Fic, Dancing Lessons, 23/33: Swing

[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.

WARNING: THIS CHAPTER CONTAINS IMPLIED GRAPHIC VIOLENCE.

Swing: A precursor to Jive, Swing dancing is known for its fast footwork, surprising moves, athleticism, and the interplay between partners. (Never underestimate the ladies.)

(S’ian’thro and Jack share a strange slow dance. Rose cuts in. Literally.)



Jack sags in the cuffs. Shock. He’s finally settled into shock. Shock is a good thing, even if it comes a few hours too late. (Hours? Days? God, with pain like this, who can tell?) The weird, fuzzy sense of calm envelops him along with a strange buzzing in his ears. Great. NOW he’s going to faint. Now, after the worst of it is over. (Please let the worst of it be over.) He glances down in spite of himself -- been trying not to look if possible -- the nanogenes finish seamlessly repairing the last incision across his mid-section. Little bastards are too efficient for their own good. If they’d just let him hurt more for longer, he would’ve slid into shock a while back.

Shock would’ve been good. Maybe then he could’ve avoided all the screaming. (Please don’t let Rose have heard. She doesn’t deserve that. Marilyn could hear, though -- serve her right to feel a little guilty.)

S’ian’thro has his back to him. Tense. Laipila are kinda high-strung anyway, but he’s tense even for one of his race. Weird to watch S’ian’thro grow more and more tense even as he became more and more relaxed. (Pain aside, you think this is the worst thing that’s ever happened to me, ‘Thro? You’re a bigger fool than I remembered.) He’s going to survive this with mind intact. The alien? Not so sure.

And that Lieutenant of his (never did catch her name). That was the first time he’s ever seen anyone with silver skin look green around the gills. (The third time S’ian’thro cut him from sternum to pubic bone, she had to excuse herself.) The Lieutenant’s a liability if he ever saw one. Have to exploit her if he gets the chance. Play wounded and abused (not hard). Play charming and sincere (gets easier every year). Play Your-Captain’s-Gone-Batshit-Crazy (he won’t even have to act for that one). One of the above should get her. Assuming he has the time to corner her, which at this point looks doubtful.

The only thing worse than a stupid enemy is a smart and well-prepared one.

He shakes his head just to test the muscles in his neck. It’s become a habit over the last little while. Test the muscles. Make sure they still move right. Feel the really weird sensation of things growing back that normally don’t grow back on humans. Plus, there’s only so many times you can cut something off or out before the mind loses the ability to accept it and takes you elsewhere. Truth be told, Jack learned how to tune out years ago, with people who REALLY enjoyed seeing him suffer and didn’t have the courtesy to make sure they left no scars...

(And he’s not thinking about that right now. There’s a reason he left home and never looked back. Besides, the bastards are safely dead and burned and scattered to the four winds. No point in resurrecting them.)

“Orders have been filled to my satisfaction, Harkness’Jack.” S’ian’thro looks away from the screen. Rinses the blood off his hands in that handy little sonic sink. “I will permit you to rest for a while.”

(Cowardly prick can’t even meet his eyes anymore. At least Jack finally knows who has the stronger stomach.) The nanogenes fix his ruined throat. “You’re... too kind...” He swallows hard. It doesn’t hurt as much. “Can I have a pillow and blankie too?”

“You have courage, Harkness’Jack.” An intense glare. “But not always the intelligence to know when to be quiet.”

And that’s when the cool calm of realization replaces the warm fuzziness of shock. “We’re going to Naos, aren’t we?”

S’ian’thro nods. Drops his gaze again. “I thought the irony fitting.”

Jack forces his eyes to focus. “You were handsomer then. Filled a suit better.” (And S’ian’thro also paid a pretty price to get Jack away from a rather nasty fellow who’d thought it was funny to have a former Time Agent as a pet. That is, until he found out what a devious little fucker Jack could be when abused.)

The man before him now looks more than a little tarnished. (Jack resists the urge to suggest Tarn-X even though it does wonders for most silver things.)

“Things change,” says S’ian’thro softly.

“Why are you leaving me alive?” He gives a half-hearted grin. “Not that I’m complaining.”

S’ian’thro looks like the one who’s been hanging in irons for a few hours. “I’m... I’m not sure. I didn’t want...”

The words can’t quite fill the silence.

“Good to know.” The cool calm freezes his heart. “I loved you once, S’ian’thro but I AM going to kill you when I get the chance.”

