[fic][dp] Wayward Son
Title: Wayward Son
Author: magistrate (draegonhawke)
Sliding Scale of Slash: Gen
Rating: T
Fandoms: Life on Mars; Torchwood; Doctor Who
Summary: Sometimes you spend a lifetime searching for something, only to find it wanting.
Over the past few weeks, Jack had followed so many red herrings and false leads that he honestly didn't expect this time to be any different.
He landed under a blue Earth sky, in the disorder and noise of a city--an English city, he established after a few passers-by called jabs at him, and Manchester he identified from a discarded newspaper. The 1970s--not the worst decade, by any means. Though this area didn't seem like the best part of town.
He was picking up a definite signal, but the 70s had seen their share of alien visitations. For all he knew it was an Arilou ship, or a Raxa explorer, or--
--or a blue police box, sitting calmly in what looked to be a crime scene.
Seeing that, it was hard not to get excited.
He glanced around before running in--no one was in this particular area, hidden between things that looked like warehouses and things that looked like they were supposed to look respectable. No one to see him sneak up, ease the key he still kept on a chain in his pocket out and into the lock, open the door, and slip inside.
Inside the TARDIS.
He gaped--it was hard not to. He'd anticipated this for so long that it had almost become mythical, from the hum of the resting engines to the pillars like stone trees--whose purpose he never quite understood, because they didn't seem to be holding up the ceiling. The TARDIS had a presence to it. It felt old and undefinable, but younger than it should have; something ancient, but not through its lifespan. There was an animal quality to the control room's curves and noises, like something breathing and asleep.
Usually.
This time, for whatever reason, there was an undercurrent of sharp attentiveness he couldn't place. He cleared his throat, feeling oddly like an intruder. "Doctor?"
No answer. His voice didn't echo in the control room, but it seemed to echo further down the hall--and the lights across the room were slowly, steadily brightening. Breathing and asleep, he'd thought. Maybe it was waking up.
For a moment he thought it wasn't the Doctor's TARDIS, because it didn't feel right--but who else would be here? In a police box, no less.
The lights went off when he approached them.
He backed away, wondering if it was a malfunction, but they came on as soon as he was away--of course, as soon as he drew near the opposite wall, those went out instead.
He'd felt comfortable in the TARDIS. It was the most alien ship he'd ever met, true, but he'd gotten used to its idiosyncrasies--he'd always had the feeling that it was a little more alive than he gave it credit for, a little concerned for them, a little flirtatious at times. Now, he was getting a nearly subliminal but unmistakable buzz of hostility from the machine.
But that was ridiculous. It might have been psychic, but it wasn't aware. At least, not as he understood it. It didn't think or reason and under any normal circumstances, it shouldn't implicitly react.
And it was the same TARDIS. He could see that, from inside--it had the old scars from the Extrapolator, the battle with Margaret, the battle with the Daleks. The bundle of wires he'd fixed to the underside of the console with duct tape was still fixed with duct tape, and while there were a few new weld seams and the odd dial replaced, most of what he'd helped the Doctor modify remained.
He walked to the center console and laid a hand on the controls.
No!
A psychic shock tore through him, pushing him back like a blow to the chest. He grabbed his hand, pressing fingers into the skin--it felt burnt, felt blackened and seared, but he couldn't see any damage.
The TARDIS was not, as a rule, a dangerous place.
He backed away. It was hard to trace timelines, especially for someone as prone to tangling them as the Doctor, but evidence suggested a few things--the Doctor had regenerated since he saw him last, and even he didn't know all of what that entailed. It wasn't outside the realm of possibility that he'd have changed, become paranoid or dangerous, laid traps inside the TARDIS.
That frightened Jack, because it was something he would do.
He looked around the control room. The lights were still dim around him, a sort of inverse corona.
"Doctor?" Jack called. "...maybe I'll come back when you're home." You are coming home, aren't you?
He walked to the door and slipped outside.
He pulled the door shut, hearing the lock latch itself behind him--one more thing that had never happened before. He turned, running hands down the seam where the door had shut, feeling the latch.
Why the new security? What happened to you?
And where are you now?
He turned, resting his back against the false wood. The Doctor wasn't in, which meant the Doctor was out. Which meant he was out for something, because something was going on--which meant, now that he noticed it, that the person charging toward him and making a noise which from this distance could best be described as "squawking" might be able to help. He put on his best smile, trying to push his misgivings away, and waved.
"You! You there!" the man said, hopping over the police line. "Freeze! Police! You're nicked!"
