Torchwood fic, Stages of Grief, PG
Disclaimer: not mine
Characters: Denise Riley, Alice Carter, Johnson, Lois Habiba, Gwen Cooper, Rhiannon Davies, Bridget Spears
Pairings referenced: Gwen/Rhys
Length: 4,000
Genre: gen, angst, post-episode
Rating: PG, language, reference to death, minor violence
Set: post-Children of Earth, spoilers for the whole lot.
Notes: I originally just had the Gwen and Rhi bit, and then it sort of shifted to include the rest. This is not as grief-stricken as the title suggests.
Summary: Life has to go on, even if you don't want it to.
Stages of Grief
by ALC Punk!
1. Denial
It had been her children that came first, in the end. Not that Denise Riley would admit such a thing to the press. Her children and the future of her country. It had allowed her to be ruthless, to be as corrupt as some thought politicians to be.
Luckily, no one thought to ask the right questions, afterwards. And no one looked askance at her hugging her daughters.
It was easy to deny anything and everything. She had Green to take the visible fall for the way things had gone, and she had Bridget to help her concoct half a dozen lies and half-truths to feed to the media. Every outlet got a different story from their own contacts, and the confusion spread.
No one knew the truth of things, not enough to piece it all together, anyway. Plausible deniability was on their side, though the history books might record something else entirely.
Besides, the sensational murder-suicide of a member of the Home Office grabbed national headlines (the body found by a friend of the family, who broke down in hysterics twice on television). Denise had given a quiet speech, letting the country know that Frobisher had been a hard-working man and loving father.
She'd taken no questions, at the time.
In truth, she'd barely known the man; Bridget had coached her, the resolve in her eyes wavering only once.
Running a country that's just come under siege--never mind that the whole world had been under threat--was a bit different than she'd planned for her first few days as prime minister. There were meetings, phone calls, so much paperwork that Denise thought she and her assistant would drown in it before they're half through. But they managed; she learned to delegate, to hand things over to someone else.
Getting a phone call from Her Majesty had been a bit of a facer, though. Denise had had to sit for a while, her tea growing cold while she pondered the fact that Green had made her task harder by resigning.
Someone had let slip that Torchwood had been under threat of assassination, and She hadn't been happy about that. There were many things about the recent handling of the situation She hadn't been pleased with. Denise had listened, interjecting only when she could.
It was funny. It wasn't as though the royal family truly had any power anymore, and yet one phone call could leave her feeling as though she'd been brought up before a firing squad.
Denise gave herself ten minutes to recover, and then got back to work. There was a memo which needed to go out, and a phone call owed to the remnants of Torchwood, assuring their safety and giving them the right to conduct their affairs as they saw fit.
-==-
2. Anger
Alice drank tea. Milk, sugar, stirring until the movement was a blur. She let it grow cold while she stared into it.
It was hard to care about cold tea, hard to focus on it when her mind kept coming back to reality.
Back to Steven.
The cup dropped from her fingers, smashing against the tiles. The sound pulled her out of her thoughts and she looked down. Fifth cup this week, and she almost laughed at how she was keeping score.
Her mother had never told her how to survive this sort of thing. Her mother had drilled other things into her head. Your father is dangerous. Torchwood is hell. She'd taken all of that to heart; even at a young age she'd viewed her father with a sense of displeasure.
It was as though he didn't care, as though he saw life from a different perspective. When she was young, that was intoxicating.
Let's play pretend with a fairy tale knight. Her hands moved to clean up the shards of the china, the tea getting her fingers wet before she remembered there were such things as cloths and dustbins.
The kitchen pristine again, she gave a brief thought to what Steven would like for dinner.
Her hands clenched on the sink as she remembered it wouldn't matter. He was never coming back. Her sweet, adorable boy. And she'd held him lifeless in her arms.
The first dish broke against the baseboard. A second and third followed swiftly, shattering against the wall.
Alice turned away from the destruction and fought down the sobs that threatened.
The doorbell rang, and she ignored it. Probably the post, or another Concerned Neighbor with condolences. Barely a week and she was fucking tired of condolences, pity and sympathetic nonsense.
No, it would not all get better. No, she was not going to forget.
The bell went again and Alice threw the mug that had been on the drying rack.
Silence descended and she slumped, leaning against the counter. Being angry drained her as much as sobbing over Steven did. Alice rubbed a hand over her face and tried to think. The fog in her brain wasn't really ready to clear, but she managed it anyway.
Broken glass crunched under her shoes, and she went to the pantry for the broom.
A crash jerked her head up and she slipped behind the door of the pantry, adrenaline rushing through her.
There.
Someone was in the kitchen, keeping low and using one side of the wall for inadequate cover. Alice stared at them for a moment before stepping out into the open. "Aliens aren't invading my cabinets."
Johnson straightened up, the gun in her hand slipping back out of sight. "Alice. I thought I heard breaking glass."
