Torchwood/Doctor Who Crossover
Title: 1492 The Conquest of Paradise
Rating: R
Genre: TW/DW crossover, Romance, Angst
Pairing(s): Ianto/Jack , Ianto/Lisa , Jack/(Now that would be telling)
Disclaimer: I don’t own an of the Whoverse (unfortunately) as they belong to the BBC and RTD
Word count: 4162
Warnings: Spoilers for COE
Summary: Is it a name that makes a person?
AN: Idea that took my brain and took it hostage.
1492 The Conquest of Paradise
Now
He woke with a gasp.
His vision was nothing more than a painful bright white light that forced him to slam his eyes shut again and he groaned painfully, rolling onto his side to cough up the remainder of the fatal liquid that had filled his lungs.
Regenerations were always the worst when you had to spew stuff back out of your body afterwards, but at least there no ‘pilot fish’ this time. Nope, just cold, thick, choking liquid that had slowly suffocated him, but at least it’d given his body time to react. To change.
His last regeneration.
After a few more moments he forced himself to open his eyes again, slowly this time, and he carefully blinked away the sticky dry sensation from them. Blurry objects started to become recognisable shapes until finally a room began to form before him. Pushing himself up on shaky limbs until he could sit back on his heels he moved his gaze over his surroundings.
It was a large poorly lit room that reminded him of Earth’s numerous medieval buildings, blue flames flickering on torches attached to the wall and an altar before him where a glass jar lay smashed on its surface, remnants of the liquid that had suffocated him clinging to its sharp edges. He placed a hand to his head as he tried to recall what had happened. There was no one else in the room so whomever had attacked (killed) him had long since vanished, clearly not knowing his true nature.
Their first mistake.
Feeling a terrible anger build in his stomach, he pushed up on still shaking legs but was forced to quickly grab the altar. Keeping his arms locked, he hung his head for a moment and after several long gasps to centre himself he pushed his head up. Right behind the altar was an old, splintering mirror and he stared at his reflection that merely hours ago had been very different.
His eyes, hazel that morning, were now a startling stormy blue (he hadn’t had blue for a while). He looked younger than his last regeneration but still older than the one before that, and his nose was no longer long and slightly crooked, but smaller and more button like (Rose would’ve liked that). In fact, in comparison, this face looked far more clean-cut than he’d been for a while and it niggled at a memory, a face he’d seen before briefly, but he couldn’t place it. He’d certainly need some new clothes as he quite clearly no longer suited the eclectic outfit he now wore, and it was hardly practical anymore.
Maybe a suit of some sort, he had missed wearing pinstripe after all.
Staring for a moment longer he finally felt ready to push himself away from the table. First things first, he had a megalomaniac to go stop.
Then
Screams filled the air accompanied by the heavy footfalls of the Cybermen. Ianto flattened himself against the farthest wall and, after closing his eyes and taking a deep breath, he quickly glanced around into the next corridor. He felt a sickening shudder go through him as he witnessed Jason from accountings be ‘deleted’ and willed his legs to run forwards to help the now screaming Harriet, but his knees had locked firmly against any movement. The only thing he could do was pull his head back round from the edge and close his eyes as he heard her screams getting fainter as they led her away.
When his body finally decided to co-operate with his brain it felt like hours had passed. It was silent now in the corridor and, after another quick check, he moved down it, arming himself with a metal bar as he did so.
He had to find her, he had to find Lisa.
Now
It wasn’t until several months later when he found himself bored inside the TARDIS that he finally explored the old rooms of his companions. He didn’t know whether it was nostalgia, or whether enough time had passed that he could now look at Rose’s (brilliant, loving, burning-bright Rose) room without his hearts thumping painfully, or Donna’s (strong, unstoppable, fearless Donna) without missing his best friend like he missed his soul. Instead he smiled as he ran a hand over the collection of nicknacks on their tables, straightening them without thought.
Jack’s room was slightly different. He stepped into Jack’s room and felt...lonely. Was it regret? Mistakes made but seemingly fixed over calling Jack ‘wrong’? Empathy perhaps, at Jack’s pain when he lost that team of his, his Torchwood? Jack had been closed off even more than before when he’d found him two regenerations back, his heart broken but not willing to talk about it as he very briefly travelled with him. Jack had mentioned a name once when he pushed for answers, but when uttered it had been done so with such anguish that he hadn’t forced the issue any further.
Settling himself on the firm bed he fingered the edge of the bedside table. The middle draw was slightly open and, after a moments hesitation, he carefully opened the draw. Inside was a slightly charred tin (battered but holding strong just like Jack), and with a respectful air he pulled it out. Placing it on his lap he gently wiped at the black burn marks, rubbing the ash between his fingers absent-mindedly, and internally debated about opening it.
