Tugging a clean shirt over her head, Rose sat back down on the bed for a moment, staring at the metal deck plates peeking out from beneath the large throw rug in the centre of the bedroom. "Jack, can I ask you something?"
Sliding his arms through his braces, Jack tugged them up onto his shoulders. "Hmm?" Turning around casually, he flashed her an innocent smile.
Sighing, she rubbed her sweaty palms against the knees of her dark jeans. Letting out another concentrated breath, she let her hand rest on her legs as she continued to inspect the rough hewn lines where the plates met up with one another. "Why do we keep doing this?"
His eyebrow arched. "You complaining?"
Looking up at him, she couldn't help but smile—it was that bright thing with all the dazzling teeth and the twinkle in the eye. The irresistible one that warmed his heart when he was working late at night, now that they were back in each other's lives. "No. Not at all. You're…a master of the art. I just wonder why. And why here, of all places."
Jack sat down beside her, but at least had enough respect for the subject matter to not put his arm around her in some platitudinal sort of display of affection. "Why any of this, hon. Why did we end up here? Why did we find each other? Why is he on the other side and we're here?"
Rose shook her head, licking her lips, seeming to search for the words. "No. That isn't what I mean. And I think you know it."
With that, he did slide an arm around her waist but didn't squeeze her. He merely rested it there, maybe for comfort. For whom, it was unclear. "Well, it's not like he's using the room. I tolja that before. But geeze. Is this about him?"
She glared at him like he was visibly insane, her lips curling in disgust. "Is this about him. Is this about him? Jack—you're kidding me, right? Where the hell have you been, the last three weeks? Is this about him!"
Staring at one of the tapestries, he lost himself for a moment in the heavy weave of the fabric and the orange-gold symbol that had begun to haunt all of his time in London since he'd come here, demanding answers from the unknown new head of Torchwood One. The symbol had drawn him here, when he'd seen the lousy digital camera photo on the intranet. This seal was tied to the Doctor and it had now tied him and Rose back together, when they'd been so lost from each other for so long. It only stood to reason that it could do the same for them and the Doctor.
He looked down at his hands for a moment, trying to imagine the possibilities. That was part of the problem—he just lacked the mind to fathom it. While he had told Rose ages ago that they wouldn't get anywhere worrying about how they wouldn't get the Doctor back simply because he was probably the only one that could solve the puzzle, he was beginning to feel that type of cold despondency whenever he thought of the predicament they were in.
Rubbing her back, he tried to find the right way to say what he was thinking. "Rose…I don't have any illusions. I know what's between us. Does that help, at all? I know it's not nothing, but I know it isn't… what you want. Or with the person you want. But it's ok. It's ok with me. And if you want it to be ok with you, then I'm fine." Ok, so he was called Captain Jack, not Captain Coherent. He might be an expert at 'dancing,' but sometimes he just…didn't have the right words for affairs of the heart. Especially since the heart wasn't always involved in that.
Rose grabbed his hand and moved it from behind her back, and he assumed that he was in 'trouble,' or she was about to break it off. He had no idea what 'it' was, but the way she was severing the physical contact…it seemed very likely that she was severing the as-yet ambiguously defined relationship. She didn't push him away though, she just held his hand in both of hers, her thumb brushing over the tips of his nails. "I just…need."
Not something, someone. She just needed. It was certainly something he could sympathise with. He'd been in need of… well, a lot of things since he'd come back to this relative time period. He'd spent a lot of time alone, thinking. And that had sure as hell never done anyone any good. What COULD come of it? He'd just think of what he'd lost, didn't have and potentially couldn't have, and then he'd be in an even worse spot than when he'd started.
Twisting his hand around, he captured both of hers, squeezing them tightly. "I know. It's ok to, you know."
She licked her lips thoughtfully, and he wondered what was becoming of them. "It's just… it's not nothing, right? But it's not…never mind. I'd told myself to just say no. It's not like you're…that irresistible or something. I just…" Whatever she was going to say fell off into a sigh.
She just needed something; him, it, the contact…a few minutes of that hole inside her not aching quite so badly. Since he'd seen her last, she'd aged much. He still had the advantage of experience on his side, though. "It's fine. I promise. It's just one of the many services I provide, sweetheart."
And that was that. It wasn't anything that had been said, or any indication that she'd given, it was just something in the air. The conversation was over. For now. Which brought him to the next topic of conversation, it was time to go back to being the bad guy. "So. Now that that's settled. How's about letting Owen look you over one more time. Just to be sure…"
Turning away, she slid her hands out of his and then clasped them in front of her, unhappy that they were coming back around to this again. "Jack…"
"Don't 'Jack' me," he chided, trying to not sound as serious as he felt about the subject matter. Casual seemed like a good way to go…for now. His tactics seemed to change every fifteen and a half seconds with Rose.
When she spoke, she sounded so…despondent. "What good will it do?"
Oh. She wanted to play it like that? Ok.
Taking his time, he slid off the edge of the bed, casually sliding his hands into the deep pockets of his trousers and wandered around the room. There were books from cultures Jack had never encountered as a Time Agent, bits and pieces of broken machines, tiny headless statues, something that looked like a little green stuffed bear hugging a tiny stuffed human. It looked like a junk room just as much as an actual bedroom.
