Fic: Butterfly In Reverse (1/3)
Title: Butterfly In Reverse
Rating: R
Pairing: Jack/Ianto
Word Count: 4,016
Summary: It’s not fair that Jack always has to lose what he loves, and Ianto is going to fix it. Post-Exit Wounds, mild crossover with Doctor Who. Spoilers for Torchwood S1, S2; Doctor Who S1, mild S3.
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot. All recognizable elements of Torchwood and Doctor Who are copyright to RTD and the BBC; the title is borrowed from the Counting Crows song of the same name.
Author's Notes: Written for hugglewolf for thestopwatch Fic Exchange. Given the prompts (only one of which I really managed to stick to) this was the only thing I could manage to get anything going with. Completely not my style, and it sort of became something of a monster as I went, but so it goes. Rather extremely out of character, as well, considering - I am not sure a story of this sort can actually be in-character in this fandom, but like I said - I couldn’t seem to get rid of the idea, and figured it better to get it out at all costs, rather than let it distract me any further.
Butterfly In Reverse
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Part I
If there was one thing that Ianto Jones was positive about, one thing he knew for certain, it was that life was, and always would be, entirely and unabashedly unfair.
There had been a time - not a lifetime ago, but long enough for the details to be hazy in remembering - when he’d clung to that fact like a mantra. Life wasn’t fair, and therefore he didn’t have to accept the cards he’d been dealt, at least not quietly. He could be angry that the university that he’d wanted hadn’t wanted him, he could be disappointed when he was drafted into Torchwood as a low-level runner, he could be jealous when his girlfriend actually looked twice at the men who flirted with her. He could even blame being genuinely pissed off when he hadn’t been granted the dignity of burning, of going down with the ship at Canary Wharf as a side effect of life being unfair. It wasn’t until he tried pinning the pain of losing the first woman he’d ever really loved, and later the guilt of hatefully spurning the first man he’d ever really loved (and there was a difference, he was sure) that he began to suspect that life’s tendency towards playing dirty pool wasn’t so much a justification as it was a condition of simply living to breathe another breath.
And fuck all if it wasn’t a hard realization to come to.
And yet, sitting against the unforgiving concrete, spine aching and shoulders hunched, the chill of the evening breeze off the bay whistling through his flesh - his bones - like an elegy, he knew, in the clutches of that numb, that low, that it didn’t always have a reason, a why; that sometimes, it all went sideways, and bad things happened to good people and sure, it wasn’t fair, but that didn’t make it any less real. Unfair didn’t stop the world from turning, or the sun from setting. Unfair didn’t bring people back from the dead.
‘Well,’ Ianto thought ruefully, ‘sometimes it does.’
The feel of Jack’s fingers against his, like the flutter of a butterfly’s wings, softly pushing Ianto’s hand from his shoulder as he left the Hub without a word - or his coat, for that matter - was burning subtly against his flesh, still crawling beneath his fingernails some two hours and half-a-fifth of bourbon later. He tried to tell himself that he understood; they’d all suffered, they’d all lost, and it still hurt like hell. Different people grieved in different ways, and it wasn’t a personal slight that, where Ianto just wanted someone next to him, something warm to remind him of what life felt like, Jack needed his space, somewhere high above the noise and bustle, somewhere quiet and peaceful and undisturbed that felt nothing like life at all. He tried to convince himself that it didn’t bother him, not really, that Jack hadn’t stayed with him in bed, hadn’t woken up next to him even once in the past two weeks since they’d lost Owen and Tosh, since Jack had also lost his brother; that it didn’t really matter that, save for the brave face of barely-contained inner turmoil they both put on for one another, neither had so much as shed a tear in the other’s presence since it had happened. He tried to make himself believe that it was better like this, that he mourned in his own way, and that Jack did the same; that in this nondescript little outcropping, somewhere between his flat and the Hub, perched upon the bottom step of something, some building of vague significance, scratching against a pattern in the cement in a thoughtless, desperate attempt to erode the echo of Jack’s touch - that here, and now, things were better off.
But even the alcohol couldn’t convince him that the loneliness was actually worthwhile, some sort of healing in disguise.
The sound of the landing was covered up by the rush of blood behind his eardrums; he hadn’t even been looking in that direction until he caught the movement in his peripheral vision. His stomach dropped as he recognized the tall rail of a man sauntering towards him on light feet, glowing bright crimson in the moonlight, in the gentle mask of the street lamps. His face was unmistakable, from the one time he’d seen it live, a visual feed at Torchwood Tower during the siege, and from the countless consequent images, CCTV stills and grainy footage that outlined the thin face, the spiky hair, the glasses… the fucking glasses.
“Hello there,” a voice, one that suited well the appearance that had stopped just in front of his toes, greeted Ianto with a jovial sort of wariness; polite, warm almost, but not without guard, not without consideration. Ianto set the bottle he’d been grasping down at his side, fingers still wrapped around the neck as he leaned forward, balanced on his elbows as he stared up at the unwitting intruder through wet, clumping eyelashes, with a bleary gaze of indifference.
“Why are you here?”
