Warnings: Spoilers for Doctor Who, series 3 finale, and Torchwood, seasons 1 and 2. Mentions of M/M slash. That's boy/boy romance, don't like, don't read. Angst. Oneshot. Yes, that counts as a warning.
A/N: Lookit me, writing again! And on yet another fandom. This is how I've always seen Jack's relationship with the Doctor, and it occurred to me that Martha would understand as well as anyone.
Martha and Jack found themselves collapsed against a low wall somewhere in rural England, too exhausted to sleep. Recent events involving previously-thought-to-be-dead Time Lords were not for the weak, and even the quiet, determined med student and the charming, flirtatious immortal were unable to pass up an opportunity to rest and recharge. They sat in silence for a long time. Finally, Martha spoke.
"What did you mean, when you said 'you too'? Back when the Doctor was talking about fancying people?"
Jack threw a grin at her, but did not answer.
"Only," Martha went on, "at first I thought you meant the last person who traveled with him. The one who…" She trailed off. It was enough. "And then I wondered if you meant yourself."
Jack looked at her, grin gone. He was so rarely without his flirtatious bravado that Martha felt the need to pay close attention, even if she had been going to anyway.
"I was born far, far in the future. Not quite the end of the world, but far enough away that humans had spread out all over the galaxy. Coexisted with aliens, instead of pretending they don't exist or trying to find ways to fight them. I remember that it took a long time for us to get to that point, not sure how long. I didn't pay much attention in history class. Damned ironic." He laughed without humor.
"Anyway, right about now, it's getting to the point where it's less acceptable to take race into account so much with partners. People still have types, and that might include race or it might not, but people are dismissing offhand people of other races as partners less and less. Trying to keep an open mind, or at least look like that's what they're doing. Thirty centuries later…you know, sometimes I do the math, and I'm surprised all over again that that's three thousand years?"
"Wow," said Martha. "I never thought about it. We can't even decipher languages spoken two thousand years ago, and that's one and a half times that again!"
"Exactly. By the time I was born—will be born—we'll be applying that concept to other species. We'll be well past it on race and sex and a couple other things. When I was in school, no one batted an eye if you dated men or women or other genders of any color. They didn't bat an eye about me dating other species if they didn't want xeno activists jumping down their throats about the evils of xenophobia."
"It sounds wonderful," said Martha fervently.
"Oh, we had our issues. But tolerance, yeah, tolerance will be awesome in another three millennia." He grinned at her again, and she returned a pointed glance.
"Go on with your story, now."
"All right, all right. Anyway. So I never was the kind of guy to have a type, as you might have guessed. Might've slanted more towards the male end, and toward the Brits when I went back far enough for them to exist, but there wasn't anyone I wouldn't give a chance. Then I became a Time Agent, had to learn when I had to be careful about hitting on whom. Left, became a con man, met the Doctor, died, resurrected, flitted around, blew out my vortex manipulator, and had to settle down, more or less." He paused, staring off into space.
"And?" Martha prompted gently.
"Something changed. I guess you could say I developed a type. Every time I find someone, I can't forget, can't ever forget, that I'll outlive them. And not by a few decades, that was always a risk. And not even by a couple centuries, that was a risk with some of the more long-lived species. Unless I find a way to turn this can't-die thing off, I could outlive them by forever. And I age very, very slowly. If I settle down with someone, they could end up white-haired and senile and I might have one new line on my face in the same amount of time, and who wants to live with that?"
Martha took his hand and squeezed it. He squeezed back, and smiled sadly.
"So, the Doctor," she said, beginning to understand.
"The Doctor. The only other immortal I know. It's not so much that I fancy him more than anyone else, but the idea of there being someone else who could live forever—"
"And it doesn't even occur to him," she finished when he broke off.
"Or it does, and he's dismissed it already. I mean, Rose."
"Yeah. Rose." She sighed.
"And nothing ever really happened between them, as far as I'm aware. He's resigned himself to never having an equal, so he's shut off all opportunity. And his personality—he does die when he regenerates, Martha. He's completely different from the Doctor I met. So maybe that's another reason. Even though he keeps all those memories and knowledge, he becomes a different person. Maybe I actually live too long for him, too. And that would be enough for me to stop wondering, except, Rose. Rose loved both of them, and both of them loved her. Is that just because it was those two regenerations? Or is that some baseline Doctor-ness?"
"It's like all the usual confusion with fancying someone you're not sure fancies you back," she joked weakly, "only on a different level of complicated."
"Oh, yeah, like having another guy you fancy the pants off of back home, only he's just as mortal as the rest of them, and feeling like an asshole mooning after the unreachable guy just because you have a better chance of not outliving him? Got one of those, too."
She laughed. "It's odd to hear 'fancy the pants off' in an American accent."
He grinned. "You pick up a thing or two living here. And it sounds a lot better than 'have a crush.' Much less juvenile."
"So. You just gonna say nothing? Let him get on with only seeing Rose?"
"I got the rest of my life to wait for the Doctor," Jack said. "And I should give the guy back home a chance, don't you think?"
"What's he like?" she asked, grinning conspiratorially. He returned the smile.
"His name is Jones, too. Ianto Jones. Welsh. Showed up at my door and drowned me in excellent coffee and well-cut suits and a pterodactyl until I gave him a job. Snarky. Doesn't talk much, but if you're listening when he does, it's usually either completely profound or hilarious."
"Good in bed?"
"Oh, yeah."
She laughed.
"You'd like him. You ever give up on the Doctor, you ought to drop by and visit us sometime. We're underneath Cardiff."
She nodded. "I will."
"I'll hold you to that." A moment passed in silence. "And, Martha? Just because you haven't got a hot Welshman at home waiting for you—maybe you should think about not waiting for the Doctor too. Just saying."
They exchanged a long look before the Doctor in question bounded up to them.
"Ready, you lot?"
Martha and Jack stood.
Fin.