Distracted from Distraction by Distraction

Three useful things...

Fri, 16 Oct 2009 14:09:18 GMT

that I have learned in the last 24 hours:

1) Where my occiput is, and how much it hurts when I pass out and wallop it on the sink (for one never knows when one may be required to add veracity to that day-after feeling)

2) Not to keep anything other than flat things in my back pockets, for landing heavily on one's arse is painful enough, but now I have a dent to go with the headache.

2) That my flash drive still works after being accidentally put through the washing machine in the aftermath of said passing out.

also, two bathrooms are not sufficient for a household of three to be sick in at the same time.

The virtues of impatience

Sat, 10 Oct 2009 21:15:26 GMT

I can't decide whether to have a go at the reel_torchwood challenge or not.

I was a bit put off to start with by someone asking in the sign ups if it was all right to include Gwen-bashing, but it's pretty much a fact of TW fandom, and the mods have at least asked her/him to warn for it. (Yes, it makes something boil in my brain. No, I don't have to read it).

Also - mainly - I've got 38,000 words of a TW/Rocky Horror crossover that I'd love to finish, and this might be a really good way to kick myself up the backside and actually *do* it.

Also it's another (mainly) J/G fic, and there does seem to be an acute shortage of these for some reason or other, so I should at least *try*, shouldn't I...?

Hmm. Okay, I got a plan

1) Check with the mods if they're accepting fics featuring characters from the original film, or if it has to be an entirely TW/DW 'remake.'

2) If 1 checks out, make a note-to-self to sign up on the 15th *IF* I've finished revising more than half of the last 23 pages of my current WIP. (Also J/G. Does that make me one of these rabid Gwackers I hear about?)

3) Don't panic

Handwriting meme

Tue, 29 Sep 2009 20:01:30 GMT

Thanks to canaana (*waves*) I can now demonstrate why it is that, even though I tend to write fic longhand until the words start flowing good and freely, I have no fear of leaving my pad sitting around the house...

The Rules:
1. Write your username.
2. Write your 2 favorite bands/groups of the moment.
3. Write something you ♥, aka lemme see your heart.
4. Write the name of your favorite person of all time.
5. Write the name of your recent favored person.
6. Tag 6 people to do this meme.

Okay (she says), I can write...

Louder, please. I can still hear the phone.

Wed, 23 Sep 2009 10:40:41 GMT

It's been a busy week. Lots of people in work, non-stop phone, loads of referrals from the job centre for CVs (yes, but not until next week now. You need one this afternoon? Ok, fill this form in, I'll find you a free computer. Can you type?), lots of people wanting to sign up on courses (no, we have no age limit. Honestly, 70 isn't too old to learn IT. Our oldest student so far was 93. No, you don't have to pay us. Yes, it is good, isn't it.), and the autopilot has been working wonderfully, but by three o'clock I've simply run out of words. Nothing in my head, nothing getting in or out. I'd call it psychosomatic cramp, but I can't quite persuade my tongue to move either, so I probably won't.

Anyway.

Today is an impatient day. No work, so I want to get things done! I want to tidy my boooks (ie, build new book shelves - I've run out of space again, and there must be 50+ on the table), draft out the Midsummer Night's Dream (Cyber!Tosh) bunny - or better still post finished sections of unfinished long fics. Something to say hey, hello, I'm still doing something, even if I'm not talking. I'm still alive, still thinking over here. Or maybe just to prove to myself I can write. All these things I want to say seem to shrivel before they get to the keyboard though, get lost under everything else that needs doing, until I'm caught between trying to shut the noise out so I can think and wishing I could just let go.

So, one of those days. They pass. I know I'm tired, everything feels off. Play the music loud, ignore the phone. Meh.

And then I was finishing Half of a Yellow Sun this morning, and it hit me that there is no one right way to be. Just that understanding - there's no absolute right. It's not exactly a revelation. I mean, I knew that anyway. Of course I did. But reading the scene where Ugwu - however much he hates what he's doing and knows it to be wrong - joins his conscripted troop in raping a bar girl, I suddenly knew it. I hope I remember it. It's one of those things I don't want to forget.

I need music now. Some unreality and some music. Muse - loud, while there's no one here to shut the doors or turn the TV up (or on). I've got chunks of the new album floating around my head, and I ~~need~~ want to finish my Jack/Pie 'oh' pah fic for Omnijaxual before school picking up time today.

Work - what a difference a year makes

Sun, 30 Aug 2009 18:13:01 GMT

On this day, one year ago, the Community Resource Centre where I was employed closed due to lack of funding and lack of a lease on the building from which we operated, and I was made redundant from the post of Assistant Coordinator. My boss had had something like a nervous breakdown, and I spent the last month of my employment there closing everything down, it was one the most depressing periods of my working life.

Today I am the Coordinator of that same revitalised, reopened and bloody marvellous Community Resource Centre. We have new management, a board of Trustees that does what it says it's going to and takes responsibility for the projects under its care, an offer from one funder to buy the building for us, and what looks like enough funding to keep us going for the next two years.

I've got to write it down because even though we've been reopened since February now, I'm not sure I believe it.

We did it.

So I'm putting it down now. Really.

Mon, 24 Aug 2009 09:50:58 GMT

I've got the day to myself, the first day in ages with no one else here, and I'm wasting it, sitting here, staring at a screen and getting nothing done. It's sunny out too. I could be in the garden, reading and enjoying the child-free silence. Or even writing something else - maybe finishing yet another of my long-past due stories...

This is silly. It's just a *fic*, it's been on my hard drive for longer than I care to think about and I've finally posted it. It's not going to matter if I take another half a year or so to find the guts to x-post it.

I just wish I knew what I was so scared of. I mean, it's not like they can see me, right?

*sighs*

ETA: okay, now I've x-posted. A bit. Enough that people might *see* it, anyway. And... still terrified.

I think I can hear the Heffalumps calling. Can you hear Heffalumps?

fic: Cold, mashed swede (2/2)

Mon, 24 Aug 2009 08:39:39 GMT

title: Cold, mashed swede (2/2)
fandom: Doctor Who / Torchwood
characters/ pairing: Jack Harkness/Tish Jones, the Master and other Valiant 'residents.' TW mentions, including canon pairings.
word count 11,000 (17,500 total)
Rating & warnings: NC17. Dark-fic, contains non-consensual sexual activity, other violence and torture. Oh, and swearing.
A/N: I finished this in April, and then nerves got the better of me and I buried it on my hard drive until last night, when I discovered that I'd posted the first part in October 07...

Huge thanks to aeshna_uk and jwaneeta for betaing and massive quantities of encouragement, and to darth_fi for being twisted enough to make me want to write this in the first place ;)

summary: He should’ve broken his neck when he had the chance. He’s never been ashamed of his body: what it needs, what it wants, what it does - but he’s going to have a regeneration out of the bastard sadistic Time Lord for every single blank-faced woman with a gridwork cut into her knees.

part one

It’s been three days.

His Joneses (and that’s another thought he’s not thinking) bring water, hold the bucket, wield the hose, but they don’t speak. They don’t bring him anything to eat either. Two bowls of mashed swede in a week and a half just aren’t enough for a growing boy. If the bastard’s going to starve him can’t he do it properly? Even just cut his throat; that'd work - for a while.

But it’s been three days and now it’s Thursday. And not only is it Thursday, it’s Thursday lunchtime. And sure, Time’s fucked, but so’s he - and he’s still hungry.

Three whole days - seventy-two hours (what a conveniently placed clock that is. Rule one of the Gallifreyan convention on the rights of the human: make sure the insignificant little shits know how well and truly fucked they are before, during and after you torture them. The guy was right, he’s a genius) - and all he’s done in the last three days is make two decisions. So sue him, they’re good ones. Ones, in fact, that he intends to remember. Number one: he’s not just not leaving a tip, he’s asking for his money back. And number two: he’s sticking with M&S. Millets’ socks might last longer, but he can’t buy sandwiches at the same time in there. Or cheesecake. Or profiteroles. Or chocolate... Although, actually, a chunk of Kendal mint cake might just hit the spot about now, even without chocolate. Although, actually, given his current options he might just eat the socks. Millets’ generally look wholemeal anyway, and he could do with something to chew.

He did say Thursday. Didn’t he? He’s sure he said Thursday - yeah, sure he was a bit preoccupied at the time, but he was talking about food - he can’t have got that wrong. ‘Same time Thursday,’ that’s what he said. Well it’s Thursday, and it’s lunchtime and -

Fuck.

He knows that stride on the grating. The nervous line of the guard’s back. The scuffle and click struggling to keep up, bottles rattling on the tray as she’s juggling that damned chair...

Did he plan this too? Floors tuned to perfect TARDIS-resonance to torment him all the more? (No, it has to be an A flat, trust me - it’s of vital importance for national security.’) Was he thinking of him - trying to make his dreams sound like somewhere that isn’t home, hasn’t been home - never will be now because he’s wrong and he knows it -

Shut up. Just shut up. Don’t let him see. There’s nothing to see. It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters. Where was he again? Not a one, not a three, and it can’t be a six because -

“Jack! There you are.”

No time-wasting today. No sense of the dramatic, no making him wonder - he’s brought his treat in with him. And she’s hot, but she’s not sticky toffee pudding. In fact he’s not even putting her in the same thought as sticky toffee pudding, because sticky toffee pudding (just stop it. It’s not happening) never looked so fucking terrified. If that bastard makes a crack about cream he’ll -

“I want you to meet someone special. This is Michelle, come on, Jack - say hello to Michelle. Isn’t she gorgeous?’

“What happened to your friend Tonya?”

“Tonya?”

The blank look’s a masterpiece. He’d applaud if he had hands free. Once he’d broken his neck, anyway.

“Yeah, you remember, brunette, black dress to match her eyes?”

“Oh, Jack...”

Oh that poor, sad reproachful face. Has he spoiled his wuvvly ickle game? Good.

“Tonya just wasn’t up to the standards I expect from my employees. Not like Michelle here. Or Tish - Tish does what I tell her to, don’t you Tish. She’s a good girl. And Michelle’s going to be good too. Right love? Go on - go and make the Captain happy, there’s a sweetheart.”

She doesn’t look at him - not at him - just staring, jaw clenched, as she kneels to a soundtrack of paper and salt. A wet splat of vinegar and enthusiastic mastication drowning the click of scarlet nails on his button and zip. She’s slender, a gym-body in turquoise silk, short, dark hair - pretty too, or would be - was - before someone smeared fear all over her face. There are livid marks on her cheekbones and jaw. He wouldn’t give odds on whose those prints are; the bastard just has to be in charge, doesn’t he.

Okay, he can do this. It’s fine - as fine as this gets, anyway. At least he knows where he stands and sure, she doesn’t want to be here any more than he does - but what’s he supposed to do; say no? Because that went really well last time, didn’t it...

A quiet scrape of metal on metal and there’s a spoon of cold swede under his nose (Hi Tish - how’ve you been? And the family? Having a good week?). No salt - nothing new there - and the bastard’s watching him, watching them (watching us, watching you... Christ, what he wouldn't give to see Jeremy Beadle about now), watching Tish with her spoon and Michelle with her lips and him with his trousers round his ankles -

Oh, the choices, where does he begin? Let her do all the work and go along for the ride? Or maybe he’ll really go to town and fuck her mouth. Yeah, that’s it - because he’s really loving the way those over-painted lips are trembling around that reluctant-looking pink thing she's trying to persuade to upright with a desperate hand-job.

It’s strange really, how seeing someone he’s never met before beaten bloody can put the kibosh on his libido.

“Something wrong, Jack?”

“Me?” he says, “what makes you think that?”

Because if he was telepathic (like someone not a million miles away) then he could tell her sorry, I never wanted this, but maybe we can work together. So if you move that hand down a bit - that's it - and then suck --

But maybe he is and he just didn't know it; because that's the sweet spot on his thigh that she's scraping at with one of those goddamn long nails, and the flat trail of a vein that's she's tracing with her tongue, making him pant into his swede, and the slow slide of teeth and tongue and lips, the firm grip peeling him bare to the hot, wet-dry slide of her mouth - that's just where he'd have wanted her tongue (if he'd wanted it, which he doesn't), just where he'd have wanted it if he - doesn't want it - if he wanted to fill her mouth, if he wanted (harder) if he wanted her to (that's it, now suck) suck him dry -

“Oh now...” Tutting softly, the seated man gestures helplessly with a chip. “I almost forgot to tell you. I'm thinking of turning the power back on. It’s all for you. I thought I might put out a Christmas DVD.” And then he’s smirking - that new face so seriously needs smashing off into the grating... “If you’re good I might even pay you royalties - you are my star after all. I thought I’d call it ‘The Adventures of Captain Jack’. What do you think?”

“Yeah?” Think? Does he have to? He’s trying to concentrate on coming here. “That’s nice.”

“That’s what I thought.” Another chip vanishes into a sudden frown and he pokes the kneeling woman with his toe. “Harder,” he says, “Come on - put your back into it.” And then he smiles, “and maybe a sub-title too? I like ‘A Cautionary Tale’. You don’t mind, do you? It’s not for me, you understand - I’ve got to think about my public.”

“Uh huh?”

Not long. If he'd just shut up and let him concentrate - let her - then if this is what he wants then he can have it. Really, nearly, so nearly, so, so -

“Oh damn. Will you look at the time?”

What? No - where's she going? No, no -

“Sorry, Captain, got to go. And as for you, Michelle, letting the Captain down like that after all the nice things I told him about you...”

He can smell blood when they leave. Taste it.

Joanne doesn't do any better, three days later. Or Colette, three days after that. Or Sarah, or Tina...

They just keep on coming, and he's trying, he really is - trying not to think about them like so much dead meat, because, whatever he says, he's as human as they are. Although he doesn't try and stop them any more, or refuse to eat (it's food; he's starving), or encourage them, or make suggestions, or complain or say anything because there's only one winner here and it's never going to be him. That isn't how this works.

They just keep on coming, but they never come back. Just coming and coming, one after the other. Every three days a new face, a new body in a new dress - or out of it - a new woman-with-chips every seventy-two hours, until the only way he can stand the silence between screams is to blank out their names and not look at their faces, hoping that if he doesn't think - doesn't act and doesn't think - then His Master's (bastard fucking bastard) Voice will get bored and stop. If he doesn't act and doesn't think and doesn't do anything but stand and swallow and wait and react... but they just keep on coming and coming.

And he doesn't.

And they never come back. Tish never sees any of them again, or at least she won’t answer when he asks. She doesn't want to talk about it, he tells himself - or she doesn't want to tell him what she knows because she knows it's not his fault. She even finds a smile for him some days. He likes that. He'd tell her how much it suits her if he wasn't afraid someone might overhear. He still likes it though. It helps. She's got the weight of the world on her shoulders and she still finds a smile for him. She doesn’t blame him. It helps.

But they never come back. And there are transports every day, planes to the surface, new faces coming as the old disappear.

And chips. And hunger.

“Charmaine, she’s a beauty, not even a peek? Very good with her hands. Not that that’s going to bother you…”

They never come back.

And next to the hunger it’s barely an ache; blue balls never killed him before - not like starvation, anyway - and besides, he might not sleep but he still dreams.

“Jack? Oh Cap-tain, I've got someone here you're just going to love...”

It’s hard not to dream when he keeps passing out. Dreaming of chips and having hands free to eat them with. Dreaming of waking without the constant, grinding empty ache; reset and refreshed. Dreaming in the soft place where the air isn’t before the pain brings him back: shoulders screaming, ribs crushing his lungs - before the pain brings him back to a world that never really went away, coughing blood as his legs shake. And hungry, so very, very hungry.

They never, ever come back.

Three more days and another blonde. Another three days and a redhead (have they run out of brunettes?), cod and chips for one and another bowl of swede. Tish nudges the stool closer, covering the scrape with a rattle of tin and spoon, then leans on it while she zips him efficiently, a final lean wedging its feet into the grid at his feet.

She doesn’t meet his eyes. They leave him alone, not even a guard for company. Does he smell that bad?

Don’t answer. He’s not thinking about that. And the reason he’s not thinking about that is that he’s thinking about Tish. Clever, kind Tish who’d take the weight of the world off his shoulders - or at least twelve stone of it.

He never thought he'd be so grateful to have something to lean on, but it's just what he needs to hold him up for a few hours. Just enough to save him from choosing between dislocated shoulders and suffocation (a no-brainer at first sight, but invariably interrupted with a rifle butt to the jaw. And of course he's tried being quiet, but drowning in saliva is a bastard for noise), which means he can sleep. Sleep and dream about big brown compassionate eyes and shaking hands turned steady. Dreams that wake him with a wet stomach and numb feet, his shins dented, hips groaning from taking the strain. It helps though; the ache’s fading, but he’s going to need cutting out of these trousers, if they don’t sprout life and wander off of their own accord.

Later, when Daddy Jones brings the bucket, he’s carrying a toolbox as well. He doesn’t laugh at the rattled chains - nor, for that matter, does he undo the manacles. He just moves the stool out of reach and screws it to the floor. The next day Mummy Jones looks at him. It’s somewhere near his left knee, but it’s a start. She has three hairs out of place. He doesn’t mention it, she probably wouldn’t laugh either.

Three days. It’s been three days since he ate. Lunch, when it eventually arrives (maybe if he rang Trading Standards? There has to be something in those statutory rights that nothing ever affects he can sue over), comes with a brunette. They’re obviously not as scarce as he thought, but while the garnish has changed the main course is the same.

He doesn't care, after another three days of trying not to chew all the skin off his lips even the spoon’s a relief; hard and rounded, something to suck at, something to feel... All he wanted was food before, now he’d kill for sensation. Something that isn’t icy water, hot piss or scalding steam, sensation that comes with hands attached, not just a mouth, a body - bodies...

Okay, fine, he can admit it: his name might as well be Jack Harkness, and he just wants to fuck. To feel skin under his hands, moving and touching, connecting and she -

(he didn’t do this; he’s just like them: only human, no way out - a hair trigger)

and she -

(Annabel? Christine? Sophia?)

and she -

(Did he empty a finishing school? Or maybe he just invited all his wife’s friends for the ‘taking over the world’ party and never bothered sending them home.)

She chokes when he comes after a single sloppy suck. He can’t look, panting as he’s willing the pain away (just one hand, that’s all he wanted) and hoping, hoping that maybe this time it’s what he wanted to see.

There’s a fistful of brown hair just out of reach when they leave. The guard doesn’t touch it and none of his assorted Joneses will even look at it.

It’s still there three days later. The chips smell wonderful but he’s really not that hungry. He's been hoping for ground glass with his swede, but all he gets is a nervous Tish and another brunette. He doesn’t listen when the Master says her name, just looks at the ceiling (it’s the same as the floor. There are bloodstains in the corners), trying to concentrate on the numbers in his grid. Maybe if he tries hard enough he could think up an aneurysm?

It doesn't work. Of course it doesn't. It still hurts when she sucks him too. Even worse when he drags her away. But that’s the point here, isn’t it?

He really doesn’t want to know.

Another three days and there’s blood in the bucket. Not too much - not enough (just a few more pints, that's all it would take, not even half a bucketful) - but even Mummy Jones meets his eyes at last and, for once, doesn’t look like she hates him for saving her other daughter from this.

There's blood in the bucket (not enough, not enough) and he's starving and it hurts: a constant, raw scouring itch that burns into well-programmed life at the scent of fried potatoes, scalding what's left of his stomach with acid and napalm as a terrified blonde chokes and spits blood on the floor.

She does it again a few moments later, only this time she’s spitting teeth with it.

Three days, and then another three. All the swede he can eat and a concerned looking Tish. No treats - just the Master and the scent of Tish and chips. She’s up close and caring. Spoon-feeding him mush and wiping his chin. He’s not sure how the blond bastard manages to chew with that grin on, but she’s not letting it affect her. Her hands are almost steady - even when she has to angle him down to help him piss.

