wojelah: Infinite Variations (Doctor/Jack) [T] - SUMMER HOLIDAYS PROMPT 15
Title: Infinite Variations
Author: wojelah
Prompt: 15 - longing, walking, entrance, Bach - Goldberg Variations
Rating: T
Pairing: Jack/Any Doctor
Spoilers/warnings: none
Summary: “Dearest, do play me one of my Variations.” It sounds like a request. He’s been here long enough to know it isn't.
**
“Dearest, do play me one of my Variations.” It sounds like a request. He’s been here long enough to know it isn't. He’d known the music before he came. He’s had incentive to learn to play it better. Note perfect, unless he tires. He tries not to tire. But he is, underneath it all, only human.
Next to the dais, the creature on the divan droops, its form a graceful line, and begins to sleep. He purses his lips and slips the scrap of elastocarbide wire from under his tongue and begins another night of whittling slowly away at the antique wood of the harpsichord. At this rate, he’ll be able to slip the tether off in, oh, three years, give or take. And then there’s just the shock collar and the security cams and the autosentry, he thinks, and then turns himself away from that thought with a nearly physical effort.
He will work for an hour, and sleep for four. If he gets too tired, the collar will work overtime, and he’ll lose a day, maybe two, to the shakes. Three, if he dies. He will not lose three. Jack grips the wire carefully and sets back to work.
*****
It is morning again.
He has been walking a very long time. He knows exactly how many mornings it has been. He counts them by the faint glow that eases the edges of the dim corners, and by the reappearance of the music. It's a harpsichord, he thinks, alternately almost soothing and nearly frenetic. He can't make it out well enough to determine the pieces, but he can tell they repeat. He knows exactly how many cycles it’s been.
He can't not count the mornings. He’s been here long enough that his sense of Time has narrowed to only a dull awareness of anyWhen that is not this one. He has to count them. He chooses not to think about the count.
He could choose not to count the cycles. He will never stop doing so, not as long as he still has to walk. Those cycles are just as distant as the Fact that’s making them, and he suspects the two are linked. The cycles falter when the Fact blips.
He could choose not to count the blips. He wishes he could. But he can't. Those deaths matter, no matter that they don't last. They are still deaths. He calls them blips to keep the rage at bay. This has happened before. He had sworn it woulnt happen again. He is so often a liar, despite best efforts.
And so he walks on, through the dim, mirror-and-gilt lined corners, dusty tables laden with overly ornate, useless, clutter, a vision of Versailles gone forgotten and wrong.
He walks. He is hunting. And when a piece of overly baroque clockwork glows ever so faintly, a thin line of light indicating a small hidden door, a secret compartment, he doesn't bother fiddling. It smashes against the floor, and the key glows blue-white amidst the rubble, and then in his palms.
The Doctor smiles. The TARDIS comes. And the cycle stops.
*****
It hasn't taken years. He doesn't really know how long it has been but he is reasonably sure it isn't years. The tether is loose, loose enough to slip free, the slack hidden in a quick-release knot. He’s wedged a sliver of wood between the prongs of the collar. Not a perfect barrier, but it’s hard to see and it lessens the effect. He hasn't needed three days since he used it.
The cams and the sentry are problems for tomorrow. The Kaiserling is agitated and querulous, and three shocks into a perfect performance, he has realized that if not tonight, it might not be ever. It is remarkably hard to rally himself to action. Inertia and pain are not easy weights.
And so, mid-Variation, he crashes to a halt, snaps the tether free, and turns it to his advantage, finally. It is an excellent garrotte. It is, at least, until the splinter jostles free and the full voltage crashes through, unexpected.
Jack dies wheezing.
*****
The cycles stop, and there is a blip, and he arrives moments too late. The Kaiserling stand over him, controller in hand, the lovely, elegant lines of hands and face and body made obscene by the petulant fury on its face. It is not improved when a quick blast from the sonic renders it useless and pops the lock on the collar around Jack’s throat.
It turns craven, shrinks, and finds itself cornered. It is a creature of sound, after all. It feeds on it, swallows in it, uses it to create universes. How convenient he should have the perfect countermeasure. Around them, the walls are falling. Beyond them he can see mirrors and gilt, tarnishing, corroding, vanishing into dust.
The Kaiserling begins to shade from purple to grey, fighting for cohesion. He raises the sonic again.
“Don’t,” Jack says behind him. The Doctor doesn't move.
*****
He wakes to destruction, the world collapsing around him.
He wakes to the Doctor, and the Kaiserling, trapped, and he cannot let this happen. For starters, he isn't sure they will survive it, and they have done too far not to escape. And Jack has enough death on his own conscience. He will not be the reason the Doctor kills. That is not a future he can live with, and since he has to live, he cannot let it come to pass.
“Don't,” he says, and for a moment nothing moves.
“Don't,” he says again, and the sonic’s hum goes dead. The Doctor doesn't turn.
“Leave it,” he says, and then the Doctor does look at him. He doesn't hide his own rage. “Leave it. Take me. Take the music. Those hands might be pretty, but they can't play a keyboard. Wrong joints. Take the music and leave it in silence. Seal it in.” Behind the Doctor, the Kaiserling begins to jibber, panicked, tearful.
They watch each other a moment. There’s no absolution sought. Just acknowledgement. Acceptance. And ultimately, agreement.
The Doctor walks to him and sling an arm around him. Jack sags slightly into the support.
