Ficlet: Better Left Unsaid
Title: Better Left Unsaid
Author: badly_knitted
Characters: Ianto, Jack, Gwen.
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 851
Summary: The loss of Owen and Tosh is almost more than Ianto can bear, but he has to carry on because he’s not the only one hurting.
Spoilers: Fragments, Exit Wounds.
Warnings: None.
Written For: cozy_coffee’s prompt ‘any, any, my heart hurts, my body aches, and my soul is bleeding,’ at comment_fic.
Disclaimer: I don’t own Torchwood or any of the characters.
“How’re you holding up?”
It was a stupid question, and Jack probably realised that as soon as the words were out of his mouth, but these days it was difficult to come up with anything to say that didn’t sound lame, superficial, tactless, whatever. Ianto didn’t bother replying. He knew Jack was doing his best, that his lover was hurting just as much as he was, maybe worse because he no doubt blamed himself for their losses, but he couldn’t lie and say he was fine when he wasn’t, and the truth would only cause both of them more pain.
‘My heart hurts from losing two of my closest friends, my body aches from too much work and not enough sleep, and my soul is bleeding because you’re barely holding yourself together, and there’s nothing I can do to make either of us feel any better.’
That was the truth of it, a truth better left unsaid. Ianto felt broken inside, and although he knew in time the pain of loss would become easier to bear, right now the grief was too fresh, too raw, sandpaper scraping across inflamed nerve endings, acid poured over emotions already exposed and smarting.
Jack tried, but all his efforts were no better than sticking duct tape over the cracks and hoping it would be enough to hold the three of them together, which, the way they were all feeling right now, didn’t seem likely.
When Ianto said nothing, just continued making coffee as if he hadn’t heard, Jack sighed, wrapping his arms around his lover from behind. Fresh tears stung at Ianto’s eyes, but he refused to let them fall. Gwen had already done enough crying for all of them; it was a miracle that the Rift pool hadn’t flooded. He shuddered, and Jack’s arms tightened.
“I know,” he whispered against the back of Ianto’s neck, and Ianto squeezed his eyes shut. He didn’t doubt that Jack could read him, Jack who’d known more loss in his life than anyone should have to. But so had Ianto. He’d survived the Canary Wharf battle, where over seven hundred of his colleagues and friends had lost their lives. After living through that, and the aftermath, how could just two more deaths destroy him so completely?
But it wasn’t merely two deaths: it was Tosh, his best friend, and Owen, who’d been a miserable sod in life, an even more miserable sod in living death, a constant pain in the arse, but someone who could always be counted on. Trading insults with him had been one of Ianto’s favourite forms of entertainment, and he missed it. He missed the complaints, the arguments, the out of tune singing coming from the med bay… The Hub was too quiet now; even Jack, usually larger than life, seemed smaller, as though he was somehow withdrawing into himself.
Finishing the coffee, Ianto poured three mugs before turning in Jack’s embrace, wrapping his arms around his lover, offering what comfort he could, knowing he was probably only adding to the pain Jack was feeling instead of easing it. There was little comfort to be found in shared grief.
“We’ll get through this,” Jack promised.
Ianto nodded, resting his forehead against Jack’s shoulder. They would, but that was somewhere in the future and didn’t help at all in the present, where simply taking the next breath required almost more effort than he could summon.
Just a few short days ago, they’d been a team of five, then all Hell had broken loose and now they were diminished. Every time Ianto closed his eyes, he saw Tosh again, bleeding, dying, and remembered with shame how Jack had been the one to hold and comfort her while he’d merely stood there, not saying a word, his mind unable to accept what was happening.
She’d deserved so much better than that from him, but he’d been too numb with shock, desperately clinging to the hope that it was all just another bad dream. Maybe he was still in that warehouse, buried under a pile of rubble, hallucinating from the pain while waiting to be rescued or to die, whichever came first. The reality hadn’t fully set in until he’d found himself on his knees, scrubbing blood from the concrete. Was that only yesterday?
Pulling away, Ianto handed Jack his coffee, not meeting his eyes.
“I’m sorry,” Jack whispered.
“Don’t.” It came out harsher than he’d intended, and to take the sting from the word, Ianto reached for Jack’s free hand, squeezing it, feeling Jack squeeze back. “It’s not your fault.” He turned away and picked up the other two mugs, taking Gwen’s to where she sat on the sofa, clutching a handful of tissues and staring glassy eyed at nothing.
One breath, one heartbeat, at a time; that was all Ianto had the energy to focus on. He’d keep moving forward because he had to, and at some unimaginable point in the future perhaps he’d find his heart hurt less, his body had grown accustomed to the ache of exhaustion, and his soul no longer bled.
