Behind Blue Eyes - chapter 7 / 9
Title Behind Blue Eyes
Topic Torchwood
Characters Ianto Jones, Jack Harkness, Gwen Cooper, Rhys Williams, Owen Harper, Toshiko Sato, Suzie Costello, Tenth Doctor, John Hart, Andy Davidson, Mickey Smith, mentions Rose Tyler, Martha Jones, other small-characters
Pairings Jack/Ianto, Jack/John, Doctor/Rose, Gwen/Rhys
Genre AU, thriller, horror, romance, angst
Rating T
Beta jooles34
Summary Ianto Jones lives a very meticulous life. He has a schedule for everything he does - breakfast, work, personal time, love life, and his murder of the month. But when something goes wrong and one of his victims becomes the Cardiff police's latest case, will he be able to keep his personal life a secret? Not if Jack Harkness, consultant to the police and boyfriend of Ianto Jones, has anything to say about it.
Spoilers None
Author's Note I love this chapter. The last scene of this one just wrote itself - those of you who are following me on twitter will remember when I was writing this, because I was complaining a lot about the the boys and how it's so annoying when they write themselves, especially when I have a plan in mind. But it ended up working beautifully. Hope you guys enjoy this - two more chapters to go! ^_^
Master List
Previous Chapter
Later that morning, the police station was in a frenzy. News of the body being the latest victim of their serial killer had gotten around. Everyone on the case was busy, and those who weren’t were trying to gain information from those who were. People were running around, trying to look like they were doing something important. Since the article had been published, reporters saw the case as an open battleground, and the phones had been ringing off the hook - not to mention all the wannabes that were crowding the lobby, trying to get a glimpse of one of the detectives working the case.
When John walked through the lobby that morning, he was intent on getting into the back of the station without dealing with any of the reporters or concerned citizens. Normally he’d enjoy the attention, dropping little hints that would led nowhere, flashing big smiles at the photographers. He would make sure that the people of Cardiff knew who was the lead on the case, so when the big bad was finally brought in, there would be a name and a face to match with their guardian angel. Of course, if the killer was never found, he could point out he was just a hired hand, and slip off somewhere nice using the fat paycheck he got from the police. It was a win-win situation.
However, today he skipped all that drama. When he burst through the doors he adapted a grim look of determination with a dangerous glint in his eyes. His shoulders were stiff, his jaw set, and his lips sporting that little pout that he thought made him appear focused. He walked like a man on a mission, and he made sure that everyone could see the hand that was resting securely on the butt of his gun as he made the short trip. As he expected, no-one approached him. Those that started towards him quickly saw his demeanor and instead of risking his wrath, they sat down and scribbled on their little notebooks, trying to figure out what that mood could mean for the people of Cardiff.
He dropped the act before the door had swung shut behind him, falling back into his normal attitude. He adopted that leering grin, the slight smirk, and put the swagger back into his step. Andy, who had the bad luck of drawing the short straw for manning the front desk and phones from people of the outside world, had seen the whole scene and hailed John as he walked past him.
“You’ve got to teach me how to do that.” Andy said pleadingly, trying to ignore the dagger stare he was getting from the journalist at the window. He wasn’t doing very well.
John snorted. “Sorry mate - can’t teach perfection.” giving a wide grin that reminded the policeman of Jack, and then the private detective was off again.
He stepped into the break room for a quick cuppa, then headed towards the computer lab, fresh - but instant - coffee in hand. Mickey stopped him on the way, reminding him of the meeting the serial killer task force (or, as John called them, groupies) had in forty-five minutes. A snide remark passed between them, and they parted ways.
His boots made a loud echoing noise as he descended the stairway into the deep unknown - otherwise known as the lab. He gave Toshiko a small grin that was less lecherous than most, and approached her, leaning on the table next to where she was working. Toshiko was typing away, her fingers not faltering as she glanced away from the screen, her glasses low on her nose, her hair pulled back in a ponytail that had seen better days. She gave a small smile as John approached, taking one hand off of the key board long enough to push her glasses back up before focusing once more on the task at hand. “Hello John.”
John replied, flirting with the woman. “Hello cutie. What have you got for me?”
John thought it was cute when Toshiko blushed. She had developed quite a liking for the private eye over the past few weeks, and it hadn’t escaped John’s attention. Maybe he would take her out for a tryst once this whole thing was over and done. He had a while before he needed to be back in London. And he had learned from experience that the quite ones always ended up surprising you.
“Not a lot John. I’ve been working since Mickey and Andy brought me the evidence from the crime scene. I’m in the process of re-creating the hotel room from the pictures taken at the crime scene, but I’m not expecting much. It’s a perfect murder.” She gave a weak smile that told John of the worry that she was feeling. The man had killed and laid it out in front of the entire police force; doing everything except putting up a sign that said ‘catch me if you can’ and they had nothing.
“Fingerprints?” he asked, searching for some new information. But he wasn’t surprised when Toshiko shook her head.
“Just a couple from the door that belong to the hotel worker that found the body. Our killer wiped the entire room down. I’d hire him to clean my flat if he wasn’t a psychopath.” she said, trying to put some humour into the situation. Even though it was ill timed, John smiled.
“Thanks love.” he remarked, turning to go.
“Oh, hey John!” Toshiko called, causing John to hesitate on the steps. “Let Jack know that Ianto was here earlier asking about him while he was still at the crime scene, will you? He looked like he hadn’t slept a wink.”
“Sure.” John said, suddenly distracted. He turned and walked the remaining stairs to get to the hallway of the police station, his mind in overdrive. What would Ianto be doing at the police station without calling Jack first? And why would he go to Toshiko? There were plenty of other cops who knew him - the man could have asked any one of them to pass a message on. Instead, he purposefully walked down to the computer lab to ask Tosh - the computer lab that just happened to contain all the data on the case. John’s eyes narrowed.
He walked past the boardroom still deep in thought. By happenstance he glanced in and stopped, checking his watch. There was still thirty minutes until the meeting, so why were Jack and Gwen in the room? They were sitting on either side of the table, papers spread out in front of them. To anyone just passing, it would seem like they were hard at work on the case. However, John could tell by the look on both of their faces that the case was the furthest thing from their minds. He glanced around to make sure no-one was coming, then pressed his ear against the side of the door, eager to know what they were talking about.
“….screwed up.” That was Jack.
“It couldn’t have been that bad Jack. Maybe he had a lot on his mind and just overreacted - the newspaper article thing had to have upset him.” Gwen’s turn to talk. The door muffled the voices, but John was able to pick up the basics of the conversation.
“I don’t … He wasn’t pissed …. stabbed him. ”
“… haven’t seen him since?”
“I tried calling him …. came home … early morning, … gone when I woke up.”
“… time Jack. … Ianto’ll come back, and … hot make-up sex … call me and spill all.”
There was laughter after that, along with several well-placed comments at each other, and then the talk turned back to the case. John left, having heard all he needed. Sounded like Ianto was gone all last night as well. His grip on his cup of coffee tightened fractionally, and his teeth unconsciously started to grind together.
The pieces of the puzzle that John had been working on for the past month started to slot together to form a picture.
--xXx--
The car was parked just around the corner, in a “two hour parking only” zone. Every two hours, to the second, the car would start up, pull out, and then show up again exactly ten minutes later in another spot, where it would sit and wait again.