Ignoring her for the moment, Alice began using the broom. The glass crunched under both their feet.
"You didn't answer the bell."
"I thought you were the postman." Alice replied. She shoved the pile of broken crockery into a corner and stepped back. "This is becoming a habit."
Johnson didn't answer that.
The other woman was an unwelcome reminder of everything she'd lost. Alice ached to hate her, but she hadn't made the choice. Not in the end. He had. She swallowed and moved to turn the electric kettle on.
"If he had said no, would you have the 456 win?"
Not the question she should ask, not ever. Alice pulled two mugs from the cupboard, moving mechanically as she got the milk from the refrigerator and the tea from a shelf.
"That's not a fair question."
"Isn't it?"
Johnson put her hands on the counter and shook her head, "Alice, I never wanted--"
"Protect the state at all costs," Alice snapped. "You told me that. Steven was a cost you could afford."
A breath blew out of her, and Johnson pushed away from the counter. "Yes. If Captain Harkness wasn't cooperative, there was nothing we could do."
Feeling a grim satisfaction, Alice went to the sink to rinse her hands. "My son had to die to save the world."
It was a horrible thing to hear out loud.
"Yes."
Johnson didn't flinch when Alice threw another mug at the wall. She stood there, watching Alice, waiting to see if the next projectile would be aimed her way.
Was she cracking up? Alice couldn't decide as she stood there, shaking with anger and despair. "How can you just stand there? You should be walking away, mouthing platitudes about how it was his duty to die for his country--"
"You said you'd kill me, once. Are you going to?"
"Give me a gun."
"No."
Alice turned off the water, turning away and leaning over the sink. She wanted to be sick. She wanted to be able to grab onto Johnson and shake her until her teeth fell out. "My son. You let him kill my son."
"Yes."
"And now you're here to gloat."
Johnson made a noise and her steps crunched on the floor, stray glass embedded in the treads of her boots. "Alice. I don't know why I'm here. Not anymore."
There was something in her voice, something almost like sympathy. It was too much. Alice felt herself crack, the trembling turning into a deep sob that made her clutch at the sink.
Some sense told her Johnson was close enough to touch, and she turned. "Don't touch me."
"I won't."
The tears came then, fast and hot and full of so much pain Alice thought she might break apart. She wrapped her arms around herself and sobbed, nearly screaming out her anguish in the middle of a kitchen full of sunlight. Johnson was the only observer, passive and silent from the middle of the floor.
-==-
3. Bargaining
"So what's going to happen to Torchwood?" Lois wasn't entirely sure it was the sort of question she should be asking. Not yet, at least. She wasn't even sure what her standing was in the the new administration. But Ms. Riley had freed her, and told her to go back to work.
It wasn't merely the new computer system she was learning, now.
Ms. Spears looked up from her desk. The thing was mostly empty now, Bridget having been given a slightly better job. Permanent Secretary might not have been a post she'd ever aspired to, but with the death of Mr. Frobisher, someone had to fill the shoes he'd left behind.
Some had thought it should go to someone else entirely, but Ms. Riley had waved a magic wand there, as well. She'd claimed to need someone she could understand in charge, and Bridget fit her bill.
"I believe the charter is being re-written slightly. And there's a rumor the military are taking over the excavation of their secret base." Bridget finished packing her last box and looked at Lois. "Ms. Cooper will be calling shortly about that. Make sure to tell her we'll get back to her."
Just another little petty waste of Gwen's time. Lois wasn't sure if Bridget was doing it on purpose, or if she in some way blamed Gwen for Frobisher. "Yes, Ms. Spears. Are the military going to take over from Torchwood?"
"Asking too many questions is not your job."
Lois felt her face fall a little before she remembered facing down the Prime Minister. Her chin firmed. "Then maybe this isn't the job for me."
"Oh? What makes you say that?"
"All of this secrecy, it's--I don't mean keeping it from the general public, mind. But the rest of this. Secrets within secrets. Files that no one knows about--how is this helping?" Lois wasn't really sure why she was pursuing the line of questioning.
"Secrets have kept this government running for hundreds of years. I don't think they'll stop now."
"No. No, I suppose not." Deflating a little, Lois tapped a finger on her keyboard, then met Bridget's gaze. "I'm not going to stop asking, you know. If I'd kept quiet--"
"Frobisher might still be alive."
"No." This was something she was sure of. Lois shook her head, "It wouldn't have changed anything. But Torchwood wouldn't have been unable to stop them."
Bridget's face froze and she seemed almost inhuman for a moment. Until Lois saw the sadness deep in her eyes. "Perhaps you're right. Perhaps this isn't the job for you."
"Are you firing me?"
Turning away, Bridget picked up her box and moved into the inner office. "No," she replied, her voice drifting out of the other room, "I'm recommending you to Torchwood."
Shocked, Lois got up and followed her. "I don't understand."
