Jark Harkness Ficathon: The Gift
Sep. 24th, 2005 05:40 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
fan_eluneTitle: The Gift.
Author: Fan'
Disclaimer: they are fortunately not mine (RTD does a much better job than I would).
This was written for taraljc, who wanted innuendo, Jack's lack of 20th century pop-culture vs. the Doctor having much more than him, and a moment of genuine gravitas.
The Gift
Rose giggles. Again. Jack is burning up, sweating all he knows, and she keeps giggling, in that horribly annoying way she has that always makes him want to join in. But not today, no matter that she has every reason to giggle at the situation he's in. He'd be laughing about it himself if it wasn't for the state he's in. As it is, Captain Jack Harkness tightens his grip on the blanket that's wrapped around his shoulders, musters up the remains of his strength to straighten despite the throbbing pain in his abdomen, and stares at Rose with his most chilling glare.
It only lasts a split-second, not long enough for her to notice the change through her giggles, and the pain strikes again. Jack's shoulders sag and one of his hands lets go of the blanket to cover his stomach. He thinks it's just as well; he's not mad at her, he just wants her to do as he asked.
"Rose, please." He drops all pretense of being tough and macho-like. "Can you go get the Doctor for me?"
She frowns, concern stealing over her pretty features. "You're really ill."
Jack can't help but smile. "Yeah... really."
"Ok, er, I'll go get him, you just, you go back to bed."
"That was the plan," Jack assures her.
She turns and goes, and Jack sags against the wall, uses it for support on the way back to his room, to his bed. He collapses on it and curls in on himself with his back to the door, using what time there is between each pulse of pain to try and get ready for the next one. He doesn't know how much time passes, he's too caught up in the sensations and, he realizes as a big, long hand is pressed on his shoulder, he is trembling from the cold. The sharp little clicking sounds he's been hearing are his teeth clashing together.
He looks around and up at the concerned face he has come to know and love, and he feels it will be all right. The timeless eyes do not lock with his, the current hands fly here and there, and in the background Rose looks at them both, half concerned, half comforted.
"Rose tells me you've gone and spent some time with a Flajnik?" the Doctor says.
It takes a short while for the words to acquire meaning, and Jack finds it within himself to smirk, keep up the antics. "Spending time's one way to put it, Doc–"
Another pulse of pain sweeps through his abdomen and cuts him short. He drops his head onto the bed, his back turned on the two of them. He still feels one of the Doctor's hands on his arm and thinks of the Flajnik's translucent wings and the way they felt wrapped around him. The Doctor's voice breaks through the memory, sends it scattering to the floor.
"And you have reason to believe that... he, she?"
Jack thinks of the wings, and the long face with the dark purple eyes, the smooth skin and the triangular nails, the light frame and the rippling muscles. "She."
"She might be the cause of your current indisposition."
"I never did get inoculated for their diseases," Jack groans out. He is glad he's not facing the Doctor and Rose, glad he can speak and then pretend he's alone with the pain. "Prob'ly 'cause I never met any before last night, didn't even know about them."
Seconds tick by in silence, except for the sound of his own breaths as they shatter out of his mouth.
"There's nothing to be done," the Doctor finally states on his usual, cheerful tone, claps Jack on the shoulder twice, and gets up.
"W-what do you mean?" Rose asks in a small voice, and Jack can hear her fear, feels its echo flutter in his chest.
"Oh, not to worry, he won't die or anything like that," the Doctor reassures her, and Jack wonders idly what "anything like dying" could be. "Though he might wish he had before the fever's done with him. Come on now. Captain... good luck."
"Wait!" Rose protests. "Look at him! He's shaking, and burning up, we can't leave him like that!"
"There's nothing to be done," the Doctor repeats, forcefully yet gently, sounding a little like he can't quite understand why she won't just accept that. "We can only let the fever run its course, do its job."
"What about, like, aspirin or something?"
"Rose," he says chidingly. "I'm the Doctor, yeah? Trust me."
