Fic for Shengirl: When Luck Runs Out 1/1
Story: When Luck Runs Out
Author: wmr wendymr
Characters: Ninth Doctor, Rose Tyler, Jack Harkness
Rated: PG
Spoilers: None beyond The Doctor Dances (no worries about S4 spoilers here!)
Disclaimer: If I ever do get given these three for Christmas I'll let you all know, okay?
Summary: And, for all their narrow escapes, the three of them always do end up just fine, don’t they? Or do they?
Written for shengirl; I won't state her specific prompt as it's a spoiler, but I hope this meets requirements! Sorry for taking so long to deliver. With many thanks, as ever, to
dark_aegis for BRing and help.
When Luck Runs Out
“Well, hurry up, then!” The Doctor’s standing by the open door of the TARDIS, waving impatiently at her and Jack. “Anyone’d think you two were just out for an afternoon stroll ‘stead of runnin’ for your lives.”
“Oi!” she objects, back-handing him in the chest as she hurries past him and into the console room. “Not fair! My legs aren’t as long as yours.”
“His are.” The Doctor nods towards Jack, finally stumbling, panting, through the door.
“You might’ve got the engines started and ready to go, instead of just standing there making fun of us,” Jack comments between deep breaths as he pushes the door closed.
“All in good time.” The Doctor, head held high, strides towards the console. “With the snail’s pace you two were usin’, I’d’ve wasted far too much fuel waiting for you.”
“Oi!” she objects again. “Jack saved my life, in case you didn’t notice, Doctor! One of those creatures got its whip around my ankle. He ran back an’ got me free.”
The Doctor halts, swings around in one fluid movement and stares at the two of them. “Did he, now.” His gaze flits from her to Jack. “Had no idea she was in trouble. Thank you, Captain.” He inclines his head in what looks like acknowledgement of a debt.
Jack shrugs. “It’s only what anyone would’ve done.” He glances down at her ankles then. “You okay, Rose? They’re not known for being gentle with those whips.”
It’s only then she realises that her left ankle is kind of throbbing. The Doctor comes over, crouches in front of her and examines it briefly with cool fingers that glide over her skin, pressing and probing until an indrawn breath shows him where the pain’s worst.
“Get her to the medlab, Jack,” he says as he straightens. “I’ll come as soon as we’re in the Vortex.”
She can walk on her own, she protests, but Jack swings her up in his arms all the same, insisting with a chuckle that she shouldn’t deprive him of the rare opportunity to hold her in his arms under the guise of chivalry. The fact that his hand glides over her arse as he settles her against him confirms his honesty about the mixed nature of his motives.
It’s just a bit of rope-burn, though. There’s no skin broken, so any poison that might have been in the thong hasn’t had any opportunity to infect her, though the Doctor still cleans her ankle very thoroughly with an antibacterial solution and gives her a precautionary shot of antitoxin; he explains that the poison this lot are known to use is easy to deal with if it’s counteracted quickly, but if it’s given time to take hold it tends to be fatal, so he’d prefer to give her an unnecessary dose now than find out in four hours’ time that she needed it after all - when it’d be too late.
She’s fine, and they’re all laughing about yet another narrow escape, another bout of running from their lives from angry aliens as they head to the kitchen for a cup of tea.
That’s their lives, after all. Saving worlds some days, landing face-first in the dirt on others, and most of the time being lucky to escape with their lives.
Some day, maybe, it’ll stop being fun, and she knows that’ll be when she asks to be taken home; but on days like today, and on evenings like this when the three of them are sitting around the table, drinking tea and fighting good-humouredly over the last HobNob - until one of them stops being lazy and goes to the cupboard for another packet - she can’t see that time coming, not ever.
Because this is the perfect life, isn’t it? And, for all their narrow escapes, the three of them always do end up just fine, don’t they? It’s like they have charmed lives, and maybe they do. She won’t complain about that, not one bit.
Nor does she complain when, a bit later, the Doctor - still obviously feeling guilty for not noticing that she’d been hit - offers her the choice of what they do for the rest of the evening. He doesn’t even roll his eyes when she demands a film from the TARDIS databanks. Something with silliness, lots of explosions and at least one love scene, she stipulates - that’ll keep Jack happy too, she knows.
But Jack, with a shake of his head and a smothered yawn, announces that he’s off to bed. Too much excitement for one day, he protests. She doesn’t believe him for one second - Jack’s never tired this early - and she knows exactly what he’s up to. He’s been encouraging her lately to do something about the fact that she’s attracted like crazy to the Doctor, and he’s leaving them alone tonight, when the Doctor’s already a bit more vulnerable than usual.
For that, and for saving her life, she catches Jack on his way out of the room and hugs him. He wraps his arms around her in return, drops a kiss on her hair and squeezes her tight. “See ya tomorrow,” he promises, and is gone, leaving her alone with the Doctor.
The Doctor... who is, of course, just as evasive, just as alien, as usual, even as he’s just as infuriating. They watch the film together, and he even sits next to her on the couch, but he complains when the science is wrong, mocks the explosions and laughs at the kissing. “Can’t even get that right. Look! He’s kissing her upper lip. Call that sexy?”