They stumble into the TARDIS. The doors close. Jack staggers to a seat. A jolt, a wheeze, and they are gone. They watch each other and say nothing. Words will keep. For now, they rest in silence.
x-post: https://wintercompanion.dreamwidth.org/255074.html
Author: wojelah
Prompt: 15 - longing, walking, entrance, Bach - Goldberg Variations
Rating: T
Pairing: Jack/Any Doctor
Spoilers/warnings: none
Summary: “Dearest, do play me one of my Variations.” It sounds like a request. He’s been here long enough to know it isn't.
**
“Dearest, do play me one of my Variations.” It sounds like a request. He’s been here long enough to know it isn't. He’d known the music before he came. He’s had incentive to learn to play it better. Note perfect, unless he tires. He tries not to tire. But he is, underneath it all, only human.
Next to the dais, the creature on the divan droops, its form a graceful line, and begins to sleep. He purses his lips and slips the scrap of elastocarbide wire from under his tongue and begins another night of whittling slowly away at the antique wood of the harpsichord. At this rate, he’ll be able to slip the tether off in, oh, three years, give or take. And then there’s just the shock collar and the security cams and the autosentry, he thinks, and then turns himself away from that thought with a nearly physical effort.
He will work for an hour, and sleep for four. If he gets too tired, the collar will work overtime, and he’ll lose a day, maybe two, to the shakes. Three, if he dies. He will not lose three. Jack grips the wire carefully and sets back to work.
*****
It is morning again.
He has been walking a very long time. He knows exactly how many mornings it has been. He counts them by the faint glow that eases the edges of the dim corners, and by the reappearance of the music. It's a harpsichord, he thinks, alternately almost soothing and nearly frenetic. He can't make it out well enough to determine the pieces, but he can tell they repeat. He knows exactly how many cycles it’s been.
He can't not count the mornings. He’s been here long enough that his sense of Time has narrowed to only a dull awareness of anyWhen that is not this one. He has to count them. He chooses not to think about the count.
He could choose not to count the cycles. He will never stop doing so, not as long as he still has to walk. Those cycles are just as distant as the Fact that’s making them, and he suspects the two are linked. The cycles falter when the Fact blips.
He could choose not to count the blips. He wishes he could. But he can't. Those deaths matter, no matter that they don't last. They are still deaths. He calls them blips to keep the rage at bay. This has happened before. He had sworn it woulnt happen again. He is so often a liar, despite best efforts.
And so he walks on, through the dim, mirror-and-gilt lined corners, dusty tables laden with overly ornate, useless, clutter, a vision of Versailles gone forgotten and wrong.
He walks. He is hunting. And when a piece of overly baroque clockwork glows ever so faintly, a thin line of light indicating a small hidden door, a secret compartment, he doesn't bother fiddling. It smashes against the floor, and the key glows blue-white amidst the rubble, and then in his palms.
The Doctor smiles. The TARDIS comes. And the cycle stops.
*****
It hasn't taken years. He doesn't really know how long it has been but he is reasonably sure it isn't years. The tether is loose, loose enough to slip free, the slack hidden in a quick-release knot. He’s wedged a sliver of wood between the prongs of the collar. Not a perfect barrier, but it’s hard to see and it lessens the effect. He hasn't needed three days since he used it.
The cams and the sentry are problems for tomorrow. The Kaiserling is agitated and querulous, and three shocks into a perfect performance, he has realized that if not tonight, it might not be ever. It is remarkably hard to rally himself to action. Inertia and pain are not easy weights.
And so, mid-Variation, he crashes to a halt, snaps the tether free, and turns it to his advantage, finally. It is an excellent garrotte. It is, at least, until the splinter jostles free and the full voltage crashes through, unexpected.
Jack dies wheezing.
*****
The cycles stop, and there is a blip, and he arrives moments too late. The Kaiserling stand over him, controller in hand, the lovely, elegant lines of hands and face and body made obscene by the petulant fury on its face. It is not improved when a quick blast from the sonic renders it useless and pops the lock on the collar around Jack’s throat.
It turns craven, shrinks, and finds itself cornered. It is a creature of sound, after all. It feeds on it, swallows in it, uses it to create universes. How convenient he should have the perfect countermeasure. Around them, the walls are falling. Beyond them he can see mirrors and gilt, tarnishing, corroding, vanishing into dust.
The Kaiserling begins to shade from purple to grey, fighting for cohesion. He raises the sonic again.
“Don’t,” Jack says behind him. The Doctor doesn't move.
*****
He wakes to destruction, the world collapsing around him.
He wakes to the Doctor, and the Kaiserling, trapped, and he cannot let this happen. For starters, he isn't sure they will survive it, and they have done too far not to escape. And Jack has enough death on his own conscience. He will not be the reason the Doctor kills. That is not a future he can live with, and since he has to live, he cannot let it come to pass.
“Don't,” he says, and for a moment nothing moves.
“Don't,” he says again, and the sonic’s hum goes dead. The Doctor doesn't turn.
“Leave it,” he says, and then the Doctor does look at him. He doesn't hide his own rage. “Leave it. Take me. Take the music. Those hands might be pretty, but they can't play a keyboard. Wrong joints. Take the music and leave it in silence. Seal it in.” Behind the Doctor, the Kaiserling begins to jibber, panicked, tearful.
They watch each other a moment. There’s no absolution sought. Just acknowledgement. Acceptance. And ultimately, agreement.
The Doctor walks to him and sling an arm around him. Jack sags slightly into the support.
They stumble into the TARDIS. The doors close. Jack staggers to a seat. A jolt, a wheeze, and they are gone. They watch each other and say nothing. Words will keep. For now, they rest in silence.
x-post: https://wintercompanion.dreamwidth.org/255074.html