A/N: Captain Jack Harkness and Thomas Barrow in the midst of war. Angst angst angst. Storytelling. Sadness. Swearing. Title taken from the song "Gracious" by Ben Howard.
Word Count: 1306
Disclaimer: I do not own these characters, nor am I making money from this story. All credit to the creators of Doctor Who, Torchwood and Downton Abbey.
Jack and his wild stories of the stars, the Doctor and Rose, of Daleks and metal people and fear. He describes strange wondrous worlds and the vastness of outer space; darkness and light and black holes and rocks surrounded with rings and planets made of diamonds.
Jack tells him about the blue Tardis with its orange interior that ridiculously, somehow, is bigger on the inside and for some reason looks like a box that policemen put people in, which, to be perfectly honest, Thomas cannot see the point in at all.
Jack talks about Mickey the idiot and a being from another world parading about in a human body and then turning into an egg.
He says he was left behind.
And then he'll change tack and talk about the gun that became a banana and "are you my mummy?", the sad sad story of a dead little boy and Thomas wants to cry because his little brother was only seven years old when he passed and if there was any god up there, he would have let Thomas's baby brother live.
Jack paints a picture of London in the 21st century; all elaborate cars and trains under the ground and huge moving pictures on buildings and millions and millions of people all bustling about on their everyday lives.
Jack speaks of his old friend slash enemy slash lover slash brother in arms, and the two years of memories that Jack lost and never got back. Jack confides that sometimes he thinks he is a father but he doesn't know for sure and he'd love to be a dad but it would never work. Not now. Not like this.
Jack tells him about his little brother, Gray, and the desert village he grew up in, and his beautiful, gentle, loving mother and his fun-loving, hard-working, capable father, and recounts fond memories of playing football on the beach with its glaring white sand and azure sky.
He mentions his best friend, war and chokes up because it was all his fault.
He talks about galaxies and conjures up images of purple and yellow and red and green specks all bursting forth from the dark and huge space ships and clever little nanogenes, and space junk and scams and cons, and dancing in front of Big Ben.
And Thomas doesn't believe a word but he tells him he's a story teller, he could be a famous author with those lips and those words and the vivid pictures he paints in Thomas's mind will last a lifetime, he knows.
Thomas tells stories too. Stories of his family; his mum and dad, his beloved brother, and his little wise old grandmother with her wispy white hair who loved to joke and always treated him like an adult.
With love in his voice, he speaks about Downton; complains about cranky Carson, never giving him enough credit, and of his fragile friendship with Ms O'Brien.
He tells Jack about the Duke because he knows he'll understand. He thought he was in love with him and he thought Philip loved him too. Nobody had ever made him felt as special and he would have spent his life serving him if only Philip had let him but Philip betrayed him and sacrifices had to be made.
"You look after yourself," his grandmother told him shortly before she passed on with that knowing look in her eyes and Thomas had been scared because what if she told? But she didn't, and he thinks his mum and dad knew anyway and they seemed to love him still.
He even tells Jack about the Middle Eastern prince and Mary, though he names no names. Old habits die hard. You must never betray the family.
Thomas regales tales of the flirtatious kitchen cooks, of red haired Gwen and her ambitions to be a secretary, and his own ambitions to be a businessman, to be his own man.
He mutters about useless William and how William annoys him and how Daisy is completely infatuated with him but he loves it because it irritates William. It's the small pleasures in life.
Every year he dances with the Dowager, he tells Jack, because he's the best dancer from downstairs.
He smiles when he talks about Isis, the stupid dog, and about the green rolling fields and the quaint village and the little pub and maybe he'd be better off in a city but he loves Downton, he can't deny it.
Stories are spilled of travelling to London on the train and sneaking into those clubs. Cigarette smoke, whiskey, men, and the feelings of relief mixed with fear.
Thomas tells Jack how much he misses Mrs Patmore's rich cooking and sweet Anna and Mrs Hughes who was always kind to him and the Irish Revolutionary, Tom, who drives the car and brings a bit of rebellion to the Big House. He details Dr Clarkson who helped him get into the Medical Corps, and it's not what he thought it would be but he did help.
"Matthew Crawley, he's Lord Grantham's heir. He's here too. It's nice to see a familiar face sometimes," Thomas admits.
Jack listens. And Jack is entranced by Thomas's ability to switch from vulnerable and honest and passionate in his storytelling to a mask of servitude under his superiors to a cold dead look of acceptance in the face of battle and snark and sarcasm towards the other men in scarce snatches of downtime.
Jack knows about the way he shakes at night when it's only Thomas and Jack and nobody can see him cry under the blanket of darkness. Gentle fingers wipe his face and a soft American accent soothes and chapped lips brush his hair. Thomas cries ugly tears and his chest heaves and his voice breaks with his sobs. He can't stop trembling and Jack holds him tighter.
Thomas is fascinated because Jack never seems to be scared but he never seems to be truly alive either. How can you live your life without fear?
He throws himself in front of bullets, saves men from bombs and always returns without scratch. But he looks at the fire sometimes almost longingly like he wishes it could take him, whisk him away into a world of heat and pain but with blissful, peaceful end.
A bitter rage bubbles beneath the surface.
He talks of love when he talks of the Doctor and Rose but he also talks in anger. And when that anger leads to tears Thomas kisses him hard and holds his face between his hands because he doesn't know how to make it any better.
And Jack kisses him back because Thomas is here and he cares about Thomas and Thomas hasn't left him.
Not like everybody else has.
Not like his brother, not like his father and mother, not like his best friend who died in his arms, not like the Academy and 'John' or whatever the fuck name he's using now.
Thomas hasn't left like the Doctor and Rose abandoned him to die.
Not like every comrade who laughed a little too hysterically and got caught by snipers or fearfully raised a lighter as they stood up and got themselves shot in the heart or were blown to pieces in an unexpected bombing attack or who were forced by orders on to No Man's Land and were killed in the name of duty or were gassed and died clutching at their throats and clawing skin from their faces as they scratched their eyes out in pain or who fell from their horses and were stampeded to death, stabbed in the stomach by the enemy, defaced, left for dead, burned, hit, punched, dismembered, disfigured, paralysed, decapitated, or left a shell of a person staring blankly at walls.
But kisses don't last long here in Hell.