How We Break

Jack closed his eyes and rested his forehead on the edge of the medical bay table. He hadn’t eaten, hadn’t really slept, and definitely hadn’t left. The Torchwood medbay became his home, like a hermit in a hole. He spent his days watching the Doctor’s unconscious face and when he couldn’t bare it anymore, busied himself with changing bandages. Any time where he wasn’t directly fussing about the Doctor, he hovered somewhere between sleeping and awake, reliving conversations.

“Doc,” Jack had whispered softly down to the man in his arms after they entered the TARDIS, “How do we help you? I don’t know about Time Lord physiology.”

Everyone was watching them, wanting to be close to the Doctor, but Jack carried him away from the console where the others stood and over to the wall for privacy.

The Doctor rasped in a breath, one that made Jack cringe in sympathy, and said hoarsely without opening his eyes, “Saline is… fine.”

“What about anesthetic?”

“Don’t have one… strong enough… to work…”

That was probably true, Jack thought, the way Time Lord cells regenerate—under normal circumstances anyway, but in his state, after Jack laid him as gently as he could on the cold metal table, Martha put a mask over his face. In five seconds, he was completely sedated. They had chosen to keep him that way for as long as it worked. When his metabolism fought the anesthetic then he would be well enough to be without it. Until then, no one was willing to put him through more pain than strictly necessary.

Jack lifted his head and blinked several times. With one hand, he rubbed his face and then brought it down to grip the Doctor’s fingers. They were individually wrapped and coated with any kind of vitamin or healing accelerated cream they thought might help in the slightest. The skin from his fingertips were gone, and holding the Doctor’s hand wasn’t an option. He had saline IVs in both hands and both elbows. Jack lost count of how many bags they had gone through. Owen said he assumed the Doctor’s body was using it somehow to help heal himself, more drastically than a human anyway. Every couple of hours, Owen would take blood from a permanent needle in a vein of the Doctor’s neck and titer it. Every time without fail, he prescribed more bags of saline.

Jack pressed his lips to the knuckles of the hand he was currently possessing, careful of the IV in the top of the hand and the second one in its wrist. Martha advised him to move any part as little as possible.

In the TARDIS returning from the asteroid, the lot of them were concerned about getting the Doctor to a suitable medical facility while walking with him through the streets of Cardiff without attracting attention, but when Gwen opened the doors, they found themselves freshly materialized just inside Torchwood’s rolling door. Jack started moving quickly through the hub, but the Doctor’s hand suddenly gabbed the collar of his shirt, and Jack stopped abruptly, all his attention on the man in his arms.

“No scales,” gasped the Doctor, “Scales are bad.”

The energy that had suddenly seized him dissipated, and his arm fell limp towards the floor. Ianto nearly tripped over himself to get to them and raise the beaten, twisted, and partially eaten arm to place it lightly on the Doctor’s stomach.

Jack looked to Martha, but she too had no idea what he was talking about, not until they laid him out on the table and unwrapped him from Jack’s coat. Some of his injuries were scabbed over with dark red and black, but upon closer inspection, “scales” was definitely an accurate term. They were formed perfectly, like interlocking mesh, molding to the baseball sized crater in the front of the Doctor’s shoulder. Martha, Jack, and Owen sharred glances with one another. When Martha removed the anesthetic mask and was sure the Doctor was out, Owen leaned over, extended a gloved finger, and tapped it. It sounded like wood. He scratched it, and his glove tore, catching on the jagged edges of the scaled scab. Removing it proved to be difficult. They had to skin it out of him, but it came free in one piece. Owen dropped it on a tray and watched it wobble and come to a rest on its side, a gruesome bowl.

Underneath, in the Doctor’s flesh was a white film and underneath that was scraped bone with curling, dying muscle around the edges. Owen looked over to Jack, who clutched his hands together and pressed them to his mouth, taking one step back as his breath became ragged.

“Jack, you shouldn’t be here,” Owen told him.

