As he looks at the man on the slab, the man he’s just carried all the way down to someone’s secret communications bolthole at this Rassilon’s urging, Jack Harkness wants to touch. He wants to reach down, to grab the unruly chunk of rabbit-soft hair obscuring the bone-bleached face of that woman’s murderer.
To… repay the man properly.
He wants to jerk this bony sack of a man up by that sizeable forelock, stuff his fingers through those staring peridot eyes like he’s prepping a thanksgiving turkey, and slam the skull satisfyingly back down in a dent of reddish blood against the silvery surface of the antiquated slab of the portable medical bed Rassilon has set up behind their swivel chairs.
But Jack can’t. His right hand is pressed against the reason why- a hard swell of inhabited flesh protruding beneath an alien navel… Benjamin Pond’s swollen stomach muscles are stressing the buttons on his white shirt.
The bastard’s roughly nine months pregnant, in a coma, relying on ancient, jury-rigged equipment to keep things rosy for the bun in the oven.
Bastard. It’s just like him.