Challenge: Interstice
Title: Interstices
Author: aibhinn
Prompt: from tw_wotd_fic, interstice: 1. A space between things or parts, especially a space between things closely set; a narrow chink; a crack; a crevice; an interval. 2. An interval of time.
Pairings: Jack/Nine/Rose; Jack/Gwen
Rating: Teens
Summary: There is a space between any two people, no matter how close.
Spoilers: Vague spoilers through Countrycide.
Author's Note: Unbetaed. I wrote this today while I was home sick from work, so I'm not entirely sure how well it works. Comments and/or concrit are welcome. X-posted at torch_wood, tw_archives, and aibhinn.
Jack propped himself up on an elbow and considered his lovers.
The man: caustic, brilliant, bearing the weight of a responsibility that would have brought anyone else to their knees. Sleep drained that away; there was a vulnerability there that was never visible when he was awake and aware, and the way he curled around their other lover showed more than any words how lonely he had always been. The woman: blonde (though not naturally, as Jack now knew without doubt), young, fresh-faced and joyful. She was only half his age, and some ridiculously small fraction of the Doctor's, and yet the gap between them was as nothing when compared to what they'd been through together. He'd saved their lives; each of them had saved his, and each other's. It was a glue far stronger than any that could be created with words or rings.
It wouldn't last, though, and he knew it.
Oh, maybe he and Rose could last-fifty-first century medicine being what it was, he'd live to a hundred and twenty at least, if he didn't manage to get himself killed first. Rose could live the same amount; they could have a good sixty years together. But it wasn't going to happen. She was only twenty years old; at some point, as the Doctor knew very well, she'd tire of travelling and would want to settle down and have a normal human life. A husband, children, a job, a house. And that just wasn't the life Jack Harkness wanted. He wasn't the type to stay in one place for more than a few months at most, unless there was a damn good reason for it. (But isn't she a good reason? a little voice said inside.) And children? Himself as a father? Laughable. Though the image of Rose, pregnant, that appeared in his mind's eye was so beautiful it almost took his breath away.
No, he had to face facts. They'd have a few months, maybe a couple of years, together-a lot of laughter, a lot of loving, a lot of fun times-and then they'd part and he'd likely never see her again. Not easy getting into 21st-century Earth in a time machine without being noticed. Well, unless your time machine was a big blue box.
He and the Doctor certainly wouldn't last. A hundred and twenty years might seem ancient to the humans of Rose's time, but the Doctor was eight times that old and still had four regenerations. The Time Lord had two choices regarding his lovers: leave them behind while they were still young (or youngish) and healthy, leaving them all with happy memories, or keep them with him and watch them grow old, wither, and die while he remained the same. To someone who had already watched everything he knew destroyed by his own hand, that would be perhaps the most cruel thing possible. He'd already lost too much. And so, at some point, Jack knew, the Doctor would return Rose to her own time, drop Jack off somewhere he could find a ship to take him round the galaxy on his own, and disappear. And Jack couldn't blame him.
Time was a strange thing, he thought, brushing a stray lock of hair out of Rose's face and then tracing the line of the Doctor's cheekbone. The Doctor'd had nine hundred years. He'd had thirty-five. Rose had had nineteen. But that was all past; and who knew what the future held? All any of them really had was now. This second, this time, this place, this love. He branded the moment into his memories, knowing it would never come around again, and curled against Rose, stretching a hand across to clasp the Doctor's. Live in the now; that was the best he could do.
***
Gwen propped herself up on an elbow and considered her lover.
Was he asleep? She couldn't tell. He'd told her he didn't sleep, but sometimes it seemed he'd drift off for a few moments, maybe as much as five or ten minutes at a time.
He dreamed; she knew that. She'd seen the twisting, writhing, tortured mass of him as he fought his way through his subconscious. It was how they'd ended up in bed together in the first place; she'd come to work in the middle of the night because she couldn't sleep, and had found him trapped in a nightmare. She'd made her way down to the tiny cupboard he used as personal quarters, shook him awake, called his name. His eyes had snapped open and for a moment, just one moment, they were unguarded, unhooded. His gaze was crystal blue, open, and so very vulnerable. It had drawn her in, drawn her down to him, drawn her to his lips and his arms and his body and his bed. And she couldn't bring herself to regret it.
She raised a hand and brushed his hair away from his face, and he smiled softly in his sleep. Rhys had done that before he'd left. Her heart twisted as she thought of the men in her life. Rhys, who had been so good and whom she'd treated so badly. Owen, who'd been her port in the storm, who'd grounded her and helped her to deal with the insanity and terror and strain of a job with Torchwood.
And now, Jack.
Did she love him? She wasn't sure. But she did know that this could never last. The space between them was too great. His immortality alone would be enough of a stumbling block, but Gwen had the feeling-had always had the feeling-that there was someone else out there. Someone he knew-someone he was waiting for. Perhaps he loved her, perhaps he didn't; but she knew that, if that someone came back for him, he'd go off with them in a heartbeat, even if it meant leaving her behind. She daren't, she mustn't, let her heart go. It'd been broken enough for any three people already.
"And how many pieces is your heart in, Jack?" she wondered aloud, her voice the softest of murmurs.
His eyes opened. "One," he said, and gathered her to his chest. "Just one."
He kissed her, and she closed her eyes so she wouldn't see the lie he couldn't hide.
