Fic - After the Funerals (1/1)
Apr. 26th, 2021 06:57 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
redfiona99Title: After the Funerals
Author: Red Fiona
Disclaimer: I don't own the characters; BBC and RTD do. No money being made from this.
Fandom: Torchwood
Character: Jack Harkness, Torchwood ensemble
Ratings/Warning: PG-12 gen, mentions of canonical character death, spoilers up to the end of season 2
Summary: His way of life means Jack's been a mourner at too many funerals. These two are worse than usual; Jack hates that and the fact he's got a usual to compare them to.
~~~~
Jack had thought that Tosh's funeral would be the worst, grey-haired Mrs. Sato almost bent double with weeping over the loss of her only child. There's nothing you can say, nothing you can give, except hoping desperately that you being there isn't making things worse. He, Gwen and Ianto stood there awkwardly, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible.
Somehow, Owen's funeral was worse than that.
It was an entirely academic exercise, Owen left no real body, except what might be in the carefully-stored contaminated waste from the reactor incident, so they've had to use one of the spare bodies from the freezers to pretend. It's the paper trail that matters, a meticulously constructed cover that Dr. Owen Harper died in a car accident. It's too easy for Torchwood to be revealed by them not paying attention to this sort of thing, and everything was too fragile for them to be exposed now. So they organised a funeral for Owen, knowing he’d have hated the whole palaver, and that it wasn’t him that was being cremated.
Normally, and how has Jack lived through this often enough that he has a concept of 'normally' for colleague's funerals, the celebrant was, if not in on the whole thing, at least aware that he did not need to put on a full three-course-meal of a service.
Somehow this service had been given to someone who felt the urge to make a big production out of it, not realising how out of keeping with *everything* that was. You can't give a Westminster Abbey service at a chapel funeral where only three people turned up, and all three of them were work colleagues of the deceased. In the absence of parents (dead), wife (never had one), significant other (dead, flew off into the rift, dead), old school friends (Owen never had any and wasn't polite about anyone when he mentioned school) or university friends (somehow, Owen was even less polite about them), the celebrant had created a life whole cloth for his sermon.
The celebrant had decided that Owen was the sort of good-fellow who lived a life of borderline sainthood, helping grannies across the road, and so on. The worst of it was that the general outline wasn't wrong, as such, Owen had dedicated his life to helping others, however obliquely, and he'd not have quit Torchwood even if he'd had the chance, but somehow the celebrant missed every detail of Owen. Sure, Owen would have helped a little old lady to cross the street, but he'd have done it by stopping any cars on the road to have an argument with a driver, an argument that would last just long enough for the lady’s second shoe to be safely on the pavement at the other side.
Owen had been a dedicated medic, even if he used to say that he'd wanted to be a pathologist because then the patients don't complain, but he wasn't one of those doctors who did it with a charming bedside manner. Owen cared so much but he pretended he didn't care at all. It made him impossible to deal with, on a good day, but Jack thinks he'd rather have Owen and his thousand separate aggravations than this lightly-sketched saint. There was no room for saints in Torchwood.
The whole service leaves Jack angry, angry in a way he doesn't normally associate with funerals.
Jack knows what he wants to do, but he doesn't think the Welsh at the start of the twenty-first century wake the dead in quite the same way as they did on Boeshane. Or possibly it's just Gwen and Ianto aren't able to hold a wake for Owen. He knows why Gwen might not feel able, or he strongly suspects at least and is going out of his way not to know for certain, and he's never been quite sure about what Ianto thought about Owen, really thought, underneath the manners, and the suit and the sarcasm. He has a horrible feeling that he ought to talk with Ianto about it, but neither of them are comfortable talking like that, and the idea fills Jack with dread. Dread that doesn't mix well with the anger, it makes Jack restless.
He'd suggest checking the sewers for weevils, something to keep himself active that wasn't that dangerous, because weevils were a nuisance more than a threat, except with the team being down to just the three of them, he couldn't afford to risk any of them getting hurt just because Jack was feeling antsy. No, unless they started to attack people, the weevils would have to wait until Torchwood Three was back up to full-strength, and who knew how long that could take, Jack couldn't really stick an advert in the paper.
Most of the other things Jack might do to get rid of this irritated energy also come under the heading of "too dangerous" and Ianto and Gwen won't forgive him for getting himself injured, not even if he'll heal quick as a wink. Understandably, right now, they don't want the fear that goes along with Jack’s injuries because they feel it even if Jack doesn't. Ianto isn't interested in the other thing Jack might want, and Jack tries to understand. Jack's problem is that he's spent his entire life in some form of war, he has his mourning rituals and coping mechanisms, and right now, he can't do any of them.
He knows he's only going to irritate everyone, and everyone will irritate him, when he's like this so he takes himself off.
The view of the Bay from roof of the building soothes him. Partly, because he can shout himself hoarse up here and not disturb anybody; he can do any number of things up here and not disturb anyone and that's a comforting thought. The other part is that the view reminds him that he's not alone in this. The city as a whole consoles him, even in the semi-perpetual rain. He's stayed in Cardiff long enough to see the city in its Victorian pomp, see it surge in the middle of the twentieth Century and then the post-industrial decline. He's seen Cardiff rise again, a steel and glass phoenix, with Torchwood at its centre. On a wider scale, the bay might even outlast Jack, which is a calming thought. Everyone hates funerals, because theirs could be next. Jack hates them because they're never going to be his.
