Fic: To Let, a mini-coda. (Torchwood, PG, OCs, Jack)
Title: To Let, a mini coda
Fandom: Torchwood
Characters: OCs, Jack Harkness
Warnings: character death
Author's Notes: Yeah.
Summary: Because a year ago, Ianto had fallen off the radar.
It has been four years since you last saw him, but you would recognise Jack Harkness anywhere. It should be the coat, but for you that hadn't been the cementing factor. It's the posture, the arrogant, casual posture of a man comfortable drinking your housemate's milk out of the carton whilst standing in front of the fridge naked.
Because that's how you'd met. Some things are burned on the brain.
You glance back at Sarah, still puttering about in the produce section, occasionally turning to you to suggestively wave about large courgettes, and then you shuffle closer to the window of the grocer's.
It's him, leaning against that large SUV that you know intimately. You've never been inside it, you never want to be inside it, but it's an obsessive thing with you, now that you've become a secret Torchwood tin-hatter.
Because a year ago, Ianto had fallen off the radar. He wouldn't answer your calls, and since you never did know where he had moved, you couldn't very well drop in. And he wasn't going to be listed. When you had checked, you had been correct. No Ianto Jones. Well, actually, five of them, but none of them your Ianto Jones. Then the mobile had stopped working, and one day you'd gotten a completely different bloke who'd just been assigned the number.
There had been only one place to turn if you wanted information, and that had been, to your utter shame, the internet nutters who stalked Torchwood with the tenacity of a gaggle of Elvis fans at Graceland.
You know that Torchwood had been involved in the incident with the children, and that they had moved their base of operations, though how anyone had even known that to begin with is sketchy because no one knows where they had been before or where they are now, except the vague answer of, 'Cardiff, somewhere.' You know that Ianto had been seen at crime scenes and the like up until a year ago, and then he had disappeared. Replacements have come and gone, someone named Mickey Smith, a Martha Jones, and a small woman named Ravi Singh.
You like to think Ianto has transferred, moved, gotten out of Cardiff, but you wonder of he would. He hadn't liked London, and after a bit of research you have matched up his arrival and tenancy with you to the destruction of the Canary Wharf center.
You hope there's a Torchwood Manchester, or a Torchwood Bora Bora.
But you haven't seen Jack Harkness in years, since that night you met actually, and you think that this is probably your only chance to ever know for sure, so you slip away from Sarah, set your basket of groceries on the floor at the end of the aisle and exit, almost jogging towards him, but thinking that wouldn't be the best course of action.
He is standing there, staring off into space, but when you approach him, his shoulders straighten, one hand reaches for the handle of the SUV, and you raise one hand, saying, 'Mister Harkness. Jack.'
'Oh hey,' Jack says, cautious, and you know from that dull look in his eyes that he's seeing you, processing your face, and trying to pull how he knows you from the depths of his memory. You don't even bother to wait for him to admit defeat or play along with some game in which he studiously avoids saying your name because he doesn't remember it. You tell him, ending with, 'I was Ianto's housemate for a few years.'
His face flickers, and you wonder if Ianto had learned it from him first, or if he had picked it up from your erstwhile mate.
'Oh,' Jack says. You don't like the sound of that noise, so you blather on, even though the conversation is pretty much over.
'I hadn't heard from him and so.' You look away. 'I just thought, maybe he'd got a new number or something,' you say. It's obvious.
You wonder if just being there hurts him, because his hand is frozen on the handle of the SUV, and his breathing is shallow. You are immediately sorry that you had stopped him at all.
'No,' Jack says, 'not as such. I'm sorry.'
You nod, and glance back at the green grocer's, because if Sarah surprises you out here with him it will just be strained. She had known Ianto, but she had never met Jack, and useless and painful introductions would have to be made.
Jack's bluetooth beeps and he blinks at you. You shrug. 'Alright then,' you say. 'Just checking.'