"You're too inquisitive. I don't need a girl asking twenty questions for every decision I make--even if it would keep me honest." Ms. Spears sat down behind her desk, hands brushing over it. "You'll stay until I find a trainable replacement. I expect a full amount of work from you--this will be a difficult transition for all of us."
"I know." Uncertain what she was feeling, Lois sank into one of the guest chairs opposite the desk. "What if they won't have me?"
"Oh, I have the feeling they will." Bridget almost smiled. "Now get back to work, Lois. We've got a long haul ahead of us."
Jumping to her feet, Lois beamed, still not sure that she was happy, but willing to give herself time to think about it. "Yes, Ms. Spears."
-==-
4. Depression
Grief had always been an awkward thing for Gwen. Blotchy complexion, snot, salt in her hair--she was never the delicate type, even in that regard. She tried not to think about Rhys's blood on her hands, so warm and sticky while the pain ripped through her in a way she couldn't describe and never wanted to feel again. It never happened, of course. But Tosh had, Tosh with her brilliance and her wit, dead eyes staring at nothing I don't think I can go on. Gwen had said.
And Owen. Owen was different, too, twisting somewhere deep in her gut that doubled the ache from Tosh.
But she had gone on. She'd pushed herself into work, into living (into Rhys, who was something else to cling to that was real and untainted with evil).
Ianto's sister was provincial and stolid, but she had more right to grief than Gwen. You didn't really know him at all. had hurt, but it had been true, in a way. Gwen didn't like to think about how little she'd known Ianto outside of work. She'd wanted to believe that she was better than that, that living through the things they had made them closer than strangers who just happened to work together.
Then again, grief wasn't really something that should have rights.
Standing at Ianto's grave side, the air was cold and clear around Gwen, almost spring-like. She felt old as she joined Rhiannon, who'd been standing there before her. Gwen had almost turned back, but her footsteps would have been recognizable as more than animals scurrying around, and she'd never flinched from danger before.
The dirt wasn't so fresh anymore--it was a blur during the funeral, a scar that reflected the world around her. At the time she'd barely noticed anyone else--lost, Jack run away, Torchwood crumpled around her ears, locked inside her own grief. It was easier to block everything else out.
There would be no Ianto to help set things to rights in the new Hub (if there was a new Hub, no one at Whitehall or the Home Office was returning her calls). No Tosh to get the computers back up--
"Do we have the government to thank?" Rhiannon's voice was harsh, jarring Gwen from too many thoughts.
It took her a moment to work out Rhiannon's question, and she almost winced when she did. "The Crown." Gwen stumbled for a moment. Explaining about the cost of casket and John Doe body wasn't something she really wanted to do, not to someone who wouldn't understand why her brother's body wasn't there.
Someone had left a huge basket of multi-colored flowers by the headstone. The white carnation in her hand was suddenly inadequate as a tribute to a man she'd considered a friend.
"We didn't need it."
Gwen reached up to wipe her eyes. "Yeah. Didn't matter. Services rendered, dying in the line of fire--" she choked on the last. Bloody line of fire her ass. There was nothing heroic about Jack's foolhardy gambit, the American idiocy that had seen him brandish a pea-shooter at an alien with biological weapons at their finger-tips. She's thought about the people who died in Thames House as a result since, but only tangentially. The casualty lists had just seemed like a dream, but they weren't of course.
More consequences. There should have been a better way.
"How bloody wonderful. Do you all get mealy-mouthed shit to say to grieving relatives? Is there a handbook?"
Gwen knew it was healthy to lash out, that she'd done it herself. It didn't make it any easier to take, when she was being honest in her sympathy. Then again, she hoped she never got used to standing at grave sides with grieving family members. "He always looked smart--carnation in his buttonhole, and all," she babbled, moving to kneel by the headstone.
From down here, Gwen could smell the riot of color in the basket. Close her eyes and it would simply be a cool spring day. She didn't close her eyes as she set the carnation down.
She'd been right: it didn't look good sat next to the basket, the riot of color overwhelming the austerity of the carnation. Picking it up again would feel stupid, so she didn't.
"He hated 'em. Said they reminded him of Dad too much."
Rhiannon sounded less bitter, and Gwen closed her eyes for a moment. Spring filled her senses before she snapped the lids open. "You were right. I didn't know him as well as all that--we saw so much, I thought... I didn't even know he hated ice cream."
"I sometimes wondered if he remembered us, in his big glass office and suits," Rhiannon said eventually, after the silence had stretched for too long, Gwen's awkward little confession hanging between them. Her tone still wasn't very friendly.
"He had a photo of you and the kids--not at first, but then something happened. There was a thing, and I think he needed something to hold onto, y'know?" Gwen was babbling again, but she didn't want Rhiannon to despise her. Not without a better reason, at least.
After Lisa, Ianto had spent weeks angry at them all. Even now, Gwen wondered if they could have saved her. A photo had appeared on his workspace after the incident in the country. Washed-out and a little blurry, the snap had spoken of a happiness that seemed to glow from the paper.
