John J. Rambo (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
theydrewfirstblood) wrote2023-04-25 11:37 am
theydrewfirstblood) wrote2023-04-25 11:37 am
Entry tags:
[PERCHANCE TO DREAM] to die, to sleep...
Thank you.
He was down for days, but for him it was...much longer. Felt like seconds. Felt like a lifetime.
Everything felt right. Gwen's smile, radiant and relieved. Tosh's desperate, clinging embrace, Ianto's uncertainty and the salty taste of tears as he kissed him. The collapse of Owen into his arms, letting go of seven different kinds of grief under the burden of Jack's forgiveness.
He was back. He was home...and yet he had lost everything. That beautiful dream, that space between...that beautiful man with a body built for sin and a heart too warm for such a cold, unforgiving world...
He couldn't be real, though. That much Jack was sure of.
He was a dream, and like all dreams, he faded gradually from Jack's memory. His name, his face, his touch...he had Ianto, he loved Ianto. He had everything he needed, everything he wanted. Eventually, he even had the Doctor back, and Martha Jones--glorious Martha Jones.
In time, Jack forgot. It was okay, because it wasn't real. The people, they mattered, the real people he'd known and loved. The dream--he made that up.
So Jack forgot. His name, his face, his touch.
Even if, in the rough moments, he started heading for the Hub exit, uncertain as to where he was going. Even if, when he came back from the cold void of death, he clutched his chest not in pain, but to look for an invisible weight that wasn't there. Even if, sometimes, when he woke from rare nights of sleep and dressed for the day, he lingered over buttoning his shirt cuffs and fastening his wristwatch, rubbing a spot on his wrist and feeling like something was missing.
He forgot, because it wasn't real.
Then Gray came back. Tosh and Owen died.
"The end is where we start from."
Three days after the world ended.
That was when Torchwood Four reappeared.
* * * * *
"Jack!"
"What is it?"
"It's Owen."
“...that's not possible.”
Jack ran for the morgue, Ianto hot on his heels.
When they got there, they found Gwen beside an open cryopod, arms wrapped around a shivering, blue-tinted Owen Harper, sitting up and looking around with wide, uncertain eyes.
“Owen?...”
Owen blinked, squinting at Jack with a total lack of recognition, then flinched and seemed to shake himself.
“T-t-trousers...T-t-t-Toshiko...hurry.”
* * * * *
They opened her drawer in the morgue and found her as they left her: eyes shut, pale as death.
Only now, she was bleeding.
“How--”
“No time—Gwen, crash cart, third drawer.”
“Fourth.” Ianto corrected.
“...right, sorry. Forgot—fourth drawer, why would he do that?...”
It took fifteen terrifying minutes. Her heart stopped twice--again--but when she opened her eyes, took one look at Owen, and burst into tears, everyone else in the room followed suit.
* * * * *
“And you say I authorized it?”
Toshiko nodded, still ghostly pale against the sheets of the gurney, staring at the tiny capsule Jack held aloft between thumb and forefinger. “I received a letter in the post last month, telling me where it was located. It was in your handwriting and everything. Kept it in my work station until the temporal lock unsealed, read the instructions...told you all I was anemic and took the pill every day.”
“Alien tech from—well, from my end of things.” Owen explained. “Once Tosh...er...my Tosh, worked out what it did, we collaborated to reset it and develop a program for human use. Essentially, it's a backup drive for the body. Completely organic, that's why none of the equipment twigged to it when she was examined. Takes a complete biological snapshot of the body every hour, saves the data, and dissolves if no interruptions in electrical activity are detected within twenty four hours, so we used the equipment to produce roughly a thirty day supply. Restoration of the snapshot takes roughly seventy two hours—last one must have been just after she was shot.”
Jack held the capsule up to the light. It was vaguely translucent, and a strange, shocking shade of purple that...unsettled him for reasons he couldn't explain.
Lowering his hand, he turned to Owen. “And you're...not our Owen.”
He smiled apologetically, reaching up to adjust his glasses. “'Fraid not, I'm sorry, sir.”
“And we've never met?”
Owen hesitated visibly, ducking his head.
“Not, uh...not in so many words, sir. I'm quite familiar with Captain Jack Harkness, but where I come from? That's not you—and I'm sorry, I'm not at liberty to say anything more.”
Toshiko frowned. “Were you given transfer orders, too?”
Glancing at Toshiko, Owen slowly nodded. “You as well?”
“They were in the letter with the pills.”
“Transfer orders?” Jack asked. “I haven't issued any transfer orders.”
