Fic: Vizzini's Rule (14/105)
Title: Vizzini's Rule, Chapter 14
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Another bad word
Spoilers: Cyberwoman (1x4)
Disclaimer: Torchwood and all its wonderfulness belong to Russell T. Davies and the Mighty Beeb. Just goofin' around!
Summary: The origin fic continues - in which Ianto starts to deal with everything...
Notes: Comments are cookies and cooca! :o)
Previous Chapters
Vizzini's Rule: Chapter Fourteen
Ianto’s internal clock woke him promptly at 6:30. He rolled over and caught himself just before he fell on the floor. He rubbed his eyes which were grainy with lack of sleep and tried to figure out why he was sleeping on the sofa. He glanced at his watch and sat up quickly. I’m going to be late, he thought, frantically trying to extricate himself from the quilt tangled around his legs.
Then he remembered.
He wasn’t going to be late. He didn’t have anywhere to go. He was suspended.
And then he remembered why.
With a groan, he fell back onto the sofa, pressing his face into the cushions. Lisa, he thought, her name sending waves of pain through him. Jack, he thought and felt more of the same. He burrowed as far into the cushions as possible and pulled the quilt over his head. With hot tears soaking the pillow, he drifted off to sleep again.
When Ianto woke the second time, it was early evening. He’d slept for almost twelve hours straight but didn’t feel particularly well-rested. He stretched and looked around the flat blearily. He was definitely not ready to deal with the mess he’d made the night before. Wrapping the quilt around his shoulders, he walked carefully to the kitchen and stood in the doorway. The idea of food made his stomach churn so he turned away and stumbled to the bedroom instead. Sleep, he thought. He shoved the extra pillows on the floor and crept between the sheets with the quilt still around his shoulders. Shivering despite the layers, he buried his face in the pillow and was asleep in seconds.
For the next four days, Ianto slept. He would wake up every few hours and crawl out of bed long enough to take a piss or to grab a glass of water from the bathroom. He couldn’t face the thought of food and he couldn’t bring himself to touch the chaos in the rest of the flat. For four days he padded between the bedroom and the bathroom, lost in a haze of misery. At first, while he slept, he dreamt of Lisa. Some dreams would wake him immediately and he would find himself sitting up in bed, his throat raw from screaming. Other dreams were more insidious, torturing him for hours before he was able to free himself.
After a while, he began to dream of Jack as well. These dreams were always more frightening. He would wake in a cold sweat, afraid to move for fear he’d be discovered. He would lay in the bed, shuddering with terror for what felt like hours until he calmed down enough to fall back asleep.
The Jack in his dreams was always the same - he was charming and flirtatious, he would tease Ianto and brush up against him as he passed. But then the accidental brushes would become more forceful, a playful pat on the back would turn into a shove, a cheeky slap on the arse would sting and burn. Soon dream-Jack’s eyes would grow cold, turning from their usual blue to the color of steel and ice.
Then Ianto would try to hide, curling himself into a ball under the covers as his dreamself found tiny closets and nooks in the hub to hide in. But dream-Jack always found him, ripping him from his hiding place and dragging him to the basement storeroom. Once there, dream-Jack would shake him, slap him, punch him, force him against the cold stone wall and hold him there, captive.
Then, dream-Jack would start to talk. He would whisper in Ianto’s ear, telling him he was a liar, a cheat, a waste of space, a worthless piece of shit. And Ianto would believe him. He would cry and ask for forgiveness but dream-Jack would just keep talking as he pressed Ianto’s head into the stone. Ianto would feel his skull start to crack from the pressure. While his dreamself cried for mercy, Ianto would clutch at his head, writhing in agony as he felt stone against skin, against bone. He would feel his skull splinter as dream-Jack pressed harder and harder and then he would hear the laugh. A cold, heartless, mirthless sound that would drag him screaming into consciousness.
He was sitting up in bed after one such dream, panting and holding his head between both hands, trying to reassure himself it was still in one piece, when he heard an insistent knocking his front door. He screwed his eyes shut and tried to block out the sound, but whoever was at the door just kept knocking. Cursing, Ianto threw back the covers and staggered to the door on unsteady legs. He hissed in pain as he grabbed the doorknob with his injured hand. He had to yank on the knob with all his strength to pull the damaged door free of the frame. When it was open, he saw the postman.
