Fic: Drowning Sorrows

[unfeathered]

Title: Drowning Sorrows
Fandom: Doctor Who/Torchwood
Author: unfeathered
Characters: Jack, Tenth Doctor
Rating: PG-13, mainly for language
Word Count: 2,991
Spoilers: Last of the Time Lords
Disclaimer: Not mine
Summary: The Doctor's back – perhaps a little too soon
Betas: The wonderfully patient and helpful donutsweeper and mad_jaks.
Author’s Note: My husband pretty much challenged me to write 'two men in a pub bonding over beer', or in other words, Jack and the Doctor without any slash…

(Cross-posted to torch_wood, new_who and galactic_conman)


"Y'see, the thing is…" the Doctor says, waving a finger about vaguely. He trails off and frowns. "Where was I?"

Jack blinks and takes another long draught of beer while he thinks back through the long, winding conversation that's been going round in loops all evening and tries to remember which bit of the loop they're on now.

They're in a pub in Cardiff. There aren't many pubs in Cardiff that haven't been turned into bare, soulless spaces with dance floors and chrome and thumping music and standing room only, but Jack found this one a couple of years ago and he's become something of a regular. It's tiny and intimate and cosy, and serves real ale, which is something he's been here long enough to have fostered a taste for, on those rare occasions when he really, really needs a drink.

Tonight, he'd really, really needed one. Or three.

He truly hadn't expected to see the Doctor again so soon. Not for a very long time, in fact. He'd hoped it might not be a hundred and forty years this time, but he'd been prepared for a decade or two.

But he's only been back at Torchwood one day – one day – before he hears the TARDIS materialise inside the Hub and sees the Doctor step out, in a daze of pain and misery.

It's been longer than a day for the Doctor. He doesn't know how long, but long enough for the Doctor to realise he wasn't as all right as he'd seemed when they'd said goodbye. Jack had known the Doctor wasn't coping, not really, but he'd hoped he would get through it on his own. Jack had wanted to get away. Hadn't felt capable of holding the Doctor's hand through his mourning, not with so much to come to terms with himself.

Apparently he doesn't get a choice about that. The Doctor's back, and Jack's holding his hand.

Metaphorically. They don't hold hands. They're guys.

"Ahhh, yes," the Doctor remembers. He looks Jack in the eyes, very seriously. "He's gone."

No need to ask who 'he' is, even if they hadn't been through this about fifty times already this evening. Jack sighs. "Yep," he says. "Really, really gone. Well. Let's hope so, anyway."

"Jack!" The Doctor sounds shocked, and Jack feels remorseful.

"Sorry," he says tiredly. "But you gotta admit, the world – the universe – is better off without him!"

"Oh yes," the Doctor nods, up and down, up and down. "Definitely better off. Absolutely definitely. It's just…"

Is the Doctor better off? Yep, that's the question, isn't it? They're not going to say it though. They're guys.

"I know," Jack says. He doesn't know, not really, because how could anyone even try to understand what it's like to kill your entire race? Then discover one of them – the one you hadn't been able to imagine life without – isn't gone after all and spend a whole year with him, only to have him pretty much commit suicide in your arms?

No-one could understand. But Jack can at least identify with some of it. He has, after all, been through his share of losing people. One in particular.

He just doesn't know what to do; what to say; how to help the Doctor.

Not to mention the fact that his feelings for the Master are about as different from the Doctor's as it's possible to be.

The three guys at the table next to them get up to go and the barmaid slips out from behind the bar to collect their glasses. She glances over at Jack – she's been eyeing him up all evening – and Jack winks at her obligingly, because it's what's expected of him. The girl giggles, and the Doctor looks up from the depths of his pint and frowns across at Jack. "Oh, don't start!" he says, and while there's not much enthusiasm in there, it's a darn sight better than the morose mood of a moment before.

Jack grins. "Hey, she looked at me! And it's not as if we're in the middle of a crisis here – aren't I even allowed to flirt when we're just out for a drink?"

The Doctor blinks, then sighs and rubs his forehead. "I'm sorry, Jack. Shouldn't have come here and rattled on at you about him."

No, you really shouldn't, Jack thinks, because it's harder than he'd expected to be nice about the Master this soon after… everything. On the other hand, getting an apology from the Doctor – any apology – is new and exciting.

He's had enough of sitting here. He drains his pint and stands up. "Come on, let's get out of here. It's nearly closing time anyway."

The Doctor gives him an odd look, but meekly drinks up and gets to his feet. They retrieve their coats from a nearby bench-seat and tug them on… At last they're dressed against the fierce Cardiff wind and they set off. Jack gives the barmaid one last wink as he leaves, and the Doctor huffs again.

It's not even a particularly loud huff, but for some reason – maybe it's because he's taken a hell of a lot from this man tonight, or maybe it's just because he's drunk – it ignites a spark of anger in Jack that's fanned into a full-grown blaze by the resentment he's been carrying around with him for far too long. For once he doesn't try to quell it but lets himself rise on the hot air. He rounds on the Doctor, just outside the door. "Oh, for heaven's sake! It's just a harmless bit of fun! With an innocent girl! At least I don't go round flirting with evil masterminds!"