The photo was lost with the Hub and too many memories, now.
"A photo." Rhiannon sniffled. "There was a party--didn't think he'd come. Not with his new job in London and all. Then, there he was, big as life, all smiles and awkward round the kids."
Ianto hadn't worked long for Torchwood One. Gwen wondered about the timing, if he'd already got Lisa hooked up to some power source at the time, of if the party had been before then. Back when Ianto was still innocent.
"I don't like you." Rhiannon's abrupt statement made Gwen flinch a little. "What you did, it was nice, but I don't like you. So, in future, you stay away from this grave, yeah?"
Stay away... Gwen stood up and nodded. Maybe Jack would have had glib words to disarm with. It didn't matter. She could still visit Ianto anytime she wanted, once the morgue was in working order. He'd be stored in a labeled box like Tosh.
"Yeah. Yeah, I can do that." With those words, Gwen left.
There wasn't anything else to say, and she had a life to get going again.
Last time, she hadn't been certain how she'd go on. This time, Gwen couldn't even consider stopping. Torchwood had a purpose, and she was all that was left. She'd make Jack proud of her when he returned.
-==-
5. Acceptance
In many ways, Bridget Spears went on with her life as though nothing had happened. Frobisher and his family were dead, Steven Carter was dead, but life went on. None of them effected her--not really. A part of her hated the loss of Frobisher, though she understood the position he'd been in (a part of her missed him more than she wanted to admit). It hadn't been hard to guess, to work out what Green had deemed Frobisher's role in things to be.
A part of her wanted to be sick at the loss of life, at the way they'd almost destroyed their world. She'd gotten some of her own back, delivering Green into Denise Riley's hands in a manner that would have made Mr. Frobisher smile, just a little.
You couldn't have things like morality in the civil service. Bridget had known that even as she'd typed angrily at her keyboard, sealing the deaths of four people (even if the fourth had survived beyond all reason).
People were dead, whether by her hand or Green's, it didn't matter. They were just as dead if Bridget had held a gun to their heads. But it wasn't something she was planning to dwell on. She had bigger things to deal with now she'd had a change of jobs.
The desk and office weren't what she'd expected, but Riley had demanded someone who knew the job take over. Someone she could trust, and Denise Riley thought Bridget was on her side.
It wasn't Bridget's place to correct her (Dekker had been right about one thing: elected officials came and went).
Riley had given her another task, as well. Staring across the desk at Agent Johnson, Bridget wondered if this was how Frobisher had felt, the first time a member of UNIT had sat there.
"Are we going to be censured?" Johnson looked as though she didn't care whether her insubordination had consequences. And perhaps she didn't, if only for herself. Her people might be another matter, soldiers following orders couldn't be held accountable, after all.
"No. The history books might be rather sketchy on matters, but you did as you thought you should, and we won." Flipping open the file on top, Bridget pushed it across to Johnson, "You're here to receive your new assignment."
Silence reigned as Johnson read the memorandum. Bridget saw no need for conversation until she was done and busied herself with a report from one of the media conglomerates. Rumors of slave-trafficking were making the rounds. Bridget made a notation to give a friend of hers a call, make certain he knew the truth of the matter, give it a bit of an "America's problem" spin.
"Construction work isn't what we were trained for." Johnson's objection was dry and firm.
"I should think keeping Wales safe from whatever's being unearthed down in Cardiff was exactly wht you were all trained for," Bridget shot back. "No one save possibly Jack Harkness has a clear idea of what was stored in the vaults of the Torchwood Hub. It's your job to find out, hopefully in time to keep it from destroying the world."
"And Cooper?"
"She knows the value of keeping the truth from the general public--I don't think you'll need to question her patriotism at this date." Aware of the sarcasm in her voice, Bridget paused, then added, "You're to answer to her unless you believe the situation warrants otherwise."
Obviously not satisfied, Johnson set the folder down. Being answerable to a civilian probably grated on her, and that was without the complication of having been under orders to kill said civilian. Bridget could appreciate that irony; she wasn't sure Johnson could. "All right. Does Cooper know?"
"She will soon. The new P. M. will be contacting her about taking on your services, as a 'thank you' for averting this world crisis." Folding her hands, Bridget raised her eyebrows, "I'd like you to make regular reports. I want our databases kept current with what Torchwood has locked away."
"I'll assign Foster. She loves archive work."
"Good. I wish you luck on your new assignment, then."
Taking her dismissal cue, Johnson stood and held out a hand. "Thank you for not demoting the lot of us."
"You're too valuable to let all of that training go to waste."
Johnson nodded once, then left.
Settling back behind her desk, Bridget replayed the encounter for a moment, making a few swift notes on Johnson's file. Then she closed it and returned to the job of solving the multiple crises that had been shelved during the recent alien invasion.
Hopefully, Lois would find a replacement soon and Bridget would be able to get her other problem off her hands.
