(no subject)
I haven't had the occasion to write one of these in a while. Hints of Morroccoverse, but set sometime during Season 1 of Torchwood.
It had been a particularly long day for the team - a torrential downpour had hit Cardiff, and since the water levels in the sewers had begun to rise, so had the weevils. They'd spent the better part of the day tracking, detaining, or disposing of the aliens, as well as their unfortunate victims. Jack had found it particularly poignant that Gwen had been just as touched by the discovery of someone's pet terrier as she had been by the SPLOT resident they found beneath the overpass.
Despite the long hours, it was still reasonably before midnight when the van pulled back up to Plass Roald Dahl, and they all staggered down into the Hub, looking like a bunch of wet, post-fight alley cats. Owen stayed long enough to ferry the few Weevil bodies they'd amassed into the morgue, then muttered something about "crawling under the bloody blankets at his sodding flat and not coming out until the weekend". Toshiko doggedly made her way to her console and attempted to digitize all of their scans and reports, and fell asleep at the keyboard, the coffee Ianto had so diligently brewed upon their return going untouched at her elbow.
Leaving the others to their exhaustion, Jack trudged up to his office, already slipping his suspenders from his shoulders before he'd even reached his desk. Toeing off his boots, he stretched out in his chair and put his feet up on the ink blotter, folding his hands behind his head and staring around at the small bits of cultural detritus that had washed up in his office over the decades. Ianto had called it 'disreputable clutter' on several occasions. Suzie, in her tenure, had dubbed his office 'Tchotchke Central'. Jack just called it comfortable, and left it at that. Some of the items were pieces of space junk - things that had come through the Rift that were part of other things, useless and harmless, but pretty. There was some sort of bolt, almost six inches long, threaded through with some kind of metal that made it phosphorescent in the right angle of light, and a piece of hull plating off some kind of shuttle. Jack particularly liked that one, because if you tilted your head and squinted just right, it almost looked like it had once been part of a Chula warship. But most of the things he'd amassed dated from the second World War. He couldn't help it - a lot of his life, a lot of the man he'd become, had been forged in that era, twice over.
He was lost in the contemplation of an old lithographed war poster - anti-Nazi propaganda posted in Cardiff before the bombings of London began - when his door swung open, and he looked up to see Gwen standing in the doorway, bags over her shoulder and under her eyes.
"Hey, Gwennie. Thought you would've gone home to Rhys by now."
"Ooo, he'll be sleepin', yet," Gwen sighed. "Prob'ly wouldn' even know f'I came home."
"He misses you," Jack affirmed, something in his tone holding equal parts assurance and jealousy. "Even if he's a heavy sleeper. Does he snore? I don't know if I could sleep next to a snorer."
"Sometimes?" Gwen blushed, smiling. "And I mean, reeeee-ally bad, too. But I've learned t' ignoor it. ... What d'you even do in here, after we're all gone? Just sit here wi' all these old things? Among all your ghosts?"
"Something like that." He smiled a little, watching her as she turned to examine a row of smaller curiosities lined up on top of his filing cabinet.
"Ooo. What a pretty little glass bottle."
"Which one? Lemme see." He took his feet down and sat up, arching his neck to try and see around her.
She turned, holding the bottle up in her palm - a tiny, delicate thing made of glass, only a few centimetres tall, shaped like a miniature vase or salad cruet. A pattern of vines, carefully wrought from silver, wound their way up around the base, as if cradling the liquid within that nearly filled it. "This one. It's lovely. Perfume?"
Jack frowned for a moment, then the expression softened as he got up out of his chair and crossed the space to her. He looked down at the bottle in her hand with a strange, sad sort of fondness. "No," he said, his voice barely a whisper. "That's a lachrymatory. They ... they've been around in human culture for centuries ... if you read it right, there's even a mention of them in the Bible."
"A what?" Gwen picked it up between her thumb and forefinger again and shook it gently, watching the liquid inside cling briefly to the glass.
"Tear-catcher. The most common use for them was during wars - it started during the Victorian era, but there's reference to them all the way up through the second World War. Women would keep them while their loved ones went into battle, and catch the tears they shed for them. If they returned, they were given to them as a symbol of their love and devotion."
Gwen bit her lip, staring sadly into the tiny bottle as she gingerly placed it back on top of the cabinet. "... and if they didn' come home...?"
Jack was silent for a moment. "Then, a year after the soldier's burial, they would go to the grave and empty the bottle over it, as a sign that they had done their mourning. That they could move on. Or at least ... that they'd try."
"That's ... that's so sad," Gwen cooed softly, pouting. "But at the same time..."
"... It's still kinda beautiful, isn't it?" Jack agreed, putting a hand on her shoulder. "Washington Irving once wrote that tears were 'messengers of overwhelming grief, of deep contrition and of unspeakable love'. He said that they were 'not a mark of weakness, but of power'. A testament to the depths that the human heart was capable of. ... That's why I need you here, you know, Gwennie. ... Everyone else tonight didn't even bat an eye, but you? ... I know it was raining, but ... you cried. You still cried."
"Jack..."
"Go home, Gwen." He smiled. "Go home to Rhys. Even if he's sawing logs. ... I'll see you tomorrow."
She nodded, offering him a shaky smile before heading for the door. As she reached it, she paused. "Jack."
"... yeah, Gwen."
She gestured toward the lachrymatory, hesitantly. "... who ...?"
"Exactly." He nodded cryptically, waving a hand at her. "G'wan."
"Did they ... did they die?"
His eyes were hard, his voice gentle. "Go home, Gwen Cooper."
Only once she'd gone did he return to his chair, his eyes still fixed on the tiny glass vessel. No, Gwen. They didn't quite die. ... I'm just still waiting for his ship to come back in.
