Torchwood - fic - Anthem For Doomed Youth, Jack/Tosh, R/15
Title - Anthem For Doomed Youth
Author - laurab1
Pairings - Jack/Tosh
Rating - R/15
Length - 1175 words
Spoilers - TW: general series, 2.3 To The Last Man, DW: to 3.11-13
Summary - nerves shot to pieces, by the never-ending war
Disclaimer - alas, none of these people are mine
Feedback is loved and appreciated :) Enjoy!
Note - this story is a compilation and expansion of my previously posted fics Shot At Dawn and A Kiss On The Hand, 2008 postscripts to The Torchwood Girls, which starts here
other 2008 postscripts:
Pictures Tell Stories(to be expanded) (during 2.3 TTLM)
Asylum (after 2.4 Meat)
For The Fallen (after 2.13 Exit Wounds)
Anthem For Doomed Youth
by Laura
What passing-bells for these who die as cattle?
Only the monstrous anger of the guns.
Only the stuttering rifles' rapid rattle
Can patter out their hasty orisons.
“Anthem for Doomed Youth”, Wilfred Owen, September-October 1917
***
A couple of days after they’ve returned Tommy to 1918, and his fate, Tosh comes to him.
“Posthumous pardons, Jack,” she says, handing him a pile of papers.
Of course she’d heard what he hadn’t said, and had done some research. “Tosh...” he replies, gently placing them on his desk, like the dead trees are dead young men, and there’s a warning in his voice. Let it go, he’d tell her, if he believed he could do the same thing himself. And he knows he can’t.
“Those soldiers you told me about, they received posthumous pardons in 2006. You could have said that. Why didn’t you?” she asks, sitting down.
He has to look away, take a breath and pull out the memory. Returning his eyes to hers, Jack says, “Because they shouldn’t have had to receive them in the first place, Tosh. Some of them were just kids, and their nerves were shot to pieces by the never-ending war, nothing more than that.” He’d had the misfortune to witness just one dawn execution, and had promptly vomited, afterwards. The boy had been just seventeen. Some were even younger than that; so many underage kids had faked their way into the Army, for the glory of “the cause”, the thrill of battle.
Well, he understood that completely.
It’s the same reason he uses, time and time again.
“What about you, Jack?” she quietly asks. For about a century, he’s been collecting the smart ones, the people less likely to lose their heads, so of course Tosh knows there’s something particular he’s keeping from her.
“Spent a while in Craiglockhart,” he tells her. “Don’t ask me why I ended up there, please.” Jack’s silent for a couple of minutes. “In the mid sixties, after the fifty years rule was up, and the war records started emerging, the executions became public knowledge. I threw my Torchwood weight behind the pardoning campaign.”
“Surely that wasn’t politically safe, Jack?” Tosh asks, wide-eyed.
“Hell, no, Tosh,” he says, laughing just a little at himself. “But doing the right thing was far more important than listening to Whitehall. You wouldn’t believe how many politicians I’ve pissed off.” He’s not laughing now.
“I think I would, Jack. I’ve seen and heard you do just that, many times. So tell me about the campaign,” Tosh says. Or, rather, orders. “Pour us some whisky and tell me.”
It’s the same look she had on her face when she held his hand, in 1941. He had to obey her then, as well. “Yes, ma’am,” Jack says, and goes to fetch his decanter and two glasses.
He pours the whisky, and they talk. It’s actually rather good to tell someone, and let out just a little of far too many years of hurt, both his, and that of others. When they’re done, the two of them offer vague salutes to three hundred soldiers.
***
Jack then leans across his desk, and takes Tosh’s hand in his. She’s not very surprised when he kisses the back of it, soft and gentle.
“Thank you for listening, Tosh,” he says, eyes glistening, rubbing his thumb over her knuckles.
It’s late, and she’s drunk, rather tired and generally in no fit state to drive home. Jack doesn’t look like he should be left alone. In fact, if she thinks about it properly, Jack rarely looks like he should be left alone. He’s better than he was, though, because it used to be the fact that he never looked like he should be left alone.
“You’re welcome, Jack.”
Oh, he’s gorgeous. It might only be the whisky talking, but Tosh turns Jack’s hand over in hers, brings it to her lips, and kisses his knuckles. Jack’s eyes go dark. It’s quite a thrill for have that gaze directed at her.
“You’re coming to bed with me, Tosh,” he says, then lets go of her hand, pulls her up out of her chair, cups her face in his hands and kisses her.
“To sleep?” she asks, but the answer’s clearly ‘negative.’
“Probably not,” he tells her, smiling.
“What about Ianto?” she asks, for the sake of form. The man you’re at least sleeping with. The one who always stays with you, if the day’s included the death of an innocent.
“What about him? This is about you and me, Tosh.” He kisses her again. “C’mon, my quarters.”
She’s not about to argue, now.
***
In Jack’s quarters, the fire goes out of him, and the tears come, again. Tosh holds him close, and when he’s done, she lets him go and wash his face.
