FIC: Potentiality 3/8 (Torchwood)
Title: Potentiality (Or: How I Learned To Loathe The Quantum Bomb)
Author: Jewels (bjewelled)
Fandom: Torchwood
Disclaimer: Torchwood is the legal property of the BBC. In case you didn’t know.
Summary: Somewhere between “Countrycide” and “Captain Jack Harkness”, Ianto Jones went from hardly knowing how to hold a gun to be willing and able to use it. How did he get there, and what did he have to sacrifice in the process?
Word Count: ~45,000
Web Link: http://www.bjewelled.co.uk/fanfic/dwho/potentiality00.html
Read From The Beginning
**
Part Three
**
Captain Monroe came to collect him in the morning, confirming his suspicions that she had been assigned to mind him. When he asked her what she was usually doing, she simply said “Admin” and refused to be drawn further. Rather than alienate her so early into his stay at the UNIT base, Ianto let the matter drop. She gave him enough time to grab a coffee and a pastry for breakfast, before whisking him off to the medical building for his first examination of the day since, apparently, part of UNIT regulations specified that individuals be certified fit before any training proceeded.
Ianto was subjected to the horror of the medical staff upon their witnessing the extent of the bruising over most of his body, but after they carefully prodded and poked for a while, the Doctors reluctantly were forced to agree with Owen’s assessment of Ianto’s health; he may not be pretty to look at, but there was nothing in the way of internal or head injuries to concern them.
One of the Doctors made a crack about the sheep fighting back, and Ianto tried to memorise his name from his security badge, contemplating abusing the power of the Torchwood mainframe to plant goat porn on his computer. It wouldn’t be that hard to do, and it would be awfully satisfying.
Externally, though, he made no sign of being bothered by the predictable joke, only smiling and buttoning up his shirt as Monroe entered the examination room brandishing a pen and a stack of forms and paperwork hefty enough to be used as a doorstop.
It was the usual brand of confidentiality agreements, health and safety forms, and medical information which managed to comprise most bureaucracies. Ianto hadn’t even realised how much he hadn’t missed the vast tonnage of paperwork that Torchwood London had produced. Cardiff, given that it had five of the six remaining Torchwood personnel within its walls, felt no similar need for paper trails and forms filed in triplicate. Signing and dating and signing some more took them right up until midday, leaving the pair of them to go to grab a light lunch before Ianto’s assessment began in earnest that afternoon.
And it was as they walked towards the mess, along a path that ran under the shade of trees that were starting to turn bare and thin as autumn drew on, their leaves yellowing and falling to the ground to moulder and decay, that Ianto had his first encounter with General Horatio Carver. Even if he hadn't been able to identify the rank on the General's uniform, the way Monroe halted and snapped to attention gave an indication as to his position.
“Sir,” she said, crisply, as Carver came to a halt in front of her, nodding and returning the salute.
“Captain,” he said, his eyes resting on Ianto, “I take it this is our Torchwood guest.”
Ianto smiled politely as Monroe assumed a perfect at-ease stance and nodded sharply. “Yes, sir,” she said, “Ianto Jones, Torchwood Cardiff.”
“One of Harkness's lot, eh?” Carver said, raising an eyebrow.
“That's the one, sir,” Ianto said, holding out his hand. Carver paused just long enough to reveal exactly how much esteem he held Torchwood in, before taking Ianto's hand and nearly attempting to crush it. It clearly wasn't a difficult task for him. He was a solidly built man who clearly kept himself in shape, and had the no nonsense look of one who expected to always be dealing with fools.
Ianto let his eyes narrow, as if in pain, and his mouth thin, and saw Carver's lips twitch faintly in satisfaction. He released Ianto's hand and Ianto quickly put his hand behind his back, flexing it silently. The pained expression hadn't been entirely an act, but it made Carver feel like he'd won something so Ianto was willing to allow one slightly crushed limb.
“Rumours of Torchwood’s demise must not have been exaggerated if you’re sending your personnel off for outside training,” Carver said, eyes narrowed as he looked at Ianto.
“Oh, I wouldn’t be scanning the papers for our obituaries just yet,” Ianto replied, quickly. “I think you’ll find that Captain Harkness simple sees the wisdom in diversifying our training sources.”
Carver snorted disapprovingly. “Hardly any way to run a unit,” he said.
Ianto smiled thinly. “Just as well we’re not answerable to the military then, isn’t it?” It was a subtle dig, but from Carver’s tight expression, he picked up on it well enough.
“Don’t let me keep you,” Carver said, nodding his head sharply, “Mister Jones, Captain.”
“Sir.” Monroe threw a quick salute as Carver walked away with barely any further acknowledgement. She let out a quick breath once he’d passed out of earshot.
“I'm guessing,” Ianto said, as he watched the general go, “That General Carver and Captain Harkness have some sort of prior history.”
Monroe glanced at him with surprise. “You don't know?” she asked, curious.
Ianto shook his head. “Before my time in Cardiff, obviously.”
“Obviously,” Monroe repeated dryly. “I don't know much myself really, just rumours that tend to do the rounds whenever the name 'Torchwood' comes up. I think it has something to do with technology that Harkness managed to take out of the General's hands.”
Ianto nodded. “Sounds like him.”
“And something to do with the General's daughter.”
“Definitely sounds like him.”
**
A UNIT base, it seemed, never truly slept. Guards still moved around the base, and trucks came and went at odd hours, but with most personnel off duty and the administrative and research staff gone for the day, the base fell into a lull in early evening, which was fine by Ianto. After his initial testing in the morning, the afternoon had been taken up under the merciless oversight of Sergeant Tumenggung. For hours, with only brief breaks for something to drink and to give his arms a rest, Ianto had been forced to heft weapons of various calibres and demonstrate his weapons handling, showing that he knew how to unload, load and correctly maintain all sorts of guns. He hadn't even been allowed to fire a single shot until the very end of the day, but the effort had left the muscles in his arms, already sore, shaking and weak. Still, Tumenggung hadn't appeared too disgusted by his basic knowledge, though his expression had been stern as he'd dismissed Ianto for the day.
“Not too bad, not too shabby, but you don't seem to have any respect for these weapons. You just see them as tools, or toys other people use. Listen carefully,” he said, leaning close and glowering at Ianto, “Because I'm going to keep saying this until you have these words burned into your brain. Never, ever draw your weapon, unless you're damned sure you're going to use it.”
Monroe had magically appeared right as he headed out of the doors to the training centre, and Ianto tried to feel too irritated by the fact that he was clearly being escorted everywhere. He had begged off doing more than grabbing a sandwich from the mess, and returned to his little home away from home, happy to collapse, fully clothed, onto the thin mattress of the bed, and the world grew dark around him as time passed, losing himself in his own thoughts. He didn't even realise how dark it had become until his phone rang, the screen casting the room into eerie blue as it lit up.
The screen read: HARKNESS, JACK
Ianto pressed the answer button, and pressed it to his ear. He didn't get a chance to draw breath to speak before Jack spoke, clear irritation audible all the way through a phoneline.
“What the hell did you mean Owen's jealous of Gwen?” he demanded.
“Good evening, sir,” Ianto said, struggling not to make his grin heard, “Had a good day, have we?”
“I've had a rotten day. If it's not bad enough that I'm having to start the day with the cheap brand of instant that Gwen brought from home, we wound up with a Tir'Vor infestation setting up shop under the town hall. I got liquefied remains all over my clothes.”
“Oh dear.” Tir'Vors were a pest, rather than a menace, but they left behind a caustic liquid after dying that smelt like a combination of raw sewage and old fish. No wonder Jack's temper sounded fragile. “You're not going to ask me to hurry back to clean things up are you?”
