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wintercompanion2008-04-30 11:20 pm
hence-the-name.livejournal.com) wrote in wintercompanion2008-04-30 11:20 pm
Entry tags:
hence_the_name: Where Love and Justice Meet (Jack/Ten, Jack/Ianto) [R]
Title: Where Love and Justice Meet
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
hence_the_name
Challenge: Power
Pairing: Jack/Ianto, Jack/Ten, implied Jack/John
Rating: R
Spoilers: S3 of Doctor Who, S2 of Torchwood (major spoilers for 2x13, “Exit Wounds,” and 2x5, “Adam.”)
Summary: In the months following the events of “Exit Wounds,” Jack is becoming a bit unhinged. The Torchwood team call in the Doctor to help.
A/N: Many, many thanks tonightrider101, for being my biggest fan.
“It isn’t easy, it doesn’t count if it’s easy, it’s the hardest thing. Forgiveness. Which is maybe where love and justice finally meet.”
--Belize
Tony Kushner, Angels in America
The Doctor had given him a Christmas present. Sleep without dreams.
Jack plunged into wakefulness, expecting a mouthful of dirt and sucking in air instead. He lay wide-eyed in the dark, gasping, trying to shake off the remnants of the nightmare. His hands fisted in the sheets. He was staring up at a blank ceiling in the dim gold glow that filtered in from the street. He gulped down another mouthful of cool dry air. Slowly, he registered these things: air, sheets, ceiling, street.
Even the Doctor’s gift couldn’t withstand two thousand years of dying.
Another deep breath. His racing heart began to subside. Air. Sheets. Ceiling. Street. He relaxed his hands and wiped sweaty palms against the mattress. Ianto’s flat. Ianto’s bed. He lay asleep beside Jack, sprawled on his belly with his hands tucked under the pillow above his head, his body slack and boneless, dark hair disheveled. Jack watched him breathe, deep and steady, and wished he could sleep like that.
He wished he could sleep at all.
He sat up and scrubbed his hands over his face and through his hair. He was still trembling. Months, now. It had been months, and the dreams were only getting worse. Jack had always had reasons to avoid sleeping; but always before, he had been able to find some relief: in alcohol or sex, or more often, both. Then again, he had never spent two thousand years in a grave before.
They were all grieving. For weeks, Gwen was prone to fits of weeping. Jack still caught her, sometimes, wiping her eyes on the back of her hand when Ianto handed around the coffees and there were no mugs for Tosh or Owen, or when the four of them gathered in the conference room and Martha sat down in Owen’s seat, when Tosh’s chair remained empty.
Ianto remained stoic at the Hub; though more than once Jack noticed him staring sadly at Tosh’s empty desk, or standing alone in the autopsy room when Martha wasn’t there. At night, Jack held him while he sobbed himself to exhaustion. Not every night, not even at first, but more and more infrequently now.
It was good that he had brought Martha on, and not just because they needed a medic. Without her, Jack suspected, they would be falling apart: drifting, aimless, unable to find their bearings in a sea of grief. Her brightness, her briskness, anchored the three of them, drew them onward.
They were all grieving, but Ianto and Gwen, at least, were healing. Jack’s wounds felt more raw with each passing night.
A hand touched his back. “Jack?”
Ianto had turned his head and was blinking sleepily up at him. Jack slid back down and stroked his cheek. “I’m fine.” Ianto’s eyes drifted shut again. Jack pressed a kiss to his forehead. “Go back to sleep.”
Ianto sighed and mumbled something Jack couldn’t understand. “Shh.” Jack kissed him again, trailed his lips over to his temple and whispered in his ear, “Go to sleep.” He stayed there, hovering, until Ianto’s breathing was slow and even again. Then he climbed carefully over him and out of bed.
He went in the kitchen and started to fill the kettle, but set it back on the counter, empty. He didn’t want tea. He opened the refrigerator. Leftover Chinese food, two apples in the crisper, some cheese. A carton of milk. The cool air felt good against his skin.
He wasn’t hungry.
He should go to the Hub. Check on the Rift monitors. But it was Gwen’s turn to stay; she would call if anything were amiss. He should have gotten Rhys to stay with her. Gwen would love that, but Jack didn’t like her there alone. He didn’t like any of them alone, since Gray had come back.
That was how he thought of it. When Gray came back. So many things had happened that day—so many terrible things—but in Jack’s mind, it was the day that Gray had come back. The day his little brother had come back from the dead. That was all. That was everything.
He should have checked on him before he left: made sure the cryo chamber was stable, the lock secure. He should have killed him. But he couldn’t do that to his little brother. Not again.
There was a flat screen TV mounted on the wall in the living room. Jack hunted around for the remote, but when he found it he only stood there, thinking that he couldn’t take another infomercial touting the latest in useless gadgets, the newest weight-loss miracle. Instead he walked to the window and looked out over the quiet street.
His own reflection stared back at him, stark in white shorts and a t-shirt, the TV remote held loosely in one hand. Jack looked like both his parents. He had his mother’s eyes, her dimples, the same shape to his face. But his wide, charming grin and the cleft in his chin came from his father; so did his height, and the broadness to his shoulders. But Gray...
That first holographic image had been like a punch to the gut. He had been a child the last time Jack had seen him, but there was no mistaking his brother. Gray looked just like their father. His face, his hair, the way he held himself—and his voice. He sounded like him. Everything but the eyes: hard and cruelly mocking. None of the warmth and laughter that had sparkled in their father’s eyes as they walked along the beach in the evenings and he shouted encouragement while Jack and Gray raced through the surf. Sometimes Jack let his little brother win, but more often he forgot; too caught up in the feeling of his body working as he ran, the wind on his face and the splash of water against his bare legs.
Jack turned away from his reflection and sank onto the couch, swallowing hard. He had been too caught up in running, too caught up in his own fear, and hadn’t paid attention when he should have. More than once. He balled his hand into a fist and drove it into the cushions. He wanted to throw something and hear it shatter against the wall. He wanted shards, sharp and unforgiving. He wanted his hands bloodied.
But not here. He couldn’t do that here. He couldn’t ruin the sanctity of this place, the quiet order that Ianto maintained, which should be so calming. Instead he trembled, tangled up in rage and guilt and frustration. A sob rose up in his throat. He picked up one of the pillows from the couch and buried his face in it, muffling the sound, and rocked back and forth, hot tears soaking into the fabric.
He didn’t hear Ianto’s step on the carpet. “Jack?”
