sariagray | A Mournful Rustling In The Dark

Title: A Mournful Rustling In The Dark
Author:

sariagray
Characters/Pairings: Jack/Ianto
Word Count: ~1100
Rating: PG13?
Spoilers: Takes place directly after Exit Wounds
Warnings: Drinking and sad things.
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.
Author's Note: A couple of days back, I asked for my flist to give me ten words. I ended up with an amazing response. Completely ignoring what I originally intended to do with those words, I ended up taking all of those given to me by

analineblue and wrote this story. Her words for me were: odalisque, burn, mirror, entrench, move, liquefy, lime, birch, translation, wrench. This is what happened.

A Mournful Rustling In The Dark

The leaves of memory seemed to make
A mournful rustling in the dark.
-Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Jack ran a hand over his face in tired exasperation, tugging at his features and pulling the skin taut over his cheekbones. Certain memories had been so firmly entrenched that no amount of years could eradicate them from his mind; the fact that he hadn’t been awake for most of his time buried underground or in a frozen cell helped to keep some images intact, too. Still, Time had done its level best to wrench each and every carefully catalogued fleeting moment from his recollection.

He stared at the rich amber liquor in the cut crystal tumbler. Glowing in the dim light of his office, it looked thick and sweet as ambrosia. It was far from nectar, though. He lifted the glass and held it up to the light, contemplated the way the liquid rippled and sloped as he turned the container in his fingers.

Bringing it close to his lips, he tossed the drink back with one deft motion. It burned like brimstone as it slid down his throat, and roiled in the pit of his empty stomach, heavy as a stone. It felt good, right, and so he poured himself another hefty measure.

Sense memory was, of course, still functioning well enough. The metallic scent of the Hub with its undertones of mildew, ozone, coffee, and lime from the cleansers Ianto employed to beat back the tenacious grime all reeked dizzyingly of home.

Ianto, too, had smelled like home, but whether that was a distinct memory trigger or just association with the scents that clung to him, Jack wasn’t entirely certain. There was a jolt, though, when their eyes connected. And then the familiar waft of Dunhill Black had sent a shiver down his spine that was entirely inappropriate given the present circumstances.

In his mind, in the foggy banks of his memory, his relationship with Ianto was marked more by catastrophes than by any of the smaller, more meaningful moments that he knew were there if he could just focus. But with everything that had happened, focus seemed an impossible feat.

He sighed and downed his latest pour of Scotch; it didn’t burn nearly as much, which he resented. The lights in the Hub proper went out; the cog door clanked and whirred and clanked again.

Jack knew, almost instinctively, that Ianto was more than just some odalisque warming his bed and bearing a tray of coffee, but it was all he could recall with any certainty. Ianto seemed to float around vaguely, a ghost that haunted stark instances of cybermen and near-apocalypses and an alien who, despite his extra heart, seemed unable to spare any love for a man like Jack Harkness. This would be just another of those defining notches that would affect them and he hated it.

He had been gone so long, only to return in time to witness the eradication of people that he had loved. That he remembered – Toshiko’s laugh escaped him at the moment and he couldn’t remember if Owen’s brow furrowed when he was angry, but the feeling of his heart tearing itself to pieces was all too achingly familiar.

When they succumbed to the darkness, all of those people he had ever loved, they left pinpricks in his flesh. Soon, he surmised, there would be so many tiny holes that he would deflate completely.

Jack reached for his decanter and was about to grasp it when he was interrupted by a pointed sniff. His hand didn’t move, choosing instead to simply glance upward at the shade in the doorway.

“Thought you went home,” he said, raising his eyebrow as he watched. “Coffee?”

Ianto stepped forward, mug in hand, and mirrored Jack’s expression. He shook his head. “Nope. Tea.”

Jack blinked and looked completely befuddled. “Tea?”

“It’s – was – Tosh’s. She never drank it, though. I think it’s supposed to be bedwen, but I’m not sure.”

“Bedwen?”

“Birch,” Ianto clarified with a hint of exasperation.

“How is it?”

“Revolting.”

“Right,” Jack muttered, his fingers finally clenching around the neck of the decanter. “Grab a glass. Sit. Please.”

Ianto’s eyebrow rose even higher, but he did as instructed. Jack noticed the lingering pain in his eyes, the stress in the lines around his once-smooth face, and couldn’t remember when Ianto had begun to look so worn. It was a hint at the very sort of thing he didn’t want to think about, the very thing he was trying to drown, and so he focused all of his attention on pouring equal amounts into two glasses.

Nodding, Ianto took his in hand and nursed it. His eyes seemed glued to the surface of the liquid as though all of his thoughts were being utilized to keep it still. Jack downed his quickly, again, and let it liquefy his consciousness. Things, ideas, thoughts were all blurred as it was, but he wanted them to become so muddled as to be unrecognizable. He was making a good job of it so far.

“I should have been there.”

It took Jack a moment to realize that Ianto had spoken, his voice was so quiet and Jack’s mind was so far away. It took another moment to register what Ianto was even talking about.

“It isn’t your fault,” he whispered and rose, crossing around his desk to kneel at Ianto’s side.

He didn’t remember ever actually doing this before, but something about the position felt right and so he went with it. Ianto cast a curious glance his way when Jack took the empty hand between his own.

“It should have been –”

“I’m glad it wasn’t,” Jack interrupted harshly, shocked to his core.

Ianto stared at him for a moment, his hand still clutched between Jack’s, and gave a brief nod. The haunted look in his eyes didn’t dissipate, though, and Jack sighed as his brain scrambled for an accurate translation of those once-familiar glances and gestures.

“Look, Ianto, if there’s anyone to blame–”

“It’s not your fault, either,” Ianto murmured, his voice deep and rough and almost too soft to hear.

Jack lowered his head and pressed his lips to Ianto’s hand. The skin was cold and dry. He wasn’t sure if it had always been this way; did Ianto have poor circulation? Was the Hub leeching heat and moisture from him until he became nothing more than dust?

“It is,” Jack breathed into Ianto’s palm. “It is.”

Ianto didn’t argue and so Jack remained in his position as supplicant. Somewhere, ingrained in him in ways he couldn’t quite decipher, was an overarching need for Ianto’s forgiveness. He wasn’t certain why, wasn’t even sure he deserved it, but it drove him. Ianto leaned forward, placed his untested Scotch on the desk, and bent back to kiss the top of Jack’s head. The gesture was tenuous, cautious, hesitant, and yet…it was just as accepting, as welcoming, as Jack remembered.

Because he did remember, at least that much.

The end

Current Mood: crushed
Current Music: "Teardrop" Massive Attack