Behind Blue Eyes - chapter 4 / 8 + epilogue
Title Behind Blue Eyes
Topic Torchwood
Characters Ianto Jones, Jack Harkness, Gwen Cooper, Rhys Williams, Owen Harper, Toshiko Sato, Suzie Costello, Tenth Doctor, John Hart, Andy Davidson, Mickey smith, mentions Rose Tyler, Martha Jones, other small-characters
Pairings Jack/Ianto, Jack/John, Doctor/Rose, Gwen/Rhys
Genre AU, thriller, horror, romance, angst
Rating T
Beta jooles34
Summary Ianto Jones lives a very meticulous life. He has a schedule for everything he does - breakfast, work, personal time, love life, and his murder of the month. But when something goes wrong and one of his victims becomes the Cardiff police's latest case, will he be able to keep his personal life a secret? Not if Jack Harkness, consultant to the police and boyfriend of Ianto Jones, has anything to say about it.
Spoilers None
Author's Note Yet another chapter! I'm going to be updating more often - now, in addition to Monday, you will be getting a chapter on Thursday as well! Hope you enjoy. ^_^
Master List
Previous Chapter
Ianto Jones wasn’t one for surprises. He hated it when Jack would call and tell him he would be home at ten, then not show up until eleven. He didn’t like those game shows where the host would walk around and randomly ask people on the street questions for an equally random chance to earn a thousand pounds. He despised last minute dates or secret trips to places that he didn’t know until he got there. Ianto didn’t like it when things happened around him that he hadn’t been told ahead of time, or figured out.
Which was why, when he decided to just ‘pop-in’ on Jack for lunch at the police station, there really was no last minute decision about it. Ianto had planned ahead of time, calling a local fish and chips place and giving them his order in advance , letting the correct people at the office know that he was going to step out for about an hour around lunch time, and making sure that he was appropriately dressed for the cool temperature that the station was always kept at.
He also wasn’t a man who did things just because. Every step needed a reason, every move a motive. For any normal bloke, it would have been enough of a reason just to say that they wanted to surprise their significant other at work with a lunch that doesn’t consist of day old sandwiches and bagels left over from the morning coffee run. But small things like those weren’t important to a man like Ianto Jones. He needed a real reason. Which was why he decided to do some reconnaissance while he was there. He knew for a fact that police were more likely to talk about a case while in the safety of their own environment. He also knew that, of all the police cases he had ever taken an interest in, this was not one to ignore - mainly because he was the ‘bad guy.’
So when he left his desk at exactly five to noon and stopped by the chippy to grab his double order, there was a motive behind every step he took.
Ianto managed to arrive at the police station at exactly fifteen after - a good time to make it seem like he had bought the second lunch on a whim and just showed up without that perfectly planned reason. He knew that Jack liked to have lunch at the conventional time, and exactly where he would eat. He gave small smiles and nods to the police who knew him, and ignored those who didn’t. They didn’t matter - he wasn’t there for them.
Ianto signed in on the visitor’s log, his eyes scanning the other names out of habit. He dodged the attempts of conversation that a female officer was trying to engage him in, and continued on his way back. The station always caused Ianto’s brain to go on red alert, even more this particular visit. Maybe it was because the body of the last man he had killed was currently sitting on a slab down in the morgue, or maybe it was because the ‘demented bastard’ that he overheard everyone whispering about was him. He inwardly chuckled a bit at that - none of them had any idea how close they were to the man they were looking for. It was quite ironic, actually. He thought it would be even funnier if he was the one working for the police, not his boyfriend.
He made it to the break room three minutes and twenty-two seconds after entering the building. True to his thoughts, Jack was sitting in the corner of the room, reading over a report and munching on a halfway stale bagel. There was a pen between his right hand fingers, and every once in a while he would make a note with it. As Ianto got closer he saw the page was covered in the scribble.
Ianto managed to get close enough to touch Jack without the man realizing he was there. The journalist announced his presence by dropping the bag of food on top of the police report.
Jack jumped and let out a strangled yelp, his hand halfway to the gun that wasn’t there before realizing who exactly it was that just interrupted his deep thought. “Damn it, Yan!”
Ianto’s only response was to sit down opposite of the profiler and reach into the bag. He pulled out the napkins first, and spent time laying them out unfolded on the table, creating a makeshift tablecloth. Another one was tucked into the neck of his shirt, protecting his clothes from any stray drops of grease or chunks of food that decided they wanted to attack him. Then he took out the two small paper containers that were full to the brim and steaming. He sat one next to Jack, and started to eat the other.
“This is unexpected.” Jack mumbled once he had taken a large bite of his food. Crumbs fell to his lap, and Ianto suppressed a wince as he watched the man use his greasy fingers to brush them away.
“You’ve been stressed - thought it would help.” Ianto said simply by way of an answer.
Jack nodded and gave a small smile, and Ianto realized that he wanted to get back to whatever it was he had been working on - he would bet money that it was the case, and Ianto wasn’t a betting man.
“What are you working on?” he asked in what he hoped was an innocent manner.
Jack looked back up from the paper and swallowed his unnecessarily large bite of food. “New case - that body I told you about Saturday morning. Turned out he wasn’t the only victim.”
Ianto raised an eyebrow, trying to convey intrigue. “Really?” he said. “Double homicide?”
Jack snorted. “More like minor genocide. We could be dealing with a serial killer, Yan. In Cardiff.”
So it was his bodies that the police had found out in the country. “Found anything useful?”
“Nothing.” Jack said, and Ianto heard the bitterness fill his voice. “Damn guy created the perfect crime scene. He’s got to be some kind of twisted genius - the body dump was perfect. Only mistake was attempting to dump it during the storm. If it wasn’t for that, we’d never have even known it happened.”
Ianto couldn’t help but glow a little bit at Jack’s unintentional praise. He knew that his extracurricular activities were flawless, but it was the first time that someone else had admitted to it, even though their intentions weren’t exactly positive. “So you don’t have any leads?”