“Oh, you're missed, but not for your janitorial abilities,” Jack said.
Ianto felt his fingers twitch, and something felt deeply unsettled somewhere inside him at Jack's words. No, he told himself, Don't read too much into it. “Ah, the coffee then. I knew it.”
There was a pause, and Jack changed the subject. “So it's been driving me mad all day. What did you mean when you said Owen's jealous of Gwen?”
Ianto sat up gingerly, mindful of his still sore muscles, fumbling for the bluetooth earpiece for his phone, switching it over as he said, “Do you want the flattering answer or the full and honest one?” Hands free, he pulled off his shoes, throwing them somewhere in the dark. He'd worry about where they landed in the morning.
“I'd say flattering, but I think I want to know exactly what that cunning little brain of yours has worked out.”
“I'm not sure whether I've just been insulted, sir.” Ianto sat back with a sigh. “Owen respects you, or at least values your opinion very highly.”
Jack snorted. “He has a great way of showing it.”
“He argues, but he still does what you ask of him, doesn't he? He looks at you and see a man he'd like to be, someone who takes all the alien crap in his stride and still manages to be a hit with men, women, and aliens of no particular gender. I think he wants you.”
A small pause, and when Jack spoke again, he sounded surprised. “Owen? But he's never given any sign that-”
Ianto waved a hand dismissively. “I don't mean he wants to have sex with you. Although I suppose he might not say no if you asked. He wants your attention. He had it, before Gwen. Suzie was too distant, Tosh too caught up with her machines, and me... well... So Owen had more or less your undivided attention. Then Gwen comes along. Not only does she have your undivided attention, but she has something else that Owen wants: someone who loves her and might some day marry her.”
“You've read Owen's file,” Jack said, and it wasn't a question.
“I read all of the files.” Ianto bit his lip and wondered if he should admit to it. “Including,” he said, after a long moment, “Yours. Although it was much harder to find.”
“It should be,” Jack said, sharply, “Considering I thought I'd destroyed all copies.”
“Torchwood was always afraid you might just do that. They were rather thorough in keeping hidden copies. You should be aware, sir, that I do know everything.”
“Oh really? How do you travel faster than the speed of light?”
Ianto smiled. “Everything about Torchwood,” he amended. “And from the files, it looks like you are Torchwood. How old are you, Jack?”
“Don't believe everything you read,” Jack said, and, remarkably, he didn't sound angry or cross. But then Jack had, once upon a time, told Ianto so much more than the others. Although it had quite possibly been because he'd intended to retcon Ianto, which was a cheery thought.
“And here was me thinking the late night chats were supposed to be all about deeply personal questions,” Ianto said, surprising himself by the upsurge of bitterness he suddenly felt.
So many times during (during Lisa, during the lying, during the guilt...), Ianto had found himself wandering the Hub too late at night, unwilling to leave the Hub and abandon her, and more than a few times, running into Jack. Late night meetings had led to conversations, where they both asked deep questions and both pretended to answer, and then built on that falsehood with sex that Ianto justified to himself as being to protect Lisa and nothing else, and Jack, perhaps, thought he was sleeping with someone else entirely, the person that Jack wanted to see, the person that Ianto created, all sharp suits and flirtation. One night, as Ianto sat on the opposite side of Jack's desk, jacket off and tie loosened, a glass of whiskey in his hand while Jack nursed his usual tumbler of water, Jack had abruptly looked up from the contemplation of the liquid he had been indulging in, and straight at Ianto. His eyes had glinted, oddly bright in a night-time illumination of the Hub, reflecting the dotted lighting of the data conduits. It made it seem like there was something alive, alien, blue and twisting, inside Jack, a though which Ianto had thought would explain so much.
“I've always loved the night,” Jack had said, “The darkness, the intimacy. Nothing but you, your lover, and what eyes can't show you. Touches and scents and hushed voices.”
Ianto had been grateful for the dim light that the bright shade of red he was surely turning, and had taken a convulsive swallow of the drink Jack had given him. He'd nearly choked on it, and had stifled the coughs lest it completely ruin the mood. “The night isn't for sleeping?” he'd managed to ask, when his throat was clear.
“Sleep when you're dead,” Jack had answered, “There's some much more fun things you can do in bed.”
Ianto had downed the last mouthful of whiskey left in his glass. “I've always thought darkness was great for secrets, for hiding in the corners and whispering things. You can hide a lot of things down there, in the dark.” Later, he would wonder if he'd been trying to tell Jack, to warn him, but Jack had simply grinned at what he thought was a rather lascivious contemplation on his subordinate's behalf. Ianto had always privately thought Jack had a bit of a one track mind, but the simple fact of the matter was that Ianto hadn't wanted him to look, and Jack hadn't wanted to see. Ianto found he couldn't hate Jack for it, though, even if it would make life so much easier. At the time, though, he'd set his glass down on the edge of Jack's desk and firmly put all thoughts of Lisa as far away from his brain as possible. “So do you want this blow job, or are we going to sit here talking all night?”
Jack had grinned, and there had been very little conversation after that.
“Jack,” Ianto asked, staring blindly into the dark, “Why do you keep calling? You already sent me here for me to get weapons training for a reason that's apparent only to you, why keep calling me? I'm not going to run off.”
When Jack finally answered, he sounded pensive. “You mean you really haven't worked it out?”
“I...”
“I don't worry that you're going to run off. For one, I'd really hope you don't hate me so much that you'd leave me to explain to UNIT why you'd suddenly disappeared.” There was a splashing sound in the background, and Ianto hoped that Jack was managing to stick to water. At least he only tended to drink when he was desperately unhappy, and it never seemed to do anything but make Jack seem more depressed. When Jack spoke, it didn't sound like he was choking words past the sting of alcohol, and Ianto felt his shoulders relax.
“I don't hate you,” he answered, without thinking.
“That's not what you were saying a few weeks ago.”
“Are you honestly telling me that if you had been in my position, if you were at the lowest point you'd been in your life, if you'd just had the last shreds of what you thought was your life ripped from you, that you wouldn't have said the same things?”
A low, and not entirely kind chuckle drifted through the handset. “I think I would have hated me too. In fact, I would still hate me now. What's changed?”
Ianto thought about it seriously for a moment. “Were you angry at me?” he asked, after a moment.
“Yes.”
“Are you still angry at me?”
“Ah. No, I don't think I am. I was, certainly, but...”
“Then I think you have your answer,” Ianto said, “In some ways, it would be nice if I still hated you, because that would mean that the world is black and white, the good guys always managing to save the day in the end while the bad guys get their comeuppance. I could be angry, but console myself with the thought that you'd get your own just reward some day. And then one morning, I woke up and realised that maybe, just maybe, you'd made the right decision. Maybe I'd needed someone to save me, and to put her out of her misery, and I felt sick, because I really wanted to hate you at that moment, but couldn't.”
“You could have come to me earlier, you know. You could have said something.”
“No,” Ianto said, shaking his head, even if the motion went unseen. “I really couldn't have.” He'd gone through that course of action in his head so many times, toying with the probable results of each action. He could have let Lisa die in the conversion unit, in pain. He could have told Jack about the cyberman he was hiding away. He could have tried to get medical help from UNIT themselves, perhaps. But, at the end of the day, each of those courses of action would have resulted in Lisa's death, and Ianto's too, if he'd been unlucky. He would never have been able to make that decision, and Jack would never have allowed himself to help her. Maybe that made Jack a monster, but did it make Ianto a monster for well for understanding him?
“Alright, no.” Jack seemed to have reached the same conclusion that Ianto had a long time ago. “And I'm not going to apologise for that.”
