Unfinished Business (Part 2)
Rating: T
Warnings: Major character death (pre-story and, at the moment, off-screen), angst, canon-au-ness.
Summary: Jack settles himself on the edge of his desk and smiles fondly. “That was Ianto,” he tells Gwen. “Torchwood Three’s ghost. He’s been here since at least the 1800’s. Can't leave.”
Disclaimer: All recognizable characters are the property of their respective owners. I am in no way associated with the creators, and no copyright infringement is intended.
A/N: Yeah, those 5k words I promised? Not happening. This story wants desperately to be a one-shot, and I had to use all my powers of persuasion on the muse to get her to cooperate. On that note, it starts out in a bit of an odd place, but that’s the history major in me showing. For more information, there was a great article a while back (with current relevance, even!) in Bitch Magazine, titled ‘Holy Fratrimony: Male Bonding and the New Homosociality’ by Don Romesburg. (And for Ianto's period clothing, as I'm a very visual person, try here.)
On another note, trying to write around my vague dislike of Gwen is exhausting. I hope I did her character some sort of justice, but I'm determined to write a Gwen-friendly story if it kills me. (Which, at this point, is a real concern. DX)
Edit: I have added an extra bit to the end of chapter one, so please, hop back and take a moment to read that over. IT IS VITAL TO THE PLOT.
Unfinished Business
The world has changed so very much since Ianto was alive.
It’s not even the things, so much-though those are vastly different, admittedly-as it is the people. Some say that humanity never changes, but Ianto has seen the truth of that with his own eyes, and knows it to be false. Humanity changes. It changes every second that it exists, every second that the world exists around it.
When Ianto was a younger man than he is now-a younger man than he will be for the rest of eternity-he had a good friend, a boy his age. They did everything together, were photographed together, hung over each other’s shoulders and pressed their faces together and kissed each other’s cheeks, and no one thought it odd or strange, or even commented on it at all. They loved each other, and that was simply how things were.
It was a different time, and Ianto knows that intimately. Belief in God ruled everything, even-or perhaps especially-relationships. Love was from God, and was a thing to be shared. Lust was of Man, and a thing to be hidden away. Gender didn't matter, as that sort of love left little or no place for the physical, only the spiritual. Love for a wife, of course, was lesser, because it was always tainted by lust and sex, while friendships could never be brought low like that.
Or so it was supposed to be.
Ianto knows himself to be weak regarding matters of the flesh-it’s been his curse for as long as he can remember, a susceptibility to a sideways look or a soft smile or a pair of broad, brawny shoulders. But for all of that, he’s also a product of his time, and-no matter how times, and people, change-will always consider the heart to be in a different sphere than the body.
Perhaps that's why this thing with Jack works, when by all accounts it should have ended before it even began.
Carefully, he perches on the foot of Jack's bed, knowing that he hasn't been invited but not caring, at least not right now. If Jack wanted to keep him out, there's a bag of salt that he thinks Ianto doesn't know about, hidden under his bed. A line of that around the room would have locked Ianto out until Jack saw fit to break it. Maybe it’s a bit rude to consider that their version of a locked door, and to ignore everything lesser, but Jack has yet to complain, and in two centuries, there have been a lot of chances.
Besides, it’s worth it when Jack sleepily blinks his eyes open, and his gaze immediately lands on Ianto. He smiles, and such an expression shouldn't have the power to flip Ianto’s heart upside down in his chest, not when it’s been still for over two hundred years, but it does nevertheless.
“Hey,” Jack murmurs, stretching his arms over his head and arching his back, then relaxing, each muscle unwinding. One arm drops over the side of the cot, fingertips skimming the cool concrete floor, as the other slides down his chest to curl loosely over his navel. It’s an entirely erotic motion, and heats the blood that Ianto no longer truly has. He bites down on his lip, forces himself not to try and touch.
“Not fair, Jack,” he reminds the Captain chidingly.
Jack's grin is lazy, contented, and full of enough mock innocence to make a nun blush. “What?” he protests, even as that damnable hand slides lower, fingers spreading. Ianto can hear them rasp through the hair as they drift seemingly without purpose.