Ianto Jones had been participating in this stakeout since he had left the hotel at two seven in the morning. It was all part of his plan. He had left for ninety two minutes, during which he ran to the police station at a time that he was one hundred percent certain that Jack would be at the crime scene. He’d taken coffee with him, and had gone down to the lab to see Toshiko. The woman, much like Ianto, lived by a schedule. She got breakfast at the same time every morning, and took work breaks of about a minute or two just to stretch her legs every two hours. Ianto had preyed on that routine, and had gotten himself into the lab with thirty seconds to himself. It was just long enough to open the database where Tosh had been keeping all the profiles that matched with Jack’s description. He deleted the citizenship file that he was looking for, and had logged off and cleared the history as her heels made noises on the stairs. It would look as if nothing had happened for the moment, but if anyone took a closer look it would be obvious what was taken and who had logged in. Ianto was hoping that would be later rather than sooner.
He covered up his visit by inquiring about Jack, leaving subtle hints that not everything was wonderful in the life of their relationship. Toshiko, who had always been kind and caring, had read between the lines, and promised to tell Jack that he was ok, and wondering about the man’s well-being. As he walked away, Ianto felt nothing - no guilt for manipulating an innocent, not the pull he felt in his chest when he did the exact same thing to Jack, who was less innocent than he led people to believe. It puzzled him, but Ianto didn’t dwell on it. He was entering a very sketchy part of his plan - a lot of it depended on human behavior, one of the many things in the world that was difficult to control or count. Ianto hoped that the minds he needed to use were weak enough to be bent.
The apartment that he was watching was John Hart’s. Ianto had been surprised when John came home early - with a new body to keep them occupied, the police were surely keeping all their resources on overtime. Yet the man was home before noon. There was something off about the situation, and Ianto started to get an unsettling feeling - an instinct that something wasn’t right. It was the same feeling he got when numbers didn’t add up, timings weren’t right or something didn’t go according to his plan. John’s behavior was more erratic than his normal self, which meant something was up. The only way to find out what it was would be to break into John’s flat and look for himself.
It was risky, but then again his nightlife wasn’t exactly the safest choice of entertainment. Ianto still had gloves, and it would be a good opportunity to look more deeply into John’s life - get more background. Ianto didn’t like having holes in back stories when it came to his victims. Always led to surprises, and Ianto hated surprises.
So all he had to do was wait.
It took a lot longer than he had anticipated. John stayed inside of his flat for the rest of the day. Jack called him twice and Ianto ignored the phone both times. Ianto felt that tug in chest both times the man’s name came up on his mobile, and he ended up turning his phone off. He told himself it was all part of the plan. He needed to be out of the apartment a lot in the upcoming weeks without Jack getting suspicious. He could skip work and Jack would just think that he was still pissed and hurt and holed up somewhere, trying to calm down. But a smaller part of him whispered that he was putting Jack at arms-length, not because of the plan, but because he didn’t want him caught in the middle of this mess and end up getting hurt more than was needed. Ianto didn’t like this mental argument he was having with himself - it was distracting and unnerving. So he pushed Jack Harkness out of his mind.
His chance came later that night, at around nine. John left the building with what was either a very large bottle of beer or an average bottle of wine in a carrier bag. Whatever the reason, the man was leaving, and wouldn’t be back for a while. Cue the break in.
Ianto waited for ten minutes to make sure that John wasn’t coming back for something forgotten, then climbed out of the car. He took his time, walking along the pavement and into the building like he belonged there. He walked up the stairs, giving a small smile and a wordless nod to anyone who he came into contact with. The hallway where John’s flat sat was empty, so Ianto was able to pick the lock without interruption. No one would be able to tell that the lock had been tampered with unless they looked really closely. That, along with the fact that Ianto had pulled on gloves before he started the break-in made him one hundred percent positive that no-one would be able to trace anything back to him.
He stepped into the apartment and closed the door behind him. He didn’t go directly for the lights - instead, he stood still, adjusting to his surroundings, counting in his head as he breathed in and out every three seconds. After five cycles of this he opened his eyes, flipped on the lights and clicked the little button on the top of his stopwatch that sat in the inside right pocket of his jacket.
The apartment was a very nice one - good size for a man who lived off of a consultant’s fee. Ianto didn’t spend much time memorizing the details - that wasn’t what he was there for. All he wanted to know was how deep John was into the case, and if his outside sources had been able to find out anything that the police hadn’t. Ianto knew that, according to John’s past record, he enjoyed the spotlight. He would keep information to himself if it meant getting fifteen minutes of fame. If John was sure that he knew who the serial killer was, the man would most likely wait for a big reveal. That in itself made Ianto a bit on edge. He didn’t like not knowing what was going on.
John’s flat was well situated; halfway between Cardiff and London. Yes, that meant that he had a good and long drive every morning and afternoon, but it also meant that he was able to take cases from both cities without having to go out of his way.
He spent no time running his gloved figures over items. He searched the room quickly and methodically, mentally taking pictures of the placements of things before disturbing them, making sure to place them back exactly where they had been before. Nothing in the main room, so he moved on to the kitchen. He searched there as well, unable to find any information about the case at hand. He checked his stopwatch and frowned. It had passed the hour mark twice already. He paused only long enough to pull out his small black book from his other inside jacket pocket and note the occurrence. Then he went back to work.
Finally, he found himself standing outside John’s bedroom. It was the last room to be searched, and Ianto once again paused to document the time. He had been in the apartment for over four hours.
He reached for the handle and twisted the knob, eyebrows shooting high when he was met with resistance. What was in that room that John wanted hidden from prying eyes?
Ianto worked quickly, excited now by what could be lying behind the door. The lock gave way with a click, and Ianto stood up, took a deep breath, and opened the door.
He stepped in slowly, closing the door behind him, his hand reached behind him to turn on the light. The bulb flickered on, and Ianto’s eyes were met with what could only be described as a nightmare.
The shock of the images that assaulted Ianto’s brain was so strong it threw his body backwards. He ran into the door with a heavy thud, the impact jarring his bones, but Ianto didn’t feel it. His breath came in ragged gasps, and his hands started to shake, his hands balling and loosening of their own accord as he tried to deal with what was lain out in front of him. All too soon, his body couldn’t take it anymore, and he slid to the ground, unable to summon the strength to get back up. When his head managed to rise again and his eyes look at the room, they were not the cold eyes of Ianto Jones; they were the blue orbs of the frightened, scared little Ifan.
The walls were covered in pictures. Pictures of himself as he grew up, starting as a little boy and then on until he was about sixteen. Then there was a gap, and then new pictures of him in the past couple months. There were pictures of Jack as well, but his eyes skipped over those. The majority of images that took up the wall were from way back when, when Ianto was little and miserable and becoming what he was today. There were the pictures that the police had taken when his house had turned into a crime scene. There was information about the child abuse case that his father had won, a picture of little Ifan curled up on the bench, hiding his eyes from the press. There were pictures from all angles of his father, lying propped up against the wall, a tie around his neck like a noose, the thick end of it caught on a nail protruding from the wall, his lifeless eyes staring into the camera, his fingers forever frozen on the ugly tie that killed him. Transcripts of the murder scene and the interrogations that were conducted - the one from little Ifan Jones highlighted and heavily annotated in John’s handwriting.
There were pictures of Ifan with his mother and father and sister when they were little - happy family pictures before his mother passed away. He had been only a baby then, still needing someone to hold him up for the picture.
It swirled around him, mocking him, teasing him. Tearing apart the life that Ianto had worked so hard to build for himself. It stripped him bare and left him naked on the floor, eyes wide with the shock of being discovered.
John Hart had figured it out.
John Hart had figured out who the Cardiff serial killer was, and he was roaming the streets with that information at this exact second.