He sat up quickly and turned away, scrubbing at his eyes with the back of his hand. He drew in a shuddering breath. “I’m fine,” he said.
Ianto watched his reflection in the window. He put his hands in the pockets of his dressing gown. “You don’t have to be.”
Jack scrubbed at his eyes again. “I’m fine,” he repeated.
After a moment Ianto crossed the room and sat down next to him. The couch cushions shifted under his weight. He put his arms around him and rested his chin on his shoulder. Jack closed his eyes. He wanted more than anything to relax into that touch, to surrender to it; and he tried, he really did. But when Ianto turned his head and pressed his lips to Jack’s neck, he shuddered and pulled away, wrapping his arms around himself.
Ianto sighed. Jack didn’t need to look to see the hurt in his eyes; he had seen it every time Ianto tried to offer comfort and Jack pulled away. But that was better than his widened eyes and almost silent gasps of surprise and pain when Jack was too rough with him, when he couldn’t make himself stop—which was every time, these days. Since Gray came back.
“Do you want to talk?” Ianto asked.
“No.”
The sofa shifted again. The kitchen light flicked on. Jack listened to him moving around: the open and shut of cupboards, the metal tea tin hitting the counter, water running, the kettle’s high-pitched whistle. Did the British solve everything with tea?
When Ianto came back, he pressed the cup into Jack’s hands. Jack turned his head, finally, to look at him, and took in the concern and sorrow etched in his features. He looked down at the cup in his hands.
“It’ll knock you out for a few hours,” Ianto said.
Jack shook his head and tried to give it back. “I don’t want—“
“I got it from Martha,” Ianto interrupted. A smile touched his lips. “‘Industrial strength,’ she said.” He grew serious again, worried. “Please, Jack. You need to sleep.” He covered Jack’s hands with his and pushed back, guiding the mug toward his lips. Jack only resisted for a moment before he let him. He couldn’t stand the worry in his eyes, the plea in his voice.
When he had finished, he let Ianto draw him down so his head was cradled in his lap. His hand lay warm and heavy on Jack’s forehead, fingers stroking his temple. Martha hadn’t been lying about “industrial strength”; Jack could already feel it starting to pull him under. He blinked up at Ianto through heavy eyelids. “I’m sorry,” he said.
“Hush.” Ianto’s fingers combed through his hair. “Go to sleep, now.”
Jack closed his eyes.
***
When Jack came awake again, he was back in bed, alone, no longer in Ianto’s flat. His first reaction when he opened his eyes was panic: something had happened and Jack, drugged and helpless, had been unable to protect his team. Unable to protect Ianto. An animal sound escaped him, somewhere between a growl and a sob. He threw off the blankets, surging to his feet, and crashed into a wall.
“Jack.”
Not a wall; a person. Familiar hands, pressing him back down. Familiar voice. “Calm down, Jack.” Familiar brown eyes, looking into his. “You’re safe. Everyone’s safe.”
Jack blinked at him, too shocked to keep struggling. The Doctor pushed him back against the pillows and covered him again with the blanket. He smiled. “That’s better.” He tucked one foot under him and sat down on the edge of the bed. “Now. How are you feeling?”
“How am I--?” Jack repeated blankly.
The Doctor raised his eyebrows. “A bit groggy, I’d imagine. Double dose.” He sucked air in through his teeth, his expression sympathetic. “Takes a lot to knock you out, Jack.”
“Knock me—” Jack looked around. They weren’t in his old room, but it was definitely the TARDIS: domed like the console room and bathed in the same golden light. “What’s going on?”
“Well.” The Doctor leaned back on his elbows and looked up at the ceiling. He tapped the side of the bed with his heel. “I thought you might like a trip.”
“So...you had Ianto drug me so you could take me away?”
The Doctor made a thoughtful noise, still gazing at the ceiling. “Yep,” he said after a moment, nodding. He looked at Jack again, his expression guileless. “That about covers it.”
“Something tells me a romantic interlude isn’t what you had in mind.” Jack scowled. “What am I doing here, Doctor?”
“You’re supposed to be resting.” He scratched his ear. “Doesn’t look like there’s much chance of that happening, though,” he added as Jack threw back the covers and brushed past him out of the room. The Doctor sighed and, grumbling to himself, followed.
The cold metal grating of the console room floor dug into Jack’s bare feet. He stopped in front of the controls and stared down at the proliferation of buttons and levers. It had been a long time, but he still remembered how to fly her. He pulled the monitor around to face him and started to key in coordinates. Nothing happened.
He heard a step behind him. The Doctor tossed the sonic screwdriver into the air and caught it. “Deadlocked.” He tucked it back into his inside pocket, leaning against the doorway. “And don’t try to run for it, please. I don’t fancy the idea of having to fish you out of the Vortex.”
Jack turned to face him. “Okay,” he said. “Then take me back and you won’t have to.”
“Are you threatening me?”
“Nice threat. I think I’d be the one suffering.”
The Doctor’s lips quirked. “Oh, but it’d be a terrible inconvenience.” He stepped into the room. Jack took a cautious step back and gripped the edge of the console with both hands.
“Doctor,” he repeated. “What’s going on?”
The Doctor stayed where he was. He stared at him so long that Jack shifted uncomfortably under his scrutiny. “How are you, Jack?” he asked.
Jack avoided his gaze. “I’m fine,” he said.
“You don’t look it.”
Ordinarily he would have asked the Doctor if he wanted to test that theory—though ordinarily he wouldn’t have been standing in the console room in his underwear. Instead he forced himself to meet the Doctor’s gaze squarely and mustered up his most reassuring smile. “I’m fine, Doctor, really.”
“’Course you are.” He scratched his chin, peering down his nose at him. “So ‘fine’ you’re having nightmares with enough sedatives in you to put an elephant to sleep.” He raised his eyebrows, mocking. “Is that what you tell Ianto? ‘I’m fine’? No wonder he called me.”
Jack blinked. “He put you up to this?”
“And Martha, and Gwen. They’re worried about you, Jack.”
Jack turned back to the controls. “I’m fine,” he repeated. Even to his own ears, he sounded sullen, childish.
He heard the Doctor sigh. The ramp vibrated with his approaching footsteps. “Let me help, Jack.”
“I don’t need your help.” He fiddled ineffectually with the controls. Where had he been when Cardiff was burning? Where had he been when Tosh needed him, and Owen? “It’s nothing to do with you. Now take me back.”
“No.”
Jack whirled and closed the distance between them. He grabbed hold of the front of the Doctor’s shirt, shaking him. “Take me back!”
