Bat Out of Hell
Rating: T-ish(?)
Warnings: Mentioned off-screen (canon) murder spree/suicide, angst, vampire!Ianto-flavor crack.
Word Count: ~2000 (complete)
Summary: Jack's the only one left in Torchwood Three now, and Ianto has an idea what that means for both of them. He’s kept an eye on Torchwood-it’s always a good idea to follow the doings of an organization that would happily dissect one-and he knows that Yvonne Hartman has little concern for what happens at the base. As the last survivor, Jack will become Three’s leader. Part three of the Going Batty series.
Disclaimer: I don’t hold the copyrights, I didn’t create them, and I make no profit from this.
Notes: This is…well. I'm sorry to say that in the coming weeks I'm likely going to be removing myself from the Torchwood fandom. I'm losing inspiration, as seems to always happen after a year or so in a new fandom, and writing is getting to be a chore. Writing is supposed to be my escape, not something hard, so I'm getting while the getting’s good and am likely going to transfer my attention to a new fandom. Unfinished stories will be going up for adoption, series/universes will be opened up for anyone to play in, and…yeah. Sorry. :/
Anyways! There will probably be a few more fics posted before I'm gone entirely, so enjoy, all you lovely people! :)
Bat Out of Hell
It’s three minutes after one, the first day of the new millennium, when a knock sounds at Ianto's door. Since Ianto's house is, quite intentionally, in a rather bad part of town, it’s a very rare occurrence. Ianto might be concerned, but the last four burglars who tried to target him ended up getting eaten, and not in the fun way.
Well, fun for Ianto, maybe.
Regardless, he puts down his book and makes his way to the door. Odds are someone’s drunk and lost, attempting a new form of breaking and entering and in for a very nasty surprise, or it’s-
“Jack,” Ianto says with a trace of surprise, swinging the door open wide enough to see the man. He pauses and looks again-not for any sort of visual pleasure, though Jack's certainly not hard on the eyes, but because Jack looks awful. He’s pale and shaking, and even though it’s Cardiff in December, Ianto suspects it has more to do with the scent of human blood swimming in the air around him than any sort of bodily chill.
He swings the door open all the way and steps aside, a silent invitation. Jack takes it, stumbling over the threshold and nearly falling, only to have Ianto catch him at the last moment. The captain adheres to him, hands fisted tight in Ianto's silk shirt, and Ianto lets him cling. He’s never seen Jack like this, not in all the centuries he’s known the man, and as Jack's legs give way, Ianto hangs on to him, controlling their descent and sinking down with Jack still pressed entirely against him.
Jack's not crying, just shaking, and it’s all the more unnerving. Ianto's seen Jack grieve before, and it’s always been something bleak and terrible, but visible. This is…entirely different, and Ianto doesn’t like it at all.
“They're dead,” Jack manages at length, and it’s halfway trapped in his throat, like the sobs he won't let out are choking him. “They're-Alex killed them all. He killed the whole team, and he killed himself, and he wants me to-!” He breaks off, shaking even harder for just a moment, and buries his face in the curve of Ianto's throat.
Unable to do anything else, Ianto just holds him tighter and closes his eyes. There are no words for this kind of situation, no empty platitudes or whispered condolences that will assail any of the torment Jack feels right now, so Ianto just stays silent. He presses a desperate, careful kiss to Jack's hair and wishes he could speak, but while he won't delude himself into thinking that anything can make this situation worse, he certainly won't make it better, either.
And when Jack's hands change from gripping to grabbing, and his lips on Ianto's skin change from shaking to kissing, somewhere between plea and demand, Ianto does the only thing he can.
He gives in, lets Jack push him down on the wooden floor and kiss him with every fraught, frantic bit of emotion inside of him, and then he lets Jack take what he needs.
Jack has all of him, and has always had all of him.
Ianto can feel the vague threat of morning outside, beyond the heavy curtains and thick walls. It feels like a smothering blanket, and were Ianto even a few decades younger, it would send him to sleep regardless of his location or desire. But with age comes power, and Ianto has long since outgrown a need to obey the cycles of the sun and the dark. He keeps his gaze fixed on the ceiling, one hand playing idly with Jack's sandy hair. The captain is draped over him, the pattern of his breathing speaking of a deep, dreamless sleep, and Ianto allows himself a moment to contemplate the future.
