Kingdom of Air, Chapter Five: Runout
Title: Kindom of Air, Chapter Five: Runout
Author: lookninjas
Characters: Gwen, Ianto, Owen, Tosh, Jack.
Rating: R for language and character death.
Spoilers for: Torchwood Season One, Dr. Who episodes "Army of Ghosts," "Doomsday," "Utopia," "The Sound of Drums," and "Last of the Time Lords"
Summary: Runout: Runout: (n) An uncomfortably long and often dangerous distance between two points of protection.
Disclaimer: I own neither Torchwood nor Dr. Who.
Previous Chapters: Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
6 October 2008
It’s a sad and bedraggled lot that trudges through the snow and away from Dhaulagiri Base Camp. They’re thin and tired, sunburnt, scraped, dirty. Exhausted.
But they aren’t dead yet, and that’s enough to go on for now.
It’s snowing again, but only lightly, only enough to remind Ianto that they haven’t got much time to get out of the mountains and down to warmer country. Another heavy snowfall, and they’d be trapped for good, nothing to do but die. He's got to keep them moving.
It’s still difficult for Ianto to comprehend, to know completely that it’s just the four of them left. Every time he looks up, he half-expects to see Hillary, grinning at him from behind that thick blond beard, or Tenzing watching him with wary eyes. But Ianto is in the lead now, picking out the path for the others to follow, and when they stop, they’ll set up their own tent and cook their own meal. No one to do it for them. No one to help them if things go wrong.
Just a compass and a cheap map, that’s all they have.
Still, they’ve made it this far, and Ianto isn’t about to let them lay down and die now. They need to find Harold Saxon, to stop him. They need answers. They need to do something, make it all mean something. They can‘t, Ianto can‘t, let all those deaths be for nothing.
But even thinking of Harold Saxon gives him an uneasy feeling, like he’s being watched. Thus far, they’ve managed to stay about half a step ahead of the man (if he’s a man at all), but there’s no guarantee their luck will hold. Saxon could still have one last trick up his sleeve, something none of them could predict. All they have is hope, now, hope that Saxon will assume that the job is done now that his artifact has exploded. Hope that Saxon will assume that they're easy to kill.
Hope, a compass, and a cheap map.
Ianto glances down at the map in his hands. The path to Muri is nothing more than a thin red line. He looks back at the threatening bulk of the mountains, checks his compass. They're headed in the right direction. He'll get them to Muri, and then he'll get them home. He has to.
The others watch him, patiently waiting for his next move. They seem to have faith in him, and it's terrifying, but it's reason enough to keep moving. He can't let his team down.
Hope, a compass, a cheap map, and each other.
It isn’t much, but Ianto thinks maybe it could be enough. Maybe.
7 October 2008
They’re curled up against each other in the tent, packed tight like sardines. Ianto swears he feels every movement that they make as they roll over, shift, try to get comfortable. They’re all elbows and knees, cold toes, steaming breath, and Owen’s cough refuses to give up and go away. And they stink, too, all of them. Bad breath. No showers, no chance to wash their clothing. A rapidly dwindling supply of deodorant.
The weird thing is how it really doesn’t bother him. They’re all alone in a harsh and hostile landscape, and there’s a comfort in cramming together in one tent, clinging to each other like children frightened of the dark. He wonders if he might actually miss this when they get home.
If they get home.
“It’s Election Day,” Tosh says, her voice breaking the quiet. “Do you think...”
Owen snorts. “He’s got the entire British population brainwashed, Tosh. There isn’t a hope in heaven that he’d lose.”
“Maybe it’s for the best, though,” Gwen says. “I mean... not really, but... if it’ll keep him distracted...”
Ianto can’t think of anything to say. He feels strange somehow, as though he’s in two places at the same time. No, that’s not quite right; he’s in two times at the same place. It’s a strange thought, and he clamps it down at once. He’s only frightened, that’s all. It’s been a bad month and it isn’t over yet, and he’s having a hard time coping. It’ll pass. It always does.
“We still don’t know how to stop him,” Owen points out. “Christ only knows what he’s going to do now he’s got access to the Rift, or if that’s even what he wants.”
“Worry about that later,” Ianto replies, forcing himself to sound calm, because he’s the leader now and he has to be calm. “Right now, let’s just get back to civilization. Then we’ll worry about Saxon.”
“And hope he’s forgotten about us,” Gwen murmurs.
8 October 2008
Just breathing is enough to make Ianto feel giddy. The air is rich down here, waking up his numbed, oxygen-starved mind, and the sun is gentler. It warms them without scorching. Black rock and blue ice have been replaced by lush green grass, poppies nodding in the breeze. There is life, here. After all that death, there is life. He breathes it all in and lets it fill him up.
The others have caught his mood; their steps are lighter, quicker, their heads higher. Gwen laughs and shakes her head, and Tosh listens with interest as Ianto and Owen bicker. "All I'm saying is that if it were a fair footrace, the Flash would win. Every bloody time."
Ianto snorts. "Your idea of a fair footrace involves Superman willingly forsaking the use of all his powers, while the Flash can do whatever he bloody well pleases."
Owen flushes; he's taken some of the bandages off, and his face is scabbing over, healing rapidly now that they're at lower altitude. He's still uglier than usual, but there's something hopeful in that, a small sign of progress made. "I never said..."
"The Flash can vibrate through any obstacles in his path, but Superman has to go around?" Honestly, Ianto doesn't even really care; he was never much of one for comic books, but Gwen is rolling her eyes at them in an affectionate sort of way, and Tosh is giggling, and that's more than enough reason to make an arse of himself. They look happy for the first time in so long, not scared and miserable, but genuinely happy. He will do whatever it takes to make the moment last, as long as he can.
"Look," Owen says, hands on his hips, looking like nothing so much as an angry rooster. "If you're so certain that your precious Superman will win, there's no harm in giving him a bit of a handicap, is there?"
"He's not my..." The sky goes abruptly dark, and Ianto's voice dies somewhere on the way to his throat. He looks up, his heart hammering in his chest.
Ianto watches as the sun is covered up by masses of black thunderheads, cutting off all light and warmth. He shivers in the sudden chill, breathing in short, shallow gasps. Then the sky just cracks, splitting apart to reveal a dark and terrifying void, edged by flames and crackles of lightning. For a moment, there is only that, only the void, and then black specks start boiling out of it, like a plague of locusts descending. They fill the sky, moving in every direction, a cloud spreading over the entire world.
All is silent, and yet Ianto can almost hear it, pounding in the distance. The drumbeat. The call to war.
Gwen draws in a short, sharp breath, and then another. "Wh-what... what is it?" she asks, her voice shaking so badly that it's a miracle the words come out at all.
No one has an answer for her. Ianto himself can't speak; he's afraid that this is how the world ends. They huddle together, silent, watching Armageddon streak across the skies.
Finally, Ianto gives himself a litle shake, hoists his pack higher on his shoulders, and looks back at the others. "We have to keep going."
Owen gapes at him; even Tosh looks startled. "But... those things..." Gwen protests.
Ianto takes a deep breath and keeps his eyes on his team; he can't look at the sky anymore. If he does, he'll never have the courage to move again. "We can't do anything about that now, Gwen. All we can do is keep moving, try to get home."
His eyes meet Owen's, looking for something, some support. "Right," Owen says, finally. "Let's go." He wraps his arm around Tosh's shoulders and pulls her close, tugging her forward, and the two of them walk on together.
Gwen is still staring at the sky. Ianto lays a hand on her shoulder, finally managing to get her attention. "Gwen," he says, quietly. "Come on."
She looks at him for a long time, her eyes huge. "I'm scared, Ianto."
"I know," he says. "But we have to keep going."
