FIC: We Shall Raise a Pint to Him, and Toast Him Well
Title: We Shall Raise a Pint to Him, and Toast Him Well (Red Is My Colour Prompt for Day Twenty-one)
Author: blue_fjords
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Rating: PG-13
Pairings/Characters: Rhys, Ianto, Jack/Ianto, Gwen/Rhys
Words: 1,400
Summary: Rhys and Ianto attempt a philosophical conversation down at the pub while watching a funeral procession for a dead rugby player.
A/N: for Verasteine, who requested Ianto and Rhys watching rugby at the pub. She got this instead. Sorry!
Prompt:
Listen. The minstrels sing,
In the departed villages. The nightingale,
Dust in the buried wood, flies on the grains of her wings
And spells on the winds of the dead his winter's tale.
Excerpt from "A Winter's Tale".
by Dylan Thomas
Rhys paused in his story, and carefully set down his empty glass. “That’s what I mean, mate.” The telly above the bar showed the funeral procession as it continued to wind its way through the streets of London.
Ianto frowned, trying to follow the thread of the conversation. Rhys was on his fourth pint, and was starting to make no sense. Against his thigh, his mobile gave a blip. Another text message from Jack. Ianto took a sip of his pint, and used it as an excuse to glance down. 1 hr blinked up at him. He punched in a Y and asked Rhys, “What do you mean?”
Rhys signaled the bartender for another pint. He gestured expansively to the bar at large, full of men drinking beer and watching the procession. Some were crying, and three men in the corner had started up a chorus of “Danny Boy.” Ianto wished fleetingly for a rousing rendition of “I Kissed a Girl,” or anything, really, that would be less of a cliché and more upbeat.
“This, this, Ianto, mate, this is what it means to be Welsh.”
Ianto’s eyes flicked to the telly. The funeral procession would be making its way to Cardiff tomorrow. Gwen wanted them all to go to it. She wanted to be with them tonight, but she was currently immobilized at the Hub by a pink spray that had issued from an innocuous-looking box, hardening around her. Jack had estimated they would be there for at least a couple of hours.
“Getting pissed for a funeral?” he asked, raising a brow at Rhys.
Rhys nodded enthusiastically as the bartender brought over a full pint. “Exactly.”
A portly man farther down the bar drained his pint, climbed up onto a table, and began to recite Dylan Thomas. It was always Dylan Thomas, which was as it should be. The melancholy air was ruined when the man slipped in a little condensation and fell on his arse.
Rhys grinned at Ianto. “Cymru!”
“Cymru!” Ianto repeated, clinking their glasses together. He was only on his second. Rhys was great company, really, but Ianto had plans in an hour and being utterly pissed would put a crimp in them.
On the telly, a commentator was comparing the dresses of the widow and the five exes as they flounced along behind the casket.
Rhys snorted into his pint. “He’s lucky he’s missing this part.”
“Haute couture is your version of Hell, then?”
“Yeah, but no way is he in Hell.” Rhys gestured at the screen with his beer. “High scorer for Wales for . . . how many years was it again?”
“Eight.”
“Yeah, eight. Anyhow, it’s Heaven for the likes of him.” Rhys nodded emphatically.
Ianto smiled. “Cheers, mate.” They clinked glasses again.
Rhys eyed him shrewdly over the top of his glass. “You don’t believe in Heaven and Hell, do you?”
Ianto lifted one shoulder in a half-shrug. “Jack says there’s nothing out there, and he would know.”
“But he doesn’t really die.”
Ianto sighed. “Yes Rhys, he dies.”
“You mean his body dies.”
“No, Rhys, I mean heart stops, brain stops, blood flow stops, he sees the darkness, he’s dead.”
Rhys paused.
“But he doesn’t really die - no, wait, listen, listen, he doesn’t really die, because he never gets to heaven!”
Rhys sat back, proud, the bearer of irrefutable logic. Ianto just stared at him. “You’re not making sense, Rhys.”
“Bollocks, I’m making perfect sense. See, if he were truly dead, he’d have to go to either. But Heaven and Hell know he’s not ready yet, so he doesn’t enter.”
Ianto gave him a skeptical look.
