A/N: Welcome to the second and final chapter of this particular arc. The chapters that follow will be like this – one- or two-chapter arcs that look at pockets in time of Jack and Martha's lives together. I don't mean that in a long-term married way, no no no. I mean that in a long-term best-friends who have gone through a whole lot together. Make sense? Any questions or confusions, feel free to drop me a PM or a review with that. Also, reviews and comments make me very happy. Very, very happy.
Disclaimer: Captain Harkness is not mine, nor is Doctor Martha Jones. They belong exclusively to the Doctor Who franchise, and I'm only playing with them for a moment. I am not making any profit off of this; this is a complete work of fiction for my own enjoyment. No copyright infringement intended.
Jack had bundled Martha into his leather bomber once they were in his SUV; she was shaking with cold and what Jack figured was a massive dose of shock. He had helped her into the passenger seat of the truck and the pair had made a speedy getaway, Jack peeling away from the curb with a violent sound and a lot of forgotten rubber on the pavement. He reached one hand across the console as he drove, and Martha held it with both of her own on her knees. The drive was short – neither said anything. There was too much to talk about, it seemed, and not at all the right words to use.
Martha let herself be helped out of the truck – by the point Jack had found her, she'd been held for 32 hours, and she knew better than to trust her strength at this point. Jack put her on her feet, and then slowly, arm in arm, the pair made their way to the hotel's entrance. Jack was a familiar sight here, and so just in flashing his badge and looking busy, they were quickly passed their room keys and made their way to the elevator.
Ianto had discretely arranged for Torchwood to always have a few rooms in this hotel on standby – Gwen had made the phone call just after Jack left, deciding in that instant it was better to be safe than be sorry. The hotel was just across the square from the Hub, offering a speedy arrival or departure, whichever was desired. It was the safe feeling of home when home wasn't safe.
When they'd made it into the room, and the first thing Martha did was stretch out flat on the bed. There was only the one – Jack was technically supposed to be in the adjacent room. He shrugged out of his pilot's coat and it landed with a soft thud in the seat of the easy chair. Thanking God for the Welsh and their tea, Jack filled the room's tiny kettle and put tea bags in two mugs – chamomile for Martha, black for him. When he passed her the hot mug a few moments later, she'd shaken her head, eyes closed. He knew she was very much awake, but just working hard on processing and compartmentalizing what had happened. He set both mugs down on the bedside table and then gently touched the outside of Martha's thigh with the back of his hand. She took the cue and slid sideways, making room for him. Jack sat down heavily beside her and waited for Martha to speak.
"I feel so exposed, Jack," she said eventually. Her voice was hoarse, and still with her eyes closed, she reached up and touched her throat, like the sound could be rubbed away. "That place was made of glass and all of my thoughts were on the outside."
He reached down, taking her hand in his own. "It's done. Sweetheart, it's over. You're here now, and first thing tomorrow we're going to figure out how to crash their digital storage records." Martha made a noise of protest, and her eyes flew open only to burn in the light. She closed them again quickly and turned her face away from Jack, into the pillow.
"The lights?" Jack whispered, gently letting his hand trail along Martha's arm. She nodded, still refusing to face him.
"I was in the dark for so long, and then they would blind me…"
"I know," Jack replied, leaning over to turn out the bedside lamps. The only source of light in the room now was the window, the gentle blue-white of the streetlights far below casting ghostly shadows along the walls.
Jack reached out in the dark, his hands searching for Martha's. Finding her, he held gently and pulled her upright. She let out an unhappy noise, but didn't otherwise protest. Carefully, he placed the still-warm mug of tea in her hands. "You've got to have some, sweetie. You're dehydrated, and it'll only get worse from here. This'll help you sleep, too."
