New fic: After the Parting 1/5?
Story: After the Parting
Author: WMR
Characters: Ten, Rose, Jack
Rating: PG
Summary: The Doctor and Rose are back together. Jack has a new job. But what happens when the Doctor finds out about Torchwood? A story in the same universe as the Earth to Ashes series.
With thanks to my lovely and much-valued BRs,
dark_aegis and
nnwest.
Chapter 1: Betrayal
Raking a hand through his hair - it hasn’t been as unruly as this for at least a couple of regenerations - the Doctor peers at the screen in front of him. It’s at times like these that he misses the third member of their team. Well, there are many times, but this is one of them. Jack and his gadgets, such as his wrist computer, and his technical genius. The Doctor himself is a technological genius, but he had found that working with Jack to solve a problem was so much more efficient than working alone.
He’s been working on this for weeks. Ever since shortly after they left London, the Sycorax defeated and annihilated, Harriet Jones become a murderer. It’s not been easy. Officially, and even unofficially, the subject of his enquiry does not even exist. It’s hard to find something when you don’t even know where to look.
But he’s getting closer, at last. He’s found a couple of organisations which can only exist for the purpose of cover - like cloaking devices. Now he just has to penetrate the shields and find what’s beneath them. Find out if, at last, he’s found what he’s looking for.
Rose is in bed. It’s been another long day, saving the universe, leaving before the clean-up, getting home not quite in time for tea. More danger, just as Jackie predicted - but, as always, it’s better with two. She holds his hand and grins at him and they run together.
She’s accepted him completely now, this new him. He can feel it. It’s the way she never hesitates or blinks any more when she looks at him. There’s no instant when he can sense that she’s looking for someone else. Searching for blue eyes instead of brown, or expecting to see short-cropped hair instead of this untidy mess. Now, he knows that when she looks at him she sees him. The Doctor. Her Doctor.
And it’s good. It’s a relief.
Oh, he knew she’d accepted him when she said she still wanted to come with him. But even then there were plenty of moments when he wasn’t her Doctor. When, although her head was telling her who he was, her heart still searched for the previous him. When she still faltered a little on hearing his new London accent instead of the Northern one she was so used to.
And, of course, she’d hesitated before taking his hand. She’d covered it up, claiming that his regrown hand creeped her out. He’d suspected that wasn’t the full story. Now, though, there’s no hesitation. And her hand still fits within his. They make a different shape together, but they still fit.
He knows, too, that she likes his sunnier personality. Though she also knows that’s not all there is to him. She’s seen him angry, and it’s a different anger to before. A cold, chilling anger. Not the burning rage of his previous incarnation. But mostly, with her, he’s happy. Smiling. Laughing, even. And more willing to tell her things - about Gallifrey, about the Time Lords, even about himself. She knows, now, about his previous lives. About the people he’s travelled with in the past.
And she knows how important she is to him, because he tells her now, sometimes, that he cares about her and likes having her with him. Not only in life-or-death situations, as he did before, but when it feels right. When, for example, he realised that she was worried that perhaps she wasn’t as important to him now as she was before. That his feelings for her might have changed with his body.
They haven’t. He loves her every bit as much as he did in the moment he gave his ninth life for her. When he took her in his arms and kissed her, knowing that the kiss would mean her life and his death.
Though she still doesn’t know about that. She has no idea why he died; if she even remembers what he told her in the last few seconds of his ninth life, she won’t understand what it means for her. Has no memory of absorbing the Time Vortex or of being the Bad Wolf. He’s kept his resolution not to tell her. Knows it would cause her pain she doesn’t need to feel.
He’ll never forget what she did for him. Ignoring his instruction to stay away, to let the TARDIS rot, to leave him to his death, using all of the determination and courage - and, yes, defiance - he knows she possesses in order to get back to him. Risking her life for him.
She could have burned. The Time Vortex would have consumed her.
Instead, he had burned for her, as he’s burned before. The last time for Gallifrey; this time for Rose. He’d destroyed one but saved the other. It was a good reason to die. The best.
As he sits alone at nights now, he’s no longer imagining Gallifrey burning. Those images have muted, no longer ever-present. Now, he remembers Rose. Rose, emerging from the TARDIS like a golden goddess, all war-like ferocity. Rose, fighting for him. Rose, destroying the Daleks and ending the Time War.
