Fic: Hidden - Chapter 27/31
Title: Hidden
Rating: R/MA - contains violence, language and sexual references.
Length: ~48,000 words
Characters/pairings: Ianto, Jack, Gwen, OCs, mention of Rhys, Tosh and Owen. Jack/Ianto.
Disclaimer: The OCs are mine, anyone and anything you recognise from Torchwood belongs to the BBC.
Notes: Anything up to 'Exit Wounds' for Torchwood, with reference to the events of 'The Stolen Earth' and 'Journey's End' for Doctor Who. AU. Oh so very AU. Even more so once series three starts.
Thanks to: the lovely cazmalfoy and et_muse for beta-reading and general poking.
Summary: 'This is Torchwood Three...Torchwood Four's kinda gone missing, but we'll find it one day.' Torchwood One wasn't the first job Ianto had - wasn't the first Torchwood branch he worked for. Now his past is coming back to put everyone he loves in danger.
Chapter One - Chapter Two - Chapter Three - Chapter Four - Chapter Five - Chapter Six - Chapter Seven - Chapter Eight - Chapter Nine - Chapter Ten - Chapter Eleven - Chapter Twelve - Chapter Thirteen - Chapter Fourteen - Chapter Fifteen - Chapter Sixteen - Chapter Seventeen - Chapter Eighteen - Chapter Nineteen - Chapter Twenty - Chapter Twenty-One - Chapter Twenty-Two - Chapter Twenty-Three - Chapter Twenty-Four - Chapter Twenty-Five - Chapter Twenty-Six
Ianto leaned against the outside wall of the headquarters of Torchwood Four. His feet were planted flat on the ground, his knees were bent, and his hands rested on his knees. The suit he wore - dark and pinstriped, one of Jack's favourites - was ruined. The red of his shirt had been turned to rust by the blood that soaked his clothing. His hands were coated in blood, drying to itchy brown, but he made no move to wipe them on his clothing or on the grass he sat on.
He stared ahead, expression blank and eyes empty. He was waiting, but he couldn't say for what.
The building at his back was in turmoil. The senior members of Torchwood Four were dead, without exception, and those remaining were mostly suffering from extreme headaches, the result of Ianto reaching into their minds and pinning them down, keeping them from acting against him as he rampaged.
Ianto hadn't realised before exactly how powerful he was. He had gained control over his abilities so rapidly that it hadn't given him a chance to comprehend just what he could do. Now he had no choice but to think about it; he had done something so awful that he didn't know how he would ever come to terms with it. In four years of being one of Torchwood Four's assassins, he had never killed so many people at once.
He tried to tell himself that they had deserved it, but he knew the truth. It had been revenge, pure and simple, and if he had any energy left at all, he knew he would be vomiting. But his body had all but shut down. He sat, staring at nothing, waiting for something.
“Sir?”
Ianto didn't turn his head. Whoever was speaking would go away soon enough, he was sure. If they didn't already know who he was, they would soon enough. Someone would drag the speaker away and educate them on the dangers of talking to Ianto Jones.
Because he was dangerous.
“Sir? Sir, are you alright?”
Ianto blinked and slowly lifted his head as a shadow fell across him. The speaker was a young man, barely more than a boy, probably a little younger than Anwen. He looked innocent and lost, dressed in jeans and a t-shirt. His nose was bleeding.
“Don't call me sir,” said Ianto eventually, his voice rough and quiet.
“Oh, I -” The young man stuttered and kicked at the grass with one foot. “Um. Sorry. I just - do you know what's going on?”
Ianto stared at him for a long moment, and then he laughed. He laughed and laughed and then he rolled onto his side and gagged on bile.
“Hey, look, you need a doctor or something,” said the young man, crouching down. “Just stay here, I think I saw Dr Rathbone -”
“No,” Ianto managed, flinging out a hand and grabbing hold of the youth's arm to stop him leaving. “No, no doctors.”
“A glass of water or something,” the youth tried to persuade him. “You're not looking good, whatever happened - “
“Whatever happened?” Ianto said, interrupting him again. He looked up incredulously and gave a small shake of his head. “You don't get it, do you?” The boy frowned, opened his mouth to answer, but Ianto leaned back against the wall and waved a hand tiredly. “I happened. I'm the one that did all of this.”
The youth fell backwards out of his crouch, shaking his head in shock.
“But - all those people - “ he stammered. “You can't have. Nobody's that powerful.”
