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Disclaimer: I don't own Torchwood: Miracle Day. If I did, Esther would totally have lived!

Chapter Summary: Jack saw hers, now Esther gets to see his. It's only fair. W/ [Jack/Esther].

Includes: nudity, erections, quid pro quo, mortal!Jack, wounded!Jack, nurse!Esther, Esther gets to touch, I wish I could too!, HJ, kissing.

TorCHwooD:M.D.

These Days:
II: Careful Handling

Jack had forgotten how slow, agonizing—and boring—healing as a Mortal was. He had almost—no, he had—forgotten exactly how fragile his body could be. Oh, even as a Fixed-Point, he felt the pain—God, his body never desensitized to it—but eventually his body would go back to its original state. But the pain never held him back, because he would heal fast. Now though, shot in the gut, all too Mortal, on the run—it was an absolute bitch!

God, Karma hated him. Someone had to hate him, to do this to him. He'd whined about the bruises—If that was the state that he'd been in after that jump out the window to the fountain below, he knew that Esther would have been just the same. Not that she remembered how she got them, he did Retcon her, after all, and absolutely refused to feel guilty about it. At one point, their bruises would have been mirrors of each other—he would have loved to compare, if you got his meaning.

But this—had scared him to death. Because he could actually die. What awaited him on the other side of that broken glass, he never wanted to find out. And if that made him a coward—well, then. He was the only one who had to know.

But between the blood loss, fever, infection, delirium, pain—he was sure Esther knew. God, that beautiful, magnificent woman! He didn't want to think what might have happened without her. And he shuddered to think what might have went down if he was with Rex instead. How she got them both onto that boat... and all the way to Scotland... he still couldn't remember. He was sure that was what gave him the infection in the first place. But they were all the closer to Gwen for it, and that was all he could ask.

Now, it had been nearly two months since and he had grown beyond restless. He hadn't once stepped out of their little rented cabin on the moors in Scotland. Even he didn't want to risk it on the off chance that somehow, someone might see him, recognize him, or know that he was injured and report him. Esther was very careful with such things; when she went into town, where she shopped, what exactly she bought. But he was like a (social) flower, he wilted in the dark. He needed light, sunshine—the world, company.

Inactivity was his worst nightmare. The first while, he was in too much pain to do anything, then came the fever, and then he was just exhausted and slept and slept as Esther watched over him, took care of him, took care of everything. Now, he was at that restless point, but he was still healing, still definitely in pain and feeling the wound. But wanted to move, needed to move. Of course, when Esther hadn't been taking care of things, making sure they were safe, she tried to stave off the boredom for them both.

Card games, board games, books, radio, research, patterns, television, newspapers—but all of it, every single thing—was actively inactive. He was filled with energy that he wasn't allowed to expend, couldn't expend in the way that he wanted. God, he'd even welcome a frolic, a literal frolic in the mores. That was how desperate he was.

His bed had long since grown uncomfortable, no matter which way he lie, he couldn't get comfortable. For once, he wasn't exhausted without enough sleep, running around without enough time for sleep. Time and sleep were all he had now, it seemed. He was too slept, if that was a thing.

He sighed and groaned, flicking the old magazine he'd been blindly flipping through, aside. He'd read it enough to be able to recite the articles word-for-word—and yes, he'd been bored enough to actually read the articles; that stated it all.

He scooted to the edge of the bed and levered himself onto his feet with as less harm to himself as possible. He'd been at this long enough to have a system of getting out of bed when Esther wasn't around—and that was a bit of a frightening thought. It'd been so long since he'd been injured like that, had been able to be injured like that.

It's wasn't like he had anything to do out of the bedroom, but he just needed to do something, anything.

The cabin they were staying in was off the radar, so it was small and humble. The front door let into a small kitchen with a bit of counter, gas stove, fridge, a tiny table. There was a short hall that led to the bathroom with the large claw-foot tub taking up most of the space, and then the bedroom at the back. It had a medium bed, side table, a large reading chair and stool in the corner, a dresser that had the television propped on it.

