Perterite: The Perfect Past
Title: Perterite: The Perfect Past
Fandom: Torchwood
Characters: Jack, Ianto
Rating: PG
Warnings: None
Summary: An early conversation between Jack and Ianto raises a ghost from Jack's past-- and perhaps an inkling of his future.
I had originally sketched out a much larger story for this concept, but it has been languishing in my folders for over a year now, so I reworked just a tidbit of it here.
* * * *
Jack took the proffered mug in both hands, sniffing deeply and letting the rising steam warm his chin before taking his first sip. "Ianto Jones... is Ianto a family name, or just good Welsh stock?"
The young man grinned. "Both. Good Welsh stock, but also family. I'm named for an uncle, who was named for his uncle and so on and so forth."
Jack's grip tightened on the mug, a prescient prickle raising the hairs on the back of his neck. "A connoisseur of coffee and a crack genealogist to boot. So what happened to the original Ianto Jones?"
Ianto tipped his cup to his lips. Damn the lad if he wasn't intent on draining the entire damn mug while Jack hung on tenterhooks waiting for revelations.
"Died in the service, in Lahore, I think. 1908. There were conflicting reports, though I think the official record says typhus. No one was ever quite clear on that. It's been a subject of great speculation over the years. Sort of a family sport-- What Really Happened to Ianto Jones."
Jack set down the mug. A bright flare of understanding and recognition washed over him. The coffee tasted suddenly too bitter in his mouth and he set the mug down on the edge of the desk. Ianto was looking at him oddly, and it was a look Jack knew-- that he remembered-- all too well.
"Sir?" he asked.The familiarity of his tone was almost too much to bear.
"That'll be all for now, Ianto."
Ianto nodded sharply and turned on his heel, and even that gesture, so smartly executed and so damnably natural to this Ianto Jones, made Jack's entire body ache with a sense of longing, and of loss, and of the cruel tricks and vicissitudes of time.
Jack shut the door behind him and sat at his desk, staring at the mug until it had long gone cold.
Fandom: Torchwood
Characters: Jack, Ianto
Rating: PG
Warnings: None
Summary: An early conversation between Jack and Ianto raises a ghost from Jack's past-- and perhaps an inkling of his future.
I had originally sketched out a much larger story for this concept, but it has been languishing in my folders for over a year now, so I reworked just a tidbit of it here.
* * * *
Jack took the proffered mug in both hands, sniffing deeply and letting the rising steam warm his chin before taking his first sip. "Ianto Jones... is Ianto a family name, or just good Welsh stock?"
The young man grinned. "Both. Good Welsh stock, but also family. I'm named for an uncle, who was named for his uncle and so on and so forth."
Jack's grip tightened on the mug, a prescient prickle raising the hairs on the back of his neck. "A connoisseur of coffee and a crack genealogist to boot. So what happened to the original Ianto Jones?"
Ianto tipped his cup to his lips. Damn the lad if he wasn't intent on draining the entire damn mug while Jack hung on tenterhooks waiting for revelations.
"Died in the service, in Lahore, I think. 1908. There were conflicting reports, though I think the official record says typhus. No one was ever quite clear on that. It's been a subject of great speculation over the years. Sort of a family sport-- What Really Happened to Ianto Jones."
Jack set down the mug. A bright flare of understanding and recognition washed over him. The coffee tasted suddenly too bitter in his mouth and he set the mug down on the edge of the desk. Ianto was looking at him oddly, and it was a look Jack knew-- that he remembered-- all too well.
"Sir?" he asked.The familiarity of his tone was almost too much to bear.
"That'll be all for now, Ianto."
Ianto nodded sharply and turned on his heel, and even that gesture, so smartly executed and so damnably natural to this Ianto Jones, made Jack's entire body ache with a sense of longing, and of loss, and of the cruel tricks and vicissitudes of time.
Jack shut the door behind him and sat at his desk, staring at the mug until it had long gone cold.