Fic: Four Days at the Side of Captain Jack Harkness
Title: Four Days at the Side of Captain Jack Harkness
Pairing: Jack/Gwen, Gwen/Owen, Gwen/Rhys, Jack/Ianto, Ianto/Lisa
Rating: PG 13
Spoilers: Up to and including 1x13
Summary: When she said she wanted to sit with him they thought she'd meant an hour. Two, tops.
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Author's Note: Okay, first I must say this fic would have never happened had it not been for prettyquotable. If not for her encouragement, I wouldn’t have thought twice of writting it. Thank you for putting up with me being pedantic, pestering every five minutes about wording, and - do you think heels or boots? And or But? :)
When she said she wanted to sit with him they thought she'd meant an hour. Two, tops.
-------------------------
Owen's the first to check up on her. He tries to draw her from the corpse of the man who once was his comrade, his boss, his better.
His initial attempts are subtle; he asks if she fancies a coffee break, tells her to get some air, forces her to eat half a slice of stale bread slathered with dated orange marmalade because it's all that he can find in the hub. Even in her near catatonic state Gwen recognizes what an effort that is for Owen. Or maybe Owen just doesn't feel like Owen these days, much like she doesn't feel like Gwen because Jack is no longer here to be Jack.
It dawns on her that they're no longer amazing. They haven't been for a while, and she can't remember the last time they touched, the last time they kissed, the last time they screwed, the last anything really because she just can't get the image of Jack lying so still, a splash of colour amidst the grey of the field, out of her mind. Order has lost all meaning and she’s begun to separate the last twenty odd hours from the rest of her formative years as if they were two separate lifetimes.
When she finally looks up at Owen she sees a blur of memories rushing towards her--
Teasing Owen about his erroneous prognosis.
Screaming for release in the back of the SUV. Watching the sunset with Jack, laughing through an impromptu dinner at Owen's handstickelinghersidesJackteachinghertoshootagunsnogginglikemadatheendofthepier
--but it's all so distant and messy and she can't quite figure out where each one fits, can't quite remember exactly whether it was yesterday or two weeks ago, just that once upon a time she was happy.
She almost forgets that Owen is still next to her, and she doesn't fathom that she's staring but he does.
He swallows hard and her gaze becomes transfixed on his adam's apple delicately trembling beneath a sheath of pale skin. She doesn't notice as his lips part, teeth grinding together in a subtle display of nervousness, and she is caught completely off guard as his mouth mashes against hers.
When he kisses her lips she tastes like orange rind and the bitter citrus lingers on his tongue throughout the night, resurrecting thoughts of Gwen even as he fervently pounds into a faceless girl with brown hair and a freckled nose.
He wonders if she's gone home to Rhys.
She goes home, kisses Rhys, eats a dish she can neither pronounce nor taste. Pretends that everything is fine. Normal. It’s not for the sake of Rhys or for the sake of attempting to right a years worth of unrepairable wrongs but to honor Jack's wishes. She sleeps, showers, changes her clothes but when she returns to the hub she wears the same expression of indistinct hope and fear and sadness with which she left.
-------------------------
Gwen hears the rhythmic clicking of Tosh’s boots before she sees her approach. She doesn’t look up but she can see through the niche below the gurney that she no longer tucks her jeans into the boot, instead choosing to conceal her footwear with elongated trousers.
Gwen carefully studies her form, awkwardly shifting within the small parameters of the remote space.
Tosh likes to be in control. Likes to plan everything, arrange it in neat little charts with numbers and columns, fastening them to algorithmic puzzles and fractional numbers and letters from ancient alphabets. Tosh stares at her and she can tell her mind is calculating, categorizing each piece of advice into a mental graph.
She tells Gwen to let go. Talks about loss, people they lost, and for a moment Gwen isn't sure which time she's referring to because there's been so many. And that's not counting the almost but not quite calls.
Gwen can tell Tosh is guarded in her advice, perhaps because she feels she doesn’t know Gwen well enough to claim the right to delegate her actions or perhaps it’s because she feels she knows Gwen too well. She still doesn’t know exactly what thought of hers Tosh had been privy to.
