Title: The Waters and the Wild
Rating: M
Characters: Jack/Gwen, (Gwen/Rhys, hints at Gwen/Owen)
Genre(s): Angst, Romance
Summary: In which Jack searches for an answer and Gwen discovers how truly fickle the heart can be.
Disclaimer: The names, images and logos identifying the BBC and their products and services are subject to copyright, design rights and trade marks of the BBC. Used without permission for non-profit, non-commercial personal use.
Fic Type: One shot.
Beta: rosie_not_rose
Author's Note: This bit me one night and would not let go until I'd written it. It was the first bit that popped into my head and the moment it went down on the page, other ideas careered into it. Such is life.
Excerpt: His hands cup her face, fingers trembling, rain dripping down their skin. The pads of his fingers move in small circles over her cheeks and his thumb slowly grazes her lip, as though he's trying to determine whether or not she's really there.
The Waters and the Wild
"Jack?"
She knocks tentatively at his office door, the thin sheet already slightly ajar. The sound echoes dimly around the room and she walks past its threshold, hovering just beyond.
He's sitting at his desk, coat off, hands clasped together, mouth against his fingers while a frown buries itself in the subtle wrinkles of his forehead and his eyes far away.
Gwen bites her lip, giving the smallest of smiles.
"I'm going home."
He doesn't look at her, remains staring straight ahead. To the untrained eye it seems he's watching the rest of his team as they work, as they prepare to pack up for the night. Gwen knows better.
"No you're not," he states simply, mouth barely moving.
She pulls back at her sleeve and checks her wrist. "It's a quarter past five," she argues softly. "You won't notice an extra fifteen minutes. Rhys is – "
"I said no." His eyes shift to her, bright and piercing, and Gwen falters. She watches him questioningly, wondering what on earth he could be playing at. "I've got something to show you."
"Oh. What is it?"
He takes a heavy breath, sitting back and moving his hands down to his desk.
"Come back when the others have gone," is his simple reply. She wonders how he can manage to say so much with so little, including giving her indication that the conversation is over and she can leave his office.
She could quite easily argue with him. She could tell him what Rhys has planned for the night, the restaurant they've got booked, the surprise he's got in store: and what's more Jack probably wouldn't stop her. But she's curious; so she goes back downstairs and waits.
-I-
"You planning on leaving any time soon, Gwen?"
She looks up, slightly startled, into Owen's curious face. He's chewing on his tongue, waiting impatiently, as though he's got to lock up and she's keeping him from going home.
Returning to her keyboard, she replies brusquely, "I've got a bit to finish off here, actually. Why, was there something you wanted?"
His eyes linger on her just a little bit too long and she feels every second. "It's nothing," he says, and skulks off towards the exit.
As soon as he's out the door, Gwen looks up to Jack's office. She can't see him but she knows he's there; he probably hasn't moved in the entire half hour she's been down here, waiting. He does that sometimes. She'll come across him and he'll be in exactly the same place, exactly the same position, as the last time she saw him. It makes her wonder whether he's a kind of moving statue. Whether at night, when everyone goes home to their beds, if he doesn't just freeze over until they all return in the morning.
It is an unsettling thought and one she hopes is just her imagination running away with her.
Wondering what it is he has to show her that needs to be done alone, she pushes herself up off her seat and climbs the stairs to his office, anticipation leaving a funny taste in her mouth. The Hub feels awfully large when it's just the two of them.
She doesn't get to knock on his door a second time; he's there already, coat on and an easier expression on his face. His eyes, though, are the same. Always the same.
"Follow me," is all he says, and before Gwen knows it he's leading her back, back into the depths of the Torchwood building, past storage chambers and corridors, towards a door she's never noticed before. She tries to ask him where they're going, what he's showing her, but somehow all the words get stuck in her throat.
He stops at the door, which even up close just looks like it's part of the wall, and meets her eye briefly before pushing it open; it isn't even locked.
Immediately the pair of them are flooded in complete darkness, light in the room beyond erased by all meaning. The building almost pulses around them, as if it's alive. It makes sounds, creaks in its sleep, almost as though it's waiting.
Gwen shivers.
A hand catches hers in the dark. She can't make out Jack's form – she couldn't even see her own hand in front of her face – but his skin by hers is comforting. And a bit scary.
"Jack..."
"Shh."
His voice echoes around them and she gulps.
Jack leads her forward slowly, step by step, each one giving her a new prickle over her skin. Gradually, as they walk, she becomes aware of a dim source of light. It can barely be made out at first, but as they grow closer it becomes stronger, like it's feeding off their presence.
Eventually they stop by a table illuminated only by this small ball of light. It's hovering in the air of its own accord, bobbing like balloon tugging on its string in the wind. It can't be more than a centimetre in diameter.
Gwen feels instantly taken by it, bending over slightly to get a better look.
