Revelations Part 1
Title: Revelations
Chapter: 1 of 10-ish...
Chapter Title: Prologue- In Which Ianto Realizes He Has a Rather Unhealthy Level of Dependence Upon a Certain Captain Jack Harkness
Pairings: Jack/Ianto, mention of Gwen/Rhys, mention of Martha/Tom, Ianto/Martha fag-hag fabulousness
Rating: PG for this one- NC-17 for later chapters
Warnings: Post Season 2 Spoilers, General Angst
Excerpt:
“Good.” Jack says it in a way that makes Ianto think perhaps it’s not ‘good’ at all. “Now maybe you can tell me… what the hell was that?!” He’s quietly furious, eyes flashing, jaw clenched. Ianto drifts off for a moment as his sight traces the line of muscles and tendons standing in tense relief on Jack’s neck.
"I…” he finally begins haltingly, realizing Jack is waiting for an answer. “I’m not quite sure… what you mean. I’ve just woken up in a hospital bed, apparently from some sort of traumatic incident…” It’s hard to put the normal amount of cheek into his voice, to keep the string of words straight in his mind, but he manages. “You’ll have to forgive me if I’ve lost the thread of a conversation that seems to have started before I got here.”
“Ianto.”
There are lots of unpleasant ways to wake up. At the top of the list is with eyes sticky with too little sleep, muscles aching from an awkward position, and mouth dry with a taste comparable to one that would result if a small rodent had died in the back of your throat during the middle of the night. Generally accompanied by the jarring sound of an alarm clock, it’s how Ianto wakes up at least six mornings out of ten.
“Ianto.”
Second on the list of unpleasant awakenings is the morning hangover. Similar to item number one, the main difference is that it’s compounded by a stabbing headache and light sensitivity. Usually curable with one (or ten) strong cups of coffee and an unhealthy breakfast of fish and chips. Rarely experienced (because who has time to go out drinking when there’s always more archiving to be done?) and easily dealt with; even though it’s more unpleasant than number one, it falls lower on the list.
“Ianto.”
Number three, Ianto’s personal least-favorite, is the disoriented awakening. Not quite knowing where or even when you are, in the worst instances sometimes forgetting who you are in those brief moments between sleep and consciousness. Thought is disjointed, broken. Compiling lists of what he knows for sure during these moments are what comfort him, help him drag himself into the land of the living. Ianto Jones, age 25, Torchwood employee identification number 9306248, archivist, occasional field agent, clean-up crew, coffee-maker. Superior: Jack Harkness (Captain), co-workers: Gwen Cooper (PC), Martha Jones (MD), Mickey Smith…
“Ianto.”
Now slipping back awake, opening swollen eyelids against the harshness of fluorescent lighting. He can smell the antiseptic, the sickness, puts together where he is even if he can’t quite remember yet how he got there. A slow glance to his hand reveals there’s a catheter inserted, his ears pick up the rhythmic beeping of a heart monitor, the nearly inaudible dripping of pain medication (explains the disorientation and inability to focus, his thought patterns meandering and unclear), and also the fact that there’s a hand resting lightly around his, thumb stroking across his palm.
He follows the foreign hand up to an elbow, the crease of light navy fabric, harsh wool, to a shoulder, neck, and finally to a face creased with worry lines, hair falling to obscure blue eyes, lips tilted into a frown.
“Jack,” Ianto says, croaks, really, throat dry and vision blurry as a result of the medication. Jack’s eyes snap up to his face and the formerly open and vulnerable concern shuts off, Jack’s expression hardening, becoming mask-like. This is the captain Ianto knows. “Sir.”
Jack doesn’t speak, slowly pulls his hand from Ianto’s, turns away but comes back with a cup rattling with ice chips, presses one to Ianto’s cracked lips. Ianto takes it gratefully, the ice melting down his throat to soothe the ache and dryness. Four more ice chips fed to him from gentle fingertips, then Jack sits back and places the cup on the flimsy metal side table, crosses his arms in front of his chest. Defensive.
“Feeling better?” Jack asks guardedly.
“Easier to talk now,” Ianto answers. He doesn’t want to go into how he still feels floaty, not quite awake, his thoughts running down corridors he’s having trouble following. He’s felt similar effects before, so it’s nothing to worry about. All it means is that they have him on the good stuff.
“Good.” Jack says it in a way that makes Ianto think perhaps it’s not ‘good’ at all. “Now maybe you can tell me… what the hell was that?!” He’s quietly furious, eyes flashing, jaw clenched. Ianto drifts off for a moment as his sight traces the line of muscles and tendons standing in tense relief on Jack’s neck.
“I…” he finally begins haltingly, realizing Jack is waiting for an answer. “I’m not quite sure… what you mean. I’ve just woken up in a hospital bed, apparently from some sort of traumatic incident…” It’s hard to put the normal amount of cheek into his voice, to keep the string of words straight in his mind, but he manages. “You’ll have to forgive me if I’ve lost the thread of a conversation that seems to have started before I got here.”
