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wintercompanion2017-07-17 03:41 pm
wojelah) wrote in wintercompanion2017-07-17 03:41 pm
Entry tags:
wojelah: Magic Carpet Ride (Jack/13) [G] - SUMMER HOLIDAYS PROMPT 9
Title: Magic Carpet Ride
Author:wojelah
Prompt: 9 - confusion, flying, queen, “Pata Pata” - Miriam Makeba
Rating: G
Pairing: Jack/Thirteenth Doctor
Spoilers/warnings: none
Summary: Jack likes Ephenia. He also likes the shape of the Ephenian dancing a few rows in.
**
He’s dancing. He’s dancing on a flying carpet. Not exactly a carpet, he supposes, or if it’s a carpet, it’s one the size of an Earth stadium and made out of a warm, gunmetal-colored substance that may or may not be metal. There don’t appear to be guardrails. It could be a very long drop.
He’s trying not to think about that. Even though it keeps tickling the back of his mind, in a very hazy fashion, despite his best attempts.
He doesn’t actually think the fall would kill him. Well. Not permanently.
It’s at this point in his circular internal monologue that Jack usually goes back for another drink.
He is currently very, very drunk.
It helps, some.
It also explains the rose-colored prismatic glasses he’s wearing. They don’t so much help as they do distract, since he has to concentrate not to put a foot wrong when the world looks as splintered as he’s feeling.
The music helps more. It’s got a driving beat, and the singer’s rough-smooth croon cradles him, winding around his wrists and ankles, tugging him along -- literally, actually tugging, because the singer is the newly discovered Queen of Ephenia, and this is her coronation feast, and one of the side effects of coronation is a sudden onslaught of projective telepathy. Which is why the three-day celebration came into being: to give the new monarch an outlet for something that could be overwhelming.
He gets overwhelming. And before his brain can whisper names at him, he gets another drink.
And then he goes back to the music.
The Queen’s voice warms, the music turns bright and welcoming, telling of her journey out of the villages, out of the war, into a new period with her people. It opens arms of notes and rhythm and pulls him in -- pulls them all in, closer to the dais, bodies grooving and curving beside and against and around. It’s verging on carnal, which may or may not have been why Jack set his wristcomp to this particular era. It won’t take long to get there.
Jack likes Ephenia.
He also likes the shape of the Ephenian dancing a few rows in. He or she, Jack doesn’t really care, and it’s unwise to judge in a species where gender is chosen separately from one’s randomly allotted sexual morphology. But he likes the way they sway, the way fine-boned hands curl and unfurl as the music whispers past, the way a shag of blond hair brushes along their back as they tip their head to the sky.
He likes them, and the music likes that he likes, and it tugs him toward them, and then the crown surges, and the link breaks, and he loses their shape in the crowd and confusion.
He looks for them, but the glasses make it hard to focus -- or possibly the drinks -- and he’s really there to get lost, anyway. So he lets it go.
At least, he lets it go until that fine-boned hand wraps around his shoulder, turning him around in time with the music. Until he looks through fractured pink lenses at a blond shag and an arching brow and a gentle, sardonic smile. Until he looks, dazed, into very familiar eyes.
He was looking for confusion. He’d sort of found it. But the music and the lenses and the alcohol can’t compete with the sense of Time, stopped and restarted. Jack wobbles.
She - definitely a she, because Jack is very sure she’s not Ephenian - plucks the glasses from his nose and looks at them, slides them onto her own face.
“Hello, Captain,” the Doctor says.
Around them, the music plays on.
xpost: http://wintercompanion.livejournal.com/264607.html
Author:
wojelahPrompt: 9 - confusion, flying, queen, “Pata Pata” - Miriam Makeba
Rating: G
Pairing: Jack/Thirteenth Doctor
Spoilers/warnings: none
Summary: Jack likes Ephenia. He also likes the shape of the Ephenian dancing a few rows in.
**
He’s dancing. He’s dancing on a flying carpet. Not exactly a carpet, he supposes, or if it’s a carpet, it’s one the size of an Earth stadium and made out of a warm, gunmetal-colored substance that may or may not be metal. There don’t appear to be guardrails. It could be a very long drop.
He’s trying not to think about that. Even though it keeps tickling the back of his mind, in a very hazy fashion, despite his best attempts.
He doesn’t actually think the fall would kill him. Well. Not permanently.
It’s at this point in his circular internal monologue that Jack usually goes back for another drink.
He is currently very, very drunk.
It helps, some.
It also explains the rose-colored prismatic glasses he’s wearing. They don’t so much help as they do distract, since he has to concentrate not to put a foot wrong when the world looks as splintered as he’s feeling.
The music helps more. It’s got a driving beat, and the singer’s rough-smooth croon cradles him, winding around his wrists and ankles, tugging him along -- literally, actually tugging, because the singer is the newly discovered Queen of Ephenia, and this is her coronation feast, and one of the side effects of coronation is a sudden onslaught of projective telepathy. Which is why the three-day celebration came into being: to give the new monarch an outlet for something that could be overwhelming.
He gets overwhelming. And before his brain can whisper names at him, he gets another drink.
And then he goes back to the music.
The Queen’s voice warms, the music turns bright and welcoming, telling of her journey out of the villages, out of the war, into a new period with her people. It opens arms of notes and rhythm and pulls him in -- pulls them all in, closer to the dais, bodies grooving and curving beside and against and around. It’s verging on carnal, which may or may not have been why Jack set his wristcomp to this particular era. It won’t take long to get there.
Jack likes Ephenia.
He also likes the shape of the Ephenian dancing a few rows in. He or she, Jack doesn’t really care, and it’s unwise to judge in a species where gender is chosen separately from one’s randomly allotted sexual morphology. But he likes the way they sway, the way fine-boned hands curl and unfurl as the music whispers past, the way a shag of blond hair brushes along their back as they tip their head to the sky.
He likes them, and the music likes that he likes, and it tugs him toward them, and then the crown surges, and the link breaks, and he loses their shape in the crowd and confusion.
He looks for them, but the glasses make it hard to focus -- or possibly the drinks -- and he’s really there to get lost, anyway. So he lets it go.
At least, he lets it go until that fine-boned hand wraps around his shoulder, turning him around in time with the music. Until he looks through fractured pink lenses at a blond shag and an arching brow and a gentle, sardonic smile. Until he looks, dazed, into very familiar eyes.
He was looking for confusion. He’d sort of found it. But the music and the lenses and the alcohol can’t compete with the sense of Time, stopped and restarted. Jack wobbles.
She - definitely a she, because Jack is very sure she’s not Ephenian - plucks the glasses from his nose and looks at them, slides them onto her own face.
“Hello, Captain,” the Doctor says.
Around them, the music plays on.
xpost: http://wintercompanion.livejournal.com/264607.html