Work Text:
It always had to be the most disgusting, run-down, and damp (seriously, yes, this was Cardiff but… c’mon) warehouses that you ended up in. It couldn’t even be a place where you wouldn’t smell for days—mold and dirt, and the lingering stench that had eaten into the walls and filthy floors over decades. A single breath and all your olfactory sensory cells shrivelled and died off, suffering under the onslaught on your poor nose.
“Could we hurry this up a bit? I’m getting frostbite on my arse.”
Your voice sounded muffled through the scarf you pressed over half your face in an effort to, well, not contaminate the scene with your breakfast. Despite the layer of fabric and the lingering scent of tuberose, orange blossom, and amber woven into the fuzzy material, you tasted the bacteria on your tongue, and promptly choked.
“Oh, brilliant idea,” Owen scoffed. “Let’s go ahead and rough up the one bloke you’re all banking on to get us out of this mess. That’ll end well.”
He was hunched over the creature sprawled on the cracked and puddle-covered concrete floor, something half-human, half-who-the-fuck-knows. From your position, you could see claws that would make Wolverine tug in his tail, so you were pretty content with not being the one nearly rubbing noses with it.
It was also a massive contributor to the odor that reminded you a lot of your great-aunt’s basement. Appalling.
The creature had wreaked havoc on your systems for four days before Tosh managed to track it down into this piss-hole of a hiding spot, lighting up the area with suspicious readings and strange signals and, of course, six missing people that had last been seen wandering into the night reportedly “like they were sleepwalking”. Now, you wouldn’t be caught dead anywhere near this, but that was a decision that had been taken from the poor souls that were nothing more than a licked-clean pile of bones in a corner.
You shifted from one foot to the other, impatiently watching as Owen shot another dose of sedative into the creature to hopefully get it as quiet as a church mouse and behaved enough not to eviscerate anyone the moment it woke up.
That moment would, in the best case, be in a comfortable suit behind a glass pane at headquarters, and if it were for you, you’d shoot it up for a few weeks of sleep if that meant survival.
“Any day now,” you muttered, eyes flicking toward the exit.
“Yeah, well, feel free to take over if you fancy losing a limb,” Owen snapped, not looking up as he checked the creature’s vitals. “Some of us like to be thorough before we handcuff a bioengineered nightmare.”
The thing twitched, and everyone flinched. Your hand gravitated towards the trusted gun against your hip.
“Still twitching,” Gwen noted.
“Still not ripping your face off. I call that progress,” Owen replied dryly.
Just as Owen sat up with a satisfied nod to himself, the low rumble of engines echoed through the air, growing louder by the second. It wasn’t just one vehicle—it was a coordinated swarm, closing in from all sides of the warehouse.
You froze.
“Tell me that’s not what I think it is,” Owen muttered, already reaching for his jacket and glancing toward the exit.
Red beams of light swept through the cracked windows above, followed by the telltale metallic clank and squelch of boots hitting wet mud.
A voice rang out through a megaphone in a commanding sharpness: “This is UNIT. Stand down and step away from the subject immediately.”
“Oh fuck me,” Gwen groaned, and you wanted to agree to a certain extent, though probably for different reasons.
“Can we get out of here some other way?” Your head swivelled around to the barricaded gates, the far too high windows, the never-ending reflections of what Ianto had called “the perfect trap if you block the main entrance.” What had felt like a sure and quick in-tranquillize-and-out mission, the sweetest of treats in your profession, now tasted mouldy and foul, and most of all, like multiple hours of a petty jurisdiction fight.
Figures in black body armour flooded the entrance, weapons raised, their visors gleaming in the low light.
You didn’t need to see the insignia to know exactly who they were.
“Right, right,” you muttered to yourself, stepping back from the creature with your hands partially raised, more in exasperation than compliance. “Called it. Knew it. As always—show up late, guns blazing, ready to boss the room like they didn’t just roll in after the hard part’s over.”
A man stepped forward, tall and rigid in the kind of way that screamed brass polished and spine straightened by a hundred years of protocol. You knew him well enough through encounters like this one that you recognized the wrinkles on his face as a result of frowning, not smiling.
“Torchwood has claimed this in consultation with the local police!” Gwen called out, voice secure and already edged with the annoyance simmering in all of you whenever the UN’s parole dogs showed up.
