Fic: Time and time again
Disclaimer: None of this belongs to me :-(
A/N: Written in response to a prompt from
order_of_chaos, who asked for: "Sparrington, crossover with either Doctor Who or Highlander (or both). Swords, curses, immortality and/or time-travel. Kittens optional."
”Have you any idea what kind of damage you might cause?”
“Have you?” and Jack nods meaningfully towards the pistol. The man pauses briefly in his rant - unfortunately, he also pauses in whatever it is that needs doing to keep this lovely ship on her proper course. Fortunately, actually cocking the pistol solves that easily enough. Alas, it also earns him another glare from the woman he is actually holding at gunpoint. A very fine glare indeed. Reminds him of Anamaria, actually, so much so that he is surprised that she has not long since walked right up and slapped him, but thank God for small favours.
He finds himself wondering if his old first mate ever had a child, then pushes the thought aside. He can’t afford the distraction, not now. Not when he is finally this close.
“Can your stupid little monkey brain even begin to comprehend the danger inherent in the potential paradox? The threat it would pose to the very fabric of space and time if you were to, say, run into yourself?!”
“’Tis not exactly myself I'm planning on meeting, Doctor.”
***
San Francisco, it was in San Francisco, on a bright spring day. Jack had been sitting in a restaurant, sharing a meal with his new friend Joshua Norton (a fine fellow, was Joshua - a tad touched in the head, but what to expect from these colonials?), when the door had opened and he had looked up and found himself staring into a pair of impossibly familiar green eyes.
Later that evening - long after the first tentative greetings and cautious questions - they had found themselves in the lodgings he had in town, found themselves in the sumptuous bed, while the porcelain-pretty, little China-girl (Kitten he called her, though truth be told he could easily have pronounced her real name, complimented her in Mandarin more fluent than her own, but he had preferred not to be too memorable on this occasion), whose room it strictly speaking was, sat in the corner giggling behind her fan when she was not giving them instructions.
James’ skin had been fair and flawless under his hands.
The next morning he had woken up to the feeling of a warm body curled up against his back. It was good.
***
The helm console falls silent. The man takes a step back, hands held clearly visible.
“Are we then, then?”
“Yes. But…” and here we go again, the man explaining the multitude of reasons that this should not be done with words that sounds like they belong in some silly sf show, never once touching on the one reason why it must be done, but Jack is already backing towards the door, fumbling at the handle, never taking his eyes of the pair of them, never lowering the pistol.
The door swings open and he steps backwards, not bothering to spare a glance to see if the ground is an inch or a mile away. If need be he can afford a bit of a tumble. What he cannot afford is someone having a last-minute change of hearts. Not after all he’s gone through, not after years of playing hide-and-seek with UNIT and those bloody bastards from Torchwood while rifling through their files, searching high and searching low.
Not when he is so close.
His foot meets sand and his nostrils are filled with fresh sea air. He keeps walking backwards, though, until well clear of the door. Then and only then does he lower the pistol.
“Doctor, Milady. You will always remember this as the…”
The door slams and the world drowns in the light and the sounds, pulsing, throbbing, undulating through his very blood and bones. Then the world returns and he is alone on a tropical beach. Good.
Suddenly he panics. What if this is not the right place? What if this is not the right time?! How could he be so stupid, letting them go without first making absolutely certain…?
He fumbles trough the deep pockets in his coat, pulling things out and discarding them on the white sand. Brand new iPod full of songs, solar cell gadget that will hopefully allow him to recharge said iPod, notebook full of interesting dates and suchlike, ah…
His fingers finally close around the comfortingly familiar shape.
He closes his eyes, swallows, almost not daring to look. Trembling he opens it, but the needle is pointing steady and true and he shouts with joy, leaps with joy (only to get tangled up in the extra sword - well, actually, tangled up in both swords, seeing as how it has been some time since last he was used to carrying one around, but the extra one is particularly unaccustomed, but it’s not like he could very well have left it behind, now could he?).
***
London, it was in London, on a bone-chilling winter day, and why James had wanted to winter in this god-forsaken place Jack would never understand.
He had been spending the morning wiling away the hours at the British Museum before meeting James for lunch, not really looking at the exhibits, until he had found himself doing a double-take. The sign had words like “a fine example of” and “off the coast of Madagascar”, but he didn’t need it. He knew that blade.