The man blinked once, twice, and shifted on his feet, the rubber soles bending precariously near the arches as he bounced. “Pardon?”
“I asked you a question,” Ianto swallowed, straightening a bit as he tried to make his mouth less dry, tried to flood his throat with saliva. “What are you doing here? What do you want?”
Ianto knew that his unexpected visitor, now standing with an eyebrow arched high into his forehead and his arms crossed over his chest, deserved more respect, so far as a standard sense of etiquette was concerned. However, staring at the man, hazed by the cheap whiskey coursing through his veins, he couldn’t bring himself to care. “A bright blue police box just appeared before your eyes where it wasn’t just moments before. You saw it pop out of nowhere; you did, it’s in your eyes. You saw that, and the most pressing thing you can think to ask me is ‘What do I want’?”
Ianto rolled his eyes, scuffing the heels of his dress shoes into the ground grudgingly as he murmured, “Do I have to ask again?”
“You’re an interesting fellow,” the newcomer approached, eyeing Ianto shrewdly from behind his black frames, hands shoved in the pockets of his trousers and jutting outwards from the seams of each leg. “What’s your name?”
“Show me yours, I’ll show you mine,” Ianto shot with a devilish sneer - if the alcohol hadn’t helped him to forget, hadn’t numbed him, it had certainly loosened his tongue.
“And cheeky, too!” Ianto instinctively drew back as he was honed in upon by those intense chocolate eyes, suddenly very certain that he understood the power that this man possessed, why worlds feared him and entire galaxies sang his praises. “But if I had to put money on it,” Ianto watched as the gaze came level with his own as the other man stooped, the corners of his eyes narrowing in consideration, and not entirely without threat, “I’d say you don’t need me to show you anything. I’d say you already knew.”
“So it wasn’t all just rumors,” Ianto muttered quietly. “Quite the clever sod, you are, indeed.”
The Doctor either appreciated his sarcasm enough to let it slide, or was exercising mercy in response to Ianto’s smart comment, because he simply shrugged it off as if it didn’t exist. “Given our location, I’m going to pin you down as one of Jack’s happy brood.”
“And cleverer by the moment,” Ianto lauded him mockingly for only a second, barely sure what it was he was doing at all. “Amazing, Doctor. Simply amazing.”
“Ianto Jones, then, is it?” The Doctor stood, his long coat billowing as he did, swiping his glasses from his nose and tucking them in his pocket as he looked Ianto up and down with a careful eye. “You certainly don’t strike me as the medic, so I’m thinking you’re the archivist Jack was so fond of.”
“‘Fond’ is a relative term, I suspect,” Ianto cringed bitterly, grasping blindly at the bourbon sitting next to him and wishing the burn felt more intense against his throat as he tossed back a swig violently, trying his best to choke himself and failing terribly.
“Finding what you’re looking for in there?” The Doctor gestured vaguely at the bottle as it came to rest at Ianto’s right hip once more.
Smacking his lips, Ianto shook his head. “Unfortunately no.”
“Too bad,” The Doctor commented offhandedly, picking up the alcohol and swirling it in his hand for a moment, glancing quickly at the label and sniffing at the open mouth before replacing it next to Ianto, gracefully dropping down to sit on the other side of bottle. “Looks like you could use to have something go your way just now, hmm?”
“Like you wouldn’t believe.”
“My sympathies, Mr. Jones,” he paused, dipping his head to try and catch Ianto’s eye in between his hands, the cracks in his fingers as he framed his face, trying to mask his sorrow. “Or perhaps... my condolences?”
Ianto cleared his throat and turned away, shame burning in his cheeks for reasons he didn’t quite comprehend. “I don’t need your pity.”
“I’m afraid that wasn’t on the menu.”
Feeling the Time Lord’s hand settle comfortingly on his shoulder in silent solidarity made it all suddenly even worse, and he flinched at the contact, but refused to shrug it off - it was too tempting not to give into it, to imagine it was someone else…“I mean, it’s bad enough for me. It’s horrific,” he swallowed down a cry and cringed as it settled hard and heavy in the pit of his gut. “It’s...” he tried to steady his voice, “unbearable. But for Jack...” he trailed, his words cracking on a note too high for his vocal chords to hit.
“Speaking of whom...” the Doctor began, fingers flexing on Ianto’s shoulder blades, but Ianto didn’t hear him, could hear nothing.
“It’s got to be so much worse for him,” Ianto mused, grief and remorse and sheer feeling lacing every syllable, so bright and unmistakable that was almost blinding, almost too real, too inescapable to bear. “So much worse.”
“What’s worse?” The Doctor asked, his voice quiet, vibrating low, and Ianto was somewhat surprised to hear a note of genuine concern, of honest feeling in his question.
“We lost two of our team recently,” he spoke softly, as if the louder he admitted it, the more he gave it weight; the more unavoidable, undeniable it would become. “Tosh, she was brilliant...” So inadequate to describe her, really; just ‘brilliant.’ She had been remarkable. “She worked with our -”
“Toshiko?” The Doctor suddenly interjected. “Dr. Toshiko Sato?”
Ianto turned to look him in the eye. “Did you know her?”
