The Walk: Jack/Himself, NC-17
Title: The Walk
Author: Becky_H
Character(s): Jack/Himself
Genre: Slash.
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers Parting Of The Ways, Last Of The Time Lords.
Warnings: Angst, some mild hurt/comfort.
Word Count: 3,500
Beta: Matsujo9
Prompt: Set2Music Prompt 15: Boy, I've been in your shoes, and the Jack/Himself challenge.
Summary: The Doctor abandoned Jack. Jack does what he can, while he can, to try to make it right- or at least better. Set before Jack's last scene in LotTL. Not, I repeat not, song-fic.
Author's Notes:There are no words for how utterly brain breaking writing this was. Accompanying art can be found here.
--
As soon as he's sure the TARDIS and Doctor are gone, Jack goes after them. There's no reason to wait around; he's the only living thing on the station.
It's a bumpy ride and a hard landing. He's conscious just long enough to catch a glimpse of the city and know that he's missed his target -- by a century or so, from the look of things.
He passes out not expecting to wake up again, but thinking that if he does, he can always try again. He doesn't know his vortex manipulator is damaged beyond repair and that he's stuck.
--
He watches himself hit the ground and die from his place in the shadows.
It's a bitterly cold night. The wind slices through the protective layers of his cotton and wool clothing like they're nothing. It makes his fingers and knees ache and stiffen. His breath fogs thick in front of his face.
It's not the cold that makes him shiver, but the memory of the cold. He continues to stand motionless and watch. The body in the street is sprawled in the frozen filth like so much refuse and is spot-lit by the deceptively warm glow of gas light.
The boy's been abandoned. He's utterly alone. He's going to be alone for a long time to come. He just doesn't know it yet. In death, he is more innocent than he's ever been - will ever be - in life.
It begins to snow. The flakes melt the instant they touch his skin like the barely there ghost of a kiss. That's his cue. He pushes away from the wall, steps out of the shadows and into the light, out of the future and into the past. His own past.
The Doctor would be appalled. The Doctor can go to hell.
He drops to crouch over the body and puts one hand flat against the still chest. He can almost feel the catch and wrench of that painful first breath in his own throat.
--
The cold air burns his lungs and makes him cough. He feels like he's drowning. The lack of oxygen starts to make him panic, but the fear's cut off by a hand moving behind his neck and lifting. "Sit up," a warm voice urges. "It'll help."
He opens his eyes, still coughing, and finds himself staring into a face that seems more than vaguely familiar. He can't immediately place it, though, and the most striking thing isn't the familiarity, it's that there is real concern in the eyes.
The coughing comes back, with wheezing. His chest is tight and aching and the cough hurts badly enough to make his eyes water. Or maybe that's the cold wind. "Up," the voice repeats more firmly.
Jack lets himself be helped to sitting, and it is better. It's easier to breathe. The cold's still there, but he doesn’t have to fight just to get air. He stops hacking and pants. "That's it," the other man murmurs encouragingly.
As his racing heart slows, Jack looks at the stranger more closely. Thick brown hair, blue eyes with creases at the corners and clothes that fit him perfectly but don't fit the time period at all.
He gets all that in his first clear glance. It takes him another full minute of looking into the man's eyes and the man looking steadily back to realize why he seems familiar. He's looking at himself.
"Well, shit."
--
He has to resist the urge to laugh when the kid realizes that he's looking at a future incarnation of himself. "Look at it this way: It could be worse."
"Oh yeah? How?" There's not a lot of amusement in the question, just a lot of fear.
"Well," he says patiently. "The universe is still in one piece, and you're still hot."
For a second it looks like the younger him going to argue, but then the cold apparently makes itself known because he starts to shiver and says "good point" instead.
Jack is dressed for the weather but the cold is getting to him too. "Come on, I've got a place around the corner. Let's get inside and warmed up." Maybe it's not actually the cold that's getting to him. Maybe it's memory. Maybe it's even sympathy.
He stands up and extends his hand down for the younger man. When cold fingers close around his wrist, he braces himself against the pull so he's steady enough to be used for climbing up.
