wojelah: Infinite and Finite (Jack/Ten) [G] - SUMMER HOLIDAYS PROMPT #13
Title: Infinite and Finite
Author: wojelah
Prompt: #13 - 35 passages, Georgia, keeper of the house, stargazing
Pairing: Jack/Ten
Rating: G
Summary: This used to be Georgia, he thinks, and the memory of peaches hits him dead on, sweet and golden, the smell and taste just out of his recollective reach.
There’s a year he doesn’t go anywhere.
What’s a year, he thinks idly, what’s a year when there are years without number?
Alaria smacks him. They’re lying on their backs on the top of the keep’s highest tower, the stone cold under his back. Above them, the stars stretch out across infinite distances, screened occasionally by shards of red and magenta and lurid green. Radiation shadows.
This used to be Georgia, he thinks, and the memory of peaches hits him dead on, sweet and golden, the smell and taste just out of his recollective reach. Peaches and brown hair and a blue box. They’d come here, Jack remembers. During the first Anthropocenic Depression. Before the Great Recession. Before the Schism. Back when there were no castles, and there was hunger, and hatred, and deep, deep divides. But there had been peaches, and people wanting to share them.
Alaria smacks him again, and he collects himself. “I said,” zhe grumbles at Jack, “every year you keep is another memory later.”
“For a while, at least,” Jack says. He’s not whining, not exactly.
She raises her hand, the pale skin slightly loose and spotted, and he mock-flinches. She laughs, whisky-warm, and he catches the flash of her white hair out of the corner of his eye and she shifts against the rock. It’s probably getting to her bones, Jack thinks.
She’s only 35 years old, as he used to reckon time here. Lifespans aren’t what they once were in these parts.
It’s a lovely night, even if it is chilly.
“It is,” Alaria agrees, but this time he knows he hadn’t said anything. “And that sky is a glory, so stop maundering on.”
“That’s cheating,” Jack says quietly.
“I think, this once, I’m allowed.” Her voice is barely a murmur. It seems right, somehow. They’re quiet for a while, till she says: “Tell me about peaches, Jack. I’ve been keeper of this place for twenty passages, and I’ve only seen them in books.”
He tries. He knows she’s listening with more than just her ears. He tries to call up peaches, the savor of them, the heft and perfume and beauty of a ruddy golden ball of summer. He tries, and tries, but then there’s a footstep and he’s distracted.
The newcomer settles cross-legged nearly out of sight, but not so far that Jack can’t see a flash of trainer and brown suiting.
“Well met,” Alaria says, and pauses for a breath. “Well met, Doctor.”
“Lady Keeper,” he says, and reaches out to lay a hand on hers.
“We were discussing peaches,” she says after a time.
“Lovely things.”
Jack says nothing.
“Were they?” she asks, wistful.
“Oh yes.”
“I can’t remember,” Jack says, and he can’t keep it from souring, for all his attempt at humor.
“I wish you could,” Alaria sighs. “You do remember things well, Jack Harkness. So much joy in you.”
He can’t say anything. But there’s a touch at his temple, and he’d bet there’s one at Alaria’s.
“May I?”
Jack does move then, turning his head to catch the Doctor’s eye, and even in the shadow-light, they’re warm and sad and all together too much, just now. But it’s Alaria, and he’s visited all her life, though never for so long as a year before. They look at each other, time stretching, as Alaria sits quietly, watching the sky. And then Jack nods, and reaches for the memory of summer fruit.
He hears her gasp of delight; her mind brushes his with a gentle flutter of warmth and joy. For a while, they hang there, the three of them, suspended in past, present, and fairytale. Then Alaria sighs, and it’s done.
The stone is quite cold, even through a woolen coat.
He stands, slowly, and walks to the edge of the parapet, peering over the crenellations, spotting the blue box tucked in a shadowy corner. He hears the Doctor rise, hears the brush of his hand against Alaria’s hair. A shoulder leans against his.
“It was a good year.” It’s not quite a question, not quite a certainty.
“I’m glad I stayed.”
“So am I,” the Doctor says. “I couldn’t.”
“But you found your way back in time.”
“Oh yes.”
“What’s a year, then?”
“Nothing at all, compared to some moments.”
