It'll End in Tears #14: "Control"
Title: "Control"
Disclaimer: Being a bloke who likes to slash pretty men doesn't make me RTD, I don't work for the BBC, and as much as I might like to, I don't own Jack or Ianto or any part of Torchwood. I do, however, order pizza under that name on principle.
Pairings: Overall: Ianto/Andy, Jack/Ianto, Jack/Ianto/Andy, with occasional guest cameos.
Rating: Series ranges from relatively safe to hard NC-17. This installment is in the R to NC-17 range for semi-explicit smut and language.
Notes/Summary: Part Fourteen of the " It'll End In Tears" cluster, and #12 on the un_love_you prompt table. Thanks to sanginmychains for giving this the sweet, sweet beta-fu.
A handful of things to know that will enhance your reading experience:
- Magic Roundabout: an area in Splott with public art made out of street signs. Attractive by day, it's got a reputation for being a good place to pick up a prostitute at night.
- Gog refers to a person from North Wales, as well as the dialect spoken there.
- "dim problem" is "no problem" in Welsh.
- St. David's 2
- Mr Blobby
- Stephen Milligan, whose death was significant.
And now, #14:
“Hello. This is Ianto Jones. I’m sorry I can’t take your call. Please leave me a message and -“
“Damn it,” Jack hisses and taps his earpiece to disengage the call. Judging by the fact that the Hub’s computer still has yet to update him with GSM tracking data, it seems a safe bet that Ianto has fully disabled his handset, either by taking out the battery or destroying the phone. Jack himself has run out of places he knows Ianto likes to visit in his off time - it’s a staggeringly short list, actually - and has finally resorted to remotely querying the Hub’s security system to see if Ianto has, in fact, gone to the office to work in an attempt to avoid his personal life. There’s no trace of him, though, and Jack’s left sitting in the SUV in Splott, glaring in the general direction of the Magic Roundabout and wondering what he should have done differently.
Short of calling the police and asking them to stop every black Audi in a 100 mile radius, or calling Tosh and asking her to track him by CCTV data, he’s out of luck and out of options. “Damn it,” he says again, softer this time. Really, he isn’t angry at anyone but himself, and even that’s secondary to his concern. Jack lets his head fall back against the driver’s seat. He might have the advantage of having lived out the better part of the last century in and out of Cardiff, but Ianto has always been a natural at concealing himself when he doesn’t want to be found, and the fact that he doesn’t want finding stings.
As much as Jack hates to admit it, the only thing he can do at this point is wait. Reluctantly, Jack turns the SUV around and begins the slow drive back to Ianto’s flat. He scowls at the lights that line the little neighborhood shops as he returns to the Bay. Sometimes, he really hates Cardiff. This is definitely one of those times.
# # #
Hungry, shrouded eyes watch as he braces himself against a tree. He’s not so drunk he can’t stand, and even sober he’d probably need it, but the bark is comforting under his fingers, and it gives him something to do with his hands while he waits. Behind him, he hears a packet torn open and the wet noise of lubricated latex being rolled into place. He tries to pretend he’s invisible, and that these other men aren’t getting off on the way he’s standing with his legs spread as far as they’ll go with his jeans around his knees, but it’s useless. A handful of them are close enough he can almost make out their faces in his peripheral vision. There’s no doubt they can see his.
Ianto squeezes his eyes shut as a pair of unfamiliar hands makes contact with his skin. He refuses to picture Jack or Andy or anyone else as the nameless bloke with the gog accent asks how he’d like it.
“Hard and fast. No frills.”
“Dim problem, pretty boy. Maybe if you’re lucky I’ll fuck some sense into you.”
“Yeah, maybe.”
For something fast it goes on forever. Ianto keeps his eyes shut and focuses on the blackness and the messages his nerves are sending him about wide, rough hands and sweat and what it’s like to be fucked against a tree by a stranger when he’d really rather not be fucked at all. When it ends in a couple of unsteady thrusts and a grunt, Ianto knows he can (and probably should) stop, go home, and sort himself out. He doesn’t. Staying here means he’s stronger than his fear, and that he’s mastered himself enough that he can bury himself in it.
So he does.
Later, when they’ve done with him - or maybe he’s finished with them? It’s unclear, even to him - he snaps the battery back into his mobile. It rings almost immediately, but he doesn’t answer, or even need to look to know that it’s Jack, and that Jack will find him. In fact, Jack’s probably already on his way, worried sick. Jack shouldn’t worry, though, Ianto thinks as the sobs come loose and he stumbles out of view of the street. He’s fine. Better than fine.