To say the least—This was the longest he'd slept next to a woman without actually sleeping with them. Miracle Day. Fuck. Miserable Day, more like. When he finally found the Families, he was just going to go Medieval and slaughter them, he was going to go Viking and it wasn't going to be pretty, despite it being at his hand—and that just went to show how irritated he was.

He started down the hall to the kitchen, when he stopped and sucked in a sharp breath. Then he sucked in another sharp breath; there was an itch in the back of his nose. He want to sneeze. He wanted to sneeze! "Oh, God." He muttered.

He held his breath and put a hand over his mouth a nose, but held his eyes completely open. It was a scientific fact that you couldn't sneeze with your eyes open. He'd seen it happen. His other hand went to his wound on the left side of his stomach in preparation. Now, all he needed was about six more hands and he might be able to hold himself together enough not to blow a stitch. He sucked in a sharp breath twice more, twinging his abdominal muscles but it was better than a full-out rack of sneezes. He took his hand from his mouth and nose and braced it against the wall, still holding his side. It said a lot about how fragile mortal humans were when they could be done in by a sneeze after a gut shot. That was him now, delicate—he hated it.

Only, the wall moved out from under his hand, because it was the bathroom door, swinging inwards. The bathroom had no window, and the water ran hot with the old water heater, so the door had to be left cracked or you ran the chance of passing out. And there was Esther, stepping out of the tub onto the bathmat in her beautiful naked glory. It was like some fantasy: the steam swirling gently around her, droplets of water glistening on her skin. He was right about the curves, and the blond hair—and his little brain felt very engaged at the sight.

Jack was frozen, a bad thing to be as Esther turned and stared straight at him. She reflected his deer-in-the-headlights act for a second.

"Jack!" she exclaimed, then dove into motion in two directions. One hand reached for the towel on the rack, and the other reached for the door as she took a step forward and slammed the door in his face.

That snapped him out of it. "I'm sorry, Esther—"

"Go away!" she screamed, her voice high.

He'd seen her long enough to see just how far her blush went. He was in so much trouble right now. He turned on his heel and returned to the room to await Esther's return, whenever that may be. His dilemma... sit on the bed or the chair. Each held their own impression to this delicate situation.

Esther, on the other hand, was facing her own problems. Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God! Both her palms were planted flat on the closed door she had slammed in Jack's face (but he kind of deserved it). The towel hanging and trapped under her chin, allowing her some coverage as her chest heaved in her anxiety.

Jack just saw her naked. Captain Jack Harkness just saw her buck naked! She'd never been in this kind of situation before. Not even in college when the dorms had been co-ed. What the hell was she supposed to do?

"Breath," she commanded herself under her breath. "You are Esther Drummond, former C.I.A. Analyst, current Torchwood member, on the run. This is nothing compared to Miracle Day, silly girl." She could totally hear it tinted with Gwen's accent.

She inhaled deeply. Stepped from the door and took the towel from under her chin and dried herself off on the bathmat. She wrapped her dripping hair and dressed systematically. Clad in loose bottoms, bra, and a long sleeve, she finally turned to the mirror. She wiped her palm against the condensation and looked at her reflection through the smear.

She mentally worked through her anxiety at the situation like she had since she'd run into Torchwood. Picking it apart and packing it away until she had a clear mind for rational thought.

"You have this," she told herself a moment later. "You know exactly what needs to be done." She took the towel from around her hair, brushed it, and left the blond locks loose around her shoulders before she turned determinedly towards the door.

Jack startled a little as she suddenly came into the bedroom and halted a few feet in the room, dressed, still flushed faintly. He had been agonizing over this confrontation for the last half-hour, finally deciding on the chair in the corner—it was less suggestive than the bed—worrying over her reaction towards this before he could come up with his own counter response to keep things cool and level. Being Mortal was really messing with his game though, because he had nothing right now.

He stood. "Esther—" he started, but she stopped him with a raised hand.

