Fic: Coping
Title: Coping
Author: badly_knitted
Characters: Ianto, Gwen, Tosh, Owen, Jack.
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 2268
Summary: Jack is gone, and the team are struggling to cope. Some are having a harder time than others.
Spoilers: Set a couple of weeks after End of Days.
Written For: oh_mcgee’s prompt ‘Any, any/+any, “To alcohol! The cause of, and solution to, all of life's problems”,’ at comment_fic.
Disclaimer: I don’t own Torchwood or any of the characters.
Jack is gone, headed off to parts unknown with his Doctor, the one he claimed he was waiting for, so he’s no doubt having the time of his life, and probably not thinking about them at all. Gwen has put herself in charge, apparently believing she knows how to run Torchwood, bless her naivete, and Ianto has taken over the bulk of Jack’s work, not that anyone else has noticed. Well, maybe Tosh has. She gave him a hug after she found the bonus he’d added to her wages; she deserved it, Ianto’s sure Jack would agree if he was here, but he’s not.
Owen and Gwen no doubt think their wages just automatically get paid into their bank accounts every month without anyone needing to do anything. They don’t. Someone has to authorise it, on the fifteenth of every month, or none of them would get paid. It’s a good thing Ianto is adept at forging Jack’s signature, especially since they have no idea how long their fearless leader intends to be gone. He could show up tomorrow, next week, next month, or…
Maybe he’ll never come back, and Torchwood will eventually fall apart as the team kick the bucket, one by one, or someone will notice that Jack’s missing in action and they’ll find themselves taken over by UNIT, but Ianto refuses to dwell on either of those possibilities. He has to believe Jack will return, that he hasn’t simply washed his hands of them because of the way they betrayed him, although Ianto wouldn’t blame him if he has. Still, unless they hear otherwise, it’s up to the team to ensure that when their leader does eventually show up, Torchwood is still operational, doing the job this branch was set up to do, namely dealing with the objects and creatures that fall through the Rift. It’s not easy, but someone has to do it, and they’re the only ones who can. At least that means they’re still gainfully employed.
They managed well enough when Jack was here, but now they’re four mismatched people with varying levels of experience, trying to muddle through without their most valuable resource. Jack knew so much about aliens, and the rest of them know so little; even with access to the Torchwood Three archives, all of Torchwood One’s files and a backdoor into UNIT’s databases, they’re flying blind, but all they can do is keep trying and hope for the best.
Once again, Ianto spent the night in Jack’s bunker, because someone needs to be on hand in case of nighttime Rift alerts. Torchwood has never been a nine-to-five, Monday to Friday job, with weekends off. The Rift doesn’t have operating hours, Weevils are primarily nocturnal, and hostile aliens attempt to invade earth whenever they bloody well feel like it. No one else seems interested in taking the night shift, so just like all the other tasks the rest of the team don’t want to do, it’s fallen to Ianto Jones, Archivist, coffee provider, and General Support Officer.
General dogsbody, more like.
Not that he’s complaining, at least not much, and not where any of his teammates are likely to hear him. He doesn’t have anything to go home for anyway, not even so much as a potted plant. Might as well stay at the Hub; the commute is shorter. He only nips home occasionally to grab some clean clothes, and he does that during the day, when he’s out running other important errands, like fetching lunch, or stocking up on the essentials of Torchwood life, such as coffee beans and loo rolls.
They’ve plodded along well enough for the last couple of weeks. Managed to repair all the damage to the Hub caused by them opening the Rift, and just about kept up with retrievals while it was throwing a hissy fit for the first ten days or so, but thankfully it’s slowed down now, back to only spitting out the occasional piece of junk, giving the team a chance to catch their breath. It’s a relief; a few more days and they might all have collapsed from exhaustion.
Tosh was the first in this morning, aside from Ianto; she usually is. Gwen arrived half an hour later, all smiles and false cheerfulness, and Ianto doled out the coffee. Now here they are, it’s almost noon, and Owen still hasn’t shown up. He’s not answering his phone either, and Gwen has gone from annoyance to concern and back again several times, repeatedly trying to reach him.
