Notes: The title belongs to T. S. Eliot. Also, I am not much of a poet, so if the snippet which Jack recalls is horrendous, just put it down to translation difficulties (as he probably learned it in whatever they spoke in the Boeshane Peninsula, and who knows what it was originally written in).

Eyes I dare not meet in dreams

Summary: In which good intentions pave the road to a very particular kind of hell.

-DW-

Rose leant back where she sat on the edge of a short wall. It was not brick, exactly, but it was some sort of grey stone which was approximately the same texture. Whatever it was, it was pleasantly warm despite the misty dullness of their surroundings, and perfectly situated for watching the Doctor and Jack argue over which obscure piece of technology was better suited to solve some minor problem in the TARDIS. She was close enough that she could keep an eye on them and make sure it didn't get too heated, and far enough that she didn't risk either of them asking her opinion.

It was an alright planet, Lutare V. A bit clinical and very grey, but there hadn't been a crisis yet, so that was good. That was definitely good. That was very, very – oh, who was she kidding? She was bored out of her skull. Honestly, she was getting as bad as the Doctor. Put her on a nice, peaceful planet with no one trying to kill her and she had no idea what to do with herself. Her mum would –

She cut off that line of thought abruptly. They were having a good day, for once, and she was not going to ruin it by brooding. Yes, her family was still in Pete's World, no, she had no chance of ever seeing them again, but everyone left home in the end, right? Anyway, the enormous mansion that her mother loved so much had never felt like home. Not when the rooms were sharp-edged and finite, decorated in her mother's tastes with her father's money. Not when none of them contained a certain Time Lord with a bright smile and dark eyes.

The Doctor was her home, and the TARDIS was his, as much as any place was. She had chosen him over her family a long time ago, and she would stick by that decision. He needed her more than they did.

She shook herself from her musings – which were becoming a bit too maudlin for her liking – and looked around the marketplace. There was no need to run for her life – and that was good thing, definitely a good thing – so she could take the opportunity to do a bit of people-watching.

The Lutarians were delicate and pale and slightly creepy, with their snow-white skin and their hair and eyes various shades of grey, ranging from shining silver to pitch black. Their ethereal appearance was only reinforced by their quiet, reserved countenances. There was no laughter in the streets, no sirens, no shouts, not even a raised voice, save for those of her friends. It was more than a little eerie.

Still, when she looked closer, she could see evidence of pursuits which were far from otherworldly. A young couple walked hand in hand, leaning unnecessarily close to each other when they spoke and smiling more than the words themselves warranted. A shopkeeper played some sort of game with a string, looking bored and probably ignoring whatever she was supposed to be doing. An older woman steered a pram-like object with one hand and kept hold of a fidgety child with the other.

Rose smiled to herself. The sight of ordinary people going about their ordinary lives was oddly comforting – as long as she knew that she would be leaving as soon as her companions finished bickering. She glanced over at said companions, her grin widening at the sight of their mutual irritation as they gestured emphatically at each other.

They literally stuck out amongst the small, monochromatic natives. Tall, dark-haired, handsome men in long coats. Slicked back to spiky, grey to brown, broad-shouldered to skinny. Worryingly skinny, even now, and she didn't even want to think about what state he must have been in when Jack first found him –

So she wouldn't. She wouldn't think about the Doctor's ever-uncertain mental health, or her own lack of family, or the bleak and guilt-inducing implications of Jack's immortality. Instead, she would cherish this moment of peace, deal with the painful ones when they came, and mentally catalogue a few of those hand gestures that Jack was making for later use.

She shifted a bit and glanced about again. The young couple had moved on; the slacking shopkeeper was being scolded (quietly) by her boss; the restless child had been bought off and was cheerfully eating a bag of sweets . . . . And she wasn't the only one watching.

She leapt to her feet, too late to call a warning, as a group of uniformed Lutarians descended on Jack and the Doctor.

-DW-

Jack stumbled in shock. One instant he had been on a Lutarian street, struggling against a police officer as the Doctor demanded to know what was going on, then something sharp had pierced his neck and the next – well, he seemed to be in the TARDIS.

"What the hell?" he said aloud.

"It's not really the TARDIS."

He jumped and spun to find the Doctor behind him, arms crossed and face grim as he leaned against the jump seat.

"The Lutarians, as you might have noticed, are a very reserved species," he continued. "Probably some local was disturbed by our arguing in their marketplace and called the authorities. They've given us someplace private to sort out our differences."

"By drugging us?" asked Jack incredulously.

"It makes perfect sense to them. I doubt they mean us any harm. Normally, I expect this would be a shared mental bridge, but they evidently didn't realize that we're different species, not mentally compatible. Whatever device they have us hooked up to defaulted to the most telepathically able mind."

". . . we're inside your head," Jack concluded, once he puzzled out that rather roundabout explanation.

"Yes," said the Doctor, without even an attempt at his usual cheer. "Highly simplified, obviously, so that you can perceive it without your mind being overwhelmed, but essentially . . . yes."

"Well, there are worse places to be stuck in," said Jack.

"No, Captain. There really aren't."