“I didn't think you would,” Ianto said, softly. “I wouldn't accept it even if you offered. You were all that was left of Torchwood. You should have helped us. But you didn't, and neither did anyone else. The government was too happy to see Torchwood fall, a victim of its own hubris. You could almost hear the champagne corks popping in Whitehall. Geneva was worse. There were twenty seven survivors of the fall of Canary Wharf, and I don't even know if they're all still alive. I'm not even sure who they are. I saw the obituaries for six, all suicides. I stopped looking for any more months ago.”
“For that,” Jack said, after Ianto had fallen silent, anger bubbling somewhere in the pit of his stomach, “I am sorry.”
Ianto put a hand over his eyes and focussed very hard on not having any sort of breakdown over the phone. He refused to humiliate himself that way.
“I haven't...” Uncharacteristically, Jack's words stumbled to a halt, and after drawing a deep breath, he started again. “For the longest time, I haven't needed to worry about anyone else. Just me. Torchwood London deserved what it got for nearly destroying the world. For...” Jack's voice faltered, then came back stronger. “For getting someone killed I truly cared about, that I loved. I was angry at them, but I shouldn't have taken it out on you.”
“Who did you lose, Jack?” Ianto asked.
“The girl who helped show me that there was more to life than the next quick paycheck,” Jack said, sounding like he was indulging in the breakdown that Ianto refused himself. “Someone who was too young to die.”
“We were all too young,” Ianto fought hard to keep the bitterness out of his voice, and sighed. “If you can honestly say that you never followed orders even though you had a suspicion they were a bad idea, Jack, then I'll accept you were right and we all deserved what we got.”
Jack said nothing.
“So where does this leave us?” Ianto said, after the quiet had stretched on long enough.
“At the start of a new chapter,” Jack said, “A new page of the storybook. I've found there's so much to do, so much work, and I can do it alone, but I won't be around forever. You're a clever, sneaky man, Ianto Jones, and your heart's in the right place. You can keep a secret, and I'd wager you keep your light rather carefully hidden under a bushel even now. You're going to help me, help Torchwood, because that's how you're going to forgive yourself for nearly killing us all.”
“I think there were at least three different metaphors in that,” Ianto said, the dry comeback all he could think of to say for a moment. “And I don't need forgiveness. I did the only thing I could.”
“I didn't say you needed it from me.”
Ianto bit back the words Fuck You and tried not to contemplate the idea that Jack might have been correct.
“Good night, sir.”
“Night, Ianto,” Jack echoed.
“By the way, sir,” Ianto said, speaking quickly to catch Jack before he cut the line, “If you're wanting to travel faster than light, you're going to need a power source capable of generating four point seven cochra per second per kilo that you're accelerating. So you're going to want a massive matter/anti-matter reactor, or a point singularity source engine. Got one of those lying around?”
Jack's laughter warmed him, and long after he'd hung up he went to sleep with a smile on his face.
**
Jack called again the following evening, a little later than previously, leaving Ianto to conclude that it had been a long day for everyone back in Cardiff. He himself was starting to get lulled into a false sense of what a day should consist of. He had the evenings free, instead of spending hours after everyone else had gone home tidying and cleaning, and doing basic maintenance on the systems. So after spending an impatient hour or two wandering around, he'd been shown the way to the base's recreation facilities, and spent an enjoyable few hours with some of the soldiers, playing a game of pool that had gotten progressively raucous as time wore on. It was nice, being around people who had no idea what he'd done in the past, and who seemed willing to overlook his current allegiances after a pint or two. He would have been lying, though, if thoughts of Jack's words the previous night hadn't been weighing on his mind.
Their conversation that evening was far more mundane, less emotionally charged, Jack relating to Ianto some anecdote about Owen not realising that the blood of his necropsy du jour tended to eat through latex and stain Human skin (hence why Owen was now walking around with fingers that were a delightful shade of cyan blue) and Ianto returned the favour by explaining what he'd learn about Captain Monroe and her reasons for being stationed behind a desk in the wilds of England.
“Apparently she was stationed out of New Zealand for a while,” Ianto said, while he sat in the uncomfortable chair provided, feet on the desk, slowly eating a sandwich in between speaking. “They had an unexpected Kraglik infestation. You know Kragliks, the little...”
“Yeah,” Jack interrupted. “The parasitic little buggers.” Kragliks were little six-inch long grey slugs that didn't appear to be sentient by any known measure, and would generally have been classified as a nuisance, except for their rather irksome habit of trying to take over Earth lifeforms as hosts if they had the chance. They tended not to pick Humans though, something about the biochemistry just didn't suit them. They'd been named by some wag at Torchwood London's Xeno-Zoology department, who claimed that the creatures look like someone had licked a piece of craggy rock.
“Turns out they were getting into several flocks of sheep...”
“Oh no...” Jack was already starting to laugh.
“Oh yes. Given that the Kragliks aren't designed for Terran hosts, they pushed the blood pressure of the sheep right up and pop!” Ianto mimed an explosion, accidentally flinging a slice of tomato across the room. “Exploding sheep.”
Jack's laughter was boisterous, and very loud.
“Apparently it was some fly-by-night alien mercenary outfit trying to do a first assault at Earth's defences without realising that sheep weren't the dominant lifeform.” Ianto couldn't help but chuckling at the story Monroe had related to him, vaguely embarrassed, over lunch. “After that, she applied for a transfer. I think she wanted to end up in a desert somewhere, but now she has to worry about training exercises that take place near farmland.”
“Getting awfully fond of this Captain, aren't we, Ianto?”
“Must be something about the title,” Ianto said, dryly, “Besides, she's assigned to stick near me every hour of the day when I'm not shut up in my little hut. I think UNIT are worried I'm going to start spying on them.”
“Damn, I should have thought of that one. Think it's too late to engage in some daring espionage? I'd hate to disappoint UNIT Command.” Jack “hmm”ed thoughtfully. “We've probably got some suitably James Bond-esque gadgets lying around the Hub you could put to good use.”
“I bet you've watched all the films, haven't you, sir?”
“You've got me. I always always a fan of Sean Connery - that accent does it for me every time. But then they have the gall to go and cast someone who looks as good coming out of the ocean as Daniel Craig, and my loyalties are torn.”
Ianto snorted, and took a bite of his sandwich, chewed and swallowed carefully before he answered. There was nothing more disgusting, he knew, than hearing someone speak over a microphone with a mouthful of food. Although he'd learnt the hard way that someone eating a Mars Bar near a microphone sounded utterly and completely filthy and sent his brain all sorts of terrible places (this knowledge was, of course, Jack's fault). “I'm surprised you haven't claimed to met and slept with one or more of the Bond actors.”
“Who says I haven't?”
“Incorrigible, sir, totally incorrigible.”
“Thank you,” Jack sounded all too cheerful at the idea.
**
After several days of training, Ianto's arms were finally beginning to stop shaking so much in the evening. He would have liked to think that it was because he was becoming more used to holding heavy weapons that suffered from all the recoil Torchwood guns didn't, but it was probably more because his arms were completing their transition into strings of wet noodles, and they didn't have the capacity to shake any more. He was even becoming used to the surreal experience of Jack calling him, every night, for nothing more than simple conversation and some light flirtation. Jack always rang Ianto - while Ianto's hours were regular, Jack infrequently had his first free moment late into the night and then he called Ianto to check in on him, to see how he was doing. Ianto was starting to feel as if slowly, carefully, they were rebuilding - or more accurately, he supposed, building - a friendship. He didn't even glance at the screen of his phone now as he answered it.
