Broken Threads 6/7
Story: Broken Threads
Author: wmr
wendymr
Characters: Tenth Doctor, Jack Harkness; appearances by Toshiko Sato, Owen Harper, Ianto Jones, Gwen Cooper
Rated: PG13
Spoilers: Doctor Who universe up to Voyage of the Damned and AU from there; Torchwood universe: reference to many S2 episodes, up to and including Fragments, but AU from Sleeper onwards.
Summary: “Knew you always wanted me, Jack. I thought that if I gave you what you wanted... you might say yes.”
With very many thanks to
dark_aegis for BRing and lots of brainstorming help. And please note: this is completely AU from most of S2 of Torchwood, and in particular from Exit Wounds. This chapter's for
nightrider101.
Chapter 1: Proposition l Chapter 2: Tensions l Chapter 3: Decisions l Chapter 4: Departures l Chapter 5: Truths
Chapter 6: Consequences
“No! No!”
He hears the voice yelling in denial, thinks it’s Jack’s, and only as he notices that Jack, next to him, is staring at the fireball in silent despair does he realise that it’s his own.
Again. Once again, a rescue attempt - well, not strictly rescue this time, but laying the ground for rescue - has ended in disaster.
Oh, Jack. After everything he’s suffered, he deserves better than this.
He has to grab onto Jack then as the Captain starts to bolt forward in what can only be a futile attempt to get to the submarine, now completely engulfed in flames and in pieces. “No, Jack. There’s nothing you can do. Nothing.”
“You don’t know -” Jack begins, and he’s got tears streaming down his face. Oh, Jack.
“I know,” he says, sadness and inevitability in his tone. “You do too. It’s impossible that anyone could have survived.”
It is. If there was even the faintest possibility... Another airship flies over and the ground’s strafed again. He has to jump aside and dive for cover, but Jack remains standing, statue-like, not even flinching when his arm’s hit and a stain of red appears on his coat.
He comes to a decision and, once the plane’s gone, rejoins Jack. A new setting on the screwdriver gives him what he needs and he grabs Jack’s wrist and makes a quick repair to his Vortex manipulator. Two seconds later, they’re standing a few feet away from the burning submarine.
Without a word, Jack frees himself and walks closer to the inferno, ignoring the punishing heat and his proximity to the fire. In the flickering light of the flames, his face is dark and shadowed and he appears decades older. It’s at least fifteen minutes before he turns back, his expression grim and eyes dead, haunted.
So many deaths. Too many. Why can’t someone, just one person, live? Why can’t he ever again have a day like that one in 1941 London, the day they met Jack, the day everybody lived?
But this isn’t about him. This is about Jack, and he meets his friend’s gaze as the Captain approaches.
It’s what he’d have done with Rose or with Martha, never with Jack, but here it’s the right thing to do. He reaches out and takes Jack’s hand in his. “Let’s go home.”
One more touch to the teleport device and they’re standing outside the TARDIS. Jack, his face appearing carved out of stone, unlocks the door and, once inside, stands immobile beside the door. “What now? Back to Cardiff?” The Captain’s voice is harsh, cold, and he’s refusing to make eye contact.
“Is that what you want?” Maybe it’s the best thing for him, but it doesn’t feel right.
“Does it matter? You’ve done what I asked. You’ve paid your debt. Home, you said, so... Cardiff it is.”
“I meant the TARDIS.” Laying a hand on Jack’s shoulder, he forces the Captain to look at him. “I’m sorry, Jack, so very sorry.”
Jack nods, exhaling slowly. “It’s not your fault.”
“Still, I’m sorry. Jack, what do you want? Is there something I can do for you?”
“He was just a kid!” Jack shouts, grief and rage exploding from him. “He was eight years old. Eight. And he’s dead. And I wasn’t able to do a damn thing...” He buries his face in his hands. “All that time,” he whispers against his fingers. “All that time, I thought if only I could find him, find what happened to him, I could save him.”
He tightens his hand on Jack’s shoulder, moving closer. “I know.”
Jack looks up abruptly. “I still can. I can go back. All I have to do is stop him getting on that ship-”
“No!” he exclaims. “You can’t. You know you can’t. The damage it would cause-”
“And you know that? You know it for a fact?” Jack tears himself away and begins pacing. “How many times have you changed history? Hell, how many times have I changed history? You think there was always a Chula ambulance in 1941? You think a guy from the future was always around during the twentieth century? You think I didn’t save people who should’ve died?”
“There’s a difference between changing what you already know to be history and just reacting to events, Jack-”
“Then why did you stop me grabbing him before he went near that ship?” Jack rakes both hands through his hair, his face contorted with fury and grief.
