Break the Silence

by PhoenixDragonDreamer

So many lives disrupted and destroyed in the wake of that box of bluest blue. It would have happened whether they had been there or not – maybe in a harsher degree than if they hadn't been there. He had witnessed that first hand; more than once actually.

Warnings: Some Violence, Mild Gore, Horror, Angst, Dark, Character Study, Introspection, Mild Slash, One-sided UST
A/N: Written for wintercompanion's '2014 Jack/Doctor Gift Exchange' for the ever-lovely pamymex3girl who had requested/prompted 'Jack loves the doctor more than anything else in the universe, he trusts him despite all that has happened and would still willingly give up his life for him and will stand by him no matter what. He also hates him at times. And the doctor, the doctor knows this. IN fact out of everything Jack feels his hatred is the one thing the doctor understands the most and seems to have expected from day one.' This was a gorgeous prompt (that had me sweating more than a little bit!) that I can only hope I succeeded at fulfilling to her wishes and desires. I must admit, I had a fight on my hands with this fiction and as a direct result it might have accidentally actually spawned a bigger fic that is yet to come, just because I want answers to a few questions this piece raises. But this was about Jack, about the Doctor and how they find a way to each other, even with the obstacles of themselves. Tis comprised of my usual overly-thinky dark horror musings with a good dash of my standard wandery-blithery prose. As always, mostly unbeta'd and written in one go, so please forgive any mistakes and/or blatant vagueness. I apologize for any repetition, misspellings, sentence fails, grammatical oh-noes and general horridness. Unbeta'd fic is overly-thinky/blithery and unbeta'd.
A/N2: Originally posted 04-11-14 as Anon.
Disclaimer(s): I do not own the scrumptious Doctor, the delicious Jack or any of his other lovely companions. That honor goes to the BBC, BBC Worldwide the wonderful R.T. Davies and (for now) the fantastic S. Moffat. The only thing that belongs to me is this fiction - and I am making no profit. Only playing about!

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Vows are spoken
To be broken
Feelings are intense
Words are trivial
Pleasures remain
So does the pain
Words are meaningless
And forgettable

- Depeche Mode

There was nothing playful, funny, shy or awkward about him now.

At this moment, in this time, he looked very much like what he claimed to not be: a vengeful, ancient god standing strong and near towering amidst the rubble of a battle-field. His eccentric-professor clothing was streaked with ash and gore, his overly-youthful face rigid stone – all trace of charm, mercy and innocence gone with barely a flicker of the eye – his gaze icy, alien indifference as he stared down the aggressors. That look was enough to bring whole worlds to their knees. It had done so in the past and it was likely it would do so now.

The Storm had descended. All that was left to do (if you happened to be on the wrong side of it), was run. It would not chase you. It would not seek you out and destroy you (not immediately). It would let you do that to yourself – and during moments like these, it cared not one whit of your fate. To dash yourself to pieces is the only option (just in case it changed its mind and turned upon you). Blind fear was smart. Bravery and belligerence was death.

He was beautiful.

Jack had never loved him more.

And yet, all he could think was 'Where was this when I needed it? When Earth needed it? When my family needed him. Where was he? When he has ever been there for us – for me?'

Love tastes so close to hate: Fiery. Disarming. Inevitable. Both fill you up; override all else; leave you breathless with awe, power and the raw majesty of these things. Both consume you until there is nothing left to erase them, except their polar opposites.

But one can live with such contradictions. Jack always had. And in that moment, for that split second in time, Jack loved the Doctor so much, his hate sang with joy at the coming fall. Such moments as these could not last. They never do.

One day the Doctor would fall. On that day, Jack didn't know whether he would mourn or celebrate – but as he watched him

The all-powerful Lord of Time. The watchful, wrathful god of compassion and smothering mercy.

The Truthful Liar.

The Sorcerer-Trickster.

stand so, so tall and frighteningly beautiful amongst the ruins of a once magnificent city, he knew (very likely) he would do both….

O-o-O

He spun, all eerie grace and awkward limbs, his smile bright enough to rival the lights of the console room, energy pouring from him in humming waves as he started the sequence that would take them away from this world; leaving behind the horrors that had occurred like they never were.

That was the secret with the Doctor, really. He never forgot – but with one push of a button, one toggle of a switch – he thought he could erase himself from a world's atmosphere, almost like his existence there was an illusion. That in itself was an illusion, really. His presence could blow away like so much dust within a few hours, or leave an impression that would last for a millennia.

This is how gods are made.

But try telling that to the self-described 'madman in a box'.

He twirled and chattered, his movements frenetic, his words inconsequential. There was so much difference between the man he was now and the man he had been half an hour ago. It was like a distortion, a mirage in the desert, a flaw upon a mirror; there was no reconciling the two men, even as they were one in the same.

But then, how could one love a being such as the Doctor with their whole heart and yet hate them so, so deeply all at once. You'd think such a thing wouldn't be possible, but then when you met the Time Lord, it made perfect sense. He was always running ahead, hand firm within your own and yet he could leave you behind without a flicker of a thought; his time with you at an end.

Jack knew he was an exception to the rule. Even as he was left again and again, the Doctor could never truly let him go. They were such constants in one another's lives, it was almost inevitable that they would keep meeting, keep running together and then running away from each other.

'Tides upon a shore,' Jack mused, noticing how the Time Lord's twirling steps faltered for just a moment, sharp eyes taking in Jack's stillness and (likely) interpreting it wrong. It was hard to tell as he spun away again, one final slap to a lever as the TARDIS shuddered Herself into motion, lights flashing in the walls as She sang Her joy back to Her Pilot – the two always one while in flight.

Jack loved seeing that.

He loved the adventure, the perfect moments when they sailed between the stars, the Time Machine and Her Time Lord in glorious sync – a marriage and a love forged over long centuries that hardly needed more than a second of thought, of touch to be communicated. He had lived a long time himself and had never quite found someone to share that with. Every time he got close to that sort of perfection, Time would take it away again, leaving him to start anew. It was endless and exhausting – and he had never forgiven the Time Lord or the Machine for his affliction. He would never find peace because of them (those snatches of darkness between deaths tantalizing and hateful all at once), and he found he still hated them for that, even as he loved them for caring enough to try to fix what had been lost and broken.

Only to promptly abandon him (all over again) when it suited them.

He had thought that time away would have healed these wounds, but he had spent too many centuries chasing down the man in front of him. He had spent many more hoping he would never see him again. There was too much in between. There was too much pain, too many unanswered questions, too many torments that an endless life brought. It was all well and good for a Time Lord – they were used to long years and the damage that those years could bring. A human was never meant to live so long, much less forever. Jack had hit madness so often it had almost become a game: see how many decades would pass before the pain would catch up, leaving him screaming, alone and shattered from too many deaths in a short span of time. Eventually the insanity would wear off, leaving steadiness in its wake.

Somehow, being sane was even worse.

O-o-O

He hadn't heard Her land.

He hadn't seen Her arrival, really (not that this truly mattered in the long run). All that mattered was that She was here: big and blue and impossible in the middle of the most desolate planet of the Outer Rim of the Trillium Spiral.

There was nothing out here. Zelt-ink Five was a wasteland; the Cyber War of the Trillium Galactic had only just started and the launching point was only so much dust, bone and corroded metal.

It was the perfect place to hide, to lick ones raw wounds and hope the universe would just pull the proverbial blanket back over its head and wish itself away. Jack hadn't meant to come here, but then, he really hadn't meant to land anywhere. Nowhere would have been preferable, but Zelt-ink Five was as good a start as any, he supposed. He had thought himself alone, with time and enough to breathe the dead air and get the energy to start over (for the hundredth time), but the presence of the TARDIS defied that idea. One minute it was just him and the glass-dust winds and the next –

He was smiling in anger when he approached Her, unable to resist the pull of the Machine, even as he dreaded the sight of Her Pilot. He let his fingers drift over the synthetic wood exterior, a spark of happy hurt in his chest when She hummed in response, more warm and inviting than the Doctor ever was. She still loved him, despite it all. The Doctor…well, that was a different matter.

