Ulysses (3/?) [Ten/Jack/Rose - Firefly crossover - PG]
Title: Ulysses (3/?)
Author: aibhinn
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Rose, Jack, Ten (will end up OT3); the Firefly crew.
Spoilers: DW through Journey's End, TW through Children of Earth, and all aired Firefly canon, including episodes and the movie Serenity.
Betas: larielromeniel, dameruth and canaana, though I did some editing after I got it back from them, so if I messed it up, it's not their fault!
Summary: After the death of the blue-suited Doctor, an immortal Rose uses the dimension cannon to teleport herself back into her home universe. Or should that be 'Verse? Crossover with Joss Whedon's Firefly.
Disclaimer: Nothing is mine. I promise to put everything back where I found it.
Author's Note: The title refers to the poem of the same name by Tennyson, an online version of which can be found here. Also, River quotes from the poem "The Raven" by Edgar Allen Poe. She also references a sculpture by Rodin, called "The Caryatid"; information about it can be found here.
Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9 | Chapter 10
Chapter Three
Rose lay on the bunk in her quarters, reading a book she'd borrowed from Inara-a history of the system they were in and of humanity's escape from Earth-that-Was. Travel in this universe was so very different from travel by TARDIS, she thought, eyes scanning the diagram of one of the ships that had brought them to this system. "Dozens of planets, hundreds of moons," she read aloud. How much had the population of humans grown if it had outgrown the Earth and needed a system so huge?
Movement in the open door to her quarters caught her eye, and she looked up to see River there, half-hiding behind the door frame. She put the book down and smiled. "Come on in, River."
River stepped in a foot or two, moving with cautious grace, like a cat. The handkerchief hem of her dress swirled around the tops of her combat boots-an odd combination of styles, but one that somehow suited her. "Hi," she said.
"Hi." Rose sat up, still smiling. "What can I do for you?"
River cocked her head sideways, looking her over. "There's something of the wolf about you," she said at last, slowly, as though she were coming to a realisation.
Rose's smile froze on her face. "What do you mean?" she asked, working very hard to keep her voice still and hoping her pounding heart wasn't as loud as it sounded in her own ears.
River stepped forward another pace. "I don't know," she said, sounding curious. "But it's like a fairy tale come to life. On your way to grandma's house-but it's not your grandma. Or grandpa," she added. "He's searching for the beanstalk on a farm, trying to escape the giants in his head. But there's no self-playing harp here, just a golden song in your mind." She blinked, and then a bright, delighted smile spread across her face. "The wolf is singing."
"I don't understand what you mean," Rose said, though she was terribly afraid she did. This young woman knew things she shouldn't. That could be bad-could be very, very bad. She seemed to remember Mal saying something about River being a Reader-was this what he meant? Some sort of psychic powers, the ability to tell the future or read minds?
But River's smile didn't falter. "It's okay, Rose," she said. "I used to know bad things I shouldn't, but that's all been taken care of now. The captain took care of it. He'll take care of you, too. He might even make you family, though you have your own waiting for you."
Rose blinked. "I do?"
"On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door," River quoted. "The Parthenon was the temple built to Pallas Athena. Its roof was held up by caryatids-statues of women. The women are always the ones who end up holding everything up, holding it all together. But he'll help you, you know, when you find him. He always loved you."
Rose took a deep breath. She was just going to go with this, she decided, and see where River went. "I know he did," she said. "He told me."
"No, that was Smith," River said seriously. "You haven't heard it from Jones yet. But he'll tell you. Just remember, even a caryatid can fall beneath her stone. That's Rodin."
She turned and left, oddly silently despite combat boots on grating, before Rose could say anything.
More confused than ever, Rose blew out a sigh and lay back down, staring up at the ceiling, mind awhirl. Smith was the name her Doctor-the one spawned by the metacrisis-had taken when they'd created an identity for him. John Smith, the same name he'd used as a Time Lord. Had the other Doctor, the one she was searching for, changed the name he used? Jones was as common as Smith, surely. But why would he do that? And God, if he had, that was just another layer of information for her to dig through. There were more than enough Smiths out there to take her an entire lifetime, even if he stayed in this system in linear time for the next hundred years; if he'd changed his name, it was going to be even harder.
Three and a half weeks to planetfall on Athens, with its capital city, Pallas. If she understood River's hinting, she'd find something-or someone-there. Meanwhile, all she could do was wait.
***
"Andrea! Andrea!"
"In here, Da!" Andrea sat back on the milking stool, swiping her wrist over her sweaty forehead, and looked up as Da came in through the big double barn doors, followed by another man with a knapsack over one shoulder.
She tried to size up the new man without being impolite. Tall, handsome, dark hair, blue eyes. His clothing was a little the worse for wear, but high-quality all the same; not homespun, not by a long shot. They looked like he'd bought them in some shop in the Core. His expression was neutral, but there was a pinch between his eyebrows, like he was in pain. It was the same pinch she'd seen on Da after Mum died, before he met Lizzie and married her; the same pinch Lizzie'd had after her Joe had been killed.
Her father was wheezing just a little; that pneumonia he'd caught last winter still hadn't gone away altogether, she realised. "Andrea, this here's Stephen Jones. He came in off a freighter in the Pallas docks, lookin' for work. I've hired him on for hayin' and harvest, but I'm too old to climb that ladder up into the loft any more. You wanna show him where his room is? I'll take over with Bess." He patted the cow's hip.
