Fic: Black and White (S2: Chap 7, SoI 22, Part 2), Jack/Ianto
Chapter Title: Black and White (S2: Chap 7, SoI 22, Part 2)
Author: sarcasticchick
Pairing: Jack/Ianto
Rating: R
Spoilers: TW S1
Fluffers/Betas: lilithilien, fivealive
Summary: The 21st Century is when it all changes, and we've got to be ready.
A/N: Part 2 of 3 due to size and LJ limits. Seriously. This chapter hit almost 27,500 words. I'm an idiot. Cookie to anyone who can pick out the all-encompassing themes tho ;)
For Shades of Ianto series information, please see Prologue, Chapter 1
Previous Chapters:
Prologue: Chapters 1-7 (Complete)
Series1: Chapters 1-8 (Complete)
S2: Chap 1, SoI 16
S2: Chap 2, SoI 17
S2: Chap 3, SoI 18
S2: Chap 4, SoI 19
S2: Chap 5, SoI 20 (Two Parts)
S2: Chap 6, SoI 21
S2: Chap 7, SoI 22, Part 1
The 21st Century is when it all changes, and we've got to be ready.
Ianto fought the urge to shift on his feet, shoulders heavy with the weight of five sets of stares. It wasn't like he never had any viable suggestions, he had many. But perhaps nearly disappearing for the past few weeks had removed him from top of mind among those at Torchwood Three.
Or perhaps it was his suggestion. Ianto rather believed they didn't think he had a life outside of Torchwood.
"What? I do step out, on occasion."
Five more stares, although Rhys' was less stunned surprise and more reaction to the others, waiting to see how events played out.
Rhys had been a remarkable help of late, Ianto barely noticing the subtle shifts until one evening when he'd absently gone to feed Myfanwy and Rhys was there with a smile and a wave, already setting the girl free to fly and stretch her wings, maybe pick up a sheep or two. He'd rocked back on his heels, trying to remember the last time anyone else had fed the pterodactyl, trying to remember when anyone else had gone to the Archives to retrieve a file, trying to remember when he'd last done paperwork for Jack. It wasn't that he hadn't been busy; the days and nights had been filled with the rebuilding process in London, the education and dissemination of information regarding Torchwood and Avalon, meetings with global leaders (as Mr. Black's assistant, of course), and reparation projects within Cardiff herself.
Hardly his old duties.
He couldn't even remember the last time he'd run a report or logged a case file. He hadn't hacked a computer in what felt like months and he most certainly hadn't altered any police records or government databases.
Come to think of it, the only thing he still did of his old duties was make coffee.
Ianto had spun slowly, quickly picking out Jack in his office. It was unspoken, his question, but Jack knew precisely what he was thinking and smirked before giving a "what are you on about?" shrug. Tosh giggled at her desk, wall of monitors blocking most the view so Ianto reasoned she must be watching the CCTV footage. She shrugged as well, and Ianto knew he'd been had.
And that, really, was the odd thing about life in the Hub following the dragon incursion. Life flowed around Ianto, patterns curving to allow his presence in the river, never blocking (unless thy name be Owen), but always permitting him to move as needed.
The others moved in kind, like Rhys taking over Ianto's 'tea-boy' duties, more than likely at Jack's request. It had helped reduce the stress, but not completely. And Ianto knew Jack was determined to reduce the stress in Ianto's life.
God, they were actually talking since Jack had taken it upon himself that no reaction from Ianto meant no action.
Which was increasingly frustrating for Ianto who had never actually had to deal with a willing partner when faced with post-battle ... he wasn't sure what the psychology field would call it but certainly trauma played some part. Hell, they hadn't even attempted anything in the past week. They had just ... talked. Not that Ianto minded, he was actually learning details about Jack he'd never known; his years spent with the Time Agency, his childhood, his family ... and Ianto returned in kind. It was almost therapeutic, talking about the Battle, his childhood, finding Ms. White in the burning rubble of Avalon, his family and how much he missed them, but with time being what it was, he hadn't been home to see them.
They'd even gone out on a date. A real one. One that photojournalists had decided to interrupt and capture on film but a real date nonetheless.
Just, no sex, not until Ianto got over whatever was impeding his arousal. Fucking dragons. No kissing either, since Jack obviously didn't trust his self-control that much. They touched; held hands at the theatre which had nearly sent Ianto into a fit of frustrated anger, but he'd refrained from kicking the seat in front of him or cursing loudly in the silent pauses within the actor's monologue.
Not amusing, not in the slightest.
But most of the time, he kept himself buried in work and didn't think of certain things, stuffing the guilt so deep within him he was fairly sure it had compacted to the strength of a diamond like coal within the earth.
He focused on responsibility instead; current responsibility. Helping Sydney, Australia recover. Sending aid to Glasgow. Organizing relief efforts in New Delhi, an area decimated by the dragons before help arrived from the Americans. It wasn't just Britain helping; every major city was sending workers and supplies to the cities most devastated. Everyone was pitching in.
It'd be lovely to sit back and look from a view far away, to see the peoples of earth coming together to help the nations in trouble, but Ianto saw it far too up-close to see it as anything but personal; to see anything but failure in those fallen cities, on the faces of those who'd lost entire neighborhoods to the dragons. Those who'd lost their entire families, their homes, their livelihoods.
Ianto saw each and every face, even when the reports were closed.
He knew each of their names.
So, maybe the rest of the team had a reason for their disbelief. He had been rather focused lately.
"It's not far from here. They do karaoke?"
That sealed it for Gwen and Jack, who immediately began the dares and the bets, goading even Tosh into agreeing to sing something if they bought her enough drinks. Rhys just looked amused (Ianto really did wonder if anything phased the man), and Owen began stammering something about injury to his vocal cords in his youth.
By the time they'd reached Lana's, the bets were already up to twenty quid for Owen to sing anything.
Ianto drove, and quietly listened to the laughter and taunts.
"Let's hear it for ... dear god, it's Torchwood. Everyone put your hands together for Torchwood!"
On second thought, coming to Lana's might not have been the best idea Ianto had ever had.
The applause was thunderous; the club was filled with far more people than Ianto had seen in trips past. Even during its clubbing days. The more Ianto looked around, the more surprised he grew. He recognized many faces, faces of Avalon graduates and faces of the newly gifted, or rather, the ones who had always had a gift but hadn't known until Avalon's fight. Buried among them were many more, sitting at the tables with Avalon, some sitting as entire tables of people he didn't recognize but Ianto was rather overwhelmed.
This must be where the gifted came and gathered after hours; it really wasn't that big a surprise given Lana and her ability to draw people like moths to flame, though the size of the crowd was impressive. Karaoke, to Ianto's knowledge, wasn't that big a draw. More certain were the comforts of companionship, of being able to talk to others who knew and understood.
What truly surprised him, however, were the sheer number of people he knew weren't gifted, mingling with those who were.
It was too much to hope, but perhaps people had started getting over their fears.
Jack and the others strutted in, waving and smiling in typical Torchwood confident fashion. They were heroes now, recognized heroes, if the flashbulbs blinking from cameras and mobiles were any indicator, and it amused Ianto a bit that for a group so shrouded in secrecy they had so easily transitioned to public knowledge.
Ianto trailed in behind them, keeping a distance from the rest while they enjoyed their elevated status. A table actually cleared for Torchwood, Ianto saw, the previous occupants gesturing for Jack and Tosh to have their seats while they blended into the crowd of others watching. Ianto offered a small wish to any deity listening that this fame and awareness pass quickly, or else Owen's ego may grow too large and Ianto would be forced to deflate it with some scandalous CCTV photos or something of the like. Surely it couldn't last. New heroes would rise and the alien fighters would be just another public service.
Though Ianto hoped for Torchwood Three, it lasted a bit longer. If there were any deserving, it was that lot.
"And last but certainly not least, let's give a Lana's welcome to Ianto Jones!"
It didn't take Ianto long to locate Lana on the stage and focus his glare in her direction. The little imp just smiled brilliantly and waved him forward to join the Torchwood table. Humiliating didn't quite cover Ianto's feelings as he tried to slink past people who were cheering and clapping, shouting various things Ianto attempted to tune out and ignore like their thanks and love.
Lana met him halfway to the table, jumping into his arms as she'd done on nearly every other occasion, but this was the first time Ianto had felt uncomfortable catching her and returning the hug. While he spun her round, slowly as space would allow, he whispered into her ear, "I swear I'm never returning if you do that again."
To his dismay (were his threats really that ineffective?), Lana laughed. Her rich purr echoed around the expanses of the club, bouncing from speaker to speaker as her accented voice was lifted by the microphone she still carried. She gestured to all the people in the club, including everyone in the sweep of her hands, while the room quieted to listen. "We know you, Ianto Jones, every one of us. We were with him, we felt as he felt and now that feeling is each of ours. Avalon made a promise to Jean-Luc, a promise to be carried out in life or death."
Ianto struggled to breathe and tried to pull away, wanting nothing to do with the conversation, especially not in public, not in front of people who would see as that diamond chipped away at his control and the steady facade, but Lana held on, surprisingly strong despite her small frame.
"You're one of us, gifts or no. And you will always be."
Movement caught Ianto's frantic eye as he sought for escape, feeling much the caged animal on display at the zoo, Stephen stepping out of the shadows near the bar, arms crossed with a wry look upon his face. He knew and hadn't told Ianto? What was this promise? What ... no. Ianto refused to think about that because that meant death had been an accepted possibility and Ianto had not authorized or given permission to anyone to die.
He hadn't.
He turned away from Stephen, unable to look at his old mentor any longer, and instead scanned the crowd. Many were now standing, watching, the gifted, Ianto realized, looking expectantly at him, like Ianto could magically pull flowers from his arse and wouldn't that be quite the sight to see. His hands were shaking, he could feel them vibrate as he clung to Lana's arms, felt like he was hyperventilating as well but he wasn't there. Not yet. His heart raced, though, running in fear within his chest like he so wished to run away from the scrutiny of the crowd of Avalon because the weight of their expectations was becoming too much; too much to carry while holding Lana.
Ianto heard a sniff echo from all around him; a quick glance down and he realized Lana was crying, god, Lana was crying. But smiling, a combination that Ianto never quite understood as it defied logic. With a sinking feeling, he remembered her gift, her empathy, and whether she was reading from him or reading from the crowd, the very concept of tears shed for him, for Avalon's acceptance, for ...
Fucking hell.
Licking his lips, Ianto looked up and around him again, looked at all the people watching he and Lana. Even the Torchwood table was quiet; they'd all paused in various moments in seating to watch.
Avalon's strength was gone; the one who had always been there with gifts and protection to shield them all. Maybe not gone, but missing. Ianto knew what his best friend meant to them, the unquestioned leader even if he lacked some form of formal title. They were in awe of what he could do, what he could teach, and that was gone, leaving a gaping hole in Avalon's stability and strength.
Ianto was responsible for that.
But they weren't angry. None of the faces read blame. Or hurt or anger.
"You became important to him. And with him, so too the tide of Avalon." Stephen had said ages ago at his father's home. "Avalon stands behind you."
They were missing Avalon's pillar. But Ianto had been loved by him, and now, Ianto was equally important in his absence to Avalon.
Fuck.
