The Devil and Mister Jones
Title: The Devil and Mister Jones
Author: Madam Backslash
Fandom: Torchwood
Rating: Gen
Cast: Ianto
Pairing: none
Disclaimer: I don't own these characters and am not making money out of them
Notes: Set between Season 1 and Season 2, while Jack is missing. This came from one line. You know how it goes.
The Devil stood at Ianto Jones's front door. Ianto resisted the urge to remark that he looked shorter in person.
"I suppose you'd better come in," he said, stepping aside to grant his guest admittance.
"So, if you are who I think you are, why are you here?"
"Believe me, I wish you no harm."
"I refuse to believe you're here with my best interests at heart. In fact, I'm not sure whether you're here at all, or this is an indication that I should ask Owen to go easier on the heavy-duty pain killers the next time I break some ribs."
"I've come to make you an offer."
"In return for what? My soul? In that case you're as much out of luck as the Jehovah's Witnesses who came to see me last Wednesday. I'm an atheist. I don't have a soul."
"If you are an atheist, how did you recognise me?"
"Raised Catholic."
"Ah, a Catholic atheist! I've known a few of you in my time."
"And you look like your pictures."
"The horns are a bit of a giveaway, aren't they."
Ianto decided to cut to the chase.
"I've no soul, and I doubt you have a use for my body. What do you want?"
"Blood. Pain. Tears. Despair. Hopelessness."
"I have all those running hot and cold. Why are you here?"
"I want a cup of your coffee."
Ianto stared, disbelieving. Whatever he'd been expecting, it wasn't this.
"You came here for... a cup of coffee."
He still couldn't believe it, even though he'd repeated the words and heard them in his own voice. It was all he could do not to laugh out loud.
He still couldn't believe the Devil was sat at his kitchen table, a half-empty teacup in one clawed, red-skinned hand.
"Best in ten dimensions, I'm told. And in return, I offer you... your heart's desire."
Ianto folded his arms. "And what if I refuse?"
"Oh, you won't refuse." The Devil smiled, and the smile chilled Ianto to the bone.
Ianto wasn't afraid of the Devil. He didn't believe in the Devil, in much the same way he didn't believe in God.
He had, at the age of twenty, flatly refused to believe in a God who could allow a man as good and kind as his father to die in the helpless, prolonged agony of leukaemia. He had refused to believe in God with the certainty of youth, and, since joining Torchwood, had that refusal confirmed in every wonder that fell through the Rift.
He now refused to believe in a Devil who would give him his heart's desire in exchange for a cup of coffee.
Until the Devil said, calmly, looking Ianto square in the eye, "I could bring him back."
It felt to Ianto as though his heart stopped. He had to remind himself to breathe. Eventually he did, feeling his body tremble with the shock of it.
"Jack..."
"Yes," the Devil replied, with another one of those gut-twisting smiles. "I could bring Jack back to you. Whole. Unharmed."
Something in Ianto's mind yelled for attention. He snapped back into full awareness. "Hold on," he said, narrowing his eyes. "Why him? Why not Lisa?"
The Devil blinked, lazily. "She is dead, and lost to the time-stream. Even the Great I Am himself cannot change that," he drawled, waving a hand dismissively.
"He did it before."
"A one-time only offer."
"How... convenient."
"Quite." There was that smile again.
Ianto was flooded with conflict. He wanted Jack's return more than he wanted his next breath. He remembered Jack yelling about not messing with the time stream -- his every instinct was to refuse, to push back, to laugh this creature off as a figment of his imagination.
But it knew him. It knew what he wanted, what he needed, and Ianto was at a loss to understand how it knew.
But it knew.
The Devil's offer rang in Ianto's ears. His blood sang with it. Ianto hoped that if he was wrong and there was a deity out there, then he would be forgiven for wanting this so much...
Ianto opened the refrigerator and took out some chilled water, his long, elegant fingers curling around the long, elegant bottle. He switched his coffee machine on.
---
"Ahhh, yes, your reputation was not oversold, Mister Jones. This IS the best coffee in ten dimensions!" the Devil exclaimed, an expression of bliss on his face.
"Glad you like it," Ianto replied, folding his arms again. And waiting.
The Devil took another long sip. His expression changed from bliss to concern, and then outright terror.
"This is... you..."
"Yes. Holy water."
"How did you..."
"Gag gift from my sister, just like my tea mug," Ianto said, indicating the cup with the shifty-eyed nun and the slogan "I feel a sin coming on". "Kept it on the grounds that it might come in handy someday. Glad I did."
"But you..."
"Yes, I know."
"But how..." The Devil's voice was becoming thinner, strained.
"Hello, have we met? I'm an archivist. I read things. I remember things. It's what I do. And that's how I know that you're not the Devil, but rather an alien con-man who's been pulling this particular con for too long."
The Devil made space in his distress for confusion. "But if I'm an alien, then how am I... why..."
"You shouldn't believe your own hype," replied Ianto, as the Devil vanished with a wet pop, leaving a few puddles of rapidly-drying, sulphurous liquid behind him.
Sighing deeply, Ianto fetched a damp cloth and wiped up the yellow residue, rinsing it away in the sink.
And then the realisation of what had just happened crashed down on him, and Ianto Jones broke under the strain of his loss, grief, want (need), and failed belief. He fell in a crumpled, sobbing heap on the kitchen floor.