She is torn. Jack can't see her face but he knows it, because he knows her. He knows she'll want to help, and he knows she trusts the Doctor. So she is torn, and he wonders which decision he'd rather have her reach. Not like it's up to him anyway, and soon enough it's too late to try and influence her, because they're gone and he's left alone with the fever, and the memory of the Flajnik.
The memories aren't all that clear anyway. He remembers the act itself – he never forgets that, unless he's had way too many triple-vodkas – but not how he met her. He doesn't even remember her name, and that's weird because usually he tries to make the effort. He remembers the feel of her all around himself though, like being coated in feathers and yet knowing the delicious, slow agony of friction and pressure in all the right places... yes, all of them.
He remembers that he didn't remember. Not once, in all his studies, not during his college years and not during his Time Agent formation, had he heard of the Flajnik. He doesn't remember meeting her, but he remembers knowing what she is and not wondering twice about it, too wrapped up in the feel of, well, her. He knew she was a Flajnik, and did not question how he knew that, how they came to be there, in that place he couldn't remember where nothing actually existed outside of the two of them.
Her, and him. The only things that existed. The notion made him dizzy.
And there they were again.
Rose sits on the edge of Jack's bed and drops the cloth in the basin of water. She puts it on his forehead and whispers softly to his unconscious form. "I don't know if you can hear me, but I swear to you, if you die out of an STD, I'm kicking your arse when we meet in the next life."
What tells you there is a next life, asks a voice inside of her that sounds a bit like the Doctor's and a bit like Jack's.
"Just be all right," she tersely orders Jack.
He knows, dimly, that this should not be happening. He should not be with her again; he is vaguely aware that he is lying unconscious on his bunk in the TARDIS, and he should most definitely not be back with the Flajnik in that place where nothing else exists. But she is here, and him in her, and her all around him, and it feels just like the last time.
Her voice washes over him when she speaks, a voice of a thousand feminine whispers that coat him in softness and safety, like nothing could ever happen to him as long as she's there, and he knows that for a fact. Her words are simple, a question and a command. "Do you remember?"
He has no voice to reply, because he doesn't have the right answer. He wants to tell her that yes, he remembers their first time, just like this one, but could he please know her name?
So he looks for another answer. He wants to tell her that he remembers the day he became a Time Agent, he remembers the pride and the satisfaction, he remembers his mother's smile and his brother's absence, he remembers the look he shared with Jeri right before the ceremony. But still he can't speak.
He wants to tell her that he remembers the day his baby sister was born, being by his mother's side during the delivery, hearing Rory's first cries from the pain of being alive, holding her in his arms, he remembers the nurse's words to him, how impressed she was that a boy so young as him would take care of his mother, and he remembers thinking that he wasn't that young at all, although looking at Rory kinda made him feel so. But still he does not find his voice.
He wants to tell her that he remembers the only love that left him hurt and broken inside, he remembers the golden hue of his skin and the mesmerizing dark of his eyes, he remembers the good and the bad times, the laughter, the complicity, the pride, the nights they spent in bed naked with victuals, many conversation topics and their bodies to pass the time, and he remembers the doubts, the betrayal, the darkness, the pain, the days spent avoiding each other hoping things would get better, which they never did for good. He remembers seeing him leave, being unable to hold him back, and he remembers how it felt when his heart broke. But still he cannot say a thing.
He wants to tell her that he remembers the day his father left, when he found his mother so silent in the kitchen, how there had been no tears in her eyes but sadness and exhaustion permeating her soul, and he remembers how he hated his father from that day on. He remembers how he loved him before that, when they played together and he smiled at him and told him stories of adventure and action. He remembers how his little brother never forgave him their father's departure, as if it was his fault, and he remembers that for a while he kinda thought it was, he remembers blaming himself. But still his tongue is tied.
