Home Sweet Hell
folder
S through Z › Torchwood
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
6
Views:
3,374
Reviews:
2
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
S through Z › Torchwood
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
6
Views:
3,374
Reviews:
2
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
I do not own Torchwood, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.
Home Sweet Hell #3
Home Sweet Hell #3
He feels more at home on the third night, even decides to straighten up the place a little. Gwen's done a pretty good job on the living-room, but there are still things he must do. It takes a good fifteen minutes to decide which pieces he actually likes and can live with, art that isn't all about Lisa and her tastes. Which leaves him with very little, to be honest. He carefully stacks all the rejected items by the door; some charity shop is going to get lucky tomorrow.
The next part is harder. Too hard as it turns out. He certainly can't destroy them, and why should he? He loves her, has done for years now, expects he always will, even if there's ever someone else.... Maybe he should just stash away most of the photos, and leave one or two smiling down on him? Unable to decide, he leaves them in a pile on the windowsill and escapes to what he believes to be the comparative safety of the kitchen. It's not like it needs cleaning, but the flat has a stale, unwelcoming scent from too little living and could do with freshening up.
He has a momentary panic when he realises he doesn't have any cleaning materials in the apartment, aside from a couple of cloths. And that bottle. Nowhere is safe! It's possibly even more personal and evocative than the photographs. But to try to prove to himself that he is getting stronger, he determines to use it, no matter what. So although it takes a while, he removes it from the cupboard, still sporting its pale peach ribbon bow with the handwritten label dangling from it, and places it on the kitchen counter. He stares at it, glares at it, smiles at it.
IANTO, SAW THIS AND THOUGHT OF YOU x Lisa x
When they'd first moved in together in London she had teased him mercilessly about his slovenly habits around the flat, which were in stark contrast to his sharp-dressing at work, and fastidiously neat workstation. This 'gift' had been her gentle way of telling him he needed to pull his weight at home, and to make sure he really got the message she had balanced it on his spotless computer keyboard at Torchwood One. More teasing had followed, from his workmates; Ianto's fallen hard and he's really under the thumb they'd laughed, as they took him out for a lunchtime pint and clapped him on the back to prove they knew how it felt. Sam had even taken a photo of the offending bottle of lemon-scented cleaning fluid and presented it to him with a flourish.
The gang, all gone now. Every last one. Well, apart from him…
He swallows hard and reaches for the bottle with shaking hands; backs off; paces around the kitchen; lunges for it. Once it's in his grasp, it's not quite so difficult. He carefully removes the ribbon and label and places them in a drawer, before setting to work. Still in his dark blue work-shirt, he rolls up his sleeves and gets busy. He thinks he's losing himself in his task, but as he wipes around the unused kettle, he remembers how he'd taken gentle revenge for his domestication by bugging the crap out of Lisa about the state of the kettle, and the quality of her coffee in general. Instant! Heresy!
He's always been fanatical about the quality of his coffee.
And so has Jack…
Do something crazy for me again
He hasn't listened to this track for a very long time, so he isn't sure why the lyrics infiltrates his brain right now. The song conjures up memories of hot, sweaty nights with Lisa in small, dank London clubs; nights that left your shirt sodden and clinging to your skin, your muscles aching well into the next day. Nights about which no-one who knows him, and is still living, has any inkling. The clues are there, if anyone cared to piece them together, but he isn't sure he'd want them to. Why would he want anyone to know anything about him? About the man he used to be before shit happened...
Do something crazy for me again
Call me up, I need a friend
Lose your mind, just one more time
I wanna see you again
The doorbell sound no longer frightens him, and a strange sense of inevitability wraps around him. This has to be why, has to be! He chews on his lip as he walks to the door. If he's wrong about this, he may just cry…
***
Lyrics: Do Something Crazy - The Mighty Mighty Busstones
TBC
He feels more at home on the third night, even decides to straighten up the place a little. Gwen's done a pretty good job on the living-room, but there are still things he must do. It takes a good fifteen minutes to decide which pieces he actually likes and can live with, art that isn't all about Lisa and her tastes. Which leaves him with very little, to be honest. He carefully stacks all the rejected items by the door; some charity shop is going to get lucky tomorrow.
The next part is harder. Too hard as it turns out. He certainly can't destroy them, and why should he? He loves her, has done for years now, expects he always will, even if there's ever someone else.... Maybe he should just stash away most of the photos, and leave one or two smiling down on him? Unable to decide, he leaves them in a pile on the windowsill and escapes to what he believes to be the comparative safety of the kitchen. It's not like it needs cleaning, but the flat has a stale, unwelcoming scent from too little living and could do with freshening up.
He has a momentary panic when he realises he doesn't have any cleaning materials in the apartment, aside from a couple of cloths. And that bottle. Nowhere is safe! It's possibly even more personal and evocative than the photographs. But to try to prove to himself that he is getting stronger, he determines to use it, no matter what. So although it takes a while, he removes it from the cupboard, still sporting its pale peach ribbon bow with the handwritten label dangling from it, and places it on the kitchen counter. He stares at it, glares at it, smiles at it.
IANTO, SAW THIS AND THOUGHT OF YOU x Lisa x
When they'd first moved in together in London she had teased him mercilessly about his slovenly habits around the flat, which were in stark contrast to his sharp-dressing at work, and fastidiously neat workstation. This 'gift' had been her gentle way of telling him he needed to pull his weight at home, and to make sure he really got the message she had balanced it on his spotless computer keyboard at Torchwood One. More teasing had followed, from his workmates; Ianto's fallen hard and he's really under the thumb they'd laughed, as they took him out for a lunchtime pint and clapped him on the back to prove they knew how it felt. Sam had even taken a photo of the offending bottle of lemon-scented cleaning fluid and presented it to him with a flourish.
The gang, all gone now. Every last one. Well, apart from him…
He swallows hard and reaches for the bottle with shaking hands; backs off; paces around the kitchen; lunges for it. Once it's in his grasp, it's not quite so difficult. He carefully removes the ribbon and label and places them in a drawer, before setting to work. Still in his dark blue work-shirt, he rolls up his sleeves and gets busy. He thinks he's losing himself in his task, but as he wipes around the unused kettle, he remembers how he'd taken gentle revenge for his domestication by bugging the crap out of Lisa about the state of the kettle, and the quality of her coffee in general. Instant! Heresy!
He's always been fanatical about the quality of his coffee.
And so has Jack…
Do something crazy for me again
He hasn't listened to this track for a very long time, so he isn't sure why the lyrics infiltrates his brain right now. The song conjures up memories of hot, sweaty nights with Lisa in small, dank London clubs; nights that left your shirt sodden and clinging to your skin, your muscles aching well into the next day. Nights about which no-one who knows him, and is still living, has any inkling. The clues are there, if anyone cared to piece them together, but he isn't sure he'd want them to. Why would he want anyone to know anything about him? About the man he used to be before shit happened...
Do something crazy for me again
Call me up, I need a friend
Lose your mind, just one more time
I wanna see you again
The doorbell sound no longer frightens him, and a strange sense of inevitability wraps around him. This has to be why, has to be! He chews on his lip as he walks to the door. If he's wrong about this, he may just cry…
***
Lyrics: Do Something Crazy - The Mighty Mighty Busstones
TBC