Ianto dealt with the shock of the situation like he dealt with everything else. He very, very slowly tucked it away - at least, he tried. But the images still stared at him, his father’s dead eyes laughing mercilessly at him, and Ianto couldn’t do it. Instead, he gave way to the anger that boiled inside. That raw emotion that the Welshman struggled with almost daily. But this time he didn’t even attempt to contain it. There was only one way to fix the problem presented to him.
John Hart must die tonight.
--xXx--
When the knock came at the door, Jack was half expecting it to be Gwen claiming to have some little detail she’d forgotten to tell him earlier as an excuse to come and make sure he was ok. He wanted it to be Ianto, coming back from wherever he had been, giving Jack a chance to explain himself and make everything so much better. But the one person that he wasn’t expecting to be standing at the door was John Hart.
He stood there, leaning against the doorway with a smirk on his face like he was welcome. He had on the same clothes as that morning, and looked a little the worse for wear. But he was holding a bottle of wine in his hand, which he immediately held out when the door opened.
“I don’t drink.” Jack said stiffly, already in the process of closing the door. At the last second John stuck his hand against the wood and pushed it back open.
“It’s nonalcoholic - some grape juice shit mixed with soda.” The detective explained, pushing his way into the flat. Jack stepped aside with a weary sigh.
“What the hell do you want, John? You already skipped out on the task force meeting.”
“I was busy - Ianto home?” Hart sat the bottle down on the living room coffee table, not asking before taking off his jacket and plopping down onto the love seat. He picked up his feet and laid his dirty boots on the opposite arm rest.
“Ianto’s going to kill you.” Jack pointed out conversationally as he limped around the couch, grabbing the nonalcoholic beverage and taking it into the kitchen.
“What!?” John yelped, his head shooting up, his eyes wide. Had Jack known, all this time, what Ianto was - what he did? They been playing him; using him for pleasure like a twisted scientist would use a rat, throwing it into a maze and promising it cheese, only to leave a bone-wrenching shock at the finish line. Ianto was here right now, wasn’t he?, Hiding somewhere with a tie between his fingers, waiting for the perfect moment to jump out and slowly squeeze him to death.
“Your boots are getting dirt all over the couch.” Jack called back in answer, and John laughed in relief. He suddenly hated this paranoia, and was glad that he had left his gun in his car.
Jack came back into the room, two wine glasses in hand. One of them held the sparkling juice that John had brought, the other containing actual wine. The latter was passed to John, and the man sat up, taking it with only a mutter of thanks and downing the whole thing in one go.
Jack raised an eyebrow, but said nothing, taking a sip of his own before placing the almost-full glass onto the table in front of him. “Want me to repeat myself?”
John rolled his eyes. “I got a lead - something I needed to follow up. Ended up being nothing. Thought there was nothing wrong with stopping by a friend’s place with wine and wanting to be filled in.”
Jack sat back in his chair and let out a long sigh. “Fine - but I’m still annoyed at you. Where the hell did you get that file on Ianto anyway? I haven’t seen him since early last night. Not even answering his phone or anything.”
“You’re whipped.” John pointed out, standing up and grabbing his wine glass. “A source - can’t tell you, professionalism and everything.”
Jack snorted, and John made that his exit cue, walking into the kitchen. The bottle of wine that Jack had opened sat in the middle of the counter, and John poured himself another glass. He paused, staring at it. It was a good bottle - not high-end expensive, but better than the cheap stuff that he drank by himself. He knew it wasn’t Jack’s, so it must be Ianto’s. John took a small sip and closed his eyes. He was drinking wine that belonged to a serial killer. A serial killer that was dating his ex.
John couldn’t tell Jack. He couldn’t be the one to explain to him about Ianto’s past, and see it in his eyes as he broke. That’s if Jack even believed him. The man probably wouldn’t believe it coming from anyone unless they caught him in the act. All the evidence in the world short of a confession or being caught red handed and no-one would believe it. Hell - being caught red handed probably wouldn’t even fly; Ianto would find a way out of it. Psychos like him were normally genius beyond a level of normal comprehension.
John hated it. As much as he acted like a jackass and a jerk - as much as he hurt Jack and tormented him and tried to ruin his relationship with Ianto, John loved him. He had from the first time he had met him, and he would up until the day he died. He had hurt Jack in ways that no man should ever be hurt, but was felt too far, even for him.. Because John knew that the way Jack looked at the Welshman was a mirror image of the way that he himself looked at Jack.
No, he would catch the son-of-a-bitch in the act, force him to make a confession, and let the law punish him for the murders. But first, John would make him pay for the agony that Jack would go through. Because no-one hurt Jack Harkness and got away with it except for himself.
And he would start by drinking the bastard’s wine.
John picked up the entire bottle and carried it out to the living room with renewed vigor, sitting down and taking another large gulp from his wine glass before refilling it to its previous level. Then, he sat back and propped his socked feet on the coffee table, gesturing at Jack to begin with the glass that was in his hand.
Jack raised an eyebrow, but said nothing about the wine bottle. Instead, he took one last small sip of his own cocktail and began. “Toshiko took the file we found at the crime scene -”
“Resume.” John butted in, seeing an image of the file flash before his eyes; the seemingly countless number of people who were dead, neatly assembled like it was some sort of business paperwork instead of lives that were detailed with ink.
“Right - resume - and they matched up to the potential victim list we had created. But the folder went back another four years before the Cardiff killings. Toshiko matched all the names to missing persons in London, as well as a few from outlying towns between here and there.”
“So this guy has been operating unnoticed for about eight years?” John asked, the nod from Jack confirming that.
“Also, there was a breach in our security earlier this morning, and a file was deleted. Tosh is working on finding out what it was now, but it may take her a while.”
“Anything at the crime scene?” John asked, already knowing the answer. Ianto was too careful, too clean and too clever to have left anything behind that the cops could use.
Jack shook his head. “A few things were found and sent off to the lab, but it’s highly unlikely to be useful. Have you ever heard of a killer that vacuumed after finishing with his victim?”
John snorted. “Lemme guess, lines on the carpet?”
Jack nodded. “Yeah. Also, we read the information the killer left in his resume - more than we were able to pull up on the victim. His name was Huw Sherman, kinda sleazy. According to the serial killer’s file, he goes to the hotel once a month, pretty much on the same night. Hires out this high-class company to send him a rent boy for the night.”
“Wanker can’t get any on his own?” John joked, not pausing long enough to let Jack continue. “So you’re thinking that the killer” - Ianto - “used the cover of rent boy to get Huw unaware, then handcuffed him and killed him?”
“Bingo.” Jack said, and John gave him a strange look before sarcastically taking the man’s wine glass and sniffing it, making sure that it really wasn’t alcoholic. Jack gave him a faux-annoyed look and took it back, taking a swig.
“Thought you could go to the company tomorrow and see what you can find out.” Jack finished.
John smirked. “There was a day that I’d have to fight you for that.”
“Puh-lease.” Jack said, pulling the word into two syllables. “You’d show up, and I’d already be their best customer.”
They shared a laugh that quickly turned awkward as Jack remembered that he was supposed to be angry with John, and John remembered that the man Jack was in love with was a serial killer.
Now was the time where, if they had been in a movie, the crickets would start chirping in their own awkward way. Jack coughed, and John took another gulp of his wine.
“Signs of shagging?” John asked, breaking the silence.
“Huh?” Jack asked, a bit thrown by the question. “Oh - Nothing obvious. Suzie’s working on the autopsy now and will run further tests, but I wouldn’t bet on it. Doesn’t seem like the kind of person who would do that to their victims.”
