Fic, Dancing Lesson, 20/33: Tarantella

[loveslashangst]

Story: Dancing Lessons
Author: Love! Slash! Angst! melindakitty
Characters: Ninth Doctor, Captain Jack Harkness, Rose Tyler;
Rated: oh, so Adult for slash, bisexuality, mature content, language, violence, and lots and lots of sex (multiple pairings/groupings)
Disclaimer: I don't own 'em, 'cause if I did there would have been no parting of the ways, Rose would be happy and walking funny, and a love of tech isn't the only thing Nine and Jack would be sharing.
Spoilers: AU. If you haven't seen the first three series of Doctor Who, you may be spoilered. I like to mess with canon.
Summary: By popular request: OT3 Nine/Jack/Rose. One of Jack's exes is out for a bit of revenge. Can the Doctor and Rose figure a way to rescue him before he has to pay the piper? Watch for fancy footwork, a bit of intrigue, occasional plot, and a large excuse for love and smut.

HI!!!

Okay, so y'all are going to want to kill me again. Just keep reminding yourselves that I love happy endings and chapters of smut as much as you do. It'll all be over soon. (And then you'll be bugging me for the next one. ;) )

On with the show:

Tarantella: Named for the poisonous “tarantula” spider, tradition holds that this spirited dance was the only cure for the spider’s venom. When bitten, the unfortunate victim literally had to leap and dance for his or her life. If not lively enough in his or her exertions, the dancer would sometimes fall down dead before the music ended.

(Major Tom is looking for the dance floor. Jack’s fancy footwork fails. Rose and Jack’s ex grow tired of the same old song.)



Tom awakens with a start. For one disoriented moment, he’s not sure if he’s still dreaming. Stale air. Cold plating beneath his cheek. Decking. He’s on a ship.

Conscious thought triggers memory. The abandoned ship. He’s on the abandoned ship, tracking the DNA traces of Marilyn. (Dammit, he was just going to sit for a minute and now...) She was here. Two, maybe three weeks ago, elapsed time. Her temporal signature is distinctive and intact.

He runs his hand over his hair. He probably looks as awful as he feels. He puts his hands up to wipe the sleep from his eyes and something hard hits him in the chin. Vortex Manipulator. Marilyn’s. Whoever took her left her Vortex Manipulator behind. He fingers the familiar strap. (Tries not to remember too vividly the slender wrist that wore this only three weeks ago.) Vortex Manipulator. A Time Agent’s lifeline. She would never have removed it voluntarily.

He slips the thing into his pocket. It’s become an odd kind of talisman over the last few days. His only real, tangible tie to the woman he’s lost. (Agent. He has to keep thinking of her as an agent so he won’t think of her as a...) Half the reason he keeps the Manipulator is in the vain hope it might point him in the right direction. Fat chance of that, though; its logs have been wiped. Wherever Marilyn is, she’s at the mercy of whoever took her. And they’re taunting him with the knowledge that she may well be trapped outside her own time.

No way home.

The thought chases the last of the disorientation away. Tom stretches muscles that scream from lack of sleep. Awake. He’ll never find her if he succumbs to sleep.

“Central to Major Tom--”

Cursing under his breath, he hits the subdermal to shut off the damn com link. Central’s had a bug up its ass about him being gone for so long. Too fucking bad. Those paper-pushing assholes don’t see human beings anymore. Marilyn’s just another name in a subdirectory to them.

Marilyn. He remembers her smile. Her glare. That mean right hook. She was (IS! She IS!) a damn fine Agent, and one of the few honest ones working the timeline. You don’t just throw someone like her away, orders be damned.

He levers himself to his feet. Grimaces as the muscles complain. Checks his chronometer. Four hours. He’s lost four hours. Four hours of not looking for her. Four hours of her in the hands of whatever monsters made her vanish from the timeline. Four hours of failing her as her superior officer and her friend. (And those bastards at Central want him to just write her off. Fuck that; he’s lost too many agents as it is, he is NOT losing Marilyn too. She’s...)

Four hours. Four hours of...

He can’t think about it. He’ll make himself more nuts than he already is. He pulls the scanner from his belt. Checks readings he’s already checked a thousand times in the past three days. Re-treads paths he’s already trod a hundred times. She appeared here, by the cargo bay door. Walked down this hall. Paused. Moved back the other direction. (He tries not to imagine her running for her life.) Either she removed the Vortex Manipulator or someone took it off her. They cast it aside, either too ignorant or (more likely) too cocky in his inability to use it to track her.