He wants to tell her that he remembers the first day after his two years' absence, when he woke up in his bunk at the Time Agency HQ and he was shortly summoned to conference room 314, to be told that he had well served the Agency but that his memories had had to be wiped for matters of institutional security. He remembers how some of his colleagues edged away from him in the hallways, how some just asked when he'd been all this time, and he remembers asking his superiors about Jeri, his partner. He remembers the look they shared, and he remembers the words they said to explain that Jeri was gone, except there were no words to explain it. He remembers giving them the slip, heading home, finding a deserted house and being told by the neighbor that his mother had been dead for a good four or five months now. He remembers that he did not cry, but he felt exhausted. But still he can't voice a word.
Remember, her voice prods him again, her voice of many that sounds like a thousand women, mothers, wives and daughters, girlfriends and lovers. Remember.
He wants to tell her that he wants to remember, desperately, that his direst wish is to recover those memories that were torn out of him, those two years of his life they dared steal from him.
She bats her long eyelashes over her purple eyes and looks into his soul, or so it feels. And as he stares back at her, his direst wish is granted.
"I remember," he tells her.
"Doctor!" Rose runs into the control room of the TARDIS, stops when she doesn't see anyone. "Doctor?"
"Yes!" he answers, standing up from behind her commands, holding up his screwdriver with a proud grin. "You know what, I think I just solved our instability problem."
"The fever's gone down," she tells him as she hurries around the commands to stand near him.
"Good," the Doctor answers dismissively, and gets back down to admire his work. "I told you he'd be fine. He'll probably keep sleeping for a while now, he must be exhausted. Oh, wait a second, this can't be right. I got the couplings wrong."
"Doctor!" Rose reproaches him. "Is that all you can think of? Fixing the TARDIS?"
"What?" he retorts cluelessly.
"Never mind," she sighs, and walks away.
He watches her go with an unreadable look.
"Come on, an easy one, you're bound to know that one," Rose tells him with a smirk and a twinkle in her pretty eyes. "On music."
"Fine," Jack relents. "Quiz me some more."
"Who sang Sunday, Bloody Sunday?"
Jack frowns. He doesn't know why she keeps trying, because he sucks at this. He spent time in the twentieth century, sure, right about the middle of it, and she keeps quizzing him on the end. But he's ready to humor her by agreeing to play her little pop quiz game. "I don't know, one of those bands you keep ranting on about... The Cure?"
Her look is a fair bit horrified, but mostly sympathetic. "You don't know U2. How sad is that?"
"I'm not feeling too sad, and I thought U2 was a submarine. How is this supposed to help me recuperate? I'm fine, really. I don't need to stay in bed."
"Yes you do. Which is why we're doing this. It's supposed to keep you busy while in bed," Rose answers in her no-nonsense voice.
"I can think of better ways to do that," he points out.
"Non-exhausting ways," she retorts.
"You could be on top, less exertion for me."
She fixes him with a deadly glare, at which he shrugs, and she smiles victoriously. "Next. Who were the Fab Four?"
"How am I supposed to know?"
"Don't tell me you never heard of the Beatles, Captain." The Doctor is standing in the doorway of Jack's room, arms crossed over his chest, looking slightly disappointed.
"How do you know about them? You're not even from Earth."
"Ah, but I like it there. For some insane reason," he adds with one of his manic grins. "And they have good music."
"To dance to," Jack completes with a knowing grin.
The Doctor ostentatiously rolls his eyes, but then sobers up in that extremely quick and surprising way of his. "Rose, would you mind giving us a minute? The Captain and I need to talk."
"Er, okay..." she shoots them both a suspicious look. "You two aren't gonna – dance, are you?"
"I wish," Jack mutters just as the Doctor seriously answers, "No."
"Fine then," she agrees with a smirk, and leaves them alone.
Jack sees the seriousness in the Doctor's eyes, isn't sure he wants to go there. So instead he whines like a child. "Do I really have to stay in bed, Doctor?"
"Oh no, you're fine," he answers dismissively. "But Rose will be on your case if you don't."
It's not like he didn't know, but now he has confirmation Jack is out of the bed and pulling some clothes on in a matter of seconds. "She worried."
"It's in her nature. Humans. You know them."