“Right,” John said humourously. “He’s the kind of guy who would kill people with bloody ties, but isn’t indecent enough to shag them first.”
Jack shrugged. “Rape is a sign of sexual frustration and release as well as the need to be dominant over one’s victims. The killing that goes along with it is normally messy, brutal and uncontrolled - none of which we have seen with this guy.”
“Whatever - I leave the hocus-pocus to you.” John said. It was at this point that he decided to forgo the small wine glass and instead picked up the entire bottle and took a large swig. Jack didn’t flinch.
Another silence. “I miss this.” John said suddenly. And it was true. He missed the nights that they had, all that time ago, when they were together. It had been darker times, true. He had been in and out of rehab, most of the time too drunk or high to think clearly. And Jack had been in the depths of depression so soon after the shootout and the resulting injury. But the months that followed that night had been John’s favorites. Before Jack was hurt the two of them had just been shagging - no, not even that. Mindlessly fucking because they didn’t work well enough to actually have a relationship, but were addicted too much to just let it go. But the shooting changed everything. They started to talk, not being able to do anything else while Jacks body healed. John started to learn things about Jack, and in turn started to confide in Jack. Instead of going to bed for sex they would spend the night together wrapped up in each other, John trying his best to sooth Jack as the man went through the darker times, crying and complaining that his leg was on fire, his side was on fire. The day that John had to remove anything sharp from his small flat after Jack, driven half mad with pain, had tried to cut off everything that hurt.
Yes it had been hell, and a time that John would never wish to go back to because of the pain that Jack had been dealing with. But if he had a chance to change it, he wouldn’t.
John was selfish like that.
Jack had looked at John when he spoke, and their eyes had connected. The small spark that had always been there between them flickered a little, reminding each other of its existence. Because that was the best way to describe their relationship, or lack of. They weren’t good for each other, but they were addicted, and no matter how long they stayed apart, no matter how much they told themselves they were out from under the influence, all it took was a single look in the wrong direction and that need was there again.
Before John could tell himself anything different, he found himself getting up from his seat on the couch and moving over to Jack, setting the bottle back on the table as he went. Jack watched him the whole time, not saying anything, knowing what was coming but not disapproving. Not approving either.
Then John was standing there, in front of him. Jack sat up straight, and John took it as an invitation. He straddled the man’s legs and sat on his lap facing him. Jack leaned forward, not to meet John, but to out his own glass on the table. Then he leaned back, not stopping until his back hit the overstuffed chair.
Their breathing was in rhythm now; deep full breaths which were shakily let out. They stared at each other, neither one sure what they were doing, but both knew what was about to come. Then Jack’s hands were suddenly on John’s hips, and the detective’s were resting gently on either side of Jack’s face. They inched closer - so close that they had to close their eyes, no longer able to focus on the other.
The sensation of noses pressing into cheeks, and lips on lips, and they were kissing.
It was nothing like the aggressive snog they had shared in the workroom back at the police station all those weeks ago. This was slow and gentle and, dare one say, loving. Their mouths moved slowly against one another, never going faster, lips remaining closed. But it was the most romantic kiss they had ever shared.
John’s fingers stroked Jack’s face, and he remembered exactly why he loved the man he was sitting on. And he suddenly had to tell Jack - needed to convey to him precisely why he loved him.
His tongue poked out softly, timidly requesting entrance. There was no hesitation as Jack’s mouth opened, and John poured everything into the kiss. His love and hatred and frustration, his need and lust and jealousy. But mostly his pain at knowing what he knew, and not wanting to. His wish that just this once, he could have walked away without knowing who did it.
And then they were pulling away, like both of them had silently said ‘enough’ and the kiss was over. They were both breathing hard - but not to the point of panting - and John rested his forehead against Jack’s, not yet ready to open his eyes. Not ready to see the guilt in those blue pools, or the facial expression that told him it had been a mistake. But when he finally opened them, he didn’t see either.
“I…” Jack breathed, and John pulled further away.
“Bathroom.” John said suddenly, slipping off Jack. He noticed that the other man’s hands hadn’t moved from his waist, and felt the tug when he broke free. Neither of them were completely recovered from thae kiss, and Jack looked…lost, like he was waiting for it to happen again.
“Uh…there.” he said, pointing towards his and Ianto’s bedroom. John nodded clumsily and left the room, still dazed.
John stumbled into the bathroom, pulling the door shut and leaning against the sink. What had just happened? He shook his head and turned on the taps, splashing water on his face before looking into the mirror; staring into his own eyes, searching. He had seen the connection when he looked in Jack’s eyes - he knew it. He knew that there was still something there, something real. No matter who Jack loved or got involved with, there would always be a little piece of his heart that was saved for John.
And that thought gave him hope. Hope that, when this whole thing was over and Ianto was behind bars, then John would be there to help Jack get over it all. It would take time, and things wouldn’t look bright for a while, but John had been through that before, and that little glimpse into Jack was all he needed to know that it would all be ok in the end.
The water woke him up, and John was back in detective mode. He glanced around, and realized that he had an opportunity like none other. He was in Ianto’s bathroom with access to his bedroom, and no-one was watching.
There had to be a secret hiding place somewhere. Serial killer psychos always had a little nook where they could keep their trophies and secretly gloat over their achievements. And here was as good a place to start than any other.
John left the bathroom and slipped into the bedroom, waiting at the door long enough to glance out and see that Jack was still sitting in the living room. Perfect.
He turned his back to the door, then started to search.
Carefully and quickly he went over all the obvious spots. Fake bottoms on drawers and hidden compartments in the walls. John made his way into the closet next, poking his head in, about to withdraw when something caught his eye.
Over in Ianto’s side of the closet, there was a small snag in the carpet in one corner. In any other circumstances, John would have looked right over it. But for some reason it called out to him. Glancing over his shoulder, he knelt down and used his fingers to probe the carpet, searching for any kind of irregularities. There - in the corner. He pulled at the carpet end with his fingernails, and it gave away with barely any resistance. Holding his breath, John grabbed the protruding corner and pulled.
Under the carpet was a small hole, and filling that hole was a single notebook. It was bound and covered with black leather, no lock securing it from any eyes. It had an ominous look about it, and with shaking hands John picked it up. He opened the book, and suddenly his eyes were bombarded by numbers. There were hundreds of them, filling entire pages. At the top of each page was a single name. As John flipped further back, he started to recognize then as the names the police had up on their board of victims.
Ianto’s little black book.
John got to the last page, and the last name that had been penned in using perfect block letters turn his blood cold. His head swarm as the reality of the situation crashed down on him. He was so intent on what was on that page that he didn’t hear the front door open and close again - he didn’t hear the voices. He didn’t hear the footsteps.
He was deafened by the sight of his own name at the top of the page.
He dropped the book like the pages were on fire, and hastily recovered the hole in the corner of the closet. There had already been almost one and a half pages of numbers following his name. That had to mean that Ianto had been watching him, studying him like he had studied all the other victims. And he had chosen his next one.
John scrambled backwards, needing to get as far away from that book as possible. He didn’t turn until he was out of the closet and trying to climb to his feet again. He turned, heading to the doorway, needing to get out of the room before he suffocated.
Ianto Jones was standing in the doorway.
Just standing there, his cold calculating blue eyes tracing every movement he made. John didn’t know how long he had been there, but from the look in his eyes, the detective knew. He knew that Ianto had seen him looking at his personal black book.
And then Ianto gave a smile - a smile that told of the pure evil that resided inside the young man. The Welshman let that smile sink deep into John’s bones, then promptly turned and walked out of sight.
