sorry I forgot the cut bad me!
This takes place during end of days torchwood ep 13 read at your discretion
Summary: Ianto's POV during End of days, following Jacks 'demise'.
Characters: Mainly focused on Ianto and Jack, mentions of rest of the team.
Genre: Character death/ angst.
Spoilers for End of days 13/13
A/N This is my first Torchwood fic, and has now been beta'd by the wonderful beewhimsical therefore this version is now beta'd owe you girl, name the price!
Hollow; I feel hollow. I stare at his body, lying on the cold bed of metal, soon to be slid into the refrigerator, to be kept in the vaults along with so many more victims of Torchwood. I will always be near him, yet I will always be far away. Do we go to our own personal heaven or hell? Is it a joint hallucination, or a new reality? I knew I should never have read about existentialism.
Gwen stands next to him, Owen and Toshiko at her side. I would rather Owen not be here; the hatred I feel is barely locked up deep within me. ‘The tea boy.’ ‘The part-time shag.’ It’s not as if he isn’t Gwen’s part time shag, or hell, any of the other multitudes of women, men, and god knows what.
Jack is cold; icy cold. His pallor has changed from warm to pale, his skin once so thick and fleshy, has now become as thin as tissue. I want to scream at him for deserting me. I never wanted to love him, but he was just too full of life to resist, even with Lisa as she was. I never acted on it, not once, not until she was gone. Not until I realized that after the battle of Canary Wharf , Lisa had ceased to exist.
That in itself was a revelation; one Jack had tried so hard to tell me that night. One I had failed to absorb until sat in my flat at 3am, bottle of Smirnoff in hand and darkness surrounding me. She had died the day she was “assimilated” to the Cybermen’s ranks. They had erased the most significant part of her, the part I had really loved; her humanity.
Slowly, ever so slowly, I fell in love with him. So slowly in fact, that for the longest time I felt a gnawing in my gut, a writhing of snakes and a twisting of my soul. He isn’t coming back. He isn’t. He lays there still as … well, as the dead.
I walk out of the room; I hardly feel together. I walk up into his office, which is more his living quarters than anything else. It is everything that made him him. I tidy his office; an old habit. I move around his desk and think of the times I’ve been up against it. The times I have laid there, lavished in his attention.
The memories flood over me. His hands running up my body, calluses on my smooth skin, the roughness sending shivers through me, making me that much harder. His kisses are full of fervor. He slides me up the desk and pulls my shirt off my shoulders and down my back until it gathers in the arch. I run my hands over his shoulders and down his back…
I snap back to reality and it becomes too difficult to deal with. I grab his coat from the rack where it hangs. I doubt he thought he would be taking it off for the last time. I bring it up to my nose and inhale his sent. One day it will fade out; I need to commit it to memory. I need to keep it. I cannot forget it.
He is gone. I sink to the ground holding his coat.