Ianto Jones, Castiel;
u-rated, 432words, set post TW:COE;
sequel of sorts to “Pale Shelter”, though this can be read separate.
When Ianto wakes, it is with a disorientation he cannot place. The darkness surrounding him is absolute and even though he has blinked his eyes awake, he cannot tell if they are opened or closed. The seeping chill he feels is next to filter through to his brain, the thought slow and sluggish to process even as the first shivers begin to wrack at his body.
He tries to move then, head twisting just a little to the side, fingers twitching in their place at his sides; finger-pads pressing against coldness, a metal, something that echoes as his fingers tap-tap against it. He feels his heart, its beat once slow and steady now picking up in tempo, thumping against his chest as the first prickling of panic reaches him.
He sucks in a breath then, short and quick and repeats, tendrils of fear rushing through him as he raises his hands, kicks out his legs, and finds the cause of his blindness- he is confined. Trapped in a box that will not open, no matter how desperate his kicking and his clawing and his half-choked screaming is. He works himself to exhaustion, confusion, until he finds himself lying there, shivering in the darkness.
It could be hours, or it might have been days, he cannot tell as he lies there in a half-awake stupor, living between consciousness and not, but always living in darkness, until suddenly he is aroused by a sound- a grinding, tugging, scraping of metal against metal sound. And then comes the light. So bright and so unexpected that he cries out a breathless sound, eyelids clenching shut against it even as he feels himself moving, being pulled slowly but inevitably towards the light.
A hand touches him a moment later and he flinches away, eyes peeking open and blinking frantically as shapes and images begin to discern themselves, until the sight of a man leaning over him begins to take focus.
He frowns, a niggling at the back of his mind as he takes in the tanned skin, the mussed hair and the shadow of stubble. His eyes travel over him, seeing the suit, and the coat and his eyes widen in sudden recognition. The man sees it too and he smiles a small, wry smile.
“God has work for you, Ianto Jones,” he says and Ianto nods. He nods because he does not know what else to do.
The man- the angel, for he knows now what he is- smiles at him again and presses two fingers to his forehead.
Darkness takes him again, but it is without fear that he now embraces it.