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wintercompanion2014-07-30 09:06 pm
trobadora) wrote in wintercompanion2014-07-30 09:06 pm
trobadora: No More (Jack/Eleven) [PG] - SUMMER HOLIDAYS PROMPT #6
Title: No More
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
trobadora
Prompt: #6 - Director, in the Centrum, with a crowbar, in a short-trip mining vessel
Rating: PG
Pairing: Jack Harkness/Eleventh Doctor
Spoilers/warnings: This takes place between The Day of the Doctor and The Time of the Doctor.
Summary: The Doctor had expected a chat, and some flirting, and maybe an adventure, but he hadn't expected this.
A/N: Many thanks towojelah for helping me fix the ending!
**
"With a crowbar?" the Doctor repeated, biting his lip to suppress the smile that wanted to form around the corners of his mouth rather against his will.
Jack shrugged and lifted his hands in a wide what-can-you-do gesture, grinning across the small table between them. "It was at hand."
The Doctor leaned forward, resting his chin on his hands. His hair fell into his eye; he let it. "And did you hit him over the head with him afterwards, too?"
They'd run into each other on Newest York (which wasn't, any more, but had been when it was founded), as they did every now and then, and the Doctor had expected a chat, and some flirting, and maybe an adventure, but he hadn't expected this. A challenging lift of the eyebrows made good excuse for studying Jack's face without giving himself away.
Jack seemed in good health and in good spirits, though the somewhat bluish sunlight gave his skin a slightly alien cast. And despite the smile and cheer, the body language and even the pheromones tuned toward light-hearted companionship and - because this was Jack - flirting, there was a tightness around his eyes that belied the humour.
"Now why would I do that?" Jack mustered a laugh - and it was mustered, the Doctor thought, increasingly certain of his diagnosis. Jack continued, "He fell asleep after, very considerate of him. Didn't even notice I went."
"And all that right in the Centrum? I have to say I'm impressed," the Doctor deadpanned in his least impressed tone. It was very unimpressed, if he did say so himself.
Jack noticed it, too. The tightness around his eyes increased. "I live to impress you," he said anyway, batting his eyelashes, lips pursing into a wry, self-deprecating smirk.
It was hard not to respond, even to this tired, unfelt flirting-by-rote - it was Jack, after all. But the Doctor kept up his scowl, and kept quiet.
After a moment, the smirk turned dark, and Jack leaned back, challenge in the set of his shoulders. "You know, you used to laugh when I told funny stories."
The Doctor nearly breathed a sigh of relief, and simultaneously suppressed the urge to divert the conversation now that it had arrived where he'd been trying to steer it for nearly an hour now. It was a good sign that he hadn't had to push harder than this, he told himself, truly it was.
"Hm," he said, noncommittally, and didn't flinch from delivering the necessary blow. "And you used to tell stories because they were funny, not because you couldn't find anything else to say."
Jack's body and expression went very still for a moment; then he settled back into his usual friendly mien - not out of any true desire to deflect, if the Doctor was any judge, but because he didn't know what else to do.
They were silent at each other, pointedly, for quite a while. Neither of them was very good at it; they both tended to fill empty spaces with words. Words and gestures - they both spoke with their full bodies. Which, the Doctor thought wryly, was why, just now, he was only barely stopping short of having to sit on his own hands to prevent himself from fidgeting. He didn't fidget, though. Nor did he tug on his bow-tie, or run his hand through the hair falling into his forehead and in front of his eye. All in all he felt quite accomplished about that.
In the end it was Jack who broke the uncomfortable, silent stalemate.
"How long has it been, Doctor?"
"For you, or for me?" The Doctor shrugged. "A few hundred years, give or take. And ..." He ran his eyes over Jack again, whose age showed nowhere, not even in his eyes. "Rather more than that, I would guess."
Jack closed his eyes briefly. "Gallifrey," he muttered, almost under his breath.
The Doctor's breath caught. He blinked, all thought swept from his brain for a stunned instant. It still took him like that, just the name and then the sudden, growing realisation that Gallifrey wasn't gone, that he hadn't ...
And then, in the space of another blink or two, he caught up to what Jack must be thinking. Almost certainly. Had to be. With the life Jack had led ... Well, feeling rather than thinking, but still. Something tightened in the Doctor's stomach, and he studiously ignored it.
"You heard, then," he said, buying time. "Are we meeting out of time again?"