It’s three more days before there’s no more blood than it takes to make her blush - although she’s pretty much stopped doing that now too. He’s beginning to feel stronger. He can stand on his own and he's hungry again. It’s not good. He’s been in the UK a long time and this is just a little too Cat-and-Mouse for his liking. Three more days and just as he’s hoping the bastard’s British history doesn’t run to suffragettes: imprisonment and treatment of -

“Jack? Meet Emmie. I’ve told her all about you, she’s been dying to meet you, haven’t you. Come on, Emmie love, smile for the Captain.”

It’s not his blood this time, but it may as well be - smeared rusty in the wake of crimson lipstick, the tinny rattle of Tish's spoon-scrape-spoon drowned just as well by blows and choked pleading as the choking-wet nauseous noises she (Emmie: he'd laugh if it wouldn't make him cry) left trickling down his thighs, oozing stickily through coarse, tangled hair matted with sweat and grit, smearing it flatter against his skin (it doesn’t itch. It doesn’t itch and he doesn’t stink and she didn’t just gag on him).

Job done, the smirking bastard waves the guard away with his groaning burden, and then sniffs. “I hope you enjoyed your dinner,” he says, his nose wrinkling over a moue of distaste. “There’s a nasty smell in here today - put me right off mine.” Another sniff and he pulls a face at Tish before turning back with a shrug, unfolding the parcel from under his arm to hold it out in his hands. “Don’t s’pose you fancy this, do you Jack?”

“No.” Not unless it's poisoned. He'll eat it all up if it'll kill him right now. “No, thanks. I already ate.”

He should’ve broken his neck when he had the chance. He’s never been ashamed of his body: what it needs, what it wants, what it does - but he’s going to have a regeneration out of the bastard sadistic Time Lord for every single blank-faced woman with a gridwork cut into her knees.

“You know...” A pat lands on his shoulder, a quiet 'eww,' followed by the wipe of the Time-Lordly palm on Tish's back and another smirk. “I think that’s why I like you so much, Captain.”

And then they’re gone and then it’s later, and then here they come again.

No. Just one set of footsteps. Just one set and that's -

Tish.

It's Tish and she’s carrying something that clanks as she remonstrates with the not-so-nice man with the big gun. It can’t be lunchtime again already. And if it is he doesn’t want any. Can’t they just leave him alone?

“The Master said to clean him up,” she says. “He says he’s making him sick. Do you want to tell him you told me not to?”

Anonymous guard number two (AKA Bert - it must be Ernie’s day off) grunts something vaguely rude and Tish clanks in past him, clanks up close and then clanks again as she sets the bucket down by his feet.

“I’m sorry.” She’s so quiet he can hardly hear her. “He says I’ve got to wash you. I hope you don’t mind, but even if you do I’ve still got to do it. He wants me to clean you properly. All over.” And then she glances at the guard, wringing the cloth between red-raw hands. “It’s going to take a while.”

Does the man respond? Does he even look round? Jack doesn’t know, doesn’t care, doesn’t even notice because he can’t think past the smell: glorious, dark pink and spicy clean. Soap. The bucket clanks, sloshes - steams - a fat snail of foam on the galvanised grey, glistening, dripping on the mesh, dripping down. Hot water - hot soapy water: That’s it, he’s got to be dead (this can’t be Heaven, all the angels are in Hell). She risks a smile and then looks over her shoulder again, slow and casual. The guard’s not watching them though, why would he be? The entertainment’s over for the day and Tish is no different to the rest: not better, no worse - no less human, no less scared of their monster-Master...

But if that was torture then this is pure torment. So much compassion in those nervous eyes, and so close that if he leaned - half a step, hardly tugging the chains - he’d be touching her thigh... This is worse than having his prick sucked - at least then there’s the chance he might get some relief; can’t she just use the fucking hose?

But she’s gorgeous; a spark still lighting her eyes, even where the hope’s gone out. Dressed up like a chambermaid by his bastardness King Harry and made to clean toilets and floors and the freak in the brig, and still she’s thoughtful, taking her time, giving him the comfort of her touch, of her smile - sad and careful, and so wary, but a smile all the same. A smile just for him as she leans to wring out the cloth, stepping back and then in again - closer - rubbing gently up over his jaw and behind his ears, letting the clean, soapy water sluice through his hair and down the back of his neck. Closer still, eyes intent as she’s washing his face, rough cloth on one cheek and her palm on the other, holding him in place (cheeks and jaw and forehead, nose and chin, only closing his eyes when she says to, and then only to keep the soap out).

Does she honestly think he’d move away if he could? It’s been six months. Has he ever been that long without being touched before? Not touched by someone who wanted to. By someone who wasn’t terrified into it, so scared that she’d get on her knees and open her lips to try and save her skin. Tonya, Michelle, Joanne, Colette, Sarah, Tina, Lianne, Charmaine, Abigail, Serena, Annabel and... another three. More than three? Three at least, and they had names. He can’t remember their names...

The warmth shifts and he drags his focus back just as she’s moving away, looking back over her shoulder. Does he look as desperate as he feels? He must do, because she’s smiling again, shaking her head with a smile as she does what she moved for in the first place and pulls his T shirt up, rolling it up and sliding her hand underneath, up and onto his shoulder, holding him steady with one hand as she scrubs with the other.

She’s close enough that the soap’s getting on her uniform: greyish, scummy suds flecking her apron. It is a truly stupid outfit, made to make her look like a joke - but he doesn’t think she looks funny. Straight-backed, looking him in the eye as she scrubs off half a year's worth of neglect and worse. She’s not a joke, she’s gorgeous. So thoughtful and so close: touching him, washing him - smiling for him.

He has to close his eyes. It’s comfort, not an invitation, and all the harder to bear for that. It feels... better. It does. It’s so good just to be touched, to be cared about... he can’t keep his eyes shut, no matter what she sees, because with his eyes shut he can only hear and smell - and she smells so good...

Chest, stomach and sides, and then he’s suddenly bereft as she circles to wash his back, scrubbing what he figures is rust off his spine with a noise like a frown (she didn’t miss much, it wasn’t one of his better weeks). Scrubbing and moving, side to front and the other side, scratching with a half-amused smile as he bites back a groan. She’s intent, washing methodically, stooping to rinse and wring, trying to get the cloth up under the sleeves of his T shirt and shirt and he can’t do anything but watch her, leaning closer when she leans, moving with her and pulling against the chains until her hip is touching his thigh, turning against her as she turns, following the back-forward-side-to-side motion of washcloth and breath on his skin and watching her eyes as she looks at him, watching her lips move:

“I’m sorry.”

He frowns at the near-silent apology, glancing at the guard’s back before shaping a ‘why?’ with a shrug.

She looks down. Nods down, mouthing ‘all over,’ then adds another ‘sorry’. He shrugs - she surely can’t think he’s going to object - and she leans closer to whisper; “I’ve got to, I’m sorry. I’ll be quick, I promise, but I’ve got to wash you, down there.”

He’s pretty sure that there’s a succinct and appropriate phrase to answer that. Fuck knows what it is though, so he settles for a nod. ‘Yes, please - but take your time,' might not be exactly what she’s looking for here. “Tish -”

“It’s all right,” she murmurs, “I’ll be quick, but just... shhh,” and then louder, “I’ve got to wash the rest of you. Just stand still.”

Damp, gritty cloth loosens, tugged free, rough fingers scraping his stomach. Looser still and then a splash and a slosh and warm, wet wonderful water is trickling, cooling, soothing him even as he’s wincing - the pain’s bad enough but the smell....

Another rag; swished wet, wrung dry and then added to the pile of used cloth, dripping and stinking through the mesh. Another slosh and splash in the bucket, scent of soap, more warm water. Another cloth moving lower, another glance over her shoulder, another tug on the chains until they pull at his arms, another slow movement; heated flesh seeking friction on calico that’s cool and smooth on his stomach and balls...

Fuck. Shit. Not now. Comfort, remember, not interest - not now -

He leans back as far as he can, closes his eyes - turns his face away.

“Sorry.”

That’s as good as it gets. He can’t look at her, does she understand? If she touches him any more he’s just going to plead.

Another touch; her hand on his cheek, a clammy palm turning him back as a slosh almost drowns her quiet, “Jack. Jack, look at me.”

Her other hand hasn’t moved. The cloth’s cooling on his thigh - if she’s going to wash him then she has to move - only if she moves -

“Can I...” She swallows, and he can hear her throat working. Another look behind and then her lips are touching his ear again. “Can I help?”

She wants permission - his permission - to touch him?

“Please. God, Tish...”

“Shhh.” A breath and a nod, nothing else, nothing but the cloth moving slowly, scraping layers of grime, sweat and filth, reaming the stink of an unwashed navel, rinsing, returning, wipe-scraping - stroke, rinse, wipe, return - stroke -

It hurts. It fucking hurts. But it’s the best pain he can remember, the best he can even imagine: raw, rough skin on his flesh, every pass of the cloth letting air to his skin, cooling drops trickling gently down as a slow, steady rhythm draws his hips swaying after. It’s over so fast. Six, maybe seven tight strokes and he’s biting his lips shut, just breathing and breathing. No more than a faint twitch as the cloth comes back, warm and wet and welcome, and his head drops to her shoulder - just for a moment, no more than a lifetime - no longer than it takes to say what he needs to:

“Tish - god, thank you.”

“There’s no toothpaste,” she says, louder, glancing back at the guard as the cloth splashes back into the bucket. “I did ask if I should do that too, but the Master said no. Maybe next time,” she says, bending down, and he can see she’s sorry to pull the same stinking clothes back up to cover him, but he’s not sure he cares.

Not until she leaves. And it’s too late then.

Three days: Water, bucket and hose. No soap, no swede, no Master - no Tish -

He hasn’t slept - couldn’t, even if he could. He doesn’t usually see her, but that doesn’t mean anything. What if he knows what she did? Did he make a noise and give her away? The guard must have heard him - heard her shushing him, or someone saw her with the bucket and gave her away. The Master didn’t really send her to wash him; she did it herself and the guard checked and she couldn’t deny it. The Master did send her: he set it up; she’s in on the whole thing - pretending to help him, pretending to care. He shouldn’t have let her. She shouldn’t have offered. She wanted to help. It was stupid. He shouldn’t have been so weak. She won’t offer again. She’s got to come back. She won’t have the chance. He won’t let her. He just wants to see her. He won’t let her.

Where is she?

There. Footsteps. Lots of footsteps. His first and then -

Tish. She’s there, behind him, carrying the tray and the chair. And behind her...

“Jack? This is Charlotte...”

Normal service is resumed.

Three more days.

“This is Catherine.”

Three more days.

“Chantal.”

Three more days.

“Meet Rebecca.”

It’s been three days since he ate. It’s always three days since he ate. Is this normal now? He’s always hungry, and the thought of eating makes him hard. Trouble is (no, not trouble. It’s a bloody - ha-ha - relief) only swede keeps him hard; cabbage just doesn’t turn him on. (Well damn. There goes his stall at the farmers' market.) And Rebecca's trying, she’s really trying but what’s she supposed to do? Make like a swede?

He doesn’t get hard when she’s bleeding either. See? He’s still got some things to be grateful for.

Three days.

“Simone...”

The swede’s back - only today his Imperial Master-ness has pizza. Spicy and hot with lots of meat: sausage and ham, barbecue pork bits - smells like there’s beef on there too - but no chips.

And no hard-on. Not even for the swede (he’ll thank someone for that later - he was beginning to worry).

Not that Simone gets to enjoy the benefits of that any more than Rebecca did.

Three days.

He smells him before he sees him. No. That’s not quite right. First he’s hard, then he realises that he’s smelled him, and then he sees him; a fucked-up aphrodisiac of hot fried potatoes and, is that... scampi? - all wrapped up in newsprint under his arm (and where the fuck is he getting newspapers from? Is he having them printed specially to torture him with?), Tish walking two steps behind. He just strolls in with his picnic and personal maid, and then behind her a slim figure in red -

He can’t look. He doesn’t want to have an unbloodied face to compare her with.

Not a three, not a two, six, nine...

“Jack? Jack. Oh Cap-tain, Captain Harkness? Are you in? Really Jack, you’re not sulking are you? I’ve got something really special for you today. Aw now, come on, just say hello to my friend Gwen.”

No.

“Jack?”

No.

“Oh Ja-ack...”

His heart should stop. Why won’t his heart stop? Everything else just did. Stop pounding, stop beating, pumping blood, pumping hard -

Gwen.

Grid-work twists under shiny, black shoes, scarlet stilettos following, catching, staggering - kneeling down and reaching up in one stiff, determined motion.

He won’t look, won’t respond. It’ll only be worse (can it?) but does it matter? (it can’t) Just a glimpse - just a look - still alive, just to say sorry, I missed you, I never meant - he’s got to look - I’m sorry, so sorry, it’s not you, it was never - just got to see - but I hoped, wanted, because you - just - because I... Because you’re

Blonde.

She’s not Gwen blonde.

A slap to the shoulder throws him off balance, making him groan at an incautious slurp as the wet-sounding silence fills with laughter. “Oh - you thought... you did! You thought it was your little P.C. Cooper! That’s gorgeous. Wish I’d thought of that.” The Time Lord's smirking now, rubbing his hands as he shrugs. “Not that she could, being dead and all that. You’d have liked that though, wouldn’t you, Jack. Your pretty little P.C. on her knees for you. Come on, sweetie. That’s it, suck harder - and try and look Welsh...”

Later, Tish brings him water. She tells the guard that she forgot before. Tells him that the Master will be upset if he gets too dehydrated. That he doesn't want him to die, not this time - not yet. She won’t be a minute, she says. She’ll just give him a drink and let him use the bucket.

He doesn’t want to piss. He doesn't want anything: not food, not water, not air. In fact - and he knows it's not on the Master's to-do list - what he'd really like is to die now, okay? Just for a little while. Just until it stops hurting. Until he can stay upright without the manacles and his stomach stops feeling like his throat's been slit (that would do it. Would Tish do that?). He doesn't want anything - and he's trying to tell her, turning his head, making her follow his mouth with the cup, telling her 'no', telling her 'please,' telling her which artery and just to 'press, press hard,' whispers cracking at the scent of chip fat and boiled swede, rough fingers stroking the pain into 'yes,' into 'please' and 'Tish,' and 'thank you', stroking and soothing (she can't. She's got to go before the guard sees her. He’ll turn around. It’s insane, there’s no soapy water in the bucket, just the cup; no excuse) licked-palm damp friction just waiting to burst.

It will, won’t it? Can't it? Please? Something’s got to give - just like it did when the bastard Master pulled her (not Gwen, not his Gwen ‘cause she’s dead dead dead) away (is that wrong? Shouldn’t he be glad? It hurts) or maybe all that shattered was his heart?

Three days.

“...Toshiko. Oh - you should see your face! Are you always this easy to tease? Come on, Jack, I told you - they’re dead. They’re all dead. All of them. Dead.” The smirk stretches to admit a bite of battered sausage, one eyebrow rising in a perfect Prime-ministerial shrug. “Although I'm sure I could find you a nice boy in a suit if you'd like,” he says, chewing, “and there’s a Doctor upstairs, you know - if you wanted to complete the set. Although, I suppose you’ve done that already. Can’t imagine the Captain letting a well-wrapped hole go to waste, can you, Tish?” He smiles at her, waiting for a reply that doesn’t come, and then shrugs. “And, if you consider that they’re all dead, I’ve saved you all the stupid human feeling of watching them die one by one: getting older and withering while you stay young and handsome. No - no need to thank me...” He sighs contentedly - ever the philanthropist - and pats the kneeling woman on the head, casually coiling his fingers in her hair as he’s encouraging her motions. Moving her faster, tightening his grip until her scalp shows white through the dark strands, moving her forwards and back, making her rock with the pressure; groaning and whimpering as she’s struggling to suck the purple-veined thing in her mouth.

Is that his? He can’t focus, can’t make his head stay still and his eyes want to close but he can’t pass out now - not this close - not even though it’s Tosh. He has to stop this because it’s Tosh.

But it’s not Tosh. Tosh is dead. Quiet, gorgeous, brilliant, dead Tosh. Gorgeous Tosh with those soft, warm lips and the nervous smile. Sexy Tosh in her heels and skirt-suits, well-filled blouse and smooth belly; big, compassionate terrified dark eyes and hollowed cheeks, sucking hard and gagging, dribbling over the base of his belly and balls, dribbling down her chin as she’s kneeling and sucking - focus -

Not Tosh. He closes his eyes, lets it be - he’s getting closer, her mouth is moving faster, a pale hand guiding her; back and forward and back and then pulling -

As she bites down in shock the man behind her pouts ruefully, shrugging and hauling her to her feet as he’s gasping and trying not to show him quite how much it hurts.

Not nearly as much as listening to her beg for another chance though, to try again, to do better.

She’s not Tosh though. And of course it still matters: it’s not her fault - she shouldn’t be here - but she’s not Tosh. And that’s good. No. It’s not good, because Tosh is dead. Tosh is dead, and Gwen is dead and Owen. Ianto. Everyone. Dead. All dead. The Master’s a sadistic psychopathic bastard of a liar - but he’s heard the Earth tearing, tasted burnt flesh in the smoke choking him over his own stench; heard the people forced to watch screaming, crying, through the drowning echo of blood filling his ears - saw Tish’s face, greasy soot-smuts carved by tears to a death-mask for the world, terror burned into her soul.

The world he knew has gone: his planet, that little island and the ridiculous, magnificent, murderous empire that he helped nurture, helping it along as it started to shrivel and die; his city; his team - his family -

They were his and they’re gone. And now what’s he got?

“See you later then, Captain. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t.”

Nothing but hope and a heart that won’t stay stopped. Hope that the Doctor might still come through. That Martha might still be alive. Hope and a hard-on. Hope -

“Jack. It’s me. I brought you something to drink.”

- and Tish. He shakes his head; the words aren’t there, he just has to hope (ha-fucking-ha) that she’ll leave, that she won’t come closer; not close enough to see him. Please. Don’t let her come any closer. Not close enough to see.

“Jack. Please, it’s me. Just have a drink.” The cup touches his lips, it smells rich - not like water -

Big, dark compassionate eyes. Brown, not black. Tish, not Tosh. Tish Tosh He should keep that to tell Ianto. He'll enjoy that. He'd laugh. If he wasn’t dead. Because they’re all dead. All. All of them. All dead.

He'd like to be dead. Even if it doesn't last. He can't ask her though, not again. Not when she brought milk. Can he?

“Tish...”

“Yes, me.”

There’s a hand on his cheek. A warm body close by. It's Tish and she brought him milk to drink. And it’s not swede and she smells like stale cooking fat and someone’s cleaning cupboard, but it’s Tish...

“Please?”

It doesn't make sense; how can his blood rise so high when his legs will barely hold him up - and why can't it drown him? Maybe he's dead already (all the angels are in Hell, so that explains Tish), but if he's already dead then why does it still hurt?

And why is it so much worse when she's trying to smile for him?

When they get out of here he’s going to see her smile for her. He’ll thank her properly; pamper her - remind her how this is supposed to go - remind himself.

Three days.

The world smells of chips. Fresh, hot chips.

“This is Kathy - no, sorry, Suzie - Rose - no - Oh I don’t know. You don’t mind what Jack calls you, do you sweetheart? Just so long as he’s pleased to see you.”

It’s got to be the fumes - they’re making him light-headed. He just can’t remember -

(They can’t all eat chips all the while, not even for him. There must just be a vat of them somewhere. A big vat of hot chips with a fan behind it, somewhere just out of sight. Maybe somewhere nearby, a great big vat of hot chips)

What the fuck was he called? Michael Palin with tomato sauced chips (is it behind him? He’s already looked but it might be there now) chips up his nose and tears running down his face, trying not to stutter, because every stutter made the insane lover-boyfriend madder made him eat it down whole -

Don’t think about it. Think about the film. What was his name?

