Fic - Torchwood Big Bang: Shattered in Aspect 1/5 [PG-15] TW/HL/DW crossover
Title: Shattered In Aspect
Author: A Lanart
Beta: idontlikegravy
Artist: idontlikegravy
Characters/Pairing(s): Torchwood Team and CoE characters, Methos and Joe from Highlander: The Series, OFC and the Doctor.
Pairings: Gwen/Rhys, Jack/Ianto, Ianto/Methos, Jack/Methos, (background of Methos/Jack/Ianto)
Rating: PG-15 (M)
Word Count: 28,120
Warnings: It’s a non-fixit Children of Earth story - character Death. Lots of Angst; tissues might be required.
Disclaimer: Not Mine! Everything you recognise belongs to either the BBC or Panzer/Davis
Summary: Methos, Jack and Ianto deal with events - and each other - both during, and in the aftermath of the 5 days that changed their world.
Author's Notes: : Crossover with Highlander: The Series and Doctor Who (set in my ongoing AU, The Mystery verse).
Some dialogue from Days 2-5 of CoE is used in the fic.
The title is from the song ‘Shattered in Aspect’ by Faith and the Muse, as is the longer quote near the end. Other quotes are from the song ‘No Time to Cry’ by the Sisters of Mercy.
Each part takes place on a separate Day of Children of Earth, starting from Day 2 and continuing beyond Day 5.
Shattered in Aspect
Day 2
~*~
~ No time for heartache ~
*
It was a long time since Methos had ridden - or been - the Nightmare, even in his dreams. When he woke in the darkness of his London flat with his heart pounding and his mouth dry his first reaction was to check that his sword was within reach and that there were no unexpected... visitors. The vague sense of foreboding and horror that accompanied his awakening was soon quashed by the realities that ensured his continued survival; 5000 years was a long time to have been alive, and Methos had no intention of dying - especially not when he had two bloody good reasons for his continued good health living in Cardiff. Satisfied that he wasn’t likely to lose his head if he went to sleep, Methos crawled back into bed, silently commiserating with himself about how cold and unwelcoming it seemed without the warmth of Jack or Ianto - but preferably Jack *and* Ianto - to chase away the loneliness. As he drifted back into sleep he considered - not for the first time - packing in his lucrative job at the museum and moving lock, stock and barrel to Cardiff. So far his head had won that battle over his heart, but Methos was becoming more convinced every day that his heart had the right idea. He sleepily resolved to begin looking into it the next day.
Still somewhat bleary eyed in the morning, Methos didn’t bother switching on his television when he was making his morning coffee and decided to forego the annoying cheeriness of the breakfast radio show in his car in favour of waking himself up by giving his ear drums a good blast of Muse. At work, everyone else seemed to be running late so he hooked up his ipod and decided to grab a 10 minute cat nap. Consequently, it was almost 9am by the time someone switched on the TV in the break room of the museum.
By five past nine Methos was back in his car, breaking every speed limit possible and more than a few other traffic laws besides. He didn’t care. There was no rational thought involved; just the sheer, overwhelming need to be *there* and not where he happened to be at that moment.
*
Ianto’s heart was pounding as he made his way as close to the Plass as he dared. He needed to see - needed to *know* - if Jack had survived at least semi-intact. It was all very well for Jack to say he could survive anything, but Ianto was fairly certain he’d never had a high-yield explosive device implanted in his body before. What he saw chilled him to the bone and made him very glad he had nothing left in his stomach; the body bag they were carrying from the wreckage was less than a third full and looked more like it contained butchers off-cuts than human body parts - if Jack could still be classed as human. Ianto forced himself to watch; there was nothing he could do now - there were too many people, too many guards - but if he could just get his hands on a laptop, he might have a chance. The registration number of the private ambulance was a place to start as even if it wasn’t in the official database he had ways and means of discovering its history. While he wasn’t quite in the same league as Tosh had been, his knowledge of software design and security systems was more than adequate to get the job done, thanks to his time with the Watchers. There was just the issue of obtaining a computer and much as he hated to involve them further, right here and right now he only had one place to turn...
There was a pay phone round the corner from the newsagent that surprisingly never seemed to get excessively vandalised. Outsiders didn’t understand how or why, considering the condition of the rest of the estate at times, but Ianto knew it was because it was still a lifeline for so many people - after all what did you do when the credit ran out on your mobile 3 days before your next money came in or your land line was cut off because you’d decided to feed the kids instead of paying the bills? Fairly much everything else was fair game, but this phone - this one phone on the whole estate - *always* worked, protected by the very gangs that caused so much trouble elsewhere.
Ianto was glad to see that the phone appeared to have been ignored by the surveillance team - they were more interested in watching Rhiannon’s house - so while he waited for the paper boy to show up he would be able to make the phone call he’d been desperately wanting to since the bomb that destroyed the Hub - and Jack with it - had exploded. His fingers trembled as he dug loose change from his pocket; by now Methos would have seen the news, and know that someone had tried to annihilate Torchwood. The thought of how Methos might react skirted the edge of terrifying, while at the same time the possibilities stirred darkly satisfying thoughts of vengeance deep within Ianto. He tapped in the number, and cursed furiously under his breath in frustration when the call wasn’t picked up. He considered not leaving a message, but decided that Methos needed to know that he, at least, was alive.
“It’s Ianto. I’ll call you back.”
*
“At fucking *last*!” Trying to escape the gridlock that was central London had been seven kinds of hell for Methos so his resulting shout when he finally reached the open road and could put his foot down was compounded of equal parts of frustration and relief, heavily leavened by his all consuming and ever present need.
The part of Methos that could still think was surprised that he hadn’t been pulled up by a member of the traffic police with nothing better to do than harass distressed citizens. Most of him didn’t care. The Jaguar was a car that was made for speed and he took every advantage of that, eating up the miles as fast as he could. It wasn’t fast enough. It would never be fast enough.
