Fanfic - Counting Stars 1/17 [Torchwood: Jack/Ianto]
Fandom: Torchwood
Pairing: Jack/Ianto, smidgins of Gwen/Rhys and Owen/Tosh
Rating: NC-17 (though it won't earn it till later)
Warnings: Fix-it fic; shmoop; EPICNESS. See Notes.
Notes: Okay! There are a few things I'll need to get through here, so pay attention. No whining later if something you don’t like shows up. Long notes, but PLEASE READ. Or at least skim.
1) It’s a behind-the-scenes, sort of - filling in the gaps between the episodes, and trying to get into Ianto's head. Not always a pretty place to be. I'm presuming the people reading this story will (mostly) have canon knowledge under their belt, so I generally skipped over the actual episodes, except when a) I needed to deal with certain events in the eps to set up for later events or b) when I changed a few things from the eps.
2) It's a fix-it fic. It’s largely canon-compliant up until mid-season 2. Tiny deviations start appearing then, but it's the "Exit Wounds" where you'll see the biggest changes. I'm guessing you know what one of the things I'm "fixing" is.
3) It unashamedly ships Jack/Ianto (THEY WERE SOULMATES DESTINED FOR EACH OTHER kind of shipping). That does mean cliches, yes. They are my OTP, and it shows. I like to think I've managed to handle them and the other characters in a relatively accurate fashion.
4) It’s primarily Ianto's POV here, so bear in mind that what he thinks about certain situations/characters is not necessarily what I think, or even the truth. Remember that he is a biased narrator; he doesn't have all the information, and he doesn't (whatever anyone might say) know everything.
5) I've borrowed certain elements of CoE, but I've also bashed said elements around and moulded them into something I deemed worthy to work with. For instance, Rhiannon and her family exist, but so do Ianto's mother, brother and stepfather (all non-canon). Which leads me to -
6) There are OCs here. Never fear, they are Not Important. But they're there, so I'm just giving you a heads-up. They're a means to an end, nothing more, and they more or less vanish from the story the moment they're no longer useful. *is cruel and ruthless*
7) At a certain point in this story (Part 16, to be precise), you will want to kill me. Please refrain. THIS STORY HAS A HAPPY ENDING. Even if it seems like it really sucks at some points (even before Part 16; I beat Ianto and Jack with the angst!stick in some places), it WILL get better. In fact, it will be sickeningly sappy/fluffy at some parts. Should that count as a warning too?
8) I've split the story up into 17 parts, not because it was written as a chaptered story (it was a one-shot. In fact, it was supposed to be ten pages at most) but because it's a tad... uh, long.
As in, 151,875 words. That's 386 pages, if you were wondering.
... Yeah. So much for ten pages, I know. The chapters are as long as I could get them before LJ's per-post size limit spazzed at me.
9) As you've probably guessed, this fic is COMPLETE. I'll hopefully be posting one part per week or so. I think they're long and meaty enough that a week's wait is justified?
10) There will be detailed smut later (wait till we hit Season 2). It's not purposeless smut, but feel free to skip it if you're that way inclined. If you're not that way inclined, feel free to tell me what you thought of it. Actually, tell me what you thought of the whole fic. Please?
Counting Stars
“I don’t think that’s normal.”
He lifted his gaze to meet hers, lips twitching slightly. “Is there anything in this job that is?”
“No, seriously,” she insisted, a smile working its way across her face. “I’m pretty sure that normal metal doesn’t glow like that.”
“Not any metal we know, anyway,” he agreed.
“Then it is alien?” she asked.
“Apparently so. Also, apparently harmless. And certainly not glowing before it was sent to me for cataloguing.”
“Something special about you then,” she laughed, reaching out to pick it up. The glow vanished the moment her fingers touched it, and she frowned, placing it back on the table carefully. “Doesn’t like me.”
He brushed his fingers against it and immediately the designs etched into the metal started glowing again. His eyes remained fixed on her. “Is there a reason you’re here, Lisa?” he asked, barely daring to hope.
She shifted nervously, and even before she’d opened her mouth, he knew what was coming.
“Yes,” he said.
“Would you like to get a - what?” She stopped, sentence derailed.
“Yes,” he repeated, and allowed a real smile to show through.
The twin loops of decorated metal slowly dimmed, then winked out.
Torchwood Three was scavenging. Vultures, he thought, scraping through carrion to find the best parts, feeding off ruin and suffering and death. He watched them dig through the rubble, watched as more and more bodies were unearthed. They were at what had once been Level B2 now, and from his hiding place, he named the bodies as they were pulled out.
Jake, Alison, Sandra, Neil, Douglas, Cara, Xiao Xing, Andrew -
The vultures were both women, one with masses of curly hair pulled back from her face. She worked quickly, efficiently, hauling the bodies around, getting them out of the way so that they could move on to the more important things. The other woman, of East Asian descent, held a scanner in her hands and occasionally pointed out other sections that needed to be cleared. Once an area had been designated, she dove into the work too, shifting brick and concrete and metal and flesh. It was the technology that she went straight for, her entire face lighting up when she found something that intrigued her.
Shane, Aina, Abby, Holly, Karel, Tristan -
A man directed both of them, his eyes hard and cold as he climbed over broken glass and corpses. His face was familiar (he’d seen it enough times, on documentation, on CCTV, on video stills, once in person passing him in the corridors); the expression on it less so. Never before had he seen the man without a smile (or at least a smirk) on his face, without that look of near-arrogance, that look that said he was your superior in every way. Now, though, his face was dark with the promise of further violence. It was not a face that spoke of help.
Candy, Mark, Brian, Nicholas, Misao, Zaira, Arthur, Gordon, Rhiannon - Rhiannon -
His mind stuttered over the familiar name, flashing between the two Rhiannons he knew, the image of his sister overlaid on the grimy face he saw sprawled out at the vultures’ feet. Her arm was missing from the elbow down. Bone peeked through, incongruously white amidst the choking grey dust. He bit down on his lip, hard enough to draw blood, tasting the fresh iron on his tongue as it mingled with the lingering taste of his friends’ blood. He wouldn’t get any help here. That much was evident in the set of Captain Jack Harkness’ face.
Turning, Ianto disappeared back into the shadows, back to where he’d hidden his Lisa.
“Coffee, sir?”
Jack flashed a quick grin at Ianto. “If it’s as good as the first time.”
“I can only hope,” Ianto said solemnly, passing the cup over. Jack inhaled the aroma appreciatively, then took a mouthful of the hot liquid.
“Perfect,” he sighed in satisfaction. “Take a seat, Ianto Jones.” He waited until his directive had been met, then leaned forward expectantly. “So. How’re you finding things here in Torchwood Cardiff?”
“It’s barely been a few hours since I’ve started, sir,” Ianto said cautiously.
Jack waved a hand dismissively. “You’ve had the tour. First impressions,” he said, and drank a little more coffee. It really was pretty damn good.
