Fic: Roses Red (Series 1, Chap 1, Shades of Ianto 8), Jack/Ianto
Chapter Title: Roses Red (Series 1, Chap 1, Shades of Ianto 8)
Author: sarcasticchick
Pairing: Jack/Ianto
Rating: R
Spoilers: TW S1
Fluffers/Betas: lilithilien, fivealive
Summary: The taste of desperation...
A/N: My apologies for the delay! I know, it's Monday. I was out of town doing the Father's day thing so hopefully I'll be forgiven. This is the beginning of the next section which will follow Series 1 (and thus will be referred to as Series 1 because I am unoriginal). Chapters will not be episodic, rather the episodes provide fodder for the chapters. This chapter covers episodes 1-3.
For Shades of Ianto series information, please see Prologue, Chapter 1
Previous Chapters:
Prologue: Chapters 1-7 (Complete)
Working for Torchwood Three was at the most interesting and at the least character building. Ianto could honestly think of no time that he had been more devalued and yet at the same time more demanded. It was confusing, shamefully thrilling, and degrading while maintaining a constant level of intrigue to keep his curiosity and stimulate his mind.
Sometimes, he felt no better than one of the high-priced whores sold by Trader Joe.
While the expense of his employment was taking an increasingly heavy toll, he was getting closer to the cure for Lisa; he'd finally located Dr. Tanizaki. The doctor had a few projects he needed to wrap before traveling to Cardiff, but the man had sounded disgustingly eager about evaluating Lisa. If he were not the only expert in cybernetics with the remotest chance of helping her, Ianto would have kept looking. He was breaking countless rules by involving Dr. Tanizaki -- the man wasn't connected in any way to Torchwood and Ianto would have to be very careful to concoct a story that explained Lisa's condition (and the Hub) well-enough, yet masked the truth. But Ianto had to continue, Lisa -- his Lisa -- was still there. He couldn't stop until she was whole again, just as he remembered.
To give himself time with Lisa, Ianto worked long hours at Torchwood, creating projects to explain his presence after all the others had left. His official duties included everything from mucking the Weevil cells to making coffee (tea for Toshiko) to doing whatever Jack told him to do (and learning far too many secrets of Torchwood Three in the process). Unofficially, he buried himself in the Archives, studying alien tech discarded by Tosh and Jack as broken or unimportant, updating Torchwood Three's books, and researching possible global connections with institutes much like Torchwood (difficult given the secrecy each shrouded itself in). Some were merely cult-like groups believing they had witnessed alien activity in their area. Others, like Area 51 in the United States and Germany's Kleine Welt Gruppe, appeared legit, situated near or on top of their own temporal rifts. Ianto didn't share this information with anyone, not that anyone would really care to listen. Torchwood Three had enough intrapersonal problems; external sources would only compound matters.
Suzie had finally collapsed under the strain of the glove. Her spiraled decent into the darker depths of humanity had been unsurprising to Ianto, viewing everything as the outsider he was; he had thought Jack had seen it as well. However, while cleaning two drying blood pools from the Roald Dahl Plass, Ianto realized he had been gravely mistaken. Miles and Wilson had distracted both his boss and his team. And now, they had lost another.
Ianto was already investigating a PC Gwen Cooper to replace Wilson when Suzie became the next victim of Torchwood arrogance and ignorance. On paper, Gwen appeared a prime candidate for the role (obsessive-compulsive alien-game-playing grass-green-shirt-wearing spy notwithstanding). After watching her for some time, though, Ianto reached the conclusion she was too soft and malleable for Torchwood. She might be stubborn at times, even inquisitive, but she lacked the ability to distance herself, desensitize and not internalize a situation. Here her core essence would bend to the savagery of the universe -- a fatal fault in Torchwood's world. Good intentions paved the way to Hell and hers would be a very fast trip.
Jack agreed with Ianto's observations and had set up an encounter with the determined woman to administer the retcon. Gwen had arrived as planned and Ianto couldn't help but feel relieved as he had sent her to Jack -- she was innocent, a good person on the surface. Torchwood would only twist that goodness.
But following Suzie's death, Jack hired Gwen -- both because they needed a replacement and, in what Ianto believed the ultimate source of Jack's actions, to add some "humanity" to Torchwood Three. Ianto suspected it was Jack's attempt to make amends with his conscience for his part (or lack thereof) in Suzie's downfall. Ianto was distressed (not jealous) by the attention Jack lavished upon Gwen as he tried to overcompensate and imbue Torchwood's mission with humanity. Untrained and unprepared humanity. Jack was already warping her, exposing her to the darkness that fought the light and the fine line Torchwood danced to maintain the balance. He was training her how to use a gun, for pity's sake.
It was like Elaine had said, Torchwood blackened everything, paper burning from the center out, until the smoke and ash strangled the last breath of humanity from the soul.
A sorry state for an institution designed to be Earth's saving grace.
His mother would be so proud.
On Gwen's first day on the job, a dozen red roses from her boyfriend were delivered to the Information Center. Ianto had choked down the urge to vomit, and not from the disgusting display of affection. Roses had been Lisa's favorite flower, though she preferred a deeper red than the ones Rhys had sent. She'd worn perfume scented with rose oil and lined her bedroom with framed pictures of roses. When Ianto had packed her flat immediately following the battle of Canary Wharf, he'd taken special care with everything rose, although by the end he never wanted to see another. He'd moved it all to his place, though it was never unpacked. Initially, the desire to see her face when she realized he had saved her roses overwhelmed any grief and loss; now the sight of red roses simply reminded him of his failure to save her. He would succeed in the end, but for the moment it was so hard to keep believing that.
When the roses had died and turned brown-black on Gwen's desk, he took great joy in disposing of them.
Ianto rarely slept; he had little time for it and he was so close to finding Lisa's cure. He took one day off, though that was a day he didn't think even Lisa would blame him for taking. Jack never questioned him either. Owen had a grand insult prepared when Ianto returned the following day - something about survivor's guilt which must have taken him the entire day to create. Jack must have heard the insult as well; that day, Ianto didn't have to clean out the Weevil cells since Owen had already taken care of them.
Owen was wrong. Ianto hadn't enjoyed his day off. He would sleep and enjoy days off after Lisa was restored to good health -- sleep long into the morning when dawn's early rays warmed the bed, stretching lazy as a cat with Lisa curled beside him. They'd rise slowly, beginning with him staring at her ethereal beauty, memorizing her body as the light bent and curved around her until she was awash in morning glow, no taint or darkness to be seen. She'd awaken under his gaze, smiling in warmth and love as she touched his lips, painting on promise with the sun's blessing. That was sleep and waking, not the haunted nights filled with angry ghosts and the vengeful dead chasing him from his bed to stare at a burning fire, tongues of flame pulling him from his thoughts into escape where even the lingering smell of rose couldn't follow him.