Archie? No. Fuck. Kevin? Doesn’t sound right. Wanda? No, because that was the fish, the fish the woman - the fish - both?

He can’t ask Tish. She might think he’s cracked. She might stop.

Three days.

“Meet Madeleine...”

He’s been tortured before; it’s part of the training. He knows the hallucinations - welcomes them, because there’s nothing to tell and it’s prettier there than in the hold of the Valiant. Better company too: rough fingertips and a spit-wet palm (her spit, not his - he can’t spare it), who’d have guessed his life as a prisoner would consist of being sucked and then jerked off?

The swede and the smell of chips he could have done without. That and that bastard shiny smile.

“Jack?”

Is it later again? How does it keep doing that? Did he doze off?

“Jack, it’s me, Tish. I’ve got something for you.”

Bright, glistening eyes and a glint in her hand, and then she shows him the dull-silver shine there. No soap and no cloth, but she’s nervous. More than nervous; scared - excited. He swallows the taste of salt and offers his throat instead. What else could it be?

“Make it quick, I’ll be gone and back before you know it - god, thank you, Tish. Thank you.”

“No - I just... Here.”

She peels back the silver, unwrapping a thin greyish-white stick that she puts to his lips. He can smell it now. Mint. Mouth open it’s intense on his tongue. Shockingly sweet.

“It’s gum. I though you might...” The gesture’s hopeless, the light in her eyes starting to drown. “I thought it might make your mouth taste better, you know?”

Three days.

“Say hello to Chrissie...”

He doesn't want to look. He doesn't have to look; even if he can't see the mouth swallowing him whole it's still there. Until it's gone, anyway, and then there's nothing but the flavour of want and the sound of pain in the air. Nothing but the renewed, rough promise of a zip that if he moves just like that grates hard. Hard enough to draw blood, but never quite enough for anything else. He’s got to keep going though, because it’s friction and it itches and damn but that’s a good scratch, and if he can make it just a little harder, then -

And then Tish is there (they went? Didn’t they say goodbye? That was rude), shushing him, stopping him moving, finding him and steadying him - starting again -

She’s close, so close - smooth cloth under his cheek, her own smell of work-sweat and soap - and it hurts so fucking good he can’t hold it: biting cloth, biting skin through cloth, breathing hard and tasting her sweat through the cotton, scraping his tongue over texture; wet cotton and rough skin rubbing the defiantly smooth slide of skin-under-skin through wince and apology. “God, Jack - sorry. It’s the scrubbing. My hands are really rough. Do you want me to - should I stop?’

“No. Don’t. Don’t. Don’t ever -”

He can’t hide under the words, losing the words under his breath, losing his breath to the hollows and dents of her throat - losing himself in the flavour of Tish. Trying to curl up inside and forget, just for a moment, just while it lasts. Because what could he say - that he’ll save her? Offer to take her away from all this?

It’s a joke. Really, it’s all just a joke. It’s not real - it’s impossible, but so am I and I’m real. Can you see me? I just need to see you smile - can’t you smile? Please? For me?

There’s nothing he can say. Nothing. Just drink the milk (again. Is she getting enough for herself? He’d ask to lick her hand, after, but he’s afraid she might not ever kiss him then) and say nothing. Nothing.

“No, nothing - I’m okay, really, just thank you, thank you.”

Three days.

“- Zoe. Come on now, Jack, I know you’ve got better manners than that. Let Zoe see how much you appreciate her efforts.”

Two, three, five (breathe) two - two (breathe, breathe) two?

“Although I think,” he says, “that I'm going to have to start thinking about professionals. So disappointing, these amateurs. Great in the morning, and by afternoon...” The sigh's trying for regretful with a hint of irony, but the smirk's too eager to play and the Time Lord's sniggering as he scrunches up his newspaper. “Well,” he adds, “can't hang around here gassing all day. Not like some people. Sweet dreams, Captain. Spare me a thought while you’re lazing down here, can you? And poor Tish, too. Always working: cleaning, cooking, scrubbing... Have you seen the state of her hands? All rough and hard. It's such a shame.”

Fuckfuckfuckfuck

And then Tish...

She's gone. He's gone and she's gone (and Zoe. He mustn't forget Zoe) because she left when he left, but it’s later now. It’s always later and Tish isn't there. Where is she? She’s got to be there, got to help, can’t help (let it burst let it burst let it bleed - let it stop) - doesn’t she know he needs her to come? He can’t come if she doesn’t come and it hurts -

...such a shame

“Jack?”

It’s dark. It’s never dark but it’s dark enough: dark cloth and hair a shaft of shadow against the night, enough light to see the small, soft smile as she stops, one hand on his chest.

“I'm here. I couldn't get away before, but -”

“Sorry, no one home.”

It won't do the decent thing and to kill him, but if he holds his breath long enough he might just pass out again. It’s hard on the shoulders but it’s better than smelling Tish; soft warm soap-and-sweat concerned Tish -

Rough hands, hard hands - such a shame...

“It’s all right, Jack. It’s just us here. It’s okay. I’ll help.”

“I went to the pub at lunchtime - couldn’t touch another drop.”

“Please.”

“And I already ate.”

“Jack, please. I know it’s sore, just let me -”

“I had the chips. Have you tried the chips? They’re good today. You should try them.”

“Don’t -”

“Thank you, come again.”

He won’t let her he won’t he will not.

Three days. A full cycle of hell, filled with demons called Jones (Daddy Jones and Mummy Jones and sweet little Tish). Only now it’s time for lunch, and today’s treat -

(Hot swede and cold swede and swede that’s just right)

Today’s treat -

The swede has salt. He used to like it hot, with gravy. She’d fry it up the next day. Pot of tea to share and the paper.

Today’s treat -

She’s got dark hair. Long, dark hair and dead blue eyes and there she is now, kneeling at his feet. Waiting.

She was standing by the supper-table, ignoring the spam sandwiches (It was no more than they deserved, but they weren’t wasted. No wasted food then. Not like now - all those chips). He told her that the prettiest girl in the room should be dancing with the best-looking guy. She said he was very kind, and asked if he’d let her know when he got there.

“Jack, Estelle. Estelle - meet the Captain...”

She’s so beautiful. She always was. But all the same, it’s not her. It can’t be - the bastard fucked himself over to fuck them worse: no travelling-time for the Time Lord now - but she’s close enough. Too close; because if he knows about her then what else might he know? Who else?

Tish smiles at him. She can’t smile; it’s not safe to - not at him. She does it anyway. Just lets her lips curl for a second, after, as she’s hiding his shame. Tish finds him a smile - just something sweet to leave him with in spite of the blood. Because of the blood - so he knows that she knows. And did he see what she did for him? Salt. She put salt in the swede.

It hurts.

Tish doesn’t know and he can’t say - and then they’re gone, and there’s no one but him and the guard.

He can’t ask now. He should, just a simple ‘hey, did you ever see that film...?’ but the words don’t seem to want to come out and he can’t let them see and then -

“Jack?”

It’s later. It’s always later. Never earlier - why is it never earlier any more? It’s later and he’s hot and wet in her hands again, shaking in her hands - again - and on her shoulder; damp cloth under his cheek and her breath in his face.

He could kiss her now - risk the thought for a feeling, let go of something before it breaks him open - because it’s later and it’s quiet now; no engine-noise, nothing. Just Tish's breath on his cheek, the loud crackle of nerves stretching tight between no, yes and thankyou. No sound and no need to hide, because the guard’s gone again. It’s a game. The guard never goes unless his Master wants him gone. And if he wants him gone -

“Jack?”

She’s close, all the salt-sweat fear of her, she’s close and she should be gone. He’s done now, wiped clean on a less-crusty patch of stiff cloth and tucked away. Serviced. He hasn’t kissed her and she should be gone before he does something she’ll regret (he just keeps breathing, his list stops there).

“Are you ready?”

“What for?”

“What you wanted - you wanted...”

Closer still now, she rests her head on his chest, arms unfolding to wrap him so tight.

“Tish?”

Another hug and she looks up, stroking his back, wet cheek to his cheek, feeling down, counting ribs with a kiss for his jaw and a plea - “just... be quick,” as she's pressing on his back - pressing hard, sharp and sliding, scraping bone, cutting in, pushing in -- and her eyes are shining but she catches his gasp with her lips and swallows it down.

It hurts.

And then it doesn’t.

When he comes back she’s still holding him, taking the strain off his shoulders, her knees cracking under his dead-weight.

He stands slowly, savouring her closeness. “How long?” he says, “Tish, god, thank you, but -”

“Shhh.”

She checks over her shoulder, tells him 'it's all right,' then hugs him and says:

“I've got to go.”

Nothing's changed. Nothing more than everything. Nothing at all. This is normal for them. This is what they are. Her eyes always look shiny, after, and when was the last time she touched him without her hands shaking? And they’re not them, they’re just him and her, and anyway -

Where’s she going?

“Tish.”

She won’t look at him. Tucks the knife up under her skirt, turns her face away, moving away. “I’ve got to go.”

Her voice is thick. She sniffs, still walking. Slowly. Reluctantly.

“Tish, please -”

“I can’t. I’ve got to go. Jack - please, just...”

Her face is wet against his, her mouth as warm and as sweet as he ever imagined. And then she’s gone.

She’s gone. And what would he say anyway?

Three days.

Nothing’s changed. It’s still later. Daddy Jones and Mummy Jones, bucket and hose and three long days - the same rattle and clank, the same stale water in the same tin mug, the same silent guards with the same unreachable guns.

Nothing’s changed. It’s still lunchtime. It’s time for his lunch and the smell of chips is hot and strong. It’s lunchtime and he’s hungry; rewound, reset, rebooted - ravenous - but there are chips in the vicinity (twenty yards and closing) and there are things in that smell that his body expects, things it wants, needs - craves...

Nothing’s changed. And if he keeps telling himself that then maybe he’ll believe it before they get here, because nothing’s changed and he’s got nothing - nothing but hope and a hard-on and -

There they are; right on cue. He’s carrying the paper-wrapped parcel, wearing his cheerful bastard smile with a white shirt and a new tie, shoes shining under perfectly turned hems. It’s safer to look down. Safer just not to look - but not until he’s caught a glimpse... there; black cotton, flat shoes and shapely ankles, that ridiculous uniform. And then another; crimson stilettos and dark stockings (has to be stockings. What the fuck has he got planned this time; a lap-dance?), skirt a flare of blood-shaded silk around her knees.

He’s not looking. Nothing’s changed and it can’t be any other way. He can’t be stronger - or weak - can’t be anything. He can’t be seen, and he can’t look.

The paper rustles, the smell getting stronger, loud enough to drown the murmur of demand and demur in blood. There, see? He’s wagging his tail - just like a good dog. Wagging his bone and waiting for his lunch to be served. All that yummy swede and then after... No. No looking. No thinking. Eyes shut, breathe the chips and think up the blood - let the blood-pressure work itself up. Be silent, don’t look and just smell - chips and... haddock?

Hesitancy, confusion - the sound of skin hitting skin (haddock. Think about haddock. Where the hell did the bastard get haddock from?) and then skin touching him: unzipping, unbuttoning - swede on a cold spoon; warm lips on his prick. More swede and more tongue. Blunt fingertips scraping one thigh as the spoon scrapes the tin. More swede and then suck -

“Aren’t you enjoying it, Jack? Come on now, show willing - Tish puts so much effort into making your lunchtimes special.”

The spoon hits his teeth this time, vibrating through his gums - sweat and chip-fat, something sour and new and the smell of arousal vying with vinegar, wet sucking slurps and rustling paper. And then he’s laughing - the bastard’s laughing - don’t look, just don’t look -

“Ooh, yes - she’s good. That’s good, Jack, look, come on, you’re missing out here - aren’t you going to watch?”

Nothing he can do, nothing he can defy him over - nothing but refusing to see. There’s nothing he can do about his body but his mind’s his own. He won’t look. Won’t see another pretty face worn blank with fear, crazed to her knees, mouth wide - and he can’t look at her either, not now. Can’t let him see, can’t let him know. No more than he does already. He’ll just use it: his weakness; Tish's compassion - and he won’t let her suffer it for him. He won’t look. He won’t let her help him again. He won’t - can’t. And after - after it stops after he’s gone again - after...

Blood calls, follows blood. A rough-smooth hand and a smooth cheek and he knows he’s too weak not to drown in the thought of soft-brown eyes, but can’t he even die trying?

“Dinner’s good today - don’t you like yours? New cook; takes pride in her work, cares. It’s nice when someone cares, isn’t it. You know what that’s like, right, Jack?”

Does he ever shut up? Eat the swede, eat the cold fucking mashed swede - no salt no butter no pepper - and just let go. She (no name, no face, no guilt - right? Got to be better - keep those eyes shut, soldier) - sheorheorit can do what he says, he’ll get tired of this game. And then Tish can go back to hosing blood off the walls and he’ll be able to look at her again without seeing her bleeding. They’re going to survive this. They’re going to go home.

“I mean, it took a bit of work, the best things are always worth waiting for - but you’ve got to admit it was worth it.”

The bastard’s voice is insistent, scratching too close at his senses to do more than just feel. Feeling’s not good. It’s too good to be good. Eyes closed tighter as the dull ache spreads; a grinding groan that starts in his gut, spreading up and down and cramping thigh muscles over the swede-spoon-scrape (she hates this as much as he does), spreading gooseflesh, prickling over untouched skin. The craving won’t contain itself - he’s in control but there’s nothing he can do - not long, not long now, he’s getting close, a little closer and then it’ll stop (scrape, swede, spoon, scrape) a little more (roughly now, the cold bowl pressing hard on his tongue as a groan shakes over it) a little more and it’ll stop (scrape) he’d never let him (spoon, swede) never...

Swallow, spoon, scrape scrape. Her hand's shaking. She’s shaking. A rough breath catching, a sniff, and then a sob.

He’s going to kill him. He’s going to enjoy killing him.

Rough fingertips tighten, smoothing clammy flesh and stroking gently, softly, a cold palm cupping tender, aching balls as the spoon grates hard on his lip, seasoning swede with salt and copper, spooning quickly, more swede; another scrape - but he’s close now (she can kill him too, they’ll take turns - she’ll like that) so close that if the bastard doesn’t pull her back soon...

But he will, because he can’t come - not now. He can't come, because if he comes then Tish won’t, because she might not think he needs her. She might think that’s all he needed and then he won’t see her at all.

No, it’ll stop. Of course it’ll stop. But he’s so (later, he’ll see Tish later, because it’ll stop) so close (and he’ll tell her then. After. Lips to her ear with his head on her shoulder, let those perfect rough-smooth fingertips take away the pain. Tell her after). Another stroke, a squeeze (and Tish won't let him down; she'll come - whether he does or not), but he’s godsoclosenearlythere - just a stroke, and then another, a squeeze as she strokes and then sucks --

His legs shake with no one to hold him, no ear by his mouth to catch his gratitude, no breath and worn cotton, just the mechanical shovel and scrape of swede and silk rasping on skin as he sucks air. Sucking wet, claggy, sulphur-stinking mush into stunned lungs, gasping air until he’s heaving, sticky and dry, gasping and sniffing, coughing up strings of swede-flecked phlegm as that wet mouth and rough-smooth fingertips tighten again, a thumb ticking nervously, pressing his thigh from convulsion through reflux.

It’s all over so soon. The last metallic scrape, a final wet noise and then there’s nothing but the sour reek of bile in his nose, raw skin in his throat burning. His head’s hanging low, arms tensed in apprehension - expectation - strung loose, worn elastic released, too loose to hold his legs up, too nauseated by selfish weakness to look. Let her hate him, whoever she is - was - there’s nothing he can do. Not here, not now. Nothing but swallow the guilt with the bile and hope that this was what he wanted. Maybe this time will be the last. Maybe this time he’ll be pleased, amused - disgusted? whatever - if he’d just be fucking merciful...

“Come on now, Tish. You don’t expect Jack to do himself up, do you?” It’s his coaxing voice, his I’m better than you and can afford to be magnanimous voice, the one he keeps for use with recalcitrant pets. She hasn’t moved though, still holding the spoon to his lips. The other woman hasn’t shifted yet either. He can feel her dress against his shins, he can smell her; cloth dyes, sweat and perfume - oestrogen and fear. The scent of Tish nearby is comforting - and there’s no sound of skin on skin - no blows. He’s either waiting until he looks or maybe...

Fine. If he’s got to look then he’ll look. Whoever-she-is will only suffer more if he doesn’t. But is it safe to look at Tish? Just to look - just to see... No. Not yet. Ignore her. There’ll be later. There will be. She won’t abandon him now.

The spoon draws back as he opens his eyes, a quiet sniff beside his left ear and the rattle of metal on metal as the woman at his feet begins to shift. He’s got to do it. Got to get it over with and then he can see Tish, even if he can’t talk to her. He’ll see -

“There’s a good girl. That’s right, do him up. You can’t leave your messes for mummy now, can you.”

Because then he’ll see -

She’s got dark hair, this woman at his feet. Dark hair gathered tight across her scalp, pulled back into a little scut of a tail. Dark hair and smooth cinnamon skin - and she’s gorgeous. As gorgeous as she ever looked in the stupid uniform, even dressed like a sex-doll in crimson silk.

Tish.

She doesn’t look up. She looks down at the hands on her crimson-swathed knees. Hard-working hands, slim fingers with perfect rough-smooth fingertips. Kind, clever hands that tremble as she reaches up, slumped shoulders straightening, long, mascara-clogged lashes glinting as another sooty trail glistens down a mottled cheek.

Tish.

She doesn't look at him. She wipes the lipstick off him and zips him away, but she doesn't look at him.

She doesn't look at him, and the chains won’t give and he can’t touch her, can’t protect her, can’t speak to her - because what would he say? He can't even see her eyes now. Nothing but darker red patches on stained crimson silk and smooth, dark hair. She’s just kneeling at his feet and he can’t look away: not up at her mother’s chiselled eyebrows and swollen, red eyes - not at the smirking bastard fucking smug Time Lord -

“There, Jack,” he says, “you see? I told you she was good. Not as good as she was this morning, from the looks of you, but I think I’ll keep her all the same. She can give Lucy lessons - once I’ve disinfected her properly, of course.” And then his nose wrinkles and he sniffs, smirking down at the mess of spilled swede, snot, drool and come on the rubbed-shiny spars as he's pulling her (Tish, that's Tish) to her feet. “But... Oh dear,” he tuts, his smile turning reproachful. “I think someone's been having too much fun and forgotten his manners. Aren’t you going to say thank you today, Jack? That’s not like you.”

James Moran

Sun, 12 Jul 2009 21:21:48 GMT

(Warning - linked post contains spoilers for Torchwood: Children of Earth)

http://jamesmoran.blogspot.com/2009/07/stepping-back.html

*applauds*

Torchwood: CoE

Sun, 12 Jul 2009 18:33:02 GMT

I was just starting to think I was getting close to the point of s3 meta - and then I skim past the Independent online headline: 'Plan to vaccinate UK population against swine flu' and it gives me the shudders all over again.

And then there's this overwhelming urge I have to hug my son all the time, and just seeing the word 'Frobisher'...

No, maybe not quite yet.

