Fic: An Overpowering Staleness (2/5)
Title: An Overpowering Staleness (2/5)
Betas: canaana, kae_nine & wendymr - Thank you, guys! All remaining mistakes are mine.
Rating: Adult (strong language, dark motives)
Spoilers: The Doctor Dances, Human Nature/The Family of Blood
Characters: Nine/Jack/Rose
Disclaimer: This is a work of fanfiction; the characters are the property of the BBC and used here without permission. No money was made.
Summary: The Doctor has to use the Chameleon Arch while traveling with Rose and Jack. What will happen, and how will it affect their relationship?
This story was written for sahiya, who very generously donated in the help_haiti auction. Her prompt will be revealed at the end.
This story is part of my Those We Love the Best-verse, but can stand on its own.
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
When he sees them again the next day, Rose hands him a Styrofoam mug of steaming hot soup. He holds it in his hands for a while, cupped close to his chest, just enjoying the warmth streaming out from the mug and seeping into his body before he even takes a sip of the soup. The weather is getting colder and colder each day. Seems like it'll be an unusually bad winter.
Rose is looking at him critically. She seems about to ask something, but Jack takes her hand and squeezes it, and she looks up at him. He gestures over her shoulder with his chin, and she looks around. Sees purple kid and goth kid, huddled closely together, a red scarf with colorful tassels wrapped around both of them.
Jack's far too observant for comfort. You have to be careful with the observant ones. An unguarded moment can tell them more about you than anyone in the world has any business knowing.
She turns back, beams at him, then looks at Jack. The two exchange a glance full of happiness, hope, relief - as if this is significant. As if it means something, besides the fact that an old war veteran has no use for a girly scarf like that. He's lived through worse than a bit of cold. He doesn’t need it. Doesn’t deserve it, either - not after what he's done.
Not that he can remember what that was, most days - but that's a good thing. Whenever he catches himself thinking about it too hard, he finds a drink to down or a fight to pick. But whatever it was, it means he doesn’t need kid gloves - or woollen scarves, as the case may be. Those snot-nosed kids, annoying as they may be, have more of a claim to that than him. And Rose clearly didn't need it, anyway, seeing how she's already got a new one. Purple and pink, this time, with a reindeer pattern. He shudders, hoping like hell that she won't give him that one, too.
Jack smiles at him. "Chippy?" he asks. Just that, as if them going for food together is a long-standing arrangement that doesn't even need to be discussed anymore.
He looks up, frowns. "You buy me a bottle again?"
Jack grins. "Nah. You've still got one."
How the hell did the bloke know- oh, right, he's holding it in his hand. Not the good stuff they got him, of course - he finished that this morning. But he still has most of a bottle of cheap gut-rot he got at Charlie's this afternoon in exchange for a bunch of small change people had given him and a bag full of deposit bottles.
He frowns up at Jack. "Why should I go with you, then?" What he really wants to ask is "Why do you want me with you?" but that question leads places he's not prepared to go.
Jack laughs - not ridiculing, but as if he's just told a jolly good joke. "Well, there's the food. And I'll buy you a beer after if you insist."
"Two," he counters immediately.
Jack nods. Rose shifts uncomfortably, but smiles at him. "Same place, then?"
He shrugs. Not like he cares where they go.
"Great. Let me just finish passing these out," Rose says, gesturing to the cardboard tray of soup mugs she's still balancing with her left.
Minutes later, they're on their way to the chippy once more, walking next to each other like they're friends or something. Rose is chattering about her latest shopping trip to the Trafford Centre - the source of the scarf, presumably - and Jack sends him a conspiratorial wink, as if to say "Birds and their thing for clothes, eh?"
To his own surprise, he finds himself grinning back, and meaning it. When he catches himself, he scowls all the harder to make up for it.
*****
They keep on like this for a few days. Regular trips to the chippy, or the little Indian place by the market - though John suspects that at the latter place, Jack has to actually bribe the owner to let John eat there. Sometimes they buy him a bottle, sometimes he just gets beer or a spiked coffee. But they're always generous with the food - he actually thinks he's gaining some weight, which is probably just as well, though it makes it harder to get drunk. And they always keep the conversation to meaningless chatter, and don't seem to mind if he doesn’t participate. Overall, it's a pretty sweet deal.
