Fic: Last of the Rift Born. (7/12)
Title: Last of the Rift Born (7/12)
Rating: Adult over all - this part PG.
Word count: This part 2000. Total will be around 20k.
Pairing. Jack/Ianto, other original alien characters as and when needed for plot.
Contains: Mention of canon character death (Ianto - but this is a fix-it fic, so not permanent) and temporary Jack death in later part.
Summary: Alone in the House of the Dead Ianto has a choice to make. The result of which will change his life forever. (Set directly after Jack leaves in House of the Dead radio play.)
Starts here: http://the-silver-sun.livejournal.com/247907.html#cutid1
LotRB pt7
Footsteps echoing on stone floors. Something fearful and indistinct shrieked wordless curses. A many headed monster like something out of a nightmare looming out of the mist. A gun shot. Jack bleeding, dying in his arms. The scene flipped, now with him being held. Jack looking down at him, hands cradling his face. Jack begging for him to live. Cold trembling lips pressed against his, tears falling on his face. Pain.
Ianto woke coughing and choking, lungs aching as if they'd been starved of much needed air. Gasping and shivering uncontrollably he looked around the dingy bar in the House of the Dead.
It hadn't been a nightmare, he was certain of that. Wrapping his arms about himself, he drew his knees up to his chest in an effort to stop shaking. It was too real, too painful to have been anything other than a real memory. It was how he'd died. He wanted Jack, needed him, in than moment more than he could ever put into words. And it was thing he could not have.
From across the room faint outline where the door to Cardiff had once been seemed to taunt him, a reminder of where he desperately wanted to be and where he was unable to go.
Staggering to his feet, Ianto grabbed a stool from in front of the bar and swung it hard against the yellowed wall. Paint and plaster crumbled under the blows to reveal rough, grey blocks of Welsh granite. Undeterred, he struck it again. One, two, three more swings with the stool and one of its legs shattered. The stonework beneath, cold, hard and completely unbreakable with the tools he had, remained unmarked. With a yell of frustration, Ianto threw the broken stool at the bar and then dropped to his knees.
Everything ached. It felt more than physical, although he suspected that part of it at least was a hangover starting to make itself felt. His lists of last night seemed so pointless. How was he supposed to do any of this? How was he supposed deal with this new unlife or whatever the hell it was all on his own? Even staying dead would have been better than this, he thought angrily, then at least he have finally been beyond caring, beyond the doubt and guilt that gnawed at him as much now as it had done when he'd still been alive.
It wasn't true, and seconds later he felt tears of shame burn in his eyes. He rested his head against the chipped plaster and let them fall. "I want to go home. Please, I just want to go home."
Pleading with the Rift didn't get him anywhere and eventually Ianto forced himself get up and drink a couple of pint glasses of water. Lying on one of the faded, red velour bench seats that formed what had been the pub's attempt at a snug, he stared up at the ceiling, counting the cracks until he gave on that distraction and decided to try and sleep off his hangover.
....
He felt better when he woke. Not great, but better. There had been no dreams or nightmares this time, for which he'd been incredibly grateful; having to see something like that every time he closed his eyes would have driven him mad.
There wasn't anything else to be done with his time, Ianto decided, other than attempt to travel through the Rift again. Whether it would be easier because he was already inside it or if in opening the way here in the first place he'd made himself more able to sense things he wasn't sure. The question was what should he do once he opened a way out? Should he stay where he was until he found a strong signal for Jack or should he practice until going in and out of time from the House of the Dead was second nature to him?
The problem with the first option was that he had no idea how to feel for Jack's presence in the time stream, and even if by some remote chance located him right away he would have no way of telling if it would be the correct Jack. What if he found a pre-Torchwood Jack who didn't know him or one for which several hundred years had past since he'd last seen him? The idea of finding a version of Jack that either didn't know or had forgotten him was a frightening prospect and Ianto knew that he'd never be able to bring himself to risk it.
No, he would practice and learn as fast as he could, Ianto told himself. He'd find Jack as soon as he was confident in what he was doing. He smiled for what seemed like the first time in weeks. If he mastered the travelling the Rift he could be the mysterious one for a change, he could take Jack wherever he wanted to go, he could give him all of time and space. It would be everything both of them ever wanted and they could have it forever.
It took nearly two hours and the beginnings of a pounding headache, but eventually the same heat haze that had formed in the desert when he'd being trying to find his way here had appeared next to a set of tarnished horse brasses that had been used to decorate one of the walls of the bar.
Would it take him back there? Ianto wondered as he approached it. It didn't feel like it would, although he had nothing to really base it on. Even if it did, he told himself, he could get out of place and back here, and then he could try again.
He took a couple of bottles of tonic water just in case it took him longer than expected to open the way back and his notebook to write down anything that might be useful. Then, closing his eyes, Ianto stepped forwards into the unknown.