It could all have gone so wrong. She could have died.
But she didn’t. He saved her. As he will always do, as long as it’s in his power.
They’re bound together inextricably now, their lives entwined. She became the Bad Wolf to save him; was prepared to give up her life to save him. He did give up his life to save her. Kissed her to save her.
Sealed his death with a kiss. Gave her life with a kiss.
And, even if he never kisses her again, he will always remember it.
They’re fine. Things are good. Travelling through space and Time together, still inseparable, still the unbeatable team.
The fact that there was once a third member is something neither of them mention. He knows Rose misses Jack, is unclear about why he’s no longer with them. But she accepted his throwaway comment, the information he very undiplomatically threw at her when the regeneration sickness was taking hold of him, that Jack is busy rebuilding the Earth. She’s never asked for more information - but he’s pretty sure that’s because her memories of the final events on Satellite Five are hazy, confused, almost non-existent. And when she has asked about that he’s always deflected the conversation.
But he sees her, sometimes, going into Jack’s room. Or staring at a photograph of the three of them together - the previous him, of course. Or drinking coffee out of a mug Jack bought her as a joke, bearing the motto Time Travellers Do It Over And Over.
He knows that Jack is alive, despite having heard the horrible sound of his extermination. Knew it even as he picked Rose up in his arms on Satellite Five to carry her back to the TARDIS. He’d seen it during those moments when he’d had the Time Vortex in his head; had seen what she’d done. Jack was dead. She gave him back the gift of life. It was against all the laws of Time, everything his people had once stood for - but that didn’t matter. The last of the Time Lords would not complain that his dear friend was alive after all.
But he’d had no time to react to the realisation, to think about finding Jack, explaining things to him. Getting Rose safe, getting them and the TARDIS safely out of there before his regeneration started was all that had mattered.
And he’d left Jack behind, with no explanation as to why he was doing it. But he’d had no choice - either about leaving him or failing to tell him why. His time was running out. By then he could already feel the burning.
Jack had had to stay behind. It was necessary, for the sake of history. For the Earth.
He knows timelines; knows what is possible in the present and the future; knew that the Jack Harkness his friend had become by that moment on the Game Station - the Jack Harkness he always was underneath - would continue to be a hero. Would make his way to the semi-annihilated planet beneath the satellite and would get involved in the recovery and rebuilding effort. Would be essential to that effort: a leader, inspirational, courageous and magnificent.
He’d always known that Jack’s destiny would take him away from them. The timing of their parting had been foretold from the moment he’d met them.
And, in a way, he sees it as atonement. He had been unable to save the Earth from the Daleks. He’d failed. So he’d left his friend, his right-hand man, to help with restoring the planet, to fulfil his destiny. And, some day soon, he will find Jack once more -
He snaps to alertness. He is in. Finally. A few commands, keystrokes, combinations of characters to get him where he needs to be. And there it is.
Torchwood.
Thoughts of Jack flee from his mind as he gazes intently at the screen. He’s found it. Torchwood.
At last, he’s found it.
The organisation responsible for the weapon that destroyed the Sycorax ship and murdered its occupants.
Oh, it was Harriet Jones who gave the order, and she will remain at the top of his blame list. But he’s already taken steps to neutralise her. She wouldn’t have been able to do it, though, without Torchwood.
Alien technology, she’d said. From something that crash-landed on Earth ten years earlier. All very well, but who out of current Earth scientists would know what to make of alien technology? Especially something as advanced as that. A phased energy laser?
Perhaps some of the UNIT people might. Yet those he knows within UNIT - or knew; it’s been a long time since he’s been there, and the only person with UNIT connections he’s talked to in years is the Brigadier, who’s retired and insists he means it this time - are unlikely to have involved themselves in this.
Unless they were acting under orders.
But whose orders? UNIT answers to the UN. Not to the British Prime Minister.
Yet someone in Torchwood knows what they’re doing. Knows what they have and how to use it. Did use it. Very effectively, too. That takes superior knowledge, far beyond the skill and abilities of twenty-first century minds.
But he’s in now. He’s found them. Got access to their computers. There’s not a lot he can’t do when it comes to hacking. Primitive Earth security.
