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Later, Jack will blame the reason he didn’t shoot the intruder on sight on the simple fact he’d been woken from sleep. A rare enough occurrence for Jack that, when it does come, it’s needed. He tells himself it’s not because some part of him knew. Not because he could recognise the man in the dark—would recognise him across planets. It’s not because some part of him could sense those twin hearts or feel the weight of those brown eyes.
The man moves in the silhouetted dark of the room. He kneels on the bed, then drops face down beside Jack.
Jack watches the movement of the Doctor’s back as he lies with his face pressed deep into the pillow. The lean line of his body settled alongside Jack’s. “Doctor?” Jack asks. He can’t see him in the dark, his eyes not yet used to the shadows. But he knows where to look. He’s always been able to see this man.
The Doctor turns his head on the pillow, his breath warm and humid against the curve of Jack’s throat. He takes a deep breath in. “You smell nice.” He lets it out slowly.
“What’s happened?” Jack asks. He ignores the way his pulse thuds.
“Do you always smell like that? You’d think I’d have noticed. I’m always noticing things.”
“You’re not usually this close to notice,” Jack says. The Doctor’s cheek is wedged against the bone beneath Jack’s bare shoulder. “Why are you here?”
The mattress shifts. Fabric rustles as the bed adjusts around him. Jack listens to the soft pull of breath beside him.
“Are you naked under there?” the Doctor asks at last, far too intrigued, plucking the blanket from Jack’s chest between his fingers and lifting it as if he means to peek.
Jack knows what he’s doing. Deflecting. Distracting. Leading Jack away from the answers he doesn’t want to give, throwing morsels of temptation down the path in the hope Jack will follow instead. It’s almost cruel. Offering Jack what he’s always reached for and making Jack be the one to turn it down. Making Jack be the responsible one.
He doesn’t want to be. He wants to follow those breadcrumbs. Wants to let the Doctor flirt with him as a distraction, a reprieve from whatever he’s carrying. He wants to smirk and curl his tongue around cheeky words in the dark, make the Doctor huff, cheeks tinging red, push off the bed with fond exasperation at Jack’s antics. He wants to take whatever dark shadow clings to the Doctor and swallow it whole.
It’s why the Doctor’s here, after all. He wants Jack to. He knows he won’t.
“Doctor,” Jack says, his fingers brushing against the Doctor’s as he takes the blanket back, letting it slip through his grip to fall into place.
That familiar stubbornness meets him. Jack lets his eyes adjust, traces the outline of the Doctor’s body where it lies atop the blanket.
“I’ve done something. Something very, very bad,” the Doctor says eventually.
Jack swallows down the fear. The worry. He can have that later. When he’s alone. When the Doctor hasn’t sought him out in the early hours of the morning to confess his mistakes.
“Is Earth safe?” Jack asks.
The Doctor turns onto his back, laces his fingers together over his chest.
“Oh, Earth’s always fine. Look at you lot. Resilient, you humans are. Always something going on and you still make it out all right.” He taps a finger restlessly against the others.
Jack watches it rise and fall, rise and fall. “That’s usually because of you.”
The Doctor makes a noncommittal sound. Jack draws in a breath. He doesn’t want to ask. Doesn’t want to know. He breathes out.
“Are you safe, Doctor?” Jack asks.
The Doctor doesn’t answer him. He just stares at the bunker’s ceiling. Jack waits. Waits long enough that the non-answer is answer enough.
The Doctor turns his head suddenly on the pillow to look at Jack. “Do you want to have sex?”
Jack almost hates him. Almost hates him for breaking his heart like this. For confirming it. For finally offering only out of grief and regret and fear.
“Don’t,” Jack says. “I know what you’re doing.” He tries not to let the bitterness and fear and hurt edge into his voice. Tries to be what the Doctor needs—what he really needs—right now.
The Doctor shrugs, turns his gaze back to the ceiling as though the answer never mattered. His finger taps a little faster.
“Thought you’d be more keen. It’s what you’ve always wanted.”
Jack lets the sting wash over him, too familiar to hold any real power. He knows this man—his moods, his defences—too well for them to land cleanly. The sharp tongue and pointed remarks are transparent now, useful only to hold a mirror up to himself.
“You know what I want. That’s not it.”
He side-eyes Jack. “Mm. It’s a part of it.”
Jack holds his gaze, smiles ruefully. “Yeah.” He won't deny it.
The Doctor looks away sharply. Jack can just make out the faint redness in his cheeks, softened by the thin spill of light beginning to creep into the room. If this is the last chance he gets to see him, he’s grateful it’s now—still dark enough to keep them unobserved, shadows yielding to the morning so Jack can take him in properly. The creases and angles, the way his mouth sets when he’s thinking.
It’s quiet enough that when the Doctor eventually stops tapping his finger, Jack notices.
“You could come with me, I suppose,” the Doctor says with a shrug.