Once they're both on their feet and the more recently dead of them is steady, he turns to go. He's pulled back by the hand still on his wrist.
"I can't stay here."
He looks into the face of his youth and past, and though it doesn't last long at all, it feels like eternity. "You don't have a choice. Come on."
He turns and walks away before he has to answer questions on the street.
--
He almost doesn't follow. He wants to get back to the Doctor now and he's not completely stupid; he knows the risks of crossing timelines.
He is stupid enough to be more curious than he is cautious.
He stands in the freezing cold and snow for the space of three footsteps, and then he's taking off after himself with long strides that are designed to catch him up fast. He's got a half-dozen questions he wants to ask -- with “What do you mean I have no choice?” at the top of the list -- but he keeps his mouth shut until they're inside.
The flat is actually just a sparsely furnished room right off the street. It's weird, but it's out of the wind and that's more than good enough. He leans back against the door, and, as soon as the light flares to life, pins himself with a level and demanding look.
"What do you mean I have no choice?"
"Your vortex manipulator's fried."
He can feel his practiced, confident look turn into a panicked one. He freezes in place, for an instant, then he's going for his wrist comp. It doesn't take long to confirm that the manipulator is, indeed, burned out. "No. No, no, no, no," he mumbles and thumps his head back against the door.
"Hey." The voice is warm and somehow doesn't seem all that much like his own. Maybe it's because he only ever hears it from the inside of his own head, maybe it's that he's never heard himself through a haze. Hell, maybe his voice actually got deeper when he got older. Jack doesn't know and he doesn't care.
He closes his eyes and fights back panic. "You can fix this. Tell me you can fix this." He hates the sound of his own voice; it sounds even more alien and less familiar than the one from his older-self. It's probably the rising edge of hysteria.
A warm hand curls around his cold cheek and the thumb brushes over his lower lip. "I can't. I'm sorry."
It's not the refusal that hits him like a ton of bricks; it's the all-too-real regret. The sound that wrenches itself out of his tight throat is more sob than laugh. He can't even be bothered to pretend otherwise. He doesn't open his eyes.
--
He keeps his hand curled around the cool cheek, leans in and says, very softly, "Jack."
That gets the closed eyes to open. They're bright and wild and shocked and so trapped they break his heart, even if they are his own eyes. Maybe they even break his heart because they're his own and he knows, has felt, every shift of emotion he can see reflected in them now. All of that panic and all of that pain has been his.
"I am so sorry," he repeats. He knows he's echoing the Doctor, but he doesn't know if that's good or bad. At least he knows he means it.
"I know." Both hands lift and come up against his shoulders. He can feel the cold seeping through the layers of fabric. The chill from the night and death, lingering, he thinks as he waits for the next, predictable, question.
"How long?"
"A long time," Jack says, surprised by the compassion and pain in his own voice. "A really long time. Longer than you can imagine."
"I'm sorry." There's a world of honesty in the brittle tone.
He's taken so completely off guard by his younger self's sympathy that it takes him a bit to figure out how to respond. When he does, his answer is just as startling. "It's all right. It's going to be all right."
"I know." The smile is a struggle, and Jack can see the struggle in the bright blue eyes that aren't as innocent as they were, aren't quite as trusting, but he makes it. "The universe is still in one piece and I'm still hot. Right?"
He's a lost kid looking for reassurance. It's something Jack -- and maybe only Jack -- can give him. "Yeah," he says softly as he leans in, close enough to feel the flutter and brush of breath against his lips. "You're still hot."
Then he closes the distance between them and catches his younger counterpart's mouth in a warm, careful kiss.
--
He can't remember the last time someone has been so heartbreakingly gentle with him. He doesn't need it and he doesn't want it. Especially from himself. From some future self who knows how much of a lie that is.
He rejects the caution with the implications and bites into the kiss with a low growl, bites hard enough to break skin.
There's a flinch, but his aggression isn't met with aggression. The kiss stays soft. Fingers slide into his hair, warm and calloused, and curl but don’t pull. A wool covered thigh presses between his legs, against his cock, knee pressed right under his balls, but stops short of being anything more than a threat.
