your eyes are like stars, comfort/history, gwen/rose, r
Title: Your Eyes Are Like Stars
Pairing: Gwen Cooper/Rose Tyler; Other Side of the Void, semi-AU
Challenge: Comfort/History
Rating: R
Word Count: 4000
Notes/Warnings: Through S2The plot was conceived before it was basically shot to shit by canon. Pretend Jack Harkess’ Torchwood never found the second Resurrection Glove, and that Rose worked at somebody else’s Torchwood when she was on the other side of the Void, and we’re all set. This is set in the years after Rose gets to the Other Side of the Void, with alt-Gwen Cooper. Thanks to ofadoration for the help and read-throughs.
----
She comes down from the office, the pizza boxes hot against the flats of her hands. When the gate closes behind her, she jumps, can’t help but be thrown by the height of the room and the melancholy tinkle of water falling from above, the too-bright lights and the eerie stillness in the air. She forces one foot in front of the other, too late to turn back now, and looks wildly about. There’s the leader, hands in his pockets, all confident swagger and heaving bravado. The asian woman and smug-looking man sit at their desks, fingers quick against their keyboards, eyes fixed on screens they do not look away from. She turns and sees a blonde in the corner, head bent low over a pile of books, fringe falling into her eyes. When Smug Man and Asian Woman start to laugh from behind their hands, Gwen backs away, looks again at the blonde. She’s not laughing. Her back is straight and her mouth is wide and she looks at Gwen like she’s seen a ghost. The hair on the back of Gwen’s neck stands up and she looks away.
--
She comes to work for Torchwood against her better judgment, leaves Andy to his shifts alone and lies to Rhys more than she ever thought she would. Owen and Tosh-she’s learned their names now-still snicker from behind their hands and Rose still spends a lot of her time looking at Gwen like she’s sprouting something from her forehead. David, the boss, calls her a lot of nicknames, like “tiger” and “cupcake” and “sweetums” in his lovely, lilting Irish accent, and Gwen does her best not to get left behind. In her second week, they catch up with an alien that collects fingers and, despite herself, Gwen doesn’t quit.
--
A month into working in the hub, she runs in to Rose on the way out of David’s office, braces her hands on the blonde woman’s shoulders to steady them both. For the past four weeks, they’ve not spoken much beyond the considerate, workplace-appropriate chatter and exchange of information, but Gwen can’t shake the feeling that there’s something Rose wants to tell her, something she holds back, keeps to herself, and doesn’t say. Her hands on Rose’s shoulders feel heavy and she pulls them back and walks away.
Later that night it’s just the two of them, Rose staying late to do research and Gwen doing final analysis on some artifacts they recovered. At midnight, Gwen gets up to stretch her legs and slows when she comes to Rose’s desk, hoping to finally strike up a conversation. She grasps the work rail tight and leans forward, toward the other woman, and smiles.
“Hello,” Gwen says, fingers cold against the metal. The hub is always cold and Gwen is not yet used to it. She shoves her hands into her pockets and shifts from foot to foot.
Rose looks up at her, squints her eyes and smiles back, a small, hesitant shift of the lips. She clears her throat and says, “Hi,” leaning back slightly in her chair. When Gwen was a beat cop, one of her duties was to give news to families that their loved ones were dead, that they’d been murdered by a psycho or killed in some accident or thrown themselves off a building somewhere downtown. The new widows had a look in their eyes that she sees in Rose’s, part despair, part resignation. Gwen looks away briefly, then licks her lips and speaks again.
“You’re from London, yeah?” Gwen’s voice is loud around the empty hub, bouncing off the rift machine and back to her own ears as strained, trying, flat. She smiles and walks down a step toward Rose’s desk. “I’ve never been to London, myself. A true Cardiff girl, I suppose.”
Rose smiles and looks at her desk, and Gwen follows her eyes, sees Rose’s hands spread wide on well-worn books, her fingers scratching at the backs of volumes older than the two of them put together. She’d never noticed before, but Rose is young, younger than she’d thought, younger than Gwen even.
When Rose looks up, her smile is suddenly wide, her eyes bright and shining. She leans her head back and lets out a laugh, harsh and loud off the walls. She laughs so loud and so long that Gwen’s own smile fades and she takes a step back, when Rose holds out a hand in apology, says, “No, I’m sorry, I just-” She rakes her fingers through her blonde hair and sits up straighter to catch her breath and smiles. “Sorry, it’s not really funny. I am-yes, I am from London.”
Gwen shifts uneasily toward Rose and away, clasps her hands in front of her, and asks hesitantly, “Why’s that funny?”
Rose moves in her chair, taps her fingers against aging paper, and says, “It’s not.” She tucks her hair behind her ear and turns herself back in toward her books. “It’s not funny at all,” she says softly. Gwen stands still a moment or two, tucks her hands into the back pockets of her jeans, and then turns and leaves for the night. When she gets home, she still hears Rose’s laugh loud and sad off the walls of the hub, and it takes her longer than usual to fall asleep, Rhys’ body heavy beside her own. She turns in toward him, drapes her leg across his, and tries to fall asleep, but every time she shuts her eyes, she sees blonde hair and hears coarse, sad laughter. The sun creeps in around the curtains before she finally falls asleep.
