Chapter 14

Jessica had been sure, when her phone had buzzed, that it was just Trish, checking in on her progress with Claire. Claire had been speaking, mumbling something about sedatives or narcotics as she'd been flipping through the pages the lab had given her about the drug. Jessica had taken out her phone, feeling more anxious than she'd felt in a long time, and the second she'd taken in what was on her screen, it got a whole lot worse.

KILGRAVE ESCAPED. The location, neatly spelled out. Jessica's heart had pounded, she'd felt so dizzy she'd thought she might faint.

"Jessica?" Claire had prompted, in a way that suggested it hadn't been the first time. "Jessi-"

"Kilgrave's gone," Jessica had croaked, and fled.

It hadn't taken long for Luke to find her, either. He'd called her before even Trish, and his voice had been stone cold, and so incredibly furious that Jessica could hardly believe he was even able to speak, let alone to her of all people. She'd just given him her location, and kept walking. She'd tried not to think too much, tried to focus on the task ahead. When Trish called, Jessica had followed the same routine. They'd all met up along the way, and kept walking. Luke had been steely silent, darkly casting looks that Jessica had felt digging into her.

"Why?" he'd asked once. It was all he'd said to her.

"I'll explain," she'd replied, but she hadn't known what to say. Everything had been crumbling, in ways she'd only imagined.

When they reached Trish's apartment what felt like hours later, laden with prisoners and responsibility, she was both relieved and terrified beyond comprehension.

"Hey lady," the man she and Trish had been guarding said, "can you try not to break my wrist, please and thank you? I'm game for anything, but now doesn't seem like the appropriate time to get rough."

He fucking winked, and Jessica almost lost it. Trish was already stepping away, the minute the door to the apartment was closed behind them. The newest prisoner didn't even flinch at the steel in Jessica's expression, just kept smirking in a way that just invited her to snap him in half.

"J-J-Jack," Kilgrave rasped. "Don't." Jessica kept a careful eye on him as Luke pushed him onto Trish's couch. She didn't know what she expected - for him to jump up and run, or grin that vile grin from so long ago, or start attacking them all - but he did nothing at all. He stayed where Luke pushed him, limp and utterly without fight. His eyes were closed. She didn't think she'd seen them open since they'd started moving.

"I want answers," Luke growled, low, dangerous, barely containing himself. "Jessica fucking Jones, if you don't tell me what the hell he's doing here, and what you know, I'm going to explode."

"I'm sorry," she said. She opened her mouth again, but nothing came out.

"I've got zipties," Trish said. "Let's tie them up."

"No need," the new prisoner interjected. "I'm staying put, don't worry." He started to take off his coat, as much as he could with Jessica's hand still clamped on him, until she finally released him and snatched the fabric from him. Just as her eyes caught the chunky black object strapped to his forearm, he was stripping it off and throwing it in her direction. "There," he said. "Don't fuck with it too much, please."

"What the hell?" she spat. She turned it over in her hands, noting the strange symbols. The screen was dark, and remained dark even as she prodded at the buttons.

"I could ask you the same question," he countered. He was almost more unbearable than Kilgrave, in some respects. Though, since they were apparently friends, it made some sense. And also meant that he was almost certainly an asshole. The flirting shit didn't help him in that regard, not in the slightest. Jessica, desperately needing to turn away to gather herself, and set the objects on a nearby chair.

"I want answers," Luke repeated. He loomed in Trish's living room. When he met Jessica's eyes as she turned back around, she was so full of dread that she could taste bile in the back of her throat.

The only good thing she really had was about to fall apart. She felt the faint ghost of Luke's hand on her back, warm and gentle, on her cheeks, smoothing her hair. She remembered his laugh, hesitant but just as warm as the rest of him, and she thought about losing it, and she was almost sick.

"Fine," she said. "Trish, watch those two. We need to talk."

"I'm Captain Jack Harkness," Jack was saying. The Doctor could feel him moving through the apartment - a giant, screaming Wrong. "Who are you?"

"Trish Walker," Trish replied, without any of Jack's playful warmth. "Stay in the room."

"Bossy," Jack remarked, "but okay. I understand." He sat next to the Doctor, radiating human warmth, and the Doctor found himself learning into it. "Woah, Doc, okay. Hey. Sit up." Hands on his shoulders, propping him up against the back of whatever they were sitting on. Couch? "What's up with these bandages?" Jack felt carefully at the bandage, more gentle than he perhaps needed to be. When his skin brushed the Doctor's, the Time Lord was immediately rushed with pain, worry, frustration, curiosity, the memory of borrowed psychic paper with the Doctor's signature calling for help, a harried goodbye, fleeting excuses.

Jack jerked away, dropping the Doctor's hand with none of the care he'd picked it up with. "Doctor?" he asked. His voice was sharpened with something - anger, fear, worry?