“You can have the bed, Tosh. I’ll just take the couch,” he says, when he returns. He makes a move to start climbing up the ladder.
“You’re staying here, Jack,” she tells him, taking his hand, pulling him to the bed. “You’re staying right here.”
“Yeah,” he whispers, nodding.
“And we’re actually sleeping, okay?”
“Okay.”
Jack then embraces her, and kisses the top of her head. “Thank you,” he quietly says.
Again, Tosh replies, “You’re welcome.” What else is in that head of yours, Jack? she silently wonders.
“Too much. Far too much,” he says.
What? “I didn’t say that out loud!” Tosh exclaims, and it’s that alien pendant, all over again, but not. This is more, much more. “Jack?” She looks up at him, as if she can’t believe it.
His eyes are still rather sad. “Yeah,” he just says, resignedly. “Can it wait, though, Tosh, please? I promise I’ll tell you all of it, when I’m not so bloody exhausted.”
And what’s that going to be? “Of course it can. Bed?”
“Bed.” The moment’s gone, quick as a flash. There’s a tiny grin, instead. It might well be false, but it’s far better than what was on Jack’s face.
“What?” Tosh asks.
“Can’t sleep naked, tonight.” Jack’s grin gets bigger.
“You! No shame at all!” she splutters, uselessly.
“Nope.” Full-blown Hollywood smile.
“Would you please find me something to wear in bed, Jack?” Tosh asks, pulling them out of this new moment, and stepping out of his arms.
“Yes, ma’am,” he replies, and salutes her.
“Oh, Jack,” Tosh sighs, when he’s gone.
Jack returns with a t-shirt for her. And he’s already stripped down to his boxers.
“Changed your mind?” he asks, noticing her looking.
“No,” she resolutely replies. “Can I undress on my own, please?”
“Sure.”
He hands her the t-shirt, and leaves.
***
When they’re in the tiny bed, Jack wraps his arms around her, looks her in the eye and says, “I’m gonna make love to you one day, Toshiko Sato.”
“I don’t doubt that at all, Captain Harkness,” Tosh replies, meeting Jack’s smile with one of her own. “Let’s sleep, now.”
***
In fact, that day is the following morning. Several times. Tosh ends up hot, sweaty, a mess and feeling amazing. “You’re rather good at that,” she informs Jack.
“So I’ve been told.” He kisses her, slow and deep. “Again?”
“Yes,” she emphatically says, closing her eyes in pleasure, as Jack’s fingers work their magic.
-end-
Author - laurab1
Pairings - Jack/Tosh
Rating - R/15
Length - 1175 words
Spoilers - TW: general series, 2.3 To The Last Man, DW: to 3.11-13
Summary - nerves shot to pieces, by the never-ending war
Disclaimer - alas, none of these people are mine
Feedback is loved and appreciated :) Enjoy!
Note - this story is a compilation and expansion of my previously posted fics Shot At Dawn and A Kiss On The Hand, 2008 postscripts to The Torchwood Girls, which starts here
other 2008 postscripts:
Pictures Tell Stories(to be expanded) (during 2.3 TTLM)
Asylum (after 2.4 Meat)
For The Fallen (after 2.13 Exit Wounds)
Anthem For Doomed Youth
by Laura
What passing-bells for these who die as cattle?
Only the monstrous anger of the guns.
Only the stuttering rifles' rapid rattle
Can patter out their hasty orisons.
“Anthem for Doomed Youth”, Wilfred Owen, September-October 1917
***
A couple of days after they’ve returned Tommy to 1918, and his fate, Tosh comes to him.
“Posthumous pardons, Jack,” she says, handing him a pile of papers.
Of course she’d heard what he hadn’t said, and had done some research. “Tosh...” he replies, gently placing them on his desk, like the dead trees are dead young men, and there’s a warning in his voice. Let it go, he’d tell her, if he believed he could do the same thing himself. And he knows he can’t.
“Those soldiers you told me about, they received posthumous pardons in 2006. You could have said that. Why didn’t you?” she asks, sitting down.
He has to look away, take a breath and pull out the memory. Returning his eyes to hers, Jack says, “Because they shouldn’t have had to receive them in the first place, Tosh. Some of them were just kids, and their nerves were shot to pieces by the never-ending war, nothing more than that.” He’d had the misfortune to witness just one dawn execution, and had promptly vomited, afterwards. The boy had been just seventeen. Some were even younger than that; so many underage kids had faked their way into the Army, for the glory of “the cause”, the thrill of battle.
Well, he understood that completely.
It’s the same reason he uses, time and time again.
“What about you, Jack?” she quietly asks. For about a century, he’s been collecting the smart ones, the people less likely to lose their heads, so of course Tosh knows there’s something particular he’s keeping from her.
