Back to Jones
Back to Jones
Rated PG
Disclaimer: This is fanfiction. I am making no money
Summary: Ianto is a broken boy ...
Ianto Jones was a broken boy.
Ianto Jones was just a name. A name and suit. A name and suit that had forced his way into Torchwood Cardiff. It had been like ripping carpet from Harnesses feet and praying he didn't notice.
Prayer.
Ianto's father had always insisted that Ianto, his sister and their mother went to Church every Sunday. Ianto couldn't quite make out the point, he sat quietly in the pews whilst the congregation burst into song, all joined in a harmonious union, a union Ianto was not part of.
These days he wasn't part of to lots of things, like the bowling trip Owen organized, or the nights in the pub the team went on. Whilst they all got drunk (except Jack) and had fun, Ianto wilted in the basement, unable to tell where his shadow ended and the suffocating darkness began.
He was part of something though, the Hub. The exposed brickwork became his soul, the shuddering pipes his heart. He welcomed the eerie silence, a blessed relief from the screams of his colleagues scratched onto his mortar memory. Ianto Jones, a name and a suit, was the Hub, part of the furniture, a permanent fixture, every bit connected as Lisa, strapped and sealed in her metal prison.
Prison.
Ianto had spent four weeks in prison when he was 15. Got caught shoplifting. He wanted to make himself noticed, tired of the expectations the school slapped on him, tired of his father's constant questioning of his future. He'd been lippy with the judge. (You're the right person to judge are you?) He'd been similarly lippy with Jack, but Jack didn't notice. So long as his coffee was on time, so long as everything neatly archived away, so long as he didn't have to deal with the repercussions of Canary Wharf.
Canary Wharf.
Yvonne Hartman. He knew it was wrong, he knew that their practices were twisted and sick, but Ianto Jones was not just a name and a suit there. He was a person, with wit that you could sharpen a knife on, with a dash of sparkling humor, with razor sharp observance and a bright, vivid young mind. A mind that applied itself for the first time, to research. It suited Ianto down to the bone, it was a challenge, but one he embarked on with relish. He was part of something real, he had friends, a girlfriend, everything. And now, the Hub was his only friend, sheltering him and his sick girlfriend. Sometimes he wondered who was sicker.
The Battle of Canary Wharf slammed Ianto into a solid wall and cracked his calm, tailored exterior. Working for Captain Jack Harkness slowly tore those cracks. He was becoming nothing, an invisible entity. Ianto could do nothing but watch as piece after piece flew away from him and shattered beyond his reach. He was as trapped as his beautiful Lisa.
*
Ianto Jones was a lost boy.
Ianto was no longer trapped. The prison walls had been bulldozed down by Captain Jack Harkness. He ripped him away from the walls, the pipes and left him bleeding his last spark of life onto the dirt-riddled floor.
For the first time in two and half years he had nothing. He had foolishly thought that he had nothing after Canary Wharf. He was wrong. Now he was truly alone. Ianto relished a challenge. There was no challenge now, nothing to stop the metallic screams echoing in his head. Nothing to stop his hands shaking or the acidic tears scorching down his face. No longer was he brickwork, no longer was he pipes, he was Ianto Jones, a name and a suit with a dead girlfriend. A heart that had to had fought and fought, and when he was emotionally bled, fought some more. Now where was his heart? Shattered. The final piece of Ianto, one of the few things to survive the carnage at Canary Wharf, had been ripped out, and shot into oblivion. By Captain Jack Harkness.
Oblivion is where Ianto existed now. It was wonderful, there was no light, no darkness, no sound nor silence, there was no thought, no language, no thing could exist and nothing did.
Ianto was wrong. If he had cared enough to look he would have seen one shimmer of hope amongst his suffocating existence. Captain Jack Harkness. Ianto spat it like venom and whispered it into oblivion.
Oblivion. It was what prison had been like. He had kept his head down, most of the time, and paid for his ‘accident’ as his mother believed it to be. The hardest part had been returning to school, he knew deep down he had to endure the whispering and wondering the rumors.
