Variations
Nov. 30th, 2010 08:46 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
sariagrayTitle: Variations
Author:![[info]](https://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif?v=1)
sariagray
Characters/Pairings: Jack/Ianto
Rating: PG, at most.
Word Count: 529
Spoilers: While inspired by The Dead Line, there are no real spoilers.
Warnings: Slight sappy melancholy. That's about it. Oh! And unbeta'd. So, yay mistakes!
Disclaimer: This is a work of fan fiction. No monetary compensation has been or will be garnered from this endeavor. This is purely for entertainment purposes and is no way intended to disrespect anyone or anything.
Author's Note: Oh, look. I wrote something. The first quoted bit comes from Margaret Atwood's "Variations on the Word Sleep," whilst the second and third bits come from Margaret Atwood's "Variations on the Word Love." If you haven't, you should read them. Love and Sleep. They are lovely.
I would like to be the air
that inhabits you for a moment
only. I would like to be that unnoticed
& that necessary.
Jack sleeps.
Ianto watches while propped up on an elbow, eyes tracing shadowy contours of skin and sinew and bone. He wonders if his gaze is shooting invisible beams that will prod Jack awake, but so far it hasn’t happened.
Jack sleeps.
That in itself astounds Ianto if he allows himself to dwell, which he does now. Jack sleeps. He isn’t certain when it happened, when this man’s slumber became the ultimate compliment. Somehow, four hours of uninterrupted sleep begins to connote comfort and understanding and…and…and.
Jack sighs.
The soft huff of air startles Ianto and he freezes, a little doe-eyed at the prospect of Jack catching him like this. There is just a white sheet draped clumsily over his hip and his eyes are wet with the strain of staring in the dark and he is too vulnerable like this. A whisper alone could strangle him.
Jack smiles.
Ianto smiles back, relieved that Jack can’t see him like this, and yet disappointed, too. He leans in close, breathes in the air that Jack exhales, and ponders the symbiotic metaphor until it makes him dizzy. Jack breathes eternal life and it comforts Ianto to feel it on his lips and skin. When he is feeling his most benevolently morose, Ianto wishes he could breathe eternal death to return the favor.
With that thought, he ghosts his lips over Jack’s, cotton light, and crawls into dreams as if they were made of flannel.
This word
is far too short for us, it has only
four letters, too sparse
to fill those deep bare
vacuums between the stars
that press on us with their deafness.
It's not love we don't wish
to fall into, but that fear.
Ianto sleeps.
Jack wakes up gradually and shifts. He watches while propped up on an elbow, eyes tracing shadowy contours of skin and sinew and bone. He wonders if his stirring into a more comfortable position will jar Ianto awake, but so far it hasn’t happened.
Ianto sleeps.
That in itself astounds Jack if he allows himself to dwell, which he does now. Ianto sleeps. Gone are the evenings of restless tossing, the attempts to break free from the shadowy grasp of nightmares, the pained panted gasps for breath, the hollow shouted words. Somehow, the steady rise and fall of this man’s chest begins to connote comfort and understanding and…and…and.
Ianto sighs.
The soft huff of air startles Jack and he freezes, afraid that his thoughts were too loud and stripped bare of their pretty protective varnish. There is just a white sheet draped artfully over his hip and his eyes are wet with the strain of blinking away sleep and he is too vulnerable like this. And yet he leans into the susurration with a masochist’s longing; he could live on a whisper alone.
Ianto smiles.
Jack smiles back, relieved that Ianto can’t hear him like this and yet disappointed, too. He leans in close, breathes in the air that Ianto exhales, and ponders the symbiotic metaphor until it makes him dizzy. Ianto breathes earth and constancy and it comforts Jack to feel it on his lips and skin. When he is feeling his most miserably hopeful, Jack wishes he could breathe stars and variability to return the favor.
With that thought, he ghosts his lips over Ianto’s, velvet soft, and slips back into dreams as if they were made of silk.
Jack and Ianto sleep.
