Jan. 14th, 2020 11:38 am
theflirt: (Sad-ish)
[personal profile] theflirt
I'm lost in you everywhere I run
Everywhere I turn I'm finding something new
I'm lost in you something I can't fight
I cannot escape
I can spend my life lost in you! Lost in you!

Your whispers fill these empty halls
I'm searching for you as you call
I'm bracing, chasing after you
I need you more

The tile feels cold under his damp hand the full weight of him supported by it while he stands under the stinging hot shower spray. Part of him thinks the tile should be warmer, another part of him thinks it is and its just him thats cold. Bitterly cold. He lets out a long drawn out sigh. Struggling against the rush of emotions that try to over take him. /again/. It’s only been..three days. Three long agonizing days. And he’s spent the bulk of that time holed up in his lover’s flat. 




This is exhausting. Gwen had stopped by once…maybe twice, to try and persuade him to leave here, he slammed the door in her face. He doesn’t want to leave, not yet. He has work to do.

His head hands down at so low, the muscles in his back burn and strain at the weight of it. He hardly notices. It doesn’t matter. Nothing does. Not really. All that work. Everything he spent so many years to build. Gone. All gone. He has nothing left. He’s done. And if he could die? He’d welcome it.

It’s his burden to live. His curse to be brought back when others more deserving aren’t able to. He’d give anything to go back. To take it all back and change things. So arrogant and sure. He was a fool. Gambled and lost.

The sound of his fist hitting the tile stirs him from his thoughts. Not even the pain from his shattered hand means anything. Not that it matters. It’ll only be a few minutes before it healed again anyway and the reality is he’ll be left with nothing to show for it but a cluster of broken shower tiles.


Unnaturally numb.

He doesn’t feel anything. No. That’s a lie. He does feel. He feels the biting pain of his loss and it wants to pull him under. He should let it. He wants to let it, but he’s not done yet. He has to finish packing Ianto’s things. This one final act he gives his fallen lover, before he vanishes from this planet for ever.

The bedroom is next. He’s dreading going in there. The closet. Full of clothes, scents, memories. He can’t bring himself to do it. Not yet. That’s why he’s here. Already having emptied he bathroom of it’s contents he sat on the floor for….he doesn’t know how long just cradling a bottle of shampoo. Squeezing the open bottle just enough to puff tiny breaths of the Welshman’s familiar smell to his nose.

He can’t imagine what it’s going to be like in the bedroom. This is so much harder than he thought. He can’t disconnect himself like he could with so many of the others. He broke a rule and got to close, fell in love. Really in love, nothing at all
like he’s felt before. And now? He’s paying for it. The price of his ‘gift’.

The hot water has long since run out and now the biting cold washes over him. He pays it no mind. He’ll stand here all night, his body aching, straining to support him. He just /can’t/ do it. Not yet. God. He needs strength. And if he believed there was a God he might pray, but Jack Harkness gave up on gods, and Time Lords, and redemption for his sins, long long ago. The loss of Ianto just further reinforcing the fact that there is nothing out there to save us. And he was stupid to ever believe there was. 
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