(no subject)
Title: Moving Forward (6/20)
Author: checksandplaid
Pairing: Gwen/Jack, Gwen/Martha friendship
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 3680
Warnings: Spoilers through Children of Earth, angst
Notes: Cross posted to jack_and_gwen and progwenallies. Concrits and reviews welcomed.
Summary: When you have nothing left, how do you live? Where do you go? What do you do? An alternate turn of events to 'Miracle Day'
Chapter 1:http://checksandplaid.livejournal.com/984.html#cutid1
Chapter 2:http://checksandplaid.livejournal.com/1119.html#cutid1
Chapter 3:http://checksandplaid.livejournal.com/1318.html#cutid1
Chapter 4:http://checksandplaid.livejournal.com/1557.html#cutid1
Chapter 5:http://checksandplaid.livejournal.com/2530.html#cutid1
“Will you tell me why Gwen wouldn’t come?” Lois finds it almost eerie how little her employer, and now landlady, had involved herself in the process of subletting her flat. Once the offer had been made and accepted, Gwen had simply handed over a small keychain in exchange for the first month’s rent and gone back to work. It had been a relief when Martha had come to her after, quietly offering to help her move and clean up the new space. Not that Lois had reservations about her ability to do it by herself, but Martha brought a certain comfort and authority to everything she did.
“Later. Is this really all you have?” Martha goggles at the two bags tucked in the back of Lois’ car. It’s probably better that Gwen isn’t here for this, considering how much effort it took to get to this point. She’s satisfied with her victory; it had taken the better part of a month for Gwen to become comfortable with the idea and then a little longer before she was prepared to finalize the deal. It’s a good first step for both women: independence for Lois and moving on for Gwen.
“I travel light.” Lois scoops up the bags, ignoring Martha’s gesture to pass one over, and slowly walks up the steps and into the flat. The air is stale, and she flicks the light on, surprised by the disorder; half packed bags on the sofa and on the floor, a thin film of dust on everything. “What on earth…?”
Martha opens a window, letting in a gust of fresh air. “Gwen lived here before the 456 Crisis. I don’t think she’s been home since then.” It’s a relief to see that the fridge is empty; she had been dreading a monstrosity of six month spoiled food.
“Why’s that?” Lois drops her bags on an empty square of carpet and begins shuffling Gwen’s possessions off to the side, trying not to feel too awkward about touching things that aren’t hers. It’s strange to think of Gwen having a place of her own separate from Torchwood. As far as she had been able to tell, the organization was the only thing of importance in Gwen’s life. It’s hard to think that she might have other interests, other friends, another life.
Martha peeks into the bedroom, and then begins rummaging through the closet for fresh bedding. She takes a moment to consider the answer before responding. “She lived here with her husband. He died.” It’s not strictly Lois’s business, but it’s the truth, and relevant information.
“Oh. I’m sorry.” Lois could recall the older gentleman who had been at Gwen’s side throughout the crisis. He had been nice in a way she hadn’t expected a Secret Government Agent to be. Warm. She stares at the floor, fidgeting with a discarded leather jacket, feeling more and more like an intruder into a life that shouldn’t be disturbed this way. “And she’s ok with this?”
“Yeah.” Mostly. “She asked that nothing be thrown out. Come on now; let’s move this luggage into that closet. Do you want the photos put away?”
Lois pauses, studying the series of images on the mantle for the first time. She almost doesn’t recognize the laughing woman in the frames. Gwen standing against the sea. Gwen making a funny face. Gwen laughing from the back of her husband. The Gwen Cooper in the photos has a brilliant smile and merry eyes that she can’t imagine on the Torchwood Director Gwen, ever. After a month at Torchwood she can begin to understand the strain and worry that might make a person’s light dim like that. It’s frightening. “No…” It would be disrespectful, somehow, to shut away this memory of Gwen Cooper, shining with life and joy. This level of sacrifice shouldn’t be forgotten in a box under a layer of dust.
The open windows bring wonderfully fresh air into the bedroom as the two women set upon the bed, removing the dirty dusty linen, and smoothing clean sheets over it. “Thanks,” Lois smiles shyly at the other woman. “For helping me move out.”
Martha gives the younger woman a serious look across the bed. “It’s my pleasure. I hope you feel happier here.”
Lois tries not to wince at the phrasing. She hadn’t wanted Martha to think she was anything less than completely grateful for her hospitality. “It means so much to me that you and Mickey opened your home to me. I appreciate it. Deeply. You’re both wonderful. Thank you.”
Martha smiles, fluffing a pillow. “I know what it’s like to live with your coworkers all day every day. It gets to you after a while. You all get closer, but not always in the best ways. I hope you’re happier here.” She fixes her friend with a stern look. “But I still expect you to drop by for dinner once in a while. You’re not getting away that easily.”