“So,” Jack said, as soon as the phone had beeped to indicate a connection, “What are you wearing?”
Ianto actually found himself laughing a little before he caught himself. “We are not doing the phone sex thing, sir.”
“Who said it was about phone sex? Maybe I'm just interested in your wardrobe. It's been so long, I'm starting to forget what those suits look like.”
“It's been two weeks,” Ianto corrected with a smile, “And with you, sir, it's always about sex, phone or otherwise.”
“Not always,” Jack said.
“Yes,” Ianto murmured, “I think you lasted at least a week before propositioning me.”
There was a moment of silence and Ianto realised he may have spoken too freely, lulled into security through a week of easy back and forth between them. He wished briefly, intensely, that he could be standing face to face with Jack, and have some idea what he was thinking.
“Please,” Jack said, finally, “Week and a half. I'm not that desperate.”
Ianto tried not to heave a sigh of relief, or at least not make it heard over the phone line. “So what, did you walk in on Gwen and Owen and wind up with sex on the brain tonight?”
Jack laughed shortly. “Got it in one.”
Ianto blinked. He would have thought they'd have been more discreet. “Really? I... Ok, that's a surprise. I would have thought Gwen would bet too ashamed to try anything.”
“They were in the vaults. Two cells down from Janet.”
“You... are joking.”
“Oh I wish.” Jack's rolling of the eyes was nearly audible. “They thought they'd redirected the internal CCTV footage. I don't think they realised that Tosh made some alterations to the feed since...”
“Since I got into the habit of judicious editing?” Ianto forced his voice to sound light, even if it made his chest reflexively tighten.
“You didn't exactly do a brilliant job, you know,” Jack pointed out, “There were massive gaps in the records where you'd deleted footage. It wouldn't exactly have been hard to copy some other recordings to cover the gaps, but you never bothered. It's almost like you wanted to get caught.”
Ianto sighed, “I can't speak to any subconscious desires I might have had. But it wasn't purposeful at the time. Maybe I knew she couldn't be saved. I remember once wondering what would happen if she really was a Cyberman, properly, I mean. I remember wondering what would happen to you and the others if she killed me.” Ianto rubbed his fingertips together. “Maybe I wanted a trail you could all follow to work out what had happened. I don't know. I keep trying to put it out of my mind. I'd rather forget, I think.”
Jack hmphed softly. “You shouldn't forget her.”
“I don't want to forget her,” Ianto said, sharply, “I never will. It still hurts and I think it's going to hurt for a long time. But... I wish I could forget the...”
“The what?” Jack prompted, when Ianto spent a fair few moments lost for words. “What would you rather forget?”
“The shame,” Ianto answered, “And the look on your face when you realised I'd betrayed you. I don't think there's enough Retcon in the world for that.”
“Would it make you feel better if I forgave you? If I told you that even though we both know you should never have done it, I understand why you did it?” Jack's voice was suddenly rough, with a dark undercurrent of emotion that Ianto was sure he wouldn't hear if he wasn't so used to hearing Jack's voice, and his voice alone, after over a week's worth of separation. “Would you like it if I said that I want you to come back to Torchwood and for us to get to know each other better, because I need the support you quietly, so subtly offered? The support I didn't even realise I'd come to rely on until it was gone?”
Ianto's eyes stung slightly, but no tears fell. “I don't know,” he said, “What would you say if I said I forgave you?”
Jack sounded sad. “The sins I've committed you cannot entirely forgive.”
“No,” Ianto said, “But I can forgive you, and the others, for killing her, and for not being there when we both needed you.”
Jack's breathing was ragged. “Ianto-”
“Jack,” Ianto interrupted, “There's something I need to tell-”
Ianto abruptly pulled the phone away from his ear as an alarm sounded in the Hub, transmitting at an ear-splitting volume through the handset. “Jack?”
“Ianto,” Jack sounded all business now, professionalism firmly in place. “Got to go.” The phone went dead.
He knew it was helpless, but Ianto stilled yelled, “Jack? Jack!” into the phone. No use. The screen only displayed the total call time, and then it flicked off, going into standby. He briefly toyed with the idea of calling back, but realised that it would be a bad idea. If there was an emergency, it would only interrupt Jack, and Ianto was too far away to be any use. Unhappy, but resigned, he put his phone down on the beside table, and tried not to worry too much. Probably just a minor Rift alert, or a Weevil sighting. That was the most probable, certainly.
It didn't change the fact that Ianto was reasonably certain he'd never had cause to hear that particular alarm before.
**
When the familiar knocking came on his door in the morning, Ianto opened the door and was thrown for a minute when instead of the familiar sight of Louise Monroe, he was confronted by a young officer in Lieutenant stripes. “Leftenant,” he said, a little confused, “Captain Monroe not around?”
“She's busy,” the man said, “I'm to escort you to the training today.”
“I see,” Ianto shrugged into his jacket as he left the hut. “Nothing world-ending I hope.”
“Who can tell, so early?” the Lieutenant said, earning a smile from Ianto.
“Lead on,” he said, even though he knew the way to the training centre perfectly well by now.
He was quickly distracted on arriving by yet another day of intense training, which not only taxed his body, but occasionally made his brain start to hurt as Sergeant Tumenggung poured one concept after another into his skull regarding weapons, tactics, and bits of useful information gathered over a lifetime's worth of professional soldiering.
As Ianto was gearing up with several other UNIT soldiers to do a simulated run of a building under the control of a hostile force, he caught a glimpse of his new shadow. He had already performed this run more than once, and he was gradually improving. The last time, he hadn't been “killed” by the hostiles until the very end, as opposed to the five minutes he'd lasted on his first attempt. His hands were getting familiar enough with the motions of donning protective gear and checking and rechecking his rifle that he could spare enough brainpower to notice the oddity. On the way out of the changing rooms, he paused by Tumenggung.
“Is there something wrong with Captain Monroe?”
Tumenggung looked at him with faint annoyance. “How the hell should I know? Get your arse in gear before I have one of the NCO's use it for target practice.”
Ianto got the point, hustling after the other soldiers. He managed to survive the simulated run, losing himself a bet with a private in the same training group, and abused his use of the Torchwood expense account to buy twenty hardened soldiers rounds for the night. He wondered how he was going to explain it to Jack, and briefly surprised himself by contemplating softening the blow with a serious offer of sexual favours in return for overlooking a couple of hundred pounds spent at the “Mouse and Bull”. The thought didn't fill himself with the vague disgust it had only a few weeks ago, and he found himself smiling as he handed over the credit card to the barmaid, ignoring her faintly quizzical look at his mysterious grin.
That night, Jack didn't call.
Ianto stayed awake as long as alcohol and exhaustion would allow, staring at the darkened phone for what felt like hours. Once or twice, he reached out to make the call himself, but hesitated, worried, pathetically, about seeming needy. There wasn't any sort of relationship between them. He had no right to expect Jack's attention whenever he demanded. Then why did it go the other way? Ianto asked himself.
Well... he was the Captain, obviously.
**
He didn't even realise that he'd fallen asleep, until the beeping of an incoming text message awoke him. He felt muggy, the beginnings of a decent hangover starting to kick in, and swiped clumsily at his face before reaching out for the phone.
It was a text from HARKNESS, JACK and read:
Something's going down. Stay sharp.
Ianto stared at it for a very long moment, rubbing his thumb across the screen to wipe away the oily residue of his own fingerprints. After a moment, he got up, and went to find the analgesics he'd swiped from the base infirmary a few days earlier. All of this meant when when Louise Monroe hammered on Ianto's door at three in the morning, looking stressed and exhausted, she was rather surprised to find that the man she'd been sent to fetch was fully dressed in a smart business suit, and had apparently been expecting her for some time.
