Fic: Time; past (9/9)
title: Time; past
author: mimarie
characters Rose Tyler/Jack Harkness, The Doctor (ninth)
rating: NC-17 overall - adult themes and language
spoilers/warnings: nothing past DW S1. This was once canon-compliant, but has become slightly AU since Torchwood S1.
word count: c.2,400 (/c. 38,000)
summary: He won’t remember talking to her, buying her a drink, laughing, dancing, flirting. He won’t remember anything he said...
notes: This follows on from Time; present (which needs to be read first, or this will make very little sense).
Claimed for the 100_situations challenge. Prompt 23 - Bleach
Huge thanks to my wonderful betas aeshna-uk and jwaneeta, and to laurab1 for the gorgeous cover art :)
part one: Time; present
part two: Time; past (one) // (two) // (three) // (four) // (five) // (six) // (seven) // (eight)
Time; past
(9/9)
The kitchen table is covered in elbows and stray knees, plates and paper pushed to the edges as excited flesh vies for her attention with broad fingers and a mint-and-strawberry flavoured tongue, creased sheets twisted under her, hot breath panted over another groan as Jack drives deeper, laughing at her sighs and gasps and the nails in his bum, hooking her legs over his shoulders and moving faster. He says she’s amazing, and yes, of course she did it - whatever it was; he was there, he should know. Did she have fun? He did.
He’s not supposed to fuck her at mealtimes, but he says he’s got to go. That he should really be gone already, that he was all ready, but if this is how she wants to say goodbye then he’s not complaining.
Soap-scented, he’s freshly-peeled smooth, turning his face in her hands and down into her throat, biting and sucking there and then lower still. He’s hot and he’s heavy, crushing her down through the formica to the mattress beneath, panting and fucking and rushing her onwards with a wet fumble of fingers, liquid heat stinging and spreading; trickling slowly over sticky thighs. And he’d love to stay, of course he would - but he’s got to go.
Yes, she knows that. Because the Doctor will be there soon, and he never did finish the washing up, so -
It’s not funny, why’s he laughing? He can’t laugh at her now.
“You don’t need a doctor. You’ll be fine, baby, just go back to sleep. Sleep it off - then be beautiful when you go home and let that lucky idiot know what he missed, okay?”
A creak and the sheets shift, a quiet ‘bye-bye, baby,’ sucked into the already-dimming trail of a sound like a blink, soft and fading, expanding into the early-morning silence even as an inrush of car-sound and the ever-present hum of electricity fills it again. It sounds like home: a grumble of engines and the distant scratch of conversation, the smooth rustle of linen under her cheek, her stomach rumbling and her ears roaring, glass and steel humming along with the chorus as the comforting rise of a familiar wheeze and grind murmurs into echoes, the brief flutter of sheets sending her rolling to hug into her pillow, twitching faintly at a barely-there creak and turning her face from the light. A breath of fresher air brings a flurry of pigeons’ wings, starlings quarrelling, morning creeping closer with the promise of sun, the sounds of the city filling her head with comfortable bustle and quiet voices, slow breathing nearby, soft rustles and creaks.
She sleeps.
*
He’s gone when she wakes up. And it’s still morning, but not by much.
She moves slowly, carefully, cataloguing the sore, the raw, and the simply sticky: furry teeth, an aching jaw and a stuffy nose, an ulcer coming under her tongue and vaguely minty breath, a stiff neck, a bruise on her right elbow, bite-marks on her stomach and what feels like War and Peace in Braille on her backside and thighs, a blister on her left heel and a raw patch on that thigh (almost as if someone with a leather strap round his wrist had been rubbing her there for some reason; she can’t think why), two bruised wrists and two friction-burnt knees, so many aches and twinges in so many usually secluded places that she’s planning to soak herself wrinkly before she even thinks about going for a pee, and finally, once she’s explained to her stomach muscles that she’s sitting up whether they like it or not, a pair of throbbing (but still apparently functional) eyeballs and - because really, what night on the tiles would be complete without it - a headache big enough to fill the great-big little blue box that’s sunning herself on the not-so-distant expanse of the terrace: beautiful, familiar, and looking strangely at home between the palm trees and the hot-tub.