“You know why. Because that would have changed history. Someone would have seen you take him, or heard you call him. The younger you, or your mother, would have heard.”
“How do you know that? You don’t!”
“You think I’ve never been tempted, Jack? Of course I have. So many times. I’ve thought about going back to the Valiant and stopping Lucy, came up with so many ways it could’ve worked - and it would, too, because of the Paradox Machine. I thought about going back to Canary Wharf to rescue Rose before she fell through to the parallel universe. I’ve even thought about going back to Satellite Five just five minutes after I left you there. Oh, you don’t believe me? I did, many, many times, even before you found me in Cardiff.”
“Yeah, and you didn’t, and what’s that supposed to prove? That you’re a coward, Doctor. You’re a damn emotional coward.”
It’s not the first time he’s been accused of that, though it does sound rather like the pot calling the kettle black. That’s not important, though. What does matter is that Jack’s hurting, badly, and needs comfort, not an argument.
He’s always been crap at this companion-comforting thing, but one thing Rose taught him is that hugs rarely hurt and usually help. Jack may be a bloke, but he’s always been very physically affectionate, so...
Without another word, he strides over to Jack, ignores his friend’s attempt to back away, and pulls Jack into his arms, holding him tightly. After a few moments of resistance, Jack chokes out a sob and clings to him in return.
It takes a while, but finally Jack begins to calm and he pulls back a little, and Jack turns to face him in the same moment. Noses bump awkwardly, gazes meet and hold and he has no idea who moves first, though he’s always going to blame Jack, and, well, it just seems natural to kiss him.
Kiss it better, isn’t that what humans say?
***
Part of him always knew Grey was dead.
But it’s different believing it and actually seeing it. Being there, close enough to touch him, close enough to save him, and having to watch him walk away and get blown to pieces.
And he’s back there again, facing his mother’s accusing eyes. Why didn’t he hold onto Grey? Couldn’t he be trusted to take care of his brother for ten minutes? Selfish, selfish, selfish, always looking after himself, never remembering that his brother’s so much younger and needs help.
All his fault. For years, for over a century and a half, he’s believed that, and now he’s seen it. Because he could have saved Grey and he didn’t.
He lost people too on that day. He lost his dad and his kid brother. He lost his mom too, even though she didn’t die until six months after that day. He wanted his family back, but there was one other thing he wanted then, too. He wanted someone to hold him. Someone to hold him close and tell him he was loved. To kiss him and make it better.
It helps to cling to the arms enfolding him. It helps to lean on the strong body that’s offering unconditional support and comfort. It helps, too, to reach for the lips so close to his own and take the kiss that’s offered. To deepen it, meeting tongue with tongue and caress with caress, and to push hands past clothing to reach cool flesh beneath.
Kisses that grow more addictive with each taste. Touches that make his body burn. Hands guiding, steering, following and leading, until they’re falling together onto a soft surface - a bed, his bed - and still tearing at clothes. More kisses, and then a sudden searing pain in his arm that makes him cry out as they struggle to get his shirt off.
“I forgot you were shot!” the Doctor protests, pulling back, trying to sit up.
“It’s nothing.” He pulls the Doctor back, not wanting to stop, not wanting to remember. “A scratch.”
There’s movement, and his arm’s tugged at, moved around, and there’s buzzing before the pain goes away again. He refuses to open his eyes - it’s not real, it’s not happening, Grey’s not dead - and tries to tug the Doctor back down, to lose himself in sex again.
Instead, fingers press to his temples and lips gently kiss his. “Rest, Jack,” a soft voice murmurs, and he feels near-panic, fumbling for the Doctor even as his eyes grow heavy.
“Don’t go,” he mumbles, and the hand against his forehead gentles, smoothing over his hair.
“I’ll be here when you wake,” he’s promised in return, and he lets go, succumbs to the welcome sleep that’s overcoming him.
This time, he doesn’t dream.
***
He’s not averse to offering comfort, really he’s not. But sex of the funeral variety would be taking that too far, as much on Jack’s behalf as his own. Too many reasons to regret it later.
He stands, refastening his shirt and trousers - his coat, jacket and tie are somewhere between the console room and this bedroom, along with Jack’s greatcoat and, he suspects, more than a few buttons. Jack’s arm is fine; he was right, it’s only a flesh-wound. The bullet just penetrated Jack’s coat and grazed the skin. And that reminds him that he should probably clean the abrasion on his own face; that, he thinks, was flying debris rather than a bullet.
The dermal regenerator does the job in minutes, and then he takes the TARDIS away from the Peninsula and into the Vortex. And that’s when the questions and the doubts start to hit. Was he right? If he’d allowed Jack to take Grey away, would that have caused a paradox? Would the younger Jack and his mother have found out? Should he have taken Jack here at all?