Ianto did the only thing he could think of after nodding his recognition to the others, to Avalon and all the gifted, he hugged Lana to him, smiling at her squeak which was carried by the microphone to the ears of everyone in attendance. Laughter joined the cheers which had demolished the stretching silence while they waited for Ianto's response and Lana worked her way out of Ianto's arms, berating him for ruining her mascara, then starting up the entertainment again, calling the next singer to the stage.
"Sit the fuck down, Ianto. You're ruining my chances of pulling tonight. Ow! Shite, Tosh! It's the truth!"
With a grateful glance at Tosh for shutting up Owen, Ianto searched for his chair and found it set back a bit from the table already. He couldn't remember pulling it out from the table to sit, but then it inched forward, waiting for him to sit, no hands or persons visibly present to move the chair.
Avalon.
Shaking his head at whomever was behind this particular little trick, Ianto sat down, trusting whomever was directing the chair and was moderately relieved when the chair slid the rest of the way forward, catching him and not further embarrassing him for the evening. It was something he would have done, only back in their days of Avalon, and more than likely the teacher would have ended up on the floor with their feet in the air, much to the class' amusement.
How things had changed.
***
The 21st Century is when it all changes, and we've got to be ready.
Sidling up to the bar, Ianto waited for the next round of drinks while watching one of the latest round of salt-in-wound torture sessions. The comedy gambit had been far more entertaining and less harmful to his ears, but people were out in droves and having for all appearances far more enjoyment than Ianto ever would singing into a microphone for the public to hear. He couldn't deny it; Lana had a knack for hitting the vein of an entertainment goldmine. Or maybe it was just the patrons fueling the atmosphere, a sort of gifted cloud other places failed to fully utilize or develop.
Could just be that these people had more than enough reason to celebrate, too.
"Torchwood seems to be enjoying themselves."
Ianto looked up, surprise drawing him from contemplation of the stage, or rather, staring at the singer in hopes they might sit down to let one of the few with actual talent take the stage. Stephen had grabbed a spot next to him at some point, silent and stealthy as a cat, and was smirking like he'd caught the canary, too.
Looking back at table Torchwood, where Owen had two women on his lap, Gwen was on Rhys', and Tosh, Jack and Lana were participating in a drinking game of some sort (poor Tosh, but Ianto thought it was rather intentional on Jack's part -- and Lana's -- whether to distract her from Avalon and who still had yet to wake or to get her drunk enough to sing), Ianto had to smile. It was good seeing them laughing together, honest laughter, not fueled by stress or situations far beyond their control. Gwen and Rhys' wedding had been a start, but this night seemed the first in ages where they were together, all of them, and appeared to be having fun.
Having fun, and everyone knew who they were.
People had been buying drinks for the table throughout the night, coming up to share stories or shake hands; unreal if Ianto was to be asked.
And a little too much for him.
Ianto preferred the relative quiet and touch-free zone of the bar, retreating often to pick up whatever the table wanted, doing as he had always done as tea-boy for Torchwood. This time it was tequila shooters instead of coffee, however, and lime wedges instead of biscuits.
He caught Jack's eye, warming into a broad, full smile from the Captain which stole Ianto's breath. This Jack was far more at peace than the other. Perhaps immortality had a consequence Ianto hadn't considered. Deep down, Ianto knew it couldn't last; this Jack was younger, he would eventually have to leave to maintain timeliness. Torchwood Three needed Jack in its past; Ianto wasn't selfish enough to believe he had Jack for the rest of his life. But Jack had stayed when it mattered. And now ... Ianto felt himself warm under Jack's gaze, the man somehow affecting Ianto even at the distance, though it might have been Jack's tongue lavishly fondling his own wrist, licking a path that couldn't have all contained salt before shooting one of the few tequila shots left, before spending an exorbitant amount of time and pressure sucking his lime.
And then he winked, the bastard. Like they hadn't spent the last two weeks not having sex. Of any kind.
Stephen must have caught Jack's antics because his chuckling was audible even over the slaying of "One."
"Yes, they're having a good time," Ianto all but growled, leaving the tray of drinks behind him for the moment; they could wait a few minutes. Jack could wait a few minutes. He grabbed two from the tray and handed one to Stephen, there were enough there that a couple wouldn't be missed. "You didn't tell me about Avalon and this 'promise'."
"If I had, your team would be missing their good time tonight."
Ianto had to concede Stephen's point; if he had known, Ianto most certainly wouldn't have come to Lana's.
"And you would have missed Avalon's embrace. This is good for you, too, even if you've spent most of your evening hiding."
Scowling, Ianto threw back the tequila, not bothering with a response. He vehemently disagreed with Stephen, he'd have rather avoided such spectacle, but it would end up no better than arguing with Sheppard. He'd not win, no matter how strong his case. "They deserve this recognition."
"And you don't?" Stephen was sipping his tequila; Ianto rather believed that was akin to shooting brandy. "Ah-ah." Ianto was cut off before he could even open his mouth to protest. "You listen to me, Ianto. Because you choose the shadows does not mean your decisions are dark."
"I allowed children to fight," Ianto said simply, grabbing another shot glass from the tray. The barkeep had replaced the earlier two he had removed from the collection, he wasn't concerned he'd offer a dry platter to the team. He didn't look at Stephen; he couldn't. Staring at the stage (god, he much preferred the comedy to the sacrilegious massacre of the Stones), Ianto continued, "you said it yourself. Only monsters use children for protection."
"They chose, Ianto." Stephen's voice intensified, sharpening around the edges in an effort to keep his voice down, but Ianto could almost feel the anger pouring off him. "You did not use anyone in that battle. We chose to fight. The children, too. Do not mock what we have lost by dismissing our involvement. You made your choices, so did we."
A hand stopped Ianto's from raising the glass to his lips. He looked down, then travelled the hand to Stephen's shoulder and finally meeting his eyes. Stephen always was faster than sin. And uncomfortably poignant in his speech. The minutes stretched, expanding and encompassing each breath. But Stephen was not backing down, hard in his stance as he held on to Ianto, hard in his stare. "I meant no offense," Ianto said finally, acknowledging the costs to Avalon and the gifted as well as his mentor's part in the fight.
He waited for Stephen to release his wrist but it was kept in the vice grip. "And you're right," Ianto added slowly, "Avalon chose to fight." The hold on his wrist finally loosened, but Ianto didn't drink the tequila, not yet. He was too distracted by Stephen settling back against the bar looking far too smug. Ianto snorted and raised his glass. "Enjoy it, old man."
"Youth," Stephen scoffed, but Ianto could see the smile creeping in to crack the edges of that hard, resolute face Ianto had seen earlier. It wasn't a beating on the mat, but Ianto felt the sting of his wisdom all the same. Or rather, his stubbornness; Ianto wasn't prepared to call him wise. He'd pulled that trick on the conference phone so many months ago after all.
"And next, the man of many talents. I would not have believed it myself had I not heard him singing 'Light My Fire' while studying in the old courtyard and let me tell you, he lit my fire."
Ianto's elevated mood he'd shared with Stephen plummeted sharply as he heard Lana speak and he swallowed his tequila and grabbed another. "Never coming back here," he muttered, Stephen outright laughing at him. The woman was positively evil.
"So put your hands together for Ianto Jones!"
The entire Torchwood table spun on their seats, turning to look at him with varying degrees of amusement and disbelief, Jack's leaning more towards disbelief than amusement. Ianto ignored Jack's shouted, "You can sing?" and focused on the stage, where Lana smiled so innocently in her deep ruby halter and skirt. And boots that went to her thighs. Not proper stage-wear as anyone close could probably answer as to what, if any, color of knickers she preferred, but then, nothing about Lana was ever quite proper.
The impertinent vixen kissed his cheek as she directed him to the microphone. Never coming back. No birthdays.
Ianto glanced at the screen as he ran his fingers over the microphone.
Oh, she did not. Who puts that in a karaoke computer?
He turned, glaring, for an explanation and she just smiled sweetly and shrugged, mouthing that it was random.
Random his skinny pale arse. He knew a certain glue formula that might again find the light of day.
The music started and he took a deep breath, wishing he had another drink beside him.
"No one know what it's like
To be the bad man,
To be the sad man,
Behind blue eyes."
He ignored everyone else, knowing the odds of him not walking off the stage were slim to none if he actually looked out, looked at all the eyes watching him, listening to him, singing this song of all songs.
This wasn't random. Chaos theory did not play with coincidence. Fate and lies, anger and pain, he lived this song. And he could feel it growing in his chest, boiling out in the words of The Who; his life was a masquerade, one he'd been raised to perform. He fought the words, his conscience wasn't empty, but his dreams were as lonely as his hours.
But who's to blame, who's the 'you'? On what could he pin his thoughts and feelings, his anger and pain? There was always an enemy, a bad guy fighting the good. But here the 'you' disappeared, wavering in silver sheen, a mirror long and tall in front of him.
The cost of vengeance, never absent but a black mark upon his soul.
The tempo increased, the notes dropping to allow him to fairly growl his pleas, his need for someone to bring him to his senses, to ground him when it all grew too much, too overwhelming. He had power, he had position and authority and he needed that person, that someone to root him in sanity, to bring him back to calm.
"If I swallow something evil,
Put your finger down my throat.
If I shiver, please give me your blanket,
Keep me warm, let me wear your coat."
He could feel his throat closing on that phrase, not needing the prompter to give him the lines.
Fuck, he missed that greatcoat, the scratch of wool against his back as they lay entwined upon a rooftop.
"Behind blue eyes."
The notes lingered, then faded off, dwindling into silence. Ianto listened to the microphone stand thump back and forth after he released it, focused on the steadily increasing beats as it settled itself on the wood of the stage, ignoring the applause he assumed was there but it didn't matter.
Jack's eyes, in the audience, boring into his.
That mattered.
Ianto had no more than stepped off the stage when he felt a hand at the small of his back, pressing firmly and guiding him away from the stage. He couldn't feel anything else, numb to all sensation but the hand on his back, fingers spread wide, directing.
A door closed; dimly Ianto noted a lock closing, the silence as people were shut out and one was left.
Jack.
Individual nerves fired as multiple points of contact; fingers, Ianto realized, fingers tilting his chin to look at Jack, who looked back just as intense, eyes darkened by light and need. Need, Ianto realized, Jack's short tether on self-control apparently lost.
"Never lonely."
The words weren't spoken so much as vowed, Ianto could feel himself breath the same heated breath as Jack, in tempo, racing like they'd run to the Hub and back but not from any physical exertion had they made their hearts race or their temperatures rise. Ianto could feel it, so damned close, Jack's chest pressing against his with each inhale, parting briefly to exhale but that only drew them closer, closer until Ianto felt his back against the wall, crushed by want and need.
Never lonely.
Ianto didn't answer, couldn't answer, but he knew Jack believed himself true, true as the press of his lips, true as the thrust of his hips and true as the hands nearly strangling as the refused to let go from their cradle of Ianto's jaw. Not that Ianto didn't respond in kind, using the wall to press back, to grind his erection against Jack's (finally) because he couldn't get enough, he wanted as much as Jack needed and it'd never be enough, enough touch, enough taste and enough desire.
Fuck, he needed this.
