A Beautiful Disaster: Chapter 2
An AU look at Human Nature/Family of Blood with a season 1 twist. Inspired by "Catalyst," by Anna Nalick.
It features Rose/9, Jack Harkness
( Chapter One )
He did not, in fact, end up going home with her. He wasn't that far gone by the end of the night, but no matter how many times he told her he was fine, she would not let him walk alone.
"You live here?" she asked, incredulous, as they stopped in front of the shabby mechanic's garage.
He shrugged. "Place to sleep. Close to m'job."
"I guess." She shivered and rubbed her arms through her jacket. It was too light for Oxford in the fall. She'd have to pop into the TARDIS and find something a bit more appropriate. "Well," she said as the silence stretched on, "this is where I leave you then." She smiled at him. "G'Night, John."
"Night, Rose," he replied. They were a bit slurred, but he managed to speak without tripping over his words and walk without tripping over his feet, so it was a good night. She turned to leave, and he most certainly did not watch her walk down the street like he was afraid that she was going to waver and disappear, like she was some kind of ghost or hallucination. Not at all. He ignored her, unlocked the tiny flat behind the shop, and went inside. Right. Not even he believed that.
The dreams came as soon as he closed his eyes. They were always the same-fire and death and blood, so much blood-his own, his family's. Faces swirled in his mind's eye, people he was sure he'd never seen before but knew him, called out to him, named him: Murderer, Destroyer, the Oncoming Storm, the Deceiver, the man who brings Death in his wake, Thanatos, the Lonely God, the Bringer of Darkness, the last of his kind. Everything was burning. The universe was on fire. There were screams, so many screams, and then there was silence. Somehow the silence was worse. It clawed at his sanity, ripped him to shreds from the inside out.
He reached for the bottle sitting on his nightstand before he opened his eyes. He wasn't nearly drunk enough yet.
"Your usual?" Jack Harkness asked John Smith as the man slid onto his customary seat. He grunted his assent and Jack set off to fetch the whisky. Just one more difference between the man and the Doctor, he thought. When he offered to buy the Doctor a drink the alien had dismissed him. "Can't get drunk, me. Well, I can, but only if I want to. Superior physiology metabolizes the alcohol before it has a chance to affect me." Well, it affected John Smith and it looked like he'd had a head start. Jack had never seen him sober but after almost three weeks of working at what appeared to be the man's favorite bar he was familiar with the various stages of drunkenness. Right now he put John at mildly inebriated-a few notches higher than his resting status of lightly buzzed.
When he returned with the bottle Rose was walking on stage and John's eyes were fixed on her. The man didn't even turn around when Jack set the bottle and a shot glass on the bar next to him; he poured a drink and downed it without taking his eyes off of the woman in the spotlight.
Jack Harkness believed himself to be a simple man, at least in terms of relationships. He liked sex. He liked sex a lot. He liked to feel good, and sex was a great way to accomplish that. He liked to make other people feel good, and again, sex fit the bill. And he was, if he did say so himself, an expert performer in the sexual arena. He flirted with everyone, because it was a great way to break the ice and insinuate himself into a group of people, or to break the tension in a delicate situation. If he was in a committed relationship, which he tended to avoid because they could get messy unbelievably fast, he was faithful. If he was free, then all bets were off. He respected his partners' decisions and expected them to respect his.
Watching the Doctor and Rose gave him a headache. They were anything but simple. Four-way relationships had nothing on those two. Their actions spoke of deep affection and regard, and a great deal of mutual attraction, but they steadfastly refused to do anything about it. The sheer number of cold showers he'd been forced to take while traveling with them boggled the mind. If it was up to him all three of them would be sharing a bed, but unfortunately he was reduced to watching from the sidelines.
He would have understood if it was one-sided. He knew that Rose wanted the Doctor, that she loved him. It was evident in everything that she did. He knew from the moment that she repelled his advances when they were dancing on his spaceship in 1941 that she was taken. Why else would she turn him down? It wasn't arrogance-well, maybe a bit, but it was more that he knew how attractive other people found him. He worked hard to maintain his skills. But if Rose had pined after the Doctor alone then Jack would have understood the situation.
