At The End, Before I Lived
AN: This is for Carys, because of everything she's been through with me involving the 'serial liar'. Of course, also just in general for being such a fabity-fab friend, and there for me when I've needed a helping hand.
ONE SHOT. When Jack faces the Dalek on the space station, he knows he's going to die. What does a dying man think? And how do they react when they return from the dead? Living without the person he has grown to love.
Jack stands facing the metallic creature; a gun in his hand that he knows can never hope to even scratch the surface. He gulps slightly, he is going to die. The only thing he can hope is that The Doctor and Rose manage to stop them somehow, but, Rose has gone…and The Doctor is alone. Jack can sense it, it's The Doctor's way. How can Rose sit by though? She will not rest until she returns, and, for the future's sake, Jack Harkness hopes she won't. Hopes against hope.
The creature hasn't noticed him yet, too busy decimating lives that stand in its way. He will be next, he knows this. Slipping behind a pillar, Jack prepares himself, his soldier's training kicking in, what he remembers of his servitude as a Time Agent jumping into place, and gearing his innate fear away. As much as possible though, there is only so much. Rationalising the situation doesn't help, it tells him one thing - death is nearing, And, soon enough, it will claim him. Much sooner than he would have hoped, although he is not the youngest to have died that day so far. He knows of Daleks, more than the rest will, even if this is his first time facing them. He fears them before seeing what they are - knowing they are more deadly than they in act look. Much more.
Their shining suits, meant to be a body of sorts, protecting what they are; and what they are is weak. A being weaker than any - stripped of emotion. Jack cannot come to terms with the only emotions they hold; anger, hate. It isn't something he feels anything should feel. In his opinion, it is more than hate and anger that wins a fight - it is emotions such as love and fear, like jump starting a car battery into action, moving people to reaction. Rebellion. There is no way they'll be going down without a fight. That's what he promises himself. Again and again, like a mantra, his secret prayer for a way to live.
He checks his gun one last time, pulling the thick grating strap over his left shoulder and pushing back the trigger's lock. Gun ready, he cracks his neck from one side to another. He stretches once more, before breathing deeply, the acidic leaden taste of blood is thick in the air, and he wishes he hadn't taken that last proper breath. It has made him remember what is about to happen, and wonder what will become of him. What comes after death. He can feel the hair on the back of his neck rise, making him shudder at the assault to his senses. Not to mention his delicate state of mind, hanging between fear, and recklessness. Worries over flight or fight, his decision, he knows, will be of the latter. But, the simple choice is tempting to him, wishes he really could run - though, as he knows full well, they will find him. Even if he gains a few more precious minutes of life, he will not live. Death will be a part of him that day, and he will no longer exist. He can only hope that The Doctor does live, and that Rose survives within her own time.
His breathing is light and shaky, not quite sustaining his needs to stay conscious. Only just. His airways are burning, fear is beginning to eat away at his convictions, and his blood jumps through his veins frantically, as his heart rate hitches by several beats, hammering hard against his rib cage - screaming out with the effort on such little oxygen. If he waits any longer, his own fear is likely to kill him anyway.
Beads of sweat slowly trickle down his brow, and he tries to calm himself this last time. He will die with pride, not as a fearful coward. He will not leave the fight. Cannot. Because, although he wishes it were not true, he has become braver than he ever considered. He has gained something he thought he never would, feelings for others which take over his instincts for self-preservation.
Thinking of the people he has grown to love brings a smile to his face, and he feels the joy that grips at him every time. He is ready, because he knows they are more important this his own life, he is expendable. He cannot save everyone, but they can.
The Dalek is disposing of someone Jack has met, spoken with, even shared a joke while they waited. The body shudders, showing every bone in the frail human as if it were nothing more than a simple, harmless, game. The beam holds the lifeless form in situ for mere seconds, as screams erupt from the man. This is the fear of death condensed to a sound, something which rips within him, tearing at his very compassion which has only recently been cultivated. His empathy, a new strangeness. The sound, one that lingers even after death, pressed to the mans lips like the darkest kiss imaginable. He grits his teeth, as the body falls - to Jack, as if in slow motion - then crunches unpleasantly to the floor. At least the man is dead by then, there is no way for him to survive.
Thoughts of loved ones return, and the new memory of a noble fall belonging to a fellow gives him determination. He screams, running in front of the Dalek as it turns it's bolted body towards him robotically. Stiffly. If it could smile, Jack is sure it would be, laughing at triumph. A glass blue eye - or lens - levels to his form and, pulling his gun around his waist toward the creature; he fires. Blast after blast, either ricocheting, dissipating to nothingness toward the being, or fizzling against the casing of it's body.
There is a pause, where the creature is stock still, unmoving, silent. Jack thinks this is an illusion, his brain slowing time, before the pain, and before the blackness. He doesn't know what will come after, but, he only hopes there is something, and that it doesn't hurt. A word is uttered, stoically, but he does not hear it. The rushing of blood, caused by fear induced adrenaline has blocked out that sense. His vision doesn't seem to be working well either, perhaps his lack of oxygen causing it to distort? The roaring in his ears gets louder, as his sight clears, and he watches the arm, which acts as gun, find the right position - aiming. His mantra becomes louder within his mind, he carries on firing - regardless. Anything might help, anything.
