The Fountain Watch (1/5)
Title: The Fountain Watch (1/5)
Author: winter_rose91
Rating: 15 for this one.
Summary: The Fountain Watch is an ornate and beautiful piece, but as Ianto Jones is soon to find out, it is also extremely dangerous.
Many thanks to verasteine for being a wonderful beta!
Prologue: The Fountain Watcher
A chilly breeze swept across the deserted house, stirring the unkempt ivy to cling to its crumbling brick work. Naked trees in the grounds shivered, their flaxen leaves doing little to protect them. The house had the look of once having been grand and beautiful; now it was overgrown, some of the windows had been smashed, and the paint was peeling off the frames. A disused fountain sat in the driveway, vivid golden leaves tumbling into the grey, moss covered basin.
It was a very old house - he knew that, he knew too much about the house. He knew the iron gates and sweeping, bumpy driveway far too well. He straightened his tie and pulled his jacket around himself and sat in the bushes, waiting. It was nearly time.
Chapter 1: The Fountain Watch
"Ianto, you take the left side," Captain Jack Harkness instructed as the two of them pulled up at the old house, Anghyswllt Tŷ. Clouds suffocated the stars, shrouding the grounds in darkness.
"First rule of horror films; never split up," Ianto Jones said.
"Scared?" Jack quirked an eyebrow. Ianto didn't answer.
Following Jack past a disused fountain to the old house, Ianto pulled his gun out. Jack nodded at him. Doing as he had instructed, Ianto crept off to the left, making sure not be seen or heard. It was a bitterly cold night, the trigger felt frozen beneath Ianto's fingers. Now that he was up close to the house, he could see that time had squeezed the life from it, leaving a stench of death and decay in its wake. Overlong grass scratched at his trouser legs. He hoped it wasn't tearing the material.
Reaching the back of the house, he flattened himself against the wall. His heart hammered against his ribs. Gun extended, he span around the corner. He couldn't see anything, the darkness made it near impossible. His breath seared through the air.
Tick.
His ears strained. He could hear a small faint tick. Like a clock. Ianto identified the ticking as coming from within the house, from the room he was standing by. Serrated glass framed the edge of the small window, so Ianto peered carefully in to the thick gloom. The ticking grew louder. A glimmer on the sill caught his attention. Ianto could make out a golden pocket watch, shining despite the lack of light. The ticking seemed to be emanating from the watch. He reached forward, carefully avoiding the broken glass, and extracted it from layers of dust and grime. On closer inspection, Ianto saw that there was a fountain engraved on it, he recognised it as the fountain from the front. He flipped it open to confirm his suspicions that it was the watch that was ticking. The face was marble and roman numerals looked hand painted. Considering the condition of the house, the watch was in remarkably good shape.
Suddenly a burst of glitter wafted into the air. Ianto jumped, the watch fell back onto the sill with a clatter, but the glitter continued undulating, fluid as water. Ianto watched, mesmerised, his gun loose by his side.
"Got anything?" Jack's voice suddenly crackled into Ianto's ear comms. Ianto quickly snapped the watch shut and crammed it into his coat pocket. He tapped his comm.
"Er - no," Ianto said after a moments hesitation.
"Sure you're not scared?" In Ianto's mind he could clearly see Jack grinning, pleased that he'd made
Ianto jump.
"Perfectly sure," Ianto said, forcing his voice to be calm and smoothing down the front of his coat.
"Did you find anything?" Jack asked.
"All clear, you?" Ianto said in a low voice, his fingers flexing next to the watch in his pocket.
"Snap, up for a night in a haunted mansion?"
"Anything's better than a rooftop," he said, smirking. Jack instructed Ianto to meet him round at the front of the house. Ianto crept back, silent and vigilant.
Jack was scrutinising his wrist strap for rift activity when Ianto arrived. Silently, they took their positions either side of the battered front door, Ianto gripping his gun. Jack nodded at him. They swept into the hallway of the house, guns extended in front of them. As Ianto's eyes grew accustomed to the dark, a grand staircase loomed out, a mouldy carpet clinging to it, like the ivy clinging to the brickwork outside. Insects scuttled across the bare floor, startled at the sudden intrusion. If possible, it was colder in the hallway than outside. Ianto crept to his nearest door; it was hanging by a single hinge. Trying not to make too much noise, he pushed it aside and quickly scanned the room. He repeated this action with several other rooms, coming to the conclusion that he and Jack were probably the first people to enter in decades.
