Chapter title is from the JR JR song of the same name.
Jack and Ianto had gotten bored with the sorting after a few days, so the Doctor had taken everyone out on a little trip to take a break. He'd hoped that, after what was supposed to be a refreshing holiday, they'd be up to helping him out again, but the vacation turned into another race for their lives, and once the lot of them had made it back to the TARDIS, everyone had immediately retired to bed. And neither Jack nor his boyfriend had expressed any interest in returning to chores the following day.
So, the Doctor went back to it on his own that night, feeling perhaps a bit more bitter than was warranted.
However, sorting through old Gallifreyan artifacts by himself was, as he should have predicted, a rather grim affair. He had to take frequent breaks to rush off to the console room and distract himself with repairs before returning. This meant that he made very little progress, and the progress he did make was much more painful.
He was finally forced to stop, for his own sanity, when he came across yet another of Susan's old baby toys: a sort of doll, clad in gold and maroon Time Lord robes, with felt-sheathed wire arms that swayed and bobbed with every movement. He shoved it into his pocket, stood, and very calmly exited the room. The moment the door closed behind him he felt a little bit better, but the toy weighed heavily in his bigger-on-the-inside pockets.
It was much harder to shrug off when there was nothing to distract him.
Unfortunately, the TARDIS was fairly caught up on all her repairs now, so there was nothing else to do to serve as a distraction other than to wander through the hallways and try to think about something else.
This didn't work too terribly well.
Just as he was wondering if he shouldn't go back to the console room and make sure there was really absolutely nothing that could be done, he heard a sound. The clanging of glass, far down the hall. At the same time, the TARDIS blew a frigid gust of cold air at his back, making the hair at the back of his neck stand on end. A very clear indication that he should investigate, then.
He ran a hand along the wall as he walked, a gentle thank you to his ship, until he reached a familiar-looking door. It was a storage room, he knew immediately. He couldn't recall what he'd stored in there, off the top of his head, but the TARDIS clearly wanted him to enter; she was flashing the lights around the door now, in a pattern he knew to mean urgent.
His hearts jumped a little. As he cautiously approached, the door slid open, and he found rows and rows of shelves - shelves full of old Gallifreyan alcohol he'd been hoarding for centuries. He'd never been a big drinker, even as a younger man, but having an alcohol collection was something he'd picked up from humans when he'd first started to bring them on board, and it had certainly come in handy after the Time War, when he'd...well, that didn't bear thinking about now. Different times.
He heard another clang, and frowned. It came from deep within the room, deeper than he'd expected. Obviously the TARDIS had been elevating the sound earlier, so that he would hear. So this was serious, then.
The Doctor picked his way among the shelves, attempting stealth. Another clang, this one a little softer. And the sound of something being poured. He sped up, worry spiking into his hearts. Worry that only intensified as he turned a corner and found none other than Jessica Jones knocking back a drink, sitting on the floor by herself.
He froze. His eyes locked immediately at the bottle beside her, and the Gallifreyan script written on the label. Oh no.
Jessica froze, too, hers was more of a defensive stance. As much as it could be on the floor, anyway. "Hey, Doctor," she said, roughly.
"Jessica," he said back, attempting nonchalance. But his voice was too high-pitched, and tainted with obvious worry.
Her cautious acknowledgement turned to a bitter scowl. "I can feel you judging me," she informed him. Her eyes flickered down, not quite in shame but coming close.
The Doctor's chest ached. "I'm not judging you," he assured her. He spoke a little too quickly out of suppressed concern, but Jessica obviously took it to mean he was lying, as she glared at him and reached for the bottle again. "Jessica," the Doctor blurted, and she paused, eyeing him. "How many drinks have you had?" he asked, careful to keep anything that could even be remotely considered disapproving out of his voice.
She poured another drink into a small cup she'd obviously taken from the kitchen, but didn't make a move to bring the cup to her lips. "About four," she hedged.
The Doctor's gut twisted. "Oh," he said. "Oh dear."
"It's not very strong," she defended. "Hey!" She tried to grab the bottle away, but the Doctor got to it first. He quickly capped it, and spun it around to read the label. His hearts lurched into high gear. Oh, this was very not good, very not good indeed.
"Don't drink the rest of that," he told her. He placed the bottle back on the shelf, very pointedly shoving his emotions about it to the back of his mind. They could be dealt with later.
"I'm an adult," she snapped back. Her eyes glinted with pain and anger and a dozen other emotions the Doctor couldn't decipher. She held the cup close to her, but still didn't drink. The Doctor's relief was potent enough that he could feel it in his toes.
"It's not about that," he assured her. "Jessica, I'm not human."