Six months following his nephew's birthday (and Mile's death), Ianto's birthday cake had been a glossy ink-black dragon with a red underbelly on a silver shield. Resting next to it was a long sword with a phoenix curling around the hilt and piped wings stretching the length of the blade.
Ianto had told his sister to make whatever she wanted, not feeling as vested in his birthday celebration as she. He'd half expected a green alien head, though that probably would bring too many painful memories still too close to the surface for his family. He supposed the sword and shield were meant to be symbolic, some grand gesture of family and the lengths they'd go to protect him despite his choice to fight a battle they disagreed with. Or at least that Elaine disagreed with. His sword and his shield; offense and defense, supporting and comfortable no matter how challenging the opponent.
He had to leave the room for a moment after he blew out the candles, deep breaths of crisp, chilled air filling his lungs and clearing his head. He'd remained there until his father had come out to find him, placing a hand on his shoulder and finally guiding him back to the family.
Gareth and Bryce had loved that the icing turned their tongues purple.
He never went to Lana's anymore, she'd refused to serve him last time he went. "Love, not even tequila will help you tonight," she'd said, "but if you want to talk about it, the fizzy water's on the house." Furious, he'd left, almost ending up in the Bay so blinded by the need to lose himself that he had nearly permanently succeeded. Ianto had sat horrified and shaking in his car, chasing his breath until finally he had to throw the front seat back as far as he could to place his head between his knees. He was desperate, but unwilling to seek out the one who he knew would not ask questions.
They'd fucked twice since the first night in the club -- Jack had found him in the shower washing off two sets of blood following Suzie's death. He'd slid his air-chilled skin right up against Ianto without warning (though Ianto had heard him come in), barely pausing for any preparation as he used the lavender-scented conditioner Ianto purchased for the team's use to slick his cock and fuck Ianto senseless against the shower wall. Ianto understood the need; when Jack's hand had closed around his, Ianto had squeezed his acquiescence in reply.
The next time had been in the Archives over one of the desks. It had been a long day by even Ianto's standards, and his eyes played tricks on him while he hid away in the cavernous room. He'd found a reference to the cybermen in the Archives, a reference that stated that during the conversion process all traces of humanity were eradicated. But Lisa wasn't converted. She wasn't. He could still see her beautiful face, the lips he'd butterflied a kiss upon eons ago, standing in the light of her flat's entrance way after their first date. She still existed. Her soul still lived within her body and he wasn't giving up on her yet, no matter what he read.
Jack had found him sitting on the floor hours later, surrounded by the chaos created through organization, apparently concerned. He hadn't said anything, hadn't needed to -- just pulled Ianto off that cold floor, then dropped to the floor himself, unzipping Ianto's trousers and blowing him within a breath of orgasm. Ianto had fucked him over a research desk then, paper cascading over the edges as they rocked the hard wood against the stone wall. Ianto almost paused to ask if Jack smelled it too, the scent of red roses. But he didn't; Ianto knew the guilt smelled only for him.
They didn't speak of those times and Jack never mentioned Lana's. He just seemed to understand and know when to approach Ianto when they both needed.
Ianto didn't seek him out, that wasn't how things worked. Keep a distance, don't get close. That was the rule of Torchwood, the unspoken rule underlying every policy and tiny print. It was in the destruction of Torchwood London, it was in Miles, Wilson and Suzie, it was in Elaine and Simone. So he sat in his car, staring at the Bay, ignoring the rain that fell like rose petals on his windshield.
She would make it, Ianto knew she would. She had to.
***
He was so close. Ianto knew the answers were just there, outside his reach, beckoning to him with swirling tendrils flicking his face as they danced, they and Lisa. dancing around a pile of metal which flowed and twisted on itself, fingers creeping towards Lisa who paid it no attention, no matter how much he yelled. He knew--
"Ianto." "Ianto?"
Ianto felt like he was floating; then he realized he was, just a hair's width from the floor and the up-turned stool he'd been sitting on. His heart was thumping in his chest like he'd run a kilometer full-pace and he was floating.
"Yes, you are."
The voice in his head made him panic before he placed it. Jean-Luc. He'd dozed off, then. Some watchman he was, sitting at the Information Desk sleeping while anyone could have walked in ... wait, he'd have heard the bell chime. That should have woken him. Shouldn't it? Ianto righted himself (with Jean-Luc's help) and then the stool, eyeing his old friend leaning casually against the door frame, door closed.
"Did you 'port in?" Ianto hadn't known it was possible, there were enough safe-guards on the Hub and the Information Center that certainly an alarm of some sort would have alerted ... no. From the smirk on Jean-Luc's face, he had disabled those, too. Probably the cameras as well. Hopefully, otherwise Tosh was going to have an eyeful looking through the CCTV. Devious bastard. Ianto only hoped his friend had reset them; Jack would have his head when he and the rest of the team returned.
"What, into the place I know nothing about?" Ianto didn't believe the innocent tone for a moment, the smile far more revealing. Jean-Luc provided security for Ms. White's office, he probably heard a lot. Including the existence of Torchwood. Ianto considered it a very good thing that Jean-Luc was on their side. "Teleporting's not my thing, I used the door. Lana's right, you look like shite."
Or maybe not. Now Jean-Luc and Lana were conspiring against him. Ianto rubbed a hand over his face to try to wake himself up, stopping when he caught sight of something on the floor. He couldn't breathe, couldn't argue with Jean-Luc, just stared as he remembered the last time he'd seen one. Lisa had spilled a trail on the floor, a path leading to her bedroom where she had laid in red satin on a bed of them. A special night for him, to celebrate his birthday (false, but she didn't know that. Only his father and Elaine ever celebrated it on the proper day). It had been a perfect night, surrounded by roses.
"Ianto? You okay?"
He was worn out. Exhausted. Plagued by ghosts. And now the stress and guilt had crept into his sanity and begun toying with his mind. It was a sign of psychosis. Had he broken? After all this time? Did one usually recognize when sanity splintered into a thousand pieces? Olfactory and visual hallucinations. Those were a sign of schizophrenia. Along with--
"Ianto!"
--hearing voices.
He recognized the voice, however. And unless he was hallucinating Jean-Luc as the voice of God who was standing in front of him with a hand on his jaw, Ianto was safe. For the time being. Though once Jean-Luc began instructing him to take wrathful vengeance on all the sinners and to wrap his place in aluminium to keep the government out, he knew he had cause to fear. But at that point, he probably wouldn't even be aware of the break in reality ... and really, that was alright by Ianto. Ignorance could be bliss.
Ianto felt pressure under his chin, lifting his eyes from the floor. And met Jean-Luc's pale blue eyes.