"Sorry, sorry, sorry," the Doctor whispered. It took a great deal of effort to speak, more than it had before. He was tired, he realized. He'd known it before, but now, sitting down, it was overwhelming him. "No walls. Surface thoughts only, 's okay. Sorry." His chest started to clench, oddly. He'd almost forgotten Jack's slight telepathic ability. Of course he'd known when the Doctor was in his head - the Time Agency had trained their agents to detect that sort of thing.

"Okay, calm down," Jack sighed. "Easy, Doctor. You just startled me, that's all." A hand came to rest softly on his shoulder. "We're okay. Can I see your hand again? I'll be more careful."

Clumsily, the Doctor brought it up. Jack took him by the wrist, taking care to keep his hand only on the sleeve of the Doctor's coat, and carefully turned his hand over. The Doctor felt no physical contact as the former Time Agent slowly unwound the bandage, except the steady hold on his wrist. In the other room, he heard Jessica's voice spike to a shout, and another voice join her.

"Shit," Jack breathed. "What did you do?" Before the Doctor could form any kind of response, though, Jack had bent over. "You've got them on your feet, too. Jesus." He started to pull a shoe off, and a jolt of pain screamed through the Doctor, stealing his breath. But Jack didn't stop, pulled them both off, and began stripping the bandages. "What the hell happened?"

Trish dragged in a breath, and only then did the Doctor remember that she was there. Sitting nearby, it seemed, though her presence was a shaky and uncertain one in his mind. "He threw a glass," she explained curtly, though her voice was thick. "I wasn't there, I just heard…"

"Did you decide to go prancing through it?" Jack snapped. One bandage came free, and as soon as the air hit the cuts the Doctor had to grit his teeth against the onslaught of fire. More pain as the second foot was freed, then the other hand. He was practically swimming in it. Jack the Fact only continued to scrape at him, saying biting words and asking questions, his presence a constant, grounding grate. The Doctor remembered cold floors beneath them, and Jack hovering anxiously at his side, and shuddered. Jessica was yelling again. Her voice broke. Something smashed, and Trish pulled in a fearful breath. The Doctor was floating, letting the world hit him in its entirety, and he could hardly breathe.

When the pain finally began to ease, and the world started to emerge more clearly again, Jack was saying his name. The hand was on his shoulder again, but not to soothe anymore. Its grip was tight, each finger digging in like if they didn't hold on the Doctor might drift away from them. "Doctor. Doc, please, come on."

The Doctor wet his lips. One of them had split at some point, he realized. It stung, absurdly painful for such a small injury. "What?"

Jack sighed, a jagged, harried thing. "Damn. Where'd you go there, huh?" Now the touch loosened a little. Soothing again.

"Here," the Doctor whispered. "Very, very here."

Another sigh. "Okay, whatever you say. Just stay with me, all right? Why've you got your eyes closed?"

"Too bright. Stop…mothering."

"I don't see anyone else willing to do it," Jack replied, attempting cheerfulness but falling painfully flat. "Come on, you love the attention. Don't pretend you don't." Another arm came around to his other side to hold him, and he was slowly brought downwards, just slightly, until he was leaning against Jack. Human, warm, Wrong Jack. "Good?" The Doctor grunted. "It'll be okay." The Doctor could feel the hand lingering by his face, but he was still surprised when it brushed against his cheek, and more information was thrust at him.

But this time, it wasn't sharp or violent. Anything but, really. Jack was suddenly soft, pushing memories of sleepy contentment, birds singing, sunlight streaming through windows on beautiful mornings, the cool relief of shade on hot summer days, the cozy heat of the fireplace in the TARDIS library, a warm mug of tea cupped carefully in cold hands. It wasn't enough to make the Doctor forget about his current situation, but the tension in his chest eased.

He blinked his eyes open, and caught a glimpse of a pair of legs across a coffee table (Trish?), before closing them again.

"Was that okay?" Jack whispered, hesitant but very obviously hopeful. Low enough that Trish wouldn't overhear. "I did have some training, you know."

"'S fine," the Doctor assured him. "Not hard. Good job." He wanted to clap Jack on the shoulder, but he settled for tapping a finger against the man's leg. "Quick study, you are."

"Right," Jack nearly chuckled. Louder, he said, "I think you should get some sleep."

Bad idea, the Doctor knew, though he wasn't sure why. "Nonono," he mumbled. "Jack, no."

"I'll be here," Jack said. "Go to sleep. I'll wake you up if I need to. It's not the first time I've done this, you know."

"No, I don't…" Jack pulled him closer, just a little, and the Doctor's forehead touched skin - Jack's neck - and he was flooded with soft, sleepy memories. Bundled in blankets by the fire, surrounded by trees and cold night air, the warm comfort of a body fit close, hot chocolate and flushed cheeks, heavy eyes after days of running, Christmas lights against snow, three suns setting and burning the sky purple and orange.

"It's going to be okay," Jack said, his voice vibrating through the Doctor's head. "We're okay, Doc."

Maybe it was the drugs, but the Doctor believed him, and allowed himself to fade into sleep, into cozy, rainy afternoons and warm, late nights.