The Doctor flinches – his whole body seems to flinch – and he stops dead on the pavement and stares at Jack. "F-flirt?" he stammers, his face looking unbelievably pale in the darkness. "W-with…? No! Jack. No. I don't – didn't… No!"

But Jack's on a roll now, and he knows what he saw. "Oh, come on, Doctor," he says roughly. "I know what I saw. If there's anything I know a lot about it's flirting. And the two of you were flirting. You were flirting a lot. You were flirting from the very second that bastard got you on the phone and you were still flirting about two seconds before he died. Don't even try to tell me you weren't!"

The Doctor just gapes at him.

Jack peers at him through the dark for a long moment, unable to believe it. "Seriously? You seriously didn't know that was what you were doing?" He shakes his head, exasperated, still far too raw to feel any compassion for the Doctor. "Surely even you can't be that naïve!" He turns away and starts walking, muttering, "Fucking sexually-repressed alien idiots!" and other insults under his breath.

He hears the Doctor shuffle around a bit behind him, and eventually follow. They've walked a long way, though, before he feels the Doctor's hand on his arm. The touch is light, barely there, but it stops him. He stands still in the puddle of light from a streetlamp, breathing hard and trying to pull himself together. He's not going to apologise. He's fucking well not.

"Jack." The Doctor's voice is quiet – cracking at the edges. "Jack, I don't know what to say. I-"

Jack snorts loudly, unable to help himself, but he manages not to shake off the hand on his sleeve and stride off. Which is pretty good going, really, he decides. He breathes slowly and says, low and abrupt, "Don't. Just… don't. There's nothing you can say."

The Doctor, of course, tries to say it anyway. "Jack, I didn't – I'm not – the Master and I were never lovers!"

Jack can't help letting out an incredulous laugh at that, as he finally shrugs the Doctor's hand off and turns to face him. "Well, thank God for that! Because I was starting to get a bit worried!"

The Doctor's still gaping, shockingly pale even in the orange light from the streetlamp. He looks small and tired and empty. He says again, "We weren't lovers, Jack. I would never-"

"Well it was really starting to look like you would," Jack says harshly. "You were all over each other, all fucking year! And all that mourning, for a man who'd murdered millions and millions of people and destroyed worlds and galaxies and God knows what else… Do you have any idea how hard it is for me to feel any sympathy for you because he's gone? Really? He killed me, hundreds of times, in ways I don't even want to begin to remember, for a year… for pleasure. Not to mention what he did to my world. And you have the gall to come back here and expect me to look after you because you're sad he's gone. Because good old Jack's always going to be there ready and waiting. Well, I'm glad he's gone. Maybe it'll give you a taste of what it's like to be left behind!"

He's shouting into the Doctor's face now, right up close, in his space and in his face, one finger jabbing into the air to emphasise his point. He stands there for a long moment, breathing hard, searching that white face for some trace of understanding, of selflessness. But there's just shock. Jack shakes his head in disgust, spins round and starts walking again.

He really shouldn't have taken the Doctor out drinking. What had he been thinking? The Doctor never has been able to hold his liquor – he just gets maudlin – and as for Jack, well, he'd been badly out of practice even before the year on the Valiant. Not that he'd been dry all year: one particularly inventive torture the Master had delighted in was forcing whisky into him till he died of alcohol poisoning. It was by no means the worst way the Master had killed him – getting drunk had been a fantastic release till it got too severe – but the enjoyable part would have lasted longer if his tolerance had been higher.

He keeps walking. He's not trying to get away from the Doctor, whom he can still hear following him. He's just too angry to stay still, too angry to talk rationally, and too angry to want to look at that unobservant, uncaring face.

So he walks and walks, blindly, until time and exercise combine to sober him up a little and calm him down a bit. He walks until he finds himself coming up against a railing and he lifts his eyes and realises his feet have automatically brought him home. He's standing – oh irony of ironies – in the very spot he was standing yesterday with the Doctor and Martha, when they said goodbye.

He spreads his hands out on the rail and leans on it heavily, feeling trapped. He knows he's going to have to face the Doctor now.

Except he doesn't. The Doctor comes to stand beside him and from the corner of his eye Jack can see he's looking out over the Plas. He's not going to force Jack to face anything, and that makes Jack feel a gratitude he doesn't want to feel just now. He doesn't want to feel indebted to this man, not for anything, not right now.

They stand there in silence for a long time, looking out at the world though Jack doesn't think either of them are seeing it. Then the Doctor says quietly, in the same faraway voice with which he'd talked to Jack and Martha of his childhood on Gallifrey, "We grew up together, Jack. The Master and me. He knew me. He knew me better than anyone. And I thought he was gone, with the rest of them. I'd already mourned him once – well, a few more times than once, if you want to be honest because the bugger kept on coming back! But I really didn't see how he could escape the destruction of Gallifrey. And then I discovered he had. Can you imagine what that's like, Jack? Finally finding someone you never thought you'd see again? Ever?"

