Title: Jack's Wife
By: x-juicy-lucy-x
Pairing: past Jack/Lizzie & implied Jack/Ianto
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: I don't own anything. Wish i did, then i could hug them all whenever i wanted. Everything belongs to RTD.
Summary: What was Jack thinking about at the end of something borrowed?

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Cardiff, February 2008

Jack sat at his desk an old Walnut chest, intricately inlaid with mahogany, in front of him, a battered old tin in one hand and an old yellowed creased picture in the other. He placed the tin on the table and stared at the picture of him and Lizzie on their wedding day. Elizabeth Harkness. She was so beautiful, and he had essentially ruined her life by marrying her. Mrs Holroyd had been right, everything he touched turned to tears. A sound on the stairs made him jump and placing the photo back in the tin swiftly, but forgetting to close it; he looked up to find Gwen looking at him.

"I came to thank you." She smiled. "Thank you for saving my life, for saving Rhys' life and for my wedding. I can't tell you…" she stopped, and came closer, looking at his face intently. "Is everything ok Jack?"

"Weddings… they just bring a tear to my eye." He replied, trying to joke his way out of the corner she was unwittingly trapping him in. She frowned.

"It looks like more than that." She came to join him, and saw the picture in the unclosed tin. "But, that's you!" she gasped.

"Yes." He replied quietly.

"You're married?"

"I was married." He corrected her. "A long time ago."

"Rhys won't mind if I stop to talk for a bit. He's screwed up the flights, they're not until tomorrow morning instead of this morning, so he's packing as penance." She grinned as Jack guffawed.

"Husbands will always let you down." He told her. "I know I did."

"What's her name?" Gwen asked picking up the photo and looking at it. She didn't comment on the fact that he hadn't aged, even though this picture must have been from the early 1900's, she was used to it now, had seen the photos in Estelle's house.

"Elizabeth, Lizzie. My Lizzie." He sighed and straightened in his chair a little, opening the box. Gwen recognised that he was about to tell her a story, and sat down on the chair opposite him.

Cardiff, 1905

She twirled, a girlish smile on her face, the hem of her dress spinning out from her ankles, the silk thread and pearl beading sparkling in the sunlight. She stopped, facing away from the window, he could imagine what she was doing. What she was saying to the other women in the room, her mother, her sisters. He knew that if she knew he was watching her from the street, she'd be mad at him, tell him it was bad luck. It wouldn't make any difference, he liked it when she got mad, when her nose wrinkled gently. Her eyes would glisten, and she couldn't say mad for long; she would start laughing at him, and his puppy dog eyes.

All the same, when she turned back to the window to open it, he ducked down out of sight.

"That's odd. I thought I saw someone out there." He heard her voice float down to him. There was a rustling and he imagined her spinning again. "Do you really think he'll like it? You're not just saying that to get me to be quiet?"

"He'll love it Bets, he loves you, he's marrying you, he wouldn't mind if you went to church naked." He chuckled, Livvy didn't know how close to the truth she was. He knew what his Lizzie would be doing, though. She hated it when her sisters called her Betsy. Said it was far too common for a girl about to marry an officer, and had insisted that they all adopt Lizzie or Elizabeth. Livvy being the elder refused to, saying it was silly snobbery.

"Are you sure though Olivia? You don't think it's too fussy?" his fiancée's worried voice came to him on the wind as he crouched behind some barrels. He would have to move soon, otherwise he knew he'd start quoting Romeo and Juliet at her, or his knees would freeze and he'd have to marry her kneeling down the next day. He heard the window shut, and judged it safe to stand again. Just in time to see her sister helping her out of the dress. Was that what she'd be wearing under it tomorrow? Oh he was going to enjoy his wedding night. He was also just in time to see the youngest sister Rebecca look out the window. He groaned, Rebecca was too young she was bound to say…

"Hello Jack!" she said it so loud he heard through the glass down on the street. His fiancée spun to the window, hands flying to her mouth, and then to the low cut of the silk corset that was all that protected her dignity. The window opened as he span on the spot and bolted. Her voice, usually so light and sweet, followed him like a fishwife cursing.

