quitehomoerotic: ([happy] did'ja miss me?)
Follows this.

It had been five days since Reinette woke up. She was doing much better now, her health had picked up considerably and she had more colour in her cheeks than Jack thought he'd ever seen her with.

Still, he knew, time ticked on, and the better she became the more restless too. That, and as time passed yet more and more questions were raised as to her identity. Jack could deal with them, of course, but he much preferred that he didn't have to.

Of course, he wanted to take her home. And home, of course, he meant 1752. But that was hardly that simple, and turning up to take her back there now felt cruel. Jack could be cruel, of course. He'd been cruel on many occasions. But he didn't want to be, not to her, not after everything. So he needed an alternative.

Luckily, an alternative presented itself.

So it was with an idea fully formed and a oversized set of bags in hand that he walked into Reinette's hospital room, a grin painted on his lips.

"Bonsoir," he said. "How about a trip?"
quitehomoerotic: (Squint stare)
Relaxed.

Relaxed was something Jack Harkness rarely felt. In fact the concept of relaxation seemed an alien one to him. But yet here he was, that was how he felt. The muscles in his body were looser than they'd felt in far too long, and pains that had held there through stress and worry had, at least for now, melted away to nothingness.

It was morning, and he opened his eyes to a world he'd come to find he liked. A place that while it was nowhere that he belonged, he'd been surprised to discover that there was a space for him. A welcoming space with a welcoming face. He wasn't sure if it was something he deserved but for once, for a time, he wasn't going to worry about that.

When he woke, beside him he saw Reinette sound asleep. It made him smile and he pressed a delicate and small kiss to the skin at her shoulder. He stayed there a moment, just smiling and watching, and he whispered to her, "I'll be right back."

And so he rose from the bed. His intent was to find food. He'd take a morning walk, just a short one in the pleasant summer morning that he could see filtering through beyond the window, and then he'd venture to the kitchens and procure themselves something.

His clothes were near, and he dressed in them, item by item and then his coat (as if he'd go anywhere without it), and out into the corridors and halls of Versailles he went.

He wasn't on his guard, of course, why should he be? Short of clockwork what need he worry about right now? And really, should he encounter clockwork, he'd merely turn it off. No, here he felt happy, he felt safe, and so that guard he had learnt to keep up, was down.

And so it was his downfall.

He found his way to the rear gardens, nodding politely to footmen on his way (people that usually he made no effort to even acknowledge). But they had noticed him. In fact they had noticed him long before he noticed them. They had been noticing him for quite some time. They had noticed him in gardens and they had noticed him behind closed doors. And Jack had no idea.

And he wasn't prepared.

Entirely unprepared for the troupe of guards that met him in the gardens. It was as though they had been waiting, as though they had sought him out (and they had, of course). And as strong as Jack could be, he was not prepared, and so he could do nothing when he was met with a blow to the head, and another blow that knocked him to the ground. Another and another until he felt metal shackles on his wrists held behind his back and a tear of fabric between his lips to quiet his shouts.

And he was taken away.
quitehomoerotic: (Happy : Wedding smile)
Follows this

Jack had slept. He'd slept a full and good night's sleep for the first time in longer than he cared to remember. And so when he woke it was comfortable and rested.

He was sprawled out on the couch, his coat that he'd pulled over some hours earlier now largely lying on the floor, and his head was nestled into the cushion beside his and Reinette's heads.

Awareness started to return to him, and with a yawn and a shift that settled his body a little more, he blinked his eyes open.

He realised then where he was and who he was with. A friend. A very good friend. He smiled.

"Morning," he said, and his voice was thick from sleep.
quitehomoerotic: (Serious : Standing)
Follows this

He had been gone three weeks.

Three weeks one day and seventeen hours to be precise.

The whole time, it had been in his mind to return, but this time he wanted to be ready. He wanted a plan before he turned back up ready to show her a little of the future and a little of his past.

The first thing he did was visit a library. He sat in a quiet corner with a book. The aged dust sheet was decorated with a photograph of a painting of 'Madame de Pompadour'. There was a likeness, at least. He wasn't sure if he ought to read. The pages told her history, or at least the story that history was graced with. There was always so much more, he knew, and so much incricacy and detail that history could never wish to capture.

