Work Text:
"Honey, I'm home!" Jack kicked the door to his flat closed behind him. No immediate reply, which didn't entirely surprise him. He glanced at the couch, but no dozing Time Lord was in evidence. "Doc?"
"In here," came the Doctor's belated answer from the kitchen. Jack spared a moment to dump an armload of file folders and other Torchwood-related crap on the sofa, then lugged the bags of food into the kitchen.
"I got takeaway from the - what are you doing?" Jack felt his eyebrows climb straight up into his hairline as he took in the disaster that was his kitchen floor. The Doctor, of course, was sitting smack in the middle of it - a helter-skelter collection of bits and pieces that had once belonged to Jack's refrigerator. The fridge itself now lay two-thirds disassembled in front of the oven. The Doctor was wearing about half his suit - the usual pin-striped trousers and white shirt - but his feet were bare and the shirt was open at the throat, revealing a fine dusting of chest hair. Jack was suddenly a lot less interested in the takeaway.
The Doctor, sonic screwdriver held lengthwise in his teeth, didn't look up. He squinted down through his specs at the wiring he was fiddling with, then twisted himself around so he was lying on his stomach. "I told you this morning," he said, blinking the screwdriver at the wiring. "You asked what I was doing today and I said I was going to rewire the refrigerator."
Jack blinked at him. "I thought you were joking!"
The Doctor did look up then, his eyes owlish behind the specs. "Why would I joke about something like that?"
Jack opened his mouth, closed it, then shrugged. "No idea." He set the food on the counter and surveyed the mess on the floor with a sense of resignation. "What are you rewiring it for, anyway?"
The Doctor sat up and gestured irritably with the screwdriver. "It's completely inefficient. Leaking energy and freon - and then humans wonder why there's a hole in the ozone layer and the ice caps are melting, no mating grounds for the bloody caribou -"
"Right," Jack said, crouching down beside him. He reached over and stroked the back of the Doctor's neck till he lowered his hands and let his head hang. Like a cat, he was. Jack knelt for better leverage and rubbed until the Doctor's fingers went limp enough to drop the screwdriver. Only then did he finally dare ask, "How're you feeling today?"
"Better," the Doctor said, with a definite note of weariness. "Martha came by with lunch and then I did the toaster. Had to have a bit of a kip after that, but . . . better."
"Good," Jack said. Then, "Wait, toaster?"
"It burnt my toast. Won't be doing that again."
"I see," Jack said, eyeing his toaster with sudden suspicion. Not that Jack wasn't glad the Doctor was feeling better. He'd run a low-grade fever the first couple days that had sapped his energy and left him too exhausted to even be bored. Now he was up and about and, apparently, systematically rewiring Jack's appliances. What the hell was Jack going to do when they started blinking in and out of time?
Jack decided he'd cross that bridge when he came to it. There were more urgent matters at hand now. "Where's the food, by the way?"
"What food?"
"The food . . . in my refrigerator . . . ?"
"Jack, there was half a head of iceberg lettuce that'd turned to brown slime and some takeaway from 1975. I did you a favor and threw it out! If you wish to thank me," the Doctor added, turning his head to give Jack the full effects of his puppy eyes, "you could rub my back properly."
Jack ran his thumbs along the nape of the Doctor's neck and enjoyed the way his eyes fluttered shut. "You want a proper backrub, Doc, you'll have to take off your shirt." The Doctor opened his eyes and frowned repressively. Jack grinned and held his hands up. "I'm just sayin'."
"Right," the Doctor snorted, and let his head hang again with a sigh. Jack resisted the urge to slide his hands beneath the Doctor's shirt and settled for rubbing his shoulders and neck, sliding his hands up into that soft hair to knead small circles with the pads of his fingers, then down to the Doctor's temples. Jack finished by dragging one knuckle up and down the Doctor's spine, and the Doctor pushed himself backward and into the shelter of Jack's arm without a word. He rested his head on Jack's shoulder and Jack nuzzled him behind the ear.
"I hate being so tired all the time," the Doctor murmured, eyes fluttering shut. "Half a refrigerator and I'm knackered."
"Cut yourself some slack, you almost died four days ago," Jack pointed out. He kissed the Doctor's neck lightly and waited for the shiver and soft noise he knew would come - exactly like that. Jack smiled to himself. "I was going to ask if you wanted to go out after dinner. The Dragon has a pub quiz at nine, I thought you might like that."