Martha leaned in to the sound of his voice, her head coming to rest on his shoulder. She nodded once, and then, like she had to steel herself, took a moment before taking a sip. It was hotter inside of her than it felt in her hands, and the warmth felt like fireworks in her empty belly. After the first wave of sensations had passed, Martha drank with gusto, and Jack was glad he only gave her a small mug, lest she make herself sick.
When she was finished, she held the still-warm mug to her chest. The shivers that had been at bay for so long came out now, and it was all she could do to keep her teeth from chattering.
"Bed, yeah?" he whispered. Martha nodded and made to stand up, but seemed to lose all of her energy halfway through the movement. In the gloom, she tentatively opened her eyes, and hoped that they asked the question she was too shy to voice.
Jack had shifted and started to stand, intent on giving her a moment of privacy, but when he heard the bedsprings creak, he turned to see what had happened. In the darkness he could see the outline of her eyes; the streetlights reflected in the beginnings of tears. He kneeled before her at the side of the bed, his torso against her legs. Ever so gently, Jack reached out and touched Martha's face, the back of his knuckles tracing from hairline to eyebrow, down the slope of her cheek to the corner of her mouth. Finally, his thumb ended on her chin, mimicking the gesture of the very first time they'd met.
Words went between the pair like shared breaths, and with only a moment's hesitation – eased when Martha nodded in the dark – Jack let his hands fall to her chest and the long line of tiny buttons that glittered in the dim light. One by one they came free, but Jack kept his eyes on Martha's. This wasn't sexual, no; it was one friend helping another when the physical body failed. Jack knew the helpless feeling that struck him like a ton of bricks every time he woke up from a death, and he wasn't going to let Martha feel that by herself. Soon enough the blouse was discarded and the tank top underneath was carefully pulled over her head. Jack placed his hands on her hips in a question and Martha accepted, leaning back on her hands and lifting her hips just the slightest off of the mattress. With a practiced twist and flick that Martha didn't want to think about, Jack had opened the button and fly of her cargo pants, and together, the material was pushed down to her ankles, until progress was blocked by her boots. Moving quickly because he knew she was getting cold, Jack tugged at the laces until the zipper was exposed and then, in two quick tugs, the boots were off and the pants fell to the floor, Martha's frame too small for her feet to touch the ground. When she was down to just her knickers, Jack leaned back on his haunches. Martha met his eyes and even in the dim he could imagine the blush in her cheeks. He gave her a wink and a saucy smile, trying to distract her.
"The lengths you go to, Doctor Jones, to get me where you want me." His words were teasing but his tone was gentle, and Martha knew he was only trying to make her feel better.
Rising to his feet, Jack leaned around her and pulled back on the covers. She took the hint and climbed in, dark skin contrasting with the white linens in a way that made Jack's heart race. Taking a moment to bring himself back together, he turned away from Martha, quickly shedding his own clothes. When he was down to just his shorts and undershirt, Martha let out a soft "hey."
He turned to her quickly, not sure if she'd tried to say something else and he had misheard. All she did, however, was stick her hands out from under the covers and make grabby hands for his undershirt. He let her peel it off of him, chuckling the whole time. "The habits of a nightingale," he muttered as she pulled the shirt over her own head and then sat up just in the slightest. Hands reaching behind her back, Jack put two and two together quickly enough to avoid bra-in-the-face, a symptom that often strikes men unawares.
Martha, meanwhile, had snuggled back into the covers, too tired to really care about Jack's surprise. Under other circumstances she would've relished having the one-up on him, especially on something like that, but her body just wasn't cooperating and that alone was enough to think about.
Jack climbed in on the other side of the bed and pulled Martha into the curve of his body. Her shivers shook them both but subsided quickly in the growing warmth under the duvet. Martha sleepily reached around to take hold of his hand, knowing, exhausted as she was, that he would never invade her personal space by letting hands wander anywhere than where she put them. She linked their fingers together, Jack's arm heavy and warm across her side, solid just in front of her belly. Behind her, his chest rose to just barely touch hers when he inhaled; not much, but enough for her to feel safely encased. Within moments, Martha had drifted more in the direction of sleep than wakefulness.