Looking for work as a field hand in those clothes? Not your business, she reminded herself firmly, and stood up, wiping her hands on her apron. "'Course, Da. C'mon, there, Mr Jones. Follow me."
"Just Jones is fine," the man said in an accent that was pure, refined Core. He even stood different than a man from the Rim. Confident, if not comfortable; solid, if not stable. His blue eyes seemed very bright in the dim light of the barn.
"Jones, then. This way." She kilted her skirt up as she approached the ladder, which was built-in and angled; half-ladder, half-staircase. "We've got a room up here, next to the hayloft. Ain't fancy, but it's weather-tight. And there's a pair of windows, with glass." She was rather proud of that; most farms out here couldn't afford to hire help at all, let alone give them a room with glass windows.
"That sounds like it'll be fine, thanks."
His voice was a bit muffled, and she glanced back as she climbed the ladder. To her surprise, he was carefully looking down, ostensibly to make sure his feet stayed on the rungs correctly, but at least partially to avoid seeing up her skirt by accident. Her opinion of him rose. Even beyond his clothes, this was no ordinary farmhand.
The ladder extended up a few rungs above the floor of the hayloft, making it easier to get on and off, so she just swung onto the loft floor. He followed. "Door's right here," she said, and pulled on the latch string. She heard the wooden grate of the bar as it was pulled up out of its socket, and the door swung open. She gestured him inside.
The room itself was spotless except for a fine layer of dust over everything: straw-tick mattress, bed frame, floor, clothing trunk, table, chair. Andrea tsked as Jones wandered into the small room, looking around. "If Da'd told me he was gonna hire someone, I'd've come up here and given this place a good clean, got your bed linens an' all."
"That's all right. I'm used to doing for myself." He set his knapsack on top of the chest. "Linens in here?"
"No, they're down in the house with the others. That's for your clothes, or whatever you want to store in there. I can pop down and get the sheets and a duster, won't be a tick-"
He raised a hand. "No, thanks. You've got work to do. I'm hired help, not a guest; I can do it myself, if you'll just show me where to find them."
Well. A man who wasn't convinced she was there to cater to him as though she were his housemaid. "All right, then. Leave your things here-no one'll touch 'em-and come on over t'house with me. Nearly suppertime anyway. You'll eat with us." He looked as though he were about to protest, and she added, "Our hired help always does. We can't pay much, but we feed ya." She indicated his pack. "That all you got?" He nodded, and she said, "Got some trousers and shirts you can have, too, things some of our old hands left behind. Nothin' you'd wear to the Harvest Festival-" He was already wearing clothes more than fancy enough for that. "-but good enough for working in the fields. I'll get those for you as well. Those boots, they look like they'll do fine. Fit you all right?"
Jones blinked. "Yeah," he said. "Yeah, they're all right."
More than all right; Andrea was sure they'd cost more than any two of her outfits put together, shoes and all. Probably made to measure, judging by the rest of his clothes. "Good enough. That's it, then: supper, linens, and clothes, in that order." She turned to go out, then stopped and turned back, cocking her head to one side. "You ever worked a farm before?" She shouldn't ask, she knew it; it was more than rude, it was prying. But she couldn't stand not knowing. In her eighteen years, she'd never seen anyone hire on as a field hand looking like this.
A corner of his mouth quirked upward, as though acknowledging both how rude she was being and what an odd picture he must present. "No," he said. "But show me anything once, and I can do it."
"Good," she said. "Then you can help me feed the stock this evening." She turned again and headed out the door and back down the ladder. "Come on-best way to get on Lizzie's good side is not to be late for supper."
From behind her, she heard a soft chuckle. "Yes, ma'am."
***
Three of the moons had risen, and the fourth would be rising soon. With so much light, Jack thought, you'd think the stars would be invisible. But no, a few of them shone through, speckling the grey-blue sky.
He was getting used to thinking of himself as "Jones" now, even if it hurt every time someone said the name-or worse, when he himself did. He'd used "Stephen" because he'd needed a first name, but he'd found he couldn't actually go by it. He wasn't worthy of that name, didn't deserve to be addressed by the same name as the grandson he'd murdered. Tears welled up again, but he blinked them away. Murderers didn't have the luxury of tears.
The grass he sat on was surprisingly springy for so late into the summer. This planet, or at least this part of it, wasn't as dry as the Boeshane had been, he reflected. Even though it had been a peninsula, the dry season back home-if it was still home, after all this time-was almost desert-like. Here, the grass was still mostly green, though hay-making would start tomorrow, and the harvest right after that.
He heard soft footsteps behind him and tensed, but didn't move. He had nothing to fear, after all, and besides, he had a pretty good idea who this was.
"Couldn't sleep?" Andrea asked softly.
"Something like that."
"Me neither. Mind if I sit with you a spell?"
His eyebrow lifted, and he looked up at her. "You sure you should be out here, all alone, with me?"
She chuckled and sat on the grass beside him, tucking her skirts modestly around her feet. "Da sleeps with the shotgun by his bed. One sound from me and he'd be up and out here before you could say boo. 'Sides, I'm not so bad at taking care of myself."