The Doctor sighed. "I would like that. Love pub quizzes. Even lost at one once, that was novel. But if you want your refrigerator back tomorrow -"
"I would."
"- I'd better not."
"Ah." Jack stroked the Doctor's arm with his thumb. "You hungry? I got us curry from the place down the street."
"In a bit." The Doctor sighed and pulled himself away from Jack with visible reluctance. Jack was encouraged. "Think I need to lie down first, if dinner will keep."
"Sure, we can always reheat - er." Jack paused. "Doc, the microwave -"
The Doctor waved his sonic screwdriver carelessly. "Haven't got to it yet."
"Right," Jack said, grinning, and pushed himself to his feet. He held his hand out and the Doctor grasped it, accepting the help up. He slipped his arm around the Doctor's waist and let him lean on him as he led him down the hall, bypassing the guestroom the Doctor had been occupying for Jack's own next door. The Doctor was tired enough not to notice at first, but he balked in the doorway, digging in his heels and giving Jack a long-suffering glare.
"Jack . . ."
"What?" Jack returned innocently. "Have I been anything less than a perfect gentleman since you've been here?"
The look sharpened. "I suppose - if one adheres to the Jack Harkness definition of 'perfect gentleman.'"
Jack pressed a hand to his chest. "You wound me." The Doctor opened his mouth to retort and Jack added hastily, "Seriously, Doc, it's a much nicer bed than the one in the guestroom. Besides," he skimmed a hand up and down the Doctor's back, "you never actually said no to that back rub."
"Didn't I?"
"No."
"Hmm."
"C'mon." Jack took the Doctor's hand and coaxed him a few more steps into the room. "Off with your shirt. It'll help you sleep."
.
The Doctor sighed. "Not sure I need anything to help me sleep." But after a moment spent eyeing Jack sideways, the Doctor started unbuttoning his shirt. Jack resisted the urge to help and settled for turning the bed down. He'd been optimistically making it every morning since the Doctor had come, hoping they'd get to this moment. But under the circumstances there was a fine line between seducing and taking advantage, and Jack had been waiting for the Doctor to feel enough himself for it to be the former and not the latter.
The Doctor, shirtless and far too skinny, lay facedown on Jack's bed. He made a wordless noise and buried his face in the pillow. "Told you," Jack said, settling himself carefully astride the Doctor's hips. "You didn't really think I'd have a cheap bed, did you? That'd be like a painter skimping on his brushes."
"I'll be sleeping here from now on," the Doctor mumbled, the reply muffled by the pillow. "You can have the guestroom."
Jack laughed and stretched to retrieve the little bottle of cedar-scented oil on the nightstand. "Don't think so, sorry. I am, however, more than happy to share."
"Of course you are," the Doctor said, then moaned as Jack slid his oiled fingers down his spine. The warmth of Jack's arousal, which had been simmering along ever since he'd caught sight of the Doctor's bare feet and bare throat in the kitchen, intensified by several degrees. He shifted slightly, hoping the Doctor wouldn't notice he was already half-hard.
He started at the top, at the nape of the Doctor's neck, and worked his way down his spine to the small of his back, pausing to work out each knot in between rubbing slow, increasing circles. The Doctor made soft, sleepy noises, and his breathing deepened until Jack's own evened out to match his. His eyes fell half-shut. It was almost meditative. Soothing.
The Doctor breathed in, let it out, and was asleep. Jack slipped off the Doctor and stretched out beside him, though he kept his hand splayed on the Doctor's back, between his shoulder blades. He could count the bumps in the Doctor's spine, if he wanted to. He didn't, just closed his eyes and breathed to match the Doctor. Be here now, he thought with a smile. He wasn't tired - he'd slept last night and probably wouldn't need to for another three or four days - but it was restful, lying here like this.
Plus, it was a damn good bed, and Jack didn't get to enjoy it as often as he'd like.
Eventually the growling of Jack's stomach broke the mood completely and forced him out of bed. He tucked the duvet over the Doctor, who barely stirred, and went to dish himself some dinner out of the boxes of takeaway. Lamb masala and saag paneer, onto a plate and into the as yet unmolested microwave. After a moment's consideration, he opened a bottle of wine as well and poured himself a glass. Neither of them was much of a drinker, but a glass with dinner was nice as a treat and might make the work he'd dragged home go faster.