(But *damn* that was amazing. And painful. And just... wow)

Who do I have to bribe for s4? Please?!

fic: Landscape and Memory

Tue, 17 Feb 2009 23:35:37 GMT

title: Landscape and Memory
by: mimarie
fandom: Torchwood
characters/pairing: Gwen/Jack (Gwen/Rhys)
word count: 3500
spoilers/warnings/rating: spoilers for Ghost Machine / PG13
A/N: Huge thanks to my wonderful beta aeshna_uk. Anything that doesn't make sense is entirely my own fault.

summary: Gwen broke Jack's rule about not taking alien tech away from the Hub without permission after he introduced her to the firing range. She got what she wanted that night, but only because Daf and Karen fell out. What if they hadn't?

Afterwards, with the alien machine resting safely in her lap and the knot in her gut finally unravelling, Gwen sat for a while, smiling as her revisited memories sparked others into life. Roses and daffodils filling the sink, heart-shaped balloons tied together with a scrap of lace that only fit if she didn't breathe, warm arms and a strong body; right there, christening the new sofa. And on the kitchen cabinet. And against the washing machine...

I'm basking, she thought, and laughed, leaving the machine on the sofa to follow the last image as far as the kitchen before her stomach took over, demanding she eat, and then starting to churn again as she scrubbed the scents of the Hub, of gun-metal and unreality off her hands, the hum of the microwave accompanying an off-key attempt at It's Not Unusual that finished with a ping and a flourish of blue-and-white checked tea towel.

She watched TV while she ate, the last of the shepherd's pie going down with the encouragement of a glass of red wine, filling her up as she flicked through channels, ignoring the phone as resolutely as it ignored her.

After dinner, she washed up, washed the surfaces down, cleaned the sink, wiped the oven, embracing her domesticity to the extent that she even put her whites on to wash - but by the time she'd finished, Rhys still hadn’t come home. She hadn’t really expected he would. He hadn't rung again either though, and that wasn't like him. Although if he was winning at poker then Daf must be really pissed, which meant that Rhys wasn't far behind. Too pissed to drive, certainly, let alone to grovel sufficiently for her to give him a lift. And they were bound to argue about the fare if he took a taxi, so...

It was probably best. He’d be back in the morning, a make-me-breakfast grin plastered over his hangover - and that was fine, because the alien machine - Tosh's fabulous quantum transducer - had shown her everything she needed to get her head out of the firing range and back where it was supposed to be. Everything she needed - really - to stop thinking about Jack’s hands on her stomach and his breath on her throat, the long, hard body held rigid behind her as he gripped her hand, the way the recoil pressed her harder against him and he murmured approval, chuckling softly into her shoulder - the look on his face when she’d asked him that stupid bloody question...

She swore and stuffed the machine back in her bag, throwing it down on the sofa and heading for the loo. Could she imagine anything worse than spending every night wide awake and alone? Not that Jack would be alone, surely. But he couldn’t take anyone back to the Hub, so at least if he was off somewhere being... not alone, then she could tell herself she was just being stupid, drop the machine off and get out again with no one any the wiser. And if he was there...

Finding her shoes took a couple more minutes, and then she had to go to the loo again, but by the time she was ready the phone still hadn't rung. She pulled a face at it, folding her jacket over the tell-tale bulge of the alien machine as she closed and locked the door.

Sod it. Just sod it. If Rhys could go out and get pissed with his mates because she needed to work late, then she could spend a few hours with Jack. And so what if he was her boss? She'd been right there while he told her how he lived. She'd listened while he as good as told her how lonely he was, waiting for her to say something, to offer to talk or to listen - something, anyway - and she'd just walked away.

She'd been so selfish. She hadn't thought about anything past her own need for reassurance, for space to breathe - for stability...

It wasn't a good thought, but it was a relief. It made sense. More sense than anything else did, anyway. No wonder she'd been feeling so guilty.

*

Once the siren had faded under the grind of the cog-door, the silence hit. It was huge, filled with towering echoes that stalked her through the cage and down the steps into the Hub proper, reminding her of the first time she’d been there. That first, incredible day when all she’d known for sure was that, whatever it was she’d found, she hadn’t solved anything. That for all her chasing about, she'd only managed to discover more things that she didn't understand.

Like Jack, for instance.

She shook her head, a calming lungful of the familiar stone-and-water scented air bearing traces of tomato and spices and the dark smell she would have simply called 'burnt coffee' a fortnight before, but that she now knew to be Java Sumatra (black, one sugar). And that was something, because whatever else he was, Jack was at least human enough to need to eat and drink. Unless he only did it because he enjoyed it? He certainly talked enough about what else he enjoyed; enough to make her glad of the klaxon, because the thought of catching him in the act...

Another shake and she turned slowly, echoes carrying her “Hello, Jack?” up to trouble the sleeping pterosaur, her sigh lost in the reflected confusion of footsteps as she headed further in. He'd been wrong when he said she'd never get tired of following him. Of course he was. But how anyone could be content with simply looking at the surface - however attractive it was. How they could stop themselves from trying to get under that (disgustingly clear) skin of his - even to the extent of having to ask the newbie's opinion as to which way he swung...

Whichever it was, he was doing it somewhere else tonight. He wasn’t in his office, or the boardroom - the lights weren't on, there was no one home - or even stretched out on the sofa, although it looked like he'd eaten there from the cartons and cups. Maybe he'd been lying and he'd gone to bed; he must sleep sometime, surely? She didn't know, but a glance at her watch was enough to make her yawn as she made herself move, blinking in the glare of the overhead lights and reaching into her bag as she stepped up to Toshiko's spare workstation, feeling a twinge of envy for the neat piles of resistors or transistors or whatever they were. It had to be easier, working with things, didn't it? Dull but simple - in a complicated kind of way, but all the same...

The thought made her laugh, her keys jangling as she untangled the alien machine from her bag. Who was she kidding? She'd claw her eyes out after half a day of whatever it was Tosh did. As for Jack... He wasn't there, and she wasn't disappointed. Why would she be? It made everything easier, because she'd only have said something stupid about earlier, and then he'd have said -

No. She shook her head. She didn't know and she didn't want to. She'd just put the stupid thing back and go home. Get some sleep and forget about whatever it was she'd imagined he might want to say to her, because -

“Gwen?”

The voice came from behind her. When she turned it was to find Jack in the door of his office, his shirt open and his braces hanging loose, cradling his favourite mug in both hands.

“Something up?” he said.

She'd checked in the office, hadn't she? She was sure she had.

“No. Not really...” She smiled at him, making a mental note to add 'special abilities: stealth-mode?' to her (ever-growing, never to be asked) list of questions as she leaned back on one hand, the other hunting for a clear spot on the table. The machine wasn’t playing nice though, settling against the noisiest heap of circuits it could find, the rattle bringing Jack closer, setting his mug on Owen's desk as he passed, his smile twisting into something too knowing for comfort as he halted in front of her. Close enough to see over her shoulder to the scatter of plastic beyond.

He leaned, reaching out, and she braced herself, waiting for the explosion.

It didn’t come.

“I’ve been looking for this since you left,” he said, waiting until she nodded before his raised eyebrow dropped back into place. “When I couldn't find it I figured you'd taken it, but...” He sighed. “I'm disappointed. I thought you'd understand. You know what it does.”

“Memories, emotions... look, Jack, I’m -”

“Stupid? Working on a death-wish?”

“No. Of course not. I just... needed to remember something, that’s all.”

“Did it work?”

“Kind of.” She shrugged, hoping-not-hoping that the action would push him back and away, and then thought sod it and straightened, wishing - briefly - that she'd worn heels so she could at least look him in the eye. “It was a mistake,” she said. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have taken it, and I shouldn’t have come back either. I just... I was alone and I couldn’t sleep and I thought maybe you’d like someone to talk to, and...”

“And you thought you’d sneak this back in without anyone noticing.” Jack shook his head, his gaze refusing to release her as he stepped back, the odd, comma-like body of the machine fitted perfectly to his hand.

“Yeah. Well...” She couldn't argue. If she argued he might want to know what was important enough to break the rules for, and even being told off was better than having to tell him that. Just so long as he didn't sack her, anyway. “I said I'm sorry, Jack, and I am. It won't happen again, I promise.”

“And what's that worth?”

“I...” She couldn't say it. I only took it to try and get you out of my head might actually have been the best excuse she'd ever had, but there was no way she was using it. “I just...”

“You just what?”

His stare was beginning to get to her. She couldn't look away and she couldn't think around it, couldn't read it, couldn't see anything past his eyes; the careful blank of his expression somehow worse than the disdain it replaced. First the meteor and now this. Had she ever managed to screw a job up so fast and so badly?

“I've never fired a gun before,” she said, and then had to swallow, feeling sick. “Never even held one, and I needed to remind myself what it was all about. Why I joined the police. It's just all so weird, and... And I really am sorry, but it's late now, and I've got to be back here in a few hours, so...”

“Yeah?” He nodded. “Yeah, well...”

“So I should go.”

“Right.” Another nod and then he shrugged. “I thought you wanted to talk,” he said, “or was that just an excuse?”

“No. I mean, I did. I mean, I thought you might... It doesn't matter.”

“No?” Another shrug. “Okay then. See you in the morning.”

“Right,” she said, cracking a half-hearted excuse for a smile as she turned away. There was no way to explain without actually explaining, so what was the point?

“But since you’re here...” He hadn't moved when she looked back, still turning the machine in his hands, a thoughtful frown replacing the guarded stare. “If it's bothering you enough to keep you awake,” he said, “then we ought to do something about it.”

“We did?”

“I know being shot at - or nearly - isn't much fun, but I need you to be able to handle a weapon.”

“Oh. Well, that...” She dragged the smile wider, trying not to remember the bullet hole closing in his forehead as she watched him frown. “It's all right,” she said. “I'm fine. I had a good long think and I'm on top of it now. I know I need to practice but I'll get used to it. It won't be a problem. And I'm fine, really.”

“Yeah?” He nodded, coming closer. “Well, that's good.” Another nod, another step closer and then he smiled. “So anyway, you never said, what was it you thought we could talk about?”

“I don't know.” He laughed at that, and she could feel her face colouring, unable not to smile back at him. That was it, she was going - now. Just as soon as she could look away, anyway; the stare had nothing on the smile. “You, maybe. After earlier I thought you might... you know, if you wanted.”

“Me?” Both eyebrows rose this time and then he shrugged. “I'm okay. Better since I know you haven't blown yourself up or anything, but...” He stopped, looking from her to the machine in his hand and back again. “Did I tell you I'd been looking for this?” he said eventually. “I figure I had pretty much the same idea you did. Take a step back, get things in perspective... No harm in having a look at my own memories, and besides, a little hindsight goes a long way, y'know? And now I know it helped you focus, so...”

“No,” she agreed, “I mean, yeah. And you are the boss, so... I mean... well... what was it you wanted to see?” The question was out before she could stop it, the blush following inexorably as she added a muttered “sorry,” and shook her head. “I'm being a nosey cow,” she said. “It's late, I should leave you to it. Get some sleep before morning, and then I... oh bugger.” And then maybe if she put her other foot in her mouth too she'd still be able to bounce home on her arse and maybe then she'd stop babbling. “Look,” she said, “you just ignore me and I'll go away, all right?”

“Yeah?” He tilted his head, looking at her thoughtfully. “You don't want to see for yourself then?”

“Oh,” she said. “Well...” And then he was smiling again, and really, she'd come all this way in the middle of the night, so... “What is it?”

He didn't answer, still smiling as he beckoned, turning away.

“Jack? What is it?”

“This way.”

“Where are we going?”

“You'll know when we get there.”

“But -”

“It's your choice.” He shrugged, still walking. “You can let yourself out, can't you?”

“Jack -”

But he was gone. And the choice was no choice at all.

She followed him.

*

It was brighter in the tunnel than she remembered. Cut-out Weevils hazing ghost-like into the distance as she blinked, Jack's awkward smile was as disconcerting as his choice of venue, his casual lean on the zinc-topped table too studied to be less than a pose.

“So,” he said, “here we are again.”

“Here we are,” she agreed, hoping her smile was on straight. “So, what's happened down here? Apart from shooting cardboard aliens, I mean. Weevils, and whatever those tentacly things are in the back row. Are those real? We don't get many of them in Cardiff, do we?” She closed her eyes, but he was still looking at her when she opened them again, still smiling - and if she didn't say something in a minute then he would, and then... “I mean,” she said, swallowing, “there's nothing to see down here, is there? There must be better places than this. Lots of room for memories in a place the size of the Hub. There's just people shooting things down here. What's there to see?”

“I told you.” Jack straightened, pushing away from the table to step closer, proximity drowning the last of her voice. “Hindsight. Maybe even a little perspective. We're going to be working together for quite a while, I hope, so maybe if we do this now...” And then he reached out and pulled her towards him, circling behind her as if they were about to tango, one arm going around her waist as the other skated over her ribs to rise in front of her, the machine clutched firmly in his hand. “Remember this?”

He wasn't serious. He couldn't be serious.

“Look,” she said. “Jack -”

“Here you go.” He wouldn’t move, his arms merely tightening when she tried to unwind herself from them. She tried again, but by then he was holding her hands tight around the unit, their thumbs side by side on the button, the pressure of his arms around her growing fainter as the scent of discharged weapons grew stronger.

It was just like before, at the station. She was everywhere and nowhere, she - she and he; frozen together, unmoving - could see it all. Could feel it. The tremor that ran through the woman holding the gun as the man behind her stepped closer. Her eyes closing, mouth open as he touched her hip, her stomach; tipping her pelvis back to meet his; pressing forward against her backward motion. They could feel the way his fingers curled around her hand, holding her steady; the tingle under her skin and the lump in her throat; his head tilting to sight along her arm; his thrill - pride - as she raised her arms, whooping in delight - the pure simplicity of his lust tangled in such a depth of loss and like and longing that as she started to leave and then stopped, nervous but determined not to show it, turning to smile at him, her face flushed, curiosity overcoming the need to leave before she said or did something she'd have to regret - that as she turned back to face him, in that moment wanting nothing more than to know him...

“Doesn’t it get lonely at night?” she said, and the embarrassment curdled inside her again, held down, held in place by the arms around her.

Doesn't it get lonely at night?

Jack didn’t speak: the reality behind her couldn't and the memory in front didn’t need to. She - they could feel what he felt, feel the appetite curling inside him, the faint, almost reluctant buzz of anticipation and hope stilling his tongue, his need to hear her finish the thought so urgent it lapped at their knees, still washing warm and wet up shivering thighs as they watched her say her goodnights and walk away, her too-straight back strung taut in retreat, a confusion of guilt and relief pulling her onwards, unlooked-for longing splintering against the man left behind.

He didn't move. He just stood, watching where she’d gone until her footsteps faded. Then he sighed, resignation settling over him like a second skin as he started to gather up the guns and scattered ammunition, the warmth of a recent touch fading to steel and ice, fading to black as the soft burr of energy at their fingertips changed pitch, fading to nothing, fading away.

And then they were alone. Together; alone.

The tunnel seemed darker with only them in it, the arc-lights paler and hotter, melting their shadows until they ran together, oozing away into the silence between the badly-cut feet of cardboard Weevils.

Gwen swallowed a deep breath and closed her eyes, fighting a shiver as Jack's grip tightened; gripping tighter in turn, feeling his chest rise behind her, his sigh warm on her throat.

He knew exactly what she'd been running away from. There was no point denying it, even to herself. He was feeling it too, and he knew.

The thought heated her face, a tremor of tension unravelling the length of her spine: Jack knew. And she could stay or she could go - and she should go; take her guilt home to bed, or to wait up for Rhys - but that wouldn't stop Jack knowing. And she should go; but then Jack would be alone. He'd be alone and so would she, and he'd know that she knew...

She counted five breaths before Jack's hold on her loosened, another five before he spoke.

“Well,” he said, “well...”

“Yeah, well.” She swallowed again, took another deep breath. Held it. “I should probably go,” she said. “Jack -”

“Yeah,” he said, “you probably should.”

He didn’t let go though, and neither did she.

Yes, you did

Wed, 05 Nov 2008 09:23:51 GMT

Congratulations, America - and thank you!

(Can I hope that the vote on clause 8 in California went as well?)

And then they gave me my job back...

Sat, 01 Nov 2008 20:28:10 GMT

It's been a good few days away. I've been toasting my feet in front of an open fire, writing, playing football, watching Skip and Josh play 'di Blob' in the Wii (much too cute)... And if that wasn't enough I've been (as good as) offered my old job back, when the centre reopens 'under new management' as they say. Oh, and I've also been invited to interview for three jobs at the local county council.

This afternoon, not long after returning home, I also discovered that nice-but-soggy boss was actually a lot more of a self-serving prick than I'd given him credit for.

The lease that the Centre needed in order to be able to apply for serious amounts funding? The Council were all ready to go ahead and give it to us, and he told them we didn't want it because the centre was going to close. And yes, the Centre *did* close, but this conversation took place BEFORE the Trust even started talking about closing down, which they were doing (apart from the part where they were bloody awful managers, etc.) because we couldn't get a lease and therefore couldn't get funding...

I already knew he'd said he didn't want me to do extra hours, or for the Trust to employ anyone else to try and raise money to keep the place running, and it was all because he wanted to ensure it closed asap so he could have his redundancy money.

I'm not really sure how to feel about it. Sick, certainly, but I have no wish to confront him - I've had enough of his tears and his BS - but I've been so wound up about that place for so long...

I just want a fresh start there now. Actually doing what it was set up for. I'm not particularly ambitious, and I know I can be too believing if not downright naïve at times, but I just can't play politics. It's a centre for people who want to learn and 'better' themselves, but don't have the opportunity anyhow else. I loved working there, and now – all going well on Tuesday - I'm going to have the chance to be a part of that again. That's utterly wonderful, and it's more than good enough for me.

hey world...

Mon, 27 Oct 2008 08:17:59 GMT

It's half-term this week, so instead of running after Josh to get him to school on time this morning, I'm... not.

*sighs happily*

We've got a few days away (half a farmhouse in Cambridgeshire), so while Skip spends his last day at work for a week trying to work out how to fix J's school shoes with a spot-weld (velcro straps should be held in place with a simple metal loop. However, when small(ish) child exhibits strength of small elephant...), J and I will be packing and cleaning the fridge out and other thrilling pre-holiday prep.

It's 8 weeks since I was made redundant. I've been doing Pilates for about 6-7 of those, as well as assorted other dissect-and-rebuild/ confidence-building / how-not-to-panic type exercises (the ones I've been putting off for the last 20 years or so), and I'm just beginning to think I've located most of my brain. It's still pretty reluctant to talk to anyone (it's not that I'm not-talking to anyone, I'm just... not talking to anyone), but I've stopped feeling sick and bursting into tears all the time, heck I even managed to answer the comments on my last fic post a few weeks ago, I must be feeling better!

I'm applying for jobs too - I've got an interview on the 10th :) - and writing (with many fewer omg, no-one will like this, why am I bothering ~~moments~~ large black holes of despair and worthlessness), and simply stopping and relaxing, which I don't think I've ever really managed before. This whole 'taking it one day at a time' business seems to be working pretty well for me right now, I wish I'd tried it before.

(For my next trick I shall attempt to ameliorate my need to reread everything at least fifteen times - just in case some rogue word or meaning has slipped in, or the language has changed while I wasn't looking, of course - and write and post something this long in less than an hour...)

And then of course there's an Ironman DVD out there that needs me to buy it this afternoon...

that art test meme

Sun, 26 Oct 2008 23:10:40 GMT

Okay, that explains a lot...

Your result for What Your Taste in Art Says About You Test...

Non-conformist, Visionary, and Independent

7 Abstract, -6 Islamic, -6 Ukiyo-e, 2 Cubist, 3 Impressionist and -19 Renaissance!

Abstract art uses a visual language of form, color and line to create a composition which exists independently of what may appear to others as visual realities. Western had been underpinned by the logic of perspective and an attempt to reproduce an illusion of visible reality. It allowed the progressive thinking artists to show a different side to the world around them. By the end of the 19th century many artists felt a need to create a 'new kind of art' which would encompass the fundamental changes taking place in technology, science and philosophy. Abstract artists created art that was diverse and reflected the social and intellectual turmoil in all areas of Western culture.