She shakes her head and turns off the film, and they spend the rest of the evening talking instead; he teaches her more about the universe, and she tells him more about growing up in the Estates without a dad and how her mum struggled to make ends meet on a series of dead-end jobs and no qualifications.
“Promise me something,” he says as she’s heading to bed.
“What?”
“Whatever you do when you leave me an’ go back home, don’t go back to workin’ in a shop.” His expression’s very serious, hands buried deep in his jacket pocket, eyes focused intently on her in a way that makes her breath catch. “Get some qualifications, Rose. Do somethin’ that makes you happy, ‘stead of just somethin’ to get by on. Do that for me. No, don’t do it for me,” he amends quickly. “Do it for you. An’ for your dad, and for your mum.”
A lump in her throat, she nods, then reaches for him, pulling him into a hug. He hugs back briefly before pushing her towards the door. “Night, Rose.”
***
They’re late, as always. Humans - they’d sleep their lives away, if he’d let them. Six or seven hours’ sleep every night, and then they want to dawdle over breakfast too.
The door’s pushed open, finally, and Rose shuffles in, yawning, a mug cupped between her hands. That’s been a familiar sight almost since she started travelling with him, though in the past couple of weeks he’s been getting used to Jack following her into the room, the two of them teasing each other and laughing as they greet him, ready for a new day of adventure.
“Just you? Where’s himself, then?” he asks, a bit of irritation slipping through. It’s not as if he needs both of them here to start the day’s journey, of course, but he’d planned to start teaching Jack some of the basics of TARDIS piloting, as opposed to just throwing out random instructions. After all, maybe some day it might be useful if the human knew something about how to operate the TARDIS.
Rose looks around, surprised. “Dunno. He wasn’t in the kitchen - I assumed he’d be here already.”
He rolls his eyes. “Lazy sod. Go an’ wake him up, then. Tell him if he’s not in here in ten minutes he can stay behind.”
“Like you really would,” she tosses over her shoulder before disappearing back through the door.
He shakes his head before returning his attention to the console monitor. Now not even his companions are taking his threats seriously. It’s about time he showed them he means it, then. When the Captain finally decides to show his face, there’ll be a nice stretch of interior piping needing cleaning, right under the Time Rotor. See him come out of that without getting filthy-
“Doctor!” Rose has reappeared in the doorway, white-faced and apparently having run all the way. “Come quick - ‘s Jack!”
“What now?” All the same, he hurries over towards her.
“He’s sick.” She’s already running away from him again, back along the corridor. “Really bad, sweatin’ and shivering. Didn’t hear me when I called him.”
Sick? The bloke’s a Time Agent. Time Agents don’t get sick. They’re inoculated against all known diseases, human and alien. Jack shouldn’t be sick.
He overtakes Rose in the hallway leading to Jack’s room and enters the bedroom first, hurrying to the Captain’s bedside and taking a close look. She’s right. He’s very sick indeed. He doesn’t even need to run blood-tests to know that. High fever, signs of vomiting - the bloke’s very lucky he didn’t choke on his own vomit - and irregular breathing.
“Rose.” Without looking away from Jack, he addresses her. “Go back to the medlab. Open it up and get the bed in the middle ready, all right?”
He bends, scoops the Captain up in his arms, and slowly, carefully makes his way to the medlab.
***
It’s bad. She saw the Doctor’s face as he bent over Jack, and how he rapped out instructions without even touching their friend.
Methodically, she washes her hands, then finds the sterile sheets and lays them out on top of the bed. The Doctor’s coming in then, Jack in his arms, and she’s there to help him lay him on the bed.
She wants to ask what’s wrong. Has Jack got some sort of flu, or food poisoning, or a weird alien virus. But of course the Doctor won’t know, not just by looking, and she’ll only be wasting his time by asking the question.
Something catches her eye, though, as she’s settling Jack. “What’s that?”
“What?” The Doctor’s not really paying attention, already backing away to get scrubbed up.
“On his back.” She grips Jack’s shoulders, pulling him up so that the Doctor can see the inflamed S-shaped red line just by his shoulder-blade. Tiny red streaks, like veins, lead away from it and all over Jack’s back.
The Doctor’s glance over his shoulder is brief, but then he pulls himself up and, in one of those lightning-fast movements she’s now used to from him, he’s standing by the bed again, bending to peer closely at the mark.
“Right,” he says, and there’s a rough edge to his voice. “Get him on his side. I’ll be back in a mo.”
“What d’you think it is?” she asks, because he knows, she can tell, or he’s got a pretty damn good suspicion, anyway.
He answers with another question. “When he rescued you yesterday, were the Amoxians still trying to attack?”
She nods, then realises his back’s to her. “Oh, yeah. Whips all over the place. Jack was really quick, though. Got me away before any of them could hit me again.” And then it strikes her, what the Doctor’s getting at. “He was hit, wasn’t he? That’s what that is. A whiplash.”
“Yeah, that’s my guess.” He’s drying his hands and pulling on sterile gloves now. “It broke the skin. The poison’s in his bloodstream an’ that’s what’s caused the fever.”
The Amoxian poison. The one the Doctor told her was deadly. The one he said could be counteracted with antitoxin in the first hour, but after that was incurable.