“Efficient,” Ianto said, his shoulders straight and stiff. “Controlled, yet flexible.” He paused, tilting his head slightly as if in thought. “More… accepting than what I was used to.”
“Not expecting me to keep Myfanwy instead of killing her?” Jack asked.
That made Ianto pause. “Myfanwy?” he asked eventually.
“The pterodactyl,” Jack explained. “Figured she needed a name. Suzie’s trying to figure out how to teach her not to eat us all.”
“Myfanwy,” Ianto repeated. “What makes you think it’s female?”
“Just a guess,” Jack said. “It’s not like any of us know how to check a dinosaur’s sex.”
“Technically, it’s a pterosaur, not a dinosaur - both members of Ornithodira, but quite distinct,” Ianto said mildly. “And the limited reading I managed in the three hours between finding the pterodactyl and finding you suggests that it’s a male.”
“Er,” Jack said eloquently.
“Near-adult male pteranodon longiceps,” Ianto elaborated. “However, if he’s started responding to the name Myfanwy, then it’s probably best not to confuse him further.”
Jack shook his head. “Right. Well, Myfanwy he’ll stay. What’s life without a little gender confusion?” He grinned. “So, not-dinosaurs aside, how’re you liking it here?”
“Fairly well, sir,” Ianto replied. “I must say, however, that your archives are in deplorable condition. Do you not believe in filing?”
Jack laughed outright at that. “Me, no. My team? Well… no. Maybe Tosh, if the mood takes her. Which is why you’re here, Jones-Ianto-Jones. You were an archivist with Torchwood London.”
“Junior researcher,” Ianto murmured.
“Archives are all yours,” Jack said expansively. “Start wherever you like. See what kind of sense you can make of them.”
“Am I to begin now, sir?” Ianto asked blandly. Jack tried not to smile; the archives were both in a state of physical disrepair as well as chaotically organised (if the word could even be applied there), and Ianto was clearly aware of that.
“Whenever you’d like,” Jack told him. “Though the others might appreciate some coffee, before we lose you in the catacombs.”
“Already done, sir,” Ianto informed him, rising from the seat. “I’ll be in the archives then, if you need me.”
Jack rose as well, accompanying Ianto through the door and watching as the young man disappeared into the basements. Only then did he let out the deep-throated laugh that had wanted to emerge since Ianto had first brought up the archives.
“Oh god, you’ve sent him into the belly of the beast already?” Suzie asked in mock despair. “He just got here! And he makes really good coffee! I was hoping for at least a week before you sent him off to get lost and fossilised in there.”
“Bets on how long he lasts?” Owen called from the medical bay.
Owen laid odds on five days, Jack on a week, Tosh and Suzie both on two weeks. All of them agreed that Ianto too would return, defeated by the anarchy that was their physical archives. And all of them were utterly flabbergasted when, four days later, Ianto showed up in the middle of the afternoon and calmly informed Jack that he’d made some good headway on reorganising the archival data, and would he be interested in getting at least the more recent information into the computer database as well?
“No way,” Owen said in disbelief when Jack had given his rather stunned approval and Ianto had vanished again with the laptop Tosh had showed him how to work.
“I’m pulling up the CCTV,” Tosh announced, and the entire team skidded over to join her at her table. The image that appeared on the screen a few moments later wasn’t anything they’d ever seen before at Torchwood.
“Are those… the archives?” Suzie asked in blatant shock. Jack blinked at the screen.
“It’s clean!” Tosh whispered in awe, watching as Ianto walked into the frame and settled himself at a table in the corner of the room. Next to the table on the ground were a few tall piles of folders. Ianto set up the laptop by the side of the table, then reached for the topmost folder and opened it in front of him, apparently reading the contents.
“It looks…” Jack began, then stopped. It looks like it did a century ago. Before we stopped bothering.
“Inhabitable,” Owen supplied. The team exchanged grins.
“I’m fairly certain some of the mould growing on the walls was approaching a level of sentience,” Ianto said, and they all spun back to see that he was staring directly at the camera. “It’s astonishing what a little perseverance can achieve. However, given that I will have to read everything in here -” He waved an arm to encompass the enormous room, “- before I can file them accurately, it might take me a few months to finish up. I hope that’s acceptable, sir.” And with that, he returned to the file he was reading, the impassive expression on his face never changing.
After a few long minutes, Tosh clicked off the surveillance, then dissolved into giggles.
“Yeah, I think he’ll fit in fine,” Suzie told Jack, and wandered back to her own station.
“Fucking brat,” Owen muttered, and Jack joined Tosh in helpless laughter.
“It’s not so hard, really.”
“No?”
“Not for me. It’s you who’s suffering.”
“Lisa, I -”
“Ianto, please. I love you so much.”
“And I you. You know that.”
“I can feel it trying to take over, Ianto. Always there, eating away at me.”
“And I’ll find a way to get it out. I promise, Lisa, I swear to you, I will find a way to get it out. But until then you’ve got to keep fighting, sweetheart, please, promise me you will.”
“… I promise.”
The person in front of him was Lisa, and yet not. He could taste blood in his mouth, blood and ash and despair, and even before the bullets struck her, the familiar chill of emptiness was creeping over him. He would have accepted whatever came next - the Retcon, the bullet, his only two options - without batting an eyelash.
“On your knees,” Jack growled, and Ianto obediently sank to the ground, clasping his hands behind his head before he could be instructed to do so.
“Cuff him,” Jack told whoever was behind him, and Ianto felt rough hands grab his wrists, felt cool metal wind around them, then sink to conform to the contours of his flesh. They weren’t normal handcuffs. A simple flex of his wrists told him that they’d used the anti-Weevil clamps on him. Then Jack lowered the gun and moved behind him, and then a piece of fabric descended over his eyes and he found himself blind. His breathing remained steady, even.
Footsteps moved away from him, fading until he couldn’t hear them any more. For a long time, only the everyday sounds of the Hub existed for him; the hum of the organic computer, the beeps and trills of the scanners and various machines, Myfanwy’s occasional shriek.
Myfanwy. Lisa. Lisa.
Myfanwy screamed again, and wings beat through the air, landing somewhere near him. Then a heavy beak settled on his shoulder, the pterodactyl evidently not understanding why his favourite human was sitting there motionless.
“You could eat me,” Ianto whispered in Welsh. “I wouldn’t mind.”
Myfanwy made an odd sound in his throat, something almost like chirping. It was a sound, Ianto had learned, that meant comfort and soothing. He drew in a deep breath, then another, until his heartbeat had settled somewhat. And still, no one appeared. He wondered if he would hear or feel the bullet when it finally came.
After a few minutes, the pterodactyl started shifting uneasily. He made an almost interrogative chirrup. Ianto didn’t respond. The next moment found a hard beak-tip pushing into his side. He still didn’t move. Something sharp ripped through his arm.