Burgling the British Museum had been a challenge, especially since some silly British art thief had apparently decided on the exact same date for his own heist (not to mention the German officer who had suddenly appeared and started yelling at the art thief), but in the end it had been well worth the trouble.
Of course, then he had to spend the next three years keeping his prize hidden, because 100 year anniversaries doesn’t come along every day and where would he ever find a better gift? Denmark, then, because James had somehow heard of a Treasure Island musical that he thought Jack might enjoy (he did and continued to do so at the top of his lungs for several weeks until James began to make pointed comments about defenestration and keelhauling).
He is fairly certain James liked his present. At least, the not letting either of them out of the hotel room for the better part of a week made it seem likely.
***
At first he walks, frequently checking the compass. Then he runs, not wanting to be too late, not knowing how far it might be. Then he slows down, worried about stumbling, about the swords getting in his way again. Runs again, simply unable not to.
Walking up a dune and as he reaches the top he breaks into a run before having consciously processed the sight before him.
Tiny waves lapping around it, the body lies as still as only a body can lie, and Jack can’t stop himself from remembering that body, lying as still, but he doesn’t want to, because he is here and he is now and this time he will not allow it.
***
Venice, it was in Venice, and it was still summer, only the first hint of fall in the air.
They had been sitting at a café drinking coffee, laughing at Jack almost having sat down at the wrong table (but really, that fellow looked so like his Jamie that he might have been his twin) and somehow the conversation had gone off in a far darker direction.
“I remember waking up in darkness and cold, gasping for air, but there was only water,” James had said in that too calm voice. “I remember trying to swim towards the surface, but not knowing which way it was. I remember the teeth of something large tearing into me. I remember lying on my back under the endless stars, and then the wind picked up again and a wave pushed me back under.”
Oddly enough, Jack had been the one to spend the next three days drunk.
***
Discarding both swords and coat, Jack pulls the body away from the water and proceeds to straddle it. It’s cold and clammy, fresh from the sea. Seaweed tangled in the hair, tiny bite marks at the fingertips and on the nose. Clothes so ruined that they barely deserve the name of rags, but you can still find the hole, if you know where to look.
He settles down to wait.
The sun burns fiercely in the sky and sweat drips from his brow, but he never as much as considers moving. He picks seaweed out of drying hair, brushes glittering salt away from fair skin. Waits.
The body sits up, so suddenly that he is almost dislodged. Eyes still shut tight, mouth opening in a scream, and he wraps his arms around it, around him.
“Hush, easy, Jamie, easy, you’re safe now, I promise you, Jamie, hush, I swear to you, love, safe as houses with ol’ Jack, hush, easy now…”
Whispering, chanting, as the body - no, the man fights him. Offering the only comfort he has to give.
***
Seacouver, it was in Seacouver, and the autumn sky wept. The world was a blur of rain and tears.
The body lay in the middle of the alley, but the head had rollen into the gutter and had been smeared with the vile things there.
The damned Scotsman had been staring at him in shock, then at the katana, then at him again. Jack had pulled his pistol, and suddenly the bloody Scot had been babbling about rules and games and honour, as if such a bastard knew the first thing about honour, as if James had not had more honour in the tip of his smallest finger than this vile thing could ever dream of having.
He had wanted to do more, had wanted to hurt this one as he had been hurt, wanted to let him run and follow, haunting him for the rest of eternity, killing every friend, every lover, becoming a living curse. He had wanted to make this bastard suffer.
But his Jamie wouldn’t have wanted that.
“Pirate,” he had said, not trusting himself with attempting a longer explanation. Then he pulled the trigger.
Afterwards he had picked up the bloody katana and finished what neither he nor James’ had started.
***
The screams turn to sobs and then finally, finally they cease. The trembling stops, the hands let go of his shirt. He feels the faint tickle of deep indrawn breath against his neck, the swelling of a chest against his own.
The man straightens, takes another deep breath, before opening his eyes. Green, so very green, and Jack realizes to his shame that he had already forgotten that exact shade of green. How could he possibly have forgotten?
“Sparrow?”
“Aye.”
“Is this the Locker, then?”
“Nay, ‘tis Fiddler’s Green, my love, and that’s the truth of it.”
And he knows that there is so much he has to tell, knows that there is so much to explain, knows that this isn’t his Jamie, this is James, this is the Admiral, but how is he supposed to not kiss those lips? There will be time for explanations later, plenty of time. They will have all the time in the world this time around.
