The Doctor, for once, was not at the center of the blast. Probably all for the best, considering the guns involved, and that Romana already pulled a gun on him once, but the Doctor's not pleased about that. He found out after the injured were cleared out of the lobby, though with the blood still wet on the floor, and he's now standing in the doorway, eying Jack quietly.
"So you're going?" he asks after a moment, as if that wasn't obvious.
Jack's too tired, body, mind, and soul, to startle or cringe. He barely even glances back over his shoulder.
The Doctor. Great. Just the thing to round out his day.
"Seemed like the thing to do," he says. Run off, draw fire. "The closer I am to Torchwood, the more Romana will want to land the iron first of God on them." He unhooks a couple of the auxiliary cables from his laptop, tucking them into a side pouch of the backpack. "Can't put them on the losing end of a war just for my account."
The Doctor steps out of the doorway and moves slowly toward Jack, his expression unreadable. "I wasn't questioning it," he says simply. "Well, technically I was, but not in the way that you need to explain it to me. It's a good plan. It's what I'd do."
Jack would be surprised, at that, if he would work up the energy. As it is, it merits a vague eyebrow-raise. Are you trying to make me feel better? "I have a feeling you would have kept it from escalating this far in the first place."
At least, he's fairly certain the Doctor would not have shot Romana. ...then again, it's also quite possible that the Doctor would have died.
The Doctor smiles faintly, in a bitter, humorless way. "That's probably true. I have talked to you about guns." But he's not lecturing him now, which is something. "Still. No one died today, which is a definite improvement on your part... Suppose you don't know where you're going?"
Jack shakes his head. Yeah. No one died. Not for lack of trying. He doesn't even argue the gun point - because, when it boils down to it, wasn't that the problem? He and Romana, both armed, both a little quick on the trigger finger. A few stray shots and the world came crashing down. That was the problem with firearms.
"I figured that out the door would be a good place to start," he says. He's saying he doesn't have any idea. If it comes to it, he might just pick a direction and start walking.
"It usually is," the Doctor answers, his eyes on Jack's face. He glances momentarily to Jack's bag, then back up to his face. "Just... don't go causing trouble where I can't see you, will you?"
Because that's a directive that will ever be obeyed. It's not that he goes looking to start trouble - not any more than the Doctor does. But some things, you don't avoid.
"I'll do my best," he says. It might be a promise, for all that's worth. "...you know the quality of my best."
The Doctor shrugs. "I guess that's the best I can hope for. Could be worse." He pauses a moment, trailing his finger absently over Jack's desk, looking at that rather than at Jack. "Martha's going to miss you."
He doesn't say Martha needs you, though he's begun to suspect that might be true.
...and that is a problem. Still. He can just as easily skulk around the city until Romana goes up in arms to drive him out. Maybe that'll be enough time, to see... certain things through.
He catches the unvoiced sentiment, more a trick of circumstances and long acquaintance than anything in the voice or words. "Martha's stronger than you think," he says. "She'll survive."
If only because she's so thoroughly determined to.
"She has you and Des. Just-"
He was about to say Just don't do anything stupid. But then, Look who's talking.
"Yeah." The Doctor shoves his hands in his pockets. If he doesn't, he's just going to end up picking random objects off Jack's desk and fiddling with them. While not something the Doctor would normally care about doing, it doesn't see exactly appropriate to the situation.
It seems that he ought to say something to fix this situation. Or promise to fix it. He's the Doctor, he's supposed to set these things right when no one else can, no one else knows how. He began to hate this universe a long time ago, because there's nothing here he can fix half as simply as he'd like.
The thing about not having much of anything is that it doesn't take long to pack. After a moment, he picks up one of the courtesy pens, looks it over, and neither puts it back nor puts it into the knapsack
( ... )
The Doctor stops and turns to frown at Jack for a second, looking... well, surprised. Apologies aren't something he's accustomed to from Jack - this one, or the Jack from his universe. A lot of other things, but not so much apologies.
He nods after a moment, though he's not sure Jack's even looking near enough to him to even catch that out of the corner of his eye. "I probably deserved it. In a roundabout... sort of... No, alright, that apology was necessary. You're forgiven."
The Doctor eyes Jack for a moment, without moving or taking his hands out of his pockets, and says at last, "Call me if you need me. I'm sure you'll know how."
It's more of an offer than he ever extended Jack in his own universe - pretty much Martha's the only one who ever got that, and she sort of told him that was how it would be - but... things are different here. Many things are different here.
"Hopefully it won't come to that," he says. Hopefully neither of us will need the other.
After a moment, he straightens himself up, snaps into a salute. It's no particular affiliation, not military, not Agency. It... is what it is.
"Doctor," he says. Doesn't bother to say anything else. Not A pelasure, or An honor. Whatever they need to say has, in some oblique form, been said.
He holds the salute for longer than he technically needs to before dropping out of it, sweeping up his backpack, and stepping past him toward the door.
"So you're going?" he asks after a moment, as if that wasn't obvious.
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The Doctor. Great. Just the thing to round out his day.
"Seemed like the thing to do," he says. Run off, draw fire. "The closer I am to Torchwood, the more Romana will want to land the iron first of God on them." He unhooks a couple of the auxiliary cables from his laptop, tucking them into a side pouch of the backpack. "Can't put them on the losing end of a war just for my account."
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At least, he's fairly certain the Doctor would not have shot Romana. ...then again, it's also quite possible that the Doctor would have died.
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"I figured that out the door would be a good place to start," he says. He's saying he doesn't have any idea. If it comes to it, he might just pick a direction and start walking.
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"I'll do my best," he says. It might be a promise, for all that's worth. "...you know the quality of my best."
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He doesn't say Martha needs you, though he's begun to suspect that might be true.
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He catches the unvoiced sentiment, more a trick of circumstances and long acquaintance than anything in the voice or words. "Martha's stronger than you think," he says. "She'll survive."
If only because she's so thoroughly determined to.
"She has you and Des. Just-"
He was about to say Just don't do anything stupid. But then, Look who's talking.
"-never mind."
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It seems that he ought to say something to fix this situation. Or promise to fix it. He's the Doctor, he's supposed to set these things right when no one else can, no one else knows how. He began to hate this universe a long time ago, because there's nothing here he can fix half as simply as he'd like.
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He nods after a moment, though he's not sure Jack's even looking near enough to him to even catch that out of the corner of his eye. "I probably deserved it. In a roundabout... sort of... No, alright, that apology was necessary. You're forgiven."
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Maybe Rose was right, all that time ago. Maybe it was supremely important to be forgiven.
"Well. That's that, then."
He's packed. He's exiled. The only thing left is walking out the door.
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It's more of an offer than he ever extended Jack in his own universe - pretty much Martha's the only one who ever got that, and she sort of told him that was how it would be - but... things are different here. Many things are different here.
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After a moment, he straightens himself up, snaps into a salute. It's no particular affiliation, not military, not Agency. It... is what it is.
"Doctor," he says. Doesn't bother to say anything else. Not A pelasure, or An honor. Whatever they need to say has, in some oblique form, been said.
He holds the salute for longer than he technically needs to before dropping out of it, sweeping up his backpack, and stepping past him toward the door.
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