He was staring down at the latest in an unending string of file folders when the sound of a throat clearing made him glance up. The Doctor stood in the threshold to the kitchen, looking very rumpled and a little sheepish, his hair sticking up wildly on one side and his trousers comically wrinkled. He was barefoot still, and though he'd put the shirt back on, he hadn't buttoned it at all. Jack's mouth went dry.
"I, um." The Doctor ran a hand through his hair, making the other side stand up even worse. "Is there any food?"
"Yeah," Jack said, without moving. The Doctor blinked back, faintly puzzled, then suddenly blushed to the roots of his hair. He looked away and shuffled his feet, then went to poke through the takeaway bags on the counter. Jack swallowed and finally forced himself to move. He retrieved a plate from the cupboard over the counter and handed it to the Doctor. "Sleep well?"
"Yes, I feel much better," the Doctor said, avoiding Jack's gaze. "Really, I think I might almost be back to normal - well, all right, maybe not normal, not for me at least, though my normal is other people's -"
Jack kissed him.
He didn't think about it. He'd been half-listening to the Doctor ramble, but mostly watching the movement of his throat, so white and exposed without the tie - not that the tie didn't have its own charms - and then he was swooping in to press his lips to the Doctor's and tangle his fingers in that soft, spiky hair. The Doctor made a startled, protesting noise and Jack stilled, waiting to be pushed away. But he wasn't. Once the shock was past, the Doctor relaxed against him, going pliant and soft, and the noise he made then, deep in his throat, shot straight to Jack's groin.
The deepening of his arousal was so sudden, it jarred Jack into backing off. The Doctor blinked at him, eyes wide and dilated. "Jack?"
"Sorry, sorry," Jack said, not wanting the Doctor to get the wrong idea. He twined his fingers with the Doctor's and pressed up against him. Their jaws bumped and Jack closed his eyes. The room temp thing would take some getting used to, but he'd manage. Oh hell yeah, he'd manage.
The Doctor studied him, the corner of one mouth quirked up in apparent amusement. "Didn't think you'd be shy about it."
Jack wondered how honest he should be and decided he might as well go for broke. "I hope you don't take this the wrong way, but it's just . . . it's you. It's always you," he added daringly. "From now till the end of time, Doc, you know that, right?"
The Doctor let out a long, shaky breath and shook his head. "I don't understand it, Jack. I'll never understand it." He stroked Jack's face very lightly with the pads of his fingers. "You love me even like this - tired and grouchy and stuck on the slow path."
"Of course," Jack said, running his fingers up and down the Doctor's spine.
"But . . ." The Doctor pulled away to look at him. "But why? Why, Jack? After everything - after the Game Station and a hundred and fifty years and - and the Master and -" The Doctor broke off, shaking his head. "Why?" he repeated, in choked-up bewilderment.
It wasn't a flip question; it deserved better than a flip answer. But the truth was that Jack didn't have one. "I don't know," he said, pressing a kiss to the Doctor's neck. "I don't know. But I do. You're . . . I don't know how to explain what you are. Or how you are. It's like - you know the Icarus legend, right?" The Doctor nodded. "You're the sun. And even though we all know it's dangerous, even though we know our wings will melt, we still want to be as close to you as we can. Because for however long we last, the flying's worth it."
The Doctor shook his head, mouth twisting miserably. "I don't want to be anyone's sun," he said, trying to turn away from Jack. "I don't want to be the Lonely God, the Oncoming Storm, the -"
"I know," Jack said, cutting off the angry, almost frightened diatribe with a hand on the side of the Doctor's face. "I know. But you are what you are. Lucky for you," he added, with a deliberate look up through his lashes, "I've traded in my wax wings."
The Doctor looked up at him, lips parted in . . . something. Astonishment, maybe? Jack didn't have much time to wonder, because the Doctor kissed him with a savage, alien hunger, nothing at all like the chaste kisses they'd exchanged before. Jack could feel a thrum of familiar energy running through the Doctor - energy that'd been damped down to a bare spark recently. It relieved him as much as aroused him to feel it now. It seemed to spark from the Doctor's fingertips where he grasped Jack, touching him with a single-minded focus that turned Jack's knees to liquid, and then the Doctor's curious, questing tongue was in his mouth and Jack could only be glad he'd somehow ended up caught between the Doctor and the counter, because he didn't think he'd be standing otherwise.
It'd been a damn long time since anyone had turned Jack's knees to jelly.