He’ll see to that.
A/N: Written in response to a prompt from
order_of_chaos, who asked for: "Sparrington, crossover with either Doctor Who or Highlander (or both). Swords, curses, immortality and/or time-travel. Kittens optional."
”Have you any idea what kind of damage you might cause?”
“Have you?” and Jack nods meaningfully towards the pistol. The man pauses briefly in his rant - unfortunately, he also pauses in whatever it is that needs doing to keep this lovely ship on her proper course. Fortunately, actually cocking the pistol solves that easily enough. Alas, it also earns him another glare from the woman he is actually holding at gunpoint. A very fine glare indeed. Reminds him of Anamaria, actually, so much so that he is surprised that she has not long since walked right up and slapped him, but thank God for small favours.
He finds himself wondering if his old first mate ever had a child, then pushes the thought aside. He can’t afford the distraction, not now. Not when he is finally this close.
“Can your stupid little monkey brain even begin to comprehend the danger inherent in the potential paradox? The threat it would pose to the very fabric of space and time if you were to, say, run into yourself?!”
“’Tis not exactly myself I'm planning on meeting, Doctor.”
***
San Francisco, it was in San Francisco, on a bright spring day. Jack had been sitting in a restaurant, sharing a meal with his new friend Joshua Norton (a fine fellow, was Joshua - a tad touched in the head, but what to expect from these colonials?), when the door had opened and he had looked up and found himself staring into a pair of impossibly familiar green eyes.
Later that evening - long after the first tentative greetings and cautious questions - they had found themselves in the lodgings he had in town, found themselves in the sumptuous bed, while the porcelain-pretty, little China-girl (Kitten he called her, though truth be told he could easily have pronounced her real name, complimented her in Mandarin more fluent than her own, but he had preferred not to be too memorable on this occasion), whose room it strictly speaking was, sat in the corner giggling behind her fan when she was not giving them instructions.
James’ skin had been fair and flawless under his hands.
The next morning he had woken up to the feeling of a warm body curled up against his back. It was good.
***
The helm console falls silent. The man takes a step back, hands held clearly visible.
“Are we then, then?”
“Yes. But…” and here we go again, the man explaining the multitude of reasons that this should not be done with words that sounds like they belong in some silly sf show, never once touching on the one reason why it must be done, but Jack is already backing towards the door, fumbling at the handle, never taking his eyes of the pair of them, never lowering the pistol.
The door swings open and he steps backwards, not bothering to spare a glance to see if the ground is an inch or a mile away. If need be he can afford a bit of a tumble. What he cannot afford is someone having a last-minute change of hearts. Not after all he’s gone through, not after years of playing hide-and-seek with UNIT and those bloody bastards from Torchwood while rifling through their files, searching high and searching low.
Not when he is so close.
His foot meets sand and his nostrils are filled with fresh sea air. He keeps walking backwards, though, until well clear of the door. Then and only then does he lower the pistol.
“Doctor, Milady. You will always remember this as the…”
The door slams and the world drowns in the light and the sounds, pulsing, throbbing, undulating through his very blood and bones. Then the world returns and he is alone on a tropical beach. Good.
Suddenly he panics. What if this is not the right place? What if this is not the right time?! How could he be so stupid, letting them go without first making absolutely certain…?
He fumbles trough the deep pockets in his coat, pulling things out and discarding them on the white sand. Brand new iPod full of songs, solar cell gadget that will hopefully allow him to recharge said iPod, notebook full of interesting dates and suchlike, ah…
His fingers finally close around the comfortingly familiar shape.
He closes his eyes, swallows, almost not daring to look. Trembling he opens it, but the needle is pointing steady and true and he shouts with joy, leaps with joy (only to get tangled up in the extra sword - well, actually, tangled up in both swords, seeing as how it has been some time since last he was used to carrying one around, but the extra one is particularly unaccustomed, but it’s not like he could very well have left it behind, now could he?).
***
London, it was in London, on a bone-chilling winter day, and why James had wanted to winter in this god-forsaken place Jack would never understand.
He had been spending the morning wiling away the hours at the British Museum before meeting James for lunch, not really looking at the exhibits, until he had found himself doing a double-take. The sign had words like “a fine example of” and “off the coast of Madagascar”, but he didn’t need it. He knew that blade.
