Fic: Que Samsara, Sera
Title: Que Samsara, Sera
Author: valderys
Recipient: wicca_faith_fi
Pairing: Jack/Ianto
Summary: ‘When all desire has vanished, a person will not be reborn anymore.’ Jack may be immortal, but Ianto Jones is nothing if not resourceful. If he can help it, Jack will never be alone again.
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Copyright for Torchwood and its characters belongs to the BBC, but I claim transformative use for them in this fic
Warnings/Spoilers: Temporary character death, and canon death. General spoilers for TW season 2, but nothing too specific. A bit angsty, but not rip-out-your-guts level :)
Word Count: 8,738
Beta: Anonymous
Ianto knows he won’t last long. Torchwood operatives never do, after all, and he’s read more than enough in the archives to realise that he’s not likely to be the exception that proves the rule. But now… Now that it’s come down to this he can’t…
“Jack,” he whispers, as blood dribbles down his chin, “Jack…”
But he can’t make himself talk above a whisper, and Jack is cradling his body close to his own chest, heedless, Ianto thinks, with a distant sort of wince, heedless of the blood staining his shirt or of Ianto’s own pain, and just who is going to clean all this mess up later? It won’t be Ianto himself, of that he’s pretty sure.
He wants to say to Jack - oh, all of the important things. Things he probably has said over the years, but not enough, not nearly enough. He suspects everyone thinks that at this moment. No-one ever says the things that matter until it’s too late - and Ianto is no exception to that either. He smiles a faint thready smile as the edges of his vision begin to turn black, and he sees Jack return it, and that’s almost enough. Jack knows how he feels. Although it hurts him, in a much less distant way, when he realises the warm rain he can feel on his face are Jack’s tears. Dammit. He thought he’s been able to say something, to tell Jack. But obviously not.
So the last thoughts Ianto Jones has, as he lays dying of some unpleasantly futuristic bullet, are ones of guilt. He’s protected Jack, loved Jack, for years, and yet he’s failed at the last. He’s going away, and he can’t explain, he can’t…
Jack will kill Ianto again himself, once he understands. Still, there’ll be time. All the time in the world.
***
“It’s called a temporal etheric reincarnater, or, as I like to call it, a Vishnu device,” says Ianto (or Ben, as his parents call him), as he stands in the office, a smart estate agency these days, and looks around. “I did explain. You did get my farewell message, didn’t you? I thought you’d look for one from me - you know - after Tosh that time. I felt sure you would.”
He knows that Jack can see him, it’s been sixteen years, technology has moved on, not gone backwards, so he knows there are cameras, he just can’t quite work out where they are. So he stands in the centre of the little office and admires the fresh clean lines of the place - much better than in his own time - and wishes he’d managed to persuade Jack years ago as to benefits of pastels in a soothing working environment.
He wonders briefly who did succeed in that particular objective, and is unsurprised to feel the stirrings of jealously crawling up his spine. There is always that problem, of course, that it takes a certain amount of time before Ianto can make himself known in any kind of legitimate way, and Jack could have moved on - probably has, thinks Ianto for the fiftieth or more time, it would be more than fair. He tells himself that he’s prepared for that, that he can’t expect anything else, that he can be a friend, or a colleague, and be supportive. Smile at the new boy, or girl, or creature, who warms Jack’s bed. Smile and prepare to outlive them - it is Torchwood, after all. No-one lasts forever, excepting Jack, and now, possibly, himself.
Smiling, Ianto lifts his chin, knowing he has acne, and blond hair, and is far too thin for his fifteen years, but also knowing he couldn’t make himself wait any longer, that Jack must accept him. Surely.
He’s still the same on the inside.
***
“Tell me where it is,” asks Jack, not for the first time, and Ianto laughs. The laugh turns into a cough, and he leans forward in the hospital bed as Jack rubs soothing circles on his back.
“I hate this part,” says Ianto, “And I’m going to hate adolescence even more. It was bad enough going through puberty the first time round, and this will be my third. The things I do for you.”
“Tell me where it is,” asks Jack, his eyes fond, his voice pleading, “You shouldn’t have to do this. It’s not right. I haven’t asked you to do anything.”
“Of course, you haven’t,” says Ianto, and ponders the wisdom of silence over pointless platitudes. He’s hardly going to tell Jack where he’s hidden the Vishnu device, not now. They’ve bickered over it for years, and Ianto has become quite fond of Jack appearing suddenly unannounced, oh, all over the place, in the hopes of catching him in the act, as it were.
As it is, the acts they have indulged in have had a little more of the avant-garde about them than maybe they once had. Ianto has always thought of himself as a quick learner, and he’s had two lifetimes now - short ones, but even so.
He smiles at Jack through the tears his cough has produced, and picks up Jack’s hand, as it lays on the blanket, running his fingers along the knuckles, marvelling at the lack of changes. Ianto’s got used to his current too thin flesh and bone, but he’s looking forward to something a bit meatier in the next lifetime, perhaps. Something he can hold Jack down with, somebody that can fuck him properly. It’s a little like Christmas Eve, except that it lasts a couple of decades. He wishes he could persuade Jack that this is his choice, that he doesn’t regret it.
“I’m not going to leave you alone,” says Ianto finally, and his voice is hoarse, from the drugs, and from the coughing. “You can’t make me.” And that’s what it comes down to, in the end.
Jack looks agonised, torn, and Ianto wishes he could make him understand. He’s not immortal, not like Jack, and he’s never going to be immortal. But the next best thing? That he can do.
“See you on the other side,” says Ianto, and lays back down and closes his eyes.
***
“No,” says Jack, through the speaker grille, again, “No, I am not going to see you.”
Ianto hunches his shoulders in the too large coat, before taking a breath and consciously relaxing. He is not a teenager. Not really. He refuses to act like one. He pushes his hair - fashionably long - behind his ears, before simply asking, “Why not?”
“Because…” And Ianto thinks he can hear a lifetime of emotion in the cracking syllables, “Because if you don’t see me, then you might realise how pointless this really is. You might get on and live your life, a real life, not another wasted one stuck down some hole in the ground with me.”
Ianto finds he’s clenched his fists so hard that he’s cut the skin on his palms. But he’s young, he’ll heal.
And he knows Jack. Knows that sound of finality, like a door shutting in his face, like the terrible voice that ordered him to shoot Lisa all those years ago. He wants to say, it’s not the same, there’s no possibility of an invasion this time, or opening up the human race to alien conversion; he just wants to live. He wants to live with Jack. But he knows Jack won’t listen.
“Fine,” says Ianto, “My birth name is Marco Silvia, I have a squint, and I’m left-handed. Those are the current changes. Nothing else has. But fine.”
He takes a breath, lets it out.
“I’m going to live my life now, so you can’t say I didn’t try it, you stubborn sod. But if you ever change your mind, I know you’ll be able to find me.” He pauses. “Please find me.”
Even though he knows how stubborn Jack really is, Ianto keeps hoping that Jack will change his mind. He never does. In the mean time, after a few years, Marco Silvia meets a nice girl. She reminds him startlingly of Lisa, and he nearly throws it all away. Instead, he marries her and they have three children; a boy and two girls. He loves them all very much, it surprises him exactly how much.
But every year, on Ianto Jones’ birthday, he still sends a postcard.
***
“Look,” says Ianto, desperate, trying not to let the fear show in his voice, “Will you please just let me in? I’m not armed, I’m not a spy, and I can prove it.”
He wonders how long it will be before they call Jack. He wonders if he’ll be really hurt before they do. He wonders if they’ll actually bother calling Jack, before they kill him.
Lives are cheap in a war zone like New Europe. It’s taken huge amounts of effort to get this far, and Ianto doesn’t want to wait another twenty years. He wishes, not for the first time, that he has some kind of control over the kind of body he gets born into. Or maybe the kind of time period. He must see if he can alter the settings.
The bunker’s door cracks open and Ianto is left facing the weaponry of UNIT’s current finest. He thinks the red caps used to look better on him, but he doesn’t try to explain. He offers his ID.
“I’m known as Lucas Stein, but my name is…”
“Ianto Jones!”
The shout comes from the gloom, and it’s Jack, who he hasn’t seen for years, for two lifetimes, by certain definitions, and Ianto starts shaking then, because it’s really him, and he doesn’t have to convince anyone, and Jack’s really there, and his lies were all ready to tell, just to get access, just to be allowed…
Jack’s still wearing the coat, or one remarkably like it, and Ianto thinks, a little hysterically, that he really has to make Jack update his wardrobe sometime in the next century, although at least it’s appropriate attire, he supposes, what with the war and everything. And then Jack is wrapped around him, and Ianto can feel his heart beating in his throat, and he can smell those 51st century pheromones he remembers so well, and it’s all a bit much, because it’s been so long, and Jack’s here, and real, and in his arms.
He might weep a little, but he doesn’t really pay very much attention.
“They’re all dead, Jack,” he says, into Jack’s neck, “All of them. I expected the kids to be gone, of course, but all of them, the grandchildren too, swallowed by the war. All gone, all dead. There’s nothing left.”
He raises his head from Jack’s shoulder, and stares into blue eyes, that don’t change, that never change. Then he does the thing he’s been thinking about for years, ever since the war started, and he was too young to join up, to do anything, and he’d attempted to keep up with news of his family, his previous family, no relation now, of course, and then watched them vanish, one by one by one.
He punches Jack hard in the mouth, and watches him fall to the floor, like he did once before, barely registering the shouts around him, the way his arms are seized. He doesn’t care to notice how close he is to being executed on the spot. That wasn’t the point of today.
Jack picks himself up, and stares at Ianto. He walks forward until they’re chest to chest, nose to nose. Ianto knows Jack is seeing the unkempt beard, the wild hair, the stick-thin frame of a refugee, but he also knows he’s seeing different eyes blazing with fury across the years.
“It’s your fault,” hisses Ianto, slowly, knowing this time that he’s right, “You made me live that life. Don’t you fucking dare do that to me again.”
“Ok,” says Jack, and his eyes are oceans of sadness. Ianto wants to drown in them. “But just so we’re clear, you’re not ready to give this up yet, are you?”
Ianto doesn’t want to answer that, so he doesn’t.
“Just don’t leave me again,” he says instead, and lays his head down on Jack’s chest.
Jack will pay for making him care another time. He’s just so very tired right now.
***
“What’s it like?” Jack asks, one day, as they’re lying in bed, revelling in afterglow. Or Ianto is, anyway.
The reconstruction is going well, and they’re in a billet that actually has running water, and some kind of amenities. It feels like decades since Ianto last had shower sex, although it can’t be nearly that long - can it?
“What’s what like?” he murmurs, sleepily, and runs a hand down the slick smoothness that is Jack’s sweaty chest. He’s in a particularly hairy body this time round, himself. He finds his own flesh almost disgusting. He’s glad Jack doesn’t seem to have the same hang-ups though.