It'd been a damn long time, too, since Jack had just snogged anyone like this. He and Ianto were fuck buddies, no more and no less, and they didn't spend a lot of time kissing. Jack had almost forgotten it could be a pleasure in and of itself, a sweet, sensual give and take of heat and pressure, a slow, steady build of arousal. He gasped into the Doctor's mouth when the Doctor bit his lower lip and felt the Doctor shudder lightly against him when he worked his hand beneath the open shirt to stroke an especially sensitive spot Jack had noticed while rubbing him down.
They broke away at last to lean together, forehead to forehead. The Doctor was just as breathless as he was, Jack noted with satisfaction. "Bed or sofa?" he asked.
The Doctor smirked at him. "We-ell, since I'm only shagging you for your bed . . ."
Jack laughed, grabbed his hand, and led him down the hall. They paused in the threshold to kiss again, more slowly this time, while Jack ran through a number of considerations. No one had ever accused Jack of lacking imagination in bed, and the list of things he wanted to do with and to the Doctor was long and explicit. Most of it hadn't even been invented yet in this place and time. At the moment his desires were pretty simple - he'd been waiting one hell of a long time to bury himself deep inside the Doctor, feel the doubletime beat of his hearts resonate right up through his core - but even that might be too much. If rewiring Jack's appliances wore him out, then the Doctor wasn't anywhere near normal. Anything athletic would have to wait.
That was fine, Jack thought, threading his fingers through the Doctor's hair, running his thumb along the shell of his ear. Anticipation was part of the pleasure. He'd waited this long, he could wait another few days.
He prodded the Doctor to back up until he hit the bed, then lightly pushed on his chest. The Doctor willingly fell over backwards, and lay looking up at him. His lips were swollen from kissing, his pupils were wide and dilated, and the shirt was more off than on.
His feet were still bare. Jack thought he might be developing a serious fetish for the Doctor's bare feet.
They were as good a place to start as any - in humans, at least, though Time Lord sexual physiology seemed pretty similar so far - and Jack hadn't done them earlier, so he did them now. But whereas earlier he'd been looking to soothe, now he aimed to arouse, hitting every pressure point he knew, lingering over the ones that seemed to work the best. Then he dropped to his knees at the foot of the bed and mouthed the Doctor's toes. The Doctor giggled then, actually giggled, but when Jack combined toe-suckling with touching the balls of his feet just so, the giggling turned to gasping turned to moaning.
When Jack finally surfaced, the Doctor was biting the back of his hand, breathing heavily, and possibly swearing in Gallifreyan under his breath. His erection was outlined clearly through the pin-striped trousers; Jack caressed it and the inside of the Doctor's thighs through the fabric. The Doctor shuddered and tugged at Jack's shoulder until he crawled up next to him. Then he went to work on Jack's shirt with trembling fingers, in between a great deal of groping and kissing.
"Jack," the Doctor said at last, when they'd managed to skim off both their shirts and were starting to get serious about the trousers. "I've never - I'm not very - this isn't something I do very often."
Jack almost answered with, I figured that, then realized how the Doctor might take that and didn't. "I didn't think we'd do anything complicated," he said. "All I want is to touch you." He demonstrated by making first contact, stroking the Doctor lightly. The Doctor gasped and arched up into Jack's palm, quivering all over. The overall shape was similar, Jack thought, testing the weight of it in his hand, but the texture was a little different, softer somehow. In fact, most of the Doctor's erogenous zones seemed to be the same, he just responded a little differently sometimes.
"O-okay," the Doctor managed. Jack grinned and decided everything they were still wearing was just getting in the way. Off with the trousers and then, after a brief tussle, the underwear, too, and then Jack finally, finally had the Doctor naked in his bed. Jack paused, looking down at the Doctor, who blushed again, averting his eyes. Jack grinned and bent his head to brush the Doctor's forehead, ear, neck, just lightly with his lips.
The Doctor's eyes fluttered shut and he shivered. "Thought you said you were going to touch me."
"I did, didn't I? Well . . ." Jack took hold of the Doctor between index and middle finger, and stroked him once from root to tip, using his thumb to swirl around the head, the same as he would for any human. The Doctor's body quaked. Jack's own balls tightened in sympathetic response. "Tell me how you like it."
"Like that, pretty much," the Doctor managed shakily, and to Jack's surprised pleasure, wriggled around under him until their bodies aligned. He grinned and reached for Jack, stroking him twice, just as slowly as Jack had him.