“I am,” said Ianto, putting his hands back on his knees. “Go on. Tell them that Ianto Jones is here, tell them I won't fight. Tell them whatever you want.” He lowered his eyes, looking down at his blood-stained hands. “I don't care anymore.”
He didn't look up as the young man scrambled away, first on hands and knees and then on his feet. Whatever was coming, he deserved it. He had killed dozens of people. The entire senior staff of Torchwood Four, and handfuls of people in the past under their orders. He deserved whatever punishment they decided to give him.
Even though it would no doubt mean his death.
It was a long time before anyone else approached, but Ianto was only dimly aware of the passage of time. When at last he looked up, the sky was growing dark and his suit was stiff with dried blood.
He didn't know the woman who was waiting for him to acknowledge her, but it didn't matter. He struggled to his feet, using the wall to prop himself up, and then he faced her.
“Ianto Jones?” she queried, and he nodded wearily. “I'm Natasha Harding. I...I worked with Abby Deed before she retired.”
“Abby?” said Ianto in surprise. His thoughts flew to his friend; he could scarcely believe how much had happened since John Marshall had shot her.
“She talked about you a lot,” nodded Natasha. Her hands were restless, clasped together one moment and then moving to rest on her hips in the next. “I'm right, aren't I? You did all this?”
“All of this,” Ianto echoed. He turned his head to look around, ignoring the aching muscles that screamed in protest at moving after so long. “All of this,” he repeated. The dead had been pulled from the building, dragged or carried and laid out in neat lines on the lawn in front of the stately building that housed Torchwood Four. Five rows of six bodies, their faces covered with coats or jackets or blankets - whatever people had been able to find.
“Yes,” he said at last. “I did...all of this.”
“I thought so.” Natasha didn't attempt to come closer, something Ianto was grateful for. He didn't think he could cope with touch right now, whether that touch was pejorative or sympathetic. There was nothing in his stomach, but he felt close to being sick regardless.
“Well,” said Natasha after a long moment of silence, broken only by the sounds of the other Torchwood Four employees, drifting in and out of the house. “I seem to be the most senior member of Torchwood Four remaining.”
“I'm so pleased for you,” Ianto muttered. “Congratulations on your promotion.” He wondered, just for a moment, whether he should get on his knees and place his hands behind his head. He had knelt like that once before, when once before he had betrayed Torchwood. It was a different Torchwood though, and that made him think of Jack.
He didn't want to think of Jack, not now. Not yet. Not before he knew whether he would be getting out of this alive.
“As temporary head of Torchwood Four,” said Natasha, ignoring his moment of self-pity, “I'm promoting you.”
Ianto blinked rapidly and looked at her with a frown. “Uh, what?” he said, not quite sure what she meant. “Sorry, what?”
“I don't want to be in charge,” Natasha told him with a shrug. “I'm certainly not powerful enough to be in charge of this lot. I have no authority. All I've got is precognition and the ability to make coffee.” Ianto had to smile at that, just a little. “I don't want the job,” Natasha went on. “You just killed thirty people, Ianto Jones. With your mind alone. Your talents, from what I've seen, are fairly unlimited.”
“I don't want -”
“Tough,” said Natasha unsympathetically. “You're the best person for the job.”
“I killed them all,” snapped Ianto. “And you want me to take over?”
“Someone has to,” said Natasha. A young man approached - the same youth who had tried to help Ianto earlier - and handed her a folder before retreating swiftly. “This is a list of all current employees,” she told Ianto. “Including those who are semi-retired. These people need someone to look after them, Ianto. You know how risky it would be, to let a bunch of psychics loose without proper guidance.”
“There's a thing called a conscience,” Ianto retorted. “Not to mention self-determination.”
“Oh, sure, but what about all the new people cropping up with abilities?” she contested. “What about people like your sister?”
Ianto snatched the folder out of her hands. “You know nothing about my sister,” he muttered, flipping through pages. Faces sprung out at him, names that he knew, and he felt even more sick now. He swore under his breath, and then looked up at Natasha. “I never wanted any of this,” he said. “I didn't want any of this to happen.”
“Tough luck, kid,” she said cheerfully. “Life sucks. Get over it.”
He looked at her for a long moment and then sighed. “Precog?” he checked. She nodded. “Don't suppose you know what I'm going to do next?”
The smile she gave him was sympathetic. “Where's the fun in me telling you, Ianto Jones?”
* * *
Chapter Twenty_Eight
Comments are looooove. Nearly there, people!
