Between Light and Nowhere, Torchwood
Title: Between Light and Nowhere
Author: giddygeek
Pairing: Jack/Ianto
Spoilers: 2x13 Exit Wounds
Notes: 1750 words. Not a fluffy wallow, but exactly what I needed after watching the finale. Many thanks to misspamela for reading it over and assuring me it's not too OTT, for Torchwood fic. ;-)
Ianto leaves Gwen and Jack when Rhys comes, slips away and takes Tosh and Owen's boxes with him; there are tasks that need to be completed, no matter what the circumstances. This is one he needs to see done.
In the basement is a storage room he's always avoided, filled with locked boxes containing the detritus left behind when a member of Torchwood dies. The last pieces of their lives in the Hub. It's one of the most modernized rooms they've got--dry, warm, well-lit--but it feels haunted to Ianto. He does nothing more than lightly dust when he just can't put it off any longer, or suffer through times like these, when he must add new boxes to the shelves.
Soft, crumbling wood. Gold leaf. Tarnished metal, gleaming stainless steel. Small, large, ornate and plain. The newer ones, so serviceable and ordinary. Every box clearly labeled with Jack's strong handwriting. Ianto knows Jack comes down periodically, to keep names and dates from fading away. These strange keepsakes and scraps of paper are the closest to headstones that many of Torchwood's operatives will ever get.
Smythe, 1910. Hendershaw, 1912. Rickett, 1913. Du Lac, 1939. Javier, 1939. Johnson, 1939. On it goes, a straight, mysterious path that ends now in Harper, 2009. Sato, 2009.
Ianto doesn't allow his eyes or his hands to linger long on Suzy's box; Lisa never got one, has a headstone in a cemetery that blooms like a garden, which he no longer visits.
He kneels for a moment on the floor after he slides Tosh and Owen's belongings into place, his thumbs over the locks that keep anyone with any sense from rifling through their pens, their hard candies and small change.
He closes his eyes. He allows himself to daydream for a momet, to imagine that if he were to unlock these boxes, it would all be undone. Owen would be standing by Tosh's workstation, holding a cup of coffee; he no longer tried to drink, but some habits were just too comforting to break. Tosh blushing, looking up through her lashes and the fringe of her hair, her own coffee cooling at her elbow; she was forever leaving food uneaten and drinks untouched, too devoted to her tasks to take care of herself.
Ianto holds that image in his mind, embellishes it--Owen chiding Tosh, flirting like an ass, telling her to eat a goddamned sandwich before he has to take to the infirmary and get some sugar in her; Tosh twinkling up at him, happy. Loving, being loved. He wishes that were his final memory of them, a happy ending, such as they'd deserved.
Then he opens his eyes, stands, brushes dirt from his knees. He says, "Do you remember them all, Jack?"
Jack's hand closes on his shoulder. Ianto had known he was there, finds it impossible to not notice him. Ignoring Jack is like ignoring a hurricane as it breezes through, ignoring the summer sun at noon. At least he's not entirely insensitive and can identify the right moments to stay quiet, to stay still, to wait and be patient, to be kind.
"I remember some of them clearly enough to draw their portraits," Jack says, musing. "I could tell you their favorite jokes, and how I felt when they died, how much I hated their replacements. Some were friends, some were lovers, some were mentors and confidantes."
He hesitates. His fingers grip Ianto's shoulder more tightly, almost enough force to bruise. Ianto doesn't complain, leans back just a little instead, until Jack's hand gentles. Jack says, "I spent so many of their lives being--broken inside, in a lot of ways, Ianto. No, I don't remember them all."
"Will you remember Tosh and Owen?" Ianto asks, staring at their names, Harper, 2009. Sato, 2009.
Jack turns him around. Jack's face is swollen, red, as Ianto knows his own must be, but he's smiling a little, his eyes warm. "Always," he says. "For being the first team I chose for Torchwood, a new team with a new purpose. For being amazing and brilliant and clever and kind--both of them, really, Owen had his ways. For loving me as much as I loved them."
And all that love is right there in Jack's eyes, his smile, and Ianto can't look away, even as his breath hitches and his chest begins to ache.
He's fought hard to feel empty, to be drained out. He's tried to keep the flood water of grief dammed away. There's work to be done, Gwen to be comforted and convinced to stay, Jack to be cared for; he's quite capable of running the world but hates to make his own coffee or polish his favorite boots.
But Ianto loved them too. He loved them, and here in this place where all that's left is their names, a stethoscope, some pins, a photograph--the dam is breaking.