It had clearly meant enough to Jack for him to salvage it from, he could only assume, the Torchwood rubble after the attack of the 456, but from there he’d left it here on the TARDIS. Maybe to protect it? To have an indestructible ship guard an indestructible man’s memories? It wasn’t like Jack would never see them again after all, sometimes they met up in various times, although he hadn’t seen Jack since he’d regenerated this time.
Internally struggling for a moment longer, he finally caved to his curiosity. Prising the stiff lid off he found a pile of photos with an assortment of trinkets. Placing the photos to one side just for a moment, he fingered the items with the reverence they deserved;
A set of wedding rings, the design of them beautifully ornate and quite clearly of the Victorian era, made his heart’s clench tightly for Jack.
A 21st Century badge with the words “Trust me, I’m a Doctor” made him smile.
A piece of rose quartz warmed his palm as he balanced it in his hand.
Each piece meaning something to Jack, holding a memory of the man who could never die, was lovingly touched and felt, the emotions behind them caressing something in his mind and sometimes he felt like laughing as a sensory memory tickled at his thoughts.
Other times he just wanted to cry for, no...with his funny, broken Captain.
The final item was tucked away in the corner of the tin, something heavy wrapped in silk fabric and he reached for it slowly. It practically hummed with Jack’s emotions and a part of him wanted to just leave it where it was, to not touch this memory that still physically ached after all this time. Taking a deep breath he gently gripped it and pulled it out to rest it in his hand more securely.
The fabric was a tie, red and black stripes diagonally decorating it and it looked worn in the middle, as though it’d been knotted too tightly too many times. For now though it was merely wrapped around the heavier object, and solemnly he unravelled it.
Resting in the palm of his hand was a stopwatch, its glass face smudged and slightly cracked and seeing it like that, in that condition, made his stomach tighten in a way an inanimate object shouldn’t be able to do.
It thrummed with both love and pain, and he held it, mourning whomever it had belonged to for a while, as they clearly still mattered to Captain Jack Harkness in a way that kept his heart shuttered. Most likely to the person whose name he’d only heard once and once had hurt enough. Placing it back into the box with all the other items he moved onto the photos.
Photos of Jack through the ages, on his own or with a team, sometimes a wife, sometimes a child. Each sepia picture held the image of a sombre man who looked young but was not, some looking more relaxed but each one holding a pain in his eyes. With a pang he realised these must’ve been from the time when he was waiting for him, waiting for answers. He continued looking through them until finally he found a group of photos in colour, clearly 21st Century with their glossy surface and he felt the tightness recede a little as Jack smiled more in these pictures.
A group of three, two women, one man with a pinched smile, beamed as they tried to squeeze into the picture. Someone was in the background by what looked like a kitchenette but he couldn’t quite make him out. Another worn photo featured the man with the uncomfortable smile and the young asian woman sharing drinks, another with the other woman who had a cheerful gap-toothed smile.
The next photo stilled his hand and his eyes widened in shock.
This one featured Jack clearly reclining on some sort of sofa or bed, and another young man was lying with him with his head on Jack’s shoulder. They were both smiling up at the camera above them (assumedly held by Jack who had his arm extended up) and they looked...happy.
The next one had the same young man quirking an eyebrow at the photographer as he made drinks in a flat wearing nothing but a t-shirt and boxers. The next was taken by someone else secretly as Jack and the young man shared a kiss at what looked like an arena, the words ‘Grand Slam’ on a banner in the faded background. The next was more poignant in black and white, and had smudge marks from fingertips suggesting Jack favoured this one. The young man was standing on a metal walkway cradling a striped mug in his hands. He was wearing a three piece suit minus the jacket and the photo was a full body profile, the young man staring at something not in the picture. The light and shadows captured him beautifully, both showing and hiding the mysterious man.
Lowering his now shaking hand until it rested in his lap, he looked up and stared in shock at the far wall. Slowly he reached up and fingered the buttons of his own waistcoat, running them up until he could trace the silk of his own tie before looking back down at the photo of the young man.
The photo of himself.
Then
Ianto stared down at his hands, the blood still covering them beginning to dry and flake and he had to fight back a dry-heave at the idea. Jack had dismissed the rest of the team a couple of hours earlier, a mixture of pity and anger on their faces, and he’d left Ianto on the Hub sofa to stare numbly out into the distance. He tried not to think about Jack down there with Lis...with the body.
He had tried so hard, fought so hard for her and it had all come to nothing. All the lies, the gut-wrenching guilt he felt when he lied to Jack, Jack who smiled at him so freely and flirted and made his stomach clench with excitement. Jack who made him hurt in his heart because he shouldn’t be thinking of anyone like that when Lisa was in pain. Jack, who made him so angry, but who he needed to not hate him.
She was dead. And Ianto was stuck in purgatory, awaiting his judgement by a man cared about, even though anger and fear had made other words, ugly words, escape from his lips.
Jack.