A fond sort of sadness curled his lips as he replied, “We met in passing, once.”
Ianto nodded, leaving the topic to rest. “She died a hero’s death. So did Owen, the medic, as you so aptly termed him.” Images of the two of them - working, interacting, bickering, smiling, living - flooded Ianto’s mind as his throat grew tight. “They’re gone. And it hurts, because it’s only the three of us now. And I’m left alive,” he laughed humorlessly, flicking a pebble with his free hand, running the pads of his fingers consistently against the rutted lines in the pavement, the repetition comforting, grounding. “While everyone else just keeps dying... I’m still alive. Again.”
“I’m sorry.” Ianto was appreciative of the Doctor’s sympathy, he really was, but he couldn't bring himself to stop, to acknowledge it. He couldn’t notice it, else he’d be done for.
“And I can’t sleep at night, because I can’t stop thinking about them, about how their last moments had to have felt.” Thoughts of Tosh, feeling, seeing her own blood leave her and knowing that it was over, her very life seeping away from her drop by drop; Owen flooded with, with… it was too much. Far too much. “And then back in London, how those people must have felt, before they were taken. Converted,” he spat the word like the venom it was, teeth clenching around the end, hard steel to match the memories, scattered and fragmented though they were in his mind; bits of flesh and bone and blood. “My friends, my colleagues, and here, my family; but never me. I’m always spared. And sometimes, that hurts more.”
The Doctor’s arm made it’s way slowly, unannounced across Ianto’s back, cradling the younger man slightly towards him, and Ianto was a fool to let him, because it felt so good that it was painful; this man didn’t even know him and was caring for him in the smallest and most subtle of ways, but Jack; Jack who he loved, Jack who he’d do anything for… Jack was gone, lost to some rooftop or precipice, and had no one. “I think that always hurts more,” the Doctor whispered from somewhere behind his ear, the sound soft and lilting as they both stared off into nothingness.
“But then there’s Jack.”
Ianto felt the Time Lord at his side stiffen. “Ah, yes. The good old Captain.”
Anger, a bone deep rage that cut through the haze of grief and anguish, that shattered windows and tore down walls and consumed everything in a singular blaze of sheer, unadulterated heat consumed Ianto at that, the tone used to refer to Jack, his Jack; he couldn’t explain what spurred his next words - perhaps it was protectiveness, possessiveness, maybe it was the pain, the disillusionment, the fog of it all; in the end it didn’t matter. All that mattered was the fire behind his eyes when he spun on the Doctor and began to hiss at him in an undertone both clipped and brutal; “You made him like he is. You cursed him. It’s your fault, and yet you still toss him aside. Why can’t you keep him?”
The poison of his every word, the sting of every breath in between cut the alien like a knife, and Ianto secretly relished every small flinch of his features, every passing glimpse of remorse that he managed to draw from his companion, his competition. “Why can’t you let him stay with you, where he’s wanted and safe, and happy, where he doesn’t have to lose you, where he can count on you to be there, and not to change; well, not too often. Why can’t you love him like he needs to be loved? Or at least, let him love you, like he wants to? Like he needs to?”
Ianto stopped, breathing heavily, his heart hammering against his chest as his lungs heaved, almost concealing the soft sound of a reply that came from his side - almost sheepish, almost sad.
“He wasn’t happy with me.”
Ianto’s anger had propelled him thus far, and suddenly it was diminished; all that was left in its treacherous, destructive wake being an emptiness he’d hoped never to feel again. “What?”
“I offered him the option of staying,” the Doctor revealed with carefully placed indifference that bled into his words but not his demeanor. “Of traveling. He turned me down. Came back here.”
“But he’s not happy here, either.”
“Isn’t he?” The Doctor sounded unconvinced; flippant, almost bitter.
“He’s always hurting. It’s just behind everything - his laugh, his smile, his anger, it’s always there, that constant hurt.” Ianto could feel the hurt himself, every day. It was so much more pronounced now, though, after Owen and Tosh. Every glance from Jack seemed to ask how long he had left, how long until he too was gone. “He’s so lonely, Doctor. Always so alone. And it’s not fair.” With a shuttering breath, Ianto squeezed shut his eyes, a tear escaping under the lid and trailing down his cheek. Bowing his head and trying to choke down the sobs that wanted so desperately to find freedom, he pressed his hands to the cold ground between his knees, breathing deeply and feeling the solid cement under him, rubbing against the texture, finding the pattern he’d drawn comfort from before, the little carving that went against the grain of the concrete, etching it just that bit deeper with his fingernail.
“Well, aren’t you a piece of work,” the Doctor finally said, and Ianto was surprised to hear something like wonder in his tone, though he wasn’t brave enough to look and identify it for certain.
“What’s that you’re doing?” Ianto’s head snapped up on impulse, only to find himself nearly nose to nose with the Doctor, who was looming curiously over him, glasses once again in place.
“Doing?” Ianto asked incredulously, backing away a bit so that he could focus on the Doctor properly.
“With your hand there,” the Doctor gestured downwards, crouching to get a better look. “What’re you writing?”
“Oh,” Ianto trailed off, not putting up a fight when the Doctor lifted his hands and studied the ground beneath his fingertips. “I was just… tracing.”
