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wintercompanion2009-01-25 01:19 am
sahiya.livejournal.com) wrote in wintercompanion2009-01-25 01:19 am
Entry tags:
sahiya: Five Days in Dry Dock, 2/5 (R) [Jack/Ten]
Title: Five Days in Dry Dock, 2/5
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
sahiya
Pairing/Rating: R, Jack/Ten
Word Count: 2800 this part; about 13,000 overall
Disclaimer: Not mine! They belong to Rusty and the BBC.
Summary: The TARDIS needs an overhaul. Jack needs a few days to put himself back together, physically and mentally. Even without a mortgage, it borders on domestic, but the Doctor's feet are mysteriously un-itchy about it.
Author's Note: This is a sequel to Atonement, which I posted here last month, and was written for the "Domesticity" challenge. Many thanks to my beta reader,fuzzyboo03. Sorry for the delay; it turns out that working a fulltime job and moving out of my parents' house does not leave much time for writing at the end of the day. The other chapters should be posted much more quickly over the next week. Warnings for rampant h/c and bits of fluff.
Day One
Day Two
Jack woke disoriented and shaking in the middle of a night-cycle. The remnants of a vivid fever dream of his first death dogged him no matter how hard he burrowed into his covers. His head was aching and heavy, he was freezing down to his bones, and the thought of getting up was almost unbearable, but he wanted company to chase away the dream. Usually the gentle hum of the TARDIS was enough to calm him down, but the ship was eerily silent.
The Doctor had put him to bed naked. The TARDIS was never cold, but Jack was wracked with shivers as he tried to dress himself in the flannel pajamas and wool socks he found in his wardrobe. He kept expecting the Doctor to walk in and force him back to bed, but the saline pack strapped to Jack's arm was drained dry. How long had it been since the Doctor had looked in on him?
Jack pulled a blanket off the bed, wrapped it around his shoulders, and shuffled out. "Doctor," he croaked. The TARDIS floor felt like it was shifting under his feet; his eyes burned and ached with fever. He stumbled into a wall and leaned there, breathing through the dizziness. "Doctor?" he managed again, to no effect.
The first room he fell into was not the console room, as Jack had hoped, but the kitchen. A pot of something was on the stove, but it was cold and there was no Doctor watching over it. "C'mon, sweetheart," Jack mumbled, leaning on the counter next to some carrot peelings to try and stay upright. "Tell him where I am."
No answer. Nothing at all, not the slightest reaction. Jack's knees turned to water and he was forced to sit, sliding down the cabinets. The tile floor was cold. He wished he'd grabbed a thicker blanket, because now he was down here, he didn't think he was going anywhere. His head was swimming so badly, it suddenly seemed like a really good idea to lie down . . .
He came to again in the dark. Dark, cold, empty. He was on the TARDIS - no, he couldn't be. He was on the Game Station. The Doctor had abandoned him. No, he was on Earth. He was on Earth and he was dying, he was going to die like this, lying alone on the cold floor, and it'd be hours before anyone noticed. They had their own to think of, and he wasn't one of them. He was a stranger. The last time he'd felt he belonged was with Rose and the Doctor and that - that -
He wished he'd died on the Game Station. He wished he was dead now. Dying hurt.
There were tears on his face, soaking into the blanket.
He went under again. This time, he came back with a gasp, lucid enough to know the burning he felt in the back of his throat was bile and stomach acid. He rolled over and retched, painfully. His pajamas were soaked with sweat. He was cold, so, so cold. "Doctor," he moaned, but it was barely audible. He retched again. His head felt like it was about to explode.
He couldn't hold himself up anymore. He collapsed, trying only to avoid the pathetic little puddle of vomit. He'd had almost nothing left in him to throw up, but he felt so sick. Everything was spinning; he could hardly tell which way was up. But he knew he was on the TARDIS. Or at least, he thought he was. This looked like the TARDIS kitchen, but it was dark and silent. And not just night-cycle silent.
A chill that had nothing to do with his fever crept down his spine. The TARDIS was cold, dark, and silent. The Doctor hadn't shown up yet. If he were here, he'd know Jack was awake and needed him.
Which meant he wasn't here.
