sariagray | If It’s Not Love, Then It’s the Bomb That Will Bring Us Together

Title: If It’s Not Love, Then It’s the Bomb That Will Bring Us Together
Author:

sariagray
Characters/Pairings: Jack/Ianto
Word Count: 747
Rating: PG13
Spoilers: Occurs after KKBB. Everything up to that point, I suppose.
Warning: Muted angst? War references.
Disclaimer: I do not own Torchwood. I do not make money off of Torchwood. In fact, it seems as though Torchwood owns and makes money off of ME. This is for entertainment purposes only. NB: Title comes from "Ask" by The Smiths. And isn't it just lovely?

Author’s Note: Well. Here's a story. I've realized that I don't have plot bunnies. No. I have mood bunnies. They usually need music and candlelight to breed. *Nod* And I was going somewhere with this, but then got completely sidetracked. So. Uh. Yeah. I don't even know if I like it right now, but

thebuttonontop assures me that it should be posted. Thanks, dear, for the support!

If It’s Not Love, Then It’s the Bomb That Will Bring Us Together

The wind and rain beat against the windowpane, rattling the wooden frame like a caged bird bent on escape. It was quiet but for the weather and the occasional soft slush-splat of wet snow hitting the ground.

It was ugly snow now, dirty brown and grey. It melted and refroze and melted again, all in place – pushed up against the sides of roadways. The icicles had disappeared already; one bright sunny day decimated their pretty, twinkling ranks. It had been a treacherous winter so far, but it made the landscape idyllic and that was something. Now it just looked old, tired, and unwashed.

Weeks had passed since Jack’s return.

Weeks of promises to do things the right way. But the ‘right’ way was never outlined with Torchwood in mind and, 21st Century norms or not, there was an unspoken time constraint that perpetually tightened its fascist fist around them.

Vive la France. Or something.

Ianto stretched out his legs, pointing his toes toward the end of the bed in an attempt to ease the ache that had long since settled in them.

In wartime, relationships are eked out like water from stones. They are desperate and terrifying, enemies around every corner seeking to destroy every last shard of humanity. ‘This is the last kiss’ becomes a mantra spoken by the masses, a thought to which the mind clings. Take every moment of grace offered; tomorrow may never come.

Which was, of course, why they had only lasted two days of ‘right.’ No date yet, except the one on the ever-distant horizon. The one that will take place ‘when the rift is quiet.’ Not much different from ‘when the bombs stop falling,’ really.

Jack shuffled in his sleep, inadvertently pulling Ianto closer. Having long since learned that resistance would be futile, Ianto allowed himself to be drawn in.

When we win the war.

The light-bereft room was tinted with a red glow from the alarm clock. He couldn’t see the numbers without sitting up, as Jack’s shoulder perfectly blocked the display. Perhaps it was for the best. He heard Jack’s breath hitch and then sigh, an engine turning over. Slowly, he turned his head and was met with an open eye and raised eyebrow that he could barely make out for the blackout curtain darkness.

Jack scowled as best he could with half of his face pressed into the pillow. “You’re thinking too loud again. Some of us are trying to sleep.”

“What time is it?”

Sighing, Jack turned over to check and managed to pull the entire duvet with him. If Ianto didn’t know any better, he’d have thought that it was a calculated move. “A little after three. You okay?”

“Hmm. Just couldn’t sleep.”

“Try harder.”

Ianto huffed in a cross between annoyance and amusement. Jack settled back down, facing him, and rewrapped his arm just above his waist. He pressed against Ianto as though he were eager for warmth.

“Cold?” he asked and Jack made a noncommittal hum in the back of his throat.

The silence stretched out with the arousing alarm of an air raid siren. Ianto contented himself by staring at the ceiling fan he couldn’t see. Every full rotation, there was a click as the beaded chain moved, subconsciously marking every second spent together in bed. Perhaps, instead, it was a countdown. Finally, Jack disturbed the stillness.

“I’m just…yeah. Cold.”

As if ‘cold’ were a code word. He held back a snort as the realization dawned on him; of course it was a code, adopted some time ago for the benefit of protection. He nodded slightly in affirmation and shifted his body closer to Jack’s, offering whatever ‘warmth’ he could. Jack gave a small, contented sigh.

He had no idea when it had become an inverted nuclear arms race; a race to be the last to not say the things that needed saying. Because that would clearly lead to mushroom clouds and craters in the ground and the utter demise of civilization. The constant give-and-take, done with greater cautious care than the handling of most alien artifacts, was wearying - one of them was bound to slip up eventually.

Jack nuzzled into his neck and breathed out, the warm air against his skin soothing and startling.

The way ‘I love you’ crawled tenaciously to Ianto’s lips, a parched Bedouin lost in the desert, was beyond unsettling. The way it died before finding release smacked of irony. Or perhaps just unfortunate circumstance. Coincidence.

Boom. Or something.

The End

Current Mood: blank
Current Music: "Iieee" Tori Amos