Captain Jack Harkness, intrepid explorer of time and space, lay protectively - though dead - over Evie's unconscious form.

It didn't last very long, of course. That was Jack's blessing - and his curse - that even death didn't last very long, So when he woke up, he thanked his lucky stars that Evie was still out cold; he shuddered to think how she might've reacted to being pinned under the dead body of her favourite bedmate here in the nearly-complete blackness of her bedroom at Luna University.

Or what was left of it, anyway.

At least the Moon had been terraformed by the fifty-second century; Jack really didn't want to think about what would have happened if the quake that had apparently leveled the university had occurred before there was air on the satellite. He would have survived of course, but he didn't really relish the thought of dying every ten seconds or so as he woke again and again without air around him. And Evie... god, Evie would never have survived that. Even as it was she had a bruise the size of a branka fruit on one delicate cheekbone, and that even after he had protected her from falling masonry as best he could.

It hadn't been enough, obviously, because she was still unconscious several minutes after he'd come back. He checked again. Still breathing. Good.

For a moment Jack marveled at how calm he was, considering how completely undone he had been the last time Evie had been in danger. Somewhere in the back of his mind he realised dimly that although he was mostly immune to shock in the medical sense, he was as prone to emotional shock as the next human. Maybe more. And if he lost Evie now, without the preparation of years of her life to insulate him, well... that didn't really bear thinking about either.

He shifted so he wasn't crushing her but near enough to protect her in case of aftershocks - there wasn't a lot of space in here anyway - and settled down to wait. After all, he had all the time in the world.

-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-

"I'm so sorry, my love," said River Song as she stood in her cell in Stormcage, gazing sympathetically at the young-seeming man lounging in the TARDIS doorway. His usual tweed jacket and jeans had been traded for a black suit and his jaunty bow tie for a straight black tie. He looked young and ancient and achingly sad all at once, and River wanted nothing more than to make it all better for him. But she knew she couldn't. He should never - ever - go to the funerals of old companions, and going to her funeral... well, that was practically begging for heartache.

River had never met Sarah Jane Smith, but she knew the Doctor had loved her, in some ways more than he had loved any other companion, ever.

But here he was, looking unimaginably hearts-broken at the loss of a friend he had seen only twice in the past several hundred years. He felt things deeply, her Doctor. He was capable of displays of affection, and certainly of outbursts of tempery frustration, but love was one of the few things he rarely showed outwardly, and almost never spoke aloud. He felt it too deeply and was too afraid of losing it if he said it in so many words.

What he needed most right now, River felt, was a distraction. She pondered as she watched him point his sonic screwdriver at the security camera, moving his hand as though the screwdriver was suddenly heavy. What can I distract him with? she thought as he trudged toward her cell door, what can I use? Sex - however much they enjoyed it - seemed somewhat crass given the circumstances, unless he showed interest by initiating an encounter, which was unusual. Poor lonely Time Lord... She shook her head as if to clear it as he sonicked the door, and decided she'd just work with whatever came to hand... improvisation was one of her best skills after all. And there was almost certainly trouble to be found somewhere near him.

There always was.

-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-

When Evie woke, she wasn't sure she had opened her eyes. It was so dark. But as her vision adjusted to where she could see dimly, she realised that while she was still in her room, the room itself had collapsed in on her, what was left of the ceiling only half a meter above her head.

And that was when she started to panic.

Jack didn't notice that Evie was awake until he heard her rapid and shallow breathing. "Evie!" he exclaimed, "Sweetheart, are you alright? Evie?" He put a hand out to lay it gently on her shoulder, but fumbled in the gloom and brushed against the bruise on her face. She started and screamed, a high and terrified sound, and then she began to shake violently, still hyperventilating and batting at Jack's hands. Shit, Jack thought, not a good time for this! "Sweetheart, Evie, come on," he said as soothingly as he could manage, "Come on baby, focus, I'm right here, you're safe, you're OK, Evie, come on..." and on and on for several minutes as Evie struggled to control herself.

"Can't... I... can't breathe..."

"Sure you can, sweetheart, focus, slow breath in..." She took a breath, deeper but still gasping. "Slow breath out, that's it..." The breath out was a stuttering sob. "OK, lovely Evie, you can do it. Again, slow breath in..." Slower and deeper breath this time. "Slow breath out... good girl, sweet Evie. Again. Good. Again." Her breathing was deeper now, slower, but she was still shaking like a leaf and she continued to strike out at Jack when he tried to soothe her with his hands. I don't know how to do this! he fretted, because how could he comfort her if he couldn't even touch her? Maybe if he gave her some warning... Jack clenched his teeth in frustration but kept his voice soft and soothing. "Evie, I'm going to rest my hand on your arm, OK?"