Jack, however, was lying awake behind her, eyes looking out over her form to the wide picture window. The image of the city was distorted in the light rain, all the greys and blacks inking together, the lights standing out like tiny beacons, like tiny stars.
There was rain beating softly against the windows of the hotel room – the city's skyline was lost in the fog, lights drifting through the mist like they were apologizing for interrupting something a little more important.
The room is dark in that warm way, chocolate and orange hues where light made it into the room, the blues and silvers contained to the window sill and the shadows there. Outside, there's a moment of stillness before a flash and a mighty rumble – the quiet drizzle has turned into thunder, and the lightning illuminates two still figures in the king-sized bed. Another flash fills the room, and Martha opens her eyes, fighting the last sensations of a bad dream. Her partner, only dozing, knows she's awake, and reached out to trace his fingers along the inside of her wrist. He whispered nothings into her hair but she'd already sat up, hugging her knees to her chest.
None of this surprised Jack. When she'd whispered shyly if he would stay with her that night, there'd been no hesitation in his agreement. They had learned the hard way that monsters were real; they lived under beds and in closed closets and sometimes, out on the streets in the dead-ends of dark alleys. They knew the hard way that sometimes, falling asleep took more courage than it did to wake up in the morning.
In the dark now, Martha was trying her best to shake off the heavy feeling that bad dreams left behind. Jack sat up behind her and wrapped her in his arms, the tips of his fingers and the slow rise and fall of his chest asking her to relax in the way warm bodies do. He was here to be her security tonight, he knew. Tonight, he was fighting the monsters in Martha's memories.
She turned her head, tucking her nose under Jack's chin. He turned, placed a soft kiss on her forehead, and then leaned his weight back into the headboard, Martha on his chest. She shivered as the lightning lit the room once more, and the rumble of thunder shook her in her very bones. Jack only held her closer. It wasn't that she feared she'd be taken again – nothing of the sort – she had been afraid for differently reasons. Not being able to move, not having that control over her body… Martha was still uncomfortable in her own skin, and the electricity buzzing everywhere in the air had the hair on her arms and the back of her neck standing on end. She just wanted to sleep, really, but she couldn't trust her own body.
"Still with me?" there was a whisper just above her ear, and she felt Jack's breath whoosh across her neck. She nodded faintly and reached her hand for one of Jack's, twining their fingers together.
"I just can't sleep, Jack." Her own voice was steadier than she'd anticipated, even though it was just a whisper. He glanced over the top of Martha's head; the bright yellow number on the bedside alarm read 4:13 in the morning. They'd only been in bed an hour or so.
"It'll be like that for a while, nightingale," Jack said softly. Martha sighed into his neck, and he gently rubbed his palm over her shoulders. Absentmindedly, Martha scratched and picked at her arms, dragging the nails hard enough to leave raised marks in their wake. Gently, Jack caught her hands mid-stroke, and folded his much larger ones over hers, holding them in place. "What are you doing?" he whispered.
Martha shrugged halfheartedly and looked at her hands like they were traitors. Jack didn't accept her silence, however, and moved to hold both of her wrists in one hand in her lap, his free hand reaching up to cup the back of Martha's head as she tried to look away from him.
"I don't want to be in my own skin," she whispered back, voice thick with tears. Eventually, she turned to face him, moisture caught in her long eyelashes, flashing like diamonds in the diffused light.
Martha turned sideways into Jack's embrace, both of her legs over one of his. He held her close, those traitorous hands stilled between their chests. "It doesn't go, nightingale," Jack said softly. "It's like a canyon that fades to a crack in the sidewalk. It takes years, sometimes, and it never goes away. But you learn. You heal." He leaned down, placed a kiss in her hair. "And friends help you carry those bricks. We'll put you back together, sweetheart. You're not alone." Jack could feel her hot tears falling onto his chest, Martha's head bowed. She wasn't making a sound, but they continued, relentless.
