Another beat. He was just starting to turn away when she said "God, Jack," and grabbed his hand, dragging him back to the bed and pulling him down to sit on the edge. "Are you all right? –I mean obviously you're – I'm sorry; I mean is there anything I can do? For anyone? I mean, I know I'm not Torchwood and most of them don't know me, but I can't imagine–"
Jack closed his eyes and fell back, feeling his shirt shift under him. The blood was mostly dried but it was still coming off him in flakes and dustings. Blood on the sheets. He always seemed to get blood on everything.
He was trying to think of a way to say They'll be fine. Torchwood is used to dying and trying not to think that, paternity or no, he still managed to find people to outlive, when Rachel settled down next to him. She fit herself into the space at his side, one arm stretching over his chest, one pressed against him, holding him in as much of an embrace as she could. He closed his eyes.
For a moment while Rachel grabbed for something to say, the only sound was their breathing. Jack caught the hitch of her breath when she inhaled, words found, and the warmth of her body pressing through the shirt and against the dried blood, the weight of them both on the bed, both moving, both feeling, both with life in what circumstance could turn to cold meat in a morgue drawer without consideration or warning, and he rolled over to stop her saying anything.
It didn't quite work.
Something got asked, and something got answered, and sometime in the night while they were lost in clutching each other Jack opened up a bundle of muscle in his gut that he'd never opened before – no one left these things to chance, when he was from – and regardless of any complaints he might have, any second thoughts, by the time he came down, it was done. One life up, two lives down. Worse than even. Better than average.
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2009-04-21 03:20 am (UTC)Jack closed his eyes and fell back, feeling his shirt shift under him. The blood was mostly dried but it was still coming off him in flakes and dustings. Blood on the sheets. He always seemed to get blood on everything.
He was trying to think of a way to say They'll be fine. Torchwood is used to dying and trying not to think that, paternity or no, he still managed to find people to outlive, when Rachel settled down next to him. She fit herself into the space at his side, one arm stretching over his chest, one pressed against him, holding him in as much of an embrace as she could. He closed his eyes.
For a moment while Rachel grabbed for something to say, the only sound was their breathing. Jack caught the hitch of her breath when she inhaled, words found, and the warmth of her body pressing through the shirt and against the dried blood, the weight of them both on the bed, both moving, both feeling, both with life in what circumstance could turn to cold meat in a morgue drawer without consideration or warning, and he rolled over to stop her saying anything.
It didn't quite work.
Something got asked, and something got answered, and sometime in the night while they were lost in clutching each other Jack opened up a bundle of muscle in his gut that he'd never opened before – no one left these things to chance, when he was from – and regardless of any complaints he might have, any second thoughts, by the time he came down, it was done. One life up, two lives down. Worse than even. Better than average.
Maybe just enough.