Lois plops onto the freshly made bed, staring out the window at the unfamiliar view. It’s wonderful to have a friend like Martha Jones, wonderful and occasionally a little frightening. “Thank you, I will. This is… wonderful. Even when I was working in the PM’s office I always came home to my mum’s rules and a room with my sister. It was a little trying.”
Martha laughs softly, sitting beside Lois. “That’s probably an understatement.” She wraps the other woman in a one armed hug, and they stare out the window in silence for a while, enjoying their thoughts and the company of each other. The moment passes quietly, and she stands, stretching her back and cracking her neck. “So, what now? I can help you clean up the living room and kitchen, we can go grocery shopping, or I can leave you to enjoy your new home.”
On impulse Lois pulls Martha into a proper hug. Has there ever been a friend quite like Martha Jones? Somehow, she doubts it. “Thank you so much. Let’s go shopping.”
After seeing the photographs, it’s almost a shock to Martha when she walks in on Gwen working the next morning. Seeing the same person everyday blinds you to the small changes, but the haggard sunken-eyed woman in front of her could have passed for a completely different person than the woman in the photos. She plops a tray of coffees on the desk, and sighs. Maybe she should give Gwen a few days off from her haranguing as a reward for giving in and offering Lois her home. Her physician’s conscience won’t let her back down. Waiting would just postpone the inevitable by a handful of days that could be used for healing. “Thanks for doing that for Lois. It means a lot to her.” She picks her coffee out of the tray and takes a sip.
Gwen stands, stretching her stiff back. Morning already? Insomnia has a way of blending mornings and evenings into one magical never ending loop of events. She takes her coffee with a nod of thanks. “It was the right thing to do.” Somehow, she does feel better knowing that there’s life in her old flat. Especially since it had all been taken care of without her setting foot in that haunted place. Maybe Lois would chase out the ghosts during her time there. “You’re in early.”
Martha smiles guiltily, and pulls out a bag of pastries. “I was hoping for a word.”
Gwen rubs her eyes and sinks back into her chair. Martha bringing baked goods as a bribe is not the sign of happy things to come. “Just one?” She tries to make a joke of it, selecting a croissant from the bag and breaking off an end. “I’m listening.”
Martha tries not to make a face of frustration, and picks at a muffin. Her director’s cool tone doesn’t bode well for what she’s about to say. “I’m worried about you, we all are. You don’t look well.”
“I’m fine.” Gwen tosses the croissant onto her desk and battles the urge to scowl, a losing position.
“You’re not fine, though. And I don’t know if you’re trying to get me off your back or if it’s something you truly believe, but that doesn’t matter at this point.” Martha leans forward, resting her arms on Gwen’s desk. “You need help, Gwen. You can’t get better on your own.”
“I said I’m fine. What I need is to get back to work.” The words come out a snarl, to Gwen’s surprise.
Martha doesn’t flinch. “You’ll never be able to work hard enough to forget what you went through.”
The words stab through her, rocking Gwen back in her chair. She had thought Martha would understand what it was like to go through this sort of thing, had expected a bit more sympathy. “You…dare?” Shock brings her voice to a whisper. “Get out.”
However cruel and scummy this feels, it’s for a greater purpose, Martha reminds herself firmly. But she’s not happy about the betrayal haunting Gwen’s face. “You need to heal, Gwen. You need to grieve, and you need to move on. You can’t keep going like this.”
“Please. I… can’t.” How could Martha be so cruel as to echo Rhys’ words at a time like this?
“How long do you think you can keep this up before it affects your field work?”
“It won’t. I won’t let it.” It sounds childish, desperate, even to Gwen.
A change of tactics is probably in order now. Martha doubts her ability to out-stubborn Gwen, even if she could, it’s probably not the most productive line of action. “When was your last psychiatric evaluation?”
“I… what?”
“Psychiatric evaluation. You know, sit down with a psychologist and make sure you’re keeping in good mental health.”
“I’m not crazy.”
It takes all Martha’s self-control to repress the urge to roll her eyes. Gwen Cooper could be an example out of a textbook for PTSD. “Of course not.” She doesn’t bother trying to repress the condescending tone. “It’s just a standard precaution to check for any manifestation of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder; avoidance, anger, instability, depression. Make sure you stay not crazy, eh? So when was the last time you had one?”
Gwen thinks for a moment. “Three… no four years ago. When I was with the police.” It had taken her a little while to acclimate to Torchwood’s laxity toward regular checkups, but she had come to relish the privacy.
