Another shrug. “Myself. They say hell is other people. It’s not. Hell is yourself.” Summer looked up at the man — Jack Harkness, he’d called himself — a world of aching sadness in her face. “I don’t think there’s anything you can do, but thanks for asking.”
“Yourself?” He started to frown slightly, his own thoughts going about what she’d just said. “…You are right, Summer, Hell is yourself. But, you can’t let that control your actions.. you can ask for help.” He shrugged, not really knowing what else to say about the subject. His hand dropped from her shoulder and he sighed.
“I’m the help,” she told Jack. “People don’t help me, I help them. It’s the way it works. I accept that. I just — sometimes I have to get away. I have to run and hope I can run fast enough to escape myself.” Reaching out, Summer touched Jack’s arm. “Please don’t let my hurting make you hurt. I couldn’t bear that.”
He looked at her hand on his arm. “… But what if I want to help you so you don’t feel like it’s too much?” He asked softly, smiling at her. “You don’t always have to be the one taking everything on..”
“I don’t suppose I can stop you if you feel that way.” A very faint smile crinkled around her eyes. “Though I’ve no idea what you think you can do.” Summer let her hand fall, wrapping both arms around herself.