--
It’s one of those nights, and there are no dead bodies, no blood or tears, and they’re all at the pub drinking and laughing and feeling alive. Gwen and Rose take a shot of something Owen ordered and Rose spills half of it down her chin. She laughs as she wipes it away with sweet, sticky fingers, a high, pealing laugh that Gwen has never heard before. It makes her smile. Owen keeps his fingers tight around Tosh’s knee under the table, and they finally leave some time after 2, David ushering them both out, an arm around each one. The light in the pub is dimmed by cigarette smoke and Rose squints her eyes at Gwen, stares at the dark shine of her hair, the way it falls across her forehead. She leans forward, wraps her fingers tight around Gwen’s wrist and whispers, “I knew you when you died.”
Gwen sits back suddenly, pulling her arm away from Rose’s touch. Rose leans back, sinks her shoulders deep into the leather of the booth and smiles.
--
They find the glove in an old, wooden box in an abandoned country home an hour outside Cardiff on a wet, windy day. When they get back to the hub, the water’s falling faster and louder than usual from the rift machine up above and there’s a melancholy sound around the whole room. They set it on an examining table in the autopsy round and stand and stare at it a few long minutes before Owen eventually says, “Well, what the fuck is it?”
Gwen stands in the corner with an odd feeling in the pit of her stomach, a tight, fierce knot just below her navel and a tingle in her fingers, the desire so strong to reach out and touch the glove, to run her fingertips against the solid, shiny metal. She clenches and unclenches each fist and takes a small step forward and doesn’t say a word.
David walks closer to the table, sets his large hands wide on either side of the glove and peers down at it, leaning his face in close and widening his eyes to take in every angle. He lets out a long breath and leans back, crosses his arms in front of his chest, and says, “Beats the hell out of me. Tosh, take a look at it, will you? Everyone else get back to work.”
Rose and Owen climb the steps quickly and head back to their stations, David not far behind. Gwen stands just at the foot of the steps, one hand on the rail, and watches Tosh wrap the glove in thick cloth and hold it tight in her small, slender hands. Gwen’s palms start to buzz and she climbs the steps quick, the metal rail cool against her hand.
--
It’s three weeks before they figure out that the glove probably has restorative powers of some kind, and eventually they all end up back in the autopsy round again, a freshly killed body between them. David tries the glove first and his face is tight and controlled as he places his hands on the body, the glove large and heavy on the dead man’s flesh. David groans and sighs and mutters curses under his breath, but still the dead man doesn’t move. David backs away finally, throws his hands above his head and yells out, pulling the glove off fiercely. It dangles from his hand as he walks past Gwen and she curbs an almost irresistible urge to reach out and touch it. When she looks away from it, she sees Rose watching her, a narrow, curious expression on her face.
“Give it to Gwen,” Rose says, her hands tight on the railing. Gwen looks up sharply, over to Rose and down to David. David gives Rose a look, a secretive flash of his eyes, and she nods slightly, says, “Trust me, David. It’ll work for her.”
When she’s next to the body with the glove on her hand, she feels impossibly small and unbearably fragile. The glove is too big, too heavy, and she has trouble holding it up and moving it as she likes. The metal heats under her fingertips, goes from cold and foreign to warm and familiar in too fast a time to be natural. Her eyes widen with fear as she looks around the room at all of them, Owen and Tosh to one side looking fearful, David and Rose to the other looking expectant.
“Do you feel anything?” David asks. “Does it feel … natural at all? Like you know what to do with it?”
Gwen swallows hard and looks down at the body, the soft, neutral expression of a homeless man found out in the park. She raises her hand in the too-large glove and places it softly on the back of his head, the metal fingers spread through his thin, grey hair.
Immediately she feels a jerk from behind her rib cage, a hard, hollow tug that pulls her closer to the body, and she gasps loudly just as the man beside her does, his eyes opening wide with fright. She looks up bewildered and everyone’s face has the same shocked expression, equal parts horror and intrigue.
“Where am I?” The man’s shouts echo off the autopsy round’s walls, and Gwen opens and closes her mouth without saying anything, too shocked to speak. David, Owen and Tosh lean closer in to the body, the living, breathing corpse of a man and pepper him with questions while Gwen stands stock still, skin pimpled and breath shaking. When she looks at Rose, she’s not looking at the body-her eyes are stuck fast on Gwen’s and she doesn’t look away.
--
They’re in the pub again one night, but somber, sad-they’ve failed to protect a young girl, and Gwen still has her blood under her fingernails. She throws back shot after shot of whisky, but still there’s an ache, firm and unrelenting, behind her eyes, behind her ribs. She runs her hands over her eyes, smoothes the skin of her forehead, tries to force the worry and sadness away, but instead she meets David’s eyes over the table. He’s looking at her hard, brow low.
