[MEME] And then there were children.

[eelseason]

Stolen from the internet.

Leave a comment and I will come up with the hypothetical kid between any of my muses (List BTR) (List Epic) and any of yours (assuming I know them at least well enough to pretend that I know them well enough to write them). Terms of parent-child relationship are left to the management. Children may be biological and natural, in-vitro, adopted, surrogate, changechildren, left on a doorstep in a handbasket, or pretty much whatever needs to happen. Any requests for children parented by john_thane will incur a karmic penality. Memes are not intended to diagnose, prevent, treat, or cure any disease. This contract is not canonicity-binding.

Comments

[gotbottle]

*raises hand* For Jack and Rachel, if you please.

And I am happy to reciprocate, if you like. Remind me to link you to a list of my muses when I am not sneaking into the internet during lunch. :D

(frozen comment)

[eelseason]

I seem to be writing a lot of conception/adoption/arrival fics and not so many actual child fics. Um?

hey_capn_jack/senseofliberty

Jack had a laundry list of reasons he couldn't allow himself to have children, and none of them seemed to work, here. I can't contaminate the gene pool with anachronistic DNA lost its meaning when Chicago was the dumping ground for who knew how many universes; I'm not bringing up a kid in an environment like Torchwood fell apart when Torchwood, here, was open and friendly and accessible to the public and really didn't have the death-and-debilitating-trauma rate of Torchwood Cardiff back home. Most of the rest fell apart when Rachel looked at him just like that and asked just like that, with that open unsure honesty even Torchwood Chicago trained out of a person so none of his team ever displayed, and he remembered that somewhere in all his girding himself to take out the trash of the world he'd forgotten to armor up that soft spot he'd always had for the idealistic, naive, and in-over-their-heads.

Which was why he found himself giving the answer he tried not to tell anyone, and most of his friends didn't live long enough to learn anyway: "I'm immortal. I don't age. I don't die. And I don't want to outlive my own children."

At the time Rachel almost fell over herself with apologies and concern – somehow, no matter how much she showed it, Jack always found himself taken aback that there was someone willing to shower him with that much open concern. He told her not to worry about it; it wasn't something he liked thinking about, and it wasn't something he liked anyone else thinking about, and of course that meant absolutely nothing and they both went home thinking about it anyway.

(frozen comment)

[eelseason]

That was enough on the subject until sometime in icy November when Jack came to with a memory of noise and impact and the shock of shattered glass glistening on the back of his hands and the overwhelming tang of blood in the air, until something came through a Rift and sheared one of Torchwood's SUVs clean in half and overturned the other and Jack only survived because he didn't stay dead.

He tore off the seatbelt and didn't make the rounds in time – most of his team was unconscious, one already dead, one too close to dying. This time, and it wasn't uncommon, was it?, all he could do was see to the survivors and put the paperwork through.

And then, almost at midnight, he found himself still in his bloodstained clothing outside the door to Rachel's room.

He didn't quite knock. His hand hit the door and just stayed there, resting on the pressed wood, feeling the artificially smooth varnish that wasn't smooth or cold enough for any of the fixtures in the morgue. That one hit was enough to alert Rachel that he was there and after a moment the door pulled open, leaving his hand to drop to his side through the open air.

Rachel took a breath to greet him and stepped back, aghast. A moment later she had both hands on his shoulders and was pulling him in, demanding "What happened?"

"Accident," was the first thing Jack thought of to say, and then she was easing the coat off his shoulders, sucking in breath at the sight of his bloodsoaked shirt. He couldn't quite remember what happened. Probably something went through him, probably his ribs were crushed against the dashboard, probably his head snapped forward and cut itself open when the windshield crumpled in, all he ever remembered was coming to when it was over and it never mattered if he'd been dead.

"This is – a lot of blood, Jack," Rachel said, looking up at him like she was concerned he'll fall down. "You need, like, an ambulance or something. I could drive you – I know some guy here who'd let me use his car–"

Jack shook his head. "Rachel, I heal."

She wasn't listening. "You're covered in blood. God. Hang on – I have a first aid kit, they make us all keep one–"

"Rachel..."

"I mean–" she crossed the room, grabbing a white box from under the desk. "I don't know if it'll be any good, probably just little bandages, and – what happened? Like, how bad is it? You should sit down. I can–"

Jack crossed after her and caught her wrist, relieving her of the first aid kit and trying to push comprehension down her eyes.

"I heal."

The moment hiccuped, half a beat between them before she answered, quietly. "Everyone else?"

He let go of her wrist, dragging a hand through his hair. It's a mess, he realized – probably bloody, probably still with pebbles of shatterproof glass hiding by the scalp.

"Two dead," he answered. "Then cuts and bruises. Two dead."

[eelseason]

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.

Maybe just enough.

[gotbottle]

I just. I'm in awe. This was amazingly well-written, very vivid, very touching. I admit it--I got teary-eyed. Poor Jack.

Also, you did a fantastic job capturing Rachel. Very well done! :)

Thank you so much for writing this. I loved it.