for quitehomoerotic: Welcome to the 27th century

[rude_not_ginger]

Follows this.

It was one thing, watching your companion be ripped apart.

One very terrible thing, mind you, but one thing. The Doctor stayed prone on the ground, the sound of Jack's death screams ringing in his ears as that thing, whatever it was, tore him into several unpleasant pieces. It reminded him of the Year That Wasn't, of Jack's screams while the Master tortured him and the Doctor's frail body keeping him from helping. That was torture, far more brutal than anything the Master's tools could produce.

Once the loud stomps of the creature faded away, the Doctor struggled to get to his feet and limped to the place where Jack had been.

It was another thing, having to find his body for it to regrow.

It took some time to find his upper torso, limp and lifeless. It didn't take too terribly long to drag said upper torso to a safe, empty cave not far from the forest's edge (after all, what Jack no longer had in height, he also lost in weight. It didn't take long for time to start snapping around him and his body to start to regrow.

That was something else all together. Muscle and bone formed out of nothing, and while Jack wasn't coherent, he was still alive, screaming and thrashing as he reformed. The Doctor pressed his fingertips to Jack's temple and tried to take away the pain, but when that failed, he pressed his mind into a quiet, comatose state.

While Jack repaired, the Doctor covered him with his coat and sat, waiting. For all that they'd fought, for all that the Doctor swore he'd never want Jack back on the TARDIS again, he did care about him. He wanted him happy, even if he wasn't certain he could handle having him so close. Jack was willing to die for the Doctor, and this was just another example of how he could.

But the Doctor wouldn't leave. Not this time.

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No, Jack---

The Doctor wanted to drop down and help Jack, but if he moved, the next arrow, the one positioned on the robot's other arm, would go straight for him. He stayed perfectly still, struggling to not even breathe.

Any moment now. Any moment now, Jack. It will leave and the Doctor would help him. He couldn't even offer up a word of comfort to his friend. Nothing, just frozen out of fear of the monster with his voice caught in his throat.

The robot leveled another arrow for Jack's head, but changed its mind and turned, fleeing in a burst of light.

The Doctor dropped down to Jack's side instantly. He put a hand to the other man's throat. Pulse. Faint, but there. He wouldn't last much longer with the arrow in his chest, that must've been why the creature fled.

He wanted to say something, but he couldn't. Instead, he took a breath, took a hold of the arrow, and pulled it sharply from Jack's chest.

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"Oww!" Jack let out a large noise in pain as the arrow was pulled from his chest; his eyes opening wide and suddenly as air rushes back into his lung. It doesn't last long though, and even as he sits up sharply, he could feel himself losing breath as the air escaped through the puncture wound in the tissue.

"Jesus Christ that hurt," he said, struggling for words but feeling he has to say them, his body overcome with the urge to speak everything he though, just as the Doctor earlier had.

"What wa--" he clutched a hand to his chest, trying to concentrate and breathe deep breaths enough to fill his functioning lung.

"Doctor, can't- can't breathe-"

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The Doctor wanted to calm him, but he couldn't find the words to comfort. Instead, he pulled out the wadded-up scrub bottoms and pressed them against his bleeding wound.

Interesting, he wanted to say. It appears without actually dying, your wounds stay fairly intact. Is this a common thing, Jack?

But he couldn't.

He reached out and patted Jack's cheek with his other hand.

It'll be all right, he also wanted to say.

[quitehomoerotic.livejournal.com]

Jack reached a hand up and covered it over the Doctor's on his chest. He could just about breathe, but barely, and it was getting worse as fluid from the wound seeped into his open lung.

Looking at the Doctor, with his vision swimming in front of his eyes, he shook his head. "No," he said, taking too much effort to speak.

He suspected what might happen here, it had happened before, if in different ways. Somehow this was worse than a terribly gruesome death like the one he had earlier. This was barely a death at all. It was a slow painful loss of the ability to live. His breathing would get harder, and the pain would get worse, and he had to strain himself through it.

"No, Doctor," he said again, struggling against the lack of air. He fumbled his hand out and tried to reach for the bloodied arrow, his fingers fumbling and not reaching.

"Are you-" he breathed in, wheezed, "are you okay?"

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Don't speak, he wanted to say, but couldn't. He pressed down on the wound, but he knew this was fatal. Jack would drown in his own blood. A few years ago, he might have even watched the process with indifference. After all, Jack would just come back to life.