John didn’t move - he couldn’t.
Next Chapter
Topic Torchwood
Characters Ianto Jones, Jack Harkness, Gwen Cooper, Rhys Williams, Owen Harper, Toshiko Sato, Suzie Costello, Tenth Doctor, John Hart, Andy Davidson, Mickey Smith, mentions Rose Tyler, Martha Jones, other small-characters
Pairings Jack/Ianto, Jack/John, Doctor/Rose, Gwen/Rhys
Genre AU, thriller, horror, romance, angst
Rating T
Beta jooles34
Summary Ianto Jones lives a very meticulous life. He has a schedule for everything he does - breakfast, work, personal time, love life, and his murder of the month. But when something goes wrong and one of his victims becomes the Cardiff police's latest case, will he be able to keep his personal life a secret? Not if Jack Harkness, consultant to the police and boyfriend of Ianto Jones, has anything to say about it.
Spoilers None
Author's Note I love this chapter. The last scene of this one just wrote itself - those of you who are following me on twitter will remember when I was writing this, because I was complaining a lot about the the boys and how it's so annoying when they write themselves, especially when I have a plan in mind. But it ended up working beautifully. Hope you guys enjoy this - two more chapters to go! ^_^
Master List
Previous Chapter
Later that morning, the police station was in a frenzy. News of the body being the latest victim of their serial killer had gotten around. Everyone on the case was busy, and those who weren’t were trying to gain information from those who were. People were running around, trying to look like they were doing something important. Since the article had been published, reporters saw the case as an open battleground, and the phones had been ringing off the hook - not to mention all the wannabes that were crowding the lobby, trying to get a glimpse of one of the detectives working the case.
When John walked through the lobby that morning, he was intent on getting into the back of the station without dealing with any of the reporters or concerned citizens. Normally he’d enjoy the attention, dropping little hints that would led nowhere, flashing big smiles at the photographers. He would make sure that the people of Cardiff knew who was the lead on the case, so when the big bad was finally brought in, there would be a name and a face to match with their guardian angel. Of course, if the killer was never found, he could point out he was just a hired hand, and slip off somewhere nice using the fat paycheck he got from the police. It was a win-win situation.
However, today he skipped all that drama. When he burst through the doors he adapted a grim look of determination with a dangerous glint in his eyes. His shoulders were stiff, his jaw set, and his lips sporting that little pout that he thought made him appear focused. He walked like a man on a mission, and he made sure that everyone could see the hand that was resting securely on the butt of his gun as he made the short trip. As he expected, no-one approached him. Those that started towards him quickly saw his demeanor and instead of risking his wrath, they sat down and scribbled on their little notebooks, trying to figure out what that mood could mean for the people of Cardiff.
He dropped the act before the door had swung shut behind him, falling back into his normal attitude. He adopted that leering grin, the slight smirk, and put the swagger back into his step. Andy, who had the bad luck of drawing the short straw for manning the front desk and phones from people of the outside world, had seen the whole scene and hailed John as he walked past him.
“You’ve got to teach me how to do that.” Andy said pleadingly, trying to ignore the dagger stare he was getting from the journalist at the window. He wasn’t doing very well.
John snorted. “Sorry mate - can’t teach perfection.” giving a wide grin that reminded the policeman of Jack, and then the private detective was off again.
He stepped into the break room for a quick cuppa, then headed towards the computer lab, fresh - but instant - coffee in hand. Mickey stopped him on the way, reminding him of the meeting the serial killer task force (or, as John called them, groupies) had in forty-five minutes. A snide remark passed between them, and they parted ways.
His boots made a loud echoing noise as he descended the stairway into the deep unknown - otherwise known as the lab. He gave Toshiko a small grin that was less lecherous than most, and approached her, leaning on the table next to where she was working. Toshiko was typing away, her fingers not faltering as she glanced away from the screen, her glasses low on her nose, her hair pulled back in a ponytail that had seen better days. She gave a small smile as John approached, taking one hand off of the key board long enough to push her glasses back up before focusing once more on the task at hand. “Hello John.”
John replied, flirting with the woman. “Hello cutie. What have you got for me?”
John thought it was cute when Toshiko blushed. She had developed quite a liking for the private eye over the past few weeks, and it hadn’t escaped John’s attention. Maybe he would take her out for a tryst once this whole thing was over and done. He had a while before he needed to be back in London. And he had learned from experience that the quite ones always ended up surprising you.
“Not a lot John. I’ve been working since Mickey and Andy brought me the evidence from the crime scene. I’m in the process of re-creating the hotel room from the pictures taken at the crime scene, but I’m not expecting much. It’s a perfect murder.” She gave a weak smile that told John of the worry that she was feeling. The man had killed and laid it out in front of the entire police force; doing everything except putting up a sign that said ‘catch me if you can’ and they had nothing.
“Fingerprints?” he asked, searching for some new information. But he wasn’t surprised when Toshiko shook her head.
“Just a couple from the door that belong to the hotel worker that found the body. Our killer wiped the entire room down. I’d hire him to clean my flat if he wasn’t a psychopath.” she said, trying to put some humour into the situation. Even though it was ill timed, John smiled.
“Thanks love.” he remarked, turning to go.
“Oh, hey John!” Toshiko called, causing John to hesitate on the steps. “Let Jack know that Ianto was here earlier asking about him while he was still at the crime scene, will you? He looked like he hadn’t slept a wink.”
“Sure.” John said, suddenly distracted. He turned and walked the remaining stairs to get to the hallway of the police station, his mind in overdrive. What would Ianto be doing at the police station without calling Jack first? And why would he go to Toshiko? There were plenty of other cops who knew him - the man could have asked any one of them to pass a message on. Instead, he purposefully walked down to the computer lab to ask Tosh - the computer lab that just happened to contain all the data on the case. John’s eyes narrowed.
He walked past the boardroom still deep in thought. By happenstance he glanced in and stopped, checking his watch. There was still thirty minutes until the meeting, so why were Jack and Gwen in the room? They were sitting on either side of the table, papers spread out in front of them. To anyone just passing, it would seem like they were hard at work on the case. However, John could tell by the look on both of their faces that the case was the furthest thing from their minds. He glanced around to make sure no-one was coming, then pressed his ear against the side of the door, eager to know what they were talking about.
“….screwed up.” That was Jack.
“It couldn’t have been that bad Jack. Maybe he had a lot on his mind and just overreacted - the newspaper article thing had to have upset him.” Gwen’s turn to talk. The door muffled the voices, but John was able to pick up the basics of the conversation.
“I don’t … He wasn’t pissed …. stabbed him. ”
“… haven’t seen him since?”
“I tried calling him …. came home … early morning, … gone when I woke up.”
“… time Jack. … Ianto’ll come back, and … hot make-up sex … call me and spill all.”
There was laughter after that, along with several well-placed comments at each other, and then the talk turned back to the case. John left, having heard all he needed. Sounded like Ianto was gone all last night as well. His grip on his cup of coffee tightened fractionally, and his teeth unconsciously started to grind together.
The pieces of the puzzle that John had been working on for the past month started to slot together to form a picture.
--xXx--
The car was parked just around the corner, in a “two hour parking only” zone. Every two hours, to the second, the car would start up, pull out, and then show up again exactly ten minutes later in another spot, where it would sit and wait again.