When she excuses herself to use the toilet, she sees David follow her, and she stops in the hallway outside the ladies’, waits for him to catch up. She’s slumped against the wall with her head down when he gets there, and he stops firm in front of her, raising her chin with his fingers.
“Gwen, sometimes you’ve got to let it roll off you,” he says. “I know it’s hard, especially a case like this, but-you can’t let them all get to you or-” He fades away when her eyes start to fill, and moves his hand to cup her cheek. He rubs his thumb against her skin and involuntarily she leans into his palm. She can rememer the girl’s shining hair, and her bright eyes, and her gap-toothed grin, and she drops her chin to hide the sudden fall of her tears.
“Gwen, come on,” David says, forcing her face up, leaning his forehead against her own. “Please, don’t let this break you down.”
Gwen squeezes her eyes shut, swallows the lump in her throat. Her tears start to slow and she’s suddenly incredibly aware of David’s breath hot against her cheek. When she tilts her face up, his lips are inches from hers and she thinks, or she imagines, or she hopes, that she feels him lean in toward her, strong and solid and alive, and she waits and her eyes start to close.
And suddenly Rose is there, fast around the corner and stopping short at the sight of them. Rose’s neck snaps back and she makes to turn around, but David’s voice stops her short as he clears his throat, says, “Helping out a friend, Rose. This was a tough one.” His voice is firm and Rose looks up, catches Gwen’s eyes with her hard, piercing look. There’s something accusatory in her gaze, something trying and sad and disappointed, and Gwen feels inexplicably guilty and caught. Rose looks away quick, mutters, “Of course,” as she pushes past them and into the ladies’ room.
David looks at her, nods quick and walks away. Gwen stands a moment, wanting to follow Rose and explain herself, but stuck fast. She’d tell her of the tightness in her hands and the ache in her chest, the image of the girl she can’t shake when she closes her eyes. Gwen would press her hands to Rose’s waist and move them up, against her ribs, and higher, until the brown curls and the gap-toothed grin she keeps seeing go away. She’d let Rose’s breath hot against her neck soothe the tightness there, let the pads of her fingers work the worry away from the small of her back. Suddenly, she thinks of Rhys, of his warm smile and kind eyes, and a heavy knot of guilt hits her hard in the chest. She’s quick to the table to collect her things, make her excuses, and she hurries home.
She’s gone before Rose returns, and the blonde doesn’t meet her eyes for what feels like the next week.
--
Rhys is getting suspicious of Gwen’s work, she can tell, so it’s no real surprise that he follows her one day, stays close and sneaks behind as she and the rest of the team try and stop a creature from infecting Cardiff’s water supply with a breeding primer. The alien is fast, quick, and he’s already blown up half the warehouse before they take him.
It’s only on the way out of the building that Tosh notices a body in the rubble, brown hair caked with dirt and limbs splayed unnaturally. They approach slowly, cautiously, and ten feet away Gwen stops fast, and breathes in hard, and knows.
She’s inconsolable as they hurry her and Rhys’ body back to the hub, and she sobs and howls and refuses to let go of his hand. She waits for him to open his eyes, to look at her and smile faintly and crack a joke, but he stays still and silent and cold.
Once he’s layed out on the autopsy round, Gwen is too exhausted to speak, too worn and weary and still in shock. The rest of the team stands around her, all of them wary, trying to be supportive. It’s nearly half an hour before she speaks.
“What about the glove?” she asks, voice hoarse and shaking. She looks around frantically, finally settles on David’s eyes as her own start to fill once again. “We can bring him back, I can see him, I can say-” But the lump in her throat forces its way up, and she lets out a loud sob and lays her head down on the table, the skin of his arm cold against her forehead.
When she looks up again, David’s lips are tight, his jaw firm, and he breathes out and shakes his head. “Gwen, we can’t,” he whispers. His eyes never leave hers, even as she stands and takes a step toward him, still never letting go of Rhys’ hand.
“Why not?” she shouts, voice loud of the walls, bouncing back at her, making her wince at her own sad desperation. “Please, David. I have to see him again, I have to. I have to say goodbye!” She’s furious and crazed and wild with grief, looking at all of them in turn, eyes wide and pleading. “Please! Please!” She feels her knees start to buckle as her voice gives out, and suddenly Rose is behind her, arms tight around her body. Gwen feels Rose’s chest pressed to her back, feels the weight behind her, supporting her, as she finally let’s go of Rhys’ hand and brings both of her own to cover her face. Rose holds her as she sobs, Rose’s own tears falling into Gwen’s hair.
--
Gwen spends the next six months in the hub, rarely leaving to do field work, instead doing analysis and research and forcing the ache in her chest to go away.