Speaking of different, he wondered which one he would be encountering: someone from the far past? One of 'his' Doctors? Or someone from the future? There would only be so many future ones, after all. Even Time Lords had their limits.

He didn't have long to wonder; the door seemed to open of its own accord, the slight creak as it swung back on itself barely audible, even in the deadly stillness of the landscape. He hesitated on the threshold, half-waiting for someone to come barreling out of the doors, but no one came as the seconds (then minutes) ticked away. He was dazzled by the warmth and light spilling from within Her, his pause lengthened as his mind ticked over possibilities beyond the doors – who he would encounter just as important as the change he sensed from inside the Machine.

He barely cleared the frame of Her doorway (the slight shifting of Time something he had long missed, but quickly acclimated to), when he saw him. He had definitely changed, but Jack hardly took the time to adjust to the shock of the new face as he stalked towards him, the pull of the terrible smile on his lips reflected in the deep light of the Doctor's eyes. New eyes, but so very, very old – his youth jolting, almost disorienting. Jack registered all of this within mere seconds, anger and fear and hate and relief warring for attention within his heart as he forced himself to a stop, his boots mere inches from the Time Lord's, practically nose to nose as he asked the only question that ever rose at moments like these (even as he already knew the answer).

"Doctor?" Airless and hopeful and sad all at once.

"I'm sorry," the Time Lord breathed, voice hushed (just the two of them), in the vaulted cavern of his inner sanctum; the lights too bright and cheery for the melancholy of his voice.

Jack felt taken off guard for a moment. The apology was so out of the blue, so unexpected it forced him to take a step back. Then he remembered what the Doctor could possibly apologize for and had to resist the urge to launch himself at him and choke the life from his bones. The life that seemed stolen when so, so many had died calling his name. He had kept on living while those who needed him had not. When still others who had needed him, who had screamed for him had mourned those losses. Losses that were almost stupid on the face of it, because they had been so, so unnecessary. If the Doctor had been there –

His fist followed through on what the rest of him had not, anger curled into the clench of his fingers as he hurled that fist towards the Time Lord's face, barely managing to stop short of hitting him. The whole exchange was less than a second, maybe a lifetime for the being such as the Doctor – but he never flinched. He never made a move to defend himself. He just calmly accepted that violence against him, his eyes glittering an understanding Jack couldn't possibly comprehend.

It wasn't as if he was human.

Jack slowly lowered his hand, still itching to hit him (and keep hitting him until he just…stopped), mouth frozen in that terrible smile, wetness surging up to blur amongst his eyelashes, blind him from the calm, impassive face before him. It was only a moment, but he thought he saw relief (of all things) reflected in the Doctor's eyes. His millisecond burst of hatred not only expected, but somehow welcomed.

That, more than anything, was what made him stay.

O-o-O

"Jack."

The console room was now quiet. The hum of energy and whirling limbs now replaced with the background hum of the Time Rotor, all movement coming from the console and surrounding roundels as they flashed thoughtfully; the TARDIS fully concentrated on their destination, not on Her occupants. With nothing to distract, to lose himself in, the Time Lord had seemed to notice him – his lack of engagement with him or his Girl.

Sexy he called her now.

Fitting.

He had been caught daydreaming, it seemed.

The Doctor moved as if to approach him, but stopped before his feet could truly take that first step – eyes watchful under the artful scatter of his bangs. Artful because of how they let him hide, even as he looked you in the face. Some things never change. Others change too much.

He leaned against the console, mouth snapping closed with an almost audible click, frown lurking in the corners of his eyes, even as understanding hovered along the edges of his lips. He looked weary – a startling idea considering the high energy that still buzzed off his limbs. He had forced himself into stillness, mirroring Jack almost unconsciously it seemed, waiting for the questions, the disbelief, the anger. Jack was too tired to offer what the Time Lord was poised for, but found the words anyway, that damnable curiosity always at the fore. Keeping him human, even as he was anything but.

"All those people," Jack said before his voice gave out, lips pressing closed against the urge to scream at him, ask him if the toll was ever paid, if anything truly ever changed in the wide universe.

"Yes." Was the soft reply, those sharp eyes boring into his face, trying to read what he was thinking, even as the Time Lord seemed light years away from the conversation; likely thinking the same thing Jack was: how things changed and yet didn't. The tumble of chaos that followed them both the only constant in their very long lives.

The Doctor's mouth twisted upon itself, smile flickering into being before being swallowed by the frown around his eyes. He nodded as if he was answering an unasked question, face blanking into blandness as he turned to the stairs, obviously thinking the conversation was over before it had even begun. Jack knew him too well, so vocalizations of unhappiness, of dismay would only be wasted.

So unpredictable in their very predictableness.

Jack felt that horror, that confusion and pain as if it was the first time. So many lives disrupted and destroyed in the wake of that box of bluest blue. It would have happened whether they had been there or not – maybe in a harsher degree than if they hadn't been there. He had witnessed that first hand; more than once actually. Had wished for the Doctor's brand of destruction to come and wipe away the destruction that was unfolding before his eyes so many, many times. But it was easy, easier to blame the Doctor than see the truth. The Doctor knew it. He expected it.

That was what stayed Jack's metaphorical hand. The darkness in the Doctor's eyes was quick to welcome his own – and therein lie the true problem. The one he could question, when all other questions were answered by the very silence that breathed between them.

"You could have died," Jack said, his voice crawling back for one more shot at breaking this terrible grace between them. "You could have died for nothing. Those people didn't care. They still don't. You could have died and it wouldn't have solved a damned thing. They made it very clear that they aren't beholden to anyone but themselves. We could have left and it would have turned out exactly the same."

The Doctor paused mid-turn, shoulders tense and statue-still, his very image almost frozen in place, as if stopping his movement could stop the words being fired at his back like bullets. Eventually, he relaxed – his posture tilted away, head cocked as if he was listening to words that weren't being said when Jack's voice gave way again – hands loose by his sides, knee still angled for the next step away from the Captain and his questions and his invective.

He said nothing, which was beyond frustrating. This version of him said so much, but most of it was just air and cover. Anything meaningful was locked away tight, wrapped selfishly just out of reach. Jack was once more overcome with the urge to hit him. Then kiss him gasping. These feelings were usually present when he was near the Doctor, but never more so than when he was being elusive like this.

"Did you hear me?" Incredulous and curious, two other consistent feelings when in the vicinity of this aggravating creature. "Or does it even matter?"

"Yes," the Time Lord answered, voice oddly light as he turned to face Jack once more, those eyes too heavy and blank for the simplistic answer falling from his mouth. "It always matters."

He took two steps closer, awkward shuffle back as if that was all his limbs knew how to do – the liquid grace dropping away as if it had never existed. Deception in every cell. That's what he was.

"But I'm not always there when it matters, am I, Jack?" The Doctor's voice was cool and detached, hands still motionless at his sides. "That's what you're thinking, isn't it? That if I could die for these people and their ignorant squabble, why couldn't I have done the same for you and yours?"

Jack wanted to protest, but was stilled by the image of an alien and wrathful god, poised on the edge of destruction as he gazed through the very souls of the people who had placed him on the veritable bomb he had been standing on. Even chained he was grace and distant thunder: the blood of those who had died before him smeared across his countenance like an accusation.

"One day, I will, Jack," he said in a soft, relentless tone, the god lurking beneath this youthful, shining façade; face so made for smiling and laughter, eyes made for vengeance and power beyond comprehension. "That's what you want, isn't it?"

No. Yes.

There was no answer as Jack struggled with the statement disguised as a question, his mouth dry at the certainty that bled from the quirk of the Time Lord's mouth, the Doctor's smile knowing and filled with that odd relief as he spun away from him once more, footfalls growing fainter as he retreated into the recesses of the Time Ship. Jack stood there for a long time, wondering when the Doctor had come to expect, much less welcome the hate that burned within him.