Jack’s going to die. That’s the only thought in her head as she tries to make him comfortable on his side and hold him steady despite his occasional attempts to thrash about, the unnatural heat of his skin too warm against her palms.
He’s going to die, because neither of them, her or the Doctor, thought to ask if he’d been hit by one of the whips, or to suggest that he should have an injection of antitoxin too while the Doctor was treating her yesterday. They just didn’t think.
“He never said,” she blurts out as the Doctor returns.
“Probably didn’t even notice it happening,” he tells her, but she knows he’s just trying to make her feel better about neglecting Jack. “Probably happened too quickly.”
“But wouldn’t it’ve hurt?” she asks, holding Jack steady as the Doctor starts to probe around the inflamed area.
“Maybe, maybe not. He’s been a soldier, Rose. Cuts, bruises, all that sort of stuff’s not important. You just shrug it off. Thing is,” he adds as he reaches for a hypodermic, “he’d have assumed he was immune. Inoculated against all sorts of things, his lot are.”
“But not this?”
“Seems not, no.” The Doctor shakes his head, then nods at her to let Jack down again before walking over to the equipment he keeps against a back wall.
There’s nothing they can do, she knows, until the Doctor’s finished whatever tests he’s doing. But she can try to keep Jack comfortable. He’s too hot; the fever’s burning him up despite the cool atmosphere in the medlab and his state of complete nudity - which she’s only just noticed.
She goes to find a cloth, soaks it in cool water and brings it back to lay on his forehead. Even if it doesn’t help him, it’ll help her.
***
It’s like he told Rose - told them both - yesterday. This poison’s deadly if it’s not counteracted quickly. And he knows exactly what Rose is thinking. They should have thought - all of them, Jack too - it should have occurred to them that Jack might have been hit, might have been infected. All it would’ve taken was two seconds’ thought and a quick injection of antitoxin and he’d have been fine.
Now, the poison’s eating him up from the inside and he’s dying.
He’s already detected the signs he knows Rose won’t have seen. Slower, and irregular, respirations, even if it’s not yet close to respiratory distress. A much slower heartbeat. A fever close to the maximum any human can sustain without it turning fatal.
And why hasn’t Jack’s Time Agent immunity stopped this?
But then maybe the Time Agency never made it to Amoxia; maybe they’ve never come across this particular toxin. Doesn’t matter; whatever the reason, the fact is that Jack’s not immune and he’s probably got half an hour at most to come up with something to stop him dying.
Though, of course, staving off immediate death is only going to be the beginning. He might be able to keep Jack alive - effectively, on life-support - but if he can’t find an antidote to the poison that works then it won’t do any good; the bloke will die anyway.
A good, strong dose of antitoxin, plus some fluids to replace what Jack’s already lost through the fever, is what’s needed immediately - but even that’s not simple. Because what he didn’t tell Rose is that the antitoxin itself is poisonous. Bit like digitalis, really; great for use with an arrhythmic heart, but the wrong dose will kill in minutes.
Slow as it is, frustrating as it is, he has to run the tests that compare the sample of Jack’s blood that he’s just taken with the sample the TARDIS analysed not long after he joined them - and isn’t it just as well that he insisted on running that test, despite the Captain’s objections that it wouldn’t be necessary because he was immune to just about every known illness and infection. He needs information, not just to help him work out how much of the antitoxin to use, but also how the genetic modifications already present within Jack’s immune system are going to interact with the toxin and the vaccine.
It’s a few minutes before he remembers Rose; glancing around, he notices that she’s using a cool cloth on Jack’s face. “Good work,” he tells her; he should have thought of that himself. Anything that reduces the fever, even if it’s just a tiny bit, can only help. “Get more cloths and use them all over him.”
She looks up and meets his gaze as she nods, and her face is pale with fear. He can’t find the words to reassure her, though, not when he can’t even reassure himself. Right now, he wouldn’t bet anything at all on the likelihood of Jack surviving.
Won’t stop him trying, though. Through the centuries, he’s had too many people he’s responsible for die. He’s not going to lose another one, not without a fight.
***
The Doctor hasn’t told her what he’s doing, but he’s busy, examining things and moving from one piece of equipment to another, and that has to be good, right? He wouldn’t be doing all this stuff if he didn’t think there was anything that could be done for Jack.
It’s a relief when he finally comes over, hypodermic in his hand. He gets her to hold Jack steady on his side while he injects. She has to ask. “This gonna make him better, then?”
The darkness in his eyes tells her she shouldn’t have asked. “Not by a long way. Might just stop him dyin’, for now, but that’s all.”
“What d’you mean?”
She listens, continuing to keep Jack mopped down with cool, damp cloths - which do seem to be soothing him, as he’s moving around less - as the Doctor talks about toxins and compounds and fifty-first century genetically-modified immune systems and working out the precise composition of vaccines. Most of it goes right over her head, but that doesn’t matter. The important thing is that he’s talking - and he seems to need to - and it’s keeping them both occupied. It’s not as if there’s anything else they can do for Jack right now, after all.
After the fourth time he tells her there’s no change, she stops asking.
Even still, she knows he’s aware of what she is too: it’s been nearly three hours since she found Jack in his bed and he’s still alive. Still very sick, still burning up and occasionally thrashing around on the narrow medlab bed, but alive.
