51stcenturyfox (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
51stcenturyfox) wrote2009-01-05 09:58 pm
51stcenturyfox) wrote2009-01-05 09:58 pm
Fic: "A Notional Rescue" Jack Harkness/John Hart (R) *crack*
Title: A Notional Rescue
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
51stcenturyfox
Pairing: Jack, John, Other
Rating: R for language only
Wordcount: 832
Summary: One highly unlikely way our beloved Time Agents might have made it home after being stranded in that five-year time loop.
Notes: Yes, it's crack. This story explains the origin of Bikini Cops, but Blizzard remains a dark, dark mystery.
click here for plain text on a white background
The night before the Time Agency found them again, John spent a pleasant evening in a bar chatting up a potential shag.
It’s really too bad this dolly bird’s another figment of my imagination, he thought, as he looked her up and down and gave a low whistle.
“You’re a bloody stunner, you are.”
The woman looked around the deserted room and snorted, “Phwoar, matey. I bet you say that to all the girls.”
No, really. I love ginger hair. More than blond, actually. It’s rarererer. Rare-rer. Especially where I’m from. You should go to the Damascene cluster sometime. Love that place. They’d love you. Mostly brunettes there. But you, you’re… monique. Oh, Monique. She’d have loved you too. Really, really well. Anyway, meant u-nique with a U. For YOU. You are sexy. Yer unique, Red. An' sexy.” He leaned unsteadily to plant a sloppy kiss on the woman's cheek but wobbled and missed by several inches.
“And you’re completely bladdered. Pissed. In your cups, you are,” she said, rolling her eyes.
“And you’re my drunken hallucination. So humour me. The least you can do is listen. The only other person here never… oh pshhh. Doesn’t matter. Nothing matters. We’re stuck. Stranded. Time Agency just left us here alone. Time loop. It’s been nearly five ye- what year is it?”
“Erm… 5099?”
“FIFTY damn ninety-NINE! That’s right!” John gestured towards his wrist strap.
“See this, sweetheart? Advanced technology. Almost impossible to break. Waterproof to 350 leagues, vortex-shielded, too. I can.. unlock doors, disable comms n' bombs and watch video hololograms on it – and Bikini Cops is good, no matter what BoeFace says. No style in general and he’s pretentious about entertainment. But, point. Know I had one. This thing on my wrist? it doesn't tell time! Irony. I love irony!”
He tried to sit on a stool and failed, sending it to the floor. He leaned on the bar instead.
“Right,” the woman said and nodded slowly, eyeing the door.
“Have you seen Bikini Cops? It’s this team of rogue alien catchers. And they are smokin’ hot. The bikinis don't stay on f'long. Loads of orgies. Y’know, we could watch it. It might give us some ideas. Not that I don’t already have a pretty good idea what I’d like to do to you,” he slurred, winking and rubbing his hand along her arm.
The woman stared at him, mouth open.
“You find me irre-irresistably attractive, don’t you? ‘Course you do, Gingerbread.”
“You clearly need some kind of... serious help,” she replied.
“Nobody can help. Noooobody in the universe. Nobody knows the troubles I’ve seen…” the song trailed off after a few bars and he opened his eyes to find himself alone.
“An' now I can’t even get a hallucination to listen to me. This. Is. Fucking. Brilliant.”
Back at their place, Jack slept, dreaming wistfully of chasing glowing dune slugs with his dad in the Boeshane twilight, until John staggered in, still singing:
“Encounters one and two are not enough for me. What my body needs is close encounter threeeeee!”
“Hullo, gorgeous!” he shouted, “You have serious vector deviation! Niner-niner Zero! This is Staaaaar Comm!”
Jack grabbed the first solid object within reach and threw it at his partner. Good thing it wasn’t loaded.
“Take me, make me feeeeeel the force! Ignore the computers, we're locked on couuuurse!” John sang.
Jack pulled a pillow over his head and attempted to ignore him. He knew from experience that John would probably drop within minutes. I Lost My Heart To A Starship Trooper was generally his partner's final musical rendition following a binge.
“So, you had a dream about a woman who wouldn’t have sex with you.”
“It was a vision. By the way, that was one manky batch of home brew, Beautiful. And oh, she definitely would have had sex with me. I do not hallucinate frigid birds.”
Jack sighed. He didn’t really want to listen to hungover John babble this morning, but nothing was going to stop him from talking and it certainly beat the singing. He never shut up.
“Okay, what was her name, then?”
“…built like a hypersteel rotor ship, too. Nice t… you know, she did have a name. Domina or Donna or something. Domina sounds better. Much, much better.” He made whip-cracking gestures. “Whhtpsssh!”
Later that afternoon, Jack held his partner’s wrist in his lap as John slept soundly, and worked the strap controls to secretly watch a holo of Bikini Cops. Actually, it was pretty good, but he wasn’t going to admit that. Ever. He flicked the controls to turn off the feed, and just for pathetic giggles, hit the vortex homing switch. He hadn’t attempted that futile move in a while.
An instant later, the pair were suddenly back at the base, dumped unceremoniously on their asses in the Master Control dome. No explanation or “we’re sorry, Agents” or a whisper of back pay, fuck you very much. Of course, from the Agency’s perspective, it had been two weeks, not five years. The only thing in the debrief report was a cryptic notation referring to some sort of classified priority communiqué labeled JS, TL via DN, temp.
It was really too bad they’d materialized back at the base without their clothes, but Command never said a word. It was not the first time that had happened with Time Agents.
