Ficlet: To Ease The Pain
Apr. 27th, 2026 06:57 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
badly_knittedTitle: To Ease The Pain
Author:
badly_knittedCharacters: Jack.
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 979
Spoilers: Small Worlds.
Summary: With Estelle dead, Jasmine taken by the Fae, and the team giving him the silent treatment, Jack sits alone in his office, drinking to ease the pain.
Written For:
cofax7’s prompt ‘any, any, the smoky taste of single-malt scotch’, at ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
threesentenceficathon.Disclaimer: I don’t own Torchwood, or the characters.
It was late; the rest of the team had left hours ago, even Ianto, who often seemed to haunt the Hub after hours, like a lonely ghost with nowhere else to go. Everywhere was silent and set to night mode, the lights dimmed, the computers on standby but still monitoring for Rift activity and other disturbances of a Torchwood nature, ready to sound the alarms.
The only light anywhere was the desk lamp in Jack’s office, shedding a pool of illumination on the blotter where a cut glass tumbler containing an inch or so of amber liquid sat beside a bottle that at present was three-quarters full.
Jack twirled the glass slowly on the blotter, watching the way the light sparkled and reflected from the surface of its contents, before picking it up and taking a slow sip. The smoky taste of single-malt scotch burned the back of his dry throat, going down smooth and easy to fill his stomach with a warm glow. This wasn’t the cheap stuff, it was aged to perfection, and as he took another slow sip, savouring the richness of the flavour on his tongue, he closed his eyes for a moment, feeling muscles finally beginning to unknot. It burned less this time, his throat moistened by the first sip, soothing the rawness caused by his earlier tears.
He didn’t drink much these days, maybe the odd beer on a night out with the team, a fancy cocktail if he was in a particularly good mood, but on especially bad days, a shot or two of good whisky sometimes helped to dull the ache of failure, allowing him to let go of the tension and stress when a situation went sideways.
He’d never sought leadership, had only ended up as Torchwood Three’s leader by default, the only member of the team left alive after Alex killed the others in what he claimed was an act of mercy, before turning the gun on himself. He’d shot Jack first, of course, so he wouldn’t try to wrestle the gun away from him, but since Jack had a small problem with not being able to stay dead… He’d revived too late to do anything for Alex except stow his body, and those of the men and women he’d killed, in the morgue, but he hadn’t been able to escape the duty his former boss had laid on him.
So here he was, the man in charge, the one who got to make all the impossible decisions so that no one else had to, and every time he had to choose who to sacrifice that someone else might live, it left another indelible stain on his soul.
He knew there hadn’t been any other choice; the girl, Jasmine, was no longer entirely human anyway, so to keep her from joining the fae would have been cruel. And besides, what the fae would have done to the planet in retaliation for being denied their chosen one would have resulted in millions of deaths, and they would have taken Jasmine anyway. Knowing all of that hadn’t made it any easier for Jack; the girl’s mother had already lost her husband, and now she’d lost her firstborn child as well.
The fact that there’d been no alternative didn’t absolve him of the guilt he felt for adding to the poor woman’s grief; there were some things even Retcon couldn’t fix. The details of what had happened to her husband and daughter had been judiciously edited, but the fact that she’d lost them couldn’t be erased from her mind. Too many people knew of their existence.
Jack took another sip of scotch, the contents of the glass already half gone, and held the liquor in his mouth for a long moment, feeling it tingle on his tongue, before swallowing. Drinking on an empty stomach wasn’t ideal, but he was immortal, so what was the worst it could do? It was more difficult for him to get drunk these days than it used to be, because of the way his body automatically healed whatever he did to it. He could seldom drink large enough quantities fast enough to achieve the desired result.
Maybe he wouldn’t be feeling so bad about the decisions he’d made tonight if his team hadn’t taken it so badly. Not one of them had spoken to him all the way back to the Hub, just glaring at him accusingly. He’d made the only possible choice, and he’d tried to explain that, but they didn’t get it; they didn’t understand how powerful the fae were, and some of them still believed he could fix anything. Well, he couldn’t. If he could, then Estelle would still be alive, she wouldn’t have drowned alone in the rain outside her own house.
Tears stung Jack’s eyes again and he knocked back the rest of the whisky in his glass in a single gulp, barely tasting it, silently berating himself for treating fine scotch in such a way. If he was going to drink like that, he should have poured a glass of the cheaper stuff, but he picked up the bottle, uncapped it, and poured himself another shot anyway, determined to savour every sip this time.
