Do not stand at my grave and weep (Part 2)
Rating: still PG-13 (for now)
Word count: ~ 4,400 (this part) Part one is here.
Warnings: Again, lots of angst. And this is still English from a non-native. (Anyone feel like making themselves my hero and beta-reading?)
Disclaimer: All recognizable characters are the property of their respective owners. I am in no way associated with the creators, and no copyright infringement is intended.
A/N: This chapter…eh. I'm not good at writing Jack. Constructive criticism is welcome. The quoted poems are, respectively, In Memoriam by George Santayana and Birth and Death by Algernon Charles Swinburne.
I am not there. I do not sleep
Life has finally returned to normal, or as close as it ever comes for a secret alien-hunting organization. Jack has started a new team, a new life, and even if he hasn’t put the mistakes and hard decisions of the past behind him, he’s at least attempting to move forward and live regardless.
But it’s so hard sometimes. He’ll see something, and turn to tell Ianto, or think of something that would have made Ianto laugh, or see a shade of blue so like the Welshman’s eyes that it will make his throat ache. If the last year has been an indication of what the rest of his long, long life is going to be like, Jack has no need to worry about breaking his promise to Ianto. There's no chance of forgetting him, or anything about him, a thousand years from now or a million.
Right now, he’s Weevil hunting, which is incredibly bittersweet. More often than not, he and Ianto used it as code for other activities, but even when they were actually doing it, it still made good memories. Ianto always took fieldwork so seriously, no matter the target, and through his eyes Jack could see the gravity of what they were doing, the reason for it articulated in way Gwen couldn’t understand. The memories are pervasive enough that Jack can't even think about bringing anyone else with him anymore-be it euphemism or not, Weevil hunting is reserved for him and the ghost of the one he’s lost. Time will probably change that, time and necessity, but for now Jack won't change his mind, no matter how Gwen insists that he’s taking stupid risks. It’s not like anything can happen to him.
As he slams the creature into the alley wall, already fumbling for the cuffs and hood, Jack curses at himself and the Weevil equally. He can hardly go an hour without thinking of Ianto in some way, and whenever he thinks of Ianto he unfailingly remembers their last words to each other.
Don’t.
What kind of man answers a dying lover’s confession with ‘don’t’?
Is there anyone in the world crueler than you?
You felt it, but-
Don’t.
It’s a loop inside his head, a ring of castigation and horror that won't stop, and Jack can't do anything to be rid of it. Half the time, he's not sure he wants to be. This is one way to remember Ianto, to make sure he’s never forgotten-endless guilt and self-disgust, trapping his heart so that no one and nothing else can enter. As long as Jack remembers, as long as Ianto never fades completely from mind, he’ll have kept his promise, regardless of whether he can remember Ianto’s scent of smile or laugh.
The Weevil goes down with a groan, out cold, and Jack stands over it for a moment, breathing hard. John Hart, on his way through after everything was done, had informed him gleefully that self-destruction wasn’t a good look for him, but Jack can't bring himself to care anymore. He’s felt low before, has felt despair so piercing that he longed for the release of blowing his own brains out, but this is a new low. Ianto and Stephen are points of guilt and terror dragging him down, and while he’s managing to function-because he has to, because the team expects him to-he’s not fighting them. If anything, he's embracing them and their hold on him. He has no right to anything while they are dead because of him.
Jack's good at guilt. He’s even better at self-loathing and despair, and that’s all he’s feeling at the moment, no matter what face he presents to the world. Jack Harkness is a broken man, and the only one who could have fixed him died in Thames House, victim of Jack's hubris.
And then his comm comes to life in his ear, and Martha’s worried voice says, “Jack? Get back to the Hub. Something’s happening.”
She’s gone again before he can ask questions, and Jack swears again, heaving the Weevil up over his shoulder to stagger back towards the SUV. Martha’s used to the Doctor; she wouldn’t call him for anything less than a true emergency. Jack might have lost Tosh, Owen, and Ianto, but he’ll be permanently dead before he lets another one of his team slip through his fingers when he can prevent it.
“I'm on my way,” he says as he slams the door and starts the engine, Weevil secured in the back-speaking futilely, it seems, because no one is listening any more. Jack doesn’t wait for further confirmation, but guns it for the Hub.
When he squeals into the parking garage, he barely even remembers to turn the engine off before he’s sprinting to the entrance. Andy Davidson meets him at the cog door, tight-lipped and paler than normal, but when Jack opens his mouth to demand answers, Andy simply shakes his head and says, “See for yourself, mate,” as he steps aside.
