a shadow in the city (1/1)
title: a shadow in the city
rating: pg
pairing: jack/ianto
spoilers: none, unless you count dw s1 'the empty child' and 'the doctor dances' or tw s1 'small worlds.'
disclaimer: rtd and the beeb own pretty much everyone. i'll have to check, but they might even own me.
writer's note: also for the horizonssing day seven challenge. feedback welcome.
summary: jack isn't used to summer days in cardiff, much less summer nights.
Summer in the City
The Lovin' Spoonfuls
Hot town, summer in the city
Back of my neck getting dirty and gritty
Been down, isn't it a pity
Doesn't seem to be a shadow in the city
All around, people looking half dead
Walking on the sidewalk, hotter than a match head
But at night it's a different world
Go out and find a girl
Come-on come-on and dance all night
Despite the heat it'll be alright
And babe, don't you know it's a pity
That the days can't be like the nights
In the summer, in the city
In the summer, in the city
Cool town, evening in the city
Dressing so fine and looking so pretty
Cool cat, looking for a kitty
Gonna look in every corner of the city
Till I'm wheezing like a bus stop
Running up the stairs, gonna meet you on the rooftop
But at night it's a different world
Go out and find a girl
Come-on come-on and dance all night
Despite the heat it'll be alright
And babe, don't you know it's a pity
That the days can't be like the nights
In the summer, in the city
In the summer, in the city
Thick, wet heat, engulfing him like the suits Jack likes so much, is the symbol of true summer in Cardiff. When the sun is warming the water in the air and it seems like just walking outside will make him melt; when no-one wants coffee, just those icy slush mixes from the local shop; when taking his shirt off at night involves literally peeling the fabric from his skin. Thunderstorms build and break, but nothing seems to lessen the humidity, nothing seems to give the city respite. Jack knows how Ianto lives for these moments, these brief and endless days, when silence is not just acceptable, but expected, and every breath calculated to expend the least energy. Even the Rift, even aliens want the day off, and Torchwood is more than happy to oblige.
Jack isn't used to this kind of heat, despite living on a beach for most of his childhood. It's been so long, almost two hundred years, since he was back there breathing dry sand and salt air, that he's almost completely forgotten what it feels like to be victim to the sun, imprisoned by its ruthlessness. The Hub heats up, their ever-useful sculpture an easy conductor, sun to glass to metal to concrete. It takes a while, but by three in the afternoon Torchwood's underused cooling system is nearly shot and it's just time to stick it out until the evening comes, so much for maddeningly advanced technology. The heat makes Jack restless, more likely to climb onto a rooftop for hours and let the wind blow back his damp hair, whether or not he has plans for the evening. (Plans that, ever more often, seem to include Ianto.) The relief that comes when the sun sets turns the city into something completely different, not the heat-stroked, lethargic, lazy beast loath to move, but instead a writhing, hopping centre of life. Jack can smell it in the air - girls' shampoo, men's cologne, clothing made of seersucker and linen, thin cotton and canvas shoes to match, all permeating the city until late in the evening, the only time anyone can come out to play.
He imagines forgotten lovers in the undulating music of the city, car horns and the rumble of moving trains. Dancing with Rose on the roof of the Millenium Centre wouldn't be so different from the top of an invisible Chula warship; he spins her out and in his head she returns with Estelle's eyes, Estelle's dark hair. They all play a part in his summer heat-dreams, the ones he's had and the ones he's wanted, but always only the ones he's loved. Unnamed and peripheral, they bring the city to him, allowing the timeless outsider a glimpse of the normal life he will never truly know. Not completely.
Long-dated steps pull themselves from his body, sending him in complicated patterns around the roof of the Centre until he's dizzied by the heat, the height, the motion. When he stops the footsteps continue, behind him, before him, all around him, and Ianto folds into the dance as easily as if he's been with Jack the whole time, playing out Jack's private pantomime. Ianto's neck is warm with sunburn, pale Welsh skin easily reddened, and Jack can smell a combination of sticky sunscreen and cool aloe underneath the distinctly precious smell of Ianto himself, starlight and oranges. No words need to be spoken, not for a long time, not until the night is almost over.
“You said no roofs,” Jack finally whispers, as if he's unaware that this is the coolest moment of a summer night in Cardiff and his cheeky innuendos are unwelcome here.
“This isn't a date,” Ianto replies, his chin resting on Jack's shoulder, mouth next to Jack's ear. “This isn't even an outing. It's just a dance, Jack. That's all.”
“And you won't stay.”
“Not for long. I have a cool flat and clean sheets. You know you're always welcome.” He is silent for a moment, his eyes closed, breathing against Jack's neck, and the warmth of it makes Jack shiver. “But if it's more your style to dance with ghosts until the sun comes up - ”
“No. When you leave, take me with you.” Jack can hear Ianto smile.
“You're always with me, Jack. Don't be so daft as to think you're not.”
