Alrighty; fourth day of Christmas now, with the one and only Captain Jack Haaaaaaaaaaaaaarkness!
Enjoy and all that nonsense.
God bless and have a Merry Christmas!
ThePro-LifeCatholic
Disclaimer: Doesn't own Doctor Who, or its characters. No; I am not doing this for money, either.
Writing Prompt: 4th Day of Christmas
Characters: 9th Doctor, (Captain) Jack Harkness
Shippings: None
Genre: Comfort/Friendship/Christmas-y
Rating: K, mild K+
Note: I guess this could be seen as a continuation of the 3rd Day of Christmas, but you don't necessarily have to read that one to know what's going on here.
On the Fourth Day of Christmas
The Doctor let me see:
Carols from the Past
Mugs of Hot Chocolate
A new red bike
And a small Babe asleep on the hay.
He is lonely.
It's OK; he's been lonely for a very long time now. He doesn't expect sympathy, nor empathy, and he most certainly doesn't want people petting him or smothering him with their "pity". For years upon decades upon centuries he's been all by himself. He has no family, no friends (that is to say, not any friends who stick around long enough to satisfy him). There is not even a planet that he can call his home anymore.
He is alone.
Most of the time he can ignore it. There is so much to see in the vast universe. The people, the times, the creatures, the thrill of life that he can never shake, no matter how old he gets. Time and again he's been rescued from dark thoughts because of a ray of sunlight, or seeing a flower in-bloom, or hearing a kind word from the odd visitor.
But there are times when solitude forces its way past his barricades and shrouds everything in a grey veil. He's plunged into a dark pit that he can't scramble out of, forced into the inescapable maze of his own memories. No solace can be found in these trying times; he must wait out the storm. Torn to shreds, he will emerge bloody and broken and will have to go about trying to fix himself again.
Christmas is one of those days that makes him feel especially alone. When laughter rings in the streets, when families and friends make peace and huddle together for at least one day out of the year, he is reminded of how he has no one. There are no guests, no one he can call family.
There is no home he can go to, and no one can spare the time to come see him. He manages to struggle through every year, but each year breaks him a little more.
He would have been inconsolable if it hadn't been for the visitor.
Every year – and if not every year, it's at least every other year – a guest comes to visit him. He too is alone and lonely. He too has dark eyes that are impossibly old, and he has lost so much and has nowhere to go.
Together they will talk, and they are the only two who can fully understand the other. The bond they share is unique; only they are burdened with it.
The visitor tells him about travels through time and space. He narrates life-and-death escapades, faces and friends that he's gained and lost, the beauty and horrors of a million different planets and solar systems.
Sometimes they sit in absolute stillness and don't say anything.
One year, though, the visitor pauses and shuffles his feet, not meeting the face of his friend for a moment. Then he speaks, slowly, haltingly.
"I've learned some Earth carols," he explains. "Would you like to hear them?"
His friend gives his consent; he'd be more than happy to hear the ancient tunes from a planet long since gone.
So the Doctor sings for him in his rough, Northern-accented voice. He recites the all-but-forgotten melodies of songs such as "Auld Lang Syne", "We Wish You a Merry Christmas", and "Silver Bells".
"I would sing 'Twelve Days of Christmas'," the Doctor said almost apologetically, "But I can only remember the twelfth day."
His friend smiles at this, and expresses his deep gratitude towards the Doctor.
"You have given me more than enough happiness this Christmas, Doctor. I thank you for coming here."
The Doctor doesn't respond. Instead, he steps forward, reverently placing one hand on the glass casing that surrounds his friend. He strokes the smooth surface, staring at the face behind the clear sheet of glass.
"Until next year, Old Friend," he murmurs softly, respectfully. "Don't die on me now, 'cause I'm coming back next Christmas."
It's the usual farewell, and the Face gives his customary response. He will not die, as the Doctor has ordered him not to. The Doctor gives him a particularly stern parting glance, as if to make extra certain his friend holds to his promise. Then he's gone, leaving his friend alone.
But he is not alone. Even as the rest of the universe continues to speed past, ever-changing, ever-dying, ever-leaving him behind with dust and a handful of faded memories. There is always at least one who is always there. At least one who will always understand, who will never leave, no matter what fate may do to tear them apart. There are some who stand the tests of time, because they are needed.
Yes, he is lonely.
But he is never alone.
Yay! Nine and the Face of Boe. I wish we could've seen more of them together.
And for those who were expecting young, dashing Captain Jack, what can I say? I think this is my first Face-of-Boe-centered ficlet (it may be the first time writing the Face of Boe ever), and it went pretty well, didn't it?
See you tomorrow for the fifth day! We'll be getting into Ten next (my favorite Doctor, for those of you who haven't already guessed that :P).