Winter
Title: "Winter"
Disclaimer: I'm not RTD, I don't work for the BBC, and as much as I might like to, I don't own Jack or Ianto or any part of Torchwood. I do, however, order pizza under that name on principle.
Pairings: Jack/Ianto, Jack/Alonso
Rating: PG
Notes/Summary: In which there is memory and sex and death. Written for the January 8 prompt at redismycolour.
Vivaldi's Four Seasons
"Winter"
Allegro non molto
To tremble from cold in the icy snow,
In the harsh breath of a horrid wind;
To run, stamping one's feet every moment,
Our teeth chattering in the extreme cold
Largo
Before the fire to pass peaceful,
Contented days while the rain outside pours down.
Allegro
We tread the icy path slowly and cautiously, for fear of tripping and falling.
Then turn abruptly, slip, crash on the ground and, rising, hasten on across the ice lest it cracks up.
We feel the chill north winds course through the home despite the locked and bolted doors...
this is winter, which nonetheless brings its own delights.
~*~
Allegro non molto
Snow. The air is thick with it and the wind whips it about so roughly that every sharp angle of Cardiff’s architecture plays host to its own small tempest. We begin in the air, far above the abstract-sexual ellipse of Roald Dahl Plass and spiral down fast to follow one man.
The eyes around don’t follow him, black-coated and uncapped as he treads past the rainbow of illuminated pillars. He is a shadow, woolen, scarf-wrapped. The flakes stick in his hair. The others who pass seem ill-defined beside him, though not just because our lens is so sharply focused. He has thought himself over daily in ink and words, little drawings, and things clipped inside a little book.
It is not assurance (self or otherwise) in his gait. He knows that any moment fate could brush against him and send him tumbling - “now it's just like the other horses” - but he can pretend. Does pretend.
He descends, treads the boards, and unlocks a shabby door.
~*~
Largo
Jack licks lightly at Ianto’s collarbone. He tastes of sweat
(hints of soap, hints of fabric softener)
and smells like sex
(the two of them, here in his office)
which is basically fantastic, even if they’re sprawled out on the floor in a mess of sweat and come. On all other accounts, his floor is uncommonly clean.
(“Look, if you’re going to insist on having sex on the floor…”)
“I want to do this all night,” he says with a grin that is all eagerness and untempered enthusiasm.
“Some of us have to sleep, you know.”
(I’m only just learning how true that is.)
“So let’s do it in a bed.”
“You’re insatiable.”
(I’m only just learning how true that is.)
“You’re beautiful.”
(Don’t ever leave me. Please.)
He means it.
~*~
Allegro
In his absence, there is no one to tell Jack that the beginning of winter was the time that ancient people on the island thought on death.
The beloved dead. The honored dead. The livestock culled for the good of the flock and to provide meat during the icy months ahead. The question of who would survive the winter and who would not.
A lying doctor and an explosion sets them running, slipping, falling. Winter is not, nor has it ever been kind. We’ve merely learned to stave her off more boldly.
In his absence, he cannot say to Jack that he does not regret his boldness. In his absence, some point out, what regrets?
And now it is winter down there in season as well as spirit, and spirits-oh spirits. That damned double entendre - are the water of his life for now.
In his absence, he isn’t there to take the piss out of Jack for borrowing from the Gaelic.
He’s not even on the goddamn planet anymore and it’s winter. He needs another drink. Two drinks. A bottle at least.
The bar is loud enough he doesn’t even hear the TARDIS, or see the Doctor waiting until the barkeep passes him a slip of paper -
(‘Now is the winter of our discontent, made glorious summer by this Son of Gallifrey,’ no, wait, that’s terrible in every possible way.)
- and for a moment all he can think is that for a guy with a time machine, he could have better timing. And then they have a whole conversation with their eyes.
Read the note.
Are you kidding me?
Go on. Read it.
So he does.
What the hell are you -
Him. Just there.
Jack looks. And so he is.
Okay, but what am I supposed to do -
Take care of each other.
And that’s goodbye. Maybe forever for all Jack knows, except he’s going to live for an awfully long time, and there’s only so much space in the universe. He’s going to live forever, and the Doctor knows -
Oh. He knows.
In his absence, Ianto isn’t there to tell Jack that it’s alright - good, even - but the Doctor does a passable job of it. Even if the whole ‘I’m kinda psychic’ thing is the most ridiculous line he’s uttered in ages. Literal ages. Still, he’s always loved a man in uniform.