Picking up the bear, he regarded it for a moment. It was an ugly little thing, barely bigger than his palm, but it was oddly endearing. "Because. You fell asleep holding the box. You started having problems when you forced open the box. All the other times you'd either just had contact with the box, or were in close proximity. The once that we know about, there was a fluctuation with the box when your breathing stopped."
Slowly she turned around, looking at him as if she was beginning to put the coincidences together. Those brown eyes he was so fond of were wide, her lips slightly ajar. It all meant something to her.
Damned good thing too. He'd just been looking for some way to make this as serious to her as it was to him, but when he said it all like that, together…yeah, it made some sense. It made even more sense when her brows scrunched downward. "There's something else, isn't there? It wasn't just that list of names you rattled off to me, and some 'dream' of him you had. If you want us to solve this, we need all the information." He ran a hand through his hair, frustration suddenly running through him. "Dammit. Rose—you have your man Ianto on me every second I'm in the building. That's one thing. But you have to trust me enough to tell me what's going on."
Instantly Rose's demeanor changed and he knew he'd taken the wrong approach. He'd been almost getting through to her, putting it in the context of work—then he'd questioned her. It was a little aggravating that he could step back, make a plan, analyse it after it had all gone wrong, but couldn't get it right the first time.
Sitting up straight, her eyes bored into him, those strong eyebrows jutting downward in extreme displeasure. "My man Ianto. My man Ianto seems to have a loyalty problem lately. But that's not the point. Jack, really. Do you think you should have free roam here?"
All the air slipped out of his lungs. Putting the bear back down on the table where he'd gotten it from, he slowly made his way back to the bed. Cupping her cheeks in his hands, he brushed his thumb against her terribly smooth skin. "Rose, a long time ago, I told you that you were worth fighting for. Do you remember that? I do. Because I mean it. I meant it then and I mean it now. I'm willing to crawl into hell and back for you. But you need to give me a little something to work with. A little room to move around."
Without thinking, he kissed her forehead and then squeezed her to him. Didn't she see? Had she been playing this part for too long, that she didn't know how to be her old vibrant self, so open and willing and…well, just so very Rose? He knew she'd had to do those things. And there was some part of her that broke through—it was why Ianto looked at her the way he did when she was leaving the room. It's why her people were concerned for her.
Looking up at the ceiling, he gave her a quick shake, trying to impress his seriousness upon her. "I'm the one that's had too long to think too much and get too suspicious and bitter. If you're going to make a mistake—can't you just use one up on me, and give me a chance?"
Slowly—maybe even regretfully, she disengaged herself from Jack's embrace and got to her feet. Tugging her shirt straight, she pulled her hair off of her collar and walked to the mirror over the dresser. Leaning toward it, she touched the dark circles under her eyes, as if poking and prodding them would make them disappear.
Rubbing a finger against her lower lip, she looked at him through the mirror. "They're not just dreams—they're so vivid and real. They're getting more real, the more everything else seems to break and fail on me."
Jack's response was quiet, but firm. "The closer you come to death."
She nodded. "I can see him there, with mum. I can almost reach out and touch him. He has a box like ours. I don't know what it means. His is empty too, like the one we found at the dig. I don't know if they're just dreams, I don't know if I'm losing it. I think I question myself, and kind of tell myself it's all in my head just so that I won't be disappointed, if this all comes to nothing."
Grabbing something small and metal off the dresser, she began unscrewing and rescrewing the lid, repeatedly, fixating upon it. "When I'm awake, I see him out of the corner of my eye. It's like I can hear the ship, clearer and clearer every day, like she's teling me what she wants, some memory she wants me to go back to, but I just can't figure it out."
"This is why we need Owen to look you over. This is why I want someone to watch you, until we figure out what's going on," Jack pleaded desperately. "We could be very close to something. But we won't be any closer if something happens to you. Just…be sensible."
Putting the bauble back down on a small scrap of uncovered dresser surface, Rose turned around, something angry but controlled flickering behind her eyes. "And I'm not ready to be sensible. Not just yet." She pointed to the door. "Just get off my ship, Jack. Get out of here right now."
Staring at the door, not really able to will himself to move, Jack clenched his jaw tight. He wondered, once again, just how he'd managed to let that turn ugly. "Rose…"
"Just go."
XYZ
When the Doctor woke in those white hospital jammies in a white hospital room with nothing in it…he realised the error of his ways.
No monitors, no technology, nothing you'd normally associate with a twenty-first century hospital room —they knew him well. Sliding out of the bed, he walked to the door—it was locked . The glass had that break-resistant metal tread running through it, so that would be a less than effective means of escape. He looked down at his bare feet, then back to the bed—just a foam mattress.
Well, the error of all his ways, he supposed. Just the one that presumed that jumping out of a fourth story window was a good thing to do. 'Cause he'd been in a few mad houses in his time, and this was definitely the madhouse.
Jump out of one little window and you get sectioned. Really.
