Lady Paperclip (paperclipbitch) wrote,
Lady Paperclip

"This is my life and it's all very well but never never never again..."

Title: Baby, I Die Every Night, Every Time.
Fandom: Torchwood
Characters: Suzie (torchwood team) [Owen/Suzie]
Challenge/Prompt: 7rainbowprompts, #10. Organic
Rating: PG-13
Genre: Gen [het]
Copyright: Keane, “Try Again”
Summary: Four ways that Suzie Costello didn’t die, and the way she eventually did.
Author’s Notes: In spite of the fact that Suzie makes up less than an hour of the entire series, which is depressingly miniscule, she’s my second-favourite character after Ianto, so here’s some stuff set pre-show in my own personal Suzie canon. Because she wins at life death. Plus, this particular writing challenge has the most beautiful prompts.

What I was isn’t what I am – I’d change back, but I don’t know if I can – still I’ll try again.

Four Ways That Suzie Costello Didn’t Die (And The Way She Eventually Did).


“Oh bloody hell,” Suzie murmurs. It doesn’t really do the situation justice, and she probably should be using considerably stronger language, but it’s the best she can come up with, covered in fettuccine and what remains of her boyfriend. She didn’t like him all that much, it has to be said, and she spent a lot of time while dating him attempting to find ways to avoid him, but that doesn’t mean she wanted him dead. Now, there’s blood on her face and her clothes and Adam is on the floor in front of her in six distinctly separate pieces.

Suzie is just about logical enough not to start going this can’t possibly be real, and has enough self-esteem to assume that she isn’t going crazy or hallucinating, partially because she’s sure that if she were to hallucinate a situation involving giant homicidal robots, she wouldn’t include the overwhelming scent of pesto or the tinny, irritating music still insisting that when the moon hits your eye like a big pizza-pie, that’s amore in the background.

Behind her, she thinks that someone is on fire. She can’t bring herself to turn and look. She can’t move at all, actually, it’s probably shock, and the beginnings of a migraine are thudding against the sides of her skull. She was just trying to have a quiet lunch and she’s probably due back at work any time soon and unfortunately there are gigantic robots striding around blowing things up and Adam is dead and so are lots of other people and this is entirely too ridiculous to actually be happening. Suzie has to bite her lips together to stop herself wailing but I don’t even like science fiction! because the chances are it won’t help.

Instead, Suzie takes a deep breath that catches in her lungs, and starts crawling across the floor. She needs to get under cover somewhere, before she too gets sliced into pieces. People around her are screaming, there’s a siren wailing, none of it is doing any good and there’s broken glass all over the floor which is embedding itself into her knees and hands and it hurts. She can’t get out because there are metal things in front of the doors and windows and they’re here to kill someone or very possibly everyone but Suzie doesn’t have the specifics and doesn’t want them either. The big picture isn’t her problem. Her problem mostly involves the pasta in her hair and the blood on her skirt and the shattered glass stuck in her palms.

As she keeps crawling, Suzie mentally congratulates herself for not screaming. Everyone else seems to be screaming, yelling and sobbing and being very loud and very useless. She is keeping calm, or at least, quietly hysterical, and she is being slightly proactive. A table behind her explodes, she needs to get out of here, she needs this to stop because she has no intention of being slaughtered here. She doesn’t have a whole lot of things to live for but this is a nightmare of a way to die and she doesn’t want to go like this.

The robots are talking in a language that certainly isn’t English and Suzie can’t work out if it’s some kind of incredibly imaginative terrorist attack or something else entirely. What the something else might be, she has no idea, but right now she’s not thinking straight anyway. Everything’s too close and too dangerous and this is probably panic but if she just tries her best to keep it at bay she might just get away with it. She’s just got to keep her mind clear for the next little while and by then someone who knows what they’re doing might have come along and then she can allow herself to be scared.

