Chapter Text
She was cowering in the darkness.
Shrouded by the cold, the rough, the hopelessness. Shaking hands pressed against jagged rock. Breath misting. Dusky orange rivulets of blood trickling, staining, matting in tangled hair. Whimpering cries echoing in the endless silence.
Crumpling. Floor slamming against bones, bones jolting with the shock. Tears mixing with sweat, sweat mixing with blood, trembling and convulsing and curling up tight. Muscles cramping, aching. Head buried in hands.
Lonely. Lonely. She was so lonely.
And so scared. So unbelievably, utterly scared. Screams built in her throat, itching, acidic, but screams would bring them, and they would bring torture and suffering and pain, pain, so much pain. Jamming her fist in her own mouth wasn’t enough. She was sobbing now, eyes squeezed shut, hot droplets leaking down her face. In sheer frustration, desperate to crush the urge, she slammed her forehead against the floor. Then again. And again. Pummelling, pummelling, a sick drumroll of dull thuds until—
The crack.
And the scream.
And the noise.
The explosion. The heat. The fire. Gasping, trembling, she scrambled backwards, fireworks exploding in her head. Flattening herself against the wall. Shadows wavering in her vision, amongst the light and the heat and the blur of colours that were suddenly swirling around her. Too much. Too much. Far too much.
A hand on her face. She jerked away, kicking out, foot connecting with something hard. The hand was back—two hands, gentler than the others, on her shoulders. Yet gentle was ominous, gentle hid hate, gentle did not bode well.
“Get off me!”
The words burnt her mouth, burnt everything around her, destroying from the inside out, like a cigarette burn on paper. Yet the hands stayed on her shoulders. She scrabbled at them, trying to bite them, digging her nails into them— anything to get the stranger off her. To protect herself from the hate. The poison.
“Doctor,” a voice said, and she froze.
Doctor? Was she the Doctor? The name rang distant bells in the fogginess of her memory. Doctor. Doctor who? It had been so long since someone had called her that. It had been so long since someone had called her anything . Except bastard. Bitch. Freak. Names laced with cruelness, mocking, spite.
“Doctor,” the voice said. “I’m going to get you out of here.”
How? How? They were lying, they had to be lying, she couldn’t get out, nobody could get out. This was a trick, this had to be a trick, nobody was coming to save her. Nobody was there for her. She was alone, so alone, trapped in her cell. Her mind. Always watching the few stars glimmering in the darkness outside. Always so numb, so disconnected, so… so dead .
“Hey,” the voice whispered, as she let out a pathetic cry. “It’s OK. You’re safe with me.”
Safe.
She was never safe. Never secure. Always in danger.
“Get off me!” she yelled again, only it came out in jumbled, stuttering Gallifreyan. Talking—why was she talking? Talking didn’t do her any good. Talking meant punishment. Words meant pain.
She wasn’t touching the ground. Why wasn’t she touching the ground? She was flying—no, being lifted, lifted up in strong arms that enveloped her in a firm grasp.
“It’s OK,” the voice soothed, hot breath on her ear. “It’s OK, Doctor. I’ve got you. I came back for you, like I promised. Oh my God, what have they done to you?”
And she gave up. She went limp, head lolling back, eyes fluttering shut. Barely anything changed—she was constantly surrounded by the dark, the black, the emptiness.
What difference did it make?
***
One minute. Jack promised himself he’d nap for one minute.
One minute, which had turned into an hour.
Five hours.
In all honesty, he was exhausted to the point where grabbing some sleep seemed like the most heavenly thing on Earth. Half of him had been screaming to stay awake, to keep an eye on her, to make sure nothing went wrong. But the other half… oh, the sofa had been so welcoming, and in that single moment of weakness, he’d dropped into a deep nap that lasted far longer than he intended.
And now he was cursing himself under his breath. The strong stench of ginger clung to the apartment like ivy. Several bottles were abandoned across the kitchen table, all drained to the dregs. Jack swore he’d locked them away—but then, he realised with a sinking feeling, she had her sonic screwdriver. And locks were no match for the sonic. How stupid could he get?
