Beating Time by jadesfire2808, commentary by unfeathered
Title: Beating Time
Author: jadesfire2808
Fandom: Doctor Who
Commentator: unfeathered
Title: Beating Time
Author: jadesfire2808
Words: ~5800
Characters: Jack, the Saxons.
Rating: PG13
Spoilers: Set between "Sound of Drums" and "Last of the Time Lords", so for both of those.
Summary: Jack's having a long, eventful year, and it's only just started.
This is the first 'Year That Never Was' (or 'Year of Hell' as it is also affectionately known) story I read. In fact, the original story which was then expanded into this one was actually written before Last of the Time Lords even aired, based on - um - certain pictures that were released from it, so it's possible that it was the first 'Year That Never Was' story written!
Actually, I've only just realised, but that's very interesting, because the other fic I chose to do a commentary on, becky_h's Change, is very similar in that it was a very canon-like Jack/Tenth Doctor reunion which she wrote just before Utopia aired. I wondered what made me choose these two fics to comment on. Maybe that's it. Because jadesfire2808 got her original version of this, 'Beat of Drums', very right too. She didn't need to change much to get it to fit canon.
On the other hand, coming back to this story after several months of discussion and reading other 'Year of Hell' stories, I do feel it shows a little how early this one was written. A few details are a little bit off (which I've mentioned in the text). None of that, however, makes it anything less than a really good read, and one I enjoy more than ever now I've delved so far into its depths.
Beating Time
First of all, a comment on the title. I love titles that can be read more than one way, and this one is brilliant. The obvious meaning is a reference to the Master's Drums, i.e. drums beating time. (This is probably a clearer reference when you know that the original fic was called 'Beat of Drums', which is now the title for part 3.) Related to this could also be the idea of a conductor beating time, the Master obviously being the conductor. On a different tack, it could be read as 'time for a beating' - a reference to all that poor old Jack has to go through during that year. And a final interpretation of 'beating' could be as in 'conquering' - the Master conquers time with his Paradox Machine.
I don't know how many of these jadesfire2808 actually intended to be inferred, but I think it's amazingly cool that they're there.
Beaten
Mind not the old man beseeching the young man;
Let not the child's voice be heard, nor the mother's entreaties;
Make even the trestles to shake the dead, where they lie awaiting the hearses,
So strong you thump, O terrible drums--so loud you bugles blow.
From Beat! Beat! Drums! by Walt Whitman
I have to admit I almost never read quotes at the start of stories. I try to, but my brain just skips over them. But I like the line about the old man here, and 'So strong you thump, O terrible drums'.
Jack loved getting dirty. He loved being up to his elbows in machinery, covered in grime and grease, listening to the purr of a working engine or coaxing life out of a reluctant circuit. He was good with his hands, in all kinds of ways, and it was good to be doing something.
This is a side to Jack we don't often see in fics (or maybe it's just that I don't see it, because I'm too busy reading - um - other sorts of stories!) but it feels very him. It's so not what you expect to find him doing that it's a really good way to make you sit up and take notice at the start of the story.
Admittedly, repairing tagged out circuits on the Valiant hadn't been top of his list of things he wanted to fix, but it was work and it was keeping him busy and it was stopping him from going mad with worry. If the Valiant's systems failed, they were all going to have much more immediate problems than a madman taking over the planet. It had been barely a fortnight, but Saxon seemed to have started as he meant to go on. Pulling out the damaged component, Jack wiped a grubby hand over his forehead and smiled. No-one was plummeting to their deaths if he could help it, not even Saxon. Jack had other plans for him.
And now we find out why. Not just because the Master has, presumably, ordered him to fix it but also simply because it needs to be done and Jack's the only one who can do it.
I also find it extremely interesting that throughout this fic Jack refers to the Master as 'Saxon'. I don't know if that was just because jadesfire2808 found it more comfortable to use that name (which I can understand, because I find 'the Master' - like 'the Doctor', actually - a rather impersonal sort of name and it's nice to have a 'proper' name to work with), or if she was trying to say something about how Jack viewed the Master. Perhaps it's because Jack, like Martha, had been aware of Saxon for some time, without knowing he was the Master, and the first name you know someone by tends to stick.
This isn't something I'd thought about before, and I don't think I've read anyone else having Jack refer to the Master as 'Saxon' either - but it makes a lot of sense!
Moving back to the makeshift work bench, Jack picked up a screwdriver and began opening the small, black box.
"Water?"
Carefully, Jack nodded, straightening up and accepting the offered cup. "Thanks."
"How's it going?"
"Fine."
Clive Jones glanced towards the guard on the other side of the room, then leaned closer, on the pretext of refilling Jack's cup. "How can you do this?" he hissed. "Fixing his ship while people are dying."
"I'm trying to stop us falling out of the sky," Jack murmured back. "Half this equipment is doing a job it wasn't meant to do. It's alien design with Earth materials and the whole thing's held together by willpower and duct tape. Would you rather I just let us drop?"
I love this, especially the 'willpower and duct tape' bit. Sounds very TARDIS-like to me.
"If we took him with us."
Meeting Clive's eyes, Jack pointedly held out his cup again. He was allowed a certain amount of autonomy, but conversation between prisoners was not encouraged. "He'd have a way out and a lot of people would die for nothing."
Jack sees the big picture. He's had a lot more experience at this sort of thing than the Joneses. In fact he'd probably had more experience at it when he was just a Time Agent, let alone his time with the Doctor and all those years since!
"So in the meantime, you're just going to work for him?"
This time, Jack dropped his eyes, putting the cup down and fiddling with something on the workbench. "That's how it looks, yeah."
Aha!
"You mean-" Clive broke off, lowering his voice further as he bent to pick up Jack's cup. "What are you going to do?"
"Nothing."
"But-"
Oh, don't push it, Clive. The Master sees all.
"Nothing." Jack shook his head. "Take the cup and go."
"I want to help."
This feels really, really in-character for the Clive we saw in LotTL. Not all that bright, I feel, and completely out of his depth, but desperate to help. And, in his naivety, perhaps endangering them all by not knowing when to shut up.
Jack could hear the pain in Clive's voice, the sincerity and the desperation to do something, anything that would make this living hell more bearable. But he'd made his decision. "No," he said firmly, battling to keep his voice low. "Martha would never forgive me if I let anything happen to you." When Clive didn't reply, he looked up, meeting the other man's eyes. "Get out of here, before they come for us both."
*gulp*
Only when Clive was gone, taking the cup and jug and walking away without a backward look, did Jack breathe more easily. He'd promised himself not to endanger anyone else, least of all Martha's family. They were already suffering enough.
Gingerly, he began reconnecting wires, tracing the circuits in his mind and on the board in front of him. Saxon had had to use him, up to a point. There were only a few people on board who could repair this kind of burn out, caused by Saxon's own re-design, warping UNIT's defence ship into something much more deadly. Jack had known about it, but it hadn't been his problem or his jurisdiction at the time. Now that it was, he intended to make the most of it.
I like this little mention that, as head of Torchwood, Jack probably would have been aware of the building of this ship. If only he'd known who Saxon was at the time, he might have been able to sabotage it then!
It took him another half an hour to finish his work, then another ten to re-insert the modified box into the system. The capacitor would blow the next time someone used the external comms system, and he reckoned he had a couple hours before they tracked down the source and linked it back to him. There was no way of knowing if it would impair the Toclafane comms as well, but it would at least inconvenience the Valiant's crew for a while. This was going to be a war of attrition, and Jack wasn't going anywhere.
I love the last line of that paragraph. Again, Jack sees the big picture. Every little thing he can do to trouble the Master is worth it.
Three and a half hours later, he was starting to reconsider that statement. Apparently where he was going, at speed and dragged by two stony-faced guards, was three decks down, into one of the engine rooms and chained between two pillars. The guards locked the cuffs round his wrists, stretching his arms uncomfortably wide and Jack wondered just how angry, on a scale of one to ten, Saxon was right now. Judging by the pain in his shoulders, Jack guessed it was somewhere around twenty-four.
A sudden change of pace - and a change of temperature because, wow, it's suddenly got very hot in here! *g* The weird thing is, I feel scared for Jack here, with the prospect of him getting the full brunt of the Master's wrath, and yet, I don't see Jack as being particularly scared. He's such a hero.
The repair crews were apparently better than he'd given them credit for, because it was barely half an hour before the TV screen on the wall flickered into life and he got his first glimpse of Saxon since he'd been hauled off the flight deck two weeks previously. There was nothing on the man's face to indicate what he was feeling, and the strange, smiling blankness sent a shiver down Jack's back. This wasn't the harmless, friendly politician he'd watched rise to influence. This was a Time Lord, an unbalanced, powerful genius. Maybe upsetting him hadn't been such a good idea after all.
Ah. Now he's getting perhaps a little scared. He really had forgotten that 'Saxon' wasn't just a politician, hadn't he?
Behind Saxon, Jack saw the Joneses, clinging to each other, standing as far into the corner of the room as they could. In front of them was the Doctor, held by two guards as he tried to stand upright. Jack clenched his fists, fighting back the surge of anger. The cuffs were tight round his wrists and the chains had very little slack in them. It wouldn't take much to snap something, probably him.
Jack, even more than the Doctor, hates being helpless.
And that last line is just - ouch.
