trobadora (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
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wintercompanion2013-04-28 09:05 pm
trobadora) wrote in wintercompanion2013-04-28 09:05 pm
Entry tags:
GIFT FOR LINDENHARP: Need (Ten/Jack) [PG-13]
Title: Need
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
trobadora
Recipient:lindenharp
Rating: PG-13
Pairing(s): Tenth Doctor/Jack Harkness
Spoilers/warnings: none
Summary: He drowns in a sea of twisting space and potential time.
**
When the Doctor crests the hill, he jerks to a stop so abruptly he almost skids a bit on the dry, gravel-strewn soil, and the hem of his coat snaps against his calves. An arm comes up in defence without conscious thought. Ingrained reaction, no matter how futile. The nearer of the twin suns is at his right, bright warm yellow light spilling over the scene in front of him, reflecting off old metal.
The hill is not a hill. It's a wall of earth thrown up by the violent crash-landing of a spaceship. A Dalek spaceship.
It takes him a moment to see more than that, for it to register in the parts of his brain not taken up with revulsion and hatred and memory of everything he's lost because of them. The huge disc-shaped ship is half-buried, and the soil has settled around and over it. There are trees growing on it now. Where the metal still shows, the Dalekanium is singed and worn. The armour-plating is half-torn at what must have been the stern.
The Doctor reaches blindly into an inner coat pocket, unable to take his eyes off the ship. A quick, habit-smooth keying in of settings, and the sonic screwdriver's scan shows no energy, no life.
This isn't a ship; it's a wreck, the Doctor thinks with vicious satisfaction, and one that took quite a bit of pounding before it went down. It must have been here for a long time. It's no danger. If anything had survived the impact, this planet would be swarming with Daleks now. Either that, or a ruined, irradiated wasteland.
This is just a wreck. It's already dead as can be. But it's Dalek.
The Doctor's face twists into a grimace. His fingers clenching around his sonic screwdriver, he sets out over the covering earth toward the metal hull.
It's Dalek, and it can never be quite destroyed enough.
~*~
Jack is at the head of the group with Presh and Shir, and they're laughing when they finally reach the top of the hill. The view is spectacular in the last of the day's sunlight - the scenery in the background, of course, deep blue ferntree forests lining the gently sloping hills, swaying in the breeze, but even more so the colourful tents of the fair below, the hustle and bustle of people from all over the local neighbourhood.
Presh lifts a hand against the low sun to shade her eyes, and begins to bring order to the chaos of their company, directing the setting up of blankets and baskets for the sundown picnic. Shir's friends have caught up with him, and all the children are running around in excitement for the fireworks to come.
Something hums at Jack's wrist. Jack starts and sets down the cooler he was carrying, giving his Vortex Manipulator an incredulous glance. The readout is clear and unmistakable: He's received a signal. He keys it up - not a message in the normal sense, merely a brief snatch of a modulation, a curiously familiar amplitude.
He looks up to find Presh looking back at him, clearly aware that something has happened. She tilts her head at him, and he shakes his own minutely. Be right back, he mouths, and retreats along the path they came, until a bend blocks sight and sound.
There really aren't many people who could contact him like this, not only across space but time. And it's not likely to mean anything good. Jack leans back against a boulder and sets to analysing the signal, not at all surprised when he finds a set of spatiotemporal co-ordinates embedded. Almost forty millennia in the future, and several galaxies away.
Well, Jack's never been one to turn down an invitation - not one as intriguing as this, anyway.
He hesitates, looks up the path toward the sound of laughing. He could say something. But Presh already knows, and at any rate he's been in and out of their lives for almost a linear decade now. In the end, he simply sets his Vortex Manipulator and goes.
~*~
The Doctor smirks maliciously at the metal shell before him. Daleks are so predictable. Their ships always carry so much ordnance; of course there were missiles and bombs still functional, even after all this time.
Well, perhaps not functional as they'd been intended, but still plenty capable of blowing up.
Almost ceremoniously, the Doctor lifts his sonic screwdriver. Now.
With a press of a button, the count-down is set. Now it needs only to be activated. He turns around, ready to go, to leave destruction and fire in his wake. They're why he's alone. Nothing deserves it more.