The Doctor met his eyes steadily. He held onto Jack’s wrists, but he didn’t fight. He shook his head. “No, Jack. Not until you listen.”
Jack let go of his shirt and hit him with enough force to send the Doctor staggering. He caught hold of the railing before he fell, blinking in surprise. “Oh, that’s a good solution.” He brought his other hand up to cradle his jaw and raised a disdainful eyebrow. “Are you feeling better?”
Jack hit him again, and then a third time, all the helplessness and rage and grief channeled into this one destructive impulse. He didn’t stop until the Doctor was lying on the floor, protecting his head with his hands and shouting Jack’s name.
“Jack!” His voice finally broke through. Jack stared down at him. He staggered backwards and grabbed hold of the edge of the console.
A moment passed. The Doctor wheezed, loud in the sudden silence. After another moment he uncurled and sat up gingerly. He touched the back of his hand to his bloodied nose. He looked up at Jack without reproach. “Better now?” he asked.
Jack’s knees gave way. He slid down along the console until he was sitting on the floor. He let his head fall back. “No.”
“Do you want to talk?”
He shook his head. Then he laughed, bitterly. “I just want to sleep.”
“Ah.” There was a rustle of movement. “Well that, I think I can help with.” Footsteps, and then Jack was looking up into the Doctor’s bruised face instead of the console room ceiling. He held out his hand.
***
The Doctor pulled back the blankets and gestured for Jack to climb in. Jack did, looking around the room again as he settled back against the pillows. “You put me in the guest room?” he asked.
The Doctor blinked. “No.” He looked around, and then at Jack again. “This is my room.”
Jack opened his mouth to respond—he was stalling, he knew—but the Doctor’s expression said, quite clearly, leave it. He sat on the edge of the bed. “Close your eyes,” he said.
His fingers felt cool on Jack’s temples. But instead of the warm, enveloping blackness he’d been expecting, a crushing darkness descended. Jack choked. He jerked his head away and opened his eyes, gasping.
The Doctor was regarding him with a puzzled frown. He let his hands fall. When he had caught his breath, Jack smiled weakly. “Wasn’t supposed to happen that way?” he asked.
“No,” the Doctor agreed. “Try again?”
Jack nodded. The Doctor placed his fingers at Jack’s temples a second time. This time, he saw the blackness coming, felt it reaching for him, sucking the air out of his lungs. He used his last threads of consciousness to grab the Doctor’s wrists and yank his hands away, breaking the connection.
The Doctor grabbed his own head and cried out. “Jack, you can’t—“ he began, and then cut off when his vision cleared and he saw Jack, watching him fearfully. The Doctor reached for him. Jack shrank away, but he only laid a hand on his arm. “Do you trust me?” the Doctor asked.
Jack hesitated. “Yes.”
“Are you sure?”
Jack met his gaze and swallowed hard. “Yes,” he said again, more confidently this time.
“All right.” The Doctor took his face between his hands, fingers deftly finding the pressure points at his temples, behind his ears. “Open your mind.” He held Jack’s gaze for a long moment. “I’ll be right here,” he said.
Jack tried to latch onto the steady calm in the Doctor’s face, his voice, but he couldn’t stop himself from trembling. Tears pricked his eyes. “I’m scared,” he said.
“I know. Just—try to relax.” The Doctor closed his eyes.
***
The darkness was complete, suffocating. But this time Jack managed to keep his head long enough to sense another presence there with him, like a bright light just beyond the horizon. That’s right, focus on me. The Doctor’s voice sounded in his mind. Jack strained to reach him, but a weight on his chest pinned him down. He couldn’t move. He opened his mouth to call out and swallowed dirt. The bright light faded, was gone.
Jack. Distantly, calling his name. He couldn’t reach it. He choked, trying to scream.
A rectangle of blue sky. John’s face looks down at him, silently saying, I’m sorry. Gray’s hard, angry stare. His eyes that know only hate.
What did you expect? Absolution?
The rush of adrenaline as he falls backwards into the grave. The impact against the hard-packed earth. He flinches when the first shovelful of dirt hits him in the face. The damp grittiness of soil scrapes his throat, packs into his windpipe, his lungs.
He is holding Gray in his arms, standing on that plain and not knowing, not caring where he is. Gray’s alive. Real, solid, pressed against him in an embrace Jack thought he’d never be able to give.
The blade of a knife slides between his ribs. A hot gush of blood runs down his side.
He’s lying on a hillside. Familiar voices are talking above him, hurling questions at him, but Jack can only lie there and cough up dirt. He turns his face up to the sunshine and draws in one shuddering breath after another until two pairs of hands close around his arms and haul him to his feet.
Dark. Dark. Dark. And cold. The weight of the soil crushes him, cracking his ribs. He revives for shorter and shorter periods of time, until he only comes into consciousness long enough to feel his lungs spasming, the muscles of his throat convulsing around the earth already packed into him and death claims him once more.
A bright day on the Boeshane Peninsula. Heat shimmers over the beach; the crash of waves on the shore. The sound of rockets hurtling through the atmosphere. Screaming, panic all around.
A small hand placed in his. Take your brother. Take Gray, keep him safe.
***
“I can’t,” Jack gasped.
He was back in his body, back on the TARDIS, scrambling away from the Doctor until his back hit the wall. He curled into a ball. “I can’t,” he repeated. “Doctor, I can’t.”
“Sure you can.” The Doctor’s voice was low, soothing. He touched Jack’s head, stroking his hair. “What is it? Show me.”
“No.” Jack was weeping openly now, great gasping sobs of shame and terror. “I can’t.” The Doctor gently pried Jack’s arms away from his face and tilted his head up to face him. Jack looked at him, tears streaming down his cheeks. “I can’t breathe,” he whispered.
“Then let me do it for you.” The Doctor took Jack’s face between his hands once again.
***
A woman knelt weeping over a body. A boy stood beside her. The sun beat down on them and bounced off the sand, washing out their faces. The debris of the attack was scattered all around them: spent laser cartridges, torn bits of fabric, a lost shoe. A child’s doll lay in the shadow of a building. The woman doubled up, hiding her face in her hands.
We were running so fast. I thought he was right behind me.
The boy reached out to touch her, and she shook him off. He took a step back, stung. His lower lip trembled. But he clenched his teeth together, swallowed hard and drew himself up.
“I’ll find him,” he said. His voice was already raw from shouting. He reached for her again and stopped with his hand hovering in the air above her shoulder. “Mom, I’ll find him. I won’t stop looking until I find him.”
