Normality
“The truly fearless think of themselves as normal” - Margaret Atwood
The wind and the wild air crackled suddenly, alive with hideous shrieks of laughter and malice. Jack gritted his teeth and swore, audibly, and clung fast to the rope for dear life.
The ache in his muscles grew steadily stronger, and the gritty torrent of arctic snow against his exposed flesh did nothing to improve his grip. Above, the four creatures cackled and hissed through the foul air, clearly amused at his predicament, idly swiping at the taught fibres of the cord with large, deadly, serrated claws. One jumped from the jagged edge, held hovering aloft by a sonorous flapping of sinewy wings, and swooped just past his chest, lashing out at his fragile frame with hooked, lower talons. The beings were fully twice the size of the average human, covered completely from head to toe in leathery, scale encrusted skin, and had a wing span of several metres, as well as a complete set of nasty looking claws, and other dangerous appendages. Jack winced inwardly as a talon almost made contact with his thigh and slashed outward with the blade in his free hand, stabbing in vain at the now empty air.
“And to think…” he grunted, parrying a blow from the harpy-like creature with the rusty sword. “I was going to buy you ladies dinner…”
As much as he was enjoying dangling precariously on the end of a narrow cord, buffeted this way and that by their blows and the chill wind, he would much prefer to be sipping tequila on a tropical beach somewhere, sun-kissed and (the idea was starting to seem almost foreign to him now) mercifully warm. He shifted his grip, the organic fibres of the tether digging into his palms painfully, tearing deep welts into his skin. He couldn’t hold on much longer, and once the creatures tired of this game, he would be slaughtered. Again. Really, there was only one thing he could do, and the thought of it didn’t exactly fill him with joy.
He glanced down again, at the tiny, wavering figure at the foot of the cliff, several hundred metres below in the icy drifts, gulped, closed his eyes, and let go of the rope.
**********
The sounds came back first – sounds of an echoing, pulsating variety, calming and recurring, rhythmic and slightly monotonous, a little like water dripping through old fashioned copper piping.
Eventually, the sounds – like the pain – faded, and then there was only the Haze.
He remembered darkness; icy, horribly solid and unyielding darkness that had appeared long before the Haze. He knew he preferred the Haze to the darkness, because in the Haze, there was at least a little light. Light was good, he supposed murkily, unless of course he was to enter a long corridor with a strangely warm, beckoning light at one end, and then it was bad, very bad. He mustn’t go there, no matter how much his limbs ached and his mind cried out for the simple comfort of something; anything, so long as it soothed the burning. Never, ever. He’d promised them, after all.
He had no idea where he was, or who he was, and had no desire to learn either, if learning meant the return of pain. He wished he was dead again, but through the cyclic periods of pain, haze and darkness that filled the entire scope of his mind like a summer storm-cloud, he did not know that he wished it. The whole whorl of tremulous emotion felt like it lasted decades; in reality, because most lives are fleeting, it barely lasted longer than a few moments.
For the first time since emerging from the total blackness that preceded the Haze, he felt something other than pain. The feeling was so swiftly followed by unconsciousness again that he barely registered before drifting away again. A quick brush of what was unmistakeably skin against his, flesh on flesh, really and wonderfully, inexplicably certain. Unable to move more than a few inches, he focused the entire force of his willpower on acknowledging the touch, ignoring the surging waves of threatening dimness. His hand jerked upward, ever-so-slightly, and the warmth was there again, fantastically close. He allowed himself to fall once more, for a second, safe in the knowledge that he wasn’t, at least at this moment, alone again.
The darkness subsided eventually, replaced by a thousand different levels of sensory input, every different response battling for dominance in his foggy mind. He was cold, that he was sure of, and he had one hell of a headache. His face in the tightly drawn hood was covered in something, pressed around him like a thick veil; powder, dry, freezing crystals –
It was snow. He had landed head first in a snow drift. He was so cold he could hardly think. He lay quite still for a moment, eyes tightly closed, weakly opened his mouth and began spitting out the snow, then blew feebly outwards, until there was a tiny area of space around his mouth and nose through which to breathe.
Nothing seemed to be hurting in particular; his neck was horribly stiff, his whole body completely frozen solid, but other than feeling completely breathless, a little suffocated and hopelessly miserable, he was okay. Cautiously, he tried moving his hands, feet, arms and legs, then jolted suddenly as something grabbed his wrist and hauled him through the white blankness, upwards, towards the surface. His head broke through the opening of the snowdrift and he shivered, gasping in the fresh air.