Then it hits him. He opens his mouth for a curse, but it's too late even for that. He drowns in a sea of twisting space and potential time.
A little less than a mile away, on the other side of the hill that is not a hill, inside an old, battered Type 40 TARDIS, the Cloister Bell begins to ring.
~*~
It doesn't help at all that he's felt this before. He tries. Oh, he tries. But he can barely keep grasp of a brief thought before it spins away from him in too many directions, too many potential futures. He can barely breathe for watching the air's molecules spin around him. The crust of the planet beneath him is too thin; there's too much nothing between the particles of its matter.
One of the subtler weapons of the Time War, designed to disrupt a Time Lord's temporal balance. Not as terrible as the Nightmare Child, perhaps, not as vastly horrendous as the Never-Been. Inescapable, though.
Everything turns. The dizzying spin of the planet, the sun, the galaxy - slow but inexorable. He feels that, always. But now, he has lost all orientation within the spin. Nothing is solid; everything moves, right down to the Brownian motion of the molecules. There's nothing to hold on to for balance.
Nothing.
Nothing, until he finds himself with his face mashed against a woollen coat lapel, a solid chest beneath. Firm arms under his knees, his armpit. Carrying him, holding him in place, in time.
Firm. Solid. Unmoving, unchanging. Fixed.
He relaxes, lets himself sink into the steadiness.
~*~
Jack carries the Doctor all the way to the TARDIS, dread pooling in his stomach. He can't remember anything that frightened him like this, the sight of the Doctor on the floor - not slumped, but every muscle tense, holding as perfectly still as a living thing can, his breathing shallow, his eyes open, as if he didn't dare blink.
Completely unresponding.
No. The Doctor is the most permanent thing he has. He can't lose him. What could put him into such a state? Jack's scans have shown nothing wrong at all.
Of course it's not hard to guess it has something to do with the Dalek ship. As if Jack didn't have enough reason to hate the bastards already.
With a sigh of relief he pushes open the TARDIS doors and sets the Doctor down on the control room floor. He only notices the Doctor had actually relaxed some when he stiffens again. It can't be helped, though. He only has two hands.
"Just a moment," he promises, and hurries around the central console, preparing for dematerialisation.
Before he takes them into the Vortex, he hesitates briefly. He can't be sure what the Doctor would want. Well, no time. He shrugs and remotely activates the countdown for the Dalek ship's destruction. Then he lets the TARDIS take them away.
~*~
The Doctor wakes, motion-sick from too many different vectors of movement of matter in space, of space in time. Timelines shifting, and the stretch and strain of the universe expanding. His temporal sense, which normally lets him keep his balance among all the movement, is instead giving him wildly random signals.
He bends over the side of the bed, gut heaving, and retches.
Bed?
The Doctor retches, again and again. Everything is moving in incomprehensible ways, but something solid has hold of him, and won't let go. Through the haze and swirl of movement around him, something firm is gripping him tight.
Everything turns. But not this. Not Jack.
With shivering effort, the Doctor's hand clenches into the wool of Jack's coat. So long as Jack has hold of him, he can hold on, too.
~*~
"Jack."
"Doctor," Jack manages, and he's sure his voice gives away every feeling in his heart.
The first time the Doctor came out of his strange paralysis, all he'd done was throw up. And all Jack could do was hold him, and make sure he didn't dehydrate too far. Hearing him actually speak feels like the best news Jack has ever had.
The Doctor's voice is hoarse, scratchy, and bone-deep tired. But he's awake, and lucid. He'll be all right.
He'll be all right.
~*~
If he weren't so exhausted, the Doctor would pump his fist in glee. Jack blew up the Dalek ship. It's gone. Gone.
He manages to give Jack an explanation, tells him about the Time War weapon. Tells Jack he'll be fine now he's out of its influence - he'll recover.
He doesn't say he's watched Time Lords go mad from this, from being hit with that weapon once too often. He doesn't tell Jack how horrifyingly familiar the effect is, that it can partially penetrate even the shielding of a TARDIS. At least, of the earlier makes, such as his lovely Type 40. Though she, unlike him, was able to call for help.
The Doctor admits none of that. He simply holds on, and tells himself it will be over soon.