“No,” said Jack as once, swallowing a gasp and recovering his back step, “No, I’m not leaving him again.”

“Come sit with us.”

Jack looked up at Tosh’s voice and found her, Gwen, and Ianto looking down. He shook his head at them.

The scaled scabs had popped up all over the Doctor’s body in varying degrees of strength and thickness, and some areas--more delicate and private ones--just had the white film. Upon closer inspection, Martha said the scales weren’t really scales at all. They were, as far as she could tell, a more complicated scab. The Doctor would have to enlighten them when he was able. Fortunately no more seemed to be appearing on even the worst injuries, so they were doing something right.

“Doc,” Jack whispered to the unconscious man on the table.

Tubes ran from him like tendrils. They had covered him in a thin white sheet, but it was replaced constantly as red and pink and different shades of yellow pus soaked through. According to the doctors of the house, that was a good thing. They could see where all the injuries were still having trouble healing, and Jack supposed that made sense, but every time a new one seeped through, he fought to not cry out in despair.

Jack kissed the Doctor’s knuckles again and wiped away moisture from his eyes.

“Doc, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. You needed me, and I let you slip away. I should have just gone in to get you when I first landed there…. It’s just… doesn’t matter I suppose. But, Doc, I swear, I swear to you, whatever you need from me, anything, I will do it. I will get you better. I will make it up to you, I swear….”

His voice slowly dissolved. He laid his head on the table, tucked his face against the wrapped fingers, and let his tears fall sideways onto the table.

~

Something touched his hair. It was light and gentle. He blinked and then froze. The medbay seemed dim, which meant the rest of the hub was shut down for probably the night. The only light left was the one hanging behind Jack, but most of it was blocked from his vision by a needled wrist. Jack brought his hand up and delicately curled it around the Doctor’s and lifted his head.

The eyes that held him were barely open and consciously watching, but they were empty and dark, almost accusing, though it might have been Jack’s own guilt making him think that. His expression was blank and dead.

“Hey,” said Jack, swallowing and looking for Martha, who was supposed to be monitoring him and was now sleeping on the steps, “Hey.”

Jack kissed the Doctor’s hand and got no reaction. He took a steadying breath and scooted himself up along the table closer to the Doctor’s head, resting a hand on the top his hair, thumb stroking the strands.

“You are in the Torchwood hub. Safe. Martha and Owen have been taking good care of you, and you’re healing. You’re getting better.”

Jack paused and laced his fingers through the Time Lord’s hair, chewing at his lip.

“You should sleep,” he finally said, “The longer you sleep, the faster you’ll get better.”

The Doctor didn’t at first, just watched Jack with a blank expression, and Jack watched him as well, constantly outpouring gentle touches and strokes to any part that wasn’t visibly damaged. The Doctor’s eyes closed the rest of the way. Jack kissed his hand again.

Martha would be furious when she woke up.

~

Furious she was. Jack suffered through hours of tirades and snippy comments about her patient and not waking her even before the Doctor woke up and so many other things, Jack stopped paying attention. They increased the anesthetic, and the Doctor did not wake all day or night after that, or indeed the next couple of days altogether.

When he did wake for the second time, Jack wasn’t the first thing he saw. The Captain was dragging his bucket of water and shampoo and cup from washing the Doctor’s hair up the steps to Tosh, who was sweet enough to help. Then Owen’s voice reached him, kinder than he had ever heard before.

“Can you tell me where you are?”

Jack dropped the bucket, sloshing water all over the floor, and sprinted. Owen was looking down at the man on the table, his face a mask of pity and sympathy, and the Doctor was giving him the same blank stare. Jack slid into the Doctor’s view, and the Time Lord’s gaze shifted to him.

Smiling, Jack reached out to touch his face, but Owen took his hand instead and pulled it back, shaking his head.

“Why,” said Jack, his voice almost panicked, “Why can’t I touch him?”

“Just talk to him,” said Owen, glossing over the question, “Ask him if he knows where he is.”

