Jack_Ianto_LAS: Challenge 4 Entry
Name: a_silver_story
Story Title: 'An Open Statement For The Weirdoes Who Come Knocking On My Door.' by David Davies
Rating: G
Warnings: None
Summary: This was written for Jack_Ianto_LAS Challenge 4, 'Childhood Memories'. I didn't particularly like it but since it actually won this round, I'm guessing somebody did. So here it is:
AN OPEN STATEMENT FOR THE WERIDOES WHO COME KNOCKING ON MY DOOR
by David Davies
I was ten when he died, so please, stop assuming I knew the real him. I didn't. There are those of you who will make your pilgrimages to Cardiff, find my home, knock on my door and ask me questions. You just want to get a 'feel' for him. To know what he was 'like'. To get to 'know' him.
Well, I have news for you, guys: he's dead. Nobody knows him any more, least of all me. The man I remember from my childhood is very different to the man they keep telling me he was. A great man, Mam always said. Great.
It was so many years ago that my curiosity got the better of me and I decided to track down Captain Jack Harkness. I figured that since a photograph of him and my uncle had sat on the mantel since I was ten I might as well learn about him. I'm still convinced he'd been patiently waiting for one of us to ask questions: he, too, simply knocked on my door one day and introduced himself.
I met with him every twelve months, on August nineteenth. We got coffee and we talked. Jack apologised for everything; for my uncle's death, for the lack of time he'd managed to spend with us. I described my memories of him, and it seemed to make him sad. “How do you wish I remembered him?” I asked.
It took him a moment to reply. “I don't think you should remember him any different. I just wish you had more memories. I wish you'd had more time.”
Jack always said that my uncle was 'imperfect to the point of perfection'. I remembered him as neat, quiet, awkward and … well … boring. Jack said he'd been obsessive and neurotic - and, yes, very neat - precise, calm, a nag. A comedian. He was the butler, but he was also the boss. Too clever for his own good, but too stupid to know when to stop. Too young.
A few years later, after dwelling on it for a while, when I met with Jack at our usual spot on the usual date, it came back to me. “You came to the house. I was eight. He'd been staying with us while he was really sick. You came to pick him up. I think I knew then. I think I saw it between you. And the next time I saw him after that - he was different. Mam didn't have a clue.”
He had that far-away smile on, remembering, too. “You have a good memory,” he observed.
“My uncle did. He said it runs in the family. He said having a long memory is the closest we'll ever be to knowing what it's like to be a woman.”
Jack spluttered into his coffee at that.
After about five years, our meetings grew to be less about my uncle, and more about my uncle and Jack. I spoke less about my childhood memories of a man who drifted in and out of my life, who always seemed to want to know us better but was never quite sure how. Jack told me stories - some about Torchwood missions, some more personal. Some extremely personal. I'll never think of hockey the same way again. One thing I definitely remembered from being around four was that my uncle had loved games. Apparently, that love never died, though they did progress somewhat from wearing bowler hats covered in tinfoil for a make-believe game of Power Rangers and perfectly innocent Hide and Seek.
“You really loved him,” I said to Jack as he finished recounting a funny story about my uncle, an alien device and a short bout of invisibility that wore off in the middle of a highly visible office during a mission.
“I still love him,” he replied without hesitation. “Always will.”
There was a pause, and he frowned at me a moment, thinking. “Have these meetings helped you?” he asked. “Do you think you know him better?”
Did I know him better?
I pondered the question over the next year, on and off. Did I know him better?
No. I didn't.
I knew of him. I knew of his secrets, his mistakes, his wit and his loyalty. I knew of his loves, of his adoration for my sister and me, his passion for Jack and his devotion to Torchwood. I knew of his exploits, his missions, his pranks. His dreaded Decaf Revenge. I knew of his bravery, of his strength of character - the respect he deserved.
But the man I really knew all those years ago? The man now locked away in my memories? Neat, quiet, awkward, boring. And I realise now that that is the uncle I love, regardless. And you will never know him, either.
My meetings with Jack ended abruptly. I arrived at our coffee shop, right time, right date, and the owner came over to me, pitying expression on her face. “I'm sorry, love,” she said. “Your friend - the Captain? He's dead.”
“Dead?”
“He left this for you a few days ago. The day before he committed suicide.”
I read the note she handed me, standing there in the middle of the crowded shop. It was battered, dog-eared and had been kept in somebody's pocket for an age. I felt the tears prick the back of my eyes and sniffed. I put the little card into my wallet and I left.
Perhaps I'd only remember a scrap Uncle Ianto, but at least I got to know Uncle Jack.
Some names just go together, y'know? Jack and Ianto.
But anyway, what I'm trying to say is stop knocking on my door. It won't help you. Just remember what you know of them, of him, and leave us all in peace.