Keeping his surface thoughts happy took nearly all of Jack's concentration, so he couldn't afford to pay much attention to the fight going on in the room over, or to the watchful eyes of his new guard. Considering the situation, it was a miracle that he was managing at all. Their guard didn't seem too focused on them, which was a blessing, but her tension bled through the entire room as she seemed to eavesdrop on the muffled argument nearby. Jack knew that he should mind his own business, keep himself calm while the Doctor was asleep, so as not to wake him or cause him any stress, but he was itching with worry about what little information he'd gotten about the situation so far. He couldn't stop himself from looking, over and over again, at the half-healed collection of injuries on his friend's hands. His heart kept speeding up, and he only barely caught himself each time he started to slip into active fear. The Doctor, cool and heavy against his side, was depending on him. That thought alone kept him steady.

Jack closed his eyes, tried to relax. He focused on a particularly happy memory - from just days ago, sharing a cup of tea with the Torchwood staff after a long day. They'd all been exhausted, more than exhausted really, but everything had cleared up in the end, as well as could be expected. Owen had actually been near smiling, Gwen had attempted a few bad, tired jokes, and things had been quiet and peaceful. It was hardly what one would think would be a perfect moment, but when Jack remembered it he was full of something that was dangerously near contentment. Before the psychic paper, before the Doctor's message, before the hasty digging up of the Vortex Manipulator, when everything had been quiet and simple for just a moment.

When he opened his eyes again, he found Trish Walker raking her gaze over the both of them. Her mouth was pinched thin, worried and confused, her eyes focused but her mind obviously elsewhere. Pale, wound tight. When Jack caught her eyes, she immediately looked away, and took a deep breath.

"Tell me about the glass," Jack prompted, in the softest voice he could manage, while still able to be heard above the shouting.

Her face screwed up even more, and she sighed again before rubbing anxiously at her forehead. "I only know what I've been told about the situation," she warned. "From what Jessica told me, though...he went to the kitchen to make tea. Something happened, and he suddenly started throwing glasses at the wall. Jessica had to force him to stop. A lot of the pieces bounced back to him from the wall, and he stepped in some of them, and I think he had his hands on the floor at some point…" she sighed, ran a frustrated hand through her hair. "All he said about it, really, was that it was related to some kind of memory he had, or something. He wanted some control." A fearful, pensive look shadowed her face as she finished.

A cold ball of terror and rage solidified in Jack's gut, but he just nodded again. He fought for a new memory - falling asleep by the TV, Martha Jones already drifted off on the other end of the couch, her breath a steady, quiet noise after a long day. He reached for the Doctor's hand, then gently slid his fingers just under the sleeve of his coat and suit and shirt, to rest his thumb against the pulse point and feel the steady tick of two hearts. Everything was okay now. That's what he had to focus on, for both of their sakes. He could ask the Doctor about the glass later. It was concerning, but now wasn't the time.

He'd almost forgotten, having just met the eleventh version of his Doctor in all his cheerfulness, finally seeming to be somewhat happy on some level, how miserable this one had been.

"How exactly did he meet you?" Jack asked. New topic, hopefully a safer one. But the minute the words left his mouth, Trish Walker's face turned pale and drawn, and she rubbed at it distractedly.

"He doesn't remember," she began, "which is the hardest part of all of this. If he remembered, it would have been so easy." She raised her head again, gravely met Jack's eyes. "It's not nice. Jessica…she met him a while ago, before all this." Trish paused again, allowing Jack to gather up something pleasant in the back of his mind, ready to force it to the forefront when whatever she was going to say finally came out.

"I'm a big kid," he said, when she still didn't speak. "I can take it."

"He…" she paused again, and took another deep breath. "He met her on the street, decided he liked her, and then raped her."

Despite the shouting, the entire world seemed to go quiet, and Jack felt a blanket of cold and dismay settle over him. "No," he protested. "No, he wouldn't do that." His mind raced, trying to comprehend such an idea. "No."

Trish, for her credit, looked slightly sympathetic. "I know, it's hard to digest," she allowed. "I'm sorry. But that's the truth."

"There has to be some mistake," Jack tried, but she shook her head.

"It's him," she said. "I promise."

Not this him, Jack reasoned wildly. Maybe a future him. The pocket watch, the whatever it was that turned Time Lords human. Not really the Doctor, a dark, terrible version of the Doctor. Or an imposter of some kind.

"He went by Kilgrave," she continued. "Now, I guess, he doesn't. He lost all memory of it, we don't know how. We're still trying to work it out. We thought he was dead," she added, much more quietly. Resentful, Jack thought with a spike of resentment himself.

He thought about asking if Kilgrave had been human. If he'd mentioned that at all, if they even knew. He debated about whether to test how much they knew about the Doctor, ask about the Time Lords or time travel or Gallifrey. Thought about mentioning that he'd known the Doctor for longer than any of the humans in the apartment would ever live, and that he was sure such a horrifying idea had never so much as crossed the Time Lord's mind in all of his travels.

