Title: Last Man Standing
By: el_evergreen
Pairing: 10/Jack
Rating: PG
Author's Notes: It's kind of long. Sorry. *blushes* Also implies past Doctor/Rose and past Jack/Ianto.
Summary: 400 years in the future, the Doctor finds Jack is still fighting and still just as beautiful as he always was.

***

"Why do we always stop in Cardiff to refuel?"

The Doctor frowns as he heads for the door of the TARDIS. Glancing over his shoulder he asks, "What's wrong with Cardiff?"

"Nothing, I suppose," Martha replies, a bit of pout in her tone. "It's just…Cardiff. Nothing to do, really. Aren't there other places to refuel?"

"I like Cardiff," he says stubbornly, placing a hand on the door. "It's a nice place, with nice people and really nice pizza."

"You eat pizza?" she queries, grabbing her coat off the console and slipping it around her shoulders as she follows his path to the door. "I never knew."

"You've been with me how long, and you didn't know I like pizza?"

"You never said."

"I suppose you never asked."

The Doctor grins as Martha shakes her head. In reality, it's been about four months since they last visited Cardiff, in 2007. They're four hundred years in the future, now, and the Doctor's curious as to what waits beyond the TARDIS doors.

"Right then," she says. "Cardiff, 2407, here we come!"

The Doctor throws open the TARDIS doors and, grinning, turns to stare out at the…

"…This is supposed to be Cardiff, right?" Martha whispers, "I was joking before when I said it was nothing, but this really is nothing."

The two of them are standing in the doorway, staring wide-eyed at what looks like the remains of a city, if they can be classified as remains. There's not a building (or anything remotely resembling a building) as far as they can see and everything is covered in a thick, white dust.

"W-what–" he stammers, looking around, turning in complete circles while taking in the state of everything. Even the familiar water tower in front of the Millennium Centre is gone.

"What's happened, Doctor? Did we land in the wrong time again?"

He shakes his head, "No. This is right. I mean, this isn't right. We're in the right time, but this…"

Daring to venture out, he takes a step forward and nearly loses his footing as something beneath his feet slides a bit, throwing him off balance. It settles into the rest of the rubble, and the Doctor can only stare. He can think of nothing that provides any reasoning as to why this has happened, or any hint as to what caused it.

"D'you think anyone survived?"

"I don't know," he answers truthfully. He silently hopes no one did; he can't imagine the pain of being stuck under an entire city. It's obvious that it collapsed, but "how" is a question he has no answer to.

"We should search," she says, a tone of finality to her voice. He knows her training as a medical student is kicking in, and it's one thing he truly admires about her; he would never think to search for survivors in a place like this.

Martha sets off, carefully picking her way across the rubble, calling out in a loud voice, "Can anyone hear me? Is there anyone alive?"

Deciding he'd better help, the Doctor glances around, clears his throat and calls rather weakly, "Hellooo?"

They search for what seems like hours before, very faintly, he hears Martha call from a distance, "Doctor, I think you need to see this."

He picks his way to her, squinting against the sunlight. The sky is so blue, so clear and calm over the ruins of the city that it's almost cruel.

"What've you got?" he asks when he reaches her, hoping the horrified look on her face is just her being over-dramatic.

Stepping aside, Martha whispers, "I'm sorry."

At first, all he can see is an arm… and that's all he needs. He'd recognise the sleeve of that coat anywhere. Still, he must be certain. He takes a cautious step forward, then another. And then he sees the face that belongs to the body. Lying there, half buried beneath what looks like the remains of a wall, was the man he thought he wouldn't see again for a very long time.

"Oh, Jack…" He kneels carefully, examining the still face of his former companion. It, too, is covered in a thin layer of the white dust that decorates the ground. There are several cuts and bruises on his face.

"Another, Doctor!" Martha cries from somewhere behind him. "I've found indentification… Melissa Thompson, Torchwood Three."

