Fic: Pause, Rewind, Play [One-Shot]
Title: Pause, Rewind, Play
Author: heddychaa
Characters: Jack/John
Rating: R
Genre: Vignette, Timey-Wimey
Wordcount: ~1,000
Warnings: Language
Disclaimer: Torchwood's characters, concepts, and events belong to their respective owners, including but not limited to Russell T Davies and the BBC. This is a work of fan-appreciation and no profit is being made.
Summary: Two Time Agents lost in a mind-bending maze for what seems like forever. What's left for them to do other than push every button, including each other's?
A/N: Written for Challenge 2 on whoverse_las: based on a picture prompt. This is the edited version, now with 90% less confusing pronouns! Thanks to everyone on LAS for their critique, and to amand_r for the beta.
Pause, Rewind, Play
“Reverse psychology,” not-yet-Jack says, crossing his arms over his chest. He leans his upper body back a little, as though to scrutinize it at a distance, and squints up his blue eyes suspiciously. “It has to be reverse psychology.”
“So that means we’re not supposed to push it, then?” replies not-yet-John. He likewise crosses his arms over his chest, tapping a toe. The sound of the leather sole slapping the tiled floor echoes seemingly endlessly around them. “It says here, ‘Press it and see!’ So if it’s reverse-psychology, then that must mean ‘Don’t press it.’” He runs both hands down the back of his head to rest on the nape of his neck, elbows out. “So what, we go back into the labyrinth? Seems to be no matter whether you turn left or right or go straight you end up here anyway. What’re our options, here, exactly?”
Miles and miles of identical corridors. They’ve been wandering for what seems like forever, bickering, slowly gnawing away at the rations of dehydrated food packets they carry. Forever, or two weeks. Somehow it seems to be both at once. That must be the corridors, they’ve theorized. The sameness messes with even their keen sense of time. Or, or, they’re going mad. Always a possibility.
The corridors, twisting and turning at sharp angles, all seem to converge on this innocuous little point: a supply closet full of wires and dust. It would be completely unremarkable if not for the fact that it’s the only ‘room’ in this world of hallways. Here, behind three disused mops, they’ve unearthed a battered metal panel crowned by a comical red button. Somebody has left them a cheerfully sadistic note that reads, “This red button doesn’t do anything - press it and see!”
“Unless it’s a double-bluff,” Jack muses, raking a hand through his hair and leaving it bristled. It makes him look a bit like an irritated cat, oversized and agitated.
“So the person who made the sign expected us to overthink it,” John continues, because they finish each other’s sentences sometimes. He begins to pace, running his hands up and down the lengths of the guns holstered at his hips like he’s unsure of what to do when faced with a problem he can’t shoot.
“Maybe a fan of the Princess Bride?” Jack suggests with an embarrassed smile, hand extended halfway to the button with fingers greedily stretched. “You know, the scene with the poisoned wine?”
“Ugh,” replies John, overdramatic. “You and your campy Earth films.”
“Always was a sucker for amoral romantic swashbucklers,” says Jack, tilting John a wink just to drive the innuendo home. “And like you can talk. How many times have you watched Star Wars, anyway?”
John turns on him, jabbing at the air with a bony finger. “You leave Star Wars out of this. It’s a classic. Anyway, I like to think I’ve found a kindred spirit in Han Solo. You know, ‘always a sucker for amoral swashbucklers’?” he says, parroting Jack’s Hollywood accent. “Say! What if instead of pressing the button we just shoot it?”
“You can’t just shoot everything that gives you trouble. That’s the kinda thing that lands a man in murder rehab,” Jack chides. “So. Star Wars. How many times was that, again?”
“Shooting first always worked for Han Solo,” John retorts. “And I don’t know, less than fifty but more than twenty-five. Sometimes I just watch the parts with the metal bikini, so if you add that in, maybe eighty?”
“Sounds repetitive. You have all the dialogue memorized yet?” Jack bumps his shoulder against John’s companionably, flashes him a crooked grin, almost tentative.
“No more repetitive than this fucking maze,” John snarls, balling his hands into fists in impotent frustration. “And no I do not have all the dialogue memorized, on account of not being a machine, or a nerd, or a mix of the two.”