His phone chose that moment to ring, but the voice that met his ears when he answered wasn’t either of the ones he so desperately wanted to hear; Irish, not Welsh or American, and certainly not male. Even so, Siannon O’Niall was a good friend, and probably almost as worried as he was.
“Did you see the news this morning?” She asked
“I saw the news.”
There was a pause, and a whispered ‘shit’ that he presumed he wasn’t meant for him, then a deep breath.
“Tell me you’re not on your way to Cardiff,” she demanded.
“I am not on my way to Cardiff.”
“Methos! You’re driving; I can hear the road noise. Where the fuck *are* you?”
She sounded increasingly desperate, which twisted the knife in his guts just that little bit more, so he glanced at the sat nav which he had been studiously ignoring as it only told him how slowly he was going.
“On the M4. Near Reading.”
“Then get *off* the fucking motorway and book yourself into a hotel or something.”
“Give me one good reason why I should! Someone blew up the Hub last night. Jack *lives* in the bloody place and Ianto... Ianto was probably there too!”
“The news said there were survivors.” He could hear the hope in her voice both offering and asking for reassurance. He had none to give.
“Two! I have to know...” He was prevented from saying more by her yelling at him.
“Methos! Think!”
There was the sound of another deep breath from the other end of the line. Methos thought she was probably trying to calm herself down. He silently wished her luck.
“Listen to me,” she continued. “If someone wanted Torchwood out of the way enough to blow the Hub sky high then they’re going to be watching the bloody place like hawks. The best thing we can do for them is keep away. You go to Cardiff now and you’ll only be putting yourself - and them - at risk.”
“I’m immortal.”
“Yeah, and so’s Jack. But Ianto isn’t, and neither is Gwen. Will you use your head before you lose it, for fuck’s sake?!”
Methos had to agree that Siannon actually had a point no matter how much it killed him inside to admit it. Time for his head to try and regain some control over his heart, he supposed. He drew a shaky breath, perilously close to breaking down.
"I’m taking the next turn off. I’ll call you back when I’m set up somewhere."
“Make sure you do. Just... Be careful, old man.”
Methos ended the call without answering her, probably cruel of him he knew, but the hitch in Siannon’s voice had rendered him almost incapable of speech as it echoed the way he felt. He was lucky to find somewhere to pull over almost immediately after leaving the motorway and switched the engine off as he relaxed into the seat, trembling with reaction. Two survivors, only two... Shit. Shit. Shit.
The insistent warbling of his phone broke into his reverie and he was about to yell at Siannon for ringing him back unnecessarily when he noticed that the number was one he didn’t recognise... with a Cardiff code. He grabbed the phone like it was a lifeline.
“Yes?” He answered cautiously, with heart in his mouth. Hoping... hoping.
“Methos.” Ianto sounded battered and weary and Methos had never been so glad to hear it. He was alive, and that was the important thing.
“Ianto...” Methos couldn’t manage to coerce his lips into forming another word, not even the other name he wanted to murmur like a verbal caress into the silence between them. Then he wondered if Ianto had heard anyway as a faint almost-whimper reached his ears.
Ianto regained his voice before Methos did.
“Tell me you aren’t in Cardiff. Please,” he begged. Methos was more than happy to tell the truth without evasion for a change.
“I’m near Reading.”
“Oh thank god.” There was muffled metallic sounding slither followed by a soft thump and a quiet yelp from Ianto.
“Ianto!”
“I’m OK. I’m OK - just some cuts and bruises.”
Methos breathed a sigh of relief and finally found the voice to ask the question he’d been afraid to, not knowing what sort of answer he would receive.
“Jack?” He asked, realising that if he found it so difficult to ask, Ianto would find it more so to answer. Could he? If Ianto was brave enough to tell him, then he would damn well be brave enough to listen. His quickening shivered within him.
There was an unintelligible crackle from the phone, and a sigh from Ianto.
“Ground zero. They put the bomb inside him - he was... blown apart. I saw... I saw them pull him out. He wasn’t... whole.”
“Shit.”
Methos had died in myriad ways in his 5000 years, but he had never been literally blown apart. He didn’t think he could *survive* being blown apart. A sword wasn’t the only way to remove someone’s head from their shoulders; it was merely the most efficient.
Ianto ploughed on, his voice full of anxious optimism.
“Jack’ll make it though, he’s not like you. He said he could survive anything.”
“I only hope he’s right.” And Methos did; he hoped with such fervency that it made his throat ache and his eyes burn. But there was another person in all this, and for all he might pretend not to care, he had to know about her, too. “Gwen?”
“She got out, but we were separated.” There was another muffled sound that Methos couldn’t make out, and Ianto’s next words sounded almost breathless. “Look, I’ve got to go. Stay away, Methos. Promise me.”
Ianto had never asked him for anything that he couldn’t give, but the demand for that particular promise came very close, and Methos found himself wavering.
“I...”
“Methos. *Please*.”
In the end it was that simple and there was no avoiding it.
“I promise,” Methos whispered. “Now get out of there.”
“I intend to.” Methos couldn’t help but smile at the hint of Ianto’s understated stubbornness. “And...and I’ll find Jack. For us both.”
“Ianto...” The phone went dead - the call disconnected before Methos could say anything else - and he threw it away from him in disgust and despair, clinging onto the steering wheel until his knuckles turned white. He hadn’t meant to fall quite so far or so fast - he never did - but he had, and now he was living with the consequences. Methos let his head sink down between his hands until it was resting on the central part of the steering wheel and took deep shuddering breaths that were only half a step away from sobbing.