"He stayed with his team," the Doctor whispers as he glances around, and he now knows they're standing where one of the entrances to Torchwood must've been. He grasps the edge of the wall that's covering Jack, and heaves it off, cursing at it's weight. He flinches as it crashes loudly to the ground, colliding with the other rubble around it.

Carefully, he reaches out to brush Jack's hair off his forehead and it takes everything he has not to gasp or jump up and down with glee when he sees his head twitch beneath his hand. "Jack?" Jack's eyes flutter open, so slowly, and he stares up, blinking rapidly against the bright sun. Holding his hand over his face to sheild the light, the Doctor offers a smile. "Good morning."

A confused look crosses his face as he gazes up at him. There's silence for what seems like eternity. Finally, he manages to speak. "Doctor?"

"It's me," the Doctor says quietly, reaching down to take Jack's trembling hand in his own. "I'm here. I'm back."

Jack squeezes his hand ever-so-lightly, barely hard enough to be detected. "What happened?"

"I don't know. We came to refuel… Cardiff is, well, sort of gone. You don't remember?"

"Just a big explosion," he whispers slowly, painfully. "Had threats for months–" he cuts off and inhales sharply.

"Oh my God, he's awake!" There's a serious of crashes and shuffles as Martha makes her way over. "I don't know why I didn't expect you to have survived, I mean–"

"Martha." The Doctor cuts her off shortly, politely, but firm enough to make his point.

"I'm sorry," she says, lowering her head.

He begins to stand, but the action is cut short when he feels Jack grasp his arm weakly. "Don't…"

"Don’t what?"

He fights for air, for enough oxygen to say what he wants to be said. "Don't…leave again. Please…"

The Doctor trembles as a wave of emotion passes through him. He wants to leave. He wants to run away and never look back.

Taking a deep breath, making a decision he knows he'd make a million times if given the chance to do it over again, the Doctor kneels. "I'm not leaving." Jack gives him a quivering smile, and he turns to look at Martha over his shoulder. "Can I move him?"

Martha frowns, kneeling next to the Doctor. She knows he shouldn't be moved without proper equipment, but taking in the obvious lack of hospitals and the current situation, she sighs and nods. "Yes, just be careful."

The two of them figure out how to get Jack to his feet in the most comfortable way possible (though even the most comfortable choices left them with screams and cries of pain in their ears), and begin making their way back to the TARDIS.

Once back inside, Martha has dragged her emergency medical kit out of her bag and insists on tending to him. He's not in a state to protest, so he simply reclines back and rests his head on the Doctor's arm, in the bend of his elbow.

"My team…" he says quietly after nearly half an hour of silence.

"They're gone, Jack," the Doctor says, and kicks himself for the lack of emotion or caring in his voice. He can't help it; it's only the truth.

"Figured as much," he replied, his voice still weak and shaking. "I was…just gonna say that…" he pauses to take a few breaths, and then continues, "they were real soldiers… just kept on going."

"What happened out there?" Martha asks as she tends to a nasty looking cut on Jack's arm.

"Aliens…not just one race, either. Blew up the city and left… got what they came for, I suppose."

"And what did they come for?" The Doctor tries hard not to move too much; he doesn't want to put any more strain on Jack's neck than he has to, but his arm is beginning to fall asleep.

"Don't know," he replies.

Martha works in silence again for a few moments before finally saying, "Right. Amazingly, nothing's broken… just horribly bruised. You'll be sore for a few days."

"If I live that long, right?" he says, a hint of sarcasm in his voice.

"You need to rest," the Doctor says. He knows Jack's in trouble, and doubts his body's ever taken this much of a beating without dying. "You can stay in the medical room–"

"No," Jack whispers the protest quickly. "Anywhere but…there. I'll be fine… can I have my old room?"

Right then, the Doctor would've given him anything in the world.