Martha blinks at that. Oh hell. “Right then, you can do the evaluation with me, or I can call a psychiatrist from UNIT down to see you about it. Your choice. But as your doctor I am ordering you to have this done.”
Gwen scowls at the doctor, unwilling to let herself be pushed around that easily. As much as she dislikes it, she’s still uncertain about the division of power between herself and the medic. The silence is interrupted by the boisterous arrival of Mickey, sweeping in and planting a kiss on his wife’s cheek. “Good morning! Ooh, donuts!”
Lois follows more sedately, and makes a heroic effort to stifle a yawn. “Good morning, Gwen, Martha. Anything happen last night?”
She has a role to fill for these people, she can’t let Lois and Mickey see her the same way Martha does. Cheerful boss persona on, Gwen smiles and offers Lois the bag of baked goods. She’d sort out her business with Martha and her commands later. “Quiet as… it was very quiet.” She forces the smile to stay in place. “How do you like the flat?”
Lois offers a shy smile. “It’s lovely. Thanks so much.”
Morning greetings and coffees distributed, Martha shoos Mickey and Lois to their desks. “Do you want me to schedule you a visit with UNIT’s doctor?”
Gwen sighs, the will to fight draining out of her. There’s too much that needs her attention more than another futile battle with her partner. “No, I’ll do it with you, I suppose. Later.” Beautiful thing about this job: even if you work twenty hours a day there’s always something more to be done. She’ll postpone this meeting until the sun burns out, if she can.
Martha furrows her brow, countering the vague promise with a solid time. “This afternoon, during lunch.” Determined to keep the last word, she marches out of the office and returns to her lab, thinking of all the horrible things she’d do to Owen Harper if he were still alive today. Bloody typical brain surgeon to put all the emphasis on the neurons and the chemicals and ignore the rest of the person.
The morning drags by in a series of small mundane tasks for the Torchwood crew. Accounts provide a solid excuse for Gwen to hide in her office, and are demanding enough that she cannot spare any thoughts for the troubles from the morning, or dread for the coming afternoon. For Martha, it’s her inventory day, and while she runs down the list of materials she has left over compared what her needs for the next month will be, she ponders the best use of her afternoon with Gwen. Lois finds her inbox empty for once, and sets herself the task of making some more headway on the rubble still heaped around the floor. She’s pleased when Mickey joins her in sorting out the junk from the stuff that might be redeemable. His stories of traveling across the world, through time, and alternate dimensions, while almost certainly exaggerated, keep her oscillating between hysterical giggling and wide- eyes suspense for the entire morning.
He’s still defending his stories against her accusations of embroidery when they return from picking up lunch from a newly opened Indian restaurant. Martha appears in the doorway as they’re tucking in, “I’ll take Gwen hers.” She carefully picks up two dribbling containers of curry, and squaring her shoulders, enters Gwen’s office.
Lois watches her retreat. “What’s that about?”
Mickey shrugs, digging into a carton of orange vindaloo. Martha had kept him up late every night the last week trying to figure out how to best help Gwen; but he isn’t entirely sure how much of that Lois needs to, or should know. “They have some issues they need to work out.” Honest and vague. Good job, me.
Lois raises an eyebrow at that. He didn’t sound overly concerned, so it probably was more of a technical issue than a personal one. Either way, not her business. “Tell me more about those aliens you found in Tibet. They weren’t really autocannibalists, were they? ”
Martha smiles tentatively at Gwen, still pounding away at Torchwood’s finances. “It’s lunchtime.”
Gwen blinks and looks up. So it is. Damn. “It’s not a good time. I’ve still got all this left for today.” It’s true, though not a terrible resilient excuse.
“I’m sure you do. But you agreed to this.” At least, she hadn’t said no. “It won’t take that long.” Martha sizes up the room, balancing the cartons on an empty corner of the desk. “Come sit in one of these chairs.” She gestures at the two seats in front of Gwen’s desk, turning them to face each other, and settles herself in one, taking one of the lunches for herself.
Gwen gives her doctor a suspicious look, “why?”
Martha smiles with a cheer she doesn’t entirely feel, “For this meeting I’m your doctor, not your employee. The power dynamic needs to be altered from its usual state, which means both of us on the same side of the desk. We should probably be doing it in my office, but the chairs are all in here and for right now this will do. Now sit.” She’s not entirely sure how far she can push this level of bossiness before Gwen unleashes some her of legendary stubbornness and tosses her out on her ear.
Gwen moves to the new seat, making an effort not to sulk. This is like being in first year all over again. She shakes her head at the offering of sweet and spicy Indian food and sticks the carton under her chair. “Now what?”