"Captain Jack Harkness." Saxon was looking right into the camera, that half-smile still in place, as though he was the only one in the room to get the joke. "I gave you freedom of movement, I gave you work, I haven't killed you in at least four days. And this is how you repay me." He tutted, shaking his head like a disappointed parent and Jack felt a cold knot of fear twist inside him. There was something very, very wrong. "You see," Saxon went on, "for every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction. Newtonian physics, clean and simple. That was your action. This is my reaction."
This is perfect characterisation. I can really see the Master we saw on screen here, and hear him. I can feel Jack's 'cold knot of fear' too.
He stepped back, letting the camera pan across the room, focussing on a new figure, on its knees with its head bowed. Jack pulled against his chains as he recognised the bound man. It was the guard from earlier in the day, the one who hadn't been able to stop him from sabotaging the ship. Jack's frantic tugging wasn't doing anything except send shooting pains through his arms, but he couldn't stop, knowing with awful certainty what was about to happen.
The sense of impending doom in this paragraph is beautifully done. It's one of those times when you find yourself, at every reading, hoping that it won't happen this time, and it always does.
"There are always consequences for your actions, Captain." Saxon's voice was hard and cold, coming from somewhere off-camera.
A flicker of movement on the screen caught Jack's eye, a shadow passing across the floor. Then a bolt of red light shot out, catching the kneeling man in the chest and blasting him into atoms almost before he could scream. Breathing hard, Jack let his head fall forwards for a moment, feeling the pull across his back and the bite of the metal against his wrists. He pulled harder, not expecting anything except the burn of straining muscles, something to drive the black rage from his mind. He certainly didn't expect to feel the slight shift of the chain, the minutest of movements that suggested not everything was as secure as it could have been.
(I have to point out at this stage that actually the Master's laser screwdriver shoots yellow light, not red. But it's really not important to the story.)
I love Jack's reaction here. It feels very Jack, both hanging his head as if in prayer or mourning, and making himself hurt, deliberately, as self-punishment and to let out the rage.
And the tiny bit of hope that's added onto the end of that is just perfect.
When he looked up, Saxon was back in front of the camera, smiling pleasantly as the Toclafane hovered behind him.
I like the way the Toclafane are brought in here. As a reminder that they exist, that the Master has friends (and spies).
"The next time you try something like that, I'll have them bring up some of the surviving UNIT personnel. Or maybe some of the slaves from the shipyards. I trust we understand each other."
*gulp* How is Jack going to fight his war of attrition now?
The monitor flickered off, leaving Jack alone with his anger. It was hot down here, the air full of the smell of machinery and flecks of dirt that were already coating him in a new layer of grime. Breathing hard, he took more of his weight back onto his feet, trying to get as comfortable as possible and not pull his arms out of their sockets. The fury was hardening, forming into something stronger and tougher, becoming a resolve that he could use. And, combined with the tiny movement, it was enough to give him the first stirrings of hope.
Heartbeat
Storm against ship: heartbeat of the world.
Heel against floor and wave upon shore: heartbeat of the world.
Sigh of a lover: heartbeat of the world.
Unknown Irish Author
Now, this quote I did notice, because I know it. It's one of the songs in Riverdance. *feels smug* And I like it here. It sets the scene for the more tranquil feel of Part 2.
Jack lifted his face to the flow of water, luxuriating in the sensations. Warm and soothing, pounding into his muscles and easing the aches. Tentatively, he rolled his shoulders, wincing at the movement and turning to bring one, then the other under the spray. Even for someone in pretty good condition (if he did say so himself), standing with your arms held out hurt. He'd shifted as much as the chains had allowed, trying ward off the worst of the cramps, but there had been moments in the last few weeks where he'd thought he was going to go mad from the pain.
Mmm, I bet that felt good. Nice image of naked-Jack-in-shower. (What? Shallow? Me? *g*)
Now, he could feel it all washing away, along with the dirt, puddling at his feet and running towards the plughole. He dropped his head, letting the heat soak into the back of his neck and watching the last specks of grime floating across the bottom of the shower. It would have been nice to imagine, just for a moment, that he was in his own bathroom back at the Hub, thinking about the day, running through reports and questions in his head. Wondering what Gwen did over the weekend, or how many new gadgets Tosh had bought on eBay or how long it was going to take him to make Ianto smile this morning. Hell, right at that moment he would have settled for a blow by blow account of Owen's weekend activities.
Nice little mention of Torchwood here. I should think Jack's been trying very hard not to think about his team, not to worry about what's happening to them, if they're even still alive. So it's nice that here he can pretend, just for a moment, that everything is normal again.
Closing his eyes, he tried to summon up the memory of Ianto's coffee, the smell and the taste of it, so vivid in his mind that he could almost feel it on his tongue, bitter and smooth all at once. Torchwood had been outlawed, of course, but there had been nothing about rounding up the members, no public executions and, most importantly, no gloating from Saxon to Jack. It was this last thought, that the man wouldn't have been able to help himself, that gave Jack hope. He was storing up the tiny moments, using them to get through the bad times. The smallest shift of the bolts holding his chain to the wall, the relatively light punishment meted out on the Jones family for their latest escape attempt, seeing the Doctor on the screen, just once. It wasn't much, but he'd take what he could get right now.
Nice mention of the Joneses, too, to keep them in the picture and to refute that idiotic idea implied in Last of the Time Lords that the gang on the Valiant would have gone a WHOLE YEAR before trying an escape plan!
He heard a shuffling of feet and opened his eyes again. His escort was starting to look a little jumpy, standing a few metres away and fidgeting with his gun. They'd brought Jack down to the barracks showers to get cleaned up, although no-one was saying what for. Jack doubted it was for anything good. Reluctantly, realising that they could turn the water off at any moment, he tipped his head back and gave his hair a final dousing before stepping out from under the spray and making his way across the communal shower area. The guard nodded to the changing room, where Jack found a towel and a pile of clothes, similar to the ones he'd had on before. Dark trousers, white t-shirt, dark shirt, boots and socks. He took his time doing up the buttons, savouring every last moment of this limited freedom before it was taken away again.
And back to reality. Poor Jack. (Heh, can't believe I got this far without writing that!)
When he was done, he gave the guard a questioning look, receiving a nod towards the door in reply. Outside, the other guard was waiting with the cuffs that they'd used to bring him down here. Trying not to grin, Jack held out his hands, watching the guard fumble with the catch. The chain was longer than on a standard pair of handcuffs, and with a little experimentation once they were on the move, Jack found that he could get his arms about thirty centimetres apart, if he didn't mind the thin bracelets cutting into his wrists.
Trying not to grin - he likes being chained that much, does he? *g* Only joking, I know he's grinning because they're fancy long chains which might be to his advantage!
As they marched through the lower decks, Jack was tempted to ask where they were going, deciding instead to concentrate on taking in his surroundings. It was three weeks since he'd been out of the engine room, three weeks of wondering what the hell was going on out there, relying on Tish and whispered fragments of conversation to keep him in touch with the outside world. Looking round, he wondered why he'd bothered. The Valiant looked just the same, full of blank faced prisoners and guards with expressions of grim diligence. There was no chatter, not so much as a glance of acknowledgement between people sharing the same space. Just a silent determination to survive this minute. Then the next one. Then the next.
Grim. Very right.
Eventually his small group reached the lift, and Jack frowned as one of the guards pressed the button for Deck Eight. He'd expected to be taken up to the flight deck or maybe back to the engine room. As far as he could remember, Deck Eight was where the conference rooms and larger quarters were. As the lift doors opened again and he was pushed down the corridor, he at least had an explanation for why he'd been allowed to clean up. It was more like a hotel here than a working ship, with thick carpet on the floor and wood panelling and oil paintings - originals as far as he could tell - on the walls. Even UNIT's brass wouldn't have had such luxury, not on board ship, and Jack knew this had to be Saxon's personal design. Apparently he liked his creature comforts.
Interesting view of what the Master's quarters might have been like.
The guards stopped by one of the doors, apparently no different to the others, knocking once then opening the door for him to enter. With a last glance at the guards, who were resolutely staring at the wall opposite, Jack stepped inside, hearing the door close behind him. His wandering gaze took in the deep brown, leather chairs, the book cases and the trophy cabinets, finally coming to rest on the woman in the opposite doorway.
The trophy cabinets… and the trophy wife…
Lucy Saxon no longer looked like the demure politician's wife. The red dress and tumbling blonde curls suited her much better than the buttoned up coat. She seemed more comfortable, less restrained, more herself, somehow. Walking across the room, she exaggerated the sway of her hips, tossing her head and sweeping the tresses back. Her walk was that of a model, preening and loving the attention. Jack couldn't take his eyes off her, suddenly aware of how long it had been since he'd had anything to stare at except the back of a guard's head. As much as he'd had bigger concerns, his mind was suddenly replaying some of the more vivid memories that had helped him pass the long, lonely, chained-up hours. He shifted slightly as she walked past him, the clink of the chains reminding him that, technically, he was still chained up. It was enough to let him get at least some of his wits back.
I love this. Jack's such a tactile person that, yeah, being chained up like that, unable to touch anything, would be true sensory deprivation to him.
Lucy seemed to hear the sound as well, and her lips curled into a half-smile. "Would you like a drink?" She held up a crystal decanter, her voice low and purring.
"I'm fine, thanks." It wasn't easy to throw him off-balance, and Jack had to give her credit for managing it. When she turned, glass in her hand, he gave her a questioning look. "What am I doing here?"
It wasn't easy to throw him off-balance - no, I shouldn't think it would be, after all these years. I love Jack's appreciation here of a worthy foe.
