For a moment, Jack was too happy to care about temporal implications. Years. It had been years he'd spent blaming Torchwood, Yvonne, himself, and even, sometimes, the Doctor, for Rose's death. Wondering, if he'd been there, if he could have saved her from that mess. Grieving, for so much brightness, so much light and joy gone from the world.
He stared, as though studying the Doctor's face would tell him something, confirm or deny what he was being told.
"I know," he said, eventually. "I haven't told him anything."
He'd wanted to. He'd wanted to ask. He'd wanted to rail against him for letting anything happen to Rose. But he didn't need to, now, and all he could do was stare, still grinning.
But that wasn't enough. It was awkward, to hug a man sitting next to him at a bar, but Jack did his best, because Rose was alive. Disappeared, whatever that meant, but alive.
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He stared, as though studying the Doctor's face would tell him something, confirm or deny what he was being told.
"I know," he said, eventually. "I haven't told him anything."
He'd wanted to. He'd wanted to ask. He'd wanted to rail against him for letting anything happen to Rose. But he didn't need to, now, and all he could do was stare, still grinning.
But that wasn't enough. It was awkward, to hug a man sitting next to him at a bar, but Jack did his best, because Rose was alive. Disappeared, whatever that meant, but alive.
"I was so sure she was dead."