"No. Well, yes, but I had it from your friend Clara." Hesitation, barely perceptible; then a wretched look half defeat, half determination crossed Jack's eyes. "I've been avoiding you since, truth be told." He looked away for a second, then back towards the Doctor, offering a wry, guilty smile. "Sorry. I shouldn't ..."
"I'm sorry," the Doctor interrupted, a hasty forestalling of whatever Jack might have said. "I mean, I'm not, of course I'm not, how could I be?" he continued, too fast but unable to stop. He hadn't bargained for this when he'd set out to cut through Jack's odd, distant behaviour. "But I am, all the same, Jack, you have to believe that. Oh dear, I'm making a mess of this, aren't I?"
Jack was watching him like he might watch a train wreck, at least if there weren't any passengers on the train - horrified yet entertained. The amusement in his eyes seemed almost genuine for a second; then he looked away again. "I'm not that petty," he said, his voice hoarse, and rubbed a hand against the nape of his neck. "Of course I'm glad for you. Of course I am." Straining towards a gladness that clearly remained out of reach.
The Doctor nodded to himself, bleakly. He'd been right. And he couldn't run from this; couldn't leave it at that - he'd never be able to look Jack in the eye again. Or vice versa, which was worse. A deep breath, now, and a tensing of muscles to brace himself - nothing to do but lance the boil.
"But none of your impossible choices have been unmade," he said, gently, gently. "None of the awful things you had to do to prevent worse have been lifted from you."
Jack didn't flinch from him, from the truth. He turned his face toward the Doctor, grim and empty.
It had haunted the Doctor, afterwards - was still haunting him, this second chance he'd been given. He hadn't destroyed Gallifrey.
Yes, he would have done it - in one sense he had; after all, he'd already made the choice to burn Gallifrey, to end the War that way, when he'd been given an out. Had made that choice three times over, in three of his incarnations, and yet.
And yet, in the end he hadn't, and Gallifrey lived. Somewhere out there.
He'd give anything to be able to bestow that kind of miracle, of salvation, on the man before him, too.
He couldn't. No one could.
"I'm jealous," Jack forced out, finally, his voice barely audible. "I don't know what that makes me, other than a terrible friend. But I can't help it - I'm so, so jealous of you for that."
The Doctor swallowed hard. For a brief moment he dithered; then he stood abruptly, took two steps around the small table between them, and knelt next to Jack's chair, pulling him into his arms. All in one quick, smooth move, before Jack could react.
And he held on, even as Jack went stiff in his arms and tried to strain away from him, held on as Jack resigned himself to the embrace and stilled, tense but unresisting, and finally, minutes later, as Jack went limp, burying his face in the Doctor's shoulder, shuddering a breath against his collar.
"I'm sorry," the Doctor said again, quietly.
"Yeah," Jack managed eventually. "Me too. And I'm glad for you. You do know that, right?"
"Stop it." The Doctor unwrapped an arm from around Jack to thwap him against the back of his head.
Jack used the movement to pull away, far enough to meet the Doctor's eyes. He huffed a small, brittle laugh. "All right, let's try this again," he said. "I had to get away from the Centrum real quick, right? Before the good Director woke up and realised someone had taken those files ..."
"Hm," the Doctor said, his hands falling down to Jack's waist, but not letting go. Not moving away. It was all he could do.
Jack leaned towards him a little. He still looked tired, and a little strained, but the false cheer was gone, and there was the shadow of old laughter in his eyes, remembered if not fully felt. "So I bribed a guy and took his spot on this short-trip mining vessel ..."
"Hm," the Doctor said, and then again, "hmmm," drawing it out this time, his heart breaking. No, he couldn't do this; couldn't do it at all, couldn't be here and listen to Jack trying to paper over something raw with a story and a smile.
He forced a wide grin to unfurl on his face, and leaned closer, and tried to swallow the rest of Jack's story in a kiss.
Jack flinched away from him as he hadn't before. "No," he said, his voice catching a little, "no. Don't do that. That won't ..." His eyes clenched tightly, shutting himself away from the Doctor's gaze.
For a moment the Doctor knelt there transfixed, next to Jack's chair, suspended between moments. He couldn't do this, didn't know how. Didn't want to learn how.
"I'm sorry," he said again, "so sorry," and pulled Jack close again, arms wrapping tight, cheek against Jack's, grateful when Jack allowed it a second time.
~end~
Author:
trobadoraPrompt: #6 - Director, in the Centrum, with a crowbar, in a short-trip mining vessel
Rating: PG
Pairing: Jack Harkness/Eleventh Doctor
Spoilers/warnings: This takes place between The Day of the Doctor and The Time of the Doctor.
