Fic: Auld Lang Syne 2/2
Fic: Auld Lang Syne
Author: wmr wendymr
Characters: Ninth Doctor, Jack Harkness
Disclaimer: Not mine. Much as I plead and beg and wish... ;)
Summary: Her song’s there in his head, thrumming through his body, just as it used to be in those months he travelled in her. The TARDIS remembers him, as if he’s never been away.
Author's note: As always, much thanks to the lovely
dark_aegis for BRing.
Chapter 1: Return
Chapter 2: History
Senses on full alert, he pushes the door open. This is impossible, or it should be. Who’s got a key to the TARDIS, after all? Or, rather, a key that works now. The TARDIS changed her locks when she reconfigured herself after the Time War, and as far as he knows there are only three keys in existence. And he knows who has each one - and where each is right this second.
The intruder’s halfway between the console and the door, and he frowns as he recognises the man.
“Jack? What’re you doing back - No.” Abruptly, realisation dawns and he stops himself.
Very different clothes. Hair is different. The blue shirt, formal trousers and the long wool coat that’s similar to the one he wore in 1941 are nothing like the Jack who’s travelled with him for the past few months would wear.
And this man... oh, this man’s got such an air of despair surrounding him. Darker, deeper even than the despair of the conman who realised too late that his self-cleaning con wasn’t so self-cleaning after all.
“Not my Jack. So, when are you from, then?”
Jack - not his Jack - stares back at him, his expression screaming horror at being found. “You’re not supposed to be here. You can’t be here. You were with us all the time - No.” Anger crosses his face then, obvious fury with himself for missing the clue. “We were shopping. You got bored. You said you were going to the bookshop and you’d meet us in a bit. Damnit!”
“Sensed an intruder in the TARDIS, didn’t I? My ship. Course I’d know when someone’s inside who’s not supposed to be. Didn’t know it was you, though. And you should know better, Captain. Crossing your own timeline?”
More anger, and this is a Jack he’s never seen before. Doesn’t make sense. Really doesn’t make sense. He’s the one who’s got the right to be angry here, isn’t he? The damage Jack could do. Could already have done.
He’s an experienced time-traveller. A former Time Agent. He should know better. Does know better. So what is it? What’s the missing piece?
“You gave me no choice, Doctor. Not after you abandoned me.”
Abandoned him? Is that it? Is that what’s caused the change in Jack? But it doesn’t really make sense. Oh, it’s not that he hasn’t abandoned people in the past, and sometimes not even with much of a reason, but that’s the past. Things have changed now. He meets Jack’s gaze and says, with absolute certainty, “I wouldn’t do that. Not without a good reason.”
“You did it. And even almost a century later I still can’t figure out why.”
A century? What the bloody hell is going on here? If it’s a century in linear time, then Jack should be dead. Not looking - in body, at least - as if he hasn’t aged one day since he walked out of this ship not half an hour ago. “Jack - ”
“No. Telling you that was a mistake. I shouldn’t be here. You shouldn’t be here. I’ve already told you too much about your future.” Jack starts forward, trying to make for the door.
He shakes his head and catches Jack’s wrist in a tight grip as the younger man starts to walk past him, preventing him from leaving. “Damage is done now. I’ll have to wipe my memory anyway, so you might ‘s well tell me what I did to you.”
Jack’s eyes flash angrily, and his voice is full of bitterness. “Oh, didn’t you know? I’m in the memory-wiping business these days too. I’ll gladly do it for you if you want. Think I’ve even got some Retcon with me.”
That does it. Captain Jack Harkness of the two years’-worth of stolen memories, offering this? This isn’t simple abandonment issues. There’s more to it than that.
“What’s happened to you, Jack? You’re not the Jack Harkness I know.”
The man wearing Jack’s face turns away. “That Jack’s dead. You killed him, Doctor. Literally - when you saved Rose and left me for dead on a satellite full of ghosts.”
“What?”
Jack whirls back to face him. “I changed for you, Doctor. I left the cons behind. I stopped trying to take everyone I met for what I could get from them. I became what you wanted me to be. And you sent me to die and left me behind.”
