Fic: Memento (1/1)
Title: Memento (1/1)
Rating: R
Pairing: Jack/Ianto
Word Count: 2,410
Summary: Jack might not remember, but Ianto would never be able to forget. Spoilers through Episode 2.05: Adam.
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot.
Author’s Notes: Under the cut for spoiler-related reasons.
In the weeks preceding the airing of the Epsiode 2.05: ‘Adam,’ there was some speculation that Ianto would, in the course of the plot, be forced to relive Jack’s memories. This is the result of me, in not being able to shake that idea, exploiting a plot hole or two and making it happen. Any and all feedback is greatly appreciated - feel free to let me know what does and doesn’t work, or if it’s worth continuing with at all.
Memento
Requiem
______________________________________________________________________________________
Dark. Cold. Colorless.
That’s all it was. There was nothing beyond the direct and generic in this realm of existence - sub-existence, really; something that came before it, that precluded it, approached it but deliberately missed the mark. It was a fucking wasteland, this endless sea of nothing. It didn’t even warrant emotion, it denied sensation - he’d lied; there was no fear, there was only silence; there was no emptiness, there was just void; no such thing as loneliness, there was only alone.
Maybe that was why he was so afraid of it, why it drained him of all life and left him feeling so decidedly hollow. Maybe the wretched stench wasn’t dread, wasn’t panic - maybe it was himself, the mind-numbing, stomach-churning aroma of his flesh crawling, singeing, burning to a crisp and setting loose that foul odor into the universe, curling around and twining, feasting upon all it touched and strangling them from the neck down, enveloping them until they, too, were as desperate as he was.
He’d chosen his name this time deliberately. Adam. Seemed as if they all called themselves Adam at one point or another. Some chose it first - blind arrogance, the first man, the origin of life; it was a mistake they never made twice. Sometimes, it came by chance; flowed off the tongue and reflected the blinding liveliness of the world beyond with such vivid imagery, such bold strokes that it couldn’t be denied, couldn’t be refused - sometimes those syllables, strong and deliberate, clipped and decisive, made everything, every shade and tone and shadow of beauty that much more intense. For him, however - he called himself Adam this time because he knew the truth. He knew that Adam was no saint, no revolutionary; he was no forefather or emblem of truth and justice, nor was he the pioneer of humanity that he was so often lauded to have been. No, Adam was a desperate failure who watched his world crumble; he was left with nothing, and had nothing left to lose, in the end.
And so, the name was fitting; and Adam felt it in the very blood that coursed through his newly-branching veins as he managed to push out, to take form and place his newly-shaped hand on the first victim he’d take, reforming their reality and solidifying himself - it was the very omen he required to make every moment count, make every memory fit perfectly, to replace those that would most suitably fit his purpose - to make himself real.
He’d never meant to cause any harm; they very rarely did. Oh, they were capable, of course - quite capable. And some among his kind were inclined to such behavior, but not Adam. For Adam, it was enough to be free of the vacuity, the insignificance; to be where the sun shone and the spectrum was depicted in clear and undeniable brilliance, where there was light and shadow instead of the never-ending black, too static to be referred to as night; it was sufficient, it was heavenly, to simply be, and live; to be considered as real, to be acknowledged, to see himself as solid and whole before a mirror - to feel flesh against his own, warmth on his body; to himself be warm again, to feel his heart beat, to know breathlessness and to witness the hot trickle when he drew blood from his skin. There were hours he spent simply watching the eggshell hue of his teeth in his reflection, or studying the tiny, imperceptible dots that formed an image on a screen. They were to him like magic, like the very essence of life - and all he wanted was to share in it, to witness it - to simply observe it, to someday, if he was ever worthy, to participate in it; to know it intimately and own it for himself.
