Pairings: Nine/Rose/Jack, Nine/Rose
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Violence, threesomes, explicit sexual activity
Disclaimer: I do not own these characters. Doctor Who and Torchwood belongs to BBC and RTD and I am not making money out of this story.
Summary: In a post-apocalyptic world where the undead have taken over, what will it take for Rose, Jack, and John Smith to survive? AU, with an appearance of characters from Torchwood as well.
Author's Notes: Written for maniacalshen for the dwsanta Secret Santa Fic Exchange. Inspired by Max Brooks fantastic "The Zombie Survival Guide" and "World War Z".
This is probably the longest single fic I've ever written, so far, and the one I am proudest of. Many thanks and a lovely bottle of wine to develish1 for the Brit-picking, editing, and assuring me that the story works. :) Thanks, dear. I couldn't have done this without you.
Any other mistakes in grammar, punctuation, spelling, or consistency is entirely mine. Comments and constructive criticisms are most welcome.
The street, bordered on both sides by two- and three-storey residential flats, was quiet. The trees lining the pavements stood like weary sentinels, branches withered and bare, stark against the scuttling clouds. Cars were parked intermittently on the curb, abandoned, rust creeping slowly over the metal surfaces. Windows were boarded, shaded. None of the doors were locked, not anymore, not since they took over.
A gust of wind tore through the neighborhood, malevolent and furious, bringing with it the scent of carrion. Scraps of paper and dry leaves whirled in the wake of the wind. A dog barked somewhere in the distance, which was was suddenly cut off, mid-howl. Up on a third-floor window, blackout curtain twitched, belying movement behind the wall.
They came down the street: first one, then three, then twenty, a hundred, five hundred. Torn and tattered, bare feet worn down to the bone, knees barely supporting their bloated flesh. The lead zombie, with its lips rotting away from its teeth, shoulders bent at an unnatural angle, let out a low moan. The others replied, lending their vocal chords to the call - food, there is food here. Bone scraped asphalt as they shuffled forward, eyes unblinking, staring blindly from rotting sockets. Above the horde, the blackout curtain twitched again as a window slid open soundlessly, and the slim black nose of an AK-47 came into view. Strong fingers curved on the trigger as a bright blue eye peered through the viewfinder. The lead zombie paused, its skull tilted upwards as if to catch the scent of fresh meat.
"Fuckers," the man with the gun muttered under his breath as he squeezed the trigger.
The bullet rammed straight through the skull, crushing bone and brain matter as it coursed through the zombie's head. It crumpled to the ground as necrotic fluid gushed from its putrid form. The other zombies paused, as if waiting for the next shot, and then continued shuffling forward.
He started picking out his shots, bullets ringing as they sliced through each zombie's head, clattering against the ground. Each shot found its mark, shattering bone and rotting flesh and destroying the feeding ground of the virus that inhabited the dead. Three, then six, ten, seventeen... they crumpled to the ground, deflated, the very air sucked out of them. The rest just took over the space their counterparts previously occupied as they moved forward, as though following an unheard call.
One more shot, the man thought, and that would make it twenty.
Suddenly, as though someone had pressed a pause button, the zombies stopped moving. The wind died. En masse, they s shifted as their dead eyes turned to face the third-storey building with the blackout curtain. Then, as one, they started shuffling forward, towards the entrance of the building.
The man withdrew his rifle and grabbed his semi-automatic and pistol, making sure that he had enough ammunition in his pockets and around his body. He was old and he was tired and he was the last one but goddammit, he wasn't going to go down without a fight. He checked the small room for other weapons - there was the sword Evelyn had used, still crusted with black blood but sharp and ready for use. He slung the scabbard across his shoulder, gritting his teeth as he viewed the stack of supplies he had. Molotov cocktails? Sure, but he'd run out of matches the night before and had no time to make another supply run. Still, he had tinder and flint - a dying man's last resort. It was a gift from Ace before she died and he cut off her head - and perhaps he could still start a fire.
He could hear them shuffling through the door, three storeys down. He wondered if zombies could climb ladders.
He rushed out into the hallways, hoping the shadows were enough to hide him from the initial assault. It would be easier to draw the zombies to higher ground, and to the narrowest hallway on the third floor, and just pick them off one by one. He withdrew his rifle, holding it in front of him, hoping that his trembling hands wouldn't make the shots go off the mark. He couldn't afford to waste any ammo - he was down to his last box.
The first zombie stumbled down the dimly lit hallway - that answered the question about ladders, at least - and let out a reverberating moan as the first bullet went between its eyes and exited the back of its head. One. Two. Three. He kept up the count, numbers thumping into his head like the beating of drums, and when he'd run out of bullets, he switched to his semi-automatic, feeling his elbows and shoulders shudder at the impact of the machine. Zombies dropped like mayflies around him and the stench of death and disease filled the air, but he just kept on going steadily. He'd lost count of the zombies, but he knew they were still coming, an unstoppable tide, reanimated by something invisible and parasitic and devastating to the entire human race.
Slowly but surely, they were advancing on him, using the immobile bodies of the zombies he'd killed as ramps. He retreated down the hallway, down to the room he'd been using as a base. He fired one last round from the semi-automatic then dropped it on the hardwood floor. Knees braced, he lifted his arm and drew the katana. They'd practised, of course, and he'd learned how to decapitate using straw dolls and targets, but this was the first time he'd drawn the blade in a real fight.
In the distance, perhaps another world away, perhaps in a dream, he heard the scrape of rubber against asphalt, and an engine being gunned. Footsteps, strong and precise, clattering up the steps to the door, which had been torn from its hinges by the surge of the undead.
But now, there was no time to think or even analyze the sounds as the next zombie lunged forward. He brought his blade down in a controlled arc, sweeping its head clean off its shoulders with a single stroke. Step, turn, thrust, parry, slice. Step, turn, thrust, parry, slice. He backed up to the window as more and more zombies stumbled through the door. He kicked one off with a booted foot and followed through with another thrust to the forehead. He could smell the stench of rotting meat and, beneath it, the gunmetal tang of viral infection. His skin crawled, even beneath the sweltering protection of his leather armor. He really wanted an antibac bath right about now.
He could feel his mind starting to fog, and he blinked violently just as the maw of another undead opened in front of him, all rotting teeth and tongue and throat. Swallowing down his gag reflex, he stabbed it in the chest and as it staggered back from the blow, brought his blade down on its the skull, slicing it cleanly in half. In the distance, he could hear the sound of gunfire - gunfire? - and a small flicker of hope ignited in his chest.
"Here!" he yelled, as loud as he could, over the sound of the zombies moaning as they shuffled, more and more of them filling the room, arms outstretched, reaching for any part of him they could reach. "I'm here!"
He heard, rather than saw, them burst into the room - a man and a woman in Kevlar vests and black military uniforms, armed with enough ammo to wipe out a small city. She gave him a jaunty grin as she hoisted her weapons and started slaughtering the zombies surrounding them, both hands wielding automatic assault rifles aimed at the zombies' heads. Brain matter exploded around them like liquid fireworks.
