For writers_muses: 119.1.D Christmas
Christmas may be a day of feasting, or of prayer, but always it will be a day of remembrance - a day in which we think of everything we have ever loved.
"I'm sorry about your car," said Jack, his voice disconnected.
Ianto didn't answer. Instead, he manuevered Jack through his front door, stopping only to flip the light switch in the front hall. As his shabby flat filled with a dim yellow light, he very carefully did not think about the last time he had allowed Jack into his home.
"I," Jack started again, but eventually he just exhaled.
Even his breath, Ianto was all too aware, smelled like exhaust.
"Here," Ianto said without faltering--with, in fact, a cultivated firmness, as he shifted them both toward the sofa. "Sit down."
"Sir," he added as he let go of Jack, who was now sitting more or less upright, and stood straight. His hands he did not want to place on his hips, so for a moment he merely brushed them against his trouser legs. As though there were something to wipe off.
The pervasive reminder of death, perhaps.
"I'll," Ianto said, speaking again to try to fill the silence, because the so-familiar silence in his flat seemed almost unbearable when it was shared with someone else. "Run you a bath." He paused, his eyes on Jack, his tongue pressed against his lower lip. "Stay here."
For a few seconds he waited. For a tired nod, maybe, or assent in another form, or even for a thoroughly half-hearted attempt to explain exactly what the two of them could do with Ianto's bathtub--but none came.
"Okay," Ianto breathed, and then he turned on his heel and disappeared upstairs.
When the bath was only half full of water that was not too cold and not too hot, Ianto heard a clatter from below. He didn't even bother to dry his hands--on what was probably a dirty washcloth, anyway, as he had found it on the floor-- and rushed back down.
And found Jack. In the small kitchen that branched off from the sitting room at a rather odd angle. He held something, but as Ianto approached from behind he could not immediately see what it was.
What he noticed first was the Christmas tree. It was small, plastic, and lying on its side on the kitchen table, where Ianto had left it a few weeks before. Jack must have plugged in the string of miniature lights before it fell, because they flickered, colorful in the otherwise dark room.
"Oh," Ianto said, and he forced out, "No problem, I'll just," as he moved past Jack and reached to right the tiny tree.
As he did, his foot hit what he identified, when he looked down, as one of the two elaborately wrapped gifts that had been, along with the tree, his single concession to the Christmas season.
Ianto froze. Then, he forced himself to look at Jack. Jack's expression was unreadable, lips caught in an expired half-smile, his eyes resoundingly empty.
Ianto knew, before he even looked down at Jack's hands, what he would find there. The small package, expensive wrapping paper now slightly wrinkled, small indents where Jack's fingers rested.
A gift marked with careful, loving script, the thin lines of ink reflecting the lights on the tree-- forming, as they shimmered, a name: Lisa.
"I'm sorry about your car," said Jack, his voice disconnected.
Ianto didn't answer. Instead, he manuevered Jack through his front door, stopping only to flip the light switch in the front hall. As his shabby flat filled with a dim yellow light, he very carefully did not think about the last time he had allowed Jack into his home.
"I," Jack started again, but eventually he just exhaled.
Even his breath, Ianto was all too aware, smelled like exhaust.
"Here," Ianto said without faltering--with, in fact, a cultivated firmness, as he shifted them both toward the sofa. "Sit down."
"Sir," he added as he let go of Jack, who was now sitting more or less upright, and stood straight. His hands he did not want to place on his hips, so for a moment he merely brushed them against his trouser legs. As though there were something to wipe off.
The pervasive reminder of death, perhaps.
"I'll," Ianto said, speaking again to try to fill the silence, because the so-familiar silence in his flat seemed almost unbearable when it was shared with someone else. "Run you a bath." He paused, his eyes on Jack, his tongue pressed against his lower lip. "Stay here."
For a few seconds he waited. For a tired nod, maybe, or assent in another form, or even for a thoroughly half-hearted attempt to explain exactly what the two of them could do with Ianto's bathtub--but none came.
"Okay," Ianto breathed, and then he turned on his heel and disappeared upstairs.
When the bath was only half full of water that was not too cold and not too hot, Ianto heard a clatter from below. He didn't even bother to dry his hands--on what was probably a dirty washcloth, anyway, as he had found it on the floor-- and rushed back down.
And found Jack. In the small kitchen that branched off from the sitting room at a rather odd angle. He held something, but as Ianto approached from behind he could not immediately see what it was.
What he noticed first was the Christmas tree. It was small, plastic, and lying on its side on the kitchen table, where Ianto had left it a few weeks before. Jack must have plugged in the string of miniature lights before it fell, because they flickered, colorful in the otherwise dark room.
"Oh," Ianto said, and he forced out, "No problem, I'll just," as he moved past Jack and reached to right the tiny tree.
As he did, his foot hit what he identified, when he looked down, as one of the two elaborately wrapped gifts that had been, along with the tree, his single concession to the Christmas season.
Ianto froze. Then, he forced himself to look at Jack. Jack's expression was unreadable, lips caught in an expired half-smile, his eyes resoundingly empty.
Ianto knew, before he even looked down at Jack's hands, what he would find there. The small package, expensive wrapping paper now slightly wrinkled, small indents where Jack's fingers rested.
A gift marked with careful, loving script, the thin lines of ink reflecting the lights on the tree-- forming, as they shimmered, a name: Lisa.