Jack snorted and leaned back, pushing the papers away and letting his pen drop to the table. “You wanna know what’s more frustrating than knowing that there is a killer out there who has been getting away with murder for four years? Knowing that the chances of stopping this guy are slim to none.”
Four years? Ianto almost laughed out loud at that one, but he was surprised enough that they had managed to find his conquests going back that far so he didn’t blame them that they hadn’t thought to look outside of Cardiff. Still, he had gotten good information out of Jack. “I’m sure re-reading the same information over and over again isn’t going to help. You need to just take a step back, and treat this like any other case.”
That was a line directly from one of those old FBI investigation shows that ran on one of the American channels late at night. It sounded full of emotion when he had watched it, and couldn’t really think of anything else to say. Jack didn’t seem to find any fault in it, which was good.
“I’m sending another tech out to the field tomorrow, along with a team to check the warehouse that’s a mile down the road. It seemed like as good of a place as any. Maybe we’ll get lucky and this guy did mess up. Damn rain got rid of all the tire tracks and footprints though.” He let out a small smile took another bite of his food before standing up. “Thanks for the lunch, Ianto. It helped.”
Ianto nodded and stood up as well, repackaging his mostly untouched food and placing it neatly in the bag. He checked the clock on the wall - he’d have enough time to eat in his car before going back into work. “Know what time you’ll be home tonight?”
“Dunno - I’ll call.” Jack shrugged. They gave each other a chaste kiss, and then Ianto left.
There was something off about the entire conversation - and it didn’t have to do with the case. Jack’s mind was preoccupied by something; he wasn’t normally so forthcoming with information that was obviously not meant to get out to the public. So far, they had managed to keep things under wraps; minor news stations still running the story that the body found in the pigpen was a single homicide and not the workings of a Cardiff serial killer. It wouldn’t be like that for long though. Ianto would make sure of it.
He was so deep in his thoughts he didn’t notice the man until he was about to bump into him. He muttered an apology, then stopped when the man attempted to strike up a conversation with him.
“Oi, watch it - wait. Haven’t seen you around here before. One of those tech-geeks, are yah?”
Ianto paused and turned, ready to dismiss the theory that he worked at the station and hesitated. The man wasn’t wearing police clothes, but he sounded as if he belonged here - something that Ianto didn’t. That meant that he must have been a consultant, like Jack. A consultant that was more than likely brought in for the biggest case that Cardiff had participated in since Canary Wharf. A consultant whom Ianto knew nothing about - he needed to change that.
So he gave a small smile and held out a hand. “Ianto Jones. Can’t say I’ve seen you around either.”
The man’s light grey eyes widened slightly in recognition, and strongly took the hand Ianto offered. “John Hart - serial killer hunter.”
Ianto raised an eyebrow at the title, causing John to laugh. “I was tryin’ it out, getting’ a feel. I heard that two makes it official.”
“Another notch on your bedpost?” Ianto retorted dryly.
“Depends on which bedpost we’re talkin’ ‘bout, mate.” John spat back just as fast, before chuckling. “Jack told me you had a sense of dry humour - never told me you were of eye-candy status too.”
The only sign that Ianto was perturbed about this man knowing Jack was the slight increase on pressure he applied to the handshake. The tighter grip he got back told him that the other man had picked up on it. Ianto withdrew his hand and stuck it in his pocket, his other free digits holding onto the bag of his now-soggy lunch. “Jack hasn’t done the same for you, though. You know him?”
“Yeah, we were old partners.” John smirked, leaving no doubt in Ianto’s mind exactly what type of partners that he was talking about. It unsettled him greatly. There was something about the man in front of him, something dangerous. It would certainly throw a spanner in the works. Whereas the police station was incompetent enough - in Ianto’s mind - to never get close to touching him, this man was something different.
“Have to go, pleasure meeting you.” Ianto said, turning to go. He left before allowing John to get another word in edgewise. He didn’t look back, but that didn’t prevent him from feeling the pressure of those two grey eyes staring holes in him the whole way to the door.
--xXx--
Work was, for lack of a better word, slow. Other than the homicide there hadn’t really been any big stories happening in the city-. and the police weren’t talking about that; it didn’t take very long for the reporters to realize that they weren’t going to get anything out of the detectives on the case. Ianto had seen many a journalist approach Jack and Gwen looking for answers and come back with nothing. Gwen had the tendency to stare them down or yell at them until they were intimidated enough to leave her alone. Jack, on the other hand, charmed them off their feet. Any reporters that got close enough to Jack Harkness to try and weasel information about a case out of him ended up blushing to high heaven and having wet dreams about the man for the next week and a half - regardless of gender. It was the man’s charisma?, and for that Ianto felt pity for the journalists. At least, he would have if he cared enough.
As it was, the complete lack of interesting stories and police cooperation gave Ianto a great opportunity - one that he planned on taking. When he got back to the news station he locked himself in his office and got to work. His desktop computer fired up, and he spent the three minutes twelve seconds it took for the welcome screen to load up to get his thoughts in order. This detective, John Hart - he was a wild card, the first word to be taken literally. Even from the few moments he had confronted him, Ianto sensed something very dangerous about the man; the same kind of feeling you get while watching a tiger prowl in its cage at the zoo while you pray that the thin sheet of wire that made up the fence was enough to keep you safe.
Ianto went without hesitation to the most trusted search engine. He typed in John’s name, along with detective and serial killer. He got instant results. Online articles about the London Lyncher popped up on screen, and Ianto spent precious time skimming over the articles. Turned out he had been the lead consultant on the case - it was a few years ago, and Ianto was surprised to see another name pop out of the jumble of letters - Detective John Smith. So, the police chief had worked with John? That would explain why he had been hired.