Instinctively, Ianto tried to jerk away. The gaze hurt like looking into the sun without protection, a combination of intensity, brilliance, and a mind so vast it bled through the pale and seeped into the blinding white. Not for the first time, Ianto's breath was stolen, staring and lost in depths he'd never understand. He felt fingers curling around his jaw, long and pale -- Jean-Luc never tanned -- holding him in place, forcing him to remain still though his mind wished to run and his body to follow. Time failed to exist, not within the incomprehensible. Ianto didn't exist, though maybe he did, just a speck amidst the pale blue. It curled around him, familiar, refreshing, banishing the darkness that had crept into his soul, chasing away the pain. The hurt still lived, but it was clean. It was pure. A fragment which existed as he, but meant nothing.
He could stay forever.
"What are you hiding from me, dear friend?"
Words weren't spoken, only gentle impressions resting feather-soft on Ianto's consciousness. Or within Jean-Luc's. Ianto wasn't sure where he was at. Maybe he was captured in-between, a bubbled existence between their minds. He wondered what would happen if it were broken, a moth flying into it, disrupting the peace. That fragment floated away as well, drifting. Ianto could feel it begin, a tickle. Curious, annoying. He batted it away, swatting the hands which teased. Only they weren't hands. And they returned stronger, gentle yet insistent, touch turning to push as the pressure increased -- not painful but the pale blue turned turbulent, swirling, a maelstrom twisting and tangling his consciousness as brick crumbled. Ianto could feel it, the walls flaking away, dented, bowing and bending as their integrity was stressed. Calm again, reassurance, the pale blue tried to comfort even as pushing became sharp, prying, tearing holes with a heated blade. His defenses were falling, failing, Ianto belatedly realized, thought muddled and distorted.
Once he consciously recognized it, once the scattered thought surfaced, clarity brought individuality, a sense of self. Ianto separated from the pale blue, hastily reinforcing and rebuilding the mental barriers that kept his secrets within and prying minds out. There was a brief battle, a battering rebuttal of piercing thought meeting stubborn resistance, fortified with every trick Ianto had been taught before he managed to pull away, forcing Jean-Luc from his mind. "Stop." Ianto ordered it, but his voice cracked, turning his demand into a plea. Jean-Luc backed off, hands raised in surrender, pain thinning his lips as he looked even more disheveled then ever. Ianto hoped being kicked out of his mind hurt.
"Whatever it is, Ianto, it's destroying you."
No, it was saving him. He was saving her. Torchwood didn't blacken everything. It couldn't have her.
Ianto ignored Jean-Luc, tugging at his suit jacket's sleeves slightly to straighten them, realigning his control after his discomposure. Finally feeling more like himself, assembled and collected, Ianto straightened to find Jean-Luc leaning against the door again, watching with a steady gaze. If Ianto hadn't known him for so long, he would have thought Jean-Luc was being casual, offering distance, but Ianto knew what that look was. His twitching fingers gave him away. Jean-Luc was worried, wary. He should be. He was lucky Ianto didn't throw him out for the attempt to invade his privacy, no matter their friendship. That kind of action would have gotten Jean-Luc thrown out of Avalon before he graduated, but then they had always been lenient when it had come to their most talented pupil.
At least Ianto had gotten used to blocking Jean-Luc when they were kids. There was too much Jean-Luc shouldn't know. "I'm assuming you didn't come here to try to hack my thoughts."
Jean-Luc didn't appear the least bit sorry for the attempt. Ianto hoped it really hurt being kicked out of his mind. "No, I didn't." Ianto took his seat back on the stool he'd initially fallen asleep on and waited for his friend to continue. "One of the protected has been taken, Kjetil Nilsen. Nabbed from his home in Bergen. It was horrible, Ianto. His Guardian, his parents and younger sister, all of them killed by whoever took Kjetil."
Ianto remembered the boy, a promising microkinetics adept discovered while on his father's fishing boat. A faltering reel suddenly worked and his father was left with no other explanation than his smiling three-year old son. He would have made Grade 2 if he'd gone to Avalon; as it was, without training he'd still age into a Grade 4, possibly 3. That kind of power ... in the hands of someone who wished to do evil ... Ianto's imagination couldn't keep up with the ideas and images which crept up. And probably one of the things that kept Ms. White awake at night.
"Why are you telling me this? That's Avalon business."
"Someone's coming after Avalon. Something's happening ... you need to know. If for nothing else, when you hear of me dead in a blazing inferno of crumbled Avalon, you can tell everyone I died protecting the children. They'll make me a hero. Her Majesty might even posthumously knight me."
The subsequent picture of Avalon devastated, Jean-Luc burning as fire raged around him, was an image that Ianto knew would join his nightmares. Trust Jean-Luc to leave an added dent to his psyche. His friend was smiling; he was trying to pass off his words as joking, but the twitching fingers were back, tapping impatiently at his side like he was mentally programming himself to maintain a casual calm. Jean-Luc was pretending; he was scared and concerned and whether he was projecting his feeling of doom or not, the air reeked of it. "You're French." Ianto pointed out, picking up the one topic which seemed safe out of everything Jean-Luc had said.
"Would make it all the more special."
"Reason enough not to. You think you're special enough already." With laughter that didn't quite melt the apprehension, Jean-Luc pushed away from the door frame. Ianto stood as well, meeting him halfway for a hug that belied the earlier strain. Jean-Luc always maintained a distance from people, whether due to his abilities or a general social fear Ianto wasn't sure. He was imposing, even to Ianto who knew him well, seemingly larger than life and far wiser, although with a hint of arrogance. Not to mention the power Jean-Luc held ... if anyone knew, they would keep their own distance, and perhaps be awed as well. Up close, however, when he and Jean-Luc touched in simple embrace or the passionate tumbles they'd had in the dark empty rooms of Avalon, Ianto was reminded just how small he was. Not necessarily physical, though his friend stood shorter. But when Jean-Luc was viewed up close, Ianto remembered the thin, gangly boy who'd accidentally harmed an instructor when they'd pushed him farther than he was ready for. Ms. Granger had broken her arm. Jean-Luc looked just as haunted and fragile now. And if it were true and the protected were disappearing, perhaps he was.
"Stay safe, Jean-Luc."
***
Jack was sleeping -- a rare moment, Ianto knew. When Jack slept, the Hub grew quiet, lonely, save for the heartbeat several floors down echoing in Ianto's ears, reminding him of his duty, of his purpose. When Jack slept, the Hub's walls shrank and the Weevils grew restless. The Rift thrummed with energy, the computer calculations hiccupped, and occasionally, Ianto swore he felt rain.
When Jack slept, space and time held its breath.
It made Ianto uneasy, working while Jack slept. The shadows had eyes and the lights whispered behind his back, speaking of lies and fate and eventual discovery to the darkness. He was even more on edge than when Jack was awake, believing Ianto off on some duty or errand. When asleep, he knew Jack would wake. And Ianto took no comfort in that.
