TORCHWOOD: Circus Girl Without a Safety Net
Title: Circus Girl Without a Safety Net
Characters/Pairing: Jack/Gwen, mention of Gwen/Rhys
Word Count: 500
Rating: PG
Summary: Coping mechanisms are necessary in Torchwood, and it's not always alcohol.
Notes: Written for writerinadrawer round 2.07, which I actually won! I'm very glad for this, because writing this story almost made me cry with how many times I had to rewrite it. Slight spoilers for all of S2, through "Exit Wounds".
Disclaimer: I don't own Torchwood or any of its characters, I'm not connected to the BBC, and I'm not making any money. Really. At all.
"You know," Jack says, hand resting at the small of Gwen's back, "the point of giving you a day off was so you'd have one alien-free day. Kind of defeating the purpose, aren't we?"
"You found me," Gwen points out, and gestures absently over her shoulder to the pub he'd just pulled her out of. "You think I wanted to give up my first night off in almost two months?"
It's always impressed Jack how well Gwen holds her alcohol - when it doesn't contain retcon, that is. It's not that she doesn't get drunk, but she has to make a concerted effort to manage it. Watching her now, her face flushed, leaning toward him just a little... whatever effort it takes, she's made it, and managed admirably.
"I'm... really sorry. I'll try to schedule the next vicious alien attack to fit your schedule, but with just the three of us..."
"I know," Gwen says quickly, and pulls away from his supporting hand, speeding her steps toward the SUV. Gwen being drunk isn't an obvious thing. It shows more in the care she takes, with words, with steps, everything in control.
Jack realizes, following her, that it's the exact opposite of Gwen when she's grieving. That maybe that's the point. Except that alcohol isn't her coping mechanism...
"I thought you'd be spending your day off with Rhys."
"Maybe sometimes I just need to be alone," she says without stopping. It's not an answer. Answers don't begin with 'maybe'.
"Alone in a pub?"
She doesn't answer. He catches her at the passenger door, one hand braced against it to keep it closed.
"Gwen."
He hates talking to Gwen in evasive mode. It's like fencing, both of them feeling each other out, finding weaknesses, and then without fail, she strikes first - just words, but something bruises anyway. He's found the best thing to do is to head her off before she gets the chance.
She stops, and turns, and as much as she tries to control herself, there's something terrifyingly open in her face. Jack thinks to step back, because he's too close right now, but the impulse gets stopped somewhere between brain and feet.
"It doesn't matter. Don't we have work to do now?"
"It matters," Jack says softly, roughly.
He really is too close. So close he can feel her breath on his face, smelling of alcohol, close enough that he can feel the heat of her body in the cold night air, and the way her chin's tilted up, lips slightly parted, is practically an invitation, and now he remembers her coping mechanism isn't alcohol, it's...
He could kiss her now. He could kiss her, pull her into the backseat of the SUV, heat and skin and hungry, drunken kisses, and she would feel better, for a while. Coping mechanisms. They're necessary in Torchwood. He could help.
Jack pulls back and strides around to the driver's side, sliding in behind the wheel and letting out a slow breath. "You're right," he says to Gwen at length, and starts the engine. "We've got work to do."
Characters/Pairing: Jack/Gwen, mention of Gwen/Rhys
Word Count: 500
Rating: PG
Summary: Coping mechanisms are necessary in Torchwood, and it's not always alcohol.
Notes: Written for writerinadrawer round 2.07, which I actually won! I'm very glad for this, because writing this story almost made me cry with how many times I had to rewrite it. Slight spoilers for all of S2, through "Exit Wounds".
Disclaimer: I don't own Torchwood or any of its characters, I'm not connected to the BBC, and I'm not making any money. Really. At all.
"You know," Jack says, hand resting at the small of Gwen's back, "the point of giving you a day off was so you'd have one alien-free day. Kind of defeating the purpose, aren't we?"
"You found me," Gwen points out, and gestures absently over her shoulder to the pub he'd just pulled her out of. "You think I wanted to give up my first night off in almost two months?"
It's always impressed Jack how well Gwen holds her alcohol - when it doesn't contain retcon, that is. It's not that she doesn't get drunk, but she has to make a concerted effort to manage it. Watching her now, her face flushed, leaning toward him just a little... whatever effort it takes, she's made it, and managed admirably.
"I'm... really sorry. I'll try to schedule the next vicious alien attack to fit your schedule, but with just the three of us..."
"I know," Gwen says quickly, and pulls away from his supporting hand, speeding her steps toward the SUV. Gwen being drunk isn't an obvious thing. It shows more in the care she takes, with words, with steps, everything in control.
Jack realizes, following her, that it's the exact opposite of Gwen when she's grieving. That maybe that's the point. Except that alcohol isn't her coping mechanism...
"I thought you'd be spending your day off with Rhys."
"Maybe sometimes I just need to be alone," she says without stopping. It's not an answer. Answers don't begin with 'maybe'.
"Alone in a pub?"
She doesn't answer. He catches her at the passenger door, one hand braced against it to keep it closed.
"Gwen."
He hates talking to Gwen in evasive mode. It's like fencing, both of them feeling each other out, finding weaknesses, and then without fail, she strikes first - just words, but something bruises anyway. He's found the best thing to do is to head her off before she gets the chance.
She stops, and turns, and as much as she tries to control herself, there's something terrifyingly open in her face. Jack thinks to step back, because he's too close right now, but the impulse gets stopped somewhere between brain and feet.
"It doesn't matter. Don't we have work to do now?"
"It matters," Jack says softly, roughly.
He really is too close. So close he can feel her breath on his face, smelling of alcohol, close enough that he can feel the heat of her body in the cold night air, and the way her chin's tilted up, lips slightly parted, is practically an invitation, and now he remembers her coping mechanism isn't alcohol, it's...
He could kiss her now. He could kiss her, pull her into the backseat of the SUV, heat and skin and hungry, drunken kisses, and she would feel better, for a while. Coping mechanisms. They're necessary in Torchwood. He could help.
Jack pulls back and strides around to the driver's side, sliding in behind the wheel and letting out a slow breath. "You're right," he says to Gwen at length, and starts the engine. "We've got work to do."