One day, Jack turns up alone. Absurdly, John feels a pang of worry about Rose. Like it's his problem what happens to the broad. Not like he cares about her. He sure as hell isn't going to ask if she's all right.
"What - Rose found an even prettier boy already?" he growls instead. It's meant as an insult, of course. Not a covert way to ask about her.
Jack chuckles good-naturedly. "Hope not. She went to visit her mother for the weekend. In London."
He nods. Good old London. He really likes the city. He thinks. He's pretty sure he's been there before, at any rate.
"So…" Jack smiles, "There's nothing stopping us from going to the sports pub today. Watch the match."
"What's on?" he asks, and sees Jack's face fall into complete confusion for a second. Then he recovers and smiles sheepishly. "Honestly? I have no idea. But I reckon they're showing something. And they definitely have beer." He grins.
Almost against his will, John chuckles. "Right, then. Off we go."
*****
Rose doesn’t return until two nights later - bubbly, happy, and full of stories about her mum. It seems, and this is weird, that her mum lives on a council estate. Makes sense with Rose's accent, of course, but the way she and Jack have been throwing money around, he assumed she'd somehow risen to the kind of social strata where one can afford to buy one's mum a flat or semi-detached. Maybe not. Or maybe Rose's mum is just too proud to take money from her daughter. From the stories Rose is telling, she sounds like quite a character.
They've eaten together, visited the off-licence, and then Rose and Jack have walked him back to the alley - a habit they've adopted over the weeks, probably as a sign of acceptance or something. When they're about to say good night - he's started using his company manners with them at least some of the time, not because he cares but because he has the brains not to throw away a good thing when he sees it - he suddenly feels something wet and cold on his forehead. Looking up, he curses.
Snow. Thick, dense flakes, coming down fast. Already there's a thin sprinkling of white covering the street, the pavement, the skips. And from the way it's coming down, this will last for a while.
At least he has a full stomach and a bottle of Absolut tucked away in his jacket. He'll be all right.
Jack and Rose are looking at each other, clearly communicating without words. Both seem anxious. Worried about him? Probably. Would be just like them, damn bleeding hearts that they are.
Rose turns to him. "John… Would you like to…" She hesitates. Jack puts an arm around her and squeezes her shoulder gently, and she seems to gather her courage. Clearly, whatever it is she's about to say is important to both of them.
"Would you like to come with us and spend the night at our place?"
What the fuck? Has she gone insane? He looks back and force between her inviting smile and Jack's encouraging grin.
Is this it, then? What all the food, the vodka, the light conversation was about? Have they been grooming him? Trying to get him to trust them, so he'd come willingly?
And what do they want with him, once they have him on their turf? He's heard that well-off couples sometimes want a bit of rough - very rough - to spice things up in bed. But he always thought those were urban myths. And even if it's true, why'd they pick him? And put in so much work? They're both pretty enough, and the money they've spent on him could have bought them all kinds of companionship and adventure without any of the effort.
Or are they like that American couple he read about in the Times once, back when he still cared enough to occasionally look over the newspapers he uses to stuff his jacket? A middle-class couple from Maine who took homeless people home with them, wined and dined them - and then murdered them, dumping the bodies in the woods. They'd been doing it for years before they were discovered - and only because the husband bragged about their "hobby" to his brother. They'd been clever in their choice of victims - people no one would ask about, no one would miss.
Like him.
He shakes his head, deliberately sitting down on his cardboard. "I'm fine here."
Rose kneels next to him. "Please, D- John. It's too cold."
The concern in her eyes seems genuine. But what did she almost call him?
"No strings attached, John," Jack adds, looking him straight in the eye. "You come, you stay in the spare room, we don't ask anything of you. You leave in the morning, or whenever you want. That's all."
He shakes his head. "I'm fine here," he repeats.
Jack begins to nod, grim but resigned, but Rose looks up at him with desperation on her face. "No. Please, no." She blinks quickly; John's not sure if it's because of the snowflakes falling into her eyes, or if she's actually fighting back tears.
Jack bites his lip and looks away, obviously deep in thought. His eyes linger on the other people in the alley. He seems to come to a decision.