Despite his protestations otherwise, the Doctor wanted Rose. Jack recognized the 'keep away' signals as soon as he entered the TARDIS. The Time Lord 'remembered' how to dance only when there was a possibility of Rose dancing with someone other than him. And the way he watched her-only, of course, when he knew she wasn't looking. The way his expression softened every time she smiled. Hell, the way he couldn't seem to say no to her. Jack was under no illusions as to why he had originally been brought on the TARDIS. He was sure that the Doctor wouldn't have let him die, but his continued presence was because Rose liked him, and the Doctor wanted to make her happy. And, he allowed himself a moment of indulgence, perhaps because the alien wanted to keep distance between himself and the human woman he loved, and hoped that Jack would provide that distance.
Now he was human, with none of the alien hang ups, but plenty of his own and he still gravitated towards her. Sometimes when she sang he even smiled. Of course, the dresses she wore didn't hurt. Jack grinned as he traced his eyes over her figure. The TARDIS, it seemed, had excellent taste. Was that a sign of her approval? The Doctor said his ship was sentient, and Jack believed him.
He watched John Smith watch Rose Tyler. This would either simplify things between the two of them immensely, or make them even more complicated, although he couldn't quite tell how that was possible.
She was wearing red that night. It suited her better than the black, John thought. She was too bright to wear such a mournful color. The dress clung to her again, made him aware of her in a way that he found impossible to ignore. She was a child, dammit. Twenty, twenty one years old tops. She should be at home with her mum, or out with her mates, not here, and definitely not with him.
It was difficult for him to remember that she was a child in that dress, and even more so when she looked at him. And when she touched him-he shook himself slightly. He would not think about that, about how right it had felt, her hand on his cheek. He was an old, broken man and she was an innocent girl. He would not be the one to take that from her, to strip away her illusions and let the real world destroy her dreams. Some other man would do that soon enough.
But although her eyes drifted over the crowd, allowing each person to imagine that she was singing to him, they always returned to John. And when she began to sing that song, they remained there.
So you're taking these pills for to fill up your soul
and you're drinking them down with cheap alcohol
and I'd be inclined to be yours for the taking
and part of this terrible mess that you're making, but me,
I'm the catalyst.
The words sunk in this time. Last night he'd been so overwhelmed by the sight and sound of her that he'd ignored what she was saying. It was a coincidence-it had to be. He didn't even know her, really. It wasn't the kind of offer that anyone, least of all her, should be making. He downed another shot. He was going to get properly drunk tonight, drunk enough so he wouldn't dream. His traitorous mind conjured up other ways he could spend the night ensuring a dreamless sleep, most of them involving the girl on the stage and far fewer articles of clothing, but he pushed them away. She was not for him.
He was weaving on his stool by the time she slid onto the one next to him, and Jack-the pretty American bartender, had cut him off for the night. She set a steadying hand on his shoulder. "Time to go home, John," she said softly. Her eyes were large and dark as she gave him a half-smile. "Before you fall down."
He shrugged her hand away. "M fine."
"You don't look fine," she responded. "An anyway, you let me walk you home last night."
"S not home," he corrected her. "Don' have a home." He turned away. "Go back to your pretty boys, Rose Tyler. Bet Jack'll letchu walk im home."
She stiffened. "Jack's my friend," she responded, her tone carefully even in the way that people are when they are holding anger in check. "And he cut you off, so you might as well go back to your flat if you want to drink yourself into unconsciousness. And since mine is further down the road, you might as well walk with me. Now shift!"
He stumbled up and out the door, but he wouldn't walk next to her. It shouldn't hurt, but it did. He'd told her that he wouldn't recognize her, that it would be safer that way. He'd told her and Jack that they should watch him from a distance-but it was so hard. She was used to being near him on the TARDIS. Even when they were doing separate tasks they were in close proximity. She read the trashy magazines she loved on the jump seat while he tinkered or handed him tools as he asked for them. If she was in the library watching a movie or television show he was one room over reading. If she was in the pool he was fiddling with something in the hallway or on the surrounding deck. They were hardly ever apart, and having to leave him at the door pulled at her almost as much as watching him self-destruct.
