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Sorry I'm a bit behind on these. I've been spending a few days focusing pretty intensely on some original fiction I'm working on, and that's cut into my fanfic time a little. I anticipate catching up this week, though. For now, here's #9:
Title: The Play of the Universe
Disclaimer: Being a bloke who likes to slash pretty men doesn't make me RTD, I don't work for the BBC, and as much as I might like to, I don't own Jack or Ianto or any part of Torchwood. I do, however, order pizza under that name on principle.
Pairings: Jack/Ianto
Rating: PG-ish for implied sex.
Notes/Summary: In which the consequences of Jack's actions are too terrible for Ianto to contemplate. This came out a lot darker than I intended, and there's a fair amount of speculation and ambiguity involved. Refers to the events of 1x02 - "Day One," 1x04 - "Cyberwoman," and Owen's trilogy (2x06, 2x07, and 2x08) in S2. Written for the July 9 prompt at![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
horizonssing.
"I walk without flinching through the burning cathedral of the summer.
My bank of wild grass is majestic and full of music.
It is a fire that solitude presses against my lips."
- Violette Leduc, Mad in Pursuit
They’ve never spoken of it, Jack and him. He’d thought about asking at one point, not long after Tommy, but then Owen had happened, and the second glove, and Ianto found he’d lost his stomach for the subject. Try as he might, he can’t fathom what terrible metric could have saved his own life, but condemn Owen to death.
He resigns himself to silence and tries not to think about it much.
Even so, the memory of his own experience is still impossibly vivid, as if it’s been burned permanently into the present moment of his consciousness. He vaguely remembers a slow fade into darkness, interrupted by light and warmth too ephemeral to be fire, but so powerful he’d wondered at the time if death meant becoming the sun.
And then he’d opened his eyes and there was Jack, kissing him in spite of his betrayal, feeding air into his burning lungs.
He wonders a little if it was like this for Carys Fletcher. Does she ever find herself dreaming in ideal summer golds, or remember being so filled with life that death itself was extinguished for that crucial moment?
He hopes she doesn’t. It’s too terrible to contemplate. Even now, Ianto can feel it as he kisses his way down Jack’s back. It sings, eternal and nameless, driving him mad. As much as he wishes it to, it will never let him go.
Title: The Play of the Universe
Disclaimer: Being a bloke who likes to slash pretty men doesn't make me RTD, I don't work for the BBC, and as much as I might like to, I don't own Jack or Ianto or any part of Torchwood. I do, however, order pizza under that name on principle.
Pairings: Jack/Ianto
Rating: PG-ish for implied sex.
Notes/Summary: In which the consequences of Jack's actions are too terrible for Ianto to contemplate. This came out a lot darker than I intended, and there's a fair amount of speculation and ambiguity involved. Refers to the events of 1x02 - "Day One," 1x04 - "Cyberwoman," and Owen's trilogy (2x06, 2x07, and 2x08) in S2. Written for the July 9 prompt at
horizonssing.My bank of wild grass is majestic and full of music.
It is a fire that solitude presses against my lips."
- Violette Leduc, Mad in Pursuit
They’ve never spoken of it, Jack and him. He’d thought about asking at one point, not long after Tommy, but then Owen had happened, and the second glove, and Ianto found he’d lost his stomach for the subject. Try as he might, he can’t fathom what terrible metric could have saved his own life, but condemn Owen to death.
He resigns himself to silence and tries not to think about it much.
Even so, the memory of his own experience is still impossibly vivid, as if it’s been burned permanently into the present moment of his consciousness. He vaguely remembers a slow fade into darkness, interrupted by light and warmth too ephemeral to be fire, but so powerful he’d wondered at the time if death meant becoming the sun.
And then he’d opened his eyes and there was Jack, kissing him in spite of his betrayal, feeding air into his burning lungs.
He wonders a little if it was like this for Carys Fletcher. Does she ever find herself dreaming in ideal summer golds, or remember being so filled with life that death itself was extinguished for that crucial moment?
He hopes she doesn’t. It’s too terrible to contemplate. Even now, Ianto can feel it as he kisses his way down Jack’s back. It sings, eternal and nameless, driving him mad. As much as he wishes it to, it will never let him go.
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