“Oh, fuck,” Ianto heard someone say, and a gun fired. He was still alive, so it presumably hadn’t been aimed at him. Myfanwy squawked and took off in a rush of wings, striking Ianto in the head.
“Owen?” someone - Jack - said, and then cool hands were gripping his imprisoned arm, checking the pterodactyl-inflicted wounds.
“Nothing serious,” Owen reported.
He wanted to play, Ianto supplied. He’s still not good at gauging how much force is too much. He’s used to picking things up in his mouth. He wanted to play, that’s all. Wanted a reward for protecting me - protecting -
His mind tripped and stumbled over the images again and again and again and he didn’t notice when they broke the restraints and took the blindfold off, didn’t notice the muttered oaths when they saw his blankly staring eyes, didn’t notice when someone slapped him across the face, when someone hauled him to his feet and fireman-carried him to the couch, when his arm was wrapped up and lights shone in his eyes, when the Hub was powered down and everyone left and a blanket was placed over him because all he could see replaying in front of him was LisaLisaLisa.
“If it’s Retcon, I’d suggest wiping at least five years,” he told Jack as they stood in his flat. “If it’s execution, poison will be easier for you to clean up. I’m sure there’s something suitably painful that will satisfy you.”
Jack’s eyes narrowed. “It’s neither,” the Captain told him. “I’ve talked about it with the team, and we’ve all agreed to give you another chance.”
Ianto stared at Jack impassively.
“You’re on suspension,” Jack said. “Four weeks starting today. Give me your ID, pass, weapons, and any alien tech you took.”
Ianto brought out everything in silence, watching as Jack packed them away in his bag. He hadn’t taken any alien technology from the Hub, but he still had bits and pieces of Cybernetics he’d managed to steal from the wreckage of Torchwood One, the parts that hadn’t proven useful in keeping Lisa alive and had been discarded. He brought them out, watching as Jack’s face grew impossibly tight.
“Anything else?” Jack asked. He shook his head in response, and was utterly unsurprised when Jack cuffed him to his door and then systematically ripped his flat to pieces, searching for anything else he might have been hiding.
Before leaving, Jack attached a small bracelet to Ianto’s wrist. “Tracker,” he told him. “Water-proof, shock-proof. Don’t take it off, ever.”
Ianto closed the door behind Jack, locked it, and then began picking everything back up.
On the fourth day of his suspension, Jack showed up on his doorstep with a shopping bag in one hand and a book in the other. Ianto stared at him for exactly ten seconds before stepping back and letting him inside.
“I swear I stood in the aisles for twenty minutes trying to remember what you liked,” Jack said without preamble. “You were right, of course. We know nothing about you.” He held out the bag, which Ianto accepted and looked into. Ice-cream. Double chocolate, which Ianto always ensured the refrigerator at the Hub was stocked with.
“This is Tosh’s favourite,” he told Jack. “Owen hates ice-cream in general, but makes an exception for rum and raisin. Gwen likes almost any flavour, but she’s partial to butterscotch. You like anything with fruits in it, real fruits, not the fake flavour. As long as it’s not peach, you can’t stand that. Strawberries are a favourite.”
Jack hummed softly, staring at Ianto like he’d never seen him before. “Don’t know about the others, but definitely right on my count. And what about you, Ianto?”
Ianto shrugged. “Raspberry swirl, usually, but I’m not generally fussed.” He paused. “I never ate it much. It’s Lisa who loves ice-cream. Loved.”
Jack’s eyes finally slid away from Ianto. “What flavour?” he asked.
“Chocolate chip or green tea,” Ianto said. “Why are you here?”
“Because you were right,” Jack said, looking back at him again. “Not what you did - that was so many levels of wrong, Ianto, and I think you’ll realise that eventually.”
“I could have saved her.”
“Lisa Hallett died at Canary Wharf. What was in there -”
“She didn’t,” Ianto insisted, fingers tightening around the shopping bag. “She was with me almost all the way. Until - until about two weeks ago when the pain got too much and I had to keep her sedated almost all the time, but before that it was still her, she could feel it trying to influence her, she told me, she was fighting.”
“That’s not -” Jack began, then stopped. “Fine. Maybe. But it wasn’t Lisa who killed Tanizaki and Annie, who tried to kill you.”
“No,” Ianto conceded. Jack frowned; he hadn’t actually been expecting an affirmative. “No, but I could have brought her back, given time. She was scared, she -”
“She’d been taken over, Ianto.”
“You can’t know that,” Ianto told him. “And of course, now I never will.” He slipped his hand into his pocket, thumbed the ring that he’d kept with him all these months. It didn’t bring him the same comfort it used to.
“Do you want me to leave?” Jack asked abruptly. Ianto took a deep breath, then nodded slowly.
“That might be best,” he said.
Jack held out the book. “You’re not under any obligation,” he said. “But I’d like if you’d read this. And - you can call me. Anytime.”
Ianto simply stared at him in silence until he looked away. A sigh, shoulders squared, and Jack Harkness stepped back out of Ianto’s flat. The door shut with a hollow click.
In the second week of his suspension, he visited his sister and her family. The kids were at the perfect age not to care who he was, save for the fact that his presence invariably meant a bit of money for a treat. He told Rhiannon that he’d taken a few days off, and she told him it was about time, that he worked too hard.
“I enjoy my work,” he lied.
“You still don’t need to work yourself to death,” Rhiannon scolded him, setting out a plate of snacks. If the world was ending, she’d always have a snack ready, Ianto thought. The familiarity was reassuring. He let himself sink into it, let it wash over him and interrupt the steady mantra of Lisa is dead. I killed Lisa. Lisa is dead. I couldn’t save her.
“Well, what have you been up to?” Rhiannon asked, and Ianto felt his insides chill.
“Work,” he said casually, stretching his arm over the back of the chair. The tracking bracelet clicked against the wood. “Not much time for anything else, is there?” Every time he spoke to Rhiannon, he could feel his accent thicken, deepen into the familiar rhythms of his childhood, the inflections he’d learned to partially suppress while in London. “What about you then? The kids getting up to anything?”
“When aren’t they?” Rhiannon asked. “Just the other day, I brought Mischa to have her hair cut, and you know -” Ianto tuned her out, nodding at the appropriate times and remembering what normal was.
Rhiannon was easily distracted. It was the reason she was a good choice to talk to.
The next Monday, Ianto opened up the book Jack had given him. The first page had Jack Harkness scrawled across the middle. Ianto traced the letters with his finger, recognising the handwriting from the countless forms he’d made the Captain fill out properly.
There was a photograph glued to the second page. It didn’t look like an original - more like a picture of a video, not even a video still. Jack was standing between two people, his arms around their shoulders. A skinny sort of guy and a blonde girl. The three of them looked dishevelled, exhausted and beaten up in the way you only get when you’ve saved a world or at least a city. They were all grinning madly.
The Doctor, Rose and me, said the caption below the picture. They taught me how to be human again. Good times! - until it all went to hell, anyway.