And it wouldn’t be the last time it happened with these Time Agents.
Marginally less silly and crack-free Time Agent tales here
Author:
51stcenturyfox Pairing: Jack, John, Other
Rating: R for language only
Wordcount: 832
Summary: One highly unlikely way our beloved Time Agents might have made it home after being stranded in that five-year time loop.
Notes: Yes, it's crack. This story explains the origin of Bikini Cops, but Blizzard remains a dark, dark mystery.
click here for plain text on a white background
The night before the Time Agency found them again, John spent a pleasant evening in a bar chatting up a potential shag.
It’s really too bad this dolly bird’s another figment of my imagination, he thought, as he looked her up and down and gave a low whistle.
“You’re a bloody stunner, you are.”
The woman looked around the deserted room and snorted, “Phwoar, matey. I bet you say that to all the girls.”
No, really. I love ginger hair. More than blond, actually. It’s rarererer. Rare-rer. Especially where I’m from. You should go to the Damascene cluster sometime. Love that place. They’d love you. Mostly brunettes there. But you, you’re… monique. Oh, Monique. She’d have loved you too. Really, really well. Anyway, meant u-nique with a U. For YOU. You are sexy. Yer unique, Red. An' sexy.” He leaned unsteadily to plant a sloppy kiss on the woman's cheek but wobbled and missed by several inches.
“And you’re completely bladdered. Pissed. In your cups, you are,” she said, rolling her eyes.
“And you’re my drunken hallucination. So humour me. The least you can do is listen. The only other person here never… oh pshhh. Doesn’t matter. Nothing matters. We’re stuck. Stranded. Time Agency just left us here alone. Time loop. It’s been nearly five ye- what year is it?”
“Erm… 5099?”
“FIFTY damn ninety-NINE! That’s right!” John gestured towards his wrist strap.
“See this, sweetheart? Advanced technology. Almost impossible to break. Waterproof to 350 leagues, vortex-shielded, too. I can.. unlock doors, disable comms n' bombs and watch video hololograms on it – and Bikini Cops is good, no matter what BoeFace says. No style in general and he’s pretentious about entertainment. But, point. Know I had one. This thing on my wrist? it doesn't tell time! Irony. I love irony!”
He tried to sit on a stool and failed, sending it to the floor. He leaned on the bar instead.
“Right,” the woman said and nodded slowly, eyeing the door.
“Have you seen Bikini Cops? It’s this team of rogue alien catchers. And they are smokin’ hot. The bikinis don't stay on f'long. Loads of orgies. Y’know, we could watch it. It might give us some ideas. Not that I don’t already have a pretty good idea what I’d like to do to you,” he slurred, winking and rubbing his hand along her arm.
The woman stared at him, mouth open.
“You find me irre-irresistably attractive, don’t you? ‘Course you do, Gingerbread.”
“You clearly need some kind of... serious help,” she replied.
“Nobody can help. Noooobody in the universe. Nobody knows the troubles I’ve seen…” the song trailed off after a few bars and he opened his eyes to find himself alone.
“An' now I can’t even get a hallucination to listen to me. This. Is. Fucking. Brilliant.”
Back at their place, Jack slept, dreaming wistfully of chasing glowing dune slugs with his dad in the Boeshane twilight, until John staggered in, still singing:
“Encounters one and two are not enough for me. What my body needs is close encounter threeeeee!”
“Hullo, gorgeous!” he shouted, “You have serious vector deviation! Niner-niner Zero! This is Staaaaar Comm!”
Jack grabbed the first solid object within reach and threw it at his partner. Good thing it wasn’t loaded.
“Take me, make me feeeeeel the force! Ignore the computers, we're locked on couuuurse!” John sang.
Jack pulled a pillow over his head and attempted to ignore him. He knew from experience that John would probably drop within minutes. I Lost My Heart To A Starship Trooper was generally his partner's final musical rendition following a binge.
“So, you had a dream about a woman who wouldn’t have sex with you.”
“It was a vision. By the way, that was one manky batch of home brew, Beautiful. And oh, she definitely would have had sex with me. I do not hallucinate frigid birds.”
Jack sighed. He didn’t really want to listen to hungover John babble this morning, but nothing was going to stop him from talking and it certainly beat the singing. He never shut up.
“Okay, what was her name, then?”
“…built like a hypersteel rotor ship, too. Nice t… you know, she did have a name. Domina or Donna or something. Domina sounds better. Much, much better.” He made whip-cracking gestures. “Whhtpsssh!”
Later that afternoon, Jack held his partner’s wrist in his lap as John slept soundly, and worked the strap controls to secretly watch a holo of Bikini Cops. Actually, it was pretty good, but he wasn’t going to admit that. Ever. He flicked the controls to turn off the feed, and just for pathetic giggles, hit the vortex homing switch. He hadn’t attempted that futile move in a while.
An instant later, the pair were suddenly back at the base, dumped unceremoniously on their asses in the Master Control dome. No explanation or “we’re sorry, Agents” or a whisper of back pay, fuck you very much. Of course, from the Agency’s perspective, it had been two weeks, not five years. The only thing in the debrief report was a cryptic notation referring to some sort of classified priority communiqué labeled JS, TL via DN, temp.
It was really too bad they’d materialized back at the base without their clothes, but Command never said a word. It was not the first time that had happened with Time Agents.
And it wouldn’t be the last time it happened with these Time Agents.
Marginally less silly and crack-free Time Agent tales here