John J. Rambo (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
theydrewfirstblood) wrote2023-03-30 08:18 pm
theydrewfirstblood) wrote2023-03-30 08:18 pm
[TORCHBLOOD] in this life there’s no surrender, there’s nothing left for us to do…
WASHINGTON, 1987
“Sir? We have a problem.”
“Let’s see…what’s this one?”
“Admitted 1985–subject’s name is John Rambo. Diagnosis of combat fatigue, convicted of—well…”
“…that’s a hell of a court martial. How many cases of assault?…”
“Suffice to say, his sentence was a slap on the wrist. He was recruited for a special op in ‘85 to do recon for Vietnam POW’s. Went rogue on the op, was brought in and recruited as a subject for Project Wizard. Forcibly, from the looks of it.”
“Hmmm—not good. Wizard—that’s the one utilizing the tech we harvested off that ship in ‘74, right? Showed promise with behavior modification?”
“Yes, sir. Subjects placed in chemically induced comas showed improvement with use of the device over a period of six months to a year. It allows us to program a dream state that gives the subject an opportunity to recover from psychological trauma through repeated exposure. Repeat events with different behaviors to produce a more beneficial outcome, altering the memory and therefore correcting the root of unwanted behavior. The subject is due to be woken up today.”
“So?…”
“Well, that’s the problem, sir…we can’t rouse him. Rambo isn’t responding to the stimulants, and the device refuses to disengage. To be blunt, sir…he’s stuck, and we don’t know how to get him out.”
CARDIFF, 2009
“Bloody UNIT rummage sale—“
“It’s not a rummage sale, Owen, it’s a routine transfer of archival information and technology they’ve been unable to make any headway with.”
“Call it what you like, Tosh, but I’m sick of goin’ through it. It’s three AM and I’m knackered! Who knew they had so many damn wet specimens? Fine—fine. Let’s see…set that jar of tentacles on the big box there—yeah, that one. The mobile cryo unit…”
*****
Inside of a mobile cryogenics unit, deep asleep and trapped by a small, glossy black metal block adhering to his temple, John Rambo is trapped in hell, and has been for twenty two years.
The first five years was the worst—there he was stuck in the War, fighting and tortured again and again. It took time to become aware of what was happening, to remember there was an outside world and how he got here. It took another five years to work his way out of the repeating nightmare of Vietnam and into another nightmare—one that was at least familiar to him. Hope, Washington—his own country, his own language, and when the cycle repeated even his own commander coming to claim him from the sheriff’s station.
For five years he lived in that loop. Being picked up, arrested, running, attacking—breaking down and being apprehended. He’d be led out of the sheriff’s station, ushered into a squad car—and then find himself out on the open road as the nightmare cycle began anew.
Five years he was stuck—fifteen years to reach this point, navigate his own psyche to try and escape this hell, to hold on to hope.
Then…he just couldn’t bear it any longer. The knowing, the remembering a world outside his own head.
So he let it go. He forgot, and he became the nightmare. The never ending loop. There was nothing else…there could be nothing else.
Picked up. Arrested. Running. Attacking. Breakdown. Apprehension. Picked up arrested running attacking breakdown apprehension picked up arrested running attacking—
Time ceased to exist. There was only the loop…
…until one day, while Torchwood Three slept, while Owen and Toshiko catalogued UNIT’s castoffs—it changed.
John launched himself from the brush, knife in hand, pressed to Teasle’s throat…
Except it wasn’t Teasle. It was someone else, someone John didn’t recognize. Someone…someone that reminded him of something he had forgotten a long time ago…
He could only stand there, knife pressed to the lean line of a World War 2 soldier’s throat, and stare into the brightest pair of blue eyes he’d ever seen.
“Sir? We have a problem.”
“Let’s see…what’s this one?”
“Admitted 1985–subject’s name is John Rambo. Diagnosis of combat fatigue, convicted of—well…”
“…that’s a hell of a court martial. How many cases of assault?…”
“Suffice to say, his sentence was a slap on the wrist. He was recruited for a special op in ‘85 to do recon for Vietnam POW’s. Went rogue on the op, was brought in and recruited as a subject for Project Wizard. Forcibly, from the looks of it.”
“Hmmm—not good. Wizard—that’s the one utilizing the tech we harvested off that ship in ‘74, right? Showed promise with behavior modification?”