-f-
Characters: Denise Riley, Alice Carter, Johnson, Lois Habiba, Gwen Cooper, Rhiannon Davies, Bridget Spears
Pairings referenced: Gwen/Rhys
Length: 4,000
Genre: gen, angst, post-episode
Rating: PG, language, reference to death, minor violence
Set: post-Children of Earth, spoilers for the whole lot.
Notes: I originally just had the Gwen and Rhi bit, and then it sort of shifted to include the rest. This is not as grief-stricken as the title suggests.
Summary: Life has to go on, even if you don't want it to.
Stages of Grief
by ALC Punk!
1. Denial
It had been her children that came first, in the end. Not that Denise Riley would admit such a thing to the press. Her children and the future of her country. It had allowed her to be ruthless, to be as corrupt as some thought politicians to be.
Luckily, no one thought to ask the right questions, afterwards. And no one looked askance at her hugging her daughters.
It was easy to deny anything and everything. She had Green to take the visible fall for the way things had gone, and she had Bridget to help her concoct half a dozen lies and half-truths to feed to the media. Every outlet got a different story from their own contacts, and the confusion spread.
No one knew the truth of things, not enough to piece it all together, anyway. Plausible deniability was on their side, though the history books might record something else entirely.
Besides, the sensational murder-suicide of a member of the Home Office grabbed national headlines (the body found by a friend of the family, who broke down in hysterics twice on television). Denise had given a quiet speech, letting the country know that Frobisher had been a hard-working man and loving father.
She'd taken no questions, at the time.
In truth, she'd barely known the man; Bridget had coached her, the resolve in her eyes wavering only once.
Running a country that's just come under siege--never mind that the whole world had been under threat--was a bit different than she'd planned for her first few days as prime minister. There were meetings, phone calls, so much paperwork that Denise thought she and her assistant would drown in it before they're half through. But they managed; she learned to delegate, to hand things over to someone else.
Getting a phone call from Her Majesty had been a bit of a facer, though. Denise had had to sit for a while, her tea growing cold while she pondered the fact that Green had made her task harder by resigning.
Someone had let slip that Torchwood had been under threat of assassination, and She hadn't been happy about that. There were many things about the recent handling of the situation She hadn't been pleased with. Denise had listened, interjecting only when she could.
It was funny. It wasn't as though the royal family truly had any power anymore, and yet one phone call could leave her feeling as though she'd been brought up before a firing squad.
Denise gave herself ten minutes to recover, and then got back to work. There was a memo which needed to go out, and a phone call owed to the remnants of Torchwood, assuring their safety and giving them the right to conduct their affairs as they saw fit.
-==-
2. Anger
Alice drank tea. Milk, sugar, stirring until the movement was a blur. She let it grow cold while she stared into it.
It was hard to care about cold tea, hard to focus on it when her mind kept coming back to reality.
Back to Steven.
The cup dropped from her fingers, smashing against the tiles. The sound pulled her out of her thoughts and she looked down. Fifth cup this week, and she almost laughed at how she was keeping score.
Her mother had never told her how to survive this sort of thing. Her mother had drilled other things into her head. Your father is dangerous. Torchwood is hell. She'd taken all of that to heart; even at a young age she'd viewed her father with a sense of displeasure.
It was as though he didn't care, as though he saw life from a different perspective. When she was young, that was intoxicating.
Let's play pretend with a fairy tale knight. Her hands moved to clean up the shards of the china, the tea getting her fingers wet before she remembered there were such things as cloths and dustbins.
The kitchen pristine again, she gave a brief thought to what Steven would like for dinner.
Her hands clenched on the sink as she remembered it wouldn't matter. He was never coming back. Her sweet, adorable boy. And she'd held him lifeless in her arms.
The first dish broke against the baseboard. A second and third followed swiftly, shattering against the wall.
Alice turned away from the destruction and fought down the sobs that threatened.
The doorbell rang, and she ignored it. Probably the post, or another Concerned Neighbor with condolences. Barely a week and she was fucking tired of condolences, pity and sympathetic nonsense.
No, it would not all get better. No, she was not going to forget.
The bell went again and Alice threw the mug that had been on the drying rack.
Silence descended and she slumped, leaning against the counter. Being angry drained her as much as sobbing over Steven did. Alice rubbed a hand over her face and tried to think. The fog in her brain wasn't really ready to clear, but she managed it anyway.
Broken glass crunched under her shoes, and she went to the pantry for the broom.
A crash jerked her head up and she slipped behind the door of the pantry, adrenaline rushing through her.
There.
Someone was in the kitchen, keeping low and using one side of the wall for inadequate cover. Alice stared at them for a moment before stepping out into the open. "Aliens aren't invading my cabinets."
Johnson straightened up, the gun in her hand slipping back out of sight. "Alice. I thought I heard breaking glass."
Ignoring her for the moment, Alice began using the broom. The glass crunched under both their feet.