Jack has a small smile, more bitter than it should have been. "Yeah. I do." He buttons up his shirt, then sits on the bed to pull his shoes on. The Doctor's still leaning in the doorframe, crossing his arms over his chest, wearing his serious expression. So Jack takes it upon himself to ask the question. "What are the Flajnik?"
"To most older races, a myth. To the younger ones, at best echoes of a fable. I reckon they had something to do with the genies some of your human legends talk of."
"Genies? Three wishes and all that?"
"The Flajnik are beyond even my people's understanding," the Doctor explains, ignoring the question. "They exist outside of space and time, which is why many don't believe they exist at all. They rarely manifest themselves, but I've always heard the same stories. After spending time with one of them, you develop a burning fever that comes back down after a while. The victims never quite remember the circumstances surrounding the meeting."
"Victims?" Jack echoes, because that's not how he feels.
"Nine out of ten people that encounter them go insane," the Doctor pragmatically replies, like it's just a fact when in truth it's what could have happened to Jack, and that chills him to the bones. "It seems they manipulate your mind, make you remember repressed memories, own up to repressed feelings... things you think you might want to know, but most people repress things because they can't deal with them."
Purple eyes seem to be staring into his soul still, an echo or a reminder. They were kind, and inquisitive. "Why do they do this?"
The Doctor shrugged. "Your guess is as good as mine. Some compare them to healers, others to scientists. Could also be for reproduction, of course. You could well be the oblivious father of a baby Flajnik toddling about somewhere in the universe!" he notes with one of his grins.
Jack thinks a baby Flajnik wouldn't toddle, he'd flutter his tiny wings. But he keeps quiet, because something prevents him from sharing her, her looks, everything she offered him.
The Doctor looks serious again. "It's a mystery. They're a mystery. Just consider yourself lucky, Captain."
"More than you know," he whispers darkly, almost to himself.
The Doctor crouches down so they're on the same level, and Jack anchors himself in the expressive blue eyes. "Do you remember?" he asks, and Jack hears the whispers of feminine voices in the back of his mind. "Do you remember what they took from you?"
"Yes," Jack breathes out, and it is a burden and a relief to hear himself say so out loud. "I do."
~~ the end ~~
Author: Fan'
Disclaimer: they are fortunately not mine (RTD does a much better job than I would).
This was written for taraljc, who wanted innuendo, Jack's lack of 20th century pop-culture vs. the Doctor having much more than him, and a moment of genuine gravitas.
The Gift
Rose giggles. Again. Jack is burning up, sweating all he knows, and she keeps giggling, in that horribly annoying way she has that always makes him want to join in. But not today, no matter that she has every reason to giggle at the situation he's in. He'd be laughing about it himself if it wasn't for the state he's in. As it is, Captain Jack Harkness tightens his grip on the blanket that's wrapped around his shoulders, musters up the remains of his strength to straighten despite the throbbing pain in his abdomen, and stares at Rose with his most chilling glare.
It only lasts a split-second, not long enough for her to notice the change through her giggles, and the pain strikes again. Jack's shoulders sag and one of his hands lets go of the blanket to cover his stomach. He thinks it's just as well; he's not mad at her, he just wants her to do as he asked.
"Rose, please." He drops all pretense of being tough and macho-like. "Can you go get the Doctor for me?"
She frowns, concern stealing over her pretty features. "You're really ill."
Jack can't help but smile. "Yeah... really."
"Ok, er, I'll go get him, you just, you go back to bed."
"That was the plan," Jack assures her.
She turns and goes, and Jack sags against the wall, uses it for support on the way back to his room, to his bed. He collapses on it and curls in on himself with his back to the door, using what time there is between each pulse of pain to try and get ready for the next one. He doesn't know how much time passes, he's too caught up in the sensations and, he realizes as a big, long hand is pressed on his shoulder, he is trembling from the cold. The sharp little clicking sounds he's been hearing are his teeth clashing together.
He looks around and up at the concerned face he has come to know and love, and he feels it will be all right. The timeless eyes do not lock with his, the current hands fly here and there, and in the background Rose looks at them both, half concerned, half comforted.