“Yes, sir. Subjects placed in chemically induced comas showed improvement with use of the device over a period of six months to a year. It allows us to program a dream state that gives the subject an opportunity to recover from psychological trauma through repeated exposure. Repeat events with different behaviors to produce a more beneficial outcome, altering the memory and therefore correcting the root of unwanted behavior. The subject is due to be woken up today.”
“So?…”
“Well, that’s the problem, sir…we can’t rouse him. Rambo isn’t responding to the stimulants, and the device refuses to disengage. To be blunt, sir…he’s stuck, and we don’t know how to get him out.”
CARDIFF, 2009
“Bloody UNIT rummage sale—“
“It’s not a rummage sale, Owen, it’s a routine transfer of archival information and technology they’ve been unable to make any headway with.”
“Call it what you like, Tosh, but I’m sick of goin’ through it. It’s three AM and I’m knackered! Who knew they had so many damn wet specimens? Fine—fine. Let’s see…set that jar of tentacles on the big box there—yeah, that one. The mobile cryo unit…”
Inside of a mobile cryogenics unit, deep asleep and trapped by a small, glossy black metal block adhering to his temple, John Rambo is trapped in hell, and has been for twenty two years.
The first five years was the worst—there he was stuck in the War, fighting and tortured again and again. It took time to become aware of what was happening, to remember there was an outside world and how he got here. It took another five years to work his way out of the repeating nightmare of Vietnam and into another nightmare—one that was at least familiar to him. Hope, Washington—his own country, his own language, and when the cycle repeated even his own commander coming to claim him from the sheriff’s station.
For five years he lived in that loop. Being picked up, arrested, running, attacking—breaking down and being apprehended. He’d be led out of the sheriff’s station, ushered into a squad car—and then find himself out on the open road as the nightmare cycle began anew.
Five years he was stuck—fifteen years to reach this point, navigate his own psyche to try and escape this hell, to hold on to hope.
Then…he just couldn’t bear it any longer. The knowing, the remembering a world outside his own head.
So he let it go. He forgot, and he became the nightmare. The never ending loop. There was nothing else…there could be nothing else.
Picked up. Arrested. Running. Attacking. Breakdown. Apprehension. Picked up arrested running attacking breakdown apprehension picked up arrested running attacking—
Time ceased to exist. There was only the loop…
…until one day, while Torchwood Three slept, while Owen and Toshiko catalogued UNIT’s castoffs—it changed.
John launched himself from the brush, knife in hand, pressed to Teasle’s throat…
Except it wasn’t Teasle. It was someone else, someone John didn’t recognize. Someone…someone that reminded him of something he had forgotten a long time ago…
He could only stand there, knife pressed to the lean line of a World War 2 soldier’s throat, and stare into the brightest pair of blue eyes he’d ever seen.
no subject
But he did need to sleep sometimes, no matter how much he rarely looked forward to what would be waiting for him when he did. When he was awake he had at least had a fair degree of control over which wounds his mind would decide to rip open. Still, it was better to get the few hours his body did need while there were other people in the Hub to get the start on any crisis that might happen while he was out. And despite the jokes they all made sometimes, he did trust Owen as much as he trusted Tosh to keep an eye on things for a bit. (well. When he was under Tosh's eye, at least. And just maybe Jack'd had a little more in mind in leaving the two of them alone for a couple hours. Sooner or later, one of them really needed to break that tension)
So while sleep never came easily, it had been less difficult knowing the Hub was in good hands.
And at first, when he realized he was dreaming (lucid dreaming, one of the most mixed blessings courtesy of his psychic training in the Agency), he actually thought it would be one of the better nights. Even if it might not end up being a good dream---if he was in uniform it probably wasn't going to be. The coat was one thing, uniform and Webley meant his mind was expecting something--at least it wasn't a battlefield he recognized, at least--
At least the man with a knife to his throat wasn't someone he knew. Which. Really didn't make that much sense, not in a dream this clear, but that was something to worry about after he got out of this in a way that didn't wind up causing some nasty psychic damage. He had enough of that already.
"Hey-hey-hey, whoever you think I am, you've got the wrong guy," he lifted his hands far away from his gun. "And if there's some guy with anywhere close to my good looks walking around causing the kinda trouble to earn him this, he and I need to have some words."
Right Jack, smartass your way out of this. At least that let him keep from focusing on how hot and…actually sort of familiar the guy was. Oh this was going to be really fun to deal with when he woke up.