Ianto abruptly realised that this wasn’t something Jack had always kept, had constantly been adding to over time. This, this was something Jack had put together specifically for him. He closed the book, set it aside, and went to make a cup of coffee. After a moment’s thought, he dug around for the lone bottle of brandy he knew he had. He had a feeling he’d need it.
It was three hours before he could work up the nerve to return to the book, a fresh cup of coffee clutched in hands that didn’t tremble, not at all. The next page almost made him close it again and return it to Jack without going through the rest.
You’re not under any obligation.
You hid yourself from us!
The picture was of utter devastation. He studied it carefully, noting the odd structure of the building (was it a building?), the slight glimpses he could see outside (not Earth, definitely not Earth), the strange dust and broken metal and - and -
Exterminate.
Daleks. He splashed a liberal amount of brandy into his coffee, then took a deep gulp.
Woke up amongst this. Stumbled out in time to see the TARDIS dematerialise. The Doctor was gone. I don’t know if he knew I was alive, or if he thought I’d died. Actually, even I thought I’d die there, so I guess he was warranted in thinking the same. Still, a little consideration for my body would have been appreciated. Know what I mean?
He did. He put the spiked coffee back on the table and curled up on the couch, settling the book more comfortably on his lap. The next page didn’t have any pictures on it - it was a list, a list that Ianto recognised immediately (Jake, Alison, Shane, Tristan, Misao, Gordon -). One name on it was highlighted.
Rose Tyler.
An arrow pointed to the name. Don’t even know what she was doing there.
Then followed a series of newspaper clippings, which Ianto’s practiced eye deciphered as being about alien-influenced events. Jack had provided commentary for some of them, but others were left clean. Ianto mulled them over. He didn’t believe for one moment that anything in the book wasn’t of importance to Jack in some way or other.
There were two wedding announcements for Jack Harkness. Divorced? Then Ianto saw the dates on the two announcements and took a deep breath, casting a longing eye over the brandy bottle. Suddenly the newspaper clippings made more sense - and Ianto remembered those old records in the archives that seemed to believe Jack Harkness had been part of Torchwood over a century ago. He’d never bothered to follow up on them because he hadn’t wanted to give Jack any reason to explore the basements too thoroughly, but now…
A few old photographs, one of them of a couple in their wedding finery. Jack’s familiar, strong eyes looked out at him. Ianto drew a thumb over the sepia-toned image thoughtfully.
Guess you’ve figured it out? said the next page. I wasn’t lying that first time, you know - though god knows why I let it slip to you. I’m usually good at hiding the exact time I was born in. Remember page 2? My vortex manipulator was damaged - I managed to cobble together a fix-it and aimed for the 21st Century, Earth. Figured the Doctor had to stop by to refuel sometime. Except the damn manipulator landed me in the wrong time and then burned out completely. And 1869 didn’t have the materials I needed to fix it (not that I really know how to), so I was stuck. Still am. Living a day at a time, hoping I’m not going to miss my Doctor (again) when he does show up. Tell you this much - it’s a bit of a shock waking up after you get shot in the heart.
Ianto closed the book, marking the page with a finger, then reached over and chugged his now-cool coffee down. He dropped the empty cup back on the table, not even wincing at the loud clank. As an afterthought, he grabbed the bottle of brandy and took a mouthful straight from it. The alcohol burned all the way down and he was suddenly reminded that he hadn’t actually eaten since he’d woken up.
It could wait. If he stopped now, he wasn’t sure he’d have the guts to start again later.
Torchwood more or less press-ganged me into service. It was work for them or be dissected (again and again) in an attempt to figure out what made me tick. (Good luck to them; even I don’t know.) I actually only came to lead Torchwood Three about seven years ago. No, not ‘about.’ I became leader of Torchwood Three at midnight on the 1st of January, 2000. Give or take a few seconds. Perfect timing, don’t you think? My then-leader killed everyone else. I walked in on blood. He told me to take over, and then killed himself. I swore then that I’d never fail my team like he did.
Except I have, of course. More on my utter brilliance later.
Gwen knows, by the way. Just about the can’t-stay-dead bit, I mean, not anything else. Suzie shot me in front of her, so it was a tad hard to keep it hidden.
I have my doubts about whether you’ve made it this far. I suspect that you saw the name written on the front and decided not to go any further, to return this to me (or throw it at my face) without reading it. If that’s true, then these words are going out into a void, so I guess I don’t need to censor what I’m about to say.
I fucked up.
I still stand by what I said, Ianto. What was in that basement was not Lisa Hallett. She was lost a long time ago; all that was left was the shell. I never knew her, but somehow I doubt she’d be the sort to kill people, or hurt you. There’s no going back from a Cyberman conversion, Ianto, I swear to you. I know this, I know what they can do.
And so I still believe I didn’t have any choice but to have the Cyberwoman (not Lisa, that was not Lisa, do you understand me?) executed. I have to do things as the leader of this group that people don’t like; I have to make the unpopular decisions. Leaders are there to be hated, not loved, to do the things no one else wants to. But I had no right, however angry I was, to demand that you kill it. When you looked at it, it was your girlfriend’s face you saw, however changed it was. If you could have pulled the trigger, Torchwood would truly have destroyed you. It’s been three days now, I’ve had time to think, and god, I’m so thankful you didn’t do as I told you to. It would have broken you beyond fixing.
I could have handled the situation far better than I actually did. I’ll tell you the truth, Ianto, I felt betrayed - not for the sake of the team, but on a personal level. I thought you liked and trusted me, and having that thrown back at me… it hurt. And on the heels of Suzie? I guess I’m an even worse leader than I thought. Because you’re right. I hired you to clean up our shit, and you did it well enough that I forgot you existed.
I made a list of the things you do for us. You handle all archival data, of course, and you’re the sole reason the archives aren’t absolutely terrifying now. You dispose of bodies we need hidden - let’s put that properly, shall we? - I make you incinerate the bodies of those alien-attack victims whose injuries we can’t explain away or hide. I make you take out all the other bodies, those we can disguise, and pose them in various death scenes, crimes, accidents, whatever fits. I make you wrestle corpses into the right positions, clean up any evidence of your being there. I make you go through the personal effects of the victims without families to make sure they didn’t have actual alien items on them. Sometimes, I make you do the same even for those with families. I let you deal with those same families on your own, without any backup (two weeks into the job you were attacked by a grieving father - you managed to talk him down, and still came in that day to pick up after us). You Retcon as necessary, devise cover stories, create fake identities for the humanoid aliens and time-displaced humans that come through the Rift, serve as contact for them, ensure that they’re all healthy and adapting well. You maintain our safe-houses, equipment, weaponry and vehicles, and what you can’t handle you contract out and then wipe traces and memories both. You keep us fed (before you we subsisted on microwave-able food, which does not deserve the label ‘food’) and fuel our caffeine addiction. You pick up our dry-cleaning, you have some sort of magical ability to get the worst stains (blood, alien goo, etc) out of our favourite clothes. Everyone’s clothes bills have gone down since you started working here (other than certain unnamed people who are now buying more clothes because they know said new clothes won’t be un-salvageable within the week). You actually respect my greatcoat for what it is (that IS important!). You keep us organised, clean, sane and healthy (but you really should eat more vegetables).