They spared no time, fingers plucking and pulling at buttons and belts, frantic to chase the fire through every cell. It was a race, not to an end but to a goal, a goal Ianto craved so much as desperately needed and had wanted ever since Jack left, before Jack left really.
This was Jack.
Time wasn't wasted as he was spun about, not a breath missed, Ianto captured them all and didn't compare so much as catalogued, cementing to memory Jack, tasting of lime and tequila and passion.
He'd missed Jack.
"Next time, we're using a bed."
Laughter huffed at his ear, chilling the hair curled in sweat. Ianto didn't care, bed, desk, or wall, he just wanted and needed Jack now. Time slowed as movement ceased, Ianto feeling alarmingly bare for Jack's eyes as the warmth of the Captain's body vanished, an unnerving moment despite Ianto's trust. "Jack?"
"Beautiful." The word was partnered with the touch of hands, running down his sides to squeeze his arse. The ability to breathe vanished as Ianto's nails dug into the tiled wall. "Beautiful." Ianto had heard that before, had heard Jack speak that and had been here, if not the exact location but oh god, the first time they'd fucked, that night after Wilson, in Lana's club. Ianto had danced, and they'd fucked, shagged rough and dirty against the wall.
And Jack had called him beautiful.
"Jack..." Ianto began, pressing into Jack's hands, turning his head to invite a kiss, the kiss he'd denied that first time, denied because a kiss meant too much and stabbed too deep. Ianto didn't think himself sentimental, but this meant something, this meant ... a shift. A shift towards what, Ianto didn't know, Ianto had lost that Jack eventually, he'd lose this one as well. He had to, to bring the past. But he had this now. He had Jack.
Not much time was spent in preparation, Ianto arching a brow as Jack pulled a tube of slick from his pocket but not complaining at any presumption, quick, as neither were patient to draw out what had been building and compounding since the beginning, since Jack had been found and future set in motion.
Metaphysical circles of time, moments both identical and dissimilar, shifting forward to advance yet always repeating, Ianto felt his fingers slip and skid against the tile as Jack entered him. He found his grip, pushing back as Jack steadied himself, settling hot and deep and fuck, Ianto needed him to move.
Noisier, this time, this circle as Ianto scrambled to maintain his purchase against the wall, Jack was vocal with every thought and touch, Ianto's name not a whisper but a cry. There was no coat, no wool scraping across his legs, but there was Jack, Jack speaking his name over and over as they balanced precariously against the wall. Each movement, each arch threatened to tumble them to the floor but they stood, Ianto swearing sometimes the words on Jack's tongue foreign and alien, the words smothered as Ianto twisted for a kiss which begged for release.
"Come for me."
Ianto balanced himself, braced with one hand as Jack thrusts grew even faster, harder, slick sounds of skin, sweat, and lube the rhythm Ianto followed as he ran a hand over his cock twice before spilling over the edge, crying out Jack's name as he came. He could feel Jack follow, Ianto knew he did, but his ears rang so loud it threatened to drown out Jack's voice, just a moment, because Jack's voice was an insistent buzz, pulling Ianto from the haze he'd drifted upon while lazing in the sensation.
"Jack."
"Hmm?" Jack's voice was close to his ear, resting on his shoulder and supporting Ianto as he sagged against the wall. The desire to sleep was great, but Ianto knew they were in a loo of all places, with all of Torchwood and half of Avalon outside the door, sure to watch as they exited smelling and looking of sex. And the thought did drift across Ianto's mind, relief that his bits were all functioning properly and this whole hiatus on sex would hopefully come to an end. It was important to say, though, important for Jack to know as much as it was important for Jack to tell Ianto because the circles rounded, presenting past into future and future into past. Jack needed to know, no matter where or when he was.
"Never lonely."
***
The 21st Century is when it all changes, and we've got to be ready.
Despite the assistance from Rhys in alleviating some of the more mundane responsibilities from Ianto, one thing still hadn't changed: his status as 'tea-boy'. Not that Ianto particularly minded, there was something relaxing and zen-like about brewing coffee and so he hadn't cursed Owen's interruption to put on a fresh pot. That would require speaking and they still were at odds.
Sure he was busy, but they were all busy. Reports upon reports had been flooding the Torchwood and police phone lines of suspected alien activity after the stark reality of alien existence was forced upon the disbelieving public. Every little thing was blamed on aliens in the paranoia that followed the incursion just a short thirty-nine days ago; paranoia which reached into the highest echelons of the world's governments. It was ridiculous and time consuming, checking each and every report and pulling Ianto away from other duties more in line with Mr. Black's responsibilities. Add to that, priority fell not on the most believable and probable, but rather the ones who had the strongest pull and the loudest public voice.
Fat lot of good that did when the Rift was still as active as ever.
The last sighting had been a small house in Heath, reports of vandalism and noises disturbing the home owners.
Gwen and Rhys' investigation had uncovered not a terrible threat from a violent nocturnal Hezien, but rather the wanderings of a very bored house cat.
File number six-seventy-six since Torchwood went public, closed.
Tapping his stylus quickly over the messages, pages upon pages of alien reports, Ianto gave up with attempting order in the chaos and rather focused his attention on the coffee, something he could perform by rote and required none of the thought and consideration of interpreting leaky pipes for that pesky alien who kept pissing on the walls of a house in Splott.
He shoved his PDA back into his pocket and decided coffee first, then the few dishes in the sink. With a grimace at the sides of the glass carafe dotted with coffee grounds, Ianto placed a wager that Jack had been the last to make (or in Jack's case, attempt) a pot of coffee, which meant a small disaster existed in and around the filter. No matter how often Ianto tried to instruct the others in the proper methodology of brewing coffee, the simplest task escaped even the most capable. Like pouring the grounds into the filter.
He'd even gone so far as to draw a diagram, with giant specs falling into the filter. At some point, the carafe had grown arms, legs, and a suit, clinging to a coffee machine with braces. Might have been clinging; could have been humping the 'brew' button with the carafe handle; Ianto wasn't sure. Owen wasn't the most gifted artist.
Ianto had removed the drawings and had instead opted for demanding that no one touch the machine. Jack, of course, failed to listen even on the best occasions.
The lid of the filter unit was slightly stuck; Ianto gave it a gentle tug and the lid flung back on its latches like it was spring loaded, spilling red rose petals over its lip to cascade onto the floor. Hundreds of them, perfect and fragrant, hundreds tumbling out after Ianto had released the lid.
No.
He was done with this.
He was done with them.
Your choice is ours, Ianto. And our choice is yours."
Motion out of the corner of his eye drew Ianto's attention one-eighty as he spun on his heel, trying to capture the faery in the act, to talk with them, to ask them what they wanted, why they still watched. Rose petals filled the dirty mugs and the clean left out to dry; red satin bubbling the scent of rose straight to his brain as it continued to deny what he saw.
No no no.
He'd made his choices.
People suffered because of his choices.
J-no. He wasn't going to think of that. He wasn't going to picture what was behind the door he wouldn't walk through. That was his choice personified. Pale skin and freckles, so very still.
He was through with them.
Laughter echoed behind him, childish, gleeful, high-pitched and taunting.
Ianto whipped about, hearing the hummingbird flap of wings but saw nothing, nothing to confirm the presence he felt in the room. He knew they were here, watching. They were in the room because the carafe now stank of roses, petals crushed against the glass where stuck grounds were pressed in velvet red.
No.
No, no, no.
Choices. He'd made choices and look where it had gotten him, look where it had gotten others, trampled beneath the weight of his choices. Twenty-four dead. Thousands throughout the world had died due to the dragons. Alien threat. His responsibility. He was responsible, his choices. His friends; his family. The world had been saved, Britain had survived.
But one ...
No.
That was off limits. The door he wouldn't open. He couldn't.
That was his choice, behind the door.
His fucking choice.
His choice, while they watched. The faery, with the power of the elements, sat back and watched as he made the choices they'd taunted him with. Not his choices; their choices. He just was the puppet, jerked around while they played spin the bottle with his world, laughing while people died, dancing as the world burned.
Choices? He never had a fucking choice. In any of it.
In fury, he threw the carafe at the wall, enjoying the gratifying scratch of glass as it struck stone before it shattered, splintering into shards of clear daggers piercing the blood red petals as they fought for space within the same time. He didn't wait for the crystal, bleeding tears to fall before Ianto added ceramic to the mix, glass tinkling like hundreds of bells on a blanket of rose petals. Every mug, one at a time, cups of his choice crashing into the wall he knew was simple stone but he could swear he could see the shapes of the faery, laughing and taunting as yet another coffee mug broke in a hundred pieces and joined the littered remains of its kin on the floor.
The floor bled his choice.
Ianto turned away, shaking as the anger fled, hands braced against the sink as he tried to regain his control. This wasn't fair. He'd made his choices. And now ... no. No no no. They couldn't still be watching, there was nothing more for him to give.
"Oi! Jack, tea-boy's gone mental."
Owen's voice sounded harsh as nails scratching on a chalkboard, and for a moment, Ianto remembered a time so long ago when the world was innocent and the sound of Owen's voice had been all that he could hear, his scent all that Ianto could smell. The pheromones. God, that had been when all this started, when Avalon had collided with Torchwood and Ianto's life changed. Back when Jack was still Jack and Ianto had dry humped his boss' leg while he fondled the fabric of Jack's shirt. He'd been nobody then; a quiet figure sticking to the shadows, maintaining order while life spun around him. His sole purpose for living had been Lisa.
Then there was that shift, that moment in time when nothing could ever return to normal. He'd believed the destruction of Torchwood One had been that defining moment, death to everything he'd known and loved. But it had been Rani. Rani and what must have been supporters of the dragon-kind. He'd died that day, figuratively and literally. He couldn't go back. Torchwood One was merely a push towards this, towards Cardiff, towards now, when years of quiet shadows and calculations culminated to light etching every surface, revealing Avalon and Torchwood in the hidden depths of that brilliantly cut diamond, shattering prisms of color across every wall.
Jack was right.
Everything had changed.
And Ianto was no longer that tea-boy cleaning up after Owen's deliberate spill.
He straightened from his lean on the kitchenette sink, straightened his suit where it had been displaced or wrinkled, reapplying the formality and pristine nature the clean lines of the suit offered. Everyone was crammed into the kitchenette, Ianto distantly observed the concerned looks and the eyes darting from the mess behind him back to him again. Jack was talking, but Ianto wasn't listening, his own focus on Owen. Ianto raised his chin, not a great degree but enough to feel the effects trickle down his spine, freezing the vertebrae into a rigid line.
Ianto had faced dragons and faeries, weevils and Cybermen. He'd seen death and chaos, he'd seen life and passion. He'd ordered war, he'd sentenced lives. He'd felt pain, he'd felt love, he'd felt both in their loss and more in their gain.
For all he cared, Owen could go fuck himself.
And as Ianto stared, almost daring the man to speak again, Owen took a step back.
Ianto didn't smirk, his face felt far too immobile to move at all, but he felt the warmth spread from head to toe, lighting a path along his nerves until cell was singing in harmony. It was near euphoric, maybe Owen was correct and he had lost what tentative hold he had on sanity. But not since, well, he couldn't remember a time he'd felt so at peace, peace with himself, his choices, fuck, even knowing the faery still watched. Maybe it was the endorphins racing through his system as a result of the fury, but it was something.
Something new, something different.