Ianto felt his face crumble as his sobs made his shoulders shake and he slowly leaned forwards until his forehead was against his knees. He kept his arms wrapped around his stomach as he cried, heavily and painfully, wrapping them tighter when he felt a hand on his back soothing him.
“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry...” he whispered brokenly before his sobs stole his voice again and he could only make pained sounds. He let out a heartbroken, relieved cry through his tears when arms encased him and just for a while, he let go.
Now
“No!”
“Jack...”
“Stop it! No!”
“Jack...please...”
“Why are you doing this? Stop it, please, don’t!”
“Jack...it’s me...it’s the Doctor...”
“You’re fucking sick! Whose doing this? How’re you doing this?”
“Jack, come here, look, come here!”
He watched as Jack stilled, his hands forcefully held in place on the Doctor’s chest by his tight grip on Jack’s wrists, forced to feel the two heartbeats. His eyes were wide and wild, his gaze darting from his secured hands to the face that hurt so fucking much to look at.
“It’s me Jack, it IS the Doctor. I don’t understand it either, I promise I don’t, but we’ll work it out, together, like old times.”
“Stop it,” Jack whispered angrily, “Stop using his voice, just stop..please...”
“I’m sorry Jack, I’m so sorry. If I knew of any way to make this not hurt you I would, but I had to show you. Would you have rather we’d run each other with no warning on some planet somewhere? Would you have preferred I not warn you? What would you have said, seeing me there?”
Jack was silent but now his wide eyes were hungrily drinking in the sight of Ianto Jones’ face accompanied by the one physical trait that separated a Time Lord from a Human. His mouth opened a couple of times, closed again when nothing came out until finally he managed a broken whisper.
“Doctor?”
The Doctor smiled and gently rubbed a thumb across the back of a shivering hand still pressed to his chest.
“Hi Jack.”
“But...Ianto...”
“Yeah, him too.”
Jack’s face finally crumbled in grief and his knees gave out. The Doctor caught him and moved down with him to cradle the distraught man in his arms, gently rocking him as centuries of emotional walls were attacked with something they hadn’t even entertained the idea of.
“Doctor...”
“Shh, I have you.”
“Ianto...” Jack sobbed.
Then
Ianto gripped Jack’s biceps tightly as they kissed, his stomach fluttering in both excitement and nervousness as he brushed his tongue hesitantly against Jack’s lips. He heard him give a throaty chuckle as he was granted access and he loosened his grip enough to slowly slide his hands up Jack’s arms to his shoulders, up again to his neck where he cupped the nape. Jack’s hands lightly rested on his waist, moulding Ianto’s shirt to his body before moving one hand to rest at the base of his spine and the other up to his shoulder-blades underneath his jacket.
When Jack started to move them backwards he went trustingly, his breath hitching when the back of his thighs hit Jack’s desk and his heart began to race when still Jack pushed until he was on his back on the wooden surface, his legs hanging off the edge and spread slightly to accommodate Jack between his thighs. Trying to ground himself he placed his hands on Jack’s hips when the other man pulled away from the kiss to smirk down at him. Ianto smiled back up at him, grinning wider when he hitched his legs up higher so the insides of his thighs pressed against jut of Jack’s pelvis. Jack closed his eyes with a pleased groan before opening them again and looking back at him with a positively wicked look in his eyes.
“Better start the stopwatch Ianto Jones,” he said before leaning back down to claim Ianto’s lips again in a passionate kiss, laughing against the grinning lips when he heard a faint click followed by a ticking sound.
Now
The TARDIS hummed soothingly at the two men sat on her sofa in silence. The Doctor watched her console beep and flash before turning to his companion, noting that even though Jack had been silent for a few hours now he still held the Doctor’s hand tightly.
The Doctor oddly liked it, but tried not to analysis it too much given the circumstances. Instead he tightened his own hand and placed them both in his lap as he studied Jack’s profile. He jerked slightly when Jack suddenly turned to stare at him.
“He’s your future,” he said firmly and with no explanation. Regardless, the Doctor understood.
“That’s the conclusion I’ve come to also,” he agreed, “I can only assume that at some point the Chameleon Circuit is going to get used again...I hate that thing, makes me feel like my head’s going to explode.”
Jack barked out a laugh, but it sounded painful as though it was attached to a memory. The Doctor didn’t ask.
“Your future...my past...” Jack said quietly and dropped his head back with a weary sigh. He was silent again and the Doctor watched something flicker across his face.
“Was Ianto Jones even real?” he asked and his voice sounded so broken that the Doctor moved his hand up to cup his face, startling the other man into looking at him. Considering his last few regenerations’ reluctance to touch Jack he wasn’t surprised.
“Jack, you’ve now met five versions of me...is each one the same?”
Jack paused before slowly shaking his head.
“And who do I feel more like?”
Jack blinked when the Doctor’s thumb brushed the skin under his eye gently.
“Ianto.”
“Ianto,” he agreed, “Maybe not exactly the same, I am still the Doctor after all, but I’m Ianto too.”
