The Episode in Which Jack and Ianto Go to London, Shortly After Which, Jack Dies
Title: Drowning, Part 1
Author:
jbs_teeth
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: Only in the strictest sense, up to "Cyberwoman"
Pairing: Jack/Ianto
Warnings: Only the eff word.
Summary: Though you wouldn't know it from part I, this is really intended to be a episode fic, in which Ianto and Jack have an adventure together.
Notes: Couple of points: a) Mostly because I haven't really decided how I'd want to handle the brutality of "Countrycide," my little world has an exaggerated timeline between "Cyberwoman" and that episode. It's been long enough (months, maybe) for Ianto to find a little perspective, which I consider vital for the characterization I present. b) I mostly wrote this fic backward (literally; very last paragraph of the whole thing first, then the scene before that) until I circled back around to write the first "chapter," which is this. And, this was all about two months ago, right before I started my new job. So, now I'm a little stuck in the middle; I LOVE the end (lots of excellent action and drama), but I am going to have to fight to get there.
Anyway, onto the story. Hope you like!
--------------
As Jack drowns in the frigid water of an unnamed lake several hours north of London, Ianto waits patiently on the tall-grass shore six meters away. He watches the water with intent; yet, in this moment he is more occupied by his own regular breathing, by considering the air surrounding him with inordinate passion, deeply satisfied with his vital respirations. It is several hours past midnight in this February morning when Jack quietly dies beneath the shallow weight of water. And Ianto sits calmly near, as placid on his surface as the dark lake itself.
--
Ianto had just crossed Trafalgar hours earlier when Jack had phoned to say he was near to town, en route to London in pursuit of some object of interest (Jack managed to say things like “object of interest” while sounding neither like the designated military asshole in some tense political drama, nor as though he was making a notable effort to sound altogether mysterious). The effect of this efficient turn of phrase is tantamount to an order: Shut up, stay put, wait for me. This is important to Torchwood, no further questions.
But, Ianto, still feeling vaguely unsettled from some uncomfortable thoughts he'd been musing over - not to mention peevish from being pulled out of the extremely rare circumstance of being alone and free of Torchwood for an evening - is naturally compelled to ignore the unspoken remand.
“And 'the object,' Sir? Important enough, I trust, to make a Sunday evening pursuit worthwhile?”
By definition, any object Jack - Torchwood - choses to personally pursue defines “important;” and, all reasonable expectation that alien invasion, mischief, thievery, violence, device misplacement or general mayhem confine itself to a universally accepted 9-to-5 workday - Greenwich Meantime, naturally - flees even the most naïve Torchwood employee within 48 hours of his arrival at the Hub.
Mr. -- Xyclyplexin, is it? -- If you wouldn't mind? Queue forms just behind that yellow line in the floor... Yes, just there ... at 8:30 AM Monday morning. And, might I suggest the blue form if there is to be any quantum-dimensional activity? For your clarification, that's dimensions 5 - 26. Thank you for choosing Torchwood for all your intergalactic invasion needs, and have a lovely weekend.
And, all recent and garish evidence to the contrary, Ianto does not habitually antagonize or question Jack's command or course of action. Beyond the fact that the man is pretty much a sentient roaring river, plotting a predetermined course without consideration or resistance to the environment through which he flows, Ianto genuinely respects the depth - a sometimes puzzling depth, if one considers even a fraction of Jack's personal historical narrative relative to his generally agreed-upon age - and breadth of Jack's experience.
But, the distance from Cardiff to London today stretches much further than 100 kilometers; sitting in the pubs, charting the banks of the Thames, walking through galleries, streets, alleys the way an Australian tourist might, Ianto feels the tug of ordinary life pulling him further and further from the stacked brochures, stained coffee cups and uncleanable, peeling linoleum floors of the Cardiff Information Center. In these moments following the self-involved considerations of his inner person, he is guardful and surly at Torchwood's - and by this, he definitely means Jack's - greedy interruption of his free time.
On his end of the line, Jack hears the subtle and reckless dare behind Ianto's evenly spoken words and registers mild surprise, compounded then by the surprise that he could be surprised by any further evidence of Ianto's defiance.
Jack knows better than most - certainly, almost any living human - the consequences of trivial knee-jerk responses. Despite this, Jack is quick to anger, quick to laughter, to ire, to surprise, to love, regret, joy, antagonism, despair, petulance, the ridiculous: The surfeit of Jack's emotional spectrum lies shamelessly close to the surface; but, he knows, too, the art of managing the thing is glancing against the feeling then leaving it behind, immediately. Just now, he practices this, so that his only response is a sharp-elbowed, “Yes, it is,” followed by the explicit instruction to stay put for retrieval.
