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Do Not Cease
Title: Do Not Cease
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
sariagray
Characters/Pairings: Jack/Ianto
Word Count: ~1800
Rating: PG13
Spoilers: Exit Wounds.
Warnings: None
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.
Beta:analineblue , who remembers what my stories are about when even I forget.
Summary: Even in the darkest hour, there is always something the celebrate.
Author’s Note: Written for the![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
redisourcolor challenge #19. The theme is "Celebration" and the words are "portmanteau," "dense," and "ravel." The phrase is "I'm so hungry I could eat an elephant!"
Do Not Cease
“Do not cease to drink beer, to eat, to intoxicate thyself, to make love, and to celebrate the good days.”
- Egyptian Proverb
It had rained earlier in the evening, a sudden downpour that had dissipated as quickly as it had arrived. It left everything cool and fresh, and the storm had kicked up a wind that felt deliciously crisp after the past week's record highs. In lieu of turning on the old, spluttering air conditioner, Ianto opened a window in the kitchen and two in the living room. The air was sweet and sharp with ozone, which made all of the difference in his musty flat. It hadn't had a proper airing in weeks.
The rift had been overactive, as well, relentless in the heat as though it had been boiling over. It would have been exhausting enough with a full team, but now they were spread so transparently thin. Rhys had been brought on occasionally, although limited to safe retrieval runs of various pieces of harmless junk under Gwen’s supervision. It freed them up only marginally and often cost them more time. He liked Rhys well enough and he was grateful for his often pragmatic presence, but one man with a lorry would never be a replacement for two well-trained experts.
As he puttered around his kitchen in search of his next meal, dusk began to settle into full-blown night. Fireflies listed lazily about the yard, drifting and blinking their beacons. He wondered, briefly, if they were alien. He wondered, too, if Jack would answer him plainly if he asked.
His search of the cabinets turned up nothing more than a few packages of pot noodle and a jar of peanut butter, so old that the oil and the solids had completely separated. It was disheartening, that pot noodle seemed his healthiest option and also stood as the most home-cooked meal he had eaten in more than four days.
He started the electric kettle with a swift flick of a switch and removed his tie, draping it over the back of the dining chair that already propped up his wilted jacket. He unbuttoned the top two buttons of his dress shirt, paused ponderously in his ministrations, and then undid the rest. It felt as though he were unraveling himself, unknotting the muscles in his shoulders and arms. He peeled off the dark red cotton shirt and tossed it on top of the rapidly-growing pile of clothes.
The kettle whistled and beeped, so he shut it off and carefully poured the water into the container. As it sat for the allotted three minutes, he reached in the refrigerator and retrieved a bottle of chemically-enhanced iced green tea. There were health benefits to green tea, and this had been on sale, so he’d bought a whole case of the stuff. In retrospect, the healthiness of the tea was greatly negated by the carcinogens that had been pumped into each bottle to preserve and sweeten it. Then again, carcinogens in commercial beverages didn’t matter when one worked right next to a rift in time and space. Besides, he hated the grassiness of real green tea; it was akin to drinking vegetables.
He padded in socked feet, down to charcoal trousers and a white cotton vest now, into the sitting room. The foldout tray was still in front of the long sofa where he’d last left it, so he placed everything on top and flicked on the news. It was all he watched lately, keeping up with the rebuilding of Cardiff like an anxious, expectant father. This sort of programming was the only way to stay abreast of the growth; looking out of his windows, he saw only a tree-lined street and when he was in the heart of the city, he was underground, beneath the skin of it. It had been over a month; progress was finally being made.
He sank bonelessly into the soft leather of his sofa and dug into his paltry meal with gusto, watching the screen with intense focus. He’d barely managed to put the second spoonful to his lips when the front door burst open. He raised an eyebrow. Burglars rarely made such grand entrances and there were only two other people with a key to his flat. And only one who could claim any sort of right (no matter how dubious) to just burst into his home. Unless Gwen had gotten rather bold, of course.
“Hey,” Jack called, shadowed in the poor light of the doorway.