Rating: R/MA - contains violence, language and sexual references.
Length: ~48,000 words
Characters/pairings: Ianto, Jack, Gwen, OCs, mention of Rhys, Tosh and Owen. Jack/Ianto.
Disclaimer: The OCs are mine, anyone and anything you recognise from Torchwood belongs to the BBC.
Notes: Anything up to 'Exit Wounds' for Torchwood, with reference to the events of 'The Stolen Earth' and 'Journey's End' for Doctor Who. AU. Oh so very AU. Even more so once series three starts.
Thanks to: the lovely cazmalfoy and et_muse for beta-reading and general poking.
Summary: 'This is Torchwood Three...Torchwood Four's kinda gone missing, but we'll find it one day.' Torchwood One wasn't the first job Ianto had - wasn't the first Torchwood branch he worked for. Now his past is coming back to put everyone he loves in danger.
Chapter One - Chapter Two - Chapter Three - Chapter Four - Chapter Five - Chapter Six - Chapter Seven - Chapter Eight - Chapter Nine - Chapter Ten - Chapter Eleven - Chapter Twelve - Chapter Thirteen - Chapter Fourteen - Chapter Fifteen - Chapter Sixteen - Chapter Seventeen - Chapter Eighteen - Chapter Nineteen - Chapter Twenty - Chapter Twenty-One - Chapter Twenty-Two - Chapter Twenty-Three - Chapter Twenty-Four - Chapter Twenty-Five - Chapter Twenty-Six
Ianto leaned against the outside wall of the headquarters of Torchwood Four. His feet were planted flat on the ground, his knees were bent, and his hands rested on his knees. The suit he wore - dark and pinstriped, one of Jack's favourites - was ruined. The red of his shirt had been turned to rust by the blood that soaked his clothing. His hands were coated in blood, drying to itchy brown, but he made no move to wipe them on his clothing or on the grass he sat on.
He stared ahead, expression blank and eyes empty. He was waiting, but he couldn't say for what.
The building at his back was in turmoil. The senior members of Torchwood Four were dead, without exception, and those remaining were mostly suffering from extreme headaches, the result of Ianto reaching into their minds and pinning them down, keeping them from acting against him as he rampaged.
Ianto hadn't realised before exactly how powerful he was. He had gained control over his abilities so rapidly that it hadn't given him a chance to comprehend just what he could do. Now he had no choice but to think about it; he had done something so awful that he didn't know how he would ever come to terms with it. In four years of being one of Torchwood Four's assassins, he had never killed so many people at once.
He tried to tell himself that they had deserved it, but he knew the truth. It had been revenge, pure and simple, and if he had any energy left at all, he knew he would be vomiting. But his body had all but shut down. He sat, staring at nothing, waiting for something.
“Sir?”
Ianto didn't turn his head. Whoever was speaking would go away soon enough, he was sure. If they didn't already know who he was, they would soon enough. Someone would drag the speaker away and educate them on the dangers of talking to Ianto Jones.
Because he was dangerous.
“Sir? Sir, are you alright?”
Ianto blinked and slowly lifted his head as a shadow fell across him. The speaker was a young man, barely more than a boy, probably a little younger than Anwen. He looked innocent and lost, dressed in jeans and a t-shirt. His nose was bleeding.
“Don't call me sir,” said Ianto eventually, his voice rough and quiet.
“Oh, I -” The young man stuttered and kicked at the grass with one foot. “Um. Sorry. I just - do you know what's going on?”
Ianto stared at him for a long moment, and then he laughed. He laughed and laughed and then he rolled onto his side and gagged on bile.
“Hey, look, you need a doctor or something,” said the young man, crouching down. “Just stay here, I think I saw Dr Rathbone -”
“No,” Ianto managed, flinging out a hand and grabbing hold of the youth's arm to stop him leaving. “No, no doctors.”
“A glass of water or something,” the youth tried to persuade him. “You're not looking good, whatever happened - “
“Whatever happened?” Ianto said, interrupting him again. He looked up incredulously and gave a small shake of his head. “You don't get it, do you?” The boy frowned, opened his mouth to answer, but Ianto leaned back against the wall and waved a hand tiredly. “I happened. I'm the one that did all of this.”
The youth fell backwards out of his crouch, shaking his head in shock.
“But - all those people - “ he stammered. “You can't have. Nobody's that powerful.”