She scowled anew. "We've covered this."
"I have a different tolerance for alcohol than you do," he continued, pushing aside her comments. He poked at the bottle she'd been drinking from. "This is stronger than you think it is."
Her nose wrinkled, but he could see a bit of worry coming to the surface on her face.
"The equivalent of one drink for me is about four for you," he told her, watching her face the whole time. He poked at the bottle again. "And the effects on humans are...less than predictable. This is Gallifreyan alcohol. From my planet. Made for Time Lords. Like most of the stuff in here, actually."
She just stared up at him, though she'd gone a little pale. "Shit," she muttered. As if it might blow up in her face, she set the cup down beside her.
The Doctor breathed a sigh of relief. "Okay," he said. "Okay, okay. Hop on up, Jones. We'll take care of this."
"I don't feel anything," she told him, even as she stood.
"That's good," he assured her. "Let's just get to a bathroom, shall we? We can talk about the 'why's of this whole situation later."
She grimaced, that painful glint returning to her eyes, but she relented and allowed him to guide her back to the entrance. He was starting to feel fairly hopeful about the whole thing - she was a heavy drinker (an alcoholic, really, although he'd never say that to her aloud for fear of a smack) with a high tolerance, so she might not need any medical treatment. Just someone to look after her for a little while. The Doctor considered waking Luke to inform him of the situation, but just as the thought occurred to him, Jessica toppled over.
He caught her at the last minute with a whispered curse, and quickly transferred to a bridal-style carry. She mumbled something under her breath, but he ignored her, too busy rushing toward the nearest bathroom - his own, he was pretty sure.
Sure enough, he set her down on the floor by his toilet, in the bathroom connected to his room. A few random gadgets laid on the sink's countertop, which he quickly tossed to his bed in order to keep them from falling into Jessica's hands.
"Where are we?" she asked, sounding dazed and looking even worse.
"My bathroom," he told her, hearts sinking. He stood over her, trying to think of something to do. Anything. She squinted up at him with foggy, unfocused eyes. "Er. Water!" he exclaimed. "Yes, that's a good idea."
"I think-" she began, but he'd already fled the room to find a cup - plastic, safe. He'd left one on his bedside table, along with a mangled alarm clock and a handful of wires. He filled it with water from the sink, and joined Jessica on the floor.
"Can you move?" he asked.
She hummed. "Prob'ly not."
He huffed a sigh. "Okay. Well." He set the cup down, and moved her as gently as possible into a sitting position, leaning against the toilet. He handed the cup to her, which she immediately dropped, spilling the contents all over the floor. Things were looking less and less good by the second.
He refilled the cup, and resorted to bringing it to her mouth for her. He felt a pang of nostalgia for nights spent up with sick kids, but quickly cast that out of his mind. She drank obediently enough for a moment, and then turned her head away unhappily after a few seconds. The Doctor relented for the moment, setting the cup back on the counter. "Okay," he said again. "It's been a long time - a very long time - since I took care of anyone like this, but I'll give it a go."
"You're a Doctor," she pointed out, only just coherent enough that he understood her. She still managed to give him a skeptical look, despite it all, and he couldn't help but grin.
"Not really that kind of Doctor," he said. "Are you doing okay?"
"Alive," she replied.
"Try and stay that way," he told her, attempting a smile. "Nauseous yet?"
"No." She sniffed. "I should be more drunk, though. If that was...however many drinks that was."
The Doctor winced. "Yeah, probably. We'll, er, get there. I would get you food, but you'll probably throw it back up soon enough, so…"
She closed her eyes. "Hm."
What could he do? He watched her for a second, carefully tracking her facial expressions for any sign of distress. "I have a hangover treatment for you," he offered, wincing again as she twitched in surprise at the sound of his voice. "I could get that now."
"They have actual hangover treatments on other planets?" Jessica asked. She kept her eyes firmly shut. Her head dipped back to hit the toilet lid, a little too hard to be safe, and she immediately brought it back up, with effort. The Doctor grimaced.
"It's more of an educated guess on my part. Take a load of the right vitamins and it eliminates the more unpleasant side effects."
"Sounds like a medical treatment, Doctor."
He didn't reply, although a smile ghosted over his face. He watched her for another minute and, when she seemed to be doing alright, he stood. "I'll be right back."
As quickly as possible, he popped back into the hall and rushed to the medical wing. It took a few minutes of digging through various cupboards and drawers, but he finally tracked down a few of the necessary vitamin patches. Enough to help Jessica on her way to a less painful morning. He shoved the patches into his pockets, snatched up a bottle of ibuprofen, and dashed back down to his room.
