Cathryn (formerly catslash) (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
remindmeofthe) wrote2008-03-03 10:48 am
remindmeofthe) wrote2008-03-03 10:48 am
Entry tags:
"Passing the Time," PG, spoilers for "Reset" and on
The revised and polished version of the accidental Torchwood fic, for linking at communities.
TITLE: "Passing the Time"
AUTHOR: Cathryn/![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
catslash
RATING: PG
PAIRING: Jack/Owen. Sort of. Ish.
SUMMARY: Old things done in a new way.
SPOILERS: MAJOR spoilers from "Reset" (2x06) on.
DISCLAIMER: Russell T Davies created the show. I make neither claims nor money.
It hadn't taken long for Owen to decide that the most frustrating thing about his - existence now, on a grindingly mundane level, was that he didn't sleep. If he could have slept, he wasn't sure he would have (probably wouldn't have), but he still wished he had the option. Sleep was an ideal time killer, a way to get through a long night without feeling every second tick by. The seemingly endless amount of time Owen had on his hands now was exhausting, mentally if not physically, and his options for filling it were suddenly quite limited. Spending all his free hours at his flat was unfeasible (that, at least, hadn't changed, though perhaps some of the reasons for it had), but the number of things he could do outside of it had plummeted. Anything that involved drinking, eating, or the pursuit of sex was out of the question. As far as Owen could work out, that meant that his choices for an exciting night on the town were now . . . going to the cinema. There were two problems with that: first, there were only so many films out at once, and second, anything that reminded him of eating, drinking, or sex was also to be avoided at all costs. Maybe someday (assuming there was a someday to look forward to). For now, though, Owen spent most of his time being reminded of his new existence as it was without deliberately inflicting reminders on himself in a darkened theatre.
So he tried longer hours at Torchwood, when he could get away with it. When they weren't telling him to go home and find a way to live his life (die his death); the only one who never tried it was Ianto, who was the only person on the planet who had even less of a life than Owen did now. It had never occurred to him, though, that he might not be the only member of Torchwood who didn't keep a regular sleep schedule. He'd known Jack lived at Torchwood, of course. They all knew that, in some abstract, "well, that's Jack for you" kind of way. He'd known that, when they had to rush in at night for some emergency or another, they never caught Jack with bed hair or dressed as though he'd grabbed the nearest clothing and pulled it on on his way out to the Hub. He'd just never really connected the two.
He'd succeeded in sneaking longer hours that night simply by going back to Torchwood in the wee hours. Two-thirty AM found Owen Harper in his medical lab, frowning deeply over his (unhealing) injuries. He was trying to restitch his hand, tense with the concentration required for putting sutures into ragged flesh when he had no real sense of touch to guide him. After a while of this, he blinked hard and stretched. There was no need for either, but it was one of the thousands of habits in life that he'd never noticed (until he didn't need them anymore; then he clung to them).
He learned that there was nothing wrong with his reflexes when he looked up to see Jack standing just inside the door and promptly jumped a mile.
"You're in late," Jack observed. Owen groped for an excuse that would spare him another lecture about moving on (which phrase he hadn't heard in one of those lectures since he'd asked Gwen if she'd meant crossing over) and said,
"Tore my stitches." He raised his hand in explanation, as if Jack was going to think he meant anything else, and, "Fuck!" as the loop of thread caught his eyes. He'd managed to stick the needle right into the meat of his hand when he'd flinched, deep enough so that it stayed put when he moved. "Fuck!" He moved to yank it out, anger sharpening the gesture.
"Wait." Jack was suddenly next to him. "Take it easy. Don't make it worse."
Owen glared at him, intending to pull the needle out anyway and possibly follow up by sticking it into Jack just to show what he thought of employers who didn't know to fucking be asleep and leave their employees alone at this time of night, but his fingers couldn't find it without the guidance of his eyes. Instead, he had to settle for saying,
"I'm a trained medical professional, I think I can manage to pull out a needle."
"Humor me." Jack held up the needle, detached from the thread. "Did I do it right?" he asked, smiling. Owen looked down at the small wound that now marked him permanently, and was startled to see Jack's other hand cupping under his, cradling it. He hadn't even felt it.
He stared at it, silent.
"Owen?" Jack's voice was quiet, gentle, and Owen's eyes stayed fixed on their hands, because he couldn't look away and because he didn't want to see the pity that he knew would be in those overly expressive blue eyes.
