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fandomweekly2017-01-28 11:32 am
m_findlow) wrote in fandomweekly2017-01-28 11:32 am
Entry tags:
[#030] EMPTY-HANDED (TORCHWOOD)
Theme Prompt: #030 Redemption
Title: Empty-handed
Fandom: Torchwood
Rating/Warnings: PG. Spoilers for the audio play "Fall to Earth"
Bonus: Yes
Word Count: 1,000 words
Summary: Coming home is less of a relief than it should be
He hefted the backpack easily onto his shoulder as he slowly walked through the terminal. Inside was almost nothing. One set of clothes, bought in haste as soon as he'd been discharged from the hospital, along with the backpack, a toothbrush, and a bottle of water, passport gripped tightly in his slightly sweaty palm. He opened it and checked it again, before flipping it shut, letting the neutral expression cloud over his face as he walked up to border control. He couldn't tell what made him feel more nervous: the fact that his passport mysteriously had an entry stamp - one that he hadn't earned through legitimate channels - or the fact that he was now going to have to go home and face the music.
Maybe he wouldn't get that far. Maybe when they scrutinized his passport hard enough, their records would show that Mr Jones had never formally entered the country. He might yet be hauled away locked up for questioning. And all the while, there was every chance that The Committee had somehow flagged his name with airport security, preventing him from leaving. The crash landing of the Sky Puncher had made the headlines, its formidable passenger list publicized, and Ephraim Salt's technological genius lauded for having landed the ship with zero casualties. None of the celebrity travelers aboard would bother to remember that one person was missing; the steward who served their coffee didn't warrant a second thought. But The Committee would know. They'd have expended resources to track him down, assuming they'd known he was aboard at all. Perhaps he thought too much of himself. Perhaps he really was just a nobody.
There was a thump as ink assaulted paper, canceling his Turkish visa by a corresponding exit stamp. He'd made it. He probably didn't deserve it, but somehow Jack had assured him safe passage back home.
Slumping in the narrow airplane seat, the seatbelt clicked sharply and he pulled it tight across him, wincing at the pain in his upper leg that still troubled him, leaving him with a limp. The whiplash from being ejected from the crashing spaceship was all but gone, but as soon as he was seated, he pulled out the bottle of water and drank heavily from it, accompanying it with several sleeping tablets. After his last flight, if The Committee was hell bent on killing him, they could go right ahead. He'd be happily drifting in la la land when they did. He wasn't a threat to them, whatever they thought. The information he'd wrangled from Ephraim Salt was gone, the flash drive confiscated by Jack whilst he'd been unconscious.
What a mess. He'd come here out of a sense of duty, so he kept saying, but all he'd done was make a hash of things, and nearly killed the whole lot of them. What they'd say when he got home he could only imagine. No one was going to believe he'd taken an entire week off work on account of being sick. He'd have to fess up to what he'd really been doing, and all the time he'd spent going behind their backs researching The Committee.
It wasn't how he'd planned it. The whole reason he'd gotten involved in it, apart from wanting to help Jack and to have him back, was to regain some of the trust he'd lost. It didn't matter how much time had passed since he'd betrayed them all to save Lisa, he still felt as if they'd always doubt him. No one had ever questioned Owen's motives after Abbadon, and killing Jack to open the rift. If Jack had found it in his heart to forgive Ianto, why couldn't the rest of them? They respected Jack to his face, but once he was gone, everything changed.
He hadn't meant to overhear Gwen and Owen's conversation, but it still left a bitter taste in his mouth.
'Jack didn't really mean it when he said Ianto was in charge, did he?'
'Doesn't matter. Jack's not here. If he's going to take off whenever he feels like it, Torchwood gets run by us.'
'What if he says no?'
'Then we just let him think he's running the show.'
It hurt more than he could say. Not only did they not trust him, they didn't even think him capable of coordinating the team. That was why he was here now. He wanted to prove to them that he was loyal to the team, and just as much a part of it as they were. Saving Ephraim Salt would change everything. They'd start taking him seriously, start believing him when he said Jack was in over his head and needed their help. He didn't want to be alone in worrying about his flat being bugged, and having his every move watched, ready to be snatched off the street should he become too much of a threat. He wanted the others to see that he was human, just like them, capable of making mistakes and doing the wrong thing despite having all the best intentions in the world.
It made him want to laugh, or perhaps that was the drugs kicking in. Being well intentioned had gotten him nowhere again. Maybe he was beyond redemption. He should just go back to making coffee. That was all he was really good for, anyway.
The plane taxied slowly down the runway, the gentle rumble across the tarmac easing his guilt laden thoughts until he remembered how tantalizingly close he'd come to finding Jack; moreover that Jack had found him, though he had no memory of it, and now he was leaving him again to face The Committee alone. Even Jack hadn't trusted him enough to keep him there by his side. He had the flash drive now, and Ianto was on his way home, unwanted.