"Rose tells me you've gone and spent some time with a Flajnik?" the Doctor says.
It takes a short while for the words to acquire meaning, and Jack finds it within himself to smirk, keep up the antics. "Spending time's one way to put it, Doc–"
Another pulse of pain sweeps through his abdomen and cuts him short. He drops his head onto the bed, his back turned on the two of them. He still feels one of the Doctor's hands on his arm and thinks of the Flajnik's translucent wings and the way they felt wrapped around him. The Doctor's voice breaks through the memory, sends it scattering to the floor.
"And you have reason to believe that... he, she?"
Jack thinks of the wings, and the long face with the dark purple eyes, the smooth skin and the triangular nails, the light frame and the rippling muscles. "She."
"She might be the cause of your current indisposition."
"I never did get inoculated for their diseases," Jack groans out. He is glad he's not facing the Doctor and Rose, glad he can speak and then pretend he's alone with the pain. "Prob'ly 'cause I never met any before last night, didn't even know about them."
Seconds tick by in silence, except for the sound of his own breaths as they shatter out of his mouth.
"There's nothing to be done," the Doctor finally states on his usual, cheerful tone, claps Jack on the shoulder twice, and gets up.
"W-what do you mean?" Rose asks in a small voice, and Jack can hear her fear, feels its echo flutter in his chest.
"Oh, not to worry, he won't die or anything like that," the Doctor reassures her, and Jack wonders idly what "anything like dying" could be. "Though he might wish he had before the fever's done with him. Come on now. Captain... good luck."
"Wait!" Rose protests. "Look at him! He's shaking, and burning up, we can't leave him like that!"
"There's nothing to be done," the Doctor repeats, forcefully yet gently, sounding a little like he can't quite understand why she won't just accept that. "We can only let the fever run its course, do its job."
"What about, like, aspirin or something?"
"Rose," he says chidingly. "I'm the Doctor, yeah? Trust me."
She is torn. Jack can't see her face but he knows it, because he knows her. He knows she'll want to help, and he knows she trusts the Doctor. So she is torn, and he wonders which decision he'd rather have her reach. Not like it's up to him anyway, and soon enough it's too late to try and influence her, because they're gone and he's left alone with the fever, and the memory of the Flajnik.
The memories aren't all that clear anyway. He remembers the act itself – he never forgets that, unless he's had way too many triple-vodkas – but not how he met her. He doesn't even remember her name, and that's weird because usually he tries to make the effort. He remembers the feel of her all around himself though, like being coated in feathers and yet knowing the delicious, slow agony of friction and pressure in all the right places... yes, all of them.
He remembers that he didn't remember. Not once, in all his studies, not during his college years and not during his Time Agent formation, had he heard of the Flajnik. He doesn't remember meeting her, but he remembers knowing what she is and not wondering twice about it, too wrapped up in the feel of, well, her. He knew she was a Flajnik, and did not question how he knew that, how they came to be there, in that place he couldn't remember where nothing actually existed outside of the two of them.
Her, and him. The only things that existed. The notion made him dizzy.
And there they were again.
Rose sits on the edge of Jack's bed and drops the cloth in the basin of water. She puts it on his forehead and whispers softly to his unconscious form. "I don't know if you can hear me, but I swear to you, if you die out of an STD, I'm kicking your arse when we meet in the next life."
What tells you there is a next life, asks a voice inside of her that sounds a bit like the Doctor's and a bit like Jack's.
"Just be all right," she tersely orders Jack.
He knows, dimly, that this should not be happening. He should not be with her again; he is vaguely aware that he is lying unconscious on his bunk in the TARDIS, and he should most definitely not be back with the Flajnik in that place where nothing else exists. But she is here, and him in her, and her all around him, and it feels just like the last time.
Her voice washes over him when she speaks, a voice of a thousand feminine whispers that coat him in softness and safety, like nothing could ever happen to him as long as she's there, and he knows that for a fact. Her words are simple, a question and a command. "Do you remember?"
He has no voice to reply, because he doesn't have the right answer. He wants to tell her that yes, he remembers their first time, just like this one, but could he please know her name?
