Fic: Stages
Title: Stages
Author: badly_knitted
Characters: Ianto, Jack, Tosh, Owen, Gwen, Gray.
Rating: PG
Spoilers: Exit Wounds.
Summary: Although Ianto knows that Tosh and Owen are gone, he just can’t make sense of it.
Word Count: 1122
Written For: Prompt 018 - Stages Of Grief at fandomweekly.
Disclaimer: I don’t own Torchwood, or the characters. They belong to the BBC.
The first day after was the worst.
It felt unreal; Ianto couldn’t make himself believe it WAS real, not that he wanted it to be. He kept thinking it had to have been a nightmare, or a hallucination, or a premonitory vision of the future, showing him events that hadn’t happened yet, a future that could still be changed if he made the right decisions at exactly the right moments.
As he tried to go about his day, following his usual routine, all the time he was listening, expecting to hear Owen clattering his instruments down in the autopsy bay and singing loudly off key. If he turned his head, he felt sure he’d see Tosh at her workstation, so engrossed in her computers as to be completely oblivious to everything else. Then when he did turn to look and she wasn’t there, he found himself wondering where she was. Bathroom break? Jack’s office? The kitchenette, making herself a cup of green tea? In the back of his mind he knew exactly where she was, in a drawer in the morgue, but he kept shying away from that knowledge, his brain insisting that it couldn’t be true, because if it was it meant he’d never see his best friend again, and that would just hurt too much to bear.
The second day was bad too, but he was coping, right up until he realised that he’d made five mugs of coffee instead of just three. The pain in his heart threatened to bring him to his knees, but a surge of red-hot rage abruptly swept over him. He didn’t remember moving, and yet the next thing he was aware of was standing in the morgue beside the drawer that held Gray, Jack’s brother, thinking that he didn’t deserve to still be alive, not when his actions had taken away two good, decent, caring human beings. It would be so easy to flick a few switches, cut power to Gray’s drawer, let him die in there so he’d never have the opportunity to harm anyone else. The only reason he didn’t do it was because he knew losing his brother again would hurt Jack, and Jack was already hurting so much. It wouldn’t be fair to pile more grief and loss on shoulders that were already bowed under too heavy a burden, and so he walked away, back to the main Hub.
The anger remained though, making him stomp about, slamming doors, and snapping at Jack and Gwen. They threw hurt looks his way, Gwen’s eyes brimming with tears, and he wanted to apologise but the words wouldn’t come until Jack wrapped him in a tight hug and told him it was okay, he understood. Ianto had thought he didn’t have any tears left in him, but he found some more.
He started smoking again. He’d stopped years ago, because Lisa hadn’t liked the taste of stale tobacco on his lips, the smell of cigarette smoke that permeated his hair and clothing. He could tell Jack didn’t like it either, although he didn’t say anything. They found little enough time to be together anyway, now there were only three of them trying to handle a job that had been hard enough with five.
“I’d quit,” Ianto told the universe, late one night down in the archives where he was trying to catch up on the filing because he was too tired to sleep. “I would, if we could only have Tosh and Owen back. I wouldn’t need to smoke if they were here.” He said the same to the Rift manipulator the following day, staring at it, as if he hoped it would somehow allow him to turn back time, so he could alter the events of the last three weeks, avoid being captured and locked up by Gray, and somehow save his friends. Maybe if he’d gone to Turnmill instead of Owen, the medic would have got back to the Hub in time to save Tosh. Maybe sacrificing his life would have saved theirs… He didn’t realise he was speaking out loud until he heard a voice behind him.
“It doesn’t work that way,” Jack told him quietly. “Time can’t just be undone and rewritten.”
Ianto sighed heavily. “I know. I just…” He couldn’t finish the sentence.
“You wish it could. So do I; I’d die a million times over to have Tosh and Owen back, but they died as heroes. Don’t try to take that away from them.”
“I’m going to make coffee.” Ianto knew Jack was right; he just wasn’t ready to hear it yet. He wasn’t sure he ever would be.
He quit smoking again anyway.
The next few weeks were a blur; he slept badly and most days could barely drag himself out of bed in the morning. He lost his appetite, lost weight, lost interest in anything, and the filing started to pile up again, but it didn’t seem to matter. He did the rest of his job on autopilot, feeding the inmates and Myfanwy, making coffee, going on retrievals, cleaning up… The mundane tasks filled the hours before he could go back to bed and not sleep again. He felt like a ghost, haunting himself, until he woke up one morning to sunshine.
Making coffee, he was looking out the kitchen window when something caught his eye. The cactus on the windowsill, a housewarming gift from Owen, was flowering, a ridiculously big purple bloom spreading its petals to the sun. Tosh would have loved it; purple was always her favourite colour.
He missed them both so much, but he was surprised to realise the raw pain inside was less than it had been three months ago… Had it really been that long already? Owen would be mad at him for moping about and not looking after himself properly. He’d had trouble that morning finding a pair of trousers that didn’t hang off him; he’d have to do something about that.
Checking the fridge, Ianto found it practically empty, but that was okay; he’d pick up breakfast on the way to the Hub, something fattening, doughnuts maybe. That would please Jack.
He touched the cactus flower with gentle fingers; if that could survive despite his neglect then he could too. He’d never forget his friends, but he’d lost loved ones before and had got past the grief; he could do it again. Draining his coffee, he left the mug in the sink and headed for the door.
Life would go on, and so would he. He owed his friends no less, both the dead and the living.
“Thank you,” he whispered, as he stepped back out into the world. It was going to be a beautiful day.