"What do you mean?" the ex-Time Agent asked, glancing around at the dreamscape TARDIS. Now that he looked at it more closely, a few of the details were off – some of the controls were different than he remembered, and Rose's jacket was missing from the railing where she always left it. It seemed fairly harmless, and the Doctor was a trained telepath. It shouldn't have been too difficult for him to keep things under control.

"Those drugs they gave us have impaired my telepathy. I won't be able to keep up my shields for long."

Now Jack could see the tension in the Doctor's jaw, the subtle desperation in his eyes as their surroundings began to slip out of his control. Already the whole image was beginning to flicker at the edges of vision, familiarly organic one second and shiningly white or elegantly gothic the next.

"Right," he said, trying to wrap his mind around the situation. He was in the Doctor's head. He was inside the mind of one of the most brilliant, powerful, damaged beings in the Universe, and that being was losing control of their surroundings. "What does that mean, practically speaking?"

"Nothing good. This is just an entry point – because I'm always in telepathic contact with the TARDIS, there's a weak point in my shields there. Normally it's negligible, but that meant it was the easiest place for them to send us in. As the pattern starts to deteriorate, we'll move through different mental planes – slowly, probably, because I'm a fairly strong telepath by this planet's standards."

"Mental planes? Plural?" questioned Jack. A mental plane wasn't even the actual mind of whomever it belonged to – it was more of a metaphor, to keep telepaths separated from their subjects and prevent them from getting lost. To his (admittedly limited and mostly theoretical) knowledge, most sentient beings only had one, unless they were severely unbalanced. The Doctor wasn't the sanest guy in the Universe, but Jack hadn't seen any evidence of multiple personalities. Well, except for the whole regeneration thing . . . .

"Time Lord minds are rather more complex than human ones," said the Doctor through gritted teeth, obviously straining to keep a hold on the current plane, which was beginning to shift and fade.

"How many levels are we talking here?"

"A few. Gah!"

Jack leapt forward to catch him as his knees buckled.

"Whoa. Easy there, Doc."

"I'm fine," the Doctor assured him unconvincingly, straightening again as their environs made its final transition and they found themselves . . . on a satellite. A dreadfully familiar satellite, in fact. Jack swallowed hard.

"Um . . . Doctor?" he said uncertainly. "You sure this is your head?"

"Yes, I'm sure," the Time Lord snapped irritably, spinning to face him – no, practically rounding on him. Jack nearly took a step back, startled by the anger and frustration and thinly-veiled fear in the Doctor's eyes. He began to think that this situation was even worse than he had anticipated. "I may not have spent a lot of time in here lately, but I still know my own head when I –" He broke off suddenly, the color draining from his face as his eyes fixed on something over Jack's shoulder.

"Doctor, what's . . ." Jack trailed off himself as he turned and took in what the Doctor was staring at. "Is that . . . me?" he asked, gaping at the figure which was watching them from down the corridor. It certainly looked like him. Sort of. A younger, more flawless version of him, with more dramatic colors and the kind of perfection in his skin and hair and clothes that he had never been able to achieve all at once. In fact, he even seemed to be glowing a bit.

"He's just an apparition," said the Doctor stiffly, turning on his heel and stubbornly refusing to look at either the image or Jack. "A dream. Come on. We're not accomplishing anything by standing there."

Jack considered pointing out that they wouldn't accomplish anything by walking around a mental version of the Gamestation, either, but decided that this was not the best time to confront the Doctor with the holes in his logic.

"I'm flattered, Doc," he said instead, trotting to catch up. He glanced back, unable to resist another look at the idealized version of himself. Bright blue eyes – brighter than his, brighter than should have been possible in the dim lighting – were tracking their progress. "But, y'know, when I dream about the two of us, there are usually less clothes involved. And having two of me brings up some really interesting possibil–"

"Doctor!"

Jack had been in some very weird situations in his long life, but being interrupted by his own voice definitely made the top ten. His other self was jogging towards them, wearing a familiar, easy grin that was incongruous with the equally familiar coldness in his eyes.

"Running away again, are you?" asked Not-Jack, in a smooth, friendly tone that held a razor edge. The Doctor's jaw tightened, his pace quickening, and Jack's stomach sank.

The Doctor had always been his own worst enemy, and here, inside his head, every memory was just another instrument of self-harm.

"Nowhere to run in here," taunted Not-Jack. "Nowhere to hide. What's a coward to do?"

"Doctor, don't listen to him – it," said Jack, ignoring the other him and focusing on the Doctor, who had come to a halt, his back rigid. "It's not me. We're past all that. I've forgiven you, remember?"

"'Course I have," agreed Not-Jack cheerfully. "Rose and I, we care about you. All that loyalty, all that love. All for you." Not-Jack's voice suddenly dropped its tone of false amiability, and the next words were a vicious hiss. "And you don't deserve a bit of it."

"Stop it!" Jack snapped as the Doctor's shoulders shuddered, just once.

"Oh, look!" said Not-Jack with a parody of a grin. "I'm defending you! Because that's what people do, isn't it? Defend you. Follow you. Wait for you and fight for you and die for you. And here's me, living for you. Living and dying and living again. Forever."

The mindscape was fading again, taking the Not-Jack with it, but it managed one parting shot before it blinked away.

"There is no forever, Doctor. Not after this. You know how this ends!"

They were finally alone once more as the world shifted around them. The vague shapes that twisted on the edge of Jack's vision made his head swim and his stomach hurt, so he looked at the Doctor instead.