“But not exactly like him,” Jack continued.
“Well no, of course not. The human version of myself won’t have certain memories that make me me exactly but we are the same person essentially.”
“Tea or Coffee?” Jack said suddenly and the Doctor quirked an eyebrow in confusion.
“Hardly the time to be thinking about beverages Jack.”
“Tea or Coffee?”
“...Why’d you have to bring that up? You do realise I have past regenerations of myself pissed off at me for that...”
“Tea or Cof...”
“Coffee, okay, coffee! Do you know what its like to have versions of yourself shuddering at the idea of...Jack? Jack, are you okay? Jack, are you laughing or crying?”
“Both!” Jack cried hysterically, indeed both laughing and crying.
“I don’t get it,” the Doctor said frowning but allowed himself to be pulled forwards until he was forehead to forehead with Jack. Jack’s hands were cupping his face and stroking the skin there with his thumbs, so the Doctor reached up to Jack’s face to return the gesture. Jack’s eyes darted all over his face as though memorising him all over again.
“Ianto died in my arms...he didn’t regenerate...” Jack said quietly and the Doctor understood.
“My last...You loved him.”
“He said it to me as he died...I didn’t say it back then...I didn’t deserve it.”
“Yes you did Jack,” he whispered.
“How can you say that? How can you say that, knowing you’re destined to die in the arms of a man who is too scared to admit when he feels something even when the person, the one person who knew him and loved him anyway, is dying in his arms!”
“I know, so that means Ianto knows. We die loved, and that is much more than I thought I was going to get.”
Jack just shook his head and the Doctor moved his arms round to embrace his neck. Jack kept his hand firmly on the Doctor’s face but moved one of them to trace the contours of this face that was both new and so familiar. The Doctor allowed him to, closing his eyes as shaky fingers traced his eyebrows, the bridge of his nose, his chin.
“You know, the truly ironic thing is that he was a little bit of jealous of you.”
The Doctor felt one corner of his mouth turn up in a wry smile and chuckled slightly.
“Can’t see why, with a face like this.” Jack snorted wetly in morbid amusement.
“That’s what I said...Doctor, you’re going to die... and you won’t be coming back this time.”
The Doctor said nothing, instead closing his eyes as they continued to rest their heads together.
Then
Ianto stared at his bedroom ceiling before turning his head to look at the slumbering man beside him. He then turned his whole body towards Jack and simply watched the slow, peaceful breaths of his lover, his hand slipping towards him so that it rested beside Jack’s relaxed hand on the sheets.
Then
Ianto laughed loudly as Jack licked his neck, his growled half-hearted threats to ‘gerr’off him’ thankfully ignored. Jack moved up with a cheeky grin and claimed his lips in a playful kiss even as his hand slipped down to cup Ianto’s growing erection, making him groan and arch his back into the touch.
Then
”It’s all my fault.”
“No it’s not.”
“Don’t speak, save your breath.”
“I love you.”
“D...Don’t”
“Ianto? Ianto? Ianto, stay with me...Ianto stay with me please..stay with me, stay with me, please, please!”
“...Hey...it was good yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Don’t forget me.”
“Never could.”
“Thousand years time...you won’t remember me.”
“Yes I will...I promise...I will...Ianto? Ianto...Don’t go...don’t leave me please...please, don’t...”
15 Years after Final Regeneraton
The Doctor gently ran his hand up Jack’s bare chest as he slept, his head tucked under Jack’s chin and his leg hooked over one of his. His fingertips traced invisible scars across the otherwise unblemished skin and up until he stroked the hollow of Jack’s throat. He pushed up a little onto his elbow so he could watch his sleeping lover and he stroked a finger over Jack’s lips.
His time was ending soon, he could feel it. This new enemy was clever, and different, and something neither man had ever come across before, making the Doctor wonder. He’d heard whispers of technology based on technology from Gallifrey, and for a moment he wondered whether it was the Daleks all over again but he knew that that wasn’t it. Knew that wasn’t the technology they spoke of. Knew how they were going to get rid of the final Time Lord.
And that was okay really, because he was so tired now. So tired of running, so tired of being everywhere but belonging no where, just so tired. If it wasn’t for Jack...
Jack.
Beautiful Jack, longing Jack. Jack who loved him as the Doctor, but loved him more as Ianto Jones. Jack who brought out that mortal man from inside him, who made him feel like Ianto Jones. Who fully encouraged an unhealthy obsession with coffee and who gave him a stopwatch (not the one from the tin, never the one from the tin).
Jack who told him stories of adventures he and Ianto went on, because when he changed he wouldn’t remember. Jack...who he loved.
“I love you Jack,” he whispered as he stroked Jack’s face. He then tucked his head back under Jack’s chin and closed his eyes, keeping them closed even when Jack answered softly.
“I love you Ianto Jones.”
Ianto smiled.