All he has to do now is look through the records. Who works here? Who’s in charge?
Keystrokes. Type commands. Work his way through the directories and trees; bypass password requests. Finally, he’s there. A staff directory.
And he has it.
The information he has been looking for. And now he knows how Torchwood did it. The answer is staring him in the face. So obvious, yet so beyond anything he could have expected.
A growl of anger and pain escapes him as he takes in what is on the screen. A cry of betrayal.
A betrayal he neither imagined nor predicted. The worst betrayal of all.
********
Two days later, and again he waits until Rose is in bed. Tonight, he’s going to do it.
She’ll never know about this. If all goes well, she’ll never know, never find out. He’ll be in and out long before she awakes. All he’s planning is a conversation, after all - an intense, angry conversation, one in which he’ll make his feelings clearly known and his instructions understood. And it’ll all be over before morning, with nothing to give her any idea that anything happened. That there’s anything - anyone - she missed.
He’s made his plans. Done his research - pathetic computer security systems, in a so-called top secret organisation - knows when his target will be alone in his office. Doesn’t vary routines much. Not a sensible habit for a covert operative - but then, his seems to be mainly a desk-bound role now. Perhaps he thinks he doesn’t need to be as careful, especially in an organisation that’s not even supposed to exist.
He sets the coordinates. Then activates a new modification he just put in place over the last couple of days - a silencer. The TARDIS will not make a sound as it materialises. This is essential to his plans.
He watches the monitors. Just a few seconds now...
And there they are. He’s landed right where he wants to. Right inside the Director’s office. And, just as he did when they rescued Rose from the Dalek ship, he captures his target inside the TARDIS. Gives him no means of escape.
The fact that a desk and chair end up inside as well is immaterial. He’s got the man he’s been looking for.
He raises his gaze from the monitor and looks directly at his guest.
“Hello, Jack.”
*********
Paperwork, the bane of his existence.
That’s the one thing he really hates about this job - and about the twenty-first century, actually. Why are there so many damn documents? These people have computers. They have technology more advanced than gets used in everyday working environments, such as speech-recognition software. Why, then, does he get a pile of paper every day that he has to read and annotate? Why does his email inbox fill up with junk that he’s expected to read and comment on?
Still, it’s only a small part of the job. He’d made it clear when he’d accepted the role that he wanted to be active, not stuck behind a desk the whole time. And that’s what happens, for the most part. He’s out and about on missions, working in the field, directing operations but getting his hands dirty too. His operatives are used to the boss suddenly appearing in the midst of things, sometimes taking over but just as often supporting and encouraging while letting them get on with it.
Late evenings, though, unless he’s out on an op, are the times he reserves for this time-wasting exercise. It’s that or spend his evenings cruising from bar to bar, looking for pick-ups. He did that for a while when he first came to this city, but not any more. Somehow, one-night-stands and anonymous encounters do nothing for him any more. And he won’t date anyone who works for him. Too messy.
So this is where he spends his evenings, until it’s late and he’s ready to collapse into bed.
Such a change from his old life - actually, any of his old lives. The thrill of his days as a Time Agent. The excitement of the year he’d spent living on his wits in his conman period, though he’s ashamed of that now. And then the breakneck pace and constant danger of the two months he’d spent as companion and right-hand-man to the last of the Time Lords, and friend to Rose.
God, that feels like ancient history now.
Yet it was the happiest time of his life. Even though almost every day brought close encounters with death. Even his daredevil exploits working for the Time Agency hadn’t been quite that life-threatening. Somehow, it all added to the fun and the - well, the only word that comes to mind is meaningfulness - of being with the Doctor. Saving the universe on a regular basis. Even being willing to die in the cause.
As he had been, to save the universe from the Daleks.
Actually, to be more accurate, he’d been willing to die for the Doctor. And for Rose. The universe was just a bonus.
And he had died. Then, miraculously, inexplicably, lived again. Only to find that the Doctor had abandoned him.
Never doubted him. Never will. How those words had come back to bite him, within mere minutes of saying them.
Ancient history now. He shakes his head and tries to push the memory from his mind. Those split seconds when he’d sat up abruptly, feeling pain through every bone, every sinew in his body. When it had dawned on him that he was alive, yet he knew for a fact that he’d been dead. And, then, when he’d heard the TARDIS engines. Had dragged himself to his feet and staggered, weak and in pain, to the outer control room - only to see the shadows of blue and hear the echo of the dematerialisation sequence as the time machine disappeared.