He took a slow glance behind him, surprised to see the coffee machine on the floor as well; he didn't remember throwing it, but he must have; the cord lay snake-like among the blood red petals and glass. There were petals everywhere and he was standing in the midst of them, a veritable phoenix standing in its ashes. This did make him smile, remembering the burning of Avalon and the glass panes of the unicorn and the phoenix. Avalon had risen from those ashes, risen and fought back with all her might.
And as all the sleepers woke from the strain of the battle, she was rising again. Avalon was not one to suffer death.
Neither was Ianto. It was pure and simple, laid out in Black and White.
"Make your own bloody coffee." Ianto finally told Owen, speaking calmly, enunciating every word as he stepped from the petals, before he walked past his speechless team. His feet moved him without conscious thought, acceding to the desire most strongly fighting for dominance. Not Jack, although that was a desire which physically stopped Ianto before he reached his desk, displaced by the fire in the Information Center and the subsequent rebuilding construction in its temporary home within the Hub and he'd just never gotten around to moving it back.
Ianto looked down at the hands holding him in place, then to the face connected to the hands. Jack. Every much the same Jack as the one he knew before, if not a slightly less aged Jack. To the core, Jack was the same as he'd always been, in all the time Ianto had known him. This Jack, his Jack, older Jack; all one in the same. Jack who would be a hero in future time, Jack who was a hero in the current one and Jack who was a hero in the past.
Time lines were funny things. Because this scarred Jack was definitely not immortal didn't make the one Ianto loved any less then as he was now. Loved. The word both scared the hell out of Ianto and lent him courage as he pushed Jack back against his desk without care for who watched or listened. It didn't matter, and he was tired of thinking it did. The kiss was neither gentle nor polite and Ianto could feel Jack's cock grow hard and hot against his thigh. On most occasions, Ianto might have taken advantage of the situation, he had before, teasing the other Jack against the side of the SUV at his father's ... but this wasn't about teasing. It wasn't about toying. Ianto pushed harder, feeling Jack's hands slip from his shoulders to grasp onto the desk for purchase as his boots skidded on the floor of the Hub. This was all about everything Ianto wanted and needed, and as he thought he spoke with lips and tongue, everything he wanted and everything he needed to give.
Because as much as fate attempted to intervene, he needed this.
But not because he some how depended on Jack; he'd learned that wasn't necessary.
He bloody loved the man.
If that made him a fool, knowing that tying down Jack was as easy as capturing the wind, then he would enjoy being the fool and dance in the wind while the wind blew.
Ianto stopped the kiss once he felt Jack's hands turn grabbier, clutching at his clothing in effort to remove them. Now wasn't the time for that, especially not in front of the others. "Love you," Ianto whispered just loud enough for Jack to hear as he pulled away, fingers tracing Jack's jawline as he smiled. "I'm fine, quit worrying. I just need some time away."
Jack's reaction to his words were almost comical, his tongue tripping over itself to say anything before he opted to keep silent. Ianto grinned as he worked around Jack, powering down his computer and turning off the small lamp on his desk. He turned to leave but Jack pulled him back for a kiss not unequal to the first, leaving Ianto's knees a bit shaky and his breath uneven. An answer and reply; Ianto knew how Jack felt, he'd made it no secret. But the confirmation was nice.
"You're such a bastard," Jack rasped as Ianto pulled away.
Smirking, Ianto flicked his eyes down to Jack's crotch where the trousers were most clearly tented and straining at the seams. With a half-hearted shrug, Ianto picked up his keys and turned away, leaving Jack cursing after him but leaning unashamed against Ianto's desk as the rest of the team was exposed to the full view of the extent of Jack's arousal.
Ianto almost stayed, very nearly did but the desire for that something else pulled stronger than even Jack, walking unobstructed to the hidden lift to the Plas; a few keystrokes on his PDA triggering the lift which would carry him street-side.
He'd made it to the car park and almost to his car when he heard footsteps chasing after him. Even in the dark of night, he knew those footsteps and so refrained from pulling his gun at the one approaching. "Gwen," Ianto simply stated, sort of a greeting, almost a dismissal. He didn't want to speak with anyone, and his instant thoughts, despite their improved relationship, was that she was to ask him some inane question as she tried to understand why he'd thrown the bloody coffee pot.
Sure enough, the bobbed brunette haircut appeared under the lights. Only Gwen could have run fast enough to catch him, anyway.
"Ianto."
They stared at each other for a moment, Ianto waiting for the question he knew was to come and Gwen, well, Ianto assumed she needed to catch her breath.
"The business with the petals, it's the faeries, isn't it? What's going on, Ianto? Are you in trouble?"
Both the question and her concern surprised Ianto, and he realized again he might have misjudged Gwen. He chided himself, remembering their conversation about judgment they had held in the pipes before meeting their first dragon and her bravery on the air field. For all the naivety there was experience, and while Gwen still, in years, might be a novice in all things Torchwood, she did understand. And that, perhaps, was where he failed to give her credit. "It's just a game. I'm fine."
Ianto tried to smile, he really did. But thinking of the faeries, of their overwhelming presence at times and the choices they demanded made Ianto grimace.
Gwen wasn't fooled, either.
"They don't play fair, Ianto."
No, they didn't. And point to Gwen. But discussion of fate and choice and the predetermination of actions was not something Ianto wished to be partaking in at the moment. "They don't," Ianto agreed, flashes of petals pouring out of the filter threatened to drown the person he didn't want to think about, choking him as he stood on the air field. Ianto found the key to his car and unlocked it, hoping Gwen would take the hint and go back to the Hub. The faery and his involvement were not something he wanted to talk about.
Ianto's agreement seemed to give Gwen pause, and for a moment, Ianto thought he had won his escape.
"You're coming back, yeah? 'Cos we need you here."
Gwen spoke quietly, the earnestness of her plea written on her face, easily seen in the light of the street lights. Ianto thought at first he had just imagined it, but no, she was waiting for his response, arms crossed over her chest, wedding ring glinting.
"Of course. What would you do for coffee otherwise?" Ianto smiled as he tried to pass off her concern with humor. He opened his car door, hoping she would catch the hint this time and let him leave.
"No, I don't think so, Ianto Jones." His door shut and he was almost stunned silent as she stepped in front of him, standing between him, the car door, and escape. "This is more than your coffee. There's something going on and you shouldn't be alone, not with those bloody faeries out there."
Gwen Cooper-Williams. Ready to take on a dragon with a single bullet and apparently willing to fight against the faery. Ianto had to admire her courage. "I'll not be alone, I'm going home."
"To your flat? But Jack's here."
Ianto smiled, he couldn't help himself. "No, to my father's."
Her eyes widened in surprise, and Ianto noted sadly that while he'd never offered the information, no one had ever thought to ask. "I didn't know ... I thought Lisa ... " Gwen stumbled around for a moment as an awkward silence stretched. "Is it just your father?"
Ianto shook his head, relatively certain that the information was about as useful to the public as him announcing his favorite color was navy blue. "I have a sister and twin nephews. They all stay at my father's since her husband was killed during the Battle."
"Oh god, this one?" Ianto shook his head, he'd never consider the war against the dragons as the Battle, only one earned that name. Perhaps some savvy reporter would coin a term but for now, it remained too close for casual naming. Gwen put two and two together and rested a hand on his arm, unnerving even under the best circumstances, but after the combined efforts of the most recent conflict and reuniting with Torchwood One survivors, his recoil against touch had dropped dramatically. "You lost a lot that day."
Torchwood would do that to a person. Ianto shrugged but Gwen continued. "It's just me, ya know. My mum died when I was just a kid. Dad passed a year before I became a constable. He always wanted to see his girl follow in his footsteps, but he never got the chance."
Ianto knew, it was in her file including his manner of death in line of duty, but he didn't mention. "You'd have made him proud, Gwen. You've surpassed everything he could have imagined for you."
Gwen's smile was radiant. "You think? You lot are really my family now." She quickly grew somber again, Ianto could almost visibly see when the thought struck her. "What about your mum? You didn't mention her."
Ianto damned himself for ever bringing up the topic of family. Once Gwen knew of a topic, she wouldn't quit, especially not when she'd known him for years and never even knew he had a family. He supposed that made her a good PC. "She died." Ianto gestured at his car, not-too-subtly changing the topic. "If you don't mind? It's fairly late already."
"You're coming back?"
The second time she asked, and Ianto supposed Jack's departure ages ago had set a precedent that wouldn't soon be forgotten by some. Ianto didn't have a blue box and a Doctor to escape with, however, and he had no intention of permanently leaving Cardiff. "I'll be back tomorrow afternoon. Will you be okay without me until then?"
He'd meant for levity, but Gwen seemed to take his question seriously, carefully considering before answering. "Maybe. Torchwood wouldn't run without you, Ianto. And not just your coffee. I don't think I ever thanked you for what you did." Ianto opened his mouth to tell her there was nothing to thank him for, but she covered his mouth with her hand and continued. "You kept us together while Jack was gone. You were certain about the threat and kept pushing us to prepare. You made the connections and informed the rest of the world to prepare them." Ianto cringed when he heard her voice crack. "You saved my life and made sure we had our wedding. I don't think anyone's thanked you for saving all of us."
Gwen removed her hand only then, but instead of being able to refute what she said, Ianto found himself with an armful of Gwen, her small frame feeling extraordinarily large as she hugged him with the fierceness of a bear. He couldn't deny what he had done, he'd at least attempted to do everything she'd said. But he hadn't always succeeded; the past always looking better in the review.
At the same time, however, Ianto couldn't deny that Gwen's thanks and acknowledgment meant something, a tiny glimmer of something buried deep and hidden within him, rarely accessed or acknowledged. Ianto could almost pretend it was Ms. White speaking the praise, lavishing it on as she would on the one who had succeeded her in command.
Lavishing it on as if he were her son.
If Ianto squeezed Gwen just a bit tighter for speaking those words and if he kissed the top of her head for her kindness, he had merely been driven to it by the stress of the day.
Ianto extricated himself from Gwen once he was certain enough time had passed that Gwen's voice wouldn't crackle again when she spoke. Not that he gave much time for the opportunity, just bid his farewell and got into his car. She was still watching as he pulled away, waving as he drove off. He wondered how long it would be before she convinced Tosh to get into his personnel records; not that they'd find anything, even with Tosh's skill at the computer. Not long, he imagined, not with Tosh's curiosity piqued. They might even ask Jack, but Ianto was fairly certain Jack wouldn't breathe a word about his mother or any additional information about his father, sister, and nephews.
His family was safe.
Just to be sure, Ianto checked on each when he arrived at his father's house, slipping in the front door and avoiding all the creaky steps he'd avoided as a kid. He checked first on his father, then his sister, then watched Bryce and Gareth sleep, reassuring himself that they all still lived, and perhaps revelling a moment in their safety despite all that had happened, before heading back downstairs. He didn't go to his room, he opted instead for the couch in the sitting room, the long couch with the hard pillows and his favorite blanket wrapped tight around him.
If it was the long couch his best friend had slept on the last time he was here, it was merely coincidence.
And if his favorite blanket was the one his mother had given him for his sixth birthday, the birthday she had missed but at the time he pretended he could smell her perfume in the blanket threads and spent the next week wrapped in it, that was pure chance as well.