There are already four women hiding in the ladies’ toilets, crouched low, looking incredibly frightened. They all shriek when Suzie pushes open the door and she has to remind herself to be charitable, these are extenuating circumstances and they are perfectly within their rights to scream if they want to, she shouldn’t wish horrible deaths on them just because they’re making her migraine worse. She must look a sight, all covered in blood like this, but the other women don’t look all that better and Suzie sits down with her back against the door and closes her eyes for a moment.

“Should we call someone?” a woman asks tentatively.

“Who are we going to call?” Suzie snaps, and her voice is barely trembling. “An electrician? A physicist? Who do you know who knows how to deactivate giant murderous robots?”

“There’s no need to be nasty,” someone else hisses.

“We’re all going to die in about five minutes,” Suzie points out mildly. She wonders if they’re going to be killed in here, locked in a small tiled bathroom that smells overwhelmingly of pot pourri, and that thought is even less appealing than being blown up with the rest of the restaurant. The noise is overwhelming, shrieks and explosions and the synthesized shouting in that unrecognisable language.

And then the wall next to Suzie is blasted through.

Watching in shock, Suzie registers that if she’d been sitting a little more to the left, she’d be dead now. As it is, she’s alive. For the moment. The others aren’t so lucky, they’ve been burned into nothingness in a second, and the heat radiates over Suzie and makes her curl up as small as she can against the remaining wall. She still doesn’t scream, because she’s forgotten how to. There are metallic footsteps echoing across the floor and any second she’s going to be cut to shreds or exploded or burned or maybe some combination of all three, and she doesn’t want that to happen, she really doesn’t, and she can’t think of any way to save herself.

Slowly, she looks up into something that might be a face but which mostly resembles a clump of wires.

“Oh bloody hell,” she whispers again, words failing her, because she gets the feeling that even if she tries to plead for her life it isn’t going to pay off. She wonders how much it’ll hurt, on a scale of one to ten. And then, just as she’s expecting to be killed, a wave of some kind of energy smashes through and the alien falls to inanimate pieces on the floor. Suzie frowns, and gradually uncurls herself, peering around what remains of the restaurant. People in – very nice – black coats have arrived, holding giant guns, and seem to be getting rid of the robots in a calm and faintly professional manner. This is always a good thing, but Suzie can barely breathe.

When they’ve disposed of all the murderous robots, the team split up and begin to look for survivors or bag up bits of technology or whatever it is they’re doing. Suzie sits very still because the shock is really starting to set in and she feels utterly paralysed. A dark-haired man in a very long, grey coat strides over.

“Hello,” he says, crouching down beside her. Suzie just stares at him. He’s good-looking, in a matinee idol sort of way, and he’s smiling a painfully charming smile at her. “Are you ok?” Suzie can’t speak. “It’s ok now,” he adds, “Everything’s all right. I’m Captain Jack Harkness. What’s your name?”

Suzie opens her mouth to tell him that she’s fine and doesn’t need patronising, a couple of plasters and she’ll be well on her way to being normal again, but instead of the words a desperate sob escapes her. Harkness seems to have been expecting this, and gathers her into a hug as Suzie starts sobbing uncontrollably. She wishes that she could stop, because it’s ridiculous and embarrassing and really unnecessary, now that she’s alive and well, but the hysteria takes over and she fists her hands in Harkness’ coat, clinging to him, and cries until the world starts to almost make sense again.


Her eyelids creak open and it doesn’t make much difference.

“I don’t remember getting here,” Suzie says slowly. It is dark and she is lying down and that’s about all she can gather about her present situation. Jack is lying beside her, grinning, which is odd because Suzie thinks that she might have memories of him being decapitated, which are obviously wrong because he’s here now looking a little manic but definitely alive.

“It’s ok,” Jack replies, “No one ever does.”

Suzie considers his words while looking at the blood on the collar of his white shirt. There’s copious amounts of it, if it’s Jack’s then he’s bled out three times over and by rights shouldn’t be laughing. Shouldn’t really be doing anything, if Suzie’s biology classes were anything to go by.