Rose is there. Bringing her chips or curry or steaming mugs of tea. She usually sets them on Gwen’s desk and sits and waits until the brunette takes a bite or a sip or says anything at all. They are largely silent visits, full of Gwen’s sighs and Rose’s fingernails drumming against the desk as she hums low to herself.
Six months in, and Gwen starts to feel the pressure ease, the tightness behind her eyes slowly fade. One night, just the two of them left behind, Rose brings Gwen a cup of tea and as she leans back, Gwen catches her hand, feels Rose’s fingers hot and soft in her own. She brings Rose’s hand to her lips and kisses the fingers, gently, grateful.
“Thank you,” she whispers, and her voice is low and rough. She wants to say more, to find the words to tell Rose how thankful she is, how much these long, silent nights have meant to her, how the ways she’s healed and put herself back together are largely due to Rose’s quiet, constant presence and the lift of her voice as she hums. She opens her mouth, but nothing comes, so instead she squeezes Rose’s fingers and doesn’t let go.
She feels Rose lay a hand gently on the crown of her head, smooth her hair for just a second before she’s tilting Gwen’s head back and laying a soft, reassuring kiss to her temple. She stays like that, just for a moment, before she straightens up and says, “You’re welcome.” She returns a squeeze of Gwen’s fingers and then pulls them slowly away and leaves. Gwen stays in the hub until the tea is cold.
--
It’s then that Gwen notices Rose staring, the way her eyes always find Gwen as she moves around the hub. The way they follow her from Tosh’s desk to David’s office, from the autopsy round down the hallway to the holding cells. Everytime she catches Rose’s eyes following her, she looks back, unflinching, until the other woman looks away. It’s like this for days, weeks, until eventually Rose stops shifting her gaze when she’s caught. She begins to hold Gwen’s eyes steadily, surely, until the tips of Gwen’s fingers begin to tingle and she feels her heart beat quick in her chest. She feels guilty at first, thinks of Rhys and the feel of his hands on her hips and the soft of his lips against her shoulder. She doesn’t stop.
Gwen finds herself pausing as she moves, hitting and holding poses as she works, swinging her hips just so when she feels Rose’s eyes on her. She sits straighter, her spine lengthening out and her shoulders thrust back; she lets her hair fall into her eyes and is conscious of the bend of her wrist and the fall of her fingers as she pushes it slowly behind her ear. She stops finding Rose’s gaze, so sure is she of the blonde’s eyes on her body, on the lines of her shoulders and the slim of her waist, on the curve of her neck and the rise and fall of her chest. When she does meet Rose’s eyes across the hub, her breath steals from her body, but she doesn’t look away.
Gwen finds herself staying later and later, making excuses to stay behind. Rose does the same. One night as David’s leaving, Gwen follows him down the ramp, past her own desk, and stops just in front of Rose’s. “Night, David, see you tomorrow,” she says. She snakes a hand through her hair after she hears the gate click shut, and she’s sure to bring her fingers slow against the side of her neck, down to the flat of her chest, so sure is she of Rose’s eyes held fast to her movements.
She turns around without meeting Rose’s eyes, but quickly hears the fast fall of footsteps behind her. She slows, hears Rose catch up and stop, listens to the quick rise and fall of Rose’s breath. She pictures the blonde’s chest moving up and down, the fall of her hair against her shoulders and the small, wanting round of her lips.
Gwen turns, slowly, cautious, curious, and suddenly Rose’s hands are on her elbows and her back is being pressed against the cold tile of the wall. Rose is shorter, but not by much, so when she leans up and presses her lips against Gwen’s their noses brush and their chins bump together.
Then Rose snakes her hand up the front of Gwen’s shirt, settles her fingers against Gwen’s ribs and her eyes go wide. Like she was expecting something else, someone else-someone slimmer, more slender, someone narrower in the places Gwen is curved, someone longer in the places she is small. Rose digs her thumb into the space below Gwen’s ribs, tightens her other hand around Gwen’s wrist. Gwen raises her free hand to the plane of Rose’s back, feels the ends of her blonde hair tickle the back of her hand. Involuntarily, she leans forward, leans in, and shuts her eyes.
Rose’s hands are smaller on her than she is used to, and Gwen thinks of Rhys, feels his hands spread wide on her back, his fingers thick against her, as Rose’s slender hands are on her, her fingers narrow and small. Gwen almost starts to cry, but doesn’t. She shivers against the chill of the autopsy table against her bare back, and against Rose’s hand and later her mouth, bucking her hips with her eyes and her lips shut tight. When she meets Rose’s eyes-which are so often closed or pointed to the ceiling or down and away-they are soft and sad, and even when Gwen finally cries out, Rose is silent. Gwen reaches up, pushes a clump of hair off Rose’s forehead; Rose turns away.
--
In the weeks after, the mood between them is hesitant, calm, and Rose keeps her eyes on her books while Gwen stays most often at her desk. Still, Rose brings Gwen tea, silently, and sits beside her as she does her research, humming lower and lower to herself. Even as their hands meet over Gwen’s desk and their fingers linger one moment, then two, before falling into their laps, they are silent.