....
The air was hot, dry and dusty as the desert world had been. It was also filled with the smells and sounds of a bustling market place. Relieved, Ianto opened his eyes, half expecting to see a Moroccan bazaar or an Egyptian souk.
It wasn't. It wasn't even Earth. None of the beings around him were than passingly humanoid in shape. There had to be at least a dozen different kinds of alien, he realised, ranging from huge creatures that looked more like walking boulders to tiny, partially robotic ones that hovered between stalls with the aid of shimmering, mechanical wings. There were human sized aliens who had heads that looked like fish and others that looked like swaying tubes of sparkling pale blue water. What there wasn't was anybody that looked even remotely like him.
None of the languages that were being spoken were familiar, while the signs on the stalls, which sold everything from fruit to what might have been spaceship engine parts, were all equally incomprehensible to him.
The food being cooked by some of the vendors smelt good, certainly better than dried and packets bar snacks. Whether they would be edible was another matter, and while he had no wish to get food poisoning, Ianto knew that sooner or later he'd have to try eating something he wasn't familiar with.
He was considering trying to trade something, maybe one of the bottles of tonic water for one, when he realised that he was being watched. He couldn't be certain as he couldn't see anybody who was taking an interest in him, but he was certain he was right. Leaving the stall and its hope of food behind him, Ianto moved through the crowd trying to lose the feeling of eyes following him.
It didn't decrease and Ianto stopped, pretending to browse a stall of what might have been herbs and spices or maybe a head shop. Running would draw unwanted attention, so reluctantly Ianto decided that he'd have to leave this world barely explored and find somewhere he would be able to concentrate to open a way back into the House of the Dead and leave the following eyes behind him.
There was always the possibility that whoever was watching him wasn't hostile, yet if they were friendly why not just approach him? Maybe it was just idle curious about a race they'd not seen before? But if it had been that then why had they followed him?
"You are a very long way from home, aren't you, Mr Jones?"
Ianto froze, the voice was familiar in all the wrong ways. He turned slowly, torn between wishing that he had a weapon to hand and wanting to run and not look back.
"I must say," Bilis Manger said, looking at him with something akin to mocking amusement, "I had not expected it would be you. It's always the quite ones, isn't it?"
TBC
Notes.
I am sorry this story has been on hold for so very long. I'm getting back into writing again, and I'm going to get this story finished. I've got the next three parts at least partially written and the three after that in sketchy fragmentary form. I'm aiming to update about once a week until it's done.
Rating: Adult over all - this part PG.
Word count: This part 2000. Total will be around 20k.
Pairing. Jack/Ianto, other original alien characters as and when needed for plot.
Contains: Mention of canon character death (Ianto - but this is a fix-it fic, so not permanent) and temporary Jack death in later part.
Summary: Alone in the House of the Dead Ianto has a choice to make. The result of which will change his life forever. (Set directly after Jack leaves in House of the Dead radio play.)
Starts here: http://the-silver-sun.livejournal.com/247907.html#cutid1
LotRB pt7
Footsteps echoing on stone floors. Something fearful and indistinct shrieked wordless curses. A many headed monster like something out of a nightmare looming out of the mist. A gun shot. Jack bleeding, dying in his arms. The scene flipped, now with him being held. Jack looking down at him, hands cradling his face. Jack begging for him to live. Cold trembling lips pressed against his, tears falling on his face. Pain.
Ianto woke coughing and choking, lungs aching as if they'd been starved of much needed air. Gasping and shivering uncontrollably he looked around the dingy bar in the House of the Dead.
It hadn't been a nightmare, he was certain of that. Wrapping his arms about himself, he drew his knees up to his chest in an effort to stop shaking. It was too real, too painful to have been anything other than a real memory. It was how he'd died. He wanted Jack, needed him, in than moment more than he could ever put into words. And it was thing he could not have.
From across the room faint outline where the door to Cardiff had once been seemed to taunt him, a reminder of where he desperately wanted to be and where he was unable to go.
Staggering to his feet, Ianto grabbed a stool from in front of the bar and swung it hard against the yellowed wall. Paint and plaster crumbled under the blows to reveal rough, grey blocks of Welsh granite. Undeterred, he struck it again. One, two, three more swings with the stool and one of its legs shattered. The stonework beneath, cold, hard and completely unbreakable with the tools he had, remained unmarked. With a yell of frustration, Ianto threw the broken stool at the bar and then dropped to his knees.
Everything ached. It felt more than physical, although he suspected that part of it at least was a hangover starting to make itself felt. His lists of last night seemed so pointless. How was he supposed to do any of this? How was he supposed deal with this new unlife or whatever the hell it was all on his own? Even staying dead would have been better than this, he thought angrily, then at least he have finally been beyond caring, beyond the doubt and guilt that gnawed at him as much now as it had done when he'd still been alive.