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A man’s scream rang out in the shadows of the forest, calling for help. John flinched at the sound, but didn’t look away from the soldier in front of him. And he was, not just because of the way he dressed. He held himself just so, back straight and shoulders square, mindful of his weapon by keeping his hands far from it.
Those eyes, too…he was making wisecracks about his looks and he had those alarming, vibrant…stunning eyes.
This wasn’t right…if only John could figure out why…
“You shouldn’t be here.” He growled, deep voice flat and cold. The hand fisted in the front of the soldier’s shirt let go, but didn’t move. The body beneath his fingers was so warm, and that…that felt wrong, too.
Slowly, John lowered his knife, confusion flickering across his dirt-streaked features.
“Get outta here while you still can. Let this go.”
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He did, however, have to think about it to hold back a frustrated growl, though he didn't quite manage to keep the frustration out of his voice.
"Yeah, teensy-tiny problem there, this isn't my memory, which means I actually don't know the way out of it."
He was pretty sure that's what this was, at least. He had more than enough experience reliving things he hadn't wanted to live the first time around to have a sense for when it was happening. This wasn't quite the same, but it felt too logically put together to be a run-of-the-mill nightmare. What he could see all fit together, not the garbled mess of different days and experiences the mind threw in a pile to sort through at the end of the day for most people.
And what the guy had just said--'let this go'--definitely sounded like he was reading from a script. Talking to whoever was supposed to be here facing that knife instead of Jack. Which raised the question of where that probably-rotten sod was right now. A problem that was hopefully only theoretical and wouldn't need to be dealt with.
"This is what I get for only brushing up on my psychic training enough to hit on cute blondes hanging off barrage balloons," he muttered, running a hand through his hair. "Okay," he made an effort to smooth the edges of his voice. "You know I'm not supposed to be here. Means you can tell me apart from whoever is, which means some part of you knows this isn't happening in reality, yeah?"
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John caught himself before denying it, despite the fact that it sounded crazy. This wasn't real--his sliced up arm and the bullet graze on his temple sure as shit hurt and bled enough to be real. The chill of the forest, the scrape of half rotted burlap on his bare shoulders...
...it was always this real...
For just a second, the confusion and cold rage vanished from John's face, replaced by something...empty. Hollow, dark, and completely exhausted.
For just one second, John remembered. And he didn't want to, he didn't, he couldn't get out and he didn't want to know...
He was so tired. In his bones, in his soul. He just wanted to stop, to rest. Just once.
John's head drooped forward, his shoulders sagging visibly, the hand on the soldier's chest moving to his shoulder to keep him from collapsing as the knife slid from his fingers...but...
This was new, wasn't it? He was so tired, and it had been so long. Nothing beyond the loop felt real enough to recall anymore.
It felt like a Herculean effort to lift his head again, to find those eyes--those bright blue eyes, cold water on his senses, waking him up at least a little.
"Go." he breathed. "Walk away...just...let me forget again." He shut his eyes, features twisting briefly in something close to agony.
"...just let me forget again..."
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(Or maybe that had just been because he'd been stuck in it with Hart. Guy might've marginally improved himself, but he really wasn't a very good wife. Not that Jack was much better in those days)
"You're caught in a time loop." The words came out quiet, almost reluctantly, because no matter how long it had been running whatever this all was had clearly been horrible enough to take in one linear go.
All questions about why and how and what in hell was even happening fled from Jack's mind in an instant, though, as a second thing hit him and it was only the fact he really did not want to find out what would happen if the guy did stab him that kept him from laughing.
"...and I'm a new variable. Which means I can throw it off, break it. And I am really good at breaking things." Okay, there was always the tiny possibility he'd break a whole lot else in the process but that was…something he probably should have worried about, but Jack had learned a long time ago that if he let himself get hung up on every possible consequence of every possible action he could take in any timeline, he'd never move.
He put a careful, light hand against the man's shoulder. "It'd be really easy for me to say screw it, take off and try to find the weak points myself. Probably could. But there's a good chance I'd remember I left you here to deal with it, and I'd remember for a really long time. So. You can stab me,"he shrugged, affecting a calm he absolutely did not feel, "or you can help me find the best way to tear this thing apart at the seams."
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He couldn’t stop himself from leaning into it, one hand lifting to cover it and cling. He’d only been touched in violence and anger for so long, and none of it was even real. This guy…
He was new. That had to mean he was real…and he wanted to help.
John shut his eyes, giving the man’s hand a squeeze of silent thanks. He fixed it in his mind, the warmth of his touch, so warm even through burlap, careful and light and…kind.
