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cyusTitle: It
Characters: Ianto, Lisa, Jack
Rating: PG
Length: 1200
Summary: Ianto saves Lisa from the rubble that was Canary Wharf and needs to save her from everything else. That leaves only Cardiff, as much as he avoids it.
Note: Prompt was![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
mclachlan's "Jack/Ianto. Ianto is a timelord." Focus certainly on the second part of the prompt.
For a moment, not breathing, not thinking, he didn't move, didn't open his eyes, the ground beneath him uneven and a little too hot. Dimensions clicked back into place, like legos from the commercials, click click click, and the nausea receded to the lowest pit of his stomach. Awareness curled into him, sensation flooded
auditory: crackling, whimpers, shouts in the distance,
olfactory: smoke,
gustatory: smoke, fear, pain,
sensory: fingers closing around his,
and he opened his eyes.
"Please," she whispered, face drawn under the metal. "Please, who- my name is Lisa, who-"
Lack of oxygen and too much smoke burned in his lungs. "It's me, Lisa. Ianto."
"I don't..."
He pressed the back of his knuckles to her face, the metal. His stomach rolled, he traced the edges of the metal with his fingertips, slid them along her skin. He crawled closer. What had they done to her? So beautiful, so his.
"I don't understand-" Her eyes were wide, her lips cracked.
"It's the pain, I will make it better, for you."
He brushed his thumb over her bloodied knuckles. His fingers in hers were too small. The touch crackled along his skin, shot along his wrist and arm until he ached from fingertips to shoulder with the touch.
"I don't-"
Shouts from the lower floors rang up to them. He stood. His trousers shifted around his ankles, too much fabric; the sleeves of his shirt, torn and bloody, brushed back and forth along the back of her hand and obstructed their point of connection entirely.
"I will help you, Lisa."
He pulled her up, what had they done to her?, shifted her, had to ignore her groans of pain. His body thrummed, particles bursting and needing free. Energy burned under his skin.
"Who are you?"
"Ianto. I'm Ianto, love."
***
"Ianto Jones." He smoothed his tie, held out his hand.
The man eyed him, then turned back to the sea.
"I was at Torchwood One, sir, I was hoping I could-"
"Go back to your damned city," the man said, a rumble low in his throat. He drew the scarf around his neck tighter, wind blew in from the sea. "I don't need you."
The bench creaked as the man shifted his weight again. A seagull came in from the sea and circled above them. The man turned back to look at the waves.
The thrumming in the back of Ianto's head, just at the base where the ache slid down neck and spine, intensified. Somewhere sometime something was happening. He lifted a hand there and pressed at the spot until the mechanical pain overrode the thrum of heritage.
"Sir, I will-" he tried, the ache pulsing behind his eyes. So beautiful, so his.
"Go away, boy."
***
In a warehouse, Northampton, and the draft curled around their bodies whenever the wind shook the building.
"Ianto."
Her whisper shifted the air; it begged him to trace the patterns it left, manipulate them into control until the pain bled out of her. He set the metal beam and screwdriver on top of the wooden box, fingered the fuselage with sore fingers. The connections barely held, and how much easier would this be if- well, if.
"Ianto." Her voice broke.
He had made his choices.
He abandoned the crude drawings and walked to her side, knelt down next to her, kneecaps just touching her side. She looked so strong and so broken, and he missed her touch on him, the one that was purely hers and purely meant for him. And he missed her smile and lingered on her trust. Metal bled into skin bled into metal.
The thrumming pain in the back of his mind told him to hate, but couldn't-
"I will save you," he whispered as he leaned down, pressed his face to hers. "I promise, I will save you."
Locked in an embrace, awkward and half-alien, until the pain at the back of his head, that tickling along his skin began to spread along the side of his head, the fragile bones around his eyes. It thrummed a beat, and almost too late, he recognized the beat from a time so long ago.
It beat a warning, because energy was shifting and something was hurtling towards them that wasn't supposed find them.
"We have to move!" His fingernails dug into her metal skin.
He scrambled up, shoved metal parts into boxes, haphazard arrangement, while the thrumming increased, became maddening in its monotony until he saw nothing but his hands flying into action, until he locked boxes and pushed them into the lorry just to fit them.
He knelt by her side. "We have to move, I'm sorry, love. They can't find us."
Northampton's warehouse and its draft were abandoned by the time the warning acquired physical shape and presence.
***
In Birmingham, he pulled the lorry out of the lot to the sound of materialization and the shift in space and time.
