Lady Paperclip (paperclipbitch) wrote,
Lady Paperclip

"She strangles for a good time, and she kills my self-control..."

Title: She’s My Man
Fandom: Torchwood
Pairing: Jack/Suzie (implied Jack/Doctor)
Challenge/Prompt: 30randomkisses, 020. Universe
Rating: PG-15 (violence and sex)
Genre: Gen/het (implied slash)
Copyright: She’s My Man by Scissor Sisters, but this isn’t a songfic.
Summary: In which Jack is a bastard and Suzie is crazy, and more than a little blood is spilt.
Author’s Notes: I’ve been wanting to write this for a bit. It’s kinda icky (no more icky than the Batman one though). And if you watch TW, you already know this isn’t going to end well.

She’s My Man

Some girls wanna hold your hand and some girls like to pray; well my girl takes her drinks with dust and rusty razor blades.

You ran. Ran through the confusion and the nausea and the fact every nerve ending in your body was screaming, screaming like it would never stop. Because it didn’t matter, as long as you got there in time.

But as it turned out, you were too late. You were left to clumps of Dalek dust and utter silence. And the satellite was so silent, corridors echoing the empty sounds around like a fly you couldn’t squash. And you were alone in the dark, sifting handfuls of dust through your trembling fingers (I can’t believe you did this to me).

It did, however, come as some interest to you when Earth finally launched a rescue mission (two weeks later; taking their own sweet time), and informed you, looking very, very puzzled, that the life support system had been destroyed by the Dalek attack; for the last fortnight you’d been breathing… nothing. (What have you done to me?)

Back to Earth, back to life: you mooched around shady bars and grew your anger like a tree of hatred or some other dumbass metaphor (look at what you do to me). And all you wanted to do was find The Doctor, find Rose, find out why it was that you couldn’t get hurt, couldn’t die, no matter how hard you tried.

[And fuck, did you try, tried til your motel room was sprayed with blood, til your bedsheets were soaked and stained and your skin still closed up like nothing had happened at all.]

The Idea occurred to you when you were drunk and buried in the blood-soaked bedsheets with a nameless, faceless young woman, so out of her head on hyper vodka that you honestly didn’t know what she’d think when she woke up alone in a room with eight pints of blood splashed across it. And you didn’t care either. Not then. Not now.

Sober and alive and too awake and you jerry-rigged something that just might hold together for one jump through time. Maybe. If you were very, very lucky. If you held your breath and prayed until your lips went blue to the God you didn’t want to believe in any more (I’m using my last hopes to get to you). Stolen wires and hardware from here and there- just a little jump, that’s all it would take, and it would be all right.

Maybe it wouldn’t. You had to consider the fact that even if you couldn’t die, your life wouldn’t be worth living if only half of you made the jump and the other half of you was stuck here. Or if you were alive, but in a pile of your composite molecules, tired white dust with charisma enough to drown any man, woman, or household pet. It wasn’t something you ever really let yourself think about. Better helpless dust than be stuck in this miserable existence.

One jump. For a few minutes you tore yourself between wanting to run to find Algy and finish up World War Two, to be there for the start of Rock n’ Roll and God knows what else, but there was a fire in your blood and there was only one place you could go. London. 2006. Find Jackie Tyler. If you found Rose’s mum, then you’d eventually find Rose. And Him. And maybe you’d get some fucking answers.

[The time vortex ripped at your skin and tore the air from your lungs and you suffocated for an eternity with blood rushing from your mouth, but you clung to your sanity because you had to make it. You had to.]

You landed on concrete hard enough to pulverise your body, hard enough for the pain to be relatively short because you died so fast. By the time you regained consciousness, mouth tasting vividly of metal, time had passed and you weren’t bleeding as hard any more.

You were too late again, though.

The cybermen had got to Earth, and so had the Daleks, and the list of the dead was terrifyingly long, and three names were on it: Rose Tyler, Jacqueline Tyler, and Mickey Smith (You left them. You left me. Is your word worth anything at all?).

And you cried, less from the pain that they were gone, and more because you were fucking trapped in a timeline you didn’t want to be trapped into, and there was nothing you could do.

So… Cardiff. You remembered a tear in the fabric of the universe or something and maybe that could charge your tiny, crappy, held-together-with-bubble-gum, tribophysical waveform macro-kinetic extrapolator up to give you a jump somewhere else. You managed to hitch hike your way down to Cardiff and yet when you got there, you couldn’t bring yourself to do it. You binned the extrapolator and sat down beside the fountain to consider what the hell you were going to do.

