For quitehomoerotic: The Truth Hurts (Everyone)
He made the decision on the way back to the Hub.
The certainty he felt about it almost frightened him; it made him sick to his stomach. He knew he should wait, think about it for a few days, discuss it with her, plan. But he was tired, and he was tired of planning, and it had to be tonight ( Read more... )
The certainty he felt about it almost frightened him; it made him sick to his stomach. He knew he should wait, think about it for a few days, discuss it with her, plan. But he was tired, and he was tired of planning, and it had to be tonight ( Read more... )
Well, that was nothing knew. They were always long days. Often a long few days that sort of stuck together to make one. His team were as much workaholics as he was. He'd practically had to push Tosh out the door, and though Owen had made a great show of looking as though he wanted to leave, Jack knew better than that ( ... )
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At first, he continued to stare blankly at the wall. Then, after a few beats too long, he looked down at his hands, laid on his lap, and then back up at Jack.
He felt completely lost.
He felt like running away.
But he couldn't.
His whole demeanor was changed. He projected nothing of the quietly-capable man he usually attempted to be. The perfect cog in the machine, so perfect that the others often didn't see him at all. But not now.
This was Ianto without the mask. Nervous. Afraid.
Silent.
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"Ianto!" he said, a little harshly. "What, am I talking to myself over here?"
He clicked his fingers in front of the man's face and stared down at him with a displeased expression.
And then? he looked at him.
His frown melted then, something a little more worried.
"Hey," he said, squatting down in front of him, "hey, Ianto. Hey, look at me. What's wrong? Has something happened? What's going on?"
Concern there, yes. But the boss as well as that. His concern for Torchwood and for Cardiff, more than for the man in front of him. He didn't mean to be that way, but habits could be hard to break, and walls hard to climb.
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"Yes, sir," he said, his voice dull and lifeless. "Something happened."
Could he say it? He wondered, even now, if he could go through with it. He didn't want to. He really didn't want to. He remembered, too vividly, Jack's words: You are not my responsibility.
To what kind of man was he telling his secrets?
He took a deep breath. Something in his chest twisted, something felt like it came loose.
"I love her."
Gruff, like sandpaper, and full of misery.
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"Ianto, what are you talking about?"
He touched a hand, brief, to Ianto's forehead, as though he might be checking for a fever.
"Look, I'm sorry but I don't know what's going on here, so I need you to tell me so I can fix whatever's wrong, okay? Now who? Who's her? What's happened?"
The truth, of course, was not something Jack would ever be prepared for.
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"Lisa," he said.
There. He had said her name. It was real, now. It was all real. Like two worlds crashing together.
He sniffled, and he added, "My girlfriend."
Then, for a moment, it was all too much, and he was overwhelmed, and he said, "I'm sorry."
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"Lisa is dead, Ianto. Lisa died in the battle. She's gone. I'm sorry but she's gone. You have to move on from that. And I can't help you. Only you can do that."
His words were blunt, harsh, but in his own way he was trying to help. Sometimes, he knew, it was no good to cushion the truth, it merely had to be presented.
For a brief moment, he touched a hand to Ianto's shoulder. It could almost be tender, and if it had stayed past the seconds that it did, it might have.
"Come on," he said, "tell you what, take a lie in in the morning. You're always here too early anyway. Come in about 11. Fresh for work."
And that wasn't a request.
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Ianto almost wanted it that way, the way Jack believed it was. He could move on. He could help himself, and someday Jack would help him, and someday everything would stop hurting--someday.
But Lisa wasn't dead, and Ianto couldn't imagine what he would do if she were. He couldn't imagine going on, getting over it. He couldn't imagine living without her, and he didn't want to.
She was all he had left.
"No," he let out, almost a sob, when all he wanted to do was lean into the too-brief touch. It had been so long since he'd been touched, so long since there was warmth instead of metal.
"No," again. "She's not. She didn't. I thought I could help her."
Hopeless. Devastated. "I don't think I can."
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His patience was wearing thin.
"Ianto." Jack said his name firmly, demanding that he give him his attention.
"Ianto what do you mean she's not dead? Look, I'm sure this is hard but I need you to tell me and you need to tell me now. Help her with what?"
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"She's alive," he said, and the words were painful.
He wet his lips, willing himself to go on. He didn't really have words for this, for the worst day of his life. The stuff of nightmares.
"She was caught. When the machine stopped. It hadn't finished."
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"Machines, what machin--" but he stopped. And oh it hit him. The realisation. The machines. He'd seen the machines. But Ianto couldn't be talking about that, could he?
He couldn't.
"Wait. Ianto tell me you're not talking about the cyber conversion machines. You'd better tell me you haven't got a half converted cyberman lying around somewhere?"
He stared at him a moment. And then yelled, barked.
"Where he hell is it?!"
His hand, automatically, went to his gun.
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He met Jack's eyes--and in his was confirmation. A confession, but of a crime he would repeat in an instant, a steely devotion to something even he had always known was a terrible idea.
That didn't matter. He'd had no choice.
"I couldn't leave her," and his words were directed at himself as much as they were at Jack. Never before had he said this out loud. Always in his mind, a silent mantra. "She was screaming, and it was still Lisa."
"They all died, but she didn't. I had to..."
In his shaky words, a plea. For understanding. For something. "I had to."
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But not here. Not now.
There was no understanding.
"I. Don't. Care," was instead the harsh response. His voice paced but angry. So angry.
It got louder still.
"Now tell me where the hell it is!"
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"She's safe," he said, even though he doubted Jack was concerned about her safety. "Downstairs. One of the old storage rooms."
Suddenly, he spoke a little faster. "She can't get out. She can't walk. I'll show you, if you want. If you want, I'll--"
He was losing some of what little composure he had left. His words became a little louder, a little more frenzied, forceful. Desperate. "Torchwood did this to her. She never did anything, she doesn't deserve this. You can help her!"
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"Here?" he asked, incredulous. "You kept a cyberman here. Do you have any idea at all what that thing could do if it got even a look at any of our technology. Are you that stupid?"
He stood himself tall, gun in hand and cocked and ready.
"Help her? Help her? Oh sure I'll help her. Ianto we fight things like that. We don't help them."
Gritting his teeth, he continued to stare. "Get up. Now."
And he pointed his gun at him. "Give me one good reason I shouldn't shoot you right now. And hey, if it's good enough? Maybe I won't. Try your luck, Ianto Jones."
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Not Ianto.
Instead, he looked straight at Jack. Gaze unwavering. Maybe it was a testament to the damage done to his world by the Cybermen, maybe to the strength of his love for Lisa-- and maybe the two of those had, forged in the heat of battle, become one.
He stood.
"Punish me," he said, and the heat in his voice was from anger and fear. And, moreover, from a deep sense that the universe had taken something from him that it had no right to touch. "But not her. She's twenty-six years old!"
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