Reading on Ianto discovered that over the course of the six-month long investigation, John had not only uncovered the last minute leads that led to the capture of the serial killer, but he also amassed a large amount of public complaints. Breaking and entering, file theft, forgery - just to name a few. He had done whatever was needed to catch the man, no thought of the consequences, and with dogged determination to succeed. That didn’t settle well in Ianto’s stomach - he had been relying on the slow moving investigation of the police to help him. They had all those legal hoops they had to jump through, and jurisdictions that they had to abide by. Most consultants of John’s degree would move at the police’s pace and not stomp on any toes - they would do just what their temporary badge would say - consult. But John, he was different. He jumped into the investigation feet first, and worked miles ahead of the police. When he was involved, the roles were reversed, and that was unsettling.
The one hundred percent confidence that Ianto had been holding onto was slowly starting to wane along with his confidence in his own plan, which felt even worse. . He had planned to refrain from killing for two months -longer if he manage it. If his urges got too bad he would make up a conference far away that he had to attend and deal with them someplace else. With the pattern of killings stopped, the police would be forced to question the existence of a serial killer at all and stop working to such a tight deadline. Soon there would be just one unlucky detective or constable that was stuck reading over the file until they memorized every line. Eventually though, without any new bodies or leads, they would drop the case and it would become just another unsolved cold case. Ianto Jones would then be able to continue being the greatest serial killer there never was, and find a new way to dispose of the waste left from his extra curricular activities.
But that all changed now. Because even if the police filed the case as incomplete and lost it within the archives, there would always be a pair of sharp, dangerous grey eyes on the lookout. Waiting, watching for any signs that there was something wrong. He was completely convinced that Cardiff had its own serial killer, and his constant investigations, if not his word alone, would keep the cops wondering. Ianto liked to take his time while killing, enjoying what he did under his cloak of anonymity. But while there was that shred of doubt, that sliver of worry in the polices’ minds, he would have difficulty remaining anonymous. The police would continue to monitor the missing person’s list and if the pattern remained, they would keep looking. Ianto could maybe skip one month without loosing control of his perfectly built world, but monthly trips to London or some other busy city would start to look suspicious to Jack. Then the digging would begin, and he would find out everything that Ianto had worked so hard to keep hidden.
No, it would be a dangerous path to continue on; being the silent little serial killer who sat back and watched things unfold in front of him. He had stayed silent too long, allowing his dark side - no, his true side - to come out and play just occasionally. Now it was time to embrace who he really was, and to let the police - and all of Cardiff - know exactly who it was they were messing with.
And he would start with Detective John Hart.
Ianto did another search, this time just with the detective’s name, minus the ‘serial killer’ taped to the end. This time, he got a lot more interesting personal information. There was nothing recent, but it seemed like three years ago John Hart had been a totally different man. He was still a detective, but without serial killer capture under his belt it seemed like he wasn’t as well known, and the amount of articles that carried his name dropped significantly. However, there was one that very much caught Ianto’s interest. It was a news in brief, small, maybe one hundred, two hundred words maximum. He did them all the time - they were to take up the little white space that was left after the big stories were formatted and ready to print.
The article talked about Private Detective John Hart, and his problem with negative influences. There was a short sentence detailing that he was found in a hotel room by a maid, passed out with evidence of several illegal substances. He had been checked into a long-term rehabilitation facility, and his agency was to be put on hold during his absence. Obviously, he hadn’t been available to comment, so instead there was a small picture of him. He looked completely different than the John Hart that Ianto had conversed with only hours ago. Instead of his natural, dull red hair colour, it had been died platinum blonde, and stuck up all over the place. It was difficult to tell from the black and white grains of the newspaper his skin tone, bit it was startling white on the paper. His hand was in front of his face in a classic avoidance pose, and Ianto could make out the remnants of fingernail polish on his nails, along with eyeliner surrounding both eyes. There was a clearly outlined scar in the shape of a Y on his left eyebrow, and Ianto had to back away from the screen for a moment to recall the man’s face from earlier. Yes, there had been a faint scar there.. The picture was from the chest up, and Ianto realized that John must have gone through a leather phase.
He looked like one of those people that your parents tell you to stay away from if you passed them on the street - nothing like the well-groomed and accurate dresser that the man had been today. Ianto allowed a thought to slip through his barriers, and immediately his lip curled up in disgust at his own betrayal.
He was rather hot, though.
Ianto minimized the article and opened a new browser, this time knowing what he was searching for. “Torchwood Rehabilitation Center” he typed in, rolling his eyes at the title of the institute. They had to be all professional and political about it, didn’t they? It wasn’t exactly a state-of-the-art facility - something that Ianto would have expected, having a vague idea of what a private eye’s monthly income would be. He was actually quite surprised that the place was still running. Interesting. He took a few seconds exploring the site, then went to the employee login page. His eyes shifted unconsciously towards his large glass window wall, almost as if daring anyone to come and disturb him. Satisfied, Ianto reached into his desk drawer and pulled out a small USB chip, which he plugged into his computer. Several seconds and a ding later, he was in.
Ianto bypassed everything, searching specifically for John’s file. He opened it, and read quickly. He wouldn’t make the amateur mistake of copying the file - there was more than likely a silent alarm that would alert whoever was manning the computers of confidentiality breach. You got all sorts of people coming to rehab facilities.
Turned out that John had been admitted to the place several times, only once or twice at his own choice - those times he was in and out in a week. Drugs, smoking, drinking, self harm, the list went on. Ianto read carefully through all of the reports of his progress, and nurse’s notes - the kind of medication supplied; it seemed like useless information, but Ianto never knew when it could come in handy - might as well take advantage of it when it was there to be taken advantage of.
But it was when he got to the release forms that Ianto stopped reading. The signature on the bottom of the form was not the scrawl of John Hart had used to check himself in, but something else entirely. Ianto felt the breath go out of his body, and for one of the very few times in his life, he was caught off guard.
The man that had signed John out of the rehabilitation clinic was Jack Harkness.
Ianto sat still there for two minutes five seconds, each tick of the clock being counted in his head. He dug his elbow into his side in order to feel the stopwatch in his pocket, trying to calm down - to find his bearings. Then his lip started to twitch and his fingers dug deep into the wood of his desk, the digits throbbing painfully at the constant force. It was personal now.
