Fic: The Rest is Silence (1/1)
Title: The Rest is Silence
Author: Kaethel (kae-nine)
Characters/Pairing: Ten/Jack
Rated: PG-13
Warning: explicit character death
Spoilers: Doctor Who’s The End of Time Part 1 and Torchwood’s Children of Earth
Summary: He’s dying tonight.
Disclaimer: If Doctor Who belonged to me, next Friday’s episode would go something like this.
A/N: Many thanks to my brilliant betas, wendymr and yamx, and to Will Shakespeare (and yamx, who knew the quote) for the title. ;)
This story now has a sequel entitled But Dawning Day New Comfort Hath Inspired
The Rest is Silence
by Kaethel
He’s dying tonight.
A few more minutes and his second heart will stop beating, putting an end to his tenth incarnation, to a life full of hectic moments, mad running, emotional encounters and heartbreaking losses.
He wasn’t fast enough. Then again, pulling the trigger has never been easy for him, especially after the War. He’s already responsible for too many deaths; how could he be responsible for yet another one, even that of his arch-nemesis?
At the end of it all, maybe it’s time.
The mortal wound on his chest makes the double beating of his single heart irregular. The hollow sound resonates in his head, amplified by the pain that already benumbs his limbs. His torn shirt is soaked through with warm blood - his own. The brick houses and their tiny but tidy gardens are floating around him, waving in and out of focus. His hand pushes at the ice-cold stones of a wall that’s his only support as the ground seems to open up beneath his feet. One shaky step after another, he walks on until his legs give way and he falls onto his knees. Concrete scrapes his skin through the thin fabric of his trousers, and his first idle thought is that his beloved pinstriped suit is being ruined beyond repair.
Regenerating is dying, he explained to Wilf a few hours ago. This body’s going to disappear; another one will take its place, and a part of who he is won’t ever come back.
His hand blindly searches for the wound that’s slowly killing him. Red and sticky liquid oozes between his fingers, and pain makes him let out a scream he can barely hear. His vision’s already blurred and his limbs are going numb. Convulsions rattle his body. Sweat is pearling on his forehead and running down his cheeks, unless that’s tears; he doesn’t know and he doesn’t care. Shifting to rest his back against the wall makes him grunt and growl and cope with more pain than he ever thought he could bear. His eyes fall shut and he lets the darkness claim him.
He’s dying tonight, lonely and lost, on Christmas night. He’s dying in a badly-lit street of a London suburb, its houses discreetly lit with a few Christmas lights scintillating in the cold December night. Inside those houses, people are savouring Christmas dinner, opening presents, holding close the people they love.
A warm hand closes around his frozen fingers. Gathering his strength, he opens his eyes. A man is kneeling by his side. His face is a blur but seems familiar.
“Jack…” His voice is hoarse. He barely recognises it.
“Easy, Doctor.”
Jack eases down next to him. Hands slide under the Doctor’s armpits to haul his dying body against the Captain’s chest. The heat of Jack’s body is seeping though his coat and warming his back, and he can feel the human heart of his companion beat regularly against him. Jack always comes through for him, even after what he did to him, even after he abandoned him.
“’m… s…orry,” is all he can manage through another hiccup, pain suffocating him. Sorry for killing so many, sorry for destroying your life, sorry for abandoning you to a fate you didn’t choose, sorry for ignoring your feelings.
“Don’t speak. For once in your life, Doctor, please don’t try to speak.”
He’d laugh if it didn’t hurt so much. Him? Not speaking? That’d be a first. Jack’s arms tighten around his frame, blood staining the RAF coat he never takes off. When the lad leans close to press his face against the side of the Doctor’s head, he can feel the moisture of warmer, human tears on his skin. He doesn’t want to laugh any more. He doesn’t want to die.
He’s dying tonight, but Jack’s holding him close. The redemption he’s been waiting for is here at last.
***
There’s nothing he can do. He was too late and now the Doctor’s dying. Oh, he’ll regenerate, but Jack knows how much his friend liked these boyish looks, mad hair, freckles and skinny body of his. The Doctor is convulsing and he can’t stop it. The groan of agony that accompanies the uncontrolled shaking tears at Jack’s heart.
For a split second, his gaze settles on the gun lying a few feet away from them. Should he put an end to his friend’s suffering? The possibility’s tempting but too risky. Finishing the Master’s job now might stop the regeneration process, and it’s a risk he’s not willing to take.
