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fandomweekly2025-04-06 03:07 pm
m_findlow) wrote in fandomweekly2025-04-06 03:07 pm
Entry tags:
[#255] COLLATERAL DAMAGE (TORCHWOOD)
Theme Prompt: #255 -Defiance
Title: Collateral damage
Fandom: Torchwood
Rating/Warnings: M
Bonus: Yes
Word Count: 1,000 words
Summary: Owen never wanted to be on the outside looking in, but now the decision has been taken out of his hands.
The bar’s stereo system was booming out music even at this early hour, barely lunchtime. The floor under Owen’s stool was vibrating from the deep bass, playing out the Stone Roses’ “Begging You”. How sodding ironic, Owen thought, tipping back the rest of his scotch. No one had been begging Jack to put his bloody ego aside when he’d fired Owen. Well, maybe except for Gwen. She wasn’t stupid. She knew that the world was going to hell in a handbasket and that there were presently only five people on the entire planet who knew what was going on and why. No one else could fix this except for them, and here he was, joining the ranks of the freshly unemployed, doing what fired employees did best – drowning their problems in booze.
Owen raised his glass again, feeling nothing but the moist cold sensation of the ice cubes as they pressed against his lips, eager to join the whiskey that was making a warm pool in his stomach, hoping to ease the comforting burn it was giving him. ‘Another scotch, mate,’ he said when the bartender next ambled by. ‘And a pint,’ he added. His planned destination was “blotto” but his intention was to get there via the “stops all stations” rather than the express route. He had a lot on his mind right now and he planned on processing it all with the slow fug of alcohol to help it along.
He leaned forward on the counter, feeling the familiar dampness of the beermat under his forearms, still drying out from the previous night’s spillages. He eased back from it, not wanting to particularly smell of stale lager. He cast his gaze left and right, looking for bowls of complementary bar mix and finding none. Opposite him on the wall were freshly hung bags of pork rinds, cheese and onion crisps and mixed nuts, available for sale rather than a free accompaniment. He moved to point at the cheese and onion crisps when the bartender brought over his two glasses – one short and squat, barely filled, the other tall and slender, with a good head on it, attempting to spill over the edge. Crisps would slow down the effect of the alcohol, tearing open the foil bag and scarfing a handful, sucking the salt from his fingertips.
He took a long swallow of ale and set the glass back on the bar, letting it jiggle in time with the vibrations from the loud music. Good luck to them, he thought, thinking about the teammates and friends held left behind. They were going to need it. Then he felt a wave of bitterness surge up inside him and he swallowed it down, grimacing.
None of this was his fault. He’d opened the rift, yes, but no one had really tried to stop him. He couldn't have done it on his own. Gwen had helped him find the missing piece of machinery that would get it to work, according to the plans. And Ianto, whilst he’d held Owen at gunpoint, hadn’t really tried to stand in his way, even though he’d shot Owen all the same. Ianto had wanted Jack back just as much as the rest of them, perhaps more so. Jack didn’t have any right to be pissed at Owen for what he’d done. If he’d really wanted to prevent them from using the rift machine, he never would have let Tosh stash the missing equations somewhere so that they would survive the sixty year journey through time for the team to find them and use them. Okay, so perhaps some of the equations had been scratched out along the way, but it had been enough. He’d opened the rift and got Jack and Tosh safely back from 1941 where they might have otherwise been trapped forever.
What was happening now wasn’t entirely Owen’s fault. He was pissed off at Jack – not for firing him for having the balls to stand up to him and demand he fix things – but because Jack should have warned them. He should have replaced all those vague warnings about never messing with the rift with real consequences. If Jack had said that using the rift machine would cause time to splinter, to having people and other things slip through into modern day Cardiff, Owen might have paid attention. If Jack had said that those people could be bringing with them incurable, deadly diseases, or dangerous technology, or that they could have dinosaurs rampaging through the city streets, for god's sakes, would Owen have ever dared to open the rift? Jesus Christ, of course not. But that was Jack through and through – always with the enigmatic bullshit and lacking in cold hard facts. The world was breaking apart now and Owen couldn't do a damn thing about it, because he hadn't known what damage his actions could cause.
He picked up the scotch and swirled it around in its ice before sipping. It would be okay. It had to be. Jack was being overly dramatic about not knowing how to fix this, or even if it could be fixed. It was the kind of thing that had always pissed Owen off, because Jack knew damn well how to fix things. He just liked the melodrama and then rushing in at the eleventh hour to be the big hero.
Firing Owen for calling him out on it was just part of the act, making Jack look like the big man who had all the power. He would fix things, because that's what Jack did. He didn’t like to lose, which was fine by Owen. it wasn’t his problem anymore. He’d done his job, rescuing them from being sealed off from their own timelines, because Jack had done nothing to stop him. Jack had wanted rescuing; he just hadn’t wanted to face up to what that might cost them. Well, now he’d pay the price, and Owen could sit here and enjoy watching things play out.
