Addict for Dramatics
Chapter One
The pale light that stretches across the Cardiff skyline near dusk is beautiful, one might enjoy it if it wasn’t for the rain, or a particularly volatile Cortellian. At least, that’s what Jack assumes the seven foot, purple being currently shoving it’s five inch thick blade through his lover’s chest to be.
These are the moments that seem to trickle by like sand through an hourglass, he’d have made a better comparison if he wasn’t ripping the purple being from Ianto’s paling, bloody body. He couldn’t hear anything. He couldn’t hear the rain, the alien’s shouts of pain as he punched his fist through the creatures head, Ianto’s sobs as he clutched weakly at the large wound so close to his heart.
Jack doesn’t stop either, his fist almost moves to it’s own accord. He has to blink away purple fluid in order to see until he finally stops and realizes he hasn’t breathed for the last minute or so. He looks down at his hands, noting the cracked skin and purple blood. The sounds around him start to slowly trickle in. First the rain, crisp and silver falling all around him. Then the weakened sounds of his lover’s whimper.
Ever since Gray buried him ten feet below Bute Park for nearly two millennia his mind hasn’t returned to it’s usual, stable state. He sees things differently, feels things differently. Sometimes he can’t control his actions. He’s killed quite a few Weevils since then, punched a few bystanders and even hit Ianto. He didn’t mean it, never does, and afterwards he hates and damns himself even more. He doesn’t deserve to be alive, doesn’t deserve Ianto or Gwen or Torchwood or Cardiff or his own immortality. He should be the one frozen and sealed in cabinet 27, not his baby brother.
He turns his head to see Ianto, his gorgeous, perfect Ianto, bleeding and whimpering in pain, tears tingeing those brilliant, blue eyes. Gwen is beside him first, checking his vitals and placing his head on her jacket. She does everything Jack should -would- have done if he’d been in the right state of mind. He slowly creeps forward, his injured hand still covered in purple blood, running along Yan’s side, coming to rest along his shoulder.
“Yan?” he asks so softly he’s not sure if he can even be heard amidst the rain.
“S’hurt’s, Jack.” His accent more prominent than ever. His accent always shows itself when he drops his guard and Jones, Ianto Jones never drops his guard unless he’s in extreme pain or extreme pleasure.
Jack bites his lip and closes his eyes tightly trying to will the tears away.
“Just…Just hold on, Yan, alright?” his voice is empty and broken, much like himself. It’s only been a month since Tosh and Owen. He can’t bare to even think of Ianto leaving him now. He just can’t. There’s so much left to say. So much he can’t squeeze into one conversation. Now he might not- No. No, he is not thinking of this. Ianto Jones is and always will be present tense. He’s not going to place his picture in that box and open it on instances he’s reminded of the Welshman because, damnit, he’s not dead.
Ianto reaches a hand out to him, coughing hard and groaning in pain. Jack takes it and holds it tightly to his chest.
“Please.” He’s sure the younger man can’t hear him now, his beautiful eyes are closing and the stupid rain isn’t helping and fuck, he can’t be crying now. Not right now.
“Ianto… Yan, please.” and that’s all he can say. All he’ll bring himself to say because he’s not clutching and sobbing over the body -person- that’s kept him alive and here all this time. The one man who’d place anything and everything above himself was gone and he just doesn’t want to think anymore.
A small, soft hand is placed on his coat adorned shoulder. It starts to rub soothing circles that aren’t actually soothing at all because the only soothing shoulder rub he’s ever received in his very long life was delivered by the cold, pale hand he’s clutching.
“Jack?”
He says nothing. He can’t say anything because words don’t begin to express what he’s going through. He feels as if the ground beneath him that once held him prisoner was taken away. As if the skies have disappeared and all that’s left is a void of nothingness. In the end, it’s much worse than the darkness that awaits the dead, that awaits - No. No. NO. Ianto Jones is not gone.
“Jack? I’ll take care of him. You should get some rest.”
Rest? Rest. That’d be worth a laugh if he could manage one right now. Before the brilliant young man lying before him had stormed into his life with a pair of dark, form-fitting jeans and a phallic stick he hadn’t slept in decades.
“Jack? Cariad, I’ll-”
“Don’t. Call. Me. That, Gwen.” Jack whispers in a dark tone. The memories that come to mind with that one word are almost choking. Images of the two tangled in crisp, warm bed linen and toothy grins. Images of a timid Jack acting like a man a tenth his age asking the question he’d planned for months in a tiny office ten stories up. Images of a drunken Ianto, leaning on his strong shoulder and giggling about a joke only he had heard. Images of moments where he could -should- have told him that phrase back and didn’t for such petty reasons. No, he’d make damn sure he’d never hear that word again.
“Alright,” she replies softly. “But do take care of yourself? Go for a walk, just, let me handle it. I couldn’t put you through that.”
Jack nods weakly, never once looking at her. Not really wanting to receive the sympathetic look held in those hazel eyes. He leans down and caresses Ianto’s cheek one last time and places a tender kiss on his chilled lips.
I love you, is what he wants to say. Always have, always will. But Bastard is what actually comes out. You said you’d never leave me alone and you just have.
