Dislaimer: I own neither Gwen nor Tosh nor mysterious underground alien research stations in Wales. BBC and Russel T. Davies deserve the rights and the credit.
Note: Spoilers for Everything Changes. Crossposted to fajrdrako.
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I don't often write love letters.
You are standing six feet away from me, joking with Jack. Leaning on one hip against your desk. He holds your attention - I wish I could do that. Your eyes are shining with - what, amusement? Attraction? Curiosity? Yes, of course, Jack is remarkable. We all feel it. He is amazing and beautiful.
Right now, I envy him. I want to make you laugh the way he does. I don't know how to. You are shaking your head, you're moving away from him, picking up the papers on your desk, so I can see you out of the corner of my eye, in profile. Do you know how beautiful you are?
Owen knows. He wants you almost as much as he wants Jack, maybe because you're the novelty in the office, maybe because you don't put up with his smart-mouth nonsense, or possibly because you aren't intimidated by this life. Or maybe it's just because you're yourself.
I think he realizes that you're unspoiled. The rest of us, we've all been battered by fear and isolation and memories of things that shouldn't exist even in our nightmares - and some of these things pass as human. We think like Jack does, because he taught us his own methods of self-preservation. How do you keep your sanity when facing what can't be true? We act as if we aren't normal people any more, as if we don't belong in the real world of the present, where there are happy couples and holidays and picnics by the ocean. Maybe it's because we've seen things to make us sick inside, we've lost too many friends and lovers - has Jack told you that Suzie hasn't been our only casualty? We don't know who Jack has lost. We can only see he's still in pain from it.
You are so strong, compared to us. Jack knows it. He knows we need you. He doesn't know how much, or in what ways. I think he is a little protective of your relationship with your - with that man - with what's his name, Rhys. Maybe he should be.
I look directly at you, and you look back, and grin, before following Jack to the door to go off on this job. Take care of yourself. Don't let the alien toy blow up in your face. If you're in danger, I'll be here, doing what I can to help.
I saw you with Carys. Snogging the sex alien. Which did you most desire - the mortal girl, or the dangerous monster? Or was it both? You were so cool afterwards, talking to your boyfriend, reassuring us you were fine. Even when you found out about the pheromones - well, I guess after Jack has wiped your memory and you've met a hungry Weevil in killing mode, it's easy to be cool with the unexplained. But you aren't a cool person. I saw that. I hope you will let me find the heat inside you. I hope you will someday tell me what you're thinking behind those dark, expressive eyes, that say so much, but don't give me the answer to my questions.
Had you ever kissed a girl before? (Oh, lucky Carys! Unlucky in so many ways, but so lucky with you.)
I feel like a hungry Weevil, wanting you, unable to find the right words. Is that what will make you want me? The right words? Or something else?
You leave the Hub with Jack, and it's as if someone turned out some of the lights.
I turn to my monitors. I will delete this message. Someday, I will write another one, that I can send to you. Or I will find the words to express the inexpressible.
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