In Bangor, the warning came late enough to still hear the shouts in a language so ancient it hardly felt like his anymore as he slammed the driver's door shut. Their presence tickled along his spine, stroked him like a lover. It beckoned, it urged, and he pushed his foot down and accelerated.
In Bristol, they were there before he was at the warehouse, and the sudden reverse shifted the boxes in the back. He tore back to the M4 with Lisa's shouts of pain in his heart, and there was nothing he could do to soothe them.
***
He had avoided Cardiff.
But Lisa's breathing had been too shallow, her heartbeat too fast, her lucid phases too far and in-between when the generators had stopped working and the morphine had trickled off and out in the back of the lorry.
He had avoided Cardiff because Cardiff brought him to his knees and bile to his throat.
One hand on a tree trunk, he tried to catch his breath, slid down, rested his forehead against the bark.
He tried to think of Lisa and her pain and her smile.
Then he felt it: black and blank and ever-present. It punctured everything, and everything rippled around it. Wave after wave after wave of a bass thrum squeezed his lungs and stole his breath. It crackled, it defined, it undefined and defied definition.
It hurt.
Lisa's smile when he had told her that everything would be better now, that he knew people, that this was safe.
He forced himself up, knees wet and dirty, and like a magnetic spindle it flickered through him, into him, drew him closer, pushed him away, drew him closer until he was watching it, from just feet away. The sounds and smells and the wet ground under his shoes, all of those registered, but they paled when it pulsed and pulsed in waves without a flicker of consideration.
Nausea twinged in his stomach. He recoiled and still wanted to run his fingers, his tongue, his everything along its self, to feel it and hate it and love it.
Lisa, all of this, for her.
But then he stepped forward, and the ripples crashed against him, swallowed him and he rippled in their wake, caught into action. It burned his throat dry and exploded a headache behind his eyes. It took all he was and replaced it with itself: the thrumming, the warnings, the heritage.
It made him mortal. It made him less than the most. And, standing there with blood to his forehead and dirty hands, it made him worship.
Characters: Ianto, Lisa, Jack
Rating: PG
Length: 1200
Summary: Ianto saves Lisa from the rubble that was Canary Wharf and needs to save her from everything else. That leaves only Cardiff, as much as he avoids it.
Note: Prompt was
mclachlan's "Jack/Ianto. Ianto is a timelord." Focus certainly on the second part of the prompt.For a moment, not breathing, not thinking, he didn't move, didn't open his eyes, the ground beneath him uneven and a little too hot. Dimensions clicked back into place, like legos from the commercials, click click click, and the nausea receded to the lowest pit of his stomach. Awareness curled into him, sensation flooded
auditory: crackling, whimpers, shouts in the distance,
olfactory: smoke,
gustatory: smoke, fear, pain,
sensory: fingers closing around his,
and he opened his eyes.
"Please," she whispered, face drawn under the metal. "Please, who- my name is Lisa, who-"
Lack of oxygen and too much smoke burned in his lungs. "It's me, Lisa. Ianto."
"I don't..."
He pressed the back of his knuckles to her face, the metal. His stomach rolled, he traced the edges of the metal with his fingertips, slid them along her skin. He crawled closer. What had they done to her? So beautiful, so his.
"I don't understand-" Her eyes were wide, her lips cracked.
"It's the pain, I will make it better, for you."
He brushed his thumb over her bloodied knuckles. His fingers in hers were too small. The touch crackled along his skin, shot along his wrist and arm until he ached from fingertips to shoulder with the touch.
"I don't-"
Shouts from the lower floors rang up to them. He stood. His trousers shifted around his ankles, too much fabric; the sleeves of his shirt, torn and bloody, brushed back and forth along the back of her hand and obstructed their point of connection entirely.
"I will help you, Lisa."
He pulled her up, what had they done to her?, shifted her, had to ignore her groans of pain. His body thrummed, particles bursting and needing free. Energy burned under his skin.
"Who are you?"
"Ianto. I'm Ianto, love."
***
"Ianto Jones." He smoothed his tie, held out his hand.
The man eyed him, then turned back to the sea.
"I was at Torchwood One, sir, I was hoping I could-"
"Go back to your damned city," the man said, a rumble low in his throat. He drew the scarf around his neck tighter, wind blew in from the sea. "I don't need you."
The bench creaked as the man shifted his weight again. A seagull came in from the sea and circled above them. The man turned back to look at the waves.
The thrumming in the back of Ianto's head, just at the base where the ache slid down neck and spine, intensified. Somewhere sometime something was happening. He lifted a hand there and pressed at the spot until the mechanical pain overrode the thrum of heritage.
