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Saddest fic I've ever written? Possibly. But in my defense, I was in a less than happy mood at the time.
EDIT: Note that this piece serves no other purpose than catharsis for me. I was having a not too good day, wrote this as a way to purge, and now I feel better. This wasn't meant as anything else.
A week after the incident with Gray, Jack stops coming around to Ianto's. Ianto tries not to take it personally when Jack accepts dinner invitations at Gwen's and Rhys's but denies any offering Ianto gives. He tries not to take it personally, except it is personal. He feels the rejection as keenly as any wound.
Whatever they'd had, that unnamable thing that he'd come to revere and cling to, to fight for, is fading. Perhaps it was inevitable and it was always heading in this direction, a slow dissolution of movie nights and whispered conversations in the dark, unraveling like so many threads in a tapestry. The thought brings a sad smile to his face, that his life amounts to a single tapestry that hadn't been stitched strongly enough.
The cog door opens, and Gwen waves as she departs for Rhys and the distinct lack of Torchwood that some employees manage to obtain. For a moment, Ianto can smell the evening air of Cardiff before the door shuts, a point-blank reminder that he will never be able to wash off the stench of presumption and death that clings to him, one of the many perks of working for Torchwood. Once upon a time, Jack would join him in his endeavors and wipe the hurts and the defeats away with a sure swipe of a hand, but it's built up in Jack's absence, caking him in it. He'll never be rid of it now.
Myfanwy calls out softly and he smiles up at her for a moment before turning his gaze to where Jack is retreating to his office.
"I could call for take-away, sir," Ianto says, hoping the desperation he hears in his own voice isn't audible to Jack. He has a feeling that if he's rejected now it will be over for good. There's a depressing sense of finality in the air, rattling about in his lungs, coins in a beat-up tin can.
But Jack spares him a tight smile from over his shoulder and a gentle headshake. "No can do, I'm afraid. I'm meeting Gwen and Rhys for dinner tonight."
Invite me, he wants to implore, but he holds his tongue in check and fervently prays that he can keep smiling long enough for Jack to escape into his office before his cheek muscles cop out on him. The door is ajar, only slightly, and Ianto watches the play of shadows in the windows as Jack shrugs his coat on. He doesn't let Ianto do it for him any longer.
And there it is. Done. Finished.
He's unraveling, and quite possibly having a pulmonary embolism.
The door opens again and Jack jogs down the stairs onto the main level, greatcoat swirling about his ankles. He nods to Ianto with a strained grin and says, "Got everything under control here?"
Ianto can do nothing but nod back, knowing his voice would fail him should he choose to speak. Jack pats his shoulder, frighteningly platonic, and heads for the door without a backwards glance. For a brief moment, so quick that Ianto wonders if it even happens, he wants to call Jack back and ask what it was he did, why he's being punished like this. Coming to Torchwood had given him meaning, but Jack was the reason he stayed.
I have no reason to be here. "Have a good night, sir."
His voice doesn't even crack. He finds a small amount of pride in that.
Jack lifts a hand in a casual wave and the door rolls shut behind him, leaving Ianto standing there with crescent moons indenting his palms. There is a calm silence that rolls around him, like the feeble ebb and flow of a too-heavy tide, and he jerkily walks toward Tosh's station, devoid of her things but not of her memory. Dropping to his knees, he reaches under it and slides something out, a thin square folder that was meant to be a surprise. He stands and blows the loose dust from the cover, running his palm over the stubborn dust that didn't leave with his breath. For an original release, it's in fine condition, as it should be after months of searching and speaking with collectors, and forking over £200 for it. 10" of what should have been a fantastic birthday celebration. Ianto exhales over the cover and runs his thumb over the photograph there, black and white and perfect.
He brings it to Jack's office and silently orders his eyes to clear up, as navigating the steps with blurry vision is far more dangerous than one would have thought. The desk is immaculate, clear of its usual heaps of overdue paperwork and doodles on legal paper, and Ianto places it down in the center where Jack will not overlook it.
And he just stands, fingers on the cover, heart unraveling like the rest of his life.
"Hit me with a hot note and watch me bounce," he whispers, parched, all 70% of his body's water collecting behind his eyes. "Hit me with a hot note and watch me bounce."
His resignation will be quick and processed efficiently. Two Retcon and a glass of whisky. It's cowardly, but he can't see himself working in such close quarters with this brand of failure until Torchwood finally claims him.
"When trumpets heat up, give me a rug to beat up."
They'll find a replacement for him, if they need one at all. Perhaps Rhys; it would be par for the course at this point. But for now, it’s time to go home and find new meaning in a dishwater-colored existence without Jack.
