As Soon Go Kindle Fire With Snow
Title: As Soon Go Kindle Fire With Snow
Author: sariagray
Characters/Pairings: Jack/Ianto
Word Count: 872
Rating: PG13
Warning: Bloody. Not-quite angst. Unbeta'd.
Disclaimer: I do not own Torchwood. I do not make money off of Torchwood. In fact, it seems as though Torchwood owns and makes money off of ME. This is for entertainment purposes only.
Author’s Note: SO. I'm quite literally snowed in. Can barely open the door. I have no idea where this story came from or how I feel about it. But here, take it. I wash my hands clean of it. The title is from a quote from Two Gentlemen of Verona. The full quote: "As soon go kindle fire with snow, as seek to quench the fire of love with words."
As Soon Go Kindle Fire With Snow
Around Jack’s lifeless body, the blood is dark and thick as syrup. As it spreads out, a gradual procession, it lightens until it looks more like a frozen treat than spilled life force. It seeps into the powdery snow, staining it a grotesque pink that forms a sick halo.
It’s a strange scene, and rather cinematic. The muted colors of white and black grey the blue of Jack’s greatcoat; it seems to match the sky. The splash of red blood is shocking, like a little girl’s coat in monochromatic winter streets.
The Weevil had been shot by Jack before he had taken his last-but-not-really breath and his hand still clutches the gun. There is blood beneath the Weevil, too, but not nearly so much; the wound was relatively small, the death clean. It is still snowing hard enough that the area looks to be shrouded in fog and the flakes collect in piles on Jack’s face, dusting his brow and lips.
The merry, gentle chitter-chirrup of a songbird echoes in the silence.
Ianto kneels beside him, heedless of the wet cold that soaks through his trousers. With care, he removes the Webley in much the same way one would gently coax a rattle from the clenched fist of a baby, almost as if he doesn’t want to wake Jack. He regards the pistol carefully, checks the safety, and places it in Jack’s holster. The action rearranges the collecting snow and he gently brushes it all away with a gloved hand.
There is a good deal of blood mixed in with the snow where he rests, but he doesn’t allow himself to think of that. With a tenderness that he would never show in the bright analytical light of Life, he sweeps the white drifts off of the still face and leans over, pressing his lips softly against Jack’s. They’re cold and hard and unyielding beneath his; it’s not that he expected anything else, but a shudder travels through him and tries to turn itself into a sob.
He pulls back, slow with the chill that permeates his bones, and watches the inert form. The pallor amidst the swirling snow is bold and terrifying; an archetypical fallen hero, a tragic prince trapped in ice. Ianto shifts his own body and arranges Jack so that the heavy head rests in his lap. He smoothes the hair almost mindlessly, the other hand clutching Jack’s upper arm, as he contemplates images and metaphors - anything to soften the blow.
It isn’t new to him, this dying-and-reviving business, but it still aches more than the thought of his own death. He is reconciled with his demise, has been since he signed up with Torchwood One, but he doesn’t ever fully believe that Jack will come back. One day, Death or the Doctor will claim Jack for good. All he can think, pray, is “Not now. Not now. Not now.”
Ianto’s grip tightens and his stroking hand stills as he feels Jack grow warmer, lighter, in his hold. Then again, it could be the numbing cold that causes the sensation. There is a sharp intake of breath and he looks down just in time to see Jack’s wild blue eyes darting, scouting the area. The revived man finally glances up into Ianto’s face and his eyes open wide in query.
“Shhh,” Ianto soothes, burying his desire to weep or shout with joy. “It’s safe now. You’re safe. I’m here.”
Jack’s eyelids flutter closed for a moment as his eyes reset themselves from panic to poise. They open again and a smile finds its way to his lips. Ianto is grateful for that small gesture, relief prying the fingers of anxiety from his heart.
“Hey. I died,” Jack observes conversationally, his voice raw with cold and death.
“That you did,” Ianto agrees, his mask as firmly in place now as it has ever been. “Weevil claws to the back. That coat needs mending again. You all right now?”
“Yeah.” Jack struggles to sit up and Ianto can see healed skin through the shredded wool. “Yeah. You?”
“Bit cold.”
“It’s still snowing. How long have I been dead?”
“Little less than an hour,” Ianto answers, though he had been counting the minutes and knows the exact time.
Jack frowns at him, stands, and grabs Ianto’s hand to tug him up. For once, Ianto doesn’t protest the assistance. Pulling him close, Jack wraps his arms around the chilled form and ghosts his warming lips over a temple.
“You’re frozen. You should’ve gone back to the SUV.”
“And leave you here for the ravens to scavenge?”
Chuckling, he clutches Ianto tighter. “All right, we’ve got a Weevil to take care of. Where’s my gun?”
Jack pulls away and, holding his lover at arm’s length, glances around the whitened landscape for his revolver. Ianto smiles indulgently at him and nods toward his hip. Jack checks and beams up at him.
“Ianto Jones, what would I do without you?”
“Somehow, I think you’d survive. The sooner we finish with the Weevil, the sooner we can get back and warm up.”
Jack doesn’t answer and Ianto refuses to interpret the expression on the man’s face. Silently, save occasional grunts and the panted breath of effort, they work.