Yet an examination of the timelines is reassuring, a bit. The timelines are undisturbed by today’s events, so Jack wasn’t supposed to save Grey. If he had... well, that’s when things get a bit murky. So, yes, probably was the right thing to do, but that doesn’t make it any easier, does it? A child died. Yes, that child’s been dead for more than one hundred and fifty years of Jack’s life, but for Jack it only happened today.
Wibbly-wobbly timey-wimey... yes. Well. Enough of that. He turns and strolls back to the bedroom he left about an hour earlier, kicks off his trainers and flops onto the bed beside Jack.
Lying on his side, head propped up on one hand, he studies the sleeping man. Still a fixed point in time, the timelines eddying and flowing around him while he remains constant, unchanging. Still makes his time-sense tingle in a way that’s only mildly uncomfortable now that he’s got used to it. Maybe, in a way, that continual awareness could actually be a positive thing. As long as he feels it, then he really isn’t alone, right? No, Jack’s not a Time Lord, but he’s immortal. Not going to die. Not going to grow old, or maybe very, very slowly.
“Hey.” Jack’s awake and watching him in return, and he hadn’t noticed. “You put me to sleep.” The tone’s accusing, but just a little.
“Might’ve. Just a bit.”
“Don’t make a habit of it.” Jack’s shifted closer; he can feel the human’s breath as he exhales.
He shrugs one shoulder. “What’s a habit? Once? Twice? A dozen times?”
Jack leans nearer and brushes the lightest of kisses against his lips. “Thank you.”
“What for?”
“Taking me there. Yeah, and you can stop blaming yourself, too.” He blinks, and Jack rolls his eyes. “Not fooling me. I know you, remember? Look, I asked to go. I knew there was a chance I’d see him die. Thing is, at least I know now. It’s the not knowing... For so long I just had no idea if he died that day or if he grew up somewhere thinking I’d abandoned him, that I didn’t care what happened to him. Now I know. So thank you.”
He grimaces. “I’d say it’s a pleasure, but... well. Anyway. Glad I could help, if you could call it helping.”
“Oh, I do.” Jack’s whole body moves closer this time, and he holds his breath in anticipation of the kiss he knows is coming.
It’s slower, gentler than a couple of hours ago, or the frantic kisses they shared in the Hub just yesterday morning. It’s asking, not demanding, leaving it up to him to respond or not, to take it further or not.
This has been a long time coming, though. And he’s learned the lesson of letting things drift, of assuming that there’ll always be another chance, there’ll always be later, that he doesn’t have to commit here and now. Time rarely gives him those laters, and even though Jack’s not going to die, or end up in a parallel universe - or at least he hopes not - there’s still no guarantee that there’ll be another chance.
He shifts closer too, reaching up to slide his palm along the side of Jack’s face as he kisses back, open-mouthed, sliding his tongue forward to stroke Jack’s. A thigh pressed against Jack’s makes the invitation clearer still. And it’s accepted; hands press bodies tighter together, clothes are pulled at, adjusted, unfastened.
They’re both close to naked and breathing heavily when Jack pulls back abruptly. “You’re sure you want this? You’re not just doing it because I want it?”
“Jack.” He drags Jack’s hand downwards; fingers curl around the evidence that he does indeed want this very much.
“Right.” Jack kisses him again. “But why - I mean, you never do this. But it’s obviously something you can want.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t say I never do it. But sex creates expectations, Jack. Expectations I just don’t want to meet. Declarations of love and forever and human stuff like settling down in one place, or even just putting the person above anything and everything else and do we have to talk about this now?”
“Course not,” Jack says and kisses him again, harder, and does something very clever with his fingers that makes the Doctor gasp.
It’s all a blur of movement and sensation then, lips and hands and tongues and other body parts meshing together and tussling for control, until they both win as they come together in a spiral of brilliance and why did he never do this with Jack before?
***
Everything’s changed, yet of course nothing has. This is the Doctor, after all. He’s bored after a couple of hours and leaps out of bed, demanding that Jack get dressed and come with him. To the console room, it transpires; he’s itchy to be travelling and exploring. No post-coital cuddling, and definitely no talking, especially not about how their relationship’s changed. But that’s no surprise, not given it’s the Doctor.
Jack’s got no objection to taking a trip, anyway, and they spend several hours exploring a planet neither of them have visited before, for once not running into danger of any sort, though there is some excitement when a three-winged bird appears to be dive-bombing them but instead just wants to make conversation. It’s interested in how they manage to get around without wings.
“Reminds me of you,” Jack comments as they wander on afterwards. “Always wanting to know how humans cope with only one heart and five senses and our tiny little brains.”
