One Shot: And I'll Be Gone
Title: And I'll Be Gone
Author: lookninjas
Characters: Ianto, Owen
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: Great big spoilers for 2.13, "Exit Wounds." Seriously, if you're trying to remain unspoiled, do not read.
Summary: Owen leaves a message of his own.
Notes: Big thanks to seize, who kept me from overdoing it.
Owen's refrigerator was completely empty, save for the envelope that had been tucked into the vegetable crisper, Ianto's name scrawled on it in the doctor's almost-indecipherable hand. It hadn't been sealed, of course; Owen never could stand the taste of the glue, probably the only thing he wouldn't willingly put in his mouth...
Ianto's breath caught, then, and he had to lean heavily on the refrigerator door for support.
It took a bit, but eventually he was able to open the envelope, his hands only shaking a little, and pull out the letter. Owen had typed out this final message, which was a relief, albeit a painful one. Ianto would never struggle over that terrible handwriting again, never have to ask what each scribble meant, never...
He closed his eyes, took a few deep breaths. Wallowing wouldn't help anything, it never did. He blinked the tears away and started to read.
Ianto --
Figured I'd better get around to writing one of these, as no one really knows when this "energy" or whatever it is is going to dissipate and leave me dead again. Deader. I don't know. Could be hours, days, weeks, years maybe. But I reckon it's best not to take the chance. Hope you're appropriately grateful.
I figure it's you and Jack doing this, probably, and you're the only one who'd think to clean out the fridge. Jack's probably got his nose in my porn stash. Speaking of, if Gwen drops by for sentimental reasons, keep her out of the bedroom, yeah? I know she's not got any ideas about my being some sort of pure, upstanding bloke, but there's a difference between knowing and seeing. If you can, smuggle that shit out and, you know, get rid of it. Some things I don't want to leave behind for future generations of Torchwood employees. Their loss, I know. It's just a weird thought. Suppose I could just get rid of it myself, like I've got rid of everything else, but... Sentimental reasons, I guess. Or just to make you uncomfortable. Whichever you choose.
There's some pictures I want Tosh to have --
Ianto choked back a sob, the letter falling to his side. This time, it took him a lot longer to gather the courage to keep reading.
There's some pictures I want Tosh to have; I'm sure you'll know which ones. Look after her for me, yeah? She's a good girl. She'll find someone, someone better for her than I would have been, but right now she's probably taking it badly. Guess I don't need to tell you that. Or tell you to look out for her. Just, you know, I did care. I do care. If I didn't, things would have been different. But she's too good for the likes of me. There'll be someone who deserves her, somewhere down the line.
Whatever I've got in the bank... give it to my mother, I guess. Haven't got a favorite charity, and she did spend a bit on me growing up, so I guess I'll just consider it repayment. All debts cleared away.
Obviously, most of my shit's getting locked in some storage facility. But do yourself a favor and take some of the CDs with you, yeah? Proper music. Not Super Furry Animals or Moby or whatever shit you listen to. It'll do you good.
Tell Jack he's an idiot.
On second thought, don't. Guess this isn't his fault, really. And I can't blame him for trying to keep the team together as long as possible. Wish he'd found a better way than by turning me into a zombie, but... welcome to Torchwood, I guess. We always fuck it up somehow. But for fuck's sake, if you find another glove (or a hat, or a scarf, or whatever), don't let him do it again, all right? Bloody exhausting, getting dragged back all the time.
Suppose there's no need to worry. You'll do what's best; you always do, or at least you try, and that's more than I can say for me.
Right, I'll wrap this up before it gets too soppy. Don't want you crying all over my last will and testament. Watch over the girls for me (and yes, I am including Jack in that one).
Cheers,
Owen.
P.S. -- Stop screwing Jack in the greenhouse. You're traumatizing my plants.
The laugh that escaped Ianto was followed by a sob, then another and another. He gave up entirely on trying to keep himself composed and just cried, clinging to the open refrigerator door for support. The letter fell to the floor unnoticed, one more thing to be picked up and packed away.
