Fic: Brittle But True, Jack/Ianto, (1/1)
Title: Brittle But True
Rating: pg-13
Pairing: Jack/Ianto
Genre: Angst, Romance
Warnings: Slash, Character Death
Summary: Because Jack's still gone, even if Jack's here; lips brushing patterns against his skin...
Length: +2,100
Status: Complete
A/N: The bold font indicates the actions of the present (which is actually how ever many years into the future you want it to be), while the italics are the things that happened in the past...you'll know exactly when; *winks*.
Brittle But True
Stormy blue eyes look faded; duller than they’ve been for years.
He stares and gawps and drops the files to the floor and doesn’t flinch when they fall out of order. They don’t matter, don’t even register because there’s Jack, sitting in the dark, in one of his chairs like he was born to it. And, yes, it’s unusual, but he’s come to expect moments like this, except Jack’s been gone all day and he’s seen the footage, seen the blue box take Jack away. Jack can’t be here, but is. And then Jack’s closer, and they’re kissing and he clings to Jack’s coat to keep standing, and Jack clings to him to keep living and there’s words and curses and grunts and moans and when it’s over he lays half across the carpet and half across Jack, and tries to understand why Jack says he’s missed him.
Tempting lips, cracked and white, attempt a smile, but it’s too stiff.
He leans into Jack’s caresses, moans when Jack’s fingers twist his nipples just so, whimpers when Jack’s tongue licks his earlobe. It wasn’t like this before, but since; Jack knows his body like it was made for Jack and as he purrs like a cat with cream, he wonders if it’s really real. Because Jack’s still gone, even if Jack’s here; lips brushing patterns on his skin. Jacks only here at night, every night, a little more desperate every time, a little bit older. Time travel. But there’s more, Jack’s eyes stay sad, even when happy, but he won’t question it, doesn’t want it to end, to wake up and find Jack gone forever. He shuts off his mind, lets his body take over. Lets Jack take him over, again and again.
Tears drop onto too pale cheeks, but the eyes are dry, the tears not his own.
He pushes and pulls, snaps at Jack’s braces and rips the buttons out of their holes. It’s been a whole week since Jack left them, and today Gwen sat in Jack’s chair, at Jack’s desk, in Jack’s office, and used Jack’s phone and doodled on Jack’s pad with Jack’s pen and he’s angry and frustrated and so bloody angry, and Jack’s here, always here. His teeth clash hard with Jack’s and he bites Jack’s lip harder when he tries to pull away. He tastes Jack’s blood and he pushes closer, shoves Jack back until Jack’s spread out atop his bed covers and he growls. Jack grins, but there’s no humour only lust and the rest of their clothes get torn to rags by his hands and he doesn’t care.
And he takes Jack, on his bed, because Jack isn’t here, but is, and the others are moving on and he can’t, because the others have to and he doesn’t, and he comes with a growl and bites down on Jack’s shoulder until Jack comes and then he tells Jack and Jack hugs him close and says it’s only a chair, a pen, a phone. But Jack gets it, Jack does, but he shouldn’t worry; Jack’ll be back, Jack always comes back.
Shaking hands rise to brush the moisture away, but there’s more there already, a constant refill.
It’s been longer for Jack this time. Jack has a few more wrinkles, and grey hairs where before they were all black. There’s more pain there than before too, and he tries to remember if this has been building over the last few nights, but they’re only nights ago to him, he has no way of knowing how long it’s been between for Jack. He shivers and it’s not just the memories, but Jack was desperate, and Jack wants tonight to be outside even though the wind is harsh and there’s rain on the ground. And Jack is here when Jack shouldn’t be, because Jack’s never here for the others, and he can’t say no to the tears that threaten in Jack’s eyes. And it’s slow and languid and he forgets all about the cold, because Jack is so hot and covers him everywhere. He notices, but doesn’t mention how Jack’s eyes stray across the unhindered view of Cardiff, because this Jack is time travelling, and is seeing things he doesn’t want to know, so he pulls Jack into another kiss, and tries to fill every part of Jack too.
A pink tongue peaks out, looking too bright against the white-washed features as it wets his lips.