-- --

It's near two in the morning at the Doctor's guess, and the lights inside the TARDIS have dimmed to accommodate the sleeping humans aboard. He loves this time of night, when it's just him and his ship. The hum of the TARDIS engine changes pitch slightly, interrupting his thoughts, and the Doctor sighs. "Suppose I should go check on him…"

Pushing open the door of the room where Jack was sleeping, the Doctor peers into the darkness. He listens, quietly, holding a breath he didn't need. Silence. No, that can't be right. He takes another step into the room, leaning forward slightly, his heart pounding.

There it is; Jack's steady, deep breathing coming from the far corner of the room. The Doctor sighs, letting out that breath. Then, he frowns. Had he really expected him to…

"Doctor?"

"What, Jack?" he winces at the snap in his own voice.

Jack must've heard it too, because he's quiet for a moment. "Sorry, for what I said earlier. About you leaving."

"That's over. I'm back now, and I didn't leave you this time." He sighs, running a hand through his hair in slight irritation, and adds, "Suppose I should be the one apologising, anyway."

"It's okay."

He turns to leave, "Go back to sleep."

"Doctor?"

"What?"

"Stay with me?" His voice trembles, like that of a child who's just woken from a nightmare, begging someone to stay with him just until he falls asleep again.

And the Doctor can't find it in him to say no. He can't say anything, in fact, and is slightly stunned to find himself closing the door and crossing the dark room to the area where Jack's voice had been coming from.

There's just enough light creeping under the door to allow the Doctor to see the outline of Jack's body on the bed. He's lying on his back, his arms stretched above his head. For a moment, just a moment, the Doctor wonders how many late night, one-time lovers have had the luxury of being wrapped in those arms, if only for a few hours.

He shakes the thought from his head and lowers himself onto the bed, taking care not to shift the weight too much. His efforts fail, and a quiet whimper of pain escapes Jack.

"Sorry," he says, freezing in a half-sitting position, afraid to move again and cause any more pain.

He feels Jack's hands, gentle but firm, on his shoulders, pulling him back onto the pillows in a silent acceptance of his apology.

After a great deal of shifting and cursing about a pain in his neck (and explaining to the Doctor that his recovery time depends the seriousness of the injury), Jack finally situates himself into a position comfortable enough to allow him to rest his head on the Doctor's shoulder and drape an arm across his chest.

"Thank you," he whispers, "for staying."

"It's no trouble," the Doctor replies, "Rose used to…" he trails off, knowing his habit of bringing Rose into every conversation has to stop.

"Go on," Jack says. "I don't mind."

"She used to ask me to stay with her sometimes."

Jack smiles against his shoulder and makes a suggestive noise. The Doctor rolls his eyes; even with injuries that would kill a normal human being, Jack's innuendo-filled personality is in overdrive. "Sorry, big guy," he says. "Keep your evocative grunts out of this one; they don't belong."

Looking up, the gentle glow from beneath the door causing his eyes to glisten in the darkness, Jack frowns. "You mean you guys never–"

"We had our moments," the Doctor interrupts, more abruptly than intended. "Sorry, we just…" he sighs.

"You don't have to say."

And he doesn't. There are just some things — like the agreement — he'd like to keep between him and Rose.

-- --

It's been a few days since Jack was rescued by the Doctor and Martha, and already he feels like things are back to normal. Almost. His right leg still hasn't fully recovered (the Doctor jokes that they'll have to buy him a pimp cane) and he's still subject to random migranes. Martha — just to add icing to the cake — has also diagnosed him with a concussion.

He's able to be out and about, though, and tonight they've decided on dinner in 2030 Greece. Martha complains that she's not one for foreign foods, so they have to persuade the cook to make a hamburger and chips for her.

"So, you stickin' around, Jack?" she asks between bites of a burger larger than her face.

"I have no where else to go," he replies, not liking how much he's beginning to sound like a homeless person. He supposes he is, in a sense.

"How'd your team react when we brought you back? Er…the one…long time ago, in 2007. If you remember."

