Do not stand at my grave and weep (Part 3)
Rating: Nc-17
Word count: ~ 4,500 (this part)
Warnings: Little bits of angst. Smut, fluff, sappy homecomings, etc.
Disclaimer: All recognizable characters are the property of their respective owners. I am in no way associated with the creators, and no copyright infringement is intended.
A/N: Forgive the delay, but I have chronic migraines, which unfortunately affect my posting/writing consistency. The poems used in this chapter are, respectively, The Fairy Pendant and Never give all the heart, both by William Butler Yeats, and I’d Love to Be a Fairy’s Child by Robert Graves.
I am a thousand winds that blow
Since his death, Ianto has awoken three times in another world, once on the floor of the Archives, and twice in the autopsy bay. This seventh awakening is far sweeter than any of those, even the first one after his death, because for the first time he is truly warm.
The heat is the first thing he is aware of, his body warmer than Cardiff’s sunshine could ever leave him. It’s a dry heat, but not harsh like an electric blanket would be. Ianto shifts without opening his eyes, because being warm is lovely and he has no desire to leave this sensation behind, not when his most vivid memory of waking up is of that other world, cold and naked on the grass. He had returned to consciousness there only to find himself trapped in his own body, a prisoner locked within unresponsive limbs and hypersensitive skin, and simply remembering that feeling haunts him.
But then he realizes that he cannot move this time, either, only the reason is far different. There is a heavy weight pressing against his side, under the blankets. The weight is what’s generating the heat, so Ianto doesn’t mind the restraint too much. He relaxes into it, letting his senses drift. The Hub has always felt safe to him, even when he kept all of his secrets here, and thought that the discovery of them would get him a one-way ticket to the morgue. As far as safe houses go, the Hub isn’t ideal-there’s dripping water everywhere, and strange smells, and Ianto was never quite certain that some of the things Owen was growing in the lab shouldn’t have been moved down to the cells instead-but it’s his. He knows every inch of it, all the passages and leaks and touchy bits of wiring. Now, the sound of the dripping and the computers and the medical equipment all combine to lull him into a drowsy state of half-awareness, and he savors it. Just hours ago-at least for him-he was dead. That he’s alive again is a chance of fate, and he plans to make the most of it.
Because of his warm languidness, it takes Ianto several minutes to notice that the weight on the cot is actually breathing. Not only that, but it’s partially draped over him. Ianto frowns slightly, because it is either the most uncomfortable blanket he’s ever encountered or something else entirely. Experience tells him that “something else entirely” isn’t necessarily good.
Another few minutes pass before Ianto is able to bring himself to open his eyes-there's no great hurry, as he’s fairly certain that anything dangerous would have already killed him several times over. When he does, what his sees is a slight surprise-wholly welcome and very wonderful, but still a surprise. There is a large, warm body squashed into the cot alongside him. The ex-army cots are hardly built for double occupancy, and Ianto turns his head slightly to find his face all but mashed into the wall, he’s been pushed so far over to the side, but for the first time since his death, he’s warm. For the first time since his death, he’s happy. Jack is curled around and over him like some gigantic puppy, seeking as much skin-to-skin contact as is possible for them to have.
More than anything, this is what Ianto has missed. During the strange in-between time in that other world, during the catastrophe with the 456, it wasn’t the lack of sex that had left him aching and unfulfilled; it was the lack of touch. Oh, Jack had touched him-a casual brush here, a kiss there, but it was nothing substantial. After months of carefully choreographed touches during working hours, taking the maximum amount of contact in the shortest amount of time, and then sex and cuddling after work, Ianto-who had once shied away from all but the most intimate touches from those closest to him-had become so acclimated to Jack's constant need for tactile connection that doing without was almost physically painful.
Here, now, it’s as though Jack is making up for lost time. Ianto remembers drifting off with Jack sitting next to him, holding his hand. Somehow over the course of the night he’s migrated, flopping along the edge of the cot in a way that’s probably not intentional-Ianto can see the lines of weariness in Jack's face, which means the Captain is very tired indeed. He sleeps, despite all claims to the contrary, but not much and never deeply. For him to be like this-collapsed over the side of the bed, where he doubtless fell asleep sitting up, and not waking even when Ianto stirred-says clearly that the man is exhausted, and Ianto’s return has hardly lessened the strain.