Finite
AN2: I think my fic is full of broken people. Oops.
Rating: R
Genre: TW/DW crossover, Romance, Angst
Pairing(s): Ianto/Jack , Ianto/Lisa , Jack/(Now that would be telling)
Disclaimer: I don’t own an of the Whoverse (unfortunately) as they belong to the BBC and RTD
Word count: 4162
Warnings: Spoilers for COE
Summary: Is it a name that makes a person?
AN: Idea that took my brain and took it hostage.
1492 The Conquest of Paradise
Now
He woke with a gasp.
His vision was nothing more than a painful bright white light that forced him to slam his eyes shut again and he groaned painfully, rolling onto his side to cough up the remainder of the fatal liquid that had filled his lungs.
Regenerations were always the worst when you had to spew stuff back out of your body afterwards, but at least there no ‘pilot fish’ this time. Nope, just cold, thick, choking liquid that had slowly suffocated him, but at least it’d given his body time to react. To change.
His last regeneration.
After a few more moments he forced himself to open his eyes again, slowly this time, and he carefully blinked away the sticky dry sensation from them. Blurry objects started to become recognisable shapes until finally a room began to form before him. Pushing himself up on shaky limbs until he could sit back on his heels he moved his gaze over his surroundings.
It was a large poorly lit room that reminded him of Earth’s numerous medieval buildings, blue flames flickering on torches attached to the wall and an altar before him where a glass jar lay smashed on its surface, remnants of the liquid that had suffocated him clinging to its sharp edges. He placed a hand to his head as he tried to recall what had happened. There was no one else in the room so whomever had attacked (killed) him had long since vanished, clearly not knowing his true nature.
Their first mistake.
Feeling a terrible anger build in his stomach, he pushed up on still shaking legs but was forced to quickly grab the altar. Keeping his arms locked, he hung his head for a moment and after several long gasps to centre himself he pushed his head up. Right behind the altar was an old, splintering mirror and he stared at his reflection that merely hours ago had been very different.
His eyes, hazel that morning, were now a startling stormy blue (he hadn’t had blue for a while). He looked younger than his last regeneration but still older than the one before that, and his nose was no longer long and slightly crooked, but smaller and more button like (Rose would’ve liked that). In fact, in comparison, this face looked far more clean-cut than he’d been for a while and it niggled at a memory, a face he’d seen before briefly, but he couldn’t place it. He’d certainly need some new clothes as he quite clearly no longer suited the eclectic outfit he now wore, and it was hardly practical anymore.
Maybe a suit of some sort, he had missed wearing pinstripe after all.
Staring for a moment longer he finally felt ready to push himself away from the table. First things first, he had a megalomaniac to go stop.
Then
Screams filled the air accompanied by the heavy footfalls of the Cybermen. Ianto flattened himself against the farthest wall and, after closing his eyes and taking a deep breath, he quickly glanced around into the next corridor. He felt a sickening shudder go through him as he witnessed Jason from accountings be ‘deleted’ and willed his legs to run forwards to help the now screaming Harriet, but his knees had locked firmly against any movement. The only thing he could do was pull his head back round from the edge and close his eyes as he heard her screams getting fainter as they led her away.
When his body finally decided to co-operate with his brain it felt like hours had passed. It was silent now in the corridor and, after another quick check, he moved down it, arming himself with a metal bar as he did so.
He had to find her, he had to find Lisa.
Now
It wasn’t until several months later when he found himself bored inside the TARDIS that he finally explored the old rooms of his companions. He didn’t know whether it was nostalgia, or whether enough time had passed that he could now look at Rose’s (brilliant, loving, burning-bright Rose) room without his hearts thumping painfully, or Donna’s (strong, unstoppable, fearless Donna) without missing his best friend like he missed his soul. Instead he smiled as he ran a hand over the collection of nicknacks on their tables, straightening them without thought.
Jack’s room was slightly different. He stepped into Jack’s room and felt...lonely. Was it regret? Mistakes made but seemingly fixed over calling Jack ‘wrong’? Empathy perhaps, at Jack’s pain when he lost that team of his, his Torchwood? Jack had been closed off even more than before when he’d found him two regenerations back, his heart broken but not willing to talk about it as he very briefly travelled with him. Jack had mentioned a name once when he pushed for answers, but when uttered it had been done so with such anguish that he hadn’t forced the issue any further.
Settling himself on the firm bed he fingered the edge of the bedside table. The middle draw was slightly open and, after a moments hesitation, he carefully opened the draw. Inside was a slightly charred tin (battered but holding strong just like Jack), and with a respectful air he pulled it out. Placing it on his lap he gently wiped at the black burn marks, rubbing the ash between his fingers absent-mindedly, and internally debated about opening it.