Jessica was in the same place he'd left her, although she'd now gone a little too pale, and her head was again craned awkwardly back against the toilet.
"Oh dear," the Doctor said. "Alright, Jones?" He set the bottle of pills on the counter, and fished frantically in his pockets for the patches.
She managed a painful-sounding groan. He continued to search for the vitamins, now with added haste. Instead of the medicine, he dug up a past-ripe banana, a yo-yo, and...Susan's toy.
He froze, without even realizing he'd done so, staring at it with a sinking stomach, until Jessica spoke up, hardly understandable: "What's that?"
The Doctor snapped out of it, and quickly cleared his throat. He set the toy on the counter, its soft wire arms bobbing gently. He dug into his pockets again, and at last brought out a handful of junk that happened to include the vitamin patches.
"Doc," Jessica said.
"Don't call me that," the Doctor told her. He tore open one of the patches, and turned to find her staring blearily at him, eyes more unfocused than before. "They're vitamin patches."
Jessica squinted. Then, her head fell back against the toilet again, painfully loud. She didn't lift it back up.
The Doctor got on his knees, and slapped the first patch onto her forearm. On the other arm, he put another, and then he placed the last one just under her t-shirt sleeve. As soon as they were on he relaxed a little. "That's done," he announced.
Jessica was far less pleased, and clumsily picked at one of the patches. The Doctor, alarmed, pulled her hand away. It took a considerable amount of effort, as she used all her strength to try and resist him, but as she was inebriated that strength was somewhat reduced. And he was still a Time Lord. "'S itchy," she snapped at him, attempting to smack him. She missed wildly. It would have been endearing, if he weren't so concerned.
"I know," he said. "Sorry, Jones. You'll thank me later. You can take them off in a few hours."
"Hours?" she repeated, scandalized, and the Doctor swiftly moved on as to avoid any further anger. She was far gone enough that she'd forget about it soon enough, anyway. Hopefully.
"You look pale," he informed her. "Do you feel sick?"
She made a strange face at him that was probably supposed to be defiant, but it came off far more confused, in the Doctor's opinion. Nonetheless, she groused a quiet, bitter, "yes."
"Please don't throw up on my floor," he requested, trying for humor and managing nothing more than a strained edge to his voice. "Er, if you have to I guess that's better than other possibilities. Don't throw up on yourself. Better rule. Or me, preferably, but I could live with that. I just don't want to change you. I don't think you'd like me to do that." He paused. That thought hadn't before occurred to him. She would probably be very unhappy for him to do anything even remotely resembling removing clothing. "Should I get Luke?" he asked her. When she didn't immediately respond, her eyes now squeezed shut, he ventured a careful poke to her shoulder. "Jessica."
"Tryin' not to puke on the floor," she grit out.
The Doctor immediately pulled back. As she was leaning on the toilet and did not seem inclined to move, that wouldn't work as a target. He needed a bowl, or a bucket, but he didn't think there were any of either in his room. He glanced over his shoulder into the bedroom, scanning over what he could see, trying to find something of use, anything at all-
Jessica failed in her efforts dramatically, and all over the both of them and the floor.
"Oh," the Doctor said, simply. He stopped breathing through his nose at once, and took careful stock of the situation.
Jessica sat, in apparent shock, visibly relieved, but with a telltale tinge of embarrassed red in her cheeks. Her entire front was drenched, as were the Doctor's calves and shoes, and the small amount of white tile between them. It was absolutely disgusting but, fortunately, the Doctor had seen far worse before. He constructed a plan - first, he would clean the floor. Then Jessica. Then himself.
"Do you want me to get Luke?" he asked again. Jessica sniffled. An actual, slightly teary, embarrassed sniffle.
Oh, no, he thought. I'm terrible with tears, let alone Jessica Jones tears. He wasn't sure he'd ever actually seen her cry. Ever. That particular realization sent a spike of sympathy through him, and he attempted a smile at his newest companion.
"It's okay," he assured her, haltingly. "Er...I'll be right back, Jones. Stay here." Maybe that last bit was redundant, as the last thing he expected her to do was move, but nonetheless he left it at that and raced off down the hall again.
He found her room with only a little bit of searching, thanks to the TARDIS, and picked out the first comfortable-looking outfit he could find - sweatpants and a baggy shirt that he recognized from the wardrobe room. He then found the nearest cleaning closet, and retrieved a mop bucket and the appropriate chemicals to scrub the floor.
By the time he returned to the bathroom, arms overflowing with supplies, he found Jessica had moved to the other side of the toilet, and had opened the lid. She spared a brief, disoriented glance at him as he entered, and then turned back to bend her head over the toilet bowl.