People that chose abstract art as their preferred artform tend to be visionaries. They see things in the world around them and in people that others may miss because they look beyond what is visual only with the eye. They rely on their inner thoughts and feelings in dealing with the world around them instead of on what they are told they should think and feel. They feel freed from the tendency to be bound by traditional thought and experiences. They look more toward their own ideas and experiences than what they are told by their religious upbringing or from scientific evidence. They tend to like to prove theories themselves instead of relying on the insight or ideas of others. They are not bound by common and mundane, but like to travel and have new experiences. They value intelligence, but they also enjoy a challenge. They can be rather argumentative when they are being forced or feel as if they are being forced to conform.

Take What Your Taste in Art Says About You Test at HelloQuizzy

Fic: Time; past (9/9)

Sun, 22 Jun 2008 16:26:10 GMT

Turn Left

Sat, 21 Jun 2008 18:34:51 GMT

I don't want to step back and start thinking critically about Turn Left - good or bad, writing or acting - because that was just bloody brilliant

Now, 'scuse me please - thinky later, need to go bounce a bit more now, put the sofa back together and wipe my eyes again. I don't even care if I hate it at second viewing, just - wow.

Fic: Time; past (8/9)

Wed, 18 Jun 2008 21:15:59 GMT

title: Time; past
author: mimarie
characters Rose Tyler/Jack Harkness, The Doctor (ninth)
rating: NC-17 - adult themes and language
spoilers/warnings: nothing past DW S1. This was once canon-compliant, but has become slightly AU since Torchwood S1.
word count: c.7,000 (/c. 38,000)

summary: He won’t remember talking to her, buying her a drink, laughing, dancing, flirting. He won’t remember anything he said...

notes: This follows on from Time; present (which needs to be read first, or this will make very little sense).

Claimed for the 100_situations challenge. Prompt 69 - Bitter

Huge thanks to my wonderful betas aeshna_uk and jwaneeta, and to laurab1 for the cover art :)

part one: Time; present
part two: Time; past (one) // (two) // (three) // (four) // (five) // (six) // (seven)

Time; past
(8/9)

It’s still raining, and she still hasn’t got an umbrella, but there’s an arm around her shoulders and Jack's talking as they walk, kaleidoscope ripples splashing and sparking on the sulphur-bright pavements. Talking and smiling and laughing, trying to make her laugh as a rapid blue flash streaks his gesturing hand green, the squawk of sirens making her jump as a second car flashes past, followed moments later by a paramedic. And she’d be laughing too - only she’s already dragged him into the nearest shop doorway, and he’s grinning and slicking the water off his face, urging her further in with a snigger and a breathy ‘does that mean we’re criminals, baby?’ before kissing her breathless against the rattling steel of the security shutters.

Squashed into a corner and fed sloppy mouthfuls of tongue, the smell of piss and cider rising off the wet concrete is overwhelming. She’d breathe through her mouth, but it’s kind of busy right now, and she can barely move without something wet and sticky sucking at her boots, or, for that matter, her face. He’s enjoying this far too much. And she’s trying, she really is, but there are drips running into her eyes and trickling over her scalp; too-strong hands finding skin under shredded nylon and making her moan. More tongue and the hands have brought fingers - he’s not serious. Is he? Not here... And then a damp snigger becomes a wet blouse as the rain hits full-face and they’re walking again. Walking back to this fabled hotel room together, getting soaked through and trying not to look like she’s been attacked by a horny Time Agent who’s determined to cut her in half with a slice of sodden cotton.

Two streetlights and a bus stop, once around the Klingons - are they still here? - and twice around the revolving door (yes, the glass is cold, and no, she does not want to see if she can leave a bum-print, thanks all the same. She is not a spoil sport. Is he determined to get them arrested? Do them up. Not everyone wants to see his arse), then they’re past the wide-eyed blonde in reception, the coffee and new carpet scent of the foyer left behind in a swish of lift-doors and the increasingly familiar sound of her own breath being dry-humped out of her. Just for variety, this time, against a full-length mirror.

‘Ground floor; doors closing.’

That’s it then. No way out now. Not unless she can will the text to arrive in the next... how far are they going? All the way? No - the lift, can’t he just...

Oh, right, the top floor. Great: as far from civilisation as it’s possible to get. But it’s all right; the man with the key-card and the Cheshire Cat grin says it is, so it must be.

And why wouldn’t it be? She’s willing and he’s eager - too bloody eager...

‘Three’

‘Four’

“Don’t. What if someone calls the lift?”

“They won’t. Come back here.”

What - volunteer herself back between a mirror and a hard... thing? Well, if he puts it like that, but - no, it’s cold. And yes, she’s sure he is strong enough to hold her up, but, look, he can’t -

“- they might.”

“No, they won’t.”

“Yeah, but no, really - just -”

‘Nine’

“- wait.”

“Don’t worry. It’s all ours. Secured private access; came with the room.”

“Oh. Oh -”

‘Twelve’

‘Fourteen’

‘Fifteen’

‘Sixteen’

“- makes you wonder what people do up here, doesn’t it, babe. All that security... But you’ll love the view.”

“What? Oh - right... yeah?”

“It’s almost as good as this. Although you could make it better...”

‘Twenty-one’

‘Twenty-two’

“- and then if you just -”

“No, hang on - look, we’re -”

‘Twenty-four; doors opening.’

“- here and... Oh. Wow. I mean, just...”

“So, you think this’ll do us for the night then, honey?”

It might. Just possibly. And no, really - she doesn’t need holding up. It’s just that she wasn’t expecting it to be so big...

It’s not that funny. She’s serious. It’s bigger than her mum’s entire flat, and that’s just the ... what’s she supposed to call it; the lounge? Windows on three sides, the lift and a collection of doors filling the North-west corner - there’s even a bit that looks like it’s been paved, way over between the two sets of French doors and the terrace with the hot-tub and the palm trees.

It’s hard to think of anything to say - which is, oddly enough, pretty much how she felt the last time he waved a leather-and-steel themed penthouse under her nose. And this one has significantly more furniture in it and a lot less bare flesh, but it looks so... Expectant is the only word that comes to mind. Lights dimmed to a warm gleam on soft hides and silvered spars, the scent of strawberries growing stronger the closer they get to the window until, rounding an embankment of sofa, their trajectory intercepts a subtle trail of bottle, glasses, and small bowls filled with out-of-season soft fruits that seems - maybe he’ll prove her wrong; she’s got time, she can wait - seems to be leading directly to that inconveniently oversized bed. And she’s really, really not thinking about his taste in porn - because where would she start? - but even Jack would have to admit his suite-with-a-view looks like it’s expecting to see its occupant and his guest of choice out of their clothes with as little delay as possible.

It’s hardly a surprise. If it wasn’t for the way wet denim insists on clinging to itself it’d be halfway there already. But then, there’s nothing like a bit of forward planning, is there. Because, unless his wrist-strap can change his clothes for him too, it’s pretty obvious that after two hours softening her up without benefit of shag he wasn’t intending to waste any more time setting a mood for her replacement.

He’s not wasting any now: jacket, bag and assorted footwear discarded en route, breath warm in her ear, hands resting on her stomach - and she’d bet what’s left of her tights that they’re not there for the view, but all the same...

“Wow.”

“Oh yeah.”

“No, I mean really - just... wow.”

She’s seen the end of the Earth, alien planets and solar systems that no one down there even knows exist, but it’s Saturday night - here and now - and the man and woman staring back at her are floating in a sea of light. Landing lights and tail lights, blinking red warnings and the sweep of helicopters, erratic car and static streetlights, traffic lights and neon; a whole city in illuminated motion blurred across at least an acre of wet window. All the way out - past Stamford Bridge and the flattened ‘T’ of the Exhibition Centre, past skeletal gasometers, silvered and gleaming upholstery reflecting across the tree-lined expanse of the cemetery and the river’s distant dark curves; tower blocks and offices, glass and brick and steel...

And somewhere down there are two little, green-lit blue boxes; one now and one then. One of her, two Doctors and two more Jacks to add to the one who’s smiling at their reflection as he peels the wet hair away from her throat, neon streaks outlining the hand curving slowly over her abdomen.

“You’re right, honey - that is a beautiful view...”

“I know. I mean, I live here, but... I’ve never seen it like this before.”

“No - you.”

The smile grows a slow shrug, carrying hands to stroke down over her hips while his shirt slides damply to the floor, a brief flurry of sky-blue and then bare arms wrap around her, slow hands smearing light over her stomach and down until the denim runs out and he’s left stroking nylon, a thin, dark sheen tattered into rungs to be climbed, finger over finger, his gently determined advance driving her nerves before it, over bare thighs and under damp elastic, knotting her stomach around a mass of sluggish chips and tea.

It’ll be all right. It’s Jack and they’re alone now. No audience and no more distractions. He’s got his mirror and she can see that the world’s still out there - and he was wrong if he thought she couldn’t do this. Just because they’re from different times, it doesn’t mean their ideas are so very far off.

But all the same, there’s no point pretending if she doesn’t have to.

“I need to tell you something.” Her reflection looks nervous - which seems only reasonable considering that his reflection is wrist-deep in her blouse and skirt - her mouth curving unsteadily as the interruption draws his face up out of her throat, and she surrenders herself to his gaze, a pale flicker of motion becoming her hand, reaching up to stroke through short, wet hair. “And I know I should’ve told you this earlier, but...”

“What’s the matter, honey?”

“I’ve never done this before.”

“Yeah, babe? I - you...” So that’s what he looks like surprised. And it loosens his grip, which is worth knowing, because something had to. “Yeah? You mean - honey, are you trying to tell me you’re -”

“No. Not like that. I’ve had boyfriends, but I’ve never... I mean, I only met you today, y’know? And I just thought... I thought I ought to say, because...”

“It’s okay.”

The mirror-man’s smiling. He’s got a lovely smile - she knows someone with a smile just like that. His ‘thank you,’ sounds good too, and the shine in his eyes is so very familiar...

It’ll be all right. He’s the same man who’ll catch her falling; the man who’ll save her life. It’ll be fun - right? And she can’t just lie back and think of England: not having a good time while Jack’s naked is probably some kind of blasphemy.

“Why thank me? What for?”

“For coming back.” His shrug pulls at her blouse, the warm hand on her stomach sliding again as the lips on her throat move slowly, breath thickened with desire purring warm and soft through her hair. “And because you choose me. You trusted me enough to come back.”

“Yeah, well -”

“No, I mean it. You trusted me enough to spend the night with me, so I think I owe you a night worth remembering. Don’t you?”

“Well - yeah. I mean - I hope so.”

“I know so.” Smiling eyes meet hers in the window, warm breath trailing to her ear, hands smoothing and stroking as he’s turning her to face him; a pale reflection becoming the invitation of a solid, bare chest and tight, wet denim, an oddly angled silver button demanding its freedom under the perfect lines of his stomach as he’s exploring the curve of her backside - and does he realise how badly that oversized grin goes with his serious look?

“Now, I really need to get you naked, honey...”

Yeah, he probably does.

“Why’s that then?”

“You need to ask?”

“Not really - I just think you need to tell me.”

“Yeah? Well, I think you just want to hear it.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He’s shining at her, laughing as she twitches away from a too-delicate touch, a bare stroke turning ticklish, and, in its turn, making that smooth, bare stomach too tempting to ignore - especially as she knows exactly where all his giggle-spots are...

It doesn’t take her long to turn him, less time still to back him up until he’s gasping his way along the glass, and she’s barely popped that dastardly button and settled into a decent grope before quick fingers and that delicious groan-and-gasp combination catch her, tugging and shoving and clutching and turning her, laughing into her mouth when she almost swallows his tongue as he’s kissing her flat to the window.

“Because...” Another twist and he’s backing, taking her with him, cold hands on the backside replacing the cold glass on her back. “Because, you gorgeous woman - you are soaked.”

“Yeah? Well, that’s your fault.”

“I know. But I meant your clothes, honey, they’re wet though. And I can’t have you catching cold...”

His half-step away makes her stumble but he doesn’t let go, wriggling wryly in his own wet denim as he’s tugging at hers, turning her to the window then closing the gap between them until she can feel every inch of him, a serious smile with laughing eyes demanding her attention.

They’re not getting it though, because that’s her there. Her with Jack’s hands on her, her mouth opening in a silent sigh as he kisses her throat; her hands finding his and guiding them higher and lower until his quiet ‘patience, baby,’ whorls out and away into the vast, expensively upholstered silence, leaving her skin to absorb the slow jag of unlocking metal teeth. Skin under her hands and stubble on her cheek; skin touching and turning her, holding her still; lips finding her lips as a single, quiet ping resounds through denim and stroking palms, losing itself in her hip.

“Persistent, your friends, aren’t they.” There’s a catch in his voice but he’s still smiling, laughing softly and pawing at her pocket before finally admitting defeat with a shrug. “Turn it off. They’ve had enough of you already. It’s my turn now.”

“Yeah. I’ll just, um...”

He’s grinning by the time she persuades her skirt to give up its hostage. And if he ever met personal space it probably ran away screaming - but it’s okay, because she’s trying not to grin now too. She doesn’t even need to open the message; it’s right there on the inbox.

Tardis: ☺

That’s it. That’s it. They’ve done it. Which means it’s time to say goodnight. Sad-but-resigned would probably be best - there’s no point aiming straight at the ego - only...

Look at him. He’s just so... happy. That nothing-like-subtle full-body line-of-sight blocking manoeuvre, the slow stroke down the arm, nudging her jaw with his nose, the puppy eyes as he’s pulling her hand up to kiss it; even the way he gives in with a grin and a shrug when she won’t let him unpeel her grip and starts kissing her knuckles instead, working a slow, meandering - and apparently engagingly scenic, from all the stopping and starting and smug purring noises - route up and around her wrist and forearm, heading resolutely for the inside of her elbow. So it’s just daft, really it is. Just daft to be feeling bad about leaving him like this. One night without a shag won’t kill him - and she couldn’t stay now, even if she wanted to. Which she doesn’t. What she wants is to go. There’s no point even thinking about it - it’s what got her into this bloody mess of twining, smiling, stroking, soft and hard and oh-so-tempting nearly-naked bloody gorgeous bloody man in the first place. She wants to go home, now, to him - to both of them. That’s what she wants. That’s all she wants. It doesn’t matter that the sad bit is a lot easier to do than the resignation. Because it is - it’s bloody sad, but she’s done everything she can now.

“Look, Jack -” Just say it and go. Step back - peel him off and step back - then just say it and walk out. “I’m really sorry, I know what I said, but I need to -”

“What’s that?”

She never saw him move - she wouldn’t even have noticed the smooth twitch of changing mental gears if she hadn’t known his face so well - but there’s a hand holding hers by then, carefully but resolutely unfolding well-kissed fingers from the bright square of the screen, his tightening smile vanishing as he twists around behind her, arms and his chest trapping her, his pulse thudding so hard into her spine that she can feel it in her lungs, a gentle, steel-cored grip holding her arm out in front of her like an unwanted condom.

She’s got to stay calm. He doesn’t know anything.

“Rose?” His purr’s gone deep, an undertone of growl falling in a shiver down her spine. “Tell me what it is.”

“It’s nothing. It’s - it’s just my friend. He... That’s what he does. When he needs me, y’know? But it ... It doesn’t mean anything. It’s just silly.”

Her laugh doesn’t even convince her. But it’s a smiley, that’s all; it can’t mean anything to him. His precious Time Agency surely never used smileys for ‘mission accomplished, come home and don’t forget the milk,’ did they? Unless he’s heard of the TARDIS. He’d have known though. Would he? Oh god - she was so close...

“Silly? Is that what you call it? I can think of a better way to describe it.”

The phone drops, bouncing unnoticed on the carpet as he finishes uncurling her fingers, turning her hand again, his spare arm tightening around her ribs, late-night stubble catching her hair. If it’s not the phone then what is it? There’s nothing else in her hand - nothing there but her hand: no rings, no watch, nothing but...

Bruises. Oh god. Jack...

“Let me see.” Urged gently towards the sofa, the sudden white light is blinding after the wet blur of the window, making her blink as she wobbles down into a soft, leather embrace. “Ringing you up, sending you messages, and... Honey, look at that.”

His fingers fit perfectly. But they would - how could they not? Such a gentle grip; so careful - circling her wrist as easily as the mottled bracelet of thumb and finger marks, pinch and grip and knuckle-prints overlapping each other in angry-looking layers.

He was so bloody happy.

“It was an accident. We were just playing around, play fighting. You - he wouldn’t hurt me, he wouldn’t. Really.”

“That was that him on the phone?”

“Yeah.”

Maybe she looks as sick as she feels. Maybe that’s why he’s looking at her that way.

“And that message just now; that was him too?”

“Well...”

And maybe if she throws up on him it’ll distract him long enough for her to get to the lift.

“And you’re really tense. I can feel it. Here...” A soft touch on her cheek breaks an even softer sigh, concerned eyes holding her as motionless as the fingers laced through hers as he strokes down to the hollow of her throat, dipping his head to follow his touch with kisses; lips and fingertips sketching her collarbone. “And here...” Another kiss and the leather under them creaks softly, the barest drag of tongue tracing the lacy extent of one bra cup, warm breath and smoothing, soothing fingers slipping inside. “So tense - right here...” A soft gasp at his pinch brings more kisses - always more kisses - squeezing and stroking, nuzzling her throat on his way to her ear. “Is there something you want to tell me, honey?”

“No. No - ‘course not. Really, it’s nothing.”

“No?”

“No. I just... I really think I ought to go. I know what I said, but him and me - it’s complicated, and I just -”

“Then I’ll un-complicate it.” A twitch of the brow triggers a full-blown shrug and he sighs, his jaw tightening as he’s leaning to kiss her again. “Don’t worry, sweetheart, he’s not going to hurt you anymore.”

“No. He doesn’t. Look... just leave it, okay?”

“I can’t.” Another sigh and then he’s shaking his head, gently folding her blouse closed with a regretful smile, saddened sympathy rippling across the neatly packed lines of his chest and stomach as he reaches for his shirt. “I just can’t do that. I really like you, honey, and I won’t stand for anyone hurting someone I like.”

“You can’t. I - I won’t tell you where to find him. It doesn’t matter, really.”

“Okay. Then I’ll trace the signal back.” That bloody wrist-computer. Does it make tea, too? “And then -”

“No, please...” He doesn’t protest when she flips the flap shut, a solitary eyebrow rising as she pulls the shirt out of his hand, letting her pull him close, letting her kiss him, kissing her back with a barely concealed restraint and a mouthful of uncertain, concerned noises that are doing nothing for her state of mind.

He’s worried about her. He’s got her pinned down and as good as panting in his oversized shag-pad and he’s worried about her. And that’s good. That’s great - because she knew she was right about him; he really hasn’t changed - but she can’t let him screw it up now, not now they’ve got what he needs. She can handle this. She’s got to - it’s what she’s here for, right?

“Please, don’t. I don’t want him hurt, but I don’t want you to go either. I want you here. You know I do, you must do. Just stay here, with me.”

“How can I?”

“But -”

“But nothing. He hurt you. I can’t let that go. And I won’t hurt him - not really. I’m just going to teach him that he can’t get away with mistreating my friends. Leaving marks where anyone can see them. He might give someone ideas. They might think you like it.”

“What? It’s not like that. He - we - we just - just...”

“Just what? If you really want me to stay then I think you ought to tell me. Don’t you?”

It’s just a smile. Just fingers brushing her cheek, a stray hand raising all the hairs on her neck as it moves casually lower, parting the cloth he just folded so carefully together as it goes, the soft smile refusing to let her look away. It’s a good smile: one of his best. She’s not seen him smile like that in a long time. Not since the last time she first met him, anyway.

