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wintercompanion2014-07-28 09:50 pm
wojelah.livejournal.com) wrote in wintercompanion2014-07-28 09:50 pm
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wojelah: Do What You Must Do (Jack/Twelve) [G] - Summer Holidays Prompt #7
Title: Do What You Must Do
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
wojelah
Rating: G
Prompt: Justice, in a shanty town, with an axe, in a space elevator.
Spoilers/warnings: Assumes knowledge up to the end of Eleven's run, including the anniversary special.
A/N: Title stolen from Brother Cadfael's Penance - "In the end there is nothing to be done but to state clearly what has been done, without shame or regret, and say: Here I am, and this is what I am. Now deal with me as you see fit. That is your right. Mine is to stand by the act, and pay the price. You do what you must do, and pay for it. So in the end all things are simple.”
Summary:The bartender turns around, and the rest of the bar's patrons edge away. The Captain's holding a stout length of wood, banded with iron, the one everyone around here is well aware he keeps under the bar for emergencies. They know what comes next. Actually, it turns out that they don't, because what comes next is that the Captain's eyes widen, a pained look crosses his face, and he drops the shillelagh in favor of rubbing his temples. "Oh no," the Captain says. "No, no, no."
---
The axe bites into the bar's surface, splitting the carefully polished mahogany a solid six inches on either side. The twanging shudder of blade and handle reverberates in the suddenly silent room, broken only by the thunk-squeak of the saloon doors. No one moves. No one breathes.
No one except the bartender, who finishes pulling the beer he'd had in hand, takes a sip with an air of satisfaction, and wipes the lingering foam from his lip with the back of his hand. "You know," he says mildly, still not turning around, "I had that imported from Earth Mark Two. From a New New Taosian place that had been around for centuries. I've spent the last year teaching my compatriots here about taking their fights outside. So I really hope you have a good reason for that."
The axe-wielding newcomer says nothing, but he does raise a finger to tip up the brim of his ten-gallon hat.
The bartender turns around, and the rest of the bar's patrons edge away. The Captain's holding a stout length of wood, banded with iron, the one everyone around here is well aware he keeps under the bar for emergencies. They know what comes next.
Actually, it turns out that they don't, because what comes next is that the Captain's eyes widen, a pained look crosses his face, and he drops the shillelagh in favor of rubbing his temples. "Oh no," the Captain says. "No, no, no."
"Hello, Jack," says the Doctor. "I've always wanted to try that."
---
“Come closing time, you can damn well fix that with the sonic,” Jack says. He’s dragged the Doctor back into his office for a discussion. He can’t close the saloon. It’d be out of place, and the Mayor’s due to stop in this evening.
“It adds character,” the Doctor says. “Rough and tumble town like this, real Old West feel, all you need’s a gun at your hip, Captain, and you’d blend right in.” His face might not be familiar, but Jack’s long past needing facial recognition to know the Doctor when he meets him. Besides, his drawl is appalling. His ability to blend hasn’t improved, no matter the regeneration. This one’s older. Grey-haired and a little hollow-eyed and a little wilder around the edges than the tweed and bow tie Jack had met last.
“Doctor,” Jack tries again. “Not that it’s not a thrill that you’ve deigned to stop by. Really.” He sounds a little more bitter than he’d meant to. But then, they hadn’t exactly parted well. “But I’ve been running a long con on the Mayor of this place, and I’m eight hours away from busting it so wide open that they’ll have to let the Miner’s Union courts in, so now would not be a good time for them to find out I’m not really the guy they think I am.”
“And who,” the Doctor says quietly, “would that be, exactly?”
“Captain Jack Harkness,” he says evenly, refusing to rise to the bait. “The name’s not known here, and a little military rank never hurts to build credibility. Lothario, publican, and man about town. And a man not averse to letting his bar serve as the place for backroom dealing, so long as he gets a little cut.”