Ianto quickly swallowed his mouthful. “Shut the door. You’re letting in bugs.”
He watched as Jack obeyed and toed off his boots directly on top of Ianto’s neatly-aligned, polished shoes. Ianto dredged up another spoonful of his meal, and another, as Jack pulled down his braces and stretched his neck. As he removed the day’s detritus from his pockets to drop on the front table, he turned to face the newscaster as she relentlessly rattled off figures. One hundred fifty thousand pounds, seven constables, three closed bus lines, one memorial with two dozen yew trees. Jack sat himself in the adjacent arm chair.
“Are they putting the memorial in Cathays?” he asked with a forced, dense casualness.
Ianto shrugged. “Wasn’t paying attention.”
There was a long pause as they both stared, unseeing, at the screen. Finally, Jack cleared his throat. It wasn’t a pointed sound, but Ianto knew it demanded his attention.
“What’re you eating?”
Ianto looked down at the ostentatious label wrapped around the Styrofoam cup and back at Jack. “Pot noodle.”
“Why?”
Sighing, Ianto pushed the cup away. “Because I’m so hungry, I could eat an elephant. Because I haven’t gotten any shopping done in days. Because I had no energy to do more than put on the kettle.”
Jack frowned and nodded, turning back to the screen. After a moment, he turned back.
“We could go out. Sit down, eat a real meal, celebrate a bit.”
“What would we celebrate?”
Jack wouldn’t meet his eyes. “Summer. An evening off. Life.”
“Death,” Ianto countered and rubbed a hand over his eyes.
“You’re exhausted,” Jack said; it was an adequate change of subject and, even though it annoyed him, Ianto admired the effort. “I could pick you up something. You need to eat more than that. And you should sleep.”
Ianto opened his mouth to protest and then shut it in favor of silent contemplation. Just when had they turned into this? When had his flat begun to look lived-in, with dog-eared books and cork coasters on the end tables, and a worn throw rug in the center of the room? In time, Jack had come to belong in Ianto’s arm chair, rather than appearing to have commandeered it for his own nefarious purposes. He no longer seemed larger-than-life, too big to be contained within four simple walls.
Jack had stopped living out of a portmanteau, too, opting instead to silently slip articles of his clothing into Ianto’s closet. Finally, after a fit of sorting through grotesquely thick socks that would never, ever find their way onto Ianto’s feet (except when it was really cold, and no one would ever find out about that), Ianto had rearranged the entire bedroom to accommodate Jack’s limited wardrobe.
When Jack had seen the new layout the following night, he’d burst out laughing and hugged Ianto to him like he was something rare and precious. They’d kissed then, quietly, slowly. It was new and light and sweet and went absolutely nowhere, which left Ianto’s heart pounding with terrifying, inexplicable speed.
Stripped to the essentials, it was a dance that Jack led, but only by permission. If Ianto hadn’t stepped aside, made the necessary room, Jack wouldn’t have bothered forcing himself in. And now it was comfortable, familiar, normal. Well, normal except, of course, when they went running headlong at some many-toothed space beast or fumbling blindly passed zippers and buttons to smooth, heated flesh in ancient, dank subterranean corridors.
Ianto glanced over and realized that Jack was staring at him curiously. No, anxiously, waiting on an answer and troubled as to why one was being so long withheld. Ianto smiled, his lips quirked with reassuring wryness. He lifted the cup and drained the now-cooled liquid in one long gulp. Then he rose, stretched aching muscles, and straddled Jack’s lap.
It was interesting, perhaps even significantly so, the way Jack leaned back and made room for him, the way his hands instantly clutched Ianto’s hips in order to steady and balance. Even like this, completely bewildered and with his heart still aching for the losses they’d all suffered, Jack would protect and guide. It was heartening. It was also bloody startling.
“You’re right,” Ianto said, tightening his knees, though they were awkwardly placed, around Jack’s hips. “We should celebrate.”
