TW snippet: Better Fate Than Wisdom
Title: Better Fate Than Wisdom
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Jack/Ianto
Word Count: 1014
Summary: The two-year anniversary of the world that ended on Valentine's Day
Notes: I thought, "Oh, it's Valentine's Day, you should write something sweet." And then I thought, "No way. You should write something with zombies." I kind of did both. Written in about an hour and a half.
kisses are a better fate
than wisdom
-e.e. cummings
If they’re going to be honest with themselves (and they might as well now), it should be said that the world ended on Valentine’s Day 2012. Gwen, ever the romantic, doesn’t want to ruin the day, but Ianto can’t help but pointing out that, One, it’s ruined because there aren’t enough people to celebrate it anymore and two, what other day of the year can we attribute to the release of a virus meant to bring loved ones back from the dead?
Gwen doesn’t much like that, and she sulks her way through the mission. When they loot a supermarket, Ianto steals the biggest bag of her favourite sweets he can find for her. He has to tug it out from under a human thigh, but it’s fresh enough that Ianto’s not bothered.
They don’t talk about the two-year anniversary other than a brief puff of conversation after Gwen blows the brains out of the shop manager’s head at fifty paces while he tries to get his teeth on Ianto’s throat.
“Thanks,” Ianto mutters, rolling his bruised shoulder and touching his bruised throat. “You’ve gotten really good.”
Gwen nods, and pops a chocolate in her mouth.
They find enough food for weeks, and they even get some clothing and other supplies. It’s the best they’ve done in months. Ianto can’t wait to actually sit down, Gwen, Jack, Rhys, himself, and just eat a meal like human beings. He’s tired of being a survivor, living underneath the fringe of society.
*
Ianto gets what he wants. They all sit around the boardroom table and eat a full supper, fried eggs and veg and toast. It is so close to normal Ianto could have wept, although he just eats an extra egg instead.
It’s dark now, the Hub reduced to emergency lighting every twelve hours so they can play at knowing the difference between night and day. Gwen and Rhys have retreated into the lower levels to sleep, shag or whatever. Ianto’s drinking the last of Jack’s scotch, has been for almost a year now. He’s looking down at the workstations. The two empty ones, his and Gwen’s are covered in maps of the city, coded into Places We Have Stolen From and Places We Will Steal From and Rhys’ is bare except for a mug full of pens and shoe scuff marks.
“There must be a way to do better,” Ianto says to his own reflection. The Ianto in the glass has eyes that are too old for his face and he looks tired, a bit too hurt to be fixed.
Jack is playing with one of his desk toys, watching metal balls click together. He looks the same as always.
“We do alright.” Jack pushes his toy away and Ianto feels Jack’s full attention hit his spine.
He turns and smiles, quick quirk of his mouth. “I could always sell myself. I hear bandits are still willing to trade for sex.”
Jack doesn’t smile at all, sauntering from the desk to the glass, his shoulder brushing Ianto’s bruised one. They both stare out into the dark and their reflections stare back at them.
Ianto drinks his scotch, sorry about the poor joke. He knows that a hard day translates into hardness on Jack, which is unfair but just keeps happening. He bites the inside of his cheek and his mirror self looks pained, miserable bastard.
Jack’s face in the glass is impassive, even when he takes Ianto’s scotch and sets it on a dusty shelf.
“How did it happen?” he asks quietly.
Ianto opens his mouth and closes it again, feeling his pinched cheek pull. He catches the reflected Jack’s eyes and that Jack nods. Ianto spins so he’s covering his image, his good shoulder touching Jack’s reflection.
He reaches out for Jack’s right hand and brings it to curve around his left shoulder. Jack cups it gently, mindful without having to be told. He takes a step forward, and Ianto presses both of palms to the broad warmth of Jack’s chest. He doesn’t push, just feels where the material of Jack’s shirt is getting thin.
“And then?” Jack comes a little closer, so Ianto can’t help but meet his eyes. There’s the blanket of intensity that never leaves Jack’s eyes any more, but beyond that Ianto can see care, concern and something that melts the ache of bruises and hard living out of his chest.
Ianto can’t tell what’s behind his eyes, but he hopes it makes Jack happy.
He bares his throat, thumbprint bruise up to the light and Jack stares at it for long moments, hard enough to see loops and whorls. He finally grimaces, and the flash of teeth is what Ianto sees before he closes his eyes.
Jack doesn’t bite him. He has before, to see if he could draw the shaking terror out of Ianto, cure him of his fear of humans that are not anymore. It doesn’t work, so Jack doesn’t bite him these days. Instead he kisses the mark dry and soft, his breath warm enough to draw a shiver.
He doesn’t linger, just the one kiss before he tilts Ianto’s head to the other side so the four-point line of the supermarket manager’s fingers shows. He kisses those too and Ianto holds his breath.
His fingers on Jack’s chest twitch, longing to pull Jack close spiraling up from his belly and into his veins, filling every heartbeat with its rich sweetness.
“Jack,” he whispers, shaky, not scared anymore. Jack pulls away from his throat to look at him and Ianto’s sure that the look in Jack’s eyes matches his own, dark on the edge of drugged. He barely looks though, caught staring at the curve of Jack’s mouth, parted.
Jack doesn’t have to ask. He skims the fingers of his left hand up from Ianto’s belly, a slow attack while his mouth drifts closer. Ianto meets him halfway, hands sliding around Jack’s back and his mouth already open, so hungry. Jack’s hands settles across Ianto’s throat as they kiss, each mark covered.