The woman didn’t answer. She clutched the man’s body to her and rocked back and forth, wailing. The boy let his hand fall. His lip trembled again, but he didn’t cry. He stood there, waiting.
The scene shifted. The boy was taller than the woman now, and dressed for traveling. “I’ll find him, Mom,” he sad. His voice was deeper but it had an adolescent rawness to it, not yet the smooth baritone it would become. “I promise.” The woman reached out and squeezed his hand before he picked up the rucksack at his feet and walked off across the sand.
There was John, trying futilely to calm him as he paced his tiny quarters at the Agency base. “It’s gone!” Jack cried. “How can I be calm? Two years!” His face was flushed. He clutched an empty glass in one hand. He brought it up as if to throw it, and then lowered his trembling hand and started pacing again. “I’m done. I’m leaving, I quit.”
“We’ll put it right,” John said. He reached for him. Jack shook him off, glaring. “Don’t touch me. You’re as bad as them,” he growled, and paced back to the other side of the room.
A look of hurt flashed across John’s face. “That’s not true,” he said.
Jack’s shoulders sagged. “No,” he agreed. He sank down on the edge of his bunk. “Two years,” he said, despairing. “What if I found him? What if I found something?”
John sat down and put his arm around him. “We’ll put it right,” he repeated. “You and me.”
“You and me.” Jack let out a bitter laugh. He shook his head. “No. I’m done.” He reached for the bottle of whiskey on the table and poured some into the glass. “I’m leaving.” He drank it down. “I quit.”
***
Jack opened his eyes and looked at the Doctor in the dim gold glow of the TARDIS. “I gave up.” He could barely get the words out. He was glad for the tears that hid the Doctor’s face, obscuring the disappointment Jack knew he would find there. “I gave up,” he said again, and waited to be pushed away, or plunged back into nightmare.
Instead, the Doctor kissed him. “You’re a good man, Jack,” he said, still so close his lips brushed against Jack’s when he spoke.
Jack’s face crumpled. A sob escaped him. He let his head fall forward to rest on the Doctor’s shoulder. The Doctor held him there for a moment, and then he pulled back and cupped Jack’s chin in his hands, tilting his face up. “You’re a good man,” he repeated, and kissed him again. Jack trembled against him. He kissed him back with sudden desperation, fumbling at the Doctor’s tie, the buttons of his shirt. The Doctor gently pushed his hands away.
He loosened his tie and pulled it over his head, and then shrugged out of his suit jacket. He didn’t take his eyes off Jack as he undressed, slowly exposing the skin at his throat, the light dusting of hair on his chest, the long lean muscles of his legs; and Jack was struck, as he had been before, by how human he looked; so familiar and yet so strange.
The Doctor’s hands were cool against his skin as he slipped Jack’s t-shirt over his head. Jack gasped when he pressed close, his body flush against Jack’s as he kissed him again, leaving him breathless when he withdrew.
“Lie down,” he said. Jack stretched out on his belly, lifting his hips for the Doctor to slide his boxers down. He nudged Jack’s legs apart with his knee. The Doctor’s body was a warm weight pressing him into the mattress, pressing into him. Not hot, like Ianto, but warm and vital just the same. His arm came around Jack’s waist, holding him still. Neither of them moved. Lying there with the Doctor inside him, Jack felt the beginning of something releasing, some grief long held in check for the boy he had been, for the man he had become. The Doctor pressed deeper into him, rocking slowly. His lips pressed against Jack’s shoulder, his neck. “Let him go, Jack,” he murmured.
Jack closed his eyes when he came, crying out in equal parts pleasure and grief. The Doctor curled around him, shielding him, sheltering him.
***
A salt breeze ruffled Jack’s hair. He sat on the dunes overlooking a familiar beach where a man and a boy threw a ball back and forth. Beyond them, waves crashed on the shore, tinted pink and gold in the waning afternoon light.
“I don’t remember this,” Jack said.
“No,” the Doctor agreed. “It was buried.” He sat next to him, his updrawn knees tucked into the crooks of his elbows. He was barefoot in the sand.
Neither of them said anything for a moment. The setting sun warmed their backs. Out to sea, a gull wheeled and dove at the surface of the water. A smaller boy ran up to join them. The older boy interrupted the game and caught him in his arms. Jack’s breath caught, watching them.
“He can’t grant you absolution, Jack,” the Doctor said.
Jack tore his eyes away from the figures on the beach to look at him. The Doctor smiled sadly. “Neither can I.” He looked back out over the water. “Only you have the power to do that.”
“Me?”
The older boy picked Gray up under his arms and swung him around in circules until they both collapsed in a giggling heap. He sprang back up and caught Gray’s hand. “Come on!” he said, tugging him after him to play in the surf. Jack watched them, his young self and his baby brother shrieking as he leapt back from the waves. He swallowed hard. “How?” he asked.
The Doctor sighed. “A little bit at a time. Every day.” His voice had the barest ragged edge to it. Jack looked at him and the Doctor gave him the same sad smile. “I know a little something about self-hatred,” he said. Jack turned away again, not knowing what to say. But the Doctor seemed content to sit in silence while they watched Jack’s buried memory unfold before them, and so Jack did the same.
The afternoon faded into dusk. A woman joined the trio on the beach, and the boys ran off and returned with armloads of firewood. Alone for a few moments, the man embraced her. She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him.
Jack watched his family, gathered around the fire in the dark. The smell of food wafted over to them, the sound of lowered voices. They had slept out under the stars that night, wrapped in their blankets by the banked fire. Soon the boys lay down. The adults sat up, talking, until the moons were high, the smaller full moon cradled in a larger crescent; and then they, too, slept. Watching them, Jack felt suddenly overcome by the desire to be close to them, to see them. He looked at the Doctor, questioning. The Doctor nodded encouragingly, squeezing Jack’s shoulder.
He slid down the side of the dune to the beach. The moons cast a silvery glow over the sand and the darkened compound across the water, enough light for Jack to pick his way over the sand. He stopped before he reached the water and stood looking down at his family, all four of them, sleeping peacefully. Unaware of what was to come.
He paused beside Gray. Jack still loved him, with an ache he knew he would carry for the rest of his days. He wondered if any part of this small boy still resided in the man who lay frozen in the vaults. He wondered if he would ever find out.
The older boy had rolled away from the fire, but he still slept with the abandon of a child, deep and sound despite the cold. Jack squatted down beside him. He had been this boy, once. He had tried to bury him: this boy who had let go of Gray’s hand; this boy, who had failed to find him. This boy, with his innocence and his grief.