There's just enough there, enough strength and control to hold him still. He takes a deep breath through his nose, curls his cold fingers into the warm wool, and shivers, sudden and hard.
He realizes, with that shudder, just how cold he still is. The only heat in the room is radiating from the body pressed against his and suddenly just getting warm is the most important thing in the world.
He forces his fingers to unclench and slides them under the coat, around and behind so that his hands are pressed flat against the broad, warm back and leeching heat. He opens to the kiss the same way, at the same time. Cold and seeking warmth, he's not just allowing it, he's welcoming it.
The yield to accepting anything more than heat comes more slowly. It comes with the slick glide of a tongue against his, the brush of a thumb along his jaw, urging his mouth further open, and the slow flex of the thigh pressed against his cock. The warm flush of arousal combines with the gentle determination of the other man, and, for all that he's trying to resist it, he can't.
No one knows what he needs -- what he's going to need -- better than himself. The sound that comes out of his throat isn't a growl or a snarl. It's a groan.
--
He feels the moment passive acceptance turns to participation and he knows when the need for heat turns into the need to contact and comfort even before he hears the tentative groan.
The hands against his back are freezing even through the layers of cloth, but he doesn't pull away. He continues the kiss, breathing into it and letting himself be held. It goes on for some indefinite period of time but it's not lazy, it's just slow. The most immediate need here isn't for any sort of end, orgasmic or otherwise.
Inevitably the more physical drive makes itself known. The arch and push into him is stronger -- much stronger -- than he remembers himself being. He pulls out of the kiss, presses their foreheads together, and watches the rise of heat and arousal in his own eyes. "That's it," he murmurs encouragingly.
He still has one hand curled in the younger man’s hair, but he moves the other, slides it down over one bare arm, around the side and to the fastening of the leather pants. He tugs them open with a deft movement that's familiar in theory but alien because it’s the mirror image of memory.
The hands against his back move to fumble with his belt, clumsy with cold and urgency. He’s startled and, for just a moment, stops his own hands where they are, a little hesitant and confused.
He comes to his senses and realizes he shouldn't have been surprised at all. This isn't something he can do half way. There's no way he would have settled for less than everything.
There's a lesson for him there, but it's one he'll have to contemplate later. For now, he nods his understanding and says, "Turn around."
--
He doesn't need to be told twice. Now that he's in, he's in all the way.
As soon as he's given room to move, he pivots. He puts his hands flat against the wall, steps his feet out and apart and drops his head. He misses the warmth of a body against his -- the room is still too cool for comfort, or for the idea of stripping to be a pleasant one -- but he doesn't miss it for very long.
When two fingers press into him he's braced, teeth clenched, because he expects cold, or, at the very least, the rough burn of too much friction. Instead there's just pressure and warm slickness. He's got just a second to feel stupid -- of course he'd be carrying lube, and inside the coat, of course it would be warm -- then there's the jolt of sensation of fingers brushing his prostate.
He shudders, groans and pushes back. The fingers slide out, painfully slowly, and press back with such extreme care that he's shaking as much from arousal as cold by the time they're pulled completely free.
The older man steps behind him, close, and it's more leather against wool than skin against skin, but the warmth that wraps around him is nearly as tangible as the coat and more than makes up for any lack.
The solid, heated press of a cock against his ass doesn't hurt anything either.
--
He slides his hand over the still slightly cool shoulder and weaves his fingers through the boy's, uses it to keep his hand against the wall and to provide another point of contact between them. He wraps his free arm around the younger man's waist and lightly bites the back of his bent neck.
There's a moment of tension, just pressed tight and against. Then the fingers around his grip back, hard, and everything gives. The grip and heat -- and there is heat -- drags an almost reluctant groan out of his throat and past his teeth. "Fuck."
"Yeah." The agreement comes with the echo of his own groan, the voice nearly as tight as the grip around his cock.
He stays still. "Are you all right?"
"What do you think?" It's an attempt at an impatient snap but not an entirely successful one.
