How We Break

Where the blankets came from, the Doctor had no clue. Jack was good at making things appear when they were needed. The Doctor scrubbed his hands over his face, rubbing away the grime. The red cuts and welts from Jack’s belt had faded to pink lines already. He blushed at the memory, hugging his blanket to his chest. A thought, an urgent thought, occurred to him, and he dropped his blanket, hands going to his red bow tie. One side was pulled far larger than it should have been, and the loop around his neck was loose enough to allow part of his collar to slip through. Suppressing a groan, he tugged at the tie. It unraveled and slid away. The first button somehow had maintained its integrity, so he did up the second one for good measure and folded down the collar before retying his bow tie with fluid, practiced movements.

Carefully he stood, the blanket and Jack’s coat falling away. The brisk air brushed all his nakedness, and he spun on the spot, frantically searching for his pants. They had somehow landed on the other side of Jack’s desk. Scuttling over, fearing the possible pain of a too large step, he carefully scooped them up and shimmied into his briefs, but looking down, even in the dark he could see something was wrong.

Blots marred his skin, dark, almost black against the pale. Carefully he ran the tips of his fingers over the spots. Most were flat, a couple were rough, and all were sore. Hickies, he realized. Along the curves of his hips and on the flat of his stomach under his belly button. He pulled away the waist band. The dark circles had been placed of the tops of his thighs and the insides of his thighs, from the knees as high up as they would go into junctures and folds all around and between him.

He swallowed hard and set the elastic back down. Blinking several times, he rubbed a hand over his mouth. What level of oblivion must he have been in to not know that Jack had been so thorough with him? He swallowed again and reached for his pants. The rest of the buttons of his shirt came next, and he did them quickly to cover all teeth marks and nipple bruises. One sock, two, and his shoes, thankfully still tucked away by the end of the couch where he’d left them first day. Shoving his feet inside, he neglected to lace them or put on his recovered socks. Pulling up his red suspender straps, he spun on the spot. His jacket, there it was, folded over some books in the corner. He threw it on, padded the pocket to make sure his psychic paper was still there, and walked over to Jack’s desk. Without a sound he plucked up his sonic and shoved it in his pocket. What was left?

His eyes fell on Jack, sleeping Jack, who had been with many people. Surely they’d snuck out on him often. Jack probably did the sneaking himself at least half the time. Knowing it was inadequate, knowing by the wriggle in his gut it was a horrible thing to do, the Doctor took a sticky note off Jack’s desk, folded it in half, picked up a red pen lying about, and scrawled a couple words. With silent, calculated footsteps, he walked around to Jack and crouched down by him.

Jack was always good looking, no one would argue that, but sleeping, hair over his eyes, face meshed into his arm, and the blanket not quite covering his shoulder, Jack looked sweet. He gave no indication of the man who had split the Doctor’s lip pounding his throat.

The Doctor looked around, as if someone standing close could hear such thoughts. With a deep breath, he tucked the sticky note into Jack’s hand and went to stand, but the long, blue coat caught his gaze. The Doctor reached over, curled his fingers into the tough fabric, and stood, carefully pulling the garment free from the second blanket. Grasping both sides of the collar, he pulled it to his mouth and slowly breathed in Jack’s scent.

Calmness washed over him but also sadness. Jack was important, of course he was. The Doctor’s last regeneration may not have treated him the best or acknowledged all that Jack had done, but this man had always been important, always been cared for and missed. And no matter how bad the Doctor was at showing it, Jack hadn’t hesitated when a new face showed up, fraying and desperate. Very seriously, the Doctor contemplated taking Jack’s coat with him. He couldn’t bring the man; it was clear he’d never leave his team, and the Doctor couldn’t stay. He almost never stayed, and the last time had been with Amy and Rory.

The Doctor closed his eyes and took one last deep breath before gently setting the coat back on the floor. No more glances or thoughts or slow steps. It wasn’t until he saw that the hub was dark and empty that he realized he hadn’t known what time it was. It could have been midday, and he wouldn’t have known. As quietly as he could, he closed Jack’s office door and tried to hurry down the steps, but the first two stalled him.

Yes, he was definitely sore, but he had been expecting more of a sharp pain, a sear that was deep and would shame him with every step. Instead it was a little like a burn, but the good kind, the kind that came with the first of Jack’s fingers to enter him. The Doctor’s lips parted a fraction further with every step. Adjusting his jacket like he’d somehow been disheveled, he walked across the hub to the concrete rolling door and its bars. Figuring he was far enough from Jack to risk it, he pulled out his sonic and made his way through to the lift. At the top, he was once again relieved to see that Ianto wasn’t on guard at night. The Doctor had never asked what the actual Torchwood schedule was supposed to be. He opened the front door and closed his eyes.

The night air soothed his lungs and throat and skin and mind. It felt like freedom. The TARDIS was a couple miles away so he had time to savor it. On his way, he did everything he could to think of the future, what he would do next. He wouldn’t think of Jack or what the morning held for him. Besides, that was all conjecture. Jack could wake up, shrug, and boss his friends around. That was perfectly reasonable.