"Tell you what, John - you come with us, and I'll buy every single person in this alley a hotel room for the night."
What the hell? Is he serious? John can see the purple kid and Milly looking over at the scene, their interest suddenly roused.
Jack looks back at him. "There's an Ibis a few streets over. I'll pay for rooms and breakfast. Warm beds. Showers. For every single person here. If you'll come with us."
They guy's offering to spend hundreds of quid, just to get him to their place? Now John knows something must be up. No one in their right mind would pay that much to be allowed to be charitable. Also, why not simply offer him a hotel room as well, unless they have something special planned for him?
"They won't rent to the likes of us."
"They will if I talk to them. Trust me." The too-bright smile. He doesn’t doubt Jack could pull it off. He's just still not sure what'd be in it for the bloke.
Though he suddenly finds he doesn’t care. The snow is falling faster and faster. The cold is painful. Weather like this could kill him - or worse, one of the others. Milly's old, the kids are - well, kids. The Spanish guy must be used to much warmer temperatures. Some of the others are sick and coughing.
Balanced against the chance of all of them getting a warm bed, a hot bath, and room service, does it really matter if he ends up dead in a skip somewhere? Not like he's doing anything important with his life. Or enjoying it. And maybe they're just after sex after all. In which case he'll disappoint, he's almost sure, but that's not his problem.
"You pay the hotel up front," he growls. "And room service. No going back on the deal later."
Jack nods. "I'll leave my credit card. Pick it up tomorrow after everyone's checked out, and pay the bill."
"Right." John nods. If this should turn out to be the last night of his life, at least it'll also have been the most useful one. Certainly more useful than anything he ever did in the war. He'd much rather die to give food and shelter to people than as part of an effort to kill and destroy.
If he even cared, that is.
He pushes his hands deep inside his pockets and follows silently as Rose and Jack start explaining things to the others and herding everyone towards the hotel.
*****
Their flat is nice, almost posh, but strangely sparse - as if they rented it furnished and never took the time to really make it theirs. It's probably exactly like dozens of other flats in this block. Except…
"Why the hell do you have a police box in your living room?"
Jack grins. "Novelty item. Got it at an auction. Gonna ship it home to the States. My folks'll love it."
John looks at him doubtfully, but shrugs. Jack's already shown himself to be more or less made of money. If he wants to spend it on souvenirs from the 50s, that's his prerogative.
The spare room has a double bed, which Rose makes up for him with fresh linens - pink and orange, but beggars can't be choosers.
Jack hands him a stack of towels and shows him where the bathroom is. "Feel free to shower or take a bath. You'll find everything you'll need in the cabinet. And take your time - the master bedroom has an en-suite bathroom, so this one's all yours." Somehow, he manages to make it sound like just a suggestion, an offer to a guest, rather than the much more forceful "For god's sake wash, you reek!" John would have offered him if the situation was reversed.
A long soak in the tub and half a bottle of vodka later, he feels much better than he has in… well, he can't remember feeling this good at all, actually. He almost doesn’t care if they murder him now, or try to drag him into their bed. But by the time he leaves the bathroom - dressed in his old dirty clothes again, because he refused to give them to Rose to "run through the wash" - Jack and Rose are curled up in front of the telly. They look at him, smiling.
"Anything you need?" Jack asks. "I could make you a sandwich or something."
"Nah. I'm good. I'll just…" He gestures towards the spare room, but doesn’t move. They're going to make their move now. Have to.
But they just nod and bid him good night.
"Call us if you need anything," Rose offers, and then leans closer against Jack.
He withdraws to the spare room and sits on the bed, waiting. Waiting for the door - which has no key, he notes - to open, for Jack to come in and tell him their demands.
He's almost through the rest of the vodka by the time he hears them switch off the telly. He takes a deep breath. Surely the other shoe must drop now. But all he hears is the creaking of the floorboards as they walk to the master bedroom, and then their door clicking shut.
With a frown, he lies back on the bed. For a moment, he's almost startled as his head sinks into the soft pillow. He doesn’t understand it, but this is the warmest and most comfortable place he's been in a long time. Might as well make the most of it - even if he'd feel safer curled up behind a skip. He'll find out what they want sooner or later. For now, he'll sleep.