"Hey, hey," Jack whispered, rocking Martha gently back and forth in his embrace. "Shh, sweetie. I've got you. You're okay," he petted her hair, rubbed her back, kissed her temple. It was like she was crying and didn't even realize it. She let out a giant sigh, her shoulders expanding and then falling back in, and Jack continued to whisper nothings into her hair. "I've got you," he repeated, over and over and over. He wasn't sure whose benefit he was saying it for.
Eventually, the tears stopped; mostly, Jack assumed, because her body was just too tired to keep making them. She'd fallen into another restless sleep, and Jack just kept his arms tight around her, whispering all the while. Daylight should've been making its way into the room but the thunder and lightning raged on.
Jack wondered if someone, somewhere, was trying to make a point.
When Martha woke up the second time, her head was on Jack's chest, the steady ba-thump under her ear almost as soothing as his hand, tracing circles and ancient words into her skin. Rather than saying them, Jack had taken to spelling them out, words like brave and beautiful and nightingale, just because. His eyes were heavy but his mind felt lighter – every additional moment that Martha was able to rest peacefully was another moment saved, another moment savoured.
She blinked blearily a few times before fully understanding where her body was. One of her legs wrapped over one of Jack's, her toes hiding under the warmth of his calf. One arm under her head and then passing under the pillows until she realized it was Jack's thick, silky hair between her fingers. Martha absentmindedly hoped she hadn't pulled. The other hand was on Jack's chest, just beside her face, rising and falling in time with his breaths. Deciding to return the favour, Martha traced symbols into his skin, her favourite lines from poems about summertime and oceans, with thank you and I love you written directly overtop. Eventually, Jack caught her roaming hand with his own free one and spoke, his voice morning-gruff.
"You're supposed to be sleeping."
"So are you," Martha parried.
Jack placed Martha's free hand flat on his chest, just above his heart. She could feel the reverberation through his whole torso - that wild, healthy heart beating like it always had. "I'm glad you're safe," he said softly. "I'm glad you're with me."
Martha smiled that pretty, pretty smile Jack loved so much. It went right into her eyes, like love really could be expressed on someone's face.
She looked away from his eyes for just a moment to lean down and kiss his chest, just beside her hand. "I'm going to have a shower," and before Jack could protest, she added, "I feel miles better now than I did. Really. And then we can even order room service, okay?"
He decided that he might as well let her have her way. While she'd been sleeping he'd been carefully looking at what of her he could see – there were a few bruises coming through, only two or three that looked serious. He hadn't been able to see any cuts or scratches, and she hadn't been moving the night before like there was anything wrong with her bones. Sighing grandly with exaggeration, Jack agreed, going to lengths to make it look begrudging.
"Only if we put it on the UNIT credit card."
Martha slinked out of the bed, sheets dragging onto the floor as she stepped away. Jack tried not to think about how she looked wearing only his undershirt. It has slipped off of one shoulder, and the hem of it falls to only barely brush the tops of her thighs. The shirt was old and worn – it's certainly seen better days – and it's translucent in the rainy light. Jack swallowed heavily. In contrast, Martha is solid and lovely and dark and that old shirt really doesn't leave anything to Jack's imagination. Like you need an imagination when you're looking at a beauty like her, he thinks to himself. Don't be a dog, man follows quickly afterward, and he climbed out of the bed, stretching greatly.
The bathroom door swooshed shut and he heard the pipes rattle as the water started. Jack, for want of being idle, collected his weapons. They'd been discarded hours earlier on the coffee table, just beside picture window. Jack had a feeling that they wouldn't be leaving anytime soon, and thought it best that those things be stored properly. Their holsters he left in place, and he made a mental note to replace Martha's stolen gun as he made his way to the closet safe.
