The wily hunter trotted through Bohemia with a small velvet corpse in her mouth. Her person hadn't been feeding her as much and she'd taken to hunting for herself now that she had sharp teeth and claws. She had taken to hunting for him as well when he was home. He had been home for a long time (for him) and there was a growing pile of gifts on the floor next to the hammock. He was a big man and two voles, three mice, a large beetle, a small snake and this new bit of vermin would make a nice meal for him.
Jack didn't notice Dulcita or her efforts to feed him. He'd been laying in the hammock since he had gotten done with the ITF. He'd been fine the day before, all strength and calm in the wake of Tosh and Jackson vanishing. He'd been a rock for Ianto as he'd been for the Doctor when Gwen vanished and for Logan when Cutter was gone. He'd been fine all night and all morning as he pushed himself hard, past the point of thought. But then he came home and he knew he wasn't fine. People came back, it was a fact of this place. Sarah Jane had gone and returned. Wilson had come and gone a few times. There was always a chance, he knew, that people could come back. Yeah, sure, they'd be different and not recall what had happened before, but they'd be here. Gwen might come back. Owen could return. Tosh might show up again.
But Jackson wouldn't. Jackson had been born here to two people from specific points when they broke from their timelines. Even if Tosh and Owen returned, the boy would always be gone. He was a victim of time and place. Jack wondered if, perhaps, he had remained with Tosh, if she was maybe in some alternate plane from what the reels showed. It was a nice thought, but he didn't think it was the way things went. Not here.
That was when he stopped being fine and started being stoned. He lay in his hammock with the shell on his chest, joints tucked into his breast pocket, and a lighter laying on his stomach. The air was hot and Jack was disappointed that he'd fallen back into this. It had been months. Months with some very hard losses, yet he'd soldiered on. He had been better. He had been fine. It wasn't until the little boy with his name who had only learned to walk and talk was gone that the fractures broke apart. He had until Wednesday to pull himself back together. By the next session of drills, he'd be fine again. All he needed was a little time, a lot of pot...and apparently a pile of carcasses from the cat that had climbed the steps and added another to the pile.