"You didn't answer the bell."
"I thought you were the postman." Alice replied. She shoved the pile of broken crockery into a corner and stepped back. "This is becoming a habit."
Johnson didn't answer that.
The other woman was an unwelcome reminder of everything she'd lost. Alice ached to hate her, but she hadn't made the choice. Not in the end. He had. She swallowed and moved to turn the electric kettle on.
"If he had said no, would you have the 456 win?"
Not the question she should ask, not ever. Alice pulled two mugs from the cupboard, moving mechanically as she got the milk from the refrigerator and the tea from a shelf.
"That's not a fair question."
"Isn't it?"
Johnson put her hands on the counter and shook her head, "Alice, I never wanted--"
"Protect the state at all costs," Alice snapped. "You told me that. Steven was a cost you could afford."
A breath blew out of her, and Johnson pushed away from the counter. "Yes. If Captain Harkness wasn't cooperative, there was nothing we could do."
Feeling a grim satisfaction, Alice went to the sink to rinse her hands. "My son had to die to save the world."
It was a horrible thing to hear out loud.
"Yes."
Johnson didn't flinch when Alice threw another mug at the wall. She stood there, watching Alice, waiting to see if the next projectile would be aimed her way.
Was she cracking up? Alice couldn't decide as she stood there, shaking with anger and despair. "How can you just stand there? You should be walking away, mouthing platitudes about how it was his duty to die for his country--"
"You said you'd kill me, once. Are you going to?"
"Give me a gun."
"No."
Alice turned off the water, turning away and leaning over the sink. She wanted to be sick. She wanted to be able to grab onto Johnson and shake her until her teeth fell out. "My son. You let him kill my son."
"Yes."
"And now you're here to gloat."
Johnson made a noise and her steps crunched on the floor, stray glass embedded in the treads of her boots. "Alice. I don't know why I'm here. Not anymore."
There was something in her voice, something almost like sympathy. It was too much. Alice felt herself crack, the trembling turning into a deep sob that made her clutch at the sink.
Some sense told her Johnson was close enough to touch, and she turned. "Don't touch me."
"I won't."
The tears came then, fast and hot and full of so much pain Alice thought she might break apart. She wrapped her arms around herself and sobbed, nearly screaming out her anguish in the middle of a kitchen full of sunlight. Johnson was the only observer, passive and silent from the middle of the floor.
-==-
3. Bargaining
"So what's going to happen to Torchwood?" Lois wasn't entirely sure it was the sort of question she should be asking. Not yet, at least. She wasn't even sure what her standing was in the the new administration. But Ms. Riley had freed her, and told her to go back to work.
It wasn't merely the new computer system she was learning, now.
Ms. Spears looked up from her desk. The thing was mostly empty now, Bridget having been given a slightly better job. Permanent Secretary might not have been a post she'd ever aspired to, but with the death of Mr. Frobisher, someone had to fill the shoes he'd left behind.
Some had thought it should go to someone else entirely, but Ms. Riley had waved a magic wand there, as well. She'd claimed to need someone she could understand in charge, and Bridget fit her bill.
"I believe the charter is being re-written slightly. And there's a rumor the military are taking over the excavation of their secret base." Bridget finished packing her last box and looked at Lois. "Ms. Cooper will be calling shortly about that. Make sure to tell her we'll get back to her."
Just another little petty waste of Gwen's time. Lois wasn't sure if Bridget was doing it on purpose, or if she in some way blamed Gwen for Frobisher. "Yes, Ms. Spears. Are the military going to take over from Torchwood?"
"Asking too many questions is not your job."
Lois felt her face fall a little before she remembered facing down the Prime Minister. Her chin firmed. "Then maybe this isn't the job for me."
"Oh? What makes you say that?"
"All of this secrecy, it's--I don't mean keeping it from the general public, mind. But the rest of this. Secrets within secrets. Files that no one knows about--how is this helping?" Lois wasn't really sure why she was pursuing the line of questioning.
"Secrets have kept this government running for hundreds of years. I don't think they'll stop now."
"No. No, I suppose not." Deflating a little, Lois tapped a finger on her keyboard, then met Bridget's gaze. "I'm not going to stop asking, you know. If I'd kept quiet--"
"Frobisher might still be alive."
"No." This was something she was sure of. Lois shook her head, "It wouldn't have changed anything. But Torchwood wouldn't have been unable to stop them."
Bridget's face froze and she seemed almost inhuman for a moment. Until Lois saw the sadness deep in her eyes. "Perhaps you're right. Perhaps this isn't the job for you."
"Are you firing me?"
Turning away, Bridget picked up her box and moved into the inner office. "No," she replied, her voice drifting out of the other room, "I'm recommending you to Torchwood."
Shocked, Lois got up and followed her. "I don't understand."
