Fic: Beating Time
Some of this story may sound familiar to some readers. That's because chunks of it are recycled/lifted from "Beat of Drums," posted the day Last of the Time Lords aired and somewhat submerged in the furore. It didn't say everything I wanted to say anyway, so this is a remixed, revamped version - I'm fairly sure it's not plagiarism if I wrote it in the first place. I've taken down the original to avoid confusion.
A/N: I really can't thank my betas enough for this one. crystalshard for correcting my wince-worthy science, miss_zedem for pushing me so far outside my comfort zone that I've forgotten where it is and both of them for generally leaving my stories better than they found them. Thanks, guys.
Shamelessly cross-posted pretty much everywhere, so apologies for spamming. Also submitted to The Year That Never Was Challenge over at lucyjanesparlor - more stories needed!
Title: Beating Time
Author: jadesfire2808
Words: ~5800
Characters: Jack, the Saxons.
Rating: PG13
Spoilers: Set between "Sound of Drums" and "Last of the Time Lords", so for both of those.
Summary: Jack's having a long, eventful year, and it's only just started.
Beating Time
Beaten
Mind not the old man beseeching the young man;
Let not the child's voice be heard, nor the mother's entreaties;
Make even the trestles to shake the dead, where they lie awaiting the hearses,
So strong you thump, O terrible drums--so loud you bugles blow.
From Beat! Beat! Drums! by Walt Whitman
Jack loved getting dirty. He loved being up to his elbows in machinery, covered in grime and grease, listening to the purr of a working engine or coaxing life out of a reluctant circuit. He was good with his hands, in all kinds of ways, and it was good to be doing something.
Admittedly, repairing tagged out circuits on the Valiant hadn't been top of his list of things he wanted to fix, but it was work and it was keeping him busy and it was stopping him from going mad with worry. If the Valiant's systems failed, they were all going to have much more immediate problems than a madman taking over the planet. It had been barely a fortnight, but Saxon seemed to have started as he meant to go on. Pulling out the damaged component, Jack wiped a grubby hand over his forehead and smiled. No-one was plummeting to their deaths if he could help it, not even Saxon. Jack had other plans for him.
Moving back to the makeshift work bench, Jack picked up a screwdriver and began opening the small, black box.
"Water?"
Carefully, Jack nodded, straightening up and accepting the offered cup. "Thanks."
"How's it going?"
"Fine."
Clive Jones glanced towards the guard on the other side of the room, then leaned closer, on the pretext of refilling Jack's cup. "How can you do this?" he hissed. "Fixing his ship while people are dying."
"I'm trying to stop us falling out of the sky," Jack murmured back. "Half this equipment is doing a job it wasn't meant to do. It's alien design with Earth materials and the whole thing's held together by willpower and duct tape. Would you rather I just let us drop?"
"If we took him with us."
Meeting Clive's eyes, Jack pointedly held out his cup again. He was allowed a certain amount of autonomy, but conversation between prisoners was not encouraged. "He'd have a way out and a lot of people would die for nothing."
"So in the meantime, you're just going to work for him?"
This time, Jack dropped his eyes, putting the cup down and fiddling with something on the workbench. "That's how it looks, yeah."
"You mean-" Clive broke off, lowering his voice further as he bent to pick up Jack's cup. "What are you going to do?"
"Nothing."
"But-"
"Nothing." Jack shook his head. "Take the cup and go."
"I want to help."
Jack could hear the pain in Clive's voice, the sincerity and the desperation to do something, anything that would make this living hell more bearable. But he'd made his decision. "No," he said firmly, battling to keep his voice low. "Martha would never forgive me if I let anything happen to you." When Clive didn't reply, he looked up, meeting the other man's eyes. "Get out of here, before they come for us both."
Only when Clive was gone, taking the cup and jug and walking away without a backward look, did Jack breathe more easily. He'd promised himself not to endanger anyone else, least of all Martha's family. They were already suffering enough.
Gingerly, he began reconnecting wires, tracing the circuits in his mind and on the board in front of him. Saxon had had to use him, up to a point. There were only a few people on board who could repair this kind of burn out, caused by Saxon's own re-design, warping UNIT's defence ship into something much more deadly. Jack had known about it, but it hadn't been his problem or his jurisdiction at the time. Now that it was, he intended to make the most of it.
It took him another half an hour to finish his work, then another ten to re-insert the modified box into the system. The capacitor would blow the next time someone used the external comms system, and he reckoned he had a couple hours before they tracked down the source and linked it back to him. There was no way of knowing if it would impair the Toclafane comms as well, but it would at least inconvenience the Valiant's crew for a while. This was going to be a war of attrition, and Jack wasn't going anywhere.
Three and a half hours later, he was starting to reconsider that statement. Apparently where he was going, at speed and dragged by two stony-faced guards, was three decks down, into one of the engine rooms and chained between two pillars. The guards locked the cuffs round his wrists, stretching his arms uncomfortably wide and Jack wondered just how angry, on a scale of one to ten, Saxon was right now. Judging by the pain in his shoulders, Jack guessed it was somewhere around twenty-four.
The repair crews were apparently better than he'd given them credit for, because it was barely half an hour before the TV screen on the wall flickered into life and he got his first glimpse of Saxon since he'd been hauled off the flight deck two weeks previously. There was nothing on the man's face to indicate what he was feeling, and the strange, smiling blankness sent a shiver down Jack's back. This wasn't the harmless, friendly politician he'd watched rise to influence. This was a Time Lord, an unbalanced, powerful genius. Maybe upsetting him hadn't been such a good idea after all.
Behind Saxon, Jack saw the Joneses, clinging to each other, standing as far into the corner of the room as they could. In front of them was the Doctor, held by two guards as he tried to stand upright. Jack clenched his fists, fighting back the surge of anger. The cuffs were tight round his wrists and the chains had very little slack in them. It wouldn't take much to snap something, probably him.
"Captain Jack Harkness." Saxon was looking right into the camera, that half-smile still in place, as though he was the only one in the room to get the joke. "I gave you freedom of movement, I gave you work, I haven't killed you in at least four days. And this is how you repay me." He tutted, shaking his head like a disappointed parent and Jack felt a cold knot of fear twist inside him. There was something very, very wrong. "You see," Saxon went on, "for every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction. Newtonian physics, clean and simple. That was your action. This is my reaction."
He stepped back, letting the camera pan across the room, focussing on a new figure, on its knees with its head bowed. Jack pulled against his chains as he recognised the bound man. It was the guard from earlier in the day, the one who hadn't been able to stop him from sabotaging the ship. Jack's frantic tugging wasn't doing anything except send shooting pains through his arms, but he couldn't stop, knowing with awful certainty what was about to happen.