"Oh God." Jack tried to shove himself up and failed. He couldn't even crawl. "You idiot," he hissed at himself, then buried his face in the blanket. How hadn't he learned? How hadn't being left for dead on an abandoned satellite not taught him?
He couldn't help it - he began weeping helplessly. He huddled into his blanket and didn't even bother to pretend his heart wasn't shattering into a million tiny shards. Why do this to him? Why rescue him and make him think he was valued, even loved, and then abandon him again when he was sick and vulnerable?
He was still weeping when the Doctor found him.
"Jack?" Cool hands grasped his and pulled them away from his face. "Jack, what's wrong? Are you in pain?" The Doctor pressed a hand against Jack's forehead. "You're burning up. What happened?"
Jack stared up at the Doctor's wide eyes in disbelief. "Doctor?"
"Shh, it's all right." The Doctor smoothed the hair back from Jack's forehead. "Where does it hurt?"
Jack couldn't speak. He didn't know what was real and what was fevered hallucination. He'd dreamed of the Doctor before, when he was dying on Earth, so heartsick with loneliness that his mind had made the Doctor - his Doctor, the old Doctor - walk into that little medtent and sit on the edge of Jack's cot.
"Jack?" the Doctor said again, frowning. He held Jack's face between his hands. His hands were cold. Cold, cold, cold, against Jack's hot face. He had to be real. Jack was too tired for him not to be.
"Couldn't find you," Jack managed, then squeezed his eyes shut. Probably it was too much to hope the Doctor hadn't noticed the tears. Definitely he'd seen the vomit. "I felt so awful." He still felt awful, nauseated and exhausted and overwhelmed, as though the last six months had just all crashed down on him at once. He wanted to crawl into the Doctor's arms and stay there and just feel safe.
Except the Doctor wasn't safe. The Doctor had abandoned him and Jack couldn't trust him not to do it again. He wasn't safe. Jack wasn't safe.
"Oh Jack," the Doctor sighed. He sat down beside Jack and pulled his head into his lap, started stroking his hair. "Blimey, you're hot. Jack, I'm sorry. The TARDIS had to power down for some work I was doing. I was at a very delicate place with her when you woke, and I couldn't get away. I'm so sorry."
"Oh." Jack swallowed. His throat hurt.
"We should get you back to bed. Can you stand?"
Jack shook his head. He felt weak - weaker - with relief. "Don't leave," he said, grasping at the Doctor.
The Doctor frowned. "You need a new saline pack, and something to lower your fever. But," he added, when Jack only tightened his hold on his wrist, "I'll stay until the TARDIS has everything back online. Shouldn't be more than a couple of minutes."
Jack nodded, but didn't loosen his grip on the Doctor's wrist. He was coherent enough now to know that as long as he was inside the TARDIS, he was safe. The Doctor might abandon him, but he would never abandon her. And yet, he couldn't seem to let go. "How is she?" he asked.
The Doctor sighed. "Not very well, I'm afraid. I honestly don't know how she managed these last few months - or why she didn't let me know she needed this. Usually she does, but this time she just sort of made do until I got around to noticing."
"Can fix her, can't you?"
"Oh yes. It's going to take time, though. Probably another three or four days. Until then we're grounded. Still," he added with a shrug, "not so bad. If you're going to be grounded, Bellacosa is as good a place as any, and it'll give you some time to get back on your feet."
"'m sorry I can't help," Jack said miserably. He'd promised he would, and now, not only wasn't he helping, he was taking the Doctor's attention away from his ship. "'ll try not to be underfoot. Should just leave me a bunch of these." He indicted the saline pack strapped to his arm. "Can swap 'em out my -"
"Don't be ridiculous." The Doctor's voice was soft. "You can hardly lift your head."
Jack sighed. "Not like it matters. Could die and I'd just wake up again."
"Jack," the Doctor said, so sharply that Jack opened his eyes. The Doctor cradled Jack's face in his hands, his mouth set, his eyes very serious. "Listen to me. It matters. I don't ever want to hear you say that dying doesn't matter. It does. It matters to you. It matters to me. Just because you come back -" He shook his head, apparently speechless for once. "It matters," he said again, sounding choked.