It's better already. Everything still spins, and there's nothing solid, nothing save Jack. But now it seems not quite as random, as if at any moment everything will resolve into a familiar pattern.
Never mind that it hasn't yet.
~*~
The Doctor is barefoot and in shirttails, sweat-stains showing, and there are rings under his eyes. His movements are too deliberate, and every now and then he flinches in reaction to something Jack can't see. In short, he should not be standing at the control console, insisting on an adventure. Not listening to reason. Not that that's any kind of surprise.
They materialise on Perital Four before the protest is all the way out of Jack's mouth.
Jack throws up his hands. "Damn it, Doctor. Do I need to tie you to your bed to make you rest?"
"You'd like that, wouldn't you?" the Doctor sneers, and gives Jack a look that thoroughly conveys his disgust at any possible innuendo. He's leaning against a coral strut for support, but he finger he stabs in Jack's direction is forceful enough. "In fact, you do like it, don't pretend you don't. It's why you're still here."
"What the hell are you talking about now?" Jack knows he's being provoked, but that doesn't mean the barbs don't hit home. And he's nearing the end of his rope.
"Me, all swooning and incapacitated, depending on you - isn't that a dream come true? Well, terribly sorry to break it to you, but I don't. You did your part, getting rid of that weapon. All the fuss you're making now is for your benefit, not mine. I'll recover just the same without you."
The Doctor does glib like no one else. And damn it all, it still hurts.
"You're a long way from recovered." Jack keeps his voice calm, keeps his gaze steady. "But we both know I can't make you do anything."
"No. You can't." Cold, now. "I'm perfectly fine. I'll be even better on my own."
Jack doesn't miss the way the Doctor's hand is clenched around the edge of the console, knuckles white, as if that hold were all that kept him from floating off into space.
But the Doctor clearly doesn't want him here.
"You're wrong," the Doctor snarls, and then twists the knife. "Or did you forget that? Looking at you is hard enough when I'm well."
Jack does know. The Doctor's been clear enough about it before. The Doctor may be using it as a weapon, but that doesn't mean it's not also true. Maybe he really is hurting more than he's helping.
Or maybe not. With the Doctor, who knows?
"Fine," he spits, and runs a weary hand through his hair. "I know when I'm overruled." He turns around, stalks out of the TARDIS, and is almost, almost glad when the Doctor doesn't attempt to stop him.
~*~
The Doctor stands still, bracing himself. Jack's presence is no longer next to him. Everything that's solid, everything that's steady, is moving away from him. But he can do this. He's already given away too much.
He's almost steady on his feet. He doesn't need something to cling to. Doesn't need to be sitting down, reminding himself that the movement he feels is perfectly normal, that he will not fall off the floor, or off his time stream.
Doesn't need a fixed point in space and time, particularly not one that thinks it cares for him. If he lets himself, he could need Jack, and that kind of thing is bad enough with mortals.
He needs to be doing something. He needs a distraction. He needs to not think about how close he is to the edge.
He can't lose Jack to time. And that certainty, that hope ... No. It might shatter him, losing Jack in other ways.
Hope is always the worst enemy. Hope is worse than loneliness. That, after all, is half the reason why he's travelling alone.
Well! Time to get going. How about the Malcredian Hub? He hasn't been there since his fifth incarnation. And so long as he doesn't visit the year Delta-500-slash-green, it'll be perfectly safe.
He'll be just fine.
~*~
The Doctor stumbles back into the TARDIS and clings to the console for a long moment. Concentrating all his senses on what he can feel of her, not on what else he can feel. After a while, the roiling in his stomach subsides a little, though the universe is still spinning around him in patterns that make no sense, jerking him here and there without aim.
He takes them into the Vortex and simply sits, slumped against the console, for the longest time. He's stalling; he knows it. But he doesn't want to admit it, not even to himself, much less ... Well.
No, he can't risk it. He'll just have to sit here and wait. Isn't he already much better? Recovery will come on its own.
He tries to ignore the insidious voice that tells him he doesn't have to.
Eventually the Doctor climbs to his feet, and strives to keep his balance as, even here in the Vortex, everything seems to be shifting around him in ways it shouldn't be.
