Fic: Semantics (Torchwood) - the 10s
Title: Semantics, 3 of 10
Prompt:Along the moonlit bay, " the 10s" challenge.
Fandom: Torchwood
Pairing: Jack/Ianto
Rating: PG-13 to light R for mentions of adult-like situations
Word count: 1,075
Warnings: Angst, ahoy! If you dislike 2nd person POV, please follow the emergency exit to your left. Also, teeny tiny spoilers for 1.13 "End of Days" and brief mention of events from the last episodes of Doctor Who, season three. And apparently, this "collection" of fic follows no kind of chronological order (or logical order of any kind) whatsoever, so be prepared for some season-hopping from the last fic.
Disclaimer: I own nothing. I’ve borrowed my toys from Auntie Beeb and Uncle Rusty’s toy box and fully plan on eventually giving them back someday, when I’m tired of them.
Summary: The boys discuss the difference between 'have to' and 'want to.'
It takes you an hour to find him, not counting the hour before that you spent reassuring the others that you're here, that you aren't going anywhere, that you're breathing again. That they can breathe again, even if they haven't noticed they've been holding their breath for days while they waited for you to decide to open your eyes. You finally have them convinced it's alright if they lose sight of you for a minute - have finally managed to pry Gwen's fingers off your arm and persuaded Toshiko that you don't need to be followed around like a puppy loose from his leash. Owen volunteers to oversee the cleanup operation in a moment of uncommon perceptiveness or abject repentance, you’re not sure which, and you don’t stick around long enough to ascertain his motives. The one person you wanted to have fuss, to cling, to hover, disappeared the second your back was turned.
You find him leaning over a rail overlooking Cardiff Bay, tie hanging uncharacteristically loose around his neck, the winter wind from across the water playing havoc with the ends. The sun set hours ago, but his face is still tipped toward where the sun should have been. Now the only thing the pale skin and youthful features are bathed in is moonlight.
“You didn’t have to do that.” He doesn’t turn away from the silvered stretch of water spread out before him, doesn’t look at you at all, and you wonder if he heard your silent footsteps or has just become so attuned to your presence that he simply knew you were there. “Kiss me like that,” he says, before you can ask for clarification. “In front of everyone. You didn’t need to do that.”
“No, but I wanted to.” Only takes a few steps to bring you to that rail, to feel the wind lift icy spray from the water below and hurl it against his cheeks. You pick a length of railing close enough to talk but not to crowd and brace your elbows on the cold piping. It’s taken you this long, getting this close, to notice how tense he looks, even in that tie-less, unbuttoned lean. No one else could make a leisurely prop-up against a rail look so uncomfortable, so formal. “Needed to.”
He snorts and the sound is almost carried away by the wind. “Why? Desperate to keep the office gossips in business? Owen need one more reason to treat me like the boss’ boy?”
“It’s not like that, Ianto.”
“Isn’t it, Jack?” For the first time since you arrived, he turns away from the view and looks at you. No, through you, as if he’s facing the idea of you more than your physical presence, talking to a ghost instead. Also for the first time, you see his red eyes in the silvered light, slick trails left down his cheeks that the spray couldn’t have left behind. “I bring your coffee, do your filing, pick up your bloody dry cleaning for fuck’s sake. And if I’m a good boy, I get to suck you off behind the desk or get bent over the conference table after hours for my trouble.”
Something snaps in you as you stand there and take every hurled piece of venom. There’s no thought about the bruises you’ll leave on his arms when you grab him, about what anyone walking by would think of the hard shake you give him or the low, almost cruel snarl in your voice. “It’s not like that,” you growl, teeth bared, fingers digging into the soft skin buried under the impeccable suit. You want to shake him until he sees sense. You want to shake him until that bitter look leaves his eyes, until the regret you think you heard in his voice disappears. You want to…
Your lips are intent on bruising his, punishing them for each and every one of those words. Mouth, teeth, tongue - all mean to brutalize, to sear the knowledge of just how wrong he is into his skin. You can’t reassure him with platitudes and paint his heart with promises you both know will never be kept - even at your best you weren’t that good a conman - so you settle for this instead. A clash of teeth, tangle of tongues, a patchwork of fingertip bruises traveling up his arms and marking every inch they find as yours. Yours for now, for the moment, for as long as you can handle it before the long stretch of your life and the brief stretch of his becomes too obvious and too present and you can’t ignore it anymore.
And somewhere in all of that his lips soften under yours and the kiss becomes something else, less a duel or a punishment, more a shared sigh of relief. His hands have a death grip on your elbows, as if he’s sure you’ll slide right through his fingers if he doesn’t hold on tight enough. Yours take up their customary place at his nape, thumbs left to brush his jaw. You don’t try to convince yourself that the hot tears they find are from the spray or the private few he shed before you arrived. You lie to so many people, there’s no point lying to yourself, too.
“It’s not like that.” You repeat the words on a breathless exhale when lips finally part, your forehead leaned against his, your every ragged exhale his next breath. He looks at you through tear-spiked lashes, eyes especially bright and bare and open.
“What is it then?”
You trace his jaw with a gentle thumb, feel him tremble into the touch. “It’s peace,” you say, because it’s the only true answer, the only good answer. The only one you can offer and still face yourself in the mirror.
The wind picks up. Cold spray hits your back and you feel it even through the greatcoat’s thick wool. His hand cups your cheek, fingers just as cold. You think you hear him whisper “It’s enough,” before his lips latch onto yours with more sweetness and care than you deserve.
Weeks later, months later, when you’ve lost count how many times the Master’s killed you or how many days you’ve been in those chains, you realize you did lie to Ianto that night overlooking the bay.