Gwen presses her lips together and nods once. Her arm wraps around him, and he lets her lean on him as they hurry to catch up with Owen and Tosh. Nobody says anything more. They crowd together, backs hunched as they flee before the gathering storm.
9 October 2008
Owen is sipping a mug of boiled water, watching Ianto with the strangest expression on his face, something almost like the look he had when Jack was laying still and peaceful in the morgue, like he's done something he'll never forgive himself for. Ianto can't understand it. None of this is Owen's fault. If anything, Ianto is the one who should have...
He stops that thought before it can go any further and tears his gaze away from Owen, to Tosh and Gwen. They're sitting together, a few meters away. Tosh is nibbling on a bit of trail mix in a numb, automatic way, curled into herself, seeing nothing. Gwen is trying to drag a comb through her tangled, filthy hair, a strange sort of desperation on her face; Ianto supposes this is her way of trying to bring back normality, to make things a little less nightmarish, a little less bleak. But she can't do it; after a few minutes' dogged struggle, she flings the comb to the ground and buries her head in her hands. Tosh, right next to her, doesn't even flinch.
They're on the verge of falling apart, all of them. It'll only take one thing, one small thing, to shatter them. So before Gwen can start to cry, Ianto picks up the comb and settles in behind her. "Let me," he says.
"Sorry." Gwen sniffles, wiping at her eyes with grubby fingers. "It's stupid, I know, only hair, but..."
Ianto says nothing, his fingers working gently through her dark hair, carefully pulling apart the worst of the matting. She relaxes, her shoulders slumping, her head dropping forward. "You're good at this," she says.
For just a moment, the familiarity of the situation overcomes the fear, and Ianto smiles, remembering. "Four younger sisters," he says. "You get a lot of practice in."
"Four? Christ." There's something strange in Owen's eyes, something almost sad.
"I bet you made an excellent big brother," Gwen says, tipping her head forward so he has a better angle.
Made. Past tense. It is possible, of course, that he will never see his family again, that he will die here and they will never know what happened to him, that they will wait forever. But then he thinks of the sky opening up, black specks boiling out in every direction, all over the world. There were so many of them. They could have gone anywhere, everywhere. Maybe Newport is burning. Maybe Wales has been destroyed. Maybe everything and everyone he loves is already dead.
"Ianto?"
He takes a deep breath and goes back to work, teasing apart a knot with the comb, because not everyone is dead. Not yet.
A laugh rises up from out of nowhere -- it can't be anyone on the team; it's someone, something else. It's almost innocent, almost a child's laugh, and yet it's alien. Malevolent. Deeply wrong. Gwen stiffens. Tosh's head snaps up as she looks around, her hands trembling. Owen drops his cup and stands, water darkening the ground at his feet. "What the fuck," Owen breathes.
Ianto feels the hair on the back of his neck standing on end.. He carefully sets the comb down, no sudden movements, and rises, drawing his gun and stepping in front of Gwen. "Hello?" he asks, trying to keep his voice calm. "Is anyone there?"
There's only laughter, echoing through the clearing.
Owen slinks up to Ianto's side, his own gun clenched in shaking hands. "What d'you think it is?" he asks.
"No clue," Ianto breathes, before calling out again. "Come on out! We won't hurt you."
More laughter, and Ianto can't suppress a shudder. There's something so wrong in that sound.
"There!" Tosh cries, pointing, but whatever she saw is already gone by the time Ianto spins around. "Did you see it?"
"Too fast," Owen mutters, holstering his gun. "Too fucking fast."
"It was one of those black things, the ones we saw yesterday," Tosh insists. "I know it."
Ianto swallows hard, his heart still pounding away at a thousand miles an hour. If Tosh is right (and she is, of course she is)...
Owen folds his arms; he looks more frightened than angry. "Could be those... things are what Saxon wanted. Like a weapon. Or an army."
Tosh nods, chewing nervously on her lip. Her eyes are fixed far away, on the spot where she saw that thing. "If they came from Saxon, they'll go back to him. They'll tell him where we are."
Ianto takes a deep breath, then another, finally tucks his gun back in its holster. "Right," he says, and stops, because he has no idea what to say. How can he possibly make them feel safe now? "From now on, we're armed at all times," he finally tells them, and it isn't much, Christ knows, but it's all he can think of. He wonders, again, how Jack ever managed.
Gwen and Tosh immediately unzip their rucksacks and start rummaging through for their weapons. Ianto glances at Owen, sees the other man watching him with something close to respect. They wait for the girls to load their guns, tuck them into holsters, sling their packs back onto their shoulders. "Come on," Ianto says, finally, and they start walking towards Muri once again.
Muri. Just the name of it sounds alive, beautiful. Inspires hope. They'll make it. They have to.
But Ianto can't help thinking of that laughter. It was so... cruel. Mocking. Triumphant, even. Like they'd already lost this fight.
They just didn't know it yet.
10 October 2008
He’s probably pushing them too hard, too fast, but he’s so scared right now. Even worse, none of them are complaining. They follow him without question.
They haven’t seen anything since yesterday; they haven’t heard anything. But Ianto can’t shake the feeling that they’re being watched. Worse than that, he can’t shake the feeling that every step he’s forcing them to take is just hurrying them towards their deaths.
But to stop would be to give up, and he’s not willing to do that either.
He keeps going, and the others follow without a word.
11 October 2008
For just a moment, Ianto gives in to the despair, letting out a sound that's not quite a laugh, not quite a sob.
This is Muri.
This was Muri. Now it is burned, destroyed, demolished; nothing more than rubble and scorched stone. The air is thick with greasy smoke, and the smoke has a tang that's almost like cooked meat, but... not meat. Not at all.
No one could have survived this. Ianto chokes back another helpless noise. It’s a bit late for tears anyway.
“What could have done this,” Gwen says, staring horrified at a heap of smoldering wood that may have been a house, or a teashop, or possibly a traveler’s lodge. A blackened arm sticks out from underneath the rubble, and Ianto knows he’ll never forget this, as long as he lives. “Why? Why would someone... why would anyone...” Gwen looks at them all with horrified eyes, and Owen glances up from the wreckage, his expression haunted.
“Come off it, Gwen,” he says, tersely. “Saxon’s already proved he doesn’t give a rat’s arse who he kills, so long as we die too.”
Tosh kicks over a plank of wood, as if expecting one of the little black balls to dodge out from underneath it, but there’s nothing. Ianto draws his gun anyway, just in case. “So,” Tosh says. “Now what?”
“We’re nearly out of food,” Ianto says, and pretends his voice isn’t shaking. “We’ll have to scavenge some up before we go anywhere else.”
“What if there isn’t anywhere else?” Gwen demands, and she’s getting hysterical now. “What if the whole world’s like this?”
Owen picks himself up and dusts himself off. “Well, then, I guess we’ll sit here and die, shall we?”
Gwen looks close to tears, and really, this has gone far enough. “Owen,” Ianto snaps, and Owen falls silent, turns away as though chastened. It's not that Ianto blames either of them; if he could take refuge in panic or rage, he would. But he's got to keep the team together. He can't let them fall apart, not now. “We can’t give up hope now, Gwen." He touches her hand as gently as possible; out of the corner of his eyes, he can see Tosh drawing nearer, see Owen look up. He's got everyone's attention. Good. "There have to be survivors somewhere. We will find them. We have to keep going.”
Gwen finally meets his eyes, almost smiling, and then he hears it again, that laughter. There’s nowhere left to run. “Get down!” Ianto shouts, seizing Gwen around the waist and hurling her behind what remains of a stone wall. Owen, bless him, never hesitates, tackling Tosh and dragging her to shelter. Then the black balls are filling the sky, so many of them. Too many.