"There are always consequences for your actions, Captain." Saxon's voice was hard and cold, coming from somewhere off-camera.
A flicker of movement on the screen caught Jack's eye, a shadow passing across the floor. Then a bolt of red light shot out, catching the kneeling man in the chest and blasting him into atoms almost before he could scream. Breathing hard, Jack let his head fall forwards for a moment, feeling the pull across his back and the bite of the metal against his wrists. He pulled harder, not expecting anything except the burn of straining muscles, something to drive the black rage from his mind. He certainly didn't expect to feel the slight shift of the chain, the minutest of movements that suggested not everything was as secure as it could have been.
When he looked up, Saxon was back in front of the camera, smiling pleasantly as the Toclafane hovered behind him.
"The next time you try something like that, I'll have them bring up some of the surviving UNIT personnel. Or maybe some of the slaves from the shipyards. I trust we understand each other."
The monitor flickered off, leaving Jack alone with his anger. It was hot down here, the air full of the smell of machinery and flecks of dirt that were already coating him in a new layer of grime. Breathing hard, he took more of his weight back onto his feet, trying to get as comfortable as possible and not pull his arms out of their sockets. The fury was hardening, forming into something stronger and tougher, becoming a resolve that he could use. And, combined with the tiny movement, it was enough to give him the first stirrings of hope.
Heartbeat
Storm against ship: heartbeat of the world.
Heel against floor and wave upon shore: heartbeat of the world.
Sigh of a lover: heartbeat of the world.
Unknown Irish Author
Jack lifted his face to the flow of water, luxuriating in the sensations. Warm and soothing, pounding into his muscles and easing the aches. Tentatively, he rolled his shoulders, wincing at the movement and turning to bring one, then the other under the spray. Even for someone in pretty good condition (if he did say so himself), standing with your arms held out hurt. He'd shifted as much as the chains had allowed, trying ward off the worst of the cramps, but there had been moments in the last few weeks where he'd thought he was going to go mad from the pain.
Now, he could feel it all washing away, along with the dirt, puddling at his feet and running towards the plughole. He dropped his head, letting the heat soak into the back of his neck and watching the last specks of grime floating across the bottom of the shower. It would have been nice to imagine, just for a moment, that he was in his own bathroom back at the Hub, thinking about the day, running through reports and questions in his head. Wondering what Gwen did over the weekend, or how many new gadgets Tosh had bought on eBay or how long it was going to take him to make Ianto smile this morning. Hell, right at that moment he would have settled for a blow by blow account of Owen's weekend activities.
Closing his eyes, he tried to summon up the memory of Ianto's coffee, the smell and the taste of it, so vivid in his mind that he could almost feel it on his tongue, bitter and smooth all at once. Torchwood had been outlawed, of course, but there had been nothing about rounding up the members, no public executions and, most importantly, no gloating from Saxon to Jack. It was this last thought, that the man wouldn't have been able to help himself, that gave Jack hope. He was storing up the tiny moments, using them to get through the bad times. The smallest shift of the bolts holding his chain to the wall, the relatively light punishment meted out on the Jones family for their latest escape attempt, seeing the Doctor on the screen, just once. It wasn't much, but he'd take what he could get right now.
He heard a shuffling of feet and opened his eyes again. His escort was starting to look a little jumpy, standing a few metres away and fidgeting with his gun. They'd brought Jack down to the barracks showers to get cleaned up, although no-one was saying what for. Jack doubted it was for anything good. Reluctantly, realising that they could turn the water off at any moment, he tipped his head back and gave his hair a final dousing before stepping out from under the spray and making his way across the communal shower area. The guard nodded to the changing room, where Jack found a towel and a pile of clothes, similar to the ones he'd had on before. Dark trousers, white t-shirt, dark shirt, boots and socks. He took his time doing up the buttons, savouring every last moment of this limited freedom before it was taken away again.
When he was done, he gave the guard a questioning look, receiving a nod towards the door in reply. Outside, the other guard was waiting with the cuffs that they'd used to bring him down here. Trying not to grin, Jack held out his hands, watching the guard fumble with the catch. The chain was longer than on a standard pair of handcuffs, and with a little experimentation once they were on the move, Jack found that he could get his arms about thirty centimetres apart, if he didn't mind the thin bracelets cutting into his wrists.
As they marched through the lower decks, Jack was tempted to ask where they were going, deciding instead to concentrate on taking in his surroundings. It was three weeks since he'd been out of the engine room, three weeks of wondering what the hell was going on out there, relying on Tish and whispered fragments of conversation to keep him in touch with the outside world. Looking round, he wondered why he'd bothered. The Valiant looked just the same, full of blank faced prisoners and guards with expressions of grim diligence. There was no chatter, not so much as a glance of acknowledgement between people sharing the same space. Just a silent determination to survive this minute. Then the next one. Then the next.
Eventually his small group reached the lift, and Jack frowned as one of the guards pressed the button for Deck Eight. He'd expected to be taken up to the flight deck or maybe back to the engine room. As far as he could remember, Deck Eight was where the conference rooms and larger quarters were. As the lift doors opened again and he was pushed down the corridor, he at least had an explanation for why he'd been allowed to clean up. It was more like a hotel here than a working ship, with thick carpet on the floor and wood panelling and oil paintings - originals as far as he could tell - on the walls. Even UNIT's brass wouldn't have had such luxury, not on board ship, and Jack knew this had to be Saxon's personal design. Apparently he liked his creature comforts.
The guards stopped by one of the doors, apparently no different to the others, knocking once then opening the door for him to enter. With a last glance at the guards, who were resolutely staring at the wall opposite, Jack stepped inside, hearing the door close behind him. His wandering gaze took in the deep brown, leather chairs, the book cases and the trophy cabinets, finally coming to rest on the woman in the opposite doorway.
Lucy Saxon no longer looked like the demure politician's wife. The red dress and tumbling blonde curls suited her much better than the buttoned up coat. She seemed more comfortable, less restrained, more herself, somehow. Walking across the room, she exaggerated the sway of her hips, tossing her head and sweeping the tresses back. Her walk was that of a model, preening and loving the attention. Jack couldn't take his eyes off her, suddenly aware of how long it had been since he'd had anything to stare at except the back of a guard's head. As much as he'd had bigger concerns, his mind was suddenly replaying some of the more vivid memories that had helped him pass the long, lonely, chained-up hours. He shifted slightly as she walked past him, the clink of the chains reminding him that, technically, he was still chained up. It was enough to let him get at least some of his wits back.
Lucy seemed to hear the sound as well, and her lips curled into a half-smile. "Would you like a drink?" She held up a crystal decanter, her voice low and purring.