When his love had become less important than his rage.

O-o-O

He had become the centerpiece in their war.

They had dragged him out in chains, tossing him into the middle of the blood-stained field as if to accuse him of all the atrocities they had committed upon it. Weariness sat heavy on those boyish shoulders, his face gray in the light of the coming dawn. He looked like a man who had gone ten rounds with an earthquake and lost – all energy and joy sapped from his frame as they hooked the chains to one of the largest explosive devices Jack had ever seen in his very long life.

Jack himself was part of the milling crowd – the Doctor's last move before he had been captured was to push him away, cover him in a scrap of blanket that had been laying across a decaying chair. He had somehow known what would happen and Jack was damned sure he had taken steps to prevent Jack from being caught out as well. Whether it was because Jack could help him escape when the time came, or due to his tendency to come back to life when presumed to be dead (something these people would objected to strenuously), Jack wasn't sure – but as always he had been taken out of the running before he could even raise a protest.

That was one thing he hadn't missed about running with the Doctor. Free will was almost a joke. Choice was only in the hands of one being and (nine times out of ten), that being was the Doctor himself.

The flimsy ruse had worked though. They had been so desperate to get their hands on the Time Lord, they hadn't paid much attention to anything else. They'd descended on him like birds of prey, pausing only when they'd had him in their grasp to relay their contempt and anger through a few well-placed blows and kicks. They'd cuffed him between bursts of violence, seeming to be further enraged by his silence and lack of resistance. After one final kick (that'd had the Doctor curling helplessly around the aggressor's boot), they had hauled him off, deliberately dragging him in such a fashion he would have to scramble to keep up or be 'assisted' with further aggression the rest of the way.

It had taken everything Jack had to keep from flying after them, offering the same violence they had visited upon the Time Lord. He had known coming to the planet had been a mistake. Their fear of aliens and their hatred of anything that wasn't them was depicted in nearly every street sign, in every face of the planet's peoples. But the Doctor had needed something that could only be found in this sector of the galaxy. He had never indicated what it was and Jack had been quite sure they would be unable to find it even before everything had gone to hell.

Somehow they had found themselves embroiled in a planet-wide civil war. It wasn't the first Jack had encountered and it very likely wouldn't be the last – yet somehow it had still felt…off. It was as if they had known who and what they were before he and the Doctor had even set foot on the planet.

Twelve hours after his capture, the Doctor had been hauled out before a jeering, blood-thirsty crowd, the rabble screaming for his death even as they backed away from the blast-zone, shielding being placed to protect the citizens from the detonation. Whatever the war was about seemed to have been long forgotten in the face of this new distraction. These fresh deaths a rally to whatever their cause happened to be. Jack had been quite sure even they no longer knew exactly what they were spilling blood for, but in the end it didn't really matter as long as that blood was spilled.

It mattered only in the fact that it wasn't their own.

If only the Doctor had been the sole being on the block that day. Two other aliens had also been captured and placed (chained) on explosive devices, their pleas for their lives only drowned out by the Doctor's pleas – the Time Lord talking fast and frantic, voice already hoarse for gods knew what reason.

"Please," Jack had heard, the crowd falling silent in a gruesome display of joyous attention, restless for the blood to flow, but with that fascinated, twitchy focus of people watching a car wreck. They would get their wish, that much was assured – but they'd craned to hear the words of the dying aliens, their sick need pacified (for that moment) by the desperation in the prisoners' voices.

"Please, stop this," the Doctor rasped, eyes flicking to the off-worlder on his right, the captive on his left reduced to incoherent sobs in his own language, unable to add his voice to the call for mercy. "Let them go, they have no wish to harm you. Let me help you. You can do as you wish to me, just please –"

The shielding had snapped up around the three captives and Jack had actually felt his heart surge into his mouth as the magnetic field sparked into place, shimmering ephemerally in the weak light of the rising sun. He had wanted to look away, but had been unable to. He would not dishonor himself (or the Doctor) that way; so he had been an unwilling witness to the first blast, the explosion overwhelmingly loud in the open courtyard.

The crowd's collective sigh was felt more than heard as blood and chunks of gore spattered against the shield and the other two prisoners. Ash fell like snow beneath the peaceful gleam of the force-field, any leftover flesh and bone being burned away by the heat of the blast and the sizzling impact against the energy bubble surrounding the prisoners.

The Doctor looked shocked and too pale in the wake of that detonation, bluish-green blood streaked down the lean lines of his neck, his jaw – the ash (all that was left of the captive on the Time Lord's right) – had fallen whisper-soft against his frozen body, leaving smears of gray-black that seemed to just seep into his skin and clothes and make itself at home there. Jack had bit his lips to keep from bellowing his fear and anger at the crowd, eyes finding the Doctor's –

Their gazes had locked, the Doctor's voice stifled by the carnage he was covered in. An odd peace had slipped into the depths of his eyes, like he had been ready to face this fate, face his death, if it would appease these terrible people; this planet that wasn't worth one ounce of the man's pity, mercy or compassion. Jack could feel rage rise at the passive flicker in those eyes, rage that it would end like this when there were so, so many more deserving of the Doctor's passion and fire and reckless lack of self-regard. If he was to die, it should be for something worthy of his blood, his pain. These people were not worth the dust beneath the Time Lord's feet.

The next blast was almost anticlimactic: After all, the worst had already happened. It was almost over. Everything. Nothing.

None of it mattered anymore because there was just one more to go and part of Jack's world would disappear in flame and ash…and it would mean less than nothing. The Doctor would die and it would be the worst thing that could ever happen, but not because he had died. Everyone (except him) died – so no, that wasn't the problem. It was the where. It was the how. Any moment he would be blown to pieces and there would be no return from that. Not even a Time Lord had the power to regenerate from an explosion.

There would be nothing to mourn, nothing to celebrate. No real closure or ending.

Then the Doctor had staggered to his feet (face granite, lightning blazing in his eyes) and it had all gone to hell.

O-o-O

He didn't know whether the TARDIS had nudged him there, or he had just followed his feet, but not too long after the confrontation in the console room Jack found himself in the medical bay, the object of his worry and consternation busy patching himself up with the help of a few med-bots and his own deft fingers, the sheer amount of damage to his upper torso telling of long hours of work ahead. That was, if he was left to his own devices.

With an inner sigh, Jack picked up a skin-grafter and approached the Time Lord on deliberately heavy feet, though he was quite sure the Doctor was aware of his presence long before he had even entered the med-unit. Not much got by the man that was for sure – Jack had been personally privy to that little lesson on more than one occasion.

He managed to get within ten feet, close enough to hear the Doctor instructing one of the med-bots (that held a grafter of its own) in his own strange, beautiful language, before he was halted by a flick of the Time Lord's eyes – 'back off' as clear in his gaze as if he had shouted it. Sure that the message had gotten across, he went back to dressing one of the worst of the oozing wounds on his forearm, head bowed in concentration and dismissal.

"Doctor," Jack started to say, only to be cut off with –

"It isn't necessary, Captain." The Doctor raised his head long enough to pin him with another icy stare before turning his attention to the ragged edges of what looked like a stab wound just above his hip. Jack wanted to alleviate the tension, but even jokes about the Doctor and his state of undress at the moment would smack of trying too hard, so he fell silent, refusing to move from his frozen position in the middle of the med-bay.

But the wash of stilted quiet became too much after a while. Jack shuffled his feet with mild impatience, almost sorry that he did when the Doctor's shoulders slumped further, his eyes exhausted and too ancient within that young face as he glanced in Jack's direction. The slight twitch of his head seeming to be too much too soon and it wasn't long before he dropped his gaze again, though more in abject weariness than in dismissal. Jack swallowed hard and reflexively tightened his grip on the grafter, rethinking this new confrontation. Now was not the time to press the issue, to ask what the Doctor meant when he said those things. Why he acknowledged (and even encouraged) Jack's hatred faster than his love. Why he seemed relieved in the face of it.