“Ah.” The Doctor stands and looks out the hazy glass window. Jack knows what he sees. He’s been looking at it for eighteen months, local time. The sky is a smeary grey. Soot clings to buildings and faces, mingles with the gravel and dust of the road. Miners trudge by, faces drawn and tight, against a backdrop of grimy transports. The only bright spots are gleams of chrome and paint as the mine owners and merchants pass by in their skimmers. Jack’s place - actually called The Place - is right on the edge of town center, looking away into the shanty town that leads up to the mine itself. It’s close enough in that the wheelers and dealers don’t look out of place, and far enough out that everyone else knows not to be looking.
“So,” the Doctor says, still watching what passes for the world of Talkeetna X-07 as it goes by. Jack braces himself for criticism. For a quip. For a barb or a slight or a warning. What he gets is a surprise. “What do you need me to do?”
---
The answer, actually, is not much. Still. The Doctor’s offered, and Jack’s old enough now to recognize an olive branch when he sees one, no matter how tersely it’s offered.
Talkeetna’s a rough town, but it’s also this galaxy’s primary source of graphine, and the Miner’s Union has been trying to get itself established for well over a decade now. Noncoincidentally, that’s just how long Mayor Rainer’s been protecting his turf, walking a fine enough line and ensuring a constant supply at a price just low enough that the rest of the worlds aren’t willing to interfere. He’s gotten cocky, finally, and Jack’s got the scandal tipped to blow. Rainer’s coalition of graphite mine owners and graphine manufacturers is getting restive, and Jack’s murder is all it’s going to take to bring the foundations crumbling down. All he has to do is make sure that his sympathetic journalist, an off-worlder ostensibly in town for a fluff piece on Rainer’s latest arm candy, gets the scoop she needs.
“Keep an eye on her,” Jack asks. “Make sure she catches the early morning elevator to the docking station, make sure she gets on her shuttle.” He hadn’t been entirely worried. Achera is plenty capable, and if it all goes to plan, no one should even know she’s there. It’s just that it never really goes entirely to plan. It’s a bit of a relief, really, knowing someone can take care of that end. He tosses his wristcomp to the Doctor. “I’ve used this before with her, to prove a go-between’s trustworthy.”
The Doctor pockets it. “I’ll be there.”
There’s a lot not being said right now. “Doctor --” he starts, but then there’s a beep from the security cam. Facial recognition’s picked up Rainer. Time to get the party started. “I have to go.” Literally. He won’t be coming back here. He’ll be a dead man, after all. Getting off-world won’t be too complicated, at least. “I’ll be on the Sigma-Nought shuttle to Tristram Nine, this time tomorrow, if you want to find me.” He doesn’t say where on the shuttle. No need to start that argument up again.
“I’ll find you,” the Doctor says, and then Jack’s out the door, all smiles and bonhomie.
---
Jack wakes up in darkness, gasping for air, for the third time that day. He’s died twice, fumbling for the hidden release. Not ideal, but then, he couldn’t be sure just how he’d land when Rainer shot him and his body tumbled into the shipping container. Given enough time, he’d find it - it was just a question of how long. He’d been willing to go through with it. Rainer was scum, and there wasn’t a better plan.
So he’s resigned to waking a third time - and a fourth and a fifth, if he has to. This time, though, something’s different. This time, the container lid’s cracked, and relatively fresh air is streaming in. He sits up slowly, not sure what’s waiting for him, and then he sees his wristcomp, draped over the container’s lip. He puts it on and hauls himself up and out.
Turns out his legs are still a little shaky, so Jack doesn’t mind so much that the Doctor’s camped out on the floor, leaning against the crate, apparently content and disinclined to move. Jack lets his legs fold up and manages to slump into a sitting position with some kind of dignity. Their shoulders aren’t quite touching. Jack’s not exactly sure where they stand right now, and they’d left things far too angrily for him to want to push his luck. “You’re here,” is all he says instead.
“Achera’s fine,” the Doctor answers, and tosses a chronofilm onto his lap. She’s got front page billing, and Jack’s body’s there in fully-rendered color.
Jack smiles, and knows it’s not a pleasant expression. He doesn’t care. “Well done, that woman,” he says.