Her face, young and beautiful and unscarred by either injury or unhappiness, was turned up towards the moons, and he was seized with an irrational anger at her lack of concern. "Really?" he snapped, and without giving himself a chance to think, he flipped around, knocking her onto her back and pressing himself atop her, forearm against her throat. "I push here," he said, far too calmly, "and you don't have the breath to scream. Then what?"
Something sharp and metallic pressed against his jugular. "Then I cut your throat," Andrea whispered. Her eyes looked up at him, cool and calm, waiting.
Jack blinked; then, despite himself, chuckled ruefully. "Not bad," he said, easing up and away from her. She sat up, watching him, eyes less trusting than a minute ago. Good, he thought. She needs to be less trusting. He scooted around so he faced her, twice as far away as he'd been before.
Andrea eyed him as she sat up, then extended one leg and let him see the knife sheath strapped to her upper calf as she slid the blade home and secured it so it wouldn't fall out. Deliberately, she pulled her skirt back down and wrapped her arms around her knees, meeting his eyes. "And that's just one of the things I can do. Don't make the mistake of thinking I'm helpless because I'm a woman. I told you, I can take care of myself."
"I'm sorry. I just . . . ." He hesitated, then chuckled, surprising himself. "You reminded me of-someone-for a minute. I have no right to act so protective."
"Oh, I've been protected by farm hands all my life," Andrea said, shrugging. "You'd be surprised. A few of 'em have come courtin', of course-the farm'll be mine after Da dies-but they're always respectful. This here's a small place. Everyone knows everyone else, and not much work going, so a man's reputation is everything. You get someone in that no-one knows, and he's going to be watched careful-like. Only one man ever tried attacking me in all my years. Some itinerant farmhand with blond hair and a big smile and wandering hands, couple years ago."
"What happened to him?"
She turned a bland gaze on him. "Why, I don't know. Nobody does. We reckon he just did a midnight flit."
Uh-huh. Jack shifted, bringing a knee up and resting his forearm on it. "That a hint I should be on my way before someone, uh, helps me?"
Andrea grinned. "Not this time. Nobody watchin'-I checked. Da and Lizzie's bedroom is on the back of the house, and there's ways of getting outside without creaking the floorboards in the corridor-or opening the squeaky door, either."
His eyebrow went up even farther. "So you decided you could trust me, is that it?"
She shrugged. "I don't sleep much-six hours is more'n enough-but I don't want to disturb them, either. So I figured out how to get out of the house quiet-like. I come out here, look at the moons and the stars, and just sorta let my mind wander. It's nice, not having to worry about stuff for a while."
She looked at him, straight-on, and there was something in her earnest gaze that brought to mind another pair of earnest blue eyes: Ianto's, filled with love, dying in his arms. He flinched and looked away. "I'll leave you to it, then," he said, aware he was leaving abruptly but not able to stop himself. "I'll see you in the morning."
He pushed himself to his feet, brushing off his trousers. "Good night, Andrea," he said formally. Without looking back, he strode off towards the side entrance to the barn, anxious to put space between them before the lump in his throat grew so big he couldn't speak.
"Jones?"
He stopped, against his better judgment, but managed not to turn around. "Yes?"
The grass rustled, but she didn't come any closer. "I've lost people I loved, too," she said quietly.
Another jolt of pain went through him, and now he could see Stephen as well: blonde hair, blue eyes, pale skin, blood trickling from his nose . . . .
He shook himself, shoving the memory away. "Not like this," he grated, and left.
***
Haying came and went. Jones-he refused even to think of himself as Jack any more-let himself fall into a pattern. He got up before dawn, ate a hearty breakfast in the farmhouse kitchen with Andrea and her parents, and accompanied her father, Jacob, out to the grasslands a few miles west just as the sun was rising. There they met up with the farmers and hands of all five nearby farms, and over the course of a week, the whole lot of them worked cutting the hay, laying it out, turning it so it dried evenly, and then forking it up into carts to be taken for baling. It was long, hot, backbreaking labour, but it had the advantage of sapping so much of his energy that he had none left for thinking-or for remembering.
He'd taken to spending his evenings sitting in a copse of trees a couple hundred yards from the barn, on the banks of the creek that ran through Jacob's property. It couldn't be seen from the house, and was significantly cooler than anywhere else on the farm, except maybe the cellar. Nobody bothered him after the evening chores were done; it was his time, and nobody fussed about where he went. That was one of the nice things about not being in charge, he reflected: once your job was done, the world left you alone.
He sat down on the cool grass and stripped off his boots, socks, and shirt. He'd have stripped off more if he thought he could get away with it, but just because no-one had come upon him didn't mean that no-one would. He lay back, hands behind his head, and watched the first of the moons rising over the mountains to the east.
The haying was nearly done; all that remained was to haul the bales up into the haylofts of each of the farmers who'd worked together, and then he'd have a couple days of nothing but ordinary farm chores before the harvest got into full swing. He looked out over the fields of grain and corn beyond the creek, remembered the kitchen garden Lizzie tended, full of vegetables and herbs, and thought, Who decided that cities were the be-all and end-all of human existence?
If he'd gone out to the mainland when he was eighteen and got a job with one of the farmers there, instead of joining the Time Agency and dragging his best friend, James, along with him, James would have lived. So would Ianto. Stephen-he'd never have been born. Neither would Alice. But wouldn't that be better? Wouldn't it be better never to have been born than to have gone through what he'd done to them?