What he thinks is that whatever the kid -- and that's how he's thinking of him now, somehow -- is choking on isn't arousal. He sighs softly, breath against skin and the press of his lips right against that spot behind the ear that he knows is both comforting and arousing.
He pulls back slowly, tightens his fingers around the finally warming ones he's holding, and starts to move. Steady, fluid, rhythmic and looking for the right angle. He grits his teeth, chokes down his own response to the friction and heat, and focuses entirely on the person he's making love to. That it's himself isn't important anymore, and it's the only thing that matters at all.
When he feels the gradual tightening around his cock, sees it mirrored in the rising tension in shoulder and neck muscles, hears the breathing quicken and fall off-rhythm, he moves the hand the few inches necessary to wrap around the boy's cock.
--
The grip is, unsurprisingly, perfect. It's confident and strong and just firm enough to be right. The twist at the end of the stroke drags across just exactly the right spot to send him over. He clenches his teeth, holds his breath, and comes so hard that he doesn't feel the echo of his orgasm in the man -- in himself -- standing behind him.
There's just sensation and the sudden, violent release of arousal, and of emotion. He can hear his own ragged sob, and he doesn't care.
When he can breathe again -- when he can see, feel, hear, again -- when he's firmly back in his own body and aware of his surroundings, he realizes that he's being supported almost entirely by the wall and the arms around him. He takes a moment to pull forward a little, lean his forehead against the wall as he tries to get his trousers fastened again.
He fumbles because his hands are shaking that hard. "Stop," a voice says, so close and direct he can feel the brush of breath against the side of his face. He stops and closes his eyes. He doesn't protest when the task is taken over and done for him. He really is that tired, that wrung out and that exhausted.
"You need to get some rest." The voice is as every bit as gentle, warm and concerned as it was the first moment he heard it, waking up out there on the street.
He doesn't turn around, or answer right away. He does push back from enough to drag his hand over his face. "Yeah," he finally agrees.
"It'll look better when you wake up." It's a promise, and if it's not, he's going to pretend like it is anyway.
"Come on," the older, wiser, and infinitely sadder version of himself says as he gently pulls him away from the wall and through the cold and gas light to the bed. "There are clothes in the cupboard and this place is paid up for the next couple of months."
There's a pause while he's more or less dumped into the bed. He meets his own eyes again, finds that he can't really look away, and the older man goes on. "It will be all right, Jack. You can do this." Then, with a quirk of a grin that deepens the lines around his eyes, adds, "And hold onto that TARDIS key. You're going to need it again, someday."
He leaves in a flash of blue light, and Jack is left alone in nineteenth-century Cardiff to contemplate the uncertainty of his future. He doesn't contemplate it for very long before he pulls the blanket up and falls asleep.
--
He appears right outside the TARDIS. His aim has improved -- or maybe the vortex manipulator is working better since the Doctor has had his wicked way with it. He digs his key out of his pocket and lets himself in.
The Doctor is waiting on him, leaning against the console with his arms and ankles crossed.
"Martha still out?" Jack asks casually. He has no intention of telling the Doctor where he's been or what he's been doing.
Unfortunately, the Doctor has intentions of his own. "Out celebrating," he agrees with a nod. "You get what you needed done, done?" His tone is casual but his expression leaves Jack no room to doubt that he knows exactly where Jack's been and what he's been doing.
Jack holds the Doctor's eyes, his gaze steady, unflinching and unapologetic. He nods, very slightly. "Someone had to." His tone isn't angry, because he's not angry. It is uncompromising.
The silence that draws out between them feels heavy, weighted with meaning, with things they aren't willing to say, and with challenge.
Neither one of them looks away, but eventually the Doctor nods. "Good."
Jack lets out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. "Thanks," he says, a bit more quietly and a lot more softly.
"Didn't really change anything, you know," the Doctor says his eyes still on Jack.
Jack cocks his eyebrow up at the Doctor. "Didn't it?" he asks. "You sure about that?"
The Doctor opens his mouth but shuts it before he's answered, his expression slowly turning to one of utter confusion.
Jack smiles and heads for his room, leaving the Doctor alone to work it out.