He hasn’t thought about that in ages. It really is ancient history. The Doctor left him behind. Why, he has no idea. With the Doctor, nothing is predictable. It might have been something he’d done to piss the Time Lord off; it might just have been that the Doctor had grown tired of him. Though he hadn’t acted as if that was so...
Certainly, in their last time together he’d been invaluable. Without any egotism whatsoever, he knows that. They’d worked in co-ordination, barely needing to discuss or plan, just doing it. Each anticipating the other, doing what needed to be done. Trusting that it would be done. He knows the Doctor couldn’t have rescued Rose, couldn’t have got the forcefield working either on the TARDIS or the Game Station, wouldn’t have had the time to build the Delta wave, without his help.
It just doesn’t make sense. Never has.
Course, the Doctor had probably thought he was dead, but that still didn’t excuse him not coming for his body.
At first, he’d given the Doctor the benefit of the doubt. Assumed that there’d been some pressing reason why he’d had to leave so quickly. Chasing the Daleks, maybe, since he’d clearly managed to get them off the station, yet he knew that the Delta wave hadn’t been activated. Or maybe going to get Rose back. So he’d waited. Hung around the Game Station for a few days, living among the corpses and the devastation, waiting for the Doctor to come back for him, but growing daily more despondent as there was no sign of the blue police box.
And, finally, he’d repaired the communication links and, after days of trying, had got a response from Earth. From one of the continents not ravaged by the Daleks, and a city which still had power and technology. He’d got rescued and, owing to having nothing better to do, had fallen in with the rebuilding effort.
That had been one long year. A year he now preferred not to think about either. It had been hard. Miserable, at times. Very lonely, especially on the long, dark nights of solitude when he couldn’t stop remembering how it used to be. Evenings on the TARDIS with Rose and the Doctor. Long conversations into the night. Sharing drinks together, laughing and joking. Exploring alien planets’ nightlife, staggering back to the TARDIS drunk or running from unfriendly locals. Whatever they did, always living life to the full. The three of them: companions and friends. They’d loved each other. Or so he’d thought.
And he’s thinking about them again. Damnit. He has to stop this.
The Doctor and Rose are part of his past, and that’s the way it’ll stay.
Even though he ended up in this century, in this country, because of the connection with the Doctor and Rose. Even if, when he first arrived here, he’d had the barely-suppressed hope that he might, some day, catch up with them.
Until he’d decided he no longer wanted to. Until he learned that the Doctor actually had been in London while he’d been here, in Cardiff, and what the Doctor had done.
Made an enemy of Harriet Jones, the Prime Minister. Set himself up as more deserving of deciding how to defend this country - this planet - from alien threats than those elected by the people to do it. Those who are here all the time, instead of dropping in and out when they feel like it, as the Doctor does.
Of course, Jones and others like her may not make the right decisions all the time. But then, they don’t have a monopoly on bad decisions. And that’s something he’d tell the Doctor, if he ever sees the Time Lord again. Bad decisions: oh, yes. He’s seen the Doctor make plenty. Rose told him about many others. And he has the gall to interfere and accuse someone else of a bad decision?
Sighing, Jack rakes a hand through his hair. This is futile. And it’s wasting time, too, when he has work to do.
And then he notices it. Feels it. A change in the atmosphere.
Something’s happening. Something out of the ordinary. Something that shouldn’t be happening.
There’s no noise, not a sound. But he can feel it...
One hand slides into his pocket, reaching for the weapon he’s never without. He reaches for his wristcomm, to see if it can detect what’s going on, but before he can press the controls he sees it. Walls appearing around him, faint at first but then solidifying.
Very familiar walls. A very familiar interior.
Even though it’s eighteen months since he last saw them, he’s never forgotten.
He’s inside the TARDIS.
And there’s a man here with him, over by the console. A man he’s never seen before.
The man lifts his gaze from the controls, and Jack sees floppy brown hair, a brown pin-stripe suit, dark eyes, a youthful face. An icily angry expression.
And then the man speaks. The voice is one he’s never heard before, either.
“Hello, Jack.”
