sariagray | The Bedtime Stories We Tell Ourselves

Title: The Bedtime Stories We Tell Ourselves
Author: sariagray
Characters/Pairings: Jack/Ianto
Word Count: ~950
Rating: G!
Spoilers: Uh, well. Assume everything through season 2, but none, really.
Warnings: None!
Disclaimer: I do not own Torchwood, its characters, or its environs, nor do I receive any monetary gain.

Beta: analineblue
Summary: Jack finds a book in Ianto's flat.

Author's Note: So apparently, I really wanted to write fluff. Like, the fluffiest fluffy fluff EVER. Beatrix Potter is involved, you guys. Seriously. (As soon as I finished writing, I proceeded to make a depressing Jack video. That will be posted tomorrow. My interactions with this show are weird.)

The Bedtime Stories
We Tell Ourselves

When Ianto stumbled out of the bedroom, Jack was settled on the sofa, his legs crossed casually, in just his boxers and vest. There was a mug on the coffee table and the reading lamp was on, dim enough to keep the rest of the flat in relative darkness. There was a book open on his lap and he was reading.

Ianto rubbed his face sleepily and yawned. His extremities were cold, which meant that he’d have to start turning on the heat soon. Not that he spent much time in his flat, but walking into a warm home was a luxury he could afford to indulge.

He shuffled through, past Jack and into the kitchen. The tiles were freezing against the bare soles of his feet and he wondered if he could get away with wearing socks to bed, if Jack would complain. The clock on the wall said it was almost three in the morning, and the microwave said it was a little past one. Power outage? Temporal anomaly? He pressed the large “stop” button and the time displayed correctly. Jack must’ve used it to heat something; hopefully not old coffee that had gotten cold and stale. He shuddered.

He opened the fridge and pulled out a bottle of water, which he promptly opened and drank, the plastic crushing in his hands, until it was only half full. He replaced the cap and carried the bottle back into the living room.

Jack was watching him approach, his finger resting on a page, probably marking his place. Ianto wordlessly sank into the sofa next to him and tried to get a glimpse at what he was reading.

“You should go back to bed,” Jack said even as he moved surreptitiously closer. His body was warm, so Ianto pressed his feet against Jack’s calves. It’d become a thing between them at some point, though neither of them had commented on it.

“Mm,” Ianto agreed, but he didn’t move. “What’s that?”

Jack held the book up, his finger still stubbornly between the pages, and Ianto laughed.

“Really, Jack? Of all the books here, you chose that?”

Shrugging, obstinate and defensive, Jack opened the book again with the obvious intent of continuing to read. He wouldn’t meet Ianto’s eyes. “I wanted something – well, it was different than anything else on the shelves.”

“It would be. Because it’s a children’s book.”

“No.” Jack shook his head and looked up at Ianto pointedly. “No, it’s different because every other book up there is in perfect condition. This?” He waved the book inches from Ianto’s face, smiling softly. “This looks like it’s been to the ends of the earth and back.”

Ianto battled against the blush that was rising in his cheeks. “Yes, well….” He shrugged.

“Tell me about it,” Jack prompted, closing the book once more.

“Well,” Ianto intoned, rolling his eyes, “it’s a collection of short children’s stories and illustrations by –”

“I know what it is. Tell me what it is to you.”

Ianto gulped and then opened up the bottle of water again, taking a drink so that he actually had something to swallow down. Jack placed the book on the coffee table, next to the mug, and settled back on the sofa with a patient smile.

Ianto sighed. “My father used to read it to me at night, when I was little, back when – back when things were good. It helped me sleep. He stopped after – well, it doesn’t matter when. But I kept the book, and I read it every night.”

Jack rested his hand just above Ianto’s knee and squeezed. “

I think I’ve read ‘The Tailor of Gloucester’ a thousand times, at least.” Ianto chuckled drily, the sound itself almost self-deprecating. He took another drink from the bottle.

Jack’s smile broadened, brightening his eyes. “Because your father was a tailor?”

“No,” Ianto said and looked at his feet. “Because he wasn’t.”

“But I thought –”

Ianto looked up sharply. Jack was frowning in confusion, his eyes squinted as though narrowing his focus would help him suss out the memory.

“I wanted him to be a tailor,” Ianto mused aloud, ignoring Jack and then he shook his head. “No, not quite so specific. I wanted him to be anyone else, really. Doesn’t matter. It was just my favorite story.” He shrugged.

Jack didn’t say anything for a long while and Ianto felt his chest tighten, worry constricting his ribs like a vice. Another lie, another betrayal to add to the pile, and though it was small and relatively inconsequential, it could well be the final straw. He counted down from ten in his head, ticking off the seconds until Jack up and fled the flat.

Except that Jack didn’t leave. Instead, he reached for the book and wound his free arm around Ianto’s shoulder, pulling him close. Ianto found he was completely still, like a trapped animal, frozen in place until Jack kissed the side of his face. Ianto relaxed, his cheek against Jack’s chest and his legs stretched across the length of the sofa. Jack’s heart beat a steady rhythm and his breath whooshed through his lungs like wind through trees. Ianto closed his eyes.

The crisp sound of pages turning and then a deep breath. Another. He felt Jack shuffle, too, and the throw from the back of the sofa was draped over Ianto’s body. Finally warm, completely warm. Jack cleared his throat softly and Ianto felt it in his chest more than he heard the sound.

“In the time of swords and periwigs and full-skirted coats with flowered lappets—when gentlemen wore ruffles, and gold-laced waistcoats of paduasoy and taffeta—there lived a tailor in Gloucester,” Jack began and Ianto shifted closer.

The End

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