FIC: Bruges in Spring
Title: Bruges in Spring
Author: blue_fjords
Rating: PG-13
Pairings: Jack/Ianto
Words: ~900
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Summary: Ianto gets a faceful of alien drugs. Jack walks him back to the Hub.
A/N: Originally written for andreth47’s Public Displays of Affection Comment Porn Battle. Sorry for spamming the flist today; there’s one more from this weekend, but I’ll post it later b/c context is our friend.
Red and blue lights scrolled past, looping around and back again, fighting against the insistent pulsing of the yellow towing lights. The siren faded in and out, alternately numbing the conversations around him and letting the cacophony of concern wash over him. His head hurt, and everyone else was . . . odd.
Jack was there, suddenly, relieved grin on face and reassuring hand on the small of Ianto’s back. Jack’s face floated into and out of focus, and Ianto had to grab hold of it to hear, to understand, to be real. To be really here, instead of there. Or nowhere. It was a confusing concept.
“He’ll be okay, Gwen . . . we’ll walk from here . . . clear his head . . . usually one of the fun drugs . . .” Jack’s voice was muzzy, and Ianto wanted to grab the words as he had grabbed Jack’s face, stick his hand down his throat and pull them out one by one until they made sense. God, Jack’s eyes were blue. Like the Bay. Like the denims Ianto had worn the last time they’d gone out, the denims that had wound up being a pillow for his head when they’d undressed and stretched out in the soft grass. The grass had tickled. His skin tickled now, except for that one spot on the small of his back. Because Jack’s hand was there, so he was there. Or here, rather. But not for much longer, b/c they were moving away now, sirens and lights fading.
“Jack?” He liked to say Jack’s name. It tasted like almonds.
“You’ll be alright, I promise. Just a little face-full of Xymenaron. It will pass.”
Pass? They were on the Plass. What was passing? Ianto? Was he himself passing? He struggled to frown. He struggled to put one foot in front of the other. “Tell me a story.”
“Okay. What kind of story?”
Two blonde women met in the middle of the Plass, and began to kiss passionately, twin golden pools falling down their shoulders. “About forever.”
To their left, a couple of teenagers sat on the railing, necking and petting, and Jack began to speak. His voice floated out, tethered to Ianto by the warm pressure of Jack’s hand on his back.
“In Bruges, in spring, two lovers met, darting amongst shops filled with lace, breathing in air growing warm with the smell of hyacinth and sugar.” This wasn’t a story Jack had told before, not to Ianto, and Ianto wanted to kiss him as the words came out of his mouth, eat the words until he could tell Jack the story himself.
“The first one said to the other, ‘I have been waiting for you,’” Jack continued, the sound of his voice intermingling with the moans of a man and a woman stretched out on a bench along the Quay, his hand traveling up her thigh, her fingers tangling in his hair.
“And the other responded, ‘I have been searching for you.’” Two men ran through the fountain, skirting close to the invisible lift, and when they caught each other, their laughter echoed across the Plass; one like wind chimes outside his auntie’s house when Ianto was small, one like the quick thwak-thwak of Jack’s braces and belt hitting Ianto’s floor now that he was not.
“The lovers joined hands, and promised that nothing could separate them.” Jack’s voice was low and husky in Ianto’s ear; it thrummed like a hum, like the rumble of a drum, like Jack when he comes, hands in Ianto’s and nothing to separate them.
“But spring turned to summer, and summer turned to fall, and fall turned to winter, and spring cannot survive in winter.” Ianto blinked back tears, glistening on his eyelashes, catching the light and throwing sparks on the couple pressed against the closest wall, grinding against each other and gasping with release. Gasping with pain.
Jack’s hand was fire on his back, but Ianto shivered. “I don’t want to know the end of the story.”
“It’s the same ending this story always has,” came the low reply. Farther down the pier, in another land, in another time, a lover cried ‘mine’ and was answered with ‘yours.’
Ianto shook his head, and the world spun in the opposite direction; all around them limbs entwined, bodies gliding, sliding along each other, mouths seeking. “None of this is real, is it?”
“I’m sorry.” Gentle. “What do you see?” His hand was real, though, under Ianto’s jacket and waistcoat, the heat burning through Ianto’s shirt, and he clung to the sensation, grounding.
“I see lovers meeting, tangling.” He stopped walking, and beside him, Jack stopped walking, too. “I’m not scared of the winter.”
Jack looked at him; Jack like the tiger, tiger burning bright as he stalks his prey, and how easily he caught Ianto, how easily he catches Ianto always, not realizing that the other is under his skin now, fitting like a hand in a glove (but not *that* glove), necessary as oxygen, as water.
Ianto stepped closer, snared by the blue of Jack’s eyes. Again. “You should kiss me,” he said seriously. “And you can remember it forever.”
Jack’s heart broke in his eyes, healed and broke again, and again. His lips were on Ianto’s, hand on the small of Ianto’s back still, other hand cradling Ianto’s head, holding him close and safe.
The spring wind blew through the Plass, empty but for two men locked in an embrace, breathing in each other. And just the barest scent of hyacinth and sugar.