Instead of answering, she lifted the glass, watching the light dance across the crystal and the liquid inside. Now that she was facing him properly, Jack could see the hesitation in her expression and, more importantly, the darkening bruise under her eye. He clenched his fists.
Aww, what a hero! :-)
"Harold thinks I don't care about the other women," she said matter-of-factly. "He knows that I know, but he thinks I'm too much in love with him to care. Maybe I am." Draining the drink with a toss of her head, she put the glass down and looked at Jack properly for the first time. "But he's not the only one to appreciate," she paused, running her eyes over him before finishing, "beauty."
And she's not the only one to appreciate that particular beauty. Sorry. Shutting up now! *g*
It wasn't a surprise, not exactly. It certainly wasn't the first time he'd been in this position, not by a long way. And there were rules to how this game was played. Raising his eyebrows a little, he said, "You know he'd kill us both if he found out."
"Maybe, maybe not. Besides, would that be a problem?"
"Not for me."
Fantastic line. And a nice insertion of humour.
She laughed, an odd, hiccoughing sound, putting her drink down and walking towards him with the same swaying walk as before. Watching her come towards him, Jack knew for certain that this was the first time she'd done this. He allowed himself a moment of pity for this fragile, lovely creature, letting himself imagine, however briefly, what it would have been like under different circumstances. He played with the thoughts as she took two more steps, reacting to her as any man would, letting himself feel the mixture of attraction and protectiveness that would let him play the part properly. Then he got a grip on those feelings, his brain taking over again and calculating all the different ways this could end.
I love this. The way Jack lets himself feel the attraction, but also keeps his head. It feels very in-character.
Half of his plans were thrown out of the window as she came closer, close enough that he could see into her eyes. There was nothing there, not even the coolness of the iciest blonde, just the emptiness of a shell, as though someone had drained all the humanity out of her. This wasn't someone he could persuade over to his side, someone he could reason with or appeal to with any kind of emotional plea. She'd stood and laughed as the Earth died. There was going to be no change of heart now. Vaguely, he wondered if she was from Earth at all, knowing that all kinds of things could hide behind the mask of human flesh. There was something wrong about her, something that triggered every instinct he had and, with a start, he wondered if that was what the Doctor felt when he looked at him.
The transition from the previous paragraph to this one feels a little awkward, purely because the start of this one is pulled straight from jadesfire2808's original story, which originally came straight after "Jack couldn't take his eyes off her". Basically, this whole section is based on an original scene where Lucy visited him chained up in the boiler room, but it's been greatly expanded on. I think most of it works very well, but there are just a couple of points where it feels a little awkward.
Having said that, I love the line about there being something wrong about Lucy, and Jack wondering if that's how he feels to the Doctor.
He didn't get to finish the thought as she stopped in front of him, so close that he could feel the brush of her body against his, feel the silk of her dress on his chained hands. Avoiding those vacant eyes, Jack dropped his gaze to her mouth, seeing the tip of her tongue just visible between her parted lips. He could feel her body heat, hear her rapid breathing. At this proximity, he could almost hear her heartbeat, even as his own pulse picked up, echoing in his ears.
Her fingers worked their way across his face, the pressure too strong for a caress, as though she was trying to remould his face, re-sculpt him through her touch. Jack made no attempt to turn away, letting her dig nails into his cheeks, run her thumb over his lips, and he only closed his eyes when she brought her fingers up to them, feeling her feather-light touch across his eyelids.
"What are you?" she whispered, and he smiled.
"If I had my hands free, I could show you."
"Naughty." She slapped him, hard enough to sting. Jack kept his face turned away, still playing the game, as she pressed her fingers into his cheek again. "I'm sure you can do more in chains than most could do with both hands and a month to think about it."
Great line! I'm sure he could too! *g*
"Possibly." He could feel her breath against his cheek, and he forced himself to stay calm, despite the twin, conflicting urges to run towards the door or carry her bodily into the bedroom. He couldn't afford to lose his head in any direction at this point. "Is that why I'm here?"
I love this. The 'twin, conflicting urges' and not being able to 'afford to lose his head in any direction'. Clever.
Her hands were moving again, a sharp nail running across the base of his throat, moving from side to side and pressing into the pulse-points, not quite hard enough to leave a mark. He resisted the urge to swallow, opening his mouth instead, fighting to keep his breathing under control as she carried on speaking as if she hadn't heard his question, her voice a low murmur. "I wonder what would happen if Harold let me cut off your head. Would you come back from that, do you think? Could you come back and tell me if it hurt? Does it hurt, the dying, or do you just forget it all?"
He didn't answer at first, feeling her nail press deeper into his neck, not quite blocking his throat. Instead, he looked down at her, giving her one more chance to back out. Because he was still playing by his own rules here, which meant that everyone got a last warning.
And that line is wonderful. Jack always seems to be playing by his own rules, and we're never quite sure what they are. Yes, there's a lot of gentleman's honour, like this, in there, but he can do a lot of dark stuff too.
"What do you want?"
This time, her laugh was louder, almost too loud in the quiet room. "If you haven't worked it out by now, then I should just send you back to your prison, shouldn't I?"
"Why?" Her face was so close to his, soft skin against his cheek even as her fingers moved from his throat down his arms and across his chest. She smelt of floral shampoo and perfume and the brandy she'd been drinking. Jack guessed that she'd had a few for courage before he'd arrived, and there was a twinge of guilt at the thought. Then her trailing fingers wrapped into the chain between his wrists, and he pushed the feeling aside.
I love Lucy playing with the chain here. Like a child with a new toy.
This wasn't about him, about the nagging desire that he wasn't about to deny, or even about giving comfort to this broken woman in front of him. This was about the survival of the human race, and Jack wasn't about to miss the slimmest of opportunities to help. Of course, he hadn't figured out exactly what he was going to do yet, but Harold Saxon's wife had to know something useful, didn't she? Forcing himself to concentrate, he took half a step backwards, giving himself enough space to think. "Why are you doing this?" Last chance.
Lucy reached for him again, one hand grasping his shoulder and the other going to her face, ghosting over the outline of the bruise.
"To see if he'll notice."
Oh wow. Oh, Lucy.
Then she was pulling him down, lifting herself up to meet his mouth and her hands were in his hair, gripping his neck, tight and desperate. After a moment's hesitation, Jack responded, hearing her moan as he kissed her back, his hands running over the slippery material of her dress, feeling her press closer into his touch.
Then she broke away, smiling knowingly at him as he tried to regain his balance. He guessed there was excitement in this for her, the thrill of the forbidden and the possibility of discovery. And for him? However much he tried to deny it, tell himself that this was all for 'the cause', the feeling of being touched, of having some kind of connection to another human being was what he had missed more than anything. He didn't need this, didn't need her specifically, but if it was all he was going to get offered, then there was no way he was turning it down. There'd be a chance afterwards, he told himself as she hooked a finger into the chain and began to lead him towards the door in the corner. Besides, if he got really lucky, maybe she'd talk in her sleep.
I love the fact that Jack doesn't try to pretend this is ' all for 'the cause', as jadesfire2808 puts it, but will take pleasure where it's offered, because, God, the poor guy needs something to get him through this eternal year!
Beat of Drums
Borne on the wind an instant, and then gone
Back to the caverns of the middle air
A voice as of a nation overthrown
With beat of drums, when hosts have marched to war.
From The Sublime by Wilfred Blunt
This quote actually makes more sense to me having read the whole poem - these are the last four lines of 14 - but I do like the reference to 'a nation overthrown', as Jack's world has been overthrown by the Master and his drums.
Jack had been tied up enough to know that whoever had arranged his current predicament had had almost as much experience as him. His arms were at that awkward angle, too high to be comfortable but not high enough for him to let the chains take too much of his weight. Not unless he wanted to dislocate his shoulders, as he'd discovered to his cost.
It's interesting to note that this was the opening paragraph of the original story. As such, it completely hooked me, because it came at the scenario of Jack-in-chains (and remember, this whole thing was written from only having seen pictures) from an original angle.
Also, this paragraph about exactly how Jack was chained up is the only one I've seen (though I have tried not to read too much 'Year of Hell' fic so it doesn't influence my own) that mentions the fact that he can't actually hang in his chains. And in fact, upon rewatching LotTL with this in mind, you really can see just how uncomfortable that position would be, long-term. Whenever we see Jack on screen, he's standing up straight and strong (as Jack would!) but no-one can stand like that all the time. And his arms are not stretched upwards, as they usually are in such scenes on tv, but directly out to the sides at shoulder level. If he was to bend his knees, to rest his aching back, then yes, he would be doing nasty things to his shoulders! He really can't move very much at all. Added to which, the angle at which those cuffs are held by the chains means that they're - well, not cutting into his wrists, because they are least nice and chunky not thin and cutty, but they definitely look uncomfortable the way his hands hang down from them.
OK, I've obviously been thinking about this way too much, but it was this story that got me thinking about it in the first place, so blame jadesfire2808!
(I also can't help wondering how much John Barrowman actually enjoyed being chained up, but that's just me and my dirty mind! *g*)
And finally, that first sentence… Been tied up a lot, have you, Jack? For fun or not for fun? *g*
The heat was stifling, and Jack was itching all over, sweat and dirt mingling and running down his face and back. It was minor discomfort, a bass note to the increasing pitch of agony in his arms. Trying to distract himself, Jack watched the seconds ticking past on the screen in front of him. Twenty seven days since Lucy Saxon. Twenty six days since Harold Saxon had found out. Eighteen days and eight slow deaths later, Jack had been left to hang in chains again, the ticking seconds and growing pain reminders that he was still living.