"Wow," she breathes, and reaches out a hand towards it.
The hand is snatched up again by Jack's other.
"Ah ah," he warns softly as she stands straight again, looking him dead in the eye. "Don't touch."
The room is still mostly shrouded in darkness. Though she can see the table clearly enough, Jack's face is hidden by a mass of shadows that fall across his features in distortion, making him seem unfamiliar. Alien. She swallows again.
"What is it?" she asks instead, glancing back to the table.
Jack drops her hands, turning to it. "I don't know. At least not by name. It came through the rift several years ago – before any of you got here. Back when I was on my own."
She can't help looking at it. Something about the balancing ball, the sound it emits as it hovers in the air, is inviting. It makes her want to touch it, want to hold it in the palm of her hands.
"What does it do?" she asks in wonder, angling closer to it for a better look.
Jack gives a soft chuckle through his nose, the sound heavy in the air. "That's what I've been trying to find out."
Gwen looks up at him sharply. "On your own?"
"Well, it was here before any of you." He shrugs, not very apologetically. "There didn't seem an appropriate time to bring it up."
"And now there is?" she challenges, eyeing him suspiciously.
He nods slowly, drawing the movement out. Then he moves away from the desk, into the darkness, and for a few short moments he's completely disappeared. Then suddenly he's behind her, right there; she can feel his breath at the back of her neck and she tries to remember her police training of keeping a steady breath in times of panic. Not that this is a stage of panic, but when she feels nimble fingers at her hair, moving it away from her skin, her whole body tenses and it may as well be.
When he speaks, his voice holds an ironic laugh. "Do you remember in Harry Potter, where Harry finds the mirror? You know, the one that shows him what he most – desires?"
He drags the last word out in a long breath, his voice growing softer as his breath increases its focus by her skin.
Wordlessly Gwen nods, unable to make her mouth move in case it says or does something stupid.
Jack's arm comes up past her, pointing at the light while at the same time angling her body right into his, flush against his chest and hips; it's all she can do not to let her eyes slip closed and get caught up with him, in the darkness. But she watches because it seems like there's a lesson she should learn.
"That's what it does," he murmurs softly, right in her ear, and she's sure he must be able to feel the shiver that travels all the way down her spine.
"Oh."
Suddenly he's away from her again and she feels a cold rush of air where his stern body once was. His footsteps are loud, as though he's everywhere all at once, and he turns to her in the dim light with something of a sardonic grin on his face. It's humourless, hurt.
"Do you know what I see?" he asks, pointing to the device while his smile gets stronger, his blue eyes flashing in the dark. "When I look at it?"
Gwen shakes her head, frowning.
"Nothing," he hisses. The word comes out of his mouth like an expletive, muttered and semi-silent. "I see nothing. Just – well, just nothing."
She glances back to the device, partly because she can't bear to look at Jack any more, and that strange sensation to reach out and make a connection returns. Then her head snaps back, her eyes finding his in the dark.
"How do you know what it does, then? If it shows you nothing?"
His hollow laugh surrounds them, bringing prickling hairs to the back of her neck. "Oh, Gwen," he chuckles, coming towards her; she can't help but brace and back away from him slightly. He notices, stops. "Ever since I can remember it's shown me one thing. Only one."
She swallows. "What's that, then?"
The pause he leaves is excruciating, leaving her mind to fill in the blank of his answer.
"The Doctor," he answers wistfully at last, and she must admit she was expecting a little more than that.
"Owen?" she reiterates, because she can't be quite sure. "Our Owen?"
He stares at her like she's mad. "No, not 'Owen'. The Doctor. The. Doctor – The. Mine."
"Who's he when he's at home?"
Jack lifts his fingers to his eyes, sighing deeply. "He was – " he starts, but pulls off straight away, evidently unsure how to describe ... whoever it is he's trying to describe. Gwen shifts from one foot to the other uneasily as Jack watches her, his face drawn. "He's who I was looking for. I spent years of my life trying to track him down, hoping that I could just – "
Again he breaks off and Gwen reaches out, touches his arm soberly. "And now you see nothing?" she asks quietly, watching him. "Nothing at all?"
"No."
She worries her lips, considering the little hovering ball on the table. "Can I try it?" she asks in barely more than a whisper, as though it's the largest secret in the world.
"It's why I brought you down here." Her eyes snap back to him and he shrugs. "I needed to make sure it – wasn't broken."
"Why me?" she checks straight away, and as he looks down to the floor a small smile passes over Jack's face, as fleeting as a shadow.
"Do you really have to ask?"
She doesn't know what to say to that, so instead she turns towards the light source, dropping her hand by her sides. Slowly she approaches, feeling like Sleeping Beauty following the lure of the witch.
"What do I have to do?" she asks quietly, and once again Jack is behind her.