Indeed, it's been nearly four hundred years, but some things you just don't forget. Gwen had nearly knocked him over when she'd tackle-hugged him, and Owen'd kept checking to make sure he wasn't a ghost — or an alien in disguise. Toshiko, bless her, had cried for what seemed like hours on end and shamefully admitted that she'd honestly thought him to be dead. Ianto…Ianto had been angry.

Jack knows if there's one thing he'll remember, it's the way Ianto reacted when he returned. It wasn't at all like he had planned. "It's been a year, Jack," he'd said, "and you just come waltzing back in here, expecting us to forgive you? You left us." Oh, how Jack knew what it felt like to be abandoned.

Ianto'd had every right to be angry, too. Though, to be fair, and in his defence, Jack hadn't realised how long he'd been gone. After he sat Ianto (hysterical and absolutely refusing to listen for the first hour or so) down and explained to him what had happened — everything: the Doctor, Rose, the TARDIS, not being able to die and why he's not able to die — the anger passed.

What it gave way to, however, was something Jack never expected. No matter how unexpected, it was welcomed with open arms. Quite literally. Jack isn't sure he'll ever be held, or hold another person, the way they held each other that night; so desperately, each afraid that the other might slip away at any given, unsuspecting moment. It'd been one of the best nights of his life that he could remember…

"Jack?"

He blinks, forcing down a rather painful lump in throat. "Sorry," he says, his voice cracking. "They were…yeah, they were happy." Reaching up, he brushes away a single tear that he hadn't known was there before and hopes that it's dark enough in the restaurant that the other two hadn't noticed it.

Fat chance. He glances across the booth at the Doctor. He's watching him, studying him profoundly with a look that's both questioning and sympathetic, and Jack wagers that's not the end of this conversation. This new regeneration has a problem with curiosity.

-- --

He can't help himself. He knew that look in the restaurant the very first second he'd seen it; he'd been through it enough himself, but he has to ask.

"What was that about, in the restaurant?"

Jack, curled up in the Doctor's chair in the console room, looks up from the book in his hands. "What?"

"When Martha asked you about your team…"

Frowning, Jack looks back down to his book. "I don't ask you to talk about Rose, Doctor. Please don't ask me to talk about them."

The Doctor sighs, fiddling with the sleeve of his shirt. "Fair enough," he says quietly, "but…if you want to talk…"

"Dig you being emotional." Amusement laces Jack's voice as he peers at the Doctor over his book.

"Fine." He was only trying to help, but if that's the way he wants to be about it, two can play that game. He turns his back to him. "Forget I said anything; I don't want to hear your sappy sob-story."

Jack slams the book shut with such force that it actually causes the Doctor to flinch. He turns back to face him, and for one of the very few times in his life, he's terrified at what he sees. All trace of any sense of humour, youth or innocence that had graced his face before was gone.

His jaw is set, his hands closed so tightly around the book that the Doctor feared it may snap in half. That’s not what frightens him, though. His eyes, lit with a wild fire of anger and resentment, bear into him like something the Doctor doesn't even want to begin to try and describe.

"My sob-story?" he echoes the Doctor's last words, his voice so quiet that it's nearly inaudible. "You want a story, Doctor? Because I've got one for you."

The Doctor opens his mouth to protest, apologise, anything… but Jack continues.

"1941, I'm living as a relatively happy conman, making good money and meeting good-natured people who are even better in bed. Then, I meet a young blonde whom I assume to be a Time Agent: bingo. After all, it's the Agency I'm conning. And then you come along, bust up my act and jump rather rudely on my case about a problem I didn't even realise I'd caused."

He knows Jack's right; he knows where this story is going and he doesn't want it to go there, but he can't seem to stop him. All he can do is lean against the wall behind him and listen, all the while praying Jack doesn't decide his story needs physical reinforcement.

"I was willing to sacrifice myself for those people, Doctor. I stopped that bomb from landing, and d'you know what? I wish you'd left me to die out there with my ship, because then I wouldn't have been rescued by you and your companion and your damned TARDIS. You want me to keep going, Doc? 'Cause I'm on a roll."

Silence.

