The Last Death or Fate Is a Fickle Bitch
Apr. 9th, 2011 09:49 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
sariagrayTitle: The Last Death or Fate Is a Fickle Bitch
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
sariagray
Characters/Pairings: Rhys, Jack, Gwen, Andy, Anwen, brief mentions of Ianto and past team
Word Count: ~2000
Rating: PG13
Spoilers: The vague premise of Miracle Day, so spoilers for that and up through the end of COE.
Warnings: Character death. Language. Violence.
Disclaimer: I do not own Torchwood. I do not make money off of Torchwood. In fact, it seems as though Torchwood owns and makes money off of ME. This is for entertainment purposes only.
Beta:analineblue, who is awesome for dropping Important Things to look this over for me. <3 But then I played around with it some and probably undid all of her hard work. :-/ So mistakes are mine, of course.
Summary: Rhys has had enough of Jack Harkness.
Author’s Note: Written for the![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
redisourcolor challenge #13. The theme is "Fate" and the words are "dexterous," "doff," and "escalator." The phrase is "If you look closely, you'll be able to see a pattern."
“If you look closely, you’ll be able to see a pattern,” Andy said before taking a generous gulp of his coffee to hide a self-satisfied smirk.
“Sod off, then,” Rhys grinned proudly. “Torchwood, coming through.”
He loved saying that – gave him chills every time. Andy merely nodded his chin at Gwen and the captain, their heads bent together over a glowing piece of metal. Rhys shrugged, brushed off the implication, and strode forward.
But Rhys did look closely. And he did see a pattern. That smug bastard had been right.
Almost every night, Anwen gets passed off to him – although he loves to care for her, although she is his heart and soul, his daughter needs her mother and Rhys needs his wife.
“It’s work,” Gwen keeps reassuring him, wide-eyed and excited in a way she had lost when that Captain Harkness of hers had bounced off of the planet without so much as a backwards glance.
And yes, they tell him, the world is, in fact, ending. Again. Funny how things were all fine and dandy while the captain was away. Oh sure, there had been the odd Weevil, the occasional hovering spacecraft, a lost traveler or two, but nothing he and his Gwennie couldn’t handle on their own.
Besides, not being able to die? Not so bad, really. At least, it’s a far cry from the usual, urgent, “everyone’s going to die!” apocalyptic catastrophe he’s come to expect from Torchwood. It is, however, amusing to imagine everyone running around in a panic shouting, “Oh no! We’re all going to live! Someone save us!”
Yeah, okay, so it has to be fixed. Rhys knows this, acknowledges it, even respects it and what Team Torchwood (ha!) is trying to accomplish. But is it really so dire that Gwen has to be gone half of the night, only to sneak into bed like an errant teenager at four in the morning, smelling faintly of cologne and whisky?
Thick as thieves, those two are and, while it may be nothing, he can’t exactly fact-check when all of their teammates are ghosts. And now with Ianto gone, there is hardly a buffer. Rhys barely knew the man, but his presence had been a constant reassurance. Maybe it was the suits. Maybe it was the frisson of relief he felt when Gwen came home, giggling madly, with the revelation that her boss and coworker were shagging in a room full of plants in their secret underground base.
Rhys realizes, abruptly, that he has been pacing. Anwen, her nightmare long forgotten, has gone limp and heavy with sleep in his arms. He carries her back to her bedroom and tucks her in beneath her bright pink Cinderella blanket. She snuffles a little, turns her head to snuggle into a fluffy pillow, and sighs contentedly. He kisses her cheek before shutting the door and leaving.
It won’t take long to get to what he’s been jokingly referring to as Hub 2.0. It’s a bloody hotel room, for fuck’s sake. Posh, too. There’s the damned pattern for you. Why he hadn’t even considered the implication at first is beyond him. He grabs his coat, keys, and wallet. He freezes for a moment and then nods, unlocking the drawer and removing a revolver. ‘Peacemaker’ seems an appropriate name for the weapon. Rhys will make his peace.
