fic: honouring the dead
title: Honouring the Dead
characters: Jack/Ianto
words: 1447
rating: PG
note: Jack and Ianto pay their respects to the dead. (That has to be the most depressing summary for a fic EVER.) Spoilers for episode 2x13 Exit Wounds.
Honouring the Dead
Whenever Jack loses someone he loves, he raises a glass of Scotch, proposes a toast to an empty room, then drinks his grief away. This time is no different, except it's a bigger blow because he's lost two - two extraordinary people - so there are two tumblers instead of one.
Jack is alone in the Hub; Gwen went home to Rhys hours ago, and as confident as Jack usually is, he isn't sure her position in Torchwood is a secure one any longer. Flat Holm had been difficult enough for her to handle - had everything that happened with Gray pushed her over the edge? It had almost pushed Jack over the edge (over an edge and into a grave to be buried alive--he can wash his mouth out as many times as he likes but his tongue will never rid that bitter taste of soil). He'd sent Ianto home too because he'd tried cleaning Tosh's blood off the stairs, but Jack had known it was too soon. Ianto's hands had been shaking at the time, retching into his fist while he scrubbed at the floor until his fingers felt raw.
Jack had thought he wanted to be by himself, but sat in the dark of his office shivering, he realizes being alone is the last thing he wants right now, for the sake of his sanity. It may be his imagination - or the scent is purely that strong - but there is a familiar metallic smell of blood in the stale air coming from the autopsy room, gradually spreading itself throughout the Hub. He needs to be with Ianto. Yes, he thinks, standing up and grabbing his greatcoat, I'll drop by Ianto's flat.
He's always suspected Ianto as a mindreader, because when Jack steps out of his office, Ianto is there, like a summoned butler, seated on the small sofa against the wall. Jack never heard Ianto return; the Welshman was too quiet for his own good sometimes, though, Jack had probably been too busy quietly mourning in his office to notice Ianto had crept back. The Hub looks like it does when there's a powercut. The only source of light comes from two tealight candles sat on the table Ianto is hunched over. Jack doesn't need to guess who those two candles are lit for. It's possibly the sweetest gesture Jack's seen this century.
“Aren't those a fire hazard?” the Captain asks softly.
Ianto looks up at him briefly, then his eyes downcast, peering into the tealights like they hold the answers to the universe. “I think the pterodactyl is a bigger hazard,” he deadpans, earning the smallest of smiles from Jack, giving the illusion of everything being back to normal. Ianto budges up, making room for Jack to sit next to him.
“My mam,” Ianto starts, and Jack listens closely, regularly enjoying stories about Ianto's family, “would always light a candle to honour the dead. Even for people she never knew, like deaths she heard on the ten o' clock news.”
“She sounds like an admirable lady,” Jack comments. “Remind me again when I'm meeting her?”
“Never?”
“Oi,” Jack pouts. “Me and Mrs. Jones, we got a thing going on...”
Relaxing as Jack's singing is to listen to, Ianto butts in just to make clear, because most of the time things need to be spelled out for him, “That's why you're never meeting her, Billy Paul.”
A comfortable silence creeps over them. There's something soothing about the soft glow burning from the wicks.
“The Hub feels so empty,” Ianto breaks the lull with a throaty whisper, turning to Jack with red-rimmed eyes. “I miss them. Really miss them.”
“Me too,” Jack says, seizing Ianto's hand and squeezing it in the darkness. “Me too...”
Ianto leans his head against Jack's shoulder and together they take slow, deep, steady breaths in time. Fire reflects prettily in their eyes.
“It should have been me, Jack,” Ianto speaks up suddenly in in a strangled voice.
“What?” asks the Captain, not quite understanding what he means.
“Owen is--was,” Ianto corrects himself, fighting back tears, “a great Doctor. He saved so many lives, including my own. And Tosh - Tosh was the kindest, most selfless woman I've ever met - a female, Asian equivalent of Einstein.” Jack almost laughs at that. “They were so brilliant, and they had so much time ahead of them to continue being brilliant. But life was snatched away from them. And the teaboy lives another day to serve coffee.” He chokes back a sob at the back of his throat and swallows painfully. For someone who claims to know everything, he knows little of the truth.