There’s a trail of blood, still slightly sticky, stemming from the corner of Suzie’s mouth. It’s drying uncomfortably and she wants to move to wipe it away and she can’t.

“Should I be scared?” she asks steadily, completely serious. Her memory is in pieces, and she’s not certain how she’s meant to feel right now. It tends to be easier to check with Jack before she starts choosing her own emotions. “Because I seem to be largely paralysed and that’s hardly ever a good omen.”

Jack’s smile falters. It’s not a pretty sight.

“That bad, huh?” It occurs to Suzie that she can’t feel her legs, and she decides not to try and look down to see what’s become of them. She won’t be able to change the situation, whatever it is, and if they’re not there anymore then she’s going to scream and it won’t help.

“Pretty bad, yeah,” Jack affirms quietly. There’s dirt on his face, and on Jack even mud manages to look aesthetically pleasing. In other circumstances Suzie would be amused by this and she might even mock him for it, but today she doesn’t have the energy.

“I don’t know what’s going on,” she says after a while. She doesn’t add I remember things that don’t make sense because Jack delights in being an enigma, and she might get more answers out of him if she doesn’t mention the whole I-think-I-saw-you-dying-horribly situation. Say too much, and he’ll just clam up, looking faintly tortured. The tragic hero routine is tiring Suzie out, but there’s no point in mentioning it.

“That’s to be expected,” Jack tells her, and Suzie is almost sure that he means to sound reassuring. He doesn’t, but that’s not entirely his fault.

Any attempt at conversation trails away and she isn’t even in pain, she’s just… numb. She stares at what might tentatively be called the ceiling, or, in any case, the flat surface not all that far above her head, and attempts to slot things together. Without any sort of success.


“You don’t want to know,” he says, offering her a bleak smile that makes her stomach twist, “It’s probably better that you don’t.”

Suzie considers this calmly.

“I have no idea where I am, I can’t move, I’m obviously bleeding quite a lot, even though I’m not sure where from, and I can’t feel most of my body. I’m not even one hundred percent certain that you’re not a figment of my imagination. If you don’t give me some kind of explanation soon, I’m going to have a panic attack. Which is only really going to make things worse, isn’t it.”

She thinks that she might be being slightly logical in some special out-of-her-mind kind of way, but who knows anymore.

“They’re torturing you,” Jack tells her evenly, quietly, and that is at least a plausible reason for her being in this situation. Suzie tries to remember but she can’t and mostly she’s just numb. Jack doesn’t seem to want to explain further, which is frustrating because Suzie is sure there’s more to this. For one thing, they’re not in the Hub anymore which means they must have been taken, and who are “they” anyway, and what kind of information are they torturing her for?

“Well,” she begins, “That doesn’t really help, but thank you anyway.”

“You don’t want to know,” Jack repeats, something indefinable in his blue eyes. There’s definitely too much blood on his shirt and not for the first time Suzie ponders the idea that he’s not entirely human.

“Are we going to be rescued?” Suzie asks after a while, because there’s not much else to say.

“I hope so,” Jack replies, with something that might be a shrug, and then a wince of pain.

“Your shoulder’s dislocated,” Suzie tells him dispassionately. She tries to move to see if she can help him, and pain explodes through her. “This is madness, Jack. Seriously, what the fuck is going on?”

“We’ve been taken and are being tortured because we’re members of Torchwood,” Jack tells her, rolling awkwardly onto his side so he can see her better. “That alien device we found a fortnight ago is actually quite sacred and important to them, and they came and took it back, but all the things we did to it have broken it. So now they’re attempting to find out what we’ve done in order to undo the damage.”

Suzie has lots more questions because that’s still not a proper explanation, and Jack really is bad at the whole telling-people-actual-useful-stuff thing, but grey is starting to cloud her vision and she is beginning to suspect that she’s more badly injured than she knows. And still, she can’t pluck up the courage to try and investigate the full extent of her injuries.