Ianto’s mouth is dry, and it shouldn't be.
Without pause, he launches himself from the bed, rising up through the ceiling and then darting through the wall-almost through Myfanwy, who seems to have chosen that moment to stretch her wings in early-morning flight. She shrieks at him, offended, and swoops away, and Ianto winces.
From the direction of Jack's bunker, a long, drawn-out moan sends Ianto’s heart into double-time, and he curses all randy captains everywhere in the vague hope of impotency.
This is why it’s unbelievable that they've lasted so long.
That they've loved each other so long.
But somehow, against all hope and against all sense, they have-and they still do.
*.~.*.~.*
It’s the day after their final encounter with the sex-gas alien-and the fact that Gwen can even think that in a remotely serious manner tells her quite a bit about her new line of work-and very early in the morning of her third day at Torchwood when Gwen drags herself into the Hub, still exhausted. But there's a smell in the air akin to heaven, and it fills her lungs like a shot of life.
Following it back to its source is simple common sense.
There's a small but functional kitchen off to one side, and Gwen pauses in the doorway, somehow unsurprised to see Ianto-still vaguely transparent-standing in front of a bewilderingly complex coffee maker. The delicious smell starts here, and Gwen must make some caffeine-deprived sound of need, because the ghost looks around at her and smiles.
“Hello, Gwen,” he says politely. “Would you like a cup?”
Gwen manages not to debase herself by moaning, but her “Yes,” is probably far more fervent than the situation calls for.
Thankfully, Ianto simply looks amused, and takes a mug down from one of the upper shelves. Gwen starts at that.
“You can…touch things?” she asks, not realizing until it’s out of her mouth how insensitive that question probably is.
“Only non-living things,” Ianto says, filling the mug. “Humans, animals, even plants-I can't even make contact with those, or with anything in close proximity to them. Like an aura of like, I suppose.” With a slightly wistful smile, he sets the coffee down on the table, and nods to it. “There you are. It’s my own blend, so I hope you like it.”
She takes it gratefully, the heat seeping into her wind-chilled fingers and up her arms, sliding down her throat as she takes her first sip. Even black, which she normally hates, it’s amazing, full and rich and just bitter enough, but never too much. Gwen sighs, tension she didn't know she was carrying unwinding from her spine, and treats Ianto to a wide smile. “Thank you, Ianto.”
The ghost smiles back, and there's a wry sort of want in his eyes. “Did you know,” he says with a small twist to his mouth, “that that's the first time in two centuries that someone besides Jack has called me by my name?”
That’s a chilling thought, and while Gwen logically knows that Ianto is dead, that he doesn't reveal himself to anyone outside of a dire situation, but she hasn't really considered it, or what it might mean to him. Two hundred years of solitude, at least until Jack came, and that can't have been very long ago at all, relatively, since the Captain doesn't seem much over forty.
Gwen has a sympathetic heart. She’s been mocked for it before, understands that it’s not normal to bleed so easily for others, to care about someone she’s only just met-or even never met. As a child, she used to cry whenever the newscasters talked about death, and it confused her parents to no end. Then as a constable, she’d feel down for weeks after a bad case, and everyone else told her to buck up and accept it and move on. A soft heart was no advantage in their business.
But Gwen can't. There's something about sorrow that makes her want to share it, to understand, to empathize. Even when she can't comprehend, even when she’ll never entirely be able to grasp a person’s situation, something in her still has to try.
It’s this feeling that has her reaching out, futile as the gesture is. She pauses with her hand hovering in midair, palm upturned, offering sympathy for a situation that she doesn't-can't-understand.
But Ianto smiles at the gesture, at the offering, and brings his hand up to cover hers, though an inch of space separates their palms.
“Thank you,” he murmurs, and he means it, she can see that much in his eyes.
Then the door alarm goes off, breaking the peace and stillness of the early-morning air, and Ianto fades out of sight, that kind, sad, grateful smile still in place.
Gwen tightens her grip on the coffee, smiles a little to herself, and goes to shout a bit at Owen for ruining the moment.
