[Not a Christmassy something, but I hope you like it anyway. =D]
boxes
The thing about being immortal is that you forget.
Ianto knows this. He doesn’t begrudge Jack the forgetting, either. Ianto can’t remember anything from before he was five, and he only remembers five to university in bits and pieces. He can’t even tell you with any degree of accuracy what his university classmates had looked like. When you face end-of-the-world scenarios on a regular basis, unimportant things like what your old room-mate’s comfort food had been tend to slip out of the attic of the brain.
That’s what photographs are for, of course, and videos and journals and all that sort of thing. What Ianto doesn’t remember, his old journals remind him of. He cringes to think of the stupid brat he’d been back then, but at least they evoke memories.
And that’s why Ianto understands the importance of Jack’s boxes. He has copies all over the place – definitely a few in different safety-deposit boxes around Britain, and Ianto suspects overseas as well. There’s one that Jack keeps in the Hub as well, and whenever he brings it out, Ianto finds something to do elsewhere.
It doesn’t feel right to be intruding on those memories. It doesn’t feel right to sit with Jack as he goes through the photographs and notes and letters and remembers people who died long before Ianto was even born.
Jack keeps his most precious memories in his boxes. One day, even those will be reduced to anecdotes. And then perhaps he’ll forget the stories altogether. Even if he sees the photographs, perhaps he won’t recognise the people in them. Ianto suspects it will happen, even if Jack won’t acknowledge the possibility.
But for now, Jack has his memories, stored not so much with care as with love. These are memories Jack wants to keep, longs to keep. These are the important ones.
He hadn’t meant to peek. He honestly hadn’t. But Jack had left the box open and out in plain view in his bunker, and Ianto had looked over as he stepped out of the shower, and the first thing he’d seen had been a photograph. Of himself. He’s sleeping in it, the sheets halfway off his body and shadows twisting around him. He looks peaceful, and young, and happy.
Ianto doesn’t know what to do with this new information. He dries himself off and gets into his sleep-wear.
Jack comes down the ladder just as Ianto’s climbing into bed. “Done for the night?” Jack asks.
“Yep,” Ianto says. “Sorry, I’m exhausted –”
“So am I,” Jack laughs, rapidly shedding his clothes. “I just want to sleep for about a week. But don’t tell anyone –”
“Wouldn’t want to ruin your reputation,” Ianto says with a smirk.
“So nice of you to look out for me,” Jack says. He wanders over to the table, smiles down at the box, then closes it and puts it away. He didn’t, Ianto thinks, remove the photograph first. It hadn’t been an accident.
“Good night,” Jack says, slipping into bed and wrapping himself around Ianto. Ianto sighs contentedly and lets his eyes slip shut.
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timeasmymeasure
no subject
Date: 2011-12-25 04:21 pm (UTC)boxes
The thing about being immortal is that you forget.
Ianto knows this. He doesn’t begrudge Jack the forgetting, either. Ianto can’t remember anything from before he was five, and he only remembers five to university in bits and pieces. He can’t even tell you with any degree of accuracy what his university classmates had looked like. When you face end-of-the-world scenarios on a regular basis, unimportant things like what your old room-mate’s comfort food had been tend to slip out of the attic of the brain.
That’s what photographs are for, of course, and videos and journals and all that sort of thing. What Ianto doesn’t remember, his old journals remind him of. He cringes to think of the stupid brat he’d been back then, but at least they evoke memories.
And that’s why Ianto understands the importance of Jack’s boxes. He has copies all over the place – definitely a few in different safety-deposit boxes around Britain, and Ianto suspects overseas as well. There’s one that Jack keeps in the Hub as well, and whenever he brings it out, Ianto finds something to do elsewhere.
It doesn’t feel right to be intruding on those memories. It doesn’t feel right to sit with Jack as he goes through the photographs and notes and letters and remembers people who died long before Ianto was even born.
Jack keeps his most precious memories in his boxes. One day, even those will be reduced to anecdotes. And then perhaps he’ll forget the stories altogether. Even if he sees the photographs, perhaps he won’t recognise the people in them. Ianto suspects it will happen, even if Jack won’t acknowledge the possibility.
But for now, Jack has his memories, stored not so much with care as with love. These are memories Jack wants to keep, longs to keep. These are the important ones.
He hadn’t meant to peek. He honestly hadn’t. But Jack had left the box open and out in plain view in his bunker, and Ianto had looked over as he stepped out of the shower, and the first thing he’d seen had been a photograph. Of himself. He’s sleeping in it, the sheets halfway off his body and shadows twisting around him. He looks peaceful, and young, and happy.
Ianto doesn’t know what to do with this new information. He dries himself off and gets into his sleep-wear.
Jack comes down the ladder just as Ianto’s climbing into bed. “Done for the night?” Jack asks.
“Yep,” Ianto says. “Sorry, I’m exhausted –”
“So am I,” Jack laughs, rapidly shedding his clothes. “I just want to sleep for about a week. But don’t tell anyone –”
“Wouldn’t want to ruin your reputation,” Ianto says with a smirk.
“So nice of you to look out for me,” Jack says. He wanders over to the table, smiles down at the box, then closes it and puts it away. He didn’t, Ianto thinks, remove the photograph first. It hadn’t been an accident.
“Good night,” Jack says, slipping into bed and wrapping himself around Ianto. Ianto sighs contentedly and lets his eyes slip shut.