No Damn Good - fic - *warning*
No Damn Good
Ianto only
Rating: NC-17
Spell checked only
WARNING: This fic contains mentions of child abuse, and graphic self-harm imagery.
The Hub was silent, Owen and Gwen had left; Tosh, after finally working out what Ianto was trying to say to her, had also left. He knew that she was worried about him, but he’d managed to convince her that he would be ok.
After they had discovered that Jack had vanished they had all gone off and buried themselves in their work. Ianto had cleaned and tidied and organised, until there was little left to do, on the main levels at least.
Now there was nothing else. The faint hum of machinery was not enough to still his racing thoughts.
He headed towards Jack’s office, sitting himself in the big chair, he opened the second drawer of the desk and removed the bottle of Bourbon and the glass that he knew was inside.
Pouring half a glass he took a deep swallow, it burned like fire, which was exactly what he’d hoped it would do.
He leaned back in the chair, closing his eyes.
Another person had left. Someone else who was important to him had gone. He needed to protect himself again, make sure that no-one else became so important that it would hurt this much when they left.
Because they always did.
All his life those closest to him had eventually left him on his own, to face the world without them.
Some people had told him that it had made him stronger, other complained that they didn’t know who he was, they couldn’t tell how he felt about things.
What did people expect, as soon as he made himself vulnerable he would get hurt.
This sort of feeling always took him back to the beginning, when he was five, and his older brother was died. He remembered their father yelling at Glynn and then the thudding noise, as his brother fell down the stairs, his mother’s screaming. . . .
So much time was spent hiding from his father after Glynn’s death. He didn’t realise how much his brother had protected him from, until the week after the funeral. Then the beating started, not much to begin with, and always where it would be hidden under clothing. Pain became a way of life for him.
His mother died 6 years after Glynn, the last person in his family he had loved. Leaving him alone with his brutal, drunken father. No one had noticed the daily abuse of the pale, quiet, clever young Jones boy. The villagers just felt sorry for his father, it was simply filled with mutterings about the man left alone to care for an 11yr old boy.
He poured another glass; opening the top drawer of Jack’s desk, he pulled it right out, and opened a slim, flat black box at the back.
A serene look came over his face as he pulled out an exquisitely engraved, slim bladed dagger.
He had found this soon after joining Torchwood 3, when he was tidying Jack’s drawers late one night when he couldn’t sleep, often spending time playing with it when the other man was out.
At the age of 12 he made a great discovery. One Sunday afternoon he had left his father in one of his frequent alcoholic stupors. He headed out across the fields. He must have walked for an hour or more; not realising how tired he was before he stumbled at a fence. It was barbed wire once he’d gathered himself to his feet he noticed blood pouring from his arm. He sat down, pain throbbed through his body; his arm burned as he sat and watched the blood flowing.
Suddenly, as he watched the warm red liquid, everything that he had left behind seemed insignificant. He felt empowered, the physical pain he felt made the rest of his life, the fresh and fading bruises on his skinny pale frame, pale into insignificance.
Standing he walked up to the metal fence, as if in a trance he bared his other arm, placing it against the metal barbs he pushed down and tore a cut into it. He flinched at the pain, but a small smile appeared on his lips. He was doing this, not his father.
Ianto opened his eyes. The knife flashed in the light, it was so beautiful.
His thoughts were now more in the present, the form of release he had discovered that day, at 12 years old had stayed with him. A sure way of calming the mental pain, it was part of what had enabled him to create the almost notorious inscrutable demeanour, which got him through each day.
As the years passed, his father died, girlfriends, boyfriends, Lisa, they had all left. None of them had felt him important enough to stay around for. Even while they were still around he knew they would leave, they all did eventually. The knives and the pain were a reassuring constant for him.
When he joined Torchwood 3 he’d managed to avoid the medical, he had pissed Owen off deliberately, so he’d refused to do it. A curious look had crossed Jack’s face, as if he’d known what Ianto was doing, but the Captain hadn’t pressed the matter.
And now Jack had gone too.
The kiss he’d given him when he came back to life should have warned Ianto, but he never learned. No matter how much he tried to protect himself from caring, he always gave in.
This time though he had Jack’s own knife.
He’d already removed his tie, now he rolled his sleeves up. His arms were a mass of scars, a constant reminder of years of self-abuse, physical and metal pain.
Smiling he picked up the knife, pressed the point of the blade into the skin just below the veins on his wrist, he didn’t want to kill himself, pressing he dragged it up his arm as far as his elbow. Pain tearing through him he watched the blood bubble out, a look of wonder and enormous calm coming over his face, again and again he cut.
Eventually he placed the knife back on the desk. His jacket on his lap was collecting the blood flowing out, it would be an irrecoverable mess, but he didn’t care.
His mind was at peace for the first time in weeks.