Ow. Eighteen days and eight slow deaths. Very nasty. Not to mention the following eight days standing there in chains.
There was nothing he could do right now, not like this and not with a guard barely ten feet away, although he did notice that the guard had turned his back. An amateur's mistake, not to watch your prisoner, especially someone like Jack. It could only get you into trouble. All Jack had to do was figure out how.
*Snigger* Nice little touch of humour to lighten the mood.
He was tugging gently on the restraints, trying not to make a noise as he worked on the small weakness in the brickwork, when the quality of the air changed. A cool draft flowed through the room, bringing temporary relief from the humidity and Jack craned his neck, trying to see who was there, his heart sinking as he heard the familiar, mocking voice.
One little comment here: I'm pretty sure those columns are concrete, not brickwork.
Second little comment, for anyone who's interested in where the original story fitted in: initially this was where the Lucy scene (or bits of it) came, so it was Lucy entering here, not the Master. The Master entered later and sent her away.
"Well, Captain, it's been a while."
At the sound of the voice, Jack's head snapped up and he blinked in the dim light.
"At least six days," he said, as calmly as he could. Mostly what he felt was a deep resignation, that this was how time would pass from now on. Three months into the Master's reign of terror, Jack knew what his part in it was going to be. Most of it was going to hurt.
Oh God, more nasty. See, this whole thing makes me hate Russell T Davies so much. How could he even suggest that poor Jack had to go through a WHOLE YEAR of this?
Saxon made a dismissive gesture to the guard, who left without looking back, leaving them alone.
"So, Captain Jack Harkness," Saxon said, pushing his hands into his pockets. "Do you have any idea how pathetic you are?"
This particular line feels a tiny bit off to me, though I'm not sure why. And the next section doesn't seem to flow quite as well as the rest of it - possibly because it was lifted from the original story, and expanded and adjusted slightly to fit the earlier sections and canon. Not a major problem, just something I wanted to note.
"I'm sure you're going to tell me." Fighting his instinct to shrink away, Jack forced himself to stay calm. Even in the muted light, he could see the madness in Saxon's eyes, an all-consuming fire that burned to the heart of his soul, striking more fear into him than physical threats could ever manage. He hadn't spoken much during the varied and ingenious methods of death that he'd subjected Jack to, but now it seemed, he wanted to talk.
Ticking the points off on his fingers, Saxon walked slowly towards him. "I could list all the ways you've failed to stop me, all the chances you could have taken and completely missed. Honestly, Torchwood's not what it used to be, not with you in charge. Your predecessor would have had me hung, drawn and quartered before I could threaten the precious British Empire. Not to mention that sleeping with my wife was a foolish mistake and ultimately pointless."
Jack refused to rise to the taunts, knowing it was the quickest way to cracking. As though sensing his thoughts, Saxon stepped closer, his strange, dark eyes still ablaze.
"Not going to talk to me, Captain? You screamed well enough when they killed you, didn't you? Such a noise." Saxon shook his head, wincing in mock-pain. "But I suppose that means we can't be friends. What a pity. You've got so many friends, Captain, haven't you? So many good friends, who tell you all their secrets."
For interest: the rest of this story is taken directly from the original fic.
Jack found that he couldn't look away. This wasn't madness as he could understand it, an imbalance in the brain, a chemical anomaly that could be corrected. This was a twist in the soul, warped and misshapen but still recognisable as what he could have been. All that power and ability, channelled and wielded by a man who could only use it for destruction. And yet there was something, deep beneath the surface of those terrible eyes, that reminded Jack of the Doctor.
I love that line: "a twist in the soul". Perfect description of the Master. And I adore the fact that he reminds Jack of the Doctor.
"Yes," Saxon hissed, lifting a hand to cup Jack's face. "That's it. He told you his secrets, didn't he? Told you what he plans to do."
Oops.
Too late, Jack felt the probing, thin tendrils of thought brushing against his mind. He shook his head.
"He didn't tell me anything."
"There's no point lying to me now, Captain." Saxon's voice was soft, barely a whisper in Jack's ear. "We're getting to know each other, you and I. We're going to be friends after all and there's no secrets between friends." He drove his mind harder against Jack's, fingers tightening around Jack's head.
"He didn't tell me," Jack gasped, trying to fight the intrusion. "He wouldn't take the risk." His mind was on fire now, the mental battle transforming itself into pictures, sensations. He stood at the heart of an inferno, flames consuming him, burning through all his defences. He was naked (Wahey! Naked Jack! Ahem. Sorry.) and alone, screaming as the fire slammed into him, triggering the most basic of instincts. Jack struggled against the chains as fear filled him, terror and panic searing his mind.
And now, at last, he's really afraid. Which is right: Jack's a very physical person, so physical pain doesn't particularly frighten him. But mental pain… that's a different matter. Perhaps because he can't control it.
He had all but lost his connection to the physical now, cut adrift into a world of darkness and pain, but he felt another hand join the first, holding him still and he heard the grunt of effort as Saxon pushed past the last of his barriers. The Time Lord's mind was alien, incomprehensible to Jack's battered senses. It was full of the darkness of the Void itself, the heat of a supernova and the incessant beat of drums. The sound filled him, too much for his mind to contain and he knew that the violation was killing him.
Almost before he was aware of it, there was singing in Jack's head. It started softly, a low humming that was all but inaudible over the sound of drums that was pounding through him. Then it rose, in pitch and volume, a cool breeze against the flames that surrounded him. It was an ethereal voice, pure and clear, at once familiar and unknown, beautiful with a wordless melody that seemed to come from somewhere far beyond. The drums increased in volume, making Jack's heart beat to their rhythm, temporarily deafening him to anything else.
I have to say, it took me a while the first time I read this to realise that this sound was coming from the TARDIS, simply because I wasn't expecting it. But once I realised, I loved the idea. It's just so right, that Jack's connection to the TARDIS/Vortex would bring him help when he really needed it.
With a sudden burst of sound, the song broke through again, rushing through Jack, through his mind and soul, sweeping the drums away and leaving him breathless with relief. The fire was gone, not just smothered but cast out by a cleansing stream of pure joy that surrounded and uplifted him. He felt as though he should laugh and cry at once, filled with that moment of ecstasy that always came over him after the darkness receded. It was the thrill of living, of being connected to something that sustained him and protected him, no matter what. It was knowing that he was loved. And for the first time in a long time, he was glad to be alive.
That is such a happy line, that last line. Lovely. It's so nice for Jack to have some hope, something to help him get through the rest of his time on the Valiant.
Very slowly, Jack opened his eyes, now able to meet those of the man in front of him without flinching. Instead, it was Saxon who blinked, stepping away from Jack and frowning.
"You are an abomination on the face of the universe," he said flatly, half-lifting a hand to his head.
And the TARDIS got back at the Master too. That is just brilliant!
"So I've been told." Jack grinned. "But I'm still here. And I don't know what the Doctor's going to do, but if I were you, I'd start running again. Because the storm is coming and there's not a thing that can stand in its way."
And Jack's back.
Saxon actually took another step backwards, startled.
"You can't stop me. Neither of you can stop me."
If he'd had his arms free, Jack would have shrugged. Instead, he tilted his head to the side, letting his grin become more feral.
Love this image.
"You're sure about that, are you?"
There was a long, silent moment between them. Jack could hear the hum of the ship's engines, the low thrum of power through the deck under his feet and the gentle swishing of the fans above his head. And he could hear the last strains of that unearthly song, still ringing in his ears and through his mind.
Then Saxon turned on his heel and stalked away without looking back. Only once he was through the doors and out of sight, with the guard returning to his sentry post, did Jack let the first of the tears fall. He was crying with relief and happiness, and from the emptiness that was flowing back into him now that the music was gone. As he took another, gulping breath, he closed his eyes and tried to hear it again, knowing that he wouldn't be able to. It was the first time he'd heard it, really heard it as more than just a whisper in his dreams, and now it had retreated once more, forever beyond his reach. But he knew what it was, knew now that it would come when he needed it, and maybe that was enough.
Jack opened his eyes, blinking away the last of the tears. There was a stronger echo in his mind now, louder than the drums, louder even than the song and the thumping of his own heartbeat. It was the sound of his own voice, telling him everything he needed to know. He'd rest for the moment, leaning on the chains, just a little, letting them take enough of his weight that he could ease some of his straining muscles. He knew now that, when the time came, he'd be ready. Because now he was sure that the time was coming.
These two paragraphs are beautiful. It's such a lovely ending that Jack can let go at last, rest for a bit, and come back stronger than ever.
Never doubted him. Never will.
And that quote, which I actually didn't see coming even though it's been used to end so many fics (and yes, I'm guilty too!), is the perfect way to end.
I'd just like to quote one line from the original story which didn't make it through to this one. The Master arrived to interrogate Jack and sent Lucy away, and he 'caught his wife as she walked past, wrapping one arm round her waist and pulling her to him, not taking his eyes from Jack as they kissed.' This moment is so very reminiscent of that bit at the start of Last of the Time Lords that it's uncanny, since that hadn't aired yet when jadesfire2808 wrote it!
And one final general comment on jadesfire2808's writing: it wasn't until I came to read this so closely that I realised that she hardly ever uses italics. (None at all in this fic, except to refer to the Valiant.) Somehow the way she writes means she doesn't need to. I, on the other hand, use italics all the time, probably far too much. I am greatly in awe of anyone who can manage to get the emphasis across - is confident enough that they've got the emphasis - without having to use italics.