Author: aibhinn
Prompt: from tw_wotd_fic, interstice: 1. A space between things or parts, especially a space between things closely set; a narrow chink; a crack; a crevice; an interval. 2. An interval of time.
Pairings: Jack/Nine/Rose; Jack/Gwen
Rating: Teens
Summary: There is a space between any two people, no matter how close.
Spoilers: Vague spoilers through Countrycide.
Author's Note: Unbetaed. I wrote this today while I was home sick from work, so I'm not entirely sure how well it works. Comments and/or concrit are welcome. X-posted at torch_wood, tw_archives, and aibhinn.
Jack propped himself up on an elbow and considered his lovers.
The man: caustic, brilliant, bearing the weight of a responsibility that would have brought anyone else to their knees. Sleep drained that away; there was a vulnerability there that was never visible when he was awake and aware, and the way he curled around their other lover showed more than any words how lonely he had always been. The woman: blonde (though not naturally, as Jack now knew without doubt), young, fresh-faced and joyful. She was only half his age, and some ridiculously small fraction of the Doctor's, and yet the gap between them was as nothing when compared to what they'd been through together. He'd saved their lives; each of them had saved his, and each other's. It was a glue far stronger than any that could be created with words or rings.
It wouldn't last, though, and he knew it.
Oh, maybe he and Rose could last-fifty-first century medicine being what it was, he'd live to a hundred and twenty at least, if he didn't manage to get himself killed first. Rose could live the same amount; they could have a good sixty years together. But it wasn't going to happen. She was only twenty years old; at some point, as the Doctor knew very well, she'd tire of travelling and would want to settle down and have a normal human life. A husband, children, a job, a house. And that just wasn't the life Jack Harkness wanted. He wasn't the type to stay in one place for more than a few months at most, unless there was a damn good reason for it. (But isn't she a good reason? a little voice said inside.) And children? Himself as a father? Laughable. Though the image of Rose, pregnant, that appeared in his mind's eye was so beautiful it almost took his breath away.
No, he had to face facts. They'd have a few months, maybe a couple of years, together-a lot of laughter, a lot of loving, a lot of fun times-and then they'd part and he'd likely never see her again. Not easy getting into 21st-century Earth in a time machine without being noticed. Well, unless your time machine was a big blue box.
He and the Doctor certainly wouldn't last. A hundred and twenty years might seem ancient to the humans of Rose's time, but the Doctor was eight times that old and still had four regenerations. The Time Lord had two choices regarding his lovers: leave them behind while they were still young (or youngish) and healthy, leaving them all with happy memories, or keep them with him and watch them grow old, wither, and die while he remained the same. To someone who had already watched everything he knew destroyed by his own hand, that would be perhaps the most cruel thing possible. He'd already lost too much. And so, at some point, Jack knew, the Doctor would return Rose to her own time, drop Jack off somewhere he could find a ship to take him round the galaxy on his own, and disappear. And Jack couldn't blame him.
Time was a strange thing, he thought, brushing a stray lock of hair out of Rose's face and then tracing the line of the Doctor's cheekbone. The Doctor'd had nine hundred years. He'd had thirty-five. Rose had had nineteen. But that was all past; and who knew what the future held? All any of them really had was now. This second, this time, this place, this love. He branded the moment into his memories, knowing it would never come around again, and curled against Rose, stretching a hand across to clasp the Doctor's. Live in the now; that was the best he could do.
***
Gwen propped herself up on an elbow and considered her lover.
Was he asleep? She couldn't tell. He'd told her he didn't sleep, but sometimes it seemed he'd drift off for a few moments, maybe as much as five or ten minutes at a time.
He dreamed; she knew that. She'd seen the twisting, writhing, tortured mass of him as he fought his way through his subconscious. It was how they'd ended up in bed together in the first place; she'd come to work in the middle of the night because she couldn't sleep, and had found him trapped in a nightmare. She'd made her way down to the tiny cupboard he used as personal quarters, shook him awake, called his name. His eyes had snapped open and for a moment, just one moment, they were unguarded, unhooded. His gaze was crystal blue, open, and so very vulnerable. It had drawn her in, drawn her down to him, drawn her to his lips and his arms and his body and his bed. And she couldn't bring herself to regret it.
She raised a hand and brushed his hair away from his face, and he smiled softly in his sleep. Rhys had done that before he'd left. Her heart twisted as she thought of the men in her life. Rhys, who had been so good and whom she'd treated so badly. Owen, who'd been her port in the storm, who'd grounded her and helped her to deal with the insanity and terror and strain of a job with Torchwood.
And now, Jack.
Did she love him? She wasn't sure. But she did know that this could never last. The space between them was too great. His immortality alone would be enough of a stumbling block, but Gwen had the feeling-had always had the feeling-that there was someone else out there. Someone he knew-someone he was waiting for. Perhaps he loved her, perhaps he didn't; but she knew that, if that someone came back for him, he'd go off with them in a heartbeat, even if it meant leaving her behind. She daren't, she mustn't, let her heart go. It'd been broken enough for any three people already.
"And how many pieces is your heart in, Jack?" she wondered aloud, her voice the softest of murmurs.
His eyes opened. "One," he said, and gathered her to his chest. "Just one."
He kissed her, and she closed her eyes so she wouldn't see the lie he couldn't hide.