Jack trembles, but it has nothing to do with him, it’s pain and grief and loneliness because Jack’s Doctor is dead; forever dead and Jack can’t stop trembling. It’s been thousands for years for Jack, and he wouldn’t know because Jack; red eyes and swollen features, looks barely a year older, but Jack’s been letting things slip out between the shudders, things he probably shouldn’t know, but he does and he’s almost grateful for this grief that’s affecting Jack’s caution. Jack says nothing about him though, but Jack’s so very old, so he must be long gone, and he wonders if some of Jack’s constant sadness is for him. He wonders why Jack comes back when Jack shouldn’t, when the others have moved on to solving the mysteries themselves, to saving the world without their leader. But Jack clutches him and trembles and breathes hot gulps against his chest and he knows.
The pale throat strains as he swallows, lips opening in preparation for speech.
He’s the one trembling this night, and Jack holds him tight and he buries his face in Jack’s chest, breathes in the scent he should be forgetting, but Jack hasn’t left him, like Jack has the others. Jack whispers words in his ears, some have meanings, others don’t, some are in languages he knows, others he doesn’t, and some he’s sure aren’t even human, but they’re comforting, because they’re Jack and no matter what, it’s Jack’s voice. It’s Jack chasing away the monsters in his mind and it’s like comfort after a nightmare, but these monsters are real, and Jack keeps apologising, somewhere in the stream of words, for not being there. He wants to protest, because Jack’s here, and Jack’s still scaring the monsters away, and even if he got hurt, and it was Owen, not Jack who shot them down, they were still there until Jack ran them off. But he’s so tired and Jack’s moving into singing and humming, and even though he wants to stay awake because something’s telling him that they’ve passed the halfway mark of this, and it won’t be long now before it’s all over, he falls asleep.
No words come, and then someone else speaks, voice choked with tears; ‘Please don't leave me.’
He doesn’t think he’s ever heard Jack beg before, but Jack is and his body trills at the gasped words. He holds himself back, because he can, and because Jack begs so prettily that it’s too good to pass up, and besides, Jack’s left it millennia again, even if it’s still only been since yesterday for him. He has an idea what Jack’s been doing all this time, and he’ll have to wait until it ends before he’ll know if he’s right, and even if he doesn’t mind that, it’s a good enough excuse to keep Jack hanging for now.
He wants the moment, this moment, to stretch and last for ever, but he knows Jack, he knows what forever really is, and he knows this is Jack’s way of dealing with it. Jack begs again, hoarse voice pulling at something deep within him, and he gives in, because there’s only so many times he can refuse Jack, even if sometimes he pretends he could say no forever.
Because Jack is here, is always here when he comes home, and he’s almost forgotten that Jack should be at the Hub too, but isn’t, and he thinks this is love. He loves Jack, loves this Jack that is so impossibly old, that seeks him out throughout millions of years. He loves the Jack that left in a blue box, that still had a little youth in blue eyes, more brooding and less pain. Loves both Jacks; the same Jack, his Jack, so he gives in and barely mourns the loss of that begging.
He smiles again, it’s brittle but true; humour and affection shine through; ‘This isn’t goodbye for you, Jack.’
It’s late, well really early, and he hates that Owen and Gwen needed him tonight, because that feeling of urgency has gotten worse, and Jack is more important than a lost artefact in the archives, but he couldn’t tell them that; Jack isn’t here for them. Jack watches him from the bed, and he doesn’t apologise; Jack knows Torchwood. Jack is Torchwood. Jack understands. He strips without hesitation; he needs this to go on, needs Jack to keep being here at night. He isn’t sure how long he can last now, without Jack. Doesn’t want to have to, even as he knows Jack has been living without him, but hasn’t, because Jack keeps coming back.
It’s slow but fast, and comfortable but passionate, and somehow it’s like they’ve had all night anyway, and he wonders if Jack has a new Time gadget, but flicks of Jack’s eyes towards the clock, the calendar, tell him Jack hasn’t. He kisses away Jack’s frown, and smoothes away the stress lines on Jack’s face, and then he reaches down and caresses away Jack’s thoughts, and silently begs the clock to stand still for a while.
‘I want those months back, the only ones we had apart.’ The smile turns softer, weak hands grasping those forever strong.