“Come out, come out, wherever you are!” a child’s voice calls, and it grips him for a moment, that sense of dreadful wrongness. The voice is alien, mad, terrifying. “Come and play, Mr. Jones!”
“Naughty Mr. Jones!”
“Bad Mr. Jones!”
They’re calling him by name. The fear surges, and then suddenly recedes, replaced by a last, desperate wave of hope. If he can buy the others a bit of time, even just a little bit... “If it looks like I’ve got them distracted,” Ianto hisses in Gwen’s ear, “you have to run. Run and don’t stop. The others will follow you.”
She whimpers and clutches at him, but Ianto steps out of hiding, steps out into the open, the black orbs hovering all around him like a dark cloud. “Who are you?” he asks, and his voice is shaking badly. “What do you want?”
"We are the Toclafane!" one chirps, in that high, obscenely childlike voice.
"This is our place now."
"Master gave it to us. It's a good place. We like it."
"You can't have it," Ianto says, because there isn’t anything else to say. "It's ours."
"Master gave it to us!"
"We don't listen to you!"
Ianto is scrambling for something else to say when there’s a flash of light and Gwen shrieks. Instinctively, he moves to protect her, but the black orbs have suddenly sprouted blades. They swarm around him, blocking his path. He can only watch as his team is rousted from their hiding spots and herded back towards him.
“I’m so sorry,” he whispers, because they’re all going to die.
“’Salright, mate,” Owen says, drawing his gun. The others follow suit, because even if it’s useless, they’ve got to do something. “You tried.”
Ianto blinks away sudden tears.
The sun beats down on them as they stand in the middle of the ruins, smoke rising up to heaven. The Toclafane are a thick, black circle around them, a hurricane cloud, and his team form a circle of their own, shoulder to shoulder, guns out. Ianto lifts his chin, forces his hands to stop shaking. “This is our world,” he says, and his voice is surprisingly steady. “Not yours, not your Master’s. And we’ll get it back.”
They just laugh at him.
He fires, but it’s like trying to shoot smoke; there’s no way he can hit them or hurt them. And then they’re coming at him, and he doesn’t even have time to scream, just a low groan torn from his throat as the blades sink in, severing tendons in bright flashes of pain, cutting into him, cutting him apart, and he feels himself collapsing like a puppet with its strings severed, and behind him, someone is screaming, someone else is shouting, but he can't quite make out what they're saying.
There's dust in his eyes, and he can't reach up to rub at them. Tears blur his vision. There’s a bit of wet red in front of him, and he isn’t sure whether it’s part of someone else’s body, or part of his.
His heartbeat is slow, and each breath causes a sharp stab of agony, and he doesn’t think he can move anything because he’s not sure there’s anything left of him to move. He tries anyway, because his team is in danger, and he has to protect them, but even the small twitch he manages sets fire shooting through his body, and he collapses with a whimper.
For a moment, he wonders if he’s already dead, and if this is what eternity is going to be like.
Then there’s a darkness folding itself around him, different than anything he’s ever known, deep and warm and somehow kind, and although he tries to fight it, tries to cling to the pain if that’s what it takes...
He's dying.
It’s over.
*
*
*
It’s never really over.
*
*
*
The world is knocked off its axis by the breadth of a hair. Millions of voices cry out at once, all of them chanting the same name. A strange, radiant glow.
*
*
*
"DOCTOR!"
*
*
*
8 October 2008
"The Flash can vibrate through any obstacles in his path, but Superman has to go around?" Honestly, Ianto doesn't know why he's having this argument; he doesn't even really care for comic books. But Tosh and Gwen are giggling and rolling their eyes, and they could all use a bit of a distraction, something to think about besides mountains and bodies and this long, exhausting trek.
He just wishes it didn't feel so familiar, somehow. Like they'd already had this fight. Like he's stuck in two times at the same place.
"Look," Owen says, hands on his hips. He's flushed from exertion, and looks comical, like an angry rooster. For some reason, just that makes Ianto shudder. "If you're so certain that your precious Superman will win, there's no harm in giving him a bit of a handicap, is there?"
"He's not my..." Ianto's voice dies in his throat, and he half expects the sky to grow dark, but it doesn't. The sun is shining, the grass is green, the poppies sway in the breeze. The air is rich, saturated with oxygen. Why does he feel like he can't breathe? "It's just ridiculous, that's all," he says, trying to sound like he isn't terrified. "Superman's faster than a speeding bullet; of course he'll win."
"Yes, but the Flash is capable of traveling at at least ten times the speed of light," Tosh says. "More than that, possibly, although it depends on which Flash you're talking about. Barry Allen was the fastest, of course, because he had the closest connection to the Speed Force, and he was said to actually travel faster than the speed of thought..." She blushes, realizing that everyone is staring, and falls abruptly silent.
"There, you see? Tosh knows what she's talking about." Owen beams, and claps Toshiko on the shoulder. "The Flash wins. Every time."
Ianto nods, absently. "I suppose so," he says, and tries to puzzle out why this feels so wrong, why he's so sure it wasn't supposed to go this way.
They keep walking, and Ianto tries to ignore the echoes pounding through his head, the memory of drums.
9 October 2008
Gwen struggles to work a comb through the snarls and tangles in her dark hair, face a picture of frustration. Ianto half-expects her to throw the comb down, to burst into tears. But she doesn't, and when he thinks about it, Ianto wonders why he even thought she'd be upset. It's only hair, after all.
Owen is watching him, studying him like a specimen. There's something almost like worry on the doctor's face; it makes Ianto uneasy, both frightened and vaguely angry. He doesn't need Owen thinking he's about to crack up. He can handle this.
When he can't take it anymore, he pushes to his feet and crosses the clearing, settling down behind Gwen and plucking the comb from her hand. "You're making a mess of it," he says, a bit more sharply than intended, then takes a deep breath and gentles his tone. "Let me."
"You really don't have to," Gwen protests, but her head drops forward to give him better access. He works at the knots from the bottom up, slow and careful, and they practically undo themselves. "You're better at this than I am," Gwen admits, finally.
"Four younger sisters," Ianto says. "You get a lot of practice in."
"Four?" Owen repeats. For some reason, Ianto was expecting to see sorrow on Owen's face, but there's only a sort of amused surprise. "Christ. I feel sorry for you."
Gwen tells him that he must be an amazing older brother. Ianto doesn't reply, and tries to ignore the trace of mocking laughter that echoes around the clearing. It's only dreams. He can handle this.
10 October 2008
He's probably pushing them too hard, too fast, but he's so scared right now. The strange thing is, he doesn't really know why.
Owen is bitching again, complaining about the nature and the walking and the pace, saying that he's not the Flash after all, and he's still got that bloody cough, and really, they could slow down a bit, it's not like anything is following them. For some reason, those words make Ianto's heart leap, make it thud so loudly he's amazed the others can't see it.
Tosh catches up to him, rests a hand on his arm. “Ianto,” she says, her eyes so worried, her hand so gentle. "Are you all right?"
How can he explain this dislocation, this sense of two times in the same place? He can't, of course. She'd worry, and even if she didn't, there simply aren't words for it, not in English, not in any language. “Sorry,” he says, with his best sheepish grin. “I just... the sooner we're back to civilization, the happier I'll be.”
Tosh squeezes his forearm. “Believe me, I understand.” He slows down to keep pace with her, letting the others catch up to them. “Didn't sleep very well last night, did you?” she asks.
Ianto can only blink. To be quite honest, he doesn't remember sleeping at all. “Sorry. Did I keep you up?”
She shrugs. “I wasn't sleeping very well either. Only... you just sounded really frightened. Bad dreams?”
“Must have been.” Ianto smiles. “I don't remember them. Actually, I hardly ever remember my dreams, so there's one for you. Even if they're terrible, they're gone by next day.”