Author: magistrate (draegonhawke)
Sliding Scale of Slash: Gen
Rating: T
Fandoms: Life on Mars; Torchwood; Doctor Who
Summary: Sometimes you spend a lifetime searching for something, only to find it wanting.
Over the past few weeks, Jack had followed so many red herrings and false leads that he honestly didn't expect this time to be any different.
He landed under a blue Earth sky, in the disorder and noise of a city--an English city, he established after a few passers-by called jabs at him, and Manchester he identified from a discarded newspaper. The 1970s--not the worst decade, by any means. Though this area didn't seem like the best part of town.
He was picking up a definite signal, but the 70s had seen their share of alien visitations. For all he knew it was an Arilou ship, or a Raxa explorer, or--
--or a blue police box, sitting calmly in what looked to be a crime scene.
Seeing that, it was hard not to get excited.
He glanced around before running in--no one was in this particular area, hidden between things that looked like warehouses and things that looked like they were supposed to look respectable. No one to see him sneak up, ease the key he still kept on a chain in his pocket out and into the lock, open the door, and slip inside.
Inside the TARDIS.
He gaped--it was hard not to. He'd anticipated this for so long that it had almost become mythical, from the hum of the resting engines to the pillars like stone trees--whose purpose he never quite understood, because they didn't seem to be holding up the ceiling. The TARDIS had a presence to it. It felt old and undefinable, but younger than it should have; something ancient, but not through its lifespan. There was an animal quality to the control room's curves and noises, like something breathing and asleep.
Usually.
This time, for whatever reason, there was an undercurrent of sharp attentiveness he couldn't place. He cleared his throat, feeling oddly like an intruder. "Doctor?"
No answer. His voice didn't echo in the control room, but it seemed to echo further down the hall--and the lights across the room were slowly, steadily brightening. Breathing and asleep, he'd thought. Maybe it was waking up.
For a moment he thought it wasn't the Doctor's TARDIS, because it didn't feel right--but who else would be here? In a police box, no less.
The lights went off when he approached them.
He backed away, wondering if it was a malfunction, but they came on as soon as he was away--of course, as soon as he drew near the opposite wall, those went out instead.
He'd felt comfortable in the TARDIS. It was the most alien ship he'd ever met, true, but he'd gotten used to its idiosyncrasies--he'd always had the feeling that it was a little more alive than he gave it credit for, a little concerned for them, a little flirtatious at times. Now, he was getting a nearly subliminal but unmistakable buzz of hostility from the machine.
But that was ridiculous. It might have been psychic, but it wasn't aware. At least, not as he understood it. It didn't think or reason and under any normal circumstances, it shouldn't implicitly react.
And it was the same TARDIS. He could see that, from inside--it had the old scars from the Extrapolator, the battle with Margaret, the battle with the Daleks. The bundle of wires he'd fixed to the underside of the console with duct tape was still fixed with duct tape, and while there were a few new weld seams and the odd dial replaced, most of what he'd helped the Doctor modify remained.
He walked to the center console and laid a hand on the controls.
No!
A psychic shock tore through him, pushing him back like a blow to the chest. He grabbed his hand, pressing fingers into the skin--it felt burnt, felt blackened and seared, but he couldn't see any damage.
The TARDIS was not, as a rule, a dangerous place.
He backed away. It was hard to trace timelines, especially for someone as prone to tangling them as the Doctor, but evidence suggested a few things--the Doctor had regenerated since he saw him last, and even he didn't know all of what that entailed. It wasn't outside the realm of possibility that he'd have changed, become paranoid or dangerous, laid traps inside the TARDIS.
That frightened Jack, because it was something he would do.
He looked around the control room. The lights were still dim around him, a sort of inverse corona.
"Doctor?" Jack called. "...maybe I'll come back when you're home." You are coming home, aren't you?
He walked to the door and slipped outside.
He pulled the door shut, hearing the lock latch itself behind him--one more thing that had never happened before. He turned, running hands down the seam where the door had shut, feeling the latch.
Why the new security? What happened to you?
And where are you now?
He turned, resting his back against the false wood. The Doctor wasn't in, which meant the Doctor was out. Which meant he was out for something, because something was going on--which meant, now that he noticed it, that the person charging toward him and making a noise which from this distance could best be described as "squawking" might be able to help. He put on his best smile, trying to push his misgivings away, and waved.
"You! You there!" the man said, hopping over the police line. "Freeze! Police! You're nicked!"