Her door is wide open: She’s waiting for her - just like the man sitting on the floor at the foot of the bed. Head in green hands, green elbows on his knees, and she’s got no idea how long he’s been there - he might even be asleep, he’s so still - but, while he’s still wearing the same manky T-shirt from last night, someone’s brought her a pile of clean, dry clothes, and there’s a fresh, musky smell wafting out of the bathroom on a curl of steam.
Her ‘thanks,’ is a bit hoarse and she’s not sure if that’s a nod or a wince, but she can’t really care. Not right now.
*
Jack’s still there when she comes out, three-quarters of an hour later. He hasn’t moved. He doesn’t move when she says his name either, or when she’s standing right next to him - not even when she sits on the bed, a socked foot touching his leg, her hand resting on the broad solidity of one shoulder. He sighs when she squeezes, deep and hollow, a large green hand finally rising to close over hers as she does it again, a soft quake shuddering into her palm when she asks the question.
“Fifteen months,” he says. “But, Rose -”
“Is that enough?”
He doesn’t answer, he just looks at her - and it’s a good job they didn’t let go, because when he breaks she’s right there to catch him. Gaudy knuckles mottled in the sunlight, his grip doesn’t falter as she’s pulling him up, pulling her down instead to curl into him, curling around her, his shoulders bowed.
She has to peel him off to make him look at her, waiting until he's stroking the wet hair out of her eyes to touch his cheek, catching his hand and curling her fingers through his, holding on as he traces the dark crimson stains on her neck and collarbones, watching his eyes close and listening to him breathe when she tells him that she knows; that it’s all right - that she’s here and she missed him. Does he know that? He’s a bastard, but she missed him. And it’s all very well him agreeing with her, but does he understand? She missed him - and yes, he is making her wet, but he does that - hasn’t he noticed? Yeah, she’s very funny. No? Well he’s smiling, she must have said something. There, see? Look - there’s a mirror right there, behind that chair. See? She’s there too. No, don’t look at that. Yeah, well - he can sort that out later. She’s not finished here yet. And it doesn’t matter - all right, it won’t - because he’s right there - right here - stubble rough on her palms and cheek, green freckles dotting his forehead and running back through his hair, touching her so carefully, stroking her jaw and smiling, smiling as he’s holding her face in both hands and smiling, so simply, really utterly himself now that -
“Are you two coming or what?”
Neither of them moves for a second, and then Jack’s grip slackens, still holding her gaze as he’s matching her raised eyebrow with a nod and her smile with a shrug, helping her up with a shove and then letting her pull him up after her in a quiet creak of denim.
“Go on,” he says. “You know he won’t admit it, but he was worse than me. Go see him. I’ll wait here. We can talk later.”
He’s right, and they will. But she still doesn’t let go.
He doesn’t argue.
It’s darker inside, an inquisitive sliver of sun casting green tangents across jewel tones and glinting off coral pillars to dazzle into the headache she’s been trying to ignore, the shimmer of sun-bathing circuits making her feel strangely like she’s been dunked in a glass of Alka-Seltzer and then strung out to dry. Curling her feet so her socks don’t slip on the grating, she holds tight to Jack’s hand, letting him lead her past neat piles of folded newspaper and Tupperware tubs, up onto the platform - where he lets go, pulling back and away as he’s propelling her towards the tall, angular figure leaning on the console.
The Doctor doesn’t move for a long moment, just looking at her, standing silent and still as a part of his ship. And then he nods, his mouth twisting. “I was beginning to think you’d got lost.”
“Me?” Shrugging, she tugs her sleeves down, trying to resist the urge to feel for Jack behind her. “Nah. Just... having a lie in, y’know?”
“Yeah? Typical. No stamina, you lot.” A quiet tut becomes a shake of the head and then she’s wearing a leathery hug. Lifted and spun, light blurs green into gold, spinning faster than they’re moving and threatening to take her stomach with it - faster still, until she has to close her eyes, simply clinging to the familiar shape and smell of him before another turn bumps her hip on the console, a thin flash of silver catching her eye as it falls, bouncing off the grating with an oddly dull plink. The Doctor coughs then, leaning to let her feet find the floor before unfolding her to arms’ length, tutting a bit more and regarding her so steadily that her eyes are beginning to water.
