The River, It Was Boilin’
Title: The River, It Was Boilin’
Author: sariagray
Rating: PG13
Characters/Pairings: Ianto /Gwen (Jack/Ianto, Gwen/Rhys)
Word Count: ~1100
Things To Be Aware Of: Adultery, sexual implications, language sort of.
Summary: “The Lord said, ‘Go to the devil.’”
Beta: analineblue <3
Disclaimer: Do not own.
Author Notes: I really just wanted some Ianto/Gwen fic, okay? Nothing I do makes sense anymore. Written for the redisourcolor challenge, Sin, using the words, “rumple,” “transform,” and “belief” and the quote "The time to relax is -- when you don't have time for it." Title and summary come from Nina Simone’s “Sinnerman.”
The River, It Was Boilin’
Ianto was in Jack’s office when Gwen came in. She didn’t barge, or push, or strut. Her mouth wasn’t overflowing with questions, or orders, or worries. Jokes didn’t spill over and tumble, flat and heavy, to the floor like deflated balloons. Instead, she hovered in the brown shadows of the doorway, hands at her sides, her mouth a tight line, her shirt rumpled.
It had been decided - days after Jack left, minutes after they realized he wasn’t coming back - that Ianto would take Jack’s office and Gwen would take Jack’s command. It seemed a good compromise; Gwen had proven complete rubbish at remembering to fill out paperwork and the others were rubbish at listening to Ianto. Tosh had wanted nothing to do with power (“Too corruptible,” she’d said, and Ianto didn’t know if she meant the position or herself) and, surprisingly, Owen hadn’t been interested, either (“Too much work”). So far, it seemed to be working. As well as something like this could, at any rate.
Most nights, before shutting down, Gwen would stride right through the invisible protective bubble Ianto’d created for himself, sink into a chair, and say things like, “Go home, sweetheart,” or, “Have we heard back from UNIT yet?” or, “Pack your things for Nepal,” or even, once, “What could I have done instead?”
Sometimes he thought he created that bubble just for the pleasure of watching her destroy it, watching her transform it into something useless.
“Hello,” he said when he couldn’t stand the silence anymore.
Gwen took one step forward, hesitated, and then tightrope-walked to the chair. She rested her hand on its back, dragged her fingers over the top, and finally perched herself on the edge of the seat like she was ready to take flight at any moment.
“Can I use your biro?” she asked.
Ianto frowned, but stretched out his right hand in offering. She reached to meet him halfway with her left and then -
“Oh,” Ianto said. “Oh.”
She took the biro and pulled the nearest piece of paper (which, as it happened, was her own expense report that Ianto had been in the middle of approving) close to her. In dark blue ink, she scrawled Rhys proposed in the top margin. She rotated the paper around.
“Yes, I see. Congratulations,” he said, and reached for the crystal tumblers and decanter that Jack kept stocked for less happy occasions.
“Do you want to know how he did it?” she asked.
He felt her eyes on him, tracking his every careful movement as he poured the whiskey. Doubles, he thought. They deserved it. After all, the time to relax was when you didn’t have time for it. Which, it seemed, was all the time.
“Down on one knee, I suspect,” he said, swirling his glass.
Gwen picked up her own. Her eyes twinkled. “He tried, but then - well, he ended up proposing from the settee.”
He raised an eyebrow at that. “And you said yes, of course.”
“You don’t get to keep the ring if you say no.”
Ianto chuckled, took a sip, and set the tumbler on the blotter of the desk. “No, I don’t suppose you do. Do you have a date in mind?”
“Not yet.” She swallowed her drink in one vicious gulp. “Lots of schedules to figure out first.”
They were quiet for a moment, Gwen staring at her empty glass, Ianto watching the emotions as they flickered across her face and manifested in things like the tapping of fingers and the rubbing of feet. When he lifted his drink, he could hear the ticking of his watch, the sounds of the mechanisms running together until everything was one long second.
“I think,” she said, then shook her head. “No. I want to wait for him to come back.”
He traced the rim of the glass, slowly, and then let his fingertip rub at a small etching in the crystal, over and over until he felt the ache in his shoulders ease.
“And if he doesn’t?” he asked.
“He will.”
They’d had this argument (if it could even be called an argument, rather than dogmatic rhetoric) before, switching sides whenever they felt like it. Neither of them had ever said, “He won’t,” though, because it just didn’t do to consider the possibility. Not yet.
“Okay,” he said.
