To Break Earth's Sleep
Disclaimer: All names and concepts associated with BBC's "Torchwood" are not mine; I just borrow them for my own enjoyment. The title is inspired by my favourite Wilfred Owen poem Futility.
Genre: Tragedy, Romance, Slash, Vignette
Warnings: Spoilers for Children of Earth; swearing
Summary: He traces the words with his finger. Vignette; Post-Children of Earth; Spoilers.
Crouched on his knees, he traces the words with his finger. He maps out the I, dances over the A and N, ghosts over the T and pauses on the O.
(Jones, Ianto Jones. By the way, love the coat.)
He sweeps his thumb across the Jones and pauses again. He rests his head against the cool, hard surface and presses an open palm across the name etched into the stone. He closes his eyes and for a moment, hopes that he can raise the dead.
"Fuck you, Ianto," Jack finally breathes, slamming his palm against the stone. "Fuck you." He hits the headstone once more, breathing heavily. "I hate you," he murmurs as he strokes his fingers over the spot where his hand had connected with the stone. "I hate you."
(For leaving me, but the words remain unspoken.)
"God, Ianto." Jack grips the edge of the headstone. His head is still resting against the stony surface. "I miss you," he says into the wind. But the wind doesn't care.
Jack drags his fingers over the words again. Ianto Jones; b. 19.8.1983 - d. 17.9.2009; adored son, brother, friend . . .
. . . lover.
Jack stands, placing his hands on the soggy ground to push himself up. He stares at the grave, and blanches. He thought he was doing the Jones family a favour when he demanded Ianto be returned to his family, but now all he can think about is him trapped underground for eternity; slowly wasting away until he's nothing but dust.
(He never had that luxury; dying and dying again.)
His coat billows in the breeze and Jack shoves his hands into his pockets. He muses that he should have brought flowers, or coffee, but then he laughs bitterly. Ianto wouldn't have liked it, he thinks, much too messy.
Jack's laugh slowly morphs into a sob; just one. He shakes his head and pushes his hands deeper into his coat pockets. He closes his eyes again and looks up at the sky. A hand ghosts across the nape of his neck and Jack hears those gorgeous Welsh vowels breathe, "Jack . . ."
(But there's nothing, and that is the curse of never dying. You are only left with ghosted memories.)