Lethe and Nepenthe (1/1)
Title: Lethe and Nepenthe
Fandom: Doctor Who/Torchwood
Pairing: Jack/Martha
Rating: PG-13, for blood and some implied sex
Spoilers: Casting spoilers for TW S2.
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Summary: Lethe and Nepenthe: the two rivers in Hades, one bringing sleep and the other forgetfulness. Jack could use something similar.
A sequel to Whatever You Want It to Be.
Fires burned all over the Hub and smoke stung his eyes as he ran down the steps. He stumbled over a body sprawled across the floor and choked as he stared into Owen's glassy, lifeless eyes. Tosh's bloody form sprawled at her desk, and he spun away from the sight, horrified. Someone was screaming somewhere and he ran towards the sound, because as terrible as it was it meant someone was still alive--
"Gwen! Ianto! Martha!" he screamed, desperate for any of the people he loved, but no one replied. He followed the sound of the screaming, bolting up the scorched stairs, his heart thudding in panic.
"Jack!" A terrified voice called his name, and he whirled on the spot, seeing to his horror a blood-covered Ianto, who stumbled towards him and collapsed. He staggered back, sick fear making his stomach turn, and fled, stumbling through smoke and fire towards the sound of screaming.
It was Gwen, kneeling on the grated floor, screaming and screaming, hands covering her face, blood matting her hair, and when he saw what she was screaming at his heart stopped.
Martha, lying a few feet away, eyes wide and staring, impaled on a collapsed steel beam, blood dripping through the grating into the water below--
"No, no, no--" It wasn't true, it couldn't be true-- No, no, NO! "Martha! MARTHA!"
"Jack! Jack, wake up--!"
His eyes snapped open, and he sat bolt upright with a choked scream tearing his throat. "No, no, oh God, no," he babbled, tears scorching his eyes, burying his face in his hands, shuddering with horror.
Warm hands tugged his away from his face, caressing his cheeks, brushing his tears away, tilting his face up towards--
Martha, dark eyes concerned, her face backlit by curtains catching pale moonlight. "Jack-- Jack, it's just a nightmare--"
"Martha?" He stared at her for a moment, and she wrapped her arms around him, pulling him close, confused but comforting. Jack pressed his face into her shoulder, squeezing his eyes shut, holding her tightly, forcing the nightmare out of his head, but--
"Oh, shit--" He shoved her away and stumbled blindly out of bed and into the bathroom, doubling over and retching into the sink. He could still smell the smoke and blood and fear, could still see the bodies--his team, Martha--
He took a deep breath, and another, willing himself under control, willing the nausea and fear away, and slowly straightened, looking up at his reflection in the mirror. His eyes were haunted, his face pale. Hesitantly, Martha appeared, a sheet draped around her bare skin, her expression concerned.
Jack looked at her reflection, and his voice was hoarse when he spoke. "You asked why I don't sleep that often."
She nodded, eyes troubled. Now she understood. "Nightmares."
He sighed, turning on the cold water, and splashed some on his face. "To put it mildly." God forbid he lose his sense of humor, he thought dryly, and reached for a towel.
Martha's hand touched his shoulder gently, and he turned to look at her. "Come back to bed?" she said quietly, and he nodded.
Comfortably under the sheets again, Jack wrapped his arms a little more tightly around her. Martha rested her head on his shoulder, relaxing. "Do you want to talk about it?"
Jack shook his head slightly. "Have you thought about taking that job at Torchwood?"
"Yes..."
He wasn't so sure he wanted her to take it, now. "It's not the end of the world if you don't," he said quietly, resting his cheek against her hair.
"Changing your tune?" Martha sat up slightly, frowning in the faint light. "That's not like you... Oh." She'd figured it out. Clever Martha. "Jack...nothing's going to happen to me. It was just a nightmare." Clever, brave Martha. "Forget it."
Jack nodded, slightly reluctantly, and Martha settled down against him again, her own arms a little tighter. She nestled her head in the curve of his shoulder, and said quietly, "I remember when I was little and had a nightmare, I'd run into Mum and Dad's room, and they'd let me crawl up in bed with them. Tish hated it when I'd wake up screaming; she always said, 'Martha, some of us are trying to sleep...'"
Jack listened to her low, soothing voice as she told him old, meaningless stories, craving the comfort they brought, and slowly he slipped back into sleep. When morning came and he woke, he could barely remember the nightmare. And he pretended not to see when Martha slipped an extra bit of espresso into his morning coffee. Sweet girl, that Martha Jones.