She’ll take any fragment of hope she can, no matter how slim.
***
He’s not been completely honest with Rose.
There is change, but not in the right direction. At his last check, Jack’s temperature’s gone up. Only half a degree, but enough to push him closer to that danger zone.
He’s risked giving the bloke another shot of antitoxin - it may be dangerous, but at this rate he’s going to be dead from the fever, if not the poison, within a few hours anyway. It’s not exactly much of a gamble, not with those odds.
What a waste. Rescued from blowing up with his ship after he risked his life to save hundreds of humans from death in an explosion, only to die from Amoxian poisoning.
When Jack almost falls off the bed for the third time, Rose looks at him again - she’s been avoiding his gaze for most of the past couple of hours, and he knows why. She knows he’s got no hope to give her.
“Can’t we take him back to his bed? He’d be more comfortable there, an’ he wouldn’t be nearly landing on the floor all the time.”
“Need him close to my equipment,” he explains; it’s true, all right. Too difficult to monitor Jack’s status and provide more antitoxin if needed, otherwise. But he can do something about the bed. A brief instruction to the TARDIS and suddenly the narrow examining bed become as wide as Jack’s own. “Better?”
“Yeah.” She carries on patting Jack’s body down with the cloths. She has to reach further now, but it doesn’t seem to bother her.
Later, he has to bully her to go and eat, and later still it’s no surprise when she refuses to go to bed. In the end, he tells her to lie down in here and rest and he’ll wake her if there’s any change - he doesn’t want two invalids on his hands, after all.
He supposes he shouldn’t really be surprised when, instead of using one of the other beds, she curls up next to Jack. Just as well the fever’s not contagious, really, because the thought of explaining that to Jackie Tyler breaks him out in a sweat.
Once she’s safely asleep, he gives Jack one more dose of vaccine. Kill or cure, this one, but he knows there’s no way the bloke’s body’s going to be able to sustain this level of fever for much longer. Pulling up a chair next to the bed, he settles himself in to wait.
***
There’s a warm body pressed close to her, and what have to be lips nuzzling her throat. “Mmm.” She stretches a little before snuggling in closer to the really rather nice body next to her and the arm around her. “ ‘S nice.”
And then, just like that, she’s wide awake.
Jack? The Doctor? What’s going on? Is Jack...? The Doctor promised to wake her!
There’s a blanket on top of her. And, as her sleepy eyes open to meet the dark blue gaze of the Doctor, sitting on a chair by the opposite side of the bed, she realises that the body she’s curled up against is Jack’s.
The Doctor’s mouth breaks into a smile as he stands, coming closer, and his eyes are warm. “He’s gonna be all right,” he assures her immediately. “Fever broke during the night. His temperature’s almost normal now.”
Something about his expression tells her that it wasn’t as simple as that; that he probably had hours of worry after she fell asleep and before it became obvious that Jack was going to get better.
Sitting up carefully, so as not to disturb Jack, she stretches a hand out towards the Doctor. He leans forward and takes it, curling his fingers around hers. His other hand, she notices, rests briefly on the top of Jack’s head, his fingers stroking the Captain’s hair.
She’s always going to remember this moment. It’s not just that Jack’s alive after all, when she’s spent most of the past twenty-four hours trying to prepare herself for losing him.
It’s that this is the moment when she knows the Doctor’s completely accepted Jack as part of their team.
***
“I’m just saying.” Jack stretches, and he has no doubt whatsoever that the bloke is absolutely aware of how well the action displays rippling muscles under a tight T-shirt. “A real friend wouldn’t only share my bed when I’m too comatose to take advantage of it.”
Rose laughs. “Maybe that’s the only reason I did it - you thought of that?”
Jack tugs her close to him, wrapping his arms around her in an exaggeratedly lustful hug and dipping his head to kiss her. He’s expecting to see a thorough snog, and he’s clenching his fists not to react, but he’s completely disconcerted when Jack brushes his lips over Rose’s in a very sweet, affectionate kiss. “Thank you,” the Captain says as he straightens.
“What for?” she asks, clearly in no hurry to escape Jack’s embrace.
“Taking care of me. Saving my life.” Jack’s completely sincere, not one ounce of flirtation in his voice for once.
“Oi!” he can’t help objecting. “Who saved your life?”
“Oh, yeah.” Releasing Rose - who just stays where she is, grinning, tongue poking out between her teeth in that way that always makes him want to kiss her senseless; and one day he just might - Jack bounds over to him.
Before he can protest, he finds himself with an armful of Time Agent. “Thanks, Doctor.” Warm, human lips cover his in a kiss that’s just like the one Jack gave Rose.
He’s too surprised to protest. That’s the only reason Jack gets away with it. And that’s what he’ll tell the Captain if the bloke dares to brag about it.
Jack moves back, though without letting go, and that’s when he notices that Rose is standing very close to the two of them. “Giving kisses away, Doctor? Can I have one?”
“Now look what you’ve started,” he growls at Jack, but he still reaches for Rose.
“Don’t care who started it, as long as you finish it,” she tells him, before tugging his head down to hers.
When she does wicked things with her tongue, he decides he really doesn’t care who started it either, but he’s definitely in no hurry to finish it.