Next Part (3 of 3)
song lyrics: "Behind Blue Eyes" - The Who
Author: sarcasticchick
Pairing: Jack/Ianto
Rating: R
Spoilers: TW S1
Fluffers/Betas: lilithilien, fivealive
Summary: The 21st Century is when it all changes, and we've got to be ready.
A/N: Part 2 of 3 due to size and LJ limits. Seriously. This chapter hit almost 27,500 words. I'm an idiot. Cookie to anyone who can pick out the all-encompassing themes tho ;)
For Shades of Ianto series information, please see Prologue, Chapter 1
Previous Chapters:
Prologue: Chapters 1-7 (Complete)
Series1: Chapters 1-8 (Complete)
S2: Chap 1, SoI 16
S2: Chap 2, SoI 17
S2: Chap 3, SoI 18
S2: Chap 4, SoI 19
S2: Chap 5, SoI 20 (Two Parts)
S2: Chap 6, SoI 21
S2: Chap 7, SoI 22, Part 1
The 21st Century is when it all changes, and we've got to be ready.
Ianto fought the urge to shift on his feet, shoulders heavy with the weight of five sets of stares. It wasn't like he never had any viable suggestions, he had many. But perhaps nearly disappearing for the past few weeks had removed him from top of mind among those at Torchwood Three.
Or perhaps it was his suggestion. Ianto rather believed they didn't think he had a life outside of Torchwood.
"What? I do step out, on occasion."
Five more stares, although Rhys' was less stunned surprise and more reaction to the others, waiting to see how events played out.
Rhys had been a remarkable help of late, Ianto barely noticing the subtle shifts until one evening when he'd absently gone to feed Myfanwy and Rhys was there with a smile and a wave, already setting the girl free to fly and stretch her wings, maybe pick up a sheep or two. He'd rocked back on his heels, trying to remember the last time anyone else had fed the pterodactyl, trying to remember when anyone else had gone to the Archives to retrieve a file, trying to remember when he'd last done paperwork for Jack. It wasn't that he hadn't been busy; the days and nights had been filled with the rebuilding process in London, the education and dissemination of information regarding Torchwood and Avalon, meetings with global leaders (as Mr. Black's assistant, of course), and reparation projects within Cardiff herself.
Hardly his old duties.
He couldn't even remember the last time he'd run a report or logged a case file. He hadn't hacked a computer in what felt like months and he most certainly hadn't altered any police records or government databases.
Come to think of it, the only thing he still did of his old duties was make coffee.
Ianto had spun slowly, quickly picking out Jack in his office. It was unspoken, his question, but Jack knew precisely what he was thinking and smirked before giving a "what are you on about?" shrug. Tosh giggled at her desk, wall of monitors blocking most the view so Ianto reasoned she must be watching the CCTV footage. She shrugged as well, and Ianto knew he'd been had.
And that, really, was the odd thing about life in the Hub following the dragon incursion. Life flowed around Ianto, patterns curving to allow his presence in the river, never blocking (unless thy name be Owen), but always permitting him to move as needed.
The others moved in kind, like Rhys taking over Ianto's 'tea-boy' duties, more than likely at Jack's request. It had helped reduce the stress, but not completely. And Ianto knew Jack was determined to reduce the stress in Ianto's life.
God, they were actually talking since Jack had taken it upon himself that no reaction from Ianto meant no action.
Which was increasingly frustrating for Ianto who had never actually had to deal with a willing partner when faced with post-battle ... he wasn't sure what the psychology field would call it but certainly trauma played some part. Hell, they hadn't even attempted anything in the past week. They had just ... talked. Not that Ianto minded, he was actually learning details about Jack he'd never known; his years spent with the Time Agency, his childhood, his family ... and Ianto returned in kind. It was almost therapeutic, talking about the Battle, his childhood, finding Ms. White in the burning rubble of Avalon, his family and how much he missed them, but with time being what it was, he hadn't been home to see them.
They'd even gone out on a date. A real one. One that photojournalists had decided to interrupt and capture on film but a real date nonetheless.
Just, no sex, not until Ianto got over whatever was impeding his arousal. Fucking dragons. No kissing either, since Jack obviously didn't trust his self-control that much. They touched; held hands at the theatre which had nearly sent Ianto into a fit of frustrated anger, but he'd refrained from kicking the seat in front of him or cursing loudly in the silent pauses within the actor's monologue.
Not amusing, not in the slightest.
But most of the time, he kept himself buried in work and didn't think of certain things, stuffing the guilt so deep within him he was fairly sure it had compacted to the strength of a diamond like coal within the earth.
He focused on responsibility instead; current responsibility. Helping Sydney, Australia recover. Sending aid to Glasgow. Organizing relief efforts in New Delhi, an area decimated by the dragons before help arrived from the Americans. It wasn't just Britain helping; every major city was sending workers and supplies to the cities most devastated. Everyone was pitching in.
It'd be lovely to sit back and look from a view far away, to see the peoples of earth coming together to help the nations in trouble, but Ianto saw it far too up-close to see it as anything but personal; to see anything but failure in those fallen cities, on the faces of those who'd lost entire neighborhoods to the dragons. Those who'd lost their entire families, their homes, their livelihoods.
Ianto saw each and every face, even when the reports were closed.
He knew each of their names.
So, maybe the rest of the team had a reason for their disbelief. He had been rather focused lately.
"It's not far from here. They do karaoke?"
That sealed it for Gwen and Jack, who immediately began the dares and the bets, goading even Tosh into agreeing to sing something if they bought her enough drinks. Rhys just looked amused (Ianto really did wonder if anything phased the man), and Owen began stammering something about injury to his vocal cords in his youth.
By the time they'd reached Lana's, the bets were already up to twenty quid for Owen to sing anything.
Ianto drove, and quietly listened to the laughter and taunts.
"Let's hear it for ... dear god, it's Torchwood. Everyone put your hands together for Torchwood!"
On second thought, coming to Lana's might not have been the best idea Ianto had ever had.
The applause was thunderous; the club was filled with far more people than Ianto had seen in trips past. Even during its clubbing days. The more Ianto looked around, the more surprised he grew. He recognized many faces, faces of Avalon graduates and faces of the newly gifted, or rather, the ones who had always had a gift but hadn't known until Avalon's fight. Buried among them were many more, sitting at the tables with Avalon, some sitting as entire tables of people he didn't recognize but Ianto was rather overwhelmed.
This must be where the gifted came and gathered after hours; it really wasn't that big a surprise given Lana and her ability to draw people like moths to flame, though the size of the crowd was impressive. Karaoke, to Ianto's knowledge, wasn't that big a draw. More certain were the comforts of companionship, of being able to talk to others who knew and understood.
What truly surprised him, however, were the sheer number of people he knew weren't gifted, mingling with those who were.
It was too much to hope, but perhaps people had started getting over their fears.
Jack and the others strutted in, waving and smiling in typical Torchwood confident fashion. They were heroes now, recognized heroes, if the flashbulbs blinking from cameras and mobiles were any indicator, and it amused Ianto a bit that for a group so shrouded in secrecy they had so easily transitioned to public knowledge.
Ianto trailed in behind them, keeping a distance from the rest while they enjoyed their elevated status. A table actually cleared for Torchwood, Ianto saw, the previous occupants gesturing for Jack and Tosh to have their seats while they blended into the crowd of others watching. Ianto offered a small wish to any deity listening that this fame and awareness pass quickly, or else Owen's ego may grow too large and Ianto would be forced to deflate it with some scandalous CCTV photos or something of the like. Surely it couldn't last. New heroes would rise and the alien fighters would be just another public service.
Though Ianto hoped for Torchwood Three, it lasted a bit longer. If there were any deserving, it was that lot.
"And last but certainly not least, let's give a Lana's welcome to Ianto Jones!"
It didn't take Ianto long to locate Lana on the stage and focus his glare in her direction. The little imp just smiled brilliantly and waved him forward to join the Torchwood table. Humiliating didn't quite cover Ianto's feelings as he tried to slink past people who were cheering and clapping, shouting various things Ianto attempted to tune out and ignore like their thanks and love.
Lana met him halfway to the table, jumping into his arms as she'd done on nearly every other occasion, but this was the first time Ianto had felt uncomfortable catching her and returning the hug. While he spun her round, slowly as space would allow, he whispered into her ear, "I swear I'm never returning if you do that again."
To his dismay (were his threats really that ineffective?), Lana laughed. Her rich purr echoed around the expanses of the club, bouncing from speaker to speaker as her accented voice was lifted by the microphone she still carried. She gestured to all the people in the club, including everyone in the sweep of her hands, while the room quieted to listen. "We know you, Ianto Jones, every one of us. We were with him, we felt as he felt and now that feeling is each of ours. Avalon made a promise to Jean-Luc, a promise to be carried out in life or death."
Ianto struggled to breathe and tried to pull away, wanting nothing to do with the conversation, especially not in public, not in front of people who would see as that diamond chipped away at his control and the steady facade, but Lana held on, surprisingly strong despite her small frame.
"You're one of us, gifts or no. And you will always be."
Movement caught Ianto's frantic eye as he sought for escape, feeling much the caged animal on display at the zoo, Stephen stepping out of the shadows near the bar, arms crossed with a wry look upon his face. He knew and hadn't told Ianto? What was this promise? What ... no. Ianto refused to think about that because that meant death had been an accepted possibility and Ianto had not authorized or given permission to anyone to die.
He hadn't.
He turned away from Stephen, unable to look at his old mentor any longer, and instead scanned the crowd. Many were now standing, watching, the gifted, Ianto realized, looking expectantly at him, like Ianto could magically pull flowers from his arse and wouldn't that be quite the sight to see. His hands were shaking, he could feel them vibrate as he clung to Lana's arms, felt like he was hyperventilating as well but he wasn't there. Not yet. His heart raced, though, running in fear within his chest like he so wished to run away from the scrutiny of the crowd of Avalon because the weight of their expectations was becoming too much; too much to carry while holding Lana.
Ianto heard a sniff echo from all around him; a quick glance down and he realized Lana was crying, god, Lana was crying. But smiling, a combination that Ianto never quite understood as it defied logic. With a sinking feeling, he remembered her gift, her empathy, and whether she was reading from him or reading from the crowd, the very concept of tears shed for him, for Avalon's acceptance, for ...
Fucking hell.
Licking his lips, Ianto looked up and around him again, looked at all the people watching he and Lana. Even the Torchwood table was quiet; they'd all paused in various moments in seating to watch.
Avalon's strength was gone; the one who had always been there with gifts and protection to shield them all. Maybe not gone, but missing. Ianto knew what his best friend meant to them, the unquestioned leader even if he lacked some form of formal title. They were in awe of what he could do, what he could teach, and that was gone, leaving a gaping hole in Avalon's stability and strength.
Ianto was responsible for that.
But they weren't angry. None of the faces read blame. Or hurt or anger.
"You became important to him. And with him, so too the tide of Avalon." Stephen had said ages ago at his father's home. "Avalon stands behind you."
They were missing Avalon's pillar. But Ianto had been loved by him, and now, Ianto was equally important in his absence to Avalon.
Fuck.
