Journal On Call

Write Rhyms to Get Me Through a Break-Up. (SPOILERED)

2008-04-10T02:33:05Z

Title: Drowning Out Together
Show: Torchwood
Ship: Toshiko Sato / Owen Harper
Spoilers: right up to the bitter end of Season 2
Descript: Now entering eternity.
Disclaim: Did you know Torchwood belongs to Russell T Davies and BBC?
Discretion?: Strange as ever, small.

It was all bright white, and flickers. Owen figured he couldn’t be dead, because last time round, it had been black and stable. The image of white before him wavered between the near blinding, but not so violent blaze, and an iridescence that transcended anything he had experienced before. He was tempted to move around, take a stroll through this absolute nothing that filled the long dead senses with more mellifluous responses then he had ever experienced before in his life. He let his eyes close, and found that as they always had behind a beacon of lights, his lids were red. Little lines of color dashed behind them, too fast to register as real, but there beyond sight, and knowledge. An overwhelming feeling of lost time, and lost direction washed over him. But there was more.

“Hello.” He growled into the white, finding inner peace quickly becoming novel. The small voice, pleasant as ever, was surreal. For a moment it too seemed beyond the young dead doctor. “Hello.” It replied, with a little curve of laughter in the middle. Owen could pick Tosh’s voice out of a crowd of millions, or out of eternity in this case. It broke through the cushioned silence, and upon echo, a slight figure broke the white, it’s image, not quite one but rather a myriad of presence, and essence. Every bit of it was Tosh. From the black mop of hair, to the softly padding feet, that never quiet aligned with her gorgeous hips. Her smile was the most genuine thing in the world, the most beautiful as well. She near floated to him, closing distance in non-existent intervals, as if they were never apart.

“Tosh” He breathed, her presence meant one thing. Maybe she hadn’t been fine after all. The warmth he felt on his cheek was her, her hand, with her blood running through it’s veins, and arteries, her ligaments, and her skin cells all buzzing a warm glove of a soul. “I had been shot.” She clarified, a minutia of guilt evident. “Christ, Tosh,” He clucked, letting his face sink into her hand, not taking his eyes off the golden glow of her skin “can’t manage anything with out me?” The joke may have been of bad taste, but it didn‘t seem to bother to two entities. Her eye’s crinkled with a smile, or her thin eyebrows lifted in amusement, Owen could not tell which image was sticking. Yet both seemed so natural.

“God, you are gorgeous.”

Owen turned his face into her palm, and kissed the warmth. It all seemed too right. Thoughts of death, and Torchwood were fleeting. Nothing would weigh the moment down. Her hand was all over his face, with out even moving. Her heart beat palpitated behind the soft skin, into his eyelids, in sync with his own. Every bear dulled the curiosity that pricked at Owen’s consciousness. All the questions: when feeling had returned to his cheeks, Torchwood, the reactor, the evident lack of clothes between them, the absence of lust, all faded away with the tiny, calm beats of her heart.

He shared a gaze with Tosh, trapped in those irises behind those thick lashes, framed by the gentle structure of her face. Time seemed to stop, and moments did not waste, nor pass. The white keep flickering, giving to unimaginable color like a flickering candle to the dark. No of it was reasonable, or like dying as far as every other expert opinion was concerned, but it seemed right. Her hand, never leaving his face, was in his own now. His fingers, never moving encircled her petite palm. Their heart beats meeting behind the skin. Their images, glimmering with emotions on their sleeves, closed the gap between themselves. As the white seemed to consume the iridescence and Owen’s consciousness faded away, he could feel Tosh right there, in his arms, where it was right, and where she fit perfectly.

Damn -A Rant To Revisit

2008-04-06T08:07:33Z

So I squeezed the Torchwood Season Two finale into my scheduel today. Ergo I had to set aside fifteen minutes for general ripping of my shirt, rolling on the ground mouning, and just wimpering on my bed. I knew it, and it had to happen because they wrote Owen Harper into a fucking plot-pot-shitfuckcunt-hole-of-death. Obviously the show could only carry a character with that much exposed baggage, that abrasive of an attitude, and that big of a vice for so long. Honestly I don't know where I go from here; I watch Torchwood because I love how Burn Gorman contributes to that lovely on screen team, not to mention I will flip my lid if -which oh-ho-ho she will, Freema Agyeman replaces him. She is much to bright-eyed for Torchwood. Tosh was innocent, that is just a shit lot Mrs. Mori. I mean they went out with a bang, and it was sweet, and Owen finally became a man BUT JESUS it was saughtered with that "we start from the end" then cue of a crippled team hug with all the majority favorites (aka show sluts)! Can you tell I'm angry?