Jack wanted to argue, but his head was aching too badly. Before he could gather his wits, the lights flickered back on. The hum of the TARDIS was suddenly there again, in the back of his mind. Comforting, familiar, constant. He closed his eyes, basking in it.
Neither of them spoke for a time. Jack expected the Doctor to get up and go to the medlab now that the TARDIS was back, but he didn't move. At last the Doctor said, "She's worried about you."
Jack opened his eyes. "Tell her I'm fine."
"Tell her yourself," the Doctor said, and patted his shoulder. "I'll be right back. She'll keep you company."
Jack nodded. He waited until the Doctor had left, then curled up on the cool tile of the kitchen floor, resting his cheek on a fold of his blanket. He sighed wearily - his mind felt fuzzy again, but he was warmer already. Maybe she'd turned up the heat for him. He reached out to press a palm flat to the floor. "Hey there, beautiful. Missed you. Thought he'd left us," he confessed, eyes drifting shut. "Should've known better. He'd never leave you."
Or you.
Jack blinked, sure he'd imagined it. The TARDIS had communicated - sort of - with him before, but he'd never heard her speak. He'd assumed she couldn't - that she didn't have language, at least not in any way compatible with his puny human brain. But . . . well, he could always say he was delirious. Which, maybe he was. "Left me before. He promised he wouldn't do it again. But I just can't -" His voice broke. "Can't trust him."
He loves us. Both of us. And then, as though the TARDIS were tired of trying to put everything into words, he felt himself enveloped by a warm, bright glow. He knew it was all in his head, knew he was lying on the kitchen floor under a too-thin blanket, but he didn't care. He felt safe for the first time since Satellite Five, as though someone were cupping him in the palm of her hand, holding him close to her heart. It was overwhelming, but he didn't want to escape it. He wanted to be overwhelmed, subsumed, consumed -
He was only vaguely aware of the Doctor's return. "Don't mind me," he heard the Doctor say, as though from a great distance, as he swapped out the saline pack, took Jack's temperature, and gave him an injection. He slipped a pillow beneath Jack's head as well, and tucked a heavier blanket over him. Jack tried to thank him but couldn't. He felt drugged, but not in a bad way. He could rest here, because he was safe, and protected, and, yes, loved. The TARDIS loved him. She wouldn't let the Doctor leave him again.
He had no idea how long he lay like that, cradled by the TARDIS, but at last he felt her drawing away. She had things to do, she told him gently. But she'd try not to turn the lights out on him again if she could help it.
Jack's return to full consciousness was slow. He surfaced, then slipped under again, into a delicious half-waking state. He drifted lazily, aware that the Doctor was doing things in the kitchen, stepping around and, occasionally, over him. At one point he got down on his hands and knees and cleaned up the mess Jack had made on the floor. But Jack didn't bother to fully wake until the Doctor crouched down beside him and laid the back of his hand on Jack's forehead. Jack sighed and forced his eyes open.
"Hullo, there," the Doctor said. "Back with me?"
"Mmm," Jack said, stretching carefully. He felt better, he realized. Still exhausted and achey, but no longer incoherent with fever. His headache was almost gone. "Think so."
"Don't strain yourself," the Doctor advised. "I've never seen the TARDIS do that with a human before. I'm not sure what the side effects will be."
"She ever do that with you?"
"When she thinks I need it," the Doctor said. He smiled fondly. "She's usually right."
"Lucky bastard," Jack sighed.
The Doctor grinned. "Do you think you can sit up?"
"Do I have to?"
The Doctor appeared to consider this. "Well, no, but there's homemade chicken soup if you do."
Jack felt his eyebrows go shooting up. "Really?"
"I had to do something, didn't I, while you and the TARDIS were busy with each other. C'mon now, up you get." The Doctor slipped his arm beneath Jack's shoulders and helped him sit up against the cabinets. Then he straightened and turned back to the stove. Jack tipped his head back and closed his eyes. He felt he could sleep for about a year, but it wasn't a clinging, unpleasant exhaustion. He'd eat his soup and go to sleep in his bed, and when he woke up, he'd feel better. He was sure of it.
The Doctor finally handed him a mug of steaming soup with a spoon. Jack breathed it in: it smelled of ginger and garlic with a hint of sage, and it was teeming with vegetables, carrots and onions and green beans and celery. Jack lifted a spoonful and blew across it carefully before tasting it.