He thought about his days out in the hayfields. A hovertractor had cut the grass, but they'd laid it out and turned it with hay rakes that looked like they could've come from the nineteenth century on Earth. The baler had been solar-powered and as efficient as any starship, but they'd taken the hay to it in horse-drawn carts. This place was a fascinating mix of ancient technologies with modern conveniences.
Jacob had boasted one day that he could feed four people without resorting to "those gorram protein-bars, taste like sawdust and shit"-a description Jones couldn't object to-except in cases of dire emergency. "The trick," Jacob had said, "is not to plant cash crops. Oh, sell some of it, that's fine-I own two-thirds of the hayfields, I plant more wheat and corn than we'll use-but don't rely on it. You get a bad year, you're sunk. Me, I get a bad year, I plant winter wheat and grow some hydroponic vegetables down cellar. Might slaughter some stock I hadn't planned on. We've recovered from some damn poor harvests that way. Boys that plant cash crops only, we get a wet summer like last year, and their wheat's ruined, or their rye's full of ergot, or their stock gets foot-rot, and they've got nothin' to fall back on. It's just logic. Provide for your own, I always say, and let the rich Alliance boys with their gold and their greedy smiles be damned."
Provide for your own. Jones sighed and closed his eyes. It was the last thing he'd done before he'd met with Gwen and Rhys. He'd bought a few hundred pounds' worth of gold and silver and split the rest of his not-inconsiderable bank account into four parts. One was for Ianto's sister and her family; one was for Gwen and Rhys, to help pay off their mortgage while Gwen was out of work with the baby; one was for the baby him- or herself, a trust fund that would kick in at the age of eighteen; and the fourth-larger than the others-was for Alice. He knew his daughter would never take a penny of his, but he'd got around that; he'd arranged to pay off her house and her car, and provided a small income for her with the provision that, if she didn't want it, it was to go to whichever charity she wished. If she refused even to specify a charity-if, for example, she simply hung up on the solicitor with whom he'd arranged all of this-the money would go to the more-or-less secret fund that was used to help the families of dead Torchwood employees.
Provide for your own. So why didn't the money make him feel any better?
"Long day?"
Long-established reflexes kicked in, and Jones had whirled and ducked behind one of the trees in a crouch before he'd even processed whose voice that was. Andrea stood there, wearing a dressing gown and carrying a towel. She still wore her usual boots, but they were unlaced. "Sorry," she said, taking a step back and holding up her hands nonthreateningly. "Just thought I'd take advantage of the fact that harvest hasn't started yet and go for a swim. In two weeks, I'll be too exhausted even to walk out here."
"You want to swim in that river?" Jones stood up, coming out from behind the tree and pretending that his heart wasn't going twice as fast as it should. "Looks too swift to be safe to swim in."
"There's a swimming hole not far from here, just a few yards over there." She nodded to her right. "Da dug it when we were little."
"We?" He hadn't known she had any siblings.
"My brother and I," she said easily, but there was a hint of old pain in her tone. "I've swum there my whole life."
"In the dark?"
She laughed. "Nothing but minnows in this creek, I promise." She kicked off her unlaced boots and dragged her socks off, then loosened the tie of her dressing gown. "I won't disturb you, will I? I'll ignore you completely, if that's what you want."
Her dressing gown hung partly open, moonlight bleaching its colour; it might actually have been anything from light blue to yellow to white. The gap between the lapels was dark, shadowed by the gown. Jones wasn't sure whether she actually had anything on beneath it or not. A rush of desire raced through him, followed immediately by a rush of guilt. She was a kid, for God's sake. He should leave. He should leave right now, walk away, go back to his overheated little room in the hayloft and leave her alone-
-but what if something happened and she needed help? They weren't close enough to the house for her parents to hear. He would, of course, but by the time he got down the ladder and back over here, it might be too late.
He forced a smile. "No," he said. "No, you won't disturb me. I'll just stay right here."
Andrea inched forward. Her light-brown hair looked silver in the moonlight. "You could join me," she suggested with a small smile. "Been working all day in the heat . . . might feel good." She cocked her head, giving him a seductive grin.
Oh, God. He held up a hand to stop her. "Andrea, don't," he said quietly, gently. "You don't want to do this. I'm-I'm older than I look, and-"
She straightened and raised her eyebrows, and suddenly there was nothing at all seductive about her. "Too old to swim?" she asked, sounding surprised but not at all hurt or rejected. "All right, if that's what you'd rather." She shrugged out of her dressing gown, revealing a reasonably modest bathing suit, and walked over towards the bank of the creek. She tossed her towel down on the grassy edge, then turned and grinned at him before plugging her nose and jumping in, feet-first.
Jones just stared, jaw open. She'd been hitting on him. He knew she had. He had a long, long history of women hitting on him, and he knew what it looked like, what it sounded like. And when he'd started to let her down easily, hoping he wouldn't upset her, it was suddenly as though all she'd wanted was to invite him to swim.
Maybe it was, he thought. Maybe that was all she'd wanted. Maybe he'd just been reading too much into an innocent invitation. And that was good, right? That he hadn't hurt her?
Blowing out a frustrated breath, he sat back down on the cool ground, watched the second and third moons rise, and tried not to listen to the sound of splashing behind him.
