sharp (torchwood)
"Sharp"
Torchwood: Ianto/Jack, spoilers for 2.05. Ianto remembers. 670 words.
i.
He sees them sometimes, when he's on the edge of sleep, or at the corner of his vision. Flashes, like. He'd call them dreams, except for how they very obviously aren't. They're too real for that. Ghosts, maybe. So many people have died in here.
They remind him of Lisa, a little. Crawling desperate feeling in his stomach, the way his throat goes dry. Broken-girl bodies at the back of his mind. Brick and rain and back-alley scent, grime and inexplicable takeaway.
There's a man, sometimes. He thought at first it was Jack; that would be logical enough. But it isn't.
He thinks perhaps he's going insane.
Files, in the archives. All of the belongings of the dead. Not all of the deaths were heroic. A few were simple. Most had quite a bit of screaming.
So it's not like he's anything new.
ii.
The tea is off, very slightly, but no one else notices. Or if they do, they don't say anything. There's Rift activity at the docks again, which takes precedence.
Jack shrugs into his coat, looks back at Ianto. Expectant, almost. "You coming?"
He shakes his head, just once. "I've got work to do here." Breath of memory. He should go.
He doesn't.
Jack raises an eyebrow. "Suit yourself."
"Sir," Ianto agrees. Amends, "Jack."
Rush of noise, footsteps clattering up the stairs, and they're gone.
He should relax into the quiet, then, but he doesn't. Can't. Rain-soaked girl, just there. Pulse beating beneath his fingertips.
The tea-tray hits the ground and he flinches. Picks it up, picks up the sharp porcelain pieces of the cups.
Blood across the floor of the Hub. He's glad no one's around to see.
iii.
He tells Jack, eventually. When the others have gone home and there is nothing in the Hub but them, no one but them and the Weevils and the countless other intelligences shivering away miles below the surface.
"I don't know," Jack admits. "Fragments of another reality, maybe. Something coming through the Rift. We could do a scan."
The results are clean.
He opens his mouth to ask what it means, but Jack kisses him before he can. The kiss is careful, almost tender, but Jack can be both of those things sometimes, so Ianto doesn't think about why.
iv.
Toshiko's flowers wilt and die. Edges turning to brown, crumbling across her desk. He tosses them out so that she doesn't have to. The way she looks at them, sometimes. Like hope.
She doesn't ask what happened to them. When the Hub is finally quiet, the others out looking for whatever it was set off the scanners this time, she clears her throat. "Thanks for cleaning up the flowers, Ianto," she says, backlit by the pulsing blue of her screens. He can't see the expression in her eyes.
He nods. Doesn't say anything. Begins loading the mugs onto his tray.
"I," she begins, and he pauses, looks up at her. She bites her lip. "Never mind," she says, looking directly at him. Just for an instant, and then away.
Something they both know, maybe. Some sense. Being overlooked, perhaps, and what that allows.
v.
On his knees, hands catching and tangling in Jack's braces. Out of Jack's office, downstairs with the door locked above them. The soft glow of the lamps in Jack's bedroom. Antique, worth a fortune, and a fire hazard, but what in here isn't?
"What if," Ianto says, later. Swallows and can't make himself ask the rest. Remembering all of the things Jack does not tell him. Will not tell him. Stumbling across their edges, sometimes, and how Jack never explains, and how maybe that shouldn't leave such a raw scrape of hurt, but it does.
Shivering spitslick under Jack's mouth, shivering through the small dark hours of morning. It's so cold this time of year, so cold this far underground.
Ianto doesn't ask him about it again. Wonders if there are things you can forget, if you try hard enough. Burn them out of you and be warm.
There are things he will do for Torchwood. For Jack. Things he will not even think about. Things he will not let himself remember.
end
Torchwood: Ianto/Jack, spoilers for 2.05. Ianto remembers. 670 words.
i.
He sees them sometimes, when he's on the edge of sleep, or at the corner of his vision. Flashes, like. He'd call them dreams, except for how they very obviously aren't. They're too real for that. Ghosts, maybe. So many people have died in here.
They remind him of Lisa, a little. Crawling desperate feeling in his stomach, the way his throat goes dry. Broken-girl bodies at the back of his mind. Brick and rain and back-alley scent, grime and inexplicable takeaway.
There's a man, sometimes. He thought at first it was Jack; that would be logical enough. But it isn't.
He thinks perhaps he's going insane.
Files, in the archives. All of the belongings of the dead. Not all of the deaths were heroic. A few were simple. Most had quite a bit of screaming.
So it's not like he's anything new.
ii.
The tea is off, very slightly, but no one else notices. Or if they do, they don't say anything. There's Rift activity at the docks again, which takes precedence.
Jack shrugs into his coat, looks back at Ianto. Expectant, almost. "You coming?"
He shakes his head, just once. "I've got work to do here." Breath of memory. He should go.
He doesn't.
Jack raises an eyebrow. "Suit yourself."
"Sir," Ianto agrees. Amends, "Jack."
Rush of noise, footsteps clattering up the stairs, and they're gone.
He should relax into the quiet, then, but he doesn't. Can't. Rain-soaked girl, just there. Pulse beating beneath his fingertips.
The tea-tray hits the ground and he flinches. Picks it up, picks up the sharp porcelain pieces of the cups.
Blood across the floor of the Hub. He's glad no one's around to see.
iii.
He tells Jack, eventually. When the others have gone home and there is nothing in the Hub but them, no one but them and the Weevils and the countless other intelligences shivering away miles below the surface.
"I don't know," Jack admits. "Fragments of another reality, maybe. Something coming through the Rift. We could do a scan."
The results are clean.
He opens his mouth to ask what it means, but Jack kisses him before he can. The kiss is careful, almost tender, but Jack can be both of those things sometimes, so Ianto doesn't think about why.
iv.
Toshiko's flowers wilt and die. Edges turning to brown, crumbling across her desk. He tosses them out so that she doesn't have to. The way she looks at them, sometimes. Like hope.
She doesn't ask what happened to them. When the Hub is finally quiet, the others out looking for whatever it was set off the scanners this time, she clears her throat. "Thanks for cleaning up the flowers, Ianto," she says, backlit by the pulsing blue of her screens. He can't see the expression in her eyes.
He nods. Doesn't say anything. Begins loading the mugs onto his tray.
"I," she begins, and he pauses, looks up at her. She bites her lip. "Never mind," she says, looking directly at him. Just for an instant, and then away.
Something they both know, maybe. Some sense. Being overlooked, perhaps, and what that allows.
v.
On his knees, hands catching and tangling in Jack's braces. Out of Jack's office, downstairs with the door locked above them. The soft glow of the lamps in Jack's bedroom. Antique, worth a fortune, and a fire hazard, but what in here isn't?
"What if," Ianto says, later. Swallows and can't make himself ask the rest. Remembering all of the things Jack does not tell him. Will not tell him. Stumbling across their edges, sometimes, and how Jack never explains, and how maybe that shouldn't leave such a raw scrape of hurt, but it does.
Shivering spitslick under Jack's mouth, shivering through the small dark hours of morning. It's so cold this time of year, so cold this far underground.
Ianto doesn't ask him about it again. Wonders if there are things you can forget, if you try hard enough. Burn them out of you and be warm.
There are things he will do for Torchwood. For Jack. Things he will not even think about. Things he will not let himself remember.
end