"Sir, I will-" he tried, the ache pulsing behind his eyes. So beautiful, so his.
"Go away, boy."
***
In a warehouse, Northampton, and the draft curled around their bodies whenever the wind shook the building.
"Ianto."
Her whisper shifted the air; it begged him to trace the patterns it left, manipulate them into control until the pain bled out of her. He set the metal beam and screwdriver on top of the wooden box, fingered the fuselage with sore fingers. The connections barely held, and how much easier would this be if- well, if.
"Ianto." Her voice broke.
He had made his choices.
He abandoned the crude drawings and walked to her side, knelt down next to her, kneecaps just touching her side. She looked so strong and so broken, and he missed her touch on him, the one that was purely hers and purely meant for him. And he missed her smile and lingered on her trust. Metal bled into skin bled into metal.
The thrumming pain in the back of his mind told him to hate, but couldn't-
"I will save you," he whispered as he leaned down, pressed his face to hers. "I promise, I will save you."
Locked in an embrace, awkward and half-alien, until the pain at the back of his head, that tickling along his skin began to spread along the side of his head, the fragile bones around his eyes. It thrummed a beat, and almost too late, he recognized the beat from a time so long ago.
It beat a warning, because energy was shifting and something was hurtling towards them that wasn't supposed find them.
"We have to move!" His fingernails dug into her metal skin.
He scrambled up, shoved metal parts into boxes, haphazard arrangement, while the thrumming increased, became maddening in its monotony until he saw nothing but his hands flying into action, until he locked boxes and pushed them into the lorry just to fit them.
He knelt by her side. "We have to move, I'm sorry, love. They can't find us."
Northampton's warehouse and its draft were abandoned by the time the warning acquired physical shape and presence.
***
In Birmingham, he pulled the lorry out of the lot to the sound of materialization and the shift in space and time.
In Bangor, the warning came late enough to still hear the shouts in a language so ancient it hardly felt like his anymore as he slammed the driver's door shut. Their presence tickled along his spine, stroked him like a lover. It beckoned, it urged, and he pushed his foot down and accelerated.
In Bristol, they were there before he was at the warehouse, and the sudden reverse shifted the boxes in the back. He tore back to the M4 with Lisa's shouts of pain in his heart, and there was nothing he could do to soothe them.
***
He had avoided Cardiff.
But Lisa's breathing had been too shallow, her heartbeat too fast, her lucid phases too far and in-between when the generators had stopped working and the morphine had trickled off and out in the back of the lorry.
He had avoided Cardiff because Cardiff brought him to his knees and bile to his throat.
One hand on a tree trunk, he tried to catch his breath, slid down, rested his forehead against the bark.
He tried to think of Lisa and her pain and her smile.
Then he felt it: black and blank and ever-present. It punctured everything, and everything rippled around it. Wave after wave after wave of a bass thrum squeezed his lungs and stole his breath. It crackled, it defined, it undefined and defied definition.
It hurt.
Lisa's smile when he had told her that everything would be better now, that he knew people, that this was safe.
He forced himself up, knees wet and dirty, and like a magnetic spindle it flickered through him, into him, drew him closer, pushed him away, drew him closer until he was watching it, from just feet away. The sounds and smells and the wet ground under his shoes, all of those registered, but they paled when it pulsed and pulsed in waves without a flicker of consideration.
Nausea twinged in his stomach. He recoiled and still wanted to run his fingers, his tongue, his everything along its self, to feel it and hate it and love it.
Lisa, all of this, for her.
But then he stepped forward, and the ripples crashed against him, swallowed him and he rippled in their wake, caught into action. It burned his throat dry and exploded a headache behind his eyes. It took all he was and replaced it with itself: the thrumming, the warnings, the heritage.
It made him mortal. It made him less than the most. And, standing there with blood to his forehead and dirty hands, it made him worship.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2009-04-02 04:46 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-04-04 02:12 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-04-02 09:11 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-04-04 02:18 pm (UTC)Which is all rather based on the idea that Ianto isn't exactly happy with his ancestry. Think classic Who and stuffy timelords and renegades. So I do have Ianto as a renegade timelord in this, really.
Thanks for the ocmment, I appreciate it.
no subject
Date: 2009-04-03 01:22 am (UTC)Yeah.
I found this very complex, so had to read it more than once to get a feel for it. I liked it. It's alien in the right places, if that makes sense.
I enjoy your Ianto/Lisa interaction, always.
no subject
Date: 2009-04-04 02:23 pm (UTC)Thanks.