A sharp intake of breath echoed from the Doctor, loud and opaque like a vision, each subsequent inhalation resounding like a drumbeat around them in the quiet evening mist. “Blimey…” the Doctor stood agape, staring down at two short words that meant nothing to Ianto, two words he didn’t even know he was making with his hands, really; two words that seemed silly, to him, but given the Doctor’s expression and the breathlessness in his parted lips, they were anything but.
Bad wolf. Sounded like a fucking cartoon. A nursery rhyme.
The Doctor sprung upwards without warning, startling Ianto into knocking over what was left of his bottle of bourbon. “I have an idea,” the Doctor intoned gravely, as if he were imparting the secrets of life and the universe in the space of a blink. “An idea, mind you,” he clarified with a wag of his finger and a glance above his spectacles. “Just a theory. No guarantees.”
“An idea?”
“Mmm,” he looked past Ianto at something, or perhaps at nothing, eyes glazing for a moment before squarely zeroing back upon the man in front of him. “Because you’re right, Ianto Jones. You’re very right. He shouldn’t have to be alone. He shouldn’t have to always lose everything, everyone. And it’s as much my fault as anyone’s, letting him live like this, letting him suffer, when I could help…” The Doctor was lost again, this time seemingly in himself, though Ianto could feel the tangible pain, the guilt peeling off of him as he contemplated, reminiscing with himself, murmuring softly after a moment, an afterthought: “Well, try to help…”
“He needs someone,” the Doctor finally gathered his wits again with a resolute nod, pacing back and forth before Ianto, who was teetering on the edge of the bottom stair. “Someone like him. Only there’s no one quite like him. And therefore, someone needs to become like him.” Ianto had barely processed this before the Doctor dove back in and continued to ramble on.
“And he needs the right someone. Someone who can be there for him, who can take care of him - stars above, someone who can put up with him!” The wide grin that speared the Time Lord’s face as he came to that point was contagious, and spread to Ianto in spite of himself. “He needs someone he can love without fear, for once; forever. He deserves something more than what he’s gotten, something more than, than... sloppy seconds.” The smile was gone, faded to a sort of melancholy regret, but in its stead, determination took hold. “He deserves to be loved.”
“I love him.” Ianto hadn’t meant to say it, wished desperately for a moment that he hadn’t, until the Doctor fixed him with a gentle smile, not just on his lips, but one that lit up his whole face. Under the sheen of that smile, he simply couldn’t regret divulging the truth.
“That I don’t doubt, not in the slightest,” the Doctor spoke softly, tenderly, the smile still in place. “But that’s not the important question.”
With a deep breath, hands restless in his front pockets and eyes staring hard into Ianto’s wide and confused face, the Doctor spoke slowly, deliberately, not wanting a single inflection out of place as he asked what needed to be asked, what had the power to change them all. “What I need to know is this, Ianto Jones,” he tilted his head, watching for something Ianto couldn’t guess at, inspecting him for things he didn’t know he was, didn’t think he had. “Would you die for him?”
“Without a second thought.” He’d expected the question to be harder.
“Right,” the Doctor exhaled the word heavily, as if it were difficult, and Ianto felt himself tense at the hardness, the lack of joy that suffused the Time Lord’s features as he turned around, running one hand through his hair, the other balanced on his hip “That’s what I thought.”
Ianto stood up, wincing at the strain on his muscles, having been still too long, and walked towards the Doctor, who turned back to face him when he heard Ianto’s approach. “Jack’s immortality was a mistake,” he said plainly, as if commenting on a nice crop of tomatoes, or a good deal at the corner market. “A sort of… after effect, of something bigger. And the most logical way to duplicate the effect is, of course, to replicate the circumstances exactly. Return to the scene of the crime.” The Doctor’s eyes were darting between Ianto’s and whatever lay to either side of him, choosing their fixation at random. He was nervous, and that in turn made Ianto closer to terrified as he sorted through the revelations, the information, trying to come up with a logical solution, a meaningful end product…
“Wait,” Ianto finally stopped, incredulous; disbelieving. “You want to, you want to make me…” he paused, dumbfounded, shaking his head. “You can take me there? Where it happened?”
“I can, hypothetically,” the Doctor noted clinically, but the meaning behind his words was clear, the intention gleaming plainly in his eyes. “Give or take a day or two.”
Ianto didn’t have to think. “Then take me. Please.”
The Doctor held out a hand, pressing it to Ianto’s chest to halt him as he drew closer. “There is every possibility that this won’t work.”
“I don’t care.”
The Doctor narrowed his eyes in scrutiny. “Don’t you?”
Ianto stopped, a million thoughts filtering through his head, a million scenarios, a million reasons to say no. None of them mattered. “I don’t care what I lose,” Ianto whispered, his voice steeled and unwavering. “I have to... I have to try.”
The Doctor watched him for what seemed like forever, studying him almost stoically before breaking into a toothy grin and declaring with an enthusiasm that sparked his whole being out from the depths of the blackest night into the blaze of a supernova; “Then hop to it, Ianto Jones. You’re about to become immortal.”