--xXx--
John Hart entered his apartment a little before midnight. He was tired, worn out, and slightly more than a little bit drunk. He’d spent his day at the police station going over the file that the police had managed to scrounge together about the mysterious killer. There wasn’t really any solid evidence against the man, but there was a bunch of circumstantial guessing, as John liked to put it. They had a pretty good idea how the latest victim was killed, and they had jumped to the conclusion that it was how the rest of the people were murdered too - something that John agreed with. People like that, who kill on a time schedule, they end up turning out to be pretty picky characters. There is a certain way everything must be done when it comes to their victims - a ritual. Whether it was because of some twisted religion or just because they were fucked up, the killings would always be routine, but that was where they always made their mistake. Because with routine comes complacency, and with complacency comes mistakes.
Jack had worked up a pretty decent rough sketch of the man’s profile - rough meaning that most of the details were vague. Abused or around abuse as a child or young adult. That narrowed things down. The crime lab was working up more sufficient data, such as the height of the killer based on the angle and depth of the fibers found around the only whole victim’s neck. Of course, that information would only be useful if the man was, in fact, standing when he killed the victim, which John thought unlikely. Jack was sending out a few shirts to check out that warehouse, thinking it might be a possible scene for the killing, something John also agreed with. It would have to be a spot secluded and close to the dumping grounds.
John shed his jacket and walked the short distance to the fridge, pulling out a beer and waiting only long enough to pop the top before taking a long, refreshing gulp. The apartment he lived in now was large - larger than the one he had before he (mostly) cleaned himself up. That thought made him pause and John allowed his mind to travel into dangerous territory. If the private detective had been asked what the best years of his life were, John wasn’t sure that he would be able to answer. Professionally, he would have said these past few, starting with the day that he had helped bring in the London Lyncher. That case brought him to the height of his career and the best few professional years he had lived. It had brought him high paying clients and a nice apartment that was situated halfway between Cardiff and London.
But personally, John would have had to go back a couple years, to the time when he was in and out of rehab clinics, the only jobs he was able to get a hand on being small time kidnapping cases and missing cars - even those only falling into his laps when the clients were poor and desperate enough to deal with the odor of drugs, smoke and alcohol that seemed to follow him around like a cloud. But while he had been physically and mentally hurting, he had been emotionally happy. Because it had been Jack who came to get him those nights that he found himself passed out in a bar, or beat up on the street because he had been unable to pay his dealer for the drugs. It was Jack who checked him into rehab, and came in the middle of the night to comfort him when he didn’t know what to do anymore.
John pulled himself out of those dark memories before he went any further down that road, setting his jaw in defiance and staring at his half-empty bottle of beer before tipping it down the sink. He watched the poisonous liquid fall down the drain, and let out a short laugh, because he had to either do that, or cry.
John knew that he shouldn’t have thought about Jack - it only opened up old wounds. But he couldn’t stop. He had kissed Jack earlier that morning out of some kind of twisted desperation. He needed to convince himself that it really was over between the two of them, that Jack really was as happy as he said he was with Ianto. John had expected to be pushed away within mere milliseconds of contact, yelled at, slapped, maybe even punched (again). But Jack had kissed back. And that changed things.
And then, there was that odd conversation he had had with Ianto Jones himself. There was something off about that man - something less than human. It hadn’t been the words that were exchanged, or even the man’s body language that had caused John to get a small seed of doubt. No, there was nothing outward about the man that suggested he was anything but a loving boyfriend and annoying journalist.
But John had looked into his eyes. He had taken a gaze into those two deep pools of blue, and was given a glimpse of something that he knew he should never have seen. It had caused the hairs on the back of John’s neck to stand up. There was something seriously wrong with Ianto Jones, and John was going to find out what. Whether it was his detectives’ instincts or his jealousy and feelings for Jack that fueled this desire, it didn’t matter.
John pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and dialed a few numbers, walking into the bedroom of his apartment and ridding himself of his gun and shirt as he listened to the phone ring. It was picked up on the fourth ring.
“I told you not to call me anymore.” the voice said, the sleepiness evident throughout the feminine voice, letting John know that he had awoken the woman. He switched the hand holding his phone and wiggled out of his jeans.
“That’s not what you were saying a few nights ago, sweetheart.” he drawled. “Ask me what I’m wearin’.”
“John, please. Just leave me alone. I don’t have time for your games anymore!” she replied, the pleading that filled her words not slipping past John’s ears.
He rolled his eyes, then got down to business. “Look, Lois, I just need a tiny little favor, I’ll reward you - you know I’m good for it.” The last half of his sentence was said with a more lecherous tone.
There was the sound of a gust of static, and John realized she was sighing. “I can’t! Last time I was almost caught! They knew someone was in the system.”
“This is important, Lois. It’s for a case I’m working.” John lied, hoping she had heard about him being called in for a huge case at the Cardiff station.
Another sigh. “This is it John, I mean it. I’m changing my number after this.”
“Thrill of the chase, darlin’.” John replied, unable to keep the smile out of his voice. “I need you to run a background check on one Ianto Jones. Black hair, blue eyes, editor for Cardiff Gazette.”
Silence from the other end. “…I’ll have it for you end of next week, two weeks at the most.”
“You’re gorgeous!” John exclaimed.
“Goodnight.” was the only retort.
John snapped the phone shut before the dial tone would reach his ears, and ran his hand through his naturally red hair before turning and heading toward the small bathroom. He was thinking about dying it again - he had enjoyed the platinum blonde look while it had lasted…
With the water from the shower pelting down on his head, John missed the sound of his cell phone ringing. It fell silent several seconds later, then beeped once more, alerting him of a voicemail.
