John J. Rambo (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
theydrewfirstblood) wrote2023-05-24 12:28 pm
theydrewfirstblood) wrote2023-05-24 12:28 pm
Entry tags:
[TORCHBLOOD] when dignity rattled me on the back and my rebel mind needed to attack
When John opens his eyes, he expects darkness, the flicker of the campfire--the smell of fresh blood and cooked meat, the crackle of the radio emitting his call sign, and so much pain...
"Mornin', sunshine."
John's eyelids open to unfamiliar surroundings--white, medicinal, austere. There are overhead lights, powerful ones, but they're off--everything is gently illuminated by minimal safety lighting and a couple of strange screens. There are distant sounds of footsteps, beeping equipment, water dripping or running. He's not huddled on the hard packed earth within the mouth of an abandoned mine, but on a gurney that...probably shouldn't be so comfortable.
"...Captain Jack Harkness?" John asks, flinching at the sound of his own voice, rough and tight.
The man who spoke to him, a lean and mousy younger man in a labcoat straightens in the chair he's occupying, leaning over to set a restraining hand on his calf.
"Limited speech, please--the cryogenic procedure you were subjected to kept most things in good working order, but your vocal chords are weak, your circadian rhythm's fucked, and you're badly dehydrated. And that's not including the genetic fuckery I've turned up thus far. Here, start small: you still tired? Or you wanna sit up?"
John opens his mouth--then shuts it and gestures up. Obligingly, the...doctor?...elevates the gurney for him, then pours him a cup of water.
"Drink before talking, nod or gesture when you can. Now, basics: yes, Jack's real and he's around--in bed, if Ianto's down in the bunker with him. He said you might ask about that. I'm Dr. Owen Harper, you're in Torchwood Three--Cardiff, Wales--the year is 2007, and you've been back in the land of the living for the last three days. Just asleep. Real sleep this time, no alien tech. Questions?"
John took a sip of water, clearing his throat.
"Harkness...he ok?"
"Not remotely, but that's his baseline." Owen replies cheerfully. "Seriously, though--he's fine, mate. Anything else?"
"...million que...questions."
"Well, then--let's save your voice and fetch pad 'n paper, yeah? Keep you entertained until Toshiko takes over the bloody beside vigil..."
* * * * *
John stays in what he learns is the autopsy bay for two more days. Dr. Harper runs a million tests, all of which John endures without complaint. Everyone comes to introduce themselves, save for Jack--he pokes his head over the railing a couple of times to say hello and smile at John, but he's gone quite a bit. Something to do with the Rift they've mentioned to him, and an increase of sightings of something called a Weevil.
And John's pretty sure they don't mean the bug.
By the time things start to calm down, Dr. Harper gives him a clean bill of health. His voice is recovering nicely, the cryogenic stasis procedure he was subjected to prevented any muscle atrophy, and the rest is being treated with a strict sleep schedule, non-habit forming sleep medication, and a quart of some lurid green fluid he has to drink every day for the next week that smells fine, but tastes like bitter lemon.
On his first day of freedom, Ianto Jones shows him around this place they call the Hub. John's leery at first--he's well aware this is all unquestionably some kind of European black site operation, but Ianto explains that his presence is being handled internally: the US penal system has no authority over him any longer, UNIT handed him over to Torchwood--their organization--and Jack was, to be delicate, 'unhappy' about what was done to him.
Ianto didn't say it in so many words, but John got the message: he was technically a prisoner, but had been, after a fashion, adopted by this odd little group. Officially, according to Ianto's decisive word, when the resident fucking pterodactyl had accepted a bar of dark chocolate from him, then spent five minutes chirping at him and trying to 'groom' his hair during their introduction up by her nest at the top of the Hub.
"...so that's...M-Y-F-A-N-W-Y?" John asks as they returned to the main floor of the Hub.
Ianto beams. "Excellent! Jack still struggles to spell it sometimes. You've a flair for languages, yeah? I read your file."
"Yes sir. That something you could use around here?"
"Not unless xenolinguistics are your thing...are you asking to join?"
John shrugs. "You people saved my life, so...yes. If you'll have me."
Ianto snorts, glancing up towards Jack's office, where he knows the man's making someone at UNIT miserable on John's behalf via phone.
"Don't say that where Jack can hear you, he might actually try." Ianto snorts with a grin. When silence is his only answer, he looks over to see John gazing up at the office, eyes strangely wide--and cheeks bright red.
That's when Ianto remembers what time period John Rambo came from.
"Ehm...perhaps there's some things you ought to know about the 21st century, Captain..."