“You may have encountered it first,” the commander said towards Owen because of course that man wasn’t just an asshole—he was a misogynistic asshole too, “but we’ve been tracking readings consistent with hive intelligence. That changes jurisdiction. If there’s even a chance of this thing calling for reinforcements, it becomes a global security concern. Which means it’s ours now.”
Owen straightened beside the creature, wiping his hands on his trousers. “Well, this ‘thing’ is out. And we’ve already run scans on its psychic emissions. They’re harmless.”
Okay, harmless may have been the wrong term, because you already knew that the psychic pulses drew people in like moths to a flame, messing up the neurons to slow down their brain activity and make them compliant for a midnight feast. But UNIT couldn’t know that. They haven’t been stalking this creature under horrible weather conditions like you had.
“We’ll take that under advisement,” the commander said coldly.
“Yeah, that’s code for ‘shove off, Torchwood,’” Gwen muttered under her breath next to you.
You barely registered the back-and-forth, because just then, a flash of blonde hair caught your eye. Clad in a cream-coloured coat tied snugly around her slim middle, a gray scarf that contrasted with the flush of pink on sharp cheekbones, and a pair of dirt-speckled black boots, she moved past the wall of soldiers, her gaze flitting towards you briefly but not fast enough for you to miss the subtle twitch of her fingers tightening around the scanner in her hand.
Oh, fantastic. Because clearly, this night hadn’t already hit its full quota of chaos.
Your heart tripped over itself with the grace of a startled deer on ice, slamming against your ribs as if trying to bolt straight out of your chest. You licked your lips, but your mouth was desert-dry, the bitter taste of nerves clinging like cobwebs you should be able to dust off due to years of experience. The scarf muffling your face had turned traitorous, a chunk of fuzz catching on your tongue just as you swallowed hard, and you nearly choked again.
Brilliant.
Before your brain caught up, your body had moved just a step, instinctively intercepting her path. One arm extended slightly in front of you, and your fingers brushed a gloved wrist.
“Careful,” you said, your voice coming out hoarse.
She stopped, one immaculate eyebrow raising. Her gaze didn’t stay on you long. It slid past your shoulder to the creature on the ground, then back again. Big brown—beautiful—eyes mustered you in amusement.
God help you, she didn’t look the slightest bit concerned.
“I thought it was… harmless and out?” she asked, repeating Owen’s words in a slightly husky voice, all polished English vowels, and with a hint of a smile in it.
You resisted the urge to sigh. “Funny how definitions tend to shift when claws are involved.”
“Yours or its?”
You had a retort ready, one that was more than inappropriate for the moment when you heard it.
A growl.
So much for having enough anaesthetic to sedate an elephant.
You spun on instinct, gun half-drawn before your brain had caught up. One second, it had been still. The next—not so much.
The creature had moved.
Not a twitch this time. A lurch. Muscle under skin, sinew tightening like ropes. Its head was lifting off the floor, eyes fluttering open with the kind of slow-burning hate that made your spine go ice cold. The claws scratched over the concrete floor, and suddenly chalk on a board or the scrape of a record needle sounded as harmonious as Beethoven’s compositions.
The warehouse snapped to attention all at once in a scramble of guns cocking and people yelling, but you were already in motion—not away. Toward.
Because adrenaline’s just as much of an idiot as you were.
Heart hammering, gun now fully up, safety off, you barely thought before thinking about what you were up against. All you thought about was covering the woman you shielded with your body and the raised gun.
You heard Owen swear. Gwen called your name, and there was a punched-out, “No!” from your side.
That was the last sound you caught before a heavy weight slammed into you, and the sharp crack of a gunshot reverberated through the crushing darkness, dragging you down.
Warmth.
That was the first thing.
Not light. Not pain. Just… warmth. A slow, spreading heat that wrapped around your cold limbs and fought against the medication coursing through your bloodstream.
The air didn’t smell like blood or piss-soaked concrete. It smelled faintly of antiseptic, yes, but under that was the whisper of perfume like it had a permanent place in this room; the scent of orange blossoms that was tugged into the pillows your head rested on, the jasmin and tuberose that floated in the air like the dust particles in the hushed, golden twilight light falling through heavy, drawn curtains, the amber that clung to everything as a base.
Your fingers twitched beneath the blanket, grazing bandages. Ribcage, ouch. Shoulder, fine. Hip, bruised. All accounted for, all on fire beneath layers of gauze. You could feel the pain lapping at the edge of the drugs like it was pacing, waiting for the high to wear off and to pounce on you.
