Fic: The High Cost of Living
Title: Season of Mists
Author: lookninjas aka ninjasnano
Character/Pairing(s): Ianto, Jack, Gwen, Archie, Dr. Simon Tau, Dr. Derrial Shepherd
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Spoilers for Children of Earth. Brief, somewhat incoherent descriptions of violence, captivity, and trauma.
Disclaimer: I do not own copyright to Torchwood, Dr. Who, or Neil Gaiman's the Sandman, and make no claim to them. This story is for entertainment only, and I make no profit from this.
Author's Note(s): This story takes place during the events of Season of Mists, picking up at the end of Part IV, and stopping not long before the epilogue. If you have not read that story, this one will make absolutely no sense at all.
Summary: Ianto pretends that Jack and Gwen are real so that he doesn't have to face up to the truth.
For a few moments, he lets himself drift, eyes closed, just feeling: Jack on his right side, a strong arm bracing him, a shoulder to lean on; Gwen on his left, pressed to him like he'll melt into smoke if she doesn't hold him tightly, so close he can smell cordite and sulfur in her hair. Neither of them are real, of course; he lost track of what was real long ago, in that world of blinding lights and constant pain and doctors with blood on their white coats, or on the ship with its metal walls and soft groans and occasional cries of despair, or perhaps in London, or perhaps even further back. It is entirely possible that he himself is not real. Melting into smoke.
It is enough at this moment to pretend: that Jack is real enough to steady him, that Gwen is close enough for him to hold onto her and kiss her hair. Everything hurts, these days; everything is too bright, too cold, too distant. He has earned this dimly-lit dream.
(somewhere, of course, he knows the truth: yes, this is real. he is free. it all happened. he knows this, and he knows what it means. if this is real, everything that has come before it -- the ship, the hospital, the days he lived twice and the deaths he survived, so many, too many -- is real as well. he knows that, and so he chooses not to face it. not yet.)
But Gwen is slipping, in some strange way; he is holding her up, and not the other way around, and when he shifts his hand to support her better, his fingers brush her hip, then fall still. Dried blood on the soft fabric. He opens his eyes; it's very dark in here, and his eyes can't seem to adjust, but he can still see the gauze on her forehead. One wound on her forehead, another here on her hip. "Gwen," he says, not sure what else to say.
"Just a graze," she says again, with that classic smile, the everything is all right smile. It's not as reassuring as it used to be, and he can't be sure if that's him or if it's her or maybe just that it's so dark in here. "I've had worse."
"Gwen," he says again, still at such a loss and suddenly somehow terrified, his heart picking up pace -- running down the corridor and he hasn't run for so long, isn't used to it, can barely breathe and then the snap and the crack and Gwen in front of him half-turning from the impact lifting her off her feet and then she's falling and her body hits the metal grating of the floor and her eyes don't close but that doesn't mean she isn't dead -- He tries to pull away from Jack, to help lower Gwen to the cot, but he's not used to moving, to balancing his own weight. In trying to help Gwen, he stumbles into her, and only Jack's broad hands pulling at Ianto and Archie's small frame moving quickly to steady Gwen keep them from falling into a tangled heap on the floor.
Jack's arms wrap around Ianto, one across his chest, the other around his waist, as Archie gently lowers Gwen to the cot. Ianto knows that he's being restrained, but for once, he doesn't seem to mind, or feel the need to fight. For once, it seems appropriate to simply relax into it. "Ianto's right, Miss Cooper," Archie says; Gwen tries to sit up, but he pushes her back easily. Gwen is never easy to push back. Ianto fumbles for Jack's hands, finds them, and closes his fingers tight around them. "You've done looking after everyone for now. Time to be looked after yourself. And not by you, Dr. Tau."
Ianto's doctor, who was attempting to shift himself closer to the cot, stops in his tracks. Ianto closes his eyes, repeats the name softly to himself. Dr. Tau. All his time in that white world, the dark-haired doctor was his one constant, the only person he felt he could reasonably trust to not put a bullet in his head or poison him or carve off his fingers in the name of science. He'd never had so much of a surname to call the man by until this moment. Dr. Tau.
