Introspective fic
Title: Bleed
Rating: PG-13
Genre: Doctor Who/Torchwood
Character: Jack Harkness, Ianto Jones
Spoilers: Mentions of LotTL, SoD
Summary: After the Year That Wasn't, did Jack ever really cope with what happened to him?
Warning: Possible squicky imagery, torture, angst, unbetaed
One year. Three hundred sixty-five days. Eight thousand seven hundred and sixty hours. Five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes.
That's how much time I spent on the Valiant, chained to her pipes and treated little better than a dog.
This is all Ianto's idea, he's not sure how to deal with my silence concerning my trip with The Doctor, and he handed me this notebook to write down my thoughts. I don't really want to, but he's promised me coffee while I do it, so I will.
The first death wasn't so bad, quick with a sharp pain, distracting The Master from Martha and Doc so they could try to get the perception filter on him and reveal the ruse. That didn't work at all. Next thing I know, Doc is aged a hundred years, and we're sending Martha off with my vortex manipulator.
After that it got so much worse. Manacles on my wrists and ankles, forced to stand in a spread eagle position or risk dislocating both shoulders. I did that once, dislocating them I mean, so I could sag and give my legs a break. Never again I had sworn, not after I'd been shot and woke up being snapped upwards as my body healed, both shoulders popping into place at once. I'd screamed so loud, the echo lasted for so long, that they shot me again to shut me up.
The guards really enjoyed shooting me, I think they got a thrill knowing they could riddle me with bullets at anytime and I'd snap right back up for me. At least til they got bored with guns, then they started in with knives.
Daggers, switchblades, a rapier and saber even. They liked to see how many times they could shallowly cut into my skin before I died. I think the record was seven hundred and sixty-two. I cheekily congratulated the soldier who'd done it, and when I woke I gave him a kiss that left him dazed and giggly. Sure made my day a bit better at least.
I'm tempted to scratch that last bit out, as Ianto does have jealous moments, and I'm sure he would not like knowing that if he reads this all.
The really fun days, and I say 'fun' with all the traumatized sarcasm I can manage, were when The Master visited. He liked using the Laser Screwdriver, and it had several settings on it. One time, about six months in, he used it to blind me, then unchained my arms and let me be on the floor. It was chaos in my head, and I screamed in terror for what seemed like days, scrabbling at any noise, trying to find someone to touch since I had the ability to. Left to my mind, images of those killed were all left to play in my head, the ten percent of the world. I imagined my team, freezing to death in the Himalayas, huddling together to try and get some warmth, and cursing my name as they died...
Sorry...I had to stop, the tremors started again, I couldn't write properly. I don't even know why I'm apologizing to a book, it's just paper bound together! I shouldn't be apologizing and I am!
As I had been saying, the Master was creative, and the blindness didn't stop until Tish finally poisoned me when I begged her to help for near a week, I was never so grateful to die than then.
Decapitation, exsanguination, disembowelment, gunshot, laser shot, knives, forks, poison, fire, acid, steam, The Doctor, The Master. All ways I've died, thinking about dieing by The Doctor's hands is the worst. He'd been vulnerable I think, he didn't seem himself, but the Master demanded that he try to fix me. I'm wrong, I'm a freak, I'm immortal and I shouldn't be a fact. My Doctor, young again, but lacking the energy, now walked to me, strangling the life out of me with his bare hands, just saying wrong over and over. He didn't say anything, and neither shall I. At least not to each other.
The year continued much the same along that list. I discovered you can die from any and all food stuffs, any food containers or utensils, ties make great nooses, and never take a cup of tea or coffee from anyone on the Valiant. The most exciting way to die was by Toclafane though. It was like playing Russian Roulette with them, and they were always so gleeful when I died and came back, they thought me a novelty, something special to play with, and did so often.
I'm a broken doll for all they did. Blades piercing my skin, my eyes, my skull my abdomen, everywhere, a pincushion while I scream to a temporary respite, only for it to begin again.
You can't flirt with a Toclafane I discovered, after I'd attempted to get out of being killed. I wonder sometimes if I'm insane, my thoughts run willy nilly in my head, and I wake up with my fingers drumming on my chest and a scream on my lips. I don't sleep anymore.
I scream and scream and scream, but no one hears, I can't even hear myself. No one knows my pain, but for two, and they think I'm fine. I'm a fantastic liar, but my Ianto saw through it. What does that say about The Doctor? I want to curse his title, scream that he should have died with the rest of Gallifrey, should have never gone to Utopia. I can't. I waited too long to resent a trip. I didn't wait long enough to avoid spending a year with a madman and the future of the human race.
Water just dripped onto the book, but we don't have a leak. I reach up and my eyes are wet. I don't know when I started crying. I don't know why I'm still writing, still living, still wishing for more. I know why I live, but I don't want to live so long, I'll lose everything, and then I'm alone again. A lonely old man loosed to the Earth. Do I deserve this immortality? Can I give it back to ensure no one will die? - End
Ianto's just walked in, and he's looking concerned, because I'm crying and the pencil lays in pieces on my journal that wasn't, and it's all I can do to cling to my Ianto, my beautiful Welshman. I thank God he's here while I dampen his suit with my tears.
I wanted to write more, to tell him all, but the way he looks as he reads, thinking I'm asleep, says I've written too much. His skin is ashen, and when he closes the book, he holds me again, and mutters such a dark oath of revenge that I feel safe again. Maybe the journal did me some good, because I think I can sleep now, and not dream of my past.
