive. He didn't want to live in a doomed and empty world in which he was merely a shadow of his former self - the Jack Harkness he allowed himself to believe was a hero.

But if he died, it wouldn't be by his own hand. If he died, it would be in a in a manner that punished him fittingly; a torturous murder, an atonement. If there was any justice, the endless string of loved ones he had hurt and caused the deaths of would be the ones to finish him... with Ianto Jones at the front of the queue, one finger on the trigger, undeserved forgiveness in his eyes.

That wasn't going to happen, but however it ended, he would not be the one to to deliver the final blow.

Jack Harkness was a coward... but he didn't want anybody to know exactly how much of one.