“Being a child again.”
Ianto turns his head to look at Jack. He’s... thirty five, he thinks. It’s been a while for him too.
“It’s been three centuries in my personal timeline, or a couple of thousand, if you count being buried. I can’t really remember all that well,” says Jack, his gaze distant, “And when I do, all I think about is letting go Gray’s hand.”
Ianto wants to say that not remembering the psychopathic bastard that murdered Tosh and Owen might be a good thing, but he doesn’t. He’s not that cruel. Instead, he thinks about what it’s like to gradually become aware of himself, after a time as a baby, as a very young child. The fact that when he finally remembers who he is, he always cries, and he’s not even really sure why.
“It’s difficult, knowing things I shouldn’t,” Ianto says, at last. “I try and stay quiet, stay under the radar.” He stops, thinks about it. “I try not to say anachronisms like ‘stay under the radar’.”
He knows it’s not what Jack means.
It’s hard, being so small and powerless, being vulnerable. He doesn’t know if he wants to tell Jack that. But the uncomplicated affection he receives from each set of parents is a blessing, because it’s nothing like the sharp and layered love he shares with Jack. But he never misses any of his parents as much as he misses Jack, and that means everything. He wonders quite how to articulate it.
“I found Sophia,” says Jack, and it actually takes Ianto several seconds to place the name. And then he sits up, hating himself a little for the fallibility of his own memories, for even once forgetting her, and the rest of the family.
“She got away on a hospital ship, one of the last. In the confusion, records weren’t kept, not properly, but I found her eventually. She has a husband now, children of her own. You have great-grandchildren, Ianto.”
He’s not quite sure what to do with the news, not yet. He needs to let it roll around in his head and his heart for a while longer, but Jack hasn’t moved. He’s still staring at Ianto.
Ianto wants to say that he’s not Gray. That he forgave Jack years ago.
Instead, he leans down and kisses him, open-mouthed and messy, trying to say everything he never quite manages with words.
As they part, he whispers into Jack’s ear. “Thank you.”
***
Alan, Iestyn - he loves being back in Wales - Dimitri, Simon, Tariq. He learns new languages, forgets others. He begins to recognise other old souls that hang around the centuries, they crop up in the strangest places. Some are like him, and he has to recognise a certain feel, a particular smell, almost - as though their age clings to them like a perfume. Others are like Jack, physically unchanging, and that surprises him even more. He didn’t think there was anyone like Jack.
Ianto likes to drink tea on Sunday afternoons. He always has. Jack laughs, and throws his hands up in the air. He smiles sometimes with that slightly sideways indulgent grin that makes Ianto’s stomach flip, even now. Ianto will make and drink the finest coffee he can get his hands on for the rest of the week, but on Sunday afternoons he likes to make tea.
It’s becoming old fashioned to drink tea, and it’s getting harder and harder to buy the leaves. Ianto’s tea pot stays swaddled away between lifetimes, deep in Jack’s personal possessions. Knowing it’s there gives Ianto something else to cling to however, something else to look forward to, as he grows up, another point of stability, and even realising he’s becoming something of an eccentric does not stop him.
“And how is the Captain?” asks Faith, one day, as she shuffles the cards, and Ianto flips his too-large fingers in a so-so gesture.
He grins, knowing his teeth will be startlingly white against his dark skin, and says, “Aren’t you meant to tell me that.”
Faith smiles a tiny acknowledging smile, and Ianto sighs, “Sorry.”
It’s easy on one level to forget that she’s not precisely what she looks like - a young girl of approximately eleven or twelve years, but on another, Ianto knows she’s much, much older than him. She’s heard every variation on the humour of divination, and Ianto feels mildly ashamed of himself.
He leans forward to pour her another cup. “Milk? Sugar?” She nods and he obliges, turning the handle so it’s precisely at right angles to the spoon, before he passes over the saucer.
Her eyes glimmer. “No, I don’t read tea leaves.”
Ianto starts guiltily, and recaptures his wandering thoughts. “It’s just that… I know you didn’t mean… But Jack isn’t himself.”
Faith takes a neat sip, and pushes the bara brith towards him.
“I know, I know,” he takes a slice, “We’re not meant to talk about work. But…”
Faith puts her head a little on one side. “That was always your choice, Ianto Jones. It’s always been your choice.”
“Does that mean something?” asks Ianto, and then shakes his head, “Never mind.”
There is a pause, as of old friends comfortable with one another. Then Faith sighs to herself, and offers him the pack to cut.
“You don’t really want to know,” she says, as she lays out the cards, and Ianto nods agreement.
They stare at the red backs of the cards, and Faith moves to turn over the first one. Ianto puts out a hand, and stops her. “You’re right,” he says, and she stares at him solemnly.
Instead, he gets out a pack of ordinary playing cards from his own pocket, and they play Pontoon, and Spit, and Beggar-My-Neighbour. Faith tells Ianto that Beggar-My-Neighbour used to be called Strip Jack Naked, once upon a time, and Ianto snorts tea through his nose.
He goes home later, having forgotten he’d even asked for a reading, and he doesn’t look back. He doesn’t see Faith turning over the cards for herself.
Just because a reading has been rejected, does not alter its facts.
***
Ianto is putting things away. He’s moving stiffly now, because his joints are not what they once were, and he’s refusing the hip replacement Jack keeps offering to buy, despite the fact that it will be grown from his own bone, with no complications at all. Ianto doesn’t see the point. There are other people who would benefit from such an operation far more than he will, and he tells Jack that in no uncertain terms. If he’s so damned fired up about it, Jack should go buy it for one of them. It’s possible that he turns a little curmudgeonly in his old age.
Ianto decides he has a complicated relationship with aging. On the one hand, it’s an achievement given their life-style, and one he’s proud of. On the other, he can’t really keep up with Jack any more, however hard he tries. And he tries very hard - the drugs they have these days are wonderful.
He does get to catch up on his reading though.
“Stop that,” says Jack, gently, appearing as suddenly as ever, at Ianto’s right shoulder. “Let me do it later.”
Ianto stares at the plates he’s unloading from the sonic washer, and snorts. “You forget I’ve seen your attempts at tidying my kitchen - I’m not sure it’ll survive.”
Jack curls his hands over Ianto’s shoulders, and unconsciously Ianto leans into his warmth, his strength. He finds he gets tired more and more now - he’s quite looking forward to all that youth and vigour he’ll have back in, oh, a few years.
“Come on,” says Jack, and there’s something in his voice… Ianto lets him lead him to the sofa, and stays quiet as Jack pushes him down onto it, and then straddles his lap. Ianto shifts naturally to accommodate him, lifting his neck, grasping at Jack’s shoulders, his arse.
Jack’s a bit keen, but when isn’t he, thinks Ianto. It’s a comfortable thought, and he gasps as Jack nips at his skin, all memories of Jack’s strangeness today fading away. Ianto palms Jack’s cock through his trousers, eliciting his own gasp. Until Jack sits up, pushes himself away, and goes off to clatter amongst the dishes. Ianto knows he should be offended, as he watches Jack work, his back turned. What he can’t quite work out is why?
“Jack?” he asks, wanting to shout, to have a real old-fashioned ding-dong, but assuming that Jack wants that, decides to avoid it, “What the bloody hell are you playing at?”
After all this time, Ianto knows Jack. Oh, he doesn’t know all the secrets, or all the stories, but then, he doesn’t pry. He never has. No, what he does know is how Jack gets restless in Spring, and morose in Autumn, and he can come without even being touched if Ianto manages to time things just right. He hates gooseberry jam, and loves doughnuts, any kind, which is just as well, because they’ve changed quite a lot over the centuries, and he’s surprisingly good with children. Ianto still wishes Jack had met his own.
Ianto has a funny sinking feeling.
“Do you want me to leave?” he asks, quietly, and Jack whirls, his teeth bared.
“No!”
“I’m too old for you right now, aren’t I? I wouldn’t blame you, Jack, I’ve told you before. A sexy young thing like you has needs. I can wait.” He wants to make a joke of it. He doesn’t think he quite succeeds.
“No,” says Jack, and there’s weariness there now. Ianto tries to take a deep breath, finds that he can’t.
“Are you going to refuse to see me in the next life, then?” asks Ianto, voicing the worst thing he can possibly imagine, after last time, still unsure, suddenly feeling like his stomach’s being chewed by rats, still not really knowing why.
“No,” says Jack, and his smile is twisted. “I’m just… tired is all.”
Ianto tries to take another breath, and realises he can’t. Realises that the pain is spreading from his stomach, up to his chest, where it is clamping like a vise. Realises he can barely gasp, “Jack!” Before he keels onto the floor.
And then he’s clutching at Jack with all his feeble remaining strength. He’s being held safe and warm in Jack’s arms as he dies, and it’s so familiar. So terrifying. Because Ianto knows Jack, knows all his moods, all his expressions. And what he’s seeing, in amongst the boundless sadness and the welling pity, is the very tiniest hint of relief.
***
Ianto is born Pyotr Chernov, in the Ukraine, and his parents are the poorest of the poor. Ianto mainly thinks about food as he grows up. Food and Jack. But Jack turns out to be fine. He throws a surprise party when Ianto shows up at their agreed rendezvous, with cake and wine, and Ianto eats and eats and eats. It’s hard to keep worrying with a full belly. So he stops.
***
“You,” says Captain John Hart, “I know you.”
Partially true, at best, Ianto thinks, even as he answers, “No.”
John is terribly visible, and terribly hard to miss. Ianto supposes he likes it that way, but it still has shock value, watching John stride towards him down an ordinary street in Cardiff. Ianto finds he can’t help himself, he flinches, and John spots that. Then smiles that smile that Ianto still remembers, all cat that got the cream.
Now Ianto watches as John checks him out, a long lingering up and down, and he holds his breath, because this new body - Henri - isn’t the prettiest Ianto’s ever been, isn’t the fittest. Ianto tries not to remember Jack rubbing his stubble into Ianto’s little pot belly, until he laughs and shoves Jack away, in case John can sense it somehow, oozing from his skin. Which is ridiculous.
“Now, where do I know you from?” And Ianto tries to look guilelessly back, as John stares into his eyes, with the wrist strap beeping, and that’s odd, that’s strange, Ianto doesn’t remember it ever doing that before...
John’s eyes narrow in sudden triumph, and he smiles, “Klaxxian technology, I knew it - temporal etheric reincarnater, am I right? Well, of course I am. It’s been a while since I’ve seen one of those, mind. But then, I imagine it’s been a while for you too, with one of those up your ever-changing sleeve.”
Ianto smirks because, well, John’s not wrong, and it’s somehow fun to have a little bit of power over an arrogant Captain, even if it’s not his own.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says, but it’s not convincing, he knows it isn’t, and John smiles again, showing teeth, and Ianto can’t help it. He laughs.