“C'mere,” Jack says, pulling Ianto into a rib-crushing hug. Ianto slumps against Jack as he rubs soothing circles on his back.
“If I weren't so damn exhausted by grief right now, I'd give you a right hook for saying such a dumb thing. Ianto, you've done amazing things I don't have enough fingers and toes to count - and that's just in bed.” Ianto's shoulders shake faintly with laughter at that. “Torchwood wouldn't be able to function without you.” I wouldn't be able to function without you, Jack thinks. “I know you know that.”
Jack knows Ianto is only talking rubbish because he's upset; hell, they all are. Jack's heart clenches when he thinks of the worst that could have happened today.
“I don't know what I'd have done if you'd have... if you'd have died today. I think I would have actually killed Gray.”
“No you wouldn't have,” Ianto argues realistically, but he doesn't sound hurt. “Though I appreciate the sentiment.” He takes a deep breath and slides Jack a watery smile.
“John told me you were gonna shoot him, you know,” Jack mentions, amused when Ianto's mouth twists into a scowl at the mention of the rogue Time Agent.
“Of course I was going to shoot him; he'd just destroyed the city I grew up in before my very eyes,” Ianto snaps, then adds softer, “And I had no idea where you were or what he'd done to you. I may have aimed for his shoulder.” He pauses. “Or his brain.”
“Ouch,” Jack says, knowing exactly what a bullet to the head feels like. “Do you have any more candles left, Ianto?”
Of course he does, bringing out a tealight from a pocket in his suit jacket, eying Jack curiously when he puts the candle in his palm. Jack sticks the fresh wick into the flame of the tealight on the left sitting on the table, the one he decides is burning for Tosh, because it seems small - like she was - smaller than the one on the right - the one burning for Owen - even if Ianto argues they're all the same size. When the third tealight is lit, he places it on the table next to the pair. The smooth, melted wax looks tempting to touch; Jack might have poked it if Ianto wasn't there to scold him.
“Who's that candle for?” Ianto asks quietly, pointing to the newest addition.
Jack clasps his hands together and answers simply, “Lisa.”
Speechless, Ianto stares at Jack in astonishment. He can't find the words to thank Jack. Instead, Ianto places his hands on either side of Jack's face and kisses him. That previous taste in Jack's mouth - that one of dirt - is replaced by a sweet combination of coffee and Welsh cakes. Ianto's arms loop comfortably around Jack's neck, and a sigh mixed between tiredness and a sense of serenity leaves Jack's mouth and tickles Ianto's ear. A while later, Jack's gaze falls upon his office. He becomes cold and stiff at the thought of sleeping in that space below the ground...
“What's wrong?” Ianto asks, noticing his unease.
Jack's thinking about that small bunker. That tight, lightless, narrow bucker under the floor...
“I don't think I can sleep here tonight.” Jack hadn't meant to sound so fragile. He doesn't tell Ianto why the idea of sleeping in the bunker makes him nauseous when he was perfectly fine with the sleeping arrangement yesterday and years prior to this moment.
“You could always sleep on a roof,” Ianto suggests with smiling eyes. “Of course, there's always been a left side of my bed with your name on it.”
Good old Ianto, Jack thinks.
“Thanks,” he tells Ianto appreciatively, disguising a sigh of relief into a yawn. The words he says next are familiar, but it's the way he says them which is startling...
“Take me to bed.”
The request lacks its usual come-hither manner, enticement replaced with weariness and a yearning to sink into a soft mattress, share body heat and innocent kisses with his favourite archivist, and seek the great oblivion of sleep. Ianto nods at Jack and leaves a lingering kiss on his cheek.