Story Title: 'An Open Statement For The Weirdoes Who Come Knocking On My Door.' by David Davies
Rating: G
Warnings: None
Summary: This was written for Jack_Ianto_LAS Challenge 4, 'Childhood Memories'. I didn't particularly like it but since it actually won this round, I'm guessing somebody did. So here it is:
AN OPEN STATEMENT FOR THE WERIDOES WHO COME KNOCKING ON MY DOOR
by David Davies
I was ten when he died, so please, stop assuming I knew the real him. I didn't. There are those of you who will make your pilgrimages to Cardiff, find my home, knock on my door and ask me questions. You just want to get a 'feel' for him. To know what he was 'like'. To get to 'know' him.
Well, I have news for you, guys: he's dead. Nobody knows him any more, least of all me. The man I remember from my childhood is very different to the man they keep telling me he was. A great man, Mam always said. Great.
It was so many years ago that my curiosity got the better of me and I decided to track down Captain Jack Harkness. I figured that since a photograph of him and my uncle had sat on the mantel since I was ten I might as well learn about him. I'm still convinced he'd been patiently waiting for one of us to ask questions: he, too, simply knocked on my door one day and introduced himself.
I met with him every twelve months, on August nineteenth. We got coffee and we talked. Jack apologised for everything; for my uncle's death, for the lack of time he'd managed to spend with us. I described my memories of him, and it seemed to make him sad. “How do you wish I remembered him?” I asked.
It took him a moment to reply. “I don't think you should remember him any different. I just wish you had more memories. I wish you'd had more time.”
Jack always said that my uncle was 'imperfect to the point of perfection'. I remembered him as neat, quiet, awkward and … well … boring. Jack said he'd been obsessive and neurotic - and, yes, very neat - precise, calm, a nag. A comedian. He was the butler, but he was also the boss. Too clever for his own good, but too stupid to know when to stop. Too young.
A few years later, after dwelling on it for a while, when I met with Jack at our usual spot on the usual date, it came back to me. “You came to the house. I was eight. He'd been staying with us while he was really sick. You came to pick him up. I think I knew then. I think I saw it between you. And the next time I saw him after that - he was different. Mam didn't have a clue.”
He had that far-away smile on, remembering, too. “You have a good memory,” he observed.
“My uncle did. He said it runs in the family. He said having a long memory is the closest we'll ever be to knowing what it's like to be a woman.”
Jack spluttered into his coffee at that.
After about five years, our meetings grew to be less about my uncle, and more about my uncle and Jack. I spoke less about my childhood memories of a man who drifted in and out of my life, who always seemed to want to know us better but was never quite sure how. Jack told me stories - some about Torchwood missions, some more personal. Some extremely personal. I'll never think of hockey the same way again. One thing I definitely remembered from being around four was that my uncle had loved games. Apparently, that love never died, though they did progress somewhat from wearing bowler hats covered in tinfoil for a make-believe game of Power Rangers and perfectly innocent Hide and Seek.
“You really loved him,” I said to Jack as he finished recounting a funny story about my uncle, an alien device and a short bout of invisibility that wore off in the middle of a highly visible office during a mission.
“I still love him,” he replied without hesitation. “Always will.”
There was a pause, and he frowned at me a moment, thinking. “Have these meetings helped you?” he asked. “Do you think you know him better?”
Did I know him better?
I pondered the question over the next year, on and off. Did I know him better?
No. I didn't.
I knew of him. I knew of his secrets, his mistakes, his wit and his loyalty. I knew of his loves, of his adoration for my sister and me, his passion for Jack and his devotion to Torchwood. I knew of his exploits, his missions, his pranks. His dreaded Decaf Revenge. I knew of his bravery, of his strength of character - the respect he deserved.
But the man I really knew all those years ago? The man now locked away in my memories? Neat, quiet, awkward, boring. And I realise now that that is the uncle I love, regardless. And you will never know him, either.
My meetings with Jack ended abruptly. I arrived at our coffee shop, right time, right date, and the owner came over to me, pitying expression on her face. “I'm sorry, love,” she said. “Your friend - the Captain? He's dead.”
“Dead?”
“He left this for you a few days ago. The day before he committed suicide.”
I read the note she handed me, standing there in the middle of the crowded shop. It was battered, dog-eared and had been kept in somebody's pocket for an age. I felt the tears prick the back of my eyes and sniffed. I put the little card into my wallet and I left.
Perhaps I'd only remember a scrap Uncle Ianto, but at least I got to know Uncle Jack.
Some names just go together, y'know? Jack and Ianto.
But anyway, what I'm trying to say is stop knocking on my door. It won't help you. Just remember what you know of them, of him, and leave us all in peace.