Fic: Inevitability
Title: Inevitability
Author: badly_knitted
Characters: Ianto, Jack.
Rating: PG
Spoilers: Nada.
Summary: Some things are inevitable; talking about them won’t change anything, so why dwell on them?
Word Count: 918
Written For: Prompt 072 - Unspoken Things at fandomweekly.
Disclaimer: I don’t own Torchwood, or the characters. They belong to the BBC.
It’s the gigantic tap-dancing fluorescent pink elephant in the room, impossible to completely ignore no matter how hard they try, but they never mention it. Nobody else does either, as if they all hope if they ignore it for long enough it’ll cease to be an issue, simply melt away like the early mist on a bright summer’s morning.
It doesn’t of course, it can’t, because some things just ARE and it’s useless to wish otherwise, to think ‘if only he was…’ or ‘if only I could…’. Fate is seldom so kind, and nothing, no matter how good, can last forever.
Nothing, that is, except for Jack.
Jack is eternal. It’s not his fault, not something he asked for or wished for in an unguarded moment of foolish whimsy. Instead, it’s something that was inflicted on him by accident, an error of judgement, a well-meaning mistake that has left him immortal, destined to live until the end of time itself, and maybe even beyond that, dying over and over only to revive again, exactly as he was before.
Jack is eternal, but Ianto isn’t. Sometimes he catches an expression that could be pity on the faces of his colleagues, the people he calls his friends. He sees their sympathetic smiles as he and Jack teasingly flirt with each other but pretends not to notice.
Jack sees too, and forces his smile to become just that little bit brighter, a little more devil-may-care, trying to push the shadows back by sheer force of will. He lets his teasing take on an even more outrageous edge, drawing a blush to Ianto’s cheeks, and he savours the moment, committing it to memory along with countless others. Some day, probably far too soon, they’ll be all he has left of the man who, despite all his efforts to the contrary, he’s fallen in love with.
Because Ianto’s days are numbered. Unlike Jack he’s just an ordinary human, still young, but old enough and experienced enough in the ways of Torchwood to be keenly aware of his own mortality, and of the way each passing day, each minute, each tick of the clock, brings him that much closer to his inevitable end.
The life expectancy of Torchwood agents is not measured in decades; to survive for ten years in this job is almost unheard of, and for him to reach the grand old age of thirty would be nothing short of a miracle. His time is running out, minutes trickling away like the sands in an hourglass, and when the last grain falls, he’ll be gone, and Jack will be alone. Again.
It isn’t fair, but that’s life; fairness has never been guaranteed.
They don’t talk about what will happen when Ianto’s luck finally runs out, as it surely must; that would be tempting fate, and fate will take its toll no matter what they do or say, so why give it any encouragement? But the knowledge is always there in the back of both their minds, inescapable, undeniable. They live and love in the moment, so that if this moment should happen to be the last one they ever share, they won’t be left with more regrets than the unavoidable ones already weighing them down.
They don’t talk of love either; they both know how they feel, but to say the words out loud would be to make everything more real, and ultimately more painful when the time comes for Ianto to go to the one place Jack can’t follow. Even so, Jack had tried, once, only to have Ianto press one long, elegant finger to his lover’s lips.
“Don’t. You don’t have to say it; I already know.”
And Jack had nodded, swallowing past the lump in his throat, kissed the finger against his lips and said, “So do I.”
It was enough, perhaps even too much, because just that small acknowledgement had hurt, cutting deep like a knife to the heart, and they’d lost themselves in each other then, trying to blot out all the things they knew too well and didn’t want to think about. Some things are better left unsaid.
They take joy in each other whenever and however they can, snatching moments out of their days, living and loving with a fierce intensity, wanting everything right now because who knows what tomorrow might bring? There’s not a second to waste.
Even if by some miracle Ianto beats the odds and lives to old age, the passing years carving deep creases into his face, dimming his eyes and turning his hair to silver, it still won’t be long enough for Jack. Fifty, sixty years or more is still so brief a time, a blink of the eye to someone who has millennia ahead of him, thousands of lifetimes to love and lose and try to remember each person whose light has touched his life, however fleetingly.
Ianto has no expectation of being remembered after he’s gone. For a little while perhaps, until Jack finds someone to take his place, but he wouldn’t want Jack mourning him for too long anyway. Jack is a man who needs to love, and to be loved, and Ianto would never begrudge him that warmth and comfort; without it his endless existence would be unbearably bleak.
Time doesn’t stand still; the future will inevitably come to pass. Nothing is to be gained by dwelling on it. If now is all they can hope to have then it will have to be time enough.