Author: lookninjas
Characters: Ianto, Owen
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: Great big spoilers for 2.13, "Exit Wounds." Seriously, if you're trying to remain unspoiled, do not read.
Summary: Owen leaves a message of his own.
Notes: Big thanks to seize, who kept me from overdoing it.
Owen's refrigerator was completely empty, save for the envelope that had been tucked into the vegetable crisper, Ianto's name scrawled on it in the doctor's almost-indecipherable hand. It hadn't been sealed, of course; Owen never could stand the taste of the glue, probably the only thing he wouldn't willingly put in his mouth...
Ianto's breath caught, then, and he had to lean heavily on the refrigerator door for support.
It took a bit, but eventually he was able to open the envelope, his hands only shaking a little, and pull out the letter. Owen had typed out this final message, which was a relief, albeit a painful one. Ianto would never struggle over that terrible handwriting again, never have to ask what each scribble meant, never...
He closed his eyes, took a few deep breaths. Wallowing wouldn't help anything, it never did. He blinked the tears away and started to read.
Ianto --
Figured I'd better get around to writing one of these, as no one really knows when this "energy" or whatever it is is going to dissipate and leave me dead again. Deader. I don't know. Could be hours, days, weeks, years maybe. But I reckon it's best not to take the chance. Hope you're appropriately grateful.
I figure it's you and Jack doing this, probably, and you're the only one who'd think to clean out the fridge. Jack's probably got his nose in my porn stash. Speaking of, if Gwen drops by for sentimental reasons, keep her out of the bedroom, yeah? I know she's not got any ideas about my being some sort of pure, upstanding bloke, but there's a difference between knowing and seeing. If you can, smuggle that shit out and, you know, get rid of it. Some things I don't want to leave behind for future generations of Torchwood employees. Their loss, I know. It's just a weird thought. Suppose I could just get rid of it myself, like I've got rid of everything else, but... Sentimental reasons, I guess. Or just to make you uncomfortable. Whichever you choose.
There's some pictures I want Tosh to have --
Ianto choked back a sob, the letter falling to his side. This time, it took him a lot longer to gather the courage to keep reading.
There's some pictures I want Tosh to have; I'm sure you'll know which ones. Look after her for me, yeah? She's a good girl. She'll find someone, someone better for her than I would have been, but right now she's probably taking it badly. Guess I don't need to tell you that. Or tell you to look out for her. Just, you know, I did care. I do care. If I didn't, things would have been different. But she's too good for the likes of me. There'll be someone who deserves her, somewhere down the line.
Whatever I've got in the bank... give it to my mother, I guess. Haven't got a favorite charity, and she did spend a bit on me growing up, so I guess I'll just consider it repayment. All debts cleared away.
Obviously, most of my shit's getting locked in some storage facility. But do yourself a favor and take some of the CDs with you, yeah? Proper music. Not Super Furry Animals or Moby or whatever shit you listen to. It'll do you good.
Tell Jack he's an idiot.
On second thought, don't. Guess this isn't his fault, really. And I can't blame him for trying to keep the team together as long as possible. Wish he'd found a better way than by turning me into a zombie, but... welcome to Torchwood, I guess. We always fuck it up somehow. But for fuck's sake, if you find another glove (or a hat, or a scarf, or whatever), don't let him do it again, all right? Bloody exhausting, getting dragged back all the time.
Suppose there's no need to worry. You'll do what's best; you always do, or at least you try, and that's more than I can say for me.
Right, I'll wrap this up before it gets too soppy. Don't want you crying all over my last will and testament. Watch over the girls for me (and yes, I am including Jack in that one).
Cheers,
Owen.
P.S. -- Stop screwing Jack in the greenhouse. You're traumatizing my plants.
The laugh that escaped Ianto was followed by a sob, then another and another. He gave up entirely on trying to keep himself composed and just cried, clinging to the open refrigerator door for support. The letter fell to the floor unnoticed, one more thing to be picked up and packed away.