It tasted just as good as it smelled - better, even. Chicken soup wasn't a traditional remedy on the Boeshane Peninsula - they hadn't had chickens, for one thing - but somehow it still tasted like home. "Damn, Doctor," he said, swallowing, "I had no idea you could do this. You were obviously holding out on us before. Eggs, toast, soup, tea. A man could get spoiled."
The Doctor, settled crosslegged beside him with his own mug of soup, shrugged. "You don't get to be almost a thousand without learning a thing or two. But the last me was -"
"Allergic to domestic, right." Jack spooned up more soup. He'd be a thousand, someday. He wondered if his skills at that point would include astonishingly good chicken soup.
"What did you talk about?" the Doctor asked, after several minutes of silent soup consumption. Jack looked up, puzzled, and the Doctor gave a brief nod that somehow managed to indicate the TARDIS.
"Oh," Jack said, glancing away. "Well . . ."
"Me?" the Doctor suggested, looking half-hopeful, half-worried.
"If I say yes, there'll be no living with you," Jack said, shaking his head.
"There's not much living with me anyway," the Doctor pointed out cheerfully, then shrugged. "Forget I asked. It's not really any of my business."
"No, it's fine. We didn't talk much. Mostly she just . . . reassured me."
"Ah," the Doctor said, smile dimming a little. "Did it help?" Jack nodded. "Good, then." The Doctor cleared his throat. "Are you done with your soup? Do you want more? I think we have enough for a small army, or possibly a large one. None of the tricks I've learned included cooking for two, I'm afraid."
"Maybe later," Jack said, and yawned.
"Right, of course. You're tired. To bed with you!"
The Doctor chattered all the way down the hall - Jack paid no attention to what he said. He leaned heavily on the Doctor and concentrated on walking in a straight line. He was more than relieved to fall into bed, which he was afraid he did with less than his usual artful grace. Not that it mattered very much at this point - even under the best of circumstances it was hard to be enigmatic and seductive once you'd been caught sobbing into your blankie, and Jack was out of practice.
Severely out of practice, he realized suddenly. Nine months. He'd gone nine months without sex. For a moment, Jack simply boggled. Three months aboard the TARDIS - where the two people he'd wanted were off limits and everyone else just paled in comparison - and then six months on Earth. For most of that time, he hadn't cared. It had all just seemed like so much work. The fact that he was remembering now what he'd liked about it was probably a good sign, if a little inconvenient.
"Sleep well, Jack," the Doctor said, and briefly stroked his hair before leaving.
Jack sighed to himself. Make that very inconvenient.
***
Day Three
Feedback feeds the Muse.
Author:
sahiyaPairing/Rating: R, Jack/Ten
Word Count: 2800 this part; about 13,000 overall
Disclaimer: Not mine! They belong to Rusty and the BBC.
Summary: The TARDIS needs an overhaul. Jack needs a few days to put himself back together, physically and mentally. Even without a mortgage, it borders on domestic, but the Doctor's feet are mysteriously un-itchy about it.
Author's Note: This is a sequel to Atonement, which I posted here last month, and was written for the "Domesticity" challenge. Many thanks to my beta reader,
fuzzyboo03. Sorry for the delay; it turns out that working a fulltime job and moving out of my parents' house does not leave much time for writing at the end of the day. The other chapters should be posted much more quickly over the next week. Warnings for rampant h/c and bits of fluff.Day One
Jack woke disoriented and shaking in the middle of a night-cycle. The remnants of a vivid fever dream of his first death dogged him no matter how hard he burrowed into his covers. His head was aching and heavy, he was freezing down to his bones, and the thought of getting up was almost unbearable, but he wanted company to chase away the dream. Usually the gentle hum of the TARDIS was enough to calm him down, but the ship was eerily silent.
The Doctor had put him to bed naked. The TARDIS was never cold, but Jack was wracked with shivers as he tried to dress himself in the flannel pajamas and wool socks he found in his wardrobe. He kept expecting the Doctor to walk in and force him back to bed, but the saline pack strapped to Jack's arm was drained dry. How long had it been since the Doctor had looked in on him?