"Jack Harkness, you get back here, you hear me! Come back here!"

He laughed as he ran, breathless and merry, second thoughts never came to Jack, even if his wife did sound like a caterwauling fish wife when she was angry. Once he was a block away- and safe from any possible pursuers; his fiancée's brothers might have been downstairs for all he knew- he slowed down and walked jovially to the Hub, whistling 'I'm getting married in the morning.' The two women there looked at each other and sighed.

"Young love, eh Mrs H?"

"Hmmm, young love indeed." Emily Holroyd replied to her companion, a woman who looked no older than Jack himself. "That's as maybe, but in this profession, and with that young chappy, it'll only end in tears." Jack didn't let on that he heard the cynical comments, but chose to quietly ignore them.

Cardiff 3am, 4th August 1914

"Jack, Jack Harkness?" a voice called up to the window that he'd stood beneath 8 years before.

"If that's someone from your bloody work, Jack, I'm going to kill you." His wife said sleepily from where she was nestled in the crook of his arm.

"I'd better see what the lad wants." Jack murmured gently, kissing her forehead beneath her frilly nightcap.

"Jack, Jack Harkness?" the voice repeated.

"Who wants to know." Jack called down, his voice a low grumble.

"The Gov'ness says you've to report to base 'mediately sir. There's summat big happenin'."

"Big?" he asked the lad he now recognised as the shoe shine boy from outside of the Hub. He was discreet enough that he was frequently used for messages and usually knew what was happening. "What kind of big, the usual big, or government kind of big?"

"Gov'ment kinda big, sir. I 'eard mention o' war sir." Jack nodded.

"Wait there lad, I'll give you a lift back to your spot." He turned to see Elizabeth sitting up in bed, tendrils of curly hair escaping her cap, her nightdress hanging open at the neck. He looked at her hungrily, wishing there was time to say a proper good morning, and goodbye. She always looked ravishing in the morning, and he usually found it hard to resist. As if sensing his feelings she rose from the bed, tying the laces at the neck back up.

"I'll make you some tea." She murmured to him, kissing him as he undid the laces on his own nightgown. "Some sandwiches for all of you too. The Governess won't have thought of you all needing to eat, and I don't expect she'll be letting you home in a hurry." She left the room.

By the time he was dressed and in the kitchen a large brown paper bag was sat in it, filled with sandwiches. A steaming mug of tea was next to it, and the Flask that would eventually evolve into the Thermos flask sat next to it too. Jack had designed it, wanting a decent cup of coffee whilst out on a stakeout. He lifted the mug of tea and between gulps said to his wife.

"When I hear anything that I can pass on, I'll send the lad here. Alright?" She nodded.

"It won't be alright though, will it? This is one of those dates you have marked in your diary, one of those days that change the world." She looked at him. "I'm used to being alone, I'm used to be being a Torchwood widow, because you always come back. I don't think I could bear being a war widow."

"Who said anything about a war?" He asked, a little too jovially.

"You just did." She said sadly. "There's been enough speculation, enough rumour. That Archduke being assassinated, that was another of your dates." She shook her head. "Sometimes I don't know who you are. You predict all these huge events in that diary of yours, but you never do anything about them. The Jack Harkness I thought I knew would do something. That Titanic sinking, that was 1200 lives you could've saved. You sat a vigil all night, crying like you knew something was happening, but you did nothing to stop it." She looked at him, her eyes watery. "How do you know all these things Jack, and why don't you try to help?"

"I am helping." He said, ignoring, for the millionth time, the first question. "I have this friend. He sees the world differently, he can see all of time, and he can see, knows instantaneously, fixed points, what's meant to happen, and the bad things that shouldn't happen. I travelled with him for a time, and he taught me some of how to recognise the difference. It hurts, but some things define the world, they make it a better place. The Titanic had to sink, because otherwise we wouldn't have the ice patrol, or the stricter regulations on ships, and Marconi wouldn't be seen as being so important on board ships. This has to happen. People will die, and it will hurt, but this is a fixed point. If I try and stop it, the world would go crazy."

"Then how are you helping?" she said, imploringly. He put the mug down and held her hands.

