Yesterday Is But Today's Memory - 1/19+Interlude
Title: Yesterday Is But Today's Memory
Fandom: Torchwood
Pairings: Jack/Ianto
Rating: R
Disclaimer: If I was the one who owned Torchwood, you think I'd admit it now?
Spoilers: Takes place post 2x05 'Adam', but mentions briefly minor info from later s2 eps. AU
Summary: It wasn’t the lost days that were really giving Ianto Jones nightmares. It was the fact that ever since, he’d suddenly been having flashes from another period of his life he’d thought was lost forever - his first ten years.
Warning: Some chapters of this fic will contain material some may find offensive. To go into more detail would be spoilery for the plot, but DO NOT READ if you are easily offended.
Thanks to: My wonderful betas morbid_sparks, cazmalfoy and angelzbabe1989, who talked me into writing this, then held my hand while I worked through the plot and filled all its holes.
Chapter One
It wasn’t the lost days that were really giving Ianto Jones nightmares. It was the fact that ever since, he’d suddenly been having flashes from another period of his life he’d thought was lost forever - his first ten years.
He’d long ago accepted that he was never getting those memories back, and most of the time he didn’t even think about the fact that his early childhood was a complete mystery.
The first thing he remembered was waking up, wrapped in a blanket, under a tree in Bute Park. Not that he knew it was Bute Park at the time. Or the words for ‘blanket’ or ‘tree’. He’d stayed huddled under the tree for a few hours, shivering in his blanket, before people started to appear in the park. Eventually someone had come over to him, and Ianto assumed now that they’d asked him if he was okay.
The words had sounded like gibberish to him, and he’d responded in a fragmented nonsense language that was the only thing that remained of his early years. Ianto still remembered a few of the sounds now, although he wasn’t sure what they meant.
The next few days were a bit of a blur; Ianto didn’t now remember any of the interviews by bewildered police officers or concerned social services staff. The records were in his file, but he’d never been inclined to take a look (he knew he could break into the supposedly secure records if he wanted to - Tosh had been giving him lessons).
It had been a few weeks before he’d gained enough of a rudimentary grasp of English to answer the simplest of their questions. That was when they’d discovered that he remembered nothing. Not his name, nor where he came from, nor how old he was. Nothing.
The details he held now - his name, his birthday - had all been made up by the social workers; they’d estimated his age using the results of a physical examination, and drawn a suitable date at random.
The GP assigned to him by social services had referred him to the hospital, and a neurologist there specialising in amnesia. He’d been taken there for several rounds of tests - blood work, CAT scans, EEG. None of it had provided them with a conclusive medical reason for his amnesia.
When taken in context with the extensive scarring across some of his body, and his limited language skills, his doctor and social worker had concluded that the only explanation was serious abuse. The neurologist had agreed that it was very possible that Ianto’s brain had simply blocked out everything before his abandonment, seeking to protect him from the trauma.
If that was true - and, until now, Ianto had believed that it was - then he was glad he couldn’t remember those years.
What he could remember of growing up, especially after his adoptive parents had welcomed him into their family, was happy, and that was good enough for him. It didn’t matter that he had a missing decade, because those years weren’t important.
At least, that’s what he’d always thought. Now, he wasn’t so sure.
None of the brief flashes were long enough for him to actually properly discern what was going on, but they were distinctive enough for him to recognise that these were not things he remembered from his happy adolescence here in Cardiff.
Along with the flashes came bursts of emotion, with some images bringing a feeling of contentment, of the warmth of being loved, and others bringing horrifying waves of terror.
He hadn’t worked out yet how to reconcile all of these images with what he’d always believed about his childhood.
He had a feeling that the reality was ever so much more complicated.
“Ianto? Ianto! Are you okay?” Ianto came back to himself to find Jack standing close in front of him, looking concerned.
“Of course I am. Why wouldn’t I be?”
“Well, possibly because you’ve been standing on this spot for a couple of minutes without moving.”
Ianto sighed. “Oh.” He looked around; save for Myfanwy, the Hub was empty. The others had all gone home. Ianto had been on the way out the door himself when it had hit him.
While it still wasn’t enough for him to actually work out what was going on, the flashes had been a little more prolonged this time. If the trend continued, he might soon begin to get enough to piece together parts of his childhood, and there was a strong chance it wasn’t all going to be good.
It was time to tell Jack what had been happening.