Then she disappeared.

He slips his fingers into his pocket. Fingers the strap of the Vortex Manipulator as if touching it might give him the answers he so desperately wants. Marilyn. Marilyn was here. He can’t let her go. He just can’t.

He corrals his thoughts. The bastards who took her are temporal animals. They masked their entrance and exit. He only extrapolate where they were based on Marilyn’s movements. They’re not Time Lords (precious few of those left, if any), but something else. Buddies or allies of Time Lords, more likely than not. Creatures that are as or more comfortable slipping through time as any denizen of Gallifrey.

Every subdermal alarm goes off at once. His head rings with interior klaxons. Half a dozen readings. New information.

Distress. It’s a distress call. He forces his hands to stop shaking. Interfaces with the symbiont. Filters the information into a pattern his sleep-deprived brain can handle.

Marilyn’s subdermals have been completely severed. Shit. The only way to do that is to...

No. She’s not dead. She can’t be dead. She’s tough as anyone he’s ever known. A survivor, like him. And now he has coordinates.

Central buzzes him again. Goddamn them! He pulls the sentient knife from his back sheath. Cuts the com link out of his forearm. Hurls the spot of metal to the decking. Crushes it beneath his heel.

“Fuck orders,” he says. The words feel good.

He watches as the wound in his arm seals, healed by repair nanogenes. The good news is those same little critters will make him damn near indestructible when he finds the bastards who took Marilyn, which is good, ‘cause when he does, he’s going to fucking kill them. And they’ll have to cut him into too many pieces to repair before he’ll stop.

He sets the coordinates on his Vortex Manipulator. With any kind of luck, the next jump will take him straight to Marilyn. He checks weapons. Secures scanners and diagnostic equipment. All loaded for bear.

He touches the strap in his pocket one more time, sending a silent prayer for luck and success. (Help me find you.) Then he initiates the Vortex Manipulator.

And for the first time in three weeks, Major Tom smiles.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The mag-locks engage with a snap, securing Jack to the wall of S’ian’thro’s meeting room. (The alien’s gotten kinkier since he was last on board. Who the hell has mag-lock plates in a meeting room?)

No doubt S’ian’thro can hear how fast his heart is beating, but Jack tries for the jaunty grin anyway. “Would it make any difference if I said I was sorry?”

“No.” S’ian’thro opens a panel in the wall. It morphs, revealing a rather frightening assortment of things that look like they’re really going to hurt. Beside it is a little receptacle. “When we begin, every chunk of flesh I cut from your body will be deposited here for instant transport.” He touches the screen in the wall. “Now that they know I have you, orders are flooding in.”

He is not going to panic. He is not going to lose his cool. He’ll survive this somehow. Maybe the Doctor?

Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit.

A level gaze. “I owe you thanks, Harkness’Jack. You are worth a fortune to me, which is fortunate, because I will need a fortune to buy back my name.”

He swallows hard. (Difficult to be nonchalant while spread-eagle on a wall.) “So I take it you do this kind of thing a lot?”

“The pleasantries are over, Harkness’Jack.” S’ian’thro transfers a few key implements to a hover-tray. (Man, this is REALLY going to hurt.) The scariest thing of all is S’ian’thro’s as calm as if he’s pouring a cuppa for them both instead of laying out implements for removal of internal organs. “Now is the time to attend to business.”

“You’ve learned a few new tricks.” Release. The cuffs must have some kind of a release or something. (Damned if he can find it.) “I wouldn’t have pegged you for a torture kink.”

S’ian’thro slams down something that might be a laser cauterizer. Storms across the room to stand nose-to-nose with him. “I would have offered you nel’hartna. Now I do what I must to survive and protect my other Houseless crew.”

Jack blinks as the word settles in. Nel’hartna. Marriage without sex. Marriage without procreation, but all the legal protections of a beloved spouse. “But... Laipila don’t...”

A sparkle to that silver that means either anger or amusement. (Been too long since he hung out with Laipila. He’s a bit rusty on their body language.) “You were the best, Harkness’Jack. Trickery. Talk. Charm. Recreation if necessary. I could send you in to smooth things over and know that once I arrived, all the details would be in place and the mark none the wiser.”