He’s earlier tonight, because Owen’s sulking about letting their alien get away, and Gwen wants the evening at home with Rhys, and he and Tosh don’t need to be in the Hub without them. So he cooks dinner and isn’t shocked when he turns and Jack’s at his kitchen table watching with a smile. They kiss, and Jack teases about his apron, but Jack can’t keep hot hands off him, and he thinks it’s good for more than keeping his clothes clean. They eat and it’s domestic, and Jack helps with the dishes, and he thinks it’ll be too much for Jack, and Jack will run, but he gets a wistful smile and Jack says; ‘I like it’ and ‘I miss it’, and he knows that Jack’s told him more than he should know again.
He talks over coffee, absently, because Jack’s making noises drinking the coffee that he only hears in the bedroom, and now he’ll never look at that cup the same again. He mentions Owen’s alien and Jack freezes and suddenly looks at the calendar, as though Jack expects it to look different. And then the lightness is gone and his world is tongue and teeth and hot talented hands that map him as much as they bring pleasure and he thinks this is it; this is the end he knew would come. He tries to do the same, tries to commit every detail of Jack to his memory, but it’s hard because he doesn’t know every detail of Jack yet, he hasn’t had enough time. But Jack stops him, holds his hands and speaks against his lips. Tells him it isn’t over for him, that this isn’t his goodbye, but Jack’s. Jack tells him he’ll understand tomorrow, that he’s beautiful and loved and everything Jack needs. And when he finally drifts to sleep in Jack’s arms, he knows Jack’s crying for him, and he moves himself closer wishing for a miracle.
‘You’ll have them, Jack. We both will.’ And he closes those stormy blue eyes, and doesn’t hear the begging he’s always loved.
He’s cold and wet and scared and wishing the blowfish would stop mentioning Jack, because goodbye was last night and he’ll be alone tonight, and he doesn’t need the reminder. But the bullet isn’t his, and he turns and there’s Jack, with Jack’s laugh, and Jack’s smile, and Jack’s blue, blue eyes and he suddenly realises how young Jack is, for all those extra years.
There’s pain and sadness, and shadows he finds familiar, but there’s real happiness and no grey hairs, and no deep wrinkles. But this is Jack, and this Jack is leading the team again, and saving the world, and laughing. He watches Jack because it’s been a long time since his seen Jack like this, and he loves Jack like he knew and he thinks he’s getting that miracle he wished for, and Jack’s ‘not goodbye’ makes a little more sense now.
Jack says; ‘I came back for you’ and he knows Jack always does.
: fini :
Rating: pg-13
Pairing: Jack/Ianto
Genre: Angst, Romance
Warnings: Slash, Character Death
Summary: Because Jack's still gone, even if Jack's here; lips brushing patterns against his skin...
Length: +2,100
Status: Complete
A/N: The bold font indicates the actions of the present (which is actually how ever many years into the future you want it to be), while the italics are the things that happened in the past...you'll know exactly when; *winks*.
Brittle But True
Stormy blue eyes look faded; duller than they’ve been for years.
He stares and gawps and drops the files to the floor and doesn’t flinch when they fall out of order. They don’t matter, don’t even register because there’s Jack, sitting in the dark, in one of his chairs like he was born to it. And, yes, it’s unusual, but he’s come to expect moments like this, except Jack’s been gone all day and he’s seen the footage, seen the blue box take Jack away. Jack can’t be here, but is. And then Jack’s closer, and they’re kissing and he clings to Jack’s coat to keep standing, and Jack clings to him to keep living and there’s words and curses and grunts and moans and when it’s over he lays half across the carpet and half across Jack, and tries to understand why Jack says he’s missed him.
Tempting lips, cracked and white, attempt a smile, but it’s too stiff.
He leans into Jack’s caresses, moans when Jack’s fingers twist his nipples just so, whimpers when Jack’s tongue licks his earlobe. It wasn’t like this before, but since; Jack knows his body like it was made for Jack and as he purrs like a cat with cream, he wonders if it’s really real. Because Jack’s still gone, even if Jack’s here; lips brushing patterns on his skin. Jacks only here at night, every night, a little more desperate every time, a little bit older. Time travel. But there’s more, Jack’s eyes stay sad, even when happy, but he won’t question it, doesn’t want it to end, to wake up and find Jack gone forever. He shuts off his mind, lets his body take over. Lets Jack take him over, again and again.
Tears drop onto too pale cheeks, but the eyes are dry, the tears not his own.