"Alright, Jones?" the Doctor asked. He set the change of clothes down on the counter, and prepared his mop bucket and rag. She grunted.
"I...I feel bad," she grit out, into the toilet. The Doctor began to scrub, ignoring his pang of regret.
"Don't," he said. "It's not your fault."
"Shoulda read the label," she whispered, softer.
"That's actually impossible," the Doctor informed her, daring to smile, "as it's not in English and the TARDIS doesn't translate Gallifreyan."
"Why doesn't it?" she interrupted.
Although the Doctor's hearts skipped, he plowed on in pretend-obliviousness. "Maybe you shouldn't have drank alcohol from a bottle you couldn't read, but I assume there were circumstances that drove you to do it." He waited, hoping to come off as patient, while internally he squirmed. This seemed like it might be a feelings conversation.
She sniffled again, and his hearts jumped in worry. "Bad day," was all she said.
Well. That hit a little too close to home.
The Doctor ducked his head to make sure she couldn't see his face fall, and said to the floor, "Er. Do you want to talk about it? Or something."
Resolutely, she replied, "No."
He was both relieved and disappointed, nearly in equal measure. "Okay." He mopped up the last of the mess in silence, before washing the dirty water down the sink, rinsing the rag, and setting the lot of it on a dry part of the floor. He laid down a towel on the wet area of the tile, and then turned his attentions to Jessica, who was still head-down by the toilet, sniffling occasionally and looking right miserable.
"I have a change of clothes for you," he told her. "Can you change yourself?"
She dared a dizzy, glassy-eyed look up at him, and slurred a, "maybe."
Maybe would have to be good enough. The Doctor set the clothes down beside her. "I'll be in my room," he said. "Tell me when you're done, and I'll take the dirty clothes."
She sniffled again, but nodded. The Doctor fled the room to do his own changing, keeping an ear out for any thuds or additional noises of falling. He shed his trousers in exchange for a new, nearly identical pair, and tossed his soiled boots and socks aside. However, he realized immediately after that he didn't have any replacement boots, and the idea of going barefoot on a recently-puked-on floor was, despite his cleaning, not a pleasant one.
He found his old pair of white Chucks half-under his bed and, in a fit of nostalgia, slipped them on. They slid on as easily as ever, though the fit was a little tighter. He then sat on the bed, wriggling his toes inside his shoes, and waited for Jessica to call for him. When she finally did - a muffled "kay" - he carefully entered the bathroom to find her in a similar position as he'd left her, only this time clad in her new outfit.
"Not so bad, was it?" he asked, cautiously optimistic.
"Getting worse," she mumbled into the toilet.
All his hopes fell in a wave of resigned disappointment. "All to be expected, I suppose. How do you feel?"
"Think I might black out," she said, utterly toneless but for a twinge of that old embarrassment.
The Doctor grimaced. "Oh...okay, okay. That's...but you aren't dying?"
"You're the doctor here," she said.
"Not that kind of doctor," he said back, again. He worked his jaw for a moment, building the structures of a few different strategies. "Let's make a deal, Jessica Jones."
She grunted, the sound echoing in the toilet bowl.
The Doctor continued, "You keep me updated on how you're feeling, and I'll…" he considered for a moment. "I won't tell anyone about this. Especially not Trish."
"You wouldn't dare anyway," Jessica growled.
No. No, he probably wouldn't. Despite popular belief, so it seemed, he wasn't cruel. But that didn't mean he couldn't bluff. "Oh, I would dare," he declared. "I know she's worried about you. I'm sure she'd like to know. It might even be considered poor manners for me to not tell her, considering she's your best friend and all."
Jessica muttered something unintelligible to the toilet, and the Doctor gave up on deciphering it. Eventually, however, she relented with a muffled, "Fine," and the Doctor relaxed.
"Good," he said, projecting as much cheer as possible. "Excellent. So. How do you feel?"
"Sick. Dizzy." She paused, like she might say something else. The Doctor waited. And waited, and waited. She stared into the toilet, and he itched with impatience in the doorway, pretending that he wasn't itching at all. Finally, he gave up and opened his mouth, but that was when she decided to continue with a strained, "Guilty."
He snapped his mouth closed and sighed. Gingerly, he stepped forward, and slid to the floor on the opposite side of the toilet, just clear of the towel, leaning against the wall while keeping an eye on his new charge. "Don't be guilty," he said. "It's okay, Jessica. I'm not angry." Maybe he was a little peeved about the loss of the Gallifreyan alcohol, but that was only because there was an exceedingly small amount of it. An exceedingly small amount of Gallifreyan anything. And she didn't know about that, so he couldn't really be angry.
