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Jack would always be there. It was what the Doctor liked most about him—more than his blue eyes and flirtatious spirit.
Jack would always be there, no questions asked, loving him regardless of the time or place.
He could always turn up on Torchwood's doorstep at midnight soaked to the bone, and Jack would hug him until he left or—on a rarer occasion—talked. Sometimes, he’d fall asleep and talk to himself: yell for Rose or Donna, cry and mutter about the Master.
None of this fazed Jack. Whatever life threw at him and the Doctor, it was never more important than this—his arms round the Doctor’s chest, his tears making his shirt damp.
“Promise…” the Doctor mumbled, grabbing a fist of Jack’s coat.
“Promise,” Jack replied, tightening his hold on the Doctor, because he’d promise the Doctor anything. And unlike everyone else, everyone mortal, he wasn’t going anywhere.