Chapter Two
Comments and concrit welcomed - comments are love!!
Fandom: Torchwood
Pairings: Jack/Ianto
Rating: R
Disclaimer: If I was the one who owned Torchwood, you think I'd admit it now?
Spoilers: Takes place post 2x05 'Adam', but mentions briefly minor info from later s2 eps. AU
Summary: It wasn’t the lost days that were really giving Ianto Jones nightmares. It was the fact that ever since, he’d suddenly been having flashes from another period of his life he’d thought was lost forever - his first ten years.
Warning: Some chapters of this fic will contain material some may find offensive. To go into more detail would be spoilery for the plot, but DO NOT READ if you are easily offended.
Thanks to: My wonderful betas morbid_sparks, cazmalfoy and angelzbabe1989, who talked me into writing this, then held my hand while I worked through the plot and filled all its holes.
Chapter One
It wasn’t the lost days that were really giving Ianto Jones nightmares. It was the fact that ever since, he’d suddenly been having flashes from another period of his life he’d thought was lost forever - his first ten years.
He’d long ago accepted that he was never getting those memories back, and most of the time he didn’t even think about the fact that his early childhood was a complete mystery.
The first thing he remembered was waking up, wrapped in a blanket, under a tree in Bute Park. Not that he knew it was Bute Park at the time. Or the words for ‘blanket’ or ‘tree’. He’d stayed huddled under the tree for a few hours, shivering in his blanket, before people started to appear in the park. Eventually someone had come over to him, and Ianto assumed now that they’d asked him if he was okay.
The words had sounded like gibberish to him, and he’d responded in a fragmented nonsense language that was the only thing that remained of his early years. Ianto still remembered a few of the sounds now, although he wasn’t sure what they meant.
The next few days were a bit of a blur; Ianto didn’t now remember any of the interviews by bewildered police officers or concerned social services staff. The records were in his file, but he’d never been inclined to take a look (he knew he could break into the supposedly secure records if he wanted to - Tosh had been giving him lessons).
It had been a few weeks before he’d gained enough of a rudimentary grasp of English to answer the simplest of their questions. That was when they’d discovered that he remembered nothing. Not his name, nor where he came from, nor how old he was. Nothing.
The details he held now - his name, his birthday - had all been made up by the social workers; they’d estimated his age using the results of a physical examination, and drawn a suitable date at random.
The GP assigned to him by social services had referred him to the hospital, and a neurologist there specialising in amnesia. He’d been taken there for several rounds of tests - blood work, CAT scans, EEG. None of it had provided them with a conclusive medical reason for his amnesia.
When taken in context with the extensive scarring across some of his body, and his limited language skills, his doctor and social worker had concluded that the only explanation was serious abuse. The neurologist had agreed that it was very possible that Ianto’s brain had simply blocked out everything before his abandonment, seeking to protect him from the trauma.
If that was true - and, until now, Ianto had believed that it was - then he was glad he couldn’t remember those years.
What he could remember of growing up, especially after his adoptive parents had welcomed him into their family, was happy, and that was good enough for him. It didn’t matter that he had a missing decade, because those years weren’t important.
At least, that’s what he’d always thought. Now, he wasn’t so sure.
None of the brief flashes were long enough for him to actually properly discern what was going on, but they were distinctive enough for him to recognise that these were not things he remembered from his happy adolescence here in Cardiff.
Along with the flashes came bursts of emotion, with some images bringing a feeling of contentment, of the warmth of being loved, and others bringing horrifying waves of terror.
He hadn’t worked out yet how to reconcile all of these images with what he’d always believed about his childhood.
He had a feeling that the reality was ever so much more complicated.
“Ianto? Ianto! Are you okay?” Ianto came back to himself to find Jack standing close in front of him, looking concerned.
“Of course I am. Why wouldn’t I be?”
“Well, possibly because you’ve been standing on this spot for a couple of minutes without moving.”
Ianto sighed. “Oh.” He looked around; save for Myfanwy, the Hub was empty. The others had all gone home. Ianto had been on the way out the door himself when it had hit him.
While it still wasn’t enough for him to actually work out what was going on, the flashes had been a little more prolonged this time. If the trend continued, he might soon begin to get enough to piece together parts of his childhood, and there was a strong chance it wasn’t all going to be good.
It was time to tell Jack what had been happening.
Chapter Two
Comments and concrit welcomed - comments are love!!