I'm interested for a brief glimpse of where Torchwood goes next season, but if it is strickly Freema-Gwen-Fun-Time-Watered-Down-Show (with all those great new Ianto witticisms crammed down my throat) I am out. Don't get me wrong I really enjoyed where Ianto ended up this season but if the trend continues, he will be a ham by 3X02 and that is just not the Ianto Jones we know and love now is it?

Give Him Sweet Agony

2008-04-03T04:46:52Z

Title: Bagage Claim (aka: Writhe, Ianto, Writhe)
Show: Torchwood (duh)
Ship: Hints of Ianto/Owen
Spoilers: Allusion to 'Fragments', stark spoilings from up to 'Out of the Rain'
Descript: "He could have cried if he wanted, but Ianto was stronger than that. Once, when he was really drunk Owen had said that was what he liked about the tea boy."
Disclaim: Did you know Torchwood belongs to Russell T Davies and BBC?
Discretion?: Angstangstangsting. About two suggestive comments, and a character death. Completely out there sentences ahead.

The day before Owen Harper died, again, really and truly left this world in a blaze of glory, Ianto Jones had taken him out to a movie. It was a date of sorts, so he figured. Had it been a few months ago there would have been wild kissing, and bodies grinding against each other in a fury of lust, all rushing to a pinnacle of sensation. But Owen generally didn't feel things any more, so he offered in a gruff voice to wank Ianto off, and 'pretend' to kiss him.

"My mouth still works after all." He added with suggestion ringing clear in his timbre.

With fleeting apologies to Tosh, Ianto politely declined because his relationship with Owen was something different, whether the other half was aware of it or not. So they sat on his couch, sinking into the deep, plush cushions, and while one put his feet up on the glass coffee table, the other chastised him for it and nursed a beer. They watched the news, and talked lightly of international affairs, they then dove into interplanetary affairs, and reminisced a bit of how mundane their weird lives were.

"Every one thinks their life is so bland." Owen growled while Ianto took a sip from his second beer. He raised his brows expecting Owen to shower him with a small pity party. Rather the medic turned, putting his feet back on the floor "we always want more, us humans." He said, waving his hands as if to suggest their surrounds -Ianto's flat and it's modern decor, was just that. "We'll never settle, this race fixes for something bigger themselves." He continued. Ianto noted- in silence, the deliberate choice of words; ‘this race.’ it was funny, the things that they had all picked up from Jack.

Ianto had always fixed for something bigger than himself, better than fifth in his graduating class, better than a flawless aim, better than impeccable sense of style. He was yet to find it.

"When I died," He started with a tone that sounded curiously like he was about to add 'remember that?' Or rather ‘How could one forget? "I realized we can't be waiting for that big..." The sentence tapered off as Owen stumbled for a word rolling his hands in front of himself, bobbing his head. Conjuring up some magic. "Something?" Ianto suggested face neutral as ever. He lit up "Yea; something."

Once upon a time Owen found Ianto’s ability to finish people’s sentences annoying. Then again once upon a time Ianto shot Owen because he thought he was being a git. In retrospect he would have chosen any other method to settle their differences. Holding a gun still sent shivers down his spine.

The distance between the two was closed, as Owen cornered Ianto, into the deep arms of his own couch. "But most of us don't have the time to wait." Locked up in Owen's deep gaze, and his lips whose pink flush had faded in death, Ianto was mildly aware that the other man had gripped his hand in his own, mildly aware that it was cold, that other hand. The fact that Torchwood’s medical staff, all one of it, had no feeling, body heat, and no breath was becoming a problem. Owen could neither check for a pulse, or give breath. He would never admit it but Ianto often approached Jack on the matter. Pragmatic ways would be a friend’s downfall Ianto lamented, stealing a glance up at Owen. Well shit, he had been glancing right back.

