fic, rarr!

Moving in Numbers

Spoilers for the entire series. Written in five segments (all concentrating on a different aspect...)
PG. Partly gen. Implied Jack/Rose/Doctor, and variations thereof.

For libertinette.



FIVE

It isn’t the most common situation for her to find herself in. Come to that, it isn’t the most common situation for anyone to find themselves in.

Well. She’s honestly saying Slitheen like it’s normal. Normal! She can’t quite grasp all of this. But the Doctor seems to think she’s good at it, at least.

Harriet Jones (MP-for-Flydale-North) had only come today with a fool’s hope that someone would listen to her. She’d ended up making coffee for a young man who is, at present, lying dead less than a few feet away. And oh, now look. She is now sitting with a pair holding the fate of England at the end of a mobile telephone.

Not to forget the aliens. Oh, she still can’t quite get past that. She feels like she’s stumbled in on Star Wars. Or perhaps that American programme that her nephews used to make her watch. The A-Team.

Harriet finds herself perched on her seat. The two on the other end of the phone don’t sound particularly qualified, she thinks, and wrings her hands.

Considering the circumstances, she doesn’t think she’s doing too bad, not really. She hasn’t screamed or had a panic attack of any sort. She might have lost control completely and attacked them, or demanded to be let out, or something.

Oh dear, Ray was going to cook. Pizza, if the children had nagged him enough. They’ll be wondering where she is.

But, the thing is, she does trust these two. The young girl, Rose, and the Doctor… Doctor who? She doesn’t know his name, hasn’t even known either of them half an hour, really, and yet she’d trust them to the end of the earth. Which doesn’t look long off. She’s wringing her hands again.

Mickey’s done it. And so they settle themselves within the closet, clasping each others’ hands, and wait for the inevitable.

Harriet feels herself jump as her fingers press against the Doctor’s wrist and picks up two pulses.



FOUR

Rose is looking tanned. It suits her; reminds him of that time he took her down to that place in Broadstairs. The hotel was crummy but the weather stayed perfect throughout; Rose bronzed fast, sprawled out on the sand, when they weren’t in the water and throwing seaweed all over each other. She’d still been finding bits of it in her hair for weeks afterwards, he’d remembered her saying.

They hug, close, and Mickey can’t help breathing in some of her mood – he finds that he’s grinning like a madman. Things are pretty bloody far from normal but it feels fine. The Doctor has stopped calling him Rickey, and Jack, for all his smugness and insinuations, has as many ridiculous stories to tell as Mickey’s dad knows crap jokes.

He doesn’t, though, let himself forget; the Doctor is an alien. Jack might well be. And when he looks at Rose – really looks at her – she might as well be, too.

But, when they walk off, arm in arm, Mickey hopes those two can see them. See that, for just this once, Rose is his. They’re going to get a drink, and a hotel room. His mind couldn’t be further from Trisha Delaney from the shop. Rose is home, isn’t she?

She chatters on, animatedly, as they walk together. His grin is waning a little. All she can talk about is him, and them, their little three, and planets he could never even dream of, let alone touch. ‘Women Wept’. ‘Arcadia-and-Seventh’. Earth in the year 5.5/Apple/26.

After that, all it takes are a few shouts, a few tears and a clap of thunder and she’s gone again. Like he tells her – gives her a kiss, runs off and makes him feel like nothing. Of course. Off to wind the other two of them round her little finger like she did him.

Mickey bets the Doctor will take her to Broadstairs. She’ll love it. She’ll forget who took her there first. She’ll giggle and bury Jack up to the neck in sand (likely out of punishment for flirting with everyone and everything) and the Doctor will lie there watching and tutting. She’ll spread perfect new memories over the ones of them -him and her, together - like the fucking sand that'll stir under her palms – because she’ll lie there, on their beach, beautifully sweeping out her arms in contented stretches while her two lapdogs watch. They’ll probably find something there that’s putting the world in danger, then destroy it, and then bask in their own stupid smugness.

Mickey catches the last train home and sits in an empty compartment, kicking angrily at the seat in front the entire way. He vows that he’ll bloody well marry Trisha Delaney if it’ll keep Rose out of his head.

The next morning he is phoning up the Broadstairs Anchor House Hotel, and makes a reservation.



THREE

It’s strange. Odd. Unusual. A biscuit short of a barrel ....though that probably only applies to himself. Funny-peculiar. Queer (oh, Jack would like that).

The Doctor is not entirely sure how it happens. It probably had something to do with copious amounts of alcohol, and definitely something to do with the Captain. Every time before had been in combinations of two, but not now. He recalls Jack’s teasing boasts, claiming his skill as a kisser. Rose is quick to suggest that The Doctor challenges the declaration. First she watches, then judges, then all’s a blur as they fall into bed for the first time; laughter and intimate dark and the TARDIS hum behind them all the while.

The TARDIS has a day to light setting. At this moment, watery, just about tangibly electric light is crawling its way in to the room. Dawn on the ship is set up to remind them of earth. He did it to help Rose, at first, after hearing her… the choked, uncontrolled crying that came with a harsh flip upside-down of the world. Like an infant animal taken from its family. The TARDIS is now programmed to broadcast the faintest of sounds to lull her to sleep; the quiet of early morning traffic, occasional birdsong, stirrings of a London waking up.

She probably doesn’t even need it now, he supposes, but he’s grown a fondness for it himself. Perhaps Earth is as nearest to home as he’ll find.

