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d8rkmessngrConclusion here.
Master Fic List: here
Part 1/2
Ianto found himself staring at his ceiling, confused. He'd fallen asleep writing a list of where he'd hidden the biscuits and the chocolates at the Hub: behind the dishes, inside the boxes marked 'salt'. Everyone there had a sweet tooth, especially Owen. No Hob Nob was ever safe.
There were so many things he'd left undone.
A soft scuff of a shoe outside his bedroom told him what had really woken him.
Ianto pressed his toes into the thin carpet, his right hand blindly searching in the dark to grab anything. He had turned in his weapon as stated for all suspensions. His fingers curled around something long and stiff. Ianto immediately pulled it up to brace against his right shoulder. He staggered with fatigue and blinked when he could make out an old umbrella.
Brilliant.
Something scraped in the living room. Ianto's eyes snapped forward towards the next room. He swallowed, set his jaw and crept towards the entryway into his living room. Just as his foot stepped fully into the space, light flooded the room and, startled, Ianto pulled back his weapon and swung forward.
And the umbrella bloomed open. Oh, bloody hell.
"I think that's seven years' bad luck."
Ianto lowered his weapon—or weather accessory—and stared at Jack Harkness beyond the black nylon dome. He stood by the last box, dressed in his greatcoat, shoulders straight, back rigid, his face devoid of even the crooked smirk he favored.
In the back of his mind, Ianto knew it shouldn't be a surprise that Jack was ultimately the one to…sort everything out. After all, he was the one who brought Ianto in. It was only fitting Jack be the one to see him out.
A lump lodged in his throat anyway and wouldn't go away.
Jack considered the umbrella. "Expecting rain?"
"Mirror," Ianto blurted out. It shouldn't be a surprise but it still was a bit disconcerting.
Jack frowned and he touched his face with his hand. "Something on me?"
"Seven years bad luck," Ianto said, but wishing he hadn't because God, he sounded foolish to his own ears. "Breaking a mirror is seven years of bad luck."
Jack rolled his eyes. "Jump on a crack, under a ladder, mirrors, umbrellas. You people have this strange fear of inanimate objects."
It was always things like that, those casual little odd throwaways that coaxed Ianto to come closer and sometimes warn him back. There were times he felt the need to do both.
Ianto tugged the umbrella closed and set it on the floor. "I thought you were a prowler," Ianto explained lamely.
Jack stared at him as if the thought never occurred to him and he eyed the umbrella, his lips pursed. "Somehow, I don't think that's an effective deterrent. Maybe a base—no, wait, you don't have baseball here—maybe a cricket bat."
Ianto gaped at Jack, his mouth slightly opened. "I…uh…c-cricket?" His eyes drifted to the box Jack was by, it was open, and he whispered, something heavy thudding in his chest. "Those are her things."
Jack's mouth twisted and the hardness in his eyes eased. "Yes, I know."
The words he'd flung at Jack still reverberated inside him, like a physical force pushing him down from the inside. Words shouted in desperation to stop everything from moving forward. From changing.
There was a tingly feeling that fueled his legs as Ianto crossed over to the box. He folded and tucked corners until the flap stayed shut.
"Tosh said there needed to be sleeves," Ianto rasped. "It's all changed. Everything changes. —Now, this is all I have left of her—"
Something dawned within Jack's gaze. He studied Ianto more intently, watching his hands as he reverently touched the last box. The line across Jack's shoulders relaxed. He nodded to himself.
"There's a shawl in here. She used to wear it?" Jack asked quietly. It wasn't fair. Ianto wanted to shout, but the hard edge to Jack's words was gone now making it impossible.
Ianto nodded, it felt odd that Jack had seen her things. Seen the person she was. The last of her in the box. "A silk one. It was her favorite."
"Yes, I saw it. Why don't we use that?" There was a nudge, a small push against the small of his back steering him towards the couch. Ianto dropped onto the couch as soon as the back of his knees touched it. He sat there, feeling detached, the sound of Jack re-opening the box, moving and shuffling registering only as a sound he felt like he ought to react to.
Ianto focused after a few minutes and the containers sitting in a neat line of three at last registered.
"You bought Chinese food?" Ianto said slowly.
"Dinner," Jack clarified.
"I was sleeping." Ianto pointed out.
"At 1840?" Ianto could imagine him waving a hand dismissively in the air behind him. "I brought General Tso's chicken, chow mein, broccoli beef." There was a pause. "Technically, it's not real Chinese food, but I ordered it in Chinese."
Ianto studied the cartons with its red illustrations of ill-proportioned pagodas. "So…you brought dinner?"
The couch gave as Jack sat down next to him. Almost immediately, the captain began snapping apart cheap chopsticks, scrapping them together then plucking out pieces of chicken with them. Ianto spared Jack a glance as the captain popped one morsel in his mouth, fanning it with a hand soon after.
Ianto felt a heaviness in his stomach as he took in the lilac dress and shawl now folded by Jack's side. Ianto lowered his eyes to the carton of chow mein that was pressed into his hands. He poked at the noodles with the chopsticks before tentatively taking a bite. He wondered how long it would take affect. He chewed slowly and swallowed with some difficulty. The warm food sat in his stomach and his back hurt from trying to keep his spine straight. He was all too aware of Jack next to him, like the air was heavy and charged before an approaching storm.
"Okay?" Jack murmured.
"It's fine." Ianto muttered, his eyes on the food. The words 'thank you' and 'I'm sorry' were on the tip of his tongue but he couldn't bring himself to say them out loud.
The food and the presence at his side slowly warmed him, and when Ianto's head started bobbing forward, he panicked.
It was ridiculous, of course. It was SOP, had been even in London, but the sensation of his eyelids growing heavier bubbled forth a sort of snap, like a wire breaking around his heart before chills washed down his spine. It roused him briefly.
"Okay," Jack rumbled somewhere near the vicinity of his left ear, "I think we can skip dessert."
The flimsy chopsticks slipped out of his loose grasp. Ianto's eyes flew open but all he saw was a blur of blues and grays as his feet were lifted and settled across on the couch.
"I'll bring pizza next time," Jack commented as he confiscated the carton Ianto had.
But there wasn't going to be a next time, was there?
Ianto blindly reached out, catching Jack's wrist. Jack stilled.
Weights seemed to pull Ianto deeper.
"Will I," Ianto murmured even as his eyes fluttered shut. No. Not yet. He wasn't ready, after all.
"Will I still remember?" Ianto whispered hoarsely in what felt like a final fit of energy. "Will I forget her?"
Jack pulled his hand out of Ianto's grip. It was an unsettling sensation to feel Jack's hand slip out his grasp. He placed Ianto's hand folded across his belly.
"Will you forget?" Jack echoed. He sounded puzzled. "Somehow, I very much doubt it, Ianto Jones." Jack lightly pushed away Ianto's flailing hand, slipping away like a shadow. "She was the only reason why you stayed here, after all." Jack's voice grew rough.
"What does that mean?" Ianto slurred but his question came out thick and incoherent. "Wait…" he protested feebly as he felt himself eased down, a pillow tucked under his head.
"Get some sleep, Ianto," Jack murmured. He sounded very far away.
Ianto reached out once more but his arm simply dropped leaden to his sides. Then, it didn't matter anymore.
Day Eight
It was 0407. Ianto started. Every morning at 0400 on the dot, Ianto needed to get up, shower and make a hasty breakfast while he listened to the morning news, in case anything Torchwood-worthy happened. Ianto stumbled off of the couch. He gave the cushions a baffled look before he glowered at the clutter of crumpled paper napkins and dark-stained takeaway menu. He'd have to clean that up later.