“Oh, yes,” says John, and licks his lips, “I so know you, now let me see…” He leans forward, runs a finger down a shaved cheek, flips Ianto’s tie. Glances at the Welsh flag on the wall of a nearby house and smiles again.
“Eye-candy, is that you?” John puts his head a little to one side and considers, before dragging Ianto into the nearest bar - which is not that far considering this is Cardiff.
“So,” says Ianto, nearly half a bottle of vodka later, and not entirely sure how John has managed to persuade him into drinking so much - it must be the power of evil, of evil time, of… He forgets. “So, here we are.”
John throws back a shot of his own, but doesn’t smile. Ianto rather misses it. John always smiles.
“And Jack’s ok with this, is he?” John says, slowly, “Stuck in this never-ending cycle with you, his pet office monkey - not that Jack didn’t always have a thing about offices, I grant you.”
Ianto blinks. He rather thought they were at the heart-warming, pouring out their troubles stage of the evening, and he’s been sort of looking forward to it. He’s blown Jack off with a feeble excuse for this. He damn well wants this. And he doesn’t particularly want to examine his reasons why.
Who knew John would be such a bitter drunk?
With immense dignity, and with all his lifetimes, it had better be immense, Ianto says, “I don’t know what you mean.”
There’s the tinkle of broken glass, and with slightly glazed shock, Ianto realises that John has smashed the shot glass down onto the bar. There’s deep red blood welling from between his fingers, but John ignores that.
“So he’s stayed with you - faithfully? - for, how many lifetimes is it now? Ten, twenty? Two hundred years or more? In this armpit of the galaxy? Fuck me, eye-candy, you must be red-hot between the sheets - you must out-class them all. I should sell your arse to the most exclusive bordello in the Magellanic Clouds, and die a rich and happy man.”
Ianto watches John’s eyes glitter malevolently. Then, with a kind of shock, he also watches as one tiny hint of moisture glimmers in the strange sodium glare of the bar’s mood lighting. One solitary tear, Ianto realises, paralysed, and suddenly feels a lot more sober, and a lot more scared.
“Not all the time, I keep growing up, and all the arses are different, remember?” Ianto offers, keeping it light, trying to, anyway. “Change is as good as a rest they say.”
John laughs then, and the moment passes. Ianto thinks it does. John knocks back more vodka, tells outrageous stories, not all involving Jack. Ianto tells some of his own - he’s got plenty now. It’s nice to feel like he can hold his own.
Later, much later, Ianto gets up to go home. To go home to Jack. John watches him collect his coat, tuck his shirt in over his belly, a little self-consciously.
“Five years. We had five years together. I’ve told you that, eye-candy, haven’t I?” says John, as he props his head up on his arm. “Me and Jack. We had fun. We burned the place down, tore it up. We lived, and we loved, and we fought. I thought we did. I thought we’d last forever.”
Ianto wonders if John realises how maudlin he sounds.
“And then we broke out of the time loop and I didn’t see him for dust. That’s how much forever means to Jack. Just so’s you know.”
Ianto wants to tell him that that’s not how it is with him and Jack. Not at all. The words stick in his throat.
John’s not looking at him any more, he’s looking back, far away to another time and place. “He always hated being tied down. Not literally, of course, he loves that. But... The time-loop wasn’t my fault, but he blamed me anyway. I was the only thing left to blame. The only other thing that didn’t change.” John looks up then, suddenly, at Ianto, blinking blue eyes weary with something indefinable.
“You know exactly what I mean, don’t you, Ianto Jones?”
***
“Surprise!” says Ianto, as Jack stands in the doorway with his mouth open. “Careful there, you’ll be catching flies.”
She pushes her way into the office, a colony package tour operation this generation, and then marches down into the Hub. Her heels click on the metal gantries, and Ianto makes a mental note to choose more sensible footwear next time, but this once, just this once, she wanted to do it right. Her suit is red, her hips have a calculated amount of sway, and her make-up is perfect. It took practice, but what else do teenage girls do anyway? Ianto has spent the last ten years finding out. So she does this well, as she does everything well.
Ianto stands, a hand on a hip, and revolves, to Jack’s slow clapping.
“If you wolf whistle, you will have set back the male gender by at least a hundred years,” she warns as Jack comes towards her, his eyes hungry.
She squeaks when he picks her up and swings her round, and then feels mildly ashamed of such a clichéd reaction, but is laughing by the time Jack sets her back down, one broad hand still on her hip, the other in her long blond hair.
“How did you? Why…? What happened?” asks Jack, and Ianto stares up at him, gazing deep into his eyes.
“I may have… tried adjusting the controls,” says Ianto, finally, and licks her lips, tasting cherry, just to watch Jack follow the movement of her tongue. “On the Vishnu device. Meet Angela Fuller - she isn’t really the intended reaction, but I’m used to her now, and you’re not complaining.”
“No, I’m not complaining,” says Jack and sweeps his hand gently through her hair.
“Jack…” Ianto says, not looking away. “Do you still want me to give all this up?” She gestures at her body, at the Hub, at Jack himself. “Are you bored? I don’t want to leave you alone but… I will. I’ve realised that - I may have been selfish. It’s been a long time since you made me have a family.”
Jack’s brows have pinched together, and he’s studying Ianto as though he’s trying to work out what makes her tick.
“Are you regretting it?” asks Jack, finally, and Ianto emphatically shakes her head. She blinks away the gathering moisture, aware of her eye-liner, aware of all her emotions, that are so much closer to the surface.
“Then how can I?” says Jack, and grins his blinding white grin.
Ianto lets Jack tip her head up for a kiss, the first of many, and she can’t say that’s she’s not looking forward to the experiment. But she also knows she’s had her answer. She clutches at Jack, at his shoulder, at his arms. They have years yet, decades perhaps, but she doesn’t want to let him go. Her make-up runs despite her best efforts.
She writes a letter that night, on crisp white Torchwood stationary, that turns yellow over the years. She timelocks it for Jack to find after her latest death.
‘Live your life, Jack, as you once tried to make me live mine. I have more adjustments to make. You’ll see me again, but even I won’t know when. Isn’t that better? Isn’t that fun? As someone once made me understand, a change is as good as a rest. And a choice is better than either.’
She leaves the letter unsigned.
***
“Hrath - it’s interesting,” says Ianto, running a quick hand along his antennae, to check their polish, “All the different lives, I love it, really - Den.”
The Dalai Lama chuckles. “I wish I remembered more of mine, although that’s not really the point, you know. Have you thought about that, Hrathden - or should I call you Ianto?”
“Hrath - Hrathden is fine, sir. It would be rude to use the other name, and I try not to be impolite - Den.”
They stare out over the melting sea of stars. Ianto wonders if Jack is out here somewhere, finally, broken away from his prison of Earth, and Torchwood… and Ianto.
“Your many re-births are different to my own. Between incarnations, my spirit chooses to postpone its own nirvana to help others,” says the Dalai Lama, and smiles, gently. “If you believe that, of course. But you… You choose every time, purposely, deliberately, to come back. It is a very different thing.”
Ianto shrugs. Twitches a mandible. He can’t help that.
“You have samsara, but consciously. Oh, that is to say, the cycle of birth and death are part of your own memories. I have never met another like you.” He laughs a little and Ianto finds himself smiling. This man is infectious in his joy. “Or at least that I remember.”
Another star explodes, and Ianto offers his tray. “Hrath - I am glad that I can be of service - Den.”
“But think about it, please, Hrathden. Samsara is an endless wheel, until you realise that worldly pleasures can only provide a shallow pointless experience, and there is so much more beyond them. A spiritual life that is more fulfilling than our mere existence. What are you being reborn for?”
Ianto thinks of Jack, of his promise. He feels like a stone skipping across the centuries. “Hrath - I’m sure I’ll find out, sir, eventually - Den.”
“Let me lend you a bookfile, or two. Yours is a unique situation, but I’m sure you know that. The world as we ordinarily understand it, is like a dream: fleeting and illusory. To be trapped in samsara is a result of ignorance of the true nature of our existence, according to certain teachings.”
“Hrath - I don’t feel trapped, sir - Den,” says Ianto, and wonders how he can explain.
The Dalai Lama nods a little, as though Ianto has given him an answer of great import, and his eyes twinkle. Ianto has to go and serve the delegation from Klom next, and he doesn’t get another chance to talk to the Dalai Lama before he disembarks, but he finds the promised bookfiles waiting for him on his private server when he returns to his cabin.
He reads them, and re-reads them. One phrase in particular he finds he remembers very well.
‘When all desire has vanished, a person will not be reborn anymore.’
Ianto thinks of Jack and doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
***
The millennia flicker as they pass. Or, from a certain perspective, they don’t change at all. There are always wars. There are always struggles. Lives are made better, lives are spent and wasted. Ianto lives them all, skipping whole eras sometimes, but that’s all right. He studies too, when he can. He loves sometimes. He doesn’t have another family.
Mostly - because he’s learning, because he knows intellectually that he has to let go sometime, because he has to change, and grow, and be all those things Jack wanted him to be - mostly, he doesn’t regret fully randomising the settings on the Vishnu device.
***
“Hel-lo,” says a male voice, and Ianto’s head whips round fast enough that he near topples himself over with its force. Luckily, his elbow is caught in a firm grip, and as he steadies, Ianto finds he’s grasping the arms of…
“Jack!”
Blue eyes blink slowly, and that smile… God, that smile.
“No, I don’t think so, although I’m regretting that I’m not this Jack, already,” says the man, the young man, with a certain twinkle.
Ianto gasps, too hard, and realises that his vision is greying out round the edges. He’s had that before, hasn’t he, way back, when was it? Shock. That’s what he’s suffering from, just shock. He clings harder.
“Woah, are you all right?” says the Man-Who-Is-Not-Yet-Jack, and Ianto knows that he’ll be frowning in concern, and he’ll probably be looking around frantically, for someone who knows more about care-giving than he does, for someone who knows Ianto, maybe, and that he’ll…
“Can I get someone for you, or… Do you have any pills, or tabs, that you’re meant to take? Umm.”
Ianto laughs, not quite silently, and thinks, this Jack will think he’s crazy.
“No,” he manages, at last, “I’m fine. Really. You just startled me, that’s all.”
Ianto looks up again, into eyes familiar enough to make his heart pound. All these centuries, and he’s been so good. He’s never looked for him. He’s let fate take its own course, and what has he ended up with? He’s landed here. Here looking up into…
“My name is… Akira Smith-8. What’s yours?”
“James Hogan-2. Are you sure you’re all right?” asks James, and Ianto wants to reach and touch, because there’s that worried frown.
“You remind me of someone. Someone I had to leave a… long time ago. That’s all.”
