Title:  Invincible Summer (1/6)

Author:  Emma

Characters: Tish Jones, John Hart, Andy Davidson

Rating: R

Disclaimer: Oh, please. If I owned them, would I let some of those idiots write the scripts? And if I were making any money off them, would I be where they could find me?

Spoilers: None. This takes place in my Homecoming AU, a year or so after The Hour of the Wolf

Summary: The Year That Never Was comes back to haunt Tish Jones and it’s up to John and Andy to help her exorcise the ghost.

Author’s Note: I have no idea as to where to cross-post this. Suggestions are appreciated.

In the depth of winter, I finally learned that within me there lay an invincible summer. Camus.

            The small house – and how typical of Jack Harkness to call the elegant Italianate villa a country cottage – nestled high above the bay, surrounded by a luxurious garden.  A path led through a wildflower-dotted meadow and into the woods behind it. The only connection to the outside world was through an access lane that meandered upwards to join the Eastbourne road on the other side of the hill.

            Tish Jones pulled into the parking area in the courtyard at the rear of the house. As in most places she had seen during the drive, the formal entry faced the ocean side, and it was the kitchen entrance that saw all the traffic. This one was beautifully landscaped. Opposite the parking area, a retaining wall held the hill back; two small pear trees had been espaliered on it, and a wrought-iron bench placed between them. Tish could see herself sitting there in the morning sipping hot tea and listening to the distant, faint sound of the surf. Near the door, in a sunny spot, a tiny kitchen garden was planted with herbs and lavender.

            Leaving the suitcase for later she opened the door and went in. The kitchen was a long, narrow room running the whole length of the house. Martha had mentioned that after getting the house Jack and Ianto had completely modernised the interior, but it looked like most of the work had been structural, because the kitchen was a Victorian showplace. Even the ultramodern appliances were cleverly disguised.

            At the other end of the room, an antique oak table and chairs had been placed next to a window. On its center, a beautiful ceramic jug held lavender and hot pink roses. A cream-colored envelope was propped against the jug. Tish recognized Ianto's expensive stationary. She giggled in delight at the formal Doctor Letitia Jones, PhD in Jack's most elegant handwriting. It was their own personal joke, addressing each other by their full name and title with punctilious courtesy, a charm, Tish had come to realize, against the memory of being only freak and slave. Opening the envelope, she pulled out the note and read:

             Tish, sweetheart,

            Welcome to the Beekeeper's Cottage. We hope you make yourself at home. Nuestra casa es vuestra casa. Remember, everything has been taken care of, so all you need to do is relax. Take the first bedroom on the right at the top of the stairs. You'll see why.

            Jack and Ianto

            All you need to do is relax. Tish wondered if she ever could. After the Valiant, she had not been able to face going back to public relations. The idea of manipulating people's opinions and feelings made her nauseous, but she had to do something or go insane. At Jack's suggestion she had gone back to University, courtesy of the Torchwood slush fund, sampling everything and anything. Almost immediately she had discovered a facility for languages and a craving to know and understand other cultures and society. With her teachers' encouragement it had been an easy leap to anthropological linguistics.

            Even before she had completed her undergraduate degree, Torchwood had come knocking on her door. It's very simple, Jack had told her. We have languages to study that require a more extensive knowledge of the real Universe than the average don has and a radioactive-level security clearance. You have both.

            It turned out she had a talent for alien languages and cultures. She had immersed herself in the work and never looked back. Until a few months' before, when her father's sudden death had thrown her into a downward spiral. She had panic attacks triggered by sounds – the clanging of metal doors drove her to her knees – and she had started to sleepwalk again. After a particularly bad episode, Francine had summoned Jack, who had prescribed rest and relaxation. When she balked he had given her an ultimatum: the cottage or St. Michael's psychiatric evaluation ward.

            A low rumble of thunder drew her out of her memories. The sky had darkened; she could see clouds moving rapidly inland. Ianto had mentioned that this time of year storms could come up quite suddenly. She decided to unpack and then explore the house a little before supper.