He pressed his lips to Jack’s face, marking a trail along his cheekbone and down his jaw to nip at his neck. He felt Jack relax beneath him, felt him groan softly, and he pulled back to watch the lines in Jack’s forehead ease.
“Mm. What’ve you decided to celebrate?” Jack asked with a grin after he’d taken a moment to compose himself.
Ianto lifted gracefully from Jack’s lap despite the clinging hands trying to hold him in place. They were large hands, elegant and fatal and soothing. It was tempting to let them have control, to be manipulated by their warmth. Later, perhaps.
“Today. Only…being here to see the end of today. We’ll go out. A pub, maybe. Just let me change.”
“I don’t know,” Jack hedged, leering. “You look fine to me.”
Ianto rolled his eyes and made for the bedroom. Before he got two feet, Jack had jumped from the chair. He pulled Ianto as close as any silver screen starlet, like if he held him near enough, Ianto might be able to fold himself up into Jack’s chest and live there forever.
Jack smiled at him, honest and open, bright and without shadowed doubts. Then he tipped Ianto’s chin up with the slightest pressure of two fingers. Ianto’s brain spared a moment to remark upon the way they were framed by the bay window overlooking the street and wouldn’t it be lovely if Franz Waxman could score this moment? After that ridiculously embarrassing quick-fire synapse, it stopped working to produce a single thought beyond simplistic sense recognition: the slightest stubble on Jack’s cheek, the warmth of his arms as they held Ianto up, the rough thickness of his lips, the coolness of his tongue, the heavy spice of his scent undercut by the bright citrus of the soap Ianto had put in all the dispensers in the Hub.
They pulled apart, short of breath and dizzy. Ianto rested his head against Jack’s shoulder and inhaled deeply, letting Jack draw him closer, tighter. It was quiet and calm here. A deep voice blathered on in the background, something about Labour’s commitment to electrify the Swansea-London rail route.
Ianto sighed contentedly. “What was that for?” He could feel the pull of Jack’s shoulders as he tried to shrug against him.
“For making it through today,” Jack said, softly. “Incentive to make it through tomorrow, too.”
“Always,” Ianto promised. Jack pressed his lips against the side of Ianto’s head. “Always.”
The End
Author:
sariagray Characters/Pairings: Jack/Ianto
Word Count: ~1800
Rating: PG13
Spoilers: Exit Wounds.
Warnings: None
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.
Beta:
analineblue , who remembers what my stories are about when even I forget.Summary: Even in the darkest hour, there is always something the celebrate.
Author’s Note: Written for the
redisourcolor challenge #19. The theme is "Celebration" and the words are "portmanteau," "dense," and "ravel." The phrase is "I'm so hungry I could eat an elephant!" - Egyptian Proverb
It had rained earlier in the evening, a sudden downpour that had dissipated as quickly as it had arrived. It left everything cool and fresh, and the storm had kicked up a wind that felt deliciously crisp after the past week's record highs. In lieu of turning on the old, spluttering air conditioner, Ianto opened a window in the kitchen and two in the living room. The air was sweet and sharp with ozone, which made all of the difference in his musty flat. It hadn't had a proper airing in weeks.
The rift had been overactive, as well, relentless in the heat as though it had been boiling over. It would have been exhausting enough with a full team, but now they were spread so transparently thin. Rhys had been brought on occasionally, although limited to safe retrieval runs of various pieces of harmless junk under Gwen’s supervision. It freed them up only marginally and often cost them more time. He liked Rhys well enough and he was grateful for his often pragmatic presence, but one man with a lorry would never be a replacement for two well-trained experts.
As he puttered around his kitchen in search of his next meal, dusk began to settle into full-blown night. Fireflies listed lazily about the yard, drifting and blinking their beacons. He wondered, briefly, if they were alien. He wondered, too, if Jack would answer him plainly if he asked.
His search of the cabinets turned up nothing more than a few packages of pot noodle and a jar of peanut butter, so old that the oil and the solids had completely separated. It was disheartening, that pot noodle seemed his healthiest option and also stood as the most home-cooked meal he had eaten in more than four days.