He was so close. Ianto knew he was pushing too fast, too soon, but it was close. He'd phoned Dr. Tanizaki, requesting an earlier date. He'd done what he could to the conversion unit; he'd studied what he could study and found the information he could find. Waiting was no longer acceptable; action was necessary. The smell of roses lingered, a scent trailing him wherever he went whether he believed himself rested or not. He'd gone so far as to note what perfume or cologne each team member wore; none even contained rose oil. He changed the soap in the loo and kitchen to unscented and began requesting the dry cleaner not use anything with rose oil.
Ianto knew it bordered on obsession but he was so close. And yet he'd never felt so further from himself.
While Jack slept, Ianto stuck to the main portions of the Hub, staying far away from Lisa. At any moment, Jack could awaken and grow curious of Ianto's whereabouts. So Ianto filed, copied reports, and worked on funds requests while Jack slept, catching up on the trivial while he avoided home and the nightmares that would find him there.
Jack had left not five minutes past when Ianto felt the walls begin to close in and the shadows grow eyes. His heart sped up as adrenaline poured into his system, drawing everything into sharp focus as his feet begged to run -- run far from the Hub -- and his hands itched to hold a weapon -- a childish reaction to the quiet, and really, where was he to run when the darkness only followed? He chided himself, reaching for his coffee mug that sat just far enough from the keyboard to keep him from accidentally knocking it over and earning Toshiko's eternal anger, frowning when he found the mug empty.
And there it was again.
Movement.
If he was hallucinating, his mind was putting on a stellar performance.
The coffee mug was still in his hand as he turned towards the motion, the seat moving with his momentum as his feet followed. Owen's computer desk (tidied up, spilled milk wiped down, and the paper airplanes -- pathetic attempts, no physics applied -- discarded), Jack's office, various equipment, tools, a lab coat ... nothing.
Nothing, until he swiveled back around. His cup of coffee dangled from his fingertips, his grip loosening until it finally shattered on the ground. Ianto's chair slipped from under him in his frantic haste to get away, clattering against the ground as he backpedaled, stumbling and tumbling for the ground until his chaotic motions were stopped, braced from behind. Keeping one eye on the creature before him, Ianto looked down, long, green fingers (fingernails dirty, unkept) curled around his biceps, helping him maintain his vertical position. And trapping him. But he wasn't going to think about that for the moment; it was far too overwhelming.
He knew who these creatures were.
Two were flying, teasing Myfanwy who raced back into her den. Four crouched in various spots in the Hub: Owen's desk, the Captain's, one was swinging off the steps and the other was playing in the Tower's water. And the one holding him. And the one in front.
They were no taller than he. Ianto had assumed from the stories that they'd be frightfully large or mimicking imagined creatures from the tales. Oddly, they appeared lengthier, like their legs would double their stature if they straightened from their perpetual crouch. But they were his height, stronger, leaner. Shadowed green, with bulbous rose-white masses and wiry hair above their strikingly human eyes.
Bouncing around the Hub, barely in one spot for long, the six barely registered, but Ianto caught glimpses. Fragile wings, a child's laughter ... and why wasn't the alarm ringing to alert Jack, Jack who was sleeping and had failed to hear the chair crash to the floor? Though what Jack could do to help, Ianto wasn't certain. If there was anything to believe from the myths and legends, there was nothing to be done. In fact, Ianto would feel much better if Jack never woke until morning -- this manner of death might prove permanent.
The two creatures remained still, however, one holding him and one standing in front. The one in front had startled him, sitting on Tosh's desk and messing with the papers Ianto had neatly organized. For some reason that bothered him, the disarray and disrespect. Now it swayed, swinging as it moved closer, bringing the smell of roses as it danced before him.
He knew what these creatures were. He knew their name.
The Faerie. The Mara.
Ianto tried to run, tried to break away from the one holding him. But the fingers just tightened, and the scent of dying rose and rich earth wafted over his ear, so intimate and yet so foul he could scarcely breathe. He knew how they killed, how they played. The stories told of mysterious deaths, of broken souls smothered in rose petals. God, the rose petals! The Faerie were playing and he was their game.
Just as quickly as they came, the hands holding him were gone. He was free, although a crawling sensation still tickled his nerves like spiders scampering eight-legged up his arms. Ianto stepped away, only to have another drop in front of him, blocking his path with humming wings and a long face. It was old, its smile terrifying and the eyes dark. He knew the tales of happy sprites, mischievous and laughing, pure in their innocence.
There was no innocence in these eyes.
He moved again, and this time the others fell into place. A ring of eight surrounding him. They shifted as he moved, the circle flowing to contain him as they chattered with multi-toned voices in a language Ianto had never heard. If he hadn't been so scared he'd have found it intriguing; as it was he had to fight the urge to scream, quite certain that would wake Jack and this was something he didn't want Jack involved in. Ianto looked about him, finally choosing to stand still within the circle. The Faerie followed in kind, their wings which vibrated the air slowing until the air no longer sang but rather thrummed with a soft beat, matching the heartbeat he felt in his throat. He spoke, thrilled when his voice remained steady, uncracked by fear. "Would you care for some tea? Coffee?"
"We have been watching you, human."
One of the Faerie stepped forward from the circle, encroaching on Ianto's limited space within the ring as it spoke. He couldn't determine whether it was male or female; neither appearance nor voice gave any indication. In the rational corner of his mind still curious despite the fear, Ianto wondered if perhaps that was their way -- perhaps they didn't reproduce and didn't have a gender. Gender was a relatively human perception any ways, and these creatures were beyond humans. It was said they didn't even exist in regular human time, though they lived in a land of Earth.
The Faerie moved round him as the others watched, maintaining the circle with seven points. For a while, he spun to keep his sights on the one closest to him, but quickly realized it could move much faster than he could spin. He should have been concerned, he should have been worried by the revelation but the detail explained so much that it was hard to be wary of the confirmation of his sanity.
"Long, in vale of fog and mist,
The spirit in sopor lives,
In time r'turns, with love combine,
Chasing time to save victory, sorrow rains while light doth shine."
Confused, Ianto tried to follow as the other Faerie echoed what the first had said. It made no sense; the Faerie were making no sense.
"Your choice is ours, Ianto. And our choice is yours."
With a tap of a long, green finger on his chest, over his heart and nearly stopping it with fear, the Faerie sprang from their circle, wings flapping fast as cardboard in his bicycle's wheels as a child. They disappeared in a flash of light, too bright; making Ianto's eyes tear in response. By the time his vision cleared and the negative images of floating spheres of black-light blinked away, the Hub was again quiet. Ianto didn't hear Jack; the Captain still slept. But while Jack slept, the Hub awoke. Shadows retreated into their corners, and the lights spoke nothing as they kissed the shadows goodnight.
Ianto stared at the floor where eight rose petals lay gently curved among shards of cream ceramic. Now he understood. He understood that he knew nothing. He knew nothing of the earth, he knew nothing of time, he could not fathom why the sounds of children's laughter made him wish to weep. He knew nothing of why he still lived. And Ianto knew nothing of what they meant.
