![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
for ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
fandom_muses... Quote Prompt
"One explanation of Guenever, for what it is worth, is that she was what they used to call a "real" person. She was not the kind of person who can be fitted away safely under some label or other, as "loyal" or "disloyal" or "self-sacrificing" or "jealous". Sometimes she was loyal and sometimes she was disloyal. She behaved like herself. And there must have been something in this self, some sincerity of heart, or she would not have held two people like Arthur and Lancelot. Like likes like, they say – and at the least they are certain that her men were generous. She must have been generous too. It is difficult to write about a real person." -From The Once and Future King, T.H. White
“A what?”
Jack frowned and crossed his arms. “Exactly what I said. A personal progress interview.”
Gwen stared at him, and crossed her arms in return. “Okay, fine. But you’ve only been back two days, Jack. Can’t we do this another time?”
Jack shook his head. “Requirement, after three months of service.”
She sighed. “It’s only been three months?”
“Yeah,” he laughed. “You’re not getting tired of us yet, are you?”
She didn’t reply. Because she could only think of how she had been tired since Day One.
They stood in silence for a minute, Gwen fiddling with his stapler, and he cleared his throat.
“So are you ready?”
She sighed. “Can it wait a day or two?”
“What part of ‘requirement’ wasn’t clear, Gwen?”
Gwen blew a puff of air out of her both, fluffing her fringe out of her eyes. “I just think, considering what just happened…” she failed at grasping the words she reached for, and tossed her hands in the air.
“If you’re talking about punching me, I told you, forgiven. Water under the bridge. Can we move on now?”
“Is it always that easy for you?” She almost hissed at him, and put her hands on her hips. “Just bloody forget it and move on?”
“Yeah,” he clipped.
She growled quietly. “Fine.” She threw her hands in the air and paced a couple feet before forcing herself to sit in the chair. “Fine.” She leant forward and frowned. “On with your interview then.”
Jack sighed and picked up a sheet of paper in front of him.
“Name?”
“Gwen Elisabeth Cooper.”
“Date of birth?”
“The 18th of August… Well, it hasn’t changed since I signed on Jack, has it?”
“Describe yourself in one word.”
“Fucked.”
Jack sighed and dropped the paper with a flutter onto his desk. “It would be useful if you actually cooperated for once.”
“What you want me to do, Jack?” She dropped back into the chair, her feet tapping restless on the floor. “Sum it all up? All the things I’ve done, all the things I’ve seen. I can list them off and tell you, ‘Oh, yes, Jack, it’s all bloody well fine and good. I chase psychopathic aliens and watch people get their faces eaten off, and then I go home to some decent telly and I’m perfectly fine.’ Is that what you want to hear?”
Jack stood up and crossed around the desk, taking a moment to stare out his window into the Hub. She turned in the chair to face him, her face twisted into a frown.
“You’re missing the point,” he said.
“Then what is the point? The point is every one of us is fucked up, every one of us will be haunted for the rest of our lives because of what we’ve seen. And you expect me to play psychology games with you about the nature of the work we do here. When the truth is there is no psychology, there’s no bloody meaning behind it, it’s just all fucked!” She stood up and her arms wrapped around her body, trembling with the sudden anger that had overtaken her.
Jack turned from the window, and stared at her evenly. It must be his eyes, she thought to herself, the way they rippled like a clear sea, with a dark undercurrent. Something lay hidden in those eyes, the darkness he had seen, a sadness that almost mocked the tumultuous anger that seethed now, so often, within her. But those eyes, somehow, always reached into her, calmed her every fear, muted her anger into a rippling need to run to him, to wrap her arms around him and hope that it was enough to hide her from what she was running from. She gasped and stepped away from him, fiddling with the ring on her left ring finger.
He approached her, standing so close she could smell the gentle, clean, almost dusty smell of his clothes. He raised his hand and cupped her cheek gently in the palm of his hand.
“Isn’t that it, though? We wake up, we come to work, we fight for what we can and sometimes, a lot of times, we leave with just a little less of ourselves that what we came with. We make that sacrifice because it’s all we can give. That’s the point.”
“And we do it alone,” she said. She couldn’t help it, though, and rested into the warm palm of his hand, and she felt a loss when he pulled away.
“And you thought, what, Owen could help you?”
She flushed, the anger returning with added force. “Jealously is not very becoming on you.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
She turned away from him. “Maybe the fact is, all we can do is help ourselves.”
Jack walked back around his desk and sat down, and Gwen moved to take her seat again, but Jack waved her away. “Go home.”
“But we haven’t finished.” She paused and narrowed her eyes. “Unless you’re planning on slipping some retcon into my coffee tomorrow morning.”
Jack smirked. “Paranoia is not very becoming on you. We’ll finish another time.”