S’ian’thro meets his gaze, but it’s as much bluff as glare. “Then I shall take care that you never get the chance.” The panel sounds a little melody to alert him. He goes over to it. (And he’s actually afraid of Jack. Now isn’t THAT interesting?)

S’ian’thro’s sudden inhale is a bit of body language Jack remembers vividly. Elation. Joy. He used to associate that sound very positively with a deal well struck and a con successfully completed. “The totals are in, Harkness’Jack. You have bought me back my honour.”

“Yippie frickin skippy.” Jack shifts one shoulder, then the other. If not for the nanogenes, he’d be in constant agony. “You gonna let me down now so we can celebrate?” (He’d give the bastard a shaft of a very different kind if S’ian’thro hadn’t already found and confiscated the subdermally-sheathed blades.)

S’ian’thro gives as close an approximation to a smile as he gets. It’s both highly disturbing and kind of cute. “House S’ian accepts my offering and sends their regards.”

“That’s nice.” Rose. He just wants to get back to Rose. Or maybe see if he can overpower an alien who’s head and shoulders taller than he is and strangle him with his bare hands. That’d be good too. But Rose would be better. Get back and forget.

S’ian’thro gestures. A cabinet door opens. The alien takes a cloth from the shelf inside. Approaches. (Not going to shy away. Not going to shy away. Stay here and take it like a man. He can’t do much worse than before.)

S’ian’thro’s touch is oddly soft. Gentle. He wipes away the worst of the blood and gore. Passes the cloth over Jack’s ruined shirt, which hangs open. Over the crotch of his trousers, which are stiff with half-congealed blood. Every stain disappears as if by magic. (And Jack used to know what that thing’s called. Spent too much time in primitive eras. He’s getting rusty.)

“I am relieved,” S’ian’thro murmurs, “not to have to damage you more.”

If he weren’t such a nice guy, Jack would spit in his face. “You didn’t even anethetize me.”

S’ian’thro’s hand is cool on his cheek. Jack shies. Stops himself. Glares at his former partner. S’ian’thro’s eyes glint more sliver than ever. He bends. Brushes Jack’s lips with his. (What the...?) Kisses him in odd, sexy little nips. And Jack is REALLY glad he can’t move his hands, because the only thing worse than being kissed by a guy who just tortured you would be the temptation to respond to that kiss just for old time’s sake. As it is, the liplock is a hopeless confusion of old lust and new fury. (S’ian’thro tastes like the deserts of Laip Prime, dry and strange and spicy.)

Old time’s sake only goes so far, though. Once Jack gets his emotions a little more under control, he bites S’ian’thro’s lip. HARD. Tastes the strange tang of alien blood.

S’ian’thro pulls back. Snarls. Then he gives that odd half-hiss of laughter.

Jack spits the taste from his mouth. “What the hell are you laughing at?” Half of the outrage is that the bastard really shook him by giving him something that -- years ago -- he would’ve killed for. “And what the fuck was that?”

S’ian’thro wipes the blood from his mouth on the same cloth he used to clean Jack a moment before. Turns back to the screen one more time. Touches it reverently as if he could pull the symbols from its surface. “Old times, Harkness’Jack. Old times.” He stows the cloth. Taps the subdermal com-link at his temple. “Lieutenant.”

When she arrives, she looks about as happy to be in the room as Jack is.

“Hey, gorgeous,” he says. (Hard to be cheerful and flirtatious when you still don’t entirely feel like you’re in your body and your mouth is stained with Laipila blood.) “You’re looking well.”

She glares. “And you look monstrous.”

S’ian’thro gestures. She obediently, albeit sulkily, comes over. Attaches a little bar-shaped device to his chest. Another more flexible one to his brow. Clicks the two on.

Jack feels instantly better. Regenerative aids. Most likely infusing him with all kinds of basic chemicals his body needs to regenerate itself again.

He looks to S’ian’thro. “Curing me before selling me?”

S’ian’thro says nothing. Indicates the door with a gesture. Hits the panel on the wall that releases the mag locks. Before Jack can make the opportunistic leap, the Lieutenant re-mags him to a portable pole. A quick shock of nanogenes pretty well finishes him for any serious struggling. (Bravado aside, torture really does take it out of a guy... pun intended.)

They half-drag, half-march him back to the room where Rose is. (He knows it’s the room where Rose is because the second he’s through the door she’s swearing a blue streak and demanding they let her loose to tend to her “Fiancé”)

Fiancé. Nice thought, that. He actually wouldn’t mind being someone’s fiancé. Weird. He’s never thought of himself as the marrying kind before.