But maybe, Ianto thinks, finding their fingers still entwined, it can. He's still the same as when he died, not lacking anything. The fairies did say he could go any place, any time, and they would still be able to find him if they needed him. There is nowhere else Ianto would rather be than Cardiff, except perhaps at Jack's side. Even if the fairies tried to convince him otherwise, there’s no possibility of Ianto leaving Torchwood. Torchwood and the team-and Jack-are Ianto’s entire world, his life and his death. Nothing can take him away.
As though roused by the volume of Ianto’s thinking alone, Jack stirs a little. His hand tightens reflexively around Ianto’s and he shoots upright in surprise, eyes going wide and breathing suddenly stuttering. Ianto jerks back, too, a little shocked, but the next moment Jack is on him, arms winding tight around his torso. Jack pulls him close, closer, impossibly close, burying his face in Ianto’s hair and letting out a laugh that is far closer to a sob.
“Ianto,” he whispers thickly, and Ianto has a sudden flashback to that strained Ianto, Ianto stay with me. Ianto, stay with me please spoken in the same tone, last heard on a dirty floor in Thames House. His own throat is tight, so tight, tight enough to choke, but there's nothing he can say to make this better. Jack lost him, lost him just when he was needed the most, when Jack was still reeling from so many other losses. The pain and heartbreak of that won't simply vanish with Ianto’s return, as much as he wishes they would.
“Shh, Jack I'm here,” he offers softly, laying his hands over Jack's on his shoulders. The grip the Captain has on him is tight, almost painful, but it’s more comfort than Ianto has gotten in a very long time, and much welcome. He leans back into Jack's firm warmth and matches their breathing, content to remain where he is. At least right now, there is nothing else in the world but the two of them.
*.~.*.~.*
It is, Ianto realizes, very much like the stories of people spirited away by the fey folk, returned a hundred years later without having aged at all. There are differences everywhere when he used to know the Hub with his eyes closed. Just small things, a ninety-degree angle when before there was a forty-five, a new cup in place of Jack's old one, an unnerving lack of old pictures of the team.
The coffee maker is what finally beats home the message things are different.
Ianto wakes first again, and manages to slide out of the cot without waking Jack. Because he is used to early mornings from before-before the 456, before his resurrection like strange fairy-assisted Lazarus-his feet automatically take him to the kitchen, caffeine addiction unchanged by time spent dead. That much is still the same, at least.
But when he reaches the kitchen, there is no sign of the hulking monstrosity of a coffee maker that Owen always clamed was at least partially alien technology. In its place sits something modern and gleaming, all sleek lines and understated utility.
It feels like the loss of an old friend.
When Jack comes bounding up the stairs a few minutes later, panic on his face, Ianto is still standing there, staring at the new machine. The Captain understands with a glance, but offers no words of reassurance-he of all people knows what starting over is like. Instead, he wraps an arm around Ianto’s waist and steers him out of the kitchen, towards the couch that is no longer old and lumpy, and drops them down onto it. It’s his turn to comfort with touches, grounding and reassuring, and Ianto leans into it without a word, breathing carefully steady.
“Sorry, sir,” he says after a long moment, though he doesn’t move. He feels like his heart has moved a few inches to the right inside his chest, or as though reality has shifted one way and him the other. Life is different now, with the new Hub and the new team-he knows that rationally, but it’s another thing entirely to be suddenly faced with the loss of a symbol of stability.
But Jack simply shakes his head and holds him closer. “Don’t be sorry,” he orders, “not now, and not for this. Just-think of it like being in a coma. You were gone, but you're back now. That’s all that matters. Everything else will come with time.”
There is a shimmer in the gloom, a flicker of pale light, and the fairy who cared for Ianto in that other world settles on his knee. He can't say how he knows this is the same one he always saw in its other form, the same one waiting when he awoke in the autopsy bay, but it is, and it reaches out to grip one of his fingers in its tiny hands. “Though the tenderest roses were round you, the soul of this pitiless place, with pitiless magic has bound you-Ah! woe for the loss of your face, and the loss of your laugh with its lightness-Ah! woe for your wings and your head-Ah! woe for your eyes and their brightness-Ah! woe for your slippers of red.”
Ianto can't help but smile at the creature, and reach out with his free hand to gently touch those gossamer wings. “Thank you,” he says softly. “That’s very kind of you. But I'm happy here. I couldn’t have stayed in your world. This is my home. It’s just…different.”
The fairy leans into the touch and grins up at him, showing teeth like a piranha-though, admittedly, they're far less intimidating coming from something whose head is the size of a field mouse than something with a mouth like a shark’s. The creature makes a sound somewhere between a laugh and a purr and settles on Ianto’s knee, still holding onto his finger.