Now, he knew it hurt. He knew this wasn't as easy as life and death. He didn't want Jack to die.

He nodded in response to Jack's question, because he couldn't say anything else.

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With a second attempt, Jack managed to grab hold of the arrow. He lifted it, his hand clasped tightly around it, and he pressed it to the Doctor's hand over his chest.

"Finish it," he asked hoarsely, coughing and tasting iron in the back of his throat, "please. Quicker."

He was going to die. If that was something he guessed at before he was certain of it now. He'd grown to the point he could almost be blase about dying. It was so much more pleasant to have it over and done with. He thought it was a recklessness with life that might get him in trouble one day. It had certainly got himself in trouble.

He didn't want to ask the Doctor to kill him. It'd never be a nice thing for someone you cared about, and who cared about you to have to do. But, if it meant the pain would go, and it meant that he might be better quicker, then it seemed the most logical option.

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The Doctor wanted to say No and promise Jack that he'd fix it, he'd save him. But the fact that his throat was locked up was not the only reason he didn't.

Jack could die, and then he wouldn't be in pain.

The Doctor had done far worse in his life. And Jack needed him. He'd turn the universe upside down for Jack, couldn't he do this?

He nodded, and then took Jack's head, turned it roughly to the side, and stabbed the arrow in the base of his neck, up to the brain stem. Quick and painless. Even a Raston Warrior Robot couldn't be that efficient.

Jack's blood was warm against his fingertips, and brain matter came out with the arrow as he pulled it free of Jack's skull.

He wanted to say he was sorry, but he couldn't.

[quitehomoerotic.livejournal.com]

Five minutes. Five minutes or not even that, that's how long Jack was dead in the Doctor's arms, his body limp and limbs loose.

The blood from his wounds was still wet, but the damage behind it had healed, and his body as ever reset itself as though nothing had ever happened. Like a mistake rubbed off a blackboard. All gone.

Five minutes or less and he opened his eyes and took a deep gasp of breath. His muscles awoke and tightened, and his grip firm on the Doctor's arm. His eyes searched in confusion before he, seconds later, acclimatised to his situation.

"Doctor!" he breathed out deeply, deep breaths to fill his fixed lungs. "Doctor what was that thing?"

[rude-not-ginger.livejournal.com]

The Doctor clung to Jack during those five minutes. Five minutes can, potentially, seem like an eternity when you're holding someone you've just killed. Panic had set in, the worry that maybe he could've saved Jack and now he wouldn't wake up. Then guilt over what had become of Jack, how much potential Jack had. Then grief, briefly. Had he the ability to wail, he would have. Instead, he allowed himself a few moments to cry.

After all, while Jack was dead, he was alone.

He had to snap himself together. Jack was not going to stay dead. Even limp in his arms, the Doctor could feel the wrongness of him. He felt time twist and snap back together, and Jack was alive again, breathing and asking questions the Doctor wanted to answer but couldn't.

[quitehomoerotic.livejournal.com]

Jack took stock of himself. In one piece, right; the Doctor was there, good; in a cave on Gallifrey, yep; just been shot with an arrow by a robot and killed by the Doctor. All memories present and correct.

"Thank you," he said on a long breath out, still trying to gather himself completely. "Thank you."

As much as dying was something normal for Jack, that didn't mean it was something pleasant, and though he made the best attempts to brush it off, it was more than nice to have someone there when it happened, if only for a moment.

Ianto had become that person before; he'd learned by getting to know a different part of Jack, that the hurt wasn't always just physical, and things like a hug (or a kiss in more private times) had become ritual to Jack's recovery. He'd got used to that to the point where it was unremarkable. To the point where he hadn't realised how much it meant to him.

With a nod Jack turned his body intn the Doctor's and wrapped an arm around him, pulling him into a quick and tight hug. A thanks that went further than words. Before he pulled back completely he pressed a small kiss to the Doctor's lips. He didn't care right now if that wasn't quite right or not, he wanted it, and that was enough.

Pulling back he looked at the Doctor, one hand on his shoulder, and he considered him before shaking his head. "You can't talk, can you?" he asked, finally.

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The Doctor wanted to kiss Jack properly, but he couldn't, not with his blood on his hands---literally and metaphorically. It felt wrong to kiss him in the wake of what he'd just done.

But he'd done it once before, when times called for it. This just felt more visceral, more real. No simple bolt of electricity, he had to stab him. Had to watch him recover.