It had clearly meant enough to Jack for him to salvage it from, he could only assume, the Torchwood rubble after the attack of the 456, but from there he’d left it here on the TARDIS. Maybe to protect it? To have an indestructible ship guard an indestructible man’s memories? It wasn’t like Jack would never see them again after all, sometimes they met up in various times, although he hadn’t seen Jack since he’d regenerated this time.
Internally struggling for a moment longer, he finally caved to his curiosity. Prising the stiff lid off he found a pile of photos with an assortment of trinkets. Placing the photos to one side just for a moment, he fingered the items with the reverence they deserved;
A set of wedding rings, the design of them beautifully ornate and quite clearly of the Victorian era, made his heart’s clench tightly for Jack.
A 21st Century badge with the words “Trust me, I’m a Doctor” made him smile.
A piece of rose quartz warmed his palm as he balanced it in his hand.
Each piece meaning something to Jack, holding a memory of the man who could never die, was lovingly touched and felt, the emotions behind them caressing something in his mind and sometimes he felt like laughing as a sensory memory tickled at his thoughts.
Other times he just wanted to cry for, no...with his funny, broken Captain.
The final item was tucked away in the corner of the tin, something heavy wrapped in silk fabric and he reached for it slowly. It practically hummed with Jack’s emotions and a part of him wanted to just leave it where it was, to not touch this memory that still physically ached after all this time. Taking a deep breath he gently gripped it and pulled it out to rest it in his hand more securely.
The fabric was a tie, red and black stripes diagonally decorating it and it looked worn in the middle, as though it’d been knotted too tightly too many times. For now though it was merely wrapped around the heavier object, and solemnly he unravelled it.
Resting in the palm of his hand was a stopwatch, its glass face smudged and slightly cracked and seeing it like that, in that condition, made his stomach tighten in a way an inanimate object shouldn’t be able to do.
It thrummed with both love and pain, and he held it, mourning whomever it had belonged to for a while, as they clearly still mattered to Captain Jack Harkness in a way that kept his heart shuttered. Most likely to the person whose name he’d only heard once and once had hurt enough. Placing it back into the box with all the other items he moved onto the photos.
Photos of Jack through the ages, on his own or with a team, sometimes a wife, sometimes a child. Each sepia picture held the image of a sombre man who looked young but was not, some looking more relaxed but each one holding a pain in his eyes. With a pang he realised these must’ve been from the time when he was waiting for him, waiting for answers. He continued looking through them until finally he found a group of photos in colour, clearly 21st Century with their glossy surface and he felt the tightness recede a little as Jack smiled more in these pictures.
A group of three, two women, one man with a pinched smile, beamed as they tried to squeeze into the picture. Someone was in the background by what looked like a kitchenette but he couldn’t quite make him out. Another worn photo featured the man with the uncomfortable smile and the young asian woman sharing drinks, another with the other woman who had a cheerful gap-toothed smile.
The next photo stilled his hand and his eyes widened in shock.
This one featured Jack clearly reclining on some sort of sofa or bed, and another young man was lying with him with his head on Jack’s shoulder. They were both smiling up at the camera above them (assumedly held by Jack who had his arm extended up) and they looked...happy.
The next one had the same young man quirking an eyebrow at the photographer as he made drinks in a flat wearing nothing but a t-shirt and boxers. The next was taken by someone else secretly as Jack and the young man shared a kiss at what looked like an arena, the words ‘Grand Slam’ on a banner in the faded background. The next was more poignant in black and white, and had smudge marks from fingertips suggesting Jack favoured this one. The young man was standing on a metal walkway cradling a striped mug in his hands. He was wearing a three piece suit minus the jacket and the photo was a full body profile, the young man staring at something not in the picture. The light and shadows captured him beautifully, both showing and hiding the mysterious man.
Lowering his now shaking hand until it rested in his lap, he looked up and stared in shock at the far wall. Slowly he reached up and fingered the buttons of his own waistcoat, running them up until he could trace the silk of his own tie before looking back down at the photo of the young man.
The photo of himself.
Then
Ianto stared down at his hands, the blood still covering them beginning to dry and flake and he had to fight back a dry-heave at the idea. Jack had dismissed the rest of the team a couple of hours earlier, a mixture of pity and anger on their faces, and he’d left Ianto on the Hub sofa to stare numbly out into the distance. He tried not to think about Jack down there with Lis...with the body.
He had tried so hard, fought so hard for her and it had all come to nothing. All the lies, the gut-wrenching guilt he felt when he lied to Jack, Jack who smiled at him so freely and flirted and made his stomach clench with excitement. Jack who made him hurt in his heart because he shouldn’t be thinking of anyone like that when Lisa was in pain. Jack, who made him so angry, but who he needed to not hate him.
She was dead. And Ianto was stuck in purgatory, awaiting his judgement by a man cared about, even though anger and fear had made other words, ugly words, escape from his lips.
Jack.
Ianto felt his face crumble as his sobs made his shoulders shake and he slowly leaned forwards until his forehead was against his knees. He kept his arms wrapped around his stomach as he cried, heavily and painfully, wrapping them tighter when he felt a hand on his back soothing him.