“Don’t give me that look! Fuck, if Jack saw Heaven each time he died, well, that would be just plain mean! ‘Right, Jack, take a look around, make yourself at home . . . but we’re going to snatch it away in two seconds!’ Nah, it’s better that he doesn’t see anything of it. He’ll get to go eventually. You know, when he dies.”
Rhys took a long drink. Ianto had to look away. He was a little touched at how much thought Rhys had put into the state of Jack’s immortal soul. They both took comfort in watching the procession for a few more minutes. Finally Rhys broke the silence.
“So, Ianto, what’s the best part of working for Torchwood? The aliens? The guns? Working with my wife?” Rhys took another gulp from his pint, and leaned his cheek on his hand, eyeing Ianto with a great deal of interest.
“Hmmm, the best part . . . I would have to say shagging the boss.”
Rhys let out a startled chuckle. “Really? That’s the best part?”
“You’ve never shagged Jack Harkness.”
“Well that’s true enough, thank God.”
Ianto snorted. “And you’ve never thought of it, either, I bet.”
“Honestly? No. I mean, it’s fine for you, but, well, how does that even work?”
Well, that required two eyebrows, raised high. “Do you really want to know?”
Rhys looked furtively around the bar. “Yeah.”
Ianto burst out laughing. A couple of mourners shot him dirty looks.
“Okay, Rhys.” Ianto laid his hands flat on the bar. “Look at my fingers. You see how long they are?” He wiggled his fingers for emphasis.
Rhys stared for a moment, and then swallowed hard. “I’ve changed my mind; I don’t really want to know.”
Ianto shrugged. “Your loss.”
Rhys blushed, and looked back up at the telly. The third wife was talking to a reporter. “I loved him so much!” she wailed, though Rhys had his doubts. Her mascara wasn’t even smeared, for fuck’s sake.
“I can tell you one thing, Ianto. I love my wife.”
Ianto blinked at him, a trifle nonplussed at the sudden change in conversation.
“That’s great, Rhys. She loves you, too.”
Rhys smiled dopily. “Hey, did I ever thank you for your help during the wedding?”
Ianto smiled back, quite a bit less dopily, granted. “Not necessary, but you’re welcome.”
“I hope you were able to enjoy it despite the aliens,” Rhys declared magnanimously.
“Very much so.” He waited until Rhys was taking another sip from his pint before adding, “Jack went down on me in the coat check room.”
Rhys started choking, and Ianto leaned over to thump him on the back, and whispered, “Twice.”
Rhys guffawed. “Damn, Ianto, you had more sex at my wedding than I had.”
“I tend to have more sex than most anyone,” Ianto said with false modesty. “I am shagging Captain Jack Harkness, remember.”
“Oh! Oh, I have a question for you!” Rhys bounced on his barstool a little, noticed his now-empty pint, and raised a finger for another. “Okay, okay, my question: are you in love with him?”
Ianto was more than a little taken aback. Rhys hurriedly backtracked as the bartender slid another pint down to him.
“Sorry! Grade school moment there. Ignore it. Hey, look,” he continued, pointing to the telly, “it’s a veritable who’s who of rugby players at this thing. I wonder if we’ll get close enough to see them tomorrow at the funeral?”
“I hope so, that one’s hot!” Jack exclaimed, sauntering up to them, Gwen trailing behind, still picking pink goo out of her hair. Jack circled his arms around Ianto’s waist and kissed his neck.
“Are you ready to get out of here?” Jack murmured into his ear.
Ianto downed the last of his pint. “Yup.”
Jack smiled, pleased, and turned to Gwen and Rhys. “Okay, kiddies, Daddy and Daddy are turning in for the night. Don’t get too drunk; we have a funeral to attend tomorrow.”
Gwen hopped up onto the stool previously occupied by Ianto. “That’s what sunglasses are for, Jack.”
Ianto turned to Rhys. “Well, Rhys, it’s been a fascinating evening with you. We’ll have to do this again sometime; maybe for living rugby players.”
Rhys’ brain took a moment to catch up. “Oh, like a game!”
“Yeah.”
Ianto leaned over and kissed Gwen’s forehead, then he and Jack turned to leave the pub. Their shoulders were brushing, and as they reached the door, Jack said something to Ianto, and Ianto grinned widely. Rhys shook himself.
“Hey, Gwen, do you know that Ianto’s in love with Jack?”
