fic: Game, Sutekh and Match (2/2)
Title: Game, Sutekh and Match
Author Name: valderys
Original Prompt Number: 39
Pairing(s): Jack/Ianto, John/Ianto UST
Summary: When Jack is attacked and pieces of him are scattered around the world, he can rely on Ianto to bring him home. But can Ianto rely on John? His vortex manipulator is essential to the mission, but that’s no guarantee...
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: None of these characters belong to me, they are the property of the BBC. I claim fair use of them in this fic.
Warnings: Temporary character death, some angst - mostly it’s a rollicking adventure story, Torchwood-style :)
Word Count: 13,509
Author's Notes: The prompt asked for a treasure hunt through Wales looking for bits of Jack, and I’m afraid I’ve made it the whole world :) There’s lots of UST though, as required! Owes a certain amount to Dr Who’s The Pyramids of Mars.
Beta: S
“I think I’ve got vertigo,” says Ianto, as he looks up and up the grey wrinkled sides of the elephant. John is striding up the mounting platform and then steps onto the animal and into the howdah, as though it’s the deck of an ocean liner - liable to move under him but not an unpleasant place to be.
He stares down at Ianto, grinning again, and Ianto shades his eyes with his palm. Then he realises he’s grinning back. Ianto stops, and frowns. John grins more widely.
Ianto looks down, and then steps carefully up the mounting platform. He’s just a little unsettled, that’s all. He doesn’t like being out of uniform, as it were. Feeling self-conscious, he brushes the fabric of the loose cotton trousers, and white Nehru shirt. He feels naked without underwear. John claimed, at the Turkish baths, that his suit had been beyond fixing, and while Ianto wants to argue, he has a sneaking suspicion that John was right. He doesn’t want to give him the satisfaction though. At least this light cotton dries quickly after being wet. That seems to matter. Ianto has been working it out in his head - all the pieces of Jack they’ve found have been near, or in, water. Except the foot in the bazaar, but that had most likely been moved there.
The symbol of the Typhonic beast is indicative of an Egyptian origin; it’s the symbol of Set, the destroyer, the god of chaos and storms. Ianto doesn’t really understand it yet, although the connection to water may be something to do with the Nile? But what on earth has Egyptian symbology got to do with whatever attacked and dismembered Jack? Ianto doesn’t understand.
Thinking about it has allowed him to climb onto the elephant with tolerable equanimity, at least. He has a feeling it’s a bad idea to show weakness in front of John. He settles down in the cushioned chair in the howdah, and instantly John flicks a finger at the mahout. Ianto clutches the arm of the palanquin, as the mahout prods the beast and they are underway.
“I don’t get it,” Ianto says, “Why can’t we use your vortex manipulator? Why the bloody hell do we have to hire an elephant?”
“We don’t,” says John, and lies back, his body going loose and relaxed. Ianto finds he’s balled his hands into fists without even noticing. It’s comforting John still produces that reaction in him. “Look - it’s not an exact science, eye candy. I’m following the decaying chronon particles that Jack’s body parts are emitting, and it’s a weak signal. I have to bounce the effect sometimes off, oh, a local mountain, say, to get a strong enough indication. And besides… this is far more fun than my wrist strap.”
Ianto doesn’t look over. He knows the expression John will have, the shit-eating grin. He knows John’s needling again, he’s trying for yet another reaction that Ianto is loath to give. But Ianto is so tired, he’s not sure he cares anymore. He’s lost all track of time, but he’s got a feeling that if he lets himself sleep, he’ll be seeing John striding through his dreams. Still - better that than the terrible images of Jack that he’d be facing otherwise, and the inevitable guilt. He swallows.
“Here,” says John, and hands him the flask. Ianto drinks automatically now, barely even feeling the burn this time of, what, cheap brandy? He’s lost track too of how many times John has filled the flask up. That’s probably a bad thing.
“Truth or dare?” John asks, softly, as Ianto stares out blindly through the elephant’s ears, past the mahout, to the waving jungle.
He’s comfortable. It’s weird, but the elephant’s gait is quite soothing. “Yeah, all right,” he says, uneasily aware there aren’t many chances for a dare. Not up here.
“It’s your turn,” John prompts him, and Ianto almost smiles. Oh yes, he’d forgotten that.
He thinks about it for a moment or two, and wonder of wonders, John lets him. “Back when we first met you,” Ianto says, at last, “You said you’d spent five years in a timeloop with Jack.”
“Yeah.”
“What was it like? What was… he like?”
Ianto turns his head. He’s expecting a sarcastic answer, a shuttered and remote face. But he’s wrong, this time. John hasn’t tensed, he’s fiddling with the flask, true, but his eyes are... soft. There’s a gentle curve to his mouth. John looks comfortable too, just like Ianto, it’s almost... domestic. Ianto wants to laugh, it seems typical that the closest he and John get to domesticity is on top of an elephant.
John drinks again, but slowly, sipping it, like a toast. “He was young. So bloody young. We both were, I suppose. That’s what I remember most. But your Jack... He’s older than the hills, isn’t he? Even before he was buried under them.”
“He’s cautious,” Ianto says, “He’s used to keeping secrets.”
“There was a time when he wasn’t like that, you know?”
Ianto shrugs. Logic dictates that Jack must have been like that once, but he can’t imagine it.
“I was older than he was - then. He was, well, the junior partner, all wife comments aside.” John smirks, a little, but it looks like habit, with no real heat. “I had to train him. He was so... keen to learn.”
Ianto can’t help it, he snorts. John raises an eyebrow. “Yeah, well...”
“I suppose,” he continues, “I suppose I miss it because he grew up in that time-loop. Five years... it’s a long time. Longer when you’re stuck some place that literally never changes. A hick town, one bar, one hotel, in winter.” He laughs. “Always winter, but never Christmas. The sunset was spectacular - but even that got boring, you know? Because it was always the same. It was a fucking miracle we didn’t kill each other.”
Ianto’s realises he’s holding his breath. He’s never had confidences like this, from Jack, or John. He wonders if he can believe them.
“But you got through it,” he says, carefully.
“We did. We had no choice though - we couldn’t even kill ourselves. Life is always cheap, eye candy, don’t you ever forget that, but there - there it was free.”
Ianto has the strangest urge to lean over to John, to clasp his arm, as a brother perhaps, as a fellow human being. Possibly a little more, if he’s honest. He’s wary of his sympathy though, Torchwood’s burnt that into him. He’s not sure John would get the impulse either. He’s not sure that John wouldn’t... misunderstand.
John’s continuing, like he’s spewing words uncontrollably, now he’s started. Like he’s incapable of stopping.
“So, eventually, we knew everything about each other, hopes, dreams, memories. First times, last times, embarrassing moments, everything. I thought... I thought it meant something, and I wasn’t wrong. It meant that Jack was vulnerable, didn’t it? And what does Jack do when he’s feeling vulnerable?” John tilts his head back, raising his eyes to the sky. “You know, eye candy, don’t you? He’s still predictable, if you know him well enough. And we do know him. We’re the only ones who do.”
Ianto nods, slowly, as John’s eyes gleam, slitted against the sunlight. John’s not wrong. He supposes. Ianto’s never thought of himself and Jack like that before. But he’s not wrong.
“It meant Jack ran away as fast and as far as possible. Of course, he did. And there was poor old, little old me. Left all alone. Fuck. I’m maudlin.”
John shakes himself like a dog, and then takes a long drink, his throat working, the liquor spilling from his mouth, making a thin trail down the column of his neck. This time, Ianto has to look away.
They continue into the jungle, to a point that is indistinguishable from any other, except that suddenly John shouts for the mahout to stop. Ianto is glad he doesn’t appear to be expected to get down, their mount still seems very high. John leaps off gracefully, sword and guns rattling, and Ianto admires his style. Just for a second.
There’s a tiny spring, the colour of the dark brown loam, reflecting dark green fleshy leaves. There’s a man asleep next to it, his pale skin sallow in the dappled light. Only... Ianto swallows down more nausea, when he realises that this time they’ve found Jack’s torso, his severed neck hidden in vegetation, reducing some the horror. The elephant is uneasy, perhaps scenting the death on the air, and has to be soothed. Ianto, on its back, feels its sharp, jerky movements almost as extensions of his own feelings. He carefully leans out of the howdah, and lets his fingers trail along the wrinkled dry skin, hoping it’ll help, not really sure why it matters.