He’s won.
# # #
Jack’s turning onto James Street when his wrist strap chirps. He swerves dangerously into a small parking lot, eliciting angry honks and a shout from the drivers behind him, and flips open the leather cover to reveal the small display. Ianto’s GSM data blinks back at him in 51st Century shorthand, and Jack breathes his relief. Within seconds, the SUV’s onboard satnav system begins plotting a route to a point near the St. David’s 2 project site. He doesn’t need the directions, but he supposes it’s nice of the computer to offer them.
As he pulls back onto the road, Jack uses the hands free system to dial Ianto’s number again. It rings this time, but after the forth tone, he’s greeted again by Ianto’s voicemail message.
“Hello. This is Ianto Jones. I’m sorry I can’t take your call. Please leave me a -“
He kills the call and glances again at the satnav screen. The destination point appears to be stationary, more or less. Jack engages the SUV’s blue lights and hits the accelerator.
# # #
Ianto is sitting on the ground behind a skip when Jack finds him. He looks tired and cold, and his Aran is missing. His white t-shirt clings to him, damp with drizzle. He looks rumpled, and the knees and shins of his jeans are dark with mud and wet. Without hesitation, Jack shucks off his coat and covers Ianto in it like a blanket. He crouches down, careful not to invade Ianto’s space, and Ianto peers up at him with red-rimmed, glassy eyes. He smells like he’s been drinking. Vodka, at a guess, but the alcove they’ve sheltered in is too full of the odor of garbage and sex and piss for Jack to be certain based on scent alone.
“You okay?” Jack asks, looking him over.
Ianto shrugs under the coat and rests his head against the brick.
Jack checks the ground for broken glass and then sits down next to him. Their shoulders brush one another and Jack is grateful when Ianto doesn’t pull away. “Do you want to talk about it?”
Ianto closes his eyes and takes a breath. He’s silent long enough that Jack’s not sure if he’s going to respond, but then Ianto opens his eyes and gazes at the sky like he’s remembering something important, and needs to put the words in neat rows before he speaks them. The tip of his tongue darts out to moisten his lips, and he wraps the coat closer around himself.
“When I was ten,” Ianto begins, still staring at the clouds above them, “my mother put up a little note next to our calendar. It said ‘Eat a live toad each morning and nothing worse can happen to you all day.’ She did it in green felt pen, with big block letters.” A thin smile crosses his face and he closes his eyes and shakes his head. “God, I hated that bloody thing. The whole first month I kept suggesting things that were worse than eating a toad in the morning. Stuff like ‘being hit by a London bus’ or ‘having to listen to that Mr. Blobby song on the radio over and over.’ My father thought it was really funny, you know, that this little slip of paper had me so annoyed.”
Jack nods, listening. Ianto rarely discusses his childhood, and he values these small moments of intimacy. They don’t exchange them often enough, Jack knows, and at least half of that is his own fault.
Ianto continues, the dreamlike expression returning as he gazes upward again. “After a bit, though, the joke got sort of stale, and I only pointed out the really amusing ones, like ‘dying like Stephen Milligan’ and that sort of thing. I kept on about it off and on for years.”
“What happened?” Jack asks. He’s read the official files a hundred times or more, and knows about Ianto’s family. Well, what’s left of it. Still, he’s never heard the truth of it from Ianto. The facts aren’t in context. So he listens.
“She died,” Ianto says softly, politely ignoring the fact that Jack knows this. “Just a few weeks after my fourteenth birthday.”
Jack bows his head. “I’m sorry.”
“I remember just standing in the kitchen in shock after the funeral while my father tried to handle the rest of the family. I was still in my suit, and I just stared at that note. I was so angry at her for leaving us. I remember looking at that note and demanding an answer. ‘What about your mam dying in a stupid fucking car accident,’ you know? I remember ripping up and tossing it into the bin and then running out of the house full tilt and not coming home until after dark. When I came back, I went to retrieve them, but all the pieces were gone. I guess maybe my father must have found them. I never saw them again, even when I went through his things three years later. I haven’t thought about it in years.”
“So why now?”
Ianto bites his lip and squints into the drizzle. “You remember how we met, don’t you Jack? Late at night in Bute Park? You know what goes on there at night. Other than weevils.”
Jack feels his stomach lurch. He hesitates, and then nods. Of course he knows. For too many reasons.