That’s how it ended, too, every time. “Okay,” or “Sure,” or “Yes” in place of “Thank you.” Their belief was something shared, something bigger than the sum of their collective parts, and they refused to let it shatter. Torchwood had taken enough from them, erasing everything they once knew to be true; it stood to reason that they might get lucky, just this once.
It also stood to reason that they’d be proven wrong again.
“Rhys is so good,” Gwen whispered to her lap.
Ianto finished off his drink and poured them each another measure.
“He’s a good man,” he agreed. “Cheers.”
“No, no, he’s good. So bloody good. I don’t - it’s not fair. This. He wants to marry me and there’s all of this…bollocks.”
The last word fell away, dull and lifeless, and he realized he was crouching next to her before he even consciously considered standing up.
“I don’t deserve him,” she said, voice unusually small and weak. “I don’t deserve him, and I can’t tell him that because I don’t want to lose him. What does that make me?”
“Human,” Ianto said. “Very, very human.”
He held her right hand in his. He stroked his thumb over her bare ring finger and over her bare wrist, until she finally looked at him.
“No. I’m horrible,” she said, and kissed him.
Ianto froze.
“Horrible” was murmured against his lips until he dissolved, warmed, boiled. “Horrible, horrible, horrible.”
“No.”
It was more of a release of carbon dioxide and pent-up tension than it was an actual word, and even as it came out of Ianto’s mouth, he had no idea whether he meant, “No, stop, we shouldn’t” or “No, you aren’t horrible at all.”
“Yes,” she said.
Gwen bit at his lower lip, just hard enough to get her point across and Ianto’s lips parted until they were both panting recycled air, stale and chemically sweet from the whiskey. He was lightheaded from it, from the lack of oxygen and the utter madness of crashing to his knees, their mouths pressed impossibly close.
Her hands shook as liquor-clumsy fingers attempted to undo his buttons; her ring got caught on one and, when she moved her arm for better access, it snagged until the button dangled from a single thread.
His hands shook as he tried to help her.
“Horrible,” she said again, moaned the word into his mouth for him to taste, to keep.
Ianto traded back “Human” and “Okay. Sure. Yes,” and let go completely, let them have this one moment, just one, just this one time.
***
Ianto had Jack’s office, and Gwen had Jack’s command, and they both had something that Jack wanted, too. It was almost like having him back home.
The End
Author: sariagray
Rating: PG13
Characters/Pairings: Ianto /Gwen (Jack/Ianto, Gwen/Rhys)
Word Count: ~1100
Things To Be Aware Of: Adultery, sexual implications, language sort of.
Summary: “The Lord said, ‘Go to the devil.’”
Beta: analineblue <3
Disclaimer: Do not own.
Author Notes: I really just wanted some Ianto/Gwen fic, okay? Nothing I do makes sense anymore. Written for the redisourcolor challenge, Sin, using the words, “rumple,” “transform,” and “belief” and the quote "The time to relax is -- when you don't have time for it." Title and summary come from Nina Simone’s “Sinnerman.”
The River, It Was Boilin’
Ianto was in Jack’s office when Gwen came in. She didn’t barge, or push, or strut. Her mouth wasn’t overflowing with questions, or orders, or worries. Jokes didn’t spill over and tumble, flat and heavy, to the floor like deflated balloons. Instead, she hovered in the brown shadows of the doorway, hands at her sides, her mouth a tight line, her shirt rumpled.
It had been decided - days after Jack left, minutes after they realized he wasn’t coming back - that Ianto would take Jack’s office and Gwen would take Jack’s command. It seemed a good compromise; Gwen had proven complete rubbish at remembering to fill out paperwork and the others were rubbish at listening to Ianto. Tosh had wanted nothing to do with power (“Too corruptible,” she’d said, and Ianto didn’t know if she meant the position or herself) and, surprisingly, Owen hadn’t been interested, either (“Too much work”). So far, it seemed to be working. As well as something like this could, at any rate.
Most nights, before shutting down, Gwen would stride right through the invisible protective bubble Ianto’d created for himself, sink into a chair, and say things like, “Go home, sweetheart,” or, “Have we heard back from UNIT yet?” or, “Pack your things for Nepal,” or even, once, “What could I have done instead?”
Sometimes he thought he created that bubble just for the pleasure of watching her destroy it, watching her transform it into something useless.
“Hello,” he said when he couldn’t stand the silence anymore.
Gwen took one step forward, hesitated, and then tightrope-walked to the chair. She rested her hand on its back, dragged her fingers over the top, and finally perched herself on the edge of the seat like she was ready to take flight at any moment.
