Jack hasn't said a word for a minute, and that seems more than a little odd. But then, everything about this is odd, because Jack shouldn't be here, now. He should be a couple galaxies away, on a Rift in Cardiff, with his team. Having Jack in Cardiff bought the Doctor some time and some breathing room, allowed him to step away from the twenty-first century for a while and not feel guilty about it. Having Jack in Cardiff meant that someone was looking after Donna.
But Jack's just standing there, with a sort of studied, practised stiffness like he's waiting for orders or a dressing down. His eyes are focused not on the Doctor's, but somewhere slightly to the left of him, just over his shoulder, though they keep flicking up to the Doctor's face briefly before skittering away again. And if he's not going to say anything, the Doctor supposes it's his turn to speak. That's fine. He's better at talking than listening anyway.
"You know, all the people I expected to meet here... you're not one of them. Don't you have a home to go to?"
It was meant to be a joke, if a half-hearted and not very good one, but the bleak look on Jack's face as he finally forces himself to meet the Doctor's eyes stops him cold. "Not exactly. It-" He stops, like he's faltering on the words, like he has to fight to shove the words through a throat too tight. "It's complicated."
That's not an answer. That's an excuse not to answer, and as Jack's gaze shifts back to that point just over the Doctor's shoulder so he doesn't actually have to look at him, the Doctor feels something in his hearts twist uneasily. It's not hard to tell that something is wrong, and Jack's doing everything he can not to tell him, short of just plain running away. That probably wouldn't work, anyway. The Doctor's had a lot more practise at running than he has.
"Jack," he says flatly, stepping forward so it's impossible for Jack to look at anything but him. "What. Happened?"
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Jack hasn't said a word for a minute, and that seems more than a little odd. But then, everything about this is odd, because Jack shouldn't be here, now. He should be a couple galaxies away, on a Rift in Cardiff, with his team. Having Jack in Cardiff bought the Doctor some time and some breathing room, allowed him to step away from the twenty-first century for a while and not feel guilty about it. Having Jack in Cardiff meant that someone was looking after Donna.
But Jack's just standing there, with a sort of studied, practised stiffness like he's waiting for orders or a dressing down. His eyes are focused not on the Doctor's, but somewhere slightly to the left of him, just over his shoulder, though they keep flicking up to the Doctor's face briefly before skittering away again. And if he's not going to say anything, the Doctor supposes it's his turn to speak. That's fine. He's better at talking than listening anyway.
"You know, all the people I expected to meet here... you're not one of them. Don't you have a home to go to?"
It was meant to be a joke, if a half-hearted and not very good one, but the bleak look on Jack's face as he finally forces himself to meet the Doctor's eyes stops him cold. "Not exactly. It-" He stops, like he's faltering on the words, like he has to fight to shove the words through a throat too tight. "It's complicated."
That's not an answer. That's an excuse not to answer, and as Jack's gaze shifts back to that point just over the Doctor's shoulder so he doesn't actually have to look at him, the Doctor feels something in his hearts twist uneasily. It's not hard to tell that something is wrong, and Jack's doing everything he can not to tell him, short of just plain running away. That probably wouldn't work, anyway. The Doctor's had a lot more practise at running than he has.
"Jack," he says flatly, stepping forward so it's impossible for Jack to look at anything but him. "What. Happened?"