Fandom: Doctor Who/Torchwood
Pairing: Jack/Martha
Rating: PG-13, for blood and some implied sex
Spoilers: Casting spoilers for TW S2.
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Summary: Lethe and Nepenthe: the two rivers in Hades, one bringing sleep and the other forgetfulness. Jack could use something similar.
A sequel to Whatever You Want It to Be.
Fires burned all over the Hub and smoke stung his eyes as he ran down the steps. He stumbled over a body sprawled across the floor and choked as he stared into Owen's glassy, lifeless eyes. Tosh's bloody form sprawled at her desk, and he spun away from the sight, horrified. Someone was screaming somewhere and he ran towards the sound, because as terrible as it was it meant someone was still alive--
"Gwen! Ianto! Martha!" he screamed, desperate for any of the people he loved, but no one replied. He followed the sound of the screaming, bolting up the scorched stairs, his heart thudding in panic.
"Jack!" A terrified voice called his name, and he whirled on the spot, seeing to his horror a blood-covered Ianto, who stumbled towards him and collapsed. He staggered back, sick fear making his stomach turn, and fled, stumbling through smoke and fire towards the sound of screaming.
It was Gwen, kneeling on the grated floor, screaming and screaming, hands covering her face, blood matting her hair, and when he saw what she was screaming at his heart stopped.
Martha, lying a few feet away, eyes wide and staring, impaled on a collapsed steel beam, blood dripping through the grating into the water below--
"No, no, no--" It wasn't true, it couldn't be true-- No, no, NO! "Martha! MARTHA!"
"Jack! Jack, wake up--!"
His eyes snapped open, and he sat bolt upright with a choked scream tearing his throat. "No, no, oh God, no," he babbled, tears scorching his eyes, burying his face in his hands, shuddering with horror.
Warm hands tugged his away from his face, caressing his cheeks, brushing his tears away, tilting his face up towards--
Martha, dark eyes concerned, her face backlit by curtains catching pale moonlight. "Jack-- Jack, it's just a nightmare--"
"Martha?" He stared at her for a moment, and she wrapped her arms around him, pulling him close, confused but comforting. Jack pressed his face into her shoulder, squeezing his eyes shut, holding her tightly, forcing the nightmare out of his head, but--
"Oh, shit--" He shoved her away and stumbled blindly out of bed and into the bathroom, doubling over and retching into the sink. He could still smell the smoke and blood and fear, could still see the bodies--his team, Martha--
He took a deep breath, and another, willing himself under control, willing the nausea and fear away, and slowly straightened, looking up at his reflection in the mirror. His eyes were haunted, his face pale. Hesitantly, Martha appeared, a sheet draped around her bare skin, her expression concerned.
Jack looked at her reflection, and his voice was hoarse when he spoke. "You asked why I don't sleep that often."
She nodded, eyes troubled. Now she understood. "Nightmares."
He sighed, turning on the cold water, and splashed some on his face. "To put it mildly." God forbid he lose his sense of humor, he thought dryly, and reached for a towel.
Martha's hand touched his shoulder gently, and he turned to look at her. "Come back to bed?" she said quietly, and he nodded.
Comfortably under the sheets again, Jack wrapped his arms a little more tightly around her. Martha rested her head on his shoulder, relaxing. "Do you want to talk about it?"
Jack shook his head slightly. "Have you thought about taking that job at Torchwood?"
"Yes..."
He wasn't so sure he wanted her to take it, now. "It's not the end of the world if you don't," he said quietly, resting his cheek against her hair.
"Changing your tune?" Martha sat up slightly, frowning in the faint light. "That's not like you... Oh." She'd figured it out. Clever Martha. "Jack...nothing's going to happen to me. It was just a nightmare." Clever, brave Martha. "Forget it."
Jack nodded, slightly reluctantly, and Martha settled down against him again, her own arms a little tighter. She nestled her head in the curve of his shoulder, and said quietly, "I remember when I was little and had a nightmare, I'd run into Mum and Dad's room, and they'd let me crawl up in bed with them. Tish hated it when I'd wake up screaming; she always said, 'Martha, some of us are trying to sleep...'"
Jack listened to her low, soothing voice as she told him old, meaningless stories, craving the comfort they brought, and slowly he slipped back into sleep. When morning came and he woke, he could barely remember the nightmare. And he pretended not to see when Martha slipped an extra bit of espresso into his morning coffee. Sweet girl, that Martha Jones.