Fic: Staring Out Your Window, With A Picture In My Hand (1/1)
Title: Staring Out Your Window, With A Picture In My Hand
Fandom: Torchwood
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Jack. Mentions of Jack/Ianto, Gwen/Rhys, Tosh, Owen, Rhiannon and brief mention of OC’s.
Word Count: ~2100
Disclaimer: I don’t own Torchwood or anything else you recognise.
Warnings/Spoilers: Major spoilers for Exit Wounds, plus minor ones for series 1. Character Deaths.
I've used the name of a new character from Series 3 but other than that I'm avoiding all spoilers so I've set this some unidentified time after Exit Wounds.
Authors Notes: Thank you to pheonix_angel89 for reading over this and the encouragement. The title is a play on a Bon Jovi song- Staring At Your Window (With A Suitcase In My Hand).
Written for the story_lottery prompt Jigsaw.
Summary: In between the two candles were several photographs, each housed in a matching silver frame.
Staring Out Your Window, With a Picture in My Hand
Jack quietly let himself into the dark flat; the low snick of the lock and the soft click of a lamp being turned on were the only sounds. He was the only one in the building still awake, he could see Moses’ tail twitching as he dreamt - probably chasing a rat or a ball of string in his dream.
The flat bore the unmistakable signs of too many late nights working at the Hub- the pile of unopened post was higher than Jack had ever seen, there was a thin (almost miniscule really) layer of dust on top of the television. and there was a row of empty cat-food tins on the bench, waiting to be recycled. Ianto had taken Moses home with him after clearing out Estelle’s house, needing another living soul in the flat - even if Moses’ favourite past time seemed to be attempting to shred Ianto’s settee. The entire team had been taking it in turns to drop by and feed the cat, whoever was nearest the flat at the time calling in and dumping an entire tin of Kit-e-Kat into one bowl and cold water into the other, before rushing back out to deal with the latest catastrophe. They all carried keys to each other’s flats, for emergency use and cat-feeding duty only, after an Axon had kidnapped Owen and held him hostage inside his own flat for five days, and they’d had to break down the door to get in.
Jack placed his keys gently into the bowl next to the door, the quiet chink of metal hitting glass echoing loudly around the almost silent flat. He toed off his shoes and placed them into a cupboard next to the front door, several of Ianto’s many rebukes running around his head. Not bothering to turn on any more lights, Jack sat down on one of the leather settees, pulling the piles of unopened letters towards himself. Silently, he sorted them into two piles- ones that could be ignored and ones that no longer could.
Adding the last letter to the pile of letters to ignore- which was only a quarter of the size of the other pile- Jack walked through to the kitchen and poured himself a cold glass of water from the tap. He already knew the fridge was empty and he didn’t even glance at the coffee machine, sitting powered down on the corner of the bench.
Rain was starting to fall now, bouncing off the kitchen window, streaks smudging the view of the Millennium Stadium. Jack didn’t notice, he wasn’t paying much attention to the view anyway, just occasionally sipping his water while staring unseeingly at the panes of glass in front of him.
When the glass was empty Jack refilled Moses’ bowl with cat food, adding the dried biscuits that he knew the cat wasn’t fond of but were packed with vitamins, before walking back into the living room. Moses was still asleep, his tail now wrapped tightly around his small, black body. The cat snuffled softly as Jack passed him, padding silently across the floor towards the mantelpiece.
The mantelpiece itself was plain - painted white with the top being slightly chipped. There were two large silver candles standing on either end, their wicks burnt halfway down. It had been months since they had last been lit. The Rift had been blessedly silent for forty-eight hours, and Gwen had all but kicked them out of the Hub and threatened to stun gun the pair of them if they even thought about arguing with her. Ianto had cooked and Jack had washed the dishes. Later that night they’d curled up on the settee, lighting only the two candles and watched some truly awful film on BBC. They hadn’t cared. Time to be normal and do normal couple things, like cook for each other, watch television and just be together didn’t happen very often at Torchwood and they’d been determined to make the most of it.
Even having to get up early the next day to negotiate with some Sontarans who were looking for Torchwood Four hadn’t dampened Jack’s spirits.
In between the two candles were several photographs, each housed in a matching silver frame. Jack picked each one up in turn, looking at them closely. He’d done this so often lately that he saw each picture clearly, despite the shadows being thrown across them by the sole lamp.