“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry...” he whispered brokenly before his sobs stole his voice again and he could only make pained sounds. He let out a heartbroken, relieved cry through his tears when arms encased him and just for a while, he let go.
Now
“No!”
“Jack...”
“Stop it! No!”
“Jack...please...”
“Why are you doing this? Stop it, please, don’t!”
“Jack...it’s me...it’s the Doctor...”
“You’re fucking sick! Whose doing this? How’re you doing this?”
“Jack, come here, look, come here!”
He watched as Jack stilled, his hands forcefully held in place on the Doctor’s chest by his tight grip on Jack’s wrists, forced to feel the two heartbeats. His eyes were wide and wild, his gaze darting from his secured hands to the face that hurt so fucking much to look at.
“It’s me Jack, it IS the Doctor. I don’t understand it either, I promise I don’t, but we’ll work it out, together, like old times.”
“Stop it,” Jack whispered angrily, “Stop using his voice, just stop..please...”
“I’m sorry Jack, I’m so sorry. If I knew of any way to make this not hurt you I would, but I had to show you. Would you have rather we’d run each other with no warning on some planet somewhere? Would you have preferred I not warn you? What would you have said, seeing me there?”
Jack was silent but now his wide eyes were hungrily drinking in the sight of Ianto Jones’ face accompanied by the one physical trait that separated a Time Lord from a Human. His mouth opened a couple of times, closed again when nothing came out until finally he managed a broken whisper.
“Doctor?”
The Doctor smiled and gently rubbed a thumb across the back of a shivering hand still pressed to his chest.
“Hi Jack.”
“But...Ianto...”
“Yeah, him too.”
Jack’s face finally crumbled in grief and his knees gave out. The Doctor caught him and moved down with him to cradle the distraught man in his arms, gently rocking him as centuries of emotional walls were attacked with something they hadn’t even entertained the idea of.
“Doctor...”
“Shh, I have you.”
“Ianto...” Jack sobbed.
Then
Ianto gripped Jack’s biceps tightly as they kissed, his stomach fluttering in both excitement and nervousness as he brushed his tongue hesitantly against Jack’s lips. He heard him give a throaty chuckle as he was granted access and he loosened his grip enough to slowly slide his hands up Jack’s arms to his shoulders, up again to his neck where he cupped the nape. Jack’s hands lightly rested on his waist, moulding Ianto’s shirt to his body before moving one hand to rest at the base of his spine and the other up to his shoulder-blades underneath his jacket.
When Jack started to move them backwards he went trustingly, his breath hitching when the back of his thighs hit Jack’s desk and his heart began to race when still Jack pushed until he was on his back on the wooden surface, his legs hanging off the edge and spread slightly to accommodate Jack between his thighs. Trying to ground himself he placed his hands on Jack’s hips when the other man pulled away from the kiss to smirk down at him. Ianto smiled back up at him, grinning wider when he hitched his legs up higher so the insides of his thighs pressed against jut of Jack’s pelvis. Jack closed his eyes with a pleased groan before opening them again and looking back at him with a positively wicked look in his eyes.
“Better start the stopwatch Ianto Jones,” he said before leaning back down to claim Ianto’s lips again in a passionate kiss, laughing against the grinning lips when he heard a faint click followed by a ticking sound.
Now
The TARDIS hummed soothingly at the two men sat on her sofa in silence. The Doctor watched her console beep and flash before turning to his companion, noting that even though Jack had been silent for a few hours now he still held the Doctor’s hand tightly.
The Doctor oddly liked it, but tried not to analysis it too much given the circumstances. Instead he tightened his own hand and placed them both in his lap as he studied Jack’s profile. He jerked slightly when Jack suddenly turned to stare at him.
“He’s your future,” he said firmly and with no explanation. Regardless, the Doctor understood.
“That’s the conclusion I’ve come to also,” he agreed, “I can only assume that at some point the Chameleon Circuit is going to get used again...I hate that thing, makes me feel like my head’s going to explode.”
Jack barked out a laugh, but it sounded painful as though it was attached to a memory. The Doctor didn’t ask.
“Your future...my past...” Jack said quietly and dropped his head back with a weary sigh. He was silent again and the Doctor watched something flicker across his face.
“Was Ianto Jones even real?” he asked and his voice sounded so broken that the Doctor moved his hand up to cup his face, startling the other man into looking at him. Considering his last few regenerations’ reluctance to touch Jack he wasn’t surprised.
“Jack, you’ve now met five versions of me...is each one the same?”
Jack paused before slowly shaking his head.
“And who do I feel more like?”
Jack blinked when the Doctor’s thumb brushed the skin under his eye gently.
“Ianto.”
“Ianto,” he agreed, “Maybe not exactly the same, I am still the Doctor after all, but I’m Ianto too.”