Why Jack sought so desperately to be rid of him, he would never fully understand. Had he not helped the lost time traveler, in his own way, regardless of his personal motives? He wondered vaguely if Jack would have swallowed that pill, crunched it hard to shatter and dissipate under his tongue, if he’d been aware of just how painful it was for Adam to fade, to dissolve from this world and return to the nameless, faceless shell he’d spawned from; known how excruciating each fraction of a moment was as his grasp was shaken from the world he so loved, as his mind was sent spiraling, losing everything, gaining nothing in return; how his vision bled like a drowned painting, the color softly falling, and finally disappearing before everything went grey, and then finally retreated entirely, as if it had never been there at all, as if it weren’t etched, burned into his retinas - but as his eyes disappeared, so did the seared images on their backs, and he was left with nothing, scrambling to find something, anything; grasping at the tattered ends of a haven that no longer existed, trying to locate the sharply-edged pieces that weren’t even there anymore, willing them to piece back together and make him whole in the process - just the barest memory, a slight inclination of a thought directed at him, about him, concerning him or something he’d done, something he’d influenced - just a shred, or less, was all he needed; something, anything…
And there it was. In that man, that man he’d made her forget. That innocent speck of a man whom he hadn’t even intended to encounter was going to save him, was going to make it so that he could cling to this life just a little bit longer, make it so that he could manage just one more desperate clutch at truly existing before he plummeted head-first into the only hell he’d ever believed in once more.
It was hard, to maintain the tenuous connection of his recollection from so far, so weakened as he was, but if Adam was anything, he was a survivor. He had to find a host, a consciousness closer, stable and active, something he could feed on for the time being, latch onto and rebuild his strength, like a parasite. He tried to suppress the shudder such a descriptor - so true a word - elicited from him, but only for the fact that such a shiver would cause no disturbance, would be nothing in his bodiless form. It was too heartbreaking.
He reached out with what was left of his waning consciousness - it had been hours already that he’d laid dormant, waiting for the void to consume him again, simply postponing the inevitable as he melted across the floor of that pathetic holding cell, curled and rocking against himself like a child in his mind. He felt the spark, the glorious, beautiful surge of light that meant he had found it, something to latch on to and preserve himself within until that Rhys character came close enough to harness, or until the mind he targeted in the meantime was drained enough for him to master it and take form once again, the sixth member of Torchwood.
Grasping, clutching to the energy he pulled himself sightlessly toward the source, the brightness that was drawing him. He felt around as best he could - he knew it was Jack that he was encountering, could feel the never ending life swirling about him, could almost taste the vivid color of his memories, so vast and wide and unbridled, stretched across millennia, the very cosmos; and yet he was not the light, the spark that was driving Adam on.
Adam could recognize the breathing patterns as his faculties began to fortify themselves, as the world began to stabilize and he could feel leaden weight begin to settle about him; not enough to form him a person, but sufficient to make him something more than a wraith. It was Ianto, and he was awake, aware, thinking and remembering so many things as he watched a dozing Jack - touching him, stroking at his chest; Adam flinched at the powerful sunburst of passionate light that ensued when the sheets rustled, when he could feel rather than see their hands entwine - he tried to watch the beautiful shades of red and violet swirl, of blood and gold and eventide mingle in his perception, but it was too much. If his eyes were still intact, Adam knew he would have undoubtedly wept at the majesty of it, the sheer intensity of the moment, the shades it endured and produced; the stunning, unadulterated perfection.
He blanketed himself over Jack’s tentative claim to consciousness, absorbing the calm, the serenity that even nightmares had yet to spoil as with every breath, every extended moment of touch from the man who shared his bed increased his subliminal glow. It was a pipe dream, however - taking on Jack now - and he could not wait. To force oneself into a resting mind was simpler, nowhere near as complex and far less dangerous, than invading one fully awake, yet it was also sheer folly; the hold was too weak, too easily written off to the world of dreams, the realm of the unreal; too easily forcing him back into the emptiness he sought most eagerly to escape forever.