Burgling the British Museum had been a challenge, especially since some silly British art thief had apparently decided on the exact same date for his own heist (not to mention the German officer who had suddenly appeared and started yelling at the art thief), but in the end it had been well worth the trouble.
Of course, then he had to spend the next three years keeping his prize hidden, because 100 year anniversaries doesn’t come along every day and where would he ever find a better gift? Denmark, then, because James had somehow heard of a Treasure Island musical that he thought Jack might enjoy (he did and continued to do so at the top of his lungs for several weeks until James began to make pointed comments about defenestration and keelhauling).
He is fairly certain James liked his present. At least, the not letting either of them out of the hotel room for the better part of a week made it seem likely.
***
At first he walks, frequently checking the compass. Then he runs, not wanting to be too late, not knowing how far it might be. Then he slows down, worried about stumbling, about the swords getting in his way again. Runs again, simply unable not to.
Walking up a dune and as he reaches the top he breaks into a run before having consciously processed the sight before him.
Tiny waves lapping around it, the body lies as still as only a body can lie, and Jack can’t stop himself from remembering that body, lying as still, but he doesn’t want to, because he is here and he is now and this time he will not allow it.
***
Venice, it was in Venice, and it was still summer, only the first hint of fall in the air.
They had been sitting at a café drinking coffee, laughing at Jack almost having sat down at the wrong table (but really, that fellow looked so like his Jamie that he might have been his twin) and somehow the conversation had gone off in a far darker direction.
“I remember waking up in darkness and cold, gasping for air, but there was only water,” James had said in that too calm voice. “I remember trying to swim towards the surface, but not knowing which way it was. I remember the teeth of something large tearing into me. I remember lying on my back under the endless stars, and then the wind picked up again and a wave pushed me back under.”
Oddly enough, Jack had been the one to spend the next three days drunk.
***
Discarding both swords and coat, Jack pulls the body away from the water and proceeds to straddle it. It’s cold and clammy, fresh from the sea. Seaweed tangled in the hair, tiny bite marks at the fingertips and on the nose. Clothes so ruined that they barely deserve the name of rags, but you can still find the hole, if you know where to look.
He settles down to wait.
The sun burns fiercely in the sky and sweat drips from his brow, but he never as much as considers moving. He picks seaweed out of drying hair, brushes glittering salt away from fair skin. Waits.
The body sits up, so suddenly that he is almost dislodged. Eyes still shut tight, mouth opening in a scream, and he wraps his arms around it, around him.
“Hush, easy, Jamie, easy, you’re safe now, I promise you, Jamie, hush, I swear to you, love, safe as houses with ol’ Jack, hush, easy now…”
Whispering, chanting, as the body - no, the man fights him. Offering the only comfort he has to give.
***
Seacouver, it was in Seacouver, and the autumn sky wept. The world was a blur of rain and tears.
The body lay in the middle of the alley, but the head had rollen into the gutter and had been smeared with the vile things there.
The damned Scotsman had been staring at him in shock, then at the katana, then at him again. Jack had pulled his pistol, and suddenly the bloody Scot had been babbling about rules and games and honour, as if such a bastard knew the first thing about honour, as if James had not had more honour in the tip of his smallest finger than this vile thing could ever dream of having.
He had wanted to do more, had wanted to hurt this one as he had been hurt, wanted to let him run and follow, haunting him for the rest of eternity, killing every friend, every lover, becoming a living curse. He had wanted to make this bastard suffer.
But his Jamie wouldn’t have wanted that.
“Pirate,” he had said, not trusting himself with attempting a longer explanation. Then he pulled the trigger.
Afterwards he had picked up the bloody katana and finished what neither he nor James’ had started.
***
The screams turn to sobs and then finally, finally they cease. The trembling stops, the hands let go of his shirt. He feels the faint tickle of deep indrawn breath against his neck, the swelling of a chest against his own.
The man straightens, takes another deep breath, before opening his eyes. Green, so very green, and Jack realizes to his shame that he had already forgotten that exact shade of green. How could he possibly have forgotten?
“Sparrow?”
“Aye.”
“Is this the Locker, then?”
“Nay, ‘tis Fiddler’s Green, my love, and that’s the truth of it.”
And he knows that there is so much he has to tell, knows that there is so much to explain, knows that this isn’t his Jamie, this is James, this is the Admiral, but how is he supposed to not kiss those lips? There will be time for explanations later, plenty of time. They will have all the time in the world this time around.
He’ll see to that.