That’s a hell of a lot you do for us, and I don’t think I’m even really scratching the surface.
In return, I take you for granted, I treat you like you’re part of the furniture. I liked you the moment I saw you - god, the look on your face when you told me your name - like you had no clue what possessed you to go after a Weevil, but damn if you weren’t determined as all hell. Strong. I wanted so badly for you to get away from Torchwood, because I knew we’d - I’d - end up ruining you.
And I did. What I want to know now, Ianto - is it permanent? Is it something I can undo? Is there any way I can earn your trust, properly this time?
I thought that the only way to do that is to show you a little bit of me. So that’s what this is. I don’t expect an answer any time soon. Think about it. If you feel like you’ll ever be able to forgive me for what I had to do, let me know. I’d like to start making up for things; I’d like to learn about the real Ianto Jones you’ve got hidden in there. And there are other things I’d like to tell you, if we ever feel like we could trust each other implicitly again.
Jack
He re-read the last message five times before succumbing to the complaints of his stomach. He puttered about the flat aimlessly for the rest of the day, mind uncomfortably chaotic and full. By evening, he was having a full-blown migraine; he popped a couple of painkillers and went to sleep early, the book tucked under his pillow.
In the fourth week of his suspension, he boxed up everything that he still had of Lisa. He folded her clothes carefully, separating them into neat bundles. Her books were stacked in order of those she loved most, with her favourites on the top. Then her jewellery, her accessories, her bags, her shoes, the miscellaneous things one accumulates through life. He kept one photo of them on the table beside his bed. The diamond ring he’d been planning on giving her went on a chain around his neck; the rest of it into the boxes which he carted downstairs one by one and then loaded into a waiting taxi. The driver was clearly wondering if he wasn’t picking up someone insane, but obediently followed Ianto’s directions, out to what was apparently an abandoned warehouse. Torchwood owned it, and carried out some of its messier work there. Ianto was well familiar with it. He brought the boxes out behind the dilapidated building, then sent the driver on his way.
He watched the bonfire until it burned out, then buried the slag left behind.
“I’m sorry, baby, I’m so sorry.”
Metal and knives and screams and cold and wet and iron and blood and sweat -
“You broke your promise, Lisa.”
The bone-deep realisation, at last, at last. It wasn’t her.
He called Jack just once during his suspension, the day before he was due to return. Jack picked up on the first ring.
“Are you busy?” Ianto asked in lieu of a greeting.
“Not at all. Just sent the others home, as a matter of fact,” Jack replied.
“I cleared out everything of Lisa’s.”
“Flat’s empty, isn’t it?”
Ianto looked around, picking out the places where Lisa’s books, her ridiculous collection of origami animals, her make-up and perfumes and clothes all should have been. He’d spread his own belongings out into the empty spaces, so that the flat looked like only one person lived there. It was a believable deception. “Very.”
“My bed’s pretty small, but I still find myself sleeping on one side,” Jack said wistfully. “Like I’m waiting for someone else to slip in.”
“How long have you been waiting?”
“For?”
Ianto paused. “Someone to slip in,” he said eventually.
“If that’s an abstract ‘someone,’ long enough that I’ve lost track,” Jack said.
“If that’s a specific ‘someone,’ on the other hand?” Ianto asked.
“Honest answer or bullshit?”
“Honest.”
“Just about two months now,” Jack said levelly.
Ianto counted back the days, even though he didn’t really have to. “Oh,” he said eventually.
“Yep. Want to talk about something else now?”
“The attitudes towards sex must be very different in the 51st Century,” Ianto ventured.
A short, genuine laugh. “Yeah, that’s one way of putting it. People aren’t so hung up on labels then. Er, won’t be. Time travel really messes with the tenses.”
“I can imagine.”
“Yeah,” Jack said, and Ianto could hear the smile in his voice. “It’s just, you know, sex isn’t - well, it isn’t just sex. It’s feeling, it’s connection. I don’t mean anything ridiculous like ‘if you love me you’ll have sex with me.’ It’s just… the warmth, the physicality, knowing the other so intimately. Makes things better, somehow. Bearable. Why are we talking about this?”
“It was the first thing that popped to mind.”
“What, sex is what you associate with me?”
“Yes,” Ianto said, and then before he could censor himself, added, “I knew it from the start. I’d read a lot about you at Torchwood London, I’d heard what people said and even allowing for hyperbole I figured that it was my best bet to get you to pay attention to me.”
A long silence. The coldness clutched at him. He wondered if he’d ever be warm again.
“So, when we were catching Myfanwy,” Jack said. “That was calculated?”
“Honest answer or bullshit?”
“I think I might regret this,” Jack said slowly. “Honest.”
“Partly. That was the plan. I wasn’t counting on… well.”
“Ianto, yes or no, were you attr-”
“Yes.”
“… You must have hated yourself.”
“I still do,” Ianto whispered.
“Would it help if I said I don’t think you should?” Jack asked. “There’s so much about you to love, Ianto. So much that’s good.”
“If there is, I can’t really see it now, sir.”
“Don’t go fishing for compliments now,” Jack teased. “Do you want me to make up a list for you?”
Ianto smiled slightly. “That won’t be necessary, sir,” he said. “I’m not sure the list would be entirely appropriate in any case.”
“Maybe not,” Jack acknowledged with a laugh.
Ianto exhaled slowly. Jack’s voice hadn’t made him angry like he’d thought it would. It hadn’t brought up memories of Lisa (any more than were already there, were always there). It hadn’t hurt to hear him, to talk to him. If anything, it had been… comforting.
“I should go,” he whispered.
“Report for work first thing tomorrow,” Jack said immediately. Ianto hung up and buried the half-hysterical laughter in his pillow.
He left everyone’s coffees by their desks instead of handing them over personally. When he made the rounds an hour later (when everyone had left and there was no one around to see him flinch every time Myfanwy made a noise), Tosh’s mug was drained; Gwen’s was mostly full but had lipstick on the edge, as if she’d taken a few token sips; Owen’s was untouched, with an empty Starbucks cup pointedly sitting next to it. Ianto collected the mugs in silence, washed them and put them away before going to Jack’s table to pick up the last mug. He was rather dreading what he might see.
An empty cup. And a post-it note, which wasn’t exactly what he’d expected.
8) Scarily intelligent. He stared at the words blankly, before realisation dawned on him. The post-it came off the mug easily; he folded it and slipped it into his wallet, then settled down with paperwork from the month before. It would be some hours yet before the others got back - he’d make another round of coffee then and see if the overture was accepted this time.