            The kitchen opened into a short corridor heading to the two-story foyer. Semicircular stairs with an elaborate banister led to the first floor. About halfway up, a shorter flight branched out, leading to the back of the house. She could see a single door at the end of a short corridor. Knowing Jack's tastes, Tish was willing to bet that a luxurious master suite lay hidden behind that door.

            She continued up to the first floor landing. Three doors led to guest bedrooms. As instructed, she took her suitcase into the first one on the right, and found herself sighing in delight.

            The room was obviously designed with a woman in mind. A huge bed with a curved, padded headboard was dressed in cream linens trimmed with Irish lace. Beyond it, French doors led to a tiny balcony. Matching linen drapes framed the stunning view beyond. On the wall opposite the bed a fireplace was flanked with shelves holding books and antiques. A chaise had been placed near the fireplace, with an elegant standing lamp and a table just big enough for a tea tray beside it. The last wall was occupied by an enormous armoire with mirrored doors. At the far end, a door led into a tiny but perfectly appointed bathroom. Next to the bed, another small table held more lavender and roses.

            She circled the room, delighting her senses with the scents and textures of this perfect sanctuary. She lay down on the chaise, stretching luxuriously, noticing that it had a good view of the cliffs and the sea beyond. She buried her face in the flowers, filling her lungs with the soft scents. She explored the bookcase, amused by the inclusion of several volumes of Victorian pornography among the mysteries and biographies.

            Her plan to unpack was abandoned when she threw open the armoire doors and found an exquisite peignoir and nightgown set in her favorite gold-brown shade hanging inside. A small note was pinned to the hanger: there is a time where sweats no longer do. Ianto. 

            She burst into tears. She slept in gray t-shirts and sweatpants, hating any reminder of the times she had been forced to wear seductive clothes to be displayed as a trophy, but also hating the fears that kept her from indulging her feminine side. She struggled for control, then gave up and cried for what seemed like hours. There was an odd kind of joy in feeling safe enough to let go and stop being strong. Part of her relished the outburst while at the same time another part felt both terrified and disgusted at the loss of control.

            When the emotional storm subsided, she found that the real storm had moved in. Rain and wind lashed the window, and thunder rolled directly overhead. Tish felt soothed by the sounds. She decided to treat herself to an utterly lazy, sensuous evening. Checking the bathroom shelves, she found them stocked with a collection of expensive bath products, including her own favorite, Guerlain's L’Heure Bleue.  She started the tub, then ran downstairs to assemble a tray of fruit, cheese, and biscuits. She found a bottle of champagne cooling (thank you, Jack), and flutes in the glass cupboard. Back in the bathroom, she sprinkled the steaming water with bath oil, arranged her kitchen loot on the bathroom tray (thank you, Ianto), then sank back into the steaming water, flute in one hand and a bunch of grapes on the other.

            She stayed in until her fingers and toes turned pruney, replenishing the water as it cooled and dozing from time to time. When she emerged, she wrapped herself in one of the enormous bath sheets, patted herself dry, and slathered all over with rich cream. In conscious defiance of her resurrected terror, she crawled into bed nude.

            She surprised herself by sleeping through the night and waking up rested. The storm had spent itself overnight. The sky was a gorgeous blue and the ocean beyond the cliffs looked like a sheet of glass. She spent the day exploring the house and grounds, listening to music, sampling the goodies in the pantry, and reading. She couldn’t remember being so relaxed in years.

            The next day she decided to walk to Fulworth. The town nested in the curve of the bay and could be reached by a couple of miles’ walk along the rocky beach. Steps had been cut into the cliff from the far end of the rose garden to a secluded cove directly below the house. She meandered along, stopping often to inspect the tidal pools dotting the beach, to examine the glittery foam at the edge of the surf, or just to admire the picture-postcard beauty of the small town. Fulworth was obviously an undiscovered gem. There was no sign of the pseudo-quaint “tea shoppes” or game arcades so ubiquitous in the more popular seaside resorts. Its single paved street was lined with cottages in varying states of repair and shops patronised by locals. Steep lanes climbed up towards the homes of the wealthier inhabitants. One, wider and paved with brick, led to the lychgate of a squat Norman church.