They watch and wait for all three tealights to die out until all that's left are wisps of smoke. Then Ianto pulls Jack to his feet, and they leave the Hub together, hand in hand.
characters: Jack/Ianto
words: 1447
rating: PG
note: Jack and Ianto pay their respects to the dead. (That has to be the most depressing summary for a fic EVER.) Spoilers for episode 2x13 Exit Wounds.
Honouring the Dead
Whenever Jack loses someone he loves, he raises a glass of Scotch, proposes a toast to an empty room, then drinks his grief away. This time is no different, except it's a bigger blow because he's lost two - two extraordinary people - so there are two tumblers instead of one.
Jack is alone in the Hub; Gwen went home to Rhys hours ago, and as confident as Jack usually is, he isn't sure her position in Torchwood is a secure one any longer. Flat Holm had been difficult enough for her to handle - had everything that happened with Gray pushed her over the edge? It had almost pushed Jack over the edge (over an edge and into a grave to be buried alive--he can wash his mouth out as many times as he likes but his tongue will never rid that bitter taste of soil). He'd sent Ianto home too because he'd tried cleaning Tosh's blood off the stairs, but Jack had known it was too soon. Ianto's hands had been shaking at the time, retching into his fist while he scrubbed at the floor until his fingers felt raw.
Jack had thought he wanted to be by himself, but sat in the dark of his office shivering, he realizes being alone is the last thing he wants right now, for the sake of his sanity. It may be his imagination - or the scent is purely that strong - but there is a familiar metallic smell of blood in the stale air coming from the autopsy room, gradually spreading itself throughout the Hub. He needs to be with Ianto. Yes, he thinks, standing up and grabbing his greatcoat, I'll drop by Ianto's flat.
He's always suspected Ianto as a mindreader, because when Jack steps out of his office, Ianto is there, like a summoned butler, seated on the small sofa against the wall. Jack never heard Ianto return; the Welshman was too quiet for his own good sometimes, though, Jack had probably been too busy quietly mourning in his office to notice Ianto had crept back. The Hub looks like it does when there's a powercut. The only source of light comes from two tealight candles sat on the table Ianto is hunched over. Jack doesn't need to guess who those two candles are lit for. It's possibly the sweetest gesture Jack's seen this century.
“Aren't those a fire hazard?” the Captain asks softly.
Ianto looks up at him briefly, then his eyes downcast, peering into the tealights like they hold the answers to the universe. “I think the pterodactyl is a bigger hazard,” he deadpans, earning the smallest of smiles from Jack, giving the illusion of everything being back to normal. Ianto budges up, making room for Jack to sit next to him.
“My mam,” Ianto starts, and Jack listens closely, regularly enjoying stories about Ianto's family, “would always light a candle to honour the dead. Even for people she never knew, like deaths she heard on the ten o' clock news.”
“She sounds like an admirable lady,” Jack comments. “Remind me again when I'm meeting her?”
“Never?”
“Oi,” Jack pouts. “Me and Mrs. Jones, we got a thing going on...”
Relaxing as Jack's singing is to listen to, Ianto butts in just to make clear, because most of the time things need to be spelled out for him, “That's why you're never meeting her, Billy Paul.”
A comfortable silence creeps over them. There's something soothing about the soft glow burning from the wicks.
“The Hub feels so empty,” Ianto breaks the lull with a throaty whisper, turning to Jack with red-rimmed eyes. “I miss them. Really miss them.”
“Me too,” Jack says, seizing Ianto's hand and squeezing it in the darkness. “Me too...”
Ianto leans his head against Jack's shoulder and together they take slow, deep, steady breaths in time. Fire reflects prettily in their eyes.
“It should have been me, Jack,” Ianto speaks up suddenly in in a strangled voice.
“What?” asks the Captain, not quite understanding what he means.
“Owen is--was,” Ianto corrects himself, fighting back tears, “a great Doctor. He saved so many lives, including my own. And Tosh - Tosh was the kindest, most selfless woman I've ever met - a female, Asian equivalent of Einstein.” Jack almost laughs at that. “They were so brilliant, and they had so much time ahead of them to continue being brilliant. But life was snatched away from them. And the teaboy lives another day to serve coffee.” He chokes back a sob at the back of his throat and swallows painfully. For someone who claims to know everything, he knows little of the truth.