“Lucky you,” Tosh says, and he gets the sense that she doesn't quite believe him. But she doesn't argue, either.
He keeps going, slowing the pace down, and the others follow him.
11 October 2008
Ianto lets out a sound that is not quite a laugh, not quite a sob.
This is Muri.
Plumes of smoke rise up from the village, probably cooking fires. The little huts are all beautifully, perfectly intact. The villagers spare them confused, and possibly concerned, looks as they go about their daily business. Ianto supposes that it’s not every day a group of lost trekkers wanders into Muri, bedraggled and only half alive, staring about them as if this tiny village were Shangri-La.
Gwen’s arm slips around Ianto’s waist, and Owen ducks his head and takes a few deep breaths, because they’re here, and they haven’t died, and right now, it’s hard to believe. It's strange, but somehow Ianto was sure... He was so sure...
After a few, numb seconds, Tosh says, “Well. I suppose we’d better find a teahouse or something, hadn’t we?” Then she’s approaching the nearest villager (an old man with a face full of wrinkles, and a mouth with no teeth left), trying to start a conversation in her fractured, phrasebook Nepali.
Ianto can only cling to Gwen and stare, because he really really didn’t think they’d get out of this alive, and yet here they are, and they’re still breathing.
*
There aren’t any teahouses, but the old man has a field for their tent, and a wife who’s more than willing to fill them full of dal bhat, and it’s amazing after five days of stumbling through the wilderness just to sit in someone’s kitchen and eat food that they don’t have to rehydrate. It’s amazing just to be in a building, not in a tent.
It’s amazing just to be alive.
After supper, they huddle together in the tent (their last night packed in like this, like sardines, and Ianto thinks he really will miss it, strangely enough), as Tosh fiddles with her laptop, fingers flying with renewed vitality, and suddenly, there it is, the outside world, a newscaster’s voice. “-- a world still reeling from the death of President Winters, assassinated by British Prime Minister Harold Saxon.”
“What the bleeding blue fuck,” Owen whispers, in awe. The others lean in to get a better view. Ianto hangs back, even though he doesn't know why.
When the small black orbs, all blades and lasers and childlike voices, appear on the screen, he begins to shake and cannot stop.
(come and play, Mr. Jones)
And even when the Doctor appears in a burst of radiant light,
(naughty Mr. Jones)
And Jack is there to block Saxon’s escape, dirty and disheveled, but grinning his old familiar grin,
(bad Mr. Jones)
Ianto cannot stop himself from shaking, shaking.
“Knew it,” Owen growls. “Knew Harkness would get himself mixed up in this somehow.”
And for the first time in a long time, Ianto finds himself mercilessly claustrophobic, scarcely able to breathe in this confined space, with the team huddled around him. He pushes away, ignoring Tosh’s worried eyes, Owen’s knowing look. “Excuse me for a moment, won’t you?” he asks, and hurries out of the tent without waiting for a reply.
(he feels himself collapsing like a puppet with its strings severed, and behind him, someone is screaming)
(he can’t move)
(there’s nothing he can do)
He collapses on the ground, his legs folded beneath him, and tries to catch his breath. It occurs to him that he might just be going out of his mind. He’s dislocated, two times in the same place, and he’s dead, but he’s not. He’s Schrödinger’s cat.
He’s really going out of his mind.
But somehow, when his mobile rings, he pulls it out of his pocket, flips it open, and says “Ianto Jones,” in a voice that’s far too calm to have ever belonged to him. He hasn’t even answered his phone for over a month, but. Old habits die hard.
“Ianto?” The voice on the other end is shaky, filled with strange emotions, but Ianto knows that voice so well. Even months after he last heard it, he still knows it. He will always know it.
“Jack,” he breathes, and it’s a good thing he’s sitting down, because if he weren’t, his legs would have given out from underneath him. “Oh God, Jack.”
“Ianto. Ianto, Ianto.” For a few seconds, all Ianto can hear is Jack’s shaky breathing. Then he starts talking, fast. “Where are you? How are you? How’s the team? Is everyone all right? Are you --”
Despite himself, Ianto lets out a curious, quavering laugh. “Jack, please, one at a time.” Jack falls silent, and Ianto takes a deep breath, then another, because this really is just too surreal. “We’re in Muri; it’s in Nepal, in the foothills of the Dhaulagiri Himal. We’re alive. We’re all right. We’re...” And he thinks of everything that’s happened, everything he’s seen, everything he’s had to do, and he swallows hard. “We’re alive,” he says again. “Are you all right? Are you still on the Valiant?”
“There’s some things I have to do,” Jack says. “Just some loose ends that have to be tied up. I’ve been calling and calling, but I couldn’t get through. Ianto...”
“We’re all right now, Jack,” Ianto says, and it’s soothing in a way, to comfort Jack. “We’re alive.”
“Alive.” Jack says it with such reverence, and for just a moment,
(he’s already dead)
Ianto is absolutely sure --
(darkness folding around him)
“Alive,” Jack says again, and the memories fall away.
“And you’re alive,” Ianto says, unable to keep the flood of relief out of his voice.
Jack laughs, and the sound is pained, desperate; it hints at a hundred thousand things that Ianto doesn’t want to think about. “I’m always alive,” Jack says, and he doesn’t sound too happy about that, but then the moment passes. “You’ll be home soon?”
“There’s a bus coming to take us to Pokhara tomorrow,” Ianto says. “And from there to Kathmandu, Heathrow... We should be in Cardiff in three days, four at the most. Are you...” It’s hard to find the words. “Will you be...”
Jack’s laugh is warmer this time, more like himself. “Yes, Ianto,” he says, very quietly. “I’m not sure when I’ll be done here; there’s a lot to take care of, but as soon as it’s all over, I’ll be home. I promise.”
“Good.” A traitorous sniffle escapes him then; he has to choke back his tears with an effort. “That’s good to hear, sir. I’ll... I’ll make sure there’s coffee waiting for you.”
More laughter, and it sounds like Jack hasn’t laughed in ages. Ianto wants to ask him what happened, what really happened, but he doubts Jack could tell him, even if he was in the mood to do it. “Ianto,” Jack says. “Christ, I’ve missed your coffee.”
“As have I, sir. I did my best, but there’s only so much one can do with a propane stove and a jar of instant crystals.” This time, they laugh together, and Ianto wonders how much Jack can tell from the tone of his voice, the tenor of his laugh. Probably everything; he doesn't have the presence of mind to hide himself, not right now. But it doesn’t really matter much. It’s enough to pretend that everything’s all right, for the moment.
The rest will come later.
“All right.” There’s a note of resignation in Jack’s voice. “I have to go. There’s so much... But I’ll be home soon, Ianto, I promise. Tell the others... tell them I’ll be home soon.”
Ianto smiles. Home. “I will, Jack.”
“And tell them that if they’re going to hit me, I’d prefer it if they left my face alone.”
“I’ll hold them back, sir.”
“Thank you.” Jack’s voice cracks on the words, unexpectedly. “Thank you for looking after them, Ianto.”
Ianto has to take a few deep breaths, and fight to keep his voice steady. “Just doing my job, sir.”
“I’ll see you soon, Ianto.”
“See you soon. Jack.”
“Bye.” There’s a long space of silence as the two of them cling to their phones, unwilling to break the connection, and then a soft click as Jack finally hangs up. It takes a bit longer for Ianto to be able to do the same.
Finally, he flips his phone shut and slides it into his pocket. He needs to get back to the others; he needs to tell them... Instead, he buries his face in his hands, and sits like that for a long time.
It’s over. It’s finally over.
*
*
*
(It’s never really over.)
Author's note: This was probably the hardest section to write, technically, and required the most editing assistance. seize came through big time, and made some really brilliant suggestions. If you like it enough to comment, maybe send some thanks her way?