"You wanted to see that Ianto would wake up all right. And you have." Archie is still staring Dr. Tau down, his frame small and hunched and frail and completely unyielding. "Now it's time you went to hospital. Captain Hart as well, assuming he can be moved."
Ianto blinks, caught by the familiar name -- alarms going off all around him, that hideous robotic voice announcing that the Facility has been breached, the Facility has been breached, and he is surrounded by black-clad bodies, can't see what's happening no matter how he strains against his restraint, but he can hear the intruder speaking, "My goodness. There are a lot of you, aren't there?" and he almost laughs because honestly, who would have thought -- and Jack squeezes his hands lightly, murmurs in his ear. "I'll explain it all later." Before Ianto can even ask, or even ask himself if he honestly wants to know what happened.
(even though he never did know when to leave it well enough alone.)
It occurs to Ianto, then, that they are all falling apart. Gwen is wounded, and his doctor -- Dr. Tau -- needs a doctor, and as sturdy as Jack is, he is barely holding himself together. Ianto knows that he should do something about this, because that is who he is; he's the one who keeps other people from falling apart. He steps forward (fingers of his right hand still intertwined with Jack's), says "I'll--" but then stops, because he isn't sure what he can do. Could he drive them? It's been a long time since he's worked a clutch, and he's not sure where they are or how he'd find his way. He's no battlefield medic, not like Jack or even Gwen. He could possibly make tea, but its curative powers fail with bullet wounds. Even in this dream, this fantasy of rescue, he is completely helpless.
(which, of course, is part of how he knows that it's real.)
Fortunately, a man -- dark-skinned, bushy white hair tied tightly behind his head -- choose this moment to step into the room, clearing his throat. "Sorry to interrupt, but I --" the man says, and clears his throat again. He seems to be trying to look at Archie, but his eyes keep flickering back to Ianto. "We can move Captain Hart. In fact, I think it's best he go sooner, rather than later. You too, Simon."
Ianto's doctor -- Simon Tau -- shifts slightly, frowning. One of his hands is clutching at his left thigh. Blood is starting to seep through the towel wrapped around his waist. "Gwen," he says, looking down at her. Gwen's eyes keep fluttering closed, opening again for just a moment. "And Andy -- I should really --"
Ianto twitches slightly at the sound of Andy's name -- not recognizing him at first, black uniform and gun in his hands, and his face is harder now than it was before, but then there's the uneasiness, the fear, and it's Andy again -- and the dark-skinned man looks at him, not Dr. Simon Tau, when he speaks again. "Andy's fine." The man's voice is steady enough, but he looks at Ianto with that strange mix of awe and fear that Ianto doesn't think he'll ever get used to. "I've cleaned him up, and he's resting." His gaze shifts over, rests on Jack. "He'll be fine," he says again, and Jack's hand squeezes Ianto's, reassuring.
"And I can look after Miss Cooper," Archie says. "Just because Two is a bit different from the rest of you lot doesn't mean I haven't seen someone shot before."
With a sigh, Dr. Simon Tau attempts to push himself up from his chair, but doesn't even make it halfway before he's sinking down again, pale. "I don't think I can walk anymore," he says, quietly.
"I'll help," Ianto says, finally breaking free of Jack's hold. He is steadier on his feet now, and does not embarrass himself with his first few steps. He doesn't wish to lose this chance to finally be useful. "I'll help you."
The dark-skinned man looks at Jack. "It'll be easier to get Captain Hart down to the car with two of us," he points out.
Jack still watches Ianto cross around the bed to Dr. Simon Tau's chair before he finally, reluctantly, lets the dark-skinned man lead him out of the room.
Ianto crouches next to Dr. Simon Tau's chair, wraps one of the man's arms around his shoulders, but doesn't stand. Gwen is focused on him, her eyes clear, and she reaches out to touch his face. "Promise you'll come back?" she asks, just sleepy enough for it to make her honest.
Ianto isn't sleepy, but he is crazy, and there's no point in lying to his delusions (even if he knows that she is real, they are real, everything is real). "Will you still be here?" he asks, and she nods, smiling, her eyes slipping shut. "Then I'll come back."
