Stuck: 4
Title: Preoccupations of a Jaded Mind
Rating: mature (sex)
Length: ~ 1200 words, complete
Character(s)/Pairing(s): Ianto, Jack/Ianto
Genre/Category: vignette, character study
Warnings: none
Summary: He used to believe that everything changes, he was wrong.
Beta: misswinterhill
The statistical probability of dying within the first four years of your employment with Torchwood is 73.2 percent. Torchwood One upped the percentage by 0.2 points during Canary Wharf.
Your life is dictated by ubiquitous occupational hazards, be they alien of origin or indigenous.
Day in and day out you ponder the odds for and against your long awaited, yet not desired demise; that this might be it, this is the last day of your life, it could be over at any second.
Technically you know, of course that every given day of any given life can be a last, but that's of no consequence to your personal dilemma.
*****
The constant adrenaline rush, when you are chasing weevils through stereotypically narrow and dark alleys, was something you once loved.
Afterwards, the weevil subdued and stashed away in the SUV, you back Jack up against the same -- pressing your thigh between his with enough insistence to make him rip frantically at the buckles of your belt, sharp teeth leaving red, long-lined marks on your neck. You rub both of your cocks with steady strokes until his eyes glaze over. His breath comes in small gasps, rhythmically accompanied by his demanding hands digging into your arse cheeks. The strokes become faster, more erratic; you bare your teeth and come with a guttural sound deep down in your throat, face buried in the nape of Jack's neck.
You don't remember when it became routine.
Sex used to be something to take the edge off things but now there is no edge to reach. Idly, you wonder when that tensile string linking your belly to Jack's smile ruptured.
It's always the same moves, regardless of the setting, or the random body you're fucking on the side. When Jack comes up with a new kink, you fail to be amazed, though you do a very good job at pretending. It's really not his fault. How could it be? When he wants you to fuck him and you tell him to go fuck himself, he does.
Sometimes his enthusiasm still turns you on. But more often than not you see painful recognition in his eyes, paired with a latent desperation, as if he is able to predict your decisions as irrevocably as you do.
Now all you do is going through the motions, never anticipating what might happen today, but knowing with smothering certainty that, at the end of each day, you will go down to sub level three cross section eight, where Jack and you occupy the same quarters you lived in since you’ve been working at Torchwood Three, to sleep and start a new cycle.
Every day follows the same pattern: sleeping, eating, monitoring, hunting, archiving, fucking, no highs, no lows. Exhausting predictability. Velleity.
You've grown tired of Torchwood, of its misery upon misery, its crisis after crisis. Years ago you made yourself believe that nothing ever changes, silently hoping you were wrong. Now you know that indeed nothing changes except the names of the latest recruits; their faces merge in your head, they are files in your archives and cold bodies in Jack's morgue.
You tell yourself you will not end like that. You will announce your retirement today, maybe tomorrow. It is a petty sentiment, borne by the petulant notion your life is not bound to Torchwood and Jack. It doesn't surprise you, nor does the lack of momentum behind your decision. You have been longer with Torchwood than can be pronounced healthy. And you realise that you might regret not having known another kind of life before you die.
*****
When you finally do confront him, Jack outright refuses: "Not in a thousand years, Ianto." His laid-back posture only makes you more determined.
He argues: "What are you going to do once you're out there?"
You let out a low chuckle. "I haven't got the slightest idea."
He wants to know why. You could tell him that you feel like you're stuck in the invisible prison of the time loop that is your life; instead you tell him that you want to go travelling.
"I could come with you."
"You wouldn't leave Torchwood behind and I'm tired of sharing. I want something for myself. Someone who'll die remembering me.” It's a cheap shot and the hurt is visible in his eyes when he jumps up from his chair and backs you up against the glass overlooking the Hub.
He plays the sex card to get you to stay.
A hand comes up beside your head blocking your way towards the door; you can feel his breath on your skin, this last bit of temptation. His left hand thrusts into your trousers, palming your cock through the fabric of your pants, squeezing too hard; there is no room to move.
"Do you really think a quick hand job in your office is going to make me stay?"