Author: aibhinn
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Rose, Jack, Ten (will end up OT3); the Firefly crew.
Spoilers: DW through Journey's End, TW through Children of Earth, and all aired Firefly canon, including episodes and the movie Serenity.
Betas: larielromeniel, dameruth and canaana, though I did some editing after I got it back from them, so if I messed it up, it's not their fault!
Summary: After the death of the blue-suited Doctor, an immortal Rose uses the dimension cannon to teleport herself back into her home universe. Or should that be 'Verse? Crossover with Joss Whedon's Firefly.
Disclaimer: Nothing is mine. I promise to put everything back where I found it.
Author's Note: The title refers to the poem of the same name by Tennyson, an online version of which can be found here. Also, River quotes from the poem "The Raven" by Edgar Allen Poe. She also references a sculpture by Rodin, called "The Caryatid"; information about it can be found here.
Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9 | Chapter 10
Chapter Three
Rose lay on the bunk in her quarters, reading a book she'd borrowed from Inara-a history of the system they were in and of humanity's escape from Earth-that-Was. Travel in this universe was so very different from travel by TARDIS, she thought, eyes scanning the diagram of one of the ships that had brought them to this system. "Dozens of planets, hundreds of moons," she read aloud. How much had the population of humans grown if it had outgrown the Earth and needed a system so huge?
Movement in the open door to her quarters caught her eye, and she looked up to see River there, half-hiding behind the door frame. She put the book down and smiled. "Come on in, River."
River stepped in a foot or two, moving with cautious grace, like a cat. The handkerchief hem of her dress swirled around the tops of her combat boots-an odd combination of styles, but one that somehow suited her. "Hi," she said.
"Hi." Rose sat up, still smiling. "What can I do for you?"
River cocked her head sideways, looking her over. "There's something of the wolf about you," she said at last, slowly, as though she were coming to a realisation.
Rose's smile froze on her face. "What do you mean?" she asked, working very hard to keep her voice still and hoping her pounding heart wasn't as loud as it sounded in her own ears.
River stepped forward another pace. "I don't know," she said, sounding curious. "But it's like a fairy tale come to life. On your way to grandma's house-but it's not your grandma. Or grandpa," she added. "He's searching for the beanstalk on a farm, trying to escape the giants in his head. But there's no self-playing harp here, just a golden song in your mind." She blinked, and then a bright, delighted smile spread across her face. "The wolf is singing."
"I don't understand what you mean," Rose said, though she was terribly afraid she did. This young woman knew things she shouldn't. That could be bad-could be very, very bad. She seemed to remember Mal saying something about River being a Reader-was this what he meant? Some sort of psychic powers, the ability to tell the future or read minds?
But River's smile didn't falter. "It's okay, Rose," she said. "I used to know bad things I shouldn't, but that's all been taken care of now. The captain took care of it. He'll take care of you, too. He might even make you family, though you have your own waiting for you."
Rose blinked. "I do?"
"On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door," River quoted. "The Parthenon was the temple built to Pallas Athena. Its roof was held up by caryatids-statues of women. The women are always the ones who end up holding everything up, holding it all together. But he'll help you, you know, when you find him. He always loved you."
Rose took a deep breath. She was just going to go with this, she decided, and see where River went. "I know he did," she said. "He told me."
"No, that was Smith," River said seriously. "You haven't heard it from Jones yet. But he'll tell you. Just remember, even a caryatid can fall beneath her stone. That's Rodin."
She turned and left, oddly silently despite combat boots on grating, before Rose could say anything.
More confused than ever, Rose blew out a sigh and lay back down, staring up at the ceiling, mind awhirl. Smith was the name her Doctor-the one spawned by the metacrisis-had taken when they'd created an identity for him. John Smith, the same name he'd used as a Time Lord. Had the other Doctor, the one she was searching for, changed the name he used? Jones was as common as Smith, surely. But why would he do that? And God, if he had, that was just another layer of information for her to dig through. There were more than enough Smiths out there to take her an entire lifetime, even if he stayed in this system in linear time for the next hundred years; if he'd changed his name, it was going to be even harder.
Three and a half weeks to planetfall on Athens, with its capital city, Pallas. If she understood River's hinting, she'd find something-or someone-there. Meanwhile, all she could do was wait.
***
"Andrea! Andrea!"
"In here, Da!" Andrea sat back on the milking stool, swiping her wrist over her sweaty forehead, and looked up as Da came in through the big double barn doors, followed by another man with a knapsack over one shoulder.
She tried to size up the new man without being impolite. Tall, handsome, dark hair, blue eyes. His clothing was a little the worse for wear, but high-quality all the same; not homespun, not by a long shot. They looked like he'd bought them in some shop in the Core. His expression was neutral, but there was a pinch between his eyebrows, like he was in pain. It was the same pinch she'd seen on Da after Mum died, before he met Lizzie and married her; the same pinch Lizzie'd had after her Joe had been killed.
Her father was wheezing just a little; that pneumonia he'd caught last winter still hadn't gone away altogether, she realised. "Andrea, this here's Stephen Jones. He came in off a freighter in the Pallas docks, lookin' for work. I've hired him on for hayin' and harvest, but I'm too old to climb that ladder up into the loft any more. You wanna show him where his room is? I'll take over with Bess." He patted the cow's hip.