“You really don’t pay me enough to compensate for the fact that this happens about once a fortnight,” she points out mildly, closing her eyes in an attempt to counteract the dizziness. She doesn’t hear Jack’s reply, and she hopes really hard that they get rescued soon because she probably isn’t going to last much longer.


Do you think we’re going to die? Suzie asks, back against the wall. It’s cool, there are bricks involved. She thinks her skin is going to peel off soon, heat, heat and her mouth tastes like dust.

Owen turns to look at her. His smile is a slash in his face. They stopped sleeping together months ago and it isn’t awkward because Suzie wouldn’t let it be. She likes making mistakes and doesn’t even mind repercussions but the long hours of not looking at each other were going to be boring. So they didn’t do it at all, just stopped one day and went back to indifference, and Owen seems to be thinking too hard about her question.

We might do, he says.

Suzie shuts her eyes. The lids are heavy, they don’t feel like hers any more. She’s shut in a useless lump of flesh that is attempting to shut down and it’s a bit too good at it and she is tired. Her throat hurts.

Damn, she murmurs. There doesn’t seem to be much else to say. She and Owen were never good at talking, she dislikes having to attempt to think up dialogue anyway, she’s having a bad day, please don’t take a picture, and her hands are curling up like claws.

You want to talk about it? Owen’s question comes from croaking throat, it’s not a comforting offer, and she wonders exactly what she could say. Even if it were Jack here, Jack with his immaculate hair and shiny teeth and blue eyes, she wouldn’t tell him any sort of truth.

Tosh loves you, she murmurs, pushing a hand against the brickwork, quarantine, level five, never see daylight again if Owen is right. She is meant to be in bed. The floor against the wall seems more appealing. She’s not sure where Owen is, what he’s doing. She hasn’t looked.

What’s that got to do with anything? Owen demands. His voice sounds scared. Suzie doesn’t care enough to wonder why. Her knuckles scrape the wall, blood spills. It’s meant to hurt. She presses the wounded hand to her lips, her mouth gets all salty and red.

Just trying to make conversation, she murmurs, the sound muffled by her skin. Owen might hear but even if he doesn’t, he doesn’t ask for clarification. Talking isn’t easy for either of them. Suzie lost the ability to have a non-work-related conversation years ago. Who would there be to talk to anyway? She chased away anyone who tried to give a damn just to make sure she could let nothing slip. Retcon is colourless but it makes things taste all metallic and Jack might like using memory pills to make the world better but she’s less comfortable about handing them out like Smarties.

Orange juice. She wants orange juice. Ianto could get her orange juice. She should ask for some. Except that then she’d have to move and find the comm system and tell Ianto about her craving and he’s probably got enough to be getting on with what with generally being taken for granted and acting as unofficial whipping boy and official slave boy for their entire organisation. He might not be able to get her orange juice. And that would be sad.

It really is too hot in here.

You’re the doctor, she points out petulantly, you fix this.

I’m not bloody Superman, Owen snarls, Suzie looks at the inside of her eyelids. Dark red and there’s no view.

I know, she replies. She almost wants Owen to take offence. He doesn’t. Maybe he doesn’t even hear her; the symptoms of whatever this is are random and all over the place and for all Suzie knows deafness could be next on the agenda. Her teeth feel loose in her skull.

Suze, he murmurs, and his voice has got close like he moved when she wasn’t listening and he probably did and he’s close enough that his breath skims her jaw.

Ok, she whispers back, his mouth brushes hers, and the space in front of Suzie’s eyelids becomes dark. She doesn’t want to touch him in case she leaves a mark. In case she touches too hard and it accidentally becomes murder. Who knows, down here.

I don’t love you, she says desperately, I don’t love you and we’re going to die here.

The words are all crushed against his lips so they don’t sound at all right and there was meant to be a last time and that last time was long ago, and this is an anomaly and Suzie hates anomalies because they wreck the graph.

It’s possible, Owen agrees, she remembers things she doesn’t want to remember, and somehow his hand is between her legs.