"I stop the things that shouldn't happen yet from happening. I make sure that the things that have to happen don't go too far. And most of all, I look for my Doctor so he can try and fix me, so that I don't see this anymore." He glossed over the fact that when he said he didn't want to see this anymore, he didn't mean the status of events, he meant that he didn't want to see the events that had to happen, the deaths that he couldn't stop, happening first hand. But he knew that he wouldn't find him again, not until the century had done its turn. And there was a lot of pain to be seen before then. He kissed both her hands, then both her cheeks, picked up his jacket and the sandwiches she'd packed and left before she realised that once again he'd ignored her first question. He always did that, they both thought as it occurred to them, Lizzie with a stab of annoyance, Jack with a stab of guilt. But then, Lizzie thought, if he doesn't want to tell me, then I probably don't want to know, or don't need to know. But, Jack thought, if I tell her that I'm from the 51st century, and that I'm around 90 years old, and can't die, work for an agency that was set up by Queen Victoria (because she met my doctor friend in 1869 after he'd abandoned me in the 42nd Century) to seek out alien life on Earth, she'd never, ever, ever believe me. And so, both of them decided to ignore the unanswered question in their marriage once again.

Jack arrived at the meeting a little later than he should have. It was late and he'd wanted to make sure that the boy was safe at home before he went into the Hub. Cardiff wasn't safe for boys at this time of night these days; he might unwittingly get drafted by one of the gangs, one of the pimps or the army. He was mildly angry with Torchwood for sending the kid to find him, but the Governess never thought of these things. Besides, he must have been hanging around the Hub for Dai to find him… Dai met him at the door, took the futuristic long coat from him and told him where the Governess was having her meeting. Jack walked in silently, knowing what was waiting for him when he got in there.

Dai watched him walk in, his back straight and shoulders firm, but sagging slightly like he had the weight of the world on his shoulders. He shook his head, Jack had been like this much more often the previous few weeks. He knew there was something going on; he was only the doorman, the one who organised their coffee and their transport, but he wasn't blind; he knew what was happening. As much as that lot did, anyway… except for Jack.

"Jack always knows what's going on." he said to the empty vestibule.

Cardiff 24th December 1914

Jack,

I told you I was used to being a Torchwood widow, but now, now I should be a War Widow. I see them all walking down the street; you can tell which ones have lost their husband or their sons from the blank look on their face. I know the face well, because I wear it too.

But I've never had that telegram, never had the news that you're dead, so I don't know why I'm wearing it. I have no reason to, and yet I do. You promised me you would send me word, that you'd be back, but that morning in August, oh so many months ago, that day when you walked out of the door at 3.30 in the morning, that was the last time I saw you. The last time you kissed me. The last time you said you'd be back soon.

It's Christmas now; mother's decided that all of us should gather in our town house, so I'm writing this at your desk, on your paper, with Rebecca asleep in our bed behind me. She bought a goose with her, and Livvy brought vegetables and potatoes from the farm. She's in the spare room with her children. Maybe I should have had children, maybe that would have tied you to me. A big fir tree arrived the other day, no one here bought it. There was no tag on it. Did you send it Jack? Is that you telling me that you're safe, that you haven't forgotten me?

It's late and I can hear the children stirring. I should sleep; if I look tired tomorrow, mother will nag me for worrying my head, say that I'm no use to anyone in this state. But I'm no use anyway, because I'm here, and you're wherever you are.

Yours forever

Lizzie.

Cardiff 21st February, 1915.

Jack,

It's your birthday, so happy birthday cheri. I baked you a cake before I remembered that you weren't going to be here, so I took some of it with me on a walk to the Bay. I sat near where you took me that time, for New Year, and ate it watching the sea. I could see some ships out there, and I couldn't help but wonder if you were on them. I thought at one point, just for a moment, that I saw someone, I don't know who or what, just someone watching me as I sat there. I thought it might be you. I hoped it was you.