And I think that's all I have to say :-)
Author: jadesfire2808
Fandom: Doctor Who
Commentator: unfeathered
Title: Beating Time
Author: jadesfire2808
Words: ~5800
Characters: Jack, the Saxons.
Rating: PG13
Spoilers: Set between "Sound of Drums" and "Last of the Time Lords", so for both of those.
Summary: Jack's having a long, eventful year, and it's only just started.
This is the first 'Year That Never Was' (or 'Year of Hell' as it is also affectionately known) story I read. In fact, the original story which was then expanded into this one was actually written before Last of the Time Lords even aired, based on - um - certain pictures that were released from it, so it's possible that it was the first 'Year That Never Was' story written!
Actually, I've only just realised, but that's very interesting, because the other fic I chose to do a commentary on, becky_h's Change, is very similar in that it was a very canon-like Jack/Tenth Doctor reunion which she wrote just before Utopia aired. I wondered what made me choose these two fics to comment on. Maybe that's it. Because jadesfire2808 got her original version of this, 'Beat of Drums', very right too. She didn't need to change much to get it to fit canon.
On the other hand, coming back to this story after several months of discussion and reading other 'Year of Hell' stories, I do feel it shows a little how early this one was written. A few details are a little bit off (which I've mentioned in the text). None of that, however, makes it anything less than a really good read, and one I enjoy more than ever now I've delved so far into its depths.
Beating Time
First of all, a comment on the title. I love titles that can be read more than one way, and this one is brilliant. The obvious meaning is a reference to the Master's Drums, i.e. drums beating time. (This is probably a clearer reference when you know that the original fic was called 'Beat of Drums', which is now the title for part 3.) Related to this could also be the idea of a conductor beating time, the Master obviously being the conductor. On a different tack, it could be read as 'time for a beating' - a reference to all that poor old Jack has to go through during that year. And a final interpretation of 'beating' could be as in 'conquering' - the Master conquers time with his Paradox Machine.
I don't know how many of these jadesfire2808 actually intended to be inferred, but I think it's amazingly cool that they're there.
Beaten
Mind not the old man beseeching the young man;
Let not the child's voice be heard, nor the mother's entreaties;
Make even the trestles to shake the dead, where they lie awaiting the hearses,
So strong you thump, O terrible drums--so loud you bugles blow.
From Beat! Beat! Drums! by Walt Whitman
I have to admit I almost never read quotes at the start of stories. I try to, but my brain just skips over them. But I like the line about the old man here, and 'So strong you thump, O terrible drums'.
Jack loved getting dirty. He loved being up to his elbows in machinery, covered in grime and grease, listening to the purr of a working engine or coaxing life out of a reluctant circuit. He was good with his hands, in all kinds of ways, and it was good to be doing something.
This is a side to Jack we don't often see in fics (or maybe it's just that I don't see it, because I'm too busy reading - um - other sorts of stories!) but it feels very him. It's so not what you expect to find him doing that it's a really good way to make you sit up and take notice at the start of the story.
Admittedly, repairing tagged out circuits on the Valiant hadn't been top of his list of things he wanted to fix, but it was work and it was keeping him busy and it was stopping him from going mad with worry. If the Valiant's systems failed, they were all going to have much more immediate problems than a madman taking over the planet. It had been barely a fortnight, but Saxon seemed to have started as he meant to go on. Pulling out the damaged component, Jack wiped a grubby hand over his forehead and smiled. No-one was plummeting to their deaths if he could help it, not even Saxon. Jack had other plans for him.
And now we find out why. Not just because the Master has, presumably, ordered him to fix it but also simply because it needs to be done and Jack's the only one who can do it.
I also find it extremely interesting that throughout this fic Jack refers to the Master as 'Saxon'. I don't know if that was just because jadesfire2808 found it more comfortable to use that name (which I can understand, because I find 'the Master' - like 'the Doctor', actually - a rather impersonal sort of name and it's nice to have a 'proper' name to work with), or if she was trying to say something about how Jack viewed the Master. Perhaps it's because Jack, like Martha, had been aware of Saxon for some time, without knowing he was the Master, and the first name you know someone by tends to stick.
This isn't something I'd thought about before, and I don't think I've read anyone else having Jack refer to the Master as 'Saxon' either - but it makes a lot of sense!
Moving back to the makeshift work bench, Jack picked up a screwdriver and began opening the small, black box.
"Water?"
Carefully, Jack nodded, straightening up and accepting the offered cup. "Thanks."
"How's it going?"
"Fine."
Clive Jones glanced towards the guard on the other side of the room, then leaned closer, on the pretext of refilling Jack's cup. "How can you do this?" he hissed. "Fixing his ship while people are dying."
"I'm trying to stop us falling out of the sky," Jack murmured back. "Half this equipment is doing a job it wasn't meant to do. It's alien design with Earth materials and the whole thing's held together by willpower and duct tape. Would you rather I just let us drop?"
I love this, especially the 'willpower and duct tape' bit. Sounds very TARDIS-like to me.
"If we took him with us."
Meeting Clive's eyes, Jack pointedly held out his cup again. He was allowed a certain amount of autonomy, but conversation between prisoners was not encouraged. "He'd have a way out and a lot of people would die for nothing."
Jack sees the big picture. He's had a lot more experience at this sort of thing than the Joneses. In fact he'd probably had more experience at it when he was just a Time Agent, let alone his time with the Doctor and all those years since!
"So in the meantime, you're just going to work for him?"
This time, Jack dropped his eyes, putting the cup down and fiddling with something on the workbench. "That's how it looks, yeah."
Aha!
"You mean-" Clive broke off, lowering his voice further as he bent to pick up Jack's cup. "What are you going to do?"
"Nothing."
"But-"
Oh, don't push it, Clive. The Master sees all.
"Nothing." Jack shook his head. "Take the cup and go."
"I want to help."
This feels really, really in-character for the Clive we saw in LotTL. Not all that bright, I feel, and completely out of his depth, but desperate to help. And, in his naivety, perhaps endangering them all by not knowing when to shut up.
Jack could hear the pain in Clive's voice, the sincerity and the desperation to do something, anything that would make this living hell more bearable. But he'd made his decision. "No," he said firmly, battling to keep his voice low. "Martha would never forgive me if I let anything happen to you." When Clive didn't reply, he looked up, meeting the other man's eyes. "Get out of here, before they come for us both."
*gulp*
Only when Clive was gone, taking the cup and jug and walking away without a backward look, did Jack breathe more easily. He'd promised himself not to endanger anyone else, least of all Martha's family. They were already suffering enough.
Gingerly, he began reconnecting wires, tracing the circuits in his mind and on the board in front of him. Saxon had had to use him, up to a point. There were only a few people on board who could repair this kind of burn out, caused by Saxon's own re-design, warping UNIT's defence ship into something much more deadly. Jack had known about it, but it hadn't been his problem or his jurisdiction at the time. Now that it was, he intended to make the most of it.
I like this little mention that, as head of Torchwood, Jack probably would have been aware of the building of this ship. If only he'd known who Saxon was at the time, he might have been able to sabotage it then!
It took him another half an hour to finish his work, then another ten to re-insert the modified box into the system. The capacitor would blow the next time someone used the external comms system, and he reckoned he had a couple hours before they tracked down the source and linked it back to him. There was no way of knowing if it would impair the Toclafane comms as well, but it would at least inconvenience the Valiant's crew for a while. This was going to be a war of attrition, and Jack wasn't going anywhere.
I love the last line of that paragraph. Again, Jack sees the big picture. Every little thing he can do to trouble the Master is worth it.
Three and a half hours later, he was starting to reconsider that statement. Apparently where he was going, at speed and dragged by two stony-faced guards, was three decks down, into one of the engine rooms and chained between two pillars. The guards locked the cuffs round his wrists, stretching his arms uncomfortably wide and Jack wondered just how angry, on a scale of one to ten, Saxon was right now. Judging by the pain in his shoulders, Jack guessed it was somewhere around twenty-four.
A sudden change of pace - and a change of temperature because, wow, it's suddenly got very hot in here! *g* The weird thing is, I feel scared for Jack here, with the prospect of him getting the full brunt of the Master's wrath, and yet, I don't see Jack as being particularly scared. He's such a hero.
The repair crews were apparently better than he'd given them credit for, because it was barely half an hour before the TV screen on the wall flickered into life and he got his first glimpse of Saxon since he'd been hauled off the flight deck two weeks previously. There was nothing on the man's face to indicate what he was feeling, and the strange, smiling blankness sent a shiver down Jack's back. This wasn't the harmless, friendly politician he'd watched rise to influence. This was a Time Lord, an unbalanced, powerful genius. Maybe upsetting him hadn't been such a good idea after all.
Ah. Now he's getting perhaps a little scared. He really had forgotten that 'Saxon' wasn't just a politician, hadn't he?
Behind Saxon, Jack saw the Joneses, clinging to each other, standing as far into the corner of the room as they could. In front of them was the Doctor, held by two guards as he tried to stand upright. Jack clenched his fists, fighting back the surge of anger. The cuffs were tight round his wrists and the chains had very little slack in them. It wouldn't take much to snap something, probably him.
Jack, even more than the Doctor, hates being helpless.
And that last line is just - ouch.
"Captain Jack Harkness." Saxon was looking right into the camera, that half-smile still in place, as though he was the only one in the room to get the joke. "I gave you freedom of movement, I gave you work, I haven't killed you in at least four days. And this is how you repay me." He tutted, shaking his head like a disappointed parent and Jack felt a cold knot of fear twist inside him. There was something very, very wrong. "You see," Saxon went on, "for every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction. Newtonian physics, clean and simple. That was your action. This is my reaction."
