(no subject)
Daniel wasn’t sure why it was that when his life seemed just a little better, things tended to choose that moment to go straight to hell again. First Owen and Alcuin. Confessions to Owen that he didn’t want to think about and things he wished he hadn’t learned about Mohinder. Or about Alcuin and Jack. And then he’d talked to Ianto. Things had gone from bad to worse to ugly and then actually better.
Until he’d found out about Charlie.
It wasn’t that he didn’t like Charlie. He did. But it was just so…soon. He wasn’t sure how Ianto could have moved on quite that fast. He wasn’t sure about a lot of things.
And then Jack. He had tried with Jack. Or maybe he hadn’t, because he’d grabbed the joint from Jack’s hand without an explanation and without asking. But he’d wanted to help and Jack had been more Jack than normal. He’d showed up being mad and hurt and confused and had left mad and hurt and confused and with Jack mad at him. Not the best day.
But it was a new week and things were already looking up. He’d gotten his cast off today and, though pale, his arm seemed just fine. He decided to celebrate by grabbing his swimsuit and a book and heading down to the water.
Not Arthur, he decided, remembering with an odd mixture of fondness and regret reading Le Morte d’Arthur to Ianto as he dozed on Daniel’s chest. And not anything about India that the bookshelf had started throwing him. Instead, he went for something completely out of character and grabbed Misery. Stephen King wasn’t anything he’d read much and maybe it’d distract him from thoughts of doctors or devotees of Elua or Time Agents or exes. And especially from thoughts of certain geneticists.
(Note: For those of you who didn't know that Daniel and Ianto have broken up or for those who don't know he's not wearing the cartouche anymore, have a shirtless Daniel reading on the beach.)
Until he’d found out about Charlie.
It wasn’t that he didn’t like Charlie. He did. But it was just so…soon. He wasn’t sure how Ianto could have moved on quite that fast. He wasn’t sure about a lot of things.
And then Jack. He had tried with Jack. Or maybe he hadn’t, because he’d grabbed the joint from Jack’s hand without an explanation and without asking. But he’d wanted to help and Jack had been more Jack than normal. He’d showed up being mad and hurt and confused and had left mad and hurt and confused and with Jack mad at him. Not the best day.
But it was a new week and things were already looking up. He’d gotten his cast off today and, though pale, his arm seemed just fine. He decided to celebrate by grabbing his swimsuit and a book and heading down to the water.
Not Arthur, he decided, remembering with an odd mixture of fondness and regret reading Le Morte d’Arthur to Ianto as he dozed on Daniel’s chest. And not anything about India that the bookshelf had started throwing him. Instead, he went for something completely out of character and grabbed Misery. Stephen King wasn’t anything he’d read much and maybe it’d distract him from thoughts of doctors or devotees of Elua or Time Agents or exes. And especially from thoughts of certain geneticists.
(Note: For those of you who didn't know that Daniel and Ianto have broken up or for those who don't know he's not wearing the cartouche anymore, have a shirtless Daniel reading on the beach.)