Jack pulled a blanket off the bed, wrapped it around his shoulders, and shuffled out. "Doctor," he croaked. The TARDIS floor felt like it was shifting under his feet; his eyes burned and ached with fever. He stumbled into a wall and leaned there, breathing through the dizziness. "Doctor?" he managed again, to no effect.
The first room he fell into was not the console room, as Jack had hoped, but the kitchen. A pot of something was on the stove, but it was cold and there was no Doctor watching over it. "C'mon, sweetheart," Jack mumbled, leaning on the counter next to some carrot peelings to try and stay upright. "Tell him where I am."
No answer. Nothing at all, not the slightest reaction. Jack's knees turned to water and he was forced to sit, sliding down the cabinets. The tile floor was cold. He wished he'd grabbed a thicker blanket, because now he was down here, he didn't think he was going anywhere. His head was swimming so badly, it suddenly seemed like a really good idea to lie down . . .
He came to again in the dark. Dark, cold, empty. He was on the TARDIS - no, he couldn't be. He was on the Game Station. The Doctor had abandoned him. No, he was on Earth. He was on Earth and he was dying, he was going to die like this, lying alone on the cold floor, and it'd be hours before anyone noticed. They had their own to think of, and he wasn't one of them. He was a stranger. The last time he'd felt he belonged was with Rose and the Doctor and that - that -
He wished he'd died on the Game Station. He wished he was dead now. Dying hurt.
There were tears on his face, soaking into the blanket.
He went under again. This time, he came back with a gasp, lucid enough to know the burning he felt in the back of his throat was bile and stomach acid. He rolled over and retched, painfully. His pajamas were soaked with sweat. He was cold, so, so cold. "Doctor," he moaned, but it was barely audible. He retched again. His head felt like it was about to explode.
He couldn't hold himself up anymore. He collapsed, trying only to avoid the pathetic little puddle of vomit. He'd had almost nothing left in him to throw up, but he felt so sick. Everything was spinning; he could hardly tell which way was up. But he knew he was on the TARDIS. Or at least, he thought he was. This looked like the TARDIS kitchen, but it was dark and silent. And not just night-cycle silent.
A chill that had nothing to do with his fever crept down his spine. The TARDIS was cold, dark, and silent. The Doctor hadn't shown up yet. If he were here, he'd know Jack was awake and needed him.
Which meant he wasn't here.
"Oh God." Jack tried to shove himself up and failed. He couldn't even crawl. "You idiot," he hissed at himself, then buried his face in the blanket. How hadn't he learned? How hadn't being left for dead on an abandoned satellite not taught him?
He couldn't help it - he began weeping helplessly. He huddled into his blanket and didn't even bother to pretend his heart wasn't shattering into a million tiny shards. Why do this to him? Why rescue him and make him think he was valued, even loved, and then abandon him again when he was sick and vulnerable?
He was still weeping when the Doctor found him.
"Jack?" Cool hands grasped his and pulled them away from his face. "Jack, what's wrong? Are you in pain?" The Doctor pressed a hand against Jack's forehead. "You're burning up. What happened?"
Jack stared up at the Doctor's wide eyes in disbelief. "Doctor?"
"Shh, it's all right." The Doctor smoothed the hair back from Jack's forehead. "Where does it hurt?"
Jack couldn't speak. He didn't know what was real and what was fevered hallucination. He'd dreamed of the Doctor before, when he was dying on Earth, so heartsick with loneliness that his mind had made the Doctor - his Doctor, the old Doctor - walk into that little medtent and sit on the edge of Jack's cot.
"Jack?" the Doctor said again, frowning. He held Jack's face between his hands. His hands were cold. Cold, cold, cold, against Jack's hot face. He had to be real. Jack was too tired for him not to be.
"Couldn't find you," Jack managed, then squeezed his eyes shut. Probably it was too much to hope the Doctor hadn't noticed the tears. Definitely he'd seen the vomit. "I felt so awful." He still felt awful, nauseated and exhausted and overwhelmed, as though the last six months had just all crashed down on him at once. He wanted to crawl into the Doctor's arms and stay there and just feel safe.