There was no hot water again. Mrs. Norris, his landlady, promised the boiler would be fixed by next week. So Ianto gritted his teeth and endured one of the coldest showers he'd ever experienced for exactly four minutes. The towel he scrubbed furiously over his body was more to warm him up this time.
Today it was the dark charcoal jacket, white shirt, navy tie because there was the weekly conference call meeting today. Ianto checked his watch. It was 0413 now. Damn. He clicked his tongue against his teeth as he hopped into his shoes, he'd tie them in the car. He yanked open his front door, stooped down to swipe his mail off the floor and tossed them on the table by the door. He needed to be at Westham's Market in ten minutes. Hopefully, there would be something more interesting this time. He didn't relish rereading the Economist out loud to Lis—
Ianto stopped.
His breathing, which had quickened to a runner's pace during his haste, had stuttered as he stood by the door, his car keys in a fist. He slammed the door shut and leaned his back against it, facing the kitchen and the two mugs still waiting on the table. His eyes darted to the bin. Three cartons smelling of salt and grease and MSG lay cluttered within.
Oh.
It really had happened then.
Ianto racked his mind, tossing memories aside as soon as he recalled them. Canary Wharf. The pterodactyl. The warehouse. Gwen Cooper. Suzie Costello. Dr. Tanzaki.
Lisa.
Jack.
A moan scratched out from the back of his throat. Ianto pressed the back of his hand to his mouth. Nevertheless, it escaped before he could push it back. He gasped and slid down to the floor and he couldn't find the strength to get up.
He thought for sure last night was it. He'd thought Jack had come to punish him.
Why? Why was he still allowed to remember everything?
He had betrayed them. Betrayed Jack. Lied. Broken the rules. She was dead and he had failed and he was supposed to go away now. They were supposed to come and rip him apart, not…feed him Chinese. That was the way it worked. You failed to do your job and the job got rid of you. Why wasn't he getting rid of Ianto?
He didn't understand.
Ianto panted on the floor, his eyes on the mugs, a strange whooshing shrieking in his ears.
They wouldn't send him away, and now he didn't know what to do. What came next?
And then his phone rang.
Day Ten
Two days later, Ianto sat in the minister's office with his hands wrapped around a chipped cup of tea. English Breakfast, Ianto thought as he glanced out the tiny round window that showed nothing at all save for a bleak beam of early morning light.
Ianto stared out the window, the tea cooling in his grasp, and tried to imagine what it must look like beyond the church that stood in front of the cemetery. It had been raining before and droplets had trickled down his collar and down his back as he had stood there and watched the groundskeeper cut into the dirt with his dented spade.
Bitter without milk, the tea was even bitterer cool but Ianto kept sipping it half-heartedly as he kept his eyes on the porthole.
A throat cleared quietly behind him. Ianto painfully turned his head towards the minister by the door.
"It's done."
Ianto politely thanked the minister and left.
Day Eleven – Thirteen
For four days after, Ianto wrote. He wrote down everything he'd been afraid he wouldn't have time to tell them.
Ianto noted the gun weights for all of them, marking down who preferred which gun, which alloy ammunition suited them the best. He drew a quick map to remind them where the emergency armories were because during drills Gwen always dove for the wrong one. He made notes of his filing procedures for rift materials, for hazardous materials, for materials of unknown and or questionable edible origins. The 'notify in case of emergency' procedures. The 'accidents in the hub' procedures. The island…he must make a list of the inhabitants and their preferences so whoever went with Jack to Flat Holm would know what to take for dear Sofie who liked Tim Tams and cigarettes smuggled in for her, or Robert who needed clean, pure, Ivory soap, or Martin who missed the old Bob Hope radiocasts which could be downloaded off the 'net, and all the others. The restocking procedures for the first aid boxes. Where to get Jack's coat repaired and re-tailored if necessary and those boots, those damnable, world war two surplus boots of his that had to be ordered special.
The living room was larger than he remembered; the one box didn't take up as much space as all the others that had sat there since he'd moved from London. Slowly he filled one notebook and then another and another of all the things he knew they needed, just in case…because he didn't know what was going to happen next.
Day Fourteen
Because he woke up yet again at 0400 at the end of his second week (this time he remembered just as he jumped into the shower), Ianto spent the day painting the bare walls of his living room. He bought dark blue paint from across the street and spent the day filling his walls with color. He zoned on the up down motion and only stopped when his arms began to ache. He rewashed the mugs on the table because they were starting to collect dust, threw out the old container of soup he found in the back of his fridge and fell asleep on the couch in a living room that still reeked of paint.
Ianto woke to find Jack Harkness poking a finger at a wall.
"It's still wet," Ianto said hoarsely. He sat up on the couch and ran a hand through his hair, stopping when he realized it didn't really matter what he looked like right now.
Jack gave him a look before he muttered a "Huh" and shook a blue tipped finger before turning around. "Very urban contemporary," Jack offered.
Ianto grunted. Again, saying "thank you" didn't feel right.
"It's 1747," Jack declared.
"I've been painting."
Jack nodded as if that made complete sense. "I brought pizza this time."
Ianto blinked. "Pizza?" He spied the two pizza boxes on the carpet. His stomach churned. "Dinner. Again?"
"I would have brought breakfast today." Jack shrugged. "Weevils at Bute Park."
"Ah." Ianto's mouth quirked. "It must be their favorite spot."
A snort agreed with him. Jack made his way around the couch and flipped open a flat box in offering.
Ianto stared at the pie and wondered if he would taste cheese or the faint traces of medicine. It shouldn't matter, Ianto thought as he reached over and helped himself to a slice.
Two slices in and Ianto found himself still awake, listening to Jack chewing, smelling the paint drying in his living room.
"That last box is gone."
Ianto stopped. He gulped and checked Jack but the captain didn't appear upset, more curious as he met Ianto's gaze. Ianto averted his eyes and took another bite of pizza.
"I thought it best to put it into storage." Ianto gave Jack an uneasy look. "That's all right, isn't it?"
Jack's brows knitted. "Why wouldn't it be?" He brushed off his slacks and rose to his feet.
Ianto tracked Jack as he circled the walls. He waited for Jack to ask for something to drink (the man was always obsessed with staying hydrated) but Jack said nothing as he circumnavigated the room.
Swallowing hard, Ianto stared at his hands. He cleared his throat. "I'm sorry."
"Yes, I heard," Jack replied evenly back over his shoulder.
Ianto winced. It would be better if Jack sounded angry and not so resigned. "I am sorry," he said falteringly. "I'm sorry for deceiving all of you." Ianto's chin dipped to his chest. "Especially you."
Jack didn't answer him, just dropped abruptly back down on the couch and reached for another slice of pizza. "You know the best pizza, Italian pizza, isn't even in Italy? The first time I went there and asked for it, there was this little Italian man and he gave me the dirtiest look and…"
It should be strange, Ianto mused, to be sitting here, saying nothing, doing nothing but listening to Jack. Jack talking nonsense about himself and his many pizza eating experiences and how he seduced a woman once with his pizza pie dough throwing skills and as strange as it was, it was also somehow …nice.
Reluctant to break in, Ianto shifted in his seat and took a breath. He could feel Jack tensing next to him, and he fell abruptly silent, waiting for Ianto.
"What are you going to do now?" because this was one person he could ask; probably the only one he could ask.
