FIC: Mediation (Doctor/Master/Jack, NC-17, 2/?)
Title: Mediation
Author: extryn
Fandom: Doctor Who
Pairings: Ten/Simm!Master, Jack/Simm!Master, Ten/Jack, Jack/Ianto.
Genre: darkfic, angst, smut
Length: 90,000+
Warnings: torture, noncon, graphic violence, graphic sex, heavy BDSM, psychological torture, mind control, character death.
'Why are you here, Freak?'
'To check up on him,' Jack says, as offhandedly as he can manage. It's no secret.
(The TARDIS isn't big enough for the three of them.)
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
He doesn't actually see either of them for almost a week. At least, Jack thinks it’s a week, the TARDIS's day-cycles are certainly not following any Earth pattern he can make out.
Predictably, it's the Master he bumps into first, and unpredictably Jack finds him with his shirtsleeves rolled around his elbows and hands deep into a sink of soapy water. He feels an almost palpable sense of relief, a kind of calm he disconcertingly recognises as that acceptance right before he's about to die and realises he's been so ready and afraid for this moment for months it's almost underwhelming, now.
The biggest thought on his mind is laughably that this kitchen he's been visiting for days now is actually communal, and he hasn't noticed.
'Hello, Freak,' the Master smiles, brightly, shaking the suds off his hands onto the chequered linoleum.
Jack raises his eyebrows, tossing a nearby teatowel which the Master catches with catlike reflexes. 'Morning. Or it could be evening, but I guess you're not going to tell me.'
There's a sparkle in this Time Lord's eyes that reminds Jack all too well of the Doctor, that childlike fascination. The old Doctor, Jack has to remind himself. He's not so naïve as to pretend he can't have lost something, here.
'Second noon. Or, in human terms, lunchtime.'
Wary, Jack keeps one eye on him as he opens the fridge, a yellowed vintage thing, and plucks a fruit he's yet to ask the Doctor the name of from the door. But he can't help from asking for much longer. 'What are you doing?'
The Master rolls his eyes theatrically, hefting a metal spatula rather like a baton. 'Cleaning, Freak. I don't seem to remember you having any particular grasp of hygiene but please, try to keep up.'
Jack can feel his blood boiling and he opens his mouth for an ill-thought out retort, but he's cut off by the godawful sound of metal scraping on metal. He can't figure out whether the sensation of his eardrums being scoured off by the screech is more painful than watching the Master scrape the frictionless finish off the frypan, curl by curl, but it takes all his self restraint not to wrench it out of his hands.
With a kind of morbid fascination, Jack keeps watching as the Master sets the pan down, thoroughly ruined, and starts on the next one. He nibbles his fruit, some combination of anxiety and spectacle making him consume it at a glacial pace, until the pots and pans are little more than scrap metal. He can't not stare while the Master upends the cutlery drawer, the contents of which a hodgepodge of culinary implements from countless cultures and times that could fill an entire museum, and begins to sort them meticulously. In what fashion, Jack hasn't got the faintest clue; they could just as easily be organised by name of designer as by atomic number of their primary constituent, but he's sure it's the one calculated in frightening detail to piss off the Doctor the most.
Task complete, the Master gives him a grin so unashamedly licentious it puts Jack to shame, and leaves.
Jack feels like laughing, but he hardly dares let out his breath.
***
Things are, for another respectable chunk of time, quiet. Jack hardly sees either Time Lord, and if it wasn't for the evidence of their continued habitation he'd wonder if they were even still here at all. The Doctor leaves a sticky trail of jam on the tabletop that the TARDIS doesn't always reset in time for him, the console sometimes is missing sections and spewing wiring and hydraulic lines (Jack can only guess) that are gone by the next time he visits. The Master leaves everything from mindless destruction to redecoration, and so far Jack's favourite example of rebellion has been the complex Gallifreyan symbols streaked in the steam on the bathroom mirror with a fingertip. He imagines it must be some kind of petty genealogical insult.
The Master's behaviour Jack can only rationalise as the kind of pranks schoolchildren would play on each other and wonders if perhaps that's exactly the point. He can read between the lines, there, but it hurts no more than it already does.
For a few days, almost, he almost believes the Doctor. And then he sees him.
Jack knows Time Lords need little sleep but he's sure the Doctor hasn't had so much as a wink since he first came on board. There's a shadow of fading bruises just under the collar of his shirt that Jack can't distinguish from fingers or teeth and he walks stiffly, with injuries that can only be guessed at. Surprisingly, Jack is calm; this is a situation that at least he knows how to manage better than ordering spoons.