*****
When he wakes up, the sun shining in through the window tells him that it's late morning, possibly close to noon. Damn, he shouldn't have slept that long. He fishes around for the bottle he hid under the bed last night and drinks the last swigs of vodka. Only way to start the day.
He gets up and carefully approaches the door. Listens. There's music coming from the direction he remembers the kitchen to be in. Maybe he can sneak out without them even noticing. He slowly cracks the door open and peers out. The hallway is empty.
He steps out and takes a step towards the outside door. Jack comes out of the living room, suddenly standing between him and the exit. John freezes, squaring his shoulders. If they try to keep him here against his will…
Jack looks him up and down quickly, taking in his stance. The bloke makes a visible effort to relax his muscles and takes a step back, no longer blocking the hallway. "You can leave, or you can stay for breakfast. Your call."
He ponders. He's hungry, and if he eats here he can make more vodka his first priority as soon as he leaves. And if they didn't attack him in his sleep, they're unlikely to do it now that he's conscious again.
"Breakfast," he says with a brief nod.
Jack grins. "Technically more like brunch now, but come on." He goes to the kitchen, not waiting to see if John's following.
Rose is at the counter stirring batter. Looks like she's going to make pancakes or waffles or something of the sort. Probably been infected by Jack's American breakfast habits.
He looks around the kitchen quickly. Like the rest of the flat, it's nice, but utilitarian, without any personal touches. Except…
There's a calendar up on the wall. One of those office things that show three months at once. April 30 is marked with a big red X, and all the days up until today - February 12, apparently, though he had no idea - are crossed out with black pen. Like they're counting down to something.
"Are you pregnant?" he burst out before he can stop himself. Not like he cares. It's just the surprise. Skinny thing like her… But then, some women don't show much until well into their third trimester.
Why does he even know that?
Rose whirls around, her face a mask of shock. "Wh… what? No!"
"Why'd you ask?" Jack's frowning at him.
"Just…" He points at the calendar.
They both follow his gaze, then exchange a glance. There's embarrassment and panic in Rose's eyes, and steady confidence mixed with sadness in Jack's.
"That's… for something else," the bloke says, opening the fridge. He starts pulling out milk and various juices. Rose has turned back to the counter, stirring the batter with a ridiculous amount of concentration. Clearly, the topic's closed.
Well, fine by him. Not like he cares about their personal life. Not gonna apologize for prying either, though. They keep that thing right out there in public view, people are going to wonder.
"Can I do anything?"
Rose turns back to him, confused shock on her face. Jack freezes and continues staring into the fridge.
"To help with breakfast," he clarifies. He's not sure if the look in Rose's eyes is regret or relief.
Jack turns from the fridge and starts placing bottles on the table. "Nah, we've got it covered. Just take a seat."
John does. Watching them prepare breakfast with the practiced motions of a longstanding team, he ponders, again, why a young couple as blessed by life as these two obviously are would show interest in a wreck like him. "'M gonna figure it out, you know?" He's not sure why he said that aloud.
They both turn to him. "Figure out what?" Rose asks, and damn, how can eyes look so caring and so pained at the same time?
"What you two want with me. Will work it out. Quite clever, me. You wouldn't think it to look at me, but I am."
Rose sobs, and Jack crosses the kitchen to fold her into his arms. John shuffles in his chair uncomfortably. "I am…" he repeats, hating how much less certain he suddenly sounds.
"We don't doubt it," Jack says, rubbing Rose's back. Strangely, he says it like he means it, not like he's placating a rude guest so he can focus on his girlfriend.
Suddenly, Rose steps out of his arms and turns to John. "Stay with us."
"What?" Fuck.
"Rose." There's a hint of warning in Jack's tone, but mostly sadness.
"Please. Just… stay with us? Just for a few… weeks." She's biting her lips and wringing her hands in the dishcloth.
Weeks? They want to share their life with a drunk, stinking, abrasive cast-out of society for weeks? They're even more insane than he is. And whatever they want with him, it's clear now that it's more than he bargained for. He only ever spoke to them to get food and alcohol. He's not looking for any kind of personal relationship. And they… they want to be a happy little family?
Whatever this is, he wants no part in it. He gets up, roughly shoves Rose aside, and, ignoring Jack's protest, storms out of the flat.