Gwen rolled her eyes. “Of course I do.”
Rhys frowned. “But do you know what he does with his fingers?”
Author: blue_fjords
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Rating: PG-13
Pairings/Characters: Rhys, Ianto, Jack/Ianto, Gwen/Rhys
Words: 1,400
Summary: Rhys and Ianto attempt a philosophical conversation down at the pub while watching a funeral procession for a dead rugby player.
A/N: for Verasteine, who requested Ianto and Rhys watching rugby at the pub. She got this instead. Sorry!
Prompt:
Listen. The minstrels sing,
In the departed villages. The nightingale,
Dust in the buried wood, flies on the grains of her wings
And spells on the winds of the dead his winter's tale.
Excerpt from "A Winter's Tale".
by Dylan Thomas
Rhys paused in his story, and carefully set down his empty glass. “That’s what I mean, mate.” The telly above the bar showed the funeral procession as it continued to wind its way through the streets of London.
Ianto frowned, trying to follow the thread of the conversation. Rhys was on his fourth pint, and was starting to make no sense. Against his thigh, his mobile gave a blip. Another text message from Jack. Ianto took a sip of his pint, and used it as an excuse to glance down. 1 hr blinked up at him. He punched in a Y and asked Rhys, “What do you mean?”
Rhys signaled the bartender for another pint. He gestured expansively to the bar at large, full of men drinking beer and watching the procession. Some were crying, and three men in the corner had started up a chorus of “Danny Boy.” Ianto wished fleetingly for a rousing rendition of “I Kissed a Girl,” or anything, really, that would be less of a cliché and more upbeat.
“This, this, Ianto, mate, this is what it means to be Welsh.”
Ianto’s eyes flicked to the telly. The funeral procession would be making its way to Cardiff tomorrow. Gwen wanted them all to go to it. She wanted to be with them tonight, but she was currently immobilized at the Hub by a pink spray that had issued from an innocuous-looking box, hardening around her. Jack had estimated they would be there for at least a couple of hours.
“Getting pissed for a funeral?” he asked, raising a brow at Rhys.
Rhys nodded enthusiastically as the bartender brought over a full pint. “Exactly.”
A portly man farther down the bar drained his pint, climbed up onto a table, and began to recite Dylan Thomas. It was always Dylan Thomas, which was as it should be. The melancholy air was ruined when the man slipped in a little condensation and fell on his arse.
Rhys grinned at Ianto. “Cymru!”
“Cymru!” Ianto repeated, clinking their glasses together. He was only on his second. Rhys was great company, really, but Ianto had plans in an hour and being utterly pissed would put a crimp in them.
On the telly, a commentator was comparing the dresses of the widow and the five exes as they flounced along behind the casket.
Rhys snorted into his pint. “He’s lucky he’s missing this part.”
“Haute couture is your version of Hell, then?”
“Yeah, but no way is he in Hell.” Rhys gestured at the screen with his beer. “High scorer for Wales for . . . how many years was it again?”
“Eight.”
“Yeah, eight. Anyhow, it’s Heaven for the likes of him.” Rhys nodded emphatically.
Ianto smiled. “Cheers, mate.” They clinked glasses again.
Rhys eyed him shrewdly over the top of his glass. “You don’t believe in Heaven and Hell, do you?”
Ianto lifted one shoulder in a half-shrug. “Jack says there’s nothing out there, and he would know.”
“But he doesn’t really die.”
Ianto sighed. “Yes Rhys, he dies.”
“You mean his body dies.”
“No, Rhys, I mean heart stops, brain stops, blood flow stops, he sees the darkness, he’s dead.”
Rhys paused.
“But he doesn’t really die - no, wait, listen, listen, he doesn’t really die, because he never gets to heaven!”
Rhys sat back, proud, the bearer of irrefutable logic. Ianto just stared at him. “You’re not making sense, Rhys.”
“Bollocks, I’m making perfect sense. See, if he were truly dead, he’d have to go to either. But Heaven and Hell know he’s not ready yet, so he doesn’t enter.”
Ianto gave him a skeptical look.
“Don’t give me that look! Fuck, if Jack saw Heaven each time he died, well, that would be just plain mean! ‘Right, Jack, take a look around, make yourself at home . . . but we’re going to snatch it away in two seconds!’ Nah, it’s better that he doesn’t see anything of it. He’ll get to go eventually. You know, when he dies.”
