Days
It was days before he stopped running, before he could breath again. So many days. Afterwards, after Rickey had died, after Mickey had flown the zeppelin, after the Doctor had left, after they'd got in the van and driven off to Paris, after the cybermen there were gone, finished with, then he'd stopped. Then. Not before. He hadn't meant to, either, it had happened by accident. And force. Mickey had shoved him into bed, told him to sleep, properly. He needed sleep. He could have taken Mickey, he was sure. But he was so tired. So tired, and it was nice. Falling onto the bed, the hard, lumpy, cheap hotel bed. With Mickey. Mickey, there, next to him. He'd meant to watch him, of course, make sure he didn't get up, start running again. But Mickey had fallen asleep quicker than Jake, and, as he drifted off to sleep, Jake could hear Mickey snoring. It was warm, there, in the hotel room, warm and safe. And a day later he was up again, running and fighting and laughing. But, just then, in the bed, with Mickey pressed up against him because it really wasn't built for two, he slept.