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mclachland) wrote2008-07-03 08:33 am
mclachland) wrote2008-07-03 08:33 am
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Torchwood: "In the Know" (Jack/Ianto)
"in the know"
jack/ianto
You're dying.
You know this because you're on the ground and Owen is clamping your carotid shut with his fingers. You can feel them. Too large, too shaky, too slippery with red that seems to be everywhere, on his hands, arms, shirt, on Jack, on Gwen, and it's all yours. Leaving your mark.
Your Da used to say that you would leave your mark on the world. Somehow you don't think he meant while you bled out all over the upholstery of the Torchwood SUV.
There are white clouds at the corners of your vision, little cumulonimbus marshmallow cotton balls that children play with until their parents take them away and tell them that good boys and girls must behave if they are going to leave their mark on the world.
Jack is holding your hand.
You know this because he holds up his own hand, clasped with yours, in front of your eyes. He's shouting something; his mouth is open wide with every word. You watch his tongue flick against his palate when he trips over L's.
Jack isn't aware of it, flat out denies it, but he speaks in rhyme. You find it beautiful that someone is able to bring a bit of beauty into conversations that have to do with aliens and Armageddon and the like. Weevils covered in filth and grime / Are out on the streets, committing crime…
There's another line, there has to be. But Jack is the elegiac one, the romantic one. You're just the dying one, and you never liked poetry all that much.
Tosh is crying.
You know this because you can taste the salt in the air, or maybe it's just the atmosphere that hangs over Cardiff, being so close to the sea. You can't really discern the two; your sense of taste is fading, following the way of your sight and hearing. But there is salt on your tongue, or tears, and there are gulls crying in the distance. You like gulls, ugly scavengers, but honest. They don't hide. They will walk right up to you on the beach and snatch your ice cream cone with nary a thought. One had done it to Jack, filching his sugar cone full of black raspberry and running down the beach, cackling in triumph. Jack had been endlessly amused.
Hey, Ianto, remember that time…
Yes, you do. You remember all of those times.
You're going to live.
You know this because there are lips over yours and breath tinged with gold is being forced into you. He's breathing for you, in you, as you. Sharing, like good little boys and girls should.
You're going to live for a long time, because Jack can be a good little boy when he wants to, but also a selfish little boy.
The end may never come for you, actually, if Jack has his way.
Giving you ample time to leave your mark on the world, and maybe try another ice cream while walking hand-in-hand on the beach without the fear that it may be taken away, and maybe your conversations will be filled with rhymes.
I love you / Ianto Jones / For the rest of our forever.
It doesn't rhyme, but it does.
jack/ianto
You're dying.
You know this because you're on the ground and Owen is clamping your carotid shut with his fingers. You can feel them. Too large, too shaky, too slippery with red that seems to be everywhere, on his hands, arms, shirt, on Jack, on Gwen, and it's all yours. Leaving your mark.
Your Da used to say that you would leave your mark on the world. Somehow you don't think he meant while you bled out all over the upholstery of the Torchwood SUV.
There are white clouds at the corners of your vision, little cumulonimbus marshmallow cotton balls that children play with until their parents take them away and tell them that good boys and girls must behave if they are going to leave their mark on the world.
Jack is holding your hand.
You know this because he holds up his own hand, clasped with yours, in front of your eyes. He's shouting something; his mouth is open wide with every word. You watch his tongue flick against his palate when he trips over L's.
Jack isn't aware of it, flat out denies it, but he speaks in rhyme. You find it beautiful that someone is able to bring a bit of beauty into conversations that have to do with aliens and Armageddon and the like. Weevils covered in filth and grime / Are out on the streets, committing crime…
There's another line, there has to be. But Jack is the elegiac one, the romantic one. You're just the dying one, and you never liked poetry all that much.
Tosh is crying.
You know this because you can taste the salt in the air, or maybe it's just the atmosphere that hangs over Cardiff, being so close to the sea. You can't really discern the two; your sense of taste is fading, following the way of your sight and hearing. But there is salt on your tongue, or tears, and there are gulls crying in the distance. You like gulls, ugly scavengers, but honest. They don't hide. They will walk right up to you on the beach and snatch your ice cream cone with nary a thought. One had done it to Jack, filching his sugar cone full of black raspberry and running down the beach, cackling in triumph. Jack had been endlessly amused.
Hey, Ianto, remember that time…
Yes, you do. You remember all of those times.
You're going to live.
You know this because there are lips over yours and breath tinged with gold is being forced into you. He's breathing for you, in you, as you. Sharing, like good little boys and girls should.
You're going to live for a long time, because Jack can be a good little boy when he wants to, but also a selfish little boy.
The end may never come for you, actually, if Jack has his way.
Giving you ample time to leave your mark on the world, and maybe try another ice cream while walking hand-in-hand on the beach without the fear that it may be taken away, and maybe your conversations will be filled with rhymes.
I love you / Ianto Jones / For the rest of our forever.
It doesn't rhyme, but it does.