And aside from that; Adam knew, regardless of his desires, that taking to Jack’s mind was a very unwise decision. Beautiful, wonderful though it was - and Adam had taken great pains to commit every nuance he could discern of that man’s brain to his own memory before it was too late - Jack was too close, and too damn desperate for Adam’s needs. He didn’t want to become someone else, didn’t want to take over and reign in a pre-existing consciousness - and Jack, as he’d found, was too reckless to fight him, too hell-bent on knowing who he was and what his history entailed; and in Adam’s debilitated state, he couldn’t guarantee that he wouldn’t resort to his basic survival instinct and simply latch onto Jack like a leech, sucking from him his identity and assuming it as his own. No - if Adam was going to stay, to exist on Earth and thrive, he needed to be himself, he needed to gain the power once more to assimilate into human society in his own skin, so to speak, in the sheath of mankind that he’d grown comfortable in, that he’d manipulated and materialized as since the very dawn of time, and far before it.
He prodded gently around Ianto’s brain, knowing that his choices were limited. From a strategic standpoint, Ianto’s mind was too guarded, too much of a stronghold to be an ideal specimen. Unfortunately, Adam could not manage the wait for Jack to rouse from his slumbering state, he didn’t have the strength to delay any longer. And yet - it was Ianto who he knew the least, Ianto who he had the fewest routes to master, Ianto - whose connection with Adam was fumbling and broken at best. This would complicate things drastically.
Unless…
With a whisper, Adam splayed himself over the man, prone and in a state of partial undress beneath the covers, watching as he yawned, the break in his endless thoughts providing the perfect diversion, the perfect breach to exploit.
“I wonder if he remembers the past two days, I wouldn’t quite put it past him…”
“I know what it’s like not to exist.”
The stilling, the hitch of breath pleased Adam to no end. He’d made contact.
“Please don’t send me back there.”
Ianto’s frown deepened, creasing his lips and the skin around his mouth, stretching to his chin; crinkling his forehead and causing the questions to flow endlessly, a barrage against Adam’s lilting hold; all the while, Ianto’s grip on Jack intensified, pulling him closer, and Adam had to steel himself against the surge of vivid shades that grew more and more exotic, lest he lose himself to their exquisiteness.
“What is this? What are you? Who are you? What’s causing this, is it the memory loss? Is it coming back? What do you want?”
“I made it happen.”
Ianto stilled, a subtle change in the thudding of his heart, the reverberations it sent echoing through the ether; and Adam danced his way closer, invading his senses, answering every askance - every ‘What?’ with an aching ‘Because it was the only way;’ every ‘Why?’ with ‘I needed you.’ - it was manipulation in its finest form.
“Let me live.”
The begging, and the sinister evil that Adam had so inflicted upon poor, loyal Ianto triggered the suppressed memory, and the feel of cold, clammy, rain-slicked skin; the taste of pure water mingling with salty sweat as a perverse tongue licked down an exposed throat before it snapped between powerful palms - Ianto stiffened and leapt back, the flesh of Jack beneath his hands too much, too like a temptation now and Adam was reeling; the exposure, the sudden influx of false recollection, like the flaking remnants of a nightmare, allowed him to surge forward, twisting himself into Ianto’s consciousness and melding into it; and yet one memory, one small instance of repeated, unimaginative violence would not be enough - it was the cognitive equivalent of a dying man’s final breath. Adam need something more real, something more massive, a substantial stake to claim his territory, and regain his control over himself.
And suddenly, in a flash of beautiful, striking, sublime sapphire glittering in the wake of a seventh sun as it set on the far horizon over crystalline waters, quivering under the sky as the waves rushed towards the fine grains of sand that lined the shore, footprints dancing, washing away with the tide, the answer was clear.
“I don’t want to die!” Adam was almost amazed - it wasn’t fear or hopelessness that fueled him now as he cried into the mind he now took residence in; it was revelation, it was realization, it was almost a prayer of thanksgiving. He did not own the power he required, he did not have the strength of memories consistent and engaging enough to command a human mind as he needed to just now, just powerful enough to regain his own form before it was over, before he would leave well enough alone. He didn’t have such hold stored within his own mind, his own memories. But he didn’t have to.
The only logical solution was to use the memories that had drawn him out of the void in the first place. And Adam knew those by heart.