His energy renewed, he began fighting like a dervish, the steps of the deadly dance coming to him as though in a dream, the katana becoming an extension of his arm. He pulled his pistol from the holster at his hip and started shooting the zombies that his blade didn't reach, clearing a ring of the undead around him.
The man reached his side, all movie-star good looks and military training. "Can you jump?" he asked, his accent sounding American.
"Yeah."
The man quickly peered through the now-broken window, one arm carelessly extended behind him, his weapon raised. A zombie tried to take advantage of his and was shot in the head for its troubles, without the man even looking at his kill. "Okay, our vehicle's down there. Aim for the roof. Keep your knees to your chest and try to drop with - "
"I know how to fall."
"Fine." The man gave him a tight grin. "See you in hell."
With a quick flick of the wrist, the man had him by the window, fist wrapped around the collar of his jumper. One strong push and he was falling down, down, past the building. He just had enough presence of mind to tuck and roll, bouncing once off the side of the vehicle before dropping to his feet in the middle of the street.
He heard another body drop on top of the vehicle - and Christ, this wasn't a vehicle, this was an armoured van designed to ram through armies, painted a bright blue and topped with an incongruous police light on top of the roof - and saw the small blonde girl roll off the top and drop to her feet. She wasn't more than five feet tall, and judging by her face and the sparkle in her mahogany eyes, she couldn't have been more than twenty. She turned around, observing the unmoving bodies of the undead on the street. "Nice work," she said with a grin, her tongue peeking between her teeth.
He felt his heart skip a beat. "Thanks."
"'M name's Rose," she said, her words carrying a London accent.
"John Smith," he said.
"Nice t' meet ya."
"Who's the Yank?" If they weren't in the middle of a deserted street surrounded by zombies, he could almost pretend that they were simply standing at the side of the road, meeting each other for the first time. He would've gotten her name, maybe her number, maybe invited her to the pizzeria at the corner of the street where Marcel had a standing table under his name, and the best homemade quattro formaggio he'd ever had this side of Manchester.
"Oh him." She looked up, shielding her eyes. "Jack Harkness. Technically, he's my boss."
That raised an eyebrow. "Technically?"
"Eh. Well." She shrugged. Despite the bulk of her uniform and armor, she was small and lithe, with a dancer's grace. "Sometimes I give the orders too."
"I see." Inexplicably, John felt his heart sink. Not a chance, then.
"Incoming!" they heard Jack bellow from above as he took a flying leap from the window - followed by a boom! as a fireball erupted from the third floor. The large orange-and-red sphere of flames covered the sky for an instance, as ashes accompanied Jack's descent to the ground. He tucked his feet in at the last second and aimed for the roof of the vehicle, finally dropping to the ground, coughing, as his lungs attempted to replace smoke with oxygen. Rose dropped her weapons and rushed over.
"I'm fine," said Jack, waving her away, his hands on his knees as he coughed and inhaled at the same time. Rose leaned over and whispered something in his ear, and he seemed to nod, unable to speak for awhile as his body recovered from the smoke inhalation. Finally, he straightened up and walked over to John. "Good work."
"Thanks."
Jack extended a hand; beside him, Rose peered curiously at John, watching his reaction. Shrugging, John took the other man's hand and shook it. "Say, do you need a lift anywhere?"
John shrugged. "Nowhere else to go." He hitched a thumb towards the smouldering building. "Been stayin' here for 'bout a year now. Zombies took the others in my group. I was the last one left."
John whistled, impressed. "You held out for a year?"
Rose nodded, her eyes betraying the fact that she had probably also lost everything - well, almost everything - she held dear. Coming forward, she placed a hand on his arm. "Why don't you come with us?"
Jack nodded. "We could use a good fighter like you, John. And Rose here's a good judge of people, so if she says you're cool, then you're cool."
John's eyes flickered down the street. He'd lived here all his life - his family owned the building, he went to school in the city, and he felt a deep, abiding sense of loyalty and love for the neighborhood that was as much a part of him as his own hand. But it was gone now - the virus, the undead had seen to that. There was nothing here but ghosts now. Ghosts and memories.
"All right," he said. "I'll come with you."
There were more of them - this surprised John, thinking that Rose and Jack had carved out for themselves a little love nest somewhere in the outskirts of the city. It turned out that their base of operations was somewhere three hours away from the city, and was accessible only through a dirt road that was carefully masked by a scraggly growth of trees.
"We call this piece of junk the TARDIS," Jack was saying as he manuevered the bulky vehicle through the brush.
"Stand for something?" asked John, holding the side of his seat in a white-knuckled grip as his teeth chattered with the violent movements of the truck.
"'Terrestrial Assault, Retrieval, and Defense Intelligence Systems'," said Rose from the front seat. Despite all efforts of the truck to throw its inhabitants out of their seats, she remained firmly in place, held down by her seatbelt, her hair neatly pulled back from her head into a tight knot at the base of her neck. "Jack made it up."
"Better than calling it a piece of junk," he said, twisting the wheel as he navigated a particularly patchy piece of earth masquerading as a road.
"Don't let his tone fool ya," she said. "He's been known to call her 'Sexy' when she does something particularly brilliant."
"Jealous, Rose?" asked Jack.
"Oh, please."
"I call you lots of other names as well." He winked at her. "And you can call me 'god' anytime, sweetheart."
She laughed. "Only on good days."
"Must be a lot of good days lately, then."
John listened to them banter with the ease of a couple long used to each other's personality and quirks. And he didn't really mind - despite the disappointment settling in his gut, they seemed suited to each other. Jack's brashness seemed to be tempered by Rose's temperament and humour, and in turn, Jack seemed protective of the girl, despite her ease at handling weapons and destroying the undead.
"Almost home," said Jack as the vehicle rolled down a ramp that suddenly appeared in the middle of the dirt road. John let out a gasp as the road twisted down, like a circular parking lot ramp, once, twice, thrice. Above them, the entrance slid back into place silently. Mining lamps embedded against the wall flashed at intervals as the TARDIS rolled to a complete stop in the middle of an underground cavern. It was brightly lit by more of the mining lamps and a floating illumination ball hanging in the middle of the ceiling, suspended by its own combusting gases inside the sphere.
Rose and Jack jumped out of the truck; John followed at a slower pace. The bunker, for lack of a better word, was large and could easily house twenty families. It seemed that they had only occupied a fraction of the space - he noted the smooth cemented floors and ceilings, which definitely indicated that the bunker was hollowed out for something like a nuclear meltdown or World War 3.