I bought you some new ties for your birthday, navy blue to match your shirts. I'd buy you more, but with things as they are, the war and money being tight, I couldn't afford anything else. The money from whoever you work for has stopped. There's no sign of life down in the Bay, Jack, are they all with you? And no one will employ me; they say there's really no point, since the bump's showing. I can't fool anyone or even myself anymore; rather annoying really, but I suppose at least I'll soon have a link to you that no one can take away. I'm sorry I didn't write you sooner with the news. Until the bump showed, I just put the lack of monthly events down to stress from you not being here. Now, like I said, I can't fool myself anymore. I'm almost 7 months gone. Mother's moved in, and she's teaching me to knit. I'm making socks and baby clothes like there's no tomorrow.

To help with money, Livvy suggested I moved out to her on the farm, but I can't bear to leave… What if you came back and couldn't find me? So instead I've taken in a lodger. She's French, a lovely sweet girl. She met one of our soldiers over in France and he sent her home to Cardiff. His parents won't take her in, say they won't until he comes home and marries her properly. She's working as a governess over in the big house. An au pair she calls it, and is teaching me French as well, hence the cheri at the beginning.

I should go get on, the pies won't bake themselves.

Yours forever, Cariad.

Cardiff 14th August 1915

Cher Jacques.

That's how Antoinine says the French spell it. It looks prettier, I think, mon cher Jacques.

If I write that often enough, will it bring you home? It's been a year now. For the mothers of soldiers, they've still got some time until that date, but not me. Time seems to have flown. Rebecca is married to a nice naval officer; I've got him looking for you. If you ever hear of a Lieutenant Forbes asking after you, that's our Rebecca's husband. Go and find him for me? Tell him that you're safe for me?

I saw the urchin who got you out of bed that last night the other day. He was shining shoes on the high street. He shouldn't have recognised me, not with my baby on one arm and a basket full of shilling pies in the other. Antoinine and I have started selling pies on the street, it works quite well, we each have a different patch, and we take it in turns to look after the baby. Mother bakes more back at home, and we turned the downstairs drawing room into a little shop for her to sell them out of. Anyway, that street urchin did recognise me. He said he tried to find you later, to see if you needed to send me a message, but the Governess told him sharply that he was never to mention that name again. What happened Jack? Why did she say that? Are you supposed to be dead? A spy maybe? But if you were that, couldn't you have let me know? Surely if you are a spy all my searching is putting you at risk?

After I saw Archie, that's the boy's name, I took the baby down to the Bay. There was no one there when I got there, but there was this odd whirring noise after a while, and something appeared a little bit further over than me. It was a little shocking, to tell you the truth. A blue box that said 'Police Public Call Box'. I couldn't work out what it was, and then these two people came out of it. I remembered you writing something about a blue box, but I didn't remember until I got home, then it was too late. It had gone by the time I got back. I thought maybe they might have answers for me.

The pies are done, and Mother's arth-right-us, (that's what you called it isn't it?) is getting worse, so I've got to get them out for her.

Little Jack and I send our prayers, Cariad. Je t'aime.

Cardiff May 1917

Jack,

Mon cher Jacques.

It's been so long. Sometimes I can't quite picture you anymore. It scares me. This letter is the hardest I've had to write. I can't afford the house anymore. Mother has died, and Antoinine will be leaving me soon; her soldier came home missing a leg, and she's going to go look after him. So me and little Jack are going to Aunt Livvy's. There's a nice little community there now, all the family have moved up there; Rebecca and her little one, Livvy and the children of course, and then Rupert and Lionel's wives have moved up there as well. It has been deemed cheaper, and better for all of us.

I don't know when, or if you'll come home. I'm not selling the house, just giving it to the hospital for a small fee. They're all overcrowded still from that big battle in Le Somme. I keep having nightmares that you were there, that you're lying dead in a ditch and your dog tags are missing so I haven't been told, or that you're one of the burns victims that are being moved into our house. That you've lost your memory and your face is burnt so it's all bandaged so that no one can see that it's you. You weren't there, were you Jack? Please, please, please don't have been there.

Hoping and praying that you'll be home soon.