He shook his head to Jack's question and gave him a small, pitifully apologetic look. He had a lot of things he wanted to say. Oh! He reached into his pocket and produced the psychic paper.

Raston Warrior Robot appeared instantly on the small white sheet, along with a makeup of its abilities. Moves like lightning, dotted all over the Death Zone.

After all of that information, another sentence appeared. Are you all right?

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"Well that's a first with you," Jack teased gently, smiling at the Doctor before adding more seriously, nodding, "I'm sorry you had to do that, but thank you, trust me it was better than the alternative."

His brow etched into a frown as the Doctor produced the paper, but he quickly understood and read the words, taking in the information. "Warrior robot, right, better keep our eyes peeled for them then. And arrows? I mean really? They ride around on horse back too with their capes flowing behind them?" He rambled, and sadly couldn't even blame it on the drug, his death had cleared that right from his system.

"I'm fine," he smiled as the new words appeared in front of him, "I promise, never felt better. Are you? I mean, aside from the whole voice thing? It's not hurting you, is it?"

Jack felt protective, especially with the Doctor hindered. He turned a little and reached for the Doctor's hand, finding the blood all over it. He took it between his own, and grabbed the scrubs from against his chest to try and soak it up.

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The Doctor gestured for him to get away. There was no use, the scrubs were coated in blood, too. He moved back, away from Jack. Away from the wrong of the new awakening, away from the wrong of what he'd done to him.

He handed Jack the psychic paper again, this time with the Doctor's comprehensive analysis of the drug and why the effects were in the order he believed they were. 1) Euphoria for a relaxed, giddy effect, 2) Constant talking in order to attract enemies, 3) Silence in order to finish them off because they couldn't call to each other in battle. Very clever.

"I'm sorry," he managed, but his voice was quiet and thin and he felt like he'd run a marathon simply by saying them.

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Jack took the paper but huffed. Right, just when he genuinely thought he'd got somewhere.

He read the information, all technical and full of detail. "Yeah, yeah," he said, "very interesting. Clever little drug to try and get us killing each other. Good job we're not enemies, isn't it?"

He folded the paper back up and held it out towards the Doctor. If he was only going to be technical, then Jack didn't care to read it.

But he glanced up on hearing him talk, and scooted himself quickly towards him. An arm reached out he took hold of the Doctor's arm and pulled him back towards him. Maybe he'd turned a corner, but he wasn't going to be easily pushed away now. Not any more.

"Hey, stop that, come back here you," he spoke gently as he tugged the Doctor's arm. "Don't talk if it hurts, plenty time for that later. And don't be so silly, what are you apologising for now? You don't need to. You hear me? You better be listening to me, Doctor."

[rude-not-ginger.livejournal.com]

It did hurt. It hurt a lot. And, before he realized quite what was happening, it suddenly hurt to breathe. His lungs felt tight and heavy, like he was taking in water. Like he was back underneath Torchwood Three, near-drowning.

He gripped Jack's arm, his eyes wide with panic.

This was the drug, right? Okay, so it was making him immobile, taking away his ability to breathe, but it wouldn't kill him, that was far too easy. Maybe kill him if he didn't stop it, just to see if he could? He didn't even know what they could've used!

[quitehomoerotic.livejournal.com]

Jack needed no cue to know there was a problem. Merely seeing the look in the Doctor's eyes was enough to alert him, and quickly Jack was moving closer to the Doctor's side.

He shifted up onto his knees and moved in front of the Doctor. He braced his hand on the Doctor's shoulder and stared into his eyes.

"You're okay, Doctor. You're okay, I'm here and I'm not going to let anything happen, okay? Whatever this thing is doing to you I won't let it finish." He took the psychic paper again and opened it up, "Come on," he urged him along, "think it to me. Tell me what's happening. Tell me what you need."

His hand shifted from his shoulder to his cheek, holding gently, his thumb stroking.

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The Doctor struggled to take in a breath, and gestured at his lungs, then his throat, trying to give some gestured that he was choking.

He pressed his hands to Jack's forehead and tried to form a connection, but he was too panicked to know if it could go through. Just the idea of Air. Help. Maybe it would get through.

He could survive without air for a short amount of time, but it felt like every cell in his body was losing oxygen. He fell forward, lolling limply into Jack's arms.

