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tamingthemuseTitle: It's the Job
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meredevachon
Fandom: Torchwood
Prompt #81: Grovel
Rating: PG-13 for language
Word Count: 542
Spoilers/Warnings: Takes place during 1.11 Combat, minor spoilers for that ep, and vague ones for the series to that point.
Disclaimer: Torchwood, its characters and situations do not belong to me. This is all in fun and for love of the characters.
Summary: Rhys' musings on how life has changed since Gwen went to Torchwood.
~*~*~
It's that bloody job of hers, innit? Phone calls in the middle of the night. Telling lies simple as breathing. Rushing off with hardly a word, let alone any idea when she'll be back. If she'll be back.
Went off to work one day, was gone more than that, and came back with great, gaping holes in her side. Been fucking shot, she had! Never got so much as shot at, when she was on patrol with Andy. A bump on the head or two, sure, and a few bruises when someone got a bit rough, but never shot at it.
She was right back in work the next day, too. Like she couldn't bear to stay away. Even when she's home, she's not. Might as well be working twenty-four seven, for all the thought she pays to me. She works hours and days on end; never can tell me when she'll be home. And the one night she promises me, fucking promises me she's off, just the two of us, regular old date like we used to have… he shows up, all Cary Grant wounded hero like, and I'm eating alone, again.
Before, she used to tell me about her day, and listen to me natter on about mine. Now she won't even tell me what she does or where she goes in her super, secret, Special Bloody Ops job. So like an idiot, I talk more, like as long as one of us is talking, it doesn't matter if she doesn't bother to hear a word I'm saying. And what about now? She's not even here, run off with the fabulous Jack, and I'm still going on and on, muttering to myself in the middle of a restaurant, like some kind of nutter.
I can't help, though, can I? Any more than I can help knowing no matter what I said, when she comes home, I'll say no more about it. Until the next time… and there will be a next time, as long as she's at that stupid job. Work will phone, and she'll be so very sorry, but she's got to go. Or I'll fix her favorite lasagna for supper, and she won't be home for days, or so much as ring to let me know. Or she'll come home hurt, again, won't tell me what happened, won't think to keep herself safe, but her mobile'll ring, and she's off in the other room talking to one of them where I can't hear, saying who knows what.
I won't beg. I won't. Not if she… I won't grovel. I'm better than that. We're better than that. Or we were… before she took that blasted job. I don't deserve to be treated this way. And I'm going to tell her as much. Soon as she deigns to come home, that is. I'm going to tell her, things are going to change. I'm not going to let her treat me like some sort of pet she can cuddle with when she wants, then dump on the side of the road like so much garbage when she gets bored.
It's that job of hers, you see? It's not my Gwen. It's that damn job.
But I love her. So I stay.
*fin*
Author:
meredevachonFandom: Torchwood
Prompt #81: Grovel
Rating: PG-13 for language
Word Count: 542
Spoilers/Warnings: Takes place during 1.11 Combat, minor spoilers for that ep, and vague ones for the series to that point.
Disclaimer: Torchwood, its characters and situations do not belong to me. This is all in fun and for love of the characters.
Summary: Rhys' musings on how life has changed since Gwen went to Torchwood.
It's that bloody job of hers, innit? Phone calls in the middle of the night. Telling lies simple as breathing. Rushing off with hardly a word, let alone any idea when she'll be back. If she'll be back.
Went off to work one day, was gone more than that, and came back with great, gaping holes in her side. Been fucking shot, she had! Never got so much as shot at, when she was on patrol with Andy. A bump on the head or two, sure, and a few bruises when someone got a bit rough, but never shot at it.
She was right back in work the next day, too. Like she couldn't bear to stay away. Even when she's home, she's not. Might as well be working twenty-four seven, for all the thought she pays to me. She works hours and days on end; never can tell me when she'll be home. And the one night she promises me, fucking promises me she's off, just the two of us, regular old date like we used to have… he shows up, all Cary Grant wounded hero like, and I'm eating alone, again.
Before, she used to tell me about her day, and listen to me natter on about mine. Now she won't even tell me what she does or where she goes in her super, secret, Special Bloody Ops job. So like an idiot, I talk more, like as long as one of us is talking, it doesn't matter if she doesn't bother to hear a word I'm saying. And what about now? She's not even here, run off with the fabulous Jack, and I'm still going on and on, muttering to myself in the middle of a restaurant, like some kind of nutter.
I can't help, though, can I? Any more than I can help knowing no matter what I said, when she comes home, I'll say no more about it. Until the next time… and there will be a next time, as long as she's at that stupid job. Work will phone, and she'll be so very sorry, but she's got to go. Or I'll fix her favorite lasagna for supper, and she won't be home for days, or so much as ring to let me know. Or she'll come home hurt, again, won't tell me what happened, won't think to keep herself safe, but her mobile'll ring, and she's off in the other room talking to one of them where I can't hear, saying who knows what.
I won't beg. I won't. Not if she… I won't grovel. I'm better than that. We're better than that. Or we were… before she took that blasted job. I don't deserve to be treated this way. And I'm going to tell her as much. Soon as she deigns to come home, that is. I'm going to tell her, things are going to change. I'm not going to let her treat me like some sort of pet she can cuddle with when she wants, then dump on the side of the road like so much garbage when she gets bored.
It's that job of hers, you see? It's not my Gwen. It's that damn job.
But I love her. So I stay.
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no subject
Date: 2008-02-10 11:39 am (UTC)Mind, having watched 3.4 last night, which was a real Rhys episode, his voice was in my head already, so I could really appreciate how you caught the inflections of the Welsh rhythm. Very nice!
no subject
Date: 2008-02-10 05:08 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-02-10 07:54 pm (UTC)Rhys's voice was great and I could hear the lovely welsh lilt as I read. So well characterised too - puts my Torchwood fic to shame!
I guess you're going to like the next episode with all of it's lovely Rhys moments?
no subject
Date: 2008-02-10 08:23 pm (UTC)Yes, I'm definitely looking forward to Rhys in the new episode. ;)
no subject
Date: 2008-02-15 11:50 pm (UTC)Sooo cool you wrote something from Rhys's POV. :D
I loved it. :)
no subject
Date: 2008-02-16 01:57 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-02-16 02:57 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-02-16 12:17 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-02-16 02:01 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-02-16 02:58 am (UTC)I only recently got ses. 3 (finally!!) on DVD and... interesting. I just haven't had much time to watch a lot of it. :(
But that's cool. :D