"Eight months I travelled with you and Rose. Eight, not seven like you told Martha. That's okay, I know it's hard to keep track when you're an unstable Time Lord who can hardly remember how many companions he's had."

The Doctor opens his mouth to protest to this unfair comment, but Jack, like he said, was on a roll.

"Are you paying attention over there? Because this is where it gets good. 200,100 on a little place called the Game Station, previously Satellite Five, I believe, we find out that your little Time War wasn't as successful as you thought. The Daleks survived while your people died. We could've left, Doctor. We could've got back in that TARDIS and took off after we found out Rose wasn't really dead. But no. You had to stay and play the hero, and that was okay with me because that's what you are. You don't give up without a fight and, no matter how hard I don't want to, I respect that. I agreed to fight with you, even after you sent Rose home and figured out there was no way for us to get out alive."

"I stood there, right there next to you, Doctor. I never questioned you. I never thought, 'Does he really know what he's doing?' I never asked myself if I was sure I wanted to support you, because I knew it was the right thing to do. I knew I'd follow you to Hell and back. I died, Doctor. I died fighting for Earth, and for the people left on that station. I died fighting for Rose and I died fighting for you."

His voice cracks, and he pauses momentarily. "And how did you thank me? You left me. Alone. I was the only person left there, Doctor. Do you know how long I waited on that place for you to come back for me?"

The Doctor blinks, praying his voice doesn't fail him. "How long?"

"Three days. I tried convincing myself you just left to go get Rose, or that you'd realise something was wrong and come back for me. Three days. When I realised you'd left me, I still waited. I waited a hundred and fifty years for you, Doctor, because I kept telling myself, 'He'll show up, Jack. He'll be here somewhere, and when he sees you he'll be so happy you're still alive.' And then what? When you finally do show up again in Cardiff, you try to leave me again!"

"I'm sorry, Jack, I–"

"Trying to take off in the TARDIS when you can clearly see me running after you is not a good way to prove how sorry you were in the first place, Doctor, and sometimes 'sorry' just doesn't cut it. This is one of those times."

"But you're here now," the Doctor says, almost positive that he can hear his own voice trembling. Very few people have had an effect like this on him, and he must admit he never imagined Jack would one of them. "You're here, and I haven't left you."

"Is that supposed to be some kind of reassurance?" Jack's voice is softer now, most of the anger having finally passed. "Am I supposed to take that as some kind of promise, Doctor? Because it's weak. It's really, really weak." His hand subconsciously goes to his chest, his breathing laboured.

Without thinking, almost as if he's been doing it for Jack's entire life, the Doctor reaches for a cool cloth that's been placed on the console for use in the event that a fever started. He walks to Jack and kneels by the chair, placing the cloth gently over his head. He can feel the heat through the folds of it.

"I don't make promises, Jack," he says quietly. "I can't make promises. I promised Rose, and look what happened." He sighs. "I can tell you that, for now, I'm not going anywhere. Is that good enough?"

Jack studies him for a moment, bright blue eyes staring at him from underneath the green cloth and his dark hair. Finally, he whispers a single word. "Yes."

-- --

"I heard you arguing," Martha says, stopping Jack in the TARDIS hallway as he heads for bed. "Seems like you two have been through a lot."

Jack drapes the towel he'd been drying his hair with over his shoulder and crosses his arms. "Does it?" He couldn't stop the sarcasm dripping from his voice.

"I just hope I have stories like that to tell one day."

"No you don't," he says. He wants to laugh at her, but he also feels bad; she's so infatuated with the Doctor that she doesn't realise how much it hurts to travel with him. "Trust me, you don't."

Tugging the towel off his shoulder, he turns and continues to his room.

"Do you love him?"

He stops short. "What?"

"I was just curious," she says, her voice quiet. "It just doesn't seem like you'd wait for someone or look for them that long if you don't love them."