Jack knows he can’t. He has a life here. A team. People who rely on him. A purpose, which he found because of this man.
“All right,” Jack says, indulging the illusion.
The Doctor rolls onto his side, facing Jack. Lines creasing briefly between his brows. “No, I mean it. Don’t know how long for. Might be a day. A week. Didn’t get a deadline.” He perks up suddenly. “We could go to Darillium, see the Singing Towers. Oh, you’d like those, Jack. It’s all about the harmonies. There’s these rock formations—”
“Doesn’t a night on Darillium last twenty-four years?” Jack asks.
He already knows the answer. Knows the Doctor does too. But he wants to hear the Doctor say it. Acknowledge what’s been offered, for once.
“Hm? Does it?” the Doctor says coyly but he meets Jack’s eyes, that familiar spark of mischief still there.
Jack feels the tension in his chest ease. The Doctor has never done what he’s supposed to, never accepted the impossible. Him being here at all is proof enough of that. He slides his hand to the back of the Doctor’s neck, brushes his thumb along the hinge of his jaw. He pulls him forward, presses a chaste kiss to his lips, then leans back.
“All right,” Jack agrees. He strokes his jaw once more, then draws his hand back.
The Doctor watches him for a long moment, unreadable. Jack lets him. He’s always waited. Why would now be any different?
The Doctor nods once. He rolls over, facing away from Jack, and Jack expects him to get up. To leave. To disappear as quietly as he arrived.
He fluffs the pillow beneath his head and settles himself in the bed. Jack hears the soft double thud of trainers being nudged off. There’s a faint clink of metal meeting wood. Jack looks up as the sonic is placed beside his vortex manipulator on the nightstand.
The Doctor is quiet and still long enough that Jack thinks he’s fallen asleep. Or is pretending to, at the very least. He finally looks away from the two items sitting beside each other on the nightstand.
Jack closes his eyes. He shifts slightly, mindful not to crowd him. Lets the sound of the Doctor’s breathing ease him back towards sleep. Once, he would have thought the Doctor’s presence this close would leave him wide awake, acutely aware of the narrow space between them, the dark, the warmth radiating from his body. Would have thought the opportunity would slip through his grasp if he didn’t seize it.
Though, he supposes, back then, the Doctor wouldn’t have been the kind of man to come to him like this. And Jack wouldn’t have been the kind of man capable of offering what he really needed.
The Doctor turns suddenly, glancing back over his shoulder. “Do you really not want to have sex?” he asks, incredulous.
Jack chuckles softly. He presses a kiss to the back of the Doctor’s shoulder. Let's his forehead drop to rest there.
The Doctor huffs and turns away again. “You’ve changed, Captain,” he mutters fondly.
Jack slips his arm around the Doctor’s waist. The Doctor stiffens for a second, then exhales and relaxes into the hold. Jack curls around him from behind, careful to leave a sliver of space between them. He’s never claimed to be a strong man. After a moment, the Doctor laces their fingers together.
“Tell me what happened,” Jack asks quietly.
“No,” the Doctor says, his thumb brushing over Jack’s fingers.
Jack sighs against the Doctor’s back. The breath brushes over his lips, caught between them.
“Will you at least tell me what’s going to happen?” Jack asks into the fabric beneath his cheek.
He doesn’t want to know. But he’s not sure how he can go about the next day, and the one after that, and all the ones to follow if he doesn’t.
The shoulder beneath him sags. “Suppose I’ll have to. Someone will need to look after the old girl.”
Jack squeezes his eyes shut. Ignores the burn behind his eyelids. God, the TARDIS.
“And don’t get any ideas about repainting her,” the Doctor adds. “And keep your mitts off her temporal engines. She’s delicate. Needs respect.” He taps his thumb against Jack’s hand like he’s scolding him in advance.
“Thought she didn’t like me,” Jack murmurs. “Flew to the ends of the universe to get away, remember?”
There’s a subtle tension through the Doctor’s back. Jack feels the shift in his breathing, natural rhythm turned measured.
“No,” the Doctor says at last, quiet and sure. “She’s always liked you. Quite a lot, actually.”
Jack swallows down the lump in his throat.
“Feeling’s mutual.”
He feels the Doctor squeeze his hand. Jack breathes him in—warm cotton and his own familiar scent—and focuses on the feel of the shoulder blade beneath his brow, the rough scratch of suit fabric under his cheek.
“Stop it,” the Doctor says mildly. “You’re making a damp patch.”
Jack knows what he could say. Knows the opening he’s been given. Knows he could take the words, edge his voice with suggestion, turn them around and offer them back with cheek, and promise and intent. Let them escape into their familiar dance for a few minutes’ reprieve.
His back molar aches where he bites down. He watches his breath stir the fine hairs at the Doctor’s nape, goosebumps rising beneath it.
“I expect you to find a way around it,” Jack says, resolute.
“Not everything can be avoided.”
