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Adam was learning to like Cardiff well enough, getting past his natural inclination to say, "But it's Wales," at least out loud. And it wasn't as if he wasn't used to being inactive, after thirty years in a far too small room. But his brief spurt of murder, mayhem, and attempts at world destruction, followed by his, thankfully brief, burial, rescue and relocation had left him feeling a bit at loose ends.
Jack had Torchwood, had the Doctor, sometimes, had the world to save in ways that Adam couldn't really help with. Or hadn't helped with. He didn't know where he fit, at the least. Not part of the team, not part of that part of Jack's life, but there, in Jack's house, with Jack, with the cat, with...his memories, his past, his ghosts, his dreams.
So he took to wandering. He left shortly after Jack in the mornings, roaming the streets, learning them, learning their pathways and byways. He found cafes and little bookstores, made friends with their proprietors. He spent far too much time at the library, and far more on the water, just breathing the fresh air, and appreciating the freedom to come and go. But he felt like a ghost through most of it, drifting in the shadows of the city Jack protected, with nothing truly his, nothing to strive for, no idea where to start, even, because every plan he came up with he was fairly certain Jack would shoot down.
He'd walked most of the morning, carving out new paths to ramble, when he found the gallery, tucked away in a charming niche. The display in the window was bright and warm, and the day was grey and chilly, perfect weather for brooding, but he was getting tired of brooding, and the window beckoned. It wasn't a gallery he'd explored before, not an owner he'd exchanged words with yet, and the novelty alone would have appealed as much as the colors. Putting a charming, if neutral, smile on his face, he stepped inside, drifting toward the art on the far wall, its colors immediately drawing his eye.
Jack had Torchwood, had the Doctor, sometimes, had the world to save in ways that Adam couldn't really help with. Or hadn't helped with. He didn't know where he fit, at the least. Not part of the team, not part of that part of Jack's life, but there, in Jack's house, with Jack, with the cat, with...his memories, his past, his ghosts, his dreams.
So he took to wandering. He left shortly after Jack in the mornings, roaming the streets, learning them, learning their pathways and byways. He found cafes and little bookstores, made friends with their proprietors. He spent far too much time at the library, and far more on the water, just breathing the fresh air, and appreciating the freedom to come and go. But he felt like a ghost through most of it, drifting in the shadows of the city Jack protected, with nothing truly his, nothing to strive for, no idea where to start, even, because every plan he came up with he was fairly certain Jack would shoot down.
He'd walked most of the morning, carving out new paths to ramble, when he found the gallery, tucked away in a charming niche. The display in the window was bright and warm, and the day was grey and chilly, perfect weather for brooding, but he was getting tired of brooding, and the window beckoned. It wasn't a gallery he'd explored before, not an owner he'd exchanged words with yet, and the novelty alone would have appealed as much as the colors. Putting a charming, if neutral, smile on his face, he stepped inside, drifting toward the art on the far wall, its colors immediately drawing his eye.
