Double Drabble: Another Sleepless Night
Title: Another Sleepless Night
Author: badly_knitted
Characters: Ianto, Meriel.
Rating: PG
Written For: Challenge 835: Crook at tw100.
Spoilers: Nada.
Summary: Exhausted, Ianto would love to sit down, but he can’t.
Disclaimer: I don’t own Torchwood, or the characters.
A/N: Double drabble.
Tired. So very tired. Even being immortal didn’t help as much as it ought to, and Ianto found himself longing for one uninterrupted night of sleep. How did non-immortals ever do this? How did they get through the seemingly endless days, and weeks, and months of little to no sleep, grabbing catnaps whenever possible, and trying to think straight through a constant haze of exhaustion? What he wouldn’t give right now to sit down, even for just a few minutes, but he knew he couldn’t.
So he kept pacing back and forth across the living room floor in the dark, rocking and bouncing the wailing baby cradled in the crook of his arm. How he wished there was some piece of alien tech that could tell him why his daughter was crying. She was too little to have any way of communicating the cause of her discomfort.
At three months she was surely too young to be teething, she wasn’t hungry, or hot, or cold, and she didn’t need changing, and yet she wouldn’t stop crying. His arm growing tired, he shifted her awkwardly into the other arm. The crying paused and she let out a loud burp.
Ah. Wind.
The End
Author: badly_knitted
Characters: Ianto, Meriel.
Rating: PG
Written For: Challenge 835: Crook at tw100.
Spoilers: Nada.
Summary: Exhausted, Ianto would love to sit down, but he can’t.
Disclaimer: I don’t own Torchwood, or the characters.
A/N: Double drabble.
Tired. So very tired. Even being immortal didn’t help as much as it ought to, and Ianto found himself longing for one uninterrupted night of sleep. How did non-immortals ever do this? How did they get through the seemingly endless days, and weeks, and months of little to no sleep, grabbing catnaps whenever possible, and trying to think straight through a constant haze of exhaustion? What he wouldn’t give right now to sit down, even for just a few minutes, but he knew he couldn’t.
So he kept pacing back and forth across the living room floor in the dark, rocking and bouncing the wailing baby cradled in the crook of his arm. How he wished there was some piece of alien tech that could tell him why his daughter was crying. She was too little to have any way of communicating the cause of her discomfort.
At three months she was surely too young to be teething, she wasn’t hungry, or hot, or cold, and she didn’t need changing, and yet she wouldn’t stop crying. His arm growing tired, he shifted her awkwardly into the other arm. The crying paused and she let out a loud burp.
Ah. Wind.
The End