m_findlow

Title: Love lost
Fandom: Torchwood
Characters/Pairings: Jack
Word Count: 500 words
Rating: PG
Notes: Written for Challenge 16 - Heartbroken at anythingdrabble. Spoilers for Ep 1.5 Small Worlds.
Summary: Jack mourns for his lost love

He hated himself for coming back here. After the treatment he'd received from his own team however, he'd had to get out. He only wished his feet hadn't taken him here.

The house was so empty without her. The back door still hung open, water droplets leading from it all the way down the hall. He'd carried her inside, and then all the way to the front of the house, gently setting her down on the back seat of the SUV for her final journey.

He stepped tentatively into the kitchen, finding the roll of paper towel, and began the process of wiping up the water. Moses appeared and mewled mournfully at him.

It shouldn't have ended like this, he thought. She should have died peacefully in bed. Instead he'd brought horror and death right to her doorstep.

She was so full of life, beautiful even now, though she staunchly denied it when he told her so, sitting across from her, sipping tea. 'So much like your father,' she'd say. 'He was a real charmer as well.'

He had been. He'd waltzed into that dance hall and spotted her as the prettiest girl in the room. He'd dance with her even if it killed him. She was too smart to be taken in by his charms and his good looks, making him work hard for his dance. Once he had it though, it was as if all the stars and planets had aligned. He made her laugh and she made him happy. He wanted that night to last forever.

They courted for months, talking long walks, picnics, even a movie which was so outrageously modern. She talked endlessly about books she'd read, and questioned him about all the places he'd travelled. He silenced her with tales of adventure and sweet kisses. He'd been so close to getting down on one knee to make an honest woman of her. Then the war came, and he had to go.

He thought of her every day, writing letters as often as he could. Then something changed. He'd died so many times out in the battlefield that he realised even if he did make it home, years from now, he couldn't ask her to marry him. He was never going to die. It was a curse; one he didn't want to burden her with. So he stopped writing letters. It broke his heart to think that she probably thought him dead, and that she'd grieve for him.

Only years later did he find her again, explaining that he was his father's son and that he'd found her letters, written during the war. He never said anything more about his father. It was enough just to see her again, still as vivacious as always. He knew now he should have let things be.

She'd scolded him for only seeing the bad, and he argued she only saw the good. He'd been right. She'd only seen the good in him and it had cost her dearly.