He could see very little because the hood he had borrowed was still tightly packed with snow. With an effort, because his hands seemed to weigh a half-tonne each, he brushed most of it away and peered out. He saw the world as a dull image of grey, pale grey, dark grey and black. Eventually, the bleak colours of the barren landscape filtered in and he blinked, clearing snowflakes from his eyelashes.
He coughed, sitting up, and cast around frantically for the Doctor, then recognised the familiar grip on his wrist and grinned weakly, spluttering a little to remove the last traces of the powdery drift from his mouth and throat.
Never visit an ice planet where the snow tastes like out of date Tabasco sauce, he mused, and stored the thought in the dark recesses of his mind for possible future reference.
“Hey.” He croaked, and received a slightly worried half smile in return. Quick, practised, wonderfully warm hands ran over his chest and upper body, patting him down gently and checking for injuries; apart from a long gash below his eyebrow, already quickly fading to a graze, there were none. Everything, it seemed, had already healed. He rotated his head, trying to get rid of the crick in his neck, and surmised that he must have died, or he’d still be hurt.
“You’re lucky, Jack. You’re also freezing.”
“I noticed. You did have the TARDIS bring us to an ice planet, Doctor. Speaking of which…where is the old girl?”
“A few minutes from here, fortunately. S’pose you chose a good place to fall, Jack; even if your idea of escape is a little too messy for my tastes. You feel up to walking yet?”
He nodded briskly, eager to get in from the cold, shivering violently, hands and feet starting to burn slightly with what was probably the beginning of frostbite. Strong arms looped loosely under his arms and hauled him roughly to his feet; he staggered a little and the Doctor gripped his elbow gently to support him. Jack slung an arm around the man’s shoulders almost protectively. He laughed a little, getting his balance, and leant against the thin frame openly, trembling, his breath coming in thick, white plumes in the frozen air. He rubbed a hand over his face slowly, then adjusted the (also borrowed) striped scarf and wound it back around his neck, more tightly.
“Doc?”
The Doctor looked up from the icy ground, and blew on his gloved (or rather, mitten-ed) hands to warm them, tousled brown hair covered in crystalline snowflakes, cheeks a ruddy punk hue from the temperature. What grown man wears mittens? Anyone else would look ridiculous, Jack thought, with a quick, mental grin, wondering idly if they were attached to his sleeves with string.
“Hmm? Listen, if it’s about those Harpy-thingies, I did warn you that - ’’
Jack took his hand in both of his own, silencing him abruptly, mid-sentence with a swift stolen kiss that tasted of that tantalising, familiar mix of something like burnt wood and brandy. He pulled the man close, holding him tightly, feeling the man’s twin hearts through the thick material of his jacket. He snuggled closer, oblivious to his surroundings for the moment, listening to nothing but the soothing rhythm for several moments, anchoring himself back fully to the here and now. He pulled away slowly, smiling, and led the way back over to the blue box that had suddenly popped into vision, as if on cue.
“One more thing, Doc,” he said, leaning against the familiar wooden doorframe, grinning despite the cold, patting it affectionately.
“Yes, Jack?”
The American dived in through the double doors, his voice reverberating in the metallic control room as he made short work of his buttons and quickly undressed himself of his snow-drenched clothing, and dropped them on the floor by his feet, stretching his arms wide above his head, revelling in the feeling of finally being warm once more, being home again.
“Next time we go anywhere with snow, I get to drive.”
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wintercompanion2007-07-29 06:09 pm
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wanders off to look for the memories button.
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You're memory-ing it? Aww! Thanks :)
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“And to think…” he grunted, parrying a blow from the harpy-like creature with the rusty sword. “I was going to buy you ladies dinner…”
Oh, that is such a Jack thing to say!
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Jack's such a flirt. Thanks :)
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really sweet story.
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Thanks very much :)
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Noticed a couple typos:
"Unable to move more than a few inches, he focused the entire force of his willpower on acknowledging the tough . . ."
I think you meant "touch."
And, " . . .tousled brown hair covered in crystalline snowflakes, cheeky a ruddy punk hue from the temperature."
I think you meant "cheeks" -- although cheeky *is* a word that automatically associates itself with Ten. :D
Good job, especially for half an hour!
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Ah, thanks very much. See, that's what I get for typing at two in the morning, and then being too lazy to send it to my beta. Thanks for catching them :)
See, that word was a Freudian slip, 'cause he's just...mmmm...
Thanks a lot :)
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sorry, lost for a minute there, *giggles*
I really like this, and I LOVE the way you've written the sensations Jack goes through as he comes back.
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You're very sweet. Thanks a lot! *hugs* I've been reading a lot of Stephen King lately...that's his general effect on my writing :P
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