“I’m not that bad!” the Doctor protests.
“Oh, believe me, you are.” He’s grinning, but when the Doctor offers to kiss him to make up for any perceived slight he’s happy to accept. And, honestly, a guy who can kiss like that should never have been allowed to get away with his not interested act for so long.
Laughing, they carry on exploring together, and later when they return to the TARDIS they’ve barely dematerialised before the Doctor’s suggesting that a little lie-down might do them both good. Exhausting, after all, exploring planets, isn’t it?
“What, and exploring each other isn’t?” he retorts, but he’s already sliding the Doctor’s jacket off his shoulders.
He’s not quite sure who’s corrupted whom here, but later, as they’re finding new and different ways to make each other writhe and beg, he doesn’t really care. Accept or cast blame, he’s reaping the benefit either way.
Over the next few days, it’s just too easy to fall into a pattern, neither of them talking about the future or doing anything other than living from day to day. Travelling and adventuring, often running for their lives, just as they did with Rose all those decades ago, but with the addition now of long hours, or frequently snatched minutes, in bed - or other convenient locations - exploring each other’s bodies.
They go back to Boeshane a few days after the first visit, at his request, timing their arrival for a week after the younger him and his mother left the Peninsula. On the tip of the promontory, at the closest point to where Grey’s ship exploded, he lays a wreath amid the silence of a day when, for once, there’s no fighting. Not because peace has broken out, of course, but because most of the inhabitants have left - or are dead.
Straightening after laying the wreath, he stands by the promontory again, gazing out to sea with blurry eyes and remembering the dead. All of them, and especially Grey and his dad, and later his mom. After a couple of minutes, an arm’s slung loosely around his shoulders and, for the first time in longer than he can remember, it sinks in that he’s not alone.
And, too, that he’s come to terms with it now. Accepts that it wasn’t his fault, it wasn’t anyone’s fault, except the invaders. Grey’s at peace, and so, after all this time, is he.
Walking back to the TARDIS afterwards, the Doctor so close to him that their shoulders are brushing, he realises that he’s actually happy, for the first time in over a century and a half. No more agonising and wishing, wondering if Grey’s alive out there somewhere, lost and lonely, and tearing himself apart because he can’t go and find him. He can say goodbye and let it go.
And so he does. Because life goes on.
It’s a good life. A happy, almost carefree life, and a relationship, even if the Doctor would never consider it in those terms, that he’s always wanted, and it’s so very tempting to continue letting things drift, to accept the Doctor’s unspoken yet implied - he’s assuming - invitation to stay, to make the TARDIS the home he’s been searching for. But, despite what he said to the Doctor back in Cardiff, it’s not as simple as that.
He’s not a carefree young ex-Time Agent any more. He’s got responsibilities, as he told the Doctor once before, and he’s been ignoring them for too long.
The day he left with the Doctor, he did what he swore he’d never do again: he ran away from Torchwood, away from his responsibilities, precipitately and without any real planning. He left his team in the lurch, unprepared and without any help if they got in over their heads. They’re capable, sure, but none of them has his knowledge or experience.
There’s no escaping it: he has to go back.
It’s time.
***
“Where to today, then?”
Jack’s looking awkward, as if there’s something he needs to say but knows it’s not going to be taken well. What’s going on there, then?
He doesn’t have to wait long to find out. “I need to go back to Cardiff.”
“Oh?” This is it, then. He knew it’d come some time, but he’s been hoping... well, that it could be put off for a little longer at least. A few weeks. Months. Decades, even.
“Yeah. I thought I could just walk away from it all, Doctor, but I can’t. They’re my responsibility. Torchwood’s my responsibility. I can’t just ignore it, much as I’d like to say shove it and carry on doing what we’re doing. Besides... I want to see my team.”
Still his team, of course, but that’s no surprise; he saw Jack with them, saw them with Jack, and the bond between them all was clear. He knew all along that Jack couldn’t leave them permanently.
Looks like he’s worked out where he belongs, doesn’t it? Torchwood. Of course it was always going to be Torchwood. Responsibility, after all; Jack’s not at all the same man he was in 1941. And he’s not the sort of person to run in, save the day and then run away again without ever checking on the consequences. He’s the sort who stays around.
In some ways, they’re not all that alike, then.
“Cardiff, then,” he says with a decisive nod, though he can’t bring himself to look at Jack. “Soon have you back. You won’t mind if I don’t come in with you? You know I’m useless at the goodbye thing. Just leave and - well, maybe I’ll drop in on you from time to time.”
But not anywhere in the near future. Maybe in a decade or two. Or longer.
After all, it’s not as if Jack’s going to be going anywhere. He’s made his choice; found his place to belong. In Cardiff.