Jack repeated the question and got nothing but a slow blink from the sunken depths of the Doctor’s emaciated face.

“Do you know who I am?” asked Jack.

No answer.

Leaning closer, nearly frantic now, “Please tell me you know who I am…? Doc, please, what is my name?”

Breath caught in the Doctor’s chest and a second later, the monitor machines went ballistic. The Doctor’s mouth worked, but no sound came out.

“Jack, get out of here,” Owen said, pushing him aside, stethoscope in hand, “Jack, go!”

Owen did his best to calm the Doctor, who was giving every attempt to dislodge his body from the table, but it was Martha, whom Gwen had woken and retrieved, that began to get through to him. She spoke softly and calmly, but what she said were not reassurances. From above looking down on them, Jack heard her tell of Shakespeare, pig people, and the moon, a race called the Hath Jack hadn’t heard of in a couple hundred years, living stars, and crazed monsters who meant to live forever. Somewhere is the midst of all her stories, the Doctor normalized, and when he drifted she kept talking.

~

The next night, the Doctor had a nightmare they couldn’t wake him from, the kind of nightmare that had him screaming, the doctor’s scrambling, and Jack standing in the background with hands pressed over his lips, tears falling one drop at a time.

~

“Is he going to be okay?” asked Jack, watching the table form the floor where he and Owen sat with their backs pressed against the wall.

“He’s healing,” said Owen.

“I mean the rest of him…. Will he be himself?”

Owen sighed and scratched at his nose, saying, “I think you should talk to Martha about that.”

“No, you will tell me the truth.”

“Are you sure that’s what you want?”

Jack swallowed but then said, “Yes, will he be okay?”

“Honestly, I don’t know. Jack, we can see his injuries and draw conclusions from there. He’s a million years old. I’m sure he’s been through some bad stuff, but… he wasn’t in good shape mentally when he left here, and what we see is just that. We don’t actually know what they did to him…. I wouldn’t… I wouldn’t expect him to bounce back.”

~

Somewhere in his dream, Jack realized he was sleeping. Alarm ran through him, and his head shot up. He blinked and slowly took in the dim medbay, his eyes going almost instinctively to the metal table where the Doctor lie, but found Martha blocking his view. He was on the floor still, cocooned in three blankets, which was three more than he had fallen asleep with. Mutterings reached him. He strained his eyes and ears, and could just make out words.

Martha whispered to the Doctor, sitting comfortably and leaning casually on the edge of the table. She was telling stories again, but this time they weren’t about the adventures she and the Doctor had. They were about Jack.

He was really botching this. He just wanted to be there, to make sure the Doctor knew he was safe and loved and would someday be completely fine again because Jack was going to make him that way. With a deep breath, he quietly stood, blankets falling around him like water, and picked up the stool at Owen’s desk. He brought it over to them and set it down beside Martha.

The Doctor was awake. Jack had to steady himself when he saw the clouded, bloodshot eyes open, and even more, paying attention it seemed. He was focused on Martha, following her, and when Jack quietly placed the stool and sat beside her, the Doctor’s eyes moved to him. For a single second, the Captain was caught with an openly heartbroken look on his face, but then he forced a smile, and he hoped it seemed genuine.

“Ianto and I sat in the coffee shop for hours,” Martha continued without acknowledging him, “And from what he said, no, the time on Valiant didn’t do anything to temper him. You’d think a year on that ship, tied up, he’d at least go home and take a nap.”

“Why would I do that?” whispered Jack, with half a smile, the Doctor’s eyes moving towards him, “A whole year without anyone else but soldiers and an even cockier Time Lord? I went for the nearest gay bar and then found my team. All hell broke loose from there though.”

“Your old friend John, right?” asked Martha, and the Doctor’s gaze returned to her.

“Old friend indeed,” agreed Jack sarcastically, eyes on him now.

Back and forth they went, quietly and calmly with the occasional laugh or groan. When the alert sight of the Doctor faded and sleep took him, they lapsed into silence, Jack running his thumb over the Doctor’s fingers and Martha stroking the side of his face.