*
As the Vectra swung around the last corner into the base of the quarry Ianto thought he’d never seen anything as beautiful as the sight of a very much alive and kicking Jack Harkness, even clad as he was in nothing except concrete dust and chains. It made all the lies, all the deceit and all the *heartache* of the day pale into insignificance and Ianto knew he’d do the same and more all over again if he had to. It was Jack, and there was no way Ianto would *ever* give up on him, not while there was breath in his body. The helpless fury that had raged through Ianto as he’d watched Jack encased in his concrete prison had now abated into a quieter but no less powerful joy and he didn’t even try to hide the smile on his face as he clambered out of the car. Jack was alive and whole; truly a sight for sore eyes. Ianto breathed a sigh of relief and whispered a silent and heartfelt thank-you to the god he wasn’t sure he believed in any more.
He’d been half afraid to hope, despite Jack saying he could survive anything, but what Jack had laughingly called - on more than one occasion - his good old Welsh stubbornness had paid off. With dividends. Ianto had never been so glad of his stubborn streak in his life; this time the relief that he’d succeeded felt pure and honest, unsullied by the acrid taste of betrayal.
Jack for his part, seemed determined to at least try to maintain the semblance of professionalism despite his current lack of attire; there were no words of thanks, just concern about the situation. Ianto said nothing and allowed Jack the physical distance, but the look he received as Jack limped past him, Rhys’ jacket slung carelessly over one shoulder, was heavy with a plethora of unexpressed emotion. Ianto closed his eyes briefly as his next breath shuddered through him in response, then silently made his own way to the car and the next step in their perilous dance for survival.
*
The evening sunlight was pouring through the windows of the hotel bar, making the dust motes sparkle, when Methos felt the long expected whisper of immortal presence along his nerves. The door banged open and the sound of urgent footsteps echoed weirdly in the still air, coming to a halt next to him. He didn’t look up, or acknowledge Siannon’s presence in any way, until she placed a gentle hand on his shoulder, and squeezed. So much was conveyed in that simple gesture that to continue ignoring her would have been rude to say the least as well as needlessly cruel, and he didn’t want to be that person, not any more. The hand that wasn’t wrapped around his drink found its way to lie over hers, and return the clasp. She kissed his temple, and he briefly rested his cheek against their joined hands. He let his hand fall, and the comforting weight of hers lifted from his shoulder; the important things all said in those fleeting touches. Silently, she reached over the bar to grab an empty glass and settled herself onto the seat beside him. Methos poured a generous slug of whisky from the bottle in front of him into both their glasses. There wasn’t much left in the bottle even though it had been full when he’d started drinking, and he still felt distressingly almost-sober. He knocked back another mouthful; maybe now he had company he would be able to find some oblivion in the alcohol even if it hadn’t yet worked for him. He rolled the glass between his hands, watching the movement of the amber liquid as it slopped against the side with each turn. He could feel her gaze boring into him, but he didn’t raise his head, just concentrated on the glass in his hands. In return she said nothing, but the quality of her silence weighed on him, asking him to speak without ever uttering a single word. In the end, he complied; it seemed appropriate.
“Time was I could live quite happily without thinking about what passes for life in the so-called real world. It didn’t affect me, it wasn’t *my* life and I had no interest in it beyond the academic. Sometimes I wonder when that changed, *why* it changed and the answer is always the same; people. Wonderful, stubborn, beautiful, foolish, terrifying people. My major weakness.”
“And your greatest strength,” Siannon murmured.
At that, he did raise his head, and gave her a twisted smile as he met her eyes.
“You would say that.”
She put her glass down with a thump, hard enough for the whisky to slosh over the side. Methos winced; if she was being that careless about what was actually a pretty decent whisky she was more distraught - and possibly angrier - than he’d initially thought. He hoped if it *was* anger, that it wasn’t directed at him; he didn’t have the strength or the inclination to deal with it.
“Because it’s true, Methos,” she hissed. “It’s what makes you human - it’s what makes us *all* human.”
Methos sighed. It wasn’t just anger colouring her voice, it was frustration, futility and pain. He knew the bitter taste of that.
“Maybe I don’t want to be human any longer,” he whispered, as he turned away from her once more. The weight of her hand on his face and in his hair was unexpected, her touch soothing. He closed his eyes as some of the tension left his body with the gentle brush of her fingers.
“I don’t believe that for a minute,” she said, her voice as gentle as her touch, but still insistent. “If it was true you wouldn’t be trying to bury yourself at the bottom of a bottle in an effort to avoid feeling powerless.”
“You see too much.”
Her hand drifted down across his neck, a hint of her quickening tingling against his skin, before she withdrew. It was a reminder of who - and what - they were.
“I know you, Methos, and I know that feeling well... Far too well - especially now.”
This time he reached for her, their fingers tangling where they rested on the bar, trying to ensure she knew that he understood everything neither of them could say.
“Bloody Torchwood,” Methos snarled under his breath.
“Yeah. Bloody Torchwood.” Siannon raised her glass and clinked it against his. It was an odd sort of toast, but it covered everything Methos felt - the helplessness, the hope and the fear. He wasn’t bothered about the political manoeuvring he knew would be going on behind closed doors as the rise and fall of governments was just background noise in his life, but he *was* bothered by how it was affecting those he cared about. The fact that there were people he cared about - who he *loved* if he was honest with himself - and who cared about him, stuck in the middle of the whole crazy situation made it personal, and so much more difficult to bear. Methos hadn’t done ‘personal’ like this for a long time - he’d forgotten how much it *hurt*.