It’s kind of amazing that Gwen is being so compliant. Maybe she actually has some small latent desire to work through her troubles. “I only have two rules for this, but I’d like you to take them seriously. One: you can decide you’re not ready to talk about a particular topic, but then you have to choose a different one. Two: be honest. Lying isn’t going to make this any easier, and it certainly won’t make it more successful. Okay?”
Gwen huffs a deep sigh, and she gathers her courage enough to nod. “Ok.” The rules aren’t nearly as restrictive as she had feared, she should be deft enough to avoid anything truly difficult.
A silence stretches between them, and Martha opens her curry, nibbling on a slice of lamb. Start with the basics. “How are you feeling today?”
“Fine…” Be honest, she chides herself. Don’t wimp out on the first question. “Irritated, I guess.”
Martha smiles encouragingly. “Why do you think you’re irritated?”
“Because I think this is a huge waste of time, there’s more important stuff we should be doing right now. We managed fine for years without any medically orchestrated ‘sit down and talk about your feelings’ baloney.”
“So because you’ve never done it before, you don’t see a reason to try it at all, and that is enough of a reason to dismiss it entirely?” There’s more scorn in that statement than Martha had intended, so she pauses to chew on a bite of rice, before continuing with more control, “I can explain why you never had to do this with your old team, but I don’t think that would be the most helpful thing right now. And it’s probably entirely obvious to you, if you stop and think about it. You knew them best.” Her voice gentles, “Try again. Why are you irritated?”
Closing her eyes helps Gwen clear her head a little. She’s out of practice with this whole introspection thing, and doesn’t dare look too deep at herself. There’s too much she can’t be allowed to see right now. “Worried,” she whispers at length, jaw muscle twitching around the word. “Scared.”
“What are you scared of?”
Tears of shame gather behind her eyelids. Afraid of everything. Afraid of letting a crack show through this mad charade. Afraid of crumbling into dust and being scattered in the wind. “Of your questions. Or maybe your answers. I don’t know!” She snaps, smoothing over the more painful emotion with anger. Anger is easier to deal with than this weakness.
“Are you aware how angry you’ve become in the last month? That’s not a criticism; mind you, just an observation.” Martha puts her food aside. “As humans, when we reach the end of our rope, when we have our backs to a cliff and an enemy is approaching, we stop feeling fear. We get angry because when the flight instinct is taken away, all our lizard brains have left is the fight response. Do you feel cornered right now?”
Maybe a little. Gwen nods slightly, wrapping her arms more tightly around herself.
“Try to remember that you’re not. You always have an out here. Any time, for any reason, you can tell me you’re done talking about our current topic, whatever that is. You might not always be comfortable, but you will always be safe.” Martha waits for a response, a hint that Gwen wants to move to another topic, but when none comes she continues. “Can you think of what about my questions, or answers, are scaring you?”
How can she admit the truth and still hold her world intact? “I…” Gwen’s voice catches in her throat. “I don’t want my actions or thoughts dissected. By anyone. Living like this is hard enough.”
Martha frowns slightly, tantalizing half-truths tugging at her curiosity, though it doesn’t take much imagination to guess what Gwen’s referencing. To follow that path would come too close to what Gwen claims to be afraid of, and she’s obviously not ready at this point for that. The time will come though, as it always does, eventually. “How have you been sleeping?”
“Alright, I guess.” Gwen’s startled by the sudden change of topic, and tries to reign in her emotions. She can hold it together through this. A little longer and it will all be over.
“About how many hours a night?”
“I don’t know, four?”
Under direct observation she represses the urge to physically react. “You think four hours of sleep a night is alright?”
“It’s what I can get.” Gwen shrugs apathetically. She doesn’t need any more clarity to her life than this; four is enough to keep going, and that’s all she needs.
Martha reminds herself it’s better than nothing. It could always be worse. Four is a start. “How many nights a week do you normally get four uninterrupted hours of rest?”
“Don’t know… three?”
Martha rubs her eyes; that’s the most generous definition of alright she’s heard to date. “So about half the time you get a full four hours.” At Gwen’s confirming nod, she continues. “What about the other four nights?”
Gwen’s words come out slowly. “Not tired enough to stop working.”
“Is it the nightmares waking you up?”
The question strikes Gwen as almost cruelly rhetorical, and she gives Martha a tired look. “You know that as well as I do.” It feels like the other woman wakes her from some terrible dream at least half the time.
Martha’s follow-up is interrupted by hasty knocking, and Lois sticks her head in without waiting for an answer. “I’m so sorry to interrupt, but the Captain of the Cardiff police is calling to speak to you. Now.” She gives Martha an apologetic look, and ducks back out to deal with a still ringing phone.
Martha shrugs, duty calls. “We can do more tomorrow, or later.” They have a job to do; the psychotherapy can wait a few hours.