Your ever loving Lizzie

Outskirts of Cardiff, 14th November 1918

Jack,

These letters, I'm afraid, have been few and far between. It's been busy on the farm, the cows need milking and the sheep and pigs feeding, Little Jack enjoys feeding the chickens though, so that's one less job that his mummy and his aunties need to worry about. He's 3 ½ now, and a precocious little devil. I wish you could see him, Jack. I know you'd be proud.

The news of the Armistice reached us today. Three days late, but we are in the countryside, so I guess I can forgive the rumour mill for being slow about getting out here. But the war is over, and I am hoping against hope that that means you'll be coming home soon. Are you on your way here Jack? Have you just been to the townhouse and found it abandoned apart from the box filled with my letters? Are you coming up the path as I write this letter?

No, I didn't think it was you, just the postman. Rebecca received a telegram from her husband's mother. He's doing fine, and she says he'll be home soon, so there really is no point in Rebecca going to Southampton, especially as she's eight months pregnant from last time she was there. Jack's thrilled at the idea of another cousin, and little Kate is not as impressed at the idea of a second sibling; she doesn't like sharing. I'll leave this letter in the usual place, as I can't post them to you, and hope that you return soon to find them.

Lizzie.

July, 1919

Jack, my dearest Jack.

I am crying as I write this. After waiting four months for you to return, I went to the mayor's office in Cardiff, and asked if he knew when you'd be returning. I must have looked a fright, in my old dress, my best day dress, the one you bought me for picnics in the park. It has seen much better days, as have I, I suppose. I went in the next day, and they apologised, but there was no record of you at all. No birth certificate, no mention of you in any of the war documents, the lists of the enlisted, the lists of the officers, the lists of the dead. I told them that you were American, and they said that might explain the lack of birth certificate, but then there should be an immigration form or certificate. They told me that you can't legally exist. But seeing my distress, and hearing my sisters' confirmation that you do exist, and Archie's as well, (he came to work on the farm with us. Quite the strapping charmer) they agreed with Olivia that you should be declared legally dead.

And so here I am, writing to tell you, that you are technically and legally dead. But, Cariad, I don't for a second believe it. I will leave this letter, this last letter in our box beneath the stairs, and then Little Jack, Archie and I are leaving to live with Rebecca. Her husband's mother is getting on, and money is of course tight, so Rebecca can't cope with her invalid husband, almost invalid mother-in-law and two children. Also, I don't want to be near Olivia after she betrayed me like this.

Come find me, my love, I'll always wait for you.

Cardiff, 1921

It was two years later that Jack, travel-worn and dusty, stood upon the steps to his townhouse and knocked to find a young French woman and her husband living there. Awkwardly he scratched his head.

"I'm sorry, I used to live here, a long time ago." He turned to leave, and reached the street before the French voice called out to him.

"You are Jacques? Capitaine Jacques 'Arknesse?" she asked him.

"Yes." He replied, his cap literally in his hand.

"I lived with your wife, during the war. I was an au pair, and she needed l'argent." He nodded. "Viens, viens." She beckoned him drawing him into the hall, so familiar and so alien. "She left things for you, in case you should return." She ushered him to the kitchen and sat him at the table. His table. The one that 6 years ago he had picked up a paper bag and a thermos from before leaving. She set an inlaid wooden box in front of him. "These are letters that she wrote you. Some were destroyed by damp, others by mice that lived here when it was a hospital, but I saved as many as I could." He looked at her, confused. "It is all in there. Two things I think you should know before you read them though." She said it hurriedly, glancing at her husband. "Oui, oui, it is a shock that… oh cheri." She smiled through a few tears. "You are a father, he will be five or six now, I think. Your wife lives in Ham-shire with him. And also, you were declared legally dead two years ago. There was no evidence to say otherwise, Lizzie was terribly worried about you, when you didn't come home at the end of the war, she went to the mayor's office and they could find no proof that you exist, ignoring if you are alive, and they declared you dead. Lizzie got all your money, left some with me 'gainst your return and left." It was a lot of information to take in, and Jack stared at her for a while.

"I, I should go." He said finally, "Thank you for your hospitality, and your help. I'll leave you in peace." He stood and, tucking the box under his arm, strode out of the room, nodding to her husband as he went.

