For [ profile] licenseartistic - March 07 - Wounded Soldier quote/Second Com

Apr. 12th, 2007 11:19 pm
innuendocaptain: (Second Coming)
[personal profile] innuendocaptain
Title / Prompt: Slouching Towards Bethlehem [March 07 - The Second Coming - "The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere/ The ceremony of innocence is drowned;" and "In war, there are no unwounded soldiers." --José Narosky]
Character: Jack Harkness
Warnings: Spoilers for Torchwood 1x13 and wild-arse speculation/AU of "Third Season" New Doctor Who; graphic depictions of m/m sex including rough sex and dub-con. Do NOT read this if that disturbs you.
Pairings: Ninth Doctor/Jack Harkness; [spoiler]/Jack Harkness
Your character's fandom: Doctor Who/Torchwood
Word count: 2867 per MS Word
Rating: NC-17 (see warnings)
Disclaimer: I don't own the characters or the situation. If I did, he'd have come in much earlier... Section/Chapter headings are excerpts from 'The Second Coming' by W. B. Yeats
Crossposted to [ profile] licenseartistic

Slouching Towards Bethlehem
by Penemuel

...The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned...

Jack realized it must have been the exhaustion that made him slip up and say out loud what would have tempted him. Much later, his rational mind would ask him just what the hell he'd been thinking to ever be that foolish, but at the time he was still just so tired and weak when Gwen asked, he said it out loud. "The right kind of Doctor..."

When he felt his throat closing with unshed tears, he had to get up and move, walk away from her and out into the Hub, although he still felt weak as a kitten. It had been a long time since he'd taken that many days to come back -- he was pretty sure the last time was when he'd been shot down in the first World War and he lay impaled by the wreckage of his fighter for at least a full day after the crash -- and he'd forgotten how exhausted it made him. But any moment Ianto and the others would arrive with coffee, and he'd be able to kick back and relax and just rest for a while.

And then he saw the hand, trembling and moving in its canister, the alerts beeping and the gel bubbling, a soft golden glow beginning to pulse in time with an oh-so-familiar beat. He could feel it, through the exhaustion, that unmistakable throb of power. He smiled with happiness and relief, and let the TARDIS materialize around him, somehow knowing that she had just swept in for a moment to pick him up, then immediately headed off before his team could say or do a thing.

But right now, he didn't care what they thought -- he needed his Doctor more than anything...

As those familiar walls materialized around him, a brief spark of joy flooded him, and it wasn't until he could feel that they were away again that he really registered the changes. The control room was the same as it had been during his travels with the Doctor, except that it was not. Where there had been bright blue and gold light blending here and there into a deep turquoise, now there was a much darker, almost flame hued glow. The internal configuration was much the same, but the organic growth on the walls and the pylons and console seemed rougher; sharper, almost. He could feel the TARDIS in his mind and knew she was the same one he'd travelled with before, but something had happened...

It wasn't until the figure stepped from the shadows and Jack saw him for the first time that he realized what that something might be.

"...Doctor?" he asked softly, staring in shock at the tall, lean figure who stood before him. He was still the right build, and while he seemed a little older it wasn't a completely drastic change. But his face was different, and there was a coldness to his expression that sent a shiver down Jack's spine. And in the place of his jeans, jumper, and jacket, the man wore what looked to Jack like a dark variation of Gallifreyan official robes. "What happened?"

"You died." The answer was quiet, wreathed in sadness and no small amount of anger, and Jack felt his heart squeeze in his chest at the sound of it. The northern accent was gone, and that much more of his heart broke with every word he heard. "You died, and didn't come back, and I couldn't hold on any longer."

He shook his head, his mind refusing to accept what had happened. "I've died before -- you knew-- I--" He stopped, unable to continue as his throat closed again and this time the tears did come. He could feel that this was his Doctor -- had been his Doctor. Their bond was still there, and as exhausted as he was, he still sensed the familiarity in this being. And yet-- "It was too long and you thought I wasn't coming back. You let go for a moment and it was enough to make you regenerate," he said, studying the man again. "But... why this form, and not another version of your next you?" His head throbbed, weakness and dizziness flooding back now that the elation of being found was gone in the wake of this. He stumbled and reached out to steady himself, found himself in the man's arms.

"I shouldn't have been here in the first place," the Doctor answered, holding Jack up and walking him back through the corridors to the room that had once been his. "When I didn't fade away but instead regenerated, it bypassed that life entirely and went on to my next one." Jack, in his effort to keep from collapsing entirely, missed the odd gleam in the Doctor's eyes. "I just hope I haven't stolen it from him, or he'll be quite cross..."

The last thing Jack remembered was those unfamiliar hands undressing him and pouring him into his bed, and then he slipped under, exhaustion pulling him down into the darkness.