*
Twilight was drawing in with a vengeance when Gwen pulled the Vectra in to a service station. It was fairly busy and Ianto hoped that would give them relative anonymity as they made the brief but essential stop on their way to what he hoped would be safety. Even the fear that their destination might *not* be the haven they needed could not put the dampers on the joy that he felt to have Jack next to him in the car alive and well, or as well as he could be in Rhys’ spare clothes and a pair of stolen shoes. He was also glad that Jack had seemed content to let him cling to his hand during their journey without making a comment about it, though Ianto suspected he was just glad of the human contact - Jack had been hanging onto him almost as tightly. They’d sat in near silence, communicating only with the odd glance and the gentle brush of a thumb over their clasped hands when speaking hadn’t been necessary. Ianto hadn’t pushed for more, he hadn’t felt he could *find* the words to express how he felt, never mind say them with Rhys and Gwen listening
Jack and Gwen stayed in the car as Rhys jumped out to refuel it. They all kept their heads down, trying to avoid the inevitable CCTV. Ianto had his own target as he made his way across the forecourt - the phone box at the side of the shop. Sensible or not, he *had* to let Methos know they were out of harm’s way for the time being. Jack hadn’t argued against the suggestion when Ianto had broached the subject, the look in his eyes giving Ianto all the encouragement he needed. Ianto wished he dared to ask for Methos’ help, but he couldn’t afford that risk; he and Jack both needed to know that the immortal was safe. Methos was their lifeline and he - unlike Jack - wasn’t completely indestructible. Despite that need, Ianto shuddered to think about what must be going through Methos’ head and hoped that he wasn’t alone as the waiting would otherwise be intolerable. The phone box lured him with its siren song of promised anonymity and Ianto found his steps quickening; he was desperate to hear Methos’ voice and to know that he at least was safe amidst all the chaos and destruction.
*
The phone rested on the table between Methos and Siannon, an unwelcome and silent witness to the fact that neither of them had any idea what was truly going on and whether Ianto and the others were still alive. The radio and TV were rife with speculation, but had nothing concrete to say on the matter. Both had been switched off to save them being destroyed by either blade or gun and the hotel staff were sensibly staying away except when called upon. The original whisky bottle stood forlorn and empty and they’d made inroads on a second, though at present their glasses stood empty.
“We should try to get some sleep,” Siannon said. Her eyes were burning with fatigue and Methos didn’t look any better than she felt.
“Do you really think you could? If you do you’re more of an optimist than I am.”
Siannon had to admit he had a point. Despite the fact that she needed sleep, *wanted* sleep, she knew it would likely prove elusive. The demons of ‘what if’ would be unwilling to let her rest and her imagination would provide the rest. She shuddered to think how much worse it would be for Methos; Ianto was only her friend - albeit almost as close as family - and Jack was... Jack, he didn’t fit into definitions easily. To Methos they were more than that, so much more. She squeezed her eyes shut for a moment against the pain she felt for her oldest friend. She would stay, and keep vigil with him; it was the least she could do. He’d done the same for her before, as she had for him, and they no doubt would again in the future but this time the waiting was all the more painful because of the thread of hope that Jack’s very existence offered.
The phone shrilled, almost vibrating off the table before Methos grabbed it, meeting Siannon’s eyes with ill concealed hope. She gave him a tight smile and raised her crossed fingers, offering a silent prayer to any deity that might be watching.
The first words Methos said, after his near-barked ‘yes?’ gave her the answer.
“Ianto... *Ianto*...”
*
Ianto cradled the receiver for a moment, as if he was literally holding Methos in his arms, and then carefully replaced it. He glanced around; Rhys was crossing the forecourt to pay for the petrol which meant it was time for Ianto to get back to the car. He wished he’d been able to spend more time on the phone, to give Methos more than the terse reassurance that they were alive, and safe for now. The best thing to come out of the brief conversation was the knowledge that Methos wasn’t alone. Maybe now Jack would be able to rest, maybe they both would. Somehow Ianto doubted it, even with Gwen and Rhys determinedly sharing the driving with each other. He slid into the back seat next to Jack once more, and met his eyes. There was no way he could avoid answering the unspoken question, not when he so desperately needed to share the news anyway.
“He’s OK. Siannon’s with him.” Jack reached out and took Ianto’s hand in trembling fingers, and gently kissed his knuckles.
“Thank you,” he whispered. Jack didn’t let go of Ianto’s hand, though Ianto noticed that the trembling had eased somewhat. With a sigh of relief Ianto settled back into the cocoon of silence that enfolded them with a lighter heart. Jack was at his side, Methos was safe, and Ianto felt that almost anything was possible, no matter that the odds were stacked against them.
*
Methos clutched his phone in both hands, his breath coming in stuttering gasps. He had no idea what the next day would bring but he had all he could hope for at present - Jack and Ianto both alive and relatively safe. A warm pair of hands wrapped around his, prying the phone from his fingers and pressing a glass into them instead.
“Good news or not, you look like you could do with a drink. And I know I could do with one,” Siannon commented.
“Thanks,” he replied, taking a grateful sip of the whisky, concentrating on the warmth it spread through his body.
“So what do we do now?”
“What you suggested earlier - get some sleep. I think we should be able to now.” He raised his head and met her eyes over the whisky glass, she nodded faintly in agreement. “Then tomorrow I’m going back into London. If there is anything I can do it will be easier to do it from there.” He took a deep breath, and then added almost offhandedly, “You can come with me if you want.”
“I want. I’ll follow in my own car, though.”
“Probably for the best,” Methos agreed. He was glad Siannon knew him well enough to take what he offered and yet still give him the breathing space he needed without being prompted; it was balm to his frayed nerves. There were some people - immortal and otherwise - who he would not have been able to deal with in his present state of mind. As if she’d read his thoughts, Siannon stood up, one hand resting on his shoulder for a moment.
“I’m away to my bed, then. Remember, if you hear anything, you get me. Don’t even *think* of leaving without me,” she said. Methos twisted in his seat to smile up at her.
“I won’t.” He was surprised to realise that he actually meant it. He didn’t *want* to leave without her; obviously the presence of a friend who understood was more of a comfort than he’d thought it would be.
“Oíche mhaith, Methos.” She leant down to brush a chaste kiss across his forehead and swept out. He finished his drink, but grabbed the half-full bottle of whisky to take up with him - he suspected he’d need it before he could sleep.