- end
Author: wmr wendymr
Characters: Ninth Doctor, Rose Tyler, Jack Harkness
Rated: PG
Spoilers: None beyond The Doctor Dances (no worries about S4 spoilers here!)
Disclaimer: If I ever do get given these three for Christmas I'll let you all know, okay?
Summary: And, for all their narrow escapes, the three of them always do end up just fine, don’t they? Or do they?
Written for shengirl; I won't state her specific prompt as it's a spoiler, but I hope this meets requirements! Sorry for taking so long to deliver. With many thanks, as ever, to
dark_aegis for BRing and help.
When Luck Runs Out
“Well, hurry up, then!” The Doctor’s standing by the open door of the TARDIS, waving impatiently at her and Jack. “Anyone’d think you two were just out for an afternoon stroll ‘stead of runnin’ for your lives.”
“Oi!” she objects, back-handing him in the chest as she hurries past him and into the console room. “Not fair! My legs aren’t as long as yours.”
“His are.” The Doctor nods towards Jack, finally stumbling, panting, through the door.
“You might’ve got the engines started and ready to go, instead of just standing there making fun of us,” Jack comments between deep breaths as he pushes the door closed.
“All in good time.” The Doctor, head held high, strides towards the console. “With the snail’s pace you two were usin’, I’d’ve wasted far too much fuel waiting for you.”
“Oi!” she objects again. “Jack saved my life, in case you didn’t notice, Doctor! One of those creatures got its whip around my ankle. He ran back an’ got me free.”
The Doctor halts, swings around in one fluid movement and stares at the two of them. “Did he, now.” His gaze flits from her to Jack. “Had no idea she was in trouble. Thank you, Captain.” He inclines his head in what looks like acknowledgement of a debt.
Jack shrugs. “It’s only what anyone would’ve done.” He glances down at her ankles then. “You okay, Rose? They’re not known for being gentle with those whips.”
It’s only then she realises that her left ankle is kind of throbbing. The Doctor comes over, crouches in front of her and examines it briefly with cool fingers that glide over her skin, pressing and probing until an indrawn breath shows him where the pain’s worst.
“Get her to the medlab, Jack,” he says as he straightens. “I’ll come as soon as we’re in the Vortex.”
She can walk on her own, she protests, but Jack swings her up in his arms all the same, insisting with a chuckle that she shouldn’t deprive him of the rare opportunity to hold her in his arms under the guise of chivalry. The fact that his hand glides over her arse as he settles her against him confirms his honesty about the mixed nature of his motives.
It’s just a bit of rope-burn, though. There’s no skin broken, so any poison that might have been in the thong hasn’t had any opportunity to infect her, though the Doctor still cleans her ankle very thoroughly with an antibacterial solution and gives her a precautionary shot of antitoxin; he explains that the poison this lot are known to use is easy to deal with if it’s counteracted quickly, but if it’s given time to take hold it tends to be fatal, so he’d prefer to give her an unnecessary dose now than find out in four hours’ time that she needed it after all - when it’d be too late.
She’s fine, and they’re all laughing about yet another narrow escape, another bout of running from their lives from angry aliens as they head to the kitchen for a cup of tea.
That’s their lives, after all. Saving worlds some days, landing face-first in the dirt on others, and most of the time being lucky to escape with their lives.
Some day, maybe, it’ll stop being fun, and she knows that’ll be when she asks to be taken home; but on days like today, and on evenings like this when the three of them are sitting around the table, drinking tea and fighting good-humouredly over the last HobNob - until one of them stops being lazy and goes to the cupboard for another packet - she can’t see that time coming, not ever.
Because this is the perfect life, isn’t it? And, for all their narrow escapes, the three of them always do end up just fine, don’t they? It’s like they have charmed lives, and maybe they do. She won’t complain about that, not one bit.
Nor does she complain when, a bit later, the Doctor - still obviously feeling guilty for not noticing that she’d been hit - offers her the choice of what they do for the rest of the evening. He doesn’t even roll his eyes when she demands a film from the TARDIS databanks. Something with silliness, lots of explosions and at least one love scene, she stipulates - that’ll keep Jack happy too, she knows.
But Jack, with a shake of his head and a smothered yawn, announces that he’s off to bed. Too much excitement for one day, he protests. She doesn’t believe him for one second - Jack’s never tired this early - and she knows exactly what he’s up to. He’s been encouraging her lately to do something about the fact that she’s attracted like crazy to the Doctor, and he’s leaving them alone tonight, when the Doctor’s already a bit more vulnerable than usual.
For that, and for saving her life, she catches Jack on his way out of the room and hugs him. He wraps his arms around her in return, drops a kiss on her hair and squeezes her tight. “See ya tomorrow,” he promises, and is gone, leaving her alone with the Doctor.
The Doctor... who is, of course, just as evasive, just as alien, as usual, even as he’s just as infuriating. They watch the film together, and he even sits next to her on the couch, but he complains when the science is wrong, mocks the explosions and laughs at the kissing. “Can’t even get that right. Look! He’s kissing her upper lip. Call that sexy?”
