Dear Sir (3/?)
Ianto's back, and Torchwood has gone to hell in a handbasket.
Title: Dear Sir (3/?)
Rating: Call it a PG. For the moment it isn't really, but it'll get there (and possibly further)
Disclaimer: I do not own Torchwood. I do however own a lovely coat just like Jack's, which unfortunately, doesn't count.
Warnings: Spoilers abound. Anything we've seen so far is fair game in my books.
Summary: In a man's letters his soul lies naked - Samuel Johnson
Part One
Part Two
Dear Sir,
God I hate you sometimes.
There’s fourteen Weevil babies. They look just like the adults, but even uglier, if that’s possible. The absolute definition of ‘a face only a mother could love’. Except, apparently even the mothers don’t love it. There were twenty six.
Gwen though they were cute till one took a chunk out of her arm. Owen fixed her up pretty quickly though. He’s better at being a doctor than being a boss.
I’m trying to remember the last time I slept. Wasting my valuable time writing a letter that’s never going to be read, to a man that may well be dead by now.
Tosh stopped coming in a fortnight ago. But don’t worry, she’s okay, I checked.
She’s in Swansea, and she promised to come back next week, if she hasn’t found something better.
The sad thing is, I think anything would be better than this place, which means there's a pretty real probability that we won’t see her here again. Or ever, come to think of it.
The coffee ran out three days ago and I haven’t managed to actually leave to get anymore. Gwen's sitting in the conference room eating sugar sachets. (Yes, just sugar sachets) and Owen disappeared and hour ago with one of the bottles you had in the safe. I can’t decide if I care or not.
Where the hell are you? We’re failing Jack. We can’t do this anymore.
Come home.
Ianto
message received 21:47 06.05
TO: i_jones@3.torchwood.org.uk
FROM: j_harkness@3.torchwood.org.uk Address cannot be verified
SUBJECT: Re:
Sorry.
Title: Dear Sir (3/?)
Rating: Call it a PG. For the moment it isn't really, but it'll get there (and possibly further)
Disclaimer: I do not own Torchwood. I do however own a lovely coat just like Jack's, which unfortunately, doesn't count.
Warnings: Spoilers abound. Anything we've seen so far is fair game in my books.
Summary: In a man's letters his soul lies naked - Samuel Johnson
Part One
Part Two
Dear Sir,
God I hate you sometimes.
There’s fourteen Weevil babies. They look just like the adults, but even uglier, if that’s possible. The absolute definition of ‘a face only a mother could love’. Except, apparently even the mothers don’t love it. There were twenty six.
Gwen though they were cute till one took a chunk out of her arm. Owen fixed her up pretty quickly though. He’s better at being a doctor than being a boss.
I’m trying to remember the last time I slept. Wasting my valuable time writing a letter that’s never going to be read, to a man that may well be dead by now.
Tosh stopped coming in a fortnight ago. But don’t worry, she’s okay, I checked.
She’s in Swansea, and she promised to come back next week, if she hasn’t found something better.
The sad thing is, I think anything would be better than this place, which means there's a pretty real probability that we won’t see her here again. Or ever, come to think of it.
The coffee ran out three days ago and I haven’t managed to actually leave to get anymore. Gwen's sitting in the conference room eating sugar sachets. (Yes, just sugar sachets) and Owen disappeared and hour ago with one of the bottles you had in the safe. I can’t decide if I care or not.
Where the hell are you? We’re failing Jack. We can’t do this anymore.
Come home.
Ianto
message received 21:47 06.05
TO: i_jones@3.torchwood.org.uk
FROM: j_harkness@3.torchwood.org.uk Address cannot be verified
SUBJECT: Re:
Sorry.