Incentive fic: "Negative Space" (for dshael)
Title: "Negative Space"
Author: dameruth
Characters: Ten/Jack
Series: "Flowers"
Rating: G/All Ages
Summary: Two can keep a secret, if neither of them remember what it is. Written as a direct followup to "Nonzero Sum Equation"; a Support Stacie incentive ficlet for dshael, to the prompt: "Flowersverse, Secrets."
A/N - I'd been meaning for a long time to write a followup to "Nonzero," but never quite managed to find the right way to go about it -- until dshael's prompt touched off the spark. That's why I love these auctions, beyond the opportunity to do a little good in the world; they often provide exactly the incentive I need to get my butt in gear on back-burnered projects. :)
Someone was shaking Jack's shoulder, calling to him. With an effort, he fought free of the gluey darkness and opened his eyes. He found himself staring into the Doctor's face -- which wasn't unusual after yet another resurrection, except this wasn't another resurrection. He'd been unconscious, not dead. Ironically, that state of affairs was unusual enough to spike a startled burst of adrenalin through his system.
"Jack!" the Doctor said. "I think we've been drugged." The whites of his eyes were showing all the way around his irises and his features were taut. He looked as spooked as Jack had ever seen him.
Had they been drugged? Yes, there was a chalky aftertaste in his mouth, and it was a familiar one at that: Retcon. Immediately on the heels of that realization, he felt the nagging behind-the-eyes emptiness of memory rendered inaccessible. Like the hole left by a missing tooth, it cried out to be poked and prodded, but Jack knew better. His thoughts flinched away from the gap; he'd learned better than to try and fight against memory loss until he understood the circumstances.
He wriggled into a half-sitting position, the Doctor pulling back to give him room. They were in bed, in Jack's usual room on the TARDIS; again, not unusual except that they were both largely clothed and lying on top of the covers. That was abnormal enough to set off additional warning bells, and yet the TARDIS hummed peacefully around them, undisturbed.
Jack scanned their surroundings and saw the half-expected slip of paper on the nightstand, weighted down with a pen, and his stomach clenched with a mix of relief and apprehension. He reached for the note and recognized his own handwriting even before he could read what it said.
"Yeah, we were drugged," Jack said, "but I think we did it to ourselves."
The terse message ("Retcon: don't fight it!") confirmed Jack's guess. When he'd written the note to himself, he'd used the version of his "Jack Harkness" signature that meant he hadn't been under duress as he wrote: a subtle change in the hook of the "J" and the angle of the crossbar in the "H." Nothing anyone else would understand or even notice.
"On purpose?" the Doctor said, as if it were a completely foreign concept. Given what Jack knew about Time Lord psychology, it probably was.
"Yeah. I think there's something we aren't supposed to remember. Maybe this'll help clear it up." Jack passed the note to the Doctor; underneath his own writing was a circle-and-line glyph, sketchy but elegant, in the writing the TARDIS wouldn't -- couldn't -- translate into anything a human mind would understand.
Frowning, his lips parted, the Doctor took the paper. He stared at the circular message a long time, his expression unchanging. "But what . . .?" he began to ask, then stopped.
"I don't know," Jack said, with grim certainty, "and I don't want to know. That's the point."
The Doctor looked up, the near-total emptiness of the Time Lord's eyes and features revealing the intensity of his inner turmoil. He only went blank like that when he ran out of human expressions, or as a defensive measure, or both.
"You can fight Retcon," Jack said, "you can even beat it, if you really try. But every time I've done that, I've regretted it."
The Doctor blinked, slowly, left eyelid slightly out of synch with the right as it always was. Then he shifted his head, looking intently around the room, scanning every inch in minute detail: searching, Jack guessed, for any sign of an intruder or any hint of something amiss. Finally, his gaze came back to Jack, and Jack knew from the subtle shift in the Doctor's face that he hadn't found anything.
Silently, the Doctor handed the note back to Jack, who slipped it into the nightstand drawer, for want of any place better to put it, and that was the end of it. The matter of their missing memories went into that intangible file of Things Never To Be Discussed. But still, at odd moments, Jack found himself wondering about it. He knew the Doctor did, too, thanks to the occasional uncomfortable silence when eye contact slipped away and the shared sense of something invisible and terrible hovered over both of them, its shape unknown but hinted at by its lack of form.
Given everything we remember and everything we've done, Jack would think, with a chill crawling down his spine, what secret could possibly be worse?
