[#037] Finding Home (Torchwood)

[badly_knitted]

Theme Prompt: #037 – Reunion
Title: Finding Home
Fandom: Torchwood
Rating/Warnings: PG
Bonus: Yes
Word Count: 1000
Summary: Jack has been travelling the universe by himself for a long time, until he stops at an out of the way planet to stock up on supplies and runs into the last person he expected to see.



Jack had long ago lost track of how long he’d been travelling since he’d left earth again after the miracle that was anything but. It had to have been several decades at least, but after hopping from one planet to another, each with its own way of measuring time, and all the long periods of travel in between… He had forever ahead of him, so what did the passage of time matter? It wasn’t as if he had anywhere he needed to be, or anywhere he belonged for that matter. Whatever homes he’d had for brief periods of time were things of the past; all he could do now was travel, never staying anywhere for long.

Ardoorah was just one more planet among many. He hadn’t planned on going there, because plans were pointless to a footloose immortal, it had simply been the first planet he’d come across since leaving the last one, and as he needed to replenish his shipboard supplies it was as good a place as any to stop, especially since his onboard computers told him there was a spaceport on the main continent, and thriving marketplaces where he could shop for everything he needed.

He wasn’t short of money, he’d accrued considerable wealth over his long life and had lines of credit with the major financial institutions in all sectors, which he tapped into when necessary, but most of the time when he needed some ready cash he simply took on trouble-shooting assignments or bounty-hunting gigs for the various law enforcement agencies. It gave him something to do when his solitary existence became too boring to endure.

Landing and paying all the standard fees, including maintenance and refuelling, Jack slung a bag over his shoulder, rented a small skimmer, and set off for the nearest town.

Callay was nestled at the bottom of a picturesque, green valley that brought a lump to his throat and nostalgic tears to his eyes; it could have been straight out of the Welsh Valleys, and if he hadn’t been in such desperate need of supplies he might well have turned around and gone back to his ship. As it was, he swallowed hard, wiped a sleeve across his damp face, and continued on, aiming his skimmer for the busy marketplace at the edge of the town.

The stalls were laid out in an open, paved area, which was bordered by more permanent structures, small shops and eateries. He parked his skimmer at one of a long row of charging points just beyond the buildings, and plugged it in, then made his way among the stalls, ready to barter or buy the things he needed; food, both fresh and preserved, soft drinks and alcohol, persha leaves to make a kind of tea. He figured he’d pick up a few tradable commodities as well, such as local crafts, and tools; they were always useful things to have on hand for barter. He should restock with medicines while he was at it if he could find a reputable pharmacist, since he’d used up most of what he’d had onboard treating the inhabitants of a village a few star-systems back where an epidemic had broken out. He’d died five times, but had managed to save almost eighty percent of the villagers. Not a bad outcome considering the virulence of the fever.

The bag over his shoulder was getting quite heavy by the time he reached the far side of the marketplace, where the bars and cafés were, and he figured he might as well stop for a bite to eat. Wandering along past the establishments, with their tables arrayed out front beneath awnings, he caught a whiff of something on the air that made his knees go weak; it was all he could do not to collapse in a heap on the paving stones.

Coffee.

Not cheap instant, which he had occasionally come across in his travels, but a rich, full-bodied aroma, redolent of carefully ground and blended beans of the highest quality. Without conscious volition, he pushed open the door of the small café and stepped into the fragrant interior.

There was a man behind the counter, serving a couple of Thalaxians, and Jack stopped halfway across the floor, staring in disbelief at the familiar figure. As if he could feel Jack’s eyes on him, the man looked up,

“Well, there you are at last. I had been going to look for you, but it’s a big universe; thought if I stayed in one place long enough you’d be bound to show up eventually. It’s good to see you, Jack.”

Jack; he hadn’t used that name since the last time he’d left earth. He shook his head in disbelief; this couldn’t be real, he was dreaming, or hallucinating; maybe he was still dying of the fever…

“You can’t be here.” Jack’s voice was a hoarse croak.

“And yet I am.” Ianto Jones came around the counter to stand in front of him; he looked exactly the same, right down to the small scar on his right cheek. He even smelled the same.

“Ianto?”

“Ah, so you haven’t forgotten me.”

The Welsh accent, the almost playful tone of his voice, the tiny smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, his blue-grey eyes and button nose… Jack had tried hard to remember every detail, but his memories still fell short of the reality.

“I thought you were dead!” Jack’s vision blurred with tears and Ianto steered him to a nearby table, sat him down, flipped a sign on the door to ‘Closed’, and joined him.

“Well I was, or so you told me at the House of the Dead, but somehow Syriath remade me, or something, and then I blew up closing the Rift, and after that…” Ianto shrugged. “I woke up here. That was, oh, almost forty years ago. Haven’t aged since; can’t die either.”

“You’re real?”

“So the Doctor says.” Ianto smiled. “Welcome home, Jack. Coffee?”

Jack felt alive again. “Yes, please.”


The End