They had lost a battle before it had even begun. In the end, it had been a futile battle. They couldn't have won even if they had truly tried. The Doctor's pleas had fallen on deaf ears. His reason shunted aside for the promise of senseless violence and mayhem – his blood an anathema to the sickness that had taken root in the soul of that planet and its people.

It wasn't the Doctor's fault he had failed, but Jack knew better than to think he could change his mind about that. He had only been back on board the TARDIS a mere handful of weeks and he had already learned (all over again) that the Doctor was his own worst enemy. He declared he was not a god and yet he wielded enough power for five of them.

But all that power couldn't cure some afflictions, especially when those afflicted were more than happy to suffer the malady of their own making. Nothing could change that planet – its inhabitants were as desolate and empty as the abandoned rock the Doctor had found him on all those weeks ago.

"I'm sorry –"

"Don't," Jack snapped, wishing he could go and shake him out of this depression he was wrapping himself in, wishing they had something more than just 'Captain Jack and the Doctor', because he would give anything to hold him close and tell him it was all okay and have him truly believe it. "Don't apologize."

The Doctor nodded, likely taking the plea as a rebuke, attention turned back to the bot grafting the charred and torn flesh along his abdomen back together. He seemed to sink into his own mind – not necessarily ignoring Jack, but not focused on him either – hiss escaping through his teeth as the med-bot reached into the wound to clean it, face hidden beneath his bangs as he leaned into the pain. Jack was unsure if he was so open to that pain because it relieved his anger at himself, or if it was just too much after the last twenty four hours and he was therefore unable to mask it any longer.

Jack watched silently as the bot began the painstaking task of pulling the tattered skin back together, the only sounds being the Doctor's labored breathing and the buzzing hum of the medical devices working on his abused torso. The Doctor didn't offer an explanation for his injuries and he obviously didn't seem to think Jack would care enough to ask: his own indifference to his condition enough to have Jack gritting his teeth all over again, surprise and horror elevating when the Doctor literally peeled his button up off of his back – the flesh there coming away with a sickening ease that had the Captain's stomach turning.

"I've had worse," the Doctor murmured (barely audible enough for Jack to hear), nose wrinkling in distaste as he discarded the shirt on the floor, the pattern of blood across the crumpled swatch of fabric telling Jack everything he needed to know. This wasn't just the explosion. Likely the Time Lord had been tortured while he waited for his demise. Probably as an incentive to not kick up too much of a fuss over his inevitably messy ending.

And yet he had still tried to reason with them, to appeal to their (non-existent) sense of mercy, of compassion.

Jack could only imagine what he had likely gone through –

voice hoarse, body bent with weariness and pain as the Time Lord staggered (almost blindly) to the device that would obliterate him from the inside-out –

and that alone brought that sense of awe, that feeling of warm surprise that he would still try despite it all. That the Doctor would willingly shunt aside his own personal pain in favor of belief, that spark of faith that there was some good left in this rotting mass of a civilization. He had paid for that faith. He was forced to endure the deaths of two beings he didn't even know (but cared about all the same), at the hands of those very people he chose to believe in, his ideals used to beat him with before he was covered in the blood and ashes of his failure.

But when it was almost over; when his executioners truly thought they had the upper hand…

Jack pushed the surging thoughts away, mouth cottony-dry, gut writhing with something sickly and afraid, though his pulse beat with a fierce joy that tasted too much like the rage he had succumbed to far too often in his very long life. The feelings were usually associated with (and about) the Doctor, but this reached far beyond the Time Lord himself and straight to the power he commanded at a mere whim. His status as a god was not a concept, it was not a fantasy or daydream – it was the truth. The lie at the center of that truth was the Doctor's denial of it.

Jack was afraid.

He was afraid of what the Doctor could do. He was afraid of what he had done. But he also lusted for the mad uncertainty and chaos as surely as he lusted for the Time Lord himself. It was like grief and horror and longing all mixed together; a strange feeling and one that the Captain didn't much like. It reminded him of madness and sanity and how there was so very little difference between the two.

He wondered if the Doctor tasted like insanity now.

He wondered if his memory had failed and he had always tasted of it, but Jack just hadn't remembered – too human and flawed and ignorant to know what he had come into contact with.

Now…now he knew that flavor all too well: ashes, blood, bile and creeping, purple-gray sorrow. He wondered if he would relearn that taste, that knowing from the Time Lord himself, or if he would be able to identify it despite him. He was quite sure (as sure as he had ever been of anything in his very long existence), that the Doctor was not just familiar with the concepts he was toying with, but damned near the inventor of them.

Even amidst the joy, the laughter and love, the Beast always lurked. The Bringer of Storms and the Hand of Retribution. The Doctor could deny it. He could run from it and lie about it and turn away from the sound of it, but in the end, there was no way to hide from the truth. It wasn't right, but it wasn't wrong either – and even after all these centuries, Jack still couldn't find a way to force it to make sense.

It was something just felt, even if it couldn't be logically known. The mind can barely reconcile with itself, much less grasp what the soul already knows. What makes nerves flare, blood pump and bones ache –

"You're wondering," the Doctor said quietly. "If I knew what would happen. If I knew – and if I did it despite that knowledge."

Jack snuffed in a deep breath, startled more by the Doctor's insight into the spiral of his thoughts more than the sudden burst of his voice across the creaking, cautious silence of the med-bay. He could feel Time snap back into place and didn't know whether to be embarrassed or indignant that he had been caught out once more; the displacement of himself from the surface of reality to merge into his own mind a habit he had developed decades ago.

He normally kept better track of himself, of his surroundings, though the situation was far beyond the realms of normal. It generally wasn't when one dealt with the Doctor – but even what little he had witnessed over the last few weeks (much less the last 24 hours), smacked of odd, even for him. Which brought (once more) a whole host of questions to mind that he knew would never be answered.

"You're wondering," the Doctor continued, soft, gray and surprisingly there in a way he hadn't been a few minutes ago, "if I have finally become the monster you've always secretly believed me to be."

Jack's whole world seemed to shake and he tried to find a way to breathe past it, the skin-grafter in his hand (long forgotten) falling from nerveless fingers to clatter to the ground; sound twice as shocking as the Doctor's words. The ideas falling from the alien's lips something Jack had never dared to think to himself, much less speak it out loud. To say it would give it life, make it real.

He never wanted that.

He didn't try to deny it, though.

He forced himself to meet that cool, green gaze and almost staggered back from the strange sadness that bled in their depths. The acceptance of any anger or odium – the expectation of these things in the tilt of the Doctor's head, the understanding of them in the twist of his lips.

"And if I did…if I was – if I am that monster, Jack…"

To Jack's relief he stopped abruptly, the Doctor's eyes falling away (sliding shut, pain creased in the corners), as the med-bot between his shoulder-blades concluded its scan – a high-pitched whine warbling from the tiny device as it began to repair the damage to the Doctor's back. The Time Lord arched silent and ghostly-pale against the invasive treatment of his (unknown) injuries, all speech locked behind the grit of his teeth, knuckles white as he grappled with the crisp cotton of the sheets beneath his fingers.

Jack wished he had given in to centuries of want and kissed the man quiet before he could reveal horrors Jack had been running from for damned near a millennia. He wished he had hit him: that he had knocked him down (years ago, weeks ago, seconds ago) and escaped before the Doctor could reopen that old wound and dig out the one thing that made the festering rawness in his soul so unhealable. He wished to rewind the last ten minutes, leave unsaid all those things he had never dared to truly contemplate – even in his darkest hours.

What the Doctor should never have guessed (much less voiced); so starkly surreal, bleak and terrible under the soft shine of the med-bay's lights, the leaning quiet of its four walls. To contemplate those words was to court true insanity. It would make everything he had believed in, everything he had ever done futile. Useless. All because it was done in the name of a creature that had never truly existed except in his own mind.