Rating: R
Pairing: Jack/Ianto
Word Count: 2,410
Summary: Jack might not remember, but Ianto would never be able to forget. Spoilers through Episode 2.05: Adam.
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot.
Author’s Notes: Under the cut for spoiler-related reasons.
In the weeks preceding the airing of the Epsiode 2.05: ‘Adam,’ there was some speculation that Ianto would, in the course of the plot, be forced to relive Jack’s memories. This is the result of me, in not being able to shake that idea, exploiting a plot hole or two and making it happen. Any and all feedback is greatly appreciated - feel free to let me know what does and doesn’t work, or if it’s worth continuing with at all.
Memento
Requiem
______________________________________________________________________________________
Dark. Cold. Colorless.
That’s all it was. There was nothing beyond the direct and generic in this realm of existence - sub-existence, really; something that came before it, that precluded it, approached it but deliberately missed the mark. It was a fucking wasteland, this endless sea of nothing. It didn’t even warrant emotion, it denied sensation - he’d lied; there was no fear, there was only silence; there was no emptiness, there was just void; no such thing as loneliness, there was only alone.
Maybe that was why he was so afraid of it, why it drained him of all life and left him feeling so decidedly hollow. Maybe the wretched stench wasn’t dread, wasn’t panic - maybe it was himself, the mind-numbing, stomach-churning aroma of his flesh crawling, singeing, burning to a crisp and setting loose that foul odor into the universe, curling around and twining, feasting upon all it touched and strangling them from the neck down, enveloping them until they, too, were as desperate as he was.
He’d chosen his name this time deliberately. Adam. Seemed as if they all called themselves Adam at one point or another. Some chose it first - blind arrogance, the first man, the origin of life; it was a mistake they never made twice. Sometimes, it came by chance; flowed off the tongue and reflected the blinding liveliness of the world beyond with such vivid imagery, such bold strokes that it couldn’t be denied, couldn’t be refused - sometimes those syllables, strong and deliberate, clipped and decisive, made everything, every shade and tone and shadow of beauty that much more intense. For him, however - he called himself Adam this time because he knew the truth. He knew that Adam was no saint, no revolutionary; he was no forefather or emblem of truth and justice, nor was he the pioneer of humanity that he was so often lauded to have been. No, Adam was a desperate failure who watched his world crumble; he was left with nothing, and had nothing left to lose, in the end.
And so, the name was fitting; and Adam felt it in the very blood that coursed through his newly-branching veins as he managed to push out, to take form and place his newly-shaped hand on the first victim he’d take, reforming their reality and solidifying himself - it was the very omen he required to make every moment count, make every memory fit perfectly, to replace those that would most suitably fit his purpose - to make himself real.
He’d never meant to cause any harm; they very rarely did. Oh, they were capable, of course - quite capable. And some among his kind were inclined to such behavior, but not Adam. For Adam, it was enough to be free of the vacuity, the insignificance; to be where the sun shone and the spectrum was depicted in clear and undeniable brilliance, where there was light and shadow instead of the never-ending black, too static to be referred to as night; it was sufficient, it was heavenly, to simply be, and live; to be considered as real, to be acknowledged, to see himself as solid and whole before a mirror - to feel flesh against his own, warmth on his body; to himself be warm again, to feel his heart beat, to know breathlessness and to witness the hot trickle when he drew blood from his skin. There were hours he spent simply watching the eggshell hue of his teeth in his reflection, or studying the tiny, imperceptible dots that formed an image on a screen. They were to him like magic, like the very essence of life - and all he wanted was to share in it, to witness it - to simply observe it, to someday, if he was ever worthy, to participate in it; to know it intimately and own it for himself.