"I'm fine, thanks." It wasn't easy to throw him off-balance, and Jack had to give her credit for managing it. When she turned, glass in her hand, he gave her a questioning look. "What am I doing here?"
Instead of answering, she lifted the glass, watching the light dance across the crystal and the liquid inside. Now that she was facing him properly, Jack could see the hesitation in her expression and, more importantly, the darkening bruise under her eye. He clenched his fists.
"Harold thinks I don't care about the other women," she said matter-of-factly. "He knows that I know, but he thinks I'm too much in love with him to care. Maybe I am." Draining the drink with a toss of her head, she put the glass down and looked at Jack properly for the first time. "But he's not the only one to appreciate," she paused, running her eyes over him before finishing, "beauty."
It wasn't a surprise, not exactly. It certainly wasn't the first time he'd been in this position, not by a long way. And there were rules to how this game was played. Raising his eyebrows a little, he said, "You know he'd kill us both if he found out."
"Maybe, maybe not. Besides, would that be a problem?"
"Not for me."
She laughed, an odd, hiccoughing sound, putting her drink down and walking towards him with the same swaying walk as before. Watching her come towards him, Jack knew for certain that this was the first time she'd done this. He allowed himself a moment of pity for this fragile, lovely creature, letting himself imagine, however briefly, what it would have been like under different circumstances. He played with the thoughts as she took two more steps, reacting to her as any man would, letting himself feel the mixture of attraction and protectiveness that would let him play the part properly. Then he got a grip on those feelings, his brain taking over again and calculating all the different ways this could end.
Half of his plans were thrown out of the window as she came closer, close enough that he could see into her eyes. There was nothing there, not even the coolness of the iciest blonde, just the emptiness of a shell, as though someone had drained all the humanity out of her. This wasn't someone he could persuade over to his side, someone he could reason with or appeal to with any kind of emotional plea. She'd stood and laughed as the Earth died. There was going to be no change of heart now. Vaguely, he wondered if she was from Earth at all, knowing that all kinds of things could hide behind the mask of human flesh. There was something wrong about her, something that triggered every instinct he had and, with a start, he wondered if that was what the Doctor felt when he looked at him.
He didn't get to finish the thought as she stopped in front of him, so close that he could feel the brush of her body against his, feel the silk of her dress on his chained hands. Avoiding those vacant eyes, Jack dropped his gaze to her mouth, seeing the tip of her tongue just visible between her parted lips. He could feel her body heat, hear her rapid breathing. At this proximity, he could almost hear her heartbeat, even as his own pulse picked up, echoing in his ears.
Her fingers worked their way across his face, the pressure too strong for a caress, as though she was trying to remould his face, re-sculpt him through her touch. Jack made no attempt to turn away, letting her dig nails into his cheeks, run her thumb over his lips, and he only closed his eyes when she brought her fingers up to them, feeling her feather-light touch across his eyelids.
"What are you?" she whispered, and he smiled.
"If I had my hands free, I could show you."
"Naughty." She slapped him, hard enough to sting. Jack kept his face turned away, still playing the game, as she pressed her fingers into his cheek again. "I'm sure you can do more in chains than most could do with both hands and a month to think about it."
"Possibly." He could feel her breath against his cheek, and he forced himself to stay calm, despite the twin, conflicting urges to run towards the door or carry her bodily into the bedroom. He couldn't afford to lose his head in any direction at this point. "Is that why I'm here?"
Her hands were moving again, a sharp nail running across the base of his throat, moving from side to side and pressing into the pulse-points, not quite hard enough to leave a mark. He resisted the urge to swallow, opening his mouth instead, fighting to keep his breathing under control as she carried on speaking as if she hadn't heard his question, her voice a low murmur. "I wonder what would happen if Harold let me cut off your head. Would you come back from that, do you think? Could you come back and tell me if it hurt? Does it hurt, the dying, or do you just forget it all?"
He didn't answer at first, feeling her nail press deeper into his neck, not quite blocking his throat. Instead, he looked down at her, giving her one more chance to back out. Because he was still playing by his own rules here, which meant that everyone got a last warning.
"What do you want?"
This time, her laugh was louder, almost too loud in the quiet room. "If you haven't worked it out by now, then I should just send you back to your prison, shouldn't I?"
"Why?" Her face was so close to his, soft skin against his cheek even as her fingers moved from his throat down his arms and across his chest. She smelt of floral shampoo and perfume and the brandy she'd been drinking. Jack guessed that she'd had a few for courage before he'd arrived, and there was a twinge of guilt at the thought. Then her trailing fingers wrapped into the chain between his wrists, and he pushed the feeling aside.
This wasn't about him, about the nagging desire that he wasn't about to deny, or even about giving comfort to this broken woman in front of him. This was about the survival of the human race, and Jack wasn't about to miss the slimmest of opportunities to help. Of course, he hadn't figured out exactly what he was going to do yet, but Harold Saxon's wife had to know something useful, didn't she? Forcing himself to concentrate, he took half a step backwards, giving himself enough space to think. "Why are you doing this?" Last chance.
Lucy reached for him again, one hand grasping his shoulder and the other going to her face, ghosting over the outline of the bruise.
"To see if he'll notice."
Then she was pulling him down, lifting herself up to meet his mouth and her hands were in his hair, gripping his neck, tight and desperate. After a moment's hesitation, Jack responded, hearing her moan as he kissed her back, his hands running over the slippery material of her dress, feeling her press closer into his touch.
Then she broke away, smiling knowingly at him as he tried to regain his balance. He guessed there was excitement in this for her, the thrill of the forbidden and the possibility of discovery. And for him? However much he tried to deny it, tell himself that this was all for 'the cause', the feeling of being touched, of having some kind of connection to another human being was what he had missed more than anything. He didn't need this, didn't need her specifically, but if it was all he was going to get offered, then there was no way he was turning it down. There'd be a chance afterwards, he told himself as she hooked a finger into the chain and began to lead him towards the door in the corner. Besides, if he got really lucky, maybe she'd talk in her sleep.
Beat of Drums
Borne on the wind an instant, and then gone
Back to the caverns of the middle air
A voice as of a nation overthrown
With beat of drums, when hosts have marched to war.
From The Sublime by Wilfred Blunt
Jack had been tied up enough to know that whoever had arranged his current predicament had had almost as much experience as him. His arms were at that awkward angle, too high to be comfortable but not high enough for him to let the chains take too much of his weight. Not unless he wanted to dislocate his shoulders, as he'd discovered to his cost.
The heat was stifling, and Jack was itching all over, sweat and dirt mingling and running down his face and back. It was minor discomfort, a bass note to the increasing pitch of agony in his arms. Trying to distract himself, Jack watched the seconds ticking past on the screen in front of him. Twenty seven days since Lucy Saxon. Twenty six days since Harold Saxon had found out. Eighteen days and eight slow deaths later, Jack had been left to hang in chains again, the ticking seconds and growing pain reminders that he was still living.
