the evil that men do ; capnhotness
The world moves in slow motion, an adrenaline high, and Ianto walks through it like he's wearing blinders. Careless enough in this state to PINpoint onto the front walk instead of the back garden, he leaves the door slightly ajar and his shoes (bearers of bloody footprints up the walk) on the stoop. His jacket gets lost on one of the landings of ( Read more... )
"Yes, you are," Jack answers honestly, helping him out of the shower and onto the bath mat in front of the sliding glass door. "Let's not add a bad cold to the mix, shall we?" he wonders, downplaying the seriousness of Ianto sitting under the cold spray of water for however long he was there before Jack arrived home. Still, he's worried first about the medical ramifications of the decision, then the emotional state Ianto is clearly in. Piece by piece, he begins removing Ianto's wet attire (though only after gently coercing Ianto's fingers free from the front of his shirt) in order to replace it with a dry terrycloth robe.
By the time he's stripped to just a towel, adding his own soaked clothes to the steadily growing pile on the floor, Jack is talking just to keep Ianto focused, reminded painfully of the long drive home from the countryside that seems so long ago. "You look better in red, anyway," he finishes, rubbing at Ianto's hair with a towel, having just given a lecture of the evils of hypoxia. Blue lips, he's decided, aren't for Ianto.
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It does take a few seconds before Ianto relents to relinquishing his grip on Jack's shirt, but after that he gives little trouble in the undressing process, even going so far as to attempt to help. Unfortunately, numb fingers and unsteady hands don't quite help with buttons, and he gives up after the very small contribution of his own belt. Wrapped up in the robe, Ianto folds his arms across his chest to harness in the warmth, working purely on instinct at this point, as he's too confused and there aren't very many logical thoughts rattling around in his brain just now.
Ianto can focus on Jack, however, a faintly bemused look on his face as he watches his husband get undressed. Somehow, his brain has connected the fact that Jack shouldn't have been in the shower with clothes on, while not quite reaching the same conclusion in regards to himself. "I was trying to get clean," he explains, a weak gesture back at the shower. The water wasn't so cold when he first got in there. "There was blood - on my shirt - and the hem of my trousers - and my knees."
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"Yeah?" he asks, brushing the towel down Ianto's face to dry a trail of water droplets. The towel is settled around Ianto's shoulders and Jack slides an arm around his husband to lead him out of the bathroom into the bedroom itself. His prescription for the strange situation involves getting Ianto to bed and under a thick blanket.
After locating an undershirt and pants, Jack crawls into bed with Ianto and pulls him into an embrace. "Let me have your hands ... put your feet against mine ... " He tucks Ianto's hands under his arms to warm them and presses a kiss against his temple. "There. You want to talk about it?"
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The foggy thought is lodged somewhere in Ianto's mind that Jack is terribly wonderful and caring to him, and Ianto is filled with a warm fondness that doesn't mesh at all with the earlier upset of the evening, or even the post-stress reaction to it all. By the time he's tucked into bed, Ianto is seeking warmth and proximity for comfort and willingly gravitates toward Jack's body for it.
Contentedly ensconced, Ianto takes a few moments to answer, carefully putting his feet against Jack's. "The gallery opening," he says thickly. "I wasn't going to go, I remembered what you said, and then Njoki came over one night and she was upset about it. She thought it wouldn't be safe, so I thought I could just be there a while as - as backup."
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Jack is terribly caring, though his larger than life ego doesn't extend in size to this particular area of his life, so he's unlikely to actually admit to the wonderful part of the equation. All that seems to matter at the moment is the circulation of blood to Ianto's fingers and toes, first and foremost, though Ianto has his undivided attention when he speaks.
"I'm sorry," is all Jack can find to say, giving Ianto an emphatic squeeze of a hug. "I didn't want you to go, not after I realized what the art would be like, so I didn't mention it. I hoped you'd forget, then I forgot." But the information doesn't mesh with Ianto's response nor the amount of blood that had washed out of his clothing. "What happened?"
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It is all fine that Jack doesn't admit to the wonderful part of it, because Ianto is, typically, more than willing enough to remind him of it. Unfortunately, his fingers and ties are starting to hurt, tingling with pins-and-needles sensation as the blood flow gets started back through all his appendages with the application of warmth.
"The art was just the beginning," Ianto replies, shuddering at the memory - and, comparatively, how mild it had been ... at first. "I wore the talisman that came with the invitation, and Njoki gave me a ring. I didn't realize ... not everyone had a talisman, Jack. After the artist showed up, there were these - these - creatures, I don't even know how to describe them, or what they were called. They started attacking the guests who weren't protected. The doors were locked. It was ... it was slaughter."
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When Ianto begins to fidget with the uncomfortable feeling of pins and needles in his hands and feet, Jack rubs at his fingers to help alleviate the discomfort, unable to do anything more for his husband's feet in their current position and conversational situation.
"Why would Pickman allow that?" he wonders, though has to admit that one of the only times he'd ever spoken with Pickman was the upon their introduction ... and that was so long ago, the Easter before last at Njoki's dinner party. He also wonders why Ianto didn't remind him to go, why Ianto didn't call, why ...
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Unfortunately, the question only serves to make Ianto more agitated over the situation, and he gravitates even closer, shivering with something other than the cold. "He didn't just allow it," he states flatly. "He ordered it. He brought them with him, set them on the guests, and stood there laughing while they started ... started ripping people apart."
Ianto wants to close his eyes, but refuses to actually do so, too afraid that he'll only see it all over again, replaying on the backs of his eyelids. "It was horrible, Jack. They were tearing people limb from limb - eating them ..."
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It's an unexpected reaction to an unexpected piece of the puzzle; Pickman must've gone off the deep end, Jack suspects, though why or when or for what reason escapes him entirely (and isn't really of any concern compared to Ianto's current condition). "Shh," he cuts off the explanation with a soothing noise, letting Ianto move closer - as close as he needs to - in an attempt to combat the memories. "It's over now, I've got you."
And how comforting is that, really? On the surface, he's sure, it's at least somewhat comforting, but there's nothing he can do to take back the things Ianto has seen or help him sleep at night with the fresh horror burned into his mind. Jack could hold him, all night if need be, to explain away the shadows that play across the wall in the warm yellow streetlight that pours in through the window, but what then? After tonight, there's tomorrow, and after tomorrow the next night. He isn't sure where Ianto is going with his therapy, if he's going anywhere at all anymore, but this is likely a setback. How far, Jack can't say, only that it's a realistic representation of fears Ianto has spent more than a year suppressing.
"Ianto," Jack says after a long moment, not entirely sure how to phrase the question that's cropped up in his mind, but knowing little else by way of assistance at this point. "Do you ... want to forget it?"
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