Ianto did the only thing he could think of after nodding his recognition to the others, to Avalon and all the gifted, he hugged Lana to him, smiling at her squeak which was carried by the microphone to the ears of everyone in attendance. Laughter joined the cheers which had demolished the stretching silence while they waited for Ianto's response and Lana worked her way out of Ianto's arms, berating him for ruining her mascara, then starting up the entertainment again, calling the next singer to the stage.
"Sit the fuck down, Ianto. You're ruining my chances of pulling tonight. Ow! Shite, Tosh! It's the truth!"
With a grateful glance at Tosh for shutting up Owen, Ianto searched for his chair and found it set back a bit from the table already. He couldn't remember pulling it out from the table to sit, but then it inched forward, waiting for him to sit, no hands or persons visibly present to move the chair.
Avalon.
Shaking his head at whomever was behind this particular little trick, Ianto sat down, trusting whomever was directing the chair and was moderately relieved when the chair slid the rest of the way forward, catching him and not further embarrassing him for the evening. It was something he would have done, only back in their days of Avalon, and more than likely the teacher would have ended up on the floor with their feet in the air, much to the class' amusement.
How things had changed.
***
The 21st Century is when it all changes, and we've got to be ready.
Sidling up to the bar, Ianto waited for the next round of drinks while watching one of the latest round of salt-in-wound torture sessions. The comedy gambit had been far more entertaining and less harmful to his ears, but people were out in droves and having for all appearances far more enjoyment than Ianto ever would singing into a microphone for the public to hear. He couldn't deny it; Lana had a knack for hitting the vein of an entertainment goldmine. Or maybe it was just the patrons fueling the atmosphere, a sort of gifted cloud other places failed to fully utilize or develop.
Could just be that these people had more than enough reason to celebrate, too.
"Torchwood seems to be enjoying themselves."
Ianto looked up, surprise drawing him from contemplation of the stage, or rather, staring at the singer in hopes they might sit down to let one of the few with actual talent take the stage. Stephen had grabbed a spot next to him at some point, silent and stealthy as a cat, and was smirking like he'd caught the canary, too.
Looking back at table Torchwood, where Owen had two women on his lap, Gwen was on Rhys', and Tosh, Jack and Lana were participating in a drinking game of some sort (poor Tosh, but Ianto thought it was rather intentional on Jack's part -- and Lana's -- whether to distract her from Avalon and who still had yet to wake or to get her drunk enough to sing), Ianto had to smile. It was good seeing them laughing together, honest laughter, not fueled by stress or situations far beyond their control. Gwen and Rhys' wedding had been a start, but this night seemed the first in ages where they were together, all of them, and appeared to be having fun.
Having fun, and everyone knew who they were.
People had been buying drinks for the table throughout the night, coming up to share stories or shake hands; unreal if Ianto was to be asked.
And a little too much for him.
Ianto preferred the relative quiet and touch-free zone of the bar, retreating often to pick up whatever the table wanted, doing as he had always done as tea-boy for Torchwood. This time it was tequila shooters instead of coffee, however, and lime wedges instead of biscuits.
He caught Jack's eye, warming into a broad, full smile from the Captain which stole Ianto's breath. This Jack was far more at peace than the other. Perhaps immortality had a consequence Ianto hadn't considered. Deep down, Ianto knew it couldn't last; this Jack was younger, he would eventually have to leave to maintain timeliness. Torchwood Three needed Jack in its past; Ianto wasn't selfish enough to believe he had Jack for the rest of his life. But Jack had stayed when it mattered. And now ... Ianto felt himself warm under Jack's gaze, the man somehow affecting Ianto even at the distance, though it might have been Jack's tongue lavishly fondling his own wrist, licking a path that couldn't have all contained salt before shooting one of the few tequila shots left, before spending an exorbitant amount of time and pressure sucking his lime.
And then he winked, the bastard. Like they hadn't spent the last two weeks not having sex. Of any kind.
Stephen must have caught Jack's antics because his chuckling was audible even over the slaying of "One."
"Yes, they're having a good time," Ianto all but growled, leaving the tray of drinks behind him for the moment; they could wait a few minutes. Jack could wait a few minutes. He grabbed two from the tray and handed one to Stephen, there were enough there that a couple wouldn't be missed. "You didn't tell me about Avalon and this 'promise'."
"If I had, your team would be missing their good time tonight."
Ianto had to concede Stephen's point; if he had known, Ianto most certainly wouldn't have come to Lana's.
"And you would have missed Avalon's embrace. This is good for you, too, even if you've spent most of your evening hiding."
Scowling, Ianto threw back the tequila, not bothering with a response. He vehemently disagreed with Stephen, he'd have rather avoided such spectacle, but it would end up no better than arguing with Sheppard. He'd not win, no matter how strong his case. "They deserve this recognition."
"And you don't?" Stephen was sipping his tequila; Ianto rather believed that was akin to shooting brandy. "Ah-ah." Ianto was cut off before he could even open his mouth to protest. "You listen to me, Ianto. Because you choose the shadows does not mean your decisions are dark."
"I allowed children to fight," Ianto said simply, grabbing another shot glass from the tray. The barkeep had replaced the earlier two he had removed from the collection, he wasn't concerned he'd offer a dry platter to the team. He didn't look at Stephen; he couldn't. Staring at the stage (god, he much preferred the comedy to the sacrilegious massacre of the Stones), Ianto continued, "you said it yourself. Only monsters use children for protection."
"They chose, Ianto." Stephen's voice intensified, sharpening around the edges in an effort to keep his voice down, but Ianto could almost feel the anger pouring off him. "You did not use anyone in that battle. We chose to fight. The children, too. Do not mock what we have lost by dismissing our involvement. You made your choices, so did we."
A hand stopped Ianto's from raising the glass to his lips. He looked down, then travelled the hand to Stephen's shoulder and finally meeting his eyes. Stephen always was faster than sin. And uncomfortably poignant in his speech. The minutes stretched, expanding and encompassing each breath. But Stephen was not backing down, hard in his stance as he held on to Ianto, hard in his stare. "I meant no offense," Ianto said finally, acknowledging the costs to Avalon and the gifted as well as his mentor's part in the fight.
He waited for Stephen to release his wrist but it was kept in the vice grip. "And you're right," Ianto added slowly, "Avalon chose to fight." The hold on his wrist finally loosened, but Ianto didn't drink the tequila, not yet. He was too distracted by Stephen settling back against the bar looking far too smug. Ianto snorted and raised his glass. "Enjoy it, old man."
"Youth," Stephen scoffed, but Ianto could see the smile creeping in to crack the edges of that hard, resolute face Ianto had seen earlier. It wasn't a beating on the mat, but Ianto felt the sting of his wisdom all the same. Or rather, his stubbornness; Ianto wasn't prepared to call him wise. He'd pulled that trick on the conference phone so many months ago after all.
"And next, the man of many talents. I would not have believed it myself had I not heard him singing 'Light My Fire' while studying in the old courtyard and let me tell you, he lit my fire."
Ianto's elevated mood he'd shared with Stephen plummeted sharply as he heard Lana speak and he swallowed his tequila and grabbed another. "Never coming back here," he muttered, Stephen outright laughing at him. The woman was positively evil.
"So put your hands together for Ianto Jones!"
The entire Torchwood table spun on their seats, turning to look at him with varying degrees of amusement and disbelief, Jack's leaning more towards disbelief than amusement. Ianto ignored Jack's shouted, "You can sing?" and focused on the stage, where Lana smiled so innocently in her deep ruby halter and skirt. And boots that went to her thighs. Not proper stage-wear as anyone close could probably answer as to what, if any, color of knickers she preferred, but then, nothing about Lana was ever quite proper.
The impertinent vixen kissed his cheek as she directed him to the microphone. Never coming back. No birthdays.
Ianto glanced at the screen as he ran his fingers over the microphone.
Oh, she did not. Who puts that in a karaoke computer?
He turned, glaring, for an explanation and she just smiled sweetly and shrugged, mouthing that it was random.
Random his skinny pale arse. He knew a certain glue formula that might again find the light of day.
The music started and he took a deep breath, wishing he had another drink beside him.
"No one know what it's like
To be the bad man,
To be the sad man,
Behind blue eyes."
He ignored everyone else, knowing the odds of him not walking off the stage were slim to none if he actually looked out, looked at all the eyes watching him, listening to him, singing this song of all songs.
This wasn't random. Chaos theory did not play with coincidence. Fate and lies, anger and pain, he lived this song. And he could feel it growing in his chest, boiling out in the words of The Who; his life was a masquerade, one he'd been raised to perform. He fought the words, his conscience wasn't empty, but his dreams were as lonely as his hours.
But who's to blame, who's the 'you'? On what could he pin his thoughts and feelings, his anger and pain? There was always an enemy, a bad guy fighting the good. But here the 'you' disappeared, wavering in silver sheen, a mirror long and tall in front of him.
The cost of vengeance, never absent but a black mark upon his soul.
The tempo increased, the notes dropping to allow him to fairly growl his pleas, his need for someone to bring him to his senses, to ground him when it all grew too much, too overwhelming. He had power, he had position and authority and he needed that person, that someone to root him in sanity, to bring him back to calm.
"If I swallow something evil,
Put your finger down my throat.
If I shiver, please give me your blanket,
Keep me warm, let me wear your coat."
He could feel his throat closing on that phrase, not needing the prompter to give him the lines.
Fuck, he missed that greatcoat, the scratch of wool against his back as they lay entwined upon a rooftop.
"Behind blue eyes."
The notes lingered, then faded off, dwindling into silence. Ianto listened to the microphone stand thump back and forth after he released it, focused on the steadily increasing beats as it settled itself on the wood of the stage, ignoring the applause he assumed was there but it didn't matter.
Jack's eyes, in the audience, boring into his.
That mattered.
Ianto had no more than stepped off the stage when he felt a hand at the small of his back, pressing firmly and guiding him away from the stage. He couldn't feel anything else, numb to all sensation but the hand on his back, fingers spread wide, directing.
A door closed; dimly Ianto noted a lock closing, the silence as people were shut out and one was left.
Jack.
Individual nerves fired as multiple points of contact; fingers, Ianto realized, fingers tilting his chin to look at Jack, who looked back just as intense, eyes darkened by light and need. Need, Ianto realized, Jack's short tether on self-control apparently lost.
"Never lonely."
The words weren't spoken so much as vowed, Ianto could feel himself breath the same heated breath as Jack, in tempo, racing like they'd run to the Hub and back but not from any physical exertion had they made their hearts race or their temperatures rise. Ianto could feel it, so damned close, Jack's chest pressing against his with each inhale, parting briefly to exhale but that only drew them closer, closer until Ianto felt his back against the wall, crushed by want and need.
Never lonely.
Ianto didn't answer, couldn't answer, but he knew Jack believed himself true, true as the press of his lips, true as the thrust of his hips and true as the hands nearly strangling as the refused to let go from their cradle of Ianto's jaw. Not that Ianto didn't respond in kind, using the wall to press back, to grind his erection against Jack's (finally) because he couldn't get enough, he wanted as much as Jack needed and it'd never be enough, enough touch, enough taste and enough desire.
Fuck, he needed this.
They spared no time, fingers plucking and pulling at buttons and belts, frantic to chase the fire through every cell. It was a race, not to an end but to a goal, a goal Ianto craved so much as desperately needed and had wanted ever since Jack left, before Jack left really.