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>>>>>>>>>> Part II Here
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Rating: R
Pairing: Jack/Ianto
Word Count: 4,016
Summary: It’s not fair that Jack always has to lose what he loves, and Ianto is going to fix it. Post-Exit Wounds, mild crossover with Doctor Who. Spoilers for Torchwood S1, S2; Doctor Who S1, mild S3.
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot. All recognizable elements of Torchwood and Doctor Who are copyright to RTD and the BBC; the title is borrowed from the Counting Crows song of the same name.
Author's Notes: Written for hugglewolf for thestopwatch Fic Exchange. Given the prompts (only one of which I really managed to stick to) this was the only thing I could manage to get anything going with. Completely not my style, and it sort of became something of a monster as I went, but so it goes. Rather extremely out of character, as well, considering - I am not sure a story of this sort can actually be in-character in this fandom, but like I said - I couldn’t seem to get rid of the idea, and figured it better to get it out at all costs, rather than let it distract me any further.
Butterfly In Reverse
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Part I
If there was one thing that Ianto Jones was positive about, one thing he knew for certain, it was that life was, and always would be, entirely and unabashedly unfair.
There had been a time - not a lifetime ago, but long enough for the details to be hazy in remembering - when he’d clung to that fact like a mantra. Life wasn’t fair, and therefore he didn’t have to accept the cards he’d been dealt, at least not quietly. He could be angry that the university that he’d wanted hadn’t wanted him, he could be disappointed when he was drafted into Torchwood as a low-level runner, he could be jealous when his girlfriend actually looked twice at the men who flirted with her. He could even blame being genuinely pissed off when he hadn’t been granted the dignity of burning, of going down with the ship at Canary Wharf as a side effect of life being unfair. It wasn’t until he tried pinning the pain of losing the first woman he’d ever really loved, and later the guilt of hatefully spurning the first man he’d ever really loved (and there was a difference, he was sure) that he began to suspect that life’s tendency towards playing dirty pool wasn’t so much a justification as it was a condition of simply living to breathe another breath.
And fuck all if it wasn’t a hard realization to come to.
And yet, sitting against the unforgiving concrete, spine aching and shoulders hunched, the chill of the evening breeze off the bay whistling through his flesh - his bones - like an elegy, he knew, in the clutches of that numb, that low, that it didn’t always have a reason, a why; that sometimes, it all went sideways, and bad things happened to good people and sure, it wasn’t fair, but that didn’t make it any less real. Unfair didn’t stop the world from turning, or the sun from setting. Unfair didn’t bring people back from the dead.
‘Well,’ Ianto thought ruefully, ‘sometimes it does.’
The feel of Jack’s fingers against his, like the flutter of a butterfly’s wings, softly pushing Ianto’s hand from his shoulder as he left the Hub without a word - or his coat, for that matter - was burning subtly against his flesh, still crawling beneath his fingernails some two hours and half-a-fifth of bourbon later. He tried to tell himself that he understood; they’d all suffered, they’d all lost, and it still hurt like hell. Different people grieved in different ways, and it wasn’t a personal slight that, where Ianto just wanted someone next to him, something warm to remind him of what life felt like, Jack needed his space, somewhere high above the noise and bustle, somewhere quiet and peaceful and undisturbed that felt nothing like life at all. He tried to convince himself that it didn’t bother him, not really, that Jack hadn’t stayed with him in bed, hadn’t woken up next to him even once in the past two weeks since they’d lost Owen and Tosh, since Jack had also lost his brother; that it didn’t really matter that, save for the brave face of barely-contained inner turmoil they both put on for one another, neither had so much as shed a tear in the other’s presence since it had happened. He tried to make himself believe that it was better like this, that he mourned in his own way, and that Jack did the same; that in this nondescript little outcropping, somewhere between his flat and the Hub, perched upon the bottom step of something, some building of vague significance, scratching against a pattern in the cement in a thoughtless, desperate attempt to erode the echo of Jack’s touch - that here, and now, things were better off.
But even the alcohol couldn’t convince him that the loneliness was actually worthwhile, some sort of healing in disguise.
The sound of the landing was covered up by the rush of blood behind his eardrums; he hadn’t even been looking in that direction until he caught the movement in his peripheral vision. His stomach dropped as he recognized the tall rail of a man sauntering towards him on light feet, glowing bright crimson in the moonlight, in the gentle mask of the street lamps. His face was unmistakable, from the one time he’d seen it live, a visual feed at Torchwood Tower during the siege, and from the countless consequent images, CCTV stills and grainy footage that outlined the thin face, the spiky hair, the glasses… the fucking glasses.
“Hello there,” a voice, one that suited well the appearance that had stopped just in front of his toes, greeted Ianto with a jovial sort of wariness; polite, warm almost, but not without guard, not without consideration. Ianto set the bottle he’d been grasping down at his side, fingers still wrapped around the neck as he leaned forward, balanced on his elbows as he stared up at the unwitting intruder through wet, clumping eyelashes, with a bleary gaze of indifference.
“Why are you here?”
The man blinked once, twice, and shifted on his feet, the rubber soles bending precariously near the arches as he bounced. “Pardon?”