She’s sympathetic and Gwen can tell it’s genuine. But the purpose of her visit is besieged with practical agenda- to pry her from the body, from Jack- and Gwen isn’t a piece of equipment that can be extorted and she isn’t a child that can be coaxed with sugar coated promises, so she monotonously reiterates the set of lines she’s burned into her mind. She just wants more time.
She needs more time.
-------------------------
Ianto is the last to offer his desolate company. He doesn’t say anything, just sits with her. She waits for him to coax, to bargain, to reassure- anything, but all that greets her is hollow silence and a slight secretion of body heat.
She finds that most comforting, perhaps because a cold corpse doesn’t offer much warmth and trying to infuse Jack’s body with what heat she can transfer has left her with a deficit of her own.
After what seems like hours, seems being the operative word because she loses track of time within these shrouded walls without him here to keep her grounded, she feels compelled to speak. When she opens her mouth however she realizes she has nothing to say. She has nothing for him as he has for her. They know loss better than anyone here, her with Rhys and him with Lisa, and they know that no words can penetrate the indiscernible barrier of grief and sorrow that comes as an adjunct to the demise of a loved one. They know better than anyone; there is no comfort in death.
She takes a deep breath, trying to collect her thoughts and ease the tension within her chest, painfully clutching at her heart, but when she expels the breath she doesn't feel any better and her forehead creases in exasperation. Ianto's hand reaches for hers and he gives it a slight squeeze. He doesn't look at her, his eyes still trained on Jack's inert frame.
A moment later he's gone, and it takes her a while to realize that because she can still smell the distinct scent of coffee that accompanies his presence.
She shifts her stiff body; twisting slightly to relieve the tension plaguing her back and amidst the glinting silver adorning the sterile room a styrofoam cup catches her eye, standing idly beside the gurney. And that’s when it hits her.
He’s brought Jack coffee.
-------------------------
A distinct odor of stale pizza and coppery residue usually dwells within the hub, but today Gwen smells nostalgia in the air. It smells like toffee and molasses, reeking of sweet memories and the bitter truth. Reminding her of all that was lost.
She wonders if this is punishment and whom it is for. Him- for cheating death? Her- for cheating Rhys? Or perhaps for both. Then again maybe the universe cares nothing for evening out the score but posses a twisted sense of humor. She wonders who's laughing now.
She can’t bear to leave his side because she knows, she knows he would never forsake her. So she sits and she waits and she holds his hand because she doesn’t want him to wake up alone.
And she can’t help but cry because this is Jack and she just doesn’t know what she will be without him because it was him that made her. And despite her forward advances and ventures with Owen and her half-hearted attempts at normal with Rhys, it was really about Jack all along. It’s not as bad if it’s only half cheating. That’s what she tells herself when the voices keep her awake long enough to see the sun rise. Give one man her body, the other her mind while her naïve boyfriend fights for an ounce of attention as he clings on to the right to filter her dirty laundry.
She stops thinking about tomorrow. Stops counting the days because she learns that if she doesn't focus on the unbalanced ratio between the time she spends with her dead comrade and the time she spends with her living boyfriend she doesn't feel like she's cheating on Rhys. Again.
She thinks she may have loved Jack. She's not sure how, because she's learned that love isn't as simple as that in fairytales with happily ever afters, but she does know it's not how she loves Rhys. And it's not how she loves Owen. If what she feels for either for them could be discerned as love. She's not sure of that anymore either.
It's been days, or so Tosh tells her, and he's yet to prove everyone wrong, spring to life and laugh at them for their lack of conviction. If she squints her eyes he doesn't look as pale. It's not much but it's all she'd had to go on these past few days and now it's not enough anymore.
She begs with him, calls out his name, whispers false promises into the damp air of the hub and somewhere in between these empty words she begins to lose hope.
And it begins to sink in that maybe the handsome prince doesn’t wake at the end of this story.
She caresses her cheek with his hand and kisses him goodbye and when she finally gains the strength to walk away, it is then, among the echo of her footsteps that she hears his voice.