“She is impressive.” The Doctor’s grin is quick.
“To say the least,” Jack says, and lets his eyes close, tipping his head back and forcing his body to relax out of its post-revival adrenalin rush.
“She asked me what you were running from,” the Doctor says. “And what crimes you’d left behind you.”
Jack doesn’t move, but he’s not relaxing any longer.
“I told her that wasn’t my answer to give.”
“It isn’t,” Jack agrees.
“I also told her penance is a long road when your only choices were impossible options.”
“It’s not penance,” Jack says flatly. “Penance wouldn’t begin to cover it.” And here they are, back at the argument they’d had the last time they’d met. And the time before, and twice before that. He hadn’t had a very easy time with the last Doctor he’d met. “It’s just trying to lessen the deficit.”
“Jack - “ the Doctor sighs. “You and me. We always have a deficit. It’s what we are. That’s not what makes it penance.”
He turns his head. Opens his eyes. “That’s not what you said last time.”
“Last time, I was too angry to tell you the truth. I’m not sure I even knew it was true. And I was trying to forget. To walk away and start over.”
“And?”
“And I remembered what it was like to hope.”
“Lucky.” The word’s so bitter he can taste it.
“Jack. Do you know what the last thing Achera said to me was?”
“What?”
“He shouldn’t be alone.”
“That’s rich.” Coming from a man with constant Companions.
“So I want to ask you, Captain -”
“No, Doctor. No, I don’t want to come. I need to do this. I need to find my own balance.” To make up for Earth, and Steven, and Ianto and so many, many others.
“That’s not the question, Jack.” The Doctor’s eyes are a different color now. Different shape. But they’re still very much the same, and Jack feels like he’s drowning in them. “The question is, can I come with you?”
Jack blinks. “With me?”
“With you.”
“Where?”
“Wherever you’re going. Although the TARDIS is rather more comfortable than your wristcomp’s teleport.”
Jack laughs, short and sharp. “That’s not hard.” He takes a breath. “You want to come with me?”
The Doctor just nods.
Jack looks at his hands. Looks at the Doctor. Exhales. “Yes.”
The Doctor’s hand covers his. “Good.”
Author:
wojelahRating: G
Prompt: Justice, in a shanty town, with an axe, in a space elevator.
Spoilers/warnings: Assumes knowledge up to the end of Eleven's run, including the anniversary special.
A/N: Title stolen from Brother Cadfael's Penance - "In the end there is nothing to be done but to state clearly what has been done, without shame or regret, and say: Here I am, and this is what I am. Now deal with me as you see fit. That is your right. Mine is to stand by the act, and pay the price. You do what you must do, and pay for it. So in the end all things are simple.”
Summary:The bartender turns around, and the rest of the bar's patrons edge away. The Captain's holding a stout length of wood, banded with iron, the one everyone around here is well aware he keeps under the bar for emergencies. They know what comes next. Actually, it turns out that they don't, because what comes next is that the Captain's eyes widen, a pained look crosses his face, and he drops the shillelagh in favor of rubbing his temples. "Oh no," the Captain says. "No, no, no."
---
The axe bites into the bar's surface, splitting the carefully polished mahogany a solid six inches on either side. The twanging shudder of blade and handle reverberates in the suddenly silent room, broken only by the thunk-squeak of the saloon doors. No one moves. No one breathes.
No one except the bartender, who finishes pulling the beer he'd had in hand, takes a sip with an air of satisfaction, and wipes the lingering foam from his lip with the back of his hand. "You know," he says mildly, still not turning around, "I had that imported from Earth Mark Two. From a New New Taosian place that had been around for centuries. I've spent the last year teaching my compatriots here about taking their fights outside. So I really hope you have a good reason for that."
The axe-wielding newcomer says nothing, but he does raise a finger to tip up the brim of his ten-gallon hat.
The bartender turns around, and the rest of the bar's patrons edge away. The Captain's holding a stout length of wood, banded with iron, the one everyone around here is well aware he keeps under the bar for emergencies. They know what comes next.