Looking for work as a field hand in those clothes? Not your business, she reminded herself firmly, and stood up, wiping her hands on her apron. "'Course, Da. C'mon, there, Mr Jones. Follow me."
"Just Jones is fine," the man said in an accent that was pure, refined Core. He even stood different than a man from the Rim. Confident, if not comfortable; solid, if not stable. His blue eyes seemed very bright in the dim light of the barn.
"Jones, then. This way." She kilted her skirt up as she approached the ladder, which was built-in and angled; half-ladder, half-staircase. "We've got a room up here, next to the hayloft. Ain't fancy, but it's weather-tight. And there's a pair of windows, with glass." She was rather proud of that; most farms out here couldn't afford to hire help at all, let alone give them a room with glass windows.
"That sounds like it'll be fine, thanks."
His voice was a bit muffled, and she glanced back as she climbed the ladder. To her surprise, he was carefully looking down, ostensibly to make sure his feet stayed on the rungs correctly, but at least partially to avoid seeing up her skirt by accident. Her opinion of him rose. Even beyond his clothes, this was no ordinary farmhand.
The ladder extended up a few rungs above the floor of the hayloft, making it easier to get on and off, so she just swung onto the loft floor. He followed. "Door's right here," she said, and pulled on the latch string. She heard the wooden grate of the bar as it was pulled up out of its socket, and the door swung open. She gestured him inside.
The room itself was spotless except for a fine layer of dust over everything: straw-tick mattress, bed frame, floor, clothing trunk, table, chair. Andrea tsked as Jones wandered into the small room, looking around. "If Da'd told me he was gonna hire someone, I'd've come up here and given this place a good clean, got your bed linens an' all."
"That's all right. I'm used to doing for myself." He set his knapsack on top of the chest. "Linens in here?"
"No, they're down in the house with the others. That's for your clothes, or whatever you want to store in there. I can pop down and get the sheets and a duster, won't be a tick-"
He raised a hand. "No, thanks. You've got work to do. I'm hired help, not a guest; I can do it myself, if you'll just show me where to find them."
Well. A man who wasn't convinced she was there to cater to him as though she were his housemaid. "All right, then. Leave your things here-no one'll touch 'em-and come on over t'house with me. Nearly suppertime anyway. You'll eat with us." He looked as though he were about to protest, and she added, "Our hired help always does. We can't pay much, but we feed ya." She indicated his pack. "That all you got?" He nodded, and she said, "Got some trousers and shirts you can have, too, things some of our old hands left behind. Nothin' you'd wear to the Harvest Festival-" He was already wearing clothes more than fancy enough for that. "-but good enough for working in the fields. I'll get those for you as well. Those boots, they look like they'll do fine. Fit you all right?"
Jones blinked. "Yeah," he said. "Yeah, they're all right."
More than all right; Andrea was sure they'd cost more than any two of her outfits put together, shoes and all. Probably made to measure, judging by the rest of his clothes. "Good enough. That's it, then: supper, linens, and clothes, in that order." She turned to go out, then stopped and turned back, cocking her head to one side. "You ever worked a farm before?" She shouldn't ask, she knew it; it was more than rude, it was prying. But she couldn't stand not knowing. In her eighteen years, she'd never seen anyone hire on as a field hand looking like this.
A corner of his mouth quirked upward, as though acknowledging both how rude she was being and what an odd picture he must present. "No," he said. "But show me anything once, and I can do it."
"Good," she said. "Then you can help me feed the stock this evening." She turned again and headed out the door and back down the ladder. "Come on-best way to get on Lizzie's good side is not to be late for supper."
From behind her, she heard a soft chuckle. "Yes, ma'am."
***
Three of the moons had risen, and the fourth would be rising soon. With so much light, Jack thought, you'd think the stars would be invisible. But no, a few of them shone through, speckling the grey-blue sky.
He was getting used to thinking of himself as "Jones" now, even if it hurt every time someone said the name-or worse, when he himself did. He'd used "Stephen" because he'd needed a first name, but he'd found he couldn't actually go by it. He wasn't worthy of that name, didn't deserve to be addressed by the same name as the grandson he'd murdered. Tears welled up again, but he blinked them away. Murderers didn't have the luxury of tears.
The grass he sat on was surprisingly springy for so late into the summer. This planet, or at least this part of it, wasn't as dry as the Boeshane had been, he reflected. Even though it had been a peninsula, the dry season back home-if it was still home, after all this time-was almost desert-like. Here, the grass was still mostly green, though hay-making would start tomorrow, and the harvest right after that.
He heard soft footsteps behind him and tensed, but didn't move. He had nothing to fear, after all, and besides, he had a pretty good idea who this was.
"Couldn't sleep?" Andrea asked softly.
"Something like that."
"Me neither. Mind if I sit with you a spell?"
His eyebrow lifted, and he looked up at her. "You sure you should be out here, all alone, with me?"
She chuckled and sat on the grass beside him, tucking her skirts modestly around her feet. "Da sleeps with the shotgun by his bed. One sound from me and he'd be up and out here before you could say boo. 'Sides, I'm not so bad at taking care of myself."