Author: checksandplaid
Pairing: Gwen/Jack, Gwen/Martha friendship
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 3680
Warnings: Spoilers through Children of Earth, angst
Notes: Cross posted to jack_and_gwen and progwenallies. Concrits and reviews welcomed.
Summary: When you have nothing left, how do you live? Where do you go? What do you do? An alternate turn of events to 'Miracle Day'
Chapter 1:http://checksandplaid.livejournal.com/984.html#cutid1
Chapter 2:http://checksandplaid.livejournal.com/1119.html#cutid1
Chapter 3:http://checksandplaid.livejournal.com/1318.html#cutid1
Chapter 4:http://checksandplaid.livejournal.com/1557.html#cutid1
Chapter 5:http://checksandplaid.livejournal.com/2530.html#cutid1
“Will you tell me why Gwen wouldn’t come?” Lois finds it almost eerie how little her employer, and now landlady, had involved herself in the process of subletting her flat. Once the offer had been made and accepted, Gwen had simply handed over a small keychain in exchange for the first month’s rent and gone back to work. It had been a relief when Martha had come to her after, quietly offering to help her move and clean up the new space. Not that Lois had reservations about her ability to do it by herself, but Martha brought a certain comfort and authority to everything she did.
“Later. Is this really all you have?” Martha goggles at the two bags tucked in the back of Lois’ car. It’s probably better that Gwen isn’t here for this, considering how much effort it took to get to this point. She’s satisfied with her victory; it had taken the better part of a month for Gwen to become comfortable with the idea and then a little longer before she was prepared to finalize the deal. It’s a good first step for both women: independence for Lois and moving on for Gwen.
“I travel light.” Lois scoops up the bags, ignoring Martha’s gesture to pass one over, and slowly walks up the steps and into the flat. The air is stale, and she flicks the light on, surprised by the disorder; half packed bags on the sofa and on the floor, a thin film of dust on everything. “What on earth…?”
Martha opens a window, letting in a gust of fresh air. “Gwen lived here before the 456 Crisis. I don’t think she’s been home since then.” It’s a relief to see that the fridge is empty; she had been dreading a monstrosity of six month spoiled food.
“Why’s that?” Lois drops her bags on an empty square of carpet and begins shuffling Gwen’s possessions off to the side, trying not to feel too awkward about touching things that aren’t hers. It’s strange to think of Gwen having a place of her own separate from Torchwood. As far as she had been able to tell, the organization was the only thing of importance in Gwen’s life. It’s hard to think that she might have other interests, other friends, another life.
Martha peeks into the bedroom, and then begins rummaging through the closet for fresh bedding. She takes a moment to consider the answer before responding. “She lived here with her husband. He died.” It’s not strictly Lois’s business, but it’s the truth, and relevant information.
“Oh. I’m sorry.” Lois could recall the older gentleman who had been at Gwen’s side throughout the crisis. He had been nice in a way she hadn’t expected a Secret Government Agent to be. Warm. She stares at the floor, fidgeting with a discarded leather jacket, feeling more and more like an intruder into a life that shouldn’t be disturbed this way. “And she’s ok with this?”
“Yeah.” Mostly. “She asked that nothing be thrown out. Come on now; let’s move this luggage into that closet. Do you want the photos put away?”
Lois pauses, studying the series of images on the mantle for the first time. She almost doesn’t recognize the laughing woman in the frames. Gwen standing against the sea. Gwen making a funny face. Gwen laughing from the back of her husband. The Gwen Cooper in the photos has a brilliant smile and merry eyes that she can’t imagine on the Torchwood Director Gwen, ever. After a month at Torchwood she can begin to understand the strain and worry that might make a person’s light dim like that. It’s frightening. “No…” It would be disrespectful, somehow, to shut away this memory of Gwen Cooper, shining with life and joy. This level of sacrifice shouldn’t be forgotten in a box under a layer of dust.
The open windows bring wonderfully fresh air into the bedroom as the two women set upon the bed, removing the dirty dusty linen, and smoothing clean sheets over it. “Thanks,” Lois smiles shyly at the other woman. “For helping me move out.”
Martha gives the younger woman a serious look across the bed. “It’s my pleasure. I hope you feel happier here.”
Lois tries not to wince at the phrasing. She hadn’t wanted Martha to think she was anything less than completely grateful for her hospitality. “It means so much to me that you and Mickey opened your home to me. I appreciate it. Deeply. You’re both wonderful. Thank you.”
Martha smiles, fluffing a pillow. “I know what it’s like to live with your coworkers all day every day. It gets to you after a while. You all get closer, but not always in the best ways. I hope you’re happier here.” She fixes her friend with a stern look. “But I still expect you to drop by for dinner once in a while. You’re not getting away that easily.”