He wasn’t to know for sure that Jack would wake up with a stupid grin and roll over on the office floor to find a blanket and his coat in a pile. For the first few seconds he would be in denial and think the Time Lord went to wash up or was drinking coffee with Gwen, and then Jack would notice a vacant spot by the arm of the sofa where the Doctor’s boots had been. He would see only his clothes littering the floor and the sonic vanished from his desk, and when he swallowed the abandonment and fought the tears on the rim of his vision, he would notice a crinkle in his hand. He’d look down, open his fingers, read the words, and crumble. Jack would wrap himself in his blanket and lie down. The Doctor was difficult to deal with and far worse to understand. Sometimes he made hard decisions and sometimes he made mistakes, but never was the Doctor cruel, most especially not to his friends. But he’d always grudgingly been friends with Jack, hadn’t he? And when his thoughts could beat him no more, Jack would
ob into his pillow and flick away the paper that made him nothing, its words clearly visible to Ianto when he came in search of his absent friend: Thanks –Doctor.

~

A distress beechen, how typical. Who would respond to all these people if he wasn’t around? The Doctor rolled his eyes and threw a lever. The TARDIS’ lights flickered, and she hummed, the time rotor beginning to drum through the console. Dancing through his steam punk TARDIS, the Doctor gathered his clothing from the railings and stairs, socks and underwear mostly. When he travelled alone, he had little care for sorting and organizing and drawers. If no one was there to complain or make him feel guilty, he was going to take advantage of it.

He had just enough time to make a pile before the deep tones of landing made him perk up. He took one quick lap around the console, glancing at readings and scans, and when nothing alarming struck him, he dashed to the doors and opened them. Immediately he noticed the sky was wrapped around the ground much too closely. Nearly forty percent of the rocky land before him was horizon, and the rest had jagged peaks that blocked his sight. They weren’t mountains because they seemed to be all one material and not nearly wide enough. He hopped a few times. The gravity was artificial. He was on an asteroid. Hands in his pockets, he started along. Metal glinted behind a couple of the spires, and he thought perhaps it was a crashed ship or some building not well cared for.

It took him a half hour to get there. Why the TARDIS had landed so far was a mystery. Solidly planted in the stone was the skeleton of a crashed transport ship. Several steps to the side, he saw two more ships upturned and half buried. He wrung his hands, biting the corner of his lip. The ships had been here for a hundred years easy, mined for resources. Had he landed too far in time from the beechen? Were the survivors long dead?

Echoing rattles reached his ears.

“Hello?” he called, craning his neck to see through the wreckage, “Is there someone there?”

No reply came, only rustling and banging.

“I…” started the Doctor, carefully climbing through twisted metal, “I received a distress signal. I’m here to help. Who’s there?”

Light pats and taps came next, and the wind knocked out of him. Something hit him around the middle and latched on, almost taking him down. A tiny person stepped into his view, two tiny people, one on either side of him. Children, he realized. The Doctor looked down at himself and saw a little girl clinging to him. Before he knew what he was doing, he held his arms out to the other children and slowly knelt to their level. One of them was a boy and the other a girl. Slowly they walked to him, their feet bare and clothes covered in dust and reeking like waste.

“Come here,” he said softly, looking form one tiny face to the next, “Come here, it’s okay. It’s okay.”

They were somewhere the ages of three and five, and the one still hugged into him was definitely the smallest. When the other two were within arms’ reach, he put his hands on their shoulders and pulled them closer. He mouthed words, but none of them made sense to ask children, and he couldn’t settle on what question was most important.

Finally, he said, “Are you all alright?”

He was simply looked at with six big eyes.

“Is there anyone else here?”

They blinked. One of them backed up, turned, and walked away.

“Okay,” the Doctor said, gathering one kid in each arm and hoisting them up onto his hips.

Picking his way through fallen and jagged metal, the Doctor followed the little boy.

“Be careful,” he called, “No, don’t go so far. Stay close.”

The boy ignored him or couldn’t hear. Speeding up, the Doctor tried to not overbalance himself or squeeze the kids in his arms too tightly. They felt brittle. The child he was following led him to a hatch in the middle of all the wreckage and pointed down. The Doctor walked to the edge and knelt again, setting the kids lightly on their feet. He whipped out his sonic screwdriver, brought it down to the hatch, and pushed the button. Its high drone filled the air as he traced the light around the metal. All the children stepped back. The hatch creaked and popped, metal slamming up dust.

The children scattered, all running in different directions.

“No, wait, stay!”

They had disappeared through the shadows. He stood and turned on the spot again, hands in the air. No sound of any kind reached him. With a sigh, he crouched, dug his fingers into the metal plate, and lifted. It scraped and ground as he hefted it away to reveal a shoot carved down into the asteroid, wood planks nailed at intervals for a ladder. With one more glance around to make sure the children were still gone, he lowered himself in and began to climb down.