John is looking up, his eyes and mouth savage. Gone is the confiding mood of earlier. Ianto stares.
“Fuck this. Fuck this. I’ve had enough. You know I said it was a miracle we didn’t kill each other? Well, it wasn’t a miracle. You get that? We just didn’t die.”
Ianto wishes… Well. He wishes that there was something profound he could say.
***
“How many body parts is that now?”
“You’re asking me? You’re the office boy. Twelve.”
“And what’s missing?”
“After this last bit of leg? Assuming Jack’s only got ten hairy toes, then two pieces - head and balls. Could say that Jack’s always losing them.”
***
Ianto thinks he’s put all the clues together, but he’s not sure it’s helped. What is still a mystery is why? In classic whodunit parlance, he’s missing the motive. Ianto wonders whether to tell John. He might know and not be willing to explain, or he might have no idea at all, but pretend he knows everything. Ianto wouldn’t put anything past John, who’s been increasingly remote and unpredictable. He’s been surly and bad-tempered. He’s been joking less and randomly slashing things with his sword more. None of these things are good signs.
The thought drifts into Ianto’s head that he could probably soothe John the same way he uses to stop Jack jittering, when he was hurting or in pain. It occurs to him that he’d enjoy it too. But emergency blow-jobs aren’t really an option in their case, however tempting…. Ianto almost sighs. He’s glad John didn’t leave the Turkish bath dare until later on their quest, because now his resistance might be... lower than it was.
He feels sorry for John. That’s something he’s been surprised by, but nowhere near as much as he expected. He knows John would hate him for it.
Ianto watches John calibrate the next jump. He watches his brow furrow, and his teeth worry his lower lip. There’s a difficulty, but Ianto supposes that’s to be expected. These things are bound to get harder, quests always do. He’s been glad that, so far, at least, they’ve remained on Earth, although he hasn’t dared ask about when. Although, his first alien planet would have been really cool. He has a pang - secretly Ianto’s always hoped Jack might take him to an alien world at some point. He hopes he still will.
John curses, and thumps his wrist strap. Ianto winces. He’s also grateful that technology seems to be built more robustly in the future. As are the people, he supposes.
John walks over, his face like thunder. “You’re not going to like this.”
His heart sinks. “What makes you think I’ve liked any of this?” he says, trying for light, for sarcastic, for a knowing smile from John. Instead, he gets a hard stare. John slips behind him, and wraps his now familiar arms around Ianto. Ianto tries not to breathe in too much, and definitely doesn’t sink into the embrace. He glances around once more - some kind of Germanic church, all dour granite and plain marble. They’d found Jack’s leg in the font. He’s not going to ask, he’s just not. He’s not going to be sorry to leave either, he’s shivering in these light cotton clothes, even though John has found him some sort of long black buttoned overcoat, that Ianto has a terrible fear is some type of cassock.
He holds his breath as the golden haze from the vortex manipulator surrounds them both. Ianto feels like he’s almost getting blasé about jumps, as though he’s an old hand, almost as though he were a Time Agent too, as though he were partnered with John... The thought is so arresting that he stumbles as they materialise again, and John catches him tighter around the waist. It doesn’t really help his state of mind.
So it takes him several seconds to process where they are. The familiar screech of Myfanwy, disturbed from her eyrie, orients him. There’s the trickling noise from the water tower, the smells of coffee, damp and ozone filling his nose, the jumble of Victorian architecture and futuristic tech filling the room. The Hub. He’s home, at last.
“John?” He turns a little and John lets him go, a little reluctantly. “Why are we back? We haven’t finished. Some of Jack’s still out there.”
He really hopes that John hasn’t decided to renege at the last minute - because it’s not as though Ianto can do much to prevent him. He wonders where the nearest weapon might be.
“Nope,” says John, lifting his wrist, prodding at it, “Some of Jack’s in here. Took a lot of calibration. The Rift interferes. All the other bits of Jack don’t help. It’s like there’s a chronon particle party happening in his pants. He’d like that.”
The Hub is silent, apart from the usual background noises. Ianto wonders where Gwen is, and then is quite glad she can’t see him like this. They’ve been gone a long time, he supposes she might have gone home to sleep, or maybe Rhys dragged her there. Ianto thinks he had some sleep too at some point - was it in the stone hut next to the fishing hole? He didn’t remember much of that place though, he’d been too cold. He’d let John go fishing for Jack through the ice, while he’d huddled under bright plaid blankets and a quite disturbing quantity of furs.
It’s strange, after all the places they’ve seen, the Hub almost feels… small. Cramped and dark, and stifling.
Rapidly, John strides over to the pool at the base of the fountain, mercifully clear of blood, for which Ianto supposes they have Gwen to thank, and then splashes in. He stands in the pool for a second, still scanning, and then he ducks his head, his sword trailing the tip of its scabbard in the water, looking under the walkways, into the shadows. Ianto restrains himself from pointing out how filthy the water probably is, how it won’t do the leather of the boots or the lacquer of the scabbard any good at all. And then marvels at himself, it’s as though his usual mindset has come flooding back, imprinting itself on his conscious thoughts, as soon as he entered the Hub. Weird, and potentially, he realises, also somewhat stifling.
“Aha,” says John, matter of factly, and pulls out... Ianto turns away. He’d thought he’d got over his squeamishness, but apparently not.
There’s a chuckle and then, “Here, eye candy - catch!”
John wouldn’t. He apparently would. Ianto turns back, as quick as a flash, and with the skills he hasn’t entirely forgotten from rugby at school, he catches... Jack’s head. He tries not to throw up again. He doesn’t want to but he can’t ignore it, so he looks down.
Jack’s eyes are closed, and Ianto’s glad of that. He even looks peaceful, which Ianto wasn’t sure whether he should have expected, or not. Jack looks like he did when he lay dead after his battle with Abaddon, with Gwen holding his hand for three days, all pale and blue. Ianto doesn’t want to remember that time, he doesn’t really want to know whether it should have been him who was holding Jack’s hand. He’s not that kind of a person though, and he knows it, but then - he is the kind of person who would travel around the world for Jack, quest to the ends of the Earth, as it were. He swallows. Jack doesn’t care either way. Ianto knows that, it’s all in his own head, all his second-guessing. He’s holding Jack’s severed head in his hands, and yet his thoughts are still selfishly all about himself. That says something.
“Come on then,” says John, his voice impatient, angry. Ianto realises he’s been staring. He wonders what reaction John wanted from him this time. He wonders if he got it.
He trails after John, who is striding towards the autopsy bay, still staring at Jack. Ianto still doesn’t know if this is going to work - it might be that he has a little something of Gwen’s blind faith, after all. He’s clinging to that thought, he knows he is, to stop the crawling horror. He’s holding Jack’s severed head in his hands. At that moment, it’s not so hard to hate John Hart.
The medical bay is all white tiles and scrubbed shiny chrome. It smells of antiseptic, as ever, and Ianto’s nose wrinkles. He watches as John adjusts something on his wrist strap and suddenly, there are all the parts they’ve collected, revolving slowly in the suspension field. John abruptly switches it off and they thump down in an ungainly heap on the metal trolley. Ianto winces, knowing John’s doing this deliberately, but not rising to the bait. He walks down the steps, slowly and carefully, and without looking at John, without trying to think or even see much of anything, he begins to sort them out. A forearm there, a hand, a shin, Jack’s torso. He lays down the head first, reverently, at the top of the trolley, and if his hand happens to brush its forehead in a caress, well, that’s no-one’s business other than his own.
It doesn’t take long. Ianto steps back and eyes his handiwork, feeling useless, feeling like he’s been laying Jack out for his funeral, not his rebirth. It doesn’t matter how many times he’s seen Jack come back - there’s always a first time that he won’t. And there’s that missing piece. The part of Jack that he’d most loathe to lose.
They both stand there in silence, and it’s probably awkward, except that something’s niggling at Ianto, at the corners of his mind. He’d thought he’d understood what the mystery was about, but there’s something else, something he’s forgotten - it’s been a long time since he read up on Egyptian mythology. Anyway, he’s not the hand-holding type, remember? He can’t stay here, like this. Abruptly, he turns on his heel and goes back up the steps and heads for his work station. He doesn’t think about John, or about Jack either, because a piece of research blessedly needs his attention, and this time, after far too long, it seems, he finally feels more like himself.