He started the electric kettle with a swift flick of a switch and removed his tie, draping it over the back of the dining chair that already propped up his wilted jacket. He unbuttoned the top two buttons of his dress shirt, paused ponderously in his ministrations, and then undid the rest. It felt as though he were unraveling himself, unknotting the muscles in his shoulders and arms. He peeled off the dark red cotton shirt and tossed it on top of the rapidly-growing pile of clothes.
The kettle whistled and beeped, so he shut it off and carefully poured the water into the container. As it sat for the allotted three minutes, he reached in the refrigerator and retrieved a bottle of chemically-enhanced iced green tea. There were health benefits to green tea, and this had been on sale, so he’d bought a whole case of the stuff. In retrospect, the healthiness of the tea was greatly negated by the carcinogens that had been pumped into each bottle to preserve and sweeten it. Then again, carcinogens in commercial beverages didn’t matter when one worked right next to a rift in time and space. Besides, he hated the grassiness of real green tea; it was akin to drinking vegetables.
He padded in socked feet, down to charcoal trousers and a white cotton vest now, into the sitting room. The foldout tray was still in front of the long sofa where he’d last left it, so he placed everything on top and flicked on the news. It was all he watched lately, keeping up with the rebuilding of Cardiff like an anxious, expectant father. This sort of programming was the only way to stay abreast of the growth; looking out of his windows, he saw only a tree-lined street and when he was in the heart of the city, he was underground, beneath the skin of it. It had been over a month; progress was finally being made.
He sank bonelessly into the soft leather of his sofa and dug into his paltry meal with gusto, watching the screen with intense focus. He’d barely managed to put the second spoonful to his lips when the front door burst open. He raised an eyebrow. Burglars rarely made such grand entrances and there were only two other people with a key to his flat. And only one who could claim any sort of right (no matter how dubious) to just burst into his home. Unless Gwen had gotten rather bold, of course.
“Hey,” Jack called, shadowed in the poor light of the doorway.
Ianto quickly swallowed his mouthful. “Shut the door. You’re letting in bugs.”
He watched as Jack obeyed and toed off his boots directly on top of Ianto’s neatly-aligned, polished shoes. Ianto dredged up another spoonful of his meal, and another, as Jack pulled down his braces and stretched his neck. As he removed the day’s detritus from his pockets to drop on the front table, he turned to face the newscaster as she relentlessly rattled off figures. One hundred fifty thousand pounds, seven constables, three closed bus lines, one memorial with two dozen yew trees. Jack sat himself in the adjacent arm chair.
“Are they putting the memorial in Cathays?” he asked with a forced, dense casualness.
Ianto shrugged. “Wasn’t paying attention.”
There was a long pause as they both stared, unseeing, at the screen. Finally, Jack cleared his throat. It wasn’t a pointed sound, but Ianto knew it demanded his attention.
“What’re you eating?”
Ianto looked down at the ostentatious label wrapped around the Styrofoam cup and back at Jack. “Pot noodle.”
“Why?”
Sighing, Ianto pushed the cup away. “Because I’m so hungry, I could eat an elephant. Because I haven’t gotten any shopping done in days. Because I had no energy to do more than put on the kettle.”
Jack frowned and nodded, turning back to the screen. After a moment, he turned back.
“We could go out. Sit down, eat a real meal, celebrate a bit.”
“What would we celebrate?”
Jack wouldn’t meet his eyes. “Summer. An evening off. Life.”
“Death,” Ianto countered and rubbed a hand over his eyes.
“You’re exhausted,” Jack said; it was an adequate change of subject and, even though it annoyed him, Ianto admired the effort. “I could pick you up something. You need to eat more than that. And you should sleep.”
Ianto opened his mouth to protest and then shut it in favor of silent contemplation. Just when had they turned into this? When had his flat begun to look lived-in, with dog-eared books and cork coasters on the end tables, and a worn throw rug in the center of the room? In time, Jack had come to belong in Ianto’s arm chair, rather than appearing to have commandeered it for his own nefarious purposes. He no longer seemed larger-than-life, too big to be contained within four simple walls.