"Doctor," he began, and the Time Lord turned to look at him. Jack had been meaning to say something encouraging, to assure him that they would get through this, or maybe to just crack some stupid joke and get a reluctant twitch of the lips in return. The words died in his throat, however, at the bleak, empty look in his friend's eyes.

"This is going to get much worse," stated the Doctor flatly.

-DW-

Rose tapped her fingers impatiently against the top of the desk she had been directed to. On the other side of it, a bored-looking Lutarian woman was typing something into a computer. She had spent a good two hours trying to find out what was going on and how she could fix it, and by now, she was thoroughly frustrated. The irritating, Zen-like quality which everyone on this planet seemed to possess was not helping.

"Look," Rose snapped at last. "I haven't got all day. My friends have been arrested, and I was told to talk to you."

"If you were told to talk to me, then they weren't arrested," said the woman calmly, not looking up. "They were simply removed from the public and put in neutral telepathic contact in order to facilitate their reconciliation. I assure you, they are in no danger."

Rose had heard that one before.

"Yeah, but listen, we're not from here –"

"Human visitors are subject to the same rules as Lutarian citizens," the woman cut across evenly. "All our equipment is fully tested for safety and comfort."

"But they're not human!" Rose protested.

That got her attention. The woman's head snapped up, her slate eyes wide.

"Excuse me?"

"They're different species," Rose said urgently. She didn't like the alarm on the woman's face; didn't want to know what the 'fully tested' equipment would do to the Doctor. "Jack's human, but the Doctor's not."

"Our equipment is compatible with a wide range of humanoid species," said the woman, but it sounded like she was trying to calm herself as much as Rose. Evidently whatever weird meditation techniques they used were only effective up to a point. "What species is he, precisely?"

Rose didn't even hesitate. She knew that the Doctor often shied away from revealing his species, and that even when he did it was widely unknown, or else shrouded in myth and legend, but this was an emergency, and she could only hope and pray that they recognized the title.

"Time Lord."

-DW-

The Doctor had spoken truly when he said that it would get worse. Each subsequent dreamscape – dozens of them – contained an apparition similar to the first, ghosts giving voice to the Doctor's guilt. Some, Jack recognized. A young Sarah-Jane Smith stood in the rain on a nondescript street, asserting tearfully that the Doctor had been her life. A teenage girl who matched UNIT's description of Dorothy 'Ace' McShane snarled that the Doctor had lied to her and that she had never forgiven him. Most, however, were completely unfamiliar to him. An even younger boy, clad in a tunic of alien origin, looked at them with big, sad eyes and said plaintively that he only ever wanted the Doctor's approval. A kilted Scotsman faced them in the middle of a medieval battlefield, ignoring his obviously fatal wound, and accused the Doctor of abandoning him.

They did appear to be only apparitions, as the Doctor had said – not one of them attacked them physically, though McShane looked ready to try. That also meant that Jack was helpless to stop them, and all he could do was keep a supportive hand on the Doctor's shoulder, as he soon found that any further attempts at comfort were only twisted by the apparitions and used against him.

The Doctor's face remained stoically blank throughout every assault, even as Jack flinched and cringed under the ferocity of the attacks, but there was one visible sign of the Time Lord's growing distress. It began as a subtle trembling of his hands and slowly worsened with each encounter. By the time they came to a dark-haired young woman in an archaic gown, the Doctor was shaking like a leaf.

"I was only the first," said the woman, before fading away.

The environment which replaced her grey, mechanical backdrop was such a dramatic change from the grim, gloomy surroundings that they had been privy to so far that Jack actually gasped. They stood on a hill which was covered with long grass, showing a million different shades of red as it rippled in the breeze. The twin suns which hung in the warm orange sky glinted off a magnificent domed city in the distance and, when he stared around in wonder, they shone on a forest of silver-leaved trees which surrounded the base of the most impressive mountains Jack had ever seen.

Beside him, the Doctor let out a strangled sound and sank to the ground.

"Doctor!" Jack exclaimed, alarmed. He had no idea what was happening, why his friend would react with such despair to a world which was not only beautiful but also somehow familiar, tugging at his memory like the lyrics of a half-forgotten song. . . . No. Not a song. A poem.

It shines in the heavens,
Kasterborous' treasure,
Its wonders enchanting the eye.
The hills bathed in crimson,
They stand tall forever,
With keepers who never will die.

Oh, god. He immediately dropped into a crouch beside the Doctor, laying what he hoped was a comforting hand on one bony, shuddering shoulder.

"It's alright, Doctor. It'll be alright." It was the best he could offer, but he had no idea how empty platitudes were supposed to help the man who was on his hands and knees in the soil of his long dead planet, drawing his breath in ragged gasps and still managing to repeat a choked mantra.

"Not real, not real, not real . . ."

"Ah, now, that's the question, isn't it?" drawled a voice from behind them. Just another apparition, Jack thought, but he still shot a cursory glance over his shoulder. It was an older man this time, with dark clothes and questionable taste in facial hair. "Obviously it's just a subconscious image, but does that mean it isn't real?"