Shuddering at the thought of Jack's wild ride through the central arteries of London, Ianto quickly replies with the much more efficient plan that they meet at their destination... considering how close he is now to a station anyway.
Jack sighs into his microphone, and Ianto feels at once both childish and guilty. Nevertheless, he waits another beat of silence, sticking to the idea of having just a few more minutes to compose himself.
Moments later Ianto is underground, address noted, crammed with the rest of the world into the 10 cars rolling north beneath the city. He looks around, envious and disdainful of ordinary people. Can he live in this ever again? Certainly there are any number of ways in which this might be accomplished, but he feels too tired to think of them; too lazy to wonder, as he so often does, how narcissistic he is compared to his fellow passengers, how many of them have a whole universe inside themselves, how ordinary he is, how ordinary they are, how Jack might fit in with the topography of this ephemeral society.
Instead, he makes himself sick staring out the window at some point perpendicular to his chair, eyes moving evenly along the wall of the tunnel.
--
At Tooting Bec, Ianto gladly leaves behind the unrelenting bustle of the crowd and realizes that he has finally, after months back in Wales, lost the rhythm of town.
Once out and on the surface, Ianto scans the street in front of him, looking for Jack, knowing it won't be hard to find him among the other faces on the street. With equal parts jealousy and longing, Ianto knows the beacon of Jack's face (and other, equally radiant body parts) makes him singularly individual among the densest throng. And, to prove himself correct, 10 seconds later Ianto spots Jack and begins to move toward him.
Oh what a piece of work is man.
In the 45 seconds it takes to reach Jack, lounging with his back against the SUV, flipping casually through messages on his mobile, eyebrows slightly furrowed in thought, Ianto realizes his own personal deficiencies might well be the only driving forces in the trajectory of his life.
People are complicated, and people are shallow. How can I forgive him? why should I want to? why did I stay? Well... the latter he knows: No matter how often he slips into the thought of leaving Torchwood, there is no place in the world left to him now. I can only share the space, the oxygen, with people who know what I know, now. This makes it easier to forgive Jack; this, the need to feel comfortable in his own space, and his acknowledgment that he himself has done so much wrong. All this, and Jack's beauty. And how much Ianto simply wants to be with him, to look at him, to watch his lips, his hands, his body, move. To accept the gift of Jack's attention. To be next to him, knowing that there is no one - yes, not even his dead girlfriend - that he would rather be with.
And, how will he forgive himself for this disloyalty? Same answer, mostly. It is so much easier to live with than not. Ianto is tired, and he had been so wrong.
Well, that's that then. Any lingering childhood issues we can settle while we're sorting out the ugly complexities of my ruined life? He suspects the cycle of doubt and absolution will exercise itself a few more times - maybe many more times - before all this upheaval is finally finished.
And, eyes still firmly anchored to Jack: Stop. This will not end well. I want him too much.
In the fortieth second since Ianto has spotted him, Jack looks up and smiles. To his left, Ianto hears the tight, hollow staccato of a dozen pigeons lifting off the pavement, inhales the sharp, savory odor
of a nearby kabob stand mixed with the rain-damp gutter, exhales, and falls madly into inadvisable love.
Well, fuck.
--
“Ianto, why do you look as though you've just eaten an unripe persimmon?”
Ianto nods, murmurs a tight, barely audible, “Sir,” in response and manages to look as though, at Jack's suggestion, a second distasteful fruit has materialized in his mouth.
All traces of irritation and antagonism forgotten, Jack continues, “Have you ever eaten an unripe persimmon? Horrible. Sucks all the moisture out of your mouth, maybe even out of your eyeballs.” Ianto wonders if Jack is babbling strictly in mockery of the revelation that had presented itself mere seconds before or simply in an attempt to be unbelievably annoying.
Both goals are being spectacularly met.
“Never eat a persimmon, Ianto, on the off chance that it might not be ripe. Terrible for kissing, having no moisture in your head. Should be avoided at all costs, in case there's someone around you might like to kiss.
“Especially if I'm around.”
God, this feels good. Like a kinky nature enthusiast: Getting back to flirting with Ianto. For no reason he can think of Jack momentarily feels transported backward in time - an irony in no way lost on him - to the easy, weightless flirtation he'd so missed and found so... diverting. It had been ages since Jack had allowed himself to look at Ianto and only appreciate the angular contours of his face.
Somehow, Jack has always relished that his teasing has consistently had the opposite effect on Ianto than is intended: As expected, at the mention of kissing, the wayward features that had rebelliously allowed themselves to run at will march regimentally back into order.
How long will it be until I can kiss him? Some of the pleasure at seeing Ianto in a whole new city ebbs at his internal response: How long does it take a man to forgive you for threatening his life and killing his girlfriend?