Summary: The Doctor had expected a chat, and some flirting, and maybe an adventure, but he hadn't expected this.
A/N: Many thanks to
wojelah for helping me fix the ending!**
"With a crowbar?" the Doctor repeated, biting his lip to suppress the smile that wanted to form around the corners of his mouth rather against his will.
Jack shrugged and lifted his hands in a wide what-can-you-do gesture, grinning across the small table between them. "It was at hand."
The Doctor leaned forward, resting his chin on his hands. His hair fell into his eye; he let it. "And did you hit him over the head with him afterwards, too?"
They'd run into each other on Newest York (which wasn't, any more, but had been when it was founded), as they did every now and then, and the Doctor had expected a chat, and some flirting, and maybe an adventure, but he hadn't expected this. A challenging lift of the eyebrows made good excuse for studying Jack's face without giving himself away.
Jack seemed in good health and in good spirits, though the somewhat bluish sunlight gave his skin a slightly alien cast. And despite the smile and cheer, the body language and even the pheromones tuned toward light-hearted companionship and - because this was Jack - flirting, there was a tightness around his eyes that belied the humour.
"Now why would I do that?" Jack mustered a laugh - and it was mustered, the Doctor thought, increasingly certain of his diagnosis. Jack continued, "He fell asleep after, very considerate of him. Didn't even notice I went."
"And all that right in the Centrum? I have to say I'm impressed," the Doctor deadpanned in his least impressed tone. It was very unimpressed, if he did say so himself.
Jack noticed it, too. The tightness around his eyes increased. "I live to impress you," he said anyway, batting his eyelashes, lips pursing into a wry, self-deprecating smirk.
It was hard not to respond, even to this tired, unfelt flirting-by-rote - it was Jack, after all. But the Doctor kept up his scowl, and kept quiet.
After a moment, the smirk turned dark, and Jack leaned back, challenge in the set of his shoulders. "You know, you used to laugh when I told funny stories."
The Doctor nearly breathed a sigh of relief, and simultaneously suppressed the urge to divert the conversation now that it had arrived where he'd been trying to steer it for nearly an hour now. It was a good sign that he hadn't had to push harder than this, he told himself, truly it was.
"Hm," he said, noncommittally, and didn't flinch from delivering the necessary blow. "And you used to tell stories because they were funny, not because you couldn't find anything else to say."
Jack's body and expression went very still for a moment; then he settled back into his usual friendly mien - not out of any true desire to deflect, if the Doctor was any judge, but because he didn't know what else to do.
They were silent at each other, pointedly, for quite a while. Neither of them was very good at it; they both tended to fill empty spaces with words. Words and gestures - they both spoke with their full bodies. Which, the Doctor thought wryly, was why, just now, he was only barely stopping short of having to sit on his own hands to prevent himself from fidgeting. He didn't fidget, though. Nor did he tug on his bow-tie, or run his hand through the hair falling into his forehead and in front of his eye. All in all he felt quite accomplished about that.
In the end it was Jack who broke the uncomfortable, silent stalemate.
"How long has it been, Doctor?"
"For you, or for me?" The Doctor shrugged. "A few hundred years, give or take. And ..." He ran his eyes over Jack again, whose age showed nowhere, not even in his eyes. "Rather more than that, I would guess."
Jack closed his eyes briefly. "Gallifrey," he muttered, almost under his breath.
The Doctor's breath caught. He blinked, all thought swept from his brain for a stunned instant. It still took him like that, just the name and then the sudden, growing realisation that Gallifrey wasn't gone, that he hadn't ...
And then, in the space of another blink or two, he caught up to what Jack must be thinking. Almost certainly. Had to be. With the life Jack had led ... Well, feeling rather than thinking, but still. Something tightened in the Doctor's stomach, and he studiously ignored it.
"You heard, then," he said, buying time. "Are we meeting out of time again?"
"No. Well, yes, but I had it from your friend Clara." Hesitation, barely perceptible; then a wretched look half defeat, half determination crossed Jack's eyes. "I've been avoiding you since, truth be told." He looked away for a second, then back towards the Doctor, offering a wry, guilty smile. "Sorry. I shouldn't ..."
"I'm sorry," the Doctor interrupted, a hasty forestalling of whatever Jack might have said. "I mean, I'm not, of course I'm not, how could I be?" he continued, too fast but unable to stop. He hadn't bargained for this when he'd set out to cut through Jack's odd, distant behaviour. "But I am, all the same, Jack, you have to believe that. Oh dear, I'm making a mess of this, aren't I?"