She shakes her head and turns off the film, and they spend the rest of the evening talking instead; he teaches her more about the universe, and she tells him more about growing up in the Estates without a dad and how her mum struggled to make ends meet on a series of dead-end jobs and no qualifications.
“Promise me something,” he says as she’s heading to bed.
“What?”
“Whatever you do when you leave me an’ go back home, don’t go back to workin’ in a shop.” His expression’s very serious, hands buried deep in his jacket pocket, eyes focused intently on her in a way that makes her breath catch. “Get some qualifications, Rose. Do somethin’ that makes you happy, ‘stead of just somethin’ to get by on. Do that for me. No, don’t do it for me,” he amends quickly. “Do it for you. An’ for your dad, and for your mum.”
A lump in her throat, she nods, then reaches for him, pulling him into a hug. He hugs back briefly before pushing her towards the door. “Night, Rose.”
***
They’re late, as always. Humans - they’d sleep their lives away, if he’d let them. Six or seven hours’ sleep every night, and then they want to dawdle over breakfast too.
The door’s pushed open, finally, and Rose shuffles in, yawning, a mug cupped between her hands. That’s been a familiar sight almost since she started travelling with him, though in the past couple of weeks he’s been getting used to Jack following her into the room, the two of them teasing each other and laughing as they greet him, ready for a new day of adventure.
“Just you? Where’s himself, then?” he asks, a bit of irritation slipping through. It’s not as if he needs both of them here to start the day’s journey, of course, but he’d planned to start teaching Jack some of the basics of TARDIS piloting, as opposed to just throwing out random instructions. After all, maybe some day it might be useful if the human knew something about how to operate the TARDIS.
Rose looks around, surprised. “Dunno. He wasn’t in the kitchen - I assumed he’d be here already.”
He rolls his eyes. “Lazy sod. Go an’ wake him up, then. Tell him if he’s not in here in ten minutes he can stay behind.”
“Like you really would,” she tosses over her shoulder before disappearing back through the door.
He shakes his head before returning his attention to the console monitor. Now not even his companions are taking his threats seriously. It’s about time he showed them he means it, then. When the Captain finally decides to show his face, there’ll be a nice stretch of interior piping needing cleaning, right under the Time Rotor. See him come out of that without getting filthy-
“Doctor!” Rose has reappeared in the doorway, white-faced and apparently having run all the way. “Come quick - ‘s Jack!”
“What now?” All the same, he hurries over towards her.
“He’s sick.” She’s already running away from him again, back along the corridor. “Really bad, sweatin’ and shivering. Didn’t hear me when I called him.”
Sick? The bloke’s a Time Agent. Time Agents don’t get sick. They’re inoculated against all known diseases, human and alien. Jack shouldn’t be sick.
He overtakes Rose in the hallway leading to Jack’s room and enters the bedroom first, hurrying to the Captain’s bedside and taking a close look. She’s right. He’s very sick indeed. He doesn’t even need to run blood-tests to know that. High fever, signs of vomiting - the bloke’s very lucky he didn’t choke on his own vomit - and irregular breathing.
“Rose.” Without looking away from Jack, he addresses her. “Go back to the medlab. Open it up and get the bed in the middle ready, all right?”
He bends, scoops the Captain up in his arms, and slowly, carefully makes his way to the medlab.
***
It’s bad. She saw the Doctor’s face as he bent over Jack, and how he rapped out instructions without even touching their friend.
Methodically, she washes her hands, then finds the sterile sheets and lays them out on top of the bed. The Doctor’s coming in then, Jack in his arms, and she’s there to help him lay him on the bed.
She wants to ask what’s wrong. Has Jack got some sort of flu, or food poisoning, or a weird alien virus. But of course the Doctor won’t know, not just by looking, and she’ll only be wasting his time by asking the question.
Something catches her eye, though, as she’s settling Jack. “What’s that?”
“What?” The Doctor’s not really paying attention, already backing away to get scrubbed up.
“On his back.” She grips Jack’s shoulders, pulling him up so that the Doctor can see the inflamed S-shaped red line just by his shoulder-blade. Tiny red streaks, like veins, lead away from it and all over Jack’s back.
The Doctor’s glance over his shoulder is brief, but then he pulls himself up and, in one of those lightning-fast movements she’s now used to from him, he’s standing by the bed again, bending to peer closely at the mark.
“Right,” he says, and there’s a rough edge to his voice. “Get him on his side. I’ll be back in a mo.”
“What d’you think it is?” she asks, because he knows, she can tell, or he’s got a pretty damn good suspicion, anyway.
He answers with another question. “When he rescued you yesterday, were the Amoxians still trying to attack?”
She nods, then realises his back’s to her. “Oh, yeah. Whips all over the place. Jack was really quick, though. Got me away before any of them could hit me again.” And then it strikes her, what the Doctor’s getting at. “He was hit, wasn’t he? That’s what that is. A whiplash.”
“Yeah, that’s my guess.” He’s drying his hands and pulling on sterile gloves now. “It broke the skin. The poison’s in his bloodstream an’ that’s what’s caused the fever.”
The Amoxian poison. The one the Doctor told her was deadly. The one he said could be counteracted with antitoxin in the first hour, but after that was incurable.
