Prompt 3/15 - A Hand to Hold
Prompt 3/15 - A Hand to Hold
Title: Promises
Characters: 10th Doctor, Jack Harkness
Rating: PG -13 for the language and some minor subject matter.
AN: This was inspired by my first night in the new apartment, and really needing a hug from my late Mom, and all the times when I was miserable and needed her there, but she’s can’t be. This time, though, the Doctor isn’t alone.
She made him promise to go somewhere, some-when, and to someone that he could trust, a place he could be safe in. She made him promise, refusing to let him close the blue doors, to not be alone for the next while. She wished it could have been her, but there were many reasonable reasons (and several of those were quite unfair, to his thinking) why he had to go, and not stay. She had been smart, and made him promise where the Tardis could hear him, tucking a sheaf of papers about the plague into the pocket of his blue suit. She’d made him promise to give that to the person he could trust, so they would know what was going on with him.
So, the Tardis had, with perfect aim and without taking any changes of route, taken the Doctor to Earth, early 21st century, but not to Great Britain. Not to Sarah Jane, or to Martha, or even to Cardiff. She’d landed in New York.
She had put him, to his tired and feverish eyes, in the penthouse suite of a major hotel in New York.
It was nice, and comfy, and he really didn’t mind the idea of just lying low and sleeping until this whole minor plague thing passed out of his system, but the suite was empty, and he had promised. It wasn’t yet midnight, so of course there was always the chance that the occupant just wasn’t back yet, but he’d promised to be with someone, and this whole place was empty. There was nothing that his eyes could find that would tell him who it belonged to. No suitcase, no attaché case, no computer, good snack bar.
Actually, bad idea, that. Bad food. Food bad, either way.
Although, to be fair, it gave him an up close and personal look at the fine tile floors of the master bathroom, with hot tub and 700 count towels and really cold tile floors…oh, wait, he’d looked at those before. The master bath, in reality, wasn’t a half mile from the bed, but it sure felt that way on his shaking legs and sore knees. And it wasn’t the side of a mountain to get up into the bed, but his limp muscles refused to work, and it took several tries to get from the floor where he’d collapsed to the top of the pillowtop mattress, shivering from the effort it had taken.
Only then did he realize whose room this was, by the scent of pheromones from the pillow…
****
He had promised to come to the wedding, and be there for the dancing and all the toasting. Sarah Jane had come, too, with Luke, and K9 even popped in for a bit. A good chunk of UNIT had been there, and they had growled at him, but Jack Harkness never really bothered to snarl back, he was simply having too much of a good time toasting the happy couple. Mickey certainly wouldn’t know what hit him when the thrill of marriage wore off and Martha had moulded him into husband material.
Even the Doctor had made an appearance, although he’d stayed for only a short time, enough to congratulate the newly minted Dr. Martha Jones Smith. He looked good in his black suit, Jack thought, although the bright red shoes could have been replaced with something a little less… well, it wouldn’t be the Doctor if he wore loafers or dress shoes. Martha hadn’t minded, and the bride had the final say.
Stepping out on the elevator, pulling the hotel key out of his normal coat, he smiled at the thought that UNIT was paying for the head of their nemesis organization to stay in the penthouse of one of the priciest hotels in the city, all because Martha had won a bet with the Colonel. A penthouse, he knew from his brief inspection earlier, with a wonderful master bath, onsite kitchen, gorgeous view of the city and …
…the Tardis sitting on Persian rug.
“Doc?” he called out, closing the door swiftly behind him and walking around the ship. “You ran off before all of UNIT could salute you and run back to my room? C’mon, that’s not fair, Doctor, they so look forward--”
Jack had entered the main bedroom.
***
He knew he must look a sight. The Doctor had seen enough cases on that little world to know that he probably looked like death warmed over, with sunken cheeks, ashen face, and that lovely greenish hue beneath of nausea. There was also the film over the eyes, slowly making him effectively blind, the liquid in his lungs making it hard to breathe, and several other nasty ailments he was trying not to remember. All in all, he had probably earned that sharp gasp, and the exclamation of profanity from the immortal man.
“Doc? What the hell happened to you?”
“Jack?” He raised his head a little, trying to see where Jack was. He thought that blur in the corner was him, but maybe not… so tired. The blur beside the blur he was staring at moved, proving him wrong. “S’right, or will be, soon.”
“What do you mean, alright?!” Jack was kneeling beside the bed, furious and worried all at once. This close, the Doctor could see his friend’s face, but it was fading even as he watched it. “You’re boiling hot, covered in sweat, and shivering. You are--”
The Doctor slipped a hand into the pocket of his jacket and pulled the sheaf out. “S’all there, Jack. Need to…sleep now. I’ll be alright…just a little sleep.” He closed his useless eyes and felt the pull of sleep tug him down the long corridor.
**
Jack hated the fact that the old alien was right. The plague that ran through the Doctor, according to these readouts, was fast, vicious and deadly to most of the lower-evolved species. It wouldn’t hurt the human race, with their immune systems, and the Doctor himself wasn’t susceptible to the most violent of the symptoms, but a cure would have been a nice thing to have right about then. This thing wouldn’t kill him, but he might wish for regeneration before this was over.
There had been a cure, but with his metabolism the Doctor would recover before anything could be tailored to meet his species unique needs. It had been decided, by the healers on this little backwater world that Jack had never heard of, and by the Tardis and the Doctor, that he would just have to suffer through the next 12 hours or so. Keep him comfortable, and that was it.
Which was why the Doctor was lying in his bed, looking small and lost amidst the pillows: he’d promised to go to someone that he could trust and let them look after him. He had picked Jack, of all the people he could have gone to.
So Jack did the only thing that he could, sitting up against the headboard. He pulled the exhausted Time Lord up against his chest, easing his breathing, warming him up with his body heat, and held him.
