Torchwood: Stains in a Coffee Mug
Title: Stains in a Coffee Mug
Author: thedeepeekay
Fandom: Torchwood
Pairing, Characters: Jack/Ianto, team
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: None. Implies an established relationship, though, so let's say set some time S2
Disclaimer: Not mine, never has been, never will be.
Length: 1828 words
Status: One-shot
Summary: Jack can't bring himself to wash an old mug.
Author's Note: tanarian, whom you might have seen around TW fandom, asked for prompts. And nice, helpful, selfless person that I am, I prompted. Jack. Faded brown. Washing coffee mugs. Then, before I had read the result, I found myself facing several hours on a train with nothing to entertain me but pen and paper.
As always, not beta'd.
Crossposted to / originally posted at: Nowhere. Yes, I'm a coward.
Written: July 2008
Stains in a Coffee Mug
The rift alarm went off just after Ianto had handed out the first coffee of the day. Well, the first coffee for the team. Jack and Ianto had already savoured some of the strong, dark brew. So it had been before going to bed, but still, after midnight, making it the first cup of the day. Although, Jack didn't really drink it out of a cup but rather coaxed it from a mouth more or less willing to share the precious liquid. And strictly speaking, it had been in bed. And then of course they had to power each other out in order to counteract the stimulating effect of the caffeine and get some rest.
But this was the first round of the working day, Ianto's first fix after waking. And if the rigid set of his shoulders was anything to go by, he was not happy with being robbed of his pleasure.
The hub burst into action at the first piercing noise of the alarm. Mugs, previously held under noses, reverently inhaling the rising vapours, were put down. Tosh let her fingers dance over her keyboard, rattling off readings and numbers. Owen rushed to the autopsy bay to grab some essentials he had neglected to stock the SUV's med kit up with. Jack took one look at the grainy shape he could just about make out on the CCTV Tosh had brought up and declared it harmless; peaceful but possibly disoriented and scared, while Gwen went for a couple of bigger guns, just in case. When he looked up, he caught sight of Ianto's pinstripe-clad form disappearing into the kitchen, the discarded mugs gathered in his hands.
Following, Jack pondered commenting on certain employees reacting to a potential crisis by tending to the dishes of all things, instead of weaponry, transportation, or the like, but dropped that thought out of self-preservation, or at least the preservation of his dignity. He'd only get faced with an eye roll and a dry "That's because some of us don't neglect their work and then have to do last-minute preparations," followed by a teasing, disapproving "That goes there, sir," at Jack himself hurriedly stuffing half a dozen little gadgets he had to have with him into various coat pockets.
In the kitchen Ianto stood with his back to him, pouring mug after mug of still-steaming coffee down the drain, leaving his own for last. He then without hesitation or any indication of pain raised it to his lips and did his best to down the scalding liquid in one go.
Jack suppressed a chuckle. Addict. He didn't say it out loud, though. He didn't have to, he knew what the younger man's reaction would be. A raised eyebrow, the hint of a smirk, and, in a tone of voice mostly polite, but with a hint of amusement and that "You are lucky that for some inexplicable reason I'm fond of you," around his eyes that Jack adored, he'd say "Pot and kettle, sir." Well, as a person of authority it wouldn't do to let one of his subordinates get away with calling him an addict.
Instead he stepped closer as Ianto lowered the mug and stared at it, lost in thought. Pulling the other's body to lean back against chest, he reached out, covering a pale hand with his tan one. Ghosting a soft kiss against Ianto's neck, he guided their hands to the sink, putting the mug down and, finger after finger, detaching Ianto's hand from it. Then, in an imitation of his actions a few hours earlier, he laid his check against the other man's, then turned his head slightly and stole another coffee-flavoured, Ianto-flavoured kiss, humming contently as he savoured the taste.
"Let's go."
***
Now it was Jack who stared at the mug in his hand, absentmindedly tracing the rim just opposite the handle, where a chip was missing. He once had offered to just buy a new one, but Ianto had refused. Instead he insisted on keeping this old, battered mug with writing too faded for him to make out the letters.
Someone calling his name, repeatedly. Telling him he was not alone, they were there, telling him to remember life went on.
Jack couldn't remember the number of times Ianto cut himself on that mug in his haste for caffeine. What he did remember was wanting to kiss the blood away, right from the beginning. And then, later, doing so. He remembered one time, after some ridiculous, stupid fight, tension in the air, and neither of them backing off. He remembered Ianto grabbing his mug with too much tension is his movements, raising it to his lips with to much force. He remembered the small flinch, the split second of hesitation before drinking. He remembered knowing that Ianto didn't see the point of putting the mug down displaying the cut, not with them at odds. He remembered not remembering, all thoughts of their previous row forgotten, because even if he couldn't see it, he knew it was there, the tiniest drop of deep scarlet on Ianto's lip. He remembered suddenly standing in front of Ianto, a confused Ianto, a napkin in his hand, carefully dabbing, letting it soak up the small drop, then pressing a feathery soft kiss to the now invisible wound, willing it to be better, to heal, to never have happened. Because he never could bear to see that one shade of red on Ianto.