“Thank you”.
Feedback is shiny :)
Pairing: Jack/Gwen, Gwen/Owen, Gwen/Rhys, Jack/Ianto, Ianto/Lisa
Rating: PG 13
Spoilers: Up to and including 1x13
Summary: When she said she wanted to sit with him they thought she'd meant an hour. Two, tops.
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Author's Note: Okay, first I must say this fic would have never happened had it not been for prettyquotable. If not for her encouragement, I wouldn’t have thought twice of writting it. Thank you for putting up with me being pedantic, pestering every five minutes about wording, and - do you think heels or boots? And or But? :)
When she said she wanted to sit with him they thought she'd meant an hour. Two, tops.
-------------------------
Owen's the first to check up on her. He tries to draw her from the corpse of the man who once was his comrade, his boss, his better.
His initial attempts are subtle; he asks if she fancies a coffee break, tells her to get some air, forces her to eat half a slice of stale bread slathered with dated orange marmalade because it's all that he can find in the hub. Even in her near catatonic state Gwen recognizes what an effort that is for Owen. Or maybe Owen just doesn't feel like Owen these days, much like she doesn't feel like Gwen because Jack is no longer here to be Jack.
It dawns on her that they're no longer amazing. They haven't been for a while, and she can't remember the last time they touched, the last time they kissed, the last time they screwed, the last anything really because she just can't get the image of Jack lying so still, a splash of colour amidst the grey of the field, out of her mind. Order has lost all meaning and she’s begun to separate the last twenty odd hours from the rest of her formative years as if they were two separate lifetimes.
When she finally looks up at Owen she sees a blur of memories rushing towards her--
Teasing Owen about his erroneous prognosis.
Screaming for release in the back of the SUV. Watching the sunset with Jack, laughing through an impromptu dinner at Owen's handstickelinghersidesJackteachinghertoshootagunsnogginglikemadatheendofthepier
--but it's all so distant and messy and she can't quite figure out where each one fits, can't quite remember exactly whether it was yesterday or two weeks ago, just that once upon a time she was happy.
She almost forgets that Owen is still next to her, and she doesn't fathom that she's staring but he does.
He swallows hard and her gaze becomes transfixed on his adam's apple delicately trembling beneath a sheath of pale skin. She doesn't notice as his lips part, teeth grinding together in a subtle display of nervousness, and she is caught completely off guard as his mouth mashes against hers.
When he kisses her lips she tastes like orange rind and the bitter citrus lingers on his tongue throughout the night, resurrecting thoughts of Gwen even as he fervently pounds into a faceless girl with brown hair and a freckled nose.
He wonders if she's gone home to Rhys.
She goes home, kisses Rhys, eats a dish she can neither pronounce nor taste. Pretends that everything is fine. Normal. It’s not for the sake of Rhys or for the sake of attempting to right a years worth of unrepairable wrongs but to honor Jack's wishes. She sleeps, showers, changes her clothes but when she returns to the hub she wears the same expression of indistinct hope and fear and sadness with which she left.
-------------------------
Gwen hears the rhythmic clicking of Tosh’s boots before she sees her approach. She doesn’t look up but she can see through the niche below the gurney that she no longer tucks her jeans into the boot, instead choosing to conceal her footwear with elongated trousers.
Gwen carefully studies her form, awkwardly shifting within the small parameters of the remote space.
Tosh likes to be in control. Likes to plan everything, arrange it in neat little charts with numbers and columns, fastening them to algorithmic puzzles and fractional numbers and letters from ancient alphabets. Tosh stares at her and she can tell her mind is calculating, categorizing each piece of advice into a mental graph.
She tells Gwen to let go. Talks about loss, people they lost, and for a moment Gwen isn't sure which time she's referring to because there's been so many. And that's not counting the almost but not quite calls.
Gwen can tell Tosh is guarded in her advice, perhaps because she feels she doesn’t know Gwen well enough to claim the right to delegate her actions or perhaps it’s because she feels she knows Gwen too well. She still doesn’t know exactly what thought of hers Tosh had been privy to.