Ianto could have told her the only reason the bastard isn’t answering is because he doesn’t want to, but he doubts Gwen would listen, or understand. Her unshakeable optimism tends to get in the way. Sometimes Ianto wishes he could see the world the way Gwen does, but he can’t; he’s seen and experienced too much, the kinds of things that wake him screaming in the middle of the night. The world isn’t black and white the way Gwen still believes it to be. It’s all shades of grey, and good intentions, while probably worth having, don’t come with any guarantees.
What Gwen can’t understand is this: Jack forgave them for what they did, for killing him and for going against the first rule of Torchwood Three by opening the Rift. He forgave them, hugged them, and then simply left without so much as a goodbye, and it’s killing Owen worse than the rest of them. He’s not used to forgiveness, doesn’t feel he deserves it, especially not after what he did, and that’s brought his self-destructive side back to the surface with a vengeance.
Ianto, Tosh, and even Gwen, have been on the receiving end of Jack’s forgiveness often enough that they’re able to accept it. Owen is used to being yelled at when he screws up, it’s what he understands. Forgiveness, empathy, not so much. Even after almost letting a Weevil tear him apart after Diane left, Jack practically bullied him out of the hospital and back to work, then fired him. Tough love, that’s the kind of treatment Owen expects; mollycoddling never works with him, just gives him an excuse, as if he needed one, to wallow in self-pity.
Tired of listening to Gwen ranting, Ianto sighs. “Suppose I’d best go root Owen out; he’s probably just drunk or hungover.”
“Right, good, you do that,” Gwen says, relieved that someone’s taking the initiative, so she doesn’t have to. “And pick up something for lunch on the way back.”
“I was going to anyway.” It isn’t like anyone else ever volunteers; if it wasn’t for Ianto, they’d all starve, if they didn’t die of caffeine deprivation first. “Pizza alright?”
“Whatever.” Gwen’s already back to reading through the latest batch of reports. Ianto makes a mental note to read through them himself and collate them into Her Majesty’s monthly briefing when he gets a minute, perhaps tonight after everyone else has left. He’ll order takeout and deal with it while he eats.
Jack has keys to everyone’s homes, and thankfully didn’t take them with him, so Ianto gets them out of the top, righthand drawer of Jack’s desk, slips his coat on, and heads over to Owen’s flat. He does knock first, several times, calling through the closed door, but when there’s no answer, not even so much as a slurred voice telling him to fuck off, he lets himself in.
Owen is sprawled on the sofa, surrounded by empty beer cans, and clutching a bottle of vodka. “What d’you wan’, Teaboy? Go ‘way, I’m busy.”
“Doing what, getting drunk?”
“Stayin’ drunk, not gettin’,” Owen corrects. He hefts his bottle in a wobbly toast. “To alcohol! The cause of, an’ solution to, all’a life's problems.” He takes a long swig, then scowls at Ianto. “Yer still ‘ere? Piss off, why don’ yer?”
“Can’t do that, I told Gwen I’d drag your sorry arse to the Hub. You’ve still got a necropsy to do on that hairy alien crab lizard thing.”
“It’s dead an’ on ice, it c’n wait. Not like it’s goin’ anywhere.”
“Not really the point, is it? You’re supposed to determine cause of death, make sure it’s not harbouring any kind of alien infection that might spread.”
“What if I jus’ don’ wanna do it?”
“Don’t work and you won’t get paid.” Ianto knows from experience that being nice to Owen when he’s like this only makes things worse.
“So what? Got plenty of money in th’ bank.”
“Just because you have money doesn’t mean you can access it,” Ianto points out. “If I have to go back to the Hub without you, I’ll have Tosh freeze your accounts, cancel your credit cards and all direct debits, cut off your electricity and water, and before you know it, you’ll find yourself evicted for not paying your rent.”
Owen pauses, staring blearily at Ianto’s expressionless face, bottle halfway to his lips. “Fuck. You’d do it too, wouldn’ yer?”
