Fic: Are Those Astronaut Pants? [One-Shot]
Title: Are Those Astronaut Pants?
Author: heddychaa
Characters: Jack/Amy, Eleven
Rating: PG-13
Genre: Vignette
Wordcount: ~1,000
Warnings: No explicit spoilers, as such, but takes place after Doctor Who 5X09, "Cold Blood".
Disclaimer: Torchwood & Doctor Who's characters, concepts, and events belong to their respective owners, including but not limited to Russell T Davies, Stephen Moffat, and the BBC. This is a work of fan-appreciation and no profit is being made.
Summary: Jack Harkness isn't in the bar on a pull, exactly, but he never could say no to a cute face like that, especially when her choice of perfume's so damn nostalgic.
A/N: Written for Challenge 1 on whoverse_las: based on the prompt "miscommunication". This is the edited version with a shiny new ending! Thanks to everyone on LAS for their critique, and to azn_jack_fiend for beta and handholding getting it cleaned up.
Are Those Astronaut Pants?
When she first sits down, Jack doesn’t even turn to look in her direction. He can sense her in his personal space, can smell the blossom of her perfume rise up into the air: Earthsmells of fruits and flowers. Gardenia. She smells young.
“I’m trouble,” he warns, sing-song, not looking at her. He gulps back the last of his drink. He means it.
“Oh, I don’t know,” she replies, coy, each consonant lazily sharp in her mouth like snapping gum. “I’m pretty troublesome myself.”
When he turns to look at her, she has an elbow on the bartop, her chin resting in her hand. Her nails are painted a metallic teal that glows a strange sheen in the lights of the bar. She arches her eyebrows at him, her mouth curling up into a pouty little smile. Her face is childish and soft, petulant enough to be interesting. And if not interesting, distracting.
She spins in her stool to face him. Crosses her legs. Miniskirt. Long white thighs that reflect the blue-pink of the bar like she’s glowing.
Very distracting.
“Alright,” Jack says, trying to sound more intent than resigned. He looks straight across the bar to the rows of bottles, ignoring the sight of her in his peripheral vision, the fresh feminine smell wafting off of her loose red hair. “How do you want to do this?”
“Oh!” she says. “Oh! You thought. . .”
He glances over his shoulder at her, where she’s now sitting with her knees pinched together, boot-toes pointed to the floor, fingernails drumming on the bartop. She twists her mouth up awkwardly, avoiding eye contact.
“Well, you were kinda sending weird signals,” he protests, but manages a smile to put her at ease. She smiles back.
“You know, I get that a lot. But no. I’m actually here on behalf of a friend.” She leans back in her stool, holding onto the edge of the bartop for balance, and gestures with the top of her head toward a man sitting alone at a far table, fidgeting with a holographic coaster that flashes between two advertisements as he twists it in his fingers. He doesn’t even seem to notice the pair of them at the bar, he’s focusing so intently.
“So what, you’re a wingwoman?” Jack asks, watching the coaster switch from a blue-skinned woman straight out of sixties Star Trek to a dewy bottle of blue hypervodka.
Her “friend” is wearing a bowtie.
Oh god, he’s wearing a bowtie. Jack’s going to need another drink. Not that he’s considering it, but the whole situation is just way beyond what he can handle sober.
“Now listen!” she snaps. “Nobody’s on a pull, here, however attractive you. . . might think you are. He says he’s an 'old friend' of yours.”
She’s looking over her shoulder at the man at the table, who has now picked up his drink and is looking at it through the bottom of the glass. Or looking at something in the bar through the distortion of the liquid. Or trying to see if there’s a fish in his drink. Hell if Jack knows. She’s giving him a sort of long-suffering smile.
“Sorry,” Jack says, feeling his voice turning a little cold, “Don’t recognize him. Don’t take it personally, though. You could say I get around.”
“He said you might say that,” the girl replies, unfazed. “What he wants to know is, is it safe to talk to you yet? He seems to think you’ve reason to be cross with him. Wouldn’t surprise me, honestly. Seems he makes a habit of annoying people.”
