[Fic] 4AM
Title: 4AM
Characters: Jack Harkness, Sam Tyler
W/C: ~900
Rating: PG, if that.
Summary: A quiet night back in the Conrad Hotel.
Notes: Another of the ancient fics I dusted off and finished. I've kinda wanted to finish this for a long time.
Disclaimer: Sam and Jack both belong to Torchwood (or the BBC, but I maintain that Sam was actually in Torchwood. His scenes were cut out during postprodiction); these particular iterations are the brainchildren of allfireburns and I. The Rift is watching you.
-
Every new time is the same.
-
It's strange how people repurpose things when they haven't got anything else to rely on. The bulletin board in the commons room hasn't been there all that long and someone's stuck a drawing of a cat up on it; someone else has pinned up the addresses of seven nearby bars and pages of coupons for three of them. Somewhere down the endless hallway there's a row of rooms set up to keep people sane and alive, and not far from those a row of rooms being torn down for much the same goal. And here he is walking the halls like he used to do, except these days he's a guest instead of a Captain. Basement full of strangers, and people he feels like he knows better than he does. But that's the small tip of a larger problem, and really, he's not looking to get involved.
These days he walks into a room without expecting to find anyone, takes or follows them to bed without expecting them to mean anything, falls in love with them without expecting it to last, stays with them without expecting them to live, and then - just to buck the pattern - watches them die.
These days he just tries not to wonder why he bothers.
-
Jack's laid claim to the hour between 0330 and 0430. It's the abject dead of night, when the Hub is quiet unless the world is ending, when his footsteps clatter around the walls and don't touch the silence they're wrapped up in. It's peaceful, for a category of peace that includes utter isolation and morgue-like silence. But it works.
Of course, this is not the Hub. This is not high reinforced walls, stone and concrete and metal. This is the Conrad Hotel's impossible basement, and even the nights aren't quite as quiet as he's used to even when, as tonight, he's the only night owl.
He's walking back up from a trip down the Endless Hallway when one of the hotel room doors eases open, a quiet creak whispering into the still air. It takes Jack a second to recognize the door, after however long it's been that he's been wandering past doors that look exactly like it.
This Sam is a much lighter sleeper than the one back home, apparently.
He sticks his hands into his pockets as Sam steps into the hall, half-asleep and bleary-eyed but ready to solve problems if problems need solved.
"Jack?"
"It's, like... idiot o'clock in the morning, Sam," Jack says, and is entirely unsuccessful at concealing a fond smile. And there's that look on Sam's face again - he's already decided that Jack's insane, utterly, irrevocably, immodestly barking mad, and now he's just wondering how mad Jack is at this particular time, in this particular place.
"Why are you up?"
Jack opens his mouth, then thinks better of saying No reason. All of those little functional lies that keep things smooth when they're not important enough to be rough - those are a lot harder here.
"Can't sleep," is what he settles on. It's true. Just in a much less immediate and more chronic way than Sam would likely take it.
Sam watches him, probably trying to decide what that's supposed to mean. He hasn't heard of a crisis, any problem beyond the vague threat of Chicago life constantly on the horizon - Jack's pretty sure of that, because he's good at hearing about threats himself and most's quiet on the Chicagoan front. Or maybe Jack's up to something dastardly. Or maybe he's very much a night owl or very much an early riser. Or maybe Sam's too sleepy to care.
After a moment he exhales and makes a grudgingly four-o-clock offer. "Do you want to come in?"
And the answer is Yes. Resoundingly yes. Which is what Jack's wanted from the beginning, but not in any way Sam's willing to offer yet.
So what he does instead of accepting is what he always used to do - look back where he's come from, or back in the direction he was going, and smile like there's something waiting for him there.
There isn't, of course. But it's enough of a hint that he can say "Thanks. I'll be fine," and trust Sam to fill in the blanks.
He doesn't seem to. Not right away, and there's a moment of scrutiny Jack tries to be absolutely opaque beneath. Maybe it works and maybe it doesn't; this Sam isn't the one who knows him inside out, and maybe it's neither a good nor a bad thing. "You're sure?" Sam says.
Jack smiles. It's an odd smile, part and particulate of the silence around them which is nothing more than what it is.
"Go back to sleep, Sam." He reaches out, pats Sam's shoulder. "Got a few hours 'til morning."
After a few moments - Sam is unconvinced, Sam the professional skeptic, the one to question everything - exhales a short agreement and steps back into his room. Jack stands there for a moment, then continues on his way down the hall.
The thing about this hour, this silence, is that it's timeless. Just one long moment bleeding into itself, and if he closes his eyes, waits for the sleep that's been far-off for centuries, it really does seem like it'll never end.
They've got time. That's the thing about this universe that's trapped them here below ground. Plenty of four AMs, and all the time in the world.