Ianto watches James smile that guileless grin of his, the one that Ianto knows means he’s hiding a furiously thinking brain. He tries to estimate how old James is, and comes up blank. He looks maybe twenty two, twenty three, but Ianto has never really figured out Jack’s exact age, not precisely. And he knows now, more than anyone, how good age retarding techniques can be here and now in the 51st century, so who knows how old Jack is, and really, he has to stop thinking this way, because this isn’t Jack, not really, but he looks good, doesn’t he, so damn good, and his thoughts are babbling...
He has to pull himself together.
Taking another less shattering gulp of air, Ianto pulls away from James, and smiles his own polite smile. It’s the easiest one, the one that means nothing, the one that will cover for him, as he handles things inside, as he drinks in James’ features, to store up for the decades, centuries to come. The Dalai Lama’s phrase haunts him, ‘when all desire has vanished’, and he finds he’s digging his hands into his palms, and wanting to giggle. He’s not there yet, then, not quite. Sorry about that, your Holiness.
“Look,” says James, more seriously, “I think you should lie down. My apartment’s less than a block from here, you should come with me. If you like.”
And Ianto knows this is a bad idea, a huge and terribly bad idea, and yet almost without willing himself to, he finds he’s nodding, and James is tucking his elbow under his, and then they’re walking through the crowded plazas of Gelert 4 like any other young couple out for an afternoon’s stroll. It’s bizarre how easy it is. How quickly Ianto adapts to James’ long stride. How familiar and warm James’ arm is beneath his own. He sighs, just a little.
James’ apartment is small and not very neat. Ianto grins at it in open wonder, in something like pain. His fingers itch to pick things up, like ghost memories. He wants to explore in the cupboards, to figure out how James ticks, to discover all the things about Jack’s early life, that he never got to ask, that he never allowed himself to ask. He wants to rifle though James’ life with eager fingers. But instead he is the polite guest. He lies down on the small couch, he lets James fetch him a glass of water.
He shifts over on the couch, as James sits next to him, and finds his body curves to fit, as it always has. His own body, as Akira, is spare and small. There’s plenty of room.
“Now then,” says James, and his voice is kind, but with an undercurrent of warmth that Ianto responds to, almost without thinking. He shivers, and finds he’s moved closer. “It seems to me that you do know me - or someone like me. No, you don’t have to deny it.”
“I haven’t...” Ianto automatically begins to prevaricate, but then he stops. Shuts his mouth with a snap.
“It seems to me - and you don’t have to say anything - that I’ve been contemplating joining the Time Agency for a while now. And that you, you may have helped me to make up my mind.” And James smiles brilliantly down at Ianto, as though what he’s saying is not causing Ianto to freeze, to choke, to panic silently and helplessly.
He realises he’s clutching James’ hands, and that James is squeezing back.
“I’m not going to ask,” says James, with mischief and understanding lacing every syllable, and Ianto wants to say something, he really does, but everything is too much, and he can’t think... “I know, I shouldn’t know, can’t know, but damn. Wow. It’s kind of nice to think about it, you know. What it’ll be like. The future.”
The future is an undiscovered country, thinks Ianto, randomly, and wants to laugh because he doesn’t know the future. He knows Jack’s future, but would James really want to know that his future is more or less in the past? Time parameters are always like this, thinks Ianto, a little hysterically, when they’re not full of paradox. Although maybe this is a paradox, and he just doesn’t know it yet.
“So,” says James, finally, and Ianto notices his eyes still crinkle when he smiles, just like... “Are you going to say anything at all?”
James is stroking the backs of his knuckles, Ianto realises then. Feather light touches. Oh god.
“I can’t... I can’t say anything,” he manages, in a rush, and then he hears it, in his own voice, an accent he hasn’t had for generations, like it’s never been away, the accent he was born with all that time ago. It sounds so strange on Akira’s tongue. He sees James tilt his head at the change.
“Do you...miss him?” asks James, “This man you had to leave.”
“I...” says Ianto, desperate, aching, “I can’t...”
James looks so kind, and Ianto is so tired. He just wants to let go.
“Every day,” says Ianto.
The kiss is like a benediction, softer than flowers, warmer than chocolate, he leans up into it, and moans as he feels James hands move to his shoulders, his chest, pulling and tugging. There’s no tie to undo today, Ianto hasn’t worn one since he left Jack, and the strange sliding seams that makes the current clothing look so effortless, also means it is effortless to remove. Ianto pushes up against James’ hands, curling round him, desperate for more contact, for more of everything, until James too lets out a groan, as Ianto’s slim fingers wander expertly, cupping his arse, the curve of his shoulder, the corner of his lip.
Ianto doesn’t know James, but he does know Jack. He knows every single inch of Jack, he knows what makes him gasp, and moan, what causes those broken little hitches in his breath. He knows how to make him bend, and shiver, and sigh. He knows that to nip right there, will make him slide bonelessly down onto the couch with Ianto, will make him raise his chin, and let him suck the pulse point of his throat, will make him...
James makes a noise like he is shattering, and Ianto takes the pieces, and laves them with his tongue, takes all his knowledge, and worships James. It’s a veneration, a homage to the past, to the future, and even as Ianto prepares James, opens him up, precisely as he’s done a thousand times before, a thousand years ago, he whispers his devotion into his skin. He licks at secret folds of flesh, he noses into crevices and hums his adoration, and with every caress, every single second chance, he murmurs his thanks into James’ skin.
Ianto always knows what to do. It’s part of his job. It’s part of what makes him Ianto. It’s like a dam breaking, all that power, all that longing, but still controlled, so very carefully controlled. He feels like he’s burning up, even as he presses inside, and rides James, so carefully, knowing him so precisely, that he keeps him hovering, has him crying out, sounding as thready as the gulls that soared above their Cardiff. Their Cardiff, their once-and-future kingdom. So poetic, so far away, such a stupid thought, and yet Ianto strains to hold on, to make things last, because as long as he does, as long as they are here together, it won’t be gone, he won’t be...
And then James comes, with a short broken sob, and turns his head away. There is a glitter of moisture at the corners of his eyes, and Ianto finds that, just that, enough, and comes himself with a moan, in a headlong sliding rush that makes him close his eyes and frantically grip James’ hips. It’s not enough. It will never be enough. But it’s close, and Ianto lets himself slide free, and collapse slowly forwards, knowing that Jack will catch him, Jack will always catch him, even if James doesn’t quite know how.
It’s the slow circular petting motion on his back that brings Ianto back to himself. He realises he aches all over, pleasantly, in a way that he hasn’t for a long time. He realises he’s still surrounded by familiar skin, smoother and more solid even than he remembers, and he buries his nose into the junction of James’ neck, unwilling to give it all up quite yet. James smells wonderful, all salt, and musk, and 51st century pheromones. He smells... exactly the same.
He feels James’ chuckle all the way through his bones.
“You know, that was something else. He’s going to be a lucky man, your friend, one day.”
Ianto snorts, remembering some of those times; weevils, and wars, and fights over the driving. “He wishes.”
“So - does he know why you left him?”
Ianto thinks about all the reasons, all the centuries, the entrapment, the guilt. But he thinks that Jack must surely have remembered such an encounter, long before. He hopes he will. After all this time, he wants to be forgiven. He does. “He knows. I think he knows. It was the right thing to do.”
James is quiet for a second, and Ianto explores a precise square inch with his fingers, lightly caressing the skin over and over again. Committing it to memory.
“Did you ever tell him you love him that much?” asks James, finally, breathing it into Ianto’s hair, and Ianto flinches.
He feels strong arms tighten around him, gathering him up. Ianto has forgotten his current body is so light-boned. But it’s a nice feeling, so he lets it slide. With Jack, he’s always let things slide.
“Well, I wouldn’t worry,” says James, full of the wisdom of the very young, “I reckon he knows.”
***
Epilogue
In New New York, there is life once more, as people begin to make their way outside, discovering sunlight, and old death, and their inheritance. Children’s voices echo again in the corridors, and dust is disturbed in cavernous rooms, to glitter like stars in the newly breaking dawn.
Calvin Hopwood Kester climbs out of his vehicle and stares about him. It’s been an interesting sixteen years on the Motorway. He’s a bit fed up of VR, and reconstituted food, but things could be worse. He’s made some good friends on the screens, and it’s a kind of existence that he’s never experienced before. Which, when you’ve lived as many lives as Ianto has, becomes a valuable and interesting thing.
He walks through echoing chambers, hallways, exploring ever onwards. Any new sight is different and fascinating. But the Senate chambers, once he steps within, he recognises from the screens. They are damaged now, of course, and dirty, much older, and full of skeletons, but still they have a grandeur.
And they still have inhabitants. Ianto takes a sudden intake of breath as a nun from the Sisters of Plenitude steps forward, her grey habit pristine, her whiskers and eyes sad.
“Ah, there you are. I am Novice Hame, and you are the last of his visitors.”
“I don’t understand,” says Ianto simply, for he has learnt at least that much on his many travels. Ordinary truth is often the best.
“Well, perhaps I should say that you’ve missed him, really, but he told me you were coming, so that surely counts, doesn’t it?” Novice Hame smiles gently, and Ianto takes a deep breath. He counts to ten, regulating his breathing, fully regaining his calm, and not just controlling it.
Then he steps forward, and as Novice Hame moves to one side, Ianto hears his boots echoing on the dusty stone. It’s quiet as the grave, which is appropriate really, given the sad testaments to wasted lives that still lie all around. He steps forward, and Novice Hame sweeps aside her skirts to reveal…
“The Face of Boe,” says Ianto, with a kind of dreadful understanding.
“He said to tell you,” says Novice Hame, “That he may be running on the sand of the Boeshane Peninsular forever. That he hopes for that. That he hopes he won’t play there alone.”
Ianto looks over and sees that she is weeping almost silently. He pats his pockets and finds a tissue, and she looks grateful when he offers it.
“He said too that the end is also the beginning, if you want it. Because choice is a funny thing. And that I must give you this.”
Clutching the tissue, and only fumbling a little, Novice Hame fetches a plain wooden box. Ianto opens it, curiosity warring with his fear.
A familiar Klaxxian temporal etheric reincarnater sits within it, but pristine and new.
Ianto kneels then, leaning forward, and steadies the trembling in his hand before tracing the curve of one giant scaled cheek. Then leans further, until his forehead rests against the Face of Boe. He stays there for a long time.
Eventually, he becomes conscious that Novice Hame is kneeling beside him, and he leans back and offers her a hand back to her feet.
“Thank you,” says Ianto, finally, and Novice Hame nods.
“Do you understand? Do you know what he meant?”
Ianto stares at Novice Hame, at the hope in her eyes, and the confusion. He holds her hand and squeezes it gently.
“It means I better brush up on my temporal mechanics,” says Ianto, as he raises his eyes, up through the grimed stained glass of the Senate’s hall, to the slowly brightening dawn. He’s smiling though his tears.
