Wearing Your Tattoo, Jack/Ten with Theta/Koschei, PG-13 (Regrets)
Pairing: Jack/Ten, with Theta/Koschei
Challenge: 16 Regrets
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: A tiny portion of canon has been tossed out the window. Watch out for nostalgic schmoop.
Spoilers: Up to and including “Last of the Time Lords”
Wearing Your Tattoo
Jack’s fingers move with the utmost care across his shoulder. The sentiment in the movement is what the Doctor would call reverent, but never admit to thinking himself. He does not tell Jack what each sweep of his finger does. Let the human think his shivers are anticipatory. Let him believe the whimpers are pleas. Let him assume the Doctor is enjoying his attentions. It is the least Jack deserves, after all.
It is not Jack’s fault. The Doctor has long since accepted the gut reaction akin to fingernails on a chalkboard, and learned to lock it away. His fear is safe beneath a calm exterior. Jack the Fact is not what bothers him about this intimate act. It’s the intimacy.
It is not the intimacy with Jack. The Doctor has long since accepted the Captain’s feelings, as the Captain has accepted the Doctor’s inability to reciprocate them on that sort of level. It’s not an inability, really. It is a choice, because it's easier. It is so much easier. It doesn’t need saying how he feels. Love, trust, companionship. They are all there. But the intimacy, the intimacy is something different altogether.
For instance, this instance: Jack is tracing the black outline of what he believes is the result of one too many banana daiquiris and a burst of courage. He sees pristine ink, circular patterns with chords, arcs, and whole segments adorned with whorls, lines, and more circles. He traces the lines, bare hands on bare skin, and sits close. The Doctor can hear the unspoken questions and comments and laughter Jack chooses to keep to himself (for now). For now, this is enough.
What Jack does not know is that, with each sweep of his fingers, each press, each warm touch, the Doctor slips a little further away. The circles are a language, like cursive writing is to simple English, and language has power.
The temperature drops. He shivers.
There is a different, smaller hand on his back that is also transformed, smaller. He whimpers.
The hand traces over the tattoo perfectly, only just healed from its creation. The pattern swirls over his skin and connects them, palm to scapula, muscle to lung, veins to blood, deeper and deeper until the atoms of their physical being vibrate at the same wavelength, spin in exact synchrony.
Jack’s fingers fumble around the tattoo's edges.
The hand traces the same pattern over and over as it has done every night since their first night together. It marvels at the fact that, now and forever, it will be visible to anyone who dare look. It is a name, he thinks, like a brand. It is a promise, he thinks, too, like forever yours. It is nothing, he knows, but the wont of whatever goes on in the other's subconscious mind. It is theirs.
Jack’s knuckle bumps into his back.
Breath puffs across his neck and his own head tips back. Laughter floats around his ears as the palm flattens against his back. The pattern is not complete. It will continue in a moment. They pause. Soft kisses are given in the space behind his ear and he leans back.
Jack stops tracing the ink.
“Theta.” The name is only tolerable in that throat. He swallows with a dry throat of his own and whispers back.
“Doctor?” The name is a question. Jack is concerned.
The hand which was circling now reaches around and covers one of his hearts. The heart that is his. One for you, and one for me, they used to say.
The Doctor grunts, head hanging forward, clutching at his shirts and jacket. Jack has moved his hand away. The images and sensations fade into nothing. He does not look behind him.
Jack takes his time choosing from the pool of questions and comments in his mind. “You should be more careful.”
The Doctor shuts his eyes. “Yes, I know.”
The heat of Jack’s hand returns to his shoulder, but it does not touch him. Ghosts dance around the Doctor’s mind: the small room, the smell of it, the feel of the sheets, of the body behind him. Jack touches the center of the pattern.
On his hands and knees, Koschei’s hands on his hips, his lips sealed over his own seal. Together. One. They barely move. They can't stop moving. Forever, like circles.
He jerks around and jumps away, hands clasping over Jack’s outstretched wrist. “Sorry,” he mumbles. Jack only laughs.
“Regretting that bit of ink? Don’t worry. It’ll come off next regeneration. Or you could just have it lasered off. They have that, you know, even in the twenty-first century.”
He doesn’t. And it won’t. Forever yours. No laser could ever touch this mark. It goes deeper than a physical body. He could, like he has done before, place a small filter on it, cover up the reminder of his past. No one would have to see it, not even him. But lately, for reasons all too clear, he lets it go naked.
“It’s beautiful.”
It is.
“Bet it hurt. Right on the bone like that.”