“I asked you a question,” Ianto swallowed, straightening a bit as he tried to make his mouth less dry, tried to flood his throat with saliva. “What are you doing here? What do you want?”
Ianto knew that his unexpected visitor, now standing with an eyebrow arched high into his forehead and his arms crossed over his chest, deserved more respect, so far as a standard sense of etiquette was concerned. However, staring at the man, hazed by the cheap whiskey coursing through his veins, he couldn’t bring himself to care. “A bright blue police box just appeared before your eyes where it wasn’t just moments before. You saw it pop out of nowhere; you did, it’s in your eyes. You saw that, and the most pressing thing you can think to ask me is ‘What do I want’?”
Ianto rolled his eyes, scuffing the heels of his dress shoes into the ground grudgingly as he murmured, “Do I have to ask again?”
“You’re an interesting fellow,” the newcomer approached, eyeing Ianto shrewdly from behind his black frames, hands shoved in the pockets of his trousers and jutting outwards from the seams of each leg. “What’s your name?”
“Show me yours, I’ll show you mine,” Ianto shot with a devilish sneer - if the alcohol hadn’t helped him to forget, hadn’t numbed him, it had certainly loosened his tongue.
“And cheeky, too!” Ianto instinctively drew back as he was honed in upon by those intense chocolate eyes, suddenly very certain that he understood the power that this man possessed, why worlds feared him and entire galaxies sang his praises. “But if I had to put money on it,” Ianto watched as the gaze came level with his own as the other man stooped, the corners of his eyes narrowing in consideration, and not entirely without threat, “I’d say you don’t need me to show you anything. I’d say you already knew.”
“So it wasn’t all just rumors,” Ianto muttered quietly. “Quite the clever sod, you are, indeed.”
The Doctor either appreciated his sarcasm enough to let it slide, or was exercising mercy in response to Ianto’s smart comment, because he simply shrugged it off as if it didn’t exist. “Given our location, I’m going to pin you down as one of Jack’s happy brood.”
“And cleverer by the moment,” Ianto lauded him mockingly for only a second, barely sure what it was he was doing at all. “Amazing, Doctor. Simply amazing.”
“Ianto Jones, then, is it?” The Doctor stood, his long coat billowing as he did, swiping his glasses from his nose and tucking them in his pocket as he looked Ianto up and down with a careful eye. “You certainly don’t strike me as the medic, so I’m thinking you’re the archivist Jack was so fond of.”
“‘Fond’ is a relative term, I suspect,” Ianto cringed bitterly, grasping blindly at the bourbon sitting next to him and wishing the burn felt more intense against his throat as he tossed back a swig violently, trying his best to choke himself and failing terribly.
“Finding what you’re looking for in there?” The Doctor gestured vaguely at the bottle as it came to rest at Ianto’s right hip once more.
Smacking his lips, Ianto shook his head. “Unfortunately no.”
“Too bad,” The Doctor commented offhandedly, picking up the alcohol and swirling it in his hand for a moment, glancing quickly at the label and sniffing at the open mouth before replacing it next to Ianto, gracefully dropping down to sit on the other side of bottle. “Looks like you could use to have something go your way just now, hmm?”
“Like you wouldn’t believe.”
“My sympathies, Mr. Jones,” he paused, dipping his head to try and catch Ianto’s eye in between his hands, the cracks in his fingers as he framed his face, trying to mask his sorrow. “Or perhaps... my condolences?”
Ianto cleared his throat and turned away, shame burning in his cheeks for reasons he didn’t quite comprehend. “I don’t need your pity.”
“I’m afraid that wasn’t on the menu.”
Feeling the Time Lord’s hand settle comfortingly on his shoulder in silent solidarity made it all suddenly even worse, and he flinched at the contact, but refused to shrug it off - it was too tempting not to give into it, to imagine it was someone else…“I mean, it’s bad enough for me. It’s horrific,” he swallowed down a cry and cringed as it settled hard and heavy in the pit of his gut. “It’s...” he tried to steady his voice, “unbearable. But for Jack...” he trailed, his words cracking on a note too high for his vocal chords to hit.
“Speaking of whom...” the Doctor began, fingers flexing on Ianto’s shoulder blades, but Ianto didn’t hear him, could hear nothing.
“It’s got to be so much worse for him,” Ianto mused, grief and remorse and sheer feeling lacing every syllable, so bright and unmistakable that was almost blinding, almost too real, too inescapable to bear. “So much worse.”
“What’s worse?” The Doctor asked, his voice quiet, vibrating low, and Ianto was somewhat surprised to hear a note of genuine concern, of honest feeling in his question.
“We lost two of our team recently,” he spoke softly, as if the louder he admitted it, the more he gave it weight; the more unavoidable, undeniable it would become. “Tosh, she was brilliant...” So inadequate to describe her, really; just ‘brilliant.’ She had been remarkable. “She worked with our -”
“Toshiko?” The Doctor suddenly interjected. “Dr. Toshiko Sato?”
Ianto turned to look him in the eye. “Did you know her?”
A fond sort of sadness curled his lips as he replied, “We met in passing, once.”
