Jack Harkness falls through the dark.
It is dark, because he can’t see.
His eyes are open; his hand scrabbles out away from him.
His body is dead weight in what feels… soft… he feels like a rasher of bacon, wrapped in the exquisite texture of scrambled eggs in a place that should have nothing like that at all.
For he is on Gallifrey.
He remembers that much.
When a hand reaches down, he flinches as the fingers touch; he cannot help it. They are squarish, but long. They are cold, like all of them here.
There’s something about them he needs to remember, but as the fingers fit themselves to his forehead his recall slips away- it’s almost like being alive again, being mortal again- not like with the morphic field but really truly alive; he can feel his eyes blinking wildly, like little fog lights aching away at night down some lonely dusted road.
Then the squarish fingers of the long hand press against his skin again, dragging down to a place almost over his eyes, and retreating back through his hair.
The petting does not cease for some time. Jack loses count. The hours are like iced over fishing holes in this place, they burn with cold whenever he tries to find them. He stopped three days ago. Was it three days?
As he slowly sinks into sleep, he wonders aloud, “Is that you Benjamin?”
“…no.” comes the soft, soft answer, like some hesitant father, somewhere. “…and it was four. Go back to sleep, now. I have to go for the moment, but I’ll be back soon. I promise.”
Jack’s body sinks into the depths completely now, shutting down, the circuitry of his flesh in save mode.
To sleep. To dream, perchance. But mostly to sleep.
This day has happened before; it will happen again.