___
Yes, I am a very horrible person for putting Jack through this. But I promise, this isn't going to be the normal deathfic.
Comments inspire me to write/post faster. ^_-
These are the moments that seem to trickle by like sand through an hourglass, he’d have made a better comparison if he wasn’t ripping the purple being from Ianto’s paling, bloody body. He couldn’t hear anything. He couldn’t hear the rain, the alien’s shouts of pain as he punched his fist through the creatures head, Ianto’s sobs as he clutched weakly at the large wound so close to his heart.
Jack doesn’t stop either, his fist almost moves to it’s own accord. He has to blink away purple fluid in order to see until he finally stops and realizes he hasn’t breathed for the last minute or so. He looks down at his hands, noting the cracked skin and purple blood. The sounds around him start to slowly trickle in. First the rain, crisp and silver falling all around him. Then the weakened sounds of his lover’s whimper.
Ever since Gray buried him ten feet below Bute Park for nearly two millennia his mind hasn’t returned to it’s usual, stable state. He sees things differently, feels things differently. Sometimes he can’t control his actions. He’s killed quite a few Weevils since then, punched a few bystanders and even hit Ianto. He didn’t mean it, never does, and afterwards he hates and damns himself even more. He doesn’t deserve to be alive, doesn’t deserve Ianto or Gwen or Torchwood or Cardiff or his own immortality. He should be the one frozen and sealed in cabinet 27, not his baby brother.
He turns his head to see Ianto, his gorgeous, perfect Ianto, bleeding and whimpering in pain, tears tingeing those brilliant, blue eyes. Gwen is beside him first, checking his vitals and placing his head on her jacket. She does everything Jack should -would- have done if he’d been in the right state of mind. He slowly creeps forward, his injured hand still covered in purple blood, running along Yan’s side, coming to rest along his shoulder.
“Yan?” he asks so softly he’s not sure if he can even be heard amidst the rain.
“S’hurt’s, Jack.” His accent more prominent than ever. His accent always shows itself when he drops his guard and Jones, Ianto Jones never drops his guard unless he’s in extreme pain or extreme pleasure.
Jack bites his lip and closes his eyes tightly trying to will the tears away.
“Just…Just hold on, Yan, alright?” his voice is empty and broken, much like himself. It’s only been a month since Tosh and Owen. He can’t bare to even think of Ianto leaving him now. He just can’t. There’s so much left to say. So much he can’t squeeze into one conversation. Now he might not- No. No, he is not thinking of this. Ianto Jones is and always will be present tense. He’s not going to place his picture in that box and open it on instances he’s reminded of the Welshman because, damnit, he’s not dead.
Ianto reaches a hand out to him, coughing hard and groaning in pain. Jack takes it and holds it tightly to his chest.
“Please.” He’s sure the younger man can’t hear him now, his beautiful eyes are closing and the stupid rain isn’t helping and fuck, he can’t be crying now. Not right now.
“Ianto… Yan, please.” and that’s all he can say. All he’ll bring himself to say because he’s not clutching and sobbing over the body -person- that’s kept him alive and here all this time. The one man who’d place anything and everything above himself was gone and he just doesn’t want to think anymore.
A small, soft hand is placed on his coat adorned shoulder. It starts to rub soothing circles that aren’t actually soothing at all because the only soothing shoulder rub he’s ever received in his very long life was delivered by the cold, pale hand he’s clutching.
“Jack?”
He says nothing. He can’t say anything because words don’t begin to express what he’s going through. He feels as if the ground beneath him that once held him prisoner was taken away. As if the skies have disappeared and all that’s left is a void of nothingness. In the end, it’s much worse than the darkness that awaits the dead, that awaits - No. No. NO. Ianto Jones is not gone.
“Jack? I’ll take care of him. You should get some rest.”
Rest? Rest. That’d be worth a laugh if he could manage one right now. Before the brilliant young man lying before him had stormed into his life with a pair of dark, form-fitting jeans and a phallic stick he hadn’t slept in decades.
“Jack? Cariad, I’ll-”
“Don’t. Call. Me. That, Gwen.” Jack whispers in a dark tone. The memories that come to mind with that one word are almost choking. Images of the two tangled in crisp, warm bed linen and toothy grins. Images of a timid Jack acting like a man a tenth his age asking the question he’d planned for months in a tiny office ten stories up. Images of a drunken Ianto, leaning on his strong shoulder and giggling about a joke only he had heard. Images of moments where he could -should- have told him that phrase back and didn’t for such petty reasons. No, he’d make damn sure he’d never hear that word again.
“Alright,” she replies softly. “But do take care of yourself? Go for a walk, just, let me handle it. I couldn’t put you through that.”
Jack nods weakly, never once looking at her. Not really wanting to receive the sympathetic look held in those hazel eyes. He leans down and caresses Ianto’s cheek one last time and places a tender kiss on his chilled lips.
I love you, is what he wants to say. Always have, always will. But Bastard is what actually comes out. You said you’d never leave me alone and you just have.
___
Yes, I am a very horrible person for putting Jack through this. But I promise, this isn't going to be the normal deathfic.
Comments inspire me to write/post faster. ^_-