His mouth has gone painfully dry. They would never have been lovers, but S’ian’thro would’ve married him. “You... you should’ve said something.”

S’ian’thro moves back, body language stiff. (Even for a Laipila.) “Well do I know that now.”

“I...” Difficult experience prods him to go the safe route. “Thank you for the compliment, S’ian’thro. I value it.”

A harsh sound that’s either derision or a Laipila chuckle. (What he wouldn’t give for a handbook of nonverbal cues.) “I had the contract written. When you returned from your shore leave, I’d intended to make alliance with you.”

The last piece of the puzzle slots into place. “But I ruined everything.”

“Yes.” The hover-tray moves closer. Light glints ominously off the array of implements. “You did.” The glare is now merciless. “And all for the sake of recreation.”

Now would be a good time to be eloquent. “Not recreation.” He tries to show his sincerity. “Love. I... I was in love with you. But you weren’t interested -- at least, I couldn’t tell you were interested -- so I went elsewhere. And it was stupid. And I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done it. You didn’t deserve what happened to you.”

S’ian’thro is very still for a moment. And for a moment, Jack dares to hope...

The silver-skinned alien picks up the laser cauterizer. “I accept your apology.”

But for the next three hours, all Jack knows is pain.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

Rose is going to kill the alien freak. She’s going to tear strips off of him and kill him.

Somewhere on the ship, Jack is screaming again. Well, not exactly screaming -- from the sound of it, he doesn’t have enough voice left to scream. And every time she hears him in pain, it’s like someone is cutting pieces out of her.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” Jack’s bitch of an ex huddles against the wall, her wrists stuck to a plate near the floor. She’s been repeating the words like a mantra ever since the shouts became fully-fledged screams. “...sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Rose struggles against her own cuffs. (What she wouldn’t give to tear strips off THAT bitch!) Unfortunately, she has to settle for a lethal glare. “You should be. Now shut up and think of something.”

Somewhere on the ship, Jack makes a horrible high-pitched noise that no human should make. The Bitch cringes. Tries to hide her head in her arms.

She is going to fucking kill them. Better still, she’s going to get the Doctor back and let HIM kill them. He’s clever. He’ll think of something even worse than she ever could.

Jack’s voice cuts off suddenly. The silence is almost worse than the screaming.

A low sound attracts her attention. The Bitch’s shoulders are shaking. Her face is hidden by a curtain of dark hair. With a start, Rose realizes she’s crying.

“You’ve got a lot of nerve.” She barely recognizes her own voice, it’s so deadly calm. “After you got us into this mess, you got a lot of nerve getting’ squeamish now, when they’re cutting him apart again and again.”

“Fuck you!” The Bitch snarls. (Signs of life. Good. For a bit there, Rose’d thought her a lost cause.)

“Sideways with a chainsaw,” she retorts. “Led them straight to us, you did. Now you got to get us out of this. You owe him.”

“He owes ME.” The Bitch’s voice is harsh. “Do you think S’ian’thro was any kinder to me? That he spared me from torture? And because I loved Jack I took it!”

A sharp scream, followed by silence.

The Bitch shivers like a kicked dog. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

She wishes she could reach her to kick her. “STOP THAT.” Calm. They have to keep level heads. (Even though she is going to KILL that alien freak!)

Jack screams, voice ruined.

Rose squeezes her eyes shut. “We have to get out of here.” She laughs, a bitter, barking sound that hurts the back of her too-tight throat. “Don’t suppose you could lend us a hand here?”

The Bitch goes very still. “What?”

“I said don’t suppose you could lend us a hand?!” It feels good to shout. Tension’s been killing her as it is, and if anyone deserves to be shouted at...

The Bitch wipes her eyes awkwardly on the shoulders of her dress. “No,” she says. “But I could lend an arm.”

Great. Flippin’ fantastic. Not only is she trapped with the Bitch, but now she’s gone from catatonic to sarcastic. “Whatever. How is an arm going to help?”

The Bitch grins a mad, toothy grin. Begins to laugh.

“Oi!” Rose kicks at her. (She don’t need another crazy person around here.) “How’s an arm going to help?”

The Bitch looks at her, eyes sparkling with a kind of mad triumph, and begins to explain.

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Crossposted to: time_and_chips, better_with_3