            As she reached the paved section of road, Tish caught the succulent scents of baking. Tossing dietary caution to the winds, she made a beeline for a small shop with outdoor bistro-style tables already crowded with folk indulging in high-calorie treats. As she passed them she got the usual once-over reserved for strangers. One man, an older, bearded gent with deep blue eyes, wearing a fisherman’s jumper and boots, nodded. She smiled and nodded back. He reminded her of someone, but she couldn’t quite figure out whom. Probably someone from one of her father’s old black and white movies; the gent had that sort of iconic face.

            The shop was decorated in a high-Victorian style, with ornate mirrors behind the counter and silver-plated epergnes holding small samples. A young woman in full Goth regalia smiled at her as she walked up.

            “Hello. Get lost on your way to somewhere?”

            “No. I’m vacationing here.”

            “You must be the lady up at the Holmes house.” At Tish’s obvious confusion, she explained. “It’s what we call it around here. My mum works for the Captain and Mr. Jones, so you’ll meet all of us at one time or another.” She leaned over the counter confidentially. “Are they really gay? I mean, exclusively, no bi? Because they are so gorgeous, the both of them, it would be a pity.”

            Tish laughed. “No, they’re not exclusively gay but they are exclusively for each other, I’m afraid.”

            “Oh well. True love, I suppose. What would you like?”

            “One of the cranberry-orange muffins and a cup of tea, please.”

            While she waited, Tish watched the street scene reflected in the mirror. She was a city child and the country was a foreign place to her. The old woman walking by with her daily shopping, the head of a fish peeking out of her basket; the old man fishing from the breakwater; the girl at one of the tables, notebook and pen in hand, staring into the distance…

            Surprisingly, she spotted a familiar face. Brigadier Marcus Shaw of UNIT, she was sure of it, even though he was out of uniform and looking for all the world like a Cockney on holiday. She was heading out to say hello when she noticed the woman next to him. Elizabeth Arnsley-Norton, one of the Prime Minister’s senior assistants, confidant, and reputedly a bit more, clung to Shaw’s arm like a trophy wife at a political reception.  If the two of them were… well, whatever… they might not appreciate being hailed by someone who could take the tale back to London. Especially a Torchwood someone.

            She watched as they stopped at the table where the iconic gentleman who had nodded to her was sitting. They greeted him  like an old friend; his answer was a curt nod and a wave. And suddenly, Tish realized why he had seemed so familiar.

            Colonel Joseph Stannick, UNIT advisor to Prime Minister Harold Saxon on the Valiant.

            Tish felt as if all her muscles had seized, locking her in place, while she shook to pieces inside. Stannick the butcher of Tokyo. Stannick the glacial martinet who terrified his own troops and even gave the mad Time Lord pause. Stannick, the man who had protected her from Saxon’s excesses by claiming her as a prize of war and then sleeping chastely by her side for months, only looking, always looking, keeping her on display for his eyes only until she had come to feel rape would have been better than the wordless power struggle she always lost every night, endlessly, forever.

            Stannick had disappeared during the chaotic days after Saxon’s death. And now he was here, meeting with UNIT and government officials in an out of the way village in Sussex.

            She needed to get to Jack.

            Forcing herself to move, she turned to the counter girl, who was looking at her quizzically. Tish realized she must have been trying to get her attention for a while.

            “Sorry. I seem to be developing a migraine. Could you make that takeaway?”

            “Oh, my mum suffers from those. Terrible, they are, make her lose the balance and trip all over herself. Why don’t you come back to the garden,” she pointed to the door at the back of the store, “and sit down for a while in the sun? It always makes mum feel better.”

            “Thank you…”

            “Annie. Annie Lovett.”

            “Thank you, Annie. I’ll take you up on that.”