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Summary
The Doctor and Jack spend a night in an alien club, getting sloppily drunk, dancing, and having a conversation that's long overdue.
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The Doctor’s sipping her drink carefully through the pink, spirally straw she’d got on the Britney Spears floor and flapping a napkin in front of her face to cool herself down.
“I just think,” she says, very carefully, in that clear, over-enunciated way of the thoroughly drunk, “I just think,” and she lifts a sharp finger to jab at Jack’s chest. “I just think that it’s my God-given right to be moody when…” she slurps at her Pop and Fizzle, and hiccoughs. She doesn’t finish her sentence.
Her words filter through slowly. Jack’s been drinking for several hours now, and it takes him a moment to pick through them. “Do you believe in God?” he asks, curious.
“Oh. No.” She blinks rapidly.
"Why are you moody?”
The Doctor’s face darkens, and her mouth twists downwards. A soft sigh. “All my people are dead.”