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sariagrayTitle: Time Lord
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
sariagray
Characters/Pairings: Jack/Ianto, mentions of the team.
Rating: PG-13 for...angst.
Word Count: ~700
Spoilers: Post "Exit Wounds"
Warnings: Language. Character death. Angst (but it's kinda hopeful angst, yeah?) Unbeta'd.
Disclaimer: I own nothing. I'm just borrowing.
Summary: Ianto takes a moment to remember.
Author’s Note: This is what I did with my extra hour last night...I was getting at something, I promise. At least, I was trying. But I was sleepy. So please forgive any errors? Pretty please?
12:59
01:00
Ianto approaches his armchair and runs a hand along the top, the smooth buttery leather made more comfortable by age and wear. He sinks into it gratefully. A lamp in the corner of the room has been turned on though its yellow light is dim. It casts more shadows than it provides illumination.
He pours a measure of amber liquid into the cut crystal glass. He doesn’t sip it, not at first. Instead, he lets it rest burdensome and cool in his hands. He stares intently at the wall.
01:07
He takes a sip. It irritates his throat. It soothes his mind.
01:08
He stares at the play of darkness against the beige wall. Much like looking at clouds, he tries to force the shapes into something meaningful. He fancies one resembles a bottle of Lisa’s favorite perfume. He’d purchased some a couple of years back as a surprise. He had wanted to give it to her once she’d healed. It is still on his bathroom shelf, waiting for her to claim it, collecting dust. Jack has never mentioned its existence. Maybe he hasn’t even noticed it yet.
01:13
He takes another sip. And another. Two more. They irritate his mind. They soothe his throat.
01:17
He’s not certain how it happened, but now the shadows look like Owen. God. Owen. He hates the bastard. He doesn’t know how he’ll go on without him. He sees absolutely no contradiction between those two statements and he knows Owen wouldn’t, either. Owen. Owen Owen Owen. He vaguely realizes that he is being completely redundant. He doesn’t care. Owen. Fuck.
01:26
He takes another sip. The glass is empty. He pours from the decanter (because one has to do this sort of thing properly). Another sip. His mind and his throat are numbing delightfully. So is the rest of his body.
01:32
He envies Gwen her passionate, heart-wrenching emotions. He envies Jack his ability to fall apart quietly, invisibly. He stands somewhere in between them, which means that he is the center. The fulcrum. That doesn’t make sense to his anesthetized brain, because really, shouldn’t Jack be the center? But Gwen needs Jack, and Jack needs Gwen, and they both need him to gradually put them back together again. He needs himself, too, because with everyone else falling apart....Well.
01:38
He greedily gulps down the remaining liquid in his glass and pours himself another.
01:41
The shadow looks like nothing but a dark splotch now and that’s a great deal more unsettling than anything he’d imagined so far. It is blank. Dark and empty. He cries. His crying is silent, soft, elegantly dignified. He feels old, so old. His tears make slow salty trails down his face, then dangle and leap off of the tip of his nose onto his chest. All because the shadow (blank and dark and empty) has reminded him of her eyes. Her eyes after she died. He can’t even think her name. He doesn’t have the right.
01:49
He stops drawing meaning from the shadows on his walls to switch his focus onto the way the light reflects off of the polished oak coffee table. It brightens the whole room and is reminiscent of the gleam in Jack’s eyes when he smiles. Sure, Jack is smiling less now, but he still manages rare dazzling moments of genuine delight that thrill Ianto. That has to count for something. The thought cheers him. Slightly.
01:57
He finishes the last dregs of his drink in one swallow.
01:59
01:00
He stands. He replaces the stopper on the decanter and walks to the kitchen to place his glass in the sink. Wiping the moisture from his face, he walks back to the living room and turns off the light before feeling his way back to the bedroom. He crawls under the covers as deftly as he can manage so as not to disturb Jack, who is finally asleep. As he lets his body relax, he feels the sleeping man shift closer. An arm drapes around his waist and tugs with gentle desperation.
01:17
Jack whimpers and gasps in his sleep so he presses closer, trying to caress his lover's nightmares away.
Ianto mourns only in the hours that never were.
Author:
sariagray Characters/Pairings: Jack/Ianto, mentions of the team.
Rating: PG-13 for...angst.