History repeated itself. Whispers beyond the oblivion. Whispers of betrayal, of vengeance and a murmur of sympathy. Jack swept back the curtains of his oblivion, and extended a tentative hand, resting on his shoulder, fingers mapping it.
After Estelle, Ianto knew what he had to do; he gave Jack's shoulder the most fleeting touch. It was almost signposted for him.
*
Ianto Jones was a healing boy.
Canary Wharf destroyed everything good about Ianto, save his determination. And Ianto was going to pick up every single piece that they obliterated and put himself back together again.
It was a slow and painful process, hampered by mistrust, by bolstered by the cannibals. Weirdly, they kick started Ianto's recovery. He found he the fragment to fight, to protect, he carefully slotted it away.
Ianto began to realize that pieces of himself had flown to oddest places. He rediscovered his wit over a lethal knife and glove; he rediscovered his inventiveness over a stopwatch and a corpse. Ianto was also discovering new things. Like his badass streak when he shot Owen. Even he was amused and surprised by that. He re found his independence when Jack left. His humour - oh god how he'd missed his humour - was lurking beneath a particularly bad, end of the world type of day.
That glimmer he had been too preoccupied to notice was growing stronger, and he recognized it. He part loathed it and part cherished it. They both knew that their relationship would ultimately end in tears, but that didn’t stop either Ianto or Jack as their first tentative steps towards each other became quick strides. Ianto knew, inevitably he would break into a run. He anticipated and dreaded that day.
The final piece of Ianto he found in the least expected place of all. Whilst his humor glowed, and his other parts meshed together, there was one thing missing. After their trip to CERN, Ianto had found it. Poetry. It had seemed utterly indecent after Canary Wharf. But that was all but a memory. An invisible, unnamable entity.
That night tears pricked his eyes. Gwen and Jack assumed that it was because of the day’s events. The man himself, however, knew different, he felt like himself again, but more grown up, with more pride and a two very good reasons to live.
It had taken two long years, but Ianto Jones was back.
.
Rated PG
Disclaimer: This is fanfiction. I am making no money
Summary: Ianto is a broken boy ...
Ianto Jones was a broken boy.
Ianto Jones was just a name. A name and suit. A name and suit that had forced his way into Torchwood Cardiff. It had been like ripping carpet from Harnesses feet and praying he didn't notice.
Prayer.
Ianto's father had always insisted that Ianto, his sister and their mother went to Church every Sunday. Ianto couldn't quite make out the point, he sat quietly in the pews whilst the congregation burst into song, all joined in a harmonious union, a union Ianto was not part of.
These days he wasn't part of to lots of things, like the bowling trip Owen organized, or the nights in the pub the team went on. Whilst they all got drunk (except Jack) and had fun, Ianto wilted in the basement, unable to tell where his shadow ended and the suffocating darkness began.
He was part of something though, the Hub. The exposed brickwork became his soul, the shuddering pipes his heart. He welcomed the eerie silence, a blessed relief from the screams of his colleagues scratched onto his mortar memory. Ianto Jones, a name and a suit, was the Hub, part of the furniture, a permanent fixture, every bit connected as Lisa, strapped and sealed in her metal prison.
Prison.
Ianto had spent four weeks in prison when he was 15. Got caught shoplifting. He wanted to make himself noticed, tired of the expectations the school slapped on him, tired of his father's constant questioning of his future. He'd been lippy with the judge. (You're the right person to judge are you?) He'd been similarly lippy with Jack, but Jack didn't notice. So long as his coffee was on time, so long as everything neatly archived away, so long as he didn't have to deal with the repercussions of Canary Wharf.
Canary Wharf.
Yvonne Hartman. He knew it was wrong, he knew that their practices were twisted and sick, but Ianto Jones was not just a name and a suit there. He was a person, with wit that you could sharpen a knife on, with a dash of sparkling humor, with razor sharp observance and a bright, vivid young mind. A mind that applied itself for the first time, to research. It suited Ianto down to the bone, it was a challenge, but one he embarked on with relish. He was part of something real, he had friends, a girlfriend, everything. And now, the Hub was his only friend, sheltering him and his sick girlfriend. Sometimes he wondered who was sicker.