Instead, he just swallowed back bile and tried to evaluate the situation before speaking. Who knew what the Doctor had told them, how much he'd decided they should know. Maybe it was dangerous for them to know about him, or maybe it was just dangerous for him.

"Jessica saw him in the street almost two months ago," Trish continued. "She kind of…freaked out. Jumped him, took him back to her apartment, tied him up. She was terrified."

Jack closed his eyes. "I can understand that." God, what was he supposed to do?

"When he woke up, we found out that he didn't remember any of it, that he'd apparently been living on the street. When we first met him, he had…" another pause, "powers. Abilities, whatever. He could tell anybody to do anything, and they'd do it. No matter what. But those were gone when we found him. I don't know how."

Jack took a shaky breath. "Okay."

"I don't know how well you know him," Trish hedged, "but that's what I know. And I think you should know, too." Jack opened his eyes. Trish cast a significant glance at the Doctor, still nestled into the crook of Jack's neck, and bit her lip.

As if he could sense her judgement, the Doctor's breath hitched, and his entire body spasmed for the briefest of moments.

Jack remembered his task, and swore. His hand left the Doctor's wrist and came up to cup his face. He closed his eyes, tried to will up the memory from before, but he couldn't remember what it had been. He thought again of the peaceful tea, Tosh cracking a strained but relieved smile, stringing Christmas lights throughout the Hub with Ianto and laughing, emerging into cozy warmth after a long day spent in the cold.

He was angry, and confused and worried, but the Doctor still needed him. Jack could ask his questions later. For now, he pushed every last good second he had in his memory forward. The Doctor twitched again, his breathing going hard and labored as it gusted slightly across Jack's collarbone.

"Sorry, Doc," Jack murmured. "We're okay." He passed a thumb gently over the Time Lord's cheek, and thought of starlit nights and quiet music, and the whipping wind of a cold but peaceful shore. The advantage to being immortal, for all of the pain that he endured, was that he also had many good memories to fall back on. As many good memories as bad ones, perhaps, though the good were sometimes harder to recall. Jack thought, as hard as he could, and dwelled deliberately on each little moment from each little memory. He almost went limp with relief when the Doctor finally settled. "We're okay," he said again, because he felt like it needed to be said. He reopened his eyes, and sighed.

Trish pulled a hand through her hair, all of her anxiety painted clearly on her face. She really was beautiful, Jack allowed himself to think for a second, despite it all. Now wasn't the time to being flirting, though, as the Doctor had already warned him. It was a good mood-lightener, but he wasn't feeling up to it himself, really. And what a sad occasion that marked.

Happy thoughts, he reminded himself, forcefully. Happy thoughts, Jack. Walking outside on a warm summer night, a late night on the town with friends, sleepy movie commentary, friendly flirting, seeing familiar faces after ages apart, the gentle hum of the TARDIS lulling him to sleep.

He found that his eyes had fluttered closed again, without his permission, and he forced them open. Falling asleep himself wouldn't do any good - he wasn't exactly the kind of person to have sweet dreams, himself. But now that he was paying attention, he was absolutely exhausted, from head to toe. Travel by vortex manipulator tended to do that. The body didn't exactly like being thrown through the time vortex without a proper shuttle, as the Doctor loved to point out to Jack whenever possible. And now that distractions were fewer, and Jack was sitting, curled up on a soft couch, with a cool, comfortable weight at his side…well, naturally he was getting a little heavy-eyed.

But he'd have to wait to sleep until he was in a less volatile situation, until someone else could keep an eye on the Doctor for him, until he could lie down and be left alone and not have to consciously monitor the thoughts and feelings he was projecting to others.

Jack attempted to move to a slightly less comfortable position, but the Doctor somehow had a hand twisted up in Jack's shirt, and prying it away would probably be unwise, or so Jack assumed. He sighed and relented, settled back down. He was stuck like this for now, it seemed. He refocused on Trish, and found her watching him gravely - not in a cruel or threatening way, just…a little bit dark, a little bit brooding. Sad or angry or something of that nature.

They sat like that for what felt like ages.

It was such a strange thing, Trish thought, to see Kilgrave so openly affectionate.

Or not affectionate, but trusting, caring, vulnerable in ways he hadn't been for the weeks Trish had known this new him.

Jack Harkness, despite his apparent resistance to the idea of sleep, reminiscent of Kilgrave's, seemed to have drifted off now. His head was tilted slightly back, his jaw slack, lying just a little bit against the top of Kilgrave's head. Kilgrave had his forehead in Harkness' neck, his body curled slightly toward the other man, one hand somehow wound in his shirt. Kilgrave's coat was slightly too large on him, his eyes were bagged, his face pale, but he still looked restful now. Weirdly relaxed, though in his position Trish would be stricken with terror.

She had to wonder how the two knew each other, how they could possibly be this comfortable.