Ianto Jones had been participating in this stakeout since he had left the hotel at two seven in the morning. It was all part of his plan. He had left for ninety two minutes, during which he ran to the police station at a time that he was one hundred percent certain that Jack would be at the crime scene. He’d taken coffee with him, and had gone down to the lab to see Toshiko. The woman, much like Ianto, lived by a schedule. She got breakfast at the same time every morning, and took work breaks of about a minute or two just to stretch her legs every two hours. Ianto had preyed on that routine, and had gotten himself into the lab with thirty seconds to himself. It was just long enough to open the database where Tosh had been keeping all the profiles that matched with Jack’s description. He deleted the citizenship file that he was looking for, and had logged off and cleared the history as her heels made noises on the stairs. It would look as if nothing had happened for the moment, but if anyone took a closer look it would be obvious what was taken and who had logged in. Ianto was hoping that would be later rather than sooner.
He covered up his visit by inquiring about Jack, leaving subtle hints that not everything was wonderful in the life of their relationship. Toshiko, who had always been kind and caring, had read between the lines, and promised to tell Jack that he was ok, and wondering about the man’s well-being. As he walked away, Ianto felt nothing - no guilt for manipulating an innocent, not the pull he felt in his chest when he did the exact same thing to Jack, who was less innocent than he led people to believe. It puzzled him, but Ianto didn’t dwell on it. He was entering a very sketchy part of his plan - a lot of it depended on human behavior, one of the many things in the world that was difficult to control or count. Ianto hoped that the minds he needed to use were weak enough to be bent.
The apartment that he was watching was John Hart’s. Ianto had been surprised when John came home early - with a new body to keep them occupied, the police were surely keeping all their resources on overtime. Yet the man was home before noon. There was something off about the situation, and Ianto started to get an unsettling feeling - an instinct that something wasn’t right. It was the same feeling he got when numbers didn’t add up, timings weren’t right or something didn’t go according to his plan. John’s behavior was more erratic than his normal self, which meant something was up. The only way to find out what it was would be to break into John’s flat and look for himself.
It was risky, but then again his nightlife wasn’t exactly the safest choice of entertainment. Ianto still had gloves, and it would be a good opportunity to look more deeply into John’s life - get more background. Ianto didn’t like having holes in back stories when it came to his victims. Always led to surprises, and Ianto hated surprises.
So all he had to do was wait.
It took a lot longer than he had anticipated. John stayed inside of his flat for the rest of the day. Jack called him twice and Ianto ignored the phone both times. Ianto felt that tug in chest both times the man’s name came up on his mobile, and he ended up turning his phone off. He told himself it was all part of the plan. He needed to be out of the apartment a lot in the upcoming weeks without Jack getting suspicious. He could skip work and Jack would just think that he was still pissed and hurt and holed up somewhere, trying to calm down. But a smaller part of him whispered that he was putting Jack at arms-length, not because of the plan, but because he didn’t want him caught in the middle of this mess and end up getting hurt more than was needed. Ianto didn’t like this mental argument he was having with himself - it was distracting and unnerving. So he pushed Jack Harkness out of his mind.
His chance came later that night, at around nine. John left the building with what was either a very large bottle of beer or an average bottle of wine in a carrier bag. Whatever the reason, the man was leaving, and wouldn’t be back for a while. Cue the break in.
Ianto waited for ten minutes to make sure that John wasn’t coming back for something forgotten, then climbed out of the car. He took his time, walking along the pavement and into the building like he belonged there. He walked up the stairs, giving a small smile and a wordless nod to anyone who he came into contact with. The hallway where John’s flat sat was empty, so Ianto was able to pick the lock without interruption. No one would be able to tell that the lock had been tampered with unless they looked really closely. That, along with the fact that Ianto had pulled on gloves before he started the break-in made him one hundred percent positive that no-one would be able to trace anything back to him.
He stepped into the apartment and closed the door behind him. He didn’t go directly for the lights - instead, he stood still, adjusting to his surroundings, counting in his head as he breathed in and out every three seconds. After five cycles of this he opened his eyes, flipped on the lights and clicked the little button on the top of his stopwatch that sat in the inside right pocket of his jacket.
The apartment was a very nice one - good size for a man who lived off of a consultant’s fee. Ianto didn’t spend much time memorizing the details - that wasn’t what he was there for. All he wanted to know was how deep John was into the case, and if his outside sources had been able to find out anything that the police hadn’t. Ianto knew that, according to John’s past record, he enjoyed the spotlight. He would keep information to himself if it meant getting fifteen minutes of fame. If John was sure that he knew who the serial killer was, the man would most likely wait for a big reveal. That in itself made Ianto a bit on edge. He didn’t like not knowing what was going on.
John’s flat was well situated; halfway between Cardiff and London. Yes, that meant that he had a good and long drive every morning and afternoon, but it also meant that he was able to take cases from both cities without having to go out of his way.
He spent no time running his gloved figures over items. He searched the room quickly and methodically, mentally taking pictures of the placements of things before disturbing them, making sure to place them back exactly where they had been before. Nothing in the main room, so he moved on to the kitchen. He searched there as well, unable to find any information about the case at hand. He checked his stopwatch and frowned. It had passed the hour mark twice already. He paused only long enough to pull out his small black book from his other inside jacket pocket and note the occurrence. Then he went back to work.
Finally, he found himself standing outside John’s bedroom. It was the last room to be searched, and Ianto once again paused to document the time. He had been in the apartment for over four hours.
He reached for the handle and twisted the knob, eyebrows shooting high when he was met with resistance. What was in that room that John wanted hidden from prying eyes?
Ianto worked quickly, excited now by what could be lying behind the door. The lock gave way with a click, and Ianto stood up, took a deep breath, and opened the door.
He stepped in slowly, closing the door behind him, his hand reached behind him to turn on the light. The bulb flickered on, and Ianto’s eyes were met with what could only be described as a nightmare.
The shock of the images that assaulted Ianto’s brain was so strong it threw his body backwards. He ran into the door with a heavy thud, the impact jarring his bones, but Ianto didn’t feel it. His breath came in ragged gasps, and his hands started to shake, his hands balling and loosening of their own accord as he tried to deal with what was lain out in front of him. All too soon, his body couldn’t take it anymore, and he slid to the ground, unable to summon the strength to get back up. When his head managed to rise again and his eyes look at the room, they were not the cold eyes of Ianto Jones; they were the blue orbs of the frightened, scared little Ifan.
The walls were covered in pictures. Pictures of himself as he grew up, starting as a little boy and then on until he was about sixteen. Then there was a gap, and then new pictures of him in the past couple months. There were pictures of Jack as well, but his eyes skipped over those. The majority of images that took up the wall were from way back when, when Ianto was little and miserable and becoming what he was today. There were the pictures that the police had taken when his house had turned into a crime scene. There was information about the child abuse case that his father had won, a picture of little Ifan curled up on the bench, hiding his eyes from the press. There were pictures from all angles of his father, lying propped up against the wall, a tie around his neck like a noose, the thick end of it caught on a nail protruding from the wall, his lifeless eyes staring into the camera, his fingers forever frozen on the ugly tie that killed him. Transcripts of the murder scene and the interrogations that were conducted - the one from little Ifan Jones highlighted and heavily annotated in John’s handwriting.
There were pictures of Ifan with his mother and father and sister when they were little - happy family pictures before his mother passed away. He had been only a baby then, still needing someone to hold him up for the picture.
It swirled around him, mocking him, teasing him. Tearing apart the life that Ianto had worked so hard to build for himself. It stripped him bare and left him naked on the floor, eyes wide with the shock of being discovered.
John Hart had figured it out.
John Hart had figured out who the Cardiff serial killer was, and he was roaming the streets with that information at this exact second.
