Sex and Coffee
1/1
Mutual users, that’s what they were. The clandestine moments spent deep in the archives, the small pecks when all backs were turned, the sleepy smiles in the moonlight. It was all bread out of a sorrowful situation and a selfish hunger. Out of loneliness and distraction, nothing was pure. The sheets he changed nearly every day, soiled with desperation, deceit and a destructive desire. The moon shone on half faces every night, illuminating shades of skin, each twist of passion causing a new piece of skin to be visible in the dead of night.
They were maudlin marionettes whose strings had tangled in the crossroads of time and necessity. Each liked to pretend that it was meaningless- just casual sex to satisfy a personal need. But both knew it was much more than that, somewhere deep down. Long after the night’s activities had stopped and both men lay tangled in the sheets of a loft in Cardiff, is when the real relationship bloomed. When the nightmares became too much for the leader to take and he awoke with violent shocks, his subordinate took him in his arms and rocked him to sleep, placing kisses on his forehead sporadically. When the tea-boy held the dying body against his own every time, understanding both the physical and emotional pain of coming back, the entangled vines were revealed, and the connections were much deeper than they would ever admit.
The truth was, they were both far more connected that anyone, even themselves, would ever realize. They were two lost souls who had become one entity; neither could function without the other. So when morning came, and the tea-boy splashed cool water against his face, he looked in the mirror, lying to himself about what they were. He will eventually stop, after he fixes his tie and combs his hair, and walks out with his professional mode switched back on. He does this every day. The Captain knows this routine well and he pretends not to notice the sharp sting when his lover walks out without even looking at him, just as tea-boy ignores the thrust of pain when he closes the door to his only window of happiness.
They spend so much time denying their feelings that one day the stopwatch runs out. There is no more denial and no more desire and no more kisses or cuddles or sex. Tea-boy’s things remain in a storage facility like all other deceased members of Torchwood, left to collect dust. And as the poor Captain drinks his disgusting instant coffee in his office, writing up a report properly for the first time since tea-boy came around, he is unaware of the dampness on his face. Unaware until he is wrapped in the same sheets of that Cardiff flat that were once filled with desperation and deceit. The ghosts of their lives intertwined together return to him as he sobs and he realizes that the sheets, the apartment, the archives, the autopsy room, all of the places that haunt his memories are stained with their love; their real love.
They were maudlin marionettes whose strings had tangled in the crossroads of time and necessity. Each liked to pretend that it was meaningless- just casual sex to satisfy a personal need. But both knew it was much more than that, somewhere deep down. Long after the night’s activities had stopped and both men lay tangled in the sheets of a loft in Cardiff, is when the real relationship bloomed. When the nightmares became too much for the leader to take and he awoke with violent shocks, his subordinate took him in his arms and rocked him to sleep, placing kisses on his forehead sporadically. When the tea-boy held the dying body against his own every time, understanding both the physical and emotional pain of coming back, the entangled vines were revealed, and the connections were much deeper than they would ever admit.
The truth was, they were both far more connected that anyone, even themselves, would ever realize. They were two lost souls who had become one entity; neither could function without the other. So when morning came, and the tea-boy splashed cool water against his face, he looked in the mirror, lying to himself about what they were. He will eventually stop, after he fixes his tie and combs his hair, and walks out with his professional mode switched back on. He does this every day. The Captain knows this routine well and he pretends not to notice the sharp sting when his lover walks out without even looking at him, just as tea-boy ignores the thrust of pain when he closes the door to his only window of happiness.
They spend so much time denying their feelings that one day the stopwatch runs out. There is no more denial and no more desire and no more kisses or cuddles or sex. Tea-boy’s things remain in a storage facility like all other deceased members of Torchwood, left to collect dust. And as the poor Captain drinks his disgusting instant coffee in his office, writing up a report properly for the first time since tea-boy came around, he is unaware of the dampness on his face. Unaware until he is wrapped in the same sheets of that Cardiff flat that were once filled with desperation and deceit. The ghosts of their lives intertwined together return to him as he sobs and he realizes that the sheets, the apartment, the archives, the autopsy room, all of the places that haunt his memories are stained with their love; their real love.
♠ ♠ ♠
For the love of God, go easy on me. I haven't written a fanfiction in two years.