He swallows audibly and slips his hand out of your trousers, "No, I guess not."
You turn on your heel and walk a fraction too quickly towards the cog door. You feel the adumbration of an emotion, while your hands are shaking slightly, but you haven't unlearned the fine art of wearing a mask.
You are the manifestation of method acting.
*****
"Just promise me you won't put me in the morgue", you ask the last time you see him. "My family doesn't deserve to bury an empty coffin."
Speaking feels like punishment by sandpaper in your larynx, his left hand is combing through the last few thin strands of your hair, his right hand on your belly, repairing the once ruptured string. Too late.
"Ok." The corners of his mouth drop, contort his face into an image of sorrow, tears collecting in the corners of his eyes.
"Stop that, Jack. Crying has never brought back the dead."
He looks at you with that same desperation in his eyes on the day you left him, bar the accusation. When one of his hands finds its way between your waist and the bed sheets, the other rests lightly on your stomach. His head comes to lie on your chest listening to your shallow heartbeat. He breathes in time with you, maybe he’s trying to will more time into you.
You know he's lying about the morgue and that it won’t be you lying in the coffin. The people he loves are all he has, even if it means trying to recreate the few defining relationships he’s had over and over again, for all eternity. He claims he's not possessive or territorial.
"That's just your 21st century misinterpretation of commitment."
And he isn't. But you know that he will not let you go a second time. He's selfish that way, kept you at Torchwood for 30 years after all. You're not ungrateful though. You haven't forgotten that you were once happy there, with him. It occurs to you that you love him.
"Was it worth it?"
"I like to think so." Your lips curl into a small smile and one hand creeps up to touch his face.
"Jack?"
"Hmm?"
You don't hear the monitor flatlining, nor do you feel his shaking arms tightening their grip around you, refusing to let go.
When your doctors come in and tell him your family wants to be with you, his head snaps up revealing a face distorted into a grotesque combination of grief and anger. They ask him to let go of the body. Instead of complying, he puts his head back down on the body's chest - gazing blankly, before he whispers:
"We're Torchwood."
Rating: mature (sex)
Length: ~ 1200 words, complete
Character(s)/Pairing(s): Ianto, Jack/Ianto
Genre/Category: vignette, character study
Warnings: none
Summary: He used to believe that everything changes, he was wrong.
Beta: misswinterhill
The statistical probability of dying within the first four years of your employment with Torchwood is 73.2 percent. Torchwood One upped the percentage by 0.2 points during Canary Wharf.
Your life is dictated by ubiquitous occupational hazards, be they alien of origin or indigenous.
Day in and day out you ponder the odds for and against your long awaited, yet not desired demise; that this might be it, this is the last day of your life, it could be over at any second.
Technically you know, of course that every given day of any given life can be a last, but that's of no consequence to your personal dilemma.
*****
The constant adrenaline rush, when you are chasing weevils through stereotypically narrow and dark alleys, was something you once loved.
Afterwards, the weevil subdued and stashed away in the SUV, you back Jack up against the same -- pressing your thigh between his with enough insistence to make him rip frantically at the buckles of your belt, sharp teeth leaving red, long-lined marks on your neck. You rub both of your cocks with steady strokes until his eyes glaze over. His breath comes in small gasps, rhythmically accompanied by his demanding hands digging into your arse cheeks. The strokes become faster, more erratic; you bare your teeth and come with a guttural sound deep down in your throat, face buried in the nape of Jack's neck.
You don't remember when it became routine.
Sex used to be something to take the edge off things but now there is no edge to reach. Idly, you wonder when that tensile string linking your belly to Jack's smile ruptured.
It's always the same moves, regardless of the setting, or the random body you're fucking on the side. When Jack comes up with a new kink, you fail to be amazed, though you do a very good job at pretending. It's really not his fault. How could it be? When he wants you to fuck him and you tell him to go fuck himself, he does.
Sometimes his enthusiasm still turns you on. But more often than not you see painful recognition in his eyes, paired with a latent desperation, as if he is able to predict your decisions as irrevocably as you do.