Pairing: Gwen Cooper/Rose Tyler; Other Side of the Void, semi-AU
Challenge: Comfort/History
Rating: R
Word Count: 4000
Notes/Warnings: Through S2The plot was conceived before it was basically shot to shit by canon. Pretend Jack Harkess’ Torchwood never found the second Resurrection Glove, and that Rose worked at somebody else’s Torchwood when she was on the other side of the Void, and we’re all set. This is set in the years after Rose gets to the Other Side of the Void, with alt-Gwen Cooper. Thanks to ofadoration for the help and read-throughs.
----
She comes down from the office, the pizza boxes hot against the flats of her hands. When the gate closes behind her, she jumps, can’t help but be thrown by the height of the room and the melancholy tinkle of water falling from above, the too-bright lights and the eerie stillness in the air. She forces one foot in front of the other, too late to turn back now, and looks wildly about. There’s the leader, hands in his pockets, all confident swagger and heaving bravado. The asian woman and smug-looking man sit at their desks, fingers quick against their keyboards, eyes fixed on screens they do not look away from. She turns and sees a blonde in the corner, head bent low over a pile of books, fringe falling into her eyes. When Smug Man and Asian Woman start to laugh from behind their hands, Gwen backs away, looks again at the blonde. She’s not laughing. Her back is straight and her mouth is wide and she looks at Gwen like she’s seen a ghost. The hair on the back of Gwen’s neck stands up and she looks away.
--
She comes to work for Torchwood against her better judgment, leaves Andy to his shifts alone and lies to Rhys more than she ever thought she would. Owen and Tosh-she’s learned their names now-still snicker from behind their hands and Rose still spends a lot of her time looking at Gwen like she’s sprouting something from her forehead. David, the boss, calls her a lot of nicknames, like “tiger” and “cupcake” and “sweetums” in his lovely, lilting Irish accent, and Gwen does her best not to get left behind. In her second week, they catch up with an alien that collects fingers and, despite herself, Gwen doesn’t quit.
--
A month into working in the hub, she runs in to Rose on the way out of David’s office, braces her hands on the blonde woman’s shoulders to steady them both. For the past four weeks, they’ve not spoken much beyond the considerate, workplace-appropriate chatter and exchange of information, but Gwen can’t shake the feeling that there’s something Rose wants to tell her, something she holds back, keeps to herself, and doesn’t say. Her hands on Rose’s shoulders feel heavy and she pulls them back and walks away.
Later that night it’s just the two of them, Rose staying late to do research and Gwen doing final analysis on some artifacts they recovered. At midnight, Gwen gets up to stretch her legs and slows when she comes to Rose’s desk, hoping to finally strike up a conversation. She grasps the work rail tight and leans forward, toward the other woman, and smiles.
“Hello,” Gwen says, fingers cold against the metal. The hub is always cold and Gwen is not yet used to it. She shoves her hands into her pockets and shifts from foot to foot.
Rose looks up at her, squints her eyes and smiles back, a small, hesitant shift of the lips. She clears her throat and says, “Hi,” leaning back slightly in her chair. When Gwen was a beat cop, one of her duties was to give news to families that their loved ones were dead, that they’d been murdered by a psycho or killed in some accident or thrown themselves off a building somewhere downtown. The new widows had a look in their eyes that she sees in Rose’s, part despair, part resignation. Gwen looks away briefly, then licks her lips and speaks again.
“You’re from London, yeah?” Gwen’s voice is loud around the empty hub, bouncing off the rift machine and back to her own ears as strained, trying, flat. She smiles and walks down a step toward Rose’s desk. “I’ve never been to London, myself. A true Cardiff girl, I suppose.”
Rose smiles and looks at her desk, and Gwen follows her eyes, sees Rose’s hands spread wide on well-worn books, her fingers scratching at the backs of volumes older than the two of them put together. She’d never noticed before, but Rose is young, younger than she’d thought, younger than Gwen even.
When Rose looks up, her smile is suddenly wide, her eyes bright and shining. She leans her head back and lets out a laugh, harsh and loud off the walls. She laughs so loud and so long that Gwen’s own smile fades and she takes a step back, when Rose holds out a hand in apology, says, “No, I’m sorry, I just-” She rakes her fingers through her blonde hair and sits up straighter to catch her breath and smiles. “Sorry, it’s not really funny. I am-yes, I am from London.”
Gwen shifts uneasily toward Rose and away, clasps her hands in front of her, and asks hesitantly, “Why’s that funny?”
Rose moves in her chair, taps her fingers against aging paper, and says, “It’s not.” She tucks her hair behind her ear and turns herself back in toward her books. “It’s not funny at all,” she says softly. Gwen stands still a moment or two, tucks her hands into the back pockets of her jeans, and then turns and leaves for the night. When she gets home, she still hears Rose’s laugh loud and sad off the walls of the hub, and it takes her longer than usual to fall asleep, Rhys’ body heavy beside her own. She turns in toward him, drapes her leg across his, and tries to fall asleep, but every time she shuts her eyes, she sees blonde hair and hears coarse, sad laughter. The sun creeps in around the curtains before she finally falls asleep.