It is difficult to stand; he's used to being helped down off a bed, not raising himself from a crouch, and it's harder with Simon's weight on his shoulders (he supposes first names are appropriate, as they've known each other so long), but he manages it. Walking is harder still; he's used to the drugs altering his perceptions, skewing his balance, and has to concentrate not to correct things which no longer need correction. But he will manage this as well. Each step requires concentration and thought, and by the time he reaches the living room, Jack and the dark-skinned man are already hurrying past with a sheet stretched between them as a sort of makeshift litter. Ianto can only see a hand, draped over the side, blood drying dark brown on the pale skin.
"He'll be all right," Simon says, quietly.
Ianto blinks. He is not at all sure what to say to this. It is difficult to imagine Captain John Hart risking his life for anyone, let alone Ianto Jones. "Did you contact him?" he asks, leading them slowly to the doorway. There are stairs leading down; they've slowed Jack and the dark-skinned man down considerably. It will be worse for him, he knows. "Bring him into this?"
"I couldn't find him," Simon says. He clings to Ianto, and Ianto leans on the wall, and they make it down the first few steps in excruciating slow motion. "He found me. I couldn't..." Another step. "I wouldn't have known where to start, if not for him."
He'll have to consider this later, when he's not trying to cope with each downward step, with the heavy weight of the injured man leaning on him for support. "I never even asked your name," Ianto murmurs, after navigating a particularly grueling turn.
"It's all right," Simon says. Ianto thinks the man might have laughed, if he'd been capable of drawing enough breath for it. Simon is weakening. Ianto hopes that they aren't too many stairs left to climb. "I couldn't have told you if you had."
"But you saved me." It is important to know these things: to know who should take the credit, to whom the debt is owed.
"I brought you to the Project in the first place."
"You still saved me," Ianto insists. The landing is only five steps below them. They will make it, if he is careful.
Another sound that might have been a laugh, had there been more strength behind it. "You sound like Gwen."
It's the accent," Ianto mutters, his feet finally hitting the bottom of the stairs and seeming to stick there. The door is wide open in front of them, dim grey light pouring in, and Ianto cannot move. It's been so long since he was outside. Anything could be out there. Anything at all.
"Go on," Simon says, quietly.
After a few deep breaths -- the air is so different, dirty, no tang of antiseptic -- he does. His eyes had only just adjusted to the dimness, and now he's squinting. There are cars on the street, a battered ambulance, a blue police box. He's not sure where to take Simon. There are so many buildings, and all of them are so tall. The world is so much larger than he remembers.
Jack and the dark-skinned man are waiting for him -- the dark-skinned man takes Simon's weight off of Ianto's shoulders and transfers him into one of the cars while Jack watches. It looks a bit like Ianto's old Audi. It's a coincidence, but reassuring all the same. Ianto wonders who the dark-skinned man is, if he'll see him again, if he'll learn his name. The man seems practical, reliable. Ianto thinks he might learn to like him. "I'll call you as soon as I can," the dark-skinned man says. He nods at the crippled ambulance just up the street; the front is battered, dented, and scratched; there are bullet holes in the side that Ianto can see, and presumably more on the rest of it. It's as if the others had to fight a war to free him. Perhaps they did. "You should take care of that before it attracts too much attention."
Jack nods to him, calls out "Thank you." He has slipped, somehow, imperceptably behind Ianto's shoulders, and is now resting a hand on the small of Ianto's back. Ianto finds it reassuring, but realizes that it's really for Jack's benefit more than his, to prove that Ianto is here, and real, and solid to Jack's touch.
Jack, after all, saw Ianto die.
(he hears him sometimes, waking up from death, that strange sleep. "don't go. ianto, don't go. don't leave me. please." he knows, of course, that jack doesn't bring him back. he knows that he died long before thames house. jack has nothing to do with it. but the memory takes the sting out of resurrection -- the woman in red may be the one pulling him back, but jack is the reason he lives)
Ianto wonders how long he's been dead. It probably isn't a very good time to ask.
The car drives away in a cloud of exhaust and Ianto breathes it in, breathes it all in: car exhaust in the damp air, the smell of someone's cigarettes lingering in the damp air, sausage frying nearby. Meat and smoke, all mingled.