Jack’s going to die. That’s the only thought in her head as she tries to make him comfortable on his side and hold him steady despite his occasional attempts to thrash about, the unnatural heat of his skin too warm against her palms.
He’s going to die, because neither of them, her or the Doctor, thought to ask if he’d been hit by one of the whips, or to suggest that he should have an injection of antitoxin too while the Doctor was treating her yesterday. They just didn’t think.
“He never said,” she blurts out as the Doctor returns.
“Probably didn’t even notice it happening,” he tells her, but she knows he’s just trying to make her feel better about neglecting Jack. “Probably happened too quickly.”
“But wouldn’t it’ve hurt?” she asks, holding Jack steady as the Doctor starts to probe around the inflamed area.
“Maybe, maybe not. He’s been a soldier, Rose. Cuts, bruises, all that sort of stuff’s not important. You just shrug it off. Thing is,” he adds as he reaches for a hypodermic, “he’d have assumed he was immune. Inoculated against all sorts of things, his lot are.”
“But not this?”
“Seems not, no.” The Doctor shakes his head, then nods at her to let Jack down again before walking over to the equipment he keeps against a back wall.
There’s nothing they can do, she knows, until the Doctor’s finished whatever tests he’s doing. But she can try to keep Jack comfortable. He’s too hot; the fever’s burning him up despite the cool atmosphere in the medlab and his state of complete nudity - which she’s only just noticed.
She goes to find a cloth, soaks it in cool water and brings it back to lay on his forehead. Even if it doesn’t help him, it’ll help her.
***
It’s like he told Rose - told them both - yesterday. This poison’s deadly if it’s not counteracted quickly. And he knows exactly what Rose is thinking. They should have thought - all of them, Jack too - it should have occurred to them that Jack might have been hit, might have been infected. All it would’ve taken was two seconds’ thought and a quick injection of antitoxin and he’d have been fine.
Now, the poison’s eating him up from the inside and he’s dying.
He’s already detected the signs he knows Rose won’t have seen. Slower, and irregular, respirations, even if it’s not yet close to respiratory distress. A much slower heartbeat. A fever close to the maximum any human can sustain without it turning fatal.
And why hasn’t Jack’s Time Agent immunity stopped this?
But then maybe the Time Agency never made it to Amoxia; maybe they’ve never come across this particular toxin. Doesn’t matter; whatever the reason, the fact is that Jack’s not immune and he’s probably got half an hour at most to come up with something to stop him dying.
Though, of course, staving off immediate death is only going to be the beginning. He might be able to keep Jack alive - effectively, on life-support - but if he can’t find an antidote to the poison that works then it won’t do any good; the bloke will die anyway.
A good, strong dose of antitoxin, plus some fluids to replace what Jack’s already lost through the fever, is what’s needed immediately - but even that’s not simple. Because what he didn’t tell Rose is that the antitoxin itself is poisonous. Bit like digitalis, really; great for use with an arrhythmic heart, but the wrong dose will kill in minutes.
Slow as it is, frustrating as it is, he has to run the tests that compare the sample of Jack’s blood that he’s just taken with the sample the TARDIS analysed not long after he joined them - and isn’t it just as well that he insisted on running that test, despite the Captain’s objections that it wouldn’t be necessary because he was immune to just about every known illness and infection. He needs information, not just to help him work out how much of the antitoxin to use, but also how the genetic modifications already present within Jack’s immune system are going to interact with the toxin and the vaccine.
It’s a few minutes before he remembers Rose; glancing around, he notices that she’s using a cool cloth on Jack’s face. “Good work,” he tells her; he should have thought of that himself. Anything that reduces the fever, even if it’s just a tiny bit, can only help. “Get more cloths and use them all over him.”
She looks up and meets his gaze as she nods, and her face is pale with fear. He can’t find the words to reassure her, though, not when he can’t even reassure himself. Right now, he wouldn’t bet anything at all on the likelihood of Jack surviving.
Won’t stop him trying, though. Through the centuries, he’s had too many people he’s responsible for die. He’s not going to lose another one, not without a fight.
***
The Doctor hasn’t told her what he’s doing, but he’s busy, examining things and moving from one piece of equipment to another, and that has to be good, right? He wouldn’t be doing all this stuff if he didn’t think there was anything that could be done for Jack.
It’s a relief when he finally comes over, hypodermic in his hand. He gets her to hold Jack steady on his side while he injects. She has to ask. “This gonna make him better, then?”
The darkness in his eyes tells her she shouldn’t have asked. “Not by a long way. Might just stop him dyin’, for now, but that’s all.”
“What d’you mean?”
She listens, continuing to keep Jack mopped down with cool, damp cloths - which do seem to be soothing him, as he’s moving around less - as the Doctor talks about toxins and compounds and fifty-first century genetically-modified immune systems and working out the precise composition of vaccines. Most of it goes right over her head, but that doesn’t matter. The important thing is that he’s talking - and he seems to need to - and it’s keeping them both occupied. It’s not as if there’s anything else they can do for Jack right now, after all.
After the fourth time he tells her there’s no change, she stops asking.
Even still, she knows he’s aware of what she is too: it’s been nearly three hours since she found Jack in his bed and he’s still alive. Still very sick, still burning up and occasionally thrashing around on the narrow medlab bed, but alive.