This was Jack.
Time wasn't wasted as he was spun about, not a breath missed, Ianto captured them all and didn't compare so much as catalogued, cementing to memory Jack, tasting of lime and tequila and passion.
He'd missed Jack.
"Next time, we're using a bed."
Laughter huffed at his ear, chilling the hair curled in sweat. Ianto didn't care, bed, desk, or wall, he just wanted and needed Jack now. Time slowed as movement ceased, Ianto feeling alarmingly bare for Jack's eyes as the warmth of the Captain's body vanished, an unnerving moment despite Ianto's trust. "Jack?"
"Beautiful." The word was partnered with the touch of hands, running down his sides to squeeze his arse. The ability to breathe vanished as Ianto's nails dug into the tiled wall. "Beautiful." Ianto had heard that before, had heard Jack speak that and had been here, if not the exact location but oh god, the first time they'd fucked, that night after Wilson, in Lana's club. Ianto had danced, and they'd fucked, shagged rough and dirty against the wall.
And Jack had called him beautiful.
"Jack..." Ianto began, pressing into Jack's hands, turning his head to invite a kiss, the kiss he'd denied that first time, denied because a kiss meant too much and stabbed too deep. Ianto didn't think himself sentimental, but this meant something, this meant ... a shift. A shift towards what, Ianto didn't know, Ianto had lost that Jack eventually, he'd lose this one as well. He had to, to bring the past. But he had this now. He had Jack.
Not much time was spent in preparation, Ianto arching a brow as Jack pulled a tube of slick from his pocket but not complaining at any presumption, quick, as neither were patient to draw out what had been building and compounding since the beginning, since Jack had been found and future set in motion.
Metaphysical circles of time, moments both identical and dissimilar, shifting forward to advance yet always repeating, Ianto felt his fingers slip and skid against the tile as Jack entered him. He found his grip, pushing back as Jack steadied himself, settling hot and deep and fuck, Ianto needed him to move.
Noisier, this time, this circle as Ianto scrambled to maintain his purchase against the wall, Jack was vocal with every thought and touch, Ianto's name not a whisper but a cry. There was no coat, no wool scraping across his legs, but there was Jack, Jack speaking his name over and over as they balanced precariously against the wall. Each movement, each arch threatened to tumble them to the floor but they stood, Ianto swearing sometimes the words on Jack's tongue foreign and alien, the words smothered as Ianto twisted for a kiss which begged for release.
"Come for me."
Ianto balanced himself, braced with one hand as Jack thrusts grew even faster, harder, slick sounds of skin, sweat, and lube the rhythm Ianto followed as he ran a hand over his cock twice before spilling over the edge, crying out Jack's name as he came. He could feel Jack follow, Ianto knew he did, but his ears rang so loud it threatened to drown out Jack's voice, just a moment, because Jack's voice was an insistent buzz, pulling Ianto from the haze he'd drifted upon while lazing in the sensation.
"Jack."
"Hmm?" Jack's voice was close to his ear, resting on his shoulder and supporting Ianto as he sagged against the wall. The desire to sleep was great, but Ianto knew they were in a loo of all places, with all of Torchwood and half of Avalon outside the door, sure to watch as they exited smelling and looking of sex. And the thought did drift across Ianto's mind, relief that his bits were all functioning properly and this whole hiatus on sex would hopefully come to an end. It was important to say, though, important for Jack to know as much as it was important for Jack to tell Ianto because the circles rounded, presenting past into future and future into past. Jack needed to know, no matter where or when he was.
"Never lonely."
***
The 21st Century is when it all changes, and we've got to be ready.
Despite the assistance from Rhys in alleviating some of the more mundane responsibilities from Ianto, one thing still hadn't changed: his status as 'tea-boy'. Not that Ianto particularly minded, there was something relaxing and zen-like about brewing coffee and so he hadn't cursed Owen's interruption to put on a fresh pot. That would require speaking and they still were at odds.
Sure he was busy, but they were all busy. Reports upon reports had been flooding the Torchwood and police phone lines of suspected alien activity after the stark reality of alien existence was forced upon the disbelieving public. Every little thing was blamed on aliens in the paranoia that followed the incursion just a short thirty-nine days ago; paranoia which reached into the highest echelons of the world's governments. It was ridiculous and time consuming, checking each and every report and pulling Ianto away from other duties more in line with Mr. Black's responsibilities. Add to that, priority fell not on the most believable and probable, but rather the ones who had the strongest pull and the loudest public voice.
Fat lot of good that did when the Rift was still as active as ever.
The last sighting had been a small house in Heath, reports of vandalism and noises disturbing the home owners.
Gwen and Rhys' investigation had uncovered not a terrible threat from a violent nocturnal Hezien, but rather the wanderings of a very bored house cat.
File number six-seventy-six since Torchwood went public, closed.
Tapping his stylus quickly over the messages, pages upon pages of alien reports, Ianto gave up with attempting order in the chaos and rather focused his attention on the coffee, something he could perform by rote and required none of the thought and consideration of interpreting leaky pipes for that pesky alien who kept pissing on the walls of a house in Splott.
He shoved his PDA back into his pocket and decided coffee first, then the few dishes in the sink. With a grimace at the sides of the glass carafe dotted with coffee grounds, Ianto placed a wager that Jack had been the last to make (or in Jack's case, attempt) a pot of coffee, which meant a small disaster existed in and around the filter. No matter how often Ianto tried to instruct the others in the proper methodology of brewing coffee, the simplest task escaped even the most capable. Like pouring the grounds into the filter.
He'd even gone so far as to draw a diagram, with giant specs falling into the filter. At some point, the carafe had grown arms, legs, and a suit, clinging to a coffee machine with braces. Might have been clinging; could have been humping the 'brew' button with the carafe handle; Ianto wasn't sure. Owen wasn't the most gifted artist.
Ianto had removed the drawings and had instead opted for demanding that no one touch the machine. Jack, of course, failed to listen even on the best occasions.
The lid of the filter unit was slightly stuck; Ianto gave it a gentle tug and the lid flung back on its latches like it was spring loaded, spilling red rose petals over its lip to cascade onto the floor. Hundreds of them, perfect and fragrant, hundreds tumbling out after Ianto had released the lid.
No.
He was done with this.
He was done with them.
Your choice is ours, Ianto. And our choice is yours."
Motion out of the corner of his eye drew Ianto's attention one-eighty as he spun on his heel, trying to capture the faery in the act, to talk with them, to ask them what they wanted, why they still watched. Rose petals filled the dirty mugs and the clean left out to dry; red satin bubbling the scent of rose straight to his brain as it continued to deny what he saw.
No no no.
He'd made his choices.
People suffered because of his choices.
J-no. He wasn't going to think of that. He wasn't going to picture what was behind the door he wouldn't walk through. That was his choice personified. Pale skin and freckles, so very still.
He was through with them.
Laughter echoed behind him, childish, gleeful, high-pitched and taunting.
Ianto whipped about, hearing the hummingbird flap of wings but saw nothing, nothing to confirm the presence he felt in the room. He knew they were here, watching. They were in the room because the carafe now stank of roses, petals crushed against the glass where stuck grounds were pressed in velvet red.
No.
No, no, no.
Choices. He'd made choices and look where it had gotten him, look where it had gotten others, trampled beneath the weight of his choices. Twenty-four dead. Thousands throughout the world had died due to the dragons. Alien threat. His responsibility. He was responsible, his choices. His friends; his family. The world had been saved, Britain had survived.
But one ...
No.
That was off limits. The door he wouldn't open. He couldn't.
That was his choice, behind the door.
His fucking choice.
His choice, while they watched. The faery, with the power of the elements, sat back and watched as he made the choices they'd taunted him with. Not his choices; their choices. He just was the puppet, jerked around while they played spin the bottle with his world, laughing while people died, dancing as the world burned.
Choices? He never had a fucking choice. In any of it.
In fury, he threw the carafe at the wall, enjoying the gratifying scratch of glass as it struck stone before it shattered, splintering into shards of clear daggers piercing the blood red petals as they fought for space within the same time. He didn't wait for the crystal, bleeding tears to fall before Ianto added ceramic to the mix, glass tinkling like hundreds of bells on a blanket of rose petals. Every mug, one at a time, cups of his choice crashing into the wall he knew was simple stone but he could swear he could see the shapes of the faery, laughing and taunting as yet another coffee mug broke in a hundred pieces and joined the littered remains of its kin on the floor.
The floor bled his choice.
Ianto turned away, shaking as the anger fled, hands braced against the sink as he tried to regain his control. This wasn't fair. He'd made his choices. And now ... no. No no no. They couldn't still be watching, there was nothing more for him to give.
"Oi! Jack, tea-boy's gone mental."
Owen's voice sounded harsh as nails scratching on a chalkboard, and for a moment, Ianto remembered a time so long ago when the world was innocent and the sound of Owen's voice had been all that he could hear, his scent all that Ianto could smell. The pheromones. God, that had been when all this started, when Avalon had collided with Torchwood and Ianto's life changed. Back when Jack was still Jack and Ianto had dry humped his boss' leg while he fondled the fabric of Jack's shirt. He'd been nobody then; a quiet figure sticking to the shadows, maintaining order while life spun around him. His sole purpose for living had been Lisa.
Then there was that shift, that moment in time when nothing could ever return to normal. He'd believed the destruction of Torchwood One had been that defining moment, death to everything he'd known and loved. But it had been Rani. Rani and what must have been supporters of the dragon-kind. He'd died that day, figuratively and literally. He couldn't go back. Torchwood One was merely a push towards this, towards Cardiff, towards now, when years of quiet shadows and calculations culminated to light etching every surface, revealing Avalon and Torchwood in the hidden depths of that brilliantly cut diamond, shattering prisms of color across every wall.
Jack was right.
Everything had changed.
And Ianto was no longer that tea-boy cleaning up after Owen's deliberate spill.
He straightened from his lean on the kitchenette sink, straightened his suit where it had been displaced or wrinkled, reapplying the formality and pristine nature the clean lines of the suit offered. Everyone was crammed into the kitchenette, Ianto distantly observed the concerned looks and the eyes darting from the mess behind him back to him again. Jack was talking, but Ianto wasn't listening, his own focus on Owen. Ianto raised his chin, not a great degree but enough to feel the effects trickle down his spine, freezing the vertebrae into a rigid line.
Ianto had faced dragons and faeries, weevils and Cybermen. He'd seen death and chaos, he'd seen life and passion. He'd ordered war, he'd sentenced lives. He'd felt pain, he'd felt love, he'd felt both in their loss and more in their gain.
For all he cared, Owen could go fuck himself.
And as Ianto stared, almost daring the man to speak again, Owen took a step back.
Ianto didn't smirk, his face felt far too immobile to move at all, but he felt the warmth spread from head to toe, lighting a path along his nerves until cell was singing in harmony. It was near euphoric, maybe Owen was correct and he had lost what tentative hold he had on sanity. But not since, well, he couldn't remember a time he'd felt so at peace, peace with himself, his choices, fuck, even knowing the faery still watched. Maybe it was the endorphins racing through his system as a result of the fury, but it was something.
Something new, something different.
