Paper and Immortality (Jack/Ianto | G)
Title: Paper and Immortality
Author:fiwen1010
Characters/Pairings: Jack/Ianto
Rating: G
Summary: "The more you write, the less you die." Ianto knows that his words will outlast him.
Word Count: 1275
Original Story: Fading Ink by Santousha: http://santousha.livejournal.com/21029.html#cutid1
Notes: Thanks to my brother for the (reluctant) beta. We will beat the love into him somehow. Thanks also to Santousha for the wonderful story to work with, and the support whilst I wrote it; now you know what I was writing lol.
Ianto turned the page carefully, enjoying the texture of the ancient paper through the latex of his gloves, the smell of paper, leather and ink that surrounded him, and the cool, climate controlled quiet of the museum’s basement. The stone vaults were packed floor to ceiling with ancient volumes like the one in front of him, all of them invaluable in their own way, and he hoped that one of them - preferably this one - held the key to their investigation.
He was leafing through ancient diaries, seeking for records of a visit to earth over two hundred years ago. They knew it had happened, but they hoped that someone would have made a record of the actual events. Or that was Ianto’s excuse at least; in reality, he thought it was probably the diaries.
His first diary had been a red notebook, in which he had scribbled down his teenage heartache over Susie Haddon down the road, who he eventually found kissing Lucy Brighton from near the church, and complained a lot about homework and the fact that he wasn’t old enough to drive. Then, when he was sixteen, his father died, and the box of notebooks got put away on a shelf, to be replaced with a bigger, more formal brown diary, with a page a day and half a page for weekends, Soon it had leaves stuck in at random to give him more space for writing, showing his mother’s descent into and rise out of alcoholism, his sister’s succession of good-for-nothing bad boys and his own growing isolation.
That diary only lasted a year, then he gave up on the structured form and got a large black notebook with silver stars all over it (the five stages of grief were, technically, denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance. For Ianto, they were emo, goth, punk, teddy boy, mod.) This one was full of song lyrics, random scribbled notes to himself, textual analysis for his English course and scraps of poetry he’d picked up.
Then came the punk phase, and the diary stopped for a while, to be picked up again in a Black ‘n’ Red notebook. Lisa and Torchwood arrived in his life in the form of another black notebook with stars, but it also had little green men and the surface of the moon, and was accompanied by a large collection of smaller, kiddy notebooks that Lisa had found for him.
His current diary was a leather-bound tome, full of notes and memories and memos and sketched pictures and Torchwood, and Lisa giving way to Jack. Jack, who arrived on the planet before some of the books around him were written, these books that were kept preserved and protected for future generations, that grew more vulnerable with age.
Another page, and the date he was looking for was long gone, and the worries of a farmer’s wet summer gave way to the agony of burying his daughter too soon. Ianto closed the book, feeling like he was prying now, and put it back it its box, then in the correct place on the shelf, pulling the next one out. These shelves held people’s lives, their fears, worries and agonies just centimetres from celebrations, joys and loves, separated only by delicate paper.
One day, he knew, his own diaries (the more recent, relevant ones, at least) would go into the archives at Torchwood. They would be stored on the mainframe for easy access, then put away somewhere safe, in case anyone ever needed access to the original. All that would be left of him would be the memories he had trusted to paper, and those kept safe by Jack.
Late that night, his diary was balanced on his knee and the sound of his pen scratching on the paper was added to the computers’ whirrings, the drip-drip of water and Jack’s footsteps ringing on the metal walkway. The footsteps stopped in front of him and he glanced up as far as Jack’s hands in his pockets, then looked back down to the page, waiting for Jack to speak.
“I sometimes think that that book knows more about you that I ever will.”
Ianto was caught by surprise by Jack’s melancholy mood. He closed the diary and looked up at Jack, his head tilted on one side to indicate that Jack should sit. He pointed out, “You read it often enough.”
Jack laughed and sat down, looking at Ianto for a moment before he raised his arm for Ianto to lean in against him. “I’d rather hear it from you, though.”
“But there’s things I could never tell you directly, you see, Jack. I have to tell you through the medium of pen and paper.” He paused for just long enough for Jack to be slightly hurt by the comment, then finished, “I could never admit to your face that the tape measure underestimates you.”