Jack sighs, a puff of disgusted breath more than anything.
“How long have I been out?” Ianto asks when Jack opens his mouth to speak.
“Three days. Do you remember what happened?”
“Not really.” Ianto tries to think back, the memories slipping through his mind like a handful of limp spaghetti. Things are fuzzy still, but he attempts to unravel them as best he can. “There was a call… suspicious figures; reported non-humans in the city center coinciding with rift activity; Gwen and Mickey went with Martha, I followed you.”
“Right so far,” Jack says. “We were heading to investigate the Mochyn Du where Mickey had noticed a power spike- they headed over to check out a similar reading at the Sophia Gardens Sports Centre-”
It’s raining, always bloody raining in Cardiff. Ianto’s counting his breaths that steam into the cold air. They’re standing with their backs to the wall of the pub, rain pelting down on them, soaking into Ianto’s suit. He looks over at Jack, who nods. Guns raised, they move as one; kicking in the door. From there it’s a blur of motion and darkness. Clicking noises, chirps, and then Ianto can barely make out the glint of light on a weapon being aimed. It’s pointed at Jack, a reptilian face snarling in his direction. Terror chokes him, and Ianto has no more than two seconds to react. He does; pushing his Captain out of the way with a warning cry, an energy pulse ripping into his body from the alien gun. Then it’s pain, pain, PAIN- screaming, body convulsing, his nerve endings devoured in fire, escalating agony until finally, finally- falling into the soothing dark of unconsciousness...
Ianto jolts back into the present; his heart monitor has sped up in the interim, the beeps sounding out an electronic staccato. Jack is gripping his shoulder while Ianto breathes harshly. As he focuses on calming down, his heart rate slows eventually, and he looks imploringly at Jack.
“What… did we get them? How are the others?”
“There were three of them total; one setting up base at the Mochyn Du and two at the Sports Centre. Now they’re all keeping cozy in the vaults until we figure out what to do with them. Gwen, Martha and Mickey are fine- mostly because they didn’t idiotically step in front of an energy pulse.” Jack’s hand on his shoulder squeezes a little tighter, his eyes glaring in accusation. “Now let me reiterate: What the hell were you thinking?”
“I’m… not sure.” Ianto admits, lost in memories and the confusion of the medication. “It was just instinct, I suppose.” Jack snorts.
“Well, kindly remind your instinct that in cases like that, I’m the one who should be taking the hit. You nearly died, you idiot,” Jack says, quietly, eyes softening in fear and relief. “The energy pulse was like a straight shock to your nervous system. If you hadn’t passed out from the pain, the seizures would have…”
Jack cuts himself off, leaning back, putting distance between them. His walls go back up, the shiny veneer of the Captain falling into place. It’s been like this for a while now, Ianto realizes with startling clarity. Jack allowing himself brief moments of intimacy, closeness, before he pulls away again. Ever since Owen and Tosh…
And why had Ianto jumped in front of that weapon? It’s not like it could have killed Jack, not really. But in that instant, Ianto had been so terrified… so desperate… Irrationality, that mantra which had been pulsing in the back of his mind quietly ever since Jack had come back from his time with the Doctor; I can’t lose him. I can’t lose him. Not again. Not now. Not yet.
It's a character flaw he supposes he’s been only peripherally aware of up until now. His reliance on other people, his willingness to devote himself so completely to someone else that they become his whole world. It was the mistake he’d made with Lisa- it had blinded him to her inhumanity, to the fact that she had already been lost to him long before her body stopped breathing. And now it seemed he’d transferred that same kind of blind devotion onto Jack.
Perhaps it was the medication or exhaustion, but he half-remembered a moment, a feeling like déjà vu.
“Find a memory that defines who you are.” A command, a plea. And as Ianto searches, he sees Jack’s face and it becomes clear to him. An epiphany. “You.”
Jack has become all that he lives for, strives for, the entailment of his existence. It's crept up on Ianto so slowly that the realization of it now seems not such a shock as a resigned acceptance. Of course, Ianto's known that he'd fallen in love with the frustrating man long ago. He’s never said, though. There are some things they just don’t talk about.
Like the fact that when he looks at Jack now, he can tell his Captain is sitting rigidly, stalwartly refusing to care that Ianto had almost died trying to protect him. Knowingly holding himself back from feeling anything beyond the concern for a co-worker, for someone under his protection. Because that’s all Ianto is in the end, isn’t it?
“In your sad wet dreams, Ianto, where you’re his part-time shag, maybe.”
It had been more than that, for a while, just after Jack had returned from his adventures with the Doctor. A short few months during which Ianto had been lavished with affection. Jack open and laughing, kissing, embracing, sleeping next to him until morning, waking him with caresses. Awkwardly asking him out on dates. When Ianto had felt confident enough in where he stood with Jack that he would quietly stake his claim.
Cutting in, dancing at Gwen’s wedding. Holding him close. Fine with the fact that he can feel Jack’s eyes tracking her across the reception hall as long as, in the end, Ianto is the one he stays with, the one he comes home with.
