i wish rereading old fics weren't so embarrassing /o\
Two more (fairly short) fics before I get started posting chatfics and other not!fic (alternately, two more fics before I lose interest and go back to working on my WIPs /o\) - one Heroes/Torchwood crossover, one Lost fic.
So, Heroes/Torchwood! Rated R, Jack Harkness/Adam Monroe, title/snippet at the beginning from Whitman.
At Present Low, But Will Soon Be Better
“O look, look in the mirror,
O look in your distress;
Life remains a blessing
Although you cannot bless.
“O stand, stand at the window
As the tears scald and start;
You shall love your crooked neighbor
With all your crooked heart.”
Ian comes back to life just in time to see his commanding officer gasping in air, which is a little atypical, considering that he just watched said commanding officer die, right before he himself quite literally bit the bullet. He tentatively sits up, assessing the damage to his body. Broken bones and a couple of rib bones protruding through the skin of his chest - must've been trampled by the horses.
Captain Harkness, despite the fact that his body had been laying right next to Ian's, shows no sign of similar damage. He's still slower to sit up, but when he does he watches with interest as Ian pokes and prods himself back to full health.
“We're a bit alike then, I see,” Ian says almost conversationally as he snaps his femur back into place.
His captain shakes his head. “Not quite. I don't have that nice little trick. It'd come in handy, gotta say. I just... come back.”
“No matter what?”
“No matter what.”
Ian smiles as the last of his broken skin mends itself. “Then we're a bit alike, then.”
*
They meet again in a hospital in 1917. “It's good to see you again, Ian,” he says, and he's met with a fervent shake of the head.
“It's Michael now,” he replies.
“Fair enough. What are you here for?”
“Shell-shock, apparently. I'm fine, but...” He sighs. “Let one little detail slip about life in feudal Japan right after you've seen a few friends die and they assume you've gone mad. Yourself?”
“On leave," he says. "One of my men is here. I'm paying him a visit.”
“Don't suppose you'd have time for a drink before you go back.”
Jack grins, turning on the charm full-force for the first time in Michael's presence. Michael is suddenly, irrationally jealous of whichever man Jack is here to see. (Please, lord, not one of the poets, he idly thinks. Stupid prats would have been better off dying of consumption in France.) “Tomorrow afternoon?” he asks, and Michael finds himself fighting a smirk as he nods.
*
The tone of their conversation is set almost as soon as they meet the next day; there's a nail sticking out of the underside of the table at which they sit, and Michael manages to scrape his hand, a long, though shallow, cut rising up on his skin for mere moments before fading away again. “Same tricks,” Jack observes.
Michael nods. “They never change.”
Jack sips his drink, a strange look on his face. “How long has it been?”
“Over three hundred years,” he says, and Jack sucks in a breath. “There was... a man. An extraordinary one, and I don't know if you'll believe me, but he was... he wasn't from my time. And ever since him...”
“You can't be hurt.”
“And then he left,” Michael says, not without bitterness, before downing most of his drink in one mouthful. “Mind you, I did set him up to be killed, so I can see why he'd scarper.”
“Well, Michael or Ian or whoever you feel like being right now, I can kind of relate.” Michael snorts. “Hey, now, give me a chance, old-timer. I'm only heading for sixty, but I was born in the fifty-first century. I died in the two thousandth and second century, and then I woke up, and he'd...” He trails off, lost once more in the memory of seeing the TARDIS dematerializing without him.
“There was a he, then.”
“There was. A she, too. An extraordinary man and an extraordinary woman.”
“Well, then, Captain. How did you end up here?”
“It's Jack, by the way. Only my juniors should call me by rank.” He pauses, sighing for a moment before drinking more of his pint. “It's a long story.”
Michael shrugs. “We've got time.”
*
It isn't always during conflict that they find each other. They meet by chance in a cafe in Marseilles in 1968, drink too-sweet coffee and talk about old friends who've quite literally become old friends, or dead friends, or missing friends. Jack is still Jack (always Jack, because however much he hates the Doctor right now, the name they called him has become as good as his own), but Michael is Steven this time around.
