Written by Z.
DISCLAIMER: We don't own Torchwood. We don't own Doctor Who. We wish we could own them both, but we can't. Hell, we'd settle for the K9 spin-off pilot that failed many years ago... but sadly, we can't have that either. All of that is owned by the BBC.
Harborne Antiques
Birds chirrupped in the cage hanging at the end of the counter. A pair of lovebirds, or so many patrons believed, were perched inside. One named Gwen, the other Rhys. Pets. Presents given to the owner of the quaint little shop down in the Public Square.
Two doors to the left of the old theatre. Next to the diner where all the locals stopped for a bite at breakfast and supper.
It was a quaint little place. The storefront painted in a remarkable shade of blue. Not quite "true blue", yet not quite a dark blue either... Trimmings in brass. A white sign on the left hand door, just below the window, declaring the hours of business in bold, black lettering.
Across the top, just above the large plate glass windows, was a sign. It was long and narrow, and black as night. White letters so bright they seemed almost impossible, proclaimed the name of this little shop tucked away in the Square.
HARBORNE ANTIQUES.
Inside, back at the counter there stood a man. Visibly he was the same as any other man in his 50's. Graying at the temples, the rest of his hair a nice salt-n-pepper. Wrinkles around his lips where he'd smiled and laughed often. Lines of age showing around the eyes, eyes so much older than the face in which they sat. And a few more lines across the forehead, where time had at last begun to wreak its havoc, but only just. Hairlines, these were, in an otherwise normal seeming face.
Dressed plainly in a light blue, longsleeved shirt. A dark gray waistcoat and matching slacks. This man was tending his birds as the bells chimed. A signal that a customer had arrived.
The old man turned with a smile on his face and a canister of birdseed in his hand. "Welcome," he said, the word lacking the distinct accent which marked the natives. "How can I help you today, sir?"
The customer crossed the shop slowly. He was taking his time, looking around carefully. The old man noted the curious younger's hands remained in his pockets. His bright blue eyes studying each item as he passed them.
The young man's coat was black. Black as pitch and made of a long, heavy fabric. It stopped just around his ankles. It was open, exposing his clothing. A pair of dark blue, navy blue, slacks and a sloppily buttoned shirt. It was not tucked in, and was pale green. A few buttons had been missed near the bottom, and the neck was left open as if frustration had set in and he'd given up the idea of buttoning his shirt entirely.
As the old man's old eyes wandered, he noticed his shoes. New, newer than the coat which had dust gathered at the bottom, and a few stray threads at the back from much wear and tear. These shoes were brilliant; these shoes were red. He smiled to himself, thinking of his own son then. He liked to wear the same sort with little care whether they matched his clothes or not.
"I'm looking for an authentic Victorian wardrobe," the young man said when he reached the elder, snapping him out of his thoughts.
He set the canister down and moved around to the back of the counter. "Not much call for wardrobes these days. What with clothing so cheap and disposable. Nobody stores them anymore. Just wears once and tosses away."
The young man gave a small laugh. "You look the sort to wash and dry."
"And you look the sort to get dressed in the dark, young man," he said, looking in the inventory and locating what he wanted. "Anything else for you today?"
He nodded, reaching up then to tuck a tuft of red hair behind his ear. "Yes. Have any first editions of Charles Darwin's On the Origin of the Species?"
"Big purchases," the old man said as he typed it in. The item came up immediately. "Will that be all today?"
The younger nodded again.
"Well, I've got one wardrobe, Victorian, in the warehouse. I can have it brought in no problem. As for the book, its in the back."
"How much?" the young man asked, removing his wallet. The old man stared at him.
"What?" he said, "You haven't even seen them."
He only smiled as he pulled out a charge card from his wallet. Solid black, like his coat, save for the raised letters and numbers. Those were in a dark, rich red. "You've an honest face," the young man said. "How much?"
The old man continued to stare at him, even as he set the card down and moved to tap gently at the gilded cage holding the birds.
Again, the young man smiled, this time quite fondly. "Dyrrian Finches," he said idly.
The old man looked back to his computer, quickly making the sale. "Two-thousand, fifty seven credits. Imperial, not colonial."
The young man waved, his fondness turned to saddness but the smile never left his face. The old man swiped the card in his machine and set it back, with the print out, and a pen. The younger took them and then looked at the pen as if confused before nodding and picking it up. "Been a while since I've actually signed anything."
"I like to keep thorough records," the old man said, eyeing him suspiciously now. No one just walks in and buys without at least looking at a picture of the product. Especially if they've spent as much as this man has. Some people don't even make that much in a year. "The book will be ready in a few days. The wardrobed will be here tomorrow. When would you like to arrange to pick them up?"
"Today, if possible. I'm only in town for a short while, and I've still a lot to do before I go."
"My assistant won't be back until tomorrow. I can't go to the warehouse-"
"I can go pick it up," the young man said calmly as he put his card in his wallet, and his wallet back into his pocket.
"This is highly unusual."
The young man nodded, giving a slight sigh before looking at the old man again; that tuft of red falling into his face once more. "Then again, our interractions have never been quite... usual."
The old man reached below the counter, his hand feeling not for a silent alarm button, but for the pistol kept strapped to the underside of the countertop. The young man's blue eyes cut to his arm.
"By the time you pull out the sonic pistol, I'll have already disarmed it, knocked you unconcious, and would be gone with the book before you come to. Let's avoid that, shall we?"