“Too bloody right I would. Jack left and you’re hurting, I know, well welcome to the club. You think you’re special? You’re not. He abandoned all of us, not just you, and I honestly can’t say I blame him. We hurt him, and I’m not just talking about you shooting him dead. We betrayed him and opened the Rift, despite all the times he told us not to mess with it. That’s on all of us. We believed Bilis and a bunch of hallucinations over our leader, the man we’re supposed to trust. Why wouldn’t he leave?”
“He forgave us!” Owen’s voice cracks. “I shot ‘im, and ‘e forgave me.” Tears sparkle in the medic’s eyes.
“Yeah, well, I wouldn’t read too much into that if I were you; he’d just come back from the dead. His decision-making processes are always suspect right after he revives, brain cells misfiring, memory a bit iffy, shit like that.”
“What would you know?”
“I’ve got access to everything in the archives, and I’ve picked up the pieces often enough whenever he’s done something stupid. Didn’t know for sure he could come back from the dead until just before Christmas when…” Ianto shakes his head. “Doesn’t matter. I knew.”
“An’ you never tol’ the rest of us?”
“Wasn’t my secret to tell. Unlike some people, I know when to keep quiet. Here.” Digging in his pocket, Ianto pulls out a small vial and tosses it onto the sofa beside Owen.
“Wha’s that?”
“From Jack’s private stock. It’ll sober you up, neutralise the alcohol in your system without leaving you hungover.”
Owen scowls mutinously. “Don’ wanna be sober.”
“Tough. Either you take it yourself, or I’ll force it down your throat.”
“Dream on, Teaboy! You don’ ‘ave what it takes.”
Ianto snorts. “You’re so drunk you can barely lift that bottle. You couldn’t fight back if your life depended on it. Take the pill.”
“What if I decide to jus’ flush it down the loo?” Owen’s attempt at drunken defiance isn’t particularly convincing. Ianto just shrugs.
“That would be a waste, but I’ve got plenty more.”
“Got an answer for everything, don’t yer?” Owen mutters sourly.
“No, not even close. I wish I did. But at least I don’t just check out and leave everyone else trying to muddle along when I should be pulling my weight. Take the pill, pull yourself together, and keep going, like the rest of us are. You don’t get to take the easy way out while we’re busting our arses.”
“Screw you. Yer not the boss of me.”
“Right now, neither are you, you’re letting the alcohol do your thinking for you. Such as it is.”
“Why shouldn’ I? Jack left us, all of us, are you too thick to see that?”
“Just because he left doesn’t mean we can just give up. We’ve got a job to do, and we’ll do it, because if we don’t, we’re no better than Jack, abandoning our posts. He’s an arse, but when he comes back, IF he comes back, I intend to make sure Cardiff and Torchwood are still standing. If you can’t handle that, you can go looking for a job elsewhere and I’ll find someone to take your place. Shouldn’t be too hard. All we need is a competent medic who isn’t trying to kill himself through alcohol poisoning.”
“You’re a right bastard, you know that?”
“You’re finally noticing that? Took you long enough.”
Owen’s lips quirk into an unwilling grin, and then he’s laughing so hard he can scarcely get his breath. “Oh fuck,” he gasps out. “I’m sooooo wasted!”
“I noticed. Take the pill.”
“Yeah, whatever.” Owen fumbles the lid off the vial and knocks the pill back with a belt of vodka. “Now what?”
“Shower, dress, be ready to leave in fifteen minutes. Think you can handle that, or do you need me to help?”
“No, I got it.” Owen staggers to his feet, then clutches his head. “Oh shit, it’s workin’, I’m soberin’ up. It’s horrible.” He stumbles unsteadily towards the bathroom and Ianto fills in the time by cleaning up the empty cans, dumping them in the recycling. When Owen returns, showered, shaved, dressed in clean clothes, and looking halfway decent, his eyes are red-rimmed, but Ianto pretends not to notice.
“You’ll do, I suppose. Come on, grab your coat. Got to pick up pizza on the way back. You’re paying.” Ianto hands Owen his phone, wallet, and keys.
“Pizza?”
“It’s lunchtime.”
“Already? Hang on, what day is it?”
Ianto just rolls his eyes and leads the way out.
Owen meekly follows, all trace of defiance gone.