You licked your lips. Dry. Cracked. The fuzz of your scarf was long gone, replaced with the dry mouth of a crash landing and the copper tang of blood barely there any more.
When you shifted, the live wire of pain, a serving reminder of what you had thrown yourself into, caused you to wince. There was no alarm clock to tell the time on the bedside table—only an old but carefully handled copy of ‘Sapiens: A Brief History of Humankind’ with dog-eared pages and sticky notes, and a glass of water. Grateful for the concern, you slowly sat up, one hand on the bandage around your stomach and the other pressed into the mattress.
Refreshed by the water, you rolled your neck out, cracking the tight muscles in a satisfied pop. The sheets crinkled and rustled when you decided to ignore all signs of your body yearning to rest and sleep this off. The hardwood floor was heated under your naked feet, and you noticed that you weren’t wearing your tactical clothes, but rather a soft, flowy, and most likely expensive pyjama set of long pants and a long-sleeved top that sat a bit tight around your shoulders while the hem of the trousers brushed the floor.
The bedroom door stood slightly ajar, silent on its hinges as you eased it open. It didn’t so much as creak—not a single sound to betray your slow, careful steps. But you barely made it two strides into the hallway before a sharp voice cut through the air:
“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me. Back to bed—now!”
You turned around, already grinning sheepishly despite the tight pull of cracked lips and bruised ribs.
“Hi, sweetheart. What a workday, huh?” you said in an effort of lightning up the mood.
Kate Stewart appeared in the doorway of the kitchen, and bloody hell—you really should have prepared yourself better. The sight of her, hands on her hips, a mug of tea forgotten on the counter behind her, brought you more sharply awake than adrenaline ever could.
Coat and scarf abandoned, most of her slim figure was covered by a dark green jumper hanging loosely on her frame, the sleeves pushed up to her elbows, and she wore a pair of black leggings that made it suddenly very difficult to keep your eyes respectfully above thigh level. Which was a real problem, given the absolute thundercloud expression currently aimed at you. She was furious.
Not the raised-voice kind of furious. No. This was Kate’s signature fury: cold, contained as best as she could despite the circumstances—and since the circumstances were happening in the comfort of her flat, her anger was no longer shut behind a mask.
Her eyes scanned you in a second, pausing just long enough on the bandage visible beneath your borrowed pyjama top to make your stomach drop.
“If you take another step, I swear I will sedate you myself,” she said, voice clipped and laced with that particular brand of steel that only showed when she was both terrified and livid. “And I will do a better job at it than Harper, believe me.”
You held up your hands in mock surrender, stepping back with exaggerated care.
“Yes, ma’am.”
Kate’s eyes narrowed, but the corner of her mouth twitched despite herself. That little crack in her armour told you she wasn’t as angry as she wanted to be. Or rather—she was. But under it, she was also scared shitless.
And it was only then that you noticed her hands trembling slightly.
You softened, sobering up.
“Hey,” you said gently, your voice quieter now. “I’m okay.”
She didn’t answer right away. Instead, she stepped forward, finally closing the distance between you both. Her arms went around your waist without putting too much pressure on your stomach, and her forehead came to rest against your collarbone which wasn’t bruised. You hugged her back, falling into her, hands coming up to wrap around her middle too.
“You really need to work on your definitions because your ‘okay’ includes claw marks and two cracked ribs,” she muttered into your neck.
You smiled into her hair, inhaling the familiar scent of her shampoo, of tea and starch and something soft that always smelled like home.
“Well,” you murmured, pressing your lips to the crown of her head, “you knew what you were signing up for.”
Kate pulled back just enough to meet your eyes, expression flat. Her usually pinned-back hair fell in loose and silken blonde curls framing her flushed face, though that did absolutely nothing to soften her up.
“I signed a contract to investigate extraterrestrial activity. Not to date a reckless idiot with a hero complex and no survival instincts.”
You beamed. “Ah, but I come with perks.”
She arched a brow. “Like?”
“I look stunning in your clothes?”
Kate sighed. Then—because she was stronger than you, and always had been—she kissed you on the forehead. “Get back in the bedroom. I should check the bandages.”
This time, you didn’t crack another joke or threw a salute, you simply turned around and marched back into the room.
