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custodianTitle: Three Breaths Before He Closed His Eyes
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: Implied Jack/Ianto
Rating: PG-13 for angst, unsafe use of a firearm. Keep away from sharp objects after reading.
Notes: Takes place three days after Jack vanishes. As always, I welcome comments, criticism, Britpicking, coffee, good chocolate, and assurances that I will not die suddenly between now and the airing of "Utopia".
Ianto removed his earpiece and dropped it into his inside jacket pocket. The Hub was empty, finally. It had taken three days for the others to give up waiting. Gwen's attempt at keeping hope alive had backfired. Nobody ever found a person on a poster. In a way, it was a relief.
He shrugged off his jacket and folded it before hanging it over one of the ladder's rungs before carefully and precisely removing his shoes, one at a time. He did not remove anything else. Not even the gun he'd worn under his jacket for the last three days. They were on high alert. One of their own had been taken. Even now, he had to be ready.
And after all, this wasn't sexual. How could it be? The whole last two weeks had gutted him. Jack falling through the Rift, Owen murdering Jack to open the Rift, Jack killing himself to save Cardiff (and probably the planet), and now this? How many times could he lose one person before the loss took him apart entirely?
"I can't do it, Jack," he whispered into midair. "I can't handle this."
Ianto took the gun from its holster and held it. These days, it felt almost warm. Familiar. Like a very dangerous friend that he couldn't let go of. It didn't take much of a contortion to put the barrel in his mouth -- just to see what it was like, surely -- or to make sure it pointed closer to his brain than his cheek. He let the taste of gun oil and metal fill him for a moment before clicking off the safety.
I could. The realization cut into him like glass. I really, really could. As easy as anything.
He allowed himself three breaths before closing his eyes and letting his finger twitch. Just once. That's all it would take.
When he realized he was still breathing, Ianto slowly removed the barrel from his mouth and applied the safety. He holstered the weapon and sat on the edge of Jack's camp bed. And then, because he was still alive, he let himself weep.
# # #
He awoke in a dark place, disoriented and still dressed, but smelling like Jack. It was everywhere. For a moment he let himself believe.
And then he made out the shape of his jacket hanging from the ladder rung.
In a perfect world, this is what would happen:
Ianto would notice something under the pillow. Something small and smooth and made of hard plastic. He would knot his brow and feel it for a moment before holding it up in the meager light that filtered through the hatch. He would know it immedately, and he would find himself utterly incapable of speaking or making sound or even moving for approximately thirteen seconds.
Upon regaining motor control, he would ascend the ladder -- somewhat awkwardly, being unwilling to let go of the device for fear that it might not be real -- and then sit down at Jack's workstation with his heart very much in his throat.
Gently, he would remove the black and silver plastic cap of Jack's jump drive, and click it into the USB port.
He would be surprised to find the device utterly blank except for a single 6k text file with his name on it. Upon opening it, he would find an explanation, a bit of advice, some instructions on how to handle Jack's absence, and an apology. And somehow, it would be enough. It always was with Jack.
Instead, Ianto sat up suddenly and looked for his shoes, not hearing the faint clack of black and silver plastic hitting concrete. He put them on -- one at a time, carefully and precisely -- then donned his jacket and retrieved his earpiece. Four thirty was early, but it couldn't hurt to get started early. They were, after all, a team of four now. He'd lay into the admin and get it finished up before Owen could find an excuse to complain. After that, weevils and the pterodactyl. Oh, and coffee. Perhaps he could pop out for biscuts or pastry before the others arrived. They'd make a solid day of it if he kept them on target.
And then, tonight, maybe he could try again. Three breaths before he closed his eyes.
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: Implied Jack/Ianto
Rating: PG-13 for angst, unsafe use of a firearm. Keep away from sharp objects after reading.
Notes: Takes place three days after Jack vanishes. As always, I welcome comments, criticism, Britpicking, coffee, good chocolate, and assurances that I will not die suddenly between now and the airing of "Utopia".
Ianto removed his earpiece and dropped it into his inside jacket pocket. The Hub was empty, finally. It had taken three days for the others to give up waiting. Gwen's attempt at keeping hope alive had backfired. Nobody ever found a person on a poster. In a way, it was a relief.
He shrugged off his jacket and folded it before hanging it over one of the ladder's rungs before carefully and precisely removing his shoes, one at a time. He did not remove anything else. Not even the gun he'd worn under his jacket for the last three days. They were on high alert. One of their own had been taken. Even now, he had to be ready.
And after all, this wasn't sexual. How could it be? The whole last two weeks had gutted him. Jack falling through the Rift, Owen murdering Jack to open the Rift, Jack killing himself to save Cardiff (and probably the planet), and now this? How many times could he lose one person before the loss took him apart entirely?
"I can't do it, Jack," he whispered into midair. "I can't handle this."
Ianto took the gun from its holster and held it. These days, it felt almost warm. Familiar. Like a very dangerous friend that he couldn't let go of. It didn't take much of a contortion to put the barrel in his mouth -- just to see what it was like, surely -- or to make sure it pointed closer to his brain than his cheek. He let the taste of gun oil and metal fill him for a moment before clicking off the safety.
I could. The realization cut into him like glass. I really, really could. As easy as anything.
He allowed himself three breaths before closing his eyes and letting his finger twitch. Just once. That's all it would take.
When he realized he was still breathing, Ianto slowly removed the barrel from his mouth and applied the safety. He holstered the weapon and sat on the edge of Jack's camp bed. And then, because he was still alive, he let himself weep.
He awoke in a dark place, disoriented and still dressed, but smelling like Jack. It was everywhere. For a moment he let himself believe.
And then he made out the shape of his jacket hanging from the ladder rung.
In a perfect world, this is what would happen:
Ianto would notice something under the pillow. Something small and smooth and made of hard plastic. He would knot his brow and feel it for a moment before holding it up in the meager light that filtered through the hatch. He would know it immedately, and he would find himself utterly incapable of speaking or making sound or even moving for approximately thirteen seconds.
Upon regaining motor control, he would ascend the ladder -- somewhat awkwardly, being unwilling to let go of the device for fear that it might not be real -- and then sit down at Jack's workstation with his heart very much in his throat.
Gently, he would remove the black and silver plastic cap of Jack's jump drive, and click it into the USB port.
He would be surprised to find the device utterly blank except for a single 6k text file with his name on it. Upon opening it, he would find an explanation, a bit of advice, some instructions on how to handle Jack's absence, and an apology. And somehow, it would be enough. It always was with Jack.
Instead, Ianto sat up suddenly and looked for his shoes, not hearing the faint clack of black and silver plastic hitting concrete. He put them on -- one at a time, carefully and precisely -- then donned his jacket and retrieved his earpiece. Four thirty was early, but it couldn't hurt to get started early. They were, after all, a team of four now. He'd lay into the admin and get it finished up before Owen could find an excuse to complain. After that, weevils and the pterodactyl. Oh, and coffee. Perhaps he could pop out for biscuts or pastry before the others arrived. They'd make a solid day of it if he kept them on target.
And then, tonight, maybe he could try again. Three breaths before he closed his eyes.