Eight blood-red petals. The Faerie were watching him.
Next Chapter
Author: sarcasticchick
Pairing: Jack/Ianto
Rating: R
Spoilers: TW S1
Fluffers/Betas: lilithilien, fivealive
Summary: The taste of desperation...
A/N: My apologies for the delay! I know, it's Monday. I was out of town doing the Father's day thing so hopefully I'll be forgiven. This is the beginning of the next section which will follow Series 1 (and thus will be referred to as Series 1 because I am unoriginal). Chapters will not be episodic, rather the episodes provide fodder for the chapters. This chapter covers episodes 1-3.
For Shades of Ianto series information, please see Prologue, Chapter 1
Previous Chapters:
Prologue: Chapters 1-7 (Complete)
Working for Torchwood Three was at the most interesting and at the least character building. Ianto could honestly think of no time that he had been more devalued and yet at the same time more demanded. It was confusing, shamefully thrilling, and degrading while maintaining a constant level of intrigue to keep his curiosity and stimulate his mind.
Sometimes, he felt no better than one of the high-priced whores sold by Trader Joe.
While the expense of his employment was taking an increasingly heavy toll, he was getting closer to the cure for Lisa; he'd finally located Dr. Tanizaki. The doctor had a few projects he needed to wrap before traveling to Cardiff, but the man had sounded disgustingly eager about evaluating Lisa. If he were not the only expert in cybernetics with the remotest chance of helping her, Ianto would have kept looking. He was breaking countless rules by involving Dr. Tanizaki -- the man wasn't connected in any way to Torchwood and Ianto would have to be very careful to concoct a story that explained Lisa's condition (and the Hub) well-enough, yet masked the truth. But Ianto had to continue, Lisa -- his Lisa -- was still there. He couldn't stop until she was whole again, just as he remembered.
To give himself time with Lisa, Ianto worked long hours at Torchwood, creating projects to explain his presence after all the others had left. His official duties included everything from mucking the Weevil cells to making coffee (tea for Toshiko) to doing whatever Jack told him to do (and learning far too many secrets of Torchwood Three in the process). Unofficially, he buried himself in the Archives, studying alien tech discarded by Tosh and Jack as broken or unimportant, updating Torchwood Three's books, and researching possible global connections with institutes much like Torchwood (difficult given the secrecy each shrouded itself in). Some were merely cult-like groups believing they had witnessed alien activity in their area. Others, like Area 51 in the United States and Germany's Kleine Welt Gruppe, appeared legit, situated near or on top of their own temporal rifts. Ianto didn't share this information with anyone, not that anyone would really care to listen. Torchwood Three had enough intrapersonal problems; external sources would only compound matters.
Suzie had finally collapsed under the strain of the glove. Her spiraled decent into the darker depths of humanity had been unsurprising to Ianto, viewing everything as the outsider he was; he had thought Jack had seen it as well. However, while cleaning two drying blood pools from the Roald Dahl Plass, Ianto realized he had been gravely mistaken. Miles and Wilson had distracted both his boss and his team. And now, they had lost another.
Ianto was already investigating a PC Gwen Cooper to replace Wilson when Suzie became the next victim of Torchwood arrogance and ignorance. On paper, Gwen appeared a prime candidate for the role (obsessive-compulsive alien-game-playing grass-green-shirt-wearing spy notwithstanding). After watching her for some time, though, Ianto reached the conclusion she was too soft and malleable for Torchwood. She might be stubborn at times, even inquisitive, but she lacked the ability to distance herself, desensitize and not internalize a situation. Here her core essence would bend to the savagery of the universe -- a fatal fault in Torchwood's world. Good intentions paved the way to Hell and hers would be a very fast trip.
Jack agreed with Ianto's observations and had set up an encounter with the determined woman to administer the retcon. Gwen had arrived as planned and Ianto couldn't help but feel relieved as he had sent her to Jack -- she was innocent, a good person on the surface. Torchwood would only twist that goodness.
But following Suzie's death, Jack hired Gwen -- both because they needed a replacement and, in what Ianto believed the ultimate source of Jack's actions, to add some "humanity" to Torchwood Three. Ianto suspected it was Jack's attempt to make amends with his conscience for his part (or lack thereof) in Suzie's downfall. Ianto was distressed (not jealous) by the attention Jack lavished upon Gwen as he tried to overcompensate and imbue Torchwood's mission with humanity. Untrained and unprepared humanity. Jack was already warping her, exposing her to the darkness that fought the light and the fine line Torchwood danced to maintain the balance. He was training her how to use a gun, for pity's sake.
It was like Elaine had said, Torchwood blackened everything, paper burning from the center out, until the smoke and ash strangled the last breath of humanity from the soul.
A sorry state for an institution designed to be Earth's saving grace.
His mother would be so proud.
On Gwen's first day on the job, a dozen red roses from her boyfriend were delivered to the Information Center. Ianto had choked down the urge to vomit, and not from the disgusting display of affection. Roses had been Lisa's favorite flower, though she preferred a deeper red than the ones Rhys had sent. She'd worn perfume scented with rose oil and lined her bedroom with framed pictures of roses. When Ianto had packed her flat immediately following the battle of Canary Wharf, he'd taken special care with everything rose, although by the end he never wanted to see another. He'd moved it all to his place, though it was never unpacked. Initially, the desire to see her face when she realized he had saved her roses overwhelmed any grief and loss; now the sight of red roses simply reminded him of his failure to save her. He would succeed in the end, but for the moment it was so hard to keep believing that.
When the roses had died and turned brown-black on Gwen's desk, he took great joy in disposing of them.
Ianto rarely slept; he had little time for it and he was so close to finding Lisa's cure. He took one day off, though that was a day he didn't think even Lisa would blame him for taking. Jack never questioned him either. Owen had a grand insult prepared when Ianto returned the following day - something about survivor's guilt which must have taken him the entire day to create. Jack must have heard the insult as well; that day, Ianto didn't have to clean out the Weevil cells since Owen had already taken care of them.
Owen was wrong. Ianto hadn't enjoyed his day off. He would sleep and enjoy days off after Lisa was restored to good health -- sleep long into the morning when dawn's early rays warmed the bed, stretching lazy as a cat with Lisa curled beside him. They'd rise slowly, beginning with him staring at her ethereal beauty, memorizing her body as the light bent and curved around her until she was awash in morning glow, no taint or darkness to be seen. She'd awaken under his gaze, smiling in warmth and love as she touched his lips, painting on promise with the sun's blessing. That was sleep and waking, not the haunted nights filled with angry ghosts and the vengeful dead chasing him from his bed to stare at a burning fire, tongues of flame pulling him from his thoughts into escape where even the lingering smell of rose couldn't follow him.
Six months following his nephew's birthday (and Mile's death), Ianto's birthday cake had been a glossy ink-black dragon with a red underbelly on a silver shield. Resting next to it was a long sword with a phoenix curling around the hilt and piped wings stretching the length of the blade.