The day Ianto boxed up all of the things on Owen's desk that the Torchwood Institute had deemed useless he did it alone, when they all stepped out for lunch, when everyone else just needed to get away from the glaring reminder of what was really gone. There were books, upon books, and medical articles hidden in ever corner of every cabinet. Pen's with teeth marks at their tips littered the area, reminding Ianto of how often had scolded Owen for the particularly nasty habit, even in his death. Little caciques, and minute pieces of Owen's personal life -what little of one he had, dotted the face of the steel table top. With out the mounds of official paper work, and reports, which had been transferred to archives to be later sorted out the area looked awkward, and empty. It left a bitter taste in Ianto's mouth. The desk served as a grim reminder of how barren Owen, or any of their lives, for matter of fact, was with out Torchwood.

He could have cried if he wanted, but Ianto was stronger than that. Once, when he was really drunk Owen had said that was what he liked about the tea boy.

By 15:30 none of the team had returned and Ianto was getting close to effectively packing away ever piece of Owen Harper in Torchwood three when he came across it; a small box next to a nip of gin, long forgotten. The odd couple had been tucked away, hidden in the far corner of a deep metal file drawer. A laugh bubbled up as he turned the bottle over in his hands. There was a time when Owen would have stolen away to this, quietly confiding in Janet about another tough day.

The box, small, black, and velvet was daunting in all it’s domesticity and connotation. It was a ring box. Ianto’s heart galloped, while his stomach sank into his legs.

Part of him still expected Owen to jump up, out of the ashes, like a glorious fucking phoenix. To chastise him for digging through his shit, unearthing the skeletons in his closet. After all his heart had been taken for a run around the block more than once. Jack always came back, it wasn’t always instantaneous. He had to chase optimism out of his psyche. Ianto had to pull it together. And while he groaned, and hissed, and scrubbed at his eyes, Ianto wondered just what it was Owen Harper had like about him. Because he was growing weak, and tired of loosing friends.

Opening the box proved harder than expected, Ianto near lost a nail to the lock jaw, velvet case. The snap, upon release, was startling, but encompassed but a rush of silence. No one was by Ianto’s side anyway.

In death- the first time round, Owen had found vivacity, and Ianto as one of the many excavated pillars had found new life in Owen. With time to burn and a new found yen to devour the whole world Owen had begun asking Ianto on outings. “Dates” Jack had called them much to Ianto’s chagrin. When ever the two would make their grand exit together Owen pushing Ianto out the cog door by the shoulders and rattling off a repertoire of events, the team would watch starry eyed imagining something much more grand, and far more promiscuous than what the actual future had in store. Sometimes it was plays, other times museums. Once in a while it would be something quiet physical; climbing, biking, swimming, anything that would have had the old Owen in a fit. They ran a 5k one month before the whole thing came crashing down, and with a brutal blow Torchwood reasserted it’s cruel reality, the good die young.

“If I have to watch you lot age, I may just off myself once again.” He had joked one night, watching Ianto dry his hair with envy. Owen never moved to conceal the want that pulled behind his childish brown eyes when ever Ianto ate, or sighed, coughed, or God forbid shaved his beard.

The ring sat alone in the case, new, bright, and stark gold against the dark cushion within, without a pair. Ianto could feel it, by every step, every bullet, and every breath Owen Harper had taken there was a pair out there somewhere. Because no one kept a lonely wedding ring hidden away in their desk long enough to collect dust next to a nip of gin that was half empty.

“I had some one to grow old with once.” Owen commented off-handedly. Before swinging his feet onto Ianto’s lap. There was no pity in the tone, only a glimmer of ache when Ianto replied “Oh really.” Owen never elaborated and at the time Ianto could have cared less. He had Lisa to grow old with once, but life isn’t always good to you. So they let it die, and wash away with another wave of conversation, pulled out to sea. ‘Drown it, please’ He had begged with a swig of beer.

The door rolled back, and the red lights flashed. On reflex Ianto saw five figures in the door, the fifth disappeared with the blink of his eyes, vaporized by biting reality.

The team filtered in without so much as a word. Tosh adverted her gaze as she dipped into her chair, close enough to touch, to hit one of the boxes accidentally with her ankle and recoil as if burned, trying her best to conceal a broken heart, and red eyes. Gwen stopped to ask him if he needed any help with the boxes. He refused her with every bit of stoicism he could muster. Not an iota of the disappointment she feigned could conceal the relief with which her shoulders sagged. One by one they all re-assumed their positions, leaving Ianto wading in the middle of it all in a sea of memories.

