Daughter of Torchwood

Prom Night

The air in the Hub was thick with the scent of ozone and the hum of the Rift monitors. Starla sat perched on a stool near Ianto's station, toying with the leaf charm of her bracelet watch as she nursed a mug of Ianto's special coffee.

The team was deep in a debrief, but Starla's mind was miles away.

Gwen said something to her, but the words didn't register. Starla didn't even notice the room had gone quiet until a hand landed on her shoulder. She flinched, the heel of her boots scraping against the metal floor.

"You okay?" Jack asked, his brow furrowed in worry.

"Yeah, sorry. I was just... miles away," she muttered.

"Something on your mind?" Jack crouched in front of her, "You getting enough sleep? You look tired."

"Exams are keeping me busy," Starla lied, staring into her mug, "But my main problem is prom. It's next month. Sarah Jane keeps asking if I've found a dress, and I keep telling her I've got time, but I don't. Every shop in Ealing is full of girls fighting over the same five shades of pink. I think I'm just going to wear my school blazer and call it a day."

Jack went dead still. His eyes widened in mock horror, "You are not wearing a blazer to prom. Not on my watch." He whipped his head toward Gwen, "Gwen! Clear your schedule for tomorrow. You're taking her shopping."

Gwen looked up, a slow, genuine grin spreading across her face, "Shopping? Real, actual shopping without a weapon in my hand?"

"Take my card," Jack ordered, "And take Mavis with you too. Do not, under any circumstances, come back until she has a dress and everything she needs to go with it."

The next morning arrived with a soft, Welsh drizzle. When Gwen pulled up to Mavis's house, the older woman was already on the porch in a sensible raincoat, clutching a handbag large enough to house a small alien.

"Right then!" Mavis chirped, "I've had a good breakfast, I've got my comfortable shoes on, and I've brought my sewing kit in case the hemlines are shoddy. They don't make things like they used to."

"We're going to find something amazing, Mavis," Gwen promised, catching Starla's eye with a wink.

The morning was a test of endurance. They started in the massive department stores, where Mavis proved to be a formidable critic. She followed Starla into every changing room, tutting at fabrics and tugging at seams.

"Too itchy, darling. You'll be scratching yourself all through the night," Mavis noted as Starla emerged in a ruffled peach number, "And it's far too short, your dad would have a heart attack. No, no. Next!"

Gwen tried to stifle her laughter, "Mavis is right, Star. You need something that feels like you. Not something that feels like a costume."

They were nearly ready to give up when they wandered into a boutique tucked away in a quiet corner of the arcade. In the centre of the room, hanging under a focused spotlight, was a gown that seemed to be fashioned out of the night sky.

"Oh," Starla whispered, the air leaving her lungs.

It was a deep, midnight navy, the exact shade of her favourite coat. The sheath silhouette was covered in intricate, swirling sequins that shifted from cobalt to silver as she moved. It had a sweetheart neckline and delicate off-the-shoulder straps, but the piece de resistance was a sheer, pleated chiffon overskirt that added an ethereal, floating layer to the gown.

"Now that," Mavis said, her voice unusually quiet as she touched the fabric, "That's a bit of quality. Feel that stitching... that's a French seam if ever I saw one."