Owen and Toshiko shared a look, one that caused Jack's chest to tighten and his stomach to sink with a feeling he knew all too well—a feeling he hated.
The feeling that someone was up to something.
“Found the box, Owen—right in the archives where you said, temporal lock open.”
“Er...thanks, Ianto.” Owen replied, glancing over at where Gwen stood beside Jack. “Sorry about the confusion earlier, Gwen. Back where I come from, you're a bear about anyone else going through your files.”
“Absolutely mental, that.” she laughed by means of accepting his apology, crossing over to rub his arm. “It's all right, sweetheart.”
Accepting the box from Ianto, Owen took it to the autopsy table. Opening it, he began to go through what appeared to be his personal effects, withdrawing a folder he opened, then flashed at Tosh. She squinted at it, then nodded.
Wordlessly, Owen handed the folder to Jack.
“Erm...transfer papers, sir.”
Taking the folder, Jack opened it and began to read. With every line, the sinking feeling grew, and the tightness in his chest pulled harder until it felt like his lungs were being crushed.
“...yes, right! Sorry...”
Jack blinked, shaking his head. He'd...disconnected, lost time. It sounded better than 'spacing out,' because he didn't, couldn't space out. That wasn't him.
...except he had, and he was clutching at his chest again. For some reason, that had Owen rummaging through his personal effects again, this time producing an envelope he passed to Jack wordlessly.
“Sir? What's goin' on?” Ianto asked softly as Jack accepted the envelope. It made a sound that set off a reaction he could only barely contain.
“Jack? Are you all right?”
Jack nodded. “I'm fine. You heard them. Process them as transfers—I'll be in my office.”
Voices, both confused and reassuring, faded into white noise behind him. Jack managed not to stagger until he was collapsing into his desk chair, folder and envelope clutched tight between his hands. The envelope made that sound again, a sound that made his knees weak and his head spin.
I'm here.
Jack tore the envelope open with shaking hands and tipped it, letting the pair of steel dog tags slide into his hand. He checked them for a name, but they were blank. They felt wrong in his hand, stung his skin even though they were cold to the touch with dull edges.
Without thinking, he slid them on over his head and tucked them beneath his shirt. Only when they settled against his chest and started to warm to his body heat did he feel...
Relief. Safety. Strength. Strength enough to reach for the folder again and open it, reading over its contents with clearer, calmer eyes.
Owen Harper's personnel file...and his transfer orders from Torchwood Four.
He was down for days, but for him it was...much longer. Felt like seconds. Felt like a lifetime.
Everything felt right. Gwen's smile, radiant and relieved. Tosh's desperate, clinging embrace, Ianto's uncertainty and the salty taste of tears as he kissed him. The collapse of Owen into his arms, letting go of seven different kinds of grief under the burden of Jack's forgiveness.
He was back. He was home...and yet he had lost everything. That beautiful dream, that space between...that beautiful man with a body built for sin and a heart too warm for such a cold, unforgiving world...
He couldn't be real, though. That much Jack was sure of.
He was a dream, and like all dreams, he faded gradually from Jack's memory. His name, his face, his touch...he had Ianto, he loved Ianto. He had everything he needed, everything he wanted. Eventually, he even had the Doctor back, and Martha Jones--glorious Martha Jones.
In time, Jack forgot. It was okay, because it wasn't real. The people, they mattered, the real people he'd known and loved. The dream--he made that up.
So Jack forgot. His name, his face, his touch.
Even if, in the rough moments, he started heading for the Hub exit, uncertain as to where he was going. Even if, when he came back from the cold void of death, he clutched his chest not in pain, but to look for an invisible weight that wasn't there. Even if, sometimes, when he woke from rare nights of sleep and dressed for the day, he lingered over buttoning his shirt cuffs and fastening his wristwatch, rubbing a spot on his wrist and feeling like something was missing.
He forgot, because it wasn't real.
Then Gray came back. Tosh and Owen died.
"The end is where we start from."
Three days after the world ended.
That was when Torchwood Four reappeared.
"Jack!"
"What is it?"
"It's Owen."
“...that's not possible.”
Jack ran for the morgue, Ianto hot on his heels.
When they got there, they found Gwen beside an open cryopod, arms wrapped around a shivering, blue-tinted Owen Harper, sitting up and looking around with wide, uncertain eyes.
“Owen?...”
Owen blinked, squinting at Jack with a total lack of recognition, then flinched and seemed to shake himself.
“T-t-trousers...T-t-t-Toshiko...hurry.”
They opened her drawer in the morgue and found her as they left her: eyes shut, pale as death.