He wasn't the Doctor now; he didn't have the same tragedies hanging over his head. He had nightmares that were all his own. And even if they weren't on the same scale they were driving him into darkness, into a place she wasn't sure she could follow, and it hurt.
It was becoming a routine, he realized, when he ambled into the bar on Sunday night. He showed up, watched her sing, drank less than he usually did, and when she was finished she came to him. She stopped along the way, chatted with the various bartenders and waitresses and waiters, and always gave Jack a kiss on the cheek after he paid her another outrageous compliment. Some of the regulars called out to her, and she responded with a wave and a smile. She was always smiling, this girl. She even smiled when she looked at him. In fact, sometimes he noticed her smile widen. Sometimes he smiled back. When he realized what he was doing he schooled his face into blankness and he couldn't help but notice that her face fell every time. Stay away, he wanted to tell her. Turn your back and run. People die when I'm around. His lips refused to form the words. He wanted her safely away from him, but he also wanted her close. It reminded him of a saying, something about cake, some silly human phrase that he couldn't quite place.
Well, of course it was human. What else would it be?
Rose wasn't there when he went to the bar on Monday.
"She doesn't work Mondays and Tuesdays," Jack told him after a few rounds.
"Who?" He was being deliberately obtuse. Jack gave him a look that said quite plainly that he knew exactly who. John ignored him. He was in a foul mood. Work had been more boring than usual, or maybe he'd just been more anxious. He'd ripped his favorite jumper-the green one-and now he couldn't seem to get a comfortable buzz going.
"Rose, you idiot," the man said after a while.
John grunted. "What's it to me?" Jack gave him another long, measuring look, and John bristled.
"You are such a miserable git without her," he said after a while, and turned back to his work. "She'll be here on Wednesday," he called over his shoulder. "Or you could always go see her. You know where her flat is."
John ignored him. He stayed in his cubicle on Tuesday and drank himself into oblivion. He did not dream.
( Chapter Three )
It features Rose/9, Jack Harkness
( Chapter One )
He did not, in fact, end up going home with her. He wasn't that far gone by the end of the night, but no matter how many times he told her he was fine, she would not let him walk alone.
"You live here?" she asked, incredulous, as they stopped in front of the shabby mechanic's garage.
He shrugged. "Place to sleep. Close to m'job."
"I guess." She shivered and rubbed her arms through her jacket. It was too light for Oxford in the fall. She'd have to pop into the TARDIS and find something a bit more appropriate. "Well," she said as the silence stretched on, "this is where I leave you then." She smiled at him. "G'Night, John."
"Night, Rose," he replied. They were a bit slurred, but he managed to speak without tripping over his words and walk without tripping over his feet, so it was a good night. She turned to leave, and he most certainly did not watch her walk down the street like he was afraid that she was going to waver and disappear, like she was some kind of ghost or hallucination. Not at all. He ignored her, unlocked the tiny flat behind the shop, and went inside. Right. Not even he believed that.
The dreams came as soon as he closed his eyes. They were always the same-fire and death and blood, so much blood-his own, his family's. Faces swirled in his mind's eye, people he was sure he'd never seen before but knew him, called out to him, named him: Murderer, Destroyer, the Oncoming Storm, the Deceiver, the man who brings Death in his wake, Thanatos, the Lonely God, the Bringer of Darkness, the last of his kind. Everything was burning. The universe was on fire. There were screams, so many screams, and then there was silence. Somehow the silence was worse. It clawed at his sanity, ripped him to shreds from the inside out.
He reached for the bottle sitting on his nightstand before he opened his eyes. He wasn't nearly drunk enough yet.