Jack made a wordless noise and thrust against him. "Doctor," he gasped.
"Knew I hadn't forgot all this," the Doctor said. He was smiling faintly, his eyes shining. It wasn't a look Jack had seen on him before - it wasn't wild, manic elation, but a quiet, simmering contentment, not a high to be shortly followed by a deep low, but the sort that might be . . . sustained. Jack hadn't quite believed the Doctor was capable of it before, but maybe he could be, with the right person. It was probably hubris to believe that person could be himself, but the truth was, who else could it be? Jack's wings would never melt, no matter how close he got.
"Jack?" the Doctor murmured. Jack realized he'd gone still, wrapped up in the Doctor's arms.
"Sorry, sorry," Jack said, and pulled away long enough to reach for the cedar-scented oil on the nightstand. He fell to his side beside the Doctor in rumpled sheets that already smelled faintly of sex. He drizzled a little on his palm and began stroking him in earnest. The Doctor's breath went shallow and uneven, and his hands trembled as he mirrored Jack's movements with one pale, long-fingered hand. With the other, he pulled Jack's head down and kissed him with the same deep hunger he had in the kitchen.
It was simple and slow and sweet. Jack felt his orgasm uncoil likewise, twisting up from the base of his spine. The Doctor's hips thrust under his hand, the energy he'd felt thrumming through him earlier a stretched tautness, just on the verge of snapping. Jack gritted his teeth and tried to hang on, but then the Doctor twisted his wrist and the slim thread of Jack's control snapped. He swore, hand tightening on the Doctor; the Doctor pushed himself into Jack's hand and they both came, harsh, ragged breathing echoing in the silent bedroom. Jack dragged in a rough lungful of air and tasted something alien on the back of his tongue - musky and erotic but utterly alien - that dragged another ripple of orgasm from him. He made a strangled noise and collapsed, boneless, across the Doctor's chest.
"I love you," he murmured into the Doctor's neck, knowing it wasn't a wise thing to say, not even now, but not giving a shit. The Doctor's rapid breathing paused, then resumed. Jack raised his head. "Sorry. But I do."
The Doctor didn't answer. His hand moved gently through Jack's hair, but he stayed silent and Jack bit his lip, hiding his face in the crook of the Doctor's neck. After a moment he sighed, let it go, and relaxed. The Doctor lay tense and silent for a few seconds more, then did the same, settling a hand on the small of Jack's back. Jack twined his legs with the Doctor's and wished he'd had the foresight to bring the wine in with them; he'd have liked a glass now.
Later, much later, they sprawled on the floor in the lounge, the Doctor's head in Jack's lap and an empty wine bottle beside them. Jack stroked the Doctor's hair and thought about flying, falling, crashing . . . soaring. The warmth of the sun on his face. The coolness of the Doctor's skin against his own. The way the lights of Cardiff reflected on the bay, and how different it was from the reflection of light on water on the Boeshane Peninsula. He thought about love, and all the things it wasn't, and he thought about Rose and Estelle and Ianto. About the real Jack Harkness and even John Hart, whom Jack had loved, once. And the Doctor. Always his thoughts circled back to the Doctor.
Now until the end of time. No one else could mean that the way Jack could.
"Jack?" the Doctor said at last. His own wine glass was empty.
"Mmm?"
He drew a deep breath. "Time Lords - we aren't good at saying things. Comes with the telepathy, I suspect, always seems a bit dodgy to say something out loud when you should just know - like if you say it, it isn't really true, and with the big things, well - anyway. Other people . . . humans, I mean . . . haven't understood that. I - I hope you know that just because I don't say something, doesn't make it not true." He paused. "That was a complete butchering of English, wasn't it?"
"Yeah, it was," Jack replied with a faint smile. "But I got the gist of it." He rubbed a thumb over the Doctor's cheekbone. "Thought I might take tomorrow off," he said after a moment. "We could go out, if you feel up to it. I bet the fresh air would do you good. After you've finished the fridge, that is," he added sternly.
"Sounds nice," the Doctor said sleepily. "'Course, after I'm done with the refrigerator, I've still got the microwave and the coffeemaker to do."
Jack rolled his eyes. "What about my computer? That might actually do me some good, you know."
The Doctor chuckled. "Gotta save something for next time. Keep some mystery in the relationship."
Jack grinned.
Fin.