So he looks for another answer. He wants to tell her that he remembers the day he became a Time Agent, he remembers the pride and the satisfaction, he remembers his mother's smile and his brother's absence, he remembers the look he shared with Jeri right before the ceremony. But still he can't speak.
He wants to tell her that he remembers the day his baby sister was born, being by his mother's side during the delivery, hearing Rory's first cries from the pain of being alive, holding her in his arms, he remembers the nurse's words to him, how impressed she was that a boy so young as him would take care of his mother, and he remembers thinking that he wasn't that young at all, although looking at Rory kinda made him feel so. But still he does not find his voice.
He wants to tell her that he remembers the only love that left him hurt and broken inside, he remembers the golden hue of his skin and the mesmerizing dark of his eyes, he remembers the good and the bad times, the laughter, the complicity, the pride, the nights they spent in bed naked with victuals, many conversation topics and their bodies to pass the time, and he remembers the doubts, the betrayal, the darkness, the pain, the days spent avoiding each other hoping things would get better, which they never did for good. He remembers seeing him leave, being unable to hold him back, and he remembers how it felt when his heart broke. But still he cannot say a thing.
He wants to tell her that he remembers the day his father left, when he found his mother so silent in the kitchen, how there had been no tears in her eyes but sadness and exhaustion permeating her soul, and he remembers how he hated his father from that day on. He remembers how he loved him before that, when they played together and he smiled at him and told him stories of adventure and action. He remembers how his little brother never forgave him their father's departure, as if it was his fault, and he remembers that for a while he kinda thought it was, he remembers blaming himself. But still his tongue is tied.
He wants to tell her that he remembers the first day after his two years' absence, when he woke up in his bunk at the Time Agency HQ and he was shortly summoned to conference room 314, to be told that he had well served the Agency but that his memories had had to be wiped for matters of institutional security. He remembers how some of his colleagues edged away from him in the hallways, how some just asked when he'd been all this time, and he remembers asking his superiors about Jeri, his partner. He remembers the look they shared, and he remembers the words they said to explain that Jeri was gone, except there were no words to explain it. He remembers giving them the slip, heading home, finding a deserted house and being told by the neighbor that his mother had been dead for a good four or five months now. He remembers that he did not cry, but he felt exhausted. But still he can't voice a word.
Remember, her voice prods him again, her voice of many that sounds like a thousand women, mothers, wives and daughters, girlfriends and lovers. Remember.
He wants to tell her that he wants to remember, desperately, that his direst wish is to recover those memories that were torn out of him, those two years of his life they dared steal from him.
She bats her long eyelashes over her purple eyes and looks into his soul, or so it feels. And as he stares back at her, his direst wish is granted.
"I remember," he tells her.
"Doctor!" Rose runs into the control room of the TARDIS, stops when she doesn't see anyone. "Doctor?"
"Yes!" he answers, standing up from behind her commands, holding up his screwdriver with a proud grin. "You know what, I think I just solved our instability problem."
"The fever's gone down," she tells him as she hurries around the commands to stand near him.
"Good," the Doctor answers dismissively, and gets back down to admire his work. "I told you he'd be fine. He'll probably keep sleeping for a while now, he must be exhausted. Oh, wait a second, this can't be right. I got the couplings wrong."
"Doctor!" Rose reproaches him. "Is that all you can think of? Fixing the TARDIS?"
"What?" he retorts cluelessly.
"Never mind," she sighs, and walks away.
He watches her go with an unreadable look.
"Come on, an easy one, you're bound to know that one," Rose tells him with a smirk and a twinkle in her pretty eyes. "On music."
"Fine," Jack relents. "Quiz me some more."
"Who sang Sunday, Bloody Sunday?"
Jack frowns. He doesn't know why she keeps trying, because he sucks at this. He spent time in the twentieth century, sure, right about the middle of it, and she keeps quizzing him on the end. But he's ready to humor her by agreeing to play her little pop quiz game. "I don't know, one of those bands you keep ranting on about... The Cure?"