No. No, that’s not right. Not right at all. The Jack who’s back in the city centre shopping with Rose and Mickey doesn’t think like this.
“You changed for yourself, Jack. Not for me. I don’t know what I did in your past, but I know you. If you went to die, it was your choice. You really believe I’d want you dead?”
“Doesn’t matter if you do. Or did. I can’t die anyway.” Jack pulls away from his grip and rakes shaking fingers through the spiky hair that’s not at all familiar, and yet suits him.
His eyes narrow. “You’re going nowhere before you explain that, Captain. And, of course, what you’re doing in my ship.”
A thought occurs to him, and his hearts sink. Jack was abandoned. He’s angry and hurt and bitter. “Not the first time you’ve stolen a ship that’s not yours,” he muses aloud.
“I was leaving when you came back,” Jack spits out. In an abrupt movement, he flings out one hand towards him and opens his palm. In it rests a key - the key he gave the younger, more carefree Jack a couple of months back. “Take it.” There’s venom in the words. “There’s nothing here for me. Not any more.”
The best reaction’s no reaction. Or, at least, not the reaction Jack’s looking for. He simply raises one eyebrow and stares at the man he counted as a good friend. Ten seconds. Twenty. Thirty. He knows the power of his stares. By now, anyone else would be thoroughly unnerved.
It takes ninety-two seconds exactly before Jack lowers his hand and shoves the key back into a pocket.
“Good,” he says calmly. “Gave you that myself. Means I meant you to keep it.”
Jack swallows visibly. “I should go. Like you said, I shouldn’t even be here.”
“Not so fast. You still haven’t told me what you’re doing here anyway. Not just in the TARDIS - in Cardiff. And,” he adds as more of what Jack’s said comes back to him, “what you mean about not being able to die. In fact,” he amends, “you might ‘s well just tell me the whole story.”
Including how he apparently abandons Jack yet saves Rose - which, fair enough, is something he could easily see himself doing. Rose, for all his experience, all his wisdom and cynicism, is his Achilles heel. He’s already shocked himself with the discovery of what he’s willing to do for her, of what he’d do to save her.
Jack, though... Jack’s capable of looking after himself. Jack’s trained, experienced and fully equipped with weaponry he knows very well how to use. Plenty of times he’s left Jack to fight some enemy or other while he makes sure Rose is safe, or gives her some essential but less-dangerous task. Plenty of times the two of them have joined forces to keep her out of danger.
Sounds like this is different, though. Leaving Jack to die? Not unless there was no other choice. Of course he’s left people to die before. Even friends - people he’s loved. People he’s admired and respected. But he’s never considered anyone expendable, and here’s Jack talking like he did.
“It’s a long story, Doctor. And you don’t have time. Don’t forget, I know exactly what you’re supposed to be doing today.”
“Got time for a short version, Captain.” He leans against the railing, pose as casual as he can make it. “You know how to make it short. So,” he adds as Jack doesn’t answer immediately, “when does all this happen? Next week? Next month? A year from now?”
“Try tomorrow.”
Tomorrow?
For a moment, he’s tempted to ask for all the details, every little fragment, so that he can make sure it doesn’t happen. Or that the outcome’s different. But it’s only a momentary temptation. It’s impossible, of course. Or very, very unwise. His future is already Jack’s past, and however much he’d like to spare this man - his friend - the pain he’s lived through he can’t do it.
But there’s one thing he can do.
“Jack.” There’s a note in his voice he knows will make the Captain listen to him, and it does. “Tomorrow? Then I know one thing. Whatever happens, whatever I do - whatever I did to you - it’s not intentional. Wouldn’t be.”
He’s not going to address the thing about Rose. Jack’s no fool, and he - at least, the Jack with him now - cares about Rose almost as much as he does himself. Jack would want Rose safe, even at the cost of his own life.
In front of him, Jack visibly deflates. “Yeah. Guess I always knew that, Doctor.” He blows out a breath. “Doesn’t make the memory of the TARDIS disappearing right in front of me any easier.”