The Doctor edges into the console room, looking at Jack with a conspiratorial smile even while his eyes are blank, and pulls the display closer while he taps a few keys.
'Doctor,' Jack warns.
The Doctor doesn't shift his body, but instead turns his head to grin a little more widely at him. 'Jack! It's been a while, hasn't it? I'm sorry if the old girl's been giving you any trouble.' The last, he says with a fond pat to the console.
Jack can't help a sigh escaping, and takes a seat opposite him. 'Not much. Neither has your prisoner, if you'd believe that.'
The Doctor looks shocked as he glances back at him, even hurt. The pause is long enough he can almost see the air darkening. 'I'm not a jailer.'
'Mmm,' Jack refuses to answer. 'Then what's he doing here?'
He pauses, mouth half-open with his tongue in the middle of forming a word, like he's figuring out an equation. 'He needs me.'
Jack is almost disgusted with himself to feel a tiny, smouldering coil of rage at the imperiousness with which the Doctor says it. He tries to remember if even in the short time he spent with this regeneration, he was ever like this. He wonders if this is how the Master feels.
'Doctor,' Jack says again, 'You're a punching bag.'
When the Doctor's eyes meet his, Jack glimpses something so old and painful there he's struck (not for the first time) by that feeling he is dealing with something more ancient and alien than he'll ever have the right to try and understand. The words are dead in his throat and always too late.
'I can take care of myself.'
He knows better than to pry there. This time, Jack leaves, before he says no, you can't.
***
The TARDIS is somehow too big for Jack to bump into anybody for days on end but at the same time too small for all of them to keep ignoring the tension within it. The uneasy peace is driving him mad, because it only forces the building violence to lurk just out of sight, out of reach.
The Doctor, of course, is hiding the best of all of them. To what ends, Jack can't fathom, when all he's successfully keeping from Jack is a good night's sleep, but the Doctor has always been the best at denial, too.
Too restless to sleep, too drained to imagine he's home in Ianto's flat, Jack starts to wander around the dimly-lit halls of the TARDIS. He's sick of waiting for something to happen before he can even start to do anything about it. But, even with the thought of the Doctor clear and gnawing in his mind, searching for him is like beating someone at Monopoly while they're stealing from the bank. The TARDIS is fiercely loyal and sends Jack on what must be the most circuitous route to the console room possible, via a diving pool Jack didn't know existed and a defunct freezer room full of chocolate in various stages of consumption.
Though he keeps ending up at the secondary console room by accident, he eventually finds the Doctor kneeling under the console, toolbox open and contents scattered within groping distance. Jack doesn't enter, content to watch him for a time.
It's just to check up on him, Jack reminds himself. He seems almost happy like this, busy, and perhaps he'll admit it tugs at him a little more than it should. The Doctor's hand gropes blindly until he extracts a plastic tie from a tangled pile and secures some of the reams of wiring out of his way; stringy lumps of crimson that obscure his head and shoulders from Jack's view. His hips wriggle as he crawls a little closer, the buzz of the sonic screwdriver a welcome noise in the emptiness, and it would be so easy to stride in, slap him jokingly on the ass and draw that easy-going Doctor out from where Jack remembers him. But it's not like that.
As far as Jack can tell, the Doctor disassembles and reassembles the one segment without any benefit besides a well-deserved dusting. He hovers over the adjacent spot as soon as he's finished the first one, before removing the first panel he just finished replacing and doing it all over again. Suddenly feeling like a voyeur, Jack's about to leave, when he turns to come face to face with the Master.
There's not a hair out of place, not a wrinkle in his suit, and this close he smells of Jack's aftershave. 'Evening, Freak.'
Despite being a couple of heads shorter, the Master manages to size him up with just a flick of his eyes. 'Has he put you outside, again? I thought I'd trained you out of shitting on the floors.'
Jack clamps down hard on that sick feeling in the pit of his stomach, and instead flashes his most enduringly patient smile, but before he can think of something to say the Master snorts to himself and saunters up to the console.
Eyeing the mess with disgust, the Master carefully treads around the minefield of spare parts and pokes his head under the console, his fingers reaching out for balance and curling possessively over the Doctor's hip.
He spares a quick smirk over his shoulder for Jack's sake before he bends back down, his lips needlessly close to the Doctor's ear. 'Your pet's begging at the door, you might need to feed it.'