The End
Author: badly_knitted
Characters: Ianto, Gwen, Tosh, Owen, Jack.
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 2268
Summary: Jack is gone, and the team are struggling to cope. Some are having a harder time than others.
Spoilers: Set a couple of weeks after End of Days.
Written For: oh_mcgee’s prompt ‘Any, any/+any, “To alcohol! The cause of, and solution to, all of life's problems”,’ at comment_fic.
Disclaimer: I don’t own Torchwood or any of the characters.
Jack is gone, headed off to parts unknown with his Doctor, the one he claimed he was waiting for, so he’s no doubt having the time of his life, and probably not thinking about them at all. Gwen has put herself in charge, apparently believing she knows how to run Torchwood, bless her naivete, and Ianto has taken over the bulk of Jack’s work, not that anyone else has noticed. Well, maybe Tosh has. She gave him a hug after she found the bonus he’d added to her wages; she deserved it, Ianto’s sure Jack would agree if he was here, but he’s not.
Owen and Gwen no doubt think their wages just automatically get paid into their bank accounts every month without anyone needing to do anything. They don’t. Someone has to authorise it, on the fifteenth of every month, or none of them would get paid. It’s a good thing Ianto is adept at forging Jack’s signature, especially since they have no idea how long their fearless leader intends to be gone. He could show up tomorrow, next week, next month, or…
Maybe he’ll never come back, and Torchwood will eventually fall apart as the team kick the bucket, one by one, or someone will notice that Jack’s missing in action and they’ll find themselves taken over by UNIT, but Ianto refuses to dwell on either of those possibilities. He has to believe Jack will return, that he hasn’t simply washed his hands of them because of the way they betrayed him, although Ianto wouldn’t blame him if he has. Still, unless they hear otherwise, it’s up to the team to ensure that when their leader does eventually show up, Torchwood is still operational, doing the job this branch was set up to do, namely dealing with the objects and creatures that fall through the Rift. It’s not easy, but someone has to do it, and they’re the only ones who can. At least that means they’re still gainfully employed.
They managed well enough when Jack was here, but now they’re four mismatched people with varying levels of experience, trying to muddle through without their most valuable resource. Jack knew so much about aliens, and the rest of them know so little; even with access to the Torchwood Three archives, all of Torchwood One’s files and a backdoor into UNIT’s databases, they’re flying blind, but all they can do is keep trying and hope for the best.
Once again, Ianto spent the night in Jack’s bunker, because someone needs to be on hand in case of nighttime Rift alerts. Torchwood has never been a nine-to-five, Monday to Friday job, with weekends off. The Rift doesn’t have operating hours, Weevils are primarily nocturnal, and hostile aliens attempt to invade earth whenever they bloody well feel like it. No one else seems interested in taking the night shift, so just like all the other tasks the rest of the team don’t want to do, it’s fallen to Ianto Jones, Archivist, coffee provider, and General Support Officer.
General dogsbody, more like.
Not that he’s complaining, at least not much, and not where any of his teammates are likely to hear him. He doesn’t have anything to go home for anyway, not even so much as a potted plant. Might as well stay at the Hub; the commute is shorter. He only nips home occasionally to grab some clean clothes, and he does that during the day, when he’s out running other important errands, like fetching lunch, or stocking up on the essentials of Torchwood life, such as coffee beans and loo rolls.
They’ve plodded along well enough for the last couple of weeks. Managed to repair all the damage to the Hub caused by them opening the Rift, and just about kept up with retrievals while it was throwing a hissy fit for the first ten days or so, but thankfully it’s slowed down now, back to only spitting out the occasional piece of junk, giving the team a chance to catch their breath. It’s a relief; a few more days and they might all have collapsed from exhaustion.
Tosh was the first in this morning, aside from Ianto; she usually is. Gwen arrived half an hour later, all smiles and false cheerfulness, and Ianto doled out the coffee. Now here they are, it’s almost noon, and Owen still hasn’t shown up. He’s not answering his phone either, and Gwen has gone from annoyance to concern and back again several times, repeatedly trying to reach him.