Go to chapter 3.
Betas: canaana, kae_nine & wendymr - Thank you, guys! All remaining mistakes are mine.
Rating: Adult (strong language, dark motives)
Spoilers: The Doctor Dances, Human Nature/The Family of Blood
Characters: Nine/Jack/Rose
Disclaimer: This is a work of fanfiction; the characters are the property of the BBC and used here without permission. No money was made.
Summary: The Doctor has to use the Chameleon Arch while traveling with Rose and Jack. What will happen, and how will it affect their relationship?
This story was written for sahiya, who very generously donated in the help_haiti auction. Her prompt will be revealed at the end.
This story is part of my Those We Love the Best-verse, but can stand on its own.
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
When he sees them again the next day, Rose hands him a Styrofoam mug of steaming hot soup. He holds it in his hands for a while, cupped close to his chest, just enjoying the warmth streaming out from the mug and seeping into his body before he even takes a sip of the soup. The weather is getting colder and colder each day. Seems like it'll be an unusually bad winter.
Rose is looking at him critically. She seems about to ask something, but Jack takes her hand and squeezes it, and she looks up at him. He gestures over her shoulder with his chin, and she looks around. Sees purple kid and goth kid, huddled closely together, a red scarf with colorful tassels wrapped around both of them.
Jack's far too observant for comfort. You have to be careful with the observant ones. An unguarded moment can tell them more about you than anyone in the world has any business knowing.
She turns back, beams at him, then looks at Jack. The two exchange a glance full of happiness, hope, relief - as if this is significant. As if it means something, besides the fact that an old war veteran has no use for a girly scarf like that. He's lived through worse than a bit of cold. He doesn’t need it. Doesn’t deserve it, either - not after what he's done.
Not that he can remember what that was, most days - but that's a good thing. Whenever he catches himself thinking about it too hard, he finds a drink to down or a fight to pick. But whatever it was, it means he doesn’t need kid gloves - or woollen scarves, as the case may be. Those snot-nosed kids, annoying as they may be, have more of a claim to that than him. And Rose clearly didn't need it, anyway, seeing how she's already got a new one. Purple and pink, this time, with a reindeer pattern. He shudders, hoping like hell that she won't give him that one, too.
Jack smiles at him. "Chippy?" he asks. Just that, as if them going for food together is a long-standing arrangement that doesn't even need to be discussed anymore.
He looks up, frowns. "You buy me a bottle again?"
Jack grins. "Nah. You've still got one."
How the hell did the bloke know- oh, right, he's holding it in his hand. Not the good stuff they got him, of course - he finished that this morning. But he still has most of a bottle of cheap gut-rot he got at Charlie's this afternoon in exchange for a bunch of small change people had given him and a bag full of deposit bottles.
He frowns up at Jack. "Why should I go with you, then?" What he really wants to ask is "Why do you want me with you?" but that question leads places he's not prepared to go.
Jack laughs - not ridiculing, but as if he's just told a jolly good joke. "Well, there's the food. And I'll buy you a beer after if you insist."
"Two," he counters immediately.
Jack nods. Rose shifts uncomfortably, but smiles at him. "Same place, then?"
He shrugs. Not like he cares where they go.
"Great. Let me just finish passing these out," Rose says, gesturing to the cardboard tray of soup mugs she's still balancing with her left.
Minutes later, they're on their way to the chippy once more, walking next to each other like they're friends or something. Rose is chattering about her latest shopping trip to the Trafford Centre - the source of the scarf, presumably - and Jack sends him a conspiratorial wink, as if to say "Birds and their thing for clothes, eh?"
To his own surprise, he finds himself grinning back, and meaning it. When he catches himself, he scowls all the harder to make up for it.
*****
They keep on like this for a few days. Regular trips to the chippy, or the little Indian place by the market - though John suspects that at the latter place, Jack has to actually bribe the owner to let John eat there. Sometimes they buy him a bottle, sometimes he just gets beer or a spiked coffee. But they're always generous with the food - he actually thinks he's gaining some weight, which is probably just as well, though it makes it harder to get drunk. And they always keep the conversation to meaningless chatter, and don't seem to mind if he doesn’t participate. Overall, it's a pretty sweet deal.