The Doctor doesn't even flinch. 'Leave him alone,' he says, but his voice has lost its conviction, like he's said it too many times for it to mean anything now.
Satisfied, the Master leans up again, pacing in a semicircle around the Doctor to survey the console. 'Seems like very tedious work, Doctor.'
'I like it,' the Doctor says, quietly, ignoring him in favour of blowing the dust off a small circuit module.
The Master sighs fondly and reaches into his inside pocket, where he pulls out a perfectly crumpled paper bag, as if he's genuinely left it there from some time ago. 'I don't suppose you'd like a jellybaby for your efforts?'
Jack can see the Doctor hesitate, his back stiffening. 'You know I don't like the green ones.'
Amused, the Master drops the bag on top of the console. 'Suit yourself.'
The Doctor ducks back out onto his feet just in time to see the Master turn to leave, the back of his hand raised in a dismissive wave. This time, as he strides out past Jack, it's the Master wearing the smile and Jack with the glare, and when he risks glancing back at the Doctor he catches him staring out the door, his hand clutched over the bag and something sickeningly close to heartache in his eyes.
Then, he realises they're making eye contact, and Jack leaves before he sees the Doctor's face fall.
His heart pounding, he shoves his hands in his pockets and walks as far away from either of them as he can, until the TARDIS takes him into a gallery cluttered with classical marble busts of human antiquity and several sculptures from a translucent, liquid substance that ripple and flow in response to Jack's movements. There, he paces a path around what little floor is available, until his breathing evens out and he calms down enough to sit against the wall, sighing towards the ceiling.
He starts to wonder how Gwen is faring, on her own again so soon after his absence. Whether Ianto ever managed to find something for his sister's birthday. He fiddles with his wrist strap, knowing he could probably ring them any time he liked with some help from the TARDIS, but it's not worth putting them in any more danger. It's not worth explaining to them why he's here.
Sometimes he hates the Doctor for turning Jack into him.
***
Hours could have easily passed before the anger fades back to worry, and he sets after the Doctor again. Protecting him from the Master (and perhaps more importantly, himself) is the only productive outlet for his frustration, and Jack intends to make the most of it. Exhausted, but too wound up to sleep, what he really craves anyway is a good cup of coffee and something hot and greasy to eat.
The coffee, he fixes himself in the first kitchen the TARDIS takes him to, and forgives her the watery, bitter mess the machine presses out. Years in the army have taught him to be grateful for anything better than instant and the aroma is refreshing, the steam a welcome warmth on his face. It's still nothing like Ianto's.
He misses home more than ever.
No use dwelling; Jack swipes his mug off the counter and gives the wall a friendly stroke, venturing deep into the labyrinthine hallways of the TARDIS. Either she's feeling cooperative, or he's just lucky, but he finds the Doctor within minutes. He hears them well before then.
The shouting is coming from one of the easier rooms to find; the infirmary. Jack keeps a few hallways back to assess the situation, the voices carrying easily to him over the sound of objects smashing.
The Master's voice is the first he makes out--'Out! Get out or I swear to Rassilon himself I'll kill you first and then every last stinking ape…!'--livid in a way he's only heard him the day the Valiant fell. Then the Doctor, pleading, 'I can help you! Let me in, please,' before something glass and fragile shatters amidst the Doctor's yelping, followed by something larger, the clang echoing down the halls. The next exchange he can't quite decipher before the Master's voice cuts in, suddenly, '--and don't you ever, ever dare try that again, filthy hypocrite--'
Then the Doctor bursts out two hallways down from him, shaking, his hand raking through his hair and swiping dark blood off a scratch above his eyebrow. He storms down in his direction, Jack stepping round the corner with his palms raised in surrender, the Doctor stopping dead in his tracks when he catches sight of him.
He lets out a breath, his hand rubbing across his jaw, and his voice sounds raw with relief when he says, 'Jack.'
Jack smiles gently at him, and screw it, he embraces the Doctor even as he cringes away, and leads him back towards the kitchen with a hand between his shoulders. 'Come on. I think we could both use a bite to eat.'
He can tell the Doctor's about to say he isn't hungry, but instead he's quiet a moment, and then all he does say is, 'Thankyou.'
