Muffled footsteps echo through the make-shift morgue and grow louder as they draw closer. The lone man already knew the said figure approaching from behind.

The captain didn't turn. He didn't need to - he couldn't - what with the bundle mournfully held in his arms; he was waiting for the inevitable, the pro-claimed.

A hand lay on said man's shoulder as a calming voice began to sing.



‘I will save thee from thy darkness within.
Let me carry thy burden
of thy soul;
until it has been cleansed -
once I've taken
thy darkness
that lies within.’




'I can help you; let me help you,' the quiet, calming voice brushes the back of his neck.

'No, you can't. No one can,' I'm not worth it. I'm wrong - the man who can never die.

'I know,' his ex-companion, now kneeling before the broken captain, leaves the rest unsaid, as he softly--and ever so gently--raises his counterpart's chin, and gazes into his sorrow-filled eyes.

He isn't surprised by what he finds - sorrow, grief, pain. And each - at some point in his 900 years - have been his own.

He knows those depths, knows them like a lover knows madness; 'Emotion, it's our greatest weakness,' For a second, the Time Lord became lost in the deep blue sea of despair, before he realized his motive once more.

An uneasy silence fell between the two men; both silently reminiscing on the chaos the recent days had caused. For the Time Lord; came nostalgia of the fallen, lost, taken; a wrecked bus parked in dunes of sand; water that had caused the death of half a dozen innocent souls. Following, were words - that, since they’d been spoken - had been on a never-ending loop inside his head:

Your song is ending soon… he will knock four times.

The captain, however different he may seem from his ex-companion, recalls similar memories; all poignantly similar, save the details. He was reminded of times of black, of white, of those little grey moments of calm, as well as the casualties he’d encountered and all the betrayal he’d been through. Then came the words of his recently late lover, Ianto Jones:

I’ve watched you in your sleep. Did you know that? So many times…

I’ve only just scratched the surface, haven’t I?

In a thousand years time, you won’t remember me…

I love you.

It was the Time Lord that eventually broke the uneasy tension between them.

'At the very least, come into the TARDIS for a while. She - we - can help you; heal you,' the impossibly skinny man leaned closer, softening his tone of voice.

'What about Gwen?' In truth, the immortal couldn't care less about the Welshwoman at the moment. He only briefly brought her up as an attempt to change the subject.

'I'll deal with her... later. But for now, we both need some rest. It's been a long past few days.’

The kneeling humanoid pauses, briefly, his posture unmoving - still as stone. Then said figure stands, leaving the stubborn Captain to brood in silence.

~

If said scene was one of an unseen play, one’s groping eyes would open on a mourning Captain, nearly sat on the cold stone floor of this grim necropolis. The invisible audience would shed silent tears for the unmoving man in his arms.




















Perhaps then, would their gaze fall upon the wooden police call box parked in the corner. Most would wonder its purpose. Those select few would ken the appearance of said little blue box, knowing from experience that it announced the presence of one specific individual: The Doctor.

Of course, the scene arranged in the pitiful makeshift morgue was indeed, not a pre-rehearsed act in a play. It was more complicated than that. Quite a bit more. And as much as the captain yearned for this all to be a horrible mistake - a misplaced page in the script - a dream, he knew this was complete and utter reality.



The Captain breathed out a deep sigh; defeated, and decided to take up The Doctor’s offer. While the immortal could admit it might not be the best thought out proposal, it was the optimum one - especially to help push away the effects of superfluous amounts of pain and loss. Perhaps he could become accustom to travelling with the Time Lord once more; perhaps he could try and live again.

Even as those words were mentally reminisced, the immortal felt a tugging sensation reach his heart. He’d been content; working at Torchwood - content with being able to love someone again. And Ianto Jones was the man who’d made that possible.


And so, not even five minutes later, a decision had been made: the Captain, accompanied by his late lover, limp in his arms, would reside in the TARDIS with the Doctor, for a while, until all was well - or so the Captain thought.