"Hit me with a hot note and watch me bounce."
EDIT: Note that this piece serves no other purpose than catharsis for me. I was having a not too good day, wrote this as a way to purge, and now I feel better. This wasn't meant as anything else.
A week after the incident with Gray, Jack stops coming around to Ianto's. Ianto tries not to take it personally when Jack accepts dinner invitations at Gwen's and Rhys's but denies any offering Ianto gives. He tries not to take it personally, except it is personal. He feels the rejection as keenly as any wound.
Whatever they'd had, that unnamable thing that he'd come to revere and cling to, to fight for, is fading. Perhaps it was inevitable and it was always heading in this direction, a slow dissolution of movie nights and whispered conversations in the dark, unraveling like so many threads in a tapestry. The thought brings a sad smile to his face, that his life amounts to a single tapestry that hadn't been stitched strongly enough.
The cog door opens, and Gwen waves as she departs for Rhys and the distinct lack of Torchwood that some employees manage to obtain. For a moment, Ianto can smell the evening air of Cardiff before the door shuts, a point-blank reminder that he will never be able to wash off the stench of presumption and death that clings to him, one of the many perks of working for Torchwood. Once upon a time, Jack would join him in his endeavors and wipe the hurts and the defeats away with a sure swipe of a hand, but it's built up in Jack's absence, caking him in it. He'll never be rid of it now.
Myfanwy calls out softly and he smiles up at her for a moment before turning his gaze to where Jack is retreating to his office.
"I could call for take-away, sir," Ianto says, hoping the desperation he hears in his own voice isn't audible to Jack. He has a feeling that if he's rejected now it will be over for good. There's a depressing sense of finality in the air, rattling about in his lungs, coins in a beat-up tin can.
But Jack spares him a tight smile from over his shoulder and a gentle headshake. "No can do, I'm afraid. I'm meeting Gwen and Rhys for dinner tonight."
Invite me, he wants to implore, but he holds his tongue in check and fervently prays that he can keep smiling long enough for Jack to escape into his office before his cheek muscles cop out on him. The door is ajar, only slightly, and Ianto watches the play of shadows in the windows as Jack shrugs his coat on. He doesn't let Ianto do it for him any longer.
And there it is. Done. Finished.
He's unraveling, and quite possibly having a pulmonary embolism.
The door opens again and Jack jogs down the stairs onto the main level, greatcoat swirling about his ankles. He nods to Ianto with a strained grin and says, "Got everything under control here?"
Ianto can do nothing but nod back, knowing his voice would fail him should he choose to speak. Jack pats his shoulder, frighteningly platonic, and heads for the door without a backwards glance. For a brief moment, so quick that Ianto wonders if it even happens, he wants to call Jack back and ask what it was he did, why he's being punished like this. Coming to Torchwood had given him meaning, but Jack was the reason he stayed.
I have no reason to be here. "Have a good night, sir."
His voice doesn't even crack. He finds a small amount of pride in that.
Jack lifts a hand in a casual wave and the door rolls shut behind him, leaving Ianto standing there with crescent moons indenting his palms. There is a calm silence that rolls around him, like the feeble ebb and flow of a too-heavy tide, and he jerkily walks toward Tosh's station, devoid of her things but not of her memory. Dropping to his knees, he reaches under it and slides something out, a thin square folder that was meant to be a surprise. He stands and blows the loose dust from the cover, running his palm over the stubborn dust that didn't leave with his breath. For an original release, it's in fine condition, as it should be after months of searching and speaking with collectors, and forking over £200 for it. 10" of what should have been a fantastic birthday celebration. Ianto exhales over the cover and runs his thumb over the photograph there, black and white and perfect.
He brings it to Jack's office and silently orders his eyes to clear up, as navigating the steps with blurry vision is far more dangerous than one would have thought. The desk is immaculate, clear of its usual heaps of overdue paperwork and doodles on legal paper, and Ianto places it down in the center where Jack will not overlook it.
And he just stands, fingers on the cover, heart unraveling like the rest of his life.
"Hit me with a hot note and watch me bounce," he whispers, parched, all 70% of his body's water collecting behind his eyes. "Hit me with a hot note and watch me bounce."
His resignation will be quick and processed efficiently. Two Retcon and a glass of whisky. It's cowardly, but he can't see himself working in such close quarters with this brand of failure until Torchwood finally claims him.
"When trumpets heat up, give me a rug to beat up."
They'll find a replacement for him, if they need one at all. Perhaps Rhys; it would be par for the course at this point. But for now, it’s time to go home and find new meaning in a dishwater-colored existence without Jack.
"Hit me with a hot note and watch me bounce."