Jack leads the Doctor down a right-turn and blessedly the first door they open is the best-stocked kitchen of the four Jack's found, and he immediately sets to work heating a twenty-third century meal-in-a-can for both of them. It only takes a minute, and he sets one down for the Doctor and hands him a spoon, before taking the seat opposite him on the little rickety table.
The Doctor prods at the contents with one hand, the other releasing its stranglehold on a tightly-compacted ball of white paper to fiddle with it in preference to talking. Jack is sure he'll have to break the silence, when the Doctor takes a shaky breath, and speaks.
'Jack--I'm sorry,' he says, looking up from the can to meet his eyes.
Jack laughs a little, in good nature. 'You can't help his tantrums, Doctor. I'd still rather be here than anywhere else.'
The Doctor's eyes are wide. 'For all of it. I know this isn't easy for you.'
Carefully, Jack picks his words, 'Maybe, but you're right. Somebody's got to look after him.'
He picks a little at the can, sniffing a spoonful of what looks like casserole to him. His eyes manage to go even bigger when he says to Jack, 'He's getting better.'
Jack bites his tongue. 'Yeah, you might be right. He still hasn't tried anything on me, yet.' This is the first chance he's had where the Doctor's actually talking to him, and he's not going to ruin it so easily.
The look on the Doctor's face is almost worth it, the way it lights up, like giving a kid candy after they've grazed their knee. 'I know! I think, Jack, you being here is helping him.'
'You really think you can fix him?' Jack hedges, wanting to stray far away from talking about himself before he says something he regrets.
The Doctor shakes his head, chewing his lip a little. 'It's the drums. I know I can help, he just won't let me.'
'The drums…?' prompts Jack, taking a mouthful of his dinner--surprisingly tasty, the flavour rich and complex.
'The noise in his head. But I think I'm getting through to him and once I take a look, I can stop them--then things will be better, Jack,' the Doctor almost pleads, searching his face with enough desperation that Jack nods firmly just to reassure him.
Jack takes a breath, hesitating, then launches into it anyway. 'This noise in his head...what makes you think it's the solution? I've read the UNIT files.'
'He's…' the Doctor starts, looking down to poke at the meat slices, 'He never used to be like this. Not this bad.'
Jack wets his lips, suddenly dry, and forges on. He might not get another chance to ask it. 'What was he like? ..Before?' The Doctor's eyes dart up to his, fixing him with his gaze intently and Jack gives the smallest of smiles for encouragement, holding his sight.
'He was…' The Doctor looks down again, a smile of his own playing about his lips. Shaking his head, he lets the breath out through his nose, like something too sad to quite be a chuckle. 'Brilliant...absolutely brilliant.'
When Jack catches sight of his eyes again, somewhere far away as they flick off to the side, they're wet with tears. It hurts worse than anything the Doctor's ever done to him. He steels himself just the same, takes a deep breath, doesn't let it shake too hard.
'We'll get him back, Doctor,' Jack nods, setting down his spoon to offer his hand in partnership, consolation--anything.
The Doctor glances at his hand once and catches a hold of himself, then in sudden panic he bolts upright, spoon clanging on the table. 'Jack, I'm sorry, I'm really--'
He doesn't say anything else before he all but runs out of the kitchen, leaving Jack staring at the remains of the paper bag, and the steam still rising from the can.
***
That night, Jack lies awake in Ianto's bed. He feels the need to cry but the tears won't come, a wound still too raw to bleed. He needs to sleep, but he's too afraid to wake up and find everything still waiting for him. Instead, nowhere left to turn, he finds himself breaking his first rule; he opens a new message and starts to type.
Dear Ianto,
When I took this trip I didn't think I was going to miss you so much. I think we both already knew this was about more than just sex (don't get me wrong, the sex was more than enough reason to stay)but I don't think I realised how much you meant to me. Maybe even how much I need you.
Things are really bad. I can't say much without putting you in danger, but I don't know what to do. Whatever I thought I was going to find here, I was so wrong. I don't even know why I came, none of this is my business and all I can think of is how much I want you here.
If I'd known it would be like this, I don't think I would have come at all. Whatever you think I'm doing here, you have to know that when I come home, it's always going to be to you.
All my love,
Jack
The tears are pricking his eyes by the time he finishes, but now they've come he only forces them back. By the time on his wrist strap, it's been three weeks since he first stepped aboard the TARDIS; whether time has passed faster or slower relatively for him, he can't tell.
As he's watching the progress bar slowly fill up, the message making its way towards Earth, perhaps light years away by now, his eyes close and somehow awake becomes asleep without him ever noticing the change.