It wasn't true, and seconds later he felt tears of shame burn in his eyes. He rested his head against the chipped plaster and let them fall. "I want to go home. Please, I just want to go home."
Pleading with the Rift didn't get him anywhere and eventually Ianto forced himself get up and drink a couple of pint glasses of water. Lying on one of the faded, red velour bench seats that formed what had been the pub's attempt at a snug, he stared up at the ceiling, counting the cracks until he gave on that distraction and decided to try and sleep off his hangover.
....
He felt better when he woke. Not great, but better. There had been no dreams or nightmares this time, for which he'd been incredibly grateful; having to see something like that every time he closed his eyes would have driven him mad.
There wasn't anything else to be done with his time, Ianto decided, other than attempt to travel through the Rift again. Whether it would be easier because he was already inside it or if in opening the way here in the first place he'd made himself more able to sense things he wasn't sure. The question was what should he do once he opened a way out? Should he stay where he was until he found a strong signal for Jack or should he practice until going in and out of time from the House of the Dead was second nature to him?
The problem with the first option was that he had no idea how to feel for Jack's presence in the time stream, and even if by some remote chance located him right away he would have no way of telling if it would be the correct Jack. What if he found a pre-Torchwood Jack who didn't know him or one for which several hundred years had past since he'd last seen him? The idea of finding a version of Jack that either didn't know or had forgotten him was a frightening prospect and Ianto knew that he'd never be able to bring himself to risk it.
No, he would practice and learn as fast as he could, Ianto told himself. He'd find Jack as soon as he was confident in what he was doing. He smiled for what seemed like the first time in weeks. If he mastered the travelling the Rift he could be the mysterious one for a change, he could take Jack wherever he wanted to go, he could give him all of time and space. It would be everything both of them ever wanted and they could have it forever.
It took nearly two hours and the beginnings of a pounding headache, but eventually the same heat haze that had formed in the desert when he'd being trying to find his way here had appeared next to a set of tarnished horse brasses that had been used to decorate one of the walls of the bar.
Would it take him back there? Ianto wondered as he approached it. It didn't feel like it would, although he had nothing to really base it on. Even if it did, he told himself, he could get out of place and back here, and then he could try again.
He took a couple of bottles of tonic water just in case it took him longer than expected to open the way back and his notebook to write down anything that might be useful. Then, closing his eyes, Ianto stepped forwards into the unknown.
....
The air was hot, dry and dusty as the desert world had been. It was also filled with the smells and sounds of a bustling market place. Relieved, Ianto opened his eyes, half expecting to see a Moroccan bazaar or an Egyptian souk.
It wasn't. It wasn't even Earth. None of the beings around him were than passingly humanoid in shape. There had to be at least a dozen different kinds of alien, he realised, ranging from huge creatures that looked more like walking boulders to tiny, partially robotic ones that hovered between stalls with the aid of shimmering, mechanical wings. There were human sized aliens who had heads that looked like fish and others that looked like swaying tubes of sparkling pale blue water. What there wasn't was anybody that looked even remotely like him.
None of the languages that were being spoken were familiar, while the signs on the stalls, which sold everything from fruit to what might have been spaceship engine parts, were all equally incomprehensible to him.
The food being cooked by some of the vendors smelt good, certainly better than dried and packets bar snacks. Whether they would be edible was another matter, and while he had no wish to get food poisoning, Ianto knew that sooner or later he'd have to try eating something he wasn't familiar with.
He was considering trying to trade something, maybe one of the bottles of tonic water for one, when he realised that he was being watched. He couldn't be certain as he couldn't see anybody who was taking an interest in him, but he was certain he was right. Leaving the stall and its hope of food behind him, Ianto moved through the crowd trying to lose the feeling of eyes following him.
It didn't decrease and Ianto stopped, pretending to browse a stall of what might have been herbs and spices or maybe a head shop. Running would draw unwanted attention, so reluctantly Ianto decided that he'd have to leave this world barely explored and find somewhere he would be able to concentrate to open a way back into the House of the Dead and leave the following eyes behind him.
There was always the possibility that whoever was watching him wasn't hostile, yet if they were friendly why not just approach him? Maybe it was just idle curious about a race they'd not seen before? But if it had been that then why had they followed him?
"You are a very long way from home, aren't you, Mr Jones?"
Ianto froze, the voice was familiar in all the wrong ways. He turned slowly, torn between wishing that he had a weapon to hand and wanting to run and not look back.
"I must say," Bilis Manger said, looking at him with something akin to mocking amusement, "I had not expected it would be you. It's always the quite ones, isn't it?"
TBC
Notes.
I am sorry this story has been on hold for so very long. I'm getting back into writing again, and I'm going to get this story finished. I've got the next three parts at least partially written and the three after that in sketchy fragmentary form. I'm aiming to update about once a week until it's done.