Jack takes one look and sees.
There are rose petals everywhere, thick on the floor and scattered over the workstations like bloody snow. For one gut-wrenching moment Jack fears the worst, expects to see bodies when he turns his head, but there aren’t any. Voices are coming from the medical bay, Martha's calm tones and Gwen’s nearly hysterical ones, with Mickey interjecting. Jack glances at Andy again, but the former PC just urges him on with a nod.
It takes twelve long strides to reach the railing overlooking Martha's area.
It takes less than one second to realize what he is seeing, and have his world shift around him.
*.~.*.~.*
“It’s him, Jack, I'm sure of it,” Martha says, waving a syringe and rather large needle in the Captain’s face as she shoos him away from her patient. “Exact same DNA, exact same brainwave pattern, same blood type, everything. The only odd thing is his age.”
Jack jerks his eyes away from Ianto’s still face at this and looks over at her, concern creasing his brow. “His age?”
There's a note of excitement in Martha's voice, one that Jack remembers with a bittersweet pang from Owen on the verge of discovery. “Jack, it’s incredible! According to all of this-” a sweep of her hand takes in the advanced and alien-augmented medical equipment humming steadily around them “-and his cellular aging, Ianto Jones is maybe six hours old, if that. It’s as if he were born just before the intruder alarms went off.”
Jack stares at her for a moment, and then looks back down at to body on the exam table. Ianto is as he remembers him in those last moments, right down to the scar on his cheek. Jack’s mind catches on that little detail, and with a frown he leans forward to study it more closely. In fact, that scar is exactly the same. It hasn’t healed at all, even though almost two years have passed. To have Ianto here, like this-it’s almost as if the fairies snatched him out of Thames House in the very moment of his death.
But they didn’t.
Jack was there; he heard Ianto’s last words, held him as the light faded from his eyes. The Ianto that was at Thames House cannot be the Ianto that is here. Ianto is dead.
But the man lying on the table defies him with the mere fact of his existence.
“Mickey?” Jack says after a long moment. “Any Rift activity about the time he got here?”
“Nothing.” Mickey’s already leaning over the rail, enviably calm. But then, he’s never met Ianto. Any knowledge he had of Ianto’s death was distant, one stranger to another. He’s never seen those blue eyes full of fire, or heard Ianto’s deadpan delivery and snarky wit. Ianto is nothing to him, and while Jack envies him his composure, he can't envy never having met Ianto. The Welshman is a singular person. In all the times and places he’s been, Jack's never met another like him, and he knows he never will. It’s another reason his loss is-was?-so heartbreaking, because Jack knew he’d never get back even a fraction of what was taken from him.
But Jack knows better than anyone that there are no second chances, so what is this? An attempt to get through their defenses? But surely whatever race it is would be better served using a living member of the team, as a dead-or formerly dead-one is likely to draw exactly the wrong type of scrutiny.
And where do the fairies fit in, then?
As though summoned by the thought, there's a sharp flutter, and a tiny, moon-white figure drops from nowhere to land on Ianto-on his right hand, which Jack only now notices is clenched around something. It smiles up at him, disarmingly pretty and sweet, and laughs like the countless children it has stolen. Martha gasps and says something, maybe a demand for information, explanation, but Jack and the fairy both ignore her.
“What do you want?” Jack asks coldly. “He’s not a Chosen One, so why are you here?”
It simply giggles at him, high and sweet, and offers, “But yet I treasure in my memory your gift of charity, and young hearts ease; and the dear honour of your amity; for these once mine, my life is rich with these. And I scarce know which part may greater be-what I keep of you, or you rob from me.”
Another string of delighted giggles and the thing is airborne again, hovering over the medical bay as the team watches warily. Andy has his gun out, as does Mickey, and Martha is reaching for the singularity scalpel-it makes Jack proud of all of them, to see their response to this threat even though he knows they have no chance against even one fairy.
And then there is a slow stirring from beneath the creature, on the table. Ianto-or whatever is wearing Ianto’s body-opens his eyes and sees the fairy, and smiles.
“Santayana,” he murmurs to it, as though in congratulation. “Your repertoire is expanding.”
As those blue eyes fall on him, Jack finds he can't breathe.
Surely this isn’t a trick.