To his utter astonishment, S’ian’thro actually lets Rose go. She runs to Jack. Pulls him into her arms. Holds him. Kisses him. Smoothes his hair. Checks him. “God, you’ve not a drop on you.”

“And you smell awful.” He’s only half teasing. She reeks of old sex and new fear.

“We will ensure the three of you are properly cleaned before our arrival at Naos,” S’ian’thro says calmly.

“Come near me and I’ll claw your eyes out,” Rose snarls in that low tone that means she’s well past pissed off and into truly dangerous.

“Fifty bucks on the bottle blonde,” he says weakly.

Everyone glares at him.

“In a fair fight,” he adds.

“Naos?” Marilyn perks up from her place at the wall. “Naos!” She struggles against her wrist cuffs, a vision of panic. “We had a deal!”

S’ian’thro isn’t any more able to meet Marilyn’s eyes than he was Jack’s. “I have what I wanted. You’re still alive. That makes you a liability. You were useful, so I have no reason to kill you. This way, you can simply disappear.”

“Jack,” Rose croons in his ear. Repeats his name. Holds him.

He stretches up. She bends down. Real. The kiss is real. (Marilyn is still pleading for her life with S’ian’thro, but Jack finds it very hard to care.)

“You taste like blood.” Rose’s breath hitches on a sob.

“Been a hard day.” He takes a deep breath. “And speaking of hard. Please check and make sure I’ve still got all my parts. If we survive this somehow, I have plans for them.”

Colouring slightly, she reaches down. Strokes him through the fabric of his trousers. He shivers, half in relief, and half in the pleasure that is her touch on his cock. (Thank God. Still there. Maybe even still working. He lost it so many times he wasn’t sure anymore.)

“Better hurry, pet.” S’ian’thro sounds amused, the bastard. “I will return for him in...” He looks to his Lieutenant.

She still looks more than a little queasy. “Half an hour.”

“Half an hour.” The alien gives an unpleasant approximation of a grin. “I’ll expect more orders to come in before we reach Naos. Best to be prepared.”

Rose’s arms tighten around him, protective. “You’re not taking Jack again.”

S’ian’thro holds out a hand. The Lieutenant places a pulse pistol in it. He sets it. Shoots.

The stun blast usually knocks anyone to the ground. Rose holds herself firmly upright. (Though he can feel her trembling.) Shaking, she gets to her feet. Jack doesn’t envy S’ian’thro the heat of the glare.

Rose enunciates very clearly. “You’re. Not. Taking. Jack. Again.”

Jack has never loved her more in his entire life. (Hot DAMN the Doctor has great taste in girls!)

S’ian’thro watches Rose with newfound respect. “Of what house are you?”

“Tyler.” She’s struggling to stay upright, though she hides it well. If Jack didn’t know her as well as he does, he’d be fooled into thinking she could take a stun blast with little effect. “From the Powell Estates.”

“Tyler’Rose.” S’ian’thro gives a deep and formal bow of respect. “Tyler’Rose of the Powell Estates. You do your house honour. I grant you an hour to say your farewells.”

“Farewells, my ass.” Shaking, Rose dislodges one of the blades from her arm. “You’re not taking my future husband again.”

S’ian’thro almost smiles. There’s a quick skirmish. Rose slashes and stabs. Draws blood. (The look on S’ian’thro’s face is worth the price of admission.) He moves faster. Disarms her. Knocks her to the ground. Points the blade back at her.

S’ian’thro glances at the Lieutenant, trying to hide the fact that he’s a bit breathless. “Didn’t I tell you? Never underestimate the pet of a Time Lord.” He gives the Lieutenant a hard look. Grabs the pistol. Shoots Rose again. Three times.

This time, she crumples, though with a strangled cry of rage.

“Find the rest.” S’ian’thro is not pleased.

The Lieutenant frisks Rose. Finds blade after blade. Looks darkly amused after the fifteenth one proves to be the last.

“Resourceful,” says S’ian’thro.

A new recruit Jack doesn’t know peeks into the room. “Nearing Vela, S’ian’thro,” he says. “Readings are strange.”

S’ian’thro goes still. Glares at Jack. Un-mag-locks Marilyn.

She tries and fails to find her bravado. “Why me?”

“Anything out of the ordinary smells of trap,” says S’ian’thro calmly. “The only ones likely to set a trap are Time Agents. You have just become useful again.”