*
~ Part Two - Day Three ~
Author: A Lanart
Beta: idontlikegravy
Artist: idontlikegravy
Characters/Pairing(s): Torchwood Team and CoE characters, Methos and Joe from Highlander: The Series, OFC and the Doctor.
Pairings: Gwen/Rhys, Jack/Ianto, Ianto/Methos, Jack/Methos, (background of Methos/Jack/Ianto)
Rating: PG-15 (M)
Word Count: 28,120
Warnings: It’s a non-fixit Children of Earth story - character Death. Lots of Angst; tissues might be required.
Disclaimer: Not Mine! Everything you recognise belongs to either the BBC or Panzer/Davis
Summary: Methos, Jack and Ianto deal with events - and each other - both during, and in the aftermath of the 5 days that changed their world.
Author's Notes: : Crossover with Highlander: The Series and Doctor Who (set in my ongoing AU, The Mystery verse).
Some dialogue from Days 2-5 of CoE is used in the fic.
The title is from the song ‘Shattered in Aspect’ by Faith and the Muse, as is the longer quote near the end. Other quotes are from the song ‘No Time to Cry’ by the Sisters of Mercy.
Each part takes place on a separate Day of Children of Earth, starting from Day 2 and continuing beyond Day 5.
Shattered in Aspect
Day 2
~*~
~ No time for heartache ~
*
It was a long time since Methos had ridden - or been - the Nightmare, even in his dreams. When he woke in the darkness of his London flat with his heart pounding and his mouth dry his first reaction was to check that his sword was within reach and that there were no unexpected... visitors. The vague sense of foreboding and horror that accompanied his awakening was soon quashed by the realities that ensured his continued survival; 5000 years was a long time to have been alive, and Methos had no intention of dying - especially not when he had two bloody good reasons for his continued good health living in Cardiff. Satisfied that he wasn’t likely to lose his head if he went to sleep, Methos crawled back into bed, silently commiserating with himself about how cold and unwelcoming it seemed without the warmth of Jack or Ianto - but preferably Jack *and* Ianto - to chase away the loneliness. As he drifted back into sleep he considered - not for the first time - packing in his lucrative job at the museum and moving lock, stock and barrel to Cardiff. So far his head had won that battle over his heart, but Methos was becoming more convinced every day that his heart had the right idea. He sleepily resolved to begin looking into it the next day.
Still somewhat bleary eyed in the morning, Methos didn’t bother switching on his television when he was making his morning coffee and decided to forego the annoying cheeriness of the breakfast radio show in his car in favour of waking himself up by giving his ear drums a good blast of Muse. At work, everyone else seemed to be running late so he hooked up his ipod and decided to grab a 10 minute cat nap. Consequently, it was almost 9am by the time someone switched on the TV in the break room of the museum.
By five past nine Methos was back in his car, breaking every speed limit possible and more than a few other traffic laws besides. He didn’t care. There was no rational thought involved; just the sheer, overwhelming need to be *there* and not where he happened to be at that moment.
*
Ianto’s heart was pounding as he made his way as close to the Plass as he dared. He needed to see - needed to *know* - if Jack had survived at least semi-intact. It was all very well for Jack to say he could survive anything, but Ianto was fairly certain he’d never had a high-yield explosive device implanted in his body before. What he saw chilled him to the bone and made him very glad he had nothing left in his stomach; the body bag they were carrying from the wreckage was less than a third full and looked more like it contained butchers off-cuts than human body parts - if Jack could still be classed as human. Ianto forced himself to watch; there was nothing he could do now - there were too many people, too many guards - but if he could just get his hands on a laptop, he might have a chance. The registration number of the private ambulance was a place to start as even if it wasn’t in the official database he had ways and means of discovering its history. While he wasn’t quite in the same league as Tosh had been, his knowledge of software design and security systems was more than adequate to get the job done, thanks to his time with the Watchers. There was just the issue of obtaining a computer and much as he hated to involve them further, right here and right now he only had one place to turn...
There was a pay phone round the corner from the newsagent that surprisingly never seemed to get excessively vandalised. Outsiders didn’t understand how or why, considering the condition of the rest of the estate at times, but Ianto knew it was because it was still a lifeline for so many people - after all what did you do when the credit ran out on your mobile 3 days before your next money came in or your land line was cut off because you’d decided to feed the kids instead of paying the bills? Fairly much everything else was fair game, but this phone - this one phone on the whole estate - *always* worked, protected by the very gangs that caused so much trouble elsewhere.
Ianto was glad to see that the phone appeared to have been ignored by the surveillance team - they were more interested in watching Rhiannon’s house - so while he waited for the paper boy to show up he would be able to make the phone call he’d been desperately wanting to since the bomb that destroyed the Hub - and Jack with it - had exploded. His fingers trembled as he dug loose change from his pocket; by now Methos would have seen the news, and know that someone had tried to annihilate Torchwood. The thought of how Methos might react skirted the edge of terrifying, while at the same time the possibilities stirred darkly satisfying thoughts of vengeance deep within Ianto. He tapped in the number, and cursed furiously under his breath in frustration when the call wasn’t picked up. He considered not leaving a message, but decided that Methos needed to know that he, at least, was alive.
“It’s Ianto. I’ll call you back.”
*
“At fucking *last*!” Trying to escape the gridlock that was central London had been seven kinds of hell for Methos so his resulting shout when he finally reached the open road and could put his foot down was compounded of equal parts of frustration and relief, heavily leavened by his all consuming and ever present need.
The part of Methos that could still think was surprised that he hadn’t been pulled up by a member of the traffic police with nothing better to do than harass distressed citizens. Most of him didn’t care. The Jaguar was a car that was made for speed and he took every advantage of that, eating up the miles as fast as he could. It wasn’t fast enough. It would never be fast enough.