She made another of those dreaded sniffling noises. The Doctor hid a wince by ducking his head. "I fucked it up," she whispered. "The...with the robot chicken things."
It took a long, long moment for the Doctor to decode this statement. "Oh! You mean the Tyrbytes? They aren't meant to be chickens, Jessica." She paused in her misery to give him a slightly watery-eyed scowl, and he tugged at his bowtie before hastily moving on. "Er, putting that aside, they were supposed to be a trap, to catch humans specifically. They prey on the natural human urge to help wounded animals. Your lot's infamous for developing bonds with barely-sentient creatures, even robots, and the people of that planet took advantage of that. Not your fault you fell for it."
"I shoulda known better," she said, slightly louder, and more audibly upset. The Doctor's hearts twisted. "It was making noises like it was hurt, but I knew it wasn't a real living thing, so I shoulda fucking known that it-" she cut herself off with a painful-sounding hiccup, which then progressed straight into another bout of heaving.
The Doctor let her ride it out, resisting the urge to comfort her. When she was done, and spat into the bowl, he flushed it for her. "My first instinct was to help it, too," he confided, once the bathroom was silent again. "I would have been far more concerned if you'd been able to simply ignore it and walk on by." She sniffled once more. "You have a big heart for others, Jessica Jones, although I know you hate to hear me say it. It's not a bad thing. Don't feel guilty for it."
She didn't speak for several minutes, her breathing echoing loudly in the room. The Doctor let his head fall back against the wall. He realized, sitting there, that he was tired. More so than even he had known until now. It had been a few days since he'd gotten so much of a wink of sleep. Not since he'd started the sorting. He was already a little sore from his time spent on the floor thus far, and his eyes burned a little when he closed them. And sitting on the bathroom floor, still slightly wet from the water Jessica had dropped, his old trainers on, well...it brought back some rather unpleasant memories from his time with her the first time round.
"'S not just that," she whispered, startling him. He jerked his head up to look at her, but she kept her gaze aimed firmly into the water. "Been having bad days. For a while. Little ones. Not bad-bad. I just keep thinking. About things I shouldn't."
The Doctor closed his eyes, and leaned his head against the wall again. He understood completely. "About Kilgrave?" he guessed, softly.
She hiccuped again, and that was all the answer he needed.
"I'm sorry, Jessica," he said.
"But he's not you," she whispered back. Despite her words, she sounded a little bit fearful. As if he might turn around and reveal that he'd been lying the whole time, that he really had turned into Kilgrave, that...the Doctor's hearts leapt into his throat.
"I know. But I can still be sorry," he told her. "Nothing like that should ever happen to anyone. And it especially shouldn't have happened to you."
It was quiet enough in the room to hear the tiny drip of a tear hitting the water. The Doctor pretended he hadn't heard, for Jessica's sake, though his chest tightened in response.
"You," she said, and then stopped. And then tried again, "you-" and then stopped. "Forgot what I was gonna say," she muttered. "Think...I forgot."
The Doctor sat up, and scooted over to her to examine her face. Her eyes were open, but staring blankly into the toilet. He detected a tear track on one side of her face, and her other eye watered dangerously.
"You're not gonna tell Trish, right?" she asked, ever so slightly worried.
"No," the Doctor assured her. As unthreateningly as possible, he took her right hand, the nearest one to him, and pressed his thumb to her pulse. It fluttered quickly, but steadily. She was okay for the moment. Still breathing relatively calmly, and with enough rhythm that it seemed safe.
"You're cold," she slurred.
"I have a lower core body temperature than you," he said, smiling although he knew she wasn't looking. Maybe she would be able to hear it in his voice. "Enough that humans tend to notice."
She blinked a couple of times. "What else?" she asked. She turned her head slightly, laid her cheek against the toilet seat. Which, all things considered, was kind of gross, but she wasn't exactly in the position to be worried about that. So the Doctor moved on.
"You know about the two hearts thing," he mused. "And regeneration. Obviously. There's not too much more to tell, really." He released her hand in order to criss-cross his legs, and then propped his elbow on his knee and held his head there. "I have a time sense, so I'm fantastic at keeping track of the time."
Jessica almost smiled.
He very nearly mentioned the telepathy thing, but at the last minute decided that that would be a bad idea. Especially if she was already having a rough time with Kilgrave-related memories. It would only upset her. To be perfectly honest, he wasn't sure it would be a good idea to tell her at all. Ever. He changed the topic slightly, swerving off into a tangent about Time Lord timekeeping techniques, though he didn't pay much attention to what he was saying. It didn't seem like Jessica absorbed all that much of it anyhow. She started to repeat questions every few minutes, having entirely forgotten his answers. Still, the Doctor would respond again as if she'd asked for the first time. She already felt bad enough as it was.