They stand there, together, Alaria quiet and gone behind them, and the sky stretches out before them, infinite and finite, as their hands find each other, grasp, and hold.
Author: wojelah
Prompt: #13 - 35 passages, Georgia, keeper of the house, stargazing
Pairing: Jack/Ten
Rating: G
Summary: This used to be Georgia, he thinks, and the memory of peaches hits him dead on, sweet and golden, the smell and taste just out of his recollective reach.
There’s a year he doesn’t go anywhere.
What’s a year, he thinks idly, what’s a year when there are years without number?
Alaria smacks him. They’re lying on their backs on the top of the keep’s highest tower, the stone cold under his back. Above them, the stars stretch out across infinite distances, screened occasionally by shards of red and magenta and lurid green. Radiation shadows.
This used to be Georgia, he thinks, and the memory of peaches hits him dead on, sweet and golden, the smell and taste just out of his recollective reach. Peaches and brown hair and a blue box. They’d come here, Jack remembers. During the first Anthropocenic Depression. Before the Great Recession. Before the Schism. Back when there were no castles, and there was hunger, and hatred, and deep, deep divides. But there had been peaches, and people wanting to share them.
Alaria smacks him again, and he collects himself. “I said,” zhe grumbles at Jack, “every year you keep is another memory later.”
“For a while, at least,” Jack says. He’s not whining, not exactly.
She raises her hand, the pale skin slightly loose and spotted, and he mock-flinches. She laughs, whisky-warm, and he catches the flash of her white hair out of the corner of his eye and she shifts against the rock. It’s probably getting to her bones, Jack thinks.
She’s only 35 years old, as he used to reckon time here. Lifespans aren’t what they once were in these parts.
It’s a lovely night, even if it is chilly.
“It is,” Alaria agrees, but this time he knows he hadn’t said anything. “And that sky is a glory, so stop maundering on.”
“That’s cheating,” Jack says quietly.
“I think, this once, I’m allowed.” Her voice is barely a murmur. It seems right, somehow. They’re quiet for a while, till she says: “Tell me about peaches, Jack. I’ve been keeper of this place for twenty passages, and I’ve only seen them in books.”
He tries. He knows she’s listening with more than just her ears. He tries to call up peaches, the savor of them, the heft and perfume and beauty of a ruddy golden ball of summer. He tries, and tries, but then there’s a footstep and he’s distracted.
The newcomer settles cross-legged nearly out of sight, but not so far that Jack can’t see a flash of trainer and brown suiting.
“Well met,” Alaria says, and pauses for a breath. “Well met, Doctor.”
“Lady Keeper,” he says, and reaches out to lay a hand on hers.
“We were discussing peaches,” she says after a time.
“Lovely things.”
Jack says nothing.
“Were they?” she asks, wistful.
“Oh yes.”
“I can’t remember,” Jack says, and he can’t keep it from souring, for all his attempt at humor.
“I wish you could,” Alaria sighs. “You do remember things well, Jack Harkness. So much joy in you.”
He can’t say anything. But there’s a touch at his temple, and he’d bet there’s one at Alaria’s.
“May I?”
Jack does move then, turning his head to catch the Doctor’s eye, and even in the shadow-light, they’re warm and sad and all together too much, just now. But it’s Alaria, and he’s visited all her life, though never for so long as a year before. They look at each other, time stretching, as Alaria sits quietly, watching the sky. And then Jack nods, and reaches for the memory of summer fruit.
He hears her gasp of delight; her mind brushes his with a gentle flutter of warmth and joy. For a while, they hang there, the three of them, suspended in past, present, and fairytale. Then Alaria sighs, and it’s done.
The stone is quite cold, even through a woolen coat.
He stands, slowly, and walks to the edge of the parapet, peering over the crenellations, spotting the blue box tucked in a shadowy corner. He hears the Doctor rise, hears the brush of his hand against Alaria’s hair. A shoulder leans against his.
“It was a good year.” It’s not quite a question, not quite a certainty.
“I’m glad I stayed.”
“So am I,” the Doctor says. “I couldn’t.”
“But you found your way back in time.”
“Oh yes.”
“What’s a year, then?”
“Nothing at all, compared to some moments.”
They stand there, together, Alaria quiet and gone behind them, and the sky stretches out before them, infinite and finite, as their hands find each other, grasp, and hold.