Double Drabble: Haunted
Title: Haunted
Author: badly_knitted
Characters: Jack.
Rating: G
Written For: Challenge 733: Haunt at tw100.
Spoilers: Nada.
Summary: Jack is haunted by memories.
Disclaimer: I don’t own Torchwood, or the characters.
A/N: Double drabble.
It doesn’t need to be Halloween for Jack to be haunted. Wherever he goes and whatever he does, there are things that remind him of people long gone. Memories of friends, lovers, even enemies, can be evoked by a sound, a taste, or a scent, even a brief glimpse of somebody wearing a similar outfit, or with a similar hairstyle.
He’s grown accustomed to it over the years, the fleeting visitations by ghosts from his past no longer shock him or fill him with grief. In some ways he welcomes them, holds them close in his mind, exploring the shapes and textures of each one, remembering voices, smiles, a particular perfume. They’re like cherished heirlooms, tiny, ornate boxes containing fragments of his past, hidden from him until by chance the right key comes along to unlock them, revealing their contents to him for a few precious moments.
He never knows when one of the boxes might be opened for him, or which one it will be. It’s always unexpected, but not always pleasant, and never entirely painless, yet he accepts each one for what it is, because those memories, both good and bad, have shaped the man he is today.
The End
Author: badly_knitted
Characters: Jack.
Rating: G
Written For: Challenge 733: Haunt at tw100.
Spoilers: Nada.
Summary: Jack is haunted by memories.
Disclaimer: I don’t own Torchwood, or the characters.
A/N: Double drabble.
It doesn’t need to be Halloween for Jack to be haunted. Wherever he goes and whatever he does, there are things that remind him of people long gone. Memories of friends, lovers, even enemies, can be evoked by a sound, a taste, or a scent, even a brief glimpse of somebody wearing a similar outfit, or with a similar hairstyle.
He’s grown accustomed to it over the years, the fleeting visitations by ghosts from his past no longer shock him or fill him with grief. In some ways he welcomes them, holds them close in his mind, exploring the shapes and textures of each one, remembering voices, smiles, a particular perfume. They’re like cherished heirlooms, tiny, ornate boxes containing fragments of his past, hidden from him until by chance the right key comes along to unlock them, revealing their contents to him for a few precious moments.
He never knows when one of the boxes might be opened for him, or which one it will be. It’s always unexpected, but not always pleasant, and never entirely painless, yet he accepts each one for what it is, because those memories, both good and bad, have shaped the man he is today.
The End