A/N: I know that the guards were real people in the show, but I'm making it slightly AU to suit my purposes...

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The Doctor was permitted 'visiting hours' some time after the six month period. He didn't have many people to visit. Just Jack. So once a week he was wheeled into a room by one of the Master's servants - a slab. All of the servants, with the exception of the Jones family, were slabs. The Master had complained that humans needed too much feeding and too many gave the Valiant a smell, so he'd made himself a small army of the leather soldiers, complete with realistic faces.

Jack was lead in by another guard. He was shoved down into a plastic chair across from the Doctor's wheelchair. Jack slumped, exhausted, his head lolling. The chair couldn't be very hard, but the Doctor had seen that Jack was rarely allowed to sit, and heard Jack's moan of satisfaction.

The doors slid shut with and the locks snapped to in the walls. They were alone now, with the exception of the slowly blinking CCTV camera in the corner pointed directly at them. With a, effort that sent his shoulders and arms burning, the Doctor reached down and grasped the wheels of his chair and pushed. Slowly the chair squeaked forward, until he was close enough to Jack that their knees were touching.

Jack's head twitched, his fingers flexed. The Doctor reached out and grasped his hand. Jack looked up. His blue eyes were dead. The immortals fingers squeezed his. His skin felt young and vital against his soft, withered flesh. They'd been getting the visiting hours for some time, but they never spoke. They'd spoken the first time, but what they said brought the rage of the Master down upon Jack, and, unwilling to cause another violent episode like had been brought on before, the Doctor refused to speak to Jack. But it didn't mean he had other means of communication.

He'd had six months to integrate himself into the psychic network which encompassed the earth, linking every living creature below. He was perhaps seventy percent meshed with the network. The final thirty percent required finesse, all of his concentration. But those visiting days he relaxed for the few hours he was given. He felt like he was stealing snatches of comfort and time from what was soon to come, from the despicable act he was going to be committing.

The Doctor closed his eyes. He felt the psychic link of the Archangel Network humming in the back of his mind like an entity, whispering.

Are you alright, Jack? he sent. With his high integration, he no longer needed contact with the person's temples to send a message. A hand would do, and the Master never suspected it.

Jack squeezed his hand. After the first conversation the Doctor spoke to Jack silently, sending him soft psychic messages, warnings. Jack responded with different motions with his hand on the Doctor's. The Master didn't like their contact, but he tolerated it. He was still too obsessed with the puzzle Jack posed, and the Doctor's focus on him to worry about them holding hands.

I'm sorry.

Jack dug in his nail slightly, and swiped his thumb across the back of the Doctor's hand. The thumb swipe was for 'no,' and the slight pain to enforce it. He hated the Doctor's constant apologies. The Doctor's lips twitched, and he smothered a smile.

If there was a way to keep you from suffering, I would do it.

Jack didn't respond.

I'm going to ask you to do something that will help save everyone. I'm just afraid it's a rather lot to ask for.

Jack squeezed his hand in a silent yes.

Typical. You don't even know what it is and you agree.

Two squeezes.

Jack, I'm afraid what I'm asking may take a lot from you. Your immortality, for one.

Jack didn't move, but the Doctor could hear his breathing change.

I'm sorry. It will mean sacrifice. And change. You'll live. I promise you'll live. It won't kill you. But it will be dangerous.

Another two squeezes, the last of them lingering.

You need to trust me. When the time comes, something will come to you. Not a weapon, I am not asking you to kill. But it will be like a weapon in that it will help to end the Master's cruelty. And you're going to have to use it.

Jack responded with a gentle squeeze.

I wish I could tell you more, get you truly prepared. But the Master...

Jack squeezed his fingers hard now, and he stroked his hand with his thumb, but it wasn't in a no. It was in comfort. Jack was dying at least once a day, tortured and maimed, paraded about, psychically intruded upon. Jack at least had enough training that he kept their conversations from the Master. Yet he tried to comfort the Doctor, even when he should hate him. Hate his very blood.

Jack, with what must have been a Herculean effort, sent back an emotion of comfort that made the Doctor's eyes, which were so often cold and shut off, prickle with tears. He rasped in a breath, squeezing with all the strength his fragile fingers could muster.

"Alright, alright," said the laughing voice of the Master over the speakers, "that's plenty of time for one day."

The door whooshed open. The Master danced over the threshold, followed by two slabs. One of them yanked Jack away from the Doctor. Jack hit the ground with a grunt. The slab which threw him down pulled him to his feet by his hair. Jack yelled now, struggling up with the pulling hand.

The Master's voice was sharp. "Shut your trap, Freak, or I'll slice your vocal chords again. Or maybe cut your tongue out."

Jack snapped his mouth shut. His teeth clicked loud enough that the Doctor, who was being rolled away by the second slab, could hear it.

"Get him ready in his quarters. I've got a little knife from Torchwood he might recognize, and I want to use it on him." The master tittered. "In fact, I've already used it on a friend of his. The one with the pretty blue eyes and cock-sucking mouth."

Jack screamed in rage. There was a blast from the laser, and he heard Jack's heavy body hit the ground.

The Master laughed with glee.

The Doctor's head bowed, wishing that Martha would return soon.

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A/N: Remember, if you've been enjoying the story, please review!