They leave the cafe and end up moving to a nearby bar, switching from coffee to wine, and before long they're both very, very drunk, even though Steven's body is doing its best to purge the alcohol and he has to drink twice as much just to stay mildly inebriated.
Scratch that. Steven is very, very drunk, because when they're leaving the bar and Jack tips his head and asks, “So what is your real name, anyway?” he's answering without even thinking about it. “Willard,” Jack repeats. “Huh. No wonder you change your name every four seconds.”
“Quiet, you,” Steven says. “And what about you? Any bizarre futuristic naming practices I should know about?”
Jack's never told anyone this - not since he saw Captain Jack Harkness standing out from the others on the list of the dead and took it for his own. He loops his arm around Steven's shoulder and pulls him in; when he whispers his old name he's met with a laugh. Jack isn't sure if it's because of his name or because of his lips tickling Steven's earlobe, but either way he pulls away, looking indignant. “Hey, I'll have you know that's my grandfather's name.”
“And a lovely name it is. A noble name.” He fights to keep a straight face. “No worries, Jack. Your secret's safe with me.”
“Appreciate it.”
They stop at a park bench for hours, sharing stories from old wars and future wars and, their favourite subject, notable shags - they're amused to find out they have quite a few in common, from Oscar Wilde to Albert Einstein to Edith Piaf. Jack name-drops Walt Whitman and Steven laughs. “O captain, my captain,” he says, leaning back against the bench and grinning at Jack. He's fully sober by now, but he can tell Jack isn't by the way his eyes stay fixed on Steven's lips for just a second too long. Then the moment ends and Jack laughs too, finally changing the subject.
“So, how do you choose the names you go by?” he asks.
“Whatever catches my fancy.” He smiles as Jack slings his arm across his shoulders again, and he wraps his own arm around Jack's waist, fingers lingering just above his hip. “Who knows? Maybe I'll be Jack Harkness tomorrow.”
And indeed, he is Jack several months later when the riots break out, and the real Jack Harkness - or the closest thing to him - is cities away, dead, skin closing over a bullet in his chest.
*
Their last time together is in the 20th century is near the end of the war in Vietnam, and Jack is unsurprised to see one body sitting up from the pile he passes.
“Do you follow the fighting, or do you follow me?” he jokes, and he's met with a smile.
“The fighting, mostly, but I can't deny that you're a lovely benefit.”
“So who is it this time? George, John, Paul, Ringo?”
“Adam,” he says, and Jack nods.
“It suits you,” he says, and they start to walk.
It is their last time together but their first time truly together, hot and slow against a tree, rough bark scraping Adam's back over and over and healing just as fast.
“God, Jack, why has it taken us this long? I’m all for foreplay, but sixty years of it seems a bit excessive.” Adam hisses into his ear as Jack's fingers deftly unbuckle his belt, and Jack smiles into the curve of his neck.
"We've got time," he says, and he doesn't say much after that. But when he comes, Adam is what leaves his lips, and over thirty years later Adam is still Adam, and probably always will be.
*
*
Annnnnnd Lost fic, set somewhere (I think?) around season one, or maybe two - it's been so long since I watched it I have no idea. Also R-rated, Sawyer/Kate, title and snippet from the Matthew Good Band's 'Beautiful Midnight.'
Running for Home
when we were liars things were seamless
when we were wired the world was like a secret
i close my eyes now and i scream
i turn the light on and there's nothing left redeeming
i saw your face before it changed
the gun it makes you look nicer in a bad way
One quiet evening (as quiet as it ever gets on the island, at any rate) Sawyer asks her what she'll do if they ever get rescued. "Get caught," she answers matter-of-factly. "And then get away."
"It would be that easy, huh?"
"Hey, you asked. I answered. I'd keep running," she says, and her voice sounds like that of a small child telling her mother what she's going to be when she grows up.
I'm gonna be a ballerina.
I'm gonna be a doctor.
I'm gonna start running, and I'm never gonna stop.
"Where would you go?"
"I'm not telling you! You'd let something slip if they interrogated you and they'd track me down." He raises an eyebrow and she grins, flops down onto the sand, staring out over the water. "Peru," she finally says.