Lois plops onto the freshly made bed, staring out the window at the unfamiliar view. It’s wonderful to have a friend like Martha Jones, wonderful and occasionally a little frightening. “Thank you, I will. This is… wonderful. Even when I was working in the PM’s office I always came home to my mum’s rules and a room with my sister. It was a little trying.”
Martha laughs softly, sitting beside Lois. “That’s probably an understatement.” She wraps the other woman in a one armed hug, and they stare out the window in silence for a while, enjoying their thoughts and the company of each other. The moment passes quietly, and she stands, stretching her back and cracking her neck. “So, what now? I can help you clean up the living room and kitchen, we can go grocery shopping, or I can leave you to enjoy your new home.”
On impulse Lois pulls Martha into a proper hug. Has there ever been a friend quite like Martha Jones? Somehow, she doubts it. “Thank you so much. Let’s go shopping.”
After seeing the photographs, it’s almost a shock to Martha when she walks in on Gwen working the next morning. Seeing the same person everyday blinds you to the small changes, but the haggard sunken-eyed woman in front of her could have passed for a completely different person than the woman in the photos. She plops a tray of coffees on the desk, and sighs. Maybe she should give Gwen a few days off from her haranguing as a reward for giving in and offering Lois her home. Her physician’s conscience won’t let her back down. Waiting would just postpone the inevitable by a handful of days that could be used for healing. “Thanks for doing that for Lois. It means a lot to her.” She picks her coffee out of the tray and takes a sip.
Gwen stands, stretching her stiff back. Morning already? Insomnia has a way of blending mornings and evenings into one magical never ending loop of events. She takes her coffee with a nod of thanks. “It was the right thing to do.” Somehow, she does feel better knowing that there’s life in her old flat. Especially since it had all been taken care of without her setting foot in that haunted place. Maybe Lois would chase out the ghosts during her time there. “You’re in early.”
Martha smiles guiltily, and pulls out a bag of pastries. “I was hoping for a word.”
Gwen rubs her eyes and sinks back into her chair. Martha bringing baked goods as a bribe is not the sign of happy things to come. “Just one?” She tries to make a joke of it, selecting a croissant from the bag and breaking off an end. “I’m listening.”
Martha tries not to make a face of frustration, and picks at a muffin. Her director’s cool tone doesn’t bode well for what she’s about to say. “I’m worried about you, we all are. You don’t look well.”
“I’m fine.” Gwen tosses the croissant onto her desk and battles the urge to scowl, a losing position.
“You’re not fine, though. And I don’t know if you’re trying to get me off your back or if it’s something you truly believe, but that doesn’t matter at this point.” Martha leans forward, resting her arms on Gwen’s desk. “You need help, Gwen. You can’t get better on your own.”
“I said I’m fine. What I need is to get back to work.” The words come out a snarl, to Gwen’s surprise.
Martha doesn’t flinch. “You’ll never be able to work hard enough to forget what you went through.”
The words stab through her, rocking Gwen back in her chair. She had thought Martha would understand what it was like to go through this sort of thing, had expected a bit more sympathy. “You…dare?” Shock brings her voice to a whisper. “Get out.”
However cruel and scummy this feels, it’s for a greater purpose, Martha reminds herself firmly. But she’s not happy about the betrayal haunting Gwen’s face. “You need to heal, Gwen. You need to grieve, and you need to move on. You can’t keep going like this.”
“Please. I… can’t.” How could Martha be so cruel as to echo Rhys’ words at a time like this?
“How long do you think you can keep this up before it affects your field work?”
“It won’t. I won’t let it.” It sounds childish, desperate, even to Gwen.
A change of tactics is probably in order now. Martha doubts her ability to out-stubborn Gwen, even if she could, it’s probably not the most productive line of action. “When was your last psychiatric evaluation?”
“I… what?”
“Psychiatric evaluation. You know, sit down with a psychologist and make sure you’re keeping in good mental health.”
“I’m not crazy.”
It takes all Martha’s self-control to repress the urge to roll her eyes. Gwen Cooper could be an example out of a textbook for PTSD. “Of course not.” She doesn’t bother trying to repress the condescending tone. “It’s just a standard precaution to check for any manifestation of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder; avoidance, anger, instability, depression. Make sure you stay not crazy, eh? So when was the last time you had one?”
Gwen thinks for a moment. “Three… no four years ago. When I was with the police.” It had taken her a little while to acclimate to Torchwood’s laxity toward regular checkups, but she had come to relish the privacy.