Evie shook her head frantically, but then gave a doubtful nod, and when he did brush his hand lightly against her shoulder she flinched away... but let out a deep shuddering sigh as she clutched desperately at his hand.

Then she began to cry.

-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-

The Doctor stood, trembling with repressed emotion, inside the protective circle of his wife's arms, his face buried in the spicy-sweet scent of her hair. He did not want to cry, he would not cry, humany wumany emotion, except that now and then a tear escaped into the riotous mass of River's curls. Oh my Sarah Jane, he thought, you would have loved her too... and then the grief was too much for him and he wept. River made a sympathetic sound in the back of her throat and manoeuvred him out of the cell and into the TARDIS. She pushed him gently in the direction of the TARDIS-blue sofa and went to the console, murmuring something quietly, after which the characteristic whooshing sound indicated that Sexy was dematerializing.

River walked to where her husband sat on the sofa, tears trickling down his face and dripping off his chin. She shook her head as she sat down beside him, pulling a soft cloth from her pocket and wiping his face. "Oh, Sweetie," she murmured in his ear as she kissed his cheek, "Why did you go to the funeral? They're not good for you." She wrapped her arms around him and leaned back so that his head was cradled on her shoulder and sighed, "Her children asked you to go, didn't they?" She smiled sadly as she felt him nod into the curve of her neck. "I suppose there was no help for it then."

"I loved her." His voice was barely audible.

"I know," she said quietly, combing her fingers through his hair.

"I couldn't refuse Luke and Sky..."

"No, of course not," she soothed, dropping a kiss on the top of his head.

The Doctor sniffled, and although it was hardly a romantic or an adult sound, River knew it was an indication that he would be alright. He just needed time. And that distraction. Which reminded her... "Sweetie," she said, "I asked Sexy to take us where she pleased; any objections?" He pulled away from her slightly and shook his head no, wiping his nose with the back of his hand. Another one, River thought, of those childish gestures that even paired with his baby face somehow did not make him seem young. She kissed him gently, and he clung to her for a moment, and then he pulled away and took a deep breath.

"Right," he said in something approaching his usual voice, "let's see what Sexy's got for us."

-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-

Evie was still crying.

Jack had seen her cry - gently - before, when moved by something profound, but he'd never seen her cry violently like this, in great gasping sobs, nearly in hysterics, and he ached with the need to help her. But except for her one hand clutching at his so hard she ground the bones together, she was still flinching away each time he tried to touch her, and he didn't know how to comfort without contact. Well, talking her through it had worked before, so he decided to try it again. He took a deep breath. "Evie, sweet Evie, tell me what's wrong..." He could barely hear her answering mutter. "Come on honey, you can tell me, I'm here," His voice lowered teasingly as he said, "What kind of psychiatrist can't talk about her feelings, huh?"

Evie let go of his hand and turned over, facing away from him, and now the sobs were if anything even more violent. Shit! Wrong choice, he thought, now what? Can't talk to her, can't touch her, can't... wait. Appeal to the professional... "Evie," he said, voice soft and a little angry. "You are the psychiatrist here. What would you do if you had a patient in the grip of a panic attack and then hysteria, if you were all alone with your patient, no backup, no medication. What would you do?" His voice was louder now, insistent, and he was starting to babble but he didn't care, because he had to get through to her "Tell me, Professor Eva Jones, what would you do if you were alone with this patient? You can't use the usual remedy for hysteria, because she's already injured and you'd never hit her anyway, even for her own good, you couldn't forgive yourself, and... and... oh hell, Evie, please, just help me help you." This last was whispered but Evie had stopped crying aside from the occasional hitched breath, and she was listening to him, and she'd turned over so she could see his outline dimly.

"You were right," she whispered miserably, "I'm no kind of psychiatrist. I can't even control myself."

"I think you're wrong about that, Evie." His voice was gentle again.

"I'm not. What kind of shrink has panic attacks?"

"The kind who hasn't bothered to treat herself," he snapped, "or get any treatment from the dozens of psychiatrists all around her! God, Evie, how often does this happen?" He was impatient now.

"Not often," she said humbly, "I'm usually able to avoid the triggering circumstances, but..."

"Shut up, Evie," Jack said, annoyance and frustration and need all clear in his voice.

And then he kissed her.