The End
Author: badly_knitted
Characters: Ianto, Jack, Tosh, Owen, Gwen, Gray.
Rating: PG
Spoilers: Exit Wounds.
Summary: Although Ianto knows that Tosh and Owen are gone, he just can’t make sense of it.
Word Count: 1122
Written For: Prompt 018 - Stages Of Grief at fandomweekly.
Disclaimer: I don’t own Torchwood, or the characters. They belong to the BBC.
The first day after was the worst.
It felt unreal; Ianto couldn’t make himself believe it WAS real, not that he wanted it to be. He kept thinking it had to have been a nightmare, or a hallucination, or a premonitory vision of the future, showing him events that hadn’t happened yet, a future that could still be changed if he made the right decisions at exactly the right moments.
As he tried to go about his day, following his usual routine, all the time he was listening, expecting to hear Owen clattering his instruments down in the autopsy bay and singing loudly off key. If he turned his head, he felt sure he’d see Tosh at her workstation, so engrossed in her computers as to be completely oblivious to everything else. Then when he did turn to look and she wasn’t there, he found himself wondering where she was. Bathroom break? Jack’s office? The kitchenette, making herself a cup of green tea? In the back of his mind he knew exactly where she was, in a drawer in the morgue, but he kept shying away from that knowledge, his brain insisting that it couldn’t be true, because if it was it meant he’d never see his best friend again, and that would just hurt too much to bear.
The second day was bad too, but he was coping, right up until he realised that he’d made five mugs of coffee instead of just three. The pain in his heart threatened to bring him to his knees, but a surge of red-hot rage abruptly swept over him. He didn’t remember moving, and yet the next thing he was aware of was standing in the morgue beside the drawer that held Gray, Jack’s brother, thinking that he didn’t deserve to still be alive, not when his actions had taken away two good, decent, caring human beings. It would be so easy to flick a few switches, cut power to Gray’s drawer, let him die in there so he’d never have the opportunity to harm anyone else. The only reason he didn’t do it was because he knew losing his brother again would hurt Jack, and Jack was already hurting so much. It wouldn’t be fair to pile more grief and loss on shoulders that were already bowed under too heavy a burden, and so he walked away, back to the main Hub.
The anger remained though, making him stomp about, slamming doors, and snapping at Jack and Gwen. They threw hurt looks his way, Gwen’s eyes brimming with tears, and he wanted to apologise but the words wouldn’t come until Jack wrapped him in a tight hug and told him it was okay, he understood. Ianto had thought he didn’t have any tears left in him, but he found some more.
He started smoking again. He’d stopped years ago, because Lisa hadn’t liked the taste of stale tobacco on his lips, the smell of cigarette smoke that permeated his hair and clothing. He could tell Jack didn’t like it either, although he didn’t say anything. They found little enough time to be together anyway, now there were only three of them trying to handle a job that had been hard enough with five.
“I’d quit,” Ianto told the universe, late one night down in the archives where he was trying to catch up on the filing because he was too tired to sleep. “I would, if we could only have Tosh and Owen back. I wouldn’t need to smoke if they were here.” He said the same to the Rift manipulator the following day, staring at it, as if he hoped it would somehow allow him to turn back time, so he could alter the events of the last three weeks, avoid being captured and locked up by Gray, and somehow save his friends. Maybe if he’d gone to Turnmill instead of Owen, the medic would have got back to the Hub in time to save Tosh. Maybe sacrificing his life would have saved theirs… He didn’t realise he was speaking out loud until he heard a voice behind him.
“It doesn’t work that way,” Jack told him quietly. “Time can’t just be undone and rewritten.”
Ianto sighed heavily. “I know. I just…” He couldn’t finish the sentence.
“You wish it could. So do I; I’d die a million times over to have Tosh and Owen back, but they died as heroes. Don’t try to take that away from them.”
“I’m going to make coffee.” Ianto knew Jack was right; he just wasn’t ready to hear it yet. He wasn’t sure he ever would be.
He quit smoking again anyway.
The next few weeks were a blur; he slept badly and most days could barely drag himself out of bed in the morning. He lost his appetite, lost weight, lost interest in anything, and the filing started to pile up again, but it didn’t seem to matter. He did the rest of his job on autopilot, feeding the inmates and Myfanwy, making coffee, going on retrievals, cleaning up… The mundane tasks filled the hours before he could go back to bed and not sleep again. He felt like a ghost, haunting himself, until he woke up one morning to sunshine.
Making coffee, he was looking out the kitchen window when something caught his eye. The cactus on the windowsill, a housewarming gift from Owen, was flowering, a ridiculously big purple bloom spreading its petals to the sun. Tosh would have loved it; purple was always her favourite colour.
He missed them both so much, but he was surprised to realise the raw pain inside was less than it had been three months ago… Had it really been that long already? Owen would be mad at him for moping about and not looking after himself properly. He’d had trouble that morning finding a pair of trousers that didn’t hang off him; he’d have to do something about that.
Checking the fridge, Ianto found it practically empty, but that was okay; he’d pick up breakfast on the way to the Hub, something fattening, doughnuts maybe. That would please Jack.
He touched the cactus flower with gentle fingers; if that could survive despite his neglect then he could too. He’d never forget his friends, but he’d lost loved ones before and had got past the grief; he could do it again. Draining his coffee, he left the mug in the sink and headed for the door.
Life would go on, and so would he. He owed his friends no less, both the dead and the living.
“Thank you,” he whispered, as he stepped back out into the world. It was going to be a beautiful day.
The End