There was nothing he could do right now, not like this and not with a guard barely ten feet away, although he did notice that the guard had turned his back. An amateur's mistake, not to watch your prisoner, especially someone like Jack. It could only get you into trouble. All Jack had to do was figure out how.
He was tugging gently on the restraints, trying not to make a noise as he worked on the small weakness in the brickwork, when the quality of the air changed. A cool draft flowed through the room, bringing temporary relief from the humidity and Jack craned his neck, trying to see who was there, his heart sinking as he heard the familiar, mocking voice.
"Well, Captain, it's been a while."
At the sound of the voice, Jack's head snapped up and he blinked in the dim light.
"At least six days," he said, as calmly as he could. Mostly what he felt was a deep resignation, that this was how time would pass from now on. Three months into the Master's reign of terror, Jack knew what his part in it was going to be. Most of it was going to hurt.
Saxon made a dismissive gesture to the guard, who left without looking back, leaving them alone.
"So, Captain Jack Harkness," Saxon said, pushing his hands into his pockets. "Do you have any idea how pathetic you are?"
"I'm sure you're going to tell me." Fighting his instinct to shrink away, Jack forced himself to stay calm. Even in the muted light, he could see the madness in Saxon's eyes, an all-consuming fire that burned to the heart of his soul, striking more fear into him than physical threats could ever manage. He hadn't spoken much during the varied and ingenious methods of death that he'd subjected Jack to, but now it seemed, he wanted to talk.
Ticking the points off on his fingers, Saxon walked slowly towards him. "I could list all the ways you've failed to stop me, all the chances you could have taken and completely missed. Honestly, Torchwood's not what it used to be, not with you in charge. Your predecessor would have had me hung, drawn and quartered before I could threaten the precious British Empire. Not to mention that sleeping with my wife was a foolish mistake and ultimately pointless."
Jack refused to rise to the taunts, knowing it was the quickest way to cracking. As though sensing his thoughts, Saxon stepped closer, his strange, dark eyes still ablaze.
"Not going to talk to me, Captain? You screamed well enough when they killed you, didn't you? Such a noise." Saxon shook his head, wincing in mock-pain. "But I suppose that means we can't be friends. What a pity. You've got so many friends, Captain, haven't you? So many good friends, who tell you all their secrets."
Jack found that he couldn't look away. This wasn't madness as he could understand it, an imbalance in the brain, a chemical anomaly that could be corrected. This was a twist in the soul, warped and misshapen but still recognisable as what he could have been. All that power and ability, channelled and wielded by a man who could only use it for destruction. And yet there was something, deep beneath the surface of those terrible eyes, that reminded Jack of the Doctor.
"Yes," Saxon hissed, lifting a hand to cup Jack's face. "That's it. He told you his secrets, didn't he? Told you what he plans to do."
Too late, Jack felt the probing, thin tendrils of thought brushing against his mind. He shook his head.
"He didn't tell me anything."
"There's no point lying to me now, Captain." Saxon's voice was soft, barely a whisper in Jack's ear. "We're getting to know each other, you and I. We're going to be friends after all and there's no secrets between friends." He drove his mind harder against Jack's, fingers tightening around Jack's head.
"He didn't tell me," Jack gasped, trying to fight the intrusion. "He wouldn't take the risk." His mind was on fire now, the mental battle transforming itself into pictures, sensations. He stood at the heart of an inferno, flames consuming him, burning through all his defences. He was naked and alone, screaming as the fire slammed into him, triggering the most basic of instincts. Jack struggled against the chains as fear filled him, terror and panic searing his mind.
He had all but lost his connection to the physical now, cut adrift into a world of darkness and pain, but he felt another hand join the first, holding him still and he heard the grunt of effort as Saxon pushed past the last of his barriers. The Time Lord's mind was alien, incomprehensible to Jack's battered senses. It was full of the darkness of the Void itself, the heat of a supernova and the incessant beat of drums. The sound filled him, too much for his mind to contain and he knew that the violation was killing him.
Almost before he was aware of it, there was singing in Jack's head. It started softly, a low humming that was all but inaudible over the sound of drums that was pounding through him. Then it rose, in pitch and volume, a cool breeze against the flames that surrounded him. It was an ethereal voice, pure and clear, at once familiar and unknown, beautiful with a wordless melody that seemed to come from somewhere far beyond. The drums increased in volume, making Jack's heart beat to their rhythm, temporarily deafening him to anything else.
With a sudden burst of sound, the song broke through again, rushing through Jack, through his mind and soul, sweeping the drums away and leaving him breathless with relief. The fire was gone, not just smothered but cast out by a cleansing stream of pure joy that surrounded and uplifted him. He felt as though he should laugh and cry at once, filled with that moment of ecstasy that always came over him after the darkness receded. It was the thrill of living, of being connected to something that sustained him and protected him, no matter what. It was knowing that he was loved. And for the first time in a long time, he was glad to be alive.
Very slowly, Jack opened his eyes, now able to meet those of the man in front of him without flinching. Instead, it was Saxon who blinked, stepping away from Jack and frowning.
"You are an abomination on the face of the universe," he said flatly, half-lifting a hand to his head.
"So I've been told." Jack grinned. "But I'm still here. And I don't know what the Doctor's going to do, but if I were you, I'd start running again. Because the storm is coming and there's not a thing that can stand in its way."
Saxon actually took another step backwards, startled.
"You can't stop me. Neither of you can stop me."
If he'd had his arms free, Jack would have shrugged. Instead, he tilted his head to the side, letting his grin become more feral.
"You're sure about that, are you?"
There was a long, silent moment between them. Jack could hear the hum of the ship's engines, the low thrum of power through the deck under his feet and the gentle swishing of the fans above his head. And he could hear the last strains of that unearthly song, still ringing in his ears and through his mind.
Then Saxon turned on his heel and stalked away without looking back. Only once he was through the doors and out of sight, with the guard returning to his sentry post, did Jack let the first of the tears fall. He was crying with relief and happiness, and from the emptiness that was flowing back into him now that the music was gone. As he took another, gulping breath, he closed his eyes and tried to hear it again, knowing that he wouldn't be able to. It was the first time he'd heard it, really heard it as more than just a whisper in his dreams, and now it had retreated once more, forever beyond his reach. But he knew what it was, knew now that it would come when he needed it, and maybe that was enough.
Jack opened his eyes, blinking away the last of the tears. There was a stronger echo in his mind now, louder than the drums, louder even than the song and the thumping of his own heartbeat. It was the sound of his own voice, telling him everything he needed to know. He'd rest for the moment, leaning on the chains, just a little, letting them take enough of his weight that he could ease some of his straining muscles. He knew now that, when the time came, he'd be ready. Because now he was sure that the time was coming.