From where the TARDIS sat, humming (do trucks hum?) at the side of the ramp, John could see that the area of the bunker they had cleared out was clearly delineated into different areas. There was the tech and weapons - guns hung on walls, ordered by size and firepower; an assortment of blades and knives, all gleaming in the fluorescent light; boxes filled with explosives stacked on tables; a small cannon and a flame thrower sat unattanded, their respective parts scattered on a metal table. On the other side, opposite the weapons section, were a bank of computers jury-rigged to each other to form a grid of nine screens, as well as a glass touchscreen about the size of a classroom chalkboard showing a map of the United Kingdom. Glowing red dots clustered around urban areas: some were steady, and the others were moving slowly. An Asian girl in a lab coat and specs was perched on a stool in front of the screens, her fingers moving rapidly across two keyboards, her eyes tracking the data scrolling across all the screens.
Beyond this space were the barracks, with beds evenly spaced and partitioned with curtains. Rose gave John's arm a squeeze as she peeled away from them and ducked behind one of the curtains. Following Jack, he noted the mess space - two cafeteria-style tables in front of what was obviously a gas-powered stove and a large icebox - and a white curtain covered what was sure to be the medbay. Tables bordered the space, filled with maps and documents and at least three laptops in various states of booting up. Jack stopped in front of these tables and clapped his hands. "Guys!" he yelled, his voice reverberating around the bunker. "We've got a new one!"
Aside from Rose and the Asian girl, John noted three other heads popping out - one from behind the medbay curtains and the two others from the partitioned-off barracks - and breathed a sigh of relief. Six people. He could deal with six people.
Rose had changed out of her uniform and into a t-shirt and jeans, her blonde hair still swept back, although a few tendrils had escaped, framing her face. She stood on John's other side. "Don't worry," she said, grinning. He could get used to her grins. "They don't bite. Well, maybe Owen."
"Team," Jack was saying. "This is John. We met him during one of the sweeps - he was holding back a horde on his own, and doing a damn fine job of it. 'Course, we just helped him along, and figured we'd need another pair of hands on this team anyway." He gestured to the rest of the group. "John, this is the rest of the team. That's Tosh, tech and base support," - he gestured to the Asian girl, who gave him a shy smile beneath her glasses - "and Owen, who patches us up after fights" - this to the man in scrubs with thin lips and a calculating expression in his eyes - "and Gwen, who does reconnaissance and weapons and does a mean curry as well." Gwen, who had dark hair and a pleasant expression, gave him a gap-toothed grin in greeting.
Jack hauled another person beside him, slinging an arm across the younger man's shoulders. John raised an eyebrow in curiosity. "This is Ianto," he said. "He built the TARDIS."
John reached out to shake Ianto's hands. "Pleasure to meet ya."
Ianto nodded. "Thanks, sir." He spoke with a decidedly Welsh accent.
Rose slipped an arm into the crook of his elbow and led him towards the barracks. She gestured to one of the curtained spaces towards the end of the row. "I think we'll give you David's old space." She nibbled her lower lip nervously, and John wanted nothing more than to bend down and taste that lower lip himself. "He's... he should be about your size, and he'll have some clothes in his locker. Don't worry, we do the laundry here," she assured him.
"Dead man's clothes," he commented lightly.
"'M sorry," she said. "'S just, we don't have much, and then we blew up your house..."
He gave her his best smile, the one that his mam used to say lit up the whole room. "'S all right, Rose. You saved me, you 'n Captain Jack, and I'm thankful for that."
"Captain Jack," she giggled. "I think I'll call him that."
She pushed the curtains aside, walked to the side of the bed, and flicked on the bedside lamp. The curtained space was filled with a calming yellow glow. Aside from the single camp bed - and how that brought him back to his days in the army, serving Queen and country - and the bedside table and lamp, there was a small locker beneath the bed which held neatly folded clothes, trousers and boxers and jumpers and a leather jacket that had seen better days. A small portable laundry stand stood at one side, with a threadbare towel hung across the metal crossbar. It was spare and clean and John felt a surge of thankfulness that he'd survived one more day.
Rose gestured down the hallway, beyond the medbay. "The bathroom's over there. Well, cubicles, really, like in gym class. Girls shower in one room, boys in the other. There's soap and antibac and other stuff there if you want to clean up." She gave him a saucy wink. "Though personally, I think you look nice with the scruff."
John reached up and rubbed the growth on his jaw. "Itches like hell, though."
She shrugged. "To each his own, then." Rose stood up from her crouch and watched as he removed a jumper, a pair of tough black trousers, and the leather jacket from the locker. Placing the items on the bed. he began stripping off his weapons and armor. The leather chest piece and bracers were tough enough to stop a zombie bite, but he'd been wearing them for weeks, and the edges had scored the skin beneath into bright red bands. Rose winced as he removed the straps, letting the pieces of leather fall to the floor. Beneath the armor, he wore a ragged pair of denims and a filthy black shirt. She gestured to his items. "I'll have these cleaned then, yeah?"
John turned around to look at her. In the lamplight, his eyes glittered like shadowed sapphires. "Rose," he breathed, bending down so close that their noses almost touched. "Thank you."
And with that, he took his fresh clothes and towel with him and, with the curtain flapping behind him, made his way to the showers.
"So," said Owen, a fresh mug of tea cradled between surprisingly graceful fingers as he sat down on one of the benches in the mess area, "what do you think of Jack's new pet?"
Gwen rolled her eyes. "He's quite striking, eh? I mean, under all that dirt and grime."
"Man's been living by himself for a year, what were you expecting?" Jack sat opposite Owen, nudging Gwen as he claimed the empty spot beside her. Ianto passed him another cup of tea, and a packet of biscuits from their last supply raid. "Saw the place he was staying in. I've seen pig sties cleaner than that place."
"Rose seems to like him," Ianto commented, sitting beside Owen and reaching across the table for a biscuit. Jack mock-slapped his hand and there was a bit of a tussle for the packet; finally, Gwen grabbed it from the boys and quickly opened the plastic, distributing the biscuits. Ianto chewed his share thoughtfully. "A bit stale, but surprisingly well-preserved."
"How's the garden growing anyway, o contrary one?" inquired Jack. "Oh, and Rose likes everyone, anyway."
"Not Suzie," said Owen.
"Nobody liked Suzie, Owen," said Gwen.
"I liked her!" he said defensively.
Gwen raised an eyebrow. "You also like blowing stuff up."
"And putting things back together," he said, waggling his brows at her. Gwen stuck her tongue out at him and laughed.
"Anyway," said Ianto smoothly, turning his attention back to Jack. "The garden should be ready to harvest in two or so weeks. We've been planting patches of edibles all over the brush, and covering them at night in case of raiders, but so far, it looks like we'll have fresh vegetables soon."
Jack nodded. "Good. So far, we've got enough stocks for at least four more months before supplies start going low. But we can't adopt any more strays. As far as I'm concerned, John's the last one."
Gwen shifted uncomfortably at Jack's last words. "But what about Rhys - ?"
"Gwen, honey, look, we've been searching for him for weeks." Jack's eyes were brimming with compassion. "But we gotta face facts. Rhys is probably dead or worse, turned into one of them. And I'm sorry, but we don't have the resources to keep looking."