Moments in time that flitted and disappeared.

It wouldn't be right of him to read, would it? No. So for once, he hoped, he made the right decision, and the book remained in the library, unopened and untouched.

A book, however, that did make it out the door, was a French language book. Eighteenth Century French to be precise. He wanted to brush up.

And he did. He brushed and he prepared and three weeks later he was sure he was ready. Or at least, as ready as he could ever be.

So he took himself back, with a bag and a box in tow. He arrived at 5pm. Three week and barely any time at all.

Five fifty eight and he stood outside the doorway to her lounge. He'd found his way up, and though he'd received looks, he found too they didn't attempt to stop him. His destination was expected. A reputation already, it seemed.

Five fifty nine and he walked in.
quitehomoerotic: (General : Profile)
follows this

Jack had slept. Much to his own surprise.

He hadn't expected to sleep. He'd expected to lie and to stare at the ornate ceiling, watching the flecks in the paint and the gold until they moulded to nothing in his mind. He had done, for a while, but then his eyes had grown heavy, and quite against his own will he was pulled into sleep. Perhaps due to just how long it had been since he'd had the chance to rest like that. To lie and to know he could. To know he had a night there, with nothing to call him away.

He did dream, of course. Unpleasant dreams of his faults and his losses. But they were standard, and even though they were painful, he was used to them.

The morning came and he was awake by the time the light was filtering through the window. He had, also, somehow, acquired his own clothes, though were he asked how, he'd never explain. He preferred to keep certain things a mystery.

He stood now, in that bedroom, staring out of the window at the landscape outside. A new landscape, a new time.
quitehomoerotic: (The man who could never die)
There's something about Earth.

Out of all the places out there, all the little planets in the sky, Earth just has something special. He wanted to go back, and he hated that he wanted to go back. He'd ran away from there for a reason; he couldn't cope with it any more. It wasn't like he was even born there, sure he spent over a hundred years there, kicking his heels, saving the place on countless occasions, but it shouldn't matter so much to him! But there he was, sitting on some dirty transporter, wondering about getting back.

He couldn't go back though. He couldn't go back to there and then and the people he left and the people that left him. He'd ran so far across that planet to get away from the things that hurt, but it was just too small. Impossibly small and those troubles were right behind him, peering down from him from above. Guilt weighing down on him that he just couldn't escape.

So he stayed away. He stayed away and kept quiet. Frequented corners of dingy bars and found solace in the bottom of a bottle.

But it wasn't what he wanted, and pretend as he might that he was okay with wallowing, he wasn't. He wanted to be doing something, anything, and that damn feeling that Earth was where he should be just wouldn't quite go away.

That's when he realised; he had only one option. Go back. But not now.

It's also when he realised that he had to fix what had been broken for over a hundred years. He had to get himself back in the game.

Out in space and with the resources on the various ships he'd found himself travelling on, it was surprisingly easy to happen upon the little components and tools he might need. He'd never found them on Earth, but then he never did have that sort of luck. It took a while, but he got there, bit by bit amassing what he needed until finally he could sit down and with care take apart his vortex manipulator and put it back together again with new and renewed working technology.

He could go anywhere.

But where? Earth, of course. But not a place he'd been, not a time he'd been. Somewhere new, but somewhere that would be enough to comfort him in knowing he was 'home'. So he didn't make a decision as such, he just put in some parameters to avoid (Cardiff being the biggest), and he pressed the button and hoped for the best.

When he arrived, without even needing to check he knew he was on Earth. It had that smell, that slight mix of something in the air that always seemed to be there, no matter where or when you were. Good, he thought, good. This was good. He didn't check when or where he was, that could come later. For now he'd explore (and he'd forgotten how nice that could be).

So that's what led him to walking around a vast (and likely very private) garden, lined with intricate designs of flowers and plants. French, he suspected. That was okay, he hadn't been to France in a long time.

Maybe he'd enjoy this.

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quitehomoerotic: (Default)
Captain Jack Harkness

July 2011

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