...A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,...

It was days before Jack was able to stay up for more than hours at a time. Dying and giving so much of one's self had been devastating. Despite his desire to appear strong, he was not, and he spent more time resting and sleeping than he wanted to admit.

When the Doctor came in to check on him, he always tried to be awake. He knew that at times he was not; at least, not more than some kind of drowsy twilight, and he remembered the Doctor's hands on him, possessive and not-quite-cruel. He remembered moaning and responding in his dreams, his body craving the contact, loving his lover no matter what shape he held, because obviously this was his Doctor. Who else could it be?

He woke one day and climbed from bed, dressed and wandered out to the console room. He could feel the TARDIS humming in the back of his mind, registered some kind of warning but wasn't alert enough to parse it out. "Doctor?" he asked softly, looking around.

The figure detached from the shadows, and he realized the Doctor had been watching him. "Jack," the soft purr came. "Is there something you want?"

"Isn't there always?" he asked with a smirk, then he felt the disapproving stare. "I'm getting better -- stronger. I haven't been sleeping for so long..." he answered, wondering why he felt the need to justify his desires. "I've missed you..."

The Doctor stepped closer, stroked a gentle finger down along his cheek. "I've missed you, too, Jack. My Jack..." He closed the distance and claimed Jack's lips in a brutal kiss, and Jack couldn't help but respond, melting in his arms, clinging and deepening the kiss.

Yes! Jack thought, feeling their link fall back into place. It was beautiful and painful, and he couldn't help but open himself to it, letting the Doctor's mind surge into his and fill him, more brutal and harsh than he'd ever been before. Jack accepted it, because he felt his Doctor's mind, recognized him despite the changes, and knew this Time Lord had to be his lover, whatever had happened while he had been dead.

My Jack. The thought slid through his mind, all rough penetration and possession, and he moaned helplessly. Hunger burst across his mind and he groaned loudly, body and mind surrendering.

He didn't remember them walking or the Doctor carrying him, but the next thing he knew his lover was pressing him back onto his bed, sliding sure hands up under his shirt and teasing nails down his sides.

Jack moaned again and looked up into the new face of his lover, for a moment seeing the more familiar features overlaid on that older, grimmer face. The dangerous edge that had always appealed to him so much seemed that much closer to the surface now. He felt a frission of lust twined with the smallest spark of fear slither down his spine, but deep below his hungers and desire there was sorrow at losing the brighter parts of his lover. It didn't seem to him that this new version of the Doctor ever smiled without an edge of cruelty in it.

And then the Doctor's hands were on him again, and all thought fled in the face of intense pleasure edged with pain. Jack gave himself to it fully, craving it, remembering how to feel alive once more.

When they kissed, it was more a battle of teeth and tongues, Jack tasting blood and knowing it was his own. Nails scored his skin, hands gripped hard enough to bruise, and he cried out for more. Fingers probed and thrust, teased and stretched, and he begged, pleading for his defiling. Soon, the Doctor was pounding cruelly into him, and he took everything he could get, his body responding eagerly. He screamed his pleasure as he came, felt the Doctor spurt hot and thick inside him, felt the world dissolve away in a white hot inferno of ecstasy...

...And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

He couldn't help be a little surprised by his lover's demands. Always, before, he was the demanding one, the hungry one. And now it was the Doctor who was always wanting, always taking. Jack wasn't one to turn him away, but even he was taken a bit aback by the Doctor's hunger and needs. But his lover gave him those delicious forbidden pleasures, and he wasn't about to ask him to stop. Not when he was face down in the bed squirming and begging loudly for more.

It kept him worn out, though, and he realized one day that he was healing so slowly from his latest death. He spent much of his days in a fog, when he wasn't pinned against a wall or wanton and spread wide open on the Doctor's bed. Then he was in a fog too, but it was one of pleasure and lust, and it kept him from thinking too much about what was actually going on.

They travelled around much as they had before, but he never really seemed to be awake or alert enough when they reached planets to go out with the Doctor. He realized suddenly one day that he had no idea what it was that his lover did when he was away from the TARDIS.

This morning was much the same as any other time the Doctor had stopped at a planet. He lay in bed, his body exhausted, his nerves singing with the lingering pleasure of an intense and nearly brutal fucking. The Doctor had bitten him hard enough to break his skin and left him with a bruise that he could feel every time he moved. He couldn't help himself, kept probing at the wound and letting the pleasure thrum through his body. Eventually he drifted off to sleep once more...