"Have you ever been?" Sawyer asks. She shakes her head, and he looks out over the water with her. He's never been, either, but he thinks he might like to go sometime.
*
Kate is almost insatiable, but it's not as if Sawyer minds. It's nice to have someone who's able to keep up with him, and besides, he finds it hard to complain about being woken up in the middle of the night when it's because there's someone on top of you (her mouth pressing against his own - lips moving softly - if she's lonely, her mouth against his shoulder - teeth clenching down hard - if he's made her mad, her mouth moving lower and lower - hands fumbling with the belt buckle and the button of his jeans - if Jack's upset her somehow).
She seems to like it when he hurts her, but one night he's tired and she's cold and they're both a little scared (though neither is about to admit to it) and he wraps his arms around her and holds her close against his chest, tracing circles on the skin of her shoulder with his thumb, and she seems to like that just as much.
She never makes the first move during the day. Sawyer figures it's because she's afraid to let her guard down when the sun is up. He's probably right. He never asks, because he doesn't really care; she's responsive, and that's ultimately what matters most to him. Kate always teases, always tries to play hard-to-get, but she always puts out. He knows women, Sawyer does. He knows what they want, and he knows she wants him. She's dumb. Convenient. Just like every other women he's ever been with.
"There ain't nothing on this island worth staying for," he told her once, and he meant it.
At least, he thought he did, and he figures that's probably close enough.
*
"A tiger can't change his stripes," he told her another time. But a snake can shed its skin.
*
Kate notices how quick he is to change his attitude when he finds out Aaron might be sick. There's something decent in him somewhere, she thinks, if you know where to look for it, what buttons to press. He gives her a gun. He knows it's something she's going to try to keep, but he still presses that familiar weight into her hands without hesitation.
She wonders if he's trying to make amends, or if his unconscious is feeling particularly guilty. He's wondering the same thing, but all in all he's just following his own rules. Hell if getting the guns - getting the power - on this island isn't the best damn job he's ever pulled, but he's not about to let a kid get hurt because of it.
Atonement doesn't suit Sawyer. At least, he doesn't think it does. He made his bed and he'll lie in it, so long as he's enjoying the company. And he enjoys Kate's just fine.
So, Heroes/Torchwood! Rated R, Jack Harkness/Adam Monroe, title/snippet at the beginning from Whitman.
At Present Low, But Will Soon Be Better
“O look, look in the mirror,
O look in your distress;
Life remains a blessing
Although you cannot bless.
“O stand, stand at the window
As the tears scald and start;
You shall love your crooked neighbor
With all your crooked heart.”
Ian comes back to life just in time to see his commanding officer gasping in air, which is a little atypical, considering that he just watched said commanding officer die, right before he himself quite literally bit the bullet. He tentatively sits up, assessing the damage to his body. Broken bones and a couple of rib bones protruding through the skin of his chest - must've been trampled by the horses.
Captain Harkness, despite the fact that his body had been laying right next to Ian's, shows no sign of similar damage. He's still slower to sit up, but when he does he watches with interest as Ian pokes and prods himself back to full health.
“We're a bit alike then, I see,” Ian says almost conversationally as he snaps his femur back into place.
His captain shakes his head. “Not quite. I don't have that nice little trick. It'd come in handy, gotta say. I just... come back.”
“No matter what?”
“No matter what.”
Ian smiles as the last of his broken skin mends itself. “Then we're a bit alike, then.”
*
They meet again in a hospital in 1917. “It's good to see you again, Ian,” he says, and he's met with a fervent shake of the head.
“It's Michael now,” he replies.
“Fair enough. What are you here for?”
“Shell-shock, apparently. I'm fine, but...” He sighs. “Let one little detail slip about life in feudal Japan right after you've seen a few friends die and they assume you've gone mad. Yourself?”
“On leave," he says. "One of my men is here. I'm paying him a visit.”
“Don't suppose you'd have time for a drink before you go back.”
Jack grins, turning on the charm full-force for the first time in Michael's presence. Michael is suddenly, irrationally jealous of whichever man Jack is here to see. (Please, lord, not one of the poets, he idly thinks. Stupid prats would have been better off dying of consumption in France.) “Tomorrow afternoon?” he asks, and Michael finds himself fighting a smirk as he nods.