"Just touch it," he murmurs, anticipation heady in his voice.
Gwen does as she is told, extending her hand out towards the centre at the silvery-grey glow. Her fingers come into contact with the ball of light and all of a sudden it seems she's stolen from her own body and mind, and into somebody else's.
It's night. The rain is beating down icily, the droplets fat and heavy on her skin, weighing her down; she's already soaked to the core. The alleyway is dark, street lamps barely reaching her this far back. She walks slowly, approaches a figure at the end who's cast in shade. He's a silhouette against a backdrop of more darkness, but he starts walking towards her.
"I'm sorry," is all she manages as they grow close and it's the look in his eyes that stops her. He'd be dead if it weren't for the fact he couldn't die, and she knows it.
Their bodies touch as they huddle together, her eyes locked on his as though they're the only things she can see. Relief sweeps over her, joy at seeing him alive, disbelief that he's actually standing in front of her and not lying in the basement of the building in a pool of his own blood.
His hands cup her face, fingers trembling, rain dripping down their skin. The pads of his fingers move in small circles over her cheeks and his thumb slowly grazes her lip, as though he's trying to determine whether or not she's really there.
What kept me fighting was the thought of coming home to you.
The kiss is clumsy, withheld, like he's not sure he even knows what a kiss is – but of course he does. It's just his mouth against hers, dragging slowly across her skin as though he's trying to absorb her. His hands grow restless, more commanding, and suddenly his tongue makes contact with hers and it's the most peaceful thing she ever could have imagined. The only sound is that of rain hitting tarmac and bodies growing close.
He shifts, backing her into the wall behind her, tilting her head slightly as he deepens the kiss. She lets him, moves her hands steadily from his shoulders to grasping the back of his head, pulling him flush against her. It's surprisingly unhurried. No frantic, sudden movements, no rush towards a finish line, no feeling as though time is pressing in around them. It's almost like finding a stranger in the dark, a meeting to heal that has been needed for uncountable years
Suddenly the wall behind her disappears and she falls backwards into nothingness. Her heart leaps to her throat and she momentarily breaks the kiss – until she's bouncing lightly on the soft duvet of a bed, and atop her, he dips his head and his lips meet hers. The night seems caught up with the surreal, the intangible, as though reality itself is coming apart at the seams. It's the only reason she can think of why they're doing this, why he's slowly unbuttoning her blouse, why she's pushing his heavy coat, drenched from water, up off his shoulders to slide slickly down his body.
This is not how she's imagined him to be in the past, and boy has she ever imagined. He's always been flirtatious, quick-witted, teasing, seducing, as she imagines he is with most of his lovers. This is different. This is tenderness to its very core, like he's afraid he may break her if he imposes his barriers on her too much. Perhaps it is because she knows he wears a mask, a look that has never suited him in her eyes. Perhaps this is him letting her in.
The trousers slide gracefully over her bum, his hands pushing gently into the silken smoothness of her thighs and hips. He's already rid of his shirt, his bare chest like ice against the liquid fire inside her. Her blouse fans out beneath her, revealing her to him, and as he nuzzles to the pulse point of her throat she feels his hand glide around to her back, his fingers nimble at the clasp of her bra.
Though his touch is light and feather soft, with the apprehension of the chaste virgin, his movements are so delicate, so precise, that it's quite clear he knows exactly what he's doing.
Peeling the frilled fabric away from her, he runs his fingers over her breasts, ever-moving in their attempt to caress. She rises into his hands, into his mouth, and he takes her happily, his erection quite firm between her legs as it struggles for freedom. The sensations are amazing. He takes a moment to pull back, the sound of a belt filling the room as soon his own trousers join hers on the floor.
Crawling back to her, he slips his fingers beneath her knickers, edging them down her body almost as if by accident. Lifting herself off the bed to aid him, she touches her hips to his, feeling immediately just how much want this man can have. Relieving himself of his boxers, her moves fully on top of her, nudging her legs apart with his knee as he whispers kisses at her collarbone.
Her fingers press deeply into his back, dragging him by the shoulder blades up to her mouth, where once again he cups her face, angling her towards him. With his other hand he holds her, encourages her up a little, then suddenly he's right there, slipping inside her almost jerkily, his movements small but flooding her with intensity.
He stares her right in the eye. They're crisp against the darkness of the room, the moonlight filtering through the curtains catching the whisper of emotions in his eyes. It's almost like he's looking into her, right down into who she is and what she wants the most. She gasps raggedly as he moves inside her, drawing back slowly then entering her again, deeper and for longer.
She's clinging to him like she'll fall off the face of the earth if she doesn't, concentrating on the pupils of his watchful eyes. Just every now and then hers slip closed, but there's something about the entire thing she doesn't want to miss. She wants to see what passes across his face as she matches his rhythm, wrapping her legs around him, allowing him to fall deeper within her. She wants to watch the look in his eyes as he grabs her tightly at the back, his fingers so strong they're sure to leave marks. She wants to watch him watch her climbing to the brink, their lovemaking far above and beyond anything she's ever experienced with everyone else.