And just like that, he leaves Jack and Rose.

He pulls her into his arms. “Rose.”

“Jack.” It’s half a sob, half a whisper. “They...”

“It’s over,” he says. “I’m here. Can’t keep a good Captain down.”

“He said,” says Rose quietly, “she’s useful? Does that mean...?”

He doesn’t have the heart to lie to her. “Could be. The Doc’s out for the count, but she’s still a Time Agent. Agency might write her off. They might use her as an excuse to come get S’ian’thro and his men. Either way, she’s a pound of flesh to them.”

Shivering, Rose holds him tight. Kisses him as though she’s holding onto a dream. And she’s warm and alive and here and thoughts of her and a very different kind of torture by the Doctor are what’ve kept him going.

He puts her hand on him again. “Speaking of a pound of flesh.”

She shares his grin. “Only a pound? Modesty, modesty.”

He hardens in her hand. They trade a brief, serious look.

He kisses her. “I guess I’m glad to see you.”

Rose, laughing, bursts into tears. Kisses him. Strokes him. Touches him everywhere. He fills his hands with her. Wants her as he never got the chance to... And his body’s working. Damage repaired. He’s alive again. Alive. (And both of them ignore his tears of relief.) She undoes the catch on his trousers. Pulls him on top of her. Inside of her. (Apparently, she needs to know he’s all there too.) Wraps herself around him in desperation and relief.

It’s a little too rough at first. Too much friction. She’s not exactly complaining, but he doesn’t like the tension in her body. He stops. Kisses her. Deep. Slow. Teasing. Makes her chase his mouth a little. Shifts so he’s teasing the entrance. She arches her hips. He works his way back in. She wraps her legs around him. Fierce, hungry kisses. Desperation makes a heady spice to the sex. It’s a little rough and tumble, but she seems to like it. (The world’s sweetest sound is Rose’s cries of pleasure as she comes again and again.) He forgets everything. Ignores the world. Comes hard.

This. He hasn’t lost this. Thank God at least he hasn’t lost this.

Something to live for.

Rose is breathless. “That’s not fair.”

He kisses the side of her neck, happy just to bury himself within her. Surround himself with her. (Shit, he really IS in love with her.) “What isn’t fair, honey?”

“I’m supposed to be making you feel better.” She cups face in hands. “Not the other way ‘round.” She gives him a tender look and an even more tender snog.

When he pulls back, her eyes burn with ancient golden fire like the furnace of all creation. He recoils.

She speaks with the voice of goddess, her hair writhing around her like the corona of a star. “Jack?”

His ears echo with the ringing of a voice no human should hear. She has all of time and space in her eyes. A thousand, thousand lifetimes in one body. The Vortex made manifest. (Dear God, she’s stronger than the Doctor could ever dream.)

Then she vomits. Planets and suns and the whole of the universe pour from her mouth.

He backs against the wall, terrified and awestruck and damned if he’s getting any closer to her than this. And the wall behind him falls away. The ship falls away and he sees the path his feet are affixed to. A path unending. Millions... Billions... Years so long and impossible his mind refuses to accept the truth.

And at the end of it, he looks into his own face and screams.

“Jack?” The goddess is vomiting again, her voice harsh between heaves. “What’s happening?”

“The end of the world.” He turns away from the horrible face before it can whisper its secrets.

The hallway outside the room roars with the approach of the horsemen. The apocalypse has come. Two angels of fury are tearing the ship apart looking for him. The screams of the guilty fill the air. He’s too terrified to move.

An avenging angel appears in the doorway. Unfurls leathery wings with layers of unearthly feathers. Looks at him with old eyes in a strange face that shifts with every second. Old. Young. Blond. Brunet. Handsome. Homely. He counts thirteen before they cycle again, and the last four are the most beautiful and terrible of them all. (He grows younger as he ages!)

The monstrous thing bends over the goddess and the terrible light goes out of her eyes. Human. An ignorant person might mistake her for human. The angel’s mercy brings her back to her mortal self for a moment. He helps her to her feet. Embraces her like a lover. Murmurs with a voice like the distant rumble of thunder. “S’all right, Rose. Effects will fade in a moment.”

“Who are you?” The question is out of Jack’s mouth before he can stop it.

The angel looks at him with piercing blue eyes like the centre of a hurricane and speaks with a voice like sex wrapped in silk. “I’m the Doctor.”

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Crossposted to: time_and_chips, better_with_3