But when the team returned from Jasmine’s, they each went straight to their stations, packing up their things and steadily refusing to even look in Jack’s direction. Jack leaned against the wall and watched them, his eyes tired and old. Ianto decided that it might not be the best time to offer coffee, and poured what he’d made into a thermos to take home. The tracker bracelet still on his wrist tapped quietly against the flask.
“You were right about him,” Gwen said to Ianto as she left. Jack flinched, then turned and went into his office.
Monster.
Once they’d left, Ianto checked on the computers. The Rift was quiet, and none of their monitors were picking up anything of import. Just to be certain, he ran through the police communications, and when that turned up clear, he set the computers on standby and powered down the rest of the Hub.
Chamomile tea, he decided. Caffeine was hardly what Jack needed at that point. He spooned in a generous amount of honey and stirred it slowly, peeking over at Jack’s closed office door every so often. He left the tea alone for a minute to take the edge of the heat off, somewhere between hot and warm, the way Jack liked his drinks. After a moment’s thought, he found a few of the shortbread biscuits Rhiannon had given him, leftovers from lunch, and arranged them on a plate.
He kept the knock as quiet as he could, and entered without waiting for the response he knew wouldn’t come. Jack was sitting at his desk, arms folded on the table and head resting on them, turned to the side as he watched Ianto enter. Ianto set the tea and warm biscuits on the table, then slid his hands across the wood, up Jack’s arm and onto his shoulders.
“Stand up,” he murmured. It took a moment, but Jack obeyed. He slipped the greatcoat from his Captain’s shoulders, Jack rolling them automatically, the familiar action settling into his gut like an ache. He busied himself with hanging up and straightening the coat, brushing it clean before he dared to turn around.
Jack was toying with one of the biscuits, turning it over and over between two fingers, heedless of the flaking crumbs or the fact that his fingers were growing slippery with butter. He looked up, pinning Ianto in place with a look.
“Why?” he asked.
You’re the biggest monster of them all!
You were right about him.
What else could I have done?
Leaders are there to be hated, not loved.
You shouldn’t be here (this isn’t the place for you).
“Because I was wrong,” Ianto said, and with a nod of acknowledgement, left the room as quietly as he’d entered.
In the morning, there was a bright pink post-it note on his coffee maker. How did you know I like my tea honey-sweetened? it said. Biscuits were good. Look in the fridge.
In the refrigerator was a box of dark chocolate, another post-it on it. 15) Always knows how to make me feel better. Ianto added both post-its to the first in his wallet, then turned the box over to check - eighty percent cocoa, the packaging proclaimed, exactly the kind he liked, and something like warmth began to unfurl in him.
Jack was many things. Subtle was not one of those things.
Ianto loaded the SUV with camping gear, checking each item off his mental list as he did so. There would be places along the way where they could buy some food, but Owen could put a five-year-old to shame when driving for long periods of time, so in went the snacks. And marshmallows. Couldn’t camp out without marshmallows. Then the tents, and wet-weather gear, and some of their equipment, but pared down to the bare essentials because whatever excuses Jack gave, this wasn’t a working trip.
He wondered why Jack had invited him along on what was essentially a team-bonding exercise. Making a statement, perhaps? But the others were clearly still uneasy around him - only Tosh, sweet Tosh, had made anything remotely resembling an overture of friendship towards him. What exactly was Jack hoping to accomplish? There were so many ways this could go wrong, so many ways he could get further estranged from the others. If he made himself useful, perhaps they’d at least tolerate him. Food, drink, shelter, plan out the route, be helpful (in the background as always, no point antagonising them with his presence, even if the way they seemed to so easily ignore him still hurt), and maybe, maybe, eventually…
It was funny, Ianto thought, how he’d once liked driving through the countryside. How he’d been fond of the Brecon Beacons, once upon a time. He pulled the blanket he’d been given tighter around himself, watching as the paramedics checked Gwen over. The shot apparently hadn’t hit anything vital - a lucky break, as it were. God knew they were overdue for some good luck that day. Just for a change. He tried to stop his teeth from chattering, and found that he couldn’t.
Make a list, he thought. What list? Why I’m never going out into the country again? 1) Cannibals. 2) Cannibals. 3) Cannibals.
He looked over at where Owen and Jack were deep in discussion, out of earshot of the rest of them. So. New list. 1) Jack. 2) Lisa would have wanted it. 3) Tosh, maybe; at least she’s trying to understand. 4) Is there a 4? Mam’s bara lafwr. God, I’m shallow. Not like I’m likely to ever have it again. 5) Don’t want to die. Not anymore. Why’s that? 6) Torchwood would bloody fall apart. 7) Jack needs me. Does he?
He focused on Jack’s silhouette, the shape of his greatcoat. It was easier than having to think.
“Cracked ribs, a concussion, and enough deep bruising that he’ll need to be kept under observation, make sure there’re no internal blood clots or anything,” Owen said. “Gwen’s shocky, but now she’s wrapped up she’s not in any danger. Same with Tosh. I’ve talked to the EMTs, threw the Torchwood name around a bit - they’ll bring us straight through to Cardiff. Let them do what they can for Ianto, and I’ll bring in the Bekaran deep-tissue scanner once they’re done and do my own check.”
“Is he actually willing to go in the ambulance?” Jack asked, glancing over at Ianto. The younger man was sitting huddled under a blanket, trying and failing to hide his flinch every time a medic moved a little too quickly near him.
“He’s said it’s okay, but the kid’s terrified,” Owen said. “I can drive the girls back...”
Jack nodded at Owen. “Right. I’ll go with Ianto. Take care of them.” He pulled an embarrassed Owen into a tight hug, then moved over to where Gwen and Tosh were curled up together to tell them the plan.
“He saved my life,” Tosh said, eyes wide and panicked. “He threw himself at that guy to give me time to get away, he had to have known he couldn’t - he wouldn’t -”
“He loves… intensely. And he does love us,” Jack said softly, and kissed first Tosh, then Gwen on the forehead. “Go with Owen, okay? I’ll make sure Yan’s okay.” He helped them get situated, then hurried off towards the ambulance and Ianto.
“Mind if I come with?” Jack asked, smiling at Ianto and pretending not to notice the pathetic gratefulness in those blue eyes. “Come on, sweetheart, the sooner we get going the sooner we get back into Cardiff.”
Ianto refused to let go of his hand all throughout the ride. That was fine by Jack. He didn’t particularly want to let go either.
In the hospital, Jack bullied his way into being allowed to stay with Ianto. Gwen and Tosh were both checked out and allowed to go home (they wanted Gwen to stay for observation, but she insisted on going home), though both stopped by to look in on their youngest team-mate before leaving. Jack made sure he gave each of them a long hug, trying to say as much with it as possible - I’m sorry I was too late, I’m so glad I wasn’t too late. Then Owen got back from the Hub with the Bekaran scanner, and conducted his own check-up on Ianto. Owen’s assurance that Ianto hadn’t suffered anything worse than the cracked ribs went a long way in soothing Jack’s mind.