Notes: All the pathologists I've known have been kind, lovely people and I feel I am doing them a disservice.
Author: Red Fiona
Disclaimer: I don't own the characters; BBC and RTD do. No money being made from this.
Fandom: Torchwood
Character: Jack Harkness, Torchwood ensemble
Ratings/Warning: PG-12 gen, mentions of canonical character death, spoilers up to the end of season 2
Summary: His way of life means Jack's been a mourner at too many funerals. These two are worse than usual; Jack hates that and the fact he's got a usual to compare them to.
~~~~
Jack had thought that Tosh's funeral would be the worst, grey-haired Mrs. Sato almost bent double with weeping over the loss of her only child. There's nothing you can say, nothing you can give, except hoping desperately that you being there isn't making things worse. He, Gwen and Ianto stood there awkwardly, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible.
Somehow, Owen's funeral was worse than that.
It was an entirely academic exercise, Owen left no real body, except what might be in the carefully-stored contaminated waste from the reactor incident, so they've had to use one of the spare bodies from the freezers to pretend. It's the paper trail that matters, a meticulously constructed cover that Dr. Owen Harper died in a car accident. It's too easy for Torchwood to be revealed by them not paying attention to this sort of thing, and everything was too fragile for them to be exposed now. So they organised a funeral for Owen, knowing he’d have hated the whole palaver, and that it wasn’t him that was being cremated.
Normally, and how has Jack lived through this often enough that he has a concept of 'normally' for colleague's funerals, the celebrant was, if not in on the whole thing, at least aware that he did not need to put on a full three-course-meal of a service.
Somehow this service had been given to someone who felt the urge to make a big production out of it, not realising how out of keeping with *everything* that was. You can't give a Westminster Abbey service at a chapel funeral where only three people turned up, and all three of them were work colleagues of the deceased. In the absence of parents (dead), wife (never had one), significant other (dead, flew off into the rift, dead), old school friends (Owen never had any and wasn't polite about anyone when he mentioned school) or university friends (somehow, Owen was even less polite about them), the celebrant had created a life whole cloth for his sermon.
The celebrant had decided that Owen was the sort of good-fellow who lived a life of borderline sainthood, helping grannies across the road, and so on. The worst of it was that the general outline wasn't wrong, as such, Owen had dedicated his life to helping others, however obliquely, and he'd not have quit Torchwood even if he'd had the chance, but somehow the celebrant missed every detail of Owen. Sure, Owen would have helped a little old lady to cross the street, but he'd have done it by stopping any cars on the road to have an argument with a driver, an argument that would last just long enough for the lady’s second shoe to be safely on the pavement at the other side.
Owen had been a dedicated medic, even if he used to say that he'd wanted to be a pathologist because then the patients don't complain, but he wasn't one of those doctors who did it with a charming bedside manner. Owen cared so much but he pretended he didn't care at all. It made him impossible to deal with, on a good day, but Jack thinks he'd rather have Owen and his thousand separate aggravations than this lightly-sketched saint. There was no room for saints in Torchwood.
The whole service leaves Jack angry, angry in a way he doesn't normally associate with funerals.
Jack knows what he wants to do, but he doesn't think the Welsh at the start of the twenty-first century wake the dead in quite the same way as they did on Boeshane. Or possibly it's just Gwen and Ianto aren't able to hold a wake for Owen. He knows why Gwen might not feel able, or he strongly suspects at least and is going out of his way not to know for certain, and he's never been quite sure about what Ianto thought about Owen, really thought, underneath the manners, and the suit and the sarcasm. He has a horrible feeling that he ought to talk with Ianto about it, but neither of them are comfortable talking like that, and the idea fills Jack with dread. Dread that doesn't mix well with the anger, it makes Jack restless.
He'd suggest checking the sewers for weevils, something to keep himself active that wasn't that dangerous, because weevils were a nuisance more than a threat, except with the team being down to just the three of them, he couldn't afford to risk any of them getting hurt just because Jack was feeling antsy. No, unless they started to attack people, the weevils would have to wait until Torchwood Three was back up to full-strength, and who knew how long that could take, Jack couldn't really stick an advert in the paper.
Most of the other things Jack might do to get rid of this irritated energy also come under the heading of "too dangerous" and Ianto and Gwen won't forgive him for getting himself injured, not even if he'll heal quick as a wink. Understandably, right now, they don't want the fear that goes along with Jack’s injuries because they feel it even if Jack doesn't. Ianto isn't interested in the other thing Jack might want, and Jack tries to understand. Jack's problem is that he's spent his entire life in some form of war, he has his mourning rituals and coping mechanisms, and right now, he can't do any of them.
He knows he's only going to irritate everyone, and everyone will irritate him, when he's like this so he takes himself off.
The view of the Bay from roof of the building soothes him. Partly, because he can shout himself hoarse up here and not disturb anybody; he can do any number of things up here and not disturb anyone and that's a comforting thought. The other part is that the view reminds him that he's not alone in this. The city as a whole consoles him, even in the semi-perpetual rain. He's stayed in Cardiff long enough to see the city in its Victorian pomp, see it surge in the middle of the twentieth Century and then the post-industrial decline. He's seen Cardiff rise again, a steel and glass phoenix, with Torchwood at its centre. On a wider scale, the bay might even outlast Jack, which is a calming thought. Everyone hates funerals, because theirs could be next. Jack hates them because they're never going to be his.
Notes: All the pathologists I've known have been kind, lovely people and I feel I am doing them a disservice.