-- he wakes up and doesn't know where he is, only that Gwen's body is in his lap and there is sand beneath him, hot and dry, and the air is hot and dry and smells of burning flesh and when he opens his eyes, he sees the flames, and when he closes them again he can hear the screaming and the world is burning and everyone he has ever loved is dead and Jack is still screaming somewhere on that ship and Ianto is still nothing more than their freak and he cannot save Jack or Gwen and he cannot stop the world burning and people dying and --
The weight of it drives him to his knees, retching, and even as he heaves, he is acutely aware of the sidewalk gritty under his palms and the chilly damp of the air and the warmth of Jack's hand stroking in circles over his back, the gentleness of Jack's voice murmuring reassurance in his ear. A breeze blows a bit of paper down the street. Not far away, cars are driving down busy streets; someone is washing their dishes. The world is so large, and there is so much in it, and Ianto is aware of it all, because it is all real. Everything is real. Everything that has happened, the bits he wishes he could forget, the bits that should never have happened, even the bits that couldn't have happened. All of it is real.
He doesn't know what to do about that.
When the spasm passes, when tense muscles relax and he can finally breathe again, he scoots around on his knees until he's facing Jack. Jack almost looks the same as he used to, but can't quite manage it -- the circles under his eyes are darker, the mouth no longer on the verge of smiling. He looks worried, and tired, and suspicious, and old. None of that can stop Ianto laying a hand on Jack's cheek and asking "Is it really you?" because he knows that yes, it really is him.
Jack mirrors the gesture, his fingers ruffling Ianto's beard. "I could ask you the same." He tries for glib, sounds heartbroken instead. For once, they've both run out of jokes.
Ianto rubs his thumb up along Jack's cheekbone, and Jack closes his eyes. It's familiar, and reassuring. Jack still knows his touch. "I don't know what to do," he admits, and watches Jack's face fall.
"Ianto... Believe me... I would never..."
Start and stop, Jack's voice choking, and all Ianto can do is pull him in by the back of the neck until their foreheads are pressed together, hold him there with his eyes tight shut. "It's not your fault," Ianto says softly. "It's not your fault."
Even if it was, it wouldn't matter. Even if there had been a choice, if it had been up to Ianto, he doesn't think it would have gone any differently. He doesn't know who he is anymore, but he does, at least, know that.
don't go. don't leave me. please.
"You came back," Jack says, quietly. "No one comes back. Ever."
"I know," Ianto says.
They pull back a bit -- Ianto's hand on Jack's shoulder, Jack's on Ianto's knee, and just look at each other for a long time, kneeling at the side of the road, flats looming overhead, the blue police box on the corner standing guard. "I don't even know where I am," Ianto says, finally. "I don't know who--" But that last part is something he cannot admit. Not yet.
"You're Ianto," Jack says, quietly. "It hasn't changed. Believe me, Ianto, it hasn't." His eyes are very serious, almost terrifyingly sincere, and if anyone would know about these things, it's Jack. Everything that Ianto has been through, Jack has too. There is a comfort in that, at least. "Does the rest of it really matter?"
Ianto lets his hand fall down onto Jack's. He thinks a bit before answering. It does matter, or rather it will. The facts are important, the practicalities need to be addressed, and although these things are not in Jack's nature, they are in Ianto's. The rest of it matters. But maybe not right now. "I could use a glass of water," he says. His mouth tastes like bile. "And I'd like to see Gwen again. And Andy. I need to --"
Jack pulls Ianto to his feet without waiting for him to finish, and Ianto falls silent, wrapping his arm around Jack's waist and just leaning there, on that solidity. The world is larger than he remembers, and there's things in it that should never have been, things that have happened that ought to be impossible. So many things that he will have to learn how to deal with, how to accept, how to let go. But Gwen and Andy are safe, and Jack is there, solid, and at least he isn't alone anymore. It's a start.
He starts off leaning on Jack. But by the time they're back in the building, making their way slowly up the stairs, they're both leaning on each other.
Note: This was written in something of a hurry, as an attempt to A) figure out some blurry details in this odd little AU of mine, B) try to find Ianto's voice again after everything I've put him through, and C) make myself feel a bit better after Season of Mists turned out so bleak. I wound up liking it well enough to post, so I did, but I realize it's probably not for all tastes. Criticism is (as always, but particularly with such a giant work-in-progress as this) very much welcome.