She’ll take any fragment of hope she can, no matter how slim.
***
He’s not been completely honest with Rose.
There is change, but not in the right direction. At his last check, Jack’s temperature’s gone up. Only half a degree, but enough to push him closer to that danger zone.
He’s risked giving the bloke another shot of antitoxin - it may be dangerous, but at this rate he’s going to be dead from the fever, if not the poison, within a few hours anyway. It’s not exactly much of a gamble, not with those odds.
What a waste. Rescued from blowing up with his ship after he risked his life to save hundreds of humans from death in an explosion, only to die from Amoxian poisoning.
When Jack almost falls off the bed for the third time, Rose looks at him again - she’s been avoiding his gaze for most of the past couple of hours, and he knows why. She knows he’s got no hope to give her.
“Can’t we take him back to his bed? He’d be more comfortable there, an’ he wouldn’t be nearly landing on the floor all the time.”
“Need him close to my equipment,” he explains; it’s true, all right. Too difficult to monitor Jack’s status and provide more antitoxin if needed, otherwise. But he can do something about the bed. A brief instruction to the TARDIS and suddenly the narrow examining bed become as wide as Jack’s own. “Better?”
“Yeah.” She carries on patting Jack’s body down with the cloths. She has to reach further now, but it doesn’t seem to bother her.
Later, he has to bully her to go and eat, and later still it’s no surprise when she refuses to go to bed. In the end, he tells her to lie down in here and rest and he’ll wake her if there’s any change - he doesn’t want two invalids on his hands, after all.
He supposes he shouldn’t really be surprised when, instead of using one of the other beds, she curls up next to Jack. Just as well the fever’s not contagious, really, because the thought of explaining that to Jackie Tyler breaks him out in a sweat.
Once she’s safely asleep, he gives Jack one more dose of vaccine. Kill or cure, this one, but he knows there’s no way the bloke’s body’s going to be able to sustain this level of fever for much longer. Pulling up a chair next to the bed, he settles himself in to wait.
***
There’s a warm body pressed close to her, and what have to be lips nuzzling her throat. “Mmm.” She stretches a little before snuggling in closer to the really rather nice body next to her and the arm around her. “ ‘S nice.”
And then, just like that, she’s wide awake.
Jack? The Doctor? What’s going on? Is Jack...? The Doctor promised to wake her!
There’s a blanket on top of her. And, as her sleepy eyes open to meet the dark blue gaze of the Doctor, sitting on a chair by the opposite side of the bed, she realises that the body she’s curled up against is Jack’s.
The Doctor’s mouth breaks into a smile as he stands, coming closer, and his eyes are warm. “He’s gonna be all right,” he assures her immediately. “Fever broke during the night. His temperature’s almost normal now.”
Something about his expression tells her that it wasn’t as simple as that; that he probably had hours of worry after she fell asleep and before it became obvious that Jack was going to get better.
Sitting up carefully, so as not to disturb Jack, she stretches a hand out towards the Doctor. He leans forward and takes it, curling his fingers around hers. His other hand, she notices, rests briefly on the top of Jack’s head, his fingers stroking the Captain’s hair.
She’s always going to remember this moment. It’s not just that Jack’s alive after all, when she’s spent most of the past twenty-four hours trying to prepare herself for losing him.
It’s that this is the moment when she knows the Doctor’s completely accepted Jack as part of their team.
***
“I’m just saying.” Jack stretches, and he has no doubt whatsoever that the bloke is absolutely aware of how well the action displays rippling muscles under a tight T-shirt. “A real friend wouldn’t only share my bed when I’m too comatose to take advantage of it.”
Rose laughs. “Maybe that’s the only reason I did it - you thought of that?”
Jack tugs her close to him, wrapping his arms around her in an exaggeratedly lustful hug and dipping his head to kiss her. He’s expecting to see a thorough snog, and he’s clenching his fists not to react, but he’s completely disconcerted when Jack brushes his lips over Rose’s in a very sweet, affectionate kiss. “Thank you,” the Captain says as he straightens.
“What for?” she asks, clearly in no hurry to escape Jack’s embrace.
“Taking care of me. Saving my life.” Jack’s completely sincere, not one ounce of flirtation in his voice for once.
“Oi!” he can’t help objecting. “Who saved your life?”
“Oh, yeah.” Releasing Rose - who just stays where she is, grinning, tongue poking out between her teeth in that way that always makes him want to kiss her senseless; and one day he just might - Jack bounds over to him.
Before he can protest, he finds himself with an armful of Time Agent. “Thanks, Doctor.” Warm, human lips cover his in a kiss that’s just like the one Jack gave Rose.
He’s too surprised to protest. That’s the only reason Jack gets away with it. And that’s what he’ll tell the Captain if the bloke dares to brag about it.
Jack moves back, though without letting go, and that’s when he notices that Rose is standing very close to the two of them. “Giving kisses away, Doctor? Can I have one?”
“Now look what you’ve started,” he growls at Jack, but he still reaches for Rose.
“Don’t care who started it, as long as you finish it,” she tells him, before tugging his head down to hers.
When she does wicked things with her tongue, he decides he really doesn’t care who started it either, but he’s definitely in no hurry to finish it.
- end