***
tbc
Author: wmr
wendymr
Characters: Tenth Doctor, Jack Harkness; appearances by Toshiko Sato, Owen Harper, Ianto Jones, Gwen Cooper
Rated: PG13
Spoilers: Doctor Who universe up to Voyage of the Damned and AU from there; Torchwood universe: reference to many S2 episodes, up to and including Fragments, but AU from Sleeper onwards.
Summary: “Knew you always wanted me, Jack. I thought that if I gave you what you wanted... you might say yes.”
With very many thanks to
dark_aegis for BRing and lots of brainstorming help. And please note: this is completely AU from most of S2 of Torchwood, and in particular from Exit Wounds. This chapter's for
nightrider101.
Chapter 1: Proposition l Chapter 2: Tensions l Chapter 3: Decisions l Chapter 4: Departures l Chapter 5: Truths
Chapter 6: Consequences
“No! No!”
He hears the voice yelling in denial, thinks it’s Jack’s, and only as he notices that Jack, next to him, is staring at the fireball in silent despair does he realise that it’s his own.
Again. Once again, a rescue attempt - well, not strictly rescue this time, but laying the ground for rescue - has ended in disaster.
Oh, Jack. After everything he’s suffered, he deserves better than this.
He has to grab onto Jack then as the Captain starts to bolt forward in what can only be a futile attempt to get to the submarine, now completely engulfed in flames and in pieces. “No, Jack. There’s nothing you can do. Nothing.”
“You don’t know -” Jack begins, and he’s got tears streaming down his face. Oh, Jack.
“I know,” he says, sadness and inevitability in his tone. “You do too. It’s impossible that anyone could have survived.”
It is. If there was even the faintest possibility... Another airship flies over and the ground’s strafed again. He has to jump aside and dive for cover, but Jack remains standing, statue-like, not even flinching when his arm’s hit and a stain of red appears on his coat.
He comes to a decision and, once the plane’s gone, rejoins Jack. A new setting on the screwdriver gives him what he needs and he grabs Jack’s wrist and makes a quick repair to his Vortex manipulator. Two seconds later, they’re standing a few feet away from the burning submarine.
Without a word, Jack frees himself and walks closer to the inferno, ignoring the punishing heat and his proximity to the fire. In the flickering light of the flames, his face is dark and shadowed and he appears decades older. It’s at least fifteen minutes before he turns back, his expression grim and eyes dead, haunted.
So many deaths. Too many. Why can’t someone, just one person, live? Why can’t he ever again have a day like that one in 1941 London, the day they met Jack, the day everybody lived?
But this isn’t about him. This is about Jack, and he meets his friend’s gaze as the Captain approaches.
It’s what he’d have done with Rose or with Martha, never with Jack, but here it’s the right thing to do. He reaches out and takes Jack’s hand in his. “Let’s go home.”
One more touch to the teleport device and they’re standing outside the TARDIS. Jack, his face appearing carved out of stone, unlocks the door and, once inside, stands immobile beside the door. “What now? Back to Cardiff?” The Captain’s voice is harsh, cold, and he’s refusing to make eye contact.
“Is that what you want?” Maybe it’s the best thing for him, but it doesn’t feel right.
“Does it matter? You’ve done what I asked. You’ve paid your debt. Home, you said, so... Cardiff it is.”
“I meant the TARDIS.” Laying a hand on Jack’s shoulder, he forces the Captain to look at him. “I’m sorry, Jack, so very sorry.”
Jack nods, exhaling slowly. “It’s not your fault.”
“Still, I’m sorry. Jack, what do you want? Is there something I can do for you?”
“He was just a kid!” Jack shouts, grief and rage exploding from him. “He was eight years old. Eight. And he’s dead. And I wasn’t able to do a damn thing...” He buries his face in his hands. “All that time,” he whispers against his fingers. “All that time, I thought if only I could find him, find what happened to him, I could save him.”
He tightens his hand on Jack’s shoulder, moving closer. “I know.”
Jack looks up abruptly. “I still can. I can go back. All I have to do is stop him getting on that ship-”
“No!” he exclaims. “You can’t. You know you can’t. The damage it would cause-”
“And you know that? You know it for a fact?” Jack tears himself away and begins pacing. “How many times have you changed history? Hell, how many times have I changed history? You think there was always a Chula ambulance in 1941? You think a guy from the future was always around during the twentieth century? You think I didn’t save people who should’ve died?”
“There’s a difference between changing what you already know to be history and just reacting to events, Jack-”
“Then why did you stop me grabbing him before he went near that ship?” Jack rakes both hands through his hair, his face contorted with fury and grief.