“What you have to understand - and this is important - is that somewhere along the line I thought to myself that I was sick of being scared and hurt, and that if I had a problem, I should confront it face to face. I was drinking in a bar - just angry and getting pissed because it seemed to be the thing to do under the circumstances - and that’s when I remembered that note by the calendar, and somehow I thought, you know, that maybe -“ Ianto sounds hesitant, like he isn’t sure how to explain. “I thought that -“
“You thought you’d go swallow your live toad.”
“Yeah.” Ianto answers and licks his lips. He looks ashamed and nearly buries himself in Jack’s coat, his face a storm of uncertainty.
Jack feels cold anger start to well up inside, both at himself and the men who’d presumed to use Ianto. His Ianto. He could go to the park right now, find them and snap their necks one by one…
“Are you okay?”
“You mean did they hurt me?” Ianto asks, surprised. “No, I’m -“ Ianto pauses. “I’m alright. No one did anything I didn’t ask for.”
It’s a less comforting answer than Jack had hoped for, but he accepts it. “Okay.”
Ianto sits up a little straighter and pulls away, drawing into himself. Jack knows he’s creating distance, making a buffer between Jack and himself. “Listen, I’m drunk and I think maybe I hate who I am right now. I’m ashamed and I’m sorry and I’ll understand if you don’t want anything to do with me after -“
He’s shaking and gulping air when Jack puts a tentative arm around him, and it’s impossible to miss the way Ianto tenses up for a second before giving in and leaning against Jack’s chest. Jack holds him close and kisses the top of his head. “I’m not going anywhere. Not before this, not after this. Not ever. Let’s get you home.”
Jack helps him up and puts his coat around Ianto’s shoulders. It’s a little big on him, but in an attractive sort of way, and Jack wishes that maybe he was doing this under less complicated circumstances. They make their way to the SUV as drizzle gives way to rain and return to Ianto’s flat in silence. When they arrive, Jack helps him undress and sends him off to shower.
“You’ll be here when I come out?” he asks, and Jack nods.
“Of course. Go on.”
When the door closes, Jack finds Ianto’s mobile in his trouser pocket. He finds Andy’s number with no trouble, and copies it over to his own handset.
---
Prev (Pt #13) (Warnings: Smut & language.)
-
Next (Pt #15) (Warnings: Smut & language.)
.
Disclaimer: Being a bloke who likes to slash pretty men doesn't make me RTD, I don't work for the BBC, and as much as I might like to, I don't own Jack or Ianto or any part of Torchwood. I do, however, order pizza under that name on principle.
Pairings: Overall: Ianto/Andy, Jack/Ianto, Jack/Ianto/Andy, with occasional guest cameos.
Rating: Series ranges from relatively safe to hard NC-17. This installment is in the R to NC-17 range for semi-explicit smut and language.
Notes/Summary: Part Fourteen of the " It'll End In Tears" cluster, and #12 on the un_love_you prompt table. Thanks to sanginmychains for giving this the sweet, sweet beta-fu.
A handful of things to know that will enhance your reading experience:
- Magic Roundabout: an area in Splott with public art made out of street signs. Attractive by day, it's got a reputation for being a good place to pick up a prostitute at night.
- Gog refers to a person from North Wales, as well as the dialect spoken there.
- "dim problem" is "no problem" in Welsh.
- St. David's 2
- Mr Blobby
- Stephen Milligan, whose death was significant.
And now, #14:
“Hello. This is Ianto Jones. I’m sorry I can’t take your call. Please leave me a message and -“
“Damn it,” Jack hisses and taps his earpiece to disengage the call. Judging by the fact that the Hub’s computer still has yet to update him with GSM tracking data, it seems a safe bet that Ianto has fully disabled his handset, either by taking out the battery or destroying the phone. Jack himself has run out of places he knows Ianto likes to visit in his off time - it’s a staggeringly short list, actually - and has finally resorted to remotely querying the Hub’s security system to see if Ianto has, in fact, gone to the office to work in an attempt to avoid his personal life. There’s no trace of him, though, and Jack’s left sitting in the SUV in Splott, glaring in the general direction of the Magic Roundabout and wondering what he should have done differently.
Short of calling the police and asking them to stop every black Audi in a 100 mile radius, or calling Tosh and asking her to track him by CCTV data, he’s out of luck and out of options. “Damn it,” he says again, softer this time. Really, he isn’t angry at anyone but himself, and even that’s secondary to his concern. Jack lets his head fall back against the driver’s seat. He might have the advantage of having lived out the better part of the last century in and out of Cardiff, but Ianto has always been a natural at concealing himself when he doesn’t want to be found, and the fact that he doesn’t want finding stings.