John wanted to, if he could, hold onto the memory for a while. Make things easier for a little bit—feel less alone.
“You can’t help me. No one can.”
John slid to his knees—then grabbed his knife and rose again, pressing it to Jack’s throat again with sorrow contorting his features.
“And I’m sorry, but I can’t put someone else through this.” He breathed. “When you die in a dream you wake up, it’s okay…you don’t have to feel bad. Just—thanks for offering.”
Gritting his teeth, John sliced deep and hard into the other man’s throat—
—and suddenly hands were on Jack’s shoulders, a familiar Welshman’s quiet cadence in his ears.
“Easy, sir!…Jack, yer all right. It’s me, it’s Ianto…”
no subject
It was dark, but there was a distinct difference between the inky blackness in his small room and the total absence of anything in death.
That didn't stop his mind insisting that his throat had indeed been cut, which logically meant his mouth was flooded with the taste of copper. Hell, this was just one reason he hated messing with psychic shit anymore, damn sensory hangovers. Also, apparently, hadn't stopped him from bolting up as he always did when life slammed back into his body, barring anything that was pinning him down hoping to knock him right back out again.
"Ianto?" His brow furrowed in confusion, although at least some systems were still functioning normally since his body had stayed in place instead of struggling away for the nearest weapon at the sound of another's voice. There weren't many people who could get away with holding him like that when he was coming to. "Not like I'm complaining, but what are you doing here?"
Here. Cardiff. Wales he tried to reassure his frazzled mind. Not…wherever that poor sod had been. Was
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“Something from the UNIT assets we acquired.” Ianto continued, drawing back to look into his face. “Body in cold storage turned out to be a mobile cryo unit—rubbish, not Torchwood equipment. Owen’s thawing him now but there’s some alien tech involved—detected a strange energy spike from the device in question, but—are you all right, Jack?”
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"'Course I am. Woke up with a hot Welshman's hands all over me to the news there's a presumably-cute guy warming up just outside my door, I'm great."
It wasn't like he thought for a second Ianto would buy the act, not anymore, but of all of them he had the most understanding of why Jack needed to put it on to get through the day.
Which was also why he let it down a notch, just for a second, letting out a sigh. "I'm fine. Usual less-than-pleasant dreams, probably just got a bit rattled by that energy spike."
Of course his 'usual' could run the gamut from 'tentacle monster that got handsy and not in the fun way' to…well.
"I'll follow you up in a minute, be back to rights by the time I've got a shirt on," then, letting a bit of the mask slip down a bit again, he leaned in to brush a quick kiss to Ianto's forehead. "Thank you. For worrying about me."
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But the world needed saving. Jack included—to that end, when Ianto’s eyes opened again they were critical and assessing. Satisfied Jack was being as honest as Jack ever got about his mindset, Ianto finally smiled.
“Always.” He promised, shifting to rise—but not before kissing the top of Jack’s head on his way back upstairs.
When Jack reached the lab, Owen was working on a body on the table while Toshiko scanned a small device adhering to the owner’s temple—an owner whose sleeping features Jack would recognize.
Looking up when Jack arrived, Owen let out a sigh.
“Got the body working again, there’s brain activity, but we can’t wake him. Tosh thinks it’s the little gizmo here.”
“A psychic interface.” Tosh corrected with a huff, finishing her scan. “Very similar to some tech we salvaged last year, but…not. If that makes any sense.”
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He swallowed down the anxiety and fear and confusion, forcing them to go into the box where he shut away everything he couldn't let out less they consume him to the point of freezing him in place forever, and moved to stand next to Tosh.
"Sure does for us," he smirked, trying to let his gaze linger on the scars he swore matched up to some of the wounds he'd taken note of on the man in--
No. Don't think about it. Can't think about it. "And lemme guess," he was unable to keep a touch of weariness out of his voice, "far as you can tell we either can't remove it at all or we'll completely fry his brain if we do."
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Tosh rolled her eyes, crossing over to the computer terminal to transfer her scan. “The tech we salvaged used an interface that worked with different lobes of the brain—cerebellum, hypothalamus…this appears to utilize various hormones and neurotransmitters…dopamine, cortisol, oxytocin.”
“Behavior modification!” Ianto announced with grim triumph, appearing on the observation level with a folder acquired from somewhere among the stacks of UNIT castoffs. Joining the others, he handed it off to Jack.