After a few feet he could see nothing but black. Several feet later, his right foot unexpectedly collided with the ground, jarring his knee. Cautiously he stepped around and pulled out a tiny torch from his jacket, clicked it, and shined around himself. The tunnel was as narrow as the shoot he climbed down, stone close in on three sides of him, the passage before him dark beyond sight. He wanted to call a questioning hello, but this was more than eerie. Something was wrong. It was more than quiet; it was dead silent.

Creeping along, his boots crunched on ground. It didn’t seem like many people travelled this way. The tunnel was definitely carved more than dug.

He heard rustling again, then padding, and the dirty face a boy entered his light. The Doctor stopped and reached his hand out, but the boy gestured for him to come. One step, two, the Doctor cautiously followed. Eventually, the tunnel opened up into a room filled with beaten trunks and crates, and on the other side was a poorly fitted metal door, and the boy was nowhere to be seen. The Doctor switched hands with his torch and pulled out his sonic. Green light barely touched the air when the door rattled and scraped its way inward. A man’s face appeared, gaunt and thickly bearded. He looked the Doctor up and down, and a smile twisted under the messy hairs.

The Doctor took a step back, swallowed, and said, “The kids, there are kids out there. And a boy down here. Do… do they have families?”

The man didn’t answer. He stepped aside, but the Doctor didn’t move.

“I picked up a distress call. That’s why I’m here. My ship—“ The Time Lord licked his lips nervously, rubbing his thumbs over the tips of his fingers. “My ship is large enough for all of you to fit, no matter how many are here. I can take you wherever you want.”

The man’s hand came up and gestured for the Doctor to enter and proceed down the corridor.

“The children…” started the Doctor, but he looked around himself and saw no one and no means of escape, “Right.”

The Doctor proceeded through the door and passed the man, who made move to follow him but motioned for him to continue. This room held boxes of some sort, all covered with ratty blankets. At the next door, he didn’t bother to use the sonic. It opened when he was close enough to reach out and touch it. It was another man, also overly bearded. He stepped aside, ignoring the Doctor’s awkward gestures behind him.

“Forward, okay,” he mumbled, and moved on, but beyond this time, the room was vast and separated with curtains. Finally here there seemed to be basic noise: water in pipes, heating or cooling, a pen somewhere scratching away at paper, footsteps. A third man walked out from behind a hung a sheet, but he was more kept and as hygienic as this place would allow.

“Well,” he said, eyeing the Doctor up and down, his voice higher than expected, “Middle aged scientists, often older, and lately children since that mission ship landed to ‘help,’” he put his hands up in air quotes with a smirk, “But you--you are perfect. How old are you?”

“Twelve hundred and seven,” replied the Doctor, “The children are from a mission ship. So they have no parents. Do you know where the ship was coming from, or going I suppose?”

“Don’t know, don’t care,” said the man, then he frowned, “What do you mean children? You should have just seen the boy.”

The Doctor hesitated, his mouth noiselessly moving, “I assumed since there was one, there would be others.”

He guessed he wasn’t believed by the skeptical look he was given.

“The children don’t last long, only boys left now, but you…” he paced a circle around the Doctor, “You are good for any taste. Are there any more of you?”

“I… I came to respond to a distress signal—“

“Yes, they all do. Is there anyone with you?”

“No, I’m alone.”

“Shame, but I suppose that means we won’t have to worry about someone with firepower coming to look for you. Your ship will have supplies.”

“Actually, Torchwood will be looking for me. Torchwood—they fight with guns and have the time vortex on their side.”

The man waved him off.

The Doctor asked, “What is your name?”

“Did I offer my name?”

“…No.”

“Then I’m not going to tell you, and I certainly didn’t give you permission to ask. I think you’ll just call me…”

The man stepped forward and touched his fingers to the Doctor’s forehead. It was fast. He only got into the Doctor’s consciousness for half a second, but the surface thoughts were pulled from him.

“Jack… Master… Rory. I don’t think Rose would do. I think we’ll go with Rory. You find him loving and kind. Yes, Rory. Galger!”

The bearded man at the door stood straighter to listen.

“There are children on the surface. Two of them are girls. If you find the three of them, you may keep one for yourself.”

Galger’s eyebrows rose, and dashed out the door.

“Look, my ship had much more space than it seems. I can take you wherever you need to go. There’s no need for violence. I’m sure a deal can be made.”

“A deal?” the man laughed, “The only thing you offer of value is something I intend to take already.”

He hooked a finger up under the bow tie and pulled the Doctor forward. The Doctor slapped his hand away and straightened it, irritation all over his face. He opened his mouth to say something scathing, he was sure, but the wind knocked out of him. The man held the back of his neck and drove his fist into him three times and let go. The Doctor fell to the floor gasping.

“Go open the door to the holding cells.”

The Doctor swallowed his breath and looked around to see who the man was talking to and saw the dirt-streaked boy, who immediately came away from the wall and walked across the room at a brisk pace.

He passed them, but the man snarled, “You can’t go faster than that?”

The Doctor saw him ball his fist for a punch. Lashing out, the Doctor grabbed the boy around the middle and yanked him down, folding him in. Blows pummeled down on the Doctor’s shoulders and head, but there was no way he’d allow a child beaten if he could do anything, anything at all, about it.