He flicked on the light with his elbow and set to work, spinning the rolling tumbler lock without much of a plan, but enough of a habit that he cracked it easily enough. Jack double-checked all the safeties and then, trying to etch the lock's combination into his head, he fiddled with it until he was certain he'd be able to open once again, especially if they were in a hurry. He had almost finished then the thunder outside roared and rolled ominously, lightning filled the sky, and he was left in darkness.
Jack blinked in the dark, barely putting the pieces together before Martha started screaming – in the windowless bathroom, she'd just be confronted with the stuff of her own nightmares. She was blind and alone and had absolutely no control.
Jack turned on the spot and shoulder down, slammed into the door. The air is thick with steam and the dark is oppressive – he couldn't see anything. "Martha!" He yanked the shower's curtain, and the material shreds and snaps under his hands. His eyes can barely find her shape – in a full-blown panic, Martha had fallen in on herself, collapsing to the floor of the shower, arms and hands holding her body together.
"It's me," Jack's voice is insistent as he reaches for her, and once skin meets skin she's not crying anymore but rather clinging to him like a lifeline. The water is still pouring hot and he's just as wet as she is when he wraps his arms around her and bodily pulls her out into the main room, his feet scrabbling for traction and her eyes firmly closed. It's still dim but this room, with the wide window, doesn't have the same kind of oppressive dark.
They're back on the bed in a moment, and the whole thing seemed to be over as soon as it had started. They were both dripping, the water clinging to Martha's skin and streaming out of Jack's hair in fine, thin rivulets. He pulled the comforter up around them, and they were encased not unlike earlier that morning.
The heat clung to their skins, and Martha tucked herself further into Jack's embrace. Her nose is under his chin, and they are pressed together, chest to chest. Jack breathes a mantra for the both of them; "It's okay. I've got you. We're safe." Rocking them softly, the sway of the words with the patter of the rain and they're both almost trance-like when Martha finally looked up at him.
There's a hint of a smile in her face when she speaks. "Jack," she whispered, "I'm starkers." He can hear in her tone so many other things, but it doesn't even seem to matter now.
He sighed and rolled his eyes at her, one hand still tracing patterns on her back. "You were in the shower," he reminded her playfully; this isn't really a matter of boundaries, though on the outside it may seem to be. They'd been in and out of each other's lives for going on six years, not counting the year that wasn't. Maybe they should count it, Jack thought idly.
So, no, Martha's statement doesn't have much to do with decency and boundaries. There are broader implications, maybe, but since neither of them have better-halves it doesn't seem to matter. Jack had thought about this sort of thing before, in the moments when he mind wandered. Help came in many forms, and nothing reminded you that you were alive like the press of someone else's skin against yours.
"I'm sorry for that," she whispered, interrupting his thoughts.
Jack looked at her very seriously then, cupping one hand against her cheek so she would look him in the eyes. "Martha," he said, in a tone that left no room for argument, "never apologize for needing me, okay?" He pressed a kiss into her forehead, and Martha pulled herself into him, one hand on his chest. She nodded, but he repeated himself anyway. "You are too important, you understand? This is something you never need to apologize for. I don't need it." The words are solid and the meaning is writ in love. That's what they have. The year; the Doctor; the end of the Universe. And now they have a room full of light and dark – just one more thing they went through together.
"You're gonna be fine," Jack whispered. She nodded again, this time pressing a series of small kisses onto his chest. They've dried off, for the most part, and so Jack knows the warm, wet drops he feels are certainly tears. "You know," he says to her softly, "I met Churchill once."
There was a smile in Martha's voice when she answered him. "What's he got to do with anything?"
"Just something he said once," Jack said. "And it suits us. It always has. And it's how I know that you're gonna be okay. That we're always gonna be alright."
Martha rested her head against his chest, waiting for his answer. Her arms are wrapped around his body and his own flutter like birds over her skin. "'When you're going through hell,' he said, 'keep going.'"