Fic: Target Practice (Ten/Jack, PG-13)
Word Count: 1049
Summary: The Doctor hates guns, but when he finds Jack shooting targets in his TARDIS, some teasing leads to a challenge.
It is just by chance that on his way to the storage rooms the Doctor passes through a hall in which he hears the muffled, but distinct sound of bullets being fired. Frowning, he quickly locates the source of said sound (a task made infinitely easier by the fact that this hallway contains only one door), and walks into a shooting range. Among the row of plexiglass stalls, Jack is busy reloading his revolver. The Doctor folds his arms and leans against the wall, watching Jack with a reproachful look, and waits to be noticed.
Before long, Jack sets his pistol down and comes over to greet the Doctor with a sheepish smile. “I wasn't aware that the TARDIS had a room like this,” the Doctor states incisively.
“Maybe she just likes me.” Jack grins. The Doctor tilts his head downward and cocks an eyebrow, eyes still on Jack. The grin fades. “What? This isn't hurting anyone. It's just a bit of target practice.”
“And that's still a gun,” the Doctor says. Jack looks over his shoulder and then back at the Doctor, smiling sheepishly again.
“So it is,” he says. “And?” He slips his hands into his pockets and grins innocently. The Doctor scoffs after a moment.
“Nope. People kill.” Jack is still grinning.
“Guns give them the means!” The Doctor is only half serious by now.
“So? Guns can't help what they are. What have they ever done to you?”
The Doctor scoffs. “I have been shot before you know.” He crosses his arms.
“Yep, so have I. By Suzie. And Owen. And other people.” There is still a complete lack of seriousness in his tone.
“Haven't you been shot and killed enough to be sick of guns and any other type of weapon?” the Doctor asks. He's beginning to get exasperated now.
“Oh, sure, of course I have. But just because I have doesn't mean that everyone else has. It's a necessary evil.” There is now some semblance of seriousness in his voice.
“For a necessary evil, you certainly seem to enjoy it.” The Doctor scowls and turns to leave.
“Practice makes perfect. I'd rather know how to use a gun than to risk shooting my eye out.” The Doctor stops. Jack has a point. He looks at him again, only to see that cheeky grin come back. “And by now I'd reckon I'm a far better shot than you.”
The Doctor twitches. A challenge. He's sorely tempted to take the bait.
“Is that why you hate guns so much? Because you're a lousy shot?” Jack teases.
The Doctor turns to face him straight on and stands up as tall as he can. “Am not.”
“I am not.” The Doctor almost stomps his foot, but stops himself.
“Yeah, but not better than me.” The Doctor wants very much to wipe that smug look off of Jacks face.
“Want a bet?” He says sharply.
“It's on.” They shake on it. Jack returns to his revolver, and the Doctor walks over to the foot locker in the corner. He slips on a pair of safety glasses and ear muffs, and then picks out a nice little Glock thirty-three. As he steps up to the firing point and starts to load the gun, Jack eyes it dubiously.
The Doctor flinches slightly and then a second later says, “Mine lasts longer.” He smirks.
“Only by three rounds,” Jack says, leaning against the divider.
The Doctor replaces the magazine and turns toward Jack. “You first Captain.”
Jack grins and picks up the revolver. “Range is hot.” He cocks the barrel and takes aim.
“You ready to cry?” the Doctor taunts.
“Certainly, as long as it's on your shoulder.” The Doctor makes a face, but Jack fires before he can make a fuss about it. He jumps and closes his eyes. He can hear Jack laughing at him. He pouts and looks down the range. Bullseye. Shoot. It'd take a miracle for him to beat that. Still, he's stubborn enough to try anyway.
He clicks the safety off and points the gun down range. He peers down the sights and teases the trigger. When it doesn't budge, he pulls harder, and only then discovers how unprepared he was for the recoil. He jumps even higher than he did before and drops the pistol. He considers himself very lucky that it didn't decide to go off when it hit the counter because it's pointed toward him. He gingerly rotates it to point down range and scowls, massaging the knuckle of his thumb. He looks at the target. The shot was way off. Way, way off. It didn't even hit the target, did it? Heat rises in his cheeks as he turns his head to see a preening Jack watching him. He looks away again.
“You want to try again?” Jack asks. The Doctor grunts. “First time doesn't count?” The Doctor shakes his head, still cradling his thumb. “You want me to kiss it better?” His head jerks up and he scowls at the human. Jack chuckles softly and steps behind him. “Pick up the gun.” He grudgingly does as he's told. Jack moves closer, and he feels very hot against the Doctor's back. “You need a firmer grip,” he notes as he wraps his hands around the Doctor's. “Now relax, and don't anticipate.” Jack is practically whispering in his ear, and as much as the Doctor would like to deny it, his voice is sending shivers down his spine. His heartsbeat begins to increase. “Now squeeze the trigger.” The whole sentence is emphatically slow, but there is a particular emphasis on the word squeeze, the Doctor notices.
And then the gun fires, and the Doctor snaps out of his daze. He sets the pistol down and feels Jack's hands slink around his waist and his chin rest on his shoulder. Down range, he can see that he hit it dead centre this time. He produces a ten pound note from his pocket and turns around, pressing it to Jack's chest as he pushes him away.
Jack is alone on the range again.