“Detective Hart - this is Owen Harper from the Cardiff Gazette. The town is interested as to why Britain’s most notorious serial killer hunter is in town, and wondered if I could get a few quotes…”
Next Chapter
Topic Torchwood
Characters Ianto Jones, Jack Harkness, Gwen Cooper, Rhys Williams, Owen Harper, Toshiko Sato, Suzie Costello, Tenth Doctor, John Hart, Andy Davidson, Mickey smith, mentions Rose Tyler, Martha Jones, other small-characters
Pairings Jack/Ianto, Jack/John, Doctor/Rose, Gwen/Rhys
Genre AU, thriller, horror, romance, angst
Rating T
Beta jooles34
Summary Ianto Jones lives a very meticulous life. He has a schedule for everything he does - breakfast, work, personal time, love life, and his murder of the month. But when something goes wrong and one of his victims becomes the Cardiff police's latest case, will he be able to keep his personal life a secret? Not if Jack Harkness, consultant to the police and boyfriend of Ianto Jones, has anything to say about it.
Spoilers None
Author's Note Yet another chapter! I'm going to be updating more often - now, in addition to Monday, you will be getting a chapter on Thursday as well! Hope you enjoy. ^_^
Master List
Previous Chapter
Ianto Jones wasn’t one for surprises. He hated it when Jack would call and tell him he would be home at ten, then not show up until eleven. He didn’t like those game shows where the host would walk around and randomly ask people on the street questions for an equally random chance to earn a thousand pounds. He despised last minute dates or secret trips to places that he didn’t know until he got there. Ianto didn’t like it when things happened around him that he hadn’t been told ahead of time, or figured out.
Which was why, when he decided to just ‘pop-in’ on Jack for lunch at the police station, there really was no last minute decision about it. Ianto had planned ahead of time, calling a local fish and chips place and giving them his order in advance , letting the correct people at the office know that he was going to step out for about an hour around lunch time, and making sure that he was appropriately dressed for the cool temperature that the station was always kept at.
He also wasn’t a man who did things just because. Every step needed a reason, every move a motive. For any normal bloke, it would have been enough of a reason just to say that they wanted to surprise their significant other at work with a lunch that doesn’t consist of day old sandwiches and bagels left over from the morning coffee run. But small things like those weren’t important to a man like Ianto Jones. He needed a real reason. Which was why he decided to do some reconnaissance while he was there. He knew for a fact that police were more likely to talk about a case while in the safety of their own environment. He also knew that, of all the police cases he had ever taken an interest in, this was not one to ignore - mainly because he was the ‘bad guy.’
So when he left his desk at exactly five to noon and stopped by the chippy to grab his double order, there was a motive behind every step he took.
Ianto managed to arrive at the police station at exactly fifteen after - a good time to make it seem like he had bought the second lunch on a whim and just showed up without that perfectly planned reason. He knew that Jack liked to have lunch at the conventional time, and exactly where he would eat. He gave small smiles and nods to the police who knew him, and ignored those who didn’t. They didn’t matter - he wasn’t there for them.
Ianto signed in on the visitor’s log, his eyes scanning the other names out of habit. He dodged the attempts of conversation that a female officer was trying to engage him in, and continued on his way back. The station always caused Ianto’s brain to go on red alert, even more this particular visit. Maybe it was because the body of the last man he had killed was currently sitting on a slab down in the morgue, or maybe it was because the ‘demented bastard’ that he overheard everyone whispering about was him. He inwardly chuckled a bit at that - none of them had any idea how close they were to the man they were looking for. It was quite ironic, actually. He thought it would be even funnier if he was the one working for the police, not his boyfriend.
He made it to the break room three minutes and twenty-two seconds after entering the building. True to his thoughts, Jack was sitting in the corner of the room, reading over a report and munching on a halfway stale bagel. There was a pen between his right hand fingers, and every once in a while he would make a note with it. As Ianto got closer he saw the page was covered in the scribble.
Ianto managed to get close enough to touch Jack without the man realizing he was there. The journalist announced his presence by dropping the bag of food on top of the police report.
Jack jumped and let out a strangled yelp, his hand halfway to the gun that wasn’t there before realizing who exactly it was that just interrupted his deep thought. “Damn it, Yan!”
Ianto’s only response was to sit down opposite of the profiler and reach into the bag. He pulled out the napkins first, and spent time laying them out unfolded on the table, creating a makeshift tablecloth. Another one was tucked into the neck of his shirt, protecting his clothes from any stray drops of grease or chunks of food that decided they wanted to attack him. Then he took out the two small paper containers that were full to the brim and steaming. He sat one next to Jack, and started to eat the other.
“This is unexpected.” Jack mumbled once he had taken a large bite of his food. Crumbs fell to his lap, and Ianto suppressed a wince as he watched the man use his greasy fingers to brush them away.
“You’ve been stressed - thought it would help.” Ianto said simply by way of an answer.
Jack nodded and gave a small smile, and Ianto realized that he wanted to get back to whatever it was he had been working on - he would bet money that it was the case, and Ianto wasn’t a betting man.
“What are you working on?” he asked in what he hoped was an innocent manner.
Jack looked back up from the paper and swallowed his unnecessarily large bite of food. “New case - that body I told you about Saturday morning. Turned out he wasn’t the only victim.”
Ianto raised an eyebrow, trying to convey intrigue. “Really?” he said. “Double homicide?”
Jack snorted. “More like minor genocide. We could be dealing with a serial killer, Yan. In Cardiff.”
So it was his bodies that the police had found out in the country. “Found anything useful?”
“Nothing.” Jack said, and Ianto heard the bitterness fill his voice. “Damn guy created the perfect crime scene. He’s got to be some kind of twisted genius - the body dump was perfect. Only mistake was attempting to dump it during the storm. If it wasn’t for that, we’d never have even known it happened.”
Ianto couldn’t help but glow a little bit at Jack’s unintentional praise. He knew that his extracurricular activities were flawless, but it was the first time that someone else had admitted to it, even though their intentions weren’t exactly positive. “So you don’t have any leads?”
