No More, Jack/John, PG-13 (Pride)
Modly mod, may I have a Cpt. John Hart tag, please?
Pairing: Jack/John Hart
Challenge: 22 Pride
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Confusing pronouns (see Note). I think that's all. Oh, pre-series and a whole bunch of let's-make-up-an-Agency.
Spoilers: None, but general for "Kiss Kiss Bang Bang," I guess, for some CJH backstory.
Note: Captain John Hart is still a Captain John of some sort in this time line. Since I like that we never get Jack’s name before the events of “The Empty Child,” he won’t be getting one. Thus, the pronouns get a bit tricky. Stay with me, folks.
No More
There was a time when being a Time Agent meant something. There was a time when he would walk the halls in his uniform a proud man, a tall man, a powerful man. He felt like someone who mattered, someone who was making a difference in the universe. He felt a part of some greater good.
It all changed so fast.
“Just stop touching me!” For the hundredth time that hour, he wrestled out of John’s grip. The other man wasn’t getting the message. No matter how much force he put into his deflections, John kept coming back. His hands were cold and clammy. They were rough and calloused. They made him feel ill. And they kept coming back.
“Come on,” John chuckled into his ear. “I wanna have some fun.”
Even John’s voice was enough to make him physically ill. He clenched his fists and fought the urge to bury his pen in John’s eye, or throat, or even those hands. Anything to get him to stop.
“Come on. Leave the ancient composition to the Greeks. The Romans had better ideas.” His hands came back again and those lips actually touched his ear.
He shivered. It was all wrong. It was just all wrong.
Yesterday, John and he weren’t on speaking terms. It happened on occasion. Yesterday, they were separated, even assigned other partners. They’d get together in a month or so, as they usually did, in a night of sex, drugs, and booze. Today, John was acting like nothing ever happened. Yesterday, Jack read the morning bulletin. Today, Jack read the morning bulletin. Yesterday was apparently two years ago, and no one seemed to notice. He’d gone to his superiors. They’d blankly stared and him until he left. He’d questioned his fellow officers. They’d laughed at him. Two years. Two whole years, and John just wanted to have sex!
He was writing a letter to the High Commissioner. Surely she' would look into the matter. Any agent who jumped two years was surely a problem! A letter would get her attention. She’d listen instead of just thinking he was mad or joking or . . .
“John?”
“Yeah, babe?”
“What’d we do yesterday?”
John’s arms fell from their snake-like hold around him. “Why?”
“I can’t remember.”
“You know what we did, mate.”
“No. I don’t. Tell me.”
“You know.”
“Humor me, then.”
John slowly backed away.
“Tell me, John.”
“We had fantastic sex.”
“You’re lying.”
“Drop it, Boeshane,” he said, meaning the conversation was over.
It used to mean something to be a Time Agent, to have friends, to love his job. It used to mean being welcomed into a privileged order, to have knowledge, to uphold laws. He used to be proud of this place. No more.
He looked in John’s eyes and painfully recalled the swift motion of his superiors closing a file on their desks marked “classified.” He recalled the shifting eyes of his comrades. They knew. They all knew, except for him.
No more.
Pairing: Jack/John Hart
Challenge: 22 Pride
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Confusing pronouns (see Note). I think that's all. Oh, pre-series and a whole bunch of let's-make-up-an-Agency.
Spoilers: None, but general for "Kiss Kiss Bang Bang," I guess, for some CJH backstory.
Note: Captain John Hart is still a Captain John of some sort in this time line. Since I like that we never get Jack’s name before the events of “The Empty Child,” he won’t be getting one. Thus, the pronouns get a bit tricky. Stay with me, folks.
No More
There was a time when being a Time Agent meant something. There was a time when he would walk the halls in his uniform a proud man, a tall man, a powerful man. He felt like someone who mattered, someone who was making a difference in the universe. He felt a part of some greater good.
It all changed so fast.
“Just stop touching me!” For the hundredth time that hour, he wrestled out of John’s grip. The other man wasn’t getting the message. No matter how much force he put into his deflections, John kept coming back. His hands were cold and clammy. They were rough and calloused. They made him feel ill. And they kept coming back.
“Come on,” John chuckled into his ear. “I wanna have some fun.”
Even John’s voice was enough to make him physically ill. He clenched his fists and fought the urge to bury his pen in John’s eye, or throat, or even those hands. Anything to get him to stop.
“Come on. Leave the ancient composition to the Greeks. The Romans had better ideas.” His hands came back again and those lips actually touched his ear.
He shivered. It was all wrong. It was just all wrong.
Yesterday, John and he weren’t on speaking terms. It happened on occasion. Yesterday, they were separated, even assigned other partners. They’d get together in a month or so, as they usually did, in a night of sex, drugs, and booze. Today, John was acting like nothing ever happened. Yesterday, Jack read the morning bulletin. Today, Jack read the morning bulletin. Yesterday was apparently two years ago, and no one seemed to notice. He’d gone to his superiors. They’d blankly stared and him until he left. He’d questioned his fellow officers. They’d laughed at him. Two years. Two whole years, and John just wanted to have sex!
He was writing a letter to the High Commissioner. Surely she' would look into the matter. Any agent who jumped two years was surely a problem! A letter would get her attention. She’d listen instead of just thinking he was mad or joking or . . .
“John?”
“Yeah, babe?”
“What’d we do yesterday?”
John’s arms fell from their snake-like hold around him. “Why?”
“I can’t remember.”
“You know what we did, mate.”
“No. I don’t. Tell me.”
“You know.”
“Humor me, then.”
John slowly backed away.
“Tell me, John.”
“We had fantastic sex.”
“You’re lying.”
“Drop it, Boeshane,” he said, meaning the conversation was over.
It used to mean something to be a Time Agent, to have friends, to love his job. It used to mean being welcomed into a privileged order, to have knowledge, to uphold laws. He used to be proud of this place. No more.
He looked in John’s eyes and painfully recalled the swift motion of his superiors closing a file on their desks marked “classified.” He recalled the shifting eyes of his comrades. They knew. They all knew, except for him.
No more.