Except the Doctor wasn't safe. The Doctor had abandoned him and Jack couldn't trust him not to do it again. He wasn't safe. Jack wasn't safe.
"Oh Jack," the Doctor sighed. He sat down beside Jack and pulled his head into his lap, started stroking his hair. "Blimey, you're hot. Jack, I'm sorry. The TARDIS had to power down for some work I was doing. I was at a very delicate place with her when you woke, and I couldn't get away. I'm so sorry."
"Oh." Jack swallowed. His throat hurt.
"We should get you back to bed. Can you stand?"
Jack shook his head. He felt weak - weaker - with relief. "Don't leave," he said, grasping at the Doctor.
The Doctor frowned. "You need a new saline pack, and something to lower your fever. But," he added, when Jack only tightened his hold on his wrist, "I'll stay until the TARDIS has everything back online. Shouldn't be more than a couple of minutes."
Jack nodded, but didn't loosen his grip on the Doctor's wrist. He was coherent enough now to know that as long as he was inside the TARDIS, he was safe. The Doctor might abandon him, but he would never abandon her. And yet, he couldn't seem to let go. "How is she?" he asked.
The Doctor sighed. "Not very well, I'm afraid. I honestly don't know how she managed these last few months - or why she didn't let me know she needed this. Usually she does, but this time she just sort of made do until I got around to noticing."
"Can fix her, can't you?"
"Oh yes. It's going to take time, though. Probably another three or four days. Until then we're grounded. Still," he added with a shrug, "not so bad. If you're going to be grounded, Bellacosa is as good a place as any, and it'll give you some time to get back on your feet."
"'m sorry I can't help," Jack said miserably. He'd promised he would, and now, not only wasn't he helping, he was taking the Doctor's attention away from his ship. "'ll try not to be underfoot. Should just leave me a bunch of these." He indicted the saline pack strapped to his arm. "Can swap 'em out my -"
"Don't be ridiculous." The Doctor's voice was soft. "You can hardly lift your head."
Jack sighed. "Not like it matters. Could die and I'd just wake up again."
"Jack," the Doctor said, so sharply that Jack opened his eyes. The Doctor cradled Jack's face in his hands, his mouth set, his eyes very serious. "Listen to me. It matters. I don't ever want to hear you say that dying doesn't matter. It does. It matters to you. It matters to me. Just because you come back -" He shook his head, apparently speechless for once. "It matters," he said again, sounding choked.
Jack wanted to argue, but his head was aching too badly. Before he could gather his wits, the lights flickered back on. The hum of the TARDIS was suddenly there again, in the back of his mind. Comforting, familiar, constant. He closed his eyes, basking in it.
Neither of them spoke for a time. Jack expected the Doctor to get up and go to the medlab now that the TARDIS was back, but he didn't move. At last the Doctor said, "She's worried about you."
Jack opened his eyes. "Tell her I'm fine."
"Tell her yourself," the Doctor said, and patted his shoulder. "I'll be right back. She'll keep you company."
Jack nodded. He waited until the Doctor had left, then curled up on the cool tile of the kitchen floor, resting his cheek on a fold of his blanket. He sighed wearily - his mind felt fuzzy again, but he was warmer already. Maybe she'd turned up the heat for him. He reached out to press a palm flat to the floor. "Hey there, beautiful. Missed you. Thought he'd left us," he confessed, eyes drifting shut. "Should've known better. He'd never leave you."
Or you.
Jack blinked, sure he'd imagined it. The TARDIS had communicated - sort of - with him before, but he'd never heard her speak. He'd assumed she couldn't - that she didn't have language, at least not in any way compatible with his puny human brain. But . . . well, he could always say he was delirious. Which, maybe he was. "Left me before. He promised he wouldn't do it again. But I just can't -" His voice broke. "Can't trust him."