His raised the glass in a silent toast to Estelle, remembering her as she’d been back in the war years, young, vibrant, so alive, full of curiosity and wonder and passion… Would her life have been better, fuller, richer, if she’d never met him? Perhaps, and yet even now he couldn’t regret having known her. His only regret was that he hadn’t been there when she’d needed him the most, that he’d been too late to save her. He should have done more for her.
With a sigh, he sipped his scotch, leaned back in his chair, and let the memories of happier times wash over him.
The End
The only light anywhere was the desk lamp in Jack’s office, shedding a pool of illumination on the blotter where a cut glass tumbler containing an inch or so of amber liquid sat beside a bottle that at present was three-quarters full.
Jack twirled the glass slowly on the blotter, watching the way the light sparkled and reflected from the surface of its contents, before picking it up and taking a slow sip. The smoky taste of single-malt scotch burned the back of his dry throat, going down smooth and easy to fill his stomach with a warm glow. This wasn’t the cheap stuff, it was aged to perfection, and as he took another slow sip, savouring the richness of the flavour on his tongue, he closed his eyes for a moment, feeling muscles finally beginning to unknot. It burned less this time, his throat moistened by the first sip, soothing the rawness caused by his earlier tears.
He didn’t drink much these days, maybe the odd beer on a night out with the team, a fancy cocktail if he was in a particularly good mood, but on especially bad days, a shot or two of good whisky sometimes helped to dull the ache of failure, allowing him to let go of the tension and stress when a situation went sideways.
He’d never sought leadership, had only ended up as Torchwood Three’s leader by default, the only member of the team left alive after Alex killed the others in what he claimed was an act of mercy, before turning the gun on himself. He’d shot Jack first, of course, so he wouldn’t try to wrestle the gun away from him, but since Jack had a small problem with not being able to stay dead… He’d revived too late to do anything for Alex except stow his body, and those of the men and women he’d killed, in the morgue, but he hadn’t been able to escape the duty his former boss had laid on him.
So here he was, the man in charge, the one who got to make all the impossible decisions so that no one else had to, and every time he had to choose who to sacrifice that someone else might live, it left another indelible stain on his soul.
He knew there hadn’t been any other choice; the girl, Jasmine, was no longer entirely human anyway, so to keep her from joining the fae would have been cruel. And besides, what the fae would have done to the planet in retaliation for being denied their chosen one would have resulted in millions of deaths, and they would have taken Jasmine anyway. Knowing all of that hadn’t made it any easier for Jack; the girl’s mother had already lost her husband, and now she’d lost her firstborn child as well.
The fact that there’d been no alternative didn’t absolve him of the guilt he felt for adding to the poor woman’s grief; there were some things even Retcon couldn’t fix. The details of what had happened to her husband and daughter had been judiciously edited, but the fact that she’d lost them couldn’t be erased from her mind. Too many people knew of their existence.
Jack took another sip of scotch, the contents of the glass already half gone, and held the liquor in his mouth for a long moment, feeling it tingle on his tongue, before swallowing. Drinking on an empty stomach wasn’t ideal, but he was immortal, so what was the worst it could do? It was more difficult for him to get drunk these days than it used to be, because of the way his body automatically healed whatever he did to it. He could seldom drink large enough quantities fast enough to achieve the desired result.
Maybe he wouldn’t be feeling so bad about the decisions he’d made tonight if his team hadn’t taken it so badly. Not one of them had spoken to him all the way back to the Hub, just glaring at him accusingly. He’d made the only possible choice, and he’d tried to explain that, but they didn’t get it; they didn’t understand how powerful the fae were, and some of them still believed he could fix anything. Well, he couldn’t. If he could, then Estelle would still be alive, she wouldn’t have drowned alone in the rain outside her own house.
Tears stung Jack’s eyes again and he knocked back the rest of the whisky in his glass in a single gulp, barely tasting it, silently berating himself for treating fine scotch in such a way. If he was going to drink like that, he should have poured a glass of the cheaper stuff, but he picked up the bottle, uncapped it, and poured himself another shot anyway, determined to savour every sip this time.
His raised the glass in a silent toast to Estelle, remembering her as she’d been back in the war years, young, vibrant, so alive, full of curiosity and wonder and passion… Would her life have been better, fuller, richer, if she’d never met him? Perhaps, and yet even now he couldn’t regret having known her. His only regret was that he hadn’t been there when she’d needed him the most, that he’d been too late to save her. He should have done more for her.
With a sigh, he sipped his scotch, leaned back in his chair, and let the memories of happier times wash over him.
The End
(no subject)
Date: 2026-04-28 10:37 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2026-04-28 10:54 pm (UTC)Thank you!