This is perfect characterisation. I can really see the Master we saw on screen here, and hear him. I can feel Jack's 'cold knot of fear' too.
He stepped back, letting the camera pan across the room, focussing on a new figure, on its knees with its head bowed. Jack pulled against his chains as he recognised the bound man. It was the guard from earlier in the day, the one who hadn't been able to stop him from sabotaging the ship. Jack's frantic tugging wasn't doing anything except send shooting pains through his arms, but he couldn't stop, knowing with awful certainty what was about to happen.
The sense of impending doom in this paragraph is beautifully done. It's one of those times when you find yourself, at every reading, hoping that it won't happen this time, and it always does.
"There are always consequences for your actions, Captain." Saxon's voice was hard and cold, coming from somewhere off-camera.
A flicker of movement on the screen caught Jack's eye, a shadow passing across the floor. Then a bolt of red light shot out, catching the kneeling man in the chest and blasting him into atoms almost before he could scream. Breathing hard, Jack let his head fall forwards for a moment, feeling the pull across his back and the bite of the metal against his wrists. He pulled harder, not expecting anything except the burn of straining muscles, something to drive the black rage from his mind. He certainly didn't expect to feel the slight shift of the chain, the minutest of movements that suggested not everything was as secure as it could have been.
(I have to point out at this stage that actually the Master's laser screwdriver shoots yellow light, not red. But it's really not important to the story.)
I love Jack's reaction here. It feels very Jack, both hanging his head as if in prayer or mourning, and making himself hurt, deliberately, as self-punishment and to let out the rage.
And the tiny bit of hope that's added onto the end of that is just perfect.
When he looked up, Saxon was back in front of the camera, smiling pleasantly as the Toclafane hovered behind him.
I like the way the Toclafane are brought in here. As a reminder that they exist, that the Master has friends (and spies).
"The next time you try something like that, I'll have them bring up some of the surviving UNIT personnel. Or maybe some of the slaves from the shipyards. I trust we understand each other."
*gulp* How is Jack going to fight his war of attrition now?
The monitor flickered off, leaving Jack alone with his anger. It was hot down here, the air full of the smell of machinery and flecks of dirt that were already coating him in a new layer of grime. Breathing hard, he took more of his weight back onto his feet, trying to get as comfortable as possible and not pull his arms out of their sockets. The fury was hardening, forming into something stronger and tougher, becoming a resolve that he could use. And, combined with the tiny movement, it was enough to give him the first stirrings of hope.
Heartbeat
Storm against ship: heartbeat of the world.
Heel against floor and wave upon shore: heartbeat of the world.
Sigh of a lover: heartbeat of the world.
Unknown Irish Author
Now, this quote I did notice, because I know it. It's one of the songs in Riverdance. *feels smug* And I like it here. It sets the scene for the more tranquil feel of Part 2.
Jack lifted his face to the flow of water, luxuriating in the sensations. Warm and soothing, pounding into his muscles and easing the aches. Tentatively, he rolled his shoulders, wincing at the movement and turning to bring one, then the other under the spray. Even for someone in pretty good condition (if he did say so himself), standing with your arms held out hurt. He'd shifted as much as the chains had allowed, trying ward off the worst of the cramps, but there had been moments in the last few weeks where he'd thought he was going to go mad from the pain.
Mmm, I bet that felt good. Nice image of naked-Jack-in-shower. (What? Shallow? Me? *g*)
Now, he could feel it all washing away, along with the dirt, puddling at his feet and running towards the plughole. He dropped his head, letting the heat soak into the back of his neck and watching the last specks of grime floating across the bottom of the shower. It would have been nice to imagine, just for a moment, that he was in his own bathroom back at the Hub, thinking about the day, running through reports and questions in his head. Wondering what Gwen did over the weekend, or how many new gadgets Tosh had bought on eBay or how long it was going to take him to make Ianto smile this morning. Hell, right at that moment he would have settled for a blow by blow account of Owen's weekend activities.
Nice little mention of Torchwood here. I should think Jack's been trying very hard not to think about his team, not to worry about what's happening to them, if they're even still alive. So it's nice that here he can pretend, just for a moment, that everything is normal again.
Closing his eyes, he tried to summon up the memory of Ianto's coffee, the smell and the taste of it, so vivid in his mind that he could almost feel it on his tongue, bitter and smooth all at once. Torchwood had been outlawed, of course, but there had been nothing about rounding up the members, no public executions and, most importantly, no gloating from Saxon to Jack. It was this last thought, that the man wouldn't have been able to help himself, that gave Jack hope. He was storing up the tiny moments, using them to get through the bad times. The smallest shift of the bolts holding his chain to the wall, the relatively light punishment meted out on the Jones family for their latest escape attempt, seeing the Doctor on the screen, just once. It wasn't much, but he'd take what he could get right now.
Nice mention of the Joneses, too, to keep them in the picture and to refute that idiotic idea implied in Last of the Time Lords that the gang on the Valiant would have gone a WHOLE YEAR before trying an escape plan!
He heard a shuffling of feet and opened his eyes again. His escort was starting to look a little jumpy, standing a few metres away and fidgeting with his gun. They'd brought Jack down to the barracks showers to get cleaned up, although no-one was saying what for. Jack doubted it was for anything good. Reluctantly, realising that they could turn the water off at any moment, he tipped his head back and gave his hair a final dousing before stepping out from under the spray and making his way across the communal shower area. The guard nodded to the changing room, where Jack found a towel and a pile of clothes, similar to the ones he'd had on before. Dark trousers, white t-shirt, dark shirt, boots and socks. He took his time doing up the buttons, savouring every last moment of this limited freedom before it was taken away again.
And back to reality. Poor Jack. (Heh, can't believe I got this far without writing that!)
When he was done, he gave the guard a questioning look, receiving a nod towards the door in reply. Outside, the other guard was waiting with the cuffs that they'd used to bring him down here. Trying not to grin, Jack held out his hands, watching the guard fumble with the catch. The chain was longer than on a standard pair of handcuffs, and with a little experimentation once they were on the move, Jack found that he could get his arms about thirty centimetres apart, if he didn't mind the thin bracelets cutting into his wrists.
Trying not to grin - he likes being chained that much, does he? *g* Only joking, I know he's grinning because they're fancy long chains which might be to his advantage!
As they marched through the lower decks, Jack was tempted to ask where they were going, deciding instead to concentrate on taking in his surroundings. It was three weeks since he'd been out of the engine room, three weeks of wondering what the hell was going on out there, relying on Tish and whispered fragments of conversation to keep him in touch with the outside world. Looking round, he wondered why he'd bothered. The Valiant looked just the same, full of blank faced prisoners and guards with expressions of grim diligence. There was no chatter, not so much as a glance of acknowledgement between people sharing the same space. Just a silent determination to survive this minute. Then the next one. Then the next.
Grim. Very right.
Eventually his small group reached the lift, and Jack frowned as one of the guards pressed the button for Deck Eight. He'd expected to be taken up to the flight deck or maybe back to the engine room. As far as he could remember, Deck Eight was where the conference rooms and larger quarters were. As the lift doors opened again and he was pushed down the corridor, he at least had an explanation for why he'd been allowed to clean up. It was more like a hotel here than a working ship, with thick carpet on the floor and wood panelling and oil paintings - originals as far as he could tell - on the walls. Even UNIT's brass wouldn't have had such luxury, not on board ship, and Jack knew this had to be Saxon's personal design. Apparently he liked his creature comforts.
Interesting view of what the Master's quarters might have been like.
The guards stopped by one of the doors, apparently no different to the others, knocking once then opening the door for him to enter. With a last glance at the guards, who were resolutely staring at the wall opposite, Jack stepped inside, hearing the door close behind him. His wandering gaze took in the deep brown, leather chairs, the book cases and the trophy cabinets, finally coming to rest on the woman in the opposite doorway.
The trophy cabinets… and the trophy wife…
Lucy Saxon no longer looked like the demure politician's wife. The red dress and tumbling blonde curls suited her much better than the buttoned up coat. She seemed more comfortable, less restrained, more herself, somehow. Walking across the room, she exaggerated the sway of her hips, tossing her head and sweeping the tresses back. Her walk was that of a model, preening and loving the attention. Jack couldn't take his eyes off her, suddenly aware of how long it had been since he'd had anything to stare at except the back of a guard's head. As much as he'd had bigger concerns, his mind was suddenly replaying some of the more vivid memories that had helped him pass the long, lonely, chained-up hours. He shifted slightly as she walked past him, the clink of the chains reminding him that, technically, he was still chained up. It was enough to let him get at least some of his wits back.
I love this. Jack's such a tactile person that, yeah, being chained up like that, unable to touch anything, would be true sensory deprivation to him.
Lucy seemed to hear the sound as well, and her lips curled into a half-smile. "Would you like a drink?" She held up a crystal decanter, her voice low and purring.
"I'm fine, thanks." It wasn't easy to throw him off-balance, and Jack had to give her credit for managing it. When she turned, glass in her hand, he gave her a questioning look. "What am I doing here?"
It wasn't easy to throw him off-balance - no, I shouldn't think it would be, after all these years. I love Jack's appreciation here of a worthy foe.
Instead of answering, she lifted the glass, watching the light dance across the crystal and the liquid inside. Now that she was facing him properly, Jack could see the hesitation in her expression and, more importantly, the darkening bruise under her eye. He clenched his fists.