Author: extryn
Fandom: Doctor Who
Pairings: Ten/Simm!Master, Jack/Simm!Master, Ten/Jack, Jack/Ianto.
Genre: darkfic, angst, smut
Length: 90,000+
Warnings: torture, noncon, graphic violence, graphic sex, heavy BDSM, psychological torture, mind control, character death.
'Why are you here, Freak?'
'To check up on him,' Jack says, as offhandedly as he can manage. It's no secret.
(The TARDIS isn't big enough for the three of them.)
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
He doesn't actually see either of them for almost a week. At least, Jack thinks it’s a week, the TARDIS's day-cycles are certainly not following any Earth pattern he can make out.
Predictably, it's the Master he bumps into first, and unpredictably Jack finds him with his shirtsleeves rolled around his elbows and hands deep into a sink of soapy water. He feels an almost palpable sense of relief, a kind of calm he disconcertingly recognises as that acceptance right before he's about to die and realises he's been so ready and afraid for this moment for months it's almost underwhelming, now.
The biggest thought on his mind is laughably that this kitchen he's been visiting for days now is actually communal, and he hasn't noticed.
'Hello, Freak,' the Master smiles, brightly, shaking the suds off his hands onto the chequered linoleum.
Jack raises his eyebrows, tossing a nearby teatowel which the Master catches with catlike reflexes. 'Morning. Or it could be evening, but I guess you're not going to tell me.'
There's a sparkle in this Time Lord's eyes that reminds Jack all too well of the Doctor, that childlike fascination. The old Doctor, Jack has to remind himself. He's not so naïve as to pretend he can't have lost something, here.
'Second noon. Or, in human terms, lunchtime.'
Wary, Jack keeps one eye on him as he opens the fridge, a yellowed vintage thing, and plucks a fruit he's yet to ask the Doctor the name of from the door. But he can't help from asking for much longer. 'What are you doing?'
The Master rolls his eyes theatrically, hefting a metal spatula rather like a baton. 'Cleaning, Freak. I don't seem to remember you having any particular grasp of hygiene but please, try to keep up.'
Jack can feel his blood boiling and he opens his mouth for an ill-thought out retort, but he's cut off by the godawful sound of metal scraping on metal. He can't figure out whether the sensation of his eardrums being scoured off by the screech is more painful than watching the Master scrape the frictionless finish off the frypan, curl by curl, but it takes all his self restraint not to wrench it out of his hands.
With a kind of morbid fascination, Jack keeps watching as the Master sets the pan down, thoroughly ruined, and starts on the next one. He nibbles his fruit, some combination of anxiety and spectacle making him consume it at a glacial pace, until the pots and pans are little more than scrap metal. He can't not stare while the Master upends the cutlery drawer, the contents of which a hodgepodge of culinary implements from countless cultures and times that could fill an entire museum, and begins to sort them meticulously. In what fashion, Jack hasn't got the faintest clue; they could just as easily be organised by name of designer as by atomic number of their primary constituent, but he's sure it's the one calculated in frightening detail to piss off the Doctor the most.
Task complete, the Master gives him a grin so unashamedly licentious it puts Jack to shame, and leaves.
Jack feels like laughing, but he hardly dares let out his breath.
***
Things are, for another respectable chunk of time, quiet. Jack hardly sees either Time Lord, and if it wasn't for the evidence of their continued habitation he'd wonder if they were even still here at all. The Doctor leaves a sticky trail of jam on the tabletop that the TARDIS doesn't always reset in time for him, the console sometimes is missing sections and spewing wiring and hydraulic lines (Jack can only guess) that are gone by the next time he visits. The Master leaves everything from mindless destruction to redecoration, and so far Jack's favourite example of rebellion has been the complex Gallifreyan symbols streaked in the steam on the bathroom mirror with a fingertip. He imagines it must be some kind of petty genealogical insult.
The Master's behaviour Jack can only rationalise as the kind of pranks schoolchildren would play on each other and wonders if perhaps that's exactly the point. He can read between the lines, there, but it hurts no more than it already does.
For a few days, almost, he almost believes the Doctor. And then he sees him.
Jack knows Time Lords need little sleep but he's sure the Doctor hasn't had so much as a wink since he first came on board. There's a shadow of fading bruises just under the collar of his shirt that Jack can't distinguish from fingers or teeth and he walks stiffly, with injuries that can only be guessed at. Surprisingly, Jack is calm; this is a situation that at least he knows how to manage better than ordering spoons.