Ianto had told his sister to make whatever she wanted, not feeling as vested in his birthday celebration as she. He'd half expected a green alien head, though that probably would bring too many painful memories still too close to the surface for his family. He supposed the sword and shield were meant to be symbolic, some grand gesture of family and the lengths they'd go to protect him despite his choice to fight a battle they disagreed with. Or at least that Elaine disagreed with. His sword and his shield; offense and defense, supporting and comfortable no matter how challenging the opponent.
He had to leave the room for a moment after he blew out the candles, deep breaths of crisp, chilled air filling his lungs and clearing his head. He'd remained there until his father had come out to find him, placing a hand on his shoulder and finally guiding him back to the family.
Gareth and Bryce had loved that the icing turned their tongues purple.
He never went to Lana's anymore, she'd refused to serve him last time he went. "Love, not even tequila will help you tonight," she'd said, "but if you want to talk about it, the fizzy water's on the house." Furious, he'd left, almost ending up in the Bay so blinded by the need to lose himself that he had nearly permanently succeeded. Ianto had sat horrified and shaking in his car, chasing his breath until finally he had to throw the front seat back as far as he could to place his head between his knees. He was desperate, but unwilling to seek out the one who he knew would not ask questions.
They'd fucked twice since the first night in the club -- Jack had found him in the shower washing off two sets of blood following Suzie's death. He'd slid his air-chilled skin right up against Ianto without warning (though Ianto had heard him come in), barely pausing for any preparation as he used the lavender-scented conditioner Ianto purchased for the team's use to slick his cock and fuck Ianto senseless against the shower wall. Ianto understood the need; when Jack's hand had closed around his, Ianto had squeezed his acquiescence in reply.
The next time had been in the Archives over one of the desks. It had been a long day by even Ianto's standards, and his eyes played tricks on him while he hid away in the cavernous room. He'd found a reference to the cybermen in the Archives, a reference that stated that during the conversion process all traces of humanity were eradicated. But Lisa wasn't converted. She wasn't. He could still see her beautiful face, the lips he'd butterflied a kiss upon eons ago, standing in the light of her flat's entrance way after their first date. She still existed. Her soul still lived within her body and he wasn't giving up on her yet, no matter what he read.
Jack had found him sitting on the floor hours later, surrounded by the chaos created through organization, apparently concerned. He hadn't said anything, hadn't needed to -- just pulled Ianto off that cold floor, then dropped to the floor himself, unzipping Ianto's trousers and blowing him within a breath of orgasm. Ianto had fucked him over a research desk then, paper cascading over the edges as they rocked the hard wood against the stone wall. Ianto almost paused to ask if Jack smelled it too, the scent of red roses. But he didn't; Ianto knew the guilt smelled only for him.
They didn't speak of those times and Jack never mentioned Lana's. He just seemed to understand and know when to approach Ianto when they both needed.
Ianto didn't seek him out, that wasn't how things worked. Keep a distance, don't get close. That was the rule of Torchwood, the unspoken rule underlying every policy and tiny print. It was in the destruction of Torchwood London, it was in Miles, Wilson and Suzie, it was in Elaine and Simone. So he sat in his car, staring at the Bay, ignoring the rain that fell like rose petals on his windshield.
She would make it, Ianto knew she would. She had to.
***
He was so close. Ianto knew the answers were just there, outside his reach, beckoning to him with swirling tendrils flicking his face as they danced, they and Lisa. dancing around a pile of metal which flowed and twisted on itself, fingers creeping towards Lisa who paid it no attention, no matter how much he yelled. He knew--
"Ianto." "Ianto?"
Ianto felt like he was floating; then he realized he was, just a hair's width from the floor and the up-turned stool he'd been sitting on. His heart was thumping in his chest like he'd run a kilometer full-pace and he was floating.
"Yes, you are."
The voice in his head made him panic before he placed it. Jean-Luc. He'd dozed off, then. Some watchman he was, sitting at the Information Desk sleeping while anyone could have walked in ... wait, he'd have heard the bell chime. That should have woken him. Shouldn't it? Ianto righted himself (with Jean-Luc's help) and then the stool, eyeing his old friend leaning casually against the door frame, door closed.
"Did you 'port in?" Ianto hadn't known it was possible, there were enough safe-guards on the Hub and the Information Center that certainly an alarm of some sort would have alerted ... no. From the smirk on Jean-Luc's face, he had disabled those, too. Probably the cameras as well. Hopefully, otherwise Tosh was going to have an eyeful looking through the CCTV. Devious bastard. Ianto only hoped his friend had reset them; Jack would have his head when he and the rest of the team returned.
"What, into the place I know nothing about?" Ianto didn't believe the innocent tone for a moment, the smile far more revealing. Jean-Luc provided security for Ms. White's office, he probably heard a lot. Including the existence of Torchwood. Ianto considered it a very good thing that Jean-Luc was on their side. "Teleporting's not my thing, I used the door. Lana's right, you look like shite."
Or maybe not. Now Jean-Luc and Lana were conspiring against him. Ianto rubbed a hand over his face to try to wake himself up, stopping when he caught sight of something on the floor. He couldn't breathe, couldn't argue with Jean-Luc, just stared as he remembered the last time he'd seen one. Lisa had spilled a trail on the floor, a path leading to her bedroom where she had laid in red satin on a bed of them. A special night for him, to celebrate his birthday (false, but she didn't know that. Only his father and Elaine ever celebrated it on the proper day). It had been a perfect night, surrounded by roses.
"Ianto? You okay?"
He was worn out. Exhausted. Plagued by ghosts. And now the stress and guilt had crept into his sanity and begun toying with his mind. It was a sign of psychosis. Had he broken? After all this time? Did one usually recognize when sanity splintered into a thousand pieces? Olfactory and visual hallucinations. Those were a sign of schizophrenia. Along with--
"Ianto!"
--hearing voices.
He recognized the voice, however. And unless he was hallucinating Jean-Luc as the voice of God who was standing in front of him with a hand on his jaw, Ianto was safe. For the time being. Though once Jean-Luc began instructing him to take wrathful vengeance on all the sinners and to wrap his place in aluminium to keep the government out, he knew he had cause to fear. But at that point, he probably wouldn't even be aware of the break in reality ... and really, that was alright by Ianto. Ignorance could be bliss.
Ianto felt pressure under his chin, lifting his eyes from the floor. And met Jean-Luc's pale blue eyes.