Martha blinks at that. Oh hell. “Right then, you can do the evaluation with me, or I can call a psychiatrist from UNIT down to see you about it. Your choice. But as your doctor I am ordering you to have this done.”
Gwen scowls at the doctor, unwilling to let herself be pushed around that easily. As much as she dislikes it, she’s still uncertain about the division of power between herself and the medic. The silence is interrupted by the boisterous arrival of Mickey, sweeping in and planting a kiss on his wife’s cheek. “Good morning! Ooh, donuts!”
Lois follows more sedately, and makes a heroic effort to stifle a yawn. “Good morning, Gwen, Martha. Anything happen last night?”
She has a role to fill for these people, she can’t let Lois and Mickey see her the same way Martha does. Cheerful boss persona on, Gwen smiles and offers Lois the bag of baked goods. She’d sort out her business with Martha and her commands later. “Quiet as… it was very quiet.” She forces the smile to stay in place. “How do you like the flat?”
Lois offers a shy smile. “It’s lovely. Thanks so much.”
Morning greetings and coffees distributed, Martha shoos Mickey and Lois to their desks. “Do you want me to schedule you a visit with UNIT’s doctor?”
Gwen sighs, the will to fight draining out of her. There’s too much that needs her attention more than another futile battle with her partner. “No, I’ll do it with you, I suppose. Later.” Beautiful thing about this job: even if you work twenty hours a day there’s always something more to be done. She’ll postpone this meeting until the sun burns out, if she can.
Martha furrows her brow, countering the vague promise with a solid time. “This afternoon, during lunch.” Determined to keep the last word, she marches out of the office and returns to her lab, thinking of all the horrible things she’d do to Owen Harper if he were still alive today. Bloody typical brain surgeon to put all the emphasis on the neurons and the chemicals and ignore the rest of the person.
The morning drags by in a series of small mundane tasks for the Torchwood crew. Accounts provide a solid excuse for Gwen to hide in her office, and are demanding enough that she cannot spare any thoughts for the troubles from the morning, or dread for the coming afternoon. For Martha, it’s her inventory day, and while she runs down the list of materials she has left over compared what her needs for the next month will be, she ponders the best use of her afternoon with Gwen. Lois finds her inbox empty for once, and sets herself the task of making some more headway on the rubble still heaped around the floor. She’s pleased when Mickey joins her in sorting out the junk from the stuff that might be redeemable. His stories of traveling across the world, through time, and alternate dimensions, while almost certainly exaggerated, keep her oscillating between hysterical giggling and wide- eyes suspense for the entire morning.
He’s still defending his stories against her accusations of embroidery when they return from picking up lunch from a newly opened Indian restaurant. Martha appears in the doorway as they’re tucking in, “I’ll take Gwen hers.” She carefully picks up two dribbling containers of curry, and squaring her shoulders, enters Gwen’s office.
Lois watches her retreat. “What’s that about?”
Mickey shrugs, digging into a carton of orange vindaloo. Martha had kept him up late every night the last week trying to figure out how to best help Gwen; but he isn’t entirely sure how much of that Lois needs to, or should know. “They have some issues they need to work out.” Honest and vague. Good job, me.
Lois raises an eyebrow at that. He didn’t sound overly concerned, so it probably was more of a technical issue than a personal one. Either way, not her business. “Tell me more about those aliens you found in Tibet. They weren’t really autocannibalists, were they? ”
Martha smiles tentatively at Gwen, still pounding away at Torchwood’s finances. “It’s lunchtime.”
Gwen blinks and looks up. So it is. Damn. “It’s not a good time. I’ve still got all this left for today.” It’s true, though not a terrible resilient excuse.
“I’m sure you do. But you agreed to this.” At least, she hadn’t said no. “It won’t take that long.” Martha sizes up the room, balancing the cartons on an empty corner of the desk. “Come sit in one of these chairs.” She gestures at the two seats in front of Gwen’s desk, turning them to face each other, and settles herself in one, taking one of the lunches for herself.
Gwen gives her doctor a suspicious look, “why?”
Martha smiles with a cheer she doesn’t entirely feel, “For this meeting I’m your doctor, not your employee. The power dynamic needs to be altered from its usual state, which means both of us on the same side of the desk. We should probably be doing it in my office, but the chairs are all in here and for right now this will do. Now sit.” She’s not entirely sure how far she can push this level of bossiness before Gwen unleashes some her of legendary stubbornness and tosses her out on her ear.
Gwen moves to the new seat, making an effort not to sulk. This is like being in first year all over again. She shakes her head at the offering of sweet and spicy Indian food and sticks the carton under her chair. “Now what?”