“You look bloody awful,” he says finally, then shakes her gaze off to look over her shoulder instead. “You should get some kip, the pair of you. You’re no good to me falling asleep; you’ll only get under my feet. Especially as it seems we have an itinerary now. All those places to go, all those people to see - again...”
His hands are resting loosely on her shoulders but he’s still not looking at her, still shaking his head as a quiet shuffle sounds behind her, a familiar, long-suffering sigh washing her cheek as a cautious touch finds her outstretched palm; large, warm and careful, folding into and around her hand, a broad, solid body moving close in behind her as another sigh becomes an eye-roll and she reaches back to find Jack’s arms already wrapping around her like a grateful, green blanket.
When she looks back - turns her stiff neck to the creak and looks up and as far back as she can - there’s a steady blue gaze looking straight back at her. There’s one in front of her too, the self-proclaimed superior-being that's wearing it looking like he's made of nothing more than leather and angles and disapproving eyebrows - but he’s still touching her, his hands gentle on her shoulders, and considering how she spent the night she really can’t find the blood to blush right now. She’s too tired and far too well-hugged.
And then he nods. It’s a dismissal, but it doesn’t hurt. He’ll say whatever he has to in his own time - it’s not like he hasn’t got enough of it. Besides, he’d probably rather she was awake to appreciate it if he’s planning on being sarcastic. Especially if he’s planning on being sarcastic.
“Just one thing, before you go -”
Or maybe he’ll just get it over with now.
“Yes, Doctor?”
She loosens her grip but Jack doesn’t let go, tightening around her instead, as close as he can get; fingers weaving between hers and squeezing gently until she squeezes back, trying to keep her smile from overflowing and giving her away. And then the Doctor sighs again, trying to pat her arm but catching Jack’s instead, then trying again before giving up and sharing one between them as he’s turning away, bending to reach for a dim, rounded shine under the console.
“Put the kettle on, can you? I’m dying for a cuppa.”
*
The kitchen table is spotless and shining, worktops and lino gleaming, the thick pall of bleach almost managing to disguise the odour of strategically deployed elbow-grease. Jack’s done a good job though: the sink looks like a mirror and the draining board’s clear, all the washing up done and put away, and the cooker’s been scrubbed within a few millimetres of its life; literally - some of those burns were all that was holding the enamel on. In fact, the kitchen’s as clean as she’s ever seen it - even the mugs are tannin-free, and the teapot looks positively naked without its stains - although the tea-caddy and its coffee and sugar-bearing comrades did, she’d have to say, look better when they were more willow pattern than tin.
It doesn’t matter. Not now. Not when the kettle smells funny and needs emptying and reboiling before they can use it, or when she sits on the table and Jack winces at the creak, or even when he kisses as though he spent the night mixing his artificial stimulants with equal quantities of self-recrimination and hope - because she’s used to the taste of that now, so she’s not stopping. Not again. Although - and she’s not trying to be rude here, but she’s sure he’ll understand in the circumstances - he is going to need another bath, really, very soon. And she’ll be happy to scrub his back, just as long as he does hers, because - and she hopes he understands - because, the point here is that she’s got an appointment with her mattress that she really can’t break and there’s no way he’s getting between her sheets while he smells like that, so...
*
Footsteps fade, a door closes. After a while the kitchen light goes out, followed by a brief damp sound that might just be a pint of hot, organic, tannin-bearing beverage relocating (complete with mug, spoon, a good splash of milk and two sugars) to a location convenient for a tall, leather jacket-wearing humanoid to reach without having to move from his seat. There’s a teaspoon half-hidden under the edge of a cabinet and the old, brown teapot pinks quietly as it cools. The room smells of bleach and tea, a faint hint of strawberry wafting in the open door on a wisp of steam that carries the murmur of voices and the occasional subdued splash. And over it all, the sound of a metal ball being thrown and caught, thrown and caught, echoing through endless corridors filled with warm, green light.
the end
(probably)
Comments? Criticisms? Both? If you've read this far then I'd love to know what you think.
author: mimarie
characters Rose Tyler/Jack Harkness, The Doctor (ninth)
rating: NC-17 overall - adult themes and language
spoilers/warnings: nothing past DW S1. This was once canon-compliant, but has become slightly AU since Torchwood S1.
word count: c.2,400 (/c. 38,000)
summary: He won’t remember talking to her, buying her a drink, laughing, dancing, flirting. He won’t remember anything he said...
notes: This follows on from Time; present (which needs to be read first, or this will make very little sense).