“Spent a while in Craiglockhart,” he tells her. “Don’t ask me why I ended up there, please.” Jack’s silent for a couple of minutes. “In the mid sixties, after the fifty years rule was up, and the war records started emerging, the executions became public knowledge. I threw my Torchwood weight behind the pardoning campaign.”
“Surely that wasn’t politically safe, Jack?” Tosh asks, wide-eyed.
“Hell, no, Tosh,” he says, laughing just a little at himself. “But doing the right thing was far more important than listening to Whitehall. You wouldn’t believe how many politicians I’ve pissed off.” He’s not laughing now.
“I think I would, Jack. I’ve seen and heard you do just that, many times. So tell me about the campaign,” Tosh says. Or, rather, orders. “Pour us some whisky and tell me.”
It’s the same look she had on her face when she held his hand, in 1941. He had to obey her then, as well. “Yes, ma’am,” Jack says, and goes to fetch his decanter and two glasses.
He pours the whisky, and they talk. It’s actually rather good to tell someone, and let out just a little of far too many years of hurt, both his, and that of others. When they’re done, the two of them offer vague salutes to three hundred soldiers.
***
Jack then leans across his desk, and takes Tosh’s hand in his. She’s not very surprised when he kisses the back of it, soft and gentle.
“Thank you for listening, Tosh,” he says, eyes glistening, rubbing his thumb over her knuckles.
It’s late, and she’s drunk, rather tired and generally in no fit state to drive home. Jack doesn’t look like he should be left alone. In fact, if she thinks about it properly, Jack rarely looks like he should be left alone. He’s better than he was, though, because it used to be the fact that he never looked like he should be left alone.
“You’re welcome, Jack.”
Oh, he’s gorgeous. It might only be the whisky talking, but Tosh turns Jack’s hand over in hers, brings it to her lips, and kisses his knuckles. Jack’s eyes go dark. It’s quite a thrill for have that gaze directed at her.
“You’re coming to bed with me, Tosh,” he says, then lets go of her hand, pulls her up out of her chair, cups her face in his hands and kisses her.
“To sleep?” she asks, but the answer’s clearly ‘negative.’
“Probably not,” he tells her, smiling.
“What about Ianto?” she asks, for the sake of form. The man you’re at least sleeping with. The one who always stays with you, if the day’s included the death of an innocent.
“What about him? This is about you and me, Tosh.” He kisses her again. “C’mon, my quarters.”
She’s not about to argue, now.
***
In Jack’s quarters, the fire goes out of him, and the tears come, again. Tosh holds him close, and when he’s done, she lets him go and wash his face.
“You can have the bed, Tosh. I’ll just take the couch,” he says, when he returns. He makes a move to start climbing up the ladder.
“You’re staying here, Jack,” she tells him, taking his hand, pulling him to the bed. “You’re staying right here.”
“Yeah,” he whispers, nodding.
“And we’re actually sleeping, okay?”
“Okay.”
Jack then embraces her, and kisses the top of her head. “Thank you,” he quietly says.
Again, Tosh replies, “You’re welcome.” What else is in that head of yours, Jack? she silently wonders.
“Too much. Far too much,” he says.
What? “I didn’t say that out loud!” Tosh exclaims, and it’s that alien pendant, all over again, but not. This is more, much more. “Jack?” She looks up at him, as if she can’t believe it.
His eyes are still rather sad. “Yeah,” he just says, resignedly. “Can it wait, though, Tosh, please? I promise I’ll tell you all of it, when I’m not so bloody exhausted.”
And what’s that going to be? “Of course it can. Bed?”
“Bed.” The moment’s gone, quick as a flash. There’s a tiny grin, instead. It might well be false, but it’s far better than what was on Jack’s face.
“What?” Tosh asks.
“Can’t sleep naked, tonight.” Jack’s grin gets bigger.
“You! No shame at all!” she splutters, uselessly.
“Nope.” Full-blown Hollywood smile.
“Would you please find me something to wear in bed, Jack?” Tosh asks, pulling them out of this new moment, and stepping out of his arms.
“Yes, ma’am,” he replies, and salutes her.
“Oh, Jack,” Tosh sighs, when he’s gone.
Jack returns with a t-shirt for her. And he’s already stripped down to his boxers.
“Changed your mind?” he asks, noticing her looking.
“No,” she resolutely replies. “Can I undress on my own, please?”
“Sure.”
He hands her the t-shirt, and leaves.
***
When they’re in the tiny bed, Jack wraps his arms around her, looks her in the eye and says, “I’m gonna make love to you one day, Toshiko Sato.”
“I don’t doubt that at all, Captain Harkness,” Tosh replies, meeting Jack’s smile with one of her own. “Let’s sleep, now.”
***
In fact, that day is the following morning. Several times. Tosh ends up hot, sweaty, a mess and feeling amazing. “You’re rather good at that,” she informs Jack.
“So I’ve been told.” He kisses her, slow and deep. “Again?”
“Yes,” she emphatically says, closing her eyes in pleasure, as Jack’s fingers work their magic.
-end-