Jack snorted and leaned back, pushing the papers away and letting his pen drop to the table. “You wanna know what’s more frustrating than knowing that there is a killer out there who has been getting away with murder for four years? Knowing that the chances of stopping this guy are slim to none.”
Four years? Ianto almost laughed out loud at that one, but he was surprised enough that they had managed to find his conquests going back that far so he didn’t blame them that they hadn’t thought to look outside of Cardiff. Still, he had gotten good information out of Jack. “I’m sure re-reading the same information over and over again isn’t going to help. You need to just take a step back, and treat this like any other case.”
That was a line directly from one of those old FBI investigation shows that ran on one of the American channels late at night. It sounded full of emotion when he had watched it, and couldn’t really think of anything else to say. Jack didn’t seem to find any fault in it, which was good.
“I’m sending another tech out to the field tomorrow, along with a team to check the warehouse that’s a mile down the road. It seemed like as good of a place as any. Maybe we’ll get lucky and this guy did mess up. Damn rain got rid of all the tire tracks and footprints though.” He let out a small smile took another bite of his food before standing up. “Thanks for the lunch, Ianto. It helped.”
Ianto nodded and stood up as well, repackaging his mostly untouched food and placing it neatly in the bag. He checked the clock on the wall - he’d have enough time to eat in his car before going back into work. “Know what time you’ll be home tonight?”
“Dunno - I’ll call.” Jack shrugged. They gave each other a chaste kiss, and then Ianto left.
There was something off about the entire conversation - and it didn’t have to do with the case. Jack’s mind was preoccupied by something; he wasn’t normally so forthcoming with information that was obviously not meant to get out to the public. So far, they had managed to keep things under wraps; minor news stations still running the story that the body found in the pigpen was a single homicide and not the workings of a Cardiff serial killer. It wouldn’t be like that for long though. Ianto would make sure of it.
He was so deep in his thoughts he didn’t notice the man until he was about to bump into him. He muttered an apology, then stopped when the man attempted to strike up a conversation with him.
“Oi, watch it - wait. Haven’t seen you around here before. One of those tech-geeks, are yah?”
Ianto paused and turned, ready to dismiss the theory that he worked at the station and hesitated. The man wasn’t wearing police clothes, but he sounded as if he belonged here - something that Ianto didn’t. That meant that he must have been a consultant, like Jack. A consultant that was more than likely brought in for the biggest case that Cardiff had participated in since Canary Wharf. A consultant whom Ianto knew nothing about - he needed to change that.
So he gave a small smile and held out a hand. “Ianto Jones. Can’t say I’ve seen you around either.”
The man’s light grey eyes widened slightly in recognition, and strongly took the hand Ianto offered. “John Hart - serial killer hunter.”
Ianto raised an eyebrow at the title, causing John to laugh. “I was tryin’ it out, getting’ a feel. I heard that two makes it official.”
“Another notch on your bedpost?” Ianto retorted dryly.
“Depends on which bedpost we’re talkin’ ‘bout, mate.” John spat back just as fast, before chuckling. “Jack told me you had a sense of dry humour - never told me you were of eye-candy status too.”
The only sign that Ianto was perturbed about this man knowing Jack was the slight increase on pressure he applied to the handshake. The tighter grip he got back told him that the other man had picked up on it. Ianto withdrew his hand and stuck it in his pocket, his other free digits holding onto the bag of his now-soggy lunch. “Jack hasn’t done the same for you, though. You know him?”
“Yeah, we were old partners.” John smirked, leaving no doubt in Ianto’s mind exactly what type of partners that he was talking about. It unsettled him greatly. There was something about the man in front of him, something dangerous. It would certainly throw a spanner in the works. Whereas the police station was incompetent enough - in Ianto’s mind - to never get close to touching him, this man was something different.
“Have to go, pleasure meeting you.” Ianto said, turning to go. He left before allowing John to get another word in edgewise. He didn’t look back, but that didn’t prevent him from feeling the pressure of those two grey eyes staring holes in him the whole way to the door.
--xXx--
Work was, for lack of a better word, slow. Other than the homicide there hadn’t really been any big stories happening in the city-. and the police weren’t talking about that; it didn’t take very long for the reporters to realize that they weren’t going to get anything out of the detectives on the case. Ianto had seen many a journalist approach Jack and Gwen looking for answers and come back with nothing. Gwen had the tendency to stare them down or yell at them until they were intimidated enough to leave her alone. Jack, on the other hand, charmed them off their feet. Any reporters that got close enough to Jack Harkness to try and weasel information about a case out of him ended up blushing to high heaven and having wet dreams about the man for the next week and a half - regardless of gender. It was the man’s charisma?, and for that Ianto felt pity for the journalists. At least, he would have if he cared enough.
As it was, the complete lack of interesting stories and police cooperation gave Ianto a great opportunity - one that he planned on taking. When he got back to the news station he locked himself in his office and got to work. His desktop computer fired up, and he spent the three minutes twelve seconds it took for the welcome screen to load up to get his thoughts in order. This detective, John Hart - he was a wild card, the first word to be taken literally. Even from the few moments he had confronted him, Ianto sensed something very dangerous about the man; the same kind of feeling you get while watching a tiger prowl in its cage at the zoo while you pray that the thin sheet of wire that made up the fence was enough to keep you safe.
Ianto went without hesitation to the most trusted search engine. He typed in John’s name, along with detective and serial killer. He got instant results. Online articles about the London Lyncher popped up on screen, and Ianto spent precious time skimming over the articles. Turned out he had been the lead consultant on the case - it was a few years ago, and Ianto was surprised to see another name pop out of the jumble of letters - Detective John Smith. So, the police chief had worked with John? That would explain why he had been hired.