*******
x-posted to
better_with_3
Author: WMR
Characters: Ten, Rose, Jack
Rating: PG
Summary: The Doctor and Rose are back together. Jack has a new job. But what happens when the Doctor finds out about Torchwood? A story in the same universe as the Earth to Ashes series.
With thanks to my lovely and much-valued BRs,
dark_aegis and
nnwest.
Chapter 1: Betrayal
Raking a hand through his hair - it hasn’t been as unruly as this for at least a couple of regenerations - the Doctor peers at the screen in front of him. It’s at times like these that he misses the third member of their team. Well, there are many times, but this is one of them. Jack and his gadgets, such as his wrist computer, and his technical genius. The Doctor himself is a technological genius, but he had found that working with Jack to solve a problem was so much more efficient than working alone.
He’s been working on this for weeks. Ever since shortly after they left London, the Sycorax defeated and annihilated, Harriet Jones become a murderer. It’s not been easy. Officially, and even unofficially, the subject of his enquiry does not even exist. It’s hard to find something when you don’t even know where to look.
But he’s getting closer, at last. He’s found a couple of organisations which can only exist for the purpose of cover - like cloaking devices. Now he just has to penetrate the shields and find what’s beneath them. Find out if, at last, he’s found what he’s looking for.
Rose is in bed. It’s been another long day, saving the universe, leaving before the clean-up, getting home not quite in time for tea. More danger, just as Jackie predicted - but, as always, it’s better with two. She holds his hand and grins at him and they run together.
She’s accepted him completely now, this new him. He can feel it. It’s the way she never hesitates or blinks any more when she looks at him. There’s no instant when he can sense that she’s looking for someone else. Searching for blue eyes instead of brown, or expecting to see short-cropped hair instead of this untidy mess. Now, he knows that when she looks at him she sees him. The Doctor. Her Doctor.
And it’s good. It’s a relief.
Oh, he knew she’d accepted him when she said she still wanted to come with him. But even then there were plenty of moments when he wasn’t her Doctor. When, although her head was telling her who he was, her heart still searched for the previous him. When she still faltered a little on hearing his new London accent instead of the Northern one she was so used to.
And, of course, she’d hesitated before taking his hand. She’d covered it up, claiming that his regrown hand creeped her out. He’d suspected that wasn’t the full story. Now, though, there’s no hesitation. And her hand still fits within his. They make a different shape together, but they still fit.
He knows, too, that she likes his sunnier personality. Though she also knows that’s not all there is to him. She’s seen him angry, and it’s a different anger to before. A cold, chilling anger. Not the burning rage of his previous incarnation. But mostly, with her, he’s happy. Smiling. Laughing, even. And more willing to tell her things - about Gallifrey, about the Time Lords, even about himself. She knows, now, about his previous lives. About the people he’s travelled with in the past.
And she knows how important she is to him, because he tells her now, sometimes, that he cares about her and likes having her with him. Not only in life-or-death situations, as he did before, but when it feels right. When, for example, he realised that she was worried that perhaps she wasn’t as important to him now as she was before. That his feelings for her might have changed with his body.
They haven’t. He loves her every bit as much as he did in the moment he gave his ninth life for her. When he took her in his arms and kissed her, knowing that the kiss would mean her life and his death.
Though she still doesn’t know about that. She has no idea why he died; if she even remembers what he told her in the last few seconds of his ninth life, she won’t understand what it means for her. Has no memory of absorbing the Time Vortex or of being the Bad Wolf. He’s kept his resolution not to tell her. Knows it would cause her pain she doesn’t need to feel.
He’ll never forget what she did for him. Ignoring his instruction to stay away, to let the TARDIS rot, to leave him to his death, using all of the determination and courage - and, yes, defiance - he knows she possesses in order to get back to him. Risking her life for him.
She could have burned. The Time Vortex would have consumed her.
Instead, he had burned for her, as he’s burned before. The last time for Gallifrey; this time for Rose. He’d destroyed one but saved the other. It was a good reason to die. The best.
As he sits alone at nights now, he’s no longer imagining Gallifrey burning. Those images have muted, no longer ever-present. Now, he remembers Rose. Rose, emerging from the TARDIS like a golden goddess, all war-like ferocity. Rose, fighting for him. Rose, destroying the Daleks and ending the Time War.