No. He barely noticed. His mind was somewhere else.
“I didn’t mean to keep . . .” Touching it, Jack wants to say. “But, it was kinda tempting. Half-naked Time Lord in front of me like this. Exquisite art on his back. Can you blame a guy?” He laughs and the Doctor gives him the best smile he’s capable of.
“How’s the bandage? Too tight?” Jack asks, reminding the Doctor there was a reason why he had stripped in the first place.
“It’s fine,” he answers quietly. “Nasty claws, those were.”
“Yeah.” Jack shifts as though he is uncomfortable, and clasps his hands together.
Looking at Jack, really looking at him for a moment, the Doctor knows that he knows. It’s the question that is hanging in the air between them. The Doctor can almost hear it.
The ink is clearly done by hand. It could have looked professional, had they waited, but it is all the more beautiful and meaningful for what it is: simple lines and simple curves drawn by a hand that wasn't tracing someone else's design. It is personal, and Jack knows it. How could he not? There are few people anyone would trust with a sharp blade to their naked back.
Slowly, the Doctor unrolls the wrinkled mass of his shirts, dons his undershirt, and buttons his shirt. He brushes out the wrinkles in his jacket, and puts it on, all while waiting for Jack to pluck the right question from his brain.
The Doctor is at the doorway when Jack finally asks, “Why the shoulder?”
It is the wrong question, of course, but the Doctor is grateful for it. The Doctor shrugs. “Seemed like a fine place at the time. Don’t you like it?”
Jack bites his lip. The other question still lingers. “You should change them once a day. Twice, if you could spare the time.”
Once again, the Doctor is grateful for the change of subject. “Maybe you should stick around and play nurse.”
Jack leers at him. “Only if I get to be a naughty nurse.”
The banter is effortless and draws them back into a space much more comfortable than their previous environment. The Doctor smiles. “Wouldn’t expect you to be any other kind. Though hands above the belt, please. I let you say hello to a lot of people without reprimanding.”
“I saw the eye rolls.” Jack rises from the bed and walks over to join him.
“An unavoidable reaction, I’m afraid.”
“Jealous?”
“Cheesy.”
“They fall for it every time.” Jack’s hand comes down on that same shoulder, and the Doctor can feel the circles burning into him. His left heart jumps in four beats, just once, then resumes its regular rhythm.
Challenge: 16 Regrets
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: A tiny portion of canon has been tossed out the window. Watch out for nostalgic schmoop.
Spoilers: Up to and including “Last of the Time Lords”
Wearing Your Tattoo
Jack’s fingers move with the utmost care across his shoulder. The sentiment in the movement is what the Doctor would call reverent, but never admit to thinking himself. He does not tell Jack what each sweep of his finger does. Let the human think his shivers are anticipatory. Let him believe the whimpers are pleas. Let him assume the Doctor is enjoying his attentions. It is the least Jack deserves, after all.
It is not Jack’s fault. The Doctor has long since accepted the gut reaction akin to fingernails on a chalkboard, and learned to lock it away. His fear is safe beneath a calm exterior. Jack the Fact is not what bothers him about this intimate act. It’s the intimacy.
It is not the intimacy with Jack. The Doctor has long since accepted the Captain’s feelings, as the Captain has accepted the Doctor’s inability to reciprocate them on that sort of level. It’s not an inability, really. It is a choice, because it's easier. It is so much easier. It doesn’t need saying how he feels. Love, trust, companionship. They are all there. But the intimacy, the intimacy is something different altogether.
For instance, this instance: Jack is tracing the black outline of what he believes is the result of one too many banana daiquiris and a burst of courage. He sees pristine ink, circular patterns with chords, arcs, and whole segments adorned with whorls, lines, and more circles. He traces the lines, bare hands on bare skin, and sits close. The Doctor can hear the unspoken questions and comments and laughter Jack chooses to keep to himself (for now). For now, this is enough.
What Jack does not know is that, with each sweep of his fingers, each press, each warm touch, the Doctor slips a little further away. The circles are a language, like cursive writing is to simple English, and language has power.
The temperature drops. He shivers.
There is a different, smaller hand on his back that is also transformed, smaller. He whimpers.
The hand traces over the tattoo perfectly, only just healed from its creation. The pattern swirls over his skin and connects them, palm to scapula, muscle to lung, veins to blood, deeper and deeper until the atoms of their physical being vibrate at the same wavelength, spin in exact synchrony.
Jack’s fingers fumble around the tattoo's edges.