Though he knew he would have to wake her up again soon, just to make sure she was still functioning, he let her fall asleep there. He took her pulse again, but kept his hand looped around her wrist this time.
Even asleep, she still seemed miserable. Her position was not a comfortable one, and she was still a little too pale, her flushed cheeks standing out against the rest of her skin.
"The other Time Lords are dead," he said, before he could stop himself. She didn't so much as twitch. He closed his hand tighter around her wrist, not sure what he was searching for. Comfort, or a sign that she was awake, or any signs of distress...he couldn't tell.
Then, her eyes fluttered open, half-focusing on him. "You say something?" she asked.
"No," he said. He swallowed a lump in his throat. "No."
As predicted, things got worse.
Jessica threw up again ten minutes after his accidental confession, and became even less coherent. She fell unconscious once, but the Doctor was able to rouse her relatively quickly. Mostly, their routine alternated between the Doctor having a semi-normal conversation with her (if you ignored the repeated questions and slurred words), and him babbling pointlessly at her while she dozed. And sometimes she would dissolve into tears, unprompted, and he would awkwardly have to console her. Fortunately for her pride, she seemed to forget those incidents in their entirety.
"When you stop looking like death, I'll put you to bed," he told her. She blinked at him, but didn't answer. "I'm sure we only have a couple of hours of this left," he assured her, which was met with another blink.
She looked like she might answer, but then she simply frowned. "What'd you say?"
"Nothing," he sighed. He'd moved to sit against the wall again, although he'd moved to the one opposite the toilet, where Jessica was closer. "I suppose you probably won't remember any of this, will you, Jones?"
"I hope not," she muttered into the toilet.
"I hope you don't either," he admitted, quietly. "It's rather unpleasant."
"Rather," she snorted.
He smiled. "More than rather." They fell into silence, and as it had often done over the past hour and a half, the Doctor's gaze roamed to Susan's toy where it still sat on the counter. It looked lonely and small and sad there, out of place among the toothpaste and empty bottles of face wash and soap.
"I had a granddaughter," he said, before he could think too much about it. "Her name was Susan."
"My grandma's name was Susan," Jessica mumbled. When the Doctor looked at her, he found that her eyes had closed again. "She sewed me a sweater one year. For Christmas."
"Susan's a good name," the Doctor said. "My Susan got to pick her name, you know. When we came to Earth." He picked at a thread on his shirt. He'd long since hung up his tweed, afraid of ruining it, and so was now in shirtsleeves and braces. Of course, the bowtie still remained, too. "You, er. Don't talk about your parents, Jones."
"They died," she replied. An edge of buried sorrow rose in her voice. "When I was a kid. It was my fault."
The Doctor sighed. "I doubt that, but I understand the feeling."
"'S how I ended up meeting Trish," she continued, without prompting. "Her mom adopted me."
"That's nice of her."
"She's a bitch."
The Doctor winced. "Too bad."
"Trish deserves better," Jessica went on, with more feeling. "She's a good person."
Smiling, the Doctor nudged Jessica's foot. "That's what I mean, Jones. You care for other people. You look after Trish." Jessica fell darkly silent. "I know you feel guilty. About several different things. But your feelings don't dictate reality. You may feel guilty about something, but that doesn't mean that you're responsible for it."
Jessica didn't say a word, though her breathing went slightly harsh for several seconds. Finally, however, all she said was "take your own advice."
Maybe he should have expected that from her, though. The Doctor sighed again, and brought his knees up to his chest to wrap his arms around them and lay his chin on the surface they offered. "That's a different situation," he said. "Several different situations. Not comparable, really." He watched her for a moment, and then changed tactics. "I don't want to upset you, Jones. But I want to know about your parents."
Jessica sniffled. "My mom taught me to ice skate."
The Doctor mentally cursed his decision to go skating for their first trip, and grimaced. "Oh."
"My dad watched TV with me on the weekends. I had a little brother, too. His name was Phillip."
"I'm sorry." They sat in silence again. The Doctor hoped she might speak up once more, flesh out these people that had once been so central to her life, but she remained stubbornly silent. He couldn't blame her. He knew how it hurt to poke at old wounds. "I was an only child," he said, to break the ringing quiet. "I wanted a sister, when I was young. Not that it matters terribly with Time Lords, since regeneration can change sex or gender or both right quick." He pulled at his bowtie. "But I didn't even get a brother, either. My parents were tired out after me, I guess."
