A humble offering of fanfic.
Well, I decided to take part in
tkurogrym 's summer ficathon, which is basically a round-robin, low-stress type of thing, and as it turned out, I'm writing the second chapter! So, here's where we left off:
http://tkurogrym.livejournal.com/43719.html#cutid1
In case you can't view the link, here's the cut of the chapter text, written by Grym herself:
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A BEGINNING . . . UNTITLED
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Shouldering open the TARDIS door, the Doctor staggered inside and up the metal ramp. Rose’s limp form was cradled against his chest, her eyes closed, the silver tracks of tears gleaming dully in the amber light of the console room. His arms shook with effort. His muscles burned as if he had been running for his life, for their lives. Stumbling slightly, he fought the weariness that wanted to drag him to the floor and pull his precious burden from his grasp.
One step. Two.
He mounted the central dais and paused to lean heavily against the closest coral strut. As he caught his breath, he stared down into the face of the young girl who had just saved the world (saved him, risked everything that mattered to him), and frowned in momentary confusion. She seemed to be trembling in time with him, falling away slowly. Horrified, he tried to pull her closer, but his fingers refused to tighten. “Rose-“ he gasped, before his legs gave out and they both sank to the floor in an awkward slump.
He almost didn’t hear his own relieved laughter, breathy and broken.
The Time Lord allowed the metal grating to take Rose’s weight, gently cupping her head with one long-fingered hand, reluctant to look away from her. He had almost lost her. His mind played back the last several minutes: the TARDIS’ reappearance, Rose emerging in a wash of golden flame, the disintegration of the Dalek fleet, the terrible fire in her eyes as the Time Vortex ravaged its brave, frail human vessel.
When he kissed her (kissed Rose!), he had suspected there would be repercussions for one or both of them, but he had a better chance to command the flow and flux of energy, to rein it in and return it to its rightful place. Although it had willingly surged back into the console, the Doctor could still feel the cold emptiness of space in the pit of his stomach. The overwhelming song of time still raged through his mind like fever, unchecked.
He took another shaky breath, coughed, then heaved himself to his feet. The room spun for a moment, but he managed to catch himself on the edge of the console and close his eyes against the pain that flared behind them. Not even a Time Lord was meant to absorb raw Vortex energy, commune with it, control it. There has to be a price.
Licking his lips, he swallowed the uncomfortable taste of metal and stardust that lingered in the back of his throat.
“Doctor?” A hesitant tenor voice.
The Doctor’s head shot up, knuckles whitening on the console. “Jack,” he rasped, staring in shock at the former Time Agent now standing in the open door. “You’re alive? How’re you alive?” I bring life, she said.
Leather vest open over his burned white t-shirt, Jack Harkness raced up the walkway and fell to his knees beside Rose’s prone form. “My god, what’s happened to her? I thought you said you sent her away!” His fingers flickered to her pulse point, then to the hollow of her breasts, searching for the easy rise and fall of breath.
“Oi!” the Doctor groused. “No groping on my ship, Captain. She’s fine. Or probably fine.” He closed his eyes. What has she done? To all of us? “She has to be fine. An’ - she came back. No, don’t ask me how. Don’t think I really want to know. Doubt she remembers, anyway.”
He could feel Jack’s eyes on him now, feel the shift in the room’s temperature as the other man closed the distance between them in a single long stride.
“And you? Are you okay, too?”
Hot human hands captured his face, and the Doctor pulled away with a growl. “Will be.” When Jack reached for him again, he sidestepped without relinquishing his hold on the console. “Told ya. Buy me a drink first.” He gave him a flashfire grin, reassuring but gone in a second.
Jack looked uncertain, frowning at the Doctor, his eyes flicking from the older man’s face to his tight grip, and back again. But before he could pursue the matter, a soft moan came from behind him and both men rushed to Rose’s side. Jack caught her up in his arms immediately, murmuring to her, as the Doctor settled somewhat unsteadily beside them.
Her eyes fluttered open, bleary. “Jack--?” She blinked, rubbing her face with one hand. “Wha- Wha’ happened? Doctor?” Her eyes widened suddenly and she sat up, staring around in a panic.
The Doctor reached for her hand, gripping it tightly in his. “Right here, Rose. I’m here.” His low voice was gentle yet insistent. “We’re all here.”
Rose sniffled and caught her breath. “But - it feels like we can’t be…we shouldn’t be,” she responded, looking confused and a little scared. “What happened? Jack?” She looked up into the handsome face, searching for answers.
“Shhhh,” Jack pulled her against him in a brief, warm hug, placing a chaste kiss on the top of her head. “Doesn’t matter. You’re fine. We’re here. The Daleks are gone.” He gave the Doctor a sheepish look over the top of her head and let her go.