Jack had stopped living out of a portmanteau, too, opting instead to silently slip articles of his clothing into Ianto’s closet. Finally, after a fit of sorting through grotesquely thick socks that would never, ever find their way onto Ianto’s feet (except when it was really cold, and no one would ever find out about that), Ianto had rearranged the entire bedroom to accommodate Jack’s limited wardrobe.
When Jack had seen the new layout the following night, he’d burst out laughing and hugged Ianto to him like he was something rare and precious. They’d kissed then, quietly, slowly. It was new and light and sweet and went absolutely nowhere, which left Ianto’s heart pounding with terrifying, inexplicable speed.
Stripped to the essentials, it was a dance that Jack led, but only by permission. If Ianto hadn’t stepped aside, made the necessary room, Jack wouldn’t have bothered forcing himself in. And now it was comfortable, familiar, normal. Well, normal except, of course, when they went running headlong at some many-toothed space beast or fumbling blindly passed zippers and buttons to smooth, heated flesh in ancient, dank subterranean corridors.
Ianto glanced over and realized that Jack was staring at him curiously. No, anxiously, waiting on an answer and troubled as to why one was being so long withheld. Ianto smiled, his lips quirked with reassuring wryness. He lifted the cup and drained the now-cooled liquid in one long gulp. Then he rose, stretched aching muscles, and straddled Jack’s lap.
It was interesting, perhaps even significantly so, the way Jack leaned back and made room for him, the way his hands instantly clutched Ianto’s hips in order to steady and balance. Even like this, completely bewildered and with his heart still aching for the losses they’d all suffered, Jack would protect and guide. It was heartening. It was also bloody startling.
“You’re right,” Ianto said, tightening his knees, though they were awkwardly placed, around Jack’s hips. “We should celebrate.”
He pressed his lips to Jack’s face, marking a trail along his cheekbone and down his jaw to nip at his neck. He felt Jack relax beneath him, felt him groan softly, and he pulled back to watch the lines in Jack’s forehead ease.
“Mm. What’ve you decided to celebrate?” Jack asked with a grin after he’d taken a moment to compose himself.
Ianto lifted gracefully from Jack’s lap despite the clinging hands trying to hold him in place. They were large hands, elegant and fatal and soothing. It was tempting to let them have control, to be manipulated by their warmth. Later, perhaps.
“Today. Only…being here to see the end of today. We’ll go out. A pub, maybe. Just let me change.”
“I don’t know,” Jack hedged, leering. “You look fine to me.”
Ianto rolled his eyes and made for the bedroom. Before he got two feet, Jack had jumped from the chair. He pulled Ianto as close as any silver screen starlet, like if he held him near enough, Ianto might be able to fold himself up into Jack’s chest and live there forever.
Jack smiled at him, honest and open, bright and without shadowed doubts. Then he tipped Ianto’s chin up with the slightest pressure of two fingers. Ianto’s brain spared a moment to remark upon the way they were framed by the bay window overlooking the street and wouldn’t it be lovely if Franz Waxman could score this moment? After that ridiculously embarrassing quick-fire synapse, it stopped working to produce a single thought beyond simplistic sense recognition: the slightest stubble on Jack’s cheek, the warmth of his arms as they held Ianto up, the rough thickness of his lips, the coolness of his tongue, the heavy spice of his scent undercut by the bright citrus of the soap Ianto had put in all the dispensers in the Hub.
They pulled apart, short of breath and dizzy. Ianto rested his head against Jack’s shoulder and inhaled deeply, letting Jack draw him closer, tighter. It was quiet and calm here. A deep voice blathered on in the background, something about Labour’s commitment to electrify the Swansea-London rail route.
Ianto sighed contentedly. “What was that for?” He could feel the pull of Jack’s shoulders as he tried to shrug against him.
“For making it through today,” Jack said, softly. “Incentive to make it through tomorrow, too.”
“Always,” Ianto promised. Jack pressed his lips against the side of Ianto’s head. “Always.”
The End