“Go home, get some rest,” Jack murmured as Owen started packing up. “You lot have the day off tomorrow. Don’t argue,” he said firmly as Owen opened his mouth. “You have tomorrow off, and you can decide if you want to come in the day after. If you don’t, call and let me know. And Owen - thanks.”
“Fine,” Owen said grudgingly. “You staying with the tea-boy then?”
“Yeah,” Jack said softly, eyes wandering back inexorably to the deep blue-black welts covering the majority of Ianto’s body. “I’m staying.”
“Welcome back, sleeping beauty,” Jack whispered, watching with interest as pale blue eyes scrunched up in protest against the light before reluctantly fluttering open again.
“I do -” Ianto tried, then stopped to swallow a couple of times. It hurt to swallow, he noted, and did it once more for good measure. “I doubt I look particularly beautiful at the moment.”
“You’ve just woken up and already you’re being snarky,” Jack observed. “You must be feeling better.”
The ghost of a smile tugged at Ianto’s lips. “Time?” he asked.
“Doesn’t matter,” Jack told him. “You’re not going anywhere today. This -” he tapped his wristband, “- will redirect any major Rift alerts to me, and I’ll take care of it. You just focus on getting better.”
“Am I at least allowed to go to the loo?” Ianto asked dryly, then watched in fascination as his boss doubled over in laughter.
Ianto slipped off to the washroom as Jack tried to catch his breath. He wasn’t going to ask, he decided as he brushed his teeth and tried not to wince as toothpaste got in the small cuts near his mouth. He’d file Jack under C for Crazy, pretend not to notice the tinge of hysteria and terror in Jack’s laughter, and leave it at that.
Breakfast was on the table when Ianto exited the bathroom. Jack had thoughtfully avoided anything to do with meat. Ianto spontaneously decided that he’d go vegetarian, at least for a while. Until he didn’t feel like throwing up at the thought of meat.
Jack sat next to Ianto instead of opposite him. As Ianto diligently worked his way through his cereal, he felt a leg press up against his tentatively. After a moment’s thought, he returned the slight pressure, and didn’t move away. Next to him, Jack relaxed minutely.
“I just wanted a day off to relax,” Jack told him later as he carded his fingers through Ianto’s hair. Ianto lay there with his eyes closed, wondering if Jack thought he was asleep. He suspected so. “For the others too, but mostly for you, to get you out of the Hub, show you how much you mean to me, how important you are.” A pause, then a sigh. “May not have been my best idea.” The fingers stopped moving abruptly, and he heard fingers tapping against leather. Then warm, smooth lips pressed gently against his forehead, and Jack’s weight lifted away from the bed.
“Good night, sweetheart,” Jack whispered. “Duty calls and all that. I’ll try and be back soon. Rest up.”
Once he heard the flat door click shut, the paranoia started creeping up on him. He shoved his hand under the pillow and grabbed the book there. Deep breaths, he told himself, and eventually fell asleep clutching the book like a talisman.
He was surprised the next morning to find that he hadn’t dreamt at all. On the table next to his phone, scribbled on the top sheet of the notepad he kept for taking phone messages, was a line in Jack’s distinctive handwriting: 3) So incredibly brave.
Ianto thought that Tosh had rather forgiven him for almost getting her killed. It was sort of made up for by the fact that he’d nearly gotten himself killed trying to save her life. And yet, her wide-eyed glances at him (did she think she was being subtle?) grated on him. She looked - torn, like she wanted to say something but couldn’t, like something was bothering her about Ianto.
He counted off each time she looked at him like that, trying to think through everything he did, trying to figure out what might have triggered those looks, and slowly came to a disturbing conclusion. Torchwood London might have been a victim of its own hubris, but a few of its policies had been useful. Ianto dredged up every bit of psychic training he could remember (including what he’d discovered on his own via trial and error) and shielded his mind thoroughly, wondering as he did so if he wasn’t being paranoid. Later, he found out that he wasn’t.
Try as he might, he couldn’t get angry at Tosh for infringing on his (everyone’s) privacy like she had. Some things, he thought to himself, some things that people think, are not things you want to know.
Mary died. Ianto watched Tosh’s face, watched it crumble, felt his heart ache for her.
Loving someone isn’t a crime. And whatever they are (were), it hurts so much to lose them.
Feels like this is all I am now. There isn’t an inch of me that doesn’t hurt.
He’s not doing so well. I didn’t realise how much he was actually hurting.
It had been an eventful day, and Gwen and Owen were in rather a hurry to leave. Ianto eyed them speculatively. That could prove to be problematic. He binned the rubbish that had been left behind, tidying up Owen’s workstation and collecting the empty coffee mugs on the tables.
The alarms blared briefly as Tosh finally left after talking to Jack about what had happened. Captain Jack Harkness, occasional psychologist, Ianto thought as he rinsed and dried the mugs. There was a terrifying thought.
“I’m gonna grab something to eat,” Jack told Ianto. “Want to come with?”
Ianto put the mugs back in the cupboard and glanced around. There really wasn’t anything else left to do.
“Chippy?” he suggested. Jack snagged Ianto’s coat off the chair and stepped up, swinging it around him and settling it into place with a mischievous look on his face. Ianto raised an eyebrow and allowed the gesture without complaint.
“Sounds good,” Jack agreed. “Anywhere in particular?”
“Fryday Nights?” Ianto offered.
“Never heard of it, but okay. Lead the way,” Jack said, and followed Ianto out into the brisk night air.
They got takeaway from the shop and sat on benches by the Bay, overlooking the water. The food was quite good, Jack noted with mild surprise. It had been a while since he’d had fish and chips that actually made his mouth water, and he delved into the meal with gusto. Ianto, he noticed, pushed the fish around reluctantly to begin with, but after the first few bites of fresh cod, began eating with more enthusiasm.
“You can ask,” Ianto said abruptly, halfway through their meal. Jack paused with a chip in the air, then popped it into his mouth and chewed slowly. In retrospect, he supposed it was kind of obvious - and if there was one thing Ianto Jones wasn’t, it was an idiot.
“How’ve you been holding up?” he asked.
“As well as can be expected,” Ianto said candidly. “Which is to say not very well. But I’m surviving, and that’s all - more -” He stopped there and frowned at his food.
“More than you thought possible,” Jack supplied. “Eat.”
Ianto lifted the fork automatically, pink lips closing around white flakes. “I still can’t eat red meat,” he said once he’d swallowed.
“Neither can Tosh,” Jack told him, polishing off the last of his food. He stood up and took his trash over to a dustbin, using the moment to try and figure out what the hell he could possibly say to Ianto. To his poor, broken, beautiful Welshman.
“When does the living begin?” Ianto inquired when Jack returned.
“When the grieving ends,” Jack replied.
“And how long does that take?”