He reached his hand out. Palm down, he held it above the boy’s head: a plea or a benediction, he didn’t know which.
But it was a start.
Author:
hence_the_nameChallenge: Power
Pairing: Jack/Ianto, Jack/Ten, implied Jack/John
Rating: R
Spoilers: S3 of Doctor Who, S2 of Torchwood (major spoilers for 2x13, “Exit Wounds,” and 2x5, “Adam.”)
Summary: In the months following the events of “Exit Wounds,” Jack is becoming a bit unhinged. The Torchwood team call in the Doctor to help.
A/N: Many, many thanks to
nightrider101, for being my biggest fan.“It isn’t easy, it doesn’t count if it’s easy, it’s the hardest thing. Forgiveness. Which is maybe where love and justice finally meet.”
--Belize
Tony Kushner, Angels in America
The Doctor had given him a Christmas present. Sleep without dreams.
Jack plunged into wakefulness, expecting a mouthful of dirt and sucking in air instead. He lay wide-eyed in the dark, gasping, trying to shake off the remnants of the nightmare. His hands fisted in the sheets. He was staring up at a blank ceiling in the dim gold glow that filtered in from the street. He gulped down another mouthful of cool dry air. Slowly, he registered these things: air, sheets, ceiling, street.
Even the Doctor’s gift couldn’t withstand two thousand years of dying.
Another deep breath. His racing heart began to subside. Air. Sheets. Ceiling. Street. He relaxed his hands and wiped sweaty palms against the mattress. Ianto’s flat. Ianto’s bed. He lay asleep beside Jack, sprawled on his belly with his hands tucked under the pillow above his head, his body slack and boneless, dark hair disheveled. Jack watched him breathe, deep and steady, and wished he could sleep like that.
He wished he could sleep at all.
He sat up and scrubbed his hands over his face and through his hair. He was still trembling. Months, now. It had been months, and the dreams were only getting worse. Jack had always had reasons to avoid sleeping; but always before, he had been able to find some relief: in alcohol or sex, or more often, both. Then again, he had never spent two thousand years in a grave before.
They were all grieving. For weeks, Gwen was prone to fits of weeping. Jack still caught her, sometimes, wiping her eyes on the back of her hand when Ianto handed around the coffees and there were no mugs for Tosh or Owen, or when the four of them gathered in the conference room and Martha sat down in Owen’s seat, when Tosh’s chair remained empty.
Ianto remained stoic at the Hub; though more than once Jack noticed him staring sadly at Tosh’s empty desk, or standing alone in the autopsy room when Martha wasn’t there. At night, Jack held him while he sobbed himself to exhaustion. Not every night, not even at first, but more and more infrequently now.
It was good that he had brought Martha on, and not just because they needed a medic. Without her, Jack suspected, they would be falling apart: drifting, aimless, unable to find their bearings in a sea of grief. Her brightness, her briskness, anchored the three of them, drew them onward.
They were all grieving, but Ianto and Gwen, at least, were healing. Jack’s wounds felt more raw with each passing night.
A hand touched his back. “Jack?”
Ianto had turned his head and was blinking sleepily up at him. Jack slid back down and stroked his cheek. “I’m fine.” Ianto’s eyes drifted shut again. Jack pressed a kiss to his forehead. “Go back to sleep.”
Ianto sighed and mumbled something Jack couldn’t understand. “Shh.” Jack kissed him again, trailed his lips over to his temple and whispered in his ear, “Go to sleep.” He stayed there, hovering, until Ianto’s breathing was slow and even again. Then he climbed carefully over him and out of bed.
He went in the kitchen and started to fill the kettle, but set it back on the counter, empty. He didn’t want tea. He opened the refrigerator. Leftover Chinese food, two apples in the crisper, some cheese. A carton of milk. The cool air felt good against his skin.
He wasn’t hungry.
He should go to the Hub. Check on the Rift monitors. But it was Gwen’s turn to stay; she would call if anything were amiss. He should have gotten Rhys to stay with her. Gwen would love that, but Jack didn’t like her there alone. He didn’t like any of them alone, since Gray had come back.
That was how he thought of it. When Gray came back. So many things had happened that day—so many terrible things—but in Jack’s mind, it was the day that Gray had come back. The day his little brother had come back from the dead. That was all. That was everything.
He should have checked on him before he left: made sure the cryo chamber was stable, the lock secure. He should have killed him. But he couldn’t do that to his little brother. Not again.
There was a flat screen TV mounted on the wall in the living room. Jack hunted around for the remote, but when he found it he only stood there, thinking that he couldn’t take another infomercial touting the latest in useless gadgets, the newest weight-loss miracle. Instead he walked to the window and looked out over the quiet street.
His own reflection stared back at him, stark in white shorts and a t-shirt, the TV remote held loosely in one hand. Jack looked like both his parents. He had his mother’s eyes, her dimples, the same shape to his face. But his wide, charming grin and the cleft in his chin came from his father; so did his height, and the broadness to his shoulders. But Gray...
That first holographic image had been like a punch to the gut. He had been a child the last time Jack had seen him, but there was no mistaking his brother. Gray looked just like their father. His face, his hair, the way he held himself—and his voice. He sounded like him. Everything but the eyes: hard and cruelly mocking. None of the warmth and laughter that had sparkled in their father’s eyes as they walked along the beach in the evenings and he shouted encouragement while Jack and Gray raced through the surf. Sometimes Jack let his little brother win, but more often he forgot; too caught up in the feeling of his body working as he ran, the wind on his face and the splash of water against his bare legs.
Jack turned away from his reflection and sank onto the couch, swallowing hard. He had been too caught up in running, too caught up in his own fear, and hadn’t paid attention when he should have. More than once. He balled his hand into a fist and drove it into the cushions. He wanted to throw something and hear it shatter against the wall. He wanted shards, sharp and unforgiving. He wanted his hands bloodied.
But not here. He couldn’t do that here. He couldn’t ruin the sanctity of this place, the quiet order that Ianto maintained, which should be so calming. Instead he trembled, tangled up in rage and guilt and frustration. A sob rose up in his throat. He picked up one of the pillows from the couch and buried his face in it, muffling the sound, and rocked back and forth, hot tears soaking into the fabric.
He didn’t hear Ianto’s step on the carpet. “Jack?”
He sat up quickly and turned away, scrubbing at his eyes with the back of his hand. He drew in a shuddering breath. “I’m fine,” he said.
Ianto watched his reflection in the window. He put his hands in the pockets of his dressing gown. “You don’t have to be.”