Ianto could have told her the only reason the bastard isn’t answering is because he doesn’t want to, but he doubts Gwen would listen, or understand. Her unshakeable optimism tends to get in the way. Sometimes Ianto wishes he could see the world the way Gwen does, but he can’t; he’s seen and experienced too much, the kinds of things that wake him screaming in the middle of the night. The world isn’t black and white the way Gwen still believes it to be. It’s all shades of grey, and good intentions, while probably worth having, don’t come with any guarantees.
What Gwen can’t understand is this: Jack forgave them for what they did, for killing him and for going against the first rule of Torchwood Three by opening the Rift. He forgave them, hugged them, and then simply left without so much as a goodbye, and it’s killing Owen worse than the rest of them. He’s not used to forgiveness, doesn’t feel he deserves it, especially not after what he did, and that’s brought his self-destructive side back to the surface with a vengeance.
Ianto, Tosh, and even Gwen, have been on the receiving end of Jack’s forgiveness often enough that they’re able to accept it. Owen is used to being yelled at when he screws up, it’s what he understands. Forgiveness, empathy, not so much. Even after almost letting a Weevil tear him apart after Diane left, Jack practically bullied him out of the hospital and back to work, then fired him. Tough love, that’s the kind of treatment Owen expects; mollycoddling never works with him, just gives him an excuse, as if he needed one, to wallow in self-pity.
Tired of listening to Gwen ranting, Ianto sighs. “Suppose I’d best go root Owen out; he’s probably just drunk or hungover.”
“Right, good, you do that,” Gwen says, relieved that someone’s taking the initiative, so she doesn’t have to. “And pick up something for lunch on the way back.”
“I was going to anyway.” It isn’t like anyone else ever volunteers; if it wasn’t for Ianto, they’d all starve, if they didn’t die of caffeine deprivation first. “Pizza alright?”
“Whatever.” Gwen’s already back to reading through the latest batch of reports. Ianto makes a mental note to read through them himself and collate them into Her Majesty’s monthly briefing when he gets a minute, perhaps tonight after everyone else has left. He’ll order takeout and deal with it while he eats.
Jack has keys to everyone’s homes, and thankfully didn’t take them with him, so Ianto gets them out of the top, righthand drawer of Jack’s desk, slips his coat on, and heads over to Owen’s flat. He does knock first, several times, calling through the closed door, but when there’s no answer, not even so much as a slurred voice telling him to fuck off, he lets himself in.
Owen is sprawled on the sofa, surrounded by empty beer cans, and clutching a bottle of vodka. “What d’you wan’, Teaboy? Go ‘way, I’m busy.”
“Doing what, getting drunk?”
“Stayin’ drunk, not gettin’,” Owen corrects. He hefts his bottle in a wobbly toast. “To alcohol! The cause of, an’ solution to, all’a life's problems.” He takes a long swig, then scowls at Ianto. “Yer still ‘ere? Piss off, why don’ yer?”
“Can’t do that, I told Gwen I’d drag your sorry arse to the Hub. You’ve still got a necropsy to do on that hairy alien crab lizard thing.”
“It’s dead an’ on ice, it c’n wait. Not like it’s goin’ anywhere.”
“Not really the point, is it? You’re supposed to determine cause of death, make sure it’s not harbouring any kind of alien infection that might spread.”
“What if I jus’ don’ wanna do it?”
“Don’t work and you won’t get paid.” Ianto knows from experience that being nice to Owen when he’s like this only makes things worse.
“So what? Got plenty of money in th’ bank.”
“Just because you have money doesn’t mean you can access it,” Ianto points out. “If I have to go back to the Hub without you, I’ll have Tosh freeze your accounts, cancel your credit cards and all direct debits, cut off your electricity and water, and before you know it, you’ll find yourself evicted for not paying your rent.”
Owen pauses, staring blearily at Ianto’s expressionless face, bottle halfway to his lips. “Fuck. You’d do it too, wouldn’ yer?”