The ammunition is locked away in a hall closet, and Rhys tiptoes passed Anwen’s room to get it. He had been entirely against keeping a gun in the house what with a child (especially one that had inherited all of Gwen’s touchy curiosity) toddling about, but she had insisted. And he has to admit, they need to be protected in this sort of business.
Ammunition in his pocket, Rhys leaves. He’s only going to be gone for an hour at most, but still he knocks on Mrs. Connelly’s door. It’s a little after ten, and she’s almost ready for bed, but he assures her he’ll be back soon. She nods, promises that Anwen is always a pleasure, and pats Rhys on the arm as she shuffles into his flat.
The hotel is only a couple of miles away, so it seems senseless to turn on the heat or the radio in his car. Besides, the cold silence suits him, counters his loud, hot rage. No, not rage. Not rage at all. Just…exhaustion.
He’s been to the hotel frequently enough that the attendant at the desk nods at him with a friendly smile. He has the keycard out already, the loaded gun tucked into his back pocket and making him feel like quite the thug. It isn’t a pleasant feeling at all, but he’s determined.
It’s a sort of therapy anyone who's part of Torchwood goes through: Shoot the Captain. It’s like whacking your spouse with those big, foam bats. He’s sure that he’s owed at least that much by now. And maybe buying a pair of those bats isn’t a bad idea, come to think of it.
He pauses at the bottom of the grand staircase, all elegant white marble, like it’s an escalator, like he’s waiting for the engines to clank into action and carry him up. But it isn’t. He will have no help in this, but that’s just fine. Rhys Williams is nothing if not capable.
One step, two, and then he’s racing up the stairs. His heart is thankful that there’s only one flight; it pounds in his chest with adrenaline and terror and need and exertion. He slows as he enters the hallway and is practically creeping when he rounds the final corner. There are gilt mirrors every few feet, but he refuses to look at himself in one. Instead, he keeps his eyes down. The carpet is plush, royal blue, and well-shampooed. Either that, or no one in this place ever makes a mess.
Sliding his keycard in, he opens the door without more than a soft click. He doesn’t want to look, has to look, and because he is so determined, Rhys Williams does look.
The two of them sit on the end of the bed, Jack cradled in his wife’s arms like a child or a lover – it doesn’t matter which, as both thoughts send his blood boiling. They are still dressed, at least, though Jack’s shirt is unbuttoned and his braces hang down limply. The lights are on, too, and the brightness is a bit off-putting. This sort of thing should be executed in the quiet dark. Clandestine affairs and dirty shoot-outs have no business being well-lit.
Rhys isn’t particularly dexterous with a gun, but he has it drawn, arms stretched out in front of him. The muscles in them are so tense, he’s afraid they’ll snap under the relatively light weight of the revolver.
His wife and Jack both raise their heads to look at him. Gwen’s eyes are wide. Well, of course they are. Here’s her husband, late at night, with a gun trained on her boss. But Jack’s eyes are dull, red-rimmed, watery. That bit is unexpected and he wavers a moment.
Jack rises ungracefully, as though he’s become old and stiff. “Come to shoot me, Mr. Williams?”
Rhys splutters. “I – I mean, I –”
“Please. I deserve it. You deserve it.”
“Rhys,” Gwen hesitantly beckons, as though she’s talking down a common criminal. Well she is, isn’t she? “What’s the matter, love? Is Anwen all right?”
“C’mon Rhys. Just shoot me. I’d welcome it.”
“Love, whatever you think Jack’s been doing, I assure you he hasn’t.”
“Gwen, let your husband shoot me. And then we’ll all have a laugh about it in a few minutes.”
Rhys looks back and forth, between them, his eyes darting with dizzying speed. There’s a bottle of whisky on the floor by Jack’s feet. It’s half full. Good. He’s going to need something strong in a minute. And isn’t that just a lovely sentiment? “Hi. I’m going to shoot you, drink your whisky, and steal my woman back, thank you very much.” It’s just like the movies.