****
Part Four
Author: Jewels (bjewelled)
Fandom: Torchwood
Disclaimer: Torchwood is the legal property of the BBC. In case you didn’t know.
Summary: Somewhere between “Countrycide” and “Captain Jack Harkness”, Ianto Jones went from hardly knowing how to hold a gun to be willing and able to use it. How did he get there, and what did he have to sacrifice in the process?
Word Count: ~45,000
Web Link: http://www.bjewelled.co.uk/fanfic/dwho/potentiality00.html
Read From The Beginning
**
Part Three
**
Captain Monroe came to collect him in the morning, confirming his suspicions that she had been assigned to mind him. When he asked her what she was usually doing, she simply said “Admin” and refused to be drawn further. Rather than alienate her so early into his stay at the UNIT base, Ianto let the matter drop. She gave him enough time to grab a coffee and a pastry for breakfast, before whisking him off to the medical building for his first examination of the day since, apparently, part of UNIT regulations specified that individuals be certified fit before any training proceeded.
Ianto was subjected to the horror of the medical staff upon their witnessing the extent of the bruising over most of his body, but after they carefully prodded and poked for a while, the Doctors reluctantly were forced to agree with Owen’s assessment of Ianto’s health; he may not be pretty to look at, but there was nothing in the way of internal or head injuries to concern them.
One of the Doctors made a crack about the sheep fighting back, and Ianto tried to memorise his name from his security badge, contemplating abusing the power of the Torchwood mainframe to plant goat porn on his computer. It wouldn’t be that hard to do, and it would be awfully satisfying.
Externally, though, he made no sign of being bothered by the predictable joke, only smiling and buttoning up his shirt as Monroe entered the examination room brandishing a pen and a stack of forms and paperwork hefty enough to be used as a doorstop.
It was the usual brand of confidentiality agreements, health and safety forms, and medical information which managed to comprise most bureaucracies. Ianto hadn’t even realised how much he hadn’t missed the vast tonnage of paperwork that Torchwood London had produced. Cardiff, given that it had five of the six remaining Torchwood personnel within its walls, felt no similar need for paper trails and forms filed in triplicate. Signing and dating and signing some more took them right up until midday, leaving the pair of them to go to grab a light lunch before Ianto’s assessment began in earnest that afternoon.
And it was as they walked towards the mess, along a path that ran under the shade of trees that were starting to turn bare and thin as autumn drew on, their leaves yellowing and falling to the ground to moulder and decay, that Ianto had his first encounter with General Horatio Carver. Even if he hadn't been able to identify the rank on the General's uniform, the way Monroe halted and snapped to attention gave an indication as to his position.
“Sir,” she said, crisply, as Carver came to a halt in front of her, nodding and returning the salute.
“Captain,” he said, his eyes resting on Ianto, “I take it this is our Torchwood guest.”
Ianto smiled politely as Monroe assumed a perfect at-ease stance and nodded sharply. “Yes, sir,” she said, “Ianto Jones, Torchwood Cardiff.”
“One of Harkness's lot, eh?” Carver said, raising an eyebrow.
“That's the one, sir,” Ianto said, holding out his hand. Carver paused just long enough to reveal exactly how much esteem he held Torchwood in, before taking Ianto's hand and nearly attempting to crush it. It clearly wasn't a difficult task for him. He was a solidly built man who clearly kept himself in shape, and had the no nonsense look of one who expected to always be dealing with fools.
Ianto let his eyes narrow, as if in pain, and his mouth thin, and saw Carver's lips twitch faintly in satisfaction. He released Ianto's hand and Ianto quickly put his hand behind his back, flexing it silently. The pained expression hadn't been entirely an act, but it made Carver feel like he'd won something so Ianto was willing to allow one slightly crushed limb.
“Rumours of Torchwood’s demise must not have been exaggerated if you’re sending your personnel off for outside training,” Carver said, eyes narrowed as he looked at Ianto.
“Oh, I wouldn’t be scanning the papers for our obituaries just yet,” Ianto replied, quickly. “I think you’ll find that Captain Harkness simple sees the wisdom in diversifying our training sources.”
Carver snorted disapprovingly. “Hardly any way to run a unit,” he said.
Ianto smiled thinly. “Just as well we’re not answerable to the military then, isn’t it?” It was a subtle dig, but from Carver’s tight expression, he picked up on it well enough.
“Don’t let me keep you,” Carver said, nodding his head sharply, “Mister Jones, Captain.”
“Sir.” Monroe threw a quick salute as Carver walked away with barely any further acknowledgement. She let out a quick breath once he’d passed out of earshot.
“I'm guessing,” Ianto said, as he watched the general go, “That General Carver and Captain Harkness have some sort of prior history.”
Monroe glanced at him with surprise. “You don't know?” she asked, curious.
Ianto shook his head. “Before my time in Cardiff, obviously.”
“Obviously,” Monroe repeated dryly. “I don't know much myself really, just rumours that tend to do the rounds whenever the name 'Torchwood' comes up. I think it has something to do with technology that Harkness managed to take out of the General's hands.”
Ianto nodded. “Sounds like him.”
“And something to do with the General's daughter.”
“Definitely sounds like him.”
**
A UNIT base, it seemed, never truly slept. Guards still moved around the base, and trucks came and went at odd hours, but with most personnel off duty and the administrative and research staff gone for the day, the base fell into a lull in early evening, which was fine by Ianto. After his initial testing in the morning, the afternoon had been taken up under the merciless oversight of Sergeant Tumenggung. For hours, with only brief breaks for something to drink and to give his arms a rest, Ianto had been forced to heft weapons of various calibres and demonstrate his weapons handling, showing that he knew how to unload, load and correctly maintain all sorts of guns. He hadn't even been allowed to fire a single shot until the very end of the day, but the effort had left the muscles in his arms, already sore, shaking and weak. Still, Tumenggung hadn't appeared too disgusted by his basic knowledge, though his expression had been stern as he'd dismissed Ianto for the day.
“Not too bad, not too shabby, but you don't seem to have any respect for these weapons. You just see them as tools, or toys other people use. Listen carefully,” he said, leaning close and glowering at Ianto, “Because I'm going to keep saying this until you have these words burned into your brain. Never, ever draw your weapon, unless you're damned sure you're going to use it.”
Monroe had magically appeared right as he headed out of the doors to the training centre, and Ianto tried to feel too irritated by the fact that he was clearly being escorted everywhere. He had begged off doing more than grabbing a sandwich from the mess, and returned to his little home away from home, happy to collapse, fully clothed, onto the thin mattress of the bed, and the world grew dark around him as time passed, losing himself in his own thoughts. He didn't even realise how dark it had become until his phone rang, the screen casting the room into eerie blue as it lit up.
The screen read: HARKNESS, JACK
Ianto pressed the answer button, and pressed it to his ear. He didn't get a chance to draw breath to speak before Jack spoke, clear irritation audible all the way through a phoneline.
“What the hell did you mean Owen's jealous of Gwen?” he demanded.
“Good evening, sir,” Ianto said, struggling not to make his grin heard, “Had a good day, have we?”
“I've had a rotten day. If it's not bad enough that I'm having to start the day with the cheap brand of instant that Gwen brought from home, we wound up with a Tir'Vor infestation setting up shop under the town hall. I got liquefied remains all over my clothes.”
“Oh dear.” Tir'Vors were a pest, rather than a menace, but they left behind a caustic liquid after dying that smelt like a combination of raw sewage and old fish. No wonder Jack's temper sounded fragile. “You're not going to ask me to hurry back to clean things up are you?”