“That was better,” Martha finally said, “I think we should be gentle and careful, but do not treat him as if her were incapable of understanding. Assume he hears you. Assume he knows what you are saying, even if you’re sure he doesn’t. It isn’t the words you say but how you hold yourself when you say them, the tone you use, how you look at him. Then when he is ready, he can interact in the way he’s used to. He won’t feel like he’s any different.”

That became their routine when they saw his eyes open. Sometimes he just stared at the ceiling. They would still talk, but they might as well have been speaking to a corps. Indeed, Jack sometimes stood frozen and waited, watching for the rise and fall of the Doctor’s chest. The noise of the monitoring machines didn’t matter. The relief that flooded him every time he affirmed for himself that he was, in fact, not speaking to a corpse—that relief could have made him sob.

Other times, though, Jack would catch the Doctor watching him, eyes following every step as he paced, and Jack would smile with his goofy smile, grab a chair or stool, and spin a tale of his team, omitting the more graphic details of death or bodies or imprisonment, focusing mostly on their friends. He was just silently watched.

~

Jack wasn’t sleeping this time. His head lie on his folded arm on the table at the Doctor’s side, his other hand slowly tracing lines over the Doctor’s freshly unwrapped fingers. The skin looked new, wrinkled like they spent too long in water, but Martha surmised that in time the flesh would smooth out and look perfectly normal. It was soft to the touch and every now and then one of the fingers would twitch, and the Captain had to suppress a smile.

“Jack.”

Harshly sucking in a breath, Jack turned his head. The Doctor’s eyes were closed. He wasn’t moving. Jack hesitated, thinking maybe it was part of a dream. He scooted closer.

“Doc?” he asked softly.

He watched as the Doctor’s lips parted, eyes still shut, and said, “Jack.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m here. What can I do?”

The index finger of the hand Jack had just been lovingly attending raised, and slowly the rest of the hand followed. Jack reached out with both hands and took it.

“TARDIS.”

“She’s here in the hub, just waiting for you to get better.”

“TARDIS. Please.”

A small piece of Jack heart broke. He squeezed his eyes shut and pressed his mouth to the hand that was now finally curled around his in a loose grip.

“No, Doc, you can’t go in there. You have to stay here until you’re better—but I promise she is in safe hands. Martha goes to visit her occasionally, tells her how you are. When you can move around then we can go in the TARDIS.”

The Doctor’s mouth worked, but he didn’t seem to have the capability to form the words. He didn’t have the energy. The Doctor was silently arguing as his hand gradually lowered, and its extremely light grip was gone. Back asleep, he seemed to still have a small frown on his brow.

~

Daytime meant stories and casual conversation, and Martha and all of Torchwood were palpably optimistic—but that was because Jack didn’t tell them what happened at night when all of them were sleeping. Though, Jack reasoned, the Doctor would have to be awake enough, mentally present enough to only speak when he and Jack were alone, and that was itself a good sign, but that was where the optimism ended.

“Jack.”

It was always quiet, softer than everything else he said. Jack paused in rewrapping the Doctor’s feet and looked up.

Softly he said, “Hey, down here. Ten seconds, okay?”

With fast and practiced movements, he finished covering the heel of his second foot and tucked it down, white linen perfectly placed. Three steps later, he sat on the chair, his hands falling naturally to the Doctor’s hair and hand, a smile on his face.

“TARDIS, Jack.”

Jack licked his lips, and said, “When you can move, remember? She’s safe and secure, just waiting for you.”

“No, Jack.”

The desperation in the Doctor’s voice and on his normally blank face wrapped around Jack’s chest like a fist intent on squeezing the air from him.

“I know, I really do, I’m sorry. Give it time. Your body is recovering fantastically. I can’t believe it. Were there even hospitals on Gallifrey? I can’t imagine anything infirming you.”

“Please, Jack, please,” the Doctor implored, his voice on the edge of tears, “I’ll do anything.”

