Well, That's Something
Title: Well, That's Something
Pairing/Character: Jack/Ianto. Ianto-centric.
Rating: PG
Summary: Everyone wrote their own grieving response to CoE Day 4. This little ficlet is mine. Ianto's thoughts as everything starts to fade.
His whole life, Ianto's just been "one of those faces." He's good at being quiet, good at being out of the way, good at letting the anger and the resentment and the fear boil just under the surface. No one who's father works at Debenhems, no one who grew up on his street, no one with scrapes on their knees and dirt on their faces, no one who gets the piss kicked out of them behind the school or who manages to get caught out stealing- people like him never amount to anything.
He knows that. It's the truth he's lived with all his life. He's the replaceable cog in the clock, the spare tire, he makes things a little easier for others sometimes, but he doesn't kid himself into thinking that he's necessary. He adapts. It's what he does. But it's nothing, really.
But with Jack, it'd been scarily easy to fit into the role the man wanted him to play. When he put on a suit in the morning (and wouldn't his old mates just love to see him posing like some posh butler he decidedly never really could be) it was almost like he was putting on a mask of himself. If he paid the sensation any attention, he could feel the skin creeping around his eyes, sliding down a tingling in his cheeks, as if at any moment his face would just slough off. Because he knew it wasn't him. It wasn't.
He feels a strange sense of relief mixed in with the sorrow when his lungs start to fail him. He's been living on borrowed time for a while, ever since the flames and the metal and the bitter taste of blood, bile, and terror amidst the wreckage. And it would be okay except for the first time in his life, he feels like he might have just finally, finally started to actually become the suit he puts on in the morning. For the first time in his life, he's started to feel like he really has something to live for.
Figures that would be when the time runs out.
"Don't forget me," he whispers to Jack, ears ringing with the lack of oxygen, with the sharp pain of organs shutting down, the slide of tears on his face.
"Never could," Jack says.
Ianto knows it's a platitude. And what's the point in those, anymore?
"In a thousand years' time? You won't remember me," Ianto corrects him.
"Yes, I will," Jack says, voice choking. "I promise."
And, God help him, but that last darkening vision of absolute devastation on his lover's face is just enough to make him doubt, to think that maybe he's been wrong for a while now. To make him believe, just for a moment, that what Jack says is the truth.
Before the darkness takes him under, Ianto has one last coherent thought.
Well, that's something.
Pairing/Character: Jack/Ianto. Ianto-centric.
Rating: PG
Summary: Everyone wrote their own grieving response to CoE Day 4. This little ficlet is mine. Ianto's thoughts as everything starts to fade.
His whole life, Ianto's just been "one of those faces." He's good at being quiet, good at being out of the way, good at letting the anger and the resentment and the fear boil just under the surface. No one who's father works at Debenhems, no one who grew up on his street, no one with scrapes on their knees and dirt on their faces, no one who gets the piss kicked out of them behind the school or who manages to get caught out stealing- people like him never amount to anything.
He knows that. It's the truth he's lived with all his life. He's the replaceable cog in the clock, the spare tire, he makes things a little easier for others sometimes, but he doesn't kid himself into thinking that he's necessary. He adapts. It's what he does. But it's nothing, really.
But with Jack, it'd been scarily easy to fit into the role the man wanted him to play. When he put on a suit in the morning (and wouldn't his old mates just love to see him posing like some posh butler he decidedly never really could be) it was almost like he was putting on a mask of himself. If he paid the sensation any attention, he could feel the skin creeping around his eyes, sliding down a tingling in his cheeks, as if at any moment his face would just slough off. Because he knew it wasn't him. It wasn't.
He feels a strange sense of relief mixed in with the sorrow when his lungs start to fail him. He's been living on borrowed time for a while, ever since the flames and the metal and the bitter taste of blood, bile, and terror amidst the wreckage. And it would be okay except for the first time in his life, he feels like he might have just finally, finally started to actually become the suit he puts on in the morning. For the first time in his life, he's started to feel like he really has something to live for.
Figures that would be when the time runs out.
"Don't forget me," he whispers to Jack, ears ringing with the lack of oxygen, with the sharp pain of organs shutting down, the slide of tears on his face.
"Never could," Jack says.
Ianto knows it's a platitude. And what's the point in those, anymore?
"In a thousand years' time? You won't remember me," Ianto corrects him.
"Yes, I will," Jack says, voice choking. "I promise."
And, God help him, but that last darkening vision of absolute devastation on his lover's face is just enough to make him doubt, to think that maybe he's been wrong for a while now. To make him believe, just for a moment, that what Jack says is the truth.
Before the darkness takes him under, Ianto has one last coherent thought.
Well, that's something.