Claimed for the 100_situations challenge. Prompt 23 - Bleach
Huge thanks to my wonderful betas aeshna-uk and jwaneeta, and to laurab1 for the gorgeous cover art :)
part one: Time; present
part two: Time; past (one) // (two) // (three) // (four) // (five) // (six) // (seven) // (eight)
Time; past
(9/9)
The kitchen table is covered in elbows and stray knees, plates and paper pushed to the edges as excited flesh vies for her attention with broad fingers and a mint-and-strawberry flavoured tongue, creased sheets twisted under her, hot breath panted over another groan as Jack drives deeper, laughing at her sighs and gasps and the nails in his bum, hooking her legs over his shoulders and moving faster. He says she’s amazing, and yes, of course she did it - whatever it was; he was there, he should know. Did she have fun? He did.
He’s not supposed to fuck her at mealtimes, but he says he’s got to go. That he should really be gone already, that he was all ready, but if this is how she wants to say goodbye then he’s not complaining.
Soap-scented, he’s freshly-peeled smooth, turning his face in her hands and down into her throat, biting and sucking there and then lower still. He’s hot and he’s heavy, crushing her down through the formica to the mattress beneath, panting and fucking and rushing her onwards with a wet fumble of fingers, liquid heat stinging and spreading; trickling slowly over sticky thighs. And he’d love to stay, of course he would - but he’s got to go.
Yes, she knows that. Because the Doctor will be there soon, and he never did finish the washing up, so -
It’s not funny, why’s he laughing? He can’t laugh at her now.
“You don’t need a doctor. You’ll be fine, baby, just go back to sleep. Sleep it off - then be beautiful when you go home and let that lucky idiot know what he missed, okay?”
A creak and the sheets shift, a quiet ‘bye-bye, baby,’ sucked into the already-dimming trail of a sound like a blink, soft and fading, expanding into the early-morning silence even as an inrush of car-sound and the ever-present hum of electricity fills it again. It sounds like home: a grumble of engines and the distant scratch of conversation, the smooth rustle of linen under her cheek, her stomach rumbling and her ears roaring, glass and steel humming along with the chorus as the comforting rise of a familiar wheeze and grind murmurs into echoes, the brief flutter of sheets sending her rolling to hug into her pillow, twitching faintly at a barely-there creak and turning her face from the light. A breath of fresher air brings a flurry of pigeons’ wings, starlings quarrelling, morning creeping closer with the promise of sun, the sounds of the city filling her head with comfortable bustle and quiet voices, slow breathing nearby, soft rustles and creaks.
She sleeps.
*
He’s gone when she wakes up. And it’s still morning, but not by much.
She moves slowly, carefully, cataloguing the sore, the raw, and the simply sticky: furry teeth, an aching jaw and a stuffy nose, an ulcer coming under her tongue and vaguely minty breath, a stiff neck, a bruise on her right elbow, bite-marks on her stomach and what feels like War and Peace in Braille on her backside and thighs, a blister on her left heel and a raw patch on that thigh (almost as if someone with a leather strap round his wrist had been rubbing her there for some reason; she can’t think why), two bruised wrists and two friction-burnt knees, so many aches and twinges in so many usually secluded places that she’s planning to soak herself wrinkly before she even thinks about going for a pee, and finally, once she’s explained to her stomach muscles that she’s sitting up whether they like it or not, a pair of throbbing (but still apparently functional) eyeballs and - because really, what night on the tiles would be complete without it - a headache big enough to fill the great-big little blue box that’s sunning herself on the not-so-distant expanse of the terrace: beautiful, familiar, and looking strangely at home between the palm trees and the hot-tub.