For Jack to call him 'the Doctor,' his apparent self-given name, he would have to have met Kilgrave recently, after the man was brought back to life, or saved, or whatever. Whatever they had gone through together, it had obviously bonded them. Trish was tempted to call their relationship romantic, but so far it would be nothing more than an assumption, and Trish knew better than to follow those.

It had been a little over an hour since Jessica and Luke had locked themselves away in Trish's bedroom, and although the shouting had long since gone quiet, Trish couldn't help but be a little worried. Maybe they were still talking, or maybe they'd just decided to sit and stare at one another until one of them broke. Or maybe they'd accidentally killed each other. She itched to go check, but forced herself to stay put, and keep a close eye on their prisoners as she'd been told. Her gun glinted cold and promising where she could see it poking out of the purse at her side. Just looking at it made her clench her jaw.

Trish Walker wasn't weak. Hardly. She knew how to use a gun, what she had to do if it came down to her to protect herself, but her stomach still turned a little.

She watched her prisoners, and listened for some sign that Jessica and Luke were done arguing, and they could finally make some progress.

A small click sounded as the door unlocked, and Trish's head shot up to stare at it. The door swung open in an instant, and Jessica emerged. Her eyes were a little red, but she looked…okay. Okay as she could get, these days. She wasn't storming out of the room, which was a good sign. Luke followed a short distance behind her, still detectably angry, but ever so slightly more relaxed. Willing to do what needed to be done, Trish gathered with relief. Willing to put Jessica's secrets behind them for now, at the very least.

"Okay," Jessica said. Calm, collected, steady. "We need to get some answers, and we need them now."

Jack frowned in his sleep, and twitched, but otherwise didn't react. Kilgrave remained still and silent.

The look on Jessica's face as she paced forward to get a better look at the two men on the couch was not a happy one, and it only got worse as she took in their entanglement. She swallowed, took a calming breath.

"So they're obviously friends," she quipped.

Jack stirred again, without any more prompting, and a noticeable change in breathing was the only warning they had before his eyes suddenly shot open and he almost jumped off of the couch. Kilgrave was twisted into what was obviously not a comfortable position, as his eyebrows came together and he too started showing signs of waking.

"You let me fall asleep," Jack accused. As soon as he set eyes on Kilgrave's predicament, he tried to adjust the other man back to where he'd been, but it was obvious that it wasn't helping much. His gaze flickered back up to his audience, and he stared pointedly up at them. "Did you need something?"

"You promised answers," Jessica reminded him. She crossed her arms. Luke moved behind her, seamlessly transitioning to the role of her reinforcement rather than 'opponent.'

"I don't have too many of those," Jack replied, "as I think I told you earlier. I'm sorry," and he almost sounded sincere, "but I don't have a lot for you." He looked down at Kilgrave again. "You can ask the Doc, but…he's been out of it, for obvious reasons. Nothing's changed since you last asked."

"Wake him up," Luke commanded.

Jack sighed. His eyes stayed trained on Kilgrave. Trish detected a fair amount of regret there. A little bit of pain, too, and sorrow. Jack hesitated, but only briefly, before easing Kilgrave off of him, and gently shaking the man's shoulders. Within seconds, Kilgrave emitted something like an unhappy groan, and tried to twist away.

"Jack," he complained. "Stop, stop. Awake, stop."

Harkness very nearly smiled as he let Kilgrave go and leaned back. "These nice folks have a few questions for you," he said. Trish couldn't help but notice the care he took in sounding cheerful and unworried. "You feel up to it?"

"It doesn't matter how he feels," Jessica interjected. "This is more important than any of us. People could be dead."

"Hm," Kilgrave said. His eyes were still stubbornly closed. "Idea."

Jack's eyebrows shot up. "Already?"

"'S a play off an earlier idea," Kilgrave explained. The drugged slur and the accent muddled his words, so Trish had to fight a little to properly understand him. "I tried to get captured, you know," he said. "Backfired…a bit."

"Captured?" Jack repeated.

"You saw a kidnapping?" Jessica cut in.

"Yep," Kilgrave said, popping the 'p'. "I…what did I do? Ran, which was nice. 'S been a while since that's happened. But they wouldn't take me." He almost pouted, Trish noted incredulously. "Too picky. Not important. But they'd take Jack."

"You want me to get myself kidnapped?" Jack spluttered. "Really?"

"You're a fact," Kilgrave insisted, waving a limp hand. It nearly hit Jack in the face. "Jack the Fact."

Jack's expression instantly changed, going bitter and hard. But when he spoke, it was unbearably gentle. "Doctor."

"What a great relationship you two have," Jessica dryly remarked. "Nothing to show how much you care like offering the other one up for a kidnapping."

Jack sighed, ducked his head a little to bury it in his hands. "I'm not saying no," he ground out. "We can think it over. He's not wrong. I'm the best chance we have."

"What makes you the most qualified?" Luke countered.

