Writers30days table + Beginnings
Theme table for my April writers30days claim: Torchwood, Jack Harkness (Time Agency-era). Evan is, of course, a much younger Jack, and Janson might possibly be John, I haven't decided yet. Note that even though these are, technically, Whoverse fics, if you consider that they take place before any canon events, in a time we see very little of, with only one or two canon characters who don't even have the same names, they can easily be read with no knowledge of any Who whatsoever. Basically, all you need to know is that it's set in the fifty-first century where the main focus seems to be sex, alcohol, guns, and did I mention sex?
123Quote*Song*Rainy Days* 456Stars*Journal Entry*Beginnings* 789Light in the Dark*If Only*Stranded* 101112Angst*Gift*Alternate Reality* 131415Writers Choice 1*Writers Choice 2*Writers Choice 3**=complete and linked
***
Characters: Evan (Jack), Janson
Words: 516
Rating: PG-13
Theme: #6 Beginnings
Balancing on the balls of his feet, Evan fumbles to load the antique-style weapon. He cocks it, steadying it on his left forearm, then checks around the corner before edging out into the open.
He notices the gun barrel pressed to his temple a split second before someone says, “Game over, kid.”
Evan slowly raises his hands in surrender, but just before his attacker closes his fingers around the young man’s gun, he jerks an arm and elbows the guy in the face. Taking advantage of the momentary distraction, Evan ducks out of the line of fire and slams his opponent against the wall, the barrel of his own gun now against the man’s forehead.
“No,” Evan says, and grins, the pumping of stimulating chemicals (mostly artificial and quite a few definitely illegal) through his bloodstream making him giddy. “Now it’s over.”
The man smirks, his eyes darting down to his gun by Evan’s boot. “You have to disarm me first.”
Evan risks a quick glance to make sure the gun is still on the floor. “I already-” Suddenly he finds his weapon being wrenched out of his hands as the man twists in his grip, breaking free and pressing Evan against the wall in the same way he’d been held not a moment before.
“You’re an idiot, kid,” the man says with a smug little grin that drives Evan crazy. He leans in, Evan’s gun in both his hand and control. “Cute, though.” His lips are suddenly on Evan’s, and the younger man isn’t sure whether that’s the gun or something else pressing into his thigh.
The simulation ends, the wall at Evan’s back vanishing suddenly, and the man steps back, licking his lips. “Yeah,” he says. “I guess I could stand you as my partner, even if you are thick.”
Evan straightens, wondering whether he’s supposed to be pleased or angry. “Okay. Um, what should I call you?”
The man’s tone is as sharp as his gaze. “Janson.”
“They call me Evan.” Evan shrugs. The exchange of names means next to nothing, he knows. Janson isn’t the man’s real name, any more than Evan is his. But they do need something to call each other.
“Right then, Evan. I’ll be in touch.” With a touch of his vortex manipulator, he’s gone.
That night Evan finds himself alone at the nearest bar he can find that still carries Completely Outrageous Carry-me-home Kickers at a decent price. (The original inventor of the drink insists the acronym was merely an unfortunate coincidence but Evan has his doubts, not that he minds.) There are plenty of people around, of course, even a few with an average amount of body parts and minimal amounts of secretion, but none of them are really Evan’s type. Not that he has a type, usually - a pulse and libido tend to be good enough for him. But even with the half-Cridan girl eyeing him up from the lake tables across the room, he still raises a glass to himself and mutters a slurred, “To beginnings,” and downs the thing in one go.
123Quote*Song*Rainy Days* 456Stars*Journal Entry*Beginnings* 789Light in the Dark*If Only*Stranded* 101112Angst*Gift*Alternate Reality* 131415Writers Choice 1*Writers Choice 2*Writers Choice 3**=complete and linked
***
Characters: Evan (Jack), Janson
Words: 516
Rating: PG-13
Theme: #6 Beginnings
Balancing on the balls of his feet, Evan fumbles to load the antique-style weapon. He cocks it, steadying it on his left forearm, then checks around the corner before edging out into the open.
He notices the gun barrel pressed to his temple a split second before someone says, “Game over, kid.”
Evan slowly raises his hands in surrender, but just before his attacker closes his fingers around the young man’s gun, he jerks an arm and elbows the guy in the face. Taking advantage of the momentary distraction, Evan ducks out of the line of fire and slams his opponent against the wall, the barrel of his own gun now against the man’s forehead.
“No,” Evan says, and grins, the pumping of stimulating chemicals (mostly artificial and quite a few definitely illegal) through his bloodstream making him giddy. “Now it’s over.”
The man smirks, his eyes darting down to his gun by Evan’s boot. “You have to disarm me first.”
Evan risks a quick glance to make sure the gun is still on the floor. “I already-” Suddenly he finds his weapon being wrenched out of his hands as the man twists in his grip, breaking free and pressing Evan against the wall in the same way he’d been held not a moment before.
“You’re an idiot, kid,” the man says with a smug little grin that drives Evan crazy. He leans in, Evan’s gun in both his hand and control. “Cute, though.” His lips are suddenly on Evan’s, and the younger man isn’t sure whether that’s the gun or something else pressing into his thigh.
The simulation ends, the wall at Evan’s back vanishing suddenly, and the man steps back, licking his lips. “Yeah,” he says. “I guess I could stand you as my partner, even if you are thick.”
Evan straightens, wondering whether he’s supposed to be pleased or angry. “Okay. Um, what should I call you?”
The man’s tone is as sharp as his gaze. “Janson.”
“They call me Evan.” Evan shrugs. The exchange of names means next to nothing, he knows. Janson isn’t the man’s real name, any more than Evan is his. But they do need something to call each other.
“Right then, Evan. I’ll be in touch.” With a touch of his vortex manipulator, he’s gone.
That night Evan finds himself alone at the nearest bar he can find that still carries Completely Outrageous Carry-me-home Kickers at a decent price. (The original inventor of the drink insists the acronym was merely an unfortunate coincidence but Evan has his doubts, not that he minds.) There are plenty of people around, of course, even a few with an average amount of body parts and minimal amounts of secretion, but none of them are really Evan’s type. Not that he has a type, usually - a pulse and libido tend to be good enough for him. But even with the half-Cridan girl eyeing him up from the lake tables across the room, he still raises a glass to himself and mutters a slurred, “To beginnings,” and downs the thing in one go.