Author: Becky_H
Character(s): Jack/Himself
Genre: Slash.
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers Parting Of The Ways, Last Of The Time Lords.
Warnings: Angst, some mild hurt/comfort.
Word Count: 3,500
Beta: Matsujo9
Prompt: Set2Music Prompt 15: Boy, I've been in your shoes, and the Jack/Himself challenge.
Summary: The Doctor abandoned Jack. Jack does what he can, while he can, to try to make it right- or at least better. Set before Jack's last scene in LotTL. Not, I repeat not, song-fic.
Author's Notes:There are no words for how utterly brain breaking writing this was. Accompanying art can be found here.
--
As soon as he's sure the TARDIS and Doctor are gone, Jack goes after them. There's no reason to wait around; he's the only living thing on the station.
It's a bumpy ride and a hard landing. He's conscious just long enough to catch a glimpse of the city and know that he's missed his target -- by a century or so, from the look of things.
He passes out not expecting to wake up again, but thinking that if he does, he can always try again. He doesn't know his vortex manipulator is damaged beyond repair and that he's stuck.
--
He watches himself hit the ground and die from his place in the shadows.
It's a bitterly cold night. The wind slices through the protective layers of his cotton and wool clothing like they're nothing. It makes his fingers and knees ache and stiffen. His breath fogs thick in front of his face.
It's not the cold that makes him shiver, but the memory of the cold. He continues to stand motionless and watch. The body in the street is sprawled in the frozen filth like so much refuse and is spot-lit by the deceptively warm glow of gas light.
The boy's been abandoned. He's utterly alone. He's going to be alone for a long time to come. He just doesn't know it yet. In death, he is more innocent than he's ever been - will ever be - in life.
It begins to snow. The flakes melt the instant they touch his skin like the barely there ghost of a kiss. That's his cue. He pushes away from the wall, steps out of the shadows and into the light, out of the future and into the past. His own past.
The Doctor would be appalled. The Doctor can go to hell.
He drops to crouch over the body and puts one hand flat against the still chest. He can almost feel the catch and wrench of that painful first breath in his own throat.
--
The cold air burns his lungs and makes him cough. He feels like he's drowning. The lack of oxygen starts to make him panic, but the fear's cut off by a hand moving behind his neck and lifting. "Sit up," a warm voice urges. "It'll help."
He opens his eyes, still coughing, and finds himself staring into a face that seems more than vaguely familiar. He can't immediately place it, though, and the most striking thing isn't the familiarity, it's that there is real concern in the eyes.
The coughing comes back, with wheezing. His chest is tight and aching and the cough hurts badly enough to make his eyes water. Or maybe that's the cold wind. "Up," the voice repeats more firmly.
Jack lets himself be helped to sitting, and it is better. It's easier to breathe. The cold's still there, but he doesn’t have to fight just to get air. He stops hacking and pants. "That's it," the other man murmurs encouragingly.
As his racing heart slows, Jack looks at the stranger more closely. Thick brown hair, blue eyes with creases at the corners and clothes that fit him perfectly but don't fit the time period at all.
He gets all that in his first clear glance. It takes him another full minute of looking into the man's eyes and the man looking steadily back to realize why he seems familiar. He's looking at himself.
"Well, shit."
--
He has to resist the urge to laugh when the kid realizes that he's looking at a future incarnation of himself. "Look at it this way: It could be worse."
"Oh yeah? How?" There's not a lot of amusement in the question, just a lot of fear.
"Well," he says patiently. "The universe is still in one piece, and you're still hot."
For a second it looks like the younger him going to argue, but then the cold apparently makes itself known because he starts to shiver and says "good point" instead.
Jack is dressed for the weather but the cold is getting to him too. "Come on, I've got a place around the corner. Let's get inside and warmed up." Maybe it's not actually the cold that's getting to him. Maybe it's memory. Maybe it's even sympathy.
He stands up and extends his hand down for the younger man. When cold fingers close around his wrist, he braces himself against the pull so he's steady enough to be used for climbing up.