Another sigh. "Are you honestly going to volunteer yourself for this, over a stranger who you don't like?" Jack raised his head again, eyed Luke with something like fury. "I'm trying to help here."

He had a point, Trish had to admit. She wasn't exactly crazy about the plan, as it stood now, but it seemed to be their best option for the moment. And it didn't involve anyone she cared about getting hurt.

"Sorry, Jack," Kilgrave loudly whispered, in a way that suggested that he thought he was being quiet. "I'm so sorry."

"We'll ride out this drug," Jack proposed, completely ignoring his friend, "and then we can talk more about this idea, okay? Give me time to think some more, come up with more ideas…People are getting kidnapped?"

Trish nodded, drawing his eye to her. "Kids," she added darkly.

His face fell. "Oh."

"Time is a factor," Jessica put in tightly.

"We'll ride this out," Jack said again. "Then we can bring it up again."

"If he was drugged by the kidnappers, then this could last a week," Jessica informed him, "maybe longer if we're unlucky."

"Get Claire," Luke suggested. "Your nurse friend."

Jessica closed her eyes, something pained fluttering across her face. "Fine," she bit out. "I'll call her. Maybe she's found something to help us out by now. He's having different symptoms anyway," she waved a hand dismissively in Kilgrave's direction, "maybe it'll wear off a little sooner."

But if they went with Malcolm's theory, then it could mean longer. If he'd still been on the drug when he'd been dosed again (unless it was something new), he could be affected for several weeks, maybe months like the first dose had done. Maybe these new and strange effects could be attributed to a double-dose…in which case who knew what they were in for?

Trish bit her lip, and watched him sit there, letting the conversation he should have been a part of floating around him, his attention apparently lost. His brow was furrowed, a frown crossing his lips. His eyes were still closed.

"Whatever you have to do," Jack agreed. He looked anything but young and handsome now. He just looked tired.

Trish could relate.

The Doctor had gone adrift, and it appeared that everyone was okay with him staying that way. He could feel Jack, but the man wouldn't touch him, was just sitting there beside him in silence. His Wrongness was the Doctor's only anchor, a pain that kept the him from going crazy but not much else. The universe, with all of its sights and sounds and feelings, had entirely enveloped him, and it was a confusing mess. He could pinpoint a few distinct things - that he was sitting down, that there were people milling around, that Jack was beside him and there was conversation - but it had all transformed into a wall of mostly meaningless information again.

He had nothing left to do but stay calm and endure it until he was able to focus again. Unhelpfully, not being able to discern any real information was a very anxiety-inducing experience. It reminded him of other times he'd been drugged - most had ended fine, and had no real terrible memories associated with them, but others were far less bearable. He kept thinking about the Valiant, and the Master's fondness for his own brand of drug-testing.

Don't think about that, he reminded himself. Why do you keep thinking about that? It was partly because of Jack, he suspected. His distinct Wrongness brought with it many reminders. Not all of them were unpleasant, but many of them were. Normally, he was able to block it all out and put on a smile, but that ability had been stripped from him. And, as he'd predicted back at the start of this mess, once he started thinking about the Year that Never Was, it was exceedingly difficult to stop.

His hearts wouldn't stop pounding now, stricken with uncertainty. A noise that he should have recognized floated to his ears, but he couldn't for the life of him have given a name to it. People were moving, but he couldn't tell where. Jack moved, but he couldn't tell what exactly had changed. Harried voices, that he thought were behind him, loud and relentless.

Things were happening, people were moving, and talking, and he couldn't figure out what was going on, he was just there, alone, trapped.

A soft touch broke through the onslaught of information, but came with a rush of new things - anxiety, stress, frustration, images of a pale Jessica Jones, hurried clips of thought along the lines of malnourished, no response to stimuli, flashes of worry about work, friends, their lives-

The hand was ripped away, as quick as it had come. And Jack spoke, and the Doctor had to work to make out the words - "Not a good idea. Hey, Doc-" and more hands, but familiar ones, Jack's, pushing something that was supposed to be calm at him. "Deep breaths, calm down okay?" He was pulled into a soft, warm embrace, and it was only then that he realized that he'd been shaking. "Just focus on my voice."

He tried. It wasn't as easy as it sounded. But slowly, very slowly, Jack's gentle calm stole over him, like something of a blanket, and he settled. The universe stopped making quite as much noise. The Doctor could feel his own breathing now, and how it eventually slowed to something even and quiet. He could hear Jack's single human heart thudding steadily where he'd been laid on the man's chest.

"There," Jack breathed. "Thank God. What the hell happened?"

The Doctor was more than a little relieved himself. "Too loud," he explained, or half-explained, to Jack's chest. He let the Wrong keep him present - it was a persistent headache, but not an entirely unwelcome one.

"That can happen," a new voice piped up, soft and incredibly cautious. "Some drugs impair the brain's ability to properly process information. I've heard it can be unsettling."

"Yeah," Jack agreed with a sigh, "I'm not sure how much he's actually aware of right now."

