Blue On Blue
Title: Blue On Blue
Disclaimer: Being a bloke who likes to slash pretty men doesn't make me RTD, I don't work for the BBC, and as much as I might like to, I don't own Jack or Ianto or any part of Torchwood. I do, however, order pizza under that name on principle.
Pairings: Jack/Ianto
Rating: PG-13, maybe R for violence.
Notes/Summary: In which Jack decides whether or not to take the shot. Written for the July 24 prompt at horizonssing.
And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep . . . tired . . . or it malingers,
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
- Excerpt from "The Love Song of J Alfred Prufrock" by T. S. Eliot
The afternoon - well, evening now, if the light was anything to go on - was still. It put Jack on edge because if there was anything this warehouse didn’t have a right to be at the moment, it was peaceful.
Below his perch in the rafters, he could see Ianto, knelt on the concrete with his hands behind his head. He, like the warehouse, and like the man who casually pointed a gun to his head, was still.
Jack took aim. Could he do this? Of course he could. Nearly 200 years of experience and multiple wars tended to do wonders for a guy’s marksmanship skills. Except the problem wasn’t Jack’s hands. It was his target’s. Not even a clean head shot could guarantee that a final, panicked twitch of that man’s fingers wouldn’t paint the floor with the contents of Ianto’s skull.
In a just world, their roles would be reversed. There’d be no risk in firing on Jack’s captor because while it was painful as hell and kind of awful to watch, Jack could have his head blown wide open and walk away. Hell, if their roles were reversed, Jack was pretty sure Ianto would kill him first to throw things into chaos. Taking the hostage down was dirty pool, but kind of funny when the hostage got back up again afterwards.
Jack took a deep breath and pulled the trigger twice.
Below him, Ianto shouted and fell, clutching at his arm. His captor whipped around in surprise just in time for the second bullet to strike its target. It was an ugly shot, but the son of a bitch wasn’t much to look at to begin with. Jack scrambled over to the maintenance ladder and slid more than climbed down.
“Tesco instant. Rest of your life. Putting it in my will and everything,” Ianto choked out between gritted teeth. His shirtsleeve and his hand were already soaked with blood.
“And I’ll love every last second of it.” Jack said as he hurriedly unbuttoned his shirt so he could tear it into a makeshift bandage. “Now let’s get you to A&E before I have to learn to make my own damn coffee, okay?”
Disclaimer: Being a bloke who likes to slash pretty men doesn't make me RTD, I don't work for the BBC, and as much as I might like to, I don't own Jack or Ianto or any part of Torchwood. I do, however, order pizza under that name on principle.
Pairings: Jack/Ianto
Rating: PG-13, maybe R for violence.
Notes/Summary: In which Jack decides whether or not to take the shot. Written for the July 24 prompt at horizonssing.
And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep . . . tired . . . or it malingers,
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
- Excerpt from "The Love Song of J Alfred Prufrock" by T. S. Eliot
The afternoon - well, evening now, if the light was anything to go on - was still. It put Jack on edge because if there was anything this warehouse didn’t have a right to be at the moment, it was peaceful.
Below his perch in the rafters, he could see Ianto, knelt on the concrete with his hands behind his head. He, like the warehouse, and like the man who casually pointed a gun to his head, was still.
Jack took aim. Could he do this? Of course he could. Nearly 200 years of experience and multiple wars tended to do wonders for a guy’s marksmanship skills. Except the problem wasn’t Jack’s hands. It was his target’s. Not even a clean head shot could guarantee that a final, panicked twitch of that man’s fingers wouldn’t paint the floor with the contents of Ianto’s skull.
In a just world, their roles would be reversed. There’d be no risk in firing on Jack’s captor because while it was painful as hell and kind of awful to watch, Jack could have his head blown wide open and walk away. Hell, if their roles were reversed, Jack was pretty sure Ianto would kill him first to throw things into chaos. Taking the hostage down was dirty pool, but kind of funny when the hostage got back up again afterwards.
Jack took a deep breath and pulled the trigger twice.
Below him, Ianto shouted and fell, clutching at his arm. His captor whipped around in surprise just in time for the second bullet to strike its target. It was an ugly shot, but the son of a bitch wasn’t much to look at to begin with. Jack scrambled over to the maintenance ladder and slid more than climbed down.
“Tesco instant. Rest of your life. Putting it in my will and everything,” Ianto choked out between gritted teeth. His shirtsleeve and his hand were already soaked with blood.
“And I’ll love every last second of it.” Jack said as he hurriedly unbuttoned his shirt so he could tear it into a makeshift bandage. “Now let’s get you to A&E before I have to learn to make my own damn coffee, okay?”