--
It’s one of those nights, and there are no dead bodies, no blood or tears, and they’re all at the pub drinking and laughing and feeling alive. Gwen and Rose take a shot of something Owen ordered and Rose spills half of it down her chin. She laughs as she wipes it away with sweet, sticky fingers, a high, pealing laugh that Gwen has never heard before. It makes her smile. Owen keeps his fingers tight around Tosh’s knee under the table, and they finally leave some time after 2, David ushering them both out, an arm around each one. The light in the pub is dimmed by cigarette smoke and Rose squints her eyes at Gwen, stares at the dark shine of her hair, the way it falls across her forehead. She leans forward, wraps her fingers tight around Gwen’s wrist and whispers, “I knew you when you died.”
Gwen sits back suddenly, pulling her arm away from Rose’s touch. Rose leans back, sinks her shoulders deep into the leather of the booth and smiles.
--
They find the glove in an old, wooden box in an abandoned country home an hour outside Cardiff on a wet, windy day. When they get back to the hub, the water’s falling faster and louder than usual from the rift machine up above and there’s a melancholy sound around the whole room. They set it on an examining table in the autopsy round and stand and stare at it a few long minutes before Owen eventually says, “Well, what the fuck is it?”
Gwen stands in the corner with an odd feeling in the pit of her stomach, a tight, fierce knot just below her navel and a tingle in her fingers, the desire so strong to reach out and touch the glove, to run her fingertips against the solid, shiny metal. She clenches and unclenches each fist and takes a small step forward and doesn’t say a word.
David walks closer to the table, sets his large hands wide on either side of the glove and peers down at it, leaning his face in close and widening his eyes to take in every angle. He lets out a long breath and leans back, crosses his arms in front of his chest, and says, “Beats the hell out of me. Tosh, take a look at it, will you? Everyone else get back to work.”
Rose and Owen climb the steps quickly and head back to their stations, David not far behind. Gwen stands just at the foot of the steps, one hand on the rail, and watches Tosh wrap the glove in thick cloth and hold it tight in her small, slender hands. Gwen’s palms start to buzz and she climbs the steps quick, the metal rail cool against her hand.
--
It’s three weeks before they figure out that the glove probably has restorative powers of some kind, and eventually they all end up back in the autopsy round again, a freshly killed body between them. David tries the glove first and his face is tight and controlled as he places his hands on the body, the glove large and heavy on the dead man’s flesh. David groans and sighs and mutters curses under his breath, but still the dead man doesn’t move. David backs away finally, throws his hands above his head and yells out, pulling the glove off fiercely. It dangles from his hand as he walks past Gwen and she curbs an almost irresistible urge to reach out and touch it. When she looks away from it, she sees Rose watching her, a narrow, curious expression on her face.
“Give it to Gwen,” Rose says, her hands tight on the railing. Gwen looks up sharply, over to Rose and down to David. David gives Rose a look, a secretive flash of his eyes, and she nods slightly, says, “Trust me, David. It’ll work for her.”
When she’s next to the body with the glove on her hand, she feels impossibly small and unbearably fragile. The glove is too big, too heavy, and she has trouble holding it up and moving it as she likes. The metal heats under her fingertips, goes from cold and foreign to warm and familiar in too fast a time to be natural. Her eyes widen with fear as she looks around the room at all of them, Owen and Tosh to one side looking fearful, David and Rose to the other looking expectant.
“Do you feel anything?” David asks. “Does it feel … natural at all? Like you know what to do with it?”
Gwen swallows hard and looks down at the body, the soft, neutral expression of a homeless man found out in the park. She raises her hand in the too-large glove and places it softly on the back of his head, the metal fingers spread through his thin, grey hair.
Immediately she feels a jerk from behind her rib cage, a hard, hollow tug that pulls her closer to the body, and she gasps loudly just as the man beside her does, his eyes opening wide with fright. She looks up bewildered and everyone’s face has the same shocked expression, equal parts horror and intrigue.
“Where am I?” The man’s shouts echo off the autopsy round’s walls, and Gwen opens and closes her mouth without saying anything, too shocked to speak. David, Owen and Tosh lean closer in to the body, the living, breathing corpse of a man and pepper him with questions while Gwen stands stock still, skin pimpled and breath shaking. When she looks at Rose, she’s not looking at the body-her eyes are stuck fast on Gwen’s and she doesn’t look away.
--
They’re in the pub again one night, but somber, sad-they’ve failed to protect a young girl, and Gwen still has her blood under her fingernails. She throws back shot after shot of whisky, but still there’s an ache, firm and unrelenting, behind her eyes, behind her ribs. She runs her hands over her eyes, smoothes the skin of her forehead, tries to force the worry and sadness away, but instead she meets David’s eyes over the table. He’s looking at her hard, brow low.