The first was one of Tosh and Owen smiling. It had been taken before Ianto had moved to Cardiff but Ianto had refused to see it put in storage when Tosh’s belongings had been packed up. Jack didn’t protest - he would have taken the photo himself had Ianto not claimed it.
The second was one of himself with Martha, both with their arms wrapped tight around each other and wearing matching grins, their faces only inches away from the camera. It had been taken at Martha’s wedding a few months after Tosh and Owen had died. It had been one of the first times he’d been truly happy again without feeling guilty.
He bypassed the middle one for now.
The next one he picked up was one of Ianto and his sister, Rhiannon. It had been taken several years before Jack had met Ianto, at a New Year’s Eve party held by one of their relatives. Both had obviously been drinking, the wide toothful grins were evident of this, as were the tacky party hats neither would normally been seen dead in. Jack had loved Rhiannon from the moment they had met. She had floated into Ianto’s flat one day- when Ianto was off sick with flu- with a bag containing painkillers, Heinz tomato soup and some teabags in one hand, and the hand of a young, blonde boy in the other.
Jack had sat temporarily stunned, Ianto’s head on a pillow in his lap, as she sat the boy- who Jack had found out was her son Tristan- down at the dining room table, pulling a jigsaw Jack had never seen before out of one of Ianto’s cupboards, and then vanished into Ianto’s kitchen. Jack was still sat on the settee when she returned five minutes- and several metallic clangs from the kitchen- later, prodded Ianto awake and handed him the medication, a bottle of water and a bowl of soup.
She had laughed when she spotted the photograph, before launching into a tale involving dancing, tequila shots and one of her university friends who had a crush on Ianto, which ended with Jack in hysterical laughter and Ianto burrowing under the quilt Jack had pulled over him and trying to, unsuccessfully, disown his sister.
There was a smaller picture next to this one- the only one not in a silver frame, but a cardboard one with pasta shapes stuck to it that Tristan had made at Nursery- showing Ianto holding a newborn Tristan in Ianto’s arms with an exhausted but delighted Rhiannon lying on a hospital bed in the background.
This last photograph made Jack cast a glance towards the answering machine, the red number zero stared mournfully back at him. It had been over a month since Rhiannon had last called.
The last two photographs had been taken in a pub not far from the Hub. The first had been taken by the barman after Gwen walked up to him, smiled that cute little gap-toothed smile of hers and asked him to take a picture of the four of them. Nobody to this day has said no to that grin - no one. Ianto had rolled his eyes at Rhys, who gave a fake long-suffering sigh in return, but both had obediently gotten into the frame and put on their best smiles. Gwen was stood right in the centre, one arm around Jack’s waist, the other around Rhys’. Ianto was on Jack’s left-hand side, one arm wrapped around Jack’s shoulders, the fingers of his other hand intertwined with Jack’s on his own waist.
The second was taken, unnoticed at first, by Rhys. It was a bit blurry but it was still one of Jack’s favourite photographs of his old team. Jack smiled fondly at the memory. Owen and Tosh were standing at the end of a pool table, pool-cues in hand, smirking at Ianto as they tried to put him off his shot by telling rude jokes and insulting his Welsh heritage. Gwen was on the side of the table opposite Ianto, clutching her sides with laugher as she tried not to fall off her stool, her forgotten pool cue a brown blur across the picture as it fell to the floor. Whether she was laughing at Owen’s joke or Ianto- who was attempting to take the shot, ignore Tosh and Owen, and fend off Jack’s wandering hands all at the same time- Jack didn’t remember. It was probably both.
Rhys had pulled his phone out of his coat pocket and snapped the shot while none of them were looking. He turned up at the Tourist Information Centre three days later with a packet of newly developed photos and a home-cooked lasagne for the team, knowing they’d all been working nonstop since that night. Jack had considered Rhys an unofficial member of the team from that night and even more so after the last few months.
Finally, Jack went back to the photograph in the middle of the mantelpiece. It was the only picture of just himself and Ianto. This one had also been taken at Martha’s wedding. Jack has his own copy of the photograph in the tin he keeps in a draw in his desk. He doesn’t keep any photos actually on his desk, there’s always the risk they’ll be damaged by a stray piece of alien tech that hasn’t been put away properly or lost amongst all the paperwork his job entails him to read through and sign.