He hadn't told Jack that, with his nerve endings as dead as the rest of him, his sense of touch seemed to be gone. The implications of that confused him until he wasn't sure of his own name if he thought about it too deeply (as if losing his sense of touch and still being able to walk upright somehow made less sense than the fact that walking was an option at all), but there it was. Like a full-body numbness. And while he still had faith in his ability to do his job - the difficulty with his hand was nothing, it was just the problem of trying to piece together flesh that was still full of holes and small tears from the last set of stitches - he wasn't in a hurry to find out if Jack shared that faith. He couldn't lose his job just because Jack didn't understand how he worked.
He wasn't thinking of that now, though. He wasn't thinking much at all. Just looking at Jack's hand still under his.
"I can't feel anything. It isn't just pain. I can't feel anything."
He watched Jack's grip shift, fingers curving over the side of his palm, carefully avoiding Owen's broken finger. He thought about pulling away, but didn't.
"Just as well I can't get a hard-on. It wouldn't do me any good, anyway." Owen had had the thought countless times in the last week, even teased out the wording to his satisfaction, and in his head it had a bitter, hollow humor to it. He'd considered saying it to Tosh, who was the only one who looked at him and sat with him without seeing Dead Owen, but it didn't seem like the sort of thing you said to a woman in love with a dead man (especially when you were the dead man, sitting right next to her, thinking of yourself as dead even though she didn't). It was a good thing he hadn't, too, because the humor had gotten lost somewhere in the translation from his mind to his mouth, and it just came out quiet and flat.
Jack was silent, not so much as a sigh or a polite half-chuckle, which was unnerving. Silence from Jack tended not to bode well.
This was it, then. Jack had put two and two together, had wondered how a doctor who couldn't feel a needle jabbing into his hand could possibly be relied on to do the delicate work that came with the job, and was probably trying to figure out how soon he could get Martha back. Owen held his breath (stopped trying to breathe) and waited.
Jack turned Owen's hand over and slid his own around to support it again, cradling the injuries. Owen watched blankly, still waiting, not really taking in the change until Jack's other hand brushed over the back of his.
He did look up then, baffled as to what any of this had to do with his impending unemployment. Jack's eyes met his, his gaze warm and open and not at all like that of a man about to sack someone.
Not pitying, either. The relief of that was unexpectedly strong; he hadn't even known that he was inwardly tensed in readiness to ward off pitying stares until now. The tension, unneeded, drained away, taking with it the panic that had begun to form. Of course Jack didn't see him as someone (something) to be pitied. He should have expected better than that.
Jack shook his head a little and directed a pointed look down at their hands. Owen followed it, to his hand loosely enclosed between Jack's.
Jack began to stroke his fingertips over Owen's skin, smoothing down the small hairs, then pushing them back up again. He caressed the ridges of Owen's knuckles and followed them down the length of Owen's fingers, ghosting over the bandaged pinky.
"You can't feel," he murmured, "but you can see."
Owen watched, spellbound, as Jack's fingers traced slow, lazy arcs, swirling in tender, unhurried motions. He clasped Owen's wrist briefly before smoothing his palm up along Owen's arm. Owen's head turned, seemingly of its own accord, so that his eyes could take in every second as Jack rubbed small circles back down to his hand, then repeated the path up his arm.
His hand continued up to Owen's shoulder, then slipped under Owen's chin and tipped it up. He was very close, looking into Owen's eyes, not wavering or closing his own as he leaned in to kiss Owen's mouth.
The kiss was brief, over before Owen, caught in that close-up blue stare, had quite registered that it must be happening. Jack moved up to kiss Owen's forehead, and Owen swallowed hard when the eye contact was broken. He heard the faint sound of the kiss, then Jack murmuring,
"There are still ways to hold on to life, Owen. You just have to find them." He straightened up and looked at Owen with a small smile. In a more normal tone, he said, "I don't mind sharing the space at night. Just make sure you're home often enough to justify paying rent."
Owen laughed a little. Jack smiled and stepped back, then turned and left the lab. Owen watched him go, then looked down at his half-stitched palm.
He didn't even notice that he wasn't trying to take a deep breath to calm a heart that wasn't pounding.
TITLE: "Passing the Time"
AUTHOR: Cathryn/
catslashRATING: PG
PAIRING: Jack/Owen. Sort of. Ish.
SUMMARY: Old things done in a new way.
SPOILERS: MAJOR spoilers from "Reset" (2x06) on.
DISCLAIMER: Russell T Davies created the show. I make neither claims nor money.