“What?” he said ungraciously.
“Package won’t fit through your letterbox,” the postman said, waving a large parcel at him.
Ianto grabbed the packet. It was addressed to J. Smith. “This isn’t mine,” he said shoving it at the postman.
“S’got your address on it,” he said, shoving it back.
“Yes, but I’m not J. Smith. It’s not mine,” Ianto insisted, refusing to take the parcel back.
“Mebbe they spelled it wrong?”
“If someone tried to spell Ianto Jones and came up with J. Smith then I don’t want whatever it is they’re sending anyway. Thanks,” Ianto said and tried to shut the door.
The postman stood on the front step and watched with interest as Ianto wrestled with the door. “S’broken, innit? Should have that looked at.”
“Yes, thank you,” Ianto said through clenched teeth.
The postman gave him a wide grin and then headed for the next flat’s entrance, whistling. Ianto stepped out of the flat to look at the door from the outside. There was no way he’d be able to repair it on his own, he’d have to call someone. He sighed, noticing the streak of blood on the doorknob, now dried to a rusty brown. Lisa’s blood, he thought as he reached a long finger out to trace the mark. It was raining again. He lifted his face into the drizzle for a long moment and realized that he felt awake. Actually awake for the first time in days. He caught a glimpse of moment out of the corner of his eye and looked to see what it was. He frowned. He’d been sure there was someone standing on the corner across the street, but no one was there. Shaking his head, he walked back into the flat and used his full body weight to ram the door closed.
As soon as it was shut, he felt trapped. The air was stale and close and he felt like he couldn’t breathe. The flat which had been his sanctuary a moment before had suddenly become oppressive. He opened all the windows in the front room and then walked back to the kitchen to do the same. He stood for a moment, leaning over the kitchen sink, breathing in the rain-washed air drifting in through the window. He realized his arms were shaking with the effort of holding himself up and knew that he had to eat something soon.
He opened the refrigerator and pulled out a loaf of bread and a small block of mild cheese. Moving very slowly, he cut the cheese into slices and placed them on a piece of bread. He folded the slice over and raised it to his lips, waiting for his stomach to protest. When it didn’t, he took a cautious bite. He chewed deliberately, giving his body plenty of time to object to the food. When it seemed safe, he swallowed and waited for the nausea to hit him. His stomach growled, but in a way Ianto hadn’t heard for months. He continued to chew and swallow slowly. After he’d finished the makeshift sandwich, he made another. And another until the cheese was gone and then he just ate bread.
He sat on the floor as he ate, looking around the kitchen and the dining area through the doorway. God, what a mess, he thought. He wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to get the coffee stain off the pale yellow wall in the kitchen. I’ll have to paint it before I move, he thought and then froze, a piece of bread halfway to his mouth. He hadn’t actually considered moving before that very moment but it seemed that some part of him had already made up its mind. He tested the idea much like he had tested the cheese sandwich earlier. It felt right. He didn’t want to stay here alone, without Lisa.
Jack’s words from the other night floated across his mind. Decide what you want. He didn’t want to stay in this flat. Did he want to stay in Cardiff at all? Did he want to go back to Torchwood? Wouldn’t it be easier to just pick up and start over somewhere else? Yes, he thought, it would be easier, no question. But he thought back to his first day at Torchwood, how happy he’d been and how right it felt to be there. He remembered his regret that he couldn’t enjoy the feeling because it was all a lie. What would it be like to go back and have it all be true, be real? He wanted to know. He needed to know.
“Well,” he said out loud. “That was a very productive cheese sandwich.” He reached an arm up to the counter to pull himself off the floor and realized that he was absolutely manky.
“Shower,” he said out loud, trying to get used to hearing his own voice again. “Shower then plan.”
On his way to the bathroom, Ianto grabbed a few old towels out of the linen closet. He kicked his ruined suit and the new towels he had bought for Lisa into a pile in the corner of the bathroom knowing they would end up in the bin with the broken glasses and plates from the dining room.