The picture had been snapped by Craig, their short, blonde, self-confessed nerd who was good with computers but was nowhere near as brilliant as Tosh had been when handling alien tech. Once again, neither he nor Ianto had noticed the camera, too busy dancing and enjoying the moment to care what the rest of the team were doing. The first time Rhiannon brought Tristan to visit his Uncle Ianto and his jigsaw collection after the picture had been put up she had it out of the frame, scanned and her own copy printing before Jack could finish making her a cup of tea. It had been on her own mantelpiece the one time he had visited her three-bedroom house in Newport.
Jack put the picture back down, watching the now awake Moses stretch before going to see if his food had been replenished.
Leaving the cat to his supper, Jack turned off the lamp before walking into the bedroom and stripping down to his boxers and t-shirt in complete darkness. He crawled into his own side of the bed, immediately hitching the quilt up higher under his chin as his cold body met with even colder sheets. He lay facing the window, the cold November rain still beating relentlessly against the glass. A yellow streetlight shone into the room, unhindered by the half-drawn blind, landing on a long-abandoned book on his bedside table.
He closed his eyes, trying to forget where he was. It was no use. He knew he’d made a mistake the second he’d entered the bedroom. It was still too soon. Jack was the man who had all of eternity before him, yet he never had enough time for the things that really mattered. With the people that mattered.
Jack felt something move behind him and he could feel warm breath on the back of his neck. A cold nose was pressed just under his ear. Jack turned around and for one moment, Jack forgot where he was and all that had happened over the last five dreadful, heart-breaking months. When he opened his eyes, for that one blissful second, Jack expected to see sleepy, blue eyes gazing back at him.
They were green.
Jack pulled the cat to his chest, flinching slightly when his arm brushed against Ianto’s pillows, as cold as his own had been when he’d first climbed into bed. Moses nudged Jack’s chin with his head with a soft meow, before settling closer to him, squirming slightly to get comfortable in Jack’s tight grip. Eventually, he came to rest with his head on Jack’s arm, giving the empty side of the bed a mournful whine and sorrowful glance.
“I know,” Jack said quietly, his voice cracking with the tears that were now streaming down his face and into Moses’ fur. “I miss him too.”
Like it? Love it? Loathe it? Let me know :c)
My Torchwood master-list can be found here.
Also, thank you to the wonderful person who nominated my story 'Till The Morning Comes over at Children of Time. It means a lot to me.
Fandom: Torchwood
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Jack. Mentions of Jack/Ianto, Gwen/Rhys, Tosh, Owen, Rhiannon and brief mention of OC’s.
Word Count: ~2100
Disclaimer: I don’t own Torchwood or anything else you recognise.
Warnings/Spoilers: Major spoilers for Exit Wounds, plus minor ones for series 1. Character Deaths.
I've used the name of a new character from Series 3 but other than that I'm avoiding all spoilers so I've set this some unidentified time after Exit Wounds.
Authors Notes: Thank you to pheonix_angel89 for reading over this and the encouragement. The title is a play on a Bon Jovi song- Staring At Your Window (With A Suitcase In My Hand).
Written for the story_lottery prompt Jigsaw.
Summary: In between the two candles were several photographs, each housed in a matching silver frame.
Staring Out Your Window, With a Picture in My Hand
Jack quietly let himself into the dark flat; the low snick of the lock and the soft click of a lamp being turned on were the only sounds. He was the only one in the building still awake, he could see Moses’ tail twitching as he dreamt - probably chasing a rat or a ball of string in his dream.
The flat bore the unmistakable signs of too many late nights working at the Hub- the pile of unopened post was higher than Jack had ever seen, there was a thin (almost miniscule really) layer of dust on top of the television. and there was a row of empty cat-food tins on the bench, waiting to be recycled. Ianto had taken Moses home with him after clearing out Estelle’s house, needing another living soul in the flat - even if Moses’ favourite past time seemed to be attempting to shred Ianto’s settee. The entire team had been taking it in turns to drop by and feed the cat, whoever was nearest the flat at the time calling in and dumping an entire tin of Kit-e-Kat into one bowl and cold water into the other, before rushing back out to deal with the latest catastrophe. They all carried keys to each other’s flats, for emergency use and cat-feeding duty only, after an Axon had kidnapped Owen and held him hostage inside his own flat for five days, and they’d had to break down the door to get in.