Jack scrubbed at his eyes again. “I’m fine,” he repeated.
After a moment Ianto crossed the room and sat down next to him. The couch cushions shifted under his weight. He put his arms around him and rested his chin on his shoulder. Jack closed his eyes. He wanted more than anything to relax into that touch, to surrender to it; and he tried, he really did. But when Ianto turned his head and pressed his lips to Jack’s neck, he shuddered and pulled away, wrapping his arms around himself.
Ianto sighed. Jack didn’t need to look to see the hurt in his eyes; he had seen it every time Ianto tried to offer comfort and Jack pulled away. But that was better than his widened eyes and almost silent gasps of surprise and pain when Jack was too rough with him, when he couldn’t make himself stop—which was every time, these days. Since Gray came back.
“Do you want to talk?” Ianto asked.
“No.”
The sofa shifted again. The kitchen light flicked on. Jack listened to him moving around: the open and shut of cupboards, the metal tea tin hitting the counter, water running, the kettle’s high-pitched whistle. Did the British solve everything with tea?
When Ianto came back, he pressed the cup into Jack’s hands. Jack turned his head, finally, to look at him, and took in the concern and sorrow etched in his features. He looked down at the cup in his hands.
“It’ll knock you out for a few hours,” Ianto said.
Jack shook his head and tried to give it back. “I don’t want—“
“I got it from Martha,” Ianto interrupted. A smile touched his lips. “‘Industrial strength,’ she said.” He grew serious again, worried. “Please, Jack. You need to sleep.” He covered Jack’s hands with his and pushed back, guiding the mug toward his lips. Jack only resisted for a moment before he let him. He couldn’t stand the worry in his eyes, the plea in his voice.
When he had finished, he let Ianto draw him down so his head was cradled in his lap. His hand lay warm and heavy on Jack’s forehead, fingers stroking his temple. Martha hadn’t been lying about “industrial strength”; Jack could already feel it starting to pull him under. He blinked up at Ianto through heavy eyelids. “I’m sorry,” he said.
“Hush.” Ianto’s fingers combed through his hair. “Go to sleep, now.”
Jack closed his eyes.
***
When Jack came awake again, he was back in bed, alone, no longer in Ianto’s flat. His first reaction when he opened his eyes was panic: something had happened and Jack, drugged and helpless, had been unable to protect his team. Unable to protect Ianto. An animal sound escaped him, somewhere between a growl and a sob. He threw off the blankets, surging to his feet, and crashed into a wall.
“Jack.”
Not a wall; a person. Familiar hands, pressing him back down. Familiar voice. “Calm down, Jack.” Familiar brown eyes, looking into his. “You’re safe. Everyone’s safe.”
Jack blinked at him, too shocked to keep struggling. The Doctor pushed him back against the pillows and covered him again with the blanket. He smiled. “That’s better.” He tucked one foot under him and sat down on the edge of the bed. “Now. How are you feeling?”
“How am I--?” Jack repeated blankly.
The Doctor raised his eyebrows. “A bit groggy, I’d imagine. Double dose.” He sucked air in through his teeth, his expression sympathetic. “Takes a lot to knock you out, Jack.”
“Knock me—” Jack looked around. They weren’t in his old room, but it was definitely the TARDIS: domed like the console room and bathed in the same golden light. “What’s going on?”
“Well.” The Doctor leaned back on his elbows and looked up at the ceiling. He tapped the side of the bed with his heel. “I thought you might like a trip.”
“So...you had Ianto drug me so you could take me away?”
The Doctor made a thoughtful noise, still gazing at the ceiling. “Yep,” he said after a moment, nodding. He looked at Jack again, his expression guileless. “That about covers it.”
“Something tells me a romantic interlude isn’t what you had in mind.” Jack scowled. “What am I doing here, Doctor?”
“You’re supposed to be resting.” He scratched his ear. “Doesn’t look like there’s much chance of that happening, though,” he added as Jack threw back the covers and brushed past him out of the room. The Doctor sighed and, grumbling to himself, followed.
The cold metal grating of the console room floor dug into Jack’s bare feet. He stopped in front of the controls and stared down at the proliferation of buttons and levers. It had been a long time, but he still remembered how to fly her. He pulled the monitor around to face him and started to key in coordinates. Nothing happened.
He heard a step behind him. The Doctor tossed the sonic screwdriver into the air and caught it. “Deadlocked.” He tucked it back into his inside pocket, leaning against the doorway. “And don’t try to run for it, please. I don’t fancy the idea of having to fish you out of the Vortex.”
Jack turned to face him. “Okay,” he said. “Then take me back and you won’t have to.”
“Are you threatening me?”
“Nice threat. I think I’d be the one suffering.”
The Doctor’s lips quirked. “Oh, but it’d be a terrible inconvenience.” He stepped into the room. Jack took a cautious step back and gripped the edge of the console with both hands.
“Doctor,” he repeated. “What’s going on?”
The Doctor stayed where he was. He stared at him so long that Jack shifted uncomfortably under his scrutiny. “How are you, Jack?” he asked.
Jack avoided his gaze. “I’m fine,” he said.
“You don’t look it.”
Ordinarily he would have asked the Doctor if he wanted to test that theory—though ordinarily he wouldn’t have been standing in the console room in his underwear. Instead he forced himself to meet the Doctor’s gaze squarely and mustered up his most reassuring smile. “I’m fine, Doctor, really.”
“’Course you are.” He scratched his chin, peering down his nose at him. “So ‘fine’ you’re having nightmares with enough sedatives in you to put an elephant to sleep.” He raised his eyebrows, mocking. “Is that what you tell Ianto? ‘I’m fine’? No wonder he called me.”
Jack blinked. “He put you up to this?”
“And Martha, and Gwen. They’re worried about you, Jack.”
Jack turned back to the controls. “I’m fine,” he repeated. Even to his own ears, he sounded sullen, childish.
He heard the Doctor sigh. The ramp vibrated with his approaching footsteps. “Let me help, Jack.”
“I don’t need your help.” He fiddled ineffectually with the controls. Where had he been when Cardiff was burning? Where had he been when Tosh needed him, and Owen? “It’s nothing to do with you. Now take me back.”
“No.”
Jack whirled and closed the distance between them. He grabbed hold of the front of the Doctor’s shirt, shaking him. “Take me back!”
The Doctor met his eyes steadily. He held onto Jack’s wrists, but he didn’t fight. He shook his head. “No, Jack. Not until you listen.”