Even if the doctor will never know exactly what it’s for.
Warnings: Major character death (pre-story and, at the moment, off-screen), angst, canon-au-ness.
Summary: Jack settles himself on the edge of his desk and smiles fondly. “That was Ianto,” he tells Gwen. “Torchwood Three’s ghost. He’s been here since at least the 1800’s. Can't leave.”
Disclaimer: All recognizable characters are the property of their respective owners. I am in no way associated with the creators, and no copyright infringement is intended.
A/N: Yeah, those 5k words I promised? Not happening. This story wants desperately to be a one-shot, and I had to use all my powers of persuasion on the muse to get her to cooperate. On that note, it starts out in a bit of an odd place, but that’s the history major in me showing. For more information, there was a great article a while back (with current relevance, even!) in Bitch Magazine, titled ‘Holy Fratrimony: Male Bonding and the New Homosociality’ by Don Romesburg. (And for Ianto's period clothing, as I'm a very visual person, try here.)
On another note, trying to write around my vague dislike of Gwen is exhausting. I hope I did her character some sort of justice, but I'm determined to write a Gwen-friendly story if it kills me. (Which, at this point, is a real concern. DX)
Edit: I have added an extra bit to the end of chapter one, so please, hop back and take a moment to read that over. IT IS VITAL TO THE PLOT.
Unfinished Business
The world has changed so very much since Ianto was alive.
It’s not even the things, so much-though those are vastly different, admittedly-as it is the people. Some say that humanity never changes, but Ianto has seen the truth of that with his own eyes, and knows it to be false. Humanity changes. It changes every second that it exists, every second that the world exists around it.
When Ianto was a younger man than he is now-a younger man than he will be for the rest of eternity-he had a good friend, a boy his age. They did everything together, were photographed together, hung over each other’s shoulders and pressed their faces together and kissed each other’s cheeks, and no one thought it odd or strange, or even commented on it at all. They loved each other, and that was simply how things were.
It was a different time, and Ianto knows that intimately. Belief in God ruled everything, even-or perhaps especially-relationships. Love was from God, and was a thing to be shared. Lust was of Man, and a thing to be hidden away. Gender didn't matter, as that sort of love left little or no place for the physical, only the spiritual. Love for a wife, of course, was lesser, because it was always tainted by lust and sex, while friendships could never be brought low like that.
Or so it was supposed to be.
Ianto knows himself to be weak regarding matters of the flesh-it’s been his curse for as long as he can remember, a susceptibility to a sideways look or a soft smile or a pair of broad, brawny shoulders. But for all of that, he’s also a product of his time, and-no matter how times, and people, change-will always consider the heart to be in a different sphere than the body.
Perhaps that's why this thing with Jack works, when by all accounts it should have ended before it even began.
Carefully, he perches on the foot of Jack's bed, knowing that he hasn't been invited but not caring, at least not right now. If Jack wanted to keep him out, there's a bag of salt that he thinks Ianto doesn't know about, hidden under his bed. A line of that around the room would have locked Ianto out until Jack saw fit to break it. Maybe it’s a bit rude to consider that their version of a locked door, and to ignore everything lesser, but Jack has yet to complain, and in two centuries, there have been a lot of chances.
Besides, it’s worth it when Jack sleepily blinks his eyes open, and his gaze immediately lands on Ianto. He smiles, and such an expression shouldn't have the power to flip Ianto’s heart upside down in his chest, not when it’s been still for over two hundred years, but it does nevertheless.
“Hey,” Jack murmurs, stretching his arms over his head and arching his back, then relaxing, each muscle unwinding. One arm drops over the side of the cot, fingertips skimming the cool concrete floor, as the other slides down his chest to curl loosely over his navel. It’s an entirely erotic motion, and heats the blood that Ianto no longer truly has. He bites down on his lip, forces himself not to try and touch.
“Not fair, Jack,” he reminds the Captain chidingly.
Jack's grin is lazy, contented, and full of enough mock innocence to make a nun blush. “What?” he protests, even as that damnable hand slides lower, fingers spreading. Ianto can hear them rasp through the hair as they drift seemingly without purpose.