Unsure quite how, she's suddenly on top of him, being forced to ride on the waves of his own excitement. He keeps her close to him, his breath ghosting over to her, and as their fore heads meet in tired continuation their sweat starts to collide. His movements are more erratic, no longer the smooth build up of pleasure. Every sweep he makes inside her brings further tension to the pit of her womb and with one final tug to her body she comes willingly, shaking in his arms as she tries desperately to hold his eye contact.
He follows while she's receding, spasming inside her and plunging deeply one last time. The noise he makes is incredible. It's quiet but strangled, like it's taking all his effort not to scream the stars down from the sky.
In the heavy darkness afterwards it's just the sounds of their breathing. She moves off him, curling into his side and laying her head on his chest, staring at the wall across the room. His heartbeat thuds in her ear. Immediately his hand holds her there, his fingers running smoothly through her hair as though in thanks.
His chest is still heaving from his own release when she says sadly, "I love Rhys."
He places a kiss to the crown of her head, holding her tightly. "I know."
The feelings and images fade almost as quickly as they'd arrived and within mere seconds she's staring into the dim, silver light of the orb.
"What did you see?"
Jack's voice is curious, full of daring. He's still standing right behind her; it's as though they haven't moved at all. It takes Gwen a moment to separate reality from apparition, events from non-events. She turns slowly, stepping away from him, but watching him carefully.
"Well," she begins, licking her lips; her mouth has suddenly become very dry. "It wasn't nothing."
She thanks the darkness of the room for hiding her blush. Of all the things to desire most ... She's not quite sure how she wants to take what she's just seen, what she's just felt.
Slightly to her surprise, he comes to her, cups her face in his hand as his eyes search hers, looking for a truth it seems her mouth won't tell. She feels suddenly nervous under his gaze: what if he can see more than he's ever let on?
"You said my name," he utters softly, barely more than a murmur. "'Jack'," he repeats, moving in so close he's just centimetres from her. "'Make me come, Jack'."
Immediately the blush is hot and burning, but not quite as much as her skin beneath his touch. She wants to lie, wants to say it couldn't have possibly been that because all she saw was her and Rhys on their wedding day. But she can't lie to him – she just can't.
"All right," she responds fiercely, moving out of his grip to give her head at least some chance of forming coherent words. "Fine. Are you happy? Yes, Jack, I want you to make me come. I want you to fuck me so hard I don't know where I end and you begin. I also love my fiancée very, very much. He's the world to me. Do you have any idea what that's like, what it is to feel that way?" He's not doing anything; the expression on his face hasn't even changed. She can't register what it is he's feeling, or what he's thinking. "What do you want me to say, Jack?"
"Nothing," he replies, and it's almost a command. "If that's what you saw, if that's how you feel – nothing."
She blinks at him, frowning hard. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"
He doesn't reply, simply stands there with his hands in his pockets considering her as though she's a stranger to him.
"No, tell me what's going on," she insists fiercely. Her momentary anger turns to inquisitive wonder. "What was this about? Really?"
"Go home, Gwen Cooper," he replies coolly, his voice smooth. "Back into the arms of a man who'll love you always. Didn't you say you had plans tonight?"
She can't believe it. "You bastard, Jack. You utter bastard. Is that what this is, hm? A game to you, is it? Let's pretend Gwen's special and see how far we can bloody push her. Well, well done. You've reached my limit. Congratulations!"
"You are special, Gwen," he tells her, completely deadpan.
She gives him a withering look. "Yes, like everyone else, I know." When she pushes past him he doesn't try to stop her; he simply stays stoic, hands in his pocket. She whirls around again, fired by anger she knows she'll regret. "Oh, and it wasn't just about sex, by the way. If it was just sex I would have imagined Owen."
That gets his attention; she can practically feel his ears prick up. Slowly, he turns to face her.
"Yeah," she continues, unable to stop herself from gibing at him. "That's right. You were open. No barriers, no nothing." Her eyes linger on his, the memory of the vision momentarily blurring in front of her eyes. "I could see into your very soul. And what's more – you let me."
As she watches, it's like he's wrestling with himself. Suddenly he doesn't look as composed as he did before.
"Gwen. I – "
"Forget it." She shakes her head, turning to go. "No, you stay down here with your little games. I'm going home. Like you said: there's a man who'll love me always, and he's waiting for me."
Jack's reply is sober, his eyes on her.
"Yes. He is."
In the stony silence of his gaze she swallows. Then with a heavy heart she turns and leaves. One day, he'll go to her; but not today. Today it's only his answer that follows her out the door.