It had been a particularly long day for the team - a torrential downpour had hit Cardiff, and since the water levels in the sewers had begun to rise, so had the weevils. They'd spent the better part of the day tracking, detaining, or disposing of the aliens, as well as their unfortunate victims. Jack had found it particularly poignant that Gwen had been just as touched by the discovery of someone's pet terrier as she had been by the SPLOT resident they found beneath the overpass.
Despite the long hours, it was still reasonably before midnight when the van pulled back up to Plass Roald Dahl, and they all staggered down into the Hub, looking like a bunch of wet, post-fight alley cats. Owen stayed long enough to ferry the few Weevil bodies they'd amassed into the morgue, then muttered something about "crawling under the bloody blankets at his sodding flat and not coming out until the weekend". Toshiko doggedly made her way to her console and attempted to digitize all of their scans and reports, and fell asleep at the keyboard, the coffee Ianto had so diligently brewed upon their return going untouched at her elbow.
Leaving the others to their exhaustion, Jack trudged up to his office, already slipping his suspenders from his shoulders before he'd even reached his desk. Toeing off his boots, he stretched out in his chair and put his feet up on the ink blotter, folding his hands behind his head and staring around at the small bits of cultural detritus that had washed up in his office over the decades. Ianto had called it 'disreputable clutter' on several occasions. Suzie, in her tenure, had dubbed his office 'Tchotchke Central'. Jack just called it comfortable, and left it at that. Some of the items were pieces of space junk - things that had come through the Rift that were part of other things, useless and harmless, but pretty. There was some sort of bolt, almost six inches long, threaded through with some kind of metal that made it phosphorescent in the right angle of light, and a piece of hull plating off some kind of shuttle. Jack particularly liked that one, because if you tilted your head and squinted just right, it almost looked like it had once been part of a Chula warship. But most of the things he'd amassed dated from the second World War. He couldn't help it - a lot of his life, a lot of the man he'd become, had been forged in that era, twice over.
He was lost in the contemplation of an old lithographed war poster - anti-Nazi propaganda posted in Cardiff before the bombings of London began - when his door swung open, and he looked up to see Gwen standing in the doorway, bags over her shoulder and under her eyes.
"Hey, Gwennie. Thought you would've gone home to Rhys by now."
"Ooo, he'll be sleepin', yet," Gwen sighed. "Prob'ly wouldn' even know f'I came home."
"He misses you," Jack affirmed, something in his tone holding equal parts assurance and jealousy. "Even if he's a heavy sleeper. Does he snore? I don't know if I could sleep next to a snorer."
"Sometimes?" Gwen blushed, smiling. "And I mean, reeeee-ally bad, too. But I've learned t' ignoor it. ... What d'you even do in here, after we're all gone? Just sit here wi' all these old things? Among all your ghosts?"
"Something like that." He smiled a little, watching her as she turned to examine a row of smaller curiosities lined up on top of his filing cabinet.
"Ooo. What a pretty little glass bottle."
"Which one? Lemme see." He took his feet down and sat up, arching his neck to try and see around her.
She turned, holding the bottle up in her palm - a tiny, delicate thing made of glass, only a few centimetres tall, shaped like a miniature vase or salad cruet. A pattern of vines, carefully wrought from silver, wound their way up around the base, as if cradling the liquid within that nearly filled it. "This one. It's lovely. Perfume?"
Jack frowned for a moment, then the expression softened as he got up out of his chair and crossed the space to her. He looked down at the bottle in her hand with a strange, sad sort of fondness. "No," he said, his voice barely a whisper. "That's a lachrymatory. They ... they've been around in human culture for centuries ... if you read it right, there's even a mention of them in the Bible."
"A what?" Gwen picked it up between her thumb and forefinger again and shook it gently, watching the liquid inside cling briefly to the glass.
"Tear-catcher. The most common use for them was during wars - it started during the Victorian era, but there's reference to them all the way up through the second World War. Women would keep them while their loved ones went into battle, and catch the tears they shed for them. If they returned, they were given to them as a symbol of their love and devotion."
Gwen bit her lip, staring sadly into the tiny bottle as she gingerly placed it back on top of the cabinet. "... and if they didn' come home...?"
Jack was silent for a moment. "Then, a year after the soldier's burial, they would go to the grave and empty the bottle over it, as a sign that they had done their mourning. That they could move on. Or at least ... that they'd try."
"That's ... that's so sad," Gwen cooed softly, pouting. "But at the same time..."
"... It's still kinda beautiful, isn't it?" Jack agreed, putting a hand on her shoulder. "Washington Irving once wrote that tears were 'messengers of overwhelming grief, of deep contrition and of unspeakable love'. He said that they were 'not a mark of weakness, but of power'. A testament to the depths that the human heart was capable of. ... That's why I need you here, you know, Gwennie. ... Everyone else tonight didn't even bat an eye, but you? ... I know it was raining, but ... you cried. You still cried."
"Jack..."
"Go home, Gwen." He smiled. "Go home to Rhys. Even if he's sawing logs. ... I'll see you tomorrow."
She nodded, offering him a shaky smile before heading for the door. As she reached it, she paused. "Jack."
"... yeah, Gwen."
She gestured toward the lachrymatory, hesitantly. "... who ...?"
"Exactly." He nodded cryptically, waving a hand at her. "G'wan."
"Did they ... did they die?"
His eyes were hard, his voice gentle. "Go home, Gwen Cooper."
Only once she'd gone did he return to his chair, his eyes still fixed on the tiny glass vessel. No, Gwen. They didn't quite die. ... I'm just still waiting for his ship to come back in.