Author: lookninjas aka ninjasnano
Character/Pairing(s): Ianto, Jack, Gwen, Archie, Dr. Simon Tau, Dr. Derrial Shepherd
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Spoilers for Children of Earth. Brief, somewhat incoherent descriptions of violence, captivity, and trauma.
Disclaimer: I do not own copyright to Torchwood, Dr. Who, or Neil Gaiman's the Sandman, and make no claim to them. This story is for entertainment only, and I make no profit from this.
Author's Note(s): This story takes place during the events of Season of Mists, picking up at the end of Part IV, and stopping not long before the epilogue. If you have not read that story, this one will make absolutely no sense at all.
Summary: Ianto pretends that Jack and Gwen are real so that he doesn't have to face up to the truth.
For a few moments, he lets himself drift, eyes closed, just feeling: Jack on his right side, a strong arm bracing him, a shoulder to lean on; Gwen on his left, pressed to him like he'll melt into smoke if she doesn't hold him tightly, so close he can smell cordite and sulfur in her hair. Neither of them are real, of course; he lost track of what was real long ago, in that world of blinding lights and constant pain and doctors with blood on their white coats, or on the ship with its metal walls and soft groans and occasional cries of despair, or perhaps in London, or perhaps even further back. It is entirely possible that he himself is not real. Melting into smoke.
It is enough at this moment to pretend: that Jack is real enough to steady him, that Gwen is close enough for him to hold onto her and kiss her hair. Everything hurts, these days; everything is too bright, too cold, too distant. He has earned this dimly-lit dream.
(somewhere, of course, he knows the truth: yes, this is real. he is free. it all happened. he knows this, and he knows what it means. if this is real, everything that has come before it -- the ship, the hospital, the days he lived twice and the deaths he survived, so many, too many -- is real as well. he knows that, and so he chooses not to face it. not yet.)
But Gwen is slipping, in some strange way; he is holding her up, and not the other way around, and when he shifts his hand to support her better, his fingers brush her hip, then fall still. Dried blood on the soft fabric. He opens his eyes; it's very dark in here, and his eyes can't seem to adjust, but he can still see the gauze on her forehead. One wound on her forehead, another here on her hip. "Gwen," he says, not sure what else to say.
"Just a graze," she says again, with that classic smile, the everything is all right smile. It's not as reassuring as it used to be, and he can't be sure if that's him or if it's her or maybe just that it's so dark in here. "I've had worse."
"Gwen," he says again, still at such a loss and suddenly somehow terrified, his heart picking up pace -- running down the corridor and he hasn't run for so long, isn't used to it, can barely breathe and then the snap and the crack and Gwen in front of him half-turning from the impact lifting her off her feet and then she's falling and her body hits the metal grating of the floor and her eyes don't close but that doesn't mean she isn't dead -- He tries to pull away from Jack, to help lower Gwen to the cot, but he's not used to moving, to balancing his own weight. In trying to help Gwen, he stumbles into her, and only Jack's broad hands pulling at Ianto and Archie's small frame moving quickly to steady Gwen keep them from falling into a tangled heap on the floor.
Jack's arms wrap around Ianto, one across his chest, the other around his waist, as Archie gently lowers Gwen to the cot. Ianto knows that he's being restrained, but for once, he doesn't seem to mind, or feel the need to fight. For once, it seems appropriate to simply relax into it. "Ianto's right, Miss Cooper," Archie says; Gwen tries to sit up, but he pushes her back easily. Gwen is never easy to push back. Ianto fumbles for Jack's hands, finds them, and closes his fingers tight around them. "You've done looking after everyone for now. Time to be looked after yourself. And not by you, Dr. Tau."
Ianto's doctor, who was attempting to shift himself closer to the cot, stops in his tracks. Ianto closes his eyes, repeats the name softly to himself. Dr. Tau. All his time in that white world, the dark-haired doctor was his one constant, the only person he felt he could reasonably trust to not put a bullet in his head or poison him or carve off his fingers in the name of science. He'd never had so much of a surname to call the man by until this moment. Dr. Tau.
"You wanted to see that Ianto would wake up all right. And you have." Archie is still staring Dr. Tau down, his frame small and hunched and frail and completely unyielding. "Now it's time you went to hospital. Captain Hart as well, assuming he can be moved."