Her look is a fair bit horrified, but mostly sympathetic. "You don't know U2. How sad is that?"
"I'm not feeling too sad, and I thought U2 was a submarine. How is this supposed to help me recuperate? I'm fine, really. I don't need to stay in bed."
"Yes you do. Which is why we're doing this. It's supposed to keep you busy while in bed," Rose answers in her no-nonsense voice.
"I can think of better ways to do that," he points out.
"Non-exhausting ways," she retorts.
"You could be on top, less exertion for me."
She fixes him with a deadly glare, at which he shrugs, and she smiles victoriously. "Next. Who were the Fab Four?"
"How am I supposed to know?"
"Don't tell me you never heard of the Beatles, Captain." The Doctor is standing in the doorway of Jack's room, arms crossed over his chest, looking slightly disappointed.
"How do you know about them? You're not even from Earth."
"Ah, but I like it there. For some insane reason," he adds with one of his manic grins. "And they have good music."
"To dance to," Jack completes with a knowing grin.
The Doctor ostentatiously rolls his eyes, but then sobers up in that extremely quick and surprising way of his. "Rose, would you mind giving us a minute? The Captain and I need to talk."
"Er, okay..." she shoots them both a suspicious look. "You two aren't gonna – dance, are you?"
"I wish," Jack mutters just as the Doctor seriously answers, "No."
"Fine then," she agrees with a smirk, and leaves them alone.
Jack sees the seriousness in the Doctor's eyes, isn't sure he wants to go there. So instead he whines like a child. "Do I really have to stay in bed, Doctor?"
"Oh no, you're fine," he answers dismissively. "But Rose will be on your case if you don't."
It's not like he didn't know, but now he has confirmation Jack is out of the bed and pulling some clothes on in a matter of seconds. "She worried."
"It's in her nature. Humans. You know them."
Jack has a small smile, more bitter than it should have been. "Yeah. I do." He buttons up his shirt, then sits on the bed to pull his shoes on. The Doctor's still leaning in the doorframe, crossing his arms over his chest, wearing his serious expression. So Jack takes it upon himself to ask the question. "What are the Flajnik?"
"To most older races, a myth. To the younger ones, at best echoes of a fable. I reckon they had something to do with the genies some of your human legends talk of."
"Genies? Three wishes and all that?"
"The Flajnik are beyond even my people's understanding," the Doctor explains, ignoring the question. "They exist outside of space and time, which is why many don't believe they exist at all. They rarely manifest themselves, but I've always heard the same stories. After spending time with one of them, you develop a burning fever that comes back down after a while. The victims never quite remember the circumstances surrounding the meeting."
"Victims?" Jack echoes, because that's not how he feels.
"Nine out of ten people that encounter them go insane," the Doctor pragmatically replies, like it's just a fact when in truth it's what could have happened to Jack, and that chills him to the bones. "It seems they manipulate your mind, make you remember repressed memories, own up to repressed feelings... things you think you might want to know, but most people repress things because they can't deal with them."
Purple eyes seem to be staring into his soul still, an echo or a reminder. They were kind, and inquisitive. "Why do they do this?"
The Doctor shrugged. "Your guess is as good as mine. Some compare them to healers, others to scientists. Could also be for reproduction, of course. You could well be the oblivious father of a baby Flajnik toddling about somewhere in the universe!" he notes with one of his grins.
Jack thinks a baby Flajnik wouldn't toddle, he'd flutter his tiny wings. But he keeps quiet, because something prevents him from sharing her, her looks, everything she offered him.
The Doctor looks serious again. "It's a mystery. They're a mystery. Just consider yourself lucky, Captain."
"More than you know," he whispers darkly, almost to himself.
The Doctor crouches down so they're on the same level, and Jack anchors himself in the expressive blue eyes. "Do you remember?" he asks, and Jack hears the whispers of feminine voices in the back of his mind. "Do you remember what they took from you?"
"Yes," Jack breathes out, and it is a burden and a relief to hear himself say so out loud. "I do."
~~ the end ~~