Ianto dealt with the shock of the situation like he dealt with everything else. He very, very slowly tucked it away - at least, he tried. But the images still stared at him, his father’s dead eyes laughing mercilessly at him, and Ianto couldn’t do it. Instead, he gave way to the anger that boiled inside. That raw emotion that the Welshman struggled with almost daily. But this time he didn’t even attempt to contain it. There was only one way to fix the problem presented to him.
John Hart must die tonight.
--xXx--
When the knock came at the door, Jack was half expecting it to be Gwen claiming to have some little detail she’d forgotten to tell him earlier as an excuse to come and make sure he was ok. He wanted it to be Ianto, coming back from wherever he had been, giving Jack a chance to explain himself and make everything so much better. But the one person that he wasn’t expecting to be standing at the door was John Hart.
He stood there, leaning against the doorway with a smirk on his face like he was welcome. He had on the same clothes as that morning, and looked a little the worse for wear. But he was holding a bottle of wine in his hand, which he immediately held out when the door opened.
“I don’t drink.” Jack said stiffly, already in the process of closing the door. At the last second John stuck his hand against the wood and pushed it back open.
“It’s nonalcoholic - some grape juice shit mixed with soda.” The detective explained, pushing his way into the flat. Jack stepped aside with a weary sigh.
“What the hell do you want, John? You already skipped out on the task force meeting.”
“I was busy - Ianto home?” Hart sat the bottle down on the living room coffee table, not asking before taking off his jacket and plopping down onto the love seat. He picked up his feet and laid his dirty boots on the opposite arm rest.
“Ianto’s going to kill you.” Jack pointed out conversationally as he limped around the couch, grabbing the nonalcoholic beverage and taking it into the kitchen.
“What!?” John yelped, his head shooting up, his eyes wide. Had Jack known, all this time, what Ianto was - what he did? They been playing him; using him for pleasure like a twisted scientist would use a rat, throwing it into a maze and promising it cheese, only to leave a bone-wrenching shock at the finish line. Ianto was here right now, wasn’t he?, Hiding somewhere with a tie between his fingers, waiting for the perfect moment to jump out and slowly squeeze him to death.
“Your boots are getting dirt all over the couch.” Jack called back in answer, and John laughed in relief. He suddenly hated this paranoia, and was glad that he had left his gun in his car.
Jack came back into the room, two wine glasses in hand. One of them held the sparkling juice that John had brought, the other containing actual wine. The latter was passed to John, and the man sat up, taking it with only a mutter of thanks and downing the whole thing in one go.
Jack raised an eyebrow, but said nothing, taking a sip of his own before placing the almost-full glass onto the table in front of him. “Want me to repeat myself?”
John rolled his eyes. “I got a lead - something I needed to follow up. Ended up being nothing. Thought there was nothing wrong with stopping by a friend’s place with wine and wanting to be filled in.”
Jack sat back in his chair and let out a long sigh. “Fine - but I’m still annoyed at you. Where the hell did you get that file on Ianto anyway? I haven’t seen him since early last night. Not even answering his phone or anything.”
“You’re whipped.” John pointed out, standing up and grabbing his wine glass. “A source - can’t tell you, professionalism and everything.”
Jack snorted, and John made that his exit cue, walking into the kitchen. The bottle of wine that Jack had opened sat in the middle of the counter, and John poured himself another glass. He paused, staring at it. It was a good bottle - not high-end expensive, but better than the cheap stuff that he drank by himself. He knew it wasn’t Jack’s, so it must be Ianto’s. John took a small sip and closed his eyes. He was drinking wine that belonged to a serial killer. A serial killer that was dating his ex.
John couldn’t tell Jack. He couldn’t be the one to explain to him about Ianto’s past, and see it in his eyes as he broke. That’s if Jack even believed him. The man probably wouldn’t believe it coming from anyone unless they caught him in the act. All the evidence in the world short of a confession or being caught red handed and no-one would believe it. Hell - being caught red handed probably wouldn’t even fly; Ianto would find a way out of it. Psychos like him were normally genius beyond a level of normal comprehension.
John hated it. As much as he acted like a jackass and a jerk - as much as he hurt Jack and tormented him and tried to ruin his relationship with Ianto, John loved him. He had from the first time he had met him, and he would up until the day he died. He had hurt Jack in ways that no man should ever be hurt, but was felt too far, even for him.. Because John knew that the way Jack looked at the Welshman was a mirror image of the way that he himself looked at Jack.
No, he would catch the son-of-a-bitch in the act, force him to make a confession, and let the law punish him for the murders. But first, John would make him pay for the agony that Jack would go through. Because no-one hurt Jack Harkness and got away with it except for himself.
And he would start by drinking the bastard’s wine.
John picked up the entire bottle and carried it out to the living room with renewed vigor, sitting down and taking another large gulp from his wine glass before refilling it to its previous level. Then, he sat back and propped his socked feet on the coffee table, gesturing at Jack to begin with the glass that was in his hand.
Jack raised an eyebrow, but said nothing about the wine bottle. Instead, he took one last small sip of his own cocktail and began. “Toshiko took the file we found at the crime scene -”
“Resume.” John butted in, seeing an image of the file flash before his eyes; the seemingly countless number of people who were dead, neatly assembled like it was some sort of business paperwork instead of lives that were detailed with ink.
“Right - resume - and they matched up to the potential victim list we had created. But the folder went back another four years before the Cardiff killings. Toshiko matched all the names to missing persons in London, as well as a few from outlying towns between here and there.”
“So this guy has been operating unnoticed for about eight years?” John asked, the nod from Jack confirming that.
“Also, there was a breach in our security earlier this morning, and a file was deleted. Tosh is working on finding out what it was now, but it may take her a while.”
“Anything at the crime scene?” John asked, already knowing the answer. Ianto was too careful, too clean and too clever to have left anything behind that the cops could use.
Jack shook his head. “A few things were found and sent off to the lab, but it’s highly unlikely to be useful. Have you ever heard of a killer that vacuumed after finishing with his victim?”
John snorted. “Lemme guess, lines on the carpet?”
Jack nodded. “Yeah. Also, we read the information the killer left in his resume - more than we were able to pull up on the victim. His name was Huw Sherman, kinda sleazy. According to the serial killer’s file, he goes to the hotel once a month, pretty much on the same night. Hires out this high-class company to send him a rent boy for the night.”
“Wanker can’t get any on his own?” John joked, not pausing long enough to let Jack continue. “So you’re thinking that the killer” - Ianto - “used the cover of rent boy to get Huw unaware, then handcuffed him and killed him?”
“Bingo.” Jack said, and John gave him a strange look before sarcastically taking the man’s wine glass and sniffing it, making sure that it really wasn’t alcoholic. Jack gave him a faux-annoyed look and took it back, taking a swig.
“Thought you could go to the company tomorrow and see what you can find out.” Jack finished.
John smirked. “There was a day that I’d have to fight you for that.”
“Puh-lease.” Jack said, pulling the word into two syllables. “You’d show up, and I’d already be their best customer.”
They shared a laugh that quickly turned awkward as Jack remembered that he was supposed to be angry with John, and John remembered that the man Jack was in love with was a serial killer.
Now was the time where, if they had been in a movie, the crickets would start chirping in their own awkward way. Jack coughed, and John took another gulp of his wine.
“Signs of shagging?” John asked, breaking the silence.
“Huh?” Jack asked, a bit thrown by the question. “Oh - Nothing obvious. Suzie’s working on the autopsy now and will run further tests, but I wouldn’t bet on it. Doesn’t seem like the kind of person who would do that to their victims.”
