Repost: Fic: Permafrost
Title: Permafrost
Fandom: Torchwood
Author: Sketch
Rating: PG? It’s all angst, no follow through.
Summary: Jack. Thoughts. Maybe not the best combination.
Disclaimer: Not mine. Sadly.
Author’s Note: Written for the tw_wotd_fic prompt ossify (1. To change into bone; to become bony. 2. To become hardened or set in a rigidly conventional pattern). And also, my first Torchwood fic. After I promised myself I wouldn't get into this fandom...*sigh*.
Originally Posted: Here, under my other user name.
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Jack thought it was supposed to be getting better.
What’s the saying? Time heals all wounds? Of course, he should know by now that something like that doesn’t apply to him. When you’ve traversed time at will, you begin to realize it causes more problems that it solves.
All the same, he’s really been trying. He had high hopes for Gwen, for the fresh blood she’d bring to Torchwood. The fresh outlook. No, blood was probably the better word for it. He thought maybe she could thaw him out, free him from the cage of his own mind, if not the ever-young body he’s been cursed with. Instead, he’s been leaching off her youth, her happiness. She’s becoming more like him, rather than the reverse.
Another failed experiment. He’s had the same hopes in the past, about Owen, Tosh, Suzie, Ianto (especially him, though Jack can’t remember why anymore), and countless others over the last forty years or so. It’s the reason he’s kept his staff changing, trading the jaded members for young, enthusiastic faces. Well, that, and the fact that even an idiot would notice after a decade that he still looked the same, and anyone he recruited for his team was no idiot. Sure, Torchwood brass knew that he wasn’t aging, but he saw no reason to spread that fact around. The more people who knew, the greater the risk to him. No point in tempting people to forget the secrecy clause in their contract and go blabbing that their boss looks great for a hundred and eighty.
He’d been betrayed enough for one lifetime. Or a hundred.
No point in dwelling on that now, though. He’ll have plenty of time for that later. Plenty of time for everything, really. Until he finds the Doctor.
Because as much as he tries to deny it, tries to fight it, the answer is the same as it’s always been. He stuck here, waiting, hoping, even praying on his bad days, that the Doctor will come back. Oh, he knows the Time Lord is bound to come here eventually. And it’s not like Jack is going anywhere. Or at least, his body isn’t. But his soul, if he’s still human enough to have one, has been slipping away for years. He’s still surprised whenever he’s shot or stabbed (and always in the line of duty, never his own fault) and warm blood gushes out of the wound. Feels like everything froze inside him long ago, and the only thing that should spill from a stab wound is ice water.
He thinks about telling Gwen this as he sits in his office, watching her pack up for the night. He knows what she’d do, that typically Welsh look she’d give him, and the comforting hand she’d lay on his shoulder. Hell, with anguish like his, he could easily get more than just a hand on the shoulder. He thinks about it for a few minutes, wondering if sharing his bed with her would make the nights easier or less lonely. He’s heard wonderful things about body heat. Maybe he should give her a chance to melt that hard feeling inside him.
She pauses by his office door on her way out to ask if he’s ok and he considers her carefully. Not like a body in his bed has ever made sleep come before, and he’s definitely tried. Although there’s something about Gwen…but no, it’s not worth the disappointment. It never is. He shoos her home to her boyfriend instead, trying to tell himself he can still be the good guy, still be noble. Still be the man that Rose saved so long ago.
He’s knows it’s not true, though. In the end, he doesn’t do the right thing because it’s the right thing. He does it because he can’t be bothered to do anything else.
Fandom: Torchwood
Author: Sketch
Rating: PG? It’s all angst, no follow through.
Summary: Jack. Thoughts. Maybe not the best combination.
Disclaimer: Not mine. Sadly.
Author’s Note: Written for the tw_wotd_fic prompt ossify (1. To change into bone; to become bony. 2. To become hardened or set in a rigidly conventional pattern). And also, my first Torchwood fic. After I promised myself I wouldn't get into this fandom...*sigh*.
Originally Posted: Here, under my other user name.
-------
Jack thought it was supposed to be getting better.
What’s the saying? Time heals all wounds? Of course, he should know by now that something like that doesn’t apply to him. When you’ve traversed time at will, you begin to realize it causes more problems that it solves.
All the same, he’s really been trying. He had high hopes for Gwen, for the fresh blood she’d bring to Torchwood. The fresh outlook. No, blood was probably the better word for it. He thought maybe she could thaw him out, free him from the cage of his own mind, if not the ever-young body he’s been cursed with. Instead, he’s been leaching off her youth, her happiness. She’s becoming more like him, rather than the reverse.
Another failed experiment. He’s had the same hopes in the past, about Owen, Tosh, Suzie, Ianto (especially him, though Jack can’t remember why anymore), and countless others over the last forty years or so. It’s the reason he’s kept his staff changing, trading the jaded members for young, enthusiastic faces. Well, that, and the fact that even an idiot would notice after a decade that he still looked the same, and anyone he recruited for his team was no idiot. Sure, Torchwood brass knew that he wasn’t aging, but he saw no reason to spread that fact around. The more people who knew, the greater the risk to him. No point in tempting people to forget the secrecy clause in their contract and go blabbing that their boss looks great for a hundred and eighty.
He’d been betrayed enough for one lifetime. Or a hundred.
No point in dwelling on that now, though. He’ll have plenty of time for that later. Plenty of time for everything, really. Until he finds the Doctor.
Because as much as he tries to deny it, tries to fight it, the answer is the same as it’s always been. He stuck here, waiting, hoping, even praying on his bad days, that the Doctor will come back. Oh, he knows the Time Lord is bound to come here eventually. And it’s not like Jack is going anywhere. Or at least, his body isn’t. But his soul, if he’s still human enough to have one, has been slipping away for years. He’s still surprised whenever he’s shot or stabbed (and always in the line of duty, never his own fault) and warm blood gushes out of the wound. Feels like everything froze inside him long ago, and the only thing that should spill from a stab wound is ice water.
He thinks about telling Gwen this as he sits in his office, watching her pack up for the night. He knows what she’d do, that typically Welsh look she’d give him, and the comforting hand she’d lay on his shoulder. Hell, with anguish like his, he could easily get more than just a hand on the shoulder. He thinks about it for a few minutes, wondering if sharing his bed with her would make the nights easier or less lonely. He’s heard wonderful things about body heat. Maybe he should give her a chance to melt that hard feeling inside him.
She pauses by his office door on her way out to ask if he’s ok and he considers her carefully. Not like a body in his bed has ever made sleep come before, and he’s definitely tried. Although there’s something about Gwen…but no, it’s not worth the disappointment. It never is. He shoos her home to her boyfriend instead, trying to tell himself he can still be the good guy, still be noble. Still be the man that Rose saved so long ago.
He’s knows it’s not true, though. In the end, he doesn’t do the right thing because it’s the right thing. He does it because he can’t be bothered to do anything else.