*
The tone of their conversation is set almost as soon as they meet the next day; there's a nail sticking out of the underside of the table at which they sit, and Michael manages to scrape his hand, a long, though shallow, cut rising up on his skin for mere moments before fading away again. “Same tricks,” Jack observes.
Michael nods. “They never change.”
Jack sips his drink, a strange look on his face. “How long has it been?”
“Over three hundred years,” he says, and Jack sucks in a breath. “There was... a man. An extraordinary one, and I don't know if you'll believe me, but he was... he wasn't from my time. And ever since him...”
“You can't be hurt.”
“And then he left,” Michael says, not without bitterness, before downing most of his drink in one mouthful. “Mind you, I did set him up to be killed, so I can see why he'd scarper.”
“Well, Michael or Ian or whoever you feel like being right now, I can kind of relate.” Michael snorts. “Hey, now, give me a chance, old-timer. I'm only heading for sixty, but I was born in the fifty-first century. I died in the two thousandth and second century, and then I woke up, and he'd...” He trails off, lost once more in the memory of seeing the TARDIS dematerializing without him.
“There was a he, then.”
“There was. A she, too. An extraordinary man and an extraordinary woman.”
“Well, then, Captain. How did you end up here?”
“It's Jack, by the way. Only my juniors should call me by rank.” He pauses, sighing for a moment before drinking more of his pint. “It's a long story.”
Michael shrugs. “We've got time.”
*
It isn't always during conflict that they find each other. They meet by chance in a cafe in Marseilles in 1968, drink too-sweet coffee and talk about old friends who've quite literally become old friends, or dead friends, or missing friends. Jack is still Jack (always Jack, because however much he hates the Doctor right now, the name they called him has become as good as his own), but Michael is Steven this time around.
They leave the cafe and end up moving to a nearby bar, switching from coffee to wine, and before long they're both very, very drunk, even though Steven's body is doing its best to purge the alcohol and he has to drink twice as much just to stay mildly inebriated.
Scratch that. Steven is very, very drunk, because when they're leaving the bar and Jack tips his head and asks, “So what is your real name, anyway?” he's answering without even thinking about it. “Willard,” Jack repeats. “Huh. No wonder you change your name every four seconds.”
“Quiet, you,” Steven says. “And what about you? Any bizarre futuristic naming practices I should know about?”
Jack's never told anyone this - not since he saw Captain Jack Harkness standing out from the others on the list of the dead and took it for his own. He loops his arm around Steven's shoulder and pulls him in; when he whispers his old name he's met with a laugh. Jack isn't sure if it's because of his name or because of his lips tickling Steven's earlobe, but either way he pulls away, looking indignant. “Hey, I'll have you know that's my grandfather's name.”
“And a lovely name it is. A noble name.” He fights to keep a straight face. “No worries, Jack. Your secret's safe with me.”
“Appreciate it.”
They stop at a park bench for hours, sharing stories from old wars and future wars and, their favourite subject, notable shags - they're amused to find out they have quite a few in common, from Oscar Wilde to Albert Einstein to Edith Piaf. Jack name-drops Walt Whitman and Steven laughs. “O captain, my captain,” he says, leaning back against the bench and grinning at Jack. He's fully sober by now, but he can tell Jack isn't by the way his eyes stay fixed on Steven's lips for just a second too long. Then the moment ends and Jack laughs too, finally changing the subject.
“So, how do you choose the names you go by?” he asks.
“Whatever catches my fancy.” He smiles as Jack slings his arm across his shoulders again, and he wraps his own arm around Jack's waist, fingers lingering just above his hip. “Who knows? Maybe I'll be Jack Harkness tomorrow.”
And indeed, he is Jack several months later when the riots break out, and the real Jack Harkness - or the closest thing to him - is cities away, dead, skin closing over a bullet in his chest.
*
Their last time together is in the 20th century is near the end of the war in Vietnam, and Jack is unsurprised to see one body sitting up from the pile he passes.