Once they're both on their feet and the more recently dead of them is steady, he turns to go. He's pulled back by the hand still on his wrist.
"I can't stay here."
He looks into the face of his youth and past, and though it doesn't last long at all, it feels like eternity. "You don't have a choice. Come on."
He turns and walks away before he has to answer questions on the street.
--
He almost doesn't follow. He wants to get back to the Doctor now and he's not completely stupid; he knows the risks of crossing timelines.
He is stupid enough to be more curious than he is cautious.
He stands in the freezing cold and snow for the space of three footsteps, and then he's taking off after himself with long strides that are designed to catch him up fast. He's got a half-dozen questions he wants to ask -- with “What do you mean I have no choice?” at the top of the list -- but he keeps his mouth shut until they're inside.
The flat is actually just a sparsely furnished room right off the street. It's weird, but it's out of the wind and that's more than good enough. He leans back against the door, and, as soon as the light flares to life, pins himself with a level and demanding look.
"What do you mean I have no choice?"
"Your vortex manipulator's fried."
He can feel his practiced, confident look turn into a panicked one. He freezes in place, for an instant, then he's going for his wrist comp. It doesn't take long to confirm that the manipulator is, indeed, burned out. "No. No, no, no, no," he mumbles and thumps his head back against the door.
"Hey." The voice is warm and somehow doesn't seem all that much like his own. Maybe it's because he only ever hears it from the inside of his own head, maybe it's that he's never heard himself through a haze. Hell, maybe his voice actually got deeper when he got older. Jack doesn't know and he doesn't care.
He closes his eyes and fights back panic. "You can fix this. Tell me you can fix this." He hates the sound of his own voice; it sounds even more alien and less familiar than the one from his older-self. It's probably the rising edge of hysteria.
A warm hand curls around his cold cheek and the thumb brushes over his lower lip. "I can't. I'm sorry."
It's not the refusal that hits him like a ton of bricks; it's the all-too-real regret. The sound that wrenches itself out of his tight throat is more sob than laugh. He can't even be bothered to pretend otherwise. He doesn't open his eyes.
--
He keeps his hand curled around the cool cheek, leans in and says, very softly, "Jack."
That gets the closed eyes to open. They're bright and wild and shocked and so trapped they break his heart, even if they are his own eyes. Maybe they even break his heart because they're his own and he knows, has felt, every shift of emotion he can see reflected in them now. All of that panic and all of that pain has been his.
"I am so sorry," he repeats. He knows he's echoing the Doctor, but he doesn't know if that's good or bad. At least he knows he means it.
"I know." Both hands lift and come up against his shoulders. He can feel the cold seeping through the layers of fabric. The chill from the night and death, lingering, he thinks as he waits for the next, predictable, question.
"How long?"
"A long time," Jack says, surprised by the compassion and pain in his own voice. "A really long time. Longer than you can imagine."
"I'm sorry." There's a world of honesty in the brittle tone.
He's taken so completely off guard by his younger self's sympathy that it takes him a bit to figure out how to respond. When he does, his answer is just as startling. "It's all right. It's going to be all right."
"I know." The smile is a struggle, and Jack can see the struggle in the bright blue eyes that aren't as innocent as they were, aren't quite as trusting, but he makes it. "The universe is still in one piece and I'm still hot. Right?"
He's a lost kid looking for reassurance. It's something Jack -- and maybe only Jack -- can give him. "Yeah," he says softly as he leans in, close enough to feel the flutter and brush of breath against his lips. "You're still hot."
Then he closes the distance between them and catches his younger counterpart's mouth in a warm, careful kiss.
--
He can't remember the last time someone has been so heartbreakingly gentle with him. He doesn't need it and he doesn't want it. Especially from himself. From some future self who knows how much of a lie that is.
He rejects the caution with the implications and bites into the kiss with a low growl, bites hard enough to break skin.
There's a flinch, but his aggression isn't met with aggression. The kiss stays soft. Fingers slide into his hair, warm and calloused, and curl but don’t pull. A wool covered thigh presses between his legs, against his cock, knee pressed right under his balls, but stops short of being anything more than a threat.
