Fic: There Will Be Time
TITLE: There Will Be Time
AUTHOR: Erin Giles
DISCLAIMER: Torchwood and it's characters are property of the BBC.
RATING: PG
PAIRINGS/CHARACTERS: Ianto/Jack
WORDS: 447
SUMMARY: Jack has all the time in the world to say what he wants, doesn't he?
CHALLENGE: horizonssing Day 24:
And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep . . . tired . . . or it malingers,
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
Excerpt from, "The Love Song of J Alfred Prufrock"
T. S. Eliot
The only thing that breaks the silence as they lie lazily in the afternoon sun is the languid yawn Ianto lets pass between his lips. Jack turns to him slightly, sees his eyes closed against the sun, reflecting off his rosy cheeks. There’s still a smear of sun-tan lotion under his left eye and Jack wants no more to remove it now than he did two hours ago when Ianto asked if it had all been rubbed in.
They’ve just eaten the most sumptuous spread of sandwiches that Ianto made that morning and scones that Jack purchased from the little bakery at the end of Ianto’s street. Jack feels very civilised, very British in the way the afternoon has panned out, and he almost wishes he had a game of cricket to look forward to. As if by chance he sees a group of children across the common setting up wickets, one of them wielding a cricket bat.
He can see them all now, rushing home from school with conspired whispers to each other, hurrying in their doors to dump schoolbags with mumbled cries of hellos and goodbyes to parents. The sun is a long way from tired but the evening fast approaches; Jack can feel it in the breeze of air that tickles the back of his neck. He knows there’s still time though. Time is all Jack has.
He can feel death lain out of the grass between him an Ianto like an old friend. He’s disconcerting in his presence but Jack is afraid to let him out of his sight now, knows he’ll sneak up when Jack least expects it. Jacks knows that death, like time, is waiting.
Jack tries to memorise every shade of green in the grass but he knows he will live to see it another day, so finds himself not bothered. He doesn’t relish in the contour of every line, doesn’t feel with every emotion; he knows he will always have more time.
That’s why he doesn’t tell Ianto. That’s why he doesn’t say those three words that he knows he wants to hear as much as he wants to tell. He keeps telling himself he’s got all the time in the world to create the right situation, the right feeling, the right moment, the right words. But it’s not his time that matters.
“What is it?” Ianto asks when he opens his eyes against the afternoon haze and catches Jack frowning down at him. Jack doesn’t say what he wants to say though. He's too afraid.
“Nothing.” Jack shakes his head and turns away. He doesn’t have the strength today to say those words, even though he knows the time will come soon.
‘Goodbye, my love.’
AUTHOR: Erin Giles
DISCLAIMER: Torchwood and it's characters are property of the BBC.
RATING: PG
PAIRINGS/CHARACTERS: Ianto/Jack
WORDS: 447
SUMMARY: Jack has all the time in the world to say what he wants, doesn't he?
CHALLENGE: horizonssing Day 24:
And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep . . . tired . . . or it malingers,
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
Excerpt from, "The Love Song of J Alfred Prufrock"
T. S. Eliot
The only thing that breaks the silence as they lie lazily in the afternoon sun is the languid yawn Ianto lets pass between his lips. Jack turns to him slightly, sees his eyes closed against the sun, reflecting off his rosy cheeks. There’s still a smear of sun-tan lotion under his left eye and Jack wants no more to remove it now than he did two hours ago when Ianto asked if it had all been rubbed in.
They’ve just eaten the most sumptuous spread of sandwiches that Ianto made that morning and scones that Jack purchased from the little bakery at the end of Ianto’s street. Jack feels very civilised, very British in the way the afternoon has panned out, and he almost wishes he had a game of cricket to look forward to. As if by chance he sees a group of children across the common setting up wickets, one of them wielding a cricket bat.
He can see them all now, rushing home from school with conspired whispers to each other, hurrying in their doors to dump schoolbags with mumbled cries of hellos and goodbyes to parents. The sun is a long way from tired but the evening fast approaches; Jack can feel it in the breeze of air that tickles the back of his neck. He knows there’s still time though. Time is all Jack has.
He can feel death lain out of the grass between him an Ianto like an old friend. He’s disconcerting in his presence but Jack is afraid to let him out of his sight now, knows he’ll sneak up when Jack least expects it. Jacks knows that death, like time, is waiting.
Jack tries to memorise every shade of green in the grass but he knows he will live to see it another day, so finds himself not bothered. He doesn’t relish in the contour of every line, doesn’t feel with every emotion; he knows he will always have more time.
That’s why he doesn’t tell Ianto. That’s why he doesn’t say those three words that he knows he wants to hear as much as he wants to tell. He keeps telling himself he’s got all the time in the world to create the right situation, the right feeling, the right moment, the right words. But it’s not his time that matters.
“What is it?” Ianto asks when he opens his eyes against the afternoon haze and catches Jack frowning down at him. Jack doesn’t say what he wants to say though. He's too afraid.
“Nothing.” Jack shakes his head and turns away. He doesn’t have the strength today to say those words, even though he knows the time will come soon.
‘Goodbye, my love.’