Ficlet: Arthur Street (Torchwood)
Nov. 6th, 2007 01:28 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
anactoriaTitle: Arthur Street
Fandom: Torchwood(/Doctor Who)
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
anactoria
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Gwen/Martha, Rhys
Warnings: Angsty.
Disclaimer: If I owned any of these characters I wouldn’t be sitting here writing about them.
Wonderful beta job byatraphoenix, as always. :)
It isn’t the first time she’s come home late. Isn’t even the first time she’s come home breathless with laughter, full of enthusiasm for something Rhys hasn’t a cat in hell’s chance of understanding, and smiling like she hasn’t smiled at him in months. Good excuse, though, as always.
“Been showing the new girl at work around. Martha, she’s called. Friend of Jack’s.” Then, an afterthought, “You should meet her sometime. She’s nice.”
There’s a good excuse the next time, too. And the next. And Rhys never does meet Martha, but he starts to feel as though he knows her anyway. He knows she’s from London, was studying to be a doctor, got the job through some friend of the boss’s, also a doctor. Forensics, probably. He also knows that she says amazing, clever things, can laugh at impossible situations, gets it in a way he never, ever will.
And when Gwen wakes up from nightmares, as she occasionally does, mumbling something about aliens or monsters or ghosts – well, Rhys knows it isn’t really his hand she’s gripping tight.
He wants to hate Martha, sort of, except he knows Gwen would’ve cut loose from him anyway, in the end. They’ve been drifting apart with slow certainty for an age. And anyway, it’s hard to hate anyone you’ve never seen in person, except like this, through a window, down on the other side of the street, helping Gwen load her things into the boot of her car. He catches a bright smile, a slim figure in jeans and leather jacket, head held high and self-assured. He’d eye her up, if he saw her down the pub, but wouldn’t bother trying to buy her a drink. Fit, probably a bit stuck up though, he’d think.
As he watches, Gwen emerges from the back seat where she’s been piling up bags and says something inaudible, and they both crack up. Rhys doesn’t hear their laughter so much as feel it, swirling up towards the window, carefree. Their hands touch and he looks away.
There’s iron-grey sky out over the bay; it’ll be pissing down before long. The thought is grimly satisfying.
He’ll head up to the Prince of Wales in a bit, once the boys have finished work. Sink a few pints, stare at the telly to take his mind off things, talk savagely about how he hopes England get a good kicking in the rugby on Sunday.
He won’t look out the window, and he’ll try not to remember that she’s out there somewhere. In the rain on the other side of town, a million miles away.
Fandom: Torchwood(/Doctor Who)
Author:
anactoriaRating: PG-13
Characters: Gwen/Martha, Rhys
Warnings: Angsty.
Disclaimer: If I owned any of these characters I wouldn’t be sitting here writing about them.
Wonderful beta job by
atraphoenix, as always. :)It isn’t the first time she’s come home late. Isn’t even the first time she’s come home breathless with laughter, full of enthusiasm for something Rhys hasn’t a cat in hell’s chance of understanding, and smiling like she hasn’t smiled at him in months. Good excuse, though, as always.
“Been showing the new girl at work around. Martha, she’s called. Friend of Jack’s.” Then, an afterthought, “You should meet her sometime. She’s nice.”
There’s a good excuse the next time, too. And the next. And Rhys never does meet Martha, but he starts to feel as though he knows her anyway. He knows she’s from London, was studying to be a doctor, got the job through some friend of the boss’s, also a doctor. Forensics, probably. He also knows that she says amazing, clever things, can laugh at impossible situations, gets it in a way he never, ever will.
And when Gwen wakes up from nightmares, as she occasionally does, mumbling something about aliens or monsters or ghosts – well, Rhys knows it isn’t really his hand she’s gripping tight.
He wants to hate Martha, sort of, except he knows Gwen would’ve cut loose from him anyway, in the end. They’ve been drifting apart with slow certainty for an age. And anyway, it’s hard to hate anyone you’ve never seen in person, except like this, through a window, down on the other side of the street, helping Gwen load her things into the boot of her car. He catches a bright smile, a slim figure in jeans and leather jacket, head held high and self-assured. He’d eye her up, if he saw her down the pub, but wouldn’t bother trying to buy her a drink. Fit, probably a bit stuck up though, he’d think.
As he watches, Gwen emerges from the back seat where she’s been piling up bags and says something inaudible, and they both crack up. Rhys doesn’t hear their laughter so much as feel it, swirling up towards the window, carefree. Their hands touch and he looks away.
There’s iron-grey sky out over the bay; it’ll be pissing down before long. The thought is grimly satisfying.
He’ll head up to the Prince of Wales in a bit, once the boys have finished work. Sink a few pints, stare at the telly to take his mind off things, talk savagely about how he hopes England get a good kicking in the rugby on Sunday.
He won’t look out the window, and he’ll try not to remember that she’s out there somewhere. In the rain on the other side of town, a million miles away.