“Can I use your biro?” she asked.
Ianto frowned, but stretched out his right hand in offering. She reached to meet him halfway with her left and then -
“Oh,” Ianto said. “Oh.”
She took the biro and pulled the nearest piece of paper (which, as it happened, was her own expense report that Ianto had been in the middle of approving) close to her. In dark blue ink, she scrawled Rhys proposed in the top margin. She rotated the paper around.
“Yes, I see. Congratulations,” he said, and reached for the crystal tumblers and decanter that Jack kept stocked for less happy occasions.
“Do you want to know how he did it?” she asked.
He felt her eyes on him, tracking his every careful movement as he poured the whiskey. Doubles, he thought. They deserved it. After all, the time to relax was when you didn’t have time for it. Which, it seemed, was all the time.
“Down on one knee, I suspect,” he said, swirling his glass.
Gwen picked up her own. Her eyes twinkled. “He tried, but then - well, he ended up proposing from the settee.”
He raised an eyebrow at that. “And you said yes, of course.”
“You don’t get to keep the ring if you say no.”
Ianto chuckled, took a sip, and set the tumbler on the blotter of the desk. “No, I don’t suppose you do. Do you have a date in mind?”
“Not yet.” She swallowed her drink in one vicious gulp. “Lots of schedules to figure out first.”
They were quiet for a moment, Gwen staring at her empty glass, Ianto watching the emotions as they flickered across her face and manifested in things like the tapping of fingers and the rubbing of feet. When he lifted his drink, he could hear the ticking of his watch, the sounds of the mechanisms running together until everything was one long second.
“I think,” she said, then shook her head. “No. I want to wait for him to come back.”
He traced the rim of the glass, slowly, and then let his fingertip rub at a small etching in the crystal, over and over until he felt the ache in his shoulders ease.
“And if he doesn’t?” he asked.
“He will.”
They’d had this argument (if it could even be called an argument, rather than dogmatic rhetoric) before, switching sides whenever they felt like it. Neither of them had ever said, “He won’t,” though, because it just didn’t do to consider the possibility. Not yet.
“Okay,” he said.
That’s how it ended, too, every time. “Okay,” or “Sure,” or “Yes” in place of “Thank you.” Their belief was something shared, something bigger than the sum of their collective parts, and they refused to let it shatter. Torchwood had taken enough from them, erasing everything they once knew to be true; it stood to reason that they might get lucky, just this once.
It also stood to reason that they’d be proven wrong again.
“Rhys is so good,” Gwen whispered to her lap.
Ianto finished off his drink and poured them each another measure.
“He’s a good man,” he agreed. “Cheers.”
“No, no, he’s good. So bloody good. I don’t - it’s not fair. This. He wants to marry me and there’s all of this…bollocks.”
The last word fell away, dull and lifeless, and he realized he was crouching next to her before he even consciously considered standing up.
“I don’t deserve him,” she said, voice unusually small and weak. “I don’t deserve him, and I can’t tell him that because I don’t want to lose him. What does that make me?”
“Human,” Ianto said. “Very, very human.”
He held her right hand in his. He stroked his thumb over her bare ring finger and over her bare wrist, until she finally looked at him.
“No. I’m horrible,” she said, and kissed him.
Ianto froze.
“Horrible” was murmured against his lips until he dissolved, warmed, boiled. “Horrible, horrible, horrible.”
“No.”
It was more of a release of carbon dioxide and pent-up tension than it was an actual word, and even as it came out of Ianto’s mouth, he had no idea whether he meant, “No, stop, we shouldn’t” or “No, you aren’t horrible at all.”
“Yes,” she said.
Gwen bit at his lower lip, just hard enough to get her point across and Ianto’s lips parted until they were both panting recycled air, stale and chemically sweet from the whiskey. He was lightheaded from it, from the lack of oxygen and the utter madness of crashing to his knees, their mouths pressed impossibly close.
Her hands shook as liquor-clumsy fingers attempted to undo his buttons; her ring got caught on one and, when she moved her arm for better access, it snagged until the button dangled from a single thread.
His hands shook as he tried to help her.
“Horrible,” she said again, moaned the word into his mouth for him to taste, to keep.
Ianto traded back “Human” and “Okay. Sure. Yes,” and let go completely, let them have this one moment, just one, just this one time.
***
Ianto had Jack’s office, and Gwen had Jack’s command, and they both had something that Jack wanted, too. It was almost like having him back home.
The End