The myth of Osiris, and of Set, that’s what he’s been remembering - Set trapping Osiris in an air-tight box, and flinging him in the Nile. When Isis, his wife, goes searching for his body, to make absolutely certain of his death, Set divides Osiris into, yes, fourteen pieces. And... Ianto raises his head. And she never finds the fourteenth piece - his penis - but fashions a replacement for him out of gold. Oh dear.
Perhaps it’s inappropriate of him, but Ianto finds himself smiling. Jack certainly wouldn’t like that.
John’s been awfully quiet, and now Ianto has time to breathe, he wonders how all this is affecting him. It must be, surely? John is still such a wild card, and although he knows John’s done terrible things - Ianto doesn’t doubt it really - he does... love Jack. In the privacy of his own mind Ianto can think about that, can consider it. Ianto can even own up to the possibility that he... might feel similarly. But wild horses wouldn’t get either of them to admit it aloud.
Ianto’s staring into the middle distance when it happens. The Rift Manipulator alarm goes crazy, making him jump, and sending little tingles of goose-bumps up and down his arms. His heart is thumping like a drum. It must be a major Rift effect, it’s like the air is magnetised, tightening his skin, and he starts to go towards the Manipulator, before realising that the flashy glitter of lights are instead coming from the medical bay - Jack!
There’s a laugh then, John’s horribly familiar barking laugh, full of irony and despair, and Ianto stops hating John, stops feeling sorry for him, and just worries for him. They’ve shared a lot over the last days. He breaks into a run.
Ianto doesn’t know what to expect when he skids onto the walkway, hastily snatched up gun in his hand, but it’s not this. Not another alien, two of them in fact, although one of them is the by-now familiar blowfish. Perhaps he shouldn’t be so blasé about them, but Ianto’s almost disappointed, it’s just one more alien, humanoid, dressed in a white robe, with a long snout and tall square ears. It reminds him of… of course. The Typhonic Beast. Well, he’s glad something’s making sense.
John is looking, well, in someone other than John, Ianto would call it anxious. But that can’t be right, can it? It’s enough however, his own skin is crawling from Rift effect, and John is scared of this thing, and that’s plenty; Ianto pulls the trigger. It has no effect. He might have bloody known.
The beast laughs then, or what presumably passes for it among his species, and the blowfish giggles, in obscene echoing parody.
“Your weapons have no effect,” it intones, and Ianto rolls his eyes.
“I am Apep, the Snake, the Devourer of the Sun. And I have had my revenge!” It’s voice slowly rises in tone and volume. It pushes the trolley upon which Jack is lying and its wheels screech as they shift. Apep turns to John then, and… grins? With the length of snout and number of teeth, it’s hard to tell. “And YOU! You have escaped punishment long enough.”
“Umm. Yeah. About that…” says John.
“No more! No more arguments. No more excuses. This…” Apep pushes the trolley again, “Is a clear betrayal of our agreement.”
Ianto wishes his gun worked, he wants shoot John himself. Fucking typical. He should have known better than to even begin to trust him. What was he thinking?
“Well,” says John, beginning to smirk, “That might be true, if I’d ever agreed to anything. I don’t count threats, been there, done that, got the Perulian glass shirt.”
He walks around the trolley, closer to the beast. It lifts up the device it’s holding, presumably a weapon. John doesn’t seem to care. “Did you like my performance - ooh, I’m so scared, don’t hurt me, you big bad monster - I impressed myself, I have to say.” He glances up at Ianto, and is that… apology in his eyes.
“What?” says Apep, as John stalks even nearer. “WHAT! You dare…”
“Of course, I dare. Oh dear, did you not realise? I had to get you through the Rift, didn’t I? I had to get you to manifest somewhere in my control. Or how am I going to kill you?”
“You are a worm beneath my heel! I will crush you where you stand! You will feel the Jackals of Anubis tearing your liver for a thousand years!”
“Blah, blah, shall we get on with it?”
John looks at the blowfish minion and it looks back. Apep raises its weapon, Ianto wonders if he should duck.
“Now!” Apep and John scream together.
There’s a blur of movement, Ianto thinks that John has drawn his sword, it glitters in the air, and John is spinning, spinning... There’s a crackle, and a haze of heat, the creature is laughing, as it tracks John’s movements. It’s gait is strange - alien - and Ianto tries firing again. It still doesn’t work. He has a fleeting desire for his hockey stick before heading down the steps, towards the shifting, twisting not-quite-fight, knowing that’s it’s stupid, knowing that he’s going to get himself killed, but being incapable of leaving John to his fate, he can’t let him die alone... John’s not immortal, after all.
There are scalpels on a tray, there always are, and Ianto grabs one, and for a fleeting second his eyes are away from the battle. In that moment, there’s a gasp, a lurching kind of hiss, and Ianto turns back around to see... John is falling, clutching at his side, the sword clattering with a sharp ringing sound to the floor. John’s lying still on the tiles - just like Tosh, Ianto’s horrified mind supplies - and he runs forward with a yell. He’s not letting anyone else die, not on his watch, not if he can help it. The beast swings around and Ianto watches the snout of its weapon arc towards him terribly slowly, knowing it’s his last second or two of life, and not caring, knowing he’s done his best, and fought the good fight, although filled with a fleeting sadness that he won’t be able to say goodbye to Jack…
There’s a giggle then, bizarre and odd to Ianto’s heightened senses, and suddenly there’s purple fluid spreading on the white robe of the beast. With a horrible screeching grunt, and as though it’s in slow motion, the creature falls, toppling irresistibly towards Ianto as he desperately tries to halt his forward momentum. He manages to slide sideways as it falls past him, landing with a light crunching sound that belies its heavy looking build. Ianto is left staring at the blowfish, which is still giggling, and clutching a wicked looking serrated knife, its blade black, except where purple ichor is dripping slowly to the floor.
“Oh, what a nasty surprise, the master gets!” says the blowfish, “Do you think the eye candy was worried? Is he next on the list, he is asking himself? Does Captain Hart require witnesses disposing of, he is thinking with his bright little monkey mind!”
Ianto stares and wonders, what is it about this species?
There’s a slow clap, from the floor, and Ianto turns, sharply. John’s there, grinning, still bleeding, and while Ianto can’t deny that’s he’s seen him looking better, he’s also undeniably alive. The intense relief is rather startling.
It’s funny though. Ianto finds he’s quite comfortable with that. As it turns out.
***
“So, what the bloody hell was that all about?” Ianto asks, later, as John is sitting on a rickety metal chair, still in the medical bay, having the shallow graze in his side stitched up. He’s laughing, silently, and his eyes are sparkling. Ianto’s not sure if it’s the endorphins, the really good drugs, or just the sheer lunacy that seems to be a time agent’s lot in life. Both John and Jack have the weirdest sense of humour sometimes, Ianto’s noticed.
“Oh, it’s a long story,” says John, and then laughs again, a snorting choke, before he winces, as Ianto pushes in the needle a little too forcibly.
“Tell me,” says Ianto, “Or I’ll…”
“Yes, yes. Don’t nag, it doesn’t suit you.” He pauses, and Ianto watches him. “I suppose it all started when I was minding my own business somewhere in New Zealand, I think - boring place, nothing ever happens, did you know they actually have news reports about lost sheep? - and this chummy, Apep, pops up and starts threatening me. Nothing new there, I’ve been threatened by experts, but it seemed best to play along. Seemed that he knew I’d worked with Jack, seemed like he thought I’d know where he was. When he was, even. That was worse.”
John doesn’t pause this time, so much as wait. Like he’s thinking of a place very far away. Or a memory he’s dragging out of the depths. Ianto doesn’t want to interrupt.
“I suppose… I suppose it doesn’t really start there. I suppose it starts back when Jack was a child, when he was a boy with a brother he adored, living on a frontier planet, right in the line of a conquering fleet of a ships that belonged to a species calling themselves the Osirans. Of course, it was some kind of internal feud, Jack’s planet wasn’t even important, but the Osirans still destroyed it, killing almost everybody, except for a few they took for slaves. Or for pleasure in their torture. They weren’t nice or kind, right? You get that?
It turned out that the leader of this fleet was an unpleasant fellow by the name of Sutekh, and his loyal second-in-command was Apep - do you see where I’m going with this? - and that they had a primitive form of time travel. Oh, not a patch on the vortex manipulator, but it did the job. Sutekh had gone mad, by this time, wanted to destroy all life in the universe or some such, and the other Osiran leaders, however unpleasant, didn’t want that, so they hunted him, all 740 of them, across the universe, and across time.”
