quitehomoerotic: (Serious : Fingers on lips)
It's just a book.

Just a leather bound book. A little bigger now than it was when it was new; expanded from all the pages dog eared and written on, the ink twisting and weighing down the pages. Notes jotted down over months and years. The corners fray a little and show its use. Well loved and well used.

Just a book and nothing more.

But no.

No, not nothing more. A diary. A glimpse into the mind of the writer. Snapshots of thought and an insight into the way they work. A portable and tangible piece of the mind. Tangible and readable and sitting on a table in sight.

He shouldn't read it and he knows that. He shouldn't, but it's so compelling sitting there. Like an itch waiting to be scratched.

He wonders if it would hurt. Just a few pages? Who would ever have to know? Nothing important, not to sit and examine it, just skim the surface of a page or two, and well, if his name should be spotted then why not read a little more? It's not that anyone would know that he had, and he'd done much worse in his past than read a few words on a page.

But he'd know. He'd know and he'd know things too that weren't offered to him. It would be wrong, and that's what he reminds himself as he tries not to scratch that itch. )

Word count: 688
quitehomoerotic: (General : Dying hurts)
It was cold when Jack woke up. There was no blood on his chest, no wound other than a deep pain in his chest. That Lazer screwdriver had been the weapon, and it was a sharp pain, second only to that of the Dalek's extermination. The death had faded but the sting remained.

It had taken him a while to reorientate himself, to recognise the room around him as a section of the underside of the Valiant. He felt the metal around his wrists before he saw it, so cold it seemed damp against his skin. The corners of the shackles were sharp and bit harshly into his skin. But then, he didn't suppose they were built to be comfortable.

He tugged on the chains a little, to test their strength, but they were secured fast to the wall. He'd been put here to stay.

It was amusing at this stage. He didn't intend to be kept. Not when the Doctor might need his help. If he ever had motivation then that was it. He wouldn't let him down, not now.

He had expected that someone would come, that they might try and get information out of him (information that he of course wouldn't give), but nobody did. Nobody came that day and nobody came the day after. The only way he knew night or day was an LCD clock in the corner of the room. No light reached him, everything seemed to fade into one.

It became his focus though, that clock. Because someone would come, that much he knew, and when they did, he'd have something to say.


quitehomoerotic: (Default)
Captain Jack Harkness

July 2011

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