Aftermath
Title: Aftermath
Characters: Jack/Ianto
Summary: Ianto remembers the day after...
Word Count: 790~ish
Genre: angst
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: vague references towards the end of S1 I guess
Disclaimer: If I owned Torchwood, it would involve a lot more kissing and some less confusing plotholes. Maybe.
Author's notes: This is a tentative step towards my all-time favourite OTP after an insanely long hiatus. Yay, I guess?
Ianto remembers the day after because that was the day the coffee machine exploded.
He had been fiddling with the copper stained switches on the front, traced their smooth, drop-like surface while waiting for the dark hot liquid to emerge. The polished metal had felt warm and familiar against his skin, calming, soothing even.
He must have been more occupied with his thoughts than it seemed at the time.
By the time he managed to scream a panicked: "RUN!" it was already too late.
To Ianto's relief Jack managed somehow to fiddle the machine back into submission over the days that followed after. He had grown accustomed to that stupid machine, all old and menacing and occasionally leaky. It was his stubbornly dysfunctional coffee machine after all.
They have a new coffee machine now; all new and shiny and full of purpose. Ianto isn't quite sure yet whether he likes it or not. It barely makes noise; it doesn’t heat up the way the old machine used to. It is by far not fiddly enough. But this is the machine he has to work with now and it will have to make do. Somehow.
Ianto remembers the day after because that was the day he found Jack lying on top of him; hairs wild, face grubby with dust and soot, his clothes utterly ruined. Ianto imagines he couldn't have looked that much better at the time. Jack must have been in pain back then, the back of his shirt had been ripped to shreds by the force of the blast and flying shrapnel. Not that Ianto was able to register much back then; apart from the ringing in his ears and the heat rolling off Jack's chest, his thighs, and...God.
Not to forget the insufferably smug grin on Jack's face.
"You owe me."
He remembers the shape of Jack's lips as they form the words, words that easily could have been mistaken for a joke but weren't, the low hum of their sound echoing through his addled brain, crawling under his skin, the full weight of the implications slinging itself around Ianto's ribcage like string, squeezing and cutting until his chest felt all numb and achy.
He remembers Jack's hands, their grip strong and slightly callous from the daily handling of Jack's Webley. Ianto remembers being vaguely disturbed by the fact that he all but let Jack carry him over to Owen without punching Jack in his disgustingly handsome face.
God knows Ianto had enough reasons to hate Jack back then and for a very long time he did.
In some ways Ianto still does even if for increasingly more complex and confusing reasons. At least up until those moments when his resolve to hate Jack ultimately cracks and things start to go terribly downhill from there.
Not that his life hadn't been already confusing enough before.
Ianto remembers the day after because it was the day he woke up in Jack's cot, Jack's limbs sprawled almost protectively over his body, his left arm slung over Ianto's chest, his face tucked into Ianto's shoulder. Warm puffs of breath flared against Ianto's skin, hot and steady. The weight of his body was rested against Ianto's, reassuring and comforting. He couldn't have moved even if he had wanted to. Oddly enough, the overall majority of Ianto seemed to be perfectly content at that.
But Jack is gone now and his cot stays perpetually empty.
The others seem to cope somehow. Especially Gwen hustles and bustles about, taking up cases, trying to turn her mind off the Jack shaped hole in their team, stringing the others along as best as she can. She manages, unlike Ianto who feels increasingly frustrated with the shiny new coffee machine. It feels off. Different.
Ianto doesn't like that feeling.
Same goes for the cot that keeps mocking Ianto from below Jack's former office. It doubles as Gwen's office for now. Until the team formally decide how to handle the whole Jack situation, only that they won't because they can't. So they choose to ignore it.
For most of the time.
And every time Ianto fails, he clambers down to Jack's cot in the dead of night, feeling stupid and disgusted with himself. Yet he finds himself crawling under Jack's sheets anyway, closing his eyes and trying to recapture the sensation of Jack's heat against his skin; the feel of his lips; the touch of his hands, the scent of is hair and the achingly sweet sound of Ianto's name, no more than a murmur, hoarse and breathless, against the side of his face.
It is those moments when Ianto remembers the day after their real first kiss
And for each time he does, Ianto despairs a little bit more.
