“And I am telling you, I have seen this creature, I have—I have died by its hand, and still I have faced worse.”
Something in Ianto’s face and posture shifts then—nothing he’s aware of. The set of his jaw, the straightening of his spine…the ice that crystallizes in pale blue eyes. His manner is impassioned, but the honesty and urgency of it are touched with the chill finger of experience.
Ianto isn’t aware of how he transforms from the composed personal assistant to the Torchwood field agent in a breath—he just knows he can’t get the horrors of the Brecon Beacons out of his head or the monolith of Abaddon to leave his mind’s eye.
Nor, when he looks at Dahlia—fragile, steely, silkstone Dahlia—can he get the image of Jack staggering out of death and into the shadow of a dark god to leave him.
He doubted Jack, and he watched him die. Ianto nearly hesitates…but there is no ghost to tempt him this time. No voice whispering in his ear to do what he knows is wrong.
Only Jack’s example to give him courage—and Dahlia Leeds to give that courage to.
“There is another word for monsters where I come from: aliens. Things from beyond all the stars in the night sky, people and creatures and technology.” He continues. “My job was to face those things every day, and still more besides in my own backyard that lies beyond any human imagining. Not all of them could be killed, some could only be contained. That’s what I’m proposing: hunt this…Pine Devil not to kill, but to imprison it. Trap the bugger so it can’t hurt anyone else.”
no subject
Something in Ianto’s face and posture shifts then—nothing he’s aware of. The set of his jaw, the straightening of his spine…the ice that crystallizes in pale blue eyes. His manner is impassioned, but the honesty and urgency of it are touched with the chill finger of experience.
Ianto isn’t aware of how he transforms from the composed personal assistant to the Torchwood field agent in a breath—he just knows he can’t get the horrors of the Brecon Beacons out of his head or the monolith of Abaddon to leave his mind’s eye.
Nor, when he looks at Dahlia—fragile, steely, silkstone Dahlia—can he get the image of Jack staggering out of death and into the shadow of a dark god to leave him.
He doubted Jack, and he watched him die. Ianto nearly hesitates…but there is no ghost to tempt him this time. No voice whispering in his ear to do what he knows is wrong.
Only Jack’s example to give him courage—and Dahlia Leeds to give that courage to.
“There is another word for monsters where I come from: aliens. Things from beyond all the stars in the night sky, people and creatures and technology.” He continues. “My job was to face those things every day, and still more besides in my own backyard that lies beyond any human imagining. Not all of them could be killed, some could only be contained. That’s what I’m proposing: hunt this…Pine Devil not to kill, but to imprison it. Trap the bugger so it can’t hurt anyone else.”