Surely nothing and no one in the universe can mimic those Welsh vowels or that careful diction, so inconsistent with his age. Surely there is nothing that could ever copy the bright blue steel of that gaze, tempered with warmth and just a trace of darkness.
Jack can't believe anything could, or would. This must be real, because otherwise he will be broken beyond all repair.
“Ianto,” he whispers, and his voice breaks even on that one word which is so much more.
Ianto smiles at him and moves his right hand, offering what he holds to Jack. Dazed, uncertain, Jack moves anyway, reaching out and taking the thing without looking. Then his fingers close over it, and the coolness of the metal draws his gaze down to where their fingers touch.
The stopwatch.
Jack closes his eyes and swallows to fight back tears, and it’s almost a relief to see the suspicious brightness in Ianto’s eyes as well. Of all the things that Ianto could have offered, of all the proof that he could have produced, this is the thing that convinces Jack without a doubt that he is who he appears to be. The “how” doesn’t matter, nor does the “why.” Ianto has been brought back, and that’s the important thing.
“What started it all,” Jack says, lifting the battered watch from Ianto’s grip and studying it. His eyes fall on the dent they caused that first night, when neither of them could think of anything beyond months and months of foreplay and sexual tension, past the heat of skin on skin, and he smiles just a little bit. Any more right now and his heart might crack.
There's a soft chuckle, and Ianto lets go, allowing him to slide the stopwatch into his own pocket, where his fob watch usually resides. “Actually, I think that honor goes to Myfanwy,” Ianto corrects. The name is like a stab in the gut, even now, and Jack tries to hide his flinch. They haven’t found the pteranodon yet, and even though she was allowed to come and go from the Hub as she pleased, Jack knows there's a large chance that she didn’t make it out before the base was destroyed. He hasn’t truly looked for her, one way or another-acknowledging her loss would have been like losing the very last piece of his Ianto, of their time together.
From the softness-not pity, never pity, but maybe sympathy-that comes into his eyes, Ianto understands. He keeps his hands to himself, but Jack can almost see Ianto’s desire to reach out and touch the Captain, offering comfort. Ianto’s always like that, always more grounded when caring for someone else, or organizing things, or taking charge in the quiet, behind-the-scenes way he has. It’s just one more shred of certainty for Jack that this is Ianto. It’s really him.
The joy is even more overwhelming than the grief, to a debilitating degree. Jack staggers one step forward and falls to his knees beside the operating table, clenching Ianto’s hand between both of his. Desperately, fearfully, he presses their entwined fingers against his cheek, breathing in the scent of clean soap and roses that clings to Ianto’s skin, and for the first time in almost two years, he allows himself to hope.
*.~.*.~.*
Ianto falls asleep again after only a short time conscious. Gwen, after she recovers from her shock, tries to call a team meeting to discuss things. However, Jack refuses to let Ianto out of his sight, despite reassurances that Ianto’s body is simply exhausted and in need of rest, and Martha has tests she’s waiting for, so they end up convening on the balcony above the medical bay. The fairy stays, too, despite their wary glances and careful distance as it perches on Ianto’s chest.
“We’d just got back from lunch,” Andy explains when they all look at him, as the first one into the Hub, to start. “Alarms were saying there’d been an intruder, but none of the entrances were disturbed. We were right at Jubilee, could see the door the whole time.”
“I checked,” Gwen adds. Like Jack, she can't seem to keep her eyes away from Ianto for long, even when he’s asleep. “No one came through anywhere, Jack. It’s like he just appeared from nowhere. I was looking through the cameras to see what had happened and suddenly there were roses everywhere, just like last time.” Her hands tighten on the steel railing in front of her at the reminder of the fairies’ invasion of her home. “And he came through the door, naked as a babe, and asked Martha for some spare clothes.”
Jack can't fight the chuckle that worms its way up from his chest. He gives into it, lets it out, and it feels good. He hasn’t laughed at all in so long that even this much is a release. Gwen giggles with him, hiding her face against her arms, and they lean together, survivors of Torchwood Three, comrades through everything.
“That’s just like him, isn’t it?” Jack asks softly, smiling.
“Yeah,” Gwen agrees, still laughing a little helplessly. She grips Jack's hand so hard it’s almost painful, but there's a joyous hope in her eyes that’s been absent as long as Jack's has. “It’s really him, isn’t it, Jack?” she asks, shaking her head slightly. “I can't believe it. I mean, it’s Torchwood-we always say anything can happen, but this…”
“This,” Jack echoes, and they both look back at the last remaining member of their trio, their practicality and their compass. Even with the new team, they’ve still been lost, adrift, without Ianto. It no longer matters how. They're just glad to have him back.