The Doctor was braced by the window in the living room, head bowed, evidently trying not to fall over. She made a whimpering noise as Jack approached, shoulders squaring. It pained him how he could see even the slightest muscle movement in her body—the oversized jumper she wore didn’t hide the plain fact that she was thin, terribly malnourished, her bones jutting out against her papery skin.
“Doctor,” he said softly, and the Doctor whipped round to face him. Her widened eyes were unfocused, her scar-scattered hands fisting against the windowsill until her knuckles were white with the tension.
“Doctor, what did you do?” Jack asked. She blinked at him, swaying on her feet.
Ginger… why had she picked ginger beer? She was very obviously drunk, but ginger beer had one of the lowest alcohol percentages on Earth. In fact, it had no alcohol whatsoever. And Time Lords, Jack knew for a matter of fact, did not get drunk that easily. Was ginger a different case entirely? Too long ago, when she was a he, all big ears and leather jackets, he’d told Jack that Time Lords needed a whole river of Earth alcohol to feel the effects, as their bodies were so resilient.
But this Doctor—this shaking, terrified Doctor—was nothing near resilient. She edged away from Jack, away from the window, flattening herself against the wall.
“It’s OK,” he soothed, taking a step forward. “It’s OK, Doctor. You’re probably not used to the feeling, but I can help, alright? C’mon.” He extended a hand. The Doctor cast him a look, a look that stated that she was certainly not going to take it. “Doc, I’m just going to help you to the sofa, alright?”
She muttered something indiscernible.
Jack sighed, letting his hand drop.
Why did you do it, Doctor?
“If you’re so determined to move by yourself, then I think you should sit down, yeah?” he said, trying a different tactic. The Doctor ignored him, gripping her elbows. A flash of something crossed her face, creasing her brow and setting her mouth in a hard line. Jack was instantly on alert. “Doc? What’s hurting?”
He knew that face. He knew it all too well. A month and a bit of living with this new version of the Doctor, treating the extensive injuries she’d received in that hellhole of a prison, had taught him a lot about her. Or this crumbling shadow of her—because he knew, deep down, that she wasn’t meant to be like this. That there used to be a different personality, a different Doctor. Yet this one, the one cowering away from him right now… she hated being touched. She shrank away from him on a daily basis, folding into herself, bringing up her barriers faster than a blink of an eye. She rarely spoke—and it was this aspect that made Jack’s heart ache the most, because the few words she’d said were lilted with a Northern accent, and that accent flooded him with memories. He missed her telling stories to him, of wild exploits and risky adventures and running across space and time.
For a moment, when he’d tracked her down in that prison, he thought she would be OK. He’d thought he’d hear a laugh ring out, a warm body rushing into his arms, a soft conversation exchanged between them before they were breaking out together, hand-in-hand.
The ghost he’d found in that cell was so many people, but it wasn’t the Doctor he expected… or knew. Lank, grease-streaked hair. A rough red jumpsuit shrouding her figure. Screaming as she backed away from him. Wrenching herself from his grip. Two jagged scars bending across her face: one crusty and bruised, along her cheek, the other fresh on her forehead, still dripping with blood.
Jack found himself looking at these scars now, a hot surge of anger sweeping through him. What did they do to her there? Nobody—least of all, the Doctor—deserved to be in a place like that. Treated like animals. Forced to keep quiet, to keep small, or face the punishment. Locked away in a cramped, icy cell with no view of the stars.
The Doctor, the greatest, most eccentric traveller in the history of the universe, with an abundant love for space… and she lived without the stars for god-knows-how-long.
Starless.
***
Don’t show him you’re in pain.
Don’t show him you’re in pain.
Don’t show him you’re in pain.
She resisted the urge to slide to the ground, to succumb to the pain. Images swirled in and out, merging together in sickening whorls. An apartment, a cell. Jack, the guards. Concern, fury. Light, dark. She stumbled a little, arms flying out, grabbing onto something in front of her. Soft material of a shirt. A hard chest underneath.
Jack?
She… she was… was she safe?