"You're too inquisitive. I don't need a girl asking twenty questions for every decision I make--even if it would keep me honest." Ms. Spears sat down behind her desk, hands brushing over it. "You'll stay until I find a trainable replacement. I expect a full amount of work from you--this will be a difficult transition for all of us."
"I know." Uncertain what she was feeling, Lois sank into one of the guest chairs opposite the desk. "What if they won't have me?"
"Oh, I have the feeling they will." Bridget almost smiled. "Now get back to work, Lois. We've got a long haul ahead of us."
Jumping to her feet, Lois beamed, still not sure that she was happy, but willing to give herself time to think about it. "Yes, Ms. Spears."
-==-
4. Depression
Grief had always been an awkward thing for Gwen. Blotchy complexion, snot, salt in her hair--she was never the delicate type, even in that regard. She tried not to think about Rhys's blood on her hands, so warm and sticky while the pain ripped through her in a way she couldn't describe and never wanted to feel again. It never happened, of course. But Tosh had, Tosh with her brilliance and her wit, dead eyes staring at nothing I don't think I can go on. Gwen had said.
And Owen. Owen was different, too, twisting somewhere deep in her gut that doubled the ache from Tosh.
But she had gone on. She'd pushed herself into work, into living (into Rhys, who was something else to cling to that was real and untainted with evil).
Ianto's sister was provincial and stolid, but she had more right to grief than Gwen. You didn't really know him at all. had hurt, but it had been true, in a way. Gwen didn't like to think about how little she'd known Ianto outside of work. She'd wanted to believe that she was better than that, that living through the things they had made them closer than strangers who just happened to work together.
Then again, grief wasn't really something that should have rights.
Standing at Ianto's grave side, the air was cold and clear around Gwen, almost spring-like. She felt old as she joined Rhiannon, who'd been standing there before her. Gwen had almost turned back, but her footsteps would have been recognizable as more than animals scurrying around, and she'd never flinched from danger before.
The dirt wasn't so fresh anymore--it was a blur during the funeral, a scar that reflected the world around her. At the time she'd barely noticed anyone else--lost, Jack run away, Torchwood crumpled around her ears, locked inside her own grief. It was easier to block everything else out.
There would be no Ianto to help set things to rights in the new Hub (if there was a new Hub, no one at Whitehall or the Home Office was returning her calls). No Tosh to get the computers back up--
"Do we have the government to thank?" Rhiannon's voice was harsh, jarring Gwen from too many thoughts.
It took her a moment to work out Rhiannon's question, and she almost winced when she did. "The Crown." Gwen stumbled for a moment. Explaining about the cost of casket and John Doe body wasn't something she really wanted to do, not to someone who wouldn't understand why her brother's body wasn't there.
Someone had left a huge basket of multi-colored flowers by the headstone. The white carnation in her hand was suddenly inadequate as a tribute to a man she'd considered a friend.
"We didn't need it."
Gwen reached up to wipe her eyes. "Yeah. Didn't matter. Services rendered, dying in the line of fire--" she choked on the last. Bloody line of fire her ass. There was nothing heroic about Jack's foolhardy gambit, the American idiocy that had seen him brandish a pea-shooter at an alien with biological weapons at their finger-tips. She's thought about the people who died in Thames House as a result since, but only tangentially. The casualty lists had just seemed like a dream, but they weren't of course.
More consequences. There should have been a better way.
"How bloody wonderful. Do you all get mealy-mouthed shit to say to grieving relatives? Is there a handbook?"
Gwen knew it was healthy to lash out, that she'd done it herself. It didn't make it any easier to take, when she was being honest in her sympathy. Then again, she hoped she never got used to standing at grave sides with grieving family members. "He always looked smart--carnation in his buttonhole, and all," she babbled, moving to kneel by the headstone.
From down here, Gwen could smell the riot of color in the basket. Close her eyes and it would simply be a cool spring day. She didn't close her eyes as she set the carnation down.
She'd been right: it didn't look good sat next to the basket, the riot of color overwhelming the austerity of the carnation. Picking it up again would feel stupid, so she didn't.
"He hated 'em. Said they reminded him of Dad too much."
Rhiannon sounded less bitter, and Gwen closed her eyes for a moment. Spring filled her senses before she snapped the lids open. "You were right. I didn't know him as well as all that--we saw so much, I thought... I didn't even know he hated ice cream."
"I sometimes wondered if he remembered us, in his big glass office and suits," Rhiannon said eventually, after the silence had stretched for too long, Gwen's awkward little confession hanging between them. Her tone still wasn't very friendly.
"He had a photo of you and the kids--not at first, but then something happened. There was a thing, and I think he needed something to hold onto, y'know?" Gwen was babbling again, but she didn't want Rhiannon to despise her. Not without a better reason, at least.
After Lisa, Ianto had spent weeks angry at them all. Even now, Gwen wondered if they could have saved her. A photo had appeared on his workspace after the incident in the country. Washed-out and a little blurry, the snap had spoken of a happiness that seemed to glow from the paper.
