LOVE
TWENTYFIVE
She found him in a room. He was not alone. There was also a woman, who'd once been beautiful, but now she was clearly dead and from the grotesquely contorted appearance of her face she had died unpleasantly if not horribly.
Jack's eyes were closed and his head closely if imperfectly shaved. There were angry-looking red scars on his skull. His breathing was shallow and slow. Wil sensed no thoughts or even dreams coming from him but this did not unduly surprise her. Somehow she'd known all along that if there was anyone in the cosmos whose inner voice and private musings she would not hear it'd be Jack Harkness.
She could, of course, distinctly make out the constant cacophony of voices coming from outside the building, but they seemed far, far away. It dimly occurred to her that maybe she was growing accustomed to the noise, was perhaps learning to filter it out; she hoped so.
Although Grasshopper had informed her there was only one viable life form in the facility – and that it was Jack and he was injured – she had not been prepared for the heartbreaking sight which met her eyes. Last time she'd seen him, he had seemed implacable and unstoppable: the galactic superhero at the height of his powers, self-assured and calculating, a vibrant, healthy man whose polished exterior masked the ruthless drive and shrewd outlook within. A man of will and vision, ambition and desire. Lying half-dead in a hospital bed, a discarded intravenous drip hanging loose in his left arm and the disconnected cables of an EEG taped to his patchily shaved skull, he now looked pathetic and broken. His skin was translucent, stretched thin across slackened muscles, the outline of bones showing through at elbows and shoulders, knees and ankles; his lidded eyes were half-sunk in their sockets.
She went to him and whispered, "Jack?" There was no reaction. Tentatively she reached out and touched his face. It was cool but not ice cold, not deathly cold. "Oh Jack, what has he done to you?" she murmured. And then, "I'm here. You are not alone. He can't harm you any more and no one can hurt your soul."
It seemed the most natural thing in the world as she lay down next to him and held him close to her. She lay there for a long time, listening to him breathe.
Then… soundlessly: "Grasshopper?"
"Yes, Teacher?"
"Find Iserliss."
"I already know where he is. He is headed back to the other clinic to recruit more test subjects. As you have already noticed, the one here did not survive her ordeal."
"Capture him."
"Yes, Teacher. Consider it done. And then what?"
"I'll leave that up to you. Just get him out of the way, permanently. I don't want to see him. I don't want him to come back here. I don't want to think about him. Make sure that monster never harms another person, living or dead, again."
"Yes, Wil. Rest assured. Meanwhile I'll leave the Captain and you alone; you're quite safe here, I've seen to that. Call if you need me."
"Thank you."
"You're welcome."
She slept for awhile. Upon waking and determining that Jack was still unconscious she stood up and went to a small, shallow water basin. There she dampened a cloth and after gingerly removing the I.V. and EEG cables, began to cleanse his body. Large areas of his skin were caked with blood and other bodily fluids. She quietly, without much thinking, walked back and forth between the basin and the bed, meticulously, steadily washing away the horrors.
At least the horrors she could see. She could only imagine in the darkest parts of her mind the horrors she couldn't see – thus her stalwart intention to think as little as possible, and to doggedly pacify those thoughts which remained; she emphatically did not want to envision those dark, unseeable horrors. She did not want to feel the blazing, perhaps uncontrollable outrage sure to accompany them.
Without realizing it as she continued to go about her grim work she began softly humming an aria from Puccini's Tosca. The song filled her heart, gradually replacing misery with hope.
She'd noticed some clean bed linens on a shelf. She carefully – oh so carefully! – rolled Jack from one side of the bed to the other as she stripped it and replaced the soiled sheets with clean. Finally satisfied that she'd done a sufficiently adequate if not perfect job, she covered the Captain with several fresh, unstained blankets and lay down once again at his side. She held his hand, stroked his face and, finally, allowed herself to cry.
She must've fallen asleep again because she woke with a start.
"What?" she said, her voice thick with slumber, not sure what it was she was reacting to.
"I said what was that you were humming?"
She opened her eyes, saw him looking at her.
"When?"
"A while ago, I think." His speech was hoarse, barely a whisper.
"Um… let me try to remember." She searched her memory. "I believe it was Vissi d'arte, vissi d'amore."
"Ah. Puccini. Sing it for me, would you?"
"Now?"
"Now."
She took a deep breath, "Vissi d'arte, vissi d'amore, non feci mai male ad anima viva…" she sang softly.
"No, in English please."
"Right, okay… Give me a second." She closed her eyes, saw the music in her imagination, felt it in her heart, and began again:
I lived for art, I lived for love,
I never did harm to a living soul!
With a secret hand
I relieved as many misfortunes as I knew of.
Always with true faith
My prayer
Rose to the holy shrines.
Always with true faith
I gave flowers to the altar.
In the hour of grief
Why, why, Lord,
Why do you reward me thus?
I gave jewels for the Madonna's mantle,
And I gave my song to the stars, to heaven,
Which shone forth with greater radiance.
In the hour of grief
Why, why, Lord
Ah, why do you reward me thus?
"Beautiful," he said after a long moment of stillness.
She opened her eyes; again saw him looking at her, this time tears were running down his face. "Thank you," she murmured, blushing from the compliment. It had been such a long time since she'd sung anything for anybody.
He grinned sheepishly, "The song was nice, too."
She couldn't help but smile – she'd misunderstood his meaning and it thrilled her. While she was still inundated by the never-ending clamor of thoughts from the thronging masses outside, inside where they were securely cloistered his mind was inaccessible, silent, a sweet and blessed relief.
"What is it?" he asked, his blue eyes painting her face.
"Nothing. It's nothing."
He reached for her, touched her, kissed her once, lightly, and then again, more deeply and insistently. She responded to him instantly, her body flowing effortlessly into seemingly ancient but never forgotten patterns. Patterns which were pristine, organic…
"You're distressed," he whispered after a time into her hair, and when she did not answer he kissed her once more.
His fingers gripped her tightly and then softened as he wrapped his arms around her. She could feel him quicken. Her clothes were off before she even realized it. She guided him inside of her and made love to him as he filled her body, soothed her heart and calmed her soul with his warmth, again and again.
At one point they quieted. "I miss you," he said.
"I love you," was her response.
"I know."
Then they made love again.
-00-
"One word frees us of all the weight and pain of life: That word is love."
Sophocles