I'm not sure about this one. :|
Was it any good?

Title: All That's Left 4/?
Author: eryaforsthye
Rating: PG (this part)
Pairing: Jack/Ten, Ten/Master (implied)
Disclaimer: Not mine.
SPOILERS for Last Of The Time Lords.

Summary:
/>The Doctor's lost the Master, but what has he gained?

One: Breaking

Two: Waking

Three: Talking



The room is bright and sun-filled when you open your eyes, but the bed is cold and empty, so you close them again and bury your head under the covers and don't think about yesterday, don't think about tomorrow.
Don't ever think again.

You're firmly ensconced in the process of putting yourself back to sleep, when a loud, inappropriately bouncy step and a strong hand pulling back your precious warm layers, announce that Jack clearly has other plans for the day.

"Rise and shine! Up and at 'em! C'mon, it's a beautiful morning!"

He gives you an enormous, toothy grin and you think you might despise that booming, loud cheeriness, if you had the energy.

As it is, you silently let him propel you into an upright position and feel only a mild, distant surprise that his hands don't even begin to wander.
(and these days you're not even sure you wouldn't want them to)

"Here you go!"

He drops a small plastic tray lightly into your lap and you look down at it.
And blink.

(no weeping angels here, only a booming Hercules and a broken devil)

You stare at the objects sitting innocently in your lap.

Pancakes.
Covered in what looks like maple syrup.

You blink once more to make absolutely certain you're not even madder than you thought you were.

"Made them myself."

Jack informs you proudly.

You look at him.

He shifts slightly.

"Well, sort of."

You look at him.

"Well, I got Ianto to fetch some."

You don't know who or what 'Ianto' is, but Jack looks so very sheepish you can't help but smile, just for a second.

And a second is long enough, apparently, because he beams at you as if you'd just saved his life (or ended it) and nudges your hand toward the plastic fork.

(all the cutlery he's given you is plastic and you're not sure how it's meant to make the slightest bit of difference)

You obligingly pick up the fork and stab the pancake with it.
Viciously.

It feels surprisingly good.

You don't look at Jack as he gently (everything Jack does now is gentle and you don't dare speculate on why or how it makes you feel) removes the plate and proceeds to slice your pancake for you.

(and you're fairly certain it shouldn't feel so nice to be treated like a child, but it does)

He hands you back the plate with an encouraging smile, and he looks so hopeful, so caring, you surrender and hesitantly select a random maple-soaked slice and stick it unceremoniously in your mouth.
Tentatively, you swirl it around with your tongue, feeling it spark long-forgotten taste-buds, and you enjoy it, almost against your will.

It feels good.

Almost as good as the sheer delight on Jack's face.

So you pick up another slice, and another, always watching his face, just out of the corner of your eye, watching his smile bloom, his cheeks dimple.
You eat faster, devouring your Jack-given pancakes until you're sure his face is going to split in half from that ever-widening grin.

On your seventeenth bite it occurs to you that this is the first meal you've eaten in over a year that wasn't delivered with a dog bowl and a gloating, knowing smile.

You choke.

Coughing and dry-retching as the memories, those painful, humiliating, hopeful memories, come flooding back in full breath-taking force.

And you can't breathe, can't see, but Jack's there, holding you, pressing cool soothing water to your lips, supporting you, and always, always there.

He's rubbing your back, now that the worst of it is over, rubbing your back calmingly, apologetically, and you press your head against his shoulder, press yourself against that warmth, that solidity, press your face into his fresh cotton shirt, so that no-one can see your shame, your weakness.
No-one.
Not even you.

And you breathe, in and out, in and out, just one at a time, gaspingly then softly, as his hand threads through your hair, stroking oh-so gently.
Saving you one strand at a time.

And you're glad he can't see you, can't see your face, (can't see you for what you actually are) because then you can blame the dampness of his shirt on spilt water or sweat or blood.

(not tears, never tears, he always said you were too weak)

Jack won't ask any questions.

Not yet.

And you dread and long for the day when he finally will.