“Don’t suppose it does.” Shoving both hands into his jacket pockets, he adds, “I can’t undo your past. You know that. I - ”
“I know,” Jack echoes. “Not asking you to. In case you’ve forgotten, Doctor, I wasn’t intending to run into you like this.”
“Couple of things I can do, though. ‘Bout that not-dying thing - and you said you’ve been here for a hundred years? Not aging either, then?”
And that’s something he’s not come across before. Immortality, or near-immortality, yes. But usually with the aid of drugs or some such, and aging’s also slowed down artificially, or counteracted by cosmetic surgery.
“Doesn’t seem like it. Not even a single grey hair.”
He grins suddenly. “Don’t think I never saw the bottles of dye in your bathroom, Captain.”
And, abruptly, a bark of laughter escapes his friend. “You thought those were hair-dye?”
Taken aback, he says, “They’re not?”
And, for a moment, he looks like the old Jack. “No.”
“I won’t ask.”
“Don’t.”
But then the mask’s back, and he realises that the bleakness never left Jack’s eyes.
“Med-lab. Let me see if I can find out what’s causing this not-dying thing.”
He’s tempted, it’s obvious, but then he shakes his head. “You haven’t got time, Doctor. You’re supposed to be back -” He breaks off. “Take it from me, you need to get going.”
“I’m not leaving you like this, Jack. You came here for a reason. Maybe you didn’t intend to see me, but you have, and if you think I’m walking away now you’re wrong.” He smiles suddenly. “You know me better than that, too.”
Jack sighs. “Guess I do.” He rakes a hand through his hair. “I’m not sure what you can do, though. Not if you’ve never come across - .”
“Tell me,” he commands, and Jack does.
***
He doesn’t mean to tell the whole story, but once he starts talking it’s impossible to stop the words. Mid-flow, it dawns on him that this is the first time he’s told anyone about what his life’s been like for the past century.
Dying, living, dying, living; an endless cycle, repeating itself over and over. The numerous times he’s been killed, died accidentally, rushed into danger to save someone else knowing that the most he’ll suffer is a few minutes of pain and then yet another resurrection.
He also doesn’t mean to talk about the long nights when he’s lain awake wishing for an end to his miserable life. Nights when he’s dreamed up new, more inventive forms of dying in order to analyse whether they might be permanent. What would happen, for instance, if his body got dismembered - after all, bullet-wounds miraculously heal themselves. What if he got eaten by a carnivorous animal or ravaging alien? Would he just wake up again in the creature’s stomach, like Jonah inside the whale?
Nor does he mean to talk about the years of aching loneliness, of avoiding friendships and close relationships because he knows that sooner or later he’ll have to walk away. The lies he’s had to tell; the fact that a woman he loves now thinks he’s his own son.
He doesn’t mean to; but the words still come all the same, and the Doctor listens in silence, arms folded across his chest, his expression sombre.
The only thing he doesn’t mention is the enemy they faced on Satellite Five, the reason he died the first time. True, the Doctor’s said he’ll wipe his memory, but that would be a step too far, too much cruelty for this man who’s the last of his kind and who’s lost far more than anyone could be expected to bear.
Now, one hundred years later, he understands the Doctor’s torment in a way he never did then, as much as he thought he did.
When the words finally dry up, the Doctor tilts his head to one side. “Stupid idiot,” he says, but the gruffness in his tone gives away the real meaning behind the words. “The twentieth century? You know all the reasons why that’s a bad idea.”
“Was actually making for the twenty-first. Figured you’d be back here around now - to pick up Rose or to refuel the TARDIS. Just kinda undershot the timing. My transport was only one-way, so I was sort of stuck.”
The Doctor nods, and those piercing eyes bore into him. “Something’s messed up in your DNA. Accelerated healing. The telomere sequences at the end of your DNA strands aren't as weak. Means they can reproduce an infinite number of times. You’re basically one giant walking stem cell.” The Doctor frowns, shaking his head a little. “But that only explains stayin’ the same physical age and the healing ability, not the ability to reanimate. S’pose it could be a change in your DNA sequence, makin’ your internal organs function independently. Means parts of your body stay alive even when you’re clinically dead, so the rest of you’s got time to heal.”