Tapping his bottom lip with two fingers, he began contemplating the problem at hand. Locked up equalled not good status. Confusing nature of vision that caused him to jump out of window, which resulted in said locked up status, equalled unresolved--and weird dream of unknown psychological origin, that took place shortly after jumping out of said window… intriguing.
No not the part where Rose and Jack had done wholly human and natural things on his nice silk sheets (which had been a gift, dammit!), that part was weird and disturbing, especially if his own little mind had cooked that up. It was possible that he was bonkers. He had seen Rose and his ship reflected in the glass, and had just gone through it on impulse, without even contemplating the four storey drop.
A thought popped into his head and he vigorously began running his fingers through his hair, and his tongue over his teeth. Nope. He hadn't regenerated. Probably.
Well, the good news was, he hadn't impaled himself on anything in his act of spontaneity. Just knocked himself out cold. Or had only been… not quite dead and not completely dead.
Near-death experiences… Well. It seemed to be a theme lately. Jack had said that Rose had stopped breathing several times. There had to be some connection. Even if he'd been conjuring these things, why had his mind followed down that path?
Flopping back onto the bed, he stared at the white tiles in the drop ceiling, wondering what it all meant. OH they'd come for him eventually—probably to figure out just how suicidal he was feeling (the jumping out the window thing—it was so misleading). Until then, it gave him some time and space to ponder this. In any other circumstances he'd be rushing right out here to get to work, but it wasn't like he had proper resources. Torchwood had the best facilities in the nation but they were still… inadequate to his purposes. Of course he could make it work. Given enough time and jiggery pokery, he could make all of their baubles and bits work. But where was the point in all that? Well, no there was a point. He just didn't have the patience to invest so much time into one single task.
Ok. Assuming this whole thing was in his head, what was his subconscious trying to tell him? Well, besides how he should have just let Jack's ship explode with Jack in it. Or some sort of strange commentary on his own insecurities and his almost obsessive thoughts of Rose. Well, in defense of his own obsessiveness, he was living with her mother. It was awful damned hard not to hear Jackie's shrill voice every morning ordering him down stairs for bacon or oatmeal or whatnot and not think of Rose.
That wasn't so important and somehow he had to put that aside. He needed to work on the problem at hand. Twiddling his thumbs and blowing out a slow, even, steadying breath, he began to concentrate on the other possibility—that it hadn't just been some kind of…near-death dream.
Well, ok, it had been a near-death dream. But maybe it wasn't JUST a dream. What was the deal with the box? Why did he have it, and why was it empty?
Then again… had it been empty? He hadn't seen anything. It was possible the contents were somehow out of phase with the physical realm, maybe in another reality entirely. It wasn't a dimensionally transcendental box by nature…he'd been required to make the damned thing in a wood working class. He had, however, added some, uh, little bits of fun. Just out of boredom.
He'd been back in his double digits when he'd done that. Could something he'd done as a joke, to keep his instructor from grading his project have had some kind of lasting effects now? Could a little dimensional lock that didn't even work too well have caused whatever weirdness was going on now?
Well, that wasn't necessarily a fair question. Every time he said something was impossible (usually because it just, y'know, wasn't possible) he'd end up finding out he was wrong. It almost seemed reasonable that some lock he'd fashioned out of shrapnel from a miscellaneous and unidentified TARDIS part found in a junk yard could be causing a box to hop dimensions, lose its contents and give him dreams so odd they were practically mouldy cheese-induced. But what it came own to was this: this was just goofy enough to be real, and just crazy enough to be something worth investing hope in.
Sighing with contentment, he laced his fingers behind his head, staring up at the dots and textures in the ceiling until they started making shapes. It was like staring at the clouds. That mass in the middle looked like a unicorn perched on an ice cream cone. Not a bad way to spend a few minutes basking in his new found hope, he supposed. After the fascination with hope wore off, he'd end up having to do something about it, and that'd require breaking out, so he'd better enjoy it while it lasted.
He could do the whole fake sick thingy, though if they were smart enough to remove everything from the room, they were probably smart enough not to fall for that too easily. There was always sticking with the original plan of just waiting until they came in to see how sane he felt like being. But he was getting bored with that idea, now that he actually had something to work with and investigate. It wouldn't take him too long to think up something spectacular would it?
There was always the drop ceiling. Even if there wasn't some means of immediate escape, the tiles were hung with metal hangers. That'd certainly be of some use.
The door clicked open and Mickey Smith poked his head through. "You ready to leave yet?"
Or he could just let the village idiot save him. Again.
Sitting up, the Doctor hopped off the bed, bouncing on his bare feet. "We really need to stop meeting like this."
The young man's cheek twitched. "Yeah, whatever. Jackie's sorry she tried ta make you eat your veg and she promises she'll never do it ever again. So you gonna come home and be a good little alien?"
Following after the young man, he marvelled at the ease of the operation. "Is this a break-out? 'Cause I think Jackie's house is the first place they're going to look for me."
As they casually made their way down the narrow white corridor, Mickey looked behind him to the Doctor, shaking his head. "You're a real piece of work, you know that?"
Lacking pockets to shove his hands into, the folded his arms over his chest, a smile of contentment spreading across his face. "Yeah. I know. But it's part of my charm."
TBC…