“It means I’m going home.”
Author: valderys
Recipient: wicca_faith_fi
Pairing: Jack/Ianto
Summary: ‘When all desire has vanished, a person will not be reborn anymore.’ Jack may be immortal, but Ianto Jones is nothing if not resourceful. If he can help it, Jack will never be alone again.
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Copyright for Torchwood and its characters belongs to the BBC, but I claim transformative use for them in this fic
Warnings/Spoilers: Temporary character death, and canon death. General spoilers for TW season 2, but nothing too specific. A bit angsty, but not rip-out-your-guts level :)
Word Count: 8,738
Beta: Anonymous
Ianto knows he won’t last long. Torchwood operatives never do, after all, and he’s read more than enough in the archives to realise that he’s not likely to be the exception that proves the rule. But now… Now that it’s come down to this he can’t…
“Jack,” he whispers, as blood dribbles down his chin, “Jack…”
But he can’t make himself talk above a whisper, and Jack is cradling his body close to his own chest, heedless, Ianto thinks, with a distant sort of wince, heedless of the blood staining his shirt or of Ianto’s own pain, and just who is going to clean all this mess up later? It won’t be Ianto himself, of that he’s pretty sure.
He wants to say to Jack - oh, all of the important things. Things he probably has said over the years, but not enough, not nearly enough. He suspects everyone thinks that at this moment. No-one ever says the things that matter until it’s too late - and Ianto is no exception to that either. He smiles a faint thready smile as the edges of his vision begin to turn black, and he sees Jack return it, and that’s almost enough. Jack knows how he feels. Although it hurts him, in a much less distant way, when he realises the warm rain he can feel on his face are Jack’s tears. Dammit. He thought he’s been able to say something, to tell Jack. But obviously not.
So the last thoughts Ianto Jones has, as he lays dying of some unpleasantly futuristic bullet, are ones of guilt. He’s protected Jack, loved Jack, for years, and yet he’s failed at the last. He’s going away, and he can’t explain, he can’t…
Jack will kill Ianto again himself, once he understands. Still, there’ll be time. All the time in the world.
***
“It’s called a temporal etheric reincarnater, or, as I like to call it, a Vishnu device,” says Ianto (or Ben, as his parents call him), as he stands in the office, a smart estate agency these days, and looks around. “I did explain. You did get my farewell message, didn’t you? I thought you’d look for one from me - you know - after Tosh that time. I felt sure you would.”
He knows that Jack can see him, it’s been sixteen years, technology has moved on, not gone backwards, so he knows there are cameras, he just can’t quite work out where they are. So he stands in the centre of the little office and admires the fresh clean lines of the place - much better than in his own time - and wishes he’d managed to persuade Jack years ago as to benefits of pastels in a soothing working environment.
He wonders briefly who did succeed in that particular objective, and is unsurprised to feel the stirrings of jealously crawling up his spine. There is always that problem, of course, that it takes a certain amount of time before Ianto can make himself known in any kind of legitimate way, and Jack could have moved on - probably has, thinks Ianto for the fiftieth or more time, it would be more than fair. He tells himself that he’s prepared for that, that he can’t expect anything else, that he can be a friend, or a colleague, and be supportive. Smile at the new boy, or girl, or creature, who warms Jack’s bed. Smile and prepare to outlive them - it is Torchwood, after all. No-one lasts forever, excepting Jack, and now, possibly, himself.
Smiling, Ianto lifts his chin, knowing he has acne, and blond hair, and is far too thin for his fifteen years, but also knowing he couldn’t make himself wait any longer, that Jack must accept him. Surely.
He’s still the same on the inside.
***
“Tell me where it is,” asks Jack, not for the first time, and Ianto laughs. The laugh turns into a cough, and he leans forward in the hospital bed as Jack rubs soothing circles on his back.
“I hate this part,” says Ianto, “And I’m going to hate adolescence even more. It was bad enough going through puberty the first time round, and this will be my third. The things I do for you.”
“Tell me where it is,” asks Jack, his eyes fond, his voice pleading, “You shouldn’t have to do this. It’s not right. I haven’t asked you to do anything.”
“Of course, you haven’t,” says Ianto, and ponders the wisdom of silence over pointless platitudes. He’s hardly going to tell Jack where he’s hidden the Vishnu device, not now. They’ve bickered over it for years, and Ianto has become quite fond of Jack appearing suddenly unannounced, oh, all over the place, in the hopes of catching him in the act, as it were.
As it is, the acts they have indulged in have had a little more of the avant-garde about them than maybe they once had. Ianto has always thought of himself as a quick learner, and he’s had two lifetimes now - short ones, but even so.
He smiles at Jack through the tears his cough has produced, and picks up Jack’s hand, as it lays on the blanket, running his fingers along the knuckles, marvelling at the lack of changes. Ianto’s got used to his current too thin flesh and bone, but he’s looking forward to something a bit meatier in the next lifetime, perhaps. Something he can hold Jack down with, somebody that can fuck him properly. It’s a little like Christmas Eve, except that it lasts a couple of decades. He wishes he could persuade Jack that this is his choice, that he doesn’t regret it.
“I’m not going to leave you alone,” says Ianto finally, and his voice is hoarse, from the drugs, and from the coughing. “You can’t make me.” And that’s what it comes down to, in the end.
Jack looks agonised, torn, and Ianto wishes he could make him understand. He’s not immortal, not like Jack, and he’s never going to be immortal. But the next best thing? That he can do.
“See you on the other side,” says Ianto, and lays back down and closes his eyes.
***
“No,” says Jack, through the speaker grille, again, “No, I am not going to see you.”
Ianto hunches his shoulders in the too large coat, before taking a breath and consciously relaxing. He is not a teenager. Not really. He refuses to act like one. He pushes his hair - fashionably long - behind his ears, before simply asking, “Why not?”
“Because…” And Ianto thinks he can hear a lifetime of emotion in the cracking syllables, “Because if you don’t see me, then you might realise how pointless this really is. You might get on and live your life, a real life, not another wasted one stuck down some hole in the ground with me.”
Ianto finds he’s clenched his fists so hard that he’s cut the skin on his palms. But he’s young, he’ll heal.
And he knows Jack. Knows that sound of finality, like a door shutting in his face, like the terrible voice that ordered him to shoot Lisa all those years ago. He wants to say, it’s not the same, there’s no possibility of an invasion this time, or opening up the human race to alien conversion; he just wants to live. He wants to live with Jack. But he knows Jack won’t listen.
“Fine,” says Ianto, “My birth name is Marco Silvia, I have a squint, and I’m left-handed. Those are the current changes. Nothing else has. But fine.”
He takes a breath, lets it out.
“I’m going to live my life now, so you can’t say I didn’t try it, you stubborn sod. But if you ever change your mind, I know you’ll be able to find me.” He pauses. “Please find me.”
Even though he knows how stubborn Jack really is, Ianto keeps hoping that Jack will change his mind. He never does. In the mean time, after a few years, Marco Silvia meets a nice girl. She reminds him startlingly of Lisa, and he nearly throws it all away. Instead, he marries her and they have three children; a boy and two girls. He loves them all very much, it surprises him exactly how much.
But every year, on Ianto Jones’ birthday, he still sends a postcard.
***
“Look,” says Ianto, desperate, trying not to let the fear show in his voice, “Will you please just let me in? I’m not armed, I’m not a spy, and I can prove it.”
He wonders how long it will be before they call Jack. He wonders if he’ll be really hurt before they do. He wonders if they’ll actually bother calling Jack, before they kill him.
Lives are cheap in a war zone like New Europe. It’s taken huge amounts of effort to get this far, and Ianto doesn’t want to wait another twenty years. He wishes, not for the first time, that he has some kind of control over the kind of body he gets born into. Or maybe the kind of time period. He must see if he can alter the settings.
The bunker’s door cracks open and Ianto is left facing the weaponry of UNIT’s current finest. He thinks the red caps used to look better on him, but he doesn’t try to explain. He offers his ID.
“I’m known as Lucas Stein, but my name is…”
“Ianto Jones!”
The shout comes from the gloom, and it’s Jack, who he hasn’t seen for years, for two lifetimes, by certain definitions, and Ianto starts shaking then, because it’s really him, and he doesn’t have to convince anyone, and Jack’s really there, and his lies were all ready to tell, just to get access, just to be allowed…
Jack’s still wearing the coat, or one remarkably like it, and Ianto thinks, a little hysterically, that he really has to make Jack update his wardrobe sometime in the next century, although at least it’s appropriate attire, he supposes, what with the war and everything. And then Jack is wrapped around him, and Ianto can feel his heart beating in his throat, and he can smell those 51st century pheromones he remembers so well, and it’s all a bit much, because it’s been so long, and Jack’s here, and real, and in his arms.
He might weep a little, but he doesn’t really pay very much attention.
“They’re all dead, Jack,” he says, into Jack’s neck, “All of them. I expected the kids to be gone, of course, but all of them, the grandchildren too, swallowed by the war. All gone, all dead. There’s nothing left.”
He raises his head from Jack’s shoulder, and stares into blue eyes, that don’t change, that never change. Then he does the thing he’s been thinking about for years, ever since the war started, and he was too young to join up, to do anything, and he’d attempted to keep up with news of his family, his previous family, no relation now, of course, and then watched them vanish, one by one by one.
He punches Jack hard in the mouth, and watches him fall to the floor, like he did once before, barely registering the shouts around him, the way his arms are seized. He doesn’t care to notice how close he is to being executed on the spot. That wasn’t the point of today.
Jack picks himself up, and stares at Ianto. He walks forward until they’re chest to chest, nose to nose. Ianto knows Jack is seeing the unkempt beard, the wild hair, the stick-thin frame of a refugee, but he also knows he’s seeing different eyes blazing with fury across the years.
“It’s your fault,” hisses Ianto, slowly, knowing this time that he’s right, “You made me live that life. Don’t you fucking dare do that to me again.”
“Ok,” says Jack, and his eyes are oceans of sadness. Ianto wants to drown in them. “But just so we’re clear, you’re not ready to give this up yet, are you?”
Ianto doesn’t want to answer that, so he doesn’t.
“Just don’t leave me again,” he says instead, and lays his head down on Jack’s chest.
Jack will pay for making him care another time. He’s just so very tired right now.
***
“What’s it like?” Jack asks, one day, as they’re lying in bed, revelling in afterglow. Or Ianto is, anyway.
The reconstruction is going well, and they’re in a billet that actually has running water, and some kind of amenities. It feels like decades since Ianto last had shower sex, although it can’t be nearly that long - can it?
“What’s what like?” he murmurs, sleepily, and runs a hand down the slick smoothness that is Jack’s sweaty chest. He’s in a particularly hairy body this time round, himself. He finds his own flesh almost disgusting. He’s glad Jack doesn’t seem to have the same hang-ups though.