Ianto holds his breath. It’s the longest story he’s ever got out of John, out of Jack, and he’s glad he’s finished stitching John up, because he’s not sure he’d be giving it the attention it deserved. He hasn’t moved away though, John is very close. John looks up at him through his lashes and Ianto swallows.
“Now this bit,” says John, “Now this bit might be my fault, but how was I to know? I thought I was doing Jack a favour. I went and found Jack’s adored baby brother, because I thought it might make him forgive me.” John looks down again, talks to Ianto’s cotton covered middle. “I thought we’d be a family again. But Gray wasn’t himself, he’d been tortured by the Osirans for too long. Sutekh’s creatures had twisted him into a warped image of themselves, but I didn’t realise, not in time. I talked to him, you know? Telling him about Jack, how much he’d missed him, how long he’d looked for him, how he’d done so well for himself. How he couldn’t ever die.”
John clears his throat, and Ianto wants to be angry with him, remembering everything that Gray put them all through, what he made John do. That Gray killed Tosh and Owen. He wants to be angry, but he can’t. If he could have, wouldn’t Ianto have looked for Jack’s little brother, if he’d known? Of course, he would.
“So - Gray doesn’t want a nice reunion, and he takes the information to Sutekh, because he wants his own revenge, doesn’t he? He wants to destroy everything that Jack has ever held dear, and he knows Sutekh has the means to do that. Telling this mad Osiran about a being who cannot ever die? It did the job, can’t deny that. Sutekh’s all fired up, he wants to destroy Jack, so he heads for Earth, being followed by the 740 Osiran’s who are trying to bring him down. He misses the time window by a mile, can’t say I’m surprised, and gets caught in Earth’s solar system, thousands of years in your past.”
John laughs and leans forward, his forehead resting against Ianto’s stomach, “Fuck, eye candy, what am I saying? I’m babbling. What the hell did you give me?”
Ianto, without asking himself what he is doing, lifts his hand, and runs it lightly, soothingly, through John’s hair. It’s surprisingly soft. John leans into the caress like a cat, but he still doesn’t stop.
“The Osirans defeated Sutekh, and imprisoned him on Mars as punishment, although he was killed finally a lot later in your history, I think, maybe I’ll go find out what happened some time... Anyway - Sutekh still had followers who weren’t captured, unfortunately, and that’s where our friend Apep comes in. He tracked me down, in New Zealand, like I said - the sheep-herders get really lonely there, you know? - and I thought I could play along, until I could get away. I even lent him my current minion to keep an eye on him. I never expected...”
John lifts his head, Ianto’s hands still in his hair, and Ianto catches his breath at the sheer pain in his face. John surges up, his hands on Ianto’s hips for balance. They are very nearly eye to eye.
“I thought I’d get to Jack to warn him, in time. I didn’t mean... I wouldn’t... Not any more.”
There’s a pause then. Ianto can hear John breathing, feel it even, they’re so close they’re almost breathing the same air, really. John’s hands are at his waist, Ianto’s have slipped to his shoulders. It would be so easy to just lean forward. Ianto’s heart is beating harder than a drum. He smells like Jack. And Ianto likes him, he really does. He hadn’t expected that either.
“Truth or dare,” says Ianto, at last, wrenching the words out, and John smiles, sadly, wryly. Is it his imagination, or is there a hint of resignation there as well?
“My turn,” whispers John, and Ianto nods. The seconds pass and Ianto can’t look away. He’s in a special kind of agony, wondering what John will ask, what he’ll dare…
“Does Jack love you?”
The question’s not even a surprise, somehow. They’re so close their hair could almost tangle, if it was a little longer. There’s no lying, even if Ianto thought he could try, besides, he doesn’t even want to.
“Did Jack love you?” he counters, and John blinks, slowly, lazily, and Ianto might have been fooled once, but not any more.
It’s a poor sort of triumph, and Ianto’s not even sure what it is that he’s won, but John pulls away. Ianto heaves a huge breath, as though he’s been running, and sits down rather suddenly in the vacated chair.
John is ambling around the medical bay, relaxed and casual. He’d fool anyone else, Ianto thinks, and wonders when he got so good at reading these things. He wishes he could give John something. A consolation prize. Something his pride could accept.
John stops, his hand on the door to the cryo-freezing units, he’s tapping it, pensively maybe, only again, Ianto thinks, maybe not.
“Do something for me, yeah? Because you forfeited, right? You owe me a dare.” John’s eyes gleam, and Ianto swallows, feeling like it’s always walking through a minefield with him, just like with Jack. They’re so similar in many ways. And he knows he’s the only person who would ever think that.
“Kill Gray.”
Ianto sucks in a startled exclamation. He didn’t expect it, and yet... He knew it wasn’t going to be an easy thing, because they’re way past that. But even so, killing Jack’s beloved brother… Jack would kill Ianto, if he found out, if he knew. Fuck.
“I thought you didn’t want me going to rehab,” Ianto tries, going for light-hearted, failing at it miserably, and John grins, without humour.
“If he ever wakes up… When he wakes up, Gray will do worse than before. Much worse. He’ll never stop. And Jack won’t be able to prevent it. I tried to tell him.”
Ianto knows John’s right. There are a lot of ifs in there, but he isn’t wrong. Ianto shivers, and holds the folds of his coat closer to his body. Ianto isn’t in charge of the cryo-freezing chambers, but they don’t currently have a doctor who is. Someone has to look after them, try to maintain them. And if that person wasn’t trained, then they could easily make an error, couldn’t they? And Jack might forgive them, in time. And even if the person was never forgiven, something like this, a hard decision - really, it’s just disposing of a rabid dog, justice for Tosh, for Owen, but still murder - well, that might be something somebody did so that the person he loved would know he’d never have to face it. That might be something worthwhile, even if the person paid for it. Even if he regretted the consequences.
Ianto shakes his head. He’s going in circles with his metaphors, his prevarications. It’s actually pretty simple.
He looks up at John, leaning casually, taut as a wire. John’s mouth is pulled down, sombre, frowning. Ianto is sure he is the same. They’ve chased all over the world for the most important man in their lives. In the end, this is such a little thing.
“Yes,” says Ianto, and nods his head. “Trust me.”
It’s funny, but somehow Ianto thinks that John does.
***
Epilogue
“You’re awake,” says Ianto, and smoothes the hair back from Jack’s brow.
It’s not something to be proud of, not really, but Ianto’s glad that this time, at least, he’s the one holding Jack’s hand. He’ll call Gwen, in just a minute, in just a little while. She’s pottering, checking the Rift, filing reports, whatever. She won’t begrudge him this.
Jack’s finally gasped into life, after days, but Ianto can’t blame him. There’s been a lot to fix. But it’s not like the time with Abaddon - they’ve been able to see the healing going on slowly, as Jack’s body knits itself back together. It’s been a hopeful process, really.
Jack blinks at him, from the cocoon of blankets they’ve wrapped around him, and Ianto’s heart stutters a little, as Jack asks, “How long was I out?”
“Four days, from when the healing process was begun, several more before that to collect the pieces,” says Ianto.
“Do I even want to know?” asks Jack, with a lift of his eyebrows.
“Not really,” Ianto says, smiling, because some of it was hilarious, after all. “You should be grateful we found the last piece though.”
He waggles his eyebrows suggestively and Jack breaks into a huge grin. “Oh, really! Would I have been singing with the girls?”
“I’m sure you’d have enjoyed it. Count yourself lucky that blowfish are apparently a vegetarian species - there was something in the myth about being nibbled by fishes.”
Jack laughs, a rusty sound, but Ianto thinks it’s the best thing he’s heard in days. But then he finds himself saying, almost without volition, “John helped us.”
He watches Jack’s face cloud, as he frowns. He finds it in himself to mourn that, to want Jack to meet the John he travelled with. He wants him to forgive John. Jack forgave Ianto, after all. Once.
“Never mind,” Ianto says, his voice rough.
And he bends down to welcome Jack home, kissing him hungrily, sliding his tongue into Jack’s eagerly opening mouth. Jack tastes of river water, of cool damp places, but Ianto doesn’t care. Jack will warm up soon enough, will smell again of spices, and exotic worlds, and alien bazaars. If he’s lucky, Ianto might even show him the photo Gwen took on her camera phone, of Ianto as he might have been, of Ianto looking like a Time Agent, if they’d ever recruited from a backwater like Earth.