There was a story behind that mug and its washed-out writing, Jack was sure of it. But he had never asked.
A hand on his shoulder, demanding attention, trying to turn him around, make him look up.
He looked at the inside, at the faded brown of week-old coffee stains, never washed out. If he left it like that, would the stains become permanent? Eternal, like him?
A slap on his cheek, turning his head.
He turned his head, considering the mug's outside. Battered, but beautiful. Precious. And so fragile and fleeting. Ready to break and shatter into a thousand little pieces.
Like its owner had shattered.
Thrown against a wall, as Jack had once thrown another mug during a temper tantrum. The sound it had made as it impacted had surprised him. A thousand shards ricocheting off the Hub's wall and hitting the floor had sounded like Christmas. Chinking ice and jingling bells. It had made him laugh, the tension evaporating. His team had frowned, and Ianto…
He turned the mug again, resuming his gazing into its depths. Focused on the overall brown tinge of the white surface, on the bottom, where a dark circle spoke of the dregs that had been left to dry. Didn't quite see the clear drops that fell onto it, first one, then two, three. The only liquid to touch the mug since its last use, and if Jack had noticed the tears rolling down his cheeks, falling from the mask that used to be his face, they wouldn't have been allowed to either.
Begging in his ear, asking him to snap out of it, to just, please, it would be alright, Jack, damn you, do you even hear me? I don't know what to do!
He had known. Of course he had known. He had watched everyone around him break and shatter for longer than any man should. But he hadn't expected…
He hadn't expected it to happen like that. For Ianto to really, literally shatter. Thrown against a wall like a mug thrown by a raging time traveller.
…when everything changes…
He had been so confident in his knowledge, his conviction, that mankind here was not what it would be, what his mankind would be, what it would change, grown, evolve into.
…you and your categories…
They had no idea. The universe was not some empty, vast space. It was brimming with life, culture, technology beyond what they could imagine in their narrow little minds, such a diversity, such a richness. And he was familiar with it.
…you've got to be ready…
They would have shot it. Ianto would have shot it. An alien they didn't understand, flailing, screaming. They'd have considered it dangerous and a monster, and shot it. But Jack had known the race. Had met aliens like that in the future. They were gentle giants, just easily scared. He made them put away their guns, talk to it soothingly, wrecked his mind for a couple of words that would be comprehensible for the poor thing while suggesting Ianto fall back on Approach Number Seven, Gain Its Trust Through Dark Chocolate.
It had never occurred to him that not only mankind would change over the course of three millennia.
The sound of the rolling cog door, people talking to each other, slowly, be careful, someone groaning.
Ianto had groaned as he pulled him to his feet, told him to drop the gun, fast and violent would only land him on his arse again, and that would be a waste for said arse. Had sighed as Jack made him inch closer to the alien, chocolate in one hand, sedative in the other, while he himself spoke, accented, but understandable, of friendship, of help, of a place to find shelter and to help it find its way home.
Then the alien has tensed muscles it shouldn't have.
Someone knocking on the frame of the kitchen door.
The screams and shots had drowned the sound of Ianto hitting the far wall, of his breath being knocked out of his lungs, blocked out the sickening crack of shattering bones.
Not even the wail of the dying alien had been enough to block the quiet thud of Ianto's limp and broken body hitting the floor like a wet rag, or the deafening absence of breaths from his body, laboured, wheezing, of any kind.
A hand carefully closed around his shaking one, putting the mug back into the sink before it could fall and shatter.
Ianto had shattered, and Jack might as well have thrown him himself.
The hand retreated, returned at his side as an arm wrapped around his waist, a body gingerly leaning against his, offering comfort, then slumping, seeking contact, needing support.
A soft kiss against his neck.
Jack stared at the faded brown stains in the mug.
A second hand, covering his, peeling his fingers off it.
Only when the water had spilled into the mug and began to erase the stains did the cold metal of the tab register under his palm. The sound of running water booming in his ears. His eyed fixed on the dissolving swirls of coffee in hot water. His hand over the cold tab, his hand.
His hand under another one. Pale, two fingers splinted, a needle stuck into the bruised flesh, connected to an IV line.
A cheek against his, hesitant, made him turn his head. Lips brushed.
Ianto-flavoured kiss.