Three days later, when dehydration was making you somewhat incoherent and hysterical, and you hadn’t moved once, they came to find you. Ianto and Suzie. They finally decided that you mattered and between them they got you down into the space you now know as The Hub.

Torchwood Cardiff wasn’t really getting anywhere: there was Suzie, who had enthusiasm but no idea what she was doing, and Ianto, who had a filing system. Between them, they’d just about stopped the fabric of time and space collapsing on them. But it was never going to do. You announced that you would be running the operations from hereon out and they shrugged and let you.

Ianto kept himself to himself but Suzie didn’t. And you came as close to liking her as you thought it was possible to manage in your current state (after you, I’m not sure I can ever love anyone ever again). She had this edge that you liked, because it matched the manic, desperate edge that clung to you in those old days, before you got jaded and forgot [deliberately] what it meant to be human. She had a charming smile and seemed capable of holding everything together but you saw her running her hand over her face on late nights and you found a workable crack.

Seducing Suzie was almost too easy, backing her against her workstation and kissing her while one hand slid up the inside of her thigh, skirt riding up higher and higher and she was wet and hot around your fingers, teeth scraping your lower lip and later on when she reciprocated you tangled your fingers in her hair and tried not to think that you could get used to this.

But you could and you did. Suzie was your second in command and had the most wonderful laugh, and Owen, when you finally hired him, bent every which way but he was such a twat and Tosh had a little too much dignity, but Suzie smirked and it was you that she took home, fucking on her kitchen counter, against her fridge, in her shower, on her sofa, and you never slept beside her and she made it clear that she didn’t want you to stay.

You had other ideas beyond just fucking Suzie to make your mind go blank; after all, you had enough things in the safe to tear the universe around you into pieces twelve times over; the Time Agents would have to find you when you began fucking up the timeline to a genuinely scary degree, when you started the human race into a spiral of destruction. They’d want to bargain. And then they’d have to give you those two years back. (And maybe you might come and find me too.)

Ianto kept a close eye on you and somehow managed to lock everything safely away, beyond your reach. Maybe he knew more than he let on, but maybe he was just paranoid. Either way, you couldn’t get your hands on enough alien tech to attract attention from any of the people you needed attention from.

[Someone sent you a package from the wreckage of Torchwood One; a hand in a jar. It took you weeks to figure out whose it was.]

Suzie was making the job worthwhile but the job was starting to make itself worthwhile too. You began to hate yourself less and even the resentment is fading. You tried to kill yourself less often, but it didn’t matter either way; it still wouldn’t work. You were still unsettlingly immortal.

The Glove fell into your possession somewhere in the autumn, and if you hadn’t been so fatally self-absorbed, you might have noticed the effect that it had on Suzie. As you were too busy being morose and crushing her mouth beneath yours, you didn’t see, and it makes you feel uncomfortable, but you suspect that you wouldn’t have cared even if you had tried.

She tried to break up with you on a rainy evening, stating all sorts of reasons. Desperate. So you dropped a pill into her tea the next morning, and by the evening her legs were wrapped around your waist and you’d won again, bending her backwards over her desk.

Perhaps you should have been more disturbed that you were that you just wouldn’t let her escape; three times she tried to leave you, and each time you made her forget that she had. A butterfly with pins in its wings, crumbling away from the inside out. But it no longer mattered to you how she felt, as long as you had what you wanted, bruising her hips and yet you still managed to make her laugh.

And you didn’t know.

You didn’t know that she was running about, plunging a knife into the backs of helpless people just so you could resurrect them and they could tell you that they knew nothing. Shivering in the rain and her face was so blank and helpless as the rest of you, and you didn’t work it out until it was too late.

You broke her heart. She shot you in the head. Perhaps on some level you’re even.

You didn’t know how deeply she felt about you; but somewhere between Gwen sobbing and vomiting at your feet, and Ianto locking the glove away, and you shutting Suzie into her very own drawer, you resurrected her, just for two minutes. Her eyes were glassy and she sobbed almost uncontrollably, but you apologised and she apologised and maybe she’ll rest in peace now. You won’t. You never do.

Nothing keeps you down. No matter how hard you try. (I wish- I wish that I had never met you).

Now you’ve got nothing left, but a hand in a jar and the memory of Suzie’s lips against your face.

So you turn your attention towards Gwen.

Tags: challenge: 30randomkisses, character: jack harkness, character: suzie costello, pairing: jack/suzie, tv show: torchwood, type: het

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