Then he feels the strike, sees it too, but with no recognition to his senses, all he feels is pain. It overrides everything else, consuming him. Jack lets the gun drop from his hands, there is no use for it, his senses are too clouded to even consider fighting. He doesn't scream, although this only takes a few seconds, this death will not end with a scream of suffering - far from it. His muscles burn, as if set ablaze, and he shudders in torment. This is not a painless death as he's hoped, this is as different as possible. Indescribable agony curls around his body, it is shorter than it feels - Death. He thinks of home, a smile weakly showing on his dying lips; as he leaves. For those still alive, it takes less than a second, but he remembers it all.
Captain Jack Harkness' body crashes to the antiseptically clean floor, the contact grating bones against one another, snapping them like twigs. The corpse lies there against the wall, thrown by the force, his position as if he is sleeping. It is a nice thought for those left, but they know that there was pain.
The alien swings to face them - they are next. A heartbeat away.
**
Something pulls at him, like the string of a puppet master. Dragging him somewhere. He isn't aware, his mind cannot comprehend what is happening, but he feels it. He doesn't know how, nor does he remember that he is no longer alive. Bones crack, and glide over one another, snapping back into place, causing little eruptions of severe pain. The bone begins to knit together again, ligament twisting together like strands of rope. Muscle is sewn together with an invisible thread. His limbs move, cracking back into place with ear splitting crunches.
Slowly, his spinal column turns, crunching loudly as it twists, the vertebra jarring and scraping over one another, then quickly slipping back into place with loud snaps. Air fills his slack lungs, and a pulse begins in the throat, deoxygenised blood starting to trail sluggishly through the matrix of veins and arteries; gradually refilling his system, muscles and organs with blood. Jack's pours vent toxins like a vapour around his lifeless form. Although his body is regenerating to it's normal state, his mind is not yet coherent. Not revived. The heart begins to beat, slowly at first, nothing like a normal rate, pumping him back to life.
Jack sucks in a shattering, startled breath. It is a painful first breath, which rattles loudly as he wheezes after the sudden reaction. He shudders, and his eyes snap open, staring around himself in astonishment. He breathes slowly, trying to slow the shallow rasps that demonstrate his fear. He does not know what is going on, all he remembers is death. His last moments.
Yet, he is breathing? Jack looks around him, wondering if this could be Heaven, perhaps you start off exactly where you left? But, then his clouded vision falls on the bodies of the lost. This is no Heaven, Hell perhaps. Slowly, the reality dawns on him, he is alive - a feat impossible, however. How can he be alive?
Jack blinks several times, trying to return his sight to normal. He only feels disorientation, nothing more. Questions buzz around his mind, trying to rationalise his life being intact. It was simply not what he expects, and he isn't sure if he is thankful for it either.
Minutes later, he realises what may have happened, that, perhaps, his friends have discovered a way to save them all. He sees nothing hostile on the platform any longer. Pulling himself to his feet, one thought takes forefront of his mind, every movement now controlled towards the goal.
He walks at first, his legs shaking slightly, then, understanding how important this is, he breaks into a run. As he reaches the metal doors, he wills them to open, and for his friends to be alive. He cannot lose the two people he loves.
Rose, if Rose has returned, has she too died? The Doctor? Is he alone, facing an army so large it was incomprehensible for their true numbers to even be thought. Jack cannot think of them dying, because without them, even if some unknown reason, force, has returned him to health, he will have nothing to feel. The Captain cannot let this be real. Pulling at the door with his fingers, scraping, trying to move the pneumatic metal holding him away from what makes his life worth living now. Drawing blood to his hands, he finally rips a gap between them, holding it open and climbing through. The sound of the TARDIS leaving him there echoes, making him frantic to reach them before they leave.
No sooner has he entered the room, he sees the blue police box fading into nothing, like an aged picture. He dashes through the room, desperate now. He is too late, he stands where they were moments before, empty. He collapses to his knees, grief at being left behind shaking his shoulders, sobs shuddering through him. He is alone.
The only thing he is thankful for though, as he wipes away the tears. He may have died, and he lives again. Even though they have left him, the two people whom have filled his heart have left him, left him for dead. Which, he considers wanly, he was. He smiles to himself, pushing away from the death coated floor, he knows that, even if they were Daleks, many have died that day. He was one of them.
One consolation for all of this, as he taps the control panel - causing the door to hiss and let him exit, and into the empty station, is that they are alive. Rose and The Doctor, alive. He smiles one last time, and wanders through the platform, everyone else is dead. Every single person, dead. Aside from him.
He walks through the dead, he cannot think of them. He will not. Nor, of the friends he will never see again. It hurts too much; it hurts, because he loves one of them, though it took him this long to realise. Until he loses them. Nothing stirs on the floating world of its own, there is nothing to make a sound - not any longer. Only Jack. He wishes it were not this way, but it is. He doesn't blame them for leaving him, he expects it, but hope tells him to wish they return for him. Just to see them one last time.
He is the living dead.
One last thought is turned to his loved ones; to Rose, and The Doctor. He tries to remember their faces, storing the information in the recesses of his mind for as long as he has left. Their smiles stand out in his memory, they are something he will not forget. He sighs once, thinking of an old life, far away, on a different planet. Far in the future, or, he supposes, deep in the past - back when things were better. Or worse, he can never be sure.
"Gray," the word is loud in the silence of death, and he finds it fitting.
If broken down, fading out. And you fall on your knees, and stand defeat. Just when, it feels like Hell is freezing over. Hold on, embrace the symphony.