Ianto blinks, caught by the familiar name -- alarms going off all around him, that hideous robotic voice announcing that the Facility has been breached, the Facility has been breached, and he is surrounded by black-clad bodies, can't see what's happening no matter how he strains against his restraint, but he can hear the intruder speaking, "My goodness. There are a lot of you, aren't there?" and he almost laughs because honestly, who would have thought -- and Jack squeezes his hands lightly, murmurs in his ear. "I'll explain it all later." Before Ianto can even ask, or even ask himself if he honestly wants to know what happened.
(even though he never did know when to leave it well enough alone.)
It occurs to Ianto, then, that they are all falling apart. Gwen is wounded, and his doctor -- Dr. Tau -- needs a doctor, and as sturdy as Jack is, he is barely holding himself together. Ianto knows that he should do something about this, because that is who he is; he's the one who keeps other people from falling apart. He steps forward (fingers of his right hand still intertwined with Jack's), says "I'll--" but then stops, because he isn't sure what he can do. Could he drive them? It's been a long time since he's worked a clutch, and he's not sure where they are or how he'd find his way. He's no battlefield medic, not like Jack or even Gwen. He could possibly make tea, but its curative powers fail with bullet wounds. Even in this dream, this fantasy of rescue, he is completely helpless.
(which, of course, is part of how he knows that it's real.)
Fortunately, a man -- dark-skinned, bushy white hair tied tightly behind his head -- choose this moment to step into the room, clearing his throat. "Sorry to interrupt, but I --" the man says, and clears his throat again. He seems to be trying to look at Archie, but his eyes keep flickering back to Ianto. "We can move Captain Hart. In fact, I think it's best he go sooner, rather than later. You too, Simon."
Ianto's doctor -- Simon Tau -- shifts slightly, frowning. One of his hands is clutching at his left thigh. Blood is starting to seep through the towel wrapped around his waist. "Gwen," he says, looking down at her. Gwen's eyes keep fluttering closed, opening again for just a moment. "And Andy -- I should really --"
Ianto twitches slightly at the sound of Andy's name -- not recognizing him at first, black uniform and gun in his hands, and his face is harder now than it was before, but then there's the uneasiness, the fear, and it's Andy again -- and the dark-skinned man looks at him, not Dr. Simon Tau, when he speaks again. "Andy's fine." The man's voice is steady enough, but he looks at Ianto with that strange mix of awe and fear that Ianto doesn't think he'll ever get used to. "I've cleaned him up, and he's resting." His gaze shifts over, rests on Jack. "He'll be fine," he says again, and Jack's hand squeezes Ianto's, reassuring.
"And I can look after Miss Cooper," Archie says. "Just because Two is a bit different from the rest of you lot doesn't mean I haven't seen someone shot before."
With a sigh, Dr. Simon Tau attempts to push himself up from his chair, but doesn't even make it halfway before he's sinking down again, pale. "I don't think I can walk anymore," he says, quietly.
"I'll help," Ianto says, finally breaking free of Jack's hold. He is steadier on his feet now, and does not embarrass himself with his first few steps. He doesn't wish to lose this chance to finally be useful. "I'll help you."
The dark-skinned man looks at Jack. "It'll be easier to get Captain Hart down to the car with two of us," he points out.
Jack still watches Ianto cross around the bed to Dr. Simon Tau's chair before he finally, reluctantly, lets the dark-skinned man lead him out of the room.
Ianto crouches next to Dr. Simon Tau's chair, wraps one of the man's arms around his shoulders, but doesn't stand. Gwen is focused on him, her eyes clear, and she reaches out to touch his face. "Promise you'll come back?" she asks, just sleepy enough for it to make her honest.
Ianto isn't sleepy, but he is crazy, and there's no point in lying to his delusions (even if he knows that she is real, they are real, everything is real). "Will you still be here?" he asks, and she nods, smiling, her eyes slipping shut. "Then I'll come back."