He pushes and pulls, snaps at Jack’s braces and rips the buttons out of their holes. It’s been a whole week since Jack left them, and today Gwen sat in Jack’s chair, at Jack’s desk, in Jack’s office, and used Jack’s phone and doodled on Jack’s pad with Jack’s pen and he’s angry and frustrated and so bloody angry, and Jack’s here, always here. His teeth clash hard with Jack’s and he bites Jack’s lip harder when he tries to pull away. He tastes Jack’s blood and he pushes closer, shoves Jack back until Jack’s spread out atop his bed covers and he growls. Jack grins, but there’s no humour only lust and the rest of their clothes get torn to rags by his hands and he doesn’t care.
And he takes Jack, on his bed, because Jack isn’t here, but is, and the others are moving on and he can’t, because the others have to and he doesn’t, and he comes with a growl and bites down on Jack’s shoulder until Jack comes and then he tells Jack and Jack hugs him close and says it’s only a chair, a pen, a phone. But Jack gets it, Jack does, but he shouldn’t worry; Jack’ll be back, Jack always comes back.
Shaking hands rise to brush the moisture away, but there’s more there already, a constant refill.
It’s been longer for Jack this time. Jack has a few more wrinkles, and grey hairs where before they were all black. There’s more pain there than before too, and he tries to remember if this has been building over the last few nights, but they’re only nights ago to him, he has no way of knowing how long it’s been between for Jack. He shivers and it’s not just the memories, but Jack was desperate, and Jack wants tonight to be outside even though the wind is harsh and there’s rain on the ground. And Jack is here when Jack shouldn’t be, because Jack’s never here for the others, and he can’t say no to the tears that threaten in Jack’s eyes. And it’s slow and languid and he forgets all about the cold, because Jack is so hot and covers him everywhere. He notices, but doesn’t mention how Jack’s eyes stray across the unhindered view of Cardiff, because this Jack is time travelling, and is seeing things he doesn’t want to know, so he pulls Jack into another kiss, and tries to fill every part of Jack too.
A pink tongue peaks out, looking too bright against the white-washed features as it wets his lips.
Jack trembles, but it has nothing to do with him, it’s pain and grief and loneliness because Jack’s Doctor is dead; forever dead and Jack can’t stop trembling. It’s been thousands for years for Jack, and he wouldn’t know because Jack; red eyes and swollen features, looks barely a year older, but Jack’s been letting things slip out between the shudders, things he probably shouldn’t know, but he does and he’s almost grateful for this grief that’s affecting Jack’s caution. Jack says nothing about him though, but Jack’s so very old, so he must be long gone, and he wonders if some of Jack’s constant sadness is for him. He wonders why Jack comes back when Jack shouldn’t, when the others have moved on to solving the mysteries themselves, to saving the world without their leader. But Jack clutches him and trembles and breathes hot gulps against his chest and he knows.
The pale throat strains as he swallows, lips opening in preparation for speech.
He’s the one trembling this night, and Jack holds him tight and he buries his face in Jack’s chest, breathes in the scent he should be forgetting, but Jack hasn’t left him, like Jack has the others. Jack whispers words in his ears, some have meanings, others don’t, some are in languages he knows, others he doesn’t, and some he’s sure aren’t even human, but they’re comforting, because they’re Jack and no matter what, it’s Jack’s voice. It’s Jack chasing away the monsters in his mind and it’s like comfort after a nightmare, but these monsters are real, and Jack keeps apologising, somewhere in the stream of words, for not being there. He wants to protest, because Jack’s here, and Jack’s still scaring the monsters away, and even if he got hurt, and it was Owen, not Jack who shot them down, they were still there until Jack ran them off. But he’s so tired and Jack’s moving into singing and humming, and even though he wants to stay awake because something’s telling him that they’ve passed the halfway mark of this, and it won’t be long now before it’s all over, he falls asleep.
No words come, and then someone else speaks, voice choked with tears; ‘Please don't leave me.’
He doesn’t think he’s ever heard Jack beg before, but Jack is and his body trills at the gasped words. He holds himself back, because he can, and because Jack begs so prettily that it’s too good to pass up, and besides, Jack’s left it millennia again, even if it’s still only been since yesterday for him. He has an idea what Jack’s been doing all this time, and he’ll have to wait until it ends before he’ll know if he’s right, and even if he doesn’t mind that, it’s a good enough excuse to keep Jack hanging for now.
