He usually didn't mind being in prison, or even sentenced to execution–he'd been in prison more times than he could count and execution was nothing for him, but he really hated being processed. Being fingerprinted and forced into the ill-fitting short-sleeved jumpsuit was tedious and humiliating.

"Name?"

He glanced down at the man behind the table who was writing his information on a card.

"What's your name?" the man repeated, slowly and loudly, as though he were hard of hearing.

He opened his mouth but no sound came out.

"Foreigner," the man muttered. "Doesn't even speak Basic."

"Just write anything on there," said the guard. "He won't know the difference."

The man wrote something and thrust the card at him. When he saw what was written there, he laughed out loud and found he couldn't stop. John Smith.

"He's mad," muttered the guard, as he forced him against the wall to have his mug shot taken. "Why do I always get the barking ones?"

Afterward, he was taken to a windowless concrete cell, lit by fluorescent lights. He sighed. He supposed they weren't going to put the light out so he could sleep. He flopped onto his bunk, shut his eyes, and focused hard on the last image he remembered from his dream.

Frustratingly, his subconscious refused to produce a kissing-Ianto dream. Instead, he dreamed about the destruction of the Hub and woke in a cold sweat, completely unaware of how much time had passed. He supposed that was why they didn't turn the light off.

He dragged the back of his hand across his eyes and rolled over onto his stomach. Getting comfortable was impossible–the bunk was too narrow for him, and there was only a threadbare blanket for comfort. He hoped he didn't have to spend long in here. He was likely to go mad before long. He laughed under his breath; it echoed strangely in the cell. He already was mad.

He rolled over onto his left side, facing the wall, and then his right side, back against the wall. Neither proved any more comfortable. He finally wound up on his back again, staring straight into the light.

He finally slept again, out of pure exhaustion, and did not remember his dreams. He was awakened a few hours later by the crackling of a loudspeaker.

"Prisoner Smith, away from the door, hands against the wall."

He opened one eye. That wasn't him, was it?

"Prisoner Smith, away from the door, hands against the wall." The voice seemed more insistent this time. Oh, yeah. That was him.

He got to his feet and planted his hands on the wall, feet apart, head down. He knew the drill. He heard the cell door open and turned his upper body to see who it was.

"Hands against the wall, Prisoner Smith," said the Doctor.

He could feel the Doctor's eyes on him, taking in his shapeless gray jumpsuit and his need of a bath and a haircut. He fought the urge to flinch.

"Come on," said the Doctor. He pulled out his sonic screwdriver and jabbed it at the security camera. "They can't see or hear us now. What did you do to get yourself locked up in here?"

He opened his mouth, unable to remember the last time he'd said anything. Could it have been to that man the other night? He cleared his throat. "I took some food," he said, his voice cracking.

The Doctor sighed. "O, how the mighty have fallen." He paused. "Turn around. You don't really have to face the wall."

He didn't say anything but he did turn around.

"Look, I'm sorry," said the Doctor. "I heard... about everything and I am so, so sorry."

"Why are you sorry?" he asked.

"Because I should have been there." The Doctor seemed to be deliberately avoiding looking at his clothes. He supposed his regular clothes were in the bag the Doctor carried. "It's my responsibility."

"No, it's not," he said. "It was mine. When you're not there to take care of things, Torchwood does."

"They tried everything, you know. To get in touch with me. Martha, Sarah Jane–even good old Mickey. But I wasn't there and I'm sorry. I'm sorry you had to go through all that alone."

"Don't be."

"Why, because it's easier if you can blame yourself?" The Doctor shrugged. "Be that way if you want. I'm still taking you back." He plunged a hand into his coat pocket and pulled out a pair of handcuffs. "Got to look authentic," he said, snapping them around his wrists. "I said I was transferring you to the penitentiary in the asteroid belt. Or rather, the psychic paper did. I thought these would be right up your alley." Then, he shook his head. "Sorry."

He didn't say anything.

"Come on," said the Doctor gently. "Let's go home."

The Doctor grabbed his arm and led him to the cell door. He kept his head down, avoiding the gazes of the guards who'd processed him.

"Guess he really is mad," said one of them, in what was probably supposed to be a hushed tone. "Bet he's some big murderer."

The Doctor jerked him forward more quickly to get out of earshot. "I don't like this place," he said. "They were going to execute you for stealing apples, Jack."

He jumped. He hadn't expected the Doctor to refer to him by that name. "Actually," he said, glancing down at the Doctor's long fingers curled around his bare arm. "I was thinking... that's not actually my name. I was thinking about trying a different one."

The Doctor nodded. "Well, all right, then. I can do that; after all, I expect you to call me Doctor when I look different. I can do the opposite for you. What do you want to be called, Ja–sorry. What do you want to be called?"