“Does he,” Jack murmurs, tilting his head a little and watching the man in the bowtie running a finger around the rim of his glass, holding it to his ear curiously. Jack returns his attention to the girl sitting next to him, who is narrowing her eyes at him in a look that would probably make most men want to shrivel up like dried mushrooms.
“So tell me,” he says, leaning an elbow on the bar. Over her shoulder, the Doctor, in his new face, quirks up his eyebrows in question. Jack just smirks. Let him squirm. He returns his attention to the girl, because she’s so pretty and he hasn’t smelled earthflowers in such a long time. “I never even got your name,” he continues, leaning in. “How’d a nice twenty-first century Earth girl like you wind up in a fifty-second century space bar like this?”
She lets out a scandalized little bubble of laughter, at that, before she manages to furrow her brow at him again, belated as though she’s forgotten she’s supposed to be distrustful of him. Except there’s a twitch of a smile in the corner of her mouth, a little half-wink threatening in one eye. He picks up his empty glass, tilting it back and forth in the light of the bar. Blue neon reflects in her eyes.
“Do you want to know what I think?” she asks him, brushing her hair up behind one ear. There’s a note of something citrus. Gardenia, again. He nods for her to continue, matching her coy expression. “I think you already know the answer to that.” She punctuates the accusation with a finger into the centre of his chest.
“Well, yeah,” he admits, smiling when she takes that second too long to withdraw the prodding fingertip. “But you can’t blame a guy for wanting to use a classic line, though, can you?”
She casts a quick, discrete look over her shoulder, as if to ask permission, or to make a show of the fact that she’s being naughty. The Doctor is shaking his head ‘no’ at her, slow and serious like a disappointed father. But he’s not quite looking at her, is he? No, he’s focused instead on a point just to the left of her face. He's looking at Jack.
“He never lets me have any fun,” Jack complains.
“Tell me about it,” she agrees, punches him playfully (blue punch buggy!) on the shoulder, and plants a kiss squarely on his mouth. It’s all strawberries.
Author: heddychaa
Characters: Jack/Amy, Eleven
Rating: PG-13
Genre: Vignette
Wordcount: ~1,000
Warnings: No explicit spoilers, as such, but takes place after Doctor Who 5X09, "Cold Blood".
Disclaimer: Torchwood & Doctor Who's characters, concepts, and events belong to their respective owners, including but not limited to Russell T Davies, Stephen Moffat, and the BBC. This is a work of fan-appreciation and no profit is being made.
Summary: Jack Harkness isn't in the bar on a pull, exactly, but he never could say no to a cute face like that, especially when her choice of perfume's so damn nostalgic.
A/N: Written for Challenge 1 on whoverse_las: based on the prompt "miscommunication". This is the edited version with a shiny new ending! Thanks to everyone on LAS for their critique, and to azn_jack_fiend for beta and handholding getting it cleaned up.
Are Those Astronaut Pants?
When she first sits down, Jack doesn’t even turn to look in her direction. He can sense her in his personal space, can smell the blossom of her perfume rise up into the air: Earthsmells of fruits and flowers. Gardenia. She smells young.
“I’m trouble,” he warns, sing-song, not looking at her. He gulps back the last of his drink. He means it.
“Oh, I don’t know,” she replies, coy, each consonant lazily sharp in her mouth like snapping gum. “I’m pretty troublesome myself.”
When he turns to look at her, she has an elbow on the bartop, her chin resting in her hand. Her nails are painted a metallic teal that glows a strange sheen in the lights of the bar. She arches her eyebrows at him, her mouth curling up into a pouty little smile. Her face is childish and soft, petulant enough to be interesting. And if not interesting, distracting.
She spins in her stool to face him. Crosses her legs. Miniskirt. Long white thighs that reflect the blue-pink of the bar like she’s glowing.
Very distracting.
“Alright,” Jack says, trying to sound more intent than resigned. He looks straight across the bar to the rows of bottles, ignoring the sight of her in his peripheral vision, the fresh feminine smell wafting off of her loose red hair. “How do you want to do this?”