When she excuses herself to use the toilet, she sees David follow her, and she stops in the hallway outside the ladies’, waits for him to catch up. She’s slumped against the wall with her head down when he gets there, and he stops firm in front of her, raising her chin with his fingers.
“Gwen, sometimes you’ve got to let it roll off you,” he says. “I know it’s hard, especially a case like this, but-you can’t let them all get to you or-” He fades away when her eyes start to fill, and moves his hand to cup her cheek. He rubs his thumb against her skin and involuntarily she leans into his palm. She can rememer the girl’s shining hair, and her bright eyes, and her gap-toothed grin, and she drops her chin to hide the sudden fall of her tears.
“Gwen, come on,” David says, forcing her face up, leaning his forehead against her own. “Please, don’t let this break you down.”
Gwen squeezes her eyes shut, swallows the lump in her throat. Her tears start to slow and she’s suddenly incredibly aware of David’s breath hot against her cheek. When she tilts her face up, his lips are inches from hers and she thinks, or she imagines, or she hopes, that she feels him lean in toward her, strong and solid and alive, and she waits and her eyes start to close.
And suddenly Rose is there, fast around the corner and stopping short at the sight of them. Rose’s neck snaps back and she makes to turn around, but David’s voice stops her short as he clears his throat, says, “Helping out a friend, Rose. This was a tough one.” His voice is firm and Rose looks up, catches Gwen’s eyes with her hard, piercing look. There’s something accusatory in her gaze, something trying and sad and disappointed, and Gwen feels inexplicably guilty and caught. Rose looks away quick, mutters, “Of course,” as she pushes past them and into the ladies’ room.
David looks at her, nods quick and walks away. Gwen stands a moment, wanting to follow Rose and explain herself, but stuck fast. She’d tell her of the tightness in her hands and the ache in her chest, the image of the girl she can’t shake when she closes her eyes. Gwen would press her hands to Rose’s waist and move them up, against her ribs, and higher, until the brown curls and the gap-toothed grin she keeps seeing go away. She’d let Rose’s breath hot against her neck soothe the tightness there, let the pads of her fingers work the worry away from the small of her back. Suddenly, she thinks of Rhys, of his warm smile and kind eyes, and a heavy knot of guilt hits her hard in the chest. She’s quick to the table to collect her things, make her excuses, and she hurries home.
She’s gone before Rose returns, and the blonde doesn’t meet her eyes for what feels like the next week.
--
Rhys is getting suspicious of Gwen’s work, she can tell, so it’s no real surprise that he follows her one day, stays close and sneaks behind as she and the rest of the team try and stop a creature from infecting Cardiff’s water supply with a breeding primer. The alien is fast, quick, and he’s already blown up half the warehouse before they take him.
It’s only on the way out of the building that Tosh notices a body in the rubble, brown hair caked with dirt and limbs splayed unnaturally. They approach slowly, cautiously, and ten feet away Gwen stops fast, and breathes in hard, and knows.
She’s inconsolable as they hurry her and Rhys’ body back to the hub, and she sobs and howls and refuses to let go of his hand. She waits for him to open his eyes, to look at her and smile faintly and crack a joke, but he stays still and silent and cold.
Once he’s layed out on the autopsy round, Gwen is too exhausted to speak, too worn and weary and still in shock. The rest of the team stands around her, all of them wary, trying to be supportive. It’s nearly half an hour before she speaks.
“What about the glove?” she asks, voice hoarse and shaking. She looks around frantically, finally settles on David’s eyes as her own start to fill once again. “We can bring him back, I can see him, I can say-” But the lump in her throat forces its way up, and she lets out a loud sob and lays her head down on the table, the skin of his arm cold against her forehead.
When she looks up again, David’s lips are tight, his jaw firm, and he breathes out and shakes his head. “Gwen, we can’t,” he whispers. His eyes never leave hers, even as she stands and takes a step toward him, still never letting go of Rhys’ hand.
“Why not?” she shouts, voice loud of the walls, bouncing back at her, making her wince at her own sad desperation. “Please, David. I have to see him again, I have to. I have to say goodbye!” She’s furious and crazed and wild with grief, looking at all of them in turn, eyes wide and pleading. “Please! Please!” She feels her knees start to buckle as her voice gives out, and suddenly Rose is behind her, arms tight around her body. Gwen feels Rose’s chest pressed to her back, feels the weight behind her, supporting her, as she finally let’s go of Rhys’ hand and brings both of her own to cover her face. Rose holds her as she sobs, Rose’s own tears falling into Gwen’s hair.
--
Gwen spends the next six months in the hub, rarely leaving to do field work, instead doing analysis and research and forcing the ache in her chest to go away.
Rose is there. Bringing her chips or curry or steaming mugs of tea. She usually sets them on Gwen’s desk and sits and waits until the brunette takes a bite or a sip or says anything at all. They are largely silent visits, full of Gwen’s sighs and Rose’s fingernails drumming against the desk as she hums low to herself.