He put some toothpaste on his toothbrush and stepped into the steaming shower. He brushed his teeth as the hot water rushed over his aching body, loosening muscles cramped with inactivity. He let it run over his back as he stretched and turned. After he’d cleaned the fuzziness from his teeth, he started on the rest of his body. He washed his hair first, lathering it up three times before it felt clean. He grabbed the loofah he’d bought for Lisa and poured a generous amount of soap on it. He scoured his body with punishing strokes. He’d always laughed at Lisa and her loofahs. He could never understand what was wrong with a good old-fashioned washcloth. He smiled, thinking of her chucking the loofah at him once in annoyance. He’d gotten a face full of rose scented bubbles and had just laughed, pulling her to him, her soapy body sliding along his, a perfect fit.
Ianto fell against the wall of the shower, trying to breathe through the hot rush of tears suddenly pouring down his face. Lisa Her name was a sharp twist in his belly. He pressed his hands against the wall, cooling his heated face against the tile. He forced himself to take deep breaths, trying to keep his cheese sandwich down where it belonged. After a few minutes he started to feel better. At least he didn’t feel like he was going to vomit anymore. He finished the shower quickly and headed to the bedroom to get dressed.
He pulled on a pair of jeans, an old grey t-shirt and some beat-up trainers with an eye on cleaning up the flat. He started in the kitchen, cleaning off the wall best as he could. He’d been right about the coffee stain, no amount of scrubbing was going to wash it off. He swept up the broken mug and moved into the dining area. Surveying the destruction, Ianto was suddenly very glad the flat had hardwood floors. He swept up the glass and ceramic shards, following his path through the flat with the broom and dustpan.
After the debris was thrown away, Ianto grabbed an empty box from the closet and started piling in all the items that he didn’t need or wouldn’t want to see ever again. Luckily he hadn’t done a lot with the flat yet, so there wasn’t much to get rid of. Once he was done, the whole place looked like a model home or a hotel. Nothing personal remained except a small pile of pictures removed from their broken frames.
Ianto was exhausted. He looked longingly at his bed but stripped the sheets off instead of climbing between them. He tossed them in the washer, grabbed a blanket and headed back to the living room. He kicked off his shoes and stretched out on the couch after flipping the TV to some random comedy. He was asleep in seconds and this time he didn’t dream.
TBC in Chapters Fifteen and Sixteen
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Another bad word
Spoilers: Cyberwoman (1x4)
Disclaimer: Torchwood and all its wonderfulness belong to Russell T. Davies and the Mighty Beeb. Just goofin' around!
Summary: The origin fic continues - in which Ianto starts to deal with everything...
Notes: Comments are cookies and cooca! :o)
Previous Chapters
Vizzini's Rule: Chapter Fourteen
Ianto’s internal clock woke him promptly at 6:30. He rolled over and caught himself just before he fell on the floor. He rubbed his eyes which were grainy with lack of sleep and tried to figure out why he was sleeping on the sofa. He glanced at his watch and sat up quickly. I’m going to be late, he thought, frantically trying to extricate himself from the quilt tangled around his legs.
Then he remembered.
He wasn’t going to be late. He didn’t have anywhere to go. He was suspended.
And then he remembered why.
With a groan, he fell back onto the sofa, pressing his face into the cushions. Lisa, he thought, her name sending waves of pain through him. Jack, he thought and felt more of the same. He burrowed as far into the cushions as possible and pulled the quilt over his head. With hot tears soaking the pillow, he drifted off to sleep again.
When Ianto woke the second time, it was early evening. He’d slept for almost twelve hours straight but didn’t feel particularly well-rested. He stretched and looked around the flat blearily. He was definitely not ready to deal with the mess he’d made the night before. Wrapping the quilt around his shoulders, he walked carefully to the kitchen and stood in the doorway. The idea of food made his stomach churn so he turned away and stumbled to the bedroom instead. Sleep, he thought. He shoved the extra pillows on the floor and crept between the sheets with the quilt still around his shoulders. Shivering despite the layers, he buried his face in the pillow and was asleep in seconds.
For the next four days, Ianto slept. He would wake up every few hours and crawl out of bed long enough to take a piss or to grab a glass of water from the bathroom. He couldn’t face the thought of food and he couldn’t bring himself to touch the chaos in the rest of the flat. For four days he padded between the bedroom and the bathroom, lost in a haze of misery. At first, while he slept, he dreamt of Lisa. Some dreams would wake him immediately and he would find himself sitting up in bed, his throat raw from screaming. Other dreams were more insidious, torturing him for hours before he was able to free himself.