He loves us. Both of us. And then, as though the TARDIS were tired of trying to put everything into words, he felt himself enveloped by a warm, bright glow. He knew it was all in his head, knew he was lying on the kitchen floor under a too-thin blanket, but he didn't care. He felt safe for the first time since Satellite Five, as though someone were cupping him in the palm of her hand, holding him close to her heart. It was overwhelming, but he didn't want to escape it. He wanted to be overwhelmed, subsumed, consumed -
He was only vaguely aware of the Doctor's return. "Don't mind me," he heard the Doctor say, as though from a great distance, as he swapped out the saline pack, took Jack's temperature, and gave him an injection. He slipped a pillow beneath Jack's head as well, and tucked a heavier blanket over him. Jack tried to thank him but couldn't. He felt drugged, but not in a bad way. He could rest here, because he was safe, and protected, and, yes, loved. The TARDIS loved him. She wouldn't let the Doctor leave him again.
He had no idea how long he lay like that, cradled by the TARDIS, but at last he felt her drawing away. She had things to do, she told him gently. But she'd try not to turn the lights out on him again if she could help it.
Jack's return to full consciousness was slow. He surfaced, then slipped under again, into a delicious half-waking state. He drifted lazily, aware that the Doctor was doing things in the kitchen, stepping around and, occasionally, over him. At one point he got down on his hands and knees and cleaned up the mess Jack had made on the floor. But Jack didn't bother to fully wake until the Doctor crouched down beside him and laid the back of his hand on Jack's forehead. Jack sighed and forced his eyes open.
"Hullo, there," the Doctor said. "Back with me?"
"Mmm," Jack said, stretching carefully. He felt better, he realized. Still exhausted and achey, but no longer incoherent with fever. His headache was almost gone. "Think so."
"Don't strain yourself," the Doctor advised. "I've never seen the TARDIS do that with a human before. I'm not sure what the side effects will be."
"She ever do that with you?"
"When she thinks I need it," the Doctor said. He smiled fondly. "She's usually right."
"Lucky bastard," Jack sighed.
The Doctor grinned. "Do you think you can sit up?"
"Do I have to?"
The Doctor appeared to consider this. "Well, no, but there's homemade chicken soup if you do."
Jack felt his eyebrows go shooting up. "Really?"
"I had to do something, didn't I, while you and the TARDIS were busy with each other. C'mon now, up you get." The Doctor slipped his arm beneath Jack's shoulders and helped him sit up against the cabinets. Then he straightened and turned back to the stove. Jack tipped his head back and closed his eyes. He felt he could sleep for about a year, but it wasn't a clinging, unpleasant exhaustion. He'd eat his soup and go to sleep in his bed, and when he woke up, he'd feel better. He was sure of it.
The Doctor finally handed him a mug of steaming soup with a spoon. Jack breathed it in: it smelled of ginger and garlic with a hint of sage, and it was teeming with vegetables, carrots and onions and green beans and celery. Jack lifted a spoonful and blew across it carefully before tasting it.
It tasted just as good as it smelled - better, even. Chicken soup wasn't a traditional remedy on the Boeshane Peninsula - they hadn't had chickens, for one thing - but somehow it still tasted like home. "Damn, Doctor," he said, swallowing, "I had no idea you could do this. You were obviously holding out on us before. Eggs, toast, soup, tea. A man could get spoiled."
The Doctor, settled crosslegged beside him with his own mug of soup, shrugged. "You don't get to be almost a thousand without learning a thing or two. But the last me was -"
"Allergic to domestic, right." Jack spooned up more soup. He'd be a thousand, someday. He wondered if his skills at that point would include astonishingly good chicken soup.
"What did you talk about?" the Doctor asked, after several minutes of silent soup consumption. Jack looked up, puzzled, and the Doctor gave a brief nod that somehow managed to indicate the TARDIS.
"Oh," Jack said, glancing away. "Well . . ."
"Me?" the Doctor suggested, looking half-hopeful, half-worried.
"If I say yes, there'll be no living with you," Jack said, shaking his head.
"There's not much living with me anyway," the Doctor pointed out cheerfully, then shrugged. "Forget I asked. It's not really any of my business."
"No, it's fine. We didn't talk much. Mostly she just . . . reassured me."
"Ah," the Doctor said, smile dimming a little. "Did it help?" Jack nodded. "Good, then." The Doctor cleared his throat. "Are you done with your soup? Do you want more? I think we have enough for a small army, or possibly a large one. None of the tricks I've learned included cooking for two, I'm afraid."
"Maybe later," Jack said, and yawned.
"Right, of course. You're tired. To bed with you!"
