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fandomweekly2025-03-16 11:39 am
m_findlow) wrote in fandomweekly2025-03-16 11:39 am
Entry tags:
[#252] NIGHTLY NOISES (TORCHWOOD)
Theme Prompt: #252- Midnight snack
Title: Nightly noises
Fandom: Torchwood
Rating/Warnings: PG.
Bonus: Yes
Word Count: 1,000 words
Summary: Jack is woken by the sounds of intruders in the hub.
Jack didn’t sleep much. It wasn’t that he didn’t need sleep, or that he didn’t crave that chunk of time every night where his thoughts stopped swirling around his head, feeling restored for having had the physical rest. It was that when he slept he was so often plagued by dreams and nightmare that made being awake seem far more preferable. A lot of things didn’t sit well on his conscience and chose those hours when he wasn’t actively engaged with the world to remind him of the sometimes difficult choices he'd made in his long life. He could live with feeling tired, even if he never showed it outwardly. He was used to the feeling – even comfortable with it – and didn’t let it affect the mental sharpness he needed on a daily basis, with his limitless immortality helping to paper over the cracks in his energy levels. There had to be some compromise since it was his immortality that had contributed to most of the things that kept him awake at night.
Tonight though he dispensed with the anxious worries about what might lie in wait for him when he closed his eyes. Even he couldn't deny what his body was telling him. It needed rest – proper rest – of the kind that couldn't be had by leaning back in his chair and simply closing his eyes for a while. He’d fallen asleep almost instantly, dropping into a rare dreamless state, chest rising and falling so slowly he might have appeared dead.
Despite the deepness of his sleep, something scratched at the highest level of his consciousness, slowly rousing him all the way to wakefulness. He could hear something overhead, scuttling around the hub up beyond the narrow hatch that led down into the small cocooned space he called his bunker. The hub was home to all manner of noises, from the constant thrum of the computers and the rift machine, to the trickling of water from the tower that ran from the streets above them to the pool at the bottom of their facility, to the ever present creaking of Victorian age metalwork. This sound was none of those, but the sound of someone or something moving about in between.
He quickly and silently donned trousers and his undershirt, not bothering to tuck the latter into the former and ignoring socks or shoes. His faithful webley pistol was on the upturned steamer trunk right next to his sleeping cot and he tucked it into the waistband before climbing the ladder up into his office.
In the darkness of the hub, one light in the small kitchenette was clearly visible all the way across the space from where he stood by his desk, peering through the large round glass window. Intruders and undesirables tended not to leave lights on, Jack decided, padding out and towards the light.
Even from a distance away, the familiar outline of Ianto Jones was unmistakable, though like Jack, he wasn’t precisely dressed for work. He was equally barefoot, in dark navy flannel bottoms and a loose grey top. Jack pulled the gun from his waistband and gently set it on the counter, relieved not to need it. ‘What are you doing here?’ he asked. ‘Did we forget to inventory the tea bags? It could have waited til morning, you know.’
Ianto appeared sheepish, cupping a bowl of cereal that was still lacking milk. ‘Sorry, sir. I didn’t mean to wake you.’
‘Don’t be,’ Jack replied. ‘But the question still stands, and judging by your outfit…’
‘I was hungry. Forgot that I hadn't eaten since breakfast yesterday and couldn't wait another five hours for a black pudding fry up around the corner.’
All fair and logical, Jack agreed, but one thing was still nagging at him. ‘Ianto, were you sleeping here?’
Ianto looked down at the bowl of muesli, decided that milk was an unnecessary delay and scooped up a spoonful, chewing it before replying. ‘Downstairs,’ he finally said, not quite before he’d finished chewing. ‘In one of those visitors’ rooms.’ He finished swallowing. ‘Have been for ages.’
Jack blinked, caught off guard by the confession. ‘But why?’ Why not go home and at least enjoy the comforts of his own apartment, or if he wanted to stay at the hub, why not with Jack? It felt like they hardly ever slept together anymore.
‘Because…’ Ianto paused, trying to collate the words to explain himself and then gave up. ‘I think you know why, sir.’
Jack swallowed the bitter pill of what was being intimated. Because they’d been shorthanded ever since they’d lost Owen and Tosh. Because the work never seemed to end. Because the survivors’ guilt plagued their every waking moment. More reasons why Jack was reluctant to ever sleep again, fearing endless replays of those terrible moments when he was powerless to do anything to stop it. ‘I wish you’d told me,’ he said.
‘It was just easier,’ Ianto said, discarding the barely touched bowl as if his appetite had left him. ‘Get a few more things done each day, still manage a few hours sleep in between…’
‘I’m sorry,’ Jack apologised. He thought he’d give his team time and space to heal, but now he was learning they were burying themselves in work just the same as he had been, neglecting everything else on account of the weight of their shared loss. ‘Come to bed with me?’ he asked, holding out a hand.
‘Or you could come to mine,’ Ianto offered. ‘Mine has more room, which is particularly handy if you plan on getting any sleep without being squeezed out onto the floor.’
Jack managed a smile. ‘It’s not that bad.’ A little slim and sparse perhaps, but still usable.
‘It really is,’ Ianto replied before a yawn took over, forcing him to cover his mouth. ‘Think we might get a few hours before the bacon and eggs start calling again?’
