For livii, who deserves better.
It was late night at Torchwood. It was dark. Well, except for the neon.
And the blinky things.
And the overhead fluorescents.
And the lava light that he could not make Owen throw out. Sod that. Jack stood up, walked across the room, picked up the lava lamp, and urinated into the socket. What was the point of being immortal if you couldn't get a few cheap thrills?
Now it was a little darker at Torchwood. And sometimes a little was enough.
Jack stared sadly at the hand. It was all he had.
"You're all I have," Jack told the hand. "You're the only one that understands me."
The hand said nothing. That was how Jack knew it understood him. Other people -- well, people, aliens, rocks, and the occasional lump of sentient Silly Putty -- would have tried to talk him out of his dark mood. But the hand simply understood.
"It's you and me," Jack told the hand.
And it was, too.
Well, it was Jack, the hand, the crypt full of corpses, the pair of aliens stashed in the cellar, and a few alien objects that might or might not be sentient. But the others didn't count. No. It was Jack, Jack and the only object that truly mattered to him, the one unchanging star in his life... the hand.
Where had he put the Astroglide, anyway?