Mixed in with his grief, his sense of loss, is fear. He says, "And me, Jack? When I die?" and it's not what he means to say but it's this room, these forgotten people. His friends are the newest residents of all, and one day he'll come here after them, reduced to a body in the morgue and a tie, a journal in a box--
Jack says his name on a sigh, and draws him in. Ianto stands stiffly in his arms. His fingers twitch, his bicep, his knee, his abdomen, like piece by piece he's being shocked. Every time, his breath hitches again, and Jack murmurs something senseless, shh, shh, pulls him closer. But Ianto couldn't be much quieter.
Jack kisses his temple, whispers in his ear, "I was buried in the dark for two thousand years, Ianto, and when I woke up, all of your faces were as clear to me in my mind as ever. I lived over and over again, thinking of you, and died over and over again, trying to forgive him for taking me from you when you needed me."
Ianto shakes his head and Jack pushes him back a little, presses a hand to Ianto's cheek. He laughs wetly, like he's crying at the same time, although his eyes are dry. "You know, I could probably make it so that you live forever to me, you and Gwen. I'll go away for a thousand years, just days at a time as far as you know, and you'll both be almost the same when I get back. I'll bounce Gwen's daughter on my knee and then come home and take you to bed, and you'll be better than immortal, because one day you will be able to die."
His hand slides across the back of Ianto's neck, heavy, and Ianto gives enough to tuck his face against Jack's neck. He still smells of grave dirt and desperation, but he's so warm. He feels so alive. He says, "No, I'll never forget you," and Ianto is finally weeping, silently, ripped apart as much by Jack's promises as by their losses.
Jack holds him, presses slow, fierce kisses against his temple, his hair, until the fit of tears has passed. It takes a long time, longer than Ianto can judge; when it's done, he only knows that he's exhausted.
Ianto rests against Jack's shoulder as limply as Gwen had, before Rhys came to take her home. He's gotten tears soaked into the fabric of Jack's shirt, and probably gotten snot on his braces. A distant part of his mind thinks he should be ashamed to seem so weak, but he's spent too much time in Torchwood Three, too much time with Jack Harkness, who treats tears as respectfully as rage, as long as they're necessary.
So no shame, then, but there's still work to be done. Tosh and Owen's flats, their files, their--shit, replacements?--and with the city in shambles, so much still needs to be done. He shouldn't wallow the way he's doing. There isn't enough time, and he doesn't have enough energy to stand like this and be comforted and then get anything done.
Ianto begins to draw himself back together, forcing himself to be ready to stand back, bury his grief and get to work. Jack loosens his grip, looks at him steadily, patiently, with red-rimmed eyes. "So stubborn," he says, admiring, his voice rough as if he'd been doing the sobbing Ianto hadn't, and then he kisses the corner of Ianto's mouth. "Come on."
He leads Ianto away from the storage room, leaves the lights on behind them and doesn't close the door. He draws Ianto through the quiet, too empty Hub to the bed they very rarely share, since they're usually too busy elsewhere.
Jack works on his clothes carefully, easy with the tie, the buttons, fingers gentle on Ianto's skin. He kisses everywhere he goes, but not to arouse, just to touch, until Ianto is stripped bare and shaken out of his ability to hide. Until he's reduced to feeling, allowed to stand on wobbly limbs and take slow, deep breaths while he waits.
He watches while Jack's own clothes disappear in a flurry. A button pings away in the darkness, but Jack's never cared about such things. Ianto--can't. Chooses not to, in favor of climbing under the blankets while Jack turns out the light and comes to bed.
They're belly to belly in the darkness, just breathing. Ianto tucks his face against Jack's chest, smelling that old dirt again, faintly--Jack had showered, but it will take a while, Ianto supposes, to wash away centuries buried in a forgotten grave. He's been trying not to think on that too deeply, to think of Owen and Tosh at least at peace, but Jack capable of suffering for millenia, all alone.
"One day, you'll come back and I'll be gone," he says against Jack's skin, while Jack hushes him and brushes a hand down his back, pulling him closer. "Just promise me you'll carry something with you then. Something from all of us. If you love us, don't--don't leave everything in those boxes, Jack--"
"I do," Jack says, voice raw, broken, still comforting; he means it. Ianto can hardly ever tell when he's lying but always knows when he's telling the truth. "Shh, Ianto, I promise."
"Thank you," Ianto says, and then he closes his eyes. He kisses Jack's shoulder and he goes to sleep, peaceful and dark, dreamless, but not alone.