Never doubted him. Never will.
A/N: I really can't thank my betas enough for this one. crystalshard for correcting my wince-worthy science, miss_zedem for pushing me so far outside my comfort zone that I've forgotten where it is and both of them for generally leaving my stories better than they found them. Thanks, guys.
Shamelessly cross-posted pretty much everywhere, so apologies for spamming. Also submitted to The Year That Never Was Challenge over at lucyjanesparlor - more stories needed!
Title: Beating Time
Author: jadesfire2808
Words: ~5800
Characters: Jack, the Saxons.
Rating: PG13
Spoilers: Set between "Sound of Drums" and "Last of the Time Lords", so for both of those.
Summary: Jack's having a long, eventful year, and it's only just started.
Beating Time
Beaten
Mind not the old man beseeching the young man;
Let not the child's voice be heard, nor the mother's entreaties;
Make even the trestles to shake the dead, where they lie awaiting the hearses,
So strong you thump, O terrible drums--so loud you bugles blow.
From Beat! Beat! Drums! by Walt Whitman
Jack loved getting dirty. He loved being up to his elbows in machinery, covered in grime and grease, listening to the purr of a working engine or coaxing life out of a reluctant circuit. He was good with his hands, in all kinds of ways, and it was good to be doing something.
Admittedly, repairing tagged out circuits on the Valiant hadn't been top of his list of things he wanted to fix, but it was work and it was keeping him busy and it was stopping him from going mad with worry. If the Valiant's systems failed, they were all going to have much more immediate problems than a madman taking over the planet. It had been barely a fortnight, but Saxon seemed to have started as he meant to go on. Pulling out the damaged component, Jack wiped a grubby hand over his forehead and smiled. No-one was plummeting to their deaths if he could help it, not even Saxon. Jack had other plans for him.
Moving back to the makeshift work bench, Jack picked up a screwdriver and began opening the small, black box.
"Water?"
Carefully, Jack nodded, straightening up and accepting the offered cup. "Thanks."
"How's it going?"
"Fine."
Clive Jones glanced towards the guard on the other side of the room, then leaned closer, on the pretext of refilling Jack's cup. "How can you do this?" he hissed. "Fixing his ship while people are dying."
"I'm trying to stop us falling out of the sky," Jack murmured back. "Half this equipment is doing a job it wasn't meant to do. It's alien design with Earth materials and the whole thing's held together by willpower and duct tape. Would you rather I just let us drop?"
"If we took him with us."
Meeting Clive's eyes, Jack pointedly held out his cup again. He was allowed a certain amount of autonomy, but conversation between prisoners was not encouraged. "He'd have a way out and a lot of people would die for nothing."
"So in the meantime, you're just going to work for him?"
This time, Jack dropped his eyes, putting the cup down and fiddling with something on the workbench. "That's how it looks, yeah."
"You mean-" Clive broke off, lowering his voice further as he bent to pick up Jack's cup. "What are you going to do?"
"Nothing."
"But-"
"Nothing." Jack shook his head. "Take the cup and go."
"I want to help."
Jack could hear the pain in Clive's voice, the sincerity and the desperation to do something, anything that would make this living hell more bearable. But he'd made his decision. "No," he said firmly, battling to keep his voice low. "Martha would never forgive me if I let anything happen to you." When Clive didn't reply, he looked up, meeting the other man's eyes. "Get out of here, before they come for us both."
Only when Clive was gone, taking the cup and jug and walking away without a backward look, did Jack breathe more easily. He'd promised himself not to endanger anyone else, least of all Martha's family. They were already suffering enough.
Gingerly, he began reconnecting wires, tracing the circuits in his mind and on the board in front of him. Saxon had had to use him, up to a point. There were only a few people on board who could repair this kind of burn out, caused by Saxon's own re-design, warping UNIT's defence ship into something much more deadly. Jack had known about it, but it hadn't been his problem or his jurisdiction at the time. Now that it was, he intended to make the most of it.
It took him another half an hour to finish his work, then another ten to re-insert the modified box into the system. The capacitor would blow the next time someone used the external comms system, and he reckoned he had a couple hours before they tracked down the source and linked it back to him. There was no way of knowing if it would impair the Toclafane comms as well, but it would at least inconvenience the Valiant's crew for a while. This was going to be a war of attrition, and Jack wasn't going anywhere.
Three and a half hours later, he was starting to reconsider that statement. Apparently where he was going, at speed and dragged by two stony-faced guards, was three decks down, into one of the engine rooms and chained between two pillars. The guards locked the cuffs round his wrists, stretching his arms uncomfortably wide and Jack wondered just how angry, on a scale of one to ten, Saxon was right now. Judging by the pain in his shoulders, Jack guessed it was somewhere around twenty-four.
The repair crews were apparently better than he'd given them credit for, because it was barely half an hour before the TV screen on the wall flickered into life and he got his first glimpse of Saxon since he'd been hauled off the flight deck two weeks previously. There was nothing on the man's face to indicate what he was feeling, and the strange, smiling blankness sent a shiver down Jack's back. This wasn't the harmless, friendly politician he'd watched rise to influence. This was a Time Lord, an unbalanced, powerful genius. Maybe upsetting him hadn't been such a good idea after all.
Behind Saxon, Jack saw the Joneses, clinging to each other, standing as far into the corner of the room as they could. In front of them was the Doctor, held by two guards as he tried to stand upright. Jack clenched his fists, fighting back the surge of anger. The cuffs were tight round his wrists and the chains had very little slack in them. It wouldn't take much to snap something, probably him.
"Captain Jack Harkness." Saxon was looking right into the camera, that half-smile still in place, as though he was the only one in the room to get the joke. "I gave you freedom of movement, I gave you work, I haven't killed you in at least four days. And this is how you repay me." He tutted, shaking his head like a disappointed parent and Jack felt a cold knot of fear twist inside him. There was something very, very wrong. "You see," Saxon went on, "for every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction. Newtonian physics, clean and simple. That was your action. This is my reaction."
He stepped back, letting the camera pan across the room, focussing on a new figure, on its knees with its head bowed. Jack pulled against his chains as he recognised the bound man. It was the guard from earlier in the day, the one who hadn't been able to stop him from sabotaging the ship. Jack's frantic tugging wasn't doing anything except send shooting pains through his arms, but he couldn't stop, knowing with awful certainty what was about to happen.
"There are always consequences for your actions, Captain." Saxon's voice was hard and cold, coming from somewhere off-camera.