“You know why. Because that would have changed history. Someone would have seen you take him, or heard you call him. The younger you, or your mother, would have heard.”
“How do you know that? You don’t!”
“You think I’ve never been tempted, Jack? Of course I have. So many times. I’ve thought about going back to the Valiant and stopping Lucy, came up with so many ways it could’ve worked - and it would, too, because of the Paradox Machine. I thought about going back to Canary Wharf to rescue Rose before she fell through to the parallel universe. I’ve even thought about going back to Satellite Five just five minutes after I left you there. Oh, you don’t believe me? I did, many, many times, even before you found me in Cardiff.”
“Yeah, and you didn’t, and what’s that supposed to prove? That you’re a coward, Doctor. You’re a damn emotional coward.”
It’s not the first time he’s been accused of that, though it does sound rather like the pot calling the kettle black. That’s not important, though. What does matter is that Jack’s hurting, badly, and needs comfort, not an argument.
He’s always been crap at this companion-comforting thing, but one thing Rose taught him is that hugs rarely hurt and usually help. Jack may be a bloke, but he’s always been very physically affectionate, so...
Without another word, he strides over to Jack, ignores his friend’s attempt to back away, and pulls Jack into his arms, holding him tightly. After a few moments of resistance, Jack chokes out a sob and clings to him in return.
It takes a while, but finally Jack begins to calm and he pulls back a little, and Jack turns to face him in the same moment. Noses bump awkwardly, gazes meet and hold and he has no idea who moves first, though he’s always going to blame Jack, and, well, it just seems natural to kiss him.
Kiss it better, isn’t that what humans say?
***
Part of him always knew Grey was dead.
But it’s different believing it and actually seeing it. Being there, close enough to touch him, close enough to save him, and having to watch him walk away and get blown to pieces.
And he’s back there again, facing his mother’s accusing eyes. Why didn’t he hold onto Grey? Couldn’t he be trusted to take care of his brother for ten minutes? Selfish, selfish, selfish, always looking after himself, never remembering that his brother’s so much younger and needs help.
All his fault. For years, for over a century and a half, he’s believed that, and now he’s seen it. Because he could have saved Grey and he didn’t.
He lost people too on that day. He lost his dad and his kid brother. He lost his mom too, even though she didn’t die until six months after that day. He wanted his family back, but there was one other thing he wanted then, too. He wanted someone to hold him. Someone to hold him close and tell him he was loved. To kiss him and make it better.
It helps to cling to the arms enfolding him. It helps to lean on the strong body that’s offering unconditional support and comfort. It helps, too, to reach for the lips so close to his own and take the kiss that’s offered. To deepen it, meeting tongue with tongue and caress with caress, and to push hands past clothing to reach cool flesh beneath.
Kisses that grow more addictive with each taste. Touches that make his body burn. Hands guiding, steering, following and leading, until they’re falling together onto a soft surface - a bed, his bed - and still tearing at clothes. More kisses, and then a sudden searing pain in his arm that makes him cry out as they struggle to get his shirt off.
“I forgot you were shot!” the Doctor protests, pulling back, trying to sit up.
“It’s nothing.” He pulls the Doctor back, not wanting to stop, not wanting to remember. “A scratch.”
There’s movement, and his arm’s tugged at, moved around, and there’s buzzing before the pain goes away again. He refuses to open his eyes - it’s not real, it’s not happening, Grey’s not dead - and tries to tug the Doctor back down, to lose himself in sex again.
Instead, fingers press to his temples and lips gently kiss his. “Rest, Jack,” a soft voice murmurs, and he feels near-panic, fumbling for the Doctor even as his eyes grow heavy.
“Don’t go,” he mumbles, and the hand against his forehead gentles, smoothing over his hair.
“I’ll be here when you wake,” he’s promised in return, and he lets go, succumbs to the welcome sleep that’s overcoming him.
This time, he doesn’t dream.
***
He’s not averse to offering comfort, really he’s not. But sex of the funeral variety would be taking that too far, as much on Jack’s behalf as his own. Too many reasons to regret it later.
He stands, refastening his shirt and trousers - his coat, jacket and tie are somewhere between the console room and this bedroom, along with Jack’s greatcoat and, he suspects, more than a few buttons. Jack’s arm is fine; he was right, it’s only a flesh-wound. The bullet just penetrated Jack’s coat and grazed the skin. And that reminds him that he should probably clean the abrasion on his own face; that, he thinks, was flying debris rather than a bullet.
The dermal regenerator does the job in minutes, and then he takes the TARDIS away from the Peninsula and into the Vortex. And that’s when the questions and the doubts start to hit. Was he right? If he’d allowed Jack to take Grey away, would that have caused a paradox? Would the younger Jack and his mother have found out? Should he have taken Jack here at all?