“C'mere,” Jack says, pulling Ianto into a rib-crushing hug. Ianto slumps against Jack as he rubs soothing circles on his back.
“If I weren't so damn exhausted by grief right now, I'd give you a right hook for saying such a dumb thing. Ianto, you've done amazing things I don't have enough fingers and toes to count - and that's just in bed.” Ianto's shoulders shake faintly with laughter at that. “Torchwood wouldn't be able to function without you.” I wouldn't be able to function without you, Jack thinks. “I know you know that.”
Jack knows Ianto is only talking rubbish because he's upset; hell, they all are. Jack's heart clenches when he thinks of the worst that could have happened today.
“I don't know what I'd have done if you'd have... if you'd have died today. I think I would have actually killed Gray.”
“No you wouldn't have,” Ianto argues realistically, but he doesn't sound hurt. “Though I appreciate the sentiment.” He takes a deep breath and slides Jack a watery smile.
“John told me you were gonna shoot him, you know,” Jack mentions, amused when Ianto's mouth twists into a scowl at the mention of the rogue Time Agent.
“Of course I was going to shoot him; he'd just destroyed the city I grew up in before my very eyes,” Ianto snaps, then adds softer, “And I had no idea where you were or what he'd done to you. I may have aimed for his shoulder.” He pauses. “Or his brain.”
“Ouch,” Jack says, knowing exactly what a bullet to the head feels like. “Do you have any more candles left, Ianto?”
Of course he does, bringing out a tealight from a pocket in his suit jacket, eying Jack curiously when he puts the candle in his palm. Jack sticks the fresh wick into the flame of the tealight on the left sitting on the table, the one he decides is burning for Tosh, because it seems small - like she was - smaller than the one on the right - the one burning for Owen - even if Ianto argues they're all the same size. When the third tealight is lit, he places it on the table next to the pair. The smooth, melted wax looks tempting to touch; Jack might have poked it if Ianto wasn't there to scold him.
“Who's that candle for?” Ianto asks quietly, pointing to the newest addition.
Jack clasps his hands together and answers simply, “Lisa.”
Speechless, Ianto stares at Jack in astonishment. He can't find the words to thank Jack. Instead, Ianto places his hands on either side of Jack's face and kisses him. That previous taste in Jack's mouth - that one of dirt - is replaced by a sweet combination of coffee and Welsh cakes. Ianto's arms loop comfortably around Jack's neck, and a sigh mixed between tiredness and a sense of serenity leaves Jack's mouth and tickles Ianto's ear. A while later, Jack's gaze falls upon his office. He becomes cold and stiff at the thought of sleeping in that space below the ground...
“What's wrong?” Ianto asks, noticing his unease.
Jack's thinking about that small bunker. That tight, lightless, narrow bucker under the floor...
“I don't think I can sleep here tonight.” Jack hadn't meant to sound so fragile. He doesn't tell Ianto why the idea of sleeping in the bunker makes him nauseous when he was perfectly fine with the sleeping arrangement yesterday and years prior to this moment.
“You could always sleep on a roof,” Ianto suggests with smiling eyes. “Of course, there's always been a left side of my bed with your name on it.”
Good old Ianto, Jack thinks.
“Thanks,” he tells Ianto appreciatively, disguising a sigh of relief into a yawn. The words he says next are familiar, but it's the way he says them which is startling...
“Take me to bed.”
The request lacks its usual come-hither manner, enticement replaced with weariness and a yearning to sink into a soft mattress, share body heat and innocent kisses with his favourite archivist, and seek the great oblivion of sleep. Ianto nods at Jack and leaves a lingering kiss on his cheek.
They watch and wait for all three tealights to die out until all that's left are wisps of smoke. Then Ianto pulls Jack to his feet, and they leave the Hub together, hand in hand.