He reaches for the dial, and hesitates again. Closes his eyes, pinches the bridge of his nose.
It's too late, he realises. He's already lost; hope already has him in his grasp. Has had him since the moment Jack became what he is. And he knows Jack too well; no amount of twisting the knife is going to drive him away for good.
Running away is useless; hope runs with him.
"It'll have to be you," he tells the TARDIS eventually, brushing a thumb gently over the console. "I'd probably get us stranded in a temporal shard, the way things are going." Another deep breath, and he sets her to random. "You know where. Take us there."
With a soft, comforting whine, the Time Rotor springs to life.
~*~
The raps on the door are sharp, decisive. Only two of them, as if the knocker couldn't imagine needing more, despite the late hour. Jack can usually tell who's at his door, but this feels unfamiliar.
He doesn't bother getting up; it's been a long day. The festival until sundown, a quick side trip across time and space and a harrowing time with the Doctor, then back to sundown and the fireworks and the partying. Because Presh and everyone else were waiting for him, and because he needed to be somewhere he was wanted. But the festivities have left him drained rather than energised. He doesn't need much sleep, but he's tired nonetheless, and so he's alone for the night.
Until now, anyway.
"It's open," Jack calls.
And does rise to his feet after all: The Doctor.
He's back in his brown coat, and his suit looks neat and clean. His hands are stuffed into his coat pockets, and he's looking down at his trainers. His toes are scuffing against the threshold.
"I went to the Malcredian Hub," the Doctor mutters. And then falls silent.
Jack waits a moment, but the Doctor doesn't continue. "A lot going on, on Malcred," he offers after a while.
The Doctor nods and finally looks up. His eyes seem shadowed. "All those timelines, spinning off from there. The fixed ones and the not-so-fixed, and all the potential ones that weren't but could be. I ..." He grimaces, but his eyes remain focused on Jack as if in challenge. "I got turned around."
So, not as fully recovered as he claimed. No surprise there. And those sharp knocks were protesting too much, too. Yet he actually came here. Jack blinks in shock, but doesn't ask why. There's probably no quicker way to drive the Doctor away.
Instead, he closes the distance between them and pulls the Doctor inside.
~*~
He sits at Jack's table, silent and scowling, feeling like a truculent child. Jack presses a glass of water into his hand, and he drinks it down thirstily. His stomach accepts it without revolting. Oh.
Oh.
Later, he follows Jack to his bed and crawls in beside him. They don't talk at all. Instead, he sprawls over Jack's body as if to soak up his steadiness and his heat.
Looking at Jack isn't hard at all these days. He doesn't think it'll ever be hard again.
When Jack shifts a little in his sleep, the Doctor's limbs wrap around him, holding on.
~*~
Jack wakes to cool limbs tangled with his. That's hardly a first. But the tousled head on his chest is, and so are the brown eyes glaring at him, defying him to comment. He grins widely, but says nothing. He brushes a teasing hand over the Doctor's head, making his hair stand up even more, until the Doctor bares his teeth at him. Then Jack raises an eyebrow in challenge.
The Doctor hesitates only for a second. Then he sits up, hands on Jack's chest and legs straddling his hips, looking down at him with an unreadable expression. And he moves, slow and deliberate, pressing down hard on Jack's cock through the layers of their underwear. Again. And again.
"Tease," Jack gasps.
The Doctor moves again, pointedly, and presses his fingers across Jack's mouth. No talking. All right.
Jack lifts both hands in ready capitulation, and the corner of the Doctor's mouth turns up a little. Jack brushes it with his fingertips, and offers a smile in return.
The Doctor pushes down against Jack's cock again, then shifts his hips, a small frown of concentration forming on his brow, and - oh. Jack feels the Doctor's own hardness, and gasps again, wordlessly this time, grasping hold of the Doctor's hips.
They don't kiss. They don't even take off their underwear. They just shift and move and thrust against each other until they spend themselves, and, eventually, they lie there, heavy-limbed and lazy, burrowed into each other's skin.
When the Doctor opens his mouth to speak, it's Jack's turn to stop him, fingerpads against lips. If anything came out of the Doctor's mouth now, it would be I'm so sorry, and that, Jack doesn't need to hear. For more than that, neither of them is ready.