Author: giddygeek
Pairing: Jack/Ianto
Spoilers: 2x13 Exit Wounds
Notes: 1750 words. Not a fluffy wallow, but exactly what I needed after watching the finale. Many thanks to misspamela for reading it over and assuring me it's not too OTT, for Torchwood fic. ;-)
Ianto leaves Gwen and Jack when Rhys comes, slips away and takes Tosh and Owen's boxes with him; there are tasks that need to be completed, no matter what the circumstances. This is one he needs to see done.
In the basement is a storage room he's always avoided, filled with locked boxes containing the detritus left behind when a member of Torchwood dies. The last pieces of their lives in the Hub. It's one of the most modernized rooms they've got--dry, warm, well-lit--but it feels haunted to Ianto. He does nothing more than lightly dust when he just can't put it off any longer, or suffer through times like these, when he must add new boxes to the shelves.
Soft, crumbling wood. Gold leaf. Tarnished metal, gleaming stainless steel. Small, large, ornate and plain. The newer ones, so serviceable and ordinary. Every box clearly labeled with Jack's strong handwriting. Ianto knows Jack comes down periodically, to keep names and dates from fading away. These strange keepsakes and scraps of paper are the closest to headstones that many of Torchwood's operatives will ever get.
Smythe, 1910. Hendershaw, 1912. Rickett, 1913. Du Lac, 1939. Javier, 1939. Johnson, 1939. On it goes, a straight, mysterious path that ends now in Harper, 2009. Sato, 2009.
Ianto doesn't allow his eyes or his hands to linger long on Suzy's box; Lisa never got one, has a headstone in a cemetery that blooms like a garden, which he no longer visits.
He kneels for a moment on the floor after he slides Tosh and Owen's belongings into place, his thumbs over the locks that keep anyone with any sense from rifling through their pens, their hard candies and small change.
He closes his eyes. He allows himself to daydream for a momet, to imagine that if he were to unlock these boxes, it would all be undone. Owen would be standing by Tosh's workstation, holding a cup of coffee; he no longer tried to drink, but some habits were just too comforting to break. Tosh blushing, looking up through her lashes and the fringe of her hair, her own coffee cooling at her elbow; she was forever leaving food uneaten and drinks untouched, too devoted to her tasks to take care of herself.
Ianto holds that image in his mind, embellishes it--Owen chiding Tosh, flirting like an ass, telling her to eat a goddamned sandwich before he has to take to the infirmary and get some sugar in her; Tosh twinkling up at him, happy. Loving, being loved. He wishes that were his final memory of them, a happy ending, such as they'd deserved.
Then he opens his eyes, stands, brushes dirt from his knees. He says, "Do you remember them all, Jack?"
Jack's hand closes on his shoulder. Ianto had known he was there, finds it impossible to not notice him. Ignoring Jack is like ignoring a hurricane as it breezes through, ignoring the summer sun at noon. At least he's not entirely insensitive and can identify the right moments to stay quiet, to stay still, to wait and be patient, to be kind.
"I remember some of them clearly enough to draw their portraits," Jack says, musing. "I could tell you their favorite jokes, and how I felt when they died, how much I hated their replacements. Some were friends, some were lovers, some were mentors and confidantes."
He hesitates. His fingers grip Ianto's shoulder more tightly, almost enough force to bruise. Ianto doesn't complain, leans back just a little instead, until Jack's hand gentles. Jack says, "I spent so many of their lives being--broken inside, in a lot of ways, Ianto. No, I don't remember them all."
"Will you remember Tosh and Owen?" Ianto asks, staring at their names, Harper, 2009. Sato, 2009.
Jack turns him around. Jack's face is swollen, red, as Ianto knows his own must be, but he's smiling a little, his eyes warm. "Always," he says. "For being the first team I chose for Torchwood, a new team with a new purpose. For being amazing and brilliant and clever and kind--both of them, really, Owen had his ways. For loving me as much as I loved them."
And all that love is right there in Jack's eyes, his smile, and Ianto can't look away, even as his breath hitches and his chest begins to ache.
He's fought hard to feel empty, to be drained out. He's tried to keep the flood water of grief dammed away. There's work to be done, Gwen to be comforted and convinced to stay, Jack to be cared for; he's quite capable of running the world but hates to make his own coffee or polish his favorite boots.
But Ianto loved them too. He loved them, and here in this place where all that's left is their names, a stethoscope, some pins, a photograph--the dam is breaking.