The Battle of Canary Wharf slammed Ianto into a solid wall and cracked his calm, tailored exterior. Working for Captain Jack Harkness slowly tore those cracks. He was becoming nothing, an invisible entity. Ianto could do nothing but watch as piece after piece flew away from him and shattered beyond his reach. He was as trapped as his beautiful Lisa.
*
Ianto Jones was a lost boy.
Ianto was no longer trapped. The prison walls had been bulldozed down by Captain Jack Harkness. He ripped him away from the walls, the pipes and left him bleeding his last spark of life onto the dirt-riddled floor.
For the first time in two and half years he had nothing. He had foolishly thought that he had nothing after Canary Wharf. He was wrong. Now he was truly alone. Ianto relished a challenge. There was no challenge now, nothing to stop the metallic screams echoing in his head. Nothing to stop his hands shaking or the acidic tears scorching down his face. No longer was he brickwork, no longer was he pipes, he was Ianto Jones, a name and a suit with a dead girlfriend. A heart that had to had fought and fought, and when he was emotionally bled, fought some more. Now where was his heart? Shattered. The final piece of Ianto, one of the few things to survive the carnage at Canary Wharf, had been ripped out, and shot into oblivion. By Captain Jack Harkness.
Oblivion is where Ianto existed now. It was wonderful, there was no light, no darkness, no sound nor silence, there was no thought, no language, no thing could exist and nothing did.
Ianto was wrong. If he had cared enough to look he would have seen one shimmer of hope amongst his suffocating existence. Captain Jack Harkness. Ianto spat it like venom and whispered it into oblivion.
Oblivion. It was what prison had been like. He had kept his head down, most of the time, and paid for his ‘accident’ as his mother believed it to be. The hardest part had been returning to school, he knew deep down he had to endure the whispering and wondering the rumors.
History repeated itself. Whispers beyond the oblivion. Whispers of betrayal, of vengeance and a murmur of sympathy. Jack swept back the curtains of his oblivion, and extended a tentative hand, resting on his shoulder, fingers mapping it.
After Estelle, Ianto knew what he had to do; he gave Jack's shoulder the most fleeting touch. It was almost signposted for him.
*
Ianto Jones was a healing boy.
Canary Wharf destroyed everything good about Ianto, save his determination. And Ianto was going to pick up every single piece that they obliterated and put himself back together again.
It was a slow and painful process, hampered by mistrust, by bolstered by the cannibals. Weirdly, they kick started Ianto's recovery. He found he the fragment to fight, to protect, he carefully slotted it away.
Ianto began to realize that pieces of himself had flown to oddest places. He rediscovered his wit over a lethal knife and glove; he rediscovered his inventiveness over a stopwatch and a corpse. Ianto was also discovering new things. Like his badass streak when he shot Owen. Even he was amused and surprised by that. He re found his independence when Jack left. His humour - oh god how he'd missed his humour - was lurking beneath a particularly bad, end of the world type of day.
That glimmer he had been too preoccupied to notice was growing stronger, and he recognized it. He part loathed it and part cherished it. They both knew that their relationship would ultimately end in tears, but that didn’t stop either Ianto or Jack as their first tentative steps towards each other became quick strides. Ianto knew, inevitably he would break into a run. He anticipated and dreaded that day.
The final piece of Ianto he found in the least expected place of all. Whilst his humor glowed, and his other parts meshed together, there was one thing missing. After their trip to CERN, Ianto had found it. Poetry. It had seemed utterly indecent after Canary Wharf. But that was all but a memory. An invisible, unnamable entity.
That night tears pricked his eyes. Gwen and Jack assumed that it was because of the day’s events. The man himself, however, knew different, he felt like himself again, but more grown up, with more pride and a two very good reasons to live.
It had taken two long years, but Ianto Jones was back.
.