"Your usual?" Jack Harkness asked John Smith as the man slid onto his customary seat. He grunted his assent and Jack set off to fetch the whisky. Just one more difference between the man and the Doctor, he thought. When he offered to buy the Doctor a drink the alien had dismissed him. "Can't get drunk, me. Well, I can, but only if I want to. Superior physiology metabolizes the alcohol before it has a chance to affect me." Well, it affected John Smith and it looked like he'd had a head start. Jack had never seen him sober but after almost three weeks of working at what appeared to be the man's favorite bar he was familiar with the various stages of drunkenness. Right now he put John at mildly inebriated-a few notches higher than his resting status of lightly buzzed.
When he returned with the bottle Rose was walking on stage and John's eyes were fixed on her. The man didn't even turn around when Jack set the bottle and a shot glass on the bar next to him; he poured a drink and downed it without taking his eyes off of the woman in the spotlight.
Jack Harkness believed himself to be a simple man, at least in terms of relationships. He liked sex. He liked sex a lot. He liked to feel good, and sex was a great way to accomplish that. He liked to make other people feel good, and again, sex fit the bill. And he was, if he did say so himself, an expert performer in the sexual arena. He flirted with everyone, because it was a great way to break the ice and insinuate himself into a group of people, or to break the tension in a delicate situation. If he was in a committed relationship, which he tended to avoid because they could get messy unbelievably fast, he was faithful. If he was free, then all bets were off. He respected his partners' decisions and expected them to respect his.
Watching the Doctor and Rose gave him a headache. They were anything but simple. Four-way relationships had nothing on those two. Their actions spoke of deep affection and regard, and a great deal of mutual attraction, but they steadfastly refused to do anything about it. The sheer number of cold showers he'd been forced to take while traveling with them boggled the mind. If it was up to him all three of them would be sharing a bed, but unfortunately he was reduced to watching from the sidelines.
He would have understood if it was one-sided. He knew that Rose wanted the Doctor, that she loved him. It was evident in everything that she did. He knew from the moment that she repelled his advances when they were dancing on his spaceship in 1941 that she was taken. Why else would she turn him down? It wasn't arrogance-well, maybe a bit, but it was more that he knew how attractive other people found him. He worked hard to maintain his skills. But if Rose had pined after the Doctor alone then Jack would have understood the situation.
Despite his protestations otherwise, the Doctor wanted Rose. Jack recognized the 'keep away' signals as soon as he entered the TARDIS. The Time Lord 'remembered' how to dance only when there was a possibility of Rose dancing with someone other than him. And the way he watched her-only, of course, when he knew she wasn't looking. The way his expression softened every time she smiled. Hell, the way he couldn't seem to say no to her. Jack was under no illusions as to why he had originally been brought on the TARDIS. He was sure that the Doctor wouldn't have let him die, but his continued presence was because Rose liked him, and the Doctor wanted to make her happy. And, he allowed himself a moment of indulgence, perhaps because the alien wanted to keep distance between himself and the human woman he loved, and hoped that Jack would provide that distance.
Now he was human, with none of the alien hang ups, but plenty of his own and he still gravitated towards her. Sometimes when she sang he even smiled. Of course, the dresses she wore didn't hurt. Jack grinned as he traced his eyes over her figure. The TARDIS, it seemed, had excellent taste. Was that a sign of her approval? The Doctor said his ship was sentient, and Jack believed him.
He watched John Smith watch Rose Tyler. This would either simplify things between the two of them immensely, or make them even more complicated, although he couldn't quite tell how that was possible.
She was wearing red that night. It suited her better than the black, John thought. She was too bright to wear such a mournful color. The dress clung to her again, made him aware of her in a way that he found impossible to ignore. She was a child, dammit. Twenty, twenty one years old tops. She should be at home with her mum, or out with her mates, not here, and definitely not with him.
It was difficult for him to remember that she was a child in that dress, and even more so when she looked at him. And when she touched him-he shook himself slightly. He would not think about that, about how right it had felt, her hand on his cheek. He was an old, broken man and she was an innocent girl. He would not be the one to take that from her, to strip away her illusions and let the real world destroy her dreams. Some other man would do that soon enough.
But although her eyes drifted over the crowd, allowing each person to imagine that she was singing to him, they always returned to John. And when she began to sing that song, they remained there.