Author: blue_fjords
Rating: PG-13
Pairings: Jack/Ianto
Words: ~900
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Summary: Ianto gets a faceful of alien drugs. Jack walks him back to the Hub.
A/N: Originally written for andreth47’s Public Displays of Affection Comment Porn Battle. Sorry for spamming the flist today; there’s one more from this weekend, but I’ll post it later b/c context is our friend.
Red and blue lights scrolled past, looping around and back again, fighting against the insistent pulsing of the yellow towing lights. The siren faded in and out, alternately numbing the conversations around him and letting the cacophony of concern wash over him. His head hurt, and everyone else was . . . odd.
Jack was there, suddenly, relieved grin on face and reassuring hand on the small of Ianto’s back. Jack’s face floated into and out of focus, and Ianto had to grab hold of it to hear, to understand, to be real. To be really here, instead of there. Or nowhere. It was a confusing concept.
“He’ll be okay, Gwen . . . we’ll walk from here . . . clear his head . . . usually one of the fun drugs . . .” Jack’s voice was muzzy, and Ianto wanted to grab the words as he had grabbed Jack’s face, stick his hand down his throat and pull them out one by one until they made sense. God, Jack’s eyes were blue. Like the Bay. Like the denims Ianto had worn the last time they’d gone out, the denims that had wound up being a pillow for his head when they’d undressed and stretched out in the soft grass. The grass had tickled. His skin tickled now, except for that one spot on the small of his back. Because Jack’s hand was there, so he was there. Or here, rather. But not for much longer, b/c they were moving away now, sirens and lights fading.
“Jack?” He liked to say Jack’s name. It tasted like almonds.
“You’ll be alright, I promise. Just a little face-full of Xymenaron. It will pass.”
Pass? They were on the Plass. What was passing? Ianto? Was he himself passing? He struggled to frown. He struggled to put one foot in front of the other. “Tell me a story.”
“Okay. What kind of story?”
Two blonde women met in the middle of the Plass, and began to kiss passionately, twin golden pools falling down their shoulders. “About forever.”
To their left, a couple of teenagers sat on the railing, necking and petting, and Jack began to speak. His voice floated out, tethered to Ianto by the warm pressure of Jack’s hand on his back.
“In Bruges, in spring, two lovers met, darting amongst shops filled with lace, breathing in air growing warm with the smell of hyacinth and sugar.” This wasn’t a story Jack had told before, not to Ianto, and Ianto wanted to kiss him as the words came out of his mouth, eat the words until he could tell Jack the story himself.
“The first one said to the other, ‘I have been waiting for you,’” Jack continued, the sound of his voice intermingling with the moans of a man and a woman stretched out on a bench along the Quay, his hand traveling up her thigh, her fingers tangling in his hair.
“And the other responded, ‘I have been searching for you.’” Two men ran through the fountain, skirting close to the invisible lift, and when they caught each other, their laughter echoed across the Plass; one like wind chimes outside his auntie’s house when Ianto was small, one like the quick thwak-thwak of Jack’s braces and belt hitting Ianto’s floor now that he was not.
“The lovers joined hands, and promised that nothing could separate them.” Jack’s voice was low and husky in Ianto’s ear; it thrummed like a hum, like the rumble of a drum, like Jack when he comes, hands in Ianto’s and nothing to separate them.
“But spring turned to summer, and summer turned to fall, and fall turned to winter, and spring cannot survive in winter.” Ianto blinked back tears, glistening on his eyelashes, catching the light and throwing sparks on the couple pressed against the closest wall, grinding against each other and gasping with release. Gasping with pain.
Jack’s hand was fire on his back, but Ianto shivered. “I don’t want to know the end of the story.”
“It’s the same ending this story always has,” came the low reply. Farther down the pier, in another land, in another time, a lover cried ‘mine’ and was answered with ‘yours.’
Ianto shook his head, and the world spun in the opposite direction; all around them limbs entwined, bodies gliding, sliding along each other, mouths seeking. “None of this is real, is it?”
“I’m sorry.” Gentle. “What do you see?” His hand was real, though, under Ianto’s jacket and waistcoat, the heat burning through Ianto’s shirt, and he clung to the sensation, grounding.
“I see lovers meeting, tangling.” He stopped walking, and beside him, Jack stopped walking, too. “I’m not scared of the winter.”
Jack looked at him; Jack like the tiger, tiger burning bright as he stalks his prey, and how easily he caught Ianto, how easily he catches Ianto always, not realizing that the other is under his skin now, fitting like a hand in a glove (but not *that* glove), necessary as oxygen, as water.
Ianto stepped closer, snared by the blue of Jack’s eyes. Again. “You should kiss me,” he said seriously. “And you can remember it forever.”
Jack’s heart broke in his eyes, healed and broke again, and again. His lips were on Ianto’s, hand on the small of Ianto’s back still, other hand cradling Ianto’s head, holding him close and safe.
The spring wind blew through the Plass, empty but for two men locked in an embrace, breathing in each other. And just the barest scent of hyacinth and sugar.