Jack laughed again, clearly slightly mollified, and pulled Ianto closer in, so that Ianto's back was against his chest. They watched water running down the tower and their fingers twined together, seemingly of their own accord. “You’re joking, aren’t you?” Jack checked. “You would tell me if there was something wrong, not just leave your diary lying around for me to find out. ‘Cos, you know, I don’t tend to read it if you do that.”
“Really?” Ianto didn’t turn.
He felt Jack’s nod against his cheek, hot breath and rough stubble causing him to shiver. “Your diary’s private, I only read it if I’m really, really bored.”
Ianto laughed and pulled Jack’s arm tight across his chest. “It’s not really, I guess I’m writing it for you.” Jack stayed silent, letting him continue. “When you were gone, I wanted to be able to tell you how much I missed you, how much I hated you for leaving, how much I wanted you back. I didn’t think you’d return in time to tell you myself.” Jack’s arm tightened around him and a kiss ghosted over his cheek. Jack seemed to be holding his breath, almost. “But then you came back, and you knew I’d missed you, and you knew I loved you, and there was no message left for you to find, because everything that needed saying, I could say to you. So... My diary is who I am, Jack. It’s me, in paper and ink, memories and secrets and love, in a form that I can make and you can keep when I’m gone.”
“Brian Kessler once said ‘The more you write, the less you die’.” Jack murmured in his ear, “I would have carried you in my heart forever anyway, you know that.”
“You’ll have to, one day.” Ianto pointed out. “Paper will only last so long.”
“I’ll find a way, Ianto. I’ll keep you with me any way I can.” They both knew he could only mean the diary.
Ianto sighed and nuzzled into Jack’s cheek again. “Immortality lies not in the things you leave behind, but in the people your life has touched.” He finally turned in Jack’s arms and knelt up on the sofa, framing his face with his hands and kissing him. “I will always be with you, Jack, in here.” He placed his hand over Jack’s heart. “But right now, I want to be ‘in you’ in a much more literal way.” He kissed away the amused surprised look. “I’m going to leave you a whole pile of diaries to carry around, Jack, I’m not finished yet.”
Jack smiled against his lips and pulled him closer, forgetting about immortality, forever, diaries and tomorrow, concentrating only on the Here and Now.
Author:fiwen1010
Characters/Pairings: Jack/Ianto
Rating: G
Summary: "The more you write, the less you die." Ianto knows that his words will outlast him.
Word Count: 1275
Original Story: Fading Ink by Santousha: http://santousha.livejournal.com/21029.html#cutid1
Notes: Thanks to my brother for the (reluctant) beta. We will beat the love into him somehow. Thanks also to Santousha for the wonderful story to work with, and the support whilst I wrote it; now you know what I was writing lol.
Ianto turned the page carefully, enjoying the texture of the ancient paper through the latex of his gloves, the smell of paper, leather and ink that surrounded him, and the cool, climate controlled quiet of the museum’s basement. The stone vaults were packed floor to ceiling with ancient volumes like the one in front of him, all of them invaluable in their own way, and he hoped that one of them - preferably this one - held the key to their investigation.
He was leafing through ancient diaries, seeking for records of a visit to earth over two hundred years ago. They knew it had happened, but they hoped that someone would have made a record of the actual events. Or that was Ianto’s excuse at least; in reality, he thought it was probably the diaries.
His first diary had been a red notebook, in which he had scribbled down his teenage heartache over Susie Haddon down the road, who he eventually found kissing Lucy Brighton from near the church, and complained a lot about homework and the fact that he wasn’t old enough to drive. Then, when he was sixteen, his father died, and the box of notebooks got put away on a shelf, to be replaced with a bigger, more formal brown diary, with a page a day and half a page for weekends, Soon it had leaves stuck in at random to give him more space for writing, showing his mother’s descent into and rise out of alcoholism, his sister’s succession of good-for-nothing bad boys and his own growing isolation.
That diary only lasted a year, then he gave up on the structured form and got a large black notebook with silver stars all over it (the five stages of grief were, technically, denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance. For Ianto, they were emo, goth, punk, teddy boy, mod.) This one was full of song lyrics, random scribbled notes to himself, textual analysis for his English course and scraps of poetry he’d picked up.