Jesus, she mumbles, in lieu of stop it.

She thinks that she doesn’t really want to die like this, all covered with Owen and his mouth tastes a lot like blood or maybe hers does. This is strange, she didn’t ask to be here doing this and Tosh would probably enjoy it more and Jack would know what to do. But they are not here because this is quarantine. This is purgatory.

So they tremble together, and wait for something to change.


Ianto is looking a cross between horrified and amused, and Suzie decides that if he starts laughing she is actually going to hit him.

“This is the last time I agree to help you out with the filing,” she tells him reprovingly.

“It really isn’t usually like this,” Ianto replies, sounding disconcertingly helpless, “It usually involves more dust and acid free folders and papercuts.”

Suzie peeps over the fort they’ve made out of cardboard artefact boxes, to see that the situation is rapidly getting worse.

“I don’t think we need to worry about papercuts,” she says. “Maybe getting torn to shreds by walking shelving units, but definitely not papercuts.”

Ianto still looks like he wants to burst out laughing. He could, Suzie reasons, be hysterical with terror, but the mirth in his eyes suggests otherwise.

“This isn’t funny!” she hisses. Ianto’s mouth twists.

“It is a little,” he tells her.

Suzie asks him what exactly is so funny about being entirely unarmed while possessed furniture shuffles oddly around the room with muffled banging sounds.

“I don’t think the furniture is possessed, as such-” Ianto begins pedantically, but shuts up at the look on Suzie’s face.

“There are shelving units stomping about in the corridors,” Suzie tells him very slowly (maybe she’s the one who’s hysterical after all – but she’s not thinking straight right now so she can’t actually tell). “And they’re communicating in a way that sounds a lot like rustling but is probably somewhat homicidal, and if I’d only kept my mouth shut I’d be upstairs right now, while you were being horribly killed a nice safe distance away.”

“The depth of your selfishness never fails to amaze me,” Ianto replies distractedly, watching another lot of shelves detach itself from the wall and sort of glide across the room. This image is so weird that Suzie has to close her eyes for ten seconds and breathe, just to make sure this isn’t some sort of shared hallucination she and Ianto are being tormented with. When she opens her eyes again, she discovers it isn’t.

“I should have handed in my resignation years ago,” she mutters with feeling. Ianto laughs but it sounds a little hollow.

“Torchwood: where even the paperwork becomes a matter of life and death,” he remarks dryly.

“They really ought to tell you that, when you sign your contract,” Suzie points out, ducking out of sight as one of the evil shelving units turns in their direction (by the looks of it, they can hear, which ought to be physically impossible because, after all, they don’t have ears!). Ianto considers this as he loosens his tie and undoes his cufflinks (a sure sign that things are fucked up around here).

“You signed a contract?” he asks. Suzie risks a peep over the boxes again.

“No, actually,” she tells him vaguely, as one of the shelves launches several cardboard boxes of folders in their direction. They burst open; paper fills the air for a moment. “With hindsight, that was probably quite stupid.”

“Probably,” Ianto agrees, as a thick copy of the Torchwood Rules and Regulations from 1972 narrowly misses his head. “We should talk to Jack about that.”

“He won’t care,” Suzie replies. “And it doesn’t matter because we’re going to be killed by filing.” This really sinks in, as the correspondence files from August 1968 hit the wall behind them and cover her in sheets of wafer-thin typewriter paper. “Filing, Ianto! I mean, that’s just such a stupid way to go! I’ve survived space robots! Alien torture! Infectious diseases! Owen on a bad day! Jack every day! I refuse to die here because I was thick enough to offer to help you!”

Ianto frowns at her. “I think that there’s something insulting in there. I’m just not sure where.”

An entire wooden shelf hits the floor in front of them and shatters; Suzie raises her arm to protect her face and half a dozen bits of wooden shrapnel break through her skin. She swears a lot and when she looks up, Ianto’s cheek is bleeding. Face wounds always bleed a lot, and he’s pressing his shirtsleeve against it to try and stem the flow a little.