Jack exhaled slowly. He didn't answer him. He just reached over for a new slice. "Right now, I think I'm going to enjoy the hundreds of years it took to get me to this moment and this pizza."
Day Fifteen
Ianto dreamed of walking through Camden Market with her. Her hand loose in his grip, her head tilted back in a laugh. She pointed to everyone standing by the entrance, Jack grinning in that sure, broad smile, his hand gesturing, beckoning. She laughed and waved at him. Ianto tugged her towards them when he was stopped. She reached over to flick something off his tie and paused, her eyes catching something over his shoulder. Ianto twisted around to look. There was nothing. When he turned back, everyone was gone and the market was a smoking ruin.
He was alone again.
Day Sixteen
Westham's Market looked different at 1420. It was empty, the shopkeepers too tired by this late hour to be cheerful. They sat on their stools, looking listless and bored as Ianto wandered around the rows of shops.
Ianto found himself buying brown ribbon-tied boxes of dark chocolate and a sack of brightly colored lemon scones. It was in a bakery behind the newsstand that he'd never noticed before. Somehow, getting anything else other than a periodical felt wrong. Ianto left immediately after. He left his purchases on the kitchen table where the mugs had once sat. Ianto took a shower and let the water trickle down his face until it felt like his skin was no longer sticky and grimy. When he came out, the boxes were gone, lemony crumbs sprinkled his table. Beside it sat one of his journals.
Day Seventeen
"I brought sushi."
"What?" That was the last thing he expected anyone to say at 1900, at a time when he should be checking on IV bags and monitors. Ianto closed his notebook and set it aside on the seat besides him. He stared blankly at Jack, who once again, showed up with yet more food and little conversation. Jack looked at him, as if expecting him to say or do something.
Ianto rubbed his eyes and squinted over to where Jack was pointing at, towards the kitchen. "Oh. Sushi."
Jack eyed his couch with a thoughtful expression, then the rest of the living room and shook his head. "Come on. We'll eat in the kitchen again. "
Ianto followed Jack into the other room. He only briefly wondered if today would be the day. Was Retcon even effective in raw fish? It had proven useless in blue jello, but not yellow. A fact that had utterly fascinated Jack.
Day Eighteen
It wasn't.
Ianto woke up on his couch at 0845, still remembering everything.
He rubbed gritty eyes as he struggled to shrug away the dregs of sleep. He grimaced, his neck stiff from being bent too long in an unnatural position. He sat up and froze.
Jack Harkness, in a less than pristine greatcoat, slept on the other end of the couch.
Hands folded across his abdomen, head tilted back, Jack looked pale, pale enough that his lashes were black against his pallor. There was blood streaked on his throat, flecks of coppery brown drying on his shirt.
And his revolver (Ianto couldn't understand why Jack preferred the antique to their more efficient Glocks) lay between them, almost like a boundary line.
He had called Jack a monster. From the first day as he'd brewed the first cup of coffee and brought it to the wharf he had wanted him to be one.
And yet here Harkness was, the proverbial sleeping beast waiting for slaughter. Yet the face, openly vulnerable and exposed, was irreconcilably many things—hard, stubborn, sarcastic, even cold—but not a monster.
Despite the fact that he could still bring to mind the feel of the muzzle against his own forehead, pressing with sharp and bruising accusation, it was the dawning hurt in Jack's eyes that had felt the worse than the cold composite of the barrel's end.
The gun felt warm to his fingers and Ianto started. He hadn't realized he'd reached for it. He gingerly curled his fingers around the handle. It felt awkward in his hands when he lifted the gun.
And pointed it at Jack.
Ianto's arm shook. He should want Jack dead. He had killed her. He should want it, but Jack had never been a monster. He lowered the gun.
"Here," Jack murmured, out of nowhere. Ianto jumped when Jack opened his eyes. He didn't smile, not even with his eyes but there was a crinkle at the corner of his mouth as if he was thinking of a joke only he thought funny. He curled two fingers around the muzzle pointing it towards the bottom of his chin instead. "More effective from here. Leaves a prettier corpse."
Ianto's hand snatched back, dropping the gun, and he held his right with his left. He swallowed. For some reason, it felt like it would be easier if Jack had looked angry. But instead the captain merely sat up and held the gun by the barrel like the proverbial dirty laundry.
"I'm...I'm not a murderer," Ianto managed.
An eyebrow arched. "And yet you kept one in the basement."
Ianto didn't feel the boiling rage he thought he should have at the accusation. His shoulders slumped. "She wasn't a murderer either."
Jack set the gun down between them again. Ianto got the idea that he wouldn't have stopped him if he were to reach for it. Jack folded his arms across his chest.
"She tried to convert Dr. Tanzaki then Gwen and when that didn't work she tried to upgrade the rest of us, gave me a very engaging hello before finally killing Annie Bennett."
Ianto flinched at Annie's name. He laced his fingers together, rested his elbows on his knees and closed his eyes.
"That wasn't her. She would never…All those things…that wasn't her."
"Exactly. Couldn't have said it better myself," Jack remarked. He yawned and stretched his arms above him. "Thanks for the couch. Those Weevils are getting feistier than usual. I think I need to change colognes."
A smile flickered across his lips before he realized it. "I thought you didn't wear…" Ianto trailed off when Jack twisted around sharply at him. Ianto swallowed. "Sorry."
Jack stared at him for a long time. Ianto fidgeted, not quite sure what Harkness was looking for.
"You really will wait, won't you, Ianto?"
"I don't understand what you mean." Ianto rubbed his palms on his sweatpants.
"You don't go out, you don't call anyone, you sit here…" Jack narrowed his eyes. "Waiting." He faced Ianto completely.
Ianto's hand shook when he gestured towards himself. "It's standard operating procedure. I knew I was breaking the rules. I knew what would happen. You said to go…" Ianto stammered.
"I said to go and wait." Blue eyes stared blankly at him. A glimmer of…something flashed across them. After a moment, they widened. A strange smile twisted his lips, "How could I have ever thought that you were a cold-blooded con man?"
Ianto shook his head. "Perhaps it was the fact that I hid my true intentions, and lied to you, and then, oh, yes, kept a monster in the basement…" Ianto said bleakly. He sat up straighter. "I know what needs to happen. Torchwood directives clearly state—"
"Torchwood One was great at following directives and it fell," Jack said harshly.
Ianto flinched.
Jack's shoulders slumped. "Did we fail you that badly too? We're Torchwood Three. We are, Ianto. You do know you're one of us, don't you?"
Ianto thought of the journals he'd written in so carefully. He spied the latest one, his pen still tucked in the page where he was writing out information about the cleaners he often used, which ones were secure, which ones didn't bat an eye at some of the questionable bloodstained laundry he often dropped off. Stupid, stupid, little things really, but at the same time, it felt crucial to write it all down. He shrugged. How could he be a member of Torchwood Three, not when they knew now he'd been lying to them all this time.
Jack sighed. He dropped down onto the couch beside him, their shoulders now touching.
"Are you going to Retcon me?" Ianto quietly asked.
"I was angry enough to order it. Boy, did I break a few things that first day after everything. Gwen still hasn't forgiven me for smashing her favorite Ghost Hunters mug."
Jack shook his head. He didn't look at Ianto, but the pressure of the warm shoulder and thigh sitting next to him didn't move away either. "Yes, I was mad enough. And I could have ordered it. You're right, the regulations would more than justify it. I'm Jack Harkness. What I say goes. And I had said for you to go. You, that guy I let in. Into the Hub. Into our lives. Into…everything."