Behind him, Jack shifts uncomfortably and slides away, leaving Ianto alone on the couch. “Coffee?” he asks distractedly, but doesn’t wait for an answer before he heads for the kitchen.
Ianto and the fairy both watch him go, Ianto with a sad sigh. The fairy hears it and sighs back, tugging on his finger to get his attention. “O never give the heart outright, for they, for all smooth lips can say, have given their hearts up to the play. And who could play it well enough if deaf and dumb and blind with love?” it offers solemnly.
“I know,” Ianto returns, “but I'm human. I can't help whom I love, any more than you can help but protect the Chosen Ones. But Jack lost someone because of your kind, and he needs a little while to understand that you're the reason I'm back.”
“Not human,” the fairy corrects, giggling brightly as it flutters up towards his face to hover in front of his nose. “Our child now-not born but made. Children born of fairy stock never need for shirt or frock; they live on cherries, they run wild-I'd love to be a Fairy's child.”
Ianto laughs a little at that, finally freeing his finger from the creature’s grip. “Well, you're one better, I suppose-the real thing. But if that’s a child born, what does that make me?”
The fairy claps its hands as though with glee and whirls away, flittering from one thing to another around the room. “Made, not born,” it repeats, childlike voice merry. “Greatest creation, Protector-made of earth, air, fire, water, starlight. We shape you, Protector.” It lands on his knee again and laughs wickedly. “Shaped and made and everlasting. Greatest creation, Protector. Ours now. All ours.”
And with that it’s gone, vanished back to that other world. Ianto can feel its path, the way it travels, as though he were doing it himself. And perhaps he could, he thinks, if they allowed it. Is he still normal, still mostly human, or have they changed things, changed him? He still feels like the same person, but is he really? What else is he, having been made by the fairies as a guardian for the Chosen Ones?
Jack returns before he can consider the question too deeply, bearing two mugs of coffee and a wary expression as he inspects the corners for the fairy. At his questioning look, Ianto shakes his head and explains, “It left. I think it was just checking on me. It’s the same one that was there when I first woke up.” He wraps his fingers around the steaming mug Jack hands him and takes a deep breath of the steam. It’s not the same mix of beans he used to use, but that’s to be expected. The mixture probably went up with the Hub, and no one else knew where he got it. There are downsides to being the only one to do the shopping.
Still, it’s coffee, and Ianto feels as if he hasn’t had a cup in years-as if that’s the only part of him that acknowledges the time that has passed. He’s glad to have it, even if it is Jack's and could do double duty as paint thinner-it seems some things learned as a soldier are never forgotten. The first sip is like that first rush of returning life, only without the oversensitivity and motionless limbs. It curls through his body, warming him from within, and he breathes a soft sigh of relief before raising his eyes to Jack.
The Captain is watching him with a small smile, eyes equally warm. “Good, Ianto?”
Ianto nods and returns the smile, but says, “I'm sorry if they-it I-make you uncomfortable, Jack, but they're not going to harm anyone here. Not anymore.”
Jack blows out a short, loud breath and rocks back on his heels. “It’s not that you make me uncomfortable,” he corrects hesitantly. “It’s just…bad memories.”
It only takes a moment to call up his recollection of Estelle and another, far older file in the Archives-a train full of soldiers, heading for a diamond mine, who all died choking on rose petals. Jack had buried that particular file deeply, but Ianto knows his Archives very well. There's nothing in there that he can't find if he wants to.
But, just a little, Jack's reaction hurts. The fairies have brought Ianto back, returned him to life when the Doctor couldn’t, when all of the technology and advancements of the future couldn’t help Jack save him. The fairies did it when they had no reason to, and they could have chosen anyone else and had an easier time of it. Ianto doesn’t expect Jack to suddenly be fast friends with them, but surely he can at least tolerate them without fleeing the room.
Jack must read that on his face, because he takes a seat next to Ianto and leans against him, their sides pressed together but their bodies otherwise not touching. “Can I have a little more time before I'm all right with them invading my base at the drop of a hat?” he asks, a little wryly. “I'm grateful to them, Yan, more grateful than I can say, but they’ve been our enemies for a lot longer than they’ve been a help.”
