Kryptonite | Chapter 11
Title: Kryptonite
Rating: R - Strong mentions of sex, suicide, rape and abuse.
Characters/Pairings: Jack/Ianto, Gwen/Rhys, Martha, Rhiannon, others may crop up as well.
Spoilers: Set after Exit Wounds, mentions of Doctor Who Series 3 finale.
Summary: After 2,000 years buried beneath Cardiff, Jack's mind is crumbling. Ianto will do anything to avoid losing him again - but how do you fix a broken man when you are falling apart yourself?
Disclaimer: If I owned Torchwood, the long-lasting repurcussions of actions and events would be properly explored. Obviously, I do not own Torchwood. Hence...FanFiction.
The lyrics to the song "Kryptonite" belong to the band 3 Doors Down. The song can be found here
A/N: I went paintballing this weekend, and now sport a large and very painful lump on my head. This shall be a warning to all people never to go paintballing with a group of boys aged 18-22. As such, if anything here doesn't make sense, or is just a little too wacky or "out there", especially some of the dream sequences, I'm blaming it all on that lump. Thank you all for your support - just a shameless plug to say your reviews mean so much to me, so I'm now officially fishing for them. Much of this fic has grown from people's comments, so keep them coming to keep the fic moving!
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Kryptonite
"I took a walk around the world..."
The bed was cold.
Martha hated sleeping in a cold bed; it reminded her of all those times when she had come in from the hospital, returning to a quiet house, the arguments of her broken family still ringing in her ears. It reminded her of being lonely. For these last few months, it had meant an awful lot for her to share her bed with someone, to feel the warmth radiating from him as he lay beside her, giving her that irreplaceable sense of connection.
She had needed that after she had chosen to leave the Doctor. It had been for her own sanity, of course, but she knew that sleeping in the TARDIS had caused her to become accustomed to the sense that she was surrounded by life. When sleeping in the Timelord's machine, you were never alone; the ship itself wrapped a protective blanket around you, its sentiency seeming to sing you to sleep.
Reaching out with one hand, Martha smoothed her fingers over the empty side of the bed, imagining that the contours breaking against her skin was the body of the person she usually shared a bed with. The mattress was cold again beneath her touch, and she stretched out her arms, spreading her body like a child making snow angels in an attempt to fill the entirety of the rickety hotel bed she had been forced to sleep on.
She sighed, burying her face into the pillow as she spread herself further. She wanted to block out the constant churning of the faulty air conditioning system, to pretend that the couple next door were not having furious, deafening make-up sex after a violent row, to close her eyes and be back in London, with UNIT, with her family, lying on her soft mattress and falling warmly, contentedly into sleep in the arms of her fiancé.
The last time she had stayed in Cardiff, Jack had made absolutely sure that she was to be given the best accommodation possible, and with the almost unlimited bucket of funds that Torchwood seemed to have this had been exactly what he had managed to achieve - though, to be truthful, Martha had always suspected it had been Ianto's easy charm rather than Jack's lusty eye that had won her the premier suite.
This was an entirely different kettle of fish, although reasonable, given the circumstances. The Torchwood she had been witness to in the past few days seemed to be struggling to hold themselves together, let alone having the energy or the inclination to ensure she had anything other than a crummy B&B to stay in. Martha punched the pillow ever so slightly, thoughts of Jack and his teammates, both living and lost, filtering through into her mind.
They needed her help. She was the one with the fresh mind, the unbiased eye, the one who had remained relatively untouched by the virus of insanity that had infected the Torchwood team. She could see the tears held behind Gwen's eye, that loss of hope that was so terribly haunting; she sensed the tautness in Ianto's muscles, that way that he looked upon Jack with an unutterable combination of love for the old Jack, and hatred for what he had become.
Tears blurred her vision, and she used the corner of the pillow to wipe them away. In the grand scheme of things, Gwen and Ianto knew Jack a lot more closely, intimately and for a lot longer than she herself had know him. But her protective nature towards the man was unrivalled, even by her feelings towards the Doctor. She knew what had happened to him on the Valiant, knew the horrors her sister had seen done to him, knew that he whole family woke up still haunted by his screams.
Squeezing her eyes shut, she forced the tears back to where they came from through force of will alone, before reaching out to the phone. The bed may be cold, she decided as she dialled in the oh-so familiar number, but her world didn't have to be. The dial tone clicked, and Martha felt a smile spread across her face at the comforting voice.
"Hi Tom. I know it's late but can we just - talk?"
Gwen curled herself onto the couch, tucking her legs further beneath her as she melded herself to Rhys' warm frame. There was something on the television in front of them - she wasn't actually paying attention, but she could see the annoying lights flickering in the corner of her mind and feel the deep rumbling laugher vibrating through her husband's chest. It was soothing, in a way, and she snuggled as closely as she could into it.
