THE SPACE YOU LEFT BEHIND (PG) BY IAMSHADOW
Title: The Space You Left Behind
Author:
iamshadow
Fandom: Torchwood
Pairings: Gen, Ianto-centric, implied Jack/Ianto
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1,103
Summary: Ianto's just concentrating on living his life from one day to the next, despite the gaping hole that should be filled by someone.
Warnings: AU. But how AU is up to your own imagination. Written pre-COE, so nothing spoilery.
A/N: Hah. I wrote this one ages ago, and I've finally decided to post it. I want your thoughts, people. I want your ideas in the comments about what you think happened. Call it curiosity. :DD
Ianto woke, as always, before the alarm that he still set despite never needing it. It was one of those habits from before that he hadn’t broken, like reaching up to adjust his tie several times a day. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d actually worn one. Without quite knowing how he got there, soon enough he was standing in front of the humming microwave, yawning, watching the bottle performing its lazy orbit.
The first grumbling whines started up just before the cheerful beep of completion. Aled grizzled impatiently until the bottle was in his hands, and then watched Ianto with a solemn expression as he began to suckle.
“You know, you’re getting too old for that,” Ianto said, conversationally. Aled’s blue eyes, wide and innocent, could have broken hearts, and Ianto knew that the morning bottle was going to stay part of the routine for at least another week.
With Aled perched on his hip (head on his shoulder, bottle firmly in his mouth), Ianto brewed coffee and buttered toast.
“We’re going to go and visit Daddy today,” he informed Aled. The sky outside was grey and dull, but as far as he could tell, no rain was imminent.
“Dada,” Aled parroted back, discarding the bottle in favour of reaching for a toast soldier spread with strawberry jam.
“That’s right,” Ianto agreed, watching the clouds.
Maybe he should pack something waterproof for each of them, just in case.
***
The plaque for James Harper (aged 35 years) was small and unadorned, and surrounded by several dozen other small, unadorned plaques in a tasteful but bland garden section of the graveyard. Staring at the brass plate, Ianto struggled and failed to come up with any emotional connection to the person it claimed to represent. It was just as impersonal as the documents in his files at home, the only things he had left.
He’d come home from the hospital, weak and pale, to find his flat a disorganised mess. The story came out eventually, through a gossipy neighbour, that the soft-hearted caretaker had let James’ estranged family in a week after he died. James’ family, who hated Ianto and the ‘lifestyle’ that he’d led their little boy into. They couldn’t touch James’ money, or Aled, who was in emergency foster care, but they’d rummaged through the ruins of Ianto and James’ life together, taking anything personal they could identify as belonging to him.
It still hurt when Ianto opened the photo album and saw the gaping spaces where James’ face should have been. He didn’t even know what his husband had looked like.
Ianto let Aled totter about the grassed space on wobbly legs while he sat, wondering what to feel about the man he’d shared his life with for five years, but couldn’t remember. The accident had taken that from him and left him with a two inch scar on his head and occasional low-grade seizures that didn’t bother him much but did stop him driving. Ianto and Aled had become seasoned users of public transport, bussing and training hither and yon in all but the foulest weather. A taxi was a hedonistic luxury Ianto rarely indulged in.
He’d compiled two lists in the long nights when Aled was teething. One side of the page listed Facts; the other, Presumptions.
What he knew for certain was so sterile. James had worked as the manager of a small, private security firm (Payslips, tax returns). James had moved in with Ianto three years ago, and they’d gotten their civil partnership a year later (Tenancy documentation, civil partnership certificate). It continued on, dry and dull, items that could have been about any random stranger.
The presumptions were what Ianto thought about most.
They’d been looking for a new home. (Estate agency brochure found under the sofa, scrawled on in an unfamiliar hand, with such comments as ‘Phone back’ and ‘No kids allowed :(’ and ‘Too small’.) James was about his height and weight, but was broader across the shoulders. (Clothing in the wardrobe.) James liked musicals. (Ianto didn’t, and there were at least a dozen in the DVD rack, which he found himself putting on to entertain Aled on rainy days.)
James had dark hair. (Once while cleaning, Ianto found a hair too fine and straight to be his own. Unable to bring himself to touch it, he left the room. When he went back later, it was gone, presumably wafted away by the disturbance of air caused by his departure. Though he didn’t understand why, he sat on the floor by the tub and sobbed.)
Towards the back of his mind was always the knowledge, a niggling ache like a sore tooth, that he could just call James's workplace, find James's friends, or look on the internet for traces of his husband's life. Half a dozen times he'd picked up the phone to dial a number, or typed James's name into a search engine box, only to hang up or click away, his heart tapping furiously, his hands shaking, palms damp. The idea of James was too seductive, too perfect, and though he cursed himself for a coward, he'd never had the courage to shatter that image. Perhaps he never would.
Cold, and just as lost as when he arrived, Ianto gathered Aled up, carefully placing the autumn leaves his son had collected back on the grass. He didn’t put them in front of James’ plaque. It would feel too much like an empty gesture.
***
That evening, while Aled slept, Ianto had a glass of scotch and sat in the semi-dark with nothing but silence for company.
Aled had been conceived using a mixture of sperm from both of them, and a contract with a surrogate (Legal documentation re:the agreement, fertility clinic paperwork from the insemination). As he grows, Ianto can see elements that could have come from him (Blue eyes, though a different shade are a similar shape, dark hair, though soft, has a definite curl) but there are others that are very different. Aled’s nose is long and straight, rather than snub, with an upturned end. Aled’s grin (when he does smile) is broad, showing off his few sharp, white teeth to their full.
Ianto knows, logically, that these could be features inherited from Aled’s biological mother. However, in his head, he keeps a third list with only several items on it. One of those is the hope that James is Aled’s father. That in this small way, he gets to keep a part of the man he loved; the man he never met.