Later, when Jack's off the phone and searching for the keeper of coffee, he'll find Ianto and John in the conference room, sharing some of Ianto's aforementioned coffee plus a plate of biscuits and deep in conversation. Up on the meeting screen are a few images that have been apparently used for visual aids, among them images of computers, cell phones, the rainbow pride flag, and photos of the US presidents that have served during the last two decades.
"Mornin', sunshine."
John's eyelids open to unfamiliar surroundings--white, medicinal, austere. There are overhead lights, powerful ones, but they're off--everything is gently illuminated by minimal safety lighting and a couple of strange screens. There are distant sounds of footsteps, beeping equipment, water dripping or running. He's not huddled on the hard packed earth within the mouth of an abandoned mine, but on a gurney that...probably shouldn't be so comfortable.
"...Captain Jack Harkness?" John asks, flinching at the sound of his own voice, rough and tight.
The man who spoke to him, a lean and mousy younger man in a labcoat straightens in the chair he's occupying, leaning over to set a restraining hand on his calf.
"Limited speech, please--the cryogenic procedure you were subjected to kept most things in good working order, but your vocal chords are weak, your circadian rhythm's fucked, and you're badly dehydrated. And that's not including the genetic fuckery I've turned up thus far. Here, start small: you still tired? Or you wanna sit up?"
John opens his mouth--then shuts it and gestures up. Obligingly, the...doctor?...elevates the gurney for him, then pours him a cup of water.
"Drink before talking, nod or gesture when you can. Now, basics: yes, Jack's real and he's around--in bed, if Ianto's down in the bunker with him. He said you might ask about that. I'm Dr. Owen Harper, you're in Torchwood Three--Cardiff, Wales--the year is 2007, and you've been back in the land of the living for the last three days. Just asleep. Real sleep this time, no alien tech. Questions?"
John took a sip of water, clearing his throat.
"Harkness...he ok?"
"Not remotely, but that's his baseline." Owen replies cheerfully. "Seriously, though--he's fine, mate. Anything else?"
"...million que...questions."
"Well, then--let's save your voice and fetch pad 'n paper, yeah? Keep you entertained until Toshiko takes over the bloody beside vigil..."
John stays in what he learns is the autopsy bay for two more days. Dr. Harper runs a million tests, all of which John endures without complaint. Everyone comes to introduce themselves, save for Jack--he pokes his head over the railing a couple of times to say hello and smile at John, but he's gone quite a bit. Something to do with the Rift they've mentioned to him, and an increase of sightings of something called a Weevil.
And John's pretty sure they don't mean the bug.
By the time things start to calm down, Dr. Harper gives him a clean bill of health. His voice is recovering nicely, the cryogenic stasis procedure he was subjected to prevented any muscle atrophy, and the rest is being treated with a strict sleep schedule, non-habit forming sleep medication, and a quart of some lurid green fluid he has to drink every day for the next week that smells fine, but tastes like bitter lemon.
On his first day of freedom, Ianto Jones shows him around this place they call the Hub. John's leery at first--he's well aware this is all unquestionably some kind of European black site operation, but Ianto explains that his presence is being handled internally: the US penal system has no authority over him any longer, UNIT handed him over to Torchwood--their organization--and Jack was, to be delicate, 'unhappy' about what was done to him.
Ianto didn't say it in so many words, but John got the message: he was technically a prisoner, but had been, after a fashion, adopted by this odd little group. Officially, according to Ianto's decisive word, when the resident fucking pterodactyl had accepted a bar of dark chocolate from him, then spent five minutes chirping at him and trying to 'groom' his hair during their introduction up by her nest at the top of the Hub.
"...so that's...M-Y-F-A-N-W-Y?" John asks as they returned to the main floor of the Hub.
Ianto beams. "Excellent! Jack still struggles to spell it sometimes. You've a flair for languages, yeah? I read your file."
"Yes sir. That something you could use around here?"
"Not unless xenolinguistics are your thing...are you asking to join?"
John shrugs. "You people saved my life, so...yes. If you'll have me."
Ianto snorts, glancing up towards Jack's office, where he knows the man's making someone at UNIT miserable on John's behalf via phone.
"Don't say that where Jack can hear you, he might actually try." Ianto snorts with a grin. When silence is his only answer, he looks over to see John gazing up at the office, eyes strangely wide--and cheeks bright red.
That's when Ianto remembers what time period John Rambo came from.
"Ehm...perhaps there's some things you ought to know about the 21st century, Captain..."
Later, when Jack's off the phone and searching for the keeper of coffee, he'll find Ianto and John in the conference room, sharing some of Ianto's aforementioned coffee plus a plate of biscuits and deep in conversation. Up on the meeting screen are a few images that have been apparently used for visual aids, among them images of computers, cell phones, the rainbow pride flag, and photos of the US presidents that have served during the last two decades.