Title: Jack's Box
Author: Outside Edge
Pairing: gen
Fandom: Torchwood
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: I don't own these characters merely borrow them from time to time.
Note: Have based this fic on the info that has been supplied on Jack in this series so there are no references to what was in Dr Who (mainly because I didn't see it all!!)
Summary: Memories of happier times.

***

It was innocuous enough, a small cigar box, small enough to fit in a pocket. A bit battered around the edges. A brand which didn't even exist anymore. The kind of box which, if you found it in the attic you would throw away. But it didn't hold cigars - it held so much more.

Captain Jack Harkness sat on his bed and regarded the box nestling in his hands. Sighing he opened it and took out one of it's contents. His face softened as he regarded the photo in his hand, it was faded and a little dog eared on the edges from handling, but what 60 year old photograph wasn't these days.

The girl in the bathing costume laughed at him, sunlight glinting off her tousled hair as she leant back again the side of the jetty leading out into the lake. He'd just told her a joke, it was a beautiful hot July day, neither of them had a care in the world. The photo was black and white but he remembered…

Remembered golden hair, a blue swimming costume with white shell details, the smell of her perfume, the touch of her hands, her voice; soft and gentle. With a jolt in his heart he recalled her love for him and his for her.

He reached into the box and took out the lock of hair, still so soft, still golden, tied with a yellow ribbon.

Happy times, better times, before it was all lost in the never-ending struggle and hopelessness of the War.

Life was simple back then, in the War, there was a definite sense of right and wrong, the Allies were right and Hitler was wrong, there was no blurring of the edges. Every time he flew the message was the same 'Get the bastards before they get you'.
Messerschmidt, Stuka, Focke Wulf FW190, whatever it was you shot it down.

A letter, the ink starting to fade, the paper brown with age. In a couple of places the ink had run, her tears or his? "My Dearest Jack…."

Jack swallowed and took a long deep breath to try and calm his emotions.

How had she reacted when she got the news, when the postman delivered that fateful telegram.

"Missing, presumed killed in action."

Had she gone on with her life, married, had kids? He could find out he knew, get Tosh to search the databases. But did he really want to know, to find out she was some wizened old dear in a nursing home somewhere, being spoonfed broth and not knowing her name. Or even worse that she had died. No, best not to know.

He looked at the photo again and smiled. Happy times...

***