One day, Jack turns up alone. Absurdly, John feels a pang of worry about Rose. Like it's his problem what happens to the broad. Not like he cares about her. He sure as hell isn't going to ask if she's all right.
"What - Rose found an even prettier boy already?" he growls instead. It's meant as an insult, of course. Not a covert way to ask about her.
Jack chuckles good-naturedly. "Hope not. She went to visit her mother for the weekend. In London."
He nods. Good old London. He really likes the city. He thinks. He's pretty sure he's been there before, at any rate.
"So…" Jack smiles, "There's nothing stopping us from going to the sports pub today. Watch the match."
"What's on?" he asks, and sees Jack's face fall into complete confusion for a second. Then he recovers and smiles sheepishly. "Honestly? I have no idea. But I reckon they're showing something. And they definitely have beer." He grins.
Almost against his will, John chuckles. "Right, then. Off we go."
*****
Rose doesn’t return until two nights later - bubbly, happy, and full of stories about her mum. It seems, and this is weird, that her mum lives on a council estate. Makes sense with Rose's accent, of course, but the way she and Jack have been throwing money around, he assumed she'd somehow risen to the kind of social strata where one can afford to buy one's mum a flat or semi-detached. Maybe not. Or maybe Rose's mum is just too proud to take money from her daughter. From the stories Rose is telling, she sounds like quite a character.
They've eaten together, visited the off-licence, and then Rose and Jack have walked him back to the alley - a habit they've adopted over the weeks, probably as a sign of acceptance or something. When they're about to say good night - he's started using his company manners with them at least some of the time, not because he cares but because he has the brains not to throw away a good thing when he sees it - he suddenly feels something wet and cold on his forehead. Looking up, he curses.
Snow. Thick, dense flakes, coming down fast. Already there's a thin sprinkling of white covering the street, the pavement, the skips. And from the way it's coming down, this will last for a while.
At least he has a full stomach and a bottle of Absolut tucked away in his jacket. He'll be all right.
Jack and Rose are looking at each other, clearly communicating without words. Both seem anxious. Worried about him? Probably. Would be just like them, damn bleeding hearts that they are.
Rose turns to him. "John… Would you like to…" She hesitates. Jack puts an arm around her and squeezes her shoulder gently, and she seems to gather her courage. Clearly, whatever it is she's about to say is important to both of them.
"Would you like to come with us and spend the night at our place?"
What the fuck? Has she gone insane? He looks back and force between her inviting smile and Jack's encouraging grin.
Is this it, then? What all the food, the vodka, the light conversation was about? Have they been grooming him? Trying to get him to trust them, so he'd come willingly?
And what do they want with him, once they have him on their turf? He's heard that well-off couples sometimes want a bit of rough - very rough - to spice things up in bed. But he always thought those were urban myths. And even if it's true, why'd they pick him? And put in so much work? They're both pretty enough, and the money they've spent on him could have bought them all kinds of companionship and adventure without any of the effort.
Or are they like that American couple he read about in the Times once, back when he still cared enough to occasionally look over the newspapers he uses to stuff his jacket? A middle-class couple from Maine who took homeless people home with them, wined and dined them - and then murdered them, dumping the bodies in the woods. They'd been doing it for years before they were discovered - and only because the husband bragged about their "hobby" to his brother. They'd been clever in their choice of victims - people no one would ask about, no one would miss.
Like him.
He shakes his head, deliberately sitting down on his cardboard. "I'm fine here."
Rose kneels next to him. "Please, D- John. It's too cold."
The concern in her eyes seems genuine. But what did she almost call him?
"No strings attached, John," Jack adds, looking him straight in the eye. "You come, you stay in the spare room, we don't ask anything of you. You leave in the morning, or whenever you want. That's all."
He shakes his head. "I'm fine here," he repeats.
Jack begins to nod, grim but resigned, but Rose looks up at him with desperation on her face. "No. Please, no." She blinks quickly; John's not sure if it's because of the snowflakes falling into her eyes, or if she's actually fighting back tears.
Jack bites his lip and looks away, obviously deep in thought. His eyes linger on the other people in the alley. He seems to come to a decision.
"Tell you what, John - you come with us, and I'll buy every single person in this alley a hotel room for the night."