"He's my husband, Jack."
"We all lost people in the war. We're still losing humans, day by day."
"You don't understand," Gwen said, her voice low and dangerous. "I made a promise. And until I find proof that he's dead, I'm going to keep looking." She slid off the bench and strode off, her heels clacking against the cement floor. They heard her talking to Tosh softly, the snick of weapons as she loaded up, and the roar of her motorcycle as she raced up the ramp towards the surface. Jack released a deep breath. "Tosh," he yelled out. "Keep her on radar at all times!"
"On it!" Tosh replied loudly, her fingers already rapidly clacking over the keyboard.
John finally emerged from the bathroom, his hair trimmed to a soldier's buzzcut, his jaw and chin freshly-shaven. David's clothes fit him well enough: the trouser legs were folded over his boots and the forest-green jumper stretched over his chest, but the leather jacket fit him like a glove. Now that he was clean and they could see his face, Jack could appreciate the severe beauty on the features of the man. He had a gaze that could cut diamonds, those blue eyes almost laser-like in their intensity.
"Close your mouth, Jack Harkness, you're drooling," said Owen, a trace of amusement in his voice.
"Shut up."
Ianto laughed. "I'll go tidy up." He stretched his legs and gathered up the empty mugs and remnants pf the packet of biscuits and walked back to the sink to wash up. Jack watched as John walked back to his section and closed the curtains behind him. In the dim lights of the barracks, he could see the lanky older man put away his clothes, hang his towel to dry, and sit on the bed. His shadow was still, like a suspended moment in time. Jack cleared his throat. "I'll go check on him."
Owen gave him a thumbs-up. "You go and do that, boss."
Jack gave him the finger, and walked down towards the barracks, pausing by Rose's bed to see if she was there. The younger girl was nowhere to be seen, but her dirty clothes and make-up and other bits and bobs were strewn all over the place. A lavender lace G-string hung at the corner of her bed frame, evidence of the previous night's activities. He grinned at the memory. She was enthusiastic, no doubt about that.
Jack slipped the heavy curtains back into place and moved towards the end of the barracks. He remembered David, who stayed here for only a few weeks but left an indelible mark on the entire group. He felt tears prickling the corners of his eyes and hastily wiped them away with the back of his hand. It wouldn't do any good for the morale of the group if the new guy saw him cry.
He could hear Rose's voice behind John's curtain, her murmuring cadence rising and falling as though she was telling a story. He peered behind the curtain and saw John sitting on the bed, the leather jacket carefully folded on his lap, and Rose sitting across him, cross-legged, the lamplight glinting off her hair like spun gold. Her hands were moving animatedly as she spoke. While he couldn't see her face, he could see John's amusement and gratitude that she was keeping him company, entertaining him, and probably easing whatever darkness the older man held. Jack wasn't a novice from war; he served his time and learned the art of killing a man, of killing men. But he wasn't prepared for this. Nobody was.
"Jack." John's voice, a deep Northern burr that warmed the other man instantly. "Everything all right?"
Rose twisted on the bed to look at him over her shoulder in alarm. "Is there an alert?"
"No, no. It's all good. Gwen went up to get some air." Jack stepped inside the space, and for a moment, the air around them was alight with energy, an invisible spooling of thread that seemed to draw the three of them together. Jack could feel it surround him, surround John, surround Rose, as though they were three pieces of an interlocking puzzle. Jack was no believer in fate; he rested his faith on the choices of people, on people making the best choices they could given the circumstance,, but this - this had the air of something else at work.
Rose raised a quizzical eyebrow. "Well, are you goin' to stand there all night or are y' goin' to sit down here?" She patted the space on the bed besides her.
"I suggest that you don't turn down her invitation, Captain. She's very persuasive when she puts her mind to things," said John with a wry grin.
"I'd never dream of doing that, Mr. Smith," he said, shedding his coat and toeing off his boots as he made himself comfortable on the bed. Rose snuggled up beside him and he wrapped an arm around her shoulders.
"Doctor Smith," he said.
Jack looked surprised. "Medicine?"
"Literature and history, actually." He gave a bark of a laugh, sharp and sad. "Not exactly the most useful thing when you're trying to survive the undead." His eyes flickered to where Jack and Rose were pressed together, hips to hips, thighs to thighs, and Jack saw a pool of unutterable longing open up in the other man's eyes. Could it be...?
"I was tellin' John about that time we were in Leadworth and that crazy kissogram made us think she was the police an' was callin' for backup - "
"Oh Christ," swore Jack, laughing. "Yeah, I remember her. She was nuts. But she had gorgeous red hair, and legs that went on forever - "
"Oi!"
John laughed, a proper laugh this time. "Sounds like you had your priorities right."
"I'm tellin' ya, Doc, we were running for our lives and this kissogram pops out in the middle of nowhere and starts screaming bloody murder, that we'd killed her boyfriend or whatever, and really, it wasn't our fault that there was an outbreak at the Royal Leadworth Hospital."
"It was sad though," said Rose. "He was a nurse an' he was just tryin' to help. But the books says that its mostly health workers 'n doctors - not the academic kind, like you, Doctor - that usually get turned first during an outbreak. An' we tried to help her, tried to convince her to get out of town, to join us in the TARDIS, but she was too stubborn, that one."
"So if you see a ginger zombie in a police uniform, chances are, that's our kissogram from Leadworth," added Jack.
The three of them started giggling - there was really no other word for it, and neither the Captain nor the Doctor would ever admit to doing anything of the sort, but there they were, tumbling over each other on the narrow, uncomfortable cot, giggling.
And the John immediately sobered up. "Who did you lose?" he asked quietly.
Rose sat up, her face pained. "I... I don't want to talk about it."
John nodded. "I lost my whole family. My whole world, really." He stared at his hands, at the abrasions and bruises and calluses decorating his fingers and palms and the skin at the back of his hands. These were not the hands of a teacher, not anymore. They were the hands of a killer. "I had to kill them," he said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. "I had to kill them all and take their heads off so they wouldn't reanimate."
"How did you...?" Rose was aghast.
"I read about it, when it first started mutating. Can't miss that kind of news, not in a research university. And the woman I was with at the time, she... well, she had her own ideas about what to do with it." John trained his gaze downwards, not wanting to meet the others' eyes. "She was one of the first infected.
"At first, it was just a quarantine. We were just asked to go home, on paid leave, until the government had the virus contained. Romana said she'd call as soon as they gave her the all clear. But it never happened. So we stayed home, made my youngest brother leave school. Each mornin' we'd be watching the news, hoping for a sign that things were goin' back to normal.
"But they weren't, see. And when I learned that we'd been all but abandoned, I went out and bought guns. Knew how to use them too, served in the Army for five years before goin' back to school. Taught my whole family how to use 'em, practised on straw dummies out in the field. My mam thought I was mad - but she got good with a gun too. Not that it meant anything." His shoulders sagged with the weight of his story.