Yet an examination of the timelines is reassuring, a bit. The timelines are undisturbed by today’s events, so Jack wasn’t supposed to save Grey. If he had... well, that’s when things get a bit murky. So, yes, probably was the right thing to do, but that doesn’t make it any easier, does it? A child died. Yes, that child’s been dead for more than one hundred and fifty years of Jack’s life, but for Jack it only happened today.
Wibbly-wobbly timey-wimey... yes. Well. Enough of that. He turns and strolls back to the bedroom he left about an hour earlier, kicks off his trainers and flops onto the bed beside Jack.
Lying on his side, head propped up on one hand, he studies the sleeping man. Still a fixed point in time, the timelines eddying and flowing around him while he remains constant, unchanging. Still makes his time-sense tingle in a way that’s only mildly uncomfortable now that he’s got used to it. Maybe, in a way, that continual awareness could actually be a positive thing. As long as he feels it, then he really isn’t alone, right? No, Jack’s not a Time Lord, but he’s immortal. Not going to die. Not going to grow old, or maybe very, very slowly.
“Hey.” Jack’s awake and watching him in return, and he hadn’t noticed. “You put me to sleep.” The tone’s accusing, but just a little.
“Might’ve. Just a bit.”
“Don’t make a habit of it.” Jack’s shifted closer; he can feel the human’s breath as he exhales.
He shrugs one shoulder. “What’s a habit? Once? Twice? A dozen times?”
Jack leans nearer and brushes the lightest of kisses against his lips. “Thank you.”
“What for?”
“Taking me there. Yeah, and you can stop blaming yourself, too.” He blinks, and Jack rolls his eyes. “Not fooling me. I know you, remember? Look, I asked to go. I knew there was a chance I’d see him die. Thing is, at least I know now. It’s the not knowing... For so long I just had no idea if he died that day or if he grew up somewhere thinking I’d abandoned him, that I didn’t care what happened to him. Now I know. So thank you.”
He grimaces. “I’d say it’s a pleasure, but... well. Anyway. Glad I could help, if you could call it helping.”
“Oh, I do.” Jack’s whole body moves closer this time, and he holds his breath in anticipation of the kiss he knows is coming.
It’s slower, gentler than a couple of hours ago, or the frantic kisses they shared in the Hub just yesterday morning. It’s asking, not demanding, leaving it up to him to respond or not, to take it further or not.
This has been a long time coming, though. And he’s learned the lesson of letting things drift, of assuming that there’ll always be another chance, there’ll always be later, that he doesn’t have to commit here and now. Time rarely gives him those laters, and even though Jack’s not going to die, or end up in a parallel universe - or at least he hopes not - there’s still no guarantee that there’ll be another chance.
He shifts closer too, reaching up to slide his palm along the side of Jack’s face as he kisses back, open-mouthed, sliding his tongue forward to stroke Jack’s. A thigh pressed against Jack’s makes the invitation clearer still. And it’s accepted; hands press bodies tighter together, clothes are pulled at, adjusted, unfastened.
They’re both close to naked and breathing heavily when Jack pulls back abruptly. “You’re sure you want this? You’re not just doing it because I want it?”
“Jack.” He drags Jack’s hand downwards; fingers curl around the evidence that he does indeed want this very much.
“Right.” Jack kisses him again. “But why - I mean, you never do this. But it’s obviously something you can want.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t say I never do it. But sex creates expectations, Jack. Expectations I just don’t want to meet. Declarations of love and forever and human stuff like settling down in one place, or even just putting the person above anything and everything else and do we have to talk about this now?”
“Course not,” Jack says and kisses him again, harder, and does something very clever with his fingers that makes the Doctor gasp.
It’s all a blur of movement and sensation then, lips and hands and tongues and other body parts meshing together and tussling for control, until they both win as they come together in a spiral of brilliance and why did he never do this with Jack before?
***
Everything’s changed, yet of course nothing has. This is the Doctor, after all. He’s bored after a couple of hours and leaps out of bed, demanding that Jack get dressed and come with him. To the console room, it transpires; he’s itchy to be travelling and exploring. No post-coital cuddling, and definitely no talking, especially not about how their relationship’s changed. But that’s no surprise, not given it’s the Doctor.
Jack’s got no objection to taking a trip, anyway, and they spend several hours exploring a planet neither of them have visited before, for once not running into danger of any sort, though there is some excitement when a three-winged bird appears to be dive-bombing them but instead just wants to make conversation. It’s interested in how they manage to get around without wings.
“Reminds me of you,” Jack comments as they wander on afterwards. “Always wanting to know how humans cope with only one heart and five senses and our tiny little brains.”