Jack let go of his shirt and hit him with enough force to send the Doctor staggering. He caught hold of the railing before he fell, blinking in surprise. “Oh, that’s a good solution.” He brought his other hand up to cradle his jaw and raised a disdainful eyebrow. “Are you feeling better?”
Jack hit him again, and then a third time, all the helplessness and rage and grief channeled into this one destructive impulse. He didn’t stop until the Doctor was lying on the floor, protecting his head with his hands and shouting Jack’s name.
“Jack!” His voice finally broke through. Jack stared down at him. He staggered backwards and grabbed hold of the edge of the console.
A moment passed. The Doctor wheezed, loud in the sudden silence. After another moment he uncurled and sat up gingerly. He touched the back of his hand to his bloodied nose. He looked up at Jack without reproach. “Better now?” he asked.
Jack’s knees gave way. He slid down along the console until he was sitting on the floor. He let his head fall back. “No.”
“Do you want to talk?”
He shook his head. Then he laughed, bitterly. “I just want to sleep.”
“Ah.” There was a rustle of movement. “Well that, I think I can help with.” Footsteps, and then Jack was looking up into the Doctor’s bruised face instead of the console room ceiling. He held out his hand.
***
The Doctor pulled back the blankets and gestured for Jack to climb in. Jack did, looking around the room again as he settled back against the pillows. “You put me in the guest room?” he asked.
The Doctor blinked. “No.” He looked around, and then at Jack again. “This is my room.”
Jack opened his mouth to respond—he was stalling, he knew—but the Doctor’s expression said, quite clearly, leave it. He sat on the edge of the bed. “Close your eyes,” he said.
His fingers felt cool on Jack’s temples. But instead of the warm, enveloping blackness he’d been expecting, a crushing darkness descended. Jack choked. He jerked his head away and opened his eyes, gasping.
The Doctor was regarding him with a puzzled frown. He let his hands fall. When he had caught his breath, Jack smiled weakly. “Wasn’t supposed to happen that way?” he asked.
“No,” the Doctor agreed. “Try again?”
Jack nodded. The Doctor placed his fingers at Jack’s temples a second time. This time, he saw the blackness coming, felt it reaching for him, sucking the air out of his lungs. He used his last threads of consciousness to grab the Doctor’s wrists and yank his hands away, breaking the connection.
The Doctor grabbed his own head and cried out. “Jack, you can’t—“ he began, and then cut off when his vision cleared and he saw Jack, watching him fearfully. The Doctor reached for him. Jack shrank away, but he only laid a hand on his arm. “Do you trust me?” the Doctor asked.
Jack hesitated. “Yes.”
“Are you sure?”
Jack met his gaze and swallowed hard. “Yes,” he said again, more confidently this time.
“All right.” The Doctor took his face between his hands, fingers deftly finding the pressure points at his temples, behind his ears. “Open your mind.” He held Jack’s gaze for a long moment. “I’ll be right here,” he said.
Jack tried to latch onto the steady calm in the Doctor’s face, his voice, but he couldn’t stop himself from trembling. Tears pricked his eyes. “I’m scared,” he said.
“I know. Just—try to relax.” The Doctor closed his eyes.
***
The darkness was complete, suffocating. But this time Jack managed to keep his head long enough to sense another presence there with him, like a bright light just beyond the horizon. That’s right, focus on me. The Doctor’s voice sounded in his mind. Jack strained to reach him, but a weight on his chest pinned him down. He couldn’t move. He opened his mouth to call out and swallowed dirt. The bright light faded, was gone.
Jack. Distantly, calling his name. He couldn’t reach it. He choked, trying to scream.
A rectangle of blue sky. John’s face looks down at him, silently saying, I’m sorry. Gray’s hard, angry stare. His eyes that know only hate.
What did you expect? Absolution?
The rush of adrenaline as he falls backwards into the grave. The impact against the hard-packed earth. He flinches when the first shovelful of dirt hits him in the face. The damp grittiness of soil scrapes his throat, packs into his windpipe, his lungs.
He is holding Gray in his arms, standing on that plain and not knowing, not caring where he is. Gray’s alive. Real, solid, pressed against him in an embrace Jack thought he’d never be able to give.
The blade of a knife slides between his ribs. A hot gush of blood runs down his side.
He’s lying on a hillside. Familiar voices are talking above him, hurling questions at him, but Jack can only lie there and cough up dirt. He turns his face up to the sunshine and draws in one shuddering breath after another until two pairs of hands close around his arms and haul him to his feet.
Dark. Dark. Dark. And cold. The weight of the soil crushes him, cracking his ribs. He revives for shorter and shorter periods of time, until he only comes into consciousness long enough to feel his lungs spasming, the muscles of his throat convulsing around the earth already packed into him and death claims him once more.
A bright day on the Boeshane Peninsula. Heat shimmers over the beach; the crash of waves on the shore. The sound of rockets hurtling through the atmosphere. Screaming, panic all around.
A small hand placed in his. Take your brother. Take Gray, keep him safe.
***
“I can’t,” Jack gasped.
He was back in his body, back on the TARDIS, scrambling away from the Doctor until his back hit the wall. He curled into a ball. “I can’t,” he repeated. “Doctor, I can’t.”
“Sure you can.” The Doctor’s voice was low, soothing. He touched Jack’s head, stroking his hair. “What is it? Show me.”
“No.” Jack was weeping openly now, great gasping sobs of shame and terror. “I can’t.” The Doctor gently pried Jack’s arms away from his face and tilted his head up to face him. Jack looked at him, tears streaming down his cheeks. “I can’t breathe,” he whispered.
“Then let me do it for you.” The Doctor took Jack’s face between his hands once again.
***
A woman knelt weeping over a body. A boy stood beside her. The sun beat down on them and bounced off the sand, washing out their faces. The debris of the attack was scattered all around them: spent laser cartridges, torn bits of fabric, a lost shoe. A child’s doll lay in the shadow of a building. The woman doubled up, hiding her face in her hands.
We were running so fast. I thought he was right behind me.
The boy reached out to touch her, and she shook him off. He took a step back, stung. His lower lip trembled. But he clenched his teeth together, swallowed hard and drew himself up.
“I’ll find him,” he said. His voice was already raw from shouting. He reached for her again and stopped with his hand hovering in the air above her shoulder. “Mom, I’ll find him. I won’t stop looking until I find him.”
The woman didn’t answer. She clutched the man’s body to her and rocked back and forth, wailing. The boy let his hand fall. His lip trembled again, but he didn’t cry. He stood there, waiting.