“Do you follow the fighting, or do you follow me?” he jokes, and he's met with a smile.
“The fighting, mostly, but I can't deny that you're a lovely benefit.”
“So who is it this time? George, John, Paul, Ringo?”
“Adam,” he says, and Jack nods.
“It suits you,” he says, and they start to walk.
It is their last time together but their first time truly together, hot and slow against a tree, rough bark scraping Adam's back over and over and healing just as fast.
“God, Jack, why has it taken us this long? I’m all for foreplay, but sixty years of it seems a bit excessive.” Adam hisses into his ear as Jack's fingers deftly unbuckle his belt, and Jack smiles into the curve of his neck.
"We've got time," he says, and he doesn't say much after that. But when he comes, Adam is what leaves his lips, and over thirty years later Adam is still Adam, and probably always will be.
*
*
Annnnnnd Lost fic, set somewhere (I think?) around season one, or maybe two - it's been so long since I watched it I have no idea. Also R-rated, Sawyer/Kate, title and snippet from the Matthew Good Band's 'Beautiful Midnight.'
Running for Home
when we were liars things were seamless
when we were wired the world was like a secret
i close my eyes now and i scream
i turn the light on and there's nothing left redeeming
i saw your face before it changed
the gun it makes you look nicer in a bad way
One quiet evening (as quiet as it ever gets on the island, at any rate) Sawyer asks her what she'll do if they ever get rescued. "Get caught," she answers matter-of-factly. "And then get away."
"It would be that easy, huh?"
"Hey, you asked. I answered. I'd keep running," she says, and her voice sounds like that of a small child telling her mother what she's going to be when she grows up.
I'm gonna be a ballerina.
I'm gonna be a doctor.
I'm gonna start running, and I'm never gonna stop.
"Where would you go?"
"I'm not telling you! You'd let something slip if they interrogated you and they'd track me down." He raises an eyebrow and she grins, flops down onto the sand, staring out over the water. "Peru," she finally says.
"Have you ever been?" Sawyer asks. She shakes her head, and he looks out over the water with her. He's never been, either, but he thinks he might like to go sometime.
*
Kate is almost insatiable, but it's not as if Sawyer minds. It's nice to have someone who's able to keep up with him, and besides, he finds it hard to complain about being woken up in the middle of the night when it's because there's someone on top of you (her mouth pressing against his own - lips moving softly - if she's lonely, her mouth against his shoulder - teeth clenching down hard - if he's made her mad, her mouth moving lower and lower - hands fumbling with the belt buckle and the button of his jeans - if Jack's upset her somehow).
She seems to like it when he hurts her, but one night he's tired and she's cold and they're both a little scared (though neither is about to admit to it) and he wraps his arms around her and holds her close against his chest, tracing circles on the skin of her shoulder with his thumb, and she seems to like that just as much.
She never makes the first move during the day. Sawyer figures it's because she's afraid to let her guard down when the sun is up. He's probably right. He never asks, because he doesn't really care; she's responsive, and that's ultimately what matters most to him. Kate always teases, always tries to play hard-to-get, but she always puts out. He knows women, Sawyer does. He knows what they want, and he knows she wants him. She's dumb. Convenient. Just like every other women he's ever been with.
"There ain't nothing on this island worth staying for," he told her once, and he meant it.
At least, he thought he did, and he figures that's probably close enough.
*
"A tiger can't change his stripes," he told her another time. But a snake can shed its skin.
*
Kate notices how quick he is to change his attitude when he finds out Aaron might be sick. There's something decent in him somewhere, she thinks, if you know where to look for it, what buttons to press. He gives her a gun. He knows it's something she's going to try to keep, but he still presses that familiar weight into her hands without hesitation.
She wonders if he's trying to make amends, or if his unconscious is feeling particularly guilty. He's wondering the same thing, but all in all he's just following his own rules. Hell if getting the guns - getting the power - on this island isn't the best damn job he's ever pulled, but he's not about to let a kid get hurt because of it.
Atonement doesn't suit Sawyer. At least, he doesn't think it does. He made his bed and he'll lie in it, so long as he's enjoying the company. And he enjoys Kate's just fine.