What the hell? Is he serious? John can see the purple kid and Milly looking over at the scene, their interest suddenly roused.
Jack looks back at him. "There's an Ibis a few streets over. I'll pay for rooms and breakfast. Warm beds. Showers. For every single person here. If you'll come with us."
They guy's offering to spend hundreds of quid, just to get him to their place? Now John knows something must be up. No one in their right mind would pay that much to be allowed to be charitable. Also, why not simply offer him a hotel room as well, unless they have something special planned for him?
"They won't rent to the likes of us."
"They will if I talk to them. Trust me." The too-bright smile. He doesn’t doubt Jack could pull it off. He's just still not sure what'd be in it for the bloke.
Though he suddenly finds he doesn’t care. The snow is falling faster and faster. The cold is painful. Weather like this could kill him - or worse, one of the others. Milly's old, the kids are - well, kids. The Spanish guy must be used to much warmer temperatures. Some of the others are sick and coughing.
Balanced against the chance of all of them getting a warm bed, a hot bath, and room service, does it really matter if he ends up dead in a skip somewhere? Not like he's doing anything important with his life. Or enjoying it. And maybe they're just after sex after all. In which case he'll disappoint, he's almost sure, but that's not his problem.
"You pay the hotel up front," he growls. "And room service. No going back on the deal later."
Jack nods. "I'll leave my credit card. Pick it up tomorrow after everyone's checked out, and pay the bill."
"Right." John nods. If this should turn out to be the last night of his life, at least it'll also have been the most useful one. Certainly more useful than anything he ever did in the war. He'd much rather die to give food and shelter to people than as part of an effort to kill and destroy.
If he even cared, that is.
He pushes his hands deep inside his pockets and follows silently as Rose and Jack start explaining things to the others and herding everyone towards the hotel.
*****
Their flat is nice, almost posh, but strangely sparse - as if they rented it furnished and never took the time to really make it theirs. It's probably exactly like dozens of other flats in this block. Except…
"Why the hell do you have a police box in your living room?"
Jack grins. "Novelty item. Got it at an auction. Gonna ship it home to the States. My folks'll love it."
John looks at him doubtfully, but shrugs. Jack's already shown himself to be more or less made of money. If he wants to spend it on souvenirs from the 50s, that's his prerogative.
The spare room has a double bed, which Rose makes up for him with fresh linens - pink and orange, but beggars can't be choosers.
Jack hands him a stack of towels and shows him where the bathroom is. "Feel free to shower or take a bath. You'll find everything you'll need in the cabinet. And take your time - the master bedroom has an en-suite bathroom, so this one's all yours." Somehow, he manages to make it sound like just a suggestion, an offer to a guest, rather than the much more forceful "For god's sake wash, you reek!" John would have offered him if the situation was reversed.
A long soak in the tub and half a bottle of vodka later, he feels much better than he has in… well, he can't remember feeling this good at all, actually. He almost doesn’t care if they murder him now, or try to drag him into their bed. But by the time he leaves the bathroom - dressed in his old dirty clothes again, because he refused to give them to Rose to "run through the wash" - Jack and Rose are curled up in front of the telly. They look at him, smiling.
"Anything you need?" Jack asks. "I could make you a sandwich or something."
"Nah. I'm good. I'll just…" He gestures towards the spare room, but doesn’t move. They're going to make their move now. Have to.
But they just nod and bid him good night.
"Call us if you need anything," Rose offers, and then leans closer against Jack.
He withdraws to the spare room and sits on the bed, waiting. Waiting for the door - which has no key, he notes - to open, for Jack to come in and tell him their demands.
He's almost through the rest of the vodka by the time he hears them switch off the telly. He takes a deep breath. Surely the other shoe must drop now. But all he hears is the creaking of the floorboards as they walk to the master bedroom, and then their door clicking shut.
With a frown, he lies back on the bed. For a moment, he's almost startled as his head sinks into the soft pillow. He doesn’t understand it, but this is the warmest and most comfortable place he's been in a long time. Might as well make the most of it - even if he'd feel safer curled up behind a skip. He'll find out what they want sooner or later. For now, he'll sleep.