It could all have gone so wrong. She could have died.
But she didn’t. He saved her. As he will always do, as long as it’s in his power.
They’re bound together inextricably now, their lives entwined. She became the Bad Wolf to save him; was prepared to give up her life to save him. He did give up his life to save her. Kissed her to save her.
Sealed his death with a kiss. Gave her life with a kiss.
And, even if he never kisses her again, he will always remember it.
They’re fine. Things are good. Travelling through space and Time together, still inseparable, still the unbeatable team.
The fact that there was once a third member is something neither of them mention. He knows Rose misses Jack, is unclear about why he’s no longer with them. But she accepted his throwaway comment, the information he very undiplomatically threw at her when the regeneration sickness was taking hold of him, that Jack is busy rebuilding the Earth. She’s never asked for more information - but he’s pretty sure that’s because her memories of the final events on Satellite Five are hazy, confused, almost non-existent. And when she has asked about that he’s always deflected the conversation.
But he sees her, sometimes, going into Jack’s room. Or staring at a photograph of the three of them together - the previous him, of course. Or drinking coffee out of a mug Jack bought her as a joke, bearing the motto Time Travellers Do It Over And Over.
He knows that Jack is alive, despite having heard the horrible sound of his extermination. Knew it even as he picked Rose up in his arms on Satellite Five to carry her back to the TARDIS. He’d seen it during those moments when he’d had the Time Vortex in his head; had seen what she’d done. Jack was dead. She gave him back the gift of life. It was against all the laws of Time, everything his people had once stood for - but that didn’t matter. The last of the Time Lords would not complain that his dear friend was alive after all.
But he’d had no time to react to the realisation, to think about finding Jack, explaining things to him. Getting Rose safe, getting them and the TARDIS safely out of there before his regeneration started was all that had mattered.
And he’d left Jack behind, with no explanation as to why he was doing it. But he’d had no choice - either about leaving him or failing to tell him why. His time was running out. By then he could already feel the burning.
Jack had had to stay behind. It was necessary, for the sake of history. For the Earth.
He knows timelines; knows what is possible in the present and the future; knew that the Jack Harkness his friend had become by that moment on the Game Station - the Jack Harkness he always was underneath - would continue to be a hero. Would make his way to the semi-annihilated planet beneath the satellite and would get involved in the recovery and rebuilding effort. Would be essential to that effort: a leader, inspirational, courageous and magnificent.
He’d always known that Jack’s destiny would take him away from them. The timing of their parting had been foretold from the moment he’d met them.
And, in a way, he sees it as atonement. He had been unable to save the Earth from the Daleks. He’d failed. So he’d left his friend, his right-hand man, to help with restoring the planet, to fulfil his destiny. And, some day soon, he will find Jack once more -
He snaps to alertness. He is in. Finally. A few commands, keystrokes, combinations of characters to get him where he needs to be. And there it is.
Torchwood.
Thoughts of Jack flee from his mind as he gazes intently at the screen. He’s found it. Torchwood.
At last, he’s found it.
The organisation responsible for the weapon that destroyed the Sycorax ship and murdered its occupants.
Oh, it was Harriet Jones who gave the order, and she will remain at the top of his blame list. But he’s already taken steps to neutralise her. She wouldn’t have been able to do it, though, without Torchwood.
Alien technology, she’d said. From something that crash-landed on Earth ten years earlier. All very well, but who out of current Earth scientists would know what to make of alien technology? Especially something as advanced as that. A phased energy laser?
Perhaps some of the UNIT people might. Yet those he knows within UNIT - or knew; it’s been a long time since he’s been there, and the only person with UNIT connections he’s talked to in years is the Brigadier, who’s retired and insists he means it this time - are unlikely to have involved themselves in this.
Unless they were acting under orders.
But whose orders? UNIT answers to the UN. Not to the British Prime Minister.
Yet someone in Torchwood knows what they’re doing. Knows what they have and how to use it. Did use it. Very effectively, too. That takes superior knowledge, far beyond the skill and abilities of twenty-first century minds.
But he’s in now. He’s found them. Got access to their computers. There’s not a lot he can’t do when it comes to hacking. Primitive Earth security.
All he has to do now is look through the records. Who works here? Who’s in charge?