The Doctor huffed loudly in response, maybe a little defensively. It lacked all of the outrage he wanted, since he was still lying half on top of Jack, eyes closed, and not moving.

Jack either didn't pick up on the message, or decided to ignore it for the moment. "We have to let Claire take a look at you, Doctor. She might be able to help."

"Claire," the Doctor muttered. "Oh. You're the nurse."

"Right," Claire said, smooth and calm despite the fear and concern the Doctor knew were coursing through her. "I'll be careful. I should be able to do everything from here, actually, so we shouldn't have to move you again. I just need you to do a couple quick things for me, alright? I need your eyes open, just for a little bit."

The Doctor thought that sounded like a lot of work, and now that he was lying down, the invitation of unconsciousness was especially compelling, making it even worse. But Jack was nudging him, and he'd already upset Jack enough for one day. So he blinked his eyes open, and pretended that the sudden influx of information wasn't driving him mad.

He didn't last very long with them open, as it completely shattered what little focus he had. There were again too many colors, shapes, movements, for him to churn through with any amount of accuracy. Jack helped, but even his persistent Wrongness couldn't correct all the loudness of the visible world, especially when paired with Claire's speech - though what she was saying, he didn't know - and plastic-sheathed hands on his face. He snapped his eyes closed again, and turned his head so that it dug into Jack's chest.

There was some kind of exclamation from underneath him - a complaint or a laugh or something in between - and a brief shuffling and changing of position, so that the Doctor could comfortably bury his face against Jack's shoulder. When coherent words came back to him, Claire was saying, "I don't think it's that he can't see, but just that when he tries there's too much information to sort through to get an actual picture."

Jack relaxed, almost imperceptibly. "He said something like that," he said. "Good to know it's got some medical backing."

"Right," Claire replied, in a way that suggested exhaustion and reluctance. "But listen - I know the drug is the primary concern here, because it's the most pressing issue, but if we want to take care of that more quickly we'll need to address some other areas as well."

A short, rather confused silence.

"He's thin," Claire elaborated. "Really thin. Not in a normal way. What I'm seeing is suggesting an extended period of time without real nutrition. That might also be why the drug hit so quickly, and maybe even why the effects are somewhat different than we've seen before."

"Shit," Jack whispered. "Oh, shit, I didn't even really think-" Suddenly, the Doctor was being jostled; Jack's hands on his shoulders, his face, moving his head away from the comfort of the shoulder, Jack's mind broadcasting horror that choked the Doctor's throat and twisted his stomach. "When was the last time you ate?" Jack demanded, his voice barely decipherable over the pounding of his heart in the Doctor's ears, the clench of fear in his chest. "Doctor," he repeated. "Doc, come on, this is important."

"You're loud," the Doctor whined, vainly trying to tug away, hearing all too clearly the tightness in his voice and the edge of pain there. "Stop, stop-"

It all cut off, in a breathless moment, Jack retreating from his face to simply lay a hand on his clothed, protected shoulder. "Sorry," Jack soothed, "I should have been more careful, I'm sorry. Did you hear me?"

The Doctor focused on the Wrong, willfully steadied his breathing and his thudding hearts. "Last night," he said. "Or…whenever that was. Before now."

"Okay." Jack took a measured breath, his grip tight on the Doctor's arm, but almost comfortingly so. Then, in a dangerously calm, clipped tone, continued, "Was this an actual meal that you planned? Or did you put off eating until you got too sick to function, freaked out when you realized that you'd made a mistake, and then shoved food in your mouth at the last minute?"

The Doctor knew what the answer Jack hoped for was, but he also knew the truth, and even in his current state could tell that Jack knew as well. The man had spent time getting to know him in the TARDIS, after all. In many of his weakest moments, too - Jack had seen many of the Doctor's bad decisions over the time they'd travelled together.

"Doctor," Jack prompted, a little softer. He rubbed a thumb against the Doctor's shoulder, and sighed. "Did you just forget, or was this on purpose?" he asked in a near whisper.

The Doctor felt his hearts stutter a little, and licked his lips. "Maybe…maybe a little on purpose," he rasped. "Not entirely, there were just. More important things were-and sometimes it's better, you know, if I don't-"

"Shut up," Jack whispered, his voice cracking. "Doctor, please, you can't say that."

"Trish," Claire began, deceptively collected, "I need you to make me a meal - small, simple, not greasy. As quick as you can."

Jack was lowering him down again, like he was made of china, which he resented very much. People were moving, he could hear Jessica and Claire exchanging information in clipped tones, could feel the strain of tension throughout the room. The Doctor felt hollow again, terribly so, and it was all the more amplified by his malfunctioning brain. Jack's arms around him were strong but careful, hot and human and protective. The Doctor remembered his frantic wishes for this, and for Donna at his side, her hand in his hair and her voice a soothing ramble. Or, if not Donna, some familiar face, some gentle presence.