His phone chose that moment to ring, but the voice that met his ears when he answered wasn’t either of the ones he so desperately wanted to hear; Irish, not Welsh or American, and certainly not male. Even so, Siannon O’Niall was a good friend, and probably almost as worried as he was.
“Did you see the news this morning?” She asked
“I saw the news.”
There was a pause, and a whispered ‘shit’ that he presumed he wasn’t meant for him, then a deep breath.
“Tell me you’re not on your way to Cardiff,” she demanded.
“I am not on my way to Cardiff.”
“Methos! You’re driving; I can hear the road noise. Where the fuck *are* you?”
She sounded increasingly desperate, which twisted the knife in his guts just that little bit more, so he glanced at the sat nav which he had been studiously ignoring as it only told him how slowly he was going.
“On the M4. Near Reading.”
“Then get *off* the fucking motorway and book yourself into a hotel or something.”
“Give me one good reason why I should! Someone blew up the Hub last night. Jack *lives* in the bloody place and Ianto... Ianto was probably there too!”
“The news said there were survivors.” He could hear the hope in her voice both offering and asking for reassurance. He had none to give.
“Two! I have to know...” He was prevented from saying more by her yelling at him.
“Methos! Think!”
There was the sound of another deep breath from the other end of the line. Methos thought she was probably trying to calm herself down. He silently wished her luck.
“Listen to me,” she continued. “If someone wanted Torchwood out of the way enough to blow the Hub sky high then they’re going to be watching the bloody place like hawks. The best thing we can do for them is keep away. You go to Cardiff now and you’ll only be putting yourself - and them - at risk.”
“I’m immortal.”
“Yeah, and so’s Jack. But Ianto isn’t, and neither is Gwen. Will you use your head before you lose it, for fuck’s sake?!”
Methos had to agree that Siannon actually had a point no matter how much it killed him inside to admit it. Time for his head to try and regain some control over his heart, he supposed. He drew a shaky breath, perilously close to breaking down.
"I’m taking the next turn off. I’ll call you back when I’m set up somewhere."
“Make sure you do. Just... Be careful, old man.”
Methos ended the call without answering her, probably cruel of him he knew, but the hitch in Siannon’s voice had rendered him almost incapable of speech as it echoed the way he felt. He was lucky to find somewhere to pull over almost immediately after leaving the motorway and switched the engine off as he relaxed into the seat, trembling with reaction. Two survivors, only two... Shit. Shit. Shit.
The insistent warbling of his phone broke into his reverie and he was about to yell at Siannon for ringing him back unnecessarily when he noticed that the number was one he didn’t recognise... with a Cardiff code. He grabbed the phone like it was a lifeline.
“Yes?” He answered cautiously, with heart in his mouth. Hoping... hoping.
“Methos.” Ianto sounded battered and weary and Methos had never been so glad to hear it. He was alive, and that was the important thing.
“Ianto...” Methos couldn’t manage to coerce his lips into forming another word, not even the other name he wanted to murmur like a verbal caress into the silence between them. Then he wondered if Ianto had heard anyway as a faint almost-whimper reached his ears.
Ianto regained his voice before Methos did.
“Tell me you aren’t in Cardiff. Please,” he begged. Methos was more than happy to tell the truth without evasion for a change.
“I’m near Reading.”
“Oh thank god.” There was muffled metallic sounding slither followed by a soft thump and a quiet yelp from Ianto.
“Ianto!”
“I’m OK. I’m OK - just some cuts and bruises.”
Methos breathed a sigh of relief and finally found the voice to ask the question he’d been afraid to, not knowing what sort of answer he would receive.
“Jack?” He asked, realising that if he found it so difficult to ask, Ianto would find it more so to answer. Could he? If Ianto was brave enough to tell him, then he would damn well be brave enough to listen. His quickening shivered within him.
There was an unintelligible crackle from the phone, and a sigh from Ianto.
“Ground zero. They put the bomb inside him - he was... blown apart. I saw... I saw them pull him out. He wasn’t... whole.”
“Shit.”
Methos had died in myriad ways in his 5000 years, but he had never been literally blown apart. He didn’t think he could *survive* being blown apart. A sword wasn’t the only way to remove someone’s head from their shoulders; it was merely the most efficient.
Ianto ploughed on, his voice full of anxious optimism.
“Jack’ll make it though, he’s not like you. He said he could survive anything.”
“I only hope he’s right.” And Methos did; he hoped with such fervency that it made his throat ache and his eyes burn. But there was another person in all this, and for all he might pretend not to care, he had to know about her, too. “Gwen?”
“She got out, but we were separated.” There was another muffled sound that Methos couldn’t make out, and Ianto’s next words sounded almost breathless. “Look, I’ve got to go. Stay away, Methos. Promise me.”
Ianto had never asked him for anything that he couldn’t give, but the demand for that particular promise came very close, and Methos found himself wavering.
“I...”
“Methos. *Please*.”
In the end it was that simple and there was no avoiding it.
“I promise,” Methos whispered. “Now get out of there.”
“I intend to.” Methos couldn’t help but smile at the hint of Ianto’s understated stubbornness. “And...and I’ll find Jack. For us both.”
“Ianto...” The phone went dead - the call disconnected before Methos could say anything else - and he threw it away from him in disgust and despair, clinging onto the steering wheel until his knuckles turned white. He hadn’t meant to fall quite so far or so fast - he never did - but he had, and now he was living with the consequences. Methos let his head sink down between his hands until it was resting on the central part of the steering wheel and took deep shuddering breaths that were only half a step away from sobbing.