A cry bubbled in her throat and she pulled herself away. This was a trick, a mind trick. Psychic fields in the prison—artificially generated, designed to mess with her head, blur the line between what she wanted to think and what they were forcing her to see. She’d worked it out a while ago, in her first few weeks here—there?—but by then it had been too late. Far too late.
She choked on a rising sob, legs giving way beneath her. Ginger? Why could she taste ginger? Spicy aftertastes lurking at the corners of her mouth, stinging her tongue when she poked at them. Oh… she recalled grabbing the neck of cool bottles, uncapping them with a flick of her thumb, downing them in mere gulps. Craving a cure to the pain that was threatening to tear her apart.
It did nothing for her. The pain only intensified.
Don’t show him your weaknesses. Don’t show him you’re on the verge of breaking. Don’t show him any emotion.
Wait for him to go away.
Jack?
No.
Yes.
No.
Her attempts to heal her bleeding mind were shaky, unstable, as fragile as a glass feather. In the brief moments of clarity, which were sporadic and hidden by the haze of her confusion, she’d tried to reconnect the remains. Slot the breaking jigsaw pieces back together, sew up the fraying material, mend the feeble remains. It took time, and energy… too much energy… and more often than not, her struggling efforts were futile.
Energy.
Too much energy.
Oh, she was so tired…
...and she was bleeding. She could feel it, the sticky, warm texture seeping through her bandages, the very heart and soul of the pain. It would be so much easier to slip into the darkness, to let herself fall and fall until she couldn’t feel herself falling. Nobody there to catch her. Nobody there to bring her back up. Just her and the darkness, the oppressive darkness, entrancing her into its world that she so loved and loathed.
In the darkness, nothing and nobody could hurt her.
In the darkness, everything and everybody could hurt her.
Lights flickered before her eyes. For a moment, she was touching the shirt again, gripping it for support—because it felt so familiar. Jack? Jack Harkness? Was it really him, or was it her mind playing games? She tried to reach out, feel the mind in front of hers, connect with it for the briefest of seconds. It was so hard. She let go, let the shirt go, let the hope go… because it was fake. Fake hope. She couldn’t tell the difference between reality and the mess of her mind.
Sickness coiled in her gut. The next thing she knew, her knees were hitting the ground and stomach acid was burning her mouth, retching out all she could. The ginger bristled mockingly in her mouth. The wound contorted on her torso, and with it came a horrible scream, a scream that tore at her ears, a scream that resonated so deeply with her… because it was her voice. Her scream. Her pain.
No. No. No. Not the pain.
Don’t show him you’re in pain.
Don’t show him your weakness. Don’t show him you’re weak.
She stood. Blood. Staining. Leaking through the jumper. She glanced at her fingers, clamped over the material, and saw the shining liquid against her skin. Her eyes flicked upwards to meet—to meet his , whoever he was, the man that was staring at the blood with a look of absolute horror on his face. A light navy shirt. Smart jeans. Army-style boots. They triggered something in her head, gave her a sense she could trust him—
No. She couldn’t trust anyone.
She couldn’t let them touch her.
Don’t show him you’re in pain.
The darkness came, as quiet as snowfall. She was buried in it almost instantly.
***
Jack caught the Doctor as she crumpled, tucking his arms under her knees and shoulders, scooping her up against his chest. For a moment, he was stunned—he hadn’t expected her to be so weightless, so frail. And this was the first time he could hold her without having a blow aimed (and often delivered at him). Jack bit down on his lip, cradling the silent Time Lady in his arms, watching the unconsciousness weigh down on her features. Light hair framing her face, curling just under her chin. Sweeping cheekbones and a sharp jawline. Even the two scars disfiguring her face couldn’t hide how lucky she’d been with this regeneration.
The Doctor gave a little moan, snapping him out of his thoughts, and he cursed under his breath as he saw the steadily-growing dark patch on her jumper. He’d been so sure the wound was healing—but then again, he’d been sure about taking a nap, and look where that had ended up.
