Curtain Call (Torchwood One-Shot)

"You ready?" Jack asked, fixing Gwen with the familiar, clear blue eyes.  The look was piercing, focused.  It was a schooled gaze, honed with years of training and necessity.  It was the look he used when trying to shield his own vulnerability, while searching out yours.  But it wasn't fooling Gwen.  The question wasn't really about her readiness to ring this doorbell, it was all about his own. 

"Come on, Jack," she smiled up at him, and linked her arm in his, tugging slightly on the long greatcoat as she urged them both forward.  "Now or never.  It's not like it's your first time, is it?"

For a moment, an icy flame leapt and flared in his eyes, then it was gone, just as suddenly.  He sighed, resigned to the situation. 

"No," he acknowledged, in an almost defeated tone, "No, it isn't."  And he pressed the worn button on the doorframe, next to which was scribbled 'Elaine Sevant'.  He took a breath, and waited, fixing his best matinee idol smile to his face. 

When the door swung open, they were looking at a somewhat flustered young woman in a pastel uniform, clearly indicating her position as a hired caregiver.  The gentle notes of Beethoven's 'Moolight Sonata' drifted out into the afternoon air, the soft touch on the piano keys making Jack's chest tighten.  He remembered the song well, and heard it still, in his dreams.  Although perhaps 'dreams' wasn't quite the right word for it.  'Reveries' might better name for the waking trips down memory lane he often took in the early hours of the morning, while the rest of the world had the pleasure of sleeping.  In his mind's eye, he'd see her, curled up in her dressing room chair, ballet shoes set lovingly and carefully aside, as she lost herself in the haunting strains of the music...

"...wouldn't we, Jack?" Gwen squeezed his arm tightly pulling him back to the present, and widening her eyes in that way that told him he'd missed something important. 

"Er, yes," he nodded toward the young woman, "Of course, we would." 

"Milk and sugar, then?" she asked, tucking a stray piece of hair behind her ear. 

Ah.  Tea.  Right.  Naturally.

"Absolutely," he responded, a little too brightly, and off she went into the back of the house, presumably to put a kettle on. 

"Where were you?" Gwen whispered, forcefully. 

"About seventy-five years back, I'd say," he answered, and then followed the sound of the music. 

Gwen stayed close, but allowed him to take the lead.  They moved forward into the room on their right, and she felt as though she had stepped into a kind of personal sanctuary.  Brightly lit, and cluttered in that cheerful way that called out to a visitor to explore and immerse themselves in the life and experience of its owner, the faded pinks and creams of its decor echoed with the past.  All around them were old photographs in ornate silver frames,  and in them countless images of a beautiful young ballerina and her equally beautiful young escorts.  A silk upholstered settee seemed to shimmer in the sun that streamed in through the lace curtains that lifted and settled in the breeze.  On the walls there were faintly discoloured needle-point pictures, depicting favourite sayings, or favourite flowers.  The side tables were arrayed with a fascinating collection of china figures, antique broaches, and trinkets from the greatest cities of Europe.  On the wall, on a simple hook, and hung by their ribbons, were a pair of well-worn ballet slippers, still lovely despite the threadbare toes and scuffed bottoms.  It was to these that Jack went first.