The Doctor chattered all the way down the hall - Jack paid no attention to what he said. He leaned heavily on the Doctor and concentrated on walking in a straight line. He was more than relieved to fall into bed, which he was afraid he did with less than his usual artful grace. Not that it mattered very much at this point - even under the best of circumstances it was hard to be enigmatic and seductive once you'd been caught sobbing into your blankie, and Jack was out of practice.
Severely out of practice, he realized suddenly. Nine months. He'd gone nine months without sex. For a moment, Jack simply boggled. Three months aboard the TARDIS - where the two people he'd wanted were off limits and everyone else just paled in comparison - and then six months on Earth. For most of that time, he hadn't cared. It had all just seemed like so much work. The fact that he was remembering now what he'd liked about it was probably a good sign, if a little inconvenient.
"Sleep well, Jack," the Doctor said, and briefly stroked his hair before leaving.
Jack sighed to himself. Make that very inconvenient.
***
Day Three
Feedback feeds the Muse.
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You really take me on an emotional roller coaster - feeling sad for jack (especially when he cried), angry at the doctor, then suddenly happy again when the doctor came back from fixing the tardis and then really happy when theTARDIS hugged jack and mildly amused at the ending. it is a sign of a brilliant writter being able to make the reader feel every emotion.
well done, keep up the good work.
*waits excitedly for the next chapter*
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even under the best of circumstances it was hard to be enigmatic and seductive once you'd been caught sobbing into your blankie
hee!
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Not at all surprising to see Jack thinking he was abandoned again; he's very sick, apart from everything else, and it's so soon after the first abandonment. Hardly likely that he'll trust the Doctor so readily this soon. I loved this, though:
"Listen to me. It matters. I don't ever want to hear you say that dying doesn't matter. It does. It matters to you. It matters to me. Just because you come back -" He shook his head, apparently speechless for once. "It matters," he said again, sounding choked.
And Jack didn't have sex with anyone during those six months on Earth? I thought, in your 'commentary', that you were suggesting he might have with Birte. Not that it's at all implausible if he didn't.
Can't wait for more!
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I said in my commentary that I had thought about knocking Birte up with Jack's kid and decided not to. I kinda jossed myself on this, but since it never made it into the text, it doesn't really matter to me. In my professional life I adhere to the "The Author is Dead" school of literary criticism; postmortems are fun and useful for me as a writer, but nothing I say there about my own authorial intent counts as part of the text, if that makes sense.
I also decided it was way more poignant for Jack to have been celibate - and, worse for him, not even cared.
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I really like how you've made Ten less allergic to domestic than Nine - and the quirk of being able to make chicken soup but unable to make a small batch is fantastic.
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I was watching Bad Wolf and The Parting of the Ways last night. Makes your fic that little bit more raw to read :D xXx
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I honestly have never watched those two eps a second time. They hurt too much!
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I found this very touching:
He felt safe for the first time since Satellite Five, as though someone were cupping him in the palm of her hand, holding him close to her heart. It was overwhelming, but he didn't want to escape it. He wanted to be overwhelmed, subsumed, consumed -
He was only vaguely aware of the Doctor's return. "Don't mind me," he heard the Doctor say, as though from a great distance, as he swapped out the saline pack, took Jack's temperature, and gave him an injection. He slipped a pillow beneath Jack's head as well, and tucked a heavier blanket over him. Jack tried to thank him but couldn't. He felt drugged, but not in a bad way. He could rest here, because he was safe, and protected, and, yes, loved.
It's lovely the way they're both using the TARDIS as a conduit for emotions they're not ready to acknowledge yet. You write the sentient TARDIS very well, giving her, I think, just enough unique autonomy to express love in her own right without it coming over as sentimental. I can easily imagine her putting up with all her aches and pains in silence because she knew the Doctor was grieving and had no spare energy for her.
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I worry a little about the sentient TARDIS being too sentient - we're not given that much information about her in canon, at least not the (admittedly limited amount of) canon I've seen. I think she'd put up with it for awhile, but I also think she'd be annoyed with him eventually.
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I've recently decided to embrace my h/c compulsion, rather than being embarrassed about it. I'm not sure what that decision has done for my writing, but I'm having a lot of fun!