She took a deep breath, raised her chin and stared right at him. "Quid Pro Quo, Jack." She told him, just out with it.

"What?" That was not the response he had been anticipating.

She swallowed, forcing her gaze to lock. "You saw me naked, now I get to see you." She could feel the heat in her face.

"Well, I never, Esther Drummond!" Jack gasped at her (joyfully).

"You have." She replied dryly. Because she definitely had.

He chuckled lightly. "Can't blame a guy." And he reached the hem of his loose tee to pull it overhead.

She swallowed and pressed her lips together, watching him, before she shook her head. "Wait."

He paused, his tee just above the bandage on his abdomen, giving her a patient and curious look.

"Oh, God." She groaned, her hands on her face, her head tipped back. Okay. Alright. This was going to happen, but... "Your eyes. Close them." Because she knew that she wouldn't be able to control her outward reaction to see him in his entirety, she wouldn't be able to stand it if he witness how unbound she came at just the sight of him. Because she had never met someone so beautiful, charismatic, full of life and hope for mankind despite all that he had witnessed and experienced at their hands (i.e. Just think of Miracle Day) before.

He looked at her for a moment, before he nodded. "Alright. I'm game." He stepped to center room—and closed his eyes.

Esther held her breath as she put her head back to rights and let her arms hang at her sides, looking at him.

Slowly, carefully, teasingly, he pulled his tee overhead and tossed it back onto the chair behind him. He loosed the drawstring on his track pants, and they clung onto his hips for a moment, before he released and they dropped down his muscled legs to pool around his ankles and he kicked them back with his tee. He wasn't ashamed of his body, never had been, he was proud with what he had.

She squeaked a little. He wasn't wearing underwear. "Your—" His cock was already half-erect. She gulped.

He knew instantly what she was talking about. "You're very beautiful, Esther." He whispered. "It would be poor judgement on my part not to be attracted to you."

She blinked at him and blushed almost as hard as when he'd seen her naked. No one had ever said anything like that to her before. Not even her first boyfriend to try and get her to have sex with him for the first time. She cleared her throat and shifted her stance a little, because seriously, she just got a little wet. He smirked, almost as if he knew.

"Are you a grower or a shower?" she blurted with humour and could have thumped her forehead.

He raised a brow, surprised at her question, but easily took it in stride. He was standing there stark naked in the middle of the room, his eyes closed, after all. And then his brow took a different curve. "Both."

"Oh..." his tone, so smoky, surprised her back. "I didn't know that was a thing."

"I make it a thing."

"Alright." She said, a little breathless. She had always wondered, fantasized—and now she was starting to know. She played with the idea of snapping a picture with her cell, he would never know, but that was a little too pervy for her. She was just going to have to store it in her big brain for life.

They said nothing about a time-limit and he wasn't about to bring it up. He didn't mind at all.

She'd touched him before. When he was too weak to do it himself, when he was too fevered to know what was past and present. With a cloth and basin of warm soapy water. She'd washed him. But had always, religiously, stayed clear of his bathing suit area. Because it couldn't go further than what it was, what they were, it shouldn't. Even if she may have wanted it—even if she had seen the response he had to her touch, or the looks he sometimes gave her.

She was probably going to hell. She slowly moved. But this was something that they both needed, maybe him more than her. The way the world was now… there wasn't a lot someone as small as she could do for it, but Jack, he was bigger than the world. He needed to be ready for what they faced and it was her job now to make sure that he was healed and whole to do it.

His eyes closed, his other senses piqued. He could feel the air move around him as she moved, circling him slowly, her bare feet silent on the carpet. He exhaled. He could feel her gaze, not burning hot with lust like he may have wanted and knew that he would enjoy, but it was warm like a caress. He cock twitched into further life.

He nearly jumped when he felt her touch. It was wholly unexpected, but not unwanted. Just her fingers, gliding along the back of his arms, leaving a trail of goose bumps in her wake. Unsure. But when he didn't protest, her fingers became bolder, her touches longer. His shoulders, over his collarbones, palm flat at the center of his chest, along his spine, the curve of his shoulder blades. Her touches were not like he was expecting. Light, gentle, reassuring.