Ianto nodded, leaving the topic to rest. “She died a hero’s death. So did Owen, the medic, as you so aptly termed him.” Images of the two of them - working, interacting, bickering, smiling, living - flooded Ianto’s mind as his throat grew tight. “They’re gone. And it hurts, because it’s only the three of us now. And I’m left alive,” he laughed humorlessly, flicking a pebble with his free hand, running the pads of his fingers consistently against the rutted lines in the pavement, the repetition comforting, grounding. “While everyone else just keeps dying... I’m still alive. Again.”
“I’m sorry.” Ianto was appreciative of the Doctor’s sympathy, he really was, but he couldn't bring himself to stop, to acknowledge it. He couldn’t notice it, else he’d be done for.
“And I can’t sleep at night, because I can’t stop thinking about them, about how their last moments had to have felt.” Thoughts of Tosh, feeling, seeing her own blood leave her and knowing that it was over, her very life seeping away from her drop by drop; Owen flooded with, with… it was too much. Far too much. “And then back in London, how those people must have felt, before they were taken. Converted,” he spat the word like the venom it was, teeth clenching around the end, hard steel to match the memories, scattered and fragmented though they were in his mind; bits of flesh and bone and blood. “My friends, my colleagues, and here, my family; but never me. I’m always spared. And sometimes, that hurts more.”
The Doctor’s arm made it’s way slowly, unannounced across Ianto’s back, cradling the younger man slightly towards him, and Ianto was a fool to let him, because it felt so good that it was painful; this man didn’t even know him and was caring for him in the smallest and most subtle of ways, but Jack; Jack who he loved, Jack who he’d do anything for… Jack was gone, lost to some rooftop or precipice, and had no one. “I think that always hurts more,” the Doctor whispered from somewhere behind his ear, the sound soft and lilting as they both stared off into nothingness.
“But then there’s Jack.”
Ianto felt the Time Lord at his side stiffen. “Ah, yes. The good old Captain.”
Anger, a bone deep rage that cut through the haze of grief and anguish, that shattered windows and tore down walls and consumed everything in a singular blaze of sheer, unadulterated heat consumed Ianto at that, the tone used to refer to Jack, his Jack; he couldn’t explain what spurred his next words - perhaps it was protectiveness, possessiveness, maybe it was the pain, the disillusionment, the fog of it all; in the end it didn’t matter. All that mattered was the fire behind his eyes when he spun on the Doctor and began to hiss at him in an undertone both clipped and brutal; “You made him like he is. You cursed him. It’s your fault, and yet you still toss him aside. Why can’t you keep him?”
The poison of his every word, the sting of every breath in between cut the alien like a knife, and Ianto secretly relished every small flinch of his features, every passing glimpse of remorse that he managed to draw from his companion, his competition. “Why can’t you let him stay with you, where he’s wanted and safe, and happy, where he doesn’t have to lose you, where he can count on you to be there, and not to change; well, not too often. Why can’t you love him like he needs to be loved? Or at least, let him love you, like he wants to? Like he needs to?”
Ianto stopped, breathing heavily, his heart hammering against his chest as his lungs heaved, almost concealing the soft sound of a reply that came from his side - almost sheepish, almost sad.
“He wasn’t happy with me.”
Ianto’s anger had propelled him thus far, and suddenly it was diminished; all that was left in its treacherous, destructive wake being an emptiness he’d hoped never to feel again. “What?”
“I offered him the option of staying,” the Doctor revealed with carefully placed indifference that bled into his words but not his demeanor. “Of traveling. He turned me down. Came back here.”
“But he’s not happy here, either.”
“Isn’t he?” The Doctor sounded unconvinced; flippant, almost bitter.
“He’s always hurting. It’s just behind everything - his laugh, his smile, his anger, it’s always there, that constant hurt.” Ianto could feel the hurt himself, every day. It was so much more pronounced now, though, after Owen and Tosh. Every glance from Jack seemed to ask how long he had left, how long until he too was gone. “He’s so lonely, Doctor. Always so alone. And it’s not fair.” With a shuttering breath, Ianto squeezed shut his eyes, a tear escaping under the lid and trailing down his cheek. Bowing his head and trying to choke down the sobs that wanted so desperately to find freedom, he pressed his hands to the cold ground between his knees, breathing deeply and feeling the solid cement under him, rubbing against the texture, finding the pattern he’d drawn comfort from before, the little carving that went against the grain of the concrete, etching it just that bit deeper with his fingernail.
“Well, aren’t you a piece of work,” the Doctor finally said, and Ianto was surprised to hear something like wonder in his tone, though he wasn’t brave enough to look and identify it for certain.
“What’s that you’re doing?” Ianto’s head snapped up on impulse, only to find himself nearly nose to nose with the Doctor, who was looming curiously over him, glasses once again in place.
“Doing?” Ianto asked incredulously, backing away a bit so that he could focus on the Doctor properly.
“With your hand there,” the Doctor gestured downwards, crouching to get a better look. “What’re you writing?”
“Oh,” Ianto trailed off, not putting up a fight when the Doctor lifted his hands and studied the ground beneath his fingertips. “I was just… tracing.”