It had been so easy to fall in love with Jack. The flirting, the sexually charged, witty back and forth.
“’Just us and this room, for as long as it takes’? Terrifying,” Ianto states.
“Really?” Jack asks, somewhere between incredulous and flattered.
“Absolutely. Shivers down my spine.”
“You don’t look scared.”
“It…passed.” A smirk. Jack growls and raises a mock-angry fist with a glint of humor in his eye.
The last minute rescues, the dashing escapes.
Knowing his throat is about to be slit, the butcher knife held against his skin. Feeling the pounding in his ears and the certainty of death. Rumbling… and then Jack bursts in like a twisted version of Rambo, guns blazing, taking out the enemy with a sarcastic, “Oh, really?” at the last attempt of resistance.
The way he could look at Ianto, give out rare compliments like giving out badges of honor and make Ianto feel like the most brilliant, most important person Jack knew.
“Ianto cleans up after us and gets us everywhere on time… and he looks good in a suit.”
“Ianto, I need your local knowledge.”
“I can trust you to take care of this, can’t I?”
“Good work; nice to see you taking the initiative.”
The way Jack honestly seemed to care in his own way. The occasional affectionate bump of the shoulder, pat on the back, the fierceness that would come to the fore when he gave everything to protect his team, the odd bit of inconsequential but oh-so-important piece of information dropped from those perfect lips.
“I wouldn’t change that for the world.”
The reality-changing kisses. The mind-blowing sex.
It had been so easy to fall in love with Jack that he’d missed things he really should have been paying more attention to. He knows what Jack means to him, but he’d ignored the signs telling him what he means to Jack.
Maybe Ianto is nothing more than a casual fuck.
“Oh, Ianto, it was so sad. He fell in love with him so quickly. It must be killing him to accept that he had to come back,” Tosh says while Ianto helps to re-bandage her hand on her second day back from 1941. “I suppose that’s the beauty of life and love in war times, how it’s so fleeting.”
Jack had been shagging him for eight months at that point- eight months without ever indicating something beyond a casual interest, and he’d fallen in love with the real Captain Jack Harkness in eight minutes.
Maybe Ianto is nothing more than a face in a long line of faces; maybe he pales in comparison.
John Hart kissing Jack goodbye after killing Jack, after terrorizing his friends. And Jack looks more affected, more full of regret and longing than he had any of the times Ianto had gotten dressed to leave in the early hours of the mornings, than he does when Ianto stands with a gun to his head, hands tied behind his back, a man crazed with greed threatening to kill Ianto so that he can continue carving up a living creature for profit.
Jack never spoke about his past with Ianto after that, never explained. For the most part, Ianto had been alright with it. He’d assumed he didn’t really have a right to know. Because Jack didn’t owe him anything.
Jack doesn’t owe him anything because Jack isn’t in love with him.
But Ianto loves Jack so much that he unthinkingly jumps in front of an unidentified alien weapon to save a man who can’t die. Ianto loves Jack so much that he’s certain there’s a dark part of his soul willing to torture, maim, rip apart anyone who dares to threaten the man who has somehow earned his complete, unquestioning loyalty.
“Pray they survive.” The satisfaction of watching the stun gun strike the man directly in the forehead, watching his body convulse and his eyes roll back, and still it feels not enough, not enough, he deserves to suffer more.
And yet more recently, after Tosh and Owen, Jack had resolutely stamped out any progress they’d been making towards something… not so casual. Gone are the stammering invitations to dinner. Gone are the casual nudges of shoulder to shoulder, the stroke of a hand up Ianto’s back to rest on the nape of his neck while he works at Tosh’s old computer station. Gone is anything but the almost clinical touch of Jack’s hands to his skin during sex, always as a means to an end, never quite allowing himself to be more affectionate, his eyes guarded. Gone are the small admittances, the ambiguous statements of affection that tell Ianto even if Jack isn’t in love with him, Ianto is more than just a convenience.
Jack is keeping their relationship just as uninvolved as it had been at the very beginning of it all. But now Ianto is in too deep, isn’t able to just sit by and be content with what Jack gives him, crusts of bread to a starving man. He doesn’t know how he’ll be able to cope if (when) Jack decides to leave them again, when Ianto begins to bore him so much that he isn’t even worth shagging, when Ianto gets too old or too injured or lets his dependence show.
When Jack falls in love with someone else, maybe several someones, because he cares for Ianto in his own way, does care for Ianto as much as he can, but he’s never been in love with Ianto and never will be.
Ianto can’t let it continue. He won’t be able to survive it if it does.
“Ianto?” Jack questions, drawing Ianto back to the sterility of the hospital room, the order of the utilitarian décor, away from the storm of disorder and pain raging in his mind.
“No more sacrificing yourself in some half-cocked attempt to save me, instinct or not. This can never happen again,” Jack’s tone is final, his expression serious. “It needs to stop now.”
“Yes, sir,” Ianto all but whispers, turning empty blue eyes upon his lover. “I’m afraid you may be right.”