*
As the Vectra swung around the last corner into the base of the quarry Ianto thought he’d never seen anything as beautiful as the sight of a very much alive and kicking Jack Harkness, even clad as he was in nothing except concrete dust and chains. It made all the lies, all the deceit and all the *heartache* of the day pale into insignificance and Ianto knew he’d do the same and more all over again if he had to. It was Jack, and there was no way Ianto would *ever* give up on him, not while there was breath in his body. The helpless fury that had raged through Ianto as he’d watched Jack encased in his concrete prison had now abated into a quieter but no less powerful joy and he didn’t even try to hide the smile on his face as he clambered out of the car. Jack was alive and whole; truly a sight for sore eyes. Ianto breathed a sigh of relief and whispered a silent and heartfelt thank-you to the god he wasn’t sure he believed in any more.
He’d been half afraid to hope, despite Jack saying he could survive anything, but what Jack had laughingly called - on more than one occasion - his good old Welsh stubbornness had paid off. With dividends. Ianto had never been so glad of his stubborn streak in his life; this time the relief that he’d succeeded felt pure and honest, unsullied by the acrid taste of betrayal.
Jack for his part, seemed determined to at least try to maintain the semblance of professionalism despite his current lack of attire; there were no words of thanks, just concern about the situation. Ianto said nothing and allowed Jack the physical distance, but the look he received as Jack limped past him, Rhys’ jacket slung carelessly over one shoulder, was heavy with a plethora of unexpressed emotion. Ianto closed his eyes briefly as his next breath shuddered through him in response, then silently made his own way to the car and the next step in their perilous dance for survival.
*
The evening sunlight was pouring through the windows of the hotel bar, making the dust motes sparkle, when Methos felt the long expected whisper of immortal presence along his nerves. The door banged open and the sound of urgent footsteps echoed weirdly in the still air, coming to a halt next to him. He didn’t look up, or acknowledge Siannon’s presence in any way, until she placed a gentle hand on his shoulder, and squeezed. So much was conveyed in that simple gesture that to continue ignoring her would have been rude to say the least as well as needlessly cruel, and he didn’t want to be that person, not any more. The hand that wasn’t wrapped around his drink found its way to lie over hers, and return the clasp. She kissed his temple, and he briefly rested his cheek against their joined hands. He let his hand fall, and the comforting weight of hers lifted from his shoulder; the important things all said in those fleeting touches. Silently, she reached over the bar to grab an empty glass and settled herself onto the seat beside him. Methos poured a generous slug of whisky from the bottle in front of him into both their glasses. There wasn’t much left in the bottle even though it had been full when he’d started drinking, and he still felt distressingly almost-sober. He knocked back another mouthful; maybe now he had company he would be able to find some oblivion in the alcohol even if it hadn’t yet worked for him. He rolled the glass between his hands, watching the movement of the amber liquid as it slopped against the side with each turn. He could feel her gaze boring into him, but he didn’t raise his head, just concentrated on the glass in his hands. In return she said nothing, but the quality of her silence weighed on him, asking him to speak without ever uttering a single word. In the end, he complied; it seemed appropriate.
“Time was I could live quite happily without thinking about what passes for life in the so-called real world. It didn’t affect me, it wasn’t *my* life and I had no interest in it beyond the academic. Sometimes I wonder when that changed, *why* it changed and the answer is always the same; people. Wonderful, stubborn, beautiful, foolish, terrifying people. My major weakness.”
“And your greatest strength,” Siannon murmured.
At that, he did raise his head, and gave her a twisted smile as he met her eyes.
“You would say that.”
She put her glass down with a thump, hard enough for the whisky to slosh over the side. Methos winced; if she was being that careless about what was actually a pretty decent whisky she was more distraught - and possibly angrier - than he’d initially thought. He hoped if it *was* anger, that it wasn’t directed at him; he didn’t have the strength or the inclination to deal with it.
“Because it’s true, Methos,” she hissed. “It’s what makes you human - it’s what makes us *all* human.”
Methos sighed. It wasn’t just anger colouring her voice, it was frustration, futility and pain. He knew the bitter taste of that.
“Maybe I don’t want to be human any longer,” he whispered, as he turned away from her once more. The weight of her hand on his face and in his hair was unexpected, her touch soothing. He closed his eyes as some of the tension left his body with the gentle brush of her fingers.
“I don’t believe that for a minute,” she said, her voice as gentle as her touch, but still insistent. “If it was true you wouldn’t be trying to bury yourself at the bottom of a bottle in an effort to avoid feeling powerless.”
“You see too much.”
Her hand drifted down across his neck, a hint of her quickening tingling against his skin, before she withdrew. It was a reminder of who - and what - they were.
“I know you, Methos, and I know that feeling well... Far too well - especially now.”
This time he reached for her, their fingers tangling where they rested on the bar, trying to ensure she knew that he understood everything neither of them could say.
“Bloody Torchwood,” Methos snarled under his breath.
“Yeah. Bloody Torchwood.” Siannon raised her glass and clinked it against his. It was an odd sort of toast, but it covered everything Methos felt - the helplessness, the hope and the fear. He wasn’t bothered about the political manoeuvring he knew would be going on behind closed doors as the rise and fall of governments was just background noise in his life, but he *was* bothered by how it was affecting those he cared about. The fact that there were people he cared about - who he *loved* if he was honest with himself - and who cared about him, stuck in the middle of the whole crazy situation made it personal, and so much more difficult to bear. Methos hadn’t done ‘personal’ like this for a long time - he’d forgotten how much it *hurt*.