“Oh, you're missed, but not for your janitorial abilities,” Jack said.
Ianto felt his fingers twitch, and something felt deeply unsettled somewhere inside him at Jack's words. No, he told himself, Don't read too much into it. “Ah, the coffee then. I knew it.”
There was a pause, and Jack changed the subject. “So it's been driving me mad all day. What did you mean when you said Owen's jealous of Gwen?”
Ianto sat up gingerly, mindful of his still sore muscles, fumbling for the bluetooth earpiece for his phone, switching it over as he said, “Do you want the flattering answer or the full and honest one?” Hands free, he pulled off his shoes, throwing them somewhere in the dark. He'd worry about where they landed in the morning.
“I'd say flattering, but I think I want to know exactly what that cunning little brain of yours has worked out.”
“I'm not sure whether I've just been insulted, sir.” Ianto sat back with a sigh. “Owen respects you, or at least values your opinion very highly.”
Jack snorted. “He has a great way of showing it.”
“He argues, but he still does what you ask of him, doesn't he? He looks at you and see a man he'd like to be, someone who takes all the alien crap in his stride and still manages to be a hit with men, women, and aliens of no particular gender. I think he wants you.”
A small pause, and when Jack spoke again, he sounded surprised. “Owen? But he's never given any sign that-”
Ianto waved a hand dismissively. “I don't mean he wants to have sex with you. Although I suppose he might not say no if you asked. He wants your attention. He had it, before Gwen. Suzie was too distant, Tosh too caught up with her machines, and me... well... So Owen had more or less your undivided attention. Then Gwen comes along. Not only does she have your undivided attention, but she has something else that Owen wants: someone who loves her and might some day marry her.”
“You've read Owen's file,” Jack said, and it wasn't a question.
“I read all of the files.” Ianto bit his lip and wondered if he should admit to it. “Including,” he said, after a long moment, “Yours. Although it was much harder to find.”
“It should be,” Jack said, sharply, “Considering I thought I'd destroyed all copies.”
“Torchwood was always afraid you might just do that. They were rather thorough in keeping hidden copies. You should be aware, sir, that I do know everything.”
“Oh really? How do you travel faster than the speed of light?”
Ianto smiled. “Everything about Torchwood,” he amended. “And from the files, it looks like you are Torchwood. How old are you, Jack?”
“Don't believe everything you read,” Jack said, and, remarkably, he didn't sound angry or cross. But then Jack had, once upon a time, told Ianto so much more than the others. Although it had quite possibly been because he'd intended to retcon Ianto, which was a cheery thought.
“And here was me thinking the late night chats were supposed to be all about deeply personal questions,” Ianto said, surprising himself by the upsurge of bitterness he suddenly felt.
So many times during (during Lisa, during the lying, during the guilt...), Ianto had found himself wandering the Hub too late at night, unwilling to leave the Hub and abandon her, and more than a few times, running into Jack. Late night meetings had led to conversations, where they both asked deep questions and both pretended to answer, and then built on that falsehood with sex that Ianto justified to himself as being to protect Lisa and nothing else, and Jack, perhaps, thought he was sleeping with someone else entirely, the person that Jack wanted to see, the person that Ianto created, all sharp suits and flirtation. One night, as Ianto sat on the opposite side of Jack's desk, jacket off and tie loosened, a glass of whiskey in his hand while Jack nursed his usual tumbler of water, Jack had abruptly looked up from the contemplation of the liquid he had been indulging in, and straight at Ianto. His eyes had glinted, oddly bright in a night-time illumination of the Hub, reflecting the dotted lighting of the data conduits. It made it seem like there was something alive, alien, blue and twisting, inside Jack, a though which Ianto had thought would explain so much.
“I've always loved the night,” Jack had said, “The darkness, the intimacy. Nothing but you, your lover, and what eyes can't show you. Touches and scents and hushed voices.”
Ianto had been grateful for the dim light that the bright shade of red he was surely turning, and had taken a convulsive swallow of the drink Jack had given him. He'd nearly choked on it, and had stifled the coughs lest it completely ruin the mood. “The night isn't for sleeping?” he'd managed to ask, when his throat was clear.
“Sleep when you're dead,” Jack had answered, “There's some much more fun things you can do in bed.”
Ianto had downed the last mouthful of whiskey left in his glass. “I've always thought darkness was great for secrets, for hiding in the corners and whispering things. You can hide a lot of things down there, in the dark.” Later, he would wonder if he'd been trying to tell Jack, to warn him, but Jack had simply grinned at what he thought was a rather lascivious contemplation on his subordinate's behalf. Ianto had always privately thought Jack had a bit of a one track mind, but the simple fact of the matter was that Ianto hadn't wanted him to look, and Jack hadn't wanted to see. Ianto found he couldn't hate Jack for it, though, even if it would make life so much easier. At the time, though, he'd set his glass down on the edge of Jack's desk and firmly put all thoughts of Lisa as far away from his brain as possible. “So do you want this blow job, or are we going to sit here talking all night?”
Jack had grinned, and there had been very little conversation after that.
“Jack,” Ianto asked, staring blindly into the dark, “Why do you keep calling? You already sent me here for me to get weapons training for a reason that's apparent only to you, why keep calling me? I'm not going to run off.”
When Jack finally answered, he sounded pensive. “You mean you really haven't worked it out?”
“I...”
“I don't worry that you're going to run off. For one, I'd really hope you don't hate me so much that you'd leave me to explain to UNIT why you'd suddenly disappeared.” There was a splashing sound in the background, and Ianto hoped that Jack was managing to stick to water. At least he only tended to drink when he was desperately unhappy, and it never seemed to do anything but make Jack seem more depressed. When Jack spoke, it didn't sound like he was choking words past the sting of alcohol, and Ianto felt his shoulders relax.
“I don't hate you,” he answered, without thinking.
“That's not what you were saying a few weeks ago.”
“Are you honestly telling me that if you had been in my position, if you were at the lowest point you'd been in your life, if you'd just had the last shreds of what you thought was your life ripped from you, that you wouldn't have said the same things?”
A low, and not entirely kind chuckle drifted through the handset. “I think I would have hated me too. In fact, I would still hate me now. What's changed?”
Ianto thought about it seriously for a moment. “Were you angry at me?” he asked, after a moment.
“Yes.”
“Are you still angry at me?”
“Ah. No, I don't think I am. I was, certainly, but...”
“Then I think you have your answer,” Ianto said, “In some ways, it would be nice if I still hated you, because that would mean that the world is black and white, the good guys always managing to save the day in the end while the bad guys get their comeuppance. I could be angry, but console myself with the thought that you'd get your own just reward some day. And then one morning, I woke up and realised that maybe, just maybe, you'd made the right decision. Maybe I'd needed someone to save me, and to put her out of her misery, and I felt sick, because I really wanted to hate you at that moment, but couldn't.”
“You could have come to me earlier, you know. You could have said something.”
“No,” Ianto said, shaking his head, even if the motion went unseen. “I really couldn't have.” He'd gone through that course of action in his head so many times, toying with the probable results of each action. He could have let Lisa die in the conversion unit, in pain. He could have told Jack about the cyberman he was hiding away. He could have tried to get medical help from UNIT themselves, perhaps. But, at the end of the day, each of those courses of action would have resulted in Lisa's death, and Ianto's too, if he'd been unlucky. He would never have been able to make that decision, and Jack would never have allowed himself to help her. Maybe that made Jack a monster, but did it make Ianto a monster for well for understanding him?
“Alright, no.” Jack seemed to have reached the same conclusion that Ianto had a long time ago. “And I'm not going to apologise for that.”