Reading on Ianto discovered that over the course of the six-month long investigation, John had not only uncovered the last minute leads that led to the capture of the serial killer, but he also amassed a large amount of public complaints. Breaking and entering, file theft, forgery - just to name a few. He had done whatever was needed to catch the man, no thought of the consequences, and with dogged determination to succeed. That didn’t settle well in Ianto’s stomach - he had been relying on the slow moving investigation of the police to help him. They had all those legal hoops they had to jump through, and jurisdictions that they had to abide by. Most consultants of John’s degree would move at the police’s pace and not stomp on any toes - they would do just what their temporary badge would say - consult. But John, he was different. He jumped into the investigation feet first, and worked miles ahead of the police. When he was involved, the roles were reversed, and that was unsettling.
The one hundred percent confidence that Ianto had been holding onto was slowly starting to wane along with his confidence in his own plan, which felt even worse. . He had planned to refrain from killing for two months -longer if he manage it. If his urges got too bad he would make up a conference far away that he had to attend and deal with them someplace else. With the pattern of killings stopped, the police would be forced to question the existence of a serial killer at all and stop working to such a tight deadline. Soon there would be just one unlucky detective or constable that was stuck reading over the file until they memorized every line. Eventually though, without any new bodies or leads, they would drop the case and it would become just another unsolved cold case. Ianto Jones would then be able to continue being the greatest serial killer there never was, and find a new way to dispose of the waste left from his extra curricular activities.
But that all changed now. Because even if the police filed the case as incomplete and lost it within the archives, there would always be a pair of sharp, dangerous grey eyes on the lookout. Waiting, watching for any signs that there was something wrong. He was completely convinced that Cardiff had its own serial killer, and his constant investigations, if not his word alone, would keep the cops wondering. Ianto liked to take his time while killing, enjoying what he did under his cloak of anonymity. But while there was that shred of doubt, that sliver of worry in the polices’ minds, he would have difficulty remaining anonymous. The police would continue to monitor the missing person’s list and if the pattern remained, they would keep looking. Ianto could maybe skip one month without loosing control of his perfectly built world, but monthly trips to London or some other busy city would start to look suspicious to Jack. Then the digging would begin, and he would find out everything that Ianto had worked so hard to keep hidden.
No, it would be a dangerous path to continue on; being the silent little serial killer who sat back and watched things unfold in front of him. He had stayed silent too long, allowing his dark side - no, his true side - to come out and play just occasionally. Now it was time to embrace who he really was, and to let the police - and all of Cardiff - know exactly who it was they were messing with.
And he would start with Detective John Hart.
Ianto did another search, this time just with the detective’s name, minus the ‘serial killer’ taped to the end. This time, he got a lot more interesting personal information. There was nothing recent, but it seemed like three years ago John Hart had been a totally different man. He was still a detective, but without serial killer capture under his belt it seemed like he wasn’t as well known, and the amount of articles that carried his name dropped significantly. However, there was one that very much caught Ianto’s interest. It was a news in brief, small, maybe one hundred, two hundred words maximum. He did them all the time - they were to take up the little white space that was left after the big stories were formatted and ready to print.
The article talked about Private Detective John Hart, and his problem with negative influences. There was a short sentence detailing that he was found in a hotel room by a maid, passed out with evidence of several illegal substances. He had been checked into a long-term rehabilitation facility, and his agency was to be put on hold during his absence. Obviously, he hadn’t been available to comment, so instead there was a small picture of him. He looked completely different than the John Hart that Ianto had conversed with only hours ago. Instead of his natural, dull red hair colour, it had been died platinum blonde, and stuck up all over the place. It was difficult to tell from the black and white grains of the newspaper his skin tone, bit it was startling white on the paper. His hand was in front of his face in a classic avoidance pose, and Ianto could make out the remnants of fingernail polish on his nails, along with eyeliner surrounding both eyes. There was a clearly outlined scar in the shape of a Y on his left eyebrow, and Ianto had to back away from the screen for a moment to recall the man’s face from earlier. Yes, there had been a faint scar there.. The picture was from the chest up, and Ianto realized that John must have gone through a leather phase.
He looked like one of those people that your parents tell you to stay away from if you passed them on the street - nothing like the well-groomed and accurate dresser that the man had been today. Ianto allowed a thought to slip through his barriers, and immediately his lip curled up in disgust at his own betrayal.
He was rather hot, though.
Ianto minimized the article and opened a new browser, this time knowing what he was searching for. “Torchwood Rehabilitation Center” he typed in, rolling his eyes at the title of the institute. They had to be all professional and political about it, didn’t they? It wasn’t exactly a state-of-the-art facility - something that Ianto would have expected, having a vague idea of what a private eye’s monthly income would be. He was actually quite surprised that the place was still running. Interesting. He took a few seconds exploring the site, then went to the employee login page. His eyes shifted unconsciously towards his large glass window wall, almost as if daring anyone to come and disturb him. Satisfied, Ianto reached into his desk drawer and pulled out a small USB chip, which he plugged into his computer. Several seconds and a ding later, he was in.
Ianto bypassed everything, searching specifically for John’s file. He opened it, and read quickly. He wouldn’t make the amateur mistake of copying the file - there was more than likely a silent alarm that would alert whoever was manning the computers of confidentiality breach. You got all sorts of people coming to rehab facilities.
Turned out that John had been admitted to the place several times, only once or twice at his own choice - those times he was in and out in a week. Drugs, smoking, drinking, self harm, the list went on. Ianto read carefully through all of the reports of his progress, and nurse’s notes - the kind of medication supplied; it seemed like useless information, but Ianto never knew when it could come in handy - might as well take advantage of it when it was there to be taken advantage of.
But it was when he got to the release forms that Ianto stopped reading. The signature on the bottom of the form was not the scrawl of John Hart had used to check himself in, but something else entirely. Ianto felt the breath go out of his body, and for one of the very few times in his life, he was caught off guard.
The man that had signed John out of the rehabilitation clinic was Jack Harkness.
Ianto sat still there for two minutes five seconds, each tick of the clock being counted in his head. He dug his elbow into his side in order to feel the stopwatch in his pocket, trying to calm down - to find his bearings. Then his lip started to twitch and his fingers dug deep into the wood of his desk, the digits throbbing painfully at the constant force. It was personal now.