It hadn't taken long for Owen to decide that the most frustrating thing about his - existence now, on a grindingly mundane level, was that he didn't sleep. If he could have slept, he wasn't sure he would have (probably wouldn't have), but he still wished he had the option. Sleep was an ideal time killer, a way to get through a long night without feeling every second tick by. The seemingly endless amount of time Owen had on his hands now was exhausting, mentally if not physically, and his options for filling it were suddenly quite limited. Spending all his free hours at his flat was unfeasible (that, at least, hadn't changed, though perhaps some of the reasons for it had), but the number of things he could do outside of it had plummeted. Anything that involved drinking, eating, or the pursuit of sex was out of the question. As far as Owen could work out, that meant that his choices for an exciting night on the town were now . . . going to the cinema. There were two problems with that: first, there were only so many films out at once, and second, anything that reminded him of eating, drinking, or sex was also to be avoided at all costs. Maybe someday (assuming there was a someday to look forward to). For now, though, Owen spent most of his time being reminded of his new existence as it was without deliberately inflicting reminders on himself in a darkened theatre.
So he tried longer hours at Torchwood, when he could get away with it. When they weren't telling him to go home and find a way to live his life (die his death); the only one who never tried it was Ianto, who was the only person on the planet who had even less of a life than Owen did now. It had never occurred to him, though, that he might not be the only member of Torchwood who didn't keep a regular sleep schedule. He'd known Jack lived at Torchwood, of course. They all knew that, in some abstract, "well, that's Jack for you" kind of way. He'd known that, when they had to rush in at night for some emergency or another, they never caught Jack with bed hair or dressed as though he'd grabbed the nearest clothing and pulled it on on his way out to the Hub. He'd just never really connected the two.
He'd succeeded in sneaking longer hours that night simply by going back to Torchwood in the wee hours. Two-thirty AM found Owen Harper in his medical lab, frowning deeply over his (unhealing) injuries. He was trying to restitch his hand, tense with the concentration required for putting sutures into ragged flesh when he had no real sense of touch to guide him. After a while of this, he blinked hard and stretched. There was no need for either, but it was one of the thousands of habits in life that he'd never noticed (until he didn't need them anymore; then he clung to them).
He learned that there was nothing wrong with his reflexes when he looked up to see Jack standing just inside the door and promptly jumped a mile.
"You're in late," Jack observed. Owen groped for an excuse that would spare him another lecture about moving on (which phrase he hadn't heard in one of those lectures since he'd asked Gwen if she'd meant crossing over) and said,
"Tore my stitches." He raised his hand in explanation, as if Jack was going to think he meant anything else, and, "Fuck!" as the loop of thread caught his eyes. He'd managed to stick the needle right into the meat of his hand when he'd flinched, deep enough so that it stayed put when he moved. "Fuck!" He moved to yank it out, anger sharpening the gesture.
"Wait." Jack was suddenly next to him. "Take it easy. Don't make it worse."
Owen glared at him, intending to pull the needle out anyway and possibly follow up by sticking it into Jack just to show what he thought of employers who didn't know to fucking be asleep and leave their employees alone at this time of night, but his fingers couldn't find it without the guidance of his eyes. Instead, he had to settle for saying,
"I'm a trained medical professional, I think I can manage to pull out a needle."
"Humor me." Jack held up the needle, detached from the thread. "Did I do it right?" he asked, smiling. Owen looked down at the small wound that now marked him permanently, and was startled to see Jack's other hand cupping under his, cradling it. He hadn't even felt it.
He stared at it, silent.
"Owen?" Jack's voice was quiet, gentle, and Owen's eyes stayed fixed on their hands, because he couldn't look away and because he didn't want to see the pity that he knew would be in those overly expressive blue eyes.
He hadn't told Jack that, with his nerve endings as dead as the rest of him, his sense of touch seemed to be gone. The implications of that confused him until he wasn't sure of his own name if he thought about it too deeply (as if losing his sense of touch and still being able to walk upright somehow made less sense than the fact that walking was an option at all), but there it was. Like a full-body numbness. And while he still had faith in his ability to do his job - the difficulty with his hand was nothing, it was just the problem of trying to piece together flesh that was still full of holes and small tears from the last set of stitches - he wasn't in a hurry to find out if Jack shared that faith. He couldn't lose his job just because Jack didn't understand how he worked.
He wasn't thinking of that now, though. He wasn't thinking much at all. Just looking at Jack's hand still under his.
"I can't feel anything. It isn't just pain. I can't feel anything."
He watched Jack's grip shift, fingers curving over the side of his palm, carefully avoiding Owen's broken finger. He thought about pulling away, but didn't.
"Just as well I can't get a hard-on. It wouldn't do me any good, anyway." Owen had had the thought countless times in the last week, even teased out the wording to his satisfaction, and in his head it had a bitter, hollow humor to it. He'd considered saying it to Tosh, who was the only one who looked at him and sat with him without seeing Dead Owen, but it didn't seem like the sort of thing you said to a woman in love with a dead man (especially when you were the dead man, sitting right next to her, thinking of yourself as dead even though she didn't). It was a good thing he hadn't, too, because the humor had gotten lost somewhere in the translation from his mind to his mouth, and it just came out quiet and flat.