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Jack tried to remain calm. Calm in stark contrast to the Doctor's panic. Inside he was worried, petrified, but they needed one of them to stay calm. He had to.

So he kept a focus and tried to calm the Doctor by being calm himself. But it wasn't enough, he knew that. The hand touched his face and he could feel the attempt, but nothing past a vague fizzle and a fuzz came through. And that was bad, Jack thought, bad that the Doctor was weakening so much not to be able to reach to him like that.

But Jack didn't need words of explanation to understand as the Doctor loosened in his arms. Quickly, he lay him down flat, placing a hand gently against the back of his head to support it from the rock.

"Stay with me, Doctor," he commanded him firmly, "you hear me? Stay with me. You just make sure you stay with me."

Moving over him, he prised the Doctor's mouth open and clasped his nose. He took a deep breath, filling his lungs, and leaned down, closing his mouth over the Doctor's, breathing air deep into his lungs.

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Air filled the Doctor's lungs. He felt them expand, he felt the oxygen move into his bloodstream, and then when Jack moved his mouth away, the air went immediately back out.

It was not quite a breath, but it kept him alive. He struggled to nod. Quite ingenious of Jack, the Doctor would've thought to run out, grab a variety of herbs and try to cure it, but Jack treated the symptom. Treat that long enough and the drug would pass out of his system naturally.

He'd tell him how clever he was the moment he had a voice.

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As he pulled back from the breath Jack looked down at the Doctor, monitoring him to see a response. He moved, maybe not much, but he moved, and that was enough.

"That's it!" he beamed at him, "that's it Doctor, just you breathe. You breathe for me."

He took another deep breath and repeated the motion, breathing deep and long transferring the air from himself to the Doctor. He lingered his lips the second time, tried to transfer a little life with the breath, willing the Doctor to survive.

His lips tingled against the Doctor's, a tell tale sign of transference, and he paused a moment before leaning back and taking a deep breath again to repeat the action a third time. Breath and life, all at once.

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The drug might've taken many minutes to flush out of his system, but the healthy energy he pulled from Jack (even though he was telling himself he shouldn't pull energy from Jack) helped him clear out his system as he took in breath after breath.

He finally took in a deep lungful of air on his own and struggled with all of his might, to sit up. Breathing felt like he was in a smoke-filled room, but it was possible.

"If I had the breath," he said, his voice still small and scratchy. "I'd kiss you, you know."

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On the final breath, when Jack felt a solid response, he leaned back and gave the Doctor room. His arm went automatically out as the Doctor moved to sit up and he pressed it against his back, supporting him.

He beamed a smile at him, wide from ear to ear, lighting up the darkness in the cave. "Don't talk, catch your breath," he said seriously, but still with his eyes glinting, a cheeky edge.

"You can kiss me in a minute," he joked, leaning in a little with a laugh.

Softer, he went on, "How you feeling? Had me worried there," he rubbed his back, smiling at him still.

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"The drug," the Doctor said, turning his head and coughing to clear out the last of the congestion. "Must've been the final leg for it. If nothing else killed you, the lack of oxygen would. It's really clever, the efficiency with which they kill."

He took in a few more breaths and leaned back, relaxing in Jack's embrace. They would make it out of this together. In this cave, it only became more obvious to the Doctor that while they were more often than not the reason for their own troubles, they managed to get out of them, too.

They were, as Jack had said, good for each other.

"Thank you," he said, nodding.

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"Any time," Jack said back, smiling at him like he had a coat-hanger stuck in his mouth.

He nodded, belatedly, in response to the Doctor's idea about the drug. "Self cleaning too," he agreed, "if someone else doesn't finish the job it'll finish it itself. Very clever. Sort of thing a few people I've known would just love to get their hands on."

Shifting slightly, he settled the Doctor a little more comfortably in his arms and glanced at the mouth of the cave and back to the Doctor with a warm smile.

"Well then?" he joked, pretending to check a watch that wasn't there. "I'm waiting for that kiss."

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"Yes, yes, still working to catch my breath," the Doctor said with a mock exasperation. His lungs felt clearer, but he wasn't happy with how tight his muscles still felt.

He could see light at the mouth of the cave. Daylight. And it wouldn't last too long. He turned back to Jack, and then struggled to get to his feet.

"We haven't got much time. We need to get to that Tower and we need to get there before the next nightfall. The last thing I want to do is actually sleep here."

He had enough nightmares about Gallifrey without this trip.