Jack's the only one left in Torchwood Three now, and Ianto has a good idea what that means for both of them. He’s kept an eye on Torchwood-it’s always a good idea to follow the doings of an organization that would happily dissect one-and he knows that Yvonne Hartman has little concern for what happens at the base, as long as the Rift is monitored. As the last survivor, and with Alex’s probable recommendation, Jack will become Three’s leader, and build up a team. As for Ianto, that doesn’t even require consideration-he’ll follow Jack, as he’s done for the last hundred-odd years.
Odd how, once Jack caught him for the first time, their whole chase turned around, and now Ianto is the one forever in pursuit.
But it will be a change, for both of them, after so long spent living just below the level of full participant in this game. Hartman and Jack will likely remain permanently at odds, and Ianto knows well enough to stay as far off her radar as possible if he wants to avoid vivisection. He’s also limited to after-dark excursions in a way that makes him a…inconvenient teammate at best, and a hindrance at worst. Jack will need to find others he can work with, other people who will keep his secrets and his trust, who won't betray him as Alex did.
That, at least, Ianto can help with.
He closes his eyes to the brightening world, shuts out everything but the gentle susurration of Jack's breath, and lets sleep take him.
Tomorrow will come soon enough.
It’s three days before Ianto manages to bring it up, three days of Jack in his house, blank and empty in his grief, quiet in a way he’s never been before. Ianto watches him drift through the dark halls and shadowed rooms like a ghost, as if he’s the undead creature in this relationship. He eats when Ianto puts food in front of him, drinks when Ianto makes him, and if Ianto didn’t know better he would say Jack has become some kind of automaton, mechanical and cold.
But Jack's not cold, he’s never cold, and Ianto has finally had enough. He of all people understands grief, understands wanting to mourn, but there are ways of mourning that won't consume one entirely, and this-this isn’t Jack, and it isn’t right.
“You’ll need more people,” he says bluntly, cornering Jack in the vast, echoing darkness of his personal library. “If you don’t find your own team, Hartman will give you her mindless little minions, and either you or they will wind up buried in the basement inside of a week.”
Jack lifts his head to look at Ianto, and for the first time since he appeared on the doorstep there's a flash of something besides despair or grief in his eyes. It’s mulish stubbornness, perhaps, but at least it’s emotion. Ianto can work with that.
Jack, of course, remains mulish and obstinate for a month and a half into the new millennium. He insists on taking on all of the cases he uncovers, corresponding with the police and UNIT and also with the odd little Scotsman in Torchwood Two. Ianto stays out of it, for the most part-if Jack wants to work himself to death and past it, that’s his own business. Still, if Ianto sticks to the heavily shadowed corners of the Hub whenever possible, that’s his business, and what Jack doesn’t know won't hurt him.
And then Jack disappears for an afternoon, without a word, leaving Ianto to monitor the Rift and feed their recently acquired pteranadon.
The sun is still out, but the Hub is well-protected from any natural light, so long as Ianto stays away from the invisible lift. He keeps to bat form, mostly, because he hasn’t gotten to the age he is now by being careless, but all told it’s rather mind-numbing, being the only one on duty.
Restraining a sigh, Ianto settles himself under the stairs, clinging head-down to the metal and wrapping his wings around himself. He’s not used to this strange, low-level anxiety that’s been his constant companion since the New Year, not accustomed to caring for someone enough to worry, even after so long hovering around Jack whenever the opportunity presents itself. But then, even when he’s despondent, Jack has always before managed to come off as strong and unshakeable. To see him like this…
Alarms blare, strident to Ianto's sensitive ears, and he lets out the bat version of a shriek, dropping deeper into the darkness. Even as he does, Jack strides through the cog door, a slight figure three steps behind him. Ianto pauses, torn between concern and delight, because this woman looks like she’s shaking, and he has to wonder if Torchwood will be anything but a disaster for her nerves.
But Jack's taking his advice. He’s rebuilding the team, and Ianto is…content.
