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wintercompanion2008-09-05 05:10 pm
jovialien.livejournal.com) wrote in wintercompanion2008-09-05 05:10 pm
Entry tags:
Knight of the woeful countenance 1/6
Title: Knight of the Woeful Countenance
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
jovialien
Characters: Jack, Ten, Martha, Sarah Jane, Mickey, Gwen, Ianto, mentions of Rose and Donna
Ratings: PG13 for angst
Warnings: Spoilers for DW Journeys End, Silence in the Library, Spoilers for TW Exit Wounds
Disclaimer: I don't own these characters. I just borrow them occasionally.
Summary: When you don't know who you are who will you choose to be?
Authors Notes: Written for the![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
wintercompanion challenge prompt "Amnesia" and inspired by John Barrowman singing Man of La Mancha.
She is gone. He can still feel everything she has done rattling round in his head. He moves around the TARDIS and can still hear her talking to him, telling him not to mope around, to get on with it. He can hear her going on about Charlie Chaplin and wanting to visit him. He can see her crying as he took away everything she had gained, every moment of joy, every boost to her confidence and cast her back into that life. He can still feel her hand on his back as he walked away from the love of his life. He can feel the warmth of her hug, the cut of her sarcasm. He misses her. He misses Rose. He misses Jack, Sarah Jane, Martha, Mickey, Pete, hell he even misses Jackie. He is alone again.
Without thinking his feet bring him to his library. He sits down and picks a book at random, not really caring what it is but just wanting to escape for a bit. He reads, his thoughts dwelling on all he has tried to do for humanity and how his best efforts just keep getting him hurt. And those around him. He turns his friends into weapons. He gets them hurt. Or worse. He sinks down into the chair and sighs deeply, the shroud of depression covering him again as he sits so still, so unlike his usual self.
When all the books within arms reach are read he rises, his feet finding their way over to the ladder to the higher shelves. He is tired but climbs on, his feet rising up one rung at a time. It is high but he cannot quite reach the top shelf. He stretches higher, one hand gripping on tight to the ladder as a sudden sway of the TARDIS makes the ladder move a little. That was close. He reaches out again, his fingers loosening slightly as he manages to brush the fingers of his other hand over the books. Just a little more... When the next sway comes he slips, grabbing futilely for the shelves as his feet catch on the ladder, knocking him to the side. Helplessly he starts to fall, his fingers reaching out for safety but hesitating a moment too long. Why fight it? Why try to stop the pain, it will only find him another way. Hopelessly he misses the ladder and falls...
Being retired, he has much time for books. He studies them from morn till night and often through the night and morn again, and all he reads oppresses him; fills him with indignation at man's murderous ways toward man. He ponders the problem of how to make better a world where evil brings profit and virtue none at all; where fraud and deceit are mingled with truth and sincerity. He broods and broods and broods and broods and finally his brains dry up. He lays down the melancholy burden of sanity and conceives the strangest project ever imagined - to become a knight-errant, and sally forth into the world in search of adventures; to mount a crusade; to raise up the weak and those in need. No longer will he be plain Alonso Quijana, but a dauntless knight known as Don Quixote de La Mancha.
*******************************
It just had to be Andy who called in. Gwen should never have given him the direct line. With a grimace Ianto hung up and walked over to Jack’s office, tapping lightly on the doorframe to draw his attention from his gossiping call to Martha and Mickey where he was supposedly asking for an update on their weevil hunt. “Hang on gorgeous, Ianto needs me... Behave you filthy thing, I won’t be a sec... Yes?” He looked up, his hand over the mouthpiece and his smile began to fade at the serious expression on Ianto’s face.
“Andy just called in, he say’s he’s got ‘one of ours’ in a cell at the station. There’s a gentleman insisting he is Don Quixote de La Mancha and that a hobby horse he ‘borrowed’ from the toy shop is in fact his faithful steed Rocinante.” Jack chuckled and leaned back in the chair, waving his hand dismissively.
“Sounds like a nutter but not one of ours. Does Andy find me so irresistible he’s resorting to making up cases for us?!” Jack waggled his eyebrows suggestively, causing Ianto to roll his eyes as he shook his head seriously.
“No he called us because the good Don has a nasty head wound but when they examined him they discovered he also has two hearts.” Jack’s face fell, the blood leaving it so rapidly he looked as though he had died again.