But they don't need to talk. Their bodies speak for them well enough.
~end~
Author:
trobadoraRecipient:
lindenharpRating: PG-13
Pairing(s): Tenth Doctor/Jack Harkness
Spoilers/warnings: none
Summary: He drowns in a sea of twisting space and potential time.
**
When the Doctor crests the hill, he jerks to a stop so abruptly he almost skids a bit on the dry, gravel-strewn soil, and the hem of his coat snaps against his calves. An arm comes up in defence without conscious thought. Ingrained reaction, no matter how futile. The nearer of the twin suns is at his right, bright warm yellow light spilling over the scene in front of him, reflecting off old metal.
The hill is not a hill. It's a wall of earth thrown up by the violent crash-landing of a spaceship. A Dalek spaceship.
It takes him a moment to see more than that, for it to register in the parts of his brain not taken up with revulsion and hatred and memory of everything he's lost because of them. The huge disc-shaped ship is half-buried, and the soil has settled around and over it. There are trees growing on it now. Where the metal still shows, the Dalekanium is singed and worn. The armour-plating is half-torn at what must have been the stern.
The Doctor reaches blindly into an inner coat pocket, unable to take his eyes off the ship. A quick, habit-smooth keying in of settings, and the sonic screwdriver's scan shows no energy, no life.
This isn't a ship; it's a wreck, the Doctor thinks with vicious satisfaction, and one that took quite a bit of pounding before it went down. It must have been here for a long time. It's no danger. If anything had survived the impact, this planet would be swarming with Daleks now. Either that, or a ruined, irradiated wasteland.
This is just a wreck. It's already dead as can be. But it's Dalek.
The Doctor's face twists into a grimace. His fingers clenching around his sonic screwdriver, he sets out over the covering earth toward the metal hull.
It's Dalek, and it can never be quite destroyed enough.
Jack is at the head of the group with Presh and Shir, and they're laughing when they finally reach the top of the hill. The view is spectacular in the last of the day's sunlight - the scenery in the background, of course, deep blue ferntree forests lining the gently sloping hills, swaying in the breeze, but even more so the colourful tents of the fair below, the hustle and bustle of people from all over the local neighbourhood.
Presh lifts a hand against the low sun to shade her eyes, and begins to bring order to the chaos of their company, directing the setting up of blankets and baskets for the sundown picnic. Shir's friends have caught up with him, and all the children are running around in excitement for the fireworks to come.
Something hums at Jack's wrist. Jack starts and sets down the cooler he was carrying, giving his Vortex Manipulator an incredulous glance. The readout is clear and unmistakable: He's received a signal. He keys it up - not a message in the normal sense, merely a brief snatch of a modulation, a curiously familiar amplitude.
He looks up to find Presh looking back at him, clearly aware that something has happened. She tilts her head at him, and he shakes his own minutely. Be right back, he mouths, and retreats along the path they came, until a bend blocks sight and sound.
There really aren't many people who could contact him like this, not only across space but time. And it's not likely to mean anything good. Jack leans back against a boulder and sets to analysing the signal, not at all surprised when he finds a set of spatiotemporal co-ordinates embedded. Almost forty millennia in the future, and several galaxies away.
Well, Jack's never been one to turn down an invitation - not one as intriguing as this, anyway.
He hesitates, looks up the path toward the sound of laughing. He could say something. But Presh already knows, and at any rate he's been in and out of their lives for almost a linear decade now. In the end, he simply sets his Vortex Manipulator and goes.
The Doctor smirks maliciously at the metal shell before him. Daleks are so predictable. Their ships always carry so much ordnance; of course there were missiles and bombs still functional, even after all this time.
Well, perhaps not functional as they'd been intended, but still plenty capable of blowing up.
Almost ceremoniously, the Doctor lifts his sonic screwdriver. Now.
With a press of a button, the count-down is set. Now it needs only to be activated. He turns around, ready to go, to leave destruction and fire in his wake. They're why he's alone. Nothing deserves it more.
Then it hits him. He opens his mouth for a curse, but it's too late even for that. He drowns in a sea of twisting space and potential time.
A little less than a mile away, on the other side of the hill that is not a hill, inside an old, battered Type 40 TARDIS, the Cloister Bell begins to ring.
