Jack Harkness

There's a flicker at the corner of Jack's eyes, there – an involuntary reaction, still mostly obscured; a brief brush against raw nerve. Because it's always about him, isn't it? He remembers Suzie, coming to him, asking what he or she or anyone could do about the torturer who got his hands on Sark, afraid for what it could mean if Jack – J, then – let himself go after him.

Of course, to a point, it made sense. On a good day, he walked more cliffs than any of them. And these cliffs? They'd be first in line to get hurt, the instant he fell.

There are things he could say. Can't do anything to me, for one – everything that could happen has already been done, six or ten times over. But this isn't about him, and he's not going to let the conversation stray.

"I'm right here," he says, softening his voice by degrees. Not much – he's steady, official, in a posture of command, but there's just enough give to lend a tinge of Lean on me to his tone. I'm the one you turn to when it hurts. "We'll start shallow. First off, tell me everything you can about your riftpower."

Breaking empaths is always a challenge of its own echelon. It helps, though, when the empath is complicit in being broken.