There's just enough there, enough strength and control to hold him still. He takes a deep breath through his nose, curls his cold fingers into the warm wool, and shivers, sudden and hard.
He realizes, with that shudder, just how cold he still is. The only heat in the room is radiating from the body pressed against his and suddenly just getting warm is the most important thing in the world.
He forces his fingers to unclench and slides them under the coat, around and behind so that his hands are pressed flat against the broad, warm back and leeching heat. He opens to the kiss the same way, at the same time. Cold and seeking warmth, he's not just allowing it, he's welcoming it.
The yield to accepting anything more than heat comes more slowly. It comes with the slick glide of a tongue against his, the brush of a thumb along his jaw, urging his mouth further open, and the slow flex of the thigh pressed against his cock. The warm flush of arousal combines with the gentle determination of the other man, and, for all that he's trying to resist it, he can't.
No one knows what he needs -- what he's going to need -- better than himself. The sound that comes out of his throat isn't a growl or a snarl. It's a groan.
--
He feels the moment passive acceptance turns to participation and he knows when the need for heat turns into the need to contact and comfort even before he hears the tentative groan.
The hands against his back are freezing even through the layers of cloth, but he doesn't pull away. He continues the kiss, breathing into it and letting himself be held. It goes on for some indefinite period of time but it's not lazy, it's just slow. The most immediate need here isn't for any sort of end, orgasmic or otherwise.
Inevitably the more physical drive makes itself known. The arch and push into him is stronger -- much stronger -- than he remembers himself being. He pulls out of the kiss, presses their foreheads together, and watches the rise of heat and arousal in his own eyes. "That's it," he murmurs encouragingly.
He still has one hand curled in the younger man’s hair, but he moves the other, slides it down over one bare arm, around the side and to the fastening of the leather pants. He tugs them open with a deft movement that's familiar in theory but alien because it’s the mirror image of memory.
The hands against his back move to fumble with his belt, clumsy with cold and urgency. He’s startled and, for just a moment, stops his own hands where they are, a little hesitant and confused.
He comes to his senses and realizes he shouldn't have been surprised at all. This isn't something he can do half way. There's no way he would have settled for less than everything.
There's a lesson for him there, but it's one he'll have to contemplate later. For now, he nods his understanding and says, "Turn around."
--
He doesn't need to be told twice. Now that he's in, he's in all the way.
As soon as he's given room to move, he pivots. He puts his hands flat against the wall, steps his feet out and apart and drops his head. He misses the warmth of a body against his -- the room is still too cool for comfort, or for the idea of stripping to be a pleasant one -- but he doesn't miss it for very long.
When two fingers press into him he's braced, teeth clenched, because he expects cold, or, at the very least, the rough burn of too much friction. Instead there's just pressure and warm slickness. He's got just a second to feel stupid -- of course he'd be carrying lube, and inside the coat, of course it would be warm -- then there's the jolt of sensation of fingers brushing his prostate.
He shudders, groans and pushes back. The fingers slide out, painfully slowly, and press back with such extreme care that he's shaking as much from arousal as cold by the time they're pulled completely free.
The older man steps behind him, close, and it's more leather against wool than skin against skin, but the warmth that wraps around him is nearly as tangible as the coat and more than makes up for any lack.
The solid, heated press of a cock against his ass doesn't hurt anything either.
--
He slides his hand over the still slightly cool shoulder and weaves his fingers through the boy's, uses it to keep his hand against the wall and to provide another point of contact between them. He wraps his free arm around the younger man's waist and lightly bites the back of his bent neck.
There's a moment of tension, just pressed tight and against. Then the fingers around his grip back, hard, and everything gives. The grip and heat -- and there is heat -- drags an almost reluctant groan out of his throat and past his teeth. "Fuck."
"Yeah." The agreement comes with the echo of his own groan, the voice nearly as tight as the grip around his cock.
He stays still. "Are you all right?"
"What do you think?" It's an attempt at an impatient snap but not an entirely successful one.