Kate followed shortly after, placing the mug of tea on the bedside table before sitting down on the edge of the bed and opening her legs enough that you stepped between them after she patted her thigh.
A sharp breath pierced your lungs as her cold fingertips lifted your top and ran over your tense stomach, as gentle as a feather.
You held the hem of the shirt in one hand, forming a tight fist around the material so as not to show the pain you felt. Instead, you concentrated on Kate, on the concentrated pinch of her lips, the eyes set onto your wounds, and the light fingers dancing over the bruises and marks your stunt coloured you in.
She wasn’t wearing her earrings or necklace or watch, was fully dressed down to your Kate, not the UNIT prodigy she was when she hurried behind the commander with her love for science burning in her eyes.
You only registered she was done when her hands settled on your hips, thumbs stroking over the low line of where your panties sat in circles that felt more like a soothing motion for her rather than you.
“Tell me how it’s looking, Doc?” you said and let go of the shirt.
Kate blinked up at you through the wisps of fringe, dark eyes moving over your face. Her mouth twitched again, though it lacked in amusement and instead, the seriousness of her, the fright that flickered in the brown hues of her eyes that wouldn’t stop taking you in, it all settled in your stomach heavier than any pain. Her worry bled more than your wounds, and you were all bandaged up; she only cocooned herself in sharpness and left every expression to be stained in her hurt.
“It’s looking an awful lot like bed rest for the rest of the week,” Kate said, fingers hovering over your hipbone before tightening the hold, smoothing out her hand over the curves of you.
You huffed, awfully whiney. “It’s Monday.”
“You got hurt, again,” Kate snapped, and you winced. You told yourself it was only her worry that came across like a swift hand to your cheek, the worry you had caused her. You would take her anger, if only because it meant you knew she cared.
“Now go on and tell me you’ll continue this, you stubborn, reckless, infuriating, fearless idiot with a martyr complex.”
And when her tirade of synonyms faded away into a deep, shaky inhale of air that rattled through your chest as well, you eased yourself into her lap, knees bracketing her hips as you straddled her thighs. Kate’s hands found your lower back without hesitation, grounding you, holding you close for both of your comfort. Then she crossed her arms behind you, locking you in—fingers pressing into your sides just hard enough to remind you who was still thoroughly annoyed.
You leaned in for a lingering kiss to her temple, brushing away her fringe with a gentleness you wore for her, and only her. You followed the furrow of her brow, dipped your finger down the wrinkle of displeasure between them, and trailed over the hawkishly sharp line of her nose to the rosy tip.
“I’m fine, Kitty,” you murmured, wrapping an arm around her neck to comb through the oh so soft waves of her hair.
There was a hitch in her breath again, one that she tried so hard to keep behind bitten together teeth exposed by the curl of her lips. She didn’t look at you when she spoke, retelling what has happening over the line of your shoulder into the room. “You folded in half and barely managed to take a shot at the thing before it would have ripped your throat out.”
“Important question?”
“What?”
You toyed with the neckline of her jumper, spreading your fingers over the firm muscles of her back. “Did I look good?”
“What?!”
“Sounds like you’re impressed,” you mumbled into the next kiss you breathed onto the apple of her cheek, feeling the irritated flutter of her lashes against your skin. “C’mon, admit it. You’re impressed with your cool girlfriend.”
Kate scoffed, “Out of all your skills, maturity still hasn’t made the list.”
You rested your chin on her shoulder, nosing at the hollow of her throat and trailed your lips over the sharp line of her jaw down to where the floral and amber taste of her perfume replaced any lingering traces of iron on your tongue.
“I’m sorry.”
It took you by surprise that the words that you had been dragging up from the pit of your stomach up your spineless self against your instinct of self-preservation by emotional distancing, didn’t come from you, but were spoken by Kate.
“What for?”
Her hands quivered in your sides. “I…I really don’t know how many more times I can stand by and watch you throw yourself into such dangerous situations like—like your life isn’t more important than your studies and your pride.”
“Katherine,” you breathed out and lifted your head, finding an ocean of feelings in her eyes. You cupped her face in your hands, fingers moving aimlessly, mainly in search of physical contact and the feeling of her warmth and presence. “Kate. Love. Sweetheart.” After every pet name you paused, resting your forehead against hers.
“I am…so sorry,” you finally got out. Your legs tightened around her middle, knees digging into the mattress as you hugged her closer, “It’s never my intention to force you into such worries.”