“No. But there’s always a loophole with you.” He lets pride warm his voice. “All will be lost. You’ll do that smug little smile, wave the sonic, and save the day.”
It’s infuriating. It’s brilliant. It’s half the reason Jack—
“Ah, well. That’s all it takes, is it?”
Jack nods against his back. Doesn’t trust his voice. The room is brighter now, the suit’s fine white pinstripes emerging from shadow. Jack thinks about standing, walking to the hatch and simply pulling it closed. Trapping them here. He thinks the Doctor would let him.
He doesn’t move.
“Might not be a day to save,” the Doctor says. “Might just… happen.”
Jack can’t imagine that. Can’t imagine it not being a day in need of saving, in need of correcting or resetting. If you snatch the stars from the night sky, people would mourn the absence of the light. They’d notice the darkness. They’d pray to be saved. It would be a day remembered for the rest of time.
He shouldn’t ask it of him. Shouldn’t demand it. But he’s going to. It’s selfish, but Jack’s never claimed to be otherwise. The Doctor had known who he was coming to after all. He shouldn’t have expected Jack to not fight.
“I’ve got an eternity to live through,” Jack says. “Pick a day, any of them. Save that one.”
“Jack—”
Jack doesn’t want to hear him say his name like that. Doesn’t want to hear him being patient, and regretful and kind. He doesn’t want kindness. He’ll take anything else from the Doctor but not kindness. Not like that. Like he pities Jack’s loss before it’s even happened.
“You owe me.”
It’s cruel. And untrue, even if it’s accurate. Jack forgave him a long time ago. He never blamed him to begin with. But if he doesn’t try now, Jack will never forgive him. Lying here pressed close, breathing him in, holding his hand in his, it’s more than Jack ever expected to have. But his gratefulness doesn’t outweigh his greed. Jack’s never asked him for anything. He’s asking for this now.
The Doctor sighs. Jack waits. Waits for him to shift, untangle their hands, to sit up and leave without a word. Jack’s pushed, and now the Doctor pulls away. That’s their usual dance.
“All right,” the Doctor says, echoing Jack’s words from earlier. It doesn’t sound placating this time. Jack feels lips brush his knuckles.
He leans his head against the Doctor’s back, ear pressed behind his ribs. He listens to the double thud-thud of twin hearts beating inside him. Breathe in on one beat. Breathe out on the next.
“They’ve got a rather nice little restaurant. Good chips, so I’ve heard. Booked out for years in advance. Must be good then,” the Doctor says.
Jack doesn’t know where this is going, but he doesn’t mind. He can hear the beat of the Doctor’s hearts, feel the vibration through him as he rambles on.
“Balcony table. Lovely view of the Towers. Might be a bit chilly—you need the wind though, to hear them sing. Oh, right! You’ll need a suit. I imagine you scrub up quite nicely in a suit.”
Jack can’t help the soft breath of a laugh. Doesn’t bother to temper the warm bloom in his chest, though he knows he’ll pay for it later. He should have known the Doctor would pull something clever.
“You don’t play fair, Doctor,” Jack admonishes.
“Oh, blame Lyly for that. Good book, though. Nothing to do with me.”
Jack huffs. He can hear the self-satisfied lilt in the Doctor’s voice. Pleased with himself and his own wit. Jack won’t complain. Let him be smug. Let him be clever. Let him be brilliant. Jack will never tire of seeing it. Even when he knows the author, knows the quote the Doctor is referring to. Knows exactly what he’s saying in his usual roundabout way.
“Just make sure there’s champagne,” Jack says, yawning softly. “We can toast the day.”
A part of him aches to stay awake. To make sure the Doctor stays. To keep his promise. But the Doctor’s breathing has evened out, his thumb brushing over the delicate skin of Jack’s inner wrist, and he’s here now, and Jack has led their dance far enough. He won’t think of tomorrow. Or next week. Or twenty-four years from now.
No—he’ll only think of the press of fingers between his own, the smell of cotton, the sound of those impossible hearts beating away.
“Thank you,” the Doctor murmurs. “You’re a very good friend, Jack.”
—
Jack wakes to a single glass of champagne sitting beside his vortex manipulator. He doesn’t move at first. Just watches the bubbles rise slowly to the surface, one after another, and the thin line of condensation slide down the glass. He hasn’t quite decided what he’ll do yet.
His hand closes around the scrap of paper beside the glass. It crumples in his grip. He rolls onto his back, staring at the ceiling. He thinks only about hushed words in the dark, the scent of damp cotton, a warm bony shoulder.
He unfolds the paper.
There’s a scrawl of temporal coordinates. The same ones he’s sure he’ll find in his vortex manipulator. The same device he’s certain can now teleport across all of time and space, conveniently to wherever a mysterious blue box might be residing.
Beneath them:
All right. I picked a day. Reservations at seven. Don’t be late!
Jack exhales, a shaky breath of laughter catching in his throat.
There are always loopholes.
If you’re brilliant enough to find them.