Ianto breathed out sharply.
He sighed again and stood up. "No, you're not going to be Retconned, Ianto."
The dark walls blurred to something swirling and stormy as Ianto blinked rapidly to clear his vision.
Jack dipped down and snagged the latest notebook, he held it for a moment hefting its weight in his hand, and then peered over at Ianto. "Because you know Gwen's favorite scones, and you order the powdered latex gloves one size too big because that's how Owen likes them. You make certain Tosh's bud vase is never empty, and that my shoes are made right. Because you have a secret box of chocolate digestives stashed in the four drawer filing cabinet under B just in case one of us has a bad day."
He tossed the notebook back down and dug his hands deep into his pockets turning his back to Ianto, pacing the confines of the room. "But I don't know any of those things about you. I knew so little that I couldn't even guess what your bad day was, or even tell total strangers who came down from London to review this mess when that bad day started. I had to figure it out from the CCTV tapes. I had to learn about you and about what had been going on in my very own basement by watching it on a screen. And after twenty-four hours of breaking things, and yelling at folks who didn't deserve it, and telling them to get the hell out of my sight and take their needles and their inquiry back to London, I kind of finally figured out whose fault it really was that it took me so long to learn those things."
Jack stopped his pacing by the newly painted wall. Face averted, his next words were said low almost as if to himself. "Ianto Jones. Get's up at 0400 every day. Doesn't keep food worth a damn in his cupboard. Likes tea and toast for breakfast. Gets his magazines from Westham's Market along with a newspaper. Likes to make lists." He reached out and touched a finger to the wall. "Likes the color blue. Doesn't own a working TV, but strangely has plenty of movie DVDs. Hates lemongrass in Thai food." He was still talking to the wall, his words barely carrying across the room, almost a whisper now. "Met a girl named Lisa. Loved her. And has been having a bad day for a really long time."
Jack strode to the door, "Next time I'll remember to bring the chocolate digestives." He was gone before Ianto could think to say anything.
Day Nineteen
Ianto stood at the foot of her grave and felt…he felt nothing. He stared at the tombstone, noted the dirt left across the beveled words and reached over to wipe it clean with the edge of his sleeve.
There should be…something. Except there wasn't. It didn't feel like she was here anymore, hadn't really for a very long time.
Light rain continued weeping weakly from the sky, bouncing pitter-patter off his shoulders and plastering his hair onto his skull. He wished he had thought of flowers. Westham's had some lovely gardenias that she would have liked but he had found himself walking automatically to the periodical section and by then, it was too late to retrace his steps to visit the flower section instead.
There were already blossoms set on the patch of newly planted glass, simple carnations tied with a silver ribbon. The minister must have left them there. How very kind of him.
"I'm going to remember…everything, L-Lisa." He'd pulled out the albums finally last night. He'd been surprised how the girl in the pictures had been different from the one he'd last seen. Her eyes softer, the quirk of her mouth slightly deeper, and afterward laying in his bed, he'd dreamed of her voice and it wasn't the one he'd heard for so many months now. It was different somehow. She really was gone.
Something deep inside him snapped, sharp and deep. Ianto sucked in his breath at the sensation and he clamped his mouth shut but the air escaped into a hiccup.
Something raw, barely audible to anyone even himself, clawed out. Ianto's knees buckled and he dropped to the edge of her grave.
"I'm sorry, I wanted you to get away too." Ianto croaked. The rain was blinding him, hot trails streaming down his face, yet the rest of him felt cold. "But there was nothing left." He knelt there shaking.
"Not nothing," a voice said above him, but Ianto was too exhausted to look up, even react when he felt hands grip his shoulders. He resisted briefly when he felt those hands pull him away, anything more and Ianto felt for certain he would shatter.
"You're not alone anymore, Ianto Jones," a voice rumbled low and reassuring in his ear. "In our own way we're all survivors too. Let us show you. Come see."
Day Twenty-Four
It was 0400 on the dot when Ianto got up, showered and made a hasty breakfast while he listened to the morning news. He checked his watch and grunted softly as the news announcer foretold traffic delays of at least twenty minutes due to an idiot crossing lanes a little too quickly, a little too suddenly. Not good. He would have to forego Westham's today.
Ianto arrived by 0500 despite the traffic. Parking took five minutes, giving him enough time to pick up muffins and scones for breakfast.
At 0520 the pamphlets in the Tourist center needed to be sorted. Ten minutes.
Afterwards, the vaults were patrolled, the bolts double-checked and Ianto made certain that there were no more lost or orphaned creature of the Rift wandering the leaking, rusty corridors again.
There was a pause by a certain corridor that led to nowhere because it had been bricked up and mortared. Someone, though, had left a little vase cemented halfway up the new wall with a red rose in it. Ianto touched the petals with his fingertips and forced himself to walk away.
It was dark, but Ianto knew every nook and turn this place offered so it was no trouble at all to find the spare workstation without light, type in his password and start reviewing the morning reports around Cardiff.
The hush of footsteps to his left came both as a surprise and not. Ianto lifted his eyes up to Jack. He opened his mouth, to say something when Jack spoke up first.
"You shouldn't be here." There was only mild reproach in his voice, but his eyes seemed bright in the dark.
Ianto looked down at his folder and murmured, "Neither should you" before he returned to the workstation. Jack didn't comment, but he edged closer to Ianto to peer at the monitor. He felt a brief weight on the back of his shoulder. Jack's hand slipped off as soon as Ianto glanced over, but Ianto could still feel the lingering heat on him like an anchor.
"What have you got?" Jack murmured as he tucked his hands into his pockets.
What did he have? Ianto wasn't sure but he was willing to take the chance Jack gave him to find out. He pointed to the monitor and felt Jack lean in for a closer look.
"Funny sort of weather patterns," Ianto returned. He glanced over to Jack and waited.
Jack studied the screen, his jaw set before he tilted his head towards Ianto.
"Yep, looks funny to me too," Jack murmured, "looks like something we should check out." Jack straightened and headed toward the stairs. He paused to look back. "Well?"
Ianto frowned. "I don't understand."
Jack smiled but his eyes were watching Ianto intently with something bordering on anxiety. "The Torchwood Three team, Ianto, you're either in or you're out."
Ianto hesitated, but in his head he could hear a voice whispering. "Let us show you."
"Ianto?"
Ianto took a deep breath. Meeting Jack's gaze, he gave him a firm nod. "In, sir. If you'll have me."
Jack studied him a moment and then gave a small nod of his own. "Alright then." His expression lightened until it matched the gleam in his eyes. "Call the others in for a meeting when they get here." Jack tugged his suspenders over his shoulders as he bounded for his office. He stood by the door, his hands clasped together in a plea. "Oh and Ianto? Coffee? Please?"
"Of course, sir," Ianto agreed and was rewarded by a startling broad grin from Jack that seemed to peel away a weight from his shoulders. He didn't smile back, it didn't feel right. Not yet. He only turned on the lights and got ready for everyone's arrival.
After all, it was almost 0700.
The End
Author's Acknowledgment: Originally, this was meant to be for the![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
help_haiti fic auction. At a 1000 words. –pauses- I obviously went a tad over. LOL. Many thanks to ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
space_monkey52 for this intriguing prompt and her donation! She graciously extended my deadline twice as this fic took over my brain.
I also want to thanksoullessminion for dragging herself out of sickbed for my beta-ing demands and for Ellie, who constantly refuses to take credit in her constant talking me off ledges, but dammit, I'm giving her kudos anyway!