The Captain leaned forward, as if being closer would make his words easier to understand, “I know what you want, and I’m not keeping you from it. We can’t move you until you’re healed. As soon as you are, you can do whatever you want. Just rest. I know you’re sick of hearing that.”

The Doctor’s hand came and curled around the collar of Jack’s T-shirt. He looked like he wanted to continue begging, pleading his case until the man finally understood, but no words came out. A tear escaped from each eye, and Jack’s calm cracked. He stood and leaned down, placing his hands on the sides of the Doctor’s face, wiped away the drops with his thumbs.

“Okay, Doc, okay,” he said, the edges of his eyes reddening with the waver of his voice, “I’ll make a deal, okay? Tomorrow… tomorrow if you talk to Martha—you can say anything—if you talk to her, I will get you into the TARDIS, even if I have to sneak you around the doctors, I’ll get you in there, okay? Deal? Please, Doc. I don’t know what else to do. Just give it one more day. Show them that you’re improving, and then I can do more for you without them making me stay away from you.”

The Doctor pulled on the material in his grip and brought Jack closer down to him. With a sigh, Jack rested his forehead down on the Doctor’s.

“Home,” the Doctor sobbed, “Home, Jack, please.”

Jack closed his eyes. He slid an arm under the Doctor’s head and cradled him, burying his face in the Doctor’s hair, until the Time Lord fell asleep.

~

He did not speak to Martha. Jack tried to get him to, urged him into comments or agreement and gestured towards her, but the Doctor didn’t acknowledge anyone. When he fell asleep, it seemed he stayed that way. Martha again slept on the steps, and when four in the morning approached, Jack wrapped a blanket around himself and sat on the floor at the other end of the medbay room, leaning against the wall. He closed his eyes and almost immediately was asleep.

And what seemed like seconds later, Martha screamed his name.

He started awake, reaching for his pistol and eyes landing on the table where the Doctor lie.

But there was no Doctor. The table was empty, sheet on the floor. All the tubes and needles and strips of red-tinged gauze were hanging or piled on the floor, but no Doctor. Jack shot to his feet and ran to the medbay steps. Martha was already there, spinning on the spot, shock blatant on her face as she looked around, but Jack blew past her. He knew where to go, but the thought, just the thought that the Doctor was running away—now—again—without him. One foot after the other, this step faster and the next even quicker. Ianto tried to get out of his way, but Jack sprinted by in abject terror and knocked the drinks all down the man’s nice suit.

Jack didn’t slow down. He threw himself at the TARDIS door, panicked that the box would vanish without him. The door gave way, and Jack fell through, his hand slamming flat on the floor with a “slap” to keep himself upright as speed over-countered balance. A couple wobbly lunges forward, and he slowed to a stop.

There, a flesh colored mass curled on its side under the console. Jack held his jagged breath, watching, waiting. The Doctor’s shoulder rose. And then fell.

Jack sank to his knees and leaned forward on his arms, gulping down lungfuls of air. He pressed his hot face against the cool floor, and tried to calm the nausea that threatened to take him. Feet and legs rushed passed him, but someone knelt down on the floor and placed a strong hand on his shoulder. With one last gulp, Jack forced himself up and back onto his ankles. Jack glanced up at Ianto and looked over as Martha and Owen each took a heart with their stethoscopes and listen before quickly spreading him flat on his back, the Doctor’s arms flopping out on the floor with a “smack” each. His head wobbled as his doctors checked all the scabbed-over needle points, dried blood streaked and dribbled across his sickly pale skin.

“Ianto,” Martha called commandingly, “Help us lift him.”

“No,” said Jack breathlessly.

Owen stopped what he was doing, and Martha frowned at him, saying, “We need to get him back to the medbay and scan him.”

“You know he’ll be fine, and if he isn’t there is nothing you can do. Just get him a blanket and leave him,” said Jack.

Owen sat back on his heels in mirror of Jack and waited.