Gwen is looking at him with a combination of sympathy, fear, and something else he can’t quite place. He can’t stand to see her with those emotions in her eyes. She clears her throat when he glances back at Jack.
“Rhys –”
Jack stands, arms outstretched like a bloody martyr and it just makes Rhys so irate.
“All you do is bring more bloody problems,” Rhys spits out. “We were fine without you, had everything under control, and then you come back. Take my wife out from under me again. I’ve had enough of you.”
Jack nods. So Rhys shoots him.
The sound is deafening. His hands are shaking. His legs don’t work anymore. He feels warm and slow, a lot like the pool of viscous blood that is collecting beneath Jack’s cooling body.
Gwen is staring expectantly at the blood, at Jack, so Rhys doffs his coat and sinks to the floor. He has enough presence of mind to turn the safety back on the gun before he drops it a few centimeters, next to his knee. Blood pounds in his ears like it’s trying to drown him. But he can still hear over the thrum, can still make out Gwen’s anxious voice.
“Jack,” she urges. “Jack, come on. It was just a bullet. You should be up by now. Jack. Jack?”
Rhys glances up just in time to watch her frantically prodding his shoulder. She’s pale and scared, and that makes him pale and scared, too, and he wants nothing more than to reassure her. And himself.
“He’ll be fine. He can’t stay dead, remember? Besides, no one can die now, anyway.”
As soon as he says it, he panics. So does Gwen, in a quiet way that differs so much from her usual mannerisms that Rhys feels fear like a tangible hand that clenches his heart. She leans against him, though, and while it doesn’t mean that he’s ever going to be forgiven, it’s a start.
And wouldn’t that just be the way? Everyone lives permanently, so Jack dies permanently. Even in death, the bastard has to be contrary.
“Oh God, Rhys. What if he’s really dead? He’s really dead. He can’t be.”
They sit in silence as the clock ticks and Jack still doesn’t move. He’s gone blue-white now, his lips pale, his eyes glassy. There is blood spatter on the duvet, and the wall, and the lamp by the bed, and all over the place. They watch attentively. Jack doesn’t look to be coming back.
They are so lost in their vigil that the beeping of Jack’s wrist strap startles them both. Gwen squeaks and Rhys tightens his hold on her shoulders. It’s blinking, too, like a bloody smartphone.
“Great,” Gwen mutters between deep breaths. “Just what we need. John bloody Hart. Wanker.”
Great, indeed. Another space cadet. Not that Rhys has any intention of shooting this one, although from the look on her face, Gwen probably would like for him to. That’s something to ponder. Later.
Gwen rises shakily to her feet. She leans over Jack’s body and Rhys is so proud of her strength, so sickened by his own weakness, that he wants to curl up into himself. He’s failed her. All of this time, and the pressure finally became too much. He hates himself for it, would hate himself only slightly less if Jack would just stop being dead right now.
She presses a button, hesitantly, and a blue light flashes. Actually, it looks like something out of Star Wars and it’s so ridiculous and shocking that he laughs out loud. He can’t see what Gwen’s looking at, can’t tell why she’s crying now when her eyes had remained dry throughout the whole ordeal.
And then he hears a voice.
“Jack? I hope this gets to you. I really have no idea what I’m doing with this thing at all.”
The deep voice sounds familiar, though he can’t quite place it. It laughs a little nervously and now Gwen is sobbing and he has no idea what’s happening, so he stands and wobbles over to get a better look.
“I don’t know how long it’s been for you, either. Or where you are. It’s only been a week for me since – well, since I died. But I’m not. Dead, that is. Clearly. Anyway, I’m sending coordinates, though I have to move soon. There’s – well, I’ll explain it all later, if you want. I – I love you.”
Oh, fuck.
Author:
sariagray Characters/Pairings: Rhys, Jack, Gwen, Andy, Anwen, brief mentions of Ianto and past team
Word Count: ~2000
Rating: PG13
Spoilers: The vague premise of Miracle Day, so spoilers for that and up through the end of COE.