It is difficult to stand; he's used to being helped down off a bed, not raising himself from a crouch, and it's harder with Simon's weight on his shoulders (he supposes first names are appropriate, as they've known each other so long), but he manages it. Walking is harder still; he's used to the drugs altering his perceptions, skewing his balance, and has to concentrate not to correct things which no longer need correction. But he will manage this as well. Each step requires concentration and thought, and by the time he reaches the living room, Jack and the dark-skinned man are already hurrying past with a sheet stretched between them as a sort of makeshift litter. Ianto can only see a hand, draped over the side, blood drying dark brown on the pale skin.
"He'll be all right," Simon says, quietly.
Ianto blinks. He is not at all sure what to say to this. It is difficult to imagine Captain John Hart risking his life for anyone, let alone Ianto Jones. "Did you contact him?" he asks, leading them slowly to the doorway. There are stairs leading down; they've slowed Jack and the dark-skinned man down considerably. It will be worse for him, he knows. "Bring him into this?"
"I couldn't find him," Simon says. He clings to Ianto, and Ianto leans on the wall, and they make it down the first few steps in excruciating slow motion. "He found me. I couldn't..." Another step. "I wouldn't have known where to start, if not for him."
He'll have to consider this later, when he's not trying to cope with each downward step, with the heavy weight of the injured man leaning on him for support. "I never even asked your name," Ianto murmurs, after navigating a particularly grueling turn.
"It's all right," Simon says. Ianto thinks the man might have laughed, if he'd been capable of drawing enough breath for it. Simon is weakening. Ianto hopes that they aren't too many stairs left to climb. "I couldn't have told you if you had."
"But you saved me." It is important to know these things: to know who should take the credit, to whom the debt is owed.
"I brought you to the Project in the first place."
"You still saved me," Ianto insists. The landing is only five steps below them. They will make it, if he is careful.
Another sound that might have been a laugh, had there been more strength behind it. "You sound like Gwen."
It's the accent," Ianto mutters, his feet finally hitting the bottom of the stairs and seeming to stick there. The door is wide open in front of them, dim grey light pouring in, and Ianto cannot move. It's been so long since he was outside. Anything could be out there. Anything at all.
"Go on," Simon says, quietly.
After a few deep breaths -- the air is so different, dirty, no tang of antiseptic -- he does. His eyes had only just adjusted to the dimness, and now he's squinting. There are cars on the street, a battered ambulance, a blue police box. He's not sure where to take Simon. There are so many buildings, and all of them are so tall. The world is so much larger than he remembers.
Jack and the dark-skinned man are waiting for him -- the dark-skinned man takes Simon's weight off of Ianto's shoulders and transfers him into one of the cars while Jack watches. It looks a bit like Ianto's old Audi. It's a coincidence, but reassuring all the same. Ianto wonders who the dark-skinned man is, if he'll see him again, if he'll learn his name. The man seems practical, reliable. Ianto thinks he might learn to like him. "I'll call you as soon as I can," the dark-skinned man says. He nods at the crippled ambulance just up the street; the front is battered, dented, and scratched; there are bullet holes in the side that Ianto can see, and presumably more on the rest of it. It's as if the others had to fight a war to free him. Perhaps they did. "You should take care of that before it attracts too much attention."
Jack nods to him, calls out "Thank you." He has slipped, somehow, imperceptably behind Ianto's shoulders, and is now resting a hand on the small of Ianto's back. Ianto finds it reassuring, but realizes that it's really for Jack's benefit more than his, to prove that Ianto is here, and real, and solid to Jack's touch.
Jack, after all, saw Ianto die.
(he hears him sometimes, waking up from death, that strange sleep. "don't go. ianto, don't go. don't leave me. please." he knows, of course, that jack doesn't bring him back. he knows that he died long before thames house. jack has nothing to do with it. but the memory takes the sting out of resurrection -- the woman in red may be the one pulling him back, but jack is the reason he lives)
Ianto wonders how long he's been dead. It probably isn't a very good time to ask.
The car drives away in a cloud of exhaust and Ianto breathes it in, breathes it all in: car exhaust in the damp air, the smell of someone's cigarettes lingering in the damp air, sausage frying nearby. Meat and smoke, all mingled.
