Title: Just the one
Fandom: Torchwood
Characters: Jack
Author: m_findlow
Rating: PG
Length: 1,306 words
Content notes: none
Author notes: Written for Challenge 216 - Drinking alone
Summary: Jack has his own reasons for drinking alone.


Jack let the stopper drop back into the top of the decanter with the satisfying sound of crystal against crystal. He wrapped a hand around the exquisitely cut tumbler and eased back into his chair. All around him was nothing but the silence of the hub, that tiny humming of computers and the tinkling of water down the water tower, and a hundred other tiny noises that never went away, yet he considered it peacefully quiet.

It was late but he wasn't tired. Even after several hours at the pub with his fledgling team, he was still too awake to consider sleep. He brought the glass to his lips, letting the amber liquid pour into his mouth, tasting it. There was a smokiness, with hints of citrus and honey. As he swallowed, it burned pleasantly all the way down. That was a very fine scotch.

He'd had nothing but water all evening as he watched his team get progressively more tipsy. As their laughter grew and became more raucous, so did his, though he hadn't had a drop of alcohol himself. Their enjoyment was infectious enough, and it was easy enough to act drunk without actually being drunk. Like so many things, he found it was easier to fake it than to do it for real.

He never drank with them. Drinking made him maudlin. He liked to tell them it was because he had to be ready. He was no teetotaler. He'd had decades of getting rip-roaring drunk, enjoying losing himself in the recklessness that the alcoholic condition provided. Not these days however. If he drank, he drank alone, letting himself enjoy the sensation as the alcohol burned inside him, coursing through his veins, slowly easing the tension out of him as if he were a spring wound too tightly. It was strange to realise just how tense he was, feeling it slowly ebb out of his body as he sat there and let the scotch do its work.

Owen kept telling him any schmuck could run Torchwood. Whilst he often downplayed his own abilities in the role as their leader, it wasn't nearly as easy as he made it seem. There were a hundred things on his plate at any one time; from government officials that were irate at him for this incident or that, to the yoke of Torchwood One which enjoyed strangling the life out of his small but important branch of their organisation. If the others knew even a half of the problems he had to face every single day, they'd begin to wonder how it was that he stayed so upbeat all the time. He did it for their benefit, sheltering them from problems that were his crosses to bear. There was enough peril and tough days for them to go through without him adding to their burden. It was easier to let them think he was unflappable and invincible, but once they went home for the night, he could let the facade drop away. Now it was just him and the ghosts of Torchwood past to keep him company as he sat there and pondered how he kept going.

That was the part of it that ate away at him the most. Knowing that for all he was slowly beginning to achieve here, he was running out of time. The century had turned and The Doctor would be coming back. It could be tomorrow for all he knew, and if it was, he'd have to go. He had questions that simply couldn't wait another day to be answered. Even once he had those answers, he didn't think he'd ever come back here. He'd never meant to be here in the first place. That Torchwood had gone from being a paycheck to something he was building himself, fashioning into something good that The Doctor would be proud of felt irrelevant. Every day there were more problems that needed fixing. Torchwood had become like an old car, forever needing tuning and refueling, but as the years wore on, it became less reliable, requiring more attention. No matter how many times he pulled it apart and put it back together again, it never lasted. That was what kept him awake at night.

He took another sip, making sure to taste it and savor it, tempting as it was to simply down the glass and pour another. If he had to leave tomorrow, Torchwood wasn't ready. Everything was going to change and his team, capable as they were, couldn't do this without him. They'd get sucked straight back into the vortex that was London's administration. Their small patch would be overrun with military personnel and scientists, ready to dissect weevils just for the fun of seeing what made them tick. The secure archives would be ransacked, technologies far too advanced or dangerous becoming playthings for the weaponisation of the empire. He'd kept those things hidden from everyone, but they wouldn't stay that way if he was gone.

And as for his team... Owen, Suzie, Tosh. What would happen to them? He'd brought them into this, and protected them as best he could, but he couldn't protect them if he was gone. The rift was dangerous, and London had no idea what dangers they faced. Even Jack found himself caught short more often than not. He wanted to know he might be leaving this place in good hands, but there wasn't enough time. Funny how he'd had so much of it, yet now there was never enough.

He let out a long breath, swirling the liquid around in his glass before knocking back the last of it, promising himself he'd stop at just the one drink tonight. None of them had any idea. He wished sometimes that he could tell them his worries and fears, to share some of the burden that came from trying to eke out an existence here, knowing he was as far removed from his own proper timeline as it was possible to be. They followed him heart and soul, but they didn't really know who he was. They didn't know he couldn't die, and that he'd lived here for over a hundred and thirty years.

That he'd managed to keep his immortality a secret for so long was a miracle given the nature of the job. It wasn't like the old days when he'd worked for the Institute. They'd known what he was. When he'd been forced to start Torchwood over afresh, he'd decided against anyone knowing. Part of him wanted to believe it was for their sakes, but he'd done it as much to protect himself. He'd come so close on occasion, nearly revealing his secret, on account of foolishly throwing himself into danger. It might have been a relief if they knew, but there was also fear in them knowing. It was on those nights that he couldn't stop at just one drink, letting his mind become clouded to stop the anguish over having the truth revealed. He didn't want anyone to see him like that, out of control, unsure what had happened to him to make him like this and why. He had to be the Captain and if that meant keeping secrets, then that's what he'd do. Until then he'd prepare his team as best he could for what was to come, and shelter them from the real problems they faced.

He held the empty glass up to his face and watched the way light played through the dozens of facets before setting it on the desk and walking away. He could hear the bottle calling to him to douse his cares and let them float away for a few hours. It was so tempting, but he knew that once he started he wouldn't be able to stop. That was the problem with drinking alone.