Rating: PG-13
Genre: Doctor Who/Torchwood
Character: Jack Harkness, Ianto Jones
Spoilers: Mentions of LotTL, SoD
Summary: After the Year That Wasn't, did Jack ever really cope with what happened to him?
Warning: Possible squicky imagery, torture, angst, unbetaed
One year. Three hundred sixty-five days. Eight thousand seven hundred and sixty hours. Five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes.
That's how much time I spent on the Valiant, chained to her pipes and treated little better than a dog.
This is all Ianto's idea, he's not sure how to deal with my silence concerning my trip with The Doctor, and he handed me this notebook to write down my thoughts. I don't really want to, but he's promised me coffee while I do it, so I will.
The first death wasn't so bad, quick with a sharp pain, distracting The Master from Martha and Doc so they could try to get the perception filter on him and reveal the ruse. That didn't work at all. Next thing I know, Doc is aged a hundred years, and we're sending Martha off with my vortex manipulator.
After that it got so much worse. Manacles on my wrists and ankles, forced to stand in a spread eagle position or risk dislocating both shoulders. I did that once, dislocating them I mean, so I could sag and give my legs a break. Never again I had sworn, not after I'd been shot and woke up being snapped upwards as my body healed, both shoulders popping into place at once. I'd screamed so loud, the echo lasted for so long, that they shot me again to shut me up.
The guards really enjoyed shooting me, I think they got a thrill knowing they could riddle me with bullets at anytime and I'd snap right back up for me. At least til they got bored with guns, then they started in with knives.
Daggers, switchblades, a rapier and saber even. They liked to see how many times they could shallowly cut into my skin before I died. I think the record was seven hundred and sixty-two. I cheekily congratulated the soldier who'd done it, and when I woke I gave him a kiss that left him dazed and giggly. Sure made my day a bit better at least.
I'm tempted to scratch that last bit out, as Ianto does have jealous moments, and I'm sure he would not like knowing that if he reads this all.
The really fun days, and I say 'fun' with all the traumatized sarcasm I can manage, were when The Master visited. He liked using the Laser Screwdriver, and it had several settings on it. One time, about six months in, he used it to blind me, then unchained my arms and let me be on the floor. It was chaos in my head, and I screamed in terror for what seemed like days, scrabbling at any noise, trying to find someone to touch since I had the ability to. Left to my mind, images of those killed were all left to play in my head, the ten percent of the world. I imagined my team, freezing to death in the Himalayas, huddling together to try and get some warmth, and cursing my name as they died...
Sorry...I had to stop, the tremors started again, I couldn't write properly. I don't even know why I'm apologizing to a book, it's just paper bound together! I shouldn't be apologizing and I am!
As I had been saying, the Master was creative, and the blindness didn't stop until Tish finally poisoned me when I begged her to help for near a week, I was never so grateful to die than then.
Decapitation, exsanguination, disembowelment, gunshot, laser shot, knives, forks, poison, fire, acid, steam, The Doctor, The Master. All ways I've died, thinking about dieing by The Doctor's hands is the worst. He'd been vulnerable I think, he didn't seem himself, but the Master demanded that he try to fix me. I'm wrong, I'm a freak, I'm immortal and I shouldn't be a fact. My Doctor, young again, but lacking the energy, now walked to me, strangling the life out of me with his bare hands, just saying wrong over and over. He didn't say anything, and neither shall I. At least not to each other.
The year continued much the same along that list. I discovered you can die from any and all food stuffs, any food containers or utensils, ties make great nooses, and never take a cup of tea or coffee from anyone on the Valiant. The most exciting way to die was by Toclafane though. It was like playing Russian Roulette with them, and they were always so gleeful when I died and came back, they thought me a novelty, something special to play with, and did so often.
I'm a broken doll for all they did. Blades piercing my skin, my eyes, my skull my abdomen, everywhere, a pincushion while I scream to a temporary respite, only for it to begin again.
You can't flirt with a Toclafane I discovered, after I'd attempted to get out of being killed. I wonder sometimes if I'm insane, my thoughts run willy nilly in my head, and I wake up with my fingers drumming on my chest and a scream on my lips. I don't sleep anymore.
I scream and scream and scream, but no one hears, I can't even hear myself. No one knows my pain, but for two, and they think I'm fine. I'm a fantastic liar, but my Ianto saw through it. What does that say about The Doctor? I want to curse his title, scream that he should have died with the rest of Gallifrey, should have never gone to Utopia. I can't. I waited too long to resent a trip. I didn't wait long enough to avoid spending a year with a madman and the future of the human race.
Water just dripped onto the book, but we don't have a leak. I reach up and my eyes are wet. I don't know when I started crying. I don't know why I'm still writing, still living, still wishing for more. I know why I live, but I don't want to live so long, I'll lose everything, and then I'm alone again. A lonely old man loosed to the Earth. Do I deserve this immortality? Can I give it back to ensure no one will die? - End
Ianto's just walked in, and he's looking concerned, because I'm crying and the pencil lays in pieces on my journal that wasn't, and it's all I can do to cling to my Ianto, my beautiful Welshman. I thank God he's here while I dampen his suit with my tears.
I wanted to write more, to tell him all, but the way he looks as he reads, thinking I'm asleep, says I've written too much. His skin is ashen, and when he closes the book, he holds me again, and mutters such a dark oath of revenge that I feel safe again. Maybe the journal did me some good, because I think I can sleep now, and not dream of my past.