rubychan05: And So I Fall Into The Blackness Of Death (Ten/Jack) [PG-13]
Title: And So I Fall Into The Blackness Of Death
Author: rubychan05
Challenge: Plague
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: All New Who. No major TW.
Warnings: Mentions of blood, death, and other pleasant things that come with the plague. ^_^
Summary: It's the Black Death. And Jack's not happy.
And So I Fall Into The Blackness Of Death
The first time he encounters the Black Death it’s 1665 and his Vortex Manipulator has broken down again.
He uses his masses of charm and wit to secure a free room at the nearest lodging house (although he later thinks the owner was just amazed to see a man whose teeth weren’t rotting away in his mouth even as he spoke), and hides the misplaced Tryanna crystal he was sent to retrieve under the floorboards when he goes out. It takes him a few days to come to terms with the fact that there is absolutely nothing here that can be botched together to make a distress signal for the Agency to find, and after Jack finally gives up on scouring the filth covered streets for useful items he returns to his room, where he takes out his frustration on the defenceless bed.
He has to sleep with the landlady to stop her from charging him for it, and even though he shudders at the sight of the pockmarks that declare her one of the lucky few to survive the latest smallpox outbreak Jack just shuts his eyes and dives right in.
If he’s going to be stuck here, it’s better to have at least this unfortunate landlady on his side than nobody at all.
And if it means he has to keep screwing the woman for free room and board than so be it, because he’s done far worse in his time.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
He’s been in the 17th century for less than a month when the cry goes up. The plague, they wail, the plague! And Jack is just watching them in pity, safe in the knowledge that he’ll be gone before the plague spreads, when he remembers. He can’t go back until the Agency finds him, and it’s with a rising terror that Jack realises he’s going to be stuck in the middle of London as the infamous Great Plague Of London hits the city full force.
Within days half the city empties as those businessmen and merchants rich enough to do so flee the area, replaced instead by the hundreds of so called ‘plague doctors’ who flock to the city and make their money diagnosing those doomed to die. Unlike the people of the time Jack knows they’re a bunch of unqualified fakes, but even he can’t stop the chill of fear that spreads through him every time he sees one leave a nearby house, the twisting of his stomach whenever he watches the doctors help the corpse collectors drag a disfigured body from a grieving family, ready to be buried in an unnamed mass grave.
When he gets home from his job at the market Mary’s making the same stew she serves up for her lodgers every night. Her cheeks are flushed and sweaty as she tells Jack about Anne-down-the-street’s new fella, and when she retires to bed early complaining of a headache Jack’s heart seizes because he knows all about the pneumonic plague and its symptoms from Bio-History.
That night he prays for the first time since leaving the Peninsula, begging a God he doesn’t believe in to save the pox-scarred woman who’s somehow wormed her way into his heart.
She doesn’t get out of bed again.
By the end of the week it’s her body that the corpse collectors are taking away.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
It only takes a few days for Jack to develop a terrible hacking cough, and he knows as well as the wide eyed lodgers who start to avoid him that his time is up. Compassion had made him unable to just let Mary die alone in her bed, and he spent her last days beside her, using wet cloths to cool her fever and holding her hands when the aches in her joints grew to be too much.
He’d had the vague hope that as a 51st century guy he’d be immune to the disease, but the fever he quickly develops tells him differently as he gathers as much food and drink as possible before retreating to his room; he knows that none of the other lodgers will dare to even get close enough to feed him later when he’s too weak to move.
He coughs up phlegm that shines crimson in the morning light as he inspects it, and Jack smiles bitterly to himself as he mentally catalogues his symptoms in an attempt to work out how much time he has left. First stage, coughing. Second stage, fever. He must be on stage three by now, and that means he has roughly two to four days left for him to regret everything he hasn’t done yet in his too short lifetime.
The blood is dribbling out of his lax lips and staining the already putrid pillow when the other Agents turn up in Biohazard suits and bring him back to the Agency in a containment field. It takes nearly six hours for the nanogenes to fix the damage and decontaminate him, an eternity in this day and age, but Jack pulls through just as strong and able as he’s always been.
He hands the crystal over and receives an upgraded Vortex Manipulator and a promotion for his trouble.
He never goes back to the 17th century.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
The second time he encounters the Black Death it’s 2007 and the Rift is fracturing, infecting Cardiff A & E with plague victims from the 14th century.
He doesn’t even set foot anywhere near the clinic, and he knows Owen and Tosh were careful not to let themselves get infected, but he still can’t suppress the churning horror he feels at the news that the plague that almost caused his death all those years ago has followed him here. Not the exact same plague sure, and alright, he can’t die now, but the thought still more than unsettles him.