But the Time Lord wasn’t watching them. His eyes were shut, his rangy frame shivering beneath the battered leather. He hissed softly through clenched teeth and coughed out a wisp of golden light. He didn’t see Jack helping Rose to her feet or the two of them reaching out to him before the darkness came.
. . . to be continued (by someone else) . . .
Rules and all the technical aspects of this endeavor are all outlined in Grym's post (edit: It was just pointed out to me that her post is f-locked. I'll post the rules here when I get a chance.) After that is where I come in. My bit is probably not that great, as I haven't written DW fic, well, ever, and haven't written anything complete in quite awhile. Concrit and critique is very much welcomed. But on the off chance that this bit sucks completely and irredeemably, just lie to me and say it's fantastic. :)
If you'd like to join in, just leave a comment below so we can wait for your lovely addition to this fic. Can't wait to see where it all goes!
Chapter 2: "A (Half-Formed) Plan"
There were certain details Jack would always remember about traveling with the Doctor. He couldn't forget the jump of his stomach every time they set off for a new destination, or the infectious fun of teasing Rose (and by proxy, the Doctor, though the Time Lord would never admit to it) about their shocking lack of sex lives, at every possible and inopportune moment. The feeling of being accepted, trusted, and maybe even loved by his friends. The fact that he had friends at all, after everything he had been through; that alone was something he'd wanted to internalize forever.
One thing Jack never expected to remember much about was the concept of regeneration. With regard to Time Lords, his knowledge on the subject was sketchy at best, and not even firsthand. As if the Doctor would actually jump to volunteer information about his past. That guy would rather jump from a burning bridge. Hell, he'd probably jumped from several already, considering how their adventures kept turning out.
At any rate, Jack had learned what he knew about regeneration from the archival files of the Time Agency. After finding out about his missing two years, he'd hacked into the Agency database to hunt down information about reprogramming -- genetic, mnemonic -- all types. Just in case they had experimented with him, in case they had caused the damage, he wanted all bases covered.
And though he never found any evidence for his case, the few files about the Time Lords proved to be interesting reading in the long run. Frustrating, too. Facts, opinions, and statements on the subject were always contradictory. After each source would vaguely mention the topic of regeneration, usually in a "rumor has it" context, the reference was used to segway into a mind-numbing lecture about the expectations (code: life-expectancy) of most Time Agents.
What Jack did remember from those files -- the one, consistent idea -- was that regeneration prevented the death of a Time Lord, and that it was excruciatingly painful. The Time Lord's cells had to both shut down and re-calibrate in order to change their structure, forcing them into a kind of genetic meltdown. He could never bring himself to imagine how that pain felt; it was a kind of agony which seemed impossible to comprehend until tonight. Jack was sure he had a better understanding of it now.
I bring life. Rose’s voice - the sound of it was unmistakable -- had ripped him away from the blackness, from death itself. The feeling was beautiful, terrible, and unbelievably excruciating. It was probably the worst sensation he’d ever felt, including that one weekend in Barcelona, where he’d consumed six shots of a drink named the “Defibrillator” and woke up the next morning feeling like he’d been skinned alive.
In comparison to being resurrected, that experience was like floating on sunshine. From the nuclei up through the skin, being resurrected felt like he was being incinerated from the inside out. Jack figured the process was probably more painful than dying, because most people expect to die painfully. He’d been prepared to die in agony when facing that Dalek, after all, but who expects to begin life that way?
This tiny, compartmentalized version of regeneration, or whatever you’d call it, was something Jack would always remember, always recognize. It’s hard not to notice when someone is in that type of complete and utter pain. It was how Jack caught the imperceptible, but unmistakably fraught expression on the Doctor’s face, indicating things were Not Okay. Indicating that he was somehow vulnerable.
That look, though fleeting and brief, was how Jack knew to tend to Rose first, to calm and reassure her -- because the Doctor was going to need all the support he could get. It was how Jack knew to keep an eye on the man, however obviously, to make sure he didn’t collapse onto the TARDIS console and lose all self-respect in the process.
After that, Jack would rely mostly on guesswork and some rusty improv skills. He hoped that he was doing the right thing. He hoped, selfishly, that the Doctor wasn’t regenerating at all -- just had some sort of mythical Time Lordian flu. He hoped that his stupid, half-formed plan just might work.
“All right,” he exhaled, looking from the prone form of the Doctor back to a visibly concerned Rose, “I’ll need two -- no, three -- small towels, some hot water, and a change of clothes for him. And before you ask, that’s not an invite to personally undress him. Much as I’d like to.” Jack forced himself to joke a little, pushing anxiety to the back of his mind.
“Right. Okay.” Rose swallowed, as if nervous, but the look on her face was hard and determined. “While you’re gettin’ that; what can I do?”
“The most important thing of all. Actually, what you English do best. Put the kettle on.”
