Fic - Home Sweet Hell #2
Title: Home Sweet Hell #2
For writers_choice 4th annual open challenge. Prompt #102 mess
Setting: During and around Random Shoes
Previously...
Home Sweet Hell #2
An alien, tinny sound wakes him with a start; he doesn't even remember dozing off. He's used to alien, tinny sounds, in his line of work, but this one scares him, and badly. It takes him almost a full minute to understand what it signifies, it's been so long since he last heard it. He struggles upright on the couch, heart pounding. No-one comes here; he hardly ever comes here, never mind allowing anyone else into his…his… His brain whispers "shrine" but he still isn't quite ready to acknowledge that, or do anything to change it.
But it's his second night here in a week. That has to be progress. Doesn't it? And he does want to be alive. He must do, or he'd have made damn sure he was one of the steadily-expanding collection of corpses in the vaults long before now, wouldn't he? As to being dead inside, well, he is rethinking that one now too…
The doorbell stops ringing, and the black hole of silence it leaves is a huge relief. And a surprising disappointment. Maybe he should have stayed at the Hub, afterall. It had been an okay evening, hanging out with Gwen after everyone else had buggered off to who knew where, drinking coffee and joking about him protecting her from the strange sounds and sensations of the Hub. She was getting very involved in this Eugene business and Jack didn't approve. But Jack hadn't been there, and that had helped him relax enough to hold what passed for a normal conversation in Torchwood…
He jumps again as the 'phone rings; he never gives out his number, but it's in the Torchwood files, of course. So he answers, because it may be him. Only, it isn't. Gwen's voice. "I have food." Silence. "Chinese food…" Silence. He casts a despairing glance round the living-room, but manages to control his voice sufficiently to respond. "Right."
"This is okay, isn't it?" She seems worried as she steps inside. "I just thought, earlier, you looked a bit… And I felt a bit…"
He wonders why she can't go home, or failing that, is not with Owen; but he won't ask. If he doesn't pry, then maybe she won't. "It's fine. It's… good. I'll just get some…" He walks quickly to the kitchen.
"Just glasses" she calls after him as she places the food and wine on the coffee table. "They gave us chopsticks."
"Right."
His throat tightens as he returns and sees she has made herself at home, settling down on the rug, back resting against the couch, but he takes a deep breath and joins her.
"It'll be like a picnic" she smiles up at him.
A picnic. His eyes flick to the photograph; he can't stop himself. The photograph of him, of Lisa. Of one of their picnics in the park a lifetime ago; less than two years ago.
Hey Jonesy!
Hey! :-*
Aw… Ur late!
Ouch!
Will b ouch unless u get ur cute behind out here!
You outside?
YES! 10 mins & counting
OK. On my way
Tick tick tick x
Gwen looks too, with embarrassment playing across her face. She realises she's done it again, he notices, as he resurfaces from the past; but it's not a faux pas on the scale of the 'last snog' conversation, is it? He forces a small smile, because it isn't fair to make her squirm for something she can't be expected to know. "God, I need a drink!" she declares, handing him the wine bottle. And the moment passes; and he's okay, more or less.
They talk, mostly about Eugene, and the weird, unsettling feelings she's been having; they eat, they drain the bottle, they sit in companionable silence for a minute or three. It's comfortable. He's comfortable. He's amazed.
She says she is just getting rid of their mess as she hunts down a binbag and begins scooping up cartons, but she doesn't stop there. He pretends not to notice as she picks up his discarded jacket and folds it across the back of a chair, or the way cans and bottles are disappearing into the bag after months of lying around on the floor, the windowsill. So immaculate, so precise, so neat at work; but he finds he trusts her not to let slip this secret.
"Thanks for this evening, I needed that" she says, pulling on her coat.
He wants to tell her that it's what he's needed too, but instead insists on calling for a cab. For the second time this evening she calls him a sweetheart, but it sounds more sincere from her actual lips than in IM typeface; and for the first time, and probably the last, she goes up on tiptoe to kiss his cheek.
"See you tomorrow" he says as she leaves.
"Or today even!" she laughs as she taps her wristwatch.
His belly is full, he's warm from the wine and the company, he's most definitely alive. Okay, so he still can't face an empty bed, but the couch is large and soft enough, anyway. And as he curls up there, images of Lisa looking back at him, he finds himself thinking about Jack. Christ, the way he'd panicked the other night and bolted like an inexperienced kid! Jack had looked so… not disappointed, not frustrated. Sad.
This isn't what he wants from Jack. He can handle the day-to-day proximity, the significant glances, the flirting, some of which he himself has initiated; he'd even thought he could take it further but when it came right down to it…No, he wants, needs, to punish Jack. Or should that be punished by him? At any rate, he doesn't need to be accepted by him, understood by him, touched by him, fucked by him, saved by him.
He groans and rolls over. Hell, who is he kidding? Lisa would have called him on that, she'd known him so well.