It’ll make Jack laugh, Ianto knows. That’s all that really matters.
Author Name: valderys
Original Prompt Number: 39
Pairing(s): Jack/Ianto, John/Ianto UST
Summary: When Jack is attacked and pieces of him are scattered around the world, he can rely on Ianto to bring him home. But can Ianto rely on John? His vortex manipulator is essential to the mission, but that’s no guarantee...
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: None of these characters belong to me, they are the property of the BBC. I claim fair use of them in this fic.
Warnings: Temporary character death, some angst - mostly it’s a rollicking adventure story, Torchwood-style :)
Word Count: 13,509
Author's Notes: The prompt asked for a treasure hunt through Wales looking for bits of Jack, and I’m afraid I’ve made it the whole world :) There’s lots of UST though, as required! Owes a certain amount to Dr Who’s The Pyramids of Mars.
Beta: S
“I think I’ve got vertigo,” says Ianto, as he looks up and up the grey wrinkled sides of the elephant. John is striding up the mounting platform and then steps onto the animal and into the howdah, as though it’s the deck of an ocean liner - liable to move under him but not an unpleasant place to be.
He stares down at Ianto, grinning again, and Ianto shades his eyes with his palm. Then he realises he’s grinning back. Ianto stops, and frowns. John grins more widely.
Ianto looks down, and then steps carefully up the mounting platform. He’s just a little unsettled, that’s all. He doesn’t like being out of uniform, as it were. Feeling self-conscious, he brushes the fabric of the loose cotton trousers, and white Nehru shirt. He feels naked without underwear. John claimed, at the Turkish baths, that his suit had been beyond fixing, and while Ianto wants to argue, he has a sneaking suspicion that John was right. He doesn’t want to give him the satisfaction though. At least this light cotton dries quickly after being wet. That seems to matter. Ianto has been working it out in his head - all the pieces of Jack they’ve found have been near, or in, water. Except the foot in the bazaar, but that had most likely been moved there.
The symbol of the Typhonic beast is indicative of an Egyptian origin; it’s the symbol of Set, the destroyer, the god of chaos and storms. Ianto doesn’t really understand it yet, although the connection to water may be something to do with the Nile? But what on earth has Egyptian symbology got to do with whatever attacked and dismembered Jack? Ianto doesn’t understand.
Thinking about it has allowed him to climb onto the elephant with tolerable equanimity, at least. He has a feeling it’s a bad idea to show weakness in front of John. He settles down in the cushioned chair in the howdah, and instantly John flicks a finger at the mahout. Ianto clutches the arm of the palanquin, as the mahout prods the beast and they are underway.
“I don’t get it,” Ianto says, “Why can’t we use your vortex manipulator? Why the bloody hell do we have to hire an elephant?”
“We don’t,” says John, and lies back, his body going loose and relaxed. Ianto finds he’s balled his hands into fists without even noticing. It’s comforting John still produces that reaction in him. “Look - it’s not an exact science, eye candy. I’m following the decaying chronon particles that Jack’s body parts are emitting, and it’s a weak signal. I have to bounce the effect sometimes off, oh, a local mountain, say, to get a strong enough indication. And besides… this is far more fun than my wrist strap.”
Ianto doesn’t look over. He knows the expression John will have, the shit-eating grin. He knows John’s needling again, he’s trying for yet another reaction that Ianto is loath to give. But Ianto is so tired, he’s not sure he cares anymore. He’s lost all track of time, but he’s got a feeling that if he lets himself sleep, he’ll be seeing John striding through his dreams. Still - better that than the terrible images of Jack that he’d be facing otherwise, and the inevitable guilt. He swallows.
“Here,” says John, and hands him the flask. Ianto drinks automatically now, barely even feeling the burn this time of, what, cheap brandy? He’s lost track too of how many times John has filled the flask up. That’s probably a bad thing.
“Truth or dare?” John asks, softly, as Ianto stares out blindly through the elephant’s ears, past the mahout, to the waving jungle.
He’s comfortable. It’s weird, but the elephant’s gait is quite soothing. “Yeah, all right,” he says, uneasily aware there aren’t many chances for a dare. Not up here.
“It’s your turn,” John prompts him, and Ianto almost smiles. Oh yes, he’d forgotten that.
He thinks about it for a moment or two, and wonder of wonders, John lets him. “Back when we first met you,” Ianto says, at last, “You said you’d spent five years in a timeloop with Jack.”
“Yeah.”
“What was it like? What was… he like?”
Ianto turns his head. He’s expecting a sarcastic answer, a shuttered and remote face. But he’s wrong, this time. John hasn’t tensed, he’s fiddling with the flask, true, but his eyes are... soft. There’s a gentle curve to his mouth. John looks comfortable too, just like Ianto, it’s almost... domestic. Ianto wants to laugh, it seems typical that the closest he and John get to domesticity is on top of an elephant.
John drinks again, but slowly, sipping it, like a toast. “He was young. So bloody young. We both were, I suppose. That’s what I remember most. But your Jack... He’s older than the hills, isn’t he? Even before he was buried under them.”
“He’s cautious,” Ianto says, “He’s used to keeping secrets.”
“There was a time when he wasn’t like that, you know?”
Ianto shrugs. Logic dictates that Jack must have been like that once, but he can’t imagine it.
“I was older than he was - then. He was, well, the junior partner, all wife comments aside.” John smirks, a little, but it looks like habit, with no real heat. “I had to train him. He was so... keen to learn.”
Ianto can’t help it, he snorts. John raises an eyebrow. “Yeah, well...”
“I suppose,” he continues, “I suppose I miss it because he grew up in that time-loop. Five years... it’s a long time. Longer when you’re stuck some place that literally never changes. A hick town, one bar, one hotel, in winter.” He laughs. “Always winter, but never Christmas. The sunset was spectacular - but even that got boring, you know? Because it was always the same. It was a fucking miracle we didn’t kill each other.”
Ianto’s realises he’s holding his breath. He’s never had confidences like this, from Jack, or John. He wonders if he can believe them.
“But you got through it,” he says, carefully.
“We did. We had no choice though - we couldn’t even kill ourselves. Life is always cheap, eye candy, don’t you ever forget that, but there - there it was free.”
Ianto has the strangest urge to lean over to John, to clasp his arm, as a brother perhaps, as a fellow human being. Possibly a little more, if he’s honest. He’s wary of his sympathy though, Torchwood’s burnt that into him. He’s not sure John would get the impulse either. He’s not sure that John wouldn’t... misunderstand.
John’s continuing, like he’s spewing words uncontrollably, now he’s started. Like he’s incapable of stopping.
“So, eventually, we knew everything about each other, hopes, dreams, memories. First times, last times, embarrassing moments, everything. I thought... I thought it meant something, and I wasn’t wrong. It meant that Jack was vulnerable, didn’t it? And what does Jack do when he’s feeling vulnerable?” John tilts his head back, raising his eyes to the sky. “You know, eye candy, don’t you? He’s still predictable, if you know him well enough. And we do know him. We’re the only ones who do.”
Ianto nods, slowly, as John’s eyes gleam, slitted against the sunlight. John’s not wrong. He supposes. Ianto’s never thought of himself and Jack like that before. But he’s not wrong.
“It meant Jack ran away as fast and as far as possible. Of course, he did. And there was poor old, little old me. Left all alone. Fuck. I’m maudlin.”
John shakes himself like a dog, and then takes a long drink, his throat working, the liquor spilling from his mouth, making a thin trail down the column of his neck. This time, Ianto has to look away.
They continue into the jungle, to a point that is indistinguishable from any other, except that suddenly John shouts for the mahout to stop. Ianto is glad he doesn’t appear to be expected to get down, their mount still seems very high. John leaps off gracefully, sword and guns rattling, and Ianto admires his style. Just for a second.
There’s a tiny spring, the colour of the dark brown loam, reflecting dark green fleshy leaves. There’s a man asleep next to it, his pale skin sallow in the dappled light. Only... Ianto swallows down more nausea, when he realises that this time they’ve found Jack’s torso, his severed neck hidden in vegetation, reducing some the horror. The elephant is uneasy, perhaps scenting the death on the air, and has to be soothed. Ianto, on its back, feels its sharp, jerky movements almost as extensions of his own feelings. He carefully leans out of the howdah, and lets his fingers trail along the wrinkled dry skin, hoping it’ll help, not really sure why it matters.
John is looking up, his eyes and mouth savage. Gone is the confiding mood of earlier. Ianto stares.