“I mean, you don’t like to play a little rough - do you honey? Because if that was the case, I wouldn’t have anything to worry about.”

Head tilted, lips slightly parted, eyes lighted with a genuine desire to help, the ensemble softened by the merest soupçon of dimple - a real ‘trust me, honey - I only want what you want. Honestly, if you needed me to go beat your friends up then getting my end away would be the last thing on my mind - but all the same, don’t you think I’d look better screwing you than your relationships? Come on; look how close you are to getting me naked...’ smile.

He must practise. No wonder he spends so long in the bathroom - and she thought he was just wanking...

“Is that it, honey?”

“No. Well. I mean - not really rough...”

Smooth-tongued, twisting bastard... She was right: he hadn’t changed at all. He’s exactly the man who’ll catch her falling simply to seduce her for a con - and he knew it. He knew it -

‘Did I hurt you?’ That’s what he said. ‘I won’t let you do this for me. I could hurt you.’

“Really?” That eyebrow’s gone up again; entirely unrehearsed genuine surprise shining from every angle of an oh-so innocent smile. “So I shouldn’t be worried then? When you said play-fighting, you mean you just... like to play?”

“Well. I mean...”

‘And I’d love it,’ he said. ‘But you’re not a player. Don’t go. It doesn’t matter - I don’t need to know.’

“It’s okay. It’s nothing to be ashamed of. I just want to give you what you want. Is that what you want, honey? Do you want to play?”

It’s just Jack. Still just Jack; exactly the same and a different man entirely.

‘Come home,’ he said, ‘Rose, please, you can’t do this for me -’

“Honey? Are you going to play with me? I know all kinds of good games...”

“I might. It depends...” That’s it; smile for the pretty, half-naked bastard. “But you’re not tying me up, right? I’m not doing nothing like that.”

“No? You sure? I’ll let you do me. We can do anything you want. Anything...” And the pretty half-naked bastard will get a little more naked and smirk right back. “Oh, you are good. You nearly had me there. But I knew you couldn’t be as innocent as you look.”

“Can’t I?” It’s a game. That’s all it is. “That’s a shame. And I was doing so well...”

“Oh, you are, baby. But I want to play too. And if you’re going to be naughty then I’ll just have to be teacher...”

It’s just a game. He’s Jack, and they’re playing a game of Truth or Consequences. She had her turn earlier, so now it’s his go. It’s going to be fun. It is. See? He gets to purr overheated syrup-of-filth in her ear and paw her clothes off, and all she has to do is wriggle and giggle and try not to squirm all the way off the sofa and out the door - because he’s really good at pretending to be a kinky, lying, manipulative bastard and if she calls him on it she’ll spoil all the fun.

But there’s fun and there’s fun - and he’s got really big hands, so no, really, thanks all the same, but she’ll give that a miss. Seriously. No - that’s enough - she’s a good girl, see?

“Yeah? Shame. Maybe later, eh, honey? Okay, so tell me - no - show me. Come on baby; show me where you want me.”

That’s easy: in the TARDIS kitchen - sitting at the table with greasy, green fingers, and a smile on his face. Teasing her and laughing at her. Kissing her like he means it, not just like he wants it. Letting her explore, letting her find out what he likes - so she can do it again, later.

“Honey? You know if you’re teasing me here I’m going to have to - fuck -”

Is it that late already? Wow. It’s been doing that a lot today. Yeah, she knows - but that’s such a poor, tense-looking tendon… Is it feeling better now? Yeah? Good. He likes that, doesn’t he. Yeah, she can tell. It’s all those groany noises: dead giveaway. No, she’s fine, just getting her breath - and there too? Okay. And there? Yeah - and maybe if he could just shove over a bit? No, just a bit of a cold. She’s fine. It’s nothing. Yeah, if he could move a few of those hands. Just three or four, that should do. Thanks. That’s it - let her get a better angle. There’s no rush, is there? They’ve got all night...

It’s not enough though, not for him. Not now - he’s insistent. Hasn’t she waited long enough? He knows he has -

“Here.” A quiet rip and a wriggle and then a deft stroke drags her gaze down to his hands as his jeans drop the last few inches to the floor.

It’s just another game. All she’s got to do is pretend that he’s him. He’s the one shaking, not her - because he’s excited; because it’s Jack and he wants her because she’s her - and she’s just going to climb on and enjoy the ride, and then, when it’s over...

“Come on - sit on me. Fuck me.”

But he’s too strong to be so impatient: hard-soft hands hauling her down to meet rising hips, her knees squeaking on the leather, lifted and dragged and held up as a single efficient stroke spreads her open, an invasion of groan-flavoured tongue smothering her yowl at the sudden, shocking stretch. He’s thick. Really. Thicker than she realised and it burns. Thick and blunt and mercilessly solid, stretching all the way in, smoothing wetly back out. Slow and deliberate, broad shoulders flexing in her grip as he rises again, pulling her down and then lifting her up, catching her on the down-stroke and wriggling deeper. Holding her down - one, two, three and then breathe and release - grinding the numb sting of friction to a pounding throb before letting her go again, a rough ‘that’s it - ride me’ rolled over the point of a nipple and sucked until there’s nothing in the world but a bass-beat backing to the stretch and slide and puff and squeak of skin in skin on skin on skins, harsh breathing and a familiar dark head ducked busily low, making her sweat and pant - making it good -

She can do this. She wants to - because this is Jack and it’s good. It’s Jack and they’re in the lounge with the TV on low and... No. It’s the night she met him. She’s never seen him before today and they’re trying out the captain’s chair in his Chula ship in the middle of the London Blitz. It’s all right - it’s right; just her and Jack. It’s what she wanted. It’s good: sharp and real, soft and wet and hard and rough... It’s Jack: moving inside her and under her - Jack’s fingers and hip bones, Jack’s mouth and his eyes...

“That’s right - look at me. I want to watch you come.”

It’s Jack. It’s good and it is, it’s him, it is - is -

“Jack...”

“That’s it, baby - louder.”

It doesn’t take long and even then he’s right behind her. It doesn’t matter. He’s got nothing to prove; her heart knows the difference but her body’s too far gone to care.

He’s still there when her eyes open. Still half hard inside her, his head lolled comfortably back, watching her as she tries to hide a shudder under a yawn and a laugh; a lazy grin touching half-closed eyes and making them shine.

“Long day, baby? It’s okay, me too - but I don’t think we’re ready to go to sleep just yet.” Bare thighs flexing, his leisurely stretch lifts her knees off the sofa, curling an arm round her as a sudden switchback folds her in half, ignoring her dizzied shriek when her hair brushes the floor to lean further, rooting in a jingling pocket, rustling and rattling something she can’t turn far enough to see.

His eyes are still shining when he sits them back up, the lolling length of him settling sloppily as he catches her in a long, wet, thorough kiss, the increasingly familiar combination of sex and vodka flavoured with something new and faintly bitter. It’s like sweet sherbet with extra lemon and a twist of iced pan-scourer, but whatever it is it’s making her tongue tingle, making her mouth dry with the need to lick her lips - making her mouth water even as the shiver trickling down through her stomach freezes solid.

“What was that? You gave me something - Look, I never -”

“It’s nothing. It’s fine - just relax, baby. I’ve got you.”

“No. No, there was something there - I can taste it. I can feel it, it’s - oh, god...”

It’s fizzy. Her blood’s fizzy - singing through her skin at every touch, ringing and singing in her ears, dragging her focus down to the heat of the body under her, the hand on her back and the one in her hair - all those follicles, she never knew she had so many - the hairs on his thighs like trace glints of static on her backside, sweat prickling over muscle and flesh - the double-thud of two pulses inside her louder than the soft rasp of breath on her cheek, eyelashes scraping her temple as perfect, sensible syllables pour smoothly into her ear, overflowing across her throat and down, flooding each tremble and making it shine.

“Give it a second, let it settle. It’s just a little pick-me-up. You don’t want to fall asleep and miss all the fun, do you?”

She can’t see him - she’d have to open her eyes for that - but she can see that smile. It’s so sincere it hurts to even imagine it; broad and shiny, promising her the only thing she’ll believe from whoever he is right now: that whatever he’s planning to do to her, he’ll make sure she enjoys it - whether she likes it or not.

“Trust me, babe, I wouldn’t do anything nasty to you - nothing you don’t beg me for, anyhow.”

“No - but, I mean -”

Another kiss swallows anything else she might have said; sharp-tasting and increasingly delicious, pulling her under, drowning her senses in skin and saliva. And what would she have said anyway? She’s got to concentrate. It’s just Jack. That’s all she needs to know. His name is Jack, he’s a gorgeous, lying, manipulative, sexy bastard that she met earlier tonight - and it’s going to be fun...

“I think it’s time we did this properly, don’t you? No -” Breathing heavily as he finally lets her lean back, fingers clamp into her hips, holding her down, his jaw set and grinning. “- don’t move. Just squeeze me.”

“What?”

“Squeeze me. Come on, baby, let me feel those muscles working. That’s it - tighter.”

He can’t be serious - he just came. But then so did she, and the fat, wet grind and slide of slowly swelling flesh finding every single hyperactive nerve-ending as it grows inside her isn’t exactly turning her off. He is: he’s hard. Harder. A thickened throb filling her completely as he shifts, wriggling deeper, his head falling back, his eyes rolling up in such a blissed-out expression that she can’t help but hope... Could he, just maybe, have passed out?

“That’s it.” No such bloody luck. “Now, I guess we’ll need a new one of these, and then...”

It’s all a bit of a whirl after that. Maybe she ought to be trying to remember detail - but that’s asking too much, especially when she’s not even sure if she can count anymore. One condom dropped sloppily on the glass-topped table. Two rips in the little foil packet under her nose and two friction-burnt knees - soft carpet, but not so good in action. They should complain to the management. When she’s finished chewing the sofa she might think about that again. Maybe, if he’d give her a chance to breathe. Face down - face up - where was she? One wet condom and two sore knees - nice smooth plaster on the ceiling, sweaty leather squeaking under her shoulders and a very familiar head between her thighs...

One and two and... It doesn’t tally and she’s certain it won’t - not with a bastard-fast tongue lapping up the evidence, a casual hand stroking a suspiciously wet but mercifully drooping erection as he’s kneeling at her feet.

It’s okay, he says, just lay back, baby. That’s it - wider - oh baby, that’s good -

Can’t he even remember her name? It’s Rose. Don’t you know me?

She can’t say it. She can’t tell him. He doesn’t know her and he can’t. Not now. This is all it is.

This, and champagne it seems. Well, she could do with a drink...

He wasn’t joking though. Really, that wasn’t a joke? Well, yeah - with a thing on the shower head - but... Doesn’t he know that you’re not supposed to do that with bottles? Really, she’s sure you’re not. No - not even if you’ve scraped all the foil off. Yes, it does look kind of the right shape, but really... Really? But surely not and shake it. Where’s he planning to put that thumb? Oh god - that’s going to make such a mess and this sofa looks really expensi -

“Jack - bloody god.”

“That’s it; wider. Let me see you. Is that good? It looks good. Yeah? Here - let me -”

No. He can’t have it back. Not now, not so fast. Why so fast? Didn’t he want to watch her come? No, really, he can’t stop now... What he’s doing? Yes, it looks like a lovely strawberry, but what - no, don’t take it away -

“You like that? It’s okay. I’ll give you some more. But I’m thirsty, baby, and you’ve got all my champagne. I tell you what; I’ll swap you my strawberry for your bottle - yeah, just like that, hold still now - then we won’t spill anything before I get a taste...”

That’s more than a taste. But she’s not complaining - he can take as long as he wants, because soft fruit might not have been her weapon of choice, but concentrating on not-squashing it is easier than not-thinking about the way he’s purring as he laps, slow and deep, lapping and humming, making fizzy blood roar as he laps and then laps and then sucks -- the wet, satisfied slurp accompanied by a pop louder than the champagne cork managed as an eager mouth catches a hot, fizzing gush.

If that’s how the bottle felt then she’s putting in for a transfer. He really wasn’t joking. All those bubbles; inside and outside and just everywhere... More? Why the hell not. It’s not like she’s got anything else to be doing right now, and it’s a big bottle - really, big - she wouldn’t want it to go flat before they finished it.

“Don’t worry.” A tepid trickle hits her stomach, pooling in her belly button and running lower. It’s still fizzy - still fizzing - as it meets glass coming the other way, the hollowing shock of suction and slosh knotting her tongue around a groan. “There’s another one in the cooler.”

“Good. That’s good.” Go her - three whole words. “’Cos that’s - oh god - good, really, just...”

“And you’re delicious. Here - taste -”

He’s trying to kill her - he can’t keep stopping like that, and then... Oh. Right.

It’s okay. It’s just a bottle. She’s drunk out of a bottle plenty of times before - although it’s generally been Coke or Liebfraumilch, not Cristal. And she can’t help wincing at the taste, but she’s starting to get used to it now - and it’s not like she can wipe the neck first, no matter where it’s been. He’d be far too disappointed.

“Oh yeah, that’s it, honey. You’ve got such a beautiful mouth... can I get some of that? Move over - let me up there. Look at what you’re doing to me...”

Again? Already? Isn’t he tired?

It doesn’t look like it from this angle. And is it her, or is she doing all the work again?

No, she’s not complaining. Because she’s got manners, that’s why - unlike some people, she doesn’t talk with her mouth full. Yeah? Oh yeah, so long as he can manage not to bite her when she... Yeah, like that; does he like that? No, it’s a big sofa; she’ll probably manage to stay on, thanks. But if he could just.... Aw, is he getting champagne in his eyes? That’s a shame. Never mind, he’ll live - just as long as he can breathe under there...

And that’s funny - although it’s not - because he tastes like the bottle but without the fizz. ‘I’ve got another one right here,’ her arse. He’s a lying, cheating, silver-tongued - long silver-tongued, clever-tongued, long-fingered... Yes, just like that. More. Yeah, she’ll suck, but only if he does - bastard. And why would he be tired? She’s not - not anymore - and his night is at least four hours younger than hers, not to mention the fact that he’s got himself a willing, warm, and increasingly sticky body with all the requisite holes.

What - all of them? Now hang on a minute...

Only as far as he’s concerned, ‘but I’ve never done that before,’ isn’t so much a refusal as a challenge. Because of course he wouldn’t dream of doing something she doesn’t like - but look how well they’re doing on new experiences tonight already. And really, how does she know if she hasn’t tried? It’ll be good - amazing - and he’s got everything they need...

He’s a real fucking boy scout. That is, when he’s not playing fireman or pharmacist. No, she’s fine, really - and it’s not that far to the bed. She has got legs, remember? Those things he keeps losing his face between?

“I wouldn’t want you getting too tired to enjoy me. That’s it, honey. Just relax and let me in. You’re gonna love this.”

But such a good boy scout - Baden-Powell would’ve been proud of him - making sure she’s well-prepared, promising her how good it’ll be and making sure it is.

It is. It shouldn’t be, not like this. But it is. It’s fucking fantastic. Fantastic fucking this stranger with Jack’s face and his body: sheets rucked under her cheek and a pillow under her stomach, stretched wide and filled rigid, Jack’s filthy tongue tingling on her spine, Jack’s voice telling her how incredible she looks - and what is it with him and mirrors?

“That’s so tight... You’ve got to see yourself like this. Come on, get up. Grab that chair...”

If she’d known him here first then she’d be filing tonight under ‘compare all sex with, ever’ because being worshipped and defiled in turn - at the same time; in triplicate just as soon as he can wedge the wardrobe doors at the right angle - by a gorgeous stranger might actually be one of the most exciting things she’s ever done.

If she’d known him here first.

But she didn’t. Doesn’t. No more than he does her.

Jack was right about everything but the thing that mattered most: he won’t hurt her - how could he? He isn’t even here. And she can’t say no, any more than she can complain, because when her mouth’s not full he’s making her pant so hard she can hardly breathe, let alone talk.

But it still hurts. All of it: Every kiss, every smile and caress; every proof of the man she’s going to know - the man he’ll be. Every joke she can’t make. Every guilty second panting under his fingers and tongue - under him and on him - every thrust, every bite, every ‘baby’, and every single time she comes.

next (9/9)

Fic: Time; past (7/9)

Sun, 15 Jun 2008 12:45:12 GMT

Midnight

Sun, 15 Jun 2008 10:31:42 GMT

I’m still not exactly sure what I think about Midnight, but my brain seems to like it, because how many episodes of Doctor Who wake me up quoting Yeats at myself?

Okay, maybe it’s no more than a human reaction to such a situation, but as a description of the passengers it was too good to ignore:

The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are filled with passionate intensity.

And then well, I had to come downstairs and re-read the whole of The Second Coming just to be sure, and -

I know that the ‘bus’ was stopped, that they were stuck helplessly and waiting to be rescued (can I use turning and turning...? No? Okay then), but while the sense of ominous momentum was ladled on from the start (not badly, but simply and effectively by the gradual movement of time and people through each other’s interpersonal space), there was a real sense of movement to Midnight - both the episode and the monster. It was inexorable and relentless, and - well, I can’t find a better image than William B’s:

... a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.

Maybe the human passengers aren’t so much bird like, but squawking vs the Sphinx-like Sky/Midnight-monster? Definitely.

And of course we can’t forget the obligatory ‘time-passes’ effect:

The darkness drops again

Only there my brain breaks - because the hour hadn’t finally come round at last for that rough beast to be born, thanks not to the oh-so-clever Time Lord, but to an ultimately anonymous human with a sense of duty, who would rather act than stand around talking about it.

Is that it? As a statement of atheism I think I rather like it: the god-like Doctor, for all his better-than-humanity capabilities and qualities, cannot solve humanity’s problems, because he simply isn’t a part of it.

And as for the on-going debate about Rusty's *other* agenda... Sorry, but any actions that challenge a ruling paradigm are going to stand out as 'abnormal' until we use them enough to make them feel normal. 'We' have to get used to them, and to keep using them until dismissing someone for being 'different' is seen as the abnormal act.

I have to use a recycling analogy here, which may seem strange to the more enlightened countries, but here in the East Of the good ol' UK we've only more recently been able to recycle as much as... 50% of our waste? And I have to constantly remind my partner - and myself - to wash out, crush down, separate, etc, however much I want to do it, because 1) we never used to have this much waste packaging when I was younger, leading to 2) so it wasn't the way we did it - while my son, being brought up with various boxes for various recycling, does it automatically.

And on a completely different note - why was the Doctor’s name so relevant to Midnight? It was at the point where the other passengers placed the pachyderm of his real name firmly in the centre of the room that ‘she’ switched from knowing (even for the briefest split second required to coordinate brain and vocal cords) exactly what they were all about to say and focussed exclusively on him. Is that the power of a Time Lord’s real name? Have they gone so far past humanity (is there any point of comparison) that they’ve achieved a state where this thing that appears sufficiently advanced is more like magic than technology? Does knowing their names give you power over them?

How this impacts Romana and the named members of the ruling council, etc, I have no idea - and I still don’t want to speculate exactly what that means for the Doctor and River Song’s relationship, simply because I can’t work out why she was ‘sorry’ to tell him he’d told her it. It’s nice to be made to think though.

Fic: Time; past (6/9)

Wed, 11 Jun 2008 19:47:17 GMT

title: Time; past
author: mimarie
characters Rose Tyler/Jack Harkness, The Doctor (ninth)
rating: NC-17 overall - adult themes and language
spoilers/warnings: nothing past DW S1. This was once canon-compliant, but has become slightly AU since Torchwood S1.
word count: c.4,000 (/c. 38,000)

summary: He won’t remember talking to her, buying her a drink, laughing, dancing, flirting. He won’t remember anything he said...

notes: This follows on from Time; present (which needs to be read first, or this will make very little sense).