'Yeah,' Jack replies brusquely. He has opened the door of the SUV and is in the process of climbing in, speaking softly into his earpiece when you reach out suddenly and grab his arm. He turns and makes a face at you, as if people just don't touch him, not like that, and you wonder if that's true.
'Look,' you say, 'I'm sorry.' It’s important that he knows that, you understand. That you are sorry for his loss, for yours, and for the next question. 'How did it happen?'
Jack shakes his head, pulls his arm from your grasp and shuts the door. You can't see through the black tinted windows, but you know that as he pulls away, he never looks back at you.
Three days later, the parcel comes via courier, and Sarah signs for the small box, her brows knitted in confusion.
'Did you order porn again?' she asks, throwing the box at you, and it hits you on the chest. You pause your game and pick it up. It has been wrapped with that rough brown parcel paper and tied off instead of taped, and your address is written on it in what looks like fountain pen, some archaic old cursive that only people who are really into handwriting can do.
You stick out your tongue and mumble something to the effect of, 'If I had ordered porn, you'd be the first to know,' but in reality, your heart is thudding a little, because this is the kind of package that bombs come in. You see this all the time. On the telly. The telly. Not in real life.
That's reassuring.
The box is light and when you shake it, something that seems like cloth fwrrrms around inside, so you undo the string and pull the paper back, opening the small cardboard box that used to hold, according to the writing on its side, disposable pens. The sticker in the corner, the one the factory affixes to the box to show the design on the pen for easy differentiation, reads the very familiar 'Torchwood.'
That fucking clue. Sarah grips your arm a little because you had already told her about Ianto and Torchwood, of seeing Jack in the street. The two of you have already toasted his memory.
Still, some part of you thinks that you are wrong.
Inside is a small bundle of cloth. You unfold it; the material was obviously once white but looks to have seen some washing, and so it is that eggshell colour that all white t-shirts get eventually. It is soft and worn and has a pair of women's fake tits painted on it. When you hold it up to look at it, a small card flutters out of the folds and into your lap.
The same delicate old-style cursive has written out the card, some cream-coloured stock that is sturdy and weighty and means something to this whole conversation more than just tree fibres.
'Saving the world,' it says.
END
Fandom: Torchwood
Characters: OCs, Jack Harkness
Warnings: character death
Author's Notes: Yeah.
Summary: Because a year ago, Ianto had fallen off the radar.
It has been four years since you last saw him, but you would recognise Jack Harkness anywhere. It should be the coat, but for you that hadn't been the cementing factor. It's the posture, the arrogant, casual posture of a man comfortable drinking your housemate's milk out of the carton whilst standing in front of the fridge naked.
Because that's how you'd met. Some things are burned on the brain.
You glance back at Sarah, still puttering about in the produce section, occasionally turning to you to suggestively wave about large courgettes, and then you shuffle closer to the window of the grocer's.
It's him, leaning against that large SUV that you know intimately. You've never been inside it, you never want to be inside it, but it's an obsessive thing with you, now that you've become a secret Torchwood tin-hatter.
Because a year ago, Ianto had fallen off the radar. He wouldn't answer your calls, and since you never did know where he had moved, you couldn't very well drop in. And he wasn't going to be listed. When you had checked, you had been correct. No Ianto Jones. Well, actually, five of them, but none of them your Ianto Jones. Then the mobile had stopped working, and one day you'd gotten a completely different bloke who'd just been assigned the number.
There had been only one place to turn if you wanted information, and that had been, to your utter shame, the internet nutters who stalked Torchwood with the tenacity of a gaggle of Elvis fans at Graceland.
You know that Torchwood had been involved in the incident with the children, and that they had moved their base of operations, though how anyone had even known that to begin with is sketchy because no one knows where they had been before or where they are now, except the vague answer of, 'Cardiff, somewhere.' You know that Ianto had been seen at crime scenes and the like up until a year ago, and then he had disappeared. Replacements have come and gone, someone named Mickey Smith, a Martha Jones, and a small woman named Ravi Singh.
You like to think Ianto has transferred, moved, gotten out of Cardiff, but you wonder of he would. He hadn't liked London, and after a bit of research you have matched up his arrival and tenancy with you to the destruction of the Canary Wharf center.