Characters: Jack/Ianto
Summary: Ianto remembers the day after...
Word Count: 790~ish
Genre: angst
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: vague references towards the end of S1 I guess
Disclaimer: If I owned Torchwood, it would involve a lot more kissing and some less confusing plotholes. Maybe.
Author's notes: This is a tentative step towards my all-time favourite OTP after an insanely long hiatus. Yay, I guess?
Ianto remembers the day after because that was the day the coffee machine exploded.
He had been fiddling with the copper stained switches on the front, traced their smooth, drop-like surface while waiting for the dark hot liquid to emerge. The polished metal had felt warm and familiar against his skin, calming, soothing even.
He must have been more occupied with his thoughts than it seemed at the time.
By the time he managed to scream a panicked: "RUN!" it was already too late.
To Ianto's relief Jack managed somehow to fiddle the machine back into submission over the days that followed after. He had grown accustomed to that stupid machine, all old and menacing and occasionally leaky. It was his stubbornly dysfunctional coffee machine after all.
They have a new coffee machine now; all new and shiny and full of purpose. Ianto isn't quite sure yet whether he likes it or not. It barely makes noise; it doesn’t heat up the way the old machine used to. It is by far not fiddly enough. But this is the machine he has to work with now and it will have to make do. Somehow.
Ianto remembers the day after because that was the day he found Jack lying on top of him; hairs wild, face grubby with dust and soot, his clothes utterly ruined. Ianto imagines he couldn't have looked that much better at the time. Jack must have been in pain back then, the back of his shirt had been ripped to shreds by the force of the blast and flying shrapnel. Not that Ianto was able to register much back then; apart from the ringing in his ears and the heat rolling off Jack's chest, his thighs, and...God.
Not to forget the insufferably smug grin on Jack's face.
"You owe me."
He remembers the shape of Jack's lips as they form the words, words that easily could have been mistaken for a joke but weren't, the low hum of their sound echoing through his addled brain, crawling under his skin, the full weight of the implications slinging itself around Ianto's ribcage like string, squeezing and cutting until his chest felt all numb and achy.
He remembers Jack's hands, their grip strong and slightly callous from the daily handling of Jack's Webley. Ianto remembers being vaguely disturbed by the fact that he all but let Jack carry him over to Owen without punching Jack in his disgustingly handsome face.
God knows Ianto had enough reasons to hate Jack back then and for a very long time he did.
In some ways Ianto still does even if for increasingly more complex and confusing reasons. At least up until those moments when his resolve to hate Jack ultimately cracks and things start to go terribly downhill from there.
Not that his life hadn't been already confusing enough before.
Ianto remembers the day after because it was the day he woke up in Jack's cot, Jack's limbs sprawled almost protectively over his body, his left arm slung over Ianto's chest, his face tucked into Ianto's shoulder. Warm puffs of breath flared against Ianto's skin, hot and steady. The weight of his body was rested against Ianto's, reassuring and comforting. He couldn't have moved even if he had wanted to. Oddly enough, the overall majority of Ianto seemed to be perfectly content at that.
But Jack is gone now and his cot stays perpetually empty.
The others seem to cope somehow. Especially Gwen hustles and bustles about, taking up cases, trying to turn her mind off the Jack shaped hole in their team, stringing the others along as best as she can. She manages, unlike Ianto who feels increasingly frustrated with the shiny new coffee machine. It feels off. Different.
Ianto doesn't like that feeling.
Same goes for the cot that keeps mocking Ianto from below Jack's former office. It doubles as Gwen's office for now. Until the team formally decide how to handle the whole Jack situation, only that they won't because they can't. So they choose to ignore it.
For most of the time.
And every time Ianto fails, he clambers down to Jack's cot in the dead of night, feeling stupid and disgusted with himself. Yet he finds himself crawling under Jack's sheets anyway, closing his eyes and trying to recapture the sensation of Jack's heat against his skin; the feel of his lips; the touch of his hands, the scent of is hair and the achingly sweet sound of Ianto's name, no more than a murmur, hoarse and breathless, against the side of his face.
It is those moments when Ianto remembers the day after their real first kiss
And for each time he does, Ianto despairs a little bit more.