PYOJ meme: Inquisitive!Jack for hofficoffi
It's just a book.
Just a leather bound book. A little bigger now than it was when it was new; expanded from all the pages dog eared and written on, the ink twisting and weighing down the pages. Notes jotted down over months and years. The corners fray a little and show its use. Well loved and well used.
Just a book and nothing more.
But no.
No, not nothing more. A diary. A glimpse into the mind of the writer. Snapshots of thought and an insight into the way they work. A portable and tangible piece of the mind. Tangible and readable and sitting on a table in sight.
He shouldn't read it and he knows that. He shouldn't, but it's so compelling sitting there. Like an itch waiting to be scratched.
He wonders if it would hurt. Just a few pages? Who would ever have to know? Nothing important, not to sit and examine it, just skim the surface of a page or two, and well, if his name should be spotted then why not read a little more? It's not that anyone would know that he had, and he'd done much worse in his past than read a few words on a page.
But he'd know. He'd know and he'd know things too that weren't offered to him. It would be wrong, and that's what he reminds himself as he tries not to scratch that itch.
He should, of course, be concentrating on the fact that he and the rest of the team appear to have lost at least a day of time. That and the fact he's found five retcon tablets gone from his personal supply. Not that he's told anyone else that, that is.
His mind tries to think of excuses. Maybe there will be something there in the diary to document their missing time. It could piece things together, like work, yes, that's it, work. But he knows that's not really why he wants to read. He just wants to know what's been said about him.
But he's got an excuse now. Flimsy, perhaps, but one he could use both to himself and to Ianto, were he pressed on the matter. It's work, and of course Torchwood business is more important than personal privacy.
So somehow the book ends up no longer perched on the coffee table, but instead in Jack's hand as he stands inside his office and slowly paces along. He feels the leather beneath his fingers and opens it; turns the pages and reads.
Work, work, work. Well that is hardly surprising. Ianto works as much as Jack (almost) so he supposes he should expect that to be reflected in his internal thoughts. Not, perhaps, though to the degree with which it is. Pages are filled with little drawings of items picked up and notes jotted beside, both detailed and anecdotal. It makes Jack smile, the detail and delicacy.
But as he turns pages he finds nothing of himself. Surely Ianto writes about him? He's Jack Harkness! Who wouldn't write about him?
He is of course, scanning and looking for his name. But it isn't there, barely once in anything but the mundane. But oh... oh Jack realises. Of course Ianto would never be so straightforward. And he looks again, sees lines written under different headings. Drawings that mean different things and it's merely a code that needs cracking, and barely a code at that.
His eyes get caught by a drawing on a page. A ruler, or something like it, and then one simple word next to it 'liar', and Jack laughs. He laughs because oh, tape measures never lie.
A fact he assures himself he'll inform Ianto of later.
Pages read, he closes the book and places it to the side on his desk. Not too much, just a scratch of the surface and a scratch of his own itch. And it doesn't matter. Nobody has to know.
After all, it's just a book.
Word count: 688
Just a leather bound book. A little bigger now than it was when it was new; expanded from all the pages dog eared and written on, the ink twisting and weighing down the pages. Notes jotted down over months and years. The corners fray a little and show its use. Well loved and well used.
Just a book and nothing more.
But no.
No, not nothing more. A diary. A glimpse into the mind of the writer. Snapshots of thought and an insight into the way they work. A portable and tangible piece of the mind. Tangible and readable and sitting on a table in sight.
He shouldn't read it and he knows that. He shouldn't, but it's so compelling sitting there. Like an itch waiting to be scratched.
He wonders if it would hurt. Just a few pages? Who would ever have to know? Nothing important, not to sit and examine it, just skim the surface of a page or two, and well, if his name should be spotted then why not read a little more? It's not that anyone would know that he had, and he'd done much worse in his past than read a few words on a page.
But he'd know. He'd know and he'd know things too that weren't offered to him. It would be wrong, and that's what he reminds himself as he tries not to scratch that itch.
He should, of course, be concentrating on the fact that he and the rest of the team appear to have lost at least a day of time. That and the fact he's found five retcon tablets gone from his personal supply. Not that he's told anyone else that, that is.
His mind tries to think of excuses. Maybe there will be something there in the diary to document their missing time. It could piece things together, like work, yes, that's it, work. But he knows that's not really why he wants to read. He just wants to know what's been said about him.
But he's got an excuse now. Flimsy, perhaps, but one he could use both to himself and to Ianto, were he pressed on the matter. It's work, and of course Torchwood business is more important than personal privacy.
So somehow the book ends up no longer perched on the coffee table, but instead in Jack's hand as he stands inside his office and slowly paces along. He feels the leather beneath his fingers and opens it; turns the pages and reads.
Work, work, work. Well that is hardly surprising. Ianto works as much as Jack (almost) so he supposes he should expect that to be reflected in his internal thoughts. Not, perhaps, though to the degree with which it is. Pages are filled with little drawings of items picked up and notes jotted beside, both detailed and anecdotal. It makes Jack smile, the detail and delicacy.
But as he turns pages he finds nothing of himself. Surely Ianto writes about him? He's Jack Harkness! Who wouldn't write about him?
He is of course, scanning and looking for his name. But it isn't there, barely once in anything but the mundane. But oh... oh Jack realises. Of course Ianto would never be so straightforward. And he looks again, sees lines written under different headings. Drawings that mean different things and it's merely a code that needs cracking, and barely a code at that.
His eyes get caught by a drawing on a page. A ruler, or something like it, and then one simple word next to it 'liar', and Jack laughs. He laughs because oh, tape measures never lie.
A fact he assures himself he'll inform Ianto of later.
Pages read, he closes the book and places it to the side on his desk. Not too much, just a scratch of the surface and a scratch of his own itch. And it doesn't matter. Nobody has to know.
After all, it's just a book.
Word count: 688