"What happened?" asked Jack, wondering when he actually made the decision to open his mouth and ask. He could feel the familiar thump of fear in his chest.
John spread his fingers out, bones and veins and skin expanding like a star. "I... they were already... " He looked up, his blue eyes anguished. "I had to kill them, you understand? Otherwise they would've spread the virus to everyone in town. But it didn't work, in the end. Everyone died. Everyone except me."
Rose disentangled herself from Jack and flew at John as he crumpled, her arms wrapping around his shoulders. He was trembling in her arms. "Oh, John," she murmured in his ear, her heart breaking. "I'm so sorry." He tucked his face into the curve of her neck, his arms around her, holding on to her as though she was the only anchor he had against the storm inside his own mind.
And then Jack was there, holding on to both of them, his chest against Rose's back, his arms around John, enclosing the two of them into the circle of his arms. "It's all right, Doc," he said quietly. "We're here."
They stayed wrapped around each other for what seemed like an eternity. Rose rested her cheek against John's shorn head, feeling the bristles tickle her cheek. He smelled of soap and cotton and the city streets after rain. There was something right about this entanglement; she could feel the thump-thump-thump of his heart in his ribcage, could feel Jack above her, keeping her in place. She felt a surge of adrenaline course through her body as the air around them became heavy with possibilities.
She could feel John's lips press against the soft skin of her neck, and trembled at the first touch of his tongue, curious and careful. She carefully grasped the nape of his neck to keep him in place, the slight pressure of her fingers indicating that she wanted him to continue. She felt his teeth slowly bite down on her soft flesh, only to be immediately soothed by his tongue, and she could feel herself getting wet.
Jack could feel her shaking with need beneath him, and for a moment, thought that he'd stepped out of reality and into a dream. He couldn't deny John's attractiveness - the man would never win any awards for conventional good looks, but there was something about the starkness of his features, the sharp angles of his jaw and nose and the cords on his neck that flowed smoothly into collarbones and shoulders that made Jack want to trace the outline of the other man's entire body with his tongue and fingers. As John carefully mapped out Rose's neck with his tongue and teeth, Jack leaned over to place an open-mouthed kiss on the side of John's exposed neck, just below his ear.
John stilled, pulling back, disentangling himself from Rose and Jack's embrace. "I... I'm sorry, I - "
"If you apologise one more time, Doctor, I'm going to kick you out and send you back aboveground and I'm telling you, the zombies aren't anywhere near as sexy as Rose here," said Jack, his voice a mixture of amusement and sincerity. "Now, unless you're not interested, come over here and we'll start getting you naked."
John's eyes widened, and he chanced a look at Rose, who gave him a wide grin, her tongue peeking out between her teeth, mahogany eyes sparkling. Her fingers grasped the edge of the worn pink t-shirt she was wearing and pulled it upwards, revealing a slim, smooth torso and her breasts encased in a simple butter-yellow bra decorated with little red roses. "I take my name seriously, Doctor," she said impishly.
"That what we're callin' me now?"
"Suits you," said Jack, as he moved closer, kneeling between John's open legs, and leaning down to press a kiss against the other man's lips. For a moment, Jack thought he'd misread the situation entirely - and then John was kissing him back, his lips parting underneath the older man's questing lips and tongue. His breath was warm, toothpaste-fresh, and Jack felt his entire body respond to the kiss. Hands bracketed the sides of John's face, keeping him in place as Jack learned the taste of him.
They broke apart, breathing hard. Rose was sitting on the end of the bed, eyes wide as saucers and a blush staining her cheeks and the pale expanse of her chest. Jack shifted and allowed her to crawl towards John, tracing the curve of her spine with his fingertips as she moved forward on her hands and knees, her skin warm and pliable beneath his touch.
John looked at her with wonderment and sorrow in his eyes. "Just one night, yeah?"
Rose gave him a beatific smile as she wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him towards her. Her lips found his, and she smiled as he bent forward, hands around the small of her back, his nose inhaling the scent of her skin, his lips trailing downwards from her lips to her chin to the slope of her neck and the hollow between her collarbones. She tilted back, giving him access as his tongue traced the scalloped edge of her bra. Behind her, Jack knelt, supporting her weight and reached up to release the small hooks of her underwear. Four hands slid off the cotton cups confining her breasts, and John's lips immediately went for the bared nipples, pink and puckered and asking for attention. His mouth was wet and warm and she shuddered as he suckled her, all tongue and teeth scraping the sensitive skin. Jack's hand lifted her breast as though in offering, fingers curving around the heavy swell, while his other arm wrapped around her waist, his hand searching for the button of her trousers.
John's lips moved from one breast to another, and she moaned as his lips found the other nipple and started playing with it, drawing out the taut string of her pleasure as his tongue tasted and licked and suckled; his free hand joined Jack's in playing with the other, their fingers and palms playing with her overheated skin. "You two," she breathed as she leaned back, resting her head against Jack's shoulder and tilting her head to accept a sloppy kiss form him, "are ridiculously overdressed."
"You heard the lady," chuckled Jack as he and John disentangled themselves from Rose, tumbled off the bed, and started removing their clothes. Rose shimmied off her trousers and threw her bra to the floor as the two man bared their bodies to her gaze. She couldn't ask for two more gorgeous blokes in the world, and if this truly was the end of the world - and she knew it couldn't be anything other than what it was - then she swore she'd go down swinging.
Jack was the first to fully remove his clothes - practise makes perfect, after all, and Jack had definitely been practising - and moved towards Rose, pushing her on the bed so she was lying down on the rumpled sheets with Jack over her. His weight over her chest and belly was familiar and dear to her, and she spread her legs to accommodate his body between hers. His fingers traced the almost-invisible scars across her chest and stomach, and she felt a rush of tenderness towards Jack as he made his way down her body.
John had carefully folded his clothes and placed them on a nearby stool, and turned back to watch Jack and Rose on the bed, Jack's face between Rose's legs. He watched as the younger man hooked his thumbs underneath the scrap of cloth masquerading as Rose's knickers and yanked them down her legs. With the ease of a man who knew exactly what he was doing, Jack positioned himself in front of Rose's core and carefully took a long, slow lick. Her hips arched off the bed to follow the movement of his tongue, and John watched in fascination as Rose undulated in the lamplight, her body trembling with pleasure. Eyes closed, her fingers tangled in Jack's hair, her plump pink lips open in an "O" of amazement as Jack got to work. On legs that were increasingly weakening with desire, John moved forward, fascinated as Jack's pink tongue curled between Rose's folds, seeking her clit. She spasmed once, twice, her body pressing insistently against Jack's lips, her fingers tightening around Jack's head as she slowly spiralled upwards.