Author: lookninjas
Characters: Gwen, Ianto, Owen, Tosh, Jack.
Rating: R for language and character death.
Spoilers for: Torchwood Season One, Dr. Who episodes "Army of Ghosts," "Doomsday," "Utopia," "The Sound of Drums," and "Last of the Time Lords"
Summary: Runout: Runout: (n) An uncomfortably long and often dangerous distance between two points of protection.
Disclaimer: I own neither Torchwood nor Dr. Who.
Previous Chapters: Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
6 October 2008
It’s a sad and bedraggled lot that trudges through the snow and away from Dhaulagiri Base Camp. They’re thin and tired, sunburnt, scraped, dirty. Exhausted.
But they aren’t dead yet, and that’s enough to go on for now.
It’s snowing again, but only lightly, only enough to remind Ianto that they haven’t got much time to get out of the mountains and down to warmer country. Another heavy snowfall, and they’d be trapped for good, nothing to do but die. He's got to keep them moving.
It’s still difficult for Ianto to comprehend, to know completely that it’s just the four of them left. Every time he looks up, he half-expects to see Hillary, grinning at him from behind that thick blond beard, or Tenzing watching him with wary eyes. But Ianto is in the lead now, picking out the path for the others to follow, and when they stop, they’ll set up their own tent and cook their own meal. No one to do it for them. No one to help them if things go wrong.
Just a compass and a cheap map, that’s all they have.
Still, they’ve made it this far, and Ianto isn’t about to let them lay down and die now. They need to find Harold Saxon, to stop him. They need answers. They need to do something, make it all mean something. They can‘t, Ianto can‘t, let all those deaths be for nothing.
But even thinking of Harold Saxon gives him an uneasy feeling, like he’s being watched. Thus far, they’ve managed to stay about half a step ahead of the man (if he’s a man at all), but there’s no guarantee their luck will hold. Saxon could still have one last trick up his sleeve, something none of them could predict. All they have is hope, now, hope that Saxon will assume that the job is done now that his artifact has exploded. Hope that Saxon will assume that they're easy to kill.
Hope, a compass, and a cheap map.
Ianto glances down at the map in his hands. The path to Muri is nothing more than a thin red line. He looks back at the threatening bulk of the mountains, checks his compass. They're headed in the right direction. He'll get them to Muri, and then he'll get them home. He has to.
The others watch him, patiently waiting for his next move. They seem to have faith in him, and it's terrifying, but it's reason enough to keep moving. He can't let his team down.
Hope, a compass, a cheap map, and each other.
It isn’t much, but Ianto thinks maybe it could be enough. Maybe.
7 October 2008
They’re curled up against each other in the tent, packed tight like sardines. Ianto swears he feels every movement that they make as they roll over, shift, try to get comfortable. They’re all elbows and knees, cold toes, steaming breath, and Owen’s cough refuses to give up and go away. And they stink, too, all of them. Bad breath. No showers, no chance to wash their clothing. A rapidly dwindling supply of deodorant.
The weird thing is how it really doesn’t bother him. They’re all alone in a harsh and hostile landscape, and there’s a comfort in cramming together in one tent, clinging to each other like children frightened of the dark. He wonders if he might actually miss this when they get home.
If they get home.
“It’s Election Day,” Tosh says, her voice breaking the quiet. “Do you think...”
Owen snorts. “He’s got the entire British population brainwashed, Tosh. There isn’t a hope in heaven that he’d lose.”
“Maybe it’s for the best, though,” Gwen says. “I mean... not really, but... if it’ll keep him distracted...”
Ianto can’t think of anything to say. He feels strange somehow, as though he’s in two places at the same time. No, that’s not quite right; he’s in two times at the same place. It’s a strange thought, and he clamps it down at once. He’s only frightened, that’s all. It’s been a bad month and it isn’t over yet, and he’s having a hard time coping. It’ll pass. It always does.
“We still don’t know how to stop him,” Owen points out. “Christ only knows what he’s going to do now he’s got access to the Rift, or if that’s even what he wants.”
“Worry about that later,” Ianto replies, forcing himself to sound calm, because he’s the leader now and he has to be calm. “Right now, let’s just get back to civilization. Then we’ll worry about Saxon.”
“And hope he’s forgotten about us,” Gwen murmurs.
8 October 2008
Just breathing is enough to make Ianto feel giddy. The air is rich down here, waking up his numbed, oxygen-starved mind, and the sun is gentler. It warms them without scorching. Black rock and blue ice have been replaced by lush green grass, poppies nodding in the breeze. There is life, here. After all that death, there is life. He breathes it all in and lets it fill him up.
The others have caught his mood; their steps are lighter, quicker, their heads higher. Gwen laughs and shakes her head, and Tosh listens with interest as Ianto and Owen bicker. "All I'm saying is that if it were a fair footrace, the Flash would win. Every bloody time."
Ianto snorts. "Your idea of a fair footrace involves Superman willingly forsaking the use of all his powers, while the Flash can do whatever he bloody well pleases."
Owen flushes; he's taken some of the bandages off, and his face is scabbing over, healing rapidly now that they're at lower altitude. He's still uglier than usual, but there's something hopeful in that, a small sign of progress made. "I never said..."
"The Flash can vibrate through any obstacles in his path, but Superman has to go around?" Honestly, Ianto doesn't even really care; he was never much of one for comic books, but Gwen is rolling her eyes at them in an affectionate sort of way, and Tosh is giggling, and that's more than enough reason to make an arse of himself. They look happy for the first time in so long, not scared and miserable, but genuinely happy. He will do whatever it takes to make the moment last, as long as he can.
"Look," Owen says, hands on his hips, looking like nothing so much as an angry rooster. "If you're so certain that your precious Superman will win, there's no harm in giving him a bit of a handicap, is there?"
"He's not my..." The sky goes abruptly dark, and Ianto's voice dies somewhere on the way to his throat. He looks up, his heart hammering in his chest.
Ianto watches as the sun is covered up by masses of black thunderheads, cutting off all light and warmth. He shivers in the sudden chill, breathing in short, shallow gasps. Then the sky just cracks, splitting apart to reveal a dark and terrifying void, edged by flames and crackles of lightning. For a moment, there is only that, only the void, and then black specks start boiling out of it, like a plague of locusts descending. They fill the sky, moving in every direction, a cloud spreading over the entire world.
All is silent, and yet Ianto can almost hear it, pounding in the distance. The drumbeat. The call to war.
Gwen draws in a short, sharp breath, and then another. "Wh-what... what is it?" she asks, her voice shaking so badly that it's a miracle the words come out at all.
No one has an answer for her. Ianto himself can't speak; he's afraid that this is how the world ends. They huddle together, silent, watching Armageddon streak across the skies.
Finally, Ianto gives himself a litle shake, hoists his pack higher on his shoulders, and looks back at the others. "We have to keep going."
Owen gapes at him; even Tosh looks startled. "But... those things..." Gwen protests.
Ianto takes a deep breath and keeps his eyes on his team; he can't look at the sky anymore. If he does, he'll never have the courage to move again. "We can't do anything about that now, Gwen. All we can do is keep moving, try to get home."
His eyes meet Owen's, looking for something, some support. "Right," Owen says, finally. "Let's go." He wraps his arm around Tosh's shoulders and pulls her close, tugging her forward, and the two of them walk on together.
Gwen is still staring at the sky. Ianto lays a hand on her shoulder, finally managing to get her attention. "Gwen," he says, quietly. "Come on."
She looks at him for a long time, her eyes huge. "I'm scared, Ianto."
"I know," he says. "But we have to keep going."
