(no subject)
Title: In All Ways But One
Author: christn7
Rating: PG
Characters/Pairing: Jack/Other
Spoilers: DW: Utopia & TW: Something Borrowed.
Author's notes: Quick, un-BR'd and completely inspired by this exchange at beck_liz's journal. Apologies for any mistakes.
Summary forgone to prevent anyone from being spoiled.
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In All Ways But One
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Shot? He’s been shot. Shit, he’s been shot!
The sound of the gunshot is still ringing in his ears and it’s wrong. It’s too quiet, all around him, the only sound his own breath and it can’t be. It shouldn’t be. They’re in New York and it’s supposed to be loud, noisy. It’s too dark - way, way too dark and quiet - so quiet, but he can hear it, over and over, the click of the trigger, the bullet leaving the chamber, his wife screaming.
Jesus. Is he dying? Is he already dead?
He remembers the pain, but he can’t feel it - the wound - it should hurt, but he can’t feel a bloody thing. Even if he was in a hospital - it’s not like they had any decent dermal regenerators - he’d still feel it.
Unless...
He can’t be dead. He just can’t. Not again. How many times does one man have to die?
His hand is prevented from moving to his chest by something - it’s soft, or covered in something soft, at least, but firm - and he can’t move.
He can’t see what it is, there’s no light for his eyes to adjust to.
Dark, dark, dark, like a litany in his head. Why is it so dark? It shouldn’t be dark - he shouldn’t be there. Oh, God, is that all there is? Darkness?
It’s a box. He’s in a box. A coffin. He’s dead.
He can’t move. Christ, he can’t even move.
He screams but nobody is there to answer him.
How could this happen? How could it happen again?
He has to find her - he can’t stay here - she needs him and he has to find her.
The wood starts to shift under his assault - splinter and crack and he doesn’t have much leverage, just hands and feet and sheer, human will.
Is he even human?
Something lands on him, something cold and moist. Dirt, he thinks, and he can feel that, gloriously cold on his skin - he can’t be dead, then.
Can he?
Some of it lands on his face - in his mouth and nose - and he starts to choke but that means he’s still breathing, at least.
He’s not dead. He’s not. No.
The dirt shifts easily, still rather loose - can’t have been long - but his muscles still burn by the time he reaches the surface.
The light burns too, at first, but the air is cool against his heated skin and he’s not dead. Not at all dead.
He’s just been buried and forgotten.
Again.
It’s best that he doesn’t try to find her and he promises himself he won’t look. Dead and buried, Jack Harkness, in all ways but the one that counts.
His headstone reads ‘Beloved Husband’ and that’s enough. It has to be.
Not dead, no, but it's still just as dark.
Author: christn7
Rating: PG
Characters/Pairing: Jack/Other
Spoilers: DW: Utopia & TW: Something Borrowed.
Author's notes: Quick, un-BR'd and completely inspired by this exchange at beck_liz's journal. Apologies for any mistakes.
Summary forgone to prevent anyone from being spoiled.
--
In All Ways But One
--
Shot? He’s been shot. Shit, he’s been shot!
The sound of the gunshot is still ringing in his ears and it’s wrong. It’s too quiet, all around him, the only sound his own breath and it can’t be. It shouldn’t be. They’re in New York and it’s supposed to be loud, noisy. It’s too dark - way, way too dark and quiet - so quiet, but he can hear it, over and over, the click of the trigger, the bullet leaving the chamber, his wife screaming.
Jesus. Is he dying? Is he already dead?
He remembers the pain, but he can’t feel it - the wound - it should hurt, but he can’t feel a bloody thing. Even if he was in a hospital - it’s not like they had any decent dermal regenerators - he’d still feel it.
Unless...
He can’t be dead. He just can’t. Not again. How many times does one man have to die?
His hand is prevented from moving to his chest by something - it’s soft, or covered in something soft, at least, but firm - and he can’t move.
He can’t see what it is, there’s no light for his eyes to adjust to.
Dark, dark, dark, like a litany in his head. Why is it so dark? It shouldn’t be dark - he shouldn’t be there. Oh, God, is that all there is? Darkness?
It’s a box. He’s in a box. A coffin. He’s dead.
He can’t move. Christ, he can’t even move.
He screams but nobody is there to answer him.
How could this happen? How could it happen again?
He has to find her - he can’t stay here - she needs him and he has to find her.
The wood starts to shift under his assault - splinter and crack and he doesn’t have much leverage, just hands and feet and sheer, human will.
Is he even human?
Something lands on him, something cold and moist. Dirt, he thinks, and he can feel that, gloriously cold on his skin - he can’t be dead, then.
Can he?
Some of it lands on his face - in his mouth and nose - and he starts to choke but that means he’s still breathing, at least.
He’s not dead. He’s not. No.
The dirt shifts easily, still rather loose - can’t have been long - but his muscles still burn by the time he reaches the surface.
The light burns too, at first, but the air is cool against his heated skin and he’s not dead. Not at all dead.
He’s just been buried and forgotten.
Again.
It’s best that he doesn’t try to find her and he promises himself he won’t look. Dead and buried, Jack Harkness, in all ways but the one that counts.
His headstone reads ‘Beloved Husband’ and that’s enough. It has to be.
Not dead, no, but it's still just as dark.