“Fuck this. Fuck this. I’ve had enough. You know I said it was a miracle we didn’t kill each other? Well, it wasn’t a miracle. You get that? We just didn’t die.”
Ianto wishes… Well. He wishes that there was something profound he could say.
***
“How many body parts is that now?”
“You’re asking me? You’re the office boy. Twelve.”
“And what’s missing?”
“After this last bit of leg? Assuming Jack’s only got ten hairy toes, then two pieces - head and balls. Could say that Jack’s always losing them.”
***
Ianto thinks he’s put all the clues together, but he’s not sure it’s helped. What is still a mystery is why? In classic whodunit parlance, he’s missing the motive. Ianto wonders whether to tell John. He might know and not be willing to explain, or he might have no idea at all, but pretend he knows everything. Ianto wouldn’t put anything past John, who’s been increasingly remote and unpredictable. He’s been surly and bad-tempered. He’s been joking less and randomly slashing things with his sword more. None of these things are good signs.
The thought drifts into Ianto’s head that he could probably soothe John the same way he uses to stop Jack jittering, when he was hurting or in pain. It occurs to him that he’d enjoy it too. But emergency blow-jobs aren’t really an option in their case, however tempting…. Ianto almost sighs. He’s glad John didn’t leave the Turkish bath dare until later on their quest, because now his resistance might be... lower than it was.
He feels sorry for John. That’s something he’s been surprised by, but nowhere near as much as he expected. He knows John would hate him for it.
Ianto watches John calibrate the next jump. He watches his brow furrow, and his teeth worry his lower lip. There’s a difficulty, but Ianto supposes that’s to be expected. These things are bound to get harder, quests always do. He’s been glad that, so far, at least, they’ve remained on Earth, although he hasn’t dared ask about when. Although, his first alien planet would have been really cool. He has a pang - secretly Ianto’s always hoped Jack might take him to an alien world at some point. He hopes he still will.
John curses, and thumps his wrist strap. Ianto winces. He’s also grateful that technology seems to be built more robustly in the future. As are the people, he supposes.
John walks over, his face like thunder. “You’re not going to like this.”
His heart sinks. “What makes you think I’ve liked any of this?” he says, trying for light, for sarcastic, for a knowing smile from John. Instead, he gets a hard stare. John slips behind him, and wraps his now familiar arms around Ianto. Ianto tries not to breathe in too much, and definitely doesn’t sink into the embrace. He glances around once more - some kind of Germanic church, all dour granite and plain marble. They’d found Jack’s leg in the font. He’s not going to ask, he’s just not. He’s not going to be sorry to leave either, he’s shivering in these light cotton clothes, even though John has found him some sort of long black buttoned overcoat, that Ianto has a terrible fear is some type of cassock.
He holds his breath as the golden haze from the vortex manipulator surrounds them both. Ianto feels like he’s almost getting blasé about jumps, as though he’s an old hand, almost as though he were a Time Agent too, as though he were partnered with John... The thought is so arresting that he stumbles as they materialise again, and John catches him tighter around the waist. It doesn’t really help his state of mind.
So it takes him several seconds to process where they are. The familiar screech of Myfanwy, disturbed from her eyrie, orients him. There’s the trickling noise from the water tower, the smells of coffee, damp and ozone filling his nose, the jumble of Victorian architecture and futuristic tech filling the room. The Hub. He’s home, at last.
“John?” He turns a little and John lets him go, a little reluctantly. “Why are we back? We haven’t finished. Some of Jack’s still out there.”
He really hopes that John hasn’t decided to renege at the last minute - because it’s not as though Ianto can do much to prevent him. He wonders where the nearest weapon might be.
“Nope,” says John, lifting his wrist, prodding at it, “Some of Jack’s in here. Took a lot of calibration. The Rift interferes. All the other bits of Jack don’t help. It’s like there’s a chronon particle party happening in his pants. He’d like that.”
The Hub is silent, apart from the usual background noises. Ianto wonders where Gwen is, and then is quite glad she can’t see him like this. They’ve been gone a long time, he supposes she might have gone home to sleep, or maybe Rhys dragged her there. Ianto thinks he had some sleep too at some point - was it in the stone hut next to the fishing hole? He didn’t remember much of that place though, he’d been too cold. He’d let John go fishing for Jack through the ice, while he’d huddled under bright plaid blankets and a quite disturbing quantity of furs.
It’s strange, after all the places they’ve seen, the Hub almost feels… small. Cramped and dark, and stifling.
Rapidly, John strides over to the pool at the base of the fountain, mercifully clear of blood, for which Ianto supposes they have Gwen to thank, and then splashes in. He stands in the pool for a second, still scanning, and then he ducks his head, his sword trailing the tip of its scabbard in the water, looking under the walkways, into the shadows. Ianto restrains himself from pointing out how filthy the water probably is, how it won’t do the leather of the boots or the lacquer of the scabbard any good at all. And then marvels at himself, it’s as though his usual mindset has come flooding back, imprinting itself on his conscious thoughts, as soon as he entered the Hub. Weird, and potentially, he realises, also somewhat stifling.
“Aha,” says John, matter of factly, and pulls out... Ianto turns away. He’d thought he’d got over his squeamishness, but apparently not.
There’s a chuckle and then, “Here, eye candy - catch!”
John wouldn’t. He apparently would. Ianto turns back, as quick as a flash, and with the skills he hasn’t entirely forgotten from rugby at school, he catches... Jack’s head. He tries not to throw up again. He doesn’t want to but he can’t ignore it, so he looks down.
Jack’s eyes are closed, and Ianto’s glad of that. He even looks peaceful, which Ianto wasn’t sure whether he should have expected, or not. Jack looks like he did when he lay dead after his battle with Abaddon, with Gwen holding his hand for three days, all pale and blue. Ianto doesn’t want to remember that time, he doesn’t really want to know whether it should have been him who was holding Jack’s hand. He’s not that kind of a person though, and he knows it, but then - he is the kind of person who would travel around the world for Jack, quest to the ends of the Earth, as it were. He swallows. Jack doesn’t care either way. Ianto knows that, it’s all in his own head, all his second-guessing. He’s holding Jack’s severed head in his hands, and yet his thoughts are still selfishly all about himself. That says something.
“Come on then,” says John, his voice impatient, angry. Ianto realises he’s been staring. He wonders what reaction John wanted from him this time. He wonders if he got it.
He trails after John, who is striding towards the autopsy bay, still staring at Jack. Ianto still doesn’t know if this is going to work - it might be that he has a little something of Gwen’s blind faith, after all. He’s clinging to that thought, he knows he is, to stop the crawling horror. He’s holding Jack’s severed head in his hands. At that moment, it’s not so hard to hate John Hart.
The medical bay is all white tiles and scrubbed shiny chrome. It smells of antiseptic, as ever, and Ianto’s nose wrinkles. He watches as John adjusts something on his wrist strap and suddenly, there are all the parts they’ve collected, revolving slowly in the suspension field. John abruptly switches it off and they thump down in an ungainly heap on the metal trolley. Ianto winces, knowing John’s doing this deliberately, but not rising to the bait. He walks down the steps, slowly and carefully, and without looking at John, without trying to think or even see much of anything, he begins to sort them out. A forearm there, a hand, a shin, Jack’s torso. He lays down the head first, reverently, at the top of the trolley, and if his hand happens to brush its forehead in a caress, well, that’s no-one’s business other than his own.
It doesn’t take long. Ianto steps back and eyes his handiwork, feeling useless, feeling like he’s been laying Jack out for his funeral, not his rebirth. It doesn’t matter how many times he’s seen Jack come back - there’s always a first time that he won’t. And there’s that missing piece. The part of Jack that he’d most loathe to lose.
They both stand there in silence, and it’s probably awkward, except that something’s niggling at Ianto, at the corners of his mind. He’d thought he’d understood what the mystery was about, but there’s something else, something he’s forgotten - it’s been a long time since he read up on Egyptian mythology. Anyway, he’s not the hand-holding type, remember? He can’t stay here, like this. Abruptly, he turns on his heel and goes back up the steps and heads for his work station. He doesn’t think about John, or about Jack either, because a piece of research blessedly needs his attention, and this time, after far too long, it seems, he finally feels more like himself.