“Captain John James Rambo, United States Army Special Forces—Green Beret. Served in the Vietnam War with…quite a laundry list of commendations, Medal of Honor and Purple Heart among them.” He rattled off. “His service also included time served in a POW camp, likely returned with undiagnosed PTSD—court martialed in 1982 for assault, manslaughter, and…well, read the file. Amounts to domestic terrorism in the Washington state area, but his sentence was eight years, of which he served three. Recruited for a covert intelligence gathering assignment in ‘85 in exchange for a presidential pardon, but was again remanded into custody and added to an experimental penal program bankrolled by UNIT.”
Ianto regarded the unconscious man with a frown.
“Lost the pardon when he went rogue and saved a half dozen or more prisoners of war held by the Vietnamese and Russian governments. Hardly seems worthy of punishment if you ask me.”
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Washington. Jack hadn't been stateside in decades and his sense for the place had never been that great, but from what little he could recall that matched up with what he'd managed to take in of the surroundings before--
You don't have to feel bad.
Yeah, there hadn't been a good chance of that before, and it sure as hell wasn't happening now.
As he tried to focus his furious, exhausted mind to give the files Ianto had passed off at least a good looking over, but he knew he wasn't taking in terribly much. Couldn't, over the rage and pain and fear as he was hit with the force of just how long this man had been trapped in his own mind. Sure, twenty-two years wouldn't be a lot to him anymore, but to any of them--
Jack ran a hand over his face, taking a deep breath to repress the urge to scream. Which, okay, wasn't a rare occurrence when he was dealing with UNIT paperwork, but it was usually more out of sheer boredom and frustration than the need to wring someone's neck. Preferably multiple someones.
"Right. Tosh, Owen, keep me posted, let me know if there's any change. Ianto, see what else you can dig up. Unless they actually realized how badly they fucked up right away, there's no way he was the only subject." Subject, fuck. He hated having to try to distance himself. Especially when there was no way in hell it was going to work.
Which made it a damn good thing he had no qualms with making a hasty, not-so-dramatic retreat to his office.
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The pair of them were staring at him quite pointedly. Quite.
…ah. So that’s what they were discussing with looks and facial twitches.
Clearing his throat, Ianto straightened his tie.
“Right. My turn as boss minder, then?” He deadpanned. With a sigh, he rolled his shoulders and headed for Jack’s office to see what was going on.
Because if he had absorbed a word of that file, Ianto was a pink polka-dotted Weevil.
“If you don’t mind me sayin’, sir, that was downright sedate for a UNIT cock-up. Mind sharin’ what’s going on in your head?”
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"Kinda do actually, but I don't think that's going to get you out of here any faster. And I really don't have the energy for that sort of argument." Another thing, however light, he'd only really admit to Ianto these days. It was so much easier when people thought he really was capable of being perpetually on, made a lot of them a lot less likely to try to catch him in an off moment.
Unless they happened to be far too observant and looked way too good in a suit.
"I ever tell you I'm a little bit psychic? Well, telepathic if you want to get pedantic about it. Genetic thing, came bundled up with the pheromones," he started, abruptly, keeping his eyes on the ceiling. Trying to see anything but what was actually behind his eyes, even as he'd swear he could still feel that man's--John's--hand on his shoulder. At least it kept his tone measured--maybe a bit too much, but it was better than the alternative. "I was never much good at directing it, did my best to shut it down except for when I didn't have any other option. If all parties involved know it's happening it can be kinda fun, but most of the time if you're lucky it's just boring, if you're not you wind up finding out things about your cousin you were much better off not knowing."
"Can't do much about it when I'm unconscious though. Usually not a problem, most of it just kinda becomes background noise. Really sucked during wars though," he dropped his gaze to lock on Ianto, not even bothering with the smile he might have forced if he weren't quite so drained. "Whole lotta guys thinking really loud, really unpleasant thoughts, couple always managed to sneak through."
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It lasted only a second—because it took precisely that long to realize that Jack was, in fact, being completely direct about the matter. At least, if one was listening…and Ianto made it a point to listen to Jack.
“You weren’t having a nightmare.” He realized softly. “When I woke you…bollocks, he was in your head. O-o-or you were in his?…”
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If he'd been talking to all of them, Jack would have used that as an excuse to talk about how he had been dreaming about the twin acrobats or something. But because it was just him and Ianto--who, while he'd never tell everything, knew enough and was clever enough to find the truth in what he didn't say--he just kept going.