A flicker of movement on the screen caught Jack's eye, a shadow passing across the floor. Then a bolt of red light shot out, catching the kneeling man in the chest and blasting him into atoms almost before he could scream. Breathing hard, Jack let his head fall forwards for a moment, feeling the pull across his back and the bite of the metal against his wrists. He pulled harder, not expecting anything except the burn of straining muscles, something to drive the black rage from his mind. He certainly didn't expect to feel the slight shift of the chain, the minutest of movements that suggested not everything was as secure as it could have been.
When he looked up, Saxon was back in front of the camera, smiling pleasantly as the Toclafane hovered behind him.
"The next time you try something like that, I'll have them bring up some of the surviving UNIT personnel. Or maybe some of the slaves from the shipyards. I trust we understand each other."
The monitor flickered off, leaving Jack alone with his anger. It was hot down here, the air full of the smell of machinery and flecks of dirt that were already coating him in a new layer of grime. Breathing hard, he took more of his weight back onto his feet, trying to get as comfortable as possible and not pull his arms out of their sockets. The fury was hardening, forming into something stronger and tougher, becoming a resolve that he could use. And, combined with the tiny movement, it was enough to give him the first stirrings of hope.
Heartbeat
Storm against ship: heartbeat of the world.
Heel against floor and wave upon shore: heartbeat of the world.
Sigh of a lover: heartbeat of the world.
Unknown Irish Author
Jack lifted his face to the flow of water, luxuriating in the sensations. Warm and soothing, pounding into his muscles and easing the aches. Tentatively, he rolled his shoulders, wincing at the movement and turning to bring one, then the other under the spray. Even for someone in pretty good condition (if he did say so himself), standing with your arms held out hurt. He'd shifted as much as the chains had allowed, trying ward off the worst of the cramps, but there had been moments in the last few weeks where he'd thought he was going to go mad from the pain.
Now, he could feel it all washing away, along with the dirt, puddling at his feet and running towards the plughole. He dropped his head, letting the heat soak into the back of his neck and watching the last specks of grime floating across the bottom of the shower. It would have been nice to imagine, just for a moment, that he was in his own bathroom back at the Hub, thinking about the day, running through reports and questions in his head. Wondering what Gwen did over the weekend, or how many new gadgets Tosh had bought on eBay or how long it was going to take him to make Ianto smile this morning. Hell, right at that moment he would have settled for a blow by blow account of Owen's weekend activities.
Closing his eyes, he tried to summon up the memory of Ianto's coffee, the smell and the taste of it, so vivid in his mind that he could almost feel it on his tongue, bitter and smooth all at once. Torchwood had been outlawed, of course, but there had been nothing about rounding up the members, no public executions and, most importantly, no gloating from Saxon to Jack. It was this last thought, that the man wouldn't have been able to help himself, that gave Jack hope. He was storing up the tiny moments, using them to get through the bad times. The smallest shift of the bolts holding his chain to the wall, the relatively light punishment meted out on the Jones family for their latest escape attempt, seeing the Doctor on the screen, just once. It wasn't much, but he'd take what he could get right now.
He heard a shuffling of feet and opened his eyes again. His escort was starting to look a little jumpy, standing a few metres away and fidgeting with his gun. They'd brought Jack down to the barracks showers to get cleaned up, although no-one was saying what for. Jack doubted it was for anything good. Reluctantly, realising that they could turn the water off at any moment, he tipped his head back and gave his hair a final dousing before stepping out from under the spray and making his way across the communal shower area. The guard nodded to the changing room, where Jack found a towel and a pile of clothes, similar to the ones he'd had on before. Dark trousers, white t-shirt, dark shirt, boots and socks. He took his time doing up the buttons, savouring every last moment of this limited freedom before it was taken away again.
When he was done, he gave the guard a questioning look, receiving a nod towards the door in reply. Outside, the other guard was waiting with the cuffs that they'd used to bring him down here. Trying not to grin, Jack held out his hands, watching the guard fumble with the catch. The chain was longer than on a standard pair of handcuffs, and with a little experimentation once they were on the move, Jack found that he could get his arms about thirty centimetres apart, if he didn't mind the thin bracelets cutting into his wrists.
As they marched through the lower decks, Jack was tempted to ask where they were going, deciding instead to concentrate on taking in his surroundings. It was three weeks since he'd been out of the engine room, three weeks of wondering what the hell was going on out there, relying on Tish and whispered fragments of conversation to keep him in touch with the outside world. Looking round, he wondered why he'd bothered. The Valiant looked just the same, full of blank faced prisoners and guards with expressions of grim diligence. There was no chatter, not so much as a glance of acknowledgement between people sharing the same space. Just a silent determination to survive this minute. Then the next one. Then the next.
Eventually his small group reached the lift, and Jack frowned as one of the guards pressed the button for Deck Eight. He'd expected to be taken up to the flight deck or maybe back to the engine room. As far as he could remember, Deck Eight was where the conference rooms and larger quarters were. As the lift doors opened again and he was pushed down the corridor, he at least had an explanation for why he'd been allowed to clean up. It was more like a hotel here than a working ship, with thick carpet on the floor and wood panelling and oil paintings - originals as far as he could tell - on the walls. Even UNIT's brass wouldn't have had such luxury, not on board ship, and Jack knew this had to be Saxon's personal design. Apparently he liked his creature comforts.
The guards stopped by one of the doors, apparently no different to the others, knocking once then opening the door for him to enter. With a last glance at the guards, who were resolutely staring at the wall opposite, Jack stepped inside, hearing the door close behind him. His wandering gaze took in the deep brown, leather chairs, the book cases and the trophy cabinets, finally coming to rest on the woman in the opposite doorway.
Lucy Saxon no longer looked like the demure politician's wife. The red dress and tumbling blonde curls suited her much better than the buttoned up coat. She seemed more comfortable, less restrained, more herself, somehow. Walking across the room, she exaggerated the sway of her hips, tossing her head and sweeping the tresses back. Her walk was that of a model, preening and loving the attention. Jack couldn't take his eyes off her, suddenly aware of how long it had been since he'd had anything to stare at except the back of a guard's head. As much as he'd had bigger concerns, his mind was suddenly replaying some of the more vivid memories that had helped him pass the long, lonely, chained-up hours. He shifted slightly as she walked past him, the clink of the chains reminding him that, technically, he was still chained up. It was enough to let him get at least some of his wits back.
Lucy seemed to hear the sound as well, and her lips curled into a half-smile. "Would you like a drink?" She held up a crystal decanter, her voice low and purring.
"I'm fine, thanks." It wasn't easy to throw him off-balance, and Jack had to give her credit for managing it. When she turned, glass in her hand, he gave her a questioning look. "What am I doing here?"