Ianto’s mouth is dry, and it shouldn't be.
Without pause, he launches himself from the bed, rising up through the ceiling and then darting through the wall-almost through Myfanwy, who seems to have chosen that moment to stretch her wings in early-morning flight. She shrieks at him, offended, and swoops away, and Ianto winces.
From the direction of Jack's bunker, a long, drawn-out moan sends Ianto’s heart into double-time, and he curses all randy captains everywhere in the vague hope of impotency.
This is why it’s unbelievable that they've lasted so long.
That they've loved each other so long.
But somehow, against all hope and against all sense, they have-and they still do.
*.~.*.~.*
It’s the day after their final encounter with the sex-gas alien-and the fact that Gwen can even think that in a remotely serious manner tells her quite a bit about her new line of work-and very early in the morning of her third day at Torchwood when Gwen drags herself into the Hub, still exhausted. But there's a smell in the air akin to heaven, and it fills her lungs like a shot of life.
Following it back to its source is simple common sense.
There's a small but functional kitchen off to one side, and Gwen pauses in the doorway, somehow unsurprised to see Ianto-still vaguely transparent-standing in front of a bewilderingly complex coffee maker. The delicious smell starts here, and Gwen must make some caffeine-deprived sound of need, because the ghost looks around at her and smiles.
“Hello, Gwen,” he says politely. “Would you like a cup?”
Gwen manages not to debase herself by moaning, but her “Yes,” is probably far more fervent than the situation calls for.
Thankfully, Ianto simply looks amused, and takes a mug down from one of the upper shelves. Gwen starts at that.
“You can…touch things?” she asks, not realizing until it’s out of her mouth how insensitive that question probably is.
“Only non-living things,” Ianto says, filling the mug. “Humans, animals, even plants-I can't even make contact with those, or with anything in close proximity to them. Like an aura of like, I suppose.” With a slightly wistful smile, he sets the coffee down on the table, and nods to it. “There you are. It’s my own blend, so I hope you like it.”
She takes it gratefully, the heat seeping into her wind-chilled fingers and up her arms, sliding down her throat as she takes her first sip. Even black, which she normally hates, it’s amazing, full and rich and just bitter enough, but never too much. Gwen sighs, tension she didn't know she was carrying unwinding from her spine, and treats Ianto to a wide smile. “Thank you, Ianto.”
The ghost smiles back, and there's a wry sort of want in his eyes. “Did you know,” he says with a small twist to his mouth, “that that's the first time in two centuries that someone besides Jack has called me by my name?”
That’s a chilling thought, and while Gwen logically knows that Ianto is dead, that he doesn't reveal himself to anyone outside of a dire situation, but she hasn't really considered it, or what it might mean to him. Two hundred years of solitude, at least until Jack came, and that can't have been very long ago at all, relatively, since the Captain doesn't seem much over forty.
Gwen has a sympathetic heart. She’s been mocked for it before, understands that it’s not normal to bleed so easily for others, to care about someone she’s only just met-or even never met. As a child, she used to cry whenever the newscasters talked about death, and it confused her parents to no end. Then as a constable, she’d feel down for weeks after a bad case, and everyone else told her to buck up and accept it and move on. A soft heart was no advantage in their business.
But Gwen can't. There's something about sorrow that makes her want to share it, to understand, to empathize. Even when she can't comprehend, even when she’ll never entirely be able to grasp a person’s situation, something in her still has to try.
It’s this feeling that has her reaching out, futile as the gesture is. She pauses with her hand hovering in midair, palm upturned, offering sympathy for a situation that she doesn't-can't-understand.
But Ianto smiles at the gesture, at the offering, and brings his hand up to cover hers, though an inch of space separates their palms.
“Thank you,” he murmurs, and he means it, she can see that much in his eyes.
Then the door alarm goes off, breaking the peace and stillness of the early-morning air, and Ianto fades out of sight, that kind, sad, grateful smile still in place.
Gwen tightens her grip on the coffee, smiles a little to herself, and goes to shout a bit at Owen for ruining the moment.
Even if the doctor will never know exactly what it’s for.