Hope Like Glass
Title: Hope Like Glass
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
Notes/Summary: Escapism in more than one sense of the word. Written for the July 25 prompt at horizonssing.
Summertime, summertime
brought me back to thinking you were mine all those times.
We laid it down and left it all behind, we were blind.
Oh, the summertime.
We could ride, we could ride.
Take my hand and watch the world go by.
Laugh or cry, well we need to try, get off the line, time to fly.
Oh, the summertime.
Go on ahead and let it fade away.
No looking back you know the past will stay.
It's you and me, we could get out of here.
Jump in and go and we could drive for years.
We could feel alive...
Here we are, here we are,
windows down we see a falling star.
Stop the car.
Waiting, nothing but our beating hearts, going far.
Oh, the summertime.
So feel the air, feel the air,
take the map and point to anywhere.
I don't care. Fingers through your hair,
the sky I've seen, blue and green.
Oh, the summertime.
Driving away, leaving it all behind.
Driving away
- Mae, “Summertime”
If he could, Ianto would pack the two of them up in the SUV and just drive forever. He didn’t much care where, or what would come after that, but once in a while Torchwood was just too much for any of them to handle. Those days (or nights, or mornings, or afternoons…) Gwen would start crying, or Jack would storm off to brood, or Ianto would smash something in the kitchenette and the whole mood in the Hub felt like a fist in his guts.
It wasn’t all bad. It wasn’t. But sometimes the darkness in the autopsy bay, and the silence at the primary computer stations crushed down on them so hard that it felt like the only thing that could make it better would be to run away and never ever come back.
Afterward, when he and Jack are alone (finally), they cling to one another. Their hands join, or their mouths, or their bodies in a desperate bid to guard against the certain knowledge that even this will come apart sooner or later, and that they’re all fragile things just waiting to shatter.
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
Notes/Summary: Escapism in more than one sense of the word. Written for the July 25 prompt at horizonssing.
Summertime, summertime
brought me back to thinking you were mine all those times.
We laid it down and left it all behind, we were blind.
Oh, the summertime.
We could ride, we could ride.
Take my hand and watch the world go by.
Laugh or cry, well we need to try, get off the line, time to fly.
Oh, the summertime.
Go on ahead and let it fade away.
No looking back you know the past will stay.
It's you and me, we could get out of here.
Jump in and go and we could drive for years.
We could feel alive...
Here we are, here we are,
windows down we see a falling star.
Stop the car.
Waiting, nothing but our beating hearts, going far.
Oh, the summertime.
So feel the air, feel the air,
take the map and point to anywhere.
I don't care. Fingers through your hair,
the sky I've seen, blue and green.
Oh, the summertime.
Driving away, leaving it all behind.
Driving away
- Mae, “Summertime”
If he could, Ianto would pack the two of them up in the SUV and just drive forever. He didn’t much care where, or what would come after that, but once in a while Torchwood was just too much for any of them to handle. Those days (or nights, or mornings, or afternoons…) Gwen would start crying, or Jack would storm off to brood, or Ianto would smash something in the kitchenette and the whole mood in the Hub felt like a fist in his guts.
It wasn’t all bad. It wasn’t. But sometimes the darkness in the autopsy bay, and the silence at the primary computer stations crushed down on them so hard that it felt like the only thing that could make it better would be to run away and never ever come back.
Afterward, when he and Jack are alone (finally), they cling to one another. Their hands join, or their mouths, or their bodies in a desperate bid to guard against the certain knowledge that even this will come apart sooner or later, and that they’re all fragile things just waiting to shatter.