He remained conscious long enough for the safety demonstration, then drifted asleep. He didn't want to think about any of it again until he was safely back home.
Title: Empty-handed
Fandom: Torchwood
Rating/Warnings: PG. Spoilers for the audio play "Fall to Earth"
Bonus: Yes
Word Count: 1,000 words
Summary: Coming home is less of a relief than it should be
He hefted the backpack easily onto his shoulder as he slowly walked through the terminal. Inside was almost nothing. One set of clothes, bought in haste as soon as he'd been discharged from the hospital, along with the backpack, a toothbrush, and a bottle of water, passport gripped tightly in his slightly sweaty palm. He opened it and checked it again, before flipping it shut, letting the neutral expression cloud over his face as he walked up to border control. He couldn't tell what made him feel more nervous: the fact that his passport mysteriously had an entry stamp - one that he hadn't earned through legitimate channels - or the fact that he was now going to have to go home and face the music.
Maybe he wouldn't get that far. Maybe when they scrutinized his passport hard enough, their records would show that Mr Jones had never formally entered the country. He might yet be hauled away locked up for questioning. And all the while, there was every chance that The Committee had somehow flagged his name with airport security, preventing him from leaving. The crash landing of the Sky Puncher had made the headlines, its formidable passenger list publicized, and Ephraim Salt's technological genius lauded for having landed the ship with zero casualties. None of the celebrity travelers aboard would bother to remember that one person was missing; the steward who served their coffee didn't warrant a second thought. But The Committee would know. They'd have expended resources to track him down, assuming they'd known he was aboard at all. Perhaps he thought too much of himself. Perhaps he really was just a nobody.
There was a thump as ink assaulted paper, canceling his Turkish visa by a corresponding exit stamp. He'd made it. He probably didn't deserve it, but somehow Jack had assured him safe passage back home.
Slumping in the narrow airplane seat, the seatbelt clicked sharply and he pulled it tight across him, wincing at the pain in his upper leg that still troubled him, leaving him with a limp. The whiplash from being ejected from the crashing spaceship was all but gone, but as soon as he was seated, he pulled out the bottle of water and drank heavily from it, accompanying it with several sleeping tablets. After his last flight, if The Committee was hell bent on killing him, they could go right ahead. He'd be happily drifting in la la land when they did. He wasn't a threat to them, whatever they thought. The information he'd wrangled from Ephraim Salt was gone, the flash drive confiscated by Jack whilst he'd been unconscious.
What a mess. He'd come here out of a sense of duty, so he kept saying, but all he'd done was make a hash of things, and nearly killed the whole lot of them. What they'd say when he got home he could only imagine. No one was going to believe he'd taken an entire week off work on account of being sick. He'd have to fess up to what he'd really been doing, and all the time he'd spent going behind their backs researching The Committee.
It wasn't how he'd planned it. The whole reason he'd gotten involved in it, apart from wanting to help Jack and to have him back, was to regain some of the trust he'd lost. It didn't matter how much time had passed since he'd betrayed them all to save Lisa, he still felt as if they'd always doubt him. No one had ever questioned Owen's motives after Abbadon, and killing Jack to open the rift. If Jack had found it in his heart to forgive Ianto, why couldn't the rest of them? They respected Jack to his face, but once he was gone, everything changed.
He hadn't meant to overhear Gwen and Owen's conversation, but it still left a bitter taste in his mouth.
'Jack didn't really mean it when he said Ianto was in charge, did he?'
'Doesn't matter. Jack's not here. If he's going to take off whenever he feels like it, Torchwood gets run by us.'
'What if he says no?'
'Then we just let him think he's running the show.'
It hurt more than he could say. Not only did they not trust him, they didn't even think him capable of coordinating the team. That was why he was here now. He wanted to prove to them that he was loyal to the team, and just as much a part of it as they were. Saving Ephraim Salt would change everything. They'd start taking him seriously, start believing him when he said Jack was in over his head and needed their help. He didn't want to be alone in worrying about his flat being bugged, and having his every move watched, ready to be snatched off the street should he become too much of a threat. He wanted the others to see that he was human, just like them, capable of making mistakes and doing the wrong thing despite having all the best intentions in the world.
It made him want to laugh, or perhaps that was the drugs kicking in. Being well intentioned had gotten him nowhere again. Maybe he was beyond redemption. He should just go back to making coffee. That was all he was really good for, anyway.
The plane taxied slowly down the runway, the gentle rumble across the tarmac easing his guilt laden thoughts until he remembered how tantalizingly close he'd come to finding Jack; moreover that Jack had found him, though he had no memory of it, and now he was leaving him again to face The Committee alone. Even Jack hadn't trusted him enough to keep him there by his side. He had the flash drive now, and Ianto was on his way home, unwanted.
He remained conscious long enough for the safety demonstration, then drifted asleep. He didn't want to think about any of it again until he was safely back home.
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