Fic: Starting from the End
Title: Starting from the End
Summary: It was night before Jack had the strength to enter the Hub again
Fandom(s): Torchwood
Characters: Jack
Spoilers: Set after the season 2 finale
Rating: PG, but dark
Word count: 914
Notes: Eternal thanks to xwingace, who was ever so patient with this, no matter how reluctant this thing was. Trying to get my fic mojo back, but instead this thing ate my brain and then spat it out again. Yes, that's quite a good explanation how I feel right now. Really not sure about this beast now that it's finished, so comments are love. *falls over*
Fic Masterlist: Here, archived at alien_sands
It was night before Jack had the strength to enter the Hub again, with two more ghosts haunting his every move. Alex would've liked Toshiko, Jack thought as he poured himself a drink. He roamed through the Hub, looking for anything out of place, anything to suggest they'd lost dear friends in here today. Again. That was the price he paid for living the life he'd made for himself.
Tosh's blood was still visible in the cracks of the stairs. Jack'd had to manhandle Ianto away from the cleaning equipment to drive him home. Blood was hard to get out of concrete, Jack thought. He rubbed his eyes after glancing at another spot on the tiled floor where he could still imagine the crimson stains of Alex's demise every time he had a bad day.
Jack wondered what his former boss had seen in that pendant, and decided once again that he didn't want to know. The vision had been bad enough for Alex to surrender his sanity and to slaughter his team, judging it to be the merciful way out for them. Jack didn't need another day like that. There were already too many plaguing his memory, today included.
He remembered a certain manic Time Lord, a man who'd grinned from ear to ear when everybody had lived, just this once. Jack agreed that those days - when decisions didn't bring death - were far too scarce. Only now he understood the Doctor's desperation to save the only other of his kind in existence, no matter how insane with hate and brutality the Master had been. It had been someone he could save.
Memories of the Doctor clouded his mind, and he found himself standing before Torchwood morgue drawer 23, the one his brother currently slept in. They had decided to keep Tosh as far away as possible, in cold storage drawer 79. A happy prime number; Ianto's idea. She would've liked that.
Oh Gods, they'd have to clean out her flat soon, and write a letter to her mother explaining why her daughter wouldn't write those short and meaningless postcards anymore. Jack absently took a drink from his glass, shoving the thought away.
And Owen... well, he would see if a lead container could be smuggled onto Cardiff's cemetery. He wondered what future generations would make of the radioactive remains inside it, buried next to a woman who must've been beautiful before a parasite ate her brain. He owed Owen that much.
Jack stared at the other drawers, wondering how much more unfinished business they could hide down here before they ran out of space. He raised his glass to his army of temporarily solved problems before drinking again. One day, he'd have to deal with every single one. He asked himself when he'd begun to gather so many burdens, and wondered how the former leaders of Torchwood Three had coped.
Jack rubbed his face out of habit, the alcohol not able to loosen the knot in his chest as his gaze travelled back to drawer 23.
He'd looked for Gray for so long, his entire life shrouded by just one slipped grasp. Everything had changed now (and wouldn't Alex laugh if he could hear that?). His memories of the desert and its suns - and he had few enough of them left - would be forever tainted with the feeling of the damp earth and total darkness of the grave his brother had dug for him.
The Doctor had given him a choice once, a decision Jack had hardly recognized as one, too busy saving the remains of mankind and trying to ignore the prickling sensation of fatal radiation. The Time Lord could've killed him there and then (the memory of Owen snorting 'fucking irony' was almost tangible in the silence). Compassion would've made the Doctor's hand lock the door, keeping Jack inside until he'd turned to dust in the exhaust heat of a space ship, finally freed of the burdens he seemed to attract lately.
But Jack had refused with a simple comment about life. There had been so much yet to do. There still was.
Jack wondered what his brother would've chosen. Then he realised he knew the answer already.
Jack sighed, the sound travelling through the Hub and echoing with all the lost souls still lurking there. He emptied his glass with one final gulp, careful placing it on the examining table. Emily would've been furious if he shattered her Christmas present (1913, so close to the War, and all but him oblivious. To warn anyone would have been to shatter the timeline. Another burden he'd never asked for. She'd died the next year, misjudging an alien android and paying the price willingly to stop it. Responsibility always came back to haunt them.
It was easy to turn off the life support, easy to let the temperature of the cryogenic unit drop below anything a human body could survive. Owen would've stopped him once he'd heard the alarms; undead, unable to sleep, and lurking in the Hub, he’d have been there in an instant to save his patient. His Hippocratic Oath was probably the only thing he'd never broken. But Jack was alone now, with nothing but generations of ghosts and regrets haunting his conscience and looking over his shoulder as he sent another one among their midst.
This was his responsibility.
He took hold of his brother's hand, and this time he didn't let go until the end.