He'd went off to that bar, hooked up with a stranger, went back to the guy's apartment, let himself get fucked. But it was disconnected. Left him with a more heavy empty space than from the start.

But with Esther, it was different. He knew her. She knew him. Got to see a part of him that rare else got to see, all who had, were long dead past. Most recent—Ianto. Like with the trace of her fingers, she was mending the cracks.

Her forehead rested at the space between his shoulder blades, her breath a whisper across his skin. He shivered lightly. Her arms snaked around his middle slowly, giving him every chance to step away—but he didn't. She was very mindful of where his wound was, she'd been well acquainted with it over the last two months. One arms wrapped around his hip, above the wound. The other across his waist, her whole palm ghosting down his abs and just below his bellybutton.

"Esther—"

"It's okay," she whispered. "I've got you, Jack."

In answer, he leaned his head back until it rested against the crown on her still damp hair where she lay between his shoulders.

He inhaled sharply as he felt her warm palm wrap around his hard shaft. Her tugs were gentle, caressing, stroking him like a guiding hand in his building orgasm. He lost himself in the feel of her. Her arms wrapped around him, the feel of her body hugging him from behind, her every breath, the beat of her heart through his back and against his own. Her hand around his cock.

It was sexual, but it was so much more than that. It was a twinning of the pair of them. Jack loved physical intimacy, it was one of the best things that God created, it was the base of humankind. He loved the act and execution of making someone feel pleasure. And of course, it was great to be on the receiving end of such attention like he was now. His breath hitched.

His release wracked his body in a subtle shudder that didn't diminish his upending. It didn't overtax his body like he may have expected it to, the build up had been long pressurized by time past. He felt lighter for it, unburdened. The dark and dusty shroud of his Mortality lifting off of him as he leaned back into her embrace.

They stayed like that for a very long moment. He felt every of her exhales, brush warm down his spine and spread across the small of his back like a blanket.

She stepped back from him. He expected her to leave. Would wait until she was out of the room to open his eyes like she'd asked. He felt the air move as she moved back around him, and squeezed his hand in parting—but he still felt her presence. He went to open his eyes, to confirm if he was just being over imaginative—before he felt her touch again.

Her arm reached around his shoulder and her hand, lightly calloused from the keyboard, cupped the nape of his neck. A gentle pressure had him leaning his head down, his eyes still closed. He felt her breath first, and then the gentle brush of her lips on his brow, on each of his closed eyelids, his cheeks, and lastly, his lips. It was a gentle pressure, more intimate than if her tongue had breach his lips and devoured his mouth—because it felt like she was caressing his soul instead.

Finally, she pulled back lightly and rested their foreheads together, her thumbs caressing his cheeks that he didn't realize were damp with silent tears leaking from his closed lids.

"I've got you," she hushed him. Her hands left his face, down his neck, shoulders, and arms. Taking a hold of his hands, squeezing them gently. She pulled him as equally as soft to the bed, and he followed her, eyes still closed—because he trusted her explicitly. She sat him down, pushed him down, arranged him. Before she wrapped him in a safe embrace, holding him. And he felt hardly a tweak to his wound.

He sighed gently as she carded her fingers through his short locks, tucked up under her chin, his cheek pressed against her chest—lulled by her strong and steady heartbeat. One that would survive this Miracle Day over them all.

Tomorrow, they'd make contact with Gwen, would leave their safe-haven in Scotland and head back to Wales, back to the race to figure out the cause of this and save the world.

But for right now, his entire existence existed in Esther Drummond's arms.

[end]

TorCHwooD:M.D.

Honestly, I was totally planning to do a down-and-dirty (or as down-and-dirty in can be with a wounded Jack) smut scene with these two, but it somehow ended up like this. Better? Worse? I'll only know if you... review! :P

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