In the summer, in the city, everything seems crystal clear. Jack is alone for eternity, but he is not alone now. There will be other lovers and other ghosts, other summers and other cities, but this one, right now, is his.
rating: pg
pairing: jack/ianto
spoilers: none, unless you count dw s1 'the empty child' and 'the doctor dances' or tw s1 'small worlds.'
disclaimer: rtd and the beeb own pretty much everyone. i'll have to check, but they might even own me.
writer's note: also for the horizonssing day seven challenge. feedback welcome.
summary: jack isn't used to summer days in cardiff, much less summer nights.
Summer in the City
The Lovin' Spoonfuls
Hot town, summer in the city
Back of my neck getting dirty and gritty
Been down, isn't it a pity
Doesn't seem to be a shadow in the city
All around, people looking half dead
Walking on the sidewalk, hotter than a match head
But at night it's a different world
Go out and find a girl
Come-on come-on and dance all night
Despite the heat it'll be alright
And babe, don't you know it's a pity
That the days can't be like the nights
In the summer, in the city
In the summer, in the city
Cool town, evening in the city
Dressing so fine and looking so pretty
Cool cat, looking for a kitty
Gonna look in every corner of the city
Till I'm wheezing like a bus stop
Running up the stairs, gonna meet you on the rooftop
But at night it's a different world
Go out and find a girl
Come-on come-on and dance all night
Despite the heat it'll be alright
And babe, don't you know it's a pity
That the days can't be like the nights
In the summer, in the city
In the summer, in the city
Thick, wet heat, engulfing him like the suits Jack likes so much, is the symbol of true summer in Cardiff. When the sun is warming the water in the air and it seems like just walking outside will make him melt; when no-one wants coffee, just those icy slush mixes from the local shop; when taking his shirt off at night involves literally peeling the fabric from his skin. Thunderstorms build and break, but nothing seems to lessen the humidity, nothing seems to give the city respite. Jack knows how Ianto lives for these moments, these brief and endless days, when silence is not just acceptable, but expected, and every breath calculated to expend the least energy. Even the Rift, even aliens want the day off, and Torchwood is more than happy to oblige.
Jack isn't used to this kind of heat, despite living on a beach for most of his childhood. It's been so long, almost two hundred years, since he was back there breathing dry sand and salt air, that he's almost completely forgotten what it feels like to be victim to the sun, imprisoned by its ruthlessness. The Hub heats up, their ever-useful sculpture an easy conductor, sun to glass to metal to concrete. It takes a while, but by three in the afternoon Torchwood's underused cooling system is nearly shot and it's just time to stick it out until the evening comes, so much for maddeningly advanced technology. The heat makes Jack restless, more likely to climb onto a rooftop for hours and let the wind blow back his damp hair, whether or not he has plans for the evening. (Plans that, ever more often, seem to include Ianto.) The relief that comes when the sun sets turns the city into something completely different, not the heat-stroked, lethargic, lazy beast loath to move, but instead a writhing, hopping centre of life. Jack can smell it in the air - girls' shampoo, men's cologne, clothing made of seersucker and linen, thin cotton and canvas shoes to match, all permeating the city until late in the evening, the only time anyone can come out to play.
He imagines forgotten lovers in the undulating music of the city, car horns and the rumble of moving trains. Dancing with Rose on the roof of the Millenium Centre wouldn't be so different from the top of an invisible Chula warship; he spins her out and in his head she returns with Estelle's eyes, Estelle's dark hair. They all play a part in his summer heat-dreams, the ones he's had and the ones he's wanted, but always only the ones he's loved. Unnamed and peripheral, they bring the city to him, allowing the timeless outsider a glimpse of the normal life he will never truly know. Not completely.
Long-dated steps pull themselves from his body, sending him in complicated patterns around the roof of the Centre until he's dizzied by the heat, the height, the motion. When he stops the footsteps continue, behind him, before him, all around him, and Ianto folds into the dance as easily as if he's been with Jack the whole time, playing out Jack's private pantomime. Ianto's neck is warm with sunburn, pale Welsh skin easily reddened, and Jack can smell a combination of sticky sunscreen and cool aloe underneath the distinctly precious smell of Ianto himself, starlight and oranges. No words need to be spoken, not for a long time, not until the night is almost over.
“You said no roofs,” Jack finally whispers, as if he's unaware that this is the coolest moment of a summer night in Cardiff and his cheeky innuendos are unwelcome here.
“This isn't a date,” Ianto replies, his chin resting on Jack's shoulder, mouth next to Jack's ear. “This isn't even an outing. It's just a dance, Jack. That's all.”
“And you won't stay.”
“Not for long. I have a cool flat and clean sheets. You know you're always welcome.” He is silent for a moment, his eyes closed, breathing against Jack's neck, and the warmth of it makes Jack shiver. “But if it's more your style to dance with ghosts until the sun comes up - ”
“No. When you leave, take me with you.” Jack can hear Ianto smile.
“You're always with me, Jack. Don't be so daft as to think you're not.”
In the summer, in the city, everything seems crystal clear. Jack is alone for eternity, but he is not alone now. There will be other lovers and other ghosts, other summers and other cities, but this one, right now, is his.