Claimed for the 100_situations challenge. Prompt 27: dark

Huge thanks to my wonderful betas aeshna_uk and jwaneeta, and to mallory_x and text_life for reading very early versions of this and heaping on the encouragement. And wow and thank you to laurab1 for making me cover art! (Under the cut, for the relief of dial-up :)

part one: Time; present
part two: Time; past (one) // (two) // (three) // (four) // (five)

Time; past
(6/9)

Ten minutes later, much to her surprise, she’s still got most of her clothes on. It’s not really that hard to guess why: the order to stop shaking obviously didn’t get to her legs, and so now he’s being Mr Unthreatening-and-Shaggable in case she takes fright and buggers off again.

He’s good though - she’d give him at least nine out of ten for technique. Holding her hand and asking her opinion (does she prefer classic Trek or Next Gen? He’s only started watching it recently, but the later stuff just seems a little more realistic, doesn’t she think?), and he’s so pleased, because - and she doesn’t mind, does she? It is a classic - it’d be really nice to have someone to watch it with. It’s not that long, and it’s okay, because his pass is good for two. “So we don’t have to sneak in the exit,” he says. “See?”

The wallet he’s handed her is old and brown, the only thing inside it a yellowed card marked with the convention logo. It says it’s good for All Areas: Subliminal advertising, Jack-style. It’ll never catch on. He lets her hold it for a moment - which is good, because if he’d taken it back straight away it would have said ‘Access All Areas My Arse’, which could have been entertaining, but might also have made him a tad suspicious. Although, actually, knowing Jack...

No. There’s no way she’s thinking about that. But she’s got to think about something -

It’s not that hard, not even with all these people about. She did have a life-model after all.

“Coming?” He’s holding his hand out. Wallet first, a quick glance down and then her hand grows a large, warm, five-fingered limpet as the psychic paper disappears into his back pocket.

“Looks like it.”

The smile fits him as well as ever; well-rehearsed over a hint of irrepressible triumph, skin deep and as charming as hell, crinkling into his eyes as she lets him lead her past the neat rows of regular seating to the back of the room, where an old, padded bench-seat is keeping company with a sloping bank of stacked tables. It’s probably for the best - she could do without an audience if she’s going to have to distract him for an entire episode of Star Trek. But he’s good; smooth and gentle, too-long glances and downright lies all dressed up with one big truth to sell the package: ‘tonight’s all we’ve got, let’s make the most of it.’ By the time the lights dim she can hardly remember being so well buttered-up. Not since he tried to get her back into her bra in the kitchen, anyway.

But she’s not thinking about that, not now. The Doctor was right: she needs her wits about her - not to be thinking about the hand on her knee, or even Jack’s smile. The real one, not that one. Although it’s a pretty good attempt, and the grin’s even better.

“Am I glad to see you,” he says, and then grins a little more when she bites her lip in anticipation of something that never arrives. It’s not like him to miss an opportunity: he’s got pockets, hasn’t he? Or maybe her Jack’s just been watching too much Blackadder... “I was actually thinking about going, just then, when I saw you there... I didn’t think I’d see you again.”

“Yeah, well... Me neither. And then, well - I figured...”

“I’m glad you did. The bed they’ve given me is really big for one.”

It’s surprisingly easy to find a nervous giggle. And then the sound of lots of people not making any noise quietens as the titles start and he’s chuckling with her, wriggling her closer with an arm around her shoulders, face front, seemingly engrossed in the programme unfolding on the big screen.

Aaand... it’s Star Trek. She’s seen this one before. They’ve seen it before. This one, and the one with the Tribbles, and one with a green woman in it - it was one of Mickey’s tapes, she wasn’t surprised - and there was the one where Spock gets emotional and Kirk has to fight him. The Doctor couldn’t understand why they didn’t just find a room, he said, and Jack looked hopeful and suggested they all celebrate his next Pon Farr with a threesome. And then of course the Doctor got embarrassed and huffy and stomped off to do something less interesting, so Jack grinned at her and said...

The waiting is killing her.

Something has to happen soon. He’ll make a move or she’ll get the text. Jack’s got it all worked out, whatever he said about security. The Doctor’s helping, and the TARDIS, so it can’t take that long. And he’s still Jack; whatever signals she’s given him - whatever his crib-sheet said -

It’ll be okay. They’ve got ages before this finishes. And it’s dark, but it’s safe; there must be more than a hundred people in here. She’s got to stop fidgeting and relax. The phone’s still switched on, just leave it alone now. This is fine. She’s comfy. Not too comfy; she’s nervous - if only that was an act she’d be laughing - but it’s comfy enough.

It’s weird though. Too weird to keep her eyes off him for long, even if it does mean catching his. They were eating ice cream the last time they watched this together. Ice-cream, and a lecture from the Doctor about divergent realities and the potential for paradox in... something or other. It was chocolate ice cream. There were sprinkles. She may have fallen asleep at some point.

Not this time - although no one had better ask questions at the end. He doesn’t know her and he’s Jack. That’s Jack’s arm around her shoulders. Jack’s voice in her ear and his hand on her cheek - Jack’s eyes and his lips...

The kiss is intoxicatingly alcoholic, infusing her senses with the memory of vodka. There are other memories too: farther off and much closer than the glasses abandoned on the bar. The right shade of cotton under her fingertips and a jaw that fits her palm as well as his hand fits her backside; the soft ‘touch me,’ carried, lip to jaw to ear, on the wet tip of a familiar filthy tongue. And it’s not Jack - not really Jack - but it’s still enough to leave her breathless. Because he would. He’d do any of it - all of it - he doesn’t have to promise, she knows.

It’ll be okay. She’s just got to go slowly, look a bit more nervous - giggle more, maybe - whatever it takes to keep him busy until the text comes. It ought to be easy now, here - and he’s been drinking. But so has she and, even with dinner in the middle to soak up the fumes, it’d be so much easier if he wasn’t still so much the same.

For which read just as persistent. And tactile. And charming and funny and handsome and... just look at the state of his collar. So much for ‘nervous; please go slowly.’ It won’t lie flat again either. Not that she’s trying too hard to straighten it, he’s enjoying himself enough as it is.

Trust Jack to keep his erogenous zones where anyone can get at them. She can’t just stop though - he might talk to her if she does.

He’s purring by the time Chekov starts screaming, shrugging her palm down and over his chest, the familiar hand on her thigh making itself more familiar by the minute as an unexpectedly well-defined curve leads her fingers into a sharpened V, scalloped with muscle.

That’s different. Not necessarily good-different - not if he asks later, anyway - although it’s hard to tell through his T-shirt. He’s happy to oblige though. Really, very happy: an expectant smile holding her gaze as he’s tugging the offending article free of his jeans, the button flicked open like an afterthought, his other hand sliding slowly up her skirt.

Okay; a feel for a feel. He’s hoping if he thinks he’s getting anything else here, but that’s only fair, although -

Oh, he’s smooth - as if that was ever in doubt - and that may actually be a perfect six-pack. She can count them: three down, two across - up further to let him flex his chest around her fingers; back down to trace each segment with a slow fingertip. He must work hard to keep it like that, and... Okay, yeah - he looks good, but she’ll bet he doesn’t get to pinch anyone’s fish cake. Or devise the rules for trial-by-pillow-fight to decide who has to tell the designated driver that they ate the last of the Mars bars. Whoever he was here, the Jack she knows is happy. He’s where he wants to be. This is just a memory of something that never happened. That’s what she’s here for: him.

“Keep going. Lower.”

Even if he is an impatient git.

“You’re missing your programme, you know.”

It’s an effort to stay quiet without hissing into whispers, worry and a break in the music carrying her mouth so close to his ear that she can feel the shiver under his ‘so?’, determined fingers curling between hers to guide her hand lower. “I don’t care," he says. "Don’t stop there. Keep going. Touch me.”

“We can’t. Not in here.”

“You want me here; I think you’d better have me.” Another kiss and then another, wet and demanding, distracting her from the inexorable downwards motion of their joined hands. “I want you.”

She can tell. And so can her sore wrist. It’ll be okay though; the pain’s good. It’ll help keep her head clear. And it can’t take much longer - when she gets back she can get Jack to sort it out for her. At least it’ll give them something else to talk about. Sort of.

“Please, honey -”

“Not here. All these people...”

“It’s okay. No one can see.”

“No, really, we can’t.”

“I thought you wanted me. Don’t you want me?”

He’s smiling. It’s dangerous that smile, so warm and familiar, but.... It doesn’t matter - it can’t. He’s just a good-looking bloke who’s funny and charming enough to have talked his way into her knickers for the night. That’s it. That’s all. Just one night - people do it all the time. And it's not like she’s never done it before - right? Well, wrong actually - but there’s a first time for everything, and there have to be worse places to start. If she was going to start. Which she’s not. Not here. Not really, whatever that smile thinks - or the hand on her thigh - no matter how close he gets...

He’s still smiling when he kisses her - she can taste it: lips curved to insistence around a playful tongue, a low hum of appreciation vibrating down through flesh and bone to where a rhythm plucked out on a damp nylon seam is sending shivers through places she’d rather not be thinking about. Not with his hand right there. And not with the scrub of metal teeth on sore skin folding back and away either, not when it leaves her sucking groans around a mouthful of tongue, with a handful of ever more erect cock and an hollow ache that doesn’t give a flying fuck for her motives or those paragliding hamsters in her belly - because he feels so good, groaning into her mouth as he’s growing in her hand, that they really just need to stop sodding around out there and get to the squelchy bit now please.

“You see what you did?”

No answer required and none given: barely time for a breath before the next kiss seals her lips, while the one after that just puts words in her mouth - impure and delicious, flavoured with lust and vodka, pouring over her tongue. It’s her fault, he says - all her fault. It has to be. Can’t she see what she’s doing to him? Another kiss, more: more pressure, more blood, more kisses; hard and wet and demanding. Don’t stop; that’s really good, he says. That’s it, yeah - harder, like that. She’s doing it on purpose, isn’t she - driving him crazy like this. He’ll do anything she wants, anywhere she wants him. And it’s all her fault, because she shouldn’t be so beautiful, he says, so fucking beautiful - yes, like that, more - making him want her so much. Does she need him to beg? He’ll do that; he’ll beg. He’ll get down on his knees, he says, kneel at her feet and show her how much she’s making him want her - just to touch, to taste - and no one’s going to see, he says, so all she’s got to do is stand up, just for a second - he’ll do the rest -

“Honey, please?”

“But -”

“Anything you want. Anything... But you can’t make me walk to the hotel like this, baby, please -”

“Well, I mean, but...”

That’s cheating. That’s just unfair - although, it is pretty dark here, so... No - really? No, really - they can’t. There’s no hurry, is there? They’ve got all night, it’s all right; she’ll stop. Or not. Yeah, that’s a better idea. That’s okay; he can sit back. She’s got him. And of course that’s why she’s here but they’ve got plenty of time and - and - - and he’s missing his Star Trek. Doesn’t he want to watch it? Look, Spock’s still got the silly beard and - no, really, look - is that woman wearing a net curtain?

But he won’t be distracted, he won’t even let her kiss him, and... Really? Is he sure?

“It doesn’t feel like you want me to stop.”

“I don’t. Oh baby, I don’t - but I know my manners; ladies first...”

Hands flickered to stop-motion in the technicolour darkness, he’s holding her, loosening her grip, stroking her cheek with one hand and her attention with the other; the low-voiced catalogue of how and where - and please, because she’s driving him crazy here - teased over fifteen-denier mesh in a trail of wet verbs, becoming more explicit the slower his hand moves.

Because she’s just got to tell him, he says, that’s all he wants. Tell him what he needs to hear - that she wants him, and how - and he’ll give her what she wants -

Up and down her thigh, up and then further, then just a bit more; the leather of his wrist-strap catching nylon and parting her thighs wider, a little wider and then (is it hot in here? It’s getting hard to breathe) back down - down towards her knees, the dull gleam of leather drawing her eye as she’s trying to draw breath.

“- and I know we’ve got all night, but it’s not that long until morning, baby, and if I’m going to make you come as many times as I want, well, see, that’s only -”

“Yes.” It will be true, does it matter which one of him she’s talking to? “You know I want you. I want you everywhere - anywhere. Just, please - don’t stop...” Bloody man. Wasn’t she supposed to be distracting him? He hasn’t changed at all. Which is lucky: who but Jack would think it was perfectly natural that his one-night-stand could object to him stopping mid-grope to show her how little shagging time they’d got left? “You must know I want you. I’m only here because of you.”

He really hasn’t changed. Thank god she put her tights back on.

“Yeah? Oh, me too, baby. Anywhere you want me: all yours, all night...”

He’s so close that he’s all she can see, all she can feel: catching sighs with kisses and stroking them to groans, wet layers tugged tight, nylon slicing cotton along a slick line of want, sliding sharper and deeper until a tug becomes a rip and he’s on his knees, still kissing her gasp away as the hole he’s made tickles into a ladder down her thigh, broad fingers and the peel of wet elastic guiding her - gently, inexorably - forward until her legs shake to hold her, bum half off the chair.

“That’s it - oh, baby...” Blunt to the point, he’s knuckle-deep before she can move; fingers curled and stretching, hooking and stroking, strumming the chorus of blood in her ears until it pools, rippling over the quick-slow beat in her sore wrist, half-swallowed demands almost lost beneath the suck-and-hiss pant of old vinyl in unsteady motion. “You are so ready for me - so wet -”

“I - oh god...”

Yes. No. Maybe? It doesn’t matter; she can’t. Not here. Not like this; all those people... Someone will notice, they’ll make too much noise and someone will see. And she’s not ready, not yet, because it’s not safe, and because --

“Condom. God, no - we can’t -”

“Shhh, baby. It’s okay, didn’t I tell you? I’m a spaceman, we don’t need one.”

“We do.” So what if it’s true? It doesn’t matter - not now, because - oh god that’s good. Yeah, no - “I’m serious, we can’t, you can’t - not without... We need a condom.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really.” Is he trying to work out what decade he’s landed in? Just because it’s the sixties on screen it doesn’t mean any passing spaceman can get himself a free ride. Who does he think he is, Captain Kirk? “It’s all right though. I’ve got some change, and there’s a machine in the loo...”

And a window that looks out on the bins. How hard does she have to hope to make the text come before he can get her into a cubicle? Because he’s not letting her get away, licking his wet fingers as she wriggles squeakily, tugging at the extent of his grip. He won’t let go and she can’t get up - not without kicking him in the ear...

No. It’d only make him suspicious - or more eager. It’s hard to tell which would be worse right now. That’s it: end of the line.

“And I can have you as soon as we’ve got one?”

“Yes.”

That window had better not be locked.

“Well, if you’re sure...”

“Of course I -”

The kiss lands on her ‘bloody’ and swallows the ‘am’, giving it back to her in a dark chuckle as he wriggles and shrugs, still holding her fast. Haloed against the screen, half-dressed in rustling darkness and denim, he’s all muscle and elbows, his T-shirt rucked up and his shirt loose, his jeans open but high enough still to make this a private viewing, the quiet rip and as-if-by-magic appearance of a translucent ring between his fingers making her eyes widen until his grin follows suit.

“- then we’d better use this one,” he says, “because I’m not going anywhere with this.”

He is such a smug bastard, and he’s not even him yet. He does a bloody good impression though. Maybe if she just closes her eyes...

“Honey, that’s what you wanted, right?”

“Yeah. Yes, of course it is.” In about two years. What she wants now is ... hell, anyone’s guess, although a text and a teleport would be good. Or just a bed and a door to lock behind them. But it’s worth it. Right? And it’s not so bad - better than it could have been: A quickie in the back row and by then the text will be there and she’ll have to go pee, and then...

“Put it on for me. Do it. You’ve already got me on my knees, what more do you want?”

To be home. For it to be really him - for the text to come...

Really, any time now would be good.

“Honey?”

“Yeah, sorry - I, um - thought I heard the titles starting.”

The hush seems louder as she leans - latex sliding; flesh slick in her grip, the smell of sex taunting her as the whole audience waits to hear answers they already know. Spock won’t kill Kirk; evil or not, logic will win, and so will Jack - both of him - because she’s doing this for him. He just doesn’t know it yet.

She can feel virtuous about it later. Right now it’s just making her hands shake.

“Nervous, baby?”

“No - w-well...” And her voice. It doesn’t matter. He’s Jack; it’ll be okay - she’s just got to smile. Smile and remember to breathe as the nice man with the erection peels her thighs apart, a large hand catching hers; momentum and a too-tight grip finishing her fumble into a long, smooth stroke as he’s shuffling closer, scrabbling at a tangle of cotton and nylon that might once have been her underwear.

“Just, I’ve never - not with so many people...”

“It’s okay, honey, don’t worry, I’m going to make you come so hard you won’t care who’s listening.”

And that’s supposed to help?

Maybe it is. Look at him: all mouth and half-mast trousers - still Jack, whether he knows her or not. But that’s all right. Look at him. That’s it, now... smile. It’s all right to be nervous; he’s enjoying it - and it’s going to be good, because he’s Jack, and he’d hate her to hate this, whoever he is.

It’s not helping. There’s only one thing that would right now - unless the Doctor’s got a transporter bay he’s forgotten to tell her about - and that’s the quiet ping that’ll tell her the text’s arrived. That they’ve finished and she can make her excuses and leave. And she knows her phone’s switched on, because she checked it before the lights went down, and the battery can’t be flat because it’s -

- ringing. It’s ringing. Turning heads from the screen, voices raised in a chorus of disgruntled motion and disapproval, thin beams highlighting indignant faces, crossing the depth of Jack’s shadow in search of the culprit.

It’s not in her pocket. Where the hell did she put it? It was in her pocket, wasn’t it? And it wasn’t supposed to ring. It was supposed to be a text. It might not even be them. It might be Mickey - or her mum - but whoever it is, she’s got to make it stop. She’s not sitting on it - wasn’t it in her jacket? It’s got to be them. Maybe something’s gone wrong. Or maybe the text came already and she missed it. Where is it? Or maybe they’ve finished and she can go home and they’ve been trying to tell her. Oh, god - she might have missed it altogether, and then...

“Where did I put it?”

“What is that?”

“Where’s my jacket?”

“I don’t know. What’s the noise? Can’t you make it stop?”

“My phone. It’s in my jacket. Where is it?”

If it was wishful thinking that made it ring then can it please just stop now? She’ll ring them back. Really she will, but she can’t find her jacket... is it under his knees? Well, maybe he could look, then. Right, well, he’s going to have to move. Yes, really - move. No, not like that. Not now. Can’t he put it away? Someone’s going to see. She can’t get it if he doesn’t move and if she doesn’t get it in a sec then someone’s going to -

“Come on mate - love?” The light seems to come from Jack’s left ear, a large red face somehow materialising behind his shoulder in a shimmer of transporter light and swooshy noises overlaid with increasingly vocal doubts as to the legitimacy of their parentage. “Didn’t you see the notice? I mean, I weren’t too bothered about the pair of you getting friendly back here. Not after I see the kneelin’ and the ring and all that, but that’s just ... bloody hell -”

next (7/9)

Fic: Time; past (5/9)

Sun, 08 Jun 2008 15:24:15 GMT

Bugger, is it that time already?

Sun, 08 Jun 2008 15:13:15 GMT

*thinks happy thoughts*

*thinks a few more*

*gives up on stupid happy thoughts, grits teeth and gets ready to do it anyway*

Forest of the Dead

Sat, 07 Jun 2008 20:58:52 GMT

*sighs happily*

I loved it. River Song's out there, somewhere, and he's going to meet her. From what she's said it could be years in his future - or next week (if this only means that we'll get a break of unspecified (Doctor) time between companions at some point, and a continuation of DT!ten under the Moff's guidance, then I'll be a very happy fan), but whenever they finally meet the first time for her he's going to know how things turn out for her, and that she loved and trusted him to the end. It's sad and awful and really kinda wonderful, and I really can't think of very many reasons why he'd tell her his name - especially if 'there's only one'.