Why Jack sought so desperately to be rid of him, he would never fully understand. Had he not helped the lost time traveler, in his own way, regardless of his personal motives? He wondered vaguely if Jack would have swallowed that pill, crunched it hard to shatter and dissipate under his tongue, if he’d been aware of just how painful it was for Adam to fade, to dissolve from this world and return to the nameless, faceless shell he’d spawned from; known how excruciating each fraction of a moment was as his grasp was shaken from the world he so loved, as his mind was sent spiraling, losing everything, gaining nothing in return; how his vision bled like a drowned painting, the color softly falling, and finally disappearing before everything went grey, and then finally retreated entirely, as if it had never been there at all, as if it weren’t etched, burned into his retinas - but as his eyes disappeared, so did the seared images on their backs, and he was left with nothing, scrambling to find something, anything; grasping at the tattered ends of a haven that no longer existed, trying to locate the sharply-edged pieces that weren’t even there anymore, willing them to piece back together and make him whole in the process - just the barest memory, a slight inclination of a thought directed at him, about him, concerning him or something he’d done, something he’d influenced - just a shred, or less, was all he needed; something, anything…
And there it was. In that man, that man he’d made her forget. That innocent speck of a man whom he hadn’t even intended to encounter was going to save him, was going to make it so that he could cling to this life just a little bit longer, make it so that he could manage just one more desperate clutch at truly existing before he plummeted head-first into the only hell he’d ever believed in once more.
It was hard, to maintain the tenuous connection of his recollection from so far, so weakened as he was, but if Adam was anything, he was a survivor. He had to find a host, a consciousness closer, stable and active, something he could feed on for the time being, latch onto and rebuild his strength, like a parasite. He tried to suppress the shudder such a descriptor - so true a word - elicited from him, but only for the fact that such a shiver would cause no disturbance, would be nothing in his bodiless form. It was too heartbreaking.
He reached out with what was left of his waning consciousness - it had been hours already that he’d laid dormant, waiting for the void to consume him again, simply postponing the inevitable as he melted across the floor of that pathetic holding cell, curled and rocking against himself like a child in his mind. He felt the spark, the glorious, beautiful surge of light that meant he had found it, something to latch on to and preserve himself within until that Rhys character came close enough to harness, or until the mind he targeted in the meantime was drained enough for him to master it and take form once again, the sixth member of Torchwood.
Grasping, clutching to the energy he pulled himself sightlessly toward the source, the brightness that was drawing him. He felt around as best he could - he knew it was Jack that he was encountering, could feel the never ending life swirling about him, could almost taste the vivid color of his memories, so vast and wide and unbridled, stretched across millennia, the very cosmos; and yet he was not the light, the spark that was driving Adam on.
Adam could recognize the breathing patterns as his faculties began to fortify themselves, as the world began to stabilize and he could feel leaden weight begin to settle about him; not enough to form him a person, but sufficient to make him something more than a wraith. It was Ianto, and he was awake, aware, thinking and remembering so many things as he watched a dozing Jack - touching him, stroking at his chest; Adam flinched at the powerful sunburst of passionate light that ensued when the sheets rustled, when he could feel rather than see their hands entwine - he tried to watch the beautiful shades of red and violet swirl, of blood and gold and eventide mingle in his perception, but it was too much. If his eyes were still intact, Adam knew he would have undoubtedly wept at the majesty of it, the sheer intensity of the moment, the shades it endured and produced; the stunning, unadulterated perfection.
He blanketed himself over Jack’s tentative claim to consciousness, absorbing the calm, the serenity that even nightmares had yet to spoil as with every breath, every extended moment of touch from the man who shared his bed increased his subliminal glow. It was a pipe dream, however - taking on Jack now - and he could not wait. To force oneself into a resting mind was simpler, nowhere near as complex and far less dangerous, than invading one fully awake, yet it was also sheer folly; the hold was too weak, too easily written off to the world of dreams, the realm of the unreal; too easily forcing him back into the emptiness he sought most eagerly to escape forever.
