SCARS

TWENTYFIVE

John Hart was watching the Captain's face while Jack – what? – John wasn't quite sure. Jack had adamantly told him, more than once, that he no longer slept. But it sure looked like he was sleeping. The Captain's eyes were closed, his breathing measured – for all intents and purposes it appeared very much like slumber – although, granted, his face was anything but serene in peaceful repose. In fact it was darkened by deep shadows, and not the kind of shadows caused by the vagaries of lighting. Rather they were the shadows of bone-deep weariness.

John shifted slightly, and let his gaze travel around the Captain's room. Beside the open door one of Jack's dark blue shirts was neatly draped over an elderly wooden clotheshorse: Randall's of Glasgow its label read. John smiled to himself; if inanimate objects could talk, what tales would that old piece of furniture tell? It had been in Jack's possession as long as he could remember. A bookcase was against the far wall, John squinted at the leather-bound spines: Dante, Goethe, Plato, Socrates, Tolstoy, Dickens, Longfellow, Shakespeare, and, somewhat mysteriously, Mary Shelley.

John closed his eyes and considered the situation thoughtfully. It was always good to get as much thinking done as he could, before the actual, inevitable, mind-boggling crisis came down. That way, when it got there and he only had half a second to decide what to do before something beyond the borders of sanity starting ripping at his soul, he could skip the preliminaries and go straight to the horrible mistake.

He wasn't sure at all what had happened earlier with the crazy, shiny, squid-girl of death, but he was determined to find out and knew very well that getting Jack to talk was the key to any such knowledge. Unfortunately getting Jack to talk was often easier said than done…

He'd also noticed, couldn't help but notice that The Doctor was nowhere to be found and he was extremely curious about that as well. What is going on here?

Again he looked at the Captain. Jack lay on his back, hands crossed over his bare chest, above his heart. For a moment John's breath caught in his throat and he stopped and tried to commit the picture to memory in case it turned out to be one of the last times. Things were maybe getting a little too weird inside the love triangle from hell, and he wasn't sure how it was going to play out, but the bottom-line was he never again wanted to take being close to Jack for granted. Never wanted to assume there'd always be a next time, another opportunity. He didn't want to presume like he had before – before Jack had thundered out of his life and his bed, and left him cold and lonely and despairing. They still hurt, chilled him to the core, those memories, those feelings of rejection – at the time John Hart had thought his lover and best friend was gone for good. It'd been luck, or fate, or something even more indefinable or more profound that had proved him wrong. Whatever it was, John didn't think he could count on it lasting indefinitely. Life was just too full of surprises for that.

Jack groaned and shuddered as if waking from a nightmare.

John reached out, touched him lightly, and the Captain's eyes flashed open as he sat bolt upright.

"John? What…? God, I-I was just having the most awful dream…"

"Jack, it's okay."

"No it's not," his expression was pained. "What are you doing here, John?"

"You don't remember?"

Jack shook his head, blinked, "Oh my God," he half-whispered as he fixed his friend with a gimlet stare. It wasn't a dream.

"Oh come on, it's not that bad to wake up naked next to me, is it?" John valiantly tried to smile but failed.

"I'm not waking up, damn it. I don't sleep."

John frowned, "Well then, what was that just now? A lucid nightmare?"

Jack dry-swallowed. "Sort of… only worse."

John nodded sympathetically, his eyes searching the other man's face. "And as long as I am asking questions, who was that you were with, Jack? What's going on?"

The Captain's expression changed to one of distress. "When I saw Gray, I thought… I thought you and he had come here to destroy me."

"What?! Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why would I want to destroy you, Jack?"

"You mean you don't know?"

"Know what?"

"That, erm… Wil and I…? Back at Iserliss's lab?"

"Oh, that," John drew out the word wryly. "I know all about that."

"And you're okay with it?"

John half-smiled, but his eyes were deadly serious. "Are you?"

Somehow, in light of what had happened to Gray, John's question didn't seem to matter; it hardly registered, and then only for a moment. Jack looked at the empty spot where he'd last seen his brother. His fingers clenched the bedding, seemed unable to grasp the memory that now haunted him. The Captain collapsed back down on the bed as if there was no strength in his joints or in his heart.

"But it's funny…" John said as he worriedly scrutinized his friend's face.

"What's funny?"

"Gray and I – we were actually here to save you."

"Yeah, so I remember you telling me…"

"And I believed him, Jack."

"I know you did. And I think you were right to."

There was a long silence between them.

"Jack?"

"Yeah, John?"

"Are you going to answer my question?"

"What question is that?"

"Who was the dame?"

"Dame?! What is this? A Bogart movie?"

John shifted closer, brought himself mere inches from Jack, his breath warm against the other man's face, "Who was she, Jack?"

It took him a moment to answer. "I'm not certain I know, John. I thought I did…" Jack inhaled deeply and shivered involuntarily.

"What did she mean when she said 'Take us to them'?"

"I'm not sure, John."

"Where did they go?"

Jack just shook his head, suddenly tired of all the questions. Suddenly tired of many things…

"I think I can answer that," a familiar third voice unexpectedly entered into the conversation.

But then again, when it comes to The Doctor, should anything ever really be totally unexpected?