“Right,” John said humourously. “He’s the kind of guy who would kill people with bloody ties, but isn’t indecent enough to shag them first.”
Jack shrugged. “Rape is a sign of sexual frustration and release as well as the need to be dominant over one’s victims. The killing that goes along with it is normally messy, brutal and uncontrolled - none of which we have seen with this guy.”
“Whatever - I leave the hocus-pocus to you.” John said. It was at this point that he decided to forgo the small wine glass and instead picked up the entire bottle and took a large swig. Jack didn’t flinch.
Another silence. “I miss this.” John said suddenly. And it was true. He missed the nights that they had, all that time ago, when they were together. It had been darker times, true. He had been in and out of rehab, most of the time too drunk or high to think clearly. And Jack had been in the depths of depression so soon after the shootout and the resulting injury. But the months that followed that night had been John’s favorites. Before Jack was hurt the two of them had just been shagging - no, not even that. Mindlessly fucking because they didn’t work well enough to actually have a relationship, but were addicted too much to just let it go. But the shooting changed everything. They started to talk, not being able to do anything else while Jacks body healed. John started to learn things about Jack, and in turn started to confide in Jack. Instead of going to bed for sex they would spend the night together wrapped up in each other, John trying his best to sooth Jack as the man went through the darker times, crying and complaining that his leg was on fire, his side was on fire. The day that John had to remove anything sharp from his small flat after Jack, driven half mad with pain, had tried to cut off everything that hurt.
Yes it had been hell, and a time that John would never wish to go back to because of the pain that Jack had been dealing with. But if he had a chance to change it, he wouldn’t.
John was selfish like that.
Jack had looked at John when he spoke, and their eyes had connected. The small spark that had always been there between them flickered a little, reminding each other of its existence. Because that was the best way to describe their relationship, or lack of. They weren’t good for each other, but they were addicted, and no matter how long they stayed apart, no matter how much they told themselves they were out from under the influence, all it took was a single look in the wrong direction and that need was there again.
Before John could tell himself anything different, he found himself getting up from his seat on the couch and moving over to Jack, setting the bottle back on the table as he went. Jack watched him the whole time, not saying anything, knowing what was coming but not disapproving. Not approving either.
Then John was standing there, in front of him. Jack sat up straight, and John took it as an invitation. He straddled the man’s legs and sat on his lap facing him. Jack leaned forward, not to meet John, but to out his own glass on the table. Then he leaned back, not stopping until his back hit the overstuffed chair.
Their breathing was in rhythm now; deep full breaths which were shakily let out. They stared at each other, neither one sure what they were doing, but both knew what was about to come. Then Jack’s hands were suddenly on John’s hips, and the detective’s were resting gently on either side of Jack’s face. They inched closer - so close that they had to close their eyes, no longer able to focus on the other.
The sensation of noses pressing into cheeks, and lips on lips, and they were kissing.
It was nothing like the aggressive snog they had shared in the workroom back at the police station all those weeks ago. This was slow and gentle and, dare one say, loving. Their mouths moved slowly against one another, never going faster, lips remaining closed. But it was the most romantic kiss they had ever shared.
John’s fingers stroked Jack’s face, and he remembered exactly why he loved the man he was sitting on. And he suddenly had to tell Jack - needed to convey to him precisely why he loved him.
His tongue poked out softly, timidly requesting entrance. There was no hesitation as Jack’s mouth opened, and John poured everything into the kiss. His love and hatred and frustration, his need and lust and jealousy. But mostly his pain at knowing what he knew, and not wanting to. His wish that just this once, he could have walked away without knowing who did it.
And then they were pulling away, like both of them had silently said ‘enough’ and the kiss was over. They were both breathing hard - but not to the point of panting - and John rested his forehead against Jack’s, not yet ready to open his eyes. Not ready to see the guilt in those blue pools, or the facial expression that told him it had been a mistake. But when he finally opened them, he didn’t see either.
“I…” Jack breathed, and John pulled further away.
“Bathroom.” John said suddenly, slipping off Jack. He noticed that the other man’s hands hadn’t moved from his waist, and felt the tug when he broke free. Neither of them were completely recovered from thae kiss, and Jack looked…lost, like he was waiting for it to happen again.
“Uh…there.” he said, pointing towards his and Ianto’s bedroom. John nodded clumsily and left the room, still dazed.
John stumbled into the bathroom, pulling the door shut and leaning against the sink. What had just happened? He shook his head and turned on the taps, splashing water on his face before looking into the mirror; staring into his own eyes, searching. He had seen the connection when he looked in Jack’s eyes - he knew it. He knew that there was still something there, something real. No matter who Jack loved or got involved with, there would always be a little piece of his heart that was saved for John.
And that thought gave him hope. Hope that, when this whole thing was over and Ianto was behind bars, then John would be there to help Jack get over it all. It would take time, and things wouldn’t look bright for a while, but John had been through that before, and that little glimpse into Jack was all he needed to know that it would all be ok in the end.
The water woke him up, and John was back in detective mode. He glanced around, and realized that he had an opportunity like none other. He was in Ianto’s bathroom with access to his bedroom, and no-one was watching.
There had to be a secret hiding place somewhere. Serial killer psychos always had a little nook where they could keep their trophies and secretly gloat over their achievements. And here was as good a place to start than any other.
John left the bathroom and slipped into the bedroom, waiting at the door long enough to glance out and see that Jack was still sitting in the living room. Perfect.
He turned his back to the door, then started to search.
Carefully and quickly he went over all the obvious spots. Fake bottoms on drawers and hidden compartments in the walls. John made his way into the closet next, poking his head in, about to withdraw when something caught his eye.
Over in Ianto’s side of the closet, there was a small snag in the carpet in one corner. In any other circumstances, John would have looked right over it. But for some reason it called out to him. Glancing over his shoulder, he knelt down and used his fingers to probe the carpet, searching for any kind of irregularities. There - in the corner. He pulled at the carpet end with his fingernails, and it gave away with barely any resistance. Holding his breath, John grabbed the protruding corner and pulled.
Under the carpet was a small hole, and filling that hole was a single notebook. It was bound and covered with black leather, no lock securing it from any eyes. It had an ominous look about it, and with shaking hands John picked it up. He opened the book, and suddenly his eyes were bombarded by numbers. There were hundreds of them, filling entire pages. At the top of each page was a single name. As John flipped further back, he started to recognize then as the names the police had up on their board of victims.
Ianto’s little black book.
John got to the last page, and the last name that had been penned in using perfect block letters turn his blood cold. His head swarm as the reality of the situation crashed down on him. He was so intent on what was on that page that he didn’t hear the front door open and close again - he didn’t hear the voices. He didn’t hear the footsteps.
He was deafened by the sight of his own name at the top of the page.
He dropped the book like the pages were on fire, and hastily recovered the hole in the corner of the closet. There had already been almost one and a half pages of numbers following his name. That had to mean that Ianto had been watching him, studying him like he had studied all the other victims. And he had chosen his next one.
John scrambled backwards, needing to get as far away from that book as possible. He didn’t turn until he was out of the closet and trying to climb to his feet again. He turned, heading to the doorway, needing to get out of the room before he suffocated.
Ianto Jones was standing in the doorway.
Just standing there, his cold calculating blue eyes tracing every movement he made. John didn’t know how long he had been there, but from the look in his eyes, the detective knew. He knew that Ianto had seen him looking at his personal black book.
And then Ianto gave a smile - a smile that told of the pure evil that resided inside the young man. The Welshman let that smile sink deep into John’s bones, then promptly turned and walked out of sight.
John didn’t move - he couldn’t.
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