He took a slow glance behind him, surprised to see the coffee machine on the floor as well; he didn't remember throwing it, but he must have; the cord lay snake-like among the blood red petals and glass. There were petals everywhere and he was standing in the midst of them, a veritable phoenix standing in its ashes. This did make him smile, remembering the burning of Avalon and the glass panes of the unicorn and the phoenix. Avalon had risen from those ashes, risen and fought back with all her might.
And as all the sleepers woke from the strain of the battle, she was rising again. Avalon was not one to suffer death.
Neither was Ianto. It was pure and simple, laid out in Black and White.
"Make your own bloody coffee." Ianto finally told Owen, speaking calmly, enunciating every word as he stepped from the petals, before he walked past his speechless team. His feet moved him without conscious thought, acceding to the desire most strongly fighting for dominance. Not Jack, although that was a desire which physically stopped Ianto before he reached his desk, displaced by the fire in the Information Center and the subsequent rebuilding construction in its temporary home within the Hub and he'd just never gotten around to moving it back.
Ianto looked down at the hands holding him in place, then to the face connected to the hands. Jack. Every much the same Jack as the one he knew before, if not a slightly less aged Jack. To the core, Jack was the same as he'd always been, in all the time Ianto had known him. This Jack, his Jack, older Jack; all one in the same. Jack who would be a hero in future time, Jack who was a hero in the current one and Jack who was a hero in the past.
Time lines were funny things. Because this scarred Jack was definitely not immortal didn't make the one Ianto loved any less then as he was now. Loved. The word both scared the hell out of Ianto and lent him courage as he pushed Jack back against his desk without care for who watched or listened. It didn't matter, and he was tired of thinking it did. The kiss was neither gentle nor polite and Ianto could feel Jack's cock grow hard and hot against his thigh. On most occasions, Ianto might have taken advantage of the situation, he had before, teasing the other Jack against the side of the SUV at his father's ... but this wasn't about teasing. It wasn't about toying. Ianto pushed harder, feeling Jack's hands slip from his shoulders to grasp onto the desk for purchase as his boots skidded on the floor of the Hub. This was all about everything Ianto wanted and needed, and as he thought he spoke with lips and tongue, everything he wanted and everything he needed to give.
Because as much as fate attempted to intervene, he needed this.
But not because he some how depended on Jack; he'd learned that wasn't necessary.
He bloody loved the man.
If that made him a fool, knowing that tying down Jack was as easy as capturing the wind, then he would enjoy being the fool and dance in the wind while the wind blew.
Ianto stopped the kiss once he felt Jack's hands turn grabbier, clutching at his clothing in effort to remove them. Now wasn't the time for that, especially not in front of the others. "Love you," Ianto whispered just loud enough for Jack to hear as he pulled away, fingers tracing Jack's jawline as he smiled. "I'm fine, quit worrying. I just need some time away."
Jack's reaction to his words were almost comical, his tongue tripping over itself to say anything before he opted to keep silent. Ianto grinned as he worked around Jack, powering down his computer and turning off the small lamp on his desk. He turned to leave but Jack pulled him back for a kiss not unequal to the first, leaving Ianto's knees a bit shaky and his breath uneven. An answer and reply; Ianto knew how Jack felt, he'd made it no secret. But the confirmation was nice.
"You're such a bastard," Jack rasped as Ianto pulled away.
Smirking, Ianto flicked his eyes down to Jack's crotch where the trousers were most clearly tented and straining at the seams. With a half-hearted shrug, Ianto picked up his keys and turned away, leaving Jack cursing after him but leaning unashamed against Ianto's desk as the rest of the team was exposed to the full view of the extent of Jack's arousal.
Ianto almost stayed, very nearly did but the desire for that something else pulled stronger than even Jack, walking unobstructed to the hidden lift to the Plas; a few keystrokes on his PDA triggering the lift which would carry him street-side.
He'd made it to the car park and almost to his car when he heard footsteps chasing after him. Even in the dark of night, he knew those footsteps and so refrained from pulling his gun at the one approaching. "Gwen," Ianto simply stated, sort of a greeting, almost a dismissal. He didn't want to speak with anyone, and his instant thoughts, despite their improved relationship, was that she was to ask him some inane question as she tried to understand why he'd thrown the bloody coffee pot.
Sure enough, the bobbed brunette haircut appeared under the lights. Only Gwen could have run fast enough to catch him, anyway.
"Ianto."
They stared at each other for a moment, Ianto waiting for the question he knew was to come and Gwen, well, Ianto assumed she needed to catch her breath.
"The business with the petals, it's the faeries, isn't it? What's going on, Ianto? Are you in trouble?"
Both the question and her concern surprised Ianto, and he realized again he might have misjudged Gwen. He chided himself, remembering their conversation about judgment they had held in the pipes before meeting their first dragon and her bravery on the air field. For all the naivety there was experience, and while Gwen still, in years, might be a novice in all things Torchwood, she did understand. And that, perhaps, was where he failed to give her credit. "It's just a game. I'm fine."
Ianto tried to smile, he really did. But thinking of the faeries, of their overwhelming presence at times and the choices they demanded made Ianto grimace.
Gwen wasn't fooled, either.
"They don't play fair, Ianto."
No, they didn't. And point to Gwen. But discussion of fate and choice and the predetermination of actions was not something Ianto wished to be partaking in at the moment. "They don't," Ianto agreed, flashes of petals pouring out of the filter threatened to drown the person he didn't want to think about, choking him as he stood on the air field. Ianto found the key to his car and unlocked it, hoping Gwen would take the hint and go back to the Hub. The faery and his involvement were not something he wanted to talk about.
Ianto's agreement seemed to give Gwen pause, and for a moment, Ianto thought he had won his escape.
"You're coming back, yeah? 'Cos we need you here."
Gwen spoke quietly, the earnestness of her plea written on her face, easily seen in the light of the street lights. Ianto thought at first he had just imagined it, but no, she was waiting for his response, arms crossed over her chest, wedding ring glinting.
"Of course. What would you do for coffee otherwise?" Ianto smiled as he tried to pass off her concern with humor. He opened his car door, hoping she would catch the hint this time and let him leave.
"No, I don't think so, Ianto Jones." His door shut and he was almost stunned silent as she stepped in front of him, standing between him, the car door, and escape. "This is more than your coffee. There's something going on and you shouldn't be alone, not with those bloody faeries out there."
Gwen Cooper-Williams. Ready to take on a dragon with a single bullet and apparently willing to fight against the faery. Ianto had to admire her courage. "I'll not be alone, I'm going home."
"To your flat? But Jack's here."
Ianto smiled, he couldn't help himself. "No, to my father's."
Her eyes widened in surprise, and Ianto noted sadly that while he'd never offered the information, no one had ever thought to ask. "I didn't know ... I thought Lisa ... " Gwen stumbled around for a moment as an awkward silence stretched. "Is it just your father?"
Ianto shook his head, relatively certain that the information was about as useful to the public as him announcing his favorite color was navy blue. "I have a sister and twin nephews. They all stay at my father's since her husband was killed during the Battle."
"Oh god, this one?" Ianto shook his head, he'd never consider the war against the dragons as the Battle, only one earned that name. Perhaps some savvy reporter would coin a term but for now, it remained too close for casual naming. Gwen put two and two together and rested a hand on his arm, unnerving even under the best circumstances, but after the combined efforts of the most recent conflict and reuniting with Torchwood One survivors, his recoil against touch had dropped dramatically. "You lost a lot that day."
Torchwood would do that to a person. Ianto shrugged but Gwen continued. "It's just me, ya know. My mum died when I was just a kid. Dad passed a year before I became a constable. He always wanted to see his girl follow in his footsteps, but he never got the chance."
Ianto knew, it was in her file including his manner of death in line of duty, but he didn't mention. "You'd have made him proud, Gwen. You've surpassed everything he could have imagined for you."
Gwen's smile was radiant. "You think? You lot are really my family now." She quickly grew somber again, Ianto could almost visibly see when the thought struck her. "What about your mum? You didn't mention her."
Ianto damned himself for ever bringing up the topic of family. Once Gwen knew of a topic, she wouldn't quit, especially not when she'd known him for years and never even knew he had a family. He supposed that made her a good PC. "She died." Ianto gestured at his car, not-too-subtly changing the topic. "If you don't mind? It's fairly late already."
"You're coming back?"
The second time she asked, and Ianto supposed Jack's departure ages ago had set a precedent that wouldn't soon be forgotten by some. Ianto didn't have a blue box and a Doctor to escape with, however, and he had no intention of permanently leaving Cardiff. "I'll be back tomorrow afternoon. Will you be okay without me until then?"
He'd meant for levity, but Gwen seemed to take his question seriously, carefully considering before answering. "Maybe. Torchwood wouldn't run without you, Ianto. And not just your coffee. I don't think I ever thanked you for what you did." Ianto opened his mouth to tell her there was nothing to thank him for, but she covered his mouth with her hand and continued. "You kept us together while Jack was gone. You were certain about the threat and kept pushing us to prepare. You made the connections and informed the rest of the world to prepare them." Ianto cringed when he heard her voice crack. "You saved my life and made sure we had our wedding. I don't think anyone's thanked you for saving all of us."
Gwen removed her hand only then, but instead of being able to refute what she said, Ianto found himself with an armful of Gwen, her small frame feeling extraordinarily large as she hugged him with the fierceness of a bear. He couldn't deny what he had done, he'd at least attempted to do everything she'd said. But he hadn't always succeeded; the past always looking better in the review.
At the same time, however, Ianto couldn't deny that Gwen's thanks and acknowledgment meant something, a tiny glimmer of something buried deep and hidden within him, rarely accessed or acknowledged. Ianto could almost pretend it was Ms. White speaking the praise, lavishing it on as she would on the one who had succeeded her in command.
Lavishing it on as if he were her son.
If Ianto squeezed Gwen just a bit tighter for speaking those words and if he kissed the top of her head for her kindness, he had merely been driven to it by the stress of the day.
Ianto extricated himself from Gwen once he was certain enough time had passed that Gwen's voice wouldn't crackle again when she spoke. Not that he gave much time for the opportunity, just bid his farewell and got into his car. She was still watching as he pulled away, waving as he drove off. He wondered how long it would be before she convinced Tosh to get into his personnel records; not that they'd find anything, even with Tosh's skill at the computer. Not long, he imagined, not with Tosh's curiosity piqued. They might even ask Jack, but Ianto was fairly certain Jack wouldn't breathe a word about his mother or any additional information about his father, sister, and nephews.
His family was safe.
Just to be sure, Ianto checked on each when he arrived at his father's house, slipping in the front door and avoiding all the creaky steps he'd avoided as a kid. He checked first on his father, then his sister, then watched Bryce and Gareth sleep, reassuring himself that they all still lived, and perhaps revelling a moment in their safety despite all that had happened, before heading back downstairs. He didn't go to his room, he opted instead for the couch in the sitting room, the long couch with the hard pillows and his favorite blanket wrapped tight around him.
If it was the long couch his best friend had slept on the last time he was here, it was merely coincidence.
And if his favorite blanket was the one his mother had given him for his sixth birthday, the birthday she had missed but at the time he pretended he could smell her perfume in the blanket threads and spent the next week wrapped in it, that was pure chance as well.
Next Part (3 of 3)
song lyrics: "Behind Blue Eyes" - The Who