“I’m not that bad!” the Doctor protests.
“Oh, believe me, you are.” He’s grinning, but when the Doctor offers to kiss him to make up for any perceived slight he’s happy to accept. And, honestly, a guy who can kiss like that should never have been allowed to get away with his not interested act for so long.
Laughing, they carry on exploring together, and later when they return to the TARDIS they’ve barely dematerialised before the Doctor’s suggesting that a little lie-down might do them both good. Exhausting, after all, exploring planets, isn’t it?
“What, and exploring each other isn’t?” he retorts, but he’s already sliding the Doctor’s jacket off his shoulders.
He’s not quite sure who’s corrupted whom here, but later, as they’re finding new and different ways to make each other writhe and beg, he doesn’t really care. Accept or cast blame, he’s reaping the benefit either way.
Over the next few days, it’s just too easy to fall into a pattern, neither of them talking about the future or doing anything other than living from day to day. Travelling and adventuring, often running for their lives, just as they did with Rose all those decades ago, but with the addition now of long hours, or frequently snatched minutes, in bed - or other convenient locations - exploring each other’s bodies.
They go back to Boeshane a few days after the first visit, at his request, timing their arrival for a week after the younger him and his mother left the Peninsula. On the tip of the promontory, at the closest point to where Grey’s ship exploded, he lays a wreath amid the silence of a day when, for once, there’s no fighting. Not because peace has broken out, of course, but because most of the inhabitants have left - or are dead.
Straightening after laying the wreath, he stands by the promontory again, gazing out to sea with blurry eyes and remembering the dead. All of them, and especially Grey and his dad, and later his mom. After a couple of minutes, an arm’s slung loosely around his shoulders and, for the first time in longer than he can remember, it sinks in that he’s not alone.
And, too, that he’s come to terms with it now. Accepts that it wasn’t his fault, it wasn’t anyone’s fault, except the invaders. Grey’s at peace, and so, after all this time, is he.
Walking back to the TARDIS afterwards, the Doctor so close to him that their shoulders are brushing, he realises that he’s actually happy, for the first time in over a century and a half. No more agonising and wishing, wondering if Grey’s alive out there somewhere, lost and lonely, and tearing himself apart because he can’t go and find him. He can say goodbye and let it go.
And so he does. Because life goes on.
It’s a good life. A happy, almost carefree life, and a relationship, even if the Doctor would never consider it in those terms, that he’s always wanted, and it’s so very tempting to continue letting things drift, to accept the Doctor’s unspoken yet implied - he’s assuming - invitation to stay, to make the TARDIS the home he’s been searching for. But, despite what he said to the Doctor back in Cardiff, it’s not as simple as that.
He’s not a carefree young ex-Time Agent any more. He’s got responsibilities, as he told the Doctor once before, and he’s been ignoring them for too long.
The day he left with the Doctor, he did what he swore he’d never do again: he ran away from Torchwood, away from his responsibilities, precipitately and without any real planning. He left his team in the lurch, unprepared and without any help if they got in over their heads. They’re capable, sure, but none of them has his knowledge or experience.
There’s no escaping it: he has to go back.
It’s time.
***
“Where to today, then?”
Jack’s looking awkward, as if there’s something he needs to say but knows it’s not going to be taken well. What’s going on there, then?
He doesn’t have to wait long to find out. “I need to go back to Cardiff.”
“Oh?” This is it, then. He knew it’d come some time, but he’s been hoping... well, that it could be put off for a little longer at least. A few weeks. Months. Decades, even.
“Yeah. I thought I could just walk away from it all, Doctor, but I can’t. They’re my responsibility. Torchwood’s my responsibility. I can’t just ignore it, much as I’d like to say shove it and carry on doing what we’re doing. Besides... I want to see my team.”
Still his team, of course, but that’s no surprise; he saw Jack with them, saw them with Jack, and the bond between them all was clear. He knew all along that Jack couldn’t leave them permanently.
Looks like he’s worked out where he belongs, doesn’t it? Torchwood. Of course it was always going to be Torchwood. Responsibility, after all; Jack’s not at all the same man he was in 1941. And he’s not the sort of person to run in, save the day and then run away again without ever checking on the consequences. He’s the sort who stays around.
In some ways, they’re not all that alike, then.
“Cardiff, then,” he says with a decisive nod, though he can’t bring himself to look at Jack. “Soon have you back. You won’t mind if I don’t come in with you? You know I’m useless at the goodbye thing. Just leave and - well, maybe I’ll drop in on you from time to time.”
But not anywhere in the near future. Maybe in a decade or two. Or longer.
After all, it’s not as if Jack’s going to be going anywhere. He’s made his choice; found his place to belong. In Cardiff.
***
tbc