<><><>TO BE CONTINUED <><><>
tkurogrym 's summer ficathon, which is basically a round-robin, low-stress type of thing, and as it turned out, I'm writing the second chapter! So, here's where we left off:
http://tkurogrym.livejournal.com/43719.html#cutid1
In case you can't view the link, here's the cut of the chapter text, written by Grym herself:
<> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <>
A BEGINNING . . . UNTITLED
<> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <>
Shouldering open the TARDIS door, the Doctor staggered inside and up the metal ramp. Rose’s limp form was cradled against his chest, her eyes closed, the silver tracks of tears gleaming dully in the amber light of the console room. His arms shook with effort. His muscles burned as if he had been running for his life, for their lives. Stumbling slightly, he fought the weariness that wanted to drag him to the floor and pull his precious burden from his grasp.
One step. Two.
He mounted the central dais and paused to lean heavily against the closest coral strut. As he caught his breath, he stared down into the face of the young girl who had just saved the world (saved him, risked everything that mattered to him), and frowned in momentary confusion. She seemed to be trembling in time with him, falling away slowly. Horrified, he tried to pull her closer, but his fingers refused to tighten. “Rose-“ he gasped, before his legs gave out and they both sank to the floor in an awkward slump.
He almost didn’t hear his own relieved laughter, breathy and broken.
The Time Lord allowed the metal grating to take Rose’s weight, gently cupping her head with one long-fingered hand, reluctant to look away from her. He had almost lost her. His mind played back the last several minutes: the TARDIS’ reappearance, Rose emerging in a wash of golden flame, the disintegration of the Dalek fleet, the terrible fire in her eyes as the Time Vortex ravaged its brave, frail human vessel.
When he kissed her (kissed Rose!), he had suspected there would be repercussions for one or both of them, but he had a better chance to command the flow and flux of energy, to rein it in and return it to its rightful place. Although it had willingly surged back into the console, the Doctor could still feel the cold emptiness of space in the pit of his stomach. The overwhelming song of time still raged through his mind like fever, unchecked.
He took another shaky breath, coughed, then heaved himself to his feet. The room spun for a moment, but he managed to catch himself on the edge of the console and close his eyes against the pain that flared behind them. Not even a Time Lord was meant to absorb raw Vortex energy, commune with it, control it. There has to be a price.
Licking his lips, he swallowed the uncomfortable taste of metal and stardust that lingered in the back of his throat.
“Doctor?” A hesitant tenor voice.
The Doctor’s head shot up, knuckles whitening on the console. “Jack,” he rasped, staring in shock at the former Time Agent now standing in the open door. “You’re alive? How’re you alive?” I bring life, she said.
Leather vest open over his burned white t-shirt, Jack Harkness raced up the walkway and fell to his knees beside Rose’s prone form. “My god, what’s happened to her? I thought you said you sent her away!” His fingers flickered to her pulse point, then to the hollow of her breasts, searching for the easy rise and fall of breath.
“Oi!” the Doctor groused. “No groping on my ship, Captain. She’s fine. Or probably fine.” He closed his eyes. What has she done? To all of us? “She has to be fine. An’ - she came back. No, don’t ask me how. Don’t think I really want to know. Doubt she remembers, anyway.”
He could feel Jack’s eyes on him now, feel the shift in the room’s temperature as the other man closed the distance between them in a single long stride.
“And you? Are you okay, too?”
Hot human hands captured his face, and the Doctor pulled away with a growl. “Will be.” When Jack reached for him again, he sidestepped without relinquishing his hold on the console. “Told ya. Buy me a drink first.” He gave him a flashfire grin, reassuring but gone in a second.
Jack looked uncertain, frowning at the Doctor, his eyes flicking from the older man’s face to his tight grip, and back again. But before he could pursue the matter, a soft moan came from behind him and both men rushed to Rose’s side. Jack caught her up in his arms immediately, murmuring to her, as the Doctor settled somewhat unsteadily beside them.
Her eyes fluttered open, bleary. “Jack--?” She blinked, rubbing her face with one hand. “Wha- Wha’ happened? Doctor?” Her eyes widened suddenly and she sat up, staring around in a panic.
The Doctor reached for her hand, gripping it tightly in his. “Right here, Rose. I’m here.” His low voice was gentle yet insistent. “We’re all here.”
Rose sniffled and caught her breath. “But - it feels like we can’t be…we shouldn’t be,” she responded, looking confused and a little scared. “What happened? Jack?” She looked up into the handsome face, searching for answers.
“Shhhh,” Jack pulled her against him in a brief, warm hug, placing a chaste kiss on the top of her head. “Doesn’t matter. You’re fine. We’re here. The Daleks are gone.” He gave the Doctor a sheepish look over the top of her head and let her go.