(And really, I just love time-travel fics that play with when people first met each other! It's such a great concept, one of them knowing the other, but the other not... *sniggers*)

I'm not sure if I should be looking at my bookshelves sideways now (maybe I could set up some sort of rear-view mirror on the top of the monitor?), but there was something rather DW-ishly wonderful about that almost cartoonish moment of thought before the shadows started to flow back away from the Doctor when he told them to look him up in the library. :D

And oh - Donna! I wonder which world future hubby comes from, and how long we've got to wait before we see him again (please? please) 'gorgeous and he never says a word' - no, the Doctor was never really her type,. was he...

I am though, finally glad that partner got his last camera phone - because the weirdly oh-so haha funny picture-distortion it does gave me something to head son's omgwtf!face off with at the sight of the unveiled Miss Evangelista (was that *all* of her name then? Not 'Gladys Evangelista' or anything? Did I miss something?).

Mostly I just love that the Doctor River Song knows is happier. I love the picture she paints of the 'man' she knows. Still travelling, still constantly moving, still himself but just so much *more* - so much like the Doctor I can remember falling in complete and utter fascination with when I started watching DW at the same age my son is now :)

(Is it 2010 yet?)

this is not a fic

Thu, 05 Jun 2008 22:35:18 GMT

It's an annoying day with too much explaining and not enough writing, pretending to be -

It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single man in possession of the good sense, ability and motivation to iron his own clothes (thus managing to look good both in the suit and sexily competent out of it), make a decent cup of coffee and wash the mugs afterwards - a man who is, in fact, willing to clean up not only after himself but others of both or either sex (including people he has never had sexual relations with and wouldn’t if paid) - must be in want of an equally capable, loving and reliable but still deeply stimulating, life-partner.

There are several facts to be gleaned from this statement.

One: that the influential and mysterious body known as ‘they’ have a lot to answer for.
Two: that ‘they’ are very consciously PC.
Three: that ‘they’ in their alter ego of ‘The Powers That Be’ would consider that featuring a couple likely to indulge in regular sexual activity to be good for the ratings (see points One, Two and the BBC charter).
Four: that ‘they’ have read entirely too many historical romances (see points One, Two and Three) and have an unrealistic and blinkered vision of modern relationships and the number of people choosing to remain single in the twenty-first century (ditto, plus anything published by Mills and Boon), and
Five: all of the above.

There is, however, no reason that these several facts - as well as any others thought up on the spur of the moment by the narrator or any one else who cares to voice an opinion - cannot be accommodated simultaneously, especially when both the man in question and his life-partner of choice are Torchwood employees.

In any case, this is merely (as the astute reader has no doubt already realised from its proximity to the top of the screen) the prologue (or introduction). As such, and taking into account the loud hint contained in the last paragraph, this introduction (or prologue) serves merely to create an overall impression of the style and context of the story to come. It will, if the piece has pretensions of structure, contain carefully crafted references to later plot-points (obviously not this bit, that comes in a minute), and as many oblique allusions to overarching themes (ditto) as the author feels she (or he - see point Two above) can get away with without recourse to bullet points or footnotes.

Please note that the prologue (or introduction) is under no legal obligation to provide more than vague hints as to the cast present in the majority of the piece, and that any lists of characters provided take neither order of appearance or page-time into account. The author regrets that no refunds will be made under any circumstances, but should the reader be disappointed with the content herein, she (or he) is respectfully invited to utilise the ‘Back’ button (located at the top left-hand corner of his - or her - screen) at any time during the narrative.

This does not affect your statutory rights.

There, I feel better now :)

Fic: Time; past (4/9)

Wed, 04 Jun 2008 14:03:48 GMT

“Bitch...”

The groan makes her jump, echoing low and pained, oozing eerily through her skin until it passes out through the soles of her feet. The air tastes of strawberries and sex, cloying on her tongue and making her shiver. Blinking furiously, another scrub with her sleeve leaves her eyes watering. It’s too warm now; too dry to soothe the raw heat in her face. Screw it. Just screw it. If he’s going to storm out, then think he can come back and talk to her like that... And how the hell he crept up on her here - and why - but he doesn’t get to gloat. He is not going to enjoy seeing her like this. She’s not going to let him see -

“You bitch. Rose -”

“No.” She hasn’t got to look at him. Not while she can still swear. “Just piss off. I don’t care what you think of me.”

“- fuck yes, you… oh god, Rose - oh you

“Very funny. Just leave me alone. I know you want to.”

There’s nothing but breathing. Harsh and fast, making the hairs on her neck stand up, soft grunts underlining the slick slide of skin on skin -

That’s too much. No way is he getting away with that. He wants to get her attention? Right -

“I said -”

There’s no one there. The corridor’s empty. No one but her and...

“TARDIS?” That’s not fair - the bloody ship’s having a go at her now too? “Look, I know you can hear me. I know you understand, just... please, you don’t have to do this. I’ll talk to him later. When he calms down. Please, stop it.”

There’s no noise but her heart and the breath in her throat, but she can barely hear. Sticking her fingers in her ears only makes it louder. There’s nothing there but Jack; spreading across her, burnt into her - a razor-thin vibration covering her like breath as his grip tightens, a desperate creak into sensitive flesh, fingers flexing

palm flat on Her body, demanding She take his weight. His eyes are closed, breath misting over Her as his hand moves faster, knuckles chiming on white enamel. She would be understood. He knows She is aware - there are times that he talks to Her, asking Her if she would not wish to join him. She thinks he thinks he would like that. Not now. His face is wet and red, forcibly-regenerated cells and testosterone sour-tasting and rank in Her ducts. He gasps again and then stills, wet-fisted, thickened sighs fractured over and over and over -

“Rose...”

“No. Don’t. How did you do that? Don’t - I don’t want to know - that’s not fair. I just wanted some time…”

But that’s all there is here. No comfort, no respite - just time and the ache of sensation.

Her handles gripped and Her doors slammed, the bitter flavour of a mossy stain seeps from sweating palms onto every part of Her he touches, dark hair scraped to sharp-knuckled tramlines, a scrawl of primary colours crumpled and thrown, the scratch of simple, human technology blurring into a familiar whisper as he stops with his hand on Her -

“I get it, all right? But there’s nothing I can do. And I can’t go in there like this. I’ll go and get changed. He’ll calm down. I’ll talk to him. He’ll be okay if the Doctor’s there; you know that - so just stop.”

She’s not listening.

“Oh,

you are, I was wondering where you’d gone. Decided to show your face at last, have you?”

This feels different. He feels different: Aching like an old bruise or a tooth poked and prodded; a brooding grumble, caught and swirled in a filling-twinge of silvered glint that buzzes through her nails, drawing scent in its wake, leather and sweat sharpened with testosterone and adrenaline, pale fists clenching; green on green-pale -

“I suppose you think this is funny - stupid fucking apes and their pathetic little lives. Playing at time travel and getting it wrong. Does the humanity of it all amuse you?”

“Stop it, please. Please - I know, okay? Just... stop.”

But she can’t hover, can’t not touch the floor - can’t get away from the insistent itch of awareness. A slow blooming pain in her jaw blurs scent into sight, drawing breath through uncharted acres to find herself touching - herself; long, wet trails dripping disconsolately from the point of her chin.

“Thank you

much - that’s going to solve everything isn’t it. Bloody idiotic ape, what the hell was that for?”

“All right, you win - that’s enough.”

Echoes shift around her as she stands; draping her, seeking and being absorbed by prickling skin as she follows the light, the anonymous tiling under her feet giving way to ubiquitous swirl-patterned vinyl. More doors, the same corners, and still she can hear them - feel them - in every direction: rattling, rustling, skin and the soft creak of leather and wires, surrounded - inhabited - by movement and voices, the scenery becoming familiar; his bedroom, her bedroom, his - getting closer now, newspaper underfoot; she’s nearly there -

Nearly there and she still doesn’t know what she’s going to say.

It’s all right, she can do this. It might not be her decision to do it now, but she would have sooner or later - and more likely sooner. Jackie Tyler’s daughter doesn’t run away from anything. Apart from stuff that’s trying to kill her, or eat her, or suck her brains out through her nose, or blow her up - but not Jack bloody Harkness.

“- it’s going. The signal’s breaking up, Doctor - can’t you jam the temporal locator? Make it look like static, a local power source - something?”

Stepping into shadow as Jack rounds the console, she can see him with her own eyes now; the loose strap of the wrist-computer in his hand, a tangle of creeper-like wires curled the length of a mossy-green forearm. The awful shirt’s gone though, taking its palm trees with it, and his favourite June-sky blue T-shirt looks like he found it in the laundry. It’s blotchy and stained - whatever TARDIS does to their dirty clothes probably involves super-charged ion particles or accelerated thingummmy-bobs with hyperactive wotnames, but it always works. All the marks and stains - even blood - you’d never know they were there at all. As good as new. Really, she’s got to admit it; it’s amazing what this advanced tech can get out...

“And there’s Tweedledumber. Wonderful - a full set. What more could I need.”

When she forces herself to look away from Jack’s unblemished neck, the Doctor’s glare is waiting for her. The red mark on his cheek matches the ache in her jaw - but she’s not backing down now. She’s done nothing wrong; nothing to be ashamed of. She’s apologised for her mistake - tried to; she can’t force Jack to listen - and she’s here now, so they can just sort this out. Talk about it like adults. Those of them that aren’t refusing to look at her, anyway.

“Why didn’t you tell someone? What are you, the resident temporal expert all of a sudden?”

“It’s fading.”

“Yes, Jack.”

“Doctor -”

Barking numbers at the suddenly animated Time Lord, Jack’s sweating tension; light blue becoming steadily darker as the two of them race time around the console. Whatever they’re trying to achieve with the frantic button pressing and dial-twirling, they do work well together. It was all she wanted, really - after how long it took Jack to get past the Doctor’s mistrust. All she wanted was for everything to be just how it was. To come home and be normal.

And this is it. They’re fine - look at them, finishing each other’s questions, efficient and coordinated - they’re getting on just fine. And neither one of them wants to so much as look at her.

“Fuck.” Jack’s snarl makes her jump, another ‘fuck’ ricocheting around the pillars as the brown leather strap bounces off the console, knocking the silver ball from its perch before snapping back at the end of its tethering wires, sliding and bouncing and dropping to dangle under his nose like a bad joke, catching spit as he swears into the controls.

“All right, that’s enough.” Shrugging, the Doctor leans back on the rail. “No point getting your knickers in a twist. We’ll just have to go back. Rose knows we can do that. Don’t you, Rose? You know all about crossing time streams. Is that what you thought?” Sneering as he turns to look at her, the Time Lord’s voice climbs to a rusty falsetto. “I’ll decide if I’m going to say anything later, it won’t matter, we can just go back and have another go.”

She’ll take it back - can she go back to being ignored?

“No. I never thought that. I just -”

“I mean, I know you can be pretty idiotic at times and I’ve got used to making allowance for that, but -” He stops, shaking his head. He sounds so disgusted. She can’t think where to start. Even Jack’s looking up now, frowning from one to the other, but she can’t look away from that scornful grey gaze. “You stupid bloody ape, didn’t watching your father die twice teach you anything?”

Silence stretches over a rustle of feet and wires, Jack’s quiet, “no, Doctor -” sounding fuzzy and dull, strained through the white-noise filling her head. Another soft shuffle on the grating and the glare flickers into a sneer and a sigh, and then the dark figure becomes a blank wall of leather and indifference as he turns to face the man behind him.

“Leave it.” Jack’s shaking his head. “Just leave it, okay? It doesn’t matter. We can’t cross the time line for this.”

“’Course we can. Call yourself a Time Agent and you’ve never slipped the temporal curve before? Never left a quick note for yourself while you’re busy in some sailor’s boudoir? ‘Dear Captain Gorgeous, don’t forget to check all the exits for jealous boyfriends. Those blaster rays sting!’ ” The acerbic comment doesn’t seem to be doing anything for Jack’s state of mind, strangely enough, and he frowns as he meets her eye past the Doctor’s shoulder, looking away before she can even - before she can - no, she doesn’t know, this is all wrong...

“So, you really can -” Her voice cracks, the words forced through dry lips as they both turn to look at her, twin brows furrowed deeper than ever in the dim green glow. She’s got to stay calm. He didn’t mean that. He’s angry. This is nothing like that. It was just a mistake... “You can do it, then? Find what you need just by being...”

“He thought you’d told me. You know that? Sods off with that bloody toy of his - which I was about to calibrate the sensor array to - takes it to the lav with him no less, and then storms in here five minutes later demanding to know what the hell I think I’m doing, hiding stuff like that from him.”

“Doctor -”

“Yes, Rose. Did you think we were prancing round here like a pair of idiots because we felt like a little light exercise? Auditioning for Come Dancing? Of course there’s something we can do - so long as we can find the other one of him.”

“I told you, it doesn’t matter.” Another wire twists free as Jack scowls at the monitor. “But hey - thanks for asking.”

“Oh, give it a rest, you maudlin bugger. And leave that bloody thing how it is, I told you; we can go back, we know where you were. Well, one of us knows exactly where you were. I don’t know what the hell you thought you were doing -” A shrug and a squeak of leather and he’s facing her again. There’s ice in that stare, burning her cheeks with disdain. “- but you needn’t think I’m going to forgive this one as easily as last time. I thought better of you. You said you were sorry; I thought you understood. And now you do this? I’m the last one, Rose. I’m all that’s left. There’s no one else to dig us out of whatever hole your idiocy gets us into.”

“Doctor, I don’t know what Jack’s told you, but -”

“I told him what happened.” He doesn’t look up. She can see him, not looking at her, over the top of the monitor. “You met me, you lied to me - lied to both of us, it seems - and then you casually mention that ‘oh, by the way, maybe I could have said sooner...’ but what else is there to tell? You lost me the only chance I’m likely to get to find out what I was doing for the two years of my life the Agency stole from me. That’s enough, isn’t it?”

Maybe it is. No, no maybe about it. And she shouldn’t feel relieved - so what if he didn’t feel the need to go into detail? But it was a mistake, surely she doesn’t deserve this. She rang, she tried, she did.... There’s no point. She wouldn’t know where to start - not without starting a conversation she’d rather not have in front of the Doctor. But even he seems to have run out of hurtful things to say to her now, turning to cross to where Jack’s poking at the monitor connections.

“We’ll need to recalibrate the coil first.” A shrug at the spreading bolognaise of loose wires on the grating, and he claps the slouched figure on the shoulder. “If we just get the housing sealed we can move. And we know you were here most of the afternoon - and all evening - so all we’ve got to do is find you again and make the link. Right?”

But she could have tried harder. Could’ve rung from the loo in the bar, could have - even just told the Doctor. If she’d thought about it. She could’ve pointed out the dark head vanishing into the crowd, they could have gone after him, could have traced him -

“Yeah… No - Ok, finding me, yeah, we can do that, but - hell, even if we do there’s the security.”

And she sat there, thinking about what she wanted, and then... No wonder he thought she’d - done what he thought she’d done. Why wouldn’t she tell him unless she’d got something to hide? That is, unless she wanted something...

“What is this, the bloody Chula ship again? You didn’t steal your toy there too, did you?”

This is all her fault.

“Nope. This one’s standard issue. All the regulation trinary-digit-enfolded di-molecular layered shifting-signature -”

“And? You’ve got the thing in your hand, Jack.”

“Come on, Doctor; think about it. You take out a Time Agent in the field, first thing you want is the data, everything you need to know about the dead idiot at your feet: missions, orders, the lot. But hey, the damn tech’s gone and wiped itself. What’s that you say? Yup - no problem, let’s just reload this gizmo with the sucker’s bio-signatures, take it back and hack into it while the agent was still alive.” Leather slaps on the console, making her jump. “I know you don’t think much of the Agency, Doctor, but they’re not stupid.”

Stupid and thoughtless and selfish.

“And yeah, sure - before you ask - I can break through the security, it’ll take a while, but I can do it. That’s not the problem. All I’ve got to do is take one look at the wrist strap while I’m downloading and I’ll know what’s happening. If that happens then S.O.P. is to track back with a simultaneous signal trace going through the Umbra - the Agency Hub? - and they might not be able to penetrate the TARDIS’ defences, but we’re not going to be going anywhere in a hurry in the middle of a temporal stasis field.”

“So what do you suggest we do then? Go ask nicely?”

Her friend Jack. And she was thinking about him all the while, wasn’t she, not what she wanted - not just that she didn’t want him gone when she got home.

“Yeah, okay then. And the temporally-sensitive luminous moss would be a real ice-breaker, wouldn’t it. Of course I’ve slipped the curve before, but there’s no point. There’s no way we can guarantee that I’m not going to notice what’s happening. Not even if we went back to when Rose was with me.” There’s nothing funny about it and Jack knows it, laughing short and bitter. “I was planning to tranq myself, before - yeah, I know; crude but effective - but I can’t even do that now. Neither of us can go near me like this; she can’t do it because I know her face and time, and ... Look, whatever happens, I’m just going to think she’s in on it. You have heard of the Time Agency, right? Do you really want to leave her out there with a compromised Black Op?” Another attempt at a laugh seems to curdle in his throat and he sighs instead, turning a flat, blank gaze back to the console. “Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate the offer, but even if we’d stopped me leaving just now it wouldn’t have made any difference. There’s nothing we can do.”

It was almost better - almost - when he was shouting at her, but he can’t just give up. If all he needs is a distraction...

Swallowing hard, bare feet crunching on the paper-strewn grating as she pads over to the console, her stomach tightens around a knot of nerves.

“How long will it take, Jack?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

He won’t look up.

“To break the security? How long do you need?”

“I said it doesn’t matter. We can’t risk it.”

“How long?”

“Ten minutes? I don’t know. Twenty?” He shrugs, still poking wires. “It could be over an hour. There’s no way to know before I make the link. I’m sure you were fascinating, but if you think I’m going to leave you out there like that, with no idea what’s going on -”

“You two had better get that coil housing finished then, hadn’t you.”

“No.” Jack’s gaze is open for the barest second before he nails it back down, but it’s too late; she’s seen everything she needs to know. “Aren’t you listening? I said you -”

“Yeah. You can’t risk trying while I’m talking to you, earlier.”

“There are too many variables. It’ll take too long - the firewall reconfigures every few seconds, and I don’t even know what else I’d have to get through yet.”

“So you need a distraction.” Steeling herself for the sneer she turns back to the Doctor, but he’s nodding before she can speak, disdainful eyebrows twisting in speculative approval.

“You sure about this? You’re going to need your wits about you: sunny Jim here’s a bright one - some days, anyway.”

She can’t answer, just nods back, the cold knot barely warmed by the grin softening his jaw.

“Right then - I’ll make it a few minutes after I got there. You saw where he went, I s’pose. We’d be round the corner on the way to the chip shop by then. The noise from the flyover ought to be enough to disguise the engines.”

“Doctor? Are you serious? Rose, no -”

“Get your arse down here, I’m still going to need that third hand, remember?” His anger seeming entirely forgotten, the Doctor raises an amused eyebrow, grinning broadly and waving Jack’s argument away until he stutters into silence. “Come on, Captain, pull your finger out - we’re not going anywhere without a functioning central relay.”

She watches them for a minute, but neither of them looks back at her; heads together under the console, wires strewn around them.

They’re such a pair of bloody men.

“Well then,” she says, “I suppose I’d better be getting changed.”

There doesn’t seem to be any point in waiting for a reply, so she doesn’t.

next (5/9)