He's beginning to wonder if she heard their conversation on accident, or if she was actually eavesdropping. Nevertheless, he thinks about the question. Does he love the Doctor? Does he even know what love is anymore? Countless years of one-night stands with humans and aliens alike tell him that he's forgotten what it feels like to truly care for someone.

Then, he thinks of Ianto and the way he felt around him. A few words, a subtle touch, a look that only the two of them could detect… it had been pure bliss. Of course, those feelings weren't exactly the same with the Doctor — there was more of a feeling of safety and contentment than anything else.

Still, he chooses not to answer. "Goodnight, Martha," he says, and continues to his room.

-- --

Jack lies in bed, staring up at the ceiling. His conversation with Martha abd gus verbal attack of the Doctor (unnecessary, he's decided) replay through his head. He wonders if he'll be soon abandoned again…

His door opens, and he squints against the light that floods in.

"Sorry," the Doctor's voice says, and the door closes quickly. "Did I wake you?"

"No," he replies, trying to figure out why the Doctor would be coming to his room; he's recovered enough now that he doesn't need to be checked on. "Somethin' wrong?"

"Erm… no," the Doctor replies, his voice unsure. "Can we talk, Jack?"

As long as he's been alive, Jack's hated those three words. Still, he sits up. "I guess."

There's a shuffling noise as the Doctor makes his way over, and a shift on the bed as he sits. "I wanted to…about earlier, I'm sorry."

"It's okay."

"No, I was thinking about everything you said. It's true. I was so wrapped up in Rose that–"

"Stop it," Jack interrupts. "You loved her, Doctor, and don't you dare apology for that."

He thinks he hears the Doctor sniffling for a moment before he speaks again, "I did. And I never told her, Jack. I never said, and I'll never get to. She was so beautiful. Her smile, her laugh… she was always…I mean, she made her mistakes, but she was only human…"

"You're using past tense. She's not dead, Doctor."

"Then why does it feel like she is?"

There's silence for a moment, and Jack struggles with what to say. "I know why you loved her so much, Doctor." He truly does; he knows why the Doctor wanted to show Rose Tyler the stars.

Without warning, the Doctor reaches out and wraps his arms around Jack's shoulders, using them to pull him closer. Just thankful for the contact, Jack returns the embrace. They sit there in the darkness for a while before the Doctor speaks again. "I could have saved her."

Jack sighs deeply. He shifts and turns, getting into a position that allows him to lie on his back. He pulls the Doctor to him and realises that their position from his first night back aboard the TARDIS has been reversed.

"This is who we are," he whispers finally, running his fingers lightly through the Doctor's hair. "We wander along, with no real direction… lose everyone close to us. It's just how it works, Doctor. We're alone."

The Doctor takes a deep breath and clears his throat. "I erm… I made a mistake."

There it is. He's been waiting for that word ever since he arrived back on the TARDIS. Mistake. He gently brushes the Doctor's head off his chest and sits up.

"Not you," the Doctor says, turning Jack to face him. "Rose. I never told her I loved her, never told her I cared… and I lost her. Just like that." Gently, he grasps either side of his face. "I won't make that mistake again."

Jack stares at him, going over all possible meanings of his last sentence. Does the hopefully feeling rising in his stomach prove him to be a fool? He doesn't have time to think further. The Doctor's right hand snakes around to the back of his head, while his other drops to find and interlace itself with one of his own. The Doctor hesitates for a moment, and Jack knows he's breaking his own rules.

He leans forward, just close enough to brush his lips lightly across Jack's. A tremor passes through him as he sits there, eyes half closed and hands trembling. "Doctor?"

"I won't lose you like I lost her," the Doctor says in a quivering whisper, barely loud enough to be heard. "I won't leave you again."

He barely has time to register the promise before he feels the Doctor pulling them even closer together. He studies him closely, not wanting to mistake the need for closeness as a plea for something more.

"You said it yourself, Jack," he says, ghosting his fingers across the back of his neck, causing him to tremble again. "We're alone, but…"

He doesn't have to finish. Jack knows what he wants to say; they're alone, but they're together. "Are you asking me to stay, Doctor?"