Jack's hands wrapped around Rose's hips, pulling her closer as his tongue sought entrance inside her sex. John's own fingers wrapped around his cock, impossibly hard and hot in his palm, and starting pumping up and down in time to Jack's rhythmic licking of Rose's core. She was squirming and panting underneath him, trapped by Jack's fingers and lips and tongue, her legs braced on the younger man's shoulders as he insistently sought for that moment -
And then her back arched off the bed and she let out a muffled shriek as Jack's tongue swirled across her slit and curled around her clit with just the right amount of pressure. John was already halfway towards his own release as Rose gently came down from her high and Jack crawled back up her body, his own lips wet and shiny with her juices. She kissed him happily, tasting herself on him. They both looked up at John, who was standing by the bed, a mixture of pleasure and embarrassment colouring his features. "That was beautiful," he said quietly.
"Need help with that?" asked Jack, gesturing to John's erection, as he held out a hand in invitation. John shuffled forward and as he came towards the end of the bed, Rose moved towards him, pulling him forward so that the head of his cock was level with her face. Before John could say anything, Rose's lips wrapped around his erection and he almost stumbled and lost his balance at the sudden rush of pleasure. Her tongue traced the length of his cock, her small fist wrapped around the base as she started working on him with teeth and fingers. Jack helped her tug John closer, until he was on the bed, leaning against Jack's bare chest with Rose between his legs, her knees tucked underneath her, the fall of her golden hair covering her face as she started sucking the length of him. Jack's hands were everywhere - playing with John's taut nipples, tracing the lines of his abdomen, the scars and bruises on his arms and shoulders. "You're absolutely gorgeous," Jack whispered into his ear.
"What, with this daft old face?" he asked in surprise.
Jack responded by tilting his face and kissing him passionately.
Just then, the moment was shattered by the sound of a siren.
"Fuck!" exploded Jack as Rose raised her head, her eyes still foggy with lust. "That's a Level 2 alert."
John swung his lanky legs over the bed and started moving towards his clothes. Less than three minutes later, all of them were dressed, Rose running her fingers through her hair in an effort to remove the tangles. John's eyes were flint-dark, his face a mask. Rose wondered where the tenderness had gone; inside, she mourned the loss of what could have happened. If only we had more time, she thought briefly as they hurried towards Tosh, where Owen and Ianto were already gathered.
Owen gave them a knowing grin. "Hope you had fun." Rose mock-punched him on the shoulder.
Tosh was already giving a rundown of the situation, her delicate fingers moving across the screens. On the map, they could see a mass of red dots swarming towards the south, where the underground bunker was located. A small green dot was moving away from the red dots, moving southwards. "That's Gwen," said Tosh. "She probably did something that alerted them somehow."
"Fuck," swore Jack. "I told her!"
Ianto moved towards the weapons array and started taking down a few of the heavier guns carefully and efficiently. "John," he called out over his shoulder, "what's your poison?"
"I've got my sword, but a secondary and tertiary weapon would be good as well."
Ianto nodded and started rummaging through the crates as Rose and Owen rushed to the barracks to suit up. Jack placed a hand on John's shoulder, a silent promise of things to come, and moved towards the barracks as well.
Tosh looked up, and her dark eyes were sad behind her spectacles. "Don't get too attached, John," she said. "Jack doesn't do well in a monogamous relationship."
"And Rose?"
"She's the type to wear her heart on her sleeve. One of these days, Jack's going to go too far and he's going to break that precious girl's heart."
John nodded. "I'll keep that in mind."
Ianto had found him another rifle to replace the AK he'd left behind earlier that morning - was it only today that he'd leapt from a burning building and almost had a threesome with two of the most beautiful people he'd ever met? - as well as a pistol that fit snugly into his holster. He didn't have a bulletproof vest, but the leather jacket was as good as his old armor, and the weaponry wasn't as conspicuous as his previous ones. He cleaned the katana blade in the armory as best as he could, and planned to sharpen the blade on the diamond whetstone when they came back.
They were already waiting for John by the TARDIS - Jack, Rose, and Owen, dressed in black fatigues, Rose's hair swept away from her face. Owen spared him a glance as he climbed into the backseat, Rose following him. Jack handed John a key danging from a silver chain and opened the door at the front passenger's side. "You sure?" asked John.
Jack nodded, winking at him.
John slid into the driver's seat, wondering when being in control of a behemoth of a vehicle suddenly felt so comfortable. He could feel the machine adjusting to his height, to the way his body contorted in the seat. The truck practically purred as he slotted the key in the ignition and fired up the engine. "This is really weird," John said as he started driving the TARDIS towards the ramp.
"She likes you," Rose said from behind. "'M not surprised."
"She chucked Owen off the driver's seat the first time he tried driving her," offered Jack helpfully.
"Thanks, boss," Owen drawled out as they emerged aboveground, moving soundlessly up the ramp.
"She's not usually this quiet though," noted Rose. "You really have a good hand with her, John."
"Firm yet gentle," said Jack.
John snorted. Truth be told, driving the TARDIS felt like handling a particularly skittish horse who wasn't sure whether they liked you or hated you. It felt as though she was almost in his head, and was just using his hands and legs to reach the parts she couldn't reach herself.
Though she still clattered and shook with every bounce, it was all very internal - he could swear that they were moving stealthily in the deepening gloam.
Jack leaned over the center console and pulled up a small 3D screen, the blue holographic lines stark against the black panels. John could see where the zombies were converging, as though they were being drawn to a single spot perhaps two miles away, just beyond the main road. "Gwen's there," Jack said, pointing to the small blip on the screen. John revved up the engine and stepped on the accelerator, hoping that they wouldn't be too late.
The TARDIS slid sideways just behind the motorcycle, spraying bits of soil and grass in the air. Gwen was standing by her vehicle, long dark hair whipping in the wind. Her eyes were wide as she watched the zombies shambling towards her. Her hands were empty, her weapons still strapped at her back and on her thighs. She seemed to be staring at one of the stumbling figures moving towards her. "Rhys," she breathed, his name on her lips a prayer. "It's me, Gwen. I'm here. You're home."
Jack rushed out of the TARDIS, his double semi-automatics already aimed at the approaching horde. "No, Gwen, get back!"
Gwen looked over her shoulder, tears glittering in her eyes. "No, Jack."
"Gwen!" Rose ran out and tried to pull the older woman back to the TARDIS. John and Owen slid out of the truck to stand behind Jack; John gripped his blade tightly, a coiled spring of energy deep inside him, while Owen held a crossbow expertly in his hands, an arrow notched at the string, waiting for Jack's command.
There was a low moan from the undead - there were perhaps thirty of them now, all in various states of decomposition. John could see the man Gwen had called Rhys: heavy-set and pale, with a face that could've been described as pleasant had it not been frozen in a rictus of death, an eyeball dangling from the socket and skin peeling from his cheeks. He could see the zombies shuffling forward, could smell their rotting flesh, each and every step an inexorable tide of death, and hoped that all of them would survive this encounter.
Owen loosed an arrow into the crowd, striking one at the center of its forehead. It toppled to the ground, unmoving. "No!" Gwen screamed, attempting rushing towards the undead. "Don't!"