Jack placed his keys gently into the bowl next to the door, the quiet chink of metal hitting glass echoing loudly around the almost silent flat. He toed off his shoes and placed them into a cupboard next to the front door, several of Ianto’s many rebukes running around his head. Not bothering to turn on any more lights, Jack sat down on one of the leather settees, pulling the piles of unopened letters towards himself. Silently, he sorted them into two piles- ones that could be ignored and ones that no longer could.
Adding the last letter to the pile of letters to ignore- which was only a quarter of the size of the other pile- Jack walked through to the kitchen and poured himself a cold glass of water from the tap. He already knew the fridge was empty and he didn’t even glance at the coffee machine, sitting powered down on the corner of the bench.
Rain was starting to fall now, bouncing off the kitchen window, streaks smudging the view of the Millennium Stadium. Jack didn’t notice, he wasn’t paying much attention to the view anyway, just occasionally sipping his water while staring unseeingly at the panes of glass in front of him.
When the glass was empty Jack refilled Moses’ bowl with cat food, adding the dried biscuits that he knew the cat wasn’t fond of but were packed with vitamins, before walking back into the living room. Moses was still asleep, his tail now wrapped tightly around his small, black body. The cat snuffled softly as Jack passed him, padding silently across the floor towards the mantelpiece.
The mantelpiece itself was plain - painted white with the top being slightly chipped. There were two large silver candles standing on either end, their wicks burnt halfway down. It had been months since they had last been lit. The Rift had been blessedly silent for forty-eight hours, and Gwen had all but kicked them out of the Hub and threatened to stun gun the pair of them if they even thought about arguing with her. Ianto had cooked and Jack had washed the dishes. Later that night they’d curled up on the settee, lighting only the two candles and watched some truly awful film on BBC. They hadn’t cared. Time to be normal and do normal couple things, like cook for each other, watch television and just be together didn’t happen very often at Torchwood and they’d been determined to make the most of it.
Even having to get up early the next day to negotiate with some Sontarans who were looking for Torchwood Four hadn’t dampened Jack’s spirits.
In between the two candles were several photographs, each housed in a matching silver frame. Jack picked each one up in turn, looking at them closely. He’d done this so often lately that he saw each picture clearly, despite the shadows being thrown across them by the sole lamp.
The first was one of Tosh and Owen smiling. It had been taken before Ianto had moved to Cardiff but Ianto had refused to see it put in storage when Tosh’s belongings had been packed up. Jack didn’t protest - he would have taken the photo himself had Ianto not claimed it.
The second was one of himself with Martha, both with their arms wrapped tight around each other and wearing matching grins, their faces only inches away from the camera. It had been taken at Martha’s wedding a few months after Tosh and Owen had died. It had been one of the first times he’d been truly happy again without feeling guilty.
He bypassed the middle one for now.
The next one he picked up was one of Ianto and his sister, Rhiannon. It had been taken several years before Jack had met Ianto, at a New Year’s Eve party held by one of their relatives. Both had obviously been drinking, the wide toothful grins were evident of this, as were the tacky party hats neither would normally been seen dead in. Jack had loved Rhiannon from the moment they had met. She had floated into Ianto’s flat one day- when Ianto was off sick with flu- with a bag containing painkillers, Heinz tomato soup and some teabags in one hand, and the hand of a young, blonde boy in the other.
Jack had sat temporarily stunned, Ianto’s head on a pillow in his lap, as she sat the boy- who Jack had found out was her son Tristan- down at the dining room table, pulling a jigsaw Jack had never seen before out of one of Ianto’s cupboards, and then vanished into Ianto’s kitchen. Jack was still sat on the settee when she returned five minutes- and several metallic clangs from the kitchen- later, prodded Ianto awake and handed him the medication, a bottle of water and a bowl of soup.
She had laughed when she spotted the photograph, before launching into a tale involving dancing, tequila shots and one of her university friends who had a crush on Ianto, which ended with Jack in hysterical laughter and Ianto burrowing under the quilt Jack had pulled over him and trying to, unsuccessfully, disown his sister.
There was a smaller picture next to this one- the only one not in a silver frame, but a cardboard one with pasta shapes stuck to it that Tristan had made at Nursery- showing Ianto holding a newborn Tristan in Ianto’s arms with an exhausted but delighted Rhiannon lying on a hospital bed in the background.
This last photograph made Jack cast a glance towards the answering machine, the red number zero stared mournfully back at him. It had been over a month since Rhiannon had last called.