“Okay...” he says, scratching his nose. “I got that. Mostly. So what can you do for me, Doctor? Can you fix it?”
“Should do it, shouldn’t I?” The Doctor’s looking sombre again. “Thing is, Jack, like you said, I don’t have a lot of time, an’ if this is what I think it is it’s not going to be easy. Meanwhile, history’s happening outside, an’ you said I need to be back where I was.”
He nods. “You do.” He has to be. Can’t risk the Doctor not being there in the café to see that newspaper. Can’t risk them not finding out about Margaret Slitheen’s plans for the planet.
“Right, then. Here’s what I can do.” The Doctor walks to the console, standing at the controls, tall and proud, and the sight of him there in that familiar position makes Jack’s heart ache once again for all that he’s lost, and all that he’s going to have to walk away from any minute now. “Quick trip. Couple of minutes, that’s all. I’ll take you back. To the future me, I mean.”
Can it really be as simple as that? A few minutes in the TARDIS, and he’ll be back to where he wants to be - where he should have been, if only the Doctor’d waited just a few seconds on Satellite Five?
Back to the Doctor and Rose, part of what felt like an invincible team, back to a life where he felt, for the first time since he lost his illusions about the Time Agency, that his life was worthwhile.
Oh, he’s doing a worthwhile job, too, in Torchwood, but only up to a point; he’s constrained by the fact that he can’t change any part of history he knows about. There’ve been days when his team has simply found his actions inexplicable; when terrible things are happening and he’s stood them down and locked himself in his cellar until it’s all over. Owen’s called him a fucking coward more than once for that.
One word. That’s all he needs to say. One word and they’ll be on their way. In fact, he doesn’t need to say anything at all. The Doctor’s setting the co-ordinates. One hand’s on the vortex loop controller and he’s just about to dematerialise.
“No!”
Did he say that? He did. He said no.
His stomach’s churning. His eyes are burning. And he said no.
“No?” the Doctor echoes, quirking an eyebrow at him.
He did say no. And, as the churning in his stomach intensifies, he knows that he meant it.
“No. I don’t want you to take me to the future you.”
The Doctor’s eyes narrow. “You sure about that?”
No. Yes. “Yes.” Again, he blows out a breath. “ I need to see you - the later you - if nothing else, to get this little not-dying thing sorted out.” And, maybe, to knock him flat for leaving without even so much as checking... “But I want to find you because you want to be found, not because an earlier you’s interfered.” He pulls a face. “And that probably doesn’t even make sense.”
The Doctor smiles abruptly; oh, that expression’s so painfully familiar, too. “Yeah, it does. Good lad, Jack. Good decision.”
“Really?”
“Yep. Thing is, Jack, I dunno why I left you behind, but it’s happened. It’s history - your history - and you’ve got to let it play out.”
Right. No short cuts. No crossing his own timeline to plead for help. But he already knew that anyway.
Time to get out of here, away from the Doctor and this beautiful ship, before the crushing sadness and disappointment flooding him makes him break down completely. “Yeah. Like you said. Okay, so I’ll be going, Doctor.” He takes a couple of steps backwards, closer to the door. “Look after yourself, okay?”
The Doctor’s stepping down from the console, no trace of a smile on his face now. “Always do. Course, you already know how that turns out.” He comes closer. “Looks to me like you’re the one who needs that warning.”
“Hardly.” He forces a smile, though it’s not remotely genuine. “Can’t die, remember?”
“Oh, you can, Jack. Inside. Inside, you’re dying a little bit more every day, aren’t you?” Before he can answer, the Doctor continues, “ ‘S never easy, living with that kind of pain. Not impossible, though, trust me.”
And he’d know, of course.
Okay. This is it. Saying goodbye to the Doctor again. This time, though, there’s no chance he’s going to die. This time, he’ll just live on and on, like he’s been doing for the past hundred years.