“See?” she says. “Absolutely nothing funny.”

There’s blood trickling down her wrist and she feels faintly like she’s been trapped into a surrealist film without her consent. Ianto sighs.

“It was quite amusing until that point,” he replies, pushing some of the paper that’s surrounding them out of the way so he can get a decent view of what the homicidal furniture is doing now. Suzie does too, and decides that it shouldn’t even be possible for a shelving unit to look that malevolent.

“I’m definitely suing Ikea,” she mutters. And then, she catches sight of the small green box in the corner. She knocked it to the floor, and she and Ianto were bending to pick it up when the first lot of shelves wrenched itself from the wall and they were forced to take shelter. “Ianto, that device reanimates furniture or something equally inane, doesn’t it?”

“I honestly have no idea,” Ianto replies, “But it’s likely.”

They both duck as another shelf is hurled at them.

“Do you know how to turn it off?” Suzie asks him. Ianto gives a weird nod/shrug combination that she hopes is affirmative, and she sighs. As second-in-command, it’s sort of her job to fix this kind of thing. “Well, you need to go make it stop.”

“What are you going to do?” Ianto enquires. His shirt really is ruined, and his face is still bleeding. He doesn’t look nearly as calm or professional as he normally does.

“I’m going to try and distract the shelves long enough for you to do it,” Suzie replies with a certainty she doesn’t feel. “Ok? Move!”

She’s not Jack, her plans have no flair, and she doesn’t have time to think things through. Ianto pushes a pile of boxes aside with a smashing sound and runs for the pulsing green box thing. Suzie follows him, although she’d much rather not, ducking flying paper missiles and trying to find something she can protect them from the shelves with. Ianto’s hands are fumbling on the box and it’s probably that he doesn’t know what he’s doing anyway, so Suzie straightens up, feeling papercuts slice across her face, arms and legs. One of the shelving units sort of jumps forward, and Suzie reflects that it’ll probably hurt if she gets crushed.

“Tell me you’re one of the ones Owen put together,” she mumbles to herself, remembering that Saturday afternoon when they were trying to construct flatpack furniture and everyone was cocking it up, and pushing the shelf before it can hurt her. Mercifully, the unit falls backwards, and cracks into pieces on the floor, the screws finally giving up the ghost.

There’s a shocked silence, and Ianto manages to turn off the green device thing. The shelves abruptly stop moving and some of them fall over with deafening crashes.

“What the fuck are you doing down there?” Jack crackles through on the intercom. Suzie, feeling the beginnings of laughter clutch at her chest, stumbles over to the comm system on the wall.

“Shagging, Jack; what else would we be doing?” She shuts off the intercom and sinks to the floor, giggling hysterically. Ianto, still knelt down, starts laughing too, and neither of them can stop for a ridiculously long time. Eventually, when the pain from all her surface wounds begins kicking in, Suzie calms down and looks at Ianto. He’s quiet and his face isn’t bleeding any more. There are shadows under his eyes and not for the first time she reflects that she knows nothing about him.

“I still don’t trust you,” she tells Ianto, unable to stop the words slipping out. She expects him to be offended, but instead he gives her a tired smile.

“You’re right; you shouldn’t.”

Suzie very nearly asks, the two of them surrounded by broken furniture and torn paper – but she can’t.


On the morning of the day she dies, Suzie cancels both her credit cards. Jack is in his office humming (he’s in a good mood today; she’s too afraid to ask why), and Ianto is looking increasingly unimpressed by the way Owen is ordering him about (“Yes, Jack said I was your back-up, but that does not make me your personal slave-boy”). Gwen Cooper has been retconned, so she’s not a problem for anyone any more, and Suzie thinks that she should be happy.

The Knife glitters under her desklight. It wants almost as bad as the Glove does, just in a different way. There are too many voices in her head at the moment and most of them aren’t hers. But they scream and hiss and render most things she used to love superfluous.