"Think I walked into the middle of what happened out in Washington. I don't know, it was only a couple minutes from my perspective. But considering my subconscious thought it would probably be a good idea for me to be in full uniform with a fully loaded pistol, gonna say whatever was going down wasn't great." It was impossible to keep all the bitter sarcasm out of his voice then, but it was that or tell Ianto about the look in the guy's eyes just before he'd killed him out of mercy
"Don't know how long it runs but he's been stuck in a loop for all this time, and on some level he knows it," he said, voice tight with emotion he couldn't quite clear away because he couldn't feign ignorance of the absolute hell any loop of that length would be, let alone one that could leave a man with so much pain in his eyes. "So yeah, I'm just a little pissed off with UNIT."
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Off Jack’s look, he shrugged. “Well there’s no one I can shoot, but if there’s one thing I can do well it’s make a bureaucrat miserable.”
Because Jack was right—this was horrifying. Moving further into the office, Ianto sat on the edge of Jack’s desk beside him, falling silent.
“He saved those men, and they punished him for it.” He bit off with a huff of frustration. “It…feels exaggerative to call that evil, but…”
Ianto was cut off by Toshiko suddenly sticking her head into the room.
“Jack! Owen may have found something.”
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He was about to say something about it not being an exaggeration at all to call such a thing evil--he'd been trapped in a relatively tame time loop (sure, Hart had been a nightmare to be trapped with, but so had Jack in those days) and had still come out of it much worse than he'd been before and that had 'only' been for five years. A fraction of the time John had been trapped in what was clearly one of the worst times of his life--
He was grateful for Tosh's voice derailing his train of thought, immediately jumping up from his desk. He did give Ianto's shoulder a brief squeeze to thank him for--well, lots of things--before heading out and racing down the steps to the medbay. He felt a little more of himself--or the self he needed to be for the team, at least--falling into place with each step, armor finally starting to patch itself up after that horrible memory.
"What've you got?" he called to Owen before he was halfway down the stairs.
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“Tosh’s bit about the tech we picked up got me thinking, so I did a scan of his brain—see which areas are vein’ stimulated.” He explained, showing them a monitor displaying a readout of what was happening in John’s head as Owen interpreted the data.
“This device is working with neurotransmitters and hormones, but look at this—the amygdala and the hippocampus are being hyper stimulated. Problem is, the amygdala is dominant.”
“And?” Ianto asked.
“And this device knows it’s time to turn off—revive the patient—when cortisol levels drop.”
“…and?”
“And they put a man likely suffering from textbook-bloody-PTSD into a hallucinatory coma to deal with trauma in the interests of behavioral modification.” Owen snapped, facing Jack. “The amygdala and hippocampus deal with memory, the hippocampus is reason and the amygdala is the primitive memory. Fight or flight—our friend Mr. Rambo has been trapped in a flashback for twenty odd years. If we got something in the archive that can give us psychic access to the hallucination? Stop the flashback? We may be able to wake him.”
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What he needed to do.
The taste of his own blood flooded his mouth and John's pained apology echoing in his mind, and he didn't want to do this, but like so many other things dropped on Torchwood's doorstep, in the end he was the only one who could deal with it.
He gave Ianto a brief, apologetic glance--knowing he'd likely be more upset by this than Jack himself--before he stepped around to stand next to Owen.
"We don't need to waste time digging through the archive," he said, not bothering to cover the jagged pain filling his voice. "We've got me."
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“Shut it, Owen.” Ianto interrupted flatly, watching Jack with a sober look of concern. He’d seen the look on Jack’s face in the office, been there as he woke from that nightmare…
Throwing propriety to the wind, he moved to stand in front of Jack, laying his hands on his shoulders.
“Jack…are you certain about this?” He asked quietly, searching his face for any trace of deception. “We can find a way—you don’t have to.”
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"Yes I do," he said, voice still ragged. "Every second we spend looking for another solution that in all likelihood we don't have is another second he's trapped in his own personal hell. It might not sound like that matters, when he's already been there so long, but…" he drew a shuddering breath, unable and frankly not caring to keep tears from filling his eyes."You didn't see how haunted his eyes were, hear the pain in his voice. I did. It's not my hell. It can't hurt me half as much as it's hurting him."
Swallowing, he shot Owen a sharp glance. "You've got a choice: believe me when I say I know what the hell I'm talking about and knock me out where you can monitor things, or don't and understand I will get myself unconscious somewhere you can't."
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“You’re an arsehole—lie down.” He growled. “Tosh!!?”