“Jack, he needs to be monitored and medicated—“

“No, he needs to be here in the TARDIS.”

“He’s not well enough—“

“If he can make it off that table and get all the way in here without waking either of us up, he deserve to be here.”

Martha puffed up and stepped towards him. Jack struggled to his feet with Ianto’s help. It was only then that he realized he still had his pistol in his hand. Ianto took it from him, to help or to keep others safe, Jack didn’t know.

She spoke slowly, “He is my patient, and I am his doctor. I will decide what attention he needs.”

“Owen is his doctor,” Jack spat back, stepping forward, “You are his friend.”

“I am both—“

“No, you are not thinking as a doctor. You’re just being overprotective, but that’s not what he needs. He needs Owen and friends who care about what he wants.”

Martha stood inches from him, the barely contained anger radiating from her, and said, “Do not ever say I don’t care about what he wants. It is my job to know what he needs. He is not well enough to stay in here without attention, Jack.”

She closed the last couple inches between them, and said, “Stop undermining me because you want to be his hero.”

The tension peeked, and Ianto stuck his arm between them, pulling Jack a step back.

“Owen,” said Ianto, “The decision is yours.”

Neither Jack nor Martha stopped glaring at each other long enough to look at the other doctor. Owen tapped the ear pieces of his stethoscope on the floor, watching the Doctor spread out before him.

“Has he expressed a want to be in here before?” asked Owen.

“Yes,” Jack answered at once, still glaring at Martha, “He talks to me at night when no one else is around, not much, but enough to make it known what he wants.”

Martha looked shaken by that information.

“He begged, Martha. He cried. I told him no so many times. It’s been four days. Apparently we was done asking.”

Owen pinched the bridge of his nose and stood, wrapping the cord of his stethoscope around the ear pieces, and said, “I want him in the medbay so we can watch him, but Jack’s right. In most cases, there isn’t much we can do anyway. Physically, he’s improving and will continue, but I think now we should shift form physical to mental health. This is clearly important to him. We will move as much of the med-gear as possible in here. Is that acceptable, Jack?”

Jack swallowed and finally looked over at him.

He said, “Yes, but give him the day. Wait until he wakes up to hook everything back in him. Please.”

Owen tapped his finger on the device in his hands and then knelt, unwinding it, to check the Doctor’s hearts again. He held his hand in the path of the Time Lord’s breath and stood.

With a sigh, he turned, and nodded.

“Yeah, Jack, okay. Talk to him when he wakes up and then come get us.”

Jack sagged with relief and tilted his head towards Ianto, asking, “Can you get him a blanket?”

Ianto nodded and walked away.

“Martha, can you find the wardrobe in here and get him some clothes? He’s been without them long enough.”

She seemed lost, for once unsure of herself, but she turned and mounted the steps to disappear. Jack walked up to him and crouched, running his hands through the Doctor’s hair. Ianto returned with the blanket, and Martha returned with grey sweatpants and a dark blue T-shirt draped over her arm. The three of them carefully and easily dressed the Doctor, pulling pants up around his jutting hips for the first time in weeks. The shirt was a little more tricky as they maneuvered it around the holes in his arms, chest, and stomach. Jack sat with his back against the console and laid the Doctor’s head in his lap. Martha wrapped him up in the blanket, rolling him onto his side like he had been when they found him, tucking his arms and legs in and adjusting them just so until he looked comfortable. Satisfied, she leaned down and pressed a long kiss into his temple.

“Tell us when he’s awake,” she said, standing, with something of a threat in her tone.

Jack gave her one nod and draped a protective arm down over the Doctor’s side. Owen, Martha, and Ianto drifted towards the TARDIS door, where Gwen and Tosh had lingered, listening, but they all disappeared behind the door as it closed. Suddenly the TARDIS was quiet and still, the air only occupied by their breathing and the hum of the engines. Jack stroked the Doctor’s hair, looking down at him.

“You’ll be okay now. You’re home. No one is going to take you away.”