Keystrokes. Type commands. Work his way through the directories and trees; bypass password requests. Finally, he’s there. A staff directory.
And he has it.
The information he has been looking for. And now he knows how Torchwood did it. The answer is staring him in the face. So obvious, yet so beyond anything he could have expected.
A growl of anger and pain escapes him as he takes in what is on the screen. A cry of betrayal.
A betrayal he neither imagined nor predicted. The worst betrayal of all.
********
Two days later, and again he waits until Rose is in bed. Tonight, he’s going to do it.
She’ll never know about this. If all goes well, she’ll never know, never find out. He’ll be in and out long before she awakes. All he’s planning is a conversation, after all - an intense, angry conversation, one in which he’ll make his feelings clearly known and his instructions understood. And it’ll all be over before morning, with nothing to give her any idea that anything happened. That there’s anything - anyone - she missed.
He’s made his plans. Done his research - pathetic computer security systems, in a so-called top secret organisation - knows when his target will be alone in his office. Doesn’t vary routines much. Not a sensible habit for a covert operative - but then, his seems to be mainly a desk-bound role now. Perhaps he thinks he doesn’t need to be as careful, especially in an organisation that’s not even supposed to exist.
He sets the coordinates. Then activates a new modification he just put in place over the last couple of days - a silencer. The TARDIS will not make a sound as it materialises. This is essential to his plans.
He watches the monitors. Just a few seconds now...
And there they are. He’s landed right where he wants to. Right inside the Director’s office. And, just as he did when they rescued Rose from the Dalek ship, he captures his target inside the TARDIS. Gives him no means of escape.
The fact that a desk and chair end up inside as well is immaterial. He’s got the man he’s been looking for.
He raises his gaze from the monitor and looks directly at his guest.
“Hello, Jack.”
*********
Paperwork, the bane of his existence.
That’s the one thing he really hates about this job - and about the twenty-first century, actually. Why are there so many damn documents? These people have computers. They have technology more advanced than gets used in everyday working environments, such as speech-recognition software. Why, then, does he get a pile of paper every day that he has to read and annotate? Why does his email inbox fill up with junk that he’s expected to read and comment on?
Still, it’s only a small part of the job. He’d made it clear when he’d accepted the role that he wanted to be active, not stuck behind a desk the whole time. And that’s what happens, for the most part. He’s out and about on missions, working in the field, directing operations but getting his hands dirty too. His operatives are used to the boss suddenly appearing in the midst of things, sometimes taking over but just as often supporting and encouraging while letting them get on with it.
Late evenings, though, unless he’s out on an op, are the times he reserves for this time-wasting exercise. It’s that or spend his evenings cruising from bar to bar, looking for pick-ups. He did that for a while when he first came to this city, but not any more. Somehow, one-night-stands and anonymous encounters do nothing for him any more. And he won’t date anyone who works for him. Too messy.
So this is where he spends his evenings, until it’s late and he’s ready to collapse into bed.
Such a change from his old life - actually, any of his old lives. The thrill of his days as a Time Agent. The excitement of the year he’d spent living on his wits in his conman period, though he’s ashamed of that now. And then the breakneck pace and constant danger of the two months he’d spent as companion and right-hand-man to the last of the Time Lords, and friend to Rose.
God, that feels like ancient history now.
Yet it was the happiest time of his life. Even though almost every day brought close encounters with death. Even his daredevil exploits working for the Time Agency hadn’t been quite that life-threatening. Somehow, it all added to the fun and the - well, the only word that comes to mind is meaningfulness - of being with the Doctor. Saving the universe on a regular basis. Even being willing to die in the cause.
As he had been, to save the universe from the Daleks.
Actually, to be more accurate, he’d been willing to die for the Doctor. And for Rose. The universe was just a bonus.
And he had died. Then, miraculously, inexplicably, lived again. Only to find that the Doctor had abandoned him.
Never doubted him. Never will. How those words had come back to bite him, within mere minutes of saying them.
Ancient history now. He shakes his head and tries to push the memory from his mind. Those split seconds when he’d sat up abruptly, feeling pain through every bone, every sinew in his body. When it had dawned on him that he was alive, yet he knew for a fact that he’d been dead. And, then, when he’d heard the TARDIS engines. Had dragged himself to his feet and staggered, weak and in pain, to the outer control room - only to see the shadows of blue and hear the echo of the dematerialisation sequence as the time machine disappeared.