Master Fic List: here
Part 1/2
Ianto found himself staring at his ceiling, confused. He'd fallen asleep writing a list of where he'd hidden the biscuits and the chocolates at the Hub: behind the dishes, inside the boxes marked 'salt'. Everyone there had a sweet tooth, especially Owen. No Hob Nob was ever safe.
There were so many things he'd left undone.
A soft scuff of a shoe outside his bedroom told him what had really woken him.
Ianto pressed his toes into the thin carpet, his right hand blindly searching in the dark to grab anything. He had turned in his weapon as stated for all suspensions. His fingers curled around something long and stiff. Ianto immediately pulled it up to brace against his right shoulder. He staggered with fatigue and blinked when he could make out an old umbrella.
Brilliant.
Something scraped in the living room. Ianto's eyes snapped forward towards the next room. He swallowed, set his jaw and crept towards the entryway into his living room. Just as his foot stepped fully into the space, light flooded the room and, startled, Ianto pulled back his weapon and swung forward.
And the umbrella bloomed open. Oh, bloody hell.
"I think that's seven years' bad luck."
Ianto lowered his weapon—or weather accessory—and stared at Jack Harkness beyond the black nylon dome. He stood by the last box, dressed in his greatcoat, shoulders straight, back rigid, his face devoid of even the crooked smirk he favored.
In the back of his mind, Ianto knew it shouldn't be a surprise that Jack was ultimately the one to…sort everything out. After all, he was the one who brought Ianto in. It was only fitting Jack be the one to see him out.
A lump lodged in his throat anyway and wouldn't go away.
Jack considered the umbrella. "Expecting rain?"
"Mirror," Ianto blurted out. It shouldn't be a surprise but it still was a bit disconcerting.
Jack frowned and he touched his face with his hand. "Something on me?"
"Seven years bad luck," Ianto said, but wishing he hadn't because God, he sounded foolish to his own ears. "Breaking a mirror is seven years of bad luck."
Jack rolled his eyes. "Jump on a crack, under a ladder, mirrors, umbrellas. You people have this strange fear of inanimate objects."
It was always things like that, those casual little odd throwaways that coaxed Ianto to come closer and sometimes warn him back. There were times he felt the need to do both.
Ianto tugged the umbrella closed and set it on the floor. "I thought you were a prowler," Ianto explained lamely.
Jack stared at him as if the thought never occurred to him and he eyed the umbrella, his lips pursed. "Somehow, I don't think that's an effective deterrent. Maybe a base—no, wait, you don't have baseball here—maybe a cricket bat."
Ianto gaped at Jack, his mouth slightly opened. "I…uh…c-cricket?" His eyes drifted to the box Jack was by, it was open, and he whispered, something heavy thudding in his chest. "Those are her things."
Jack's mouth twisted and the hardness in his eyes eased. "Yes, I know."
The words he'd flung at Jack still reverberated inside him, like a physical force pushing him down from the inside. Words shouted in desperation to stop everything from moving forward. From changing.
There was a tingly feeling that fueled his legs as Ianto crossed over to the box. He folded and tucked corners until the flap stayed shut.
"Tosh said there needed to be sleeves," Ianto rasped. "It's all changed. Everything changes. —Now, this is all I have left of her—"
Something dawned within Jack's gaze. He studied Ianto more intently, watching his hands as he reverently touched the last box. The line across Jack's shoulders relaxed. He nodded to himself.
"There's a shawl in here. She used to wear it?" Jack asked quietly. It wasn't fair. Ianto wanted to shout, but the hard edge to Jack's words was gone now making it impossible.
Ianto nodded, it felt odd that Jack had seen her things. Seen the person she was. The last of her in the box. "A silk one. It was her favorite."
"Yes, I saw it. Why don't we use that?" There was a nudge, a small push against the small of his back steering him towards the couch. Ianto dropped onto the couch as soon as the back of his knees touched it. He sat there, feeling detached, the sound of Jack re-opening the box, moving and shuffling registering only as a sound he felt like he ought to react to.
Ianto focused after a few minutes and the containers sitting in a neat line of three at last registered.
"You bought Chinese food?" Ianto said slowly.
"Dinner," Jack clarified.
"I was sleeping." Ianto pointed out.
"At 1840?" Ianto could imagine him waving a hand dismissively in the air behind him. "I brought General Tso's chicken, chow mein, broccoli beef." There was a pause. "Technically, it's not real Chinese food, but I ordered it in Chinese."
Ianto studied the cartons with its red illustrations of ill-proportioned pagodas. "So…you brought dinner?"
The couch gave as Jack sat down next to him. Almost immediately, the captain began snapping apart cheap chopsticks, scrapping them together then plucking out pieces of chicken with them. Ianto spared Jack a glance as the captain popped one morsel in his mouth, fanning it with a hand soon after.
Ianto felt a heaviness in his stomach as he took in the lilac dress and shawl now folded by Jack's side. Ianto lowered his eyes to the carton of chow mein that was pressed into his hands. He poked at the noodles with the chopsticks before tentatively taking a bite. He wondered how long it would take affect. He chewed slowly and swallowed with some difficulty. The warm food sat in his stomach and his back hurt from trying to keep his spine straight. He was all too aware of Jack next to him, like the air was heavy and charged before an approaching storm.
"Okay?" Jack murmured.
"It's fine." Ianto muttered, his eyes on the food. The words 'thank you' and 'I'm sorry' were on the tip of his tongue but he couldn't bring himself to say them out loud.
The food and the presence at his side slowly warmed him, and when Ianto's head started bobbing forward, he panicked.
It was ridiculous, of course. It was SOP, had been even in London, but the sensation of his eyelids growing heavier bubbled forth a sort of snap, like a wire breaking around his heart before chills washed down his spine. It roused him briefly.
"Okay," Jack rumbled somewhere near the vicinity of his left ear, "I think we can skip dessert."
The flimsy chopsticks slipped out of his loose grasp. Ianto's eyes flew open but all he saw was a blur of blues and grays as his feet were lifted and settled across on the couch.
"I'll bring pizza next time," Jack commented as he confiscated the carton Ianto had.
But there wasn't going to be a next time, was there?
Ianto blindly reached out, catching Jack's wrist. Jack stilled.
Weights seemed to pull Ianto deeper.
"Will I," Ianto murmured even as his eyes fluttered shut. No. Not yet. He wasn't ready, after all.
"Will I still remember?" Ianto whispered hoarsely in what felt like a final fit of energy. "Will I forget her?"
Jack pulled his hand out of Ianto's grip. It was an unsettling sensation to feel Jack's hand slip out his grasp. He placed Ianto's hand folded across his belly.
"Will you forget?" Jack echoed. He sounded puzzled. "Somehow, I very much doubt it, Ianto Jones." Jack lightly pushed away Ianto's flailing hand, slipping away like a shadow. "She was the only reason why you stayed here, after all." Jack's voice grew rough.
"What does that mean?" Ianto slurred but his question came out thick and incoherent. "Wait…" he protested feebly as he felt himself eased down, a pillow tucked under his head.
"Get some sleep, Ianto," Jack murmured. He sounded very far away.
Ianto reached out once more but his arm simply dropped leaden to his sides. Then, it didn't matter anymore.
Day Eight
It was 0407. Ianto started. Every morning at 0400 on the dot, Ianto needed to get up, shower and make a hasty breakfast while he listened to the morning news, in case anything Torchwood-worthy happened. Ianto stumbled off of the couch. He gave the cushions a baffled look before he glowered at the clutter of crumpled paper napkins and dark-stained takeaway menu. He'd have to clean that up later.
