Drablet
Title: He who sleeps in continual noise is wakened by silence
Pairing: Jack/Ianto
Rating: G
Notes: Spur of the moment free write. Unbeta'd and purple-prosey. Inspired by the need for sleep and copperbadge's latest ficlet. I might be convinced to make something more of this if there's any interest... after a night's sleep. Title courtesy of William Dean Howells, 1882.
Ianto wakes, a soft dripping of reality tapping on his cheek. Daring him to ignore its insistence, its inevitability.
He fights, allows himself to be pulled down into the cottony darkness, to splay and spread and lounge. To sleep.
Eons pass in moments and the tapping is back, pulling his consciousness like toffee from the bottom of a pan. Whispering, tempting, promising luxuries that Ianto knows will disappear like vapor and sunbeams if he dares to open his eyes.
The tapping softens, reality slips just a little in its quest to claim him, sleep gains its ground. Reality becomes a caressing sweep, changing tactics, offering peace instead of beads and trinkets.
Peace breeds familiarity and the seed of curiosity.
He searches, fights. Reality seizes the opportunity to pounce. The tapping resumes, high on a cheekbone.
Ianto begins to open his eyes, but fingertips stop him, resting at peace on his eyelids. They sweep in, a soft scrape of a fingernail at the inner corner of his eye, dust and dreams swept away, and again.
He opens his eyes, shadowy eyelashes sweeping the tips of hovering fingers.
Jack stares down at him, quiet and fathomless. Studying, memorizing. Waking.
Ianto lets reality claim him. He doesn’t need to sleep.
Pairing: Jack/Ianto
Rating: G
Notes: Spur of the moment free write. Unbeta'd and purple-prosey. Inspired by the need for sleep and copperbadge's latest ficlet. I might be convinced to make something more of this if there's any interest... after a night's sleep. Title courtesy of William Dean Howells, 1882.
Ianto wakes, a soft dripping of reality tapping on his cheek. Daring him to ignore its insistence, its inevitability.
He fights, allows himself to be pulled down into the cottony darkness, to splay and spread and lounge. To sleep.
Eons pass in moments and the tapping is back, pulling his consciousness like toffee from the bottom of a pan. Whispering, tempting, promising luxuries that Ianto knows will disappear like vapor and sunbeams if he dares to open his eyes.
The tapping softens, reality slips just a little in its quest to claim him, sleep gains its ground. Reality becomes a caressing sweep, changing tactics, offering peace instead of beads and trinkets.
Peace breeds familiarity and the seed of curiosity.
He searches, fights. Reality seizes the opportunity to pounce. The tapping resumes, high on a cheekbone.
Ianto begins to open his eyes, but fingertips stop him, resting at peace on his eyelids. They sweep in, a soft scrape of a fingernail at the inner corner of his eye, dust and dreams swept away, and again.
He opens his eyes, shadowy eyelashes sweeping the tips of hovering fingers.
Jack stares down at him, quiet and fathomless. Studying, memorizing. Waking.
Ianto lets reality claim him. He doesn’t need to sleep.