It doesn't help at all that he's felt this before. He tries. Oh, he tries. But he can barely keep grasp of a brief thought before it spins away from him in too many directions, too many potential futures. He can barely breathe for watching the air's molecules spin around him. The crust of the planet beneath him is too thin; there's too much nothing between the particles of its matter.
One of the subtler weapons of the Time War, designed to disrupt a Time Lord's temporal balance. Not as terrible as the Nightmare Child, perhaps, not as vastly horrendous as the Never-Been. Inescapable, though.
Everything turns. The dizzying spin of the planet, the sun, the galaxy - slow but inexorable. He feels that, always. But now, he has lost all orientation within the spin. Nothing is solid; everything moves, right down to the Brownian motion of the molecules. There's nothing to hold on to for balance.
Nothing.
Nothing, until he finds himself with his face mashed against a woollen coat lapel, a solid chest beneath. Firm arms under his knees, his armpit. Carrying him, holding him in place, in time.
Firm. Solid. Unmoving, unchanging. Fixed.
He relaxes, lets himself sink into the steadiness.
Jack carries the Doctor all the way to the TARDIS, dread pooling in his stomach. He can't remember anything that frightened him like this, the sight of the Doctor on the floor - not slumped, but every muscle tense, holding as perfectly still as a living thing can, his breathing shallow, his eyes open, as if he didn't dare blink.
Completely unresponding.
No. The Doctor is the most permanent thing he has. He can't lose him. What could put him into such a state? Jack's scans have shown nothing wrong at all.
Of course it's not hard to guess it has something to do with the Dalek ship. As if Jack didn't have enough reason to hate the bastards already.
With a sigh of relief he pushes open the TARDIS doors and sets the Doctor down on the control room floor. He only notices the Doctor had actually relaxed some when he stiffens again. It can't be helped, though. He only has two hands.
"Just a moment," he promises, and hurries around the central console, preparing for dematerialisation.
Before he takes them into the Vortex, he hesitates briefly. He can't be sure what the Doctor would want. Well, no time. He shrugs and remotely activates the countdown for the Dalek ship's destruction. Then he lets the TARDIS take them away.
The Doctor wakes, motion-sick from too many different vectors of movement of matter in space, of space in time. Timelines shifting, and the stretch and strain of the universe expanding. His temporal sense, which normally lets him keep his balance among all the movement, is instead giving him wildly random signals.
He bends over the side of the bed, gut heaving, and retches.
Bed?
The Doctor retches, again and again. Everything is moving in incomprehensible ways, but something solid has hold of him, and won't let go. Through the haze and swirl of movement around him, something firm is gripping him tight.
Everything turns. But not this. Not Jack.
With shivering effort, the Doctor's hand clenches into the wool of Jack's coat. So long as Jack has hold of him, he can hold on, too.
"Jack."
"Doctor," Jack manages, and he's sure his voice gives away every feeling in his heart.
The first time the Doctor came out of his strange paralysis, all he'd done was throw up. And all Jack could do was hold him, and make sure he didn't dehydrate too far. Hearing him actually speak feels like the best news Jack has ever had.
The Doctor's voice is hoarse, scratchy, and bone-deep tired. But he's awake, and lucid. He'll be all right.
He'll be all right.
If he weren't so exhausted, the Doctor would pump his fist in glee. Jack blew up the Dalek ship. It's gone. Gone.
He manages to give Jack an explanation, tells him about the Time War weapon. Tells Jack he'll be fine now he's out of its influence - he'll recover.
He doesn't say he's watched Time Lords go mad from this, from being hit with that weapon once too often. He doesn't tell Jack how horrifyingly familiar the effect is, that it can partially penetrate even the shielding of a TARDIS. At least, of the earlier makes, such as his lovely Type 40. Though she, unlike him, was able to call for help.
The Doctor admits none of that. He simply holds on, and tells himself it will be over soon.
It's better already. Everything still spins, and there's nothing solid, nothing save Jack. But now it seems not quite as random, as if at any moment everything will resolve into a familiar pattern.
Never mind that it hasn't yet.