“Being a child again.”
Ianto turns his head to look at Jack. He’s... thirty five, he thinks. It’s been a while for him too.
“It’s been three centuries in my personal timeline, or a couple of thousand, if you count being buried. I can’t really remember all that well,” says Jack, his gaze distant, “And when I do, all I think about is letting go Gray’s hand.”
Ianto wants to say that not remembering the psychopathic bastard that murdered Tosh and Owen might be a good thing, but he doesn’t. He’s not that cruel. Instead, he thinks about what it’s like to gradually become aware of himself, after a time as a baby, as a very young child. The fact that when he finally remembers who he is, he always cries, and he’s not even really sure why.
“It’s difficult, knowing things I shouldn’t,” Ianto says, at last. “I try and stay quiet, stay under the radar.” He stops, thinks about it. “I try not to say anachronisms like ‘stay under the radar’.”
He knows it’s not what Jack means.
It’s hard, being so small and powerless, being vulnerable. He doesn’t know if he wants to tell Jack that. But the uncomplicated affection he receives from each set of parents is a blessing, because it’s nothing like the sharp and layered love he shares with Jack. But he never misses any of his parents as much as he misses Jack, and that means everything. He wonders quite how to articulate it.
“I found Sophia,” says Jack, and it actually takes Ianto several seconds to place the name. And then he sits up, hating himself a little for the fallibility of his own memories, for even once forgetting her, and the rest of the family.
“She got away on a hospital ship, one of the last. In the confusion, records weren’t kept, not properly, but I found her eventually. She has a husband now, children of her own. You have great-grandchildren, Ianto.”
He’s not quite sure what to do with the news, not yet. He needs to let it roll around in his head and his heart for a while longer, but Jack hasn’t moved. He’s still staring at Ianto.
Ianto wants to say that he’s not Gray. That he forgave Jack years ago.
Instead, he leans down and kisses him, open-mouthed and messy, trying to say everything he never quite manages with words.
As they part, he whispers into Jack’s ear. “Thank you.”
***
Alan, Iestyn - he loves being back in Wales - Dimitri, Simon, Tariq. He learns new languages, forgets others. He begins to recognise other old souls that hang around the centuries, they crop up in the strangest places. Some are like him, and he has to recognise a certain feel, a particular smell, almost - as though their age clings to them like a perfume. Others are like Jack, physically unchanging, and that surprises him even more. He didn’t think there was anyone like Jack.
Ianto likes to drink tea on Sunday afternoons. He always has. Jack laughs, and throws his hands up in the air. He smiles sometimes with that slightly sideways indulgent grin that makes Ianto’s stomach flip, even now. Ianto will make and drink the finest coffee he can get his hands on for the rest of the week, but on Sunday afternoons he likes to make tea.
It’s becoming old fashioned to drink tea, and it’s getting harder and harder to buy the leaves. Ianto’s tea pot stays swaddled away between lifetimes, deep in Jack’s personal possessions. Knowing it’s there gives Ianto something else to cling to however, something else to look forward to, as he grows up, another point of stability, and even realising he’s becoming something of an eccentric does not stop him.
“And how is the Captain?” asks Faith, one day, as she shuffles the cards, and Ianto flips his too-large fingers in a so-so gesture.
He grins, knowing his teeth will be startlingly white against his dark skin, and says, “Aren’t you meant to tell me that.”
Faith smiles a tiny acknowledging smile, and Ianto sighs, “Sorry.”
It’s easy on one level to forget that she’s not precisely what she looks like - a young girl of approximately eleven or twelve years, but on another, Ianto knows she’s much, much older than him. She’s heard every variation on the humour of divination, and Ianto feels mildly ashamed of himself.
He leans forward to pour her another cup. “Milk? Sugar?” She nods and he obliges, turning the handle so it’s precisely at right angles to the spoon, before he passes over the saucer.
Her eyes glimmer. “No, I don’t read tea leaves.”
Ianto starts guiltily, and recaptures his wandering thoughts. “It’s just that… I know you didn’t mean… But Jack isn’t himself.”
Faith takes a neat sip, and pushes the bara brith towards him.
“I know, I know,” he takes a slice, “We’re not meant to talk about work. But…”
Faith puts her head a little on one side. “That was always your choice, Ianto Jones. It’s always been your choice.”
“Does that mean something?” asks Ianto, and then shakes his head, “Never mind.”
There is a pause, as of old friends comfortable with one another. Then Faith sighs to herself, and offers him the pack to cut.
“You don’t really want to know,” she says, as she lays out the cards, and Ianto nods agreement.
They stare at the red backs of the cards, and Faith moves to turn over the first one. Ianto puts out a hand, and stops her. “You’re right,” he says, and she stares at him solemnly.
Instead, he gets out a pack of ordinary playing cards from his own pocket, and they play Pontoon, and Spit, and Beggar-My-Neighbour. Faith tells Ianto that Beggar-My-Neighbour used to be called Strip Jack Naked, once upon a time, and Ianto snorts tea through his nose.
He goes home later, having forgotten he’d even asked for a reading, and he doesn’t look back. He doesn’t see Faith turning over the cards for herself.
Just because a reading has been rejected, does not alter its facts.
***
Ianto is putting things away. He’s moving stiffly now, because his joints are not what they once were, and he’s refusing the hip replacement Jack keeps offering to buy, despite the fact that it will be grown from his own bone, with no complications at all. Ianto doesn’t see the point. There are other people who would benefit from such an operation far more than he will, and he tells Jack that in no uncertain terms. If he’s so damned fired up about it, Jack should go buy it for one of them. It’s possible that he turns a little curmudgeonly in his old age.
Ianto decides he has a complicated relationship with aging. On the one hand, it’s an achievement given their life-style, and one he’s proud of. On the other, he can’t really keep up with Jack any more, however hard he tries. And he tries very hard - the drugs they have these days are wonderful.
He does get to catch up on his reading though.
“Stop that,” says Jack, gently, appearing as suddenly as ever, at Ianto’s right shoulder. “Let me do it later.”
Ianto stares at the plates he’s unloading from the sonic washer, and snorts. “You forget I’ve seen your attempts at tidying my kitchen - I’m not sure it’ll survive.”
Jack curls his hands over Ianto’s shoulders, and unconsciously Ianto leans into his warmth, his strength. He finds he gets tired more and more now - he’s quite looking forward to all that youth and vigour he’ll have back in, oh, a few years.
“Come on,” says Jack, and there’s something in his voice… Ianto lets him lead him to the sofa, and stays quiet as Jack pushes him down onto it, and then straddles his lap. Ianto shifts naturally to accommodate him, lifting his neck, grasping at Jack’s shoulders, his arse.
Jack’s a bit keen, but when isn’t he, thinks Ianto. It’s a comfortable thought, and he gasps as Jack nips at his skin, all memories of Jack’s strangeness today fading away. Ianto palms Jack’s cock through his trousers, eliciting his own gasp. Until Jack sits up, pushes himself away, and goes off to clatter amongst the dishes. Ianto knows he should be offended, as he watches Jack work, his back turned. What he can’t quite work out is why?
“Jack?” he asks, wanting to shout, to have a real old-fashioned ding-dong, but assuming that Jack wants that, decides to avoid it, “What the bloody hell are you playing at?”
After all this time, Ianto knows Jack. Oh, he doesn’t know all the secrets, or all the stories, but then, he doesn’t pry. He never has. No, what he does know is how Jack gets restless in Spring, and morose in Autumn, and he can come without even being touched if Ianto manages to time things just right. He hates gooseberry jam, and loves doughnuts, any kind, which is just as well, because they’ve changed quite a lot over the centuries, and he’s surprisingly good with children. Ianto still wishes Jack had met his own.
Ianto has a funny sinking feeling.
“Do you want me to leave?” he asks, quietly, and Jack whirls, his teeth bared.
“No!”
“I’m too old for you right now, aren’t I? I wouldn’t blame you, Jack, I’ve told you before. A sexy young thing like you has needs. I can wait.” He wants to make a joke of it. He doesn’t think he quite succeeds.
“No,” says Jack, and there’s weariness there now. Ianto tries to take a deep breath, finds that he can’t.
“Are you going to refuse to see me in the next life, then?” asks Ianto, voicing the worst thing he can possibly imagine, after last time, still unsure, suddenly feeling like his stomach’s being chewed by rats, still not really knowing why.
“No,” says Jack, and his smile is twisted. “I’m just… tired is all.”
Ianto tries to take another breath, and realises he can’t. Realises that the pain is spreading from his stomach, up to his chest, where it is clamping like a vise. Realises he can barely gasp, “Jack!” Before he keels onto the floor.
And then he’s clutching at Jack with all his feeble remaining strength. He’s being held safe and warm in Jack’s arms as he dies, and it’s so familiar. So terrifying. Because Ianto knows Jack, knows all his moods, all his expressions. And what he’s seeing, in amongst the boundless sadness and the welling pity, is the very tiniest hint of relief.
***
Ianto is born Pyotr Chernov, in the Ukraine, and his parents are the poorest of the poor. Ianto mainly thinks about food as he grows up. Food and Jack. But Jack turns out to be fine. He throws a surprise party when Ianto shows up at their agreed rendezvous, with cake and wine, and Ianto eats and eats and eats. It’s hard to keep worrying with a full belly. So he stops.
***
“You,” says Captain John Hart, “I know you.”
Partially true, at best, Ianto thinks, even as he answers, “No.”
John is terribly visible, and terribly hard to miss. Ianto supposes he likes it that way, but it still has shock value, watching John stride towards him down an ordinary street in Cardiff. Ianto finds he can’t help himself, he flinches, and John spots that. Then smiles that smile that Ianto still remembers, all cat that got the cream.
Now Ianto watches as John checks him out, a long lingering up and down, and he holds his breath, because this new body - Henri - isn’t the prettiest Ianto’s ever been, isn’t the fittest. Ianto tries not to remember Jack rubbing his stubble into Ianto’s little pot belly, until he laughs and shoves Jack away, in case John can sense it somehow, oozing from his skin. Which is ridiculous.
“Now, where do I know you from?” And Ianto tries to look guilelessly back, as John stares into his eyes, with the wrist strap beeping, and that’s odd, that’s strange, Ianto doesn’t remember it ever doing that before...
John’s eyes narrow in sudden triumph, and he smiles, “Klaxxian technology, I knew it - temporal etheric reincarnater, am I right? Well, of course I am. It’s been a while since I’ve seen one of those, mind. But then, I imagine it’s been a while for you too, with one of those up your ever-changing sleeve.”
Ianto smirks because, well, John’s not wrong, and it’s somehow fun to have a little bit of power over an arrogant Captain, even if it’s not his own.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says, but it’s not convincing, he knows it isn’t, and John smiles again, showing teeth, and Ianto can’t help it. He laughs.