“Ianto!” Jack calls, bright and bold, and that’s the man Ianto has grown to love, rather than the shadow he’s seen the last few weeks. “Ianto, stop skulking in the shadows! Come out and say hello!”
That’s as good a cue as any, really-and a good test of the woman’s nerves. He lets go of the stairs again, lets his body shred and fragment as a cloud of bats takes to the air, whirling out and around. The new recruit gasps and takes a half-step back, but doesn’t otherwise move, and Ianto allows himself to be reluctantly impressed.
With a thought, with a breath, he releases the bat-shape and lets his human body coalesce, come together from the shadowy fading forms of wings and small bodies until he stands, barefoot and steady, on the walkway in front of the pair.
“Jack,” he says evenly. “You bellowed?”
But his eyes are on the woman, on the way she’s tightly contained but not cowering, quiet but not timid. There's a core of steel in her eyes that makes Ianto smile, and he steps around Jack to sweep a low bow before her, uncaring of the fact that he’s in jeans and an unbuttoned oxford rather than the coat and tails the motion demands. “Hello,” he offers, meeting her eyes as he straightens. “Forgive me for startling you. The Captain’s love of dramatics appears to be catching. I'm Ianto Jones, resident vampire.”
“The bats were a good clue,” the woman responds, smiling back, if tentatively. She offers a hand, then flushes when Ianto takes it and brushes a kiss over her knuckles. “I'm Toshiko Sato. Tosh.” With a half-searching glance at Jack, she adds carefully, “The new…computer tech?”
“Definitely,” Jack answers, grinning at her. He’s very smug-almost enough to make Ianto want to knock him down a peg. He refrains, though, because a smug Jack is infinitely preferable to a mourning Jack.
“Be welcome then, Tosh.” Ianto takes a step back, heart lifting as he catches Jack's eye. There's something there that Alex stole, something that Jack's found or recovered somewhere in the process of gaining Tosh as a recruit. He smiles, slow and secret, and lets go of the earth. His body rises in careful flight, and he can feel it as the sun outside drops completely below the horizon.
“Get the door, would you, Jack?” he asks. “I feel like flying.”
And he truly, unequivocally does.
Warnings: Mentioned off-screen (canon) murder spree/suicide, angst, vampire!Ianto-flavor crack.
Word Count: ~2000 (complete)
Summary: Jack's the only one left in Torchwood Three now, and Ianto has an idea what that means for both of them. He’s kept an eye on Torchwood-it’s always a good idea to follow the doings of an organization that would happily dissect one-and he knows that Yvonne Hartman has little concern for what happens at the base. As the last survivor, Jack will become Three’s leader. Part three of the Going Batty series.
Disclaimer: I don’t hold the copyrights, I didn’t create them, and I make no profit from this.
Notes: This is…well. I'm sorry to say that in the coming weeks I'm likely going to be removing myself from the Torchwood fandom. I'm losing inspiration, as seems to always happen after a year or so in a new fandom, and writing is getting to be a chore. Writing is supposed to be my escape, not something hard, so I'm getting while the getting’s good and am likely going to transfer my attention to a new fandom. Unfinished stories will be going up for adoption, series/universes will be opened up for anyone to play in, and…yeah. Sorry. :/
Anyways! There will probably be a few more fics posted before I'm gone entirely, so enjoy, all you lovely people! :)
Bat Out of Hell
It’s three minutes after one, the first day of the new millennium, when a knock sounds at Ianto's door. Since Ianto's house is, quite intentionally, in a rather bad part of town, it’s a very rare occurrence. Ianto might be concerned, but the last four burglars who tried to target him ended up getting eaten, and not in the fun way.
Well, fun for Ianto, maybe.
Regardless, he puts down his book and makes his way to the door. Odds are someone’s drunk and lost, attempting a new form of breaking and entering and in for a very nasty surprise, or it’s-
“Jack,” Ianto says with a trace of surprise, swinging the door open wide enough to see the man. He pauses and looks again-not for any sort of visual pleasure, though Jack's certainly not hard on the eyes, but because Jack looks awful. He’s pale and shaking, and even though it’s Cardiff in December, Ianto suspects it has more to do with the scent of human blood swimming in the air around him than any sort of bodily chill.