Then came the punk phase, and the diary stopped for a while, to be picked up again in a Black ‘n’ Red notebook. Lisa and Torchwood arrived in his life in the form of another black notebook with stars, but it also had little green men and the surface of the moon, and was accompanied by a large collection of smaller, kiddy notebooks that Lisa had found for him.
His current diary was a leather-bound tome, full of notes and memories and memos and sketched pictures and Torchwood, and Lisa giving way to Jack. Jack, who arrived on the planet before some of the books around him were written, these books that were kept preserved and protected for future generations, that grew more vulnerable with age.
Another page, and the date he was looking for was long gone, and the worries of a farmer’s wet summer gave way to the agony of burying his daughter too soon. Ianto closed the book, feeling like he was prying now, and put it back it its box, then in the correct place on the shelf, pulling the next one out. These shelves held people’s lives, their fears, worries and agonies just centimetres from celebrations, joys and loves, separated only by delicate paper.
One day, he knew, his own diaries (the more recent, relevant ones, at least) would go into the archives at Torchwood. They would be stored on the mainframe for easy access, then put away somewhere safe, in case anyone ever needed access to the original. All that would be left of him would be the memories he had trusted to paper, and those kept safe by Jack.
Late that night, his diary was balanced on his knee and the sound of his pen scratching on the paper was added to the computers’ whirrings, the drip-drip of water and Jack’s footsteps ringing on the metal walkway. The footsteps stopped in front of him and he glanced up as far as Jack’s hands in his pockets, then looked back down to the page, waiting for Jack to speak.
“I sometimes think that that book knows more about you that I ever will.”
Ianto was caught by surprise by Jack’s melancholy mood. He closed the diary and looked up at Jack, his head tilted on one side to indicate that Jack should sit. He pointed out, “You read it often enough.”
Jack laughed and sat down, looking at Ianto for a moment before he raised his arm for Ianto to lean in against him. “I’d rather hear it from you, though.”
“But there’s things I could never tell you directly, you see, Jack. I have to tell you through the medium of pen and paper.” He paused for just long enough for Jack to be slightly hurt by the comment, then finished, “I could never admit to your face that the tape measure underestimates you.”
Jack laughed again, clearly slightly mollified, and pulled Ianto closer in, so that Ianto's back was against his chest. They watched water running down the tower and their fingers twined together, seemingly of their own accord. “You’re joking, aren’t you?” Jack checked. “You would tell me if there was something wrong, not just leave your diary lying around for me to find out. ‘Cos, you know, I don’t tend to read it if you do that.”
“Really?” Ianto didn’t turn.
He felt Jack’s nod against his cheek, hot breath and rough stubble causing him to shiver. “Your diary’s private, I only read it if I’m really, really bored.”
Ianto laughed and pulled Jack’s arm tight across his chest. “It’s not really, I guess I’m writing it for you.” Jack stayed silent, letting him continue. “When you were gone, I wanted to be able to tell you how much I missed you, how much I hated you for leaving, how much I wanted you back. I didn’t think you’d return in time to tell you myself.” Jack’s arm tightened around him and a kiss ghosted over his cheek. Jack seemed to be holding his breath, almost. “But then you came back, and you knew I’d missed you, and you knew I loved you, and there was no message left for you to find, because everything that needed saying, I could say to you. So... My diary is who I am, Jack. It’s me, in paper and ink, memories and secrets and love, in a form that I can make and you can keep when I’m gone.”
“Brian Kessler once said ‘The more you write, the less you die’.” Jack murmured in his ear, “I would have carried you in my heart forever anyway, you know that.”
“You’ll have to, one day.” Ianto pointed out. “Paper will only last so long.”
“I’ll find a way, Ianto. I’ll keep you with me any way I can.” They both knew he could only mean the diary.
Ianto sighed and nuzzled into Jack’s cheek again. “Immortality lies not in the things you leave behind, but in the people your life has touched.” He finally turned in Jack’s arms and knelt up on the sofa, framing his face with his hands and kissing him. “I will always be with you, Jack, in here.” He placed his hand over Jack’s heart. “But right now, I want to be ‘in you’ in a much more literal way.” He kissed away the amused surprised look. “I’m going to leave you a whole pile of diaries to carry around, Jack, I’m not finished yet.”
Jack smiled against his lips and pulled him closer, forgetting about immortality, forever, diaries and tomorrow, concentrating only on the Here and Now.