if heaven is on the way, (1/1)
title: if heaven is on the way
rating: pg-13
pairing: jack/ianto
spoilers: all aired episodes, and none.
disclaimer: rtd and the beeb own pretty much everyone. i'll have to check, but they might even own me.
writer's note: also for the horizonssing day sixteen challenge. feedback welcome.
summary: at night, when the hub is quiet, jack and ianto don't always spend the evening having sex against a wall.
"Between an immensity of land and an immensity of sky they sat there, incomprehensible, smiling at a continent."
- Douglas Adams,
Last Chance to See
At the end of the day, this is what they live for.
Everyone is gone. The Hub is mostly quiet, the gentle chittering of Myfanawy notwithstanding, the beeps and clicks of the various monitors and alarm systems muted. There’s a comfort in the quiet, a knowledge that sometimes, just sometimes, this job isn’t all about action, but about waiting. And Jack is content waiting, especially if he has company.
It’s not often that they get the chance for this, a cup of tea on the Torchwood sofa and the quiet hum of the computers, Ianto leaning against him, holding Jack’s hand with both of his. It’s dangerous, it’s not something either one of them should get used to, but for the moment the peace is just what they need.
Jack hums an unfamiliar tune against Ianto’s hair, his eyes drifting closed as he smells Ianto’s familiar shampoo, a lullaby of aromatherapy. Ianto, too, closes his eyes, his fingers idly caressing Jack’s gun-roughened hand. He lifts the one around his waist to his mouth, letting his lips rest against the palm, smelling Hoppes gun cleaner and the iron of Jack’s Webley, tasting pen ink and smoke. Jack smiles and brings his other hand to the top of Ianto’s head, carding his fingers through the short, dark strands there. Here, on this island of silence and peace, they are light-years away from death and destruction, from the loss of teammates, lovers, family, from the reaches of evil. Here, on this island of that which is unspoken, they are the definition of safe.
Secrets have been told here; whispers have been broken; hearts have soared and flown with as much grace as the pteranodon above them. Jack has murmured whole lifetimes here in the evening, recounting things long forgotten in an effort to preserve them somewhere else than his quickly-filling brain. It’s as if, by giving up his stories to Ianto, he has more room in his heart to pack Ianto in, keep him as near as skin, nearer. Every tale he tells, every moment he remembers, frees a piece of memory for Ianto to fill with his smile, his voice, his body, until Jack is made up of a thousand different fragments of Ianto, a thousand different glittering facets. All that is good about Jack is Ianto.
If he were a mortal man, he would call it love.
But Jack is not a mortal man. He has years that he should not, lives that he should not, a fast-beating heart and a distaste for sleep - for nightmares. Jack is often lonely, often sad, and often feels like his existence is a punishment, but when Ianto is there, when Ianto sits with him on their island of quiet, he feels none of those things. With Ianto, Jack is whole.
It has taken him a long time, two thousand years and lungs full of dirt, to admit that. To admit that no matter how many hearts pass through his hands, no matter how many souls take his and hold on, Ianto is the one, the only one, he has ever wanted to hold back. Years of longing for hearts that would never be his and finally, Jack has found the one he should keep.
He presses his lips to Ianto’s head again, and then lower, behind his ear. Words are not enough to explain what he knows now is true; they have never been enough. The language of bodies is the only language Jack has ever been any good at, anyway; French eluded him, English still surprises every now and then, Welsh sends him around the bend. But bodies, skin against sweat-slick skin, moving in rhythm and with a cadence all their own, those Jack understands, and it is with his own that he tells Ianto how much he needs forever. How he needs to be Ianto’s forever, too.
And Ianto does not speak the language of bodies the way Jack does yet, but he is learning, and learning fast. After all, there are whole galaxies out there to communicate with, and someday Jack will take him to see them all. He might as well prepare now.
rating: pg-13
pairing: jack/ianto
spoilers: all aired episodes, and none.
disclaimer: rtd and the beeb own pretty much everyone. i'll have to check, but they might even own me.
writer's note: also for the horizonssing day sixteen challenge. feedback welcome.
summary: at night, when the hub is quiet, jack and ianto don't always spend the evening having sex against a wall.
"Between an immensity of land and an immensity of sky they sat there, incomprehensible, smiling at a continent."
- Douglas Adams,
Last Chance to See
At the end of the day, this is what they live for.
Everyone is gone. The Hub is mostly quiet, the gentle chittering of Myfanawy notwithstanding, the beeps and clicks of the various monitors and alarm systems muted. There’s a comfort in the quiet, a knowledge that sometimes, just sometimes, this job isn’t all about action, but about waiting. And Jack is content waiting, especially if he has company.
It’s not often that they get the chance for this, a cup of tea on the Torchwood sofa and the quiet hum of the computers, Ianto leaning against him, holding Jack’s hand with both of his. It’s dangerous, it’s not something either one of them should get used to, but for the moment the peace is just what they need.
Jack hums an unfamiliar tune against Ianto’s hair, his eyes drifting closed as he smells Ianto’s familiar shampoo, a lullaby of aromatherapy. Ianto, too, closes his eyes, his fingers idly caressing Jack’s gun-roughened hand. He lifts the one around his waist to his mouth, letting his lips rest against the palm, smelling Hoppes gun cleaner and the iron of Jack’s Webley, tasting pen ink and smoke. Jack smiles and brings his other hand to the top of Ianto’s head, carding his fingers through the short, dark strands there. Here, on this island of silence and peace, they are light-years away from death and destruction, from the loss of teammates, lovers, family, from the reaches of evil. Here, on this island of that which is unspoken, they are the definition of safe.
Secrets have been told here; whispers have been broken; hearts have soared and flown with as much grace as the pteranodon above them. Jack has murmured whole lifetimes here in the evening, recounting things long forgotten in an effort to preserve them somewhere else than his quickly-filling brain. It’s as if, by giving up his stories to Ianto, he has more room in his heart to pack Ianto in, keep him as near as skin, nearer. Every tale he tells, every moment he remembers, frees a piece of memory for Ianto to fill with his smile, his voice, his body, until Jack is made up of a thousand different fragments of Ianto, a thousand different glittering facets. All that is good about Jack is Ianto.
If he were a mortal man, he would call it love.
But Jack is not a mortal man. He has years that he should not, lives that he should not, a fast-beating heart and a distaste for sleep - for nightmares. Jack is often lonely, often sad, and often feels like his existence is a punishment, but when Ianto is there, when Ianto sits with him on their island of quiet, he feels none of those things. With Ianto, Jack is whole.
It has taken him a long time, two thousand years and lungs full of dirt, to admit that. To admit that no matter how many hearts pass through his hands, no matter how many souls take his and hold on, Ianto is the one, the only one, he has ever wanted to hold back. Years of longing for hearts that would never be his and finally, Jack has found the one he should keep.
He presses his lips to Ianto’s head again, and then lower, behind his ear. Words are not enough to explain what he knows now is true; they have never been enough. The language of bodies is the only language Jack has ever been any good at, anyway; French eluded him, English still surprises every now and then, Welsh sends him around the bend. But bodies, skin against sweat-slick skin, moving in rhythm and with a cadence all their own, those Jack understands, and it is with his own that he tells Ianto how much he needs forever. How he needs to be Ianto’s forever, too.
And Ianto does not speak the language of bodies the way Jack does yet, but he is learning, and learning fast. After all, there are whole galaxies out there to communicate with, and someday Jack will take him to see them all. He might as well prepare now.