“I didn't think you would,” Ianto said, softly. “I wouldn't accept it even if you offered. You were all that was left of Torchwood. You should have helped us. But you didn't, and neither did anyone else. The government was too happy to see Torchwood fall, a victim of its own hubris. You could almost hear the champagne corks popping in Whitehall. Geneva was worse. There were twenty seven survivors of the fall of Canary Wharf, and I don't even know if they're all still alive. I'm not even sure who they are. I saw the obituaries for six, all suicides. I stopped looking for any more months ago.”
“For that,” Jack said, after Ianto had fallen silent, anger bubbling somewhere in the pit of his stomach, “I am sorry.”
Ianto put a hand over his eyes and focussed very hard on not having any sort of breakdown over the phone. He refused to humiliate himself that way.
“I haven't...” Uncharacteristically, Jack's words stumbled to a halt, and after drawing a deep breath, he started again. “For the longest time, I haven't needed to worry about anyone else. Just me. Torchwood London deserved what it got for nearly destroying the world. For...” Jack's voice faltered, then came back stronger. “For getting someone killed I truly cared about, that I loved. I was angry at them, but I shouldn't have taken it out on you.”
“Who did you lose, Jack?” Ianto asked.
“The girl who helped show me that there was more to life than the next quick paycheck,” Jack said, sounding like he was indulging in the breakdown that Ianto refused himself. “Someone who was too young to die.”
“We were all too young,” Ianto fought hard to keep the bitterness out of his voice, and sighed. “If you can honestly say that you never followed orders even though you had a suspicion they were a bad idea, Jack, then I'll accept you were right and we all deserved what we got.”
Jack said nothing.
“So where does this leave us?” Ianto said, after the quiet had stretched on long enough.
“At the start of a new chapter,” Jack said, “A new page of the storybook. I've found there's so much to do, so much work, and I can do it alone, but I won't be around forever. You're a clever, sneaky man, Ianto Jones, and your heart's in the right place. You can keep a secret, and I'd wager you keep your light rather carefully hidden under a bushel even now. You're going to help me, help Torchwood, because that's how you're going to forgive yourself for nearly killing us all.”
“I think there were at least three different metaphors in that,” Ianto said, the dry comeback all he could think of to say for a moment. “And I don't need forgiveness. I did the only thing I could.”
“I didn't say you needed it from me.”
Ianto bit back the words Fuck You and tried not to contemplate the idea that Jack might have been correct.
“Good night, sir.”
“Night, Ianto,” Jack echoed.
“By the way, sir,” Ianto said, speaking quickly to catch Jack before he cut the line, “If you're wanting to travel faster than light, you're going to need a power source capable of generating four point seven cochra per second per kilo that you're accelerating. So you're going to want a massive matter/anti-matter reactor, or a point singularity source engine. Got one of those lying around?”
Jack's laughter warmed him, and long after he'd hung up he went to sleep with a smile on his face.
**
Jack called again the following evening, a little later than previously, leaving Ianto to conclude that it had been a long day for everyone back in Cardiff. He himself was starting to get lulled into a false sense of what a day should consist of. He had the evenings free, instead of spending hours after everyone else had gone home tidying and cleaning, and doing basic maintenance on the systems. So after spending an impatient hour or two wandering around, he'd been shown the way to the base's recreation facilities, and spent an enjoyable few hours with some of the soldiers, playing a game of pool that had gotten progressively raucous as time wore on. It was nice, being around people who had no idea what he'd done in the past, and who seemed willing to overlook his current allegiances after a pint or two. He would have been lying, though, if thoughts of Jack's words the previous night hadn't been weighing on his mind.
Their conversation that evening was far more mundane, less emotionally charged, Jack relating to Ianto some anecdote about Owen not realising that the blood of his necropsy du jour tended to eat through latex and stain Human skin (hence why Owen was now walking around with fingers that were a delightful shade of cyan blue) and Ianto returned the favour by explaining what he'd learn about Captain Monroe and her reasons for being stationed behind a desk in the wilds of England.
“Apparently she was stationed out of New Zealand for a while,” Ianto said, while he sat in the uncomfortable chair provided, feet on the desk, slowly eating a sandwich in between speaking. “They had an unexpected Kraglik infestation. You know Kragliks, the little...”
“Yeah,” Jack interrupted. “The parasitic little buggers.” Kragliks were little six-inch long grey slugs that didn't appear to be sentient by any known measure, and would generally have been classified as a nuisance, except for their rather irksome habit of trying to take over Earth lifeforms as hosts if they had the chance. They tended not to pick Humans though, something about the biochemistry just didn't suit them. They'd been named by some wag at Torchwood London's Xeno-Zoology department, who claimed that the creatures look like someone had licked a piece of craggy rock.
“Turns out they were getting into several flocks of sheep...”
“Oh no...” Jack was already starting to laugh.
“Oh yes. Given that the Kragliks aren't designed for Terran hosts, they pushed the blood pressure of the sheep right up and pop!” Ianto mimed an explosion, accidentally flinging a slice of tomato across the room. “Exploding sheep.”
Jack's laughter was boisterous, and very loud.
“Apparently it was some fly-by-night alien mercenary outfit trying to do a first assault at Earth's defences without realising that sheep weren't the dominant lifeform.” Ianto couldn't help but chuckling at the story Monroe had related to him, vaguely embarrassed, over lunch. “After that, she applied for a transfer. I think she wanted to end up in a desert somewhere, but now she has to worry about training exercises that take place near farmland.”
“Getting awfully fond of this Captain, aren't we, Ianto?”
“Must be something about the title,” Ianto said, dryly, “Besides, she's assigned to stick near me every hour of the day when I'm not shut up in my little hut. I think UNIT are worried I'm going to start spying on them.”
“Damn, I should have thought of that one. Think it's too late to engage in some daring espionage? I'd hate to disappoint UNIT Command.” Jack “hmm”ed thoughtfully. “We've probably got some suitably James Bond-esque gadgets lying around the Hub you could put to good use.”
“I bet you've watched all the films, haven't you, sir?”
“You've got me. I always always a fan of Sean Connery - that accent does it for me every time. But then they have the gall to go and cast someone who looks as good coming out of the ocean as Daniel Craig, and my loyalties are torn.”
Ianto snorted, and took a bite of his sandwich, chewed and swallowed carefully before he answered. There was nothing more disgusting, he knew, than hearing someone speak over a microphone with a mouthful of food. Although he'd learnt the hard way that someone eating a Mars Bar near a microphone sounded utterly and completely filthy and sent his brain all sorts of terrible places (this knowledge was, of course, Jack's fault). “I'm surprised you haven't claimed to met and slept with one or more of the Bond actors.”
“Who says I haven't?”
“Incorrigible, sir, totally incorrigible.”
“Thank you,” Jack sounded all too cheerful at the idea.
**
After several days of training, Ianto's arms were finally beginning to stop shaking so much in the evening. He would have liked to think that it was because he was becoming more used to holding heavy weapons that suffered from all the recoil Torchwood guns didn't, but it was probably more because his arms were completing their transition into strings of wet noodles, and they didn't have the capacity to shake any more. He was even becoming used to the surreal experience of Jack calling him, every night, for nothing more than simple conversation and some light flirtation. Jack always rang Ianto - while Ianto's hours were regular, Jack infrequently had his first free moment late into the night and then he called Ianto to check in on him, to see how he was doing. Ianto was starting to feel as if slowly, carefully, they were rebuilding - or more accurately, he supposed, building - a friendship. He didn't even glance at the screen of his phone now as he answered it.
“So,” Jack said, as soon as the phone had beeped to indicate a connection, “What are you wearing?”