Aww, what a hero! :-)
"Harold thinks I don't care about the other women," she said matter-of-factly. "He knows that I know, but he thinks I'm too much in love with him to care. Maybe I am." Draining the drink with a toss of her head, she put the glass down and looked at Jack properly for the first time. "But he's not the only one to appreciate," she paused, running her eyes over him before finishing, "beauty."
And she's not the only one to appreciate that particular beauty. Sorry. Shutting up now! *g*
It wasn't a surprise, not exactly. It certainly wasn't the first time he'd been in this position, not by a long way. And there were rules to how this game was played. Raising his eyebrows a little, he said, "You know he'd kill us both if he found out."
"Maybe, maybe not. Besides, would that be a problem?"
"Not for me."
Fantastic line. And a nice insertion of humour.
She laughed, an odd, hiccoughing sound, putting her drink down and walking towards him with the same swaying walk as before. Watching her come towards him, Jack knew for certain that this was the first time she'd done this. He allowed himself a moment of pity for this fragile, lovely creature, letting himself imagine, however briefly, what it would have been like under different circumstances. He played with the thoughts as she took two more steps, reacting to her as any man would, letting himself feel the mixture of attraction and protectiveness that would let him play the part properly. Then he got a grip on those feelings, his brain taking over again and calculating all the different ways this could end.
I love this. The way Jack lets himself feel the attraction, but also keeps his head. It feels very in-character.
Half of his plans were thrown out of the window as she came closer, close enough that he could see into her eyes. There was nothing there, not even the coolness of the iciest blonde, just the emptiness of a shell, as though someone had drained all the humanity out of her. This wasn't someone he could persuade over to his side, someone he could reason with or appeal to with any kind of emotional plea. She'd stood and laughed as the Earth died. There was going to be no change of heart now. Vaguely, he wondered if she was from Earth at all, knowing that all kinds of things could hide behind the mask of human flesh. There was something wrong about her, something that triggered every instinct he had and, with a start, he wondered if that was what the Doctor felt when he looked at him.
The transition from the previous paragraph to this one feels a little awkward, purely because the start of this one is pulled straight from jadesfire2808's original story, which originally came straight after "Jack couldn't take his eyes off her". Basically, this whole section is based on an original scene where Lucy visited him chained up in the boiler room, but it's been greatly expanded on. I think most of it works very well, but there are just a couple of points where it feels a little awkward.
Having said that, I love the line about there being something wrong about Lucy, and Jack wondering if that's how he feels to the Doctor.
He didn't get to finish the thought as she stopped in front of him, so close that he could feel the brush of her body against his, feel the silk of her dress on his chained hands. Avoiding those vacant eyes, Jack dropped his gaze to her mouth, seeing the tip of her tongue just visible between her parted lips. He could feel her body heat, hear her rapid breathing. At this proximity, he could almost hear her heartbeat, even as his own pulse picked up, echoing in his ears.
Her fingers worked their way across his face, the pressure too strong for a caress, as though she was trying to remould his face, re-sculpt him through her touch. Jack made no attempt to turn away, letting her dig nails into his cheeks, run her thumb over his lips, and he only closed his eyes when she brought her fingers up to them, feeling her feather-light touch across his eyelids.
"What are you?" she whispered, and he smiled.
"If I had my hands free, I could show you."
"Naughty." She slapped him, hard enough to sting. Jack kept his face turned away, still playing the game, as she pressed her fingers into his cheek again. "I'm sure you can do more in chains than most could do with both hands and a month to think about it."
Great line! I'm sure he could too! *g*
"Possibly." He could feel her breath against his cheek, and he forced himself to stay calm, despite the twin, conflicting urges to run towards the door or carry her bodily into the bedroom. He couldn't afford to lose his head in any direction at this point. "Is that why I'm here?"
I love this. The 'twin, conflicting urges' and not being able to 'afford to lose his head in any direction'. Clever.
Her hands were moving again, a sharp nail running across the base of his throat, moving from side to side and pressing into the pulse-points, not quite hard enough to leave a mark. He resisted the urge to swallow, opening his mouth instead, fighting to keep his breathing under control as she carried on speaking as if she hadn't heard his question, her voice a low murmur. "I wonder what would happen if Harold let me cut off your head. Would you come back from that, do you think? Could you come back and tell me if it hurt? Does it hurt, the dying, or do you just forget it all?"
He didn't answer at first, feeling her nail press deeper into his neck, not quite blocking his throat. Instead, he looked down at her, giving her one more chance to back out. Because he was still playing by his own rules here, which meant that everyone got a last warning.
And that line is wonderful. Jack always seems to be playing by his own rules, and we're never quite sure what they are. Yes, there's a lot of gentleman's honour, like this, in there, but he can do a lot of dark stuff too.
"What do you want?"
This time, her laugh was louder, almost too loud in the quiet room. "If you haven't worked it out by now, then I should just send you back to your prison, shouldn't I?"
"Why?" Her face was so close to his, soft skin against his cheek even as her fingers moved from his throat down his arms and across his chest. She smelt of floral shampoo and perfume and the brandy she'd been drinking. Jack guessed that she'd had a few for courage before he'd arrived, and there was a twinge of guilt at the thought. Then her trailing fingers wrapped into the chain between his wrists, and he pushed the feeling aside.
I love Lucy playing with the chain here. Like a child with a new toy.
This wasn't about him, about the nagging desire that he wasn't about to deny, or even about giving comfort to this broken woman in front of him. This was about the survival of the human race, and Jack wasn't about to miss the slimmest of opportunities to help. Of course, he hadn't figured out exactly what he was going to do yet, but Harold Saxon's wife had to know something useful, didn't she? Forcing himself to concentrate, he took half a step backwards, giving himself enough space to think. "Why are you doing this?" Last chance.
Lucy reached for him again, one hand grasping his shoulder and the other going to her face, ghosting over the outline of the bruise.
"To see if he'll notice."
Oh wow. Oh, Lucy.
Then she was pulling him down, lifting herself up to meet his mouth and her hands were in his hair, gripping his neck, tight and desperate. After a moment's hesitation, Jack responded, hearing her moan as he kissed her back, his hands running over the slippery material of her dress, feeling her press closer into his touch.
Then she broke away, smiling knowingly at him as he tried to regain his balance. He guessed there was excitement in this for her, the thrill of the forbidden and the possibility of discovery. And for him? However much he tried to deny it, tell himself that this was all for 'the cause', the feeling of being touched, of having some kind of connection to another human being was what he had missed more than anything. He didn't need this, didn't need her specifically, but if it was all he was going to get offered, then there was no way he was turning it down. There'd be a chance afterwards, he told himself as she hooked a finger into the chain and began to lead him towards the door in the corner. Besides, if he got really lucky, maybe she'd talk in her sleep.
I love the fact that Jack doesn't try to pretend this is ' all for 'the cause', as jadesfire2808 puts it, but will take pleasure where it's offered, because, God, the poor guy needs something to get him through this eternal year!
Beat of Drums
Borne on the wind an instant, and then gone
Back to the caverns of the middle air
A voice as of a nation overthrown
With beat of drums, when hosts have marched to war.
From The Sublime by Wilfred Blunt
This quote actually makes more sense to me having read the whole poem - these are the last four lines of 14 - but I do like the reference to 'a nation overthrown', as Jack's world has been overthrown by the Master and his drums.
Jack had been tied up enough to know that whoever had arranged his current predicament had had almost as much experience as him. His arms were at that awkward angle, too high to be comfortable but not high enough for him to let the chains take too much of his weight. Not unless he wanted to dislocate his shoulders, as he'd discovered to his cost.
It's interesting to note that this was the opening paragraph of the original story. As such, it completely hooked me, because it came at the scenario of Jack-in-chains (and remember, this whole thing was written from only having seen pictures) from an original angle.
Also, this paragraph about exactly how Jack was chained up is the only one I've seen (though I have tried not to read too much 'Year of Hell' fic so it doesn't influence my own) that mentions the fact that he can't actually hang in his chains. And in fact, upon rewatching LotTL with this in mind, you really can see just how uncomfortable that position would be, long-term. Whenever we see Jack on screen, he's standing up straight and strong (as Jack would!) but no-one can stand like that all the time. And his arms are not stretched upwards, as they usually are in such scenes on tv, but directly out to the sides at shoulder level. If he was to bend his knees, to rest his aching back, then yes, he would be doing nasty things to his shoulders! He really can't move very much at all. Added to which, the angle at which those cuffs are held by the chains means that they're - well, not cutting into his wrists, because they are least nice and chunky not thin and cutty, but they definitely look uncomfortable the way his hands hang down from them.
OK, I've obviously been thinking about this way too much, but it was this story that got me thinking about it in the first place, so blame jadesfire2808!
(I also can't help wondering how much John Barrowman actually enjoyed being chained up, but that's just me and my dirty mind! *g*)
And finally, that first sentence… Been tied up a lot, have you, Jack? For fun or not for fun? *g*
The heat was stifling, and Jack was itching all over, sweat and dirt mingling and running down his face and back. It was minor discomfort, a bass note to the increasing pitch of agony in his arms. Trying to distract himself, Jack watched the seconds ticking past on the screen in front of him. Twenty seven days since Lucy Saxon. Twenty six days since Harold Saxon had found out. Eighteen days and eight slow deaths later, Jack had been left to hang in chains again, the ticking seconds and growing pain reminders that he was still living.