He looks around, searching for the familiar shape of the TARDIS, but the Doctor obviously didn’t park it here, and he’s in no shape to be carried anywhere. It won’t be long now.
All he can do is keep rocking his friend’s body and hum soft words of reassurance in his ear as the last sparks of life die in the Doctor’s eyes. Fresh tears are rolling down his cheeks. He doesn’t care. There was a time, centuries ago, when he thought that the bravest men shouldn’t cry. Life and loss taught him otherwise.
“Get… ’way… it’ll… kill you.”
He shakes his head. “Don’t care.”
He really doesn’t. He’ll survive anyway. His body can survive anything. His soul, on the other hand…
“Ja…”
“Don’t you dare argue with me now!”
The Doctor falls silent, and whether it’s because he can’t speak or because he’s running out of arguments, Jack doesn’t give a shit. He’s gone through this moment so many times now; he’s entirely too familiar with the fear, the pain and agony that precede an accidental death. Gunshot’s one of the worst when it doesn’t instantly kill you.
“If only I’d found you sooner,” he whispers, more to himself than to his friend. So many things could’ve been different if he’d found him much, much sooner.
“Fixed point.”
The answer isn’t satisfying, but Jack knows that it’s the only one he’ll get.
Was Steven’s death a fixed point, too? Ianto’s? Is that why you didn’t get a mauve alert? Is that why you weren’t there?
He shifts until the Doctor’s head can rest against his lap. The Time Lord’s tired eyes are barely open. His breathing is uneven and the colour is draining from his face. The hand he’s kept pressed against his hearts feels for a pulse that’s getting fainter.
“Go…” One last warning as the Doctor gropes for Jack’s hand and clings to it, belying his instruction. Already the first signs of regeneration appear, giving his skin the golden glow of the Time Vortex. “Go… now.”
“Never,” he vows. His next move is an impulse he can’t contain, and he bends down to taste the lips of the man he’s loved for so long.
It’s the Doctor’s last breath that he feels against his mouth. The heat of the regeneration energy burns his insides, exploding around him. Holding his friend’s body tighter, he lets a temporary death take them both. Together.
- end -
Not really the end, actually... wanna know what happens next?
Author: Kaethel (kae-nine)
Characters/Pairing: Ten/Jack
Rated: PG-13
Warning: explicit character death
Spoilers: Doctor Who’s The End of Time Part 1 and Torchwood’s Children of Earth
Summary: He’s dying tonight.
Disclaimer: If Doctor Who belonged to me, next Friday’s episode would go something like this.
A/N: Many thanks to my brilliant betas, wendymr and yamx, and to Will Shakespeare (and yamx, who knew the quote) for the title. ;)
This story now has a sequel entitled But Dawning Day New Comfort Hath Inspired
The Rest is Silence
by Kaethel
He’s dying tonight.
A few more minutes and his second heart will stop beating, putting an end to his tenth incarnation, to a life full of hectic moments, mad running, emotional encounters and heartbreaking losses.
He wasn’t fast enough. Then again, pulling the trigger has never been easy for him, especially after the War. He’s already responsible for too many deaths; how could he be responsible for yet another one, even that of his arch-nemesis?
At the end of it all, maybe it’s time.
The mortal wound on his chest makes the double beating of his single heart irregular. The hollow sound resonates in his head, amplified by the pain that already benumbs his limbs. His torn shirt is soaked through with warm blood - his own. The brick houses and their tiny but tidy gardens are floating around him, waving in and out of focus. His hand pushes at the ice-cold stones of a wall that’s his only support as the ground seems to open up beneath his feet. One shaky step after another, he walks on until his legs give way and he falls onto his knees. Concrete scrapes his skin through the thin fabric of his trousers, and his first idle thought is that his beloved pinstriped suit is being ruined beyond repair.
Regenerating is dying, he explained to Wilf a few hours ago. This body’s going to disappear; another one will take its place, and a part of who he is won’t ever come back.
His hand blindly searches for the wound that’s slowly killing him. Red and sticky liquid oozes between his fingers, and pain makes him let out a scream he can barely hear. His vision’s already blurred and his limbs are going numb. Convulsions rattle his body. Sweat is pearling on his forehead and running down his cheeks, unless that’s tears; he doesn’t know and he doesn’t care. Shifting to rest his back against the wall makes him grunt and growl and cope with more pain than he ever thought he could bear. His eyes fall shut and he lets the darkness claim him.