With a sigh, Ianto relaxes into the cushions-not lumpy any longer, which is almost as shocking as the new coffee machine. The old couch had probably been at Torchwood almost as long as Jack. He takes another sip of coffee and nods once, firmly. “I regret to inform you, sir, that even if you change your mind about being comfortable with me, I'm not leaving. You're stuck with me for a very long time,” he tells Jack, and the Captain laughs.
“I hope so,” he says, wrapping an arm around Ianto’s shoulders. “I really, really hope so.”
*.~.*.~.*
Surprisingly, Gwen is the first one in that morning, arriving at eight on the mark with a tray of Starbucks coffee and a bag from the local bakery. She startles slightly when Ianto rounds the corner to greet her, but then drops both things on her desk and wraps him in a firm hug.
“Oh, Ianto,” she whispers in his ear, “it’s been so sad here without you. I'm not sure how we survived.”
Ianto smiles and offers her the mug he’s carrying. “Neither am I, if Jack made you drink his coffee the whole time.”
She laughs as she takes the cup, and if the sound is a little watery, neither of them mentions it. “Yeah, that would do it. Can you imagine? Surviving all of this-” a sweep of her hand incorporates the Hub and Cardiff in general “-only to be done in by the boss’s caffeine addiction?”
Chuckling, Ianto leans forward to kiss her cheek. “It’s good to be back, Gwen.”
“And it’s good to have you back,” she agrees, beaming at him. Her smile is as gap-toothed as ever, and just as lovely as Ianto remembers. He’s never resented her for her adoration of Jack, because Jack's the type to need that kind of regard. Gwen is finally settled, too, and it looks good on her.
“How’s Anwen?” he asks, trying to picture the little girl Jack told him about. He hopes, for her sake, that she gets her mother’s looks and brain.
Gwen’s smile, if anything, grows wider; she’s every inch the proud mother. “Oh, Ianto, she’s lovely. You have to come over and see her! And Rhys will be so glad you're back.”
Personally, Ianto’s fairly certain that if Rhys is glad he’s back, it’s only to serve as a distraction for Jack. Still, he’d love to see the baby, so he nods. “As soon as I get all the paperwork in order to be a living citizen again, I will. It would be rather awkward to be pulled over otherwise.”
Her laughter is soft, but she leans forward to kiss his cheek in return. “Always the practical one, Ianto. When have you ever been pulled over, love?”
“This would be a bad time to start, seeing as I'm legally dead,” he reminds her, offering his arm as he had once before. The gesture reminds him of happier times-as it does Gwen, if the softening of her smile is anything to go by. She grips his elbow, laughing a little.
“We really need to get your suits out of storage,” she remarks. “This just doesn’t feel the same without them. Let me just finish my report from the other day and we’ll go, okay?”
That’s right, he remembers-as per Torchwood protocol, everything that was in his apartment has been boxed up and put in storage. Even if he no longer has an apartment to return it to, that knowledge is a little comforting. There has been no great sale of his things. He still has them all. It’s almost as though Torchwood put the procedure in place to deal with employees returning from the dead or after being taken by the Rift.
“Sure,” he answers, feeling Gwen’s eyes on him. “I’d love to. Thank you, Gwen.”
The sound of the cog door rolling open and the alarms going off breaks them apart, and Ianto turns to smile at Martha. She smiles back, still the same lovely person, inside and out, that he met during that disastrous mission at the Pharm.
“Morning, Ianto,” she greets him cheerfully. “Feeling alright?”
“Never better,” he demurs, accepting her hug. She, like Gwen, hangs on just a little longer than she normally would have, and Ianto allows it without complaint. His team is his family, almost more than his sister and her children are, and he knows what they felt when he died. Now that he’s back, a little prolonged contact is a small price to pay for soothing their fears.
At length, Martha pulls back and surveys him closely. “No ill effects?” she demands. “Nothing psychological?”
Ianto shakes his head. “Nothing. I'm not sure it’s entirely hit me yet, though,” he allows. “The fairy I've spoken with seems to think I'm ‘everlasting’, which is a lot to take in.”
“Hm.” Two pairs of worried eyes look him over, and the girls trade glances. Martha worries her wedding ring for a moment and then smiles. “Well, no taking extra chances just to test it, Ianto. Whether you're immortal or not, the last thing any of us wants to see is your death-especially those of us seeing it again.”
Suspecting that she’s seen the tapes from Thames House, Ianto gives in without argument. “Very well. Can I get you some coffee? Or if you'd rather, it appears Gwen brought Starbucks.”
Gwen laughs, and Martha wrinkles her nose, shaking her head. “Ianto, it’s nothing to yours. Seeing as Gwen’s already got some, would you mind making another cup?”