“Oh!” she says. “Oh! You thought. . .”
He glances over his shoulder at her, where she’s now sitting with her knees pinched together, boot-toes pointed to the floor, fingernails drumming on the bartop. She twists her mouth up awkwardly, avoiding eye contact.
“Well, you were kinda sending weird signals,” he protests, but manages a smile to put her at ease. She smiles back.
“You know, I get that a lot. But no. I’m actually here on behalf of a friend.” She leans back in her stool, holding onto the edge of the bartop for balance, and gestures with the top of her head toward a man sitting alone at a far table, fidgeting with a holographic coaster that flashes between two advertisements as he twists it in his fingers. He doesn’t even seem to notice the pair of them at the bar, he’s focusing so intently.
“So what, you’re a wingwoman?” Jack asks, watching the coaster switch from a blue-skinned woman straight out of sixties Star Trek to a dewy bottle of blue hypervodka.
Her “friend” is wearing a bowtie.
Oh god, he’s wearing a bowtie. Jack’s going to need another drink. Not that he’s considering it, but the whole situation is just way beyond what he can handle sober.
“Now listen!” she snaps. “Nobody’s on a pull, here, however attractive you. . . might think you are. He says he’s an 'old friend' of yours.”
She’s looking over her shoulder at the man at the table, who has now picked up his drink and is looking at it through the bottom of the glass. Or looking at something in the bar through the distortion of the liquid. Or trying to see if there’s a fish in his drink. Hell if Jack knows. She’s giving him a sort of long-suffering smile.
“Sorry,” Jack says, feeling his voice turning a little cold, “Don’t recognize him. Don’t take it personally, though. You could say I get around.”
“He said you might say that,” the girl replies, unfazed. “What he wants to know is, is it safe to talk to you yet? He seems to think you’ve reason to be cross with him. Wouldn’t surprise me, honestly. Seems he makes a habit of annoying people.”
“Does he,” Jack murmurs, tilting his head a little and watching the man in the bowtie running a finger around the rim of his glass, holding it to his ear curiously. Jack returns his attention to the girl sitting next to him, who is narrowing her eyes at him in a look that would probably make most men want to shrivel up like dried mushrooms.
“So tell me,” he says, leaning an elbow on the bar. Over her shoulder, the Doctor, in his new face, quirks up his eyebrows in question. Jack just smirks. Let him squirm. He returns his attention to the girl, because she’s so pretty and he hasn’t smelled earthflowers in such a long time. “I never even got your name,” he continues, leaning in. “How’d a nice twenty-first century Earth girl like you wind up in a fifty-second century space bar like this?”
She lets out a scandalized little bubble of laughter, at that, before she manages to furrow her brow at him again, belated as though she’s forgotten she’s supposed to be distrustful of him. Except there’s a twitch of a smile in the corner of her mouth, a little half-wink threatening in one eye. He picks up his empty glass, tilting it back and forth in the light of the bar. Blue neon reflects in her eyes.
“Do you want to know what I think?” she asks him, brushing her hair up behind one ear. There’s a note of something citrus. Gardenia, again. He nods for her to continue, matching her coy expression. “I think you already know the answer to that.” She punctuates the accusation with a finger into the centre of his chest.
“Well, yeah,” he admits, smiling when she takes that second too long to withdraw the prodding fingertip. “But you can’t blame a guy for wanting to use a classic line, though, can you?”
She casts a quick, discrete look over her shoulder, as if to ask permission, or to make a show of the fact that she’s being naughty. The Doctor is shaking his head ‘no’ at her, slow and serious like a disappointed father. But he’s not quite looking at her, is he? No, he’s focused instead on a point just to the left of her face. He's looking at Jack.
“He never lets me have any fun,” Jack complains.
“Tell me about it,” she agrees, punches him playfully (blue punch buggy!) on the shoulder, and plants a kiss squarely on his mouth. It’s all strawberries.