Her face, young and beautiful and unscarred by either injury or unhappiness, was turned up towards the moons, and he was seized with an irrational anger at her lack of concern. "Really?" he snapped, and without giving himself a chance to think, he flipped around, knocking her onto her back and pressing himself atop her, forearm against her throat. "I push here," he said, far too calmly, "and you don't have the breath to scream. Then what?"
Something sharp and metallic pressed against his jugular. "Then I cut your throat," Andrea whispered. Her eyes looked up at him, cool and calm, waiting.
Jack blinked; then, despite himself, chuckled ruefully. "Not bad," he said, easing up and away from her. She sat up, watching him, eyes less trusting than a minute ago. Good, he thought. She needs to be less trusting. He scooted around so he faced her, twice as far away as he'd been before.
Andrea eyed him as she sat up, then extended one leg and let him see the knife sheath strapped to her upper calf as she slid the blade home and secured it so it wouldn't fall out. Deliberately, she pulled her skirt back down and wrapped her arms around her knees, meeting his eyes. "And that's just one of the things I can do. Don't make the mistake of thinking I'm helpless because I'm a woman. I told you, I can take care of myself."
"I'm sorry. I just . . . ." He hesitated, then chuckled, surprising himself. "You reminded me of-someone-for a minute. I have no right to act so protective."
"Oh, I've been protected by farm hands all my life," Andrea said, shrugging. "You'd be surprised. A few of 'em have come courtin', of course-the farm'll be mine after Da dies-but they're always respectful. This here's a small place. Everyone knows everyone else, and not much work going, so a man's reputation is everything. You get someone in that no-one knows, and he's going to be watched careful-like. Only one man ever tried attacking me in all my years. Some itinerant farmhand with blond hair and a big smile and wandering hands, couple years ago."
"What happened to him?"
She turned a bland gaze on him. "Why, I don't know. Nobody does. We reckon he just did a midnight flit."
Uh-huh. Jack shifted, bringing a knee up and resting his forearm on it. "That a hint I should be on my way before someone, uh, helps me?"
Andrea grinned. "Not this time. Nobody watchin'-I checked. Da and Lizzie's bedroom is on the back of the house, and there's ways of getting outside without creaking the floorboards in the corridor-or opening the squeaky door, either."
His eyebrow went up even farther. "So you decided you could trust me, is that it?"
She shrugged. "I don't sleep much-six hours is more'n enough-but I don't want to disturb them, either. So I figured out how to get out of the house quiet-like. I come out here, look at the moons and the stars, and just sorta let my mind wander. It's nice, not having to worry about stuff for a while."
She looked at him, straight-on, and there was something in her earnest gaze that brought to mind another pair of earnest blue eyes: Ianto's, filled with love, dying in his arms. He flinched and looked away. "I'll leave you to it, then," he said, aware he was leaving abruptly but not able to stop himself. "I'll see you in the morning."
He pushed himself to his feet, brushing off his trousers. "Good night, Andrea," he said formally. Without looking back, he strode off towards the side entrance to the barn, anxious to put space between them before the lump in his throat grew so big he couldn't speak.
"Jones?"
He stopped, against his better judgment, but managed not to turn around. "Yes?"
The grass rustled, but she didn't come any closer. "I've lost people I loved, too," she said quietly.
Another jolt of pain went through him, and now he could see Stephen as well: blonde hair, blue eyes, pale skin, blood trickling from his nose . . . .
He shook himself, shoving the memory away. "Not like this," he grated, and left.
***
Haying came and went. Jones-he refused even to think of himself as Jack any more-let himself fall into a pattern. He got up before dawn, ate a hearty breakfast in the farmhouse kitchen with Andrea and her parents, and accompanied her father, Jacob, out to the grasslands a few miles west just as the sun was rising. There they met up with the farmers and hands of all five nearby farms, and over the course of a week, the whole lot of them worked cutting the hay, laying it out, turning it so it dried evenly, and then forking it up into carts to be taken for baling. It was long, hot, backbreaking labour, but it had the advantage of sapping so much of his energy that he had none left for thinking-or for remembering.
He'd taken to spending his evenings sitting in a copse of trees a couple hundred yards from the barn, on the banks of the creek that ran through Jacob's property. It couldn't be seen from the house, and was significantly cooler than anywhere else on the farm, except maybe the cellar. Nobody bothered him after the evening chores were done; it was his time, and nobody fussed about where he went. That was one of the nice things about not being in charge, he reflected: once your job was done, the world left you alone.
He sat down on the cool grass and stripped off his boots, socks, and shirt. He'd have stripped off more if he thought he could get away with it, but just because no-one had come upon him didn't mean that no-one would. He lay back, hands behind his head, and watched the first of the moons rising over the mountains to the east.
The haying was nearly done; all that remained was to haul the bales up into the haylofts of each of the farmers who'd worked together, and then he'd have a couple days of nothing but ordinary farm chores before the harvest got into full swing. He looked out over the fields of grain and corn beyond the creek, remembered the kitchen garden Lizzie tended, full of vegetables and herbs, and thought, Who decided that cities were the be-all and end-all of human existence?
If he'd gone out to the mainland when he was eighteen and got a job with one of the farmers there, instead of joining the Time Agency and dragging his best friend, James, along with him, James would have lived. So would Ianto. Stephen-he'd never have been born. Neither would Alice. But wouldn't that be better? Wouldn't it be better never to have been born than to have gone through what he'd done to them?