Ianto actually found himself laughing a little before he caught himself. “We are not doing the phone sex thing, sir.”
“Who said it was about phone sex? Maybe I'm just interested in your wardrobe. It's been so long, I'm starting to forget what those suits look like.”
“It's been two weeks,” Ianto corrected with a smile, “And with you, sir, it's always about sex, phone or otherwise.”
“Not always,” Jack said.
“Yes,” Ianto murmured, “I think you lasted at least a week before propositioning me.”
There was a moment of silence and Ianto realised he may have spoken too freely, lulled into security through a week of easy back and forth between them. He wished briefly, intensely, that he could be standing face to face with Jack, and have some idea what he was thinking.
“Please,” Jack said, finally, “Week and a half. I'm not that desperate.”
Ianto tried not to heave a sigh of relief, or at least not make it heard over the phone line. “So what, did you walk in on Gwen and Owen and wind up with sex on the brain tonight?”
Jack laughed shortly. “Got it in one.”
Ianto blinked. He would have thought they'd have been more discreet. “Really? I... Ok, that's a surprise. I would have thought Gwen would bet too ashamed to try anything.”
“They were in the vaults. Two cells down from Janet.”
“You... are joking.”
“Oh I wish.” Jack's rolling of the eyes was nearly audible. “They thought they'd redirected the internal CCTV footage. I don't think they realised that Tosh made some alterations to the feed since...”
“Since I got into the habit of judicious editing?” Ianto forced his voice to sound light, even if it made his chest reflexively tighten.
“You didn't exactly do a brilliant job, you know,” Jack pointed out, “There were massive gaps in the records where you'd deleted footage. It wouldn't exactly have been hard to copy some other recordings to cover the gaps, but you never bothered. It's almost like you wanted to get caught.”
Ianto sighed, “I can't speak to any subconscious desires I might have had. But it wasn't purposeful at the time. Maybe I knew she couldn't be saved. I remember once wondering what would happen if she really was a Cyberman, properly, I mean. I remember wondering what would happen to you and the others if she killed me.” Ianto rubbed his fingertips together. “Maybe I wanted a trail you could all follow to work out what had happened. I don't know. I keep trying to put it out of my mind. I'd rather forget, I think.”
Jack hmphed softly. “You shouldn't forget her.”
“I don't want to forget her,” Ianto said, sharply, “I never will. It still hurts and I think it's going to hurt for a long time. But... I wish I could forget the...”
“The what?” Jack prompted, when Ianto spent a fair few moments lost for words. “What would you rather forget?”
“The shame,” Ianto answered, “And the look on your face when you realised I'd betrayed you. I don't think there's enough Retcon in the world for that.”
“Would it make you feel better if I forgave you? If I told you that even though we both know you should never have done it, I understand why you did it?” Jack's voice was suddenly rough, with a dark undercurrent of emotion that Ianto was sure he wouldn't hear if he wasn't so used to hearing Jack's voice, and his voice alone, after over a week's worth of separation. “Would you like it if I said that I want you to come back to Torchwood and for us to get to know each other better, because I need the support you quietly, so subtly offered? The support I didn't even realise I'd come to rely on until it was gone?”
Ianto's eyes stung slightly, but no tears fell. “I don't know,” he said, “What would you say if I said I forgave you?”
Jack sounded sad. “The sins I've committed you cannot entirely forgive.”
“No,” Ianto said, “But I can forgive you, and the others, for killing her, and for not being there when we both needed you.”
Jack's breathing was ragged. “Ianto-”
“Jack,” Ianto interrupted, “There's something I need to tell-”
Ianto abruptly pulled the phone away from his ear as an alarm sounded in the Hub, transmitting at an ear-splitting volume through the handset. “Jack?”
“Ianto,” Jack sounded all business now, professionalism firmly in place. “Got to go.” The phone went dead.
He knew it was helpless, but Ianto stilled yelled, “Jack? Jack!” into the phone. No use. The screen only displayed the total call time, and then it flicked off, going into standby. He briefly toyed with the idea of calling back, but realised that it would be a bad idea. If there was an emergency, it would only interrupt Jack, and Ianto was too far away to be any use. Unhappy, but resigned, he put his phone down on the beside table, and tried not to worry too much. Probably just a minor Rift alert, or a Weevil sighting. That was the most probable, certainly.
It didn't change the fact that Ianto was reasonably certain he'd never had cause to hear that particular alarm before.
**
When the familiar knocking came on his door in the morning, Ianto opened the door and was thrown for a minute when instead of the familiar sight of Louise Monroe, he was confronted by a young officer in Lieutenant stripes. “Leftenant,” he said, a little confused, “Captain Monroe not around?”
“She's busy,” the man said, “I'm to escort you to the training today.”
“I see,” Ianto shrugged into his jacket as he left the hut. “Nothing world-ending I hope.”
“Who can tell, so early?” the Lieutenant said, earning a smile from Ianto.
“Lead on,” he said, even though he knew the way to the training centre perfectly well by now.
He was quickly distracted on arriving by yet another day of intense training, which not only taxed his body, but occasionally made his brain start to hurt as Sergeant Tumenggung poured one concept after another into his skull regarding weapons, tactics, and bits of useful information gathered over a lifetime's worth of professional soldiering.
As Ianto was gearing up with several other UNIT soldiers to do a simulated run of a building under the control of a hostile force, he caught a glimpse of his new shadow. He had already performed this run more than once, and he was gradually improving. The last time, he hadn't been “killed” by the hostiles until the very end, as opposed to the five minutes he'd lasted on his first attempt. His hands were getting familiar enough with the motions of donning protective gear and checking and rechecking his rifle that he could spare enough brainpower to notice the oddity. On the way out of the changing rooms, he paused by Tumenggung.
“Is there something wrong with Captain Monroe?”
Tumenggung looked at him with faint annoyance. “How the hell should I know? Get your arse in gear before I have one of the NCO's use it for target practice.”
Ianto got the point, hustling after the other soldiers. He managed to survive the simulated run, losing himself a bet with a private in the same training group, and abused his use of the Torchwood expense account to buy twenty hardened soldiers rounds for the night. He wondered how he was going to explain it to Jack, and briefly surprised himself by contemplating softening the blow with a serious offer of sexual favours in return for overlooking a couple of hundred pounds spent at the “Mouse and Bull”. The thought didn't fill himself with the vague disgust it had only a few weeks ago, and he found himself smiling as he handed over the credit card to the barmaid, ignoring her faintly quizzical look at his mysterious grin.
That night, Jack didn't call.
Ianto stayed awake as long as alcohol and exhaustion would allow, staring at the darkened phone for what felt like hours. Once or twice, he reached out to make the call himself, but hesitated, worried, pathetically, about seeming needy. There wasn't any sort of relationship between them. He had no right to expect Jack's attention whenever he demanded. Then why did it go the other way? Ianto asked himself.
Well... he was the Captain, obviously.
**
He didn't even realise that he'd fallen asleep, until the beeping of an incoming text message awoke him. He felt muggy, the beginnings of a decent hangover starting to kick in, and swiped clumsily at his face before reaching out for the phone.
It was a text from HARKNESS, JACK and read:
Something's going down. Stay sharp.
Ianto stared at it for a very long moment, rubbing his thumb across the screen to wipe away the oily residue of his own fingerprints. After a moment, he got up, and went to find the analgesics he'd swiped from the base infirmary a few days earlier. All of this meant when when Louise Monroe hammered on Ianto's door at three in the morning, looking stressed and exhausted, she was rather surprised to find that the man she'd been sent to fetch was fully dressed in a smart business suit, and had apparently been expecting her for some time.
****
Part Four