Categorization and Classification
by Shadowesque13
Chapter:2 of 2
Rating: PG
Genre: General
Summary: Breaking down the Doctor. Unwittingly unraveling him through senses, one not normally thought of. His companions seem good at this. Jack's chapter.
Disclaimer: I don't own anything of Doctor Who.
A/N: Challenge for an LJ comm.

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Jack smelled smoke upon the Doctor.

This was quite definite; the Doctor smelled of smoke. He was rather certain of it. Something akin to wood burning. Yes, he had that smell of fire, if fire itself had a scent, of burning wood, of the smoke that came off of it, of ashes. Ashes and charcoal.

The whole of the TARDIS held a similar scent all through it, something that reminded him of, perhaps, a cigarette, though completely without that stink of it. Fire and ashes, something that was leftover from a blaze. It was warm and comfortable. Many nights he fell asleep to the warmth that the ship provided—not physical heat, but the soft, warm colours and the scent that was warm.

Her scent was warm, as was his, but his was less comforting. Perhaps not less comforting; that wasn't fair at all for him to say. Being around the Doctor in-general was just about as comfortable as he's ever been. But there was something about it that was slightly…off-putting, perhaps. Not that it wasn't right. It was deeper, far darker. That was what he was looking for, darker. It was far darker than the smell of the TARDIS, which was generally very light and nearly unnoticeable to begin with.

Fire was, generally, dangerous, and smelling of things associated with fire made one seem dangerous. The Doctor didn't, of course, have to smell that way for Jack to know he was dangerous—had a dangerous side to him, that is. A darker side. Smoke lingered, and ashes were charred remains, and fire stained everything black. He wondered, sometimes, about the literals when he thought about the scent. It wasn't strong in the slightest, and the leather did well to mix in, blend, hide it. One only noticed it when they, say, weren't being chased by very nasty aliens or weren't mesmerized by a bold, bright, amazing sight. Sometimes he wanted to joke and ask if the Doctor had just saved some kid from a burning building, but always he refrained. It wouldn't be proper. Not that Jack was a proper kind of guy from the start, but something about it sounded like a very bad idea to say to his face.

In fact, to a far lesser extent, it reminded him of his days in Pompeii when he was doing one of his self-cleaning cons on 'Volcano Day'. The heat, the burning, the fire sweeping through, the ashes falling from the sky. He'd never given it much thought; it was always make sure the con went well, make sure he was nowhere near where he had been the last time he came (about three times, he figured), and make surehe gotout of there beforehe wasblasted out of existence like the rest of the people who were to be buried under it all. Never before, during the cons, had he given them much thought at all, especially about the people. Not that he could save them. He hadn't the ability, for starters—his personal transportation device carried only one. And it violated so many rules about time travel. He never was one for rules, but even he knew well enough not to mess around too much in the fabric of time much if at all. The Doctor would know all about that.

And there it was, coming right back to the beginning like a giant circle. Before, through conversations and experiences and sometimes just through the look on his face, he had learned that the Doctor had always had hard choices to make. The more Jack thought about it, the more he wondered if there had in fact been some event—some major, devastating event—that made the smoky scent adhere to his flesh like it had always been a part of him. He'd seen fires before, explosions, massive ones in his day. Hell, just sticking around the London Blitz for a while was enough to make anyone used to it, which was, perhaps, why he hadn't given it any thought at all until lately.

But this was preposterous. He had nothing in regards to evidence that the Doctor hadn't always smelled this way; he had no indication that whatever happened—for he was positive that something had indeed happened—wasn't just some regular explosion that he had gotten himself caught up in somehow. He vaguely wondered if his old uniform would smell of ashes. But something about it almost made him uneasy—the ashes and the fire. Almost as if it was a curse of some kind, a punishment or reminder. When the words formed, it sounded ridiculous, but just when his thoughts wandered, it made some sense. Not to say that the scent was unbearable. It had a small pleasantness about it, but that could always have been the leather mixed in. After a while, he shrugged this off and decided that it was a neutral scent.

Did the Doctor know what he smelled like? Probably not, he reasoned to himself; nobody notices their natural (assuming that this burning sensation was natural) scent. Maybe he was the one that found their natural scents intriguing. He mentally laughed at the thought of this, wondering if maybe he smelled like booze and sex, convinced that sex had a smell. The leather was a nice touch. If the jacket hadn't been there to swirl in with the wood, then perhaps he would think the smell too unnerving to be around. It was dangerous. But then, he was used to a bit of danger. He was used to a lot of danger, too. Even if he went down in flames, the kind of flames associated now with the Doctor, it wouldn't matter to him. Perhaps he'd ask Rose about it later. Surely she'd noticed something.