After a while, he began to dream of Jack as well. These dreams were always more frightening. He would wake in a cold sweat, afraid to move for fear he’d be discovered. He would lay in the bed, shuddering with terror for what felt like hours until he calmed down enough to fall back asleep.
The Jack in his dreams was always the same - he was charming and flirtatious, he would tease Ianto and brush up against him as he passed. But then the accidental brushes would become more forceful, a playful pat on the back would turn into a shove, a cheeky slap on the arse would sting and burn. Soon dream-Jack’s eyes would grow cold, turning from their usual blue to the color of steel and ice.
Then Ianto would try to hide, curling himself into a ball under the covers as his dreamself found tiny closets and nooks in the hub to hide in. But dream-Jack always found him, ripping him from his hiding place and dragging him to the basement storeroom. Once there, dream-Jack would shake him, slap him, punch him, force him against the cold stone wall and hold him there, captive.
Then, dream-Jack would start to talk. He would whisper in Ianto’s ear, telling him he was a liar, a cheat, a waste of space, a worthless piece of shit. And Ianto would believe him. He would cry and ask for forgiveness but dream-Jack would just keep talking as he pressed Ianto’s head into the stone. Ianto would feel his skull start to crack from the pressure. While his dreamself cried for mercy, Ianto would clutch at his head, writhing in agony as he felt stone against skin, against bone. He would feel his skull splinter as dream-Jack pressed harder and harder and then he would hear the laugh. A cold, heartless, mirthless sound that would drag him screaming into consciousness.
He was sitting up in bed after one such dream, panting and holding his head between both hands, trying to reassure himself it was still in one piece, when he heard an insistent knocking his front door. He screwed his eyes shut and tried to block out the sound, but whoever was at the door just kept knocking. Cursing, Ianto threw back the covers and staggered to the door on unsteady legs. He hissed in pain as he grabbed the doorknob with his injured hand. He had to yank on the knob with all his strength to pull the damaged door free of the frame. When it was open, he saw the postman.
“What?” he said ungraciously.
“Package won’t fit through your letterbox,” the postman said, waving a large parcel at him.
Ianto grabbed the packet. It was addressed to J. Smith. “This isn’t mine,” he said shoving it at the postman.
“S’got your address on it,” he said, shoving it back.
“Yes, but I’m not J. Smith. It’s not mine,” Ianto insisted, refusing to take the parcel back.
“Mebbe they spelled it wrong?”
“If someone tried to spell Ianto Jones and came up with J. Smith then I don’t want whatever it is they’re sending anyway. Thanks,” Ianto said and tried to shut the door.
The postman stood on the front step and watched with interest as Ianto wrestled with the door. “S’broken, innit? Should have that looked at.”
“Yes, thank you,” Ianto said through clenched teeth.
The postman gave him a wide grin and then headed for the next flat’s entrance, whistling. Ianto stepped out of the flat to look at the door from the outside. There was no way he’d be able to repair it on his own, he’d have to call someone. He sighed, noticing the streak of blood on the doorknob, now dried to a rusty brown. Lisa’s blood, he thought as he reached a long finger out to trace the mark. It was raining again. He lifted his face into the drizzle for a long moment and realized that he felt awake. Actually awake for the first time in days. He caught a glimpse of moment out of the corner of his eye and looked to see what it was. He frowned. He’d been sure there was someone standing on the corner across the street, but no one was there. Shaking his head, he walked back into the flat and used his full body weight to ram the door closed.
As soon as it was shut, he felt trapped. The air was stale and close and he felt like he couldn’t breathe. The flat which had been his sanctuary a moment before had suddenly become oppressive. He opened all the windows in the front room and then walked back to the kitchen to do the same. He stood for a moment, leaning over the kitchen sink, breathing in the rain-washed air drifting in through the window. He realized his arms were shaking with the effort of holding himself up and knew that he had to eat something soon.