Oh, God give me strength! Jack sighs deeply, turns his head, waits till the Doctor turns his own, and looks him straight in the eyes. "Yes," he says quietly, with far more restraint than he knew he possessed. "I can."

And as he sees the Doctor's reaction, sees his eyes widen and his face blanch impossibly paler, Jack realises that the Doctor's honestly never thought about what it's been like for Jack. Not really. All right, stuck with Jack at the end of the universe, the Doctor more or less admitted he'd been in the wrong – and when he left Jack behind on the Game Station he hadn't known his Vortex Manipulator was going to burn out and strand him, or that he'd land on Earth more than a hundred years too early and have to live through them the slow way. But the Doctor has never really thought about it from Jack's point of view, never considered what it was he consigned Jack to by abandoning him. He should have known Jack would have questions, not to mention the concept of immortality to work though. He would have known, if he'd bothered to think about it.

Jack's not sure whether that makes him want to sigh with relief that the Doctor hadn't been as deliberately callous as he'd thought, or shake the self-absorbed so-and-so until he realises that human beings have feelings too.

The Doctor looks down, frowning, obviously reassessing. Finally, he looks at Jack, and it's different to any way he's looked at him before. "Oh, Jack," he says, and he sounds infinitely tired. "I'm sorry. I'm so very sorry."

It's the first time Jack's heard him say those words and sound like he actually understands what they mean.

Jack looks out over the Plas and lets out a long breath, and a hundred and forty years of resentment along with it. He feels his shoulders relax from tension he didn't know he was holding. Eventually, he inhales again and turns sideways towards the Doctor, leaning his elbow on the railings instead.

"Thank you," he says gently, and smiles.

The Doctor smiles back – still sadly, still a little stunned – and it's different. For the first time since the Game Station, Jack feels like the Doctor actually understands him. He swallows and looks away again briefly, to give himself a moment, to stop it overwhelming him, then looks back at the Doctor and says casually, "Why did you choose today to come and see me about this? Why not later? You had – I don't know – millions of years to choose from! Why today?"

"Just trying not to complicate my timeline by jumping too far ahead," the Doctor says, leaning on his elbows on the railing but with his head turned towards Jack. "And I thought you were all right. You were all smiling and everything."

"So were you."

"Yeah."

They both smile, ruefully.

"I really am sorry, though," the Doctor says. "You… what you did, that year – keeping him occupied, keeping him from noticing what I was up to, keeping him from driving me insane – "

"Well, no more insane, anyway," Jack grins.

The Doctor grins back, not completely out of his misery, but getting there. "Yeah. I do appreciate it, Jack. I do appreciate you. I just…"

"I know," Jack says again. "We're guys. We don't talk about these things."

"Nope. But while we are…" The Doctor straightens, and turns to him, serious and almost frowning. Jack straightens too and sticks his hands in his pockets because he's not sure what's coming and he doesn't want them to betray him. The Doctor says, "You're right. About the Master. Oh, I wasn't flirting, not exactly, you know that really. But in a perverse sort of way, I did enjoy having him around. It was like having a bit of home again. Even the worst bit of home is better than none. For a whole year, I wasn't alone anymore."

"And now you are again." Jack's still not sure where this is going but the Doctor's left a pause and he feels he ought to fill it.

"Yep. But that doesn't excuse the way I used you – for that year, and tonight. I've taken you for granted, Jack. I'm not going to do that again."

In a hundred and seventy-something years of living, Jack has never come this close to having his breath literally taken away – not without dying, anyway. It's his turn to stand there gaping. The Doctor looks at him a moment longer, then he draws in breath and says briskly, "Right, I'll be off then. Stop wasting your time."

Jack reaches out to stop him, and the Doctor stops. Looks down at Jack's hand on his arm, then up at Jack. Jack says, "You're not wasting my time. I'm here when you need me. Whenever you need me. Now, next week, a thousand years down the line… Take your pick. Just – maybe next time, pick an older me who's not still pissed at you, OK?"

The Doctor shuffles his feet a bit and stares down at them. "Wasn't sure you'd remember me a thousand years down the line," he mutters.

Jack laughs, a real laugh for the first time in what feels like far too long, throwing his head back. "Well, you're the one with the time machine. Why don’t you go and check? I bet I'm still right here, ready and waiting."

The Doctor gives him a long assessing look. "Yeah," he says slowly. "Maybe."

A gust of wind blows between them, making them shiver and draw their coats around them. "Come on," Jack says, heading for the steps. "Let's get inside. Fancy another drink? I've got some very good brandy. Or, hey! I bet Ianto's still there – we could get him to make us some coffee…"


Brief follow-up here: Sharing Sorrows