The End
Author: sariagray
Characters/Pairings: Jack/Ianto
Word Count: 872
Rating: PG13
Warning: Bloody. Not-quite angst. Unbeta'd.
Disclaimer: I do not own Torchwood. I do not make money off of Torchwood. In fact, it seems as though Torchwood owns and makes money off of ME. This is for entertainment purposes only.
Author’s Note: SO. I'm quite literally snowed in. Can barely open the door. I have no idea where this story came from or how I feel about it. But here, take it. I wash my hands clean of it. The title is from a quote from Two Gentlemen of Verona. The full quote: "As soon go kindle fire with snow, as seek to quench the fire of love with words."
As Soon Go Kindle Fire With Snow
Around Jack’s lifeless body, the blood is dark and thick as syrup. As it spreads out, a gradual procession, it lightens until it looks more like a frozen treat than spilled life force. It seeps into the powdery snow, staining it a grotesque pink that forms a sick halo.
It’s a strange scene, and rather cinematic. The muted colors of white and black grey the blue of Jack’s greatcoat; it seems to match the sky. The splash of red blood is shocking, like a little girl’s coat in monochromatic winter streets.
The Weevil had been shot by Jack before he had taken his last-but-not-really breath and his hand still clutches the gun. There is blood beneath the Weevil, too, but not nearly so much; the wound was relatively small, the death clean. It is still snowing hard enough that the area looks to be shrouded in fog and the flakes collect in piles on Jack’s face, dusting his brow and lips.
The merry, gentle chitter-chirrup of a songbird echoes in the silence.
Ianto kneels beside him, heedless of the wet cold that soaks through his trousers. With care, he removes the Webley in much the same way one would gently coax a rattle from the clenched fist of a baby, almost as if he doesn’t want to wake Jack. He regards the pistol carefully, checks the safety, and places it in Jack’s holster. The action rearranges the collecting snow and he gently brushes it all away with a gloved hand.
There is a good deal of blood mixed in with the snow where he rests, but he doesn’t allow himself to think of that. With a tenderness that he would never show in the bright analytical light of Life, he sweeps the white drifts off of the still face and leans over, pressing his lips softly against Jack’s. They’re cold and hard and unyielding beneath his; it’s not that he expected anything else, but a shudder travels through him and tries to turn itself into a sob.
He pulls back, slow with the chill that permeates his bones, and watches the inert form. The pallor amidst the swirling snow is bold and terrifying; an archetypical fallen hero, a tragic prince trapped in ice. Ianto shifts his own body and arranges Jack so that the heavy head rests in his lap. He smoothes the hair almost mindlessly, the other hand clutching Jack’s upper arm, as he contemplates images and metaphors - anything to soften the blow.
It isn’t new to him, this dying-and-reviving business, but it still aches more than the thought of his own death. He is reconciled with his demise, has been since he signed up with Torchwood One, but he doesn’t ever fully believe that Jack will come back. One day, Death or the Doctor will claim Jack for good. All he can think, pray, is “Not now. Not now. Not now.”
Ianto’s grip tightens and his stroking hand stills as he feels Jack grow warmer, lighter, in his hold. Then again, it could be the numbing cold that causes the sensation. There is a sharp intake of breath and he looks down just in time to see Jack’s wild blue eyes darting, scouting the area. The revived man finally glances up into Ianto’s face and his eyes open wide in query.
“Shhh,” Ianto soothes, burying his desire to weep or shout with joy. “It’s safe now. You’re safe. I’m here.”
Jack’s eyelids flutter closed for a moment as his eyes reset themselves from panic to poise. They open again and a smile finds its way to his lips. Ianto is grateful for that small gesture, relief prying the fingers of anxiety from his heart.
“Hey. I died,” Jack observes conversationally, his voice raw with cold and death.
“That you did,” Ianto agrees, his mask as firmly in place now as it has ever been. “Weevil claws to the back. That coat needs mending again. You all right now?”
“Yeah.” Jack struggles to sit up and Ianto can see healed skin through the shredded wool. “Yeah. You?”
“Bit cold.”
“It’s still snowing. How long have I been dead?”
“Little less than an hour,” Ianto answers, though he had been counting the minutes and knows the exact time.
Jack frowns at him, stands, and grabs Ianto’s hand to tug him up. For once, Ianto doesn’t protest the assistance. Pulling him close, Jack wraps his arms around the chilled form and ghosts his warming lips over a temple.
“You’re frozen. You should’ve gone back to the SUV.”
“And leave you here for the ravens to scavenge?”
Chuckling, he clutches Ianto tighter. “All right, we’ve got a Weevil to take care of. Where’s my gun?”
Jack pulls away and, holding his lover at arm’s length, glances around the whitened landscape for his revolver. Ianto smiles indulgently at him and nods toward his hip. Jack checks and beams up at him.
“Ianto Jones, what would I do without you?”
“Somehow, I think you’d survive. The sooner we finish with the Weevil, the sooner we can get back and warm up.”
Jack doesn’t answer and Ianto refuses to interpret the expression on the man’s face. Silently, save occasional grunts and the panted breath of effort, they work.
The End