"Let's go."
Something in Jack mended.
Author: thedeepeekay
Fandom: Torchwood
Pairing, Characters: Jack/Ianto, team
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: None. Implies an established relationship, though, so let's say set some time S2
Disclaimer: Not mine, never has been, never will be.
Length: 1828 words
Status: One-shot
Summary: Jack can't bring himself to wash an old mug.
Author's Note: tanarian, whom you might have seen around TW fandom, asked for prompts. And nice, helpful, selfless person that I am, I prompted. Jack. Faded brown. Washing coffee mugs. Then, before I had read the result, I found myself facing several hours on a train with nothing to entertain me but pen and paper.
As always, not beta'd.
Crossposted to / originally posted at: Nowhere. Yes, I'm a coward.
Written: July 2008
Stains in a Coffee Mug
The rift alarm went off just after Ianto had handed out the first coffee of the day. Well, the first coffee for the team. Jack and Ianto had already savoured some of the strong, dark brew. So it had been before going to bed, but still, after midnight, making it the first cup of the day. Although, Jack didn't really drink it out of a cup but rather coaxed it from a mouth more or less willing to share the precious liquid. And strictly speaking, it had been in bed. And then of course they had to power each other out in order to counteract the stimulating effect of the caffeine and get some rest.
But this was the first round of the working day, Ianto's first fix after waking. And if the rigid set of his shoulders was anything to go by, he was not happy with being robbed of his pleasure.
The hub burst into action at the first piercing noise of the alarm. Mugs, previously held under noses, reverently inhaling the rising vapours, were put down. Tosh let her fingers dance over her keyboard, rattling off readings and numbers. Owen rushed to the autopsy bay to grab some essentials he had neglected to stock the SUV's med kit up with. Jack took one look at the grainy shape he could just about make out on the CCTV Tosh had brought up and declared it harmless; peaceful but possibly disoriented and scared, while Gwen went for a couple of bigger guns, just in case. When he looked up, he caught sight of Ianto's pinstripe-clad form disappearing into the kitchen, the discarded mugs gathered in his hands.
Following, Jack pondered commenting on certain employees reacting to a potential crisis by tending to the dishes of all things, instead of weaponry, transportation, or the like, but dropped that thought out of self-preservation, or at least the preservation of his dignity. He'd only get faced with an eye roll and a dry "That's because some of us don't neglect their work and then have to do last-minute preparations," followed by a teasing, disapproving "That goes there, sir," at Jack himself hurriedly stuffing half a dozen little gadgets he had to have with him into various coat pockets.
In the kitchen Ianto stood with his back to him, pouring mug after mug of still-steaming coffee down the drain, leaving his own for last. He then without hesitation or any indication of pain raised it to his lips and did his best to down the scalding liquid in one go.
Jack suppressed a chuckle. Addict. He didn't say it out loud, though. He didn't have to, he knew what the younger man's reaction would be. A raised eyebrow, the hint of a smirk, and, in a tone of voice mostly polite, but with a hint of amusement and that "You are lucky that for some inexplicable reason I'm fond of you," around his eyes that Jack adored, he'd say "Pot and kettle, sir." Well, as a person of authority it wouldn't do to let one of his subordinates get away with calling him an addict.
Instead he stepped closer as Ianto lowered the mug and stared at it, lost in thought. Pulling the other's body to lean back against chest, he reached out, covering a pale hand with his tan one. Ghosting a soft kiss against Ianto's neck, he guided their hands to the sink, putting the mug down and, finger after finger, detaching Ianto's hand from it. Then, in an imitation of his actions a few hours earlier, he laid his check against the other man's, then turned his head slightly and stole another coffee-flavoured, Ianto-flavoured kiss, humming contently as he savoured the taste.
"Let's go."
***
Now it was Jack who stared at the mug in his hand, absentmindedly tracing the rim just opposite the handle, where a chip was missing. He once had offered to just buy a new one, but Ianto had refused. Instead he insisted on keeping this old, battered mug with writing too faded for him to make out the letters.
Someone calling his name, repeatedly. Telling him he was not alone, they were there, telling him to remember life went on.
Jack couldn't remember the number of times Ianto cut himself on that mug in his haste for caffeine. What he did remember was wanting to kiss the blood away, right from the beginning. And then, later, doing so. He remembered one time, after some ridiculous, stupid fight, tension in the air, and neither of them backing off. He remembered Ianto grabbing his mug with too much tension is his movements, raising it to his lips with to much force. He remembered the small flinch, the split second of hesitation before drinking. He remembered knowing that Ianto didn't see the point of putting the mug down displaying the cut, not with them at odds. He remembered not remembering, all thoughts of their previous row forgotten, because even if he couldn't see it, he knew it was there, the tiniest drop of deep scarlet on Ianto's lip. He remembered suddenly standing in front of Ianto, a confused Ianto, a napkin in his hand, carefully dabbing, letting it soak up the small drop, then pressing a feathery soft kiss to the now invisible wound, willing it to be better, to heal, to never have happened. Because he never could bear to see that one shade of red on Ianto.