The waste of human life is immaterial. It shouldn’t be, but it is. She’s got shirts she can never wear again drenched in dried blood, the way it spurted was unexpected and she’d never seen someone die up close and personal like that (except for maybe Jack, and he always came back afterwards). Never seen life fade from someone’s eyes quite like that. The first time, she threw up for an hour. The next time, she took a cold shower for what felt like forever. The last time, when she sank the blade into John Tucker’s back, she felt nothing at all. She did nothing.

But Gwen Cooper is the link. She can’t remember who they are, but she came from the police and they’re under the impression that a serial killer’s on the loose (but they’re wrong, because Suzie is not a serial killer. She needs the bodies for research purposes, and it will work out in the end). Suzie turns the Knife over in her hands until it slips and cuts her fingers, and she thinks: Gwen Cooper doesn’t know now but she will soon. If you’re clever, or certain, or desperate enough, you can overcome the retcon (after all, she remembers all kinds of things Jack wanted her to forget, things he tried to keep quiet for the sake of a peaceful life). And she knows that it can’t carry on the way it has for much longer.

Suzie cancels her credit cards while watching her fingers bleed onto the desk. Ianto brings her some tea, mid-morning, and opens his mouth like he wants to say something. But he doesn’t, and he never will, because he knows she’s hiding something dangerous, and he also is fully aware that she knows he’s hiding something too. They don’t dare confront each other for fear of what else could be revealed; Suzie doesn’t like or trust Ianto but she does know he’s got to keep what he knows or suspects quiet, if only for the sake of whatever’s in the basement.

“You’re bleeding,” Ianto says awkwardly, bringing her a box of tissues.

“Yes, I am,” Suzie agrees, and finally feels the sting.

She goes out for lunch with Tosh in the afternoon. Tosh offers to pay, which is kind of a relief since Suzie no longer has cards. And after all, they’re meant to be friends. Suzie certainly likes Tosh more than she likes the increasingly unstable Owen, more than the enigmatic-to-a-fault Jack, and definitely more than Ianto, creeping about with his secrets and refusing to look anyone in the eye.

They end up discussing the latest alien tech over Caesar salads, trying to work out if it would save on power in the Hub. And Suzie so desperately wants to tell Tosh the truth. She really, really does. She wants to admit what she’s been doing because it’s going to work out so beautifully in the end, it will. Definitely. But she knows Tosh won’t understand and she’ll look at her and then she’ll tell Jack. And Suzie knows that Jack won’t approve because he won’t get it.

Tosh is explaining how some little thing she’s found might help them repair the damage that happened last month; the exciting time when the computers went mad and tried to electrocute them all. Suzie probably would be rather fried and dead right now if Jack hadn’t thrown himself in front of her and got shocked instead (but he’s fine now, and she doesn’t want to talk about it).

“You’re quiet today,” Tosh tells her, concern written over her face.

“I’ve just got a lot on my mind,” Suzie replies, forcing a quick smile.

“The... Glove?” Tosh asks tentatively. When Suzie first started experimenting, it was all she could talk about. Now, she hoards her secrets close to her chest. It’s kind of suspicious that the others haven’t noticed.

“All the little Torchwood things,” Suzie tells her, smile becoming a little more genuine.

Tosh laughs; and for a brief moment, lying to this poor woman, Suzie wonders how she can stand to live with herself.

Well. That may not be a problem for much longer. And she has a back-up plan, after all.

When Gwen Cooper starts wandering around outside the Millennium Centre with a confused expression on her face, Suzie wants to scream or cry or punch Owen or something, but she keeps herself appearing calm. It might not be too late. So she packs the Knife, The Glove, and a gun into her shoulderbag, makes sure Jack doesn’t see her leave, and walks out into the night.

Tags: challenge: 7rainbowprompts, character: ianto jones, character: jack harkness, character: owen harper, character: suzie costello, character: toshiko sato, pairing: owen/suzie, tv show: torchwood, type: gen, type: het
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