Mickey, who’s been surprisingly reticent about Ianto’s return, stirs from his perch astride the rail and tilts his head toward the little fairy, flitting around the bay like glints of moonlight off broken glass. “Why?” he asks. “If they're the ones who brought him back, why only choose him? He’s not one of theirs, right?”
Gwen and Jack trade glances, suddenly uncertain. They’ve told the others about their previous encounter with the fairies, grandstanding over lunch just like they used to with Tosh and Owen, trying to outdo each other with tales. But this-this is something beyond what they know, what they thought the fairies capable of. For all their power, the fairies had seemed relatively straightforward-capricious, cruel, obsessed with their Chose One, but still simple, reciting bits of poetry that must have once caught their eye. Now they seem to be something entirely different, something with a purpose beyond the theft of children.
Jack doesn’t like underestimating an enemy, especially one with the power to bring back the dead.
A sharp giggle draws their attention back to the bay, and Mickey gives a startled shout, falling off the rail as he goes for his gun again. Andy and Martha are a step behind, falling back into defensive stances, but Jack just raises a hand to stop them. If it trembles a little at the sight of the creature before them, no one remarks on it.
The fairy, now taller than a man, with long branch-like limbs and a flat, eerie face, simply grins at them as it bends over Ianto, straightening the sheet that covers him with awkward movements, as though the act is entirely alien to it but it’s mimicking something it’s seen done. That alone is enough to make Jack's head spin, to twist his view of them around a hundred and eighty degrees. It’s tucking Ianto in, and if Jack didn’t already think his sanity gone in the face of the day’s events, he’d hand command over to Gwen right now and lock himself in his bunker. However, she looks just as fascinated as he feels, staring down at the scene in somewhat horrified wonder.
Its task complete, the fairy looks up at them again, grin in place. “Birth and death, twin-sister and twin-brother; night and day, on all things that draw breath, reign, while time keeps friends with one another, birth and death,” it hisses, seeming pleased with itself, as though this is an answer to their question.
And perhaps it is. The fairies control all the forces on Earth, slip back and forth through time as though there's no trouble in it. How simple must it be for them to create a new body and slide an already existing consciousness into place? Ianto, this Ianto, is their creation, made by them for some purpose Jack can't even contemplate.
“You made him,” he breathes, and the humans all look at him while the fairy remains oblivious to the magnitude of this statement.
“Yes,” it agrees, gleefully. “Stolen from death and ours now. Protector to kill child-snatchers.” There's anger in its primeval eyes, the kind that strips flesh from bone and kills like a wildfire. “Protect Protector, undying? You killed them, killed them all.” A laugh, eerie and wild, not a child-laugh right now. “We thank you, undying. But we have Protector for ours now!”
Wind picks up, trapped in the Hub where it shouldn’t be, and the petals fly like drops of blood, so thick that Jack can't see Martha or Mickey at either end of the railing. He shouts, tries to call to them, to make sure they're all right, but it’s useless. The rush of countless wings beating is too loud, too sharp, and he ducks away from it, pulling Gwen down with him as panic flutters hard and freezing in his chest.
And then it’s over, just as suddenly as it began. Everything is still. Jack blinks at Gwen where they lie on the cement, and Gwen blinks back. They sit up slowly, the others doing the same, and look around. There's no sign of anything out of the ordinary. The roses are gone, and not a paper is out of place. Jack feels a sudden jolt of fear and has to spin, looking for Ianto as the idea they might have taken him too beats against the inside of his skull. But Ianto is fine, sleeping peacefully, and Jack lets out a huff of amused relief as he claws his way back to his feet.
“Well, ladies and gentlemen,” he says, as dry as Ianto at his best. “Now you’ve met the fairies.”
*.~.*.~.*
They might speak in riddles, but the fairies always leave enough clues to solve the puzzle. It’s a weakness, Jack thinks. They're too used to games and mysteries, being untouchable. To be fair, they still are, but it means that even when giving less important clues and speaking in tongues, there's enough information for Jack to pick out their purpose in resurrecting-recreating-Ianto.
A protector for the Chosen Ones.
Protect Protector, undying?