“Certainly. I’ll make a fresh pot-it’s about time for Jack's second cup anyway.” Ianto looks between them both for a minute, momentarily overwhelmed by the thought that he could have stayed dead. He could have never seen either of these remarkable women again. Or Jack. Or Andy. Nothing. Everything. It would have all been lost.
As much as he wants to fear the fairies because of everything he’s read, everything he’s seen or been told, he can't. They’ve given him a second chance, and he’ll always be grateful to them for it, no matter how long he lives.
*.~.*.~.*
This is his armor, Ianto thinks, smoothing down the sleek navy pinstripe of his suit jacket. Everything fits the same, of course, and the mere fact of wearing it has rebuilt Ianto’s defenses nearly to their normal level. Where Jack has his greatcoat and Gwen her belief in humanity, where Tosh had her technology and Owen his sarcasm, Ianto has his suits and his manner, and he’s never been more relieved to return to that ever-efficient, carefully anonymous figure. Even if the team recognizes him-and they do, because he’s been one of them ever since the camping trip with the cannibals-other people don’t. They remember the suit, and the manners, but nothing about him, and that’s the way he likes it.
Someone gives a wolf-whistle, and Ianto turns to see Jack leaning against the edge of the door into the room set up for Ianto’s use, eyes brightly mischievous and hot in a way Ianto hasn’t seen in far too long. That grin is something he’s missed, too-so bright and blinding it should be marketed as an alternative form of power. Ianto smiles back at him, more restrained but no less happy, and says, “Careful. That’s sexual harassment, sir.”
“Ogling,” Jack corrects. “I'm ogling you right now.” He steps into the room set up for Ianto’s use, pulling the door. “But if you'd like, I'm sure we can change that to a more hands-on type of harassment.”
Ianto laughs at him, because Jack is always Jack, even when startled or grieving or facing a lover returned from the grave. It’s reassuring, really, and he reaches out to take Jack's hand. “Be my guest,” he offers, dropping his voice to something low and smoky, and Jack groans as he pulls him close. The kiss starts out soft, reacquainting themselves with the familiar touch and taste, and quickly turns desperate. Jack wraps his arms around Ianto’s shoulders, twists his hands into Ianto’s hair, and devours his mouth with lips and teeth and tongue. Ianto meets the fervor as best he can, stripping Jack of his coat with fumbling hands, and they collapse together onto the narrow mattress.
“Tell me again why you got your own room when I'm never letting you out of mine again?” Jack gasps, arching into the questing hands as Ianto unbuttons his shirt.
“Propriety,” Ianto reminds him, even though he can't remember very well either at the moment, breathless at the speed with which he’s being stripped in return. Jack doesn’t bother with getting his slacks off, but simply undoes the zipper and button and shoves them and his pants down around his hips. Ianto whimpers as Jack's hand closes over him, hot and calloused in all the places Ianto remembers, and tries to recover enough coordination to return the favor. It’s difficult, though, when Jack knows just how to touch him, just where to lighten the pressure and where to increase it, in order to drive him out of his mind.
“Oh, god, Ianto,” Jack murmurs into the side of this throat, then twists to kiss him again, messy and frantic. “Ianto. Thought I’d lost you. God.”
A well-timed twist of that clever, clever hand steals all power of speech from Ianto’s brain, but he shoves his hand between them, knocks Jack’s hand away, and wraps both of them in his grip, pumping hard. Jack hisses, dropping his head to mouth at Ianto’s neck and collarbone, and the press and nit of his teeth only heightens the fire sparking up Ianto’s spine. He gasps, breathless, into Jack's hair and throws his head back, trying to choke down a cry. They're alone in the Hub, the team out at lunch, but they might return at any moment.
Ianto twists his hand, swipes a hand over the crowns of both cocks, and is undone by Jack's heat and scent and simple presence. He cries out, unable to choke it back, and comes in a messy, sticky, utterly satisfying flood between them. Jack groans, sinks his teeth into Ianto’s collarbone, and follows, the hot splash of his come on Ianto’s skin sending another spike of pure desire through the Welshman’s nerve endings.
They collapse together, breathless and shaking with exertion, and Jack wraps Ianto in his arms.
“You're back,” he breathes, and for the first time, he sounds as though he truly believes it.
“I'm home,” Ianto agrees, running his fingers through Jack's sweaty hair, and knows it’s true in every way.
Chapter Four