Instead of answering, she lifted the glass, watching the light dance across the crystal and the liquid inside. Now that she was facing him properly, Jack could see the hesitation in her expression and, more importantly, the darkening bruise under her eye. He clenched his fists.
"Harold thinks I don't care about the other women," she said matter-of-factly. "He knows that I know, but he thinks I'm too much in love with him to care. Maybe I am." Draining the drink with a toss of her head, she put the glass down and looked at Jack properly for the first time. "But he's not the only one to appreciate," she paused, running her eyes over him before finishing, "beauty."
It wasn't a surprise, not exactly. It certainly wasn't the first time he'd been in this position, not by a long way. And there were rules to how this game was played. Raising his eyebrows a little, he said, "You know he'd kill us both if he found out."
"Maybe, maybe not. Besides, would that be a problem?"
"Not for me."
She laughed, an odd, hiccoughing sound, putting her drink down and walking towards him with the same swaying walk as before. Watching her come towards him, Jack knew for certain that this was the first time she'd done this. He allowed himself a moment of pity for this fragile, lovely creature, letting himself imagine, however briefly, what it would have been like under different circumstances. He played with the thoughts as she took two more steps, reacting to her as any man would, letting himself feel the mixture of attraction and protectiveness that would let him play the part properly. Then he got a grip on those feelings, his brain taking over again and calculating all the different ways this could end.
Half of his plans were thrown out of the window as she came closer, close enough that he could see into her eyes. There was nothing there, not even the coolness of the iciest blonde, just the emptiness of a shell, as though someone had drained all the humanity out of her. This wasn't someone he could persuade over to his side, someone he could reason with or appeal to with any kind of emotional plea. She'd stood and laughed as the Earth died. There was going to be no change of heart now. Vaguely, he wondered if she was from Earth at all, knowing that all kinds of things could hide behind the mask of human flesh. There was something wrong about her, something that triggered every instinct he had and, with a start, he wondered if that was what the Doctor felt when he looked at him.
He didn't get to finish the thought as she stopped in front of him, so close that he could feel the brush of her body against his, feel the silk of her dress on his chained hands. Avoiding those vacant eyes, Jack dropped his gaze to her mouth, seeing the tip of her tongue just visible between her parted lips. He could feel her body heat, hear her rapid breathing. At this proximity, he could almost hear her heartbeat, even as his own pulse picked up, echoing in his ears.
Her fingers worked their way across his face, the pressure too strong for a caress, as though she was trying to remould his face, re-sculpt him through her touch. Jack made no attempt to turn away, letting her dig nails into his cheeks, run her thumb over his lips, and he only closed his eyes when she brought her fingers up to them, feeling her feather-light touch across his eyelids.
"What are you?" she whispered, and he smiled.
"If I had my hands free, I could show you."
"Naughty." She slapped him, hard enough to sting. Jack kept his face turned away, still playing the game, as she pressed her fingers into his cheek again. "I'm sure you can do more in chains than most could do with both hands and a month to think about it."
"Possibly." He could feel her breath against his cheek, and he forced himself to stay calm, despite the twin, conflicting urges to run towards the door or carry her bodily into the bedroom. He couldn't afford to lose his head in any direction at this point. "Is that why I'm here?"
Her hands were moving again, a sharp nail running across the base of his throat, moving from side to side and pressing into the pulse-points, not quite hard enough to leave a mark. He resisted the urge to swallow, opening his mouth instead, fighting to keep his breathing under control as she carried on speaking as if she hadn't heard his question, her voice a low murmur. "I wonder what would happen if Harold let me cut off your head. Would you come back from that, do you think? Could you come back and tell me if it hurt? Does it hurt, the dying, or do you just forget it all?"
He didn't answer at first, feeling her nail press deeper into his neck, not quite blocking his throat. Instead, he looked down at her, giving her one more chance to back out. Because he was still playing by his own rules here, which meant that everyone got a last warning.
"What do you want?"
This time, her laugh was louder, almost too loud in the quiet room. "If you haven't worked it out by now, then I should just send you back to your prison, shouldn't I?"
"Why?" Her face was so close to his, soft skin against his cheek even as her fingers moved from his throat down his arms and across his chest. She smelt of floral shampoo and perfume and the brandy she'd been drinking. Jack guessed that she'd had a few for courage before he'd arrived, and there was a twinge of guilt at the thought. Then her trailing fingers wrapped into the chain between his wrists, and he pushed the feeling aside.
This wasn't about him, about the nagging desire that he wasn't about to deny, or even about giving comfort to this broken woman in front of him. This was about the survival of the human race, and Jack wasn't about to miss the slimmest of opportunities to help. Of course, he hadn't figured out exactly what he was going to do yet, but Harold Saxon's wife had to know something useful, didn't she? Forcing himself to concentrate, he took half a step backwards, giving himself enough space to think. "Why are you doing this?" Last chance.
Lucy reached for him again, one hand grasping his shoulder and the other going to her face, ghosting over the outline of the bruise.
"To see if he'll notice."
Then she was pulling him down, lifting herself up to meet his mouth and her hands were in his hair, gripping his neck, tight and desperate. After a moment's hesitation, Jack responded, hearing her moan as he kissed her back, his hands running over the slippery material of her dress, feeling her press closer into his touch.
Then she broke away, smiling knowingly at him as he tried to regain his balance. He guessed there was excitement in this for her, the thrill of the forbidden and the possibility of discovery. And for him? However much he tried to deny it, tell himself that this was all for 'the cause', the feeling of being touched, of having some kind of connection to another human being was what he had missed more than anything. He didn't need this, didn't need her specifically, but if it was all he was going to get offered, then there was no way he was turning it down. There'd be a chance afterwards, he told himself as she hooked a finger into the chain and began to lead him towards the door in the corner. Besides, if he got really lucky, maybe she'd talk in her sleep.
Beat of Drums
Borne on the wind an instant, and then gone
Back to the caverns of the middle air
A voice as of a nation overthrown
With beat of drums, when hosts have marched to war.
From The Sublime by Wilfred Blunt
Jack had been tied up enough to know that whoever had arranged his current predicament had had almost as much experience as him. His arms were at that awkward angle, too high to be comfortable but not high enough for him to let the chains take too much of his weight. Not unless he wanted to dislocate his shoulders, as he'd discovered to his cost.
The heat was stifling, and Jack was itching all over, sweat and dirt mingling and running down his face and back. It was minor discomfort, a bass note to the increasing pitch of agony in his arms. Trying to distract himself, Jack watched the seconds ticking past on the screen in front of him. Twenty seven days since Lucy Saxon. Twenty six days since Harold Saxon had found out. Eighteen days and eight slow deaths later, Jack had been left to hang in chains again, the ticking seconds and growing pain reminders that he was still living.