Gwen presses her lips together and nods once. Her arm wraps around him, and he lets her lean on him as they hurry to catch up with Owen and Tosh. Nobody says anything more. They crowd together, backs hunched as they flee before the gathering storm.
9 October 2008
Owen is sipping a mug of boiled water, watching Ianto with the strangest expression on his face, something almost like the look he had when Jack was laying still and peaceful in the morgue, like he's done something he'll never forgive himself for. Ianto can't understand it. None of this is Owen's fault. If anything, Ianto is the one who should have...
He stops that thought before it can go any further and tears his gaze away from Owen, to Tosh and Gwen. They're sitting together, a few meters away. Tosh is nibbling on a bit of trail mix in a numb, automatic way, curled into herself, seeing nothing. Gwen is trying to drag a comb through her tangled, filthy hair, a strange sort of desperation on her face; Ianto supposes this is her way of trying to bring back normality, to make things a little less nightmarish, a little less bleak. But she can't do it; after a few minutes' dogged struggle, she flings the comb to the ground and buries her head in her hands. Tosh, right next to her, doesn't even flinch.
They're on the verge of falling apart, all of them. It'll only take one thing, one small thing, to shatter them. So before Gwen can start to cry, Ianto picks up the comb and settles in behind her. "Let me," he says.
"Sorry." Gwen sniffles, wiping at her eyes with grubby fingers. "It's stupid, I know, only hair, but..."
Ianto says nothing, his fingers working gently through her dark hair, carefully pulling apart the worst of the matting. She relaxes, her shoulders slumping, her head dropping forward. "You're good at this," she says.
For just a moment, the familiarity of the situation overcomes the fear, and Ianto smiles, remembering. "Four younger sisters," he says. "You get a lot of practice in."
"Four? Christ." There's something strange in Owen's eyes, something almost sad.
"I bet you made an excellent big brother," Gwen says, tipping her head forward so he has a better angle.
Made. Past tense. It is possible, of course, that he will never see his family again, that he will die here and they will never know what happened to him, that they will wait forever. But then he thinks of the sky opening up, black specks boiling out in every direction, all over the world. There were so many of them. They could have gone anywhere, everywhere. Maybe Newport is burning. Maybe Wales has been destroyed. Maybe everything and everyone he loves is already dead.
"Ianto?"
He takes a deep breath and goes back to work, teasing apart a knot with the comb, because not everyone is dead. Not yet.
A laugh rises up from out of nowhere -- it can't be anyone on the team; it's someone, something else. It's almost innocent, almost a child's laugh, and yet it's alien. Malevolent. Deeply wrong. Gwen stiffens. Tosh's head snaps up as she looks around, her hands trembling. Owen drops his cup and stands, water darkening the ground at his feet. "What the fuck," Owen breathes.
Ianto feels the hair on the back of his neck standing on end.. He carefully sets the comb down, no sudden movements, and rises, drawing his gun and stepping in front of Gwen. "Hello?" he asks, trying to keep his voice calm. "Is anyone there?"
There's only laughter, echoing through the clearing.
Owen slinks up to Ianto's side, his own gun clenched in shaking hands. "What d'you think it is?" he asks.
"No clue," Ianto breathes, before calling out again. "Come on out! We won't hurt you."
More laughter, and Ianto can't suppress a shudder. There's something so wrong in that sound.
"There!" Tosh cries, pointing, but whatever she saw is already gone by the time Ianto spins around. "Did you see it?"
"Too fast," Owen mutters, holstering his gun. "Too fucking fast."
"It was one of those black things, the ones we saw yesterday," Tosh insists. "I know it."
Ianto swallows hard, his heart still pounding away at a thousand miles an hour. If Tosh is right (and she is, of course she is)...
Owen folds his arms; he looks more frightened than angry. "Could be those... things are what Saxon wanted. Like a weapon. Or an army."
Tosh nods, chewing nervously on her lip. Her eyes are fixed far away, on the spot where she saw that thing. "If they came from Saxon, they'll go back to him. They'll tell him where we are."
Ianto takes a deep breath, then another, finally tucks his gun back in its holster. "Right," he says, and stops, because he has no idea what to say. How can he possibly make them feel safe now? "From now on, we're armed at all times," he finally tells them, and it isn't much, Christ knows, but it's all he can think of. He wonders, again, how Jack ever managed.
Gwen and Tosh immediately unzip their rucksacks and start rummaging through for their weapons. Ianto glances at Owen, sees the other man watching him with something close to respect. They wait for the girls to load their guns, tuck them into holsters, sling their packs back onto their shoulders. "Come on," Ianto says, finally, and they start walking towards Muri once again.
Muri. Just the name of it sounds alive, beautiful. Inspires hope. They'll make it. They have to.
But Ianto can't help thinking of that laughter. It was so... cruel. Mocking. Triumphant, even. Like they'd already lost this fight.
They just didn't know it yet.
10 October 2008
He’s probably pushing them too hard, too fast, but he’s so scared right now. Even worse, none of them are complaining. They follow him without question.
They haven’t seen anything since yesterday; they haven’t heard anything. But Ianto can’t shake the feeling that they’re being watched. Worse than that, he can’t shake the feeling that every step he’s forcing them to take is just hurrying them towards their deaths.
But to stop would be to give up, and he’s not willing to do that either.
He keeps going, and the others follow without a word.
11 October 2008
For just a moment, Ianto gives in to the despair, letting out a sound that's not quite a laugh, not quite a sob.
This is Muri.
This was Muri. Now it is burned, destroyed, demolished; nothing more than rubble and scorched stone. The air is thick with greasy smoke, and the smoke has a tang that's almost like cooked meat, but... not meat. Not at all.
No one could have survived this. Ianto chokes back another helpless noise. It’s a bit late for tears anyway.
“What could have done this,” Gwen says, staring horrified at a heap of smoldering wood that may have been a house, or a teashop, or possibly a traveler’s lodge. A blackened arm sticks out from underneath the rubble, and Ianto knows he’ll never forget this, as long as he lives. “Why? Why would someone... why would anyone...” Gwen looks at them all with horrified eyes, and Owen glances up from the wreckage, his expression haunted.
“Come off it, Gwen,” he says, tersely. “Saxon’s already proved he doesn’t give a rat’s arse who he kills, so long as we die too.”
Tosh kicks over a plank of wood, as if expecting one of the little black balls to dodge out from underneath it, but there’s nothing. Ianto draws his gun anyway, just in case. “So,” Tosh says. “Now what?”
“We’re nearly out of food,” Ianto says, and pretends his voice isn’t shaking. “We’ll have to scavenge some up before we go anywhere else.”
“What if there isn’t anywhere else?” Gwen demands, and she’s getting hysterical now. “What if the whole world’s like this?”
Owen picks himself up and dusts himself off. “Well, then, I guess we’ll sit here and die, shall we?”
Gwen looks close to tears, and really, this has gone far enough. “Owen,” Ianto snaps, and Owen falls silent, turns away as though chastened. It's not that Ianto blames either of them; if he could take refuge in panic or rage, he would. But he's got to keep the team together. He can't let them fall apart, not now. “We can’t give up hope now, Gwen." He touches her hand as gently as possible; out of the corner of his eyes, he can see Tosh drawing nearer, see Owen look up. He's got everyone's attention. Good. "There have to be survivors somewhere. We will find them. We have to keep going.”
Gwen finally meets his eyes, almost smiling, and then he hears it again, that laughter. There’s nowhere left to run. “Get down!” Ianto shouts, seizing Gwen around the waist and hurling her behind what remains of a stone wall. Owen, bless him, never hesitates, tackling Tosh and dragging her to shelter. Then the black balls are filling the sky, so many of them. Too many.
“Come out, come out, wherever you are!” a child’s voice calls, and it grips him for a moment, that sense of dreadful wrongness. The voice is alien, mad, terrifying. “Come and play, Mr. Jones!”