She’s sympathetic and Gwen can tell it’s genuine. But the purpose of her visit is besieged with practical agenda- to pry her from the body, from Jack- and Gwen isn’t a piece of equipment that can be extorted and she isn’t a child that can be coaxed with sugar coated promises, so she monotonously reiterates the set of lines she’s burned into her mind. She just wants more time.
She needs more time.
-------------------------
Ianto is the last to offer his desolate company. He doesn’t say anything, just sits with her. She waits for him to coax, to bargain, to reassure- anything, but all that greets her is hollow silence and a slight secretion of body heat.
She finds that most comforting, perhaps because a cold corpse doesn’t offer much warmth and trying to infuse Jack’s body with what heat she can transfer has left her with a deficit of her own.
After what seems like hours, seems being the operative word because she loses track of time within these shrouded walls without him here to keep her grounded, she feels compelled to speak. When she opens her mouth however she realizes she has nothing to say. She has nothing for him as he has for her. They know loss better than anyone here, her with Rhys and him with Lisa, and they know that no words can penetrate the indiscernible barrier of grief and sorrow that comes as an adjunct to the demise of a loved one. They know better than anyone; there is no comfort in death.
She takes a deep breath, trying to collect her thoughts and ease the tension within her chest, painfully clutching at her heart, but when she expels the breath she doesn't feel any better and her forehead creases in exasperation. Ianto's hand reaches for hers and he gives it a slight squeeze. He doesn't look at her, his eyes still trained on Jack's inert frame.
A moment later he's gone, and it takes her a while to realize that because she can still smell the distinct scent of coffee that accompanies his presence.
She shifts her stiff body; twisting slightly to relieve the tension plaguing her back and amidst the glinting silver adorning the sterile room a styrofoam cup catches her eye, standing idly beside the gurney. And that’s when it hits her.
He’s brought Jack coffee.
-------------------------
A distinct odor of stale pizza and coppery residue usually dwells within the hub, but today Gwen smells nostalgia in the air. It smells like toffee and molasses, reeking of sweet memories and the bitter truth. Reminding her of all that was lost.
She wonders if this is punishment and whom it is for. Him- for cheating death? Her- for cheating Rhys? Or perhaps for both. Then again maybe the universe cares nothing for evening out the score but posses a twisted sense of humor. She wonders who's laughing now.
She can’t bear to leave his side because she knows, she knows he would never forsake her. So she sits and she waits and she holds his hand because she doesn’t want him to wake up alone.
And she can’t help but cry because this is Jack and she just doesn’t know what she will be without him because it was him that made her. And despite her forward advances and ventures with Owen and her half-hearted attempts at normal with Rhys, it was really about Jack all along. It’s not as bad if it’s only half cheating. That’s what she tells herself when the voices keep her awake long enough to see the sun rise. Give one man her body, the other her mind while her naïve boyfriend fights for an ounce of attention as he clings on to the right to filter her dirty laundry.
She stops thinking about tomorrow. Stops counting the days because she learns that if she doesn't focus on the unbalanced ratio between the time she spends with her dead comrade and the time she spends with her living boyfriend she doesn't feel like she's cheating on Rhys. Again.
She thinks she may have loved Jack. She's not sure how, because she's learned that love isn't as simple as that in fairytales with happily ever afters, but she does know it's not how she loves Rhys. And it's not how she loves Owen. If what she feels for either for them could be discerned as love. She's not sure of that anymore either.
It's been days, or so Tosh tells her, and he's yet to prove everyone wrong, spring to life and laugh at them for their lack of conviction. If she squints her eyes he doesn't look as pale. It's not much but it's all she'd had to go on these past few days and now it's not enough anymore.
She begs with him, calls out his name, whispers false promises into the damp air of the hub and somewhere in between these empty words she begins to lose hope.
And it begins to sink in that maybe the handsome prince doesn’t wake at the end of this story.
She caresses her cheek with his hand and kisses him goodbye and when she finally gains the strength to walk away, it is then, among the echo of her footsteps that she hears his voice.
“Thank you”.
Feedback is shiny :)