Jack was silent, not so much as a sigh or a polite half-chuckle, which was unnerving. Silence from Jack tended not to bode well.
This was it, then. Jack had put two and two together, had wondered how a doctor who couldn't feel a needle jabbing into his hand could possibly be relied on to do the delicate work that came with the job, and was probably trying to figure out how soon he could get Martha back. Owen held his breath (stopped trying to breathe) and waited.
Jack turned Owen's hand over and slid his own around to support it again, cradling the injuries. Owen watched blankly, still waiting, not really taking in the change until Jack's other hand brushed over the back of his.
He did look up then, baffled as to what any of this had to do with his impending unemployment. Jack's eyes met his, his gaze warm and open and not at all like that of a man about to sack someone.
Not pitying, either. The relief of that was unexpectedly strong; he hadn't even known that he was inwardly tensed in readiness to ward off pitying stares until now. The tension, unneeded, drained away, taking with it the panic that had begun to form. Of course Jack didn't see him as someone (something) to be pitied. He should have expected better than that.
Jack shook his head a little and directed a pointed look down at their hands. Owen followed it, to his hand loosely enclosed between Jack's.
Jack began to stroke his fingertips over Owen's skin, smoothing down the small hairs, then pushing them back up again. He caressed the ridges of Owen's knuckles and followed them down the length of Owen's fingers, ghosting over the bandaged pinky.
"You can't feel," he murmured, "but you can see."
Owen watched, spellbound, as Jack's fingers traced slow, lazy arcs, swirling in tender, unhurried motions. He clasped Owen's wrist briefly before smoothing his palm up along Owen's arm. Owen's head turned, seemingly of its own accord, so that his eyes could take in every second as Jack rubbed small circles back down to his hand, then repeated the path up his arm.
His hand continued up to Owen's shoulder, then slipped under Owen's chin and tipped it up. He was very close, looking into Owen's eyes, not wavering or closing his own as he leaned in to kiss Owen's mouth.
The kiss was brief, over before Owen, caught in that close-up blue stare, had quite registered that it must be happening. Jack moved up to kiss Owen's forehead, and Owen swallowed hard when the eye contact was broken. He heard the faint sound of the kiss, then Jack murmuring,
"There are still ways to hold on to life, Owen. You just have to find them." He straightened up and looked at Owen with a small smile. In a more normal tone, he said, "I don't mind sharing the space at night. Just make sure you're home often enough to justify paying rent."
Owen laughed a little. Jack smiled and stepped back, then turned and left the lab. Owen watched him go, then looked down at his half-stitched palm.
He didn't even notice that he wasn't trying to take a deep breath to calm a heart that wasn't pounding.
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I'm glad you enjoyed this. Thanks for taking the time to let me know!
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Second:
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You stealth editor, you!
Yeah, let's just say that I am of the opinion that there's a lot that should be going on with Jack and Owen right now that just - isn't. Boo.
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Thanks for the comment, I appreciate it.
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I love how different it is from anything out there.
Great job.
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Thank you for commenting!
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Also: those eyes, mmmm. :)
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Dude, seriously. I am, like, the only human being on the planet who is not attracted to John Barrowman in the slightest (I think this may actually be literally true), and I still think he has beautiful eyes.
Thanks very much for commenting!
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Here via
Fantastic work. Very in-character while being equally touching - which isn't easy to do. Jack's actions were spot-on and Owen's re-actions were just right. You definitely made it work.
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Thanks for the comment, and also for alerting me to the existence of that community. *g* I kind of knew it was around, but hadn't given it much thought.
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Thanks so much for the comment!
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Thanks for commenting. :)
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Thanks for commenting!
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Thank you for commenting!
Edited because I should really, really NOT hit send when I was thinking about something else entirely for the last few words of a comment . . .
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Owen's lack of feeling is, IMO, the hardest of all the changes he's going to have to live (die?) with. I'm astonished that you managed to convey the sensations Owen went through as Jack touched him without altering Owen's numbness.
If this is your first Torchwood fic, I hope it won't be your last. Fandom needs you!
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I don't think this is the last Torchwood fandom is going to hear from me - there's too much the writers leave out that I keep picking at for that to be the case. Thank you very much for your comment!
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Oh, and I always go back and check out stuff from an author whose story I liked. *g* That's why I finally started tagging things like two years after LJ introduced the feature - I figured I couldn't be the only one.