The scene shifted. The boy was taller than the woman now, and dressed for traveling. “I’ll find him, Mom,” he sad. His voice was deeper but it had an adolescent rawness to it, not yet the smooth baritone it would become. “I promise.” The woman reached out and squeezed his hand before he picked up the rucksack at his feet and walked off across the sand.
There was John, trying futilely to calm him as he paced his tiny quarters at the Agency base. “It’s gone!” Jack cried. “How can I be calm? Two years!” His face was flushed. He clutched an empty glass in one hand. He brought it up as if to throw it, and then lowered his trembling hand and started pacing again. “I’m done. I’m leaving, I quit.”
“We’ll put it right,” John said. He reached for him. Jack shook him off, glaring. “Don’t touch me. You’re as bad as them,” he growled, and paced back to the other side of the room.
A look of hurt flashed across John’s face. “That’s not true,” he said.
Jack’s shoulders sagged. “No,” he agreed. He sank down on the edge of his bunk. “Two years,” he said, despairing. “What if I found him? What if I found something?”
John sat down and put his arm around him. “We’ll put it right,” he repeated. “You and me.”
“You and me.” Jack let out a bitter laugh. He shook his head. “No. I’m done.” He reached for the bottle of whiskey on the table and poured some into the glass. “I’m leaving.” He drank it down. “I quit.”
***
Jack opened his eyes and looked at the Doctor in the dim gold glow of the TARDIS. “I gave up.” He could barely get the words out. He was glad for the tears that hid the Doctor’s face, obscuring the disappointment Jack knew he would find there. “I gave up,” he said again, and waited to be pushed away, or plunged back into nightmare.
Instead, the Doctor kissed him. “You’re a good man, Jack,” he said, still so close his lips brushed against Jack’s when he spoke.
Jack’s face crumpled. A sob escaped him. He let his head fall forward to rest on the Doctor’s shoulder. The Doctor held him there for a moment, and then he pulled back and cupped Jack’s chin in his hands, tilting his face up. “You’re a good man,” he repeated, and kissed him again. Jack trembled against him. He kissed him back with sudden desperation, fumbling at the Doctor’s tie, the buttons of his shirt. The Doctor gently pushed his hands away.
He loosened his tie and pulled it over his head, and then shrugged out of his suit jacket. He didn’t take his eyes off Jack as he undressed, slowly exposing the skin at his throat, the light dusting of hair on his chest, the long lean muscles of his legs; and Jack was struck, as he had been before, by how human he looked; so familiar and yet so strange.
The Doctor’s hands were cool against his skin as he slipped Jack’s t-shirt over his head. Jack gasped when he pressed close, his body flush against Jack’s as he kissed him again, leaving him breathless when he withdrew.
“Lie down,” he said. Jack stretched out on his belly, lifting his hips for the Doctor to slide his boxers down. He nudged Jack’s legs apart with his knee. The Doctor’s body was a warm weight pressing him into the mattress, pressing into him. Not hot, like Ianto, but warm and vital just the same. His arm came around Jack’s waist, holding him still. Neither of them moved. Lying there with the Doctor inside him, Jack felt the beginning of something releasing, some grief long held in check for the boy he had been, for the man he had become. The Doctor pressed deeper into him, rocking slowly. His lips pressed against Jack’s shoulder, his neck. “Let him go, Jack,” he murmured.
Jack closed his eyes when he came, crying out in equal parts pleasure and grief. The Doctor curled around him, shielding him, sheltering him.
***
A salt breeze ruffled Jack’s hair. He sat on the dunes overlooking a familiar beach where a man and a boy threw a ball back and forth. Beyond them, waves crashed on the shore, tinted pink and gold in the waning afternoon light.
“I don’t remember this,” Jack said.
“No,” the Doctor agreed. “It was buried.” He sat next to him, his updrawn knees tucked into the crooks of his elbows. He was barefoot in the sand.
Neither of them said anything for a moment. The setting sun warmed their backs. Out to sea, a gull wheeled and dove at the surface of the water. A smaller boy ran up to join them. The older boy interrupted the game and caught him in his arms. Jack’s breath caught, watching them.
“He can’t grant you absolution, Jack,” the Doctor said.
Jack tore his eyes away from the figures on the beach to look at him. The Doctor smiled sadly. “Neither can I.” He looked back out over the water. “Only you have the power to do that.”
“Me?”
The older boy picked Gray up under his arms and swung him around in circules until they both collapsed in a giggling heap. He sprang back up and caught Gray’s hand. “Come on!” he said, tugging him after him to play in the surf. Jack watched them, his young self and his baby brother shrieking as he leapt back from the waves. He swallowed hard. “How?” he asked.
The Doctor sighed. “A little bit at a time. Every day.” His voice had the barest ragged edge to it. Jack looked at him and the Doctor gave him the same sad smile. “I know a little something about self-hatred,” he said. Jack turned away again, not knowing what to say. But the Doctor seemed content to sit in silence while they watched Jack’s buried memory unfold before them, and so Jack did the same.
The afternoon faded into dusk. A woman joined the trio on the beach, and the boys ran off and returned with armloads of firewood. Alone for a few moments, the man embraced her. She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him.
Jack watched his family, gathered around the fire in the dark. The smell of food wafted over to them, the sound of lowered voices. They had slept out under the stars that night, wrapped in their blankets by the banked fire. Soon the boys lay down. The adults sat up, talking, until the moons were high, the smaller full moon cradled in a larger crescent; and then they, too, slept. Watching them, Jack felt suddenly overcome by the desire to be close to them, to see them. He looked at the Doctor, questioning. The Doctor nodded encouragingly, squeezing Jack’s shoulder.
He slid down the side of the dune to the beach. The moons cast a silvery glow over the sand and the darkened compound across the water, enough light for Jack to pick his way over the sand. He stopped before he reached the water and stood looking down at his family, all four of them, sleeping peacefully. Unaware of what was to come.
He paused beside Gray. Jack still loved him, with an ache he knew he would carry for the rest of his days. He wondered if any part of this small boy still resided in the man who lay frozen in the vaults. He wondered if he would ever find out.
The older boy had rolled away from the fire, but he still slept with the abandon of a child, deep and sound despite the cold. Jack squatted down beside him. He had been this boy, once. He had tried to bury him: this boy who had let go of Gray’s hand; this boy, who had failed to find him. This boy, with his innocence and his grief.
He reached his hand out. Palm down, he held it above the boy’s head: a plea or a benediction, he didn’t know which.
But it was a start.
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