Maybe it’s time.
Disclaimer: I'm not RTD, I don't work for the BBC, and as much as I might like to, I don't own Jack or Ianto or any part of Torchwood. I do, however, order pizza under that name on principle.
Pairings: Jack/Ianto, Jack/Alonso
Rating: PG
Notes/Summary: In which there is memory and sex and death. Written for the January 8 prompt at redismycolour.
Vivaldi's Four Seasons
"Winter"
Allegro non molto
To tremble from cold in the icy snow,
In the harsh breath of a horrid wind;
To run, stamping one's feet every moment,
Our teeth chattering in the extreme cold
Largo
Before the fire to pass peaceful,
Contented days while the rain outside pours down.
Allegro
We tread the icy path slowly and cautiously, for fear of tripping and falling.
Then turn abruptly, slip, crash on the ground and, rising, hasten on across the ice lest it cracks up.
We feel the chill north winds course through the home despite the locked and bolted doors...
this is winter, which nonetheless brings its own delights.
~*~
Allegro non molto
Snow. The air is thick with it and the wind whips it about so roughly that every sharp angle of Cardiff’s architecture plays host to its own small tempest. We begin in the air, far above the abstract-sexual ellipse of Roald Dahl Plass and spiral down fast to follow one man.
The eyes around don’t follow him, black-coated and uncapped as he treads past the rainbow of illuminated pillars. He is a shadow, woolen, scarf-wrapped. The flakes stick in his hair. The others who pass seem ill-defined beside him, though not just because our lens is so sharply focused. He has thought himself over daily in ink and words, little drawings, and things clipped inside a little book.
It is not assurance (self or otherwise) in his gait. He knows that any moment fate could brush against him and send him tumbling - “now it's just like the other horses” - but he can pretend. Does pretend.
He descends, treads the boards, and unlocks a shabby door.
~*~
Largo
Jack licks lightly at Ianto’s collarbone. He tastes of sweat
(hints of soap, hints of fabric softener)
and smells like sex
(the two of them, here in his office)
which is basically fantastic, even if they’re sprawled out on the floor in a mess of sweat and come. On all other accounts, his floor is uncommonly clean.
(“Look, if you’re going to insist on having sex on the floor…”)
“I want to do this all night,” he says with a grin that is all eagerness and untempered enthusiasm.
“Some of us have to sleep, you know.”
(I’m only just learning how true that is.)
“So let’s do it in a bed.”
“You’re insatiable.”
(I’m only just learning how true that is.)
“You’re beautiful.”
(Don’t ever leave me. Please.)
He means it.
~*~
Allegro
In his absence, there is no one to tell Jack that the beginning of winter was the time that ancient people on the island thought on death.
The beloved dead. The honored dead. The livestock culled for the good of the flock and to provide meat during the icy months ahead. The question of who would survive the winter and who would not.
A lying doctor and an explosion sets them running, slipping, falling. Winter is not, nor has it ever been kind. We’ve merely learned to stave her off more boldly.
In his absence, he cannot say to Jack that he does not regret his boldness. In his absence, some point out, what regrets?
And now it is winter down there in season as well as spirit, and spirits-oh spirits. That damned double entendre - are the water of his life for now.
In his absence, he isn’t there to take the piss out of Jack for borrowing from the Gaelic.
He’s not even on the goddamn planet anymore and it’s winter. He needs another drink. Two drinks. A bottle at least.
The bar is loud enough he doesn’t even hear the TARDIS, or see the Doctor waiting until the barkeep passes him a slip of paper -
(‘Now is the winter of our discontent, made glorious summer by this Son of Gallifrey,’ no, wait, that’s terrible in every possible way.)
- and for a moment all he can think is that for a guy with a time machine, he could have better timing. And then they have a whole conversation with their eyes.
Read the note.
Are you kidding me?
Go on. Read it.
So he does.
What the hell are you -
Him. Just there.
Jack looks. And so he is.
Okay, but what am I supposed to do -
Take care of each other.
And that’s goodbye. Maybe forever for all Jack knows, except he’s going to live for an awfully long time, and there’s only so much space in the universe. He’s going to live forever, and the Doctor knows -
Oh. He knows.
In his absence, Ianto isn’t there to tell Jack that it’s alright - good, even - but the Doctor does a passable job of it. Even if the whole ‘I’m kinda psychic’ thing is the most ridiculous line he’s uttered in ages. Literal ages. Still, he’s always loved a man in uniform.
Maybe it’s time.