The myth of Osiris, and of Set, that’s what he’s been remembering - Set trapping Osiris in an air-tight box, and flinging him in the Nile. When Isis, his wife, goes searching for his body, to make absolutely certain of his death, Set divides Osiris into, yes, fourteen pieces. And... Ianto raises his head. And she never finds the fourteenth piece - his penis - but fashions a replacement for him out of gold. Oh dear.
Perhaps it’s inappropriate of him, but Ianto finds himself smiling. Jack certainly wouldn’t like that.
John’s been awfully quiet, and now Ianto has time to breathe, he wonders how all this is affecting him. It must be, surely? John is still such a wild card, and although he knows John’s done terrible things - Ianto doesn’t doubt it really - he does... love Jack. In the privacy of his own mind Ianto can think about that, can consider it. Ianto can even own up to the possibility that he... might feel similarly. But wild horses wouldn’t get either of them to admit it aloud.
Ianto’s staring into the middle distance when it happens. The Rift Manipulator alarm goes crazy, making him jump, and sending little tingles of goose-bumps up and down his arms. His heart is thumping like a drum. It must be a major Rift effect, it’s like the air is magnetised, tightening his skin, and he starts to go towards the Manipulator, before realising that the flashy glitter of lights are instead coming from the medical bay - Jack!
There’s a laugh then, John’s horribly familiar barking laugh, full of irony and despair, and Ianto stops hating John, stops feeling sorry for him, and just worries for him. They’ve shared a lot over the last days. He breaks into a run.
Ianto doesn’t know what to expect when he skids onto the walkway, hastily snatched up gun in his hand, but it’s not this. Not another alien, two of them in fact, although one of them is the by-now familiar blowfish. Perhaps he shouldn’t be so blasé about them, but Ianto’s almost disappointed, it’s just one more alien, humanoid, dressed in a white robe, with a long snout and tall square ears. It reminds him of… of course. The Typhonic Beast. Well, he’s glad something’s making sense.
John is looking, well, in someone other than John, Ianto would call it anxious. But that can’t be right, can it? It’s enough however, his own skin is crawling from Rift effect, and John is scared of this thing, and that’s plenty; Ianto pulls the trigger. It has no effect. He might have bloody known.
The beast laughs then, or what presumably passes for it among his species, and the blowfish giggles, in obscene echoing parody.
“Your weapons have no effect,” it intones, and Ianto rolls his eyes.
“I am Apep, the Snake, the Devourer of the Sun. And I have had my revenge!” It’s voice slowly rises in tone and volume. It pushes the trolley upon which Jack is lying and its wheels screech as they shift. Apep turns to John then, and… grins? With the length of snout and number of teeth, it’s hard to tell. “And YOU! You have escaped punishment long enough.”
“Umm. Yeah. About that…” says John.
“No more! No more arguments. No more excuses. This…” Apep pushes the trolley again, “Is a clear betrayal of our agreement.”
Ianto wishes his gun worked, he wants shoot John himself. Fucking typical. He should have known better than to even begin to trust him. What was he thinking?
“Well,” says John, beginning to smirk, “That might be true, if I’d ever agreed to anything. I don’t count threats, been there, done that, got the Perulian glass shirt.”
He walks around the trolley, closer to the beast. It lifts up the device it’s holding, presumably a weapon. John doesn’t seem to care. “Did you like my performance - ooh, I’m so scared, don’t hurt me, you big bad monster - I impressed myself, I have to say.” He glances up at Ianto, and is that… apology in his eyes.
“What?” says Apep, as John stalks even nearer. “WHAT! You dare…”
“Of course, I dare. Oh dear, did you not realise? I had to get you through the Rift, didn’t I? I had to get you to manifest somewhere in my control. Or how am I going to kill you?”
“You are a worm beneath my heel! I will crush you where you stand! You will feel the Jackals of Anubis tearing your liver for a thousand years!”
“Blah, blah, shall we get on with it?”
John looks at the blowfish minion and it looks back. Apep raises its weapon, Ianto wonders if he should duck.
“Now!” Apep and John scream together.
There’s a blur of movement, Ianto thinks that John has drawn his sword, it glitters in the air, and John is spinning, spinning... There’s a crackle, and a haze of heat, the creature is laughing, as it tracks John’s movements. It’s gait is strange - alien - and Ianto tries firing again. It still doesn’t work. He has a fleeting desire for his hockey stick before heading down the steps, towards the shifting, twisting not-quite-fight, knowing that’s it’s stupid, knowing that he’s going to get himself killed, but being incapable of leaving John to his fate, he can’t let him die alone... John’s not immortal, after all.
There are scalpels on a tray, there always are, and Ianto grabs one, and for a fleeting second his eyes are away from the battle. In that moment, there’s a gasp, a lurching kind of hiss, and Ianto turns back around to see... John is falling, clutching at his side, the sword clattering with a sharp ringing sound to the floor. John’s lying still on the tiles - just like Tosh, Ianto’s horrified mind supplies - and he runs forward with a yell. He’s not letting anyone else die, not on his watch, not if he can help it. The beast swings around and Ianto watches the snout of its weapon arc towards him terribly slowly, knowing it’s his last second or two of life, and not caring, knowing he’s done his best, and fought the good fight, although filled with a fleeting sadness that he won’t be able to say goodbye to Jack…
There’s a giggle then, bizarre and odd to Ianto’s heightened senses, and suddenly there’s purple fluid spreading on the white robe of the beast. With a horrible screeching grunt, and as though it’s in slow motion, the creature falls, toppling irresistibly towards Ianto as he desperately tries to halt his forward momentum. He manages to slide sideways as it falls past him, landing with a light crunching sound that belies its heavy looking build. Ianto is left staring at the blowfish, which is still giggling, and clutching a wicked looking serrated knife, its blade black, except where purple ichor is dripping slowly to the floor.
“Oh, what a nasty surprise, the master gets!” says the blowfish, “Do you think the eye candy was worried? Is he next on the list, he is asking himself? Does Captain Hart require witnesses disposing of, he is thinking with his bright little monkey mind!”
Ianto stares and wonders, what is it about this species?
There’s a slow clap, from the floor, and Ianto turns, sharply. John’s there, grinning, still bleeding, and while Ianto can’t deny that’s he’s seen him looking better, he’s also undeniably alive. The intense relief is rather startling.
It’s funny though. Ianto finds he’s quite comfortable with that. As it turns out.
***
“So, what the bloody hell was that all about?” Ianto asks, later, as John is sitting on a rickety metal chair, still in the medical bay, having the shallow graze in his side stitched up. He’s laughing, silently, and his eyes are sparkling. Ianto’s not sure if it’s the endorphins, the really good drugs, or just the sheer lunacy that seems to be a time agent’s lot in life. Both John and Jack have the weirdest sense of humour sometimes, Ianto’s noticed.
“Oh, it’s a long story,” says John, and then laughs again, a snorting choke, before he winces, as Ianto pushes in the needle a little too forcibly.
“Tell me,” says Ianto, “Or I’ll…”
“Yes, yes. Don’t nag, it doesn’t suit you.” He pauses, and Ianto watches him. “I suppose it all started when I was minding my own business somewhere in New Zealand, I think - boring place, nothing ever happens, did you know they actually have news reports about lost sheep? - and this chummy, Apep, pops up and starts threatening me. Nothing new there, I’ve been threatened by experts, but it seemed best to play along. Seemed that he knew I’d worked with Jack, seemed like he thought I’d know where he was. When he was, even. That was worse.”
John doesn’t pause this time, so much as wait. Like he’s thinking of a place very far away. Or a memory he’s dragging out of the depths. Ianto doesn’t want to interrupt.
“I suppose… I suppose it doesn’t really start there. I suppose it starts back when Jack was a child, when he was a boy with a brother he adored, living on a frontier planet, right in the line of a conquering fleet of a ships that belonged to a species calling themselves the Osirans. Of course, it was some kind of internal feud, Jack’s planet wasn’t even important, but the Osirans still destroyed it, killing almost everybody, except for a few they took for slaves. Or for pleasure in their torture. They weren’t nice or kind, right? You get that?
It turned out that the leader of this fleet was an unpleasant fellow by the name of Sutekh, and his loyal second-in-command was Apep - do you see where I’m going with this? - and that they had a primitive form of time travel. Oh, not a patch on the vortex manipulator, but it did the job. Sutekh had gone mad, by this time, wanted to destroy all life in the universe or some such, and the other Osiran leaders, however unpleasant, didn’t want that, so they hunted him, all 740 of them, across the universe, and across time.”