"No no no no no," the Doctor muttered, almost to himself, squeezing his eyes shut. He let out a sudden, harsh burst of laughter, bitter and hysterical and mad, and Jack felt a shiver run up his spine. "No, you're not doing this, not now, you're not real."

"Oh, that's just pathetic," said the apparition scornfully. Jack could practically hear it rolling its eyes. "I ask a profound philosophical question, and what do you return with? A psychological breakdown. Typical. Some things never change. But then . . ."

Jack jerked back with a curse, pulling the Doctor with him. They ended up sprawled awkwardly on the ground, Jack with one arm wrapped around the Doctor's chest. The apparition had abruptly materialized in front of them, with unfathomable eyes and a wide, empty grin to rival the Doctor's own.

"Some things do," the apparition practically purred. "I love what you've done with the place."

The dreamscape shifted again, but not gradually as before. Suddenly the grass was gone, leaving barren, scorched ground. Stretching out to the horizon across the seared landscape was mile after mile of factories and bunkers and warships. The sky was darkened by smoke. The once-pristine dome around the distant city was shattered.

"I didn't do this," protested the Doctor, shaking his head desperately as he stared out at the war-torn planet. "It was the War."

"A war you could have prevented." The new speaker was a tall, thin man with a long face and short black hair. He was wearing ceremonial robes of some sort, and looking at the Doctor with cold disdain. "Or don't you remember, brother dear? All those centuries ago. If you had completed that assignment, this never would have happened."

"We never would have died."

The Doctor actually whimpered, though it was not clear whether it was from the ruthless words or the new apparition – a young blonde woman – from whom they came. Jack tightened his hold protectively on the shaking Time Lord.

"It's not real, Doctor," he said desperately. "We're inside your head; it's not real."

"It can't be real, can it?" came a lilting, child-like voice. The Doctor stilled in Jack's arms, face white and eyes wide, barely even breathing as he stared at the latest apparition. "It can't be real, because we wouldn't be here if it were, would we?" said the young, dark-haired girl, and unlike the other apparitions, her wide eyes contained no hint of malice.

"Susan . . ." the Doctor whispered, breaking from Jack's grip and scrambling to his feet. The girl watched, a sad, loving smile on her face, as the Doctor approached. The other apparitions were already beginning to fade.

"Grandfather," the girl said softly, bringing up a hand to cup his cheek. The look of guilt and yearning and pure, unadulterated pain on the Doctor's face took Jack's breath away like a punch to the gut. "What happened to you?"

"I'm sorry, Susan," said the Doctor, his voice cracking. The words tumbled over themselves as he babbled frantically. "I'm so, so sorry, there was no other way, I couldn't find another way, I wasn't good enough, wasn't smart enough – Rassilon! – I'm sorry, I'm so sorry - no! No, please, don't go, don't –"

Jack, having climbed to his feet, watched helplessly as the apparition faded like the rest. The Doctor's eyes slid shut, sending a single tear sliding down his cheek. He drew in a deep, shuddering breath as the mindscape began to shift again.

"Doctor –" Jack started, not entirely sure what he was going to say, but needing to say something. He jerked back in alarm when the Doctor spun to face him.

"Listen to me, Captain," the Time Lord snapped, in a tone that Jack had never heard from this incarnation – a tone of command, permitting no argument and expecting instant obedience. There were still tear-tracks in his face, but his eyes were steely and his posture was rigid and uncompromising.

"I haven't got much time," continued the Doctor. "I'm beginning to lose control of my mental projection. That means that you're going to be on your own from now on, and it's not going to be pretty. You just need to keep your head and remember who you are. Even if you don't, you probably won't sustain any lasting damage, but I don't want you taking any chances, got that?"

"Yes, sir," said Jack, with a mock salute. The Doctor flinched, and it suddenly hit Jack that perhaps his friend had a reason for his intense aversion to anything military. Whatever role the Doctor had played in the Time War, he doubted that he had been a civilian. "Sorry, Doc," he said, more gently. "I'll be careful."

The Doctor nodded, his gaze turned inward as their new surroundings began to crystallize. Jack noted automatically that they were in some sort of ceremonial chamber, elegantly decorated with the circular motifs which he recognized as Gallifreyan, but he didn't pay it much mind. Instead, he watched as the Doctor seemed to finish some internal debate.

"Jack," he said at last, not meeting his eyes and obviously fighting to keep his tone even. "The Time War is next. Most of it is beyond human comprehension, but the things you do see . . . ." He swallowed hard before continuing. "What you do after we get out of this is up to you. I won't try to stop you."

Jack stared at the Doctor in shock and confusion.

"Look, Doc, whatever happens in here, I'm not going to leave you."

"Don't make promises you can't keep, Captain!" snarled the Doctor, his voice carrying traces of the North and his eyes flashing blue for an instant. He stumbled backwards, looking almost as startled as Jack felt, and then his blank mask descended once more. "It's starting."

The Doctor began to flicker. He was young old short tall coat umbrella brunet blond leather velvet. He was still talking, but it was garbled, shifting accent and occasionally language, and Jack only managed to catch an odd phrase here and there.

". . . astoundingly complex . . ." from someone who appeared to be all teeth, curls, and scarf.

". . . subconscious self-images. . ." said a man with a cultured voice and a face like a renaissance angel.

"Brave heart, Captain," a man with a boyish face and old eyes managed to say before he blinked away as well.