Author:
iamshadow
Fandom: Torchwood
Pairings: Gen, Ianto-centric, implied Jack/Ianto
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1,103
Summary: Ianto's just concentrating on living his life from one day to the next, despite the gaping hole that should be filled by someone.
Warnings: AU. But how AU is up to your own imagination. Written pre-COE, so nothing spoilery.
A/N: Hah. I wrote this one ages ago, and I've finally decided to post it. I want your thoughts, people. I want your ideas in the comments about what you think happened. Call it curiosity. :DD
Ianto woke, as always, before the alarm that he still set despite never needing it. It was one of those habits from before that he hadn’t broken, like reaching up to adjust his tie several times a day. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d actually worn one. Without quite knowing how he got there, soon enough he was standing in front of the humming microwave, yawning, watching the bottle performing its lazy orbit.
The first grumbling whines started up just before the cheerful beep of completion. Aled grizzled impatiently until the bottle was in his hands, and then watched Ianto with a solemn expression as he began to suckle.
“You know, you’re getting too old for that,” Ianto said, conversationally. Aled’s blue eyes, wide and innocent, could have broken hearts, and Ianto knew that the morning bottle was going to stay part of the routine for at least another week.
With Aled perched on his hip (head on his shoulder, bottle firmly in his mouth), Ianto brewed coffee and buttered toast.
“We’re going to go and visit Daddy today,” he informed Aled. The sky outside was grey and dull, but as far as he could tell, no rain was imminent.
“Dada,” Aled parroted back, discarding the bottle in favour of reaching for a toast soldier spread with strawberry jam.
“That’s right,” Ianto agreed, watching the clouds.
Maybe he should pack something waterproof for each of them, just in case.
***
The plaque for James Harper (aged 35 years) was small and unadorned, and surrounded by several dozen other small, unadorned plaques in a tasteful but bland garden section of the graveyard. Staring at the brass plate, Ianto struggled and failed to come up with any emotional connection to the person it claimed to represent. It was just as impersonal as the documents in his files at home, the only things he had left.
He’d come home from the hospital, weak and pale, to find his flat a disorganised mess. The story came out eventually, through a gossipy neighbour, that the soft-hearted caretaker had let James’ estranged family in a week after he died. James’ family, who hated Ianto and the ‘lifestyle’ that he’d led their little boy into. They couldn’t touch James’ money, or Aled, who was in emergency foster care, but they’d rummaged through the ruins of Ianto and James’ life together, taking anything personal they could identify as belonging to him.
It still hurt when Ianto opened the photo album and saw the gaping spaces where James’ face should have been. He didn’t even know what his husband had looked like.
Ianto let Aled totter about the grassed space on wobbly legs while he sat, wondering what to feel about the man he’d shared his life with for five years, but couldn’t remember. The accident had taken that from him and left him with a two inch scar on his head and occasional low-grade seizures that didn’t bother him much but did stop him driving. Ianto and Aled had become seasoned users of public transport, bussing and training hither and yon in all but the foulest weather. A taxi was a hedonistic luxury Ianto rarely indulged in.
He’d compiled two lists in the long nights when Aled was teething. One side of the page listed Facts; the other, Presumptions.
What he knew for certain was so sterile. James had worked as the manager of a small, private security firm (Payslips, tax returns). James had moved in with Ianto three years ago, and they’d gotten their civil partnership a year later (Tenancy documentation, civil partnership certificate). It continued on, dry and dull, items that could have been about any random stranger.
The presumptions were what Ianto thought about most.
They’d been looking for a new home. (Estate agency brochure found under the sofa, scrawled on in an unfamiliar hand, with such comments as ‘Phone back’ and ‘No kids allowed :(’ and ‘Too small’.) James was about his height and weight, but was broader across the shoulders. (Clothing in the wardrobe.) James liked musicals. (Ianto didn’t, and there were at least a dozen in the DVD rack, which he found himself putting on to entertain Aled on rainy days.)
James had dark hair. (Once while cleaning, Ianto found a hair too fine and straight to be his own. Unable to bring himself to touch it, he left the room. When he went back later, it was gone, presumably wafted away by the disturbance of air caused by his departure. Though he didn’t understand why, he sat on the floor by the tub and sobbed.)
Towards the back of his mind was always the knowledge, a niggling ache like a sore tooth, that he could just call James's workplace, find James's friends, or look on the internet for traces of his husband's life. Half a dozen times he'd picked up the phone to dial a number, or typed James's name into a search engine box, only to hang up or click away, his heart tapping furiously, his hands shaking, palms damp. The idea of James was too seductive, too perfect, and though he cursed himself for a coward, he'd never had the courage to shatter that image. Perhaps he never would.
Cold, and just as lost as when he arrived, Ianto gathered Aled up, carefully placing the autumn leaves his son had collected back on the grass. He didn’t put them in front of James’ plaque. It would feel too much like an empty gesture.
***
That evening, while Aled slept, Ianto had a glass of scotch and sat in the semi-dark with nothing but silence for company.
Aled had been conceived using a mixture of sperm from both of them, and a contract with a surrogate (Legal documentation re:the agreement, fertility clinic paperwork from the insemination). As he grows, Ianto can see elements that could have come from him (Blue eyes, though a different shade are a similar shape, dark hair, though soft, has a definite curl) but there are others that are very different. Aled’s nose is long and straight, rather than snub, with an upturned end. Aled’s grin (when he does smile) is broad, showing off his few sharp, white teeth to their full.
Ianto knows, logically, that these could be features inherited from Aled’s biological mother. However, in his head, he keeps a third list with only several items on it. One of those is the hope that James is Aled’s father. That in this small way, he gets to keep a part of the man he loved; the man he never met.