He swings the door open all the way and steps aside, a silent invitation. Jack takes it, stumbling over the threshold and nearly falling, only to have Ianto catch him at the last moment. The captain adheres to him, hands fisted tight in Ianto's silk shirt, and Ianto lets him cling. He’s never seen Jack like this, not in all the centuries he’s known the man, and as Jack's legs give way, Ianto hangs on to him, controlling their descent and sinking down with Jack still pressed entirely against him.
Jack's not crying, just shaking, and it’s all the more unnerving. Ianto's seen Jack grieve before, and it’s always been something bleak and terrible, but visible. This is…entirely different, and Ianto doesn’t like it at all.
“They're dead,” Jack manages at length, and it’s halfway trapped in his throat, like the sobs he won't let out are choking him. “They're-Alex killed them all. He killed the whole team, and he killed himself, and he wants me to-!” He breaks off, shaking even harder for just a moment, and buries his face in the curve of Ianto's throat.
Unable to do anything else, Ianto just holds him tighter and closes his eyes. There are no words for this kind of situation, no empty platitudes or whispered condolences that will assail any of the torment Jack feels right now, so Ianto just stays silent. He presses a desperate, careful kiss to Jack's hair and wishes he could speak, but while he won't delude himself into thinking that anything can make this situation worse, he certainly won't make it better, either.
And when Jack's hands change from gripping to grabbing, and his lips on Ianto's skin change from shaking to kissing, somewhere between plea and demand, Ianto does the only thing he can.
He gives in, lets Jack push him down on the wooden floor and kiss him with every fraught, frantic bit of emotion inside of him, and then he lets Jack take what he needs.
Jack has all of him, and has always had all of him.
Ianto can feel the vague threat of morning outside, beyond the heavy curtains and thick walls. It feels like a smothering blanket, and were Ianto even a few decades younger, it would send him to sleep regardless of his location or desire. But with age comes power, and Ianto has long since outgrown a need to obey the cycles of the sun and the dark. He keeps his gaze fixed on the ceiling, one hand playing idly with Jack's sandy hair. The captain is draped over him, the pattern of his breathing speaking of a deep, dreamless sleep, and Ianto allows himself a moment to contemplate the future.
Jack's the only one left in Torchwood Three now, and Ianto has a good idea what that means for both of them. He’s kept an eye on Torchwood-it’s always a good idea to follow the doings of an organization that would happily dissect one-and he knows that Yvonne Hartman has little concern for what happens at the base, as long as the Rift is monitored. As the last survivor, and with Alex’s probable recommendation, Jack will become Three’s leader, and build up a team. As for Ianto, that doesn’t even require consideration-he’ll follow Jack, as he’s done for the last hundred-odd years.
Odd how, once Jack caught him for the first time, their whole chase turned around, and now Ianto is the one forever in pursuit.
But it will be a change, for both of them, after so long spent living just below the level of full participant in this game. Hartman and Jack will likely remain permanently at odds, and Ianto knows well enough to stay as far off her radar as possible if he wants to avoid vivisection. He’s also limited to after-dark excursions in a way that makes him a…inconvenient teammate at best, and a hindrance at worst. Jack will need to find others he can work with, other people who will keep his secrets and his trust, who won't betray him as Alex did.
That, at least, Ianto can help with.
He closes his eyes to the brightening world, shuts out everything but the gentle susurration of Jack's breath, and lets sleep take him.
Tomorrow will come soon enough.
It’s three days before Ianto manages to bring it up, three days of Jack in his house, blank and empty in his grief, quiet in a way he’s never been before. Ianto watches him drift through the dark halls and shadowed rooms like a ghost, as if he’s the undead creature in this relationship. He eats when Ianto puts food in front of him, drinks when Ianto makes him, and if Ianto didn’t know better he would say Jack has become some kind of automaton, mechanical and cold.
But Jack's not cold, he’s never cold, and Ianto has finally had enough. He of all people understands grief, understands wanting to mourn, but there are ways of mourning that won't consume one entirely, and this-this isn’t Jack, and it isn’t right.