"Gwen, he's already dead!" said Rose, keeping her grip on Gwen's arm. But Gwen twisted around and slammed her knee against Rose's abdomen. The smaller girl doubled over in pain as Gwen calmly walked towards Rhys. Jack knelt on the ground, pointing his rifle at each target, each bullet going straight through the head. Rose groaned and crumpled to the ground; John moved from behind Jack to help her up. Owen was systematically loading arrows into his crossbow, his arms a blur as he fired shot after shot. John wrapped one arm around Rose's waist and hauled her up, his other hand gripping the katana, the blade defensively raised as the first of the horde lunged at him.
Snick! Snick! His blade cut easily through the necks of two zombies like a knife through warm butter. Rose stumbled back, hanging on to his arm as she tried to catch her breath. She stood up, back to back with John, her guns in her hands. They moved seamlessly together, her guns a resonant counterpoint to the arc of his blade as they decimated the zombies streaming around them.
"Gwen!" shouted Jack.
In the midst of the zombies streaming around her, Gwen had paused in front of her dead husband. Her pale slender hand reached out to him, touched the rotting surface of his face. "Oh Rhys," she whispered.
But Rhys - or at least, this body who used to be Rhys - simply bared his teeth and sank them into Gwen's hand, tearing through skin and muscle and cartilege. She cried out, pulling back, but it was too late. The undead had smelled fresh blood. They moved back, converging on Gwen as she cradled her wounded hand. The zombies encircled her, bones and half-fleshed hands reaching for any part of her they could rip off. Rose moved to enter the fray, but John held her back.
There was a gurgling shriek, the sound of flesh being torn from bone, and then -
Jack stood up, quietly motioned for the team to retreat back to the TARDIS while the zombies were paying no attention to them. John could see the streaks of tears down the other man's cheeks.
The TARDIS wheeled around silently, the air still lingering with the echo of Gwen't last scream, the noises that zombies made while feeding on fresh meat. Jack turned away from John, staring out the window, his blue eyes damp.
"She didn't deserve that," muttered Owen angrily.
"Nobody deserves that kind of death," said Rose, reaching out to lay a comforting hand on Owen's arm. John watched her touch Owen on the rearview mirror, and felt a spark of jealousy flare up. She wasn't allowed to touch anymore - only him, only Jack. "I'm sorry, Owen. I knew you two were close."
"You don't know anything," snarled Owen, pulling his arm back, away from Rose's reach.
"Owen, I - "
"Shut it, Tyler. You can go ahead and fuck two men and that's your business. What Gwen and I had was important. I wanted her to stop looking, all right? She had me, she didn't need him anymore, but she was stupid and brave and God dammit, we should've been able to save her. So keep your trap shut, Rose, 'cos you don't know anything, all right?"
Rose inched away from Owen, cradling her own arm, the hand that had offered comfort balled into a fist. John stared straight ahead, ears flaming, the need to punch Owen's face tempered with the pain of losing someone he knew to the living dead. They arrived at the entrance and he punched the code that lowered the ramp, and drove the TARDIS down into the underground bunker. Lights flickered as they spiralled downwards, and the whole day's events crashed into John with the force of a sledgehammer. He was exhausted.
The TARDIS slid into position with minimal encouragement from John, and the four of them stumbled out of the vehicle. Tosh rushed towards them. "Where's Gwen?" she asked hopefully. "Did she find Rhys? Are they coming?"
Jack raised his eyes to meet Tosh, his gaze tired and weary. Ianto rushed forward to take his weapons, silent and efficient as he moved around the group. "I'm sorry, Tosh."
Tosh's hopeful gaze crumpled, and tears started streaming from the edges of her eyes. "You said you'd save her, Jack," she said angrily.
"I tried, okay? I fucked it up. She didn't listen." Jack pushed past Tosh and stomped towards the mess hall. "Rhys was already a zombie. She thought she could still talk to him. You know how that goes." He looked at Ianto, who stood at the edge of the group, waiting. "I need a fucking drink, Ianto."
"Coming right up."
John watched as everyone else sat at the benches, beside Jack or opposite Jack, an air of mourning surrounding them. They knew Gwen - cared about her, had laughed with her, cried with her, perhaps even loved her. And now she was gone. He couldn't do this. He was tired and feeling fucked up and still half-hard from Rose's attentions earlier. Everything crashed against him with the weight of the world and he stumbled away, towards the barracks, ignoring Rose's pained look and Jack's questioning glance. With the last of his strength, he stumbled to his bed and crashed on to the rumpled sheets, darkness claiming the last of his haphazard thoughts.
"... an' it was my mum, you see, her and Mickey. She was infected by her boyfriend, Howard, who was a butcher so I s'pose it made sense that he was exposed to the virus." The hand tucked inside his was small and warm, and the voice flowed over him in a familiar, lullaby-like cadence. John swam back to consciousness slowly, half-aware of Rose sitting beside him on the bed, the mattress dipping towards her. She held his hand unselfconsciously, randomly stroking patterns across his palm.
"An' then when Mum got turned, Mickey tried t' protect me from her. Imagine that? My ex-boyfriend tryin' to save me from my zombie mum." She laughed hollowly. "It was nuts. Mickey was screamin 'Run! Run Rose!' an' I didn't know if I shoulda called the police or somethin' but it was too late by then. The only thing between me an' my mum was Mickey and this kitchen chair he was usin' as a buffer, like in one of those, what d'you call 'em? Those bull fights. He made me leave with nothin' more than my mobile and wallet and the clothes on my back, an' that was the last I saw of them."
He kept his eyes closed, letting her story wash over him. She couldn't be more than eighteen or nineteen when that happened, and his heart broke for her all over again. It wasn't right for her to go through this. If John had his way, he'd wrap Rose in cotton wool and make sure nothing in the universe could ever hurt her. Her hand fits his perfectly and if he had his way, he'd never let her go.
She was quiet for a few minutes, and John could her hear her sniffling, as though she was trying to hide her tears. "Anyway," she said after awhile. "I know you're tired and you're probably wondering what the heck we're doing and maybe by tomorrow, you'd want to leave an' never come back. But I jus' want you to know, Doctor, that we're tryin' to stay alive here, and if tomorrow's my last day on Earth, then... then I don't want to waste it by wonderin' if... if..."
Despite his better judgment, John decided to squeeze Rose's hand, the warmth of her fingers entwined in his reminding him of better days, of a better life. Carefully, he opened his eyes. She was looming above him, her golden hair falling like rain as she bent over his head. There was no light save for the dim yellow glow of the bedside lamp. "Doctor," she said quietly, not removing her hand from his.
"Rose, I - "
"Are you frightened of me?"
"A bit."
"Why?"
"Because you're beautiful." Because I'm old, I'm a dead man, because I don't deserve your sympathy or affection.
"So are you." She squeezed his hand and grinned. "You're absolutely gorgeous."
He laughed quietly. "What about Jack?"
"He wants you too. We talked about it."
"Why?"