Jack snickers. “‘Nerd’! You know I love it when you talk twenty-first century to me. What’s that other one I like?”
“‘That’s how I roll,’” John recites.
“‘That’s how I roll,’” Jack echoes, half-laughing and shaking his head.
“So in the Princess Bride,” John starts, returning his eyes to the red button and its taunting note. “How does that poisoned wine scene end, anyway?”
Jack stops laughing, drumming his fingers over his lips in an exaggerated impression of thoughtfulness. “Oh, both glasses are poisoned.”
“Good enough for me,” John replies, and slaps his hand down impulsively on the button.
Two Weeks Earlier
“Yeah,” Jack says. “Because Westley is immune to the-where are we?”
John blinks, disoriented. They’re standing in a narrow passage of grey wall, no windows or doors. No explanation how they got there. “Looks like some kind of hallway. Seems to be a fork up ahead,” John tries, and then turns on Jack, furrowing his brow. He jabs a bony finger at the empty air, like he’s getting down to some truth. “Why the hell are you always bringing up The Princess Bride?”
“I thought. . .” Jack replies, running a hand through his hair, and then again. “I thought we were talking about. . . something. I think you. . . asked me about it?”
They start to walk, unable to shake an eerie sense of déjà vu. Must be all the identical walls. “Not a chance,” John snaps back. “I think you’ve got me confused with someone else. Someone who cares about your terrible taste in movies.”
“Oh yeah? I’m the one with terrible taste? And what about Star Wars?” Jack retorts, smirking.
“Two words. ‘Han’, and ‘Solo’,” says John.
“How many times have you watched them, anyway?” Jack sneers. They turn left at the fork, not bothering to deliberate.
“Lost count,” John replies, stopping to put his hands on his hips. “Less than fifty but more than twenty-five. Sometimes I just watch the parts with the metal bikini, so if you add that in, maybe eighty?” They make a quick right, like turning left now isn’t even an option, as if the correct path has been laid out for them like breadcrumbs.
“Sounds repetitive,” Jack says. “You have all the dialogue memorized yet?”
Author: heddychaa
Characters: Jack/John
Rating: R
Genre: Vignette, Timey-Wimey
Wordcount: ~1,000
Warnings: Language
Disclaimer: Torchwood's characters, concepts, and events belong to their respective owners, including but not limited to Russell T Davies and the BBC. This is a work of fan-appreciation and no profit is being made.
Summary: Two Time Agents lost in a mind-bending maze for what seems like forever. What's left for them to do other than push every button, including each other's?
A/N: Written for Challenge 2 on whoverse_las: based on a picture prompt. This is the edited version, now with 90% less confusing pronouns! Thanks to everyone on LAS for their critique, and to amand_r for the beta.
Pause, Rewind, Play
“Reverse psychology,” not-yet-Jack says, crossing his arms over his chest. He leans his upper body back a little, as though to scrutinize it at a distance, and squints up his blue eyes suspiciously. “It has to be reverse psychology.”
“So that means we’re not supposed to push it, then?” replies not-yet-John. He likewise crosses his arms over his chest, tapping a toe. The sound of the leather sole slapping the tiled floor echoes seemingly endlessly around them. “It says here, ‘Press it and see!’ So if it’s reverse-psychology, then that must mean ‘Don’t press it.’” He runs both hands down the back of his head to rest on the nape of his neck, elbows out. “So what, we go back into the labyrinth? Seems to be no matter whether you turn left or right or go straight you end up here anyway. What’re our options, here, exactly?”
Miles and miles of identical corridors. They’ve been wandering for what seems like forever, bickering, slowly gnawing away at the rations of dehydrated food packets they carry. Forever, or two weeks. Somehow it seems to be both at once. That must be the corridors, they’ve theorized. The sameness messes with even their keen sense of time. Or, or, they’re going mad. Always a possibility.
The corridors, twisting and turning at sharp angles, all seem to converge on this innocuous little point: a supply closet full of wires and dust. It would be completely unremarkable if not for the fact that it’s the only ‘room’ in this world of hallways. Here, behind three disused mops, they’ve unearthed a battered metal panel crowned by a comical red button. Somebody has left them a cheerfully sadistic note that reads, “This red button doesn’t do anything - press it and see!”