The Doctor edges into the console room, looking at Jack with a conspiratorial smile even while his eyes are blank, and pulls the display closer while he taps a few keys.
'Doctor,' Jack warns.
The Doctor doesn't shift his body, but instead turns his head to grin a little more widely at him. 'Jack! It's been a while, hasn't it? I'm sorry if the old girl's been giving you any trouble.' The last, he says with a fond pat to the console.
Jack can't help a sigh escaping, and takes a seat opposite him. 'Not much. Neither has your prisoner, if you'd believe that.'
The Doctor looks shocked as he glances back at him, even hurt. The pause is long enough he can almost see the air darkening. 'I'm not a jailer.'
'Mmm,' Jack refuses to answer. 'Then what's he doing here?'
He pauses, mouth half-open with his tongue in the middle of forming a word, like he's figuring out an equation. 'He needs me.'
Jack is almost disgusted with himself to feel a tiny, smouldering coil of rage at the imperiousness with which the Doctor says it. He tries to remember if even in the short time he spent with this regeneration, he was ever like this. He wonders if this is how the Master feels.
'Doctor,' Jack says again, 'You're a punching bag.'
When the Doctor's eyes meet his, Jack glimpses something so old and painful there he's struck (not for the first time) by that feeling he is dealing with something more ancient and alien than he'll ever have the right to try and understand. The words are dead in his throat and always too late.
'I can take care of myself.'
He knows better than to pry there. This time, Jack leaves, before he says no, you can't.
***
The TARDIS is somehow too big for Jack to bump into anybody for days on end but at the same time too small for all of them to keep ignoring the tension within it. The uneasy peace is driving him mad, because it only forces the building violence to lurk just out of sight, out of reach.
The Doctor, of course, is hiding the best of all of them. To what ends, Jack can't fathom, when all he's successfully keeping from Jack is a good night's sleep, but the Doctor has always been the best at denial, too.
Too restless to sleep, too drained to imagine he's home in Ianto's flat, Jack starts to wander around the dimly-lit halls of the TARDIS. He's sick of waiting for something to happen before he can even start to do anything about it. But, even with the thought of the Doctor clear and gnawing in his mind, searching for him is like beating someone at Monopoly while they're stealing from the bank. The TARDIS is fiercely loyal and sends Jack on what must be the most circuitous route to the console room possible, via a diving pool Jack didn't know existed and a defunct freezer room full of chocolate in various stages of consumption.
Though he keeps ending up at the secondary console room by accident, he eventually finds the Doctor kneeling under the console, toolbox open and contents scattered within groping distance. Jack doesn't enter, content to watch him for a time.
It's just to check up on him, Jack reminds himself. He seems almost happy like this, busy, and perhaps he'll admit it tugs at him a little more than it should. The Doctor's hand gropes blindly until he extracts a plastic tie from a tangled pile and secures some of the reams of wiring out of his way; stringy lumps of crimson that obscure his head and shoulders from Jack's view. His hips wriggle as he crawls a little closer, the buzz of the sonic screwdriver a welcome noise in the emptiness, and it would be so easy to stride in, slap him jokingly on the ass and draw that easy-going Doctor out from where Jack remembers him. But it's not like that.
As far as Jack can tell, the Doctor disassembles and reassembles the one segment without any benefit besides a well-deserved dusting. He hovers over the adjacent spot as soon as he's finished the first one, before removing the first panel he just finished replacing and doing it all over again. Suddenly feeling like a voyeur, Jack's about to leave, when he turns to come face to face with the Master.
There's not a hair out of place, not a wrinkle in his suit, and this close he smells of Jack's aftershave. 'Evening, Freak.'
Despite being a couple of heads shorter, the Master manages to size him up with just a flick of his eyes. 'Has he put you outside, again? I thought I'd trained you out of shitting on the floors.'
Jack clamps down hard on that sick feeling in the pit of his stomach, and instead flashes his most enduringly patient smile, but before he can think of something to say the Master snorts to himself and saunters up to the console.
Eyeing the mess with disgust, the Master carefully treads around the minefield of spare parts and pokes his head under the console, his fingers reaching out for balance and curling possessively over the Doctor's hip.
He spares a quick smirk over his shoulder for Jack's sake before he bends back down, his lips needlessly close to the Doctor's ear. 'Your pet's begging at the door, you might need to feed it.'