Her door is wide open: She’s waiting for her - just like the man sitting on the floor at the foot of the bed. Head in green hands, green elbows on his knees, and she’s got no idea how long he’s been there - he might even be asleep, he’s so still - but, while he’s still wearing the same manky T-shirt from last night, someone’s brought her a pile of clean, dry clothes, and there’s a fresh, musky smell wafting out of the bathroom on a curl of steam.
Her ‘thanks,’ is a bit hoarse and she’s not sure if that’s a nod or a wince, but she can’t really care. Not right now.
*
Jack’s still there when she comes out, three-quarters of an hour later. He hasn’t moved. He doesn’t move when she says his name either, or when she’s standing right next to him - not even when she sits on the bed, a socked foot touching his leg, her hand resting on the broad solidity of one shoulder. He sighs when she squeezes, deep and hollow, a large green hand finally rising to close over hers as she does it again, a soft quake shuddering into her palm when she asks the question.
“Fifteen months,” he says. “But, Rose -”
“Is that enough?”
He doesn’t answer, he just looks at her - and it’s a good job they didn’t let go, because when he breaks she’s right there to catch him. Gaudy knuckles mottled in the sunlight, his grip doesn’t falter as she’s pulling him up, pulling her down instead to curl into him, curling around her, his shoulders bowed.
She has to peel him off to make him look at her, waiting until he's stroking the wet hair out of her eyes to touch his cheek, catching his hand and curling her fingers through his, holding on as he traces the dark crimson stains on her neck and collarbones, watching his eyes close and listening to him breathe when she tells him that she knows; that it’s all right - that she’s here and she missed him. Does he know that? He’s a bastard, but she missed him. And it’s all very well him agreeing with her, but does he understand? She missed him - and yes, he is making her wet, but he does that - hasn’t he noticed? Yeah, she’s very funny. No? Well he’s smiling, she must have said something. There, see? Look - there’s a mirror right there, behind that chair. See? She’s there too. No, don’t look at that. Yeah, well - he can sort that out later. She’s not finished here yet. And it doesn’t matter - all right, it won’t - because he’s right there - right here - stubble rough on her palms and cheek, green freckles dotting his forehead and running back through his hair, touching her so carefully, stroking her jaw and smiling, smiling as he’s holding her face in both hands and smiling, so simply, really utterly himself now that -
“Are you two coming or what?”
Neither of them moves for a second, and then Jack’s grip slackens, still holding her gaze as he’s matching her raised eyebrow with a nod and her smile with a shrug, helping her up with a shove and then letting her pull him up after her in a quiet creak of denim.
“Go on,” he says. “You know he won’t admit it, but he was worse than me. Go see him. I’ll wait here. We can talk later.”
He’s right, and they will. But she still doesn’t let go.
He doesn’t argue.
It’s darker inside, an inquisitive sliver of sun casting green tangents across jewel tones and glinting off coral pillars to dazzle into the headache she’s been trying to ignore, the shimmer of sun-bathing circuits making her feel strangely like she’s been dunked in a glass of Alka-Seltzer and then strung out to dry. Curling her feet so her socks don’t slip on the grating, she holds tight to Jack’s hand, letting him lead her past neat piles of folded newspaper and Tupperware tubs, up onto the platform - where he lets go, pulling back and away as he’s propelling her towards the tall, angular figure leaning on the console.
The Doctor doesn’t move for a long moment, just looking at her, standing silent and still as a part of his ship. And then he nods, his mouth twisting. “I was beginning to think you’d got lost.”
“Me?” Shrugging, she tugs her sleeves down, trying to resist the urge to feel for Jack behind her. “Nah. Just... having a lie in, y’know?”
“Yeah? Typical. No stamina, you lot.” A quiet tut becomes a shake of the head and then she’s wearing a leathery hug. Lifted and spun, light blurs green into gold, spinning faster than they’re moving and threatening to take her stomach with it - faster still, until she has to close her eyes, simply clinging to the familiar shape and smell of him before another turn bumps her hip on the console, a thin flash of silver catching her eye as it falls, bouncing off the grating with an oddly dull plink. The Doctor coughs then, leaning to let her feet find the floor before unfolding her to arms’ length, tutting a bit more and regarding her so steadily that her eyes are beginning to water.