“Shit.” Ianto nodded in agreement and strode across the room, grabbing Jack’s coat without a word as Martha was hastily filled in and told to come straight back to the hub. This was not good.
Part Two
Author:
jovialienCharacters: Jack, Ten, Martha, Sarah Jane, Mickey, Gwen, Ianto, mentions of Rose and Donna
Ratings: PG13 for angst
Warnings: Spoilers for DW Journeys End, Silence in the Library, Spoilers for TW Exit Wounds
Disclaimer: I don't own these characters. I just borrow them occasionally.
Summary: When you don't know who you are who will you choose to be?
Authors Notes: Written for the
wintercompanion challenge prompt "Amnesia" and inspired by John Barrowman singing Man of La Mancha.She is gone. He can still feel everything she has done rattling round in his head. He moves around the TARDIS and can still hear her talking to him, telling him not to mope around, to get on with it. He can hear her going on about Charlie Chaplin and wanting to visit him. He can see her crying as he took away everything she had gained, every moment of joy, every boost to her confidence and cast her back into that life. He can still feel her hand on his back as he walked away from the love of his life. He can feel the warmth of her hug, the cut of her sarcasm. He misses her. He misses Rose. He misses Jack, Sarah Jane, Martha, Mickey, Pete, hell he even misses Jackie. He is alone again.
Without thinking his feet bring him to his library. He sits down and picks a book at random, not really caring what it is but just wanting to escape for a bit. He reads, his thoughts dwelling on all he has tried to do for humanity and how his best efforts just keep getting him hurt. And those around him. He turns his friends into weapons. He gets them hurt. Or worse. He sinks down into the chair and sighs deeply, the shroud of depression covering him again as he sits so still, so unlike his usual self.
When all the books within arms reach are read he rises, his feet finding their way over to the ladder to the higher shelves. He is tired but climbs on, his feet rising up one rung at a time. It is high but he cannot quite reach the top shelf. He stretches higher, one hand gripping on tight to the ladder as a sudden sway of the TARDIS makes the ladder move a little. That was close. He reaches out again, his fingers loosening slightly as he manages to brush the fingers of his other hand over the books. Just a little more... When the next sway comes he slips, grabbing futilely for the shelves as his feet catch on the ladder, knocking him to the side. Helplessly he starts to fall, his fingers reaching out for safety but hesitating a moment too long. Why fight it? Why try to stop the pain, it will only find him another way. Hopelessly he misses the ladder and falls...
Being retired, he has much time for books. He studies them from morn till night and often through the night and morn again, and all he reads oppresses him; fills him with indignation at man's murderous ways toward man. He ponders the problem of how to make better a world where evil brings profit and virtue none at all; where fraud and deceit are mingled with truth and sincerity. He broods and broods and broods and broods and finally his brains dry up. He lays down the melancholy burden of sanity and conceives the strangest project ever imagined - to become a knight-errant, and sally forth into the world in search of adventures; to mount a crusade; to raise up the weak and those in need. No longer will he be plain Alonso Quijana, but a dauntless knight known as Don Quixote de La Mancha.
*******************************
It just had to be Andy who called in. Gwen should never have given him the direct line. With a grimace Ianto hung up and walked over to Jack’s office, tapping lightly on the doorframe to draw his attention from his gossiping call to Martha and Mickey where he was supposedly asking for an update on their weevil hunt. “Hang on gorgeous, Ianto needs me... Behave you filthy thing, I won’t be a sec... Yes?” He looked up, his hand over the mouthpiece and his smile began to fade at the serious expression on Ianto’s face.
“Andy just called in, he say’s he’s got ‘one of ours’ in a cell at the station. There’s a gentleman insisting he is Don Quixote de La Mancha and that a hobby horse he ‘borrowed’ from the toy shop is in fact his faithful steed Rocinante.” Jack chuckled and leaned back in the chair, waving his hand dismissively.
“Sounds like a nutter but not one of ours. Does Andy find me so irresistible he’s resorting to making up cases for us?!” Jack waggled his eyebrows suggestively, causing Ianto to roll his eyes as he shook his head seriously.
“No he called us because the good Don has a nasty head wound but when they examined him they discovered he also has two hearts.” Jack’s face fell, the blood leaving it so rapidly he looked as though he had died again.
“Shit.” Ianto nodded in agreement and strode across the room, grabbing Jack’s coat without a word as Martha was hastily filled in and told to come straight back to the hub. This was not good.
Part Two
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and omg i like the conversation between the tardis and ten!
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