A slight twinge of guilt ran through her alongside the warm contentedness. She tried desperately to suppress it, feeling tears gather behind her eyelids as she failed in her desperate attempts to withhold her emotions. Sometimes, she wished she had the stamina of her younger colleague, to be able to successfully hold back and control everything she was feeling, rather than allowing herself to be read like an open book. At other times, however, she could see the way that each constrained emotion ate away a little bit more of Ianto's soul; it was then that she realised that she could never do it, and she wished she could find a way to stop his own cycle of suppression.
Try as she might, she could not block the thoughts of her lonely colleagues from her head.
Today had been a good day for Jack, in the grand scheme of things. For one, he had remained awake for almost the entirety of their working day, sometimes even gathering together the lucidity to assist them in some of their projects, if only on a very small level. As such, Martha had made a suggestion that had terrified them all - she had suggested that they leave Jack, as good a day as he had had, alone in the Hub. It hadn't happened since they had lost Tosh and Owen, and, without a precedent, Martha was trying anything she could to get some idea of the boundaries and options available to them.
Ianto had been a mess at the thought, although he'd contained it. Gwen had been not much better, and she had openly opposed Martha's suggestions. A small part of her was angered at the fact that this woman, however much they trusted her and owed to her, had entered the scene and begun to make the decisions. But, a larger part of her new that Martha was like having the fog wiped away from their eyes; she was new, she was separate and she wasn't falling apart. They needed her, because they couldn't very well take care of themselves at the minute.
"Hey, what's this about?"
She inclined her head slightly to take in her husband's concerned look, painfully aware of the tears that had begun to spill out of her eyes. An arm encircled her, drawing her further into his warmth.
"D'you want to talk?"
Forcing a smile, Gwen nodded, propping herself up on her arm so that she could lean against his shoulder.
"I'm worried."
Rhys nodded, biting his tongue as he waited for her to continue.
"They're all alone, they have nobody, and I'm here with you when I feel I should be with them, just because...why do I deserve to be happy? I don't."
She bowed her head, not even bothering to stop the tears now coursing down her cheeks.
"I'm so scared we're going to lose them. Jack's already gone, and Ianto's following him - he won't admit it, but he's suffering, and every day I see him get dragged down a little more and there's nothing I can do.
"You can be there for them Gwen," Rhys put a gentle finger beneath her chin, tilting her head upwards so that their eyes were level. "if that's all you can do, as long as it's your best - I'd tell you not to beat yourself up, but you will, so there's no point, but they just need you to be there for them now. And if that means a few extra hours or nights at work, then you should do it. There's no way I could stop you, even if I wanted to, you stubborn cow."
He paused, seeming to think for a second.
"Y'know what? Invite him over. Him and Jack both...maybe it'll do the cocky bastard some good if we just treat him normal, like. It's not much, and it's not any of your fancy science-fiction supernatural bollocks, but it's as good as I can give. S'the least I can do."
Gwen grinned through her tears.
"You know, Rhys Williams? Working with Torchwood, you sometimes forget that the simplest way is the answer," she poked him in the chest. "Thank you for being so bloody normal, you big idiot."
It had been a while since Ianto had experienced dreams this vividly. Usually he slept deeply enough to block them out; or perhaps it was that psychic training that unconsciously kicked in to block away the painful memories through sheer survival instinct. Either way, it was very rare that he dreamed. Which made it all the harder now that his nightmares had hit him again with a vengeance.
There's blood on the kitchen floor. He can feel it seeping into his toes as he sits, frozen to the cold tiles. There's tears on his cheeks, but he doesn't think they're his - an arm around him, a small high voice in his ear, shaking. He doesn't understand what's happening, but he knows he can't move. More footsteps, bigger footsteps, a tall stocky frame enters the room, pushing them both aside. That's when the wailing starts, growling like a lion, advancing towards the source of the blood - Ianto can't help but stare at what everyone else is staring at.
"Mummy?"
Ianto bolted upright, sweat clinging to his clammy skin as he struggled to draw breath. He could feel his whole body shaking violently, twitching in sharp spasms as he struggled to calm himself. A scratchy sob welled up in his throat, and he forced his fists between his teeth, biting down hard to suppress it. With a rough shake of his head, he lay back, readjusting his position on the sweat-slicked pillows; he was determined not to go back to sleep, not subject himself to those dreams again, but he was so fucking tired...