Mixed in with his grief, his sense of loss, is fear. He says, "And me, Jack? When I die?" and it's not what he means to say but it's this room, these forgotten people. His friends are the newest residents of all, and one day he'll come here after them, reduced to a body in the morgue and a tie, a journal in a box--
Jack says his name on a sigh, and draws him in. Ianto stands stiffly in his arms. His fingers twitch, his bicep, his knee, his abdomen, like piece by piece he's being shocked. Every time, his breath hitches again, and Jack murmurs something senseless, shh, shh, pulls him closer. But Ianto couldn't be much quieter.
Jack kisses his temple, whispers in his ear, "I was buried in the dark for two thousand years, Ianto, and when I woke up, all of your faces were as clear to me in my mind as ever. I lived over and over again, thinking of you, and died over and over again, trying to forgive him for taking me from you when you needed me."
Ianto shakes his head and Jack pushes him back a little, presses a hand to Ianto's cheek. He laughs wetly, like he's crying at the same time, although his eyes are dry. "You know, I could probably make it so that you live forever to me, you and Gwen. I'll go away for a thousand years, just days at a time as far as you know, and you'll both be almost the same when I get back. I'll bounce Gwen's daughter on my knee and then come home and take you to bed, and you'll be better than immortal, because one day you will be able to die."
His hand slides across the back of Ianto's neck, heavy, and Ianto gives enough to tuck his face against Jack's neck. He still smells of grave dirt and desperation, but he's so warm. He feels so alive. He says, "No, I'll never forget you," and Ianto is finally weeping, silently, ripped apart as much by Jack's promises as by their losses.
Jack holds him, presses slow, fierce kisses against his temple, his hair, until the fit of tears has passed. It takes a long time, longer than Ianto can judge; when it's done, he only knows that he's exhausted.
Ianto rests against Jack's shoulder as limply as Gwen had, before Rhys came to take her home. He's gotten tears soaked into the fabric of Jack's shirt, and probably gotten snot on his braces. A distant part of his mind thinks he should be ashamed to seem so weak, but he's spent too much time in Torchwood Three, too much time with Jack Harkness, who treats tears as respectfully as rage, as long as they're necessary.
So no shame, then, but there's still work to be done. Tosh and Owen's flats, their files, their--shit, replacements?--and with the city in shambles, so much still needs to be done. He shouldn't wallow the way he's doing. There isn't enough time, and he doesn't have enough energy to stand like this and be comforted and then get anything done.
Ianto begins to draw himself back together, forcing himself to be ready to stand back, bury his grief and get to work. Jack loosens his grip, looks at him steadily, patiently, with red-rimmed eyes. "So stubborn," he says, admiring, his voice rough as if he'd been doing the sobbing Ianto hadn't, and then he kisses the corner of Ianto's mouth. "Come on."
He leads Ianto away from the storage room, leaves the lights on behind them and doesn't close the door. He draws Ianto through the quiet, too empty Hub to the bed they very rarely share, since they're usually too busy elsewhere.
Jack works on his clothes carefully, easy with the tie, the buttons, fingers gentle on Ianto's skin. He kisses everywhere he goes, but not to arouse, just to touch, until Ianto is stripped bare and shaken out of his ability to hide. Until he's reduced to feeling, allowed to stand on wobbly limbs and take slow, deep breaths while he waits.
He watches while Jack's own clothes disappear in a flurry. A button pings away in the darkness, but Jack's never cared about such things. Ianto--can't. Chooses not to, in favor of climbing under the blankets while Jack turns out the light and comes to bed.
They're belly to belly in the darkness, just breathing. Ianto tucks his face against Jack's chest, smelling that old dirt again, faintly--Jack had showered, but it will take a while, Ianto supposes, to wash away centuries buried in a forgotten grave. He's been trying not to think on that too deeply, to think of Owen and Tosh at least at peace, but Jack capable of suffering for millenia, all alone.
"One day, you'll come back and I'll be gone," he says against Jack's skin, while Jack hushes him and brushes a hand down his back, pulling him closer. "Just promise me you'll carry something with you then. Something from all of us. If you love us, don't--don't leave everything in those boxes, Jack--"
"I do," Jack says, voice raw, broken, still comforting; he means it. Ianto can hardly ever tell when he's lying but always knows when he's telling the truth. "Shh, Ianto, I promise."
"Thank you," Ianto says, and then he closes his eyes. He kisses Jack's shoulder and he goes to sleep, peaceful and dark, dreamless, but not alone.