There was no hot water again. Mrs. Norris, his landlady, promised the boiler would be fixed by next week. So Ianto gritted his teeth and endured one of the coldest showers he'd ever experienced for exactly four minutes. The towel he scrubbed furiously over his body was more to warm him up this time.
Today it was the dark charcoal jacket, white shirt, navy tie because there was the weekly conference call meeting today. Ianto checked his watch. It was 0413 now. Damn. He clicked his tongue against his teeth as he hopped into his shoes, he'd tie them in the car. He yanked open his front door, stooped down to swipe his mail off the floor and tossed them on the table by the door. He needed to be at Westham's Market in ten minutes. Hopefully, there would be something more interesting this time. He didn't relish rereading the Economist out loud to Lis—
Ianto stopped.
His breathing, which had quickened to a runner's pace during his haste, had stuttered as he stood by the door, his car keys in a fist. He slammed the door shut and leaned his back against it, facing the kitchen and the two mugs still waiting on the table. His eyes darted to the bin. Three cartons smelling of salt and grease and MSG lay cluttered within.
Oh.
It really had happened then.
Ianto racked his mind, tossing memories aside as soon as he recalled them. Canary Wharf. The pterodactyl. The warehouse. Gwen Cooper. Suzie Costello. Dr. Tanzaki.
Lisa.
Jack.
A moan scratched out from the back of his throat. Ianto pressed the back of his hand to his mouth. Nevertheless, it escaped before he could push it back. He gasped and slid down to the floor and he couldn't find the strength to get up.
He thought for sure last night was it. He'd thought Jack had come to punish him.
Why? Why was he still allowed to remember everything?
He had betrayed them. Betrayed Jack. Lied. Broken the rules. She was dead and he had failed and he was supposed to go away now. They were supposed to come and rip him apart, not…feed him Chinese. That was the way it worked. You failed to do your job and the job got rid of you. Why wasn't he getting rid of Ianto?
He didn't understand.
Ianto panted on the floor, his eyes on the mugs, a strange whooshing shrieking in his ears.
They wouldn't send him away, and now he didn't know what to do. What came next?
And then his phone rang.
Day Ten
Two days later, Ianto sat in the minister's office with his hands wrapped around a chipped cup of tea. English Breakfast, Ianto thought as he glanced out the tiny round window that showed nothing at all save for a bleak beam of early morning light.
Ianto stared out the window, the tea cooling in his grasp, and tried to imagine what it must look like beyond the church that stood in front of the cemetery. It had been raining before and droplets had trickled down his collar and down his back as he had stood there and watched the groundskeeper cut into the dirt with his dented spade.
Bitter without milk, the tea was even bitterer cool but Ianto kept sipping it half-heartedly as he kept his eyes on the porthole.
A throat cleared quietly behind him. Ianto painfully turned his head towards the minister by the door.
"It's done."
Ianto politely thanked the minister and left.
Day Eleven – Thirteen
For four days after, Ianto wrote. He wrote down everything he'd been afraid he wouldn't have time to tell them.
Ianto noted the gun weights for all of them, marking down who preferred which gun, which alloy ammunition suited them the best. He drew a quick map to remind them where the emergency armories were because during drills Gwen always dove for the wrong one. He made notes of his filing procedures for rift materials, for hazardous materials, for materials of unknown and or questionable edible origins. The 'notify in case of emergency' procedures. The 'accidents in the hub' procedures. The island…he must make a list of the inhabitants and their preferences so whoever went with Jack to Flat Holm would know what to take for dear Sofie who liked Tim Tams and cigarettes smuggled in for her, or Robert who needed clean, pure, Ivory soap, or Martin who missed the old Bob Hope radiocasts which could be downloaded off the 'net, and all the others. The restocking procedures for the first aid boxes. Where to get Jack's coat repaired and re-tailored if necessary and those boots, those damnable, world war two surplus boots of his that had to be ordered special.
The living room was larger than he remembered; the one box didn't take up as much space as all the others that had sat there since he'd moved from London. Slowly he filled one notebook and then another and another of all the things he knew they needed, just in case…because he didn't know what was going to happen next.
Day Fourteen
Because he woke up yet again at 0400 at the end of his second week (this time he remembered just as he jumped into the shower), Ianto spent the day painting the bare walls of his living room. He bought dark blue paint from across the street and spent the day filling his walls with color. He zoned on the up down motion and only stopped when his arms began to ache. He rewashed the mugs on the table because they were starting to collect dust, threw out the old container of soup he found in the back of his fridge and fell asleep on the couch in a living room that still reeked of paint.
Ianto woke to find Jack Harkness poking a finger at a wall.
"It's still wet," Ianto said hoarsely. He sat up on the couch and ran a hand through his hair, stopping when he realized it didn't really matter what he looked like right now.
Jack gave him a look before he muttered a "Huh" and shook a blue tipped finger before turning around. "Very urban contemporary," Jack offered.
Ianto grunted. Again, saying "thank you" didn't feel right.
"It's 1747," Jack declared.
"I've been painting."
Jack nodded as if that made complete sense. "I brought pizza this time."
Ianto blinked. "Pizza?" He spied the two pizza boxes on the carpet. His stomach churned. "Dinner. Again?"
"I would have brought breakfast today." Jack shrugged. "Weevils at Bute Park."
"Ah." Ianto's mouth quirked. "It must be their favorite spot."
A snort agreed with him. Jack made his way around the couch and flipped open a flat box in offering.
Ianto stared at the pie and wondered if he would taste cheese or the faint traces of medicine. It shouldn't matter, Ianto thought as he reached over and helped himself to a slice.
Two slices in and Ianto found himself still awake, listening to Jack chewing, smelling the paint drying in his living room.
"That last box is gone."
Ianto stopped. He gulped and checked Jack but the captain didn't appear upset, more curious as he met Ianto's gaze. Ianto averted his eyes and took another bite of pizza.
"I thought it best to put it into storage." Ianto gave Jack an uneasy look. "That's all right, isn't it?"
Jack's brows knitted. "Why wouldn't it be?" He brushed off his slacks and rose to his feet.
Ianto tracked Jack as he circled the walls. He waited for Jack to ask for something to drink (the man was always obsessed with staying hydrated) but Jack said nothing as he circumnavigated the room.
Swallowing hard, Ianto stared at his hands. He cleared his throat. "I'm sorry."
"Yes, I heard," Jack replied evenly back over his shoulder.
Ianto winced. It would be better if Jack sounded angry and not so resigned. "I am sorry," he said falteringly. "I'm sorry for deceiving all of you." Ianto's chin dipped to his chest. "Especially you."
Jack didn't answer him, just dropped abruptly back down on the couch and reached for another slice of pizza. "You know the best pizza, Italian pizza, isn't even in Italy? The first time I went there and asked for it, there was this little Italian man and he gave me the dirtiest look and…"
It should be strange, Ianto mused, to be sitting here, saying nothing, doing nothing but listening to Jack. Jack talking nonsense about himself and his many pizza eating experiences and how he seduced a woman once with his pizza pie dough throwing skills and as strange as it was, it was also somehow …nice.
Reluctant to break in, Ianto shifted in his seat and took a breath. He could feel Jack tensing next to him, and he fell abruptly silent, waiting for Ianto.
"What are you going to do now?" because this was one person he could ask; probably the only one he could ask.