He hasn’t thought about that in ages. It really is ancient history. The Doctor left him behind. Why, he has no idea. With the Doctor, nothing is predictable. It might have been something he’d done to piss the Time Lord off; it might just have been that the Doctor had grown tired of him. Though he hadn’t acted as if that was so...
Certainly, in their last time together he’d been invaluable. Without any egotism whatsoever, he knows that. They’d worked in co-ordination, barely needing to discuss or plan, just doing it. Each anticipating the other, doing what needed to be done. Trusting that it would be done. He knows the Doctor couldn’t have rescued Rose, couldn’t have got the forcefield working either on the TARDIS or the Game Station, wouldn’t have had the time to build the Delta wave, without his help.
It just doesn’t make sense. Never has.
Course, the Doctor had probably thought he was dead, but that still didn’t excuse him not coming for his body.
At first, he’d given the Doctor the benefit of the doubt. Assumed that there’d been some pressing reason why he’d had to leave so quickly. Chasing the Daleks, maybe, since he’d clearly managed to get them off the station, yet he knew that the Delta wave hadn’t been activated. Or maybe going to get Rose back. So he’d waited. Hung around the Game Station for a few days, living among the corpses and the devastation, waiting for the Doctor to come back for him, but growing daily more despondent as there was no sign of the blue police box.
And, finally, he’d repaired the communication links and, after days of trying, had got a response from Earth. From one of the continents not ravaged by the Daleks, and a city which still had power and technology. He’d got rescued and, owing to having nothing better to do, had fallen in with the rebuilding effort.
That had been one long year. A year he now preferred not to think about either. It had been hard. Miserable, at times. Very lonely, especially on the long, dark nights of solitude when he couldn’t stop remembering how it used to be. Evenings on the TARDIS with Rose and the Doctor. Long conversations into the night. Sharing drinks together, laughing and joking. Exploring alien planets’ nightlife, staggering back to the TARDIS drunk or running from unfriendly locals. Whatever they did, always living life to the full. The three of them: companions and friends. They’d loved each other. Or so he’d thought.
And he’s thinking about them again. Damnit. He has to stop this.
The Doctor and Rose are part of his past, and that’s the way it’ll stay.
Even though he ended up in this century, in this country, because of the connection with the Doctor and Rose. Even if, when he first arrived here, he’d had the barely-suppressed hope that he might, some day, catch up with them.
Until he’d decided he no longer wanted to. Until he learned that the Doctor actually had been in London while he’d been here, in Cardiff, and what the Doctor had done.
Made an enemy of Harriet Jones, the Prime Minister. Set himself up as more deserving of deciding how to defend this country - this planet - from alien threats than those elected by the people to do it. Those who are here all the time, instead of dropping in and out when they feel like it, as the Doctor does.
Of course, Jones and others like her may not make the right decisions all the time. But then, they don’t have a monopoly on bad decisions. And that’s something he’d tell the Doctor, if he ever sees the Time Lord again. Bad decisions: oh, yes. He’s seen the Doctor make plenty. Rose told him about many others. And he has the gall to interfere and accuse someone else of a bad decision?
Sighing, Jack rakes a hand through his hair. This is futile. And it’s wasting time, too, when he has work to do.
And then he notices it. Feels it. A change in the atmosphere.
Something’s happening. Something out of the ordinary. Something that shouldn’t be happening.
There’s no noise, not a sound. But he can feel it...
One hand slides into his pocket, reaching for the weapon he’s never without. He reaches for his wristcomm, to see if it can detect what’s going on, but before he can press the controls he sees it. Walls appearing around him, faint at first but then solidifying.
Very familiar walls. A very familiar interior.
Even though it’s eighteen months since he last saw them, he’s never forgotten.
He’s inside the TARDIS.
And there’s a man here with him, over by the console. A man he’s never seen before.
The man lifts his gaze from the controls, and Jack sees floppy brown hair, a brown pin-stripe suit, dark eyes, a youthful face. An icily angry expression.
And then the man speaks. The voice is one he’s never heard before, either.
“Hello, Jack.”
*******
x-posted to
better_with_3