“Oh, yes,” says John, and licks his lips, “I so know you, now let me see…” He leans forward, runs a finger down a shaved cheek, flips Ianto’s tie. Glances at the Welsh flag on the wall of a nearby house and smiles again.
“Eye-candy, is that you?” John puts his head a little to one side and considers, before dragging Ianto into the nearest bar - which is not that far considering this is Cardiff.
“So,” says Ianto, nearly half a bottle of vodka later, and not entirely sure how John has managed to persuade him into drinking so much - it must be the power of evil, of evil time, of… He forgets. “So, here we are.”
John throws back a shot of his own, but doesn’t smile. Ianto rather misses it. John always smiles.
“And Jack’s ok with this, is he?” John says, slowly, “Stuck in this never-ending cycle with you, his pet office monkey - not that Jack didn’t always have a thing about offices, I grant you.”
Ianto blinks. He rather thought they were at the heart-warming, pouring out their troubles stage of the evening, and he’s been sort of looking forward to it. He’s blown Jack off with a feeble excuse for this. He damn well wants this. And he doesn’t particularly want to examine his reasons why.
Who knew John would be such a bitter drunk?
With immense dignity, and with all his lifetimes, it had better be immense, Ianto says, “I don’t know what you mean.”
There’s the tinkle of broken glass, and with slightly glazed shock, Ianto realises that John has smashed the shot glass down onto the bar. There’s deep red blood welling from between his fingers, but John ignores that.
“So he’s stayed with you - faithfully? - for, how many lifetimes is it now? Ten, twenty? Two hundred years or more? In this armpit of the galaxy? Fuck me, eye-candy, you must be red-hot between the sheets - you must out-class them all. I should sell your arse to the most exclusive bordello in the Magellanic Clouds, and die a rich and happy man.”
Ianto watches John’s eyes glitter malevolently. Then, with a kind of shock, he also watches as one tiny hint of moisture glimmers in the strange sodium glare of the bar’s mood lighting. One solitary tear, Ianto realises, paralysed, and suddenly feels a lot more sober, and a lot more scared.
“Not all the time, I keep growing up, and all the arses are different, remember?” Ianto offers, keeping it light, trying to, anyway. “Change is as good as a rest they say.”
John laughs then, and the moment passes. Ianto thinks it does. John knocks back more vodka, tells outrageous stories, not all involving Jack. Ianto tells some of his own - he’s got plenty now. It’s nice to feel like he can hold his own.
Later, much later, Ianto gets up to go home. To go home to Jack. John watches him collect his coat, tuck his shirt in over his belly, a little self-consciously.
“Five years. We had five years together. I’ve told you that, eye-candy, haven’t I?” says John, as he props his head up on his arm. “Me and Jack. We had fun. We burned the place down, tore it up. We lived, and we loved, and we fought. I thought we did. I thought we’d last forever.”
Ianto wonders if John realises how maudlin he sounds.
“And then we broke out of the time loop and I didn’t see him for dust. That’s how much forever means to Jack. Just so’s you know.”
Ianto wants to tell him that that’s not how it is with him and Jack. Not at all. The words stick in his throat.
John’s not looking at him any more, he’s looking back, far away to another time and place. “He always hated being tied down. Not literally, of course, he loves that. But... The time-loop wasn’t my fault, but he blamed me anyway. I was the only thing left to blame. The only other thing that didn’t change.” John looks up then, suddenly, at Ianto, blinking blue eyes weary with something indefinable.
“You know exactly what I mean, don’t you, Ianto Jones?”
***
“Surprise!” says Ianto, as Jack stands in the doorway with his mouth open. “Careful there, you’ll be catching flies.”
She pushes her way into the office, a colony package tour operation this generation, and then marches down into the Hub. Her heels click on the metal gantries, and Ianto makes a mental note to choose more sensible footwear next time, but this once, just this once, she wanted to do it right. Her suit is red, her hips have a calculated amount of sway, and her make-up is perfect. It took practice, but what else do teenage girls do anyway? Ianto has spent the last ten years finding out. So she does this well, as she does everything well.
Ianto stands, a hand on a hip, and revolves, to Jack’s slow clapping.
“If you wolf whistle, you will have set back the male gender by at least a hundred years,” she warns as Jack comes towards her, his eyes hungry.
She squeaks when he picks her up and swings her round, and then feels mildly ashamed of such a clichéd reaction, but is laughing by the time Jack sets her back down, one broad hand still on her hip, the other in her long blond hair.
“How did you? Why…? What happened?” asks Jack, and Ianto stares up at him, gazing deep into his eyes.
“I may have… tried adjusting the controls,” says Ianto, finally, and licks her lips, tasting cherry, just to watch Jack follow the movement of her tongue. “On the Vishnu device. Meet Angela Fuller - she isn’t really the intended reaction, but I’m used to her now, and you’re not complaining.”
“No, I’m not complaining,” says Jack and sweeps his hand gently through her hair.
“Jack…” Ianto says, not looking away. “Do you still want me to give all this up?” She gestures at her body, at the Hub, at Jack himself. “Are you bored? I don’t want to leave you alone but… I will. I’ve realised that - I may have been selfish. It’s been a long time since you made me have a family.”
Jack’s brows have pinched together, and he’s studying Ianto as though he’s trying to work out what makes her tick.
“Are you regretting it?” asks Jack, finally, and Ianto emphatically shakes her head. She blinks away the gathering moisture, aware of her eye-liner, aware of all her emotions, that are so much closer to the surface.
“Then how can I?” says Jack, and grins his blinding white grin.
Ianto lets Jack tip her head up for a kiss, the first of many, and she can’t say that’s she’s not looking forward to the experiment. But she also knows she’s had her answer. She clutches at Jack, at his shoulder, at his arms. They have years yet, decades perhaps, but she doesn’t want to let him go. Her make-up runs despite her best efforts.
She writes a letter that night, on crisp white Torchwood stationary, that turns yellow over the years. She timelocks it for Jack to find after her latest death.
‘Live your life, Jack, as you once tried to make me live mine. I have more adjustments to make. You’ll see me again, but even I won’t know when. Isn’t that better? Isn’t that fun? As someone once made me understand, a change is as good as a rest. And a choice is better than either.’
She leaves the letter unsigned.
***
“Hrath - it’s interesting,” says Ianto, running a quick hand along his antennae, to check their polish, “All the different lives, I love it, really - Den.”
The Dalai Lama chuckles. “I wish I remembered more of mine, although that’s not really the point, you know. Have you thought about that, Hrathden - or should I call you Ianto?”
“Hrath - Hrathden is fine, sir. It would be rude to use the other name, and I try not to be impolite - Den.”
They stare out over the melting sea of stars. Ianto wonders if Jack is out here somewhere, finally, broken away from his prison of Earth, and Torchwood… and Ianto.
“Your many re-births are different to my own. Between incarnations, my spirit chooses to postpone its own nirvana to help others,” says the Dalai Lama, and smiles, gently. “If you believe that, of course. But you… You choose every time, purposely, deliberately, to come back. It is a very different thing.”
Ianto shrugs. Twitches a mandible. He can’t help that.
“You have samsara, but consciously. Oh, that is to say, the cycle of birth and death are part of your own memories. I have never met another like you.” He laughs a little and Ianto finds himself smiling. This man is infectious in his joy. “Or at least that I remember.”
Another star explodes, and Ianto offers his tray. “Hrath - I am glad that I can be of service - Den.”
“But think about it, please, Hrathden. Samsara is an endless wheel, until you realise that worldly pleasures can only provide a shallow pointless experience, and there is so much more beyond them. A spiritual life that is more fulfilling than our mere existence. What are you being reborn for?”
Ianto thinks of Jack, of his promise. He feels like a stone skipping across the centuries. “Hrath - I’m sure I’ll find out, sir, eventually - Den.”
“Let me lend you a bookfile, or two. Yours is a unique situation, but I’m sure you know that. The world as we ordinarily understand it, is like a dream: fleeting and illusory. To be trapped in samsara is a result of ignorance of the true nature of our existence, according to certain teachings.”
“Hrath - I don’t feel trapped, sir - Den,” says Ianto, and wonders how he can explain.
The Dalai Lama nods a little, as though Ianto has given him an answer of great import, and his eyes twinkle. Ianto has to go and serve the delegation from Klom next, and he doesn’t get another chance to talk to the Dalai Lama before he disembarks, but he finds the promised bookfiles waiting for him on his private server when he returns to his cabin.
He reads them, and re-reads them. One phrase in particular he finds he remembers very well.
‘When all desire has vanished, a person will not be reborn anymore.’
Ianto thinks of Jack and doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
***
The millennia flicker as they pass. Or, from a certain perspective, they don’t change at all. There are always wars. There are always struggles. Lives are made better, lives are spent and wasted. Ianto lives them all, skipping whole eras sometimes, but that’s all right. He studies too, when he can. He loves sometimes. He doesn’t have another family.
Mostly - because he’s learning, because he knows intellectually that he has to let go sometime, because he has to change, and grow, and be all those things Jack wanted him to be - mostly, he doesn’t regret fully randomising the settings on the Vishnu device.
***
“Hel-lo,” says a male voice, and Ianto’s head whips round fast enough that he near topples himself over with its force. Luckily, his elbow is caught in a firm grip, and as he steadies, Ianto finds he’s grasping the arms of…
“Jack!”
Blue eyes blink slowly, and that smile… God, that smile.
“No, I don’t think so, although I’m regretting that I’m not this Jack, already,” says the man, the young man, with a certain twinkle.
Ianto gasps, too hard, and realises that his vision is greying out round the edges. He’s had that before, hasn’t he, way back, when was it? Shock. That’s what he’s suffering from, just shock. He clings harder.
“Woah, are you all right?” says the Man-Who-Is-Not-Yet-Jack, and Ianto knows that he’ll be frowning in concern, and he’ll probably be looking around frantically, for someone who knows more about care-giving than he does, for someone who knows Ianto, maybe, and that he’ll…
“Can I get someone for you, or… Do you have any pills, or tabs, that you’re meant to take? Umm.”
Ianto laughs, not quite silently, and thinks, this Jack will think he’s crazy.
“No,” he manages, at last, “I’m fine. Really. You just startled me, that’s all.”
Ianto looks up again, into eyes familiar enough to make his heart pound. All these centuries, and he’s been so good. He’s never looked for him. He’s let fate take its own course, and what has he ended up with? He’s landed here. Here looking up into…
“My name is… Akira Smith-8. What’s yours?”
“James Hogan-2. Are you sure you’re all right?” asks James, and Ianto wants to reach and touch, because there’s that worried frown.
“You remind me of someone. Someone I had to leave a… long time ago. That’s all.”