As much as Jack hates to admit it, the only thing he can do at this point is wait. Reluctantly, Jack turns the SUV around and begins the slow drive back to Ianto’s flat. He scowls at the lights that line the little neighborhood shops as he returns to the Bay. Sometimes, he really hates Cardiff. This is definitely one of those times.
# # #
Hungry, shrouded eyes watch as he braces himself against a tree. He’s not so drunk he can’t stand, and even sober he’d probably need it, but the bark is comforting under his fingers, and it gives him something to do with his hands while he waits. Behind him, he hears a packet torn open and the wet noise of lubricated latex being rolled into place. He tries to pretend he’s invisible, and that these other men aren’t getting off on the way he’s standing with his legs spread as far as they’ll go with his jeans around his knees, but it’s useless. A handful of them are close enough he can almost make out their faces in his peripheral vision. There’s no doubt they can see his.
Ianto squeezes his eyes shut as a pair of unfamiliar hands makes contact with his skin. He refuses to picture Jack or Andy or anyone else as the nameless bloke with the gog accent asks how he’d like it.
“Hard and fast. No frills.”
“Dim problem, pretty boy. Maybe if you’re lucky I’ll fuck some sense into you.”
“Yeah, maybe.”
For something fast it goes on forever. Ianto keeps his eyes shut and focuses on the blackness and the messages his nerves are sending him about wide, rough hands and sweat and what it’s like to be fucked against a tree by a stranger when he’d really rather not be fucked at all. When it ends in a couple of unsteady thrusts and a grunt, Ianto knows he can (and probably should) stop, go home, and sort himself out. He doesn’t. Staying here means he’s stronger than his fear, and that he’s mastered himself enough that he can bury himself in it.
So he does.
Later, when they’ve done with him - or maybe he’s finished with them? It’s unclear, even to him - he snaps the battery back into his mobile. It rings almost immediately, but he doesn’t answer, or even need to look to know that it’s Jack, and that Jack will find him. In fact, Jack’s probably already on his way, worried sick. Jack shouldn’t worry, though, Ianto thinks as the sobs come loose and he stumbles out of view of the street. He’s fine. Better than fine.
He’s won.
# # #
Jack’s turning onto James Street when his wrist strap chirps. He swerves dangerously into a small parking lot, eliciting angry honks and a shout from the drivers behind him, and flips open the leather cover to reveal the small display. Ianto’s GSM data blinks back at him in 51st Century shorthand, and Jack breathes his relief. Within seconds, the SUV’s onboard satnav system begins plotting a route to a point near the St. David’s 2 project site. He doesn’t need the directions, but he supposes it’s nice of the computer to offer them.
As he pulls back onto the road, Jack uses the hands free system to dial Ianto’s number again. It rings this time, but after the forth tone, he’s greeted again by Ianto’s voicemail message.
“Hello. This is Ianto Jones. I’m sorry I can’t take your call. Please leave me a -“
He kills the call and glances again at the satnav screen. The destination point appears to be stationary, more or less. Jack engages the SUV’s blue lights and hits the accelerator.
# # #
Ianto is sitting on the ground behind a skip when Jack finds him. He looks tired and cold, and his Aran is missing. His white t-shirt clings to him, damp with drizzle. He looks rumpled, and the knees and shins of his jeans are dark with mud and wet. Without hesitation, Jack shucks off his coat and covers Ianto in it like a blanket. He crouches down, careful not to invade Ianto’s space, and Ianto peers up at him with red-rimmed, glassy eyes. He smells like he’s been drinking. Vodka, at a guess, but the alcove they’ve sheltered in is too full of the odor of garbage and sex and piss for Jack to be certain based on scent alone.
“You okay?” Jack asks, looking him over.
Ianto shrugs under the coat and rests his head against the brick.
Jack checks the ground for broken glass and then sits down next to him. Their shoulders brush one another and Jack is grateful when Ianto doesn’t pull away. “Do you want to talk about it?”
Ianto closes his eyes and takes a breath. He’s silent long enough that Jack’s not sure if he’s going to respond, but then Ianto opens his eyes and gazes at the sky like he’s remembering something important, and needs to put the words in neat rows before he speaks them. The tip of his tongue darts out to moisten his lips, and he wraps the coat closer around himself.