...a deep, clanging sound rang through his mind, the resounding knell of an enormous bell, coming from somewhere in the depths of the TARDIS. In his dream, he was running, trying desperately to get away. He could feel it following him; something moving in the darkness, coming for him. Part of him knew it wasn't Abaddon -- that darkness was known to him now. Even when it escaped its banishment he would recognize it. And it would escape, eventually, because how could anyone completely kill an archetype of evil, anyway? All they could hope for was to send it from this plane for a time -- to loose its hold on the world and take away that which made it real.

No, the darkness was still watching him. Watching and waiting, and creeping ever closer. He heard the deep knell once more and awoke, screaming. He was unsure if the fading echoes were real or lingering threads of his nightmare, but he was up and out of bed before the reverberations ceased. Moving on automatic he pulled on his clothes, realizing once he was dressed that he was wearing his period military wear once more, not the more casual clothing he'd taken to wearing around the TARDIS. Something was nagging at his subconscious, telling him to be ready for trouble...

Finally he was dressed and stood, panting, in the entrance to the control room. The lights were dimmed and the shadows cast by the support pylons ragged and eerie, and he scanned the room for a long time before realizing there was no one there. Finally, he forced himself to calm, taking deep breaths and holding them, then letting them out slowly.

As he calmed he began to realize there was something trying insistently to reach him. He reached out with one hand and touched the rough surface of the wall, felt it catch at his skin and draw blood. Suddenly he heard it bright and sharp, no longer at the back of his mind but rushing forward with a shriek of warning: Beware! Danger! Falsehood! Treachery!!

He staggered for a moment under the onslaught, dropping to his knees and gasping as he felt the weight of it crushing his mind, too much too strong too alien to fully comprehend. Just as suddenly it backed off, the shrieking cacophony of alarm sweetening into a song he recognized well. It was the TARDIS, and she had finally broken through the fog that had wrapped around his mind since his return from the dead. She warned him about the Doctor, and somewhere between the impression of Doctor-not!Doctor and the pain of loss and fear, he realized something. Our rings!

Why, if the Doctor was still essentially 'his' Doctor, wasn't he still wearing the ring Jack had given him? He could think of any number of human sentiments that could have explained it at first, the most romantic and sad one being that it was too painful a reminder of his loss. But human sentiments didn't explain things for the Doctor, and besides, now that he was back and they were together it would only make sense to put it back on. No, Jack realized, this being, whoever -- whatever -- he was, had never worn that ring. This being was not his Doctor.

And it was at that moment that the door opened, and the Doctor -- whoever he really was -- rushed into the TARDIS with rage burning in his eyes.

"Don't come any closer," Jack warned, alarmed to find his voice shaking instead of fierce and edged with anger. He had drawn his Webley as the door swung open, and although he still pointed it at the Doctor his stance was weak, his arms trembling. It was almost as if his will was being sapped the closer the Doctor got to him, and a blast of that earlier shriek of warning jarred its way through his mind once more. Fight!

He shook his head and squared his shoulders, aiming the pistol once more right between the Doctor's eyes. "Where's your ring, Lover?" he asked, his tone bitter and accusing. As long as he held onto his anger, he could do this. As long as he held onto his anger, he wouldn't fall into despair...

"Ring. Of course -- my ring," the Doctor answered, giving Jack a measuring look and raising an eyebrow. "You won't shoot me, Jack," he purred. "You can feel it, can't you? I am him, after a fashion." A step closer, a hand reaching out. "You're lost without him, aren't you, you poor pathetic human..." Another step, those lean fingers taking the Webley from Jack's trembling fingers. "You are mine, you know. You've given yourself to me in so many ways..."

"No," Jack breathed, staring at him and unable to move as the Doctor stroked warm fingers down his cheek to the pulse point in his neck.

"Even now you're growing aroused, submitting to me. I'm all there is, Jack, your beloved sap of a Northerner isn't coming back."

"No." His voice was a little stronger now, and he shook himself, ducked away from the teasing touch. "Who the hell are you, anyway? Bilis?"

"Oh no -- nothing so insignificant as that," the Doctor said, his lip curling in distaste. "You already know what I am. You can feel it -- you've felt it all along. I am your Doctor."

"You're not my Doctor!" Jack snarled, finding his strength once again. "I don't know what you are -- you feel like you're part of him, but there's no good in you, anywhere! No hope or light or anything..." The Doctor's hands closed around his throat and he reached up, desperately trying to claw them off, trying not to choke, wheezing "He may have done dark things, but there's still light in him. He'll never be you!"

As his vision began to grey around the edges he heard a ringing in his ears, a rasping sound that sounded just like a TARDIS materializing, except it echoed all around them, louder and louder until it finally stopped. Everything was going black, now, and he knew he was going to die again.

The last thing he heard as blackness claimed him was that familiar accented voice, roaring, "Valeyard! Git yer bloody hands off him!!"
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Jack Harkness

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