In a half our Ianto Jones would have moved all the personal effects of Owen Harper inside the hub to the archives, stealing a chewed pen from the box listed ‘Misc. Stationary’ in hasty print, and tucking it in his breast pocket.

There's a lack of polishing to it, I just wanted to get it out.

Season Finale's A Comin'

2008-04-01T03:19:03Z

And I've never been more scared in my life.

~~I've been reading spoilers~~

I've got two baby fics, and one fairly good one-shot in the oven, but honestly I have this terrible inclination to make everything so damn depressing. I kill mother fuckers off on a daily basis. Not to mention I can't finish anything!

Also, some icons are chilling in my documents and someday I'll get into gear and post them. Until them it's the edge of your seats for you lot. (Because a handfull of icons falling out of my bum is a nail biter and all....)

-Janelle

Low-Res. Banner; Never to be Finished.

2008-03-20T05:30:29Z

what it says.

Oh the Owen-angst.

____________________________

On Hands

2008-03-18T03:17:34Z

A Drabble:

Title: Hands on Hand on Hands on...
Show: Torchwood
Ship: Tosh/Owen
Spoilers: 2X06 (number questionable) Reset
Descript: They hold hands
Disclaim: BBC shows,it, Russell T Davies writes/owns -or whatever it, I just watch it.
Discretion?: It makes little to no sense.

Hands on Hand on Hands on...

_______________The night that they put Jack's into the archives and Gwen was all sobs, and snot they held hands. When Ianto kissed that post-thumos palm, the one once soft, and gentle the palm of the man Owen had killed just a day ago, the one who would come back only to leave again; they held hands because every one else there had some one to love be them dead or alive, and no one wants to be alone. No one. After John had beaten her, and shot him, while they waited on salvation, while they stemmed the bleeding, cussing, and
crying (silently) they held hands. He led her into the back of Rhys' truck, to the autopsy table to contact Tommy, to the bars that night he led her; hand on hand. She comforted him when he was pushed into corners, when he killed, when he died, when he was dead she comforted him; hand on hand on hands.

______________________________ They hold hands. Because it's the only thing that means anything any more. When the world is crashing down around them, it's all gone to shit, when he's riddled with holes, and barely able to keep his head up they hold hands. When she knows no matter how hard she wishes, hopes, maybe even prays that some wounds between them will never heal they hold hands because at least one of them is still breathing. When they are about face with what hides in shadows, and she's cowering, and he's broken and oh-so wrong they hold hands, like they have nothing else to hold on to because they don't. And they're not alone, and their not scared. Bless them they're together with her smallest, left finger stroking the leather that conceals two more imperfections of a man, and with his head in the crock of her neck that protects the life of one woman. They finish together because that's right, and that's as it should be. There is no kiss. No goodbyes. No regrets. Just hand on hand on hands on hands .

Happy Daylight Savings, Standard North American Time Followers.

2008-03-11T03:05:20Z

Up late reading myself some paperclipbitchclip Owen/Ianto goodness. mmm drabbley.
I am determined to write a drabble of about those two blazing, possibly a 4:20 fic... Auch I have problems.

Watched two great movies this weekend.

Hot Fuzz, and Death at a Funeral. Simon Pegg, and Alan Tudyk = Love in the pink-fleshiest, purest, blondest form.

No Fancy Media, no glitz, I am tiered and this is a loner computer. MY INTERNETZ IS DOWN
-Janelle

20-Pack Of Torchwood Icons. SPOILERS TO RESET BENEATH THE CUT

2008-03-06T01:11:58Z

If you want one sans text comment of PM NEVER EMAIL I DON'T CHECK IT. Again, all I ask is that if someone says; 'My what a cute, marvelous, perfectly crafted icon, did you make it?; 'You say; aw shucks ma'm, I right didn't but Mid_Orange sure did.'

They are 150 if you need any resizes just comment, or PM me.... it's all TW and I so support Rhys and Gweniffer. 1-20. induvidual numbers was not working.

You hot link I remove.

These are my very first icons. I think you can tell which are the earliest of the early. The less tacky, the more recent. Tosh and Owen forever.