He shrugged. "I hadn't really decided yet."

The Doctor frowned thoughtfully. "Let's see. What about Frank? You look like a Frank. Or Melvin. I like that name, Melvin."

"I'm still thinking about it," he said.

"All right, then." The Doctor nodded.

He realized that even though they'd long passed the prison complex, the Doctor didn't let go of his elbow. He hadn't felt like this much of a prisoner even when he'd been in the cell.

**

He would never have guessed he'd be so glad to be back on the TARDIS. He'd bolted for his old bedroom as soon as the Doctor had sonicked the cuffs off.

Without preamble, he stripped and jumped in the shower. He relaxed under the warm spray, as it washed away what seemed like months of dirt and grime. He spent over an hour in there and almost as long staring at his reflection in the bathroom mirror.

He rubbed his face and debated shaving. The Doctor had told him to take all the time he needed to feel more like himself, but the truth was, without even a name, he didn't think he could feel more like himself. He didn't know who himself was. He flicked his overlong fringe out of his eyes. Maybe this was himself.

When he stepped out of the bathroom and into the once-familiar bedroom, the first thing he saw was that the Doctor had exchanged the prison uniform he'd left on the floor for his freshly laundered clothes. His wallet was sitting neatly on top of the pile. He flipped it open. The only thing in there was the crinkled photograph, but at least it was still there. He tucked it into his trouser pocket, unable to look at the man who stood beside Ianto in it, and snapped his braces into place. The Doctor would be waiting for him.

"There you are!" said the Doctor brightly, when he entered the console room. The Time Lord was peering at the controls, which he had long ago figured out didn't need as much fooling-with as the Doctor seemed to do. "Though I see you're still after the later-Beatles look. Need me to give you a trim? I promise I'm good–I even cut my own hair!" He ran a hand through it as if to demonstrate his skill.

He shrugged. "No, I'm fine." He spotted his vortex manipulator and his coat sitting on the jump seat.

"Oh, yes!" said the Doctor, crossing over to them. "I'm not giving you this back." He picked up the vortex manipulator and put it in his suit pocket. "Can't afford to let you get away from me. No idea where you got it fixed."

"Spledonia," he replied, glancing around the console room, curious to see if it looked any different to the last time he was there. "I did a man a favor."

The Doctor picked up his coat without additional comment. "And now this. Hardly recognized you without it. Hold out your arms."

He complied automatically, standing stock still as the Doctor eased his arms into the sleeves and settled the coat on his shoulders. "There we are," said the Doctor, a trace of fondness in his voice as he smoothed the lapels. "There's Ja... er, whatever your name is. You need to pick a name, you know. I'm having trouble thinking of you as... no one."

He shrugged. "I've been doing just fine myself."

The Doctor frowned and said nothing. "Come on," he said finally. "I'm not done poking around here."

When he and the Doctor stepped out of the TARDIS, they were immediately confronted by a small crowd of people.

"Oh, hello!" said the Doctor. "How exciting! It's the townspeople come to... what? Run us out of town? That hasn't happened to me in ages!"

"Doctor?" asked a woman tentatively coming out of the crowd, looking at the Doctor.

"Oh, no, sorry," said the Doctor, jerking his head to indicate the man next to him. "He's the Doctor. I'm Captain Jack Harkness."

"What?" he snapped, whirling around.

The Doctor gestured vaguely. "He's a bit touched in the head," he explained. "A bit eccentric. You'll also find he refers to himself in the third person... quite frequently. But he's brilliant, really, the Doctor and it's my job to look after him."

"What are you talking about?" he hissed in the Doctor's ear.

The Doctor blinked innocently. "Well, you wanted to try new names. I thought I'd lend you mine. Plus, Captain Jack Harkness is too good to go unused, so I thought I'd take it."

"Excuse me," said a young blonde woman. "I thought you said you were the Doctor. When you came to my house before."

"Sorry for the misunderstanding," said the Doctor. "I meant simply that I was a representative of the Doctor. His companion, if you will. I'm Captain Jack Harkness. And you are?"

"My name's Rachel Easley," she said.

"Oh!" The Doctor looked impressed. "Rachel, now that is a beautiful name. It suits you very well." Rachel flushed.

"Stop it," he said sharply.

"What?" asked the Doctor, bewildered. "I was just saying hello!"

"Never mind," he said. "What are we doing here?"

"We thought you could help us," said Rachel.

"We certainly can," said the Doctor. "That's our job."

Rachel's shoulders slumped in relief. "Thank you, Captain."

"Oh, don't mention it," said the Doctor, beaming. "And you can call me Jack."