Instinctively, Ianto tried to jerk away. The gaze hurt like looking into the sun without protection, a combination of intensity, brilliance, and a mind so vast it bled through the pale and seeped into the blinding white. Not for the first time, Ianto's breath was stolen, staring and lost in depths he'd never understand. He felt fingers curling around his jaw, long and pale -- Jean-Luc never tanned -- holding him in place, forcing him to remain still though his mind wished to run and his body to follow. Time failed to exist, not within the incomprehensible. Ianto didn't exist, though maybe he did, just a speck amidst the pale blue. It curled around him, familiar, refreshing, banishing the darkness that had crept into his soul, chasing away the pain. The hurt still lived, but it was clean. It was pure. A fragment which existed as he, but meant nothing.
He could stay forever.
"What are you hiding from me, dear friend?"
Words weren't spoken, only gentle impressions resting feather-soft on Ianto's consciousness. Or within Jean-Luc's. Ianto wasn't sure where he was at. Maybe he was captured in-between, a bubbled existence between their minds. He wondered what would happen if it were broken, a moth flying into it, disrupting the peace. That fragment floated away as well, drifting. Ianto could feel it begin, a tickle. Curious, annoying. He batted it away, swatting the hands which teased. Only they weren't hands. And they returned stronger, gentle yet insistent, touch turning to push as the pressure increased -- not painful but the pale blue turned turbulent, swirling, a maelstrom twisting and tangling his consciousness as brick crumbled. Ianto could feel it, the walls flaking away, dented, bowing and bending as their integrity was stressed. Calm again, reassurance, the pale blue tried to comfort even as pushing became sharp, prying, tearing holes with a heated blade. His defenses were falling, failing, Ianto belatedly realized, thought muddled and distorted.
Once he consciously recognized it, once the scattered thought surfaced, clarity brought individuality, a sense of self. Ianto separated from the pale blue, hastily reinforcing and rebuilding the mental barriers that kept his secrets within and prying minds out. There was a brief battle, a battering rebuttal of piercing thought meeting stubborn resistance, fortified with every trick Ianto had been taught before he managed to pull away, forcing Jean-Luc from his mind. "Stop." Ianto ordered it, but his voice cracked, turning his demand into a plea. Jean-Luc backed off, hands raised in surrender, pain thinning his lips as he looked even more disheveled then ever. Ianto hoped being kicked out of his mind hurt.
"Whatever it is, Ianto, it's destroying you."
No, it was saving him. He was saving her. Torchwood didn't blacken everything. It couldn't have her.
Ianto ignored Jean-Luc, tugging at his suit jacket's sleeves slightly to straighten them, realigning his control after his discomposure. Finally feeling more like himself, assembled and collected, Ianto straightened to find Jean-Luc leaning against the door again, watching with a steady gaze. If Ianto hadn't known him for so long, he would have thought Jean-Luc was being casual, offering distance, but Ianto knew what that look was. His twitching fingers gave him away. Jean-Luc was worried, wary. He should be. He was lucky Ianto didn't throw him out for the attempt to invade his privacy, no matter their friendship. That kind of action would have gotten Jean-Luc thrown out of Avalon before he graduated, but then they had always been lenient when it had come to their most talented pupil.
At least Ianto had gotten used to blocking Jean-Luc when they were kids. There was too much Jean-Luc shouldn't know. "I'm assuming you didn't come here to try to hack my thoughts."
Jean-Luc didn't appear the least bit sorry for the attempt. Ianto hoped it really hurt being kicked out of his mind. "No, I didn't." Ianto took his seat back on the stool he'd initially fallen asleep on and waited for his friend to continue. "One of the protected has been taken, Kjetil Nilsen. Nabbed from his home in Bergen. It was horrible, Ianto. His Guardian, his parents and younger sister, all of them killed by whoever took Kjetil."
Ianto remembered the boy, a promising microkinetics adept discovered while on his father's fishing boat. A faltering reel suddenly worked and his father was left with no other explanation than his smiling three-year old son. He would have made Grade 2 if he'd gone to Avalon; as it was, without training he'd still age into a Grade 4, possibly 3. That kind of power ... in the hands of someone who wished to do evil ... Ianto's imagination couldn't keep up with the ideas and images which crept up. And probably one of the things that kept Ms. White awake at night.
"Why are you telling me this? That's Avalon business."
"Someone's coming after Avalon. Something's happening ... you need to know. If for nothing else, when you hear of me dead in a blazing inferno of crumbled Avalon, you can tell everyone I died protecting the children. They'll make me a hero. Her Majesty might even posthumously knight me."
The subsequent picture of Avalon devastated, Jean-Luc burning as fire raged around him, was an image that Ianto knew would join his nightmares. Trust Jean-Luc to leave an added dent to his psyche. His friend was smiling; he was trying to pass off his words as joking, but the twitching fingers were back, tapping impatiently at his side like he was mentally programming himself to maintain a casual calm. Jean-Luc was pretending; he was scared and concerned and whether he was projecting his feeling of doom or not, the air reeked of it. "You're French." Ianto pointed out, picking up the one topic which seemed safe out of everything Jean-Luc had said.
"Would make it all the more special."
"Reason enough not to. You think you're special enough already." With laughter that didn't quite melt the apprehension, Jean-Luc pushed away from the door frame. Ianto stood as well, meeting him halfway for a hug that belied the earlier strain. Jean-Luc always maintained a distance from people, whether due to his abilities or a general social fear Ianto wasn't sure. He was imposing, even to Ianto who knew him well, seemingly larger than life and far wiser, although with a hint of arrogance. Not to mention the power Jean-Luc held ... if anyone knew, they would keep their own distance, and perhaps be awed as well. Up close, however, when he and Jean-Luc touched in simple embrace or the passionate tumbles they'd had in the dark empty rooms of Avalon, Ianto was reminded just how small he was. Not necessarily physical, though his friend stood shorter. But when Jean-Luc was viewed up close, Ianto remembered the thin, gangly boy who'd accidentally harmed an instructor when they'd pushed him farther than he was ready for. Ms. Granger had broken her arm. Jean-Luc looked just as haunted and fragile now. And if it were true and the protected were disappearing, perhaps he was.
"Stay safe, Jean-Luc."
***
Jack was sleeping -- a rare moment, Ianto knew. When Jack slept, the Hub grew quiet, lonely, save for the heartbeat several floors down echoing in Ianto's ears, reminding him of his duty, of his purpose. When Jack slept, the Hub's walls shrank and the Weevils grew restless. The Rift thrummed with energy, the computer calculations hiccupped, and occasionally, Ianto swore he felt rain.
When Jack slept, space and time held its breath.
It made Ianto uneasy, working while Jack slept. The shadows had eyes and the lights whispered behind his back, speaking of lies and fate and eventual discovery to the darkness. He was even more on edge than when Jack was awake, believing Ianto off on some duty or errand. When asleep, he knew Jack would wake. And Ianto took no comfort in that.