Claire had two fingers pressed to his wrist. Jack said something to her, an assurance. He spoke some more, maybe to no one in particular. It was loud. Jessica was talking again, to someone else. There were cooking noises floating from Trish's kitchen. Claire was bustling, saying something to someone else across the room. Jack was speaking, quiet and indistinct, trying to be soothing but radiating emotions that were anything but. He pushed calm when he made physical contact, but the Doctor knew better. Jack ran a hand through his hair, so incredibly gently - the ghost of a touch, leaving behind it only the faintest of warmth, and underneath his calm exterior there was a pressing of raw pain and regret and care.

The Doctor could feel every last small injury on his body then, in sharp juxtaposition with Jack's soft contact, and his chest clenched without warning, his breath hitched and released in something of a ragged sigh.

"I'm here," Jack said. His voice came to the Doctor as more of a vibration than a sound. "I'll always be here."

Of course he would, the Doctor thought. Jack the Fact.

Claire's voice broke through Jack's protective shield, saying, "Okay, sit him up. Can he feed himself?"

"Give us a fork," Jack told her. "We'll work it out." He shifted, sitting up, and the Doctor had no choice but to come up with him. Limbs were rearranged, the world went sickly and spinny, but when it settled Jack was still there, his hand moved to the Doctor's shoulder again, the both of them propped against each other and the back of the couch. A barrage of new scents hit the Doctor as he tried to adjust to the change - eggs and ham and something sweet that might have been fruit, mixed with Jack's cologne and a dozen other distracting smells.

"'M not hungry," the Doctor said immediately, without even thinking. He truly didn't feel up to eating, though. His stomach ached, but not badly enough to cause problems. And he was a little dizzy now, which he didn't think would mix well with the food.

Jack's breath, which had been brushing coolly on the Doctor's face, changed. "Nope," he said. "Not true."

"I'm not," the Doctor protested, and his chest was going tight again-

"It's going to be fine," Jack said. Still calm, still quiet. "You don't have a choice right now, okay? Are you listening to me? This is serious, Doc. We can talk more about it later, but we have to deal with what we can right now. That means that you're going to take this fork," and he pressed something metal, warmed by human contact, into the Doctor's palm, "and you're going to eat Trish's eggs at the very least. You'll feel better."

The Doctor wrestled for a sarcastic comment about not being a child, but all he came away with was a petulant, "I can't see."

"Then I'll help you," Jack assured. He moved, there were a few soft clicks and movements, and then he was guiding the Doctor's hand. "Now put that in your mouth." He must have caught an inkling of the Doctor's brewing outrage, because he added, "I know this isn't exactly good for your ego. It's fine."

In the end, Jack had to help with that part, too, because the Doctor almost stabbed himself in the cheek, and apparently he wasn't allowed another chance, under the circumstances. All embarrassment was soon forgotten, however, as his stomach filled and drowsiness again set in. The tastes were overwhelming at first, but his brain eventually tuned them out into something distant and bearable.

"Good," Claire said. "Don't overeat, that'll make things worse. That's good for now." The fork was pried away, and she was feeling at his face again with her gloves. "The best thing now," she determined as she stepped away, "is sleep. He can eat some more when he wakes up." There were snapping noises the Doctor couldn't place, and the murmur of voices in the background. Jack had a hand on the back of his neck, pushing calm and quiet at him in waves. "You look like you could use some rest yourself," she added.

Jack huffed a little. "I'm fine."

Claire snorted. "Sure. Okay."

The Doctor felt he should say something. He had to help Jack, since Jack was helping him, right? That was the thing to do. "Jack," he scolded. Or tried to. It came out a little lackluster.

"You," Jack said tiredly, "are not about to lecture me about taking care of myself, are you?"

"Be a good role model," Claire suggested. "Lead by example."

"Jack doesn't lead me," the Doctor complained, more than a little drowsily. It was no more than a mumble. "I don't get led."

"Course not," Jack sighed. That's when the Doctor lost the conversation, as they started speaking much more quietly. He suspected the low-pitched voices were specifically designed to make him fall asleep - it seemed to be just on the edge of his hearing, spoken in soft, gentle voices with little inflection, words indistinct and meaningless. And with Jack thinking very soft, gentle thoughts, the Doctor didn't stand much of a chance. He knew that, but it didn't stop him from giving in and drifting off in short order.

His sleep was black and dreamless.

Extra long chapter today! I thought about cutting it in half, but I figured it'd be better to have two-ish chapters of H/C, one being slightly longer, than three lol. It's coming a few hours later than usual, but it's here!

I decided to post this, after a bit of editing, because I decided that the events of the chapter were important enough, and I couldn't cut or change things too much without sacrificing those important bits. Let me know what you think! :)

Also, I can't believe we have less than 10 chapters left to go! It's so exciting. I've loved working on this so much, and I can't wait for you guys to read it.

I hope that anyone who had a holiday this past weekend/week had a good one! As always, thanks for reading! :)