The photo was lost with the Hub and too many memories, now.
"A photo." Rhiannon sniffled. "There was a party--didn't think he'd come. Not with his new job in London and all. Then, there he was, big as life, all smiles and awkward round the kids."
Ianto hadn't worked long for Torchwood One. Gwen wondered about the timing, if he'd already got Lisa hooked up to some power source at the time, of if the party had been before then. Back when Ianto was still innocent.
"I don't like you." Rhiannon's abrupt statement made Gwen flinch a little. "What you did, it was nice, but I don't like you. So, in future, you stay away from this grave, yeah?"
Stay away... Gwen stood up and nodded. Maybe Jack would have had glib words to disarm with. It didn't matter. She could still visit Ianto anytime she wanted, once the morgue was in working order. He'd be stored in a labeled box like Tosh.
"Yeah. Yeah, I can do that." With those words, Gwen left.
There wasn't anything else to say, and she had a life to get going again.
Last time, she hadn't been certain how she'd go on. This time, Gwen couldn't even consider stopping. Torchwood had a purpose, and she was all that was left. She'd make Jack proud of her when he returned.
-==-
5. Acceptance
In many ways, Bridget Spears went on with her life as though nothing had happened. Frobisher and his family were dead, Steven Carter was dead, but life went on. None of them effected her--not really. A part of her hated the loss of Frobisher, though she understood the position he'd been in (a part of her missed him more than she wanted to admit). It hadn't been hard to guess, to work out what Green had deemed Frobisher's role in things to be.
A part of her wanted to be sick at the loss of life, at the way they'd almost destroyed their world. She'd gotten some of her own back, delivering Green into Denise Riley's hands in a manner that would have made Mr. Frobisher smile, just a little.
You couldn't have things like morality in the civil service. Bridget had known that even as she'd typed angrily at her keyboard, sealing the deaths of four people (even if the fourth had survived beyond all reason).
People were dead, whether by her hand or Green's, it didn't matter. They were just as dead if Bridget had held a gun to their heads. But it wasn't something she was planning to dwell on. She had bigger things to deal with now she'd had a change of jobs.
The desk and office weren't what she'd expected, but Riley had demanded someone who knew the job take over. Someone she could trust, and Denise Riley thought Bridget was on her side.
It wasn't Bridget's place to correct her (Dekker had been right about one thing: elected officials came and went).
Riley had given her another task, as well. Staring across the desk at Agent Johnson, Bridget wondered if this was how Frobisher had felt, the first time a member of UNIT had sat there.
"Are we going to be censured?" Johnson looked as though she didn't care whether her insubordination had consequences. And perhaps she didn't, if only for herself. Her people might be another matter, soldiers following orders couldn't be held accountable, after all.
"No. The history books might be rather sketchy on matters, but you did as you thought you should, and we won." Flipping open the file on top, Bridget pushed it across to Johnson, "You're here to receive your new assignment."
Silence reigned as Johnson read the memorandum. Bridget saw no need for conversation until she was done and busied herself with a report from one of the media conglomerates. Rumors of slave-trafficking were making the rounds. Bridget made a notation to give a friend of hers a call, make certain he knew the truth of the matter, give it a bit of an "America's problem" spin.
"Construction work isn't what we were trained for." Johnson's objection was dry and firm.
"I should think keeping Wales safe from whatever's being unearthed down in Cardiff was exactly wht you were all trained for," Bridget shot back. "No one save possibly Jack Harkness has a clear idea of what was stored in the vaults of the Torchwood Hub. It's your job to find out, hopefully in time to keep it from destroying the world."
"And Cooper?"
"She knows the value of keeping the truth from the general public--I don't think you'll need to question her patriotism at this date." Aware of the sarcasm in her voice, Bridget paused, then added, "You're to answer to her unless you believe the situation warrants otherwise."
Obviously not satisfied, Johnson set the folder down. Being answerable to a civilian probably grated on her, and that was without the complication of having been under orders to kill said civilian. Bridget could appreciate that irony; she wasn't sure Johnson could. "All right. Does Cooper know?"
"She will soon. The new P. M. will be contacting her about taking on your services, as a 'thank you' for averting this world crisis." Folding her hands, Bridget raised her eyebrows, "I'd like you to make regular reports. I want our databases kept current with what Torchwood has locked away."
"I'll assign Foster. She loves archive work."
"Good. I wish you luck on your new assignment, then."
Taking her dismissal cue, Johnson stood and held out a hand. "Thank you for not demoting the lot of us."
"You're too valuable to let all of that training go to waste."
Johnson nodded once, then left.
Settling back behind her desk, Bridget replayed the encounter for a moment, making a few swift notes on Johnson's file. Then she closed it and returned to the job of solving the multiple crises that had been shelved during the recent alien invasion.
Hopefully, Lois would find a replacement soon and Bridget would be able to get her other problem off her hands.
-f-