Dammit. He is certain it won't be soon enough.
(to be continued)
Author:
jbs_teeth
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: Only in the strictest sense, up to "Cyberwoman"
Pairing: Jack/Ianto
Warnings: Only the eff word.
Summary: Though you wouldn't know it from part I, this is really intended to be a episode fic, in which Ianto and Jack have an adventure together.
Notes: Couple of points: a) Mostly because I haven't really decided how I'd want to handle the brutality of "Countrycide," my little world has an exaggerated timeline between "Cyberwoman" and that episode. It's been long enough (months, maybe) for Ianto to find a little perspective, which I consider vital for the characterization I present. b) I mostly wrote this fic backward (literally; very last paragraph of the whole thing first, then the scene before that) until I circled back around to write the first "chapter," which is this. And, this was all about two months ago, right before I started my new job. So, now I'm a little stuck in the middle; I LOVE the end (lots of excellent action and drama), but I am going to have to fight to get there.
Anyway, onto the story. Hope you like!
--------------
As Jack drowns in the frigid water of an unnamed lake several hours north of London, Ianto waits patiently on the tall-grass shore six meters away. He watches the water with intent; yet, in this moment he is more occupied by his own regular breathing, by considering the air surrounding him with inordinate passion, deeply satisfied with his vital respirations. It is several hours past midnight in this February morning when Jack quietly dies beneath the shallow weight of water. And Ianto sits calmly near, as placid on his surface as the dark lake itself.
--
Ianto had just crossed Trafalgar hours earlier when Jack had phoned to say he was near to town, en route to London in pursuit of some object of interest (Jack managed to say things like “object of interest” while sounding neither like the designated military asshole in some tense political drama, nor as though he was making a notable effort to sound altogether mysterious). The effect of this efficient turn of phrase is tantamount to an order: Shut up, stay put, wait for me. This is important to Torchwood, no further questions.
But, Ianto, still feeling vaguely unsettled from some uncomfortable thoughts he'd been musing over - not to mention peevish from being pulled out of the extremely rare circumstance of being alone and free of Torchwood for an evening - is naturally compelled to ignore the unspoken remand.
“And 'the object,' Sir? Important enough, I trust, to make a Sunday evening pursuit worthwhile?”
By definition, any object Jack - Torchwood - choses to personally pursue defines “important;” and, all reasonable expectation that alien invasion, mischief, thievery, violence, device misplacement or general mayhem confine itself to a universally accepted 9-to-5 workday - Greenwich Meantime, naturally - flees even the most naïve Torchwood employee within 48 hours of his arrival at the Hub.
Mr. -- Xyclyplexin, is it? -- If you wouldn't mind? Queue forms just behind that yellow line in the floor... Yes, just there ... at 8:30 AM Monday morning. And, might I suggest the blue form if there is to be any quantum-dimensional activity? For your clarification, that's dimensions 5 - 26. Thank you for choosing Torchwood for all your intergalactic invasion needs, and have a lovely weekend.
And, all recent and garish evidence to the contrary, Ianto does not habitually antagonize or question Jack's command or course of action. Beyond the fact that the man is pretty much a sentient roaring river, plotting a predetermined course without consideration or resistance to the environment through which he flows, Ianto genuinely respects the depth - a sometimes puzzling depth, if one considers even a fraction of Jack's personal historical narrative relative to his generally agreed-upon age - and breadth of Jack's experience.
But, the distance from Cardiff to London today stretches much further than 100 kilometers; sitting in the pubs, charting the banks of the Thames, walking through galleries, streets, alleys the way an Australian tourist might, Ianto feels the tug of ordinary life pulling him further and further from the stacked brochures, stained coffee cups and uncleanable, peeling linoleum floors of the Cardiff Information Center. In these moments following the self-involved considerations of his inner person, he is guardful and surly at Torchwood's - and by this, he definitely means Jack's - greedy interruption of his free time.
On his end of the line, Jack hears the subtle and reckless dare behind Ianto's evenly spoken words and registers mild surprise, compounded then by the surprise that he could be surprised by any further evidence of Ianto's defiance.
Jack knows better than most - certainly, almost any living human - the consequences of trivial knee-jerk responses. Despite this, Jack is quick to anger, quick to laughter, to ire, to surprise, to love, regret, joy, antagonism, despair, petulance, the ridiculous: The surfeit of Jack's emotional spectrum lies shamelessly close to the surface; but, he knows, too, the art of managing the thing is glancing against the feeling then leaving it behind, immediately. Just now, he practices this, so that his only response is a sharp-elbowed, “Yes, it is,” followed by the explicit instruction to stay put for retrieval.
Shuddering at the thought of Jack's wild ride through the central arteries of London, Ianto quickly replies with the much more efficient plan that they meet at their destination... considering how close he is now to a station anyway.