*
Twilight was drawing in with a vengeance when Gwen pulled the Vectra in to a service station. It was fairly busy and Ianto hoped that would give them relative anonymity as they made the brief but essential stop on their way to what he hoped would be safety. Even the fear that their destination might *not* be the haven they needed could not put the dampers on the joy that he felt to have Jack next to him in the car alive and well, or as well as he could be in Rhys’ spare clothes and a pair of stolen shoes. He was also glad that Jack had seemed content to let him cling to his hand during their journey without making a comment about it, though Ianto suspected he was just glad of the human contact - Jack had been hanging onto him almost as tightly. They’d sat in near silence, communicating only with the odd glance and the gentle brush of a thumb over their clasped hands when speaking hadn’t been necessary. Ianto hadn’t pushed for more, he hadn’t felt he could *find* the words to express how he felt, never mind say them with Rhys and Gwen listening
Jack and Gwen stayed in the car as Rhys jumped out to refuel it. They all kept their heads down, trying to avoid the inevitable CCTV. Ianto had his own target as he made his way across the forecourt - the phone box at the side of the shop. Sensible or not, he *had* to let Methos know they were out of harm’s way for the time being. Jack hadn’t argued against the suggestion when Ianto had broached the subject, the look in his eyes giving Ianto all the encouragement he needed. Ianto wished he dared to ask for Methos’ help, but he couldn’t afford that risk; he and Jack both needed to know that the immortal was safe. Methos was their lifeline and he - unlike Jack - wasn’t completely indestructible. Despite that need, Ianto shuddered to think about what must be going through Methos’ head and hoped that he wasn’t alone as the waiting would otherwise be intolerable. The phone box lured him with its siren song of promised anonymity and Ianto found his steps quickening; he was desperate to hear Methos’ voice and to know that he at least was safe amidst all the chaos and destruction.
*
The phone rested on the table between Methos and Siannon, an unwelcome and silent witness to the fact that neither of them had any idea what was truly going on and whether Ianto and the others were still alive. The radio and TV were rife with speculation, but had nothing concrete to say on the matter. Both had been switched off to save them being destroyed by either blade or gun and the hotel staff were sensibly staying away except when called upon. The original whisky bottle stood forlorn and empty and they’d made inroads on a second, though at present their glasses stood empty.
“We should try to get some sleep,” Siannon said. Her eyes were burning with fatigue and Methos didn’t look any better than she felt.
“Do you really think you could? If you do you’re more of an optimist than I am.”
Siannon had to admit he had a point. Despite the fact that she needed sleep, *wanted* sleep, she knew it would likely prove elusive. The demons of ‘what if’ would be unwilling to let her rest and her imagination would provide the rest. She shuddered to think how much worse it would be for Methos; Ianto was only her friend - albeit almost as close as family - and Jack was... Jack, he didn’t fit into definitions easily. To Methos they were more than that, so much more. She squeezed her eyes shut for a moment against the pain she felt for her oldest friend. She would stay, and keep vigil with him; it was the least she could do. He’d done the same for her before, as she had for him, and they no doubt would again in the future but this time the waiting was all the more painful because of the thread of hope that Jack’s very existence offered.
The phone shrilled, almost vibrating off the table before Methos grabbed it, meeting Siannon’s eyes with ill concealed hope. She gave him a tight smile and raised her crossed fingers, offering a silent prayer to any deity that might be watching.
The first words Methos said, after his near-barked ‘yes?’ gave her the answer.
“Ianto... *Ianto*...”
*
Ianto cradled the receiver for a moment, as if he was literally holding Methos in his arms, and then carefully replaced it. He glanced around; Rhys was crossing the forecourt to pay for the petrol which meant it was time for Ianto to get back to the car. He wished he’d been able to spend more time on the phone, to give Methos more than the terse reassurance that they were alive, and safe for now. The best thing to come out of the brief conversation was the knowledge that Methos wasn’t alone. Maybe now Jack would be able to rest, maybe they both would. Somehow Ianto doubted it, even with Gwen and Rhys determinedly sharing the driving with each other. He slid into the back seat next to Jack once more, and met his eyes. There was no way he could avoid answering the unspoken question, not when he so desperately needed to share the news anyway.
“He’s OK. Siannon’s with him.” Jack reached out and took Ianto’s hand in trembling fingers, and gently kissed his knuckles.
“Thank you,” he whispered. Jack didn’t let go of Ianto’s hand, though Ianto noticed that the trembling had eased somewhat. With a sigh of relief Ianto settled back into the cocoon of silence that enfolded them with a lighter heart. Jack was at his side, Methos was safe, and Ianto felt that almost anything was possible, no matter that the odds were stacked against them.
*
Methos clutched his phone in both hands, his breath coming in stuttering gasps. He had no idea what the next day would bring but he had all he could hope for at present - Jack and Ianto both alive and relatively safe. A warm pair of hands wrapped around his, prying the phone from his fingers and pressing a glass into them instead.
“Good news or not, you look like you could do with a drink. And I know I could do with one,” Siannon commented.
“Thanks,” he replied, taking a grateful sip of the whisky, concentrating on the warmth it spread through his body.
“So what do we do now?”
“What you suggested earlier - get some sleep. I think we should be able to now.” He raised his head and met her eyes over the whisky glass, she nodded faintly in agreement. “Then tomorrow I’m going back into London. If there is anything I can do it will be easier to do it from there.” He took a deep breath, and then added almost offhandedly, “You can come with me if you want.”
“I want. I’ll follow in my own car, though.”
“Probably for the best,” Methos agreed. He was glad Siannon knew him well enough to take what he offered and yet still give him the breathing space he needed without being prompted; it was balm to his frayed nerves. There were some people - immortal and otherwise - who he would not have been able to deal with in his present state of mind. As if she’d read his thoughts, Siannon stood up, one hand resting on his shoulder for a moment.
“I’m away to my bed, then. Remember, if you hear anything, you get me. Don’t even *think* of leaving without me,” she said. Methos twisted in his seat to smile up at her.
“I won’t.” He was surprised to realise that he actually meant it. He didn’t *want* to leave without her; obviously the presence of a friend who understood was more of a comfort than he’d thought it would be.
“Oíche mhaith, Methos.” She leant down to brush a chaste kiss across his forehead and swept out. He finished his drink, but grabbed the half-full bottle of whisky to take up with him - he suspected he’d need it before he could sleep.
*
~ Part Two - Day Three ~