“I worry—” Kate started and clung to your form, “because I love you. But that’s what I signed up for, didn’t I? To worry myself sick when you and that team of freelance mayhem throw yourself into trouble while not being able to do anything or change it, because,” she closed her eyes while you could only stare at her, “because that’s what you do when you love someone, isn’t it? You accept them. But I’m not sure whether I can survive with only love to keep me going.”
No matter how high you built your walls, no matter how closely you held your cards to your chest and preferred to throw away a hand that didn’t make you too weak, all your survival instincts lost their importance in the sudden, crystal-clear possibility of losing the only person in your life you wanted to protect more than yourself.
And that was more frightening than utter vulnerability.
“I’ll quit,” you shot out, speaking in a haste that startled you both and nearly knocked your heads together as your eyes found each other.
Kate opened her mouth, exposed the indentation and white marks her teeth have left in soft lips to speak, but you were stumbling all over yourself, words spilling over your tongue: “You said you’re not sure about your future at UNIT here in Cardiff and that you don’t want to go long-distance, so I’ll quit. What were the offers you got again?”
Her eyes softened, finally losing some of the darkness that had broken waves over the deep brown you loved so much, even if it was replaced with her curiosity and contemplation. “Chief Scientific Officer in London,” she said lowly, a rosy flush of bashfulness rising on her neck.
“See?” Your hands moved to her temples again, fiddling with the blonde strands of hair, twirling them around your fingers before combing them behind the shell of her ear in repeating motions. It hid the tremors, the desperate need to keep this and yourself together. “I can come with you, apply for Bodyguard of the Chief Scientific Officer in London.”
Kate shot you another stern look. “Oh, so you can throw yourself in front of me and get paid for it? Forget it.”
“Protecting my girlfriend is part of a relationship,” you said with a shrug that did not go unnoticed by your sore ribs.
Kate exhaled through her nose, the picture of fraying patience. “I swear to God, I’m buying you a dictionary. You cannot keep butchering words like this. Basic definitions can’t be that hard.”
You gave her your most tragic, doe-eyed look, but she only narrowed her gaze further.
“Oh no. Don’t look at me like that. I will annotate it, I’m that serious.”
You sighed. “Fine. But I’m highlighting ‘gallantry’ and writing ‘see also: me’ in the margin.”
“Then I’m highlighting ‘reckless endangerment’ and writing ‘see also: absolute disaster’ under your name.”
“Mhm,” you hummed, “I do like it when you call me a disaster. Do you think that would speak for me or against me in the interview?”
Kate quirked her head, and realisation settled on her face. “You’re serious.”
“When am I not?” you grumbled and quickly nodded to keep another discussion at bay. “I mean, yes, of course I’m serious. I want to work with the unexplainable wonders of the universe, and I haven’t quite figured you out yet. I can totally continue my research in London.”
Kate inspected you for another second, probably already deep in calculations about the future, and nodded. “London, then.”
A stone the size of a mountain broke around your heart and crumbled into millions of easily sweepable pieces of anxiety.
Without thinking, your hands reached up, fingers threading through the curls at the nape of her neck as you leaned in, breath hitching when your lips met hers—soft at first, a gentle question, before deepening with an eager urgency. The moment bloomed between you like wildfire; you could feel the pulse of her heartbeat against your own, the subtle tremble of her hands resting on your waist and holding you tight.
In one fluid motion, you guided her backwards, heart hammering with a reckless joy as she fell onto the bed beneath you. Your hands slipped beneath the neckline of her jumper, dragging it down slowly, exposing the exquisite edge of her collarbone and the smooth sweep of her neck.
Your lips found her skin there, nipping gently at the soft pulse beneath her ear, worshipping the throat you’d longed to trace. But just as your teeth grazed that sensitive spot, Kate’s fingers tightened around your wrists, pulling you back just enough to break the spell.
“You really need bed rest,” she said, breathless, swallowing hard. “And that is a definition I will set. No bending any rules or adding any gradual synonyms to get your way.”
You didn’t care what definitions she set, because in the end, you found yourself enveloped in a cloud of her perfume and snuggled up to her in bed under the comforting weight of her blanket over both of you and her hand on your hip. The adrenaline of the day washed off, though any pain you should’ve felt was warded off by Kate’s evenly thumping heart against your hand and the warmth of a shared future with her by your side.