He wanted to cross that expanse of the med-bay and soothe the Time Lord with soft words, a gentle pair of hands and an open heart. But he also wanted to hurt him. He wanted to physically make him feel that ache expanding beneath his breastbone, the sorrow unfolding under the tight cinch of his skin. He could almost see himself doing it and that brought a fresh wave of horror, too soon (and too much) upon the heels of the last one.

If I am that monster, Jack…

Jack didn't need to hear what he was ultimately asking, even if he had never really got a chance to voice it. He didn't need to know the Doctor's trust in his aversion ran that deep. That he depended on it with the unwavering faith that some societies hold for the sun rising in the morning and setting in the evening.

The Doctor trusted Jack with his life.

He also trusted in Jack's incandescent rage, his venomous (human) hatred.

In the end, that only meant one thing –

He almost tripped over the skin-grafter in his haste to leave; feet carrying him away from the med-bay before he could think on what he was doing, what this act might mean to the man he was running from. How it might confirm what was said (and all those things that never could be said). He ran and tried to detach from the pounding of his feet along the bright, open corridors; the pull of harsh oxygen in his lungs; the rush of heat as his heart tattooed madly in his chest. He ran and tried to ignore the wetness that blurred his vision and burned his eyes.

He didn't know where he was going and in that moment (that spilt second of time) he really didn't care…

O-o-O

The blast had been tremendous.

Jack had found himself gasping awake in the middle of an endless broken sea of people, the moans of the injured and dying muffled by the pervasive quiet that comes after a major detonation. There was nothing like it in the world; that ringing absence of sound a relief and a horror all at once. It meant it was over, that the very worst that could happen had already come about. But the aftermath…

They wouldn't be here for the aftermath, Jack was quite sure.

He couldn't find it within himself to really care though. Not this time. Not about these people. They created their own suffering. It was high time to let them wallow within it. He didn't dare to dream they would learn from it, but that wasn't really his problem either.

He couldn't find the strength to stand, but he didn't let that stop him, all thoughts circling around the Doctor and digging him out of the rubble. If he was alive, they could make their way back to the TARDIS and let everything sort itself out in time. If he was dead –

If he was dead, Jack would do him the honor of bringing him home.

In the end, neither digging the Doctor out (much less carrying the Time Lord to his TARDIS) were options. In fact, the Doctor'd had to do the digging and the carrying – Jack was just along for the painful ride.

The civilization they had encountered was amazingly resourceful, extremely far-sighted in their malicious intent and twice as destructive as even the Doctor had come to expect. At the time, Jack had wondered what had happened to him, how much he had learned at their hands (literally and figuratively) – but he just couldn't bring himself to ask.

All he'd wanted to do was go Home.

O-o-O

It took Jack a while to stop running. It took quite a bit longer to realize he was far from all he knew, wandering aimless within the depths of a machine that carried all of eternity within Her walls. At first the thought brought a bitter smile to his lips. He had lost so much else to the Machine and Her Pilot – why not his physical self?

After a few more twists and turns in the corridors, a few more dusty rooms that hadn't seen use in decades (if not centuries), common sense prevailed and he began to worry more than a little bit. Until he realized he was being guided.

It was subtle, that sense of being led. That whisper-tug that was (always) the TARDIS hadn't dimmed or faded, really. If anything it had gotten stronger as he walked further into the depths of Her, the presence of the sentient machine warm and slightly exasperated as She allowed him access to some areas, 'roped off' others and kept his feet on a well-lit path. She likely knew what he needed more than he did himself at the moment – and even if he didn't trust Her Time Lord (a lie), he had always trusted Her. She had never led him astray, Her love for the Doctor and his Companions a fact more than a feeling; but that in itself was a comfort (even when one didn't want such comforts).

Just when he thought he couldn't possibly walk any further, he found himself in (what he assumed was) an old console room, the vaulted ceilings both warm and foreign at the same time. It seemed oddly familiar (a tickle of memory), but he couldn't place it; the room seeming to brighten as he approached the console itself, the strange mix of steam-punk Victorian and alien tech more quaint than off-putting.

He ran fingers over the wooden dais, smiling as the TARDIS hummed welcome at him, the sound still intimate and comforting even in such a large space. The similarities with the newer control room were striking, even as the atmosphere was different. This was sleeker, more sophisticated: the other was almost a hodge-podge of assembled junk parts, an innocent jumble of odds and ends made to look like a console…a child's daydream of what the TARDIS was supposed to be.

He had a feeling that the console rooms generally matched their owner. With that idea in mind, the old green-coral room he had come to love so well made real sense. Dark, but homey – a sweet longing etched into every pillar – as if the pilot was trying to keep Her close, even in mourning.

He had no idea why he was thinking this, but it helped to calm him, keep him settled. Remind him of the Doctor and all that he stood for. Even despite his pronouncement that it might be otherwise.

Now that he was away from him (and able to think more clearly), the shock dropped away, leaving sadness in its place. He saw those words for what they were. He saw the Doctor's anger at himself (still wishing he was a god, even as he declared the opposite) and what that anger represented as a whole. The mistaken idea that anyone (much less a god), could have prevented what had happened on that old battlefield almost terrible in its futility; the whole world had been already so soaked with blood, how could more blood even possibly make a difference?

To the Doctor it did though. He thought those deaths could have been prevented, even if the people that died were the very ones who ensured that their own demise would come about. They brought it upon themselves, but they were not the ones who held the blame in the Doctor's eyes. He reserved that for himself. He should have been faster, smarter –

Jack knew that thinking all too well. He had some of those same ideals, unearthed and polished by the Time Lord, even when he had all but given up on himself and the universe. Even after centuries of hardship and pain, he still believed: in the Doctor, in himself, in the inherent goodness of most of the beings in the universe.

Sometimes it was hard to remember that. Other times it was all too easy. This was one of those moments where it was easy – but only because of the man who declared it was a fallacy. That his own efforts, his own goodness was no more than a falsehood told by a madman with too much time on his hands and all the universe (past and present) at his feet. It told Jack everything he needed to know about the Doctor's state of mind. Which brought more questions that begged answering.

Maybe it was time to find those answers.

O-o-O

It was the second (series of) explosions that was the surprise. They were small ones, but Jack knew that old Earth saying; he didn't know who first said it, but they weren't far wrong.

Coming back awake (gasping, shaking, palms and neck prickling from horrors on the other side that were only half-remembered), was less pleasant than the first time; darkness was falling when he rose once more (for the 2,578 time) from the cool grip of death. The disorientation never got old, the sense of skewed (or lost) time and the feeling that he was missing something was very much a constant, but he hadn't quite gotten the hang of it all after all these years. Maybe that was a good thing – but when one had a missing Time Lord and a blood-thirsty mass of citizens that may or may not be dead…well, it just wasn't wise to be out cold (there's a joke for you), when the situation was this dire.

He really hoped the Doctor hadn't died. But the lack of movement in any corner of the square raised the possibility just that much higher. Even before the last detonation, there was little to give hope: the sounds of the dying growing fainter before petering out altogether as he had crawled over the bodies of the fallen crowd. What little life there was in the mass of people underneath him was trickling away – and he'd never even gotten close to the center of it all before the world collapsed (once more) in white noise and numbing darkness.

He had sat up and brushed the dust and other detritus from his clothing, a little more refreshed this waking than the last – and almost died from shock all over again – when the Doctor appeared (like magic) by his side, face grim and eyes shadowed by the fading light above. Jack'd had to restrain the urge to shout at him (pulling the reflexive punch before he could get it off), his heart galloping madly in his chest as a little voice in the back of his head nattered on stupidly about spirits and haunts and madmen as poltergeists. He swallowed hard and tried to whip up a smile for the Time Lord, but felt it fall away as the thin lines around the Doctor's mouth deepened, his eyes distant as he grasped Jack's hand to haul him to his feet.