A sharp intake of breath echoed from the Doctor, loud and opaque like a vision, each subsequent inhalation resounding like a drumbeat around them in the quiet evening mist. “Blimey…” the Doctor stood agape, staring down at two short words that meant nothing to Ianto, two words he didn’t even know he was making with his hands, really; two words that seemed silly, to him, but given the Doctor’s expression and the breathlessness in his parted lips, they were anything but.
Bad wolf. Sounded like a fucking cartoon. A nursery rhyme.
The Doctor sprung upwards without warning, startling Ianto into knocking over what was left of his bottle of bourbon. “I have an idea,” the Doctor intoned gravely, as if he were imparting the secrets of life and the universe in the space of a blink. “An idea, mind you,” he clarified with a wag of his finger and a glance above his spectacles. “Just a theory. No guarantees.”
“An idea?”
“Mmm,” he looked past Ianto at something, or perhaps at nothing, eyes glazing for a moment before squarely zeroing back upon the man in front of him. “Because you’re right, Ianto Jones. You’re very right. He shouldn’t have to be alone. He shouldn’t have to always lose everything, everyone. And it’s as much my fault as anyone’s, letting him live like this, letting him suffer, when I could help…” The Doctor was lost again, this time seemingly in himself, though Ianto could feel the tangible pain, the guilt peeling off of him as he contemplated, reminiscing with himself, murmuring softly after a moment, an afterthought: “Well, try to help…”
“He needs someone,” the Doctor finally gathered his wits again with a resolute nod, pacing back and forth before Ianto, who was teetering on the edge of the bottom stair. “Someone like him. Only there’s no one quite like him. And therefore, someone needs to become like him.” Ianto had barely processed this before the Doctor dove back in and continued to ramble on.
“And he needs the right someone. Someone who can be there for him, who can take care of him - stars above, someone who can put up with him!” The wide grin that speared the Time Lord’s face as he came to that point was contagious, and spread to Ianto in spite of himself. “He needs someone he can love without fear, for once; forever. He deserves something more than what he’s gotten, something more than, than... sloppy seconds.” The smile was gone, faded to a sort of melancholy regret, but in its stead, determination took hold. “He deserves to be loved.”
“I love him.” Ianto hadn’t meant to say it, wished desperately for a moment that he hadn’t, until the Doctor fixed him with a gentle smile, not just on his lips, but one that lit up his whole face. Under the sheen of that smile, he simply couldn’t regret divulging the truth.
“That I don’t doubt, not in the slightest,” the Doctor spoke softly, tenderly, the smile still in place. “But that’s not the important question.”
With a deep breath, hands restless in his front pockets and eyes staring hard into Ianto’s wide and confused face, the Doctor spoke slowly, deliberately, not wanting a single inflection out of place as he asked what needed to be asked, what had the power to change them all. “What I need to know is this, Ianto Jones,” he tilted his head, watching for something Ianto couldn’t guess at, inspecting him for things he didn’t know he was, didn’t think he had. “Would you die for him?”
“Without a second thought.” He’d expected the question to be harder.
“Right,” the Doctor exhaled the word heavily, as if it were difficult, and Ianto felt himself tense at the hardness, the lack of joy that suffused the Time Lord’s features as he turned around, running one hand through his hair, the other balanced on his hip “That’s what I thought.”
Ianto stood up, wincing at the strain on his muscles, having been still too long, and walked towards the Doctor, who turned back to face him when he heard Ianto’s approach. “Jack’s immortality was a mistake,” he said plainly, as if commenting on a nice crop of tomatoes, or a good deal at the corner market. “A sort of… after effect, of something bigger. And the most logical way to duplicate the effect is, of course, to replicate the circumstances exactly. Return to the scene of the crime.” The Doctor’s eyes were darting between Ianto’s and whatever lay to either side of him, choosing their fixation at random. He was nervous, and that in turn made Ianto closer to terrified as he sorted through the revelations, the information, trying to come up with a logical solution, a meaningful end product…
“Wait,” Ianto finally stopped, incredulous; disbelieving. “You want to, you want to make me…” he paused, dumbfounded, shaking his head. “You can take me there? Where it happened?”
“I can, hypothetically,” the Doctor noted clinically, but the meaning behind his words was clear, the intention gleaming plainly in his eyes. “Give or take a day or two.”
Ianto didn’t have to think. “Then take me. Please.”
The Doctor held out a hand, pressing it to Ianto’s chest to halt him as he drew closer. “There is every possibility that this won’t work.”
“I don’t care.”
The Doctor narrowed his eyes in scrutiny. “Don’t you?”
Ianto stopped, a million thoughts filtering through his head, a million scenarios, a million reasons to say no. None of them mattered. “I don’t care what I lose,” Ianto whispered, his voice steeled and unwavering. “I have to... I have to try.”
The Doctor watched him for what seemed like forever, studying him almost stoically before breaking into a toothy grin and declaring with an enthusiasm that sparked his whole being out from the depths of the blackest night into the blaze of a supernova; “Then hop to it, Ianto Jones. You’re about to become immortal.”
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>>>>>>>>>> Part II Here
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