“You’ll need more people,” he says bluntly, cornering Jack in the vast, echoing darkness of his personal library. “If you don’t find your own team, Hartman will give you her mindless little minions, and either you or they will wind up buried in the basement inside of a week.”
Jack lifts his head to look at Ianto, and for the first time since he appeared on the doorstep there's a flash of something besides despair or grief in his eyes. It’s mulish stubbornness, perhaps, but at least it’s emotion. Ianto can work with that.
Jack, of course, remains mulish and obstinate for a month and a half into the new millennium. He insists on taking on all of the cases he uncovers, corresponding with the police and UNIT and also with the odd little Scotsman in Torchwood Two. Ianto stays out of it, for the most part-if Jack wants to work himself to death and past it, that’s his own business. Still, if Ianto sticks to the heavily shadowed corners of the Hub whenever possible, that’s his business, and what Jack doesn’t know won't hurt him.
And then Jack disappears for an afternoon, without a word, leaving Ianto to monitor the Rift and feed their recently acquired pteranadon.
The sun is still out, but the Hub is well-protected from any natural light, so long as Ianto stays away from the invisible lift. He keeps to bat form, mostly, because he hasn’t gotten to the age he is now by being careless, but all told it’s rather mind-numbing, being the only one on duty.
Restraining a sigh, Ianto settles himself under the stairs, clinging head-down to the metal and wrapping his wings around himself. He’s not used to this strange, low-level anxiety that’s been his constant companion since the New Year, not accustomed to caring for someone enough to worry, even after so long hovering around Jack whenever the opportunity presents itself. But then, even when he’s despondent, Jack has always before managed to come off as strong and unshakeable. To see him like this…
Alarms blare, strident to Ianto's sensitive ears, and he lets out the bat version of a shriek, dropping deeper into the darkness. Even as he does, Jack strides through the cog door, a slight figure three steps behind him. Ianto pauses, torn between concern and delight, because this woman looks like she’s shaking, and he has to wonder if Torchwood will be anything but a disaster for her nerves.
But Jack's taking his advice. He’s rebuilding the team, and Ianto is…content.
“Ianto!” Jack calls, bright and bold, and that’s the man Ianto has grown to love, rather than the shadow he’s seen the last few weeks. “Ianto, stop skulking in the shadows! Come out and say hello!”
That’s as good a cue as any, really-and a good test of the woman’s nerves. He lets go of the stairs again, lets his body shred and fragment as a cloud of bats takes to the air, whirling out and around. The new recruit gasps and takes a half-step back, but doesn’t otherwise move, and Ianto allows himself to be reluctantly impressed.
With a thought, with a breath, he releases the bat-shape and lets his human body coalesce, come together from the shadowy fading forms of wings and small bodies until he stands, barefoot and steady, on the walkway in front of the pair.
“Jack,” he says evenly. “You bellowed?”
But his eyes are on the woman, on the way she’s tightly contained but not cowering, quiet but not timid. There's a core of steel in her eyes that makes Ianto smile, and he steps around Jack to sweep a low bow before her, uncaring of the fact that he’s in jeans and an unbuttoned oxford rather than the coat and tails the motion demands. “Hello,” he offers, meeting her eyes as he straightens. “Forgive me for startling you. The Captain’s love of dramatics appears to be catching. I'm Ianto Jones, resident vampire.”
“The bats were a good clue,” the woman responds, smiling back, if tentatively. She offers a hand, then flushes when Ianto takes it and brushes a kiss over her knuckles. “I'm Toshiko Sato. Tosh.” With a half-searching glance at Jack, she adds carefully, “The new…computer tech?”
“Definitely,” Jack answers, grinning at her. He’s very smug-almost enough to make Ianto want to knock him down a peg. He refrains, though, because a smug Jack is infinitely preferable to a mourning Jack.
“Be welcome then, Tosh.” Ianto takes a step back, heart lifting as he catches Jack's eye. There's something there that Alex stole, something that Jack's found or recovered somewhere in the process of gaining Tosh as a recruit. He smiles, slow and secret, and lets go of the earth. His body rises in careful flight, and he can feel it as the sun outside drops completely below the horizon.
“Get the door, would you, Jack?” he asks. “I feel like flying.”
And he truly, unequivocally does.