“But not exactly like him,” Jack continued.
“Well no, of course not. The human version of myself won’t have certain memories that make me me exactly but we are the same person essentially.”
“Tea or Coffee?” Jack said suddenly and the Doctor quirked an eyebrow in confusion.
“Hardly the time to be thinking about beverages Jack.”
“Tea or Coffee?”
“...Why’d you have to bring that up? You do realise I have past regenerations of myself pissed off at me for that...”
“Tea or Cof...”
“Coffee, okay, coffee! Do you know what its like to have versions of yourself shuddering at the idea of...Jack? Jack, are you okay? Jack, are you laughing or crying?”
“Both!” Jack cried hysterically, indeed both laughing and crying.
“I don’t get it,” the Doctor said frowning but allowed himself to be pulled forwards until he was forehead to forehead with Jack. Jack’s hands were cupping his face and stroking the skin there with his thumbs, so the Doctor reached up to Jack’s face to return the gesture. Jack’s eyes darted all over his face as though memorising him all over again.
“Ianto died in my arms...he didn’t regenerate...” Jack said quietly and the Doctor understood.
“My last...You loved him.”
“He said it to me as he died...I didn’t say it back then...I didn’t deserve it.”
“Yes you did Jack,” he whispered.
“How can you say that? How can you say that, knowing you’re destined to die in the arms of a man who is too scared to admit when he feels something even when the person, the one person who knew him and loved him anyway, is dying in his arms!”
“I know, so that means Ianto knows. We die loved, and that is much more than I thought I was going to get.”
Jack just shook his head and the Doctor moved his arms round to embrace his neck. Jack kept his hand firmly on the Doctor’s face but moved one of them to trace the contours of this face that was both new and so familiar. The Doctor allowed him to, closing his eyes as shaky fingers traced his eyebrows, the bridge of his nose, his chin.
“You know, the truly ironic thing is that he was a little bit of jealous of you.”
The Doctor felt one corner of his mouth turn up in a wry smile and chuckled slightly.
“Can’t see why, with a face like this.” Jack snorted wetly in morbid amusement.
“That’s what I said...Doctor, you’re going to die... and you won’t be coming back this time.”
The Doctor said nothing, instead closing his eyes as they continued to rest their heads together.
Then
Ianto stared at his bedroom ceiling before turning his head to look at the slumbering man beside him. He then turned his whole body towards Jack and simply watched the slow, peaceful breaths of his lover, his hand slipping towards him so that it rested beside Jack’s relaxed hand on the sheets.
Then
Ianto laughed loudly as Jack licked his neck, his growled half-hearted threats to ‘gerr’off him’ thankfully ignored. Jack moved up with a cheeky grin and claimed his lips in a playful kiss even as his hand slipped down to cup Ianto’s growing erection, making him groan and arch his back into the touch.
Then
”It’s all my fault.”
“No it’s not.”
“Don’t speak, save your breath.”
“I love you.”
“D...Don’t”
“Ianto? Ianto? Ianto, stay with me...Ianto stay with me please..stay with me, stay with me, please, please!”
“...Hey...it was good yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Don’t forget me.”
“Never could.”
“Thousand years time...you won’t remember me.”
“Yes I will...I promise...I will...Ianto? Ianto...Don’t go...don’t leave me please...please, don’t...”
15 Years after Final Regeneraton
The Doctor gently ran his hand up Jack’s bare chest as he slept, his head tucked under Jack’s chin and his leg hooked over one of his. His fingertips traced invisible scars across the otherwise unblemished skin and up until he stroked the hollow of Jack’s throat. He pushed up a little onto his elbow so he could watch his sleeping lover and he stroked a finger over Jack’s lips.
His time was ending soon, he could feel it. This new enemy was clever, and different, and something neither man had ever come across before, making the Doctor wonder. He’d heard whispers of technology based on technology from Gallifrey, and for a moment he wondered whether it was the Daleks all over again but he knew that that wasn’t it. Knew that wasn’t the technology they spoke of. Knew how they were going to get rid of the final Time Lord.
And that was okay really, because he was so tired now. So tired of running, so tired of being everywhere but belonging no where, just so tired. If it wasn’t for Jack...
Jack.
Beautiful Jack, longing Jack. Jack who loved him as the Doctor, but loved him more as Ianto Jones. Jack who brought out that mortal man from inside him, who made him feel like Ianto Jones. Who fully encouraged an unhealthy obsession with coffee and who gave him a stopwatch (not the one from the tin, never the one from the tin).
Jack who told him stories of adventures he and Ianto went on, because when he changed he wouldn’t remember. Jack...who he loved.
“I love you Jack,” he whispered as he stroked Jack’s face. He then tucked his head back under Jack’s chin and closed his eyes, keeping them closed even when Jack answered softly.
“I love you Ianto Jones.”
Ianto smiled.
Finite
AN2: I think my fic is full of broken people. Oops.