Ow. Eighteen days and eight slow deaths. Very nasty. Not to mention the following eight days standing there in chains.
There was nothing he could do right now, not like this and not with a guard barely ten feet away, although he did notice that the guard had turned his back. An amateur's mistake, not to watch your prisoner, especially someone like Jack. It could only get you into trouble. All Jack had to do was figure out how.
*Snigger* Nice little touch of humour to lighten the mood.
He was tugging gently on the restraints, trying not to make a noise as he worked on the small weakness in the brickwork, when the quality of the air changed. A cool draft flowed through the room, bringing temporary relief from the humidity and Jack craned his neck, trying to see who was there, his heart sinking as he heard the familiar, mocking voice.
One little comment here: I'm pretty sure those columns are concrete, not brickwork.
Second little comment, for anyone who's interested in where the original story fitted in: initially this was where the Lucy scene (or bits of it) came, so it was Lucy entering here, not the Master. The Master entered later and sent her away.
"Well, Captain, it's been a while."
At the sound of the voice, Jack's head snapped up and he blinked in the dim light.
"At least six days," he said, as calmly as he could. Mostly what he felt was a deep resignation, that this was how time would pass from now on. Three months into the Master's reign of terror, Jack knew what his part in it was going to be. Most of it was going to hurt.
Oh God, more nasty. See, this whole thing makes me hate Russell T Davies so much. How could he even suggest that poor Jack had to go through a WHOLE YEAR of this?
Saxon made a dismissive gesture to the guard, who left without looking back, leaving them alone.
"So, Captain Jack Harkness," Saxon said, pushing his hands into his pockets. "Do you have any idea how pathetic you are?"
This particular line feels a tiny bit off to me, though I'm not sure why. And the next section doesn't seem to flow quite as well as the rest of it - possibly because it was lifted from the original story, and expanded and adjusted slightly to fit the earlier sections and canon. Not a major problem, just something I wanted to note.
"I'm sure you're going to tell me." Fighting his instinct to shrink away, Jack forced himself to stay calm. Even in the muted light, he could see the madness in Saxon's eyes, an all-consuming fire that burned to the heart of his soul, striking more fear into him than physical threats could ever manage. He hadn't spoken much during the varied and ingenious methods of death that he'd subjected Jack to, but now it seemed, he wanted to talk.
Ticking the points off on his fingers, Saxon walked slowly towards him. "I could list all the ways you've failed to stop me, all the chances you could have taken and completely missed. Honestly, Torchwood's not what it used to be, not with you in charge. Your predecessor would have had me hung, drawn and quartered before I could threaten the precious British Empire. Not to mention that sleeping with my wife was a foolish mistake and ultimately pointless."
Jack refused to rise to the taunts, knowing it was the quickest way to cracking. As though sensing his thoughts, Saxon stepped closer, his strange, dark eyes still ablaze.
"Not going to talk to me, Captain? You screamed well enough when they killed you, didn't you? Such a noise." Saxon shook his head, wincing in mock-pain. "But I suppose that means we can't be friends. What a pity. You've got so many friends, Captain, haven't you? So many good friends, who tell you all their secrets."
For interest: the rest of this story is taken directly from the original fic.
Jack found that he couldn't look away. This wasn't madness as he could understand it, an imbalance in the brain, a chemical anomaly that could be corrected. This was a twist in the soul, warped and misshapen but still recognisable as what he could have been. All that power and ability, channelled and wielded by a man who could only use it for destruction. And yet there was something, deep beneath the surface of those terrible eyes, that reminded Jack of the Doctor.
I love that line: "a twist in the soul". Perfect description of the Master. And I adore the fact that he reminds Jack of the Doctor.
"Yes," Saxon hissed, lifting a hand to cup Jack's face. "That's it. He told you his secrets, didn't he? Told you what he plans to do."
Oops.
Too late, Jack felt the probing, thin tendrils of thought brushing against his mind. He shook his head.
"He didn't tell me anything."
"There's no point lying to me now, Captain." Saxon's voice was soft, barely a whisper in Jack's ear. "We're getting to know each other, you and I. We're going to be friends after all and there's no secrets between friends." He drove his mind harder against Jack's, fingers tightening around Jack's head.
"He didn't tell me," Jack gasped, trying to fight the intrusion. "He wouldn't take the risk." His mind was on fire now, the mental battle transforming itself into pictures, sensations. He stood at the heart of an inferno, flames consuming him, burning through all his defences. He was naked (Wahey! Naked Jack! Ahem. Sorry.) and alone, screaming as the fire slammed into him, triggering the most basic of instincts. Jack struggled against the chains as fear filled him, terror and panic searing his mind.
And now, at last, he's really afraid. Which is right: Jack's a very physical person, so physical pain doesn't particularly frighten him. But mental pain… that's a different matter. Perhaps because he can't control it.
He had all but lost his connection to the physical now, cut adrift into a world of darkness and pain, but he felt another hand join the first, holding him still and he heard the grunt of effort as Saxon pushed past the last of his barriers. The Time Lord's mind was alien, incomprehensible to Jack's battered senses. It was full of the darkness of the Void itself, the heat of a supernova and the incessant beat of drums. The sound filled him, too much for his mind to contain and he knew that the violation was killing him.
Almost before he was aware of it, there was singing in Jack's head. It started softly, a low humming that was all but inaudible over the sound of drums that was pounding through him. Then it rose, in pitch and volume, a cool breeze against the flames that surrounded him. It was an ethereal voice, pure and clear, at once familiar and unknown, beautiful with a wordless melody that seemed to come from somewhere far beyond. The drums increased in volume, making Jack's heart beat to their rhythm, temporarily deafening him to anything else.
I have to say, it took me a while the first time I read this to realise that this sound was coming from the TARDIS, simply because I wasn't expecting it. But once I realised, I loved the idea. It's just so right, that Jack's connection to the TARDIS/Vortex would bring him help when he really needed it.
With a sudden burst of sound, the song broke through again, rushing through Jack, through his mind and soul, sweeping the drums away and leaving him breathless with relief. The fire was gone, not just smothered but cast out by a cleansing stream of pure joy that surrounded and uplifted him. He felt as though he should laugh and cry at once, filled with that moment of ecstasy that always came over him after the darkness receded. It was the thrill of living, of being connected to something that sustained him and protected him, no matter what. It was knowing that he was loved. And for the first time in a long time, he was glad to be alive.
That is such a happy line, that last line. Lovely. It's so nice for Jack to have some hope, something to help him get through the rest of his time on the Valiant.
Very slowly, Jack opened his eyes, now able to meet those of the man in front of him without flinching. Instead, it was Saxon who blinked, stepping away from Jack and frowning.
"You are an abomination on the face of the universe," he said flatly, half-lifting a hand to his head.
And the TARDIS got back at the Master too. That is just brilliant!
"So I've been told." Jack grinned. "But I'm still here. And I don't know what the Doctor's going to do, but if I were you, I'd start running again. Because the storm is coming and there's not a thing that can stand in its way."
And Jack's back.
Saxon actually took another step backwards, startled.
"You can't stop me. Neither of you can stop me."
If he'd had his arms free, Jack would have shrugged. Instead, he tilted his head to the side, letting his grin become more feral.
Love this image.
"You're sure about that, are you?"
There was a long, silent moment between them. Jack could hear the hum of the ship's engines, the low thrum of power through the deck under his feet and the gentle swishing of the fans above his head. And he could hear the last strains of that unearthly song, still ringing in his ears and through his mind.
Then Saxon turned on his heel and stalked away without looking back. Only once he was through the doors and out of sight, with the guard returning to his sentry post, did Jack let the first of the tears fall. He was crying with relief and happiness, and from the emptiness that was flowing back into him now that the music was gone. As he took another, gulping breath, he closed his eyes and tried to hear it again, knowing that he wouldn't be able to. It was the first time he'd heard it, really heard it as more than just a whisper in his dreams, and now it had retreated once more, forever beyond his reach. But he knew what it was, knew now that it would come when he needed it, and maybe that was enough.
Jack opened his eyes, blinking away the last of the tears. There was a stronger echo in his mind now, louder than the drums, louder even than the song and the thumping of his own heartbeat. It was the sound of his own voice, telling him everything he needed to know. He'd rest for the moment, leaning on the chains, just a little, letting them take enough of his weight that he could ease some of his straining muscles. He knew now that, when the time came, he'd be ready. Because now he was sure that the time was coming.
These two paragraphs are beautiful. It's such a lovely ending that Jack can let go at last, rest for a bit, and come back stronger than ever.
Never doubted him. Never will.
And that quote, which I actually didn't see coming even though it's been used to end so many fics (and yes, I'm guilty too!), is the perfect way to end.
I'd just like to quote one line from the original story which didn't make it through to this one. The Master arrived to interrogate Jack and sent Lucy away, and he 'caught his wife as she walked past, wrapping one arm round her waist and pulling her to him, not taking his eyes from Jack as they kissed.' This moment is so very reminiscent of that bit at the start of Last of the Time Lords that it's uncanny, since that hadn't aired yet when jadesfire2808 wrote it!
And one final general comment on jadesfire2808's writing: it wasn't until I came to read this so closely that I realised that she hardly ever uses italics. (None at all in this fic, except to refer to the Valiant.) Somehow the way she writes means she doesn't need to. I, on the other hand, use italics all the time, probably far too much. I am greatly in awe of anyone who can manage to get the emphasis across - is confident enough that they've got the emphasis - without having to use italics.
And I think that's all I have to say :-)