Fic: "See. Deny. Accept." Jack/Gwen, Rhys/Gwen (R)

[51stcenturyfox]

Title:  See. Deny. Accept.
Author: 51stcenturyfox 
Pairing: Jack/Gwen, Rhys/Gwen
Rating:  R
Wordcount: 1065
Summary:  We see, yet we deny.  And there are things we do not say aloud.
Notes:  Written to pairing prompt (+ bad timing + spackle) for the holiday tw_ficexchange for tardistenantsue  Beta: karaokegal 



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In a place and time when everything spins on an axis of exceptional circumstance, they tiptoe around the things that they cannot categorise or use to arm themselves.

These are the things they know but do not put into words.


Jack feels her sharp intake of breath when he places his hands on her sides and brushes tight against her back at a retrieval site. “Steady, Gwen. Sorry,” he says.

Later, he explains a dull protocol procedure and her hand rests on his shoulder as she listens, her thumb dipping absently to rub beneath his braces. He forces himself not to close his eyes and sink into the sensation, to focus.

Her eyes meet his in disagreement. Jack takes a breath to state his case but she stalks away before he can.

“Don't say it doesn't matter and you don't care. Not this time!” she argues.

Of course it matters and he does care... and it can't be helped. Not this time. The look on his face tells her that she isn’t wrong, but this round is his.



It is different with the man who’s loved her since university, through all of this, the one she goes home to.

When she is tired and difficult Rhys is kinder than he has to be, pleads with her to finish an omelette.

“Got to keep your strength up, eh Gwen? Come on.”

He is clever and has worked it out. Two fewer after that mad and terrible night. Gone, just like that.

It could happen to her.

Rhys does not talk about the fear though he realizes he can't breathe properly when it's late and she hasn't checked in. He used to become cross with her for ruining their plans, but now he doesn’t have the energy for it and forces a jocularity he does not feel when she finally rings:

“Right, not too late, love, or I'm taking the DVDs and moving in with Banana Boat. His legs aren't as nice as yours but a bloke can't be picky,” he says.

His words make Gwen laugh and she motions to her watch and flips a cheeky salute at her boss on the way out.

Jack calls out, “Have fun!” and Gwen is sure he means it. She doesn’t see him after she leaves, sitting quietly at his desk, staring at anything and nothing.

Ianto, crisp and certain, is built of careful attention. There is precious little he misses. But there are many things he painstakingly pretends not to see, and he is certainly not going to tell her.



One Sunday afternoon, Rhys steps to the ladder in the bedroom and grips the sides tightly, holding it still. She ascends as a sharp rap sounds at their door. Jack sweeps into the flat, dragging winter bluster in on the tail of his coat.

“Gwen, we have something to take care of. Now.” His eyes flash a kind “ I’m so sorry” at Rhys, but Rhys looks away. Typical Jack Harkness. Take with one hand, give with the other.

Jack’s timing is poor as usual but she stops, drops the square of sandpaper and grabs her gun, loads it.

“...were just preparing the walls so we can paint but we can finish this later, can't we, sweetheart?” she asks, as she slips into her boots and a jacket.

Rhys barely has time to nod in reply before Gwen offers him a goodbye kiss and rushes out, hard on Jack's heels.

Not that anything he can say would stop her anyway. It never has.



Gwen once said: “Rhys has always been there for me, through all this madness, even when I haven't even deserved it. He's not afraid to tell me he loves me.”

But it had been the most disordered day of her life, and she has forgotten that she hadn’t said it to Jack.




Hours later, the sodium lights cast an orange glow on the streets and it is as safe as Cardiff will ever be. Jack pauses, knocks a cursed pebble from a groove in his boot, finally looks at her and says,”There's something... on your face.”

He drags a thumb across her cheek to wipe away a bit of spackle, and finds it wet. He bundles her into the backseat of the SUV and presses his lips softly to her face, tasting the tears. He brushes them into her hair with his fingers.

His lips press to hers and swallow the salt and sadness, mingled with his own. Her hands range greedily over his back, beneath the heavy coat. Gwen’s fingers trace and disengage the lines of buttons on his waistcoat and shirt, then splay beneath, cool against his chest.

Jack unzips her jacket slowly and kisses each revealed inch of skin as he unwraps her. Her hands flutter and pull, goading him to hurry, but he cannot deny himself this wordless and desperate worship.

Fog coats the inside of the blackened windows and her mouth is on him, urgent and warm, as he moans her name, his control slipping. His fingers loop into the cool metal base of a headrest, anchoring him to this world.

“Gwen...” he says, louder this time, and she looks up and meets his eyes before closing her own.

He doesn’t finish the thought, ask, “Are you sure?” It’s too late to talk, to slow down, to stop this.

He stills her and shifts her backward on the seat, pulling off her boots and jeans. He finds her heat in the dark with his fingers and she leans into them, breath fast and ragged.

He moves and shifts and holds her wrists above her head and then: “Oh. Jack.” She stretches and bares her neck, bites her lip hard as he sets a deliberate rhythm.

Blue eyes meet hazel. Her eyes. The eyes he sees when he closes his to order his thoughts. Questioning. Accusing, Pleading.

“Yes, yes, I know. I've always known. From the moment I met you. Yes, this was inevitable,” Jack wants to tell her, as he stares into her eyes, his hand cradling her face. But he thinks she already knows.



It takes longer than it should because they need it to. There is silence but now nothing is left unsaid.



Rhys hears the engine and moves the ladder away from the window.

He watches in the dark as Jack opens the passenger door, pulls Gwen out by the hand and crushes her to him, his fingers tangled in her hair. Jack's eyes close, his face a study in anguish.

By the time he hears her key twist in the lock, Rhys is in bed, feigning sleep.
 

Comments

[51stcenturyfox.livejournal.com]

That is wonderful of you to say, thank you. There is a lot that is assumed and maybe better left unsaid. Well, verbally.