A Torchwood Angst Fanfic
"And he was a good man. I want you to know that. John Frobisher was a good man." And this is the story of how he died.
Rated K+ for blood and deaths.
Disclaimer: *sigh* I'm not RTD. Seriously. I AM female. And I'm not Julie Gardner, either. Or Helen Raynor. Or anyone involved with Torchwood/Doctor Who.
A/N: I re-watched Children of Earth with a friend of mine who hadn't seen them yet. It was good, but saddening. Quite saddening. This thing inspired me while I was watching, then sat in my head and patiently waited for me to finish until it sprung itself on me.
He arrives home amidst a horde of paparazzi, the grey box burning a hole in his briefcase. He shoos them away with a small wave of his hand. This moment is not one to be remembered.
What is it like to live your last few moments alive? He thinks he knows. He has to know, now. These are his last moments alive. He is filled with a sudden yearning, a sudden aching to be anywhere but here, any time but now, anyone but who he is. It is a physical ache that plagues him as he walks through these doors for the last time. But he has no choice. Kill or be killed, he will not walk away from this mess unaffected. In fact, he will probably be the most affected, the most at fault. They will blame him, if only to get away with it.
He will die with honor to his name rather than horror.
Here are his daughters. His beautiful, beautiful daughters. They could be so much. They would be so much, without the 456. He puts on a smile for them. They deserve that much. They deserve smiles, hugs, happiness. He can give his daughters these, but not forever. Not forever, as they deserve. Time is running out, and he must distract them with smiles and hugs and happiness so they won't see that none of it is real. They're young, too young, to be stolen away from the beauty that is life.
So he showers them with what goodness he can before their time is up.
He promises them a surprise. He tells them, go upstairs. Everything will be alright, but you must go upstairs. I have something very good for you, but you must go upstairs and wait for me.
They don't know what he's talking about, but he is their father. They listen to him; they trust him. They're confused, but they go upstairs quietly and wait for him, as he told them.
His wife wants to know what's going on.
He can't tell her. How could he possible tell her? She wouldn't understand. It's better this way. What she doesn't know can hurt her, but it's for her own good.
So he shocks her.
He kisses her, on the cheek, on the lips, and brings her into a hug. She doesn't understand. She's worried now. Whatever words of comfort he's offered her she can't believe, not now. Not with his sudden display of emotion. He's saying goodbye and apologizing for everything he's done without a single word leaving his mouth.
And then he sends her upstairs as well.
For a second, he can't bring himself to do it. Do – do this to his wife and daughters? Can he really? But it's only a second. Less, really. It's less than a second that he hesitates, because he knows that if he does nothing, everything will be done without him.
And he can't let that happen.
He reaches for his briefcase and puts it on the table. Slowly, deliberating every step of the way, he opens the case and pulls out the grey box. He opens that, slowly. His hands shake as he pulls out the gun. Loads it. Hides it behind his back and walks up the stairs to share his wonderful surprise with his family.
It seems to take ages to walk up these stairs. Ghosts of his wife and daughters run up and down the stairs past him, laughing, joking, smiling. Sharing a happiness that he was never grateful for. He always took it for granted. Never once, in all his years, did he think that it would end like this. That he would know exactly when the end was coming and that he would be calling the shots.
He wouldn't have believed it if he'd known.
He walks into the room where they're waiting with a heavy heart. His wife is looking at him expectantly, hoping for an explanation of his bloodshot eyes. His wonderful, beautiful daughters are having a pillow fight. Hitting each other with the colorful pillows in the colorful room that's too cheery for what is about to happen.
He shuts the door behind him.
He moves them all onto the bed together. Next to each other. Facing out the window, away from him.
Three quick shots, and it's done.
The blood is seeping into the bedspread.
It hasn't even been a full minute and the blood's dripping everywhere, seeping into the colorful bedspread and staining the newly cleaned carpeting and ruining their clothes. His, too, with the rebound.
He puts the gun to his head.
Closes his eyes.
Pulls the trigger.
A/N: Well? Good bad yes no maybe? Review? Please?