The Doctor doesn't even flinch. 'Leave him alone,' he says, but his voice has lost its conviction, like he's said it too many times for it to mean anything now.
Satisfied, the Master leans up again, pacing in a semicircle around the Doctor to survey the console. 'Seems like very tedious work, Doctor.'
'I like it,' the Doctor says, quietly, ignoring him in favour of blowing the dust off a small circuit module.
The Master sighs fondly and reaches into his inside pocket, where he pulls out a perfectly crumpled paper bag, as if he's genuinely left it there from some time ago. 'I don't suppose you'd like a jellybaby for your efforts?'
Jack can see the Doctor hesitate, his back stiffening. 'You know I don't like the green ones.'
Amused, the Master drops the bag on top of the console. 'Suit yourself.'
The Doctor ducks back out onto his feet just in time to see the Master turn to leave, the back of his hand raised in a dismissive wave. This time, as he strides out past Jack, it's the Master wearing the smile and Jack with the glare, and when he risks glancing back at the Doctor he catches him staring out the door, his hand clutched over the bag and something sickeningly close to heartache in his eyes.
Then, he realises they're making eye contact, and Jack leaves before he sees the Doctor's face fall.
His heart pounding, he shoves his hands in his pockets and walks as far away from either of them as he can, until the TARDIS takes him into a gallery cluttered with classical marble busts of human antiquity and several sculptures from a translucent, liquid substance that ripple and flow in response to Jack's movements. There, he paces a path around what little floor is available, until his breathing evens out and he calms down enough to sit against the wall, sighing towards the ceiling.
He starts to wonder how Gwen is faring, on her own again so soon after his absence. Whether Ianto ever managed to find something for his sister's birthday. He fiddles with his wrist strap, knowing he could probably ring them any time he liked with some help from the TARDIS, but it's not worth putting them in any more danger. It's not worth explaining to them why he's here.
Sometimes he hates the Doctor for turning Jack into him.
***
Hours could have easily passed before the anger fades back to worry, and he sets after the Doctor again. Protecting him from the Master (and perhaps more importantly, himself) is the only productive outlet for his frustration, and Jack intends to make the most of it. Exhausted, but too wound up to sleep, what he really craves anyway is a good cup of coffee and something hot and greasy to eat.
The coffee, he fixes himself in the first kitchen the TARDIS takes him to, and forgives her the watery, bitter mess the machine presses out. Years in the army have taught him to be grateful for anything better than instant and the aroma is refreshing, the steam a welcome warmth on his face. It's still nothing like Ianto's.
He misses home more than ever.
No use dwelling; Jack swipes his mug off the counter and gives the wall a friendly stroke, venturing deep into the labyrinthine hallways of the TARDIS. Either she's feeling cooperative, or he's just lucky, but he finds the Doctor within minutes. He hears them well before then.
The shouting is coming from one of the easier rooms to find; the infirmary. Jack keeps a few hallways back to assess the situation, the voices carrying easily to him over the sound of objects smashing.
The Master's voice is the first he makes out--'Out! Get out or I swear to Rassilon himself I'll kill you first and then every last stinking ape…!'--livid in a way he's only heard him the day the Valiant fell. Then the Doctor, pleading, 'I can help you! Let me in, please,' before something glass and fragile shatters amidst the Doctor's yelping, followed by something larger, the clang echoing down the halls. The next exchange he can't quite decipher before the Master's voice cuts in, suddenly, '--and don't you ever, ever dare try that again, filthy hypocrite--'
Then the Doctor bursts out two hallways down from him, shaking, his hand raking through his hair and swiping dark blood off a scratch above his eyebrow. He storms down in his direction, Jack stepping round the corner with his palms raised in surrender, the Doctor stopping dead in his tracks when he catches sight of him.
He lets out a breath, his hand rubbing across his jaw, and his voice sounds raw with relief when he says, 'Jack.'
Jack smiles gently at him, and screw it, he embraces the Doctor even as he cringes away, and leads him back towards the kitchen with a hand between his shoulders. 'Come on. I think we could both use a bite to eat.'
He can tell the Doctor's about to say he isn't hungry, but instead he's quiet a moment, and then all he does say is, 'Thankyou.'
Jack leads the Doctor down a right-turn and blessedly the first door they open is the best-stocked kitchen of the four Jack's found, and he immediately sets to work heating a twenty-third century meal-in-a-can for both of them. It only takes a minute, and he sets one down for the Doctor and hands him a spoon, before taking the seat opposite him on the little rickety table.