On to #3
For writers_choice 4th annual open challenge. Prompt #102 mess
Setting: During and around Random Shoes
Previously...
Home Sweet Hell #2
An alien, tinny sound wakes him with a start; he doesn't even remember dozing off. He's used to alien, tinny sounds, in his line of work, but this one scares him, and badly. It takes him almost a full minute to understand what it signifies, it's been so long since he last heard it. He struggles upright on the couch, heart pounding. No-one comes here; he hardly ever comes here, never mind allowing anyone else into his…his… His brain whispers "shrine" but he still isn't quite ready to acknowledge that, or do anything to change it.
But it's his second night here in a week. That has to be progress. Doesn't it? And he does want to be alive. He must do, or he'd have made damn sure he was one of the steadily-expanding collection of corpses in the vaults long before now, wouldn't he? As to being dead inside, well, he is rethinking that one now too…
The doorbell stops ringing, and the black hole of silence it leaves is a huge relief. And a surprising disappointment. Maybe he should have stayed at the Hub, afterall. It had been an okay evening, hanging out with Gwen after everyone else had buggered off to who knew where, drinking coffee and joking about him protecting her from the strange sounds and sensations of the Hub. She was getting very involved in this Eugene business and Jack didn't approve. But Jack hadn't been there, and that had helped him relax enough to hold what passed for a normal conversation in Torchwood…
He jumps again as the 'phone rings; he never gives out his number, but it's in the Torchwood files, of course. So he answers, because it may be him. Only, it isn't. Gwen's voice. "I have food." Silence. "Chinese food…" Silence. He casts a despairing glance round the living-room, but manages to control his voice sufficiently to respond. "Right."
"This is okay, isn't it?" She seems worried as she steps inside. "I just thought, earlier, you looked a bit… And I felt a bit…"
He wonders why she can't go home, or failing that, is not with Owen; but he won't ask. If he doesn't pry, then maybe she won't. "It's fine. It's… good. I'll just get some…" He walks quickly to the kitchen.
"Just glasses" she calls after him as she places the food and wine on the coffee table. "They gave us chopsticks."
"Right."
His throat tightens as he returns and sees she has made herself at home, settling down on the rug, back resting against the couch, but he takes a deep breath and joins her.
"It'll be like a picnic" she smiles up at him.
A picnic. His eyes flick to the photograph; he can't stop himself. The photograph of him, of Lisa. Of one of their picnics in the park a lifetime ago; less than two years ago.
Hey Jonesy!
Hey! :-*
Aw… Ur late!
Ouch!
Will b ouch unless u get ur cute behind out here!
You outside?
YES! 10 mins & counting
OK. On my way
Tick tick tick x
Gwen looks too, with embarrassment playing across her face. She realises she's done it again, he notices, as he resurfaces from the past; but it's not a faux pas on the scale of the 'last snog' conversation, is it? He forces a small smile, because it isn't fair to make her squirm for something she can't be expected to know. "God, I need a drink!" she declares, handing him the wine bottle. And the moment passes; and he's okay, more or less.
They talk, mostly about Eugene, and the weird, unsettling feelings she's been having; they eat, they drain the bottle, they sit in companionable silence for a minute or three. It's comfortable. He's comfortable. He's amazed.
She says she is just getting rid of their mess as she hunts down a binbag and begins scooping up cartons, but she doesn't stop there. He pretends not to notice as she picks up his discarded jacket and folds it across the back of a chair, or the way cans and bottles are disappearing into the bag after months of lying around on the floor, the windowsill. So immaculate, so precise, so neat at work; but he finds he trusts her not to let slip this secret.
"Thanks for this evening, I needed that" she says, pulling on her coat.
He wants to tell her that it's what he's needed too, but instead insists on calling for a cab. For the second time this evening she calls him a sweetheart, but it sounds more sincere from her actual lips than in IM typeface; and for the first time, and probably the last, she goes up on tiptoe to kiss his cheek.
"See you tomorrow" he says as she leaves.
"Or today even!" she laughs as she taps her wristwatch.
His belly is full, he's warm from the wine and the company, he's most definitely alive. Okay, so he still can't face an empty bed, but the couch is large and soft enough, anyway. And as he curls up there, images of Lisa looking back at him, he finds himself thinking about Jack. Christ, the way he'd panicked the other night and bolted like an inexperienced kid! Jack had looked so… not disappointed, not frustrated. Sad.
This isn't what he wants from Jack. He can handle the day-to-day proximity, the significant glances, the flirting, some of which he himself has initiated; he'd even thought he could take it further but when it came right down to it…No, he wants, needs, to punish Jack. Or should that be punished by him? At any rate, he doesn't need to be accepted by him, understood by him, touched by him, fucked by him, saved by him.
He groans and rolls over. Hell, who is he kidding? Lisa would have called him on that, she'd known him so well.
On to #3