Title: Battle Scars
By: angstytimelord
Pairing: Tenth Doctor/Jack Harkness
Fandom: Doctor Who/Torchwood
Rating: R
Table: 13, 10_hurt_comfort
Prompt: 10, Scars
Disclaimer: This is entirely a product of my own imagination, and I make no profit from it. I do not own the Tenth Doctor or Jack Harkness. Please do not sue.***
The Doctor opened his eyes, blinking as he realized where he was. He didn't know how long he'd been unconscious, but judging from the fact that his body felt stiff and sore, it had probably been longer than it seemed.
Unconsciousness was the only way to avoid the torture that the Master had put him through ever since he'd been taken prisoner. Sinking into a dark oblivion, welcoming the mercy of being able to fall into nothingness to escape the pain of reality.
How long had he been the Master's captive now? It seemed like weeks, but it had probably only been a few days. That bastard had the ability to drag time out in a fiendish way that the Doctor had never realized was possible.
The last thing he remembered was hearing his own screams, echoing off the walls of the dungeon where he was imprisoned. He didn't remember passing out, didn't remember being brought back here, to the dank, damp cell the Master relegated him to.
He groaned as he turned over onto his side, wincing at the pain that seemed to radiate through his entire body. The Master had certainly been more than zealous about working him over this time; he'd done a very thorough job.
Would the beatings leave scars? He hoped not, but there was no way of knowing. His Time Lord body was incredibly resilient, but the natural healing process could only do so much, especially in the conditions that he was being kept in.
At the moment, he wasn't sure that he could drag himself into a sitting position to try and examine the fresh marks that the Master's whip had left on his skin. It seemed like too much effort, too much pain to go through. But he had to see.
Twisting his upper body until he could prop himself on one elbow, the Doctor cautiously looked down at himself, blinking in the dim light. He could dimly see the fresh marks curling around one thigh, trailing across his hip, up to his stomach.
He closed his eyes, fighting back the nausea that was rising. Was he going to be marked by this for the rest of the time he was in this body? It was only a body, that was true; but he'd grown to like it, and he was reluctant to force himself to regenerate.
And besides .... Jack loved this body. He'd said so several times. He didn't want to present his lover with a body that was scarred, a body that Jack might not be able to want any more. He didn't want to give the man loved something that he would turn away from in disgust.
If he ever saw Jack again.
He had to face the fact that he might not get out of this alive. Jack would be looking for him, he was sure. Jack knew that the Master had him -- but the immortal more than likely had no idea where he was. It was only one of the many things that the Master taunted him with.
What if by the time Jack found him, he was so disfigured that his lover turned away from him and didn't want to be around him? That was always a possibility, especially given what the Master had already made him suffer through.
The Doctor closed his eyes, swallowing hard in an attempt to force back the lump in his throat. He didn't need to think like that. He'd deal with that when and if it happened.
He ran a hand down his leg, wincing and drawing in his breath sharply when his hand touched the fresh marks that curled around his hip and thigh. They didn't seem too deep, only surface marks; maybe the Master was holding back, saving the worst for later.
Gingerly, he moved his hand up, his fingertips stroking over the tender area just above his groin, even the slight pressure of his own touch making him gasp and squeeze his eyes shut. But again, the marks didn't seem deep enough to leave permanent scars.
But that meant nothing, if he was kept here for much longer. Yes, his body had miraculous powers of restoration, but he couldn't rely on that forever. And the conditions he was being kept in would hinder the healing process.
The Master knew that, of course. Another of the things that he taunted the Doctor with during what he called their "sessions" was the fact that Jack might not want him when they were reunited -- if they were. The Doctor could recall every word that had beaten into his brain.
"Are you so sure that your precious Jack will be able to look at you without seeing some sort of monster? It might be better for you to give up now, Doctor. Stop resisting. Give yourself to me. Say you belong to me, and I might decide to be merciful with you."
He wouldn't do that. He wouldn't give himself over to the Master without a fight. He wouldn't make a move to regenerate; no, he'd let himself die rather than live on as the Master's slave, his plaything. That was no life, not for anyone. Certainly not for a Time Lord.
If much more time went by, it might be the only choice he had.
He didn't want to contemplate that. It wasn't even a choice, really. He embraced his life with a fierceness that most people couldn't begin to comprehend, but he would much rather end it than become nothing more than the Master's toy.
A sound from the corridor outside the small cell made him jerk his head up, his eyes widening, straining to see in the dimness. Voices .... a babble of them, then a thud that sounded like a body -- no, more than one body -- falling to the floor.
The Doctor's muscles tightened, fear singing through his veins. The Master couldn't be coming back for him. Not so soon. He hadn't had time to heal yet after the last beating. It couldn't be starting all over again .... not yet ....
He had to resist the urge to curl himself into a ball and try to hide himself as best he could in a corner of the cell. That wouldn't help him. If the Master was coming for him, he'd be dragged out of the cell no matter how much he struggled.
Footsteps, moving further into the warren of cells. They stopped at the door, but even though he strained his eyes, he couldn't see a face in the tiny barred grille that looked out into the corridor beyond where he was. It was too dark to see much of anything.
Then, the scrape of something in the lock; someone was opening the door of the cell. The Doctor closed his eyes, trying to resign himself to whatever was about to happen. Yet another thing that he really had no choice about.
He expected to hear the Master's voice, falsely cheerful, grating on his ears. But the voice that he heard was one far different, one that he'd thought he might never hear again.
"Doctor!"
His eyes snapped open, then closed again as a light shone into the darkness of the cell, straight into his eyes. But the brief glimpse -- along with that welcome voice -- had told him all he needed to know. He was safe. Finally.
"Jack." The name sounded like a hoarse croak coming from the depths of his throat.
Strong, warm arms scooped him up, ignoring the bruises and scars on his naked body, pulling him close against the body he'd been afraid he would never feel again. He didn't open his eyes; his arms moved instinctively to wrap around Jack's neck, his head resting against the other man's shoulder.
"Let's get you out of here." Jack's voice was soft, almost a caress. The Doctor didn't say anything; he only nodded, letting himself go limp in Jack's arms, weak with relief. He barely noticed that he was being carried up the stairs, away from the dungeon, into light and fresh air.
It didn't matter how Jack had found him, or how he was here. The important thing was that he was here. He'd listen to the explanations later. For now, he just wanted to give himself up to the warmth and comfort of his lover's arms, and let the future take care of itself.***
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