The Doctor prods at the contents with one hand, the other releasing its stranglehold on a tightly-compacted ball of white paper to fiddle with it in preference to talking. Jack is sure he'll have to break the silence, when the Doctor takes a shaky breath, and speaks.
'Jack--I'm sorry,' he says, looking up from the can to meet his eyes.
Jack laughs a little, in good nature. 'You can't help his tantrums, Doctor. I'd still rather be here than anywhere else.'
The Doctor's eyes are wide. 'For all of it. I know this isn't easy for you.'
Carefully, Jack picks his words, 'Maybe, but you're right. Somebody's got to look after him.'
He picks a little at the can, sniffing a spoonful of what looks like casserole to him. His eyes manage to go even bigger when he says to Jack, 'He's getting better.'
Jack bites his tongue. 'Yeah, you might be right. He still hasn't tried anything on me, yet.' This is the first chance he's had where the Doctor's actually talking to him, and he's not going to ruin it so easily.
The look on the Doctor's face is almost worth it, the way it lights up, like giving a kid candy after they've grazed their knee. 'I know! I think, Jack, you being here is helping him.'
'You really think you can fix him?' Jack hedges, wanting to stray far away from talking about himself before he says something he regrets.
The Doctor shakes his head, chewing his lip a little. 'It's the drums. I know I can help, he just won't let me.'
'The drums…?' prompts Jack, taking a mouthful of his dinner--surprisingly tasty, the flavour rich and complex.
'The noise in his head. But I think I'm getting through to him and once I take a look, I can stop them--then things will be better, Jack,' the Doctor almost pleads, searching his face with enough desperation that Jack nods firmly just to reassure him.
Jack takes a breath, hesitating, then launches into it anyway. 'This noise in his head...what makes you think it's the solution? I've read the UNIT files.'
'He's…' the Doctor starts, looking down to poke at the meat slices, 'He never used to be like this. Not this bad.'
Jack wets his lips, suddenly dry, and forges on. He might not get another chance to ask it. 'What was he like? ..Before?' The Doctor's eyes dart up to his, fixing him with his gaze intently and Jack gives the smallest of smiles for encouragement, holding his sight.
'He was…' The Doctor looks down again, a smile of his own playing about his lips. Shaking his head, he lets the breath out through his nose, like something too sad to quite be a chuckle. 'Brilliant...absolutely brilliant.'
When Jack catches sight of his eyes again, somewhere far away as they flick off to the side, they're wet with tears. It hurts worse than anything the Doctor's ever done to him. He steels himself just the same, takes a deep breath, doesn't let it shake too hard.
'We'll get him back, Doctor,' Jack nods, setting down his spoon to offer his hand in partnership, consolation--anything.
The Doctor glances at his hand once and catches a hold of himself, then in sudden panic he bolts upright, spoon clanging on the table. 'Jack, I'm sorry, I'm really--'
He doesn't say anything else before he all but runs out of the kitchen, leaving Jack staring at the remains of the paper bag, and the steam still rising from the can.
***
That night, Jack lies awake in Ianto's bed. He feels the need to cry but the tears won't come, a wound still too raw to bleed. He needs to sleep, but he's too afraid to wake up and find everything still waiting for him. Instead, nowhere left to turn, he finds himself breaking his first rule; he opens a new message and starts to type.
Dear Ianto,
When I took this trip I didn't think I was going to miss you so much. I think we both already knew this was about more than just sex (don't get me wrong, the sex was more than enough reason to stay)but I don't think I realised how much you meant to me. Maybe even how much I need you.
Things are really bad. I can't say much without putting you in danger, but I don't know what to do. Whatever I thought I was going to find here, I was so wrong. I don't even know why I came, none of this is my business and all I can think of is how much I want you here.
If I'd known it would be like this, I don't think I would have come at all. Whatever you think I'm doing here, you have to know that when I come home, it's always going to be to you.
All my love,
Jack
The tears are pricking his eyes by the time he finishes, but now they've come he only forces them back. By the time on his wrist strap, it's been three weeks since he first stepped aboard the TARDIS; whether time has passed faster or slower relatively for him, he can't tell.
As he's watching the progress bar slowly fill up, the message making its way towards Earth, perhaps light years away by now, his eyes close and somehow awake becomes asleep without him ever noticing the change.