Title: Promises
Characters: 10th Doctor, Jack Harkness
Rating: PG -13 for the language and some minor subject matter.
AN: This was inspired by my first night in the new apartment, and really needing a hug from my late Mom, and all the times when I was miserable and needed her there, but she’s can’t be. This time, though, the Doctor isn’t alone.
She made him promise to go somewhere, some-when, and to someone that he could trust, a place he could be safe in. She made him promise, refusing to let him close the blue doors, to not be alone for the next while. She wished it could have been her, but there were many reasonable reasons (and several of those were quite unfair, to his thinking) why he had to go, and not stay. She had been smart, and made him promise where the Tardis could hear him, tucking a sheaf of papers about the plague into the pocket of his blue suit. She’d made him promise to give that to the person he could trust, so they would know what was going on with him.
So, the Tardis had, with perfect aim and without taking any changes of route, taken the Doctor to Earth, early 21st century, but not to Great Britain. Not to Sarah Jane, or to Martha, or even to Cardiff. She’d landed in New York.
She had put him, to his tired and feverish eyes, in the penthouse suite of a major hotel in New York.
It was nice, and comfy, and he really didn’t mind the idea of just lying low and sleeping until this whole minor plague thing passed out of his system, but the suite was empty, and he had promised. It wasn’t yet midnight, so of course there was always the chance that the occupant just wasn’t back yet, but he’d promised to be with someone, and this whole place was empty. There was nothing that his eyes could find that would tell him who it belonged to. No suitcase, no attaché case, no computer, good snack bar.
Actually, bad idea, that. Bad food. Food bad, either way.
Although, to be fair, it gave him an up close and personal look at the fine tile floors of the master bathroom, with hot tub and 700 count towels and really cold tile floors…oh, wait, he’d looked at those before. The master bath, in reality, wasn’t a half mile from the bed, but it sure felt that way on his shaking legs and sore knees. And it wasn’t the side of a mountain to get up into the bed, but his limp muscles refused to work, and it took several tries to get from the floor where he’d collapsed to the top of the pillowtop mattress, shivering from the effort it had taken.
Only then did he realize whose room this was, by the scent of pheromones from the pillow…
****
He had promised to come to the wedding, and be there for the dancing and all the toasting. Sarah Jane had come, too, with Luke, and K9 even popped in for a bit. A good chunk of UNIT had been there, and they had growled at him, but Jack Harkness never really bothered to snarl back, he was simply having too much of a good time toasting the happy couple. Mickey certainly wouldn’t know what hit him when the thrill of marriage wore off and Martha had moulded him into husband material.
Even the Doctor had made an appearance, although he’d stayed for only a short time, enough to congratulate the newly minted Dr. Martha Jones Smith. He looked good in his black suit, Jack thought, although the bright red shoes could have been replaced with something a little less… well, it wouldn’t be the Doctor if he wore loafers or dress shoes. Martha hadn’t minded, and the bride had the final say.
Stepping out on the elevator, pulling the hotel key out of his normal coat, he smiled at the thought that UNIT was paying for the head of their nemesis organization to stay in the penthouse of one of the priciest hotels in the city, all because Martha had won a bet with the Colonel. A penthouse, he knew from his brief inspection earlier, with a wonderful master bath, onsite kitchen, gorgeous view of the city and …
…the Tardis sitting on Persian rug.
“Doc?” he called out, closing the door swiftly behind him and walking around the ship. “You ran off before all of UNIT could salute you and run back to my room? C’mon, that’s not fair, Doctor, they so look forward--”
Jack had entered the main bedroom.
***
He knew he must look a sight. The Doctor had seen enough cases on that little world to know that he probably looked like death warmed over, with sunken cheeks, ashen face, and that lovely greenish hue beneath of nausea. There was also the film over the eyes, slowly making him effectively blind, the liquid in his lungs making it hard to breathe, and several other nasty ailments he was trying not to remember. All in all, he had probably earned that sharp gasp, and the exclamation of profanity from the immortal man.
“Doc? What the hell happened to you?”
“Jack?” He raised his head a little, trying to see where Jack was. He thought that blur in the corner was him, but maybe not… so tired. The blur beside the blur he was staring at moved, proving him wrong. “S’right, or will be, soon.”
“What do you mean, alright?!” Jack was kneeling beside the bed, furious and worried all at once. This close, the Doctor could see his friend’s face, but it was fading even as he watched it. “You’re boiling hot, covered in sweat, and shivering. You are--”
The Doctor slipped a hand into the pocket of his jacket and pulled the sheaf out. “S’all there, Jack. Need to…sleep now. I’ll be alright…just a little sleep.” He closed his useless eyes and felt the pull of sleep tug him down the long corridor.
**
Jack hated the fact that the old alien was right. The plague that ran through the Doctor, according to these readouts, was fast, vicious and deadly to most of the lower-evolved species. It wouldn’t hurt the human race, with their immune systems, and the Doctor himself wasn’t susceptible to the most violent of the symptoms, but a cure would have been a nice thing to have right about then. This thing wouldn’t kill him, but he might wish for regeneration before this was over.
There had been a cure, but with his metabolism the Doctor would recover before anything could be tailored to meet his species unique needs. It had been decided, by the healers on this little backwater world that Jack had never heard of, and by the Tardis and the Doctor, that he would just have to suffer through the next 12 hours or so. Keep him comfortable, and that was it.
Which was why the Doctor was lying in his bed, looking small and lost amidst the pillows: he’d promised to go to someone that he could trust and let them look after him. He had picked Jack, of all the people he could have gone to.
So Jack did the only thing that he could, sitting up against the headboard. He pulled the exhausted Time Lord up against his chest, easing his breathing, warming him up with his body heat, and held him.