Writers30days final dump
The final four of my writers30days fics for Torchwood: Jack Harkness (Time Agency era). Evan=Jack. Explanation & table are here. The overall rating for this batch is PG-13 for language.
---
If Only
It’s 1777 and Evan and Janson are about to die. Again.
Out of sheer misfortune they’ve landed themselves in the middle of a Revolutionary War camp.
“If only they would let us put our hands down, eh?” Janson says, eyeing up the line of muskets as if judging whether he can reach his wrist strap before they fire.
“If only you didn’t have that stupid accent,” Evan counters, doing a quick sweep of the soldiers in the hopes of finding a sympathetic eye. “That’s how they knew we didn’t belong.”
“Strangely enough, I think that might have been the teleporting.”
*
Angst
Evan’s face is like stone as the twenty-eighth century nurse tends to the burns on his forearm.
“You’re lucky,” she tells him. “It’s very superficial.”
“Right.” His voice falls flat to even his own ears. “Lucky.” She leaves to tend to another patient and he looks down at the clean white bandage, fighting the urge to just rip it off. If he’d been closer to the blast site he might have died. At the very least he would have been drugged into unconsciousness and he wouldn’t have to face anything but nightmares until he woke up.
But no. Because he was so lucky, he was alive, awake, and far too clear-minded for his liking, with nothing but a distant pain in his arm. While Janson-Janson, on the other hand-
Gone.
Not that he’d seen the body. But no one could have survived that. No one.
Evan leans back and closes his eyes, the fire still burning behind his eyelids. Forever seared into his retinas.
“Hey, kid,” Janson says, and Evan’s eyes snap open. “Don’t you just fucking love time travel?”
*
Writer's Choice 2: Marshmallow
“What the hell is it?”
“They call them marshmallows.” Evan shrugs, taking one of the small white snacks. “God knows what’s in them. They taste okay, though.”
Janson pinches one between his thumb and forefinger, examining it suspiciously, then shrugs and eats it.
“Ew.” He gags a little. “They eat these on purpose?”
“I think they’re supposed to go in hot drinks.” Evan points at a small girl at the next table heaping the things liberally in her mug.
“Only in the twenty-first century.”
“Yup,” Evan agrees. “I’ve always wondered how anyone got through that.”
“Ah, hell.” Janson leans back, propping his boots up on the table and earning him a look from the man behind the counter, which he dutifully ignores. “They’re humans. Who knows how they got through anything?”
“We’re humans too,” Evan points out. “Well, mostly.”
Janson nods decisively. “Exactly.”
*
Writer's Choice 3: Pelican
“Duck!” Janson yells, and Evan dutifully hits the floor as something white and feathery swoops by over his head.
“That was no duck!” Evan shouts back, drawing his gun as the pelican turns around for another pass.
“Shut up, kid.” There’s a single shot and the pelican drops like a stone, landing in a crumpled heap on the pavement with red staining its feathers.
“Nice shot,” Evan says, turning the carcass over with the toe of his boot. “Killer pelican?”
“Killer pelican,” Janson confirms, giving it a quick scan with his wrist strap. “Or maybe it just wanted to shit on you. I wouldn’t blame it.”
“Gee, thanks.”
---
If Only
It’s 1777 and Evan and Janson are about to die. Again.
Out of sheer misfortune they’ve landed themselves in the middle of a Revolutionary War camp.
“If only they would let us put our hands down, eh?” Janson says, eyeing up the line of muskets as if judging whether he can reach his wrist strap before they fire.
“If only you didn’t have that stupid accent,” Evan counters, doing a quick sweep of the soldiers in the hopes of finding a sympathetic eye. “That’s how they knew we didn’t belong.”
“Strangely enough, I think that might have been the teleporting.”
*
Angst
Evan’s face is like stone as the twenty-eighth century nurse tends to the burns on his forearm.
“You’re lucky,” she tells him. “It’s very superficial.”
“Right.” His voice falls flat to even his own ears. “Lucky.” She leaves to tend to another patient and he looks down at the clean white bandage, fighting the urge to just rip it off. If he’d been closer to the blast site he might have died. At the very least he would have been drugged into unconsciousness and he wouldn’t have to face anything but nightmares until he woke up.
But no. Because he was so lucky, he was alive, awake, and far too clear-minded for his liking, with nothing but a distant pain in his arm. While Janson-Janson, on the other hand-
Gone.
Not that he’d seen the body. But no one could have survived that. No one.
Evan leans back and closes his eyes, the fire still burning behind his eyelids. Forever seared into his retinas.
“Hey, kid,” Janson says, and Evan’s eyes snap open. “Don’t you just fucking love time travel?”
*
Writer's Choice 2: Marshmallow
“What the hell is it?”
“They call them marshmallows.” Evan shrugs, taking one of the small white snacks. “God knows what’s in them. They taste okay, though.”
Janson pinches one between his thumb and forefinger, examining it suspiciously, then shrugs and eats it.
“Ew.” He gags a little. “They eat these on purpose?”
“I think they’re supposed to go in hot drinks.” Evan points at a small girl at the next table heaping the things liberally in her mug.
“Only in the twenty-first century.”
“Yup,” Evan agrees. “I’ve always wondered how anyone got through that.”
“Ah, hell.” Janson leans back, propping his boots up on the table and earning him a look from the man behind the counter, which he dutifully ignores. “They’re humans. Who knows how they got through anything?”
“We’re humans too,” Evan points out. “Well, mostly.”
Janson nods decisively. “Exactly.”
*
Writer's Choice 3: Pelican
“Duck!” Janson yells, and Evan dutifully hits the floor as something white and feathery swoops by over his head.
“That was no duck!” Evan shouts back, drawing his gun as the pelican turns around for another pass.
“Shut up, kid.” There’s a single shot and the pelican drops like a stone, landing in a crumpled heap on the pavement with red staining its feathers.
“Nice shot,” Evan says, turning the carcass over with the toe of his boot. “Killer pelican?”
“Killer pelican,” Janson confirms, giving it a quick scan with his wrist strap. “Or maybe it just wanted to shit on you. I wouldn’t blame it.”
“Gee, thanks.”