There was nothing he could do right now, not like this and not with a guard barely ten feet away, although he did notice that the guard had turned his back. An amateur's mistake, not to watch your prisoner, especially someone like Jack. It could only get you into trouble. All Jack had to do was figure out how.
He was tugging gently on the restraints, trying not to make a noise as he worked on the small weakness in the brickwork, when the quality of the air changed. A cool draft flowed through the room, bringing temporary relief from the humidity and Jack craned his neck, trying to see who was there, his heart sinking as he heard the familiar, mocking voice.
"Well, Captain, it's been a while."
At the sound of the voice, Jack's head snapped up and he blinked in the dim light.
"At least six days," he said, as calmly as he could. Mostly what he felt was a deep resignation, that this was how time would pass from now on. Three months into the Master's reign of terror, Jack knew what his part in it was going to be. Most of it was going to hurt.
Saxon made a dismissive gesture to the guard, who left without looking back, leaving them alone.
"So, Captain Jack Harkness," Saxon said, pushing his hands into his pockets. "Do you have any idea how pathetic you are?"
"I'm sure you're going to tell me." Fighting his instinct to shrink away, Jack forced himself to stay calm. Even in the muted light, he could see the madness in Saxon's eyes, an all-consuming fire that burned to the heart of his soul, striking more fear into him than physical threats could ever manage. He hadn't spoken much during the varied and ingenious methods of death that he'd subjected Jack to, but now it seemed, he wanted to talk.
Ticking the points off on his fingers, Saxon walked slowly towards him. "I could list all the ways you've failed to stop me, all the chances you could have taken and completely missed. Honestly, Torchwood's not what it used to be, not with you in charge. Your predecessor would have had me hung, drawn and quartered before I could threaten the precious British Empire. Not to mention that sleeping with my wife was a foolish mistake and ultimately pointless."
Jack refused to rise to the taunts, knowing it was the quickest way to cracking. As though sensing his thoughts, Saxon stepped closer, his strange, dark eyes still ablaze.
"Not going to talk to me, Captain? You screamed well enough when they killed you, didn't you? Such a noise." Saxon shook his head, wincing in mock-pain. "But I suppose that means we can't be friends. What a pity. You've got so many friends, Captain, haven't you? So many good friends, who tell you all their secrets."
Jack found that he couldn't look away. This wasn't madness as he could understand it, an imbalance in the brain, a chemical anomaly that could be corrected. This was a twist in the soul, warped and misshapen but still recognisable as what he could have been. All that power and ability, channelled and wielded by a man who could only use it for destruction. And yet there was something, deep beneath the surface of those terrible eyes, that reminded Jack of the Doctor.
"Yes," Saxon hissed, lifting a hand to cup Jack's face. "That's it. He told you his secrets, didn't he? Told you what he plans to do."
Too late, Jack felt the probing, thin tendrils of thought brushing against his mind. He shook his head.
"He didn't tell me anything."
"There's no point lying to me now, Captain." Saxon's voice was soft, barely a whisper in Jack's ear. "We're getting to know each other, you and I. We're going to be friends after all and there's no secrets between friends." He drove his mind harder against Jack's, fingers tightening around Jack's head.
"He didn't tell me," Jack gasped, trying to fight the intrusion. "He wouldn't take the risk." His mind was on fire now, the mental battle transforming itself into pictures, sensations. He stood at the heart of an inferno, flames consuming him, burning through all his defences. He was naked and alone, screaming as the fire slammed into him, triggering the most basic of instincts. Jack struggled against the chains as fear filled him, terror and panic searing his mind.
He had all but lost his connection to the physical now, cut adrift into a world of darkness and pain, but he felt another hand join the first, holding him still and he heard the grunt of effort as Saxon pushed past the last of his barriers. The Time Lord's mind was alien, incomprehensible to Jack's battered senses. It was full of the darkness of the Void itself, the heat of a supernova and the incessant beat of drums. The sound filled him, too much for his mind to contain and he knew that the violation was killing him.
Almost before he was aware of it, there was singing in Jack's head. It started softly, a low humming that was all but inaudible over the sound of drums that was pounding through him. Then it rose, in pitch and volume, a cool breeze against the flames that surrounded him. It was an ethereal voice, pure and clear, at once familiar and unknown, beautiful with a wordless melody that seemed to come from somewhere far beyond. The drums increased in volume, making Jack's heart beat to their rhythm, temporarily deafening him to anything else.
With a sudden burst of sound, the song broke through again, rushing through Jack, through his mind and soul, sweeping the drums away and leaving him breathless with relief. The fire was gone, not just smothered but cast out by a cleansing stream of pure joy that surrounded and uplifted him. He felt as though he should laugh and cry at once, filled with that moment of ecstasy that always came over him after the darkness receded. It was the thrill of living, of being connected to something that sustained him and protected him, no matter what. It was knowing that he was loved. And for the first time in a long time, he was glad to be alive.
Very slowly, Jack opened his eyes, now able to meet those of the man in front of him without flinching. Instead, it was Saxon who blinked, stepping away from Jack and frowning.
"You are an abomination on the face of the universe," he said flatly, half-lifting a hand to his head.
"So I've been told." Jack grinned. "But I'm still here. And I don't know what the Doctor's going to do, but if I were you, I'd start running again. Because the storm is coming and there's not a thing that can stand in its way."
Saxon actually took another step backwards, startled.
"You can't stop me. Neither of you can stop me."
If he'd had his arms free, Jack would have shrugged. Instead, he tilted his head to the side, letting his grin become more feral.
"You're sure about that, are you?"
There was a long, silent moment between them. Jack could hear the hum of the ship's engines, the low thrum of power through the deck under his feet and the gentle swishing of the fans above his head. And he could hear the last strains of that unearthly song, still ringing in his ears and through his mind.
Then Saxon turned on his heel and stalked away without looking back. Only once he was through the doors and out of sight, with the guard returning to his sentry post, did Jack let the first of the tears fall. He was crying with relief and happiness, and from the emptiness that was flowing back into him now that the music was gone. As he took another, gulping breath, he closed his eyes and tried to hear it again, knowing that he wouldn't be able to. It was the first time he'd heard it, really heard it as more than just a whisper in his dreams, and now it had retreated once more, forever beyond his reach. But he knew what it was, knew now that it would come when he needed it, and maybe that was enough.
Jack opened his eyes, blinking away the last of the tears. There was a stronger echo in his mind now, louder than the drums, louder even than the song and the thumping of his own heartbeat. It was the sound of his own voice, telling him everything he needed to know. He'd rest for the moment, leaning on the chains, just a little, letting them take enough of his weight that he could ease some of his straining muscles. He knew now that, when the time came, he'd be ready. Because now he was sure that the time was coming.
Never doubted him. Never will.