Then Jack withdraws his bloody thumb and stares at it as more reddish-orange fluid spurts from the puncture.
“You killed that woman in front of kids, you creepy little shit,” the Time Agent proclaims in Benjamin’s ear, sitting slightly. Globs of salivary foam smack against the Time Lord’s limp brown hair, clinging, then drooling down in sad little rivulets to form salt lines on his face.
Benjamin is on the floor now. Jack Harkness’ black boot heel is crunching into the thumb-shaped wound to his praetoria nervimaniplus, bloodying itself. Minutes pass. Soon, there is goo and thickened blood solution crusting on the leather.
“You know, Jack,” the Time Lord murmurs from the floor, one hand clasped against the remains of his striped shirt where the ruined strips still stretch across his pregnant body. “… I am so very glad you’ve managed to get all this out, but really, aren’t you forgetting something?”
“Jack, he’s pregnant!” Martha can’t help herself. Her hands are on the pulse pistol she keeps in a shielded drawer near the dish soap. “Stop this! I’m sorry Benjamin, but it isn’t in me to watch this! It isn’t right! Think of that baby, Jack! What would Rose have done?”
The Time Agent’s eyes are blue steel now, fixed on Benjamin Pond. “Don’t go there, Nightingale. Don’t ever go there. Besides, after watching what this psychopath did to that woman… did he tell you he married the Doctor’s murderer?”
Mickey Smith is glaring at the Time Agent. Just glaring, his wide eyes gleaming like little wet moles in the dark. His hands are quirking toward his sleek black sidearm.