“I am,” said Ianto, putting his hands back on his knees. “Go on. Tell them that Ianto Jones is here, tell them I won't fight. Tell them whatever you want.” He lowered his eyes, looking down at his blood-stained hands. “I don't care anymore.”
He didn't look up as the young man scrambled away, first on hands and knees and then on his feet. Whatever was coming, he deserved it. He had killed dozens of people. The entire senior staff of Torchwood Four, and handfuls of people in the past under their orders. He deserved whatever punishment they decided to give him.
Even though it would no doubt mean his death.
It was a long time before anyone else approached, but Ianto was only dimly aware of the passage of time. When at last he looked up, the sky was growing dark and his suit was stiff with dried blood.
He didn't know the woman who was waiting for him to acknowledge her, but it didn't matter. He struggled to his feet, using the wall to prop himself up, and then he faced her.
“Ianto Jones?” she queried, and he nodded wearily. “I'm Natasha Harding. I...I worked with Abby Deed before she retired.”
“Abby?” said Ianto in surprise. His thoughts flew to his friend; he could scarcely believe how much had happened since John Marshall had shot her.
“She talked about you a lot,” nodded Natasha. Her hands were restless, clasped together one moment and then moving to rest on her hips in the next. “I'm right, aren't I? You did all this?”
“All of this,” Ianto echoed. He turned his head to look around, ignoring the aching muscles that screamed in protest at moving after so long. “All of this,” he repeated. The dead had been pulled from the building, dragged or carried and laid out in neat lines on the lawn in front of the stately building that housed Torchwood Four. Five rows of six bodies, their faces covered with coats or jackets or blankets - whatever people had been able to find.
“Yes,” he said at last. “I did...all of this.”
“I thought so.” Natasha didn't attempt to come closer, something Ianto was grateful for. He didn't think he could cope with touch right now, whether that touch was pejorative or sympathetic. There was nothing in his stomach, but he felt close to being sick regardless.
“Well,” said Natasha after a long moment of silence, broken only by the sounds of the other Torchwood Four employees, drifting in and out of the house. “I seem to be the most senior member of Torchwood Four remaining.”
“I'm so pleased for you,” Ianto muttered. “Congratulations on your promotion.” He wondered, just for a moment, whether he should get on his knees and place his hands behind his head. He had knelt like that once before, when once before he had betrayed Torchwood. It was a different Torchwood though, and that made him think of Jack.
He didn't want to think of Jack, not now. Not yet. Not before he knew whether he would be getting out of this alive.
“As temporary head of Torchwood Four,” said Natasha, ignoring his moment of self-pity, “I'm promoting you.”
Ianto blinked rapidly and looked at her with a frown. “Uh, what?” he said, not quite sure what she meant. “Sorry, what?”
“I don't want to be in charge,” Natasha told him with a shrug. “I'm certainly not powerful enough to be in charge of this lot. I have no authority. All I've got is precognition and the ability to make coffee.” Ianto had to smile at that, just a little. “I don't want the job,” Natasha went on. “You just killed thirty people, Ianto Jones. With your mind alone. Your talents, from what I've seen, are fairly unlimited.”
“I don't want -”
“Tough,” said Natasha unsympathetically. “You're the best person for the job.”
“I killed them all,” snapped Ianto. “And you want me to take over?”
“Someone has to,” said Natasha. A young man approached - the same youth who had tried to help Ianto earlier - and handed her a folder before retreating swiftly. “This is a list of all current employees,” she told Ianto. “Including those who are semi-retired. These people need someone to look after them, Ianto. You know how risky it would be, to let a bunch of psychics loose without proper guidance.”
“There's a thing called a conscience,” Ianto retorted. “Not to mention self-determination.”
“Oh, sure, but what about all the new people cropping up with abilities?” she contested. “What about people like your sister?”
Ianto snatched the folder out of her hands. “You know nothing about my sister,” he muttered, flipping through pages. Faces sprung out at him, names that he knew, and he felt even more sick now. He swore under his breath, and then looked up at Natasha. “I never wanted any of this,” he said. “I didn't want any of this to happen.”
“Tough luck, kid,” she said cheerfully. “Life sucks. Get over it.”
He looked at her for a long moment and then sighed. “Precog?” he checked. She nodded. “Don't suppose you know what I'm going to do next?”
The smile she gave him was sympathetic. “Where's the fun in me telling you, Ianto Jones?”
* * *
Chapter Twenty_Eight
Comments are looooove. Nearly there, people!