Title: Fifteen Minutes
By: Mardahin
Pairing: Jack/Ianto
Rating: PG-13
Author's Note: Written for the TW_Flashfic prompt "Out of Time". My first foray into Torchwood as an author. Explicit spoilers through "They Keep Killing Suzie".
Summary: They say that everyone is entitled to fifteen minutes of fame.

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They say that everyone is entitled to fifteen minutes of fame; that it is some inalienable but finite right, bestowed simply for being born in an age of advanced communications. An odd mutilation of the mythos of the fates - women who alloted the length of a man's life before he drew his first breath - but there is a grain of truth to the theory that certain things are limited from the start. Entitlement is another matter entirely.

In Ianto's world, it is not fame that is measured out in golden strands woven into an invisible skein; it is love, affection in its basest form. It is a truth long accepted, if no less painful for that resignation. It is also the reason that he never intended to respond to his captain's teasing; he has had enough heartbreak for one year, two years, maybe even five, thank you very much.

The other truth of Ianto's world is that the universe has never cared much when it came to his desires and wishes.

It began as the one thing he could give, a lifting of the invisible burden that he recognized so easily in Jack's stance - recognized it for its familiarity, not from the mirror, but from his father all those years ago. Ianto had been young when his sister died, but not young enough to have been blessed with ignorance of life before it happened. Jack carried the same exhaustion, and for just one moment Ianto wanted to make it go away. To banish the ghost of his father right along with the ghost of Suzie Costello. Put them both into the vaults and toss the key into the bin. Just until morning.

Ianto should have known that comfort given always comes with a price; he did know. He'd met Lisa by spilling a cup of scalding tea onto her blouse, and become intrigued by her as he'd cleaned and dressed the burns. When he'd returned the shirt he insisted on laundering and she asked him in for coffee, he'd thought maybe, just maybe, it was love. A few months later, he'd decried the state of her electric kettle, and her laughter told him that she thought it was love, too. That was when the ticking had begun. It wasn't malevolent, or harsh, or annoying; it was just a quiet ticking whenever he closed his eyes. When a week passed with no incident, he put it down to a prank by the boys in psych weapons who had been complaining that he never went out for drinks with them anymore. It wouldn't be the first time they'd been playing around with their 'harmless toys'. One week later, the Battle of Canary Wharf tore Ianto's world apart.

Ianto wakes in a cold sweat, heart racing and muscles tense. Several weeks have passed since Suzie Costello was sealed into her vault for the second time, and Ianto now spends more nights in the Hub than he does in his flat. He shifts carefully, sitting up and looking at his still-sleeping companion. Contrary to popular belief, Jack Harkness does sleep, but never deeply - his repose is always restless and filled with dreams. It's a miracle that Ianto's small movements haven't woken him, and it's a blessing that for once Ianto isn't going to question. Not tonight.

Because tonight, Ianto has wakened to a ticking clock in a room silent save for the sound of staggered breaths, and a sense of dread in his heart. It is not love; it cannot be love after so short a time, he tells himself. He's a part-time shag, to use Owen's crude language, nothing more. But the clock is ticking, slow and steady, counting down the minutes of happiness to which Ianto is entitled. And much as he wants to run, as far and as fast as he can - anything to keep what happened to Lisa, to his sister, from happening again - he won't. Because he is bound to Torchwood by blood and tears, and he does not blame it for taking his happiness. Instead, he will pray that it take him first; if his thread is run up, then take it all, and do not leave the scraps.

~ Finis ~

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