The last two photographs had been taken in a pub not far from the Hub. The first had been taken by the barman after Gwen walked up to him, smiled that cute little gap-toothed smile of hers and asked him to take a picture of the four of them. Nobody to this day has said no to that grin - no one. Ianto had rolled his eyes at Rhys, who gave a fake long-suffering sigh in return, but both had obediently gotten into the frame and put on their best smiles. Gwen was stood right in the centre, one arm around Jack’s waist, the other around Rhys’. Ianto was on Jack’s left-hand side, one arm wrapped around Jack’s shoulders, the fingers of his other hand intertwined with Jack’s on his own waist.
The second was taken, unnoticed at first, by Rhys. It was a bit blurry but it was still one of Jack’s favourite photographs of his old team. Jack smiled fondly at the memory. Owen and Tosh were standing at the end of a pool table, pool-cues in hand, smirking at Ianto as they tried to put him off his shot by telling rude jokes and insulting his Welsh heritage. Gwen was on the side of the table opposite Ianto, clutching her sides with laugher as she tried not to fall off her stool, her forgotten pool cue a brown blur across the picture as it fell to the floor. Whether she was laughing at Owen’s joke or Ianto- who was attempting to take the shot, ignore Tosh and Owen, and fend off Jack’s wandering hands all at the same time- Jack didn’t remember. It was probably both.
Rhys had pulled his phone out of his coat pocket and snapped the shot while none of them were looking. He turned up at the Tourist Information Centre three days later with a packet of newly developed photos and a home-cooked lasagne for the team, knowing they’d all been working nonstop since that night. Jack had considered Rhys an unofficial member of the team from that night and even more so after the last few months.
Finally, Jack went back to the photograph in the middle of the mantelpiece. It was the only picture of just himself and Ianto. This one had also been taken at Martha’s wedding. Jack has his own copy of the photograph in the tin he keeps in a draw in his desk. He doesn’t keep any photos actually on his desk, there’s always the risk they’ll be damaged by a stray piece of alien tech that hasn’t been put away properly or lost amongst all the paperwork his job entails him to read through and sign.
The picture had been snapped by Craig, their short, blonde, self-confessed nerd who was good with computers but was nowhere near as brilliant as Tosh had been when handling alien tech. Once again, neither he nor Ianto had noticed the camera, too busy dancing and enjoying the moment to care what the rest of the team were doing. The first time Rhiannon brought Tristan to visit his Uncle Ianto and his jigsaw collection after the picture had been put up she had it out of the frame, scanned and her own copy printing before Jack could finish making her a cup of tea. It had been on her own mantelpiece the one time he had visited her three-bedroom house in Newport.
Jack put the picture back down, watching the now awake Moses stretch before going to see if his food had been replenished.
Leaving the cat to his supper, Jack turned off the lamp before walking into the bedroom and stripping down to his boxers and t-shirt in complete darkness. He crawled into his own side of the bed, immediately hitching the quilt up higher under his chin as his cold body met with even colder sheets. He lay facing the window, the cold November rain still beating relentlessly against the glass. A yellow streetlight shone into the room, unhindered by the half-drawn blind, landing on a long-abandoned book on his bedside table.
He closed his eyes, trying to forget where he was. It was no use. He knew he’d made a mistake the second he’d entered the bedroom. It was still too soon. Jack was the man who had all of eternity before him, yet he never had enough time for the things that really mattered. With the people that mattered.
Jack felt something move behind him and he could feel warm breath on the back of his neck. A cold nose was pressed just under his ear. Jack turned around and for one moment, Jack forgot where he was and all that had happened over the last five dreadful, heart-breaking months. When he opened his eyes, for that one blissful second, Jack expected to see sleepy, blue eyes gazing back at him.
They were green.
Jack pulled the cat to his chest, flinching slightly when his arm brushed against Ianto’s pillows, as cold as his own had been when he’d first climbed into bed. Moses nudged Jack’s chin with his head with a soft meow, before settling closer to him, squirming slightly to get comfortable in Jack’s tight grip. Eventually, he came to rest with his head on Jack’s arm, giving the empty side of the bed a mournful whine and sorrowful glance.
“I know,” Jack said quietly, his voice cracking with the tears that were now streaming down his face and into Moses’ fur. “I miss him too.”
Like it? Love it? Loathe it? Let me know :c)
My Torchwood master-list can be found here.
Also, thank you to the wonderful person who nominated my story 'Till The Morning Comes over at Children of Time. It means a lot to me.