Ianto watches James smile that guileless grin of his, the one that Ianto knows means he’s hiding a furiously thinking brain. He tries to estimate how old James is, and comes up blank. He looks maybe twenty two, twenty three, but Ianto has never really figured out Jack’s exact age, not precisely. And he knows now, more than anyone, how good age retarding techniques can be here and now in the 51st century, so who knows how old Jack is, and really, he has to stop thinking this way, because this isn’t Jack, not really, but he looks good, doesn’t he, so damn good, and his thoughts are babbling...
He has to pull himself together.
Taking another less shattering gulp of air, Ianto pulls away from James, and smiles his own polite smile. It’s the easiest one, the one that means nothing, the one that will cover for him, as he handles things inside, as he drinks in James’ features, to store up for the decades, centuries to come. The Dalai Lama’s phrase haunts him, ‘when all desire has vanished’, and he finds he’s digging his hands into his palms, and wanting to giggle. He’s not there yet, then, not quite. Sorry about that, your Holiness.
“Look,” says James, more seriously, “I think you should lie down. My apartment’s less than a block from here, you should come with me. If you like.”
And Ianto knows this is a bad idea, a huge and terribly bad idea, and yet almost without willing himself to, he finds he’s nodding, and James is tucking his elbow under his, and then they’re walking through the crowded plazas of Gelert 4 like any other young couple out for an afternoon’s stroll. It’s bizarre how easy it is. How quickly Ianto adapts to James’ long stride. How familiar and warm James’ arm is beneath his own. He sighs, just a little.
James’ apartment is small and not very neat. Ianto grins at it in open wonder, in something like pain. His fingers itch to pick things up, like ghost memories. He wants to explore in the cupboards, to figure out how James ticks, to discover all the things about Jack’s early life, that he never got to ask, that he never allowed himself to ask. He wants to rifle though James’ life with eager fingers. But instead he is the polite guest. He lies down on the small couch, he lets James fetch him a glass of water.
He shifts over on the couch, as James sits next to him, and finds his body curves to fit, as it always has. His own body, as Akira, is spare and small. There’s plenty of room.
“Now then,” says James, and his voice is kind, but with an undercurrent of warmth that Ianto responds to, almost without thinking. He shivers, and finds he’s moved closer. “It seems to me that you do know me - or someone like me. No, you don’t have to deny it.”
“I haven’t...” Ianto automatically begins to prevaricate, but then he stops. Shuts his mouth with a snap.
“It seems to me - and you don’t have to say anything - that I’ve been contemplating joining the Time Agency for a while now. And that you, you may have helped me to make up my mind.” And James smiles brilliantly down at Ianto, as though what he’s saying is not causing Ianto to freeze, to choke, to panic silently and helplessly.
He realises he’s clutching James’ hands, and that James is squeezing back.
“I’m not going to ask,” says James, with mischief and understanding lacing every syllable, and Ianto wants to say something, he really does, but everything is too much, and he can’t think... “I know, I shouldn’t know, can’t know, but damn. Wow. It’s kind of nice to think about it, you know. What it’ll be like. The future.”
The future is an undiscovered country, thinks Ianto, randomly, and wants to laugh because he doesn’t know the future. He knows Jack’s future, but would James really want to know that his future is more or less in the past? Time parameters are always like this, thinks Ianto, a little hysterically, when they’re not full of paradox. Although maybe this is a paradox, and he just doesn’t know it yet.
“So,” says James, finally, and Ianto notices his eyes still crinkle when he smiles, just like... “Are you going to say anything at all?”
James is stroking the backs of his knuckles, Ianto realises then. Feather light touches. Oh god.
“I can’t... I can’t say anything,” he manages, in a rush, and then he hears it, in his own voice, an accent he hasn’t had for generations, like it’s never been away, the accent he was born with all that time ago. It sounds so strange on Akira’s tongue. He sees James tilt his head at the change.
“Do you...miss him?” asks James, “This man you had to leave.”
“I...” says Ianto, desperate, aching, “I can’t...”
James looks so kind, and Ianto is so tired. He just wants to let go.
“Every day,” says Ianto.
The kiss is like a benediction, softer than flowers, warmer than chocolate, he leans up into it, and moans as he feels James hands move to his shoulders, his chest, pulling and tugging. There’s no tie to undo today, Ianto hasn’t worn one since he left Jack, and the strange sliding seams that makes the current clothing look so effortless, also means it is effortless to remove. Ianto pushes up against James’ hands, curling round him, desperate for more contact, for more of everything, until James too lets out a groan, as Ianto’s slim fingers wander expertly, cupping his arse, the curve of his shoulder, the corner of his lip.
Ianto doesn’t know James, but he does know Jack. He knows every single inch of Jack, he knows what makes him gasp, and moan, what causes those broken little hitches in his breath. He knows how to make him bend, and shiver, and sigh. He knows that to nip right there, will make him slide bonelessly down onto the couch with Ianto, will make him raise his chin, and let him suck the pulse point of his throat, will make him...
James makes a noise like he is shattering, and Ianto takes the pieces, and laves them with his tongue, takes all his knowledge, and worships James. It’s a veneration, a homage to the past, to the future, and even as Ianto prepares James, opens him up, precisely as he’s done a thousand times before, a thousand years ago, he whispers his devotion into his skin. He licks at secret folds of flesh, he noses into crevices and hums his adoration, and with every caress, every single second chance, he murmurs his thanks into James’ skin.
Ianto always knows what to do. It’s part of his job. It’s part of what makes him Ianto. It’s like a dam breaking, all that power, all that longing, but still controlled, so very carefully controlled. He feels like he’s burning up, even as he presses inside, and rides James, so carefully, knowing him so precisely, that he keeps him hovering, has him crying out, sounding as thready as the gulls that soared above their Cardiff. Their Cardiff, their once-and-future kingdom. So poetic, so far away, such a stupid thought, and yet Ianto strains to hold on, to make things last, because as long as he does, as long as they are here together, it won’t be gone, he won’t be...
And then James comes, with a short broken sob, and turns his head away. There is a glitter of moisture at the corners of his eyes, and Ianto finds that, just that, enough, and comes himself with a moan, in a headlong sliding rush that makes him close his eyes and frantically grip James’ hips. It’s not enough. It will never be enough. But it’s close, and Ianto lets himself slide free, and collapse slowly forwards, knowing that Jack will catch him, Jack will always catch him, even if James doesn’t quite know how.
It’s the slow circular petting motion on his back that brings Ianto back to himself. He realises he aches all over, pleasantly, in a way that he hasn’t for a long time. He realises he’s still surrounded by familiar skin, smoother and more solid even than he remembers, and he buries his nose into the junction of James’ neck, unwilling to give it all up quite yet. James smells wonderful, all salt, and musk, and 51st century pheromones. He smells... exactly the same.
He feels James’ chuckle all the way through his bones.
“You know, that was something else. He’s going to be a lucky man, your friend, one day.”
Ianto snorts, remembering some of those times; weevils, and wars, and fights over the driving. “He wishes.”
“So - does he know why you left him?”
Ianto thinks about all the reasons, all the centuries, the entrapment, the guilt. But he thinks that Jack must surely have remembered such an encounter, long before. He hopes he will. After all this time, he wants to be forgiven. He does. “He knows. I think he knows. It was the right thing to do.”
James is quiet for a second, and Ianto explores a precise square inch with his fingers, lightly caressing the skin over and over again. Committing it to memory.
“Did you ever tell him you love him that much?” asks James, finally, breathing it into Ianto’s hair, and Ianto flinches.
He feels strong arms tighten around him, gathering him up. Ianto has forgotten his current body is so light-boned. But it’s a nice feeling, so he lets it slide. With Jack, he’s always let things slide.
“Well, I wouldn’t worry,” says James, full of the wisdom of the very young, “I reckon he knows.”
***
Epilogue
In New New York, there is life once more, as people begin to make their way outside, discovering sunlight, and old death, and their inheritance. Children’s voices echo again in the corridors, and dust is disturbed in cavernous rooms, to glitter like stars in the newly breaking dawn.
Calvin Hopwood Kester climbs out of his vehicle and stares about him. It’s been an interesting sixteen years on the Motorway. He’s a bit fed up of VR, and reconstituted food, but things could be worse. He’s made some good friends on the screens, and it’s a kind of existence that he’s never experienced before. Which, when you’ve lived as many lives as Ianto has, becomes a valuable and interesting thing.
He walks through echoing chambers, hallways, exploring ever onwards. Any new sight is different and fascinating. But the Senate chambers, once he steps within, he recognises from the screens. They are damaged now, of course, and dirty, much older, and full of skeletons, but still they have a grandeur.
And they still have inhabitants. Ianto takes a sudden intake of breath as a nun from the Sisters of Plenitude steps forward, her grey habit pristine, her whiskers and eyes sad.
“Ah, there you are. I am Novice Hame, and you are the last of his visitors.”
“I don’t understand,” says Ianto simply, for he has learnt at least that much on his many travels. Ordinary truth is often the best.
“Well, perhaps I should say that you’ve missed him, really, but he told me you were coming, so that surely counts, doesn’t it?” Novice Hame smiles gently, and Ianto takes a deep breath. He counts to ten, regulating his breathing, fully regaining his calm, and not just controlling it.
Then he steps forward, and as Novice Hame moves to one side, Ianto hears his boots echoing on the dusty stone. It’s quiet as the grave, which is appropriate really, given the sad testaments to wasted lives that still lie all around. He steps forward, and Novice Hame sweeps aside her skirts to reveal…
“The Face of Boe,” says Ianto, with a kind of dreadful understanding.
“He said to tell you,” says Novice Hame, “That he may be running on the sand of the Boeshane Peninsular forever. That he hopes for that. That he hopes he won’t play there alone.”
Ianto looks over and sees that she is weeping almost silently. He pats his pockets and finds a tissue, and she looks grateful when he offers it.
“He said too that the end is also the beginning, if you want it. Because choice is a funny thing. And that I must give you this.”
Clutching the tissue, and only fumbling a little, Novice Hame fetches a plain wooden box. Ianto opens it, curiosity warring with his fear.
A familiar Klaxxian temporal etheric reincarnater sits within it, but pristine and new.
Ianto kneels then, leaning forward, and steadies the trembling in his hand before tracing the curve of one giant scaled cheek. Then leans further, until his forehead rests against the Face of Boe. He stays there for a long time.
Eventually, he becomes conscious that Novice Hame is kneeling beside him, and he leans back and offers her a hand back to her feet.
“Thank you,” says Ianto, finally, and Novice Hame nods.
“Do you understand? Do you know what he meant?”
Ianto stares at Novice Hame, at the hope in her eyes, and the confusion. He holds her hand and squeezes it gently.
“It means I better brush up on my temporal mechanics,” says Ianto, as he raises his eyes, up through the grimed stained glass of the Senate’s hall, to the slowly brightening dawn. He’s smiling though his tears.
“It means I’m going home.”