The shifts were getting more abrupt and less literal, the men Jack knew to be old incarnations of the Doctor giving way to more metaphorical images.

He was a soldier, haunted and weary, jaw set and hands shaking.

He was a demon, dark and terrible, flames dancing in merciless eyes.

He was a scientist, brilliant and jaded, bending under the weight of his knowledge.

He was a man, just a man, breaking and bleeding and sobbing . . . .

He was gone.

-DW-

Rose paced back and forth in the room she had been shown to by the suddenly nervous and deferential woman, who had assured her, with a respectful bob of her head, that an official would be with her shortly. Apparently, Lutarians did recognize the phrase 'Time Lord' – apparently, it terrified them. But at least it was in a bow-a-lot-and-offer-refreshments way and not a shoot-first-questions-later way. That was always a plus.

Rose considered eating one of the posh little biscuits which sat on the low table in the middle of the room, but decided against it. Instead she flopped back onto the pale grey sofa and gave a sigh of frustration.

They had gotten out of worse situations. She wasn't locked up (she had checked the door), and the room was actually quite nice, except for its lack of color and the subtle feeling of awkwardness due to the fact that everything was built for someone just a tiny bit smaller than her. As for Jack and the Doctor, it seemed that the Lutarians genuinely wanted to help them sort out their argument – she just wished she knew more about whatever they were doing to them in the process.

The door swung open, startling her out of her thoughts.

"Ms. Tyler," greeted the man who stepped in. "My name is Callid."

He was youngish, maybe a bit older than her, with the same elfin, almost effeminate features as all the other Lutarians. His hair and eyes were inky black, which meant that he was probably considered extremely attractive among his peers, as the Doctor had explained that the colorblind Lutarians placed a high value on contrast.

"And when I say 'colorblind,' I mean properly colorblind. They only see in shades of grey! Makes sense, really, because their planet is naturally barren and there's not much point in wasting brainpower on colors. And they're actually quite into aesthetics, very minimalist, you know. It's quite nice, if you like that sort of thing. Still, I can't say I'd want to live there . . ."

"I'm told you claim that one of your friends who have been recently detained is a Time Lord."

"I don't claim anything," Rose protested hotly. "The Doctor is a Time Lord, and I demand that you release him, right now!"

Assertive and haughty was probably the best way to go, she thought. If Time Lords really were respected and feared around here, then surely being the travelling companion of the last one in existence had to have some weight.

"You're certain that he is what he says he is?" questioned Callid, and while his expression was unreadable, something in his tone told her that he could see right through her façade and to the fear and confusion underneath. It did nothing to endear him to her.

"Yes, I'm certain," she snapped. "You can check yourself if you want; he's got two hearts and everything."

"Very well," said Callid with a nod. "Follow me."

-DW-

He wasn't gone, thought Jack, fighting panic. Not really. Just . . . dissipated. They were inside his head, after all, he couldn't exactly leave. The Doctor was still there, in a sense, probably still aware, just not perceivable with human senses.

The knowledge, uncertain at best, was not terribly comforting as Jack's suddenly harsh breathing echoed in the empty room.

It was even less comforting when the mindscape shifted again, and kept shifting.

Before, every place they found themselves in had felt solid, regardless of its actual state of reality. But now . . . now the world was spinning and swirling in ways that humans weren't meant to perceive. It sounded like oil on water and tasted like dancing flames and looked like dissonant chords of music. Jack could feel his own mental projection beginning to waver, losing touch with his own limbs as the Doctor's voice echoed in his ears. "You just need to keep your head and remember who you are."

Easier said than done, when thoughts and memories that weren't his own were running though his head at a thousand miles a minute.

A piece of advice drifted to the surface, a forgotten fragment of a lesson, but whether it was his or the Doctor's, he didn't know. Find a mantra; something to keep you anchored. Don't use feelings or experiences; they're too complex. Just a simple phrase, like your name.

"I am Captain Jack Harkness," he forced himself to say, even though he wasn't at all sure that his mouth was still attached to the rest of him.

Galaxies burnt and exploded and simply blinked out of existence, watched by grey eyes which had once been soft and kind and merciful. The War raged across the Universe, across the Multiverse, across every bit of Creation and every moment of History. It was always and never. Demons and angels fought and fought and fought until it was impossible to tell one from the other.

"I am Captain Jack Harkness," he coughed, choking on the acrid stench of smoke and blood which filled a throat that wasn't his.

Galaxies weren't the only things that burnt. So did star systems, planets, cities, families. Homes. Mothers and children and fathers screamed and sobbed and raged as their sons and daughters and parents and siblings were torn from them, only to be cut down themselves. And not only by Daleks. By the Time Lords. By the Nightmare Child. By the Doctor.

"I am Captain Jack Harkness," he repeated, with the vague feeling that those words had once meant something.

Gallifrey burnt. The Time Lords screamed. The Doctor fell.

"I am Captain Jack Harkness."

Time twisted and turned and very nearly broke. There was no loneliness quite like being the very very last, and no insanity quite like that of a Time Lord. But the Universe needed a guardian, and Time would not let her champion die.

"I am . . ."

"I know who I am! I – am—the Doctor!"

A light in the darkness. The Oncoming Storm and his butterfly.