Author: dameruth
Characters: Ten/Jack
Series: "Flowers"
Rating: G/All Ages
Summary: Two can keep a secret, if neither of them remember what it is. Written as a direct followup to "Nonzero Sum Equation"; a Support Stacie incentive ficlet for dshael, to the prompt: "Flowersverse, Secrets."
A/N - I'd been meaning for a long time to write a followup to "Nonzero," but never quite managed to find the right way to go about it -- until dshael's prompt touched off the spark. That's why I love these auctions, beyond the opportunity to do a little good in the world; they often provide exactly the incentive I need to get my butt in gear on back-burnered projects. :)
Someone was shaking Jack's shoulder, calling to him. With an effort, he fought free of the gluey darkness and opened his eyes. He found himself staring into the Doctor's face -- which wasn't unusual after yet another resurrection, except this wasn't another resurrection. He'd been unconscious, not dead. Ironically, that state of affairs was unusual enough to spike a startled burst of adrenalin through his system.
"Jack!" the Doctor said. "I think we've been drugged." The whites of his eyes were showing all the way around his irises and his features were taut. He looked as spooked as Jack had ever seen him.
Had they been drugged? Yes, there was a chalky aftertaste in his mouth, and it was a familiar one at that: Retcon. Immediately on the heels of that realization, he felt the nagging behind-the-eyes emptiness of memory rendered inaccessible. Like the hole left by a missing tooth, it cried out to be poked and prodded, but Jack knew better. His thoughts flinched away from the gap; he'd learned better than to try and fight against memory loss until he understood the circumstances.
He wriggled into a half-sitting position, the Doctor pulling back to give him room. They were in bed, in Jack's usual room on the TARDIS; again, not unusual except that they were both largely clothed and lying on top of the covers. That was abnormal enough to set off additional warning bells, and yet the TARDIS hummed peacefully around them, undisturbed.
Jack scanned their surroundings and saw the half-expected slip of paper on the nightstand, weighted down with a pen, and his stomach clenched with a mix of relief and apprehension. He reached for the note and recognized his own handwriting even before he could read what it said.
"Yeah, we were drugged," Jack said, "but I think we did it to ourselves."
The terse message ("Retcon: don't fight it!") confirmed Jack's guess. When he'd written the note to himself, he'd used the version of his "Jack Harkness" signature that meant he hadn't been under duress as he wrote: a subtle change in the hook of the "J" and the angle of the crossbar in the "H." Nothing anyone else would understand or even notice.
"On purpose?" the Doctor said, as if it were a completely foreign concept. Given what Jack knew about Time Lord psychology, it probably was.
"Yeah. I think there's something we aren't supposed to remember. Maybe this'll help clear it up." Jack passed the note to the Doctor; underneath his own writing was a circle-and-line glyph, sketchy but elegant, in the writing the TARDIS wouldn't -- couldn't -- translate into anything a human mind would understand.
Frowning, his lips parted, the Doctor took the paper. He stared at the circular message a long time, his expression unchanging. "But what . . .?" he began to ask, then stopped.
"I don't know," Jack said, with grim certainty, "and I don't want to know. That's the point."
The Doctor looked up, the near-total emptiness of the Time Lord's eyes and features revealing the intensity of his inner turmoil. He only went blank like that when he ran out of human expressions, or as a defensive measure, or both.
"You can fight Retcon," Jack said, "you can even beat it, if you really try. But every time I've done that, I've regretted it."
The Doctor blinked, slowly, left eyelid slightly out of synch with the right as it always was. Then he shifted his head, looking intently around the room, scanning every inch in minute detail: searching, Jack guessed, for any sign of an intruder or any hint of something amiss. Finally, his gaze came back to Jack, and Jack knew from the subtle shift in the Doctor's face that he hadn't found anything.
Silently, the Doctor handed the note back to Jack, who slipped it into the nightstand drawer, for want of any place better to put it, and that was the end of it. The matter of their missing memories went into that intangible file of Things Never To Be Discussed. But still, at odd moments, Jack found himself wondering about it. He knew the Doctor did, too, thanks to the occasional uncomfortable silence when eye contact slipped away and the shared sense of something invisible and terrible hovered over both of them, its shape unknown but hinted at by its lack of form.
Given everything we remember and everything we've done, Jack would think, with a chill crawling down his spine, what secret could possibly be worse?