“Unless it’s a double-bluff,” Jack muses, raking a hand through his hair and leaving it bristled. It makes him look a bit like an irritated cat, oversized and agitated.
“So the person who made the sign expected us to overthink it,” John continues, because they finish each other’s sentences sometimes. He begins to pace, running his hands up and down the lengths of the guns holstered at his hips like he’s unsure of what to do when faced with a problem he can’t shoot.
“Maybe a fan of the Princess Bride?” Jack suggests with an embarrassed smile, hand extended halfway to the button with fingers greedily stretched. “You know, the scene with the poisoned wine?”
“Ugh,” replies John, overdramatic. “You and your campy Earth films.”
“Always was a sucker for amoral romantic swashbucklers,” says Jack, tilting John a wink just to drive the innuendo home. “And like you can talk. How many times have you watched Star Wars, anyway?”
John turns on him, jabbing at the air with a bony finger. “You leave Star Wars out of this. It’s a classic. Anyway, I like to think I’ve found a kindred spirit in Han Solo. You know, ‘always a sucker for amoral swashbucklers’?” he says, parroting Jack’s Hollywood accent. “Say! What if instead of pressing the button we just shoot it?”
“You can’t just shoot everything that gives you trouble. That’s the kinda thing that lands a man in murder rehab,” Jack chides. “So. Star Wars. How many times was that, again?”
“Shooting first always worked for Han Solo,” John retorts. “And I don’t know, less than fifty but more than twenty-five. Sometimes I just watch the parts with the metal bikini, so if you add that in, maybe eighty?”
“Sounds repetitive. You have all the dialogue memorized yet?” Jack bumps his shoulder against John’s companionably, flashes him a crooked grin, almost tentative.
“No more repetitive than this fucking maze,” John snarls, balling his hands into fists in impotent frustration. “And no I do not have all the dialogue memorized, on account of not being a machine, or a nerd, or a mix of the two.”
Jack snickers. “‘Nerd’! You know I love it when you talk twenty-first century to me. What’s that other one I like?”
“‘That’s how I roll,’” John recites.
“‘That’s how I roll,’” Jack echoes, half-laughing and shaking his head.
“So in the Princess Bride,” John starts, returning his eyes to the red button and its taunting note. “How does that poisoned wine scene end, anyway?”
Jack stops laughing, drumming his fingers over his lips in an exaggerated impression of thoughtfulness. “Oh, both glasses are poisoned.”
“Good enough for me,” John replies, and slaps his hand down impulsively on the button.
Two Weeks Earlier
“Yeah,” Jack says. “Because Westley is immune to the-where are we?”
John blinks, disoriented. They’re standing in a narrow passage of grey wall, no windows or doors. No explanation how they got there. “Looks like some kind of hallway. Seems to be a fork up ahead,” John tries, and then turns on Jack, furrowing his brow. He jabs a bony finger at the empty air, like he’s getting down to some truth. “Why the hell are you always bringing up The Princess Bride?”
“I thought. . .” Jack replies, running a hand through his hair, and then again. “I thought we were talking about. . . something. I think you. . . asked me about it?”
They start to walk, unable to shake an eerie sense of déjà vu. Must be all the identical walls. “Not a chance,” John snaps back. “I think you’ve got me confused with someone else. Someone who cares about your terrible taste in movies.”
“Oh yeah? I’m the one with terrible taste? And what about Star Wars?” Jack retorts, smirking.
“Two words. ‘Han’, and ‘Solo’,” says John.
“How many times have you watched them, anyway?” Jack sneers. They turn left at the fork, not bothering to deliberate.
“Lost count,” John replies, stopping to put his hands on his hips. “Less than fifty but more than twenty-five. Sometimes I just watch the parts with the metal bikini, so if you add that in, maybe eighty?” They make a quick right, like turning left now isn’t even an option, as if the correct path has been laid out for them like breadcrumbs.
“Sounds repetitive,” Jack says. “You have all the dialogue memorized yet?”