Now all you do is going through the motions, never anticipating what might happen today, but knowing with smothering certainty that, at the end of each day, you will go down to sub level three cross section eight, where Jack and you occupy the same quarters you lived in since you’ve been working at Torchwood Three, to sleep and start a new cycle.
Every day follows the same pattern: sleeping, eating, monitoring, hunting, archiving, fucking, no highs, no lows. Exhausting predictability. Velleity.
You've grown tired of Torchwood, of its misery upon misery, its crisis after crisis. Years ago you made yourself believe that nothing ever changes, silently hoping you were wrong. Now you know that indeed nothing changes except the names of the latest recruits; their faces merge in your head, they are files in your archives and cold bodies in Jack's morgue.
You tell yourself you will not end like that. You will announce your retirement today, maybe tomorrow. It is a petty sentiment, borne by the petulant notion your life is not bound to Torchwood and Jack. It doesn't surprise you, nor does the lack of momentum behind your decision. You have been longer with Torchwood than can be pronounced healthy. And you realise that you might regret not having known another kind of life before you die.
*****
When you finally do confront him, Jack outright refuses: "Not in a thousand years, Ianto." His laid-back posture only makes you more determined.
He argues: "What are you going to do once you're out there?"
You let out a low chuckle. "I haven't got the slightest idea."
He wants to know why. You could tell him that you feel like you're stuck in the invisible prison of the time loop that is your life; instead you tell him that you want to go travelling.
"I could come with you."
"You wouldn't leave Torchwood behind and I'm tired of sharing. I want something for myself. Someone who'll die remembering me.” It's a cheap shot and the hurt is visible in his eyes when he jumps up from his chair and backs you up against the glass overlooking the Hub.
He plays the sex card to get you to stay.
A hand comes up beside your head blocking your way towards the door; you can feel his breath on your skin, this last bit of temptation. His left hand thrusts into your trousers, palming your cock through the fabric of your pants, squeezing too hard; there is no room to move.
"Do you really think a quick hand job in your office is going to make me stay?"
He swallows audibly and slips his hand out of your trousers, "No, I guess not."
You turn on your heel and walk a fraction too quickly towards the cog door. You feel the adumbration of an emotion, while your hands are shaking slightly, but you haven't unlearned the fine art of wearing a mask.
You are the manifestation of method acting.
*****
"Just promise me you won't put me in the morgue", you ask the last time you see him. "My family doesn't deserve to bury an empty coffin."
Speaking feels like punishment by sandpaper in your larynx, his left hand is combing through the last few thin strands of your hair, his right hand on your belly, repairing the once ruptured string. Too late.
"Ok." The corners of his mouth drop, contort his face into an image of sorrow, tears collecting in the corners of his eyes.
"Stop that, Jack. Crying has never brought back the dead."
He looks at you with that same desperation in his eyes on the day you left him, bar the accusation. When one of his hands finds its way between your waist and the bed sheets, the other rests lightly on your stomach. His head comes to lie on your chest listening to your shallow heartbeat. He breathes in time with you, maybe he’s trying to will more time into you.
You know he's lying about the morgue and that it won’t be you lying in the coffin. The people he loves are all he has, even if it means trying to recreate the few defining relationships he’s had over and over again, for all eternity. He claims he's not possessive or territorial.
"That's just your 21st century misinterpretation of commitment."
And he isn't. But you know that he will not let you go a second time. He's selfish that way, kept you at Torchwood for 30 years after all. You're not ungrateful though. You haven't forgotten that you were once happy there, with him. It occurs to you that you love him.
"Was it worth it?"
"I like to think so." Your lips curl into a small smile and one hand creeps up to touch his face.
"Jack?"
"Hmm?"
You don't hear the monitor flatlining, nor do you feel his shaking arms tightening their grip around you, refusing to let go.
When your doctors come in and tell him your family wants to be with you, his head snaps up revealing a face distorted into a grotesque combination of grief and anger. They ask him to let go of the body. Instead of complying, he puts his head back down on the body's chest - gazing blankly, before he whispers:
"We're Torchwood."