Ianto holds his breath. It’s the longest story he’s ever got out of John, out of Jack, and he’s glad he’s finished stitching John up, because he’s not sure he’d be giving it the attention it deserved. He hasn’t moved away though, John is very close. John looks up at him through his lashes and Ianto swallows.
“Now this bit,” says John, “Now this bit might be my fault, but how was I to know? I thought I was doing Jack a favour. I went and found Jack’s adored baby brother, because I thought it might make him forgive me.” John looks down again, talks to Ianto’s cotton covered middle. “I thought we’d be a family again. But Gray wasn’t himself, he’d been tortured by the Osirans for too long. Sutekh’s creatures had twisted him into a warped image of themselves, but I didn’t realise, not in time. I talked to him, you know? Telling him about Jack, how much he’d missed him, how long he’d looked for him, how he’d done so well for himself. How he couldn’t ever die.”
John clears his throat, and Ianto wants to be angry with him, remembering everything that Gray put them all through, what he made John do. That Gray killed Tosh and Owen. He wants to be angry, but he can’t. If he could have, wouldn’t Ianto have looked for Jack’s little brother, if he’d known? Of course, he would.
“So - Gray doesn’t want a nice reunion, and he takes the information to Sutekh, because he wants his own revenge, doesn’t he? He wants to destroy everything that Jack has ever held dear, and he knows Sutekh has the means to do that. Telling this mad Osiran about a being who cannot ever die? It did the job, can’t deny that. Sutekh’s all fired up, he wants to destroy Jack, so he heads for Earth, being followed by the 740 Osiran’s who are trying to bring him down. He misses the time window by a mile, can’t say I’m surprised, and gets caught in Earth’s solar system, thousands of years in your past.”
John laughs and leans forward, his forehead resting against Ianto’s stomach, “Fuck, eye candy, what am I saying? I’m babbling. What the hell did you give me?”
Ianto, without asking himself what he is doing, lifts his hand, and runs it lightly, soothingly, through John’s hair. It’s surprisingly soft. John leans into the caress like a cat, but he still doesn’t stop.
“The Osirans defeated Sutekh, and imprisoned him on Mars as punishment, although he was killed finally a lot later in your history, I think, maybe I’ll go find out what happened some time... Anyway - Sutekh still had followers who weren’t captured, unfortunately, and that’s where our friend Apep comes in. He tracked me down, in New Zealand, like I said - the sheep-herders get really lonely there, you know? - and I thought I could play along, until I could get away. I even lent him my current minion to keep an eye on him. I never expected...”
John lifts his head, Ianto’s hands still in his hair, and Ianto catches his breath at the sheer pain in his face. John surges up, his hands on Ianto’s hips for balance. They are very nearly eye to eye.
“I thought I’d get to Jack to warn him, in time. I didn’t mean... I wouldn’t... Not any more.”
There’s a pause then. Ianto can hear John breathing, feel it even, they’re so close they’re almost breathing the same air, really. John’s hands are at his waist, Ianto’s have slipped to his shoulders. It would be so easy to just lean forward. Ianto’s heart is beating harder than a drum. He smells like Jack. And Ianto likes him, he really does. He hadn’t expected that either.
“Truth or dare,” says Ianto, at last, wrenching the words out, and John smiles, sadly, wryly. Is it his imagination, or is there a hint of resignation there as well?
“My turn,” whispers John, and Ianto nods. The seconds pass and Ianto can’t look away. He’s in a special kind of agony, wondering what John will ask, what he’ll dare…
“Does Jack love you?”
The question’s not even a surprise, somehow. They’re so close their hair could almost tangle, if it was a little longer. There’s no lying, even if Ianto thought he could try, besides, he doesn’t even want to.
“Did Jack love you?” he counters, and John blinks, slowly, lazily, and Ianto might have been fooled once, but not any more.
It’s a poor sort of triumph, and Ianto’s not even sure what it is that he’s won, but John pulls away. Ianto heaves a huge breath, as though he’s been running, and sits down rather suddenly in the vacated chair.
John is ambling around the medical bay, relaxed and casual. He’d fool anyone else, Ianto thinks, and wonders when he got so good at reading these things. He wishes he could give John something. A consolation prize. Something his pride could accept.
John stops, his hand on the door to the cryo-freezing units, he’s tapping it, pensively maybe, only again, Ianto thinks, maybe not.
“Do something for me, yeah? Because you forfeited, right? You owe me a dare.” John’s eyes gleam, and Ianto swallows, feeling like it’s always walking through a minefield with him, just like with Jack. They’re so similar in many ways. And he knows he’s the only person who would ever think that.
“Kill Gray.”
Ianto sucks in a startled exclamation. He didn’t expect it, and yet... He knew it wasn’t going to be an easy thing, because they’re way past that. But even so, killing Jack’s beloved brother… Jack would kill Ianto, if he found out, if he knew. Fuck.
“I thought you didn’t want me going to rehab,” Ianto tries, going for light-hearted, failing at it miserably, and John grins, without humour.
“If he ever wakes up… When he wakes up, Gray will do worse than before. Much worse. He’ll never stop. And Jack won’t be able to prevent it. I tried to tell him.”
Ianto knows John’s right. There are a lot of ifs in there, but he isn’t wrong. Ianto shivers, and holds the folds of his coat closer to his body. Ianto isn’t in charge of the cryo-freezing chambers, but they don’t currently have a doctor who is. Someone has to look after them, try to maintain them. And if that person wasn’t trained, then they could easily make an error, couldn’t they? And Jack might forgive them, in time. And even if the person was never forgiven, something like this, a hard decision - really, it’s just disposing of a rabid dog, justice for Tosh, for Owen, but still murder - well, that might be something somebody did so that the person he loved would know he’d never have to face it. That might be something worthwhile, even if the person paid for it. Even if he regretted the consequences.
Ianto shakes his head. He’s going in circles with his metaphors, his prevarications. It’s actually pretty simple.
He looks up at John, leaning casually, taut as a wire. John’s mouth is pulled down, sombre, frowning. Ianto is sure he is the same. They’ve chased all over the world for the most important man in their lives. In the end, this is such a little thing.
“Yes,” says Ianto, and nods his head. “Trust me.”
It’s funny, but somehow Ianto thinks that John does.
***
Epilogue
“You’re awake,” says Ianto, and smoothes the hair back from Jack’s brow.
It’s not something to be proud of, not really, but Ianto’s glad that this time, at least, he’s the one holding Jack’s hand. He’ll call Gwen, in just a minute, in just a little while. She’s pottering, checking the Rift, filing reports, whatever. She won’t begrudge him this.
Jack’s finally gasped into life, after days, but Ianto can’t blame him. There’s been a lot to fix. But it’s not like the time with Abaddon - they’ve been able to see the healing going on slowly, as Jack’s body knits itself back together. It’s been a hopeful process, really.
Jack blinks at him, from the cocoon of blankets they’ve wrapped around him, and Ianto’s heart stutters a little, as Jack asks, “How long was I out?”
“Four days, from when the healing process was begun, several more before that to collect the pieces,” says Ianto.
“Do I even want to know?” asks Jack, with a lift of his eyebrows.
“Not really,” Ianto says, smiling, because some of it was hilarious, after all. “You should be grateful we found the last piece though.”
He waggles his eyebrows suggestively and Jack breaks into a huge grin. “Oh, really! Would I have been singing with the girls?”
“I’m sure you’d have enjoyed it. Count yourself lucky that blowfish are apparently a vegetarian species - there was something in the myth about being nibbled by fishes.”
Jack laughs, a rusty sound, but Ianto thinks it’s the best thing he’s heard in days. But then he finds himself saying, almost without volition, “John helped us.”
He watches Jack’s face cloud, as he frowns. He finds it in himself to mourn that, to want Jack to meet the John he travelled with. He wants him to forgive John. Jack forgave Ianto, after all. Once.
“Never mind,” Ianto says, his voice rough.
And he bends down to welcome Jack home, kissing him hungrily, sliding his tongue into Jack’s eagerly opening mouth. Jack tastes of river water, of cool damp places, but Ianto doesn’t care. Jack will warm up soon enough, will smell again of spices, and exotic worlds, and alien bazaars. If he’s lucky, Ianto might even show him the photo Gwen took on her camera phone, of Ianto as he might have been, of Ianto looking like a Time Agent, if they’d ever recruited from a backwater like Earth.
It’ll make Jack laugh, Ianto knows. That’s all that really matters.