He’s dying tonight, lonely and lost, on Christmas night. He’s dying in a badly-lit street of a London suburb, its houses discreetly lit with a few Christmas lights scintillating in the cold December night. Inside those houses, people are savouring Christmas dinner, opening presents, holding close the people they love.
A warm hand closes around his frozen fingers. Gathering his strength, he opens his eyes. A man is kneeling by his side. His face is a blur but seems familiar.
“Jack…” His voice is hoarse. He barely recognises it.
“Easy, Doctor.”
Jack eases down next to him. Hands slide under the Doctor’s armpits to haul his dying body against the Captain’s chest. The heat of Jack’s body is seeping though his coat and warming his back, and he can feel the human heart of his companion beat regularly against him. Jack always comes through for him, even after what he did to him, even after he abandoned him.
“’m… s…orry,” is all he can manage through another hiccup, pain suffocating him. Sorry for killing so many, sorry for destroying your life, sorry for abandoning you to a fate you didn’t choose, sorry for ignoring your feelings.
“Don’t speak. For once in your life, Doctor, please don’t try to speak.”
He’d laugh if it didn’t hurt so much. Him? Not speaking? That’d be a first. Jack’s arms tighten around his frame, blood staining the RAF coat he never takes off. When the lad leans close to press his face against the side of the Doctor’s head, he can feel the moisture of warmer, human tears on his skin. He doesn’t want to laugh any more. He doesn’t want to die.
He’s dying tonight, but Jack’s holding him close. The redemption he’s been waiting for is here at last.
***
There’s nothing he can do. He was too late and now the Doctor’s dying. Oh, he’ll regenerate, but Jack knows how much his friend liked these boyish looks, mad hair, freckles and skinny body of his. The Doctor is convulsing and he can’t stop it. The groan of agony that accompanies the uncontrolled shaking tears at Jack’s heart.
For a split second, his gaze settles on the gun lying a few feet away from them. Should he put an end to his friend’s suffering? The possibility’s tempting but too risky. Finishing the Master’s job now might stop the regeneration process, and it’s a risk he’s not willing to take.
He looks around, searching for the familiar shape of the TARDIS, but the Doctor obviously didn’t park it here, and he’s in no shape to be carried anywhere. It won’t be long now.
All he can do is keep rocking his friend’s body and hum soft words of reassurance in his ear as the last sparks of life die in the Doctor’s eyes. Fresh tears are rolling down his cheeks. He doesn’t care. There was a time, centuries ago, when he thought that the bravest men shouldn’t cry. Life and loss taught him otherwise.
“Get… ’way… it’ll… kill you.”
He shakes his head. “Don’t care.”
He really doesn’t. He’ll survive anyway. His body can survive anything. His soul, on the other hand…
“Ja…”
“Don’t you dare argue with me now!”
The Doctor falls silent, and whether it’s because he can’t speak or because he’s running out of arguments, Jack doesn’t give a shit. He’s gone through this moment so many times now; he’s entirely too familiar with the fear, the pain and agony that precede an accidental death. Gunshot’s one of the worst when it doesn’t instantly kill you.
“If only I’d found you sooner,” he whispers, more to himself than to his friend. So many things could’ve been different if he’d found him much, much sooner.
“Fixed point.”
The answer isn’t satisfying, but Jack knows that it’s the only one he’ll get.
Was Steven’s death a fixed point, too? Ianto’s? Is that why you didn’t get a mauve alert? Is that why you weren’t there?
He shifts until the Doctor’s head can rest against his lap. The Time Lord’s tired eyes are barely open. His breathing is uneven and the colour is draining from his face. The hand he’s kept pressed against his hearts feels for a pulse that’s getting fainter.
“Go…” One last warning as the Doctor gropes for Jack’s hand and clings to it, belying his instruction. Already the first signs of regeneration appear, giving his skin the golden glow of the Time Vortex. “Go… now.”
“Never,” he vows. His next move is an impulse he can’t contain, and he bends down to taste the lips of the man he’s loved for so long.
It’s the Doctor’s last breath that he feels against his mouth. The heat of the regeneration energy burns his insides, exploding around him. Holding his friend’s body tighter, he lets a temporary death take them both. Together.
- end -
Not really the end, actually... wanna know what happens next?