“But I thought-”
“Go. Home.” He looked up at her, and she found herself caught up in his eyes again. “Go home. Have some dinner. Make love to your fiancé. Forget about Torchwood for one night. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Gwen nodded and walked to the door. She turned for a moment, but Jack was already lost in another packet of paperwork on his desk. She sighed and slipped out the door.
Rhys slipped off to sleep, snoring gently. Her head rested on his bare chest, as she felt the rise and fall of his breath, the gentle thudding on his heart against her ear. He groaned and shifted, and she rolled away from him, resting on her pillow.
It was in these dark moments of the night, Rhys fast asleep at her side, that the images raced through her mind, the emotions of things that should be forgotten. The pounding of blood in her ears. Suzie’s sly and angry smile. Owen’s body flush against her own. The feel of Rhys’ blood on her fingers. The ache in her fist as she watched Jack bend beneath her blow. The feel of Jack’s cold lips as she kissed him goodbye.
Of all the things she had seen, all of the horrors she had been witness to, she wondered if her angered thrived in the changes she had seen in herself. She had turned to Owen, because the anger that flooded her senses when they had sex was the only emotion she had known for a very long time. At home, she would lie beneath Rhys, wondering if it was Jack’s touch she instead longed for. She had betrayed them all, hurt them all, turned her back on each of them when it became too difficult to understand what she could do to fix what had broken.
Describe yourself in one word, Jack had said. All she knew was the anger. She wondered, vaguely, what had become of the Gwen Cooper she had known a little over three months before. In ten years, would she been the same, or would the anger be all that was left?
But there still must be something more. The way her heart had jolted with an exuberant joy when Jack appeared before them all, alive, so very alive. Seeing Rhys in the kitchen, after having rocked his lifeless bloody body in her arms, and when he smiled at her the horrible tightening around her heart had faded into nothing, and she could breath again. The cloud of guilt that lifted when she told Owen it was over, for good, because she and Rhys were getting married and it had to end. And the way he looked at her, like he was almost thanking her.
There must be more than the anger, because it was all around her. In the eyes of her boss, in the touch of the men she loved. But it was more than one word: it was redemption, loyalty, forgiveness, mercy, love, resentment, betrayal, shame, and hope. She couldn’t answer that question, because Gwen was more than one word. She was a whole person, mixed with all the horrible, wonderful things that filled her mind every night in the dim moments before sleep overcame her.
She turned again and wrapped her arms around Rhys’ body. She didn’t think of Jack, or Owen; she thought only of Rhys, because that moment was his, and she was tired of giving way to the emotions that he should solely claim. Torchwood was her days, and Rhys was her nights, and maybe they could allow each other to live in peace, if she could find the room for both of them.
------------
Cut for Length, Mature Subjects and Language
------------
Muse: Gwen Cooper, Torchwood
Prompt: Quote from "The Once and Future King"
Verse: Open/Canon
Word Count: 1470
“A what?”
Jack frowned and crossed his arms. “Exactly what I said. A personal progress interview.”
Gwen stared at him, and crossed her arms in return. “Okay, fine. But you’ve only been back two days, Jack. Can’t we do this another time?”
Jack shook his head. “Requirement, after three months of service.”
She sighed. “It’s only been three months?”
“Yeah,” he laughed. “You’re not getting tired of us yet, are you?”
She didn’t reply. Because she could only think of how she had been tired since Day One.
They stood in silence for a minute, Gwen fiddling with his stapler, and he cleared his throat.
“So are you ready?”
She sighed. “Can it wait a day or two?”
“What part of ‘requirement’ wasn’t clear, Gwen?”
Gwen blew a puff of air out of her both, fluffing her fringe out of her eyes. “I just think, considering what just happened…” she failed at grasping the words she reached for, and tossed her hands in the air.
“If you’re talking about punching me, I told you, forgiven. Water under the bridge. Can we move on now?”
“Is it always that easy for you?” She almost hissed at him, and put her hands on her hips. “Just bloody forget it and move on?”
“Yeah,” he clipped.
She growled quietly. “Fine.” She threw her hands in the air and paced a couple feet before forcing herself to sit in the chair. “Fine.” She leant forward and frowned. “On with your interview then.”
Jack sighed and picked up a sheet of paper in front of him.
“Name?”
“Gwen Elisabeth Cooper.”
“Date of birth?”
“The 18th of August… Well, it hasn’t changed since I signed on Jack, has it?”
“Describe yourself in one word.”
“Fucked.”
Jack sighed and dropped the paper with a flutter onto his desk. “It would be useful if you actually cooperated for once.”
“What you want me to do, Jack?” She dropped back into the chair, her feet tapping restless on the floor. “Sum it all up? All the things I’ve done, all the things I’ve seen. I can list them off and tell you, ‘Oh, yes, Jack, it’s all bloody well fine and good. I chase psychopathic aliens and watch people get their faces eaten off, and then I go home to some decent telly and I’m perfectly fine.’ Is that what you want to hear?”
