Life and Air, Death and Stone
I know this feeling—I've been here before. You already feel heavy, the threads of your suit press against my hands, feeling as though they might cut through my flesh if I'm not careful. I don't want to be careful, it's too fucking late for careful.
God, I've been here, so many times. Nearly eighty years ago, I sat cradling some boy- an American who couldn't have been eighteen- while the bullets whizzed by our heads and the mortars screamed and crashed around us. I never found out his name, it just seemed profane to ask as he gasped his last breath. I didn't say a thing as the boy bled out in my arms. But I made sure to remember his last words, to remember the exact shade of his eyes, to be a witness to his ending. I still remember his mother's name, tainted by the blood and sand and gunpowder that had permeated his words. He had blonde eyelashes. And he had died trying to pull my body to safety.
I t was different with Owen. There was no war, no faceless killer, that had brought him down. No, instead it was a peer, a man that Owen had recognized, has tried to reason with. Another boy, another bullet, another body staining my hands with blood. The last thing I saw in his eyes, even as Death stole the last breath from his lungs, was anger. How like my Owen; indignant even in the face of his own demise. I remember letting go of his hand and watching it fall to the ground like a weight, bouncing lifelessly against the pavement. I remember Tosh, her whole body sagging towards him, curling over him like the cover to casket.
I think that's when I knew she would soon be leaving us too. But it still didn't lessen the pain of closing the mortuary doors and knowing that she was frozen and immobile on the other side. She'd always been such an ethereal creature, a being of air and grace. I couldn't bear to touch her after she died. I didn't want to feel the hollow chill that engulfed her limbs and had replaced the most brilliant girl I'd ever met with a silent corpse as pale and lifeless as a cast.
They'd all died because, I—the incomparable Captain Jack Harkness—had been too damned weak, too damned short-sighted, too damned human, to stop it.
But your death… this is a whole new level of guilt. How did I not see this coming? Dammit, Ianto. Why did you follow me so willingly, so faithfully to the slaughter? Why did you stand beside me? I felt your hand shake in mine, even as I spoke up, howling my displeasure into the unknown like a coyote in the desert. Did you know even then?
Your eyes are so bright, shining in my dimming mind like spot lights. I can feel the chill seeping in again, locking my joints, numbing my senses to all but you. Each word you speak is infinitely more painful and more precious than you can imagine because they are so… undeniably… you. Your lips still, and I kiss them, a foolish attempt on my part to keep them, to keep you talking. I'm not ready to give that up yet, you see.
I hope you didn't have time to feel it like this. Each movement hurts now; even bringing my arm up to caress your cheek is a torment. It's still warm, you know? My head is so foggy, and I can no longer see you, no longer see anything. But I can still feel your cheek and it is still warm. It's still warm, and I can still pretend, still hope. You can't die, Ianto. As long as you are still warm against me, there is still hope…