He glances at Jack out of the corner of his eye, expression still blissfully blank. Inside, he's a little hurt, but on the outside Jack could have just listed off his grocery list. He looked down at his fingers for a moment, clasping and unclasping them, long fingers on delicate wrists. He's always hated his hands.

"Contrary to your belief, Jack, I did not join Torchwood for the sole purpose of being near you," he finally says, a hint of coldness in that deadpan voice. He's done with the sirs now. And the pleasantries.

He's had an extremely shitty last two days. His head aches and the rats are tap-dancing now. He wonders where they learned to do that. The empathy isn't helping his mood.

"I originally joined Torchwood to help people. I'm good at my job. I'd like to continue doing it." Torchwood gives him meaning. Jack gives him meaning too, but this isn't the slightly flirtatious man he spent the last two years shagging. For all he knows, this Jack is straight.

The thought is vaguely horrifying, but he pushes it down, focusing on the task at hand. He doesn't need Jack to exist.

That's a lie. He does need Jack to exist. He doesn't have much of a persona separate from the other man, but he may have to learn. The thought brings threatens to mentally choke him. He ignores it.