So you're taking these pills for to fill up your soul
and you're drinking them down with cheap alcohol
and I'd be inclined to be yours for the taking
and part of this terrible mess that you're making, but me,
I'm the catalyst.
The words sunk in this time. Last night he'd been so overwhelmed by the sight and sound of her that he'd ignored what she was saying. It was a coincidence-it had to be. He didn't even know her, really. It wasn't the kind of offer that anyone, least of all her, should be making. He downed another shot. He was going to get properly drunk tonight, drunk enough so he wouldn't dream. His traitorous mind conjured up other ways he could spend the night ensuring a dreamless sleep, most of them involving the girl on the stage and far fewer articles of clothing, but he pushed them away. She was not for him.
He was weaving on his stool by the time she slid onto the one next to him, and Jack-the pretty American bartender, had cut him off for the night. She set a steadying hand on his shoulder. "Time to go home, John," she said softly. Her eyes were large and dark as she gave him a half-smile. "Before you fall down."
He shrugged her hand away. "M fine."
"You don't look fine," she responded. "An anyway, you let me walk you home last night."
"S not home," he corrected her. "Don' have a home." He turned away. "Go back to your pretty boys, Rose Tyler. Bet Jack'll letchu walk im home."
She stiffened. "Jack's my friend," she responded, her tone carefully even in the way that people are when they are holding anger in check. "And he cut you off, so you might as well go back to your flat if you want to drink yourself into unconsciousness. And since mine is further down the road, you might as well walk with me. Now shift!"
He stumbled up and out the door, but he wouldn't walk next to her. It shouldn't hurt, but it did. He'd told her that he wouldn't recognize her, that it would be safer that way. He'd told her and Jack that they should watch him from a distance-but it was so hard. She was used to being near him on the TARDIS. Even when they were doing separate tasks they were in close proximity. She read the trashy magazines she loved on the jump seat while he tinkered or handed him tools as he asked for them. If she was in the library watching a movie or television show he was one room over reading. If she was in the pool he was fiddling with something in the hallway or on the surrounding deck. They were hardly ever apart, and having to leave him at the door pulled at her almost as much as watching him self-destruct.
He wasn't the Doctor now; he didn't have the same tragedies hanging over his head. He had nightmares that were all his own. And even if they weren't on the same scale they were driving him into darkness, into a place she wasn't sure she could follow, and it hurt.
It was becoming a routine, he realized, when he ambled into the bar on Sunday night. He showed up, watched her sing, drank less than he usually did, and when she was finished she came to him. She stopped along the way, chatted with the various bartenders and waitresses and waiters, and always gave Jack a kiss on the cheek after he paid her another outrageous compliment. Some of the regulars called out to her, and she responded with a wave and a smile. She was always smiling, this girl. She even smiled when she looked at him. In fact, sometimes he noticed her smile widen. Sometimes he smiled back. When he realized what he was doing he schooled his face into blankness and he couldn't help but notice that her face fell every time. Stay away, he wanted to tell her. Turn your back and run. People die when I'm around. His lips refused to form the words. He wanted her safely away from him, but he also wanted her close. It reminded him of a saying, something about cake, some silly human phrase that he couldn't quite place.
Well, of course it was human. What else would it be?
Rose wasn't there when he went to the bar on Monday.
"She doesn't work Mondays and Tuesdays," Jack told him after a few rounds.
"Who?" He was being deliberately obtuse. Jack gave him a look that said quite plainly that he knew exactly who. John ignored him. He was in a foul mood. Work had been more boring than usual, or maybe he'd just been more anxious. He'd ripped his favorite jumper-the green one-and now he couldn't seem to get a comfortable buzz going.
"Rose, you idiot," the man said after a while.
John grunted. "What's it to me?" Jack gave him another long, measuring look, and John bristled.
"You are such a miserable git without her," he said after a while, and turned back to his work. "She'll be here on Wednesday," he called over his shoulder. "Or you could always go see her. You know where her flat is."
John ignored him. He stayed in his cubicle on Tuesday and drank himself into oblivion. He did not dream.
( Chapter Three )