Iamjabberwok: Bookends (10/Jack) [PG]
Title: Bookends
Author: Jabber
Challenge: Winter Companions
Pairing: 10/Jack
Rating: PG
Warnings/Spoilers: None
Summary: On a perfectly ordinary day in a perfectly ordinary park, two extraordinary men do not have a conversation.
On a backwater little planet somewhere west of anything interesting there is a city whose towering skyscrapers and concrete jungles are broken suddenly, unexpectedly, by a large expanse of green. The locals call it a “Park.” How the city has managed to preserve it in an age where any square inch of land is a harvestable quantity is one of the great mysteries of the universe.
In a quiet little corner of this park, on one of the spectacularly uncomfortable wooden benches that occasionally dot the paths winding their way through the greenery, sits a man. The people passing by barely notice him (which is a bit odd since he cuts a rather dramatic figure dressed in his long, anachronistic coat, casually leaning back against the bench’s stiff wooden back, one leg crossed over the other. One gets the feeling he’s used to being noticed.) There’s no telling how long he’s been sitting on this bench. Hours, perhaps. Millennia.
The people passing by also fail to notice the sound of gears grinding painfully, or the stiff wind that seems to have materialized out of nowhere. (The locals may be ever so slightly dense when it comes to the obvious). If the man on the bench notices the wind or the sound of engines, he gives no outward sign of it.
A short while later another figure drops onto the park bench with an explosive sigh. His clothes are torn and his face smudged with soot. One sleeve of his coat has been spattered with something that looks suspiciously like blood. There are dark circles under his eyes, and his muscles tremble with belated exhaustion. He slumps against the bench, his body melting into it as if it were a particularly inviting armchair. On the other end of the bench his companion says nothing. He barely acknowledges the new arrival with a hint of a concerned glance. Silence settles over the bench and its occupants, broken only by the occasional gasping intake of breath from the more battered of the two, indicating some sort of internal injury on top of his outward disarray.
At last the battered man shifts in his seat, his eyes restlessly scanning the surrounding area (it is a survival instinct, a habit ingrained due to necessity and long practice). The silence shifts from easy to heavy in an instant and when he speaks, his voice is rough and low, “Jack” he says, and it sounds like a question, a plea, and an angry outburst all at once.
“Doctor” the other responds, and it is at the same time a solace and a rebuke. The Doctor laughs and if it sounds slightly pained, neither pays much attention.
Jack says nothing. He does not ask the Doctor what’s wrong or what happened (he knows better). A passing stranger might mistake his silence for indifference, but there’s something deeply caring in the way he stands (and as he does so, his coat settles against his body like a second skin) and offers a hand to his companion. When the Doctor is upright, Jack wraps an arm around his waist, and while it may look like the casual gesture of a long-time friend (and well-accomplished flirt), the Doctor can feel the strength and support behind it.
They walk away in perfect step. Around them, people go about their business, too oblivious or too absorbed in their own personal dramas to notice two old friends enjoying the last remaining rays of late afternoon sunshine. The uncomfortable, unremarkable little wooden bench stands in its place on the path in solitary splendor as the first fireflies begin to dance in the deepening shadows.