“Too bloody right I would. Jack left and you’re hurting, I know, well welcome to the club. You think you’re special? You’re not. He abandoned all of us, not just you, and I honestly can’t say I blame him. We hurt him, and I’m not just talking about you shooting him dead. We betrayed him and opened the Rift, despite all the times he told us not to mess with it. That’s on all of us. We believed Bilis and a bunch of hallucinations over our leader, the man we’re supposed to trust. Why wouldn’t he leave?”
“He forgave us!” Owen’s voice cracks. “I shot ‘im, and ‘e forgave me.” Tears sparkle in the medic’s eyes.
“Yeah, well, I wouldn’t read too much into that if I were you; he’d just come back from the dead. His decision-making processes are always suspect right after he revives, brain cells misfiring, memory a bit iffy, shit like that.”
“What would you know?”
“I’ve got access to everything in the archives, and I’ve picked up the pieces often enough whenever he’s done something stupid. Didn’t know for sure he could come back from the dead until just before Christmas when…” Ianto shakes his head. “Doesn’t matter. I knew.”
“An’ you never tol’ the rest of us?”
“Wasn’t my secret to tell. Unlike some people, I know when to keep quiet. Here.” Digging in his pocket, Ianto pulls out a small vial and tosses it onto the sofa beside Owen.
“Wha’s that?”
“From Jack’s private stock. It’ll sober you up, neutralise the alcohol in your system without leaving you hungover.”
Owen scowls mutinously. “Don’ wanna be sober.”
“Tough. Either you take it yourself, or I’ll force it down your throat.”
“Dream on, Teaboy! You don’ ‘ave what it takes.”
Ianto snorts. “You’re so drunk you can barely lift that bottle. You couldn’t fight back if your life depended on it. Take the pill.”
“What if I decide to jus’ flush it down the loo?” Owen’s attempt at drunken defiance isn’t particularly convincing. Ianto just shrugs.
“That would be a waste, but I’ve got plenty more.”
“Got an answer for everything, don’t yer?” Owen mutters sourly.
“No, not even close. I wish I did. But at least I don’t just check out and leave everyone else trying to muddle along when I should be pulling my weight. Take the pill, pull yourself together, and keep going, like the rest of us are. You don’t get to take the easy way out while we’re busting our arses.”
“Screw you. Yer not the boss of me.”
“Right now, neither are you, you’re letting the alcohol do your thinking for you. Such as it is.”
“Why shouldn’ I? Jack left us, all of us, are you too thick to see that?”
“Just because he left doesn’t mean we can just give up. We’ve got a job to do, and we’ll do it, because if we don’t, we’re no better than Jack, abandoning our posts. He’s an arse, but when he comes back, IF he comes back, I intend to make sure Cardiff and Torchwood are still standing. If you can’t handle that, you can go looking for a job elsewhere and I’ll find someone to take your place. Shouldn’t be too hard. All we need is a competent medic who isn’t trying to kill himself through alcohol poisoning.”
“You’re a right bastard, you know that?”
“You’re finally noticing that? Took you long enough.”
Owen’s lips quirk into an unwilling grin, and then he’s laughing so hard he can scarcely get his breath. “Oh fuck,” he gasps out. “I’m sooooo wasted!”
“I noticed. Take the pill.”
“Yeah, whatever.” Owen fumbles the lid off the vial and knocks the pill back with a belt of vodka. “Now what?”
“Shower, dress, be ready to leave in fifteen minutes. Think you can handle that, or do you need me to help?”
“No, I got it.” Owen staggers to his feet, then clutches his head. “Oh shit, it’s workin’, I’m soberin’ up. It’s horrible.” He stumbles unsteadily towards the bathroom and Ianto fills in the time by cleaning up the empty cans, dumping them in the recycling. When Owen returns, showered, shaved, dressed in clean clothes, and looking halfway decent, his eyes are red-rimmed, but Ianto pretends not to notice.
“You’ll do, I suppose. Come on, grab your coat. Got to pick up pizza on the way back. You’re paying.” Ianto hands Owen his phone, wallet, and keys.
“Pizza?”
“It’s lunchtime.”
“Already? Hang on, what day is it?”
Ianto just rolls his eyes and leads the way out.
Owen meekly follows, all trace of defiance gone.
The End