He opened the refrigerator and pulled out a loaf of bread and a small block of mild cheese. Moving very slowly, he cut the cheese into slices and placed them on a piece of bread. He folded the slice over and raised it to his lips, waiting for his stomach to protest. When it didn’t, he took a cautious bite. He chewed deliberately, giving his body plenty of time to object to the food. When it seemed safe, he swallowed and waited for the nausea to hit him. His stomach growled, but in a way Ianto hadn’t heard for months. He continued to chew and swallow slowly. After he’d finished the makeshift sandwich, he made another. And another until the cheese was gone and then he just ate bread.
He sat on the floor as he ate, looking around the kitchen and the dining area through the doorway. God, what a mess, he thought. He wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to get the coffee stain off the pale yellow wall in the kitchen. I’ll have to paint it before I move, he thought and then froze, a piece of bread halfway to his mouth. He hadn’t actually considered moving before that very moment but it seemed that some part of him had already made up its mind. He tested the idea much like he had tested the cheese sandwich earlier. It felt right. He didn’t want to stay here alone, without Lisa.
Jack’s words from the other night floated across his mind. Decide what you want. He didn’t want to stay in this flat. Did he want to stay in Cardiff at all? Did he want to go back to Torchwood? Wouldn’t it be easier to just pick up and start over somewhere else? Yes, he thought, it would be easier, no question. But he thought back to his first day at Torchwood, how happy he’d been and how right it felt to be there. He remembered his regret that he couldn’t enjoy the feeling because it was all a lie. What would it be like to go back and have it all be true, be real? He wanted to know. He needed to know.
“Well,” he said out loud. “That was a very productive cheese sandwich.” He reached an arm up to the counter to pull himself off the floor and realized that he was absolutely manky.
“Shower,” he said out loud, trying to get used to hearing his own voice again. “Shower then plan.”
On his way to the bathroom, Ianto grabbed a few old towels out of the linen closet. He kicked his ruined suit and the new towels he had bought for Lisa into a pile in the corner of the bathroom knowing they would end up in the bin with the broken glasses and plates from the dining room.
He put some toothpaste on his toothbrush and stepped into the steaming shower. He brushed his teeth as the hot water rushed over his aching body, loosening muscles cramped with inactivity. He let it run over his back as he stretched and turned. After he’d cleaned the fuzziness from his teeth, he started on the rest of his body. He washed his hair first, lathering it up three times before it felt clean. He grabbed the loofah he’d bought for Lisa and poured a generous amount of soap on it. He scoured his body with punishing strokes. He’d always laughed at Lisa and her loofahs. He could never understand what was wrong with a good old-fashioned washcloth. He smiled, thinking of her chucking the loofah at him once in annoyance. He’d gotten a face full of rose scented bubbles and had just laughed, pulling her to him, her soapy body sliding along his, a perfect fit.
Ianto fell against the wall of the shower, trying to breathe through the hot rush of tears suddenly pouring down his face. Lisa Her name was a sharp twist in his belly. He pressed his hands against the wall, cooling his heated face against the tile. He forced himself to take deep breaths, trying to keep his cheese sandwich down where it belonged. After a few minutes he started to feel better. At least he didn’t feel like he was going to vomit anymore. He finished the shower quickly and headed to the bedroom to get dressed.
He pulled on a pair of jeans, an old grey t-shirt and some beat-up trainers with an eye on cleaning up the flat. He started in the kitchen, cleaning off the wall best as he could. He’d been right about the coffee stain, no amount of scrubbing was going to wash it off. He swept up the broken mug and moved into the dining area. Surveying the destruction, Ianto was suddenly very glad the flat had hardwood floors. He swept up the glass and ceramic shards, following his path through the flat with the broom and dustpan.
After the debris was thrown away, Ianto grabbed an empty box from the closet and started piling in all the items that he didn’t need or wouldn’t want to see ever again. Luckily he hadn’t done a lot with the flat yet, so there wasn’t much to get rid of. Once he was done, the whole place looked like a model home or a hotel. Nothing personal remained except a small pile of pictures removed from their broken frames.
Ianto was exhausted. He looked longingly at his bed but stripped the sheets off instead of climbing between them. He tossed them in the washer, grabbed a blanket and headed back to the living room. He kicked off his shoes and stretched out on the couch after flipping the TV to some random comedy. He was asleep in seconds and this time he didn’t dream.
TBC in Chapters Fifteen and Sixteen