"I'm . . ."

"I'm the Doctor, by the way. What's your name?"

A ripple. Daleks turned to dust once more, and an impossible thing created.

"I . . ."

"I am the Bad Wolf. I create myself."

Rebirth. Brokenness buried under a mask of smiles and jokes and youth.

"I'm so old now. I used to have so much mercy."

Possibilities. What was, what is, what might be. A million, billion facts and figures and timelines, running through a mind teetering on the brink of madness.

"I'm the Doctor. Basically, run."

Silence. Cold and aching and terrible, ashes in the wake of the inferno.

But . . . there was a sound. Faint and distant, just on the edge of hearing.

Someone was weeping.

-DW-

The few people in the hallways scattered to either side as Rose and Callid passed, averting their eyes and whispering to each other with a mixture of fear and reverence. She wished she knew whether it was directed at her, or at the man who preceded her with cool confidence in his step. He was wearing a high-collared outfit of solid black rather than the insignia-branded uniforms which the other civil servants did, but she couldn't tell whether that meant he had a very high rank or no rank at all.

They stopped at a nondescript door just like all the others, and Callid pulled a set of keys from his pocket and unlocked it wordlessly. He stepped aside to let her rush in.

"Oh, god, Jack!"

Jack was strapped to some sort of gently humming device in the center of the room, tears leaking from beneath his closed lids. Callid silently disabled the device while she crouched down in front of her friend, grasping his hand in one of her own.

"Wake up, Jack. Oh, please, wake up."

-DW-

"Jack? Jack, c'mon, wake up."

Rose.

That was Rose's voice.

That meant that those were her hands, holding his and patting his face urgently. There was an edge in her tone, something beyond normal worry, something closer to panic. Jack forced his eyes open. Why was that so difficult?

"There we go," said Rose with a relieved smile. "You alright?"

Jack hesitated, trying to kick his mind back into gear. There was a nasty taste in his mouth, as though he'd been drugged – that would explain the grogginess. His wrists were sore and his muscles cramped from being bound to the chair he still sat in, but – he tested – he was free now. Other than that, there was the memory loss to worry about, but that wasn't unusual, depending what they had dosed him with . . .

"Yeah, I'm alright."

"You sure?" asked Rose gently. "It's just . . . you're crying."

Jack reached up to touch his face, and, to his surprise, found it damp with tears. Why was he crying?

Where was the Doctor?

In an instant, it all came rushing back. The cloud of confusion cleared, leaving cold, sick horror in its wake.

"We need to find the Doctor," he said, surging to his feet.

"Yeah, I know," said Rose, falling back and shooting him one last concerned look before she turned to address the young man whom Jack only now noticed. "Callid?"

Callid – his slight stature and paper-white skin marked him as a native; the lack of uniform was odd, but not important right now – was watching them closely, though his face remained expressionless. Distantly, Jack registered that Rose must have gotten them freed through official channels, somehow.

"The next door on the right, ma'am," Callid stated, and Jack was moving before he even finished the sentence.

The hallway was some unpleasant institutional grey, but he barely even saw it as he launched himself at the door on his right, yanked at the handle, cursed as he found it locked, slammed a fist against it in frustration –

"Jack!" Rose's hand was on his arm, pulling him back. "Jack, calm down! Callid has the key, and he's got to turn off the machine once we get inside."

Callid moved forward with what was probably the same calm efficiency which saturated this planet, but to Jack, it felt agonizingly slow. The door swung open to reveal a sparse, clinical room just like the one Jack had awoken in, bare save for the chair in the center.

It was in that chair the Doctor was strapped, his wrists bound and his head immobilized by the sleek, wireless device. It looked more like a bicycle helmet than anything, but its benign appearance was belied by the tears running down the Doctor's cheeks and the soft whimpers which escaped from his lips.

"Get him out of that thing!" Jack snapped. Callid was already doing so, entering some sort of code onto a control panel on the back of the chair.

Immediately, the bindings retracted and the helmet rose. Rose rushed forward as the Doctor's eyes blinked open.

"Doctor, it's alright," she said, wiping the tears from his face and steadying him as he stood shakily. "I talked to the police or whatever; told them that you're a Time Lord; that shook them up a bit. I think they'll let us . . ." She trailed off, seeming to realize that the Doctor wasn't listening.

The Time Lord's eyes were on Jack, and he met them with some difficulty.

All his words died in his throat.

God, what could he say? What could he possibly say to calm that maelstrom of guilt and pain and loneliness, knowing that what he could see was only the barest glimpse? He had not been meant to ever, ever see the depths of the Doctor's mind, but now he had, and there was no going back. He couldn't promise that it was alright, or even that it would be, not with the staggering knowledge he now held.

He had been silent for too long. The Doctor had misinterpreted the horror and lingering shock in Jack's eyes.

"I meant it, Jack." His voice was hoarse, broken, and made Jack's heart hurt. "I won't stop you."

"No matter what I do?" Jack asked, and his own voice sounded odd and disconnected to his ears.

The Doctor nodded, swallowing hard and closing his eyes. "No matter what," he confirmed, and the hollow resignation in his words cut deeper than any fear or anger.

"Good," said Jack, and hugged him.