Warnings: Character death. Language. Violence.
Disclaimer: I do not own Torchwood. I do not make money off of Torchwood. In fact, it seems as though Torchwood owns and makes money off of ME. This is for entertainment purposes only.
Beta:
analineblue, who is awesome for dropping Important Things to look this over for me. <3 But then I played around with it some and probably undid all of her hard work. :-/ So mistakes are mine, of course.Summary: Rhys has had enough of Jack Harkness.
Author’s Note: Written for the
redisourcolor challenge #13. The theme is "Fate" and the words are "dexterous," "doff," and "escalator." The phrase is "If you look closely, you'll be able to see a pattern."A/N2: I don't even know where this came from. Partial credit goes to this quote thingy from MD: “At 10:36 PM, the last death on the planet Earth was recorded.” Because, well. It made me think. Which we all know is dangerous.
The Last Death, or Fate Is a Fickle Bitch
“If you look closely, you’ll be able to see a pattern,” Andy said before taking a generous gulp of his coffee to hide a self-satisfied smirk.
“Sod off, then,” Rhys grinned proudly. “Torchwood, coming through.”
He loved saying that – gave him chills every time. Andy merely nodded his chin at Gwen and the captain, their heads bent together over a glowing piece of metal. Rhys shrugged, brushed off the implication, and strode forward.
But Rhys did look closely. And he did see a pattern. That smug bastard had been right.
Almost every night, Anwen gets passed off to him – although he loves to care for her, although she is his heart and soul, his daughter needs her mother and Rhys needs his wife.
“It’s work,” Gwen keeps reassuring him, wide-eyed and excited in a way she had lost when that Captain Harkness of hers had bounced off of the planet without so much as a backwards glance.
And yes, they tell him, the world is, in fact, ending. Again. Funny how things were all fine and dandy while the captain was away. Oh sure, there had been the odd Weevil, the occasional hovering spacecraft, a lost traveler or two, but nothing he and his Gwennie couldn’t handle on their own.
Besides, not being able to die? Not so bad, really. At least, it’s a far cry from the usual, urgent, “everyone’s going to die!” apocalyptic catastrophe he’s come to expect from Torchwood. It is, however, amusing to imagine everyone running around in a panic shouting, “Oh no! We’re all going to live! Someone save us!”
Yeah, okay, so it has to be fixed. Rhys knows this, acknowledges it, even respects it and what Team Torchwood (ha!) is trying to accomplish. But is it really so dire that Gwen has to be gone half of the night, only to sneak into bed like an errant teenager at four in the morning, smelling faintly of cologne and whisky?
Thick as thieves, those two are and, while it may be nothing, he can’t exactly fact-check when all of their teammates are ghosts. And now with Ianto gone, there is hardly a buffer. Rhys barely knew the man, but his presence had been a constant reassurance. Maybe it was the suits. Maybe it was the frisson of relief he felt when Gwen came home, giggling madly, with the revelation that her boss and coworker were shagging in a room full of plants in their secret underground base.
Rhys realizes, abruptly, that he has been pacing. Anwen, her nightmare long forgotten, has gone limp and heavy with sleep in his arms. He carries her back to her bedroom and tucks her in beneath her bright pink Cinderella blanket. She snuffles a little, turns her head to snuggle into a fluffy pillow, and sighs contentedly. He kisses her cheek before shutting the door and leaving.
It won’t take long to get to what he’s been jokingly referring to as Hub 2.0. It’s a bloody hotel room, for fuck’s sake. Posh, too. There’s the damned pattern for you. Why he hadn’t even considered the implication at first is beyond him. He grabs his coat, keys, and wallet. He freezes for a moment and then nods, unlocking the drawer and removing a revolver. ‘Peacemaker’ seems an appropriate name for the weapon. Rhys will make his peace.
The ammunition is locked away in a hall closet, and Rhys tiptoes passed Anwen’s room to get it. He had been entirely against keeping a gun in the house what with a child (especially one that had inherited all of Gwen’s touchy curiosity) toddling about, but she had insisted. And he has to admit, they need to be protected in this sort of business.