Actually, it turns out that they don't, because what comes next is that the Captain's eyes widen, a pained look crosses his face, and he drops the shillelagh in favor of rubbing his temples. "Oh no," the Captain says. "No, no, no."
"Hello, Jack," says the Doctor. "I've always wanted to try that."
---
“Come closing time, you can damn well fix that with the sonic,” Jack says. He’s dragged the Doctor back into his office for a discussion. He can’t close the saloon. It’d be out of place, and the Mayor’s due to stop in this evening.
“It adds character,” the Doctor says. “Rough and tumble town like this, real Old West feel, all you need’s a gun at your hip, Captain, and you’d blend right in.” His face might not be familiar, but Jack’s long past needing facial recognition to know the Doctor when he meets him. Besides, his drawl is appalling. His ability to blend hasn’t improved, no matter the regeneration. This one’s older. Grey-haired and a little hollow-eyed and a little wilder around the edges than the tweed and bow tie Jack had met last.
“Doctor,” Jack tries again. “Not that it’s not a thrill that you’ve deigned to stop by. Really.” He sounds a little more bitter than he’d meant to. But then, they hadn’t exactly parted well. “But I’ve been running a long con on the Mayor of this place, and I’m eight hours away from busting it so wide open that they’ll have to let the Miner’s Union courts in, so now would not be a good time for them to find out I’m not really the guy they think I am.”
“And who,” the Doctor says quietly, “would that be, exactly?”
“Captain Jack Harkness,” he says evenly, refusing to rise to the bait. “The name’s not known here, and a little military rank never hurts to build credibility. Lothario, publican, and man about town. And a man not averse to letting his bar serve as the place for backroom dealing, so long as he gets a little cut.”
“Ah.” The Doctor stands and looks out the hazy glass window. Jack knows what he sees. He’s been looking at it for eighteen months, local time. The sky is a smeary grey. Soot clings to buildings and faces, mingles with the gravel and dust of the road. Miners trudge by, faces drawn and tight, against a backdrop of grimy transports. The only bright spots are gleams of chrome and paint as the mine owners and merchants pass by in their skimmers. Jack’s place - actually called The Place - is right on the edge of town center, looking away into the shanty town that leads up to the mine itself. It’s close enough in that the wheelers and dealers don’t look out of place, and far enough out that everyone else knows not to be looking.
“So,” the Doctor says, still watching what passes for the world of Talkeetna X-07 as it goes by. Jack braces himself for criticism. For a quip. For a barb or a slight or a warning. What he gets is a surprise. “What do you need me to do?”
---
The answer, actually, is not much. Still. The Doctor’s offered, and Jack’s old enough now to recognize an olive branch when he sees one, no matter how tersely it’s offered.
Talkeetna’s a rough town, but it’s also this galaxy’s primary source of graphine, and the Miner’s Union has been trying to get itself established for well over a decade now. Noncoincidentally, that’s just how long Mayor Rainer’s been protecting his turf, walking a fine enough line and ensuring a constant supply at a price just low enough that the rest of the worlds aren’t willing to interfere. He’s gotten cocky, finally, and Jack’s got the scandal tipped to blow. Rainer’s coalition of graphite mine owners and graphine manufacturers is getting restive, and Jack’s murder is all it’s going to take to bring the foundations crumbling down. All he has to do is make sure that his sympathetic journalist, an off-worlder ostensibly in town for a fluff piece on Rainer’s latest arm candy, gets the scoop she needs.
“Keep an eye on her,” Jack asks. “Make sure she catches the early morning elevator to the docking station, make sure she gets on her shuttle.” He hadn’t been entirely worried. Achera is plenty capable, and if it all goes to plan, no one should even know she’s there. It’s just that it never really goes entirely to plan. It’s a bit of a relief, really, knowing someone can take care of that end. He tosses his wristcomp to the Doctor. “I’ve used this before with her, to prove a go-between’s trustworthy.”
The Doctor pockets it. “I’ll be there.”
