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It's late - or early, depending how you look at it, and the pub is nearly empty. Jack's the only one left sitting at the bar; two tables are still occupied, and a lone couple is swaying on what passes for a dance floor. Quiet, but although it's a pretty fancy place as pubs go, something about the atmosphere here has always been soothing.
Jack's not sure what makes him turn around when the door opens.
The figure in the brown suit and coat is as familiar as it's unexpected. Jack feels the corners of his mouth turn up.
The Doctor stops just inside the door. His eyes scan the room, quickly taking in everything and dismissing it with Time Lord indifference, and come to rest on Jack. They look at each other across the room. Jack grins and sketches a salute; the Doctor returns it sloppily as always. He's standing there at the door, hands stuffed into the pockets of his coat, looking impatient and maybe a little bit unsure.
Jack raises his eyebrows in silent challenge. The Doctor huffs, but comes over to him. It's clearly not what he'd prefer, but he does come. Jack's not sure exactly what that means, but it means something.
He's past running after the Doctor, after all. Or so he likes to tell himself.
When he'd said good-bye to the Doctor after the year aboard the Valiant, he'd been sure he wouldn't see the Time Lord again for at least another century or so. But then had come that unexpected, unprecedented, amazing encounter in the Hub a few weeks later - and he'd known they'd soon meet again.
When the Doctor is standing in front of him, impatient, practically bouncing on the balls of his feet, Jack looks him up and down with intent, putting his entire body into the effort.
"Drink?" he asks. He can feel his skin thrumming with anticipation and hopes he's not deluding himself.
The Doctor seems to be looking right into his soul for a moment. Then he grins widely. "Banana daiquiri?" he asks hopefully.
And Jack laughs. "Anything you want," he promises in his sultriest voice and waves at the bored barkeep.
The Doctor hums, and his eyes crinkle. "Careful what you offer," he says lightly. "Might take you up on it."
Something inside Jack is pleasantly coiling up, getting ready to spring. "Dare you."
The Doctor's eyes travel over his body, deliberately, slowly. "I think you had a taste already." His lips are slightly parted, and the tip of his tongue is showing. Jack nearly shivers remembering what those lips, that tongue did to him, only a few days ago.
"So," Jack says wryly after he's ordered the Doctor's cocktail, "I gather you don't mind."
The Doctor grins. "So I said."
For a while they're saying nothing, and Jack's getting the impression they're grinning at each other like idiots. A brief glance at the barkeep, who's just turning on the blender, confirms it - her smile is tolerantly amused, and she clearly thinks they're cute.
He files that bit of info about her away and focuses on the Doctor again. "Still difficult to look at me?" he asks. It's something he's been thinking about, ever since that day on Malcassairo, but now it no longer seems a heavy weight.
The Doctor tugs at his earlobe. "Not so much." He places a hand on Jack's chest, his fingers splayed over the shirt. "Amazing what you can get used to."
Jack puts a hand on the Doctor's hip. Bony, even through the suit. He resists, for now, the temptation to rub his thumb over the hipbone. "Told you you were just prejudiced."
"Terrified," the Doctor corrects, quietly. "Completely terrified." This close, here in the small, warm space between their bodies, even this sounds like a caress.
After a moment they come apart, a little awkwardly - nothing's really happened, except that everything has.
Then the Doctor's drink arrives, and he pounces on it with glee. Jack basks in the Doctor's happiness, and for a while they're just chatting, telling stories, talking about everything and nothing. The Doctor shares an unlikely tale about meeting himself - it seems to involve celery somehow -, topping it off by referring to meeting himself (several himselves) before. Jack returns the favour with some of Torchwood's recent exploits, only slightly edited. (This is still the Doctor, after all.) They trade small smiles and strangely innocent touches, and Jack senses no hesitation in the Doctor. After their last whirlwind encounter, this is almost leisurely - slow and deliberate, seductive in a completely different way. The tension's slowly winding up, up.
Eventually - the Doctor is on his third banana daiquiri - they fall silent again.
The Doctor begins to fidget. After a while, he jumps off his bar stool and bounces on his feet. He holds out a hand. "Come on then, Captain."
Jack isn't in any hurry, however. It's not as if this - this slow, intent, careful seduction - is likely to happen again any time soon.
"No rush," he says, waggling his eyebrows. "Anticipation's half the fun, or so they tell me."
He waves the Doctor back to his seat. But the Time Lord remains standing, looking at him with an unreadable expression. Fidgeting again.
"So, after this ..." The Doctor scuffs his toe. "Come with me again?"
Jack freezes. He releases a frustrated breath, the pleasant coil of tension gone in an instant. He should have expected this, but he's still inexplicably disappointed. Tempted, too, but he knows better. The Doctor's just confirmed - out loud, too - that there is a this, there will be a this - once upon a time, that would have been more than enough. And yet ... It's always all or nothing with him, isn't it? Up and down - the rollercoaster experience of time spent with the Doctor. "You know I said ..."
The Doctor looks down, tugs at his earlobe. "I don't mean now. You said no, you said why, and I can't - I won't - argue with that. But ..." He leans forward, intently. "When you're ready ... whenever you're ready ... Come with me, eventually?"
Jack blinks in shock, swallows around the sudden lump in his throat. His eyes are stinging, and sheer joy is coursing through him. And he finally believes, truly believes in the Doctor's intent.
The Doctor is still lousy at talking about anything that matters, but right now he's getting the important things across just fine.
Jack's entire body is humming, a slow, delicious burn. He takes the Doctor's face between his hands, a careful, unhurried gesture, and places a gentle kiss on his lips. Then he takes hold of his hand and pulls him away from the bar, to the dance floor. For once, the Doctor follows his lead without question.
Something seems to be bursting inside him as they sway slowly in time to the music. He doesn't have words for it, but it feels as if he's just been handed the whole world.
Maybe he has.
And he can feel it in the cool, steady hands on his back, see it in those deep, timeless eyes: The Doctor knows exactly what Jack is feeling right now.
The Doctor's not the only one who can speak without talking.