The hand traces the same pattern over and over as it has done every night since their first night together. It marvels at the fact that, now and forever, it will be visible to anyone who dare look. It is a name, he thinks, like a brand. It is a promise, he thinks, too, like forever yours. It is nothing, he knows, but the wont of whatever goes on in the other's subconscious mind. It is theirs.
Jack’s knuckle bumps into his back.
Breath puffs across his neck and his own head tips back. Laughter floats around his ears as the palm flattens against his back. The pattern is not complete. It will continue in a moment. They pause. Soft kisses are given in the space behind his ear and he leans back.
Jack stops tracing the ink.
“Theta.” The name is only tolerable in that throat. He swallows with a dry throat of his own and whispers back.
“Doctor?” The name is a question. Jack is concerned.
The hand which was circling now reaches around and covers one of his hearts. The heart that is his. One for you, and one for me, they used to say.
The Doctor grunts, head hanging forward, clutching at his shirts and jacket. Jack has moved his hand away. The images and sensations fade into nothing. He does not look behind him.
Jack takes his time choosing from the pool of questions and comments in his mind. “You should be more careful.”
The Doctor shuts his eyes. “Yes, I know.”
The heat of Jack’s hand returns to his shoulder, but it does not touch him. Ghosts dance around the Doctor’s mind: the small room, the smell of it, the feel of the sheets, of the body behind him. Jack touches the center of the pattern.
On his hands and knees, Koschei’s hands on his hips, his lips sealed over his own seal. Together. One. They barely move. They can't stop moving. Forever, like circles.
He jerks around and jumps away, hands clasping over Jack’s outstretched wrist. “Sorry,” he mumbles. Jack only laughs.
“Regretting that bit of ink? Don’t worry. It’ll come off next regeneration. Or you could just have it lasered off. They have that, you know, even in the twenty-first century.”
He doesn’t. And it won’t. Forever yours. No laser could ever touch this mark. It goes deeper than a physical body. He could, like he has done before, place a small filter on it, cover up the reminder of his past. No one would have to see it, not even him. But lately, for reasons all too clear, he lets it go naked.
“It’s beautiful.”
It is.
“Bet it hurt. Right on the bone like that.”
No. He barely noticed. His mind was somewhere else.
“I didn’t mean to keep . . .” Touching it, Jack wants to say. “But, it was kinda tempting. Half-naked Time Lord in front of me like this. Exquisite art on his back. Can you blame a guy?” He laughs and the Doctor gives him the best smile he’s capable of.
“How’s the bandage? Too tight?” Jack asks, reminding the Doctor there was a reason why he had stripped in the first place.
“It’s fine,” he answers quietly. “Nasty claws, those were.”
“Yeah.” Jack shifts as though he is uncomfortable, and clasps his hands together.
Looking at Jack, really looking at him for a moment, the Doctor knows that he knows. It’s the question that is hanging in the air between them. The Doctor can almost hear it.
The ink is clearly done by hand. It could have looked professional, had they waited, but it is all the more beautiful and meaningful for what it is: simple lines and simple curves drawn by a hand that wasn't tracing someone else's design. It is personal, and Jack knows it. How could he not? There are few people anyone would trust with a sharp blade to their naked back.
Slowly, the Doctor unrolls the wrinkled mass of his shirts, dons his undershirt, and buttons his shirt. He brushes out the wrinkles in his jacket, and puts it on, all while waiting for Jack to pluck the right question from his brain.
The Doctor is at the doorway when Jack finally asks, “Why the shoulder?”
It is the wrong question, of course, but the Doctor is grateful for it. The Doctor shrugs. “Seemed like a fine place at the time. Don’t you like it?”
Jack bites his lip. The other question still lingers. “You should change them once a day. Twice, if you could spare the time.”
Once again, the Doctor is grateful for the change of subject. “Maybe you should stick around and play nurse.”
Jack leers at him. “Only if I get to be a naughty nurse.”
The banter is effortless and draws them back into a space much more comfortable than their previous environment. The Doctor smiles. “Wouldn’t expect you to be any other kind. Though hands above the belt, please. I let you say hello to a lot of people without reprimanding.”
“I saw the eye rolls.” Jack rises from the bed and walks over to join him.
“An unavoidable reaction, I’m afraid.”
“Jealous?”
“Cheesy.”
“They fall for it every time.” Jack’s hand comes down on that same shoulder, and the Doctor can feel the circles burning into him. His left heart jumps in four beats, just once, then resumes its regular rhythm.