He wants the moment, this moment, to stretch and last for ever, but he knows Jack, he knows what forever really is, and he knows this is Jack’s way of dealing with it. Jack begs again, hoarse voice pulling at something deep within him, and he gives in, because there’s only so many times he can refuse Jack, even if sometimes he pretends he could say no forever.
Because Jack is here, is always here when he comes home, and he’s almost forgotten that Jack should be at the Hub too, but isn’t, and he thinks this is love. He loves Jack, loves this Jack that is so impossibly old, that seeks him out throughout millions of years. He loves the Jack that left in a blue box, that still had a little youth in blue eyes, more brooding and less pain. Loves both Jacks; the same Jack, his Jack, so he gives in and barely mourns the loss of that begging.
He smiles again, it’s brittle but true; humour and affection shine through; ‘This isn’t goodbye for you, Jack.’
It’s late, well really early, and he hates that Owen and Gwen needed him tonight, because that feeling of urgency has gotten worse, and Jack is more important than a lost artefact in the archives, but he couldn’t tell them that; Jack isn’t here for them. Jack watches him from the bed, and he doesn’t apologise; Jack knows Torchwood. Jack is Torchwood. Jack understands. He strips without hesitation; he needs this to go on, needs Jack to keep being here at night. He isn’t sure how long he can last now, without Jack. Doesn’t want to have to, even as he knows Jack has been living without him, but hasn’t, because Jack keeps coming back.
It’s slow but fast, and comfortable but passionate, and somehow it’s like they’ve had all night anyway, and he wonders if Jack has a new Time gadget, but flicks of Jack’s eyes towards the clock, the calendar, tell him Jack hasn’t. He kisses away Jack’s frown, and smoothes away the stress lines on Jack’s face, and then he reaches down and caresses away Jack’s thoughts, and silently begs the clock to stand still for a while.
‘I want those months back, the only ones we had apart.’ The smile turns softer, weak hands grasping those forever strong.
He’s earlier tonight, because Owen’s sulking about letting their alien get away, and Gwen wants the evening at home with Rhys, and he and Tosh don’t need to be in the Hub without them. So he cooks dinner and isn’t shocked when he turns and Jack’s at his kitchen table watching with a smile. They kiss, and Jack teases about his apron, but Jack can’t keep hot hands off him, and he thinks it’s good for more than keeping his clothes clean. They eat and it’s domestic, and Jack helps with the dishes, and he thinks it’ll be too much for Jack, and Jack will run, but he gets a wistful smile and Jack says; ‘I like it’ and ‘I miss it’, and he knows that Jack’s told him more than he should know again.
He talks over coffee, absently, because Jack’s making noises drinking the coffee that he only hears in the bedroom, and now he’ll never look at that cup the same again. He mentions Owen’s alien and Jack freezes and suddenly looks at the calendar, as though Jack expects it to look different. And then the lightness is gone and his world is tongue and teeth and hot talented hands that map him as much as they bring pleasure and he thinks this is it; this is the end he knew would come. He tries to do the same, tries to commit every detail of Jack to his memory, but it’s hard because he doesn’t know every detail of Jack yet, he hasn’t had enough time. But Jack stops him, holds his hands and speaks against his lips. Tells him it isn’t over for him, that this isn’t his goodbye, but Jack’s. Jack tells him he’ll understand tomorrow, that he’s beautiful and loved and everything Jack needs. And when he finally drifts to sleep in Jack’s arms, he knows Jack’s crying for him, and he moves himself closer wishing for a miracle.
‘You’ll have them, Jack. We both will.’ And he closes those stormy blue eyes, and doesn’t hear the begging he’s always loved.
He’s cold and wet and scared and wishing the blowfish would stop mentioning Jack, because goodbye was last night and he’ll be alone tonight, and he doesn’t need the reminder. But the bullet isn’t his, and he turns and there’s Jack, with Jack’s laugh, and Jack’s smile, and Jack’s blue, blue eyes and he suddenly realises how young Jack is, for all those extra years.
There’s pain and sadness, and shadows he finds familiar, but there’s real happiness and no grey hairs, and no deep wrinkles. But this is Jack, and this Jack is leading the team again, and saving the world, and laughing. He watches Jack because it’s been a long time since his seen Jack like this, and he loves Jack like he knew and he thinks he’s getting that miracle he wished for, and Jack’s ‘not goodbye’ makes a little more sense now.
Jack says; ‘I came back for you’ and he knows Jack always does.
: fini :