“When I was ten,” Ianto begins, still staring at the clouds above them, “my mother put up a little note next to our calendar. It said ‘Eat a live toad each morning and nothing worse can happen to you all day.’ She did it in green felt pen, with big block letters.” A thin smile crosses his face and he closes his eyes and shakes his head. “God, I hated that bloody thing. The whole first month I kept suggesting things that were worse than eating a toad in the morning. Stuff like ‘being hit by a London bus’ or ‘having to listen to that Mr. Blobby song on the radio over and over.’ My father thought it was really funny, you know, that this little slip of paper had me so annoyed.”
Jack nods, listening. Ianto rarely discusses his childhood, and he values these small moments of intimacy. They don’t exchange them often enough, Jack knows, and at least half of that is his own fault.
Ianto continues, the dreamlike expression returning as he gazes upward again. “After a bit, though, the joke got sort of stale, and I only pointed out the really amusing ones, like ‘dying like Stephen Milligan’ and that sort of thing. I kept on about it off and on for years.”
“What happened?” Jack asks. He’s read the official files a hundred times or more, and knows about Ianto’s family. Well, what’s left of it. Still, he’s never heard the truth of it from Ianto. The facts aren’t in context. So he listens.
“She died,” Ianto says softly, politely ignoring the fact that Jack knows this. “Just a few weeks after my fourteenth birthday.”
Jack bows his head. “I’m sorry.”
“I remember just standing in the kitchen in shock after the funeral while my father tried to handle the rest of the family. I was still in my suit, and I just stared at that note. I was so angry at her for leaving us. I remember looking at that note and demanding an answer. ‘What about your mam dying in a stupid fucking car accident,’ you know? I remember ripping up and tossing it into the bin and then running out of the house full tilt and not coming home until after dark. When I came back, I went to retrieve them, but all the pieces were gone. I guess maybe my father must have found them. I never saw them again, even when I went through his things three years later. I haven’t thought about it in years.”
“So why now?”
Ianto bites his lip and squints into the drizzle. “You remember how we met, don’t you Jack? Late at night in Bute Park? You know what goes on there at night. Other than weevils.”
Jack feels his stomach lurch. He hesitates, and then nods. Of course he knows. For too many reasons.
“What you have to understand - and this is important - is that somewhere along the line I thought to myself that I was sick of being scared and hurt, and that if I had a problem, I should confront it face to face. I was drinking in a bar - just angry and getting pissed because it seemed to be the thing to do under the circumstances - and that’s when I remembered that note by the calendar, and somehow I thought, you know, that maybe -“ Ianto sounds hesitant, like he isn’t sure how to explain. “I thought that -“
“You thought you’d go swallow your live toad.”
“Yeah.” Ianto answers and licks his lips. He looks ashamed and nearly buries himself in Jack’s coat, his face a storm of uncertainty.
Jack feels cold anger start to well up inside, both at himself and the men who’d presumed to use Ianto. His Ianto. He could go to the park right now, find them and snap their necks one by one…
“Are you okay?”
“You mean did they hurt me?” Ianto asks, surprised. “No, I’m -“ Ianto pauses. “I’m alright. No one did anything I didn’t ask for.”
It’s a less comforting answer than Jack had hoped for, but he accepts it. “Okay.”
Ianto sits up a little straighter and pulls away, drawing into himself. Jack knows he’s creating distance, making a buffer between Jack and himself. “Listen, I’m drunk and I think maybe I hate who I am right now. I’m ashamed and I’m sorry and I’ll understand if you don’t want anything to do with me after -“
He’s shaking and gulping air when Jack puts a tentative arm around him, and it’s impossible to miss the way Ianto tenses up for a second before giving in and leaning against Jack’s chest. Jack holds him close and kisses the top of his head. “I’m not going anywhere. Not before this, not after this. Not ever. Let’s get you home.”
Jack helps him up and puts his coat around Ianto’s shoulders. It’s a little big on him, but in an attractive sort of way, and Jack wishes that maybe he was doing this under less complicated circumstances. They make their way to the SUV as drizzle gives way to rain and return to Ianto’s flat in silence. When they arrive, Jack helps him undress and sends him off to shower.
“You’ll be here when I come out?” he asks, and Jack nods.
“Of course. Go on.”
When the door closes, Jack finds Ianto’s mobile in his trouser pocket. He finds Andy’s number with no trouble, and copies it over to his own handset.
---
Prev (Pt #13) (Warnings: Smut & language.)
-
Next (Pt #15) (Warnings: Smut & language.)
.