Six months in, and Gwen starts to feel the pressure ease, the tightness behind her eyes slowly fade. One night, just the two of them left behind, Rose brings Gwen a cup of tea and as she leans back, Gwen catches her hand, feels Rose’s fingers hot and soft in her own. She brings Rose’s hand to her lips and kisses the fingers, gently, grateful.
“Thank you,” she whispers, and her voice is low and rough. She wants to say more, to find the words to tell Rose how thankful she is, how much these long, silent nights have meant to her, how the ways she’s healed and put herself back together are largely due to Rose’s quiet, constant presence and the lift of her voice as she hums. She opens her mouth, but nothing comes, so instead she squeezes Rose’s fingers and doesn’t let go.
She feels Rose lay a hand gently on the crown of her head, smooth her hair for just a second before she’s tilting Gwen’s head back and laying a soft, reassuring kiss to her temple. She stays like that, just for a moment, before she straightens up and says, “You’re welcome.” She returns a squeeze of Gwen’s fingers and then pulls them slowly away and leaves. Gwen stays in the hub until the tea is cold.
--
It’s then that Gwen notices Rose staring, the way her eyes always find Gwen as she moves around the hub. The way they follow her from Tosh’s desk to David’s office, from the autopsy round down the hallway to the holding cells. Everytime she catches Rose’s eyes following her, she looks back, unflinching, until the other woman looks away. It’s like this for days, weeks, until eventually Rose stops shifting her gaze when she’s caught. She begins to hold Gwen’s eyes steadily, surely, until the tips of Gwen’s fingers begin to tingle and she feels her heart beat quick in her chest. She feels guilty at first, thinks of Rhys and the feel of his hands on her hips and the soft of his lips against her shoulder. She doesn’t stop.
Gwen finds herself pausing as she moves, hitting and holding poses as she works, swinging her hips just so when she feels Rose’s eyes on her. She sits straighter, her spine lengthening out and her shoulders thrust back; she lets her hair fall into her eyes and is conscious of the bend of her wrist and the fall of her fingers as she pushes it slowly behind her ear. She stops finding Rose’s gaze, so sure is she of the blonde’s eyes on her body, on the lines of her shoulders and the slim of her waist, on the curve of her neck and the rise and fall of her chest. When she does meet Rose’s eyes across the hub, her breath steals from her body, but she doesn’t look away.
Gwen finds herself staying later and later, making excuses to stay behind. Rose does the same. One night as David’s leaving, Gwen follows him down the ramp, past her own desk, and stops just in front of Rose’s. “Night, David, see you tomorrow,” she says. She snakes a hand through her hair after she hears the gate click shut, and she’s sure to bring her fingers slow against the side of her neck, down to the flat of her chest, so sure is she of Rose’s eyes held fast to her movements.
She turns around without meeting Rose’s eyes, but quickly hears the fast fall of footsteps behind her. She slows, hears Rose catch up and stop, listens to the quick rise and fall of Rose’s breath. She pictures the blonde’s chest moving up and down, the fall of her hair against her shoulders and the small, wanting round of her lips.
Gwen turns, slowly, cautious, curious, and suddenly Rose’s hands are on her elbows and her back is being pressed against the cold tile of the wall. Rose is shorter, but not by much, so when she leans up and presses her lips against Gwen’s their noses brush and their chins bump together.
Then Rose snakes her hand up the front of Gwen’s shirt, settles her fingers against Gwen’s ribs and her eyes go wide. Like she was expecting something else, someone else-someone slimmer, more slender, someone narrower in the places Gwen is curved, someone longer in the places she is small. Rose digs her thumb into the space below Gwen’s ribs, tightens her other hand around Gwen’s wrist. Gwen raises her free hand to the plane of Rose’s back, feels the ends of her blonde hair tickle the back of her hand. Involuntarily, she leans forward, leans in, and shuts her eyes.
Rose’s hands are smaller on her than she is used to, and Gwen thinks of Rhys, feels his hands spread wide on her back, his fingers thick against her, as Rose’s slender hands are on her, her fingers narrow and small. Gwen almost starts to cry, but doesn’t. She shivers against the chill of the autopsy table against her bare back, and against Rose’s hand and later her mouth, bucking her hips with her eyes and her lips shut tight. When she meets Rose’s eyes-which are so often closed or pointed to the ceiling or down and away-they are soft and sad, and even when Gwen finally cries out, Rose is silent. Gwen reaches up, pushes a clump of hair off Rose’s forehead; Rose turns away.
--
In the weeks after, the mood between them is hesitant, calm, and Rose keeps her eyes on her books while Gwen stays most often at her desk. Still, Rose brings Gwen tea, silently, and sits beside her as she does her research, humming lower and lower to herself. Even as their hands meet over Gwen’s desk and their fingers linger one moment, then two, before falling into their laps, they are silent.