What he thinks is that whatever the kid -- and that's how he's thinking of him now, somehow -- is choking on isn't arousal. He sighs softly, breath against skin and the press of his lips right against that spot behind the ear that he knows is both comforting and arousing.
He pulls back slowly, tightens his fingers around the finally warming ones he's holding, and starts to move. Steady, fluid, rhythmic and looking for the right angle. He grits his teeth, chokes down his own response to the friction and heat, and focuses entirely on the person he's making love to. That it's himself isn't important anymore, and it's the only thing that matters at all.
When he feels the gradual tightening around his cock, sees it mirrored in the rising tension in shoulder and neck muscles, hears the breathing quicken and fall off-rhythm, he moves the hand the few inches necessary to wrap around the boy's cock.
--
The grip is, unsurprisingly, perfect. It's confident and strong and just firm enough to be right. The twist at the end of the stroke drags across just exactly the right spot to send him over. He clenches his teeth, holds his breath, and comes so hard that he doesn't feel the echo of his orgasm in the man -- in himself -- standing behind him.
There's just sensation and the sudden, violent release of arousal, and of emotion. He can hear his own ragged sob, and he doesn't care.
When he can breathe again -- when he can see, feel, hear, again -- when he's firmly back in his own body and aware of his surroundings, he realizes that he's being supported almost entirely by the wall and the arms around him. He takes a moment to pull forward a little, lean his forehead against the wall as he tries to get his trousers fastened again.
He fumbles because his hands are shaking that hard. "Stop," a voice says, so close and direct he can feel the brush of breath against the side of his face. He stops and closes his eyes. He doesn't protest when the task is taken over and done for him. He really is that tired, that wrung out and that exhausted.
"You need to get some rest." The voice is as every bit as gentle, warm and concerned as it was the first moment he heard it, waking up out there on the street.
He doesn't turn around, or answer right away. He does push back from enough to drag his hand over his face. "Yeah," he finally agrees.
"It'll look better when you wake up." It's a promise, and if it's not, he's going to pretend like it is anyway.
"Come on," the older, wiser, and infinitely sadder version of himself says as he gently pulls him away from the wall and through the cold and gas light to the bed. "There are clothes in the cupboard and this place is paid up for the next couple of months."
There's a pause while he's more or less dumped into the bed. He meets his own eyes again, finds that he can't really look away, and the older man goes on. "It will be all right, Jack. You can do this." Then, with a quirk of a grin that deepens the lines around his eyes, adds, "And hold onto that TARDIS key. You're going to need it again, someday."
He leaves in a flash of blue light, and Jack is left alone in nineteenth-century Cardiff to contemplate the uncertainty of his future. He doesn't contemplate it for very long before he pulls the blanket up and falls asleep.
--
He appears right outside the TARDIS. His aim has improved -- or maybe the vortex manipulator is working better since the Doctor has had his wicked way with it. He digs his key out of his pocket and lets himself in.
The Doctor is waiting on him, leaning against the console with his arms and ankles crossed.
"Martha still out?" Jack asks casually. He has no intention of telling the Doctor where he's been or what he's been doing.
Unfortunately, the Doctor has intentions of his own. "Out celebrating," he agrees with a nod. "You get what you needed done, done?" His tone is casual but his expression leaves Jack no room to doubt that he knows exactly where Jack's been and what he's been doing.
Jack holds the Doctor's eyes, his gaze steady, unflinching and unapologetic. He nods, very slightly. "Someone had to." His tone isn't angry, because he's not angry. It is uncompromising.
The silence that draws out between them feels heavy, weighted with meaning, with things they aren't willing to say, and with challenge.
Neither one of them looks away, but eventually the Doctor nods. "Good."
Jack lets out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. "Thanks," he says, a bit more quietly and a lot more softly.
"Didn't really change anything, you know," the Doctor says his eyes still on Jack.
Jack cocks his eyebrow up at the Doctor. "Didn't it?" he asks. "You sure about that?"
The Doctor opens his mouth but shuts it before he's answered, his expression slowly turning to one of utter confusion.
Jack smiles and heads for his room, leaving the Doctor alone to work it out.