He walked to the Bay, where he knew those in the Hub would be waiting for his report, the Governess, Mrs Holroyd, Dai. He decided that they could wait, and he leaned on a wall reading the old yellowed paper covered in his wife's worries in her beautifully curved writing. He stayed there until Dai came for him. When he went back into the Hub he ignored the Governess's angry foot tapping and wrote two notes.

"Post this one. Send this one to my old Townhouse." He said simply to Dai as he walked to the office on the Mezzanine of the Hub.

Antoinine nearly cried aloud when she read the note. When she showed her husband, he nearly stormed to the Bay where they knew he worked. It was simple enough. "Never tell her I came back. She's safer this way."

When Lizzie received her note, she smiled, and stored it in a box full of keepsakes. She never showed it to anyone, and never told her son that she knew where his father was, that he was alive. Once she closed the box that final time, she never mentioned him again, and in the weeks before she died she had it burnt, by a man no one had seen before, who looked younger than her son, but wiser than the oldest doctor in the town. The only reference to his father Little Jack ever found was in her will and it was so obscure he was never sure what it meant. Her funeral however, marked the end of the town's haunting by a tall dark haired man in a military trench coat that flapped in the wind.

Cardiff, February 2008

"You only went back to see her that once?" Gwen asked, sniffling a little and wiping her eyes on the large white handkerchief that Jack had given her half way through. He smiled at her.

"I saw her all the time, at least twice a year. I couldn't stay away. She always saw me, but we, we never spoke. Not until I got the letter from her saying that she was dying. I went to see her then." He looked at Gwen, tears welling up. "How could I not? It was her dying wish, and I have always, always loved her."

"The will, you said she mentioned you in it." Gwen frowned and watched as Jack stood up. He went to the closet in the corner and brought out two dresses, one was the one from the picture, the other was blue, frayed along the hem but beautiful. "She left you her favourite dresses." She smiled in realisation. Jack nodded and hung them on the back of the door.

"I… I did think about giving you her wedding dress; it would suit you, but I decided against it, it would have been too odd." Gwen giggled.

"I would have been honoured, but, that's really old fashioned!"

"I know." Jack scrubbed his eyes with the back of his hand. "God, look at me." He laughed. "It was in fashion then, but I always did prefer what she wore underneath it!" Gwen threw a cushion at him.

"Jack! That's awful!" he shrugged, threw the cushion back and put the dresses back in the closet. "Have you ever told Ianto?"

"No." he said decisively. "And I don't think I ever will. It's too close, too personal, and too much like what I'm feeling now. I don't want him to see how this might end, not yet." Gwen nodded; that did make a little sense.

"What about your son?"

"He followed his father's footsteps, joined the RAF. He died. He didn't take my surname; he used his mother's. I only met him once, and it was long before I knew he existed." Gwen frowned; that made no sense, but she ignored it. Jack rarely made sense.

"So, where were you? In the war, why didn't you come back?"

"You know where I was, I told you when you met Estelle. I was in Africa, and then I went Fairy hunting. By the time I'd done everything Torchwood wanted me to do, the war was long over, and Lizzie was long gone." He paused, "In her letters, she mentions thinking she was being watched. Torchwood Cardiff closed its operations during the War; everyone was needed elsewhere, but Dai didn't join up; he had a heart murmur, and the army didn't want him. So he kept an eye on her for me. Told me what Lizzie was doing. Antoinine's big news wasn't that much of a shock, really." He looked at Gwen, took the photo back off her and put it back in the tin. Under it she glimpsed other photos, more stories for another time. He put the tin back in the chest and closed the lid decisively. The chat was over, Gwen knew, and she stood up, walked around the desk and hugged him hard. She kissed his cheeks and let go.

"I should go, Rhys will be wondering… would you like to come for lunch?" Jack brightened a little at the offer.

"No, no, I'm going to go find Ianto. You have fun with your husband Mrs Williams, make the most of it." He smiled as she nodded and left, then picked up the phone. The call went straight to voicemail. "Ianto, it's Jack, I guess you're still wedding fairied out. I'm coming round, with croissants and pain au chocolat. Put the coffee machine on, but go back to bed mister."

***