There’s a lot not being said right now. “Doctor --” he starts, but then there’s a beep from the security cam. Facial recognition’s picked up Rainer. Time to get the party started. “I have to go.” Literally. He won’t be coming back here. He’ll be a dead man, after all. Getting off-world won’t be too complicated, at least. “I’ll be on the Sigma-Nought shuttle to Tristram Nine, this time tomorrow, if you want to find me.” He doesn’t say where on the shuttle. No need to start that argument up again.
“I’ll find you,” the Doctor says, and then Jack’s out the door, all smiles and bonhomie.
---
Jack wakes up in darkness, gasping for air, for the third time that day. He’s died twice, fumbling for the hidden release. Not ideal, but then, he couldn’t be sure just how he’d land when Rainer shot him and his body tumbled into the shipping container. Given enough time, he’d find it - it was just a question of how long. He’d been willing to go through with it. Rainer was scum, and there wasn’t a better plan.
So he’s resigned to waking a third time - and a fourth and a fifth, if he has to. This time, though, something’s different. This time, the container lid’s cracked, and relatively fresh air is streaming in. He sits up slowly, not sure what’s waiting for him, and then he sees his wristcomp, draped over the container’s lip. He puts it on and hauls himself up and out.
Turns out his legs are still a little shaky, so Jack doesn’t mind so much that the Doctor’s camped out on the floor, leaning against the crate, apparently content and disinclined to move. Jack lets his legs fold up and manages to slump into a sitting position with some kind of dignity. Their shoulders aren’t quite touching. Jack’s not exactly sure where they stand right now, and they’d left things far too angrily for him to want to push his luck. “You’re here,” is all he says instead.
“Achera’s fine,” the Doctor answers, and tosses a chronofilm onto his lap. She’s got front page billing, and Jack’s body’s there in fully-rendered color.
Jack smiles, and knows it’s not a pleasant expression. He doesn’t care. “Well done, that woman,” he says.
“She is impressive.” The Doctor’s grin is quick.
“To say the least,” Jack says, and lets his eyes close, tipping his head back and forcing his body to relax out of its post-revival adrenalin rush.
“She asked me what you were running from,” the Doctor says. “And what crimes you’d left behind you.”
Jack doesn’t move, but he’s not relaxing any longer.
“I told her that wasn’t my answer to give.”
“It isn’t,” Jack agrees.
“I also told her penance is a long road when your only choices were impossible options.”
“It’s not penance,” Jack says flatly. “Penance wouldn’t begin to cover it.” And here they are, back at the argument they’d had the last time they’d met. And the time before, and twice before that. He hadn’t had a very easy time with the last Doctor he’d met. “It’s just trying to lessen the deficit.”
“Jack - “ the Doctor sighs. “You and me. We always have a deficit. It’s what we are. That’s not what makes it penance.”
He turns his head. Opens his eyes. “That’s not what you said last time.”
“Last time, I was too angry to tell you the truth. I’m not sure I even knew it was true. And I was trying to forget. To walk away and start over.”
“And?”
“And I remembered what it was like to hope.”
“Lucky.” The word’s so bitter he can taste it.
“Jack. Do you know what the last thing Achera said to me was?”
“What?”
“He shouldn’t be alone.”
“That’s rich.” Coming from a man with constant Companions.
“So I want to ask you, Captain -”
“No, Doctor. No, I don’t want to come. I need to do this. I need to find my own balance.” To make up for Earth, and Steven, and Ianto and so many, many others.
“That’s not the question, Jack.” The Doctor’s eyes are a different color now. Different shape. But they’re still very much the same, and Jack feels like he’s drowning in them. “The question is, can I come with you?”
Jack blinks. “With me?”
“With you.”
“Where?”
“Wherever you’re going. Although the TARDIS is rather more comfortable than your wristcomp’s teleport.”
Jack laughs, short and sharp. “That’s not hard.” He takes a breath. “You want to come with me?”
The Doctor just nods.
Jack looks at his hands. Looks at the Doctor. Exhales. “Yes.”
The Doctor’s hand covers his. “Good.”