Jack exhaled slowly. He didn't answer him. He just reached over for a new slice. "Right now, I think I'm going to enjoy the hundreds of years it took to get me to this moment and this pizza."
Day Fifteen
Ianto dreamed of walking through Camden Market with her. Her hand loose in his grip, her head tilted back in a laugh. She pointed to everyone standing by the entrance, Jack grinning in that sure, broad smile, his hand gesturing, beckoning. She laughed and waved at him. Ianto tugged her towards them when he was stopped. She reached over to flick something off his tie and paused, her eyes catching something over his shoulder. Ianto twisted around to look. There was nothing. When he turned back, everyone was gone and the market was a smoking ruin.
He was alone again.
Day Sixteen
Westham's Market looked different at 1420. It was empty, the shopkeepers too tired by this late hour to be cheerful. They sat on their stools, looking listless and bored as Ianto wandered around the rows of shops.
Ianto found himself buying brown ribbon-tied boxes of dark chocolate and a sack of brightly colored lemon scones. It was in a bakery behind the newsstand that he'd never noticed before. Somehow, getting anything else other than a periodical felt wrong. Ianto left immediately after. He left his purchases on the kitchen table where the mugs had once sat. Ianto took a shower and let the water trickle down his face until it felt like his skin was no longer sticky and grimy. When he came out, the boxes were gone, lemony crumbs sprinkled his table. Beside it sat one of his journals.
Day Seventeen
"I brought sushi."
"What?" That was the last thing he expected anyone to say at 1900, at a time when he should be checking on IV bags and monitors. Ianto closed his notebook and set it aside on the seat besides him. He stared blankly at Jack, who once again, showed up with yet more food and little conversation. Jack looked at him, as if expecting him to say or do something.
Ianto rubbed his eyes and squinted over to where Jack was pointing at, towards the kitchen. "Oh. Sushi."
Jack eyed his couch with a thoughtful expression, then the rest of the living room and shook his head. "Come on. We'll eat in the kitchen again. "
Ianto followed Jack into the other room. He only briefly wondered if today would be the day. Was Retcon even effective in raw fish? It had proven useless in blue jello, but not yellow. A fact that had utterly fascinated Jack.
Day Eighteen
It wasn't.
Ianto woke up on his couch at 0845, still remembering everything.
He rubbed gritty eyes as he struggled to shrug away the dregs of sleep. He grimaced, his neck stiff from being bent too long in an unnatural position. He sat up and froze.
Jack Harkness, in a less than pristine greatcoat, slept on the other end of the couch.
Hands folded across his abdomen, head tilted back, Jack looked pale, pale enough that his lashes were black against his pallor. There was blood streaked on his throat, flecks of coppery brown drying on his shirt.
And his revolver (Ianto couldn't understand why Jack preferred the antique to their more efficient Glocks) lay between them, almost like a boundary line.
He had called Jack a monster. From the first day as he'd brewed the first cup of coffee and brought it to the wharf he had wanted him to be one.
And yet here Harkness was, the proverbial sleeping beast waiting for slaughter. Yet the face, openly vulnerable and exposed, was irreconcilably many things—hard, stubborn, sarcastic, even cold—but not a monster.
Despite the fact that he could still bring to mind the feel of the muzzle against his own forehead, pressing with sharp and bruising accusation, it was the dawning hurt in Jack's eyes that had felt the worse than the cold composite of the barrel's end.
The gun felt warm to his fingers and Ianto started. He hadn't realized he'd reached for it. He gingerly curled his fingers around the handle. It felt awkward in his hands when he lifted the gun.
And pointed it at Jack.
Ianto's arm shook. He should want Jack dead. He had killed her. He should want it, but Jack had never been a monster. He lowered the gun.
"Here," Jack murmured, out of nowhere. Ianto jumped when Jack opened his eyes. He didn't smile, not even with his eyes but there was a crinkle at the corner of his mouth as if he was thinking of a joke only he thought funny. He curled two fingers around the muzzle pointing it towards the bottom of his chin instead. "More effective from here. Leaves a prettier corpse."
Ianto's hand snatched back, dropping the gun, and he held his right with his left. He swallowed. For some reason, it felt like it would be easier if Jack had looked angry. But instead the captain merely sat up and held the gun by the barrel like the proverbial dirty laundry.
"I'm...I'm not a murderer," Ianto managed.
An eyebrow arched. "And yet you kept one in the basement."
Ianto didn't feel the boiling rage he thought he should have at the accusation. His shoulders slumped. "She wasn't a murderer either."
Jack set the gun down between them again. Ianto got the idea that he wouldn't have stopped him if he were to reach for it. Jack folded his arms across his chest.
"She tried to convert Dr. Tanzaki then Gwen and when that didn't work she tried to upgrade the rest of us, gave me a very engaging hello before finally killing Annie Bennett."
Ianto flinched at Annie's name. He laced his fingers together, rested his elbows on his knees and closed his eyes.
"That wasn't her. She would never…All those things…that wasn't her."
"Exactly. Couldn't have said it better myself," Jack remarked. He yawned and stretched his arms above him. "Thanks for the couch. Those Weevils are getting feistier than usual. I think I need to change colognes."
A smile flickered across his lips before he realized it. "I thought you didn't wear…" Ianto trailed off when Jack twisted around sharply at him. Ianto swallowed. "Sorry."
Jack stared at him for a long time. Ianto fidgeted, not quite sure what Harkness was looking for.
"You really will wait, won't you, Ianto?"
"I don't understand what you mean." Ianto rubbed his palms on his sweatpants.
"You don't go out, you don't call anyone, you sit here…" Jack narrowed his eyes. "Waiting." He faced Ianto completely.
Ianto's hand shook when he gestured towards himself. "It's standard operating procedure. I knew I was breaking the rules. I knew what would happen. You said to go…" Ianto stammered.
"I said to go and wait." Blue eyes stared blankly at him. A glimmer of…something flashed across them. After a moment, they widened. A strange smile twisted his lips, "How could I have ever thought that you were a cold-blooded con man?"
Ianto shook his head. "Perhaps it was the fact that I hid my true intentions, and lied to you, and then, oh, yes, kept a monster in the basement…" Ianto said bleakly. He sat up straighter. "I know what needs to happen. Torchwood directives clearly state—"
"Torchwood One was great at following directives and it fell," Jack said harshly.
Ianto flinched.
Jack's shoulders slumped. "Did we fail you that badly too? We're Torchwood Three. We are, Ianto. You do know you're one of us, don't you?"
Ianto thought of the journals he'd written in so carefully. He spied the latest one, his pen still tucked in the page where he was writing out information about the cleaners he often used, which ones were secure, which ones didn't bat an eye at some of the questionable bloodstained laundry he often dropped off. Stupid, stupid, little things really, but at the same time, it felt crucial to write it all down. He shrugged. How could he be a member of Torchwood Three, not when they knew now he'd been lying to them all this time.
Jack sighed. He dropped down onto the couch beside him, their shoulders now touching.
"Are you going to Retcon me?" Ianto quietly asked.
"I was angry enough to order it. Boy, did I break a few things that first day after everything. Gwen still hasn't forgiven me for smashing her favorite Ghost Hunters mug."
Jack shook his head. He didn't look at Ianto, but the pressure of the warm shoulder and thigh sitting next to him didn't move away either. "Yes, I was mad enough. And I could have ordered it. You're right, the regulations would more than justify it. I'm Jack Harkness. What I say goes. And I had said for you to go. You, that guy I let in. Into the Hub. Into our lives. Into…everything."
Ianto breathed out sharply.