On the table, the Devil's coffee cooled.
Author: Madam Backslash
Fandom: Torchwood
Rating: Gen
Cast: Ianto
Pairing: none
Disclaimer: I don't own these characters and am not making money out of them
Notes: Set between Season 1 and Season 2, while Jack is missing. This came from one line. You know how it goes.
The Devil stood at Ianto Jones's front door. Ianto resisted the urge to remark that he looked shorter in person.
"I suppose you'd better come in," he said, stepping aside to grant his guest admittance.
"So, if you are who I think you are, why are you here?"
"Believe me, I wish you no harm."
"I refuse to believe you're here with my best interests at heart. In fact, I'm not sure whether you're here at all, or this is an indication that I should ask Owen to go easier on the heavy-duty pain killers the next time I break some ribs."
"I've come to make you an offer."
"In return for what? My soul? In that case you're as much out of luck as the Jehovah's Witnesses who came to see me last Wednesday. I'm an atheist. I don't have a soul."
"If you are an atheist, how did you recognise me?"
"Raised Catholic."
"Ah, a Catholic atheist! I've known a few of you in my time."
"And you look like your pictures."
"The horns are a bit of a giveaway, aren't they."
Ianto decided to cut to the chase.
"I've no soul, and I doubt you have a use for my body. What do you want?"
"Blood. Pain. Tears. Despair. Hopelessness."
"I have all those running hot and cold. Why are you here?"
"I want a cup of your coffee."
Ianto stared, disbelieving. Whatever he'd been expecting, it wasn't this.
"You came here for... a cup of coffee."
He still couldn't believe it, even though he'd repeated the words and heard them in his own voice. It was all he could do not to laugh out loud.
He still couldn't believe the Devil was sat at his kitchen table, a half-empty teacup in one clawed, red-skinned hand.
"Best in ten dimensions, I'm told. And in return, I offer you... your heart's desire."
Ianto folded his arms. "And what if I refuse?"
"Oh, you won't refuse." The Devil smiled, and the smile chilled Ianto to the bone.
Ianto wasn't afraid of the Devil. He didn't believe in the Devil, in much the same way he didn't believe in God.
He had, at the age of twenty, flatly refused to believe in a God who could allow a man as good and kind as his father to die in the helpless, prolonged agony of leukaemia. He had refused to believe in God with the certainty of youth, and, since joining Torchwood, had that refusal confirmed in every wonder that fell through the Rift.
He now refused to believe in a Devil who would give him his heart's desire in exchange for a cup of coffee.
Until the Devil said, calmly, looking Ianto square in the eye, "I could bring him back."
It felt to Ianto as though his heart stopped. He had to remind himself to breathe. Eventually he did, feeling his body tremble with the shock of it.
"Jack..."
"Yes," the Devil replied, with another one of those gut-twisting smiles. "I could bring Jack back to you. Whole. Unharmed."
Something in Ianto's mind yelled for attention. He snapped back into full awareness. "Hold on," he said, narrowing his eyes. "Why him? Why not Lisa?"
The Devil blinked, lazily. "She is dead, and lost to the time-stream. Even the Great I Am himself cannot change that," he drawled, waving a hand dismissively.
"He did it before."
"A one-time only offer."
"How... convenient."
"Quite." There was that smile again.
Ianto was flooded with conflict. He wanted Jack's return more than he wanted his next breath. He remembered Jack yelling about not messing with the time stream -- his every instinct was to refuse, to push back, to laugh this creature off as a figment of his imagination.
But it knew him. It knew what he wanted, what he needed, and Ianto was at a loss to understand how it knew.
But it knew.
The Devil's offer rang in Ianto's ears. His blood sang with it. Ianto hoped that if he was wrong and there was a deity out there, then he would be forgiven for wanting this so much...
Ianto opened the refrigerator and took out some chilled water, his long, elegant fingers curling around the long, elegant bottle. He switched his coffee machine on.
---
"Ahhh, yes, your reputation was not oversold, Mister Jones. This IS the best coffee in ten dimensions!" the Devil exclaimed, an expression of bliss on his face.
"Glad you like it," Ianto replied, folding his arms again. And waiting.
The Devil took another long sip. His expression changed from bliss to concern, and then outright terror.
"This is... you..."
"Yes. Holy water."
"How did you..."
"Gag gift from my sister, just like my tea mug," Ianto said, indicating the cup with the shifty-eyed nun and the slogan "I feel a sin coming on". "Kept it on the grounds that it might come in handy someday. Glad I did."
"But you..."
"Yes, I know."
"But how..." The Devil's voice was becoming thinner, strained.
"Hello, have we met? I'm an archivist. I read things. I remember things. It's what I do. And that's how I know that you're not the Devil, but rather an alien con-man who's been pulling this particular con for too long."
The Devil made space in his distress for confusion. "But if I'm an alien, then how am I... why..."
"You shouldn't believe your own hype," replied Ianto, as the Devil vanished with a wet pop, leaving a few puddles of rapidly-drying, sulphurous liquid behind him.
Sighing deeply, Ianto fetched a damp cloth and wiped up the yellow residue, rinsing it away in the sink.
And then the realisation of what had just happened crashed down on him, and Ianto Jones broke under the strain of his loss, grief, want (need), and failed belief. He fell in a crumpled, sobbing heap on the kitchen floor.
On the table, the Devil's coffee cooled.