Ammunition in his pocket, Rhys leaves. He’s only going to be gone for an hour at most, but still he knocks on Mrs. Connelly’s door. It’s a little after ten, and she’s almost ready for bed, but he assures her he’ll be back soon. She nods, promises that Anwen is always a pleasure, and pats Rhys on the arm as she shuffles into his flat.
The hotel is only a couple of miles away, so it seems senseless to turn on the heat or the radio in his car. Besides, the cold silence suits him, counters his loud, hot rage. No, not rage. Not rage at all. Just…exhaustion.
He’s been to the hotel frequently enough that the attendant at the desk nods at him with a friendly smile. He has the keycard out already, the loaded gun tucked into his back pocket and making him feel like quite the thug. It isn’t a pleasant feeling at all, but he’s determined.
It’s a sort of therapy anyone who's part of Torchwood goes through: Shoot the Captain. It’s like whacking your spouse with those big, foam bats. He’s sure that he’s owed at least that much by now. And maybe buying a pair of those bats isn’t a bad idea, come to think of it.
He pauses at the bottom of the grand staircase, all elegant white marble, like it’s an escalator, like he’s waiting for the engines to clank into action and carry him up. But it isn’t. He will have no help in this, but that’s just fine. Rhys Williams is nothing if not capable.
One step, two, and then he’s racing up the stairs. His heart is thankful that there’s only one flight; it pounds in his chest with adrenaline and terror and need and exertion. He slows as he enters the hallway and is practically creeping when he rounds the final corner. There are gilt mirrors every few feet, but he refuses to look at himself in one. Instead, he keeps his eyes down. The carpet is plush, royal blue, and well-shampooed. Either that, or no one in this place ever makes a mess.
Sliding his keycard in, he opens the door without more than a soft click. He doesn’t want to look, has to look, and because he is so determined, Rhys Williams does look.
The two of them sit on the end of the bed, Jack cradled in his wife’s arms like a child or a lover – it doesn’t matter which, as both thoughts send his blood boiling. They are still dressed, at least, though Jack’s shirt is unbuttoned and his braces hang down limply. The lights are on, too, and the brightness is a bit off-putting. This sort of thing should be executed in the quiet dark. Clandestine affairs and dirty shoot-outs have no business being well-lit.
Rhys isn’t particularly dexterous with a gun, but he has it drawn, arms stretched out in front of him. The muscles in them are so tense, he’s afraid they’ll snap under the relatively light weight of the revolver.
His wife and Jack both raise their heads to look at him. Gwen’s eyes are wide. Well, of course they are. Here’s her husband, late at night, with a gun trained on her boss. But Jack’s eyes are dull, red-rimmed, watery. That bit is unexpected and he wavers a moment.
Jack rises ungracefully, as though he’s become old and stiff. “Come to shoot me, Mr. Williams?”
Rhys splutters. “I – I mean, I –”
“Please. I deserve it. You deserve it.”
“Rhys,” Gwen hesitantly beckons, as though she’s talking down a common criminal. Well she is, isn’t she? “What’s the matter, love? Is Anwen all right?”
“C’mon Rhys. Just shoot me. I’d welcome it.”
“Love, whatever you think Jack’s been doing, I assure you he hasn’t.”
“Gwen, let your husband shoot me. And then we’ll all have a laugh about it in a few minutes.”
Rhys looks back and forth, between them, his eyes darting with dizzying speed. There’s a bottle of whisky on the floor by Jack’s feet. It’s half full. Good. He’s going to need something strong in a minute. And isn’t that just a lovely sentiment? “Hi. I’m going to shoot you, drink your whisky, and steal my woman back, thank you very much.” It’s just like the movies.
Gwen is looking at him with a combination of sympathy, fear, and something else he can’t quite place. He can’t stand to see her with those emotions in her eyes. She clears her throat when he glances back at Jack.