“As long as it takes.” Before he could think too much about it, Jack slid right up next to Ianto, wrapped an arm around his shoulder, and rested his head on his shoulder. Ianto didn’t miss a beat, shifting enough to let Jack find a comfortable position while he continued to eat.
“It helps if you find something else to hold on to,” Jack offered after a few minutes of silence. “Not to replace the old - just - something new.” He tilted his head up a little to look at Ianto. “It’s not too late if you decide you want to leave Torchwood. I won’t Retcon you… unless you want me to. You could have a normal life.”
“At this stage, I don’t really believe that’s an option,” Ianto said.
“It could be.”
“But I don’t want it to be.”
Jack dropped his eyes back to the waters of Cardiff Bay. They were infinitely safer to look at than Ianto’s eyes. His head-rest moved under him as Ianto finished his meal and gathered the trash together, then stayed where he was instead of going to toss it.
“I feel like I should be offering sage advice,” Jack said eventually. “But I have no idea what to say.”
“Does it get any easier?” Ianto asked.
“Eventually it’ll hurt less,” Jack said. “It never goes away completely. You never get used to it.”
“I expect that if you did, you’d stop being human,” Ianto said, his voice oddly gentle.
“You’re probably right,” Jack agreed. He angled towards Ianto, wrapping his other arm around Ianto’s waist and burying his face in his shoulder. After a moment, Ianto turned towards him, resting his cheek against Jack’s hair.
“My something new,” Ianto said. “It could be work.”
“Torchwood’s taken enough from you,” Jack insisted to Ianto’s jacket collar. “Pick something else, anything.”
“It could be you.”
Jack pulled back a little to look straight at Ianto. “You’re not still feeling that concussion, are you?”
That drew a tiny smile out of Ianto. “No.”
“Then you’re sick?”
“Also no. It could be you.”
“It’s not been that long since you wanted me to die,” Jack pointed out, bracing himself to be shoved away violently.
“I never did,” Ianto said. “I wanted you to feel some of what I did - but that’s ridiculous, of course, you’ve felt it and more.”
“Not ‘and more,’” Jack said quietly. “It’s not quantifiable.”
“But even when I said it, I didn’t want you to die. I hated you, but I didn’t want you to die. Not,” Ianto added. “That you can.”
Jack huffed a laugh. “Yes, I can,” he said. “It just doesn’t stick.”
“Does it hurt, coming back?” Ianto asked.
“Usually even more than dying,” Jack replied. “Like - like being raked over broken glass. But it fades quickly. Mostly. Depends on how I die.”
Ianto fell silent. “This,” he finally said. “Is such a surreal conversation. Even for Torchwood. How long does it take for you to come back?”
“Again, depends on how I died,” Jack said, grinning at the mildly discomfited look on Ianto’s face. “The more violent the death, the longer it takes. The wounds have to heal up first, see. Sometimes I come back to life while I’m still healing, but then I’m not of much use until I’m healthy again. If I’m tired, or I’ve just come back from another death, it takes longer.”
“So, no averages?” Ianto asked.
“I usually have other things on my mind than timing it,” Jack pointed out. “You could always time me with that pretty stopwatch you have.”
Ianto fished it out of his pocket. “My grandfather had one like this,” he said quietly. “I loved that old thing. When he died, he bequeathed it to my father. When my father died… we had to sell some of our things to cover the debts. The stopwatch was one of those things. I… tried a lot to get it back.”
“The shoplifting,” Jack remembered.
“And it didn’t work, obviously,” Ianto said. “In the end, I bought a cheap copy and tried to keep track of the original. I wanted to buy it back when I could, but what with everything - I don’t know where it is now. My grandfather used to show me the inscription on the inside - Dwi’n caru ti - and tell me about how he met my grandmother. She gave it to him on their twenty-fifth anniversary. Died the week after. Car accident.”
Jack reached up to wrap a hand around Ianto’s, enclosing the stopwatch within both their grips.
“He’d let me use it sometimes,” Ianto went on in a hushed voice. “I loved just pressing the button, feeling the weight of it, watching the time tick by. I’d time all sorts of things with it. How long it took him to sew a full suit. How long it took to take each customer’s measurements. How long till he asked me to fetch him something from the back-room. Something about the wait, the precision, made everything better in the end.”
“It’s you,” Jack murmured. “Neat, ordered. It’s the falling apart that hurts the most, isn’t it?”
“It is,” Ianto said. “But everything falls apart eventually.”
He wanted to open up, wanted to share the burden with someone who could understand. His choice of confidante wasn’t as peculiar as the others evidently thought. Jack would know things without Ianto having to spell them out, because he’d been through the same things. And because, however differently they acted, they both reacted to trauma in similar ways.
Lock it up, shut down.
And so Jack would know how to open him back up. The problem was that Ianto didn’t know where to begin. He let a little of his real personality slip through, tried to make himself useful (amnesia pill count, water towers, Not Laughing as Jack spoke to Detective Swanson). He quietly and unobtrusively took over the more unpleasant duties as they struggled to find out what Suzie was up to. And he saw the look in Jack’s eyes when they finally figured it out.
He’s broken too, Ianto noted. Broken all this while and yet he’s been trying to fix me.
At the very least, he could ensure that the clean-up went smoothly. He left Suzie’s body for last, manoeuvring it back into the cryogenic chamber it had been occupying for the past few months. What did it take for a person to decide that killing other people was the only way to survive; that that was a life worth living?
She was lost a long time ago.
Suzie Costello, she who took her coffee black and strong, and had a taste for sex and children’s movies (not at the same time). Ianto had never liked the hardness in her eyes (had never liked the way she took to that damned Glove, the same Glove that had tugged at him, but painfully, terrifyingly, so much so that he’d hidden his connection to it, just in case Jack had decided to ask him to try it out) but she had never been overtly antagonistic. And she’d ignored him, like they all had, and so it didn’t matter that he couldn’t get inside her head, couldn’t anticipate her needs the way he could for the others (for Jack). He’d thought that his uneasiness around her was simply due to his inability to read her (he’d always been able to read people, dammit), but now - now, with the perfect vision of hindsight, he couldn’t help but wonder.
Footsteps, echoing in the cavernous room. The stride, although slower than it usually was, was clearly Jack’s.
“One day, we’re gonna run out of space.”
So very hurt, those eyes, and Ianto realised abruptly that Jack was letting him in. Was letting him see the real pain behind the mask.
And there are other things I’d like to tell you, if we ever feel like we could trust each other implicitly again.
Sex isn’t - well, it isn’t just sex. It’s feeling, it’s connection. It’s just… the warmth, the physicality, knowing the other so intimately. Makes things better, somehow. Bearable.
Ianto looked at Jack and considered his options, the clipboard reassuringly solid and weighty in his hand. Over Suzie’s corpse was perhaps not the best place for it, but he had to do it before he lost his nerve.
“If you’re interested,” he told Jack. “I’ve still got that stopwatch.”
Part Two