Only now, she was bleeding.
“How--”
“No time—Gwen, crash cart, third drawer.”
“Fourth.” Ianto corrected.
“...right, sorry. Forgot—fourth drawer, why would he do that?...”
It took fifteen terrifying minutes. Her heart stopped twice--again--but when she opened her eyes, took one look at Owen, and burst into tears, everyone else in the room followed suit.
“And you say I authorized it?”
Toshiko nodded, still ghostly pale against the sheets of the gurney, staring at the tiny capsule Jack held aloft between thumb and forefinger. “I received a letter in the post last month, telling me where it was located. It was in your handwriting and everything. Kept it in my work station until the temporal lock unsealed, read the instructions...told you all I was anemic and took the pill every day.”
“Alien tech from—well, from my end of things.” Owen explained. “Once Tosh...er...my Tosh, worked out what it did, we collaborated to reset it and develop a program for human use. Essentially, it's a backup drive for the body. Completely organic, that's why none of the equipment twigged to it when she was examined. Takes a complete biological snapshot of the body every hour, saves the data, and dissolves if no interruptions in electrical activity are detected within twenty four hours, so we used the equipment to produce roughly a thirty day supply. Restoration of the snapshot takes roughly seventy two hours—last one must have been just after she was shot.”
Jack held the capsule up to the light. It was vaguely translucent, and a strange, shocking shade of purple that...unsettled him for reasons he couldn't explain.
Lowering his hand, he turned to Owen. “And you're...not our Owen.”
He smiled apologetically, reaching up to adjust his glasses. “'Fraid not, I'm sorry, sir.”
“And we've never met?”
Owen hesitated visibly, ducking his head.
“Not, uh...not in so many words, sir. I'm quite familiar with Captain Jack Harkness, but where I come from? That's not you—and I'm sorry, I'm not at liberty to say anything more.”
Toshiko frowned. “Were you given transfer orders, too?”
Glancing at Toshiko, Owen slowly nodded. “You as well?”
“They were in the letter with the pills.”
“Transfer orders?” Jack asked. “I haven't issued any transfer orders.”
Owen and Toshiko shared a look, one that caused Jack's chest to tighten and his stomach to sink with a feeling he knew all too well—a feeling he hated.
The feeling that someone was up to something.
“Found the box, Owen—right in the archives where you said, temporal lock open.”
“Er...thanks, Ianto.” Owen replied, glancing over at where Gwen stood beside Jack. “Sorry about the confusion earlier, Gwen. Back where I come from, you're a bear about anyone else going through your files.”
“Absolutely mental, that.” she laughed by means of accepting his apology, crossing over to rub his arm. “It's all right, sweetheart.”
Accepting the box from Ianto, Owen took it to the autopsy table. Opening it, he began to go through what appeared to be his personal effects, withdrawing a folder he opened, then flashed at Tosh. She squinted at it, then nodded.
Wordlessly, Owen handed the folder to Jack.
“Erm...transfer papers, sir.”
Taking the folder, Jack opened it and began to read. With every line, the sinking feeling grew, and the tightness in his chest pulled harder until it felt like his lungs were being crushed.
“...yes, right! Sorry...”
Jack blinked, shaking his head. He'd...disconnected, lost time. It sounded better than 'spacing out,' because he didn't, couldn't space out. That wasn't him.
...except he had, and he was clutching at his chest again. For some reason, that had Owen rummaging through his personal effects again, this time producing an envelope he passed to Jack wordlessly.
“Sir? What's goin' on?” Ianto asked softly as Jack accepted the envelope. It made a sound that set off a reaction he could only barely contain.
“Jack? Are you all right?”
Jack nodded. “I'm fine. You heard them. Process them as transfers—I'll be in my office.”
Voices, both confused and reassuring, faded into white noise behind him. Jack managed not to stagger until he was collapsing into his desk chair, folder and envelope clutched tight between his hands. The envelope made that sound again, a sound that made his knees weak and his head spin.
I'm here.
Jack tore the envelope open with shaking hands and tipped it, letting the pair of steel dog tags slide into his hand. He checked them for a name, but they were blank. They felt wrong in his hand, stung his skin even though they were cold to the touch with dull edges.
Without thinking, he slid them on over his head and tucked them beneath his shirt. Only when they settled against his chest and started to warm to his body heat did he feel...
Relief. Safety. Strength. Strength enough to reach for the folder again and open it, reading over its contents with clearer, calmer eyes.
Owen Harper's personnel file...and his transfer orders from Torchwood Four.