Jack sighs into his microphone, and Ianto feels at once both childish and guilty. Nevertheless, he waits another beat of silence, sticking to the idea of having just a few more minutes to compose himself.
Moments later Ianto is underground, address noted, crammed with the rest of the world into the 10 cars rolling north beneath the city. He looks around, envious and disdainful of ordinary people. Can he live in this ever again? Certainly there are any number of ways in which this might be accomplished, but he feels too tired to think of them; too lazy to wonder, as he so often does, how narcissistic he is compared to his fellow passengers, how many of them have a whole universe inside themselves, how ordinary he is, how ordinary they are, how Jack might fit in with the topography of this ephemeral society.
Instead, he makes himself sick staring out the window at some point perpendicular to his chair, eyes moving evenly along the wall of the tunnel.
--
At Tooting Bec, Ianto gladly leaves behind the unrelenting bustle of the crowd and realizes that he has finally, after months back in Wales, lost the rhythm of town.
Once out and on the surface, Ianto scans the street in front of him, looking for Jack, knowing it won't be hard to find him among the other faces on the street. With equal parts jealousy and longing, Ianto knows the beacon of Jack's face (and other, equally radiant body parts) makes him singularly individual among the densest throng. And, to prove himself correct, 10 seconds later Ianto spots Jack and begins to move toward him.
Oh what a piece of work is man.
In the 45 seconds it takes to reach Jack, lounging with his back against the SUV, flipping casually through messages on his mobile, eyebrows slightly furrowed in thought, Ianto realizes his own personal deficiencies might well be the only driving forces in the trajectory of his life.
People are complicated, and people are shallow. How can I forgive him? why should I want to? why did I stay? Well... the latter he knows: No matter how often he slips into the thought of leaving Torchwood, there is no place in the world left to him now. I can only share the space, the oxygen, with people who know what I know, now. This makes it easier to forgive Jack; this, the need to feel comfortable in his own space, and his acknowledgment that he himself has done so much wrong. All this, and Jack's beauty. And how much Ianto simply wants to be with him, to look at him, to watch his lips, his hands, his body, move. To accept the gift of Jack's attention. To be next to him, knowing that there is no one - yes, not even his dead girlfriend - that he would rather be with.
And, how will he forgive himself for this disloyalty? Same answer, mostly. It is so much easier to live with than not. Ianto is tired, and he had been so wrong.
Well, that's that then. Any lingering childhood issues we can settle while we're sorting out the ugly complexities of my ruined life? He suspects the cycle of doubt and absolution will exercise itself a few more times - maybe many more times - before all this upheaval is finally finished.
And, eyes still firmly anchored to Jack: Stop. This will not end well. I want him too much.
In the fortieth second since Ianto has spotted him, Jack looks up and smiles. To his left, Ianto hears the tight, hollow staccato of a dozen pigeons lifting off the pavement, inhales the sharp, savory odor
of a nearby kabob stand mixed with the rain-damp gutter, exhales, and falls madly into inadvisable love.
Well, fuck.
--
“Ianto, why do you look as though you've just eaten an unripe persimmon?”
Ianto nods, murmurs a tight, barely audible, “Sir,” in response and manages to look as though, at Jack's suggestion, a second distasteful fruit has materialized in his mouth.
All traces of irritation and antagonism forgotten, Jack continues, “Have you ever eaten an unripe persimmon? Horrible. Sucks all the moisture out of your mouth, maybe even out of your eyeballs.” Ianto wonders if Jack is babbling strictly in mockery of the revelation that had presented itself mere seconds before or simply in an attempt to be unbelievably annoying.
Both goals are being spectacularly met.
“Never eat a persimmon, Ianto, on the off chance that it might not be ripe. Terrible for kissing, having no moisture in your head. Should be avoided at all costs, in case there's someone around you might like to kiss.
“Especially if I'm around.”
God, this feels good. Like a kinky nature enthusiast: Getting back to flirting with Ianto. For no reason he can think of Jack momentarily feels transported backward in time - an irony in no way lost on him - to the easy, weightless flirtation he'd so missed and found so... diverting. It had been ages since Jack had allowed himself to look at Ianto and only appreciate the angular contours of his face.
Somehow, Jack has always relished that his teasing has consistently had the opposite effect on Ianto than is intended: As expected, at the mention of kissing, the wayward features that had rebelliously allowed themselves to run at will march regimentally back into order.
How long will it be until I can kiss him? Some of the pleasure at seeing Ianto in a whole new city ebbs at his internal response: How long does it take a man to forgive you for threatening his life and killing his girlfriend?
Dammit. He is certain it won't be soon enough.
(to be continued)