He's trapped in a room. He can't see, he can't hear; all he knows is that it's dark and he'd rather he wasn't here. Someone is coming towards him, he can feel the thumping along the floor. A light is switched on, and a giant beetroot face leers towards him, fist clenched as he mumbles something about "you fault" and "living up to it" and "fucking murderer". Words that have haunted him for as long as he can remember. Ianto backs away, but not before the face begins to contort, twisting painfully; the skin darkens, the figure slims, the hair grows and curls, the grease falling out of it until it is as shiny as he can remember. This face is beautiful. This is a face that he has always loved, for so long, a face that he let down, a face that he let melt away into a monster. He doesn't want this face, it hurts him more than the fists.
Lisa...
The wall behind him stops him from escaping any further, and the face descends towards him, tiny fingers resting on his shoulders and squeezing more tightly than such a small frame should muster. He can feel lips forced on his before the skin transforms into metal, from soft to hard, steel fingers digging into his shoulders and into the flesh of his neck, pucnturing through his windpipe so that he can't even scream...
This time, he was crying as he woke up. Sitting up and curling himself into a ball, he pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes and let the sobs shake him. The faces of all those people he had failed in his life, all the people he had failed to appease, failed to save, all the times that he could never do enough - they swam across his eyelids, taunting him. They were always there, of course, in the back of his mind, but generally he was good at suppressing them. It felt as thought a crack had emerged across his brain, and everything he had tried to keep back was seeping through. He closed his eyes, just for a second, just to block the images out, not to sleep, he wasn't going back to sleep...
The wind in the graveyard is biting, like teeth tearing into his clothing and piercing his flesh. He's surrounded by people, people in black - must be mourners, he thinks, but who are they mourning? He's in black as well. Who did he lose? Surely he should know who he should be grieving? There's women all around him, tears streaking their faces; men with protective arms around their wives and daughters. He feels alone, vulnerable, exposed. And then there's...
"Gwen!"
She doesn't hear him. She walks right past, drenched in tears. But...she casts a glance back, and Ianto follows the gaze. There's a row of graves, one next to the other. He can read the words inscribed on each one.
"Catrin Jones: 1961 - 1986"
"Lisa Hallett: 1981 - 2007"
"Toshiko Sato: 1975 - 2008"
"Owen Harper: 1981 - 2008"
He's crying now. He doesn't want to cry, and it's not the names that make him cry - it's those words, scratched along the bottom of each one, spiky and cruel and ugly:
"You didn't do enough."
He kneels down before them, his whole body convulsing. It's true, so true, it's all his fault. Everyone knows it and now it's there for all to see. Suddenly, he sees another grave. This one is newly dug, fresh. He leans across, terrified of what he'll find but unable to look away:
"Jack Harkness..."
Jack Harkness really didn't know what the problem was.
Wrapping his coat tighter around his body to ward off the biting Welsh wind, and clenching his hand comfortingly around his Webley, Jack took another step forward, the monitor on his wrist leading him to the location of the creature. He knew that the others would be severely disapproving of what he was doing, but he felt fine. He'd been a bit...off, recently, that was true, but he was perfectly capable of going on a simple Weevile hunt. He knew more than anyone what he himself was capable of, how far he could be pushed, and he hated being made to feel like glass. That was exactly why he hadn't told anyone about what happened when he was on the Va...
Sucking in a breath, Jack shook his head, forcing away the thoughts. He was fine. He was in control. He could think what he liked, and if there was an unpleasant thought then he could push it away. He could. Because he was fine. And that was what fine people did.
Jack Harkness wasn't scared of anything. He knew that. Without fear, he would walk across fire to save those he loved, to protect the Earth from the foul creatures that came through the Rift. That was exactly what he was doing now - he was going to prove to Ianto, and Gwen, and Martha that he was still here and they needed to stop treating him like a child. He admitted that he'd been struggling to stay awake recently, but that was to be expected after what had happened to him - being buried alive was not a particularly pleasant experience, he had to concede - and it wasn't like he was in a constant state of unconsciousness. He was awake now, and he was fit for duty - this was his team and he was going to lead them the best he could. That was his job.
A snarling sound ricocheted around the walls of the alley, leading him towards a large metal wastebin; he could smell the stench of the Weevil filtering through his nostrils, and he wrinkled his nose. One foot in front of the other, pressing his toes gently into the leather of his boots so as not to make a sound; it was as if he had never been away as he cocked the gun, pulling it back so that he could get a straight line of sight. There were some things, he decided that you just couldn't unlearn, things that stuck with you and burrowed into your mind. He would always have the skills defend the people he loved; that was a passion engrained into his heart, and it would never go away.
As the Weevil suddenly burst from the shadows, teeth outstretched and spittle dripping from it's ragged mouth, Jack aimed his weapon.
As the creature ran forward, arms oustretched, the dim light of hunger shining behind its yellowing gaze, Jack focused his eyes.
And, as the creature sank its teeth into the side of his neck, Jack forgot how to fire his gun.
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