“I’ll monitor the device and let you know if it changes activity.” Tosh replied, dashing to her work station to grab one of her handheld devices.
As Jack lay down, Ianto moved to his side, wrapping a hand around Jack’s and leveling a glare at him all but daring him to insist he was fine or that he didn’t need to be there.
“If you put yourself through this and he doesn’t rouse, I’ll smack you myself.” He warned, somehow making the threat sound like an endearment. “Clear, sir?”
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To that end, he turned his gaze to Owen. "You're gonna want to put me under like you're planning to do a major surgery and need me out for a couple hours, even if it winds up only being for a few minutes. It'll make it harder for my mind to resist being drawn to his." If he hadn't already experienced this tonight, had been made aware of the situation before he fell asleep and was just testing the theory, he might have bothered to give him and Tosh the full explanation, or at least as much as he'd given Ianto. As it was, he just…couldn't. Not until it was over, one way or another.
no subject
“Propofol—keep it on hand for workin’ with Janet.” He explained as he hung the bag and prepped Jack’s arm for the needle. “You’ll go out fast, and stay out until I cut you off. Which I will, in thirty minutes whether you like it or not. I don’t care if you come back from the bloody dead, I’m no anesthesiologist and I’m not going to be responsible for killing you. That’s ten minutes longer than I allow Janet so don’t complain.”
As Owen inserted the needle into Jack’s vein and started the drip, Ianto kept hold of Jack’s free hand, watching his face as he slipped into unconsciousness.
If Jack was going to walk into hell willingly like this, Ianto was going to make sure he saw a friendly face, falling asleep and waking up…
…and within minutes, Jack was standing in an open jail cell, watching as a familiar man emerged from the cell next door.
”All right, hurry it up!” An impatient deputy’s voice barked. “It’s time for my coffee break…”
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(With some context of what he was watching, not to mention why, Jack could understand why the other man had slit his throat. if their positions had been reversed and he couldn't see a relatively quick way out, he probably would have done the same thing).
He didn't have to look himself over to know he was back in uniform; whatever else might be said about the state of his psyche, it was nothing if not consistent in the set dressing. He could feel the weight of his Webley at his hip, but he kept it holstered despite the increasing temptation to draw it on--well, any of the uniformed men, but especially the one with the baton. While he definitely hadn't read even close to everything in that report, Ianto's summary and what little his frayed nerves had let him process before they threatened to snap gave him more than enough reason to suspect that guy was going to be trouble.
Keeping his hand at his holster, he took a cautious step forward to put himself square in John's periphery. Maybe he wouldn't remember, with how battered his mind was from the loop, but even if that was the case maybe seeing someone who wasn't part of the actual memory would get him to divert from his own script enough to wake up.
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John knew what was coming. Some part of him always knew, but he ran from that part—had for years. It was easier if the war was all he had to remember. Shit, but old familiar shit—honest, in its own way. His captors had a war to fight, these men?
They only wanted—
Movement out of the corner of his eye, and on reflex his gaze flicked away from the gleam of the straight razor. Against the bright, clean coats of fresh paint and the drab browns of the deputy’s uniform, the man off to one side was a stark contrast in Air Force navy and blue, with eyes the color of the sky…
…eyes he knew. The woods, the concern…hands touching him that didn’t hurt.
Panic flooded his chest, visceral and immediate. He couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, if they saw the other man (World War II, hand on his pistol, another soldier tried and tested) they would go after him…
The baton descended in front of him, dragging John back and choking him. Caught off guard, John grabbed at it, scrabbling for purchase as his eyes bulged with a need for air and raw, animal fear as his gaze found the soldier’s.
“Run.” He managed to gag before the deputy (Galt, his name was Galt, he was dead) dragged him across the room, kicking and struggling uselessly as his vision started to dim the harder he fought.
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In contrast to the bright bravado in his words, Jack's eyes were cold and sharp as he took another step forward. All the time, as he shot careful glances around the room to take stock of what he'd be up against if anything here broke its routine to go after him, he could feel something in the back of his mind start--almost chanting, trying to direct some psychic command at the damn ghost strangling John. Let go. Let go, go back into the past so he can remember it's over and it can end.
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Galt let him go. Moved towards the other soldier.
”Think you’re tough, soldier?”
John stood frozen, heart racing in helpless panic as he glanced at the other two deputies.