You can
hold on or let go.
End
Author:
sariagray Characters/Pairings: Jack/Ianto
Rating: PG, at most.
Word Count: 529
Spoilers: While inspired by The Dead Line, there are no real spoilers.
Warnings: Slight sappy melancholy. That's about it. Oh! And unbeta'd. So, yay mistakes!
Disclaimer: This is a work of fan fiction. No monetary compensation has been or will be garnered from this endeavor. This is purely for entertainment purposes and is no way intended to disrespect anyone or anything.
Author's Note: Oh, look. I wrote something. The first quoted bit comes from Margaret Atwood's "Variations on the Word Sleep," whilst the second and third bits come from Margaret Atwood's "Variations on the Word Love." If you haven't, you should read them. Love and Sleep. They are lovely.
Variations
I would like to be the air
that inhabits you for a moment
only. I would like to be that unnoticed
& that necessary.
Jack sleeps.
Ianto watches while propped up on an elbow, eyes tracing shadowy contours of skin and sinew and bone. He wonders if his gaze is shooting invisible beams that will prod Jack awake, but so far it hasn’t happened.
Jack sleeps.
That in itself astounds Ianto if he allows himself to dwell, which he does now. Jack sleeps. He isn’t certain when it happened, when this man’s slumber became the ultimate compliment. Somehow, four hours of uninterrupted sleep begins to connote comfort and understanding and…and…and.
Jack sighs.
The soft huff of air startles Ianto and he freezes, a little doe-eyed at the prospect of Jack catching him like this. There is just a white sheet draped clumsily over his hip and his eyes are wet with the strain of staring in the dark and he is too vulnerable like this. A whisper alone could strangle him.
Jack smiles.
Ianto smiles back, relieved that Jack can’t see him like this, and yet disappointed, too. He leans in close, breathes in the air that Jack exhales, and ponders the symbiotic metaphor until it makes him dizzy. Jack breathes eternal life and it comforts Ianto to feel it on his lips and skin. When he is feeling his most benevolently morose, Ianto wishes he could breathe eternal death to return the favor.
With that thought, he ghosts his lips over Jack’s, cotton light, and crawls into dreams as if they were made of flannel.
This word
is far too short for us, it has only
four letters, too sparse
to fill those deep bare
vacuums between the stars
that press on us with their deafness.
It's not love we don't wish
to fall into, but that fear.
Ianto sleeps.
Jack wakes up gradually and shifts. He watches while propped up on an elbow, eyes tracing shadowy contours of skin and sinew and bone. He wonders if his stirring into a more comfortable position will jar Ianto awake, but so far it hasn’t happened.
Ianto sleeps.
That in itself astounds Jack if he allows himself to dwell, which he does now. Ianto sleeps. Gone are the evenings of restless tossing, the attempts to break free from the shadowy grasp of nightmares, the pained panted gasps for breath, the hollow shouted words. Somehow, the steady rise and fall of this man’s chest begins to connote comfort and understanding and…and…and.
Ianto sighs.
The soft huff of air startles Jack and he freezes, afraid that his thoughts were too loud and stripped bare of their pretty protective varnish. There is just a white sheet draped artfully over his hip and his eyes are wet with the strain of blinking away sleep and he is too vulnerable like this. And yet he leans into the susurration with a masochist’s longing; he could live on a whisper alone.
Ianto smiles.
Jack smiles back, relieved that Ianto can’t hear him like this and yet disappointed, too. He leans in close, breathes in the air that Ianto exhales, and ponders the symbiotic metaphor until it makes him dizzy. Ianto breathes earth and constancy and it comforts Jack to feel it on his lips and skin. When he is feeling his most miserably hopeful, Jack wishes he could breathe stars and variability to return the favor.
With that thought, he ghosts his lips over Ianto’s, velvet soft, and slips back into dreams as if they were made of silk.
Jack and Ianto sleep.
You can
hold on or let go.
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no subject
Date: 2010-12-01 03:33 am (UTC)