Jack bought a gramophone--second-hand, and Tosh was pretty sure he traded ration coupons for it, but she couldn't quite find it in herself to resent him for it, not when he put the first record on and his eyes drifted shut in bliss, and his feet slid across the floor in slow steps, his arms raised around a ghost partner. The original Jack Harkness? Tosh didn't know, didn't want to ask.
Man cannot live on bread alone, Tosh told herself.
Then Jack's eyes came open, alight, and he held out his hand to Tosh. She said, "Oh, I couldn't," and he laughed and said, "Surely you can manage The Sway?" with audible capital letters, teasing. Tosh was never much for dancing to begin with, and her experience being shanghaied into it and having to be rescued by Jack hadn't sweetened her to it, but she didn't have a laptop to worry about anymore, and Jack wasn't dragging her out on the floor, just holding out his hand, and Tosh felt herself blush at the memory of how Jack did The Sway, the slow dance, the stepless, romantic lean into one's partner. Yes, Tosh could manage that, but did she want to let Jack--?
She took his hand, and he pulled her close--nothing fancy, no spins, just drew her in and put his arms around her. She froze for a moment, and Jack smiled, gave a soft hint of chuckle, and guided her arms to his shoulders before resettling his hands at her waist.
Tosh looked up at him briefly, and looked away again, discomfited by the difference in their height, by the mockery of intimacy, Jack holding her too close and not really meaning it, lost in some nostalgic dream. "Who's this we're listening to?" she asked, small talk, her gaze fixed firmly on the shoulder seam of his shirt.
"Tommy Dorsey Orchestra," Jack murmured. Tosh shook her head, not recognizing the name, and Jack added, "Where Frank Sinatra got his start, before he went solo."
"Oh," said Tosh. A name she did know, but didn't really have anything to say about. Her back and arms felt tense from holding herself at a slight remove from him, and she felt a little silly for trying to talk through this, when silver-tongued Jack, always quick with a quip, was only speaking to soothe her. Nervously, Tosh leaned in, rested her head on Jack's shoulder, and Jack's arms shifted around her, holding her closer.
It was nice, comfortable.
Tosh tried not to think of it as clinging to the only thing she had left of home. Not when Jack seemed not to want to--not when Jack seemed as at home here as he ever had in their own time.
Later, when she found out tea and milk (two things which emphatically did not go together, in Toshiko's opinion) were all they had to eat for the next few days, she couldn't help asking, acerbically, "Didn't your wristcomm used to have an iPod function?"
"I had to dump my data when I started doing temporal analysis on the region," Jack answered.
"Oh," Tosh said. She hadn't known--hadn't realized Jack was still looking for a way home. She'd thought he'd wanted to stay.
She drank her tea and milk in alternating sips, and felt warm and safe.
When Jack put Benny Goodman on later, holding the disc at the edges with his palms, Tosh stood up and held her hand out to him. They danced, and Jack dropped his head to rub his cheek against Tosh's, and Tosh no longer felt like he was dancing with a ghost.