Galt would hurt him. Might even kill him—the blue eyed soldier with the gentle hands and voice. The man who came back for him…
…came back. From where? Why?…
”How blind are you? Can’t you see this guy is crazy?”
The red haired deputy stalked forward, standing between Galt and the airman. That…wasn’t supposed to happen.
”Can’t you see I don’t give a shit?”
“…no.”
John’s own voice surprised him, even as the third deputy met his gaze and lifted his razor, blade gleaming in the light.
This couldn’t happen. This didn’t happen.
Galt was dead.
As the thought echoed in John’s head, the older deputy winked out of existence.
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Instead he took another, larger step forward towards John, turning his pistol on the ginger (now that was a shame, kid was kinda cute) as he did. "Ah, too bad," His voice was still chipper, even as his gun remained seriously steady, "Guess the guy was getting tired of putting on the same performance over and over."
His smile almost reached his eyes as he glanced to meet John's gaze, though. "John Rambo? Captain Jack Harkness, I'm here to get you out of your head. Or help you get yourself out. I'm not sure I can do much more than be a real pretty distraction."
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That came after this. That was later.
The redhead vanished from sight.
Out of his head? Out of…
The last deputy disappeared, and John collapsed to his knees under a sudden, crippling wave of exhaustion and fear. Fear, because this…this couldn’t be real.
This couldn’t really be over.
He wasn’t so lucky.
“Not real.” He moaned, crumbling into a heap on the floor, covering his head with his arms. “Finally lost it…made you up, s’ not real…”
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Then John fell to the floor and--Jack bit back a curse as he holstered his gun. "Not to disparage your creativity," he said, with a calm he really didn't feel, as he dropped down to his knees while keeping well out of arm's reach. He was sure the guy could strangle him in seconds, if he wanted to, but this way he could at least put up some kind of fight to stay under. "But I kinda doubt your mind's go-to hallucination would be an RAF Captain with a really great jawline."
His voice was low and firm, all the joyful threats and bravado cast away. "And I know how you could deal with that. Wouldn't really blame you. But I'm just gonna let you know that I'm currently rigged up to some pretty good anesthesia, so there's a non-zero chance that's not going to work quite so well this time. Which, again, is the kinda detail I really doubt you could dream up on the fly. So," even without John looking at him, he let his smile soften just a bit. "You should maybe consider that I'm a very real, really stubborn guy who can't leave someone stuck in their personal hell if I've got even half a say."
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He’s not wrong about the jawline, either.
…and if this is real, if this is over, for a second John throws caution to the wind and he lets himself do more than look. He lets himself enjoy looking.
“Captain Jack Harkness.” John lets the name roll across his tongue. Too good looking to be real, too present to be a dream.
…God, he’s so tired…
John’s head sags forward, his eyelids slip shut…
…and a warm, familiar hand touches Jack’s cheek as he starts to wake up, paired with a familiar Welshman’s accent.
“Jack? Come on, open your eyes…”
Beyond that, Owen can be heard speaking softly to someone.
“…can you tell me what day it is?…Yes, he’s here, Captain Rambo. Jack Harkness, he’ll be coming ‘round shortly…”
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Then, for a second, everything goes dark. Which could be a really bad sign. But then he hears the familiar, decidedly not hostile voices--and, way more importantly, a very familiar touch.
He has to blink a couple times before his vision fully clears but once it does and he's looking up at Ianto, Jack can't help grinning as he starts taking in what's going on nearby.
"Well, sounds like you're not gonna need to smack me. 'least not over this."
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Well, he's past the point where he can live with that.
When Jack looks over to the table where John Rambo is laid out, there's movement: Tosh and Owen are working together to remove the device from John's temple, and John's eyes are blinking slowly, as if fighting to stay open.
When Jack speaks, John's head jerks to the side. Owen curses as the motion causes a small, angry red patch of raw skin near his temple, where the device was yanked away too quickly, and is still partially attached.
His eyes are wide, frantic--then they light on Jack's face. The play of emotion across his features is immediate and intense: fear to shock, shock to joy, joy to relief...
...then serenity smooths out his features with a barely there smile as his eyes slide shut.
"...thank you."
Owen leans over to check John as he loses consciousness, glances up at the monitor displaying his brain activity, then glances at Jack with a curt nod.
"Delta waves--he's asleep." Owen sighed, a brief flicker of sympathy touching his features as he goes back to trying to remove the device without stripping skin. "Poor bastard hasn't had a good night's sleep in twenty-odd years, no wonder he's bloody knackered..."