You did have to do it. And if you make it out of this alive, you’ll damn well do it again.
Prompt:Along the moonlit bay, " the 10s" challenge.
Fandom: Torchwood
Pairing: Jack/Ianto
Rating: PG-13 to light R for mentions of adult-like situations
Word count: 1,075
Warnings: Angst, ahoy! If you dislike 2nd person POV, please follow the emergency exit to your left. Also, teeny tiny spoilers for 1.13 "End of Days" and brief mention of events from the last episodes of Doctor Who, season three. And apparently, this "collection" of fic follows no kind of chronological order (or logical order of any kind) whatsoever, so be prepared for some season-hopping from the last fic.
Disclaimer: I own nothing. I’ve borrowed my toys from Auntie Beeb and Uncle Rusty’s toy box and fully plan on eventually giving them back someday, when I’m tired of them.
Summary: The boys discuss the difference between 'have to' and 'want to.'
It takes you an hour to find him, not counting the hour before that you spent reassuring the others that you're here, that you aren't going anywhere, that you're breathing again. That they can breathe again, even if they haven't noticed they've been holding their breath for days while they waited for you to decide to open your eyes. You finally have them convinced it's alright if they lose sight of you for a minute - have finally managed to pry Gwen's fingers off your arm and persuaded Toshiko that you don't need to be followed around like a puppy loose from his leash. Owen volunteers to oversee the cleanup operation in a moment of uncommon perceptiveness or abject repentance, you’re not sure which, and you don’t stick around long enough to ascertain his motives. The one person you wanted to have fuss, to cling, to hover, disappeared the second your back was turned.
You find him leaning over a rail overlooking Cardiff Bay, tie hanging uncharacteristically loose around his neck, the winter wind from across the water playing havoc with the ends. The sun set hours ago, but his face is still tipped toward where the sun should have been. Now the only thing the pale skin and youthful features are bathed in is moonlight.
“You didn’t have to do that.” He doesn’t turn away from the silvered stretch of water spread out before him, doesn’t look at you at all, and you wonder if he heard your silent footsteps or has just become so attuned to your presence that he simply knew you were there. “Kiss me like that,” he says, before you can ask for clarification. “In front of everyone. You didn’t need to do that.”
“No, but I wanted to.” Only takes a few steps to bring you to that rail, to feel the wind lift icy spray from the water below and hurl it against his cheeks. You pick a length of railing close enough to talk but not to crowd and brace your elbows on the cold piping. It’s taken you this long, getting this close, to notice how tense he looks, even in that tie-less, unbuttoned lean. No one else could make a leisurely prop-up against a rail look so uncomfortable, so formal. “Needed to.”
He snorts and the sound is almost carried away by the wind. “Why? Desperate to keep the office gossips in business? Owen need one more reason to treat me like the boss’ boy?”
“It’s not like that, Ianto.”
“Isn’t it, Jack?” For the first time since you arrived, he turns away from the view and looks at you. No, through you, as if he’s facing the idea of you more than your physical presence, talking to a ghost instead. Also for the first time, you see his red eyes in the silvered light, slick trails left down his cheeks that the spray couldn’t have left behind. “I bring your coffee, do your filing, pick up your bloody dry cleaning for fuck’s sake. And if I’m a good boy, I get to suck you off behind the desk or get bent over the conference table after hours for my trouble.”
Something snaps in you as you stand there and take every hurled piece of venom. There’s no thought about the bruises you’ll leave on his arms when you grab him, about what anyone walking by would think of the hard shake you give him or the low, almost cruel snarl in your voice. “It’s not like that,” you growl, teeth bared, fingers digging into the soft skin buried under the impeccable suit. You want to shake him until he sees sense. You want to shake him until that bitter look leaves his eyes, until the regret you think you heard in his voice disappears. You want to…
Your lips are intent on bruising his, punishing them for each and every one of those words. Mouth, teeth, tongue - all mean to brutalize, to sear the knowledge of just how wrong he is into his skin. You can’t reassure him with platitudes and paint his heart with promises you both know will never be kept - even at your best you weren’t that good a conman - so you settle for this instead. A clash of teeth, tangle of tongues, a patchwork of fingertip bruises traveling up his arms and marking every inch they find as yours. Yours for now, for the moment, for as long as you can handle it before the long stretch of your life and the brief stretch of his becomes too obvious and too present and you can’t ignore it anymore.
And somewhere in all of that his lips soften under yours and the kiss becomes something else, less a duel or a punishment, more a shared sigh of relief. His hands have a death grip on your elbows, as if he’s sure you’ll slide right through his fingers if he doesn’t hold on tight enough. Yours take up their customary place at his nape, thumbs left to brush his jaw. You don’t try to convince yourself that the hot tears they find are from the spray or the private few he shed before you arrived. You lie to so many people, there’s no point lying to yourself, too.
“It’s not like that.” You repeat the words on a breathless exhale when lips finally part, your forehead leaned against his, your every ragged exhale his next breath. He looks at you through tear-spiked lashes, eyes especially bright and bare and open.
“What is it then?”
You trace his jaw with a gentle thumb, feel him tremble into the touch. “It’s peace,” you say, because it’s the only true answer, the only good answer. The only one you can offer and still face yourself in the mirror.
The wind picks up. Cold spray hits your back and you feel it even through the greatcoat’s thick wool. His hand cups your cheek, fingers just as cold. You think you hear him whisper “It’s enough,” before his lips latch onto yours with more sweetness and care than you deserve.
Weeks later, months later, when you’ve lost count how many times the Master’s killed you or how many days you’ve been in those chains, you realize you did lie to Ianto that night overlooking the bay.
You did have to do it. And if you make it out of this alive, you’ll damn well do it again.