Jack was waiting for Ianto in the hallway, having searched his side of the house. He was testing his weight on the first step of the staircase.
"Nothing?"
"No," Jack said, his attention on the stairs, "Whatever that rift trace was, nothing came through." He gestured to rift activity locator.
"I don't think it's safe," Ianto said, eyeing the step suspiciously. Jack firmly placed his foot on it. Ianto caught the momentary look of triumph on Jack's face, before it promptly buckled under his weight. Ianto snorted.
"I did warn you," he said, walking over to Jack. Jack merely scowled at him. Suddenly, the house shook. The foundations shuddered; dust and cobwebs fell from the ceiling. Ianto and Jack grabbed each other as they lost balance, ending in a heap on the floor. As suddenly as it started, it stopped.
"You okay?" Jack said, rolling off Ianto.
"Yup, you?" he replied, breathless.
"You know me." Ianto got up, helping Jack in the process and brushing some of the dust off of his coat. They stood, suddenly wary of the building. Jack ran his fingers along a newly formed crack in the wall whilst Ianto eyed the ceiling.
"What are you doing in my house?" an angry voice suddenly said behind them. Both of them scrambled for their guns. The man standing there could have been no older than thirty and looked as though he stepped straight out of the 1900's. Knowing Torchwood, he probably had.
"Who are you?" Jack asked, pointing his gun at the man.
"That's a question I could ask you," the man bristled, "along with what are you doing in my house?" The man looked at Jack and then at Ianto. His eyes widened in shock. "You again?" He sounded angry. There was something about his demeanour that looked almost haunted. Ianto exchanged a confused look with Jack before the man simply faded into the darkness. Jack, gun still raised, started searching every room again. Ianto retrieved Jack's rift activity locator, which had been flung to the floor, and started to analyse the rift readings.
"Definite rift traces," Ianto informed Jack as he finished his search.
"He seemed to know you," Jack said.
"Never seen him before in my life," Ianto said. Truth be told, he was a little unnerved by the man's look of shock, it was liked he had seen a ghost.
"We should leave," Jack said, surveying the cracks in the ceiling suspiciously, before turning his attention to Ianto. Ianto held his gaze for a moment before nodding. They stepped out into the night, the cool air stinging his bruised face.
"There's no trace now," Jack said, as they settled into the SUV. "I'll get Gwen to do some investigating tomorrow morning..." Morning Ianto thought, a chance to investigate his watch ... His pulse quickened.
Ianto looked up, surprised to see that they were passing the iron gates to the estate, having been unaware that Jack had even started the engine. He shivered, suddenly cold. Rain started to patter on the roof of the SUV. Ianto watched as each drop that landed on the bonnet shattered into a thousands tiny fragments.
-
The house cast long shadows over him, simultaneously impressing and ominous. It was a grand house, with large expensive windows and fancy striking patterns in the stone work. Elegant, leafy trees surrounded it, casting mottled shadows on the stone walls. A fountain sat in the driveway; cool, clear water pooled in the basin. The sun was setting, a cold breeze swept across the grounds, causing goose pimples to erupt on his arms.
"Idris!" a voice called. The man didn't register the name. "Idris Jones!" He looked up. The woman he employed to look after the house was standing in the doorway. She was about half of his height, and twice
his weight, with flaming hair and quick, suspicious eyes.
"Mrs. Davies," he said politely walking up to the doorway.
"Oh, Idris, why don't you call me by my first name?" she said. He noticed she had a dusting of flour on her apron and forearms. "Lisa," she prompted. Something stirred inside him, a small niggle at the back of his head that spread through his torso and settled in his stomach. Lisa. The name, whilst pretty, was almost sorrowful to him, like a half forgotten childhood; joyful and yet over.
"You never will, will you, Idris?" Mrs. Davies said, brushing her apron. Flour rose off it in spirals and settled on his suit. He didn't like this suit, it was too plain, but he wasn't brave enough, or stupid enough, to brighten it up.
"Was there something you wanted to tell me, Mrs. Davies?" he said, indicating they should enter the house. Technically the house, Anghyswllt Tŷ, was his. He inherited it, apparently, when his father died, yet it didn't feel like home. The rooms were far too fussy for his liking, and there were too many surfaces to dust. Mrs. Davies had caught him dusting once, and had laughed until her face was as red as her hair. They entered the kitchen. It was cavernous and draughty.
"I've made a pie for you, Mr. Jones," she said. He liked being called Mr. Jones, his customers in the watch shop he ran called him that, and it made him feel older than he was. He had inherited the watch shop also; apparently he was a watchmaker.
