Title: Because I Could Not Stop for Death
Author: flowergurl4675
Fandom: Torchwood
Genre: Drabble.
Pairing: Jack/Ianto. Sort of.
Rating: PG
Status: Complete
Word Count: 374
Warning: Character death. And snoring!Ianto. :x
A/N: Inspired by one of my favorite, all-time classic authors, Ray Bradbury. Also inspired by Emily Dickinson's poem, Death.
Disclaimer: I don't own Torchwood or any of its characters. I also don't own Emily Dickinson's poem, Death. Don't sue, please.

***

Because I could not stop for Death,
He kindly stopped for me;
The carriage held but just ourselves
And Immortality.


Darkness comes, creeping up the bed, latching onto the firm mattress, weaving its web unhurriedly towards him, only to find him smirking. The captain's cream-white teeth flash knowingly, contrasted against his dark surroundings.

The Welshman beside him stirs in his sleep, his head drooping lower, as he dangerously sways in the vinyl chair. "No, no," Captain says urgently as Darkness gravitates towards the younger man, who has now resumed his soft snoring. "Don't mind him. You're here for me, aren't you?"

Ears of Darkness are perked up, fine-tuned. It lingers, unmoving for a moment, as if it needs encouragement. "Come. I've waited long enough, haven't I?" Darkness, then, approaches the American, slithering over the sheets. "Yes," he says, his voice sounding far away, "Shall we dance?"

Darkness blankets the captain, engulfing him completely in the shadows of itself.

 

We slowly drove, he knew no haste,
And I had put away
My labor, and my leisure too,
For his civility.

* * * * *

The Welshman is awakened, suddenly, either by the cold now surrounding the room or by the beeping of the monitor overhead.

"Sir?" he blinks, eyes adjusting to the obscurity now. No answer.

Panic pangs in his chest not once, but twice, as he fumbles for the light switch.

Pause. There's no need for a confirmation, after all. Kneeling beside the bed, the young man touches the captain's wrist, if only to feel a fading heart-beat. Instead, he senses his own hollow pulse reverberating through both their bodies.

Lifting the lifeless hand, now limp with wintry frost, he rests his fiery forehead against it. The sigh that is uttered from his lips is interrupted as he spots the smiling countenance of the captain.

The young tea-boy returns the smile, politely, as he always has, folding the captain's hand back into a wilted fist. Perfect hands. He always had the perfect hands. Even now ... it glittered in the moonlight, wan with perfection.

A single tear. And lips brushing against knuckles.

Since then 'tis centuries, and yet each
Feels shorter than the day
I first surmised the horses' heads
Were toward eternity.

 

***