The Doctor is barefoot and in shirttails, sweat-stains showing, and there are rings under his eyes. His movements are too deliberate, and every now and then he flinches in reaction to something Jack can't see. In short, he should not be standing at the control console, insisting on an adventure. Not listening to reason. Not that that's any kind of surprise.
They materialise on Perital Four before the protest is all the way out of Jack's mouth.
Jack throws up his hands. "Damn it, Doctor. Do I need to tie you to your bed to make you rest?"
"You'd like that, wouldn't you?" the Doctor sneers, and gives Jack a look that thoroughly conveys his disgust at any possible innuendo. He's leaning against a coral strut for support, but he finger he stabs in Jack's direction is forceful enough. "In fact, you do like it, don't pretend you don't. It's why you're still here."
"What the hell are you talking about now?" Jack knows he's being provoked, but that doesn't mean the barbs don't hit home. And he's nearing the end of his rope.
"Me, all swooning and incapacitated, depending on you - isn't that a dream come true? Well, terribly sorry to break it to you, but I don't. You did your part, getting rid of that weapon. All the fuss you're making now is for your benefit, not mine. I'll recover just the same without you."
The Doctor does glib like no one else. And damn it all, it still hurts.
"You're a long way from recovered." Jack keeps his voice calm, keeps his gaze steady. "But we both know I can't make you do anything."
"No. You can't." Cold, now. "I'm perfectly fine. I'll be even better on my own."
Jack doesn't miss the way the Doctor's hand is clenched around the edge of the console, knuckles white, as if that hold were all that kept him from floating off into space.
But the Doctor clearly doesn't want him here.
"You're wrong," the Doctor snarls, and then twists the knife. "Or did you forget that? Looking at you is hard enough when I'm well."
Jack does know. The Doctor's been clear enough about it before. The Doctor may be using it as a weapon, but that doesn't mean it's not also true. Maybe he really is hurting more than he's helping.
Or maybe not. With the Doctor, who knows?
"Fine," he spits, and runs a weary hand through his hair. "I know when I'm overruled." He turns around, stalks out of the TARDIS, and is almost, almost glad when the Doctor doesn't attempt to stop him.
The Doctor stands still, bracing himself. Jack's presence is no longer next to him. Everything that's solid, everything that's steady, is moving away from him. But he can do this. He's already given away too much.
He's almost steady on his feet. He doesn't need something to cling to. Doesn't need to be sitting down, reminding himself that the movement he feels is perfectly normal, that he will not fall off the floor, or off his time stream.
Doesn't need a fixed point in space and time, particularly not one that thinks it cares for him. If he lets himself, he could need Jack, and that kind of thing is bad enough with mortals.
He needs to be doing something. He needs a distraction. He needs to not think about how close he is to the edge.
He can't lose Jack to time. And that certainty, that hope ... No. It might shatter him, losing Jack in other ways.
Hope is always the worst enemy. Hope is worse than loneliness. That, after all, is half the reason why he's travelling alone.
Well! Time to get going. How about the Malcredian Hub? He hasn't been there since his fifth incarnation. And so long as he doesn't visit the year Delta-500-slash-green, it'll be perfectly safe.
He'll be just fine.
The Doctor stumbles back into the TARDIS and clings to the console for a long moment. Concentrating all his senses on what he can feel of her, not on what else he can feel. After a while, the roiling in his stomach subsides a little, though the universe is still spinning around him in patterns that make no sense, jerking him here and there without aim.
He takes them into the Vortex and simply sits, slumped against the console, for the longest time. He's stalling; he knows it. But he doesn't want to admit it, not even to himself, much less ... Well.
No, he can't risk it. He'll just have to sit here and wait. Isn't he already much better? Recovery will come on its own.
He tries to ignore the insidious voice that tells him he doesn't have to.
Eventually the Doctor climbs to his feet, and strives to keep his balance as, even here in the Vortex, everything seems to be shifting around him in ways it shouldn't be.
He reaches for the dial, and hesitates again. Closes his eyes, pinches the bridge of his nose.
It's too late, he realises. He's already lost; hope already has him in his grasp. Has had him since the moment Jack became what he is. And he knows Jack too well; no amount of twisting the knife is going to drive him away for good.
Running away is useless; hope runs with him.
