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silver_sun) wrote2008-12-31 07:29 pm
Fic: In fevered dreams. pg. Jack.
Rating: PG
Spoilers/Warnings: Utopia to Last of the Time Lords. No warnings.
Summary: Jack drifts on the edge of consciousness, only dimly aware of his surroundings and of the cool hands that lift his head and hold water to his parched lips.
Jack drifts on the edge of consciousness, only dimly aware of his surroundings and of the cool hands that lift his head and hold water to his parched lips.
He's not sure why he's so sick or how long he's been like this. He dimly remembers being ill like this as a child, hazy memories of laying in bed listening to the drone of the cooling systems and the roar overhead of ships heading out into deep space.
It occurs to him that maybe he's still there, that everything he thinks he remembers about his life is nothing more than fever dreams. That maybe it’s just his own wild imagination, images constructed from too many comics and movies, morphed into the fantastical and grotesque by illness.
It's only the images, ones that are at once graphic, sensual and sometimes bordering on the obscene, that convince him otherwise. Because as a child he’d never have even imagined such things existed.
Suits feature more in these imaginings than he can explain. Suits and waistcoats. Watches, and eyes, that are sometimes dark and sometimes blue, but which are always old beyond their years.
Memories begin to shift and blur, scenarios play themselves out a thousand different ways. Life and death. Death and life. Repeating over and over, with himself as both betrayer and betrayed, victim and attacker, hero and villain, with none seeming anymore or less likely to be true than the other.
His body aches, bone deep, soul deep, as he tries to fight the sickness that seems to be consuming him. He tries to cling to memories, a game of ball on the beach, dancing in the Blitz, the feel of a rough leather coat against his skin, the press of warm and willing lips against his own, of whispered endearments in the dark, and of hands that would linger on his own as they handed him coffee.
Yet the harder he clings to these memories, the worse the pain becomes. It sears white hot through his skull until he’s weeping, crying out from the pain. Yet he can’t stop, he’s afraid beyond mere words that if he does stop he’ll lose them and with them himself.
It’s then that the cool hands return, fingertips against his forehead, calming him, striping away his pain and fear, until the memories drift away into hazy half remembered dreams. Not lost, yet not really fully remembered, his mind and body finally seem to reach a compromise, and he finally falls into a pain free sleep.
Waking is strange, and everything seems slightly out of focus, distant, like his mind is still not quite processing reality.
There’s a man in the room with him, tall and suited, his dark eyes alight with an almost manic joy as he looks at Jack. “You know who I am?” he asks, a cool hand stoking Jack’s forehead, light glinting off the gaudy ring he wears.
“My Master.” Jack smiles and drifts into sleep again, content that he’s home.
no subject
VERY interesting. Wonderful imagery, just disconnected enough to really FEEL like fever-dreams.
I like it! Even IF the last line made me shiver in dread. ::eep!::
peace,
the kendermouse
no subject
you got the confusion and desperation really very well, his could have been a part of "The last Time Lord" ... ;-)