Before he can decide what’s appropriate - a handshake? Just a nod and walk away? Would the Doctor, here and now, allow a kiss? - the Doctor’s taken three steps and is wrapping his arms around him in a hard, fierce embrace.
Words are tumbling through his head, things he could say, things maybe he could say and make things better:
Don’t accept any dinner invitations.
Take Rose home after Kyoto and leave her there. You’ll know when it’s safe to get her.
The Game Station’s all one massive trap. Nothing’s what it seems. Find Rose - I’ll find you - and get the hell out of there. Nothing else matters.
There’s no point. The Doctor’s already said he’s going to wipe his memory. Anything he says now will be a waste of time.
“Good lad,” the Doctor says, releasing him. “Changing history’s a bad idea, anyway. Very bad.”
“You do it all the time,” he points out, not without a hint of sarcasm.
“Know what I’m doing, me.”
Not all the time, he wants to point out, but doesn’t. It’s not as if the Doctor doesn’t know that.
He takes a deep breath, then blows it out quickly. “Goodbye, Doctor.”
The Doctor doesn’t answer. Instead, cool hands come to rest on either side of his face, and the Doctor’s kissing him, hard and firm, and there’s a lump in his throat and he starts blinking, the stinging in his eyes worsening.
He hears the Doctor’s voice. “I’ll come for you, Jack. That’s a promise.” Yet even as he hears it the Doctor’s still kissing him. The words aren’t in his ears; they’re inside his head.
Ending the kiss, the Doctor steps back and holds out his hand. In it’s the fist-sized piece of coral he had in his pocket.
Jack waits for the scathing look, the condemnatory word. Yet the Doctor says nothing, just raises one eyebrow.
“I just...” he begins, feeling almost as chastened as when he and the Doctor stood on opposite sides of a Chula ambulance.
Yet the Doctor’s tone is compassionate, not critical. “It won’t work. Not for you. Not for anyone, now.”
He swallows, having no idea what to say.
“Here.” To his astonishment, he’s being given the coral again. “Just keep it safe. That’s all. All right?”
Nodding, he promises, “I will.”
“Right. I’m off, then.” Before he even has time to put the coral back into his pocket, the Doctor’s strode past him and to the door. A second later, the door’s shutting firmly and the Time Lord’s gone. He’s alone in the TARDIS again.
In just a few hours, this ship will become a holding cell for Margaret Slitheen. A few hours after that, she’ll almost break apart as the Rift opens and goes crazy. It’s tempting, way too tempting, to make some adjustments, just a few tweaks, to make it impossible for his earlier self to patch the extrapolator into the console. It could work. No, it would work.
Changing history’s a bad idea. It’s history and you’ve got to let it play out.
Yes. Let it play out.
One last look around the console room, and he turns away, reaches for the door and pulls it open. Without looking back, he exits and pulls it shut behind him. Seconds later, he’s turning the corner and heading for the grimy travel agent that’s the front for his office.
Back to work. Back to what’s become his normal life. Back to waiting.
The Doctor will find him; he has to hold onto that belief, of course, because it’s all he has. It’s all that’s kept him going for the last century, of course, but now he’s got his friend’s promise, too.
I’ll come for you.
But he hasn’t yet.
And yet... that makes sense now. Got to let it play out. Of course he hasn’t come so far. Because today happened. If the Doctor turned up any sooner, it would’ve been a paradox.
Soon, then. Because the Doctor promised and, as he once said, never doubted him. Never will.
And so, as he steps back out into the centre of the Hub, ready to face his team again, one hand in his pocket fingering a piece of warm coral and his lips still tingling from the memory of a kiss, a faint smile’s curving his lips.
His gaze takes in the people standing to attention as he appears: Suzie, Tosh and Owen, and there’s Ianto stepping down from the store-room entry. He has a job to do: to prevent his team realising what’s going on with the Rift later and interfering. For now, this is his life. His responsibility.
“So, what’s next?”
END