"We have to go," the Doctor had said, eyes scanning the carnage with a grimace, before his glancing at the Captain – assessing, assessing, assessing. "I don't know what other little surprises there may be under all the…there is nothing we can do here now. For these people. I can't even –"

His mouth had snapped shut on his last statement with an almost audible ricochet of sound, his voice still carrying that hoarse quality that made Jack wonder what had happened before the bombs had even gone off. He was dying (funny, funny) to ask, even as he desperately didn't want to know.

So many things he didn't want to know.

Pain flared in his right leg as he made to stand on it and though he tried to hide it, the Doctor (even as distracted as he was), zeroed in on his awkward stance, silently sliding his bulk under Jack's arm to give him better balance and take the weight off of his leg. He had tried to muffle the grunt as his right wrist and left side shouted abuse at him for his rash movement, but the Doctor seemed to know (as he always did), making Jack sit back down so he could look over his injuries and check him for any other damage. His assessment was quick, efficient and gentle, the soft murmurs of his voice dampened (instead of echoing) in the thick silence around them; the same silence only exacerbated by the occasional pop and crackle of a scattered handful of small fires that hadn't yet died out.

"This usually doesn't happen, am I right?" He'd asked, the frown in his eyes and at the corners of his mouth too at home on his boyish face for Jack's liking, the cool drift of his fingers a balm and a distraction all at once. "I mean, generally after you…you come back whole – no injuries?"

"Generally, yeah," Jack had replied, the urge to whisper in this field of the dead almost overwhelming – but he managed to bring himself to talk a little louder, even as it felt wrong somehow. "But with two deaths in such quick succession –"

He had regretted saying that almost as soon as the words left his mouth, the Doctor's eyes darkening in response, gaze dropping away from Jack's face.

"I see," was the only reply as he shuffled through his pockets, coming up with gauze and four sturdy flat sticks, his hovering form dropping down into a crouch as he wrapped the Captain's wrist and ankle, only pausing to ask standard questions about the tightness and comfort of the bandages.

"That's the best I can do for now," the Time Lord had said after checking his wrappings. "I'm afraid it will have to do until we get back to the TARDIS. It will be long going and I can't promise these will hold up during the journey. You might find yourself in quite a bit of pain before we get there. If you do, let me know…of all the times to not have paracetamol in one's pockets."

The last was muttered more to himself than the Captain, his gaze still closed off, his demeanor becoming distant once more as he helped Jack to his feet for a second time. The Doctor's grip firm but gentle, the coolness of his skin helping to anchor Jack and keep him steady as they limped awkwardly together over the bodies, the Time Lord testing the footing every step of the way before guiding Jack along the path he'd set.

Nothing further was said between them as they slowly groped their way through the sea of the dead, the heavy silence an indicator of everything that had happened over the last eighteen hours, even as there was so much that screamed to be talked about. Jack focused on one foot in front of the other, the flares of occasional pain as he stepped down wrong (once, twice) an almost satisfying deterrent to speech. After all, what could he say that could possibly make this any better?

Eventually it became too much, the distance versus his injuries serving to dump him straight into shock; his steps faltered and weaved, the Doctor's stabilizing bulk forced to stagger with him or they would both be teetered over on their arses. He tried to breathe through it, ever aware of the Time Lord's disapproval when it became apparent he couldn't go any further under his own steam, even with the assistance from the Doctor.

"Don't understand," Jack had slurred drunkenly. "Usually heal faster than this."

"Well, you are overworking the injuries," the Doctor said with mild, fussy exasperation. "Maybe we should rest a moment."

"No Doc," Jack murmured, swallowing thickly at the bile that surged in his throat; the stench of the dead, the greasy smell of smoke and the steady throbbing of his leg and wrist (side long forgotten), almost overwhelming him for a moment. He tried to shake his head, but immediately stopped when nausea washed over him in a clammy-cold wave, his stomach heaving against his will when he tried to speak further.

The Doctor shushed him (the command reaching deep, stopping his voice) and shifted his weight, catching Jack's bulk with an ease that belied his wiry frame. Jack tried to focus on the soothing nonsense that flowed from the Doctor's lips instead of the unsteadiness of his legs and gut, cool relief spreading through his veins as the Time Lord soothed a hand over Jack's face and throat, the tingling touch serving to make him sleepy and less nauseous within seconds. He tried to speak against that odd block, ask the Doctor what was happening, but the other man shook his head, smiling sadness into the receding line of Jack's vision, gentle caress falling away as he lifted the Captain fully into his arms, grip still firm, still careful – like he was handling a delicate object.

"Ah, Captain," the Doctor murmured softly, that sad smile just as at home on his face as his previous frown; Jack wished he could ease that terrible shadow gracing his lips, give him a reason for joy, for laughter, even as the world faded by degrees. "Always trying to put up that brave front. I've got you, you're safe now. All you have to do is rest and heal – let me get us home, yeah?"

He wanted to agree, to tell him he trusted him absolutely – but found himself unable to do so, the effort almost too much to contemplate, much less follow through on. Nevertheless, cradled in the Doctor's arms, he felt safer than he had for a long, long time. The comfort of that feeling wrapping him in drowsy warmth as everything went dark for the third time in less than three hours. But that was okay; he was safe now, he was with the Doctor and soon they would be Home.

When he woke up in the TARDIS (what seemed like minutes later, but was likely quite a bit longer than that), everything went to hell again, but in a completely different way. They were back to being (just) the Doctor and Captain Jack – an abyss that widened with every breath he took. No matter what Jack had thought during those horrible moments (gasping awake amid the sea of the dead) , no matter what he had hoped for afterwards, he just couldn't seem reach him.

After too much time to reflect and too little way given by the Time Lord, he didn't even know if that was (truly) what he wanted after all.

O-o-O

Butterflies.

In the TARDIS.

Butterflies as in 'plural'; not one – thousands. Thousands of colorful, soft-winged creatures in a room that looked less like a room and more like a planet unto itself – the mild breeze stirring the fragile denizens of this previously unknown realm into a frenzied riot of color and the soft whicker of multiple wings in flight. They swarmed curiously just over Jack's head: swallow-tails, monarchs, painted ladies…thousands upon thousands of different shapes, colors and species from all over the universe (though to be fair, the majority of them seemed to originate from the Doctor's adopted planet, Earth). They seemed to study him – this interloper in their private (if vast) haven – before soaring away again, to cluster around the 'room's' only other occupant, a lone figure seated on a hill just over the next rise.

Quite frankly it was both astonishing and beautiful.

Looking around in flabbergasted wonder (which was saying something for a man his age), Jack peered curiously at the door he came in from, not surprised to see it 'floating' about two inches off the ground with no frame to hold it. Lush green hills, willowy trees and clear creeks dotted the landscape all around him (even behind the door) – the sky a wide-open bluish haze, with a warm, yet softly shining sun peeking through the shredded-cotton clouds that drifted lazily above the hills. He'd think he was dreaming if he couldn't feel the ground beneath his feet (springy, yet firm) or the breeze upon his face (wafting with the scent of oranges and cherry blossoms from the trees). The butterflies danced in sleepy patterns between and over the hills, tangled knots of vivid color resting like living blankets across the long stretches of green, almost indecipherable from the exotic flowers that dotted the landscape in wild bunches.

If Jack had an idea of heaven (a concept he hadn't bothered to consider for a handful of decades), this would likely be it.

Of course this room existed in the TARDIS. How could it not? It was wild, beautiful, improbable and fantastic – just as the Machine and Her Pilot were. It made perfect, perfect sense, even as it was the most nonsensical thing he had seen all day. And consider the day (and all of its terrible outcomes), that was quite a stretch. But this created that perfect balance: a room of sheer beauty and peace – a technicolor contrast to the last twenty-four hours of ugly terror and weary insanity.

It would figure he would find the Time Lord here of all places. Nothing else could bring relief to a tired heart and tattered soul like this place. And he was quite sure the Doctor knew the terrain quite well. That thought made him sad and joyous all at once, feelings that seemed so at home when he spent time here in the TARDIS.