Setting her down on the sofa, Jack made sure she was in a comfortable position and started to ease her jumper off. Every week, since he’d arrived with a half-alive Doctor in his arms, he had insisted on changing the dressings on the wound on her torso. Not that the Doctor had let him touch her; she’d done it herself, surprisingly steady hands unwinding the bandages, washing the wound, applying fresh cotton bandages with no sign of any pain whatsoever. Jack figured she liked the opportunity to take care of herself, after all those years. And he figured she didn’t want him anywhere near her bare skin.
By far, this wound was the worst of the lot. She had a couple of nasty gashes on her legs, multiple bruises and scars flung across her body like a morbid constellation, the two scars on her face. But this wound had clearly been caused by something much different. It stretched across the left side of her ribcage, curving into a too-straight line across her stomach. It ran deeper than the rest, he recalled, twisting and ugly. Jack dreaded to think what might’ve caused it.
Praying for the best, he pulled the jumper over her head. He didn’t realise his eyes had been squeezed shut until he opened them—and looked down.
And nearly threw up.
It had been five days since he’d last checked it. This could’ve been going on for five days. And he hadn’t noticed.
No wonder the Doctor was in so much pain.
A greenish-yellow substance crusted along the edges of the gash, mixing with the drying blood. It was hotter than the rest of her body, far too hot: Jack could feel the heat radiating from it from his position next to the Doctor. Instinctively, he folded her hand in both of his, squeezing it, trying to press warmth into those bony fingers. Hoping she would feel his presence.
She trembled under his grasp—no, no, it was her pulses, her hearts, thrumming so fast that they were nothing more than an indistinguishable blur of beats, shaking her body with the speed. Jack withdrew his grip, old soldier’s medical instincts kicking in as he scanned her, careful not to let his gaze linger on anything for too long. He respected the Doctor’s boundaries. He knew she would hate this situation right now.
“Why didn’t you tell me, Doctor?” he breathed. “Why?”
Jack rose to his feet. Bathroom first, for antiseptic wipes, new bandages, the variety medicines he’d collected from across the galaxies over the years. There had to be something in there that could help. He’d clean the wound, work out what the infection was, give the Doctor what she needed. If the universe was on his side today, this would only be a blip on the radar. Something he could sort out in twelve, twenty-four hours.
The slightest pressure around his hand stilled him.
“Jack?” a weak voice whispered, and his heart skipped a beat.
“Doctor,” he whispered, dropping down beside her. “It’s me.”
“It’s you,” she answered. “Promise it’s you?”
“I promise, Doctor. It’s one hundred percent me.”
“What… what’s happening to me? I think I’m losing it, Jack. Everything, it’s just… it’s just a foggy mess. I don’t know where I am. I don’t know what’s happening. What’s happening? What happened ?”
With a jolt, he realised her eyes were clear. Looking at him directly. Greenish hazel irises, flecked with gold. It was the first proper eye contact she’d made with him since he broke her out of prison. Was this… was this progress? Was everything going to be OK?
The Doctor coughed, a violent, hacking cough. “I—I’m not me. I’m trapped, Jack.”
“Trapped?” he echoed.
“Cell,” she murmured. “Me. I’m… I’m trapped. I can’t get out.”
“You’re free,” Jack reassured. “You’re safe with me. We’re in Cardiff, Doc, in an apartment on the edge of the city. There’s a beautiful view of the sky, especially at night. There are so many stars. Galaxies, even. You’ll love it.”
“No.” The Doctor shook her head. “There are no stars, Jack. I’m trapped and I’m lonely and I’m scared , Jack. Nothing’s here. Nobody’s here. You’re… you’re not here. Not really. It’s just me. Without the stars.”
“Doctor, you’re—”
“Don’t lie to me. You’re not real. This isn’t real.” Her voice grew hoarse, on the verge of tears. “I’m alone. I’m trapped.”
“Doctor…”
Jack was lost for words. The Doctor’s taut grip slackened, her cheek turning to rest on the arm of the sofa with a heavy sigh. Jack sat there, frozen, wordlessly begging her to wake up again. To see that this apartment, this world… that he was real, alive, by her side.
I’m trapped and I’m lonely and I’m scared , Jack.
You’re not here. Not really.
It’s just me. Without the stars.