“Rhys –”
Jack stands, arms outstretched like a bloody martyr and it just makes Rhys so irate.
“All you do is bring more bloody problems,” Rhys spits out. “We were fine without you, had everything under control, and then you come back. Take my wife out from under me again. I’ve had enough of you.”
Jack nods. So Rhys shoots him.
The sound is deafening. His hands are shaking. His legs don’t work anymore. He feels warm and slow, a lot like the pool of viscous blood that is collecting beneath Jack’s cooling body.
Gwen is staring expectantly at the blood, at Jack, so Rhys doffs his coat and sinks to the floor. He has enough presence of mind to turn the safety back on the gun before he drops it a few centimeters, next to his knee. Blood pounds in his ears like it’s trying to drown him. But he can still hear over the thrum, can still make out Gwen’s anxious voice.
“Jack,” she urges. “Jack, come on. It was just a bullet. You should be up by now. Jack. Jack?”
Rhys glances up just in time to watch her frantically prodding his shoulder. She’s pale and scared, and that makes him pale and scared, too, and he wants nothing more than to reassure her. And himself.
“He’ll be fine. He can’t stay dead, remember? Besides, no one can die now, anyway.”
As soon as he says it, he panics. So does Gwen, in a quiet way that differs so much from her usual mannerisms that Rhys feels fear like a tangible hand that clenches his heart. She leans against him, though, and while it doesn’t mean that he’s ever going to be forgiven, it’s a start.
And wouldn’t that just be the way? Everyone lives permanently, so Jack dies permanently. Even in death, the bastard has to be contrary.
“Oh God, Rhys. What if he’s really dead? He’s really dead. He can’t be.”
They sit in silence as the clock ticks and Jack still doesn’t move. He’s gone blue-white now, his lips pale, his eyes glassy. There is blood spatter on the duvet, and the wall, and the lamp by the bed, and all over the place. They watch attentively. Jack doesn’t look to be coming back.
They are so lost in their vigil that the beeping of Jack’s wrist strap startles them both. Gwen squeaks and Rhys tightens his hold on her shoulders. It’s blinking, too, like a bloody smartphone.
“Great,” Gwen mutters between deep breaths. “Just what we need. John bloody Hart. Wanker.”
Great, indeed. Another space cadet. Not that Rhys has any intention of shooting this one, although from the look on her face, Gwen probably would like for him to. That’s something to ponder. Later.
Gwen rises shakily to her feet. She leans over Jack’s body and Rhys is so proud of her strength, so sickened by his own weakness, that he wants to curl up into himself. He’s failed her. All of this time, and the pressure finally became too much. He hates himself for it, would hate himself only slightly less if Jack would just stop being dead right now.
She presses a button, hesitantly, and a blue light flashes. Actually, it looks like something out of Star Wars and it’s so ridiculous and shocking that he laughs out loud. He can’t see what Gwen’s looking at, can’t tell why she’s crying now when her eyes had remained dry throughout the whole ordeal.
And then he hears a voice.
“Jack? I hope this gets to you. I really have no idea what I’m doing with this thing at all.”
The deep voice sounds familiar, though he can’t quite place it. It laughs a little nervously and now Gwen is sobbing and he has no idea what’s happening, so he stands and wobbles over to get a better look.
“I don’t know how long it’s been for you, either. Or where you are. It’s only been a week for me since – well, since I died. But I’m not. Dead, that is. Clearly. Anyway, I’m sending coordinates, though I have to move soon. There’s – well, I’ll explain it all later, if you want. I – I love you.”
Oh, fuck.
The End
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2011-04-10 01:58 am (UTC)Then again, setting these prompts, I guess I was just asking for it.
Will comment more once I read this again a few more times and process every bit of it in its entirety.
no subject
Date: 2011-04-10 02:30 am (UTC)That ending... You are evil. Enough said.
Jack's death being the last death before the "Miracle Day" is a really interesting idea. Not that RTD would do that, but still, the irony of it is brilliant. Reminds me of a fic where an alien artifact makes Jack's abundance of life spread around Cardiff, raising the dead and stuff, but not permanently. But I digress...
