Untitled Jack/Ianto, G
Had an idea to write three short pieces in three different fandoms, all starting off with the same sentence. We'll begin with Torchwood.
Ianto is sleeping, face pressed into the pillow, and Jack can look his fill.
He has so little left now, cusping into the height of this cycle of loss. The same song and dance, over and over stretching out into eternity… Jack despairs, Jack is shaken into joining the world again, Jack loves, Jack loses, Jack despairs, Jack is shaken... He keeps doing it, though, because what else can he do? He's so full of life.
It's not funny.
Ianto's cheek is smashed into the linen, certain to be marked by the fabric's crease. He looks soft and innocent, two things Ianto has never been in all the time that Jack has known him. He likes to think that Ianto might be strong enough to take on life with Jack, but the truth is, Ianto is broken enough to take on life with Jack.
Jack loves Ianto the way he loves everyone, because everyone is genuinely full of the potential for love. Jack loves indiscriminately. He loves Toshiko and Martha and Gwen and Rhys and Owen. He loves his tailor, the takeout delivery girl, Rhys's secretary, the pterodactyl, the hot mechanic down at the shop and the little old lady who makes great samosas at the corner Indian place.
But he also loves Ianto particularly, especially, specifically-loves the cherub curves of his face, his beautiful legs and splendid suits, his determination, his intellect, his solid core of strength, the fact that he may be just a little bit mad, just mad enough to deal with this life, with Torchwood. He can't believe that Ianto lets Jack love him, that he'll take care of Jack and indulge him; play Naked Hide and Seek and make Jack coffee and bring him a sandwich when Jack forgets to eat. He knows what's coming; what's inevitable even if Ianto miraculously lives to be ninety, and Jack should really be more at peace with the beautiful circle of life by now, but he isn't. Because he isn't part of it anymore and hasn't been for over a hundred years.
Ianto stirs a little, not enough to disturb the sheets. He even sleeps tidily. Jack wants to mess him up, run his fingers through Ianto's hair, kiss him, coddle him, make much of him, pretend the world begins and ends within the boundaries of this bed. He thinks maybe Ianto will let him.
Ianto is sleeping, face pressed into the pillow, and Jack can look his fill.
He has so little left now, cusping into the height of this cycle of loss. The same song and dance, over and over stretching out into eternity… Jack despairs, Jack is shaken into joining the world again, Jack loves, Jack loses, Jack despairs, Jack is shaken... He keeps doing it, though, because what else can he do? He's so full of life.
It's not funny.
Ianto's cheek is smashed into the linen, certain to be marked by the fabric's crease. He looks soft and innocent, two things Ianto has never been in all the time that Jack has known him. He likes to think that Ianto might be strong enough to take on life with Jack, but the truth is, Ianto is broken enough to take on life with Jack.
Jack loves Ianto the way he loves everyone, because everyone is genuinely full of the potential for love. Jack loves indiscriminately. He loves Toshiko and Martha and Gwen and Rhys and Owen. He loves his tailor, the takeout delivery girl, Rhys's secretary, the pterodactyl, the hot mechanic down at the shop and the little old lady who makes great samosas at the corner Indian place.
But he also loves Ianto particularly, especially, specifically-loves the cherub curves of his face, his beautiful legs and splendid suits, his determination, his intellect, his solid core of strength, the fact that he may be just a little bit mad, just mad enough to deal with this life, with Torchwood. He can't believe that Ianto lets Jack love him, that he'll take care of Jack and indulge him; play Naked Hide and Seek and make Jack coffee and bring him a sandwich when Jack forgets to eat. He knows what's coming; what's inevitable even if Ianto miraculously lives to be ninety, and Jack should really be more at peace with the beautiful circle of life by now, but he isn't. Because he isn't part of it anymore and hasn't been for over a hundred years.
Ianto stirs a little, not enough to disturb the sheets. He even sleeps tidily. Jack wants to mess him up, run his fingers through Ianto's hair, kiss him, coddle him, make much of him, pretend the world begins and ends within the boundaries of this bed. He thinks maybe Ianto will let him.