Jack pulled him forward. ‘I think we’ll both be better for it.’
Title: Nightly noises
Fandom: Torchwood
Rating/Warnings: PG.
Bonus: Yes
Word Count: 1,000 words
Summary: Jack is woken by the sounds of intruders in the hub.
Jack didn’t sleep much. It wasn’t that he didn’t need sleep, or that he didn’t crave that chunk of time every night where his thoughts stopped swirling around his head, feeling restored for having had the physical rest. It was that when he slept he was so often plagued by dreams and nightmare that made being awake seem far more preferable. A lot of things didn’t sit well on his conscience and chose those hours when he wasn’t actively engaged with the world to remind him of the sometimes difficult choices he'd made in his long life. He could live with feeling tired, even if he never showed it outwardly. He was used to the feeling – even comfortable with it – and didn’t let it affect the mental sharpness he needed on a daily basis, with his limitless immortality helping to paper over the cracks in his energy levels. There had to be some compromise since it was his immortality that had contributed to most of the things that kept him awake at night.
Tonight though he dispensed with the anxious worries about what might lie in wait for him when he closed his eyes. Even he couldn't deny what his body was telling him. It needed rest – proper rest – of the kind that couldn't be had by leaning back in his chair and simply closing his eyes for a while. He’d fallen asleep almost instantly, dropping into a rare dreamless state, chest rising and falling so slowly he might have appeared dead.
Despite the deepness of his sleep, something scratched at the highest level of his consciousness, slowly rousing him all the way to wakefulness. He could hear something overhead, scuttling around the hub up beyond the narrow hatch that led down into the small cocooned space he called his bunker. The hub was home to all manner of noises, from the constant thrum of the computers and the rift machine, to the trickling of water from the tower that ran from the streets above them to the pool at the bottom of their facility, to the ever present creaking of Victorian age metalwork. This sound was none of those, but the sound of someone or something moving about in between.
He quickly and silently donned trousers and his undershirt, not bothering to tuck the latter into the former and ignoring socks or shoes. His faithful webley pistol was on the upturned steamer trunk right next to his sleeping cot and he tucked it into the waistband before climbing the ladder up into his office.
In the darkness of the hub, one light in the small kitchenette was clearly visible all the way across the space from where he stood by his desk, peering through the large round glass window. Intruders and undesirables tended not to leave lights on, Jack decided, padding out and towards the light.
Even from a distance away, the familiar outline of Ianto Jones was unmistakable, though like Jack, he wasn’t precisely dressed for work. He was equally barefoot, in dark navy flannel bottoms and a loose grey top. Jack pulled the gun from his waistband and gently set it on the counter, relieved not to need it. ‘What are you doing here?’ he asked. ‘Did we forget to inventory the tea bags? It could have waited til morning, you know.’
Ianto appeared sheepish, cupping a bowl of cereal that was still lacking milk. ‘Sorry, sir. I didn’t mean to wake you.’
‘Don’t be,’ Jack replied. ‘But the question still stands, and judging by your outfit…’
‘I was hungry. Forgot that I hadn't eaten since breakfast yesterday and couldn't wait another five hours for a black pudding fry up around the corner.’
All fair and logical, Jack agreed, but one thing was still nagging at him. ‘Ianto, were you sleeping here?’
Ianto looked down at the bowl of muesli, decided that milk was an unnecessary delay and scooped up a spoonful, chewing it before replying. ‘Downstairs,’ he finally said, not quite before he’d finished chewing. ‘In one of those visitors’ rooms.’ He finished swallowing. ‘Have been for ages.’
Jack blinked, caught off guard by the confession. ‘But why?’ Why not go home and at least enjoy the comforts of his own apartment, or if he wanted to stay at the hub, why not with Jack? It felt like they hardly ever slept together anymore.
‘Because…’ Ianto paused, trying to collate the words to explain himself and then gave up. ‘I think you know why, sir.’
Jack swallowed the bitter pill of what was being intimated. Because they’d been shorthanded ever since they’d lost Owen and Tosh. Because the work never seemed to end. Because the survivors’ guilt plagued their every waking moment. More reasons why Jack was reluctant to ever sleep again, fearing endless replays of those terrible moments when he was powerless to do anything to stop it. ‘I wish you’d told me,’ he said.
‘It was just easier,’ Ianto said, discarding the barely touched bowl as if his appetite had left him. ‘Get a few more things done each day, still manage a few hours sleep in between…’
‘I’m sorry,’ Jack apologised. He thought he’d give his team time and space to heal, but now he was learning they were burying themselves in work just the same as he had been, neglecting everything else on account of the weight of their shared loss. ‘Come to bed with me?’ he asked, holding out a hand.
‘Or you could come to mine,’ Ianto offered. ‘Mine has more room, which is particularly handy if you plan on getting any sleep without being squeezed out onto the floor.’
Jack managed a smile. ‘It’s not that bad.’ A little slim and sparse perhaps, but still usable.
‘It really is,’ Ianto replied before a yawn took over, forcing him to cover his mouth. ‘Think we might get a few hours before the bacon and eggs start calling again?’
Jack pulled him forward. ‘I think we’ll both be better for it.’