"It'll have to be you," he tells the TARDIS eventually, brushing a thumb gently over the console. "I'd probably get us stranded in a temporal shard, the way things are going." Another deep breath, and he sets her to random. "You know where. Take us there."
With a soft, comforting whine, the Time Rotor springs to life.
The raps on the door are sharp, decisive. Only two of them, as if the knocker couldn't imagine needing more, despite the late hour. Jack can usually tell who's at his door, but this feels unfamiliar.
He doesn't bother getting up; it's been a long day. The festival until sundown, a quick side trip across time and space and a harrowing time with the Doctor, then back to sundown and the fireworks and the partying. Because Presh and everyone else were waiting for him, and because he needed to be somewhere he was wanted. But the festivities have left him drained rather than energised. He doesn't need much sleep, but he's tired nonetheless, and so he's alone for the night.
Until now, anyway.
"It's open," Jack calls.
And does rise to his feet after all: The Doctor.
He's back in his brown coat, and his suit looks neat and clean. His hands are stuffed into his coat pockets, and he's looking down at his trainers. His toes are scuffing against the threshold.
"I went to the Malcredian Hub," the Doctor mutters. And then falls silent.
Jack waits a moment, but the Doctor doesn't continue. "A lot going on, on Malcred," he offers after a while.
The Doctor nods and finally looks up. His eyes seem shadowed. "All those timelines, spinning off from there. The fixed ones and the not-so-fixed, and all the potential ones that weren't but could be. I ..." He grimaces, but his eyes remain focused on Jack as if in challenge. "I got turned around."
So, not as fully recovered as he claimed. No surprise there. And those sharp knocks were protesting too much, too. Yet he actually came here. Jack blinks in shock, but doesn't ask why. There's probably no quicker way to drive the Doctor away.
Instead, he closes the distance between them and pulls the Doctor inside.
He sits at Jack's table, silent and scowling, feeling like a truculent child. Jack presses a glass of water into his hand, and he drinks it down thirstily. His stomach accepts it without revolting. Oh.
Oh.
Later, he follows Jack to his bed and crawls in beside him. They don't talk at all. Instead, he sprawls over Jack's body as if to soak up his steadiness and his heat.
Looking at Jack isn't hard at all these days. He doesn't think it'll ever be hard again.
When Jack shifts a little in his sleep, the Doctor's limbs wrap around him, holding on.
Jack wakes to cool limbs tangled with his. That's hardly a first. But the tousled head on his chest is, and so are the brown eyes glaring at him, defying him to comment. He grins widely, but says nothing. He brushes a teasing hand over the Doctor's head, making his hair stand up even more, until the Doctor bares his teeth at him. Then Jack raises an eyebrow in challenge.
The Doctor hesitates only for a second. Then he sits up, hands on Jack's chest and legs straddling his hips, looking down at him with an unreadable expression. And he moves, slow and deliberate, pressing down hard on Jack's cock through the layers of their underwear. Again. And again.
"Tease," Jack gasps.
The Doctor moves again, pointedly, and presses his fingers across Jack's mouth. No talking. All right.
Jack lifts both hands in ready capitulation, and the corner of the Doctor's mouth turns up a little. Jack brushes it with his fingertips, and offers a smile in return.
The Doctor pushes down against Jack's cock again, then shifts his hips, a small frown of concentration forming on his brow, and - oh. Jack feels the Doctor's own hardness, and gasps again, wordlessly this time, grasping hold of the Doctor's hips.
They don't kiss. They don't even take off their underwear. They just shift and move and thrust against each other until they spend themselves, and, eventually, they lie there, heavy-limbed and lazy, burrowed into each other's skin.
When the Doctor opens his mouth to speak, it's Jack's turn to stop him, fingerpads against lips. If anything came out of the Doctor's mouth now, it would be I'm so sorry, and that, Jack doesn't need to hear. For more than that, neither of them is ready.
But they don't need to talk. Their bodies speak for them well enough.
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The final scene, in bed, is gentle and tender, and very, very satisfying.
Thank you so much for this lovely gift!
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Seriously, we could be here for days.
As if I'd complain! ;)
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And the TARDIS, doing her part. Love that.
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(And I love the TARDIS as a character.)
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