Jessica snorted. "I bet."
Silence returned, but it was softer this time.
Jessica Jones woke up, and all she knew for several seconds was pain.
Her entire body ached, like she'd been dragged behind a truck for a mile. Her entire mouth was horribly dry, and it was disgusting. Most of all, her head pounded with every heartbeat, so painful she could barely think. She was afraid to open her eyes. Not just because of the pain, but because of what she worried she might find if she did.
She quickly took inventory of her body - everything seemed to be in place, despite the agony she was in. She was safely bundled underneath a load of blankets but for her head, and a single arm, which was exposed to the cool air of the room. There was also something wrapped loosely around her free wrist, chilled but not quite cold, directly on the pulse point.
Jessica took a slow, calming breath in, and another one out. And carefully, painfully, opened her eyes.
Fortunately for her, there was hardly any light in the room. The overhead lights were on, but dim enough to avoid any new torment. Her eyes felt dry and were probably gross and red, but that was bearable. This lack of pain allowed her to focus immediately on the figure lying beside her, however, which soon had her gritting her teeth in embarrassment.
It was the Doctor. Fully dressed (thank God) besides his tweed jacket. Lying on his side, facing her. One of his suspenders had come off his shoulder, the shoulder not buried into the mattress, and hung loosely on his arm. His face was utterly slack, asleep, without any sign that he'd heard her wake up. It was one of his hands around her wrist, as if he'd fallen asleep while attempting to take her pulse.
"Doctor," she whispered. Her throat felt like death, and she had a horrible taste in her mouth. The Doctor didn't move. Not even a hitch of the breath to indicate that he'd noticed her. Jessica sighed, and closed her eyes again. They burned. "God, I'm an asshole," she muttered. Gently, she slipped out of his grip, and ran her hands over her face.
She tried to think back to the night before, and found little more than a blank where the memories should have been.
She hadn't blacked out drinking since late high school. She didn't know what to make of this, didn't know how to feel. She probably owed the Doctor an apology, for stealing his alcohol in a fit of desperation and then making him stay up to look after her.
God, she was kind of the worst, wasn't she?
Swallowing a lump in her throat, Jessica forced herself beyond that for the moment. If she really tried, she could attempt to reconstruct some of what had happened. Once she'd done that, she would at least feel a little bit better.
Her memories ended, for the most part, after they'd talked about Kilgrave. But she could summon a few more after that point - foggy and weird, but there.
The most clear was that of sobs tearing through her body, the toilet seat digging painfully into her forehead. The Doctor hovering nearby, piping up every few seconds to try and console her, sounding lost and earnest. She was speaking, but it was mostly incoherent. She couldn't even follow her own thought process beyond a few small details - something about nightmares and Kilgrave and and overwhelming, choking guilt.
She pushed her tangle of feelings about that aside, and moved on.
The next recollection that she was able to pinpoint was a little less distinct, and less painful by far. She was sitting by the toilet again, but this time she was calm, almost half-asleep, her cheek on the seat (which ew, but that wasn't important. She could shower later). The Doctor was talking, but she couldn't understand anything he was saying. He gestured like he was describing something, and his eyes glinted like they did when he was talking about something he found especially fascinating, but Jessica had no clue what it could possibly be about. After a few moments she gave up, listening tiredly instead to the musical, lilting sound of the words. The memory didn't last long, only thirty or forty seconds.
She realized, in retrospect, that he'd been speaking his language. Fast, obviously not expecting her to even attempt to understand. Just to say something, she guessed. She probably hadn't made the best conversation partner, so she couldn't blame him. She could remember, however, an instance of him speaking clear English. When he thought she was listening, she realized with another pang of guilt.
In the memory, he spoke as usual, inappropriately cheerful. But he leaned over her now, his eyes nothing but concerned as he wiped her face with a cold rag. "It's okay," he told her. "I can change the sheets." She sat against a wall, not in the bathroom, soaked in sweat and shivering and feeling horrible inside and out. She heard herself apologize, again and again, as the Doctor drew away and stripped the sheets and blankets from the bed. He was wearing the white Converse he'd worn when she'd met him.
Oh God, she'd thrown up in the bed. Horrified, Jessica groaned, and dug her fingers into her face. And she'd thrown up on him, and on herself, and all over the bathroom floor. She remembered that part pretty clearly. Unfortunately. "Shit," she muttered. "Shit, shit-"
"Jessica?" the Doctor said. His voice was sleep-worn and indistinct. When she dared a glance at him, his eyes were still half-closed. Still, he smiled at her. "You're awake!" He managed to sound enthusiastic.