Title: Collateral damage
Fandom: Torchwood
Rating/Warnings: M
Bonus: Yes
Word Count: 1,000 words
Summary: Owen never wanted to be on the outside looking in, but now the decision has been taken out of his hands.
The bar’s stereo system was booming out music even at this early hour, barely lunchtime. The floor under Owen’s stool was vibrating from the deep bass, playing out the Stone Roses’ “Begging You”. How sodding ironic, Owen thought, tipping back the rest of his scotch. No one had been begging Jack to put his bloody ego aside when he’d fired Owen. Well, maybe except for Gwen. She wasn’t stupid. She knew that the world was going to hell in a handbasket and that there were presently only five people on the entire planet who knew what was going on and why. No one else could fix this except for them, and here he was, joining the ranks of the freshly unemployed, doing what fired employees did best – drowning their problems in booze.
Owen raised his glass again, feeling nothing but the moist cold sensation of the ice cubes as they pressed against his lips, eager to join the whiskey that was making a warm pool in his stomach, hoping to ease the comforting burn it was giving him. ‘Another scotch, mate,’ he said when the bartender next ambled by. ‘And a pint,’ he added. His planned destination was “blotto” but his intention was to get there via the “stops all stations” rather than the express route. He had a lot on his mind right now and he planned on processing it all with the slow fug of alcohol to help it along.
He leaned forward on the counter, feeling the familiar dampness of the beermat under his forearms, still drying out from the previous night’s spillages. He eased back from it, not wanting to particularly smell of stale lager. He cast his gaze left and right, looking for bowls of complementary bar mix and finding none. Opposite him on the wall were freshly hung bags of pork rinds, cheese and onion crisps and mixed nuts, available for sale rather than a free accompaniment. He moved to point at the cheese and onion crisps when the bartender brought over his two glasses – one short and squat, barely filled, the other tall and slender, with a good head on it, attempting to spill over the edge. Crisps would slow down the effect of the alcohol, tearing open the foil bag and scarfing a handful, sucking the salt from his fingertips.
He took a long swallow of ale and set the glass back on the bar, letting it jiggle in time with the vibrations from the loud music. Good luck to them, he thought, thinking about the teammates and friends held left behind. They were going to need it. Then he felt a wave of bitterness surge up inside him and he swallowed it down, grimacing.
None of this was his fault. He’d opened the rift, yes, but no one had really tried to stop him. He couldn't have done it on his own. Gwen had helped him find the missing piece of machinery that would get it to work, according to the plans. And Ianto, whilst he’d held Owen at gunpoint, hadn’t really tried to stand in his way, even though he’d shot Owen all the same. Ianto had wanted Jack back just as much as the rest of them, perhaps more so. Jack didn’t have any right to be pissed at Owen for what he’d done. If he’d really wanted to prevent them from using the rift machine, he never would have let Tosh stash the missing equations somewhere so that they would survive the sixty year journey through time for the team to find them and use them. Okay, so perhaps some of the equations had been scratched out along the way, but it had been enough. He’d opened the rift and got Jack and Tosh safely back from 1941 where they might have otherwise been trapped forever.
What was happening now wasn’t entirely Owen’s fault. He was pissed off at Jack – not for firing him for having the balls to stand up to him and demand he fix things – but because Jack should have warned them. He should have replaced all those vague warnings about never messing with the rift with real consequences. If Jack had said that using the rift machine would cause time to splinter, to having people and other things slip through into modern day Cardiff, Owen might have paid attention. If Jack had said that those people could be bringing with them incurable, deadly diseases, or dangerous technology, or that they could have dinosaurs rampaging through the city streets, for god's sakes, would Owen have ever dared to open the rift? Jesus Christ, of course not. But that was Jack through and through – always with the enigmatic bullshit and lacking in cold hard facts. The world was breaking apart now and Owen couldn't do a damn thing about it, because he hadn't known what damage his actions could cause.
He picked up the scotch and swirled it around in its ice before sipping. It would be okay. It had to be. Jack was being overly dramatic about not knowing how to fix this, or even if it could be fixed. It was the kind of thing that had always pissed Owen off, because Jack knew damn well how to fix things. He just liked the melodrama and then rushing in at the eleventh hour to be the big hero.
Firing Owen for calling him out on it was just part of the act, making Jack look like the big man who had all the power. He would fix things, because that's what Jack did. He didn’t like to lose, which was fine by Owen. it wasn’t his problem anymore. He’d done his job, rescuing them from being sealed off from their own timelines, because Jack had done nothing to stop him. Jack had wanted rescuing; he just hadn’t wanted to face up to what that might cost them. Well, now he’d pay the price, and Owen could sit here and enjoy watching things play out.
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