Ficlet: Unlucky
Inspired by conversation with donutsweeper. This is the most coherent thing I've written in ages. No beta involved.
Title: Unlucky
Summary: Jack arrives in America in the nineteenth century
Rating: R for language
Length: 295 words
Jack stood on the dock in the pouring rain, and watched the comings and goings of people of every shape and description, the air filled with a hundred different tongues. The sun had set, and he felt tired, cold, and more than a little lost.
Good place to be lost in, this. Not so good a place to be tired. No money in his pockets now, no friends on this entire continent for at least three thousand years, which meant no food and nowhere to sleep. Not that Jack was unused to living from moment to moment, never quite knowing where he'd put his head down that night, but now he was sort of used to company, and transport, and - for fuck's sake - technology more advanced than steam power.
But that was the problem, really. The entire god-damned problem. The Doctor had made him soft, and then hit him, hard, so that now, Jack had no idea how to cope without him. But that particular fact he only acknowledged at his weakest moments. Now, he pulled his coat tightly around him, tugged his collar up against the wind, and picked a direction.
Fuck the Doctor. Fuck Rose too - she could have persuaded the Doctor to wait, if she'd bothered, he had no doubt at all on that score. They'd made him care, the two of them, made him love them, and then left him behind in the dust.
Well, never again. Captain Jack didn't need anybody, and he certainly didn't need soft pillows and regular meals. Right now, all he needed was a drink, and his powers of persuasion and seduction to get it. And maybe, from there, he'd get somewhere to sleep, and a warm body beside him. If he was lucky.
Title: Unlucky
Summary: Jack arrives in America in the nineteenth century
Rating: R for language
Length: 295 words
Jack stood on the dock in the pouring rain, and watched the comings and goings of people of every shape and description, the air filled with a hundred different tongues. The sun had set, and he felt tired, cold, and more than a little lost.
Good place to be lost in, this. Not so good a place to be tired. No money in his pockets now, no friends on this entire continent for at least three thousand years, which meant no food and nowhere to sleep. Not that Jack was unused to living from moment to moment, never quite knowing where he'd put his head down that night, but now he was sort of used to company, and transport, and - for fuck's sake - technology more advanced than steam power.
But that was the problem, really. The entire god-damned problem. The Doctor had made him soft, and then hit him, hard, so that now, Jack had no idea how to cope without him. But that particular fact he only acknowledged at his weakest moments. Now, he pulled his coat tightly around him, tugged his collar up against the wind, and picked a direction.
Fuck the Doctor. Fuck Rose too - she could have persuaded the Doctor to wait, if she'd bothered, he had no doubt at all on that score. They'd made him care, the two of them, made him love them, and then left him behind in the dust.
Well, never again. Captain Jack didn't need anybody, and he certainly didn't need soft pillows and regular meals. Right now, all he needed was a drink, and his powers of persuasion and seduction to get it. And maybe, from there, he'd get somewhere to sleep, and a warm body beside him. If he was lucky.