Rhys took a long drink. Ianto had to look away. He was a little touched at how much thought Rhys had put into the state of Jack’s immortal soul. They both took comfort in watching the procession for a few more minutes. Finally Rhys broke the silence.
“So, Ianto, what’s the best part of working for Torchwood? The aliens? The guns? Working with my wife?” Rhys took another gulp from his pint, and leaned his cheek on his hand, eyeing Ianto with a great deal of interest.
“Hmmm, the best part . . . I would have to say shagging the boss.”
Rhys let out a startled chuckle. “Really? That’s the best part?”
“You’ve never shagged Jack Harkness.”
“Well that’s true enough, thank God.”
Ianto snorted. “And you’ve never thought of it, either, I bet.”
“Honestly? No. I mean, it’s fine for you, but, well, how does that even work?”
Well, that required two eyebrows, raised high. “Do you really want to know?”
Rhys looked furtively around the bar. “Yeah.”
Ianto burst out laughing. A couple of mourners shot him dirty looks.
“Okay, Rhys.” Ianto laid his hands flat on the bar. “Look at my fingers. You see how long they are?” He wiggled his fingers for emphasis.
Rhys stared for a moment, and then swallowed hard. “I’ve changed my mind; I don’t really want to know.”
Ianto shrugged. “Your loss.”
Rhys blushed, and looked back up at the telly. The third wife was talking to a reporter. “I loved him so much!” she wailed, though Rhys had his doubts. Her mascara wasn’t even smeared, for fuck’s sake.
“I can tell you one thing, Ianto. I love my wife.”
Ianto blinked at him, a trifle nonplussed at the sudden change in conversation.
“That’s great, Rhys. She loves you, too.”
Rhys smiled dopily. “Hey, did I ever thank you for your help during the wedding?”
Ianto smiled back, quite a bit less dopily, granted. “Not necessary, but you’re welcome.”
“I hope you were able to enjoy it despite the aliens,” Rhys declared magnanimously.
“Very much so.” He waited until Rhys was taking another sip from his pint before adding, “Jack went down on me in the coat check room.”
Rhys started choking, and Ianto leaned over to thump him on the back, and whispered, “Twice.”
Rhys guffawed. “Damn, Ianto, you had more sex at my wedding than I had.”
“I tend to have more sex than most anyone,” Ianto said with false modesty. “I am shagging Captain Jack Harkness, remember.”
“Oh! Oh, I have a question for you!” Rhys bounced on his barstool a little, noticed his now-empty pint, and raised a finger for another. “Okay, okay, my question: are you in love with him?”
Ianto was more than a little taken aback. Rhys hurriedly backtracked as the bartender slid another pint down to him.
“Sorry! Grade school moment there. Ignore it. Hey, look,” he continued, pointing to the telly, “it’s a veritable who’s who of rugby players at this thing. I wonder if we’ll get close enough to see them tomorrow at the funeral?”
“I hope so, that one’s hot!” Jack exclaimed, sauntering up to them, Gwen trailing behind, still picking pink goo out of her hair. Jack circled his arms around Ianto’s waist and kissed his neck.
“Are you ready to get out of here?” Jack murmured into his ear.
Ianto downed the last of his pint. “Yup.”
Jack smiled, pleased, and turned to Gwen and Rhys. “Okay, kiddies, Daddy and Daddy are turning in for the night. Don’t get too drunk; we have a funeral to attend tomorrow.”
Gwen hopped up onto the stool previously occupied by Ianto. “That’s what sunglasses are for, Jack.”
Ianto turned to Rhys. “Well, Rhys, it’s been a fascinating evening with you. We’ll have to do this again sometime; maybe for living rugby players.”
Rhys’ brain took a moment to catch up. “Oh, like a game!”
“Yeah.”
Ianto leaned over and kissed Gwen’s forehead, then he and Jack turned to leave the pub. Their shoulders were brushing, and as they reached the door, Jack said something to Ianto, and Ianto grinned widely. Rhys shook himself.
“Hey, Gwen, do you know that Ianto’s in love with Jack?”
Gwen rolled her eyes. “Of course I do.”
Rhys frowned. “But do you know what he does with his fingers?”