He thought about his days out in the hayfields. A hovertractor had cut the grass, but they'd laid it out and turned it with hay rakes that looked like they could've come from the nineteenth century on Earth. The baler had been solar-powered and as efficient as any starship, but they'd taken the hay to it in horse-drawn carts. This place was a fascinating mix of ancient technologies with modern conveniences.
Jacob had boasted one day that he could feed four people without resorting to "those gorram protein-bars, taste like sawdust and shit"-a description Jones couldn't object to-except in cases of dire emergency. "The trick," Jacob had said, "is not to plant cash crops. Oh, sell some of it, that's fine-I own two-thirds of the hayfields, I plant more wheat and corn than we'll use-but don't rely on it. You get a bad year, you're sunk. Me, I get a bad year, I plant winter wheat and grow some hydroponic vegetables down cellar. Might slaughter some stock I hadn't planned on. We've recovered from some damn poor harvests that way. Boys that plant cash crops only, we get a wet summer like last year, and their wheat's ruined, or their rye's full of ergot, or their stock gets foot-rot, and they've got nothin' to fall back on. It's just logic. Provide for your own, I always say, and let the rich Alliance boys with their gold and their greedy smiles be damned."
Provide for your own. Jones sighed and closed his eyes. It was the last thing he'd done before he'd met with Gwen and Rhys. He'd bought a few hundred pounds' worth of gold and silver and split the rest of his not-inconsiderable bank account into four parts. One was for Ianto's sister and her family; one was for Gwen and Rhys, to help pay off their mortgage while Gwen was out of work with the baby; one was for the baby him- or herself, a trust fund that would kick in at the age of eighteen; and the fourth-larger than the others-was for Alice. He knew his daughter would never take a penny of his, but he'd got around that; he'd arranged to pay off her house and her car, and provided a small income for her with the provision that, if she didn't want it, it was to go to whichever charity she wished. If she refused even to specify a charity-if, for example, she simply hung up on the solicitor with whom he'd arranged all of this-the money would go to the more-or-less secret fund that was used to help the families of dead Torchwood employees.
Provide for your own. So why didn't the money make him feel any better?
"Long day?"
Long-established reflexes kicked in, and Jones had whirled and ducked behind one of the trees in a crouch before he'd even processed whose voice that was. Andrea stood there, wearing a dressing gown and carrying a towel. She still wore her usual boots, but they were unlaced. "Sorry," she said, taking a step back and holding up her hands nonthreateningly. "Just thought I'd take advantage of the fact that harvest hasn't started yet and go for a swim. In two weeks, I'll be too exhausted even to walk out here."
"You want to swim in that river?" Jones stood up, coming out from behind the tree and pretending that his heart wasn't going twice as fast as it should. "Looks too swift to be safe to swim in."
"There's a swimming hole not far from here, just a few yards over there." She nodded to her right. "Da dug it when we were little."
"We?" He hadn't known she had any siblings.
"My brother and I," she said easily, but there was a hint of old pain in her tone. "I've swum there my whole life."
"In the dark?"
She laughed. "Nothing but minnows in this creek, I promise." She kicked off her unlaced boots and dragged her socks off, then loosened the tie of her dressing gown. "I won't disturb you, will I? I'll ignore you completely, if that's what you want."
Her dressing gown hung partly open, moonlight bleaching its colour; it might actually have been anything from light blue to yellow to white. The gap between the lapels was dark, shadowed by the gown. Jones wasn't sure whether she actually had anything on beneath it or not. A rush of desire raced through him, followed immediately by a rush of guilt. She was a kid, for God's sake. He should leave. He should leave right now, walk away, go back to his overheated little room in the hayloft and leave her alone-
-but what if something happened and she needed help? They weren't close enough to the house for her parents to hear. He would, of course, but by the time he got down the ladder and back over here, it might be too late.
He forced a smile. "No," he said. "No, you won't disturb me. I'll just stay right here."
Andrea inched forward. Her light-brown hair looked silver in the moonlight. "You could join me," she suggested with a small smile. "Been working all day in the heat . . . might feel good." She cocked her head, giving him a seductive grin.
Oh, God. He held up a hand to stop her. "Andrea, don't," he said quietly, gently. "You don't want to do this. I'm-I'm older than I look, and-"
She straightened and raised her eyebrows, and suddenly there was nothing at all seductive about her. "Too old to swim?" she asked, sounding surprised but not at all hurt or rejected. "All right, if that's what you'd rather." She shrugged out of her dressing gown, revealing a reasonably modest bathing suit, and walked over towards the bank of the creek. She tossed her towel down on the grassy edge, then turned and grinned at him before plugging her nose and jumping in, feet-first.
Jones just stared, jaw open. She'd been hitting on him. He knew she had. He had a long, long history of women hitting on him, and he knew what it looked like, what it sounded like. And when he'd started to let her down easily, hoping he wouldn't upset her, it was suddenly as though all she'd wanted was to invite him to swim.
Maybe it was, he thought. Maybe that was all she'd wanted. Maybe he'd just been reading too much into an innocent invitation. And that was good, right? That he hadn't hurt her?
Blowing out a frustrated breath, he sat back down on the cool ground, watched the second and third moons rise, and tried not to listen to the sound of splashing behind him.