"God," Jessica said. She turned away, and covered her face again. "Shit. I'm sorry, Doctor." She tried to keep the full depth of her embarrassment out of her voice, but she failed miserably. Her eyes burned with more than just dryness - bitterly, she blinked away a traitorous tear. Thankfully, it was from the side of her face that he couldn't see.
He hummed. "No more sorry's, Jones." She looked again, and his eyes were fully closed again. "Just a mistake."
"I should control myself better," she snapped. "I know that, you know that. Everyone knows. You don't need to coddle me."
"You have a dependency," he said. She expected some kind of judgement. The absolute lack of it was baffling. Still, she kept searching for it, her chest tightening. "Not entirely your fault. Just a mistake. It happens."
Her eyes burned again. She was never this emotional, not to the point where she cried. God, this hangover was really fucking her up. "I should've thought for a second, at least, that maybe I shouldn't drink alien liquor," she said. "If nothing-fucking-else."
"Maybe," the Doctor allowed, "but you weren't thinking clearly."
Jessica groaned, so loudly that it hurt. "How much did I fucking tell you?" she whispered. "Shit."
"Not much," he said. "I didn't pry too much. I can be polite. Let the record show." He still had his eyes closed, she noted when she looked for a third time. She moved to staring behind him, to the nightstand. There was something on it that might have once been an alarm clock, but it was so horribly disfigured she almost felt bad for it. Then there was a bottle of mild painkillers, ibuprofen or something of the sort, and a weird-looking doll thing, stick-thin and covered in gold and deep red felt. She remembered, vaguely, him taking it out of his pocket and setting it on the bathroom counter earlier in the night.
"This is your room, isn't it?" she asked.
He hummed a sort of affirmative-sounding hum.
That didn't help her feel any better about puking in the bed. His bed. Jesus.
"Don't mind the mess," he said, a beat too late. "I've been sorting through things on the TARDIS and I've yet to find a place for a good lot of it."
"So that's what you've been doing," Jessica mused. "We were wondering why we've hardly seen you." He'd been nearly entirely missing for a full 48 hours at one point, and if Jack and Ianto hadn't shown up for dinner and explained themselves, they probably would have started up a manhunt.
"Unfortunately," he said, around a yawn. "It's very boring. And other...not fun adjectives. So really, you provided a good distraction."
"I'm so glad my poor relationship with alcohol could help you," Jessica snarked, without any real heat. He hummed again, not quite smiling. She watched him, attempting to smother another rise of potent guilt. "The only time I've seen you this tired is when you were drugged to the point that you could barely move," she pointed out. "You haven't been sleeping, have you?"
He cracked open an eye to glare at her. "Jessica Jones, you'd better not be lecturing me about my health."
"I'm a hypocrite," Jessica said. "I don't deny it."
The eye closed, and he sighed, oozing peevishness. "I've been busy," he deflected. "And anyway, I'm sleeping now. Look." He clumsily toed off the sneakers he'd still been wearing, and curled in a little on himself. Despite herself, Jessica felt a little relieved seeing them disappear. Something about seeing him wearing his old shoes made her itch. "Sleeping."
Jessica huffed a laugh. "You're an idiot."
"I am a genius, but thank you," the Doctor told her. "Back to sleep with you, too, Jones. You need it. Take care of yourself."
Jessica sighed. "I feel shitty, Doctor. About everything."
"I know," he said. "We had a long discussion about it. Actually, probably two or three. You're very stubborn."
Jessica groaned. "Jesus."
"I don't mind repeating myself," he continued. "But first - sleep."
Reluctantly, but glad to avoid the looming conversation for another couple of hours, Jessica pulled the blankets up to her chin and hid inside the warmth. Beside her, the Doctor's breathing evened out. Despite everything - her boiling guilt, and pounding head, and burning eyes - it felt safe. And calm.
Weird, to share a bed with the Doctor, even in a strictly platonic way, but not necessarily bad. No less warm or quiet.
"Thank you," Jessica whispered, before she could think about it. She was almost grateful that the Doctor didn't respond, even if he had heard it. She turned over to her other side, and relaxed.
Wow, I'm alive?
Sorry about the hiatus, guys. I meant to post this so much sooner, because this was one of my favorite chapters to write overall, although I'm not 100% happy with it even now.
I can't say when the next chapter will be up, either, because I'm struggling with editing, as usual, but it'll get here eventually! Thank you all so much for your patience and support. It means the world.
Also, it's my birthday tomorrow! Don't worry about gifts lol, just leave me a review and tell me what you think!
Love you guys. Stay tuned!