You hope there's a Torchwood Manchester, or a Torchwood Bora Bora.
But you haven't seen Jack Harkness in years, since that night you met actually, and you think that this is probably your only chance to ever know for sure, so you slip away from Sarah, set your basket of groceries on the floor at the end of the aisle and exit, almost jogging towards him, but thinking that wouldn't be the best course of action.
He is standing there, staring off into space, but when you approach him, his shoulders straighten, one hand reaches for the handle of the SUV, and you raise one hand, saying, 'Mister Harkness. Jack.'
'Oh hey,' Jack says, cautious, and you know from that dull look in his eyes that he's seeing you, processing your face, and trying to pull how he knows you from the depths of his memory. You don't even bother to wait for him to admit defeat or play along with some game in which he studiously avoids saying your name because he doesn't remember it. You tell him, ending with, 'I was Ianto's housemate for a few years.'
His face flickers, and you wonder if Ianto had learned it from him first, or if he had picked it up from your erstwhile mate.
'Oh,' Jack says. You don't like the sound of that noise, so you blather on, even though the conversation is pretty much over.
'I hadn't heard from him and so.' You look away. 'I just thought, maybe he'd got a new number or something,' you say. It's obvious.
You wonder if just being there hurts him, because his hand is frozen on the handle of the SUV, and his breathing is shallow. You are immediately sorry that you had stopped him at all.
'No,' Jack says, 'not as such. I'm sorry.'
You nod, and glance back at the green grocer's, because if Sarah surprises you out here with him it will just be strained. She had known Ianto, but she had never met Jack, and useless and painful introductions would have to be made.
Jack's bluetooth beeps and he blinks at you. You shrug. 'Alright then,' you say. 'Just checking.'
'Yeah,' Jack replies brusquely. He has opened the door of the SUV and is in the process of climbing in, speaking softly into his earpiece when you reach out suddenly and grab his arm. He turns and makes a face at you, as if people just don't touch him, not like that, and you wonder if that's true.
'Look,' you say, 'I'm sorry.' It’s important that he knows that, you understand. That you are sorry for his loss, for yours, and for the next question. 'How did it happen?'
Jack shakes his head, pulls his arm from your grasp and shuts the door. You can't see through the black tinted windows, but you know that as he pulls away, he never looks back at you.
Three days later, the parcel comes via courier, and Sarah signs for the small box, her brows knitted in confusion.
'Did you order porn again?' she asks, throwing the box at you, and it hits you on the chest. You pause your game and pick it up. It has been wrapped with that rough brown parcel paper and tied off instead of taped, and your address is written on it in what looks like fountain pen, some archaic old cursive that only people who are really into handwriting can do.
You stick out your tongue and mumble something to the effect of, 'If I had ordered porn, you'd be the first to know,' but in reality, your heart is thudding a little, because this is the kind of package that bombs come in. You see this all the time. On the telly. The telly. Not in real life.
That's reassuring.
The box is light and when you shake it, something that seems like cloth fwrrrms around inside, so you undo the string and pull the paper back, opening the small cardboard box that used to hold, according to the writing on its side, disposable pens. The sticker in the corner, the one the factory affixes to the box to show the design on the pen for easy differentiation, reads the very familiar 'Torchwood.'
That fucking clue. Sarah grips your arm a little because you had already told her about Ianto and Torchwood, of seeing Jack in the street. The two of you have already toasted his memory.
Still, some part of you thinks that you are wrong.
Inside is a small bundle of cloth. You unfold it; the material was obviously once white but looks to have seen some washing, and so it is that eggshell colour that all white t-shirts get eventually. It is soft and worn and has a pair of women's fake tits painted on it. When you hold it up to look at it, a small card flutters out of the folds and into your lap.
The same delicate old-style cursive has written out the card, some cream-coloured stock that is sturdy and weighty and means something to this whole conversation more than just tree fibres.
'Saving the world,' it says.
END