"Because we think you're a good person, that you're someone who might be worth fighting for." Rose leaned back against the metal headboard, her bare thigh invitingly close. He scooted to the side to give her space, and they stayed there, his body prone on the bed, their hands linked across the small gulf between them. "An' because it might be the end of the world, but it's always better with two."
"Or three."
"Or three," she amended.
He turned over to his side and pressed a kiss on the soft surface of her bare thigh. "This all right?" he asked gruffly.
Rose's eyes were wide and dark, her lips trembling as she watched him touch her with the tip of his tongue. "... yes."
"An' this?" He started tracing a line from her thigh down to the ridge of her knees, his tongue mapping a road leading down to her feet. She gasped slightly as his mouth enveloped her big toe, then sighed in pleasure as he learned the whorls of her toes, the arch of her feet, the slow, torturous path back up her legs. She was wearing nothing more than a pair of sleep shorts and a large t-shirt that looked as though it belonged to someone at least three sizes bigger than her. John reached the fraying edge of her shorts and slipped his hands underneath her bum to pull her closer. "This still all right?" he asked her, lying on half of her body, as his thumbs traced the worn elastic waistline of her shorts.
Rose nodded, the pleasure coursing through her body robbing her of words.
John hooked his thumbs on the edge of her shorts and tugged the flimsy piece of clothing downwards, his eyes darkening as she was revealed to him. Unlike the earlier coupling, which was more about mutual pleasure than anything else, this was about need, about needing each other the way a body needed air or water or sleep. She could see the craving in his eyes, in the way his hands moved surely across her body as he slipped her shorts past her calves and feet and dropped them off the bed. She was still wearing her knickers and shirt, sure, but Rose felt remarkably exposed as John's sapphire-sharp gaze took in her body in the half-light of the room.
"I could easily fall in love with you, Rose Tyler," said John as he stretched himself on his belly, between her legs, his hands running up and down the smooth sides of her things, inching closer and closer to her core.
"I think I've already fallen in love with you, Doctor." Now there was a surprise. Despite everything that had happened, Rose had always thought of herself as a traditional kind of girl. And yet, even this, with Jack and John, it felt ever so right.
His right hand slipped beneath her bum, fingers following the curve of her ass. His left hand snaked inside her knickers, long tapered fingers tracing her seam, which was already warm and damp with need. "You shouldn't fall in love with me, Rose."
"Why not?"
"I'm not worth it." His fingers found the slick button of her clit and started stroking slowly, carefully, his eyes watching her as her eyelids drifted shift and her body started moving to the rhythm he set. She was warm and wet beneath his touch, and he could feel pleasure coiling deep in his belly, his cock twitching in anticipation. Thumb pressed against her clit, he slid one finger inside her, feeling the tight muscles of her core squeezing him. Rose threw her head back, the long line of her neck pale against the lamplight, her hips shifting forward as he increased the pressure of his touch. A second finger joined the first. She was panting and thrusting forward, seeking her release, her face tilted heavenward as though in prayer.
"Fuck," she hissed as she clenched around his fingers once, twice, and he felt a warm gush of liquid coat his fingers and palm. He slowly guided her down from her orgasm, slipping his fingers from her and bringing them to his lips for a taste. She tasted slightly sweet, and something that reminded him of starry skies and Northern lights. She gazed at him through hooded lids, her woodland eyes almost black with satisfaction. "C'mere," she said, reaching down towards him. He moved upwards, undulating over her body. Her small hands slipped beneath his leather jacket, tugging it off him, followed by his jumper. Her fingers traced the outline of his shoulders, followed the ridges of his chest and the hollow of his ribs, her fingers finding old scars, old wounds that he'd almost forgotten. He propped himself up on his hands to allow her to slip beneath him, his heart beating furiously, in double-time, as Rose fit perfectly underneath him.
"We're really doing this?" he asked as she shimmied out of her shirt and was now gloriously almost-naked beneath him, only her cotton knickers covering the last part of her.
She nodded fiercely, her bright blonde hair a messy halo around her head as she grappled with his belt and button-down fly. Finally managing to get his trousers undone, she pushed the heavy black clothing and his pants down to his knees, and he kicked them off until they tumbled messily towards the floor, and then helped her slip off her knickers. Arms wrapped around his neck as she pulled him down for a kiss.
He felt the universe explode in his mouth as their lips parted, as their tongues touched and stroked, battled for dominance in each other's mouths. She tasted of love and light and bright summer days, and he gratefully lost himself in her kiss. His hands roamed her body as though it was his home, palms cupping her breasts and sliding down her waist, tugging her towards him so that they fit together, hips to hips, his almost painful erection sliding easily between her legs. "God, Doctor - " she whispered as they surfaced for air. "Please. Love me?"
He nodded as she shifted, spreading her legs wider. He slipped inside her easily, and John almost wept at the way her body sheathed him like a velvet glove, all silken and slick and hothouse-warm. She moaned, her hips tipping upwards, urging him to move.
And move he did - surging inside her like the rising tide, grasping her wrists and pulling her arms upwards, one hand wrapped around her bird-like wrists and holding them above her head, pressing them against the mattress. He pushed inside her again - the bedframe shifted as he started pounding into her in earnest, pouring all his grief and pain and anger and silent prayers into her body. Rose accepted them, her body a blank canvas for all the things he couldn't say, her needful moans and the rhythmic creak of the bed the only sounds surrounding them.
John could feel the pressure building as he concentrated on the still, slippery point where he and Rose were joined. She was sweaty and heated beneath him, her body sliding in counterpoint against his as he plunged into her once, twice, straining as he arched upwards, his orgasm crashing against him with the force of a storm-ridden ocean. Rose keened his name, called him her god, as she crested, bringing him higher, higher -
He collapsed towards of her, just barely missing her slight body as he turned at the last minute and slumped bonelessly beside her. She was breathing heavily, her lips parted as she gulped air into her lungs. One of her hands, now freed from his grip, scrabbled for his, entwining their fingers. John closed his eyes. This was it.
Rose shuddered once, twice, riding the aftermath of her orgasm, and then released a breath as her body relaxed against the sheets. "That was amazing," she said, twisting to face him, tucking her body into the shelter of his frame.
He wrapped his arm around her, fingers tracing the shape of her spine. "You're amazing."
She looked up, her eyes full of light. "I'm so glad I met you."
"Me too."
With a sigh, she settled in his arms, cheeks against his bare chest, her arms draped across his body, hand skimming his arse. He watched her drift to sleep, her breathing steady, her body soft and warm against his.
It was easy to pretend - so easy to pretend that they weren't in a world that was slowly being destroyed by something nobody really understood. John had succumbed to despair once before, when he had to destroy his family, when he had to abandon the world he knew and return to the the world of the soldier, becoming again the killer he thought he'd left behind. But Rose had saved him - her and Jack, interrupting what was sure to have been his death, like avenging angels. And he promised, in the quiet of the shadows that surrounded them, that he would never let her go.