Jack stood up and crossed around the desk, taking a moment to stare out his window into the Hub. She turned in the chair to face him, her face twisted into a frown.
“You’re missing the point,” he said.
“Then what is the point? The point is every one of us is fucked up, every one of us will be haunted for the rest of our lives because of what we’ve seen. And you expect me to play psychology games with you about the nature of the work we do here. When the truth is there is no psychology, there’s no bloody meaning behind it, it’s just all fucked!” She stood up and her arms wrapped around her body, trembling with the sudden anger that had overtaken her.
Jack turned from the window, and stared at her evenly. It must be his eyes, she thought to herself, the way they rippled like a clear sea, with a dark undercurrent. Something lay hidden in those eyes, the darkness he had seen, a sadness that almost mocked the tumultuous anger that seethed now, so often, within her. But those eyes, somehow, always reached into her, calmed her every fear, muted her anger into a rippling need to run to him, to wrap her arms around him and hope that it was enough to hide her from what she was running from. She gasped and stepped away from him, fiddling with the ring on her left ring finger.
He approached her, standing so close she could smell the gentle, clean, almost dusty smell of his clothes. He raised his hand and cupped her cheek gently in the palm of his hand.
“Isn’t that it, though? We wake up, we come to work, we fight for what we can and sometimes, a lot of times, we leave with just a little less of ourselves that what we came with. We make that sacrifice because it’s all we can give. That’s the point.”
“And we do it alone,” she said. She couldn’t help it, though, and rested into the warm palm of his hand, and she felt a loss when he pulled away.
“And you thought, what, Owen could help you?”
She flushed, the anger returning with added force. “Jealously is not very becoming on you.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
She turned away from him. “Maybe the fact is, all we can do is help ourselves.”
Jack walked back around his desk and sat down, and Gwen moved to take her seat again, but Jack waved her away. “Go home.”
“But we haven’t finished.” She paused and narrowed her eyes. “Unless you’re planning on slipping some retcon into my coffee tomorrow morning.”
Jack smirked. “Paranoia is not very becoming on you. We’ll finish another time.”
“But I thought-”
“Go. Home.” He looked up at her, and she found herself caught up in his eyes again. “Go home. Have some dinner. Make love to your fiancé. Forget about Torchwood for one night. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Gwen nodded and walked to the door. She turned for a moment, but Jack was already lost in another packet of paperwork on his desk. She sighed and slipped out the door.
Rhys slipped off to sleep, snoring gently. Her head rested on his bare chest, as she felt the rise and fall of his breath, the gentle thudding on his heart against her ear. He groaned and shifted, and she rolled away from him, resting on her pillow.
It was in these dark moments of the night, Rhys fast asleep at her side, that the images raced through her mind, the emotions of things that should be forgotten. The pounding of blood in her ears. Suzie’s sly and angry smile. Owen’s body flush against her own. The feel of Rhys’ blood on her fingers. The ache in her fist as she watched Jack bend beneath her blow. The feel of Jack’s cold lips as she kissed him goodbye.
Of all the things she had seen, all of the horrors she had been witness to, she wondered if her angered thrived in the changes she had seen in herself. She had turned to Owen, because the anger that flooded her senses when they had sex was the only emotion she had known for a very long time. At home, she would lie beneath Rhys, wondering if it was Jack’s touch she instead longed for. She had betrayed them all, hurt them all, turned her back on each of them when it became too difficult to understand what she could do to fix what had broken.
Describe yourself in one word, Jack had said. All she knew was the anger. She wondered, vaguely, what had become of the Gwen Cooper she had known a little over three months before. In ten years, would she been the same, or would the anger be all that was left?
But there still must be something more. The way her heart had jolted with an exuberant joy when Jack appeared before them all, alive, so very alive. Seeing Rhys in the kitchen, after having rocked his lifeless bloody body in her arms, and when he smiled at her the horrible tightening around her heart had faded into nothing, and she could breath again. The cloud of guilt that lifted when she told Owen it was over, for good, because she and Rhys were getting married and it had to end. And the way he looked at her, like he was almost thanking her.
There must be more than the anger, because it was all around her. In the eyes of her boss, in the touch of the men she loved. But it was more than one word: it was redemption, loyalty, forgiveness, mercy, love, resentment, betrayal, shame, and hope. She couldn’t answer that question, because Gwen was more than one word. She was a whole person, mixed with all the horrible, wonderful things that filled her mind every night in the dim moments before sleep overcame her.
She turned again and wrapped her arms around Rhys’ body. She didn’t think of Jack, or Owen; she thought only of Rhys, because that moment was his, and she was tired of giving way to the emotions that he should solely claim. Torchwood was her days, and Rhys was her nights, and maybe they could allow each other to live in peace, if she could find the room for both of them.
------------
Cut for Length, Mature Subjects and Language
------------
Muse: Gwen Cooper, Torchwood
Prompt: Quote from "The Once and Future King"
Verse: Open/Canon
Word Count: 1470