Summary: It was night before Jack had the strength to enter the Hub again
Fandom(s): Torchwood
Characters: Jack
Spoilers: Set after the season 2 finale
Rating: PG, but dark
Word count: 914
Notes: Eternal thanks to xwingace, who was ever so patient with this, no matter how reluctant this thing was. Trying to get my fic mojo back, but instead this thing ate my brain and then spat it out again. Yes, that's quite a good explanation how I feel right now. Really not sure about this beast now that it's finished, so comments are love. *falls over*
Fic Masterlist: Here, archived at alien_sands
It was night before Jack had the strength to enter the Hub again, with two more ghosts haunting his every move. Alex would've liked Toshiko, Jack thought as he poured himself a drink. He roamed through the Hub, looking for anything out of place, anything to suggest they'd lost dear friends in here today. Again. That was the price he paid for living the life he'd made for himself.
Tosh's blood was still visible in the cracks of the stairs. Jack'd had to manhandle Ianto away from the cleaning equipment to drive him home. Blood was hard to get out of concrete, Jack thought. He rubbed his eyes after glancing at another spot on the tiled floor where he could still imagine the crimson stains of Alex's demise every time he had a bad day.
Jack wondered what his former boss had seen in that pendant, and decided once again that he didn't want to know. The vision had been bad enough for Alex to surrender his sanity and to slaughter his team, judging it to be the merciful way out for them. Jack didn't need another day like that. There were already too many plaguing his memory, today included.
He remembered a certain manic Time Lord, a man who'd grinned from ear to ear when everybody had lived, just this once. Jack agreed that those days - when decisions didn't bring death - were far too scarce. Only now he understood the Doctor's desperation to save the only other of his kind in existence, no matter how insane with hate and brutality the Master had been. It had been someone he could save.
Memories of the Doctor clouded his mind, and he found himself standing before Torchwood morgue drawer 23, the one his brother currently slept in. They had decided to keep Tosh as far away as possible, in cold storage drawer 79. A happy prime number; Ianto's idea. She would've liked that.
Oh Gods, they'd have to clean out her flat soon, and write a letter to her mother explaining why her daughter wouldn't write those short and meaningless postcards anymore. Jack absently took a drink from his glass, shoving the thought away.
And Owen... well, he would see if a lead container could be smuggled onto Cardiff's cemetery. He wondered what future generations would make of the radioactive remains inside it, buried next to a woman who must've been beautiful before a parasite ate her brain. He owed Owen that much.
Jack stared at the other drawers, wondering how much more unfinished business they could hide down here before they ran out of space. He raised his glass to his army of temporarily solved problems before drinking again. One day, he'd have to deal with every single one. He asked himself when he'd begun to gather so many burdens, and wondered how the former leaders of Torchwood Three had coped.
Jack rubbed his face out of habit, the alcohol not able to loosen the knot in his chest as his gaze travelled back to drawer 23.
He'd looked for Gray for so long, his entire life shrouded by just one slipped grasp. Everything had changed now (and wouldn't Alex laugh if he could hear that?). His memories of the desert and its suns - and he had few enough of them left - would be forever tainted with the feeling of the damp earth and total darkness of the grave his brother had dug for him.
The Doctor had given him a choice once, a decision Jack had hardly recognized as one, too busy saving the remains of mankind and trying to ignore the prickling sensation of fatal radiation. The Time Lord could've killed him there and then (the memory of Owen snorting 'fucking irony' was almost tangible in the silence). Compassion would've made the Doctor's hand lock the door, keeping Jack inside until he'd turned to dust in the exhaust heat of a space ship, finally freed of the burdens he seemed to attract lately.
But Jack had refused with a simple comment about life. There had been so much yet to do. There still was.
Jack wondered what his brother would've chosen. Then he realised he knew the answer already.
Jack sighed, the sound travelling through the Hub and echoing with all the lost souls still lurking there. He emptied his glass with one final gulp, careful placing it on the examining table. Emily would've been furious if he shattered her Christmas present (1913, so close to the War, and all but him oblivious. To warn anyone would have been to shatter the timeline. Another burden he'd never asked for. She'd died the next year, misjudging an alien android and paying the price willingly to stop it. Responsibility always came back to haunt them.
It was easy to turn off the life support, easy to let the temperature of the cryogenic unit drop below anything a human body could survive. Owen would've stopped him once he'd heard the alarms; undead, unable to sleep, and lurking in the Hub, he’d have been there in an instant to save his patient. His Hippocratic Oath was probably the only thing he'd never broken. But Jack was alone now, with nothing but generations of ghosts and regrets haunting his conscience and looking over his shoulder as he sent another one among their midst.
This was his responsibility.
He took hold of his brother's hand, and this time he didn't let go until the end.