I am abusing ellipses.
The process of Rhys thoughts, Jack so very broken, Gwen doing her best to help whatever way she can...
Despite the gravity of this fic, a part of me did flail at Rhys holding and shooting a gun. Wonder what this says about me.
Anyway.
Brilliant fic.
Thank you for sharing.
P.S. Why is the whole world and you determined to undermine my decision to not watch MD?
no subject
Date: 2011-04-10 06:09 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-04-10 11:20 pm (UTC)And I don't know - RTD likes to make us all lose our minds. Maybe not the LAST death, but...at some point. Yes. Maybe. Probably not, but maybe. And flailing at Rhys? Yeah, yeah - I did that, too. :D
Anyway, I'm glad you liked it! *hugs*
P.S. Don't blame me! I still don't know if I'll watch it or not, myself! :)
wait ...
Date: 2011-04-11 01:48 am (UTC)Re: wait ...
Date: 2011-04-11 09:15 am (UTC)Because me? I'm not evil. No no. Not me.
no subject
Date: 2011-04-10 03:03 am (UTC)oh. That ending, I... BRILLIANT. Poor Rhys. Poor Jack! Lovely!
no subject
Date: 2011-04-10 11:21 pm (UTC)nonsensical ramblings.
Date: 2011-04-10 06:12 am (UTC)*sighs* fuck. i should have known by what you told me that you'd do something like that. but damn. just... damn.
Not to say i may not have done the same in Rhys' position.
And not to say that Jack didnt deserve to die... not in the "he's a bastard" sense (though he kinda is) but in the... more finality of it, rather than being alive forever.
but... but the voice and the... the message and... you!!!
fuck.
*sobs in a corner*
Re: nonsensical ramblings.
Date: 2011-04-10 11:22 pm (UTC)Like I told you, I have no idea why my mind went here. None at all. But it did. Because it is a scary scary place, my mind is.
Oh, the irony. Hee!
It's probably bad form that I'm so giggly about this, but...well. *Dances*
no subject
Date: 2011-04-10 12:51 pm (UTC)I have a fear that Jack dying is where RTD is taking MD. I'm not sure why exactly though. Without JB, what's the point of that show?
So...maybe you continue this? Have Jack wake up?
please?
no subject
Date: 2011-04-10 11:23 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-04-10 01:32 pm (UTC)Actually, I think this is what is going to happen. Not the part about Ianto being alive, but I think the supreme irony would be to kill off Captain Jack. And I can actually see RTD doing this. And it would be a fitting ending to Torchwood (or what goes by the name of Torchwood these days).
I know, I'm a terrible person, but I really, really am hoping this happens.
But having Ianto come back after Jack's dead for real would be genius.
no subject
Date: 2011-04-10 11:24 pm (UTC)Although the alive!Ianto bit would be totally...incredible. In a "Fine. You want Ianto back? Have him. He's all broken now and there's no Jack. Muahahaha" kind of way. It probably won't happen, but, well. Wishful thinking.
no subject
Date: 2011-04-10 02:45 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-04-10 11:25 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-04-10 09:50 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-04-10 11:25 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-04-10 10:28 pm (UTC)...yea, that's about as coherent as I'm going to get. Wow.
(any chance you'll write more on this?)
no subject
Date: 2011-04-10 11:26 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-04-11 10:05 am (UTC)Loved Rhys and his gun flailing too. xxx
no subject
Date: 2011-04-11 09:40 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-04-11 07:33 pm (UTC)*hides under bed with Janto fanfic and Nosy*
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Date: 2011-04-11 09:42 pm (UTC)I left it deliberately open-ended in two parts, at least. Are Gwen and Jack having an affair? and Is Jack really dead for good?
Thank you for reading and commenting, though, despite your misgivings.
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Date: 2011-04-11 10:01 pm (UTC)(And Jack's not really dead, just a bit dead, he'll come back for Ianto!)
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