Title: There Were Angels
Don't own them; just borrowing.
His chest tightens and his groin stirs and he wants it to be anyone else, by any other name. But he's drawn. Moth to a flame. CJH missing scene, of sorts.
1.12 Captain Jack Harkness


Jack – or James, or whoever he is here, now – knows how this ends. He knows it as well as he knows his own name (oh, the irony of that he realizes, has always realized). He knows about the 133rd Squadron, their mission tomorrow, about the enemies shot down, men saved, the yells of triumph before an ugly silence.

And he knows himself, both future and past, looking for a name.

(Why did it have to be this one, he wants to know, this boy, this doomed ghost? His chest tightens and his groin stirs and he wants it to be anyone else, by any other name. But he's drawn. Moth to a flame.)

The captain intertwines their fingers, eager yet nervous; it's endearing as much as it's heartbreaking, and Jack strokes fingers that, hours later, will pull triggers with deadly aim before they're stilled forever. He grips too tightly, maybe, but he's always having to let go.

When they're interrupted, the captain springs back and makes excuses and Jack's bereft, though he shouldn't be. He knows how this ends. Kiss the boys goodbye, after all. Bombs will fall and planes will tumble and boys will die. Jack watches him go.

And he's easy enough to find again, still. Jack pulls him away from his men with a look, and that should be more surprising, but here they are, the bomb shelter again. The air is quiet, now. He can hear the music from upstairs, laughter. Faint.

"James...we shouldn't..." the other man begins, but his hand is at Jack's waist, fingers grasping the cool cotton of his shirt. Jack knows a lie when he hears it.

"Anything can happen tomorrow." And for once, it's not a line.

It's enough. The captain pulls him, suddenly, decisively, arm slipping further around him, warm and almost desperate. Jack sighs, a release, as he leans against the other man, presses them into the rough hewn wall of the dancehall basement. His hands scrabble for purchase against stone and finally settle for the wool of a RAF coat, comforting and dangerous in its familiarity.

The captain hisses out a breath and Jack swallows the sound, mouth open, tasting whiskey and old cigarettes. He feels a hand cup the front of his trousers, trembling as it tries for entrance, and Jack groans, grinding into the touch, before reaching down and brushing the hand away. "Let me," he murmurs, and they're pressed impossibly tight. Let me give you this, before I take your name he thinks, unbidden, and he manages to get the other man's trousers open, his hand inside, and he grasps, sudden and hard and almost angry.

"James," a breathless groan in his ear, and Jack strokes fast and hard, the knuckles of his other hand scraping against the hard stone of the wall. He wants, wants, wants so much to be this James, to be getting a pretty soldier off in the basement of the Ritz, wants to belong to this time and to this moment and to have another name.

He's thinking too much. Jack changes tactics, eases the rhythm of his hand and slows to feather-strokes. The captain trembles with the change but shakes his head, hand gripping Jack's arm and the skin of his back tightly, pulling him even closer, demanding. If he were mortal, he'd have bruises tomorrow. But everything is fleeting. Anything can happen tomorrow. So he takes the hint and redoubles his efforts, rutting his own arousal against the captain's thigh, rough and fast and desperate. "James," he hears again, close and wet and almost a warning. He hears, faintly, the music changing upstairs and the captain's head thrown back against the wall in time with his strokes.

He loses himself.

"Jack," he keens, his own stolen name, against the captain's ear. Bites down, hard, on the flesh of his neck, rough and pliant. "Jack, Jack, Jack," a stutter-breath as he pumps his hand around the other man, who whimpers, lust and fear and trembling.

As the captain comes, hot and sticky over his hand, Jack finds his mouth again. Kiss the boys goodbye, he thinks, through a fog. He mumbles, wet against lips and teeth.

"Remember this."

He's not sure who he's addressing, anymore.