So it’s morning now. The Doctor doesn’t need as much sleep as they do, and so he’s contented with lying there and watching them. So far for 5 hours, 43 minutes and 11 seconds. Jack and Rose are lain on their backs, curled up close together, her back curved close against his front. His arm is sprawled out protectively across her - his hand just about touching the Doctor’s own where it is placed on the bedsheet - sparking electricity there at every slight brush of his skin on his.

The Doctor is facing the both of them; they’re left and he’s right (as always, naturally!)

Jack is silent, mouth a little parted, face buried into Rose’s neck. Rose herself sleeps lightly, stirring and murmuring, even opening her eyes from time to time to look at him. It’s not only because she’s barely two inches away that he can hear every inhale and exhale, feel every shift and rasp. She’s taken 3903 breaths so far. He hasn’t missed one.



TWO


Jack Harkness has been left behind. When the TARDIS returns, and Rose staggers out of it, ashen faced and shaking, he understands why. With Rose clutching to him like she’s drowning and a stranger standing in the TARDIS doorway, his first instinct is to reach for the nearest weapon and try to keep steady.

He shouts and cocks the gun as he backs away, Rose stiff as a board at his side. He spits out every threat that comes to mind, but the man does nothing, just grins. There’s something in that grin which makes him hold his fire.

The Doctor mentioned it, once, in passing – knelt down beside Jack as he fiddled with the control settings, manhandling wires under the console.

“I’m going to change.”

Jack had sat up, twirling the sonic screwdriver idly between his fingers. “What do you mean?”

“One of these days, something’s going to happen, and I’m going to change. It’s what happens when we die, Timelords. And when I get into trouble, I’m going to come back different. Do you understand?”

He had paused, licked his lips thoughtfully. “Rose won’t like it.”

The Doctor had replied, simply, “I know.”

All it took Jack was a sweeping glance up to his eyes. Steady. Quiet. Questioning. So, the Doctor was telling him, but also asking him.

Yes, he had thought, yes, I’ll look after her, if it’s all I can ever do for you. And after a beat, had leant forwards to kiss his reply; fingers at the nape of the Doctor’s neck and slowly spidering out, lips pressing and tongue swiping just long enough to be a tease and a promise wrapped into one.

And back in the present, Jack let the gun in his hand clatter to the floor.

Rose shakes his arm and stares at him like he’s dying. “It’s just a lie, isn’t it, Jack?”

Jack, however, trusts the stranger absolutely. Even more so when the man – the Doctor - offers them the TARDIS, stands back and lets them in. He tells Jack he wouldn’t mind staying here for a bit, on Satellite 5, something in the back his voice sounding like what could be grief. Jack still isn’t quite listening.

Rose begs and pleads for Jack to take her back to find the Doctor – their Doctor, rather. Her cheeks are red from hard effort of holding back tears. She looks fiercer than ever. Screaming now, she needs Jack to take her back to a time where they could see him again, but Jack knows enough about the TARDIS and time to refuse her.

After a few days he takes her to Earth, in his time, and she tries to be interested, she really does. Every time he opens his mouth, however, it’s like taking tentative footsteps over something tender and just that little bit too easy to break. Jack asks if she wants chips (half expecting a grin and a response of ‘they still have chips?!’). Immediately he knows he’s done something wrong. Her jaw is tight and her fists curled. He clears his throat and suggests they move on.



ONE

It’s funny how all the plans Rose once had for her life disappear in endless days spent staring at street corners and looking for blue boxes.

There’d always been a general discontent at the back of her mind. How much of a disappointment it all was; as a girl, growing up had been everything to look forward to - because when you were older, you would understand, surely. But understand what, exactly? The pattern of things? Get-up-catch-the-bus-go-to-work-come-back-home-eat-chips-and-go-to-bed. A pattern which, for one vital, brilliant, caught moment she had broken out of, because of him.

Now she’s back at home, where she told Jack she wanted to be. He had gone back to the Doctor, she supposed. She didn’t know whether that made him weaker or stronger than her.

So now she was back to the pattern of things. Mickey was happy to believe they were back together and she couldn’t care to tell him otherwise. She wondered idly whether she should try and find herself a proper job, or start to think about settling down, even start thinking about a family.

But, she never did.

If he loved her… really, really loved her… he would have come back to find her by now.

He was still her Doctor. Inside, she meant. He had to be. He’d promised her that.

Sometimes things go back to normal. Mickey’ll take her down the pub and they’ll watch the game together, and argue about whether Man U are as good as he emphatically insists they are. They’ll have a good night, and she’ll laugh and cheer, but it won’t last. She’s coming around to realising that. Mickey is ever optimistic, acting like the day will come when she’ll be ‘fixed’, and plays the supportive boyfriend card until she can barely stand it any more. It’s not Mickey, it’s her – she can’t help it. Feeling ridiculously alone in crowded London streets, crowded with people she recognises as once friends.

Jackie tells friends and family that she’s ill. Rose pretends she doesn’t know about it.

Days, weeks and months pass. She is coping… never happy about it, but coping. She’s still privately clinging to openly raw memories and frequent daydreams. Her new boss is nice, and simply smiles to herself when she sees Rose caught, motionless, staring out of the shop’s window with ‘her mind goodness knows where’.

On December the 1st of that year, the doorbell rings. Rose takes a last bite of toast and shouts down the hallway that she’ll just be a minute. Mickey’s come to give her a lift. She’s finishing work that day for a Christmas break and doesn’t know if she can be bothered to go in. Or to even do anything at all.

She slings her bag over her shoulder and opens the door.

“Hello.” The Doctor says.




Sorry for typos/general grammatical cock-ups. It's one in the morning.

crossposted to time_and_chips