Like A Hero Going Home
Title: Like A Hero Going Home
Author: sariagray
Rating: G
Characters/Pairings: Jack, Gwen, Rhys
Word Count: 799
Things To Be Aware Of: Takes place some point in the future - however, no specific mentions of any events in MD.
Summary: Another worldwide crisis, and hiding out, and personal revelations.
Beta: analineblue <3
Author Notes: The title comes from this quote by Tecumseh, “Sing your death song, and die like a hero going home.” Written for torchwood_las. The prompts were “mistake” and “weather.” I got voted out this round (sobsobsob), but I'm still ridiculously proud of this story, mostly because Rhys. RHYS. Now! Time to go do ACTING!
Like A Hero Going Home
“Coming here was a mistake,” Jack says.
It’s funny, Rhys thinks, how small Jack looks now. Like something has been eating at him from the inside. He’s too thin by half, sunken and listless. A little over a year he’s been away from Earth, but it might have been a decade or more for him.
“What, to the flat?” Gwen asks. She glances out the window - uselessly, as there is only fog. It’s unnerving the way it just sits there thick and dark. Anything could be hiding in it. “They won’t think to look here. It’ll be good for a couple of days.”
She’s pregnant again, his Gwen. She’s just starting to show, and Rhys had spent a good deal of time these past few months resting one hand on her belly while the other held Anwen tight to his chest. His hands, strong though they may be, can’t protect them but it’d still felt good to try.
But that was before the world went pear-shaped, before his mother-in-law took charge of watching over his little princess while they tried to save the world.
The flat was grubby and bleak when the three of them broke in. The electricity and water had long since been shut off. It had remained unoccupied, purchased under a fake name as a safe house over five years ago.
“Shouldn’t you have a key?” he’d asked Jack.
“Lost it.”
Rhys had tidied up a bit while they sat around the war table. Wiped down the counters, swept the floors, aired out the bedroom. They wouldn’t be staying long, most like, but it seemed a shame to see the place so dirty and dismal.
Clean and with enough emergency candles lit, it almost feels cozy.
(There are still linens on the bed, and clothes in the closet. If it wasn’t for the layer of dust, he would swear -)
“No, they won’t,” Jack agrees. “Still.”
Rhys frowns, runs a hand over his hair. “We’re safe though, yeah?”
“We’re safe,” Gwen assures him with a sad smile. “Nothing here but ghosts.”
Jack gets up then and goes to the window. There’s still nothing to see out there, of course, but Rhys is pretty sure that’s what Jack’s looking for right now.
“A mistake,” Jack repeats, his breath clouding up the glass.
Torchwood, muses Rhys, was built on mistakes. Jack’s life, too, come to think of it. Over the years, Rhys has picked up on a few things; dead relatives, withdrawing mentors, lost lovers and partners and teammates, falling into the wrong streams of time.
Gwen sighs from the couch, her two hands resting against the swell of her belly. She struggles to stand and brushes Rhys off when he moves to help her.
“He’d want you here,” she says, voice soft. “Ianto...he’d - if he knew it meant you were safe. That’s what he wanted.”
She puts a hand on Jack’s shoulder. It’s a private moment between them, so Rhys creeps out of the sitting area and into the kitchen. He’s been here before - rifled through the cabinets for tea or wine glasses (both of which still make up a strange shrine along with dinner plates, cups, and tins of vegetables), set out a platter of lasagna or spag bol, looked between two men in an attempt to figure out what they were.
He rearranges the shelves so that all of the labels face out and checks the dishes for cleanliness. The top plates are covered in chips of white paint and soot, and there’s a spider spinning its web in a mug, but the rest will do in a pinch. If they can hide out here long enough to regroup, they’ll need the salvageable foodstuffs and things to eat them on.
He hears Jack laugh. It’s a little sound, such a shadow of what once was, but it cheers Rhys all the same as he goes about his inventory. It’s a lot like spot-checking a lorry before sending it on delivery, really, and it eases him.
It’s when he’s moved on to playing with the dry tap, flicking it on and off to no avail, that the sirens begin to sound. They’re low and ominous, and he freezes. An attack or a military raid - they sound the same now, or at least they inspire the same trepidation. The fog alters the ringing so that it seems like one long, indistinguishable bellow.
He starts blowing out candles, one by one, as fast as he can. In the sitting room, Gwen and Jack do the same until they all come together by the sofa. In the last bit of flickering light, he catches Jack’s eyes - they are bright, alive and dancing.
And just like that, mistakes and ghosts are all but forgotten in the dark.
