One-shot: The Art of Losing
Title: The Art of Losing
Author: lookninjas
Characters: Jack/Ianto
Rating: PG at the absolute worst
Spoilers: "To the Last Man"
Summary: Gwen can't quite understand just why this photo has such a hold on Ianto, but Jack knows.
The title was taken from Elizabeth Bishop's One Art.
He finds Ianto in the Archives after the others have gone. A folder lies open in his hands, the picture faded underneath the lights. Torchwood Three, 1918. Long gone now.
Gwen can't quite understand just why this picture has such a hold on Ianto, but Jack knows. He's spent a lot of time down here, with these files, these pictures. So many faces, so many names. All of them gone.
He wraps one arm around Ianto's shoulders, leans in so that their cheeks brush. One finger traces the unsmiling face, the careful posture of Harriet Derbyshire. "Twenty-four years old," he says, softly.
Ianto sighs, relaxing back into Jack's hold just a little bit. "All things being considered, I suppose we're doing quite well," he murmurs. "I've made it to twenty-six, and I'm the youngest of all of us. Outlived her by two years so far."
Jack's other arm goes around Ianto's waist, pulling him closer still, his chin resting on Ianto's shoulder. "You've outlived a lot of people," he says, softly.
"Not as many as you have." Ianto does his best to sound calm, but he takes a deep, shuddering breath, then another.
"Pretty damned close." Jack keeps his voice quiet, keeps his anger locked away. It doesn't do any good to rage at the universe. "And you're a lot younger than I am."
Ianto swallows hard, and his head drops forward. "Every time they go out, I think..." His voice is so quiet, barely a whisper. If they weren't so close, Jack wouldn't be able to hear him at all. "We've already lost Suzie, and..."
"I know." Jack kisses his cheekbone, nuzzles his hair. "If it helps at all, you're not losing me any time soon. I'm not going anywhere."
"I just..." Ianto sags back even further into Jack's grip, lets himself be held and comforted. "I just wish I could say the same."
Jack's arms tighten around Ianto. He kisses Ianto's hair and squeezes his eyes tight shut and doesn't say anything, because he can't trust himself to speak right now.
"How do you do it?" Ianto asks. His gaze is still locked on the photograph, as if he's asking them -- Douglas, Harold, Lydia, the ones who stayed behind. "How do you keep going?"
"I don't know," Jack admits. "You just do. Because you have to. You can't stop."
Ianto lets out a quiet sigh, and closes the folder, slipping easily out of Jack's arms to put the folder back in its place. Then his arms are around Jack's neck, his hands in Jack's hair, and they kiss, more gently than they have in a long time. No desperate clutching, no angry little nips, just lips meeting, breath being shared. Comfort. When they part, Ianto rests his forehead against Jack's. "I'm tired," he says, finally. "Let's go to bed."
Author: lookninjas
Characters: Jack/Ianto
Rating: PG at the absolute worst
Spoilers: "To the Last Man"
Summary: Gwen can't quite understand just why this photo has such a hold on Ianto, but Jack knows.
The title was taken from Elizabeth Bishop's One Art.
He finds Ianto in the Archives after the others have gone. A folder lies open in his hands, the picture faded underneath the lights. Torchwood Three, 1918. Long gone now.
Gwen can't quite understand just why this picture has such a hold on Ianto, but Jack knows. He's spent a lot of time down here, with these files, these pictures. So many faces, so many names. All of them gone.
He wraps one arm around Ianto's shoulders, leans in so that their cheeks brush. One finger traces the unsmiling face, the careful posture of Harriet Derbyshire. "Twenty-four years old," he says, softly.
Ianto sighs, relaxing back into Jack's hold just a little bit. "All things being considered, I suppose we're doing quite well," he murmurs. "I've made it to twenty-six, and I'm the youngest of all of us. Outlived her by two years so far."
Jack's other arm goes around Ianto's waist, pulling him closer still, his chin resting on Ianto's shoulder. "You've outlived a lot of people," he says, softly.
"Not as many as you have." Ianto does his best to sound calm, but he takes a deep, shuddering breath, then another.
"Pretty damned close." Jack keeps his voice quiet, keeps his anger locked away. It doesn't do any good to rage at the universe. "And you're a lot younger than I am."
Ianto swallows hard, and his head drops forward. "Every time they go out, I think..." His voice is so quiet, barely a whisper. If they weren't so close, Jack wouldn't be able to hear him at all. "We've already lost Suzie, and..."
"I know." Jack kisses his cheekbone, nuzzles his hair. "If it helps at all, you're not losing me any time soon. I'm not going anywhere."
"I just..." Ianto sags back even further into Jack's grip, lets himself be held and comforted. "I just wish I could say the same."
Jack's arms tighten around Ianto. He kisses Ianto's hair and squeezes his eyes tight shut and doesn't say anything, because he can't trust himself to speak right now.
"How do you do it?" Ianto asks. His gaze is still locked on the photograph, as if he's asking them -- Douglas, Harold, Lydia, the ones who stayed behind. "How do you keep going?"
"I don't know," Jack admits. "You just do. Because you have to. You can't stop."
Ianto lets out a quiet sigh, and closes the folder, slipping easily out of Jack's arms to put the folder back in its place. Then his arms are around Jack's neck, his hands in Jack's hair, and they kiss, more gently than they have in a long time. No desperate clutching, no angry little nips, just lips meeting, breath being shared. Comfort. When they part, Ianto rests his forehead against Jack's. "I'm tired," he says, finally. "Let's go to bed."