Home Sweet Hell
folder
S through Z › Torchwood
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
6
Views:
3,371
Reviews:
2
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
S through Z › Torchwood
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
6
Views:
3,371
Reviews:
2
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
I do not own Torchwood, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.
Home Sweet Hell
Timeline - around Random Shoes
Pairing - Jack/Ianto
Home Sweet Hell #1
He stands, as he always does, key in raised hand, palms sweaty. Feet seemingly rooted to the cream-coloured carpet, which looks almost as shop-perfect as the day it was laid; doesn't get much traffic, afterall, not even from his own visits. He sucks in the air needed to sustain him through this effort of will and unlocks the door, takes a few steps inside. It isn't getting any easier, and he despises himself for that. Tonight, though, it's even worse. Because guilt is gnawing at his belly, clawing its way up into his heart.
And because he can still feel a man's fingers running through his hair, the light pressure of a palm cupping his cheek, the ghost of a kiss haunting his lips. "I'm sorry, so sorry" he whispers as he closes the door behind him, and fumbles for the light-switch. Every inch the errant lover, stinking of his own betrayal, desperate for forgiveness. All that's missing is the extravagant bouquet of flowers…
She never lived here. Never so much as set foot inside, but she inhabits the apartment anyway. Owns it. Refuses to leave. Not that he would ever ask her to go, however much he wishes she would just slip out quietly while he is at work and leave him in peace. She can't let go, and he sure as hell can't!
The lighting is dim, but he can see her everywhere. In the photographs lovingly positioned on the chrome shelving, in the too-modern artwork perfectly hung on the otherwise stark white walls, even in the octagonal black and cream rug that dominates the centre of the living space. Living space! Oh, the irony! He almost laughs, but the remembrance of Jack's warm breath on his neck, the soft words of endearment gently suggesting that maybe he could stay just a little while longer, make him choke.
Shrugging off his jacket, he lets it fall to the floor and takes an unsteady step onto the rug. He knows exactly where it is, the stain, and he stands over it now. It's fading a little, and would have been easy enough to eradicate altogether. White wine could do it, if you were careful not to rub it in and make it worse. Salt. Soda water. But he'd been the one to say to her, the morning after the night before "Let's leave it. Something to jog our memories when we're past it!" "Babe, we'll never be that old!" she'd laughed, pulling him down onto the rug with her, straddling him, tickling him, covering him with her sweet honey kisses. He feels giddy as he relives how they'd made that stain, tumbling from the sofa, wrapped around each other, knocking over the glass as they rolled and stroked and panted and…
He sinks onto the couch, head in his hands. A mercifully different couch because when you are terrified, when you are running, when you are smuggling your beautiful, wonderful, damaged girlfriend out of the chaos, you just don't have time to think about furniture for fuck's sakes! Just the treasured items that will make you feel at home in another time, another place. Things she will appreciate when she is well again…
She's dead, let her go! She's dead, let her go! You're dead, let me go! Please… "You're dead!" His voice is strangled. "Dead."
TBC
Pairing - Jack/Ianto
Home Sweet Hell #1
He stands, as he always does, key in raised hand, palms sweaty. Feet seemingly rooted to the cream-coloured carpet, which looks almost as shop-perfect as the day it was laid; doesn't get much traffic, afterall, not even from his own visits. He sucks in the air needed to sustain him through this effort of will and unlocks the door, takes a few steps inside. It isn't getting any easier, and he despises himself for that. Tonight, though, it's even worse. Because guilt is gnawing at his belly, clawing its way up into his heart.
And because he can still feel a man's fingers running through his hair, the light pressure of a palm cupping his cheek, the ghost of a kiss haunting his lips. "I'm sorry, so sorry" he whispers as he closes the door behind him, and fumbles for the light-switch. Every inch the errant lover, stinking of his own betrayal, desperate for forgiveness. All that's missing is the extravagant bouquet of flowers…
She never lived here. Never so much as set foot inside, but she inhabits the apartment anyway. Owns it. Refuses to leave. Not that he would ever ask her to go, however much he wishes she would just slip out quietly while he is at work and leave him in peace. She can't let go, and he sure as hell can't!
The lighting is dim, but he can see her everywhere. In the photographs lovingly positioned on the chrome shelving, in the too-modern artwork perfectly hung on the otherwise stark white walls, even in the octagonal black and cream rug that dominates the centre of the living space. Living space! Oh, the irony! He almost laughs, but the remembrance of Jack's warm breath on his neck, the soft words of endearment gently suggesting that maybe he could stay just a little while longer, make him choke.
Shrugging off his jacket, he lets it fall to the floor and takes an unsteady step onto the rug. He knows exactly where it is, the stain, and he stands over it now. It's fading a little, and would have been easy enough to eradicate altogether. White wine could do it, if you were careful not to rub it in and make it worse. Salt. Soda water. But he'd been the one to say to her, the morning after the night before "Let's leave it. Something to jog our memories when we're past it!" "Babe, we'll never be that old!" she'd laughed, pulling him down onto the rug with her, straddling him, tickling him, covering him with her sweet honey kisses. He feels giddy as he relives how they'd made that stain, tumbling from the sofa, wrapped around each other, knocking over the glass as they rolled and stroked and panted and…
He sinks onto the couch, head in his hands. A mercifully different couch because when you are terrified, when you are running, when you are smuggling your beautiful, wonderful, damaged girlfriend out of the chaos, you just don't have time to think about furniture for fuck's sakes! Just the treasured items that will make you feel at home in another time, another place. Things she will appreciate when she is well again…
She's dead, let her go! She's dead, let her go! You're dead, let me go! Please… "You're dead!" His voice is strangled. "Dead."
TBC