The End
Author: badly_knitted
Characters: Ianto, Jack.
Rating: PG
Spoilers: Nada.
Summary: Some things are inevitable; talking about them won’t change anything, so why dwell on them?
Word Count: 918
Written For: Prompt 072 - Unspoken Things at fandomweekly.
Disclaimer: I don’t own Torchwood, or the characters. They belong to the BBC.
It’s the gigantic tap-dancing fluorescent pink elephant in the room, impossible to completely ignore no matter how hard they try, but they never mention it. Nobody else does either, as if they all hope if they ignore it for long enough it’ll cease to be an issue, simply melt away like the early mist on a bright summer’s morning.
It doesn’t of course, it can’t, because some things just ARE and it’s useless to wish otherwise, to think ‘if only he was…’ or ‘if only I could…’. Fate is seldom so kind, and nothing, no matter how good, can last forever.
Nothing, that is, except for Jack.
Jack is eternal. It’s not his fault, not something he asked for or wished for in an unguarded moment of foolish whimsy. Instead, it’s something that was inflicted on him by accident, an error of judgement, a well-meaning mistake that has left him immortal, destined to live until the end of time itself, and maybe even beyond that, dying over and over only to revive again, exactly as he was before.
Jack is eternal, but Ianto isn’t. Sometimes he catches an expression that could be pity on the faces of his colleagues, the people he calls his friends. He sees their sympathetic smiles as he and Jack teasingly flirt with each other but pretends not to notice.
Jack sees too, and forces his smile to become just that little bit brighter, a little more devil-may-care, trying to push the shadows back by sheer force of will. He lets his teasing take on an even more outrageous edge, drawing a blush to Ianto’s cheeks, and he savours the moment, committing it to memory along with countless others. Some day, probably far too soon, they’ll be all he has left of the man who, despite all his efforts to the contrary, he’s fallen in love with.
Because Ianto’s days are numbered. Unlike Jack he’s just an ordinary human, still young, but old enough and experienced enough in the ways of Torchwood to be keenly aware of his own mortality, and of the way each passing day, each minute, each tick of the clock, brings him that much closer to his inevitable end.
The life expectancy of Torchwood agents is not measured in decades; to survive for ten years in this job is almost unheard of, and for him to reach the grand old age of thirty would be nothing short of a miracle. His time is running out, minutes trickling away like the sands in an hourglass, and when the last grain falls, he’ll be gone, and Jack will be alone. Again.
It isn’t fair, but that’s life; fairness has never been guaranteed.
They don’t talk about what will happen when Ianto’s luck finally runs out, as it surely must; that would be tempting fate, and fate will take its toll no matter what they do or say, so why give it any encouragement? But the knowledge is always there in the back of both their minds, inescapable, undeniable. They live and love in the moment, so that if this moment should happen to be the last one they ever share, they won’t be left with more regrets than the unavoidable ones already weighing them down.
They don’t talk of love either; they both know how they feel, but to say the words out loud would be to make everything more real, and ultimately more painful when the time comes for Ianto to go to the one place Jack can’t follow. Even so, Jack had tried, once, only to have Ianto press one long, elegant finger to his lover’s lips.
“Don’t. You don’t have to say it; I already know.”
And Jack had nodded, swallowing past the lump in his throat, kissed the finger against his lips and said, “So do I.”
It was enough, perhaps even too much, because just that small acknowledgement had hurt, cutting deep like a knife to the heart, and they’d lost themselves in each other then, trying to blot out all the things they knew too well and didn’t want to think about. Some things are better left unsaid.
They take joy in each other whenever and however they can, snatching moments out of their days, living and loving with a fierce intensity, wanting everything right now because who knows what tomorrow might bring? There’s not a second to waste.
Even if by some miracle Ianto beats the odds and lives to old age, the passing years carving deep creases into his face, dimming his eyes and turning his hair to silver, it still won’t be long enough for Jack. Fifty, sixty years or more is still so brief a time, a blink of the eye to someone who has millennia ahead of him, thousands of lifetimes to love and lose and try to remember each person whose light has touched his life, however fleetingly.
Ianto has no expectation of being remembered after he’s gone. For a little while perhaps, until Jack finds someone to take his place, but he wouldn’t want Jack mourning him for too long anyway. Jack is a man who needs to love, and to be loved, and Ianto would never begrudge him that warmth and comfort; without it his endless existence would be unbearably bleak.
Time doesn’t stand still; the future will inevitably come to pass. Nothing is to be gained by dwelling on it. If now is all they can hope to have then it will have to be time enough.
The End