He has the unnerving feeling that even through her own shock Gwen can somehow see his discomfort, and he masks it as quickly as he can, asking Tosh for more details on the hospital’s condition.
Jack won’t let any of his team become another Mary, and if it’s at all possible to stop this thing he’s going to do it, whatever the cost.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
The third and hopefully final time he encounters the Black Death it’s still 2007 and it comes in the form of an insane Time Lord wielding a glittering needle.
“So…while you were out I had a little snoop around in that head of yours.” The Master grins, pearly teeth glinting in the artificial light of Jack’s cell. “I know, total invasion of privacy, but what can I say? I just couldn’t help myself!”
He leans closer, lightly strokes Jack’s cheek with the needle’s point. If Jack even just breathes more deeply that needle’s going to break the skin, and Jack has the horrible feeling he’s not going to like what’s in it. The Master’s already gleefully executed him in more than 100 different, twisted ways…he’s sure that the Master can easily make it 101.
“You see, I couldn’t help noticing that you have a bit of a…thing…about the Black Death, Jack.” The Master gloats, clearly enjoying the way Jack’s eyes widen in horror at the implication. “And what kind of host would I be if I didn’t do everything in my power to make my guests feel right at home?”
The needle slides almost smoothly into his arm, the Master absurdly taking the time to make sure he doesn’t hurt Jack or miss the vein. Jack jerks, struggling against the metal chains, but it’s too late…he can almost feel whatever the Master’s injected into him rushing through him, filtering into his system.
“Wha…” His voice cracks, worn from disuse, and the Master smiles indulgently.
“Just a few thousand Yersinia pestis.” He beams, and Jack breathes in sharply, his skin suddenly feeling like it’s crawling. He knows all about the bacteria that caused all three strains of the Black Death, spread through fleas across the population. There’s more than enough bacteria in him now to kill him by plague five times over at least, and even if he’s just going to wake up again right away that’s still over a month of agony whilst the bacteria cycle through his system.
“Oh good…I see you’ve heard of them. Do you remember how it felt to cough up your own insides and feel the blood stick in your mouth and choke you?” The Master whispers, lightly stroking Jack’s cheek with a gloved hand. “Do you remember the indignity, how pathetic you looked?”
Jack flinches, mind flashing back to the sickened expressions on his old allies’ faces when they came to retrieve him. They’d never looked at him quite the same again after that.
The Master grins.
“Because guess what, Jack? I wanted someone else to see that too.”
He steps aside and Jack breathes in sharply, blue gaze following the old man being wheeled into his cell. The Doctor stares at him soulfully, brown eyes almost lost in his wrinkled face, and Jack’s heart hurts.
“Jack…” The Doctor stares up at him, expression twisted, and Jack wonders what he looks like now. He hasn’t had a bath in weeks, so he knows for certain he must stink even if he can’t smell it himself. The idea that the Doctor’s seeing him in this state now, that the Doctor’s going to watch him degenerate into a quivering wreck of puke and blood fills him with humiliation. He knows he’s not good enough for the Doctor anymore…the Doctor’s good as told him that to his face with every word and look thrown at him since they’ve been back together. All he has left is his body, and if that fails him he can’t imagine what will keep the Doctor’s interest. He caught a big eared man with nothing more than his lips once, long before that Doctor ever got to know him as a companion.
This time, that won’t work. No one wants to kiss a mouth they’ve seen bile and blood bubbling out of.
“Doctor…” He whispers, and he feels cold when the Master trails fingers down his chest, hot shame shooting through him as a gloved hand grips him through his trousers. He hears a gasp as the Master bites down on his neck, can practically see the way the Doctor’s hands grip the arms of his wheelchair as the Master waves the guards out and begins to grind himself against Jack.
It’s a nightly tradition, and if it wasn’t for the Doctor’s presence Jack wouldn’t even let himself care, so used he is to the routine. So instead he shuts his eyes and pretends they’re alone, hanging in his chains as the Master uses him.
He lets barely a whimper escape as the Master forces his way into his mind and makes him come without even a caress.
In the dark silence of the cell, the Doctor’s hitching sobs sound loud to Jack’s ears.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
“So how long has he been…doing that to you?”
The Master’s long gone, leaving them alone together, and Jack shrugs, not letting his eyes meet the Doctor’s for fear of what he might see there.
“Long enough. I think it started a few days after they put me down here, but I wasn’t quite conscious at the time so I can’t be sure.”
He hears the Doctor breathe in sharply, knows without looking that the Time Lord is wearing his patented look of martyrdom, adding more guilt to the already heavy burden he carries. Jack sighs, shifts in his chains until the metal cuffs chafe against his skin. He feels antsy, ready to crawl out of his skin, and for the first time thinks that maybe being stuck on the slow path wasn’t as bad as he’d thought.