“You look bloody awful,” he says finally, then shakes her gaze off to look over her shoulder instead. “You should get some kip, the pair of you. You’re no good to me falling asleep; you’ll only get under my feet. Especially as it seems we have an itinerary now. All those places to go, all those people to see - again...”
His hands are resting loosely on her shoulders but he’s still not looking at her, still shaking his head as a quiet shuffle sounds behind her, a familiar, long-suffering sigh washing her cheek as a cautious touch finds her outstretched palm; large, warm and careful, folding into and around her hand, a broad, solid body moving close in behind her as another sigh becomes an eye-roll and she reaches back to find Jack’s arms already wrapping around her like a grateful, green blanket.
When she looks back - turns her stiff neck to the creak and looks up and as far back as she can - there’s a steady blue gaze looking straight back at her. There’s one in front of her too, the self-proclaimed superior-being that's wearing it looking like he's made of nothing more than leather and angles and disapproving eyebrows - but he’s still touching her, his hands gentle on her shoulders, and considering how she spent the night she really can’t find the blood to blush right now. She’s too tired and far too well-hugged.
And then he nods. It’s a dismissal, but it doesn’t hurt. He’ll say whatever he has to in his own time - it’s not like he hasn’t got enough of it. Besides, he’d probably rather she was awake to appreciate it if he’s planning on being sarcastic. Especially if he’s planning on being sarcastic.
“Just one thing, before you go -”
Or maybe he’ll just get it over with now.
“Yes, Doctor?”
She loosens her grip but Jack doesn’t let go, tightening around her instead, as close as he can get; fingers weaving between hers and squeezing gently until she squeezes back, trying to keep her smile from overflowing and giving her away. And then the Doctor sighs again, trying to pat her arm but catching Jack’s instead, then trying again before giving up and sharing one between them as he’s turning away, bending to reach for a dim, rounded shine under the console.
“Put the kettle on, can you? I’m dying for a cuppa.”
*
The kitchen table is spotless and shining, worktops and lino gleaming, the thick pall of bleach almost managing to disguise the odour of strategically deployed elbow-grease. Jack’s done a good job though: the sink looks like a mirror and the draining board’s clear, all the washing up done and put away, and the cooker’s been scrubbed within a few millimetres of its life; literally - some of those burns were all that was holding the enamel on. In fact, the kitchen’s as clean as she’s ever seen it - even the mugs are tannin-free, and the teapot looks positively naked without its stains - although the tea-caddy and its coffee and sugar-bearing comrades did, she’d have to say, look better when they were more willow pattern than tin.
It doesn’t matter. Not now. Not when the kettle smells funny and needs emptying and reboiling before they can use it, or when she sits on the table and Jack winces at the creak, or even when he kisses as though he spent the night mixing his artificial stimulants with equal quantities of self-recrimination and hope - because she’s used to the taste of that now, so she’s not stopping. Not again. Although - and she’s not trying to be rude here, but she’s sure he’ll understand in the circumstances - he is going to need another bath, really, very soon. And she’ll be happy to scrub his back, just as long as he does hers, because - and she hopes he understands - because, the point here is that she’s got an appointment with her mattress that she really can’t break and there’s no way he’s getting between her sheets while he smells like that, so...
*
Footsteps fade, a door closes. After a while the kitchen light goes out, followed by a brief damp sound that might just be a pint of hot, organic, tannin-bearing beverage relocating (complete with mug, spoon, a good splash of milk and two sugars) to a location convenient for a tall, leather jacket-wearing humanoid to reach without having to move from his seat. There’s a teaspoon half-hidden under the edge of a cabinet and the old, brown teapot pinks quietly as it cools. The room smells of bleach and tea, a faint hint of strawberry wafting in the open door on a wisp of steam that carries the murmur of voices and the occasional subdued splash. And over it all, the sound of a metal ball being thrown and caught, thrown and caught, echoing through endless corridors filled with warm, green light.
the end
(probably)
Comments? Criticisms? Both? If you've read this far then I'd love to know what you think.