Author: sariagray
Rating: G
Characters/Pairings: Jack, Gwen, Rhys
Word Count: 799
Things To Be Aware Of: Takes place some point in the future - however, no specific mentions of any events in MD.
Summary: Another worldwide crisis, and hiding out, and personal revelations.
Beta: analineblue <3
Author Notes: The title comes from this quote by Tecumseh, “Sing your death song, and die like a hero going home.” Written for torchwood_las. The prompts were “mistake” and “weather.” I got voted out this round (sobsobsob), but I'm still ridiculously proud of this story, mostly because Rhys. RHYS. Now! Time to go do ACTING!
Like A Hero Going Home
“Coming here was a mistake,” Jack says.
It’s funny, Rhys thinks, how small Jack looks now. Like something has been eating at him from the inside. He’s too thin by half, sunken and listless. A little over a year he’s been away from Earth, but it might have been a decade or more for him.
“What, to the flat?” Gwen asks. She glances out the window - uselessly, as there is only fog. It’s unnerving the way it just sits there thick and dark. Anything could be hiding in it. “They won’t think to look here. It’ll be good for a couple of days.”
She’s pregnant again, his Gwen. She’s just starting to show, and Rhys had spent a good deal of time these past few months resting one hand on her belly while the other held Anwen tight to his chest. His hands, strong though they may be, can’t protect them but it’d still felt good to try.
But that was before the world went pear-shaped, before his mother-in-law took charge of watching over his little princess while they tried to save the world.
The flat was grubby and bleak when the three of them broke in. The electricity and water had long since been shut off. It had remained unoccupied, purchased under a fake name as a safe house over five years ago.
“Shouldn’t you have a key?” he’d asked Jack.
“Lost it.”
Rhys had tidied up a bit while they sat around the war table. Wiped down the counters, swept the floors, aired out the bedroom. They wouldn’t be staying long, most like, but it seemed a shame to see the place so dirty and dismal.
Clean and with enough emergency candles lit, it almost feels cozy.
(There are still linens on the bed, and clothes in the closet. If it wasn’t for the layer of dust, he would swear -)
“No, they won’t,” Jack agrees. “Still.”
Rhys frowns, runs a hand over his hair. “We’re safe though, yeah?”
“We’re safe,” Gwen assures him with a sad smile. “Nothing here but ghosts.”
Jack gets up then and goes to the window. There’s still nothing to see out there, of course, but Rhys is pretty sure that’s what Jack’s looking for right now.
“A mistake,” Jack repeats, his breath clouding up the glass.
Torchwood, muses Rhys, was built on mistakes. Jack’s life, too, come to think of it. Over the years, Rhys has picked up on a few things; dead relatives, withdrawing mentors, lost lovers and partners and teammates, falling into the wrong streams of time.
Gwen sighs from the couch, her two hands resting against the swell of her belly. She struggles to stand and brushes Rhys off when he moves to help her.
“He’d want you here,” she says, voice soft. “Ianto...he’d - if he knew it meant you were safe. That’s what he wanted.”
She puts a hand on Jack’s shoulder. It’s a private moment between them, so Rhys creeps out of the sitting area and into the kitchen. He’s been here before - rifled through the cabinets for tea or wine glasses (both of which still make up a strange shrine along with dinner plates, cups, and tins of vegetables), set out a platter of lasagna or spag bol, looked between two men in an attempt to figure out what they were.
He rearranges the shelves so that all of the labels face out and checks the dishes for cleanliness. The top plates are covered in chips of white paint and soot, and there’s a spider spinning its web in a mug, but the rest will do in a pinch. If they can hide out here long enough to regroup, they’ll need the salvageable foodstuffs and things to eat them on.
He hears Jack laugh. It’s a little sound, such a shadow of what once was, but it cheers Rhys all the same as he goes about his inventory. It’s a lot like spot-checking a lorry before sending it on delivery, really, and it eases him.
It’s when he’s moved on to playing with the dry tap, flicking it on and off to no avail, that the sirens begin to sound. They’re low and ominous, and he freezes. An attack or a military raid - they sound the same now, or at least they inspire the same trepidation. The fog alters the ringing so that it seems like one long, indistinguishable bellow.
He starts blowing out candles, one by one, as fast as he can. In the sitting room, Gwen and Jack do the same until they all come together by the sofa. In the last bit of flickering light, he catches Jack’s eyes - they are bright, alive and dancing.
And just like that, mistakes and ghosts are all but forgotten in the dark.