Double Drabble: Nightmare
Title: Nightmare
Author: badly_knitted
Characters: Jack, Ianto.
Rating: PG
Written For: Challenge 642: Oxygen at tw100.
Spoilers: Post-CoE, with a twist.
Summary: Jack has a recurring nightmare.
Disclaimer: I don’t own Torchwood, or the characters.
A/N: Double drabble.
Jack gasped back to life, hands clawing for something, anything, solid to hold on to, but there was nothing. No light, no life, no air, no hope. He was alone.
He was always alone now when he came back to life, and each revival hurt all the more because of that. The emptiness and grief of loss, as fresh now as it had been since the day his world, and his heart, had been torn apart, added to the physical agony of regenerating nerves and tissue, knitting bones. The only part of him that would never heal was his shattered heart, aching in his chest, making him feel like he couldn’t breathe.
His body jerked again, his eyes snapping open in the darkness, lungs labouring for oxygen, and he clutched convulsively at the covers. The bed shifted beneath him as the man beside him stirred and a warm arm draped over him.
“Same nightmare again?”
“Yeah.” The word was barely more than a whisper. “It’s always the same, I dream that you’re gone, that you went with me into Thames House and died. I left earth, travelled the universe, dying over and over, waking up alone.”
“Never going to happen.”
The End
Author: badly_knitted
Characters: Jack, Ianto.
Rating: PG
Written For: Challenge 642: Oxygen at tw100.
Spoilers: Post-CoE, with a twist.
Summary: Jack has a recurring nightmare.
Disclaimer: I don’t own Torchwood, or the characters.
A/N: Double drabble.
Jack gasped back to life, hands clawing for something, anything, solid to hold on to, but there was nothing. No light, no life, no air, no hope. He was alone.
He was always alone now when he came back to life, and each revival hurt all the more because of that. The emptiness and grief of loss, as fresh now as it had been since the day his world, and his heart, had been torn apart, added to the physical agony of regenerating nerves and tissue, knitting bones. The only part of him that would never heal was his shattered heart, aching in his chest, making him feel like he couldn’t breathe.
His body jerked again, his eyes snapping open in the darkness, lungs labouring for oxygen, and he clutched convulsively at the covers. The bed shifted beneath him as the man beside him stirred and a warm arm draped over him.
“Same nightmare again?”
“Yeah.” The word was barely more than a whisper. “It’s always the same, I dream that you’re gone, that you went with me into Thames House and died. I left earth, travelled the universe, dying over and over, waking up alone.”
“Never going to happen.”
The End