It’s kind of amazing that Gwen is being so compliant. Maybe she actually has some small latent desire to work through her troubles. “I only have two rules for this, but I’d like you to take them seriously. One: you can decide you’re not ready to talk about a particular topic, but then you have to choose a different one. Two: be honest. Lying isn’t going to make this any easier, and it certainly won’t make it more successful. Okay?”
Gwen huffs a deep sigh, and she gathers her courage enough to nod. “Ok.” The rules aren’t nearly as restrictive as she had feared, she should be deft enough to avoid anything truly difficult.
A silence stretches between them, and Martha opens her curry, nibbling on a slice of lamb. Start with the basics. “How are you feeling today?”
“Fine…” Be honest, she chides herself. Don’t wimp out on the first question. “Irritated, I guess.”
Martha smiles encouragingly. “Why do you think you’re irritated?”
“Because I think this is a huge waste of time, there’s more important stuff we should be doing right now. We managed fine for years without any medically orchestrated ‘sit down and talk about your feelings’ baloney.”
“So because you’ve never done it before, you don’t see a reason to try it at all, and that is enough of a reason to dismiss it entirely?” There’s more scorn in that statement than Martha had intended, so she pauses to chew on a bite of rice, before continuing with more control, “I can explain why you never had to do this with your old team, but I don’t think that would be the most helpful thing right now. And it’s probably entirely obvious to you, if you stop and think about it. You knew them best.” Her voice gentles, “Try again. Why are you irritated?”
Closing her eyes helps Gwen clear her head a little. She’s out of practice with this whole introspection thing, and doesn’t dare look too deep at herself. There’s too much she can’t be allowed to see right now. “Worried,” she whispers at length, jaw muscle twitching around the word. “Scared.”
“What are you scared of?”
Tears of shame gather behind her eyelids. Afraid of everything. Afraid of letting a crack show through this mad charade. Afraid of crumbling into dust and being scattered in the wind. “Of your questions. Or maybe your answers. I don’t know!” She snaps, smoothing over the more painful emotion with anger. Anger is easier to deal with than this weakness.
“Are you aware how angry you’ve become in the last month? That’s not a criticism; mind you, just an observation.” Martha puts her food aside. “As humans, when we reach the end of our rope, when we have our backs to a cliff and an enemy is approaching, we stop feeling fear. We get angry because when the flight instinct is taken away, all our lizard brains have left is the fight response. Do you feel cornered right now?”
Maybe a little. Gwen nods slightly, wrapping her arms more tightly around herself.
“Try to remember that you’re not. You always have an out here. Any time, for any reason, you can tell me you’re done talking about our current topic, whatever that is. You might not always be comfortable, but you will always be safe.” Martha waits for a response, a hint that Gwen wants to move to another topic, but when none comes she continues. “Can you think of what about my questions, or answers, are scaring you?”
How can she admit the truth and still hold her world intact? “I…” Gwen’s voice catches in her throat. “I don’t want my actions or thoughts dissected. By anyone. Living like this is hard enough.”
Martha frowns slightly, tantalizing half-truths tugging at her curiosity, though it doesn’t take much imagination to guess what Gwen’s referencing. To follow that path would come too close to what Gwen claims to be afraid of, and she’s obviously not ready at this point for that. The time will come though, as it always does, eventually. “How have you been sleeping?”
“Alright, I guess.” Gwen’s startled by the sudden change of topic, and tries to reign in her emotions. She can hold it together through this. A little longer and it will all be over.
“About how many hours a night?”
“I don’t know, four?”
Under direct observation she represses the urge to physically react. “You think four hours of sleep a night is alright?”
“It’s what I can get.” Gwen shrugs apathetically. She doesn’t need any more clarity to her life than this; four is enough to keep going, and that’s all she needs.
Martha reminds herself it’s better than nothing. It could always be worse. Four is a start. “How many nights a week do you normally get four uninterrupted hours of rest?”
“Don’t know… three?”
Martha rubs her eyes; that’s the most generous definition of alright she’s heard to date. “So about half the time you get a full four hours.” At Gwen’s confirming nod, she continues. “What about the other four nights?”
Gwen’s words come out slowly. “Not tired enough to stop working.”
“Is it the nightmares waking you up?”
The question strikes Gwen as almost cruelly rhetorical, and she gives Martha a tired look. “You know that as well as I do.” It feels like the other woman wakes her from some terrible dream at least half the time.
Martha’s follow-up is interrupted by hasty knocking, and Lois sticks her head in without waiting for an answer. “I’m so sorry to interrupt, but the Captain of the Cardiff police is calling to speak to you. Now.” She gives Martha an apologetic look, and ducks back out to deal with a still ringing phone.
Martha shrugs, duty calls. “We can do more tomorrow, or later.” They have a job to do; the psychotherapy can wait a few hours.