He sighed again and stood up. "No, you're not going to be Retconned, Ianto."
The dark walls blurred to something swirling and stormy as Ianto blinked rapidly to clear his vision.
Jack dipped down and snagged the latest notebook, he held it for a moment hefting its weight in his hand, and then peered over at Ianto. "Because you know Gwen's favorite scones, and you order the powdered latex gloves one size too big because that's how Owen likes them. You make certain Tosh's bud vase is never empty, and that my shoes are made right. Because you have a secret box of chocolate digestives stashed in the four drawer filing cabinet under B just in case one of us has a bad day."
He tossed the notebook back down and dug his hands deep into his pockets turning his back to Ianto, pacing the confines of the room. "But I don't know any of those things about you. I knew so little that I couldn't even guess what your bad day was, or even tell total strangers who came down from London to review this mess when that bad day started. I had to figure it out from the CCTV tapes. I had to learn about you and about what had been going on in my very own basement by watching it on a screen. And after twenty-four hours of breaking things, and yelling at folks who didn't deserve it, and telling them to get the hell out of my sight and take their needles and their inquiry back to London, I kind of finally figured out whose fault it really was that it took me so long to learn those things."
Jack stopped his pacing by the newly painted wall. Face averted, his next words were said low almost as if to himself. "Ianto Jones. Get's up at 0400 every day. Doesn't keep food worth a damn in his cupboard. Likes tea and toast for breakfast. Gets his magazines from Westham's Market along with a newspaper. Likes to make lists." He reached out and touched a finger to the wall. "Likes the color blue. Doesn't own a working TV, but strangely has plenty of movie DVDs. Hates lemongrass in Thai food." He was still talking to the wall, his words barely carrying across the room, almost a whisper now. "Met a girl named Lisa. Loved her. And has been having a bad day for a really long time."
Jack strode to the door, "Next time I'll remember to bring the chocolate digestives." He was gone before Ianto could think to say anything.
Day Nineteen
Ianto stood at the foot of her grave and felt…he felt nothing. He stared at the tombstone, noted the dirt left across the beveled words and reached over to wipe it clean with the edge of his sleeve.
There should be…something. Except there wasn't. It didn't feel like she was here anymore, hadn't really for a very long time.
Light rain continued weeping weakly from the sky, bouncing pitter-patter off his shoulders and plastering his hair onto his skull. He wished he had thought of flowers. Westham's had some lovely gardenias that she would have liked but he had found himself walking automatically to the periodical section and by then, it was too late to retrace his steps to visit the flower section instead.
There were already blossoms set on the patch of newly planted glass, simple carnations tied with a silver ribbon. The minister must have left them there. How very kind of him.
"I'm going to remember…everything, L-Lisa." He'd pulled out the albums finally last night. He'd been surprised how the girl in the pictures had been different from the one he'd last seen. Her eyes softer, the quirk of her mouth slightly deeper, and afterward laying in his bed, he'd dreamed of her voice and it wasn't the one he'd heard for so many months now. It was different somehow. She really was gone.
Something deep inside him snapped, sharp and deep. Ianto sucked in his breath at the sensation and he clamped his mouth shut but the air escaped into a hiccup.
Something raw, barely audible to anyone even himself, clawed out. Ianto's knees buckled and he dropped to the edge of her grave.
"I'm sorry, I wanted you to get away too." Ianto croaked. The rain was blinding him, hot trails streaming down his face, yet the rest of him felt cold. "But there was nothing left." He knelt there shaking.
"Not nothing," a voice said above him, but Ianto was too exhausted to look up, even react when he felt hands grip his shoulders. He resisted briefly when he felt those hands pull him away, anything more and Ianto felt for certain he would shatter.
"You're not alone anymore, Ianto Jones," a voice rumbled low and reassuring in his ear. "In our own way we're all survivors too. Let us show you. Come see."
Day Twenty-Four
It was 0400 on the dot when Ianto got up, showered and made a hasty breakfast while he listened to the morning news. He checked his watch and grunted softly as the news announcer foretold traffic delays of at least twenty minutes due to an idiot crossing lanes a little too quickly, a little too suddenly. Not good. He would have to forego Westham's today.
Ianto arrived by 0500 despite the traffic. Parking took five minutes, giving him enough time to pick up muffins and scones for breakfast.
At 0520 the pamphlets in the Tourist center needed to be sorted. Ten minutes.
Afterwards, the vaults were patrolled, the bolts double-checked and Ianto made certain that there were no more lost or orphaned creature of the Rift wandering the leaking, rusty corridors again.
There was a pause by a certain corridor that led to nowhere because it had been bricked up and mortared. Someone, though, had left a little vase cemented halfway up the new wall with a red rose in it. Ianto touched the petals with his fingertips and forced himself to walk away.
It was dark, but Ianto knew every nook and turn this place offered so it was no trouble at all to find the spare workstation without light, type in his password and start reviewing the morning reports around Cardiff.
The hush of footsteps to his left came both as a surprise and not. Ianto lifted his eyes up to Jack. He opened his mouth, to say something when Jack spoke up first.
"You shouldn't be here." There was only mild reproach in his voice, but his eyes seemed bright in the dark.
Ianto looked down at his folder and murmured, "Neither should you" before he returned to the workstation. Jack didn't comment, but he edged closer to Ianto to peer at the monitor. He felt a brief weight on the back of his shoulder. Jack's hand slipped off as soon as Ianto glanced over, but Ianto could still feel the lingering heat on him like an anchor.
"What have you got?" Jack murmured as he tucked his hands into his pockets.
What did he have? Ianto wasn't sure but he was willing to take the chance Jack gave him to find out. He pointed to the monitor and felt Jack lean in for a closer look.
"Funny sort of weather patterns," Ianto returned. He glanced over to Jack and waited.
Jack studied the screen, his jaw set before he tilted his head towards Ianto.
"Yep, looks funny to me too," Jack murmured, "looks like something we should check out." Jack straightened and headed toward the stairs. He paused to look back. "Well?"
Ianto frowned. "I don't understand."
Jack smiled but his eyes were watching Ianto intently with something bordering on anxiety. "The Torchwood Three team, Ianto, you're either in or you're out."
Ianto hesitated, but in his head he could hear a voice whispering. "Let us show you."
"Ianto?"
Ianto took a deep breath. Meeting Jack's gaze, he gave him a firm nod. "In, sir. If you'll have me."
Jack studied him a moment and then gave a small nod of his own. "Alright then." His expression lightened until it matched the gleam in his eyes. "Call the others in for a meeting when they get here." Jack tugged his suspenders over his shoulders as he bounded for his office. He stood by the door, his hands clasped together in a plea. "Oh and Ianto? Coffee? Please?"
"Of course, sir," Ianto agreed and was rewarded by a startling broad grin from Jack that seemed to peel away a weight from his shoulders. He didn't smile back, it didn't feel right. Not yet. He only turned on the lights and got ready for everyone's arrival.
After all, it was almost 0700.
The End
Author's Acknowledgment: Originally, this was meant to be for the
help_haiti fic auction. At a 1000 words. –pauses- I obviously went a tad over. LOL. Many thanks to space_monkey52 for this intriguing prompt and her donation! She graciously extended my deadline twice as this fic took over my brain. I also want to thank
soullessminion for dragging herself out of sickbed for my beta-ing demands and for Ellie, who constantly refuses to take credit in her constant talking me off ledges, but dammit, I'm giving her kudos anyway! ![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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Date: 2010-03-03 03:49 am (UTC)