He was so close. Ianto knew he was pushing too fast, too soon, but it was close. He'd phoned Dr. Tanizaki, requesting an earlier date. He'd done what he could to the conversion unit; he'd studied what he could study and found the information he could find. Waiting was no longer acceptable; action was necessary. The smell of roses lingered, a scent trailing him wherever he went whether he believed himself rested or not. He'd gone so far as to note what perfume or cologne each team member wore; none even contained rose oil. He changed the soap in the loo and kitchen to unscented and began requesting the dry cleaner not use anything with rose oil.
Ianto knew it bordered on obsession but he was so close. And yet he'd never felt so further from himself.
While Jack slept, Ianto stuck to the main portions of the Hub, staying far away from Lisa. At any moment, Jack could awaken and grow curious of Ianto's whereabouts. So Ianto filed, copied reports, and worked on funds requests while Jack slept, catching up on the trivial while he avoided home and the nightmares that would find him there.
Jack had left not five minutes past when Ianto felt the walls begin to close in and the shadows grow eyes. His heart sped up as adrenaline poured into his system, drawing everything into sharp focus as his feet begged to run -- run far from the Hub -- and his hands itched to hold a weapon -- a childish reaction to the quiet, and really, where was he to run when the darkness only followed? He chided himself, reaching for his coffee mug that sat just far enough from the keyboard to keep him from accidentally knocking it over and earning Toshiko's eternal anger, frowning when he found the mug empty.
And there it was again.
Movement.
If he was hallucinating, his mind was putting on a stellar performance.
The coffee mug was still in his hand as he turned towards the motion, the seat moving with his momentum as his feet followed. Owen's computer desk (tidied up, spilled milk wiped down, and the paper airplanes -- pathetic attempts, no physics applied -- discarded), Jack's office, various equipment, tools, a lab coat ... nothing.
Nothing, until he swiveled back around. His cup of coffee dangled from his fingertips, his grip loosening until it finally shattered on the ground. Ianto's chair slipped from under him in his frantic haste to get away, clattering against the ground as he backpedaled, stumbling and tumbling for the ground until his chaotic motions were stopped, braced from behind. Keeping one eye on the creature before him, Ianto looked down, long, green fingers (fingernails dirty, unkept) curled around his biceps, helping him maintain his vertical position. And trapping him. But he wasn't going to think about that for the moment; it was far too overwhelming.
He knew who these creatures were.
Two were flying, teasing Myfanwy who raced back into her den. Four crouched in various spots in the Hub: Owen's desk, the Captain's, one was swinging off the steps and the other was playing in the Tower's water. And the one holding him. And the one in front.
They were no taller than he. Ianto had assumed from the stories that they'd be frightfully large or mimicking imagined creatures from the tales. Oddly, they appeared lengthier, like their legs would double their stature if they straightened from their perpetual crouch. But they were his height, stronger, leaner. Shadowed green, with bulbous rose-white masses and wiry hair above their strikingly human eyes.
Bouncing around the Hub, barely in one spot for long, the six barely registered, but Ianto caught glimpses. Fragile wings, a child's laughter ... and why wasn't the alarm ringing to alert Jack, Jack who was sleeping and had failed to hear the chair crash to the floor? Though what Jack could do to help, Ianto wasn't certain. If there was anything to believe from the myths and legends, there was nothing to be done. In fact, Ianto would feel much better if Jack never woke until morning -- this manner of death might prove permanent.
The two creatures remained still, however, one holding him and one standing in front. The one in front had startled him, sitting on Tosh's desk and messing with the papers Ianto had neatly organized. For some reason that bothered him, the disarray and disrespect. Now it swayed, swinging as it moved closer, bringing the smell of roses as it danced before him.
He knew what these creatures were. He knew their name.
The Faerie. The Mara.
Ianto tried to run, tried to break away from the one holding him. But the fingers just tightened, and the scent of dying rose and rich earth wafted over his ear, so intimate and yet so foul he could scarcely breathe. He knew how they killed, how they played. The stories told of mysterious deaths, of broken souls smothered in rose petals. God, the rose petals! The Faerie were playing and he was their game.
Just as quickly as they came, the hands holding him were gone. He was free, although a crawling sensation still tickled his nerves like spiders scampering eight-legged up his arms. Ianto stepped away, only to have another drop in front of him, blocking his path with humming wings and a long face. It was old, its smile terrifying and the eyes dark. He knew the tales of happy sprites, mischievous and laughing, pure in their innocence.
There was no innocence in these eyes.
He moved again, and this time the others fell into place. A ring of eight surrounding him. They shifted as he moved, the circle flowing to contain him as they chattered with multi-toned voices in a language Ianto had never heard. If he hadn't been so scared he'd have found it intriguing; as it was he had to fight the urge to scream, quite certain that would wake Jack and this was something he didn't want Jack involved in. Ianto looked about him, finally choosing to stand still within the circle. The Faerie followed in kind, their wings which vibrated the air slowing until the air no longer sang but rather thrummed with a soft beat, matching the heartbeat he felt in his throat. He spoke, thrilled when his voice remained steady, uncracked by fear. "Would you care for some tea? Coffee?"
"We have been watching you, human."
One of the Faerie stepped forward from the circle, encroaching on Ianto's limited space within the ring as it spoke. He couldn't determine whether it was male or female; neither appearance nor voice gave any indication. In the rational corner of his mind still curious despite the fear, Ianto wondered if perhaps that was their way -- perhaps they didn't reproduce and didn't have a gender. Gender was a relatively human perception any ways, and these creatures were beyond humans. It was said they didn't even exist in regular human time, though they lived in a land of Earth.
The Faerie moved round him as the others watched, maintaining the circle with seven points. For a while, he spun to keep his sights on the one closest to him, but quickly realized it could move much faster than he could spin. He should have been concerned, he should have been worried by the revelation but the detail explained so much that it was hard to be wary of the confirmation of his sanity.
"Long, in vale of fog and mist,
The spirit in sopor lives,
In time r'turns, with love combine,
Chasing time to save victory, sorrow rains while light doth shine."
Confused, Ianto tried to follow as the other Faerie echoed what the first had said. It made no sense; the Faerie were making no sense.
"Your choice is ours, Ianto. And our choice is yours."
With a tap of a long, green finger on his chest, over his heart and nearly stopping it with fear, the Faerie sprang from their circle, wings flapping fast as cardboard in his bicycle's wheels as a child. They disappeared in a flash of light, too bright; making Ianto's eyes tear in response. By the time his vision cleared and the negative images of floating spheres of black-light blinked away, the Hub was again quiet. Ianto didn't hear Jack; the Captain still slept. But while Jack slept, the Hub awoke. Shadows retreated into their corners, and the lights spoke nothing as they kissed the shadows goodnight.
Ianto stared at the floor where eight rose petals lay gently curved among shards of cream ceramic. Now he understood. He understood that he knew nothing. He knew nothing of the earth, he knew nothing of time, he could not fathom why the sounds of children's laughter made him wish to weep. He knew nothing of why he still lived. And Ianto knew nothing of what they meant.
Eight blood-red petals. The Faerie were watching him.
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