*****
When he wakes up, the sun shining in through the window tells him that it's late morning, possibly close to noon. Damn, he shouldn't have slept that long. He fishes around for the bottle he hid under the bed last night and drinks the last swigs of vodka. Only way to start the day.
He gets up and carefully approaches the door. Listens. There's music coming from the direction he remembers the kitchen to be in. Maybe he can sneak out without them even noticing. He slowly cracks the door open and peers out. The hallway is empty.
He steps out and takes a step towards the outside door. Jack comes out of the living room, suddenly standing between him and the exit. John freezes, squaring his shoulders. If they try to keep him here against his will…
Jack looks him up and down quickly, taking in his stance. The bloke makes a visible effort to relax his muscles and takes a step back, no longer blocking the hallway. "You can leave, or you can stay for breakfast. Your call."
He ponders. He's hungry, and if he eats here he can make more vodka his first priority as soon as he leaves. And if they didn't attack him in his sleep, they're unlikely to do it now that he's conscious again.
"Breakfast," he says with a brief nod.
Jack grins. "Technically more like brunch now, but come on." He goes to the kitchen, not waiting to see if John's following.
Rose is at the counter stirring batter. Looks like she's going to make pancakes or waffles or something of the sort. Probably been infected by Jack's American breakfast habits.
He looks around the kitchen quickly. Like the rest of the flat, it's nice, but utilitarian, without any personal touches. Except…
There's a calendar up on the wall. One of those office things that show three months at once. April 30 is marked with a big red X, and all the days up until today - February 12, apparently, though he had no idea - are crossed out with black pen. Like they're counting down to something.
"Are you pregnant?" he burst out before he can stop himself. Not like he cares. It's just the surprise. Skinny thing like her… But then, some women don't show much until well into their third trimester.
Why does he even know that?
Rose whirls around, her face a mask of shock. "Wh… what? No!"
"Why'd you ask?" Jack's frowning at him.
"Just…" He points at the calendar.
They both follow his gaze, then exchange a glance. There's embarrassment and panic in Rose's eyes, and steady confidence mixed with sadness in Jack's.
"That's… for something else," the bloke says, opening the fridge. He starts pulling out milk and various juices. Rose has turned back to the counter, stirring the batter with a ridiculous amount of concentration. Clearly, the topic's closed.
Well, fine by him. Not like he cares about their personal life. Not gonna apologize for prying either, though. They keep that thing right out there in public view, people are going to wonder.
"Can I do anything?"
Rose turns back to him, confused shock on her face. Jack freezes and continues staring into the fridge.
"To help with breakfast," he clarifies. He's not sure if the look in Rose's eyes is regret or relief.
Jack turns from the fridge and starts placing bottles on the table. "Nah, we've got it covered. Just take a seat."
John does. Watching them prepare breakfast with the practiced motions of a longstanding team, he ponders, again, why a young couple as blessed by life as these two obviously are would show interest in a wreck like him. "'M gonna figure it out, you know?" He's not sure why he said that aloud.
They both turn to him. "Figure out what?" Rose asks, and damn, how can eyes look so caring and so pained at the same time?
"What you two want with me. Will work it out. Quite clever, me. You wouldn't think it to look at me, but I am."
Rose sobs, and Jack crosses the kitchen to fold her into his arms. John shuffles in his chair uncomfortably. "I am…" he repeats, hating how much less certain he suddenly sounds.
"We don't doubt it," Jack says, rubbing Rose's back. Strangely, he says it like he means it, not like he's placating a rude guest so he can focus on his girlfriend.
Suddenly, Rose steps out of his arms and turns to John. "Stay with us."
"What?" Fuck.
"Rose." There's a hint of warning in Jack's tone, but mostly sadness.
"Please. Just… stay with us? Just for a few… weeks." She's biting her lips and wringing her hands in the dishcloth.
Weeks? They want to share their life with a drunk, stinking, abrasive cast-out of society for weeks? They're even more insane than he is. And whatever they want with him, it's clear now that it's more than he bargained for. He only ever spoke to them to get food and alcohol. He's not looking for any kind of personal relationship. And they… they want to be a happy little family?
Whatever this is, he wants no part in it. He gets up, roughly shoves Rose aside, and, ignoring Jack's protest, storms out of the flat.
Go to chapter 3.