Word Count: ~700
Spoilers: Post "Exit Wounds"
Warnings: Language. Character death. Angst (but it's kinda hopeful angst, yeah?) Unbeta'd.
Disclaimer: I own nothing. I'm just borrowing.
Summary: Ianto takes a moment to remember.
Author’s Note: This is what I did with my extra hour last night...I was getting at something, I promise. At least, I was trying. But I was sleepy. So please forgive any errors? Pretty please?
Time Lord
12:59
01:00
Ianto approaches his armchair and runs a hand along the top, the smooth buttery leather made more comfortable by age and wear. He sinks into it gratefully. A lamp in the corner of the room has been turned on though its yellow light is dim. It casts more shadows than it provides illumination.
He pours a measure of amber liquid into the cut crystal glass. He doesn’t sip it, not at first. Instead, he lets it rest burdensome and cool in his hands. He stares intently at the wall.
01:07
He takes a sip. It irritates his throat. It soothes his mind.
01:08
He stares at the play of darkness against the beige wall. Much like looking at clouds, he tries to force the shapes into something meaningful. He fancies one resembles a bottle of Lisa’s favorite perfume. He’d purchased some a couple of years back as a surprise. He had wanted to give it to her once she’d healed. It is still on his bathroom shelf, waiting for her to claim it, collecting dust. Jack has never mentioned its existence. Maybe he hasn’t even noticed it yet.
01:13
He takes another sip. And another. Two more. They irritate his mind. They soothe his throat.
01:17
He’s not certain how it happened, but now the shadows look like Owen. God. Owen. He hates the bastard. He doesn’t know how he’ll go on without him. He sees absolutely no contradiction between those two statements and he knows Owen wouldn’t, either. Owen. Owen Owen Owen. He vaguely realizes that he is being completely redundant. He doesn’t care. Owen. Fuck.
01:26
He takes another sip. The glass is empty. He pours from the decanter (because one has to do this sort of thing properly). Another sip. His mind and his throat are numbing delightfully. So is the rest of his body.
01:32
He envies Gwen her passionate, heart-wrenching emotions. He envies Jack his ability to fall apart quietly, invisibly. He stands somewhere in between them, which means that he is the center. The fulcrum. That doesn’t make sense to his anesthetized brain, because really, shouldn’t Jack be the center? But Gwen needs Jack, and Jack needs Gwen, and they both need him to gradually put them back together again. He needs himself, too, because with everyone else falling apart....Well.
01:38
He greedily gulps down the remaining liquid in his glass and pours himself another.
01:41
The shadow looks like nothing but a dark splotch now and that’s a great deal more unsettling than anything he’d imagined so far. It is blank. Dark and empty. He cries. His crying is silent, soft, elegantly dignified. He feels old, so old. His tears make slow salty trails down his face, then dangle and leap off of the tip of his nose onto his chest. All because the shadow (blank and dark and empty) has reminded him of her eyes. Her eyes after she died. He can’t even think her name. He doesn’t have the right.
01:49
He stops drawing meaning from the shadows on his walls to switch his focus onto the way the light reflects off of the polished oak coffee table. It brightens the whole room and is reminiscent of the gleam in Jack’s eyes when he smiles. Sure, Jack is smiling less now, but he still manages rare dazzling moments of genuine delight that thrill Ianto. That has to count for something. The thought cheers him. Slightly.
01:57
He finishes the last dregs of his drink in one swallow.
01:59
01:00
He stands. He replaces the stopper on the decanter and walks to the kitchen to place his glass in the sink. Wiping the moisture from his face, he walks back to the living room and turns off the light before feeling his way back to the bedroom. He crawls under the covers as deftly as he can manage so as not to disturb Jack, who is finally asleep. As he lets his body relax, he feels the sleeping man shift closer. An arm drapes around his waist and tugs with gentle desperation.
01:17
Jack whimpers and gasps in his sleep so he presses closer, trying to caress his lover's nightmares away.
Ianto mourns only in the hours that never were.
End
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Date: 2010-11-07 08:15 pm (UTC)no subject
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Date: 2010-11-07 10:52 pm (UTC)I'm glad you like it! *returns hugs*
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Date: 2010-11-08 10:22 am (UTC)nice
Date: 2010-11-07 11:06 pm (UTC)Re: nice
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Date: 2010-11-08 12:22 am (UTC)Gxxx
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