Characters: Jack Harkness, Sam Tyler
W/C: ~900
Rating: PG, if that.
Summary: A quiet night back in the Conrad Hotel.
Notes: Another of the ancient fics I dusted off and finished. I've kinda wanted to finish this for a long time.
Disclaimer: Sam and Jack both belong to Torchwood (or the BBC, but I maintain that Sam was actually in Torchwood. His scenes were cut out during postprodiction); these particular iterations are the brainchildren of allfireburns and I. The Rift is watching you.
-
Every new time is the same.
-
It's strange how people repurpose things when they haven't got anything else to rely on. The bulletin board in the commons room hasn't been there all that long and someone's stuck a drawing of a cat up on it; someone else has pinned up the addresses of seven nearby bars and pages of coupons for three of them. Somewhere down the endless hallway there's a row of rooms set up to keep people sane and alive, and not far from those a row of rooms being torn down for much the same goal. And here he is walking the halls like he used to do, except these days he's a guest instead of a Captain. Basement full of strangers, and people he feels like he knows better than he does. But that's the small tip of a larger problem, and really, he's not looking to get involved.
These days he walks into a room without expecting to find anyone, takes or follows them to bed without expecting them to mean anything, falls in love with them without expecting it to last, stays with them without expecting them to live, and then - just to buck the pattern - watches them die.
These days he just tries not to wonder why he bothers.
-
Jack's laid claim to the hour between 0330 and 0430. It's the abject dead of night, when the Hub is quiet unless the world is ending, when his footsteps clatter around the walls and don't touch the silence they're wrapped up in. It's peaceful, for a category of peace that includes utter isolation and morgue-like silence. But it works.
Of course, this is not the Hub. This is not high reinforced walls, stone and concrete and metal. This is the Conrad Hotel's impossible basement, and even the nights aren't quite as quiet as he's used to even when, as tonight, he's the only night owl.
He's walking back up from a trip down the Endless Hallway when one of the hotel room doors eases open, a quiet creak whispering into the still air. It takes Jack a second to recognize the door, after however long it's been that he's been wandering past doors that look exactly like it.
This Sam is a much lighter sleeper than the one back home, apparently.
He sticks his hands into his pockets as Sam steps into the hall, half-asleep and bleary-eyed but ready to solve problems if problems need solved.
"Jack?"
"It's, like... idiot o'clock in the morning, Sam," Jack says, and is entirely unsuccessful at concealing a fond smile. And there's that look on Sam's face again - he's already decided that Jack's insane, utterly, irrevocably, immodestly barking mad, and now he's just wondering how mad Jack is at this particular time, in this particular place.
"Why are you up?"
Jack opens his mouth, then thinks better of saying No reason. All of those little functional lies that keep things smooth when they're not important enough to be rough - those are a lot harder here.
"Can't sleep," is what he settles on. It's true. Just in a much less immediate and more chronic way than Sam would likely take it.
Sam watches him, probably trying to decide what that's supposed to mean. He hasn't heard of a crisis, any problem beyond the vague threat of Chicago life constantly on the horizon - Jack's pretty sure of that, because he's good at hearing about threats himself and most's quiet on the Chicagoan front. Or maybe Jack's up to something dastardly. Or maybe he's very much a night owl or very much an early riser. Or maybe Sam's too sleepy to care.
After a moment he exhales and makes a grudgingly four-o-clock offer. "Do you want to come in?"
And the answer is Yes. Resoundingly yes. Which is what Jack's wanted from the beginning, but not in any way Sam's willing to offer yet.
So what he does instead of accepting is what he always used to do - look back where he's come from, or back in the direction he was going, and smile like there's something waiting for him there.
There isn't, of course. But it's enough of a hint that he can say "Thanks. I'll be fine," and trust Sam to fill in the blanks.
He doesn't seem to. Not right away, and there's a moment of scrutiny Jack tries to be absolutely opaque beneath. Maybe it works and maybe it doesn't; this Sam isn't the one who knows him inside out, and maybe it's neither a good nor a bad thing. "You're sure?" Sam says.
Jack smiles. It's an odd smile, part and particulate of the silence around them which is nothing more than what it is.
"Go back to sleep, Sam." He reaches out, pats Sam's shoulder. "Got a few hours 'til morning."
After a few moments - Sam is unconvinced, Sam the professional skeptic, the one to question everything - exhales a short agreement and steps back into his room. Jack stands there for a moment, then continues on his way down the hall.
The thing about this hour, this silence, is that it's timeless. Just one long moment bleeding into itself, and if he closes his eyes, waits for the sleep that's been far-off for centuries, it really does seem like it'll never end.
They've got time. That's the thing about this universe that's trapped them here below ground. Plenty of four AMs, and all the time in the world.