Silence.

Then, "Yes. I want you to stay."

Jack's not sure which one of them grabbed for the other first, but the next thing he knows they're a tangled mess. The Doctor pushes him onto his back once more, fumbling with his jacket as he follows him down. By the time they meet again on the pillows, Jack's already fumbling with the buttons on the Doctor's shirt, mentally using this moment as reinforcement to the reason he despises clothing.

After what seems like eternity of struggling with buttons, fumbling with belts and awkwardly bumping heads, they're as close as they can possibly be. It's been so long since Jack could actually indulge in skin-on-skin contact without worrying how much time he'll have to sneak away later that he can't stop himself from simply lying there for a few moments.

He's perfectly still, basking in the comfort of feeling the Doctor's hands explore every inch of him — his arms, his chest, what he can reach of his back — as his mouth busies itself by placing short, tender kisses along his jaw, over the cleft in his chin, down one side of his neck and back up the center.

As the Doctor concentrates a rather torturous tongue manoveure on a particularly weak spot in his neck, Jack gives up all efforts to maintain even the slightest ounce of self control. He tangles his hands in the Doctor's hair, sending a silent prayer to whatever god that was merciful enough to allow him this madness.

They continue like this for what seems like hours before the Doctor pulls away, pushing himself up on his forearms. Jack whimpers at the sudden, cruel break in contact, and paws at the Doctor's shoulders in a desperate attempt to pull him back down.

He bats his hands away. "Do you trust me, Jack?"

"What?" The question catches him off guard, and, quite frankly, he thinks it can wait.

"Do you trust me?"

Jack realises they're not going anywhere else until the Doctor gets his answer. Does he trust that the Doctor won't leave him again? Does he trust that everything that's happening now isn't a lie and won't be gone tomorrow? Right now, he decides, he'll believe anything. "Yes, I do."

If he thought they were as close as possible before, he thinks now they must've meshed completely into one body. He clings desperately to the tall, lean frame above him, smiling into the Doctor's shoulder as he feels them moving together.

He closes his eyes, allowing the tears that have gathered there to slip onto his face and doesn't bother to brush them away. For the first time in four hundred years, he feels genuinely alive. Now he knows: this is as close to heaven, whatever that may be, as he'll ever get.

-- --

"Where do you want to go?"

The three of them are standing in the console room in a semi-circle around the controls. Jack glances up to the Doctor across the console. "Me?"

"Yes, you. Any place special?"

Jack chews his lip for a moment. There is one place… "Will you take me back to Cardiff?"

The Doctor frowns, a sinking expression passing over his face.

"I don't want to stay," he adds quickly. "There's just someone I want to see.


--

They're standing in Cardiff, in the far corner of a well-kept cemetary. The Doctor and Martha are keeping their distance, while Jack stands a few yards ahead, kneeling by a headstone.

"So sad," Martha whispers as she watches. "I can't imagine what it must be like."

The Doctor forces down a lump in his throat. "It's hard. Wait here, I'll be back."

Martha nods and steps aside. The Doctor picks his way quietly over broken headstones and piles of dirt. Peering over Jack's shoulder, he reads aloud, "Ianto Jones. May 4, 1987 to September 14th, 2057."

Jack glances back, a meek smile crossing his face. "I just…I wanted to say goodbye. I never really got to."

The Doctor nods, understanding. Jack had helped him let go of Rose. The least he could do was allow him time to let go, too. Of course, letting go never meant forgetting.

"Wish you could've met him," he whispers, kneeling to place a handful of wildflowers just in front of the headstone. "He was beautiful."

Placing a hand on his shoulder, the Doctor squeezes gently. "Are you ready?"

Jack takes a long, deep breath that never seems to end. Finally, he runs his fingers over the cold stone one last time. Then, he turns and smiles once more. "I'm ready," he says, linking their hands together. "Show me the stars again, Doctor."

And he will. He'll show him every star in the universe… and then some.

***