--xXx--
John Hart entered his apartment a little before midnight. He was tired, worn out, and slightly more than a little bit drunk. He’d spent his day at the police station going over the file that the police had managed to scrounge together about the mysterious killer. There wasn’t really any solid evidence against the man, but there was a bunch of circumstantial guessing, as John liked to put it. They had a pretty good idea how the latest victim was killed, and they had jumped to the conclusion that it was how the rest of the people were murdered too - something that John agreed with. People like that, who kill on a time schedule, they end up turning out to be pretty picky characters. There is a certain way everything must be done when it comes to their victims - a ritual. Whether it was because of some twisted religion or just because they were fucked up, the killings would always be routine, but that was where they always made their mistake. Because with routine comes complacency, and with complacency comes mistakes.
Jack had worked up a pretty decent rough sketch of the man’s profile - rough meaning that most of the details were vague. Abused or around abuse as a child or young adult. That narrowed things down. The crime lab was working up more sufficient data, such as the height of the killer based on the angle and depth of the fibers found around the only whole victim’s neck. Of course, that information would only be useful if the man was, in fact, standing when he killed the victim, which John thought unlikely. Jack was sending out a few shirts to check out that warehouse, thinking it might be a possible scene for the killing, something John also agreed with. It would have to be a spot secluded and close to the dumping grounds.
John shed his jacket and walked the short distance to the fridge, pulling out a beer and waiting only long enough to pop the top before taking a long, refreshing gulp. The apartment he lived in now was large - larger than the one he had before he (mostly) cleaned himself up. That thought made him pause and John allowed his mind to travel into dangerous territory. If the private detective had been asked what the best years of his life were, John wasn’t sure that he would be able to answer. Professionally, he would have said these past few, starting with the day that he had helped bring in the London Lyncher. That case brought him to the height of his career and the best few professional years he had lived. It had brought him high paying clients and a nice apartment that was situated halfway between Cardiff and London.
But personally, John would have had to go back a couple years, to the time when he was in and out of rehab clinics, the only jobs he was able to get a hand on being small time kidnapping cases and missing cars - even those only falling into his laps when the clients were poor and desperate enough to deal with the odor of drugs, smoke and alcohol that seemed to follow him around like a cloud. But while he had been physically and mentally hurting, he had been emotionally happy. Because it had been Jack who came to get him those nights that he found himself passed out in a bar, or beat up on the street because he had been unable to pay his dealer for the drugs. It was Jack who checked him into rehab, and came in the middle of the night to comfort him when he didn’t know what to do anymore.
John pulled himself out of those dark memories before he went any further down that road, setting his jaw in defiance and staring at his half-empty bottle of beer before tipping it down the sink. He watched the poisonous liquid fall down the drain, and let out a short laugh, because he had to either do that, or cry.
John knew that he shouldn’t have thought about Jack - it only opened up old wounds. But he couldn’t stop. He had kissed Jack earlier that morning out of some kind of twisted desperation. He needed to convince himself that it really was over between the two of them, that Jack really was as happy as he said he was with Ianto. John had expected to be pushed away within mere milliseconds of contact, yelled at, slapped, maybe even punched (again). But Jack had kissed back. And that changed things.
And then, there was that odd conversation he had had with Ianto Jones himself. There was something off about that man - something less than human. It hadn’t been the words that were exchanged, or even the man’s body language that had caused John to get a small seed of doubt. No, there was nothing outward about the man that suggested he was anything but a loving boyfriend and annoying journalist.
But John had looked into his eyes. He had taken a gaze into those two deep pools of blue, and was given a glimpse of something that he knew he should never have seen. It had caused the hairs on the back of John’s neck to stand up. There was something seriously wrong with Ianto Jones, and John was going to find out what. Whether it was his detectives’ instincts or his jealousy and feelings for Jack that fueled this desire, it didn’t matter.
John pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and dialed a few numbers, walking into the bedroom of his apartment and ridding himself of his gun and shirt as he listened to the phone ring. It was picked up on the fourth ring.
“I told you not to call me anymore.” the voice said, the sleepiness evident throughout the feminine voice, letting John know that he had awoken the woman. He switched the hand holding his phone and wiggled out of his jeans.
“That’s not what you were saying a few nights ago, sweetheart.” he drawled. “Ask me what I’m wearin’.”
“John, please. Just leave me alone. I don’t have time for your games anymore!” she replied, the pleading that filled her words not slipping past John’s ears.
He rolled his eyes, then got down to business. “Look, Lois, I just need a tiny little favor, I’ll reward you - you know I’m good for it.” The last half of his sentence was said with a more lecherous tone.
There was the sound of a gust of static, and John realized she was sighing. “I can’t! Last time I was almost caught! They knew someone was in the system.”
“This is important, Lois. It’s for a case I’m working.” John lied, hoping she had heard about him being called in for a huge case at the Cardiff station.
Another sigh. “This is it John, I mean it. I’m changing my number after this.”
“Thrill of the chase, darlin’.” John replied, unable to keep the smile out of his voice. “I need you to run a background check on one Ianto Jones. Black hair, blue eyes, editor for Cardiff Gazette.”
Silence from the other end. “…I’ll have it for you end of next week, two weeks at the most.”
“You’re gorgeous!” John exclaimed.
“Goodnight.” was the only retort.
John snapped the phone shut before the dial tone would reach his ears, and ran his hand through his naturally red hair before turning and heading toward the small bathroom. He was thinking about dying it again - he had enjoyed the platinum blonde look while it had lasted…
With the water from the shower pelting down on his head, John missed the sound of his cell phone ringing. It fell silent several seconds later, then beeped once more, alerting him of a voicemail.
“Detective Hart - this is Owen Harper from the Cardiff Gazette. The town is interested as to why Britain’s most notorious serial killer hunter is in town, and wondered if I could get a few quotes…”
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