“Naughty Mr. Jones!”
“Bad Mr. Jones!”
They’re calling him by name. The fear surges, and then suddenly recedes, replaced by a last, desperate wave of hope. If he can buy the others a bit of time, even just a little bit... “If it looks like I’ve got them distracted,” Ianto hisses in Gwen’s ear, “you have to run. Run and don’t stop. The others will follow you.”
She whimpers and clutches at him, but Ianto steps out of hiding, steps out into the open, the black orbs hovering all around him like a dark cloud. “Who are you?” he asks, and his voice is shaking badly. “What do you want?”
"We are the Toclafane!" one chirps, in that high, obscenely childlike voice.
"This is our place now."
"Master gave it to us. It's a good place. We like it."
"You can't have it," Ianto says, because there isn’t anything else to say. "It's ours."
"Master gave it to us!"
"We don't listen to you!"
Ianto is scrambling for something else to say when there’s a flash of light and Gwen shrieks. Instinctively, he moves to protect her, but the black orbs have suddenly sprouted blades. They swarm around him, blocking his path. He can only watch as his team is rousted from their hiding spots and herded back towards him.
“I’m so sorry,” he whispers, because they’re all going to die.
“’Salright, mate,” Owen says, drawing his gun. The others follow suit, because even if it’s useless, they’ve got to do something. “You tried.”
Ianto blinks away sudden tears.
The sun beats down on them as they stand in the middle of the ruins, smoke rising up to heaven. The Toclafane are a thick, black circle around them, a hurricane cloud, and his team form a circle of their own, shoulder to shoulder, guns out. Ianto lifts his chin, forces his hands to stop shaking. “This is our world,” he says, and his voice is surprisingly steady. “Not yours, not your Master’s. And we’ll get it back.”
They just laugh at him.
He fires, but it’s like trying to shoot smoke; there’s no way he can hit them or hurt them. And then they’re coming at him, and he doesn’t even have time to scream, just a low groan torn from his throat as the blades sink in, severing tendons in bright flashes of pain, cutting into him, cutting him apart, and he feels himself collapsing like a puppet with its strings severed, and behind him, someone is screaming, someone else is shouting, but he can't quite make out what they're saying.
There's dust in his eyes, and he can't reach up to rub at them. Tears blur his vision. There’s a bit of wet red in front of him, and he isn’t sure whether it’s part of someone else’s body, or part of his.
His heartbeat is slow, and each breath causes a sharp stab of agony, and he doesn’t think he can move anything because he’s not sure there’s anything left of him to move. He tries anyway, because his team is in danger, and he has to protect them, but even the small twitch he manages sets fire shooting through his body, and he collapses with a whimper.
For a moment, he wonders if he’s already dead, and if this is what eternity is going to be like.
Then there’s a darkness folding itself around him, different than anything he’s ever known, deep and warm and somehow kind, and although he tries to fight it, tries to cling to the pain if that’s what it takes...
He's dying.
It’s over.
*
*
*
It’s never really over.
*
*
*
The world is knocked off its axis by the breadth of a hair. Millions of voices cry out at once, all of them chanting the same name. A strange, radiant glow.
*
*
*
"DOCTOR!"
*
*
*
8 October 2008
"The Flash can vibrate through any obstacles in his path, but Superman has to go around?" Honestly, Ianto doesn't know why he's having this argument; he doesn't even really care for comic books. But Tosh and Gwen are giggling and rolling their eyes, and they could all use a bit of a distraction, something to think about besides mountains and bodies and this long, exhausting trek.
He just wishes it didn't feel so familiar, somehow. Like they'd already had this fight. Like he's stuck in two times at the same place.
"Look," Owen says, hands on his hips. He's flushed from exertion, and looks comical, like an angry rooster. For some reason, just that makes Ianto shudder. "If you're so certain that your precious Superman will win, there's no harm in giving him a bit of a handicap, is there?"
"He's not my..." Ianto's voice dies in his throat, and he half expects the sky to grow dark, but it doesn't. The sun is shining, the grass is green, the poppies sway in the breeze. The air is rich, saturated with oxygen. Why does he feel like he can't breathe? "It's just ridiculous, that's all," he says, trying to sound like he isn't terrified. "Superman's faster than a speeding bullet; of course he'll win."
"Yes, but the Flash is capable of traveling at at least ten times the speed of light," Tosh says. "More than that, possibly, although it depends on which Flash you're talking about. Barry Allen was the fastest, of course, because he had the closest connection to the Speed Force, and he was said to actually travel faster than the speed of thought..." She blushes, realizing that everyone is staring, and falls abruptly silent.
"There, you see? Tosh knows what she's talking about." Owen beams, and claps Toshiko on the shoulder. "The Flash wins. Every time."
Ianto nods, absently. "I suppose so," he says, and tries to puzzle out why this feels so wrong, why he's so sure it wasn't supposed to go this way.
They keep walking, and Ianto tries to ignore the echoes pounding through his head, the memory of drums.
9 October 2008
Gwen struggles to work a comb through the snarls and tangles in her dark hair, face a picture of frustration. Ianto half-expects her to throw the comb down, to burst into tears. But she doesn't, and when he thinks about it, Ianto wonders why he even thought she'd be upset. It's only hair, after all.
Owen is watching him, studying him like a specimen. There's something almost like worry on the doctor's face; it makes Ianto uneasy, both frightened and vaguely angry. He doesn't need Owen thinking he's about to crack up. He can handle this.
When he can't take it anymore, he pushes to his feet and crosses the clearing, settling down behind Gwen and plucking the comb from her hand. "You're making a mess of it," he says, a bit more sharply than intended, then takes a deep breath and gentles his tone. "Let me."
"You really don't have to," Gwen protests, but her head drops forward to give him better access. He works at the knots from the bottom up, slow and careful, and they practically undo themselves. "You're better at this than I am," Gwen admits, finally.
"Four younger sisters," Ianto says. "You get a lot of practice in."
"Four?" Owen repeats. For some reason, Ianto was expecting to see sorrow on Owen's face, but there's only a sort of amused surprise. "Christ. I feel sorry for you."
Gwen tells him that he must be an amazing older brother. Ianto doesn't reply, and tries to ignore the trace of mocking laughter that echoes around the clearing. It's only dreams. He can handle this.
10 October 2008
He's probably pushing them too hard, too fast, but he's so scared right now. The strange thing is, he doesn't really know why.
Owen is bitching again, complaining about the nature and the walking and the pace, saying that he's not the Flash after all, and he's still got that bloody cough, and really, they could slow down a bit, it's not like anything is following them. For some reason, those words make Ianto's heart leap, make it thud so loudly he's amazed the others can't see it.
Tosh catches up to him, rests a hand on his arm. “Ianto,” she says, her eyes so worried, her hand so gentle. "Are you all right?"
How can he explain this dislocation, this sense of two times in the same place? He can't, of course. She'd worry, and even if she didn't, there simply aren't words for it, not in English, not in any language. “Sorry,” he says, with his best sheepish grin. “I just... the sooner we're back to civilization, the happier I'll be.”
Tosh squeezes his forearm. “Believe me, I understand.” He slows down to keep pace with her, letting the others catch up to them. “Didn't sleep very well last night, did you?” she asks.
Ianto can only blink. To be quite honest, he doesn't remember sleeping at all. “Sorry. Did I keep you up?”
She shrugs. “I wasn't sleeping very well either. Only... you just sounded really frightened. Bad dreams?”
“Must have been.” Ianto smiles. “I don't remember them. Actually, I hardly ever remember my dreams, so there's one for you. Even if they're terrible, they're gone by next day.”