The Doctor flinched, went rigid, and then melted into his embrace in the space of two seconds. He was sobbing, choking, clinging to him like a drowning man to a raft, and suddenly Jack had the words, murmuring fervently into his ear as he held him tightly.

"I've got you; I'm here; I'll always be here, always and forever; I love you; I've got you . . ."

He couldn't promise that it would be alright, but he could promise one thing: alright or not, he wasn't leaving. Not ever.

-DW-

It seemed to Rose that it took a long time for Jack's tender words to soothe the Doctor, though it was probably only a few minutes. She longed to know what had happened, what that odd exchange had been about, but this was neither the time nor the place to ask. At last, the Doctor pulled away, wiping his face.

"Thank you," he told Jack, his voice still rough with emotion.

"Anytime," Jack replied.

Rose cleared her throat, and the Doctor's walls slammed back into place.

"Ah, yes, Rose!" he said brightly, bouncing over to her. "Got us pardoned, did you?"

"Yeah. Well, sort of," she tempered. "I just mentioned you were a Time Lord and they got all weird and then Callid came to let you two out, so I think we can go, but he doesn't really say much . . ."

"Callid, you say?" the Doctor questioned, his eyes shining with interest.

"That's his name, yeah. He stepped out; guess he wanted to give us some privacy."

"I see," said the Doctor, in that tone which implied that he saw a great deal more than Rose did. "Let's go and meet our champion, shall we?"

Callid was indeed waiting just outside the door. He snapped to attention as they emerged, his eyes immediately locking onto the Doctor. The Doctor met his gaze evenly, and gave a small nod of acknowledgement.

"Your Highness," he greeted solemnly, without his usual hint of sarcasm.

"My Lord," Callid replied, bowing low.

"Sorry, what?" asked Rose, gaping. Jack, standing behind the Doctor with a protective hand on his back in a show of silent support, looked just as bewildered as she felt.

"Callid's a prince," the Doctor explained. "The Prince, actually. Lutare's a meritocracy, see, so they don't like to call their rulers kings. They think it implies a sort of permanence. Not that 'prince' is any less permanent, really, but it's the principle of the thing. Isn't that right, Callid?"

"Quite, my Lord."

"Oh, no need for that. I'm the Doctor."

Callid's eyebrows raised fractionally, the first sign of expression Rose had seen from him.

"Indeed."

There was a moment of awkward silence before the Doctor broke it, rocking back on his heels with his hands in his pockets, his grin wide and false.

"Well, thank you ever so much for the pardon, Highness, lovely planet, but I think we'd best be off. Unless you're planning to dissect me or something, in which case we'd still best be off, but I'm afraid it would be on rather less friendly terms."

Callid smiled. It was not a pleasant expression.

"I would sooner keep a black hole on my planet than you, Doctor."

The Doctor stiffened almost imperceptibly, his smile dropping and his gaze going sharp.

"Goodbye, Callid."

Rose could feel Callid's eyes following them as they walked away. No one stopped them as they walked out of the building and through the quiet, misty streets. They didn't speak until they reached the TARDIS, a splash of blue against a grey world.

"The thing about meritocracies," said the Doctor, pausing with his key in hand to stare out at their monochromatic surroundings, "they're ruled by the cleverest people, not necessarily the nicest."

"What do you mean?" asked Jack. He hadn't lost contact with the Doctor since they left that room, and even now his hand was laid casually on his elbow.

"Why did you think he didn't need bodyguards?" asked the Doctor, and sighed when he was met with blank looks. "See the mist?"

"You said it was harmless," said Rose, frowning.

"Oh, it is," the Doctor assured her, eyes dark. "To us. To the Lutarians, it's a mild sedative. Nothing dangerous; just enough to keep them calm. Peaceful."

"But – but that's awful!"

"Yep," the Doctor agreed. "It does work, though. They have world peace. No war, very little violent crime, carefully regulated debates – 'course, they also don't have a lot of art, music, literature . . . and it won't last, anyway. The drugs make them calm, not stupid. The public will catch on in about two years, and Callid will be overthrown within three. The good thing about a clever ruler: they know when they're beaten.

"Speaking of clever rulers," he continued, pushing the door open and stepping into the TARDIS, Jack finally letting go of him as he bounded up to the console. "Did I ever tell you about the time I met Pericles? Brilliant man; absolutely astounding mind. Slippery as anything, mind you, but not a bad sort, when you get right down to it. Don't think you'd like him much, though, he's horribly sexist. Product of his time, I suppose, but really . . ."

Rose took one last look at the dreary, hushed world of forced calm and shut the TARDIS door, leaving it behind them for good.

-DW-

Later, when they had all eaten something and Rose was in bed, Jack paused in the doorway of the console room.

It had been too long and too trying a day for the Doctor to still be awake, but there he was, fiddling with the controls and looking empty and exhausted in a way he never did when he thought Jack could see him. He looked at home in the dim, otherworldly light, but it was the same way a ghost looked at home in its chosen haunt – he seemed as though he'd evaporate if he were to step out the door.

Jack wished he could make him look solid. He wished he could make him whole. He wished that he could pull him close, that he could drag him back his room and love him the way he deserved to be loved until the tears came easily and not in choking, shamed sobs, that he could chase away the pain and the guilt and the fear with gentle kisses and whispered promises . . .