Once they had been welcomed, those feelings. That was Before: before he had been abandoned the first time; before the invasion that destroyed his family. He had a lot he'd had to forgive the Doctor (and himself) for. It was time to put that forgiveness, that understanding to the test and hone it like a hand up to be grasped instead of a weapon to be fought against.

With that in mind, Jack took a deep breath and made his way to the silent, unmoving figure just over the next hill, his eyes taking in all of the beauty around him, drinking it all in like a soothing elixir as he approached the Doctor on lighter feet, unsure of his reception, but not dreading it as he had thought he would. Whatever would come, would come.

If there was one thing Jack had learned how to do over the course of his long life, it was to roll with the punches (and sometimes the lack of them). It was a testament to his survival (as such) that he was still relatively sane and happy, even with his life and how long it was/is. He tried to keep himself human, but sometimes he needed help. Sometimes that help was anything but human. Most of the time, it was the Doctor.

He was silent when he crested the hill (slightly out of breath, but only because of the burst of speed he put into his steps and the steepness of the hill more than anything else), the urge to smile only quelled by the solemn set of the Doctor's shoulders, his body stiff and out of place in the serenity of their surroundings. He made no acknowledgement of Jack's arrival, other than to scoot a few inches over to give the Captain room to sit under the willow tree with him, his eyes still riveted to the chuckling, rushing stream that flowed on the other side of the hilltop.

The butterflies danced above them, seeming silly and earnest all at once – their vibrancy and frenetic patterns of flight almost surreal against the sleepy backdrop. The babble of the stream below and the whir of wings (again) above the only counterpoint to the silence that washed warm and comfortable over the two men seated on the hill.

At least Jack assumed it was comfortable. The Doctor didn't look as if he was there, really: lost within the churning of his own mind (as he was inclined to do), though he had a soft (if sad) smile on his face; the antics of the butterflies seeming to amuse and inspire a different melancholy than he'd been carrying before Jack ran from him in a tangle of thoughts and flurry of limbs. Ran like the Doctor (and all that he meant) was the devil and was set to chase him down and burn him away. That wasn't the truth, but it wasn't far from the heart of it, either. In the end, the Doctor had to make peace with his own assumptions. Jack hadn't done much to deter those assumptions, but then, the Doctor hadn't really given him much of a chance (until now), to do so.

The quiet bled soft and slow as the minutes turned towards the half hour, the passing of time a mere fancy in this place where time seemed to stand still – the sun always shining, the sky always blue and the endless green of the landscape stretched ever on away from them. Jack didn't push, his keen instinct telling him that the Time Lord would give way, let him in – but only if allowed to do so at his own pace.

There were so many differences with his regeneration, even as one could tell he was pretty much the same man underneath the newer face. This face that had seen and lived through much before his time with the Captain. He longed to know it all – all the adventures and triumphs and heartaches that came before he made his way back to the man with No Time and All Time in his bones. But for now? For now Jack could come to terms with what the Doctor was willing to give. Maybe all the other would come later. Maybe it never would. All he could do was be silent and wait (as so many had, he was sure), the Doctor's body relaxing by degrees beside him as he marshalled his strength, his thoughts. Readying himself to explain, to share or just babble about nothing (which usually meant Everything in Doctor-speak).

After a few more minutes of reflection, Jack decided to try a different tack, a different way of clearing the path ahead (so to speak). Maybe it was his turn to open the conversation that neither wanted to have, though they both needed it. And just maybe he should get it started: not push, nor demand – but open the door. He'd never done that before, but then, he'd never really had to; his first Doctor was all silence and storms, his second was all bright babble and ridiculous outbursts at the first touch of emotion.

It was difficult sometimes to remember that though they may all be the same man, the way they saw the universe and their place within it was vastly different, as were their reactions to the same. This one carried the other two within him, but he seemed to walk a fine line between – a tightrope of living that must be thoroughly exhilarating and yet exhausting all at once. This one could be approached and would respond in kind. This one could accept that open hand, even if he treated it with weary paranoia; the expectation of retaliation more telling than his reaction to that retaliation (if it ever came at all).

"I've never thought you to be a monster," Jack said softly, noting how the startled flinch of the Doctor's shoulders melted back into stillness – eyes wary, though his posture indicated he was at least listening. It wasn't much of a start, but it was better than Jack had hoped for, so he carried on with his thoughts, speaking them out loud a relief and a sorrow all at once. "I had often wished you were – just because it would be easier to…it would be easier. But I have never once thought that of you."

He swallowed back any extra words that wished to tumble out, knowing (somehow) that this version of his old friend would see it as a deflection, a dissemblance that masked any real truth with the avoidance of the same. He had opened the door. He had let the Doctor see the path was clear. There was no trap (perceived or real) to tiptoe around or blunder through.

This Doctor always seemed on edge, always seemed ready to stumble head-first into trouble without any knowledge of how it manifested. It was sad and curious, but it was a raw nerve that couldn't be poked at this point. Maybe if Jack could get the Time Lord to trust him in this conversation, to know it was okay to have this conversation, he would find out how he got to that type of thinking. For now, he would be content with even the barest bones of the thoughts spinning in the Doctor's mind. If he could ease the hurt that lay beneath (or just get him to see it and see there was no need for it), Jack would feel he had accomplished more with him than he had in centuries.

The Doctor wasn't a god, he just had the power of one. He wasn't anything more than a man who lived (and had lived) for a long, long time. He'd had a lot happen to him – with a lot more would likely happen – before he let go of the universe he loved so much (or it let go of him). But he was just a man. He might feel and see things differently than most beings, due to experience and longevity – but in the end, he could be lonely, angry, tired, scared or hurt just like anyone else. It ached to have all previous illusions (sewn carefully into the psyche), by his other selves disarmed so gracelessly, though it was ten times better to see the real person beneath rather than the fantasy he chosen to portray.

"Doc?" Gently. A soothing touch against an unseen hurt, instead of a jabbing accusation.

"I hadn't known…I had forgotten the universe held pockets of such cruelty," the Doctor rapped out, almost as if the words were startled out of him before he could stop them. His eyes stayed on the middle distance, fingers twisting in his lap as he smiled his sadness at the butterflies above – their vivid beauty bringing an ache to what the Time Lord had to say – the feeling so close to happiness, even as it wrapped itself in a fog of melancholy. "I honestly thought…they refused to talk to me. To tell me why…I suppose the 'why' doesn't matter, though, does it? There was no real reason. I am so used to reason. I have come to depend on it, even when things spin so wildly out of control. I have had so little control for a long, long time and I had thought…if just this once –"

He bit his lips and shook his head, eyes dropping to the cat's cradle of his hands, knuckles white and tense, even as his voice stayed soft – that hoarse rasp almost gone, though not quite completely. Jack tried to breathe (slow and even) through the ache in his sternum, the stubborn lump in his throat as he watched the Doctor virtually pull away from him, curling around his own words as if to protect the Captain from everything he was; even if that was nothing that Jack needed protecting from.

"I didn't mean for the bomb to…the shielding had deteriorated so rapidly. I wanted to – I thought that if I could just find a way to control it, wrap what was left of that shield around the device itself, maybe I could control the detonation. Keep it from…but I wasn't fast enough." Another wry twist of his lips that looked so similar to a frown, even as he visibly struggled to keep his face blank, his voice steady. "The magnetics were already fluctuating at a pace that was hard for the sonic to pinpoint – I couldn't seem to get what was left under control. I don't know if the other bombs weakened the relay on the inside of the device like they had to the shielding, or if maybe I had my sonic on the wrong frequency, but…the results were the same. All those people. I did that, Jack. In trying to save myself – I did that. Whether the device was triggered by me, or by faulty wiring, in the end I killed every person there. Intention is a moot point, really. What I intended doesn't really matter. The results are all that matters and…I'm sorry. If I could have been just a touch faster. If I had realized how shaky the shielding was in the first place…"

The Doctor's voice grew faint, trailing away as he risked a glance at the Captain – then he was looking down again, almost as if he could keep the truth from bringing more horror to them both. Maybe he looked away so he wouldn't have to face that horror reflected back in Jack's eyes, even as he seemed so sure he would only find Jack's disappointment in him, in what he should have been: the dragon known as the Doctor finally revealed, the illusion destroyed, the sorcerer helplessly unmasked.