But the Time Lord wasn’t watching them. His eyes were shut, his rangy frame shivering beneath the battered leather. He hissed softly through clenched teeth and coughed out a wisp of golden light. He didn’t see Jack helping Rose to her feet or the two of them reaching out to him before the darkness came.
. . . to be continued (by someone else) . . .
Rules and all the technical aspects of this endeavor are all outlined in Grym's post (edit: It was just pointed out to me that her post is f-locked. I'll post the rules here when I get a chance.) After that is where I come in. My bit is probably not that great, as I haven't written DW fic, well, ever, and haven't written anything complete in quite awhile. Concrit and critique is very much welcomed. But on the off chance that this bit sucks completely and irredeemably, just lie to me and say it's fantastic. :)
If you'd like to join in, just leave a comment below so we can wait for your lovely addition to this fic. Can't wait to see where it all goes!
Chapter 2: "A (Half-Formed) Plan"
There were certain details Jack would always remember about traveling with the Doctor. He couldn't forget the jump of his stomach every time they set off for a new destination, or the infectious fun of teasing Rose (and by proxy, the Doctor, though the Time Lord would never admit to it) about their shocking lack of sex lives, at every possible and inopportune moment. The feeling of being accepted, trusted, and maybe even loved by his friends. The fact that he had friends at all, after everything he had been through; that alone was something he'd wanted to internalize forever.
One thing Jack never expected to remember much about was the concept of regeneration. With regard to Time Lords, his knowledge on the subject was sketchy at best, and not even firsthand. As if the Doctor would actually jump to volunteer information about his past. That guy would rather jump from a burning bridge. Hell, he'd probably jumped from several already, considering how their adventures kept turning out.
At any rate, Jack had learned what he knew about regeneration from the archival files of the Time Agency. After finding out about his missing two years, he'd hacked into the Agency database to hunt down information about reprogramming -- genetic, mnemonic -- all types. Just in case they had experimented with him, in case they had caused the damage, he wanted all bases covered.
And though he never found any evidence for his case, the few files about the Time Lords proved to be interesting reading in the long run. Frustrating, too. Facts, opinions, and statements on the subject were always contradictory. After each source would vaguely mention the topic of regeneration, usually in a "rumor has it" context, the reference was used to segway into a mind-numbing lecture about the expectations (code: life-expectancy) of most Time Agents.
What Jack did remember from those files -- the one, consistent idea -- was that regeneration prevented the death of a Time Lord, and that it was excruciatingly painful. The Time Lord's cells had to both shut down and re-calibrate in order to change their structure, forcing them into a kind of genetic meltdown. He could never bring himself to imagine how that pain felt; it was a kind of agony which seemed impossible to comprehend until tonight. Jack was sure he had a better understanding of it now.
I bring life. Rose’s voice - the sound of it was unmistakable -- had ripped him away from the blackness, from death itself. The feeling was beautiful, terrible, and unbelievably excruciating. It was probably the worst sensation he’d ever felt, including that one weekend in Barcelona, where he’d consumed six shots of a drink named the “Defibrillator” and woke up the next morning feeling like he’d been skinned alive.
In comparison to being resurrected, that experience was like floating on sunshine. From the nuclei up through the skin, being resurrected felt like he was being incinerated from the inside out. Jack figured the process was probably more painful than dying, because most people expect to die painfully. He’d been prepared to die in agony when facing that Dalek, after all, but who expects to begin life that way?
This tiny, compartmentalized version of regeneration, or whatever you’d call it, was something Jack would always remember, always recognize. It’s hard not to notice when someone is in that type of complete and utter pain. It was how Jack caught the imperceptible, but unmistakably fraught expression on the Doctor’s face, indicating things were Not Okay. Indicating that he was somehow vulnerable.
That look, though fleeting and brief, was how Jack knew to tend to Rose first, to calm and reassure her -- because the Doctor was going to need all the support he could get. It was how Jack knew to keep an eye on the man, however obviously, to make sure he didn’t collapse onto the TARDIS console and lose all self-respect in the process.
After that, Jack would rely mostly on guesswork and some rusty improv skills. He hoped that he was doing the right thing. He hoped, selfishly, that the Doctor wasn’t regenerating at all -- just had some sort of mythical Time Lordian flu. He hoped that his stupid, half-formed plan just might work.
“All right,” he exhaled, looking from the prone form of the Doctor back to a visibly concerned Rose, “I’ll need two -- no, three -- small towels, some hot water, and a change of clothes for him. And before you ask, that’s not an invite to personally undress him. Much as I’d like to.” Jack forced himself to joke a little, pushing anxiety to the back of his mind.
“Right. Okay.” Rose swallowed, as if nervous, but the look on her face was hard and determined. “While you’re gettin’ that; what can I do?”
“The most important thing of all. Actually, what you English do best. Put the kettle on.”
<><><>TO BE CONTINUED <><><>