Jack would be back, and it would all start over again.
Ianto only
Rating: NC-17
Spell checked only
WARNING: This fic contains mentions of child abuse, and graphic self-harm imagery.
The Hub was silent, Owen and Gwen had left; Tosh, after finally working out what Ianto was trying to say to her, had also left. He knew that she was worried about him, but he’d managed to convince her that he would be ok.
After they had discovered that Jack had vanished they had all gone off and buried themselves in their work. Ianto had cleaned and tidied and organised, until there was little left to do, on the main levels at least.
Now there was nothing else. The faint hum of machinery was not enough to still his racing thoughts.
He headed towards Jack’s office, sitting himself in the big chair, he opened the second drawer of the desk and removed the bottle of Bourbon and the glass that he knew was inside.
Pouring half a glass he took a deep swallow, it burned like fire, which was exactly what he’d hoped it would do.
He leaned back in the chair, closing his eyes.
Another person had left. Someone else who was important to him had gone. He needed to protect himself again, make sure that no-one else became so important that it would hurt this much when they left.
Because they always did.
All his life those closest to him had eventually left him on his own, to face the world without them.
Some people had told him that it had made him stronger, other complained that they didn’t know who he was, they couldn’t tell how he felt about things.
What did people expect, as soon as he made himself vulnerable he would get hurt.
This sort of feeling always took him back to the beginning, when he was five, and his older brother was died. He remembered their father yelling at Glynn and then the thudding noise, as his brother fell down the stairs, his mother’s screaming. . . .
So much time was spent hiding from his father after Glynn’s death. He didn’t realise how much his brother had protected him from, until the week after the funeral. Then the beating started, not much to begin with, and always where it would be hidden under clothing. Pain became a way of life for him.
His mother died 6 years after Glynn, the last person in his family he had loved. Leaving him alone with his brutal, drunken father. No one had noticed the daily abuse of the pale, quiet, clever young Jones boy. The villagers just felt sorry for his father, it was simply filled with mutterings about the man left alone to care for an 11yr old boy.
He poured another glass; opening the top drawer of Jack’s desk, he pulled it right out, and opened a slim, flat black box at the back.
A serene look came over his face as he pulled out an exquisitely engraved, slim bladed dagger.
He had found this soon after joining Torchwood 3, when he was tidying Jack’s drawers late one night when he couldn’t sleep, often spending time playing with it when the other man was out.
At the age of 12 he made a great discovery. One Sunday afternoon he had left his father in one of his frequent alcoholic stupors. He headed out across the fields. He must have walked for an hour or more; not realising how tired he was before he stumbled at a fence. It was barbed wire once he’d gathered himself to his feet he noticed blood pouring from his arm. He sat down, pain throbbed through his body; his arm burned as he sat and watched the blood flowing.
Suddenly, as he watched the warm red liquid, everything that he had left behind seemed insignificant. He felt empowered, the physical pain he felt made the rest of his life, the fresh and fading bruises on his skinny pale frame, pale into insignificance.
Standing he walked up to the metal fence, as if in a trance he bared his other arm, placing it against the metal barbs he pushed down and tore a cut into it. He flinched at the pain, but a small smile appeared on his lips. He was doing this, not his father.
Ianto opened his eyes. The knife flashed in the light, it was so beautiful.
His thoughts were now more in the present, the form of release he had discovered that day, at 12 years old had stayed with him. A sure way of calming the mental pain, it was part of what had enabled him to create the almost notorious inscrutable demeanour, which got him through each day.
As the years passed, his father died, girlfriends, boyfriends, Lisa, they had all left. None of them had felt him important enough to stay around for. Even while they were still around he knew they would leave, they all did eventually. The knives and the pain were a reassuring constant for him.
When he joined Torchwood 3 he’d managed to avoid the medical, he had pissed Owen off deliberately, so he’d refused to do it. A curious look had crossed Jack’s face, as if he’d known what Ianto was doing, but the Captain hadn’t pressed the matter.
And now Jack had gone too.
The kiss he’d given him when he came back to life should have warned Ianto, but he never learned. No matter how much he tried to protect himself from caring, he always gave in.
This time though he had Jack’s own knife.
He’d already removed his tie, now he rolled his sleeves up. His arms were a mass of scars, a constant reminder of years of self-abuse, physical and metal pain.
Smiling he picked up the knife, pressed the point of the blade into the skin just below the veins on his wrist, he didn’t want to kill himself, pressing he dragged it up his arm as far as his elbow. Pain tearing through him he watched the blood bubble out, a look of wonder and enormous calm coming over his face, again and again he cut.
Eventually he placed the knife back on the desk. His jacket on his lap was collecting the blood flowing out, it would be an irrecoverable mess, but he didn’t care.
His mind was at peace for the first time in weeks.
Jack would be back, and it would all start over again.