There was a story behind that mug and its washed-out writing, Jack was sure of it. But he had never asked.
A hand on his shoulder, demanding attention, trying to turn him around, make him look up.
He looked at the inside, at the faded brown of week-old coffee stains, never washed out. If he left it like that, would the stains become permanent? Eternal, like him?
A slap on his cheek, turning his head.
He turned his head, considering the mug's outside. Battered, but beautiful. Precious. And so fragile and fleeting. Ready to break and shatter into a thousand little pieces.
Like its owner had shattered.
Thrown against a wall, as Jack had once thrown another mug during a temper tantrum. The sound it had made as it impacted had surprised him. A thousand shards ricocheting off the Hub's wall and hitting the floor had sounded like Christmas. Chinking ice and jingling bells. It had made him laugh, the tension evaporating. His team had frowned, and Ianto…
He turned the mug again, resuming his gazing into its depths. Focused on the overall brown tinge of the white surface, on the bottom, where a dark circle spoke of the dregs that had been left to dry. Didn't quite see the clear drops that fell onto it, first one, then two, three. The only liquid to touch the mug since its last use, and if Jack had noticed the tears rolling down his cheeks, falling from the mask that used to be his face, they wouldn't have been allowed to either.
Begging in his ear, asking him to snap out of it, to just, please, it would be alright, Jack, damn you, do you even hear me? I don't know what to do!
He had known. Of course he had known. He had watched everyone around him break and shatter for longer than any man should. But he hadn't expected…
He hadn't expected it to happen like that. For Ianto to really, literally shatter. Thrown against a wall like a mug thrown by a raging time traveller.
…when everything changes…
He had been so confident in his knowledge, his conviction, that mankind here was not what it would be, what his mankind would be, what it would change, grown, evolve into.
…you and your categories…
They had no idea. The universe was not some empty, vast space. It was brimming with life, culture, technology beyond what they could imagine in their narrow little minds, such a diversity, such a richness. And he was familiar with it.
…you've got to be ready…
They would have shot it. Ianto would have shot it. An alien they didn't understand, flailing, screaming. They'd have considered it dangerous and a monster, and shot it. But Jack had known the race. Had met aliens like that in the future. They were gentle giants, just easily scared. He made them put away their guns, talk to it soothingly, wrecked his mind for a couple of words that would be comprehensible for the poor thing while suggesting Ianto fall back on Approach Number Seven, Gain Its Trust Through Dark Chocolate.
It had never occurred to him that not only mankind would change over the course of three millennia.
The sound of the rolling cog door, people talking to each other, slowly, be careful, someone groaning.
Ianto had groaned as he pulled him to his feet, told him to drop the gun, fast and violent would only land him on his arse again, and that would be a waste for said arse. Had sighed as Jack made him inch closer to the alien, chocolate in one hand, sedative in the other, while he himself spoke, accented, but understandable, of friendship, of help, of a place to find shelter and to help it find its way home.
Then the alien has tensed muscles it shouldn't have.
Someone knocking on the frame of the kitchen door.
The screams and shots had drowned the sound of Ianto hitting the far wall, of his breath being knocked out of his lungs, blocked out the sickening crack of shattering bones.
Not even the wail of the dying alien had been enough to block the quiet thud of Ianto's limp and broken body hitting the floor like a wet rag, or the deafening absence of breaths from his body, laboured, wheezing, of any kind.
A hand carefully closed around his shaking one, putting the mug back into the sink before it could fall and shatter.
Ianto had shattered, and Jack might as well have thrown him himself.
The hand retreated, returned at his side as an arm wrapped around his waist, a body gingerly leaning against his, offering comfort, then slumping, seeking contact, needing support.
A soft kiss against his neck.
Jack stared at the faded brown stains in the mug.
A second hand, covering his, peeling his fingers off it.
Only when the water had spilled into the mug and began to erase the stains did the cold metal of the tab register under his palm. The sound of running water booming in his ears. His eyed fixed on the dissolving swirls of coffee in hot water. His hand over the cold tab, his hand.
His hand under another one. Pale, two fingers splinted, a needle stuck into the bruised flesh, connected to an IV line.
A cheek against his, hesitant, made him turn his head. Lips brushed.
Ianto-flavoured kiss.
"Let's go."
Something in Jack mended.