-- he wakes up and doesn't know where he is, only that Gwen's body is in his lap and there is sand beneath him, hot and dry, and the air is hot and dry and smells of burning flesh and when he opens his eyes, he sees the flames, and when he closes them again he can hear the screaming and the world is burning and everyone he has ever loved is dead and Jack is still screaming somewhere on that ship and Ianto is still nothing more than their freak and he cannot save Jack or Gwen and he cannot stop the world burning and people dying and --
The weight of it drives him to his knees, retching, and even as he heaves, he is acutely aware of the sidewalk gritty under his palms and the chilly damp of the air and the warmth of Jack's hand stroking in circles over his back, the gentleness of Jack's voice murmuring reassurance in his ear. A breeze blows a bit of paper down the street. Not far away, cars are driving down busy streets; someone is washing their dishes. The world is so large, and there is so much in it, and Ianto is aware of it all, because it is all real. Everything is real. Everything that has happened, the bits he wishes he could forget, the bits that should never have happened, even the bits that couldn't have happened. All of it is real.
He doesn't know what to do about that.
When the spasm passes, when tense muscles relax and he can finally breathe again, he scoots around on his knees until he's facing Jack. Jack almost looks the same as he used to, but can't quite manage it -- the circles under his eyes are darker, the mouth no longer on the verge of smiling. He looks worried, and tired, and suspicious, and old. None of that can stop Ianto laying a hand on Jack's cheek and asking "Is it really you?" because he knows that yes, it really is him.
Jack mirrors the gesture, his fingers ruffling Ianto's beard. "I could ask you the same." He tries for glib, sounds heartbroken instead. For once, they've both run out of jokes.
Ianto rubs his thumb up along Jack's cheekbone, and Jack closes his eyes. It's familiar, and reassuring. Jack still knows his touch. "I don't know what to do," he admits, and watches Jack's face fall.
"Ianto... Believe me... I would never..."
Start and stop, Jack's voice choking, and all Ianto can do is pull him in by the back of the neck until their foreheads are pressed together, hold him there with his eyes tight shut. "It's not your fault," Ianto says softly. "It's not your fault."
Even if it was, it wouldn't matter. Even if there had been a choice, if it had been up to Ianto, he doesn't think it would have gone any differently. He doesn't know who he is anymore, but he does, at least, know that.
don't go. don't leave me. please.
"You came back," Jack says, quietly. "No one comes back. Ever."
"I know," Ianto says.
They pull back a bit -- Ianto's hand on Jack's shoulder, Jack's on Ianto's knee, and just look at each other for a long time, kneeling at the side of the road, flats looming overhead, the blue police box on the corner standing guard. "I don't even know where I am," Ianto says, finally. "I don't know who--" But that last part is something he cannot admit. Not yet.
"You're Ianto," Jack says, quietly. "It hasn't changed. Believe me, Ianto, it hasn't." His eyes are very serious, almost terrifyingly sincere, and if anyone would know about these things, it's Jack. Everything that Ianto has been through, Jack has too. There is a comfort in that, at least. "Does the rest of it really matter?"
Ianto lets his hand fall down onto Jack's. He thinks a bit before answering. It does matter, or rather it will. The facts are important, the practicalities need to be addressed, and although these things are not in Jack's nature, they are in Ianto's. The rest of it matters. But maybe not right now. "I could use a glass of water," he says. His mouth tastes like bile. "And I'd like to see Gwen again. And Andy. I need to --"
Jack pulls Ianto to his feet without waiting for him to finish, and Ianto falls silent, wrapping his arm around Jack's waist and just leaning there, on that solidity. The world is larger than he remembers, and there's things in it that should never have been, things that have happened that ought to be impossible. So many things that he will have to learn how to deal with, how to accept, how to let go. But Gwen and Andy are safe, and Jack is there, solid, and at least he isn't alone anymore. It's a start.
He starts off leaning on Jack. But by the time they're back in the building, making their way slowly up the stairs, they're both leaning on each other.
Note: This was written in something of a hurry, as an attempt to A) figure out some blurry details in this odd little AU of mine, B) try to find Ianto's voice again after everything I've put him through, and C) make myself feel a bit better after Season of Mists turned out so bleak. I wound up liking it well enough to post, so I did, but I realize it's probably not for all tastes. Criticism is (as always, but particularly with such a giant work-in-progress as this) very much welcome.