Jack was watching him like he might watch a train wreck, at least if there weren't any passengers on the train - horrified yet entertained. The amusement in his eyes seemed almost genuine for a second; then he looked away again. "I'm not that petty," he said, his voice hoarse, and rubbed a hand against the nape of his neck. "Of course I'm glad for you. Of course I am." Straining towards a gladness that clearly remained out of reach.
The Doctor nodded to himself, bleakly. He'd been right. And he couldn't run from this; couldn't leave it at that - he'd never be able to look Jack in the eye again. Or vice versa, which was worse. A deep breath, now, and a tensing of muscles to brace himself - nothing to do but lance the boil.
"But none of your impossible choices have been unmade," he said, gently, gently. "None of the awful things you had to do to prevent worse have been lifted from you."
Jack didn't flinch from him, from the truth. He turned his face toward the Doctor, grim and empty.
It had haunted the Doctor, afterwards - was still haunting him, this second chance he'd been given. He hadn't destroyed Gallifrey.
Yes, he would have done it - in one sense he had; after all, he'd already made the choice to burn Gallifrey, to end the War that way, when he'd been given an out. Had made that choice three times over, in three of his incarnations, and yet.
And yet, in the end he hadn't, and Gallifrey lived. Somewhere out there.
He'd give anything to be able to bestow that kind of miracle, of salvation, on the man before him, too.
He couldn't. No one could.
"I'm jealous," Jack forced out, finally, his voice barely audible. "I don't know what that makes me, other than a terrible friend. But I can't help it - I'm so, so jealous of you for that."
The Doctor swallowed hard. For a brief moment he dithered; then he stood abruptly, took two steps around the small table between them, and knelt next to Jack's chair, pulling him into his arms. All in one quick, smooth move, before Jack could react.
And he held on, even as Jack went stiff in his arms and tried to strain away from him, held on as Jack resigned himself to the embrace and stilled, tense but unresisting, and finally, minutes later, as Jack went limp, burying his face in the Doctor's shoulder, shuddering a breath against his collar.
"I'm sorry," the Doctor said again, quietly.
"Yeah," Jack managed eventually. "Me too. And I'm glad for you. You do know that, right?"
"Stop it." The Doctor unwrapped an arm from around Jack to thwap him against the back of his head.
Jack used the movement to pull away, far enough to meet the Doctor's eyes. He huffed a small, brittle laugh. "All right, let's try this again," he said. "I had to get away from the Centrum real quick, right? Before the good Director woke up and realised someone had taken those files ..."
"Hm," the Doctor said, his hands falling down to Jack's waist, but not letting go. Not moving away. It was all he could do.
Jack leaned towards him a little. He still looked tired, and a little strained, but the false cheer was gone, and there was the shadow of old laughter in his eyes, remembered if not fully felt. "So I bribed a guy and took his spot on this short-trip mining vessel ..."
"Hm," the Doctor said, and then again, "hmmm," drawing it out this time, his heart breaking. No, he couldn't do this; couldn't do it at all, couldn't be here and listen to Jack trying to paper over something raw with a story and a smile.
He forced a wide grin to unfurl on his face, and leaned closer, and tried to swallow the rest of Jack's story in a kiss.
Jack flinched away from him as he hadn't before. "No," he said, his voice catching a little, "no. Don't do that. That won't ..." His eyes clenched tightly, shutting himself away from the Doctor's gaze.
For a moment the Doctor knelt there transfixed, next to Jack's chair, suspended between moments. He couldn't do this, didn't know how. Didn't want to learn how.
"I'm sorry," he said again, "so sorry," and pulled Jack close again, arms wrapping tight, cheek against Jack's, grateful when Jack allowed it a second time.
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Ohhh, you must make more and fix this and...ohhhh!!
*HUGS*
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I'm glad this worked for you!
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Thank you for reading! :)
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I'm intrigued, though, about Gallifrey being alive. Did you reconcile yourself with it? *g*
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Gallifrey being alive I can live with. How it came about, I'm never going to reconcile myself to. But I'm too much of a canon-oriented fan; I can't just ignore it. *sighs*
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Every time I think I've dealt with his losses in every possible way (I have played out *so* many post CoE RP threads now), someone comes up with something else to make that pain raw again.
Lovely idea, and beautiful execution. I could feel every moment of their respective pain.
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(Every time I think I've worked through everything and got Jack and the Doctor to a point where they can actually be semi-functional together, something else throws a spanner in the works. Poor, poor Jack.)