OUTSIDE INN: The Way Things Should Be
Title: The Way Things Should Be
Characters/Pairing: Jack/Doctor (Nine)
Word Count: 557
Rating: PG
Summary: Jack ought to be used to the unexpected in the Inn, but somehow he didn't foresee this.
Notes: Takes place before this thread.
Disclaimer: I don't own Doctor Who, the Doctor, Jack, or the Inn. I just play with all of the above.
Jack's only half paying attention to the world - or the Inn - around him, as he lounges on the couch, legs crossed and feet up on the back of the couch. There are only so many times he can take his pistol apart and put it back together, but it gives him something to focus on and keeps his hands busy.
It doesn't, however, keep his mind nearly busy enough, doesn't keep the same damn thing from echoing over and over again.
"You're just wrong, Jack."
Not the voice of the Doctor he knows, but so very much the Doctor, and he can't stand to be near him. And Jack can't bring himself to blame him - he never can.
And he's still been waiting around for forty years for the Doctor to forgive him - like it was somehow his fault - for the Doctor to come back for him. It's stupid and hopeless... and unavoidable. If he lives forever, he'll probably still be waiting.
Yeah. Pretty damn stupid. Jack sighs and fits the cartridge back into his gun with a bit more force than is strictly necessary. He takes a breath and looks up slowly, scanning the room automatically - and then his breath halts in his chest.
He shouldn't be here. Sure, Jack understands the Inn's outside out of time, the timelines are bound to get crossed, but the man who's standing in the doorway now is gone. He turned into someone else altogether, thinner and with more hair and smaller ears and a pinstriped suit, and the fact that he's here now isn't fair.
Nevertheless, Jack's on his feet in two seconds, the gun forgotten on the couch.
"Doctor." His voice is level and formal, a little unsure of the reception he'll get.
His Doctor turns to look at him, and Jack's heart tumbles in the split second before he reacts. And then he smiles, and the smile lights his face in a way Jack never thought he'd see again, and the whole Inn seems a little brighter for it. He smiles back, his whole body aching to just lunge forward and throw his arms around the Doctor's neck. He manages to stay put.
"Hello, Jack." Bright, calm, like it hasn't been forty years... but then, for him, it hasn't. For him it probably hasn't been forty minutes.
"I think I owe you a drink," Jack says simply as the Doctor starts toward him.
"Do you?"
Crossed timelines, Jack reminds himself. Memories the Doctor doesn't have yet. "I will. Remind me about it later."
And the Doctor, of course, just shrugs and accepts that. "Alright!"
Jack will think up drinks for the two of them in a minute. He will sit back down and talk to the Doctor, and he'll either tell him what's happened since he last saw him or pretend nothing's different or a mixture of both, and for a little while, everything's going to be like it was. Just this second, though, all Jack can do is step forward and hug him, burying his face just briefly in the Doctor's coat. It's reassuring that he still smells just like he always did, like leather, and ingrained smoke from probably a hundred different explosions of various things on various planets, and time.
Characters/Pairing: Jack/Doctor (Nine)
Word Count: 557
Rating: PG
Summary: Jack ought to be used to the unexpected in the Inn, but somehow he didn't foresee this.
Notes: Takes place before this thread.
Disclaimer: I don't own Doctor Who, the Doctor, Jack, or the Inn. I just play with all of the above.
Jack's only half paying attention to the world - or the Inn - around him, as he lounges on the couch, legs crossed and feet up on the back of the couch. There are only so many times he can take his pistol apart and put it back together, but it gives him something to focus on and keeps his hands busy.
It doesn't, however, keep his mind nearly busy enough, doesn't keep the same damn thing from echoing over and over again.
"You're just wrong, Jack."
Not the voice of the Doctor he knows, but so very much the Doctor, and he can't stand to be near him. And Jack can't bring himself to blame him - he never can.
And he's still been waiting around for forty years for the Doctor to forgive him - like it was somehow his fault - for the Doctor to come back for him. It's stupid and hopeless... and unavoidable. If he lives forever, he'll probably still be waiting.
Yeah. Pretty damn stupid. Jack sighs and fits the cartridge back into his gun with a bit more force than is strictly necessary. He takes a breath and looks up slowly, scanning the room automatically - and then his breath halts in his chest.
He shouldn't be here. Sure, Jack understands the Inn's outside out of time, the timelines are bound to get crossed, but the man who's standing in the doorway now is gone. He turned into someone else altogether, thinner and with more hair and smaller ears and a pinstriped suit, and the fact that he's here now isn't fair.
Nevertheless, Jack's on his feet in two seconds, the gun forgotten on the couch.
"Doctor." His voice is level and formal, a little unsure of the reception he'll get.
His Doctor turns to look at him, and Jack's heart tumbles in the split second before he reacts. And then he smiles, and the smile lights his face in a way Jack never thought he'd see again, and the whole Inn seems a little brighter for it. He smiles back, his whole body aching to just lunge forward and throw his arms around the Doctor's neck. He manages to stay put.
"Hello, Jack." Bright, calm, like it hasn't been forty years... but then, for him, it hasn't. For him it probably hasn't been forty minutes.
"I think I owe you a drink," Jack says simply as the Doctor starts toward him.
"Do you?"
Crossed timelines, Jack reminds himself. Memories the Doctor doesn't have yet. "I will. Remind me about it later."
And the Doctor, of course, just shrugs and accepts that. "Alright!"
Jack will think up drinks for the two of them in a minute. He will sit back down and talk to the Doctor, and he'll either tell him what's happened since he last saw him or pretend nothing's different or a mixture of both, and for a little while, everything's going to be like it was. Just this second, though, all Jack can do is step forward and hug him, burying his face just briefly in the Doctor's coat. It's reassuring that he still smells just like he always did, like leather, and ingrained smoke from probably a hundred different explosions of various things on various planets, and time.