Damn. Looking these over I realize that in season two Owen has really lost his cheeky charm I mean of course ~~---------------------------------------------------------------------------------spoiling~~ would do a number on the old personality but I miss the fun childish Owen..... .

oh PS;

Bon Appetite.
-Janelle

Euphemisms

2008-03-03T16:37:27Z

So I am a complete Torchwood addict.
I absolutely love Owen, ergo the last few episodes have left me drooling. (This is where it would get spoilerish)
Anyway the show is my first Scifi love, not to mention my first British love! I love the crime scene investigation, meets alien fighting, meets attractive people dynamic.

Well maybe I will go into a review sometime but for now... a timeless drabble

Title: Euphanisms
Show: Torchwood
Ship: GEN. Ianto and Owen
Spoilers: Non.
Descript: A snapshot dribble of Ianto and Owen
Disclaim: BBC shows,it, Russell T Davies writes/owns -or whaterver it, I just watch it.
Discretion?: Non. child friendly Quasi-Crack-Drabble-Gen. midnight ridiculouscity, and made up words ahead.

"Ianto, the ever-creative tea boy," Owen started from his desk. Ianto had merelyswooped in, swift and silent -the receptionist liked to think it was an almost hawk-like stealth, to deal with the increasing amount of trash on the coffee table, but nothing is ever easy in Torchwood let alone the welsh twenty-something's life. "You're good with names," the Medic continued, a twang of faux-effervisim to his timbre. His deft fingers, so undefined in shape or color, with out age or wear, that they appeared to be no more than ivory linen stretched over porcelain casts of a young man's fingers mindlessly balled up a piece of trash between themselves. The wad rested in his palm as Owen swung the chair around, his make-shit ammon falling in line with Tosh's desk. "Am I?" Ianto dead-panned, it was a feign of modesty, they were both fully aware, just as they knew it was Owen's antics like waste-paper basket-ball that kept Ianto busy. Of course in Owen's eyes the virtual errand boy had nothing better to do. Ianto ofter bristled on cold mornings while gazing into that very niave man's coffee willing himself to botch the brew just one of these days. They day of reckoning was yet to come, but Ianto saw himself inching one paper ball closer.
"Yeah, you are. So what is a good euphemism for what it is we do?" Ianto paused mentally. A part of him wished to rationalize why exactly Owen was commissioning his talents, but as the other half came to an epiphany of nomanclaic proportions he realized there was no rationalizing Owen any way.
The paper flew through the air.

"Active Foreign Ambassadors."

It bounced off the inside wall of the can, and found it's place among several other discarded papers, and an orange peel.

"Brilliant."

Let's Biking Love!

2007-10-17T03:12:15Z

Alright, the opener. First allow me to address the purpose for this journal: to relieve Mid_Orange's completely undercover web-geek-life with rants egarding fandom in animes, and mangas, popculture media, music accompanied by the occasional fan-work. But right now content is pretty ambiguous as well as non-existent.

To give you an idea of who it is that you are reading here are some little facts.

Mid_Orange is:

Really named Janelle.
17
In her Junior year of highschool
Living on an island off eastern North America. Below the Canadian border, above the Mason Dixon line.
Not awsome with correct diction and syntax, but trying her best.
Most likely supposed to be doing something when she posts

Mid_Orange aspires to:

Be an illustator.
Put up some art/fan art. (For the two differ in style)
Go to Seattle after College
Raise her hypothetical children in Vermont.
Travel More

Likes:

Coffee
Tea
Talking over the two prior likes
Sleep
Fun Pictures
Music in general
Learning about World History
Occasional Man-love

Dislikes:

Being ignorant
Being steriotyped
Not getting enough sleep
School work

Wow, I suddenly ran out of steam for this whole 'about me' section. I am actually all together, very much so tired. I should probably get to my Homework, if that is true because I have a lot to do. I also have a tendency to put it off until 4 am. Not exaggerating here. There is a reason I like sleep, playas.

For now, Peace and Love,
Janelle

_______________ PS_________________

Terao and Yousuke of that little-known Biking anime Over Drive are soulmates. srsly.
+

GET CULTURED?

Great music video.
No neccesitas entender, mi hijo. (Spanish as a second langauge, mi negro)