The Time Lord's shoulders were tense once more, hands twisting together and apart as his body tilted away from Jack, waiting for the inevitable rage within a cold smile, that assured knowledge of Jack's hatred a knife used to cut himself with (even as he unknowingly cut Jack); the Doctor's wounded words and slices of thought didn't seem to be enough for the tug of self-destruction he was listing towards. He needed that final push and he needed (he expected) Jack to provide it.

The Doctor was always too hard on himself – it was more instinct than habit by this point – and that habit, that instinct was the worst kind of drug. He was addicted to his own harsh judgments and no one could ever be as hard on him as he was on himself. It was like that with damned near every creature in the wide universe, but sometimes Jack needed that reminder that the Doctor was a living, breathing being like everyone else; and this incarnation brought that idea home like no other. It was refreshing in a way, even as it was a difficult concept to grasp. But at moments like these…

"I was just so shocked. I knew those two prisoners, Jack. R'lan'th just wanted to go home to his family. He was so, so young. I didn't think they'd…they'd actually…kill him." The Doctor went supernaturally still at his pronouncement, the pain bleeding from his words couldn't have been thicker if it was one of his own people, his very being vibrating with the bewildered pain that had been visited upon him; Jack may never know what tortures those people had subjected the Time Lord to, but nothing could bring him to his knees faster than an innocent person being hurt, being killed because of (what he perceived as) his mistakes. He had barely known the youngling, but he took his horrifying demise to heart, that much was obvious.

"He was so innocent – a mere baby, really – and so very, very frightened. It was all Plna'ath and I could do to keep him calm. And…he died anyway. They both died and it made no sense. There was no reason, no point to it – and I just…let it happen! Why did I do that? How can you say I am not a monster, when I clearly behaved like one? So concerned with my own safety, I allowed them to die…they died for an ideal that didn't exist all because I was too slow, too late. And when I finally came to my senses, they were both…gone and I had seconds to fix a problem that I should have known how to solve minutes before! What good am I, if I can't even save a child from ignorance and terror? What good am I if-if I can't…"

He cut himself off with a small, aborted sound of sorrow, the frown creeping back over his face as he stared sightless and empty at the tangle of his hands; he barely seemed to notice Jack sitting by his side, as though he expected Jack to leave – either out of disgust or the need to escape the undertow of pain in his voice. The reason wouldn't matter, just the expectation that this would happen, that it would always happen. This version of the Doctor was so very (shockingly) lonely; so unwilling to share in anything but his triumphs. And it seemed his triumphs this go around were rather few and far between.

The lies his smile told more heartbreaking than the truth his eyes bled.

"You're the Doctor," Jack said simply, ignoring the small snort from the Time Lord sitting so quiet and eerily still beside him. "Even if you have forgotten what that means, the rest of us – your friends, your family – the people who love you…we haven't forgotten. No, you couldn't save R'lan'th and Plna'ath, but then…no one could. Those people, that planet –"

It was Jack's turn to shake his head, angry at the civilization that had shored up the Doctor's inner darkness – stunned that, that very darkness had almost swallowed the man completely, had almost eaten everything that made the Time Lord so special. He had allowed it to happen, that much was clear. Jack didn't know how or why, but when the man you still thought of as a friend depended on you more as an enemy, something had gone seriously wrong.

Jack had allowed his own darkness to rage for far too long. Maybe they could both learn a lesson from this tragedy. Maybe he could get the Doctor to trust in Jack's faith more than his hatred. It had been that way once (long ago and decades away); maybe he could make it that way again.

"Those people had left behind what made them 'people' a long time ago. There are monsters we can fight and then there are monsters that we can't. They were the monsters Doctor, not you. You trusted in their reason, in that spark of decency that we find everywhere, in damned near everyone in the universe. It isn't your fault they didn't have it – and it is certainly not your fault that you tried to draw that goodness out despite them. That is what you do. That is what makes you the Doctor."

Jack sneaked a glance at him, relieved that he was listening, even if the frown still lurked at the corners of his mouth. It was a start, it was a beginning – and it was almost better than Jack could have hoped for.

"That is half the reason so many love you, and half the reason so many more hate you. But all of us, even the ones who disagree with your ideals – respect you for it. They recognize who you are…what you represent. You might not always be there when any one individual needs you. And I know you can't be everywhere you want to be, or even when you want to be. If anyone knows about fixed timelines, it's me. But you are always there when it counts – even if it is just inside those who know you and love you. Who we are is made better because of you, not in spite of it. So…I know what you are thinking. But truly, none of this was your fault any more than it was mine. I mean, with that thinking, I should have been able to rescue all three of you before the shield went into place. We couldn't know what would happen. Neither of us can predict evil, not on that level. Not when it wears the face that would normally house goodness, reason and sanity. Those people murdered R'lan'th and Plna'ath – not you. You were their friend when they needed one. You tried to save them – which is way more than the monsters who killed them ever tried to do."

He fell silent again, letting the Doctor absorb what was said (and some things that were not said), and take away the truth, the meaning behind it all; if he could even see it. If he couldn't see it, if he couldn't find the light past his own darkness, Jack had many more arguments and a lot of time to bring them forth in. That planet had taught him much. Some of the lesson had taken a little longer to sink in, his own inner demons as strong (sneaky) and stubborn as the Doctor's own.

They were old men: not as elastic, resilient or cock-sure as they had once been. But if experience had taught them anything –

"Have I ever told you," the Doctor asked softly, small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, still sad, still hurt – but willing to try anyway, even if it was just for Jack's sake in the end. "About my best friend Amelia and her husband Rory?"

"No, Doctor," Jack replied with a small, hopeful smile of his own. "I don't believe you have."

O-o-O

Deep inside a blue box (bluest of blue) anywhere and any-when, there is a room. It is actually less of a room and more of a field, but it is hard to grasp until one sees it (and even then, it may be hard to grasp – especially if you consider yourself in any way a rational being – also known as a 'grown up').

Inside that room that is more than a room is thousands upon thousands of butterflies. Quite a few you know and several more that I am sure you don't. And though they are beautiful and free and wonderful, the butterflies are less of a point than the room that is not a room.

The room (like so much of the rest of the bluest of blue box) is magick. The whole box is magick, really – but that room (filled with butterflies and beautiful swaying trees and streams that run to their own music) has a special kind of magick.

That magick has been known to heal old wounds, repair even older friendships; all under the endless warm sun floating sleepy-awake in the ocean of blue sky. That sun never sets there. The sky is always blue. The breeze is always sweet and smelling ever-so-faintly of cherry blossoms.

The room-field carries so much magick within it. Enough to make other types of magick possible. And occasionally (if you are lucky enough to see it), you can catch a glimpse of some long ago tomorrow that happened just minutes ago; a different magick that is very much the same (but only if that helps you understand it).

Right now, within that magickal room that holds all time (and no time at all), there are two old friends that are-were discussing everything and nothing. Relearning that not all hurts are permanent, that most wounds do heal and deep friendships (those true types that you read about in fairytales that happen all the time in the real world grown-ups talk about), never quite fade.

They talk for a long time under a sun that never sets and a breeze that never stops whispering through the trees. They talk of many things, of many lifetimes lived and the ones yet to come. They talk of hope and adventure and dashing heroics (and all the things that fall between). If one listens closely, one can almost hear of the next daring escapade yet to come that happened so long ago it has been forgotten by all but the gods.

And everywhere (like a living carpet of color and sound and thrilling, vibrant thereness) are the butterflies, but they aren't half as important as they believe they are. But oh, the things they hear from those long gone and yet to be; those truths, half-truths and truths to-come (and maybe quite a few that never were).

Maybe one day(through a whisper of delicate, strong wings forever flying), they may tell us.

But that is another real fairytale for another day…