If wishes were horses, he thought bitterly.

"Do you want something, or are you just going to stand there admiring my bum?"

Jack tried to force a chuckle, but it got tangled with a sob somewhere in his throat. The Doctor turned, a concerned frown on his face. An instant later it melted into guilt and sorrow.

"Oh, Jack," he sighed. "I'm so, so sorry. I never wanted for you to see all that."

"It's not your fault," said Jack with a shake of his head, vaguely aware that he was talking about much more than the psychic trauma of the day. The Doctor seemed aware of it, too, his lips twisting into a mirthless smile as he averted his eyes.

"Isn't it?" He continued before Jack could protest. "I could take it away," he said, tugging on his ear with one hand and fidgeting with the controls with the other. "If you want me to. You'd still know that you'd been inside my head but you wouldn't remember it."

Jack frowned, trying to see through the Doctor's discomfort to whatever lay beneath it. Any suggestion of changing people's memories, in any capacity, usually resulted in a visceral reaction from the Doctor, but now he was offering to do just that.

"Do you want to?" Jack questioned. Perhaps the Doctor viewed what had happened as violation. Perhaps he didn't want Jack knowing everything he had been forced to do and everyone he had lost. After all, he would have never, ever revealed such things willingly.

"It's up to you," said the Doctor, still not looking at him. If he was trying to sound casual then he was failing, miserably.

"Doctor . . ." Jack moved forward, stilling the Doctor's restless hand with one of his own and using the other to cup his face, forcing the Doctor to meet his eyes and at the same time trying to draw him out with the intimate touch, running a thumb along his pale cheek as his fingertips brushed against his temple –

— thought you'd hate me if you knew; ought to hate me; how can you touch me like that knowing what I am, knowing what I did; should have shot me on the spot –

Jack stumbled back, reeling.

"What the –?"

"Sorry!" said the Doctor, who had leaped backwards as well, his eyes wide and horrified. "Sorry, sorry, my shields aren't quite up yet; there must be some residual connection; it should be gone within a couple days. I didn't realize; I'm so sorry –"

"Stop it!" Jack snapped. "Stop apologizing, stop –" Stop hating yourself. Please. "Doc, I . . . I don't want you to take it away." I won't let you carry that alone.

The Doctor seemed to hear the unspoken end of his sentence, he glanced away, his jaw clenching.

"Don't say that just for my sake," he said. "I know it's not fair to you. You shouldn't have to know all that. You shouldn't have to – to see that every time you look at me."

"Do want to know what I see when I look at you?" asked Jack, and then continued before the Doctor could respond. "I see a man who would give his last breath to save a stranger."

Jack gasped back to life to find the Doctor gone. Fighting panic, he stumbled out into the hallway to find him performing CPR on an unconscious Martha Jones. The young medical student must have followed them and gotten caught in some scuffle, he thought hazily as his head began to spin once more. His last sight before the darkness overtook him was the Doctor's face, twisted in desperation as he struggled to force nonexistent air into the young woman's lungs.

"I see a man who would show compassion to his worst enemy."

"It got away," was all the Doctor said, but Jack could see the frustration and weariness and despair in his eyes. Jack had also seen the way his gaze had flickered over the Dalek weapons earlier, just for an instant – but he hadn't touched them; hadn't taken up what was possibly the only sure-fire way to kill his most hated foe. Instead, he had gone to the basement armed with nothing but a screwdriver and a single offer of mercy.

"I see a man who sacrificed everything to protect the Universe."

It took Jack longer than he would have liked to detach himself from the flirty native, and by the time he made it over to the Doctor the Time Lord was already far, far away, mentally if not physically. His eyes were fixed on the sky above them; on a specific constellation, in fact. Following his gaze, Jack recognized it with a jolt: Kasterborous. He placed a hand on the Doctor's shoulder, and was met with a slight start as the older man came back to himself. The Doctor gave him a small smile, but it didn't reach his ancient, haunted eyes.

"You're the best man I've ever known, Doctor. You deserve to be happy," Jack asserted forcefully.

The Doctor had closed his eyes and turned away, refusing to respond, but at those words he gave a tiny, involuntary shake of his head. Jack was in front of him in three strides, gripping his shoulders and turning him to face him. He was trembling beneath his hands.

"Doctor, look at me," he commanded. The Doctor complied, and Jack met his eyes without flinching. "You. Deserve. Happiness. And I know that I can't give you that, but I can promise you this: I will always love you."

The Doctor gave a strangled sound, and Jack caught him as his knees buckled. He sank down onto the grating, holding him close. The Doctor didn't speak, nor did he cry. He simply clung, his thin hands tangled in Jack's shirt, his face buried in his neck as his breath came in painful gasps. Jack murmured soothingly, stroking his hair and carefully avoiding the contact points (once was an accident, twice would have been an invasion).

Jack knew that he couldn't make everything right. He couldn't stop Rose's time from eventually running out, or protect the Doctor from the Universe which seemed so intent on hurting him. He couldn't bring back the people whom he had lost, or erase the choices he had been forced to make. He couldn't fix what was irreparably broken.

But he could do this, now and forever. He could be there when the pain became overwhelming. He could be an anchor and a shield. He could and would love the Doctor, always.

Maybe, just maybe, it would be enough.