“Lucky you,” Tosh says, and he gets the sense that she doesn't quite believe him. But she doesn't argue, either.
He keeps going, slowing the pace down, and the others follow him.
11 October 2008
Ianto lets out a sound that is not quite a laugh, not quite a sob.
This is Muri.
Plumes of smoke rise up from the village, probably cooking fires. The little huts are all beautifully, perfectly intact. The villagers spare them confused, and possibly concerned, looks as they go about their daily business. Ianto supposes that it’s not every day a group of lost trekkers wanders into Muri, bedraggled and only half alive, staring about them as if this tiny village were Shangri-La.
Gwen’s arm slips around Ianto’s waist, and Owen ducks his head and takes a few deep breaths, because they’re here, and they haven’t died, and right now, it’s hard to believe. It's strange, but somehow Ianto was sure... He was so sure...
After a few, numb seconds, Tosh says, “Well. I suppose we’d better find a teahouse or something, hadn’t we?” Then she’s approaching the nearest villager (an old man with a face full of wrinkles, and a mouth with no teeth left), trying to start a conversation in her fractured, phrasebook Nepali.
Ianto can only cling to Gwen and stare, because he really really didn’t think they’d get out of this alive, and yet here they are, and they’re still breathing.
*
There aren’t any teahouses, but the old man has a field for their tent, and a wife who’s more than willing to fill them full of dal bhat, and it’s amazing after five days of stumbling through the wilderness just to sit in someone’s kitchen and eat food that they don’t have to rehydrate. It’s amazing just to be in a building, not in a tent.
It’s amazing just to be alive.
After supper, they huddle together in the tent (their last night packed in like this, like sardines, and Ianto thinks he really will miss it, strangely enough), as Tosh fiddles with her laptop, fingers flying with renewed vitality, and suddenly, there it is, the outside world, a newscaster’s voice. “-- a world still reeling from the death of President Winters, assassinated by British Prime Minister Harold Saxon.”
“What the bleeding blue fuck,” Owen whispers, in awe. The others lean in to get a better view. Ianto hangs back, even though he doesn't know why.
When the small black orbs, all blades and lasers and childlike voices, appear on the screen, he begins to shake and cannot stop.
(come and play, Mr. Jones)
And even when the Doctor appears in a burst of radiant light,
(naughty Mr. Jones)
And Jack is there to block Saxon’s escape, dirty and disheveled, but grinning his old familiar grin,
(bad Mr. Jones)
Ianto cannot stop himself from shaking, shaking.
“Knew it,” Owen growls. “Knew Harkness would get himself mixed up in this somehow.”
And for the first time in a long time, Ianto finds himself mercilessly claustrophobic, scarcely able to breathe in this confined space, with the team huddled around him. He pushes away, ignoring Tosh’s worried eyes, Owen’s knowing look. “Excuse me for a moment, won’t you?” he asks, and hurries out of the tent without waiting for a reply.
(he feels himself collapsing like a puppet with its strings severed, and behind him, someone is screaming)
(he can’t move)
(there’s nothing he can do)
He collapses on the ground, his legs folded beneath him, and tries to catch his breath. It occurs to him that he might just be going out of his mind. He’s dislocated, two times in the same place, and he’s dead, but he’s not. He’s Schrödinger’s cat.
He’s really going out of his mind.
But somehow, when his mobile rings, he pulls it out of his pocket, flips it open, and says “Ianto Jones,” in a voice that’s far too calm to have ever belonged to him. He hasn’t even answered his phone for over a month, but. Old habits die hard.
“Ianto?” The voice on the other end is shaky, filled with strange emotions, but Ianto knows that voice so well. Even months after he last heard it, he still knows it. He will always know it.
“Jack,” he breathes, and it’s a good thing he’s sitting down, because if he weren’t, his legs would have given out from underneath him. “Oh God, Jack.”
“Ianto. Ianto, Ianto.” For a few seconds, all Ianto can hear is Jack’s shaky breathing. Then he starts talking, fast. “Where are you? How are you? How’s the team? Is everyone all right? Are you --”
Despite himself, Ianto lets out a curious, quavering laugh. “Jack, please, one at a time.” Jack falls silent, and Ianto takes a deep breath, then another, because this really is just too surreal. “We’re in Muri; it’s in Nepal, in the foothills of the Dhaulagiri Himal. We’re alive. We’re all right. We’re...” And he thinks of everything that’s happened, everything he’s seen, everything he’s had to do, and he swallows hard. “We’re alive,” he says again. “Are you all right? Are you still on the Valiant?”
“There’s some things I have to do,” Jack says. “Just some loose ends that have to be tied up. I’ve been calling and calling, but I couldn’t get through. Ianto...”
“We’re all right now, Jack,” Ianto says, and it’s soothing in a way, to comfort Jack. “We’re alive.”
“Alive.” Jack says it with such reverence, and for just a moment,
(he’s already dead)
Ianto is absolutely sure --
(darkness folding around him)
“Alive,” Jack says again, and the memories fall away.
“And you’re alive,” Ianto says, unable to keep the flood of relief out of his voice.
Jack laughs, and the sound is pained, desperate; it hints at a hundred thousand things that Ianto doesn’t want to think about. “I’m always alive,” Jack says, and he doesn’t sound too happy about that, but then the moment passes. “You’ll be home soon?”
“There’s a bus coming to take us to Pokhara tomorrow,” Ianto says. “And from there to Kathmandu, Heathrow... We should be in Cardiff in three days, four at the most. Are you...” It’s hard to find the words. “Will you be...”
Jack’s laugh is warmer this time, more like himself. “Yes, Ianto,” he says, very quietly. “I’m not sure when I’ll be done here; there’s a lot to take care of, but as soon as it’s all over, I’ll be home. I promise.”
“Good.” A traitorous sniffle escapes him then; he has to choke back his tears with an effort. “That’s good to hear, sir. I’ll... I’ll make sure there’s coffee waiting for you.”
More laughter, and it sounds like Jack hasn’t laughed in ages. Ianto wants to ask him what happened, what really happened, but he doubts Jack could tell him, even if he was in the mood to do it. “Ianto,” Jack says. “Christ, I’ve missed your coffee.”
“As have I, sir. I did my best, but there’s only so much one can do with a propane stove and a jar of instant crystals.” This time, they laugh together, and Ianto wonders how much Jack can tell from the tone of his voice, the tenor of his laugh. Probably everything; he doesn't have the presence of mind to hide himself, not right now. But it doesn’t really matter much. It’s enough to pretend that everything’s all right, for the moment.
The rest will come later.
“All right.” There’s a note of resignation in Jack’s voice. “I have to go. There’s so much... But I’ll be home soon, Ianto, I promise. Tell the others... tell them I’ll be home soon.”
Ianto smiles. Home. “I will, Jack.”
“And tell them that if they’re going to hit me, I’d prefer it if they left my face alone.”
“I’ll hold them back, sir.”
“Thank you.” Jack’s voice cracks on the words, unexpectedly. “Thank you for looking after them, Ianto.”
Ianto has to take a few deep breaths, and fight to keep his voice steady. “Just doing my job, sir.”
“I’ll see you soon, Ianto.”
“See you soon. Jack.”
“Bye.” There’s a long space of silence as the two of them cling to their phones, unwilling to break the connection, and then a soft click as Jack finally hangs up. It takes a bit longer for Ianto to be able to do the same.
Finally, he flips his phone shut and slides it into his pocket. He needs to get back to the others; he needs to tell them... Instead, he buries his face in his hands, and sits like that for a long time.
It’s over. It’s finally over.
*
*
*
(It’s never really over.)
Author's note: This was probably the hardest section to write, technically, and required the most editing assistance. seize came through big time, and made some really brilliant suggestions. If you like it enough to comment, maybe send some thanks her way?