Remembrance
TITLE: Remembrance
RATING: free for all! :P
SUMMARY: Jack's fought in numerous wars - how would the 11th November affect him?
DISCLAIMER: Yeah, I own Torchwood... damn, that was just the great dream I had the other day... I guess I don't actually own Torchwood. I know - it's shocking! :P
The bells of the church were tolling out, long and sorrowful.
Jack Harkness stood outside the door, face set. He had shed his 40's clothes and coat for a black suit, a red poppy pinned to his chest.
Beside him, Ianto Jones was in his customary three-piece suit, smart as ever, also with a scarlet poppy.
Jack took a deep breath. 'I hate this time of year,' he said shakily.
Ianto took his arm. 'I know. But you need to do it.'
Jack nodded. 'Come on, then.'
The two men walked into the church, slipping into the back row and sitting down as the blue-robed choir reached their polished wooden stalls at the front.
The rows upon rows of uniformed men in the church would normally have inspired a saucy comment from Jack, and it was testament to how shaken he was that he stayed completely silent, blue eyes downcast and swimming with memories.
The vicar began to speak.
Jack paid no attention to the words, and ignored all the prayers. They meant nothing to him. For he knew that there was no God, no heaven. No eternal peace and rest.
Jack Harkness knew there was only blackness and the empty void.
Ianto saw the captain's pain and felt lost. He didn't know how to help him.
So Ianto Jones did what he usually did and stayed silent, watching and waiting.
But he did take Jack's hand and give it a brief squeeze.
As they stood up to sing, Jack kept his mouth shut, and stared at the floor. His face was pale and his eyes vacant.
Ianto knew better than to push him to sing. He just sang along, hurting because Jack was hurting. His Jack was hurting.
The bugle sounded the melancholy fanfare. Ianto glanced sideways to see silent tears sliding down Jack's cheeks and dripping off his chin.
He reached out and drew him into a hug, not caring that they were standing in church and that the people in the row in front of them had turned to stare at them. He just held Jack tight and waited, not saying anything.
Two minutes passed. The bugle sounded again. As everybody sat down again, Ianto gently led Jack out the back door, nodding his thanks to the soldier who opened the door for them.
Outside, Ianto sat on a bench and held Jack as he cried. The birds in the trees overhead were silent.
When Jack had run out of tears to cry, he didn't pull back or sit up. He just stayed, head against Ianto's chest and arms around his waist.
Ianto rested his head on Jack's and stared at the dry-stone wall opposite. Why Jack had insisted in coming out to the country for this service, Ianto didn't know.
But what he did know was that Jack needed comfort, and didn't want questions. Questions hurt.
That was why it was Ianto sitting there with him, not Gwen. Gwen would have asked questions, demanded answers. She would have made the wounds hurt even more.
The minutes ticked by and the tea-boy sat there, holding the captain and sharing in his grief.
And from inside the church drifted the sound of singing.
Splash (the big one...)