His lips curled into a wicked, if not playful smirk. "I do hate when our family reunions turn violent." He tapped the counter, giving a nod to the old man. "Don't you, Jack?" He rounded the counter.
The old man moved just as quick, barring the door, the pistol in hand.
"I'm only trying to buy my son some decent presents. After all, I haven't really been in his life on a regular basis. More of a part-time gig, you know. Unlike you," he said, reaching over and snatching the pistol from the aged man's grasp. "Oh I hate guns. What is with you humans and your guns? Always with the pointing and the shouting and the shooting with you lot."
But he would not move. "Get out!"
"But I'm your best customer!"
"I said get out! And don't you ever come back here!"
The young man was quick on his feet, but not quick enough. He found himself sprawled out on his rear past the birdcage. He rubbed at his jaw, sure it would be bruised by late afternoon. "Look Jack, we can dance all day. But it's his birthday tomorrow, and I wanted to do something nice for once."
"He's out of town," the old man said, rolling up his sleeves and standing his ground.
"Hence why I'm here today. I can't run into that goody goody tenth self. He'd be all 'Oh no no no no! You can't be here. We're creating a paradox.' Nice left hook by the way. Glad to see it didn't weaken with age."
"Cut the banter and get the hell out of my store!"
"Alright... if you insist." He climbed to his feet, arms raised. "Truce. But you'll give him his presents, won't you? After all, he's my son, too."
The old man glared at him, eyes narrowed and hands clenched so tight his knuckles cracked. "I'll consider it." He watched him as he turned to go, and stopped to grab an antique pool cue stand on his way across the shop behind him.
The young man left, whistling as he did so. The pistol was pocketed as he stopped, the old man standing in the door. "Good to see you again, Captain!" the young man called back.
The old man glared at his retreating back.
Turning from the doorway, satisfied that the other was gone, he let loose a sigh. He hadn't realized he's become so tense. Hadn't known he'd held onto the stand so tightly until he set it back in its place.
Back at the counter, he put everything back in order and palmed the receipt as the door bells chimed again.
He looked up to see an unruly brown mop and a bright smile heading towards him. "Hey dad!"
The old man straightened himself up with a forced smile, spotting another man behind the brown mop. "I wasn't expecting you until tomorrow."
"Yeah, well, got a text from my teacher. The test has been moved to tomorrow. Can you believe it? A test on my birthday? In summer school! So my quick camping trip to Gondor had to be cut short."
"You wouldn't be in this mess if you hadn't been cutting classes."
"I know, I know," the teen mumbled, rolling his brown eyes and shuffling towards the back, leaving his companion on the main floor.
Glasses were pulled off his face and tucked into the pocket on the inside of his long brown coat. "You alright Jack?" he asked, an eyebrow raised in curiosity. "You look like you've seen a ghost."
The old man nodded, then shook his head as he pulled out the receipt again. He glanced over it quickly before handing it over to him.
The time lord looked it over, then stared at the old man in disbelief. "Is this true?"
Before the old man could reply, that unruly mop returned with a groan. "Can't I just fake the swine flu tomorrow? Just this once?"
The time lord and the old man laughed together, the receipt forgotten on the counter. "James," the Doctor said with a smile. "Even your teachers know you've never been sick a day in your life. Catch something now and they'll know something's up." The time lord looked to the old man with a manic grin. "Why don't you call it an early day and we pop out for some chips? Maybe a movie or something. An old fashioned family outing. I haven't done that in... well, it's been a long time. Unless you count that one time with Jenny and Donna and Martha... But there were fish people and angry old men with guns. Ugh. Guns, I detest guns. Always with the shooting and the killing. James!" he said, turning to the teen suddenly and causing him to jump in surprise. "Remember this, guns bad, screwdrivers good."
"And swords. Swords are good too," James said with a smile. "At least, when you're not having them pointed right at you in the dark. That was unpleasant. Unpleasant, but really cool. I mean, there we were in the court of King Aragon and then some stupid knight thinks Uncle John's screwdriver is a weapon. It's not our fault I got lost in the castle after dark. They really need a decent map of the castle available for tourists."
The old man smiled, and nodded. "Alright, you two go on. I'll lock up here."
"I'll do it," James said with a laugh. "I need to take a few things out of the inventory anyway. Sort of got... lost in the Shire. I swear those hobbits pickpocketed me!"
The old man shook his head. "Put the birdseed away while you're at it," he said, giving his son a pat on the shoulder.
When the shop was empty, the teen went to the computer to remove the lost items from the inventory. He was just about to shut down the register when he spotted the receipt on the counter. Scooping it up, he looked it over quickly and noted the amount. "Well," he said. "Can't lose track of Mr. Valeyard, now can we. Over two thousand credits... Dad would kill me if this got lost."
He dropped it into the drawer and slammed it closed, shutting down the register before heading out. He locked the door behind him and joined the old man and the time lord on the sidewalk.
"So, I'm thinking a coke, a burger, and a batch of french fries down at the 4-Way," he said.
"Sounds good to me," the old man said with a nod.
The time lord laughed as they started down the sidewalk towards the intersection at the theatre. "I just don't get it. They're chips. Not fries. They're not even French. Not even remotely. And why do you call crisps chips? They're crispy and crunchy and crisp-like!"
A/N - This is a "one off" of the Torchwood: Resurrection tale... mainly because for some it takes place AFTER the entire series, but for others, it takes place BEFORE the entire series. Just one of those "it literally cannot fit ANYHWHERE" type of tales. Hope you enjoyed it!