"I'm just popping out for a bit - I want to see a friend before it gets too late," she said, pulling her apron off. He knew Mrs. Davies wasn't asking for his permission, she was telling him. "I'll be off now then, I'll be back in a few hours."
"Good night Mrs. Davies," he said.
"Good night, Idris," she replied, waddling to the door. He listened to her footsteps, muffled by the expensive red carpet on the hall, and then he heard the front door open and close with a snap. He was all alone in house.
He glanced out the window; he could see Mrs. Davies wobbling down the drive, pulling her overlarge coat on as she went. Once she had passed the iron gates, he strode across the kitchen and into the hall, where he proceeded to the staircase. He took the stairs two at a time. He was unusually fit for a businessman, and was not out of breath when he reached the top. He hurried down the hall, and into the room he slept in. A four-poster bed, complete with red drapes, dominated the room. There was also a large box window, which looked out upon the surrounding countryside. According to his nearest neighbors, who lived over a mile away, Geraint Jones had always lived in this house, along with his son, Idris Jones. Idris had then left for London when he was twenty-one, but returned on hearing of his father's death. It was just a shame he didn't remember any of it.
He couldn't recall one single second of his life before March 1891.
He had woken up, with a splitting headache, in this room, to find a somber, portly man, asking if he was Idris Jones. The name sounded vaguely familiar and so he had presumed he was Idris Jones. The man had told him that his father, Geraint Jones, was dead, and that all his property, the house and shop, would be conferred onto his only son, Idris Jones. Hoping it would trigger some memories, he stayed in the house, and ran the shop.
Apparently, his father, Geraint Jones, was a watchmaker, and he had apprenticed under him. He hadn't known what to do at first, but after finding several books on the topic, he fumbled his way through the working day. He hoped he was getting better at it. March was three months ago now, and yet; he still couldn't remember a single thing before it. He hadn't found a friend, or acquaintance or customer that knew him, so he really had no idea what happened to him that night. It vaguely unsettled him, but he wasn't a man to be beaten by life's anomalies, so he carried on, despite an odd sense of - he didn't know what it was really, he supposed it was loss, but what he lost, other than his memory - he couldn't possibly imagine.
He knelt on the wooden floor of the bedroom and loosened one of the floorboards. Concealed underneath the hole were three things that he somehow couldn't bear to part with. The first was a gold watch, with a fountain engraved on the front. It was the fountain from the front of the house; he presumed it was some sort of family heirloom. The second took longer to extract from the space, and he needed to take up a few more floorboards before he could do so. He carefully reached down and pulled out a set of clothes, carefully dusted them down and put them on.
He stood in front of a cracked mirror in the corner of the room, and admired himself. His suit was black with grey pinstripes and the material felt light against his skin. His shirt was a pale pink and his jacket hugged his figure. He entwined a long blue tie, in his fingers, enjoying the sensations, before looping it over his neck. His fingers worked expertly to produce a neatly knotted tie. It was different to how the other men wore their ties, and he'd never dare leave the house wearing pink, but he instantly felt more comfortable. This was the suit he had woken up in when he found himself in this house all those months ago. The portly, somber man had been unsettled by his attire and seemed in quite a hurry to leave the house.
The final object stored under his floorboards was his most precious. He searched the space, his fingers running along years of grime and dirt before they hit something cool and smooth. He pulled it out. It was a wholly unremarkable stopwatch, and despite a large dent in the back, it worked like a charm. He flipped it over in his hand and pressed the button, and as he did so the hand ticked into motion and a jolt of electricity shivered from the watch to his arm and down his spine. It was always this way, the stopwatch always made him long for someone, made him desperate for some unknown presence, so much so that their absence caused him physical pain.
He ached inside, but even as he did so a thrill of anticipation built up in his belly. His trousers became uncomfortably tight. Quickly, he pulled them down with his underwear to his ankles and flopped face up onto the bed. He timed his movements with the steady ticking of his stopwatch, scrabbling against the bed, wishing it was flesh, wishing, wanting - yearning for something more. He could control himself no longer and pumped erratically, seeking as quickly a finish as possible.
Afterwards, and after having cleaned himself up, he stripped, neatly folded his clothes and placed them back under his floorboards. He looked at the stopwatch for one last time, and gently placed it between the material of his jacket, to protect it from the dust. He slotted the floorboards back in place, feeling desolate and completely alone in the world.
Chapter 2