“You don’t have to ask,” Jack mutters into the silence of the Hub at midnight. Martha was shooed home to her husband hours ago, and Gwen left early to take care of Anwen. Mickey and Andy had left together with the intent of hitting the pub, and Jack had watched them go with memories of Owen swimming close to the surface. It’s an ungrateful, cruel thought, but he can't help but wonder why the fairies chose Ianto. Was it because he was convenient, having met the 456? Or was it because Ianto is more like the fey than anyone’s given him credit for? Jack knows quite well that Ianto isn’t simply the impassive alien-hunting butler he often appears, but a dangerous man. Who else could have concealed a Cyberman in their midst, lied so easily and fluently about everything while hiding his true face?
Jack's forgiven him for that-long ago, because for all the terrible reasons people have for doing incredibly stupid things, love is the best and the worst-but it’s still a clear reminder that Ianto is much more than even his friends, his team, know. If the fairies saw that…
Is that the reason they chose him? Did they see it when everyone else was blind?
It makes Jack wonder what would have happened if Ianto had been on fieldwork the first time they encountered the fairies. Would they have taken him then, even if he weren’t a child or a Chosen One?
There are too many questions, too many suppositions from a few lines of poetry, and Jack suspects that Ianto has just as few answers as the rest of them. With a sigh-because nothing is ever easy, least of all coming back from the dead, and he should know-he heaves himself out of his chair and wanders back to the medical bay. He’s been haunting it on and off all day as Ianto sleeps, just watching the other man’s chest rise and fall with his steady breaths. The absolute stillness of Ianto’s slumber reminds him of his own the first few times he came back from the dead-complete exhaustion as the body acclimates to the impossible, to something that should never happen. That thought alone makes Jack restless, makes him want to pace or find a high rooftop somewhere, because what if it’s true? What if an eternity alone has suddenly become eternity with a companion?
Jack once told Gwen that he would rather kill Suzie himself than let her become like him, and it was the truth. Immortality wasn’t something he’d wish on an enemy, let alone a lover. But if it has been done, if there is no other choice, can’t they make the most of it?
“You're thinking too hard,” Ianto murmurs, and Jack blinks down at him in surprise. The Welshman smiles briefly, eyes open but expression tired. “Can't sleep, Jack?”
Jack returns the smile with more intensity, clattering down the stairs to stand by Ianto’s bed. He’s been moved to one of the cots off to the side, for more comfort, and Jack settles on the edge of it, taking his hand carefully. “Hey,” he says softly. “How do you feel?”
Ianto sighs and closes his eyes again. “Tired,” he admits, “like I've never been awake this long before. But it’s getting better. And you, sir?”
Startled into laughter at the honorific, Jack squeezes Ianto’s hand. “All the better for having you back, Yan. Don’t you think we can drop the sir by now?”
Blue eyes open, turning towards him, and Jack is suddenly, brutally reminded of the last time they'd been in this position. Two years ago now, but it feels like nothing, like yesterday. Jack's breath catches in his throat, chest suddenly painfully tight, as if squeezed by an invisible hand. That damned don’t rings in his ears, broken and cruel, and he has to turn away before he betrays himself.
“Hey.” Ianto’s voice is soft, sympathetic. “Jack, look at me. I'm right here.”
He knows that, and it’s part of the problem, but he looks back anyway, choking on all the things he could say and the one thing he can’t. Not now, not when this could all turn out to be a dream or a nightmare.
Their eyes meet, and there are oceans of things unspoken in Ianto’s, an entire speech pouring out his heart in the space of one glance. They’ve never used words, Jack hiding behind a grin and blustery bravado, Ianto behind a polite smile and a courteous ‘sir,’ but the words still exist whether they’re given voice or not. All the more, maybe, because they aren’t.
That was what the confession at Thames House had been-a sudden realization that leaving things unspoken wasn’t enough, that something things needed to actually be said, whether or not they both acknowledged those things normally. Jack knows, and knows that Ianto was right to speak. And now that he has the chance, now that he’s been given another opportunity, he can do the same. Not now, because in the medical bay with Ianto just reborn-recreated?-isn’t the time. But someday. Someday soon, even.
Ianto seems to read the resolution in Jack's face, because he smiles again and closes his eye as though satisfied, settling back into the blankets Martha had piled over him with a soft exhalation that could be relief. Within moments, his breathing has evened out again, deepening into sleep.
Jack sits next to him in the darkness, their fingers locked together as he counts each of Ianto’s breaths.
Chapter Three