“Look Doctor, you have to make him let you out of here. I’ve got the goddamn plague, and I don’t know what it will do to you…” He tries desperately, cursing at the Doctor’s typical response.
“It doesn’t affect Time Lords.”
“Look, it’s not a pretty sight. Trust me, I know. I’ve seen what it does to a person. And I’m sorry but I’m not about to let you just sit there and watch me throw up my guts. I’ve lost too much of your respect already, you hear?”
The Doctor doesn’t reply.
He doesn’t ask the Master to reconsider leaving him here either.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Twelve days in and the room’s spinning, the smell of his own puke making him feel like throwing up again. There are bloodstains on his chin and he flinches as a cloth gently wipes them away, a wrinkled hand smoothing back the hair plastered to his sweaty brow.
“Why…” He croaks, voice cracked and terrible, eyes struggling to focus on the man in front of him.
The Doctor just shrugs, brown eyes warm as he leans forward to press a light kiss on Jack’s brow despite the dirt, despite the day old sweat.
“Because I’ve failed you too many times. This is the least I can do for you.”
Jack wants to protest, it’s not the Doctor’s fault he’s an abomination, but he’s too tired to form the words and instead lets himself sink into weary sleep, his bones aching as the plague sets about destroying him from the inside out for the second time in less than two weeks.
He dreams of Mary, named after the Virgin and dying with the Lord’s Prayer on her lips, reaching towards Heaven with every shred of her being.
He dreams of Hell, the flames and punishment he would suffer for all the sins he’ll never be able to make up for, and thinks that if he could die this is where he would be.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
By the time the bacteria have cycled through his system and he’s on what is hopefully his last dose of the plague Jack’s delirious. The Doctor watches him quietly, cares for him as best he can with his tired, arthritic hands, feels his stomach twist with every pained groan Jack lets escape, every time the blood slips out of Jack’s mouth so easily he’s not even having to throw it up anymore.
The Master drops by from time to time, leaving food and water for them and generally admiring his latest work of art. One day he brings a Polaroid camera and arranges Jack so it looks like he’s been crucified, won’t let the Doctor wipe away the crimson dripping down Jack’s chin until he’s finished taking the photos he wants.
The pictures get pinned up on the cell wall facing Jack, right where they’ll be the first thing the immortal sees upon waking from death again. The Doctor’s tempted to just rip them down, but then he remembers Francine, Tish, the world the Master has by the throat, and knows it’s not worth it.
When Jack dies again it’s with the Doctor’s name on his lips, a fruitless plea for something that the Doctor can’t understand as Jack chokes on his own fluids. He arranges Jack’s body as best he can in the awkward chains, and tries to pretend that it doesn’t worry him when Jack doesn’t stir for nearly two days.
When Jack gasps and convulses his way back to life it’s been 36 days since the torture began, and the Doctor doesn’t know which of them is the more broken.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
After the Year That Never Was the Doctor travels onwards until the TARDIS crashes for seemingly no reason in the middle of the 21st century, the year 2050 to be precise. The streets are empty, a bell ringing dolefully in the nearby church. He peers through a nearby window and jumps back at the sight of the half rotted corpse inside, feels the horror well up inside him as every other window just shows him the same thing. When he reaches the churchyard it’s full to bursting, gravestones piled over themselves willy nilly, most bearing more than one name. A corpse in a vicar’s collar sits at the doorway to the church, tears of blood tracked down his cheeks, wide open eyes still staring at his morning paper.
The Doctor frees the fragile paper from frozen fingers, sucks in a breath at the headline and runs, runs faster than he thought he could do as he bounds across Roald Dahl Plass, reaching the large fountain within minutes and urgently willing the invisible lift to move quicker.
When he enters the Hub he finds Jack sitting limply on the sofa, a young Welshman tucked against him on one side and a dark haired woman half fallen off the sofa on the other. The immortal lifts his head, looks the Doctor in the eye, and the Doctor flinches back, unable to meet the other’s fractured, grieving gaze.
Somewhere along the line history went wrong and the man that sits before him now replaces Cassandra as the last of their species, the last human alive.
Jack doesn’t speak as the Doctor leads him back to the TARDIS, only resists as long as is needed to finally bury the bodies of his most loved team members, a single white lily laid on the mound marking the Welshman’s final resting place.
The newspaper’s headline hangs over them as they vanish away, both alone in their uniqueness, both grieving the loss of a world.
Black Death Spreads: Doctors Unable To Find Cure