And aside from that; Adam knew, regardless of his desires, that taking to Jack’s mind was a very unwise decision. Beautiful, wonderful though it was - and Adam had taken great pains to commit every nuance he could discern of that man’s brain to his own memory before it was too late - Jack was too close, and too damn desperate for Adam’s needs. He didn’t want to become someone else, didn’t want to take over and reign in a pre-existing consciousness - and Jack, as he’d found, was too reckless to fight him, too hell-bent on knowing who he was and what his history entailed; and in Adam’s debilitated state, he couldn’t guarantee that he wouldn’t resort to his basic survival instinct and simply latch onto Jack like a leech, sucking from him his identity and assuming it as his own. No - if Adam was going to stay, to exist on Earth and thrive, he needed to be himself, he needed to gain the power once more to assimilate into human society in his own skin, so to speak, in the sheath of mankind that he’d grown comfortable in, that he’d manipulated and materialized as since the very dawn of time, and far before it.
He prodded gently around Ianto’s brain, knowing that his choices were limited. From a strategic standpoint, Ianto’s mind was too guarded, too much of a stronghold to be an ideal specimen. Unfortunately, Adam could not manage the wait for Jack to rouse from his slumbering state, he didn’t have the strength to delay any longer. And yet - it was Ianto who he knew the least, Ianto who he had the fewest routes to master, Ianto - whose connection with Adam was fumbling and broken at best. This would complicate things drastically.
Unless…
With a whisper, Adam splayed himself over the man, prone and in a state of partial undress beneath the covers, watching as he yawned, the break in his endless thoughts providing the perfect diversion, the perfect breach to exploit.
“I wonder if he remembers the past two days, I wouldn’t quite put it past him…”
“I know what it’s like not to exist.”
The stilling, the hitch of breath pleased Adam to no end. He’d made contact.
“Please don’t send me back there.”
Ianto’s frown deepened, creasing his lips and the skin around his mouth, stretching to his chin; crinkling his forehead and causing the questions to flow endlessly, a barrage against Adam’s lilting hold; all the while, Ianto’s grip on Jack intensified, pulling him closer, and Adam had to steel himself against the surge of vivid shades that grew more and more exotic, lest he lose himself to their exquisiteness.
“What is this? What are you? Who are you? What’s causing this, is it the memory loss? Is it coming back? What do you want?”
“I made it happen.”
Ianto stilled, a subtle change in the thudding of his heart, the reverberations it sent echoing through the ether; and Adam danced his way closer, invading his senses, answering every askance - every ‘What?’ with an aching ‘Because it was the only way;’ every ‘Why?’ with ‘I needed you.’ - it was manipulation in its finest form.
“Let me live.”
The begging, and the sinister evil that Adam had so inflicted upon poor, loyal Ianto triggered the suppressed memory, and the feel of cold, clammy, rain-slicked skin; the taste of pure water mingling with salty sweat as a perverse tongue licked down an exposed throat before it snapped between powerful palms - Ianto stiffened and leapt back, the flesh of Jack beneath his hands too much, too like a temptation now and Adam was reeling; the exposure, the sudden influx of false recollection, like the flaking remnants of a nightmare, allowed him to surge forward, twisting himself into Ianto’s consciousness and melding into it; and yet one memory, one small instance of repeated, unimaginative violence would not be enough - it was the cognitive equivalent of a dying man’s final breath. Adam need something more real, something more massive, a substantial stake to claim his territory, and regain his control over himself.
And suddenly, in a flash of beautiful, striking, sublime sapphire glittering in the wake of a seventh sun as it set on the far horizon over crystalline waters, quivering under the sky as the waves rushed towards the fine grains of sand that lined the shore, footprints dancing, washing away with the tide, the answer was clear.
“I don’t want to die!” Adam was almost amazed - it wasn’t fear or hopelessness that fueled him now as he cried into the mind he now took residence in; it was revelation, it was realization, it was almost a prayer of thanksgiving. He did not own the power he required, he did not have the strength of memories consistent and engaging enough to command a human mind as he needed to just now, just powerful enough to regain his own form before it was over, before he would leave well enough alone. He didn’t have such hold stored within his own mind, his own memories. But he didn’t have to.
The only logical solution was to use the memories that had drawn him out of the void in the first place. And Adam knew those by heart.