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Jack/Ianto
Word Count: 1014
Summary: The two-year anniversary of the world that ended on Valentine's Day
Notes: I thought, "Oh, it's Valentine's Day, you should write something sweet." And then I thought, "No way. You should write something with zombies." I kind of did both. Written in about an hour and a half.
kisses are a better fate
than wisdom
-e.e. cummings
If they’re going to be honest with themselves (and they might as well now), it should be said that the world ended on Valentine’s Day 2012. Gwen, ever the romantic, doesn’t want to ruin the day, but Ianto can’t help but pointing out that, One, it’s ruined because there aren’t enough people to celebrate it anymore and two, what other day of the year can we attribute to the release of a virus meant to bring loved ones back from the dead?
Gwen doesn’t much like that, and she sulks her way through the mission. When they loot a supermarket, Ianto steals the biggest bag of her favourite sweets he can find for her. He has to tug it out from under a human thigh, but it’s fresh enough that Ianto’s not bothered.
They don’t talk about the two-year anniversary other than a brief puff of conversation after Gwen blows the brains out of the shop manager’s head at fifty paces while he tries to get his teeth on Ianto’s throat.
“Thanks,” Ianto mutters, rolling his bruised shoulder and touching his bruised throat. “You’ve gotten really good.”
Gwen nods, and pops a chocolate in her mouth.
They find enough food for weeks, and they even get some clothing and other supplies. It’s the best they’ve done in months. Ianto can’t wait to actually sit down, Gwen, Jack, Rhys, himself, and just eat a meal like human beings. He’s tired of being a survivor, living underneath the fringe of society.
*
Ianto gets what he wants. They all sit around the boardroom table and eat a full supper, fried eggs and veg and toast. It is so close to normal Ianto could have wept, although he just eats an extra egg instead.
It’s dark now, the Hub reduced to emergency lighting every twelve hours so they can play at knowing the difference between night and day. Gwen and Rhys have retreated into the lower levels to sleep, shag or whatever. Ianto’s drinking the last of Jack’s scotch, has been for almost a year now. He’s looking down at the workstations. The two empty ones, his and Gwen’s are covered in maps of the city, coded into Places We Have Stolen From and Places We Will Steal From and Rhys’ is bare except for a mug full of pens and shoe scuff marks.
“There must be a way to do better,” Ianto says to his own reflection. The Ianto in the glass has eyes that are too old for his face and he looks tired, a bit too hurt to be fixed.
Jack is playing with one of his desk toys, watching metal balls click together. He looks the same as always.
“We do alright.” Jack pushes his toy away and Ianto feels Jack’s full attention hit his spine.
He turns and smiles, quick quirk of his mouth. “I could always sell myself. I hear bandits are still willing to trade for sex.”
Jack doesn’t smile at all, sauntering from the desk to the glass, his shoulder brushing Ianto’s bruised one. They both stare out into the dark and their reflections stare back at them.
Ianto drinks his scotch, sorry about the poor joke. He knows that a hard day translates into hardness on Jack, which is unfair but just keeps happening. He bites the inside of his cheek and his mirror self looks pained, miserable bastard.
Jack’s face in the glass is impassive, even when he takes Ianto’s scotch and sets it on a dusty shelf.
“How did it happen?” he asks quietly.
Ianto opens his mouth and closes it again, feeling his pinched cheek pull. He catches the reflected Jack’s eyes and that Jack nods. Ianto spins so he’s covering his image, his good shoulder touching Jack’s reflection.
He reaches out for Jack’s right hand and brings it to curve around his left shoulder. Jack cups it gently, mindful without having to be told. He takes a step forward, and Ianto presses both of palms to the broad warmth of Jack’s chest. He doesn’t push, just feels where the material of Jack’s shirt is getting thin.
“And then?” Jack comes a little closer, so Ianto can’t help but meet his eyes. There’s the blanket of intensity that never leaves Jack’s eyes any more, but beyond that Ianto can see care, concern and something that melts the ache of bruises and hard living out of his chest.
Ianto can’t tell what’s behind his eyes, but he hopes it makes Jack happy.
He bares his throat, thumbprint bruise up to the light and Jack stares at it for long moments, hard enough to see loops and whorls. He finally grimaces, and the flash of teeth is what Ianto sees before he closes his eyes.
Jack doesn’t bite him. He has before, to see if he could draw the shaking terror out of Ianto, cure him of his fear of humans that are not anymore. It doesn’t work, so Jack doesn’t bite him these days. Instead he kisses the mark dry and soft, his breath warm enough to draw a shiver.
He doesn’t linger, just the one kiss before he tilts Ianto’s head to the other side so the four-point line of the supermarket manager’s fingers shows. He kisses those too and Ianto holds his breath.
His fingers on Jack’s chest twitch, longing to pull Jack close spiraling up from his belly and into his veins, filling every heartbeat with its rich sweetness.
“Jack,” he whispers, shaky, not scared anymore. Jack pulls away from his throat to look at him and Ianto’s sure that the look in Jack’s eyes matches his own, dark on the edge of drugged. He barely looks though, caught staring at the curve of Jack’s mouth, parted.
Jack doesn’t have to ask. He skims the fingers of his left hand up from Ianto’s belly, a slow attack while his mouth drifts closer. Ianto meets him halfway, hands sliding around Jack’s back and his mouth already open, so hungry. Jack’s hands settles across Ianto’s throat as they kiss, each mark covered.