Fic - No Questions Asked
Okay, I dared to write another Torchwood fic...
Companion to Talk To The Hand, but you don't need to have read that one first.
Title: No Questions Asked
Characters: Jack, Ianto
Setting: Slightly pre-series
No Questions Asked
Secrets. So many secrets here that they keep from the world. But the ones they keep from each other are more frightening, potentially more damaging.
Ianto knows his own treachery far outweighs anything that Jack is trying to hide. It has to. He cannot imagine anything greater, more shocking to the others. But it's clear to him that Jack's clandestine nocturnal activities are a huge burden to him, a private torment. Ianto can relate to so dark a pain, even if he cannot comprehend the cause.
He finds the whispered, anguished monologues disturbing, upsetting. Half-heard, never understood. The tentative stroking of the perspex as Jack's desperate words tumble out, heartrending. Only once has he seen him take the hand from its container, so carefully and tenderly. Cradling it in his own large palms as if it was the most precious object in the entire universe; and any number of unknown, unseen parallel worlds never to be discovered. He'd give almost anything not to have seen the single tear roll down Jack's cheek and spill onto the swollen dead flesh. Not to have witnessed the almost reverential way he brushed the lifeless fingers across his pale face; the shudder of revulsion and something else, something akin to ecstacy, as he closed his eyes and pressed his lips to the tips…
Ianto finds himself stuffing his own fist into his mouth to stifle the sobbing moan that the memory causes to rise in his throat. If there was anything he could do to ease Jack's suffering, if only for a moment, he would; but he believes it is beyond him. Beyond anyone.
They are both pulling too many all-nighters to be able to hide themselves from each other for much longer, surely? One too many encounters in the long, dark hours and their veils will be stripped away. But no matter how many times it happens, Jack always struggles to keep his cool, to cover up his discomfort. "You shouldn't be here!" he blurts out. "Neither should you" Ianto responds, surprised at the ease with which he manages to mask his own mysteries. Or more likely it's just that Jack is too preocuppied with his own troubles to read him.
So for now they continue to dance around their truths, strive to camouflage their shames in the shadowy chills of the Hub. And perhaps it is Ianto's guilt-drenched love for the two most important creatures in his own private universe that makes him clean up after Jack, on nights such as these. Skilfully editing the security tapes, eradicating the evidence, struggling to wipe away Jack's frailties along with his own.
Companion to Talk To The Hand, but you don't need to have read that one first.
Title: No Questions Asked
Characters: Jack, Ianto
Setting: Slightly pre-series
No Questions Asked
Secrets. So many secrets here that they keep from the world. But the ones they keep from each other are more frightening, potentially more damaging.
Ianto knows his own treachery far outweighs anything that Jack is trying to hide. It has to. He cannot imagine anything greater, more shocking to the others. But it's clear to him that Jack's clandestine nocturnal activities are a huge burden to him, a private torment. Ianto can relate to so dark a pain, even if he cannot comprehend the cause.
He finds the whispered, anguished monologues disturbing, upsetting. Half-heard, never understood. The tentative stroking of the perspex as Jack's desperate words tumble out, heartrending. Only once has he seen him take the hand from its container, so carefully and tenderly. Cradling it in his own large palms as if it was the most precious object in the entire universe; and any number of unknown, unseen parallel worlds never to be discovered. He'd give almost anything not to have seen the single tear roll down Jack's cheek and spill onto the swollen dead flesh. Not to have witnessed the almost reverential way he brushed the lifeless fingers across his pale face; the shudder of revulsion and something else, something akin to ecstacy, as he closed his eyes and pressed his lips to the tips…
Ianto finds himself stuffing his own fist into his mouth to stifle the sobbing moan that the memory causes to rise in his throat. If there was anything he could do to ease Jack's suffering, if only for a moment, he would; but he believes it is beyond him. Beyond anyone.
They are both pulling too many all-nighters to be able to hide themselves from each other for much longer, surely? One too many encounters in the long, dark hours and their veils will be stripped away. But no matter how many times it happens, Jack always struggles to keep his cool, to cover up his discomfort. "You shouldn't be here!" he blurts out. "Neither should you" Ianto responds, surprised at the ease with which he manages to mask his own mysteries. Or more likely it's just that Jack is too preocuppied with his own troubles to read him.
So for now they continue to dance around their truths, strive to camouflage their shames in the shadowy chills of the Hub. And perhaps it is Ianto's guilt-drenched love for the two most important creatures in his own private universe that makes him clean up after Jack, on nights such as these. Skilfully editing the security tapes, eradicating the evidence, struggling to wipe away Jack's frailties along with his own.