Someday.
The End
Author: badly_knitted
Characters: Ianto, Jack, Gwen.
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 851
Summary: The loss of Owen and Tosh is almost more than Ianto can bear, but he has to carry on because he’s not the only one hurting.
Spoilers: Fragments, Exit Wounds.
Warnings: None.
Written For: cozy_coffee’s prompt ‘any, any, my heart hurts, my body aches, and my soul is bleeding,’ at comment_fic.
Disclaimer: I don’t own Torchwood or any of the characters.
“How’re you holding up?”
It was a stupid question, and Jack probably realised that as soon as the words were out of his mouth, but these days it was difficult to come up with anything to say that didn’t sound lame, superficial, tactless, whatever. Ianto didn’t bother replying. He knew Jack was doing his best, that his lover was hurting just as much as he was, maybe worse because he no doubt blamed himself for their losses, but he couldn’t lie and say he was fine when he wasn’t, and the truth would only cause both of them more pain.
‘My heart hurts from losing two of my closest friends, my body aches from too much work and not enough sleep, and my soul is bleeding because you’re barely holding yourself together, and there’s nothing I can do to make either of us feel any better.’
That was the truth of it, a truth better left unsaid. Ianto felt broken inside, and although he knew in time the pain of loss would become easier to bear, right now the grief was too fresh, too raw, sandpaper scraping across inflamed nerve endings, acid poured over emotions already exposed and smarting.
Jack tried, but all his efforts were no better than sticking duct tape over the cracks and hoping it would be enough to hold the three of them together, which, the way they were all feeling right now, didn’t seem likely.
When Ianto said nothing, just continued making coffee as if he hadn’t heard, Jack sighed, wrapping his arms around his lover from behind. Fresh tears stung at Ianto’s eyes, but he refused to let them fall. Gwen had already done enough crying for all of them; it was a miracle that the Rift pool hadn’t flooded. He shuddered, and Jack’s arms tightened.
“I know,” he whispered against the back of Ianto’s neck, and Ianto squeezed his eyes shut. He didn’t doubt that Jack could read him, Jack who’d known more loss in his life than anyone should have to. But so had Ianto. He’d survived the Canary Wharf battle, where over seven hundred of his colleagues and friends had lost their lives. After living through that, and the aftermath, how could just two more deaths destroy him so completely?
But it wasn’t merely two deaths: it was Tosh, his best friend, and Owen, who’d been a miserable sod in life, an even more miserable sod in living death, a constant pain in the arse, but someone who could always be counted on. Trading insults with him had been one of Ianto’s favourite forms of entertainment, and he missed it. He missed the complaints, the arguments, the out of tune singing coming from the med bay… The Hub was too quiet now; even Jack, usually larger than life, seemed smaller, as though he was somehow withdrawing into himself.
Finishing the coffee, Ianto poured three mugs before turning in Jack’s embrace, wrapping his arms around his lover, offering what comfort he could, knowing he was probably only adding to the pain Jack was feeling instead of easing it. There was little comfort to be found in shared grief.
“We’ll get through this,” Jack promised.
Ianto nodded, resting his forehead against Jack’s shoulder. They would, but that was somewhere in the future and didn’t help at all in the present, where simply taking the next breath required almost more effort than he could summon.
Just a few short days ago, they’d been a team of five, then all Hell had broken loose and now they were diminished. Every time Ianto closed his eyes, he saw Tosh again, bleeding, dying, and remembered with shame how Jack had been the one to hold and comfort her while he’d merely stood there, not saying a word, his mind unable to accept what was happening.
She’d deserved so much better than that from him, but he’d been too numb with shock, desperately clinging to the hope that it was all just another bad dream. Maybe he was still in that warehouse, buried under a pile of rubble, hallucinating from the pain while waiting to be rescued or to die, whichever came first. The reality hadn’t fully set in until he’d found himself on his knees, scrubbing blood from the concrete. Was that only yesterday?
Pulling away, Ianto handed Jack his coffee, not meeting his eyes.
“I’m sorry,” Jack whispered.
“Don’t.” It came out harsher than he’d intended, and to take the sting from the word, Ianto reached for Jack’s free hand, squeezing it, feeling Jack squeeze back. “It’s not your fault.” He turned away and picked up the other two mugs, taking Gwen’s to where she sat on the sofa, clutching a handful of tissues and staring glassy eyed at nothing.
One breath, one heartbeat, at a time; that was all Ianto had the energy to focus on. He’d keep moving forward because he had to, and at some unimaginable point in the future perhaps he’d find his heart hurt less, his body had grown accustomed to the ache of exhaustion, and his soul no longer bled.
Someday.
The End